#and he becomes the part of ranna that remains (her instead of kibeth in this au; melian just isn't a walker)

[tanoraqui]

The last sons of Fëanor and their forces came to Sirion with blood-hungry blades and the acrid burn of Free Magic, and the ringing of deathly bells. Not a single charter mark was left uncorrupted in that fallen house. Worst of all, they came with a monster of white fire, which leapt ahead of their army with predatory glee.

The Abhorsen was not there to guard his city. He had sailed up the coast seeking aid, seeking refugees, seeking anyone who might be left in the darkening land beyond the wall, which darkened a little more each day as Orannis's strength grew. (Soon, the Ninth Bright Shiner's full power would return, and nothing left in the world would be able to stop him from destroying all that he hated, which was everything.)

He'd left his sword with his wife, the Charter marks still shining bright under the ever-clouded sky. She was the heir of Ranna-that-remained (though that queen remained no more) - so bells might have served her well, but even the Abhorsen's blessed blade didn't suit the power of the gentle Sleeper. She leapt with it into the sea, rather than let the fallen princes steal the heirloom at last.

The entity of white flame picked idly through the ashes and refuse of the refugee city. It was vaguely humanoid, though its limbs twisted and stretched at its whim. It batted a fallen tower-stone around like a cat with a toy. It did the same with a few corpses, but stopped more quickly, and set them to the side.

In a one-room house, it found a woman still alive, leaning heavily on a doused stove with one hand pressed to her bleeding side. It spoke to her in a voice that snapped and cracked like lightning as well as flame: "Go swiftly, child. You won't like what's coming if you stay."

Though clumsy with blood loss, she raised her dagger and tried to stab it. The entity's laugh crackled as it caught her arm. Still laughing. It broke first her wrist, then her shoulder, then, as she gasped in pain, her neck.

"Remember what I said!" it called as she faded helplessly into Death.

A muffled squeak of horror came from a large travel chest shoved against the opposite wall. The entity cocked its head curiously, then prowled across the room with all the confidence of a predator which knew its prey was cornered.

It yanked the chest apart entirely, tearing it in half between two burning white arms and crumbling the pieces. Two boys spilled out, identically dark-haired and fine-featured, about six years old. Only one was awake; the other was limp and bleeding from the temple, a stray blow in the madness of battle. Yet conscious and unconscious alike they clung to one another, and the wakeful child glared up at the monster with all the savage fury of a terrified child.

The being of Free fire recoiled.

"No," it hissed. "No! They had time to breed?"

It was about to sink blazing, dagger-sharp spines into both children where Sareneth rang deep and demanding from outside the little house, and a hoarse but strong voice only a little less accustomed to command called, "Mogget! Stop playing with your food and come face us!"

The entity stopped, attention briefly yanked toward the door. Then with a shiver of light it broke free and reached again for the children with merciless intent.

The bell sang out again, this time joined by Kibeth, and two voices called it out. The entity, which was still known as Mogget, was again caught for a moment - but an even shorter moment this time.

But still it stopped, and cocked its head toward the door.

"Only two, now," it murmured to itself. "Yes..." It smiled, which was a terrible thing to behold on a thing with no real face. "Two, I think I shall manage quite well."

With an almost gentle touch, save for the acrid burn of raw Free Magic, it swooped down and scooped the boys up in its arms, and deposited them unharmed on the very ragged mattress beside the shards of the chest. The wakeful one hugged his brother even tighter, trying to shield him.

The Mogget chuckled, and patted him on the heard.

"Wait here, little pests," it purred - a snapping, crackling purr, but a purr unmistakably. "I'll have you for dessert."

Then it darted out a shattered window.

Shouts greeted it immediately, and more ringing of bells - necromancer's bells, which had never known a Charter mark. Light flashed and cracked like a rainless storm, a rich voice rose to accompany the bells in song, and fire sizzled against cold steel. On the ragged mattress, the wakeful boy first looked around for somewhere else he could drag his brother to hide - for he had no desire whatsoever to be 'desert.' But when Astariel herself joined the chorus of battle, he just just clapped his hands over his ears and buried his face in his brother's blood-stained hair with a sob, and through muffled tears begged him to wake up.

However soft, his cries were loud in the echoing silence that followed the Weeper's ring. The second boy stirred, tears staining his cheeks, too, and murmured, "'lrond?"

The wakeful twin's weeping redoubled. Before he could reply, however, both froze at a terrible shriek from the street outside. The soul-piercing scream came closer without moving and they clutched each other tight. Then it faded into a cate's enraged yowl, merely ear-piercing.

Elrond leapt to his feet, and resumed looking around frantically.

"'Ros, he have to hide," he whispered. "We have to - "

Elros caught sight of their nursemaid on the floor, unmoving with her bloody side and twisted neck. He shoved his fist in his mouth to muffle a cry, and let his brother drag him into the corner beside the potbelly stove - the closest thing to a hiding spot, with escape blocked by voices approaching the single door.

A giant pushed it open, or close enough to a giant - a seven-foot-tall man in heavy armor with vividly copper hair tied back for battle. His armor was singed blood-splattered and his skin pale from the iciness of Death. But he moved unflinchingly and his single mailed hand held a long sword that sparked with red lightning and reeked of Free Magic.

A monster, at any rate - these children knew what Maedhros, Fëanor's eldest son, was said to look like. He was one of their mother's nightmares.

Another followed him - another son, another nightmare. The Dark Singer, Maglor the necromancer, bells all slung across his chest save for the sixth, which he held ready to ring. Ice was still melting off his armor.

At Maglor's heels came a small white cat in a red collar, complaining, " - waste your time, when reinforcements could arrive from Balar in - "

He saw the boys crouching by the cold stove and cursed in a language older than anyone else present could comprehend. It sounded a great deal like hissing.

Maedhros raised one cynical eyebrow. He continued stalking forward with a foreboding frown.

Elrond flinched back. It was Elros's turn to scowl fiercely up at the enemy.

"Nelyo, don't scare them." Maglor elbowed Maedhros aside and crouched in front of the twins. He sheathed Saraneth and displayed his empty hands with a gentle smile.

"Hey there," he said. His was the rich, warm voice. "We're not going to hurt you. Don't mind my brother, he's just grumpy. He's had a rough day. I bet you have too, hmm?"

There was blood on his teeth and lulling power in his hum. On raw instinct, Elros shrieked in jarring disharmony.

Quick as a flash, Maglor drew tinkling Ranna and sang Saraneth in harmony. Already exhausted from grief and fear, both children collapsed bonelessly.

"'Don't scare them,'" Maedhros quoted dryly as the echoes faded. His was the hoarse voice, rough from ancient scars.

"Shut up," Maglor said irritably. Bell still held high, he leaned forward and fished the scowlier child out of the tangle of immature limbs. He ran his fingers carefully along the boy's bloody scalp and pronounced, "Just a cut."

He turned the boy's face toward the dim light from the broken window. "Those are Turgon's eyebrows, right? And his nose, a little?" He added conscientiously, "Also, the silver keys on their tunics."

"Mogget," said Maedhros, looking back - but the cat had disappeared. His jaw tightened.

"He'll be back," said Maglor. "It's us or Eärendil - especially if we have the Abhorsen-in-waiting."

He gathered one twin over each shoulder and stood with a grunt. Their bodies lay limp but warm against his armor. The last bits of ice had melted.

"Much use, any of them," Maedhros said bitterly. "With no bells, no book, not even the bloody sword..."

Already across town from their recurring arguments, the small white cat stalked an engagingly plump rat through some battle-torn turf...and lost it when the bell on his collar suddenly chimed in a strong gust of wind. He sat back and began to wash himself in the universal sign of a cat who meant to do that, no really.

Damn bells! Damn bindings! Damn infant Abhorsens! He couldn't wait for Orannis to finish waking completely and tear them all to shreds!

Though, he could admit, the ninth note on the scale, far beyond petty mortal perception, which permeated matter and mind alike with ever-increasing intensity and goaded destruction as Ranna whispered sleep or Saraneth demanded obedience...and kept the sky so damn cloudy all the time; he hadn't had a really good sunbeam in years... He didn't like that, either. It set his fur on end, even on the pleasant occasions when he wasn't confined to fur.

Old Kingdom au!Fëanor wants to he Abhorsen like his father before him so bad that it makes him look stupid. He wants to be Abhorsen like his father before him so bad that he makes an entirely new set of Charter-infused necromantic bells just to prove that he can wield such powerful, important, approximately sacred tools. He manages this because he is, of course, a Wallmaker, not an Abhorsen. They do become the Abhorsen’s main set henceforth, after the originals are destroyed when Fingolfin tries to 1v1 Orannis.

Hm, actually, the relationship between divinities and people is all but inverted between these two media. I need to think about this some more.