#but he only saw his grandfather’s body and only had stories from aredhel and turgon

[fistfuloflightning]

Hello, Grandfather. Hope you don’t mind company today.

[surpassingvalour]

grief, in isolation

for anon, who requested “angsty nolofinweans after fingolfins death”

~

Fingon didn’t get to say goodbye.

That was what kept coming back to him: again and again he lost those he loved, never getting the chance to give them a last farewell. His mother hadn’t been able to face him after the Kinslaying; he’d been in the middle of a pointless spat with Arakáno right before he was killed; Turukáno and Írissë and Itarillë had vanished without warning, the better for the secrecy and security of Turno’s kingdom, he said in the letter he left behind.

What a load of horse shit. Secrecy be damned, Fingon missed his family. He didn’t know if they’d made it safely to Ondolindë, what had befallen them there, if Itarillë had gotten up the courage to kiss that girl she’d been so enamoured with before she abandoned her, too—

And now he’d lost his father also. Fingolfin hadn’t even left a note like Turukáno. He’d just...left. Charged into battle with no care for anyone other than himself—no, not even for himself. An eagle had been spied carrying his body away, and if it truly was Thorondor as the rumors said, well. Fingon would have words with him about that. He didn’t even get a body to bury. Why would Thorondor return Fingolfin’s corpse to Hithlum when it would be safer in Ondolindë?

He had Maedhros, at least, to comfort him. Maedhros who had lost his own father centuries before, Maedhros who loved him more than he deserved, Maedhros who Fingon trusted would never, ever leave without a goodbye. Not after the last time.

But aside from Maedhros, Fingon was alone.

~

Turukáno knelt by the cairn he had built with his own hands. Sorontar had watched, solemn and silent, as he had dismissed the watchers and tended to the broken form of his father’s body with his own hands. It was not beneath the King of Ondolindë to honor his father like this, even if Ñolofinwë had not also been High King of the Ñoldor.

He even turned aside Itarillë, urging her to keep Maeglin away from the sight. It was not fair that the lad would never meet his grandfather, but Turukáno did not want Maeglin’s only memory of Ñolofinwë to be the bruised and battered thing he was in death.

Now the work was done, and his hands ached. His robes were stained with dirt, his cheeks with tears, his heart with yet another grief. It was too much, too much. And he was alone—by choice he was alone. He had banished his daughter and his nephew to spare them this misery, shunned his friends and lords when they offered to help. This was something he had to do by himself, no matter how it pained him.

He was so lonely in Ondolindë. This was his glorious kingdom, a living memory of Tirion upon Túna, and he was proud of it, proud of his people—and he was so alone. Elenwë was dead; Írissë was dead; Arakáno was dead; Ñolofinwë was dead. All that remained of his family were Itarillë, sweet Itarillë who he loved more than anything, and Maeglin, the ill-fated child he tried to love in his sister’s place.

And Findekáno, somewhere out there, rising to take the throne. Turukáno should be there, standing beside him, supporting him, and yet—

And yet he had risked everything to create this place of safety. He could not leave, not even for Findekáno’s sake. Not when letting Írissë roam free had led to her misery and death.

At least he had a grave to mourn by. Findekáno did not have even that.

~

Itarillë’s hands shook as she attempted to make her words as smooth and elegant upon the page as they once had been. She breathed deep, and still they trembled. But she pressed on regardless, because she needed to write this letter. She had to let her uncle Findekáno know that his father had been laid to rest.

Her father did not allow communications from the outside world. But Sorontar was here, and Grandfather Ñolofinwë was dead, so surely this would be an exception. Itarillë’s heart broke at the thought of Uncle Finno all alone without any family to comfort him—any family but Maitimo, that was. And though she was not as resentful of her Fëanárion cousins as her father, gone were the days where she smiled and sat on Uncle Maitimo’s lap and read him stories written by her mother. She could not muster hatred for him, but neither could she muster love.

Dearest Uncle Findekáno, she wrote, and then paused. Was it alright to write in Quenya? She knew her uncle went by Fingon now, that with Thingol’s ban upon their tongue everyone outside of Ondolindë had changed their names...but surely an Eagle-borne message would not be scrutinized by the King of the Sindar. Then again, if she ever hoped to leave these walls, she ought to practice her Sindarin.

Dearest Uncle Fingon, she tried again, this time in Sindarin. Yes, this was better; it took more effort to think in this second language, which meant she could not spend so much energy purely upon grief.

I write to you because my father will not. I am certain you know this already, but your father and my grandfather, High King Ñolofinwë Fingolfin, has perished...

Itarillë wrote until her hands cramped and her mind went blank—and then she threw the letter in the fire. How could she write to Uncle Finno now, about her grandfather, when he didn’t even know his sister, too, was dead?

~

Maeglin was used to the stares. He was different, an outsider, the only newcomer to Gondolin since its foundation. At least, the only newcomer who yet lived. Everyone seemed to discount Eöl.

So of course people stared at him. It wasn’t all bad; many of them were just curious. And they got used to him after a time, especially when he started to work in the forge and they came to appreciate him for his craft. And then the king his uncle had declared him a Lord of Gondolin, with all the pomp and circumstance that entailed, and people looked to him as some sort of leader instead of a stranger. He still wasn’t quite used to that.

But these stares—this time they unsettled him.

They weren’t looking at Maeglin, Eöl’s son, the stranger, the half-Avari changeling, the boy who flinched from loud noises and couldn’t stay long out in the sun. They weren’t looking at Lómion, Írissë’s boy, the poor royal orphan, the young man who stuttered through his Quenya and couldn’t make any friends. They weren’t looking at Maeglin the smith or even at Lord Maeglin of the House of the Mole.

No, for the first time, people stared at Prince Maeglin, grandson of Fingolfin, the castaway heir of a broken throne.

Maeglin had never met Fingolfin. Turgon hadn’t even let him see the body. He didn’t know if he resembled his grandfather, if Fingolfin would have loved him or hated him, if he would have been welcomed into the great Ñolofinwëan family as Aredhel’s son. And now even the unrealistic fantasy of meeting those relatives of his who still lived was being crushed.

He only had the one grandfather. Eöl had been one of the Unbegotten, fatherless, woken at Cuiviénen. That had seemed wondrous and exciting when Maeglin was a child, and Eöl had for once been happy to talk about the past, eager to remind his son that he, too, had woken alongside Finwë and made the journey west. Only he was braver and better than any Ñoldo, because he had done it alone.

But Maeglin had loved his mother’s stories more, when it came down to it, though the legends were not as grand when he saw them up close. He didn’t feel like Fingolfin’s grandson, not when he’d never met the ellon. And now he never would.

~

Anairë hadn’t known who to go to when she felt her marriage bond break. Eärwen still had her husband, the Valar had doomed Ñolofinwë to his fate, most of her old friends had left with her husband when he marched away from her. It had been centuries—she had tried to move on—she had closed their bond long ago. She didn’t expect it to hurt so much when he died. She didn’t even expect to know.

In the end there was only one person she could talk to. But drawing Nerdanel out of isolation was not an easy task.

The first years after the Flight of the Ñoldor were hectic and dreadful. Nerdanel, Anairë, and Eärwen had stuck close together for survival, but when things began to settle down... Well, Anairë and Eärwen had always been closer to each other than to Fëanáro’s wife. They loved Nerdanel, of course, but...well. She had distanced herself from the line of Finwë even before her husband’s rebellion. And her husband...

And so they drifted apart. Anairë never felt alone, not with Eärwen, and later, not with Arafinwë, too. How strange that her husband’s little brother would welcome her into his bed! Such a fate was not one she could have predicted when she married Ñolofinwë. She had believed then that they would never be parted, that strangeness of Míriel and Finwë and Indis was unique. She knew better now.

And yet: Eldarin marriage was forever. The bond had broken with Ñolofinwë’s death—she didn’t even know how he had died—but it was still there, just...in pieces. Anairë didn’t know how to start reassembling them, if she even could.

Nerdanel’s house was empty the first time she worked up the courage to visit. The second time, her once-sister turned her away. The third time, however, Nerdanel invited her inside.

It was awkward and painful and confusing. But Nerdanel confirmed what Anairë had guessed: yes, this meant Ñolofinwë was dead. No, it would not be possible to rebuild their bond, not with him still confined to Mandos’ Halls.

“But,” Nerdanel had said bitterly, “your husband was a valiant king. I have faith that he will be released someday.”

Anairë did not need to ask about her opinion on Fëanáro’s fate. She, too, had known the Spirit of Fire.

The visit was worth it, though it did not bring peace to her heart. At least now Anairë knew that she was not alone in her strange grief, supposed to be foreign to the Blessed Realm.

And Ñolofinwë would return to her, someday. She just didn’t know if she would return herself to him.

~

[also available on AO3]