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Chapter Text

Maedhros awoke, bound and aching, in a cart surrounded by orcs. He was not dead. Nor was it a nightmare.

Maedhros had experience with nightmares.  

In a nightmare, he would not be able to smell the sour scents of bog and orc and sweat hanging in the foggy air, nor taste his own salty blood in the corners of his mouth. He would not be able to feel the pull of fresh wounds along his shoulders and back, the bite of metal around his wrists, or the catch of fabric against wood as he struggled to pull himself upright.

In a nightmare, he would not be able to catch the screaming child the orcs flung at him, or curl protectively over him while the orcs jeered.

<“Isn’t that just lovely,”> one said in the snarling speech of the Enemy’s servants, <“the little biter found himself a hero.”>

Another laughed, and swung up into the cart to aim a kick at Maedhros’ ribs.

Maedhros gathered the elfling tighter against his chest, angling his body to keep the child hidden.

The orc switched to taunting in an old-fashioned dialect of Quenya.

“Not so feisty now, are ya?” 

The elfling was trembling in his arms. Maedhros’ heart clenched. So small a child, and so helpless and afraid –

A feral screech erupted from the tiny throat, and suddenly the elfling was clawing and thrashing in an attempt to attack the orc, screaming threats as he lunged against Maedhros’ protective embrace.

“Die! Die! Vile orc, I shall twist thy guts for thread and fuel my forge with thy bones! Stranger, unhand me now, I must kill them all!”

Ai, Maedhros thought ruefully, as he dodged a small fist, it was rage, not fear.

“Carrion! Dragon leavings! Thou most worthless son of a spider!”

Maedhros intercepted another of the orc’s blows with his shoulder, bemused by the child’s increasingly imaginative vocabulary and apparent ignorance of actual curses.

“I’ve had just about enough out of you, little elf,” the orc snarled, tangling a cruel fist in Maedhros’ braids. 

The orc yanked his head back, and stooped to jab a finger in the elfling’s face.

“Any more back-talk, and I take it out of your tall friend’s hide,” the orc said, wagging its finger threateningly under the child’s nose,  “understand, brat?”

The elfling lunged forward against Maedhros’ arms, and bit the orc’s finger as hard as he could.

Maedhros sighed.

***

The child was refusing to speak or look at him.

He was small but solidly built, more well-muscled than most elflings his age, with long dark hair that had come loose from its braids and hung tangled around his face and shoulders. There was a stubborn set to his shoulders and a fierce flame in his eyes that reminded Maedhros strongly of his own family.

Maedhros stretched his legs out, gingerly trying to find a way to rest on his side in a way that accommodated his newly acquired collection of wounds and bruises.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked quietly, in Quenya. The elfling had spoken Quenya earlier, in a mode he had not heard since his childhood.

The child ducked his head, letting his dark hair hide his face, and pulled his knees tighter against his chest. He looked so very like one of Maedhros’ brothers when they were small, all sharp features and fierce edges. Even his face looked so similar that Maedhros’ breath caught, and he almost could have thought he looked at Curvo or Moryo at that age.

Maedhros propped his elbow on the floor and waited. He had helped raise six younger brothers; he was confident in his ability to out-wait one guilty, angry elfling.

Gradually, the child began taking careful peeks at him from behind his knees. Maedhros pretended not to notice and started tearing strips off the bottom of his tunic for bandages.

“You’re the one who’s hurt,” the child said finally. He had the same accusatory, uncomfortable tone that Tyelko used when he felt he was in the wrong and furious about it.

“Pityo,” Maedhros said gently, “I am not angry with you.”

The elfling jerked his head up, looking Maedhros full in the face for the first time.

“Pityo?” he said, outraged, “I am not little!”

Maedhros smothered a grin, “I see. How could I have made such a mistake?”

The child glowered at him suspiciously.

“I am not small,” he repeated, and turned his tiny nose into the air, “you are just needlessly large.” 

Maedhros nodded solemnly.

“It was not my fault,” the child said a few moments later, quiet in the space behind his knees. Maedhros carefully pretended he did not hear the way his voice wobbled.

“No,” Maedhros agreed, “it was the orc’s.”

The elfling looked startled and oddly angry to be agreed with, and retreated behind his hair again.

Maedhros turned his attention to taking stock of their current situation. 

The shackles at his wrists were poorly made and not designed for someone missing a hand. Maedhros was reasonably confident he could find a way to remove them on his own, this time without needing the assistance of a friend with a sharp blade and access to eagles.

His clothes were much stained and tattered, and all of his weapons and armor were gone. Maedhros spared a mournful thought for his favorite knives. Even the small ones in his boots had been taken.

“I am still sorry,” the elfling suddenly burst out, twisting his small fingers together as though the words pained him, “that you were hurt. Because I bit the orc.”

Maedhros smiled, “I accept your apology. Now come, sit, and show me where you are hurt.”

***

The child was shivering again.

“I am not scared,”  he said, jutting his small jaw defiantly as though daring Maedhros to contradict him.

Maedhros bent to finish tying off the strip of tunic he was using to bandage the boy’s arm. Knots were difficult to tie one-handed, but between his left hand and his teeth, he could make do.

“It is cold,” he said, settling the elfling carefully against his side, “shivering is only natural.” He tipped his head back to rest against the wall of the cart.

“When I am… cold,” he said, “I like to distract myself by thinking of other things.”

The child burrowed closer and clenched his small fingers into Maedhros’ tunic.

“What kind of things?”

“Ah,” Maedhros cleared his throat awkwardly, “battle plans, mainly. Or stabbing people.”

The elfling perked up, “We can make battle plans! I want to stab the orcs.”

Maedhros chuckled, and smoothed his hand over the child’s dark hair.

“Your enthusiasm is commendable,” he said, “but there are certain obstacles to consider. Let us start with those, and perhaps between the two of us, we may find a way to remove them.”

The child scowled, eyes flickering side to side rapidly as he thought. He was no longer shaking.

“We are outnumbered,” he said, “there are many orcs.”

“How many?”

He hesitated, and began counting on his fingers, “I think there might be twenty? Perhaps more.”

“Ah,” Maedhros said, relaxing, “that hardly counts as outnumbered, if we can get my arms unbound.”

The elfling eyed him skeptically, then turned his attention to the shackles on Maedhros’ wrists.

“What fool forged these? I should die of shame if I created anything this shoddy. The metal quality is a disgrace, and the structure is crude.”

Maedhros chuckled at the way the elfling bristled, hands on hips like a tiny adult.

“Orcs are not known for their craft. Their goal is to cause pain, not to create something beautiful.”

The child snorted, “The lock is inferior as well. If I had some tools, I could remove these in a heartbeat.”

“Good, look and see if I still have any hairpins the orcs did not take,” Maedhros said, and tipped his head forwards so the child could reach his braids.

Small fingers moved deftly through his hair, and the child exclaimed in quiet triumph as he found a pair of the steel pins Maedhros used to hold his braids close to the back of his skull.

“These are of much better craftsmanship,” he said, turning them over in his hands.

Maedhros laughed as he sat up, “I should hope so! They were a gift from my nephew, and are meant to double as lockpicks.”

Tyelpe had made them for him in the aftermath of Thangorodrim, that he might always have something of his family to help him should he ever find himself chained again.

“Give me your hands,” the boy said, brandishing the hairpins imperiously.

Maedhros obediently held out his wrists, “I would if I could, but unfortunately I seem to have misplaced one.”

The child froze, eyes huge with horror as he took in Maedhros’ missing hand, then clapped his own hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter.

“There is something wrong with you,” he said, pinching Maedhros in the side indignantly, “I have never met an elf who looked as awful as you, yet you make jokes about it.”

Maedhros arched an eyebrow and gazed regally down his nose, “Your assessment is accurate. Truly, I am filled with despair.”

The elfling spluttered, then seized Maedhros’ arm and set to work on the lock, ears pink with suppressed laughter.

***

There were, in fact, twenty-two orcs. 

As Maedhros had predicted, this was not nearly enough for him to feel outnumbered. They were poorly trained compared to the orcs of Angband Maedhros had grown accustomed to fighting, smaller and ill-formed. 

The elfling had insisted on creating an elaborate plan to be implemented several hours after the group made camp for the night. The plan involved frankly unnecessary amounts of subterfuge, including the child teaching Maedhros how to hoot like multiple kinds of owls.

In the end, very little subterfuge was actually needed. There was only one guard. Maedhros waited until a few hours after the orcs had settled for the night, then slipped down from the cart and snapped the guard’s neck with one savage twist.

After that, it was almost too easy.

Maedhros had never been the best duellist in Tirion, when fighting was refined into a one-on-one dance of elegance and grace almost to the point of craft. But battle? Fighting, with each narrow moment stripped down to the brutal economy of reach and speed and endurance? 

Battle was Maedhros’ realm, shaped and tempered and refined in the forge fires of Beleriand, as surely as if it had been his own craft.

The only remotely difficult part of the fight was keeping an eye out for his elfling. His lamentably stubborn, bloodthirsty elfling, who had not stayed in the cart as requested and had instead picked up a weapon off a dead orc and appeared to be doing his level best to get himself killed.

Maedhros swept out with the blade he had pilfered off the fallen guard, and cut an orc almost completely in half. He had managed to kill over half of them in the short seconds before the sounds of his slaughter had woken the rest. Now the remainder were overcoming their confusion and hurling themselves against him with shrieks of rage and fear.

He stepped back from a wild thrust, cut the over-extended orc’s arm off, and turned the follow-through into a crashing blow that bit deeply between neck and shoulder. He kicked the dying orc off his sword into the next pair of enemies, and used the disruption to dispatch them next with a flurry of rapid blows.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught motion, and turned just in time to see an orc bearing down on the elfling. The child had somehow managed to stick an orc in the ribs with a sword almost as big as he was, and was now struggling to remove the sword, one small foot braced against his downed enemy’s body. He was oblivious to the threat behind him.

“GET DOWN!” Maedhros roared, in what Fingon jokingly called his “Lord of Himring” voice. The child startled, but dove for the ground as instructed.

Maedhros threw his sword as hard as he could.

The orc pulled up short to turn in the direction of Maedhros’ shout, and the sword took him directly in the face, shattering teeth and spraying blood.

Maedhros was already sprinting towards the elfling on the ground, crying out a single note as he ran. He did not possess the same affinity for Song that Maglor did, but even he could manage the basics.

The few orcs still on their feet staggered backwards, briefly stunned, and Maedhros scooped the child up under his right arm and tossed him back onto the cart. The boy made a squawking sound of offense.

Maedhros turned slowly. The air rippled with the heat of his anger, and sparks began to rise around his body. Tree-Light flashed in his silver eyes, and for a moment, the orcs beheld, not a scarred and wounded prisoner, but the Lord of Himring, Maedhros the Fell, cloaked in red and limned with the flames of his own wrath.

They fled wailing before him, and Maedhros smiled.

They had dared to touch his child. There would be no escape.

Chapter Text

Maedhros frowned. 

By his reckoning, the hours they had traveled since leaving the orcs’ camp should have meant that the night was almost spent, but there was not even the smallest hint of light in the eastern sky.

Many of the stars were familiar, but their orientation meant they were much farther east than he could have wished, yet the elfling’s memory of his home suggested they should head east farther still.

The surrounding landscape helped him not at all. Were he Tyelko, or the Ambarussa, with their skill in woodsmanship and fieldcraft, perhaps he might have found some signs in the stark downs and stony hills to show his place, but he was not. There were no landmarks that he recognized.

At the least he had the orcs’ trail to follow back along the direction they had come. He had belted around his waist what weapons and food he could salvage from their captor’s stores, and convinced the elfling to ride on his back. There had been some grumbling, at first, about being carried “like a baby”, but the steady, loping pace Maedhros set with his long legs swiftly silenced any complaints.  

“I begin to wonder,” Maedhros said quietly, waving a hand at the fog along the hillside where they had stopped briefly so the child might stretch and eat a small morsel of food, “if this muck is confusing my sense of time. Assuredly otherwise, the Sun should have risen by now.”

The elfling paused and shot him a curious look from under his eyebrows. He had a scrap of dried meat in one hand, and a piece of old bread in the other.

“Who or what is the Sun, and what does he have to do with time?” The child returned, scowling suspiciously at the meat in his hand. “And what manner of creature’s flesh is this, before I put it in my mouth?”

“Best not to ask, in my experience,” Maedhros said mildly, then whipped around to stare at him.

“What do you mean, ‘what is the Sun?’” he asked.

“Exactly what it sounded like I meant,” the elfling retorted crossly, gnawing at the very edge of the jerky, “it is a word I have not encountered before, and I cannot determine from context alone what such a thing might be.”

Maedhros sat back and rubbed his hand across his face, “The Sun. It is an orb of radiant golden light that comes and goes across the Sky, set there by the Valar to give us light and hope in the midst of despair.”

The child stopped mid-chew.

“That sounds like a fool’s tale, told to babes,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Maedhros, “everyone knows that the stars are the only things that hang in the sky. We already have light, and it is beautiful. One day I shall discover a way to weave it into gems and hang them in my hair.”

Maedhros blinked at him in concern.

“Just as,” the child continued, judgment on his face, “everyone knows that they were given to us by Ilúvatar when he awakened us here.”

“Here? Where is here? Do you know where we are?” Maedhros asked. There was an ominous feeling bubbling up in his chest that he had been trying to squash since he first awoke in this place, with this strange child who looked like family. 

His family was dead. Maedhros was dead. Or at least he had been, before today. And the Oath was gone, somehow, but he could wait and have emotions once he found somewhere devoid of orcs and small children.

“Cuiviénen,” the elfling said slowly. He had given up all pretense of chewing and was examining Maedhros as though he were a fascinating new species of animal that he might like to poke with a stick.

Maedhros’ ominous feeling began to coalesce into a full-blown migraine. He was going to have those emotions now, small child or no.

“Cover your ears. I am going to swear,” he said calmly, and laid down on his back that he might better direct his insults towards the stars.

***

“What language is that?” 

At some point during Maedhros’ profanity-laden rant towards the stars, the Valar, and his own existence, his elfling had finished eating and scrambled over to sit atop Maedhros’ chest, giggling at each new word. Maedhros had quickly switched to swearing in different languages besides Quenya.

“Which one?” Maedhros asked, grinning up at him. Somehow the warmth of a small body on his chest and the boy’s quiet laughter had slowly soothed away the worst of his anger and confusion, making way for a hysterical kind of resignation. There was something almost freeing about the sheer absurdity of it all.

The elfling waved his arms excitedly, “Any of them! All of them! I have never heard them before, though the last one sometimes sounded close enough to my own tongue that I could almost understand.”

Maedhros hummed thoughtfully. If this was the past, if this was truly Cuiviénen, birthplace of the Quendi, in a time before the Firstborn dwelt in Valinor and walked beneath the Light of the Trees, then most of the languages he spoke had not yet been made.

“It is a dialect spoken by some of my distant relatives,” Maedhros said, carefully telling the truth without actually giving the name of the Sindarin tongue. He did not wish to lie to the child, but neither did he wish to frighten him by speaking too frankly of the future and seeming more of a madman than he must already appear.

“Fascinating,” the elfling said brightly, “I have never heard it before. You shall teach me more of it later. What was the previous one, the one that sounded like you were angrily gargling a mouthful of rocks?”

Maedhros laughed. Azaghâl had wintered one particularly bad year with him at Himring when blizzards made the March impassable, and had spent the long, dark hours attempting to teach him Khuzdul. He would have been secretly pleased to hear such a description of his tongue, and would promptly have hidden it by thumping Maedhros as high up as he could reach and complaining that Maedhros’ accent still made him sound like a Longbeard.

“That is a tongue taught to me in honor by an old friend of mine,” Maedhros said, lowering his voice confidentially, “his people keep their language secret from most outsiders. I was only allowed to learn because Azaghâl named me a friend.”

(He carefully did not mention that the most filthy Khudzul words he knew he had actually learned from his mother, who had learned them from her father, who had learned them in Aulë’s forge).

The child’s face lit up, and he leaned in eagerly, “A secret language! I have never thought of such a thing before! We must make our own, if you are not allowed to teach me that one.”

Maedhros snorted ruefully, “Well. I should not be able to teach you that much, even if it were allowed, considering that my friend did not teach me many phrases you would find useful.”

Azaghâl had mainly taught him things useful for battle, for commerce, and for ceremonial and diplomatic purposes. And swear words. So many swear words. Tyelko had once joked that the main reason Moryo’s alliance with the dwarves worked so well was that they communicated with one another solely through gold and insults, so Moryo felt right at home. (Moryo had not laughed at the joke, but a few days later, Tyelko had received a letter composed entirely of toe-curling profanities, written meticulously in golden ink.)

“I like words,” the elfling said contentedly, resting his face atop his hands and digging his pointy elbows into Maedhros’ chest, “and language. It’s like forging, but for your thoughts. You hammer a little this way, and shape a bit that way, until something useful comes out.” 

“As you say,” Maedhros agreed, laughing, “now let me up and perhaps I can teach you some new ones as we walk.”

***

“Well,” the elfling said from Maedhros’ shoulders, sometime later after he had learned seven new ways to say “hammer” (three in Khudzul, two  in Quenya, one in Sindarin, and one in an obscure dialect spoken among the Nandor), “you may be old, but you are interesting.”

“My thanks, little spark,” Maedhros said, laughing up at him.

The child stiffened, and his small hands clenched in Maedhros’ hair.

“Why did you call me that?”

Maedhros blinked. The nickname had slipped out without thought: it had been Fëanor’s favorite term of endearment for all of his children when they were small, and somewhere along the line, it had become Maedhros’ as well.

“It is a nickname,” Maedhros said, carefully, “because I do not know your name.”

The boy relaxed ever so slightly, then said, “You could have asked before. I would tell you.”

“I am sorry,” Maedhros said, “it is a habit, to shield information from the Enemy. I did not think to ask for your name or give my own because there were orcs near at hand.”

“Oh,” the elfling said in a small voice, “well. My mother is the only one who called me by that nickname.”

Maedhros froze for an instant, then kept walking with the feeling of an elf approaching his Doom.

“My name,” continued the child proudly, sitting up straighter with Maedhros’ braids still in his hands like reins, “is Curufinwë, son of Finwë and Míriel, but you can call me Fëanáro.” 

By some miracle of Ilúvatar, Maedhros neither collapsed to the ground with mad laughter, nor dropped Fëanáro in shock.

Oblivious to the effect his name was having, Fëanáro continued merrily, “There. Now you know my name and may call me by it. What shall I call you?”

“Maedhros,” Maedhros replied numbly, not thinking to prevaricate or give a more normal name in Quenya.

“Ah,” the small version of his father currently enthroned on his shoulders exclaimed, tugging excitedly on Maedhros’ hair again, “this is in one of your other languages, is it not? It sounds like the first one you told me of, spoken by your kin.”

“Distant kin,” Maedhros said automatically.

“What does your name mean?”

“Does it have to have a meaning?” Maedhros asked, cringing inwardly.

Fëanáro made a sound of indignant dismay, “Of course! That’s what names are for!”

Maedhros sighed.

“Surely it cannot be that bad,” the boy said consolingly.

“It means that I am handsome and red-haired,” Maedhros confessed.

Fëanáro spluttered.

“Exactly,” Maedhros said, and grinned, “it was an attempt to convey the meanings of both my names from Quenya. My mother-name in Quenya is Maitimo, and my epessë is Russandol.”

“Well,” his elfling said, clearly attempting to find a way to comfort him, “it is certainly true that you have red hair! And you… you are very tall! I am sure many people find that handsome.”

***

The next day, the feeling of the land began to shift from that of the Wild to that of an inhabited place. Maedhros had never been as in tune with the Song of the world as Kano or even Moryo, but he could still feel the hum in the air and the trees that began to grow along their path that spoke of the presence of Quendi nearby.

All the creatures of Ilúvatar affected the Song of their surroundings to some extent, but none so greatly as the Firstborn.

“We are approaching a place of Elves,” Maedhros told his tiny father, “hopefully we shall find your family here.”

Fëanáro, who had been trotting beside him beheading passing flowers with a stick, reacted immediately as though Maedhros had told him they were almost to a nest of balrogs.

“Aiiii, no!” he wailed, casting himself into Maedhros’ legs and wrapping his arms around them like a belligerent octopus, “Take me away! Let us escape and live in the mountains.”

Maedhros eyed his new, Fëanáro-shaped shin ornament with bemusement.

“We slaughtered all those orcs to get you home, and now you wish to go away again?”

Fëanáro preened at being included in the orc-slaying, but tightened his grip on Maedhros’ leg.

Maedhros narrowed his eyes.

“How did you come to be taken by those orcs in the first place.”

“Ah,” his elfling said, looking anywhere but at Maedhros, “I may have run away from home?”

Maedhros sighed, then folded down to sit on the grass. Fëanáro took this as an invitation to squirm up his leg like an inchworm and flop across his lap.

Maedhros said nothing. Fëanáro folded his small arms and likewise said nothing.

The silence lengthened uncomfortably.

Fëanáro broke first, as Maedhros knew he would, “Fine! Yes, I ran away. I thought to go on an adventure, and when I returned everyone would be very sorry that I had been gone and Atya would tell me that he loved me and that he would never go away again.”

Maedhros arched an unimpressed eyebrow.

Fëanáro scowled at him, a tiny replica of an expression Maedhros had seen thousands of times before, “I am wroth with Atya right now.”

“I can see that,” Maedhros said, poking his finger between the boy’s scrunched eyebrows, “very wroth indeed.”

Fëanáro growled and uncrossed his arms to swat at his finger.

“How come he can leave, but I cannot? Amya left, and Atya said he would never leave me like that, but then the shiny Hunter came, with his stupid horse, and Atya and Uncle Ingwë and Uncle Elwë went away with him and left me all alone! And now they are back and Atya says we are all going to leave home. I don’t want to leave! What if Amya comes back and she’s all alone?”

The end of his question turned into a wail, and Maedhros gathered the sobbing elfling close against his chest.

Somehow, he thought ruefully, this explains much.

Maedhros closed his eyes and rested his head gently on top of Fëanáro’s small one. There might be words he could give that would help, later, but not now. For now, he sang quiet lullabies and let his elfling weep into his tunic. 

For now, he was thankful to be alive to hold him.

Chapter Text

Maedhros was expecting to encounter scouts well before they arrived at the Eldar’s main encampment.

He was not expecting those scouts to be lead by Oromë himself.

Oromë, for once, was afoot like the elves around him, his great bow held loose and easy at his side as he turned his head to speak to his neighbor.

Fëanáro made a wordless sound of distaste, pouting from his position atop Maedhros’ shoulders. At the sound, Oromë looked up and made direct eye contact with Maedhros.

Oromë froze, the anticipatory stillness of a great cat before its pounce. Around them, the gay chatter of birds and elves faded uneasily away, leaving the two of them, statue-still, in the middle of the clearing.

Hail, stranger, Oromë said at last, his presence standing carefully at the edges of Maedhros’ mind, Do you come in peace? You carry a lost pup we have been seeking.

Hail, Oromë! May your bow be ever swift, Maedhros replied, tipping his head down to more comfortably meet the Vala’s swirling white eyes with his own silvery-green. Maedhros stood a full head and shoulders taller than Oromë’s current fana, which more closely matched the height of his elven companions. 

I come in peace, Maedhros continued cheerfully,  and was indeed hoping you could point me towards this little one’s family.

The Hunter cocked his head, the blur of a nicitating membrane flickering across his pale eyes, You know me, he said slowly, yet I do not know you, and your fëa feels new and old at the same time. This is a thing I have not seen before. How?

Your guess is as good as mine, Maedhros said, hiding a smile, but we were acquainted, once, long ago and in a very far tomorrow. Mysterious are the ways of Ilúvatar.

Of course they are, Oromë grumbled, resigned and vaguely amused, the hunting was good?

His gaze flickered down across the remnants of Maedhros’ rent and bloodstained tunic.

Maedhros sent a sense-memory of hunting down the orcs, the savage satisfaction of the chase and the thrum of determination to protect his elfling.

Oromë nodded approvingly, So. Your new wounds are from the orcs, but your scars are old. My selfish brother, did he give these to you?

The Hunter reached to hover his fingertips carefully above Maedhros’ right wrist. 

Not that one, Maedhros said, remembering Fingon and desperate songs across Thangorodrim’s dark face, but most of the others. And not recently.

Oromë’s gaze sharpened, Let me guess: long ago, and in a very far tomorrow? He has been bound and awaits judgment even now. He cannot escape Mandos’ Halls.

Maedhros weighed his response carefully, It is not escape if he walks out, unhindered, with the permission of the Powers.

Oromë was silent for a long moment, then, I hope that will not be for Ages yet to come. But if he is released, and turns again to harm, will you hunt with me?

I am not gifted in the woods, Maedhros said, and grinned fiercely, but that hunting, I would not miss.

Oromë grinned back toothily, in a way that reminded Maedhros of his own brother, and clasped Maedhros’ right arm, his handless arm, in a strong warrior’s clasp.

“Good,” Oromë said aloud, then tilted his head back to look up at Fëanáro, “hello, pup. I am glad to see you.”

Fëanáro hissed like an angry cat.

“Fëanáro,” Maedhros said tiredly, “do not bite Oromë. You don’t know where he’s been.”

Oromë gave a stuttering, chuffing laugh, and flicked Maedhros’ fëa lightly, like a hound nipping its fellow in exasperation.

***

“Ah, here you are!” a great voice boomed, and Tulkas the Valiant strode into the clearing towards Oromë.

Fëanáro hissed again. Maedhros sighed quietly. Never let it be said that his father knew the meaning of subtlety, in any time or Age of the world.

Tulkas paused to lay a hand on Oromë’s shoulder, a brief flicker of osanwë passing between them, then turned to greet Maedhros.

“Hail, friend!” he said, laughing delightedly, and reached up to pull Maedhros down to bump their foreheads together. His current fana was barely taller than Oromë’s. 

Hello! Tulkas said in Maedhros’ mind, blinking his great gold-and-blue eyes up at him, Oromë said “something something, mysteries of Ilúvatar”, but he likes you, so I ignored the grumbling sounds. Would you like to wrestle sometime?

Maedhros grinned back. Tulkas had ever been the easiest Vala to befriend, despite the overwhelming nature of his power. His osanwë presence was strong and straightforward, like being licked enthusiastically in the fëa by a giant, overly friendly wolf.

I should like that, he said, returning the barest glimpse of a memory from the Valmar of his youth. Tulkas, laughing, flopped across the grass in his favored fana, golden hair braided close against his scalp, completely unhindered by a young and unscarred Maitimo grimly trying to choke him out with his arms and legs both wrapped around the Vala’s throat. 

Tulkas blinked, Huh. Mysteries of Ilúvatar indeed, he said, shaking Maedhros gently by the grip he still had on the back of his neck, I think I would like to become friends with you, again, for the first time. May I?

Gladly, Maedhros said, blinking against the tears threatening to gather in his eyes.

Fëanáro broke the tableau by leaning down and swiftly biting Tulkas in the hand.

Tulkas yelped. Maedhros reached back to pick his elfling up bodily, and brought him around to eye level.

“What have I said about biting the Powers?”

Fëanáro crossed his arms sulkily, dangling in Maedhros’ grasp.

“Technically, you only said not to bite Oromë. And he had his hands in your hair.”

***

With a great clatter of hooves, the four kings of the Eldar arrived in the clearing. 

“Fëanáro! My son, oh my brave son,” cried Finwë, and threw himself hastily off his horse and across the clearing at a run.

Maedhros, Tulkas, and Fëanáro froze guiltily. Tulkas had been using Maedhros’ body as a shield to tease Fëanáro, who Maedhros had tucked under his right arm like a misbehaving cat as he flailed and hissed at the Vala. Maedhros had eventually taken pity on Fëanáro and scruffed Tulkas by the back of his tunic with his left hand.

Finwë skidded uncertainly to a stop in front of them. Ingwë, Olwë, and Elwë arrived behind him at a slightly more sedate pace.

“What,” said Elwë flatly, “am I looking at.”

Fëanáro responded with the filthiest word he could remember from Maedhros’ collection of swear words. Maedhros winced.

Tulkas pointed dramatically at Fëanáro, “He bit me.”

Fëanáro gasped in betrayal, and began struggling against Maedhros’ grip again. Maedhros handed Tulkas off to Oromë and deposited his elfling into Finwë’s arms. Finwë automatically gathered his son into a hug, relieved but deeply bewildered.

“My son,” he breathed, pulling back finally to look at Fëanáro’s face, “are you well? Where have you been? We have been searching everywhere for you!”

Fëanáro squirmed, guiltily, “ImayhaverunawaybecauseIwasmad,” he said, then continued more confidently, warming to his topic, “but it was an adventure! The lands are strange and there are hills everywhere! Also there are orcs, but he killed them all. Oh, and I got to help! Their swords were too big for me, and poorly crafted besides –”

Finwë looked more and more alarmed the further the story went, “And who is this new friend of yours? It seems I owe him much.”

“Ah,” said Fëanáro, pausing for effect. He puffed his little chest out and gestured grandly towards Maedhros, “This is Maithrosh. He is very strong and taught me many new words. I am keeping him.”

“Maedhros,” Maedhros corrected, mildly.

Fëanáro squinted at him, “That’s what I said.”

Maedhros laughed, then tipped his head towards Finwë, “Usually one would request permission from one’s father before unilaterally acquiring a whole person.”

Fëanáro subsided, then shamefacedly put his arms around Finwë’s neck and mumbled an apology into the front of his father’s tunic. Finwë laughed wetly.

“It is an honor to meet you,” he said, and looked up into Maedhros’ face, “not many earn such high praise from my son at first meeting.”

“Not many can make that rascal apologize so quickly, either,” Olwë said, grinning.

“Ah,” Maedhros said, “thank you for reminding me,” and grabbed Tulkas back from Oromë.

Fëanáro looked as though he had bitten into a sour plum.

Maedhros raised both eyebrows, this time.

“But I don’t want to apologize,” Fëanáro said, triumphantly, “so it would be lying.”

“Yes,” Maedhros responded without batting an eye, “but you are a prince. It’s called diplomacy.”

Ingwë made a choking sound somewhere in the background.

“I can apologize, too,” Tulkas said helpfully, “he bit me first, but I did tease him a little, afterwards.”

Maedhros let go of his tunic and nudged him forward.

Tulkas swept a grand court bow, “I am sorry for teasing you, Fëanáro.”

“I am sorry for biting you,” Fëanáro responded grudgingly, then pointed at Maedhros, “he is my friend. If you hurt him, I shall bite you again.”

“Understood,” Tulkas said solemnly, and held out his hand for the elfling to shake.

Chapter Text

First-Home. The Place of Awakening. Aililinyellë, Lake of a Thousand Bells.

Cuiviénen.

Sheer white cliffs streaked with the pale glitter of waterfalls overlooked the sprawling settlement beside the lake. The narrow streets were cobbled with the same white stone and soft moss, and delicate strands of bells wrought of silver-webbed crystal clung to the houses’ eaves, diffusing the stars’ glimmering so each doorway glowed faintly in the ever-twilight.

Song crowned the valley, and above all, ever present, was the sound and smell of water.

The town itself was humming with activity as their small group rode down the forest slope. Maedhros knew this hum by heart – the sound of a camp preparing to march.

“Not long now, unfortunately,” Ingwë said from where he rode beside Maedhros. The other kings rode near the front of the group, Finwë still holding his son. Maedhros himself had opted to walk, not wishing to displace any member of the kings’ entourage.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow questioningly. He had known Ingwë growing up, as the High King of the Eldar, but also as a sort of distant great-uncle who was friends with his grandfather. He did not currently feel like testing whether he knew this younger version of him well enough to read his meaning from oblique conversational cues.

Ingwë blew a strand of golden hair out of his face, and elaborated, “We head for Aman, the Valar’s Blessed Realm, in less than a sennight. Not long until only a handful of clans remain, here under the stars.”

Maedhros turned to consider the town again. The frenetic energy made sense, if they were truly only a few days out from uprooting their entire culture for the Great Journey.

“Unfortunately?”

“Ah,” Ingwë said, turning in his saddle to gesture vaguely at Maedhros’ bedraggled person, “I imagine when you escaped the orcs, you were hoping to find someplace to rest and recuperate in peace. We will unfortunately not be any kind of haven for much longer, although I can certainly put in a good word for you with some of those who will be staying.”

“Recuperate?” Maedhros said, startled. He looked down at himself critically for the first time since their escape, taking in the bloodstains and bruises, “Ah. This should be largely healed by the time we leave. Most of the damage is fairly cosmetic, and most of the blood is not mine.” 

He held out his arm for Ingwë’s inspection, pointing helpfully, “Look. These, here and here? The claws glanced obliquely, so the cuts are shallow enough that they do not damage the muscle. And this, here. It is only slightly deeper, and far enough away from major joints and tendons that it does not hinder motion. I am still functional.”

Ingwë was trying not to appear morbidly fascinated, and failing badly.

“Should you not worry about resting, rather than being functional? Does it not hurt?”

Maedhros blinked, and bit back a quip about his pain tolerance. During his recovery from the loss of his hand, he and Curvo had made a game of composing the most wildly inappropriate jokes concerning his injuries. Tyelko and the twins egged them on while Moryo silently took bets on the side. Finno and Kano had, of course, been completely appalled, which was half the fun. 

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he said, solemnly, despite the fact that no one else would understand the joke. Ingwë looked alarmed.

Maedhros sighed. He had forgotten how other elves reacted to Fëanorian humor.

“My lord Ingwë,” he said gently, laying a hand on Ingwë’s booted ankle, “I am here to serve, not to rest. All will be well. I shall go to the healers for proper food and care, and will be well again by the time we march. Do not worry for me. I know how long it takes my body to heal from wounds such as these.”

This did not appear to reassure Ingwë. If anything, he looked even more alarmed.

***

Cuiviénen, Maedhros discovered, had no healers who knew anything beyond the basics when it came to battlefield healing. 

Fortunately for Maedhros, he did not need more than simple disinfecting, bandaging, and a few stitches, but the gap in Songcraft and knowledge was appalling.

“You have never treated warriors before?” Maedhros asked, disbelieving.

The healer who was stitching his shoulder shrugged uncomfortably. Her assistants were hovering nearby, trying to pretend they were not staring.

“We know how to care for wounds,” she said defensively, “cleanliness is essential for preventing infection.”  

“No,” Maedhros said, and waved his missing hand demonstratively, “I meant the kind of severe injuries that come from battle, that require intensive Singing and surgical intervention. Half your healers watch me as though they had never seen a one-handed warrior before.”

“That is because we have not,” one of the assistants said, finally working up the courage to stop hovering. He was slim and painfully young, with pale blue eyes and a fluff of dark hair, like the feathers of a baby bird.

He sat down next to Maedhros and cautiously held a hand out for Maedhros’ right wrist.

“We have hardly had a need for what you might term a warrior at all,” he said, working his fingers carefully along the scar tissue, massaging tense and knotted muscles, “since Oromë found us, the Valar have scrupulously protected us from their conflict with the Enemy.”

The healer placed her last stitch and turned to wash her hands. She spoke over her shoulder, “We have hunters, and we have those who train with spear and sword to patrol for orcs, but we have never seen a pitched battle, so we have little experience with trauma on that level.”

“Nor,” said the assistant, “do we have experience in what to expect from scarring and old damage this extreme.”

Maedhros cocked his head thoughtfully, “But surely you would have seen this before, on former thralls escaped or rescued from the Enemy?”

“You are the first.”

Maedhros blinked slowly.

“The first?”

The young elf looked up to meet Maedhros’ eyes, “No one has ever escaped the Enemy before. You are the first hope we have had for our kin stolen by the Shadow.”

Maedhros bent his head silently.

The boy hesitated, then: “There are many things we do not know. Will you teach us, my lord?”

Maedhros was not his brother, blessed with ease of Song and healing, but he knew it still well enough to teach.

“It would be my honor.”

***

It took less than a day for Maedhros to realize that none of the kings knew how to organize and prepare for a march at this scale.

Incidentally, it also took less than a day for Maedhros to feel ancient.

Maedhros stepped out from the healers’ house, took a look at the chaos around him, and grimly set out to find Finwë. 

Finwë, who was not prepared to discuss efficient troop coordination, looked at him with the wild eyes of a young father who had not rested the entire time his son was missing, and did not resist when Maedhros manhandled him and Fëanáro into the bath and then directly into bed.

Maedhros set out again, this time to find Finwë’s steward.

He found her by the grain stores, arms crossed, listening as two other elves argued over the best way to lade the wagons for long distance travel.

She turned to watch him with shrewd eyes as he approached, eyebrows raised. She was short for a Noldo, but “built for craft”, as his own mother used to fondly describe herself, with the muscled shoulders and arms that spoke of a mason or a smith.

“You’re Fëanáro’s new minion,” she said, looking behind him as though expecting the boy to appear in his wake, “how did you escape?”

Maedhros stifled a grin, “He’s napping.”

She snorted, then held out a hand to shake, “I’m Halla. Laugh, and I’ll gnaw your ankles off.”

Maedhros clamped his lips shut theatrically, and shook her hand, “Maedhros. But you can call me whatever you’d like, if it’s too hard to pronounce.”

“And what do you need from me?”

“Actually, I rather thought I might see what you needed from me.”

She cocked her head consideringly, “And what makes you think I need your help? Do you have any experience organizing and provisioning a host on the march?”

Maedhros smiled, “As it happens, yes.”

***

When the Ambarussa were young, they had been obsessed with tales of the Great Journey. They would beg to hear the story over and over, and besiege Maedhros with question after question, as though he would know the answers. What did they eat? How dark was it, without the Trees? Did they have birds, like they do here? What did the birds sound like? Was Grandfather scared of the dark? 

The decision of who got the honor of playing Finwë in their make-believe renditions of the Great Journey was always hotly contested. Telvo’s version of Finwë galloped recklessly at the front of the host, neighing obnoxiously (“cos he’s riding a really big horse”) and slaying hordes of orcs and small forest creatures indiscriminately. Pityo’s version rode at the back, chivvying his people along and threatening to shoot stragglers (“c’mon Ingo, we’re supposed to be running").

The actual day-to-day experience of the Great Journey was much closer to Maedhros’ own experience of moving large groups of people across long distances: exhausting, and largely monotonous.

The host was initially more chaotic than Maedhros was used to, not helped by the fact that it was made up of individual factions, each with their own king, but by the end of the first month, they had achieved some semblance of order on the march.

Maedhros had integrated himself as a member of Finwë’s household far more quickly than he had expected. It helped that Halla had swiftly determined his experience invaluable, and that Oromë and Tulkas regularly sought out his company. It also helped that he had become the default Fëanáro wrangler, if Finwë was busy.

Finwë was currently busy.

“Please, my lord,” said the harried elf currently holding Fëanáro out towards Maedhros like an offering, “he keeps spooking the horses.”

Fëanáro huffed indignantly, “I did not mean to! I was simply trying to compare the tensile strength of different materials for a project.”

Maedhros slid down from his own horse and held out his arms silently. The other elf deposited Fëanáro with a relieved expression, and beat a hasty retreat.

“What is the project?” Maedhros asked, hoisting his elfling up into the saddle and swinging up behind him.

“It is a secret!” Fëanáro said, straightening up with excitement, “At least for now. But I need a larger sample size of materials, and I wanted to try horsehair. I did not know it would hurt the horse.”

“Maybe when we stop for the night, I can show you how to ask Mista if you may have a few strands from her tail,” Maedhros said. His horse whuffed and flicked her ears at the sound of her name.

Fëanáro was immediately diverted, “You can speak to her? Teach me, teach me!”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, feigning thought, “what do you think, Mista? There might be a word that could convince me.”

Fëanáro pinched him reproachfully, “Please, Russya! I shall eat three vegetables at dinner tonight, if you teach me.”

“Oho, what is this? I have earned a nickname, now that you try to bribe me,” Maedhros laughed.

“It is not bribery. I am negotiating,” Fëanáro said with dignity, “and it is easier to say. But if you do not like it, I will keep trying to pronounce Maithrosh instead.”

***

Fëanáro’s favorite place to be when not with Finwë or Maedhros was one of the camp’s traveling forges. He had his own miniature anvil and set of tools, scaled to fit his small hands.

They had been on the road for almost a year, the first time Fëanáro invited Maedhros to the forge.

“Come with me at once,” Fëanáro demanded, bursting into Finwë’s tent.

Maedhros and Finwë both looked up from where they were sat with Halla, Elwë, and Ingwë, hunched over a sheaf of reports and calculations.

“Me, or Maedhros?” Finwë asked, bemused. Ingwë kicked back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, grinning. 

Fëanáro rolled his eyes, “Both of you.”

Finwë looked at Maedhros, who raised an eyebrow and tipped his head towards Halla. Halla sighed, and massaged her forehead, “Go on, then. We’ve dealt with most of this, and Lord Ingwë can make himself useful and take the rest of these.”

Ingwë squawked in mock offence.

“And I can get the updated scouting schedules from Velek tomorrow,” Elwë said, prodding a finger into Ingwë’s ribs.

Fëanáro grabbed his father’s tunic in one hand and Maedhros’ with the other, and tugged impatiently. Finwë huffed out a laugh, reaching a hand down to Maedhros as he stood.

“Age before beauty,” he said innocently, gesturing politely for Maedhros to precede him. Maedhros flicked him in the forehead, laughing, and ducked out into the night.

The forge Fëanáro led them to was, of necessity, trimmed down to the basics for the sake of travel, but still loud and bustling with men and horses. Fëanáro slipped through the chaos with ease, and led them to a sheltered area in the back where a tall, burly figure labored over a workbench.

“Mahtan!” Fëanáro cried exuberantly, and seized Maedhros’ hand to drag him forward, “I’ve brought Russya and Atya!”

The elf turned to meet them, and Maedhros found himself gazing into the brown eyes of his other grandfather.

“Ah,” Mahtan said, wiping his hands clean on a rag, “is it time for the surprise?”

Fëanáro was dancing impatiently where he stood, “You know it’s time for the surprise! Move faster, old man!”

“Fëanáro,” Maedhros and Finwë both said, tiredly.

Fëanáro sighed, “Fine, fine, I apologize for being rude. Move faster, O Master of the Forge, before we all start growing moss.”

Mahtan chuckled, and moved unhurriedly toward the back of the forge. He returned a moment later, carrying a long and heavily wrapped object in one hand, and a delicate silken pouch in the other.

“This is for both of you, but you get to open this one,” Fëanáro said, placing the pouch in his father’s hands. 

Finwë carefully opened the pouch, then exclaimed as he drew out a shimmering length of intricately worked silver chain, dripping with pearlescent gems. The tiny stones were set to look like stars, and twinkled in the firelight.

“That one’s for you,” Fëanáro said, proudly, and began rooting about in the bag, “there’s matching hair-clasps in here somewhere. Mahtan helped me with the settings, and Halla helped me source the stones.”

He triumphantly produced a pair of silver clasps for Finwë, shaped like horses, then dove back in and came up with another hair ornament and a set of pins, these wrought of gold and green stones.

He handed them to Maedhros.

Maedhros’ breath caught as he looked down at the clasp, a golden star of Fëanor set boldly in the middle.

Fëanáro grinned shyly up at him, “Do you like it? You don’t seem like you would wear much jewelry, but you have to have something for your hair. I made it for the star that was embroidered on your clothes when we first met. I had to do it from memory, since your tunic didn’t really survive the orcs.” 

“It’s perfect. Thank you, little spark,” Maedhros said, and crouched so Fëanáro could pin it in his braids for him.

Finwë shot him a startled look at the nickname, but Fëanáro beamed and preened smugly.

“Now the next one is also for you, since Atya already has one,” he turned expectantly to Mahtan, who tugged the wrapping off the object he was holding.

It was a sword. 

Finwë whistled admiringly. Maedhros was inclined to agree, as he hefted it testingly in his hand.

The sword had clearly been crafted specifically for him. It was longer than Fëanáro was tall, beautifully balanced with a clean straight blade. Unlike most swords of its size, its weight and hilt were designed for one-handed use, and the hilt was devoid of the embellishments common for elvish swords, leather-wrapped for a firm grip.

“That one Mahtan had to do, because you are needlessly large,” Fëanáro said, “so I got Ingwë to help me make these instead. And I got Mista to lend me some of her hair, too.”

He dove back into the pouch and from the bottom drew out two sword belts, embellished with tiny woven images. Maedhros’ portrayed a figure with flaming hair holding aloft a sword (“Russya”, Fëanáro said helpfully), a grey horse running against a green field, a small figure holding a hammer (“That’s me”), and an eight-pointed star in a dark blue sky. Finwë’s had the same small Fëanáro, a brown horse, and a dark-haired figure with a crown (“and that’s you, Atya”).

“There,” Fëanáro said, satisfied, surveying them with his hands on his hips, “that's better.”

Chapter Text

The decision to temporarily withhold his true identity and knowledge of the future from the other elves had been as immediate as it was instinctive. 

Maedhros had known a few of these people well, once, but not anymore, and they did not know him at all.

Only a part of the decision, however, was because he did not think he would be believed. Maedhros was still internally reeling. It would take time for him to process the enormity of the situation he had found himself in, and he had not survived as long as he had in Beleriand by taking counsel with others hastily when he did not yet know his own mind.

He was also self-aware enough to admit that a large portion of his decision to wait came from several hard-learned instincts, deeply ingrained, that even countless years in the Halls of Mandos had not been able erase.

The first, to hold personal and potentially dangerous information as close as possible. The second, to not give trust easily or carelessly. The third, to protect his family with his life.

Maedhros had looked down at Fëanáro, curled sleepily in his lap, and tried to imagine telling Finwë of the future. Tried to imagine the look on Finwë’s face as he heard the tale of his son’s deeds, of his death, when he looked Maedhros in the eyes and saw what had become of his family.

 He would rather die again.

Maedhros suddenly, intensely wanted to speak to Nienna, or Ulmo. And possibly Vaire. He had been close once, to some of the Valar. It was odd, that after so many years of exile and estrangement and death, such an impulse to seek their counsel remained. 

Tulkas he could tell now, but he would not know how to help. Oromë would also listen, but immediately decide it was beyond him, and carry it faithfully to Manwë. Maedhros did not have the composure needed for speaking with Manwë at present.

Maedhros carefully brushed the hair back from Fëanáro’s forehead. He would wait until Aman to decide what to tell and to whom. 

For now, he would serve Finwë and keep a low profile. How hard could it be?

***

“Get your filthy boots off my furniture,” Finwë said, “or I won’t share Olwë’s wine.”

Elwë glowered dramatically, but made a show of pulling his boots off. He gingerly shoved them under the folding table in the centre of the room, precariously crowded with small bowls of sweet cakes and fruit.

“Satisfied?” he drawled, and flopped back down across the cushioned bench, crossing his long ankles elegantly on the arm rest.

“Valar forbid any of us get mud on your precious sofa, when Fëanáro himself lives here,” Olwë said, amused, “and how is it your business who I share my wine with?”

“You all made it my business when you decided my tent was the best place to drink and gossip.”

Elwë hummed thoughtfully, “Does it actually count as gossip if we’re talking about your household while you’re in the room?”

“Given that the members of my household actually discussed are not in the room, I think it does,” said Finwë.

“Oh come off it, you enjoy it as much as we do,” said Ingwë, grinning, “it’s free entertainment.”

Finwë sighed and held out a hand for the bottle, “Fine. Who’s going first?”

Elwë clasped his hands thoughtfully across his chest, “I think I’ve got a new contender for ‘most plausible’. It’s Velek’s theory – he and the boys have a betting pool on it, not that I think it’ll ever resolve unless someone actually asks Maedhros outright.”

“And where would be the fun in that,” Ingwë said lightly, then more seriously, “I wouldn’t. He doesn’t seem to want to speak about his past, and just looking at him, I don’t blame him.”

Elwë inclined his head in silent agreement, then continued.

“The theory is that he was one of the very first to be Awakened after the Elf-fathers, one of the Wanderers who set out to explore instead of staying a member of the three Clans. Velek thinks he was the head of his own tribe and that they fought to hold back the Enemy. Presumably he was taken prisoner when they were finally overrun.”

“That would actually make sense of a great many things we do know,” Olwë said, pouring the wine, “he’s used to leadership: others defer to him by instinct, and he accepts it out of habit without seeming to realize it’s unusual.”

Ingwë nodded thoughtfully, “He fights like a storm, and knows how to train others to fight as well. He also seems to have more experience in the logistical and interpersonal side of kingship than all four of us combined. He knows war, and people, in a way that none of us do.”

“And yet that is the least plausible part of the theory,” Elwë said, hooking one finger in a bowl of sweet cakes to drag it closer, “if anything, he has too much experience for an elf leading just one family or tribe.”

“But still the most plausible theory so far,” Finwë said, "although the one about him having visions of the future is a close second. He just seems to know things somehow."

“Am I next?” Olwë asked, “I don’t have much. Lissë told me that the kitchen gossip is currently split on whether Maedhros is some older relation of Mahtan’s or (and this is the fun one) an illegitimate and heretofore undiscovered brother of Finwë’s.”

Elwë laughed, “He does have the hair and the height to be some kind of uncle of Mahtan’s. But he does look a little like Finwë about the eyes and shoulders, maybe, if you look past the scars.”

“I think,” Finwë said, wincing, “that it is more plausible that he is somehow related to Míriel. He does the same thing with his jaw that she always used to do everytime I say something stupid. And when he’s not paying attention, he calls Fëanáro ‘little spark’.”

Elwë raised an eyebrow sardonically, “Ah yes, that brings us back to last week’s rumors of him being your scandalous secret paramour.”

“‘He may be grim and disreputable, but he saved the king’s only son and swore service to him on sight’,” Ingwë quoted, cackling, “it’s all incredibly romantic. I heard some of the ladies swooning about it to my wife.”

Finwë groaned and hid his face in his hands, “It’s bad enough that he’s probably old enough to be my father. The worst of it is that I can’t even be surprised people would assume that. It really is like having a wife again.”

“Is it?” said Olwë, raising his eyebrows and clutching his necklaces in mock scandal.

Finwë threw a grape at him, “Not like that. It’s just – I realized the other day that my household hasn’t run this smoothly since before Fëanáro was born. My son thinks of him like another parent. Halla balances the books and accounts with him so the strain on my own time is minimal. Eressëndil plans my wardrobe and jewelry with him for events.”

“I wish my paramours were that efficient,” Elwë said.

“You don’t have any,” said Finwë, exasperated.

“Neither do you,” Elwë retorted, “otherwise this conversation would be more exciting.”

Finwë handed his wine glass to Olwë and leaned over to grab Elwë by the ankles and drag him bodily off the sofa and onto the floor. Elwë landed with a startled squawk, then tackled his friend out of his chair.

“It’s your turn, Ingwë,” Finwë said some moments of scuffling later, tapping out against Elwë’s arm. The taller elf released him and rolled over to flop on the floor, spitting Finwë’s hair out of his mouth.

“Listen closely, children: I saved the best for last,” said Ingwë, and poked Finwë in the ribs with his foot, “this theory is my absolute favorite, and I’m only sad I didn’t hear it sooner.”

“Do share,” Olwë said. He refilled his wine glass and leaned over the pair on the floor to take another sweet cake.

Ingwë clasped his hands around one knee and leaned back with relish, “This one is courtesy of my Master of Horses, who is a woman of intelligence and culture: Maedhros is an Ainur in disguise, if not a new member of the Valar themselves, come to help us in a time of need.”

Olwë snorted wine out his nose. Elwë made a startled choking sound.

Finwë stared up at the ceiling blankly, “A new Vala? How? And what a disguise to come up with, truly. I can’t imagine one of the Powers picking a form so, ah–”

“Mangy,” Elwë said, “you can say ‘mangy’.” 

Finwë rolled over and threw an elbow in his ribs.

“I believe the logic was that since Tulkas appeared some time after the other Valar, what’s to say our own Maedhros didn’t also arrive later?”

“I hate that any of this makes sense, but it would explain Oromë and Tulkas,” Olwë said thoughtfully, “and he’s certainly got a powerful presence. His eyes glow, like the Trees. He knows things about the rest of the Valar I’ve never heard before.”

“So, if he were a new Vala,” Elwë said skeptically, “what is he the Vala of? Baby-sitting Finwë’s spawn lest he bite the Powers?”

Ingwë smiled beatifically, “Oh, that’s the best part of the theory. Guess.”

Finwë closed his eyes. “Hope,” he said quietly.

“How did you know?” Ingwë asked, startled.

Finwë shot him an unimpressed look, “He showed up at the beginning of a time of change and uncertainty, carrying my child, rescued from the depths of despair. And he somehow has knowledge that we do not even know we need, when we need it. If he is truly an Ainur in disguise, then his realm is surely something to do with hope. Perhaps associated with Nienna somehow.”

“I hate to agree with Olwë, but it does make more sense than I initially thought,” Elwë said.

“I think that you’re all agreeing with me, actually, not Olwë,” Ingwë said, smugly, “did I not say I had saved the best for last?”

“But imagine if he truly did come just to baby-sit Fëanáro,” Elwë said, and started laughing into Finwë’s shoulder, “a new Vala, called to our aid because Creation was underprepared for the consequences of Finwë reproducing.”

Finwë bit him.

***

This was, of course, the moment Maedhros stooped into the room in a gust of rain and wind.

He was sopping wet, breathless with laughter, and covered in muddy children. Fëanáro was clinging to the front of him like a squirrel, arms and legs wrapped around his torso as far as they would go. Under his right arm, he was holding Mahtan’s daughter, a curly, red-haired elfling named Nerdanel; under his left, Ingwë’s eldest son, Ingwil. 

Tulkas squeezed into the room behind him, similarly drenched.

“Special delivery,” Maedhros said solemnly, and dropped Ingwë’s muddy son into his father’s lap. Ingwil immediately made a break for freedom; Ingwë screeched in mud-covered outrage.

“And also for you, my lord,” Maedhros continued sweetly, leaning over Finwë, who was still on the floor. Fëanáro released his hold as if on command and fell squarely onto his father’s stomach. 

There was a whuff as all the air left Finwë’s body, then muffled swearing as Fëanáro sat up gleefully and rested his muddy hands on his father’s face. Elwë scrambled hurriedly onto the sofa and pulled his feet up out of reach.

Tulkas shook like a dog, long hair whipping around his face and splattering water droplets across the room.

“Baths,” Maedhros said, “baths, for all of you,” and sat down on the floor to help Nerdanel out of her shoes.

“This is reminding me why I don’t have children,” said Elwë, edging towards the door.

Maedhros smirked, as though to an unspoken joke that only he could hear, “One day that will change, and you will have a child every bit as wonderful as Fëanáro here.”

Elwë made a sound of horrified dismay.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” Finwë said, smiling evilly, and deliberately patted Elwë’s knee with one of Fëanáro’s muddy hands.

Chapter Text

Despite the widespread assumptions concerning his age and origins, Maedhros was privately convinced that his current body was actually substantially younger than the body he had died in.

The reduced number of scars and pains was an obvious sign, but the length of his hair was the most certain indicator. It was short, just below his shoulder blades and barely long enough for his war braids. 

In Aman, most elves lived thousands of years without once cutting their hair. To cut one’s hair was a thing done only to show great shame or sorrow.

Maedhros’ hair had been this short four times in his adult life.

After Thangorodrim. (His current body was too healthy to be from that time.)

After the Nirnaeth. (Too many scars to be that young.)

After Doriath. (Doriath was more probable; some of those scars he definitely had, and they looked new still.)

After Sirion. (His right knee worked too well still for it to be after Sirion.)

So: his post-Doriath body he decided it must be, and if Maedhros sat closer to the fire that night and hugged a complaining Fëanáro a little longer than normal, well. No one else needed to know why.

***

The host had been camped beside the Sea of Rhûn for most of three years when Velek padded silently into Finwë’s central sitting room carrying an armful of scrolls.

“Maps are back,” he announced, unceremoniously dumping them onto the table by Maedhros’ elbow, “ah, excuse me, my lord.”

Finwë grunted around a mouthful of hairpins, his hands busy with Maedhros’ hair. 

Maedhros had yet to discover a good way to braid his own hair one-handed. Before, he had usually had a brother or cousin near to hand for help. On the occasions they were absent, Erestor would materialize wordlessly with a comb and fix his braids with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to his stewardship of Maedhros’ household.

Here, among strangers, Maedhros had at first simply defaulted to leaving his hair combed but unbound. That had lasted until Fëanáro noticed and immediately bullied Maedhros into letting him help with his hair. Unbeknownst to Maedhros, Fëanáro’s only experience with braiding another elf’s hair came from learning to do his mother’s when he was very small, and the only hairstyle he knew how to work was the simple twist-crown that marked a High Lady of the Noldor.

Finwë had almost choked trying not to laugh when Fëanáro had trotted Maedhros out and proudly displayed his handiwork. Fëanáro now knew how to plait a regular warrior’s braid, but it was still common for whichever of Finwë’s household got to Maedhros first in the morning (usually Finwë or Halla) to help him with his hair instead.

Maedhros secretly enjoyed the little patchwork of hairstyles he was accruing. Halla’s style was the closest approximation of his original war braids, but with four neat strands intertwined near his temples for loyalty and duty. Finwë usually left most of his hair free but braided intricate patterns normally reserved for respected elders above his ears. He had recently started sneaking in blue and purple beads that marked Maedhros as a member of Finwë’s family. Eressëndil did his hair only rarely, but his style was Maedhros’s favorite: a simple servant’s rope braid twined with golden wire for valor and midnight blue ribbons for mourning.

“Maps,” said Maedhros, turning his head carefully towards the table, “from Olwë’s sailors? Or the scouts?”

“Lord Olwë’s,” Velek said, and unrolled a scroll to show a stretch of coastline annotated with wind and current markings, “the rest of the scouts will no doubt reappear some years from now, having lost the maps but befriended ten new species of tree and several colors of butterfly.”

Maedhros nodded solemnly, “We really do need to stop calling it the Great Journey.”

Velek grinned, “What should we call it instead, ‘short periods of meandering vaguely Aman-wards, interspersed with longer periods of getting distracted by the mating rituals of insects’?” 

“More like ‘the mating rituals of elves’,” Halla grumbled, taking a loud sip of tea and poking through the maps with one finger, “we make it to one lake, and suddenly everyone wants to stop and pop out offspring. We don’t even know how much farther we’ve got left.”

“Far,” Maedhros said, without thinking.

Halla and Velek turned slowly to stare at him. Maedhros shrugged his shoulders and blinked innocently back. 

“Quit moving around so much,” said Finwë, tugging on Maedhros’ ear reprovingly, “I’m trying to fix this rat’s nest you have growing on top of your head. It looks like something gnawed on your hair and then regurgitated leaves onto it.”

“Hmm.”

Finwë delicately removed a clump of damp leaves with two fingers, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“‘Hmm’, is it? Why would you ‘hmm’ in this context?”

Maedhros appeared to be suddenly engrossed in reading the scrolls, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.

Finwë froze. “Oh absolutely not,” he said, wiping his fingers off hurriedly on Maedhros’ tunic, “please, please, please tell me my son did not actually put chewed-up leaves in your hair.”

“The young lord has been gathering information lately,” Velek said, carefully not looking up from the paper in front of him, “he seems particularly interested in the construction methods used by paper wasps.”

“Experiments are still ongoing,” Maedhros said mildly, “apparently the structural integrity is a work in progress.”

“But in your hair? Why would you let him try to make a wasp nest in your hair?”

“He promised to start calling me ‘the Wasp King’ if I let him experiment on me,” Maedhros said, completely straight-faced, “I believe he had some kind of vision for a ‘fabulous crown to strike fear into the hearts of my foes’.”

“That’s what your face is for,” Finwë said grumpily, and pulled free another twig.

Halla tipped back in her chair, laughing so hard she had to put her tea cup down. Velek was hunched nearly in half trying to hide his laughter behind the curtain of his own silver hair.

“Betrayal,” Maedhros intoned solemnly, “the Wasp King is surrounded and betrayed on all sides. How shall I ever go on?”

***

The settlement by the Sea of Rhûn was hardly more than a sprawling collection of villages along the edge of the lake, dirt streets and rough-laid stone and the smell of fresh lumber and tar. It reminded Maedhros of some of the early cities of Men he had visited in Beleriand; the straggling lines of new fields, the bustle and clatter of the Teleri’s shipyards, the laughter of barefooted elflings chasing chickens in the marketplace. The Kings’ Houses rose on the top of the hill overlooking the water, pale wood and white stone bright against the green grass.

For all that a part of him chafed at the delay in the journey, Maedhros could appreciate this small pocket of peace in the middle of greater plans. 

This was no forced march of an army racing against the clock; here there was space for wonder and exploration, for seeking and finding, for planting and sowing and shipbuilding, for making love and raising elflings.

“Not that I’m making love, mind you,” Maedhros said, arching an eyebrow at Ingwë as they walked together through the new central marketplace, “but it’s fairly obvious the rest of you are.”

Ingwë groaned and hid his face in his hands.

“Ah, to be young and in love,” Maedhros grinned, and patted him condescendingly on the back.

Ingwë feinted a swat and then lunged; Maedhros dropped his stance lower and used the smaller elf’s own momentum to heft him over one shoulder.

Ingwë squawked indignantly and wriggled, “Unhand me, fiend!”

“I’m already partially un-handed, I don’t know that I’d recommend it to anyone else,” Maedhros said, squinting as if in thought, and continued to walk towards the Kings’ Houses as though he was not carrying one of the High Kings of the Eldar over his shoulder as easily as he might carry Fëanáro.

“Speaking of being young and in love,” Ingwë said, slumping dramatically against Maedhros’ back as they approached the broad stone stairs to the top of the hill, “Finwë.”

“No, I am not secretly his scandalous paramour,” Maedhros said blithely, “have you been reading the stories the kitchen maids are circulating?”

Ingwë perked up, immediately intrigued, “Wait, they’re actually writing this stuff down?”

“Oh yes, Halla has a whole collection of them that she’s confiscated. I’m sure she’d share if you asked.”

“Halla is a jewel among women,” Ingwë said gleefully, “but you know that wasn’t what I meant. I need you to do something.”

Maedhros sighed and took the stairs two at a time.

“I take it this is about the way he and your sister have been gazing soulfully at each other every time they think no one is looking?”

“It’s like they think the rest of us don’t have eyes,” Ingwë agreed, thunking his forehead despairingly against Maedhros’ rib cage, “the pining is getting ridiculous.”

Maedhros bent and tipped Ingwë off onto the pale stone of the Kings’ forecourt. 

“And what exactly do you expect me to do about it?” 

“I don’t know, something? Anything? Indis is convinced that she can’t have him because he’s already married, but Míriel is gone and from what she said to Finwë before she faded, it didn’t sound like she would be coming back.”

Maedhros was silent for a long moment, then, very softly, “Not everyone can come back from certain things, and some pains never heal.”

Ingwë shot him a startled look, “Ah. Well. I don’t know what to do, Indis doesn’t know what to do, I can guarantee Finwë doesn’t know what to do. The Valar told us that our dead may return from the Halls of Mandos when they are ready, but none of us know when to expect that, or if Míriel will ever be ready.”

He rubbed the back of his head helplessly, “I want them all to be happy, I just don’t know if that can even happen.”

“Understandable.”

Ingwë widened his eyes hopefully, “So you’ll bring it up with the Valar for me?”

Maedhros flicked him in the forehead, “Since when did I become your personal errand boy to the Powers?”

“I’ll call you the Wasp King whenever Finwë is in earshot for the next year? It makes his eye twitch every time.”

“Deal.”