Penultimate chapter. Will be uploaded to AO3 and SWG soon. The chapter with all the boats, crying, and one final gut-punch of angst.

The later half of the First Age from the perspective of two elves trapped in Angband, loosely inspired by A Dance of Dragons.  The childhood companion of Finduilas Faelivrin must take the princess’s identity to survive in the enemy’s hands. Another prisoner, regretting he did not join Beren’s quest, tries his best to save her.

AO3 – Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7,Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

“He raised his eyes. “Sister. See. This time I knew you.”

Docks had been constructed where the sea had not yet claimed the land, those small patches of Ossiriand saved from the waves, for the Valar were attempting to divert the incoming ocean to the north. They would readily drown the lava flows and ash heaps that remained of Morgoth’s fortress in cold salt water, but not even Uinen could pull back the sea from pouring over the Long Wall and drowning the forests of Beleriand. A few places fought to stay above the waves or like Tol Morwen had been hallowed and uplifted. Most of Dorthonion, land of the pines where King Finrod’s brothers and those brave mortals led by Barahir had once lived, the Valar had saved. Long before the War of Wrath the land of Dorthonion had gone mad, broken before these current upheavals by the terrible might of Morgoth, and it became a forest of nightmares until the Army of the Valar reclaimed the land once and for all. Beren himself had spoken of the terrible Nightshade once his home, though Faron had not been present in Nargothrond to hear the reports. Now the Valar had done their best to quell the land’s madness, but like Morgoth’s grip on the soil of Beleriand, Dorthonion could not be scoured clean. No trees remained on the island, according to gossip, only rock, though some Maiar of Yavanna and Oromë were trying to reseed the land.

A futile task, it seemed, to save so little of Beleriand, and yet the rest of the world was preserved now that Morgoth was defeated.

Waiting off the coast of this drowning land, unseen except on clearest days, was that fleet of the Falmari, the long-separated kin. The barren island, Dorthonion that was, was ringed by great ships. The sheer cliffs of the Ereb Gorgoroth were now deep fjords where hopeful salmon and many masted ships sailed in to find shelter. This was where the majority of the Valinorean fleet lay in anchor, for the eastern coastline was still unsteady and the tides untrustworthy. Círdan eagerly awaited the day that the ocean returned to a modicum of regularity. Only a small fraction of the Valinorean fleet sailed into the newly named Grey Harbor, close enough that their anchors dragged along the bay’s basin.

Beholding the unnatural beauty of the Falmari ships, one had a tantalizing glimpse of the unparalleled beauty and efficiency of the lost Swan-ships, like the echo of the fabled light of the Two Trees if one stared hard enough at the new star that graced the morning and evening skies. Faron had been eager for stories of the Swan-ships when he first arrived to Nargothrond, as was natural for a son of a lord of Círdan, and he had been bitterly disappointed at Finrod’s reticence to speak of them and lack of any pictorial representation. These Falmari ships were not the Swan-ships, no more than the Sun and Moon were the Two Trees, but like the celestial lights, they carried a legacy. Joining this fleet were the smaller vessels of Lord Círdan, all barnacle-heavy and patched-sails, like storm-battered ducks intermingling in a pond with a flock of pristine, beautiful geese. The ships did not segregate, and pinnacles would ferry between the integrated fleets continuously, yet only the smaller darker ships would have sailors disembarking onto the stony beaches. The image of seals bobbing their heads in the bay and climbing onto the shore of his childhood home of Brithombar came to Faron, a fragment of once-forgotten memory. He stared out at the mass of masts and sails, listening to the creak of water against hulls, and wept.

These battered yet proud ships of the Falathrim were why Faron and Faelindis had journeyed to this new coastline.  

Ships were sailing the pardoned and those that wished it back to Valinor. The full extent of grace the Valar were still debating, yet the decision to send those broken by enslavement in Angband to Aman itself and to the healing gardens of the Valier Estë had been swiftly proclaimed and agreed unanimously.

Among that select few were Faron, hair shaved and arm in a cast, and Faelindis, ribs bound and set under a padded stay and borrowed gown in the high-waisted Sindarin style. The dress had been a gift from Aereth, and even with tight lacing on the bodice jacket and attached sleeves, the garment hung loosely. Thankfully the full skirt hanging from beneath the bodice line hid how thin her stomach and legs were, and only the hem needed shortening to fit, as Aereth was taller and far wider in the hips. On the journey to the new shore Faelindis diverted herself by hemming her dress and then sewing sleeve panels to add to Faron’s new vest. He could not wear the sleeves with his arm in a sling, but Faelindis was determined. “You shan’t greet the Princes and Powers in your undershirt.”

I already met the High King of the Noldor half naked in rags that did little to grant any modesty, caked in blood and dirt, and I called him by the name of his dead son. Faron did not say this aloud to Faelindis as to not injure her feelings.

He envied her needle. His thoughts had no distraction.

Caravans of the injured, survivors, and pardoned travelled in slow continuous loops to and from the Grey Harbor, collecting all that would be sent from the remnants of Beleriand. The drivers were Vanyar, but the guards were stone-faced Noldor women carrying the banners of High King Finarfin or the Maiar of Eonwë. The Maiar were the ones to clear roads for the carriages and wagons, but the trail paths were often swept away by water or landslides, prompting long detours and waits. Faron’s hair grew back long enough to start to curl around his ears, some patches no longer a dead limp white. No one could guess how long the refugee caravans would run. When the sea stopped swallowing land like a greedy whale was everyone’s guess. Healers rode with the carriages. One came every other day to switch out Faron and Faelindis’s bandages for new ones. Sometimes this healer was Aereth. Her companion, Dondwen, was the one to procure a needle for Faelindis and some fur to line two new cloaks so they stayed warm as they stretched their legs. Faelindis planned to sew a gift in return for Dondwen, something red to match the woman’s metal-studded gloves.

Faelineth, Aglar’s widow, visited Faron and Faelindis once. The visit was short and awkward, and the healer spent her attention on Faelindis’s cracked ribs and Faron’s arm. “We thought you dead,” she whispered, and Faron knew not why she intoned it as an apology. Better had we, he did not say. Nor did he joke, we were, and have returned to life like Princess Lúthien and Beren. The jest would not have upset Faelindis, but Faelineth with her golden shell necklace and listless eyes seemed somehow more brittle than the younger maiden, for all that she had escaped the downfall of Nargothrond and having settled on the Isle of Balar thus escaped the Third Kinslaying.

“We met Sarnor,” Faelindis said, trying to draw out a conversation.

“Yes,” Faelineth whispered. “I suppose I have a brother again. He has been kind to me. He has written to his mother and sister. They await me and have promised me lodgings. You can could with us, once you are released from the Gardens. There they shall fix your teeth, Faron.” With a smile that did not reach her eyes, Faelineth excused herself from their company.

The next healer to visit them was a brusk Vanya man who chided Faron to prioritize stretching exercises in the cramped confinement of their carriage and demanded that Faelindis eat more. The field rations from the Amanyar tasted over-seasoned, and the bread was soft but oddly sour. Yet compared to the meager and foul scraps of food that Faron and Faelindis had survived upon in the bowels of Angband, each meal on their journey to the new shore was a feast.

Mortals who had not already been evacuated to the shoreline also joined the refugee train, and they were the only ones to sing and make noise, eager and excited for their new lives. The elves were more silent in their solace. As the cry of seagulls grew louder, the mortal men and women grew more animated, speculating wildly about the sea that they would finally see. The trees thinned, allowing them to see the long grey firth and a string of new buildings and small ships moored along the beach. Here was when Faron saw the forest of masts and sailcloth out on the bay and began to weep.

The carriage that transported them from the front lines to this rudimentary dock that would ferry passengers to Dorthonion and onto a Falmari vessels to voyage back to Aman halted without warning. Faron gripped the cushioned seat of the bench he was sitting on with his hands to brace himself from tipping forward, marvelling at the poultices and healing tonics that Aereth had given them. Even now he barely registered the pain of his missing fingers. He straightened his back and sighed in relief. The curtain for the carriage window fell loose in the jostling, and the oiled cloth blocked the view of the harbor. As he reached for the curtain to let light back into the carriage, Faelindis turned and grabbed his shoulders in excitement. “Put on your new jacket, Faron, and brush your hair back.” Her tone was commanding, but her brown eyes were alight with joy, and her wide smile was as if the Faelindis of Tol Sirion had travelled centuries into the future to replace the survivor of Angband. The return of her smile was like the fleet of Valinor, the heralding of hope restored.

Dismounting from the carriage was a tender process. Faelindis gripped her freshly hemmed skirts in her arms, desperately attempting to keep the fabric clean of the mud. She hobbled onto pathway of wooden planks and grimly and silently debated if to knot her skirt to keep it from the ground and if she could do so without limiting her mobility. Faron only remembered how Faelindis behaved when they were both confined to Nargothrond after the Dagor Bragollach, when living in an underground city meant there was few opportunities to be plagued by mud. He wondered if she had been this fastidious as a girl-child in Tol Sirion, or if this concern for the state of her clothing was a result of having the luxury of real clothing again instead of squalid rags.

Around Faelindis pressed the crowd of people, healers leading the injured to the waiting ships, Amanyar soldiers in white looking for their loved ones, mortals searching for the sounds of familiar accents, and veterans weary but happily waiting for the call home. No one jostled her. Wooden planks crisscrossed the muddy ground, and Faron suspected that many were recycled from planks of lost ships. To his left he could hear the distinct sounds of active saw pits, the steady rasp of long sawblades halving lumber for new ships and houses. On the crest of the hill were foundations for what looked to eventually be a stately hall, and tall blue tents with white and gold banners were pitched north of those stones. Rain had dampened the banners, but now the wind was lifting them into the sea breeze. Somewhere in one of those tents was Eönwë, herald of the Valar. A strange notion that was, for Faron had become skilled in detecting the presence of Morgoth’s Maiar, not just the balrogs but those that disguised themselves as orcish captains, and his inability to sense the nearness of any Maia unsettled him. He knew this was irrational, born of years of Angband’s enslavement, and such reflexes could not be instantly unlearned. Resolving to ignore the distant tents, Faron climbed down from the carriage, thankful that the horses had been unhitched. The whip scars on his back ached.

Faron’s boot-clad feet squelched in the mud, and he breathed in the distinctive soothing smell of earth after heavy rain mixed with the odor of the sea. The smell comforted him, for he realized that he still remembered it. He had not known this smell since before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He tilted his head to feel the sea breeze and felt a cold sting. Tears, he belatedly realized. He was crying again, and he could only presume that the tears came from relief.

“Faron, this way,” Faelindis coaxed, holding out her hand. “They said this path leads to where our ship is moored.”

With a wry twist of lips for the reversal of their positions, Faron wordlessly reached for Faelindis’s outstretched hand and followed her down to the shore.

A kind-faced old mortal man pointed them to the ship that would ferry them to the staging point at the bare rock island of former Dorthonion and onto a Falmari ocean-going ship. Faron laughed then, for he recognized the vessel that he would board.

The single square sail was black wool twill, and obviously a fresh sailcloth with the lack of patches or mends, and the prow curved up and over like an octopus tentacle, complete with rings painted along both sides and down the length of the hull. Faron always thought that the pattern looked more like the feathers of a hawk owl than the row of suckers that it was supposed to emulate. On either side a row of oars hung above the water like a seabird drying its wings. Priming for a soon departure, thus did Faron read into those oar positions. Again he laughed with himself over this private joke that the universe was sharing with him, for the ship was a coastal galley of Brithombar. Specifically it was a ship captained by a member of his family. His grandfather’s boat had been a great hollowed log from a giant oak tree, rigged with a sail when Ossë taught the elves how to use sails to catch a wind to propel their canoes and rafts, and he had named the boat Mithmeren. All subsequent watercraft, be they small coracles or forty-oared trading vessels, were the Grey Daughters of Mithmeren, manned by Faron’s father, uncles, brothers, cousins, and sister. This ship meant one thing – a member of Faron’s family had survived the war.

And befittingly, they were taking him to his new home.

A plank stretched from the hull of the ship down to the beach, a concession for the injured that were to be loaded onto the ship. It was not a steep climb, but some of those that waited around the line of wooden planks and mooring ropes that one could generously label a dock sported severe leg injuries, such that Faron in his new padded and stuffed boots winced in sympathy. A healer directed crew-members to load chests of medicinal supplies onto the ship, placing them where the sailors’ chests would normally sit to become rowing benches when the ship was not under sail. Another elf pointed towards one of the taller and larger Falmari ships waiting at anchor in the bay, holding a navigation instrument in his other hand. At least Faron assumed that was what the object was. Standing here, close enough to feel the sand in the wind and hear the cawing of seagulls and the small waves lapping against the beach rock in that constant tidal rhythm, more lost childhood memories returned. He remembered his uncle Aearon, the one everyone called Nînlaws because he dove into the bay to chat with Ossë and Uinen, teaching Faron how to judge his location along the shore with a piece of string and stick using the position of the stars. But as Faron searched the faces of the sailors, he did not find his uncle. Instead, and to his delight, Iessel was the family he found.

His sister, tall and dark, stood on the docks, shouting orders to her sailors. No sign of injuries were apparent, and her stance was confident and commanding. The only sign of change was the scarf looped around her neck, a black and white pinecone pattern of Haladim design, and an additional hand-ax on her belt-loop. The gray-robbed healer pointed to the last provision chests, then pulled out parchment from an oilskin folder to begin reading names. The healer attempted to confer with Iessel, but Faron’s sister waved them away, down to where the refugees had gathered on the beach. Iessel’s eyes focused on her crew and the loading of her ship, glancing quickly over her passengers with disinterest and a detached pity well-mixed with revulsion. Faron knew by the way her eyes darted away that she did not recognize him, seeing only yet another too-thin and too-broken ex-thrall of Angband.

“Sister! Iessel!” Faron cried. “This time I am the one to recognize you first! Over here!” He laughed at the shock upon her face and the tears that came forth. “I live!”  With a great shout, Faron repeated his words, and felt as if song could once more find lodging in his breast. “We live!”

Iessel, once she embraced her younger brother and gingerly inspected his face, still bewildered at the dire transformation of his features, led Faron and Faelindis to a log cabin close to the hastily constructed dock. “Storm is coming. A spat of rain, but they wish us wait til the morning to sail. You can stay here, sleep the night. Better than the tents. Father is dead,” his sister said curtly, “and Mother sailed already. Uncle Duinenir stays with Lord Círdan. I know not what happened to Uncle Aearon. Mayhaps Uncle Tolon is alive, over in Alqualondë, restored to life. King Orodreth sent us a letter, after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Mother mourned for you.” Iessel sighed. “Father mourned the first time you were sent away. I am glad you live, Little Brother. Try not to drown between here and the Far Shore.” For all her brusque words, Iessel touched her brother softly and her green eyes were bright with pity. “Rest here. A bed you’ll find in the back; it’s not large but at least it doesn’t sway, and there are plenty of furs to keep you warm. Water for you and the lady to freshen up. Pickled fish in the red jar; eat up. I’ll bring you safe, my crew and our Hatholros. Oh, you are alive, Faron,” Iessel exhaled, cupping his cheek, her fingers tentatively feeling the scars and the deep concave of his cheeks. She pulled away. “I need to see that my men store the oars properly and seal the oar holes. Last voyage some of them lost the disks. Had to bail water. Sent them to teach the Edain how to paddle. Think I might replace my crew.”

Faelindis laughed at this proclamation. Faron refrained from explaining that his sister was not making a jest.

---

Screaming woke them, nearby cries of fear, pain, and outrage. The screeching of metal on metal -of swords against shield and plate armor- could not be mistaken for that of peacetime tools. In the darkness, these over-familiar sounds of violence overwhelmed Faron and Faelindis. Faelindis screamed in that soundless way that she had learned to make in the coffin-like cells of Angband, curling her body tight and small against the corner of the room, her bare feet scrambling against the floor as she kicked in panic. One foot lashed out and hit Faron in the stomach and then his jaw, but the pain was familiar. As his disfigured hands gripped the fur blanket that he had pulled off the bed as he also slid to the floor in an instinctive drive to hide from the screams, his mind said that he was no longer in the Grey Harbor but back inside the warg pen. The lightless cabin was the deep levels of Angband, and the sounds were of orcs in yet another senseless brawl, and soon the violence would come for them.

His sister’s voice shocked Faron free of the horrific illusion. “Stay inside, Faron! I’ll investigate!”

Faelindis stopped thrashing. Faron curled against her, unwilling to climb back into the bed. In Angband they had only small moments in the tunnels in which to touch one another, and to hold Faelindis through their mutual nightmare allowed them to banish some of the memories. He murmured meaningless sounds to Faelindis, reminding her that she was no longer alone. Behind him the door slammed shut, and he could no longer hear the sounds of men fighting, though there was still the shrill alarm calls of trumpets and elven voices raised in command and fear. The shouts drifted away from the town, and distantly Faron could hear the baying of hunting hounds. That made him shudder and pull back, and this time Faelindis was the one to reach out in the stifling darkness and pull Faron back to rest against her chest, tucking his head under her chin and soothing him like an infant.

The night never returned to its initial quiet, but the bedlam was quelled, and it became clear that the harbor was no longer under attack.

Iessel re-entered the room, placing the weapon outside the doorway. She locked the door behind her, but her movements as she walked over to where Faron and Faelindis huddled on the bed were slow and gentle. She aimed to be soothing. “They were after the Noldor Gems and are now gone, weren’t any of the fighting near our camps and never would be. It was only two intruders, the -”

“Fëanorians, we know,” Faron interrupted. “Always them, whenever news came to Angband of elves killed and cities destroyed when Morgoth wasn’t to blame. Made him happy, the Dark Lord and his Balrogs. Laughed about it.”

Faelindis shivered. “Why couldn’t they be banished to the Void too? Why didn’t they stop?”

“Those cursed Noldor gems,” Iessel shrugged. “But the things are gone now, stolen and good riddance. From your stories and everyone else, they never seemed to do much good, aside from letting Eärendil reach Valinor. I liked Eärendil – had a beautiful ship. Wish Círdan would have helped to build me as ship half as lovely as Vingilot. Now there was something beautiful beyond compare, only fitting that the Valar turned it into a star. Imagine sailing the Upper Airs, what an adventure!”

As his sister waxed poetically on the beauty and merits of the blessed mariner and his ship, Faron tried to calm Faelindis. He held her hand and listened to Iessel’s incomprehensible but enthusiastic nautical drivel as a soothing distraction. His sister’s voice was ocean waves encroaching on the shore, eating away at panic.

---

Dondwen found them the morning before they embarked, her burgundy Tree-bright eyes rimmed in red, her leather-clad hands hanging like listless leaves. Without bothering with introductions and polite greetings, she began speaking in her stilted Sindarin.  “Airanis was there. Wanted to see the light again, in memory of old life at Sirion. Was thanking the Valar when the two attacked. Tried to stop them. Tried to heal one of the guards they had murdered. Was stabbed on their way out.” The Noldor woman switched from her clipped Sindarin into a far more passionate and anguished stream of Quenya, her voice rising and slurring into an incomprehensible rant, fresh tears welling as she raised her arms to hide her face. Her foreign words ceased, and in a diminished falsely calm voice Dondwen apologized as she uncovered her face. “Please inform Healer Faelineth for me. I will stay for next convoy. Herald General Eönwë says we cannot go after the Kinslayers. He forbids. There are those petitioning him to reconsider. I wait.

“Go to Valinor, freed ones. Go be healed, reunited. They are all there, in the Halls or Gardens. Everyone I love. Everyone for you, too, am I right?”

Horrified, Faron could not reply.

Dondwen forced a smile. “When we reach the Western Shore, then we can put down all our burdens. Been dragging them for so long. Grief heavy, but the hope has been worse.”

Faron knew not a word or gesture he could offer Dondwen as comfort or that would lessen their mutual outrage. She did not linger long enough for any attempt from him, but waved Faron a farewell. “Do not become seasick. Do not be afraid of Valinor. Cry only tears of happiness to be reunited with loved ones. Costawë was your friend, too? I can see in your eyes. He will not know the name Dondwen -but Indolen. If you see him in the Gardens before I come, tell him I searched for him. Tell him Indolen came for him. And I am proud he became a hero.”