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Chapter Text

Mairon rarely thought of Telperinquar. When he could, he avoided memories of his past all together, but even after toiling away for millennia to earn the forgiveness of the Valar and to fade away from the memories of the Eldar, it was impossible for Mairon to completely avoid all his past wrongdoings. Always there was a physical reminder of his actions in his demoted dwellings and careful watchful eyes on his research direction. He despised thinking of that series of horrible, horrible choices even when he knew the importance of remembering his evils. 

But Telperinquar was different. He couldn’t articulate the exact reason why. Certainly, he had killed an uncountable number of elves and tortured so many that their faces became a blur. In comparison, Telperinquar’s torture was rather mundane and perhaps even tame, but the memories raised such specific and terrible emotions in Mairon. 

And Telperinquar had never stepped forward. When Mairon’s release was announced by the Valar, many of the elves that Mairon had wronged came forward for what little reparations Mairon could perform. He had helped and given as much as he could to all who visited, and people continued to trickle in as they heard from others what Mairon was willing to do. 

No one had visited in over an age and Telperinquar had never stepped forward. 

At first, Mairon had braced himself. He feared Telperinquar’s ire more than any other and he knew even early on that Telperinquar was the only victim whose vitriol could truly destroy him. He had been Melkor’s punching bag for more ages than the elves had even existed - if he put himself in the right mindset, they were nothing to fear. But Telperinquar had the power to shatter him. 

Why? Mairon could not say. Perhaps it was because he had given Telperinquar more ammunition against him than any other during his centuries in Ost-in-Edhil (a time that he still remembered fondly even if those memories were soured by his own hands) or perhaps it was because Telperinquar understood his motivations and what had driven him to his ill-conceived end (Telperinquar’s last words still rang in Mairon’s ears in a never-ending chorus of Oh Annatar, where did we go wrong? ). 

And so Mairon had waited with fluctuating anxiety for Telperinquar’s visit. 

Only, years turned to decades to millennia and then ages passed and still Telperinquar never approached him with fury and rage in his heart or quiet condemnation. Telpeinquar never visited at all and Mairon was forced to admit that forgiveness from Telperinquar was out of his reach. If Telperinquar never wished to see Mairon again then he would respect his wishes. 

Odd, how difficult such a thing was. As the decades slipped by and his standing with Aule returned to a facsimile of what it once was, Mairon caught himself at least once a century with his feet moving towards Tirion where Telperinquar was no doubt reunited with his kin. 

He never consciously did such a thing but occasionally he would find his body turned to where the elven city lay and his feet would take tiny steps, practically sliding across the floor as his heels dug into the dirt behind him. It was only when he reached the first forest past Aule’s workshops that Mairon would realize his folly and stop his actions. But even knowing did not stop him from lingering there at the edge of the forest as he berated himself once more for carelessly attempting to infringe on Telperinquar’s space (had he not learnt his lesson by now?). 

That day was one of those days made only worse by Aule’s absence. Mairon looked out into the forest and smothered the yearning to venture just a little further. When would he train himself from such idiotic pursuits? 

But unlike other times when he stood in his solitude for the rest of the day or until one of his brethren guided him away, a stranger flew from the woods and interrupted his melancholy. 

They very nearly collided with the interlopper landing a handswidth to Mairon’s right before leaning back and falling on their hindside. 

“Sorry, sorry,” A voice masculine and warm laughed as the stranger rocked himself back to his feet. “I didn’t expect anyone to be standing here!” 

Mairon stayed silent as he watched the stranger lift himself to his feet. The stranger was elven, that was almost immediately obvious, and dark-skinned. His curling hair was pulled into tight braids with seemingly bands of gold that glimmered brightly against the pitch-black hair as they lay against dark blue robes. But what stuck out most to Mairon was the vaguely familiar dark grey eyes that made Mairon shift uncomfortably. 

Elves rarely visited Aule’s home and the ones that did visit were well-known. There was only one other reason for an elf to visit this part of Valinor. 

It had been so long. Did Mairon still remember the process? 

That was rhetorical. Mairon remembered every single apology he gave. 

And so Mairon began, “I will listen to-” At the same time, the elf asked, “Hey, you’re one of-” 

They both trailed off, the elf having the audacity to look embarrassed. Still, Mairon was used to such occurrences and only gestured for the elf to continue. 

“You’re one of Aule’s maiar, yes?” When Mairon nodded, the elf beamed and did a little fist pump. “You’re not busy, are you? I kinda need a little help. I didn’t really think things through.” 

Mairon nodded once more. If all the elf wanted in reparation was help then Mairon would gladly give it. The elf even thought to be kind with his request and had yet to yell or resort to violence. 

“Where are my manners,” The elf continued to speak not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I’m Fingon; Findekano, I guess, if you want to be a purist.” 

When Fingon’s subsequent pause stretched longer to the point of uncomfortable, Mairon determined that he was supposed to reciprocate even though Fingon must certainly know who he was. “Mairon.” 

Fingon only nodded, his beam somehow widening, and actually used the name Mairon had given instead of any variation of the elven slurs he’d once been branded with. “Sooo, Mairon, any chance you can guide me to Aule? I’ve got some choice words for the Valar and I figured that Aule may be the most receptive.” 

Mairon blinked. That was an odd request. Mairon knew all the regular visitors and Fingon didn’t have the physique of a smith even a budding one unless he jumped from a week's worth of apprenticeship to speaking with the lord of smithing. “What do you need to discuss with my lord, Aule?” 

“It’s more of a petition, really,” Fingon told him as his smile slid off his face and was replaced with a faded demeanour even as his jaw was set. Fingon’s voice was that of a lord as he commanded, “I think Feanor and his line should be returned to us. They have suffered for their sins long enough. Even Sauron was allowed to repent his evils, so why shouldn’t Feanor and his sons? And don’t get me started on Celebrimbor. He wasn’t even involved in the whole mess with the Oath. Should he at least be allowed to return? Yeah?” 

Mairon’s head was full of static. “Repeat that.” 

“Huh? Oh,” Fingon’s gaze returned from where he was glaring vaguely up at the sky and back to Mairon. Something in Mairon’s face must have satisfied him though as his glare gentled into something more akin to understanding. “Did you know Celebrimbor?” 

“Yes,” The words fluttered from Mairon’s throat without a thought. He had once known Celebrimbor - Telperinquar - very well. He had thought that Telperinquar hadn’t wanted to see him, but if Fingon’s words were accurate then… 

“You didn’t know?” Fingon snorted sounding almost angry as he jabbed the toes of his boot into a large root. “Everyone else’s back except for Feanor, his sons, and grandson. Even Miriel’s back.”

“Only Tyelpe’s gone,” Mairon whispered as his body shook and he absentmindedly slipped into Telperinquar’s old nickname, an action he hadn’t done since the glory days of Ost-in-Edhil. 

“They’re not going to be gone forever. Not if I have anything to say about it,” Fingon grounded out, his body shaking almost as much as Mairon’s. “I will not let Maedhros vanish forever. I have things I need to say to him.” 

They both stare at each other in silence with the soft rustling of trees the only sound breaking through any potential tension. 

And then Fingon’s head snapped up and he proclaimed, “That’s why I need to speak with Aule. He loved Feanor at one point. And Feanor’s children are Nerdanel’s children. Aule has always favoured Nerdanel and her father. Surely, he can help?” 

Mairon could only shrug. Mahtan was well-regarded among Aule’s Maiar and Nerdanel was a regular visitor, but that did not mean Aule would help. If not for his debt to the elves of Middle-Earth and Mairon’s high regard for Telperinquar, he would not have even thought to help Fingon no matter how much he liked Mahtan and Nerdenal. 

But Fingon wasn’t daunted by Mairon’s pessimism and he blustered forward. “Nothing to lose by asking. If you wouldn’t mind?” 

“My lord Aule is not here,” Mairon said, his mouth processing Fingon’s words while his mind whirled. Why would Telperinquar not return? He hadn’t done that much to Telperinquar, had he? Was he the reason why Telperinquar had never returned, his fea too damaged to even bind itself to a hroa once more? “He was summoned by lord Manwe a day ago.” 

Fingon ran a hand through his braids as he sighed, “What timing. Is he gonna return soon?” 

 “A council meeting typically lasts a week. A court case is often a few days. My lord left yesterday morning.” They would need a court case to plead on behalf of Feanor’s kin who were all condemned by the Oath they swore ages ago. If they made a good case perhaps Aule would call the court for them, but Mairon had never known Aule to call court. Would it be better to petition Manwe? Would Manwe even care to listen to a Noldor and Mairon? Perhaps if they- No, Manwe had made it perfectly clear that he would never bend his ear to Mairon. Nor would Varda be any help. She disliked Mairon even more than her husband. 

Mairon’s thought process was cut off as Fingon collapsed into himself. “Guess I’m camping out here for a few days.” He stared at his knees for a few moments before looking up at Mairon and adding, “I don’t suppose you have any housing I could borrow? I’m not big on sleeping outdoors if I can help it.” 

Yes. Fingon. His physical needs were much easier than considering how best to fulfill his wishes. Mairon had taken care of Telperinquar for centuries. He knew how to care for elven physicality. “We have rooms for visiting elven guests. I can set up a room for you.” 

“That sounds excellent!” Fingon cheered before his expression froze. “The guest quarters wouldn’t happen to be near Mahtan’s home?” 

“Yes?” Mahtan lived on a semi-permanent basis in the guest quarters that had been upgraded into ‘Mahtan’s rooms’ and the adjacent rooms were typically kept empty for when his daughter visited. 

A sheepish laugh echoed through the clearing. Mairon stared at Fingon who was fidgeting with the gold tie at the base of one of his braids. “Any rooms far from Mahtan’s?” 

The guest wing was rather small, but Mairon had a solution if it was absolutely necessary; a solution he would never suggest if Fingon had been cruel upon requesting help. However, before Mairon offered his alternative he had to ask, “Why?” 

Fingon obviously cared enough about Feanor’s line to go to such trouble as to appeal to the Valar, so why would he hesitate to interact with Mahtan? Surely Mahtan would want his grandsons and great-grandson returned. 

Fingon responded with zero hesitation, “Mahtan doesn’t like me much.” 

A lie. Mairon could tell. Fingon’s eyes had shifted and despite his bluster, his tone was off when compared to his previous chipper. But why Fingon would lie, Mairon could not deduce. 

Still, Mairon had been told his ability to manipulate others into spilling their secrets was awful and impolite. He was being better. The question had been more for his own curiosity than anything else. “The guest corridors are all located in the same wing. But you may sleep in my room if that would make you more comfortable. It is far from Mahtan’s home.” 

Mairon watched as Fingon’s eyes lit up and he reached up and slapped Mairon on the back. “You’re the best!” He then linked his arm through Mairon’s and cheerfully told him, “Lead the way!” 

As they crossed the small fields surrounding Aule’s folk’s domain, Fingon aimlessly chattered about random thoughts that reached his mind, often speculating on Aule’s disappearance and the craftwork of the various crafters they passed by. Mairon tuned most of it out while nodding at the lulls in speech (he was quite good at pretending to listen while someone monologued. One of the few skills he learned while working for Melkor that translated into this renewed life.) as he led them passed the forges and to the secluded wing where Mairon had made his home upon returning to Aule’s services. 

They were just far out enough that even the sensitive ears of the Eldar couldn’t pick up the sounds of the forge. Mairon couldn’t help but notice that Fingon perceptively relaxed his shoulders once they were far from the forges. If Fingon wasn’t an elf he was obligated to help, Mairon might have asked why Fingon was so adverse to the forges and Aule’s domain in general, but Mairon figured Fingon may have taken his questions poorly. Thus he kept his mouth shut as he unlatched the door to his room. 

The door swung open to reveal the small sitting room with an adjacent study with a small bed tucked into the corner. Fingon stepped into the room, his eyes drinking in the tidy row of scrolls on Mairon’s side table and the organized bookshelf behind the desk in his study. 

“I always thought Aule was a more generous host,” Fingon said before he realized his words and if his skin was lighter he may have reddened in embarrassment. “But it’s great, really.” 

“The guest wing is more elaborate.” Mairon made sure to stress the last word. “We Maiar have little need for a space like the Eldar do. The room is more to create an illusion for the Eldar than anything else.” 

Mairon very carefully didn’t mention that Aule’s other Maiar often created intricate and breathtaking feats of architecture simply to show off their skill. Before Melkor, Mairon was the same, but since his ‘redemption’, Mairon kept his space more subdued. It helped create the illusion of repentance. 

With a dismissive gesture, Mairon drew Fingon’s attention to the bed (really a cot) and told him, “Feel free to use the bed as you please. I have no need for sleep - the bed’s never even been used.” 

In truth, Mairon couldn’t remember why he’d put the bed in his rooms. However, he hesitated to remove it once he noticed it. It looked identical to the spare cot Telperinquar had kept in Mairon’s study in Ost-in-Edhil. The cot that Mairon had often bullied Telperinquar into when the elf was practically dropping into Mairon’s desk. Looking up at him with the same grey eyes as Fingon’s just as Fingon was doing right that moment…

Suddenly the rooms felt tight - like the walls were squeezing in on them and compressing the air within the rooms. Even though it wasn’t particularly late and Mairon knew the Eldar could and would remain active for many more hours, Mairion found himself telling Fingon, “Make yourself at home. I’ll return tomorrow and we may discuss our proposal for Aule.” 

Mairon fled.

Chapter Text

Mairon thought he knew elvish sleep patterns. He’d watched Telperinquar for years and knew the intricacies of Telperinquar’s sleep and their different stages. He knew the difference between a typical rejuvenation sleep and a maniacal, sleep-deprived crash. 

Fingon fell into the earlier category, having been left in Mairon’s room earlier than Telperinquar even fell asleep barring extenuating circumstances (say a week-long passionate induced crafting session). Based on Mairon’s calculations, he had at least another hour before Fingon would even be stirring let alone dressed for the day. 

He kept his footsteps silent and stilled the air around him to prevent any rustling of pages. The door to the study was also closed, further prohibiting sound from waking Fingon. Mairon meant to simply collect the papers he’d been reading the other day before leaving for the central atrium until the sun crescented over the trees. 

He was not expecting Fingon to spring out of the study, his robes immaculate and his hair rebraided. 

“Mairon!” Fingon’s voice was loud. Perhaps it was good that they were far from the guest rooms; Mairon wouldn’t want to wake anyone unduly before their natural waking time. 

Well, since Fingon was awake and as alert as an eager puppy, Mairon might as well shift his schedule around slightly. No doubt Fingon would fall into slumber earlier than Mairon planned if he was awake so early. 

Mairon tucked the papers he was looking far into a tidy pile at the corner of the desk before standing and politely inquiring, “Do you require substance prior to our work?” 

Fingon opened his mouth, presumably to protest but before he could say anything his stomach made the sounds Telperinquar’s made when he hadn’t eaten for nearly a month. Fingon’s smile was almost sheepish when he responded, “Well, perhaps some breakfast to go?” 

Mairon nodded before leading Fingon out of the room and back through the corridors to the communal kitchen, located next to the guest wing. The area was silent and the lighting was dimmed, proving further evidence that the Eldar were not often awake at such an hour. Mairon passed the handful of circular tables that were abandoned by both Maiar and Eldar occupants in favour of the pantry where he set Fingon to pick out his meal. 

Fingon returned with an apple and a bun that looked like it might have been from the previous morning's batch. Mairon led Fingon to their next destination, ignoring the way his chest twisted when he saw the paltry substance Fingo had selected. Such a meal would hardly keep Telperinquar from feeling faint for a few hours. 

They plunged back into the winding tunnels below ground that acted as a more direct passage from one place to another in Aule’s realm. They were able to quickly bypass the both the living areas and working spaces of the awake Maiar and reached their destination without running into any other. Mairon loved the tunnels for the express reason that few remembered that they existed, let alone used them. 

They emerged from the tunnels into the grand library located at the centre of Aule’s realm. Floor-to-wall shelves coated each wall with scrolls and texts. Staircases on either side of them lead to separate second floors stuffed with their own knowledge and a door straight ahead of them promised an even greater expansion. 

Fingon whistled when he entered. “Pretty impressive.” 

“Aule’s people are academics alongside their more practical learnings,” Mairon told the stunned elf feeling smug even though the library had grown most while he was away. “Since the first writing system was created, Aule’s people have been compiling their knowledge and sharing it here.” 

“Sweet!” Fingon then took a juicy bite of his apple, swallowed and asked, “Wait, should I be eating here?” 

“So long as no one finds out,” Mairon warned him before diving into the stacks. He scanned the nearby shelves, certain that he’d seen those items somewhere nearby. 

Fingon, having gotten over his hesitation about eating in the library, joined Mairon after taking another bit of his apple. “What are you looking for? Weren't we planning how to get Aule to help free Maedhros and his family?” 

“And how do you propose to petition Aule? With faith and love?” Mairon found himself snapping before he realized his tone and ashamed, he explained, “We need conclusive and argumentative reasoning for why Feanor’s family should be released and collected into the format your ancestors decreed the correct format for a petition.” 

Fingon sighed and shoved the last of his breakfast into his mouth. He whipped his sticky hands on the edges of his robes before reaching for a book. “So we need the old format?” 

“And the most comprehensive list of Feanor’s family’s deeds throughout history. Both the good and the bad.” Mairon added, leafing through the tomes for one he’d found awhile back that detailed Telperinquar’s rise from obscurity into a figure of authority in the second age. Mairon had found the tale comforting and read it despite the prickling of his conscious. But now that he knew Telperinquar never visited because he could not, Mairon knew the book would be useful. 

He had failed Telperinquar so utterly and irreversibly. Even if he were not sworn to help any elf he’d wronged, Mairon would have aided Fingon in his petition. 

Mairon thumbed through the tome and found his eyes watering. Intermingled with the tale of a young forgotten son who made a name for himself in the wake of his family implosion were artist renditions of Telperinquar at various stages of his life. When Mairon landed on an image captioned Celebrimbor, lord of Eregion he paused as his fingers traced the contours of Telperinquar’s painted face and the crown of silver set in his dark trusses. 

“You are lord or Eregion”, Annatar insisted, frowning at the image before him. Tyelpe wore only thin breeches and a tunic overlaid with a smithing smock. His hair fell almost unobstructed down his back with only a simple copper clasp preventing strands from falling into the forge. “At least pretend to look the part.” 

Tyelpe’s head rose but instead of taking insult at Annatar’s tone and words as many would, he smiled and teased, “Implying I should dress like you?” 

They both looked down at Annatar’s robes that rippled like liquid gold and his heavily beguiled arms and fingers. Annatar knew that Tyelpe referred also to the immaculate braids folded behind his head into an updo that fit into the silver circlet perched atop his head. 

Annatar thought for a moment before reaching up and plucking the circlet from his head, the freed tiny braids falling around his head like a waterfall. He then stepped forward and crowned the lord of Eregion in silver as was his namesake. His tone was dry both by intent and with how his throat constricted upon meeting Tyelpe’s adoring gaze, “Perhaps you should.” 

Tyelpe blinked, his hands dropping his hammer and he rose to his full height. Annatar watched with hungry eyes. Even clothed like a smithy’s apprentice, Tyelpe was beautiful. Radiant even with the silver at his brow that flickered reddish-orange from the lighting flames around them. 

Annatar leaned forward as he pulled Tyelpe towards him, intending on worship-

“Did you know him?” Mairon flinched as the memory faded and he found Fingon leaning into his personal space and looking at the page open in Mairon’s hands, “Telperinquar, I mean. You spent a lot of time looking at that book.” 

Mairon snapped it closed and passed the book to Fingon as if it had caught flame and he was mortal. “Briefly. Our lives intersected for a short time.” 

Briefly. They had only spent a handful of centuries together. In lives that stretched ages, a few centuries was but a single atom out of place in a broad sword. Practically unnoticeable and hardly noteworthy. 

“Huh, guess that makes sense,” Fingon muttered as he flipped the book open once more, thankfully stopping at a rendition of a much younger Telperinquar than the one Mairon had met. “He was a super cute kid.” 

Mairon only nodded, his words feeling faint. The image in Fingon’s hands depicted a Telperinquar not yet fully grown with his hair in pigtails and sporting a familiar grin as he presented a copper coin. Below the image was its creditor, one Nerdanel Mahtaniel. It was dated before the darkening of Valinor. 

“He never deserved what happened to him,” Fingon continued, either uncaring or not noticing Mairon’s silence, “Even as a child he wanted to fix the world and after taking advantage of his kindness, Sauron killed him.” 

Was Fingon trying to goad him? Or remind him of his greatest failure? Mairon was unsure which but either way Fingon succeeded in making Mairon rather uncomfortable. He hardly needed the reminder but it certainly hurt. 

Fingon flipped through the book a few more times, making mundane comments about Telperinquar as a child and a youth before ending on the painting of Telperinquar's corpse drooping from a flag post. Slamming the book shut, Fingon closed his eyes tightly for a moment and set the book on a nearby table. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight like he was swallowing back a scream, “That’s Celebrimbor finished. Only 7 more to go.” 

“7?” Mairon asked, eager to maneuver the conversation away from Telperinquar, “Did Feanor not have 7 children?” 

Fingon scowled, “I'm not asking for Feanor’s pardon. Either arguing for his sons and grandson will give him leniency or not. I hardly care about the Valar’s decree on his imprisonment.” 

Mairon shrugged. He didn’t really care either way. The only things binding him to this quest were his commitment to help Fingon and his fluttering desire to free Telperinquar. 

But Fingon defended himself anyway with a sour tone, “Even if I wanted to, the Valar would never allow it. He was condemned to never return until the ending of the world.” 

Strange, but Mairon didn't care enough to examine Fingon’s apprehension with Feanor. He simply nodded and continued down the row of books, flicking through them with Maiar speed. Fingon followed his lead, albeit less efficiently. 

The search slowed considerably after retrieving the tome on Telperinquar. Mairon was unfamiliar with Telperinquar’s family and did not know where tales on his family would be located while Fingon was unfamiliar with the archive as a whole. Mairon’s first order of business was to look through the Noldor historical tomes for the royal family chronicles. Unfortunately, while Feanaro’s childhood, marriage, accomplishments, and the birth of his children were easily accessible in the chronicle Mairon found, the tome lacked any necessary information about Feanaro’s sons other than their names. 

Maitimo Nelyafinwe, Makalaure Kanafinwe, Tyelkormo Turkafinwe, Carnistir Moryofinwe, Atarinke Curufinwe, Ambarussa Telufinwe and Ambarussa Pityafinwe. 

At least Mairon now knew the names of Feanaro’s sons. As he traced through them, he recalled in order a tidbit Telperinquar had once mentioned about each uncle. 

“My father had 6 brothers,” Tyelpe mentioned, his eyes still red as he leaned against his hidden monument. Annatar had found him 10 minutes ago, tucked away in a hidden grove and sobbing over a stone plaque cloaked with thick holly branches. Upon the plaque were eight names engraved into it. Tyelpe traced each name as he spoke, 

“Maitimo was a bookworm. I would always go to him when I was young for stories. He would even make funny voices for the different characters. I would never let my own parents read to me because they couldn’t do the voices like my uncle Maitimo. 

Makalaure had a cat allergy which he hated since he loved cats so much. He once tricked his wife into letting him keep a cat in their house but she only allowed it for a week before the constant sneezing annoyed her too much and she gave the cat away. My uncle was inconsolable. Although, we’re still not sure if it was sadness or just the congestion. 

Tyelkormo could make the most delightful desserts; baking was probably one of the only reasons he ever left the forest. I remember that he made the most outrageous cakes for my birthdays back in Aman. He would spend weeks on them and never minded when I, as an elfling, looked at it for only a moment before destroying it. 

Carnistir loved to travel. He was often away with my grandfather, travelling across Aman, but he always returned with a trinket for me, often an interesting stone or leaf. I brought some of his gifts with me across the sea and each of my hairpieces have one of his gifts inlaid into them. 

My father would never admit it, but he preferred woodworking to metalworking. He’s remembered as a smith because it was required when we arrived in Beleriand, but I carried the carved cat he made me as a child from Valinor and keep it in my room to this day. 

Ambarussa were actually so starkly different that none who knew them would ever conflate them. Telvo was quiet but incredibly thoughtful, he was the best of all my uncles at giving gifts. Pityo was loud - everyone remembers Makalaure as the loudest but Pityo could fill an entire room with the reverberation of his speaking voice and he was excitable. He was always the first one I showed my newest creation for his exuberant reactions.”

“You miss them,” Annatar commented. His tone was neither condemning nor kind, but Tyelpe gazed up at him as if Annatar had delivered him repentance. 

“I am, perhaps, the only one,” Tyelpe whispered his head ducking down until his forehead rested against the stone and his hands curled around it as if cradling a loved one, “So few remember who they once were and none but I was there as they fell from grace.” 

“And so you hide your love from the view of others,” Annatar observed as his understanding of Tyelpe clicked better into place. The Tyelpe he’d always seen was so confident and put together that he could play at being a Maia in disguise. But here was Tyelpe hidden away with all his fears and sadness. 

Annatar swallowed back a grin. Finally, Tyelpe’s guard was falling to the ground, leaving a gaping hole for Annatar to insert himself. He put his gaze low to the ground and set a gentle hand on Tyelpe’s shoulder, “They are lucky to have your remembrance. I would want someone I loved to remember me as you do should I be vanquished and gone from the world.”

Strange, Mairon thought grimly as the memory faded, that he should be the one remembering Telperinquar with Telperinquar now locked away in Mandos’ Hall. Although, he was not nearly as kind as Telperinquar had been to his relatives. 

Tucking the thought away, Mairon turned back to where Fingon was ruffling through the pages of a book. He studied the dark-skinned elf as he recalled the lineage of Finwe’s second wife that was chronicled in the tome he’d just finished. Findekano - Fingon - was the son of Nolofinwe and would be the crown prince from Finwe’s second wife’s line. What reason should he have for saving Maedhros and his kin from the void? He mentioned disliking Feanor and apparently had no love for Mahtan (and perhaps Nerdanel), so what made Maedhros so special? 

Mairon did not believe that Fingon’s sole motivation was that he needed to speak with Maedhros. No one who wished solely to shout at another would put so much energy into saving that person. Yet for all the historical and lineage bad blood between the two of them, Mairon watched as Fingon poured through tome after tome with single-minded focus. Not everyone would approach the Valar for another. And yet Fingon would do all this for Maedhros. 

Strange.

Another thing to file away. Mairon had sworn not to make any elf who approached him for recompense uncomfortable. Thus, he was bound not to ask. 

They had barely found another book by the end of the day. Mairon found Fingon partially snoring over a tome. As Mairon eased the pages away from the slowly falling drool spilling from Fingon’s mouth, he paused when he noticed the image. 

He first noticed the flaming red hair, a colour that he’d only ever seen in Mahtan’s line. The second thing to catch his interest was the dark-skinned, dark-haired elf with threads of gold entwined in his braids that matched the sleeping elf in front of him. 

“Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment. But Fingon climbed to the foot of the precipice where his kinsman hung, and then could go no further, and he wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth.”

Huh. Mairon remembered that moment. He could still recall Melkor’s biting fury when they realized that Feanor’s brat was gone. Melkor had flayed everyone who had been tasked with watching the prisoner as well as anyone who may have noticed the incursion. Even Mairon had not been spared from Melkor’s ire. 

Three decades of standing in the coldest peaks above Angband in the snow and the shining rays of Arien’s distaste. 

So this wasn’t the first time Fingon had saved Maedhros from impossible odds. It was somehow comforting to learn that Fingon had changed so little in the ages since he first saved Maedhros. While it failed to explain Fingon’s devotion to Maedhros, Mairon felt a step closer to unravelling the mystery. 

But it was a case that could wait another day. 

Mairon placed the book on Maedhros next to the Telperinquar tome and graciously picked Fingon up and returned him to the cot in Mairon’s rooms. 

A reward for Fingon’s valour and luck.

Chapter Text

It took Mairon and Fingon a week to prepare their argument. The longest segment was the compilation of knowledge which took about 3 days of searching. Their search might have taken longer had Fingon not stumbled into a half-hidden corner of the archive where dog-eared books outlining the entire lives of all Feanaro’s sons and grandson were stacked in a pile. 

Bookmarked within these tomes were the most pivotal moments of each of Feanor's sons, neatly compiled and collected. They wrote of the early years before the darkening of Valinor all the way to the second age where Telperinquar crafted the three rings. And the work was detailed, debating the viability of Maedhros’s last alliance and Caranthir’s monopoly on trade. They were fair. Neither condemning the sons of Feanor nor praising them.

Once the tomes were found, the work was hindered only by Fingon's elven body's limits and the anguish that would appear on Fingon’s face from time to time that would force the elf to shut the book, scream softly, and run off somewhere. 

One time Mairon followed the elf and found Fingon outside of Aule’s halls, chucking loose twigs into the forest. 

“It just makes me so angry,” Fingon said as Mairon approached without turning around. “Why could they not just be evil? Why must for every evil they committed, they also did some good for the world? Why could they not be as vile as Morgoth?”

Mairon felt compelled to answer the elf both because the question felt poignant and Mairon was probably the one who understood Melkor the best. “No one is purely evil,” Mairon told Fingon, “Even Morgoth was not irredeemable. It was only a series of bad choices that led to his perceived villainy.” 

Mairon could still recall the beauty that Melkor once inspired as he twisted nature in on itself and sparked joy in his fellow Valar. They were harmless bits of fun at first designed to spark laughter in his contemporaries and then to better the world around him. When had power become so important to Melkor? Was it when the light of Feanor’s silmarils blinded him or was it long before and Mairon, mired in the present during those days, had been unable to see it? 

Fingon frowned, snapped a twig in 2 and pitched both into the trees in quick succession, “From where I stood, Morgoth was evil. He tormented and tortured elves and was the center of all our strife.” 

Mairon thought that was rather unfair, especially after all they’d read, “Are Feanor and his sons not the same? Perhaps they never tormented nor tortured any of their brethren, but they slew their own and coveted a treasure that led only to pain.” 

When Fingon glared at the ground but refused to speak further, Mairon took a step closer to the still elf and pressed, “And yet you would claim Feanor’s sons worth rescuing?” 

“Yeah well, I hate Morgoth with every bit of my being which is something I can never do for Maedhros.” Fingon finally snapped, turning around to turn his ire on Mairon. But Mairon was much more familiar with ire than Fingon’s friendly smiles. He only smirked in response.

“And why would that be?” Mairon inquired, tilting his head to imitate elvish curiosity. Fingon seemed to need to speak his mind and Mairon was interested enough to facilitate. 

Fingon huffed and turned to Mairon with weary eyes and a faded smile. “Probably for the same reason that you could never hate Telperinquar.” 

Mairon furrowed his eyebrows. Fingon’s words made less than sense. Mairon was certain that he hated Telperinquar quite viscerally when he refused to speak of the three rings that should have been theirs. While he disliked hurting Telperinquar, he hated Telperinquar’s refusal of him and his ideals more. Even now, knowing that his ideals had been wrong, Mairon couldn’t remove the thorn of hurt when he thought of Telperinquar’s final actions. 

“Perhaps others would never be able to forgive him and call him a villain, but that wasn’t the true Maedhros,” Fingon swayed lightly on his feet and had to reach out and lean against a thin willow for support. His voice when he continued was wistful and filled with nostalgia, “He was a brilliant politician and would have been a great king if not for Morgoth. He would have led our people with courage and with strength. A united front that would have been able to handle and anticipate each of Morgoth’s moves.” 

“And in doing so, taken the blow that befall your father?” Mairon questioned, pressing lightly to see Fingon’s reaction. He was not expecting Fingon to shoot up and shout. 

“No! No!” Fingon’s body was shaking up this time he didn’t try to find succour from the trees, “If it were Maedhros he wouldn’t have fallen. If it were Maedhros he would have never ended up in such a position. We could have done so much good.” 

But Mairon had read those tomes alongside Fingon and had read about Doriath, about Sirion, “Or he would have led the full might of the Noldor upon Doriath and killed even more than his meagre band did.” 

Fingon scoffed, but he had no rebuttal for Mairon. They two stood there a little longer until Mairon figured he must have pushed a little too far, but before he could say anything, Fingon spoke, his voice closer to a whisper, “Doriath should never have happened, nor Sirion. If I’d only been alive then  -”

But Fingon could not finish that sentence. And Mairon could only offer the same words he would whisper into his targets’ ears when turning them against their former loyalties, “Blame not yourself for matters outside your hand but rather those that have wronged you.” 

“If only it were not so complicated,” Fingon sighed and returned to chucking sticks into the forest. Mairon stayed and watched as Fingon’s shoulders slowly lost their haunched aggression and his movements took on a more graceful flow. Until finally he stopped altogether. 

“Well,” Fingon stretched, his maudlin air clearing back to his usual cheer, “I guess it doesn't matter. I've already made up my mind.” 

They two shuffled back to the library not much longer after, but within the next few hours Fingon was storming back out to the forest edge. 

Fingon had decidedly not made up his mind. Over the next few days, Fingon continued to walk out of the library in a huff before dragging himself back in some minutes later with grit teeth and a desperate determination. 

When Aule returned a little over a week after Fingon arrived bringing with him a warm summer storm, their plea to Aule was all but complete. However, the rain sunk low into the ground, and centuries of erosion finally penetrated the stone enclave. The ensuing work gave Mairon and Fingon more than enough time to finalize their appeal. 

And then to fret.

What was not prepared by the time Aule welcomed them to speak was Fingon’s nerves. His hands shook, rattling the papers he clutched on in an effort to still them. 

They had not yet reached Aule’s audience chamber and the movement was already beginning to annoy Mairon. He dearly hoped that Fingon’s shaking would not persist throughout the entire appeal. 

“You forget, Annatar,” Telperinquar whispered one evening, almost reprimanding if not for his low tone, “We incarnates are not so logical.” 

They were seated on Telperinquar’s balcony, overlooking the heart of the city. Telperinquar eyes would flicker from frowning at Annatar to drinking in the slowly growing lighting below them as night settled above the city and the people toiling away below filled the sky with lanterns. Telperinquar loved this time between day and night but not yet dusk. He claimed the city felt most alive as their dwarven and edain guests were awake and free of daily duty. Annatar felt more subdued about the time but was always willing to follow Telperinquar’s request to sit outside. 

“You must be delicate with us,” Telperinquar continued to explain, sliding forward in his chair to close the gap between them. 

“You never mind,” Annatar returned. They were arguing about etiquette. That afternoon, Annatar had berated a talented smith for what he believed to be a rudimentary error. The smith had not taken Annatar’s criticism well and instead broke down into tears. Telperinquar had walked into the room to find Annatar standing over the sobbing smith and had told Annatar off before dismissing him and kneeling down to console the smith. Telperinquar continued to be cold to Annatar for the rest of the day before they returned home and Telperinquar invited Annatar to the balcony. 

“I am used to it,” Telperinquar wryly replied. “My parents were notorious for their harsh criticism and I grew up hearing it for everything I did.” Telperinquar let out a darkish laugh, “It certainly prepared me for the whole Oath business when suddenly being connected in any way to my grandfather was condemnable.” 

“Then what do you suggest?” Annatar turned the question around. Telperinquar had a habit of becoming wistfully nostalgic when speaking of his family. Normally Annatar tolerated it, but today he'd rather finish this lecture quickly. 

“Give them a little compassion,” Telperinquar said his hands gesturing to the city below, “We cannot all be as skilled in the same things. What you find easy may be momentous to another and the reverse may be truth too.” 

“Compassion.” The word tasted bitter and nonsensical on his tongue But Telperinquar nodded approvingly.

“When possible, be kind.”

Kindness had once been a foreign concept to Annatar, but he had long watched Telperinquar who dozed kindness. Telperinquar couldn’t not be kind to any. 

Mairon paused. When was the last time he thought to be kind? He had made a conscious effort since returning to appear subservient to all those he professed apologies to. But he had never thought to be altruistic when acting. 

But it was as if Telperinquar was standing at his side and guiding him as he turned to Fingon and offered, “Would you like a moment?” 

Fingon lifted his head, confusion cloudy his previous worry “Huh?” 

“You appear nervous. Would you like a moment to compose yourself?” Mairon offered again and then recalling Telperinquar’s favourite words added, “Take some deep breaths and calm your heart.” Well, perhaps Telperinquar’s words would be kinder, but Mairon conveyed that same message. 

And it seemed to work just as Telperinquar always insisted it did as Fingon paused and let Mairon guide him through a few deep breaths. When they reached a count of 10, Fingon shook his head with a capricious smile, “Thank you, Mairon. I think I needed that.” 

“You have no reason to fear,” Mairon told him. Fingon, at least would never need to fear the ire of the Valar - that was a privilege left to the anuir and, “My Lord Aule is kind to elven petitioners even if most simply arrive seeking knowledge.” 

Fingon chuckled in a way that seemed automatic yet there was no indication of mirth in his voice, “The Valar have never seemed all that kind. Even excluding Morgoth who was hostile to us, Namos pronounced our doom and the other valar seemed content to let us walk right into it alone.” 

Ah, right. Fingon was a Noldor of Beleriand and likely had made the trip from Aman. Aule had once mentioned that the returned seemed to be bitter about their lack of action. Inaction, Aule had once told Mairon, is seen by the Noldor as similarly evil to cruel action. 

“He will listen and he will act or not act,” Mairon told Fingon. That was Aule’s mercy. There would be no reprimand for their attempt nor payment required for Aule’s time. 

But Mairon’s words did not comfort Fingon who turned to Mairon with accusation and fear in his voice, “And what then? When Aule says no to our petition, what will I do then? I will not allow Maedhros to remain in Mandos for the rest of eternity. I cannot stand by and do nothing if the Valar deem it beneath their notice!” 

Kindness, Mairon thought, was much harder than Telperinquar ever made it seem. The elf had seamlessly offered his natural kindness to everyone who entered his city. He had a kind word for everyone and advice that left people hopeful. This was why Mairon never bothered with kindness and left such things to Telperinquar. 

“But why?” Telperinquar asked when Annatar told him that. They had just watched as Galadriel and her consort turned and left not minutes after arriving at Telperinquar’s small gathering. It had been Annatar’s fault that they left in a huff. He had not bothered to bind his tongue and his acidic comments had enraged Galadriel and driven her away. “Why do you say that kindness does not suit you?” 

Annatar laughed at the question. He had trained any speck of kindness out of himself under Melkor’s control. He doubted anyone would think him kind as Melkor’s lieutenant. But this was not something he could voice towards Telperinquar. “Your brand of kindness does not come naturally to many. While I could learn the language and use it, I would be acting.” Just as this entire charade as Annatar was an act. But kindness at least was something he had no desire to add to this character. 

Telperinquar’s next words surprised him as he frowned, “No one is born naturally kind. Or at least I do not believe so. We all have our own wants and needs that we put first.” His eyes were tired when they met Annatar’s and he admitted, “Even I struggled once with kindness.” 

“Really?” Annatar found that hard to believe. Telperinquar’s every action breathed a level of giving that Annatar had found in no other. It made the elf painfully easy to manipulate. 

“My family is not known to be kind,” Telperinquar started, his hands picking at the quilt in his lap. “I’m sure you know this?” 

Annatar nodded. Even had he not spent an age fighting Telperinquar’s family, he knew of the Feanorian’s notorious temper. 

“My family - my grandfather and all my uncles - have a temper. A temper that I share.” Telperinquar breathed heavily and his hands shook as they always did when speaking of his family.

To that, Annatar expressed his doubt as he leaned forward in his seat and clasped Telperinquar’s shaking hands. “I have never seen you angered.” 

Telperinquar returned the grip as their hands intertwined and Telperinquar changed from stroking the quilt fabric to rubbing his fingers over Annatar’s knuckles. “Since - since departing from my father I worked on my anger. I wanted so very much not to be like them.” 

Telperinqaur looked up and leaned in such that their foreheads were nearly touching, “I learnt to be kind, so I must believe that everyone else can too. I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but changing yourself never is.” 

Changing oneself. Telperinquar had believed that everyone had a kernel of kindness that would blossom with proper care and nurturing. What would Telperinquar say in such a situation? 

“Then we seek out alternatives,” Mairon echoed the words Telperinquar often laughingly told him when their pursuits failed or that a particular avenue would fail. “I promised to help you free Feanor’s kin and I will uphold that promise.” Both as his retribution from Fingon and for Telperinquar who least deserved never to walk among the living again. 

“Right, well,” Fingon paused as he rubbed his arm. At least his breathing had stabilized. “Yes. I wasn’t about to stop anyway. And it’s good to know I won’t be alone.” Fingon’s eyes had an odd glimmer as he continued, “I should have guessed you wouldn’t leave me in my quest.” 

Mairon rolled his eyes. He was bound to fulfill one request for each elf he wronged. Fingon didn’t need to remind him of it. 

“Shall we?” Mairon asked, tipping his head towards the doors. “My Lord Aule is expecting us.” 

Fingon exhaled, squared his shoulders and ground his feet before storming forward and throwing the door open. He marched in like a soldier going to war without a single look back. 

Mairon followed him in, half-amused. His amusement only rose when Fingon gasped at the elaborate decor of Lord Aule’s audience hall. As the smith god, Aule’s audience hall was a place of spectacle and a showcase of his greatest skills. The floor was a single sheet of granite with a vein of gold leading from the entrance to Aule’s throne at the far end. 

The walls rose high above them with an impressive lack of support beams that spoke of Aule’s deep knowledge of structural support and stone. The walls, tall and wide, were decorated with precious stones that created paintings detailing Aule’s part in the song and his great creations in the land they inhabited. At the far end was a mural depicting Aule’s teachings with the elves featuring a red-haired Mahtan and his family (Mairon had long scoured the mural for a childlike Telperinquar, but the image was of happier days before Telperinquar’s birth). 

The room, unlike Melkor’s, was light and airy despite also being dug into a cavern. Aule had lights in the shape of beautiful chandeliers strung from the ceiling that glowed with a soft white light that Mairon was told was an imitation of Telperion’s glow. Statues of the various faces Aule was fonding of taking lined a path from the doors to where Aule sat atop a throne of obsidian and mithril. 

His lord had taken on the image of an ancient elf for this meeting, bearded with wisdom and the size of an oliphant. His hair was dark as was his skin and he was bejewelled in his hair, his neck, and his hands. A hammer with a lance-length shaft was set across his lap and inlaid with rubies and sapphires. Still, he appeared slim in his massive throne that well dwarfed Fingon and Mairon. When his sparkling silver-grey eyes landed on them, he beckoned them to him with a ring-encased hand. 

“Prince Findekano,” Aule greeted, his eyes sliding over Mairon and landing on the creator of this meeting, “It is good to see you hale once more.” 

“Likewise,” Fingon started before realizing whom he stood before and adding, “My lord.” 

“Mairon informed me that you would petition my aid in calling upon a council of the Valar,” Aule continued, getting straight to the point. He spread a hand out to Mairon when mentioning his disciple and Mairon bowed at the honour. “What he failed to mention was the reason for this council.” 

Any other would have hesitated here with Aule’s full attention on him and with the slight downturn to Aule’s lips. But Fingon was as fearless as the tales told of him and he barged on, “I would ask the Valar to forgive Feanor’s kin. I know they have committed atrocities but so too have others returned to us.” 

When Aule refused to speak, Fingon continued, his voice shaking just a little. But that was the only thing belittling Fingon’s fear. Mairon was impressed. For an elf, he was quite brave. “And whatever their faults, they also did good.” 

Fingon swallowed, his hands unnaturally still at his side, but his long braids fluttered softly with his breaths. “You knew them, Lord Aule. They are Lady Nerdanel’s children and Lord Mahtan’s grandchildren. You know that they deserve a chance to meet their mother and grandfather again and to brighten the world with their crafts.”

Mairon’s eyebrow twitched. Fingon was going off-script. He was supposed to speak of each of Feanor’s children’s sins and then the good they performed. He was supposed to appeal to Aule’s logic instead of attempting to appeal to emotion. 

“You are strangely the first to ask me after Feanor’s children,” Aule finally said when Fingon’s piece was done. “You speak of their family who continue to work and live in my halls and whom they abandoned when they spurred my advice and followed their father to Beleriand. Neither Mahtan nor his daughter have asked after their lost family, so why should I listen to you Prince Findekano who beseech me in their name.” 

This was why Mairon cautioned Fingon from using emotion. Aule had always detested appeals to emotion and any attempts were met with cruel rebukes. 

But Fingon blustered right through Aule’s words as he quipped back, “They were not victims of Feanor’s sons and to plea for their leniency would be criticized. They keep quite out of love - for to speak of Feanor’s sons without the full story would be inviting blackened tales of torment and misery.” 

“And these stories will not circle if you beg for their pardon?” Aule had given up on his own bluster for a quieter inquisition. Mairon was shocked. He had never seen anyone who countered Aule’s words nor one who prevailed against  Aule’s temperament towards emotional reasoning. 

“I am a victim,” Fingon proudly proclaimed as a hand reached to his chest and supposedly rubbed against some healed wound, “I was part of the contingency who crossed the Helcaraxe. I was sent to my death as the high king of the Noldor following their goals. Some may have a greater claim of animosity than I, but none can argue that I was not also wronged.” 

“Tales tell of your valour, Prince Findekano, even from across the sea. I know that you were once Maitimo’s saviour when even his own kin left him for dead. I know what fuels your desire to free him and his kin once again.” Aule’s words continued to be soft and unassuming as he leaned forward as if interested in hearing Fingon’s answer. 

And answer Fingon did as he continued to step towards the hulking Valar, “If you understand my reason, then you must know it to be honourable. You would do the same in my position. Mairon does the same as me in our shared quest.” 

Aule’s eyes gleamed as he stood from his throne and shrunk to a more congruent size to Fingon and Mairon. While still a head taller than Fingon, his voice no longer echoed in waves across the room and he could stand near equal to them with a warm grin beneath his beard. “Mairon, you say? I had not heard this tale.” 

“Surely you must know that my cousin Celebrimbor is among Feanor’s kin not returned,” Fingon eagerly and earnestly continued, his fidgeting vanished and a secretive grin that Mairon found unnerving across his face. “Surely you know that Mairon and Celebrimbor were once quite close.” 

“Close… That is one word for it,” Aule ran a hand through his coarse beard and his eyes flickered back to Mairon to watch him flinch from the accusation. Aule said nothing, only hummed and glanced his way and yet Mairon felt a flash of shame that caused his head to duck and his cheeks to heat. Aule seemed to find meaning in Mairon’s actions as he threw his head back in laughter, “Oh, I had not thought it such! What a fitting alliance you two make.” 

“Thank you, Lord Aule,” Fingon continued to grin that irrefutably bemused and cheery grin. “We are grateful for your support.” 

Bold words, Mairon thought, when Aule had not yet agreed. And yet, Aule only nodded along with Fingon’s cheer and told them, “Indeed! I have grown quite intrigued by this tale you weave, son of Nolofinwe. I will call this council meeting into action for you. Two years from now, expect a summoning.” 

With that, Aule stood, slammed his hammer tip on the ground and ended the meeting. Mairon bowed low. When Fingon opened his mouth to protest, Mairon yanked his tunic and hair until his mouth slammed shut and he followed Mairon’s actions. 

Wordlessly, Mairon expressed thanks through song before he guided Fingon from Aule’s hall. When the gilded door was shut once more and they were alone did Fingon slam his heel into the ground and let out a wordless cry of pure furry. 

“Two years! All this work and he will only call on the Valar in 2 years!” Fingon cried as he pounded his fists into the wall next to Aule’s door before hissing from the force of the impact. 

“Two years is nothing,” Mairon told Fingon, unsure why the elf was in such a rush. “The time will come sooner than you think and we have much to do.” 

Fingon’s head perked up, “We do?” 

“Yes,” Mairon’s words were dry, “While you thoroughly avoided all our talking points with Aule, the Valar will not be so inclined to mercy.”

Fingon gulped, “Oh no.” 

“Oh yes.” There was only a half-hidden smirk on Mairon’s face. He was going to enjoy this.

Chapter Text

“Hail Valar and Valier of -”

“Again. Project your voice further.” 

“Hail Valar and Valier of Valinor. I beseech you in -”

“You must name yourself first.” 

“Fingon the valiant -”

“You’re speaking Quenya, use Quenyian names. The Valar will know you better with the name you were given at birth. And drop the epithets - it sounds tacky.” 

Fingon sighed and Mairon took it as a sign to stop for the day. The appeal was tomorrow and any more failures would only ruin Fingon’s confidence. 

However, “You were better yesterday.” Mairon observed. 

“Yeah,” Fingon replied as if Mairon’s observation was obvious, “I’m stressed. Two years of practice culminated in my one shot to move the Valar to pity and to action.” 

“Is your epithet not Valiant?” Mairon questioned, “Surely you are more courageous than this.” 

“I got that name by flinging myself headlong into danger,” Fingon argued, his eyes aflame with more steel than any of his pathetic attempts at rehearsal, “Orcs and Goblins I can handle, but pulling a sword out on the Valar is unlikely to gain us any aid.” 

Fingon groaned as he slipped onto Mairon’s bed, his head buried between his arms. “Maedhros was always better at politics than I. What I wouldn’t give to switch places with him even for just this hearing.” 

What could Mairon say to that? He was certainly happy it was Fingon and not Maedhros here. Even if Maedhros was the better politician, he was many times more likely to despise and perhaps injure Mairon. After all, Telperinquar was Maedhros’s blood nephew and the historical accounts claimed that Maedhros was both ruthless and fond of children: a horrible combination for Mairon.

“Go for a run, eat something, and try to sleep,” Mairon urged when he could think of no better response. “It will help keep you focused tomorrow.” 

“Right. Nothing like a good run to banish the growing rage,” Fingon urged his body in a single fluid motion to his feet before all but dashing to the door, pausing only long enough to open the door and bit Marion farewell before he was off and sprinting down the halls. 

That was Fingon dealt with. Mairon moved to press the creases from the cot that Fingon’s fidgeting had caused. He also collected their carefully compiled sheets of knowledge of Feanor’s kin into a single pile arranged by birth order and chronologically their deeds. As Mairon flipped through the pages, he couldn’t help but linger on two: Maedhros and Telperinquar. 

Maedhros was the one Fingon sought to help most and another victim of Sauron’s violence. Only, Mairon could not recall this Maedhros. He had read through the descriptions many times but no elf was tall when crippled at the knees and features like distinctive hair colour were often concealed under thick layers of mud and grime. He couldn’t remember harming a Noldorian prince while serving under Melkor, but perhaps time had washed away that memory or it was so routine that he never made a note to remember. 

And Telperinquar. What could he possibly say about Telperinquar? The elf haunted his every step and action. Since Fingon leapt into his life, Mairon had been recalling more and more moments of peace with Telperinquar at his side. The thoughts were unwanted but nothing seemed to banish them. Mairon thought, perhaps, that it was guilt and until Telperinquar was freed his absence would haunt him. 

Once again Mairon found himself at the Valar’s mercy. For all their practice, only the Valar could arbitrate the fate of Telperinquar and his family. Only the Valar with their baffling decisions and merciless punishments. 

Perhaps this was why Fingon was so frustrated. Telperinquar had certainly shared some of Fingon’s doubts about the Valar. 

“The Valar?” Telperinquar glanced up from his work, abandoning the microscope hovered over a new alloy. “What about them?” 

Annatar knew he needed to tread carefully. While the exiled Noldor had little reason to love the Valar, they would expect Annatar, as the Valar’s emissary, to have more flattering opinions. “You never speak of them but you've admitted that you were born in Aman.”

Telperinquar sighed and ran a hand through half-undone braids, getting his fingers caught before realizing and yanking strands of hair from those failing braids. “I was born after the death of my great-grandmother. You must understand that Feanor, my grandfather never had a good opinion of them after that.” 

“But your opinion,” Annatar pressed gently. He already knew of Feanor’s distrust. Melkor had used it against him to cause unrest in Aman.

“Patience!” Telperinquar laughed, “My grandfather was at odds with the Valar my whole life, but my uncle Celegorm and my great grandfather, Mahtan, were both quite devoted. I felt like two ends of a string as a child, pulled always in both directions and waiting to see which side would snap longer.” 

“I may have secreted a small kernel of distrust for them in Aman, but that changed when we arrived in Beleriand and I realized how ambivalent the Valar are.” Telperinquar’s voice soured and his finger dug into his forearms, “They are each so self-centred in their own corner of Valinor. What do they care for the worries of the elves? What do they care for the machinations of their brother? Or even for each other?”

“My uncle Tyelkormo, was a devout follower of Orome. He gave Orome everything and carried Orome’s opinion over even his father’s. But when my great-grandfather was killed and the light of the trees was extinguished, my uncle begged at Orome’s feet and begged for help - for just a moment of aid. My uncle, who had already given Orome so much, would have given Orome anything for even a word in our favour.” Telperinquar’s eyes hardened and his voice was contained like one would contain anger. Annatar was enthralled. He had never heard this tale and had similar disparaging thoughts towards the great hunter. 

“But Orome would not. Even if Melkor had been the instigator, Orome cared not about the fate of the elves and spurred my uncle’s devotion and casted a singular doom upon him.” 

“My grandfather, enraged that Melkor would do such a thing, demanded that Manwe mitigate his brother’s hurts. My grandfather asked that Manwe make Melkor answer for his crimes against the elves for only the King of the Valar could be trusted to determine a suitable punishment and would have the might necessary to give out said punishment. But Manwe would not. He instead spurred my grandfather for having such thoughts and proclaimed that we could not, in the Valar’s ambivalence, challenge Melkor ourselves.” 

“Even Ulmo who professes a love for the elves is selective and cruel. Why fight his brother when he can repeat doom and prophecy to a chosen few and watch as they abandon their kin for secret kingdoms until they too are destroyed and they slink back to us with their tails between their legs?” 

Telperinquar was fuming, his hands wildly gesturing and his tone fierce. It was the most enraged Annatar had ever seen the elf and he secretly found it quite enticing. Which was of course helped that Telperinquar’s rage was similar to Annatar’s own feelings.

And yet, Annatar felt bolstered by Telperiqnuar’s rage and sought to fan it a slight bit more, “Did you and your kin not receive aid from Finrod’s fortified city? Did Ulmo’s warnings not help you?” 

“I love Finrod,” Telperinquar started, his anger lessening just slightly to reveal a hint of affection and sorrow. Right. According to elvish lore, Finrod created Nargothrond before leaving its walls and dying to Annatar. Annatar could not recall a blond-haired lord but he did remember the annoying elvish singer who accompanied Luthien’s lover and who had been particularly skilled for an elvish minstrel. “But I cannot claim Nargothrond as any sort of success. It and Gondolin segregated the Noldor and added to the futility of our quest. It felt almost that Ulmo was attempting to sabotage my uncles rather than provide any meaningful help.” 

That was a good opinion. It suited Telperinquar and moreover, it lent itself well to Annatar’s quest. Especially when Telperinquar then sighed and made one final general statement regarding the Valar. 

“Let them have their crystallized paradise in Valinor. The elves who have bled and died for Middle-Earth will happily reside here and make it a paradise to be envious of.”

“On that, at least, we agree,” Annatar interjected. On many of the things you've said but this one most of all.

Despite his jittering the night before, Fingon was the picture of calm standing before the Hall of the Valar. Built into the side of a mountain and fashioned from glittering quartz, the Hall was suitably impressive and imposed an oppressive air down to the city below. Why the Vanyar would wish to live under this suffocating atmosphere was beyond Mairon’s comprehension. 

A set of curling stairs paved the path to the Hall and they were waylaid by at least 3 Vanyar stop posts. Apparently, the Vanyar were so devoted that at times their faith would lead them unbidden to the Valar’s centre of power, forcing the Vanyar royalty to guard the stairwell for any overly faithful worshippers. 

The entire notion was utterly ridiculous and something that only elvish folly could invent. 

The stairs themselves were impressive at least. Made of huge sheets of granite so large that each step was a small cliff for Fingon to scale. Their path up was accompanied by various carvings of the Valar each decked in precious gems that created an iconology. It was practically gaudy. 

At the summit of their climb was the Hall itself, gleaming in the ever-present rays of the sun a cacophony of colours and the sheen of silver, gold, and mithril. 

Fingon, chest heaving slightly from the climb, shook his head and relaxed his shoulders. With one last head roll to smooth his nerves, he turned to Mairon and said, “Let's do this. The Valar won't know what hit them!”

Bold words when they entered and were immediately forced to wait 8 hours while the Valar slowly congregated and greeted each other. Mairon watched as Fingon became more and more agitated, his eyes twitching and he would get up and pace every 10 minutes. Eonwe stood at the entrance way both guard and ambassador, silently watching Fingon and observing Mairon.

They were friends once. Before everything. 

But in the after, Eonwe had not sought Mairon out and he had no desire to supplicant himself to his once equal. Where once Mairon had stood head-to-head with Eonwe as Aule's emissary, now there was an obvious gap in power with Eonwe standing at the Valar’s side and Mairon bolstering a headstrong elf. 

Eonwe gave no sign that he recognized Mairon or even any indication that he was listening to Fingon trifle. He stood still as if he were another of the statues in the room until the host of the Valar was ready. 

He spoke then, projected his voice to the measly crowd of Fingon and Mairon, “The Valar will hear your petition.” 

Fingon plunged through the now accessible door as Mairon trailed a bit behind. He was intimately familiar with this hall and his memories were not at all pleasant. Eonwe nodded once at him as he passed by. There was something soft playing in Eonwe’s eyes that Mairon couldn’t understand.

He nodded back.  

Just as it was before, the hall was more of an amphitheatre with a raised dallis where the larger-than-life Valar collected, husbands with wives. Ulmo and Nienna sat atop isolated thrones, Ulmo’s a shifting swell of seawater and Nienna’s a broken stool. Manwe sat with his lady wife Varda at the centre of them all atop a glittering golden throne, his wife’s pitch black and swirled with stars. To their left were Irmo and Este upon seats so shifting that a single image never took place and Namo and Vaire on woven tapestries stretched across seats of bones. To their right sat Aule and Yavanna on seats of stone and log respectively and alone sat Vana, her husband’s seat empty. Nessa and Tulkas took their place to the left of Vana and the two lone Vala sat to the right of Vaire. 

Together they presented a united front (only Orome missing - a fact Mairon noted and would recall for later), sitting taller than giants high above them. Each of them wore a face unique to their domain. Manwe gestured with the body of an elf but he stared down at them with a hawk’s eyes. Varda sparkled at his side, her physical form only traceable through a constellation. Irmo was an amalgamation of childhood delight and adult terror that made him horrid to look upon and yet Este at his side was a pale silver and elf-like, her hands soft and her eyes kind. Namo could become one with his throne and his wife appeared more puppet than being. 

Aule wore a dwarvish form this day, his muscles protruding from stiff armour and his long beard hid his face. Yavanna also took on the form of her children, rising tall with branches waving slightly in the sky. Vana, alone, sat as a human child or perhaps a hobbit with disproportionally large feet and her hands clasped together. Nessa, perhaps missing her brother, curled into her seat with wolf paws but her snout curled into a bird beak and her legs were spindly like a gazel. Tulkas was brilliant and bright, even in peace time a sword in his hands and his mouth full of fangs. Ulmo had taken inspiration from a crab today and was both orange and clad in an exoskeleton while Nienna kept a cloak tightly wrapped around her tiny body such that no features could be discerned. 

Fingon and Mairon stood on a pedestal far below these powerful beings and Mairon couldn’t help but notice how small Fingon appeared when compared to the majesty of the Valar. And yet, the elf didn’t allow the oppressive air to hinder him, instead, it seemed to embolden him as he marched to the dais before them and flung his arms wide. 

“Hail Valar and Valier. Lords and Ladies of Valinor, I Findekano son of Nolofinwe son of Finwe first King of the Noldor, greet you and thank you for your audience.” Fingon’s voice was strong, and his words projected far as the amphitheatre nature amplified them. He sounded much like the heroic prince of legend and not the snivelling mess Mairon had swept out the door the day before. He punctuated his sentence with a low bow that Mairon copied behind him. 

They held their positions until Manwe boomed, “Rise. Aule spoke highly of your quest, Prince Findekano. We would hear your words and judge appropriately.” 

Fingon’s throat bobbed in the moment of hesitance between the end of Manwe’s words and the start of his own. 

“I am here, joined by Mairon of the Maiar, to plead on behalf of Feanaro and his kin. They alone of the doomed and disposed Noldor remain in the Halls of Mandos while the world has forgiven all sin in others. And while no one will dispute the villainy of Feanaro and his sons, none ever speak of their heroism.” 

Fingon paused here, his arms flung wide to accentuate his point. In the moment of silence, Mairon observed the Valar’s reactions. 

Manwe, Namo, and Yavanna were stoic with no immediate sign of their feelings on the matter. Aule nodded sagely at Yavanna's side, no doubt appreciating Fingon’s appeal to logic. Ulmo, Nienna, and Este seemed inclined to pity and interested in Fingon’s words while Tulkas, Irmo and Vaire became guarded and likely too swayed by emotion to give Fingon a fair hearing. What interested Mairon the most were Nessa and Vana's diametrically and yet similar reactions. Vana leaned forward in her seat, her eyes shining with a youthful interest. Nessa, on the other hand, slumped slightly into her seat as her ears flickered and her front legs crossed. 

They two had the strongest reaction to Fingon’s statement and Mairon wanted to peel back the reason. Were he in charge of this hearing he would throw out probing questions to gauge their reactions and play their reactions against the more emotionless Valar. 

But this was Fingon’s hearing. So Mairon shut his mouth with a serene smile that made Tulkas narrow his eyes in Mairon’s direction. Good. The less the most argumentative Vala paid attention to Fingon the less he would be able to oppose Fingon’s words. 

Hopefully Mairon was the only one who noticed that while Fingon spoke of Feanor, his arguments instead began with Maedhros and skipped Feanor altogether. Mairon had insisted that Fingon mention Feanor and argue Feanor’s merits but Fingon had refused to speak positively of Feanor. If it was brought up, Mairon would have to interject. 

“Mae - Maitimo,” Fingon luckily caught himself, his tone dipping slightly before he shook and raised his head. “Was the perpetrator of three kinslayings and kidnapped the royal children of Doriath. But he was also the commander of Himring who positioned himself between Morgoth and Beleriand whose actions kept Morgoth’s attention on him which lessened the strain against other contingents. With the help of my father, Nolofinwe, he successfully pushed Morgoth back to Angband and kept the land under siege for hundreds of years, giving the elves who never crossed the sea peace and relief from Morgoth’s evil.” 

“Makalaure joined Maitimo in all his villainry, but so too in his heroism. He stood as Maitimo’s right hand and drove back Morgoth’s forces. He bred the first war horses and instead of hoarding them for feanorian conquest, he shared them with both the other elven houses and the edain. Yes, he created songs of death, but he is also the singer who created war song to bolster strength and courage and songs of healing. All of which he shared with others.” 

“Tyelkormo,” Mairon noticed Vana perked up at the name. Curious, but then Celegorm once rode with Orome and was rumoured to be Orome’s favourite (and admitted by Telperinquar to be intensely devoted to Orome). “Is perhaps the most individually hated of the feanorians. He overthrew my cousin, Findarato’s, city and he allegedly tried to marry Luthien against her will. But he was the best scout ever known to the elves. He taught his knowledge of wildlife and hunting to all who would listen and he was loyal. He protected those he loved and swore fealty to until his death. And he inspired others - his words brought a sense of calm to the ever-terrifying world of Beleriand.” 

“Carnistir is remembered for his greed and temper but he was the cornerstone of civilization in Beleriand. He built all the infrastructure between strongholds and established trade not only between the elven houses but also with the edain and the dwarves. He is remembered for his temper fracturing the fragile peace between the Noldor and Sindar, but many forget that without him the House of Haleth would never have allied with Findarato in Nargothrond nor would the dwarves have lent their skills and knowledge so freely with the elves.” 

“Atarinke’s sins are shared with Tyelkormo but moreover since he was a weaponsmith who crafted the swords that the feanorians wielded against their own kin. But he was also the one who discovered how to infuse a hatred of the enemy into his blades. He shared this secret with all of the Noldor as well as many weapons borne of his hands that saved many lives in the fight against Morgoth. These weapons were even shared with Doriath - his death being dealt by a blade he crafted.” 

“And Ambarussa,” Fingon paused, his chest heaving and his knuckles white. “Their sins are the least of all their brothers but their heroism just as great. They were cartographers, spending most of their days traversing the land and they created the first comprehensive map of Beleriand. Their maps, distributed to all, were essential in identifying chokepoints against Morgoth’s forces and in determining safe passage and settlements for all who inhabited Beleriand.” 

“Finally, Telperinquar,” Mairon felt his fana constrict. He had spent hours reading through Telperinquar’s history in a fanatical obsession that invoked extreme negative reactions in this fana. “He has done no evil save being born to Atarinke and being tricked by Sauron. He partook in no kinslaying and devoted his life to creations of beauty and healing. We have forgiven Sauron and accepted him into these lands. How is that possible that we should welcome the deceiver and not the deceived?” 

With his introductory statements concluded, Fingon launched into the finer nuances of the feanorian evils and their deeds with quotes from history and anecdotes collected from victims and those saved by the feanorians. His words were passionate and his body animated as he gave his best interaction of their work. 

When he finished with a perfunctory, “And so, I beseech you, the Valar, to release Feanaro’s kin and welcome them into Aman with a chance to grow and earn forgiveness from those they have wronged.” 

The Valar were silent for a moment before Nessa, ever the quickest of the Valar both in speed and mental abilities, threw her head back and laughed. “A compelling argument, son of Nolofinwe,” Her voice was distorted and watching her lioness head speak was disconcerting. “I, for one, am convinced. Let Feanaro’s children be welcomed!” 

“Nessa,” Tulkas admonished, his face had settled into a grimace and his sword gleamed dangerously on his lap. 

But Nessa only flicked her tail at her husband and laughed. 

“Their tale is a tragedy,” Vaire spoke next, her voice low and soft. “I witnessed every moment of their lives. I witnessed the lives of those betrayed by them. I cannot forgive their actions and the torment they casted upon those whose tales I watch.” 

“It is not us who must forgive,” Este’s voice was bold and her eyes flickered. “I have always been of the opinion that they must be returned for their wounds to heal and the wounds of those they've hurt and saved.” 

“We are ill-equipped to answer such a question,” Ulmo bubbled, a face forming above his exoskeleton to speak. “Orome and Aule knew them better than us all.” 

“I called this meeting,” Aule boomed, his voice brash and dwarvish with no lack of certainty. “My stance is known. Vana, may you speak on Orome’s behalf as you always have in his absence.” 

Vana bowed her head and with her reedy voice cautioned, “My husband once held great love for Tyelkormo and held him to the highest standards. His betrayal hurt my husband and I. Yet, I would speak with him again had I the chance. But my word is feeble and held to little in my husband’s absence.” 

“At an impasse, we shall do as we always have,” Manwe said as he said down the final judgement, “A vote. In favour of Feanaro and his kin’s return.” 

In favour was Aule, Yavanna, Nienna, Este, Vana, and Nessa. Against was Manwe, Irmo, Tulkas, Namo, and Vaire. Both Varda and Ulmo withheld their vote and Orome’s was casted as null in light of his absence. 

Thus, with 1 vote in their favour, the Valar conceded to Fingon’s plea. 

Fingon’s euphoria was almost palpable for all that his expression remained neutral and his hands stilled. Mairon had spent enough time with the elf to notice the slight shake of his heels as barely contained excitement and in tune enough with his fea to sense Fingon’s overwhelming relief. 

What surprised Mairon more was how much of Fingon’s emotions were echoed by his own fana. He had not thought he’d put so much of his own ambition into this project, but his satisfaction was equal if not greater than when he defected to Melkor or created the one ring. What was expected was the smug giddiness that Manwe was overruled - that he had prevailed against the King of the Valar. 

Manwe’s brow was furled but he spoke not of his displeasure and instead turned to Namo, “And thus it is to you we turn to return Feanaro’s kin from your halls.” 

But Namo simply stood and stepped forward, his hood hiding any hint of emotion as he presented not agreement but something else. 

“This is something I cannot do,” Namo spoke finally, his voice reverberating and both not at once. 

Rage flickered in Mairon’s fana and he was certain that Fingon felt the same. He noticed Fingon’s mouth open (most likely to complain) and Mairon quickly tugged at his arm. When Fingon turned to him, he shook his head to keep quiet. This was a disagreement amongst the Valar, thus they would solve it amongst themselves. 

“We have voted fair and square,” Nessa argued, standing on all legs and baring her teeth at Namo, “You cannot go against the majority on a whim.”

But Namo did not cower at Nessa’s anger, nor Manwe’s irritation. 

“It is no whim,” Namo continued, “For no elves reside in my halls. Feanor and his kin are not and never have been within my domain.” 

Chapter Text

“The void is supposedly quite peaceful,” Was Mairon’s only input as they stood disposed outside of the Valar’s stronghold. It was a paltry attempt to spread cheer but it was all Mairon had. He knew nothing about the Void and had never been there himself. But if the Void was anything like beyond the bounds of Arda, Mairon thought it should be quite peaceful if perfectly boring. The beyonds of Arda were chaos and peace where nothing ever happened and something was always happening. It was boredom and overstimulation all at once and Mairon hated it. Nothing ever happened there. 

It was a place completely unsuitable for Telperinquar and his ever-eager mind and moving hands. The thought of talented and never-tiring Telperinquar frozen in such a state was such a waste. 

“You know, that does make me feel a little better. But only a little,” Fingon told him, raising his head from his hands to glance up at Mairon. “Maedhros deserves peace after all his torment. I only wish it wasn’t eternal.” 

A pause and then Fingon shot to his feet, slamming a hand against the mountainside and screaming pure aggression that echoed down to the worshipping Vanyar below. 

“Gone!” Fingon cried, “Gone from Mandos. Never there in the first place. So what? Was their Oath held literally and they are locked away in the void for all eternity with only Morgoth as their company?” 

Tears fell from his eyes and as emotion caught up with reasoning, Fingon wailed as he slumped back to the ground. “How is this fair? Ai, Maedhros, why did you swear that Oath? Why would you run so far away where I cannot follow? What of the promise you made to me?” 

But there was no one to answer Fingon’s questions. Maedhros was gone in the impenetrable Void and it was Mairon by his side. And Mairon had no words of comfort to offer him (sarcasm, yes, and polite manipulation, but nothing genuine like Telperinquar would offer and so he said nothing). 

“You know what? Fuck the Valar,” Fingon continued his tirade and now channelled his anger into a physical enemy. “Fuck Namo is particular. What was the point of this- this charade if they were just going to say no? Was this a game? Did they have fun watching me flounder and chase after leads like a starving wolf?” 

Fingon then sent an uncharitable look Mairon’s way , “Did you know of this? Were you in on their game?” 

It should have been a simple answer. An easy no or a blatant denial. The words were so easy but Mairon found himself stuck on the tone. How should he position his words to make them sound honest? He had spent so many years murmuring dissent into others' ears that he was not sure how to plead truth . 

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t even thought that elves could end up in the Void which felt like a particular punishment that the Valar created specifically for Melkor (or if Eru truly was all-seeing, perhaps something they created in the first song). He had thought Telperinquar was simply avoiding him, why would he ever believe Tyelpe was instead held apart from all elvenkind and for so, so many years. 

But Mairon’s pause caused Fingon’s face to sour further than it already was, “Fuck you too then. Is 2 years of your life really so meaningless that you decided to spend it writing a petition with me that you knew would fail? Or were you laughing behind my back the whole time? Did you find this whole thing just so very amusing?” 

“No?” Mairon tried but it came out more as a question than a statement and did nothing to lighten Fingon’s expression. In fact, it made it worse as Fingon lashed out, his hands pounding Mairon’s chest with gentle fists and his knees knocking into Mairon’s legs as he screamed bloody murder. 

None of Fingon’s blows hurt very much and if Mairon wasn’t worried that Fingon might hurt himself with his poorly made fists, Mairon might have let Fingon continue his abuse. But Mairon was worried; he had no desire to have an inconsolable and damaged elf. So he lightly wrapped his hands around Fingon’s wrists and tried again, “I did not know.” 

This time the words sounded very wrong. There was almost no inflection to any of the words, more monotone than anything. It would do so little to convince Fingon of his sincerity. He had to try again. 

“I truly did not know. I apologize, Fingon, I -” But the words stumbled over a lump in his throat and he was appalled to find that he stumbled. He should know better. He should.

And yet, Fingon freezes as if Sauron had spoken a holding spell before losing all strength in his legs. He tumbled to the ground and buried his head in his hands. “Of course you do! I forget that we are the same. That your quest is no different than mine. Oh, Mairon, I am so sorry.” 

And then his words became incoherent sobs. 

Eventually, Fingon stood and allowed Mairon to coax him down the cliff-like stairs. He threw a coat over Fingon’s shoulder and pulled the hood over Fingon’s teary face. The Vanyar guarding the path gave them skeptical looks but ducked their heads when Mairon glared. 

Fingon, either consumed in his grief or apathetic to the world around him, trailed behind Mairon silently. His tears had all tried up. It worked well for Mairon as he spoke around the guards at checkpoints and called a carriage to carry them to the edge of Tirion. 

Mairon kept away from elves as he led them to Fingon’s small cottage located on the outskirts of Tirion but in full view of the palace atop the hill. The cottage was isolated, with no immediate neighbours within half a league of the home. The house itself was quaint, self-admitted made entirely by Fingon himself from stones and grass pulled from his fields which now boasted an overrun garden of weeds and debris. 

Mairon pushed the door open and allowed Fingon to be swallowed into its dark depths. Fingon vanished into the house and Mairon happily slammed the door shut behind him. 

Hands now clean of Fingon, Mairon returned to his rooms in Aule’s halls and set about on his newest project. 

Telperinquar would have loved it. He had always been fascinated by the mystery of water (he often claimed it was from all the tales he heard of the helcaraxe and a natural fascination with something essential for elvish life) and no doubt he would adore the heating tests Mairon was performing under different pressures. He would also have had brilliant leaps of inspiration that would propel Mairon’s work so much further so much faster. 

But Telperinquar was in the Void just as Melkor. Neither would ever return so it was pure idiocy to think of Telperinquar returned and working at his side. What did it matter if Telperinquar would have laughed in pure delight when Mairon vaporized water at a lower temperature when he created a partial vacuum or if Telperinquar would have suggested a logarithmic relation between temperature and pressure weeks before Mairon stumbled upon the idea. Telperinquar was gone and condemned to the void. Never again would he voice his opinions nor delight in the world. 

It just wasn’t right.

Some months later, Mairon found himself standing at the door of Fingon’s home. It was odd, for 2 years he had spent nearly Fingon’s every waking moment together with this elf, researching and practicing. The only times they weren't together were the few times Fingon left for family obligations. 

The house was no different than any other visits on the exterior. However, Mairon immediately noticed a difference when he opened the door. Fingon was a elvish plant. He thrived in light and often had every window in his home thrown wide and blanketing the house in bright rays. 

And yet light flowed in the opposite direction when he opened the door: inwards instead of out. A musky miserable exhale waffled out in lieu of any other greeting. There was no Fingon jumping to the door like an excited dog. No stream of music or singing to induce an awful headache. 

And yet the house was not abandoned, for when Mairon crept through the front entrance and into the tiny sitting room, he heard Fingon call out, “Go 'way, Finrod.” 

As Fingon was not addressing him, Mairon ignored the command. Following the direction of Fingon’s voice and the trail of decay, Mairon found his target curled into a ball of misery on the side couch facing a cold and dormant fireplace. All the windows were pulled shut, perpetuating the perpetual gloom that anguished around Fingon’s shoulders and enticed everything within a 10-foot range. 

“You’ve given up,” Mairon sneered in lieu of a greeting to the lump on the couch. “All your certainty that you would save Maedhros vaporized in an instant .” 

“Go ‘way, Mairon,” Fingon slurred. He was definitely drunk as evident in his lethargic movements and the horrendous smell that permeated the building. 

“What a wonderful pity party you've thrown for yourself,” Mairon continued this time pretending that he could not understand Fingon. “Have you consumed anything other than stagnant wine since I returned you to your home? Are you trying to see if elves can die of malnutrition? Because you're certainly making an adequate attempt.” 

“Isn’t enough to kill me,” Fingon murmured, nearly incomprehensible both by how slurred his words were and how softly he spoke. “Besides, not like it matters.” 

“What? Because Maedhros is gone for good?” Mairon was starting to grow irritated with Fingon. Fingon was always irritating but this was a new method that Mairon found much more displeasing. 

“Aman? Mandos? What does it matter?” Fingon snapped, his apathy cracking just enough to show the anger below. “What does it matter if Maedhros will never return? Surely you understand? Telperinquar will never return. You will never see him again.” 

Yes, Mairon was well aware of that. He had been thinking of Telperinquar extensively since the meeting with the Valar. The pesky elf was invading his every thought even when he would honestly rather stop thinking of Telperinquar. Perhaps that was why Fingon had turned to drinking. Supposedly it dulled elvish senses and made them less miserable. 

“Why do I think wine when the taste makes me gag?” Telperinquar returned rhetorically Annatar’s very reasonable question. 

Annatar watched as Telperinquar swirled his goblet of the drink which inspired Annatar’s question and took a sip. He made a face and offered Annatar a taste. 

Annatar had never tasted wine. He had never seen much reason to indulge in elvish habits and didn’t see much reason to now. But he was to blend into the city and endear himself to Telperinquar. He accepted the drink and found it bitter and utterly pointless as the composition contained toxins to an elvish body , but when he pointed out the high concentration of ethanol, Telperinquar only laughed. 

“That, my dear Annatar, is the point!” 

“We poison ourselves just a little and languish in the feeling as our body tries to fight it.” Telperinquar took another sip, “It dulls our minds and loosens our tongues, making us merry or maudlin. Whatever comes first.” 

Annatar did not think that a good thing. Why would any wish to dull their mind or loosen their tongue? Perhaps those more foolish and less intelligent. But Telperinquar was much too bright for such fancies. “And what would entice some like yourself whose thoughts should never be hindered least it tarnishes your work.” 

“It is not my work that I seek to escape,” Telperinquar set the glass down and clasped his hands together in his lap. “You know some of my past?”

“Yes,” Annatar responded. He knew quite a bit more than some. He had researched Telperinquar, the grandson of Feanaro, quite extensively before entering Ost-in-Edhil. But it wouldn’t do to let Telperinquar know that. “You speak of your father?” 

“And my uncles. And my grandfather,” Telperinquar added, wryly. “Both the good and the bad, I’m afraid. The bad, for obvious reasons. And the good because it just makes me so angry to think of everything they had and threw away.” 

“A foolish endeavour indeed,” Annatar agreed only to realize his misstep when Telperinquar’s hands tightened. 

“Foolish only in that we ever listened to Morgoth and we let him create tension between family,” Telperinquar muttered. “I never begrudged my grandfather his revenge, only that he did not join with others who craved it just as desperately and allowed Morgoth’s words of doubt to linger even after he was named an enemy.” 

Very foolish, Annatar would agree with the assessment. Although, it worked well for Melkor that the Noldor were so divided. Melkor had always been good at noticing the discord between people and exasperating it. 

“And so,” Telperinquar lunged forward, scooped up his glass once more and threw the bitter substance down his throat in one large gulp, “I drink when the memories make me too bitter. I drink to forget the delightful memories and the despairful ones. And when the haziness of alcohol wanes, may I find myself in a better mood than I began!” 

But what, Mairon couldn’t help but think as he stared at Fingon, if one never left that ethanol-induced haze? For Fingon certainly appeared to have no desire to regain sobriety. 

Luckily for him, Mairon had often forced Telperinquar from his hangovers into a body capable of rational . With a flick of his fingers, Mairon banished the ethanol from Fingon’s system and removed any traces of the substance from the house. 

“Mairon!” Fingon snapped. He was now upright and his words well enunciated , but his tone was furious and his eyes scrouging the room for presumably more bottles. But he was more present and he had a sense of intellect that the rotting hust Mairon had stumbled upon lacked. 

“Are you looking for an apology?” Mairon asked, frowning at the elf as he waved a hand and threw the windows open. “I didn't expect you to be so prone to pessimism.” 

Fingon had always inspired a sense of bountiful optimism, running from place to place and throwing himself fully into his pursuits. 

“It’s not pessimism,” Fingon tried to argue, but his words were feeble and his tone had none of the surefire confidence from his hearing with the Valar. “Doesn't the world seem less bright? And an ever present finger of grief presses against your chest? They are gone forever and the playthings of Morgoth! He is sent back to eternal torment and I can do nothing!” 

Fingon shot up to his feet and gestured to the house around him. “I built my life expecting his return. I made a home in the countryside because Maedhros likes the peace and quiet of a homestead. I made the home small and cozy because Maedhros likes the intimacy . I started a garden because Maedhros likes to be self-sufficient!” 

“And every century I went to Mandos and begged for him to be returned to me. I never lost hope even when his grandmother who had sworn to never return came back to life. I held on to hope when Sauron was allowed redemption. I waited as our time together became a splinter in my life. And when I finally had my chance, when the Valar finally listened - they told me he would never come back!” Fingon’s chest heaved, his eyes brimmed with tears and his voice faded away as he repeated,

“He's never coming back.” 

Fingon’s words struck a pang in Mairon’s fana. He didn't like how Fingon’s certainty had changed. Only a few months ago Fingon breathed certainty that Maedhros and his family would return but now it had flipped and Fingon completely changed his tune. 

It made him argumentative. “Who said the void is a definitive end?” 

Mairon’s question startled Fingon, who jolted and stared at him with something akin to extinguished hope in his eyes. “No one leaves the void.” 

“No one’s tried to leave,” Mairon countered. “Nor has anyone tried to save someone condemned to the void.” 

Well, Mairon had thrown the idea of saving Melkor around for a few centuries before he and Telperiquar had started to make good progress on ringcraft. He had watched the Valar from afar as they threw Melkor into the void and he had opinions on how the void was accessed and how the Valar’s method may be replicated. But nothing had ever come of it and he had decided to cut ties with Melkor to save his own skin. 

“And you think such a feat possible?” Fingon shot to his feet, sober as a drowned duck and ran to Mairon’s side. “Really possible?” 

“Potentially,” Mairon said. He had condemned Melkor, but he wasn’t trying to save Melkor or simply opening a path for scientific advancement. He would be opening the Void for Fingon. Fingon and Telperinquar. He owed Fingon a wish and Telperinquar. Well, he owed Telperinquar something even if he could not determine what the elf was owed. 

“How much do you know about mathematics?”

Chapter Text

“Agh!” Fingon threw his hands up and leaned away from the table and the cluster of papers scattered before him. Only a few of them had Fingon’s squiggly handwriting and most of those were accompanied by Mairon’s scratched-out corrections. “Mathematics is not a part of my skill set!” 

Privately, Mairon thought very little was a part of Fingon’s skillset other than being overly optimistic and potentially his ability to throw himself completely into his speeches. The Gwaith-i-Mirdain wouldn’t have even considered taking him in as an apprentice and if not for his promise to help Fingon, Mairon would have given up and done the whole thing on his own. 

“What’s the point of all this math anyway? I cannot comprehend how calculus will help with getting Maedhros out of the void!” Fingon continued to complain. 

“This isn’t calculus. We’re looking at a simple pressure calculation based on the density of the fluid, the height of the fluid above it and the force of gravity acting upon it. This other equation explores the energy entering into the fluid” Mairon explained calmly despite his internal irritation. Mairon would never ever try to teach Fingon calculus. The headache alone would be impossible. “As for your question, math is essential to determine the exact force required to prove my theory.” 

“OK, ok, yeah, sure,” Fingon waved a hand before gesturing to the heat equation and another equation on the page below, “But not this. What is this? This same squiggly is used here and here but I'm pretty sure they don't mean the same thing!” 

“Ah, that one is standard deviation and the other is a factor for the calculation of radiation energy,” Mairon leaned over and pressed his finger to the referenced symbol and its meaning as he spoke. It should be fairly clear that these were two separate equations in different aspects of mathematics. Really, this was elementary knowledge and Fingon was already struggling. 

“Yeah, no. I've learned Tengwar and Cirth for both Sindarin and all dialects of Aman Quenya, Taliska, black speech, and even bits of dwarvish but this is incomprehensible!” Fingon gestured as he spoke, drawing invisible symbols with his fingers.

But what interested Mairon most of Fingon’s words was, “You learned black speech?” 

Fingon shrugged, “Yeah. Or rather, someone taught me. I didn’t figure it out, but as crown prince it was expected of me that I learn these languages to understand my contemporaries and enemies.” Fingon laughed and shook his head, pointing once more to the page below him, “What is math used for anyway? Other than making poor elvish heads spin?”  

“Math is the language of the song.” Mairon explained thinking about all the wonderful time he spent dissecting the song and putting it into equations and numbers. There was nothing more satisfying than denoting a new law or empirical correlation. 

But Fingon wasn’t convinced as he frowned. “Song? Oh, no. We already have a perfectly good notation of music that I know very well. Try again.” 

Ah, the lower form of music notation. Mairon had opinions about the elvish creation and he had no issue expressing his displeasure. “Not the language of your cheap entertainment but of Eru's song. It explains the way Eru created the world.” 

“Huh, well, Feanor didn't need to make it so complicated!” Fingon exclaimed, immediately associating the study of the world and a new language with a prolific inventor. It was just like the Noldor to be so inclined to self-aggrandizement. 

Mairon said nothing. Math had been around long before the first elves and Mairon was fairly confident that it was Aule himself who taught it to the newcomers. Feanor may have added to the mathematical understanding of the song, but he hadn’t created the language. Many of the special characters were Valarian after all. 

Not that Mairon told Fingon. He figured it wouldn't bring Fingon much reprieve. 

Fingon grumbled and hunched over the papers once more. He got only a few lines in before raising his head and commenting, “This would be so much easier in musical notation.” 

Mairon hummed and inclined his head towards the papers in a silent reminder to return to the lessons.

But Fingon was bored and exasperated so instead of resuming his studies he avoided his work by asking, “Have you ever tried elvish music? I know the maiar mostly think themselves above it and strike me as a nonsinger most of all.” 

“I have,” Mairon admitted his thoughts flying far from these shores and across time to a place and period that often haunted him. 

“Will you not join me?” Telperinquar inquired, standing in the doorway with both arms stretched wide and pressed against either side of the door to create a barrier. 

“What need have I for your elvish fits of merriment?” Mairon had retorted, stepping forward. He had a dozen or so scrolls in his hand and was planning a trip to the library. If not for the scrolls in his hands which included a delicate tome on Gondolian Steel forging, Mairon would have pushed past Telperinquar and continued on. 

“For one, it will make you seem more presentable, which will make collaborators more willing to speak with you.” 

“I have no desire to improve my approachability,” Mairon denied and watched as Telperinquar's eyes furrowed. 

“Oh, don’t be that way. I would appreciate you attempting to be more sociable and I would dearly delight in introducing you to the excitement of an elvish revelry,” Telperinquar’s expression was impish and the tree light in his eyes danced as he implored, “One dance. One song. I’m sure you’ll find it illuminating.” 

“I can appreciate song quite well enough in the solitary library,” Mairon intoned, holding up and waving a recently published paper on gravitational pull. 

Telperinquar laughed, his face lighting up with the motion and his lips parting to reveal beautifully white teeth that snapped together with how his body shook with mirth. “Not all music is Eru’s,” He told Mairon as he opened his mouth and spoke without speaking, varying the airflow and opening of his mouth to produce different pitched sounds. “Music can sometimes be simply pleasure.” It was an odd facsimile of song with the same vocal changes but in a much more limited frequency range and void of any intent. 

“I find the Song quite pleasurable,” Mairon countered but he deposited the contents in his arms onto a table and wandered closer to Telperinquar. Once he was close enough, he set a hand on Telperinquar’s shoulders and leaned in to whisper in a sickly sweet voice, “Or were you simply hoping to keep me close?” 

“Indulge me,” Telperinquar whispered back as he clasped Mairon’s hands with his own and pressed his cheek against one of their entwined hands. His eyes were wide and bright while his hands were warm against Mairon’s own. He was the perfect picture of a coquettish invitation. 

Mairon was not so easily manipulated. He was the master of sly manipulation. Telperinquar’s tone should have risen a pitch higher at the end of his half-question and he should have lifted the left half of his face into a higher grin. Even his words were lacking. 

But his eyes were bright and he played his fingers against Mairon’s own in playful taps. Mairon was not manipulated into anything. If anything, this was a manipulation to incentivize Telperinquar to further their work and endear Telperinquar to him. Telperinquar was always so much more refreshed and inclined to work long hours when he was occasionally indulged. 

It was only to further Mairon’s plans that he let out a sigh and tightened his hands around Telperinquar’s, “Just this once.” 

Telperinquar’s ecstasy was palpable as he immediately dragged Mairon out of the records room and out into the city. Already, the streets were packed with what felt like every inhabitant of Ost-in-Edhil, all making a horrendous racket as they drunkenly blundered their way through the streets each high on merriment and their overflowing pints. 

Telperinquar led him through the city, turning and laughing for a moment with any and everyone who called out to him. He blended into the city seamlessly - no wonder for he was its founder and thus the city was moulded in his image - but it was one thing to know and anything thing to see. The city loved Telperinquar and he loved the city equally in turn as he traced the path of its inception, making comments about the once was hunting trails and small encampment that the city started as. 

“It has become everything I dreamed of,” Telperinquar told him as they reached the small courtyard of holly trees that sat in clear view of Telperinquar’s home balcony. The celebrations were quieter here, void of vendors selling trinkets and drinks. These were the private gardens of Telperinquar that he often left open for children to play. But today, children were kept close to their parents and jumping joyously around the drunk. 

“The city has grown so large and cemented itself in Middle-Earth’s economy. My uncle would have been proud - all of them really.” It wasn’t often that Telperinquar spoke of his family and when he did it was often downcasted with a hint of somber melancholy. But today, there was none of that and replaced instead with a chippy attitude and giddy joy. “And we have created such things to better our world!” 

“We have,” Mairon agreed. They had progressed so far and every day they grew closer to unlocking that knowledge Mairon knew would fulfill his ambition. They just need to push a little more - to question the world a little harder. 

“Today is a celebration of our success,” Telperinquar told him as if Mairon wasn’t well versed in this particular holiday and had made himself scarce on this day for the past century. “A bit self-congratulatory, I know, but everyone loves a celebration and what better to celebrate than our glorious city?” 

Telperinquar was beaming and it unsettled Mairon in a way very few things did and turned his stomach. Telperinquar was objectively beautiful with his grandfather’s obsidian black locks that curled gently in the humidity of this summer day and pulled back into a gentle fishtail braid, and his round yet somehow angular face that glowed gently in the sun’s light. His shoulders were broad for an elf and spoke of a lifetime in the forges while his hips were slim and led into slender legs. And yet he was somehow more fair this day with his holly trees surrounding him and a spoke of their red berries tucked behind his ear. 

If the elves were prone to casual dalliances, Mairon wouldn’t hesitate to throw a little more sexual persuasion to entice Telperinquar into his bed. It was a shame that Telperinquar held his chastity close to his chest and gave his body to none. 

“And so we sing!” Telperinquar ended his speech with two bushels of holly in his arms which he flourished towards Mairon and set atop his head in a thin laurel. “To Eru and to our own ingenuity!” 

“Few things deserve more praise,” Mairon grinned. Eru he could give or take, but his own ingenuity? Their shared creations? Now that was something worth celebrating. “These songs - they are of our own accomplishments?” 

“Of course!” Telperinquar cried as he hopped on a nearby bench and busted into song. It was an elvish song - constrained within a 4 octave range void of any impressive pitch jumps - but the melody was inspiring and his joy infectious. 

As he sang, Telperinquar turned to him with a wide grin and an outstretched arm, silently pleading, sing with me. 

Mesmerized, Annatar joined in, matching his notes to Telperinquar’s. Telperinquar grinned wider and reached for Annatar's hands. They joined together and danced across the clearing, laughing and singing. 

Joy spurring his every move, Annatar met Telperinquar’s eyes. For a moment there was silence between them and then Telperinquar dragged him in and pressed - 

“Done with your little thing?” Fingon asked, drawing Mairon back to the present. He was leaning back in his chair such that the front legs were held in the air and he could rock slightly on 2 points of contact. Both his tone and expression were smug and Mairon wondered how long he’d allowed the memories to carry him off. 

Mairon pinched his nose. “Forget the equations. Are you at least trained in simple addition?” 

“Oh, that!” Fingon’s tone immediately cheered up, “I learned the abacus as befitting all Noldor royalty!” 

Mairon sighed. Of course, his education, some tens of ages ago, would focus on such redundant and outdated technologies. “Have you ever even seen a computer?” 

Fingon tilted his head. “What’s that?” 

Mairon had a long training period ahead of him. 

And he was right about his assessment. Fingon took to a computer like a frog to flight. He squinted at the pixel screen and constantly shut the computer down again and again. He typed with a single finger and double-checked his input twice before moving on to the next character. Compounded on his woeful computational ineptitude, was his continuous issue with any mathematical symbols. Even when presented with the models Mairon wanted to compute and the series of tests to be run, Fingon would still take weeks just to run the program. 

They were getting complaints. Complaints! The supercomputer was a finite resource even among the Aulendil and competition was fierce (Mairon wasn't sure why. The only thing modelling got you was reduced time to estimate a hypothesis and they had nothing but time). 

After that, Mairon took Fingon and fled back to his rooms. “We need to rethink this.” 

Fingon scratched his head in a sheepish manner, “Probably. Math is really not my strong suit. I can do fighting or talking or any sort of confrontation.” 

“Except confrontations with the universe,” Mairon added. Fingon happily threw his head back and laughed. 

“That is an opponent I don't envy you!” 

***

A few decades later, Fingon looked up from his statistical analysis book and the notepad where he was carefully compiling notes for testing. The pivot to statistical calculations came much easier to Fingon who was used to these sorts of ideas from his time as a war commander and they required less existential thinking. His eyes were glassy and he'd set down his notebook, all indications that Fingon’s attention was waning and he needed a break.

Fingon’s eyes then darted to Mairon’s desk. It had been a few years since they last visited Mairon’s abode and not since they started this new direction after the pressure of an ocean's weight would not accomplish their goal. Fingon leafed through Mairon’s notes and printed paper, his eyes glazed over quickly and he looked up, “So what are we trying to do exactly?” 

“We are breaking into the void,” Mairon announced, moving to stand beside Fingon and reached for the paper Fingon was holding. 

“Yes, obviously,” Fingon rolled his eyes, “I meant, how exactly are we going about it.” 

“We are attempting to induce a time-space fluctuation which should open a connection to outside of Arda.” Mairon simplified their work to the point that Fingon should understand. 

Fingon only hummed. Apparently, he understood, “And how are we doing that?”

“By combining such immense amount of mass that the weight of itself and the forces it exerts create a tunnelling effect,” Mairon said. It was something he was fairly certain would work. He had, after all, witnessed how the Valar opened a path to the void within which they deposited Melkor. He felt the shear stress against the world as that tightly combined power of all 12 Valar worked together to create such a thing. No Valar alone could perform such a thing let alone a maiar. Instead, Mairon would need to be creative. 

At least he had a basis upon which to build upon.

“Really?” Telperinquar questioned, his tone and body language suggested that he thought Annatar’s theory foolish. “And on what principles are you basing such outlandish theories?” 

“I need few of your supposed laws of the universe as I helped shape its very fabric. But if you are quite desperate for specifics, then you should think of how gravity works,” Annatar pointed out, “And how ring theory is done.” 

“Why, it's an amalgamation of compressed song interwoven with-” Telperinquar cut off as he realized the point Annatar was trying to make. His lips slowly parted into an eager grin. “That would open so many other possibilities.” 

Annatar nodded. 

“The other- that other place we saw, that the rings bring us to, wouldn't that be?” Telperinquar’s finger danced along the hem of his sleeve with uncontainable excitement. 

“Would you like to do the math?” Annatar offered, knowing that Telperinquar needed little prodding at this point. 

Telperinquar’s eyes were bright as he grinned in Annatar’s direction, all poorly contained energy and a burning desire to know. He reached out a hand and when Annatar grasped his, he ran giggling with Annatar in tow. 

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Telperinquar started before rambling, speaking of possibilities and extrapolations, “I wonder - if we use this integral here and apply a sinusoidal distribution then-”

“Yes,” Annatar breathed, watching as Telperinquar’s slightly clumsy from how fast he was writing but still elegant script revealed the answer to his theory. 

They could warp time and space. 

They alone could do what no other had dared to do alone. 

But before the math was finished, Telperinquar’s hand paused and he talked the chalk aimlessly along the board. “Do you think this is right? Not the math - rather the ethics?”

“Ethics?” Annatar pushed lightly as he hid his frown. Telperinquar’s mind was much better suited for this sort of math than he and with how incomplete the writing was, he was unable to complete it. “Who would have enough power to accomplish such a thing?” 

“Melkor’s servants, maybe?” Telperinquar shook and he set the chalk down. “There is little I fear more than Melkor returning to Middle-Earth and bringing with him torment and enslavement in the indolence of the Valar.” 

“They were all defeated and taken captive when Melkor was defeated,” Annatar tried once more, but Telperinquar would not budge. 

He shook his head and stepped away, “I would do anything to create a better world, but I have learnt from my forefathers not to let knowledge for the sake of knowing carry me too far afield.” 

There had been no convincing Telperinquar. Once he made up his mind, he kept to his word, stubbornly. It had infuriated him to no end during those days. He had sought this knowledge, determined to gain the ultimate knowledge and hold power over his old master. 

But now a tinge of amusement tugged against the irritation. Telperinquar had not helped his case any by leaving Mairon with only partially completed equations and the knowledge that Telperinquar had once seen a pathway forward. 

“Where do you go when you do that?” Fingon asked. Mairon jerked back to find the elf staring at him with a slight cock of his head. 

“Do what?” 

Fingon flapped his hands and gestured at him. “That thing where you get all quiet and your mind flies away. Were you aware that you glow when you do that? And not just your eyes, I'm used to that, like your skin shines like sunlight and your hair flickers like flame. It's rather disconcerting.”  

Mairon had not been aware of any physical indications that he was trapped in his memories, but Telperinquar had always and continued to be vexing in ways Mairon could never account for. 

“I thought for quite some time that you must be thinking thoughts incomprehensible by the Eldar, but I visited my cousin Finrod in Alqualonde and met Osse and his wife there. I spent weeks in their company but neither of them did such a thing. When I asked Osse, he said that the reason is mostly likely that you became so subsumed by your thoughts that you forget to moderate your fana.” Fingon continued, completely oblivious to Mairon’s irritation or perhaps uncaring despite it. 

“I was thinking,” Mairon brushed off but Fingon would not be deterred.

“Thinking of Tyelpe?” Fingon's voice was coy and he crossed his legs in confidence as he spoke. 

Was he really that obvious? 

“That is certainly a bold guess,” Mairon hedged as Fingon’s smirk grew almost predatory. For a moment, it was clear to Mairon why Fingon had been known as warrior king once. 

“Puh-lease,” Fingon stressed the word oddly as he pointed at Mairon with his book that he evidently retrieved from the desk, “It’s no secret that you’re in love with little Tyelpe. I can’t even fault your choice. He was certainly endearing as a child and I can only assume he inherited his father and grandfather’s beauty as he grew.” 

Mairon’s head filled with static at Fingon’s words and he focused on the one thing that made sense. An objective wrong. “Telperinquar was by all Noldorian standards quite ugly.” His words sounded distant. Fingon frowned and Mairon felt he had to defend Telperinquar. 

“His hair was limp and always tangling as it slipped from his braids. His chest was broad but his legs slim - some commented that he was practically half-dwarven.” Mairon did not share that he specifically found those people during the attack on Ost-in-Edhil and made sure they had particularly brutal deaths. Nor did he say that after years in captivity and starvation, Telperinquar’s muscle was all but gone, revealing a rather plain and average elven body shape. 

“He couldn’t sing to save a life. Nothing above his speaking range would be the correct tone and he was horribly tone deaf.” Mairon’s chest tugged and he felt a pressure against the back of his eyes. Telperinquar’s song had always been so dear to him for all its flaws purely based on the ecstatic joy in his voice. 

“But his hands were so slim for one so skilled and they were delightfully calloused,” Mairon remembered when he once would set his own hands around Telperinquar’s and rub his fingers across the callouses, delighting in the feeling. 

“And when he smiled,” Mairon breathed, the image of Telperinquar beaming as the sun set over his beloved city filling up his mind. “His face lit up in a thousand stars, more magnificent than anything Varda’s ever created.” 

“Mairon,” Fingon’s voice was quiet and oozing with compassion. He passed a handkerchief to Mairon who held it gangly, unsure as to its use until Fingon gestured to his face. Mairon pressed the cloth against his eyes to find them wet and his nose running. “We’ll save them. We’ll save them and you can see Tyelpe again. I bet he will smile wild just for you when we see him again.” 

Mairon shook. Why was his fana shaking? But once he realized it, he found he could not stop. Fingon’s words didn’t help any as they in fact made his fana produce even more mucus and tears. 

“Why?” Mairon murmured, his voice wretched. 

But Fingon paid it no mind as he made a shushing sound and opened his arms invitingly. Unsure of what to do, Mairon leaned into them and Fingon wrapped his arms around Mairon tightly. “I understand. Mairon, you miss him. We’ll get them back.” 

Miss him? Mairon wasn't missing Telperinquar. He was just… just- 

“I get the same way about Maedhros. You've seen me get despondent about Maedhros before.” Fingon continued as he softly patted Mairon’s back. 

“Why?” Mairon echoed. He just couldn't understand. He had no wounds nor weapons held to him. “Why does it hurt so much?” 

“Mairon,” Fingon’s voice was strangled. Mairon couldn’t see Fingon’s face from this angle but it was probably pinched. “Did you not realize? You're in love with Telperinquar.” 

“What?” Now Mairon’s head hurt in addition to his chest, “You said it was like you and Maedhros-” 

Mairon broke off. He wasn't actually sure what Fingon’s relationship with Maedhros was other than Fingon must feel a desire to rescue Maedhros as evident by this and his past actions. 

“Mairon, I'm in love with Maedhros.” 

Well, that radically changed Mairon’s initial premise. He knew of love and had heard so many tales where the motivation was love. He had even centered as an antagonist in one of the elve's most beloved love story. But never had he thought that he might be accused of loving an elf. 

(Melian would laugh when she heard… if she ever designed to speak with him again.) 

“How did you know?” Mairon asked, unsure of what he was asking. How did Fingon know he was in love with Maedhros? How did he guess that Mairon felt similarly about Telperinquar? 

Luckily, Fingon answered both. “How did I know I loved Maedhros? It was a lot of small things, really. He was my best friend and confidant. We could speak of anything and everything for hours and I would never get bored of his voice. 

And,” Fingon blushed, or he must have as his shoulders lightened just slightly, “He was beautiful. Since I was old enough to understand romance, I've always wanted to kiss him.” 

Fingon pulled away, just enough that they were facing each other, “And I knew you felt the same about Telperinquar from the first moment I mentioned him. 

Everything else I said became immaterial to you and you traced his name with such reverence and yearning. I knew in that moment that we were the same; just two people utterly infatuated with a feanorion.” 

What was Mairon supposed to say? He betrayed Telperinquar, squandered their once-shared goal for his own selfish one, and flayed Telperinquar when he refused to help. Even if he was in love with Telperinquar, it was a weak and futile love.

For Telperinquar would never love his murderer. 

And yet, Mairon did want to see him. He wanted to see Telperinquar even just one last time and take a moment to memorize his beloved’s asymmetric face and the exact shean of his starry freckles. He wanted to hear Telperinquar's voice one more time to memorize its frequency and hear the vibrancy that Telperinquar brought that no other tone could match or any other voice could contain. 

He wanted to lay his eyes on his Tyelpe one last time. And he wanted to save Tyelpe from the doom he set upon his head. 

Fingon must have seen his certainty as he reached for their books and turned his attention back to the desk. 

“Let’s continue, shall we?” 

They may have all eternity but eternity never felt so long.

Chapter Text

“So, what you’re saying, is that it works?” Fingon slouched in a chair slightly to the right and squinted at the chalkboard as if he could understand the complex and elaborate mathematical equations Mairon had just completed and double-checked thrice. “Didn’t we already know that?” 

“We theorized that it would work,” Mairon corrected as he brandished a hand at the recently completed math. “And I’ve now proved it will.” 

He was quite proud of it. Pure mathematics had never been his strongest suit especially when compared to Telperinquar’s brilliant mind that seemed to grasp the equations before he had even the words to describe what he was doing. Ironic, seeing as Mairon had helped create the song and yet Telperinquar was better at wrestling the song into language. Telperinquar had often laughingly remarked that it was because Mairon was too engrossed with what he knew to be truth and not how to prove it. 

Staring at this completed proof, Telperinquar’s spirit haunted its every line, Mairon shook. He had never thought he would reach this point. Decades upon decades of tireless work just this final solution. 

This was true elation. 

“Then what was the point of all those simulations!” Fingon cried as he threw his hands up. He, evidently, did not feel the same as Mairon. To Fingon's credit, he hardly understood any of the lines let alone the ingenious of its solution. “They took me three decades and now you’re telling me that they meant nothing!” 

“No, not at all. The simulation results showed that a proof was most likely possible,” Mairon explained. “And narrowed down the potential pathways. Prior to your simulations, there were tens of thousands of possible proofs that would have amounted to nothing. Your simulations narrowed the potentials down to about 10.” 

“Which still took you another five decades to complete?” Fingon sounded quite dubious and he had an eyebrow raised like he didn’t quite believe Mairon’s words. Again, for the uncounted number of times, Mairon wondered why he bothered to explain anything to Fingon - it wasn’t like the elvish prince understood any of it. 

But, genius deserved recognition. Even if the recognition didn’t quite understand how brilliant said genius was. 

“I am not sure if you’ve noticed,” Mairon told Fingon dryly while gesturing at the board. It was about half Mairon’s height, three times his height in length, and wrapped around to cover each wall of his room. Every inch of the board was covered in Mairon’s elegant shorthand. “But even a single proof takes an excruciating amount of time and rigorous cross-examination. I found the solution in 5 attempts. Baring the unlikelihood of me getting extremely lucky, the second coming of Arda would have arrived sooner than an answer to my question without the simulations to guide my path.” 

Fingon just rolled his eyes once again proving his utter incomprehension. “Sure. So, what was the point anyways? You now have a fancy equation that says we can open a doorway to the void. Great - so how do we do it?” 

“How do you somehow manage to understand less every time I talk to you?” Mairon’s question was rhetoric as he pinched his nose to demonstrate his exasperation. After spending over a century around Fingon, he had picked up a few annoying elvish gestures. “The method of how to open the void had never been in question. It is a single collapse of the universe into a single point upon which time and space are distorted. The equation specifies the exact configuration of the power application to open the void, how much energy it will take for an exact size of the opening and how long said opening will last once constructed.” 

“Wait, really?” Fingon gave the chalkboard a look of appreciation. While it was still significantly less than this discovery deserved, it was more than any of Mairon’s other discoveries had gained since… well, since Telperinquar. 

This new discovery certainly eclipsed all others, including Ringcraft. Telperinquar had created the base framework, but Mairon (with his worse head for proofs) had taken thousands of times longer to reach the conclusion he’d started. This was probably the last new thing they had collaborated on even if they’d never finished it together. And now, it would be the thing which would free Telperinquar.

It had to. 

“So, we’re done? Like, actually done?” Disbelief was an odd temperament on Fingon’s usually optimistic face - almost as odd as despair. But it also caused a bubble of joy to pool in Mairon’s stomach. 

“Yes,” Mairon could feel his cheeks slant up as he spoke. “We are in fact finished.” 

Fingon whooped and leapt to his feet. He caught Mairon around the waist and spun Mairon around in the air, all while laughing. “Done! We did it! We did it!” 

Fingon’s laughter and enthusiastic joy were contagious and Mairon was not immune. His own laughter joined Fingon’s and he allowed himself just a moment of outrageous optimism as they both congratulated themselves on the completion of a multi-century-long project. 

They did it.

“So?” Fingon asked after their euphoria settled to a more manageable level. They had somehow ended up lying next to each other on Mairon’s cramped floor. Mairon’s head was nearly hitting the wall and Fingon’s body was half under the desk and cot. But their enthusiasm was such that they felt no pain even if they had banged their bodies against wood or stone. “When can we free Maedhros and Telperinquar?” 

“Right now,” Mairon’s own trepidation was just as great as Fingon’s and he knew the math. They were more powerful than the Valar now that Mairon knew the trick to decrease the power required to open the void. It was trivial now, really, he could have done this when he was barely more than a wisp whispered about in dark corners. Even a particularly powerful elf who was in tune with Eru’s music could potentially summon enough energy to rip the fabric of reality and open a passage to the void (albeit a very small hole and for a very short period of time). 

Fingon was on his feet in an instant. “What are we waiting for? Let’s do it!” 

Mairon rose to his feet at a more gingerly pace as he told his counterpart, “Not here. We’d be caught instantly within the center of the vortex if we tried to summon that much power here and I would rather not have all my possessions sucked into the void.” 

“A field then? How about where we first met, then?” 

“Yes,” Mairon’s mind summoned the open plain that spanned the liege between Orome’s forest and Aule’s halls. They should be far away enough not to destroy anything fragile by accident and give Mairon a large enough space to work. 

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Fingon chanted as he pushed Mairon out of his room and through the now familiar stretch of halls between Mairon’s abode and the wilderness. 

Mairon allowed himself to be manhandled. He was used to Fingon’s overly touchy affection and excitement. Fingon would be even more insufferable if he protested. Once they were outside, Mairon stepped away and took his own pace to a sizeable distance away from Aule’s halls. Hopefully, this would prevent their more inventive monitors from detecting the flux of energy just long enough for Mairon to succeed. 

“Here,” He told Fingon as he eyed the grassy field. “Do you remember what will happen when I start?” 

“Duh,” Fingon would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t bouncing on his heels with excitement. “I did almost half of those simulations.” 

“The void is connected to Eru. It is both everything and nothing. Make sure you don't fit all of yourself into the opening. You'll become lost and unable to find your way back.” 

“As you've said repeatedly. I know, I know. Don't go too far in, don't let yourself be drawn in. Set only a hand in and reach for what you're looking for.” This time, Fingon really did break from his excitement to roll his eyes in exasperation, “We've been over this a million times!” 

“What do you elves like to say, safety first?” Mairon could recall Telperinquar emphatically saying that very phrase to everyone who ever stepped foot in his forges. 

“You sound like my parents, and my brother, and Finrod, and my niece, and my nephew,” Fingon continued to list all the important people in his life. It did not surprise Mairon that everyone was constantly worrying over Fingon. Even discounting the historically stupid decision to run off into enemy territory once on an almost certain suicide run, Mairon had very early on that Fingon had a habit of throwing himself into things without first thinking through all the implications. If Mairon had seen this flaw in Fingon, so too should have his family.

Fingon eventually finished his tirade and returned to the topic at hand, “We've practiced what we're about to do extensively. It'll be fine.” 

Well, if Fingon insisted, why would Mairon say otherwise? 

Mairon sat his fana down on the ground and lifted his elea up into the air as he surrounded himself with the music. There was nothing but himself and his harmony. 

Then he began to sing: 

He wove note on top of note and curled melody into the harmony as he changed a note here and a note there to pull everything closer together. 

His being circled and engulfed the plain, urging everything together, to squish together more and more. He spun and spun and coaxed just as his equations dictated, each variable a different note and every expression a crescendo. 

He felt the moment the world ripped open. Where the world once was, was nothing and the song fizzled out into an unnatural silence. But this silence had a hunger that could not be fulfilled - to keep this void open, Mairon would need to continue feeding it with more. More energy, more song. 

He began the refrain, now casting a part of his conscious back to the mortal plane and watching as Fingon approached the ripple in space (odd that the distortion was visible in the mortal plane rather than ephemeral as it was in the song) and sunk his right hand into it. Fingon’s song soon rose to join Mairon’s, coaxing for something (someone) else to reach back to him. 

Reaching for the sons of Feanor. 

“I need to sing for them?” While Fingon didn’t appear against the idea, he was certainly curious as he leaned forward toward where Mairon sat. “Why?”

“Song is the building blocks of this world,” Mairon started, “It’s the highest form of power. While your elvish ditties are significantly lacking in power, they should prove effective when compared to the nothingness that is the void.” 

“You are sure?” 

“Yes,” Mairon shuddered. When he tried, he could feel the phantom emptiness that the void clawed into its victims when he watched Melkor be swallowed up. “Anything within the void will be attracted to such an opening. So, you must ensure that you only sing of the souls you wish to save. Otherwise, you may attract anything.” 

Mairon didn’t need to say what else lurked in the void. Fingon had even more reason to never want Melkor freed than Mairon. 

“Sing of their souls?” Fingon’s voice was pitched as a question and he splayed his fingers against the table as they moved like one would pluck a string instrument. 

Mairon nodded. “It is nothing so difficult. Simply, think of the person in question and all the things they love.” 

He then opened his mouth and started a little folk rhyme. Telperinquar had always loved dwarvish songs, and so he sang of Telperinquar’s soul in such a cadence. 

He sang for only moments, but even that brought tears to his eyes: to sing of Telperinquar’s love of the forges, and of evenings looking out at Ost-in-Edhil, and of life itself. Telperinquar pure joy at every single pleasure in life had been so charming and he could only hope to witness that again when Telperinquar was saved. 

He dried his eyes by lifting a single hand to his face, while his other hand gestured at Fingon, “You try. Sing of Maedhros.” 

Without a moment of hesitation, Fingon burst into an upbeat march, his hands tapping out the tempo as he sang. He sang of stories whispered in the early morning and carefully woven crowns of flowers. He sang of careful diplomacy and warm summer days. He sang of everything Maedhros loved, thus he sang also of himself. He sang of Maedhros and thus the song of Maedhros’s song. 

When he finished, he too had tears raining down his face. But he was not nearly as genteel as Mairon, and instead used both his hands to scrunch his face up and beat away the sadness. His voice, admirably didn’t shake when he asked, “Did I do it right?” 

“Perfectly,” Mairon said before he set a sheet of paper before Fingon, “Now, you must do the same for all his brothers and his father.” 

“His brothers will be difficult,” Fingon grumbled even as he began jotting down names and notes below each one. 

“But not Feanor?” Other than smithing, Mairon wasn’t even sure what Feanor loved. They had read all the history books but no love seemed to eclipse his obsession with the Silmarils. He’d left his wife and doomed his sons all for this one thing. 

Fingon surprised him then, when he glanced up and glowered, “I’m not doing Feanor.” 

Fingon’s aggression startled Mairon. He had seen Fingon despondent, sure, but never angry. He hadn’t thought Fingon capable of such emotions. And more odd was the complete reversal of his initial proposal, “Did you not say you wanted to save Feanor and his kin? When did you change your mind?” 

“I never changed anything,” Fingon continued to sound grouchy as he explained, “I was bartering. You start with the most preposterous initial offer and then you have more leeway to bargain down. I wanted Maedhros and Telperinquar back and as many of Maedhros’s brothers as I could. But Feanor, he was never coming back. The Valar themselves declared that he wouldn’t until Melkor broke out of the void. 

I might be impulsive, but I’m not stupid. Feanor can continue to chill in the void with Melkor.” 

It was a callous statement with numerous flaws that Mairon could point out. Most importantly how cruel it would be to leave Maedhros’s father, who was loved, apart from his family. But when he opened his mouth, Fingon glared at him until he snapped it closed. 

“I don’t care what brilliant rebuttal you have in your head,” Fingon said in lieu of anything else. “I’ve made up my mind. Unless you feel particularly strongly about Feanor’s return, then you can write the song and draw him out of the void.” 

Well, Mairon didn’t feel strongly one way or the other. He wanted to free Telperinquar and he needed to help Fingon. Anything else hardly interested him. So, he shook his head. 

Fingon’s eyes didn’t exactly soften but they lost the almost cruel edge to them. “Good. Now, help me write about Caranthir. The moody bastard hardly even admitted to liking anything.” 

He sang of Maedhros first - of course, he did - in that same march that he did all those years ago when he was first asked to sing of Maedhros. He had no table to beat a rhythm with, but his left foot dug into the earth to a beat in his head and his voice was steady. He sang next of Maedhros’s brothers, one after another in decreasing age. 

Finally, he sang of Telperinquar. At first, Fingon had wondered why Mairon did not draw Telperinquar from the void but Mairon held firm in his decision. For Mairon worried he would not successfully call Telperinquar back and instead that his voice might entice Melkor. No, it was better that he forced Fingon to sing of Telperinquar even as it bothered Mairon a little how it felt to hear Telperinquar’s song on Fingon’s tongue. 

That was even assuming Mairon would be able to weave Telperinquar’s song on top of the already taxing work of holding the void open.

Mairon managed to banish those thoughts as Fingon completed his songs and yanked his hand back. Only, now, his hand was no longer empty and instead another’s was in his grasp. That hand was followed by a body, then another, then another, and so on until Fingon had yanked 8 bodies out of the void. 

Mairon instantly let the void fizzle into itself and withdrew back to his fana. When he opened his eyes, he found Fingon sitting on the ground with a pile of bodies before him. But Fingon didn't look nearly as ecstatic as he did before. Rather, he looked distraught and angered by the people before him. 

For a moment, Mairon wondered if he'd pulled Feanor out of the void in Maedhros’s place, but that amusing thought vanished the moment he set his eyes on the people. 

Or rather the vaguely elvish shaped atrocities. 

Four of the bodies were obviously elves and identifiable as Curufin, Celegorm, Caranthir, and one of the twins, but each of them was war-torn and bleeding profusely from wide gashes into the grassy plains. 

Two others were missing all identifiable traits but for their heights, their bodies little more than spent charcoal wrapped in elvish form that somehow still drew breath as evident from their barely moving chests. One of the two must be Maedhros, for after the initial shock, Fingon threw himself at the taller of the two and clutched the crumbling husk to his chest as he sobbed, his tears trailing away coated in soot. 

Another was barely chained to his fana, his fea more than half floating out of his fana which was weather-worn as if rubbed by sandpaper over centuries. Each and every crevice of his body was sanded away into a dulled edge that lacked even the ability to bleed, so caked with sand and slowly worn away that the body simply adapted to the change. His nose and fingers bore the brunt of the years - his nose nearly gone having eroded into his face and his fingers were more skeletal than bone. 

But Mairon had no eyes for any of the others’ wounds when his eyes fell on the last person: Telperinquar. 

He was the same as in Mairon’s last memory of him: bloody and broken. 

Lacerations littered his body, to reveal emancipated muscle and cracked bone. His hands were crushed, nails gone and his knuckles weeping blood from deep incursions where Mairon had surgically removed the nerves in Telperinquar’s hands. The cuts were so deep that the thin skin not peeled away was practically sliding off the sunken muscles, bone, and blood vessels that remained. The fingers bent at impossible angles from their joints and many curled back to the roof of his hands. His feet were hardly better as he could hardly stand without support from the shredded cuts along their undersides. Luckily his legs, arms, and chest were covered by thin thrall skins but Mairon knew they faired similarly bad.

But worst of all was his face, that Mairon had once ever so carefully chipped away at his beauty until only a being more grotesque than an orc stared back. Hair was torn in bloody chucks from his head and in its place were festering wounds that oozed a dark puss from the grime of Mairon’s dungeon. One of his eyes was gone, having been scooped out of its socket and fed back to him during one of their torture sessions and half his lips were gone, revealing similarly missing teeth and torn jaw muscles. 

Curufin (or the one Mairon thought must be Curufin both from his uncanny similarity in appearance to the Telperinquar in Mairon’s memories and how he was the one to react most strongly to Telperinquar’s pain) howled as his arms reached for his son while his body flinched from Mairon’s masterpiece. But he wouldn’t touch the bloodied body, maybe in fear of injuring his son or pure revulsion. 

Mairon had no such guttural dislike for the hideous, but he was frozen in place when faced with his previous actions. He did this. He was the reason Telperinquar was so mangled. 

Much of it had even been inflicted by his hand. 

“Tyelpe,” Fingon spoke softly from where he was sat in the grass cradling Maedhros’s burnt cocooned form in his lap, “Mairon is here too. He helped me with all this.” 

If Mairon needed to breathe, he would have stopped. Instead, his head filtered out all sensory inputs and stopped listening to the world's song as his entire world narrowed down to the elf Mairon had betrayed. 

Telperinquar raised his ruinous head to stare straight at Mairon. His remaining eye widened as his body flinched. His singular working eye remained still half open even after widening and taking in Mairon’s form. Once his mind recognized Mairon, his eye narrowed and his body visibly hardened, defensive. 

His mouth opened as if to say something but all that spilled out was a pint of blood as he revealed the gaping hole where his tongue once belonged through the chunks of missing teeth. 

Mairon felt flayed and frozen. There was no one to blame for Telperinquar’s state but himself. And in his revulsion, he hated himself even more for admiring the symmetry in Telperinquar’s hands, where he'd ripped out the nerves. 

But worst of all, was the horrid look of realization in Telperinquar’s eyes as no words left his mouth and he raised his arms to stare at his limp mangled hands. 

To the backdrop of Telperinqaur's wordless screams, Mairon fled.

Chapter Text

“Don’t you find it strange?” Finrod asked him, leaning against the railing and looking out into the sea. Fingon glanced over at his cousin to find the blond-haired elf pensive as Finrod so rarely was now that he was reunited with Amarie and had his own children and grandchildren to help bandage the wound that was Beleriand. 

“Find what strange?” Fingon asked, joining in on the conversation. It was highly likely that Finrod was preparing to lecture him as he was so prone to these days. Fingon found it rather unfair - just because Finrod had his happy ending, he thought he was suitable to give advice to Fingon. Most of the time Fingon filtered it out, but for some reason, he decided to humour Finrod that day. 

Finrod tilted his head back just enough that he could look at Fingon out of the corner of his eye without turning his head, “That Maia of yours. You know so little about him and yet he has devoted how much of his time to help you?” 

“I told you,” Fingon found himself reiterating an argument they’d had practically every time Fingon came to Aqualonde or Finrod made the journey to Tirion. “He’s in love with Tyelpe.” 

“Yeah, about that,” Finrod winced. “You sound like you are trying to convince yourself when you say that. Tyelpe was young when we left for Beleriand, only recently grown and rarely out of his father’s sight. When did he have time to romance a Maia? I spoke to Uinen and she told me that love between an elf and a Maia was unnatural. For them, elves are a lesser species with physical limitations that make us particularly undesirable for one of their kind. It would be like an elf falling in love with one of the Edain.” 

“But Melian fell in love with Thingol,” Fingon protested, but Finrod just levelled him with an unconvinced stare. 

“Every member of the Anuir I’ve spoken to calls Melian an anomaly. One in a species. Just as her daughter was one in a species elf to fall for a Edain.” Finrod thought for another moment, “It’s unnatural. For a higher being to fall in love with a lower one. And the gap between the Anuir and the Eldar is much greater than that between the Eldar and the Edain.” 

“So?” Fingon found himself angered on Mairon’s behalf. Mairon’s and Tyelpe’s. How dare Finrod judge their love. Just because he had a romance well within expectations with a Vanyan lady in his same social circles and well regarded by his parents, didn’t mean that he could cast judgment upon others. He didn’t understand how little choice there was in love. Mairon couldn’t help being in love with Tyelpe just like Fingon couldn’t help being in love with Russo! 

“I simply wonder if he might have an ulterior motive,” Finrod explained as he reached out to lightly touch Fingon’s clenched fist now turned to look at Fingon rather than the sea. “I don’t mean to belittle your goals. Fingon, you know I have always wished you happiness and I too am saddened to learn the true fate of Feanor’s kin. But Fingon, you must understand. There are dangers associated with the void. You know which one I speak of.” 

Fingon did not appreciate how carefully Finrod spoke around what he meant. They had grown up together and thus Fingon was immune to Finrod’s political speech. “Just say what you mean. You think he wants to free Melkor and is just using me to do it.” 

Finrod ducked his head in the perfect picture of an apology, but Fingon knew it was as fake as his hesitant tone. At least, when he lifted his head, the pinch of his lips and the tic in his cheek were genuine. As was his sigh and next words, “Yes, that's my worry. You said he needed the help of another to pull anything from the void.  Perhaps he meant well initially, but once he knew you were vulnerable and easily manipulated to help him with the void, his priorities may have changed.” 

Finrod studied Fingon’s face, no doubt taking in Fingon’s bullish appearance, “You said he'd been thinking about it already, how to open a tunnel to the void. Why else could he possibly want to reach the void, if not -” 

But Fingon wasn't about to listen to this anymore, “He’s not trying to free Melkor. He's one of the Aulendil and a researcher. Just because he's thought of it, doesn't mean anything!” 

Finrod hummed, “Maybe. Maybe not.” Before letting go of the conversation. 

Abandoned to a hoard of the nearly dead and dying, Fingon had no time to think about Mairon’s actions (or inaction). Other than the vague annoyance that Mairon had left him alone, Fingon’s mind narrowed down to Maedhros. 

Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyafinwe, Russandol. 

Russo, Russo, Russo. 

Russo who was dying in his hands, his form indecipherable but for the way Fingon’s soul sang to his. It was only their love that allowed Fingon to identify Russo and swallow back any bile that might have filled his throat in favour of wrapping his arms around his love. 

And it was Russo’s faintly rising chest that gave Fingon any sense of hope. 

He needed Russo. He needed Russo to live . He just got Russo back after so, so many years apart. He couldn’t watch Russo disappear on him.

Not again. 

But neither could he move now that Russo was in his arms once more. The act felt like the universe had righted itself once more even as his mind worried. If Russo died here would he return to the void or to Mandos? Would the Valar allow him out of the halls if he died? How long would Fingon have to wait a second time? 

If he left to find help, would Russo end up dying alone?

He didn’t even notice people approaching until someone tried to lift Russo from his arms. He looked up, protesting.

“Do not take him from me,” He begged as he looked up into the stoic face of Aule. The Vala showed no emotion as he gently pried Fingon’s hands from Russo and enveloped Russo in his thick arms. “Please.”

“Oh child,” Aule sighed, staring down at Russo, “What pain you must have endured.” 

Fingon had risen to his knees and was reaching out for Russo, then he stumbled to his legs as Aule stretched to full height, towering over Fingon, and inspected the other bodies. He nodded once before flickering away with Russo, his brothers, and Tyelpe. 

He’s going to put them back , was Fingon’s first thought, which incited panic in his chest and he flipped his head around for any indication of where Aule may have gone. He needed to chase after him, he needed to plea for Russo’s clemency. 

He needed - 

He felt an arm on his shoulder. It pressed gently, but the feeling of anything on his body felt heavy and he dropped to a knee, his head half turning in said direction to glance up at the distinct redbeard of Mahtan. 

“You did something quite dangerous child,” Mahtan’s voice was deep but in that same expressionless tone that always frightened Fingon when he was young. With his reprimanding words, he used both hands to raise Fingon on shaking legs up to a stand. 

“Ru- Maitimo,” Fingon asked, his words shaking like a newborn lamb. “Is he?” 

“Nerdanel is speaking to Aule,” Mahtan continued, “You will join me at my house.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

The walk to Mahtan’s home was silent. Mahtan stayed a half-pace ahead and kept his gaze firmly on the horizon, leading with blind confidence that Fingon would follow him. 

They headed to the left of Aule’s halls, through the thick forest and over an odd stream until the lands opened into a small clearing that was obviously clear-cut with the fallen trees used to assemble a rather sizeable log cabin. In front of the cabin was a neat garden filled with strawberry plants and high raspberries behind them. Behind the cabin was another building that Fingon figured must be a smithery due to Mahtan craft.

They went to the cabin and when they approached, the door opened to reveal Mahtan’s daughter, Nerdanel. She glanced past Fingon to set her eyes on her father to whom she nodded. Mahtan sighed and pushed Fingon into the house. 

“Sit down, Findekano,” Mahtan said in that same toneless voice. Findekano sat at the comically small table in the large dining hall just to the right of the house entry. Mahtan sat across from him and Nerdanel in the seat to their left, having pulled a chair from the sitting room. “Today is not the time to hash out previous injustices.” 

If not for the pent-up anxiety curling in his gut, Findekano might have scoffed. As it was, he sat numbly as Mahtan and Nerdanel dominated the conversation. 

“I do not want to know what you’ve done,” Mahtan continued, “But I am not displeased with your actions.” 

Nerdanel laughed and opened her mouth, speaking just as loudly as she always did, “I am very happy to have my children and grandchild returned. If only my husband could have joined them.” Nerdanel punctuated her sentence with a snide look in Fingon’s direction. 

As Nerdanel spoke, Fingon remembered why he avoided his half-uncle’s wife. 

She was a filthy enabler and a staunch Feanor supporter. 

Many thought poorly of Feanor and his erratic ways while praising Nerdanel’s actions in the final days before the darkening when really the history books recounted a severely biased depiction that was not at all accurate. 

Nerdanel never left her husband nor refuted his actions. Rather, she was gone the entire time working on a new personal project. She was gone and secluded for so long that she missed Feanor’s banishment to Formenos and the darkening of Valinor. 

She only appeared after the sun rose and according to Finarfin, was more exasperated than anything that Feanor left without her. 

Fingon had approached her exactly once after his reembodiment because he heard she had become a shipbuilding expert in the interim years. After that disastrous meeting, Fingon was rather certain that she never refuted Feanor and continued to be a staunch believer in her husband. 

Mahtan addressed Nerdanel, both of them completely ignoring Fingon, “What was Aule’s verdict?” 

“Positive! I wrangled custody.” Nerdanel flipped her hair and looked very pleased with herself, “Aule practically begged me to take them when I finished. They'll be delivered here in the next week or two.” 

“Their status?” 

“Better than you'd think! Especially with all the bleeding and crustiness and burnt bits,” Nerdanel said everything with much too much enthusiasm that Fingon’s heart stopped for a moment before she clarified, “Most of my boys are practically already back on their feet. Not that I'd expect anything less! What's a little light stabbing, after all!” 

“They were murdered!” Fingon found himself exclaiming, horrified by how blase Nerdanel was speaking. “There’s nothing light about them!” 

“Oh, little Findekano!” Nerdanel exclaimed, reaching over to rub his head, “You can be just so cute sometimes.” She then looked at her father and shrugged like Fingon couldn't add anything of importance to the conversation. 

Mahtan sighed, “I will forgive you for your ignorance, child. You spent too much time across the sea and forget how the Valar’s blessings settle across these lands. So long as they have the will to live and all their vital components are connected, none will die and instead will heal back to perfect health. Even if such healing will take time.” 

He spread his hands across the table and spoke plainly, “Under any other circumstances, I would not welcome you into my home, child. But we owe you for my grandchildren and great-grandson’s return. Our hospitality will not be free, but you may reside here while my daughter's children recover.” 

Fingon really wanted to protest. He could think of no greater torture than to share a roof with Mahtan and Nerdanel alongside the ire that still simmered between them. But nor could he abandon Russo to them, not when they were finally reunited. 

How bad could it be? 

The answer: more miserable than anything he’d experienced since returning to Aman.

Russo and the others were returned to Mahtan’s home (and as Fingon soon learnt, Nerdanel’s home. She had her own rooms and workspace separate from her father) within a fortnight of Fingon and Mairon opening a path to the void. 

Before Russo and the others arrived, Mahtan and Nerdanel had Fingon clearing out guest rooms and redecorating them with a box for each of the returned elves. As Fingon worked, he realized that the home had exactly enough rooms for Mahtan, Nerdanel, each of Nerdanel’s sons, and Nerdanel’s grandson. Each box contained items that Fingon vaguely recalled belonging to each of them. 

Russo’s room was filled with a collection of books: both fiction and non-fiction. Fairytales and treaties. The box also contained old ribbons of Fingon’s (Yes Fingon did cry, but only after the door was closed and Fingon was certain neither Mahtan nor Nerdanel could hear him) which he laid next to the bed so that Russo may see them and think of Fingon and know that Fingon loved him and forgave him for any of his faults. 

Fingon also paused when setting up Tyelpe’s room, finally noting Mairon’s absence. He turned that moment over in his head - the moment when Tyelpe glanced up at Mairon with only shock on his face. Mairon, in lieu of saying anything fled and Tyelpe collapsed to the ground right after. It should have been a sweet moment of lovers reuniting and yet there was something off about it. Tyelpe definitely recognized Mairon, but it wasn’t love in his eyes, or at least from what few moments Fingon saw between his obsessive gaze on Russo. 

But why had Mairon run? He had been just as determined as Fingon to free Tyelpe and see his love once more. It was odd, unless… Had their relationship been one-sided? Had Mairon loved Tyelpe secretly? 

But even that did not quite explain that odd incongruency between them in those final moments. 

He could not figure anything out and as he laid out the few trinkets that were not childhood toys in Tyelpe’s room, he scoured the box for anything that might link back to Mairon. They must have met here before Tyelpe followed his father and uncles across the sea. But there was nothing. No secret diary or doodle that might indicate a meeting. 

It really looked like either Mairon had watched Tyelpe from afar or he wasn’t all that important to Tyelpe (or Nerdanel had thrown away any evidence of their relationship. Fingon wouldn’t put it past her). 

Fingon really put too much thought into it over the next few days. Partly to avoid the sinking dread in his gut over Russo’s health and partly to avoid thinking about Mahtan and Nerdanel who were continuing to passive-aggressively make their ire known (well, Mahtan was passive-aggressive, Nerdanel had probably forgotten that she was mad in the first place and was back to treating him like he was a 20-year-old elfling). 

You make one aggressive comment about Feanor and suddenly Mahtan and Nerdanel have a problem with you that lasts (for Mahtan) millennia.  

Fingon felt his heart jump to his throat when one of Aule’s Maia arrived with the returned elves in tow. It was only Mahtan’s not-quite glare (but raised eyebrows) that stayed Fingon’s fluttering feet and forced him to step back as the Maia strolled in with the elves tucked one by one into his cape. He stepped forward and went, room by room, depositing a body to each bed. 

Once complete, the Maia bowed shallowly, more a slight nod of their head than anything, to Mahtan before asking, their voice rattled the inside of Fingon’s mind. Never more did he wish the Maia was Mairon who despite his superiority complex, would always tuck himself nicely into his fana to accommodate elven bodies. “Do you require further assistance?” 

Mahtan, who had severe exposure to all of Aule’s Maiar and was particularly stoic, showed no sign of discomposure when he responded, “We should be enough to handle the day-to-day work. A healer would be appreciated.” 

The Maia nodded, their face shrowd in cloth. Fingon couldn’t help but wonder if it was due to a desire to not conform to elvish sensibilities. Once again his mind drifted to Mairon who he was starting to realize may be an anomaly among the Anuir. 

He had met Osse and Ulien through his friendship with Finrod, but it wasn't until he started appealing to the Valar that he found himself faced with various Maiar and most of the Valar. Few took on a humanoid form and fewer still made themselves accommodating for elvish conversation. But Mairon, upon first meeting could have perfectly blended into an elvish town if not for his location and the way he perfectly sidestepped Fingon’s running jump. 

“We will acquiesce,” The Maia said, drawing Fingon’s attention back to the conversation. Without waiting any longer For any other questions, the Maia turned and left. 

Mahtan frowned, his brows drawing just slightly into his face, but Fingon didn't wait for him to speak as he dashed to Russo’s room and to the slumped form on a bed. 

Fingon’s breath caught. 

Laying on the bed was Russo. Or, a visibly identifiable Russo. Gone was the char that coated his body and became one with his skin such that Fingon feared Russo would crumble away in his arms. Now, although his skin was ruddy and peeling from flame exposure and his hair was shorn so shirt that there was little more than a red fuzz on his head, it was Russo. It was undeniably Russo. 

Tears welled up in Fingon’s eyes and he brushed them away so that they could not obscure his vision, worried that if he moved his eyes, Russo might vanish. He fell more than ran towards the bed, throwing himself beside Russo and taking his limp, no longer charcoal, hand in both of his, pressing Russo’s fingers to his cheek. 

“Russo,” Fingon breathed as he watched Russo’s chest move slowly in deep breaths. Russo was alive. He was breathing. 

He cried into Russo’s shoulder. He could not say how long he spent curled into Russo’s side, barely believing that he finally had Russo back. He stayed until he heard footsteps and looked up to find Nerdanel standing behind him. 

Although they had their own differences and their past argument still hung between them unresolved, Fingon backed away and let Nerdanel have a moment with her eldest son. 

Silent tears slid down her ruddy face as she set her hand on Russo’s cheek. 

“I can hardly believe they are returned to me,” She whispered, her voice faint and choked. “I had given up on ever seeing them again.” 

“I could not give up,” Fingon found himself responding as her lament hung in the air between them, “Never. I could never give up. Not even if Arda renewed came before I saw him again.” 

Nerdanel lifted her head, even as a hand remained fixed on her son like she must not stop touching him lest he float away. “Thank you,” her voice shook and her eyes were filled with tears, yet her words rang with sincerity, “Thank you for not giving up on my children.” 

Fingon could only nod, his own words clogged in his throat. 

Nerdanel turned back to her son. She caressed his cheek and bent down to place a kiss on Russo’s forehead before lifting herself up and forcing herself away. She nodded once at Fingon and then was gone. 

As Fingon watched her go, he realized that she had 8 loves returned to her unlike Fingon’s one. How heartbreaking must it be to have to choose between your children and grandson for a bed to sit beside? 

And yet how glad must her heart be to have them returned. 

Chapter Text

Days passed and slowly Nerdanel’s sons awoke. First Amras, then Caranthir, then Celegorm and Curufin. Each professed disorientation when they awoke, their bodies flinching as if expecting another blow and their eyes staring up at Nerdanel and Mahtan as if they were little more than illusions. 

It was Fingon, actually, that cemented this as reality in all of Nerdanel’s sons. When he appeared, gold in his hair and Sindarin on his tongue proved such a dissonance that their minds could no longer pretend this an illusion. 

Amras cried. His mind was so jarred by this new experience that he cried in a confusing mixture of Sindarin and Quenya. His mother collected him into her arms and he alternating whispered apologizes and screams of incoherent terror. They learnt very quickly that he remembered the void, recounted it as utter darkness and blinding light, a cacophony of nothing and everything where his fea was torn apart bit by bit and reconstructed even as it crumbled. 

Caranthir had no such memories. He was quieter than Amras. He had once been so much louder than Amras but now, weathered by Beleriand and grief, his words were soft. In that soft voice, he told them of the Oath, more than even Russo had ever mentioned to Fingon. He told them how it ensnared their mind, made everything but the goal of reclaiming the Silmarils cloudy until nothing else made sense. He spoke of how slowly the Oath wormed its way through them. How one small concession made perfect sense and bookended into another until their hands were bloodied once more. How even that blood seemed inconsequential to the prize left unclaimed. 

Celegorm spoke of the seeping dread. Of the despair that left them nihilistic, and the anger that drove them to burn the world down around them. He spoke of a cage, set around him and with the angry maw of the Oath at their heels as they fled, burning everything down before them. Of the never-ending anger that the Oath fostered until they could feel no joy. 

And Curufin said nothing at all. Instead, he drifted to Tyelpe’s rooms and silently watched his slumbering son. 

Upon first glance, Tyelpe was much healed from when he first left the void, but upon closer inspection, it was superficial improvements. The cuts were scared, no longer seeping pus and his deeper wounds scabbed over. But one eye remained missing and his hands were bent at impossible angles. And if one observed Tyelpe for consecutive days, they would notice that the scars would burst open again and his scabs shed off to reveal dark blood before repeating the process once again.

He was inarguably still ruined, even if he was no longer dying. Just as Russo had been even after he was healed from his stint in Angband. 

But Curufin cared not at all for Tyelpe’s ruined appearance as he sat at Tyelpe’s bedside and gently stroked his son’s cheeks, pink from all its scaring or black when the wounds reopened themselves. 

Nerdanel stood behind her son and slowly drapped an arm across his shoulders. For a moment Curufin hesitated before leaning into her touch. Celegorm, who had followed them in, snarled, “Who was it? Who would dare to harm him so?” 

“It was Sauron,” Fingon answered when Nerdanel stayed silent. They had both heard the news second hand but Fingon had more experience recounting horrors to grieving parents. “They say he held Telperinquar captive for years.” 

Curufin howled when Fingon finished, one single outcry of rage and grief as he stared down at his son. And Fingon couldn’t blame him. Curufin knew Sauron’s cruelty. He had known another of his playthings. Maedhros may have been spared some of Sauron’s attention but he spent many more years under Sauron’s hands. 

But where Curufin was mute, Celegorm was vocal, a seemingly reverse of their old ways, “Again he torments our family! Again he targets our kin! Does he bear us some grudge?” Celegorm paused for a moment before shaking his head, “Forget it. I know he does.”

“You are safe here,” Nerdanel told her sons, the hand around Curufin's shoulder stroked his arm in a soothing pattern while her other arms reached out to gingerly touch Celegorm's hand. “Safe to heal and to be happy.” 

It was then that Curufin finally spoke in response to his mother’s comforting words with naught but aggression, “And who dictates that we will be happy? When we have done so much wrong to this world? Maybe we would be better off dead and forgotten.” 

He fell silent after that, his gaze continued to rest solely on Celebrimbor even as Nerdanel’s face slid back to despair. 

“He doesn’t mean that,” Celegorm tried to comfort his mother once they left Curufin at Celebrimbor’s bedside, “He worries about Tyelpe and he knows we have much to atone for.” 

Fingon had not thought Celegorm would be the one to bring up atonement. But then again, he never thought Curufin would ever admit to wrongdoing. Perhaps they had grown in the void. 

Nerdanel certainly agreed with Fingon’s assessment but had opposite opinions about the matter as she turned her eyes to her son with no little amount of rage and blinding conviction, “You have nothing to atone for.” 

A statement Fingon would fight and the center of his greatest disagreement with Nerdanel. But before he could interject, Celegorm countered his mother with a measured and firm response that once again surprised Fingon. “Of course we do. We have wronged those who should have been our kin over and over again. We have committed atrocities that only Morgoth and his slaves would dare.” 

“You have done nothing but try to reclaim what is yours! You drew your blade on those who angered you first!” Nerdanel claimed. Her words caused an anger to well up in Fingon’s stomach that didn’t dissipate when she continued but did soften his eyes a little.

“And how should you atone? Where will you go so you may leave me again?” Nerdanel turned to him, hysterics shaking her body, “Do you return to me just so you will leave again?” 

“Our Anger should not have resulted in bloodshed. I’ve talked to Carnistir and Ambarussa about how we might beg forgiveness,” Celegorm whispered as he set his arms around his mother. “Not to leave you. We would never do that again. But to make your life better.” 

He paused and his eyes met Fingon’s. “We- have been horrible sons to you. We have blasphemed in your name, in our father’s name. For that, we must atone. We would have you proud to be our mother again.” 

Fingon found himself staring. Never did he think it would be Celegorm and Caranthir who would concern themselves with atonement. Those two had always appeared the most unrepentant of all Feanor’s sons, perfectly content to do whatever was necessary to fulfil their own desires. Fingon had heard people speak that Curufin was worse than Celegorm, but Fingon found himself disagreeing, he had never found Curufin embroiled in trouble that Celegorm did not first insert himself into. 

And evidently, Nerdanel felt the same. “I have never been anything but proud to have you as my sons. You need not say anything to me. I have faced the ire of others on your behalf many times and I care not if I must do so again.” 

But Nerdanel’s words only made Celegorm frown. “We know that isn’t true. Ambarussa heard you and grandfather talking. And-” Celegorm cut off for a moment as his eyes wandered and met Fingon’s. Fingon was surprised to see a level of empathy in them that Fingon had never thought Celegorm possessed. “And it isn’t just for you. We want to do this.” 

“Why?” Nerdanel pressed, her hands gently reached up and traced Celegorm’s sharp cheekbones. Her lips were pursed and her eyes pained. 

Fingon was wondering the same. He was equally surprised as Nerdanel when Celegorm answered, his eyes seeking out Fingon. 

“I didn’t die instantly. None of us three did. We all bled slowly to death surrounded by our compatriots and the elves we had slain.” Celegorm paused, his eyes flashing to Fingon’s and they shared a moment of shuddering empathy. Fingon too had died slowly if more in agony than Celegorm’s sword holes, but still, he knew the slow certainty of death that Celegorm spoke of. It was something Fingon detested thinking of as his body would still lock up when memories of trampling feet stormed above him. 

Perhaps it wasn’t just for Russo that he picked a home far from crowds. 

Celegorm then returned his attention to his mother whose face was red with tears and anger. Her throat hiccuped with a mixture of emotions and her hands clenched until they were white on Celegorm’s shoulders. 

But Celegorm was well accustomed to the anger of his family and only smiled. “We had a lot of time to think before death consumed us. And we all individually realized the futility of our actions. We had condemned ourselves to the void when Morgoth slayed our grandfather and stole the Father’s greatest works. We deluded ourselves in our fear that perhaps we could avoid such a fate if we could touch even one of the Silmarils.” 

Celegorm bowed his head, “And to that end, we turned our aggression on the undeserving who should never have had to fear the wrath of the fearful.” 

“You have paid your price,” Nerdanel argued, her hands gesturing to the myriad of rooms filled with her children and grandson pained and practically dying, “You were held longest by the Valar than any elf and returned with all your worldly pains like none other! What could you have done that you have not endured worse and for longer!” 

“Many of them suffered less than we did!” Fingon cried out, his anger surging. He had heard how many of them died. Had seen the wounds left behind. So many of their bodies were so much more intact than any piece of Fingon. The fact that Celegorm was able to converse with Amras and Caranthir and the fact that Curufin currently sat at his son’s bedside showed that some were punished much less. So much less than Russo. 

Nerdanel turned and glared at him, her green irises almost molten with anger. But before she could snap and no doubt rehash old arguments, Celegorm brought his own hand to her shoulder and set his forehead to her cheek. 

“Fingon - Findekano is right,” Celegorm whispered. Fingon had never felt such vindication in his life. That his and Nerdanel’s argument should be resolved by her own son and the source of all their differences said much to Fingon’s point. “We have only been punished for our Oath, but not yet the actions we performed in fear of said Oath.” 

“And,” Celegorm continued, his eyes trailing to Curufin in Celebrimbor’s bedroom as well as the still closed rooms of Russo, Maglor, and Amrod, “Some of us have suffered more than their fair share of the Oath’s ire. We would take on more of our kin’s ire and spare them further misery.” 

“No,” Nerdanel’s voice, while hoarse, was loud and his fists were clenched, “No, you may not go. You and your brothers have done enough. You have left me enough. You will stay here where you will be safe.” 

“But Mother-” Celegorm was cut off as Nerdanel’s voice was thunder. 

“Enough! Tyelkormo, you will listen to your mother and not seek out atonement!” 

Celegorm huffed, but he had never argued much with Nerdanel, Fingon remembered, belatedly. Celegorm had always been the most argumentative and crass ner he’d ever encountered and even Russo despaired at reining in his most belligerent brother. But he also remembered Russo mentioning how well Celegorm listened to Nerdanel. 

“It is odd,” Russo mussed. He had both arms by his head and his single hand was running through his hair and pulling strands from the braids Fingon had lovingly placed into it this morning. Fingon had approached Russo after overhearing an argument between Russo and his troublemaking brothers. Apparently, Celegorm and Curufin had conspired to overthrow Finrod and nearly succeeded. Russo had been pacing and ranting when Fingon had entered the room but the aggression had slowly lessened into a begrudging despondency. “I fear my brothers will soon be beyond my means to control.” 

He means the Oath, Fingon realized. He is talking about his own authority over his brothers weighed against the Oath. 

Fingon had never asked Russo too much about the Oath. Just its reminder made Fingon awfully bitter and resentful of the loyalty Russo had towards his father and how Feanor wielded said loyalty like a blade. The few times Russo had mentioned it, he’d likened it to a single lifeline in an endless ocean as waves crashed down and rose meters high into the horizon. 

“Their actions are not yours,” Fingon tried to comfort Russo as he sat next to his lover and wrapped a careful arm around Russo’s shoulders. “They have long been grown and require no keepers.” 

“And yet,” Russo paused as he turned to gaze at Fingon. He sat slumped into himself and when he turned, his head angled upwards to look at Fingon, an unusual position made all the more unusual by how lost Russo looked. He was always so confident and made each decision with a surety that Fingon could only hope to emulate. “They are my little brothers. I was there for their births, I helped my parents raise them! In our parent’s absence, it falls to me to look after them.” 

They had argued about this before. Extensively. But Russo loved his brothers too much for Fingon to make any headway in untangling their codependency. 

Instead, Fingon tried to comfort him again, “They are here and safe in your domain. They love you too much to do any such overthrowing in your keep.” 

That, at least, got a snort from Russo as he relaxed slightly and set his head into the space between Fingon’s shoulders and his head. They stayed like that for a while just listening to each other’s breathing and feeling each other’s warmth. 

Finally, Russo admitted, his voice rasping into Fingon’s throat, “I wish my mother was here.” 

“Why?” Fingon asked. He had never thought much of Nerdanel after leaving for Beleriand and now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen her for quite some time before that. But his impression of her was that she would have caused more chaos than not. 

His question made Russo laugh again. “I have always been best at corralling Maglor and the twins. My father was best at directing Curufin and Caranthir. But my mother, my mother was the only one who could push Celegorm around.” 

That had made Fingon shoot up and ask with surprise, “He listens to her?” 

Fingon could hardly believe that Celegorm would listen to anyone except maybe Curufin and even then Curufin more tricked Celegorm into things than anything else. 

“Without question,” Russo smiled, “He listens to her more than you listen to your king.” 

And Fingon had to laugh even when Russo’s joke was set as a dig towards himself. And he was relieved that Russo was finally able to poke fun at everything that happened. Even if he took care not to make a joke that was too insensitive.

Still, it was strange to watch Celegorm cringe away from his mother who was slimmer and shorter than him. But more strange was how the often aggressive and loud elf that Fingon had come to be familiar with in Beleriand shrunk and cowered under his mother’s glare. 

In response to his mother’s scream, Celegorm ducked his head, allowing his loose hair to flow over his head and conceal his face. It was the perfect picture of acquiescence and Fingon saw Nerdanel nod her head in victory. 

But before she could relish in said conquest, the hand of her next youngest son patted Celegorm’s shoulder and Caranthir stepped around his brother, partly pushing Celegorm to the side and behind him. He stared Nerdanel straight in the eyes and told her, “Mother, we will not be undermined by your blustering. We have made our decision and we will stick to it.” 

Amras poked his head out of his room, no doubt hearing the commotion and nodded vigorously in Caranthir’s defence. 

“Why must you all be so thickheaded? Each one of you is more stubborn than Feanaro ever was!” Nerdanel exclaimed, her eyes blazing and her voice loud enough to resonate with the stone walls. “I am your mother! And more importantly, I have lived in Aman for the entirety of your absence. I know what the people want! I have heard it over and over again! So why don’t you listen to me?” 

Nerdanel was good at igniting anger in others and Caranthir had always been an easily angerable sort of person, even before Beleriand. So it was no wonder when with his face just as red as Nerdanel’s and matching the flush of her hair, he screamed back, “Whose fault is that? You are just as pigheaded if not more than father! I told Tyelko not to try reasoning with you because when has that ever helped?” 

Nerdanel scoffed, “I am perfectly capable of listening to reasoning. But it isn’t reasoning you speak of but nonsense. And instead of listening to me, you try to browbeat me into your position!” 

“A little hypocritical of you,” Caranthir returned, his face set into a sneer. By the light in both Caranthir and Nerdanel’s eyes and the concern in Amras’s, Fingon couldn’t help but think that arguments between mother and son were common even if he’d never heard Russo speak of it. “When you do the same things to us. Have you forgotten that we are no longer children in need of coddling? You may have remained behind in peaceful Aman, but we went to Beleriand and became warlords. We know hardship and loss better than you ever could!” 

Nerdanel flinched when he spoke and Fingon immediately thought of that bleached white beech where he first reunited with Nerdanel and the wraithlike state of Russo’s mother as she watched the slowly lapping waves with yearning and something akin to hatred. He couldn’t help but think that perhaps she did understand their suffering, even if only a little. 

But she would never admit to anything, not if she could instead get angry. Just as she had on the shore, she raised her head proudly and continued to argue, “And how does that help you now? What wars will you wage with swords and spears? Or will you take your belligerent learnings and attack your own mother?” 

“Moryo,” Celegorm’s voice was fainter than Fingon had ever heard and he bumped Caranthir’s head with his own.

But Caranthir’s rage was beyond placating with Celegorm’s brotherly affection as he pushed Celegorm’s head away and continued his tirade, “It can hardly be an attack if you are screaming back. Do you not hear yourself, mother? It is because of this blood on our hands that we must repent.” 

“Repent. Repent. Repent. Do you know any other words?” Nerdanel’s voice continued to bite and she sneered right back at her son’s pinched expression. “I thought you better with words than this. Did you forget all of the lessons your father and I paid for when you decided war was more important than your family?” 

“More important than family?” Now it was Caranthir’s turn to scoff, “We swore that Oath because family was more important to us than anything else. But where were you? Tucked away in some corner of Aman that even Father could not find. After abandoning us for your work, you have the audacity to ask if I value anything over family.” 

Caranthir had dug deep in his insults and Nerdanel’s face paled even as it reddened with anger. Fingon feared what she might scream in retaliation, but luckily before she could form an argument, Mahtan’s cold and firm voice called out in a tone louder than Fingon had ever heard. 

“Enough.” He stormed into the house with Amras trailing silently behind him. When had Amras left to find Mahtan? But Fingon knew it was the correct decision as his first word managed to sap the fight from both Caranthir and Nerdanel who turned to look at their grandfather and father respectively with no small amount of shame. “We are family. When none other will stand up for us, we have each other. Do not so easily cause strife between us.” 

He glared at both Caranthir and Nerdanel in turn before huffing, “Instead let us talk civilly. Best to discuss and lose any heat on our tongues in favour of the fire in our hearts.” 

He gestured calmly and to Fingon’s surprise, both Caranthir and Nerdanel followed the command mutely as they wandered to the sitting room and took places opposite to each other. Fingon wanted nothing more than to return to Russo’s room and allow his family to sort themselves out, but Celegorm reached out and clung to Fingon’s arm with nails practically digging into Fingon’s arm. Celegorm then dragged Fingon beside him, whispering, “Stay. You should hear this too.” 

Fingon might have shrugged Celegorm’s arm off, but he was slightly interested. They were speaking of redemption and he worried endlessly about what it might mean for Russo. So, he let Celegorm pull him into the sitting room evidently made for a large family and tuck him into a chair in the corner before Celegorm moved towards his two conscious and participating brothers. Celegorm slung an arm over Amras’s shoulder and pressed two fingers to Caranthir’s elbow. Amras, in turn, leaned into Celegorm while Caranthir set his own fingers gently against Celegorm’s. 

Mahtan, the mediator of the argument sat between his daughter and grandsons and with a sigh began, “What is the conflict?” He then held up a hand when both Nerdanel and Caranthir opened their mouths to argue. “No, Tyelkormo, explain it to me.” 

And so, Celegorm righted himself up just a little and recounted the argument, starting from his own talking points to Caranthir and Nerdanel’s arguing. When he finished, Mahtan only nodded before turning to his daughter, “We have heard from Celegorm why he and his brothers wish to venture out and seek pardon. While I know what fears drive you, my daughter, it would benefit the children to know these concerns.” 

But Nerdanel said nothing but gasp as she curled into herself and tears streamed from her face. Mahtan prompted her once more before sighing and pulling her into his arms. He slowly shushed her as he ran a hand through her hair and turned to his grandchildren (and Fingon) to explain, “Very few must seek redemption in Aman. Elves all determine and settle their grievances in Mandos prior to their release. Thus it is only the Maiar who need to search for forgiveness in the land of the living.” 

Fingon picked at the chair’s fabric as Mahtan spoke. He remembered his own trials that he’d undergone for his crimes while dead. He had not thought of how Russo and his brothers might have skipped such a step, how they were still liable for these hurts.

“The Anuir are not so kind to their own. They lack the empathy that we elves share,” Mahtan stopped and let the words simmer. He then continued with that same lethargic pace, “Few of the punishments are communicated with us beyond assurances that the Anuir in question has been sufficiently punished. The last and most public was that of the one you know as Sauron.” 

Fingon jolted. He remembered little of Sauron’s punishment beyond the necessity to return something to each elf he hurt - or something like that. His anger towards Sauron had all but vanished the moment he was reborn or was an anger on behalf of another which felt unfair to verbalize in Russo or Tyelpe’s stead. And more than that, Fingon worried that his anger would be too great if he saw the one who caused those he loved so much pain. 

“The Valar’s punishment was particularly cruel. He spent millennia flayed and torn apart before the summit of the Valar’s power, left in the elements and on display for any visiting elves or brethren. As the Valar peeled apart his eala and nailed it back together. When finally the Valar were satisfied with their punishment they relented Sauron into the hands of the elves.” Mahtan broke to grimace. It was the most expressive Fingon had ever seen Mahtan and he knew that this was not something he was going to enjoy hearing. 

“I had thought the Valar’s punishment harsh, but I was appalled by the hurts our kin levied against him. Each elven kingdom took their turns holding Sauron and breaking him apart. Unlike the Valar, we have little understanding of what would or would not harm the Anuir, thus each King called upon those most harmed by Sauron and worked out the most wretched of horrors.” 

Mahtan did not elaborate further on the specifics and instead concluded, “Sauron found shelter in Aule’s halls after completing his punishment where for another two ages he could retain no form greater than a single flame. Even so, the Valar decreed that he also give reparations to each elf impacted even tangentially by his actions. We, the Aulendil, watched as he destroyed himself those first years as he forced himself into an elvish form and prostrated himself before each visitor.” 

Fingon felt a little sick even as he also couldn't help but feel satisfied with Sauron’s punishment. But that satisfaction faded with Mahtan's next words.

“Your mother fears that such a punishment may befall you who avoided redemption in Mandos. Even the Lessar of Melkor's servants reportedly suffered similarly to Sauron.” 

Fingon felt sick. Nauseous. And terrified. He could not fathom such a thing levied at any elf let alone Russo who had already suffered so much. Amras shook, no doubt thinking of such punishment but both Celegorm and Caranthir were relaxed still, easing into one another.

“Better us then,” Celegorm spoke and Fingon had to commend how his voice was full of conviction. “The others have already suffered enough.”

"But why should any of you be subjected to that!” Nerdanel exclaimed, rising from her father's side with eyes welling up with tears, “The Valar have lost their chance and already withheld you longer than any. Is that not punishment enough?”

“Perhaps for the Valar,” Caranthir whispered but in the silence of the room, it felt like a shout, "But the elves never judged us. To them, we have faced nothing and it is to them that we must atone.” 

“But their punishments are terrible!" Nerdanel exclaimed, “Sauron spent centuries under elvish punishment, how long would you be away?”

Fingon heard her unspoken question, You would leave me again? But both Nerdanel and Caranthir pretended not to hear the question. 

“Better that we announce ourselves now than to be dragged away later,” Caranthir argued, his back ramrod straight and he’d shaken off Celegorm’s touch. “If we approach them for culpability and leniency, arguably our punishment will be lesser than should they think we are unrepentant.” 

“Or you face nothing,” Nerdanel countered, but with her father’s hand on her shoulder, she refrained from screaming. And Caranthir answered her in kind. 

“Unlikely. We murdered other elves. Such terrors would not be forgotten nor forgiven without our intervention,” Caranthir inspected his mother’s face for a moment before adding, “And we could not forgive ourselves without at least attempting to make amends.”  

“So you would condemn yourselves?” Nerdanel shuddered and Mahtan pulled her close. Tears glistered her eyes and her voice shook but not pitched loud enough to be angry. “You would force me to watch as my children are made into a massacre of themselves? You would watch your little brothers be torn apart?” 

Caranthir, perhaps admirably, floundered with this question. His eyes flickered to Amras even if he showed no other outwardly signs, this small action appeared to settle Nerdanel who settled and even partly reached for her middle son. But before Caranthir or Nerdanel could come to any consensus or further argument, Amras spoke up, “We accept the possible ramifications! But, maybe” Amras’s voice trailed off and he appeared almost sheepish, “We could first submit ourselves to grandfather? He would be lenient and help us.” 

“Your grandfather?” Now Nerdanel was surprised as she exchanged a glance with Mahtan. “Why would your grandfather have any sway?” 

“I meant grandfather Finwe,” Amras corrected, “He is the King again, yes? He is family and he loved us immensely before the Oath.” 

Mahtan blinked before correcting his grandson, “Finwe has not been king since before his death. Arafinwe continues to hold kingship amongst the Noldor.” 

“However,” Mahtan broke off any rebuttal from his grandsons as he stroked his beard in an action very similar to what Aule had done when Fingon and Mairon pleaded for his help, “You are Noldor and thus under the prerogative of the Noldorians to punish as they see fit. Arafinwe has always struck me as the kindest of Indis’s progeny. If you approached him with repentance in your heart, I do not believe he would punish you as Sauron was.” 

“We might then go to Arafinwe and mediate on a punishment that will not keep us away for long and allow us to visit you. Grandfather could come with us and ensure the punishment is fair,” Amras continued. His two brothers both nodded at him when he concluded. 

“Would that be acceptable?” Caranthir challenged, his gaze firm on Nerdanel, “Mother?” 

Nerdanel let out a single breath, long and ragged and nodded. She then stumbled to her feet and wandered to her children, all of whom stood to meet her, and pulled them tightly into her arms. 

Their moment was only broken by a strangled cry. It was Curufin who was sitting with his son.

Chapter Text

They all rushed to Celebrimbor’s room. Fingon’s heart was pounding. What if something happened to Celebrimbor? What if his condition had worsened or he died! Mairon may have run off for some reason that Fingon could still not determine, but he knew how dismayed Mairon would be if anything happened to Celebrimbor. 

But when they burst into the room, Celegorm elbowing his way to the front towards his favourite brother, they found, instead of the tragedy Fingon had been fixating on in his head, that Celebrimbor was awake!

He was weak, his father having to support his head for him to see the visitors and his single eye was only partially open, but he was awake. 

Curufin cradled Celebrimbor to his chest with one hand setting Celebrimbor’s head to his shoulder. Tears poured down Curufin’s face as he stared down at Celebrimbor with a mixture of horror, sorrow, and joy. Celegorm immediately leapt to his brother and wrapped his own arms around Curufin while brushing his knuckles against Celebrimbor’s scarring cheek. His touch was gentle and he took care to avoid any still open wounds and glance gently over his scabs. 

“Tyelpe,” Celegorm breathed. Fingon felt all of Celebrimbor’s present family take in a collective gasp. 

Celebrimbor nodded before wincing. Curufin shushed his son and pulled him closer, “Don’t move. You’ve hurt yourself enough.” 

While Curufin’s voice was harsh and hoarse, Celebrimbor seemed to settle into his father’s arms and let Celegorm gently inspect him, touching his wounds and rewrapping bandages. Celegorm asked Celebrimbor no questions and instead interpreted his answers based on how tightly he would hold himself if Celegorm touched certain areas. 

Finally, Celegorm stared up at his nephew from where he knelt below the bed and asked, “Your mouth. Tyelpe, you speak not a word, what has he done to your mouth?” 

Celebrimbor hesitated for a moment before relenting to the soothing touches of his father and uncle. He slowly parted his lips, revealing rotting gums and missing teeth before splitting those two to show the depths of his festering mouth. For within was flame-cauterized skin where a tongue should be. 

“Tyelpe,” Nerdanel whimpered as she saw just a glimpse of the horrors her family fought in Beleriand. 

All of Celebrimbor’s family looked like they were about to cry as they crowded around the youngest member of their family. Fingon, feeling that this was a private moment, slipped out the door and wandered a few doors down to where Russo slept. 

He entered to find Russo exactly where he left him when he first heard that Curufin had awoken.

He was so beautiful. To be fair, Fingon had always found Russandol stunning even when he rescued Russo’s emancipated form from the cliffs of Thangorodrim. Even when Russo first emerged from the void, blackened and literal charcoal in Fingon’s arms, he still found Russo enthralling even if his heart and body sobbed for Russo’s pains. But since being returned from Aule’s healers, Russo had been the epitome of a slumbering beauty. His cheeks were once again unblemished save for the faint but healing red lines where his old scaring used to fester. His hair, while shorn, was standing to attention with a luxurious bounce as it hadn't since the earliest days of Beleriand, before his hair decayed and became coarse from exposure to Morgoth’s evil. 

But best of all was his slowly rising chest that proved to Fingon that he was still alive. 

“Russo,” Fingon said, slipping into an odd mixture of Sindarin with Quenyan endearments as they had spoken to each other in private in Beleriand, “Curufin woke up. This makes 4 of your brothers awake and well. He went straight to Tyelpe’s bedside and guess what?” 

Fingon paused and he could almost imagine Russo’s chest shaking with amusement and the chagrin smile on his lips when noticed he laughingly told him, “You know I never guess correctly.”

Fingon would always laugh at Russo then and even with Russo still asleep, he couldn’t fight the smile on his lips when he said, “Tyelpe woke up not long after! Almost like he was waiting for his father’s presence before waking up!” 

Fingon sobered after that as he remembered how stressed Russo would be if he saw Celebrimbor’s state. “He'll be okay. I promise, Russo. The entire family will protect him and help him. But he would be better with you there as well. So wake up Russo. Tyelpe needs you.” 

He then admitted, “I need you.” 

But if he heard Fingon, Russo showed no signs. He continued to sleep. 

Weeks later, Russo, Maglor, and Amrod continued to sleep and Celebrimbor had barely healed. Curufin stayed at his side for as long as Celebrimbor could stand to be around another. Caranthir and Amras had left for Tirion under their Mahtan’s guidance to seek out Finarfin. Celegorm would have gone with them had Curufin not needed him and if he was not the best one at treating wounds. 

They found out when Aule’s healer stopped by that Celebrimbor’s wounds would heal slowly if not at all for they were infected with the malice of an anuir and even the one who inflicted these wounds may not be able to fully draw the evil from them. 

Celebrimbor had sobbed at those words as he stared at his ruined hands. Curifin had cried for his son. 

The two had been inconsolable and snapping at any who entered the room. Fingon had also felt the heady pressure of excruciating screams transmitted intently through Osanwe that Fingon interpreted as Celebrimbor screaming at Curufin through the doors at times but Curufin never left. That single action made Fingon respect Curufin much more than anything Maedhros’s brother had ever done in Beleriand. 

After two tense weeks of Celebrimbor and Curufin’s isolation - two weeks of Nerdanel loudly fretting (when she wasn't banished to her workshop by her father) and two weeks of leaving meals at Celebrimbor’s door, Curufin finally exited the room and invited the family to speak with Celebrimbor. 

“Do not talk about the Second age,” Curufin warned, “Or Sauron. Do NOT under any circumstances mention the damage Sauron inflicted upon his body.” 

“He will communicate in Osanwe, but do not push him if he says nothing.” Curufin’s expression was fierce but there was a tone of pain under it even as he opened the door and let his mother, grandfather and present brother through the door. Fingon was more bemused than miffed when Curufin looked his way and then slammed the door shut in his face. 

Fingon wasn't sure what the family discussed that day, but the evening meal was composed of a plethora of red-eyed and tired elves. Celebrimbor did not join them that evening but in subsequent days he would drift down the hallway, one hand on the wall and the other clutched to his father as Curufin practically carried his son to the table. Celebrimbor's face would be covered with a veil and he had to be coaxed and fed into eating, his hands remaining firmly hidden under the table.

And so they reached an uneasy status quo as Celebrimbor slowly joined the family for subdued activities and would occasionally reach out with stilted Osanwe that grew less timid as his family welcomed him with enthusiasm for every bit of interaction he could bear to muster. (And when Celebrimbor retreated to his room, Fingon watched as his family grew sullen, their hatred for Sauron growing as their grief for Celebrimbor grew. He was so quiet now, and not just because Sauron had cut out his tongue. He was subdued, each action halting and at times he forgot words or trailed off into incomplete sentences. It was hard to watch even for Fingon who knew Celebrimbor less than Celebrimbor’s close family who must note every difference from the loud and boisterous child he had once been.) 

But the one point that Fingon detested most was how both Nerdanel and Mahtan avoided talking about Sauron. It was a literal fact that Sauron was returned and that Celebrimbor might run into the being who once destroyed him, but neither Nerdanel nor Mahtan had even mentioned the name in front of Celebrimbor as if the name itself was an evil that must be avoided at all costs. 

They were coddling Celebrimbor, treating him as if he were fragile and may at any point fall apart and be lost to them for the rest of eternity. 

But Fingon knew that wasn’t true. Those who’d lived through Beleriand were hardened and sharpened to a point through war and hardship. No one who lived through to the Second age would have escaped that gauntlet. Celegorm and Curufin definitely weren’t shy about speaking of the horrors of the First Age both to each other and to Fingon and Celebrimbor. It made no sense that they would then remain mum about anything that happened in the Second age.

The two brothers had even mentioned Sauron to Celebrimbor. Fingon had only overheard bits and pieces but it sounded as if the brothers were speaking of Beren and Luthien to Celebrimbor. Part of him wished to stay but thought better of it when he heard Celegorm admit, 

“We were furious. Morgoth and Sauron had already taken everything from us and now Thingol, who should have been our ally, dared to do the same.” There was a pause which Fingon determined must have been Celebrimbor speaking. 

Curufin’s rough laughter ended the silence, “No, not even you were enough! Nothing was ever enough in those days! Certainly not Ingoldo’s sweet lies or Nelyo’s grim optimism.” 

And Fingon decided he did not want to know what Curufin was saying, certain that any elaboration would only enrage Fingon until he stormed in and kneed Curufin in the stomach and elbowed Celegorm in the face. 

He retreated back to Russo’s room and sat beside Russo, running fingers through red hair, as he thought. Russo had wanted to know everything while he was recovering. One of Sauron’s favourite torments was both saying nothing and spreading lies until one was unsure what to believe. In those early days, Russo had begged Fingon to speak of everything, fearing that Sauron had told him truths and being unable to separate reality from lies. 

And what would be worse than hearing that you are safe and whole in Valinor while the knowledge that your tormentor too lived amongst you was withheld from you? 

And so, Fingon endeavoured to tell Celebrimbor and waited until one evening when both Celegorm and Curufin were away, sitting with their mother and Mahtan was attending his slumbering grandchildren. 

He knocked gently against the door and when no protest was given, he slowly opened it. He found Celebrimbor staring at him as the door pushed open. Celebrimbor’s veil was gone and he wore only loose sleeping clothes, but he was awake and alert, his eyes practically unblinking for a moment before his shoulder’s settled and he gently cocked his head with curiosity. 

Fingon paused for a moment and had to hold back a flinch. He hadn’t seen Celebrimbor’s weeping wounds since he first awoke. None of his wounds had healed much and what little healing had been done was the yellowing puss that dripped from his cuts and mingled with the blackened mire imbedded so intrinsically into the wound that the Aule’s healer said would never heal. The empty eye socket stared at Fingon as thin veins pulsed, expelling more gunk that drizzled down his face like tears of tar. 

“Am I interrupting?” Fingon asked, his nerves reassessing themselves. He was worried about being caught by Celebrimbor’s family, about being thrown out by Mahtan and Nerdanel before Russo was even awake, but he knew that this was important and that Celebrimbor’s family was too worn out and frightened to say anything. But standing before Celebrimbor himself, Fingon worried for the first time that Celebrimbor might perhaps not want to talk to Fingon. 

But Celebrimbor shook his head slightly, flicking thin strands of dark hair across his face. He then hesitantly initiated Osanwe and asked, Do you need something?  

Fingon crossed the room and knelt before Celebrimbor such that they were at equal heights and smiled in what he hoped was reassurance.

“I heard Sauron was returned,” Fingon started, making sure to face Celebrimbor head-on and not flinch from the mutilation that covered every inch of his body. 

Any display of fear when faced with Maedhros’s ruinous form had always caused Maedhros the most internal anguish. Fingon had long learnt not to bring unwanted attention to even the most hideous scars and he hoped Celebrimbor appreciated being treated as a person and not a victim. Even if Celebrimbor’s appearance was far more terrible than even when Maedhros was first pulled from Angband. 

When Celebrimbor did nothing but hold himself very very still, Fingon continued, “Tirion was in an uproar when it happened - understandable, of course. Arafinwe went to Valar with the people’s complaints and returned with the Valar’s decision. Each of the major realms could punish Sauron and after that punishment, everyone who had been wronged by Sauron would get one request that Sauron was obligated to fulfill.” 

Celebrimbor swallowed and a nail-less finger dug into a long gouge in his right arm. What did they ask for?

Fingon could only shrug. “No idea. I never went. I couldn’t think of anything I could ask that would equate the pain he inflicted on me, my family, Maedhros, and you.” 

Celebrimbor blinked. If he wasn’t continuously losing blood through his myriad of wounds, he may have blushed. Me?  

“Of course,” Fingon said, reaching out and gently setting his hand on an uninjured section of Celebrimbor’s head. “You’re my nephew. I was horrified when I learnt of your fate.” 

Fingon would never forget that day. Nerdenel had stood beside him, cold and remote as she had been since his outburst. Arafinwe had perched on the throne opposite of them as he broke the news, that Celebrimbor was dead - killed by Sauron. He had pulled out Vaire tapestries of the event and Nerdenal had cracked, fell to her knees and sobbed. Fingon had a stronger stomach and so committed each scene to memory even when it pained him to see the elfling he loved tortured and ruined with no reprieve. 

He was furious with Sauron for hurting Russo’s family once again. Over and over Russo and his kin had had no rest from Sauron’s villainry - their entire family really had been reduced to Sauron’s playthings and the thought filled him with rage. 

But he was also proud as tales from Middle-Earth filtered in with journeying elves. For Celebrimbor never said a word of the three even as Sauron destroyed him and eventually killed him. 

Fingon shook the memories away. Celebrimbor was here before him and not about to die. It was folly to linger on the past, he told himself and returned to his story. “I heard that those to went to him were satisfied and gradually people forgot and in part forgave. What is a grudge when you’ve had ten ages in the company of your family in peaceful Valinor?” 

Satisfied? Celebrimbor’s broken mouth fell open, revealing renewed teeth but a throat void of a tongue, and his chest spasmed in laughter. Certainly. No doubt they were satisfied to find Sauron a coward.

“What do you mean?” Fingon eyed Celebrimbor wearily. Nothing he’d said implied cowardice on any level. Fingon thought Sauron rather brave for willingly encouraging the ire of those he’d wronged even if he loathed Sauron for his actions. 

I know Sauron very well. Celebrimbor paused and cocked his head. Almost too well. Without the backing of Morgoth or the One Ring he is too much a coward to cause any more strife. He pretends at atonement and slithers out of sight. Such is Sauron’s fear and ability.

Fingon thought Celebrimbor was wrong. He did not know Sauron other than through the pain he inflicted on others, but it was no cowardice to brave retribution and attempt atonement. Fingon could still remember how pale Nerdanel’s face had become when Mahtan explained Sauron’s punishment and how she feared such a thing would be forced upon her sons. There had been no outcry after the punishment and the atonements, so Fingon figured that Sauron must have gone as biddened and made amends for his actions. That hardly sounded like cowardice. 

But Celebrimbor disagreed. And a coward he remains. What did he promise you to ensure your cooperation?  

Fingon paused, his mind halting all thinking and any possible rebuttal to Celebrimbor’s words vaporized, narrowing down to a single question, “What?”

Sauron. What did he promise you to help him with his little void project? Certainly, it was not me, for he was too much a coward to stand my ire. 

“Sauron didn’t promise me anything. I've never even met him!” The moment the exclamation left him, Fingon felt a flush of shame. He had spoken much too loudly (part of him feared Celebrimbor’s family would come running and the other worried how Celebrimbor would take him snapping). Celebrimbor’s words made no sense. Certainly, Fingon would know if he’d run into Sauron. At the very least, he would have felt a wrongness about the Maia and he was certain that his fea would remember Sauron and burn with a ferocious rage.

Oh , if Celebrimbor could have laughed he would have, but his eyes were dark with a grim light. You didn't know. How amusing that you and I are so similar. Played as puppets for Sauron’s greater ambition.  

Celebrimbor’s words were so certain that they broke through Fingon’s outrage and frightened him. Propelled by the sense of dread that filled his heart, Fingon paused and turned to look Celebrimbor in his eye. “What do you mean?” 

The one who helped you? This maia you called Mairon, is Sauron. How he has returned I do not understand, but he has returned under poor watch and found a new game to play. Although, why he would help free me and not his old master is beyond my comprehension. Celebrimbor's face turned sour. If he so desires to have his way with me again. I would refuse and pray the Valar are more helpful on this side of the sea. 

That made no sense. Celebrimbor had to be lying.

Mairon had stuck his neck out for Fingon. He had persevered through the Valar’s dismissal and encouraged Fingon to similarly not give up hope. He had done all the mathematics and theory crafting behind their rescue. He had always been just beside Fingon, pulling and pushing him along as they worked to save the ones they loved. 

Because Mairon was in love with Telperinquar. Fingon knew it. He knew what someone in love with a feanorion looked like. He had felt that kinship with Mairon from their first few conversations. Mairon was in love with Telperinquar. 

But how? The question plagued Fingon’s mind. He had brushed the thought aside whenever he thought of it, deeming it insensitive and hurtful. But with Celebrimbor’s accusations burning in his mind, Fingon’s doubts roared to life, pointing out how Celebrimbor was but a child when they left for Beleriand and how Aule’s Maiar never left their small world within Aman. 

Sauron was once one of Aule’s and with his redemption, was said to have returned to Aule’s halls. If Celebrimbor was correct, it was Sauron who had helped Fingon and Sauron who helped others out of cowardice. 

A coward would not open a door to the void, would he? Even if it might save the one he loved. 

Especially if said love was a lie.

Fingon did not remember excusing himself from Celebrimbor’s rooms as he bade a hasty retreat. Nor did he bother saying anything to Celebrimbor’s family as he flew down the hallway, taking only a moment to duck into Russo’s room and press a gentle kiss to Russo’s pale forehead, before fleeing the house. 

Surely it could not be true. Surely Mairon could not be Sauron. Not Mairon who was Fingon’s friend who had been his greatest supporter and pushed Fingon ever forward even when he gave into despair. 

But Celebrimbor was no liar. 

He had to know. He had to know the truth.

And he would believe nothing until he heard said truth from Mairon’s lips.

Chapter Text

Fingon fled Mahtan’s home. Within a minute it became the furthest he’d been from Russo since they were reunited. 

Russo. His hands shook. He needed to be there. What if Russo woke and Fingon was not there to - 

What?

What did he want to do? 

Fingon had sought Maedhros for longer than they’d ever spent together. At first, he had been bitter, wanting nothing more than to find Maedhros and hit him and scream at him until Maedhros understood what Fingon had done for him. Until he understood that Fingon had died for him - had doomed the Noldor for him. 

Again and again Maedhros abandoned him. He was no such object to be discarded. He had his opinions and could make his own decisions and how dare Maedhros use him and abandon him upon those slopes to die alone helplessly and in pain. 

But time had stretched on and Maedhros remained gone and Fingon missed him. He missed Russo’s warm laughter and his steady hand on Fingon’s shoulder. He missed Russo, his best friend and the one he wished to marry. 

He wanted another chance. He wanted to have that wedding they would whisper and plan when the darted light of Arien sunk below the trees and they were wrapped up in each other before bed. His parents and siblings would be there as would Russo’s family. They wouldn’t fight and instead, everyone would have a grand time as Fingon and Maedhros finally cemented the relationship that had been growing between them since before Beleriand. 

And as time stretched even further, Fingon just wanted to see Russo even one final time. 

He needed some sort of closure. Some way to accept that Russo was never coming back and some way to move on with his life. He had thought that if the Valar told him that Russo was the next Miriel, that he was weary with life and wished to stay in Mandos’s hall for the indefinite future with his brothers and father, he would be able to move on. He would be able to forgive himself for living without Russo. And if he pleaded enough and started with an absurd demand, perhaps the Valar would allow him one last chance to give Russo a message. 

One final goodbye. 

But instead, he had found Mairon. Mairon who effortlessly goaded him into wanting more, and instilled in him an anticipation that perhaps he could wish for more. Mairon who watched him with those seeing eyes that somehow saw more than even Fingon knew about himself. And who always asked the questions Fingon had hidden in his heart.

It was Mairon who made him think that perhaps he could achieve the wildest of his dreams and Mairon who yanked him up when his dreams came crashing down around him. Mairon demanded no less than what was requested and he poured everything into achieving their shared dream. 

Or well, was it Fingon’s dream and Mairon only helping because - 

Wait. Why had Mairon helped him? If Mairon truly was Sauron, why would he help Fingon free Russo and his family? Celebrimbor seemed to think Mairon had tricked Fingon into something. That Fingon needed to be deceived into wanting Russo returned until he would even enter the void for Russo. But had Celebrimbor forgotten that Fingon would and had gone to certain peril for Maedhros? 

But greater was Celebrimbor’s suspicion towards Mairon’s own motives. If he was indeed Sauron then why had he wanted the void opened if not to save his master, Morgoth. And yet, two were needed to retrieve anyone for the void and Mairon had not tried to trick Fingon into pulling Morgoth out when it would have been so simple to change the song that-

The song!

How could Fingon forget such a thing? Mairon had sung of Celebrimbor’s fea and it had been nothing but pure unadulterated love and adoration. Surely no servant of Morgoth could have such love in their heart? 

But nor could Celebrimbor be easily discounted. He was, of course, the expert on Sauron’s many disguises and had known Sauron better than Fingon ever could. The tales told of a great friendship between Celebrimbor and a lie but so too did they tell of Celebrimbor knowing something was wrong with Sauron’s fair visage and cunning words such that he created countermeasures - the three rings. And Mairon had fled when faced with Celebrimbor and never returned even as weeks passed. Surely there could be no greater condemnation than Celebrimbor’s words and Mairon’s actions?

There was only one way for Fingon to be certain. He had to hear the truth from Mairon’s lips. 

Russo wouldn’t mind, he had to tell himself. Maedhros had always insisted on knowing one’s allies before charging into battle. Time with Sauron and Morgoth had made Maedhros paranoid and cautious. Moreover, he had never begrudged Fingon anything. It was both Maedhros’s best and worst quality for only Fingon’s own guilt ever came between them. 

It would be quick. Mahtan lived near to Aule’s halls. He would confirm with Mairon and then be back at Russo’s side. He would be there when Russo awoke. He had to be. 

In Fingon’s introspection, the forest had fallen away, and before him rose the mighty halls that Aule and his Maiar had erected ages ago. They were impressively imposing, towering tighter than any construct made by elves and spiralling into a vast volcanic opening that bellowed the smoke of the forges and embers as metal on metal range as a persistent melody across the clearing. 

Fingon had spent so many years here, working side by side with Mairon. How had he never noticed how alike this place was to the mountains where Morgoth and Sauron liked to hide. How had he never noticed how threatening the atmosphere around the halls was? Was this what Aredhel meant when she said she disliked Aule’s ‘vibes’? 

Nothing for it, Fingon plunged into the cavernous halls and let his feet lead him to Mairon’s rooms. The doors were sealed shut but Fingon could see the flickering of light stretching out from around the stone. He knocked once and waited only a moment before yanking the doors open. 

Then stormed into the room only to find it…

Exactly as he remembered it. The blackboards that filled each wall were still coated in Mairon’s mathematics and the stack of books Fingon had been flipping through were still pilled on the small desk that Mairon kept pushed to one corner. Even the cot was still unmade as Fingon had left it, certain that he’d be back to fix the bedding another time. 

And at the center of it all was Mairon. Mairon who pushed back from his desk at the intrusion and was staring back at him with those flaming red eyes and dark, dark irises that in a certain light were practically cat-like. 

Were his eyes like that when they last met? Fingon couldn’t recall. But these were strange and set a chill down his back. There was something unnerving about Mairon’s stare which was piercing and unseeing all at once. 

“So,” Mairon moved in a single perfect motion such that he was now facing Fingon straight on and his hands were tucked neatly in his lap. “What do you require of me?” 

There was nothing precisely wrong with Mairon’s words. It was not unlike any other of Mairon’s greetings. But there was something off about it, something unnatural about the infliction (flat but rising only on the ‘me’). Or maybe not unnatural but unelvish which was a word Fingon never thought to ascribe to Mairon until this moment. 

Mairon had been so good at mingling with elves. Almost too good. Manipulatively good. 

“Celebrimbor is awake,” Fingon said. 

Mairon blinked. A single flutter of his eyelashes before returning to that inelvish stare. “I see. And Maedhros?” 

“Sleeping still, but healing.” Fingon watched as Mairon exhaled. He knew the Anuir had no need to breathe and this was a learnt elvish habit than anything else, but it brought more naturality to their discussion. A discussion that had started with the mundane and Fingon was not sure how to change that. 

“Are you worried that he will not wake up?” Mairon asked after Fingon’s hesitation lasted too long. How elvish, to shy away from pauses in conversation.  

“No,” The answer came too quickly to be believable. When Mairon made no action to speak or really anything at all, Fingon changed his answer, “Yes. The healer says that he sleeps to rest but I worry that this is as close as I can get. That the Valar have noticed this piece of happiness and again endeavoured to take it away.” 

“I have little ability to help you. I am not a follower of Irmo.” 

“I didn’t expect you to,” Fingon told Mairon watching the Maia carefully. Mairon had been so artificially still and continued to remain as if frozen by Fingon’s presence. It was as if all personality had been yanked from Mairon’s body with a hook. 

Fingon breathed. “Will you not visit Celebrimbor? You wished so dearly for his return.” 

Mairon had spoken so fondly of Celebrimbor when he had spoken of Celebrimbor at all. Surely he wished to see Celebrimbor again. Surely Celebrimbor was wrong and Mairon was merely preoccupied with something else for the last while. 

Mairon’s fingers twitched and his head dipped just slightly, “Telperinquar is returned. My duty to him is complete. And in returning Maedhros to you, so too is my obligation to you.” 

“Obligation?” The word tore from Fingon’s throat and his brain hissed that Sauron had been tasked to perform reparations for each elf that he had wronged. Fingon would intrinsically be a part of that group. 

“You desired Maedhros returned. I have done that.” Mairon’s elaboration did nothing to calm the sprouting seed in Fingon’s chest. Instead, it dashed his hope quick as water on an open flame. 

“That was not why you did it,” Fingon said, his voice faint. He felt light-headed like he’d received a concussion and would need to stare at nothing for weeks. “You did not save Celebrimbor and help me because you were obligated.” 

Mairon’s eyes stared into his unblinking. “Why else would I help one of the Eldar?” 

“Because we are friends!” The words were ripped from Fingon’s throat and his mind while foggy, knew that this was important. There was no other way to describe the relationship that had grown between them through mutual loss. “We are friends and friends help each other!” 

And then on Celebrimbor’s behalf, “And you loved him! You wanted to save Telperinquar because you loved him!” 

“Such notions do not exist between the Anuir and the Eldar,” Mairon’s words were dismissive, but his tone was flat. “It would be comparable to an Eldar loving an ant.” 

“What are you saying?” Fingon’s head could not process this. He had discounted Finrod’s beliefs as Finrod’s Finrodisms, but surely Mairon could not agree. 

“I did as I was bidden and helped you on your quest. My soft spot for Telperinquar hardly factor into my decisions.” Mairon told him. But Fingon noticed how Mairon’s tone had wavered slightly on ‘soft’ and ‘Telperinquar’. It said more than any of the nonsense exiting Mairon’s mouth. “Now that your quest has succeeded, I am free once more to return to my personal projects.” 

“Certainly not!” Fingon exclaimed, sick both of Mairon’s ambivalence and of his words. 

His words were so loud that Mairon startled, “I am not sure what other service I might bring -”

Fingon cut him off, completely done with Mairon's whole thing. “No one would think you were forced to help me nor believe that you have moved on to other tasks.” 

Fingon flung an arm out and gestured at the walls which were still coated in their equations (their existence told Fingon more than anything else that Mairon had not moved on), “Who tasked with helping a lone elf would go so far as to denounce the Valar’s directive and find a way to open the void? Who after finishing said task and reportedly moving to other projects would still have the old painted upon their walls months after the work succeeded. Tell me, Mairon, that any of your brethren would go so far because they were told to!” 

“None would be capable,” Mairon said but when he opened his mouth to potentially elaborate and sabotage himself, Fingon cut him off once more. 

“Exactly! None! So why do you insist that you have no other reason? We are friends ,” Fingon found his last sentence to be more of a plea than anything (and he very carefully did not mention ‘and you are in love with Telperinquar’. Mairon had never reacted positively even when Fingon knew that he was correct. See Russo, he could use tact!). “I count you as a friend. As one of my closest friends.” 

And that wasn’t a lie either. Fingon's collection of peers was dismally low and he was often pushed to spend time with his cousins rather than other lordlings. Findarato and Turukano were probably Fingon’s closest friends but were both his cousin and brother. These past centuries, Fingon had spent more time with Mairon than anyone else - he had shared more of himself with Mairon than he had with anyone else since his rebirth. And he knew that Mairon was the same. 

“I am one of your freinds?” Mairon sounded practically bemused. 

“Of course!” Fingon stressed. They were friends. No matter the doubts that Celebrimbor’s words had started, Fingon could not think differently. 

Even if Celebrimbor was right. 

“No one ever wishes to be friends with me,” Mairon commented, but he still looked way too pleased, like Fingon had correctly answered one of his scientific questions. 

“Because you are Sauron?” The words were pried from Fingon’s mouth as he voiced the doubt and the words that Celebrimbor gave. The moment they were said, Fingon flinched. Only in part because of how little Mairon reacted.

“You did not know?” Mairon-Sauron’s lips tugged lightly at the edges as if he was fighting off a grin. “How clarifying.” 

A rush of rage and something else flushed through him at that point, “So it’s true.” 

“I had thought you the most peculiar elf, but never had I imagined that you would be so blinded. Why ask me for help if you not who I was?” Sauron’s voice was arrogant. It was the closest Sauron sounded to the friend Fingon knew since this conversation started that the contrast stunned him long enough that for a moment he forgot the nature of their discussion. 

“You offered!” Fingon exclaimed, “Or well, I guess I asked, but only as to where I might find Aule. You were the one who offered to help me!” 

“I offered you assistance after you explained your desires,” Mairon, for he would always be Mairon in Fingon’s mind even if Mairon was also Sauron, “And I told you that I would help you as part of my penance.” 

“Did you?” Fingon could not recall. 

“You cut me off before brazenly asking for my help. Why else would you think to interrupt?” 

“Well, it was more like you started talking before I found my words. We spoke over each other rather than me cutting you off,” Fingon trailed off when he realized the more upsetting thing about Mairon’s sentence, “Does that happen often to you? Others cutting you off?” 

“Often,” Mairon said before addressing the frown growing on Fingon’s face, “Most elves do not wish for apologies or to hear anything from me. I try not to let it bother me.” 

Manipulative. That had been what everything said about Sauron. Russo had once described it as Sauron being insidious as ripping intention from what wasn’t said. But this particular insight just sounded rather sad. 

“Right, so you are Sauron,” Fingon clasped his hands together and then punched Mairon squarely in the jaw. 

Mairon’s face rocketed to the side and a deep flush of red stained his pale skin. He moved gently after the blow but made no move to touch the bruising skin. He remained silent and stared up at Fingon who had prowled up to tower over the seated Maia. 

“You are Sauron. You are the one I named my enemy even after my first death,” Fingon snarled, “You tortured the love of my life and ruined my family. I hate you!”

Mairon continued to remain silent and still in his seat, staring up at him. 

But the silence only enraged Fingon further, “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?” 

“Are you seeking a justification for my actions?” Mairon spoke calmly and carefully like he was evaluating each word as he said it. 

“I want something. An excuse, remorse, anything!” Fingon shook Mairon by his robes, “Give me something!” 

“I regret the actions -” But Mairon’s words were too stilted, too rehearsed. Fingon knew Mairon and knew what his normal speaking patterns were. 

“Something real,” He interrupted as he stepped back and crossed his arms. 

Mairon paused and annoyance flickered in his eyes. “I did not bring Melkor back when I could have. I have no desire to be his servant once more and I would not wish to return to those ways on these shores.” 

Fingon let out the breath he’d been holding. “Good. That’s enough for me.” 

“What is good enough for you? I do hope you speak of violence. It is not something I look forward to experiencing again.” At least the punch seemed to have knocked Mairon back to his usual disposition. 

It was enough to make Fingon laugh. “Enough anger. I was more angered on behalf of others but you have suffered so much and done so much to atone. And you are my friend! I can hardly fault you for a little murderous impulse even if your past actions make me angry.” 

“I mean, I cannot speak for all elvenkind or even the Noldor, but you’ve helped me personally with little in the way of recompense.” Fingon paused then added, “I mean, not entirely selflessly but I guess that explains why you ran away when Tyelpe saw you.” 

“I have no intention of forcing my presence on Telperinquar,” Mairon said, “Especially not after they returned more damaged than I expected.”  

And then Mairon froze. 

Fingon spun around when Mairon’s eyes went wide and his open mouth opened in shock: it was Telperinquar. 

Blood seeped profusely through his recently wrapped wounds and he was leaning heavily against the wall, but his singular eye was alight with more life than any elf. Too bad it was vitriol that fueled his flame, making him appear so similar to Feanor right before the darkening that Fingon couldn’t help the shiver that went up his spine. 

Mairon was similarly frozen, fixed in place by Telperinquar’s glare. Or perhaps not nearly as immobilized as Fingon for Telperinquar then projected through Osanwe (for his tongue was still a bloodied gap in his mouth) with more loathing than his frail body should be able to contain, Are you running away again? Annatar?

Chapter Text

Annatar? Celebrimbor prompted again, his osanwe projected into the room, allowing Fingon to catch his words that were meant for Mairon. Fingon didn’t fault him for avoiding one-to-one osanwe. Celebrimbor had probably had enough of Sauron having direct access to his head even if projection osanwe was more effort than one-to-one. 

“Telperinquar,” Mairon finally greeted, his body rearranging itself back to composure and turning to the ruined elf. He held himself very still but his voice was unlike anything Fingon had ever heard. 

Was that… desperation? 

Nothing else to say to me? Celebrimbor pushed, sliding across the wall and smearing a like of blacked blood behind him , Odd. I had thought you would want to gloat!

"No!” Mairon said, his hands reaching out for Celebrimbor before pausing only inches from his body. "I would never. There's nothing to gloat about.”

Ah yes, Celebrimbor's grin was horrible and vicious, opened mouth to reveal his few rotting teeth and the wound where his tongue should have been, Because it is I who should gloat, no?

I am returned to Aman and so too are you which can only mean one thing. Celebrimbor’s tone was gloating as he snarled at Mairon,

You lost! How I wish I was there to witness it! How did you go out, I wonder? Did they capture you, rip apart everything even your sense of self? Did they ruin you so you may never do what you love again? Just as you did to me?

Celebrimbor raised his ruined hands and flaunted them in Mairon's face.

Mairon flinched, but Celebrimbor leaned into the space he abandoned, lumbering on wobbling feet and trailing black gunk in his wake,

How did you return? I wonder? Did you get down on your knees and beg? Did you prostrate yourself at the feet of your old master? I wonder, what did you do to regain a minuscule crumb of his trust? Did you get down on your knees and put your dithering lips around the Valar’s- 

“Ok," Fingon interjected. He didn’t need to hear Celebrimbor insinuate anything sexual between Mairon and the Valar (or the elves, just the thought made him shudder) and he was reasonably certain Celebrimbor wouldn’t want to hear the answer. "That's enough.”

Fingon’s words seemed to snap the invisible thread that pulled Mairon and Celebrimbor together. Both Mairon and Celebrimbor drooped, Mairon back into his chair and Celebrimbor to the ground. He would have completely fallen if Fingon had not caught him and supported him to the bed.

"Your father would kill me if I let you hurt yourself further,” Fingon said when Celebrimbor looked as if he would protest Fingon's administrations.

Instead, he said, I took no part in hurting myself the first time.

He glared at Mairon for a moment before shifting his gaze pointedly away. Still, he quieted and let Fingon check his wounds. Besides the blood loss from weeping wounds, Celebrimbor did not appear any worse for wear. 

Mairon, on the other hand, looked as if he were self-immolating. While he made no attempt to correct Telperinquar, he had no problem tying his fingers further and further into knots while sitting ramrod straight. He also kept hideously silent, leaving Fingon scrambling to salvage the encounter into something constructive. 

"Tyelpe, I know you’re mad at Mairon but he helped me save you,” Fingon hoped that it would lessen some of Celebrimbor’s righteous anger. If Celebrimbor could just slow down in his aggression and give Mairon a moment to speak, maybe they could have a productive conversation not - whatever this was. “I understand that you’re angry. And you have every right to be, but-”

Helped you or used you? Celebrimbor asked as he cut Fingon off, his eye now digging into Fingon with that same glint of madness that used to frighten Fingon in Feanor’s eyes. Nothing Sauron has ever done has ever been for anyone but himself! What did you do to save our ruined selves?  What did he convince you to do, Fingon, beloved of my uncle? 

“We-” But this time Mairon cut Fingon off. 

He said with a liquid-honey voice, “We opened the void.” 

The void! Of course! Celebrimbor gurgled and choked on bile and his eyes flashed, You used my work after I told you it was too dangerous, after I forbid you from ever looking into it ever again! Is there no part of me you wouldn’t violate? First my ideals, then my craft. My body and now my work! I suppose you memorized each motion I made so you could one day replicate it. But I stopped, didn’t I. I stopped and I decided that I would not let you use me in this too. 

Theory was always your weakness. How long did it take you? Or did you trick another into solving it?

Mairon flinched. Odd that it was talk of their work that made Mairon react, or perhaps not so surprising since Fingon knew how much Mairon and Celebrimbor both elevated their works to a practically reverent state. 

“He solved it,” Fingon said, “I was the only one who helped him but it was only very peripheral. He spent decades trying to solve this problem you left. Because he wanted to save you.” He left out his own motivations. Surely Celebrimbor would know those already and this wasn’t about him. 

And in doing so, he went against my direct wishes , Celebrimbor snarled if such a thing were possible with his mouth mute. You never understood. That somethings should not be trifled with. That some knowledge should not be known! 

“In this, we have always disagreed,” Mairon found his voice to rebuttal even if softly, “Knowledge compounds upon itself. Without one discovery others may be impossible to make.” 

But so too may you open a doom. Has history shown you nothing? Time and time again we seek beyond our means and we reveal things that none should know - things that give too much lust, too much power to those who learn it? Celebrimbor grimaced and when Mairon’s mouth joined him in his expressions, his eyes flashed, No! You don’t get to be remorseful. You were the one who took our work and exploited it! You were the one who proved that some knowledge is too great a burden to know! 

For a moment in my home, you were repentant, I know you were, Celebrimbor leaned in with full certainty. And Fingon was enthralled as much as he worried. Mairon had never been so worked up even when he was frustrated with Fingon’s ineptitude and Celebrimbor embodied his grandfather not just in furry but also in charisma in this moment. But the knowledge we found and the temptation of what it could give you was too great. You sacrificed everything for that knowledge. 

You sacrificed me for that knowledge!

“I did,” Mairon answered, his hands reaching out for Celebrimbor once more but this time he made contact and gently cupped Celebrimbor’s hands before lifting up and touching Celebrimbor’s cheeks, grimy blood, weeping wounds and all. “Would it bring you solace to know that I later regretted it?” 

Celebrimbor did the equivalent of a mental snort, Regret? What does it matter? I am utterly done with people regretting their actions after they suffered the consequences. What does it matter if you regret it after you've lost? 

And that presumes that I believe you! I had not thought you would even know what regret was much less were capable of feeling such things! No, I know you are not capable of it - I experienced it myself in that time after you destroyed our home!  

“Tyelpe,” Fingon tried to mediate. Mairon looked stricken and if he were anyone else Fingon figured he might be in tears. 

But Celebrimbor would not let Fingon calm him. 

You killed me! 

Worse, you made me into my grandfather! A detested madman and left me with only one way to atone. To submit myself to your cruelty and hide what should have been freely shared. You taught me to be paranoid and to feel burning hatred, such intense loathing that if I were not trying to stall for time I might have combusted for hatred of you! 

With his point made, Celebrimbor ripped himself away from Mairon’s touch and fell back, hitting the wall with his head. A moan ripped itself from Celebrimbor’s throat causing Fingon and Mairon to both reach for him. Mairon flinched back when Celebrimbor’s eyes opened and glared at him while he let Fingon prop him up and inspect his head. 

“How is your vision?” Fingon asked, checking for visual wounds but also worried about a concussion. Aule’s healer had said that Celebrimbor’s head was delicate and that the mental stress he’d endured made his head more pliant and him more vulnerable to head injuries. 

But Celebrimbor was focused on his task - which was to make Mairon uncomfortable - and so he shook his head and instead returned to Mairon, What do you have to say, Annatar? Or should I say, Sauron? 

“You don’t sound like you want a response,” Mairon shot back and Fingon wanted to groan. Mairon was provoking Celebrimbor and not giving Fingon a moment to try and ease out the tension in the room - a tension that had started as stifling and now was suffocating. “You seem to have everything mapped out in your mind.” 

I know exactly what I know and I have opinions on other things. Celebrimbor argued, his vitriol returned and his head wound forgotten in favour of his all-encompassing attention on Mairon. What I want is your opinion on the entire thing - What I want is something from you. Why you did what you did or a truthful point of remorse. 

Fingon’s breath caught. This was exactly what he wanted from Maedhros. An answer from Maedhros about everything that happened and an answer to what went wrong. He wanted a reason to explain the love in his heart and a reason to forgive Maedhros. He wanted a way to go back to what they were. 

But Mairon did not catch the message that Fingon heard. He instead crossed his arms and soullessly answered as if he were a puppet with words preshoved into his mouth, “I apologize. I went too far and never wanted to hurt you. I hope you will forgive me.” 

No! Celebrimbor snarled, No I don’t forgive you! I can never forgive what you did. What you made me! Do you never feel remorse? Or was that the first thing you ripped away from yourself when you created the ring?

“You speak as if I ever had remorse,” Mairon’s tone was starting to rise with anger. It almost made Fingon wish he kept that monotone voice as he felt Celebrimbor shake in response, “What action did I accomplish which I should feel remorse for? I only sought a greater body of knowledge.”

This time, Celebrimbor did snort. Before flinching and spitting out blood that was more likely from the pain of making such a sound of derision (really any sound at all) than further spitting on Mairon’s thoughts. 

No remorse? None at all? Not even after what you did to me? You killed me! Did you even care?  

“Is this another trick question?” Mairon almost laughed, “Are you waiting for me to say I didn’t? Do you want to hear that I never cared about you?” 

Before Celebrimbor could say anything, Mairon jumped again into speech, as he rose from his seat. He was animated and his voice filled the room unlike any elf. Even Feanor at his mightiest could not surround his voice quite as well as Mairon did at this moment. “Because I didn’t. 

You were so simple. With only a few words, you were willing to play exactly into my hand. I needed only stroke your ego a little, make you think your craft equal to your grandfather and you were only so eager to roll over for me and create things beyond my wildest dreams.” 

The words made Fingon sick. He hadn’t heard much about the story leading up to Celebrimbor’s downfall, but he’d listened to the gentle and hesitant tone Mairon took on whenever he spoke of Celebrimbor. He had known from the first time they met that Mairon loved Celebrimbor just from the way he caressed Celebrimbor’s name on his tongue like it was a delicacy that should be savoured. 

But in contrast, Mairon was the one who wrecked Celebrimbor’s body and incited such rage in Celebrimbor. A rage that he continued to facilitate with words that Fingon knew were a lie (or he hoped, because if Mairon’s words were the truth then what did that mean for him and Maedhros? How could Fingon ever trust another word out of Russo’s mouth if Mairon’s truths were so painful despite the affection on his lips?) 

Maybe I have an ego. But I was never so easily swayed by you. What did you achieve in the end? I withstood all your greatest machinations and kept my greatest work from your hands. And you are now here which means that you must have failed even your own ambitions! Celebrimbor’s eyes were narrowed but his shoulders shook. Was he laughing? Angered? Saddened? Fingon wasn’t sure if it was one or all the above. 

“I have failed, but no more than you. What can you do now? You are flawed and unhealing.” Mairon leered at Celebrimbor’s hands which were rested on Celebrimbor’s lap in all its skewered angles and bloody joints, “I can still feel the malice that radiates from there. Even if you could craft, nothing made with those fingers will ever be free of evil.” 

Celebrimbor screamed, his voice hoarse and wordless but the anguish it contained needed no words. It was visceral and desolate and Celebrimbor clambered to his feet and tore his finger into open wounds, widening them and ripping apart his already delicate and destroyed fingers. Tears streamed from his eyes and he spat darkened bile from his throat. 

It is your fault. All your fault. I will never forgive anything you’ve done to me. How dare you! How dare you destroy me and ruin me and laugh at what you’ve done. Sauron, my family named you! Abhorrent is too kind a term for the anger in my being! I curse you! I curse you for what you did to my ideals, to my crafts, to me! To everything you ruined when you created that accursed ring! 

With that Celebrimbor lurched from the cot and out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

“What was that?” Fingon demanded, turning on Mairon with his own glare, “Was a simple apology too difficult for you?” 

And Mairon had the audacity to look confused, “Apologize?” 

“It’s simple. Three words, ‘I am sorry’, that’s all you needed to say!” Fingon couldn’t help but shout. 

“I said I regretted my actions,” Mairon started, his tone becoming defensive, “Telperinquar was asking mundane questions and baseless accusations.” 

“Because he was mad!” Fingon exclaimed. “He was hurt and furious and wanted you to apologize and mean it. All he wanted to know was that you care about him and you wouldn’t do it again. Would that be so hard?” 

“Such words would be a lie.” 

Fingon felt his face flush with rage as he hissed, “Then why did you help me at all?” Before storming out and rushing to Celebrimbor’s side. 

The last thing he needed was Celebrimbor collapsing somewhere on top of his friend making the most stupid mistake he could have made. 

He found Celebrimbor on his knees just where the clear-cut area around the plains gave way to the forest. Celebrimbor was hacking bile onto the ground and infecting his wound with dirt. When Fingon got closer and knelt down at Celebrimbor’s side, he realized that Celebrimbor was also crying. 

With gentle hands on Celebrimbor’s shoulders, Fingon guided Celebrimbor into his lap and squeezed him as tightly as he dared all the while murmuring to him, “I have you. It’s ok, Tyelpe. I’ve got you.” 

Fingon’s words only made Celebrimbor cry louder, his wordless screams infused with indescribable pain. Why did I think it would go any other way? Why did I ever think that maybe he would - he would be my Annatar?

“What do you mean by that?” Fingon kept his questions as neutral as possible. While he couldn’t deny that Mairon had handled that situation horribly, Fingon couldn’t help but think Celebrimbor might be judging Mairon rather hastily and thus harshly. He also had no baseline for this Annatar that Celebrimbor was seeking even if Annatar was once Mairon. Although, if Fingon was right, Celebrimbor’s Annatar would be dangerously close to the Mairon Fingon was familiar with.

I just wanted - I - I don’t know what I wanted. But I guess I wanted it to be like before - easy and right and, and - and special , Celebrimbor admitted as his shoulders shook. But I am so mad at him. He- he violated everything sacred between us but I still hoped that he would have an explanation. I thought maybe if he was really really sorry I could forgive him and it could all go back to how it was.

“So you followed me not long after you woke? Tyelpe you are still healing . You are still hurt by the wounds he inflicted on you. Did you not think it was a bad time to seek him out?” Fingon tried to console Celebrimbor but he felt horribly out of his expertise. And then he felt horrible when Celebrimbor began to cry harder. 

I-I thought that I wouldn’t have another chance. And - and I forgot I guess that he did this to me. I just- I just wanted Annatar. I wanted the one I loved to hug me and tell me everything was going to be alright. Celebrimbor squished his broken face into Fingon’s chest, uncaring for how much it must hurt to rub his open flesh on Fingon’s tunic fabric. Instantly, the fabric turned damp and Fingon wasn’t sure what the ratio of tears to gunk and blood was, but it hardly mattered when his almost nephew was sobbing in his arms. 

“I’ve got you,” Fingon told Celebrimbor, “I’m not Annatar, but I love you and I’ll tell you that it’ll be alright. Me and your family, we’ve got you. I promise.” 

Celebrimbor didn’t say anything more, but he went lax in Fingon’s arms and allowed Fingon to carry him back to his family’s home. 

As he continued down the now semi-familiar path back to Mahtan and Nerdanel’s home, he felt a surge of anger fill his heart. Celebrimbor had died at the hands of the one he cared about most and the one thing he wanted in his new life was for his murderer to be his lover once again. It was ludicrous and Mairon wasn’t making things any easier. Why must he push Celebrimbor away with callous words and static apologies? Did he not see how much he was hurting Celebrimbor?

And he tried not to think how the anger was more than just on Celebrimbor’s behalf. He’d rather not wonder how much of it was sympathy and worry that Maedhros would have a similar answer. 

He needed Russo back and apologetic for his actions. 

Chapter Text

Mairon stared at the page. He was working through a transcription of the equations surrounding him, of how he and Fingon had opened a door to the void. OR he had been doing that prior to Fingon's (and Telperinquar’s) arrival. But now the equations danced along the page, overlapping with each other and his mind was utterly blank.

More correctly, it was devoid of anything meaningful.

Telperinquar's words kept repeating in his mind over and over on a nightmarish repeat. At times he would think of arguments but when he spoke them aloud, the empty room had no rebuttal. Once again Telperinquar won purely by absence. 

What did Telperinquar want from him? Mairon had seen the disgust in Telperinquar’s eyes when he was returned from the void and he knew that he was not welcome. He had planned to stay away and keep to himself unless Telperinquar wanted to speak. 

But then Telperinquar had sought him out and did nothing but rage against Mairon. And Mairon was proven correct once more. He could not stand Telperinquar’s ire. His mouth dried up and words halted in his head. 

Telperinquar had been antagonistic and perhaps rightfully so!

Mairon would never forgive anyone else who hurt Tyelpe so painfully. His stomach had turned oddly at the sight of Telperinquar’s ruined hands. He had done that. He had destroyed Telperinquar such that the elf could never again craft. He could feel his own malice embedded into those wounds. He knew they would never heal for an anuir’s hatred was not so easily abolished.

Telperinquar was so destroyed that he could never create again, not unless he shed this body and gave into Name's mercy and even then there was a possibility that the proximity to his old body would taint the new one and that Marion had engrained the malice into Telperinquar’s fea so deeply it could never be untangled.

Apologize Fingon had told him. But that was so trivial - what could such a thing accomplish?

So instead he sat at his desk and stared at the blank pages and pretended he would be working on it soon. 

He should start soon.

How was he planning to start? The principle of pressure.

Telperinquar said he ruined all their work.

And he mustn't forget the theory of uncertainty that arises when working with small particles.

Telperinquar cursed his involvement with him.

A careful knock at the door pulled Mairon from his spiralling thoughts. He looked up as Aule let himself into Mairon's room, "Mairon. I have not seen you in some time. The elf you helped with his proposal, Findekano, found a way to break into the void and free the Fearorions. I have been preoccupied with ensuring the breaking left no lasting damage to the song and have found myself neglecting you.”

Aule's words paused, prompting Mairon to look up from his blank page to find Aule's face grim with anger. It spelled nothing good for Mairon.

"Mairon, what is this?” Aule asked and the tone indicated that it was worse than Mairon feared. Aule was furious. He was gesturing at the chalkboards coated in the math Mairon had used to open the void.

"It is a proof, my lord" Mairon started with caution. His resolve crumpled quickly at Aule's next words, filled with ire,

"It looks like a way to open a passage to the void!” Aule's anger thundered through the room and his quaking halls trembled from his anger. Mairon almost wanted to do the same but could not as the target of the ire. Showing fear was the first sign of weakness.

"It does do that," Mairon admitted and felt an awful lot like Telperinquar when Mairon would accuse him of forgetting his body's needs. He did not much enjoy being reprimanded. Although, he knew this was just the beginning.

"Why must you do this? Why must you always do this?!” Aule bellowed as he gestured to the chalkboards. With a single flick of his hands, the chalk vaporized, the board cracking with ripples of fractures. “Do you not understand the conditions of your return? Did you not pledge to forsake Melkor and return to me?”

His anger simmered, contained for a moment but doing nothing to hide the seething rage, "You have been doing so well. Why would you trick young Findekano into such folly? I hope you explained to him the dangers of messing with Eu's song. Melkor is a great case study on such ambition and hubris. You witnessed firsthand the consequences of his actions and then followed his mistake in your own right.”

Aule’s pause was less about finding air like an elf might in an angry tirade and more to punctuate his point before he continued. 

"Did you at least warn him that Melkor could return? Perhaps he would not understand how such a power might unstabilize the song and cause the world to crumble, but I expect that you do. What was the probability calculated that the world would collapse in on itself? 10 percent? 20?” 

“50,” Mairon said. He hadn’t exactly withheld this information from Fingon. He had specified that it was extremely dangerous and that it could destabilize the world’s gravitational forces and destroy all of Arda. He had just, not told Fingon the particulars of the percentage. 

Not that it would have mattered. Mairon was certain that Fingon would have done it anyway despite the risk. Mairon had decided it was worth the risk even when he knew Telperinquar wouldn’t be pleased with him. 

“50 percent! You would risk the stability of our world on a coin flip!” If Aule wasn't wroth before, he was now. “Were you trying to destroy the world?” 

“No,” Mairon said, his thoughts growing faint under Aule’s deep ire. “I was tasked with reparations to the elves. Fingon wanted to save Maedhros. I was told to do as he bid me.” 

“Do not play sly with me, Mairon,” Aule snapped, “I see how you are trying to frame Findekano with the blame which by rights is yours. You knew the limits of your reparations. We told you specifically that nothing of yours should ever touch darkness again. 

I knew you hated constant monitoring so as trust grew between us again, I grew lax because I trusted you. Must you take my kernels of forgiveness and stomp all over them with reckless abandonment? You did not even think to erase the evidence!” 

“I was not trying to hide it,” Mairon protested and looked down to the blank pages, “I was writing a paper to publish my findings. I did nothing wrong and would hide nothing.” 

“Theory and Experiment are two separate things. I did not think you would chance your own existence for another!” Aule’s tone was still somewhat subdued but his face was hardened and his stare menacing. 

Mairon tried to play it off casually. Fingon’s allusion to Mairon’s friendship with Telperinquar had worked the last time. “Maedhros was not the only one caught in the void.” 

“Ah,” Immediately Aule’s expression lessens into something understanding. Not kind nor forgiving, but understanding. Although, Mairon was still not quite sure what that understanding was. Perhaps he too could see the rotting skeleton of affection Mairon had once shared with Telperinquar that Fingon had claimed again and again existed. “I forget where illogical decisions are nested. You are pleased then with the outcome?” 

“Pleased?” Mairon thought for a moment. True, Telperinquar was freed from the void and it made the world feel right again - like the song was lacking in depth and an orchestral backing had just begun. “I suppose I must be pleased but it is hard to be pleased when the outcome is as expected.”

“Telperinquar is mad then? I suppose it would be hard for him to forgive you after all you did. Have you explained the circumstances and offered reparations?” Aule sat across from Mairon, on the bed in the same place that Telperinquar had recently sat as he screamed at Mairon. 

Right. He was supposed to offer Telperinquar reparations. He was very good at this. And yet every thought had vanished from his head when Telperinquar started talking, his eyes tracing the damage he’d done to Telperinquar’s body and his ears more tuned to the sound of Telperinquar’s heartbeat than his words. He had only latched onto a few highly inflammatory statements. 

“Not yet,” Mairon found it easier to dance around the answer than to admit his mistake. He wasn’t even sure what the mistake was, “Telperinquar visited and wanted to verbalize his ire. I had no time to offer anything in return.” 

“Ah, anger then. Deserved but unproductive,” Aule commented with that same dry tone as he approached every semi-interesting point of conversation. 

Unfortunately, Mairon agreed, “He would give in nothing and would not listen to reason. I found it extremely unproductive.”

“Do you not understand at some level?” Aule asked, “Have you never been mad at anyone?” 

“Yes,” Mairon said, his brain a mush. Was this the empathy that Telperinquar had spoken of? He didn’t like it much nor did he like the turmoil it created in his chest. He would rather they stop but Aule looked intrigued. “But I have never acted on it as Telperinquar did. I know how useless such aggressions are.” 

“May I ask whom?” Aule asked again and Mairon felt a lick of anger just as sharp as Telperinquar’s, but unlike Telperinquar he knew how to cage it. 

Aule’s eyes were thoughtful and curious. His arm was also heavy on Mairon’s wrist and prompting honesty. 

“Everyone,” Mairon admitted, finally revealing a truth he had never thought to voice. “Everyone since Melkor first captured me.” 

Then he amended it, “Everyone but perhaps Fingon.” And even that was only a maybe. Fingon was supposedly his friend but he was rather idiotic at times and teaching him calculus was taxing. That and he probably hated Fingon once - in a generic all-encompassing way that he’d fostered against all Beleriand elves in the first age.

“You are angry with me?” Aule’s tone was blank but his frown rippled at his lips and his eyes were prompting. 

Mairon had no choice but to elaborate and he was surprised to find that he wanted to say more - that he had more to say. The rage seemed to rip through him and escape his tight control as he shouted with his face twisted into a snarl, “You brought me back. You brought me back to humiliation and pain as everyone tore me apart little by little. Ripping me until I lost a part of myself that I can never again regain. You made a mockery of me when I was content with my end - when I was fine being defeated and nothing ever again!” 

He had been. He had accepted his defeat and the consequences it brought. It had almost been a relief when the ring was destroyed and his sense of self washed away for the rest of eternity. He had thought it would be the closest he could ever be to Telperinquar and the furthest he could ever be from anyone else. 

But those words were cruel. He wasn’t supposed to be cruel. So he shrugged and told Aule, “It is - fine. I don’t particularly care to reverse the decision. It would make all my suffering meaningless.” 

But Aule still tried to defend himself. “We thought you would want to return. You were always so ambitious, I do not understand why you would change your mind.” 

That set Mairon’s jaw. “What did you use to come to such a conclusion? The ring? That was an aberration made with temptation and should be discounted for none will ever achieve such power ever again.” 

Eru had decreed it. Moreover, when Mairon thought about it, there was something off about the Rings, something that Mairon wasn’t sure how to replicate. Something that he determined must have been Telperinquar’s doing and a secret he took to his grave just as his grandfather took the secret of the Silmarils. Telperinquar may be returned, but he was more principled than Mairon and would never share that spark. 

“It was not the first time you succame to temptation,” Aule corrected, but his words infuriated Mairon more, “You first left me for Melkor’s charm and did his bidding.” 

“I did that because I had no choice!” Mairon screamed as the truth finally bubbled from his lips, “Did you think that Melkor found us willing? We were stolen and captured. 

We had no choice. No one came to save us and we had no other way to survive but to contort ourselves in ways impossible to undo. 

I waited. I waited the longest of any of us. I thought that you would come for me or Eonwe or Melian or Tillion or Arien. But no one ever did and so I did what I had to do to survive. 

We aren’t all Osse. We aren’t all so lucky to have someone who cared enough to save us! And so I made myself indispensable - I bent all my might and being to being Melkor's greatest ally. Because the opposite was incomprehensible!”

"What was the alternative?” Aule’s voice was cool, but the ground still shook slightly betraying his contained anger. 

"Did you know that Melkor stole away many of yours? He adored the destructive power that beings of fire contained. And we were the easiest to corrupt and bend to his will.” Mairon breathed, his mind shying away from the horror of those early times and the fear for himself, "It was either to change myself into something different or let him strip me of everything.”

Gothmog had once been his friend. Melkor had targeted Gothmog first because he was lesser than Mairon and breaking a flame spirit weakened their powers. Melkor had wanted Mairon more or less willing because he desired Mairon in every way imaginable. And Mairon, finally when he knew none would come for him, made the necessary changes so Melkor could have him without completely compromising himself for Melkor’s will. 

But nothing ever settled the deep-set rage that boiled in Mairon since he was forced to make that change. Nothing except Telperinquar and even that was a muffle and not true calming. 

He had thought that power would fix it - that by fixing everything around him, he could fix what was wrong with himself. 

Or barring that, he would finally destroy himself such that none could ever corrupt him again and he could finally be at peace with non-existence. 

“I wasn't aware that you required rescuing.”

“Was I supposed to send a letter?” Mairon asked. He wasn't quite able to avoid sarcasm. He had been spending too much time with Fingon. "Were you even aware that We were missing?”

"I knew you and the others were gone.” Aule admitted, “But many of those who vanished were displeased with me and enthralled with Melkor. I thought you were the same.” 

“I was,” Mairon said. He could not deny how enticing Melkor had been - how full of ingenuity and change and beauty Melkor had been. At first, Mairon was drawn to Melkor as Aule’s stoicism had pushed him away. But, “His words were a lovely intricate farce.” 

He looked away. He could not bear to see the disappointment in Aule’s face. 

No, the disappointment would only fuel his rage. 

“Once we were too far in and entangled in his net, he revealed his true ambitions.” At one point, Mairon remembered cringing from them - appalled by the savagery. But now, changed, he could no longer understand that hatred but instead saw the thread of opportunity and necessity in Melkor’s domination. Although, after the trainwreck of his own attempt, Mairon knew better than to voice those thoughts. (and his ability to do such a thing was the first thing the Valar ripped away from him. How cruel to leave the thoughts and remove the ability). 

“We were given two choices,” Mairon hated how flat his voice became but he knew not how to pitch it. Should he give it an upturn at the end and make it questioning or in halting firm words to make it determined? “To either change ourselves in his image or to be made into his image.” 

“He wanted me as I was. Not forced into any of his creations.” Mairon could remember it all through a veil of disinterest. All the pains of his time in Melkor’s dungeon as his favourite victim fell away with his inevitable fall. “I did not want to lose all of myself and no one had come to save me.” 

“You repeat yourself,” And there was the disapproval in Aule’s voice that Mairon feared. He glanced up and found Aule with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed, “You fell to darkness and blame others for that fault instead of yourself.” 

“I am explaining the route to my destruction,” Mairon said. He might have snapped if his body didn’t feel stretched out and his internals left on display. 

“Then continue,” Aule said. “For I would hear this tale but do not fault me for being critical. You did try to destroy all of Middle-Earth.”

Mairon did not really want to continue. He had aired his greatest grievance with Aule and the rest of the story was not pertinent to Aule’s understanding. And yet, he could not disobey his lord, so he continued, “I carved away a part of myself and filled it with Melkor’s lust and my own rage. I could not sway from his vision and found myself helpless but to follow him.” 

“Which you did even when he left. Both times.” 

Mairon bowed his head. “The first time we knew he would return. We had things to do while he was away and I was left as the most independent of all his that could coordinate the thralls and rebuild a keep.” 

“You took control of Melkor’s empire in his absence and propagate his malice.” 

“Incorrect,” Mairon said. “I was already in control of Melkor’s empire.” 

The ground rumbled loud again in a clear display of Aule’s ire, but he said nothing to halt Mairon and so Mairon haltingly continued. 

“Melkor was chaos incarnate. He had no head for organizing a large collegiate. That was partly why he needed me as I was so that I could do the busy work for him. I did it until Melkor lost and you sent him away for the rest of this singing. 

I thought about returning,” Mairon paused. He glanced up at Aule again but Aule showed nothing on his stone-cold face. He wasn’t even sure what he was hoping to see. Disappointment that Mairon had not returned then or- or something. “But I was too angry. The rage that I filled myself with was directed at you and my old friends. I despised you for what happened to me and so I fled into the East and hid.” 

“You did not hide for long.” Aule was now tapping a finger against his crossed arms. “How soon after our departure did you slither into the Noldor’s trust and do the same as your master?” 

“Centuries,” Mairon said. His mind now turned to the wonder of those times in a bittersweet twinge, “Ost-in-Edhil was trivial to sneak my way into its heart.” It was probably the closest he’d ever gotten to peace since Melkor seduced him. A city of invention and innovation with Telperinquar at the center of it all. 

“And this is where you met Atarinke’s son, Telperinquar.” Aule’s question was framed as a statement but Mairon found himself answering all the same. 

“I met Telperinquar in Ost-in-Edhil. He was,” Mairon struggled for a moment to describe Telperinquar in those days and after a few moments could only come up with, “Brilliant. Everything about him was simply brilliant. I wanted everything he would give me - his knowledge, his thoughts, his history.” His body. But Mairon had not gotten past chaste kisses and the occasional straying touches before he created the Ring. 

“The rest is as you know.” Mairon finished. He had heard the rest of the story repeated to the point of madness and he had little to add to the tale. 

Aule sat in silence for a moment and then two. It was only after 10 agonizing minutes that Aule stirred from his thoughts and said, “There is no reprimand that you have not already received. In its place I would give you an apology should you wish to receive one.” 

The statement took Mairon aback. “An apology?” 

“I know you must have censored your time before siding with Melkor and I accept that you hated us for not saving you. Your story corroborates similar tales of repentant followers of Melkor and your elea is not nearly as ruined as others who came to us after Melkor’s defeat. Therefore I must accept that I am, in part, at fault for your downfall. And for that, I apologize.” 

Now it was Mairon’s turn to remain silent. Aule’s apology settled across his shoulders oddly, like a well-intended poorly fitted sweater. It left Mairon unsure whether he should thank Aule or huff in outrage. Was this how Telperinquar felt earlier? Mairon hated it. 

After the silence lingered to the point of impoliteness, Aule continued, “And now Telperinquar is returned to these shores.” 

“He is,” Mairon said but his mind recalled the sunked and ruinour husk that had confronted him just now. Telperinquar was much diminished after Mairon’s own actions and it felt that Telperinquar’s rage was much akin to the simmering rage Mairon felt towards everyone and Aule especially. 

“You are not happy?” Aule commented, his eyes seeing much and his being knowing more. Mairon was certain Aule knew more about his connection with Telperinquar than he did. 

“No,” Mairon answered, “He is much lesser than before.” 

“In no small part because of you,” Aule said, “He had no healing in Namos’ Halls as his brethren do and the wounds left will not heal because of your essence that infects them.” 

Mairon did not know that. He suspected. He could feel bits of himself in the Telperinquar that shouted at him but he was not sure if it was instead a lingering residue of his song which opened the void. He feared that it might be because of what he did. It hurt to have it confirmed. 

Mairon bowed his head, “I wish I did not continue to haunt him so.” 

“And what will you do? Regarding Telperinquar?” Aule waited for Mairon to find an answer, waiting much longer than any of their previous silences. 

Mairon was not sure. He had rescued Telperinquar because he could not stand the opposite. But now faced with his greatest mistake, Mairon could not foresee them returning to what they once were. Telperinquar had made it abundantly clear that he did not and would never forgive or forget what Mairon had done and he wasn’t sure he had quite forgiven Telperinquar yet for his betrayal - nor that he would be allowed to air his grievances (but he had taken out his anger in more frightening and destructive ways than Telperinquar already - he was not particularly owed more). 

With their relationship left in such a destructive state then was only one answer, as much as Mairon hated to admit it, “I will leave him alone. He has suffered enough of my presence and I have repaid any debt I owe to him by saving him and his kin from beyond the boundaries of this world.” 

“Is that what you want?” Aule’s question took Mairon off guard. He could only shake his head. 

“It is what should be.” 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” Aule reached out and for the first time since Mairon left for Melkor, Aule willingly touched Mairon as he would his own child. Aule clasped Mairon’s hands in his own and told him, “Nothing can truly begin again if you never try. You have always hidden all your hurts away, my child, shied away from anything that could force you to be vulnerable.”

Mairon blinked. “You think I should talk to Telperinquar? I have already. He shouted at me for nearly an hour and left.” 

“That is simply the beginning. Nothing may come of engaging again, but you must offer him more than a soundboard upon which to air his grievances. You must speak honestly with him and try to build something anew.” Aule smiled. It was a warm smile. Warm and fatherly, much like the dwarves that Mairon had met during his time in Eregion. 

 “If you want it enough, you must allow yourself to be hurt.”

Chapter Text

Aule left, taking the blank papers with him and leaving a firm reprimand not to commit the math to any paper. 

Alone once more, Mairon sat at his desk, flipping through pages on pages of previously published writings that all lead up to his mathematical accomplishment. Many of the results or simple writings were done by Fingon who had stressed and pulled against his hair the entire time. But these pages chronology one of the best times of his life - second only to his time among the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. A time that just as Eregion had finished. 

Nothing can start if you do not try, Aule had stressed and so too had Fingon stressed the necessity of an apology. He pulled out a new sheet of blank paper and dipped a quill in ink, ready to write out what he needed to say but came up blank.

Where does one start? And what would the apology entail? 

Mairon was sorry that he had damaged Telperinquar so irreversibly that his hands could not craft. But was he sorry for any of the rest of it? 

Certainly, he had feigned at it for so many years that he felt he should be. But Telperinquar was different. He could read Mairon in ways that Aule could not and dishonesty from Mairon would only antagonize Telperinquar further. 

If he was to apologize as he was bidden, Mairon needed it to be perfect. 

Which circled back to his initial question: was he sorry for what he did and what he failed to do? At the heart of their issues was the fundamental difference in ideology between Mairon and Telperinquar. Where Mairon was of the belief that no knowledge shouldn’t be explored and shouldn’t be shared. Telperinquar had been hesitant, especially as they neared the end of their work on Ringcraft. He had become reluctant and cautious, citing that it was unfathomable power in the hands of corruptible beings. 

Telperinquar’s actions had ultimately caused Mairon to leave Eregion. But what he expected to be a decade of separation to cool his head, extended on and on as the One Ring’s creation consumed him. He had wanted to create proof of all they had researched in spite of Telperinquar’s hesitation. He had wanted to present the mastery of their craft to Telperinquar and say: Look! Here is what I have created. Think of what we could create if we shared this knowledge. 

But when he finally returned Telpeirnquar had barred the doors to Ost-in-Edhil. And, well, the rest of the story didn’t bear repeating. 

Was Mairon wrong? Aule agreed with Telperinquar’s stance. He had commanded Mairon not to share what he’d learnt of the void with any other. Did that mean Telperinquar was right and Mairon should budge? 

Only he didn’t want to. His love of Ost-in-Edhil had come from the value that everyone was welcome to learn and share what they knew. Telperinquar was the one to break his own value, not Mairon. 

This was not something Mairon would apologize for. But what did that leave? 

His treatment of Telperinquar which he had already admitted fault. What else? 

Mairon could think of nothing more but certainly, there must be other things for Telperinquar to be as furious as he was during his tirade. Although it certainly sounded like Mairon’s ruination of Telperinquar’s form had been the worst of it. 

He hadn’t the slightest idea and everything he wrote down was garbage. And so he retrieved a new sheet of blank paper and began to write once more. 

He was about three lines into his work and glaring at the blank bullet points when a letter arrived. 

At first, He was confused. No one ever sent him a letter unless it was inquiries into his published works of which he had nothing new for others to have questions. It could perhaps be a post-humourus inquiry but those were far and few between. 

His confusion both intensified and quelled when he flipped the envelope over and found that Fingon was the sender. He ripped the thin covering open and extracted the letter. 

Mairon,

I’m writing to you because I think I’d just yell if I saw you in person and this is important.

I know you’re probably stewing in either rage or confusion in your rooms. But don’t make this mistake. Go to Telperinquar and apologize. Do it right now before you waste another millennium dallying and making excuses. Telperinquar needs this now. 

If you are the person I believe to be my friend you will. 

Fingon

It was a short letter and there was nothing about it that indicated how Telperinquar was doing but suddenly Mairon was afraid. Fingon had specified a millenia and that Telperinquar needed an apology this instant. Did that mean Telperinquar might not remain in Aman for long? Was Mairon’s damage too great and Telperinquar would soon leave the reside in Mandos’s halls for the rest of eternity? 

Mairon couldn’t let that happen. He rose to his feet and ran. 

Fingon had not specified where Telperinquar was residing although he suspected it was somewhere with Mahtan, Nerdanel, and the rest of his returned uncles. Mairon did not need Fingon to tell him. He could track the connection that continued to rest between him and Telperinquar - a connection forged from a true friendship in Ost-in-Edhil and carved into Telperinquar’s body when he refused to speak about the three rings he made in secret and whose intricacies he refused to share. 

The connection led him away from Aule’s halls to a homestead between Aule’s domain and Tirion that boasted a family home and surrounding workshops. No doubt it was the home of Mahtan turned refuge for his returned grandchildren - or perhaps Nerdanel’s home she once shared with Feanor and filled with their children. Smoke curled from the main house, announcing the presence of people within.

Regardless, Mairon had found where Telperinquar resided. Only, his feet slowed as he approached the door and reluctance wrapped around his waist as a noose and encouraged him to leave. It was only Fingon’s words and his encroaching worry that allowed him to force his legs forward and propel his hand to knock at the door. 

His mouth swallowed his throat when Mahtan opened the door. With crossed arms and a cross expression, he filled the doorway until Mairon could see nothing in the house. Mahtan had always been imposing for an elf. His arms were thick, coiled with muscle from ages toiling away in Aule’s forges and an exceptional disposition for both acts of strength and growing muscle (a trait he’d passed onto his great-grandson - from the stories, Feanor had been rather slim as most elvish tastes favoured). He had grown a beard early and had allowed it to grow long - well-tended but bushy that gave him a particularly wise look and a brilliant red colour such that his hair drew one’s eye. So too was he tall, his head reaching the top of the doorframe and his shoulders nearly pressing against the frame on either side. 

But while Mahtan had always had a sort of low-lying menacing aura, never had it been so strengthened and directed in Mairon’s direction. 

“Mairon,” Mahtan said, his voice so low it practically resonated with stone. “Or should I call you Thauron?” 

That single name held more contempt than anything Mairon had ever heard from Mahtan. And so too did the thorn pronunciation pierce through the general animosity he’d learnt to tolerate with Sauron. 

“I would wonder at your decision to stand at my doorstep, but I must admit that it is no mystery to me.” And yet, despite his words, Mahtan was somehow even less inviting as he glowered down at Mairon, forcing Mairon to be the one to ask. 

“May I see him?” 

Mahtan’s face tightened even more, drawing creases along his eyes, “I held no grief towards you, Mairon Aulendil. You have done me no personal wrongs and I know the folly of harbouring grudges all too well. But I would be a fool to invite you in when my grandson whom you tortured slumbers and my great-grandson whom you killed writhes in agony over the wounds you inflicted upon his fea.” 

"I have come to speak to him,” Mairon found the words flowing like molasses and it was only after that he remembered to add, "Telperinquar, that is. I may have killed him, but we were once friends.”

That was an acceptable description of their relationship, yes? Telperinquar had shone brighter than any other and drawn Mairon to him in ways that none other, even Fingon, has accomplished before or after.

"How strange. You would call a relationship built upon deceit and manipulation friendship?” Mahtan’s face remained frozen as he took a moment to cross his arms in an impressive display of outwardly strength and intimidation. 

Mairon would certainly prefer to leave but so too did he find himself annoyed with Mahtan’s actions. He knew nothing about Mairon and Telperinquar’s relation - how dare he interject with his own thoughts and feelings. Unless Telperinquar himself told Mairon to leave, Mairon had no desire to do so. 

“I am here to speak with Telperinquar. Unless he explicitly would like me to leave, I see no reason to listen to you,” And then because Mairon was feeling a little cruel from all these taxing conversations, he added, “It’s not like you ever left Aman to protect him anyway.” 

That certainly got a rise out of Mahtan. If a raised eyebrow and clenched muscles could be considered a rise. But before Mahtan could retaliate, another voice called out, “Father? Who’s at the door?” 

Nerdanel then pushed her father out of the way, her own muscles beating her father in a game of strength and not for lack of trying on Mahtan’s part. He was then caught only a glimpse of Lady Nerdanel, called the Ruby of Aule’s halls (more for her red hair than fair face), before she pounced, confronting him face to face, “You! What are you doing here?!” 

Her voice was loud and practically caused Mairon’s ears to ring and her face was flushed in rage. She was the exact opposite of her father and her rage was not so carefully tucked behind a stone-cold facade. “You hurt my Tyelpe! You hurt him and tormented him and now he is hurt always! My baby! My darling baby grandson! You destroyed him, Mairon! How dare you come here!” 

Well, Nerdanel was Mahtan’s daughter so perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that they were on the same page. Unfortunately, Mairon knew from experience that Nerdanel was actually the more reasonable of the two (fast to anger but also fast to reason was the general consensus around Nerdanel - unfortunately the same could not be said for Mahtan) and so unlike with her father, Mairon attempted to reason with her, “I am here to apologize. Our last meeting had an unsatisfactory conclusion.” 

“What? When you murdered him?” Nerdanel scoffed. She lifted her head to look down her nose at him with a sneer, “Did you want to finish the job or extol more pain? And here I thought you were supposed to be repentant. Was that not the condition of your release.” 

It was. Although Mairon was a master at pretending to accept censorship and reprimand and had bypassed much conditional repentance without anyone being any the wiser. But he was truly repentant this time or as close to repentant as he’d ever been after an action. He regretted it the moment Telperinquar had died. 

But everything else? The actions that lead to Telperinquar’s death? Well, that was simply a difference in their branching ideologies that they’d never been able to reconcile. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Telperinquar and with Telperinquar’s death, he felt as if something within him had been wounded and never healed. But there had been no space for anything else within him - nothing but rage at the Valar and the goal to remake Middle-Earth such that the Valar’s influence was completely whipped from the land. 

He had failed and he’d been forced back to the source of his rage and tormented with punishment. But he accepted his loss. He had slowly covered the rage with false smiles and humility. Because that was expected of him - because there was no other way to survive. 

He was nothing if not pragmatic. 

And now he was here of his own accord to apologize. To find a way to atone for the one action he most regretted. Here to speak with Telperinquar - the only one he would ever agree to permanently mutilate himself for willingly. 

“To apologize properly,” Mairon said. For this would be better than their last one where Telperinquar had shouted and Mairon had done nothing. He would at least offer an explanation and then accept whatever punishment Telperinquar felt adequate for his actions. “If he would let me.” 

“And if he wants nothing to do with you?” Nerdanel’s voice was loud but not necessarily harsh as she copied her father’s crossed arms. 

“Then I will leave him alone.” It would be no hardship. He had spent all this time thinking Telperinquar was avoiding him. This would simply be the confirmation. 

“I will ask him,” Nerdanel declared before turning on her heels and ducking under her father’s arms back into the house. Mahtan glowered but did nothing to stop his daughter. No doubt he figured Telperinquar's response would be no. 

And so it was he who was surprised when Nerdanel returned with a stunned expression and words from her grandson, “He will speak with you.” 

Mahtan stepped aside only enough for Mairon to squish past him and then followed behind like an armed guard as Nerdanel led him into the house, past the entrance and kitchen and into a large family room. A rosy fire lit the room with a warm glow, drawing Mairon’s gaze to where a trio of people already crowded onto a couch beside the fireplace. 

Two of the elves were standing - one fair and one dark, but Mairon had no eyes for them but for the one reclined and stabilized by the couch. Telperinquar’s face was closed off but his eyes were watchful as Nerdanel and Mahtan escorted Mairon to stand opposite of Telperinquar but at least 5 feet away and two elves between them. 

“Telperinquar,” Mairon greeted when Nerdanel and Mahtan had relaxed themselves into positions on either side of him. Telperinquar only nodded. 

Mairon waited another moment but when no one said anything he continued, “I would explain my part in your doom.” 

Telperinquar nodded again. The dark-haired elf set a hand on Telperinquar’s shoulder. 

“When the Valar decried their judgement upon Melkor, I watched and I wanted nothing to do with them. When I met you, I thought we would recreate Valinor in Middle-Earth. It was my desperate desire to create that world with you.” Mairon paused to evaluate Telperinquar’s expression. It was neither good nor bad and so he continued, “Or not desperation but rather a necessity. I needed a way to spite the Valar for their hubris and was unable to detangle that need with the friendship that grew between us.”

"Your argument is rather self-centred and reliant on no small amount of humility on Telperinquar's part.” Mairon looked up. The voice sounded so alike to Telperinquar's only infused with more malice that for a moment Matron thought it was Telperinquar speaking. Instead, it was the dark-haired elf to Telperinquar's left- most likely Curufin.

Mairon met Curufin’s flashing eyes for but a moment before bowing his head again lightly, "It is no argument but an explanation. Poor it may be but I have no other way to describe it but to explain that I had long sustained myself on malice and when Melkor was gone I had none to target except the Valar.”

"Elaborate" Mahtan said, "Further on what you mean by you sustained yourself on malice.”

For a moment, Mairon wanted to snarl. Mahtan did not deserve his rationality or an explanation of himself that he'd hidden for a reason. But then he caught Telperinquar's cold eye and realized that Telperinquer's family was most likely asking questions on Telperinquar's behalf since Mairon had cut out Telperinquar's tongue to lessen his guilt during Telperinquar's final torment when Mairon knew Telperinquar would say nothing but screams that he had ruined Telperinquar's body beyond retreat.

"The Anuir were all created with a perfect thought of Eru and it was ensured we would accomplish our part by setting a single chord at our core. Melkor despised this because we could not be his. He found a way to distort that chord and create mindless beasts capable only of fulfilling his bidding.”

"This change made those changed lesser for their nature was changed. Melkor did not want that for me and forced me to instead trip out the inhibitions in my elea". 

"Changing one's fundamental self is painful and emptying. I knew I would crumble under the vacuum unless I filled it with something.” Mairon stopped talking. Certainly, everyone could extrapolate for themselves. It was no secret that the being the elves called Sauron was a creature of malice and hatred when the original Mairon was not. 

He was not seeking pity but there was something akin to softening on Telperinquar’s uncle’s face as he stared down Mairon. Not truly less menacing but the skin around his eyes was just a tinge softer. 

“Why Telperinquar?” This time it was Nerdanel who spoke. Her voice was fiery in opposition to how soft but cruel Telperinquar’s insidious whispers of violence went. He was certain that Telperinquar was feeding the questions for how Nerdanel’s eyes met Telperinquar for a moment before she spoke. “Why did you target my grandson?” 

That only made Mairon more determined to answer honestly. Telperinquar deserved it. And so he reached for his words once more, “You must understand that I approached the elves when I was aimless. I had been fuelled by rage towards Melkor for so long and then grievously wounded in the final fight.” 

Not by the elves. This would be a secret kept until the end of all days, but in those final hours of the War of Wrath Mairon had known it would be his last chance. He had gathered all those loyal to him (which was just about everyone - Melkor had not been in charge of his kingdom since long before his first defeat) and led an internal revolt against the dark lord. Angband had been all but diminished when the Valar arrived and Melkor sported three gashes - one to the side of his head, one on his forearm, and one along the length of his back. Mairon could do little more than hide and regain his strength while the Valar finished off the barely weakened Melkor. 

“The Valar were centre in my continuing hatred, but so too were the elves added solely because they had been my enemy for the last age. It was happenstance that led me to Eregion. Gil-Galad and Elrond held no trust for Maiar and sent me away.”  Mairon met Telperinquar’s eye. He needed Telperinquar to understand this part if nothing else. “Only you accepted me and at first I thought you a fool. But, I came to love Ost-in-Edhil. It was an oasis in my desert of rage and brought me comfort in ways I had not expected. Above all others, you were the brightest thing in Ost-in-Edhil. Never had I treasured a companionship like I had yours.” 

And then you killed me , Telperinquar, tired of his words being said only second hand snarled, projecting his words across the room. Mairon watched Teleperinquar’s father and uncle wince but said nothing against Telperinquar’s actions. Only when Telperinquar tried to rise from the nest of blankets he’d been smothered with did his father reach out a hand and guide him back into the warmth he tried to escape. Not that Telperinquar let the action stop him from speaking, Why? You destroyed everything we ever created. Why did you destroy me?  

Telperinquar punctuated his last question by pulling his hands out from under the blanket and setting the ruined appendages on his lap. 

“When I presented the art of Ringcraft, it was only as a thought experiment. I thought of it while lusting after Melkor’s blood and the promise of revenge but had never gotten anywhere with it. You were too brilliant.” Yes, Mairon could still remember how Telperinquar’s mathematic prowess took his breath away. Telperinquar needed only the spark of an idea before his mind began judging the idea’s validity. It was awe-inspiring and terrifying. 

“When presented with this power, I was - overwhelmed.” That was a good way of putting it. The power was so much greater than he thought and it was tantalising. “Holding the 9 for the first time rekindled my old ambition that I had made a part of me. I could not resist.”

“Or,” Mairon looked up from Telperinquar’s hands to stare Telperinquar in the eye, “I did not try hard enough to resist something that I had made intrinsic to myself. And once I started down that path I was unable to stop - a snowball effect I suppose you could say.” 

And when you killed me?

“I poured all the malice and hatred I stored within my core into the One Ring. In turn, the One Ring amplified these feelings within me. It ensured I had one goal and could not put anything above it. Not even you. And that was my greatest mistake.” Mairon bowed his head when he finished. Let them think it was in humility but really Mairon had no desire to see the anger in Telperinquar's eyes. 

Did torturing me mean anything? When I screamed and writhed in pain and desolation did you care? When you strung up my dying body to a pole did you care?  

“Yes,” Mairon knew he should say more and be more eloquent but what was there to say? Would Celebrimbor feel better to know that after each session Mairon turned into a bat and watched over his crumpled form to ensure that Telperinquar was still breathing? Would it bring Telperinquar any closure to know that Mairon was the orc who shot the final arrow and ended the sadistic pleasure of his tropes? That it had been Mairon who finally ended their dance for good. Would he feel better to know that Mairon had fought viciously in that battle to bury the sickening feeling in his stomach? 

I don’t believe you , Telperinquar’s attention was fixed to Mairon and he gave no platitudes with the sentence. He meant it with full conviction. Mairon flinched involuntarily. He expected this response but to hear the kind Telperinquar say something with such vitriol so candidly felt out of place. You ruined everything because of an old grudge and an ingrained anger. Should I feel better that you transferred that rage to me?  

“No,” Mairon paused to think. He hadn’t wanted to inflict Telperinquar so. Somehow he had believed that Telperinquar, revived and reborn into Valinor would not be changed from his warmest memories, but that was wrong. He had hurt Telperinquar and subsequently changed him like a material stretched passed its critical failure point. “I owed you this explanation. I owe you much for my treatment of your kindness.” 

You owe me. Telperinquar’s voice was sour and his eyes narrowed, Is that what this is about? Fingon told me that you only helped him because of me. Was that also simply atonement?  

“I did not save you to atone,” Mairon admitted. This he needed Telperinquar to know if Telperinquar heard nothing else, “I saved you because the world was nonsensical without you.” 

This was not a lie. 

And yet, Telperinquar’s family regarded him strangely, as if his words were suspicious and likely had no basis. But Telperinquar- Telperinquar did not appear shocked. If anything, this seemed like what he wanted as he relaxed into his seat and his lips pulled back as if he wished to smile. 

“Tyelpe,” Mairon jolted. It was a name he had forbidden himself from saying for so long that the world felt overly improper. But it was Nerdanel who spoke and as his grandmother, it was within her rights to say such a thing. “How are you feeling? Do you need to leave?” 

Telperinquar shook his head slightly and he must have said something directly to Nerdanel because she softened slightly and slid a hand along Telperinquar’s arm, avoiding the locations where blood oozed from wounds and bones jutted out in places. 

Telperinquar’s gaze returned to Mairon once Nerdanel had stepped back and said, I think there are things you must apologize for.

“There are many apologies I owe you,” Mairon said, his mind reaching for those scratched-out lines on blank paper. He’d written out a litany of items but now he could no longer think of everything and even when he wrote them down he knew it was incomplete. “And I would apologize for all of it.” 

All of it? Even the difference in ideals?  

Mairon winced. He would argue but Telperinquar was surrounded by his family who would not hesitate to throw him out if he said anything wrong. And this was supposed to be an apology. An apology. He could do that, “I would apologize for any harm that came to you because of it.” 

“And what harm are you talking about?” This time it was Telperinquar’s father who seemed at all times like he wanted to jump over the couch and pumble Mairon. “What did you do to my son that you need to apologize for?” 

“My list of crimes against all the elves and your son in particular have been widely detailed.” Mairon paused when he recalled that Curufin might not be aware since he only just returned from the void. But he also spent time with Telperinquar who would most definitely not sugarcoat Mairon’s deeds. “But the worst I did to Telperinquar was -” He paused and turned to Telperinquar and addressed him instead of his father, “I destroyed your city, tried to monopolize our greatest invention, and did irreparable harm to you when I tortured you to death.” 

“I was wrong. I apologize and would do what I can to make up even a portion of what harm I did to you,” Mairon said as genuinely as he could and then he waited. Was it enough? Could it ever be enough? Mairon knew not much about apologizing, but it felt inadequate. 

“And how would you apologize? Do you think there is any way that you could earn Telperinquar’s forgiveness?” Curufin snapped, but evidently, his brother, mother, and grandfather agreed based on the general glower that filled the room. “Will you grovel at Telperinquar’s feet like a snivelling coward and beg to be forgiven for that which is unforgivable?” 

“Do you want me to grovel?” Mairon asked, his heart flipping in his fana as he stared out at Telperinquar with tingling fingers. If Telperinquar wished, Mairon would spend every day at Telperinquar’s feet for the rest of his existence if it meant that one day Telperinquar might smile at him again and maybe occasionally speak to him. 

No, Teleprinquar’s voice was flat but his eyes were all seeing. Even after all this time, Telperinquar still knew him more than anyone. Somehow he still recalled Mairon’s quiet admission once long ago that he despised grovelling more than anything or maybe Telperinquar simply saw through Mairon’s gesture. It would be meaningless to both of us.

“There is something you can do,” Mahtan interrupted as he stepped from where he had been silently listening to insert himself into Telperinquar and Mairon’s lines of view. “Lord Aule’s healer told us that she could not heal Telperinquar’s wounds because they were infested with your malice, Mairon. They insisted that only the being from whence the malice originated could extract the poison from the wounds and allow Telperinquar to heal.” 

“If I may,” Mairon asked Telperinquar and when the elf held out his hands, Mairon approached in slow steps and inspected the wounds, trying to ignore how Telperinquar’s body shook when their skin connected. 

When he touched the bubbling black bile he could feel something of himself. It resonated with the anger that remained trapped within his soul. He did not remember placing this much of himself within Telperinquar nor to this extent but there was no doubt that this was him. He hummed low, below the register of elvish hearing and felt the darkness swirl, bending to Mairon’s will. It moved sluggish, like a liquid so devoid of energy it was solidifying and Mairon was poor incentive to move. 

As the malice lurched towards Mairon, Telperinquar cried out, flinching back into the sofa and ripping his hand from Mairon’s. All of Telperinquar’s family was immediately surrounding him and more importantly pushing Mairon away. 

Mairon relaxed his call and told them, “Yes. I could remove it. But it would not be a painless process.” 

Then he waited as Telperinquar’s breathing regulated back to the stilted levels of his chronic pain. Once Telperinquar’s gasping was not so great, Curufin and his brother were both pulling Telperinquar to his feet, no doubt to set him back to bed. Before he let his father and uncle pull him away, Telperinquar looked back at Mairon and said, Healing is not a painless process. I would accept your help as a part of your apology. 

He left, leaving Mairon with Nerdanel and Mahtan. 

Mahtan nodded and said, “You will help Telperinquar here where we may monitor your work and ensure you are not unduly hurting my grandson. You will give us at least an 8 hour notice before you arrive and if Telperinquar wishes for your presence you will make yourself available within the hour.” 

Mairon nodded. It was not unlike any other reparation process he’d been forced to endure over the past ages, but at least this time it was for Telperinquar. He would not mind enduring these terms for this elf. 

When Mahtan finished, Mairon found himself asking, perhaps selfishly for one more favour, “Is Fingon here?” 

For Fingon also deserved a conclusion to their conversation and a bit of gratitude for prompting Mairon to make these amends with Telperinquar. 

Mahtan did not look like he wanted to have Mairon in his house for a moment longer, but he relented with a sigh, “Findekano is with Maitimo. The first room to the left down the hall.” 

Mairon nodded his thanks and than turned in the direction Mahtan had pointed. 

Chapter Text

Fingon heard the door open with a soft click, but he refused to turn. Mahtan had already stopped by to berate Fingon for allowing Celebrimbor to run all the way to Aule halls even though it was hardly Fingon’s fault. Fingon had already left by the time Celebrimbor made his escape from a house filled with 5 of his relatives! And yet, just because Fingon was courteous enough to escort Celebrimbor home, he was the one Mahtan saw fit to blame!

Well, Mahtan would certainly never blame his own progeny whom he practically doted upon when he could easily blame Fingon to whom he still held a grudge! 

And if Mahtan had already stopped by to vent his ire, likely Nerdanel or Curufin would follow. Neither of whom he was particularly eager to confront. So, he very consciously kept his back turned to the door and watched over Russo who continued to sleep with feather-soft snores. Had he caught a cold? Russo so rarely made a sound when sleeping. 

But Russo’s forehead was cool to the touch when Fingon set a hand on his forehead.

“Fingon?” At the voice, Fingon whipped around, retracting his hand from Russo’s body. Mairon was the last person he expected to see even after he’d written that scathing letter. He had maybe written it a little too soon after witnessing Celebrimbor break down crying in his arms and hadn’t given it enough time for his rage to cool. He was Mairon’s friend too and nothing would come from chasing Mairon off - it certainly wouldn’t make Celebrimbor happy.

And yet, Mairon was hovering in the doorway to Russo’s room with a trepidacious expression. His eyes flicked from Fingon to the bed and Fingon watched as Mairon took in Russo’s slumbering body and returned to Fingon. 

“Has he awoken yet?” Mairon asked, his eyes flickering back to Russo. 

“No,” Fingon replied before beckoning Mairon into the room, “In, in. And close the door behind you!” 

Mairon followed his request with a bemused eyebrow raise. Once the door was shut behind him, Fingon relaxed and crumpled back into his seat. He raised a hand and gestured to the other seat by Russo’s side.

“Have I forgotten or have open doors become offensive to you in the last month?” Mairon asked as he perched in a seat opposite Fingon. Russo’s room was the only one with two seats pulled into it at all times precisely because Fingon refused to leave. Most days the opposite seat remained empty, but Celegorm would occasionally sit at Russo’s side for longer than a momentary check-in. Fingon was surprised to find Celegorm actually decent company. Then again, Finrod had always insisted Celegorm could be funny when he wasn’t stomping around like a mouse in a teahouse. 

Fingon waved a hand at the door as he said, “The walls are fairly soundproof. I don’t particularly want anyone eavesdropping.” 

Especially these people. No offence to Celebrimbor, but the rest of his family was nosy and overbearing. 

“Ah,” Mairon said as he took a second glance at the walls with a new sort of appreciation, “I had assumed you would want others to monitor our conversation.” 

“Why would I want that?” Fingon laughed. “Have you forgotten that I’ve talked to you without an audience for centuries? Knowing that you’re Sauron doesn’t change my opinion retrospectively.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if it did,” Mairon said. He held himself almost artificially and it reminded Fingon that they never addressed Mairon’s reveal or at least hadn’t finished their conversation. 

“You really do just let people walk all over you, huh?” Fingon couldn’t help but comment and then had to smother a peal of laughter when Mairon glowered in his direction. And then he laughed some more as he imagined Sauron’s glower was probably not something most people could laugh at. “You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would do that. You’re too prideful.” 

Mairon shook his head, “It’s not about pride. Or more precisely, it is because of my pride that I’d rather bend my head than have someone force me.” 

“Who would do that?” Fingon couldn’t help but exclaim, nearly jumping for his seat with a sudden flush of anger. Odd how he’d gone from angry at Mairon to angry for Mairon in so little time. 

“Safety breeds superiority against those they consider the other. As the disposed in the center of the Valar’s power, elves have nothing to fear from me even if I was once their greatest dread.” 

“Elves!” Fingon couldn’t believe it. But when Mairon shot him another stink-eye, Fingon thought instead of the aggression between his father and half-uncle’s sides and realized that elves really couldn’t be held as a paragon of virtue like they were in Beleriand. The realization didn’t exactly make him happy, “Well, I would pride myself on being better! Even if you did torture my Russo for 50 years!” 

“Did I?” Mairon turned to stare at Russo and said, “You mentioned it before, but I do not recognize him.” 

Fingon couldn’t help but let out an unamused snort, “You wouldn’t! I barely recognized him when I rescued him from Angband. The grim and soot had practically become part of his body.” 

Mairon tilted his head in something akin to acknowledgement, “I tortured many elves as Melkor’s lieutenant. I never thought about who Melkor brought to me.” 

A sudden leap of anger surged in Fingon’s breast, but he smothered it. He had already had his moment of anger towards Mairon and Mairon had been nothing but a good friend to Fingon since they’d met and he wasn’t to chase Mairon away. In his most polite voice, Fingon said, “That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“It was not meant to,” Mairon replied, his gaze returning to Russo, “I had hoped that you would not mind me speaking candidly.” 

“Sure, by all means. I’ve always wanted to get in the head of a Morgoth's lieutenant. Just to be sure, you aren’t just waiting for a chance to commit elvish murder again?” Fingon had to ask, but while he’d said everything in earnest, Mairon snorted like it was a joke. 

“If you’re asking if I’d try to overthrow the Valar in Aman, then no. I am not delusional. Nor would I harm any here that might cause me to be censured,” Mairon said, turning back from where he was looking at Russo to stare at Fingon with those unnaturally elvish eyes. “The punishment promised proves a large incentive. Additionally, there would be no gain on my part by harming Eru’s firstborn.” 

“Is that really all that’s preventing you from committing another genocide? Punishment and a lack of reward?” 

“Is that not what dictates all of our actions?” Mairon tilted his head in a motion much too reminiscent of a Feanorion when puzzled. It was disconcerting, made only more troubling now that Fingon could connect the action to decades of deceiving Celebrimbor in the second age. “Elvish society punishes those who act against their own and there is little to gain by striking out on one's own.” 

“That’s not why we don’t kill each other!” Fingon couldn’t help but yell and then felt glad that the walls were soundproof. Mahtan and Nerdanel would come running if they heard those words. When Mairon only raised another eyebrow, Fingon breathed out and tried to explain, “It is morally reprehensible to take a life of your kin.”

"Elves are not my kin," Mairon pointed out, "And the Anuir have no such law.”

"You say that, but before Morgoth, the Anuir weren’t going around killing each other,” Fingon pointed out, “And the Valar only attacked Morgoth because he attacked first.” 

“Oh,” Mairon blinked as if he’d never come to the same conclusion, “Then in this way, I am also broken.” 

“In what way are you broken?” Fingon asked and his confusion failed to clear up even after Mairon's explanation of his time with Melkor. He waved his hands as he spoke, “All this metaphysical and science stuff is way above me. But you function as a perfectly normal person, better even than most Maiar. Would it not then be a - how to put it? - the inherent difference between elves and Maiar? I would say you're doing pretty good in that case.” 

“I am doing a good job?” Mairon had a comically confused yet pleased expression. The sight caused a grin to force its way onto Fingon's face. "To the elves you mean?”

Fingon shrugged, "I can’t speak for anyone else but you're the easiest Maia to talk to of all the ones I've met.”

"Some would claim such traits as manipulative,” Mairon grumbled (or as close to a grumble as one as haughty as Mairon could get). But Mairon's complaints made Fingon think this was a criticism Mairon had heard before.

"I think it just means you understand us. Which really helped me out, so I'm in no position to say otherwise,” Fingon said.

"You should have realized that I only helped you because I owed you and Telperinquar a debt. Any kindness on my part was to alleviate your ire,” Mairon said, returning to a point they'd only talked about briefly.

And one Fingon had opinions about. "Maybe at first. But you were kind to me when you didn't need to be. You let me sleep in your room, made sure I was fed, and treated me with respect. There's a reason I call you my friend and it wasn't the grand gestures.”

"I know how fragile elves are,” Mairon paused and then because they both reached the same thought: of Sauron in Angband, Mairon clarified, “And I watched Telperinquar very closely.”

Mairon winced again and said, "Not just to ensure he could create the rings.”

"I wasn't thinking that,” Fingon assured him. "I did want to ask, why. I know Telperinquar deserves an answer more, but why would you go so far for him? Was I wrong in my assumption that you are in love with Telperinquar?”

Fingon had mentioned it briefly in their last conversation but never gotten a straight answer even if all of Mairon’s actions pointed to a single conclusion. They’d talked about it quite a few times, but now Fingon felt it necessary to glean the truth so he might finagle Mairon into finally doing right by Telperinquar. 

“Of course not!” Mairon sounded exasperated, “Bringing it up more does little to force an incorrect theory.” 

“Or am I speaking to an idiot who is willfully ignoring all the evidence placed before him?” Fingon returned cheerfully. It was rather fun being on this side of the conversation; the aggravator and not the aggravated. But when Mairon sent him a flat expression, Fingon laughed and said, “At least explain to me what you meant by it was impossible for the Anuir to love the Eldar.” 

Fingon had been rolling the sentence over in his head while sitting at Russo’s side. He was so certain that the idea was wrong and it was an elitism in the Anuir that made such a notion pervasive. But at the same time, Fingon did not understand the Anuir. Many of them were so starkly different from Fingon and acted in ways that never made sense, so Fingon couldn’t quite discount the idea that there might be a fundamental difference between the two species. While he doubted love between an Anuir and an Eldar was impossible, he wondered instead if it was an aberration for an Anuir to fall in love at all. But he would so hate for Finrod to be proven correct.

“We are not of this world,” Mairon started, his eyes fixed on Fingon as if he could force understanding through Osanwe alone. Yet the passage of thoughts remained closed between them. “The Anuir came to Arda as its stewards and its caretakers. We helped build the world and continue to shape it to our will.

Think of your simulations. Imagine, if you would, a simulation so detailed that there existed beings that moved through detailed equations not entirely known to you but created by you. Their every action, their every word and thought were all in some way created by you. What then, would you say if this simulation of numbers that you created told you they loved you. What would that mean?” 

“Is that what happened?” Fingon couldn’t help but ask as his mind scrambled to find an answer. “I thought Eru created us.” 

“You were crafted in Eru’s vision but we helped Eru with the song,” Mairon gestured between himself and Fingon, “It was not dissimilar to the simulations you performed at my directions.” 

“Then,” Fingon thought and thought some more, but he just couldn’t imagine it. All of his simulations had outputted numbers and graphs, not people. But if those screens did contain people who thought and lived and had their own lives then, “It would be weird.” He had to admit. 

“And how would you respond? Would it be possible to return those affections,” Mairon continued. 

“Probably not,” Fingon admitted. Even if the simulation was a simulated Russo, Fingon didn’t think he could accept love from something he created and existed only on a screen. Although, in this analogy, Fingon could go into the simulation… “But where does your involvement end? I thought you were done creating the world ages ago. Certainly, we are not living through things you created. Why would you create your own loss?” 

“Why indeed,” Mairon asked with a twist to his mouth and with a flash of his eyes he answered, “Melkor introduced discord into the song. It has produced unexpected ripples that only those outside of Arda can manipulate. Although, my path would be unlikely to change even if I did have access to the song for Melkor was so much more powerful than I. No, it was better that he could not manipulate the song anymore once he entered Arda.” 

“If you could not manipulate the song once entering Arda and you cannot predict the future because of Melkor’s dissonance, does that not mean we are no longer your creations?” Fingon asked. He certainly would prefer that theory to the growing concern that Mairon’s words were creating that Namos had always meant to doom the Noldor. “You are now part of the simulation just as we are, bound to the whims of those still singing.” 

“It would be hypocritical of me to say otherwise,” Mairon almost laughed and he waved his hand around showing off his ringless fingers. The arrogant gesture was so in line with the Mairon that Fingon knew that the action caused him to snort. “But that does not mean that the elves are not beings I helped create.” 

Fingon did not point out that Melian had no issues with romancing an elf she supposedly helped create. Mairon had already made his point about Melian. “How involved were you in the creation of the elves? Did you in particular sing of our creation?” 

“None of us in Arda sang of the elves nor of men. We heard of you echoed in the song but our part was the creation of the world in which we now inhabit. I was a being of fire and order. I sang of the heat below the earth and of atomic changes in heated matter.”

Just as Fingon thought. He grinned winningly, “Then you have helped in the creation of elves less than an elder member of our communities where we all gather to help a mother birth a child. Many of us have married those we helped raise or raise us.” 

Or at least were alive long enough to help the parent survive long enough to have the child. But Mairon didn’t need to know that. 

And Mairon, well, he was blinking in a way Fingon knew was his mind trying to comprehend something new. He stared at Fingon then blinked at a wall and then returned to looking at Fingon as his eyes moved rapidly and his body held very still. When he finally found words, he said, “That sounds unethical.” 

“How so?” Fingon asked, pushing just slightly to see what Mairon would do, “So long as they are both consenting adults who find harmony with one another, why would that be an issue?” 

“Because the elder could influence the younger when they are a child into loving them?” Mairon pointed out, “Manipulating a child is not so difficult.” 

Mairon would know. He was practically the expert in manipulation. But Fingon, well, he had never really thought about it. Russo had certainly never done anything like that. In fact, he had been rather resistant to Fingon’s affections for years before Fingon was grown and wore him away into admitting that Fingon’s feelings were reciprocated. 

“I suppose it is possible,” Fingon relented. None of his family had been worried when Fingon announced that he had married Russo but perhaps he should talk to his uncle about rules and whatnot. “Ah, but that’s not the point. You didn’t manipulate Celebrimbor into loving you!” 

“Did I not?” Mairon asked in a tone that meant the question was rhetorical. “I manipulated him into creating rings that I could use to my advantage. Any affection he might have felt for me was entirely created from manipulation.” 

“We are having way too many different conversations all at once!” Fingon announced, realizing that his mind was flipping the idea of simulations on top of manipulative relationships and power dynamics. “But to be clear: you did not create Celebrimbor, and anything you might have heard of him in the song became null when Melkor added discord. You were not around him as a child to do any unethical manipulations and the only manipulations that did happen was when he was an adult who could think for himself and you are very sorry for them. So, you have no reason why you could not be in love with him!” 

Fingon concluded with a nod to himself. His rationality made perfect sense and even Russo would have to concede to it. 

But instead of falling to his knees in amazement, Marion ducked his head into his arms. His body shook intermittently and after a few moments, Fingon got worried and patted him on the arm. 

“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” Fingon asked, genuinely concerned. He had never seen Mairon act like this before. 

“No, nothing wrong,” Mairon denied as he finally lifted his head from his arms to reveal tear-stricken cheeks, “You have given me much to think about.” 

“Because you are in love with Celebrimbor,” Fingon said and was particularly amazed when Mairon didn’t deny it and instead sighed. 

“I do not know. I had not thought it possible for so long and now it seems futile to even contemplate such things,” Mairon said but tears continued to flow down his cheeks, making Fingon conclude that Mairon wasn’t being quite as honest as he pretended to be. 

Well, it was more than Mairon had ever wanted to admit before now and he was probably having a pretty hard time now all things considered. Fingon shuffled his seat so that he was nearly brushing shoulders with Mairon and pushed against Mairon lightly.

“It’ll be alright,” Fingon told Mairon as he returned his gaze to Russo, “Things will work out between you and Celebrimbor.” 

“What makes you say that?” Mairon asked, tilting his head in Fingon’s direction. But Fingon kept his gaze fixed on Russo’s body. 

"I have to believe it. Because- well because I'm envious of you," Fingon admitted as he cupped both of his hands around Russo's blotchy limp one and stared at how even pink with scarring Russo’s hand was so much fairer than his that it practically glowed cupped in Fingon’s own. "You have a way to help Celebrimbor while I sit here helplessly as Maedhros sleeps.”

Not to mention all the similarities he’d begun to notice between him and Celebrimbor. Mairon did not need to know that Fingon was watching their relationship for some messed up indication of what he might expect when Russo woke up.

"He sleeps to heal," Mairon said as he looked at Russo for a moment, "He will heal completely here in Aman and awaken grateful to see you. Telperinquar will never forgive me and there is no certainty that I will be able to return him to as he was.”

"You're being pessimistic," Fingon commented. "And I thought you had reached maximum pessimism before.”

He didn't bother to explain what before was. They were both very aware of how everything had changed with the Feanorions’ return.

"Not pessimistic. Realistic," Mairon countered, "I have always been realistic. Only I had not considered certain variables.”

Once again Mairon did not elaborate and Fingon didn't need him to. Neither of them expected the state the Feanorions had returned in. Fingon's mind, unfortunately, drifted to the charred horror that was Russo in those first few moments that Fingon had seen him and the guttural horror and despair that had consumed him. The thought made him shudder. He had never felt so helpless.

Fingon stared at Russo to vanquish those images behind his eyelids for the significantly better image of a sleeping and healing Russo. “I still think you're being overly doomerish. Celebrimbor hasn't sent you away and you said you could remove the taint in his body. Is that not cause for celebration?” 

“Telperinquar is most likely suffering my presence because I am the only one who can help him. When I am done, I shall leave him be.” Mairon declared and Fingon glanced over at him. He looked particularly miserable despite his firm voice. 

“You know, the Feanorians have all been pretty good at forgiving atrocities against them.” 

“What gave you that idea?” Mairon sneered, “The time when Feanor drew a sword on his half-brother or the time Feanor swore a damning Oath because Melkor stole his property?” 

He continued before Fingon could counter, “Or the time Maedhros made himself Melkor’s greatest adversary or the time Celegorm and Curufin attacked Beren and Luthien?” 

“Celebrimbor has always been an outlier,” Fingon tried because Mairon had brought up damming evidence that was pretty hard to refute. And here he was trying to make Mairon feel better.

Mairon snorted, “You must not know Telperinquar well. He is incredibly petty. He's just very good at hiding it.” 

That both did and did not surprise Fingon. He'd known Curufin and his wife, Telptelote, and neither was bad at holding grudges. He had always found it strange the Celebrimbor was so even-tempered with parents like that. But even so, Fingon knew Feanorions and he figured he understood them a bit better than Mairon. 

“The Feanorions are quick to anger and once you become their enemy they will hold that animosity to their detriment,” Fingon could still remember how Feanor’s unreasonable hatred of his half-brothers had spread across Feanor’s children. Even after their collective grandfather died, Feanor and his sons continued to let their hatred bar them from accepting help from the rest of the family. “However, if you earn their affections, even if they grow horribly outraged with you, you can always earn their forgiveness.” 

How many times had Fingon watched one of Feanor’s sons grow angered with a friend or a lover only for them to slowly get over their aggression. Russo had even forgiven Fingon for throwing himself at Feanor in a tackle. 

“I would say this counts as more than outrage,” Mairon commented. 

“And I’m not saying Celebrimbor wouldn’t be right to hate you,” Fingon continued, “You did kill him after all, but this is our second chance at life. Anything is possible. Say, do you want Celebrimbor to be your friend again?”

Mairon paused for a moment his brain no doubt thinking and when he responded his voice was very soft yet rang with an earnestness Fingon had never heard before, “More than anything.” 

Fingon grinned, “That’s the spirit!”

Chapter Text

Mairon was not prone to arriving early. He had never been even as a smith in Aule’s forge nor when he played at Melkor’s most loyal lieutenant. In truth, Mairon had never seen a reason to be anything but punctual. Why should he be early when it netted him nothing but empty flattery or blatant threats and so long as he was not late (which normally equated to some sort of punishment) none would say anything to him. How could they when his skills spoke for him?

But he found himself more than early to his first scheduled visit with Telperinquar. 

Mahtan’s instructions had clearly stated that he should arrive after the first morning meal which Mairon knew occurred roughly around 9 each morning. Yet, Mairon was dithering on Mahtan’s doorstep before the sun had even graced the sky. And he was pacing. Mairon never paced - that displayed nerves and Mairon prided himself on being rather fearless. 

However, he found himself rather - emotional - today. The words Fingon and Telperinquar had lobbed against him swirled in his head in perfect conflict with one another. Fingon insisted that Mairon give Telperinquar a chance and think for himself how he felt about the elf while Telperinquar had been nothing but clear how little he wanted to do with Mairon. 

Telperinquar certainly needed his help and Fingon would say that Telperinquar most likely wanted to forgive him. But if he didn’t. If Telperinquar wanted nothing to do with Mairon, then he was selfishly forcing his presence on the elf. 

That wouldn’t get him forgiveness. 

But nor could he hope to mend anything if he kept away. Fingon had made that abundantly clear over and over again. 

He looked up at the sky. The first beacons of light were peaking over the trees. It was most likely around 7 then. Still 2 hours to go. 

How did people stand being early?

Mairon had nothing to do but fret and pace. At least if he were in his rooms, he could read a paper or a book and avoid thinking of all this. 

But maybe that was the point. Fingon said he should try and be repentant but what did that look like? He could apologize - oh, he already did that and Telperinquar had accepted his services as a part of that apology. And Telperinquar had already shown no little amount of derision at the idea of atoning. So that was out of the question. 

And now he was back at square one. How was he supposed to get back into Telperinquar’s good graces? Was that even a possibility? 

Maybe if he grovelled? Oh, no, he had already offered and Telperinquar had refused. Most likely Telperinquar knew how little Mairon attributed to the act - he’d done it so many times disingenuously. Telperinquar might have even been present for a few of them. 

Now he was back at square one - or no, because he had apologized even if it had been an awkward, stilted thing. Telperinquar had accepted the explanation and agreed to let Mairon help him. That was better than nothing. 

But it was still so little comparatively. 

Telperinquar had avoided looking Mairon in the eye and he had said very little. It was hallowing, seeing Telperinquar so diminished and knowing that it was his fault. 

He had never wanted to reverse anything so badly in his life but he would give much to ease the cold disdain in Telperinquar’s eye and get another smile. 

Why did this matter so much? Mairon found himself stopping and actively introspecting the thought for a moment. 

He had given up on Telperinquar once before for his own ambition. He had done it easily, so why was it so painful now? Fingon called it love, but certainly, that’s not what it was. Oh, but he’d agreed to consider the possibility. 

He- had not thought of love in such a long time. When had he last? Oh, yes, in those happier years when Tillion and Arien had crowded around him and whispered endearments in his ears. 

How did that feel again? It had been so long and Mairon had been so angry that he could not recall… but he remembered feeling warm - or warmer than his usual disposition - when he was with them. He remembered meandering talks of nothing heating up his fana and aimless days spent in their presence. 

Was Telperinquar the same? Mairon had never felt a flush when around Telperinquar. The elf was beautiful, inarguably so (well, actually arguably. Mairon had argued quite extensively with others about Telperinquar’s desirability), but many elves were beautiful. Neither did he particularly enjoy being aimless with Telperinquar - he much preferred when they worked together towards a project. 

But Telperinquar was stuck in his thoughts more than any other. More than even Arien and Tillion combined ever did. Surely that meant something? 

But Mairon was interrupted from that train of thought by the door opening. He glanced up to find Mahtan staring down at him. 

“You are early,” Mahtan informed Mairon as his eyes scanned the sky and in particular the sun. The sun had already made a valiant assent above the trees and Mahtan sighed as he realized there was no longer enough time to banish Mairon back to Aule’s halls. “We are finishing breakfast. We will finish in approximately 20 minutes.” 

Mairon nodded as Mahtan shut the door in his face. 

After what felt like an eternity, Mahtan returned, with a glower on his face and a delicate carving knife in his hands. It was so ridiculous that Mahtan thought he might protect Telperinquar from Mairon was a kitchen utensil that Mairon’s low-lying mirth carried his nerves away as they passed through the entryway and down the hall. It only returned once they stood before the door of a hallway room and Mahtan was gently knocking against it. 

Telperinquar’s father opened the door with a curt nod of his head and gestured for them to enter. Mahtan went first, slipping past Curufin with ease while Mairon was left to enter with a large amount more hesitation. 

A hesitation that was merited when Curufin caught Mairon’s wrist and whispered, “If you weren’t needed to fix my son, I would have gutted you already.” 

“Noted,” Mairon said, his eyes already flicking away from Curufin and he soon also pushed his way past. 

He took only a few steps into the room before his eyes caught on the fea that he had once spent so long with. Telperinquar looked awful, his hroa battered and torn. Yet, it was significantly better than the last few times Mairon on seen him: when Telperinquar was held in chains at Mairon’s command, when he first spilled out of the void, bloody and barely breathing, bent against a wall and spilling his innards over Mairon’s books, and sagging into his father and uncle’s grips as he pretended he could sit up and hold a conversation. 

In comparison, Telperinquar was sitting on his own and his wounds were carefully bandaged with enduring white linen. His eye, when it landed on Mairon, sparkled with intellect and a tinge of malice that Mairon rightfully deserved but knew not how to handle. 

Mairon froze and remained frozen as Telperinquar cocked his head slightly and his eye darted away from Mairon to where his silver-haired uncle, and grandmother were sitting.

Telperinquar looked at his family. His lips pulled slightly in a mimicry of a smile that comforted no one, but after minutes of silent haggling, Telperinquar's family lifted themselves and left, glaring at Matron as they did. Once they were alone, Telperinquer leaned back and sunk into his bed with a sigh. His eye opened then to look at Mairon. We are alone now.

"We are" Mairon agreed before adding, "By your choice. I would not have protested your father's presence.”

Mairon didn't really have a reason to, not when he had already proven himself capable of hurting Telperinquer. Even now, Mairon did not trust himself not to hurt Telperinquer even intentionally.

Celebrimbor’s head cocked to one side, You speak as if I should be avoiding you.

“My understanding of elves was that they found me terrifying.” Mairon returned. 

Celebrimbor huffed and his shoulders shook like he was laughing, My family have similar thoughts but I am not so worried. What more can you do to me that I have not already endured.

Celebrimbor’s motions stopped and his eye stared into Mairon as he added, And, I think, you would not repeat our last interaction.  

“If you are referring to when I tortured to death for information, no I would not repeat that and if you speak of when you shouted at me for half an hour before fleeing, I would rather not repeat that either,” Mairon knew he was being pedantic, but he would never let Telperinquar make such a blunder without reprimand. 

Telperinquar ducked his head in a classic example of acknowledgement but his face was devoid of the half-grin he normally wore when Mairon made such a comment (or more accurately, the half-grin he used to wear when Annatar made such a comment), The first most definitely. Although, I am not overly inclined to the second. 

“You aren’t?” That was the reason Mairon thought Telperinquar wanted to be left alone with him, so Telperinquar could air his ire without further concerning his relatives. However, when he relayed his thought to Telperinquar, the elf shook his head and explained. 

Why? I’ve said what I needed to say. I don’t enjoy being angry, as I hope you remember. And, well, I feel more numb than angry now. How can I be infuriated with someone so unrepentant that they don’t realize why they should apologize?  

Mairon wanted to protest. He did want to apologize. He desperately wanted to go back to the way they were before. He just didn't know how.

But Mairon's words meant little to Telperinquar who, as if knowing the protests in Mairon’s head, continued, This what I mean. We can never go back to how we were before. And if you wish to apologize only to regain what we had before I wouldn't accept it.

"What sort of apology would you accept?” Mairon asked, reigning in his disdain. No one meant their apologies - every single one Mairon had ever given was an exchange. To remove pain. To gain respect. To manipulate others. To gain their trust. But the last thing he wanted was to aggravate Telperinquar further by pointlessly arguing with him. It hadn't worked out well last time.

I would have you understand the wrongs you committed to me and acknowledge the hurts you dealt to me. Once you fully understand, I would have a sincere apology where you seek nothing from me but to ask forgiveness .

"You would ask the impossible," Marron said without thought, but once he'd broken his goal not to argue with Telperinquer, he doubled down, "Everyone seeks something from an apology. You would ask for a selfless selfish action. Even if the repentant desires nothing from the one they ask apologies, they still seek self-fulfillment.”

Telperinquar just sighed and held out his hands, Arguing with you is futile. I would rather we start.

"Very Well,” Mairon said as he let the argument fade to the background of his mind. He reached out his own hands and let Telperinquar set his hands on top of Mairon's. Touch allowed Mairon to better explore how his visceral hatred circulated in Telperinquar's fea and manifested itself in his hroa, bubbling like tar where Mairon had once ripped his claws into Telperinquar and polled and pulled as his subject screamed but that never stopped Mairon from prying them open more and more. Especially Telperinquar whom he hated to the core of his being and spited him again and again.

It would be so easy to reach in and twist the malice he had already nailed to this fee, He could tapper it and contort it to his will. It would be so, so easy.

Mairon shook himself. This was Telperinquar. He didn't want to hurt Telperinquar, not even when he had been hands deep in Telperinquar's stomach. Banishing the snide thoughts, Mairon looked at Telperinquar and asked, "What should I do first?”

The malice was curled all around Telperinquar's fea, slicing and squeezing at all times. It would take time for Mairon to coax it all or banish it from how deeply engrained it had become.

"My hands." Telperinquar punctuated his request by lifting the now useless appendages. They were currently crusted with black ooze and were tightly wrapped to hold the fractured bone into a shape resembling a hand.

“Are you sure?” Mairon asked. Telperinquar’s hands were destroyed, there was no argument there. But, Telperinquar also had more pressing issues. Repatches to the blood vessels around his heart could only last so long and his liver was nearly destroyed from filtering out the tar in his organs. Far be it for Mairon to choose in Telperinquar’s stead when he was tasked with helping Telperinquar, but certainly, Telperinquar must think about this logically. 

But when Mairon explained the other issues and detailed their consequences (while not fatal, because nothing in Valinor save the removal of vital organs could be truly fatal but still excruciatingly painful), Telperinquar glared and told Mairon, “I could live the rest of my life in unimaginable pain, but if I can never craft again, I'd rather return to the void.” 

Mairon was not going to argue with Telperinquar. He had promised not to. And so he shrugged and turned his attention to Telperinquar’s hands. 

They were utterly destroyed. 

Not that Mairon expected anything less since he had personally seen to their destruction, carefully stripping muscle and dissecting nerves. But he was not thinking about how to fix them when he was ruining them. Or rather, he was insistent on them not being fixable, so hurt and angered that Telperinquar would not work with him that he would not allow Telperinquar to work with anyone else ever again as retribution. 

He hadn’t considered that it might one day be him that Telperinquar could work with again.

He was particularly displeased with himself at this moment as he tried to navigate the intersecting and interlocking binds of malice that curled and tangled around itself into a net around Celebrimbor’s hands. Like a tangled wire, it would take Mairon an excruciating amount of time to fix and if were something less important, Mairon would recommend destroying everything and starting over rather than attempting to salvage it. But these were Telperinquar’s only hands and he would never impose such a punishment on the elf. 

He gave a single tendril a metaphorical tug. It slithered an inch before sticking to its neighbour. Mairon carefully sliced through the adhesion with a simple hum. He continued to inhibit any agglomeration with careful frequency tones but after only a few more inches the tendril pulled taunt as the entanglement pulled the neighbouring threads together. Mairon hissed. This would be more troublesome than he initially anticipated. 

But his outward irritation set Telperinquar on edge as he asked, What? Is something wrong?  

“They are interlapped,” Mairon told Telperinquar and when the elf remained confused he elaborated with a simple, “Like long interlocking chains stuck together.” 

Telperinquar nodded, You can remove them?

As if something like this would be impossible for Mairon. “Of course. I am only annoyed that it will be more time-consuming than anticipated.” For there were more cohesions hidden away from Mairon’s sight and it would take some time to identify and remove them. 

How long? Telperinquar asked, his gaze hardening. 

“I have no other example upon which to gauge a timeframe,” Mairon told Telperinquar as he inspected the wounds again. “But certainly a long time. Centuries maybe.” 

“I would suggest that we begin with something else like your heart or liver. It would vastly improve your quality of life.” Mairon tried and wasn’t surprised when Telperinquar glowered. 

How long would that take? Months? Years? Centuries? In all that time I will be bereft of my hands and forced to waste away in my family’s mercy and guilt. No, fix my hands. I will handle the pain.  

“It could kill you,” Mairon tried but Telperinquar’s lips only slightly turned up into a grim line. 

Would that reset my progress? Telperinquar asked. 

“No,” Mairon admitted, “But-”

Then I will die as many times as necessary to fix my hands. 

“Surely you would not want to hurt your family like that,” Mairon tried as his mind added, surely you would not want to hurt me like that, but he refrained from voicing it. Almost certainly, Telperinquar would see it as a bonus if his death would harm Mairon. 

Telperinquar remained silent but his lips, half-tugged into a frown, revealed his feelings on the matter. He then pointedly set his gaze to where Mairon’s hands surrounded his. 

Mairon got the message. 

He started untangling lines.

The work of sorting and aligning the tendrils was not so difficult if demanding. It required quite a bit of exercised power to align them and continuous effort to maintain the alignment. If he took his attention off them for more than a moment, they would start to slide together and reform bonds of sticky tar. It would have been much less energy to yank a single line from Telperinquar’s hands, but all the tendrils overlapped and clung to one another, pulling on 1 yanked them all and Mairon only tried it once before discontinuing that line of work when Telperinquar exhaled in pain. Nor could he cut the tendrils themselves. When he did, Telperinquar cried out again and the tendrils regrew almost instantly. 

Instead, he had no choice but to remove the tendrils intact one by one. After meticulously breaking bonds around a single chain, Mairon was able to fully remove it from Telperinquar and pull it into himself. The tendril lept from Telperinquar to Mairon in a single blip of black ichor. Telperinquar sighed when the line was removed, no doubt feeling a minuscule lighter with some of Mairon’s taint removed. 

Mairon would have cheered at Telperinquar’s reaction if he wasn’t experiencing an equal reverse reaction. The tendril burned as it entered back into Mairon, digging its polar bonds and fish hook chains through Mairon’s system. He banished the pain a moment later and though he managed to hide his momentary surprise quite well (or more likely, Telperinquar was overly preoccupied with the vanishing pain that he missed Mairon’s reaction.) 

The next tendril Mairon removed hurt noticeably more, but Mairon was prepared for it and this time was definitely able to hide it. He was no stranger to pain even if internal pain was strange. He was rather glad, at that moment, that Melkor had never decided to turn Mairon’s fana inside out. No doubt Melkor’s blows would have hurt more. 

But this pain was fine. More than fine really, because it was on Telperinquar’s behalf. Each bite of agony that flooded through Mairon’s system meant that it was expunged from Telperinquar. 

They removed 10 tendrils that afternoon. Mairon slowed as the afternoon progressed only in part due to his own pain. The extraction process seemed to tire Telperinquar and by the tenth, he was wilting into his seat. 

Telperinquar was just about asleep when Mairon pulled away. He hesitated for only a moment before petting Telperinquar on his head and murmuring, “Rest, Telperinquar.” 

He left after that, leaving Telperinquar in the capable hands of his father. 

That evening, after a stressful morning and afternoon snipping links off his malice, Mairon found himself flipping through the newly scattered books on his desk. Each was flipped open to a random page that when viewed as a collective rather than individual books painted a picture of elvish biology, particularly the nervous, muscular, and skeletal systems of a hand. He was cross-referencing different papers and readings to determine the normal functionality of a hand. Well, more particularly, the functionality Telperinquar’s hand should possess. He could clear the malice away but if he was not careful, he might irreversibly tarnish something and cause the system to fall apart. 

He would be much further along if someone wasn’t banging on his door. 

Mairon was unused to visitors. Of course, excluding Fingon and Aule. Both of whom had visited recently and were unlikely to present themselves before him again so soon. Thus, he was unsure who was making a racket on his door and disturbing his thoughts. 

He was particularly displeased and even more so when after another hour or so the door smashed off its hinges to reveal the cause of all the noise. 

“Mairon,” knowledge-anatomy-seeker greeted, her eyes stormy and her fists clenched, “I heard you have resumed your interest with the youngest of Mahtan’s get.” 

“What matter is it of yours?” Mairon was instantly on guard. knowledge-anatomy-seeker was not associated with Mahtan even if she probably would like to be. However, most elves found her fascination with their dismembered bodies disconcerting. Her name was on many of the books littering Mairon’s desk. 

“It matters when Aule assigned them to me!” knowledge-anatomy-seeker nearly shouted as she worked her way into the room, wrinkling her oddly elvish nose as she went. Everything about her was just a little too obtusely elvish from her looks that appeared artificial to the stilited methodology in how she walked which implied an understanding of how the muscular system worked rather than observation of how any elf moved. 

“I was told that you lacked the ability to heal the wounds I dealt,” Mairon countered. He had no desire to bicker with knowledge-anatomy-seeker, but neither would he allow her to turn Telperinquar into a project. 

“Wounds you inflicted with your elea!” knowledge-anatomy-seeker snarled, “They are most peculiar in how they attach themselves to Tyelpe’s hroa, but should be of no more concern than that. Haven’t you done quite enough for that family?” 

She hadn’t answered Mairon’s question which led to a rather unpleasant understanding of the situation. Mairon had never thought particularly highly of knowledge-anatomy-seeker even before his initial defection (she was always raving just a tad too fanatically about the elves for Mairon’s taste) but he had thought she would be more serious about a request from Aule. 

She absolutely should not be left with Telperinquar and definitely not left in charge of his health. But when Mairon told her this, she turned biting, “Butt your head out of this! Just because he was once your pet, doesn’t give you the right to infringe on the work Aule gave me!” 

“Maybe not,” Mairon found his voice had taken on a coy cadence and he was not at all caring when he continued, “But Aule’s orders were to heal him, were they not? I am certain he would be less than pleased if you were not following his directive to the highest possible degree.” 

knowledge-anatomy-seeker hissed but didn’t correct him. With a parting snarl, she turned around and left. 

Mairon felt no less aggressive but with nowhere to storm off to, he settled for incinerating every book with knowledge-anatomy-seeker’s name scribbled anywhere on its pages. He would absolutely not allow her anywhere near Telperinquar and Telperinquar’s recovery. 

He wondered for a moment if this was what Fingon meant about love and Telperinquar about forgiveness. He would scorn knowledge-anatomy-seeker and seek an alternative to help Telperinquar for no other reason than because it was Telperinquar. Was this the answer he should be seeking? 

But he shoved that thought aside for more practical thoughts. knowledge-anatomy-seeker could not be allowed to continue, but who could take her place. It should be someone who was skilled and knowledgeable and had Telperinquar’s best interests at heart. 

He glanced down at the few books remaining and his gaze fell on one such book as a name stood out in stark red on the dark cover. 

Elrond Peredhil. 

Chapter Text

Fingon looked up when the door opened and the story he was whispering to Russo dried on his tongue. But it was not one of Russo’s numerous family members. Instead, Mairon stood, wobbling slightly on his feet, in the doorway. 

Fingon knew that Mairon was stopping by the house today for his second weekly checkup with Celebrimbor, but he hadn’t thought Mairon would stop by. Last time, Mairon had vanished immediately after and Fingon could only watch Celebrimbor’s frame shudder and his eye redden slightly as he stared after Mairon. 

It would be aggravating if it wasn’t so tragic: the tortured still in love with his torturer and the torturer unbelieving he could be in love let alone that the tortured could ever love him. 

It really made Fingon want to interfere, but Celebrimbor had made him promise and Fingon wasn’t about to break it. Not that it prevented Fingon from asking a few probing questions and guiding Mairon to what Fingon was certain was the truth. 

Really, Fingon figured these appointments would continue to be fragile things for at least a little bit more. He expected that they would end in tears and longing silence and words unspoken for at least the next five or so - that’s certainly how long it had taken Fingon when he’d first started nursing Russo back to health to forgive Russo for what he and his family had done. 

And yet. And yet and yet and yet, Mairon was here - knocking on Russo’s door looking for Fingon. 

It certainly made his shoulders deflate from the blustering he was prepared for should Nerdanel or Mahtan walk through the doors. He even attempted a smile as he greeted the Maia, “Hey, how’re the appointments going?” 

“They are progressing better than anticipated,” Mairon said, paused, glanced down at Russo, glanced back at Fingon, and asked, “How is Maedhros?” 

Fingon shrugged, “Same as before, honestly. The healer said that he’d just about healed all those wounds of his and that it’s anyone’s guess when he’ll wake up. Same with Amrod.” 

Mairon nodded and looked back down at Russo. 

When Mairon had been quietly staring at Russo for some time, Fingon realized what was going on. Mairon was stalling.

He was evidently here to talk to Fingon about something - otherwise, he would have gone home after treating with Celebrimbor and he wasn’t here to ‘check in’ on Fingon otherwise he would have said more than a single greeting question. Mairon was better at small talk than that - he was a master of talking about nothing like it was the most important thing in the world. Fingon should know. After all, he’d listened to Mairon talk at him about calculus for 3 decades. 

And it must be something important if Mairon was acting so cagey. The question was, what did Mairon need? 

“So, what are you doing here?” Fingon tried, but Mairon barely paid him a glance. 

“I had presumed that there was no issues with me visiting my friend,” Mairon said and when Fingon remained curious, he added, “Were you not the one who called us friends? I am merely doing my duty to, as you say, ‘check in’ on you.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Fingon said. Apparently, Mairon was going to drag this out. Maybe Fingon should just leave it alone and let Mairon reach the courage he needed on his own. But Fingon had never been great at waiting for anything and Mairon was a horrible procrastinator. “So, how’s Telperinquar? This makes 2 treatments, yes?”

Those words, at least, got a wince. “The damage was severe,” Mairon admitted. “It will not be quick. Much to his family’s disappointment.” 

“And to yours, no doubt,” Fingon added. 

“My only concern with a long recovery time is the damage Telperinquar will inevitably get himself into trying to rush the process. He has never had any patience,” Mairon paused again before continuing with a much more halting tone that told Fingon he was reaching the important part, “He wants his hands healed.” 

“I don’t doubt that!” Fingon laughed before catching sight of Mairon’s expression and his mirth trailed away, “Is that a bad thing?” 

“In any other circumstance I might rejoice that he has not lost his desire to craft,” Mairon looked over at Fingon, finally drawing his attention away from Russo and revealing the full look of anguish painted across his face. “I only worry that he has more pressing issues. His lungs are leaking as are his guts and his intestines. His blood vessels are highly clogged and his liver is on the verge of catastrophic failure as it attempts to drain the taint from his body. These are only the issues that I am aware of. A skilled doctor would certainly find more.” 

Fingon was no doctor but that sounded bad. To be fair, Celebrimbor looked a day away from keeling over if not minutes away given the cycle of regeneration. And Fingon had no desire to let Telperinquar waste away to Mandos - not when he had a perfectly healable body right here (and Aule’s healer had mentioned that the hurt was to the fea not the hroa, so there was a good chance that even Namos would not be capable of fashioning Celebrimbor anew). 

“And he refuses to listen to me!” Mairon continued, his anger now manifesting in place of his stillness. While he remained mostly stationary, his hands fluttered in sweeping motions to attenuate his points, “Which historically speaking, many would applaud said choice. I will be the first to admit that. But his stubbornness is something I know well and once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.” 

“Did you try?” Fingon knew well the Feanorian stubbornness, but he also wasn’t sure how much Mairon might have pushed Celebrimbor. Surely if he knew the consequences he would back down. Unless Celebrimbor knew that much more than Fingon about medicine and knew Mairon was stressing over nothing. It was very possible. What did Fingon know about elven biology other than how to kill someone with a sword. He knew if the guts were stabbed that could be deadly. Was it the same when infested with Sauron’s malice?

“Of course I did!” Mairon threw his hands up and shot Fingon an exasperated look, “But as I said in my opening argument, Telperinquar is too stubborn to listen to me! And I certainly can not be found arguing with him by his family. They would throw me out and then Telperinquar would die regardless!” 

“Then the healer?” Fingon tried. The entire family had followed the healer’s word without question. Surely if the Maia suggested that Mairon heal Celebrimbor’s guts or whatever Mairon thought was most appropriate, the family would listen. They all wanted Celebrimbor in the best of health even if he wasn’t the happiest.

Mairon scoffed, “Aule’s healer? She would rather dissect Telperinquar than anything else. The last thing she would do is cooperate with me to heal Telperinquar properly.” 

“Then?” Fingon left the statement hanging. Mairon was an ideas guy. There was no way he didn’t have an idea or a plan before approaching Fingon. Was that what Mairon needed? Were they going to do some epic ass-kicking or speech giving and Mairon needed Fingon at his back? Whatever it was, Fingon was down! He was feeling rather listless without a goal and with Russo still as a brick in bed (a very pretty brick but a brick besides). 

Mairon breathed in - a perfectly elvish way of stalling, before stating, “I would have you help me find and employ Elrond Peredhel.” 

Elrond? Oh, Idril’s grandson! Fingon had met Elrond maybe once or twice (not counting all the times their eyes had met at one of the larger family gatherings) but hadn’t thought much of the soft-spoken half-elf. They were interconnected twice over as Galadriel’s daughter was his wife.

But Fingon was surprised that Mairon was suggesting they find Elrond. Sure, Elrond was supposedly a healer of great skills and was half-Maia to boot, so maybe he would be able to see damages to Celebrimbor’s fea that an elvish healer might miss, but Elrond was also Sauron’s greatest nemesis amongst the elves. He had more reason than most to hate Sauron. Sauron’s actions had interfered not only with his ancestors but had also ripped his wife from him, doomed the legacy of his mortal brother, and made him unable to remain behind with his daughter for the length of her mortal life. Or that’s what Turgon told him at least.

That wasn’t even mentioning the way Elrond kept politely quiet whenever the feanorians were brought up. They had forced Elrond’s mother to abandon him as a child and kidnapped him and his brother for all their youths. The first time they had been introduced, Elrond had regarded Fingon’s gold-woven hair with a calculating gaze and mentioned that he’d seen something similar wrapped around Maedhros’s wrist. Fingon had pointedly been pushed away by his brother after that and he was pretty sure that Argon and Aegnor were under orders to intercept them at family gatherings to ensure they not awkwardly run into one another. 

“Will Elrond help us?” Fingon found himself asking. Healers might have sworn to heal all they could but it was not so binding they they couldn’t turn away their enemies or the betrothed of the ner that kidnapped him as a child. 

Mairon nodded, “Maybe not us, but he and Telperinquar had always been close. He visited Telperinquar often in Ost-in-Edhil and Telperinquar left when he could spare the time to visit him in Lindon.” 

Fingon closed his eyes carefully. Ost-in-Edhil. Lindon. Places he’d heard of vaguely at one point in time or another, but also places he had never visited - could never visit for they were across the sundering sea never to be seen again. 

When he opened them, he had managed to mostly banish the tinge of remorse in his breast, “So you want us to find Elrond and petition he consults Celebrimbor into letting you rip your malice out of his gut rather than his hands?” 

“No,” Mairon shook slightly, but remained fixed in place, “I want you to convince Elrond that he should take over as Telperinquar’s primary healer so that he might argue with Telperinquar in my stead.” 

“Right, that,” Fingon glanced over at where Russo was still sleeping, “Do you really think Elrond would acquiesce to visiting or staying in a household full of feanorions?” 

At that Mairon huffed out a laugh and barred his teeth, “I am certain that will be no problem.” 

Well, if Mairon said so, who was Fingon to argue against his blind confidence. At worst, it will be a funny story to tell: how Mairon got murdered by a half-elf after inviting him to the home of his kidnappers. 

Unfortunately, Fingon did not know where Elrond lived. Neither did Mairon. Since Fingon was certain that neither Mahtan nor Nerdanel would know, they decided to visit Finarfin. He was king of the Noldor and grandfather to Elrond’s wife. And if that proved futile, Fingon was fairly certain Idril was visiting around this time of year and she would most definitely know where her grandson had built his home. 

It also gave Fingon the perfect excuse to leave the house. No one batted an eye when Fingon announced that he would check in on the feanorions’ punishment with Finarfin. Nerdanel had even asked that he check in on Amras and Caranthir and make sure they were comfortable with the punishment levied against them. Finarfin had not yet reached a judgment when Mahtan had left, but Caranthir promised not to let anything egregious happen to his younger brother. 

In fact, it was almost more work reminding Nerdanel that she would hate to travel with Fingon than anything else. It was only Celebrimbor’s poor condition and the unconscious state of three of her children that stopped her (and a lot of begging on her awake children’s part - Fingon never thought he would see Curufin or Celegorm beg for anything let alone both of them at the same time). 

Before he left, he pressed a kiss to Russo’s forehead (and was only marginally disappointed when Russo refused to even so much as stir at the touch) and whispered a promise to return before allowing himself to be whisked away. 

The trip back to Tirion was easy but only became more troublesome as they neared the city. Or well, it was only Fingon who was uneasy. Mairon had an ever-present grin the whole time but whether that was to hide his unease or because he was happy to get his way, Fingon couldn’t tell. 

The crowds grew along with Fingon’s unease. The outlying folk were all Noldor who either took farming far too seriously or had another craft that required large amounts of space and wide crowds to ogle said craft. This was accompanied by bountiful recognitions as his uncle’s people all took their turns waving and calling out to Fingon. 

It was nice of them, really, To honour the shortest reigning king of the Noldor in Beleriand Who started the beginning of the fall of their people on the opposite shores. He hadn’t even been anything but a hermit since his rebirth, but no one let him forget his laundered achievements: dying horribly alone and in agony, somehow mistaking him for a war hero. 

And people wondered why Fingon avoided large settlements. 

Luckily they were in a hurry and even if no one recognised Mairon, they knew he was a Maia and so did nothing to hinder them. They actually made good time to the palace which stood as it always did: high above the city and imposing in its time-defying elegance. 

Fingon shuddered as he always did when he passed into the palace. A part of him always felt that Russo should be gliding down the steps with a warm grin, open arms, and raiment befitting the crown prince’s firstborn when he visited as if all those years had never existed. But the nostalgia only further showed how different everything was.

There was no grandfather sitting on the throne nor chattering cousins running through the yards. Finwe had vanished into the wilds around Vanya territory with his two wives and rarely left even for family get-togethers - supposedly he was still mourning Feanor’s imprisonment, but Fingon felt less than charitable about those theories. None of Fingon’s cousins spent much time in Tirion, most feeling the same as Fingon and had left to establish other cities or farmsteads where they could live in peace with their families or languish in their isolation (If Mairon thought Fingon was bad those few weeks he thought Russo was gone forever, then he’d evidently never met Aegnor). 

It was only Finarfin in the throne room. Even Earwen was missing. But his uncle’s smile was wide and uncomplicated as he rose from the throne and embraced Fingon. 

“Nephew!” Finarfin greeted as he released his hold on Fingon just enough to pull back and look him in the face, “We have seen you so rarely! I would have thought you’d run off into the woods if some long gone nephews of mine hadn’t manifested on my steps not 4 months ago.” 

Finarfin’s eyes sparkled with intellect and knowing. Fingon could only bow his head and ask, “How are they faring? Mahtan and Nerdanel both requested an update.” 

“Oh, they’re fine. Better than fine even!” Finarfin said, waving a hand and pinching his forehead with the other, “We decided that the Feanorions should face a few millennia of community service for their crimes shared between the lot of them. Ambarussa the elder and Carnistir are both in Tirion for the next decade and already Carnistir has taken over the library and Ambarussa  is having a lovely time tramping through town playing in the leaves and digging up gardens.” 

Unbidden, a well of laughter bubbled up from Fingon’s throat. He hadn’t seen Finarfin so exasperated since before Beleriand when Fingon and his cousins would get up to all sorts of trouble just to watch their fathers’ collective sigh and shaking of their heads. It was one of the few times where Feanor was his uncle and not the ner attempting to split the family apart. 

Finarfin looked down at him with his own smile gracing his lips. “I am truly so glad they are returned. I had wondered if they might have unintentionally served themselves to some worse fate with that Oath of theirs and that was why they had not returned. I am pleased to be wrong. Eternity felt off without the entire family present.” 

Fingon’s breath caught. Finarfin had thought correctly. He looked over, but Mairon appeared completely unruffled by the comment. If only Fingon could be the same. Russo had always told him he was a poor liar. 

But luckily (or perhaps unluckily) Fingon’s glance at Mairon caught Finarfin’s attention and he turned to Mairon with a calm smile, “But I forget myself. Who are you, company of my nephew?” 

Finarfin’s greeting was serene and calm but Mairon, in true Mairon fashion, responded with a smug tone as he pushed the cloak Fingon had foisted on him from his head, “I think you know who I am quite well, Noldorion King.” 

To Finarfin’s credit, while his breath caught for a moment, he managed to recover quickly and cover his surprise with a blank grin, “Mairon. What purpose do you have with my nephew and with me?” 

A fair question. Fingon had never really told his uncle about his involvement with Mairon. He had told his siblings and his cousins but it was one of those things that never made it up the ladder to the parents. Not for any true reason but because they were all so used to keeping things amongst themselves, believing that they could solve it before parental figures involved themselves. 

But it was coming to bite him in the butt. If he had just told Finarfin that he was working with the Maia, Mairon, his uncle could have told him that Mairon was Sauron. Finarfin certainly appeared to recognize the red-haired Maia. 

“We are collaborating on a little reconciliation project,” Mairon said with all the flippancy and arrogance that made people angry and uncomfortable. Worse, it also gave Finarfin the wrong idea as his uncle's eyes narrowed and his face hardened. 

“Reconciliation?” Finarfin asked. Even his voice had changed from the welcoming uncle to the skeptical King. 

“It’s not what you’re thinking, uncle,” Fingon said with a sign of his own and a slap to Mairon’s arm. “Mairon’s been helping me with the Feanorions.” 

He then launched into a recount of his first meeting with Mairon and their quest to save the Feanorions. By the end of his tale, Finarfin looked slightly ill and he couldn’t stop glancing at Mairon like he was a necessary but unwanted cockroach. 

“The Void you said?” Finarfin sounded so tired that he probably would have toppled into his throne had he not descended the steps to embrace Fingon. “All of them? Even Telperinquar?” 

When Fingon nodded his head, Finarfin looked only more pained, “Ambarussa and Carnistir failed to mention that point. Do you realize the political ramifications of what you just told me, Findekano? Not only does this change the framework under which we determined the Feanorions’ punishment but also calls into question once again our trust of the Valar.” 

“I know.” 

But Finarfin just shook his head, “I don’t think you do. You were always so capricious.” 

Fingon wanted to dispute Finarfin’s claims. He had been King once too even if it was for only a short time, but he had also served as his father’s aid through all of his reign in Beleriand balancing the delicate alliances between feuding elves, dwarves, and men. He knew all about politics even if now he preferred taking a backseat. But before he could open his mouth, Mairon stepped on his toe and glared. Fingon shut up and allowed Finarfin to continue.

“We were promised when we helped defeat Melkor and the doom was lifted that all our brethren would return to us when they were ready to be amongst the living again. But once again they have broken our trust and withheld the true fate of the feanorions.” He then thought some more and added, as angry as Fingon had ever seen Finarfin be, “How could elves doom themselves to the void? A punishment that even Melkor only received after a second chance? Feanaro will definitely have things to say about this once he’s back on his feet.” 

Feanor? Oh, so they hadn’t told Finarfin that Feanor was not returned. Fingon wasn’t sure how he felt about Finarfin’s certainty that Feanor would be returned and the smile on Finarfin’s face as he talked about his estranged brother made Fingon’s stomach turn in uncomfortable loops. Luckily, Mairon stepped in so Fingon didn’t need to try and form coherent words. 

“I am certain that as King, you will be able to rectify any issues with the Valar and the other Kings of Aman,” Mairon said, his tone saccharine, “We came at our earliest convenience to inform you. The condition of the other feanorions have up until now required constant monitoring.” 

“How are they? Carnistir mentioned that they were waylaid, but your tale implies a fate much more dire. Is there anything aid I may give?” Finarfin's focus was perfectly diverted with those carefully placed words as he regained his uncle's attire. 

“We are looking for Elrond,” Fingon told his uncle, “We’ve had a little disagreement with the healer Aule sent and thought it would be better to have a trustworthy elvish one instead. We were hoping you might know where he is.” 

“Elrond? Yes, I can help you. He arrived in Tirion just this morning. His wife is helping me with some legislation,” Finarfin told them, “They are staying in the manor overlooking the Ocean - the one where Earwen and I used to stay when visiting your grandfather.” 

Yes, Fingon knew the exact one. He had gone there often in his youth to find his cousins and drag them along on adventures. He seized Mairon’s hand and bade farewell to his uncle. Finarfin, with a bemused expression, only waved a hand before turning to most definitely call his advisors and write some poignant letters. 

For the umpteenth time, Fingon was glad he was no longer King.

Chapter Text

Fingon had been silent since they left the King’s palace. His fingers were hot around Mairon’s wrist in an almost uncomfortable act that Mairon permitted simply because he couldn’t find a way to extract his hand without offending Fingon. But his fingers were squeezing tighter and tighter and were definitely leaving marks on his fana. Once again, it was not an issue, but Fingon would probably feel horribly guilty if he left a bruise. 

Most concerning was the silence. Fingon was rarely silent, even when he was supposed to be reading. During the entire trip to Tirion, Fingon chattered on and on about mundane things, past tales of his family, and interesting locations in Tirion. But he was silent now and turned completely away from Mairon. 

He was brooding. Or something of the sort. But even the last time Mairon had found him simmering in anger, he preferred to speak of it than bundle everything inside. 

What could Mairon possibly do to banish Fingon’s odd melancholy? 

Telperinquar used to use physical touch when Mairon got caught up in his own emotions. He would place both hands on Mairon’s shoulder, tuck his head into Mairon’s collarbone, and stay there silently until some of the tension lessened from Mairon’s muscles. Only then would Telperinquar carefully inquire into what had put Mairon into such a state. 

Well, Fingon was already holding Mairon’s wrist and Mairon had no intention of putting his head anywhere near Fingon’s person (he was all too aware of Fingon’s propensity for sudden motion and whiplash sounded horrible. And, well, that had always felt a more intimate than anything he’d want to do with Fingon). So, he settled for setting his other hand on top of Fingon’s and he waited. 

After a minute, Fingon looked back - his eyes drawn to where his hand was practically sandwiched between both of Mairon’s. When his head snapped back up to Mairon’s there was an unspoken question in his eyes. 

“You are stressed,” Mairon observed and watched as Fingon sighed. 

“It’s nothing really,” Fingon hedged before shaking his head and adding, “I’m just mad, I guess. I had always thought that I was the only one who cared that the Feanorions were gone and being proved wrong just, well, it makes me wonder. Why didn’t anyone else do anything? 

I’m a nobody - basically. I haven’t had anything to do with leadership or ruling since I was re-embodied. But Uncle Finarfin? He’s King and a long-reigning King. If he wanted to do something, he could have thrown his weight around more than I ever could.”

Mairon watched Fingon closely. He didn’t appear that mad, more of an instantaneous burst of furry than a bubbling and boiling rage. Which was good, or so Mairon thought. Fingon wasn’t a personality that should hold onto anger - it would consume him. But he did like to vent and so Mairon only hummed, letting Fingon carry on the conversation by himself. 

“And I know - I know it’s a good thing that Finarfin is doing something now. He’s good like that. Once he finds some injustice that he disagrees with, he’ll be more stubborn than both my half-uncle and father combined. Slow to rage but slow to calm, is how my grandmother always described him.

And it’s not just him. I know that Nerdanel and Mahtan cared but didn’t say anything. I knew and was fine with it, but it would have been so much easier if they tried - if they did anything.” Fingon shook his head, “It just hit me all at once that the loneliness I felt when I was trying to free Maedhros was unnecessary.”

Mairon hummed again, but this time also added a question, “Did you ever ask for help?”

“I-” Fingon’s eyes hardened, “Once. I approached Nerdanel and it - needless to say, it didn’t go very well.” 

Hmm, Mairon hadn’t heard this tale before. Contextually, this was probably the reason why Fingon was originally hesitant to be around Mahtan and why there continued to be an icy hostility between them. He had once decided not to pry when Fingon was merely a customer. But they were friends now, yes? Perhaps it would be alright for Mairon to inquire a little deeper just for his own curiosity. 

“And how did it go, exactly?” 

“It’s not a very interesting story,” Fingon prefaced, before relenting, “It was shortly after I re-embodied. I knew Maedhros needed me and I needed to return to Beleriand. The Teleri wouldn’t help me. They might have forgiven me for my part in the first kinslaying but never again would I be allowed on their boats. 

I had learnt that there was a Noldorian who had mastered boatcraft in the interim years since I’d left. So, I sought her out and to my surprise it was Nerdanel.” 

Fingon chuckled slightly and squeezed his fingers around Mairon’s wrist before loosening his grip to just slightly less than bruising. “I did not expect to run into Nerdanel but I thought she out of everyone would help me. I wanted to save one of her sons. But she refused.

I said some things I shouldn’t have and she said things she definitely shouldn’t have. And then we parted and I was so sure that if Nerdanel wouldn’t help me then no one would.” 

“And so you never tried again,” Mairon summarized. Fingon’s nod only irritated Mairon. Mairon had never had much patience for giving up even when it got him into all sorts of trouble. “Then you can only blame yourself for not finding more allies before now.” 

Perhaps it was cruel, but Mairon only thought of the implications after the words left his mouth. But Fingon didn’t appear to take offence as his lips curled into a rueful smile, “Probably. Good thing I have you to put me right again, huh?” 

“I am not sure how you functioned at all before you met me!” Mairon huffed before begrudgingly adding, “It must have been Maedhros’s good influence because you are a disaster on your own.” 

At that, Fingon truly laughed, “You are probably one of the only people to say that to me since I was a youth!”

Mairon only allowed himself to grin after Fingon’s head had turned away. Once again he had succeeded in drawing Fingon away from melancholy. He was getting good at this Fingon managing thing. 

Fingon was back to his usual babbling personality as they continued their way down the hill and weaved through the tightly packed streets until they reached a small open plane that threw out into a medium-sized house that sat at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sea and Tol Eressea. The path to the house entrance was surrounded by gardens overflowing with greenery and springtime flowers. A single tower tree sat slightly offset to the right of the gardens where the plant life smoothed out into a single plane of grass and set a shadow over their path. 

Fingon, of course, took no time at all before he exclaimed over the virality of the garden (which was nearly as thriving as when his aunt spent her days tending to it) and reminisced over the tree (apparently the cousins would hitch a wood swing to it and spend hours trying to push each other higher and higher over the house and sometimes ever over the cliff side). The benign chatter helped soothe Mairon’s nerves a bit. 

He may have been the one to suggest Elrond purely based on how likely Elrond would help Telperinquar and how well Elrond could bully Telperinquar into things. But Elrond had never liked Mairon, and that dislike only grew when Mairon killed Telperinquar and declared war on all elvenkind. 

How many millennia has it been since they talked? Elrond absolutely had the option of approaching Mairon for reparations but the half-elf had never sought him out. Which was for the better, really. Mairon's least favourite visitors had been the people of Ost-in-Edhil and those who knew him as Annatar. Elrond would have just been another who made his spine tickle, an unpleasant sensation he'd rather avoid as much as possible.

Maybe Aule's words had some merit, but Mairon wasn't about to seek out everyone who made him a little uncomfortable - what would be the purpose of that?

Fingon knocked on the door with a comment, "I have so rarely gotten to speak with Elrond.”

But before Mairon could question it the door opened. Standing in the entry halfway through a rehearsed speech about hours and availability was Elrond Perethel. He appeared much older than the Elrond Mairon knew in Ost-in-Edhil. Especially older in fea which blazed with knowledge and memory of hardship. And older in bearing- now holding himself as an elf lord who knows he should be respected and not the young lord who hopped to receive it.

And yet for all he had changed, Mairon could still easily read the way his cheek muscles tightened and how he tightly contained his rage as his eyes landed on Mairon.

The shadow behind Elrond fizzled and a silver-haired lady appeared behind him, dressed in a simple light blue gown and mithril earrings. She took her place at Elrond’s side and smiled.

“This is my wife, Celebrian,” Elrond glared at Mairon in lieu of anything else, “I would hope you remember her.” 

Mairon stared. He did remember Elrond’s wife. She had come to him for repentance after a few centuries. He remembered her because her request had been odd. Instead of punishing him or forcing him into a degrading task, she had simply wanted to talk. They had ended up spending an afternoon talking about mundane things. She told him about her garden and the hijinks her sons had gotten into since arriving in Aman while asking careful questions about Mairon’s, at that time, current interest in phase change and pressure. 

Celebrian curtsied, “Lovely to see you again, Fingon. And Mairon, how have your studies been going?” 

“Celebrian!” Fingon exclaimed. He looked particularly delighted as he pulled her into his arms and spun her around, “How is your mother? I haven’t run into Galadriel in so long! Have you finished that tapestry you were working on last we spoke?” 

"I'm stumped on the colour for the dress,” Celebrian admitted, "I was hoping to run into Grandmother this month. I want to pick her brains on first age court styles.”

Fingon nodded like she had aired a reasonable request. As they chattered a bit, Mairon finally placed her vaguely as Galadriel’s daughter and the child that once toddled behind Telperinquar in Ost-in-Edhil. 

How odd. He remembered how Telperinquar had spoken to her and he remembered her confrontation in the after as she explained the life she lost to his hands. He felt - odd. Very odd, an uncomfortable sort of odd. It wasn't quite the same feeling that Mairon felt in his chest when he stared at Telperinquar's hands, but it was more alike that feeling than it wasn't.

Fingon and Celebrian finished their conversation on threads and Noldorian culture abruptly when Elrond cleared his throat, his eyes still glaring at Mairon. "While you are welcome to visit and speak with my wife as you will, Fingon, I would prefer if you didn't drag Sauron along with you.”

"Ah, yes," Fingon lifted his eyes to look to the right of Elrond's head (interesting, Mairon couldn't help but notice that Fingon avoided staring at Elrond just as Elrond kept his own head turned slightly away from Fingon even when he spoke. Mairon couldn't help but wonder if Fingon had an issue with Elrond in a similar vein to the one he had with Nerdanel.) "I am not exactly here to speak with Celebrian - as much as I enjoy it.”

Fingon beamed at the silver lady and she returned it joyfully. "I am Mairon's escort so he may speak with you!”

Elrond and Celebrian exchanged looks of identical confusion, before Elrond asked, rather defensively, "What would Sauron deem important enough to beg my aid?”

A part of Mairon wanted to turn on his heel and leave. Why should he have to beg aid from someone who did not wish to? And Elrond of all people. Years of separation had burried Mairon's loathing for Elrond under his hatred of others but now standing before Elrond, Mairon felt an intense hatred. Not only did Elrond bear an uncanny resemblance to Luthien, but he had also personally foiled all of Mairon's ambition.

But as the words floundered in his mouth and his instincts screamed to make a scathing remark and remove himself, Mairon caught Fingon’s expecting gaze from the corner of his eyes. Fingon, who appeared also uncomfortable with Elrond and who was worried that this quest would result in nothing but rejection, but who still accompanied Mairon all the way here.

It would be… rude to snub Fingon's efforts and Mairon was supposed to try. Not for himself but for Telperinquar.

"We’re in need of one with great knowledge in the art of healing elvish hroa and capable of withstanding Feanorian stubbornness.” That was painful - asking for help and awaiting judgment. 

But Elrond did not have the negative emotion that Mairon feared. Instead, his jaw went slack and his eyes widened as he held himself with something akin to fragile hope that caused his voice to waver slightly as he asked. “Tyelpe’s back?” 

When Mairon nodded and Fingon backed him up, Elrond deflated, sinking into his wife’s supporting arms as tears streamed down his face. She retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed lightly at her husband’s tears before they could drip down his face. 

“He’s not alone,” Fingon added, almost cautiously, his fingers working the fabric at the sleeves of his tunic. A golden fabric that he kept wrapped around his tunic sleeve on nearly every occasion. 

“Who?!” Elrond’s voice was nearly a yell as he stared at Fingon for the first time since they’d arrived with a naked desperation that hardly surprised Mairon (he remembered how close Elrond and Telperinquar had been despite the very faint kinship between them. And he had seen Elrond once with his head on Telperinquar’s shoulder as they sat before the graves Telperinquar had constructed for his family). But the desperation seemed to have surprised Fingon who answered cautiously. 

“All of Feanor’s sons.” 

“I-” Elrond cut off as he turned his head to his wife. 

She smiled, sad and knowingly back at him as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Go. I will inform my grandfather and follow when my business concludes.” 

Elrond was up and scampering about in seconds. His bags were packed in less than half an hour and bowing under the weight of all the medical equipment and remedies he could think to fill them with. Mairon was fairly certain that Elrond’s bags held only an outfit or two and the rest of the space was overloaded by his gear. 

They were off within the hour of their arrival and blazing out of the city and across the lands of Aman. Elrond kept slightly behind Mairon and Fingon, allowing them to lead the way back. 

The first day was mostly silent, only the occasional question from Fingon to double-check their direction and their travel time. It wasn’t until night fell, as they all sat around a single campfire that discussion arose. 

It was Elrond who started it, hesitantly reaching out with questions, “How are they?” 

“Celebrimbor?” Fingon was the one who spoke, his head shooting up from where he was staring morosely into their small fire that was continuing to burn merely due to Mairon’s presence than because there was anything worth burning in its maw. Fingon crept a short look at Mairon before continuing when Mairon didn’t say anything. “He’s, not great. He’s been returned to us with all the wounds he died with.” 

Elrond gasped but his eyes were hard when they glared over at Mairon. “The wounds you inflicted.” 

Mairon bowed his head. What could he say to that? It was all true. 

Elrond thought for another moment before asking another question, “What gave you the right to treat with my cousin, Sauron? I would think your actions would disallow your presence by his sickbed.” 

“I am available to Telperinquar as my atonement,” Mairon said, ignoring the odd look Fingon gave him. They might have spoken about love and friendship and redemption but surely Fingon did not think Mairon would be telling just anyone who asked about this. “His wounds require my specific assistance.” 

Mairon then continued on to explain the nature of Telperinquar’s hurts. Elrond listened with a mulish expression but interrupted Mairon only a few times and only when he required further specific information about a topic. He was predictably and correctly horrified when Mairon relaid Telperinquar’s single-minded insistence that his hands be healed regardless of any pressing medical concerns. 

“His hands? Truly?” Elrond’s face twisted in an annoyance Mairon was very familiar with both directed towards Telperinquar when he was being stubborn and whenever he looked upon Mairon in Eregion (before they’d known he was Sauron - when he was simply Annatar, the maia that only Telperinquar trusted). “I suppose it proves you do not lie, for I cannot imagine Tyelpe any other way. But certainly, my cousin is a fool if he thinks that is what he needs most from this arrangement.” 

Fingon interjected then, subdued and quiet in a way Mairon thought impossible for the elf. “That isn’t what Celebrimbor desires most.” 

Now Elrond was glaring at Fingon. “And I suppose you would know. I fail to see how you have wound yourself up in all this. Sauron, I have no doubt, is either being forced as a part of his false apology or is seeking to resume his romance with my cousin once more, but what do you gain from this, Fingon?” 

“Why should I need to gain anything?” Fingon asked, still not looking directly at Elrond, “Celebrimbor is my family too. I am closer in blood to him than you!” 

Elrond would have snarled had he been a little less of a proper and composed elf. (Mairon remembered the old Elrond who had no issue growling at those he disliked. He had even threatened Mairon with a blade at one point when he thought Mairon was being improper towards his cousin.) “I never knew you were close to Tyelpe. He didn't talk about you.” 

“I'm sure there were plenty of relatives he never talked about, many of them even closer in relation to him.” Fingon tried. Mairon wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it certainly made Elrond more frustrated and maybe confused as he was staring very oddly at Fingon. 

Mairon figured, in the ensuing silence, it was a good time to correct one of Elrond’s assumptions, “I have no plans to manipulate Celebrimbor, nor do I have any plans to, as you say, romance him.”

“Certainly?” Elrond’s skepticism then returned to Mairon, “Then why would you put such effort into his recovery that you would seek me out?” 

“I thought It would be nice to put the two who detest me most in the same place,” Mairon said with a smile. It wasn’t even a lie. Telperinquar had done nothing but air his ire. And it would be good for Telperinquar to have Elrond at his side once more, especially now that they could commiserate over their shared hatred. 

But Elrond and Fingon both scoffed and then seemed to glare at each other when they realized they both acted the same. It was the closest to the Elrond Mairon remembered that he’d seen all evening. 

Fingon spoke next, “No need to lie, Mairon. It’s so obvious why you’re doing it.” 

Elrond sighed, his hand coming up to rub his nose. “I had thought my time navigating Sauron’s ridiculous romance was done once he murdered my cousin.” 

“I am not romancing Telperinquar,” Mairon insisted again. He might be in love with Telperinquar, but he certainly wasn’t trying to elicit any sort of sexual acts between them. He was decently sure Telperinquar would rather flay what remained of his skin than touch Mairon for any reason other than their healing. Even then, Mairon had noticed how Telperinquar would flinch slightly the moment their hands connected and how his eyes would widen with fear. 

Elrond scoffed, “I am quite sure that wasn’t your intention the first time either and yet you were more effective than any of the other suitors that came to Ost-in-Edhil explicitly to court him.” 

Telperinquar had had suitors? Who? Who would be deserving of Telperinquar’s soft grins, deft hands, and mesmerizing brilliance? Which of those lowly elves who had no issue besmirching Telperinquar’s appearance in private would brazenly ask Telperinquar for marriage? 

It wasn’t right. Not right at all. Telperinqaur deserved someone who could match his intellect and responded to each of his grins with their own wide smiles overflowing with adoration and love. Certainly, nothing less than perfect would be enough for Telperinquar to bind himself to for all eternity. 

Wait. 

Did Elrond say Mairon was courting Telperinquar? Implying that Telperinquar had been partially wooed by him? 

And was Fingon nodding along? What would Fingon know about Telperinquar’s emotions in the second age? Fingon hadn’t even been alive. 

Elrond somehow glared even harder at Mairon, as if he could hear Mairon’s thoughts and knew the hideous connections Mairon was making. “I have no idea what Tyelpe saw in you. Even garbed as Annatar, I knew you were nothing but bad news. I hated you even as you hid behind my cousin’s back and enticed him further and further away from his kin who cared for him. I have no words for the loathing I felt in my fea when I had all my worst fears confirmed and learnt that you murdered my cousin whom you romanced.” 

“I never romanced Telperinquar,” Mairon was starting to sound like a parrot, unable to do anything but repeat what had already been said. But what else could he do when Elrond was encroaching into his space with murder on his face and hatred on his tongue? 

Elrond’s face was now so close to Mairon’s that he could look nowhere but into Elrond’s eyes and he could feel the touch of Elrond’s breath on his face as Elrond spoke. “I will say this because I pity you and I pity my cousin more. And only once because I detest you with every fibre of my being. Celebrimbor was in love with you. He wanted to marry you to the point that he would ignore the rest of his family’s good judgment. You can lie to whomever you want about whatever you want, but do not ever lie to yourself that you didn’t destroy the person who loved you most.” 

His piece finished, Elrond leaned back to where he’d been reclining earlier. However, the look he gave Mairon, infused with hatred, pity and, worse of all, judgement made Mairon want to squirm with discomfort. 

It was more effective than anything the Valar had ever done to punish him. 

Chapter Text

They arrived at Mahtan's abode as Arien peaked in the sky. The day had been mostly silent. Elrond glowered but kept to himself and even Fingon was stubbornly mullish as he silently followed Mairon's lead. When chimney smoke could be seen crescenting above the trees, Fingon dashed ahead and was already gone by the time Mairon and Elrond caught up.

Thus it was left to Mairon to escort Elrond into the house and field the nasty looks and harsh words that dripped from Nerdanel’s lips and the cold calculation from Mahtan’s. At least, Telperinquar’s father and uncle were more confused by Elrond’s presence than anything and were decently receptive when Elrond introduced himself as Telperinquar’s friend (although, Mairon noticed an odd quiver to Elrond’s voice as he called himself such.). 

They were left with Celegorm as Telperinquar’s father slipped away to inform Telperinquar. Celegorm regarded Elrond once and remarked, “You look just like her.”

“Luthien?” Elrond asked, his tone overly polite, “Many have told me so. I am her great-grandson.” 

Celegorm shook his head once more as if to banish any thoughts of Doriath’s princess, “And I suppose you don’t begrudge Tyelpe his family lineage.” 

“Of course not,” Elrond said, “It would be hypocritical of me.” 

With that Curufin had returned and Elrond lifted himself to his feet and left the room with a smile that looked far, far too polite. Mairon, to Celegorm’s confused expression, could only shrug. He had never known the exact reason why Elrond cared so much about the Feanorions and his conjectures would only further confuse the matter. 

He followed Elrond to the room where Telperinquar was sitting upright, his back pressed against the wall and his eyes dropping. But mercifully, his wounds were in their closed state, leaving Telperinquar appearing to be on the mend. A soft smile graced Telperinquar’s mouth when he his eyes met Elrond. 

Elrond’s reaction was not nearly so contained. From behind him, Mairon could see Elrond’s hands shaking and smell the saline of tears no doubt welling up in Elrond’s eyes. Mairon could even hear the waver in Elrond’s voice as he spoke, “Tyelpe.” 

Telperinquar must have said something to Elrond because the half-elf collapsed into the seat beside the bed and cried as he blubbered, “I felt you die. You died and then Erenion died and I was left all alone again. And you never came back!” 

Telperinquar’s eye lifted to meet Mairon’s and Mairon could feel the accusation in his face as he said to all of them, It wasn’t my intention to leave you waiting. I'm sorry.

“Yes,” Elrond said, sitting rood straight. His voice hardened along with his spine as he continued, “Fingon told me what happened.” 

Telperinquar laughed (a truly wondrous sound), Even after meeting him, how can you still stand to hold a grudge to Fingon!? 

“I have met every one of the family members you used to tell wild tales about, and Fingon has remained my least favourite.”

You like Turgon more than Fingon? Is that grandfather privilege? Did something happen to you or did you end up with a stick up your butt? I can't find any other reason to prefer Turgon or- or Argon over Fingon! Telperinquar thought for a moment before adding, Although you always liked the argumentative ones.  

Elrond’s shoulders were shaking. Mairon watched with a breathless awe. Watching Elrond and Telperinquar talk felt as if he were transported back to those days of Ost-in-Edhil where Telperinquar teased and laughed as Elrond matched his energy with a viciousness. 

But that illusion shattered just as quickly as it was crafted when Elrond reined in any of his anger and sighed, “Fingon and I have had our disagreements since we’ve met on these shores.” 

Telperinquar stumbled just as Mairon had when he realized the past was history. His eye widened and he regarded Elrond as nearly a stranger. But that was the issue, wasn’t it, Mairon couldn’t help but realize. Telperinquar had been gone for so long and missed so many pivotal moments of Elrond’s life - moments that Mairon had been present for and Telperinquar absent. At this point, Elrond was more known to Mairon than Telperinquar. 

Elrond was unlike Telperinquar’s family who had been fixed in their personalities and their demenours and experienced no brutal hardships to invoke change. Elrond was much different in ways that neither Mahtan nor Nerdanel were and even then, Mahtan and Nerdanel were probably such fleeting memories in Telperinquar’s mind that little they did would surprise him as he expected nothing. But Elrond, he expected the young snarking child he befriended at the onset of the second age, not the wise and wizened loremaster that Elrond had become by the end of the third age. 

Maybe this wasn’t the best decision. Mairon had not wanted to cause Telperinquar more distress. 

But then Telperinquar laughed, so much more merry than anything Mairon had heard since before everything went wrong. He laughed so hard that he had a coughing fit, forcing Elrond to reach for him and support him. Elrond! Are you feuding with my uncle? 

“We are not feuding,” Elrond replied when he was sure Telperinquar wasn’t about to cough out a lung (or more realistically another pint of blood). “Like I said. We are experiencing differences in opinions.” 

You mean, you’re being petty is what you’re doing , Telperinquar told Elrond, pointing at the half-elf with another cackle, This is just like that time with Erenion’s old advisor.  

Elrond snorted. He shook his head and told Telperinquar very calmly, “Nothing of the sort. Erenion’s old advisor was somehow more senile than the eldest Edain I ever had the pleasure of meeting. Fingon is a perfectly amiable elf - 90% of the time.” 

Like I said: petty , Telperinquar was almost singing. 

“You would be very aware if I was acting in any way petty to Fingon. I have been slightly confrontational but overall polite,” Elrond tried to defend himself, “I even let Celebrian speak with him on rather regular occasions.” 

Telperinquar’s head perked up, Celebrian? Little Celebrian? You married Galadriel’s daughter?

“I did.” Mairon couldn’t see Elrond’s face, but from his tone of voice and how Telperinquar’s face softened, Mairon could deduce that Elrond was beaming and glowing as he regaled Telperinquar with the tale of his first meeting with Celebrian Galadrieleth. 

When Elrond finished, Telperinquar was laughing, his face had never looked so gleeful since Mairon had yanked him from the void. If this was all the ability that Elrond brought, it still would have been worth it, Mairon decided, to see Telpeinquar so at ease and practically happy. Galadriel must have been so wroth! Oh, that her daughter married a feanorion.  

“She did make at least 1 snide comment that Celebrian’s poor decision-making abilities were to be rested at the times she allowed her daughter to be babysat by you in her formative years.” 

Telperinquar laughed again. Mairon wished he could memorize Elrond’s speech patterns and analyze them, such that he might have a chance to replicate this event once more. That it might be him who startled laughter from Telperinquar’s lips. 

Ah, Celebrian, she was such a willful child. I expect even without her attachment to me, she would have married you still just to spite her mother.

Elrond had no response for that and merely inclined his head. And yet, even that simple gesture that Mairon had done time and time again, sprouted a sprinkle of giggles. 

“I have missed you,” Elrond admitted, his hand carefully touching his fingers to Telperinquar’s head, delicately and inspecting. Telperinquar tilted his head to allow Elrond greater access and to press closer into Elrond’s touch. “And I would be quite wroth if you died again after you finally returned.” 

Telperinquar’s eyes opened and set on Mairon. So this was your plan. 

“I thought a healer with your best interest in mind would be a boon to getting my way, yes,” Mairon answered Telperinquar’s question as he took a step closer, “I did tell you that I would not allowed you to be harmed again, not even by yourself.” 

Telperinquar bowed his head and let Elrond inspect him. Mairon murmured the few things he'd noticed as a starting point and watched as Telperinquar followed Elrond’s orders with a grimace. Luckily nothing Elrond did upset any of Telperinquar’s wounds and they were able to proceed with minimal leakage of blood, fluid, or blackened tendrils. 

Elrond completed his inspection with a permanent frown plastered on his face as he leaned back into his seat. He inspected Telperinquar and hummed a little under his breath. 

So? Telperinquar prompted. 

“I would have to agree with Sauron,” Elrond spat Mairon’s epithet like a slur (which it was, but at one point, Mairon had worn that name with no little sense of pride). “Your hands should be deprioritised for the inflammation around your heart and the infestation in your liver at a minimum.” 

Telperinquar glared at Mairon before he tried to reason with Elrond, But my craft!

“You won't have a body with which to perform your craft if one of your essential organs fails,” Elrond started before launching into a tirade disguised as a reprimand. 

Telperinquar tried valiantly to protest Elrond’s points, but Elrond was able to outstubborn the feanorion stubbornness and eventually Telperinquar gave in with a snide eye, claiming with a huff, fine! If you absolutely insist it's vital. 

“I do,” Elrond replied, his eyes curving up and his voice evening to something happy, “Thank you Tyelpe.” 

They talked more about the specifics after that. Now that Telperinquar wasn't inspecting Elrond’s every word, their discussion was frank with Telperinquar focused on asking pertinent questions instead of attempting to undermine everything Elrond was saying. 

Mairon allowed the conversation to wash over him as he studied Telperinquar once more. Telperinquar was allowing Elrond to gently touch him, nodding along to Elrond’s words and smiling. He was smiling a lot. It was disconcerting. And then Mairon felt a flush of self-hatred. Once Telperinquar had smiled nearly constantly even at Mairon. 

How pathetic that he was so shaken by a handful of facial movements. He had never put much stock into a smile except for how it affected the Eldar until now. Why was it so important that Telperinquar was smiling. 

It must be a symptom of what Fingon called love. Mairon had promised to consider it, and now he was forced to concede that he may have been right. Never had Mairon ever done so much for another and never had a smile been worth so much. 

So startled was he that he nearly missed Elrond’s prompt. Almost. Luckily, he recognized that he was being spoken to at the last moment by the head turn Elrond did in his direction. He was then able to scramble back the last sentence. 

“You will have no objection to me watching?”

“Not at all,” Mairon replied with an inclination of his head. Elrond most likely wanted to watch him extract the malice from Telperinquar’s body. That should be simple. No problem at all. But Mairon should focus on something new - something that wasn’t Telperinquar’s hands and a bit more vital. 

But what?

The liver. Mairon remembered that Elrond specified that the liver was a particularly vulnerable part of the elvish body and also important if it might fight off some of Mairon’s infection without Mairon’s aid. Inspection revealed that Telperinquar’s liver was black and flaking, the tendrils of Mairon’s malice eating away at the organic material and at times inflaming the over parts to cause the liver to bloat and fester. 

Mairon began the careful process of extracting the tendrils. He started with the ones chewing on Telperinquar’s liver, leaving the more benign tendrils floating around the liver’s cells. 

Mairon barely felt the pain. Or not, because the pain grew exponentially with every tendril he removed and had as such built up to a similar feeling as Melkor’s frozen hands squeezing around Mairon’s core. But he had built up a rough correlation between tendril and pain, so he was prepared for the oncoming pain. And he was much more interested in watching Elrond. 

Elrond, who was eyeing the process, watched as Mairon tugged a tendril from Telperinquar’s hands and peered at Mairon as Mairon swallowed the malice into himself. 

“You’re hurting yourself,” Elrond said when Mairon had pulled three coils from Telperinquar’s body, his brows furrowed. Telperinquar’s eyes snapped open at Elrond’s remark and his lips parted slightly to dribble blood from his teeth. Mairon noted the blood with a frown - the wound at the back of Telperinquar’s mouth must have reopened. 

What? Telperinquar’s word was stretched out and admonishing. Is this true, Annatar?

“Of course not.” Mairon denied. “The feel of absorbing a part of myself again merely causes a ricocheting effect with significant recoil that I must deal with.”  

But Telperinquar’s expression was flat and his anger was building. No doubt, he knew that Mairon was lying and he didn’t look too happy about that. 

Leave Telperinquar commanded, his eye furious but fixed on Elrond, not Mairon. 

Elrond hesitates for only a second before saying, “Tyelpe, I’m not sure -”

Leave Elrond , Telperinquar repeated. He gnashed his remaining teeth together and spat out the bile that filled his mouth from the action. 

After another moment of furious staring, Elrond acquiesced, ducking out of the room with one final look of concern. Once the click of the door signalled Elrond’s departure, Telperinquar turned to Mairon, Why . 

“I am not sure why you are so outraged. Were you not the one who specified a desire for atonement on my part?” Mairon raised a single eyebrow. He had not forgotten what Telperinquar had requested last time, and he thought it would his actions would be in alignment with Telperinquar's desires. 

But his words only further angered Telperinquar. It’s not about atonement! And even if it was, this - this is not atonement! This is using me to harm yourself - to perform self-sabotage! I don’t want you to hurt yourself to heal me! I have never wanted you to hurt yourself for my sake!

“Then tell me what you want!” Mairon found himself screaming. “I would do anything for you, can you not see? I have done everything you asked of me. What more do you want?”

I want you not to martyr yourself so you might fill yourself with pity. I want you to think about what you’ve done and regret it!

“Of course I regret it!” Annatar snapped, “I regretted it the moment it happened! Why do you think I spent so much time trying to get you back.” 

I don’t know? Why did you want me back?

“Because I’m in love with you!” 

Annatar’s aggression died the moment he spoke as fear pummeled his heart and the words blurred in his mind. He hadn’t meant to say that. After his discussion with Fingon, he had spent quite some time ruminating on the idea, throwing pros and cons in his head, of examining all the facts. But it had been Elrond’s admission that cemented Annatar’s response. 

If what Celebrimbor had felt had ever been love, of course, Annatar had felt that same. They had spent all their time on the same wavelength in Eregion. Annatar refused to believe that he could not be in love with Telperinquar if Telperinquar was in love with him. He was Telperinquar’s in whatever way Telperinquar would have him. 

And he had been since forever - even when Telperinquar had refused him, Mairon had made it his mission to be Telperinquar’s worst nightmare. If he could have Telperinquar no other way, at least he could be Telperinquar’s greatest hatred. 

But where Mairon's rage had subsided with his startling stark revelation, Telperinquar remained furious, Well you have a poor way of showing it!

"What can I do then to prove it?” Mairon asked, helpless and defeated. Nothing he did seemed to work while everyone else smiled once and any passed gripes were erased.

Stop making everything about you! Telperinquar screamed, Stop helping me because you want to be my lover. Stop hurting yourself in my name. Stop pretending that you care! Stop doing things you think I want without asking me!

Silence rang out as Telperinquar breathed heavily. Mairon was worried that Telperinquar would collapse, but as the moments passed Telperinquar's breaths calmed and his possibility of hyperventilation decreased.

So? Telperinquar asked, leaning back into his seat, Don't pretend to be speechless. Do us both a favour and say something. I know you want to argue.

"Are you mad I asked Elrond to visit?" Mairon asked when Telperinquar finished.

Telperinquar thought for a moment, No. I was happy to see him, but I wish you told me and didn't plot behind my back.

“Is that it? You wish to have a running tally of my every action?” Mairon couldn’t hide his disbelief. What an outrageous thing to ask. 

No, but I want my opinion to matter when you decisions about me! Telperinquar stressed, did you really think silently hurting yourself on my behalf would make me forgive you? Or is this just another way to appease your own ego?  

“I could not say,” Mairon started and then retracted his statement when Telperinquar glared. He ducked his head slightly, “There may be merit to your deduction. But it is not a lie that I wish to fix what became of us.” 

That's the issue Telperinquar sighed, you seek to fix our bond without considering that it has been irreversibly changed.

“Nothing is truly irreversible,” Mairon tried, “With enough energy-” 

This isn’t chemistry, Telperinquar insisted, I am not so predictable and some reactions require impossibly high amounts of energy to revert. It isn't going to be the same: accept that.  

“Is it difficult to understand that a return to our old status quo may not be my sole motivation,” Mairon said, “I have expectations, I cannot deny that, but I am not forcing you to meet them. I wonder instead what it is you want to read so much into my every action.” 

Obviously I wish we could go back. Because - Telperinquar paused and gulped a large amount of air before continuing, Well, because I am in love with you.

“Are?” 

Was. Are. I don't know! Telperinquar exclaimed, for so long I was so certain that I could forgive you anything. I loved Annatar with my whole heart. It didn't matter that we weren't yet married, I was married in my mind and utterly devoted.

Telperinquar sighed, And then my devotion was tested against the world and I found the one thing I could not forgive you for. My body? Yours. My mind? Yours. But I couldn't let you take my knowledge and throw it against all my ideals.  

Do you understand, Annatar? I would forgive your murdering me and you asking probing questions about illicit topics. But, I cannot forgive you for taking our work - my knowledge, and using it to destroy the world. 

That's it. That was my one line and you crossed it effortlessly and caustically. 

Mairon was stunned. He had been certain that Telperinquar was angry about it all. Certain that Telperinquar hated everything that Mairon had done equally and would throw it in his face for the whole of his life. 

That only left, “Where do we go from here?” 

Mairon had admitted that he was in love with Telperinquar and Telperinquar was in love with him. And yet, there was a gulf between them, less crossable the closer they got, a repulsion of polar ends. 

I don't have an answer, Telperinquar admitted, his hands clasping together and squeezing against a sealed scab until it popped with a fizzing squeal. This isn’t a problem with a clear answer.

“What do you want?” Mairon tried again. That had to be something - some sort of solution that could work. Or at the very least, Telperinquar could admit defeat and Mairon would slouch back to Aule’s halls when this all ended and conscript himself to never meet Telperinquar again. 

And probably spent the next while in perpetual agony as he ingests and disperses the targetted hatred he absorbed from Telperinquar’s body. But whether that be emotional or purely physical, Mairon would never say. 

Telperinquar didn’t answer for some time. He regarded Mairon instead, cradling his hands together and absently reaching for hair that no longer hung past his shoulders if it existed at all (much of Telperinquar’s scalp was a revolving pattern of scabs and bleeding wounds that the first thing knowledge-anatomy-seeker had done was cut away the few long tendrils that remained. It gave Telperinquar a somewhat mannish look with his broader shoulders and shorn head.) 

I don’t want to throw it all away , Telperinquar said when he’d finally thought for long enough. His lips were pursed but his eyes were clear of any hatred or fear. I worked hard for what we had. And you appear desperate for that same conclusion.  

When Telperinquar paused, Mairon picked up the conversation, “I would quite like to return to our previous state, as you have pointed out. But,” And now Mairon was the one who was hesitating. He didn’t want to say it if the idea wasn’t already in Telperinquar’s mind. Except, he was supposed to be less selfish - show that he could be a bigger person. “If you wish to never see me again after we complete this treatment, I would ensure such a thing.” 

Telperinquar laughed. It wasn’t the joyous thing Mairon had overheard as Telperinquar chatted with Elrond. It was more throaty and rusted, and it threatened at each moment to fall into a cough. But it was still lovely like everything else Telperinquar did. 

I may not know what I want, but I know that I definitely do not want that , Telperinquar finally said between peels of laughter. The admission lifted a worry from Mairon’s breast and made him smile back at Telperinquar. 

“That’s all I need to know,” Mairon said and he meant every word, “So long as you desire my presence, I will do my all to remain at your side.” 

Never had a promise been less binder. And yet, never had Mairon felt so tied to his word, especially when Telperinquar’s eye filled with hope and his smile coiled into something fond. 

Yes, this was the one promise Mairon would keep above all others. He knew temptation and nothing that remained in this world, knowledge or power, could supplant the elation flowing through Mairon’s fana at this moment. 

Chapter Text

Mairon thought things had improved drastically after his discussion with Telperinquar. Not only did the clearly defined desires from Telperinquar reduce Mairon’s worries that he was doing something wrong, but Telperinquar seemed softer. No, not softer, but less biting. They’d had a few conversations since that day when Mairon had laid out all his intentions. It was slow, building up what Telperinquar wanted and establishing what Mairon was allowed. 

And that wasn’t to say everything was glossed over or forgiven. Telperinquar would still have days where he wouldn’t look at nor acknowledge Mairon and other days when he would snipe purely to enrage Mairon. But the good days were better and every so often Telperinquar's eyes would soften as Mairon finished the treatment before lying down to sleep.

Telperinquar still wasn't happy that the treatment hurt Mairon, but they had had a long frank discussion with both Elrond and Fingon as mediators (as Mairon carefully also mediated Elrond and Fingon’s interactions. Telperinquar just appeared amused by the whole thing.) that ended with Mairon continuing to slowly pull malice from Telperinquar’s vital regions but in limited quantities. And only under Elrond’s supervision. 

Knowledge-anatomy-seeker had not been pleased at all by Elrond’s appearance. But, and Mairon had to hide a grin as it happened, Elrond had argued and practically beaten Knowledge-anatomy-seeker with his fists. Elrond’s frown had only deepened as he made Telperinquar reiterate his treatment point by point to Knowledge-anatomy-seeker’s fretful blistering. Telperinquar had enjoyed the entire thing immensely. A smile never left his face throughout that entire conversation. 

Elrond’s presence had always clawed a little at Mairon’s elea when they shared a space. The shear impossibility of Elrond’s being grated at Mairon’s understanding of the world and Elrond’s fea seemed to delight in flaunting its otherness - not Maiar, not elvish, not edain but a chimera of all three. It was enough to make Mairon want to strike a blade through Elrond and just twist - to right the world as it should. 

Or maybe he just disliked Elrond. 

Knowledge-anatomy-seeker was no better as a second point of observation. Mairon had no way of knowing if her aggression was due to Elrond’s otherness or his biting words. 

Either way, Elrond was able to banish Knoweldge-anatomy-seeker but not before she threatened to tell Aule. When the door slammed shut, Elrond had turned to Mairon. But before he could ask the question, Mairon had waved his worries away. Aule had sent a healer because the family requested one. If he learnt that Knowledge-anatomy-seeker was no longer needed, he was unlikely to push further. 

The next few months fell into a routine that was good. 

Very good. 

Mairon stopped by for his weekly checkups. He would assist Telperinquar at Elrond’s directions and with Elrond’s supervision (this seemed to make Telperinquar’s family feel better. Mairon could infer why, but he wasn’t about to confront anyone about it). After, Elrond would leave and Mairon would watch Telperinquar. If Telperinquar met his eyes, they would take a few moments and talk, if not Mairon would follow Elrond out. 

On the days when Telperinquar refused conversation, Mairon would travel down the hall and let himself into Maedhros’s room where Fingon sat vigilant over the continuing to slumber body. Their conversations were nowhere near as important as the ones Mairon was having with Telperinquar, but subsequently, they were much less stressful. Fingon would talk about something banal or inquire about Mairon’s current work and pretend to understand even 10% of what Mairon said. 

Everything was going too perfectly.

But of course, the universe could not be so kind to Mairon.

It was on a day when Telperinquar had desired to rest after their session. Elrond had supported Telperinquar’s decision, explaining that with the malice beginning to disappear in high amounts around Telperinquar’s liver, his body was using more energy to permanently heal the places of injury. Mairon had accepted Elrond’s excuse even though it was unnecessary (Mairon had never begrudged Telperinquar’s right to deny him their conversations. Or at least he was trying to not begrudge it for Telperinquar’s sake.). And instead, he trailed down to the hall to Maedhros’s room.

Fingon had wanted to talk about plants that day, asking if Mairon had any experience with botany. 

Not even Mairon’s best attempt at a joke, ‘Would you consider elvish hroa botany?’ could dissuade Fingon from chattering on and on about optimal tomato planting season and crop rotation. What did it matter? Yavanna ensured that everything planted thrived in Aman. 

That was when he felt it. 

A disturbance in Aule’s domain. It was being infiltrated, and not wholly welcomed. 

Mairon could only catch a few sensations of the intruder. A woosh of wind and twigs cracking under his feet. Outpacing the sun and laughing at the practicality of sound. 

Mairon had a fairly good idea who was visiting. But the issue was less who, but why. They were not particularly friendly with Aule, the two of them typically keeping to their own haunts. Nor did they seem to be seeking out Aule. Their presence was closing in on Mairon rather than Aule’s halls. 

For a moment Mairon worried that they were simply a herald of what was to come. That one by one the rest of the Valar would appear and would - what? Capture Mairon and toss him into the void for daring to shame them? 

Once Mairon had not feared those consequences. In those early days after his return to Aman and until quite recently, Mairon had even desired it. But now? Now when things were good. When Mairon was able to help Telperinquar, and Telperinquar would at times talk to him, and his friendship with Fingon was at any easy place, the Valar would consign him to the void? 

But instead of pursuing him, pressing him and giving him no chance to escape, the presence lingered just along the edge of Mahtan’s home. It lingered even as it lashed out against the stillness and yet it waited. 

There was no question as to whom it was waiting. And so, Mairon stood and with a vapid smile, told Fingon, “It appears my presence is required elsewhere.” 

“Wha-?” Fingon started but Mairon cut him off. 

“One of the Vala has come to visit.” 

“What do they want?” Fingon gripped, his hand squeezing tighter around Maedhros’s limp one and he shifted his body to cement himself between Maedhros and the door. 

“I doubt they aim to take the feanorions away,” Mairon soothed. Aule would not have been nearly as accommodating if that were the case, and Mairon would have felt more aggression in their presence. He wouldn't even be having this conversation if the Valar were here for the feanorions. Telperinquar would already be gone, swept away to a hidden part of Aman with his father and uncles quick to follow. “They are here for me.”

This was for him and him only.

Fingon’s face remained creased, “To punish you?” 

Mairon could only shrug. He had already told Fingon everything he knew. 

“Do you need me to punch them for you?” Fingon asked again. 

Mairon couldn’t help but snort. Leave it to Fingon to default to violence. And with his bloodline, there was the possibility that he could actually land a blow. Mairon wasn't sure how Fingolfin managed to achieve such a thing against Melkor not once but 7 times. However, as Fingolfin’s son and having met Fingon, there was no doubt in Mairon’s mind that Fingon could do as his father once did. 

“No, that should be unnecessary.” Mairon smiled. He hoped it was reassuring. “I hardly doubt your assistance will be required.” 

Mairon swept out of the room after that to Fingon’s worried gaze. He only played at elvish niceties until he was out of Fingon’s sight. After that, he blinked and stooped in the shadow of a tree at the northern corner of Mahtan’s home. His eyes remained fixed on the leopard feigning sleep in a sunny patch to the south of him. 

The leopard opened its mouth in a yawn before shifting, its face becoming elvish and her body standing upright with a snarl. Nessa’s eyes flickered in his direction, “No need to hide from me, little spark. I won't bite. This time.” 

“Lady Nessa,” Mairon greeted the being standing before him but made no move to bow his head, “What brings you here?” 

“Many things, sparkling,” Nessa opened her mouth to reveal the teeth of a carnivore, “Mahtan's new guests, your actions, you.” 

“I thought your husband more suited to these sorts of confrontations,” Mairon returned as he crinkled his nose in distaste. He may be allowing this conversation, but he would in no way signal that he wished to have this conversation. 

“Tulkas? Nah,” Nessa sniggered, her tail flicking behind her. “He’s slow to these sorts of things. Waits longer than is good for him. They all do.” 

“I see.” Nessa’s admission startled Mairon. More than startled him. He had thought the Valar were all united in their lethargic tedium. But then again, Nessa had always been an outlier ever since Melkor had lost his status as one of them. They had lost chaos and all that remained was speed who could dash ahead but not necessarily in an opposite direction. 

And yet, Nessa was standing here across from Mairon. Was she here despite the Valar’s decision or because of it? Was the verdict in Mairon’s favour or not? That was always the issue with Nessa. She could never be taken as indicative of the whole but rather as a firm expert on her individual opinion. An opinion that she had no issue changing just as rapidly as she would act on it, as Mairon and Fingon’s meeting with the Valar proved all those years ago. 

“I’ll start with the most pressing then,” Nessa peered at Mairon and when he didn’t open his mouth a second after she finished her initial statement, she pressed on, “How is Tyelkormo?” 

“What?” For once Mairon’s words and thoughts were in perfect alignment. He hadn’t thought Nessa would think much about one of Telperinquar’s uncles. If Nessa had cared, she would have been here much earlier. 

“Tyelkormo. Silver haired. A bit of a brute. Or at least I assume he still is. That isn’t a changeable sort of character trait.” Nessa blinked and shifted her weight on her feet. “Orome and Vana have been insufferable.” 

Right. Vana had admitted that Orome was fond of Celegorm. But neither of them was here seeking Celegorm out. Just Nessa who was Orome’s sister and whose nature was akin to Vana. 

“They wonder if they are welcome?” Mairon phrased his words as a question but knew before he spoke that they were not. 

“Ridiculous if you ask me,” Nessa rolled her eyes, “Why try to delay the pain? It only elongates it and the snap hurts the same.” 

Perhaps Mairon was not feeling overly generous, but he would prefer to blame it on curiosity and doubt, “Will it hurt them?” 

Nessa only snorted, “‘Course. Always thought Orome was a bit nuts to go crazy over an elf. But where Orome goes Vana follows. Or the other way - never thought about that but could see it that way too. Vana’s also a bit nuts. Crazy in love, if you ask me. Keep up sparkling. Tyelkormo. Orome and Vana wanna know how he goes.” 

Mairon had never considered that another one of the Anuir could enjoy the company of an elf - perhaps even admit to loving an elf as Nessa’s words implied. He definitely hadn’t considered that two of the Valar could feel similarly at Mairon. And to one of the Feanorions as well. 

But if two of the Valar did - then, it wouldn’t be out of the question for Mairon. Even if he had already decided to ascribe himself as an embodiment of elvish affection, or love, on Telperinquar’s behalf it was nice to know that he was not quite the outlier he worried. Well Melian, but he’d rather not be counted as a part of her cohort. 

“He has sustained no grievous injury,” Mairon spoke, his brain ingesting the new information as his mouth gave Nessa the knowledge she sought. “He remains here with his younger brother watching over Telperinquar and their brothers who remain unconscious.” 

“Guessing he’s expressed no interest in searching out Orome or Vana.” This time Nessa is the one who speaks questions as statements. 

Her voice is earnest and pleading, but Mairon has no answer for her, “He has not shared such desires with me. He has not spoken of either of them in my hearing.” 

“Good. Good. I can work with that,” Nessa nodded as she wrapped her tail around herself. Perhaps talking more to herself than to Mairon. 

With the first of her questions answered Mairon ventured to ask one of his own. 

“I would assume that means you have little desire to toss Tyelkormo and his family back into the void.” Mairon perhaps puts a little too much emphasis on Celegorm’s quenyan name, rolling it along his tongue like an insult. Not that the rest of his statement was any less targeted or cruel, but it was necessary. Mairon needed this answer to formulate his opinions on everything. He needed assurance. 

It was both patronising and clarifying when all Nessa did was laugh, her head tipping backward and his eyes rolling in her skull. “Send them back? Why would we do that?” 

“Was this not a punishment for their hubris upon which the Valar decided not to intervene?” Mairon asked. It was a question he’d been pondering for some time but had not the courage to ask Aule in fear of dramatic retribution. But Nessa was not his master and she had already asked her own nonsensical question. Certainly, she could handle his slight outcry. 

“Why would you? No- of course not. We did nothing of the sort,” Nessa denied but Mairon wasn’t convinced.

“You didn’t do anything,” Mairon made sure to stress the words. “You learnt that elves under your protection had been sent to the void but you did nothing.” 

It was an accusation and phrased as one. The words clearly agitated Nessa who began pacing back and forth, her legs moving faster than Mairon’s elvish fana’s sight and dug a scour of dirt in the greenery. Her face occasionally twisted into a snarl and then relaxed slightly before twisting back. 

“Why would you say that! Why would you?” Without pausing in her movement, Nessa’s head screwed to the side to stare at him. “Are you blaming us for your misstep?” 

“My misstep?” Mairon found himself affronted and his own face narrowing into an identical glare.

“Aule told us what you did. He could hardly keep it a secret when you nearly destroyed the delicate balance between Arda and Ea.” Nessa paused, still as a predator waiting to pounce, “You were either very, very arrogant or desperate.” 

“Aule didn’t tell you my motivations,” Mairon couldn’t help but accuse. He was certain that Aule would hold nothing back and lay each and every one of Mairon’s faults before the host of the Valar and hold them guilty of punishment. No matter that one of them might also love one of the abandoned ones, it was Mairon who would be condemned for it. 

“Aule presented only the facts. The rest were left for us to pick away at any meaning or motivation.” 

“He would abandon me then,” Mairon would not say he was disappointed, but his stomach still tugged unpleasantly. 

“It was a kindness,” Nessa countered, “He would have only worsened your case should any mention of Morgoth be made.” 

Nessa’s accusation was similar to Aule’s own. It hurt that he should be trusted so little even though he’d done little to prove otherwise. Still, “If freeing Melkor was my aim, he would already be returned.” 

“Would he? Or was this only the start. A chance to bring back your little helper before your next trial.” Nessa was pacing again, but her path now led her in slow loops around Mairon. “Bringing the others back was a nice touch.”

“You think Telperinquar is my thrall?” If he wasn’t before, Mairon was now hurt and angered. Telperinquar should never be reduced to so little. Not when he was everything good about this world. Not when Mairon could do nothing but inch step by step, clawing his way back to some sort of relation with Telperinquar. 

“Why else would you want him returned?” Nessa pressed, narrowing the radius of her loop. “You could have easily tricked Fingon into drawing something else from the void.” 

“He would be less than useless as a thrall,” Mairon countered, “Each day is a delicate balancing to prevent his demise and rebuild a body broken past destruction. If I had wanted a thrall, I would have abandoned him upon drawing out the tattered remains that I saw fit to previously discard.” 

“Then why?” Nessa’s pacing drew to a stop. Her eyes narrowed and then widened, “You as well?” 

Mairon could only nod. 

His face was too hot to respond with an even tone and he had to duck his head away so Nessa couldn’t read the uncertainty in his eyes. The last thing he needed was Nessa observing the fluctuations in his elea through his eyes. 

A curt chortle was her response. From the corner of his eye, Mairon noticed that Nessa had thrown her head back and continued her rude mirth in a series of silent body spasms. When she finally spoke, her voice was breathless and snide, “No wonder Aule kept it to himself. Who would believe more than one of Feanaro’s ilk could ensnare one of the anuir.” 

“And yet for all the love you profess that Orome and Vana hold for Celegorm, none of you did anything?” Mairon was proud that his voice was steady as he made the small accusation. 

But this time Nessa’s reaction was not to fling cruel words back. Instead, she laughed (it was always one or the other with Nessa. Mairon could never find causation to predict one or the other choice, but he had never seen her react in any other way). “Spare me. Arafinwe already had a go at us. He is... Loud. No, spiteful would be more apt. And especially good at stirring up unease in his people. You would almost think him Feanor’s brother.

He was quite put out that we would abandon one of their own. Said something about having to rethink the way they involve us Valar in their decision-making process. And something else about the way they honour us.” 

That sounded like very little retaliation, but what could the elves do? The anuir were their superiors in a very singular way and required nothing from the elves. Or, nothing but their admiration. Mairon studied Nessa as his mind whirled. But no, the Valar would wish for the elves admiration. It was the one thing that gave the Valar any joy in this world that they’d inhabited to destitution. In that case, Finarfin’s actions would definitely frazzle them. 

“Then I shall say nothing more. My distaste for how you handled this situation has already been made known and has been rectified.” Mairon then added, “Or should I be protesting your punishments.” 

“No, no punishment. No harm, no retaliation. Now, if you really had destroyed half the world, this would be a very different conversation. Probably better for all involved that Feanaro’s ilk is returned. Like I said, Vana and Orome have been beside themselves since they heard.” Nessa smiled. It might have been supposed to be reassuring, but it only made Mairon more uncomfortable. 

“Should I thank you?” Mairon tried to bleed the sarcasm from his voice but it was no use. His question was anything but sincere. 

And Nessa knew it. She ignored it completely and instead went back to what interested her most, “You said your little, ah not a thrall - Telperinquar, was it? - is in a bad place.” 

Mairon held out his hand and let the remembrance of hatred well up inside him. The chains of malice that once lingered in Telperinquar’s body bubbled to the surface of his skin and flicked up from his palm, rising and falling like smoke and ash. This taint may have once been of Mairon, but it would take time to completely subsume it once more. 

He cradled the bubbling hand with his other as if it pained him. Nessa leaned forward, studying it with intent, even reaching out a hand to pluck at it. 

“This is inside of Telperinquar? It feels of your being and yet not. It is changed somehow, wrought different by time and intent.” Nessa mussed as she attempted to snatch a tendril between two fingers. And yet the moment her fingers made contact, the tendril dissipated like a fragile miasma. It was not gone. But rather intangible to one not Mairon and not Telperinquar. That had been why no other healer could help Telperinquar as Mairon could. 

“They are long and intertwined.” Mairon started, “It takes significant effort to remove even one from Telperinquar’s body.” 

“I see,” Nessa muttered as she continued to peer at the coiled formations. “And you? I can’t imagine that it reabsorbs well into your body. It’s too changed by Telperinquar’s essence.” 

“No. I’ve set them within myself, but they are not so easily subdued even by myself,” Mairon found himself agreeing as he pulled the tendrils back within himself and dropped his hand back to his side. 

“They hurt you,” Nessa said. It wasn’t a question but her eyes were improring and inquisitive when they traced up his body to meet his. 

“Significantly less than their continued presence hurts Telperinquar,” Mairon countered. He was used to this argument at least. Since Telperinquar had learnt that the removal caused Mairon pain, they had debated extensively who should bear this hurt and how much Mairon should be allowed to remove in a single setting. 

“Is it lasting?” Nessa asked, “The residuals of the pain? Does it linger in your system?” 

“What does it matter? Did you want to update the Valar on my newest punishment?” 

“No. No!” Nessa reared back, affronted and her heckles risen, “We said you were done. Your atonement is finished.” 

“I had not thought you would ever agree that my punishment was concluded.” Mairon really didn’t mean to sound so bitter, but he was not mad about it. 

But Nessa’s anger faded into a stricken loss. Her words were panicked, “No-  no. Aule, he told us about why you did - what Melkor made you do and how we failed you.” 

“He would not share my affection for Telperinquar, but he had no issue airing my dealings with Melkor.” Mairon snapped. He wanted this whole thing to be done. Why should he listen as Nessa spoke of something he hadn’t even wanted to tell Aule, let alone have his secrets spilled in a voyeuristic manner to the rest of them. 

“It was important,” Nessa defended herself and Aule’s actions. “He was furious at himself and at us. We failed you and our failure cascaded into further torment to those under our protection.” 

Mairon’s fingers wanted to tighten into fists. He wanted to hit something - hit Nessa - so badly. But he couldn’t provoke retribution. Not when Telperinquar was finally allowing Mairon in his presence. “Are you guilty for abandoning me or that your inaction facilitated my reign of terror in Middle-Earth after Melkor was vanquished.” 

“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” 

“No.” Mairon was proud of himself for not rolling over. So often he would accept the words from the Valar as truth. But he had already stood his ground against Aule. Nessa was no worse but different. For he had no connection to her before his fall. It was like he was defending himself against the Valar - not just against Aule. “One is apologetic for your actions on my behalf and the other is dismissive of my struggle. If it is the second, I do not want your apology.” 

Just like Telperinquar did not want an apology like that. Mairon would only want one for what hurt him. Telperinquar had taught him that - to be more demanding of what others thought to give him and what he accepted. 

Nessa paused in thought - quiet in a way she never was. No moving, no speaking. 

Mairon waited. For over a minute, Nessa thought through Mairon’s words and when she spoke again, it was halting and tepid, “We broke your trust. Our inaction funnelled your anger and your pain. To the elves, we have already been forced to confront our hesitancy, but I did not think we had failed earlier. Some of mine vanished in those times, but I, like Aule, thought it their own volition and swept them from my mind. 

When Aule relayed your words, we mourned those we lost. And Nienor grieved on your behalf.” 

Mairon tipped his head but said nothing. He worried that any input from him would cause Nessa’s halting words to sputter and end. And it was nice - rectifying to learn that the Valar were acknowledging his anger and pain. 

Nessa mumbled something more about the various Valar’s actions to Aule’s words, but what surprised Mairon most was Nessa’s end statement, “And Este. She would look at this damage Melkor forced upon you and see if there would be some healing that we may grant you. That is the real message I was sent to deliver. Este gave her word that she would help heal this pain inflicted upon you.” 

Mairon was speechless. From the moment he had returned, Este had spurred him, hissed at him for the pain he had caused others and forbade him from ever approaching her. She had explicitly told him that she could feel the pain he’d inflicted upon others when he existed in her general proximity. 

It was a lovely sentiment and certainly made him feel smug. Not that he would ever approach Este for her help. But knowing that she felt compelled to help him certainly was something he would remember should he ever want to gloat. 

“That’s all,” Nessa concluded, awkwardly. She was pacing again, digging a new trail as she watched him for a response. 

“I will keep that in mind.” Mairon smiled. He hoped it was a kind one, but he wasn’t focusing very hard on his facial features at the moment. But Nessa returned his grin all the same and the tension started to dissipate. 

But before it became nothing but a wisp, Nessa’s ears perked up and her head tilted back as she scented the air. 

“What timing,” Nessa commented, “It appears my arrival brings even more good news.” 

Mairon was instantly suspicious, “What happened?” 

“Feanaro’s eldest. It seems he’s finally decided to join the world of the living once more.” 

Feanor’s eldest. Maedhros. Fingon. Fingon. 

Fingon. 

Mairon spared Nessa no further thought as he raced back to the house. 

If Maedhros was awake, Fingon would need him.

Chapter Text

Fingon rarely left Russo’s side. It suited him well in this household of Feanor’s progeny and supporters. But neither could he stand to waste away like a weeping maiden bent at Russo’s side for every minute of every day. Not when Russo slept and slept and offered no input of his own. 

Fingon had done this before. He knew his limits and he knew that he needed breaks to prevent the melancholy of watching Russo’s still body from permanently seeping into his bones. 

Therefore, every week or so, he left the room and surrounded himself with nature to give himself a little break from it all. He had found a small corner behind the smithery where he could hear Mahtan or Curufin when they were tinkering, but faint enough not to annoy Fingon with the possibility of interacting with Feanor supporters. It was a reassuring noise - that someone was around in case Fingon needed help, but far away enough that Fingon could have his peace. 

It was also a nice place, facing the forest towards Aule’s halls which rose faintly in the background in roaring cliffs and jutted pillars. Fingon had spent many a break staring and categorizing each precipice and trying to map the exterior to the few foot trails he wandered when locating Mairon’s rooms (well room, but even that was polite. It was more a broom closet that Mairon had lined with chalkboards, shelves, and the saddest cot he’d ever seen). 

This day, Fingon held himself still and iterated through the breathing exercises he'd learnt from the edain an unfathomably long time ago. They were good at this, the edain, staving off panic and despair. Much better than the elves ever were. Russo had theorized it was due to their short uncertain lives where death was intimate and unknown. 

The techniques helped. Marginally, but everything was marginal at best and detrimental at worst, so Fingon continued to use the technique. 

Breath in. Hold. 

Listen to the birds chirping. Were those swallows? 

Breath out. 

Listen to the wind channelling down the mountain and blowing through the trees towards him. 

Breath in. Hold. Breath out. 

Repeat. 

Fingon’s thoughts slowed as he focused on breathing and shoving away his building anxiety. 

When his thoughts became more syrup than anything, he moved to the next step: counting his blessings. Russo may remain slumbering in bed, but Fingon had things to be grateful for. 

Mairon and Celebrimbor were working through things. From what he heard from both sides, things were tentative and fragile but they were happy with these glass fragments of their relationship and working to smooth over the sharp edges. Celebrimbor had admitted that they could never piece their relationship together and have it as it once was, but hopefully they could build something new. Additionally, Celebrimbor was doing better. While the treatment was agonizingly slow, even Fingon could see the stark difference between now and how it was before. 

When his mind had settled a bit, Fingon remained seated for a while longer, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the feeling of nature all around him. He had never been one for lounging around inside. Sitting at Russo’s sick bed was a task that Fingon despised as much as it felt like a necessity. Each moment tucked away in this clearing both relaxed Fingon’s mind and drove him mad with worry that wouldn’t abate until he returned to Russo’s side. 

But even with the incessant worry, Fingon forced himself to remin seated for another 10 minutes. He knew that rushing back would only make things worse for him even if the thought cut him as if his inaction were a blade. 

But he knew from experience it was necessary. And so he sat until his preset amount of time was up and then he was rushing back to Russo’s room. 

Only to pause at the doorway. 

Russo was not alone. 

Currently occupying Fingon’s chair and bent over Russo’s prone form was Elrond. 

Fingon’s imaginary hackles were instantly risen. 

Elrond had only visited Russo’s room a total of 5 times in the months that he’d been here and each time only in the capacity of healer as Fingon cooly observed him. In turn, Elrond was cold but professional, taking his time to run a full diagnostic on Russo and explaining calmly to Fingon that Russo was healing nicely and should make a full recovery in time. But while Elrond had touted total professionality, Fingon was not blind to how he tensed when watching Russo and how his touches at times linger a little too long or too short for professionality. 

In short, Fingon’s observations had only confirmed what he already suspected: that Elrond held an immutable dislike for Russo. Not that Fingon could blame him. Really, he’d heard all the tales about how Russo and Maglor had captured Elrond and his brother and kept them as prisoners until they were fully grown as potential ransom for a silmaril. But that didn’t mean Fingon had to like the aggression. He would be perfectly content not to interact with Elrond at all and in fact had helped his family along and avoiding encounters with the half-elf. 

But he could not deny Elrond’s skill. Not only was he a devoted and intelligent healer, but he had also worked as one throughout the end of the first age all the way through to the end of the third during war times. All of Aman agreed that Elrond was the best elvish healer. 

And despite all their animosity, Elrond had agreed to look over Russo and his brothers because he cared about Celebrimbor

Fingon really couldn’t say anything in reprimand. 

Yet, this did not look like a check up. There was not a hint of power in the low murmur Elrond was using to speak to Russo’s prone form. Nor did Elrond have any of that fancy medical equipment at hand, making it unlikely that Elrond was holding Russo’s hand to take his blood pressure or something. 

It was all so very strange. 

Was Elrond using Russo’s unconsciousness to air his grievances? Was he currently whispering hatred into Russo’s ears? 

Both Elrond and Mairon had assured Fingon that while unconscious, Russo could hear him. It had ensured that Fingon spent most of his days bent over Russo’s side and whispering words of love and encouragement. 

But this? This was nefarious! 

Fingon would not allow Elrond to misalign Russo without anyone to defend him. Russo couldn’t even defend himself in this state! 

Fingon barged into the room with storming feet and a blistering glare. Elrond jerked away from Russo as he heard Fingon’s commotion and turned away from Fingon for a moment. When he did turn around to Fingon, his eyes were red but his face was pulled into a neutral expression. 

“Fingon,” Elrond greeted with a polite nod.

Fingon nodded back, “Elrond. What brings you to Maedhros’s bedside?” 

Elrond hesitated for a moment, his hands flaring out slightly at his side. “Am I not allowed to visit? I was not aware that you had sole control over Maedhros’s sickbed?” 

“Depends on the nature of the visit,” Fingon told him. “How convenient that you find time to visit one of the few times that I am absent.” 

“Maybe I wish to avoid your hovering.” 

“I have no doubt that you do,” Fingon narrowed his eyes and prowled into the room, “But I’m more interested in why you want me gone when you speak to Maedhros.” 

“I fail to see how that’s any concern of yours,” Elrond matched Fingon’s glare and his hands were tightening into fists. Good, Fingon couldn’t help but think, he’d been feeling itchy for a while and it would be good to have a target for his ire. After all, the Valar were unattainable, Mahtan and Nerdanel would be horrendous choices, and hitting Mairon just made Fingon feel bad - like he was hitting a kitten. 

“It is my concern if you plan to hurt him while he can’t defend himself.” Fingon darted forward to throw himself between Elrond and Russo, ripping Elrond’s hand from Russo’s still one. Elrond practically hissed at Fingon’s movements but refrained from initiating any violence. 

“I fail to see why he would need defending from you,” Elrond’s were low and dangerous - like he was attempting to strike Fingon with each one, badger him in the head with the blunt force that was his voice. Perhaps when he bore Celebrimbor’s ring, Elrond’s Maiar heritage allowed him something of the sort, but none of that power was available here. And Fingon relished in it with bared teeth, recalling how Finrod had once torn Sauron’s throat out with these same inherited incisors. 

“I will always protect him,” Fingon said, his voice firm and his heart alight with purpose, “From everything. Even elves who would spread animosity when he has no way to defend himself.” 

To Fingon’s surprise, Elrond chuckled. Low and mirthless, Elrond’s shoulders shook as his face twisted further and further into a scowl, “By the Valar, I hate you. Fingon the valiant? When have you ever done anything worthy of said praise.” 

“What?” Now Fingon was sneering, Elrond’s words and tone prompting Fingon’s own vitriol. “Are you blaming me for everything that happened to you and your family? Saving Maedhros was instrumental to our defences against Morgoth for all those years your family lived in relative safety. You wouldn’t even exist if not for Maedhros’s saving.” 

“You left,” Elrond returned, now shouting, “You died and ruined everything. You made yourself Maedhros’s guiding light then destroyed yourself. It left him stranded. Unmoored. Unhinged.”

“Excuse me?” Fingon couldn’t help but blink. What was Elrond saying? That all Maedhros’s actions after Nirnaeth Arnoediad were Fingon’s fault? That Fingon’s death was the reason for the next three kinslayings and not the horrid Oath Feanor had forced upon his sons. 

“You could have survived.” Elrond’s words also flattened, no long blisteringly angery, “You sounded the retreat and then refused to leave.”

“I would have been a poor leader if I allowed others to perish for my folly,” Fingon said. He remembered that moment, when he realized something must have happened to Maedhros and no help was coming. To be fair, he had thought that Maedhros must have died in a surprise skirmish and so was not thinking very rationally at that point. But he’d been proud of his actions, acting just as his father had and standing his ground to the very end in order to buy time for others. 

“And what happened to the Noldor once you got yourself killed?” Elrond’s tone was now bitter, “You passed the crown to a kingdom whose survival was based on never being found. Your death fractured the taunt relationship between Fingolfin and Feanor’s cohorts and dismantled all word to collaborate outside the Noldor. Your death ruined your people.” 

But Elrond wasn’t done, as he added, “It ruined Maedhros.” 

“Is that what this is about?” Fingon wasn’t about to let Elrond push him around. He was Elrond’s senior and had seen just as much shit if not more than the healer. Hell, Elrond had never died under the trampling feet of Orc and Balrogs. “All this time, you’ve hated me because I died and allowed Maedhros to kidnap you? I was not responsible for Maedhros’s actions. I have never been responsible as much as I try to play damage control.” 

“For kidnapping me? Are you masquerading as an imbecile or are you this blind?” Elrond snorted like it was all some joke, crossing around the bed to stand at Maedhros’s side, opposite to Fingon. He bent down and stroked a hand against Maedhros’s wrist. “Sacrifice has never been an acceptable answer. 

We grew up learning all about you. Fingon, the greatest of the Noldorian kings, Maedhros always said. He wore a golden ribbon around his wrist and would rub his hand against it when he spoke of you.” 

Elrond face narrowed, and his eyes flashed like lightning was shooting through them, “But you weren’t there. Not when he flew into a rage no one could control. Not when he would waste away for months at a time, his braining trapped in Morgoth’s grip. Not when his limbs would freeze and he would lie helpless on the ground.” 

“Do you know how frightening that was? To grow up around someone so unstable that every day was a coin flip if we would have the figure we looked up to and a guardian who would protect us or a danger to himself and others?” 

Fingon shuddered. He hated hearing of this, but it wasn’t surprising. Maedhros had suffered similarly when he was first rescued from Morgoth and he’d never truly recovered. Knowing that Morgoth was contained and Angband and watching the perimeter himself seemed to help, but Fingon had always been ready at any moment's notice to ride across Beleriand to sit at Maedhros’s side and reassure him. Still, “I fail to see how this is my fault.” 

“Maglor always told us, it was better when Fingon was around. Fingon was good at helping Maedhros through it. Always, always, it was your name that Maglor spoke, like gospel, like you were the solution to everything wrong,” Elrond’s forehead was scrunched tight with furry, “And then I met you and you were nothing. You cared for nothing and spent all your time hidden away in a little cottage far from civilization. Neither a warrior nor a healer. How could you ever be able to help Maedhros?” 

Fingon glowered. He hated how uppity Elrond sounded. How superior Elrond made himself out to be. Everything Fingon had done since his return had been in anticipation of Russo’s return. The life he clawed back for himself was always with the expectation that Russo would fill the spaces Fingon deliberately left empty. He knew what Russo would need. He knew Russo better than anyone. 

“Have you ever thought about what Maedhros actually needs?” Fingon knew his words were cruel, but at that moment he didn’t particularly care. “Violence is the last thing he needs. I no longer needed to be a warrior and Maedhros would not have liked to be around one. There are a multitude of adequate healers and this is Valinor - the land of the healed. No, what Maedhros needs most is safety and security. Things to soothe him and keep him busy.” 

“What, on a farm?” Even with his eyes closed and his ears deaf, Fingon would be able to feel the derision dripping from Elrond’s lips. 

And it made Fingon want to snarl. At Elrond, at the Valar, and at Russo himself. Fingon knew how to help Russo. He knew what he was doing so why would no one listen to him? He had tried so hard and done so much, so why would no one give him a chance! 

But Elrond’s expression melted into chagrin rather quickly. His eyes flickered down to Russo as his voice sounded scolded and he said, “My apologies. I was.” His eyes flickered as his lips curled into a half-amused grin, “‘being petty’ as Celebrimbor would say.” 

Fingon blinked. He couldn’t refute Elrond’s words except to say that Elrond was being a little more than a bit petty - veering closer to downright rude in Fingon’s opinion. But saying so would also not help the thin peace-making that Elrond was extending through the admittance of his own fault. Fingon knew the only polite thing would be to follow with his own apology, but he suddenly didn’t want to. And if that made him petty, so be it. 

He wasn’t King anymore. 

And so, Fingon only nodded. “There are many ways to make one happy. And I have spent my entire life learning how to make Maedhros smile.” 

“As have I,” Elrond countered and Fingon looked. Perhaps for the first time, he really looked and what he found amazed him. He had been told that Elrond and his brother had been captured by Russo and Maglor and kept as captives for most of their formative years. He had been told that Elrond and his brother despised Russo and Maglor for their roles in the tragedy that was their family lineage. But Fingon saw none of that in Elrond’s face. 

Instead, he saw a conflicted individual who stared at Russo like a child desperately worried that his father wouldn’t wake up and yet terrified that he would. Fingon stared and found a kindred spirit in how Elrond held Russo’s hand with a too tight grip and how he would gently dig his nails into the flesh at Russo’s wrist, leaving faint red marks atop Russo’s veins. 

Here was another who learnt to love and to hate in equal measures. Who loved Russo for who he was and hated Russo for what he did. And yet. And yet and yet and yet, despite it all Elrond loved. 

Tempered but just as desperate, Elrond loved Russo. 

And suddenly Fingon could no longer be made. Nor cruel. 

When their eyes met, Fingon found the same understanding in Elrond. 

All was not suddenly better. They were not friends, but they understood one another and in that understanding, Fingon could no longer hate Elrond. He could not hate anyone who knew what it was to love Russo as he was and not as he once was. 

He just couldn’t. 

And that’s when everything changed. 

There was nothing grand. No fireworks or bangs. No sudden pounding heart beat felt through Russo’s wrist nor sudden connection of Osanwe.

Instead there was only…

“Fing- on?” The voice was faint, hoarse and undeniably lovely. It was Russo’s voice, scratchy and thin, but still Russo’s voice. 

Fingon’s attention was immediately focused solely on Russo. Elrond became less than an afterthought as he scrambled to snatch up Russo’s hand and say, “I’m here Russo. I’m here.” 

Russo’s eyes fluttered, opening just enough to reveal silver irises tinged with a handful of emerald. Russo’s eyes were open for just a moment, but the sight of them was replaced with a weak grin across his thin pale lips. 

Fingon’s heart was beating so quickly he worried it was causing his body to vibrate. Everything did seem to be shaking: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, Russo’s bed, Elrond. Or maybe it was just him.

But he couldn’t care because Russo was awake. Russo was awake. Russo. Russo. Russo. 

He was awake and he could hear Fingon and speak in that beautiful baritone voice and look up at him with those incandescent silver eyes. It was all Fingon wanted to do: listen to Russo speak and hear him talk and entangle their fingers together and press their foreheads together. And stay together with Russo awake. 

He had waited so long and been so patient and now Russo was awake. He was awake and slowly blinked up at Fingon. He was awake and looking at Fingon, his gaze only for Fingon when he could bear to open his eyes. He was weak and weary and still he wanted only to watch Fingon. 

And it was Russo. Russo was awake. Russo was here. Finally. Finally, Russo was here with Fingon in Aman. Finally everything could be better again. 

Russo was home. 

Fingon finally realized he hadn’t said a thing when Russo croaked once more, “Fin-gon?”

He then rushed to speak, throwing himself into Russo’s line of sight and squeezing Russo’s delicate hand as tightly as he could bear, “I’m here. Russo, I’m right here.” 

Russo’s lips pulled slightly into an exhausted smile and his next exhale shook with the syllables of Fingon’s name once more. His pale eyelashes rippled apart to reveal those eyes which shone with love and affection when they landed on Fingon. 

“Fin-gon. You here,” Russo stumbled through the words and his body twisted in Fingon’s direction. He didn’t make it far before he winced and the air in his lungs exited in a pain filled gasp. 

Fingon’s hands were instantly wrapped around Russo, gentling him back into bed like one would a newborn kitten. Russo struggled initially against Fingon’s direction but when Fingon whispered generic and forgettable reassurances, Russo relaxed into his grip, trusting Fingon implicitly. The gesture sparked a warmth in Fingon’s chest that continued to flicker even as he helped Russo up into a sitting position and allowed Elrond to check Russo’s vitals. 

Russo allowed Elrond’s fussing with barely more than a glance before his eyes, when not slipping closed, bounced back and remained fixed on Fingon. He would murmur Fingon’s name every few moments as if in awe of Fingon’s presence. 

Which was fair.

Fingon remained in awe of Russo’s. It felt a miracle to be able to hear Russo’s voice and feel him respond to Fingon’s words and gestures. Even if Russo was weak and tired, it still was Russo and he was awake and focused on Fingon. 

After Elrond managed to pass a few sips of broth down Russo’s throat, Russo tensed and he appeared more aware as he took stalk of their surroundings. “Where?”

Fingon answered Russo’s half-asked question. “We are in your mother’s home in Aman. You’re safe here.” 

Russo gasped again and tears welled up in his beautiful eyes - which were still beautiful when filled with tears but the presence of those tears made Fingon’s heart ache. “It’s not possible-” 

“It is,” Fingon reassured him, kneeling down and pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckle of Russo’s right hand. “The Oath is over and you are returned to us. To me.” 

But Fingon’s words only agitated Russo more, “You died. Fingon, I saw you die and I ruined myself to be bereft of you.” 

“I know,” Fingon tried to shush Russo. They could talk of these things later. Right now, Fingon was just happy to have Russo awake. 

“You shouldn’t be here. You were always the better one. You should be in Valinor.” 

“Russo, this is Valinor,” Fingon tried to reason with Russo, but Russo simply shook his shorn head. 

“I- I won’t reach Valinor. Never.” Russo’s voice was adamant and grew strong for only a moment before his eyes set on Elrond and he seemed to see the half-elf for the first time. He addressed Elrond, “You shouldn’t be here.” 

Elrond took Russo’s words in stride, “And where should I be?” 

“Valinor,” Russo breathed before his eyes squinted, “Where is Elros? You must stay with your brother. It isn’t safe.” 

Elrond paled and Fingon kept his mouth carefully shut. He’d never heard the name of Elrond’s twin brother but he knew that this brother had chosen to lead a mortal life and thus was consigned to the fate of man. Elrond probably rarely talked about this brother. 

“Russo,” Fingon started and then stopped. He wasn’t sure what to say. How could he answer the question without also hurting Elrond or breaking the moment between the two. Neither did he know how to address the fear in Russo’s eyes - not of Elrond but rather for Elrond, as if Elrond should not be left in Russo’s presence. 

But upon hearing his name, Russo’s gaze swapped back to Fingon and he smiled. “Fingon. I- I don’t deserve you. I’ve destroyed everything including myself when you died. I shouldn’t- I’m sorry. Finno, I’m so sorry. I failed you. I failed our ideals and I- I failed my brothers. All of them, the little ones, they’re all dead. Dead.” Russo’s tears intensified from a leak to a waterful as his words slurred into a pathetic blubber of apologies. 

It was jarring. Even when plagued with the horrors of Angband, Russo never cried. He kept himself reserved and directed his insecurity and fears into his protection of Beleriand and his attack against Morgoth. To see him so visually taken aback and in misery made Fingon want to wrap his arms around Russo and promise that everything was fine. That Fingon loved him and nothing bad would happen to them. 

At the same time, his mind couldn’t help but insidiously remember that this was what he wanted. He had wanted Russo to be apologetic for his acts and to own up to his mistakes. This was everything he ever wanted and yet it broke something in him. He wouldn’t have Celebrimbor’s issue of forgiving his loved one as the moment Russo began crying, Fingon had forgiven him. 

And now his heart simply grieved alongside Russo. They would recover and Russo should never believe Fingon didn’t wholeheartedly love him. 

He told Russo this. Repeating the same words over and over again, “I love you. I love you. I love you so much, Russo.” as if it were a mantra until the hysterics died down enough for exhaustion to take hold and pull Russo back into a deep sleep. 

When Fingon finally pulled away from Russo, he found Elrond missing. He set a final kiss on Russo’s forehead, still in disbelief that Russo would wake again soon. Then, he stumbled from the room, his mind only capable of spinning the same thought in a knot.

Russo was awake. 

As he exited the room, he found Mairon haunting the hall just outside of Russo’s room. Silently, he opened his arms and waited. 

Fingon flung himself into Mairon’s arms, only distantly noting that they’d never done such a thing, as he laughed and cried and shook apart in Mairon’s arms. 

Russo was awake!

Chapter Text

“Maitimo?” Findekano asked as he eased the door to Maitimo’s room open and slipped into the room. Maitimo stood in the middle of what appeared to be the remnants of his abode after one of Atarinke’s more nefarious experiments: books were caustically discarded on every surface and flipped to random pages, revealing highlighted passages in just about every colour Carnistir was capable of making. Maitimo’s bed was askew with the sheets coiled into a pile that was either hiding a mess of clothes or one of the twins. And 

Maitimo was whirling around the room, ripping pages from books or jotting a word or two down on seemingly random pages. He was a flurry of motion, and Findekano might have enjoyed it (he always did like seeing Maitimo energetic and eager in his pursuits) if not for the maniacal red around his eyes that was indicative of sleepless nights and single-minded devotion that Findekano was certain Feanaro taught to all his children. 

“Maitimo,” Findekano repeated, louder this time as he waded into Maitimo’s domain of unrestrained chaos. 

It was only when Findekano touched his fingers to Maitimo’s cheek that Maitimo acknowledged him, leaning into the touch almost instinctively before realizing who it meant and murmuring, “Findekano.” 

“What are you up to?” Findekano started with the easy question and the one that was less likely to make him or Maitimo mad when they ended up in an argument. An argument was inevitable based on the frankly frightening tales Findekano had coaxed out of Makalaure (or not exactly coaxed since Makalaure saw no reason not to boast about Maitimo’s nearly fortnight-long binging spree of work). 

“The climax,” Maitimo boasted, his eyes shining, but even excitement could not conceal the way his head was drooping onto Findekano’s shoulders, and his weight was more than 70% currently supported by Findekano. “It all ends with Melkor. It should end with Melkor. The Valar are seen as this voice for good, but no- no! We need something subversive. Who cares about historical inaccuracy? The drama, Finno! The reveal!” 

“Ah.” Maitimo had told Findekano nothing that he didn’t already know. Maitimo had rather apologetically told him a few months ago that he wouldn’t be available for some time as he tried to finish a particularly tricky outline for his new story. But when he agreed, Findekano forgot what sort of habits manifested in Russo and how Feanaro’s household encouraged such behaviour rather than moderated it. 

“And when was the last time you slept?” 

Russo lifted himself from Findekano’s shoulder and leapt to his bedside table. After procuring a quill from behind his ear and smudging his ear black, Maitimo began scribbling something down. It was only when Findekano repeated his question that Russo hummed, “A few days or so.” 

“Not a few days, over a fortnight,” Findekano told Russo as he paced forward and trapped Russo’s hands in his. He paused for only a moment to marvel at the softness of Russo’s writer’s fingers before continuing, “You need to sleep.” 

“Sleep,” Findekano repeated when Russo hummed in what could have been agreement but was more likely a vapid response to the sound of speaking. Only when Findekano pushed and pulled Russo under the covers of his bed did Russo realize what was going on, and he began to fight against Findekano’s administration.

“Finno, no,” Russo argued, his tone petulant and his words slurring together, “I can’t sleep now. All that progress. All those thoughts - lost!” 

“And how many of these thoughts brought upon by sleep deprivation are you going to agree are revolutionary when you wake?” Findekano had gone through this same routine many, many times, even when he wished he rather didn’t need to. 

“One more hour,” Maitimo argued, shaking the blankets off, “One more hour and I’ll have everything written out.” 

“Nope!” Findekano wrapped the blankets back around Maitimo. “We both know writing will take days at least, and you are no doubt starting to see double. Sleep.” 

That would certainly explain the 

“No, Finno, no. Sleep is my enemy. I don’t have time. I'll lose my train of thought. Another hour, just another one.” 

Findekano sighed. Feanaro’s entire line was like this. Maitimo would have at least another few days before he completely burnt himself out unless Fingon took serious preventative measures. 

Which he had no issue doing as he stripped from his tunic and climbed into the bed. He curled around Maitimo and pulled Maitimo’s head onto his chest, all while murmuring, “Sleep, Maitimo. Just an hour, please.” 

Maitimo protested, but he made no move to untangle himself and instead tangled his leg with Findekano’s. The moment Findekano managed to shush Maitimo and keep Maitimo’s lips shut for more than a minute, Maitimo fell asleep immediately. 

Findekano grinned into Maitimo’s softly snoring body. Maitimo was so lovely when he slept. If only he would allow Findekano to entice him to bed more often. 

Russo was sleeping. 

Fingon tried to rationalize it. Russo was healing. Sleeping allowed the body to focus on healing itself without requiring extra energy for conscious brain functions - or at least that’s what Findekano thinks was the summary of Mairon’s summary of Elrond’s technical musings. 

Sure, Fingon could accept that just because Russo woke up once, that didn’t mean Russo would be up and being his usual self the next morning. He knew that. It wasn’t his first recovery. But when it took Russo nearly another week to wake again, Fingon couldn’t help but be concerned.

Even if Russo’s priorities were all in a row. He asked after his brothers and his nephew - all of whom Fingon was happy to give him news of. He even helped prop Russo up so he could accept hugs from Curufin, Celegorm (before he left), Nerdanel, Mahtan, Amras (when he returned), and Celebrimbor. Russo cried through each encounter with sobbing apologies and disbelief as each appearance cemented in his mind that they too were here and free in Valinor. 

Fingon very carefully stepped around any word of Feanor and reassured Russo over and over that Amrod and Maglor were fine, just resting, and Caranthir was fine, just away. Each time Russo’s eyes would get misty, and he would sob to Fingon about how he wasn’t able to keep his little brothers safe. 

It seemed that Russo hibernated for days just to wake up and cry for a few hours. Fingon was worried that Russo would end up dehydrated from all the tears that spilled from his face. 

And aside from any physical harm to Russo… it all just made Fingon fret endlessly. 

Russo’s sleep patterns followed no discernible pattern, leaving Fingon to fret about if something was wrong and Russo wasn’t going to wake up. Or he was fretting because Russo was crying, and Fingon just felt helpless. Those crying sessions always ended with Fingon hugging Russo to his body and wishing Russo’s hair would grow back faster so he could run his fingers through the long locks in patterns that always soothed Russo to sleep. 

And it really is concerning how much Russo sleeps. 

Sure, Elrond and Mairon (Particularly Mairo,n because Elrond still tries to avoid Fingon as much as possible, especially when Fingon’s worrying) reassure him that it's normal and that Russo is healing. But they don’t know Russo like Fingon does. They weren’t there when Russo was healing the first time.

The moment that Russo was able to open his eyes, he was trying to stand and had to be corralled back into bed. He never wanted to sleep if he could be doing something else. Never. Fingon recalled how they had constant monitoring when Russo was healing after Angband, since he was prone to moving around and opening barely closed wounds without someone there to physically stop him. 

Russo hadn’t even tried to slip out of bed once since waking up in Valinor and had been downright docile as he allowed Fingon to feed him broth and push family members towards Russo for gentle hugs. 

It’s been months now of Russo waking up about once a week for little more than 2 hours and never more than 5. He slept and slept but never seemed to be waking for longer periods of time. In complete contrast to Amrod, who was waking for longer and longer and had even taken to wandering in halting steps, balanced against his twin, across the house. 

But Fingon’s musings were interrupted as Russo shifted in the bed, signalling that he was waking up. And then he was further delighted when Russo’s eyes weren’t rosy with tears within the first few minutes. 

As always his eyes fluttered open with a wonder uncontained - Russo had confided in Fingon that it was always a surprise when he woke and found that nothing hurt: his arm where his hand had been severed no longer sent phantom pains up his bleeding nerves, and his chest no longer wheezed pulling in the clean air of Valinor. 

But today Russo was particularly sweet as his brain caught up with his bodily sensations. His lips curled up as his eyes drifted over to where Fingon was sitting with Russo’s hand woven between his own two. While he remained mute, his mouth moved through words unspoken but heard. 

Fingon greeted Russo’s softness with his own, lifting Russo’s hand to his mouth and caressing each finger with a gentle kiss. His eyes never left Russo’s, drinking in the way Russo’s eyes were shining and the lips that were shaking slightly with laughter concealed only momentarily until Russo’s lips parted and it bubbled out of his throat in euphoric giggles. Russo was hypnotizing like this. Intoxicating in the way he so resembled Maitimo in his innocent joy, and captivating in the way no one but Maedhros could be when he set his mind to something. At the centre of it all was Russo: who was happy, who was free of pain, who was here with Fingon. 

It’s Russo, and that means it's perfect. 

“Finno,” Russo’s voice pierced through any of Fingon’s fawning as he programmed himself to do as a child. It only took Russo frowning at him once (or like a thousand times) before Fingon connected Russo’s frown to him not paying attention. After that, he couldn’t not listen - he hated when Russo frowned. 

Not that Russo was frowning right now. In fact, he was smiling quite happily, and his fingers were squeezing Fingon’s hand in a way that made Fingon want to melt. But he was supposed to be listening. Yes, listening to Russo’s lovely voice that he was still in a millennium-long deficit. “Finno, you’re here.” 

“Yes,” Fingon said when Russo paused as he pulled Russo’s hand up to hold it against his cheek (after he snuck another kiss to Russo’s palm), “I want to be where you are, always.” 

“I feel the same,” Russo admitted as he struggled to sit up. Fingon leaned over to help, and Russo dared to kiss his cheek, leaving Fingon red-cheeked and stammering.

“I - I have a house?” Fingon offered into the resulting silence, his burning cheeks prompting him to move the conversation forward, “It’s just outside Tirion, near that stretch of forest we used to hide away from our fathers and siblings during hunting excursions. It has a garden with all those leafy greens you always insisted were vital food supplies, but I secretly thought you just liked, and the more colourful ones I like. Beets grow here with almost no effort - you have no idea how happy that made me. Well, I assume the garden is still well. I haven't checked on it or tended to it in some time. You'll also really like the interior. The first thing I did was forbid those lacy cushions - you know, the ones we both hated - and I found these cotton ones that feel like you're sleeping on clouds.”

Fingon was babbling. He knew it, but Russo was smiling and nodding along. 

“It sounds lovely,” Russo beamed at Fingon and kissed him again, this time on the nose, “You did all this for me?” 

“Of course, I did,” Fingon held a finger to Russo’s mouth to avoid any interruptions, “And you go speaking about how you don’t deserve it. Russo, you know I have always wanted to give you nice things. You always struggle so, but this is just as much for me as it is for you. Don’t you think I deserve to have a lovely home with you in it?” 

“You deserve everything, Finno,” Russo murmured. “I would give you all that I have to give, even myself if you asked.” 

Fingon’s stomach turned as he recalled the last time Russo had given all of himself to another and how cruelly Feanor had abused that trust. 

“I wouldn’t ask that,” Fingon knew he was being overly insistent, and his tone was harsh as he surged forward and planted his face in Russo’s - and not in a romantic way, but fueled by anger. “You know I would never!” 

“I know,” Russo’s eyes were so filled with reverence that Fingon could bask in it and become one of the Valar on his faith alone, “That is why I would give it to you. And if I ever repeated my foul ways again, I ask you to wield this power and lock me away. Promise me.”

“Of course,” Fingon choked out (his anger instantly forgotten for melancholy) even as he knew that without Feanor’s influence, Russo would never again be forced into such a situation. “I’d lock you away in our home and keep you safe. I promise.”  

Russo’s eyelashes fluttered as his face relaxed into a pleased grin. They sat in silence, perfectly content to just be in each other’s presence. 

Fingon spent the time scanning Russo’s face and drinking in his features. While it had been months since Russo’s return, the novelty of it all had yet to wear off, and Fingon found himself in a blissful amazement as he traced his eyes down Russo’s face, and ran his fingers along Russo’s arm and against his hairline. 

Sometime later, Russo’s hand in Fingon’s went slack, and his eyes were closed with shallow breaths lifting his chest gently and exhaling into a soft snore. 

Fingon leaned over and pressed a kiss to Russo’s cheek, murmuring into Russo’s ear, “Rest well and get better quickly.” 

He remained for a few more hours, but when it became clear that Russo would not wake again, Fingon sighed and leaned into Russo’s chest, swallowing back tears. 

Russo was still sleeping - healing. It should all be fine. It should all be normal. Fingon was used to slow recoveries. He’d done it before. 

And yet this one was harder. Russo was, by all appearances, healing. He no longer spoke of pain and never winced when another pressed their hands along his body. Even Elrond declared Russo of perfect physical health. Amrod, who’d had similar injuries to Russo, was awake and moving slowly with Amras’s support. And yet, Russo was still sleeping, barely capable of remaining conscious for minutes at a time before collapsing once more. 

Fingon wanted to pretend that everything was alright, that Russo just needed a little longer to heal. But there was a tingling at the back of Fingon’s mind that something wasn’t right. Russo had never enjoyed sleeping and had fought against it even when recovering after 50 years of captivity to remain conscious. 

But what could it mean? Fingon couldn’t help but worry, his mind recalling another member of Russo’s family who grew more and more sedentary until she failed to wake again. 

But surely, Russo wouldn’t succumb to the same fate. He was strong-willed and had so much to live for. But reportedly Miriel had been opinionated (Grandfather often remarked that Feanor had gotten his tongue from his mother) and had just given birth to a son. Surely, she too had much to live for and the will to fight for it. 

The more Fingon thought about it, the queasier his stomach became until he could do nothing but shoot to his feet and stumble out of the room. 

He planned to leave for just a moment - for just enough time to even out his breathing, wipe away his watery eyes, and calm his raging thoughts. The last thing he needed was Russo waking while Fingon was distressed. Russo needed to focus on his own healing, not push himself to appease Fingon’s worries. 

A fleeting thought had Fingon considering knocking on Celebrimbor’s door, where he knew Mairon was currently working on Celebrimbor’s wounds. But he surmised that those few hours once a week were precious to the two of them, and he hated the idea of infringing on it. 

So instead, he crept passed the door with the intent of hiding outside. But as he went down the hall, he heard hushed conversation coming from one room, and as much as he tried not to eavesdrop, he found himself catching Nerdenal’s voice saying, “You think it’s a poor omen too. Maitimo, he feels like he’s fading.” 

“Do not jump to hysterics,” Mahtan began to caution, but Fingon’s feet were racing to the doors, and when he threw them open, Mahtan paused as both redheads turned to glare at him. 

Fingon should glare back, probably. Neither Mahtan nor Nerdenal was high on the list of people Fingon even tolerated, but he could only thinkof  how Nerdenal had corroborated his worries. “You think Maitimo is like Miriel?” 

Mahtan sighed as Nerdenal jumped to her feet and gestured at Fingon, insisting to her father, “See. I am not alone in this thought!” 

“You think Findekano an acceptable support?” Mahtan arched a single brow and his tone remained decidedly unimpressed, “What does he know of Miriel, born long after her body was exiled to the Este and too full of youthful ignorance to consider the implications of her condition.” 

Fingon resented Mahtan’s accusation. “You think I didn’t? We were all aware of Miriel’s condition. Her death haunted Tirion for all my time there.” 

“Second-hand accounts of a story already left unpolished and uninvestigated,” Mahtan’s voice raised in anger. Fingon had never heard Mahtan’s tone rise above his usual monotone and judging by how Nerdenal shrunk into the walls behind her, Fingon guessed Mahtan didn’t raise his voice often. Mahtan clambered to his feet, and, for a moment, Fingon recalled the imposing bearing of a Balrog with Mahtan’s flaming hair and blood-red robes. “Miriel was our queen. The one we followed to Aman and the one to whom we pledged our loyalty. We followed Finwe because Miriel supported him, and he let her die!”

Mahtan took a breath and continued in a bellow, “We watched as she grew weaker and weaker, as the Finwe neglected her for their son. We watched helplessly as she slept for longer stretches of time - each day a little weaker when awake and a little softer when she spoke. Then one day, she never woke again, and nothing could rouse her. Even the cries of her own son meant nothing. We watched as the Finwe hid her away and took another.” 

“So don’t think you understand Miriel’s toil and the utter torment her demise had on the Noldor when you were born from her death, Findekano, child of Indis,” Mahtan concluded. 

Fingon’s hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear that caused his hands to shake, but his mouth moved before his thoughts could catch up, “You blame me? I wasn’t even alive!” 

Mahtan glowered, but he wasn’t shouting anymore, “I do not blame you for the mistakes of others, child. But you should hold your tongue when speaking reveals your inexperience.” 

“So you’re saying that only you can notice that Maitimo isn’t getting better. At times, it almost seems like he’s getting worse!” Fingon countered, “Even a child who’d only heard the tale of Miriel once could connect the dots.” 

“No, you believe you have connected two dots and leap to outrageous accusations,” Mahtan’s voice had returned to his usual monotone, but felt just as accusatory. 

“Grandfather,” A soft voice broke through Fingon and Mahtan’s stalemate. Curufin followed shortly behind his words, tepidly crossing to stand between Fingon and Mahtan, “I do not believe Fingon is wrong.” 

Mahtan’s ire switched to his grandson, although it was softer. With the new revelation that Majtan had just spouted, Fingon wondered if the lowered animosity was because Curufin was his grandson or because he was the grandson of Miriel. With an almost fragile voice, Mahtan said, “Atarinke.” 

Curufin only grimaced, “We grew up frightened of Miriel’s fate and that it might strike any of us down at any moment in time. Father was so grateful that none of us had been born a nis and that childbirth was not something we could endure. We know of it and we thought of it often in Beleriand. Maitimo is acting strangely. We must consider every possible likelihood.” 

“Maitimo is healing. He is weakened from his ordeal, which he endured longer than Ambarussa and longer than any of you, but Makalaure, who slumbers still. Moreover, we have not considered how the void may have impacted his condition.” Mahtan continued to spew a slew of alternate excuses and reasoning that grew more and more flimsy as he spoke. But it worked at cowering Curufin, who’d frozen on the spot as Mahtan slung words in his face. 

Fingon had always thought Curufin outspoken and clever. He had certainly heard the tales of Nargothrond and knew that Curufin could be cruel and sly, but as he watched Curufin duck his head in his grandfather’s presence, Fingon wondered at Curufin’s complexities. Curufin was Feanor’s favourite son, the son who emulated Feanor with his every action and his every motion, but Feanor had never been cowed by another. 

So why was Curufin making no motion to cut Mahtan off? 

Why, instead, did Nerdanel thrust herself between her father and her son and command, “Enough, father. Why do you remain so blind to the possibility when so many others posit the theory? We aren’t saying it's fact, merely that it might be a possibility.” 

Mahtan opened his mouth, no doubt to argue back, but Curufin beat him to it, uttering from behind his mother’s back, “If Father were here, he would suggest the theory. Would you contradict him?” 

Mahtan mutely shook his head even as Nerdanel agreed with Curufin, “Yes, I am certain my husband would agree with me. He would even have suggested the possibility much sooner than I. If only he were here to verify it.” 

Nerdenal ended by shooting a suspicious look Fingon’s way. 

Curufin, in response, tugged at his mother’s skirts even as he signed, “Mother, please not now. We don’t need to fling any other baseless accusations today.” 

“No,” Nerdenal dislodged Curufin’s hand and swept away from him and towards Fingon, “We have been ignoring this for far too long. As his wife, I think I have a right to know. Now, Findekano, I am going to ask you directly. Where is my husband? Where is Feanaro?” 

“I don’t know,” Fingon said, which technically wasn’t a lie. The Oath stated that those who failed were doomed to everlasting darkness, but he hadn’t tried to save Feanor, so he could not know if Feanor was in the void or not. Still, he amended his statement by adding, “Presumably in the void.” 

“Yes,” Nerdenal mused, her face growing red, “Interesting that my sons who were held in the void are returned to me, but my husband remains vanished.” 

“Mother,” Curufin insisted, stepping forward to put a hand to her elbow, “Please. You would insult the one who saved your sons and grandson because he could not complete the task?” 

“Nolofinwe’s get have never liked my husband, and with the crown not sat atop Arafinwe’s head, his spawn to have no desire for Feanaro’s return,” Nerdenal spat as she pointed a single accusatory finger at Fingon while speaking directly to Curufin, “Forgive me for wondering if that inherent dislike didn’t make Findekano miss Feanaro by accident .” 

Fingon bristled at Nerdenal’s tone, even if her accusations were true. 

He didn’t like Feanor, and he never had. And yes, Feanor’s return would upset the current status in Tirion. Even if Fingon avoided politics since his return, he had enough knowledge and heard Finrod complain enough about his father’s burden to know that Feanor’s return would have political consequences. And he had left Feanor in the void. 

But so what? Fingon wasn’t the paragon of perfection. He would do much for anyone with the caveat that he never wanted to do anything for Feanor. 

This was all for Russo, and Fingon had always been of the opinion that Russo would have been better off if his father hadn’t been around. And maybe he had made it so, but they had survived for so long without Feanor that they could continue to survive after him. 

It wasn’t Fingon’s fault that Feanor was doomed to the void. No, that was his fault. Forgive Fingon for saving those more innocent in their doom than the instigator. 

“See, he doesn’t even deny it!” Nerdenal roared, and she might have leapt at Fingon if Curufin didn’t grab his mother by the waist and practically throw her at Mahtan. Mahtan caught his daughter with a grace that implied it was a more common occurrence than it should be. 

“Mother!” Curufin said. His volume and tone shocked Nerdenal to silence long enough for Curufin to say, “Fingon - Fingon does not owe us anything. He played with forces beyond our comprehension, and it is a miracle that he managed to save those of us he did. We should be grateful, not assaulting him for failing to do more.” 

A silence stretched out across the room for a moment until it was finally punctuated by a sniffle as Nerdena,l through tears, admitted, “I just want him back. Why does everyone get their happy ending and only I am pushed to long for my husband for the rest of eternity?” 

Mahtan pulled Nerdenal more firmly into his arms, petting the top of her head and gently shushing her. Curufin tugged at Fingon’s arm and practically dragged him from the room. 

But not before Fingon heard one last plea from Nerdenal, 

“I miss him.” 

Chapter Text

Curufin dragged Fingon away from the room and out of the house in a flurry of movement - arms, legs, and head jerking ever forward. It was only when the door shut behind them that Curufin shuffled away from Fingon and collapsed on the wooden entranceway, his leg swinging slightly off the edge but not yet reaching the forest ground below. When Curufin lifted his head momentarily and gestured with it to a spot just across from him, Fingon found himself compelled to follow Curufin’s instructions. 

“I’m sorry about my Mother,” Curufin said more to the clouds than anything else. But the words startled Fingon and he turned to Curufin with a question in his eyes. Curufin, while not looking in Fingon’s direction, answered the question burning in Fingon’s chest, “I meant what I said and I know the evils our family has committed in my father’s name. Even if you had the chance to bring him back, I would not blame you for not taking it.” 

Fingon really should stop letting Russo’s brothers surprise him. First Celegorm, then Caranthir, and now Curufin. Had they matured during their time in the void or were the tales Fingon’d heard in Beleriand been a gross exaggeration of their selfishness and pettiness? Russo always groaned when any of his brothers were brought up and would routinely bemoan their stupidity, so Fingon was rather confident it wasn’t the latter. 

Fingon’s musings were interrupted by a harsh laugh. Curufin followed it with, “You do realize you have a mouth with which to speak. Unless, in your pitiful musings, you have also forgotten how to listen.” 

That sounded more like the Curufin Fingon remembered and the one described in the tales. The entire thing left Fingon utterly confused, “Are you helping me?” 

Curufin turned his nose up at Fingon (or he was definitely trying to from where he sprawled out on the ground), “We owe you. I am not blind to my own faults however much others may claim I am. I helped you because of our debt, and I am engaging you in conversation because I am curious. That, at least, should be consistent with whatever supervillain story you have in your head.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Fingon found himself saying, but he didn't disagree with the latter point, “I didn’t do anything for you.” 

Curufin snorted, “Nothing, you say. You did nothing, but free us from an existence of nothingness.” 

“I didn’t do it for you,” Fingon shot back and then froze. His words weren’t untrue, but neither were they something Fingon wanted to share. He already had a reputation for being pathetically in love with Russo, he didn’t also want to be thought of as callous. 

Curufin was silent for a moment, forgoing words to stare blankly up into the blue sky. When he finally did speak, it was with a subdueness that Fingon found unnerving in Curufin’s throat, “I know. You did it for my brother. You hold an unfathomable amount of love for him and Maedhros holds an uncountable amount for us.” 

That was quite a levelheaded view from one of Russo’s less rational brothers. Sure, Curufin liked to pretend he was a paragon of virtue and logic, but there was a reason that Celegorm was his closest brother. Fingon still shuddered when he remembered the chipmunk incident and Curufin’s role in the ensuing chaos - and that was prior to Beleriand! 

“You do not begrudge that knowledge?” Fingon found himself asking, in part attempting to incite Curufin’s anger (if only to prove to himself that Curufin truly was as harsh as the stories said). 

But Curufin remained calm and almost stoic in his commentary. Fingon couldn’t help but wonder if Curufin was garnering pleasuring and measured responses from the clear sky above them (Curufin certainly spent much of the conversation staring up at the dismal amounts of clouds ghosting across the pale blue horizon). 

“Few have ever enjoyed the company of my family,” Curufin commented, “It was something that we never tried to rectify. I was happiest with my brothers and parents, as were most of my brothers. Maedhros was the only one who thought we were too insular. He urged us to befriend those outside our nearest kin.” 

Fingon couldn’t help but snort. He could imagine how that went. Russo nagging his brothers only for them to turn their noses up and neglect the advice or worse; specifically cultivating the ire of others. 

“We, Celegorm and I, thought that he wanted such a thing only to make his own dalliances with you less obtrusive,” Curufin continued his candour turning flat but refraining from cruelty, “We had an ongoing bet on how long Maedhros would keep you around.” 

Curufin’s admission made Fingon’s chest stick onto itself, each breath peeling skin from skin as lungs filled with air. Curufin’s admission did not surprise Fingon, exactly - he had always felt their judging eyes when he and Russo fled from the family gatherings. But to think that Russo would discard him like a training sword stung. 

“Maedhros would never,” Fingon said and wished he agreed with the conviction in his voice. 

But Curufin only tilted his head to one shoulder and lazily replied, “No, he did not. You were loyal beyond reason, and Maedhros adored you for it. We could not understand it, nor rationalize it, and that made us furious. Especially when you saved him and we could not.” 

“You did not save him,” Fingon corrected as he always did when this matter was brought up. “Anyone could have saved him, but none of you did.” 

Curufin stared up into the sky as if seeking a reply in the clouds, but when he found none, he only replied, “Perhaps.” 

But that single admission made Fingon’s breath catch. No one had ever given Fingon any ground on his old assertion - everyone was so eager to say Fingon did what no other could. They sang songs of it that drove Fingon mad with rage. Curufin's admission loosened something that had spent so long coiled in Fingon’s stomach that he felt queasy. 

And Curufin’s next words only added to it, “But not this time. We couldn’t save any of us this time.” 

Curufin spoke softly as if to hide the words behind meekness and obfuscate the gratitude in his voice. Still, his eyes were earnest when he turned his head to look at Fingon, “I didn’t lie. We owe you more than I could say. I would give anything to save a single one of my brothers or my son and you saved all of them for nothing.” 

“Not for nothing. Maedhros is worth more than anything.” 

“Then he is loved as he deserves.” Curufin smiled at Fingon, pointed and threatening, but Fingon felt comforted all the same.

Curufin paused a let a gentle breeze blow recently greened leaves into their faces and waffle the stench of mating pines as he gazed up into the clearing blue sky. He plucked the leaves one by one from his face, and whispered while hidden under their protective covering, “How nice of you to save Maedhros’s troublemaking brothers along the way. Was it an accident or did you just want to complete a set of Feanorians?” 

Ah, there it was. Fingon had wondered where Curufin’s temper and terse way of speaking had gone after he’d been so meek the past few months. (Even when he stood firm against his mother, there had been a hesitancy to Curufin’s words.) Fingon was sure that if he looked, he would find Curufin glaring at him through his hair - and yep, that’s exactly what Curufin was doing. But it looked much less imposing when Curufin was beached on the ground with his knees half bent and his face coated in leaves. 

“The lot of you are feeling rather reformed at the moment,” Fingon countered, not wanting to reward Curufin’s hissy attitude. 

And it was true. 

That surprised Fingon more than anything. He had been certain that the Feanorians would spark an uprising and require heavy monitoring, but instead, Feanor’s sons had closed around their mother and offered reparations for the hurts they caused. Had the void really changed them so much or was Fingon’s memories of Beleriand so warped that he could no longer recall his cousins? 

Not that Curufin responded well to Fingon’s critique as he chortled, low and cruel, “Are we let out on good behaviour then? Figured that we should get one more chance to fuck things up?” 

Fingon was so affronted that he found himself answering honestly, “I was thinking that Maedhros would be sad if he knew he was saved but his brothers and nephew were not.” 

Perhaps honesty was the best answer, as Curufin groaned as the fight fled from him, “You are too kind, Fingon. One day, someone will take advantage of it.” Curufin paused, before eyeing him, “I forgot, my brother already did.” 

Something about that slimy way Curufin said those words and the knowing gleam in Curufin's eyes spiked Fingon's anger. 

“What are you talking about?” Fingon demanded, stepping into Curufin’s space and pressing his foot against Curufin’s side when he remained mum. 

“Beleriand,” Was Curufin’s answer as he rolled to his stomach and away from Fingon’s attack. 

But Fingon ignored Curufin’s movement, too caught up in his words. “I didn’t go to Beleriand for Maedhros!” 

“Perhaps,” The ground he buried his face into muffled his words, and Fingon had to strain to understand him. That didn’t make the words any less accusatory, “But you did rush off on your own to save him from Angband. And you didn’t hesitate to offer your aid upon becoming high king.” 

“Both of which I did of my own volition. Maedhros didn’t take advantage of me.” Fingon argued. 

“All I’m saying is your supposed love for my brother has gotten you into a lot of trouble and the reverse isn’t quite as true.” Curufin’s said, mildly but his nose scrunched up and his eyes were narrowed to a glare up at the clouds. 

An argument squashed up against the roof of Fingon’s mouth, but he stubbornly kept himself from vocalizing the thoughts in his mind. Curufin didn’t need to know how Russo had bolstered Fingon’s confidence when he waffled between following in his father’s footsteps and his own desires. How Russo rode to Hithlum without rest when Fingon’s father died and held Fingon through his grief and the pressure of being King to a crumbling people. 

Russo was Fingon’s greatest supporter. He always believed in Fingon and listened to Fingon without judgment. 

Being bereft of Russo’s presence for so long only strengthened Fingon’s position that Russo would always be Fingon greatest source of strength and the one he valued above all others. It was a sentiment he knew Russo returned - he could see it in Russo’s eyes whenever they had a moment together. 

When his comment failed to elicit a response from Fingon, Curufin hummed and a tension lessened from his shoulders even as his hands clenched together as if preparing for a fight. “You love my brother enough to seek the return of his brothers and not our father?” 

The words were mild, but Fingon sprang to his feet with heat in his mouth like he’d eaten a patch of spicy peppers and the burn was escaping his mouth through words, “You think that I would want Maedhros to mourn him!” 

“No, you would rather him not mourn our father,” Curufin agreed, calming Fingon before adding, “But you did not answer that you would have seen him returned.” 

Fingon was so surprised that he could do nothing but freeze as Curufin pushed himself into a sitting position and continued, “My mother is rather insistent that you had the chance to drag my father from the void alongside us but chose not to.” 

Fingon opened his mouth to argue but Curufin glowered with a half-eyes laziness that belied Curufin’s opinion on the validity of Fingon’s next words, not dissimilar to how Fingon's father would look when he expected Fingon was lying. Fingon wondered if Curufin mastered this skill while raising Celebrimbor. 

In the ensured silence, Curufin continued, “I do not believe everything my mother says. I have long learnt that parents are not all-knowing and that they make mistakes. However, I cornered Sauron a few days ago and interrogated him.” 

“Ah.” Fingon wanted to correct Curufin - that Mairon had a name and not to address him by a slur. However, his tongue wrestled uselessly against the numbing thoughts of what Mairon might have told Celebrimbor’s father if pushed. 

“He was not forthcoming about the mechanism used to free us,” Curufin continued before muttering almost under his breath, “I’m certain Aule must have gotten to him first and forbade him from blabbing.” 

“But what little he did communicate does not indicate a personage limit nor any exceptions to whom you might free,” Curufin continued to muse and now Fingon was certain he could see a glimmer in Curufin’s eyes. The rascal was enjoying drawing things out and leaving Fingon unsettled. 

“While I cannot say with any certainty if the Noldor’s doom follows my father more closely than any other - I can say that you never liked him. In fact, I would say you despised my father since before my birth,” Curufin finally, finally laid out the accusation, “So, I ask, with no chance of your answer flying to my mother’s ears, did you intentionally forsake my father?” 

Fingon’s first instinct was to lie. To say that it wasn’t his intention. To say that Feanor couldn’t be saved. Or Feanor didn’t answer Fingon’s call - that would be such an easy excuse, Fingon had been uncertain if Caranthir would answer the call and Fingon had spent an additional millenia in Caranthir’s presence. 

But Fingon was no liar. He had never been a coward and he wouldn’t start now. And so, Fingon squared his shoulders and tried to feign nonchalance when he said, “I did.” 

He expected a fight. Part of him even expected Curufin to fling himself at Fingon and for the two of them to split blood on knuckles and noses. Another expected Curufin’s lip to curl and for him to unleash a barrage of insults and verbal threats. 

But Curufin did neither. 

Instead, he bowed his head, his hair falling in front of his face and obscuring his face. His shoulders were unnaturally still, neither shaking from anger nor grief, and his breath was even. His breath was too even to the point that Fingon thought Curufin might not be breathing. 

And then he worried that he’d set Curufin so off in anger that he kneeled over. 

But before Fingon could reach over to poke Curufin’s shoulder, the other elf raised his head and took a single shaky breath. “I should thank you for the information.” 

“What?” Fingon almost tripped over the whiplash, “Thank me? You’re not angry?” 

“I am. Of course, I am,” Curufin snapped with a glare more intuned with what Fingon expected from Curufin. “But I am not an idiot. I told you that I expected nothing from you and I was grateful for what you’ve done. If the alternative was none of us ever being freed or all of us, but my father, even he would agree this is the better choice. He would have wanted us freed and able to live a life even without him.”

Fingon blinked. And then blinked again. Was Curufin being… reasonable? Relatively little shouting or bolstering and even rational thinking. Like a child being scolded by a parent, Fingon couldn’t help but wonder if there was another lesson to be learnt here. He couldn’t help but wonder if Curufin was waiting for him to read between the lines and come to Curufin’s real feelings. 

But Curufin remained steadfast and calm for minutes until Fingon, near mad with worry, asked, “Do you think I made a mistake?”

This got a single eyebrow raised from Curufin. “A mistake?”

“That I should have freed Feanor,” Fingon clarified. 

“I would have liked my father returned,” Curufin threw out with a patronizing shaking of his head, “I would not say your unjustifiable hatred of my father reason enough for his abandonment.” 

“It wasn’t just-” Fingon bit the sentence off. He did hate Feanor. He had always hated Feanor. But that wasn’t the only reason - it couldn't be the only answer. He would never be so cruel, or at least he didn't think he could be. “He was doomed by the Valar never to walk these lands again until Morgoth’s return.” 

“We were all doomed,” Curufin countered, his arms raising into the air and gesturing wildly to punctuate his point. “Who says my father was any more doomed than the rest of us? Perhaps less for he was dead for many of the horrors of Beleriand.” 

“You are the ones guilty of horrors - all in your father's name,” Fingon pointed out. 

“Then should we not be more doomed than he?” Curufin countered, “By your logic, Maedhros is the most doomed of us all.” 

Curufin’s words stabbed through Fingon’s flimsy anger and prodded at a worry he batted away like an orc head swung on a line. Russo hadn’t wanted to do any of those things, Fingon knew it. Russo wouldn’t be the person Fingon knew him to be if he had not been coerced into those things by the Oath Feanor made him swear. 

“In your father’s name,” Fingon protested again but even he could hear how his voice wavered. 

Curufin snorted, “Our father forced us into nothing. You would lay the blame at his feet when all he did was make the same mistakes as us, only less for he perished quickly upon Beleriand’s shores.” 

“If not for him, things might have gone better. The Silmarils would not have caused strife between us, and the Noldor would have been united in our quest for vengeance. He was not the only one who wished to defeat Morgoth and yet he would not trust us.” Fingon pressed. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to rationalize his hatred for Feanor with Curufin of all people. He would have more luck convincing fire that it did not burn. 

“I cannot argue that the Oath for the Silmarils was a poor decision. Nothing has brought our family less honour. However, to wish the Silmarils away is an utterly disastrous choice.” Curufin scowled and his speech slowed like he thought Fingon was particularly dense. “Had Morgoth not coveted the Silmarils, we would not have stood a chance against his might. As for our unity, it was not my father who suggested we leave in the night. It was Nelyo.” 

Curufin dragged Russo’s name out into a sneer. 

“You lie!” Fingon’s hand twitched with a growing desire to slam his fist into Curufin’s smug face. In response, Curufin straightened, his nose raised in arrogance and the common smugness of a younger sibling who knew something their elder sibling did not (Irisse had worn such an expression around him for much of their childhood - and much of their adulthood too). 

“Ask any of those who ventured across the boats with us. Ask Maedhros. I am sure he is too guilt-ridden and drained to even think of a lie or pretty words with which to assuage your ire.” Curufin chuckled, low and void of amusement, “You would paint all ills on our father - have you never stopped to think: we are all capable of mistakes. Yes, my father decided to burn the boats, but it was Maedhros who wished to ensure our passage across the narrow sea. Yes, my father created the Oath and chose the wording that brought about our downfall, but we were quick to add our voices to his vow even knowing the potential dangers of swearing it.” 

“Not all the dangers,” Fingon had to believe Russo and his brothers hadn’t foreseen the depths the Oath had driven to. 

Curufin inclined his head, “Not all the dangers. I doubt even Namos foresaw them all.” 

With Curufin’s tentative easement of his anger, Fingon found himself unsure of what to say next and the uneasy silence grew long between them. Fingon found himself staring at Curufin, watching his profile as Curufin stared out into the gnarled oaks before them. In Curufin, Fingon saw Feanor. Not as he was in Fingon’s memories but rather what he might have been in those last moments: gutted and destroyed by how his actions had hurt his family. 

Was Curufin thinking about the fate that befell Celebrimbor? If Feanor returned, would he linger and lament the fate that befell his children? 

The silence stretched onwards and onwards as if it grew hands and was stretching out to smooth the creases in both their argument and the warped form of the trees before them. Broken only when the body detangled itself from the oak branches and stumbled before them. 

The stranger lifted their head briefly before breaking into a sprint and flinging themselves at Curufin in a sweep of dark hair devoid of any braids, crying, “Curvo! Curvo! My Curvo!”

Curufin froze and when he spoke, his voice shook, “Telptelote?” 

The mass of dark hair bobbed and Curufin let out a strangled cry as his arms reached up to wrap around his wife. One of his hands tangled into her dark, dark hair as the other trailed slowly down her back before tightening at her waist. Curufin held his wife gently, as if worried she might be a mirage. 

Telptelote had no such worries. She clung to Curufin like he might fall to pieces, both hands digging deep into his clothes until Fingon was certain she must be leaving marks on his back with her nails. 

When they finally drew apart enough that Fingon could tell one from the other, he blinked. Telptelote in his memories was always a fastidious nis with tightly bundled back hair, prim clothing, even when working, and exquisitely matching accessories. Now she looked like Tyelko had bit and infected her with his wilderness. Her hair flew all about and her clothing was rough but excellently crafted. 

Time had blunted and sharpened Telptelote, but while she was no longer the nis Curufin married all those years ago, the two still circled each other like they were made for each other. 

Fingon wondered if others thought that of him and Russo - two people who fit themselves together like they were pieces of a puzzle and refused to be bent out of shape. And he wondered how many other couples had weathered that same barrage. 

Worse, he couldn’t help but think that Feanor and Nerdenal would be among those who persevered. Would Nerdenal have jumped Feanor like Telptelote did Curufin and would she drag Feanor into a series of filthy kisses, promising between each that she would never let them be parted again. 

It was the exact sort of reunion Fingon had imaged for him and Russo (just with less tongue down one another’s throats - a lot less tongue. Fingon looked away with a wince from the disgustingly passionate display before him.) - a reunion denied to Fingon, and no he wasn’t bitter (he was a little). But Curufin definitely needed this more than Fingon did - his family was in shambles, his son’s mutilation continuing into this new life, and Celebrimbor hesitantly making up with Sauron. Yeah, Fingon could see why Curufin would be glad to be reunited with his wife. 

(Wasn’t Nerdenal also facing those same issues? Wouldn’t she too like support from her husband if Feanor had any he could give?) 

“Curvo, I can hardly believe it,” Telptelote breathed once the pair had given up slobbering into each other’s faces and had escalated to tenderly holding each other’s faces. “When I heard that you had returned, I thought it a mirage. A trick by some nefarious party, but Lady Celebrian assured me it was real.” 

“Telptelote,” Curufin breathed in response as if her name was the only word he knew - but that one word contained all the multitudes within a person: longing, love, affection, wonder. He then tucked his head into her collarbone as if to reassure her: I’m here. 

“Yes. I am here, Atarinke Curufinwe, I am here and I won’t leave you ever again. Not for anything in the world,” Telptelote assured her husband, her arms tightening around him and she ended her proclamation with what looked like a rather brutal bite to Curufin’s neck. But Curufin only pressed himself tighter into her embrace, without a single whimper of pain at her onslaught. 

But he did have a single argument to Telptelote’s vow. One that he whispered nearly so faint that Fingon might have missed it, “Telperinquar.” 

“Oh my love,” And now Telptelote was crying into Curufin’s hair, “Such horrible, horrible things have befallen our son such that my heart will never heal. I would that you should never learn, lest it destroy you as it did me.” 

Ah, Fingon couldn’t help but think that Telptelote had already failed if she meant to keep Celebrimbor’s treatment at Sauron’s hands a secret. Fingon was fairly certain that Curufin knew the entire story if how he glared at Mairon was any indication (Mairon ignored them and told Fingon that they were deserved. Fingon knew that Mairon had done terrible things and certainly deserved a little animosity, but it still irritated him when he witnessed it). 

“I searched for him,” Telptelote continued to lament, “When I failed him first I told myself I would never again. But he has vanished into the halls of Mandos and has never been heard from again. I have sought him all these millennia since I landed on these shores, but alas he has hidden away from even his mother. I fear what might have befallen him if his fea could not even find its way to Namos.” 

A surge of pity inflamed in Fingon's breast for Telptelote. Fingon too had not known of Celebrimbor’s fate after learning of his death at Sauron’s hands and had pushed any worry for Celebrimbor aside to focus on Russo. It was only when he approached Mairon, and subsequently the Valar, with his proposal that he learnt Celebrimbor too had not been heard from and later that he joined his father and uncles in the void. But Telptelote had none of Fingon’s knowledge and had instead believed her son hidden from her somewhere in the sprawling lands of Aman. 

How long had she searched? How long had she spent in despair over the disappearance of her son: one not inflicted by the Oath as her husband had been (how much worse was it for Nerdanel from whom both her husband and children were cursed to never return?). 

“He is here,” Curufin finally said in the lull of Telptelote’s melancholic rant. “Tyelpe is here.” 

And suddenly it was no longer Telptelote supporting the two as she wobbled on her feet, a begrudging hope sweeping away her balance, “Our son? Our Tyelpe? My little elfling is here?” 

“Yes,” Curufin told his wife, holding her tightly, “He is here.” 

Telptelote paused for a moment, her head bent over Curufin’s shoulder and her shoulders shook. When she finally raised her head, her eyes were red but firm and her voice failed to shake as she commanded, “Take me to him. Take me to my son.”

Chapter Text

The thing Fingon forgot when Telptelote demanded to see Celebrimbor (the thing they all forgot - even Mahtan and Nerdanel who were surprised to see their granddaughter/daughter-in-law at the door) was Mairon’s presence. Somehow, no one remembered in the time it took for Telptelote to nearly knock down the front door, barrel down the hall to Celebrimbor’s room, and gently pry open the door to Celebrimbor’s room. 

Telptelote then froze in the entranceway as two heads swivelled to appraise the intruder. From behind Telptelote’s body, Fingon caught a glimpse of Mairon sitting at Celebrimbor’s side and Celebrimbor reclined into his pillows. Mairon’s hands hung uselessly in the space between them as if he’d been previously gesturing as he spoke. 

“You!” Telptelote screamed, pointing a finger at Mairon and rushing to plant herself between Mairon and Celebrimbor, “Sauron! How dare you. How dare you!” 

Fingon didn’t need foresight to know this confrontation would be unpleasant. Part of him wished to avoid it altogether, but Mairon had no one to defend him except Fingon and Fingon would never allow a friend to face any adversary alone (even if the adversary would at most kick Mairon from the house and scream at him a little. It was the principal of the whole thing, really). 

However, his initial steps forward drew Mairon’s attention. When their eyes met, Mairon shook his head minutely before returning to stare Celebrimbor’s mother down as she berated him. Fingon would have ignored Mairon’s protest if Mahtan hadn’t then lifted Fingon from his armpits and practically tossed him from the room. The door shut in Fingon’s face and when he tested the door handle, he found it locked. As he noted before, the rooms were nearly completely soundproof, leaving him with only the indiscernible noise to gauge the flow of conversation. 

So he was left to rock from his heels to his toes until some time later when the door opened to expunge Mairon to Telptelote’s screaming, “Leave! Leave my son alone!” 

Fingon couldn’t help but shout back, “Let Celebrimbor make his own decisions!” before the door bared shut again and Fingon was left alone with Mairon. 

When Fingon turned his attention to the Maia, he was shocked to find Mairon pale and nearly calcified in his stiffness. He remained frozen even when Fingon pressed a hand to his shoulder and repeated Mairon’s name. Thankfully, Mairon followed when Fingon pushed against his back and allowed Fingon to guide him to the sitting room and onto a seat before the fire. 

“Mairon?” Fingon asked again after they were both arranged in sitting positions. “What happened in there?” 

Mairon stared long into the flickering flames Fingon had just ignited for some time before he finally replied, “She knew.” 

“What?” 

“She knew,” Mairon replied, finally lifting his head to meet Fingon’s eyes. “She knows what I did to Telperinquar.” 

Fingon blinked and his nose scrunched up, “Sorry, are we not supposed to know? I’m pretty sure everyone knows what you did to Celebrimbor.” 

“She knew more,” Mairon shook, “She knew of our courtship and of how I broke his trust then tortured him over and over again.” 

“Once again, aside from the courtship, which even you previously protested wasn’t a courtship, that’s nothing new,” Fingon countered, although he was pleased Mairon now considered his time with Celebrimbor in Middle-Earth a courtship. It certainly showed a new level of understanding of his actions and his feelings. Not too long ago, Mairon refused to even acknowledge he was in love with an elf, let alone that he and Celebrimbor had nearly married before Mairon betrayed Celebrimbor’s trust. 

Mairon just shook his head, “She knew the specifics. Things even Telperinquar may have never known.” 

“I see,” Fingon didn’t really, but he wasn’t about to say anything contradictory. Not when Mairon already shook like he’d just come face to face with Morgoth. Nor did Fingon know exactly how to help a Mairon so shaken and so all he could do was fret aimlessly, hands at times patting Mairon’s shoulders and back in comfort and other times tending to the fire even though it would never sputter out in Mairon’s presence. 

In Fingon's busy silence, Mairon spoke again. 

“She stole the words in my throat and threw back all the hurt I’d even given Telperinquar,” Mairon continued, his words spoken more to the gently flickering flame than Fingon, “I never - I never thought how much I hurt him.” 

Fingon snorted, unamused, before realizing that Mairon wasn’t joking. He then nudged Mairon, “You’ve seen his form. You’ve talked to him. You acknowledge the hurt you dealt him and he’s accepted it.” 

“No,” Mairon said, still keeping his gaze firmly off Fingon, “We talked about it, but he’s forgotten so much and given me such reprieve. Even now, he must be withholding things from me. She, his mother, spoke so much of what I’d done and how much I hurt him."

“Fingon,” Fingon looked up. Mairon so rarely used his name that Fingon was helpless but to pay special attention as his head jerked up to Mairon’s wrecked expression. “How could Telperinquar have ever forgiven me after what I’ve done?” 

“Ah,” Fingon sighed as he sank into a seat beside the fireplace and across from Mairon. “I can’t speak for Celebrimbor, but I have found that forgiveness is often given without merit.” 

Mairon’s face somehow paled further than its already ashen shade, and so Fingon hurried to continue, “All you can do is try your best to make up for it, even if Celebrimbor never expects it. And never, never make the same mistake again.” 

That was what Russo had done for Fingon. He had forgiven Russo instantly the moment he cradled Russo’s broken and emaciated body on Thorondor’s back. Even no,w knowing that Russo had wanted to abandon them and take the boats, Fingon could not find his heart hardened. Not when he had already forgiven Russo for abandoning him all those years ago to the ice. Not when Russo had cried and sworn to never again before holding to his word over and over again through the tragedy that was Beleriand. 

So too did Fingon forgive Russo instantly the moment he held Russo in his arms again, for all his horrible actions performed after Fingon’s death. 

What was love but forgiveness incarnate? Forgiveness for all the small pettiness and for the greater grievances. 

Fingon loved Russo, and so he would forgive Russo anything. 

It didn’t surprise Fingon that Celebrimbor would be his kindred spirit in this belief. Celebrimbor had always been the best of his family. 

Mairon only bowed his head, but his lack of rebuttal more than anything told Fingon that Mairon had taken his words to heart. 

They sat there, across from one another and lit only by the flickering flame for so long that Fingon thought the Mairon might have lost himself to worry and unease. But when he finally looked up, he found Mairon frowning at him with his head tilted slightly to the left as he did when pondering. 

“Mairon?” Fingon asked. “Is something wrong?”

Mairon hummed, “I was about to pose that same question to you.” 

“Me?” Fingon felt his face scrunch up, and an unease prickled in his stomach. “Weren’t you the one having an emotional breakdown? Why are we talking about me now?” 

Not that Fingon wouldn’t relish Mairon’s outside opinion, but this felt a poor time to speak of forgiving when Mairon had just been complaining he didn’t deserve forgiveness. 

“Maiar do not have emotional breakdowns,” Mairon said in a huff. Fingon could certainly hear the quotations Mairon verbally inflected around ‘emotional breakdown’. 

Unfortunately, for Mairon, his attempt at subterfuge only made Fingon laugh and tease, “Like Maiar don’t fall in love with elves?” 

Mairon turned his head up with a firm press of his lips, “Telperinquar is an exception. You cannot lump the exceptional with the rest of the rabble.” 

“I see.” Fingon was trying very hard not to laugh, but Mairon was so lovestruck and absurd that Fingon’s left cheek kept mutinying against his restraint. 

“See that you do,” Mairon said before quickly switching topics, “Tell me what’s bothering you.” 

“Well,” Fingon still didn’t want to bring up Feanor. Mairon would be honest and objective in his words, but Fingon wasn’t sure he was ready for Mairon’s bluntness. Not yet. So instead, he turned to his other, more heartbreaking, issue, “I worry about Maedhros.” 

“Ah, you are comparing his healing to the younger brother,” Mairon nodded as if it all made perfect sense (and perhaps it did in Mairon’s logic-driven head). “Elaborate. Why does his healing worry you?” 

Fingon’s cheek muscle was no longer mutinying. Instead, it was refusing alongside the rest of the muscles in Fingon’s mouth to say anything at all. The stalemate stretched until Mairon sighed and crossed his arms and legs, “Very well. Maedhros’s healing worries you because it has progressed more slowly than another patient. I very well should not be the one informing you that everyone heals at their own pace, as I am certain Elrond has no issues screaming such rhetoric.

But I do not believe you would worry so excessively over such a small thing. The last time I visited, Maedhros’s body was in good condition with minimal external damage and well-healing internal damage. Nor do I suspect it to be a psychological issue. Maedhros has been nothing but glad to speak with you the few times I was present during his waking hours. Indeed, it must be something else. Perchance in the vein of how little Maedhros appears to retain consciousness?” 

Fingon jerked like a cold hand pressed against his neck for a second, or a muscle spasm that encompassed his entire body. When he noticed Fingon’s reaction, Mairon ceased talking and instead leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. 

“Ah, I had expected it would take more time to needle the truth out of you,” Mairon said, no doubt thinking of all his nefarious plans to get Fingon to talk. “The question is: why are you worried about Maedhros’s sleeping. My understanding is that sleep is a necessity for healing. Telperinquar certainly spends much of his time unconscious.” 

“Not more than Maedhros,” Fingon found himself admitting, “I am lucky if Maedhros is conscious and coherent for more than an hour a day. Someday he's roused but so entirely out of it that all I can do is feed him some food and sips of water before he's asleep again.” 

Now that Fingon had started speaking, the words would not stop. “I know Maedhros, and I've nursed him back to health before when he was in a worse condition. This never-ending tiredness is unnatural. I worry that he's becoming a second Miriel.” 

“Miriel?” Mairon asked, “You've mentioned that name before as a standard of the dead's return from Mandos’s hall. Was her death that horrific?” 

Despite himself, Fingon laughed. It was absurd that Mairon didn't know who Miriel was, and even more absurd that the Noldor believed everyone would know the tale of Miriel Serinde. Yes, why would Mairon know of her? He wasn't even in Aman while she first lived here and never knew the turmoil she caused. 

“She was Maedhros’s grandmother and Feanor’s mother,” Fingon began, because to him that was her most important role - not her ability to weave intricate tapestries nor her death, but that she was important to the one Fingon loved. “And she was the only elf to ever die in Valinor.” 

“Ah, a death in the undying lands.” Mairon mused, “Surely, you realize that promise is a lie. These lands are blessed with the Valar’s might, but the Valar cannot remove all strife.” 

“I know that now,” Fingon said with a slight glower at Mairon’s smug expression, “But we didn't then. Even after her death, we continued to believe it until Morgoth walked among us.” 

“So you think Maedhros is, what? Dying like Miriel?” Mairon would probably have snorted if he were capable of such rudimentary displays of disdain (and now that Fingon had talked to them in quick succession, he realized how similar Curufin and Mairon acted - Fingon decided he didn't want to think about what it meant for Celebrimbor and his taste in romantic partners). Instead, his eyebrows somehow squished together and rose up in a clear picture of disbelief mixed with superiority. “I would think as one who died in Beleriand, you would realize that death isn't a hereditary disease.” 

Well, it is for the Edain and Dwarrow, but Fingon decided it wasn't the time for equivocating over specifics, especially since he knew Mairon’s response would suggest that Fingon had lost his brain. 

“Not death!” Fingon exclaimed before his voice lowered and he almost stumbled over his mumbled words, “Miriel’s death was odd. She wasn’t beheaded nor did she bleed to death. Each day she would wake for less and less time until one day she went to sleep and never woke again.” 

Mairon, who somehow managed to decipher Fingon’s slurred words, frowned, “You think Maedhros suffers from this - what? Sleeping sickness?” 

“No one else ever fell to Miriel’s fate, but I can’t help but worry that it’s hereditary,” Fingon’s throat choked as he admitted his worst fear, “I can’t help but think it's triggered by immense stress and now Russo's fallen victim to it.” 

“I would point out that Maedhros has been under stress previously; however, there is something to be said about the relief when such stress fades,” Mairon said, nearly agreeing with Fingon’s worry. A rush of vindication flooded Fingon - Mahtan had been so adamant that Maedhros was not suffering Miriel’s wasting sickness, but Mairon, who was just as smart and more ancient than Mahtan, agreed with Fingon. 

“I told Mahtan. I told him that Russo's sickness was like Miriel's! Even Nerdanel agreed with me, and we never agree on anything!” 

“Mahtan holds wisdom many elves seldom cultivate, but he is not infallible. Nor are you,” Mairon said with a frown, “I am not saying you are correct because most of the time you are very wrong. Insisting you are correct without evidence will only further enrage Mahtan.” 

Was this a lesson Mairon had learnt from Aule? Fingon couldn’t help but feel furious on Mairon’s behalf, even if Mairon held no pain in his voice and his words were straightforward and blunt. 

It made Fingon want to find Aule and punch him. 

Fingon was feeling a little protective. Could you blame him? Russo was literally wasting away before him, and Celebrimbor’s mother somehow sent Mairon into a pessimistic spiral within less than an hour of meeting. 

“What do you propose I do then?” Fingon asked, failing to hide all traces of anger from his voice. 

“Bide your time,” Mairon suggested, “Watch over Maedhros and denote his wake and sleep patterns. Reveal the data to Mahtan and allow him to reach the same conclusion.” 

This sounded like a strategy Mairon had employed many times over. Fingon couldn’t help but wonder if only Aule was the target of these schemes or if Mairon had done the same with Morgoth. Fingon hated underhanded tactics - he wanted to boldly proclaim what he knew and force Mahtan to accept. 

Only, Mahtan was the most stubborn elf Fingon had ever met. Mairon was right that Fingon’s way would only make Mahtan more resistant. And so, begrudgingly, he took Mairon’s advice. 

Fingon treaded carefully over the next few weeks, silent in his accusations as Russo continued to remain wax and quiet in his rooms, waking only for a scant few hours a day if that - enough to force a little food down his throat and a few short conversations, but nothing more. Each day, he wrote a record and left the notebook on Russo’s bedside for anyone to see. 

Nerdenal was not so silent, glaring at her father over Russo’s head and arguing with him over smaller things. Amras played peacekeeper, the little time he spent away from Amrod’s bedside, but worry for Amrod kept Amras busy most days. And Caranthir (who returned with the expectation that Curufin would leave for Tirion soon) was more likely to turn Nerdenal and Mahtan’s two-way argument into a three-way one with Caranthir adding in so of his own ire and issues with his mother and grandfather. Elrond looked like he might say something a few times, but clamped his mouth shut not long after, staring at Mahtan like the elder might swallow him if Elrond misspoke. 

In the end, it was Telptelote who said something. After three weeks plastered to Celebrimbor’s bedside, she emerged with fury licking up her eyes and nowhere for her aggression to go - for Celebrimbor and Mairon were working things out themselves (and apparently Celebrimbor had been quite wroth with his mother after she chased Mairon away that first day). Thus, she turned her anger on Mahtan, snapping, “Oh, stop all this grandstanding. Miriel is returned and, by all accounts, quite happy with her life. This family is tearing itself at the weld over Maedhros’s condition. Call upon Miriel, better yet - I’ll do it, and ask her opinion. Surely she would like to meet her grandchildren and great-grandchild.” 

Mahtan could only blink owley to Telptelote’s onslaught, and so she got her way - not that this was anything unusual, Fingon remembered Telptelote often getting her way. 

Curufin was the one who ultimately took the message with him when he finally drew enough strength from his wife’s presence to feel comfortable leaving Celebrimbor’s bedside. 

Fingon waited for a reply with exhaustive trepidation. If Miriel accepted their summons, she would be able to end this argument and determine whether Russo really was failing against her ailment. 

As if knowing they were closer to a solution, Maedhros slept more deeply the next few weeks as they awaited Miriel’s response. He even missed entire days, succumbing to exhaustion and whatever reprieve from reality his dreams offered. When he did wake, Russo would grip Fingon’s wrists lightly and offer Fingon a brilliantly soft and sleepy smile before leaving him again for slee

It was maddening. It was frustrating. 

Fingon wanted it to stop. Tears of frustration and despondency would well up in his eyes after Russo’s short periods of consciousness and the hole in his heart itched a little larger each time Russo’s eyes met Fingon’s and fluttered closed. 

He waited and waited, and when, after nearly 2 weeks, there was a knock at the door, Fingon’s heart leapt traitorously to his throat in hope and anticipation. By the time he’d nearly run to the door, the rest of the conscious elves in the household were already clustered around it. Each one of them wore an identical expression of expectation, but no one reached for the door handle. 

No one except Telptelote, who marched in just behind Fingon and glowered at everyone. “Well, come on then. Why are we waiting in suspense?” 

When everyone remained frozen, she signed and pushed her way to the door. Then with one last disparaging look and a muttered, “Feanorians”, she flung the door open. 

Fingon expected a crown of hair so white it could be mistaken for silk and a frail frame that even Curufin would dwarf her. But he wasn’t expecting the tall, golden-haired yet exceptionally handsome ner at the door who looked suspiciously like Finrod. 

Nor did he expect Miriel’s eyes to light up upon meeting Fingon’s and for her to exclaim, “Fingon! I was worried about where you’d disappeared to!” 

Oh great. It was Finrod. 

“Findarato?” Nerdanel asked, confirming Fingon’s suspicions as she pushed her way to the front and exclaimed, “What are you doing here?!” 

Fingon noticed that she sounded remarkably more pleased to see Finrod than she’d ever been with Fingon, even after Fingon had brought all her sons and grandson back from the void, helped her ready rooms for them, AND nursed Russo unfailingly for months. But no, Nerdanel had never really liked Fingon (and less after the incident), while in her mind, Finrod could do no wrong (although to be fair, that was the position most of the cousins’ parents took with regards to Finrod). 

And Finrod entreated that familiarity and fondness as he beamed at Nerdanel like she was his favourite aunt (as he did with all his aunts - Fingon had watched him do it rather shamelessly). “I ran into Curvo on his way to Tirion and thought I’d stop by to visit my cousins and let you know that my father had the message sent on to Miriel’s home. She should be here in a few weeks.” 

“How nice of you!” Nerdanel exclaimed, pulling Finrod into a hug that he gladly accepted, only for his face to pale when Nerdanel no doubt squeezed much too hard. 

The crowd slowly dispersed (Telptelote turned her back almost instantly when she recognized Finrod and, with a huff, disappeared back to Celebrimbor’s room while Mahtan migrated to the kitchen and put on a kettle. Caranthir nodded once to Finrod’s paling face before scampering back to his room, and Amras slapped Finrod on the back before also vanishing - no doubt back to Amrod’s side. Elrond nodded politely at Finrod before he too also escaped). By the time Nerdanel relinquished her hold on Finrod, only Fingon was present to hold Finrod up and prevent him from collapsing to the ground. 

Nerdanel, of course, missed the obvious pained look in Finrod’s eyes as she invited him joyously into the house with the promise of tea and recently baked shortbread (Fingon wasn’t sure who made the shortbread. It certainly wasn’t Nerdanel or Mahtan - Fingon’s guess was on Amras). 

Finrod dragged Fingon with him to the sitting room and forced him to stay as Finrod and Nerdanel chatted about all sorts of things that Fingon didn’t really pay attention to. Luckily, Mahtan had disappeared after setting the teapot down, and Nerdanel was too pleased with Finrod’s presence to be mad at Fingon. 

Only after the teapot was drained and their conversation topics almost exhausted, did Fingon manage to drag Finrod away from Nerdanel’s sight and into the hall. 

“I didn’t expect that you would have taken refuge with Nerdanel,” Finrod commented as he quickly matched Fingon’s pace, “I was surprised when Curufin told me.” 

“You talked to Curufin,” Fingon said, only a little surprised, especially at how little anger remained in Finrod’s voice - the last time they’d talked of Curufin (which now that Fingon thought about it was centuries ago) was the maddest Fingon had ever seen Finrod. He hadn’t even known that Finrod could yell so loudly. 

“I did,” Finrod said mildly as they finally reached their destination. When Fingon paused, Finrod traced his hand on the door to Russo’s room. “I never imagined that you would succeed in saving them. I don’t know why I doubted when you have always excelled at the unachievable.” 

“You make me sound like some sort of saint,” Fingon grumbled, chaffing at the idea that he could be compared to the Valar-worshipping Vanyar who claimed they performed a miracle every other millennium. Fingon wanted to push open the door and get away from other prying ears, but he froze slightly at the door, a protective part of him worrying about Finrod’s reaction. 

“Then we two would be the saints of the Noldor,” Finrod said with a sort of empathetic smile as he reached for the door handle. “Maedhros isn’t in good shape, hmm? For all his prowess and stoic determination, he does so often end up your damsel in distress.” 

Fingon snorted at the image of Russo in a dress (not that Russo wouldn’t look beautiful, but the flat expression he would wear as he was forced into such a role made Fingon want to giggle). Finrod used Fingon’s momentary distraction to twist the door handle and jaunt into the room. He paused after a few steps, eyes set on Russo’s prone form. 

Fingon followed him in, wondering what Finrod thought of it all - this room that they three had once spent many an afternoon bantering and exchanging exasperated tales of younger siblings. Did Finrod notice how the walls were repainted a shade of blue three shades lighter? Or how the bed had been rotated to sit parallel to the window instead of shucking Russo’s feet towards the light? Did Finrod notice how the same theory books lined Russo’s bookshelves and a half-penned essay on outdated Noldorian politics sat on Russo’s desk? 

“Oh, Fingon,” Finrod sighed as Fingon followed his cousin into the room and shut the door behind him, “He isn’t even that bad.” 

“No,” Fingon had to admit. For Russo’s skin was clean of any wounds, even his old scars having faded in the presence of Valinor, and his chest rose without any ghastly noises or stuttered movements. Even in his short periods of wakefulness, Russo never winced in pain as his body moved about.  “It is fortunate - but he does not wake. I worry -”

“You worry he suffers from Miriel's fate,” Finrod interrupted with a frown, peering at Russo as if the sickness might materialize on Russo’s skin. “I will admit that I don’t know much about it, but Maedhros has always been stronger than anyone else I know.” 

Fingon couldn’t muster the energy for anything so simple as ‘Thank you’ or even ‘I hope so’. Even a nod felt incomparably difficult, and so he remained standing, frozen both in place and in tongue. 

Thankfully, Finrod didn’t mind as he slid into a chair at Russo’s bedside and pushed it away from the bed so that it created a circle between it, the other chair, and Russo’s form. He gestured for Fingon to join him and as Fingon did, he was reminded of how often the three would form this same circle, only with Russo sitting upright and a warm smile dancing in his eyes even as he attempted to keep his face disappointed (all too often this circle was called when a younger sibling had stepped out of line. Russo always had to be the firm one as Finrod was prone to laughing at the act and waving away any punishment, and Fingon was more likely to have been a part of the mischief than not). 

The conversation stalled as Fingon wasn’t sure what to say, and Finrod was watching Russo’s slowly rising chest. Finally, still staring away from Fingon, Finrod commented, “I didn’t believe you would ever save them. I thought it some folly hope you clung to rather than give in to despair. Turgon and I have had many conversations about what we would do when that fragile hope shattered and you confronted reality. Truly, I thought you would have faltered long before you did.”

“I was wary when you told me a Maia offered you their assistance. At first, I thought it some sort of cruel joke they were playing at your expense, and when you told me of the void, I feared it was something more nefarious, even as you insisted the Maia in question loved Celebrimbor. It seemed a flimsy reason - to choose a lesser-known member of the house whom you have had little contact with even before Morgoth’s arrival and would have no way of disproving their claims. 

I wanted to stop you, but I worried that it would scare you off and I would learn nothing of your whereabouts or your actions.” Finrod paused and finally turned to look at Fingon with a mournful expression, his eyes tight. “I did think it would get this far - in fact I was rather certain that none but the Valar could even attempt to open the void. When I ran into Curufin, I was so stunned, and all I could think was that you must have done something. As much as it worried me, I was also so relieved - if Curufin was back then surely you must have succeeded.”

“And you have. Maedhros is returned and I am the one who worried for nothing,” Finrod bowed his head, and when he lifted it, his lips had curled into a blinding smile. “I am so happy for you. I am so happy that you and this Maia of yours succeeded.”

Fingon managed a nod, a little of Finrod’s glee was beginning to infect Fingon and make him feel proud of his achievement instead of the crushing despair that he’d messed up somehow and that Russo’s ailment was a specifically cruel punishment. 

“Although,” Finrod frowned, “I do not recall you ever mentioning the Maia’s name. I would very much like to thank them for helping you with such a personal mission.” 

“Oh! Oh, his name -” Fingon paused. Finrod knew Mairon. Mairon had been Finrod’s murderer in their previous life, and Fingon wasn’t so sure how forgiving Finrod was at this particular moment. He had been so furious with Curufin, who had been but an accomplice to the deed - how would he feel about Mairon? 

And so Fingon pivoted, “What about you? When you ran into Curufin, did you do anything to him?”

Finrod blinked, no doubt appalled at Fingon’s abrupt conversation shift, but he let it slide for the moment as he considered Fingon’s question. “I thought I would hate him much more than I did. For so many years, I blamed him and Celegorm for my death. I was so insistent that if they had not usurped my kingdom, I might have mobilized a force and prevented my capture by Sauron. But, when I ran into him, all I could think was how many of my people had he saved that I might have doomed for my own selfish honour to a man long dead. I was the one who owed a life debt, and it was only right that I be the one to give myself to pay that debt.”

“So, you didn’t want to punch him?” Fingon asked. He had heard all sorts of other terrible threats against Curufin’s person from Finrod, but he figured a punch was the least Curufin owed. 

And the statement had the extra benefit of making Finrod laugh. 

“Only you, Fingon. Why you think a good punch solves everything, I will never understand it,” Finrod’s mirth sobered as he returned to the topic at hand with a shake of his head, “It was odd, seeing him again in the light of Valinor. I wouldn’t say that time had diminished him in any way or that he’d really grown any more humility, but perhaps I have softened over the millennium and let time ease my old grievances. All I could think as Curufin stood before me was how happy I was for you and how happy I was that Curufin was returned.” 

“What?” Fingon had not been expecting that. Ambivalence seemed too much of a surprise, let alone happiness. 

And Finrod’s chagrin smile showed he agreed with Fingon’s outburst. “Yes, happiness. As I gazed upon him and heard him speak, all I could think about was our old friendship. While that friendship had broken in Beleriand, didn’t all of our friendships suffer? At times I think distance the only thing that kept my friendship with Turgon intact, and Maedhros was the shield to our north and an asset than my friend. Even you became more a ruler than one of my dearest friends.”

“Beleriand,” Finrod paused, his voice so full of longing and tinged with grief. A sentiment that Fingon shared. “I made friendships there that lasted lifetimes, but so too did many of my old ones suffer. I am glad for my time there, but I think I have long relinquished the grievances of those times as well, or at least I would like to. Meeting Curufin again only cemented that belief.” 

It was a good sentiment. One that everyone should aspire to and one that Finrod would find so easy. Fingon had never felt all that jealous of Finrod, even if he was the golden child, but at that moment, he thought everyone should be just a smidge, if only because Finrod embodied all the ideals everyone could only wish to share. 

Maybe, Fingon couldn’t help but think, maybe Finrod’s kindness would extend to Mairon too. Maybe his childhood best friend would also, if not necessarily befriend at least be civil with his new one. 

And so when Finrod returned to their previous conversation with a simple prompt, “And you were about to tell me the name of the Maia who helped you?”

Fingon only grinned and responded, no longer hesitant, “His name is Mairon. But you would know him better as Sauron.”

Finrod, no joke, fell off his seat.

Chapter Text

Finrod stayed for a week. After getting over his initial shock, he showed his virtue once more and listened to Fingon’s tale in its entirety. Fingon hadn’t thought Finrod would be such a good audience member (lover of his own voice as he was), but Finrod surprised Fingon by listening to the entire story to the end and only asking, ‘Do you believe that Sauron only had good intentions when he helped you?’ and that was that. 

However, Fingon noted that during that week, Finrod hid with Caranthir during Mairon’s typical check-ins. 

That was the other thing Fingon noticed - Finrod got along with everyone. He spent a day sitting by Amrod’s bedside with Amras, and another day discussing with Caranthir about economics (Fingon left them rather quickly (he might have once been king, but he didn’t need to think about those things anymore!)), and a day with Mahtan doing… something, and a day with Nerdanel as her model, and a day with Elrond. And even a day where he cried over Celebrimbor’s death and he and Celebrimbor gently hugged and spoke of days long over. 

By the time he left, he’d charmed everyone and showed up both Fingon and Elrond as the perfect house guest. Fingon was rather certain Nerdanel and Caranthir would have kidnapped Finrod if Finrod hadn’t escaped with claims that his daughter needed his help (Fingon thought both Nerdanel and Caranthir were so stunned that Finrod had children that they froze long enough for Finrod to run away). 

Finrod’s absence also brought to the forefront of thought: Miriel’s arrival. 

Caranthir and Amras (and Amrod to some extent) were all near delirious from nerves and anticipation. Each day they would flip between being overly enthusiastic about everything and other days near manic in their desire for Miriel to never walk through the door. Fingon would have found it hilarious if not for how the other members of the household acted. 

Telptelote, of course, was not an issue. She acted like she was above all the worry and that everything was going to plan. (It was only once that Fingon stumbled upon her digging through her old wardrobe in Curufin’s room and worrying over dresses that told Fingon she was too worried about meeting the family matriarch.) 

Elrond had already met Miriel and tried his best to calm everyone down. However, his reassurances that Miriel was a kind lady and quite easygoing, only made her grandsons panic more - Caranthir even said, “Then she’ll realize there’s something wrong with this family. None of us are ever kind unless we don’t mean it.” 

Which Fingon thought was rather harsh. Russo was known for acts of kindness, as was Maglor, and Celebrimbor’s entire bloody history with Mairon depended on his kindness. But then Fingon realized that all the kind ones were indisposed and figured that maybe Caranthir did have some merit for his panicking. 

Nerdanel, well, Fingon wasn’t entirely sure what Nerdanel’s problem was, but she wandered around the house either in a daze or shouting at each of her children to ‘clean up their shit’ and help her with preparations. What the preparations entailed, Fingon wasn’t entirely sure but Caranthir had a horrific expression after he extracted himself from one of his mother’s preparations, so Fingon figured he didn’t want to know. (Thankfully, Nerdanel either forgot about Fingon or decided it was a personal matter, so he was never recruited.)

Mahtan was in a perpetual state of ensuring everything was perfect. He fixed up old issues that had existed since before Fingon ever left for Beleriand and spent long hours in the kitchen producing mouthwatering aromas. When Fingon entered the same room as him, Mahtan stared Fingon down until Fingon slowly backed out of the room.

In the end, Fingon spent most of his time either at Russo’s bedside (as he usually did) or with Celebrimbor who wore a bemused expression when Fingon regaled him with his family’s antics. 

They are nervous , Celebrimbor admitted, blushing slightly (and Fingon was so happy that Celebrimbor was healed enough to blush. He honestly looked well - not in appearance, but his breathing was deep and even. Evidently, Elrond and Mairon had focused their efforts on some of the more internal issues and it was working). And I am too. My great-grandmother was this legendary figure in our lives. My grandfather always got so sad when anyone mentioned her.

Fingon had never thought about it. Miriel’s death had been a fact of life and he knew that Feanor hated his father and uncle because they were the children of the second wife. But he never knew what Feanor thought of Miriel and how that might have impacted his entire family. 

With Celebrimbor’s words echoing in his ears, Fingon tentatively told Russo about Miriel’s visit the next time he woke (not the reason why, but that she was visiting her family). Russo, in the most coherent manner, since he’d first woken, jolted and his hands squeezed around Fingon’s as if seeking support. 

“Really?” There was a sort of disbelief in his voice, but his eyes shined through watery, unfallen tears. “My grandmother?” 

“Mhm,” Fingon said, but Russo was already thinking and planning irrespective of Fingon’s reply. 

“Kano must sing for her. He had that hymn in her honour he worked on for years - tell him to sing that one. And Turko should- should get her a pelt. He’s such a good hunter. And Moryo has that treaty he was working on. I thought it was excellent and grandmother will undoubtedly agree. And, and Curvo should carve her something. Father was the master smith, but Curvo is so, so good at carving. And the twins, they should see if they still have that map of the east wood or, or if there’s time recreate one of Beleriand. Grandmother would surely love to see a map of the land she left behind and the one her grandsons spent so much time in.” Russo counted through all his brothers, paused for a moment then opened his mouth, no doubt to add more accolades to the list of things Miriel must be shown. 

However, Fingon cupped Russo’s cheek and pressed a kiss to Russo’s forehead, distracting his love long enough for Fingon to get a word in. “Maglor is still unconscious, love. And Curufin and Celegorm are serving Finarfin. It’s just you, Caranthir, and the twins. And Celebrimbor, you forgot Celebrimbor.” 

“Tyelpe doesn’t need to do anything,” Russo murmured, completely ignoring (or more likely not comprehending) most of Fingon’s words. “He’s already so loveable.” 

“Of course,” Fingon agreed, using the hand on Russo’s cheek to pull Russo’s around to look over at Fingon and press a kiss to Russo’s nose then lean in and rub his nose against Russo’s. Russo’s love for his family was so terribly sweet and especially sweet for his nephew whom Russo loved like his own son (all of the brothers did really - it had been hilarious before Beleriand and only slightly worrying during Beleriand when they all jostled each other for who would look out for the young elf). 

“And you should bring your lute. You could accompany Kano. I always liked your lute playing,” Russo mumbled, his eyes already growing heavy again. 

Tears burned in Fingon’s eyes. He hadn’t played his lute in ages - not since before Beleriand but Russo still remembered his playing fondly. Fingon gently laid Russo back into bed with another kiss and promised, “Of course I will.” 

Russo drifted off into sleep with a smile on his face. Fingon hoped that Russo dreamed of them sitting together in Tirion as Fingon played Russo a song on his lute. 

The week continued to drag on as the family collectively jumped anytime so much as a knock on the door occurred. Many of these occasions were simply a bird or the wind but the anticipation caused such anxiety in the household members that Fingon found himself volunteering to check the door as everyone else hovered right behind him, peering around his frame. 

It happened so often that on a day like any other about two weeks after Finrod left, a light tap to the door had Fingon opening it with an eye roll, expecting nothing or at most a bird to be at the door. 

So he was flabbergasted when he opened the door.

After the Finrod jumpscare, Fingon had purged any expectations for Miriel from his mind. He’d even purged the expectation that Miriel would be standing at the doorway, and so he was surprised when he opened the door to find a whitehaired nis standing on the porch, her hand still raised yet open as if she’d finished knocking but had forgotten to lower her hand afterward. 

“You are not my grandson?” She said, her tone soft and questioning as her head cocked to the side like a bird staring at its prey. “You have something of… hmm, Indis, in your eyes.” 

“No, I, uh, I’m Indis’s grandson,” Fingon admitted, feeling a little offput by Miriel’s blunt question and hawkeyed stare. In his momentary frozen state, he had a chance to take in Miriel’s appearance.

Everything about Miriel was bird-like from her pointed eyes to her small and lightened frame. Even her stillness reminded Fingon of a heron awaiting its prey. 

But she wasn't, well Fingon felt a little bad to say this, very pretty. Her silver hair was striking and her grey eyes gleamed with a predatory intellect, but her features were plain with a mouth slightly too small for her face and a nose slightly too big. She was fine-boned but had no muscle nor fat to ease the jagged edges of her form, making her ragged and emaciated in appearance. Fingon had always thought she must have been exceptionally beautiful for all the fuss around her, but the Feanorions had obviously gotten their looks from Finwe. 

However, for all that her physical appearance was nearly dull, her garb was spectacular. She was clothed in white (which Fingon thought washed her out and appeared almost garish) and the silk shone like pearls. The skirt was tucked into her knees with seams of silver embroidered into gentle leaves and fluttering petals that danced off the fine material. There was no doubt why she was hailed for her skills in embroidery.

“I see,” Miriel said, her eyes darting away. Dismissed, Fingon stepped back to reveal the other members of the household. Miriel’s grandsons (Caranthir, Amras, and Amrod supported by his brother) stood at the forefront of the crowd and all three of them shrunk back slightly when Miriel’s gaze swept over them. 

However, Miriel did not stop at her grandsons, instead passing them by after a lingering moment to inspect the row behind where Elrond and Telptelote stood sandwiched by the red-haired duo of Mahtan and Nerdanel. Elrond tipped his head politely when Miriel’s eyes met his and Telptelote kept her gaze reverently lowered, never even daring to meet Miriel’s eyes. 

Nerdanel failed to squash her wide grin when Miriel looked upon her and her hands twisted in knots around the fabric by her hips. Miriel paused on Nerdanel, her eyes narrowing until her eyes nearly vanished behind her eyelids. After a moment, Miriel’s head darted to the twins then back to Nerdanel as a crease formed between her brows. 

“Mahtan,” Miriel finally said, her eyes flying to the tall ner who shrank back like she was 10 times his size instead of half, “I hadn't thought you would betray my trust like this. I entrusted my son to your care for his protection, not so that you may scheme to add your blood to mine.” 

Um, what? Fingon flipped his gaze between the two. Miriel’s expression was blank but her eyes burnt with an anger Fingon had only ever seen replicated in Feanor’s eyes. Suddenly the family connection was obvious even if Feanor had none of Miriel’s physical appearance. 

“I apologize, my lady,” Mahtan crumpled into his frame and his voice held none of that authority, Fingon was so used to hearing. “It was never my intention to sully your-”

“No, I should hope not,” Miriel interrupted, “I held you to only one command and if you should have broken it for your own selfish gain, I would rip your head from your shoulders myself.” 

Ah, scratch that. Feanor may have gotten Finwe’s looks, but his temperament was all Miriel. Fingon wished he’d known - it would have explained a lot about his half-uncle and his grandfather’s adoration of his eldest son. 

When Mahtan remained silent, Miriel tapped her foot once in a showy display of impatience. “Well? I should like to hear your explanation, Mahtan.” 

“I followed your command, lady Miriel,” Mahtan started, “I cared for your Feanaro as much as Finwe would allow and when the young Prince found a love of smithing, I invited him to Aule’s stronghold where he flourished. It was not my intent for him to wed my daughter, but their love grew even with my dissuasion. I swear to you, my lady, that I would never do anything to disrepute your lineage nor disrespect your will.” 

“Hmm,” Miriel’s eyes slid off Mahtan and the old ner somehow drooped even more than he previously was as if Miriel’s gaze were the only thing holding him off the ground. Miriel instead returned to Nerdanel, who straightened under Miriel’s gaze. “Tell me, girl. Your father says my Feanaro loved you. What say you? You certainly did your work as a broodmare - 7 children. You couldn’t have diluted the bloodline more if you tried.” 

“I- I- I,” Nerdanel shook under Miriel’s gaze and Fingon couldn’t blame her. He’d only had a sliver of Miriel’s disinterest and that was enough to shake him. But Nerdanel was Feanor’s wife and the only one to ever stand up to him for a reason. After a moment, Nerdanel yanked her head up and nearly looked down her nose at Miriel as she announced loud as could be, “We were in love. He is my husband and we were blessed by a large family after you left him behind. I would never claim a single one of them unworthy of anything.” 

The twins ducked their heads after hearing Nerdanel’s admission and even Caranthir was failing to unobtrusively rub his misting eyes. 

Miriel blinked and in an instant, her eyes softened. The small change reset her entire appearance from fierce and terrifying to something soft and maybe even kind. “A good answer. One's children are the greatest joys in this world. Let me meet them, my grandsons, sons of my son.” 

She then smiled at Nerdanel’s three children, extending both hands to trace her fingers along the cheeks of each of them. “How lovely you are. You must have made your father proud as you have me.” 

Now Caranthir wasn’t even pretending not to cry as all three of them folded into their grandmother’s embrace. Miriel held them all soundly as if they weren’t three powerful warriors at least a head taller than her but instead small children. She whispered to them softly, her voice so soft that even Fingon only a few feet away could not decipher her words. 

When she finally extracted herself from the embrace with a kiss on each of their cheeks, all three of her grandsons were smiling. 

Then Miriel hardened as she turned her attention to Telptelote, “And you?” 

Telptelote instantly fell to one knee, her head lowering until her chin touched her neck, “I am your grandson’s wife, my lady.” 

“Wife,” Miriel said it more a sneer than anything, “Who are you to invite yourself into my family.” 

Telptelote shook and Fingon was suddenly never more glad that he and Maedhros were not inclined to the acts that lead to a marriage. He thought Feanor would be a terrifying father-in-law, but certainly, Miriel must be worse! 

Telptelote carried herself as the Noldorian lady she was and had dressed appropriately to her station as she had not since her arrival. Her hair was laced into a glossy braid with ribbons of rubied silver, her face accented with diamonds, as mithril dripped from hoops in her ears and a necklaced ruby rested atop her collarbone. She was the image of a princess consort and yet Miriel glared and deemed her ill-suited. 

If Telptelote was not suitable, who was?

But unlike Nerdanel, Telptelote made no move to defend herself, only pressing herself lower to the ground and admitting, “I am not worthy, my lady. I have failed your family - your grandson an uncountable number of times in unacceptable ways. I have -” 

Before Telptelote could prostate herself further, Amras pipped up, “She gave us Tyelpe!” 

Miriel paused. “Tyelpe?” 

Fingon was shocked. He figured everyone knew of Celebrimbor seeing as he created the rings (and had been born in Valinor before the fall), so how did Miriel not learn of her grandson? Especially after she spent many ages weaving tapestries for Vaire. 

The rest of the family (and Elrond. Was Elrond part of the family? Technically he was Turgon’s great-grandson, but did he really count as part of the Feanorion faction of the family even if he was technically adopted/kidnapped by Maglor and Russo at one point?) exchanged looks before Amrod finally said, “Tyelpe? Our nephew? The sweetest, most brilliant elfling of all time?” 

Right. Because no one in this family could be chill about Celebrimbor, they all nodded along like Amrod had just spread clear and informative information and not pseudo-cult gospel (even Elrond looked like he mildly agreed. Elrond? Elrond? Celebrimbor was older than Elrond!). 

And somehow Miriel was instantly converted to this cult as she stepped back, her eyes widening and her cheeks reddened in excitement. “A great-grandson?” Practically fluttering on her toes she asked, “Is he here? My great-grandson?” 

Miriel kept repeating great-grandson like it was the most magical of presents, the greatest of treasures. Perhaps it was her enthusiasm that had Nerdanel instantly escorting Miriel through the house, her sons and father crowding around like Miriel meeting Celebrimbor for the first time was a sacred event. 

Elrond exchanged a wry glance with Fingon and commented dryly, “Have they forgotten that Celebrimbor is not the most physically appealing at this moment?” 

Fingon startled, at first that Elrond was addressing him so casually as if sharing a joke and then by his words. He hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead. Miriel had spent most of her life and her death in Valinor where physical disfiguration just did not happen. Even Russo and Amrod’s skins were pristine despite at one point being nothing but char. 

Unfortunately, Caranthir heard Elrond’s comment and glared, “Tyelpe will always be perfect.” 

And yet, despite the brash rebuttal, the family moved more cautiously, Nerdanel’s hand even faltering a moment at the door to Celebrimbor’s room. But ultimately, the door was opened and Miriel strolled in with her head held high. 

And then froze. 

Fingon winced as he followed Miriel’s gaze deeper into the room where Celebrimbor lay. Celebrimbor, who upon hearing the door open had rolled to his side and half pushed himself up so that the back of his head rested against the bed’s headboard. 

Hi great grandma , Celebrimbor chirped, in his usually chipper tone.

Everyone tensed. It was Celebrimbor, the baby who everyone in this household had loved instantly (as Russo said, Celebrimbor was effortlessly loveable). But Celebrimbor's appearance remained horrific from his death and while Fingon hoped Miriel wasn’t shallow, he knew the entire household would fight her if she dared not instantly love him. 

But Miriel’s shoulders dropped and her expression melted into gooey affection, “Oh lovely. My lovely, lovely great-grandson, what have they done to you?” 

Celebrimbor giggled, or Fingon thought that’s what the gurgling sound in Celebrimbor’s throat meant to be. You know, the usual. Betrayed by the one I loved most in the world. You might know something of it, great grandma?

Celebrimbor said it as a joke, but Miriel’s face was stricken, “My husband did nothing like this. Who would hurt you so? Give me a name and I will destroy her. She will rue the day, she thought to mess with my great-grandson.” 

Yep, Miriel was definitely a Feanorian (the progeny of the Feanorian lineage). Every single action she did only served to remind Fingon of Feanor, but oddly enough on Miriel these traits did not annoy him nearly as much. 

No, no, we, well, we’re made up - I think? Celebrimbor sounded so lost and as Mairon’s friend, Fingon felt partly like he shouldn’t be listening, but at the same time, he desperately wanted to know if Mairon was messing up so he could wack Mairon on the head and tell his friend to do better. 

“Made up?” Miriel said, back to blinking owlishly, “After she did this to you?” 

He apologized and he wants to do better. I want him to do better, Celebrimbor faltered in his final sentence and stumbled into silence. Miriel opened her mouth to argue but closed it when Celebrimbor caught her eye and shook his head. Please, great grandma. Please let me choose.

And what could Miriel say to that? Miriel who had defined history by her own choice. 

With two steps, Miriel stood just before Celebrimbor and she placed her skinny hands on his emancipated shoulders (weight continued to abandon Celebrimbor. Some days he could eat no food and even when he did, the nutrients dissipated into thin air. Elrond claimed that Mairon’s malice consumed the nutrients prior to ever filling Celebrimbor’s cells) and she leaned to press a kiss to his forehead. “I wish I could choose a life for you, my great-grandson. But I have always advocated most that one should make their own choices. Know, that whatever happens, I am proud of you and whatever you might decide.” 

Celebrimbor was practically beaming back at Miriel, his gums pulled back to reveal tar-stained gums and rotting teeth. But Miriel, to her credit, did not flinch at the sight, only sighed with a happy smile and patted Celebrimbor once more on the head. 

Celebrimbor’s smile closed to a grin as he leaned back into his bed and his eyes fluttered closed. Evidently, Celebrimbor had maxed out on his excitement for the day. Elrond rushed to Celebrimbor’s side and fussed over the dozing elf, checking that Celebrimbor had no other reason for his exhaustion. 

As Elrond went through his medical checklist, Miriel drifted out of the room and when the door to Celebrimbor’s room closed, she turned to Nerdanel and said, “Take me to my heir. The heir to my son and the reason you summoned me.” 

Nerdanel looked to Fingon. She had remained blissfully mute since her proclamation for Feanor and even now, she appeared so horribly out of her depth around Miriel (or, Fingon would later wonder, was she watching Miriel and thinking of her husband as even Fingon had noted their similarities? Or was she watching Miriel and thinking of how her husband once longed for this chance?). 

Miriel followed Nerdanel’s gaze to pin Fingon under her stare, a single eyebrow raised in a dare for Fingon to speak. 

Well, Fingon had remained firm against Morgoth and Glaurung (though Glaurung was a baby at the time) and Gothmog. He could certainly handle Russo’s wrathful grandmother who wouldn’t actually hurt Fingon (but could forbid Fingon from ever seeing Russo again). He wasn’t going to crumble under Miriel’s stare. 

He wasn’t going to crumple under Miriel’s stare. 

And he did well up until Miriel opened her mouth and snapped, “You. Indis’s grandson. Are you close with my eldest grandson?” 

“Yes?” Fingon tried to keep his words steady as Nerdanel had done, but that came out like a squeak instead. He coughed and tried again, “I mean, yes. Yes, Maedhros and I are very close.” 

“You are not married,” Miriel said, cocking her head to the right, “Yet you reside here with my closest family, their spouses, and their stolen children. For my son’s wife to look to you, you must be dear to my grandson. Were you engaged to marry before he fell?” 

“Um, something like that.” No actually. Not something like that. Feanor would never allow them to marry and Beleriand was no place for a wedding. And Fingon had never needed a marriage bond to be utterly Russo’s in every capacity and every inch of his being. 

Miriel made a little sound of annoyance and muttered just loud enough that Fingon could hear, but probably none of the others who stood a little away, “Indis’s grandson. They’re practically cousins. How could Finwe have allowed this - how could my son have allowed this.” 

And now Fingon just felt insulted. Not that it was anything new with the family. 

Luckily, Miriel kept her mouth shut for the few steps that it took for Fingon to lead Miriel to Russo’s room. Mahtan and Russo’s brother had wandered off at this point (either to avoid overcrowding Miriel or to avoid whatever message Miriel might have to say, Fingon did not know - although later, Amrod would one day admit that they had done it to give Fingon some privacy for whatever Miriel’s answer might have been ‘He is our brother and we would be devastated if anything happened, but you, Fingon, would have been destroyed’), leaving only Fingon, Miriel and Nerdanel in the room with Russo. 

“Oh, my dear, dear child,” Miriel cried when she saw Russo, immediately rushing over to take his hand in both of hers. Russo did not stir, not even a twitch of his hand, when Miriel held it in both of hers. “You have fought so hard, for so long.” 

“Is it,” Fingon paused, dreading and needing to hear Miriel’s response to words that he could hardly bring to light. 

For once, Fingon was thankful for Nerdanel’s presence as she demanded for him, “Are we right? Does my Maitimo suffer the same sickness that once afflicted you?” 

“I cannot say that his illness is unlike my own,” Miriel said through tears, “But his suffering is so much greater and the weight he bears so much heavier.”

Nerdanel burst into her own set of tears, but Fingon could feel no sadness well up in his face as a chilling numbness spread through his chest. If Miriel was to be believed, Russo had her fading sickness but worse. What did worse mean? That he would fade faster than Miriel or that he would not recover as she did? 

Would Fingon never have his happy ever after with Russo as all his contemporaries had found in the aftermath of Beleriand? He hadn’t asked for much - not for the edain of old to return or for Beleriand to rise from the sea once more. He had only asked that the elf he loved more than words be allowed to sit at Fingon’s side for the rest of their days. 

“You would be better to seek out another betrothal.” Fingon jolted to find Miriel staring at him. Her eyes were softened from any of the glares she'd previously sent his way and her lips tugged slightly from a frown - almost as if she were pitying him. “My grandson is unlikely to wake. You should find another to love as Finwe did.” 

“You don’t know that,” Fingon found himself fighting back, “You don’t know Russo like I do. He wouldn’t just give up and fade away. Not if he could help it.” 

Miriel’s look of pity only grew as Nerdanel joined her in pitying Fingon. “It is a subconscious thing, this sleeping sickness. I never wanted to abandon my Feanaro, but the desire to sleep was so great that the living world grew faded and desolate even when my greatest joy was placed in my arms. My grandson has inherited that dual desire and his experience has made it greater than mine ever was.”

Then, to really drill the message in, Miriel added, “No one could fight this sickness alone and win.” 

Chapter Text

Mairon sat across from Telperinquar in complete silence. Their session had ended about an hour ago, and Telperinquar had not asked Mairon to leave. However, they had long run out of things to speak of. One could only speak of forgiveness and old wrongs so much before the conversations were worn and threadbare. Furthermore, Mairon dared not call back to memories of before. Nor did either of them live any sort of exciting life that might contain amusing anecdotes to share (Telperinquar spent his every day sleeping or sitting quietly with family, and Mairon spent all his time helping Telperinquar or reading medicinal texts about elvish bodies to further help Telperinquar).

And so, they lapsed into a thick silence, a slurry of desire to speak but no words to say. 

They had not always been like this. In Eregion, they could never run out of words - all too often, Telperinquar or Mairon were pulled away by another obligation before they’d even gotten to their initial reason for a discussion. In Eregion, Mairon had more words for Telperinquar than one could fit in all the time of Arda. 

Yet now, sitting across from Telperinquar, not a single thought came to mind. 

At times, Telperinquar would raise his head and glance over at Mairon. Mairon always straightened in response, ready for a word projected to the room through osanwe (and never to Mairon alone. Maybe never to Mairon alone ever again), but Telperinquar would only meet Mairon’s eyes for a few moments before darting away to some other corner of the room. 

Every shift, every shuffle, even every wince that Telperinquar made keyed Mairon to his presence. In this silent room void of anything or anyone to offer stimulation but Telperinquar, Mairon followed the elf like he was the sole being at the heart of the world and holder of all the secret knowledge Mairon yearned to know. 

Every single thing Telperinquar did showed Mairon that Telperinquar had returned. That Telperinquar was back and sitting before Mairon, and not completely horrified by the idea of Mairon’s presence. 

A miracle. 

Nothing else could possibly be more synonymous or indicative of this term, but Mairon’s greedy heart yearned for more. Telperinquar had told him to settle for what they had and try to temper their bond anew from the charred remains of their old friendship. 

But Mairon had no idea how to go about resurrecting something so precious, nor how to search for a strong foundation amongst the crumbling trust shared between them. He was terrified that one wrong move would permanently break the tentative bond between them and cast Mairon into a freefall he wasn’t sure he could ever recover from. 

After he’d discovered so much about himself and had stopped lying to himself about Telperinquar, he could never return to his old stasis. 

He was, shamefully, another Melian who had fallen for the most brilliant and lovely elf in all of Arda (no matter Telperinquar’s current physical state, he could never not be beautiful). Somehow, that thought no longer scratched at Mairon's stomach with disgust, but rather alighted his heart with joy.

Maybe he should tell Telperinquar that. Elves engaged in courting behaviour through flirtatious remarks, such as remarking on one’s physical appearance. Would Telperinquar like it if Mairon spoke of his affection for Telperinquar or praised Telperinquar's appearance? Telperinquar had never struck Mairon as overly conscientious about his appearance, but he’d also never looked so hideous. 

He should. What if the words made Telperinquar smile? It was a plausible hypothesis and one with little consequence for Mairon if Telperinquar disliked Mairon's comments. Surely, a remark about Telperinquar’s beauty couldn’t be the tipping point of their relationship. 

Mairon opened his mouth and coughed once to catch Telperinquar’s attention. Telperinquar’s eye was on him instantly, and Mairon froze for a second, due to the glee of having Telperinquar’s attention on him (and definitely not because the devotion that rose in Mairon’s chest at the sight of Telperinquar made his chest tighten). 

And in that second of hesitation, Mairon lost his chance. 

“Oh good, you're here,” a voice sneered from the entrance way, cutting through the stifling silence. Mairon turned to find Telperinquar’s uncle, Caranthir, frowning at him. 

A bitter anger rose in Mairon’s chest, propelling him to say with a smile, “Hello, Caranthir. You aren't often so glad to see me.” 

He knew he was baiting Caranthir, but how could he not when Caranthir reacted to his taunts by flushing red and only barely snapping back a snarl. How could he not when he wished to snarl back at Caranthir but would not with Telperinquar sitting at his side?

It was laughable, really, how much Telperinquar’s uncles hated him, but only when their moderator wasn’t sitting at Mairon’s side. 

It was a feeling much reciprocated.  

Hello uncle! Telperinquar greeted Caranthir with a slight incline of his head, and Caranthir once more swallowed any cruel rebuttal blossoming in his throat. Mairon had no idea what Telperinquar told his family, but at one point, the cruel remarks were swallowed back into murderous glares only whenever Telperinquar was present. 

Caranthir turned to his nephew, his face instantly softening. He pressed a hand to Telperinquar’s cheek and said, “How are you, Tyelpe?” 

Mairon burned with jealousy. He couldn't know for sure if this was Caranthir’s idea of revenge or simply a familiar gesture, but it cut into Mairon’s invisible wounds all the same. For that name, ‘Tyelpe’, cut through his throat like sandpaper and hearing it only reminded Mairon of what he had lost. 

But what burned even more was the effortless manner in which Telperinquar relaxed in his uncle's presence. His shoulders lowered slightly, and a tension in his neck vanished as Telperinquar leaned into Caranthir’s hand. Telperinquar preened under his uncle's gaze. The same as ever, uncle. 

“No unusual pain? Nothing causing you discomfort?” Caranthir didn't even try to hide the snide look in Mairon’s direction. 

Mairon wished he could glare back, but a sudden bout of stomach indigestion crippled him. Telperinquar had been rather quiet these past few months, and even most of the times they had spoken, Telperinquar had been halting and nearly sullen in his response. Did he really want Mairon around, or was this another one of those instances where Telperinquar's kindness prevented him from being honest? 

How many times had Mairon been on the opposite side, advising Telperinquar to ignore a summons or turn down an obviously insidious offer (no matter that his own presence was the most insidious intrusion into Telperinquar’s life)? Telperinquar was effortlessly kind and willing to give pieces of himself to everyone who crossed his path. 

It was a startling shock of cold water down Mairon’s back to think that he might have become that which he so despised. That he might be infringing on Telperinquar’s time and happiness. 

The logical solution would be to remove himself from Telperinquar’s presence. Telperinquar could never say no to anyone who approached him, asking for time or attention (and is that not what he did, approaching Telperinquar and promising to grovel in exchange for Telperinquar’s time?). If Mairon suddenly stopped inflicting his presence on Telperinquar, only stopping by for treatment and avoiding the elf any other time, would Telperinquar be happier? 

It would be so easy for Mairon to slowly ease up on his presence. He could insist on seeing Fingon more often or claim work from Aule to detract from his time with Telperinquar. As they grow more distant, Mairon would start injecting the idea of him not sticking around after their sessions in such a way that Telperinquar would not no way of objecting. And then, well, Mairon would free Telperinquar from his presence entirely (once he’d done all he could for the elf). 

It would be so easy. 

But he promised Telperinquar he would never make decisions on his own for Telperinquar ever again. 

Annatar?

The name drew Mairon’s attention. There was only 1 person who persisted in calling him by that name he created for himself in the heights of his arrogant superiority complex. He didn't know whether the name was a punishment for his actions or a reminder of better days. 

Regardless, Mairon was helpless but to turn his attention to Telperinquar. “Yes?” 

When their eyes met, Telperinquar ducked his head and waved a limp hand in Caranthir’s direction. Caranthir, who had somehow become more cross with Mairon in a matter of minutes as he tapped a single elegant finger on the side of his leg. 

“Is something the matter, Caranthir?” Mairon asked, tilting his head slightly sideways and keeping his eyes innocently large. He would not betray the seething jealousy raging in his bones every time he looked at Caranthir and his easy interactions with Telperinquar. He would not reveal that looking at Caranthir had him plotting Caranthir’s immediate death such that even when reborn, he could not point to Mairon as a suspect. 

But Mairon's innocence only triggered Caranthir, causing him to snap, “Would you just go check on that annoying follower of yours!” 

Do not snap back. Do not snap back. Mairon kept the running commentary playing loudly over his thoughts of brutal murder. Telperinquar would be ever so sad if his uncle died. 

“My follower? I haven't had any in ages,” Mairon shot Caranthir a bedazzled grin, “Nor were they the type to make unfounded mischief. Not on my watch.” 

A slow wink did just the trick to make Caranthir pale before burning red with rage. It was a perfectly adequate sort of revenge for the hideous jealousy Caranthir’s presence inspired - Mairon was hurting anyone, nor saying anything blatant enough to get him in trouble. And it was only bettered when Caranthir’s mouth opened to rage, “Now look here, you-” 

But Caranthir got no further before Telperinquar played a wrist on his uncle's shoulder, surprising Caranthir into silence. Telperinquar then turned his Mairon and frowned, Annatar.  

Mairon would have cowered under Telperinquar’s disapproval, but he couldn't show that sort of weakness, not with Caranthir in the room. So instead, Mairon let his face soften to a small smile, inclined his head slightly and took a step back. Telperinquar nodded, accepting their old ritual for when Telperinquar thought he'd gone too far. 

My uncle meant Fingon, Telperinquar said in the ensuing silence. 

“Fingon?” Mairon could keep the disbelief, nor the snort of laughter from his mouth. “Fingon isn't my follower.” 

“No? Then what would you call him? Your underling? Your minion? The poor schmuck gullible enough for you to trick into doing your bidding?” Caranthir challenged, his voice rising in might with each degrading term. 

Uncle! Telperinquar cried out, agast. 

But Caranthir only shrugged away Telperinquar’s concern and focused on Mairon, “Well?” 

“ I would say he is my friend,” Mairon spat out, now mad at Caranthir for an entirely different reason. 

But Telperinquar wouldn’t let either of them argue, nor snap at each other. He shook his head slightly at Mairon before turning back to Caranthir, What’s wrong with Fingon?  

Caranthir took a deep breath before saying through ground teeth, “Fingon has spent the last week moping around like some spited kitten. I was gracious enough to look aside for a few days, but this is getting ridiculous! At the very least, he could keep his irritating wallowing out of my sight!” 

Telperinquar’s eyes softened in his understanding way, but it left Mairon completely clueless and unwilling to ask the question that Telperinquar already knew the answer to. 

You should talk to him, Telperinquar told Mairon, and while Mairon had become concerned that Fingon was engaging in more self-destructive behaviour, the soft conviction in Telperinquar’s voice hurt. There was no remorse, no regret that Mairon wouldn’t remain by Telperinquar’s side - only a conviction that Mairon should no longer be by Telperinquar’s side. 

Perhaps this was the confirmation that Mairon was seeking, that Telperinquar truly did not desire Mairon at his side. But just to check, Mairon asked, “This is your desire?” 

Telperinquar nodded, We weren’t doing anything important anyway. 

No, Mairon supposed that sitting across from each other silently wasn’t all that important, no matter how much Mairon treasured these fragile interactions and chaffed at their limitations. But he had put this fate in Telperinquar’s hands, and if Telperinquar wanted nothing to do with Mairon, then Mairon had already decided that he would let the elf go. 

Regardless of the possessive voice at the back of his head, insidiously insisting that he never separate from Telperinquar ever again. 

And so Mairon stood, his face carefully blank and his legs thankfully sturdy. He nodded politely at Caranthir and granted Telperinquar one last fleeting smile before excusing himself, ignoring Caranthir’s chatter as he slipped the door closed behind him. 

The last thing he needed was to listen to Caranthir applaud Telperinquar on his decision to cut Mairon from his life. 

Instead, he focused on a new objective. He would find Fingon and manage whatever catastrophe the elf had stumbled into - he may be a poor romantic choice, but he could at least be a good friend. 

“Fingon?” Mairon said, having found Fingon where he expected - curled up beside Maedhros’s bed. 

Fingon lifted his head from Maedhros’s side upon hearing Mairon’s question, revealing red eyes and a slip of unattractive snot dripping down his lips. Fingon squinted, his eyes hazy and unfocused, but thankful not dulled by liquor. “Mairon?” 

Mairon sighed, stepping closer to his ridiculous friend and carefully spreading an arm across Fingon’s shoulders in an elvish display of support and affection. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” 

Fingon’s face fell, and his fingers dug holes into Maedhros’s robes. With Fingon’s eyes darting from Maedhros back to Mairon, and the absolutely wretched expression on his face, Mairon could already guess, “You received ill news pertaining to Maedhros’s condition?” 

“Yes,” Fingon breathed, his voice shaking and thin, “Miriel visited. I heeded your advice, and Mahtan eventually agreed to invite Miriel to offer her knowledge.” 

Fingon cut off, but Mairon could easily extrapolate the conversation, “Maedhros has Miriel’s illness, then. Unfortunate, but nothing so devastating. Miriel recovered eventually, so too will Maedhros. You’re already proficient at waiting.” 

And unlike Mairon’s waiting game, Fingon was guaranteed a successful conclusion. Not like Mairon, who even now was staring down failure and disappointment. 

“But what if he never wakes!” Fingon exclaimed, one hand switching from Maedhros to squeeze around Mairon’s wrist, “Miriel said Maedhros’s case is worse than hers. What if Maedhros goes willingly into death's embrace and never returns? I had thought I lost him entirely once. Only in my nightmare's greatest nightmare do I lose him again!” 

“What specifically did Miriel say?” Mairon demanded. He found the entire thing rather ridiculous. How could an elf, whose whole purpose was to be immortal and especially one who had already withstood the might of Melkor’s ire, turn to mortality? Maedhros didn't even have the excuse of being part human. 

Fingon told him, repeating Miriel’s sentences word for word and dictating entire paragraphs of speech to her every action as she spoke. Mairon was most interested in her treatment of Telperinquar, but he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on Fingon’s issue. He could think about Telperinquar later. 

When Fingon finished, Mairon asked that he repeat her last few sentences again and then once more as a frown blossomed on his face. 

“What?” Fingon nearly snapped, but his voice was much too pleading for it to sound like anything but desperation. “What is it?” 

“She specified that none could fight the sickness alone,” Mairon stretched out the last word and waited for Fingon’s eyes to widen in understanding. 

“Alone? But Russo isn’t alone! He has me and his family all around him, just as Miriel had her newborn son and husband at her side.” Fingon exclaimed. Not for the first time, Mairon wished that he had been present for Miriel’s dirige. Fingon had been too melancholic, clearly, to press Miriel to details or poke holes in her story. Mairon would have had no such issue and would have gained the information firsthand to ensure that Fingon’s despair was necessary. Second-hand information was galling and only served to further frustrate Mairon. 

“Did Miriel have any other family?” Mairon asked as another interpretation of Miriel’s words filled his head. “Was Feanor her only biological family?” 

“Uh,” Fingon blinked, his nose scrunching up as he thought through Mairon’s words. The crease around his nose only tightened further as he mulled it over until he finally admitted, “I don’t know. I never met any of them, nor did Maedhros ever mention any family through his grandmother.” 

“Then, and this is purely hypothetical until proven otherwise, Miriel may have implied that this sickness is inflicted or worsened by a lack of familiar support.” Mairon said before pressing further, “She specified that Maedhros’s grief was worse than her own, implying that at some point she too had lost much that she held dear and that this sickness is less an illness of the hroa but more of the fea. Feanor was not enough for her to cling to as her fea’s strength faded, once again implying that enough familiar bonds could have allowed her to fight against the fading.” 

“Russo,” Fingon's voice caught, and he cleared his voice before continuing, “Maedhros has a large family. Many of whom have spent much time by his side and have offered him their support.” 

Mairon didn’t contradict Fingon as this was a theory in the loosest sense, working off limited second-hand data from an unreliable source. He merely hummed and offered, “Perhaps some family members contribute more than others?”

Mairon did not add anything further, but from Fingon’s falling expression, Mairon knew they were both thinking of the same person. Feanor had been rumoured to have loved all his sons desperately and had been strong in will and fea. A fea that shone so brightly that it drew in even his brothers’ supporters and greatest discontents when they marched to Beleriand - what more could it do for a son whom he loved and who loved him in return? 

But instead of addressing the potential consequences of his actions, Fingon pivoted, offering, “Maybe Maglor? Maglor had always been Maedhros’s closest brother.” 

Mairon decided to let it go this time only because Fingon was so close to tumbling back down that dangerous circle of despair. But it was something Mairon needed to address later, if only to moderate the fall later on. “You would know best.” 

“Yes, I do, don’t I?” Fingon said, a slow smile beginning to build on his face as hope blossomed in his chest. “Thank you, Mairon. I should check on Maglor and make sure Maedhros’s other brothers visit more often. There must be something I can do to help Maedhros. We got him back from the void after all, this can’t be where the insurmountable cliff begins.” 

With a final smile, Fingon practically pranced out of the room, leaving Mairon for the first time alone with Maedhros. 

Mairon wandered close the peered down at the elf. He honestly couldn’t see the appeal. Maedhros was overly pale to the point of sickliness, and his hair was a garish red that would be appalling against any coloured clothing except the same red shade (and even that threatened to wash out Maedhros’s skin further). Perhaps Mairon was biased, but Telperinquar was in every way more desirable than his uncle. Mairon would take Telperinquar’s square shoulders and fire-tanned skin over this nearly anemic elf any day. 

He couldn’t understand why Fingon would be so obsessed with Maedhros. 

Fingon was so obsessed that it was sickening. But Mairon considered Fingon a friend and owed Fingon much - he would see Fingon’s desire fulfilled if he had the ability. 

And though Mairon felt confident in his previous hypothesis, there was another avenue that Mairon could leverage. An offer made that he had had no intention of accepting, but for Fingon, he could swallow his pride and demand the favour. 

He would summon Este. 

Mairon did not exactly tell Fingon or anyone else that he requested Este’s presence. In hindsight, that may have been poor planning on Mairon’s part, but he had thought Este’s arrival would be greeted with thanks and appreciation from Fingon and the rest of the family. 

Nearly a week later, Este announced her arrival through song, and Mairon rushed to meet her at Mahtan’s house, arriving not long after her. 

To his surprise, Este stood solemnly before the door, her head cast even further into her hood than usual. She turned at Mairon’s approach, treating him to watery silver eyes set into a bone structure that looked eerily similar to Miriel's. 

“Mairon,” Este inclined her head in greeting, “I have been expecting you.” 

“Outside?” Mairon questioned rather than acknowledged Este’s plea for attention. “You are here to inspect Maedhros Feanorion, who suffers within.” 

“I,” Este paused, her cheeks blossoming red like blood spread across snow. “I am not. I mean, my presence was not appreciated by the host of elves within.” 

Mairon frowned. His presence was rather loathed, but for good reason. He had thought the elves revered Este for her generosity and ability to soothe all hurts. Mairon was loathed and allowed entrance, so why not Este? 

As if to double-check, Mairon knocked gently against the door and was surprised when Nerdanel answered with a growl. 

“You!” Nerdanel snapped, throwing a finger in Mairon’s direction as she continued to glower at Este, “Tell that Vala that she is not and never will be welcome here.” 

Mairon opened his mouth to argue, but Nerdanel snapped again, “She is not allowed near my babies. Never.” 

Nerdanel spoke with the conviction of an Oath but named no higher power to hold her to it. (Prudent, seeing as her husband suffered a brutal fate when he did so.)

“I invited her,” Mairon said. He wasn’t sure why Nerdanel wanted Este to leave, but he wondered if telling her that might mollify her anger. 

But Nerdanel only snapped, “What! Why would you do that?” Then her voice softened slightly, “Is this for Tyelpe?” 

“I- suppose that would be a good idea,” Mairon hadn’t thought of it. Why hadn’t he thought to ask after Este’s favour for Telperinquar's benefit? Had he been overly arrogant in his belief that he could fix Telperinquar without the Valar’s influence? Or had his own bias against Este prevented him from seeking her help? “But no, I asked her here to visit Maedhros.” 

Nerdanel’s eyes darkened, “We don't need her. She couldn't do anything to help Maitimo anyway.” 

“How can you know that?” Mairon pressed, but Nerdanel refused to answer. 

With one last glowering glance at Este, she told Mairon, “She may visit Tyelpe if you insist. But if she draws near Maitimo’s room, I will throw her out of the house with my own two arms!” 

When the door slammed shut behind Nerdanel, Mairon turned to Este with what he hoped was an apologetic smile, “I will speak with them. Maedhros could use your insight, but for now, I would ask you to meet with Telperinquar and assess the damage to his hroa.” 

Este grinned earnestly and hopefully up at Mairon. “I would very much like to meet Telperinquar Curufinwe. He has long been a favourite of mine.” 

“Has he?” Mairon kept his tone light and his voice lackadaisical. It wouldn’t do for Este to note the suspicion and resentment in Mairon’s voice. Not after Nerdanel had already attempted to chase Este away, and especially not when Mairon was gently guiding her into the house that had previously turned her away. 

But Este took no offence at Mairon’s question as her smile grew a tad wider and her head bobbed, “Yes. He has always stuck out to me for his endearing kindness and desire to do good in the world. He has helped more elves than any other born near the darkening.” 

Mairon hummed. And kept quiet again when Este said, “I was disheartened by his demise. I never thought his reward should be a stepping stone to your ambition.” 

“He is not now a stepping stone,” Mairon didn’t try to counter Este’s previous claim as he led her down the hall, pausing at the door to add, “And I intend to keep it that way.” 

“And yet,” Este countered just before Mairon eased the door open, “He has once again become a stepping stone to your betterment.” 

Mairon’s movement to open the door paused as he turned to Este with a bemused expression. But before he could think of a rebuttal, Este only grinned up at Mairon and slipped past him to push the door open. 

Thankfully, Telperinquar had no other guests at the moment, and the room was lit with a dim glow, indicating that Telperinquar was not yet asleep. Mairon moved into the room to find Telperinquar’s beautiful silver eyes blinking towards them with questions written plain in his irises. Still, he inclined his head gently in Este’s direction before his gaze and questions returned to Mairon. 

Mairon cleared his throat to break the silence, “I asked Este to look at Maedhros. Your grandmother insisted she also look at you.” 

My uncle? Telperinquar asked, slanting his head slightly, My grandmother agreed to their meeting?  

Mairon had promised not to lie to Telperinquar. So, it was rather disheartening to have to admit, “She did not exactly agree and expressed much unfathomable resistance.” 

I am not surprised. I would rather Este not meet with my uncle . Telperinquar’s gaze was tense, and his words almost cruel. Mairon looked at Este only to find the Vala watching them with a bemused expression and no sense of understanding on her face. 

But that could only mean…

Telperinquar had directed the Osanwe directly at Mairon. That Telperinquar had allowed their minds to touch rather than projecting his thoughts into the room. It was something that had been second nature during their days in Ost-in-Edhil, but Telperinquar had not done such a thing since Mairon’s betrayal. 

It spoke of trust from Telperinquar in Mairon’s sincerity and a desire for nearness that Mairon didn’t dare cross. But Telperinquar had reached out to Mairon to make snide comments about the person before them, as Mairon often did to Telperinquar in Ost-in-Edhil. 

Tentatively, Mairon reached for Telperinquar’s mind and was floored when Telperinquar allowed him in with a slight tug. You do not wish it? Why?  

If Maedhros has Miriel’s sickness, Este cannot do anything for him. Telperinquar answered and sent a mental sense of worry that etched itself across Telperinquar’s brain and overflowed through their connection. 

Would it not be better to have that confirmation than to exist in a state of perpetual uncertainty? Mairion countered, unsure how much he was allowed to push, but also unable not to describe his disdain for dancing around an issue. 

We know , Telperinquar’s mind went dark and his mental voice soft. My great-grandmother confirmed it. It is undeniable, and Este’s presence would only serve to agitate my family further.  

Mairon did not understand, but he could feel Telperinquar’s conviction. For Telperinquar, who so sincerely spoke of the possible harm Este’s presence could bring, Mairon would resist pushing the issue further. He inclined his head slightly before prompting Este, “How is Telperinquar?” 

At Mairon’s prompting, Este hopped towards Telperinquar and raised her hands in a classic ‘may I?’ gesture. Telperinquar, to his credit for all the nervousness he’d previously expressed about Este, hesitated less than a moment before resting his hands in Este’s. 

Este’s body glowed as a nearly inaudible call to the music erupted from her throat, deafening Mairon. Este’s song settled along Telperinquar’s skin and submersed below his skin, skimming over his organs and through his veins. It tugged against the malice embedded in Telperinquar, and Mairon squirmed as the tendrils thrashed against Este’s ministrations and attempts to corral them. 

When the song ended, Mairon was overwhelmed with the sense of the world returned to him. So consumed by the continued movement of the malice that he only clued in to the visible world when Telperinquar prompted his mind, Annatar . 

“Interesting,” Este remarked when Mairon returned to the conversation. Her eyes were firm on Mairon and staring at his hands. Mairon followed Este’s gaze to see thin coils winding and unwinding like snakes below his skin. They settled shortly after, with none of the pain absorbing them had previously caused Mairon. “You broke apart your elea to torment Telperinquar.” 

Mairon thought through Este’s words. He hadn’t intentionally done such a thing. But his elea had been especially fragile in the direct aftermath of the One Ring’s creation. Therefore, it wasn’t impossible for stray slivers to have indirectly been infused in Mairon’s administrations. The malice was of Mairon, undoubtedly, but he hadn’t thought them to be a part of his elea - after Melkor and the One Ring’s creation, he’d had so little of his own elea left. 

Seeing Mairon’s surprised expression, Este continued, “These treatments - you take these parts of yourself back from Telperinquar. I had not noticed a difference, but now I see how tattered your elea was when it came to us. It’s more whole now and more stable.” 

What , Telperinquar projected himself to the room now, and Este jolted upon hearing him, happened to the part of you connected to the Ring?  

“It was destroyed,” Mairon said plainly, “The destruction of the One Ring shattered it and banished it to be left adrift and never coagulate again.” 

Yet you formed. So whatever was left of your elea was not completely scattered. Where did it go then, if not to the original whole? Telperinquar’s eye gleamed with knowing. He had some sort of hypothesis and was taking the opportunity to chide Mairon around to his way of thinking. 

“What?” Mairon did not feel much like playing this game when a chasm remained between them, and Este stood as an unwanted third party. “You think it was banished to the void and coalesced within yourself?”

Why not? Telperinquar threw back, Where else could it have gone? We know that fea desires to make itself whole as a means of achieving equilibrium. Elea must not be all that different. If you put a part of yourself within me, then I would have the highest concentration of Annatar in the void and attract what you lost to me.  

“That’s-” Mairon cut himself off. He wanted to say, ‘that’s insanity and the most preposterous theory you could come up with’, but nothing Telperinquar had said didn't have examples in both theoretical and experimental science. But if it was true, then Mairon helping Telperinquar wasn’t for Telperinquar’s sake but another way that Mairon was helping himself. He didn’t want it to be true. 

And yet, Telperinquar was so pleased that it practically radiated off him. 

“I could not say,” Este said (another way for her to diplomatically say that she had no idea what Telperinquar was saying, but Mairon wasn’t about to call her out on it - at least not right now when he was pondering the implications himself). “However, such a thing is good for you, Mairon. Returning to a whole would make you more content with your state of being.” 

I am helping you as much as you are helping me! Telperinquar chirped, and it hurt. The whole idea that Telperinquar could be happy to help Mairon when Mairon had been the one to cause everything was indescribable. How could Telperinquar be so, so good? 

How could Mairon possibly deserve him? 

Este glanced between them, “I cannot do anything for Telperinquar. The bits of elea within him will answer only to their owner.” 

Thank you ! Telperinquar said before crowding into Mairon’s mind to snap, Now get her out of here!  

Mairon followed Telperinquar’s command without thinking, and when Este asked, “Did you want me to look at Maitimo?” 

Mairon found himself shaking his head and replying, “No, I think we can manage on our own.”

Hadn't he already messed up enough by bringing Este where she wasn't wanted?

Chapter Text

Fingon was lost. 

Metaphorically, that was. He knew where he was physically - standing in the hall of Mahtan’s home just before Celebrimbor’s door. 

When Mairon had suggested a possible solution to Russo’s illness and to Miriel's riddle, Fingon had been ecstatic and a rush of eager hope. But then weeks more had passed, and while Russo’s family were happy to sit at Russo’s side and press their love into Russo’s face, nothing about Russo’s condition had changed. Well, Russo's condition hadn't deteriorated further - something that Fingon clung to as proof that Mairon was right. But no visible improvements continued to drain Fingon. 

He had thought that Maglor could be the answer. But the possibility frayed with each day as Fingon’s senses cleared. For how could Maglor alone be more support than his other brothers, nephew, mother, and grandfather? 

Except there might be one who could, a nebulous voice at the back of Fingon’s mind never hesitated to whisper, Feanor burned with an inner flame not replicated by any other. Could he be enough? 

Fingon couldn’t banish the insidious thoughts. Nor could he shed the residual guilt that clung to the soles of his feet after his conversation with Curufin. There was something about Curufin’s disappointed tone and his later joyous reunion with Telptelote that warred against Fingon in his vehement dismissal of Feanor’s return. 

But Fingon had good reasons for his refusal. 

He did. 

Before petitioning the Valar, Fingon had looked into the Oath and read so many scholarly texts that he was quoting them in his sleep! And Fingon wasn’t an expert, okay? He listened to those who were, but he wasn’t making any of his own decisions. 

The general consensus, from what Fingon read, listed the Oath as binding in both the Valar’s thoughts and in truth with Eru’s will. Many believed that Feanor, through sheer force of will, had written his own part in the Song not dissimilar to how Morgoth had once tampered with it ages before. And as punishment, Eru had written Feanor’s punishment: first in the Noldor’s doom to punish those who followed him, and then to cast Feanor to the everlasting darkness until Morgoth’s return. 

Which, Fingon did not want and refused to aid. He would not bring Morgoth and all his fights back to Aman, where he could once more wreak havoc. Even if it meant Russo’s return, Fingon had sworn he would not do it (To Finrod and Turgon and Aredhel and Argon and his father, all of whom were quite concerned when Fingon first mentioned saving Russo). 

But nowhere in the writings did it speak of Feanor’s sons being condemned. Many believed that Namos simply kept them hostage for the evil deeds they committed in their father's name, while the others thought the Oath had damaged their feas and Vaire worked diligently to stitch them back together. 

And so, Fingon had gone to ask for Russo’s return. He had only initially named Feanor as a bargaining chip, certain that the Valar would never run the risk of Morgoth’s return. 

When Fingon learnt that they were held in the void, it only made more sense that Feanor’s return would trigger Morgoth's return, for the dark Vala had always been eerily fond of Feanor. Certainly, he would know if Feanor tried to leave the void and would follow him back to this world. 

So no, Fingon hadn't saved Feanor, and he refused to do so even if his resolve crumbled chip by chip as Russo weakened. 

There had to be another way. Fingon knew there had to be another way. 

And if he couldn’t find it through sheer will power, then perhaps science could help him out as it did before. 

That brought him here, to Celebrimbor’s door, where Mairon had been hiding from Fingon for the past few weeks. 

Which led to Fingon's next issue. Why was Mairon hiding? 

Fingon had no idea. Everything had been fine, and Mairon had even given Fingon some good advice. But then he suddenly vanished (from Fingon’s life). He continued to visit Mahtan’s home and treat Celebrimbor on a biweekly schedule that at times increased past the predetermined two visits a week despite Mahtan’s strong disapproval. But he never sought Fingon out after this time with Celebrimbor, when they used to chat at least once a week. 

So, as a master of reasoning, Fingon knew the lack of Mairon in his life must mean that Mairon was ignoring him. 

The issue was confronting Mairon about it. See, Fingon had no problem letting Mairon figure things out by himself (especially since Fingon couldn’t recall any arguments pr something Fingon might have done to upset Mairon), but it became a problem when Fingon desperately wanted to ask Mairon for advice and Mairon was hiding from him. 

Fingon had never been known for his patience when he wanted something. 

The only solution? To ambush Mairon, of course, so that the Maia couldn’t run even if he wanted to. 

All to say that Fingon was waiting impatiently outside Celebrimbor’s door, waiting for the moment that Celebrimbor’s treatment was complete (Fingon wasn’t about to hinder Celebrimbor’s treatment, and he knew from previous visits a rough time frame that Mairon spent healing in a session). 

Fingon drummed his finger on the doorframe, spreading his hands wide and considering. 

Now would be just about the time. 

Fingon sprang into action, twisting the door handle and yanking the door open in one smooth, overzealous motion as he leapt over the threshold and into the room. 

The scene he walked into was, thankfully, rather tame (not that Fingon thought the two would kindle their passion so quickly, but then again, Fingon never knew what a typical courtship period looked like - he’d been pining after Russo since he was old enough to understand what love was). The two had been staring at each other, leaning just perceptibly into one another’s space as they no doubt enjoyed a little one-on-one Osanwe (and thankfully not halfway through a healing process - Fingon had been a little worried). 

Still, they both jumped when Fingon barged into the room. 

Celebrimbor more deflated than jumped, sinking back into his bed, hands falling limp to his side, but a single finger on his right hand twitched slightly (the most movement Fingon had seen in Celebrimbor’s hands since he’d died). Celebrimbor nodded politely once he recognized Fingon and inclined his head towards Mairon in a silent question. 

Fingon nodded back before turning his attention to Mairon. 

Mairon, who, unlike Celebrimbor, did not appear glad to see Fingon. If anything, Mairon’s nearly fumbling fingers and eyes darting to the door blocked by Fingon’s frame made Mairon appear almost nervous. Strange. Fingon thought Mairon might be cross with him, so why did Mairon look like Fingon was the one about to yell at him? 

“Mairon,” Fingon said with not the slightest bit of malice or aggression in his voice, but Mairon flinched like Fingon had accused him of trying to murder Celebrimbor. Again. 

Hmm, maybe Fingon should try a more gentle approach. “How have you been?” 

And it appeared to work in breaking the awkward air in the room. In response, Mairon raised an eyebrow, “Delving into social niceties, are you?” 

Fingon threw up his hands. Yes, it was strange. Yes, Fingon never liked small talk. But he didn’t need Mairon to point it out. Ah, well, Fingon never was one for being overly kind - that was really more Finrod’s thing. Hands to hips, Fingon widened his stance and threw back, “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“Have I?” Mairon’s smile was so fake that not even the Valar would be fooled. 

“I don’t understand why,” Fingon shot back, suddenly mad at the whole situation, “What have I done to you?” 

“To me?” Mairon had the audacity to chuckle, “Why, nothing. Did it not occur to you that my life does not revolve around being at your beck and call?” 

“Uh,” Fingon jolted. Yeah, he knew that. But they were friends. Pals. Fingon often went to Mairon for advice, sure, but Mairon liked giving advice. Probably made him feel uppity and superior or something. “Are you going through a supervillain phase?” Fingon then turned to Celebrimbor and joked, “Should I tell Aule?” 

Celebrimbor snorted. A real snort - sound and everything. And he didn’t flinch after, like he had when Fingon had first been reunited with the other elf. Fingon couldn’t help but stare in amazement and nearly missed Mairon’s similarly awestruck expression, but luckily, Fingon had excellent peripheral vision! 

Annatar hates admitting he made a mistake , Celebrimbor said after a moment, easing the stubborn silence Mairon was holding. Trust me, if he were planning world domination, you would never guess.  

Mairon huffed, but something akin to a soft smile spread across his face as he replied to Celebrimbor, “You know I wouldn’t do that to you again. I learn from my failures.” 

Mhm, and you’ve now learnt never to involve Valar in Feanorian business , Celebrimbor countered. And yeah, that sounded like some solid advice to Fingon, except, you know, when you literally had no choice. 

“Wait,” Fingon spoke as the thought occurred to him, “When did Mairon learn not to involve the Valar. Did I miss something?” 

Mairon scowled as Celebrimbor grinned, horrific blackened teethless gums and all. As I said, he hates admitting when he made a mistake.  

“Mairon, what did you do?” Fingon guessed it must be something embarrassing that Fingon would get a good laugh at, especially with how Celebrimbor was gently teasing the Maia (and it made Fingon wonder if this was how their relationship was during the Second Age. There was something so soft about their gentle ribbing and clear fondness for one another. How could Mairon possibly have given this up?)

“I thought it a helpful gesture,” Mairon argued with Celebrimbor as he continued to avoid Fingon’s eyes, “And I retain said belief despite everyone’s protests.” 

“Seriously,” Fingon cried, finally fed up with Mairon’s roundabout talking. He plowed right into the Maia and plopped them both on the bed below Celebrimbor’s feet in a mess of flailing appendages. When Fingon finally managed to pin Mairon down, he demanded, “Just tell me what happened. I promise I won’t be mad.”  

Mairon somehow managed to look snooty even from his crumpled position below Fingon, and with Celebrimbor’s foot nudging his head through the thin sheet. For a moment, Fingon worried that Mairon would continue to remain obtuse, but he instead sighed and admitted, “I may have used a favour to ask Este to check on Maedhros.” 

Este. Este. Este 

Este. 

The name bounced around Fingon’s head like a particularly stubborn headache. 

Este. Mairon had asked Este to come. Why? What would he do that? What if it happened again? What if Este took Russo away and Fingon never saw him again? 

What, what, what, what

“What?” The words bubbled out of Fingon’s mouth helplessly, “Why would you do that?” 

Mairon sighed even as his body tensed, “Why indeed. I thought she might give you closure. You were so worried about Maedhros and if he did or did not have Miriel's sickness that I thought she might confirm it.” 

“Why?” Fingon could help but ask, his mind still fixed on Este. They didn't need her and her confirmation. What if, what if…

Mairon raised a judgmental brow, “Is it not better to know in truth than to live in suspense?” 

“No!” Fingon exclaimed, but was unable to articulate the fear gnawing away inside him. “No, it would not be better.” 

Sometimes, Celebrimbor added, his voice almost gentle, it is better to live in fear of condemnation than to be proven correct and have all your worst fears certain before you.  

Mairon opened his mouth to speak, but Celebrimbor beat him to it and answered the question Mairon no doubt was about to ask, Especially when you cannot fix it.  

Mairon remained with that furrow in his brow that Fingon had long learnt meant that Mairon didn't believe the argument and wanted to push back, but he relinquished the argument all the same, instead focusing on disentangling himself from Fingon’s hold. 

Fingon let him go as he asked a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, “Did she see him? Maedhros?” 

“No,” Mairon said, and Fingon felt the bubbling worry fizzle out. “Nerdanel and Telperinquar were quite adamant that Este was not to visit Maedhros.” 

“Good. That's- good,” Fingon trailed off as he avoided Mairon’s suspicious look. He hardly hesitated before facing Mairon and commenting, “You didn't need to avoid me for that. I would have understood.” 

He would. Fingon was an understanding sort of person, and he would have forgiven the misstep. Even if the thought of Este visiting Russo made Fingon want to scream.

“I had little concern that you would be wroth with me; rather, I dislike watching you fret,” Mairon countered with a frown that only grew, “Have you spent all this time at Maedhros’s bedside?” 

“Not all of it,” Fingon felt the need to defend himself. He spent time away from Russo - he made himself take breaks at least once a day. And sitting at Russo’s side wasn’t all that difficult, even if he did, as Mairon said, fret endlessly for hours. “These last few weeks I've also spent some time with Maglor.” 

“Ah,” Mairon’s eyes gleamed, and a snide grin stitched up his left lip. 

Celebrimbor, who had not been present for their last conversation, ignored Mairon to ask, How is my uncle?

“Well,” Fingon said. He often met Elrond sitting at Maglor's side, and they had talked a bit, mostly focusing on the feanorion's health. “Elrond thinks he should wake soon.” 

Celebrimbor smiled. 

But that brought Fingon back to the reason he'd initially sought Mairon out. “I followed your advice, and Maedhros has been more stable these past few weeks.” 

“My idea? Ah, close, familiar bonds help, then. I am not surprised,” Mairon said, but his lips were twisting in an effort to hold back what Fingon could guess at a proud grin. 

Celebrimbor had no issue grinning widely and boldly. Familiar bonds to stabilize a fea? Is that not similar to our theory on ozone splitting?  

Mairon’s attention was instantly on Celebrimbor. “The split ozone stabilized on its own. If a fea reacted similarly to ozone, Maedhros should already be mended.” 

We assumed that ozone stabilizes itself. But after you left, I had a thought. We know that water turns to vapour and dissipates into air when heated. What if air itself is not nothing but something? Ozone is something after all. I had a theory that like attracts like, and two split ozone segments would be drawn to one another and make each other whole. 

Mairon hummed, “And you are certain in this theory?” 

Not entirely, Celebrimbor admitted as his arms raised from his side, and despite the way his hands flopped limply with the movements, he continued to wave his arms around in a circular manner that Fingon had noted in Mairon when he was particularly passionate (Did he learn such a gesture from Celebrimbor?). I managed to split a single molecule, but while half reacted readily in a vacuum, the other did not.  

“In half?” Mairon leaned into Celebrimbor and took one of Celebrimbor’s hands in his, smoothing a finger over Celebrimbor’s fingers and gazing intently into Celebrimbor’s eye. “Ozone does not split in half.” 

It doesn’t? - Annatar! Celebrimbor’s mind skreeched with frustration as his throat rumbled with a wordless vocalization. It splits into what? Thirds? Fifths? Sevenths?  

“Thirds,” Mairon said, a grin readily available when Celebrimbor’s hands shook, nearly vibrating his whole body, “2 then are stable and the last -” 

Is the radical , Celebrimbor answered in a rush. If we apply this to a fea? How much could one lose until?  

“I maintain my position that fea does not necessarily follow the rules of elements,” Mairon countered, but answered Celebrimbor’s conjecture all the same, “However, if we assume that it follows a similar trend, then the closer the relationship, the stronger the bond. Suppose, then, that a parent or direct child would hold the strongest connection, then siblings, and so forth.” 

How many siblings equate to the strength of a parent? Celebrimbor threw out the question even as he began answering it. Many factors could influence it, such as age difference, genetic similarity, time spent together…  

“You suggest that like attracts like?” Mairon snorted, and Fingon wished he could follow along enough to understand the joke and teasing shared between the two. Celebrimbor obviously got it, as he ducked his head and kicked at Mairon’s side, but smiled all the same. “Electromagnetism would suggest otherwise.” 

Narvi would laugh in my face, Celebrimbor added, But it must, else familial fea would not be the solution.  

Celebrimbor froze, his arms drooping until his hands settled on the bed. Annatar. Annatar. Annatar!

Mairon also fell silent as Celebrimbor stilled. When Celebrimbor called out, Mairon turned to Celebrimbor, wonder in his eyes and a yearning pulling at his face and illuminating his eyes. “Telperinquar. What is it now?” 

Mairon’s voice shook as he spoke. At first, his words were pitched with annoyance before fading into a sort of bewildering awe. 

What happens when you take the square root of a negative number? Celebrimbor asked and waited, his foot continually kicking Mairon’s lightly (at first, Celebrimbor’s arm had moved, but Celebrimbor had stopped when he noted his limply hanging hand). What happens?  

“The number appears on the vertical complex axis from which -” Mairon started to rattle off an answer before pausing. He sat in silence for some time before gasping in amazement (Fingon literally fell off his seat. When had Mairon ever been anything but nearly precongitive when speaking with another? Never had Fingon seen Mairon so stumped, even when he was pacing vigorously back and forth from a chalkboard lined with a mathematical symbol soup). Then Mairon grinned widely and nearly laughed in excitement, “You think this is connected to the unseen? Telperinquar, your genius never fails to amaze me!” 

Telperinquar grinned back, Give me 10 minutes at a chalkboard and I’ll really amaze you.  

It was said with such ease, as if this were a common phenomenon (and maybe it had been. Fingon wished he’d been around to see it in its full splendour if this muted and subdued variation of the two brought such an energetic joy to things that Fingon could never hope to understand.

Unfortunately, reality hit Mairon and Telperinquar not long after when Telperinquar raised his arm, and they both noticed the sprawl of Telperinquar’s fingers. That previously nearly hypnotic energy vaporized as Mairon and Telperinquar inched away slowly from where they had nearly been atop each other as if to merge their bodies as they were with their minds. 

That manic energy disappeared, and Fingon felt off-footed. He could only imagine how that must be for Celebrimbor and Mairon, who’d both been indulging in a nostalgic ease of what once was. 

When the silence had even Fingon fidgeting, he tried to move the conversation along. “What does this mean for Maedhros? He has a lot of brothers and his mother.” 

Celebrimbor jolted, then sheepishly turned to Fingon, his eyes darting past Mairon as he turned his head. If my theory is correct, then my uncle would need a lot of family. Like a lot, lot. The Unseen world requires ludicrous amounts of energy to access, and if he has an imbalance in his fea within the Unseen world, not only would we need to access it, but also provide him with an equivalent source of power to himself. 

“A large family may dilute the power of a single individual,” Mairon added, “Elves are born of their parents' fea, further distributing any potential connection. A parent, or if they had a single child, would be ideal. Maedhros doesn’t have any biological children, yes? And Nerdanel has not proven strong enough to pull Maedhros back on her own.” 

A parent. That meant Feanor. 

Bring Feanor back and potentially save Russo - but also potentially lose Russo again in the ensuing war with Morgoth. Or never bring Feanor back and watch as Russo fades as his grandmother did, with even less chance of him eventually returning. 

This was his punishment then. Some sort of test from Eru, although Fingon could not think of what he might have done to upset Eru. Hadn’t he suffered enough? 

Because it wasn’t really a choice, right? He couldn’t just let Feanor return? 

“Is there nothing else?” Fingon found himself begging Mairon and Celebrimbor, “Surely, you could do some sort of science or something and help him? If it's just a source of power, then can’t you? Is it not like what you did to open the void?” 

Mairon looked to Celebrimbor, and when Fingon followed Mairon’s gaze, he found Celebrimbor frowning. Fingon, I’m not sure this is something we should be tampering with. It-  

“Please!” Fingon pleaded, “Maedhros- Maedhros is your uncle. There must be a way.” 

A way that didn’t involve bringing Feanor back. 

“It wouldn’t be dissimilar to when voracity cannot be assumed zero,” Mairon started, and Fingon latched onto Mairon’s words. 

“So you can do something?” 

Locational based rotation? You want to create a wake and intensify the point force , Celebrimbor drifted off before stars shone in his eye. I like it. How?  

“Currently? Two theories come to mind. We could think of the shear forces and might we manipulate them to increase the viscosity discrepancy between the Seen and Unseen. Alternatively, the introduction of another object of greater density might imbalance the gravitational forces.” Mairon paused as Celebrimbor nodded, inching once again closer to Mairon’s position on the bed. 

Yes, we could- Celebrimbor’s words cut off, but Mairon continued nodding and making comments. Celebrimbor had dived into single-mind Osanwe, probably unintentionally (and if that didn’t show progress, Fingon didn’t know what did. Celebrimbor was literally letting Mairon into his mind once more). 

However, Fingon didn’t linger. Following their conversation had been impossible already and was now also maddening when he could only hear one side of the jargon. 

But they seemed to have everything covered. Fingon would let them continue their plotting and hope that the geniuses could find a way to solve this problem set before them. 

Because he couldn’t free Feanor. 

Right?