Chapter Text
The sea had never been so dark.
Even under the light of the lanterns that swung from the masts, the waves looked black as ink, moving like slow creatures beneath the hulls. The air was sharp with salt and grief; each ship of the Noldor creaked and sighed like a living thing burdened by memory.
The fleet numbered fewer than the Noldor had wished. The Teleri, cautious and grieving, had lent but a portion of their ships. Cabins were crowded, hammocks swung close together, and many of the nobles found themselves sleeping side by side with warriors, craftsmen, and children. It was the first true mingling of all the Houses of Finwë — a forced coexistence that, surprisingly, began to feel almost like family.
Fëanor had not slept since they departed.
He paced the deck in restless circles, his armor unbuckled, his hands moving constantly—checking rigging, adjusting sails, muttering plans. His eyes were fever-bright, haunted by the vision that had come to him on his coronation night: Maedhros, chained and bloodied in the dark.
Sometimes he would stop and stare into the black horizon as if he could see through it. “Maedhros,” he would whisper. “We’re coming for you.”
Nerdanel watched him from the bow, her arms crossed, her patience unending. “You’ll drive yourself into madness if you keep pacing,” she said softly.
“I am already there,” he murmured, and she reached out, steadying his hand.
Each time his temper began to rise—over rations, over disagreements with his brothers—Nerdanel would appear behind him without a sound, with a hand upon his shoulder and a quiet “Enough, Fëanáro.” He obeyed her as he obeyed no one else.
Maglor brought music to the dark. Every night, he sat near the prow with his harp and sang—soft laments for Finwë, lullabies for Gil-galad that drifted across the waves to Findelwen’s ship, and even bawdy sailor songs when tension needed breaking. Sometimes, upon Nerdanel’s request, he would spend the night by his father’s side, playing and singing to him until Fëanor relaxed.
Celegorm and Curufin spent most of their time barking orders at anyone within earshot, convinced that if they didn’t organize the voyage, the ships would drift to ruin. “You! Mind that rope! And you—don’t lean on the rail, fool, the sea bites!” They argued about everything: knots, water barrels, strategy. When Aredhel overheard from the other ship and shouted back corrections, they shouted louder—until Loiriel appeared at Curufin’s side, arms folded, eyebrow raised. He backed down instantly.
Curufin’s estranged wife was the only one who could cut through her husband’s arrogance with a single raised eyebrow. Aredhel became fast friends with her, teasing that “it takes a certain kind of woman to love a Fëanorian.”
Of all aboard, no one suffered more than poor Caranthir. The proud, sharp-tongued son of Fëanor had met his match in the rolling waves of the sea. He spent most of the voyage pale as parchment, clutching the railing with a look of mortal betrayal. The endless rocking, the noise, the closeness—it all made him nauseous and furious by turns. His brothers found it hilarious — until his stomach reminded them why it wasn’t.
“Valar preserve us, Caranthir,” groaned Celegorm, sidestepping him for the third time that morning. “If you must feed the sea, do it over the side, not on my boots.”
Caranthir snapped without lifting his head. “Perhaps if your voice weren’t so loud, my stomach would not revolt.”
That was before Galadriel appeared, serene as moonlight, carrying a small cup of tea and a hunk of bread. “Here,” she said softly. “Sip this. It will settle your stomach.”
Caranthir blinked at her, startled. “You’re supposed to be the creepy cousin who dreams of the future, not the family’s healer.”
“I do see the future,” Galadriel replied simply. “And that’s precisely why I know you should drink this before you perish.”
He grumbled, but obeyed. Within moments, some color returned to his cheeks.
Word spread fast—and so did the teasing. By the next morning, Amrod and Amras had composed a sea ballad titled ‘The Taming of Caranthir the Seasick’. Caranthir’s glare could have cut iron. Galadriel only smiled faintly.
Meanwhile, Amrod and Amras turned the voyage into an endless game. With Argon, Angrod, and Aegnor as co-conspirators, they became the ship’s unholy alliance of laughter, unofficially named The Cousins of Catastrophe by Maglor after the fourth time they accidentally tangled themselves in the rigging. Their self-appointed duties included:
- Sneaking extra sweets to the children, usually from Curufin’s carefully calculated stores, prompting him to explode.
- Interrupting tense conversations between nobles with jokes.
- Starting impromptu sea shanties (usually off-key).
- And ensuring at least one small disaster occurred daily, “for morale.”
They sang, joked, clambered up the rigging, traded food between ships by slingshot, and pulled pranks, like swapping Fëanor’s ink for squid ink, or tying Fingolfin’s cloak to a mast so he got stuck when walking off. No one would admit it, but their antics did keep spirits lighter. Even when scolded, people couldn't help but laugh.
“They’re a danger to dignity,” muttered Fingolfin one evening.
Fëanor, watching them swing from the ropes with wild glee, only smiled faintly. “Dignity has never built anything worth remembering.”
The next moment, one of the twins fell into a barrel of salted fish, and everyone agreed dignity had its uses. After this incident, Nerdanel and Anairë decreed they would spend three days caring for the children—Idril, Celebrimbor, and Maeglin—as penance. By the end of the first day, they were all begging for battle with Morgoth instead.
Fingolfin, for his part, ruled his deck like a commander on campaign. Every hour had its rhythm: sails checked, meals counted, patrols arranged. The structure was his refuge; control, his armor against despair. He was all command and precision—until Findelwen appeared on deck with her newborn son.
Then even Fingolfin’s stern heart softened.
Findelwen’s strength astonished everyone. She walked the deck in the dim mornings, Gil-galad wrapped against her chest in a sling, speaking quietly to the sailors and healers. Despite her own grief, she refused to stay idle: She swept the deck, mended torn sails and helped her mother distribute supplies, all while nursing her baby son. When she smiled, weary but radiant, the crew found new will to row. The name Gil-galad—Star of Radiance—became a comfort against the dark.
“That child is the future.”
“The heir of Maedhros, grandson of the High King.”
“Born in darkness but bringing light.”
Some whispered that Findelwen—not Fëanor—was the true leader now. Her father disagreed loudly whenever he heard it (though he secretly agreed with them), but even he found himself turning to her for calm.
He and Fëanor sometimes exchanged words across the gangplank connecting their ships—pointed reminders about supplies, warnings about weather, a shared stubbornness too familiar to ignore. Yet for the first time in their long rivalry, there was no venom. Just exhaustion—and something like respect.
Anairë kept the order that truly mattered. She decided who slept when, who ate first, who needed rest. When arguments broke out, her glare silenced them faster than any decree. Even Fëanor’s sons, when they crossed by gangplank, lowered their voices around her. “Our aunt,” Maglor muttered once, “is more dangerous than the Valar.”
Turgon, meanwhile, spent his days hovering near Findelwen, fiercely protective of his sister and nephew. He would sit near her and spend hours sketching designs on scraps of parchment: high towers, hidden strongholds, bridges spanning misty chasms. “For Findelwen and Gil-Galad,” he explained to Elenwë. “And for all the Noldor as well. We’ll need somewhere safe to settle when all this is over.”
Aredhel roamed between ships like a storm herself, thriving in the chaos—mocking Curufin, flirting with sailors, stealing Galadriel’s tea recipes for seasickness, and hanging out with Loiriel. She took naturally to the sea, unbothered by the rolling decks or the salty spray. When tempers frayed, she diffused them with wit and mischief.
Meanwhile, on the third vessel, Eärwen was in her element.
She stood at the helm with her hands on the wheel, her hair streaming in the wind, calling out commands in the language of the Teleri. The sailors obeyed her instantly, voices rising in harmony with hers. She oversaw the Teleri crews with practiced ease, taught the Noldor to tie proper knots and read the wind, and even brought Findelwen waterproof blankets for Gil-Galad. She reminded everyone of their kinship to the Teleri, urging gratitude and care for the borrowed ships. When quarrels arose between Fëanorians and Fingolfinians, she crossed gangplanks herself to still them, her calm voice stronger than any command.
Finarfin watched from behind, silent and awestruck. He had always loved his wife, but he had never seen her like this—commanding, fierce, alive with the sea.
“You never told me you could command sailors,” he said softly.
She smiled faintly. “You never asked.”
He looked at her as though seeing her anew. “I married a song of the sea,” he murmured to himself, “and never realized she could command a storm.”
Eärwen smirked, catching the words on the wind. “Now you do. And If you are up to exploring the depths of the sea tonight...I do need to de-streess a little, otherwise I am gonna end up strangling one or two of your relatives before we even reach Middle Earth.”
Finarfin only laughed, utterly lovestruck.
The youngest son of Finwë acted as the glue between his brothers, rowing between ships in a small boat to keep communication alive. He often returned to Eärwen’s vessel weary and heartsick—but always steadier after hearing her voice.
Finrod shone as a beacon of hope. When spirits waned, he gathered children and adults alike to tell tales—of stars yet unseen, of green lands across the sea. Orodreth, shy but steady, handled the charts and kept everyone’s provisions accounted for.
Angrod and Aegnor clashed daily with Celegorm and Curufin across the water, their shouting matches echoing between the ships until Finarfin threatened to toss them all into the sea.
And Galadriel—silent, watchful—stood at the ship’s stern most nights, her golden hair lit by starlight. The darkness no longer frightened her; she had seen worse in her visions. She took a special liking to Gil-galad, cradling him when Findelwen needed rest, whispering lullabies and rocking him gently.
Space aboard the ships was tight. The Noldor had to share everything — benches, hammocks, meals, and tempers. Even princes and princesses found themselves taking turns at washing, cooking, and cleaning decks.
“It builds character,” Nerdanel said solemnly one morning as she handed Fëanor a mop.
Fëanor scowled. “I have forged blades that could split a mountain, and you hand me a—”
“—mop,” she interrupted sweetly. “Exactly. Try not to burn it.”
Whenever tempers flared between Fëanor and Fingolfin — and they did, often — their wives would exchange a look and intervene.
Anairë would sigh dramatically. “Enough. Both of you, babysitting duty. Now.”
Fëanor blinked. “Babysitting—what?”
“Gil-Galad,” said Nerdanel firmly, beckoning Findelwen forth, taking the baby from her arms and placing the infant bundle into Fëanor’s arms. “Since you insist on acting like children, you can spend some time caring for one. Besides, you must learn to work together on something other than chaos and make up for making Findelwen more stressed than necessary.” Fingolfin’s daughter would smile, grateful for the chance to get some much needed sleep.
The sight of the two proud princes sitting side by side, awkwardly rocking Findelwen’s son, became one of the voyage’s great amusements. They were forced to change his diapers, comfort his crying, and even argue over who got to hold him.
"He's crying for his mother," Fingolfin once said, trying to take Gil-Galad from Fëanor.
"He is a Noldor, he is simply expressing his fury at this ridiculous situation!" Fëanor snapped, trying to rock the child.
Sometimes Finarfin joined them, usually because Eärwen insisted.
“Why me?” he asked once, carefully holding the sleeping baby as his brothers bickered beside him.
Eärwen grinned. “Think of it as training for grandfatherhood. Who knows — perhaps your children will find love in Middle-earth, since they never did in Tirion.”
Finrod, overhearing, laughed. “I think she’s plotting, Father.”
“I think she’s right,” Finarfin murmured softly, gazing at Gil-Galad’s tiny hands. “The world ahead must have some beauty left, if this child is to grow in it.”
Days blurred into one another. The Noldor sang while they worked, their voices carrying across the water. At night, when the lanterns burned low, they gathered on deck to tell stories — of Valinor’s light, of Finwë’s wisdom, of Maedhros’s honor. Each tale reminded them of what they’d lost, and what they hoped to reclaim.
Findelwen often stood by the railing, Gil-Galad in her arms, staring into the horizon. The child slept peacefully, as if lulled by the rhythm of the waves. Behind her, Maglor’s harp filled the night with gentle notes, blending grief and hope into one unending song.
Darkness. Utter, suffocating darkness. That was all Maedhros knew now, locked away in the bowels of Angband. His world had shrunk to the tiny confines of his fetid cell, a windowless hole in the stinking depths of Morgoth's domain. He knelt on the cold, hard ground, his bare skin exposed to the chilly air. The hard stone dug into his knees, a constant reminder of his new reality.
The crack of a whip sounded behind him. Maedhros flinched as the agonizing lash split the skin on his back. Blinding pain lanced through him, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The orcs cackled cruelly, their voices echoing off the damp stone walls. He could not scream, for a heavy muzzle gagged his mouth, preventing any sound from escaping.
They continued their torment, whipping his back until it was raw and bleeding. Then, to add insult to injury, they kicked him while spitting on his skin. Maedhros bit down hard on the muzzle, tears streaming down his face as their kicks and saliva burned like fire. Finally, the orcs tired of their sport and left him alone in the darkness once more. Maedhros slumped to the floor, exhausted and aching, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Time lost all meaning in the void. Was it hours, days, or lifetimes since he had last felt the touch of air on his skin? Since he had last heard the comforting sound of his own voice? Time dragged on as Maedhros endured the unrelenting torments of his captors. He was starved and dehydrated, kept just barely alive by small rations of foul-tasting gruel. At night, the orcs came to him, spanking him with clubs, whipping him with spiked whips, and terrifying him with the snarling wargs. The huge beasts would burst into the cell, their fetid breath hot against Maedhros's skin. The elf would press himself against the wall, trying to make himself small as the snarling creatures circled him. The orcs would prod him with their clubs and whip him repeatedly, laughing as he flinched away from their blows. By day, he was left alone in the darkness with nothing but his memories to keep him sane, the air in the cell thick with the stench of rats and rotting flesh.
Maedhros remembered little of what had transpired after his capture by Morgoth. He remembered the journey into the dark more by sensation than by sight. Stone and iron swallowed him; heat shimmered in the air like breath. Voices pressed close—growls, hisses and roars, a language that struck the ear like blows. His body was heavy and slow, the venom still dulling his limbs. He could not tell when the ground met his knees, only that something sharp bit into them and that hands—many hands—pushed him down and ripped off his clothes.
When the agony came, it was like being torn apart by fire and ice together. He didn’t understand what they were doing; only that it was meant to mark him, to erase him. He felt knives touching his back, and then nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, hammering like a forge gone mad, as the orcs carved something on his back. After that, the memories bled together: the air thick with the smell of fire and smoke as Balrogs whipped him, a voice like a shadow laughing in his ear; the taste of metal on his tongue; the silence that followed each scream when his throat could no longer make sound. And, the most horrifying of all, the feeling of salt being rubbed on his carved back while he was held down like an animal to slaughter.
When at last Morgoth and the orcs were done with him, he was cast into its bowels — where no voice carried and no flame dared burn. There, time ceased to exist. Hunger and thirst blurred into one ache. His chains burned with enchantments meant to sear the flesh, and his mind swam between waking and fevered dreams. Pain, ever-present, pulsed through his body in rhythmic waves, keeping him tethered to a world he could not see
The drugs they forced upon him were the worst. Every day, the orcs brought the herbs, forcing them down Maedhros' throat. They dragged him into a hellish realm of nightmares and illusions, where his greatest fears and deepest regrets were laid bare. He saw his grandfather being beheaded. He saw his beloved Findelwen, her face twisted in anguish and pain as she clutched her pregnant belly.
What kept him alive were flashes — His mother's voice, soft and melodic, singing him to sleep. Findelwen's smile, radiant and warm, her hand gently brushing his cheek. Fëanor’s pride on the day of the wedding. In the suffocating dark, those memories were his light. He repeated the names of his kin silently, because the muzzle forbade him to speak them aloud.
Sometimes, he used osanwë, not to reach anyone, but to pretend he could. “I am still here,” he would send into the void, though he doubted anyone could hear him. Yet, one night, he did feel something — a brush of warmth, faint as starlight. He couldn’t tell whether it was real or the hallucinations Morgoth fed him daily. But he clinged to it. It was enough to remind him who he was.
There came a day when silence ended.
Boots struck the stone in rhythm; the door to his cell groaned open. Torchlight—real, searing light—stabbed his eyes. Rough hands hauled him upward. His legs no longer remembered standing, and he half-collapsed before they dragged him along corridors that smelled of ash and iron.
He knew where they were taking him long before he saw it: Morgoth’s throne-hall, the forge-black heart of Angband.
The air was thick with laughter, a thousand harsh voices. Orcs and balrogs crowded the steps, jeering, their noise crashing like surf. Above them sat the Dark Lord, the crown of iron on his brow catching what little glow came from the molten rivers that ran through the chamber.
“Behold the heir of Fëanor,” Morgoth said, voice smooth as oil. “Behold how swiftly the bright flame gutters in the wind.”
They forced Maedhros to his knees. He felt the stone bite, heard the crowd’s roar crest and break. He tried to lift his head, but the weight of the chain and the fog in his mind dragged him down again.
“You have defied me even in chains,” Morgoth hisses. “Seeking out your damn father through osanwë. His pride infects you all. But let us see how long you keep your defiance when I show you the truth.”
Maedhros lifted his head at the words. The air shimmered, and suddenly the walls of Angband melted away. Before him spread the Sea: black, immense, glittering with the faint light of the stars. Ships moved upon it—white sails, swan-prows, banners of blue and red. He saw them all: Fëanor at the prow of one, Fingolfin on another, and between them, on a deck bathed in dim starlight, Findelwen cradling a small bundle against her breast.
The sight pierced through every layer of numbness until he felt. For a fleeting moment, warmth filled the space where pain had lived. He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, hear the murmur of his brothers arguing somewhere close by. Hope—sharp, impossible hope—rose like a tide. He reached toward them, lips shaping her name behind the iron silence.
Then Morgoth lifted his hand. “Behold,” he said, his voice slick with cruelty, “your kin sail to doom. They do this for you, and I shall make their love your torment.”
The vision changed. Clouds boiled over the horizon. The wind howled. Lightning split the sky, waves crashed higher and higher and the wind screamed. The ships tossed and shattered. Cries of despair filled the hall as though the sea itself wept. Maedhros watched, screaming soundlessly behind the muzzle as the fleet was swallowed by the storm. One by one, the ships sank, their sails torn, their lights snuffed out. Screams echoed across the water—too many, too real.
Maedhros lunged forward, forgetting chains, forgetting everything. The storm raged; the final thing he saw was Findelwen clutching their child as the wave broke over them. Then all was black again.
When the image faded, Morgoth leaned close.
“They are gone, little prince. You are the last of your line.”
Maedhros did not answer. He only stared ahead, eyes unseeing. Then he collapsed, eyes wide, unable to weep. Something inside him cracked — not like a branch breaking, but like glass under slow pressure.
In the days that followed, Maedhros's mind began to fracture, his sanity slowly slipping away. The orcs came to his cell each night, their clubs and wargs torturing him in new and imaginative ways. But even their cruelty paled in comparison to the anguish he felt at the thought of his people dying, his son lost to him forever.
He did not sleep after that. He did not think. When footsteps came, he no longer noticed. When the chain burned, he did not flinch. The mind that had endured every cruelty now drifted in a still, grey place where even memory could not reach him.
And in that silence, Morgoth smiled, thinking the flame at last extinguished.