Whatever Way Our Stories End - Chapter 2 - TiresiasTheBlindSeer (Ravenclaw_Peredhel) - The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth (2024)

Chapter Text

Rebuilding a world destroyed by the cataclysmic collision of powers is no easy task.

Firstly, every Elf, Man, Dwarf, Ent and other being must either flee crumbling Beleriand or drown with it.

Some choose the latter, for the most part the old and the ill and the mortally wounded, and those whose despair will not let them imagine a new world.

But most choose a new life, a life away from the painful memories of Beleriand.

And for those who follow Gil-galad or Elros or another leader of the people, each must be given food and clothes and shelter, however temporary.

Gil-galad places me in charge of the smiths, and the forges work day and night simply to churn out enough pots and knives that everyone may eat.

I do not envy those who are placed in charge of other, more complicated issues.

I have enough problems wrangling the smiths from a hundred different factions as we try to simply provide enough of the basic necessities to keep our people alive.

The Ents, thankfully, bring enough dead wood every day that we have no lack of fuel for the forge fires at least.

It is a long, thankless task, more monotonous than crafting chainmail, but it is one that must be done.

The weavers, among whom I still have some friends who had been Finduilas' before mine, are equally overwhelmed.

So are the tanners, the masons, the scribes, and every other man, woman or child of every race trying desperately to create a new age in a world where we are still suffering from the depredations of a centuries-long war.

But, as all things do, this passes.

The workload on the crafters lightens, the tangled mass of people separates according to their leaders, realms are carved out and established, and rulers are appointed.

Elros departs for the Land of the Gift, leading a thousand ships to a land untouched by war, raised by the Valar from the sea as a reward for all that the Edain have suffered in a war of immortals.

Those Men who do not wish to leave Middle Earth behind separate into smaller villages and petty kingdoms, content with a smaller life and a shorter lifespan, and remaining with the friends and allies that they have made during the last great battles.

The Ents all disappear quickly into the forests, and soon are hidden from all but those Elves who go looking for them.

Even then, they are not always found, though the Avari always have the best chance of finding them.

The Dwarves carve out new realms from the mountains, or join those great, ancient realms already established.

Khazad-dûm's population alone swells by some thousands within the first few decades of our retreat from drowned Beleriand, the King of the Longbeards welcoming his sundered kin with open arms.

Oropher leads the remnants of the Sindar away from the Sea, not wishing to be reminded every day of the home that he has lost.

He crosses the mountains, and we do not hear of him for several years, until he and the Sindar reappear, settled among the Silvan elves of Eryn Lasgelan.

They had, of course, crowned him their king as well, after Thranduil had married the daughter of one of their chieftains - as far as I am aware, they regard Oropher mostly as a figurehead, and a way to point any other invading elves at someone else.

It seems to work for them.

The Avari and the Laiquendi also disperse - some to Oropher's new realm, some remaining with the Noldor, some wandering the land as they have been unable to for centuries, some forming hidden villages and settlements in the wild, and some disappearing east in search of Cuiviénen.

We Noldor settle on the shores of what was once Ossiriand, close to where Cirdan and his Falathrim have resettled, though the two are really one people now.

Gil-galad's new kingdom is named Lindon, and his banners, blue and silver, fly high above his seat much as his grandfather's did above Barad Eithel in the days of the Long Peace, before the Bragollach brought everything crashing down.

*****************

All is well in Lindon at first.

The sheer exhilaration of being alive, of having survived all of that torment and death and come through to the other side, makes everyone a little kinder and more tolerant.

For a time.

But, when the frantic building is finished, when people have time to breathe...well, that is the time to mourn.

For centuries now, no one has really had the time to process everything that they endured, only to keep going, to push everything down and try to survive another day.

So, in a way, it is really no surprise that once people start to finally react to everything they have been through, things fall apart a little.

There are victims of both Kinslayings that took place in Beleriand living in Lindon.

There are also those who took part in those Kinslayings - the last sad remnants of the once-great House of Fëanor.

Conflict between the two is...expected and ugly, to say the least.

I am an easy target.

I am, after all, the only descendant of Feanor left in Middle Earth, and I am my father and grandfather in female form

The remainder of Fëanor's people answer to me.

People spit at me in the street, or pull their children away from me.

But they are violent towards my people, and cruel.

I understand why, of course.

The pain in their hearts is eating them alive, and seeing Kinslayers walking free makes it seem as if those they loved were butchered for nothing.

It cheapens their deaths, and makes a mockery of them.

But what can I do?

Only those who repent of their deeds have been allowed to join me in Lindon - I cannot send them away again.

So the situation quietly worsens for centuries.

***********

"I want to leave Lindon," I say one day, a little over seven hundred years after the Valar depart.

Gil-galad sits up from where he was lounging before Elrond's hearth. "Leave? But everything's just coming together!"

"That is why." Elrond says calmly, serene despite his youth. If I think of Rillë and her manner and my heart aches for her, well, it is not something her grandson need ever know. I love him for himself, not because of who's blood he bears. "Necessity makes for good bedfellows, Ereinion, but necessity is no longer present."

"I do not wish to create strife within your kingdom." I swallow. "I love both of you very much, and I would love to stay in Lindon forever. But Lord Celeborn and Aunt Galadriel are going east, and I feel that I should go with them before Lindon decides that Curufinwen Curufiniel and her people have outstayed their welcome."

Ereinion sighs and buries his face in his hands.

His shoulders are hunched and shaking a little, but when his face reappears it is serene and his eyes are perfectly dry.

"I understand," he says reluctantly, every inch the king. "I will not ask you to remain, nor will I order it. You have my blessing to go with Galadriel, you and those of your house who will follow you."

Then the mask of the king falls away, and all that remains is the little boy I once knew. "But I will miss you very much."

"I know." I say quietly. "And, for what it is worth, I am sorry that it is necessary, both of you."

But what is left of my grandfather's house has flocked to me, and even if I cannot condone the paths they have walked down, I cannot allow them to remain among their victims either - it is not fair to them or to the families of those they murdered.

I have a responsibility to my people, and, just as Gil-galad must, I must fulfil it.

Elrond does not say anything, but he leans his head against my shoulder, and Ereinion rests his own on my lap.

********

Galadriel and Celeborn leave two decades later, with a significant following.

There are some Doriathrim and Siriondrim among them, but for the most part those have followed Oropher or remained in Lindon. These are Celeborn's people, who followed him when he wed a Noldorin princess and will not abandon their prince now if the price is to tolerate me and mine.

I count about two hundred, silver-haired or dark-haired for the most part, quiet and determinedly loyal.

Galadriel's own people are for the most part the survivors of the Arafinweans.

Finrod died and is in Valinor, and his brothers and their children died with Beleriand - Galadriel is all that they have left, if they wish to remain in Middle Earth.

And for my part, I have what remains of the once-proud House of Feanor.

Fortunately for me, the greatest part of these are those who had followed me from Amon Ereb in dribs and drabs before and after Doriath - loyal to the House of Feanor, but unable to reconcile the actions of its lords with what they remembered. They had turned to me, the only descendant of Feanor without blood on my hands.

Of those who turned on their lords in horror at Sirion, there are less than half a hundred, for the greater part had been cut down by their fellows in the heat of battle.

There are only a few dozen of those who had remained with my uncles to the end, for the greater part had followed my uncles across the Sea or drowned with Beleriand - those who agreed to repent of their deeds and swear themselves to me were mostly my father's people.

And last, and smallest of all, there are the thralls who had survived the pits long enough to be rescued, whose spirits were indomitable enough that they had rejected the West that they left so long ago.

I think that there are only a score or so of these, grim, pale shadows who refuse to sail so long as I remain.

Scarce four hundred all told, in as many factions as there are stars in the sky, fractious and quarrelsome and scarred.

Galadriel takes one look at my ragtag following and sighs, though her own is much the same - Finrod's people, Orodreth's, Angrod's, Aegnor's, those few who had survived capture or been rescued, those grimly determined to remain.

That is all that is left of the might of the Noldor now - a few quarrelsome factions, broken and bruised.

*********

As one can imagine, the journey is less than peaceful.

Eriador, even in the days of peace, is unpredictable and elves are capable of holding grudges for a very long time.

We happen across several settlements of Sindar who are less than overjoyed to see Fëanor's last descendant and followers.

They are the least of our problems, however.

We encounter Men who know nothing of elves, who are afraid of these strange spirits near their homes.

They lash out at us, desperate to drive us away, and though we hasten on, we leave battlefields behind us.

There are the remnants of orcs, savage and desperate, who do not stop until the last of them have been cut down.

Trolls, who pose little threat when Galadriel is on our side, she who can summon a sunbeam in the dead of night.

And many more, strange and terrible things - the forerunners of Barrow-Wights, dark tree spirits like and unlike the Ents, children of Ungoliant, and other things that we dare not name.

It is not all bad.

We happen upon Iarwain Ben-Adar and his River-daughter bride, who feast us and fete us, and sing with us.

That is a merry meeting, and one that I shall treasure.

They are kind and welcoming, and know far more than they should.

He, in particular, looks at me with a knowing glint in his eye, and I cannot help wondering if he sees the mortal woman I once was.

************

It is after several years that we finally reach the lands that will become Eregion.

This had been our destination from the beginning, a land of rivers and rock for crafters, near to the dwarves and far from other elves.

We could have reached it within a moon or two, had we wished to, but we had enjoyed the journey.

There is little danger that Eriador can pose to a host as great as this, though it had tried.

It had been good, to journey without the threat of death and torment.

We were not hungry, we were not wounded, we were not hunted and desperate.

We were simply travelling, and it had been a blessing indeed to rediscover the joy of it.

To rest beneath the stars, and sing to them without fear of drawing attention.

To light bright fires and feast, heedless of all around us.

To linger when we pleased, and walk boldly in day and night.

It was something that we had all forgotten, in those desperate, blood-stained days in Beleriand.

************

The city begins to grow almost as soon as the journey ends.

It had been an easy one compared to the desperate flights of the previous Age, and we are rested and strong, with the fire of the ancient world still hot within us.

Within a year, the foundations are laid, for streets and houses and squares and the larger buildings for council and judgement and crafting.

Within a decade they have been built, strong and fine and beautiful as any elven craft.

Within half a century, Ost-in-Edhil has been raised in full, with high walls and tall towers but gates that stand open and streets wide and broad.

It is a beautiful city, one that could match even Tírion and Valmar in far away Aman, or so I think.

There is a blend of Sindarin and Noldorin architecture, with a hint of Dwarven influence here and there from our tentative allies nearby, and it is built all of the glimmering quartz from a nearby deposit so that it glitters and flashes in the sun.

It is not yet home, not quite, but already I love it dearly.

********

Galadriel and Celeborn are Lord and Lady of course - this was their venture, and their city.

I am only here for the proximity to Khazad-Dûm and the distance from Lindon.

And for the forging opportunities, and the benefit of my people.

However, the fact that my vocal Fëanárioni make up a good portion of the city means that I am placed equal to Galadriel and Celeborn.

Technically, I think it is a triarchal rule.

In practice?

My aunt and her husband rule - I am essentially a figurehead.

I make it known that functionally my policies will almost always intersect with those of Galadriel, and beyond being liason to Khazad-dûm I am left in almost total peace in the forges.

That is how I like it.

Our land is new and fresh and unspoiled, and when I look up from my work to see the golden light of the afternoon streaming in through the doors and windows, it almost feels like Valinor in the days of my youth.

It is a comforting feeling, and a heady one.

************

I meet Narvi about twenty years after we arrive.

Khazad-dûm's king has decided that he wants the doors that open onto Eregion to be symbolic of the peoples on either side of them.

Narvi is the stonemason assigned to liase with the elves on the project.

She is short, even as dwarves go, with bright blue eyes and vivid red hair.

Her beard is singularly impressive, even for one of the Longbeards.

I compliment her on it the first time we meet, and she beams.

We work well together, though stone is not my preferred medium.

Still, it is craft, and it is my joy.

I take much of the designing side, and leave the mechanisms to Narvi who has a feel for such things that is almost Ainurin.

When I tell her so, she laughs and pats my hand, telling me wryly that she will take that as an elven sort of compliment.

She is brilliant in her craft, and with a sly wit that always makes me laugh.

It is no surprise when we quickly become friends, sometime between the third and fifth drafts for the doors.

By the time the doors are finished, we have promised to name our children after each other.

She is a good friend, brusque and practical, and I love her dearly.

**********

Celebrían is born in the year 800 of the Second Age, the day that the gates are first opened.

She is absolutely darling.

A tuft of pale silver hair, tiny eyes squinched shut, a rosebud mouth and the tiniest, most delicate little points to her ears that I have ever seen.

The relief that rushes through me when I am introduced to my newest cousin cannot be overstated.

She is over half a millennium late, and I had thought that some action of mine had prevented her conception and birth.

If that had been the case, well, I imagine that the end of the Third Age would have been rather different.

Without Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen, what might have changed?

I find that I do not want to know the answer.

Thankfully, I do not have to.

Celebrían is here, late perhaps, but here.

And she is perfect.

Galadriel smiles from where she lies, tired but as perfect as ever, in her bed. "Are you going to return my daughter to me, cousin?"

"No." I reply blithely, rocking baby Celebrían and cooing down at her. "Not for some time yet. Look at her, Artanis, how can you expect me to voluntarily relinquish her?"

Celeborn throws a sour look at me, but he says nothing, for which I am glad.

He has learned to tolerate me, and that is enough for me.

It is more than I can expect from some, who's pain runs too deep to heal on this side of the Sea.

*********

Celebrían grows swiftly, beautiful beyond any predictions.

Not for the first time, I wonder if Lúthien's startling beauty came as much from her father as her Maia mother, for Celebrían looks oddly like her father's cousin.

I never say so to their faces of course.

Galadriel takes too much comfort in seeing her brothers in her daughter, Celeborn would dislike the reminder of my father, and Celebrían...

She does not need the weight of such a legacy.

The only one I mention it to is my uncle Nolondil, still steadfastly by my side as he had promised my mother all those years ago.

He agrees, and from then on his eyes are solemn and a little sad when he looks at Celebrían.

She is a little older than Narvi's Zigilma, two decades or so, but it means that the two are of an age for some time, and never quite lose that friendship when that changes.

For all that Zigilma is named for me, it is Narvi's younger daughter, Dís, who is my little shadow.

Dís is sweet and shy, and likes to watch me or her mother at work as a child.

Zigilma prefers to watch the warriors, wherever she is, and it is no one's surprise when she joins the king's army and befriends the crown prince.

She has always been brash and outgoing, after all.

Everyone is much more surprised when Dís meets Zigilma's friend and marries him three years later.

Celebrían is the only one not surprised, but then she has grown up with Zigilma, despite her father's displeasure.

I imagine there is little that can shock her.

She comes of age a few years later, and becomes a master herbalist barely half a century after that.

Looking at her, I cannot help wondering how young she is.

Was I too that young, once?

I was younger at Alqualondë, barely half-grown, but I can scarce imagine it.

War was my childhood, at first between my family and then true, bloody war that lasted until I was a woman and the last of an accursed house.

Celebrían has had a true childhood, sheltered from death and pain, and for that I cannot thank the One enough.

Her eyes are still clear and unshadowed by grief and pain, and it is a greater blessing than any I could have ever imagined.

There is a whole generation of children now, growing up in peace and plenty, with loud voices and full bellies and warm clothes.

It is a dream, I think sometimes, and wonder if I shall blink and the bleak horror of Beleriand return.

************

Narvi dies a few years before we reach the first millennium of the Second Age.

I am assured that she had a singularly long life for a dwarf, and that her death was easy.

Remembering my own mortal death, I find that hard to believe.

I too had died in my sleep.

But before that, I had only suffered.

Had it been the same for her?

She is so unlike the vivid stonemason I recall when we first met.

Her hair and beard are as white as snow, combed and braided without a hint of smoke or heat damage.

Her hands are still, shrunken and twisted into claws by age.

Her bright eyes are shut, her mobile face still.

It is so strange to see her without her fëa animating her body.

Beside her body, Zigilma Silver-Fist is already greying, and there are lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

I held her as a babe, and already she is old, with grandchildren of her own.

Her sister, sweet little Dís, is aging too, with silver at her temples and little crows-feet around her eyes and a queen's crown on her brow.

This is the first time I have had to face true mortality in someone I hold dear.

Narvi is gone.

And unlike my kin, I have no way to get her back.

Zigilma dies a century later, and it is I who holds Celebrían in her grief for her first and dearest friend.

*************

I stand before the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, Elrond's message crumpled in my hand.

Framed against the horizon is the silhouette of a single horse and rider, making their way towards the city.

I know who that rider is. I know what I have to do.

Just the same thing Elrond and Gil-Galad did - tell him that we are quite alright thank you very much and have no need for aid but if a need should arise of course we will contact you and of course, stay the night but you must have places to be tomorrow.

I rehearse my speech in my head again, running over the words like it will help.

Oh, how I wish that Galadriel had not chosen this year of all years to visit Lothlórien. If only she were here, she would send him away without hesitation and I would be able to hide in my forge and not see the Maia who murdered my counterpart.

My hands are trembling, my whole body buzzing with nervous energy.

This is the person who killed the original Celebrimbor, who gained his trust and tortured him to death. Marched his body as a banner into battle.

This is the defining moment where I can change the timeline. This is what the last centuries and millennia have been building to.

It doesn't help that all the Silvergifting stories I read keep popping into my head.

For all that it was several thousand years ago and worlds away, I cannot help but remember all the paths that Sauron could have taken.
What if?

I've always been obsessed with what ifs, and I have a fairly good track record, I like to think.

What if I can save him? No one is beyond saving, not even him.

'Repent and be saved' echoes faintly in my ears from worlds away and centuries ago.

The horse stops before me, and the rider dismounts so as not to tower over me.

I'm not short, by any means, but I'm not as tall as Maedhros was so it's a polite thing for a Maia to do.

Stuffing the message from Elrond surreptitiously into a pocket, I curtsey.

"Greetings, Lord Annatar, Herald of Aulë. Be welcome to Ost-in-Edhil." The lie is thick and bitter on my tongue, but the Lady of Ost-in-Edhil cannot so obviously snub a visiting Maia.

A smooth, elegant tenor voice returns my greeting and I look up.

Long red-gold hair streams down his back, looking like a river of fire in the light of the setting sun.

His eyes are amber, and crinkled at the corners with a sly little smile that twitches at his lips.

He is beautiful, and by the look in his eyes he knows exactly the effect he is having on me.

Instantly, I decide that I dislike him personally, not merely for all of the evil he has done.

*************

The next morning it is raining so heavily that not even the rudest host would turn their guest out.

So I bite my tongue and graciously offer Annatar the hospitality of my home while the bad weather lasts.

He accepts of course, with a smile so bright that my eyes water.

I am suspicious of the convenient rain, but there is nothing I can do.

My people have, unfortunately, learned to disagree with their lords when they disagree with them and I cannot have a revolt on my hands.

So Annatar stays, and it rains.

And then it rains again the next day, and the day after that.

When the weather finally clears, he has already finagled his way into the forges and is in the middle of a project.

It is simply not done to send away a guest in the middle of working, particularly not when it is a gift for his host.

A circlet, with rubies and citrines held in the embrace of whirling strands of electrum and mithril.

It is beautiful beyond measure, and his process holds every craftsman and craftswoman in the vicinity like a spell.

Of course, once the circlet finished and placed on my head, my smiths simply must learn this technique and that from him.

And so it goes.

*******

"You do not like me."

I look up from the delicate tracery of vines and leaves I am engraving onto an armband for Celebrían, four centuries old and particular in every aspect of her appearance.

The speaker is Annatar, of course. His perfect face is creased in a perfect frown of concern.

I try to smile politely. "I do not dislike you, my lord. You have been a perfect guest these last few months."

"That does not mean you like me, my lady." He looks downcast, as if the mere thought of my displeasure is a grievance to him.

"I do not know you well enough to say that, my lord," I say, mustering as much diplomacy as I can. "Though you are a truly brilliant smith."

That, at least, is no lie.

He was a Maia of Aulë in the dawn of the world, and it shows in his work.

There is an elegance to even the smallest, most simple thing he makes, a liveliness as of leaping flames to the most stolid and commonplace works that leave his hands.

A smile brightens his fair face, and he bows. "A compliment indeed, coming from the granddaughter of Fëanáro, and the greatest elven smith of this Age."

"I thank you for your kind words, my lord." I say stiffly, and turn back to the armband in hopes that he will take the hint and leave me in peace.

Oh, how I wish Galadriel would come back. This is far too complicated for the likes of me.

Annatar, of course, does not leave.

Instead he comes and leans over my shoulder, so close to me that his torso rests against my back.

I cannot help the shiver that runs over me at his proximity, and I can feel the smile he does not quite hide.

"They are not kind, Lady Celebrimbor." He almost purrs, his breath warm against the tip of my ear. "They are true. I have never seen anyone engrave the way you do."

"Really?" I keep my voice level, and unimpressed. "I was taught this method by Thingol's smiths. It is common in Ennor."

Once again, I can almostfeel his smile. "A common method perhaps, but made less common by your use of it, my lady. Your lines are cleaner than any other I have seen engraving in the Doriathrin fashion."

Perhaps it is stupid, but I am Fëanor's grandchild - I do my best to hide it, but like him I am weak to flattery regarding my craft. "Thank you, my lord. I have done little save refine the method."

And there, I know, I have given him an opening.

His eyes brighten, and he slips around so that he is beside me, rather than leaning over me. "Could you show me, my lady?"

There is nothing closed about his expression of eager curiosity, and I remember that he began as a Maia of the Smith.

Perhaps he is genuine, at least here.

Somewhere within him, there is still a desire to learn and a willingness to be taught, and surely that is a good sign?

He is not wholly ruined, not yet.

There is less reluctance in my body when I hand him the tool and a spare piece of metal.

What if I can reach him? Wrest his loyalties away from Morgoth?

What if I can save him?

"If you hold it in the usual fashion," he does so.

"Yes, now, I have found that if you shift your forefinger a little to the- yes, there. Yes, then you have more control."

He learns fast, and I add another element of the variations I have worked out.

Soon, he is engraving using the style I have adapted from the Doriathrin, and the bright smile that curves his perfect lips is dazzling.

After that, we fall to speaking of smithcraft, and it seems only natural that we should finish Celebrían's gift together.

It is easy to work with him - natural, even.

The finished creation is more beautiful than anything I have ever made before.

It is simpler than is my wont, almost minimalistic, but beautifully elegant, a graceful symphony of mithril and gems that is more than the sum of its parts.

He smiles, turning the armband over in his hands, and then looks up at me with the full force of the smile, so bright that I take a step backward. "We shall have to work together again, my lady. Never have I made anything so beautiful alone."

I smile tightly, and make my excuses, taking the armband with me.

When I am back in my chambers, I turn it over and over in my hands.

This was meant to be a gift for Rían.

Dare I give it to her still, after Thauron the Accursed has touched it?

***********

I give it to her.

It is beautiful, and Celebrían loves beautiful things.

She accepts it without question, with her usual effusive embrace, putting it on immediately.

It fits her perfectly, of course, and she nigh dances with delight, pressing an airy kiss to my cheek before vanishing to show her friends among the herbalists.

She wears it to the next feast, shining bright on her arm.

From across the room, Annatar smiles at me, dripping glittering jewels of his own make.

I must admit, he is an excellent smith.

Perhaps I can work with him again, if it brings Celebrían such delight.

Only for Celebrían's sake.

*********

Galadriel returns five years after Annatar arrives.

The moment she sets eyes on him, I can see that she recognises who he truly is.

Even she, as diplomatic as she is, cannot hide the flash of hate that crosses her face as she comprehends who is living in her city.

She is civil to him as long as we are in public, but the moment we have left, she drags me to her chambers.

"Tyelpë," she says heavily. "Do you know who it is that sits at your table."

I hesitate, but her gaze is heavy and the words spill out before I can stop them.

I explain the hold he has already over my smiths, that they adore him, and clamour to learn from him.

The city loves him, and neither of us want to see what will happen if we reveal the truth and banish him - there are kinslayers in the walls of Ost-in-Edhil, after all.

I admit that I know the truth of him, that I know what he has done.

And then I explain my plan.

I want to steal Morgoth's lieutenant from him, his greatest and foremost servant.

I want to redeem him, to bring out the smith and creator that I have seen still hidden within him.

What greater revenge on Morgoth for the Nirnaeth, for the blood and grief and betrayal of the First Age, than having his own right hand turn on him?

Galadriel hesitates.

She has always wanted glory.

It has been more than a thousand years since we left Aman, and she is no longer so rash as she was, but I can see the avarice still there within her.

"He killed my brother." My aunt says, bitter grief still thick in her voice.

And there is the catch.

"I know." I reply, grief catching in my throat. "I loved him too. I would have walked to Tol-in-Gaurhoth for him."

Silence falls.

She knows as well as I, that she is the elder. If she wishes, Annatar will leave Eregion and never return.

I will not argue - this is a desperate ploy, after all.

Born from my pride and my grief and my desire to fix everything that I can.

**********

My aunt decides to wait.

She will not decide yet, one way or the other.

Is this betraying Finrod's memory? And my uncle's torment? And all else that he did?

I do not know.

All I know is that Annatar is curious and as generous a student as he is a teacher.

He is the most brilliant smith I have ever met, save for Lord Aulë and possibly my grandfather, and everything that passes under his hands is so beautiful that it seems like a dream.

He himself is beautiful too.

In mind and body.

He is the most brilliant smith I have ever met, and the most beautiful.

I cannot bring myself to dislike him any longer.

Not when there is such clear joy in his eyes with every trinket that he makes.

He is a friend by now, not a close friend, but a friend all the same.

And every day we grow closer.

It is only natural - the two most skilled smiths in Ost-in-Edhil working together, pushing each other to their limits and beyond.

I have never made things half so beautiful as when I work with him.

********

Annatar has been in Ost-in-Edhil for two centuries when it happens.

We are both in the forges, working on the same project as usual.

I disagree with him about something inconsequential - which of us makes one of the gears, I think.

Most of the time, these little spats are resolved, and within moments we are working companionably again.

But for some reason, he refuses to back down, and so do I.

It escalates and escalates, and soon he is glowing white hot with anger, and I am pushing into his space regardless of the heat and the other smiths are fleeing as metal warps around the angry Maia.

"-care about it!" I am yelling, half-choked on the heat emanating from him. "You were leaving it to me, you said so yourself, you arrogant spider!"

"And you didn't care to do so," Annatar yells back, with enough force that the ends of my hair scorch, "if you deign to remember! So I picked up your slack, yet again!"

"That isn't-" I stop abruptly, frowning. "Why are we arguing about this? It's a gear the size of a fingernail."

The sudden loss of opposition seemingly throws Annatar off his stride.

The burning heat abates somewhat, and he sighs, running his hands through his hair until it turns from flames back to copper. "I don't know. I think we've spent too much time in the forges in the last moon."

When I think about it, I have to agree.

I haven't seen anyone who isn't a smith in days now.

So we leave the forges and walk along the river until the city recedes behind us.

My father was always of the opinion that the best thing to counter too much time in the forge was a walk in Lady Yavanna's domain.

And he had learned that from his father, who had learned it from Mahtan, who had learned it from Aulë himself.

Perhaps it is no surprise that Annatar is the same.

He was, after all, once a Maia of Aulë's.

So we walk along the river, sometimes in it, sometimes straying into the forests, but always coming back to it.

We talk about everything and nothing, as long as it does not relate to our crafting.

My skirts, clean when we left Ost-in-Edhil (for I had changed and bathed, being covered in soot and sweat, even if Annatar had not needed to), are entirely soaked by the time we leave the river, as the sun sets.

The wet fabric is heavy, and I accept Annatar's hand with a laugh as we scramble up the final ridge before we reach Ost-in-Edhil.

He makes a face as the wet wool makes contact with his pristine robes, but only laughs at me in return and tucks a stray lock of hair back into my braid.

"Look at the sunset, Tyelpë."

I look.

Arien's chariot is behind the city from our vantage point.

She outlines every building in gold, glowing as I remember it glowing in Aman in my childhood.

Lights are already being lit inside the houses, sending soft golden light spilling out of the windows to mingle with Arien's.

The quartz from which we built the city shimmers, making it seem half unreal, a city of the Unseen rather than the Seen.

Ost-in-Edhil looks like a dream, and it is. A dream come true for all those who had no place elsewhere, even in this new world.

"Your city is very fair indeed," he says softly. "You must be so proud of her."

I cannot help my smile. "It was mostly Aunt Galadriel's work, but yes. It is good to live somewhere beautiful again."

Annatar turns his eyes to me, a smile playing on his perfect lips.

Whatever he was going to say dies on them though, and his eyes look troubled.

"Annatar?" I say, pulling my eyes away from the sight of my city. "What is it?"

He opens his mouth, and then closes it and takes a step towards me.

One elegant hand comes up and cups the side of my face, stroking the skin of my cheek with his thumb.

I cannot help leaning into the touch, which is almost, but not quite, hot enough to burn.

"Tyelpë," he says softly, something very bright and strange in his eyes, "may I kiss you?"

For a moment, I only look at him, struck dumb by the sudden request and held by the bright beam of his eyes.

Then he blinks, and looks away, taking his hand from my face.

"Never mind, forgive me for overstepping, I only -"

"Yes." I interrupt him, released from the spell of his eyes. "Yes, Annatar."

He whirls back around, his eyes blazing.

"Yes?"

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry at the sheer force of his gaze, but nod, despite the pit of nerves and uncertainty that opens in my stomach. "Yes. Kiss me."

Annatar cups my face in both of his hands this time, tilting it up so that he can lean down and press a light, soft kiss to my lips for a single long moment.

Then he sighs, closing his eyes, and I can feel him about to move away.

Something hungry opens in me at the brush of his lips, something beyond what the simple, almost chaste touch demands.

I reach up and pull his face back down, and kiss him properly.

He is still for a single moment, before his hands tighten and he kisses me back.

I think I forget how to breathe, or speak, or walk, or do anything but stand there and kiss him.

It feels right, as so little has in this broken world since I left Valinor.

It feels like coming home, like everything has been meant for this moment, this kiss - for him.

When we finally part, there are spots dancing before my eyes, and I gasp for air, leaning against Annatar's firm chest.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders and presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

***********

We cannot hide it for long.

I am Galadriel's nearest kin, after all.

She does not approve, of that I can tell.

She had agreed with my plan eventually.

It had appealed to her sense of justice - and her desire for revenge.

But she still dislikes Annatar personally.

Oh, she is perfectly civil to him, but I know she dislikes him.

He killed her brother and tortured her uncle, and even if I have chosen to love him in spite of that, she cannot yet.

Still, she says nothing.

She only gifts me some of the ropes of pearls that once belonged to her mother, telling me to put them with the other jewels and fabrics I have been setting aside for my wedding since I was small, as is the custom (the greater part was lost with Aman and then Beleriand, but I still have a prince's ransom in fine jewels and fabrics).

Most of the pearls are meant for Celebrían, of course, but Galadriel has been something like a mother to me since we left Lindon, and the gift means a great deal to me.

Celeborn openly disapproves.

He does not particularly like me, but I am dear to Galadriel and he thinks I am making a terrible decision.

Most likely I am, but it feels so right when I am with Annatar that I cannot do aught else.

Who else could I wed, after loving him?

What elf could match a Maia of flame and steel?

Celebrían, sweet, innocent Celebrían, sees nothing wrong of course.

She knows nothing of Annatar's true nature.

I smile and accept her congratulations, and try my best to ignore her father's dark looks in my betrothed's direction.

He is not entirely wrong, after all.

**********

Gil-Galad and Elrond arrive from Lindon for the wedding.

The High King does not remove the ban on Annatar entering Lindon.

He takes me aside and makes it clear that he does not quite approve of what I am doing - but that he thinks if anyone can save him, I can.

He likes the way that Annatar looks at me, he admits, as if it is I who drive the Sun and bring light to Arda.

For that, he thinks that my plan has a chance of working, but he makes it clear that he does not think I should marry him.

Still, he understands my desire to save as many as I can from the wreck that Morgoth has made of Arda, and gives us his blessing.

He is perfectly polite to Annatar, no more and no less.

Elrond hates him on first sight.

Or, rather, second sight - I gather that he had been a member of the party that had denied Annatar entry to Lindon.

But he is still Elrond.

He is as kind as summer, and he understands my desire to heal and make new.

He was born into a broken, war torn world, and that is all that he has ever wanted.

So he only once tells me that he would rather another was my choice but that he understands.

Then he says nothing on the matter ever again, only smiling thin-lipped at Annatar and then departing to speak with Celeborn.

Annatar does not much like my dear cousin much at all, complaining something about his Song being an abominable amalgmation of different themes that should never be combined together.

I refuse to speak to him for three days for that.

Elrond is perfect just as he is.

He is the child of Elves, Men and Ainur at once, and that is a wonder, not an abomination.

And any child of ours will be the same.

If Annatar says anything like that again I threaten to end everything between us.

He never says anything about Elrond again, and goes silent around my little cousin.

Instead, I take delight in watching him and Celebrían together.

They have never met before, not when Eriador is so treacherous and Celebrían so sheltered.

Elrond is in love from the moment he sets eyes on her.

He practically worships the ground she walks on, and when they are in the same room he watches her with soft, adoring eyes.

Celebrían thinks it all great fun at the beginning.

She flirts with him, and teases him, and generally takes advantage of his inability to say no to her.

But after a while she stops flirting, and starts looking back at him.

Properly looking, and then her eyes take the same soft, adoring look as Elrond's.

Galadriel and Celeborn are both delighted at Celebrían choosing someone they know so well, someone they trust so dearly and love so much.

It is beautiful to watch, and I cannot help my excitement for their wedding, and the children that I know will follow.

**********

The jewels my father forged with agonising care in Valinor in the dawn of the world in anticipation for my wedding day are long gone.

Burned in dragonfire, looted by Moringotto's hordes, and then drowned with doomed Beleriand.

Instead, the gold and jewels gleaming about my waist and neck and head and fingers and wrists and ears have been wrought by Annatar's careful hand.

I am wearing his white and gold, so that I shine in the sunlight, glittering and gleaming as bright as any Silmaril.

They are perfect.

Jewels drip from my neck, my hair, my ears, my fingers, wreath my arms and my wrists and my head, a sum of wealth that could match any king's treasury - but through the skills of my betrothed, lying on me as light as if I am wearing a crown of daisies.

I look briefly down to check that the necklaces are lying correctly and then take in a shaky breath.

This is it.

This is the moment that all of this has been for.

This is the moment that I have finally, truly managed to change something.

I look up at Annatar.

He is draped in gold and crimson, in the colours of my house.

The jewels flashing from every part of him where they could be placed have been worked by my hands.

He is mine.

As I walk towards him on Gil-Galad's arm, I smile, and the smile is full of teeth.

I have won I think, aiming the thought somewhere out into the Void. Mairon is mine. Our souls will be one. He is not your tool anymore. You have lost, Accursed One, utterly and completely.

Then we have reached him, my husband, my love.

He holds out a hand to me, slightly warmer than any elven hand, and I take it gladly.

We are made for each other, our hands fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle, the same way our minds do.

I smile at him, and he returns it with his dazzling one.

I love him, and he loves me.

This is the start of our happily ever after.

********

It is after the wedding that we turn to our great works.

If we had worked in harmony before, it is nothing to what we have now.

We are one soul now, thoughts flitting from one mind to the other without the slightest effort.

What had previously taken hours of discussion and carefully curated thoughts is now solved in a flash of wordless thought as quick as lightening.

It seems only natural that we begin to make better and more wonderful things than ever before.

The natural form for our works of power to take is a circle, though even I take some time to arrive at the calculations that my Maia husband instinctively understands.

I cannot help feeling apprehensive about forging Rings of Power, as if it is tempting fate, but whatever he once was Annatar has married me.

We share a soul now, our minds bound together.

Surely I would know if he could not be trusted.

The first true Rings we make, after some experiments, are the Seven.

We make them together, every step of the way.

It takes three full years, and at the end I want to lie down and sleep in the mortal fashion for another three.

But the Seven are beautiful.

Pure and without taint, made to enhance and build up and make beautiful and preserve that which already exists.

The pinnacle of our craft.

They are perfect beyond anything we have ever made together.

I had not thought that possible, but it is true.

Always we push each other on, to greater heights than ever before, and this is beyond even our wildest dreams.

Beautiful, and full of so much power that it makes me dizzy.

These are my Silmarils, made through love and trust where my grandfather crafted his in paranoia and mistrust.

They will be to bring light, and healing, to this darkened world, and when Annatar and I wear them I feel as if I have become a Maia myself.

**********

I conceive in the same year that the One would have been made, though I had not thought of it until after the babe is settled in my womb.

We had been speaking of a child for years, but had never before found the time.

Always there had been something new to create and experiment with, and I had not dared to conceive while I was mid-project.

Annatar has done the calculations, and no matter how much he pours into our babe, I cannot afford to carry a child and continue to create.

Both come from the fëa, after all, and as strong as I am, my husband is stronger.

Any child we have will take so much of my strength that I will not be able to pour my fëa into any other works as is my wont.

His calculations are correct, for both I and Galadriel had checked them twice ourselves.

It is different in Valinor, where the Valar are only a thought away, and power runs through the very air.

I would perhaps have been only slightly more tired than with an elven child, and the risk would have been less, living in the same land as Estë.

But we are not in Valinor.

We are in Middle Earth, and so we must simply be careful.

When the time comes that I cannot think of anything new that I wish to make, we decide that now is as good as any other time to have the child we have desired for so long.

I conceive easily, and the child rests well within me, small and so bright from the moment she comes into being.

I had thought to find a full sun year without smithing more dull than anything, but I find myself mesmerised by my child.

I could spent years simply watching her spirit grow and brighten, feeling her move and flourish within me.

Galadriel and Annatar are, for once, united in worry over me, but I am more than well.

Perhaps a little tired, and my fëa falters a little, but how could I be less than well with such a beautiful fëa growing within me?

That we have a child instead of the One Ring makes everything sit easier in me.

Celebrían is fascinated with my growing torso, and is the first to feel the baby kick.

Her smile is almost as bright as the baby's fëa when I tell her that my child likes the sound of her voice.

After that, she comes and sings or speaks to the baby almost every day.

It is endearing, and I look forward to when she becomes a mother herself, for her wedding to Elrond is set for the end of the century.

*********

First and most important, I would like it noted that giving birth is the worst thing I ever have or will experience in my immortal existence.

Isfin had assured me that the first is always the longest and the worst, and the next will be easier but I think I am quite through with any kind of childbearing now.

I know my grandmother gave birth six times, but my mother only did so once and I feel I would rather follow her example.

My body is sore and exhausted, my fëa utterly spent from nurturing a half-Maia child.

Secondly, I am completely and utterly certain that if ever Annatar was a mask for Thauron the Accursed, he is no longer.

My husband sits on the edge of my bed with our child in his arms, one hand gently tracing the soft baby features still crumpled from birth.

He looks up at me and smiles, delight suffusing every feature. "She is perfect."

"Perfect?" I taste the word on my tongue. It is a little more impersonal than I would like, but he means it truly. "Perhaps. But beloved regardless."

I hold out my arms, and he places the babe in them.

She is so tiny that her weight is almost unnoticeable even to my weary body.

I hold her close and study her features.

The tuft of downy hair at the top of her head is clearly red, partway between the red-gold of Annatar's hair and the deep crimson of my grandmother and uncles.

When she opens her eyes to regard me, the serious stare is all my grandfather, as are the eyes so grey as to be almost white.

She is an impossibly wonderful combination of Annatar and I, and I love her at once.

Even more than him.

I had not thought it possible before, but in an instant this defenceless, delicate little thing has supplanted him in my heart.

Something flits across Annatar's face, and then he kisses me, his lips warm against mine, a satisfied smile curling them ever so slightly.

He rests his brow against mine afterwards, one hand carding through my hair, warmth spreading through my chest from our bond. "Thank you, my love. You have done a wonderful thing."

*********

He gives her an Ainurin name that I can just comprehend if I apply my grandfather's long ago Ainurin lessons, though I cannot pronounce it.

The Tengwar does not have the capability to record Ainurin, but between us we manage to wrestle enough out of my grandfather's script to write it as Nāyellâmāxanāz, which is...more or less an approximation of my daughter's name.

We gloss it as Nyellëtari, for the purposes of easier record-keeping

I am tempted to name her Curumíriel or something along those lines just to get a reaction, but I won't use my daughter to play political games, and there is no guarantee that she will choose the path of the smith.

When I look at my child, I see her a woman grown, wisdom on her brow, strength and knowledge in her hands.

And I made a promise, centuries ago, to a dwarf with blue eyes and a sly wit, who kept her end of the promise twice over.

Silver-Fist and Skilled Woman.

How can I break a promise sworn to my dearest friend?

I name my daughter Tárissë, she who is wise, for I know that wisdom will be her greatest strength.

Táriþë, in the Quenya of my father's house.

Saeril in the Sindarin.

Sage in the Common.

Narvi, in the Khudzul.

She is a beautiful baby, as good as gold.

When her father or I appear, she will brighten and reach for us, babbling nonsense and wriggling with delight.

When she is hungry she will cry, but only for a little, and once her hunger is satisfied she will be entirely happy once again.

I live for her smiles, and weep for her tears.

She is my whole world now, my precious, precious, perfect babe.

Nothing can equal her in my eyes - not even her beautiful, proud father.

Annatar mocks despair the first time he sees the thought in my mind, though I can see that he mislikes being supplanted by even his own child.

He cannot mind too much, however, for I know that his thoughts dwell on her as mine do.

When I remind him of that, he only smiles and kisses me.

*********

Tárissë is almost a year old the first time we bring her to the forges.

Whatever path she chooses, she has the blood of smiths on both sides of her family and the forge is part of her birthright.

It should be a refuge for her, even if it does not become the place where she practices her craft.

She is deeply enamoured of the glowing coals, and tries to reach for them with coos of delight.

I snatch her up and place her on my hip. "No sweetheart, those are hot. We do not touch."

"Oh, let her." Annatar says easily, and catches one up in his bare hand.

That is commonplace enough, but I mislike his implication.

"Annatar, my love," I say very calmly, moving Tárissë away from the pretty coals, "she is half an elf. I do not want her touching it."

My husband gives me one of his rare looks of impatience. "She is also half a fire spirit, my heart's love. Our daughter would never be harmed by it."

His certainty is convincing and, reluctantly, I allow him to place it in Tárissë's outstretched hand.

As he had said, it does not burn her. It does not even redden her skin.

She only plays with it as if it as any other rock, cooing with delight, even biting on it and then pulling a face when ash flakes off in her mouth.

After that, she loses interest and shoves it in my direction, narrowly missing my face.

I crane my neck to keep myself out of the way of the wildly waving live coal, not wanting to recieve second degree burns at the hands of my own infant daughter.

"Ah, not for Ammë, sweetheart. Why don't you give it to Ada?"

My husband, bless him, receives it with all the gravitas of a royal gift, and then presses a kiss to Tárissë's forehead in trade.

I cannot help my fond smile as he rises from his crouch and tosses the coal back into the forge fire.

"What is it, my heart?" He asks, seeing my face and catching me in his arms.

Leaning my head against his shoulder, we both watch Tárissë as she sits on my hip, playing with my necklace, giggling and cooing to herself in the manner of all babes.

"You are a good father, my love." Is all that I will say.

I do not say that he reminds me of my own father, before Curufin was devoured by the terrible Oath.

He seems to understand however, for his arms tighten about me and he presses a kiss to my hair. "And you are an excellent mother, my heart's love."

*******

We do careful calculations multiple times, but eventually come to the conclusion that if we wish for any more children, I cannot place any more power into the rings.

Creation, like all else in Arda, comes from the soul.

One places a little of one's spirit in all that one makes, and this includes children.

The father contributes more physically to the child's growth, but the mother's contribution takes an exponential amount of fëa.

There is a reason my mother only had me - she used so much of her fëa in her work that one child was all she could manage.

If she had stopped making perfumes for an age of the Trees, perhaps the rest would have allowed her fëa to support another child.

Perhaps.

My grandparents are legendary for a reason - seven children from two prolific craftsmen, and neither even weakened after the birth of twins.

They led charmed lives, ones that their descendants cannot match. Perhaps they used up all of our House's luck in that area.

If it was not for the rings, I could have had as many children as them, we calculate.

But the Seven have taken much from me, and Tárissë more.

It takes much indeed to carry and birth the child of a Maia, and I am still so tired.

Annatar reminds me of Míriel, who poured too much of herself into her work and then had only her lifeforce to give to her child.

We want more children eventually. Children with his eyes and my hair, and his smile, and his voice.

So I agree, reluctantly, to be a passive participator in this venture.

The Nine will be almost entirely my husband's work, unlike the Seven which had been a perfect partnership.

I will do the mundane smithing only.

It is with, I would like it noted, great reluctance that I agree to this.

Tárissë is wonderful and I adore her with everything that is in me, but I love my craft almost as much.

Still, there are two of us in this marriage, and both of us wish for more children - later, when we have completed the Rings.

I can always make other Rings if I so wish, when we have had sufficient children.

So, I watch Annatar work, and under his deft fingers the Nine come into being.

There is still always that twinge of uncertainty when I think about the Rings.

Is it tempting fate?

I have been in control of the whole process, and I know that these Rings are entirely of pure intent.

They exist to amplify, to build up, to heal and encourage.

There is no corruption in them.

And yet...

In all the years of our marriage, I have not told my husband that I was once a mortal woman.

I have not told him of Hobbits.

********

The Nine are beautiful.

Gold, silver, electrum, mithril, copper, galvorn, platinum, rhodium and iridium.

Diamond, ruby, emerald, topaz, sapphire, amethyst, peridot, garnet and opal.

When I touch them, they shine with love and a fervent desire to heal Middle Earth.

To make things better.

To fix what is broken.

I turn each one over in my hands, searching with eyes and fingers and fëa for anything that feels out of place.

There is nothing.

The Nine are pure.

All is well.

I have no reason to be so paranoid.

Why can I not trust him after so many years of marriage?

Why did I marry him at all if I cannot trust him.

Turning back to my husband, I smile.

"Once again, you have outdone yourself my love." I say, winding my arms about his neck and kissing him. "They are perfect "

Annatar smiles back, resting his hands on my waist. "The greatest compliment I could ever be given, by the greatest elven smith of any age."

I laugh and kiss him again.

*********

Annatar is seized by restlessness a little over two decades after Tárissë's birth.

He is a fire spirit, after all, flickering and changeable - he has never been satisfied in one place for long.

The first time he left, I had been terrified. I had spent the entire time that he was away, waiting for the dread words of the Ring to sound in my mind.

But it had not happened.

Nor had it happened the second time, or the third.

There is nothing to fear any longer.

We passed the date the One was created the day my sweet Tárissë was born, and I do not fear any longer.

He has always come back to me before.

Why should this be any different?

My husband is mine now, mine and our daughter's, and he will always come back.

I curl my arm about his neck and kiss him.

He pulls me closer to him, deepening the kiss until Tárissë slaps his chest.

Annatar laughs and takes her from me, bouncing her on his hip and murmuring to her in Ainurin.

He is such a good father.

"When you come back," I say suddenly, "I have something to tell you."

Years upon years of marriage. A child. Sixteen Rings of Power.

I can trust him now, surely. Surely this is enough to prove that Annatar, whatever he once was, is truly now what he says?

My husband smiles curiously, and kisses me again. "Then I shall hasten back with all eagerness to hear it, my love."

He hands Tárissë back to me, and then he is gone in a flurry of heat that steals the breath from my lungs.

I take our daughter back inside, already planning the celebrations for whenever he returns.

********

I am in the forge when it happens.

We had agreed to wait to finish the Three until Annatar returns, but the Nine were his design.

He turned the Three over to my design entirely, as we had designed the Seven together - symmetry, in all things, is the key to these works we have found.

The numbers will require the creation of One Ring later on, but I cannot bring myself to raise the subject yet.

It feels, despite everything, too much like tempting fate.

So for now, the Three will be our last works.

Then we shall turn our attentions to more children - at least two, a son and another daughter.

I was an only child, and without Finyë and Rillë I would have been desperately lonely - I want my children to have what I had with my cousins.

Annatar, of course, never had a childhood, springing fully formed into being from the mind of Eru.

But he too despised loneliness. It is not something either of us would wish on our children.

Tárissë, as happy as she is, could do with more playmates - especially considering that siblings would not shy away in instinctive wariness of her Maia blood.

The hypothetical other children are, for now, firmly in the future however, and my attention is fully on my work.

For once, my daughter is not in the forge, requiring Annatar or I to keep half an eye on her - neither of us has the heart to keep her away from both of her parents for the number of hours we spend in the forge, but it means that we must watch her carefully.

She is with Galadriel today, however, for I am competent in the arts of the mind (my father and grandfather would have accepted nothing less) but competent only, and Annatar is a Maia of fire and metal primarily.

Galadriel is an acknowledged master of the mind arts, and so Tárissë, my beautiful, impossible half-Maia child, learns from her how to control and direct the power Annatar has gifted her.

I am entirely happy, engrossed in chasing intricate designs onto the surface of Nenya.

They are so small that I need several lenses to be able to see what I am doing, and the work is more satisfing than any I have done since Tárissë's birth.

The forge is full of the happy chaos of many people at work, loud and smoky and just the way I like it.

Between one moment and the next, I collapse.

The only warning I have is a sudden swell of vicious, terrible triumph and is that...regret? is that a flicker of hesitation? before...pain.

Terrible, unfathomable pain.

Ash nazg durbatulûk,

I think I am screaming.

Ash nazg gimbatul.

I think I am on the floor.

Ash nazg thrakatulûk,

I think that there are other smiths gathered around me, trying to lift me, to help me, to soothe me.

Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

I cannot concentrate on any of it.

All I can see and hear and feel, written in the dark of my mind by a hand of fire, are words I had thought, had hoped and prayed, I would never see.

One Ring, to rule them all.

**********

When I come around, Galadriel is sat beside my bed.

I look at her and then turn away.

"Tyelpë." She says gently, but I close my eyes.

I am angry and betrayed and in agony, but most of all I am humiliated. Horribly, awfully humiliated.

Centuries have I spent married to him, our souls bound together.

And for all of those years, he decieved me.

I, who pride myself on my insight, on my success with my uncles and the Thingolioni.

Pride comes before a fall, always.

And oh, what a fall mine has been.

I have betrayed my kin and my people.

So many suffered under Thauron, and in my arrogance I thought that I could change him.

I should have known it was too late.

I should have known better.

Even if he had been truly redeemed, I should have known better than to wed him and bear him a child.

I have always prided myself on my intelligence, and my wisdom, and now...

What have I done?

He tortured my uncle, he killed Galadriel's brother and countless others.

How could I have thought to save him?

How could I be so reckless?

How could I betray the torment of so many of my kin?

I am a fool, much like all the rest of my doomed house.

Fëanáro and his sons, at least, never fell into bed with the enemy.

I am the worst fool of all.

Their example lay before me, and still I followed my foolish heart to this.

Oh, how could I have been such a fool?

Tyelpë. My husband whispers in my ear.Tyelpë, my heart's love, join me. Trust me. Love me.

I shut my ears and my eyes and my mind.

"No." I whisper.

No.

I have been a fool, and a traitor, but I refuse to be so anymore.

Tyelpë. My dearest and most beloved.

I sit straight up, ignoring Galadriel's astonished face.

"Get out of my head." I say out loud. "Or I shall burn myself out of yours."

It is the one thing I mastered in my lessons as a child, though at the scale of a Maia it would kill me at my best.

As I am now, I would probably be scattered into nothing.

But I could do it, and it would hurt him greatly.

More importantly, he knows that, for he is bound to me and knows intimately what I am capable of.

He pulls away, and I turn to Galadriel. "Aunt, can you keep him out of my head?"

*********

The first thing that I do when I am allowed to leave my bed is make for the forge.

Galadriel placed a protection on me that she thinks should hold even if I were unconscious and she dead, for it calls upon the power of the Fëantúri rather than upon either of us.

The protection makes me feel less hunted, and my mind is clearer.

I have a limited amount of time left before Thauron comes for me - for the child and the Rings in my possession that he considers his.

So I have only until he decides to take what is his to do anything that I have to do.

And the first thing that I have to do is finish the Three.

They were integral to the survival of Middle Earth in the tale that I remember, and so, regardless of my feelings on them, they must be made.

I cannot complete them without pouring so much of my spirit into them that it will be all but impossible for me to ever bear another child again.

But it is a necessary sacrifice.

The lives of my unborn, now never to be born, children for the lives of every member of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth from now unto the end of time.

It is, I think, a clear choice when one weighs it up, but oh, I had wanted many children.

It is painful, this time, as I complete the forging and pour my spirit into the Three.

They are entirely my own design and creation, and it is my hope that they will do what their counterparts did - preserve and heal and purify, allowing the elves to remain in Middle Earth far longer than they would have otherwise.

It is worth it, I tell myself, but as I pour more and more of my spirit into the Three, it is hard to remember.

There is enough power in me, barely, for the Three, but I am dizzy and weak afterwards.

So much power has gone out of me that my vision begins to dim - the sight granted to me by the Light of the Two Trees fading.

I can see, for an awful, heart-stopping week, only in the realm of the Seen. The Unseen Realm is hidden from my faded sight.

Another child or another great work would do more than kill me now - it would unmake me.

I am Fëanáro Curufinwë's only grandchild, yes, and it has granted me great power, but even I have limits, and I have long passed them.

My spirit is all but spent.

There is nothing left in me.

*********

In the Lord of the Rings, it was said that only dragonfire was hot enough to melt a Ring of Power.

Perhaps that is so.

But I made the Seven, and the Nine were made with my aid.

I know them intimately, and I can destroy them.

When I arrive at the decision, it is like a blow to the gut.

These are the culmination of my life's work.

But they will do more harm than good, for they were made with Thauron's hand, unlike the Three which have been made by mine alone.

Already, I can feel the taint seeping into them from the One Ring where it sits on Thauron's finger.

I can only thank Eru that the Rings had not yet been gifted away, that all of my hope and trust had not blinded me that much.

When I take them out of their boxes, they lie heaped on my workbench, an incongruously small pile of shimmering metal and jewels and sheerpower, shining even in the dim light of the forge.

For a long time, I simply look at them.

These were my greatest work, my Silmarils.

I shall not make their like again.

But eventually, I rise.

If the First Age taught me anything, it is that some things are unavoidable, but they can be alleviated.

Even if Thauron makes the Seven and the Nine again, it will be without my aid, and they will be the weaker for it.

So I close and lock the windows and doors of the forge, and stoke the fire until it is blazing brighter than even Annatar has ever made it.

Then I set to singing over the Rings, songs of weakness, of melting, of breaking, of undoing and unmaking.

It takes longer than I had thought it would, but in the end I place the sixteen Rings of Power that were made by my husband and I into the forgefire, and watch them melt into nothingness.

It is one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I know that far harder things will lie ahead of me.

When the fire has cooled, I take the slag I have made of the Seven and the Nine, and I grind it into dust.

Then I cast the dust into the river.

*******

The letter appears the next day.

It lies incongruously on my bench in the forges, and creates enough uncertainty that I take it to my nearest cousin.

Galadriel reads the letter and hands it back to me, but I pass it on Celeorn.

I already know what it says - the words are burned into my mind.

Tyelpë,

I know that this will seem like a betrayal greater than any you have endured, but only trust me. The Powers care nothing for you and if they learn of her, they will destroy Tárissë for being my daughter.

Do you think they would grant the granddaughter of Fëanáro and her child by Sauron mercy?

Are you truly so naive?

You would not risk our only child so, I know this.

You hold more of my heart than any other, my heart's love. I beg of you, trust me, come to me. Bring our daughter. Let us be a family, you and I.

Let us give our daughter a world for her garden and build marvels that Aulë himself could not dream of.

You know what we have done together, what we could still do.

Trust me, my darling.

Come to me, with our child and our life's work, and see what wonder we can achieve.

With all my love,

Annatar

Celeborn puts the letter down and his moth twists. He still does not care for me, but we have a common enemy now. "Clearly, he is lying. But he is fixated on Saeril."

Something dark and cold trickles into my heart.

Tárissë, my child, my only daughter, she who I love above the whole world. I cannot let Thauron gets his hands on her.

I feel my arms close around her involuntarily. "No!"

"Peace." Galadriel rests one hand lightly on my baby girl's head. "He shall not have her, cousin, I promise you."

I shift Tárissë to my hip and stalk over to the brazier.

I throw the letter into it and watch it burn with satisfaction. But as it crumbles into ash, the flames shift, and form a face.

A very familiar face.

My husband's face looks mournfully out at me, formed entirely of flames.

Tárissë squeals and reaches for her father, and I bite down on my tongue so hard that it bleeds to prevent myself from snapping at her. It is not her fault that she is too young to understand this.

Annatar's lips part, and he speaks, his voice crackling and popping with the flames.

"I had hoped that it would not come to this, Lady of Eregion, but you are as bull headed and close minded as your accursed grandsire. Yet, for the companionship that we once had, I will give you one last chance: give me Tárissë, and the Rings, and I shall allow you to keep your life."

He smiles, and as he does so, something peels away. I know instinctively I am looking at Sauron. "Else I shall come to you with the flame and the sword. I shall burn all that you hold dear, and kill all those you love before you eyes, and last of all I shall come to yoi. You shall beg me for death, ere the end, and yet I shall not grant it until you have forgotten even your own child. I shall destroy you utterly, if you give me not this one request."

Before I can reply, the spectre disappears.
Tárissë starts to cry, and I am tempted to join her.

*********

After that, I decide that Tárissë will never be safe in Middle Earth.

There is nowhere in all of Middle Earth where her father cannot find her.

So, in the end, Gil-Galad and Galadriel persuade me that there is no choice but to send Tárissë over the Sea.

Thauron can never reach her in Aman, not in the Blessed Realm, under the protection of the Powers of Arda.

She will be safe and loved there, I know.

My grandmother and three of my uncles and many of the lines of Findis and Finarfin will be there, and they will love my daughter because she is their kin.

They will adore her, my little firebrand daughter, with her bright smiles and her laughter.

And they are no strangers to part-Maia children, not in Valinor.

There will be equals for her to play with, children who's blood does not warn them to be wary of the power in hers.

She will have a childhood as charmed and blessed as my own, which is all that I could have ever wished for my children.

But I cannot follow her.

I have known that since I heard Thauron's voice as he forged the One Ring.

Even though I could flee over the Sea, seek refuge in Aman which I know the Powers would grant me, I cannot.

I will not.

I will not abandon Middle Earth to pay the price for my mistakes.

My place is here, to see out the consequences of my choices.

And that means that Tárissë will go to the Blessed Realm without me.

It means that she will, in all likelihood, grow up without ever seeing my face again, for I cannot see myself walking away from this alive.

I do not have the strength left in me to survive another war, let alone one directed at me.

She will be, for all intents and purposes, an orphan.

But the alternative is allowing her to fall into her father's hands, and that does not bear thinking.

There is truly only one choice, however little I wish to make it.

*******

When we arrive at Mithlond, the ship is waiting for us.

I carry my daughter all the way to the foot of the gangplank and then halt, unable to force myself to go further.

"Ammë?" She asks, quiescent and curious, lifting her head from my shoulder. "Where are we?"

I take in a shaky breath and summon a smile, praying that it does not waver. "The Grey Havens, sweetling. You're going across the Sea with my uncle Nolondil, remember? To meet my grandmother and my other uncles."

"And Aunt Rillë!" My sweet girl beams at the thought, almost bouncing from her perch on my hip. "And her son the pretty star and Aunt Galadriel's father the King, and the Belain and... and... everyone else."

"Yes, my darling." I press a kiss to her head, closing my eyes briefly. "Exactly right. Aren't you excited to meet them all and explore the land your Ammë came from?"

She nods, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm going to love them all!"

I hold her close to me, telling myself that this it the last time. "And they are going to love you sweetling, I'm sure. But, darling, listen to me, Ammë can't come with you just yet."

"Ammë?" She asks, clutching closer to me, her eyes bewildered. "No, Ammë, come now."

I close my eyes and take a steadying breath before opening them again and placing her firmly in my uncle's arms. "I promise I will follow you as soon as possible, but I have a...Ammë has some unfinished business to attend to first."

She is docile in her confusion for a moment, and I seize the opportunity to press another kiss to her head. "Be good, my darling. You'll have so much fun that you won't even notice my absence. I love you, Tárissë, my sweet, my darling, my child."

My throat closes and I have to clear it, blinking away tears. "Ammë loves you, so much, you have no idea. I love you more than anything, sweetling."

"I love you too Ammë." Her little arms fold around me in an embrace that I allow myself only a moment to cling to before I step back, nodding to Nolondil who bows his head and turns to leave.

We have already said our goodbyes while Tárissë slept, and he knows, as my daughter does not, what he is leaving me to.

It had been a fierce debate, but in the end I had reminded him that it was my choice, and unlike Tárissë I am a woman grown and well able to make my own decisions.

So, reluctantly, bitterly, my uncle has agreed to be the one to guard my daughter as she sails towards the one place she will be safe.

For millennia, my uncle has been by my side, protecting and guarding me as he promised his sister, my mother.

And now he must leave me to torment and death, at my own request.

He does not meet my eyes as he begins to walk, reluctance apparent in his every movement, but Tárissë frowns and reaches for me. "Ammë?"

Somehow, I manage to force a smile onto my face, even as it feels like I am ripping out my own heart and watching it beat. "Goodbye, my darling. I'll see you soon."

"Ammë!" She screams, struggling in Nolondil's arms as he walks up the gangplank and the sound is as painful as my mother's dying voice had been. "Ammë! Ammë, I want Ammë. Ammë! No, let me go, Ammë! Ammë!"

She screams all the way onto the ship, her voice carrying across the water as clearly as if she is still in my arms.

A few elves on the docks wince, and I can see the ship shuddering with every sound from her lips, trying to obey a babe who does not quite know her own power yet.

I almost cannot watch them leave, cannot watch them recede out of even elven sight and hearing, my daughter shrinking to a dot and then nothing, her voice trailing away on the wind.

But somehow, I do.

I do not know how.

But I do.

If, as I suspect, my fate has been written into the Song before time in Arda began, then Tárissë will not be seeing me again for a very long time.

I do not want her last memory of me to be of me weeping.

Perhaps it is a selfish wish, but in this too, I am my father's daughter.

He was selfish about his only daughter, as I am selfish about mine.

It is only the forms that our selfishness takes that are different - his was in keeping me with him, even as he fell into dishonour and evil.

Mine is in wanting my daughter not to see the truth behind the facade of her loving mother - not to see the woman who has failed time and again and has brought only misery to those around her.

When the ship finally vanishes over the horizon, hours or days later I do not know, I allow myself to collapse.

I sink to my knees, right there on the quay, and let the sobs that I have been holding back wrack my body.

They are ugly and harsh, my body shaking as I keen the loss of my only child to the wind.

Gradually, after what feels like years, but cannot have been more than an hour, I become aware of a hand on my shoulder.

I look up to find Cirdan standing beside me.

He says nothing, but only stands there silently as I weep, lending his strength and his silent understanding to my weary soul.

He too lost wife and child to the long fight, Lalwen to the Bragollach and Inglor to the fall of Nargothrond.

He still has Gildor, but he has mourned and loved and lost, and his quiet prescence comforts me.

**************

When I finally return to Ost-in-Edhil, weary from the loss of first my husband and now my child, there is a letter sitting on my bed.

It is addressed 'Tyelpë' in a familiar, elegant hand.

I swallow hard and open it. There is no use in avoiding the inevitable, and I can hardly find the strength to fear whatever poison he has written.

Not after I have willingly given up Tárissë.

There is nothing he can do to me that can match that pain.

Curufinwen Celebrimbor Curufiniel,

Lady of Eregion,

Mistress of the Gwaith-I-Mírdain,

Princess of the Noldor,

You stiff-necked daughter of a prideful people, you have brought about your own destruction. Three times have I asked for what is mine, and three times have you denied me.

Now I shall come to take what is mine. With fire and the sword shall I take it. I shall burn your land, and destroy all that you hold dear. I shall kill all whom you love before you eyes, and then last of all shall I take you.

You I shall not kill. Not until you have forgotten your own name, and the name of your own child. Not until you beg me for death, and name me a good and merciful lord for that I grant it you.

Nāyellâmāxanāz is mine. And you will know it, ere the end.

Mairon the Admirable,

Lieutenant of Melkor,

Lord of Barad-Dûr and Mordor,

Lord of Middle Earth

King of the World

Lord of the Rings

I put the letter down, barely able to register what is written in it.

At this point, I do not care.

Standing, I leave the room and tell the nearest person in my livery to summon the council.

************

I send away Galadriel and Celeborn, with their daughter, all non combatants and most of the warriors.

They do not wish to leave.

From my formidable aunt down to the youngest stable boy.

Each one of them is determined to stay and fight, but in this I am adamant.

The fight ahead of us is not one that anyone will come out of alive.

It is death, not life that we who remain will look for.

And so, for almost the first time, I beat Galadriel in an argument.

She will not stay here to die, and neither will the greater part of Ost-in-Edhil.

Those who remain are the oldest, most fervent followers of my grandfather.

The ones who had stayed with my uncles through war and death and dishonour, and those who had left my uncles to follow me.

And try as I might, I cannot force them to leave.

Not when Galadriel supports them.

She takes with her the Three rings, and Celebrían, and that had sufficed to sway her - just.

But it had made her doubly determined that those who wished to defend me to the last would be granted their wish.

I do not know why it is so important to her, but she does not want me to die alone.

As she leaves, I give her the box containing the Three, so incongruously small for something so precious.

"Artanis," I say suddenly.

She turns to look at me.

Her eyes are very grave, and I feel a pang of guilt.

"Do not come back." I can see her opening her mouth to argue. "There will be no one to rescue."

Galadriel's eyes fill with tears that do not fall. "You are my kin, Tyelpë. You cannot ask me to simply allow you to die."

"I am asking that."

"You cannot." Her voice shakes a little. "Tyelpë...it has been done before...you do not have to die."

My eyes close almost involuntarily, blinking away tears I cannot allow myself to shed. "You are no Findekáno, Aunt Galadriel, and I am no Maitimo. My time has come."

"Oh, Tyelpë." Still, she does not weep, but presses a soft kiss in benediction against my forehead. "Namárië, pitya."

I reach up to return the gesture. "Namárië. I shall see you in Aman, where all of this shall seem as a dream."

"The West is shut to me." She says baldly, and mounts her horse.

There is no hope in her, I can see even with my dimmed sight.

*******

I am no warrior.

I never have been, and I never will be.

But this is my city, mine alone since Galadriel and Celeborn led away the host.

The attack on it is my fault.

So I forge myself armour, gilded but practical, and belt a sword to my side, and tell myself that I have no choice.

The smith who saved my life all those years ago, back when I was the High King's granddaughter, is the one to resume my long abandoned sword lessons.

Damrod is his name, and he has followed me since Beleriand sank.

He is no Feanorian, no Noldo even, but a smith of Thingol's people. Yet he is willing to stay and die.

We all know that we are going to die.

But they do not mind.

Most of them expected to die with my uncles, and have been quite surprised to live this long.

There is no hope of victory or even survival for us.

We fortify the city all the same, building traps and setting snares for the enemy.

We will all die.

But that does not mean that we cannot take many of the enemy with us.

The Noldor are known for their hopeless last stands, after all.

*********

When the attack comes, it is sudden and unexpected.

The first that we know if it is the screams of the enemy as they fall into our snares.

It takes only moments to don the armour that lies by every one of the bedrolls on the floor of the forges.

There are less than a hundred of us, those loyal enough to follow me to death and beyond, even after what I have brought upon us.

Their eyes are bright and steady as they watch me, afire with the same fervent devotion that brought the greater part of them to Beleriand in my grandfather's wake.

I blink away the tears that spring to my eyes at the sight of these people, willing to die for me for no reason other than love.

"Thank you," I say softly, though every eye turns to me, "for being here with me. I would not that we were even one more among us, for your loyalty and your love is worth more than a hundred batttalions."

I swallow down the lump in my throat. These loyal elves deserve more than my tears. "There is nothing that I can do or say that is worthy of your sacrifice, your love and your loyalty - each one of you. All that I can do, is to give you my own love, in the hopes that you will accept it as a paltry return for yours."

For a moment, I have to pause, but I catch Damrod's eye and straighten. "The end we make today, shall be an end worthy of song. Your sacrifice will sound throughout Aman until Arda is remade. When the Halls of Mandos open to you today, it will be for the greatest heroes to ever live in Arda. Aurë entuluva!"

I have not my grandfather's skill with words, nor yet that of my father and uncles.

But it matters little to these loyal few, who respond with a veritable roar. "Aurë entuluva!"

For a moment, looking around at all of these faces, elves whom I have known since I was child, many of whom have taught me, I feel a thrill of hope.

We have, all of us, lived so long.

Surely we can survive this battle too?

Everything leaves my mind as soon as it begins.

I have never before been in a battle.

I am a smith, a craftswoman, not a warrior.

My hands make new things, they do not destroy.

But I have no choice.

I have brought this on myself.

So I go out with the last few, brave remnants of the host of Fëanor's House.

The hope is that we hold Thauron's attention long enough for Galadriel and Celeborn to get the people of Ost-in-Edhil and the Three Rings to the relative safety of Lindon.

If that fails, then Galadriel, Celeborn and Celebrían have been taught how to destroy Rings of Power.

They cannot fall into Thauron's hands.

It is with that thought that I join my people in my first and only battle, with Fëanor's star flying high and defiant above us as it did for so many years in the age before.

I had taken Annatar's symbol of a flame with a jewel at its heart when we wed, but since the Ring, I have taken the star as mine once more.

I am Fëanor's granddaughter, Curufin's daughter, and the last of their great house, with all that entails.

Today, it is something to be proud of.

*********

Battle is much as I had read it to be.

Bloody, and vicious, and full of death and pain.

Above all, it is confused.

No one knows what is happening, and all that anyone can do is try to take as many of the enemy down with them as they can.

We are beaten, back and back and back.

All around me, my people fall.

They are here by choice, but they chose for love of me and each death is a blow to my heart.

They are dying for me.

For me, for my sake, when it is I who has brought all this upon us.

It was I who was such a fool as to become Thauron's bride, and yet still they have chosen to die for my sake.

I am not even badly wounded.

The enemy avoids me, aims for those around me, but I have received only glancing blows.

All I can do is remember Hurín Thalion, who was taken alive from the field of battle.

Is that to be my fate too?

A part of me thinks that I will deserve it, after all that I have done.

I still lack the affinity for killing that makes my family such great warriors.

I can use a sword perfectly well, have the strength and the skill to be a decent fighter, but I still instinctively avoid the mortal points.

It is a failing that should have gotten me killed centuries ago.

There is little choice in a battle, of course, for it is kill or be killed.

But I cannot help the hesitation, and the way my stomach roils, and the battle lust that every single one of my family sinks into in a fight never pulls me down.

Perhaps it would be easier, and I would not look into the eyes of every orc before me and wonder who and what they could have been, what they once were, and what I have prevented them from being.

Eventually, we are pushed back to the steps of the forges, and there, it finally comes to an end.

My husband sweeps around the corner, in fine black armour that twists about his body like a demented insect's shell.

It holds the same elegant lines as any of his other works, and I hate him for it.

His sword drips blood onto the once clean street, and each step leaves behind a print of gore.

"There you are my darling," he says, voice soft and delighted as it has ever been when he sees me for the first time after a journey, "I have been looking for you."

I lash out at him without replying, my sword perfectly weighted and balanced and though I am not a killer by nature, I have been trained - my blade strikes home.

Thauron laughs, seemingly not noticing the blade that sinks into his shoulder, or the dark blood that it draws.

"Oh, my heart," he sighs, reaching quick as thought to caress my cheek, "you are no warrior."

There is a heavy blow to my head, and I know nothing more.

*******

When I awake, my mind registers two things before my eyes even open.

Firstly, my head is pounding as if the whole population of Moria is pounding at my skull with pickaxes.

Secondly, I am upright and all my weight is on my wrists.

Chains.

I blink and then close my eyes immediately.

My surroundings are infinitely, painfully familiar.

I knew that Sauron was a liar, a manipulator, the greatest source of evil in the world now that Morgoth is safely behind the Doors of Night.

But somehow this is worse than anything I had imagined.

He has had me chained up in my own workshop, where I had spent so many happy hours with him.

My chains are attached to the hook I hang my apron on.

Goodness only knows where the apron is now.

The thought is fleeting and incongruous considering my situation, and somehow it makes mirth bubble up in my chest.

Before it can escape into laughter, however, footsteps sound on the floor and all urge to laugh vanishes.

I know those footsteps.

"Ah, my darling," a painfully familiar voice says brightly. "You are finally awake."

I open my eyes to see Thauron walking towards me.

He is wearing his accustomed form, smiling and cheerful as if he has not invaded my city, massacred my people, and chained me up in my own workshop.

"What do you want?" I ask, and my voice is hoarse.

He laughs, that beautiful, clear laughter I had always adored, stopping right before me.

"Oh Tyelpë, my heart's love, how I have missed you." One long, elegant finger strokes gently down my cheek, and then under my chin as if to pull me in to kiss me as he had done so many times.

I jerk my head away.

He laughs, low in his throat. "There you are. My firebrand." Then he tangles his hand in my hair and jerks my eyes to meet his. "Where is my daughter?"

I laugh in his face, tasting the salty tang of blood in my mouth. "Gone where even you can never reach her."

He laughs, a sly smile crawling across his face. "I am Lord of all Middle Earth. There is nowhere you can hide her that I cannot find."

"I would like to see you try your luck with the Powers." I say with as much defiance as I can muster.

His face freezes for a moment, and then something cold and cruel creeps into it. "Is that so?"

"Did you truly not notice?" I should not taunt him.

It is stupid and rash, and as a rule I leave that to the warriors of my house.

But now, I have nothing to lose, and I find a strange bravery welling up in me.

Is this what it is like for those who chose the path of the warrior?

Is this the indefinable something that led my great-uncle to challenge Morgoth to single combat?

"You, oh Lord of all Middle Earth? Did you not know where your own child is?"

It is good, I realise. Satisfying. To know that he is fallible. To know that I can keep something from him.

He seems speechless, as if unable to muster any thoughts in response to me.

So I continue, something heady and dauntless swelling inside me.

I am painfully aware of my own vulnerability, but I cannot bring myself to care.

Tárissë is safe.

The Rings are safe or destroyed.

I have nothing left to lose.

"My daughter is beyond your reach," I tell him, spitefully. "She is in Valinor now, under the protection of the Valar. Not even you can reach them there, oh Lord of Middle Earth. You are no Morgoth, who needed the aid of Ungoliant to breach Valinor in it's unguarded Noontide. Do you think that it would be possible for you to come within sight of the Blessed Land? You are foolish indeed, Thauron, craven and accursed."

There is a resounding collision of flesh on flesh, and my vision goes white.

For a moment there is only silence, and then the pain rushes from being backhanded across the face by a Maia's full strength rushes in.

It feels as if he has hit me with a wall.

I am no healer, but the likelihood of that blow not having done severe damage is low.

For a moment, I can only remain still, hanging in my chains, my ears ringing and my vision white.

Then I shake my head and stare at him in the eyes. I have been bound to him for centuries, I refuse to fear him.

"-as your fathers." He is hissing, his eyes cruel and wild. "You could not keep my child from me, so you have given your own daughter into the hands of my enemies, as if you think that will be enough for your petty revenge. Do you think that the Valar will be kind to Tárissë? Our daughter will be raised as a cringing cur, atoning every moment for her parentage, and it will be your fault. Do you truly have so little care for your own child?"

Then he stops, visibly reining himself in.

Something darker crosses his face, and the violent anger gives way to cold calculation in his eyes. "No matter. She was an experiment, a prototype. And prototypes are always flawed in some way."

Suddenly he presses his lips to mine, harsh and suffocating. I try to bite him, but he only bites back, harder, and all I can taste is ash and blood.

He pulls away, licking blood from his lips, something dark and wicked in his eyes.

A smile spreads across his face, made worse by the red blood in his teeth and trickling down his face and throat. "Perhaps I shall have to repeat the experiment until I have a viable model."

********

I am screaming.

At least, I think so.

I lost the ability to reliably connect with the world outside of me somewhere back when he started pulling my fingernails off, one by one, with his bare hands.

He kissed each one as it parted from my finger, and I tried to bite him.

I lost track somewhere after that, and goodness knows how long ago that was.

All that there is is the pain, and the knowledge that I still have the upper hand - all I need to do is die.

He wants Tárissë back, he wants me to join him, and he wants the Rings. All of which require me.

If I speak, he has won.

Silence is my only weapon, and somehow it is triumphing over all those at his disposal.

He is growing more and more frustrated with my refusal to break, which is surprising even I.

After all, I have never been particularly brave, no warrior, no hero.

I am only a smith, a princess who was coddled and protected as much as anyone could be in the First Age.

Never have I had to face death and pain like this before, never have I been subjected to such wanton cruelty.

Yet to his surprise and my own, I endure everything he inflicts on me with an unflinching resilience that even I did not realise I possesed.

He is systematically breaking my body and putting it back together, over and over again.

Maedhros had endured this for thirty years.

And when Findekáno saved him, he had been a shadow of my bright, gentle uncle.

But he had endured this to the bitter end.

His blood runs in my veins, the blood of Tata and Tatië and Finwë and Míriel and Fëanor.

All I have to do is stay silent, and wait for my inevitable death.

One day he will tire of me, or forget his strength, or cut a hair too deep, or be a moment too late, and all this will be over.

This too shall pass.

It will not take long, not when my fëa has already been drained and wounded beyond healing.

So I keep my mouth shut, and wait for my failing hróä to give in.

*************

The pain stops.

It is replaced by my husband's gentle touch, a trembling hand ghosting over my hair.

Somehow, I force my eyes open to meet his gaze.

"Tyelpë." He whispers, tears in his golden eyes. "Oh my darling, why do you make me do this to you?"

I do not answer.

I cannot.

The wind has been knocked out of me, and I think some of my ribs are broken from the stabbing pain that strikes whenever I try to breathe.

My throat is raw and torn from screaming.

There is blood in my mouth, salty and full of iron as if I have swallowed a handful of nails.

"My love." I cannot help looking at him when he uses that tone. It is the habit of centuries. I curse myself for doing it, but it is done and he smiles. "There you are, Tyelpë."

I say nothing. I gave him everything once, and if I open my mouth I am afraid I will do so again.

He wants three things of me. I cannot give them to him.

"I can make it stop, my darling." He presses a kiss to my lips and another, and I do not have the strength to pull away as a thousand light kisses are rained down over my face. "Please. Let me stop. You do not have to do this, my love."

I close my eyes, ignoring the soft press of lips over my face, my neck, my hair.

They are gentle and soft, each one sending cool waves of numbness through my body.

"Forgive me, my love." His voice is choked and pained, as if he truly cares. "I am sorry, I am so sorry. Let me stop. Please my love, this hurts me as much as you."

I am too tired to speak, and in too much pain to move.

Everything is burning.

The last thing I remember is my husband humming a familiar tune, the familiar warmth of his arms about me.

For the first time since the defences failed, I am warm, and I feel safe.

I drift into blessed unconsciousness.

**********

I am cold again when I wake.

Thauron is gone, and I am in chains once more.

Someone, and I have a sinking idea of whom, has salved and bandaged my wounds.

My fingernails have been regrown, and the bandages are white and clean.

It makes everything worse, somehow.

How can he be so gentle, so meticulous in caring for me, when it is his hands who have done this to me?

Every wound is his doing, every bruise and ache and scratch.

All I can do is thank the powers that be that he has not tried to pry the knowledge from my mind.

I have very little idea why that is - only a few tenuous guesses.

Perhaps that I have buried it too well, for I can hardly recall what I have done with Tárissë or the Rings when I try.

Perhaps that if he delves into our bond he will be forced to feel the pain that he himself has inflicted on me.

Perhaps my long ago threat to burn myself out of his mind if he enters mine.

Perhaps all three.

Or none of them.

It does not really matter.

All that matters is that he has not done so.

*********

It has been months.

I know only pain and a brief reprieve and then pain again.

My world has narrowed to my aching, burning body and my cruel, treacherous husband.

Always he begs me to let him stop, to simply give him what he knows I want to, to stop making him do this to me. Sometimes there are tears in his eyes.

He drives me to the brink of death time and again, and each time he brings me back, the Ring glowing gold on his finger and scorching my skin.

It is insidious and sickly, and I hate the feeling of it dragging my fëa back into my battered hróä as much as the torment.

But still, I refuse to speak.

There is little left to me, but my silence is a weapon that I can wield against him with devastating effect.

I hear his steps on the ground and close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever new torments he has prepared.

But when I open my eyes, he carries a basin and a sponge, and is smiling.

He looks as he had when he was my husband, not my tormenter.

"I have a gift for you," he says, almost giddy. "It was made just for you, my darling."

For a moment, I recall the day after Tárissë's birth.

This is eerily similar, and I cannot help hating him a little more for tainting that dear memory.

He unchains me and strips the thin shift off me.

I do not bother to struggle or try to hide myself.

What is there of my body that he does not already know as well as I do?

I lie still while he washes me, running the sponge gently over my skin as if he cares a whit for my comfort.

My mind is far away, walking back through memories of my childhood with Finyë and Rillë.

I barely notice his fingers trailing over my body, soft and teasing as they once were when we were newly wed.

There is nothing left for me to react to, not when he has done so much to me.

A sharp pinch brings me out of my daze, and the ugly look disappears from his face when he sees my eyes clear.

His gift is a dress, finely made and expertly tailored.

It is black and a strange orange-red, almost what my old world would call neon.

He has to stuff me into it and the shift and petticoats that go beneath it, as if I am a doll, for I am too weak to dress myself, and I am taking spiteful advantage of that.

If Thauron wishes to parade Fëanáro's captive granddaughter before his armies, he will have to work for it.

I refuse to make it any easier for him, not when he is dressing me up in what I assume are his own colours, as if I am some sort of trophy.

He does not find it too difficult, even when I am more ragdoll than elf.

My weight is slight, and his strength immeasurable.

It takes him only a few minutes to put it on me, and lace it up.

He has centuries of practice, after all.

His fingers are as as swift and efficient as ever, refusing to let any of the cowering orc women in the room touch me.

I do not know if I hate him more or less for acting as if he has any right to my body now.

I hate having his hands on me, but at least his are a known evil.

The orcs would have been a new quantity, and I am dimly grateful for the familiarity of he who was once my husband, no matter how hateful.

They are not even allowed to come near to me.

He crosses the room to them to snatch the jewels from their trembling hands.

When he is back with me, he presses a kiss to my neck before fastening the necklace.

Then to my ears before he hooks the earrings through the lobes.

And to each finger before he slides a ring onto it.

I do not even have the strength to feel mortified that he is doing so before these cowering creatures, in the full light of day.

What is one more thing, when he has already done so much to me?

He offers me his arm, as he did before every feast and dance we attended.

When I stand silent and still, he grabs my hand and threads it forcibly through his bent elbow, dragging me along with him as he walks.

To my great ire, I find myself leaning on him.

However much time has passed, it has been at least a few months.

I have not walked in all that time, only endured whatever Thauron does to me and then been returned to my chains.

Even elven muscles can atrophy, and mine have done so.

He leads me to what was once the market square, in the centre of the city, and is now full of his army.

Men, orcs, trolls, and other, fouler things, stand in silent ranks, filling every spare inch of what was once a place of merrymaking and joy.

All around the edges of the square, poles have been set up, bearing the bodies of my people on them like banners.

They are battered and broken, shot full of black-feathered arrows, but at least they are dead.

The torment that I led them to is over.

Thauron leads me to a makeshift dais at one end of the square, set up so that the dead eyes of Damrod, who taught me to make ithildin and saved my life when I was but a girl, bore into my back.

He turns away and addresses his army, and I consciously do not listen.

I refuse to comprehend whatever rhetoric he is spouting, though what I cannot avoid hearing is the frequent use of the word 'queen'.

It is not altogether a shock then, when he turns back to me with a grand gesture, and one by one, all of his creatures falls to one knee and call me their queen.

"I can make you queen of the world, my love." He says, smiling as he ever did when he wanted something from me, whether a kiss or a child or apparently siding with him in betrayal of every principle and moral I have ever held dear.

When I do not reply, he continues, gesturing out over the silent, unending ranks of orcs and men and trolls, which rise from the ground and stand as still as stone. "This is but a small part of my armies. Every one of them would kill themselves for you. They would obey you without question. You would be the most powerful being in Middle Earth, my partner and equal in all things."

Once more, I refuse to reply, but this time he does not seem to mind, coming close to me and taking my hands in his, ignoring the limp, reluctant way they lie in his grasp.

His eyes are golden and wide and very soft, almost vulnerable. "I can give you all of this, and more. All you have to do is love me as you always did, my heart's love."

This, I force myself to reply to.

I loved him once, but I will not, I cannot love him anymore.

I cannot let him believe that.

Not after this.

"No." I say, calmly. I am past the point of fearing anything he can do to me.

His eyes narrow, and I can see the embarrassment rising in him at being rejected before several thousand of his minions. "Refusal is not one of your choices, my love. "

"I have made it one." The smile that I feel tugging at my lips is positively beatific.

"I am offering you the world!" He hisses, frustrated and, I think, humiliated. "Of all the beings in Arda, I have chosen you to be queen of Middle Earth by my side, and this is how you repay me?"

He is so close to snapping, I can feel it. I prod again. "You are a lord of slaves, not a king. Nothing that you offer is desirable to me."

"I am lord over all of Middle Earth!" He roars, his temper finally boiling over. "There is nothing that I cannot give. Everything is within my means. I can give you everything you have ever wanted a hundred times over! Name it, whatever it is that you want, and I will give it to you, even the very stars in the sky."

"You misunderstand." I say, a dreadful, empty calm spreading through me. "What makes it undesirable is that it comes from you, lord of ash and corpses. You cannot buy my love now that you have lost it."

With a cry of frustration, fury and, I imagine, no small amount of public humiliation, he backhands me.

My body, weakened by months of torture and deprivation, falls easily with the blow.

I tumble from the platform and land on top of several orcs, whose various spears and javelins and polearms are held blade upward.

Half a dozen sharp, jagged blades sink into my already wounded body, with the full force of my fall.

There is pain, quite a lot of it, and more than a little blood.

I am gasping for breath, my body wracked with tremors as I bleed out from multiple places and my spinal cord is severed.

It is not a nice death.

But it is a certain one.

Already, as Thauron reaches me with a cry of horor, I know it is too late.

I feel my battered hróä finally damaged too far for his enchantments to heal.

Even as he gathers me into his arms, hissing at me that I am a fool if I think to escape so easily, the world darkens and the final thin thread holding my fëa and my hróä together snaps.

My hróä falls away from me as quickly and easily as if I am stepping out of a dirty chemise at the end of a long day.

The terrible, awful sensation of his Ring claws at me but it cannot drag me back anymore.

I am lighter than air or light or wind.

I close my eyes, following the still, small voice that calls me westwards.

Behind me, I can feel a great wave of death and pain, as power erupts from the Maia who once called himself my husband, rolling out in a destructive wave from him.

It does not touch me.

I am free.

I find myself before the doors of Mandos, which resemble nothing more than the doors of the royal apartments where I grew up playing with Itarillë and Finyalassië.

They open without a sound, and I collapse at the Doomsman's feet.

It is over.