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Things we lost to the flames
Things we'll never see again
All that we've amassed
Sits before us, shattered into ash
It's been three years since he came to Beleriand, and only now has Finarfin slowly dealt with what he learned. When he first stepped onto the land, he still had hope despite all that Elwing and Eärendil told him. He had known it was bad, of course. However, seeing the source of their despair was something entirely different. Meeting Gil-galad had confirmed his suspicions. Most elves lived by the coast now, because the sea was the only reliable food source they had left. Crops had started to fail a long time ago, and now they didn't even bother to plant seeds during spring.
Finarfin doesn't like the situation. It reminds him too much of the years of the Darkening when all Noldor were evil and food was scarce. Finarfin came to fight. To finally bring down Morgoth, not have to worry about hunger again. And yet, it keeps him from thinking about what else he learned from Gil-galad. The history of Beleriand with its fallen kingdoms and dead heroes.
Beleriand is cold, rough, and every morning is a bit more unpleasant than the last. He lets out a shaky breath.
His children are dead. Just as Orodreth, his grandson and his great-granddaughter Finduilas. Only Artanis is left, and he has yet to meet her. Just a few months before the Host of Valinor arrived, she and her husband visited Balar and took many refugees to safer places far beyond the western mountains. Gil-galad send word, but he doesn't expect them to be back soon.
Finarfin is partly grateful since he needs a little bit more time to deal with this desolate place. No one is to grant him any, because the worst is yet to come, and it's scheduled for today.
The meeting with the Fëanorians.
The thought alone makes Finarfin's stomach queasy. The worst is that Finarfin can't even tell why. It could be so easy. Back in Valinor, when he turned around, he felt only anger and disappointment. Now it's fear, anxiety and restlessness. Finarfin wants to run and hide, but he can't. He is the Highking, the relative who gathered his forces and enough courage to help his forsaken kin beyond the sea. Besides, he is standing on a hilltop, next to Gil-galad and is surrounded by important Lords and dutiful Soldiers.
There's no way to take cover. He is one of the tallest people around, having been born in Valinor. Even Gil-galad doesn't reach his height, and Finarfin suspects it's due to his upbringing. Not enough food, perhaps. Or care. If he heard correctly, Fingon died when Gil-galad was just a small child.
Finarfin bites back the regret. At first, it was just a seed of doubt, the endless question of Did I do the right thing? Now it's a full-grown tree, and every leaf is a person who died.
The sound of hooves on the ground makes Finarfin look around. He is not the only one; many are searching for a source, and soon the Fëanorians come into view. For a moment, Finarfin was ready to draw his sword, but he controlled the movement and kept his face neutral. Gil-galad showed less restraint with his right hand on the hilt of his sword and a scowl on his face.
Finarfin couldn't fault him. It was not a small force heading towards them, but an entire army. Trained and dressed for war. His sharp eyes showed Finarfin the differences between the Fëanorian force and their own. No bright colours, no jewels as decoration and no hair fluttering in the wind. Already, he imagined Ingil's reaction, full of criticism. It would start with a lack of house colours and end with the blood on the Fëanorian hands.
There was a reason why Finarfin left Ingwe's son at the camp, together with the Lords hailing from Doriath. The Teleri refused to set a foot on Beleriand anyway, but Finarfin did not doubt that Eärendil was watching from the sky.
„We have reached the point of no return,“ Gil-galad mumbled next to him, so quietly only Finarfin had been able to hear it.
He followed Gil-galad's gaze and saw how a small group was splitting from the army. While the riders quickly approached, the rest of the army stayed away. A wise choice, Finarfin thought. It put the Lords around them at ease, but he noticed as well that the riders in the first line stayed on their horses. If something happened, they would storm up the hill, this was for sure.
„They would certainly be useful,“ Finarfin voiced his first impression.
The frown on Gil-galad's forehead deepened. Yes, there was no one better trained in the Art of War than the Sons of Fëanor, but they had proven just as easily how quick they were to slaughter innocents. It spoke for itself that their times were so desperate they considered an alliance.
Both Kings stopped nursing their doubts when a figure reached the summit. Shadows withdrew when the leader of the small company stopped his horse.
No, Finarfin corrected. This was not a horse. It was a beast. Taller than Orome's steed Nahar, it matched the elf sitting upon it. The silence stretched on between them until Finarfin realised who exactly examined them like little boys before their first drill.
Finarfin could not help but stare when Maedhros dismounted. Tall and grim he was, but Finarfin figured Nerdanel's name still applied despite all the changes. Well shaped, yes - but for war, fighting and survival. The clothing was nothing but black leather, save for the white star engraved in the armour. Strapped to his back was a long sword, and Finarfin doubted anyone but Maedhros could wield the weapon.
Hell, most of his warriors would have trouble even lifting it.
„So the rumours are true. The Valar finally decided to correct their mistakes,“ a voice cut through the silence.
A second elf had dismounted and chose a place right next to Maedhros. With his black hair and the power that just resounded through him, he guessed it was Makalaurë. Maglor, in the tongue of this land, and Finarfin found themselves discarding the old names since he had trouble seeing two energetic boys of his brothers in the hardened warriors before him. Both looked as dangerous as the Orcs Finarfin had encountered, if not more. Their eyes shone with dislike at least, maybe even with hostility, and the setting sun coloured them in a deep shade of red.
Well, Gil-galad had warned him. But as much as he respected the other King, Finarfin found it difficult to trust his assessment in regard of the Fëanorians. All reports had been sightings from a distance or tales from survivors.
I thought they had been exaggerations, Finarfin thought. Now he was not so sure anymore.
The Sons of Fëanor stood relaxed and unafraid in front of the small gathering of Lords and Warriors, who all remembered the Kinslayings. Pride probably kept them from slouching and making it look like boredom, insulting Gil-galad just with the way they portrayed themselves.
Finarfin already felt a familiar (and long missed) ache in the back of his head.
„Yes,“ Finarfin answered since Gil-galad made no move to get involved, „The Valar responded to Eärendil's plea for help.“
„Generous,“ Maglor sneered with open distaste. „A little late, because there's nothing left to salvage. One hundred years earlier and your sons would still be alive. I guess you would have taken greater pleasure in being greeted by them instead of us.“
It took a lot of self-control not to lash out, but what hurt the most was the truth in Maglor's words. Back then, most of the Noldor Kingdoms stood proud against Morgoth's forces. It grieved Finarfin how quickly it went downhill from there; he had seen the descriptions.
„Brother, please control your temper,“ Maedhros spoke up for the first time. His deep voice drew all attention to him. „We are grateful for the Host of Valinor and here to discuss an alliance. Our anguish brings us together, and we cannot afford that Morgoth will use our ideologies to divide us.“
Before Finarfin could stop himself, he nodded obediently. Even though Maedhros stood in front of two Highkings, he commanded more authority than them. If ordered, most elves on the hill would kneel in front of the Fëanorian before they could question their action.
Out of reflex, Finarfin hoped. Maedhros was a General, the one person who had seen and survived all battles against Morgoth's armies aside from Maglor.
Curious how no Orc ever got close enough to take down a Fëanorian, one of his advisors had said after reviewing the history of Beleriand. Great Kings and might heroes had stood against Balrogs and rarely survived to tell the tale. Only the Sons of Fëanor remained intact when they returned from their battles. Finarfin's eyes wandered towards Maedhros and Maglor. How they might have lost the majority of their brothers to elvish blades if the same people could not stand up to the unnamed evil that the Fëanorians so easily vanquished?
He sighed and wished for answers.
„Wise words,“ Finarfin admitted and decided it was best for all if he and Maedhros continued, since Maglor and Gil-galad eyed each other with open anger. „We see the need as well. The Host of Valinor already protects those who cannot fight. We are also ready to share our food.“
Maedhros narrowed his eyes a bit, and Finarfin noticed how short he kept his hair. Like everything else, practical experience overruled tradition and fashion sense. Even Maglor's braid barely reached the broad shoulders.
“What do you wish for in return?” Maedhros asked, knowing that nothing was given freely.
“Information,” Finarfin answered quickly and took his nephew by surprise if he judged the reaction correctly. “We do not have enough maps, and those few we do possess, we cannot rely on.”
Nodding in understanding, Maedhros said, “Since none of you rode north in the last few years. Morgoth controls a lot of lands. His power has changed the landscape in the last decades. One cannot identify landmarks if they no longer exist.”
“Exactly. Our Host and even the Valar will need someone as a guide,” Finarfin explained. “Besides our lack of familiarity with the terrain, we do not know Morgoth creatures as well as you do.”
“In short, you need our battle experience,” Maedhros concluded.
While Gil-galad gritted his teeth, Maglor smirked in response. Finarfin wondered where the even-tempered singer had vanished to and how he had been replaced with a snarling version of his father, but he guessed he had no right to judge. Even if they were Kinslayers, the Fëanorians fought in this war far longer than he did and had lost their home more than once.
“Is that all?” Maedhros wished to know. “I'm all for a sound strategy, it will keep us from stumbling upon each other. But this can be discussed another time.”
“There is one more demand you have to answer,” Gil-galad interfered when he saw Maedhros reaching for his horse.
Finarfin looked at his fellow King, questioning. He was not aware of another subject they needed to discuss. Why risk blowing a successful meeting at this point? But when Gil-galad spoke up, he understood.
“Where are the children?” Gil-galad demanded to know. “Eärendil wishes to meet his sons. If they are even still alive since we have seen no proof ever since you took them from the Havens.”
A sharp hiss escaped Finarfin, and the soldiers around them moved with unease. They all heard the legends of how Eärendil's children had disappeared. Some thought them dead, others said the Sons of Fëanor held them hostage.
Finarfin didn't know which version he preferred. It had been over two decades since Eärendil reached Valinor, and if he remembered correctly, he and his wife had spent an extended amount of time on the sea because even with a Silmaril, the journey was long and confusing.
Children grow fast at that age, Finarfin remembered. Not to mention that elflings were impressionable during childhood and largely depended on their parents to survive. Their bodies grew quickly, but their spirits were vulnerable and needed to be protected.
How young were Eärendil's children when Elwing left these lands? Finarfin wondered. I do not have much hope for them.
Shame that Finarfin would not be the only one to lose his children. No wonder Eärendil had been so eager to return.
Finally, Maedhros answered.
“Eärendil has no sons he can claim as his own,” came the response, tight like a wire.
“Have you sunk this low to kill even innocent children? Is nothing some from your cursed oath?” Gil-galad shouted. “I know for a fact that they were still alive when Celebrimbor visited you after you left the Havens.”
In his rage, Gil-galad nearly attacked the Fëanorians. Thankfully, two soldiers held him back. Their king was no match for the Sons of Fëanor, especially in single combat.
“Do not accuse me of sins I did not commit,” Maedhros snapped and hauled himself onto his horse. His ease with the task made everyone forget he lacked one hand. “I said Eärendil had no sons anymore, not that the twins are dead.”
“What...?” Gil-galad blinked in surprise. His eyes darted from Maedhros to Maglor.
It was Maglor who answered, and Finarfin sensed the dark satisfaction in his voice.
“Elrond and Elros have always been aware that it was us who destroyed their home. In time, they warmed up to us, since we sheltered them, fed them and loved them,” Maglor said with a smile before he turned serious. “But they never forgot that Elwing and Eärendil chose the Silmaril over them. Elwing made a choice when she refused our bargain, again when she took flight and Eärendil the final one when he refused to turn around.”
Finarfin had trouble making out the words. It was the first time he had heard the tale told like this. According to Elwing, the Fëanorians had come without warning and slaughtered all who stood in their way. Now he wondered how much was a true account of events and how much was her perception.
He would have to find out what happened if he found the time for it. At least the reports were clearer when it came to the Sack of Doriath because enough people were criticising Dior for going into battle with the Sons of Fëanor. Sirion resembled Alqualondë, only pain and confusion, with so many conflicting accounts of what happened exactly.
But that's not our problem, Finarfin realised.
“Can we at least see them?” he asked carefully. “We will not pressure them into picking a side or force them to spend time with us. But there are people concerned about their welfare. Will you grant them this simple request, Nephew?”
Maedhros refused to reply. Instead, his eyes flickered to the right, to the small group of elves that accompanied their Lords to the meeting.
Finarfin's eyes widened in surprise when he spotted two identical faces. He had not noticed before, because seeing the sons of his brother again demanded all his attention. Gil-galad gasped as well, but he had no excuse. But Finarfin reasoned that it was dark, and the Fëanorian riders dressed mostly in black.
“Elrond? Elros?” Gil-galad asked, and Finarfin watched how carefully the other King moved forward to get a better look.
“We are fine,” one of them responded and commanded his horse to step further into the light. Finarfin had black hair and grey eyes reflecting the firelight. Fingolfin's features as far as he could tell.
“My brother and I will be present at the next meeting,” the other Elf said when he joined his brother, and Finarfin concluded that they were truly twins. Too identical to be just brothers. “With one condition.”
“Of course,” Gil-galad agreed, far too eager for Finarfin's taste. “Anything you name.”
“No one will question our choice,” one twin said and glared at them, much like Maglor had done earlier. “We will introduce ourselves as Makalaurion and shall take offence at anyone accusing us of lying.”
The other twin took over, so neatly that it was difficult to tell who was speaking.
“We were not held against our will. Father has argued for ages that your court would be a safer place, Cousin,” Gil-galad was told. “However, we refused. Your lands are not free from orcs, and Lord Maedhros is certainly the better fighter.”
Even Finarfin flinched, but he said nothing when the twins finally turned their horses to rejoin the army waiting at the foot of the hill. Gil-galad just swallowed and looked at Maedhros for help.
“Like I said, it is not my decision to make.” The Fëanorian shrugged. “As long as they wish to stay by our side, I treat them like my own flesh and blood.”
With these words, Maedhros rode down the hill. It was Maglor who stayed behind for a moment, carefully inspecting the two Kings.
“Until we meet again,” he said, refraining from commenting on the declaration the twins had made.
For Gil-galad, it was difficult enough to watch how easily the twins made space for their father so that he could ride between them. Soon, the Fëanorian Host had vanished back into the shadows, and the night denied even Finarfin from following them with his eyes.
Instead, they found Gil-galad, who had buried his face in his hands.
“I do not understand. How can they... with the Kinslayers?” he asked in confusion and looked at Finarfin for answers.
With a deep sigh, the last son of Finwë put a hand on Gil-galad's shoulder.
“Ereinion, I can only tell you what my father told me when I asked him how Elwë could refuse Valinor's light,” Finarfin spoke quietly, offering his comfort. “Harder lives do not always make unhappier people.”