Everlasting Darkness by polutropos

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Chapter 1

Warning for a pinch of sibling incest, and the most disrespectful parodying of characters and themes. 

And Maedhros and Maglor disguised themselves, and came in the night to the camp of Eönwë, and crept into the place where the Silmarils were guarded; but they could not lay hands on the jewels, for the guards perceived their disguise. Then all the camp was raised against them, and they prepared to die, defending themselves until the last. But Eönwë would not permit the slaying of the sons of Fëanor; and they were seized and brought before him as prisoners.*

Then Eönwë said: ‘Now on account of your many and merciless deeds ye shall be brought into the West, there to meet your doom.’

And the host of Valinor bore off the last of the sons of Fëanor as prizes of war to serve those whom they had wronged. And it is told of Maglor that he was brought to Elwing in her white tower, there to dwell and serve her desire; but Maedhros was delivered unto Eärendil, to stay upon Vingilot as the companion of his journeys through the seas of heaven.

The door of the tower swung open, narrowly missing Maglor where he knelt upon the stoop. Wincing and biting down on the leather strap between his teeth, he looked up.

A beautiful woman loomed over him. She wore a simple gown of white silk, radiant against her rich brown skin. Thick waves of black hair spilled down to her waist. The gown had slipped off one shoulder so that the upper curve of one full and lovely breast was left exposed. The skirt had been tucked into a belt and its hem fell unevenly about her shapely calves.

She was not at all what Maglor had expected to come out that door.

“Oh,” said the woman, forming her mouth into a ring.

“Mmggrff,” said Maglor, trying to smile.

There was something all-too familiar about the shape of her mouth and the tilt of her eyebrows. Maglor was sure he knew those features; knew them as a person knows his own brother or child – but with his mind so addled by all that had taken place in the last several weeks, he simply could not place them.

“Well, it’s you alright,” the woman chirped. “I still cannot believe they agreed to this arrangement.” She rolled her shining grey eyes. “My husband and his boundless generosity!”

Maglor nodded eagerly, hoping he was understanding the meaning of ‘arrangement’ correctly.

“I must say,” she said, “you look much better like this than you did cutting a path through innocent civilians. I had a feeling you’d be pretty under all that armour, though.”

An inscrutable little smile graced her features. Maglor knew at once where he’d seen that smile before. Two of that smile, in fact. The blood drained from his head, but he took perverse pleasure in the familiar wave of guilt that rolled over him. If he had been free to move, he would not have hesitated to prostrate himself and kiss her bare feet.

And she had called him pretty. Oh, stars! perhaps there was a chance she would forgive him yet!

“Come, little songbird,” said Elwing. “Let’s get these off."

He came face-to-face with her bosom as she bent forward to undo his bonds. After a moment of fumbling and tugging, she gave up, resorting instead to some sort of incantation shouted loudly in Maglor’s ear. The fetters unravelled all at once, pooling on the stoop around him.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” She huffed and flapped her hands at her sides. “And figure out what in the circles of Arda I’m going to do with you.”

At the end of a dock that jutted out beyond the edges of the world, several small chests of provisions awaited loading. Beside these, Maedhros Fëanorion, shackled and gagged, knelt upon the very precipice of dark everlasting and prepared to meet his long-overdue fate.

Of course there had been no trial. How trusting, how simple Maglor had been, to the bitter end, to think the Valar would so much as hear their pleas, nevermind pardon them.

Not so. Rather, they had been roughly stowed away in the belly of a Telerin ship without a word of explanation and carried off to their doom. (It was strange, perhaps, that they were not to be conveyed thither together, but then they had attempted to slay one another – and themselves – on several occasions on the journey over. Thus the bonds, Eönwë had muttered as he shackled them. Maedhros had never seen the Maia more openly disgruntled.)

No trial, no pardon. Maedhros was certain: the blindingly bright ship, gliding through the perpetual darkness towards him, would ferry him to the outermost edges of Vaiya and cast him into the beyond.

Denied the use of his arms to shield his eyes, Maedhros squinted and watched the ship lower its sails and drift into harbour (such as it was).

The ship’s lone crewman leapt nimbly onto the dock. On his brow, the Silmaril blazed as if to illuminate the litany of Maedhros’ failures.

“Ahhh!” said the gleaming mariner, leaving his ship to bob on the winds untethered. He strode towards Maedhros and his other cargo. “Wonderful! You have arrived at last!”

Maedhros tried to meet his eyes with what last ounce of defiance he had left, but Eärendil’s face disappeared inside a halo of golden hair and light. Maedhros growled around his gag. Yes, he had called this doom upon himself; yes, it was only right that, having failed his oath, he should meet it. But was it truly necessary to mock him thus?

“Hmm,” Eärendil said, busying himself with the mooring lines. “I suppose I understand the fetters, but it seems a bit cruel, don’t you think?” He glanced over to where Maedhros knelt. “And I could really use another pair of ha– ah, another hand on board.”

The glare that Meadhros returned would have reduced a lesser man to tears. Eärendil just clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Well,” he walked over to examine Maedhros, “I don’t see why you can’t be allowed to speak,” and removed the gag tied at the nape of his neck.

Maedhros spat, “You have no right to that jewel!”

Eärendil sighed. “We have a long way to go, then. I’m sorry about all of this, really, I am. It wasn’t what I had in mind for you and your brother. If you had only listened the first time…”

Maedhros wasn’t listening now, either. He was sizing up the man behind the circle of light, trying to assess his chances of knocking him off the dock while simultaneously grabbing hold, with his teeth, of the circlet holding the Silmaril to his brow. If only he could gain enough momentum to launch his weight–

–“Oh!” Eärendil said. “Of course, you cannot see. I’m so often alone, I forget how blindingly bright this thing is! I’m terribly sorry, let me just–” he brought a hand to his forehead and covered over the Silmaril.

The hand only served to dim the light slightly, but it was enough. Maedhros shuddered. Eärendil may have been Turgon’s grandchild, but he had Fingon’s smile.

Maglor’s stiff limbs struggled to keep up with Elwing as she flew on swift feet up, up, up the winding staircase of her tower. At last, the stairs spat him out at the very top, in a lofty attic bathed in sunlight. An inviting space: at the centre of the room, sunk into the floorboards, was a large, golden bathtub. Tucked away behind a partition, a beautiful four-post bed, dressing stand, and wardrobe. A large window overlooked the Sundering Seas, Tol Eressëa the only spot of land on the expansive horizon.

Well! If Maglor’s punishment was to be locked in a tall tower, with a stunning view, full of comforts, with a beautiful woman for company–

But another window, on the other side, overlooked the very edge of the world. Pale blue faded into indigo faded into black and beyond that faint points of stars stretching out, out, out until all light was swallowed by neverending night, by…

Everlasting darkness.

Elwing threw open that window, then shot her eyes, glinting like ice, across the room. Maglor’s knees gave out beneath him.

“Forgive me!” he cried, and cast himself down on the floorboards. “Lady Elwing, please, forgive me. I was wrong – we were wrong, we wronged you. I never wanted to attack your people! Believe me, I never did, never,” he sobbed, and threw his arms around her slender ankles. “Let me serve you, please. I will do whatever is your pleasure, forever until the end of Time. Only do not cast me away, please do not throw me into that darkness, please!”

“Oh, you really are dramatic, aren’t you?” Elwing kicked and shook him off. “But do get up! No need to overstate it, I know you’ll serve me. As per the arrangement.”

Maglor craned his neck to look up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did they tell you nothing on the journey over?”

Maglor blinked several times.

“No, of course not,” said Elwing, flapping her arms in exasperation. “Those Ainur are ever sparing with their words and even less generous with their meanings. Well, Maglor Fëanorion, I suppose it’s my responsibility to inform you that I have you now, as my… servant. As compensation for your crimes against me and my kin.”

“Oh.” Maglor staggered to his feet. “I am pardoned, then?”

“Ugh!” Elwing flapped again. “Yes, apparently. In exchange for serving me until the end of Time, you are pardoned and released from your idiotic oath.”

Maglor clapped his hands and cackled gleefully. He was right, he thought with smug satisfaction. Not everlasting dark – no, no! – but absolution in exchange for blessed servitude to a beautiful mistress. If only he could see his brother now, tell him – oh. Maedhros.

He looked at Elwing. “Lady,” he said tentatively, and pursed his lips. “I am grateful, ever so grateful, but can you tell me – what has been done with my brother?”

“Which one?” She snorted. “As far as I know, five of them are still dead. Your living one they've given to my husband.”

“Mn,” said Maglor, and scrunched his face. “Really?”

“Yes, I know,” said Elwing dryly, then added with sarcastic glee, “Best of luck to them both!”

She sashayed over to a stool by the window, hiking her skirts up still further as she perched atop it. “Now, Maglor, if you are quite done worrying about your brother, I’ve had a thought about what to do with you.” Her eyes scanned him from head to toe and back. “Would you mind taking off those filthy old clothes so I can have a better look at you?”

All thoughts of Maedhros fled. “You– you want me to undress?” Maglor asked, to be quite sure.

“Yes, was that not clear?”

Without another moment’s hesitation, he tugged the offending garments off and cast them on the floor. He stood before her in nothing but his smallclothes.

“Hmm.” Elwing tucked an elegant hand under her chin. “A bit thin, but I suppose that’s to be expected after all you've put yourself through.”

Maglor glanced down at himself and ran his fingers over his ribs. Perhaps they protruded a little, but he thought he was no less handsome than he’d always been.

“That can be remedied easily enough,” said Elwing. “What’s your favourite dessert? I’ll have my storks bring it tomorrow.”

Maglor had not had dessert in… he could not recall how long. He licked his lips, trying to remember the taste of sweetness. Butter tarts, honey cakes, berry custard – they’d had all those in Beleriand, before the worst of it, but no, there was some other flavour he had loved, one he had missed since they left Aman “–Ah!” he said. “Chocolate!”

Elwing’s laughter was like the jingling of bells. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Just chocolate? Chocolate cake? Pudding, mousse?”

Maglor’s mouth watered. “Any of it, Lady. All of it.”

“All of it? My, what an appetite!”

Maglor grinned and bit his lip. Elwing displayed a certain discomfort at this, flicking her gaze away and slumping her shoulders forward slightly, so he straightened his mouth and held his arms by his side. Her messages were awfully mixed.

“Well, then!” said Elwing, thrusting her chest forward again like a proud hen. “Padding you out may take time, but we can at least dress you up a little!”

She sprung off the stool. Standing over the bathtub, she waved a hand and chanted softly. And behold, the golden basin filled with steaming, fragrant water. With her other hand, she tossed a handful of rose petals over it, letting them fall and come to float delicately on the water’s surface.

“I’ll send some friends of mine up to ready you,” she said. “I will be back when they are done.” A smile – almost aggressively broad – split her face. “Won’t that be a fun surprise? Ah!” She knitted her hands together and squealed. “I do so enjoy surprises! Don’t you, Maglor?”

“Sorry?” said Maglor, feeling inexplicably threatened by the question.

Her pupils flared wide; she tensed, tilting her neck to the side and fixing him with eyes keen as a hawk’s. All mirth was gone from her voice and countenance. “Don’t you delight in taking people at unawares? On a midwinter’s night, perhaps, or with an unexpected seaside fire show?”

Maglor froze, still as a hunted hare. “I– I– my lady– I thought– what about the– the pardon?”

Elwing broke into a musical peal of laughter. “Oh, right! Ha ha ha ha! Worry not, only a jest! You like those, too, I hope? No, sweet songbird, it is even as the Elder King has decreed from his high seat on Taniquetil – the score is settled, the debt is paid, all is forgiven and forgot!”

With that, she swept past him and skipped on down the stairs, still chattering in a sing-song voice: “Debt paid! Forgiven and forgot! All set at naught!”

“These winds are unnavigable!” Eärendil shouted. “I have never encountered anything like it!”

The beam of the Silmaril’s light landed on Maedhros, still bound and pressed up against the keeling portside.

“Oh, confound it,” Eärendil said, locking the wheel in place and staggering over. “I’m letting you out of those bonds. You can’t stay like that forever, and, truth be told, it boils my blood seeing you there like a dead weight when you could be helping.”

Eärendil, bracing himself against the jerking motions of the ship with his legs spread wide, nimbly and rapidly removed the convoluted web of knots around Maedhros’ limbs. As the last fetter fell off, the ship tipped nearly horizontal and Eärendil yelped and leapt back to the helm.

Once the ship was righted, Maedhros grabbed hold of the railing and dragged himself to his feet. He held his freed arms out in front of him and stared at them in shock. Then he shifted his attention to the erratic ray of the Silmaril darting through the sky. Eärendil lunged this way and that, yanking on the massive steering wheel. He seemed to be shouting commands, but they were swallowed by the roar of the winds.

It was so easy. Maedhros had only to knock him out and take it.

The problem was, Maedhros was a terrible sailor. And what use was an oath fulfilled adrift in space?

The boat shifted suddenly and violently, knocking Maedhros flat onto his back.

The truth was, Maedhros thought as his head struck the deck, that he was tired, and sick to his stomach, and, as irritating as Eärendil was and as easy as it would be, he really didn’t want to kill him. There had to be a better way.

“Haul taut!” Eärendil’s voice boomed urgently over the winds. “Let go the brails and lee vang! Man the clew outhaul!”

Maedhros groaned and staggered to his feet. “What in the black pits of Utumno are you saying?” he shouted. “Can you speak in plain language?”

But Eärendil didn’t hear, because he had grabbed onto a loose line and was being dragged up into the air, shrieking and flailing as he avoided crashing into the mast.

“Confound it, Maedhros Fëanorion!” he screamed from above, now clinging to the mast with both legs and his one free arm, while the sails flapped and billowed around him. “I understand that you have a disadvantage–” Eärendil fisted the hand he had hooked around the mast, presumably in imitation of a severed wrist, “–but Vingilot is rigged no differently–” his golden mop of hair whipped across his face and he shoved it aside with a elbow, “–no differently from the ship’s of my wife’s kin–” he tugged vainly on the line “–and I understand from the histories that you managed to sail those – ahhh!” A strong gust nearly made him lose his grip. “–sail those across the Sundering Seas!”

Eärendil emphatically cast the beam of light emanating from his head straight at Maedhros and awaited a response. Maedhros was unperturbed. He had endured much worse. He shielded his eyes with his supposedly ‘disadvantaged’ arm and smirked.

“PULL! THE! HALYARD! YOU! LUMP!” Eärendil bellowed.

Maedhros, who in any case could never remember the difference between a halyard and a sheet, was quite aware of who actually had the disadvantage between the two of them. He stumbled to the base of the mast and shouted up.

“Eärendil,” he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could in the current conditions, “kinsman. I would like to help you, truly, but, as I am sure you know, having read the histories, I have no choice but to do everything I can to obtain the jewel on that little crown of yours.”

Eärendil flailed as the sail whipped around the mast, swaddling him like a baby.

Maedhros pressed on, “Releasing me from my bonds was merciful – and a mistake. For you left me with no choice but to use my freedom to try to kill you. However, I am merciful and will forebear from such an action, if you will accept my terms. Toss me that jewel and swear to bring me back to Valinor with it, and I will help you out of your current predicament.”

An arm, and then the halo of light that was Eärendil’s head, emerged from the tangled mass of sail and lines.

“What?!” he shouted. “You’re going to kill me? You’re a villain, Maedhros! An unrepentant, kinslaying kidnapper! I never should have…” he railed on but the next several sentences were swallowed by successive gusts of wind.

Only snatches of words came through: “...always thought… nothing while they burned… abandoned… because you were a coward, but…” The wind dropped, and his last words came loud and clear: “Well, now I know why you didn’t go back for him yourself! Because you can’t sail!”

A white, blind rage caught flame in Maedhros’ breast. He launched himself at the base of the mast and shimmied up, even ‘disadvantaged’ as he was, shoving aside the sails as he went, up, up, up to where Eärendil clung. From the opposite side of the mast he wrapped his own legs around Eärendil’s waist, grabbed him by the fabric of his tunic, and pulled him close enough that the light of Silmaril no longer kept him from looking him in the face.

“What did you say?” he growled, piercing the sea-green depths of eyes narrowed in anger.

“I said,” Eärendil bared two perfect rows of white teeth, “that perhaps it wasn’t out of cowardice that you did not go back for your beloved Fingon but because you can’t fucking sail!”

Maedhros released his hold on the mast just long enough to smash his stump into the soft spot beneath Eärendil’s collarbone. The man yelped.

“COWARDICE?!” Maedhros yelled. “You have no idea, you Valar-blessed leech! You cannot possibly–” then his voice cracked, and he choked back a sob, and suddenly Eärendil looked terribly worried and terribly like Fingon.

“No no no no no!” said Eärendil. “Oh no! Oh, I’m sorry, that was cruel of me, really – I know it has been a long time since you sailed, and I shouldn’t have brought all that up. This is all very strange for me also, and I suppose there are some things I have not dealt with – and the weather gets me so frustrated sometimes! And then when you said you were going to kill me – well, I get very angry, blood-red angry, when I feel my life is threatened. I’m not proud of it, but–”

The wind smeared Maedhros’ hot tears across his face, where they dried at once. Their salty streaks now tugged at his skin when he scrunched up his features in confusion. “What are you talking about? I said I could kill you, not that I would.”

Eärendil breathed a tremendous sigh. “Oh, what a relief! I thought you’d gone mad. They warned me you may have.” He tittered nervously. “But of course, what reason would you have to kill me, now that you’ve been released from your oath and all.”

At that very moment, the whipping winds spat them out into stillness. It was very quiet. The ship bobbed gently on the airs. The sails hung limp around them.

Likewise shocked into stillness, only Maedhros’ mouth moved as he whispered, “What?”

“Oh,” said Eärendil, and his face fell. “Didn’t they tell you?”

The blood rushed from Maedhros’ skull and his forehead fell against the mast with a thunk. He jerked it back up, still dizzy.

“Ah,” Eärendil said. “I suppose I should have clarified. Well, let’s get down from here.”

Eärendil scrambled out of the vise of Maedhros’ legs and shimmied down the mast. Trembling and in a state of utter disorientation and meaninglessness, Maedhros followed. He stumbled across the deck and sank down onto a bench.

He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. If he had been released, if that was possible, then everything, all of it… he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed the rising bile in his throat.

Eärendil took a seat beside him. He lifted the circlet bearing the Silmaril from his head and set it down to his other side. Maedhros’ eyes slid inexorably towards it.

“So, the thing is,” said Eärendil, “that when I came to Valinor – through great peril and hardship as I'm sure you've heard.” He chuckled. Maedhros grunted. “Ah hm. Yes, well, I asked for pity and pardon for all the Noldor, and that included you and your brother. Yes, despite everything, even you! But you, stubborn fools, refused the invitation West – where I am quite certain you would have been pardoned – for which I gave up everything. Everything! To be frank with you, I thought it was very rude. And – something else about me you should know: I really don’t like it when things do not go my way.”

“Yes,” Maedhros muttered against the hand he held over his mouth, “runs in your bloodline.”

“Right. In any case, when I heard that you and your brother had refused to return to Valinor to be adjudged, I once again entreated the Valar on your behalf. I brought Elwing, too, since if they knew even she was prepared to forgive you… well, they really weren’t having it at first, let me tell you. Said they’d done enough favours for me and to get back to work.

“This never leaves Vingilot,” he leaned close to Maedhros’ ear and spoke in a whisper, “but between you and me – and I’m sure you of all people won’t disagree – the Valar can be a bit, hmm, challenging. But don’t tell anyone I said that.” He sat back. “Anyway, where was I? Oh right, the arrangement. Well, funnily enough it started with a suggestion that Elwing made. She hadn’t really thought they’d take it seriously–”

Of course, thought Maedhros. Who but the heir of the House of Thingol would make a thoughtless ‘suggestion’ with world-altering consequences? He meant to laugh, but it was more of a whimper.

“Are you alright?” asked Eärendil.

“Yes,” Maedhros peered at him sideways, “just a bit queasy. Carry on.”

“Right. She made a silly suggestion, more of a joke, inspired by the fact that you had taken our sons captive – thank you for not killing them by the way, but we really would have preferred if you’d found someone other than Maglor to raise them – anyway, Námo has a very strange sense of humour, and I’m not sure if Manwë has one at all. And the whole discussion in the Máhanaxar spiralled rather out-of-control if you ask me, but the end result–” Eärendil paused for air, “–the end result, meaning Manwë’s judgement, is that in exchange for your pardon and release, you and Maglor are to serve me and my wife–” he paused and grinned “–until the end of time.”

Eärendil, his grin turning slowly into a grimace, sucked a nervous breath through his teeth.

Maedhros began to shake with uncontrollable, silent laughter. Eärendil put a tentative hand on his back, then withdrew in alarm when Maedhros barked out, “What!” and cackled. “Hah! So we are your compensation? Your prizes of war?”

“Ah, you could put it that way, I suppose.”

“And you’re not taking me out to cast me into the Void?”

“No! No, no, of course not! Are you mad? Vingilot can’t handle the weather out there, and the cold would kill me!”

Maedhros pushed a breath out through his nose. He would have laughed again if the first fit had not made him so dizzy. “And we’re pardoned?” he said. “Both of us?”

“Yes! Oh, I know it’s a very odd arrangement, but it’s going to be grand, you’ll see. I won’t be alone up here anymore, for one. You have no idea how lonely I get. I’m a very sociable person, you know. And you won’t even know you’re captive. I think you might even enjoy it. We had some nice clothes made, and there’s wine and cheeses in those chests, and– oh.”

Eärendil stopped, apparently noting that Maedhros had doubled over and was clutching his stomach. His bout of hysteria passed, Maedhros was again nauseous with the immensity of this revelation.

“You don’t like it,” Eärendil concluded.

“Mmrph,” Maedhros moaned, and propped his head up on his wrist. He spoke to the floor. “Are you sure– are you absolutely sure we have been released? Not just pardoned – released? Even though we swore by the One beyond the Circles of the World?”

“I am pretty sure,” Eärendil said, sounding unsure. “That is what Manwë said, in any case, and he talks to Ilúvatar, doesn’t he?”

Maedhros’ gut lurched. “Wait – he does?”

“Yes, or that’s what I’ve heard anyway.”

“You realise,” Maedhros said, head spinning, “that if I have indeed been released, if it was possible for us to be released, that everything I did was for nothing?”

“Hm,” said Eärendil, pausing to think for once. “I had not considered that.” He brought a finger to his lips. “Although – if you had not sacked Sirion, Elwing would not have ended up in the Sea with the Silmaril, and she would not have come to me, and I would not have come to the Enchanted Isles and escaped their enchantment, or come to the Shadowy Seas and passed their shadows, or landed, first of living Men, on immortal shores*– and so really, what you did was terrible and bad but not for nothing. You see?”

“Hrmph,” Maedhros answered, and rubbed his temples.

“Here, just to be sure,” Eärendil picked up the circlet bearing the Silmaril to his other side and shoved it under Maedhros’ nose, “take it.”

Maedhros recoiled. “You’re just going to give me that?”

“Yes,” Eärendil shrugged, “why not? You’re stuck here with me so long as you wish to retain your pardon,” his voice dropped an octave, “which you had better,” and rose again, “but even if you’d rather condemn yourself to Mandos, you’re hopeless trying to sail without me, and I don’t actually believe you’d kill me, so I don’t see why it makes any difference whether it’s you or me wearing it. You can have it. I already saved the world, I don’t really need it anymore.”

He nudged it closer to Maedhros. The Silmaril’s light pulsed.

“But–” said Maedhros, a sudden fear clamping around his lungs, “what if it… burns me?” He didn’t think he could take that condemnation.

“Hm. Then stop touching it. But by all the shining stars, Maedhros! Just take it!” Eärendil shoved it down on Maedhros’ head. “There.”

Slowly, breathing through the frantic beating of his heart, Maedhros raised his hand and set his palm over the Silmaril. Nothing. It was cool to the touch. Like any other rock.

Then he reeled, as if violently struck by a great wave of everything he’d ever felt all at once – pain, rage, grief, shame, and tremendous, shattering relief – and was propelled forward off the bench, sending the Silmaril flying from his head onto the deck–

–where he promptly vomited on it.

Elwing’s friends were not, as Maglor had assumed they would be, people.

He had first been startled from his blissful soak by the hoarse call of a raven. It was he who directed affairs, Maglor soon came to realise. Then a gaggle of geese had flapped through the window and hissed at him until he scrambled from the tub. They, it seemed, were there to maintain order (and generally harass Maglor at every turn).

A bevy of doves had arrived next, and they were now working together to pull out, with beaks and talons, an impressive assortment of fine silk and linen garments from the wardrobe and lay them out on the bed. All the clothing was somehow fitted perfectly to Maglor’s body and in colours that he knew would wonderfully complement his golden complexion.

He reached for a blue robe of thick velvet, but it was snatched from his hands by the aggressive beak of one of the geese.

“Not that one, then?” he said to the goose, and she honked.

A dove landed lightly on a sheer and insubstantial silk robe, sparkling green as if with the dust of emeralds.

“Oh,” said Maglor. “That one?”

The dove cooed.

“Alright, if you say so. I might as well not be wearing anything, though.”

Another dove hopped up onto the bed beside the first. He cooed and tucked his head beneath the chin of the other and they both pecked affectionately at each other’s downy feathers.

“I see,” Maglor said. “Well, if that is what she wants, you will hear no complaints from me.” He chuckled and chewed at his lower lip, imagining what Elwing might have in store for him.

A goose hissed at his feet. Maglor jumped and covered his heart.

“What!” He glared at her.

She gave a low and threatening honk.

“Very well, would you care to enlighten me on her intended use for me, then?”

The goose cocked her head and waddled away slowly, keeping one beady eye fixed on him.

“I suppose that’s a no.” Maglor watched her carefully while he closed the robe over his waist.

As he tied the garment closed with a sash, a mischief of magpies burst through the window, each holding a piece of jewellery in its beak. They flapped and pecked until Maglor had adorned himself with every piece, weighed down with a bedazzling collection of earrings, necklaces, rings, bracelets, anklets, and hair ornaments. “Goodness,” he said, holding his decorated arms out in front of him. “You would think she was a Noldo with such a taste for jewels.”

He wished he had a mirror. Even without, he was growing hard at what he could see of himself. He dragged a hand over his nipples and sighed. The texture of the silk sliding over his skin had a delightfully stimulating effect.

In a cacophony of beating wings and coos and honks and caws, the birds dispersed and flew out the open window.

Elwing appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Oh,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “Ah hm. Not bad.”

“I am glad to hear that, my lady.” Maglor grinned at how transparently Elwing was affected by him. “What would you like me to do?”

“Oh, did I not mention that? Oh ha ha! I have taken up drawing. I thought I might draw you.”

“Ah,” Maglor said. “Figure drawing. I see.” A classic pretext.

She brushed past him, procured a sketchbook and pencil from the bedside table, and perched on her stool with it.

“Will you recline on the bed?” she asked.

“Certainly,” Maglor said, and lay across it with his head propped on a bent elbow. With his other hand, he pushed the robe aside to expose most of one leg. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Elwing said, and failed to hold back a hitched sigh. Her eyes strayed towards Maglor’s hardening shaft, just visible through the sheer fabric, where it twitched against the mattress.

“Hm,” she said, and looked back at his face. A slight smile dimpled both her cheeks. “Alright, stay still. And please don’t speak.”

Maedhros stared at the Silmaril, blazing bright as ever through the thin veneer of his vomit. He had managed to get himself seated on the deck, his back resting against the bench. Eärendil had come down to sit beside him and, mercifully, was saying nothing. Maedhros inhaled deeply. Then exhaled. Eärendil’s presence, when he wasn’t frantically trying to explain himself, was remarkably calming.

Maedhros rolled his head to the side to look at him; properly look at him, now that his features were no longer obscured by the glare of the Silmaril. They were rather illuminated by it, accentuating his high cheekbones and the warm, light brown hues of his skin. He had a charismatic, handsome face. Familiar. Long, golden eyelashes and green eyes, like Idril. The loose curls in his hair must have been from his Hadorian father. He had Turgon’s fine jawline and long nose – which he got from Fingolfin, who got it from Finwë – and the compassionate slant of Finwë’s eyebrows. Maglor and the Ambarussar had inherited that, too.

He turned to face Maedhros, put a comforting hand on his forearm, and smiled.

Fingon’s smile.

“Thank you,” said Maedhros, to the embodiment, in a single person, of all those he’d loved, failed, and lost.

“Mmn,” Eärendil replied, and squeezed his arm. “You’re welcome.”

A silence passed. Vingilot drifted aimlessly through the windless patch of sky, its sail hanging limply about the mast. Eärendil did not remove his hand.

“So you are happy, then,” said Eärendil, “with the arrangement? You are not angry about being saved?”

Maedhros laughed hoarsely. “No, I am not angry. In fact–” he shuffled his arm back to take Eärendil’s hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. He set his lips to his fingers just above the knuckles.

“Lord Eärendil,” he said, bowing his head slightly, “I thank you for your generous and remarkable efforts in securing a pardon for my brother and me. We did not deserve your pity, but I humbly accept this doom,” he could not stop the smirk that pulled up the corners of his mouth, “to be your servant until the end of time, to do with as you see fit.”

Eärendil blinked three times, and three times Maedhros watched his golden eyelashes land on his high cheekbones. Eärendil lowered their hands, and rotated his to fit them together. There was a hint of melancholy in the gentle curve of his smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am relieved you’re happy.”

Maedhros followed his gaze down to where their clasped hands rested on Eärendil’s thigh. The Silmaril seemed to narrow its beam on their knitted fingers. A wave of calm washed over Maedhros’ mind as he studied how neatly his own rough and pale hand threaded together with Eärendil’s smooth but strong one.

They both lifted their eyes to look out into the starry black.

“I know I told you already,” Eärendil said slowly, “but it’s so incredibly lonely up here,” his voice hitched and he drew in a shaky breath, “and I am just so glad to have company.”

Maedhros watched a tear roll over the rim of his eye. Eärendil sniffed and turned to meet Maedhros’ gaze.

“Maedhros,” he said in a small voice, “I have a sudden urge to kiss you. Would that be alright?”

Truth be told, Maedhros had the very same urge. He’d had the urge, he realised, since first looking into those eyes, like water shifting blue then green under the sun.

Maedhros leaned in, close enough that he could feel the other man’s breath on his lips as he parted them to– “Wait,” he said suddenly, and pulled back. “Your wife won’t mind?”

“Elwing?” Eärendil laughed. “Ah, so good of you to ask.” His skin crinkled around his eyes, which sparkled with affection. “I love my wife, and we have our fun when she comes to see me, but she has the insatiable needs that come with her Maia blood. We have an understanding. So, she might find it very funny, but no, she won't begrudge me this.” He untangled their hands and pulled Maedhros’ face close. “I assure you.”

Then he leaned forward, so close this time that their lips brushed – at which point Eärendil giggled and let his head fall against Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros could not hold back a groan of frustration.

“I’m sorry,” Eärendil said, grinning into the curve of Maedhros’ neck. “It’s just that, it has been so long since my wife has had opportunity to take a lover in person form, that I would wager she’s fucking your brother right now."

“I don’t need to know that,” Maedhros said gruffly. Their nearness had made him impatient for touch. Heat built between his thighs and his lips still tingled where they had so-nearly been kissed. He hooked his hand under Eärendil’s chin and kissed him full on the mouth, long and deep.

Eärendil moaned and climbed on top of him.

As far as Maglor could tell, the drawing did not make it past the stage of a vague outline.

“You vile kidnapper,” Elwing said through gritted teeth.

She was straddling his thighs, impatiently unfastening the buttons of her dress. No sooner had she rid herself of it than she was tugging at the loose knot holding Maglor’s robe closed, exposing his naked body and erect shaft. No attempt was made to properly remove the robe or the jewellery.

“You shameless child thief!” she shouted, as she settled back down over his waist, as of yet denying his erection the satisfaction of contact with her body, and grabbed him by both wrists.

“Do you feel these?” She placed his hands roughly over her breasts. “It is with these that I nursed those children!”

Maglor took the liberty of squeezing the ample handfuls of firm but forgiving flesh and felt her nipples harden against his palms.

“Mhm!” A sharp whine through pinched lips, before she yanked his hands off and moved them to her abdomen. “And here– here is where I carried them, and–”

Having gathered where this was going, Maglor slipped a hand down between her thighs where they pressed against his stomach, and fingered at her opening. She lifted herself slightly and rolled against it, allowing the tip of his middle finger inside her.

“Yes!” she cried. “There. That is where they came from. Me. I hope – aah,” he slid deeper inside her and clamped down on her swollen arousal with the heel of his palm, “I hope when they looked at you with, ah! –” he filled her with a second finger, and she panted, “ –fear in their eyes, that you never, ever forgot that.”

“Never,” said Maglor, and hooked his fingers. “Do you know how much they loved you, Elwing?” He stroked gently, searching out the place that would pull whimpers of pleasure from her throat. “Do you know how they cried for their mother? How they grieved to be parted from you? For as long as I knew them.”

“I bet that hurt you,” she said, thrusting against his hand and moaning.

“Yes, very much.”

“Good.” She bared her canines, then grabbed his wrists, pulled his fingers from her, and pinned both hands to the bed. “But don’t think that because you hurt,” she adjusted up then back so that her cunt kissed at the head of his full and heavy shaft, “that it makes what you did – ah! ha! – any less, aaahh – terrible!”

The last word came as a shuddering cry, and Maglor joined his own to hers as she slid herself all the way onto him.

She sat upright. “Kidnapper,” she spat from above, and released his arms to slap his cheek. She had not hurt him, though he was sure she could – so he rewarded her restraint by responding as if to a severe blow, crying out and jerking his head to one side.

“Yes, Lady Elwing.” He met her eyes again, and arched into the weight of her over his hips. “And much worse.”

“Yes, much worse.” She braced herself against his chest and began to slide slowly, agonisingly slowly, up and down his cock.

Stars, but she was exquisite! Maglor tipped his chin back and panted, overcome by the sensation. It had been so long. She started to ride him in earnest.

“Mmm.” She licked her lips. “Do you know what you are?”

Maglor gripped her thighs and urged her on. “I do. But I want to hear it from your lips, Lady Elwing.”

“You’re a horrible – uuhn – blaspheming – ah! – fork-tongued – agh! – lily-livered – ooohh oh oh!”

“What?” Maglor asked. “What am I?”

“Kinslayer!” she cried, and landed heavily over his hips, clenching around him and digging her fingers into his chest.

“Yes, yes.” Maglor writhed beneath her, aching at the sudden absence of friction. “I am, I’m horrible and a coward and worthless and–”

She clapped a hand over his mouth.

“ –but now you’re mine,” she said, grinding against his abdomen. “All mine.”

“Yes, my lady, yours.” He gazed at her through hooded lids and used a thumb to rub her flushed clit to full hardness.

“Aaaggh!” She threw her head back and wailed. “Mine! Mine!”

“Aah, Elwing!” he cried, watching her swollen breasts bounce with the motion of her body. “Aahh, you are stunning.”

“Get up,” she demanded, and snapped her neck down to snarl at him. “Get up and take me on your lap.”

Maglor sprang up to a seated position, holding her firmly against him. He crossed his legs and she wrapped hers around him.

“Mmmph,” she moaned, grabbing his face between her hands and kissing him hard. She rolled her hips and seated him deep inside her, even as her tongue, thick and eager, sought out his. Her back arched, pushing her breasts closer so that the hard peaks of her nipples chafed against him.

“Fuck me,” she breathed against his lips and took the lower one between her teeth. “Show me how good you can be, Maglor. Show me how much you regret everything you’ve ever done.”

He growled with delight and grabbed her hips in both hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks, and lifted her over his lap. Up and down, up and down, urged on by the expression of pure bliss that overtook her. His arms burned with the effort, but she began to shout in short, sharp bursts, so he uncrossed his feet and dug his heels into the bed, lifting her harder and faster.

Oh that he could release his own pent need! He was so swollen, so hard, but he was determined to give her the best she’d ever had.

She hooked an arm around his shoulders, bringing her face close and panting hotly on his lips. Her pale irises were nearly swallowed by the blackness of her pupils.

“Make me come,” she said.

“Yes,” said Maglor, “yes, Elwing, starlight, glittering, I will make you come again and again and again, for every time I ever wronged you or your–”

“Shut up and fuck me,” said Elwing.

She robbed him of any possibility of defying her first command by smothering him in a deep and searching kiss, biting and sucking at his lips. Her nails clung to his back like talons. He bucked beneath her once, twice, thrice, and moved a hand from her hips to grope and pinch at one nipple and then the other.

A pulse of wetness spilt around his shaft, and she shuddered and clenched down around him. She tore her mouth from his and screamed, and bucked, and screamed again. With skilled hands skittering over her body, he coaxed higher and wilder notes from her until, at last, she collapsed against his shoulder.

Her rapid heartbeat thudded against Maglor’s chest and filled him with a surge of affection that he was powerless to push back, for all that he knew he would never deserve the same from her. An ache tugged at his erection when she shifted against him. He failed to stifle a groan.

“Shh, wait,” said Elwing.

She took five gulps of air, then sprang off his cock and grabbed a small tin, the kind normally used for salves and lotions. She drew circles in the air to indicate that he should spin around.

“Your turn,” she said, scooting up behind him and opening the tin.

What came next, Maglor had not expected.

“Are you sure?” asked Maedhros. He speared an olive with a dainty silver fork and flicked his eyes at Eärendil seated across from him.

“Yes!” Eärendil emphasised the point by snatching the olive from the end of the fork. “What?” He popped it in his mouth. “Do you think I cannot take it?”

“Well…” Maedhros took another olive and smirked. “You have shown yourself to be as indomitable a lover as you are a mariner.”

Truly, his new – and forever – lord’s courage was impressive for someone who had only ever bedded one person in his entire life. (This, a confession he had felt compelled to make with Maedhros’ mouth still wrapped around his cock.)

“So it is not that I don’t believe you can,” Maedhros resumed, “but are you sure that you want to? There’s quite a lot of me.” He punctuated this by dropping the olive in his mouth.

The palm of Eärendil’s hand came down on the table with a loud smack, nearly sending the sparkling wine in their glasses sloshing over the rims.

“Yes, I have seen that!” He rolled his eyes. “Did you think I’ve never taken a cock before?”

“Uh…” Maedhros blinked, steadying his glass. “Yes?”

“Ha ha ha ha!” Eärendil threw his head back. “You ought to have spent more time making love and less time making war. First of all, there are women who have them, and others might wear them. But no, no – my wife can take any shape she likes. Do you really think she is content to only ever be the sheath for my sword?”

“Oh,” said Meadhros, drawing his chin back in surprise. A response both to the crass metaphor and this revelation about Lúthien’s granddaughter.

“Maedhros.” Eärendil sighed and lifted his brows over the bridge of his nose. Normally, such condescension would have irritated Maedhros, but by the Moon if he had not come to adore that face.

“It’s true,” Eärendil said, “most often my wife prefers her woman’s form, but yes – I have taken a cock. Her cock. When she wishes to have one. It is a talent, she tells me, that all of her line has possessed.”

“I see,” said Maedhros, vaguely thinking of Maglor, and Beren, and – no, not Thingol. He would not think of Thingol. “Well, in that case, my lord, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

“Good,” Eärendil said. “If you’d be so good as to retrieve that jewel from the mast – I’d like you to wear it while you take me.”

The fine linen breeches Maedhros had been clothed in were suddenly very tight around his groin.

The ship bearing Eärendil and Maedhros had cycled through the skies fifty times now, and Maglor had taken to watching it rise in the early hours of the morning from the beach. It was where he spent most of his time when Lady Elwing did not have need of him. He sat upon the rocks, plucking at the exquisite Vanyarin harp that a particularly large stork had brought in all the way from Valmar.

His spirit had not felt so light since long before the Darkening, and he composed and sang songs of the insipid tra-la-lally sort that Lord Maglor of the Gap would certainly have scoffed at. But Maglor, servant of Elwing, was content.

It was difficult to imagine that Maedhros was likewise content. Elwing insisted that her husband was exceedingly charming and that no one, not even Maedhros, would be able to resist his charms for long. Maglor remained sceptical.

Tonight, Elwing said, they would pass near enough that Eärendil and Maedhros would be able to see through the window of her tower’s attic. And she had a plan to attract their attention.

He was once again on the shore, humming along to the gentle lapping of the waves, when she summoned him.

“Songbird!” came her clear voice from the top of the tower. “They’re coming! Get up here!”

Maglor bounded up the long staircase and emerged at the top, panting (the effort required to ascend them had lessened slightly, but the increase in his fitness seemed to be offset by all the desserts she was feeding him).

“I’m here, Lady!” he announced. “What is your pleasure?”

Elwing turned to face him. His enchanting mistress wore nothing but a gold band beneath her breasts and a silk scarf wrapped about her hips and around her thighs. Neither accessory covered anything. Maglor’s breath, already short, caught in his throat.

“Take your clothes off,” she demanded, then laughed. “I thought that much would be obvious by now.”

Maglor hurriedly obliged. His shaft, ever obedient, announced his readiness as it sprung free from his underclothes.

“Very good,” Elwing said. “Now, come here.” She backed up with a coy smile.

It was then that Maglor noticed the contraption in the east-facing window behind her: a kind of hammock, intricately woven with threads of silver and blue and green, hanging from the frame of the open window by leather straps. There was a silver bar across the top, and two sturdy loops of fabric hung down at the front.

Elwing hoisted herself into it, spreading her legs and fitting her feet into the loops.

“Alright,” she said, taking hold of the bar and tipping her head back so that her shining black hair cascaded over the other side. “Be sure you don’t rush – and do let them hear that mighty voice of yours.”

“Aaugh!” Maedhros grunted, unable to hold his voice back as he slid all at once into the tight heat of Eärendil’s opening.

Eärendil, bent over Vingilot’s railing, struck the wood with a fist as he stuttered and arched his back in pleasure. Maedhros pulled back then thrust into him again. The boat rocked slightly with the force of it. He pulled Eärendil’s drooping head up by his mass of golden hair, throwing the light of the Silmaril at the white tower not a league distant from where they now drifted on calm winds.

“Oh Varda!” Eärendil cried. It was rare that he cursed by the name of any of the Valar, his beloved patrons. This excited Maedhros, who had no great love for the Powers. He let go of Eärendil’s hair in favour of wrapping his arm around Eärendil’s waist to encircle his erection.

“By Uinen’s surging lust!”

That was a new one. Maedhros pumped his shaft and bent over to bite his shoulder.

“Maedhros! Look!”

“Mmrrm,” Maedhros licked a stripe up the side of Eärendil’s neck, “look at what? Aren’t we the ones meant to be seen?”

“No!” Eärendil pointed. “Look in the window! The window of her tower!”

Maedhros lifted his eyes. “Oh.”

He stilled, assessing his reaction to the scene before him. A woman’s neck and shoulders spilled over the edge of some sort of swing in the window frame, her breasts bouncing with each thrust of the figure behind her. The latter suddenly released a cry so loud that Vingilot’s timbers vibrated with it.

Yes, that was definitely Maglor. And yes, the sight was definitely making Maedhros harder.

“Oh, she is so devious!” said Eärendil. “My irresistible, divine, bewitching wife – ooh,” he responded to the resumption of Maedhros’ thrusts and firm stroking, then screamed, “ELWING! BELOVED!” and threw out one arm as if reaching for her.

The woman – Elwing – abruptly sat up in her swing. Maglor cried out in dismay. Then, in a flurry of feathers, she was no woman but an enormous albatross. The noise of her beating wings reached as far as Vingilot. She perched on a bar just beneath the window, and Maedhros gaped in amazement as Maglor climbed onto her back. She took off, coming straight for the ship.

 

“I don’t believe it!” Maglor, stark naked and still half-hard, slid off the albatross’ back and gestured at Maedhros, who was likewise compromised.

Behind him, Elwing shrunk back into her woman’s form and threw herself into Eärendil’s arms for a passionate reunion. Maedhros, who had never taken any interest in woman’s form, gawked all the same.

“You!” Maglor continued. “Playing games to arouse a man’s wife with jealousy, my my. I didn’t think you had it in you. And him–”

He turned and pointed at Eärendil, who just then dropped down onto his knees before Elwing and, with the Silmaril pressed up against her abdomen, fit his face between her thighs.

Maglor snapped his head back, looking at Maedhros with an amusing mixture of arousal and alarm in his wide eyes. “Of all people, Nelyo! A blond?!”

Maedhros burst into laughter. The last time he had seen his brother, he had been quite prepared to kill him. Now, he was quite prepared to grab his shocked and petulant face and kiss him.

So he strode towards Maglor, said, “Do shut up, Káno,” and did just that.

His eager body did not care at all that the lips opening for him were his own brother’s. In fact, Maedhros found that even his higher faculties could not be fussed to give a damn. They were released, and forgiven, and sailing through the heavens as a star, and no one need know to what depraved pleasures they gave themselves over in this everlasting darkness.

No one, that is, besides the two others whose arms now snaked their way around their waists, as they whispered gentle commands to join them in the ship's cabin.

It was a warm, still evening in Mithlond, but the atmosphere was tense.

Sighing and crossing his arms over his chest, Elrond watched his brother push his way to the front of the crowd gathered on the docks. Elros had recently been acclaimed the first ruler of a new island kingdom for the Edain, and he behaved as if the coronation had already taken place. His twin had always been entitled; this just made it worse.

And it was not as if being a few yards closer would make the star any more visible.

Elrond would not succumb to the panic buzzing just beneath the surface of the whispering crowd. Of course the Silmaril was not lost; of course nothing had happened to Vingilot. His father must descend to rest now and then; more than likely he’d simply forgotten to leave the jewel out while he did. He was just a person, after all, like the rest of them. It was fine.

Everything was fine.

As time drew on, Elrond’s thumb began nervously massaging his arm.

“Would you like to take a look from the tower?”

Elrond startled. Celebrimbor had drawn up behind him.

“I haven’t perfected it yet,” said Celebrimbor, “but assuming the ship itself is where it should be, Vingilot’s light, if not the jewel’s, should be visible through the observation scope.”

Elrond nodded and followed in silence. He had to walk rapidly to keep up with Celebrimbor’s long strides as they made their way up through the centre of town to the tower – the tallest building they had completed to date. Now and then, he glanced back to check if Gil-Estel had reappeared on the horizon.

Celebrimbor caught his eyes. “I’ve rarely seen you so nervous.”

“Hmm,” Elrond acknowledged. “I doubt it’s anything, but I heard… a rumour.”

Celebrimbor chuckled. “Yes, I think I know the one. I heard it, too.”

“Do you really think…?” asked Elrond. “I know little of the Valar – I know little of the world, really – but it doesn’t seem like something they would do. Does it?”

They were at the tower now. Celebrimbor set his palm against the door, prompting it to open before them.

“I don’t know,” Celebrimbor mused. He left the door ajar. “A few decades ago I would not have thought they’d pardon anyone, but look how many ships have sailed West, and there are more every day. Perhaps it’s possible.”

Elrond had nothing to say to that. They made their way up the stairs, and he frowned and clenched his fists at his side. It was absurd. Not only, in his opinion, had Maedhros and Maglor forfeited any right to pardon when they made their last attack on the host, it could only be called a punishment for Elrond’s poor parents. If the disappearance of the star had anything to do with it… Elrond inhaled deeply, aware that he was gritting his teeth and his heart was thumping a little too quickly in his chest.

They emerged in the tower’s vaulted, mostly open-air dome. Celebrimbor fiddled with the observation scope, then bent over it and scanned the sky.

“Ah!” he said. Elrond rushed to his side. “Yes, I think I see it. Here,” he stood and backed away, “have a look.”

Elrond bent over the viewing lens. He squinted and allowed his eyes to adjust. He huffed in frustration, and fussed with the lens.

There it was! Little more than a smear of faint light, but it was shaped enough like a ship for Elrond to be certain. Good, Vingilot was fine. That should have calmed his beating heart, but it didn’t. What if something had happened to Eärendil and the Silmaril? What if Maedhros–

Ah ha! A sudden brightness appeared. Yes, yes – the Silmaril was there! The relieved gasps on the dock could be heard all the way up in the tower. But Elrond couldn’t possibly look away now. He thought he could make out the shape of a man on the boat. His father! He blinked to clear the blur of tears over his eyes.

Then he yelped in surprise. A great white bird looped around the ship several times before landing at the top of the mast. Oh blessed stars! Elwing! Mother!

Elrond had to draw back to wipe the droplets collected on his eyelashes. “They’re there,” he said to Celebrimbor, and sniffed.

“Are they?” said Celebrimbor, a little smirk on his lips.

“Yes!” said Elrond, then, “Oh.”

They had been below the deck. Elrond was suddenly very embarrassed. He’d intruded on a private moment between his parents.

Loud and hurried footsteps echoed in the stairs. Elros burst through the arched entranceway. “Oh, Elbereth! Here you are!” he panted, and strode up beside Elrond, grabbing him by the arm. “He’s alive! He’s there!”

“Yes,” said Elrond, still flushed with shame.

Elros did not seem to notice. His eyes had landed on the observation scope.

“Is it working?” He beamed at Celebrimbor. “May I look?”

“No, you shouldn’t–” said Elrond, at the same time that Celebrimbor said, “Certainly,” and walked over to help Elros with it.

“Oh, there they are!” Elros shouted. “Ah - how wonderful! Is that mother up there?”

Elrond did not respond. He glared at Celebrimbor, who shrugged.

Elros had fallen silent. They both watched him.

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised; then, “Hmm,” with interest; then, “Oh! Oh, no no no!” in horror, and then he jerked upright and spun on his heels, his arms held stiff at his sides and his eyes wide with shock.

He was very pale.

“Elros,” said Elrond slowly. “What did you see?”

Elros did not move, save that his eyes slid between Elrond and Celebrimbor.

“I think,” he said at last, “that I will not be observing that star ever again. Nor should anyone.”

With that, he walked stiffly past them and down the stairs. With a sidelong look at Elrond, Celebrimbor followed.

No, Elrond told himself, that would be completely inappropriate. Looking unwittingly is one thing, but to look when you know full well that you are intruding on a private, intimate moment-

He looked.

He gasped.

He tore his eyes away, but it was too late.

What he saw, he would not unsee until the end of the Arda.

Chapter End Notes

*indicates a passage paraphrased from Ch. 24, 'Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath,' in The Silmarillion.

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