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Chapter Text

Arafinwe kept himself whole for hundreds of years. He survived first, second and even the third age. He was a king of Noldor, he was the one who put effort into fixing what was destroyed in the first place. He was a king and without anyone by his side, he waited…

His son, Findarato, returned first. He came to the Tirion with a new name, Finrod, proud and surrounded by light, once broken, but never destroyed. Finrod was around only for some time, a few years, almost nothing compared to the time for which Arafinwe lost his firstborn before.

Second of the children which Arafinwe loved with his whole heart once and lost for millenia was the son of his older brother. Findecano, now Fingon, with hair loose and short, barely brushed; without braids, without golden ribbons. He looked sad. He looked devastated. Maitimo wasn’t able to return with him. Even Namo couldn’t predict if precious Maitimo would be able to heal… ever.

Fingon stayed with Arafinwe a few years, then ten, twenty - 

He wasn’t himself anymore, he changed so much that it was embracing someone new, someone unknown in every hug.

Arafinwe managed to do it. He managed to embrace Fingon and love him as much as he loved the little elfling he once was.

Turucano, Turgon, came from the halls of Mandos, squeezed by his sister and his daughter, who managed to heal enough to return with him.

They also came to Tirion, they also stayed with Arafinwe… but at the end they left. And Fingon went with them.

They didn’t even look back at Arafinwe, who was left alone again.

He loved them so much that it hurt him to watch their departure to somewhere, Valar knew where, in the wild, as far away from Tirion as it was possible. He loved them so much, but he couldn’t not be jealous about what they had; family, bond, support, love, themselves.

He watched their departure and spent the next nights alone, crying in the silence of his own chamber.

He needed to fix himself.

There would be many more of his relatives to return.

There would be many more of his relatives to come to him for help.

His sons came to him, just to say hi and leave like migrating birds, to Finrod's new home. 

It was so hard to be… everything was just hard.

They were coming and leaving. They were coming and leaving. They were coming and leaving, leaving, leaving, leaving-

Arafinwe was their relative and king, but he could not support them as they wanted or needed it. They survived the hell which was unknown for him even after all the stories which he heard.

(to fix their kingdom, to unite their people, he came through his own hell… but no one recognized it, no one accepted it, no one wanted to listen-)

They survived the hell-

They died-

(he was alive-)

He smiled as his poor, silver granddaughter came to him in a dress with long sleeves, with a veil hiding her delicate face and scars.

“Grandpa,” she called him with her sweet, sad voice and embraced his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, my dear,” he replied, looking at her covered face. He managed to force cheerfulness and joy into his face. Little Celebrian was tortured and almost killed, and separated from whom she loved, her body was to handle the scars forever… he didn’t want to put his sadness on her. It was not her burden to handle. It was not her mess to fix. She wasn’t even born when Arafinwe’s life was broken into thousands of pieces, which never truly returned to their places. 

“But grandpa-”

“Celebrian,” he smiled even more and reached to embrace her small, cold hands. She was a warrior, she fought to survive, to not fade, to not die, to not leave her beloved ones behind, but it didn’t save her. It didn’t even give any relief to her family. He was her grandfather, father of her mother, the one who took Celebrian under his care and protection, the one who should make sure nothing bad will meet her in Tirion. The one who should make sure she will not try to help him when she should be focused on her own state. “My precious, silvery princess, my little queen, listen to me. I am fine. I was just thinking about various things. Don’t let it bother you, okay?”

She didn’t look as if he managed to convince her to do it. Or she probably didn’t look like this. His only traces were the slight lean of her head and the way in which she made a little thinking sound. Just as his precious Artanis was doing in the past. He made a step deeper into the garden, carefully leading her. “Let grandpa take you on a walk to the rose bushes which my mother planted. I am sure you’ll love it.”

And she really did.

The time which Celebrian spent with him in the palace of Tirion was unexpectedly calm. Even in her own grief, she was very soft and nice. Her voice was calming down his stress and the touch of her cold hands on his own was able to take him away even from his worst thoughts. As the age was coming to its end, as the arrival of her husband was approaching, sadness returned to Arafinwe’s heart.

Young Elrond Peredhel, whom he met once, was a great person. He for sure loved Celebrian as much as she loved him.

She would leave with her husband (like everyone before her also did).

It wasn’t Celebrian’s fault that Arafinwe faded.

She really made his life better. She really cared more than others about his broken… everything- 

Arafinwe faded.

No one could stop him as the third age had ended and evil was defeated.

(darkness vanished).

(his family would be okay, freed from the constant danger waiting somewhere on the other side of the sea to try to approach them again).

(he couldn't keep the pieces as a whole anymore).

The last memory of his life was a starry sky visible from the window of his bedroom.

Death feels almost as heavy and overwhelming as falling asleep after too many conscious days on a battlefield.

Chapter Text

Mandos’ halls were calm and silent. He wandered through the long corridor. It was dark. 

In the past he would feel uncomfortable, unsure, cautious because of memories about monsters hiding into the shadows which were always hungry for blood.

(things he saw in Beleriand never left him).

(he couldn’t talk about it).

Mandos’ halls were filled with memories, who knows, maybe builded from them… but Arafinwe wandered through the darkness and didn’t feel bothered even a bit.

Strange, but not bad. 

It was similar to wandering through dreams, he supposed. Just step after step and an echo of them. He didn’t need to breathe, eat or rest. He didn’t need to think. 

On the walls were tapestries, colorful threads looked nice, but it took him probably a lot to lift his head up enough to watch them.

Mandos’ halls were filled with memories. 

On the wall next to him hung abnormally big art portraying Arafinwe’s family.

They all were discussing something around the dining table, young and alive, young and innocent… 

Together.

Arafinwe steps stopped completely.

He had wanted to look at his family forever. Time was not important in the realm of death, right?

(it wasn’t that someone would want Arafinwe around for forever anyway).

***

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit-”

“For the sake- what the hell are you doing?!” Fingolfin took his eyes from the three perfectly the same doors in front of him to Feanor. His brother was walking around the room along with the walls, touching the cold stone as if it would help them.

“Ara is dead!” Feanor explained, lifting his voice accidentally so much that it sounded hilarious in Mandos’ hall's silence. 

“Oh, really?” Fingolfin looked at the three doors again. “How could I guess?!”

Lord Namo decided to inform them a few hours ago. Since he told them about the death of Arafinwe, they were running through the halls, searching everywhere. He was almost sure that all the corridors and doors were completely purposely trying to keep him away from his brother. Maybe because Feanor was with him, but Fingolfin lost enough time to gain his older half-brother. He would not lose him now again. This idiot would not walk anywhere alone, without Fingolfin and vice versa. 

(there was a chance that after they split they 

would fall into depressed stillness).

(again).

(he hated it).

“I am trying to find him!”

“I don’t see it!”

“Then watch me!”

“i am trying to choose the door!”

“The middle one!”

Fingolfin blinked and looked back at his brother’s ghostly, pale face.

“What?”

“The middle one. We need to go through the middle one!” Feanor threw his hands up. He clearly looked as if he wanted to say something insulting. He managed to stop doing it at least a few hundreds years ago and Fingolfin would like it if he would remain this way. 

“How do you know?” He decided that asking would be the most safe idea.

“We can’t follow the memories which are not ours. The left door is mine, you are peeking instinctively at the middle one. We can’t go into the right one, because we will end in an empty hole again.”

“Why do you want us to go with my memories?”

“The fastest way?” Feanor suggested. “I had a pretty long life on my own before Arafinwe was even born.”

Well. It was a pretty good point, Fingolfin supposed. 

“Okay, middle one,” he grabbed Feanor’s hand and then went through the middle passage, bringing his half-brother along.

As they noticed a tapestry with Fingolfin’s child-self sitting at the garden’ bench, they immediately ran forward into the corridor. Whatever, just to cut through his memories and find anything that would lead them to Arafinwe.

Fingolfin’s first toy, first book which he ate because it was funny for a child, first steps, family dinner, spying on Feanor, a meeting with mother, his next toys, his first ball-

Fingolfin was barely noticing and recognizing the events of his own life.

(Feanor was looking at all the tapestries with melancholy and regret, his fingers kept embracing his half-brother’s hand).

After more time than they wanted to recognize, they found a tapestry with a golden haired child, sweetly asleep in a basket filled with soft blankets.

Newborn Arafinwe with his small curls messed up on tiny head and wrinkled, red face. His tiny hands were squeezing a piece of green blanket.

(When Arafinwe was born, Fingolfin was confused that his parents would create the next baby when they had two already).

(When Arafinwe was born, Feanor felt betrayed again).

(When Arafinwe was born, Maitimo and Findecano were the most excited, the most happy to have a little, cute baby around).

“Okay,” Feanor looked at Fingolfin. “Made a step back. Let me see where we need to go.”

Fingolfin obeyed.

He watched how Feanor grabbed a tapestry tightly in his hands.

“One, two-”

“Wait! What is your pla-”

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.

A sound of breaking material filled the corridor, echoing long and deep like the worst nightmare brought to life. Feanor took a deep breath and focused on his small reserve of power which he was carefully collecting for many years.

It was enough only to force the tapestry to open the secret passage almost too thin to walk through it. Worried and shocked, Fingolfin grabbed his half-brother’s wrist.

“Lord Namo will not be happy,” he murmured.

“Arafinwe died,” Feanor recalled, grimacing almost too much. “He SHOULDN’T be here.”

Fingolfin thought the same. 

Mandos’ halls were a creation of memories, emotions and death. Fingolfin should know that the domain of a Vala would never be possible to control by an elf. 

Even if the elf was Feanor.

When he slipped through the passage to the next corridor, he found himself in front of a tapestry with Arafinwe slowly vanishing from his own bed.

It was frighteningly accurate; the chamber and Arafinwe, and also Arafinwe’s pale skin and dark circles under the eyes. He looked tired and sick.

“Don’t tell me-” he looked to the right side, where the new corridor was leading, slowly. The next tapestry was a sickly thin Arafinwe in official robes, wandering through the garden with a silver-veiled woman. She also was way too thin! “Oh-”

They walked along the tapestries, watching them all with growing grief.

Arafinwe looked tired and sick, and just not right even on the tapestries which probably were presenting normal, neutral days. His skin was too light, his eyes too dark, everywhere he was way too thin. 

Feanor was trying to understand the story, even if they were walking from the end to the start and some parts seemed to be completely senseless. 

“He stayed in Valinor, he should be fine, he should be safe,” Feanor was murmuring to himself.

They both hoped so.

They both believed that Arafinwe, who stayed in Valinor, would be safe. But he didn’t look safe. He looked… devastated.

“They returned and left him,” Feanor guessed as they stopped for a while in front of a tapestry with Finrod. Their nephew looked paler and calmer than ever. He was walking away from Tirion with a small bag. They had behind them a few similar tapestries already. “They left him,” repeated Feanor with a painful expression appearing on his face. 

Fingolfin thought about his children, whom he saw doing the same; visiting Tirion and leaving. Their tapestry was hard to forget. He felt relief that he found proof that they all really returned among the living. But he also felt grief that no one remained by Arafinwe’s side to support him.

“When the palace is empty, there is always haunting silence,” Feanor said.

“What?” Fingolfin looked at his half-brother. “What do you mean?”

“For a few years we lived alone with servants, father and I,” Feanor recalled slowly. He was squeezing tapestry in his hands so tight that Fingolfin wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t rip even more soon. “Everything was silent and empty. I hated it so I was always around… our father or Rumil. But then he remarried and suddenly he was only with you and silence, and emptiness was everywhere. There was no one to protect me anymore. Sometimes I thought that father would be glad if I would blend with some shadows in library and vanish-”

Fingolfin squeezed his half-brother’s body even tighter. If he had more than the imaginative, ghostly hands, they would probably shiver. 

“I am sorry-”

“We talked already,” Feanor whispered. “Past isn’t something we can change.”

“I know-”

“Let’s find Arafinwe.”

Chapter Text

They were wandering for a very long time. Probably. The time in the Mandos’ halls was bullshit. Feanor hated how messed up and unlogical it was. He tried to count the time a few times, but it never worked.

It all was fault of the damn Valar which were fucking with the reality to their will.

Someone should tell them to fuck off of elves and their post-life existence.

The tapestries of Arafinwe were sad. 

Feanor thought that Fingolfin's were bad, but after a long walk along with their youngest brother’s life story?

Arafinwe was in Valinor when they went to Beleriand, he was safe but it didn’t mean that he was good.

He was alone to handle Tirion, the lords and the Valar. He was alone to fight with fading, which no one noticed. As if everyone just agreed to look at Arafinwe weaker, paler, less and less happy everyday. And accept the situation without trying to fix it.

Fingolfin was mad, guilty, crying-

Feanor wasn’t sure if better from him would be to express his own madness, guilt and desperate need to just cry everything out or maybe try to keep Fingolfin from changing into the flame spirit. Maybe he wasn’t very powerful, but with the amount of power he managed to carefully collect into his soul, he might be able to be the heart of fire for a moment.

Hopefully he might be able to burn down all the tapestries around. 

“Where is he?!” Fingolfin screamed in frustration as they found themselves in front of tapestries telling the story of Arafinwe’s commitment in the war at Beleriand. He looked slightly healthier, what meant that he probably didn’t start to fade yet when he sailed to Beleriand with an army of elves and maiar on the swan ships from Alqualonde 

“Where could he go?” Fingolfin desperately started to wipe the shape of his face, trying to get rid of the imaginable crying. “I need to see him. NOW!”

“I am sure he is somewhere near,” Feanor embraced his middle brother, trying to calm him down. “He couldn’t go too far. We will see him in no time.”

Arafinwe’s widely open, scared eyes looked straight at his face from the tapestry. His youngest brother kept the sword in his hand and wore shiny armor. And everything was not right with it.

Arafinwe should never have been involved in the war. No matter which war or when.

He should be happy, busy with his plants and animals in the garden, giving them life with his talented, good hands.

No one among the Finwean had such a big and caring heart as Arafinwe. It is supposed to be protected and cherished.

They were supposed to cherish and protect it… but they failed.

They failed.

They were wrong.

They ruined everything.

They ruined Arafinwe.

Fingolfin stopped in front of a tapestry with noldor walking through the darkness with torches and swords lifted up. He remembered everything he felt then, when Finwe was murdered, silmarils stolen and lights vanished.

Scared. Shocked. Angry. Frustrated.

Was Feanor right for all these years? The valar didn’t care, the valar didn’t care to protect them-

They couldn’t even protect the Trees.

“Hey,” Feanor looked at him with eyes dark from guilt. “Are you okay?”

“It’s our fault,” he whispered.

“Yes,” the older brother admitted, grimacing in frustration. 

After they meet in Mandos’ halls, after they spend hours or years arguing and screaming, he hadn’t protested against the truth that their actions - even if needed - were not as good as they should be. Nor properly managed.

He agreed that if they only had enough self control to wait and plan everything better, maybe the whole thing wouldn’t be so cursed.

Maybe Maitimo could lead them better or Fingon, or Fingolfin.

It was much easier to acknowledge their mistakes, griefs and guilt after the death when emotions weakened and time seemed to be completely messed up and endless - as if a second could last for years.

“Why would he want to see us? What if he hid from us purposely?”

Feanor closed his eyes, counting to the three to calm down. He pulled Fingolfin into a tight embrace.

“He is our- our brother. A family,” he whispered. “We need to find him. We need to talk with him first. Okay?”

Fingolfin nodded. Their shapes, even connected in a tight hug, were not much more than the spectrums, half physical shapes builded from emotions and memories filling their souls. But being more the spirits than anything else wasn’t able to stop them from craving for the touch and being destroyed again and again by the power of their own feelings.

They couldn’t just stay in place. It would make them worse. Maybe they would fall into emptiness and grief again. 

Feanor forced himself to move and brought his brother along into the corridor.

They needed to find Arafinwe.

A tapestry was gargantuan. Shiny, precious threads in dozens of colors were woven into it. Arafinwe’s birthday, one of rare events when their family tried to be a family.

Or at least they tried to not scream and argue. 

Arafinwe, since his birth, had something soft and delicate in him. In a hard to explain way, they all were pulled to him, they all wanted to care about him.

Maybe because he was the youngest.

Maybe because his birth almost ended with the death of both Indis and him. 

(Maybe because his eyes, filled with trust, melted the jealousness in Fingolfin’s heart).

(Maybe because Feanor learned to cherish the new life after the childhood of his sons).

(Maybe because he almost died before he even got his name-)

They all tried his best. Indis never spoke to Feanor, Feanor ignored Indis and Fingolfin and-

And Arafinwe looked at everyone with hope and love. Every year he had a wish which was so light and pure that probably only a blind elf would be able to not guess it.

Every year they all prove to be the blind elves as his hope was weakening.

(How many times he repeated a wish of their family unity surviving longer than one night?)

In front of a birthday’s tapestry, a barely recognizable shape of Arafinwe was sitting on the ground. The shape of his face was lifted as he admired the picture.

He looked fragile, small-

"Ara!" Fingolfin rushed towards him, pulling Feanor behind him. He stumbled several times, and they almost fell, but somehow he managed to keep his balance. Or they just had some good luck. "Ara!"

His arms wrapped around the delicate flame. Feanor did not hesitate to hold them both. After all, he was a little wider, a little brighter. After all, he was a spirit of fire, and so he could give them some energy so that they would not disappear from exhaustion.

He couldn't let them exhaust themselves. He and Fingolfin didn't know what happened when a spirit had had enough of everything - the silence, the corridors, the apathy - and its glow faded away.

It took Arafinwe a long moment for recognition to appear in his blue, misty eyes.

He was apathetic, but not yet as much as Feanor and Fingolfin had been once. Not yet. There was still time.

Fingolfin cried, again, as he had been doing constantly lately. 

He feverishly stroked the hazy memory of Arafinwe's golden curls and his cheek.

"You shouldn't be here, you were supposed to be safe, I thought you were safe, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's my fault," Fingolfin mumbled.

“Brother?” Arafinwe spoke in a voice not stronger than a whisper. “Brother?”

“I am here, I am here, I found you, we found you- we were so scared when Namo told us… oh, Ara. My little Ara-”

Feanor dared to carefully look down. Arafinwe was looking in disbelief not only at Fingolfin. His blue stare was peeking at Feanor too.

He was unsure. He was - perhaps - scared because of them.

“We found you, Arafinwe,” he decided to say. “We searched for you everywhere.”

“But- but why?”

“We fucked up our chance to be a family,” he lifted hand, embracing Arafinwe’s cheek as slow and delicate as he was able to. He was a bit mirroring what Fingolfin was doing, but it was okay. He could live - not-live? - with it. “But we can do better, we can keep our family together this time.”

“We are dead,” their little brother pointed out. He looked unarmed, almost scared. He watched them as if they were a mere dream which would vanish in a moment.

“But, as you see, it’s not the end,” Fingolfin mumbled. “We can- we still have a chance. Our children were reembodied. We will be reembodied one day too.”

“I should scream at you,” the first tears flowed down Arafinwe’s cheeks. “I should scream at you for everything. At you, and you, and both together.”

“You should,” Feanor agreed. “You should scream and hit us as hard as you need.”

Arafinwe didn’t do any of both suggestions. He cried out, at first it was small and soundless, but it worsened very fast.

Fingolfin pulled their little brother so tight into his arms that their souls slightly mixed on the edges, shimmering in blue and yellow.

Feanor also hugged them both tighter.

Arafinwe deserved to cry all of his feelings, which waited to be free for hundreds of years.

They would protect him.

This time they would protect him from everything.

Arafinwe was barely a whisper of energy, fading and growing flame in their arms for a time which seemed to be neverending and not longer than a blink of an eye. 

Feanor - again - was cursing the way in his Mandos’ halls worked, but even if frustrated, he never took his hands away from two younger brothers. Not this time. He would never again let himself lose them.

And it would be way too easy to lose them being on a Vala’ territory. He didn’t know if Namo was “happy” that they found each other. Who knows what the hell Namo was thinking about them, Finweans, almost merged after everything that happened in their past.

Feanor was sure that Valar understood shit about elves; about their feelings, dreams, nature. Valar way too often were looking at elves and tried to analyze them as if they all were the never-bodied, spiritual existences, washed from half of the emotions and thoughts that they were feeling in reality.

“I hate you,” Arafinwe was whispering sometimes. “Don’t leave me, I need you, don’t leave me-” he was whispering another time. 

Fingolfin and Feanor just listened to him, giving their promises and apologies, and hugs in return.

They deserved much worse than Arafinwe was able to express. He really should hit them. Maybe in the future-

They would let him hit them as much as he needed if only it would really fix all the despair and fears, which he ever felt because of all the mistakes they both ever did.

Everything that he was feeling seemed to be paler than it probably should be. Being dead sucked. Feeling everything as if it was hidden away behind the glass wall sucked.

Feanor was sure that they all hated it alike.

His brothers were not a dream. 

Arafinwe wasn’t sure how long he was stuck in the arms of both of them, keeping him in the middle with pure desperation, but after some time he believed that it was a real thing.

Or as real as the reality of the death’s halls could be called. They were souls, spirits, whatever.

But they were souls, spirits, whatever together.

Arafinwe remembered that he should be mad enough to hurt his brothers in return for everything what happened in his life because of their actions, but-

But they found him.

They keep him in the warmth of their embrace.

They were apologizing to him and promising the better future, and sometimes whispering stupid, sweet lies just to help him regain more familiar, more solid shape.

Arafinwe was always naive, he always tried to believe in others and trust them. And often he was hurt this way, but-

He was SURE that his brothers cared for him. He was SURE that they were drowning in their own guilt in a way which he would never be able to worsen. Their minds were always their worst enemies.

Brothers would never again hurt him.

He wanted- 

He wanted them back.

He wanted to have a family of his back. 

“I need you, I hate you, I love you, don’t leave-” his whispers were sometimes louder, sometimes quieter.

Feanor and Fingolfin took it all.

Arafinwe wasn’t sure, but- but he probably was healing. Thanks to his brothers. However it worked.

He wanted to stay with them in this place - cut off of the world - forever. 

Chapter Text

Returning to life was never truly an idea which came to them. Being stuck in Mandos’ Halls seemed to be their fate until the very time of recreating the world. Maybe a bit before, like during the last war against the darkness before the world’s new start.

But before?

Why would Mandos ever think about giving them a chance?

Feanor disobeyed the Valar, Fingolfin followed him and Arafinwe was, well, a mess in the best days. They were doomed once, but maybe Mandos just recalled something that Eru or any other power did even before? Maybe they were just fated to fall, to fail, to die-

Why re-embody the cursed elves?

Reasons were unknown, but Mandos did it. He gave them a new chance to live again in Valinor. As if they deserve it. 

Arafinwe was present a few times when someone dear to him was reembodied and then left the halls to return among elves. Relatives usually were informed to take a newly alive elf from a green, flat plain. Only grass was growing there around the calm, silent walls of the Mandos' Halls created from the white stones and pure, old magic of vala and Eru itself. Arafinwe, when he was still a King at Tirion, fading slowly day after day, had dreamed sometimes about being in front of the Mandos’ gates and taking his brothers and family back.

He could always recognize Mandos’ Halls, even while being freshly alive, heavy from sleepiness and strangely tired. 

Arafinwe and his brothers were not set free to a green, boring plains and walls of white stones.

They left Halls through the big, white gates and-

And the new gates, leading to the completely unknown place, appeared in front of them. 

“Maybe it’s the gates for Lorien’s Garden?” Fingolfin suggested slowly, looking around.

The two sided, wooden doors were connected not with a wall or any other sort of fence, but with the trees and bushes. Branches and vines created various amazing shapes. An idea about the garden of dream vala was pretty logical with such a view around. Feanor was silent for a while, thinking about it deeply, but then he shook his head.

“I was in the Garden many times to visit my mother- ” he said, involuntarily squeezing Arafinwe’s hand a bit too tightly. “And energy here is not vala-like.”

“Maybe it's some sort of special road?” Arafinwe decided to say his idea out loud. “We left Mandos, but we are somewhere between Valinor and Mandos until the moment we will pass this gate?” He explained.

“Actually- sounds like a very possible situation,” Fingolfin agreed. “So- we need to-”

Feanor just nodded. His senses were searching for whatever, familiar or not, but the only things which were returning to him was undeniable calmness. Not like a deep, dangerous calmness which could lure someone into a thousand-years long sleep or something, but the flow of a constant, soft stream. It was reaching them. As if it knew they were here and waited.

“Okay, go,” Arafinwe decided. He squeezed both Feanor and Fingolfin’s hands and made a first step forward.

The gate shivered and then moved, opening as they walked straight onto it. A blink of an eye later they stood in front of a house. There was no gate connected with the bushes and trees. The house was simple, builded from the wood and surrounded by the flowers in dozens of colors from all the sides. Red, orange, yellow, blue, purple, pink, white- 

“We started to worry!" A sweet, delicate voice called them. 

In front of them, just a step or two from the house’ doors, stood a woman clothed in a long, green dress sewn from very thin, delicate material. Her silver locks were braided and put into a bun secured with a pastel blue wreath.

“Celebrian?” Confused Arafinwe asked slowly.

His granddaughter didn’t have her veil on. He could count even the smallest, pink scars on her silver face and neck. It was the first time when he was able to see so much of her uncovered. “Oh, my dear Celebrian-”

“Come in, grandfathers,” she chirped, smiling sweetly. “We were considering going forward to escort you from the Halls, but Lord Namo promised to make sure you’ll find a way home,” she continued talking as they joined her. 

Celebrian was sweet and very enthusiastic, it was as easy to walk through the simple, wooden corridors with her as breathing. Feanor and Fingolfin weren't sure exactly why they were called “her grandfathers” just as Arafinwe, but they didn’t dare to ask. Ara looked so happy and relieved because of Celebrian’s presence that it would be only ungrateful and rude to mess up the situation. They could ask later.  

For sure not in the nearest hour or two; wonderful scents of true food filled the air.

Fingolfin thought he might cry, smelling the familiar scents of the dumplings and soups he hadn't tasted for the millenia. Feanor cried. He tried to hide it by wiping his cheeks carefully with a gray material of a simple, plain shirt he got from Mandos. The sleeve looked slightly wet because of it.

Fingolfin squeezed his brother’s hand tightly to comfort him wordlessly.

Celebrian brought them to the comfortable dining room with a table which could suit at least twenty elves at once. There were two. A man in a brown tunic, whose hair was braided symmetrically, in one of the traditional, noldor ways. He was filling the five cups with the wine from a simple, dark bottle.

It was something with a very rich, herbal scent. Fingolfin felt an almost desperate need to taste it and learn if the wine changed through the millenia he was in Mandos.

The second elf was sitting already. His gray hair was tied in a loose bun with a thick hair pin decorated with a six-pointed star. He wore an indigo shirt with a ship embroidered on his chest.

“Husband, Maglor,” Celebrian called them both. “Grandfathers managed to find a way,” she informed happily.

An elf clothed in a brown tunic walked to them. Every step forward to them was only unveiling that he apparently was a grandson of Fingolfin. He had something in the shape of his eyes and a smile. Feanor would recognize it everywhere even before Halls. Fingon had it, and Turgon, Aredhel- all the children of Fingolfin had such strange, hard to describe “something” in their faces. But he couldn’t be only Fingolfin’s grandson. At his forehead was the eight-pointed star of Feanor. It was a very old tiara which he himself created for his firstborn son. Perhaps he was also related to Maedhros?

“Grandfathers,” elf spoke with a soft, delicate smile and Feanor recognized the waves of calmness and stability he sensed before. They were all his. They were like an invisible coat on a young elf’s arms, like the treads from which his whole being was sewn- “My name is Elrond Peredhel. It’s good to have a chance to meet you all here.”

“Sweet as always, baby star,” the second elf laughed dry, but with pure joy, coming to them. Only when he had stood in front of them, Feanor recognized his own child in a tired, tanned face and two deeply grey eyes. Maglor looked as if he walked through hell and managed to crawl from there barely a few days before, not longer. He seemed to be smaller, for sure way too thin-

“Kano-” Feanor reached with hand before he froze. Maglor might not want to be touched by a father who brought a curse upon his head. He took hand back. “Kano, I- I am glad to see you alive,” he managed to say, keeping the whole desperate relief and crying as tightly away as possible.

“You fool-!” Maglor hissed and Feanor screamed when the - way too little - burden of his son hugged him, squeezing his body as tightly as possible. “You damn fool, even now you will play a hard guy?!”

Maglor didn’t hesitate. He cried.

“Please,” Elrond called in a soft tone. “Come to the table. We prepared food and miruvor for you all. It will give you more strength. Returning elves are always sleepy and tired for the first days.”

“We also need to tell you about the house,” Celebrian said, leading Arafinwe to the table. Fingolfin, not sure how to behave toward Elrond, looked at him with shock and admiration. He would touch him, embrace him, follow him to the table, but- he looked down, at his brother’s fingers squeezing his hand. They were unbreakably keeping themselves together like this for a very long time. He felt fear at the thought of breaking it.

“Atya,” Elrond looked at Maglor. “Please, let them go to the table. We all should eat dinner.”

“But-”

“Eladar will return from the sky in a month, not tomorrow. You will have plenty of time to talk with grandfather,” Elrond promised. “Eladar would never be mad even if we would return late to welcome him in the white tower,” he added.

Maglor slowly made a step back, freeing Feanor from his embrace. 

When they all sat down around the table, Fingolfin got his portion of a wine and - sadly - learned that it was not a wine. It was something that Elrond and Celebrian were calling miruvor. Apparently it was some sort of medicine. Strange, because it tasted good in a herbal-spicy way. Very good. Maglor chuckled, looking around at their faces, he clearly expected their surprise and was more than happy to see it.

“When we asked about your return among the living elves, Lord Namo was not entirely sure, but he also wasn’t against the idea,” Elrond said with a soft smile. He was, apparently, a calm person with a kind nature. What was very strange among Finweans, really. They all were usually chaotic and energetic. “He might mention that someone ruined a few of his corridors and tapestries, what was making him sad,” he continued his explanation. 

“It was important to find Ara,” Feanor explained himself immediately in a sharp tone. He wasn’t able to reach Arafinwe from his place, but he relaxed seeing that young Celebrian was still keeping his brother’s hand. She noticed his stare and smiled at him. Her smile was warm, filled with love.

“Lord Namo agreed to free you but under a condition that you’ll not live among elves until you truly heal. He was not seeing a chance for it in his corridors nor the garden of his brother.”

What was a surprisingly smart observation as for a vala, Feanor thought.

“I found this little valley in the forest for you,” Maglor admitted. “I noticed it from the sky while sailing with Earendil.”

“I projected the house,” Celebrian said. She was proud of herself. And she was supposed to be. The house looked very nice from the outside and gave them much comfort since they entered it. Probably because of how empty it was. Clear. Not cluttered. Ready to be- to be filled by them with the things they might want to put here. It might be a silly detail, but it was important.

“And I,” Elrond looked at them all, one by one, as if it was enough to see their souls just a few hours ago hidden again in the new bodies. “Make sure that you will have the things that might help you heal. I created a garden with flowers, fruits and vegetables about which you can care, brought the newest books to the library so you have the chance to learn what you missed and - of course - I also prepared a forge.”

“Forge?” Feanor looked at Elrond with a hope. 

“As long as you will not create any powerful, magical object, you are free to use it.”

“He argued with Mandos about it,” Maglor said. “It was a long argument, damn, I had fun. His parents were near a heart attack, but I guess that they were used to it already. Baby star is your healer from now on, by the way.”

“I am also your healer, Atya. I noticed that you are not eating enough, better don’t think that I didn’t.”

“Let me get the things straight,” Arafinwe spoke slowly. “We got this house and the whole valley around and we can do whatever, excluding visiting elves and forging magical artifacts.”

Elrond Peredhel smiled brightly. “Exactly,” he said.

“But what with you?” Feanor looked at his son, not sure what answer he wanted to get.

“I’ll stay here for the next few days with my son and Celebrian to make sure you are okay. Then I need to go back. I am sailing on the night sky with Earendil now. It’s… easier than dealing with elves and valar. I left him this time only to see you alive.” 

Feanor slowly nodded.

“He will visit from time to time. Eladar is not in the sky for the whole time. His ship needs to be checked and repaired from time to time too,” Elrond said. 

“Our children?” Fingolfin dared to ask. Arafinwe left Celebrian to stand behind his brothers and put hands carefully on their tensed arms.

Different from him, they were mostly unaware about the paths and fates of their sons and a daughter. Tapestries calmed the biggest fears they had, but it seemed to be nothing now.

“All of them needed to heal too, just like you,” Elrond sighed heavily as if he was tired at the very thought of it. “They are- they are trying their best, but the new life didn’t work as well as the valar probably thought it would. I can’t lie to you. Most of them are messed up, Maedhros and Fingon are almost inseparable, Finrod, Celegorm and Curufin created a very strange three-sided addiction, Aredhel threw a vase at me once- but they are alive. And they work their best. You tried to support them and it really helped much,” he looked up at Arafinwe. “They would be worse without you. I can tell.”

Arafinwe slowly nodded, but didn’t say a word. He needed to think about everything.

Much later, when the night came and they all left the dining room, time to think and worry came.

Arafinwe crawled to the blue bed in the blue room dedicated to him. It was way prettier and comfortable than the King’s chamber. Someone painted flowers on the walls and put various nicely scented candles everywhere where it was possible. He lit one of them. It had a nice, mint scent which eased the discomfort and feeling of tiredness. 

Steps took him out of the thoughts perfectly at the time to see Fingolfin crawling to the bed in front of him and feel Feanor’s warmth hugging him from behind.

He sighed and smiled weakly.

“Good night,” he decided to say and two sleepy, tired voices replied. It was more like two murmurs brushing into his skin than anything else. He could take it. He felt a thousand times better with them.

Elrond probably will call them addicted to each other's presence too in the future, and probably he would be right. But it was a problem for them in the future. He snuggled his nose into ebony locks of Fingolfin and closed his eyes.

Some true sleep was the only thing he wanted after the unknown time of being dead.