~In the aftermath of the war, many are reunited, and the leader of the Host of the Valar is subject to theft.~

oOo

Maedhros, by ted Nasmith

The End of an Age

The beach became crowded with barrels, crates and sacks from Morgoth's many centuries in power. They were full of rare foods and drinks, as well as weapons, jewelry, valuable metals, clothes, and beautiful art. A lot was stolen from Hithlum where he had taken control after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears and taxed the people heavily since.

While the treasures and supplies were unloaded, other ships began to discharge a different cargo: people. Most were warriors of the Host of the Valar, but one ship was full of former prisoners. Weak, dirty and injured elves and men, who had been chained deep below Morgoth's fortress and kept as thralls to work for him in the mines.

Eönwë set up a large camp, north of where Gil-galad, Oropher, the Fëanorians and the humans had made their much simpler ones. The new camp had spacy pavilions with colorful banners and comfortable furniture and carpets inside, and a long, large tent for the injured. Aerneth and Elrond were given a welcome break, for among Eönwë's host were many healers, still well equipped even after such a prolonged war.

"I feel like a novice among them," she confided to Thranduil as they watched, rather awed, how the new camp cropped up before them. "Their healing powers are on par with Queen Melian's."

Thranduil felt like a novice too – they probably all did. Even the Fëanorians with their advanced weapons and armor looked like pawns beside the Aman warriors. Not because the latter had such special weaponry – on the contrary, rather – but because of the light within them. They were elves who had seen the Two Trees, and lived near the Valar their entire lives. They seemed stronger, wiser, and yet with young, vibrant spirits that made Thranduil feel old despite being only a fraction of their age. In comparison to them, everyone from this shore appeared lackluster and faded, himself included.

Never before had he wanted to go to Aman, but now – when that option was actually open to him – he suddenly felt a longing to sail. He wanted to have what these elves had.

I will stay with you, Aerneth had promised her father. Could Thranduil leave her here alone?

No. But if his own father decided to go, Thranduil would have to. That was what he promised. His oath would compel him.

Galadriel walked past with quick steps, steering towards a blond Noldor warrior who had just come ashore. The likeness was striking; this could only be Finarfin, her father, one of the leaders in the war.

She looked like she was about to hug him, but then halted and bowed instead. "Adar. I am glad you survived."

"Daughter. You look... well." But it did not sound like he meant it. Galadriel was born in Aman and had grown up there, but perhaps her exile in Middle-earth had stolen some of that grace from her. Next to her father, she looked... dull, for lack of a better word. She was a beautiful elleth, especially her golden hair, but Finarfin was radiant.

"How is Naneth?"

"All good. Your brothers are with her."

"Reborn?" Her eyes widened. "Then why did they not come here with you?"

"Finrod wanted to but Lord Manwë would not permit it. Dying once is distressing enough; twice could damage a soul interminably. But you shall soon see him again; the ships of your naneth's kin are swift."

"I am not returning."

Finarfin frowned lightly. "Why? This land is ruined. What is left for you here besides grief and hardship?"

"Lord Eönwë said Morgoth's servant hides in the east. Repentant, he said, which I do not trust the least. I will make sure Sauron stays away, and if not, fight him. After what he did to my brother he does not deserve forgiveness."

"Is that not for the Valar to decide?"

She did not answer.

"Well, I can see you made up your mind. You always went your own way, daughter."

"That I did," she acceded.

When her father had left, Celeborn took the place at her side. "Were you planning to ask me before you decided our future?"

She gave her husband an impatient look. "Our? You can sail if you want; I shall join you later."

"Nay. I will not leave you here alone."

"Suit yourself then."

oOo

The feast lasted all night. Thranduil had not realized how much he had missed nice food and drink, and stuffed himself until he nearly felt sick.

Oropher frowned at him, particularly at the large wine cup he kept refilling. "That is a vile habit."

Thranduil ignored the reprimand. "Will you answer Manwë's invitation?"

"Of course not. I have never been to Aman and have no wish to see it for the time being. I am king here and will not give that up." He lowered his voice to a murmur. "I do hope Gil-galad and his Noldor leave, though. I had enough of his claim to rank above me. The Sindar have no high king and we do not need one either."

Thranduil hummed noncommittally, pleased he would not have to abandon Aerneth quite yet. He had a hunch it would not be easy to start anew in this changed world.

He was helping himself to his third (or fourth?) plate when a commotion broke out in the new camp.

"Stop them!"

"Thieves! Murderers!"

"Kinslayers!"

Thranduil dropped the plate and drew his sword, running unsteadily towards the camp. With the amount of wine he had drunk he would probably not be of much help, but as a warrior he acted on instinct.

He followed the sound of weapons clashing until he could see what was happening. It was Maedhros and Maglor, surrounded on all sides, desperately fighting for their lives. Maedhros fenced one-handedly; his other hand clutched a velvet bag tightly.

"What is the meaning of this?" Eönwë's voice carried easily across the din.

"They took the Silmarils!" accused an ellon. "And killed the guards! They were my friends, you murderous sons of–"

"Hold up!" Eönwë commanded. "Put down your weapons. They may be kinslayers, but we are not." He turned to Maedhros. "Give the jewels back."

"They belong to us."

"They no longer do; after your many ill deeds you lost the right to them. I will bring them to Aman where they were created, and you must return also to receive Manwë's judgment."

Maglor turned to his brother. "Perhaps we should. If the Valar pardon us they will give us what is ours peacefully."

"If they do not, we lose the Silmarils for good and can never fulfill our oath."

"But then it would not be our fault."

"We swore before Ilúvatar himself. If we fail to abide by the oath we are doomed!"

"If you flee from the Valars' judgment you are also doomed," Eönwë remarked, a stern edge to his voice.

"Then so be it." Still clutching the bag, Maedhros pushed through the surrounding guards and ran.

Maglor gave Eönwë an almost apologetic look before he followed his brother.

"Should we pursue them, my lord?" asked a guard.

"Leave them be. Their punishment will come to them."

oOo

Eönwë's fleet sailed away a couple of days later, leaving most of the spoils of war with Círdan to use for the building of the new haven and establishing a city where the elves and humans could live while waiting for ships.

Many elves followed Eönwë, but more than he had surmised chose to remain in Middle-earth a while longer. Apart from Galadriel there were many Noldor, such as Gil-galad and Celebrimbor – to Oropher's annoyance – and in addition most of the Sindar and Laegrim who had no connection to Aman.

They gathered on the beach to see the fleet sail, saying their goodbyes and waving to the departing. Seagulls followed the ships, crying in their forlorn voices and circling the sky, and a chubby seal dived to escape the foremost ship. When the new shore had formed the sea animals had soon followed, settling in like they had always lived there.

The sun set, sinking into a line of hazy clouds before it disappeared entirely. The ships had become mere specks near the horizon. People began to leave, returning to their tents and shelters, but Thranduil lingered, and so did Aerneth, Galadriel, Elrond and Elros. Though nobody said so it was evident they all waited for the same thing. The star.

Aerneth saw it first. "There he is." She pointed.

They watched as the light grew stronger. It felt surreal to know that tiny dot was Eärendil, a flesh-and-blood man whom Thranduil had seen grow up and whose wedding he attended.

"I wonder what happened to the other two Silmarils," Galadriel mused. "It makes me nervous not knowing where they are. What if Sauron takes them?"

"He will not," said Elrond with emphasis.

Galadriel gave him a surprised look. "How can you be so sure?"

"We saw them disappear." He shuddered, face turning pale.

Elros elaborated: "Most of the seeing stones were left in Maedhros' tent and after he ran away we found them. They are connected to his and Maglor's personal stones, so we used them to see what happened to our foster-adars."

"Seeing stones?"

"Palantíri, they are called; round stones that appear to be made of dark glass, but when you peer into them you can see and hear what happens far away. Fëanor created them and his sons inherited them. They taught us how to use them."

"My adar had one too," Thranduil cut in. "But the one they gave him is lost under the sea now."

"Sounds almost like my mirror." Galadriel's interest was piqued. "Or your water calls, Aerneth. These stones probably have the same kind of magic."

"I do not like them," said Elrond. "Never did. And after what I saw–" He shuddered again and fell silent.

"I find them useful," said his brother.

"What did you see?" asked Galadriel.

"We saw them take one Silmaril each and split up," Elros replied. "I decided to follow Maglor and watched him go down to the beach, perhaps meaning to sail away. Maybe even to Aman to repent? However, when he opened the bag and picked up the Silmaril it burned his hand. He dropped it, and stared at it, and then he began to cry. You know how the Silmarils can hurt evil beings? It seems it found my foster-adar so, and I think that made him devastated. He sat there for a long time weeping, and cradling his burned hand, and then suddenly he stood and picked the jewel up and roaring in pain he threw it far out into the sea. Then he walked away, and he must have left his pack with the palantír for I could not see where he went. But I heard him. He was singing a lullaby... I remember it from when we were little. I think his adar sang that to him too, and..." Elros' eyes filled with tears. "And then a wave swept his pack into the water and I saw only darkness."

Elrond took over. "I was looking at Maedhros," he said in a strained voice. "When his Silmaril burned him he began to run, but he didn't drop it. It kept scorching his hand, and the skin became all black. He screamed in anguish but would not let go. He ran until he came to a sheer drop where the cliff had split during the quake, and there was smoke pouring up, and I saw there was fire in the deep but he did not stop. He jumped into the air and fell, still wailing, still clutching the Silmaril and everything was smoke and fire and the rock was molten and he sank into it and that was the last thing I saw. Excuse me." He went down to the shoreline and threw up.

The others watched him in shocked silence, except for Elros who obviously had heard the story before.

When Elrond returned, damp from washing his face, he said firmly: "I will never use a palantír again."

Nobody said anything for a while. What could one say to someone who witnessed a father figure of his die such a horrible death? "I am sorry that happened?" No. It would only sound empty and artificial; Maedhros had gotten a fair punishment and Thranduil could not pretend to be sorry about that.

Elros broke the silence first. "We have no family left now. No adar, no naneth, no foster-parents. I think I will choose the fate of men and remain mortal. If not, what would we do in Aman all alone?" He rubbed his chin with a wry smile. "I do not mind becoming old; a beard would probably suit me."

"Parents are not the only kind of family there is," said Elrond. "Who can say what friends we will make if we choose the long life of elves? We shall find new ones to love, I am sure." He sounded calmer now, his emotions stored away under a neutral face. Thranduil recognized the behavior; he did it often himself.

"Perhaps." Elros did not sound convinced.

"If we are mortal there may not be enough time to find out. I think I prefer an elvish fate."

"Are you saying mortals are too short lived to make friends?"

"Well no, but..."

Still talking, the twins turned away from their father in the sky and left the beach.

"It is getting late," said Galadriel. "Come, Aerneth. You need your sleep after such long hours in the healing tent."

But for once she did not obey her friend. "I am not tired."

Soon only Aerneth and Thranduil remained. Darkness settled around them and the seagulls grew quiet. Calm waves rolled back and forth.

Thranduil pondered over the twins' choice. What would happen if they did not choose the same? Would Elrond have to watch his brother grow old and die? That must be horrible.

It also sounded horrible to have no one waiting in Aman. Thranduil's hope to be reunited with his mother again was what had kept him sane after her demise. To have an opportunity to apologize. To make things right.

He felt Aerneth take his hand and he pressed it back. He had her too. She was still his wife, still the elleth he loved, though it seemed fate was doing its best to keep them apart.

Again he felt that wink of hope. One day his father would die, or sail to Aman, and Thranduil considered the latter option finite enough to end his oath. And then... Maybe then they could mend the rift and start over.

One day...

Thranduil was patient. He could wait.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Here ends the First Age of Middle-earth, and also the first part of this tale. The second (and final) part will encompass the Second and Third Ages, with Sauron's rise to power and the forging of the Rings, and in that part Thranduil and Aerneth will have new opportunities to mend their marriage. Plus, Legolas is yet to be born. I think Part 2 will be shorter, because the Second Age has fewer important events and not much happening in between, but it is always hard to predict the length of a story... I hope you will stay with me until the end either way. :)

Image Credits:

Maedhros casts himself into a chasm, by Ted Nasmith