Chapter Text
~ They were naked as newborns, with a look of brightness as if they had been scoured by fire. They were the fire that had been banished, leaving Valinor to dream in cool pallor. Some had made an Oath they could not fulfil, some had knowingly broken the Laws of the Valar, and the unspoken ones of their own people.
Glorfindel named them. His voice brought their heads around, their brilliant eyes to his. He saw the horror of Night behind their shock, and his face hardened at the thought of their punishment: Ages in the Void, unable to touch another soul, to feel, mocked and taunted by spirits of hate.
Fëanor, Fingolfin, Ecthelion, Fingon, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod Amras, Gil-galad. And there were others whom he had not known had doomed themselves, and some sought out the faces of their lovers and moved toward them.
The Valar were silent, some had stood aside, and their was pity and regret in their faces.
Glorfindel saw Ecthelion make one movement toward him and then stop, his eyes intent.
Fëanor had not looked away from him, or what he held in his hand.
"Three Ages of the World have passed and the shadows grown long since thou didst die, Fëanor," Glorfindel said and then he paused, because Fëanor had been aware, had been shown the death and the blood, the grief and despair.
"Yes, Laurëfindë. I know what has been." A brief flash of pain and guilt crossed his face, and Glorfindel heard his thoughts.
I doomed my sons to death, I doomed my people, I betrayed those who loved me.
Aloud he said, "Morgoth tormented me, showing me my sons and others, their deaths, the battles lost, the doom wrought to its bitterest ending. He sought to break my soul. And we could not touch in the Void."
"Thou didst touch us. We felt thee, the only light in that endless Night, but we could come to thee."
Fëanor turned then as Maedhros walked into his arms, burying his face in the glassy black hair, and that broke the long, frozen moment. His sons came to him to hold him, one another, feeling reality, the wonder of touch and sight and sound after nothingness. They had clung to their memories against the dissolution of their souls, as a bastion against the mockery of Morgoth and those who inhabited the Void.
"What did he do to thee long ago?"
Glorfindel felt Ecthelion beside him, their eyes met with love, ancient friendship, but the unspoken things were there. They had always been there.
"Does it matter, Ecthelion? Did we not burn?"
"In life and in death – after he touched thee."
"Yes." Molten gold was running in his veins, Arda opening like a flower under his eyes with the future that the One had shown him.
"There is a place for the Exiles, but it is not here."
"In Endor?" Ecthelion's eyes held his.
"Yes, a place prepared for us, waiting from the beginning, once it was Cuiviénen, and though the lands are changed it is still there: an inland sea, the Wildwood, the Mountains. We can live as we desire, under our own laws."
"What art thou?"
"I am Glorfindel." There was an ocean within him, and it was Power, but he knew he could take as much or as little as he desired. It had overwhelmed him in Fos Almir, now he stood apart from it and yet was of it.
"That is not all thou art."
"No." He turned his head then.
Maglor was the only one of Fëanor's son's who had not moved. He was watching with an ardent yearning melding with with guilt and shock. Tindómion stood close by, just as motionless.
"Father."
"Father !" The two voices spoke at once, the same forged gold, the same longing. Glorfindel walked across to them, laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder, turned him.
"Adar?" Tindómion's face was a battleground of memories, but then he moved, as if he would not risk this moment slipping from him, and they came together as all of that blood did, in fierce, passionate love. And Fëanor was suddenly there, his arms about both of them, his eyes closed for a long moment, before he leaned his brow against his son's black head.
And Maglor wept.
"Legolas."
Glorfindel's voice brought the prince's eyes to his. Ecthelion was watching curiously.
"This is Legolas, Prince of the realm of Eryn Lasgalen." He laid his hand on the straight back in a gesture of possession. He saw Ecthelion sound the depths of it.
"Glorfindel..." Legolas enunciated slowly, "What – happened?"
"Yes, Laurëfindë," the question was echoed by a voice resonant and fierce as the fire that burned in his eyes, in the Silmaril Glorfindel held. "What did happen?"
***
~ ''What...'' Elgalad's voice was hushed. ''what h-happened, my lord?''
They were standing close to a road. The early setting of a wintry sun cast gilt light across the fields and small copses where a few withered leaves still clung to the boughs of the oak trees.
Not far away a hill rose against a sky of ice yellow and violet. Lamplight was beginning to twinkle in the homes which lay at its feet and climbed its round slopes. There was a smell of coming frost and woodsmoke. A redbreast called before it went to roost. A sense of peacefulness lay here at the close of day. Smoke from the houses of the little town wove up, dove-gray in the windless air.
And yet...
Elgalad suddenly made a sound, his hands flying to his throat and he looked down at his green tunic, still damp and dark with blood. His eyes rose, wide and shocked.
''I killed thee,'' Vanimórë murmured. ''I killed thee. Do not come near me when I am engaged in conflict. Ever.''
''I...d-died...?'' Elgalad asked huskily.
I died...I felt myself dying...and I was gone...
''Thou art a fool !'' Suddenly he was swept against the tall, hard body, the arms locked around him and a voice spoke into his blood-clotted hair:
''Do not do that again !''
Elgalad melted into the embrace and clung with all his strength.
''Do n-not leave m-e again, my l-lord...!'' He remembered the sheer surprise, and then pain, the horrific sensation of flowing blood which could not be stemmed, the terror of choking, no air, no breath...darkness swallowing him, his last sight of violet eyes...
And yet he lived. He had opened his eyes to to life, and was shaken to the roots of his soul. He had always believed that his mentor could do anything, but not...bring him back from death.
''I will not leave thee, thou art mine. The only thing that saves me from...what I could become.''
''I only ever w-wanted to b-be with thee!'' Elgalad nuzzled into the curve of Vanimórë's neck, his words muffled, breath warm. ''I know thou d-doth not love me, b-but I need to be with thee. Only let m-me stay with thee, as I did before !''
''Meluion...'' Vanimórë tilted up the lovely face. ''I love thee. And I will not let thee go again. But it is not quite as simple as it may seem to thee.''
At the wondering expression in the huge eyes, he tutted and laid a hand on Elgalad's back.
''I think thou doth need wine. I most certainly do.''
'' I...w-what?'' Elgalad asked bewilderedly.
''That is Bree.'' Vanimórë gestured to the town. ''It is a place to start. Until we go elsewhere. And we need to talk.''
The innkeeper, Butterbur, was astonished to see two Elves, one with clothes and hair covered in blood, but ushered them up to a private chamber, nodding seriously at Vanimórë's tale of wolfsheads on the road further south, near the Barrow Downs.
This was not altogether surprising, since the war had begun far in the south, all manner of rogues had come up the Greenway. He had wine, food and hot water brought up, then hurried down to share the news and warn the Gate Guards to let none through that night, unless they were in need of aid.
He was not there to see that when the Elgalad was undressed, there was no wound upon him. Vanimórë tore the ruined tunic and fed it to the fire in the hearth.
''Where were w-we?" Elgalad asked eventually, still dazed, as Vanimórë handed him hot wine.
''That p-place...the light...L-Legolas was there, and Maglor and h-his son and Glorfindel – where are they? What h-happened?''
''I went mad.'' Vanimórë sat down and put an arm about his ward. Always his now, forever. ''I killed thee and I knew the Valar would have no pity on me if I sought thee. I had to force an entrance to the Blessed Realm. Blessed !'' He felt nothing but contempt. "But in truth, Ilúvatar acted through me, protected me, aided me in what I did.''
And he spoke of the recovery of the Silmaril of the Oceans, of Aman, and the Bath of Flame, and of Eru's voice.
''Thou art a Power? V-Vala?'' Elgalad whispered.
''Yes. Strange I know." Strange? he wanted to laugh at what he felt was the absurdity of such a thing. "I died also, in Fos Almir, and was reborn there in the flame. I thought there was no way I could bring thee back, without power.
"But it is more than that. The Valar looked at the Elves and saw children who would last as long as the world, and wanted to gather them, control them, have them as pretty servants. But they did not understand the fire within the Firstborn. Eru's fire. How could they? They did not create them. And they failed entirely to understand the Noldor, and ignored such people as the Silvan Elves who live wild and free in the world."
"Yet there are... rules."
"A clash of Powers can break the world, as we know, from the War of Wrath, and so the Valar rarely acted, lest they destroy the very habitation of the Children of Eru. They seemed also to ignore the fact that the Ainur who were on Middle earth, Morgoth and Sauron, felt no such constraints and did as they pleased. Eventually they sent the Istari as old men, lest my sire be roused by unshielded power. Oh, they had reasons, but they salved any conscience they had by using the Children themselves, as tools against the Dark, Elves and Men, who could die and did die...
But Arda is alive and not stagnant, and there will always be dark and light in opposition, until the Music is sung anew. I am what I am, I was molded to what I am, but I will never be Morgoth or Sauron for one reason: Thou. Thou didst love me, unconditionally, unreasonably. Were it not for thee, I might indeed step into Sauron's boots, as it is...the balance is fine but it holds."
"And Lord Glorfindel?" Elgalad asked.
"Something – some-one – touched him a long time ago, and he has lived twice. He knows his people and loves them. He will lead them to a place where they can live in freedom.''
Elgalad considered it and shook his head bemusedly.
''Where will we l-live, my lord, wh-where will we g-go?''
''South perhaps, far to the south of the Harad, there are places there where I can build kingdoms: the Seven Dominions, the Land of Spice, the Thousand Cities, places of heat and gold and slaves and wars. Places my sire never truly knew of, places I have never seen.''
''My L-Lord?''
''Yes?''
''I love thee.'' the soft voiced tipped toward sleep.
''I know,'' Vanimórë said warmly. "And thou hast saved me, my dear."
A slender hand rose to his cheek and touched it shyly.
''Thou dost truly l-love me?''
Vanimórë nodded.
"I love thee. Now rest.''
''Wilt thou r-rest with m-me?'' The fair cheeks flushed.
''I had better not,'' Vanimórë said dryly. ''Thou still hath no real idea of what I am, or what thou dost want from me.''
''But I want th-thee," Elgalad whispered intensely. "I am n-not a child. I am thine. I always h-have been.''
''Yes, and I have a responsibility not to break the one thing which saves me.'' Lowering his head, Vanimórë sought the sweet lips that opened eagerly under his. He tasted wine and honey and he drank from that sweetness, as Elgalad's hands clenched on his tunic, and he moaned.
''I truly think thou shouldst rest. Alone.'' Vanimórë rose, righting Elgalad, who staggered and looked at him with brilliant eyes, half-laughing in wonder.
''We have all the time in the world, Meluion and believe me, thou wilt take some time to accustom myself to.'' His voice dipped into arousal.
''P-Please..!''
''Bed. Now.'' Vanimórë commanded. ''This has already been a long...long day, and I need to think. I will not leave thee, I swear it, not again. Now rest.''
He passed a hand down the long damp hair, and caught Elgalad as he fell into instant slumber. That was easy, far easier than it had been outside Esgaroth. He was not comfortable with the thought that such tampering with people should be effortless. Lifting him, Vanimórë laid him in the bed and drew the the coverlets up, then sat down, picked up his wine and stared into the flames of the fire.
Eru, I think thou must posses humor. I want to get into that bed and take him. Why can I not? Because some-one with Power who believes they can do anything they wish becomes Morgoth, Sauron, the Valar, and I have lived so long rejecting them that I cannot follow that path. But there was always that risk, so thou didst allow Elgalad to be brought back from death to stand between me and my...potentiality.
He shook his head and picked up his wine with a faint smile, then paused, opened his hand to the firelight and watched it trace the angles of the white mark forever burned upon his palm: the facets of a Silmaril.
~~~
It had been deserted for a very long time. The sea winds and storms had gnawed the buildings, and nature had drawn green fingers over the stone, but the harbor still stood, and it was clear what this place had once been. The sea was calm that day, and gulls wove in updrafts over their heads, graceful, greedy scavengers of the shore.
''Edhellond,'' Vanimórë murmured, looking at Elgalad. ''Dost thou remember? thou wert very young when we left here.''
Elgalad nodded slowly. ''I remember my l-lord . '' His eyes were troubled. ''Why d-didst thou bring me h-here?''
''Come with me. It is time for thee to know whom thou art.''
Close to the sea, beyond the stone quays, Vanimórë halted. Cliffs rose beyond them, bounding the entrance to the bay. It was very quiet, as if both the land and water were steeped in the memory of a time when the Teleri had dwelt here, and made it a place of music and beauty, had built their white ships and, ever and anon, sailed into the west, never to return. They were gone...but Edhellond remembered. Every land where the Elves had lived, remembered them, in wood, or in water, in earth or in stone.
Vanimórë lifted a hand and beckoned, his fingers rested lightly on Elgalad's back, but his eyes looked downward.
''I buried thy parents here at our feet.'' He said.
He felt the taut muscles go stiff under his hand, the grey eyes flew to his face. Vanimórë had never vouchsafed much about Elgalad's parents; he only knew that his mother had been beautiful and gentle.
''Her name was Nimrodel,'' Vanimórë said, ''His name was Amroth.''
The ground seemed to become as inconsistent under Elgalad's feet.
Amroth and Nimrodel? How many times had he heard that song sung, felt it's sadness and poignancy that none had ever known what became of the lovers.
''No-one would ever have known,'' Vanimórë said, ''How thinks't thou the stories started if there were none who knew? If Edhellond were deserted? I told the tale to hunters and fisherfolk, and villagers through the southern lands, as if it were something I had heard. In the days when the peace of Lórinand was threatened by Durin's Bane, many Elves fled. Edhellond was always the southern Haven for the Elves. One of Nimrodel's companions, Mithrellas, was found by the ancestor of Imrahil of Dol Amroth and bore him a son before she left him – Sindarin blood can still be seen in that House. She knew that Nimrodel became lost in the Ered Nimrais; no doubt she went back to her people and carried the tale with her. What Mithrellas did not know was that thy mother carried thee."
He looked out across the waters, remembering a time when he had never believed he would be free, his first sight of Nimrodel, and his sensing of the life that grew within her: Elgalad.
"I was in these lands then, sent from Mordor, so were two of the Úlairi. They did not touch her, but she saw at least one and fled, and became separated from Amroth. I found her and brought her here. But there were no ships – and thou knowest the rest of the tale. I found him drowned. Nimrodel hoped he would come, but something in her soul knew that he was dead, I think, and she waited only to birth the child of her love. Then she died. Her passing was very peaceful.''
He laid his hands on Elgalad's straight shoulders.
''S-So...they are in Aman? Reborn?''
''Yes, and better there. Thy mother was a gentle soul, like thee. They live and love in peace now.''
Elgalad bowed his head hard against Vanimórë's shoulder.
''Thou couldst have been King of Lórinand, but I think that Galadriel Finarfiniel was supposed to be there, fated to be, perhaps.''
''I do n-not want to be a k-king,'' Elgalad murmured. ''I want t-to be thine. Forever.''
''I hope thou wilt remember that, Meluion and not regret thy words." There was a touch of dark humor in the answer. "Thou art indeed bound to me forever. Thou standest between me and all that my own sire was, and Morgoth Bauglir before him. I am thine. Thou art mine.''
But thou wilt not take me !
''I would destroy the very thing that saves me,'' Vanimórë said sadly. ''Thou art both temptation and redemption. How could I take thee and sully thee with my life, my darkness? I must love thee and not possess thee, my love, for thou...art mine innocence, Elgalad Meluion.'' ~