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Caranthir’s last memory was of the savage jeers of Sindarin elves. The first hail of arrows had wounded him too badly to flee, and having cornered him, Dior’s archers had shown him no mercy. He suspected his corpse resembled a pincushion more than an elf. He could only hope his brothers had escaped the same fate.
He was, therefore, displeased to see a Sindarin lord when he stepped from the Halls of Mandos. But as swiftly as his anger rose, he was distracted by who else was there and who was not. Maedhros and Maglor were waiting for him, as he would have expected, but Celegorm and Curufin, whom had pressed on ahead in Doriath, were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any sign of Amras. And ahead of his brothers stood his father. Fëanor stepped forward with a beaming grin at the sight of him, pulling him into a hug before he had even the chance to regain his equilibrium.
“My little Moryo! I have missed you!”
Caranthir hugged him back somewhat uncertainly. As he did so, he sent a baffled look to Maedhros. He may not always agree with Maedhros’ judgement, but he was steady and reliable and would understand the wide-eyed panic in Caranthir’s face. Fëanor had been affectionate in Caranthir’s youth, but that had changed. Caranthir had grown. Fëanor’s affection and praise had dried up as his anger and hatred of his half-brothers took all of his attention. This was unprecedented.
Maedhros, the bastard, simply smirked back at him. “You are the first to return after Atar. He is new to this.”
Something leaden settled into Caranthir’s gut. It was as he had feared. “The others are dead, then.”
“For now. But they will not languish so forever,” Fëanor said firmly. He pulled back from the embrace, but he gripped Caranthir’s shoulder and said, “We will see your brothers again in time.”
That astonished Caranthir so greatly his eyebrows rose. “You have faith in Mandos?”
“I have faith in your new nephew,” Fëanor replied, his voice bursting with pride.
It took all of Caranthir’s strength not to close his eyes in exhaustion. He knew that tone. Whoever this nephew was, he would almost certainly be buckling under the weight of Fëanor's attention and pride. He had seen it happen with Curufin pushing himself to the edge for his father’s approval and with Celebrimbor running in the opposite direction. He wondered which of his brothers had managed to talk some poor fool into marrying into their family.
Fëanor then gestured to the Sindarin lord, who opened his mouth to speak, but Fëanor continued, “Ordinarily I would not condone kidnapping, but claiming Elrond for our House was the wisest thing your brothers ever did. I” –
“Grandfather!” Elrond interrupted, holding up a hand. There was a sheepish smile on his face as he turned to greet Caranthir. He introduced himself politely enough. Caranthir responded in kind and enquired after his lineage, humming thoughtfully to himself.
Had Elrond been one of the Noldor, the adoption would have been right and proper. The Sindarin blood complicated things. There was some vicious satisfaction to be had in the thought of stealing Dior’s grandson from him as punishment for stealing the Silmaril. He had no doubt Dior and his ancestors would be rolling in their graves to see Elrond clad in the colours of the House of Fëanor and claiming Maedhros and Maglor as his fathers. But was that enough to justify bringing Elrond into their House? There were other paths to vengeance.
But then, he had clearly achieved great deeds in their name. Perhaps Caranthir was too quick to judge.
*
As he followed his family home, he heard the whole sorry story of the rest of the First Age. He heard how Celegorm and Curufin had died in Doriath with him. He read between the lines when his brothers described the siege of Sirion and thought of how angry Amras must have been to have died there. He had hated the Sea ever since Amrod had died. He would have taken his anger out on the people of Sirion and had paid dearly for his wrath. But Maedhros and Maglor spoke only of the chaos, and how he had separated from them in the fighting, and by the time they found him he had taken a mortal wound. They spoke of his innocence, and his good humour, and Fëanor spoke of his youth, and Caranthir wondered if any of them remembered who Amras had grown to be. Was this what happened when you died? Your family forgot who you had truly been? They were in for a harsh awakening if that were the case with Caranthir.
Their house, Caranthir was displeased to learn, was not Fëanor's house, nor even Maedhros’ house, but Elrond’s house. When he questioned this, Fëanor laughed and said,
“He has done well, has he not? I am told someone,” (here he paused to glare at Maglor), “advised he hide his allegiance to our House, but he was wise enough not to listen.”
“Atya was simply worried for me,” Elrond said, putting a hand on Maglor's shoulder.
Or, Caranthir thought, Maglor did not think Elrond deserved to use such heraldry. But looking at them now, he was forced to concede Elrond was likely right. Everything he had seen so far suggested Maglor adored his son.
Fëanor snorted. “Kano would worry about you even if we had you secure in a fortress surrounded by all our host. It is his nature.”
“Well, that would explain some part of my childhood,” Elrond laughed, teasing.
A weak smile flickered over Maglor’s face at the joke and Maedhros chuckled, but the amusement on Fëanor's face faded.
“Beleriand was dangerous, also.”
Elrond pursed his lips, visibly amused. His eyes flicked to Caranthir and he explained, “Grandfather does not like the reminder that I was kidnapped any more than he likes jokes about Atto’s hand. We’re working on it.”
“Elrond is a hypocrite,” Maglor added. “He has kicked people out of the house for calling me a kidnapper, but it does not stop him from making such remarks.”
“Because they were serious. You adopted us from the start. Or are you in the habit of reading bedtime stories to prisoners of war?”
“Only when they eat their vegetables,” Maedhros said, deadpan.
Elrond then pulled an elaborate grimace, clearly playing a well-established role. He only managed the expression for a moment before he began to laugh.
They showed Caranthir then to his rooms, which were luxurious indeed. When Fëanor implied they had Elrond to thank for that, he demurred, insisting that credit was due primarily to the artisans responsible for the crafting.
“My only role was in warning of your return. My correspondence with Lord Námo gave me more warning than most get before the return of their kin, so we were able to fully prepare for you.”
Before Caranthir could ask what was meant by ‘correspondence’, Maedhros said sternly, “And correspondence is all it shall be until he returns with a better offer.”
A pinched, guilty look flicked across Elrond’s face. “If I visited only for a short time” –
“No,” Maedhros, Maglor, and Fëanor chorused at once, all caught somewhere between stern, furious, and terrified.
Elrond sighed, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am not going to run off behind your backs, I promise.”
“Are you certain?” Fëanor asked, his eyes narrow. “That is how you retrieved me.”
“I promise,” Elrond said seriously, looking each of them in the eyes in turn. Turning to Caranthir, he explained, “My craft is of interest to Lord Námo. We have negotiated an arrangement where I may teach his Maiar and help those in his Halls, but it is difficult without admitting me to the Halls themselves. He would prefer a prolonged sabbatical; I am willing to consider periodic, short day-visits, such as I take to Tirion or Alqualondë.”
“You’re an idiot,” Caranthir said.
Elrond’s eyebrows shot up. Surprise and offence mingled on his face as he searched for words. Fëanor laughed, pleased, and said,
“Perhaps such a blunt assessment is what we needed!”
“Is it idiocy to put those I love before myself?” Elrond asked. His expression had settled back into a thoughtful, neutral expression.
“Yes,” Caranthir told him, having no patience for such games.
Elrond, instead of snapping back at him, smiled and spread his hands wide. “Then I am an idiot. I am willing to put myself at risk to help my cousin, Celebrimbor, and others in the Halls who may benefit if I visit. Only the objections of my loved ones keep me from making a deal with Lord Námo. Fortunately, he has proved surprisingly patient.”
“Patience will not help him here. He has taken enough of my family from me,” Fëanor snapped.
There was the fire Caranthir remembered! He was not sure if it was reassuring or horrifying to see it again. This Fëanor would burn the world to keep his family alive, adopted grandson included. He wondered if Elrond realised what that meant.
*
The feast set out in honour of Caranthir’s return was as fine as any he had ever attended. After centuries of relative deprivation in Beleriand, he nearly wept to have the full luxury of Aman at his fingertips once more. But the joy came with a sliver of hesitation. In the past, he had always had to watch his diet carefully or else be struck by a strange illness that no other elves seemed to suffer. Was he still prone to such weakness, or had he been repaired upon his release from the Halls?
There was only one way to find out. He gorged himself on the richest foods he could find. He ignored the concern from his father and brothers, eating his fill of what he had once treated as rare delicacies. Surely, he thought, even death must have a silver lining.
By the time he retired, his face and chest were covered in a red flush. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and felt a stab of rage. It would not have been hard for Mandos to fix him. He would have fixed another Noldo, certainly; Caranthir was being punished for being Fëanor's son. He let out a shout of rage and tore his mirror from the wall and smashed it on the ground.
The next morning, his knees and hands ached and his mind felt slow. A dull, heavy fatigue weighed down on him. Moving felt like trying to swim through honey, but he forced himself out of bed nonetheless and staggered down to breakfast.
At the breakfast table, he found Elrond and his wife caught in deep conversation while his brothers bickered over some insignificant matter. He fell into an available chair with a groan. Maglor eyed him unsympathetically and said,
“I told you so.”
“Shut it.”
“I am sorry,” Maedhros told him. “Not all things are fixed upon returning.”
“Lucky you, then,” Caranthir grumbled, eyeing Maedhros’ right hand with envy. If only his flaw had been so easily fixed.
“You should speak to Elrond,” Maedhros said. “He is a healer. He may be able to help.”
Caranthir pulled a face. He had seen healers as a child. Every one of them had been paid a fortune and sworn to secrecy and none of them had been able to help. He was cursed.
“He will be able to help,” Maglor said. “And he will help as soon as he finds out what is going on, whether you will it or no. He is stubborn like that.”
“I can’t imagine where I get it from,” Elrond said, interrupting with a serene smile on his face. When they turned to him, he explained, “I heard my name. Who am I healing?”
“Later,” Caranthir grunted, and Elrond bowed his head in acknowledgement.
*
Having said ‘later’, there was no escaping Elrond’s gentle concern. Shame-faced, Caranthir confessed the strange ailment that had assailed him all his life: the dizziness, the fatigue, the aches and pains, the allergies, the way it came and went with no sign or warning.
Elrond listened through it all, interrupting only with soft, sympathetic noises. The only sign he gave of anything other than patient sympathy was in his eyes, which were bright and eager. Caranthir recognised that look all too well. Elrond plainly thought this was fascinating in the same way Fëanor and Curufin would delight over a mysterious new metal. He could not decide if that look was disconcerting or a comfort. Instinctively, it was a little unsettling, but there was something about knowing such fervent passion was about to be applied to his problem that was almost reassuring.
“I will confess, I have never seen this affliction in one of the Eldar before, but I have seen similar symptoms in Men. I would suggest we begin by adapting remedies which worked for them.”
The first remedy, he warned, was a gamble: either it would help, or it would make things much, much worse.
“If it does, it is not entirely a failure. That tells me a little of what is causing your illness, and what is not.”
“And if it works, I will be fixed?”
“I am afraid the best I can offer at this point is maintenance,” Elrond said apologetically. “You will have to take the medication I provide regularly, or your symptoms will return. But I will teach you how to make it, and with your permission I will begin to research a more permanent cure.”
It was more than anyone else had ever offered him. Caranthir agreed.
*
The morning after taking Elrond’s remedy, Caranthir awoke more sluggish than ever and unable to get out of bed. When at last people came to look for him, they called for Elrond. He grimaced at the sight of Caranthir and apologised profusely for his state. He called for herbs to be brought and also for Fëanor. There under Fëanor's watchful eye, he mixed a new remedy there in Caranthir’s rooms, narrating what he was doing the entire time.
Even though he guessed the motivations for the ploy, having his father there comforted him. Fëanor may be no healer, but it would be bold indeed to poison Caranthir under his father’s very nose. And however much Fëanor may trust Elrond, he did involve himself in the entire process, hovering over Elrond’s shoulder and asking questions incessantly. Elrond handled it with good grace and good humour. He seemed perfectly comfortable as the focus of all Fëanor's worry and anger.
At length, Elrond took a seat beside Caranthir’s bed and held up a vessel containing his latest creation.
“This should help ease your symptoms until your body purges the last remedy I gave you. I apologise again for guessing incorrectly.”
Caranthir pushed himself up into a seated position and eyed the jug warily. “How do I know this one will not make me more ill? Will you drink it?”
Elrond grimaced. “If I were an elf, perhaps I could, but I fear interfering with my own biology at this stage may be unwise.”
“That is easily solved,” Fëanor declared.
Ignoring Elrond’s cries of horror, he reached for the brew. Elrond snatched it away barely in time and shoved a finger in Fëanor's face, scolding, “You are the most impulsive fool I have ever had to reckon with.”
Caranthir inhaled sharply. Whether or not the words were an admission of guilt, his father would surely take them as one coupled with an insult. But Fëanor only snorted, slapping Elrond’s hand out of the way and saying,
“And you are angry because you can think of no better solution and do not want to let anyone else have their share of danger. You are no better than Nelyo in that respect.”
A bright light entered Elrond’s eyes and the rage leeched immediately from his expression. Oh, Caranthir thought, now that was pathetic. That was as bad as Curufin being so easily swayed by even the least comparison to his father. And it was worse that Fëanor's comparison was true. If Maedhros had ever seen a chance to throw himself on his sword to protect someone else, he had taken it. Seeing the same behaviour in his adopted son gave Caranthir reckless courage.
“I will drink the damn thing if you will speak to Atar with proper respect.”
Elrond’s eyebrows shot up, but he agreed and made a great show of carefully measuring out the intended dosage. He then promised to let Caranthir rest for a while before returning to check on him.
*
To Caranthir’s surprise, within an hour or two he had recovered enough to sit and work in his bed. By the afternoon, he was on his feet once more. Elrond seemed pleased by his progress.
“I would advise we wait at least a week before trying any new remedies, but I believe I know what went wrong,” he said, before launching into a long, complicated explanation as to why Caranthir’s body had reacted poorly to the treatment.
After what felt like several minutes of explanation, Caranthir pushed him and said, “Enough. You are as bad as Maglor prattling on about his music.”
Elrond laughed, but from the beaming smile on his face, Caranthir guessed he had taken the complaint as a compliment. “I suppose that is more detail than is useful for you. The important thing is I know what went wrong; I believe I can avoid the mistake; and you should be well enough to visit your mother within a day or so.”
For one brief, childish moment, Caranthir longed for red hair and his mother’s low, rumbling laugh. The impulse was gone as quickly as it came. He snarled and stepped away, glaring at Elrond.
“She spoke out against Atar and opposed our plans. Why would I wish to speak with her?”
Elrond’s eyebrows shot up.
“You do not wish to see your mother?”
“She is a traitor,” Caranthir snarled.
Elrond pursed his lips. “I would thank you not to speak ill of my grandmother while under my roof. I would caution you, also, before speaking so in front of your brothers or father. Grandfather writes to her many times a week.”
Caranthir froze. The key to life with Fëanor was tracking his moods and opinions and matching them. He was angry at Nerdanel, so whomever was most vocal in their displeasure towards her won his love. It had been an easy way to win approval, especially with Maedhros directly contradicting him at times. But if Fëanor's mood had changed…
“You are certain?”
“You can see for yourself soon enough.”
Sure enough, the next day, much of the household left to visit Nerdanel. As they left, Fëanor burdened them with a thick letter and many gifts, telling Elrond, Celebrían, Maedhros, and Maglor all that they must convey his regards to Nerdanel. When they returned, they passed Fëanor a letter and endured a volley of questions from him regarding Nerdanel’s health and mood. The letter, Caranthir noticed with disapproval, was less than half as thick as his father had sent. It could not have been more than five pages long. Had their mother forgotten what an honour it was to marry the rightful High King?
Fëanor could not have been more delighted with his letter. He snatched it from Elrond’s hand and held it close to his chest. He was animated and filled with energy, all but bouncing on the spot, before retreating to his quarters to read it. It was all the verification Caranthir needed. Nerdanel had been granted forgiveness. All Caranthir had to do was work out how he felt about that.
*
“When I was ill, you claimed you were not an elf.”
“I am peredhel,” Elrond explained. When Caranthir raised an eyebrow, he continued, “My paternal grandparents are Lady Idril and Lord Tuor, who is a mortal man. My mother is descended from Beren and Lúthien, of whom I am sure you have heard.”
Caranthir’s breath caught in his throat. His vision turned grey at the edges and his heart began to pump wildly. He had heard the tale of Beren and Lúthien. He had dismissed it as nothing more than a story. But if their story was true, and worse, if another union had been allowed –
When pressed, Elrond shared with him some details of Idril and Tuor. He barely spoke a sentence or two before Caranthir lurched to his feet and stumbled away, waving off Elrond’s concern.
Even as he walked, he could see green eyes flecked with amber and brown. Freckles had dusted her skin and her hair had been the colour of straw in summer and he could see flashes of her with his waking eyes as he walked. Haleth.
*
Caranthir could not say how long he stood outside the Halls of Mandos. He shouted and wept and begged on his knees, scratching at his skin and howling in his grief. He cited Haleth’s cleverness, her humour, her uncanny ability to see through him. He told of her grief and of her strength. If she was not for this world, what good was he? She had burnt so much brighter than him. If they could not be together as Idril and Tuor were, then let him pass from this world and join her with her kin; or, if not that, then at least let him rest in the Halls once more. He could not endure one more hour of knowing that they could have been together but they had missed their chance.
They hadn’t known.
If they had known they could be together, truly be together, how different would things have been? He would have asked for her hand in marriage in a heartbeat. They could have been happy together. Or, if fate would have it, miserable together, but at least together!
After what must have been several hours of wailing and howling in grief, he started at the feel of a hand on his shoulder.
“She knows, Caranthir.”
Caranthir’s fist curled in the ground beside his knees, tearing up several blades of grass. How could she know? And if she did, how could that be enough?
“I know the separation hurts. I cannot imagine the pain you feel. But I have no doubt Haleth knows how much you love her. She would not want you to waste away in grief.”
“If she wanted otherwise, she should be here to tell me so herself,” he spat. “I cannot bring myself to do otherwise.”
He thought he had accepted her death. But to learn there had been a chance had shattered him.
“You can. You must,” the voice insisted.
But instead of pulling him away, the intruder sat on the grass beside him. He turned to look at him, unsurprised to find it was Elrond. He should have known any son of Maedhros would stick his nose in where he was not wanted and assume he knew best.
“Tell me of her.”
Caranthir opened and shut his mouth. After so long keeping his grief for Haleth within himself, he had no idea where to begin. But when he began to speak, the words flowed without halt and he found himself speaking for many hours until long after the sun had set. At length, he fell into silence. He could not deny he felt better after speaking of her.
*
The next remedy Elrond gave him filled Caranthir’s limbs with renewed vigour. He found he could work and move for longer than ever before and the famous flush that covered his face began to fade.
As soon as his success was clear, Elrond copied out the instructions for Caranthir. He drew on the back of the page an eight-pointed star undercut by three squiggly lines. Pointing to the symbol, he said,
“Any healer bearing this mark, in Tirion or elsewhere, should be able to brew this for you.”
Caranthir picked it up, frowning. “When did healers develop the gall to steal our family heraldry?”
“Not all healers. Anyone bearing this mark trained with me,” Elrond explained. “I would not trust any other healer to be competent enough to brew this – or, indeed, even to brew a cup of tea.”
He crinkled his nose delicately at the last part and his voice pitched up a notch as if inviting Caranthir in on some secret joke. Caranthir was not amused. Such behaviour was acceptable, barely, in his father, who truly was the greatest smith ever born and had reason to disdain all other smiths. He took the recipe and said,
“For now, you may make it for me, but I will take this to whomever I please.”
Instead of taking offence, Elrond let out a quiet snort of laughter. “Of that much, I am certain.”
*
The archives in Lindësirnan held cultural artefacts from across Middle Earth. It was, Caranthir had to admit, an impressive collection. They had nothing of Haleth’s people, the hope of which was what had lured him in, but it was still an impressive collection. Most of the dwarven work was from a group of dwarves he had never met far to the East, but there was a fascinating Nogrod sword that labelled the bearer a murderer and a thief.
There was a Sindar collection, also. Some of the items dated back to the days of Beleriand, and these Caranthir passed over quickly, but many others had been made in the latter days. The most recent was a slender blade of middling quality that had apparently been given to Elrond as a gift by King Thingol. Caranthir pulled a face at the sign. He did not think even his father could convince him to speak kindly to Thingol.
More interesting to Caranthir were the objects relating to Men. There was nothing of Haleth or her people, but he could see the thread of their culture in artefacts of Men from later days. He spent a long time there, reading the little information cards and making note of what terms to look up in the library. If this was all he could have of her, he would take it.
*
As the days grew shorter, a steady stream of Nolofinweans entered the valley. Turgon and his wife were the first to arrive. Elrond welcomed them warmly and showed them to a set of suits set aside for their use, assuring them both they could stay as long as they wished. Idril and Tuor followed, then several lesser lords and ladies Caranthir did not know the name of.
Then Fingolfin himself arrived, clad in heavy furs and declaring, “I do not care if Fëanáro is here. Anything is better than that cold.”
“If nothing else, your sons will be happy to see you,” Elrond said with a smile.
To Caranthir’s horror, a particularly large suite of rooms had been set aside for Fingolfin’s use, decorated in his colours and heraldry and arranged to his liking. When he complained to his father, Fëanor pulled a disgusted face.
“Nolo sank his claws into Elrond long before I returned. But I have watched them and I do not believe he is capable of swaying my grandson to his side. His presence is an annoyance, nothing more.”
Caranthir gaped. He had heard many long rants from his father about how his uncles had stolen Finwë’s love; he could scarcely believe that Fëanor felt no threat from Fingolfin now. But as he watched over the coming weeks, he saw his father and Fingolfin speak to each other civilly. Often Elrond was seen with either of the two, and if he was affectionate with Fingolfin and laughed often with him, the love and respect he showed for Fëanor did not diminish.
A great celebration was held when midwinter came. Caranthir thought the fuss made over the weather was disproportionate and said so. Both his brothers took offence at that. Before he knew what happening, Maglor had him in the stables preparing for a ride. Bizarrely, Maglor had dressed for the very depths of winter, clothing himself in heavy furs and thick wools. Scoffing, Caranthir deigned to take an extra cloak, but nothing like the excessive weight Maglor carried with him. The weather was cool, but even the coldest days had brought nothing more than a light frost that melted in the daylight.
An hour into the ride, Caranthir began to shiver. The further they rode from the house, the colder it seemed to get. It was not until they came to the edge of Elrond’s lands and found snow falling that he believed his own senses. He stared back at the valley in disbelief. It was cold, yes, but nowhere cold enough for snow to fall.
“How?”
“Many of those who crossed the Grinding Ice still hate the cold. Elrond cannot stand to see them suffer.”
Caranthir huffed, irritated. “That explains why, not how.”
“This is not a power he learned from me!”
Maglor laughed and Caranthir hated him for it. His laugh was not bright and musical as it had once been but dry and scratchy and off-beat, a dreadful reminder of what he had endured while the rest of his brothers had been in Mandos. Caranthir did not think he could forgive him for the reminder. Before he could complain, Maglor continued,
“He has some Maia blood in him. It affects him more than he realises, I think. It never occurs to him that his capabilities are far beyond what any normal elf could manage. He sees the discomfort of our cousins and fixes it without ever thinking about whether the task should be within his reach.”
Caranthir pulled a face. He had heard similar words said about his father’s tendency to stretch the bounds of possibility, though no one at the time had realised he was eavesdropping. But then a cold gust blew and he shivered. Without the extra clothes Maglor wore, the weather was bitter. Without a word, he turned his horse back towards the house and set off down the path, leaving Maglor behind. He would wait for spring before he asked to leave this place. In the meantime, he had trading contacts to establish.
*
The worst part of Lindësirnan was the foolishness. Elves sang and made merry and played games with narry a thought spared for practical matters. Worse, they carried on at all hours of the day and night. Even sensible elves who had been part of his or his brothers’ followers were not immune to what he privately called ‘Sindarin brainrot’.
It was the unending singing that broke his temper first. It was late in the night and few of those cavorting outside had any musical talent (not that even Maglor’s singing was welcome at three in the morning). He opened his window and shouted at them. He did not gentle his tongue, comparing their caterwauling to the sound of a thousand cats being drowned in the river and suggesting that if they had sung so outside Angband, Morgoth would surely have been rendered mad and impotent within a single night.
A deadly silence fell. Then Maglor’s voice piped up, “And I can see your temperament is as sweet as it ever was, dear brother.”
He then began to sing. To Caranthir’s horror, it was the same mocking, infantile song he had sung years ago in Tirion to bully Caranthir any time his temper snapped. It did not take long for the others to learn the chorus and join in. They seemed to sing with twice the volume of before. Furious, Caranthir slammed his window shut, but it did no good. He did not have peace and quiet until the sun rose and the singing elves dispersed to bed.
They repeated their chorus outside his window the next night, and the next. When after a week he began to show visible signs of exhaustion, Maglor and some of his newfound friends began to snicker. Only Elrond looked at him with any concern. When he explained the situation, Elrond’s lips twitched and he covered his mouth with one hand much as Maglor did when hiding a smile.
“I see. In my experience, they respond more kindly to a polite request to relocate.”
“Nothing shall get them to relocate now. Makalaurë has united them against me.”
“It is good to see him confident enough to do so, yes,” Elrond mused.
Caranthir scowled and turned his face away. That had not been his point. But Elrond continued,
“I agree that there is little you can say to get them to relocate, but that does not mean nothing can be done. I shall have a word with them.”
Caranthir expected Elrond’s word would do little good, but that night he had blessed silence for the first time in a week. He was disturbed only once, in the late evening, by Maedhros stopping by to speak sternly with him about the importance of being polite to both kin and the folk of Lindësirnan.
*
Even with the Nolofinwëans gone, Lindësirnan was full of visitors. A party of wood elves stayed for two weeks on their way south to join some Sindar prince that had founded a new realm for himself and his dwarven companion. Vanyar scholars visited Elrond’s library to study his texts on Men. Even Thingol himself visited once, leaving the entire house in a foul mood for two full days after his visit.
The most annoying visit by far was the return of Elrond’s son and birth father, Eärendil. Elladan alone was annoying enough, skittering around and trying different crafts as if he was too foolish to be grateful for his skill at bow-making. His twin ought to have doubled the mischief he got into, but somehow Elrohir’s presence quadrupled it. Even worse was Elrond’s birth father, a blond thief who was bizarrely welcome in their home despite his keeping of their Silmaril.
The only silver lining to their presence was the food. A great feast was held for their return. The tables creaked under the weight of the food and wine and there were countless delicacies on offer, even things that were rare even in Valinor. Caranthir may not have cared about the newcomers, but he could take his pleasure from the food and wine on offer. He ignored the conversation until he heard one word from Elrohir dropped id-conversation: ‘ascénima’.
Two identical glares turned on Elrohir from Elrond and Fëanor. Silence fell along the length of the table. Elrohir ducked his head, visibly embarrassed, and said while cringing,
“Aþcénima, I mean. I must have picked that up from Grandfather.”
“Of course,” Elrond said, his expression curiously blank. After a pause, he added, “Please excuse me for a moment.”
He then stood and left the table without a word of explanation. All eyes turned to Fëanor. Long years of practice let Caranthir contain his glee, but he could scarcely believe his luck. A feast and entertainment!
“Elrond was right to correct you, but do not fear. He loves you dearly,” Fëanor said.
Caranthir nearly fell out of his seat from shock. His father, speaking gently to one who sá-sí’d when they knew better? Before he could comment, Fëanor got to his feet and said, “I will speak with him to ensure he does not copy my mistakes.”
He then followed Elrond, pausing to squeeze Elrohir’s shoulder and kiss his hair before disappearing. Caranthir looked up and down the table, frantically trying to catch the eye of either Maedhros or Maglor, but both were focused on Elrohir. After a moment, Gil-galad left his place and took Elrond’s seat beside him.
“It was just a mistake. I know better,” Elrohir protested miserably, covering his face with his hands. Gil-galad put an arm around his shoulder and said,
“Do you know how awful I was to your father when he arrived in my camp?”
Absurd as it seemed, the non-sequitur seemed to be the right thing to say. Elrohir was distracted from his despair and squinted at Gil-galad.
“He says you were always the very best of friends.”
“Yes, he would say that,” Gil-galad sighed, his voice warm with affection. He glanced sideways at Maedhros before continuing, “And we were, but not without conflict. We kept them separate from most of the camp at first, afraid the chaos of a military camp would frighten the twins, for we were convinced they were traumatised hostages. At first, I assumed they spoke as they do because they had never heard standard Quenya. It took some time for me to accept that they truly had no fear of Maedhros and Maglor and spoke so by choice. I stopped correcting them (for the most part) once I realised, but others never stopped.”
Caranthir amused himself by watching Maedhros’ face as Gil-galad spoke. He disliked his son denying his heritage, that Caranthir already knew, but he physically flinched when Gil-galad admitted he had thought Elrond feared him. Maedhros and Maglor exchanged several long, guilty looks throughout the conversation.
After a short pause, Elrohir said, “I think I understand. I would not like it if people told me I had to sá-sí.”
Gil-galad nodded and continued, “Elrond and Elros were, for a long time, the only people who followed me who spoke as you do, and there were few of us who believed their story. I believe it became an affirmation of sorts.”
“We did try to teach them to sá-sí once,” Maglor said.
He then entertained them with stories of the pranks his sons had played in revenge until he and Maedhros had given up trying to convince their sons (then still officially hostages) to sá-sí. Most of the table listened with rapt attention. Caranthir found his attention drifting, for he was deeply disinterested by their family stories and more interested in the now averted conflict.
Several minutes later, Elrond returned. He stood quietly and watched the scene for a few moments before clearing his throat and announcing his presence. Elrohir jumped, but Gil-galad welcomed him with a warm smile and yielded his seat.
“Uncle Gil-galad was explaining things to me.”
“That’s good. He will have explained at least half of my reaction,” Elrond said, taking his seat and offering his son a reassuring smile.
“You know now that when I joined him, many tried to get Elros and I to reject our family and our way of speaking. We refused. It was the only thing we had left of our fathers we knew could not be taken from us.”
Both Maglor and Maedhros made a wounded sound at that, but Elrond continued as if he had not been interrupted.
“If you think I am rigid in my manner of speech now, it is nothing compared to my youth. Elros and I relied on our language to reassure one another that what we had experienced was true: that we were loved, that we had a family, and that we were still part of that family even if our fathers were gone. Every person who tried to change our speech threatened that comfort.”
Behind him, Caranthir spotted Fëanor watching. Whatever he thought of the situation, he seemed to approve of the loyalty to his House that Elrond’s story demonstrated. Caranthir sighed. Further along the table, Elrond and Elrohir spoke a while longer before hugging and speaking many words of love, but Caranthir redirected his attention to the wine. If this performance carried on much longer, he was going to need another bottle.
*
“Carnistir?”
Caranthir froze mid-stride. He turned slowly, taking deep breaths to keep his expression neutral.
“Nerdanel.”
She looked better than the last time he had seen her, thin and weeping and begging the twins to stay behind. She had gained weight since then and there was something about her calm expression that warned him he would not easily get the upper hand in any debate. But more than anything else, Caranthir noticed her clothing. Most of her clothes were well-made and notably more flattering and formal than Nerdanel usually bothered with, but about her neck she wore a scarf with clumsy sunflowers embroidered into the hem. Something uncomfortable tugged inside of his chest at the sight of his mother. He pushed it away and sneered.
“You need a new embroiderer. That scarf could have been done by a child.”
Nerdanel’s eyebrows shot up. She lifted one hand to the scarf and said, “Perhaps, but I find myself illogically fond of this one. He has other talents besides embroidery.”
The smile she wore was all too familiar to Caranthir. His blood ran cold. Had she sought a replacement for their father in his absence? Before he could ask, her smile faded and she said,
“Your brothers tell me you do not wish to visit me.”
“I see no reason to visit the home of one who would not follow my father.”
“I see.”
She was calm and impassive. That, Caranthir thought, was a dangerous sign. Nerdanel could be patient when she wanted to be, but she could also match Fëanor's wrath at its worst. If she was showing no sign of displeasure at that, she must be seconds away from exploding. But before she could, there was a loud crash as someone else entered the room. Fëanor stared at Nerdanel in unabashed delight.
“You’re wearing my scarf.”
A smile tugged on the corners of Nerdanel’s lips. “I am. Our grandchildren invited me for afternoon tea, but I seem to be early. Perhaps you could show me around?”
Fëanor smiled and offered his arm to Nerdanel, who took it and allowed him to lead her from the room. Caranthir was left baffled. His heart pounded in his chest and he found himself checking the corners for witnesses. This was the father of Caranthir’s youth, not the father he had grown accustomed to. All of Caranthir’s strategies to please Fëanor's temper were worth nothing now. He returned to his quarters with a frown, wondering how he could best adapt to this change.
*
“You are unhappy here.”
“Your powers of observation are astonishing,” Caranthir drawled.
Across the table, Elrond’s lips twitched, but he kept the smile from spreading across his face.
“Is there anything you desire that we could provide for you? Or would you be happier elsewhere? I’m sure our House has property in Tirion that could be given over to you.”
Caranthir’s calm mask slipped. “I’m allowed to leave? What about my father and brothers?”
He watched as Elrond’s eyebrows rose. Drumming his fingers against the table, he took a moment to think before replying,
“That is their decision, of course. Atto and Atya have never had restrictions placed upon their movement. I will confess Grandfather was restricted to my care for a time, but Lord Námo has long since conceded that point, at least. If he wished to be in Tirion, or Formenos, or elsewhere, he would be there. But he has a home here. He has a forge that is to his liking; two of his sons live here with no intent to leave; and he has grandchildren and great-grandchildren, also. He lives here because he wants to, and for that I am very grateful.”
Caranthir weighed each word carefully. It was certainly true that Maglor and Maedhros were content in Lindësirnan; they would have followed Elrond to the edge of Arda. As little as he liked to admit it, Fëanor, too, seemed content. He doted on Elrond and his wife, as well as on Elladan. He even allowed Elrond to interrupt him in his forge if he worked too long, an honour once reserved only for Nerdanel, Maedhros, Curufin, and Celebrimbor.
Even if his father and brothers were content to stay, Caranthir was not. He took Elrond’s offer of land in Tirion and made arrangements to move immediately. He had had his taste of independence in Beleriand and liked it. In Tirion, he could re-establish his old trading contacts and reclaim his independence.