like thread through needle by queerofthedagger

In the wake of Eärendil’s supplication, placid Tirion turns into a beehive.

You watch from the sidelines, fists so tight your nails bite into skin. Everyone is preparing, debating, strategizing—all those who had stayed behind, who had not come. Who do not know the land they finally mean to save.

What is left of it, you wonder? It cannot be much, from what Eärendil tells. You do not speak to him, but you see his eyes, the expression Elwing wears. The way they look at Eldamar and fail to mask their disbelief, their simmering revulsion at its rich peace and endless splendour.

You understand. Once, you would not have, but you bear scars that the land across the sea wears, too. You see what they see, have seen it every single day since your return; what should have been relief now tastes bitter on the back of your tongue.

Nargothrond no longer stands, you know this. Neither does Doriath, or anything north of it. You ask yourself what there is left to save, and then shiver in disgust at yourself.

Eärendil and Elwing are proof of something yet remaining, after all.

Everyone murmurs about the Silmaril upon Eärendil’s brow, how it is what allowed them passage into the Blessed Realm. Perhaps, that is true. Or perhaps there are acts of such desperation, they may reach even the powers that have deafened themselves and their realm to the suffering beyond.

You do not resent them for it. You would not change any of your choices, but you, too, cannot bear to look at Eärendil and Elwing for longer than you must.

The Valar love you, you and your kind. You know this. You know, too, that that has never meant that they understood you.

Perhaps because of this, it is your father who asks if you will come with him. He who had turned back. He who had watched all his children leave—for the Ice, for the land behind, for death and broken things.

You watch him, the harsh line of his mouth, the gleaming spear in his hand. You think of your niece, the end she found; of your brothers, your cousins, the images you caught of their ends while you were in the Halls.

You meet your father’s eyes, and the weight of Beleriand feels heavier beneath Valinórë’s skies than it ever had in Nargothrond’s caves.

“No,” you say, turning your face away. “There is no wrath left in me to fight.”

Deep down, you know that the more accurate word would be hope. But then, unlike your father, unlike everyone but Eärendil and Elwing, you have long since learnt that in Middle-earth, wrath and hope are often one and the same. That they have to be, if you want to survive.

Your father smiles as if he understands. You lean into his touch and almost wish that you could spare him this; almost wish that you were not waiting for him to return, and finally do.

Chapter End Notes

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