Two women stand as the funeral procession of everyone they\'ve ever known rolls by and they hold hands. The Valar have much to pay for. Amarië/Elenwë, modern AU dystopia

While hunting, Amlach and Maedhros are pulled from their excursion by a surprise messenger, who asks them to take on a task great than either of them realize. They should have realized that finding traitors is no small task.

“You come all the way to Belegost to see the Lord of Himring?”

“Yes,” says Amlach.

“I hope you’re not here to impart a message of doom upon him—a memorandum that one of his brothers has died, a notice that the Dark One has broken the Siege, something like that.”

“This was supposed to be different,” he says, his eyes focused beyond them. “I was supposed to warn different people, help others. You two were not part of the tale.”

Many people spoke of Himring for many reasons. Fingon thought of it only for the Elf who ruled it. Maedhros/Fingon

I write you this letter in hopes that I have not forgotten the words to do so.

It is the Second Age of Middle-earth. Sauron is regrouping, the Rings are being forged, the Numenorians are beginning their descent into madness, and Glorfindel has been sent back to Middle-earth for...for what? Only time will tell, and when it does, all of Middle-earth will rise up to fight.

“I am my people, Caranthir.” Haleth doesn't trust most Elves, but she trusts this one enough to show him their culture.

Two women stand as the funeral procession of everyone they've ever known rolls by and they hold hands. The Valar have much to pay for. Amarië/Elenwë, modern AU dystopia.

Betrayal, the Dark One had told him. He cannot work through it, not when the wind blows through soft drapes while his mind screams.

Who are you, Celebrimbor?

“They were right. The Valar were right all along.” Maglor watches Maedhros mourn.

He had to see it. He had to see it at least once. Elrond visits Himling for the first and last time.

"He's getting better," Idril had told her quietly. "And he was never really all the bad." It was those words that led Nimloth to come that day, to face someone she had put out of her mind. But Idril hadn't been there for the Second Kinslaying. She hadn't see him. She almost turned around until she remembered that Idril had been there for the First. Fic: Nimloth visits Maedhros.

Maglor is the musician and Maedhros is the artist with words. Events lead them to visit a simple homestead, and what they find there is harder to face than expected.

Maedhros struggled with many forms of pain in his life, some more mundane than others. He spent half his life with his hand pressed to his back before anyone realized his spine was curving.

Fingon let himself look at his cousin, really look, for the first time in decades. He was strong and tall and proud and yet so different than the way he'd been all those things before. Different, and strange. Fingon felt as though he barely knew him anymore; but he wanted to.

I had half a mind to throw your letter in the fire and let you wait another few months. After all, I told myself, he has waited thirty-four years. Surely he can wait a little more.

Fingon and Maglor correspond as Maedhros heals. Warning for descriptions of torture and mentions of rape.

"Why are you so sad?" Maedhros was shaken out of his reverie by a timid voice coming from around his knees. He looked down and found his legs bombarded by two wide-eyed, dark-haired boys with unbearably cute twin expressions of wonder. Maedhros looked back up. 

Turgon, leaving for Gondolin soon, decides to make a trip to Himring to say a lukewarm goodbye to his eldest cousin, but ends up feeling more emotion than he bargained for.