Aftermath by Lyra

V.

This one ticks G4 (ostracisation and exile).

Taking some liberties with the timeline, probably. My brain actively refuses to handle Valian years.

She had gone to Formenos.

Aside from the broken gate and the vandalised treasury, the house had been in usable state. Of course, birds had begun to nest on the bookshelves; a vixen and her young had moved into the parlour and a swarm of bees was living in the chimney. Never mind; she would cook her meals in the forge for the time being. The larder was still well-stocked with pickled vegetables and sugared fruit, dried legumes and grain. Apparently, Fëanáro had given his sons no time to pack provisions. Even the dried meats and sausages were still hanging from the ceiling: the wildlife had not yet managed to break the door or the netting on the window. Other rooms had been less fortunate. For weeks to come, Nerdanel would scare hedgehogs and toads, rabbits and weasels, squirrels and bats as she slowly repossessed the abandoned house. After a while, she no longer startled at sudden scrambling of little paws or the unexpected fluttering of wings. She gently but firmly banished the uninvited lodgers, scrubbed animal droppings from the floor and furniture, threw out pillows and curtains and pieces of clothing that had been gnawed on or scratched beyond repair.

It was good, she reflected, that there was so much work to do. It kept her mind off the more unpleasant thoughts that inevitably bubbled up as she got to know this house that she had refused to enter during Fëanáro's banishment. He had installed a full-size marital bed in the master bedroom, clearly expecting that she would at some point relent and join him; that impression was supported by the fact that the entire room had been decorated in (as far as could be discerned in the artificial light) her favourite shade of green. Nerdanel was slightly annoyed, but she nonetheless slept in the large bed without qualms. The camp bed that she had found in the forge (the pillow and blankets still carrying his scent underneath the dust that had settled on them) suggested that Fëanáro had only rarely, if ever, slept up in the bedroom. It was more difficult to look into the rooms that had clearly belonged to her sons. The were full of memories: books half-read and essays half-written, early drafts of letters, sheets upon sheets of music, abandoned jewellery projects, clothing washed and unwashed, collections of feathers and snail shells, pretty pebbles and seeds. Imagining these silent rooms full of life hurt almost as much as the news from Alqualondë had done.

Worst of all was a series of sketches, everyday activities frozen in time. Nerdanel suspected that her father-in-law was responsible for them. Here they were, the accursed Kinslayers, her precious boys: Tyelkormo on horseback, triumphantly holding up the carcass of a deer he had shot; Carnistir reading a book, curled up like a cat, so deeply absorbed that he had not objected to being drawn; Fëanáro in the forge, his face smeared with soot where he had wiped his brow or brushed back his hair, looking slightly irritated at having to pause in his work; Atarincë crafting a bracelet with Tyelperinquar; the twins in an apple tree, Ambarto pretending to throw a ripe fruit at the artist (or maybe he had actually thrown it? The charcoal lines gave nothing away); Macalaurë and Maitimo splashing around, no doubt after a hard day's work, in a water basin that Nerdanel recognised with a pang of horror. And yet, she had to smile through her tears. Yes; that had been them, when things had only just begun to go wrong. Now, they were oath-bound and condemned by their own deeds; but once, they had laughed and loved and created things that were good.

Nerdanel put the drawings into a box along with other keepsakes that she would not part with. More useful things – cooking pots, knives and spoons, surplus blankets, clothing for several men of varying sizes, even most of the lovingly copied books from the library – she packed into bags. After she finished sorting through the rooms, Nerdanel drew the curtains and firmly shut the doors. She did not expect that anybody would need them again. Maybe some of the furniture would be brought to Tirion eventually. She did not need so much, a woman living on her own, even though she received regular visits both from the family of her birth and the family of her choice. In secret, she wondered whether Indis and her daughters, Anairë and her mother had worked out a schedule for it, among their other duties: Knead bread dough. Settle dispute between Varyaro and Herendilmë. Make new candles. Finish census. Visit Nerdanel. Not that it mattered. She was grateful not to be forgotten, and whenever these visitors returned to Tirion, she gave them one or two of the bags she had packed, to distribute the contents as needed. Nerdanel assumed that they never mentioned where these things came from. Perhaps nobody asked.

This time, it was Indis who came to see her, and they were taking a walk in the withered garden. The death-stench no longer hung over it; in fact, the body had been gone by the time that Nerdanel had arrived in Formenos. At first, she had assumed that wild animals might have found their way across the water and past the stones, but at a closer look, she had seen that the stones had been put in an orderly pile on the dead grass, and the braziers had been neatly stacked by the back door. The surface of the pool was mirror-smooth once more, albeit covered in dead leaves. Unannounced, somebody had taken care of the corpse. The Maiar of Irmo? Námo himself? Whoever it had been, they had been discreet, and they had left no message. But they had been right, Nerdanel thought. Aman should be no place for cairns. Now, she and Indis could walk under the stars with impunity, although neither of them took any solace from it. Nerdanel mourned that her sons' efforts at gardening had come to ruin, and Indis also appeared distracted. They walked in silence for a while; then Nerdanel asked: „What troubles you?“

Indis studied her feet as they rustled the dried, grey grass. Then, suddenly, she stood still and lifted her head. „Arafinwë is back,“ she announced.
Nerdanel gasped, and the child kicked in protest. Like wildfire, thoughts rushed through her mind. If one had come back, so could others; if Arafinwë had returned, maybe her sons, her husband also would?
No; of course not. As if she had guessed her daughter-in-law's thoughts, Indis said, „He has brought a few others with him, but... none of our family. They have all ventured on, in spite of...“ She broke off. „I am sorry,“ she finally said.
Numbly, Nerdanel nodded. She should have known. It would have done no good, anyway; the stain of the kinslaying could hardly be erased. „What happens now?“ she asked.
Indis resumed her steady pace. „We do not yet know.“ She sounded weary now, weary and worried. „He will submit to the judgement of the Valar, of course. We must wait and see what happens then.“ She glanced at Nerdanel's face, sideways. „Should he be banished... I was wondering whether you might allow him to live here, with you.“
Nerdanel did not need to think long. She did not mind her solitude, broken as it was by the regular visits of her family. But neither would she mind the company of Arafinwë. He had always been a decent fellow, and perhaps they could share each other's burden of guilt.

„Yes. Arafinwë is welcome here.“