Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Doriath, for all its splendour, for all the majesty of its age-old trees and the dewdrop freshness of the violets in spring, is a prison. Her father doesn't see it; his very existence is intertwined with the roots of the forest and with her mother's magic - they draw breath, and mighty branches creak in the sudden gust of wind.

Chapter Text

In her dreams, shadow and flame descend from above, darkening the sky. From a high tower she watches white walls crumble, hears the desperate wails of her people as they are slaughtered in their houses, in the squares, in the vibrantly beautiful gardens, once their pride and joy.

A glimpse of the end. A warning, perhaps. She remembers the ice, the soft embrace of the cold waiting to catch her unawares. Her mother, slipping into an icy grave, her last breath a mere echo carried away by the wind. She has dreamt about it time and time again. But these dreams are different. Fire instead of ice; her city burning.

The years have offered peace and prosperity, a safe haven, a life as close to unmarred as can be in Arda Marred. Gondolin is in bloom, a precious gem hidden away in the mountains, its walls unassailable, its people happy. But Idril remembers. She watches and waits, ever-vigilant as the shadow creeps into the Hidden Realm.

And when the end comes, when shadow and flame rain down from the sky, she knows exactly what to do.

Chapter Text

The sailors below have been struggling for days. Blown off course by a storm and caught in a sudden calm, their stores running low, they are exhausted and desperate. Angling her wings to catch the breeze and drift closer, she counts eleven men on deck, brown-skinned and weathered by wind and salt-spray. Every detail of the ship, from the rigging of the sails to the tall stature of its crew, betrays its origin.

Númenor. The kingdom of Elros Tar-Minyatur, of the Edain. The nation that rose from the wreckage of Beleriand. My legacy, she thinks.

In that instant one of the sailors looks up and spots her circling above. A cry goes up, and all the sailors turn their eyes heavenward. Their voices ring out over the empty sea, thanking Ilúvatar and the Lords of the Utmost West for this good omen in their hour of need.

Elwing shifts her wings slightly to soar even closer as she lets out a shrill cry, and far below, in the deep waters where he dwells, Ossë hears her call.

It begins with a soft stirring of waves. The sailors barely even notice at first. Then comes a rush of wind from the west, catching the limp sails. She hears a shout of joy from below as the captain gives his orders. The wind will carry them back home, where they will tell tales of their salvation from the West and of the albatross that heralds it.

Chapter Text

When she was a child, she watched her mother at work, watched skilled hands turn a block of wood into a beautiful figure clad in flowing robes. The process was mesmerising, she never got tired of seeing layer after layer of woodgrain scraped away to form the delicate shape of flowing fabric, as though the figure had been trapped within the wood all along and merely waited for someone to release her.

"Why do you do it?" Nerdanel asked when she was older and had started learning the craft herself.

And her mother, gathering Nerdanel's long, shimmering hair in her hands, weaving it into intricate braids, had said:

"Because true beauty is that which resonnates deep in the fëa of the beholder, and Ilúvatar gave us our craft so that we could speak through it and say what cannot be put into words."

She thought she understood back then, tirelessly at work to create, to give voice to wood and marble. And her sculptures were admired, in time as much as those made by her mother, for Nerdanel's creations were brimming with life: a falcon in flight, silk robes flowing in the breeze, delicate foliage, faces stern or smiling.

Until the day she walked into her father's workshop and saw the king's son there, marble features flushed with forgefire, lost in his work and his thought. She was transfixed by the beauty of him, the furrow of concentration between his brows, the way he seemed to radiate the light of some inner fire, the sheen of his raven-dark hair.

At loss for words, she turned to her craft, working through the night. The next morning, the king's son woke to find a raven-in-flight, exquisitely carved from dark wood, on his windowsill.

A few days later, Nerdanel found a brooch on her worktable; metal latticework and fire-red gems. She felt something swell in her chest, like bubbles about to burst on the surface of a lake, or dandelion seeds carried on the wind.

They found the words, in time. Dancing in the summer nights. Singing along to old tunes from Cuiviénen, his voice rich and deep like cherry wood.

Centuries later, when people asked her why, searching for reasons and explanations, for a glimpse into the mind of Curufinwë Fëanáro, infamous, reviled, doomed, all she told them was:

"Because true beauty is that which resonnates deep in the fëa of the beholder. And yet sometimes you cannot release people from the marble prison fate has built for them."

Chapter Text

On the seventh day, hunting horns sound in the woodlands of Thargelion and out of the dense forest ride the proud elf-lords, their sharp swords gleaming red-gold in the light of the setting sun as they attack the orcs from behind. Lifting her gaze to see that aid has finally come, Haleth, daughter of Haldad, rallies her men one last time.

"For Haldad! For Haldar! Day shall come again!"

Losing herself in the din of battle, the song of her sword as it cries for vengeance, it takes her some time to notice when the fighting comes to an end. Suddenly she finds herself face to face with one of the elf-lords, tall and proud and clad in garments of red and gold. On his brow rests a golden circlet, and Haleth realises with a start that this must be the Lord of Thargelion himself. She has heard the tales, strange stories from the west, of the High King and his seven sons who unleashed their fire-spells upon Morgoth and his armies, and though she has yet to behold such elven sorcery for herself, she can well believe that it exists when she sees the unearthly light shining from the elf-lord's eyes, and feel the subtle thrum of power that pervades the very air around him.

He inclines his head slightly, a sign of respect without a hint of deference. Haleth returns the gesture. As leader of the Haladin, she does not bow to elf-lords, no matter how proud and mighty they are.

"Well met, Lord Caranthir. I am Haleth, daughter of Haldad. My people and I are eternally grateful for your aid. Without it we would likely not have lived through the night."

His face betrays no surprise or annoyance at her lack of deference. Instead he looks her up and down, taking in the bloodstained leather armour, the mud and grime that covers her from head to toe, that she wears like a badge of honour. Finally he nods in what seems like approval.

“You and your men fought well today. For how long were you besieged?”

The messenger bringing news of her father’s and brother’s demise. Shouting orders to the archers, comforting children, organizing defense lines. Expecting to see her brother by her side and finding no-one there. Grief pushed aside by more pressing needs: too few arrows, too many wounded.

“Seven days, ever since my father and brother were slain.”

This takes him by surprise, she notes. The stern gaze flickers from her to the ragtag band of warriors behind her and the elders and children who have made their way out of the safety of the fortified encampment. She can see him thinking, weighing options, considering. Finally he speaks.

“Then you are brave beyond what I could have imagined. Lady Haleth, to put it bluntly, I have need of such bravery in my vassals. I would offer you and your people as much land as you wish here in Thargelion, if you would swear fealty to me. Your children and elders can know peace. You will be under my protection, able to call upon the aid of my soldiers should orcs ever trouble you again. What say you?”

Peace and safety. Who would not be tempted to accept such an offer in these war-ravaged lands? And yet something in her balks at the thought. The elves are a strange folk. Spells and glamour surround them, doom follows at their heels like a dog. To them, the lives of Men must seem like the mere blink of the eye.

“Thank you for your gracious offer. However, I must give the matter some deliberation before you shall have your answer. In the meantime you and your soldiers are most welcome to stay for a while and rest, though I fear there is little food to be found here for the time being.”

“We are more than happy to help you hunt. As for the other matter, I understand the need for careful deliberation. Too many decisions are made in haste, with little thought for the consequences.” Caranthir smiles wryly.

Haleth inclines her head once more and turns towards her people. All of a sudden, a shout goes up from the crowd.

“Hail Chieftain Haleth!”

The shout is taken up by the others, until every last one of the Haladin is hailing her as chieftain. Haleth steps forward and the crowd falls silent and parts to let her through. As one, the warriors bow their heads in respect, not as servants or vassals to their lord, but as free men and women to the leader of their own choosing.

Day shall come again. And Haleth, Chieftain of the Haladin, has already made her decision.

Chapter Text

The revulsion she feels is not for him as a man, for he is fair to behold and not unkind to his servants and thralls. In other circumstances she might have liked him, even. But she was never offered a choice. And so she detests every gift from him, every touch, every word of affection. She resents him for the pretense of a marriage he has forced her to take part in. To her, he will always be the invader, the conqueror, never the loving husband.

At times she envies Morwen. Witch-woman, the invaders call her. They shun her, they go to great lengths to avoid her stern, unflinching gaze. They whisper about her kinsman, Beren, who rose from the grave through the dark sorcery of the elves. Even Brodda fears Morwen, fears what curses she may lay upon him. Every time he passes by her house, he makes signs to ward off evil. Aerin sneers at such behaviour. The only evil in Dor-lómin is the one he has brought with him, the darkness he serves.

Most of all she envies the menfolk of the House of Hador. She envies them their swift deaths at swordpoint, so much more merciful than the slow death of a life in captivity. Many a night she has lain awake in the darkness, clutching her dagger, calculating how many throats she would be able to slit before someone raised the alarm, thinking, would she have time to plunge the dagger into her own heart before they caught her. But there are too many of them, and she knows that her people will pay tenfold in blood for every life she takes. So she plays at being the dutiful wife. She tries to make the most of what influence she has with Brodda. Many a child of the House of Hador makes it through the winter thanks to the food she smuggles to their families. And with every small victory, every tiny act of resistance, she feels a little bit less dead inside.

Until the day Morwen's son strides into Brodda's hall and she is caught in the gaze of those stern, accusing eyes. When he cuts through the guards, when he puts her husband to the sword, every blow is a reprimand for the years spent under the thumb of the enemy. As if he could ever understand restraint in the service of honour and duty.

In the end they are the only two people left in the hall. And Aerin faces him, unflinching, without shame.

"Know this, son of Húrin. Our people will suffer for what you have done here. I hope you learn, before it is too late, to leave more than ashes in your wake."

She sees the pain in his eyes then, yet knows that he is too young, too blinded by his own sense of earth-shattering importance, too weighed down by pride and doom, to ever turn from the path he has started down. He will burn, and he will make the world burn with him.

But one gift has he given her. With Brodda and his household slain, with everything she has built through her life crumbling around her, duty to her people no longer holds her back. With one last look at the sky, she drops a torch on the oil-doused floor. Aerin stands tall at the chieftain's seat, watching her prison go up in flames, and when the fire reaches for her, she unsheathes her dagger and plunges it straight into her chest. Smoke and darkness cloud her vision, but through it all it seems to her that a piercing light shines through. Aerin sinks to the floor with a smile on her face, free at last.

Chapter Text

Daughter of the king means something else here. The lands east of the sea are strange, cruel and wild. Shadow creatures lurk in dark crevices and howl in the night. The divide between life and death is a mere fraction of a heartbeat, a line like a knife's edge.

Daughter of the king means something else when danger is all around. It means guards, walls, towers. It means city streets neatly laid out in grids, the rigidly intricate geometry a visual representation of Turukáno's precise clockwork mind.

Findekáno has his snow-capped mountains and the wide expanses of the northern plains, where hawks soar overhead and frost glints in the starlight.

Turukáno longs for home, for the beauty of Tirion upon Túna. He left not out of any desire of his own, but for the sake of family and duty and love. With his family scattered and his love washed away by the icy waters of the northern seas, only duty remains, a marble fortress against the wild and hostile land he can neither love nor leave.

But Aredhel is her father’s daughter, and like her father she left for -

a bonfire roaring in the night, shadows dancing to the beat of drums under strange stars at Cuiviénen

- she left for -

the scent of blood and the taste of blood and the holy rage roaring through her veins

- she left for -

the earth rolling away under the hooves of her steed, the mad rush of the wind, the knife's edge insanity which is more alive than life itself

- she left for -

grief and fury and a sense of finally coming home

Chapter Text

In the beginning was the Void, but the Void turned to Night, and though many mistake one for the other, they are as different as something and nothing. The night is for stars and for secrets whispered, a time for bonfires and voices lifted in reverence and worship, for the Quendi, the speakers, awoke in the night and they loved it for its silver and velvet. The night is for lovers, for campfire tales, for hunting and dreams and pale wings glistening in the starlight. Varda stepped into the world and swept the deep violet firmament over the land, and the people below named her Star-Kindler, most honoured of all the Valar. She is the night. She has always been the night. She cups the world in her hands, her ever-changing hands at times pale like starlight, at times dark like the sky, sometimes softly feathered like owl-wings, and she sings it to sleep, weaving strands of the Music into the dreams of sleepers. She quite likes the name they've given her. The Void watches, but its nothingness cannot compare. It never could.

Chapter Text

Fëanor came to her, fire blazing in his eyes, and he told her

- you and I are alike, for we both understand the need to create, the need to preserve, the overwhelming desire to write our names across the night sky -

and he asked her, three times, and three times she refused. For she was nothing like him, not proud and arrogant like he was, and she would not see him get what he asked for. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Celebrimbor came to her, a star blazing in his hand, and he told her

- you and I are alike, for you too wish for the power to preserve, the power to build something that will last forever -

and she took what he offered, for it was a gift freely given, and though she was nothing like Fëanor, nothing like his heir, she felt the yearning deep in her fëa to write her name across the land, to build her everlasting realm in the sunlit gold of Lórien.

Frodo comes to her, the Eye of the Enemy blazing by his heart, and he tells her

- you and I are alike, for we carry our burdens alone -

and he offers her everything her heart desires most. She declines his offer. For after three ages under the sun, she understands that sometimes one must sacrifice everything and pass out of history like a shadow in the twilight, just so that hope can live on, a far-off twinkle of stars in the night sky.

Chapter Text

Memory washes over her like a sudden shower of rain, the skies opening all at once to drench her in painful recollection. Morwen stroking her hair, telling her how much she looks like her father. Chasing the wind and walking in her brother's footsteps to Doriath. Mist and magic and mirrors and memory. Past and present colliding in one horrifying moment of clarity. She stands alone, caught between the dead dragon and the gaping chasm. There is nowhere to go now. The unborn child inside her womb moves restlessly, as though sensing her distress. She strokes the swell of her belly, soothingly. You could have been so much. You would have been perfect. But the truth is out, the dragon's last words hovering in the air like a coiling snake of filth and venom, and Niënor knows she can never outrun it.

She tries anyway, hurtling blindly along the banks of the Teiglin with no destination in mind. Someone once told her that all happiness has its price, and though she refused to believe it then, the truth of it finally strikes her. She found a home, she loved and was loved in return. Now Fate has come calling and it is time to pay. There is nowhere left to run. The chasm calls to her and she leaps, embracing the rush of air and the blur of the cliffs rising to meet her. The turmoil quietens. His hands are there, holding her tight, steadying her when she is about to lose herself in mist and shadow. She holds the memory in her mind like a candle against the darkness. Aurë entuluva, she thinks. Day shall come again.

Chapter Text

Míriel is gone, yet she lingers in every room like a faint scent of roses or the smoke from a just-extinguished candle. At times Indis finds it almost comforting, as if the remnant presence of her predecessor makes the lonely hours less lonely.

The Vanyar have been gifted by Ilúvatar with poetry and prophecy. They are truth-speakers, soothsayers, guided by dreams and glimpses of the ever-branching future, golden threads stretching out in the dark haze of Arda Marred. Indis, contemplating the exquisite tapestries, tracing her fingers along the ridges and valleys of relief stitches, wonders if perhaps Míriel saw them too, these threads in the dark, wonders if that was why she decided to leave.

At night she wakes drenched in sweat, nightmares of blood and battle clinging to her skin, distorted images flashing before her eyes: a lone star shattering against a wall of darkness, a burning tree, a white dove falling from the skies, a ship carried on the wings of a storm.

Later, a golden-haired princess will dream of smoke and dragonfire. Later, a golden-haired princess will dream of darkening skies and burning towers. Later, a golden-haired princess will dream of a shadow taking her hand, asking her to dance. Indis sees this too, knows that this is to be her legacy, the fate of the world hinging on omens and portents running like a dark undercurrent to her golden bloodline.

Míriel’s son hates her. A dark-haired, sullen boy, he has all of Míriel’s talent and all of Finwë’s eloquence, yet none of their wisdom and temperance. He watches her guardedly whenever she moves through the house, peering around corners and dancing out of sight as soon as he realises she is aware of his presence. Indis has given him a nickname, this shy, clever, fey creature living half-seen at the edge of their domestic life: The fox. “Where is your little fox now?” she asks Finwë. “Will the fox join us for dinner today?” She tries to befriend him as one would attempt to befriend a wild animal. Patience, calmness, plenty of food. With time he becomes less shy, less skittish, less wary. He answers her questions with an eagerness that belies the reluctance he tries to pretend. Sometimes Indis finds one of his creations, a filigree necklace or a particularly fine gem, half-hidden in places where she is bound to discover them, and when she praises the craftsmanship to the empty room, she is rewarded with a look of poorly concealed satisfaction lighting up his face the next time she sees him.

The past is there, lurking in the corners of every room. The future awaits her in dreams every night. But there is also a now, precious moments of decisions to be made and joy to be had. She loves Finwë, and she loves him more for the grief he carries, the grief she shares in. She gives birth to her first child, sees his future spring into existence in the hazy landscape of yet-unlived fates, while next to it the glimmering thread of Fëanor’s life ignites. Indis walks her path with the certain knowledge that this is how it must be, how it was always meant to be, that the decisions she makes will break the world and remake it. And she prays to Ilúvatar that it will not be in vain, that somehow love, kindness and beauty will prevail.

Chapter Text

Grief comes in waves and then all at once, and she is choking on it every step of the way. Barren, dry ground burns the soles of her feet in daytime and chills her bones in nighttime, yet Rían walks on. She starts singing to pass the time. Lullabies and wedding songs and funeral songs, her voice hoarse with grief, but still clear like the chime of a bell when it soars towards the high notes.

She sang in Morwen’s wedding, no more than a girl of thirteen, yet already known for the way the birds fell silent at the sound of her voice. That spring day she wore a green dress and flowers in her hair, and she watched Húrin lift Morwen off her feet and twirl her around. She remembers Huor standing by his brother’s side, his startlingly blue eyes sparkling with merriment as the bride and groom kissed.

Then there was food and sparkling mead, and Huor raised his cup to the health and joy of the newlyweds and cracked a joke that made his brother blush and everyone else roar with laughter. Afterwards they danced, and while Húrin only had eyes for Morwen, Huor danced with every woman there, old and young. When it was her turn, Rían was so shy that she could barely meet his eyes, but he ruffled her hair and told her she sang beautifully.

It took years before he saw her as anything other than a little girl, years of her watching him shyly and blushing whenever he talked to her, years of fighting down sparks of jealousy whenever she saw him with other girls, older and prettier than herself. She wished that she had the dark, elf-like beauty of her cousin, that she could captivate a man with a look and a toss of her hair. But all she had was her voice, the voice of a songbird in the body of a sparrow. She was sixteen when she tearfully confessed to Morwen that she was in love, and Morwen, heavy with her second child, stroked Rían’s hair and told her to be patient.

She was nineteen summers old when the plague came, when it swept through Dor-lómin like an evil wind. She cooked and cleaned when the servants fell ill, wiped the fever sweat from Túrin’s brow as Morwen and Húrin grieved for Lalaith, little Lalaith whom Rían had taught to sing. In the evening gloom she sang as she worked, songs of happier times to keep despair at bay. That was how Huor found her when he returned to the chieftain’s hall, sweeping the floor and singing a song of mountain wildflowers. Gone was his usual cheerfulness, replaced with something more solemn. He saw how tired she was, and so he gently took the broom from her hands and finished sweeping, humming softly to himself while doing so. Afterwards they shared a meal, and grief weighed so heavily on Rían that she forgot to be shy. She told him of her worries and fears, of Húrin who would not stop weeping and of Morwen who hid her grief behind a face carved from ice. And Huor listened, as the last embers of the hearthfire faded and darkness fell.

That night, something changed between the two of them, as though a secret understanding had been forged from shared grief. When Huor spoke to her, it was no longer teasingly like an older brother, but with respect, as if she were his equal. They took to spending more time together, walking in the woods and watching nature come to life around them with a vivacity that belied the plague-winter, the warg-winter that had been. When Rían sang, it was no longer with the voice of a child, for she had seen the darkness of the Enemy, fought in the never-ending war that had taken her father’s life and the lives of so many others.

She was already with child when Huor asked for her hand in marriage, all patience swept away under the looming shadow of war. On her wedding day she wore a blue dress, and there was no little girl with flowers in her hair to sing this time. But Huor sang, the mountain song from that night, and everyone joined in. Even Morwen seemed to thaw a bit. They raised their cups and drank to health and joy, and to peace and long life and a good harvest. Two moons later, Huor and Húrin rode off to war.

At long last Rían reaches the mound where the fallen lie. The elves told her of it, yet nothing could have prepared her for the sight. Ravens and crows have been at work, picking the bones clean of flesh. Rían sinks to her knees. He is here somewhere, her husband with his booming laughter and corn-yellow hair. His bones are here, left behind by the carrion birds, bleached by wind and sun. Her voice rises in a wail of grief. She has seen no more than two-and-twenty summers, but now she feels like an old crone, weary of life. From a pocket she takes out the handful of wildflower seeds she has carried all the way from Dor-lómin, and scatters them on the mound, while she sings one last song, not a funeral song, but the mountain tune from her wedding, the one she never had a chance to teach to her son. Rían can only hope that life will be kind to him, that there will be someone there to sing at his wedding.

She is weary. She has come this far and can go no further. Let my bones lie here with the fallen, for I too am slain in this war, she thinks, before she lies down to sleep and lets the darkness envelop her.

Chapter Text

I am not like you, she tells him when they first meet.

He says, what do you know of me?

She shows him the Void where she was born, the dark spaces that she still calls home. She shows him her true self, the star-power thrumming in her body, the echoing ocean waves upon moonlit shores. She reaches out of her skin, becomes something Other, something with wings and talons. The nightingales gather around her, swirling like a swarm of moths around a campfire.

This is who I am, she tells him.

He asks her to come with him to the heart of the forest, where the trees are old and dark. There he kills a hart with his bare hands, and with those same hands, bloodied, he holds her close to his chest. Her talons clutch at his tunic as he strokes her wings. The forest is thrumming with power, hers intertwined with his.

This is who I am, he says.

She understands then. He has tasted the blood of the forest, held a trembling life in his hand and guided it into the shadows. He sees the cruelty in her, the cruelty without malice like wind and waves raging against ocean cliffs, and he accepts it entirely. How strange, she thinks. How wonderful and strange.

Chapter Text

A voice calls in the wilderness: "Ivrin, Faelivrin!" and the man who hears the words, the flaxen-haired youth who carries the ocean's blessing, knows not their meaning. But the weaver knows. The weaver takes one thread, golden in the sunlight, and twists it for a brief moment with another, darker, yet strangely similar strand. She pauses for a moment, contemplating the darker strand, tracing its path through the weave, through sea-silk and hunter brown, until she reaches the place where it is braided into a dense fabric of forest green. Through the green runs a shimmering thread of silver-grey, wedded to a violet strand branching out into a delicate web thrumming with subtle power. There is the place where liquid silver meets fraying, travel-worn brown, where hallowed light pierces the fabric and sparks of living fire singe the pattern. There is the maker of the light, the source of the fire, and there is the tarnished copper and brittle steel caught in a web of shadow and flame.

The weaver cares little for names in the tongues of Firstborn or Secondborn. She knows each life by its place in the pattern, by the feel of its thread in her hands. She judges not, for that is another's domain, one whose moth-grey strand is intertwined with her own. She is endless, impartial.

Her handmaiden is not. Her handmaiden weeps over every hole burnt in the fabric and every strand cut short by a stray spark. Her handmaiden stitches tapestries of pearlescent blue and foam-white, stitches faces glowing in firelight and crying out in pain, stitches raven hair and burning ships and circling crows.

The weaver watches with silent compassion. She finds the place where two golden strands meet in a sea of blue and white, and she pulls them towards her, drawing them together. She takes the golden thread that arises from their mingling and leads onward to where a silver-white strand awaits. Her fingers dart across the fabric, drawing copper threads and grey threads and brown threads together in a complex, shifting, swirling storm, from which the two shimmering threads, gold and silver side by side, emerge in a flash of holy light. The weaver holds the two threads in the palm of her hand and waits for the stroke of doom.