#working on silm fic

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared more as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence drive his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go further. The next village is Elwê’s. His brothers lead. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lakeshore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. Look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.” 

[blueflipflops]

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

[haleth]

The Bachelor: Nargothrond coming soon! (The Bachelor is Túrin. Everyone dies.) Flower meanings under the cut!

Aeglos (I based its appearance off of gorse flowers)- A fictional flower that grows near her grave and has the same name as Gil-Galad's spear (cause who doesn't love a Fin-Galad hc)

Carolina Roses- Love is dangerous (this one feels self evident)

Hemlock- You will be my death (...)

[an-eldritch-peredhel]

You are the daughter of an angelic faerie and an elven king. You have grown up inside the only magical safe-haven of an increasingly apocalyptic land outside. You have wanted for nothing, essentially leading the perfect life, suffering and death playing little role beyond the abstract. Your father will never die, and your mother will never leave, but for tradition you are still crown princess and are educated as such. You love to dance and to sing.

You meet some kind of monster inside your mother's borders, a monster not of her or your making. It stumbled across you, dancing in the forest, bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as it stares. You are stronger than it, but you run rather than lunge for the kill. You feel pity, more than fear. And something about him makes the part of you that you inherited from your mother sing.

He tries to follow you, for a year and a day. You are stronger, and faster, and stealthier, and you let him see you sometimes anyways. You are not convinced that he is not a monster, but nor are you convinced that he is.

Spring blooms again to the tune of your song, and you let him get closer than before until you run.

But you hear him speak for the first time. He is a speaker, and perhaps to him you are the monster. You do not run, and you do not kill.

He calls you "Tinuviel"

He calls you nightingale- a little songbird, plain and brown, with a lovely voice. They are your mother's creation, but he does not know this.

He calls you daughter of twilight- perhaps for your skin and eyes and hair, but perhaps because that is when he has seen you most.

He calls you singer- creator of the very fabric of the universe, skilled enough to deserve the title.

You are the most beautiful creature the world will ever see, the daughter of an angel and a king. He does not call you beautiful, or angelic, or princess. He calls you a singer, plain and brown, dark and distant as the approaching night.

He is bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as you dare to step closer.

He called you nightingale.

You don't know what to call him, but you hope to find out.

[havenotwillnotreadthebooks]

A sequel to my post about Just A Guy Gil-Galad.

Consider; Gil-Galad meeting the Sons of Feanor in Valinor, but he has no reaction to them at all because he’s been hearing ridiculous stories about the SoF from Elrond and Celebrimbor since forever.

Like,

Curufin, stone-faced while meeting his son’s blue-clad friend: Greetings, boy.

Gil-Galad, fresh outta fucks: You.-

Curufin, ready to be yelled at: -_-

Gil-Galad, completely serious: You’re the reason Celebrimbor didn’t know how taxes work!

*Flashback to Celebrimbor just sending A Lot of gems to Gil-Galad during tax season and calling it done*

Gil-Galad meeting the rest of the Sons of Feanor goes similarly.

[hirazuki]

I had completely forgotten that it was in Nan Elmoth that Thingol and Melian met, and that Thingol explicitly suffered an enchantment after wandering in, and that the enchantment still lay upon the forest when Aredhel entered it, years later; and it probably lasted until the breaking of Beleriand at the end of the First Age...

And now I'm entertaining a headcanon that the forest is Beleriand's Bermuda Triangle -- Thingol and Aredhel are the most notable missing person cases, yes, but there are many others who have gone into the forest or even just strayed too close to its borders and allegedly have never been seen again; travelers and merchants and hunters, all disappearing. It gains the reputation of being haunted or cursed (not in the horror-and-madness-walked terror of Dungortheb kind of way, but more in a less severe, urban legend kind of way); a bedtime story to frighten children; just enough for the more superstitious folk to willingly add a day or two to their journeys to avoid it, just in case, but not enough for the more pragmatically-minded to resist scoffing at the notion and thinking it absurd, leading to many arguments. Perhaps it becomes a favorite spot for dares among the younger elves, challenging each other to spend a night under the shadow of its trees Eol having to chase all these damn elflings that have started appearing off of his lawn, grandma-style

And even after Beleriand sinks under the waves, the rumors persist that there is an area upon the sea -- many days out and almost a direct shot westwards from the northernmost reaches of the Ered Luin -- where ships simply vanish. And if sailors of those vessels ever do reappear, drifting into port on wood that should be long-rotted or suddenly, inexplicably, finding themselves standing behind a market stall or sitting on an inn stool, they do so with no memory of what occurred; only the haziest dream-like recollection of deep twilight and birdsong.

[emyn-arnens]

A Sea-change

Tar-Míriel & Uinen | G | ~900 words | AO3

Mercy. Salvation. Míriel’s footsteps pound to the beat of her heart. Mercy. Salvation.

She is the rightful queen of Númenor. She is Faithful. She will not die like the accursed who gathered at the Temple of Melkor like flies to a carcass.

She must reach the flaming peak of Meneltarma, that the Valar might see her, know her to be Faithful, and save her.

She cannot look behind her. If she does, her heart will surely quail and her footsteps falter.

She looks despite herself. The wave rises in a green wall above Elenna. The blackened dome of the Temple of Melkor splinters beneath the weight of the water, cracks with a roar like an explosion of glass, and the sea purges the temple of its filth. The temple falls into the heart of the sea, marked only by the steam rising from where it stood.

She turns. The path climbs steeply ahead of her. She has so far to go.

The wind buffets her. Míriel falls, strikes her face hard against the earth as her ankle twists in a ring of searing fire. She tastes blood, spits it out. Rain streams in her eyes, and she scrubs a hand across her face, rubbing grit into her eyes. She screams—in fear, in helpless anger—but her voice is lost to the wind.

She scrambles upright, staggers, and limps forward. The peak is too far, her ankle alight with fire.

Still she runs, tearing blindly at her skirts until scraps of fabric hang in tatters about her waist. Her feet, slick with rain and blood, slap wetly against the path. Mercy. Salvation.

Her breath is fire in her lungs, and a cramp stabs her side. Water swirls about her ankles and tugs at the hem of her shift, pulling her back. This, too, she tears off, and it floats away from her, ghostly in the dark water.

The mountain shudders beneath her feet, throwing her stumbling into its side, and she scrabbles at the side of the cliff for purchase, lunges forward. Mercy. Salvation.

The ground rolls again, and Míriel falls to her knees, crying out in fear and supplication. Know me, I am Tar-Míriel, faithful and rightful queen of this land! But her cries are lost in the roar of the vengeful sea, her voice stolen by the wind and scattered over acres of rolling waves that hungrily swallow her words.

The water sweeps beneath her, lifts her up and carries her to where the peak of Meneltarma burns with divine fire, a beacon blazing furiously in the midst of the thrashing waves. Before her eyes close against the stinging waves, she catches sight of the sky, night-dark and lashed with lightning, and knows that no mercy has been reserved for her.

Water fills her mouth, her lungs in a burning rush. She cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot thrash against the unyielding grip of the water. Her limbs loosen and her body sags in the water, giving in to the furor of the waves. The embrace of the sea is a fierce shove and a tender caress, sterner and gentler than anything Míriel has known in life. 

With the clarity of the dying, she remembers suddenly every prayer she whispered to Uinen, huddled at the edge of the sea, murmuring penitent prayers for the misdeeds of her husband and her people as the waves lapped at her feet. The words well in her again, unspoken.

Darkness seeps beneath her eyelids like ink, and she welcomes it, falls into it. The waves brush her brow in the tenderest touch she has ever felt, and she knows no more.

Míriel sinks, a glimmering jewel falling into darkness.

She is dead, and she is not. Her body is no more. Where once she had arms, fingers, legs, and feet, she is now no more than seafoam, a stirring of the current, a tide propelling the waves. She is formless, voiceless but sees clearly and keenly through the green water that swirls about her.

A flash of gold catches her gaze. Ships of sable and gold sink slowly, their sails billowing to slow their fall. Men fall from their decks, their arms spread wide. Their armor glints dimly in the darkening water. In the center of the wreckage sinks the mightiest ship of them all, a floating castle, huge and many-masted, with many banners of sable and gold rippling from its masts.

Míriel draws closer. The king who boarded the ship in foolish, vain pride is gone, trapped beneath the hills in ceaseless torment. But his men remain aboard—his men who followed every order he uttered, who knelt in worship to Melkor, who gathered the Faithful and slew them on the altar of the temple, who stained Elenna with every drop of blood they spilled.

The sea churns, and the falling ships shudder. With voiceless laughter, Míriel seizes fore and aft of the Alcarondas and folds the ship in half until its timbers burst and its masts tangle and break and its banners flutter like torn rags. 

And she draws the Castle of the Sea into the deeps.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Dangerously close to plotting a real Skyrim/Lord of the Rings crossover for after Keeping Count because my secret desire for Leara/Glorfindel has reared its head again

Shhh Don't question it.

[whovianofmidgard]

Light Touched, Final Chapter snippets

I know the wait for the chapter upload is stretching out. Vacation and Life happened, while the chapter itself keeps getting longer than I had anticipated. I think I'll be able to finish in a few days, but for now, have some random snippets from different points in the chapter.

“Grandfather...” 

Maedhros stiffened, the cooking fire flickering wildly inside the pit, and his food fell back onto his plate. 

“You would call me that,” he formed the words slowly, voice tight. “Knowing well who I am and what I have done?” 

The son of Elrond soberly looked him in the eye, straight on. 

“I know of your deeds. However, I also know my father thinks back to his childhood fondly, most of the time. I know that my uncle’s descendants still carry the sword you once gifted him as an heirloom. I know my father would still call you ‘Atar’ if given the chance.” 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You are changed, her voice echoed in his mind as Galadriel initiated ósanwë. Not just in body, but all the way to the root of your fëa. You are no longer of elvenkind, but something else entirely. Unique. Singular in all of Creation. 

Not wholly singular, Maedhros thought back. Makalaurë is changed too, reshaped by music and water and by the light of the Silmaril. Though you are right in that he is still closer to being elven than I. 

Your brother... her tone in his head echoed and overlapped, once laced with disdain, once mildly amused, and once greatly annoyed. I have several words to say to him whenever I see him again. 

What did he do?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The captain of the ship could hardly stay still from excitement, for the news that he carried for his dearest wife was a joyous one indeed. The shining half-elf, not waiting for Vingilot to stop bobbing along the air currents, grasped one of the ropes and hopped onto the guard rail. With toes barely touching the rail Eärendil proceeded to hang off the side of the ship with only the rope to anchor him. 

“Elwing, my love!" He hollered over the winds trying to carry his voice away to Manwë only knows where. “Good news from the East! The best news from the very shores of Middle-earth!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elf had been pacing around the deck in big circles for the past half hour, feeling his agitation rise with each passing moment. It had been several weeks that they were sailing on the open seas, Maglor being fairly sure they were closing in on the two-month mark now, with no end in sight of their voyage. Two months of being enclosed in a boat with nowhere else to go. Two months of being so close to the water, his beloved domain, and yet not being allowed to touch it. 

(...) Finally reaching his breaking point, Maglor abruptly stopped his pacing and loudly announced, “I am going to swim the rest of the distance!” 

“What? Absolutely not!” Maedhros’ head whipped around.

[aregebidan]

Always thinking about a genre aware Maglor kidnapping the twins as a particularly self-destructive way of escaping the story he’s trapped in. I think he’d absolutely be the type of person to appreciate the supposed “poetic justice” of his “foster sons” eventually killing him—it would strike a nice balance between satisfying the “audience,” aka whatever part of him that believes it would be appropriate for him to have such a cruel end, and establishing that he wasn’t pure evil despite everything (the children he raised destroyed him = he had enough decency to raise them to be capable of striking him down).

Even if the twins’ own ideas about the concept of kinslaying would inhibit them from giving him a “clean end,” an absolute exit from the story, he spends his days during and after the War of Wrath secretly hoping for some kind of recompense from them. A singer views the world in terms of linear stories, requiring endings to give it meaning. He orphaned the twins and raised them to stand up for themselves, he taught them everything he knew, surely they will repay him by making him into a defeated villain and thus finally introducing some degree of fairness into his life-narrative? 

(But Elros could never confine himself to rules and conventions, and Elrond hasn’t spent years teaching himself to be a healer only to be trapped in the avenging-angel role that his captor/mentor has ascribed to him. The next time they meet, a sizeable part of his initial kindness stems from spite. Maglor took the twins because he was looking for a sufficiently poetic end. Elrond feels sorry for him, but he also adamantly refuses to give him any of the satisfaction.)

[squirrelwrangler]

The giant moth folded in on itself in some unfathomable fashion until a man stood in its place. Thin and pale, draped in a long loose wrap of gray fabric that mimicked the pattern of the moth’s wings, the man looked as elven as Oromë - that is to say, not at all. He was too tall and his skin too pale with the white sheen of an animal’s glossy coat. Bald as an egg, his face was smooth and oddly feminine, though his body and demeanor was clearly masculine. The most striking facial feature was a tattoo of a rabbit that curled down a cheekbone. Other Minyar body-markings could be clearly seen, accurate in their style, which sat oddly with the non-Minyar appearance that this Maia had chosen for himself. The thick double bands around his ankles and the single solid band below a ring of dots was the same group of markings that Elwë and Finwë had noticed on almost every adult Minya except for their friend.

“Tilion the Hunter,” the bald man said, bowing to the three elves.

“The one that Lord Arawê was searching for that he feared had been lost or captured,” Elwë said.

“The same,” Tilion answered. He smiled deeply, displaying a row of ivory teeth as pale as his skin and garments. “Those that thought to snare me were given ample time to regret it. Once they recovered from the sudden shock of their disembodiment. If they have. Some of Malikô’s servants are painfully stupid.”

The smile never shifted from jovial peace, and nothing in Tilion’s attire hinted at weaponry or martial proficiency - except those Minyar hunter marks and the unassailable confidence of his words.

[fistfuloflightning]

Hear me out. In an au where LACE doesn’t exist and the Valar are more like the Greek gods, Varda is Gil-galad’s mother. Fingon catches her eye and she pulls a Melian, except she leaves their son with him when she has to return to Valinor. Not sure how Manwe would feel. He’d be the Silm equivalent of Hera maybe, trying to off his wife’s children. Or maybe he’s the reason why the Eagles were never sent to Gil-galad’s aid during the Last Alliance.

[eri-pl]

Celegorm

Warnings: dark (not descriptive or sexual, but Sauron-typical levels of conceptually twisted), bad for Celegorm (I wouldn't call this take "critical", just… idk)

Another idea I will not write a fic for because I don't have the energy. Below the cut.

He misses Oromë so much. He misses the hunts, the aceptance, having a tribe, the simplicity. His brothers are … they're fine, but not exactly this. His followers even less so.

He hunts in the forests of Beleriand, of course, but there's no one to lead him. One day, something tall and white appears for just a moment, far away, among the trees. A smell of blood. the feeling of being watched.

He tries to track it, of course, but never manages to. It's a wolf,jusging from the tracks, but bigger than it should. Even Huan cannot track it. Often the dog seems to not see the wolf at all. Celegorm wonders if he's going crazy. And yet, he sometimes wanders alone, hoping to find the beast. One day he catches a closer glimpse of it, it's white-furred and the eyes, oh, the eyes… they look at him with so much understanding. They invite him to be accepted into a pack again. And Celegorm agrees.

The wolf dissapears and the next few months are terrible, lonely and dark.

Then, one day, the feeling of being seen from the shadow of the far trees returns, and with it, the dreams. Dreams of the hunt.

It is like with Orome, only better. More real. He is with a pack, he is with friends. He recognizes one of his followers in the dream, and then, during the day, they exchange looks and he knows. He knows the other one knows. They're now members of the pack, closer than with any other of the Elves surrounding them. Then another, and another. Curufin sometimes joins them too, however he's mostly in the back, he never enjoyed hunting that much.

Soon all his closer followers eitehr dream with him, or grow distant, even leave.

The dreams are not regular, they don't happen on every hunting trip. Still, the waking hours seem pale in comparision. The real hunt happens in the night. they chase…. creatures. Those are creatures. Two-legged, rugged, pale in the moonlight. Their blood tastes so sweet.

Those are just dreams; every morning Celegorm wakes up clean, peaceful, in the company of his dog (they grow distant, why wouldn't Huan follow him in the night?). those are just dreams. But they could be more.

But they could be more. When Celegorm catches two of his followers returning to the camp, in the daylight, with expressions he instantly recognizes, he does not ask about the blood. He forbids everyone to mention it. Maedhros would never forgive him (it is Celegorm's own thought, why wouldn't it be?)

He lievs for the dreams now. And for the Silmarils. But mostly, the dreams.

One day he finds the courage to ask, to ask the white-haired majestic hunter leading them in the night: "I… remembered you taller."

The hunter laughs. "Oh, my master unfortunately cannot come with us, even though he would love to. They would not let him. So he sent me instead."

Celegorm blushes (it was a stupid question; he blushes so easily) but it is fine, all is fine, the pack loves him, the pack accepts him, and the blush is soon impossible to see, covered by the blood.

[that-angry-noldo]

hi noldo!! in case you're interested: 18 for eonwe/finarfin pls?

18: as an encouragement

"After that, we had them at our mercy; and since our mercy is not much, all of them were dead very soon."

Eönwë hummed lowly, shifting his head to lay more comfortably on Finarfin's shoulder. The pose was intimate enough to provoke questions if anyone decided to return to the tent; but Eönwe knew no one would. That much knowledge of the future he was granted.

He covered Finarfin's hand with his own; and Finarfin smiled, a rare and priceless thing.

"Only a few wounded on our part," he continued, and Eönwë heard a grain of pride in his voice. "We have not known such success ever since we put a foot on these lands."

And that was a matter of great joy; Eönwë felt it pulse through Finarfin's spirit as surely as he felt his blood course through his veins. It was rare, to see the king like this; rare and priceless, and Eönwë treasured the moment.

Yet still weariness was written in Finarfin's voice, and Eönwë hummed, sound low in his chest.

"Well?" Finarfin asked, tilting his head to eye the Herald. "I am yet to hear your thoughts."

Eönwë did not hurry to answer. In the dim light of the tent he took a moment to memorise the blush of Finarfin's cheeks, the softness of his eyes, the crooked, almost stiff honesty of his smile; took some time to store the image deep inside his heart.

He brushed his thumb against Finarfin's hand. "What is there to say? You deserve every ounce of praise you received today, king," he said, and straightened. "I have nothing to add."

"Nothing!" Finarfin exclaimed, raising his eyebrows. "And yet one praise from you would be worth all the words spoken to me today."

He was jesting, Eönwë knew; yet there was no lie in his words, either.

"King," he said. "You are dear and brilliant to me no matter what you do; I thought I need not voice it to you."

Finarfin scrunched his nose. "You are incredibly dull," he complained, and Eönwë could not find his words anything but amusing. But it was good, for Finarfin to be in such spirits; so Eönwë did not mind. "Ought you not at least tell me you are proud?"

Eönwë smiled, looking down at Finarfin's face. "If that is what you want me to do."

Something flickered through Finarfin's face; something hopeful, or fearul, disappearing as quick as it came. He smiled when Eönwë touched his face; cupped Eönwë's hand with his own.

There was doubt now, in Finarfin's spirit; a treacherous thing, eating away at the joy of his mind. Eönwë pretended he did not see it.

Finarfin's lips quirked upwards when Eönwë neared him; he held his breath when Eönwë brushed his lips at his temple. Eönwë held him close, body and spirit; wrapped his thoughts around him, banishing any insecurity, any doubt.

"Beloved," he said. "Dear heart. You are dearest to me than any victory; only you I love best."

"I just—fear, that is it," Finarfin breathed, eyes closing. "That it is all wrong, and that—that next battle shall devastate us."

"Oh," Eönwë said, and could not stop the knowledge of his mind from slipping off his lips. "There are defeats in your future for sure, love; but there are victories too, and in greater number. And you are there." He pulled him into an embrace; wrapped his arms around him, inhaled the scent of his neck. "You are there, between it all, in defeat and victory equally bright, equally graceful. Oh, Valar. What would I do without you, Noldóran."

And then it was easy, to tilt Finarfin's face; to stop just shy of his lips before Finarfin closed that distance, to feel so oddly embodied yet distanced at the same time. Finarfin's spirit trembled at his touch, like a candle to a slightest breath; and the desire of his mind Eönwë met with steadiness, seeing to every thought, every insecurity.

Graceful, and brave, and beautiful, he said, thoughts mingling in their joining, gold and silver, fire and steel. And I will be by your side in everything, defeat and victory both.

When they parted, Finarfin smiled; and Eönwë thought that alone was worth the war, and the suffering, and restless nights.

What would I do without you, he thought, only to himself now. Valar, what would I do.

[thecoolblackwaves]

C+C Week @candcweek is here!!!!! So excited 😁😁 Here's the first chapter of a a marriage/mpreg crackfic cause these two are absolutely ridiculous

[hirazuki]

Impressive WIP list, my friend! May I know some more about "Eönwë's camp"? (Yes, I am predictable x))

Thank you!! ("impressive" lmao more like I have the attention span of a hamster XD) And absolutely nothing wrong with being predictable, so are we all ♡

I fear that I've misled you with the title, though... Eönwë's camp is the setting, yes, but our favorite herald doesn't actually make an appearance ^^; It's a what-if scenario at the end of the First Age, of what if Mairon, after his plea to Eönwë failed, was making his escape from his camp at the same time as Maedhros and Maglor were sneaking in to take the Silmarils, and they briefly crossed paths. Here's a snippet:

“Third tent on your right,” he says in a low voice. “That blue one.”  Maedhros does not thank him, and Mairon does not wait. He turns his back – and if that is yet another unwise decision, it is merely the latest in a long line; he has been acting out of character since waking up with salt water in his mouth and seaweed in his hair and loss in his throat and his soul, and, if anything, he should thank Maedhros for grounding him, for his presence has shaken him up and brought him to his senses – and continues making his escape. He curls his left hand in front of his abdomen, fingers ready to call forth a spell – just in case. (He is without his sword; they took it, and he cannot risk being caught to reclaim it, though its absence is carving into him with every step as surely as if it was the star-forged blade itself.) “They’ve put the fire out!” he hears a new voice whisper. “We don’t have much time until – brother, who was that?” Mairon tenses.  “No one,” Maedhros says after a heartbeat, his voice low and even. “Come, they’re this way.” He hears their footsteps making for the tent he indicated. Later, sitting at a table in a room full of things he despises, driven there by road-weariness and the need for information, he will overhear how the last of Fëanor’s sons reclaimed their Silmarils only for them to burn their hands, the eldest throwing himself into a fiery chasm. And, in his dark corner, he will imperceptibly lift his flagon of wretched dwarven ale – the only drink to be found at wayside inns this close to the mountains – in acknowledgment of the only member of that race in whom he had glimpsed a similar spirit. And he will allow himself a moment of sentimentality to think of him, falling into the earth, and of Fëanor, who was consumed until nothing was left but ash, and wonder if, in the end, fire always calls back its own. Much, much later – at the end of everything, with fumbling fingers and crumbling rock and the melting of metal – he will remember this. But this is the First Age, still, if only barely, and for all his powers and his skill, Mairon cannot tell the future. A smile cuts across his face – in gratitude and relief, for all its sharpness – and he reaches the edge of the camp, becoming one with the shadows.