https://archiveofourown.org/works/58282759/chapters/165349468#workskin

The evening sun made the bay of Eldamar gleam like molten gold, the soft waves glittering like jewels. And amidst all this splendour, drawing ever closer, a ship was sailing towards the harbour, graceful and majestic, bearing one who was eagerly awaited. Manwë smiled as he watched the sails ripple in the soft breeze- it was truly a sight to behold. Notably, Manwë and Varda watched from much closer than usual, having done as they hardly ever did and descended from Ilmarin, to greet the newcomer themselves, but this elf most certainly deserved a like welcome. For if not Círdan the Shipwright, then who?

Ulmo had appealed to him in person, had asked him to come down to the quays, telling him once more of the many great deeds of Círdan throughout the Ages, and so had Olórin, so even if he had indeed been oblivious to the influence the shipwright had had on the fate of Middle-Earth, he would still have heeded their advice. After all, there was no reason for him to harken to those he loved.

But Manwë had watched, had in fact never fully taken his eyes off the havens that Círdan had kept for so many thousand years, a refuge and a passageway in equal measure. No-one had withstood Melkor and his servants more steadfast than Círdan, or had endured the hardships for longer, or had indeed accepted them with more humility. When Ulmo had sought him out in his moment of despair and told him that it was his doom to remain in Ennor, Círdan had accepted it, even though his anguish had been palpable even for Manwë on high Taniquetil. More, he had channeled his grief into learning to craft ships like no other in the Hither Lands, so that he might yet find a way across the sea when time was ripe, and later maintained a sanctuary for Elvenkind in Middle-Earth when all Beleriand had been in the hands of Melkor. 

And then, when after the War of Wrath the path West would have been open to him, Círdan had yet decided to stay, and built anew a home for the Elder Children in Middle-Earth. And -ultimately- had given them a way home. 

How many ships had he watched pass out of his sight, Manwë wondered, and how dreadfully had his heart ached each time anew? What it must have felt like for one who had once so longed to reach Aman, to build all these ships to carry his kinsfolk over the sea to the West without being able to sail himself, Manwë could not fathom. But what made him admire Círdan most was the humility and patience with which he had borne all these hardships, had fought Sauron, had given up his ring of power.

Yes, this elf he was truly curious to meet.

Still, King of Arda or no, he would wait for his turn to greet and thank Círdan. The right of welcoming the new arrivals always belonged to the relatives and loved ones of the newcomers, and Círdan was no exception to that rule. What was more, Manwë rather enjoyed watching these reunions -both those on the shores of the sea and those at the gates of Mandos- from afar, seeing all the joy and tears and feeling deep down that his summons had at last come to a good ending. 

Therefore he watched the small group on the pier, standing a little back in the shade of the trees, some chatting amongst each other, others had their gazes fixed on the boat. Galadriel was there with all her husband’s family, waiting for Celeborn who sailed with Círdan, and Ereinion, who had braved to invade on this family meeting so as to greet his foster-father. He looked very forlorn, and might have done so even more had not Círdan’s mother engaged him in conversation over and over again, whether to make Ereinion more comfortable or calm her own nerves, Manwë had no idea. Most likely both, he mused. It must be hard, not to fling herself at her son the moment he set foot on solid ground, but that she had declined from the start, claiming that she would much rather be the last to greet Círdan than the first, so that she might have some time in peace to reunite with him. 

The honour of first greeting the newcomers therefore fell upon her nephews, who had accepted the offer gladly. Once again, Manwë smiled as his gaze fell on the brothers, Olwë and Elwë standing by the quay wall in all regal attire, Elmo beside them in a much simpler tunic. All three of them beamed as they watched the ship draw closer, and Manwë was rather sure that had there not been so many onlookers, they would have jumped up and down like little boys. 

Watching them, Manwë could not help but once again appreciate how easily the brothers had divided rule between them once again after Elwë’s re-embodiment. No claims, no fighting, just the joy of being re-united. As it was, both held court together more often than not these days, which was very refreshing to see. Manwë had been half-prepared for another strife between brothers like with Finwë’s eldest sons at first, but that had thankfully proved completely unnecessary. 

And still, watching them stand there in unity made his own heart ache, a pain that belonged to him alone, that he would not even voice before Varda herself- he missed his own brother. Despite all the evil he had done, despite the fact that nothing could ever be entirely without evil due to Melkor’s fell designs, he missed him. And that grief would never fully leave him.

More to distract himself than anything else, he let his gaze wander on to where Melian sat by the trees with her sisters-in-law, chatting spiritedly with them. It was good to see her happy once more, the pain of loss slowly fading, at least from her face. He doubted not, however, that both she and her husband still mourned their daughter waking and sleeping, though having Lúthien’s descendants among them had helped them both greatly. 

Manwë sighed, wondering once again if there could have been another, a better solution. But not even he could take the Gift from the Secondborn, and keeping Lúthien from her husband… it would have been just as cruel. Any union between Elves and Men must end in agony for someone. But it seemed that at times, love simply was unstoppable, as Melian and Elwë proved perhaps more than anyone else. He had always been awed by the union of one of their own with an elf, had at first thought it to be against all design. Only it was not. If anything, this was the design of the One, or else it would not have happened and borne such fruit. Nay, even he could not fathom all Atar’s designs, too far were His ways above even theirs. He could but trust and marvel.

Yet Melian had paid a terrible price for her love when her Elwë had been slain, and amidst that grief, they -Manwë himself and his brethren- had added another, even greater hurt. They had terribly wronged her, wronged her even though she had done so much to bring Melkor’s rule to an end, not the least of which was to single-handedly capture Sauron and drag him before Eönwë. For that, she would truly have deserved to be allowed to live among all her kin- but that had been out of Manwë’s hands, much as it regretted it.

He had no more time to muse upon these sorrows, however, as in that very moment, the ship moored, and the two elves upon it stepped at last ashore.

“A fine beard he as grown, there is no denying that.” Varda chuckled beside him, and Manwë quietly agreed. 

Ulmo and Ossë must be proud indeed. 

Olwë made a similar remark by way of a greeting, but Círdan did not heed it. He had eyes only for Elwë in that moment, which came as no surprise. Not when the means of their parting was so well known to everyone. 

“You are here. Alive. And… whole.” Círdan stammered hoarsely, his eyes fixed on Elwë’s face.

“Of course I am. You asked me to await you here, and so I did. I waited for you for Ages and Ages, while you were saving the world.”

Círdan laughed, then flung his arms around his cousin with such enthusiasm that the two almost took a tumble into the water, and Melian was by far not the only one who looked somewhat disappointed that Círdan and Elwë managed to regain their balance. Still laughing, Elwë stepped back, and allowed Olwë and Elmo to welcome Círdan as well, which both of them did with no less joy. 

It would take hours, Manwë knew, before the last embrace and final word of welcome was exchanged and he would have the chance to make Círdan’s acquaintance. Be it. Time, after all, was of no significance within this part of his realm. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58282759/chapters/164824420#workskin

Snippet:

“Well met, dear friends.” she said “Not many birds still remain here in these lands. Are you leaving now, and just stopped on your way to bid an elf goodbye? Or could it be that one of you is indeed not a bird?”

“Why are you so certain that I would indeed take the form of a bird?” a soft voice asked behind her, making Thônwen spin around and almost topple over her own feet.

Finally.

Her heart wanted to leap from her chest in joy as she looked at last upon Melian, who was clad in a very simply tunic that was clearly meant to be worn under armour, and her black curls braided straight back without any adornment in it at all. It was a very unfamiliar sight, but one not less endearing for it. But she would not let Melian know that just yet. Not after her friend had played hide-and-seek with her for decades. Not after she had made her talk to more birds than she could count.

Instead of flinging herself at her sister-in-law, therefore, Thônwen crossed her arms before her chest and scowled.

“Long time no see. And don’t even start playing games with me, and asking me why I would look for you in birds. Have I not known you long enough?”

“Aye, and that is why you should know that though I only wear my physical form now, I still am bound to its appearance. Maiar cannot involve themselves so deeply with the Children without being then bound to one appearance.”

Oh, Melian could be haughty if she wanted to, there was no doubt about it, but so could Thônwen. And she would not loose this private little battle and laugh first.

“And it is not so that you are bound also deeply to your birds? So, have you or have you not been fluttering around Beleriand as a songbird whenever you did not fight?”

Melian rolled her eyes.

“Maybe. Once or twice at most.”

“You are an abysmal liar, Melian of Eglador. Abysmal.”

The two stood gazing at each other some more, then Melian started giggling at last, and Thônwen followed suit, extremely pleased with herself for having held out. For the briefest moment, Thônwen wondered if she would indeed be able to hug Melian, given that she was not an incarnate being anymore, but that question was swiftly answered as both stumbled forward, and flung their arms around each other. 

Soon

“Finwë, wait, what are you… wait!”

Elwë crosses his arms before his chest, planting his feet firmly on the ground. It is not like he has not wandered for a few days to see Finwë.

“You said you wanted to get away from all the duties for a moment, so that is what we are doing. And I wanted to show you ever since I first found… oh, come on!”

There is no getting around Finwë when he is like this, so Elwë sighs theatrically, hoping to at least make his point, and follows his friend deeper into the woods, away from the camp of the Noldor.

It is as though they are back at Cuiviénen, going on an adventure together, Finwë always taking the lead, Elwë always initially side-eying his friend’s enthusiasm. Does he seem as boyish still to his own people, he wonders? Elflord though he is, Finwë has lost nothing of his childhood-enthusiasm and somehow, that realisation makes Elwë breathe more freely than he has done in a long time.

They are still the same. They will be the same again, once this is all over.

Through the thicket of hollies, Elwë hears water murmuring, gay and joyful, not the rushing of a big stream, yet more than the bubbling of a brook. The sound inevitably makes him smile. It is the sound of adventure. The ground ever rises, so that they are soon climbing up a steep hill, clambering over rocks, ducking under branches. Moss soon replaces the forest floor, and when stepped on, oozes water. There must be underground springs, which is good, for Elwë is rather thirsty.

By the time they emerge from the trees, both their arms are rather badly scratched, and one look at his tunic tells Elwë that he will spend the days after his return to the Nelyar’s camp mending what there is to mend. But this view is certainly worth it. Only a few steps separate them from the top of the hill, and once they reach it, Elwë hears himself gasp. Before them, the hill falls steeply towards the river, bare rock replacing the mossy boulders. It is a formidable drop alright, but beautiful. In the absence of trees, the stars are visible overhead, and they seem to smile at them today, encouraging, promising.

Caught by a sudden feeling of whimsy, Elwë whirls around, dancing on the hilltop until Finwë catches him by the arm, unnerved.

“Careful!”

Ha, Elwë thinks, you don’t like it any better when I am the one taking risks for once.

He does not say it, though, for thinking it gives him quite enough satisfaction. And besides, Finwë is not entirely wrong. Losing his footing here would mean certain death. So instead of dancing, he lets his gaze wander over the forest that stretches as far as the eye can see -which admittedly is not all too far due to the trees- on the other bank of the river. But it is lighter, softer, the thorny leaves of the holly-trees replaced by the sleek grey trunks of beeches.

“There is a furth further north, where the river is easier to pass.” Finwë says, which makes Elwë grin.

“Ai, you do know me well, my friend. How would I love to explore these woods. But that, sadly, is not to be. Not with my people so unwilling to move, and time running late.”

Finwë hums sympathetically as he lets himself drop to the ground, to sit cross-legged overlooking the river. Elwë joins him with a sigh.

“It is not their fault, of course. They are tired, and I really cannot blame them. I cannot wait for this journey to end.”

He lies back, looking at the uncountable stars overhead.

“Can you promise me something, Finwë? When we are all safely in Aman, and everyone has settled in, promise me we will meet on the beach and lie on the pearls and pebbles and look at the skies and laugh about all of this and then just sleep?”

“Of course.” Finwë replies, and Elwë can hear him smile.

He has so missed his friend. And he will miss him more still, on this final leg of their journey, and maybe to most challenging one. But there is light on the horizon, quite literally speaking. And to that light, they are headed.

For a long while, they lie side by side, heads cocked in order to be even closer. They have done this as long as Elwë can remember, and the knowledge that they will do so again in their new home is immeasurably heartening.

Then suddenly, Finwë rises.

“Up. No time for falling asleep now, who knows what might eat us otherwise. And I have to show you something more.”

Bewildered, Elwë once again follows his friend, until he is suddenly… gone.

“Finwë?”

Try as he might to keep the rising panic from his voice, he cannot. Where on earth has he got to?

The answer, quite literally, is nowhere. Because Finwë has gone under the earth.

“Down here!”

There is a narrow fissure in one of the rocks, one Elwë has not previously noticed, just wide enough for their slender forms to fit through, and Elwë does not tarry.

The fissure opens into a small cave, and Elwë can hear running water. So there are more underground springs in this hill.

“I discovered this place the first night we camped in this woods. I have not dared explore further on my own, but I think there must be a whole system of caves in this hill. Wait for it, you’ll soon know why.” Finwë whispers, delight radiating from him like heat.

A breeze rustles through the leaves outside.

And they make the caves sing.

(@march-of-the-noldor, my final contribution to the March of the Quendi-Month. Thank you so much for hosting this event, it has been such a pleasure 🥰)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58282759/chapters/164344126

Flashback:

He felt quite sick.

Olwë beside him looked as though his sentiments were not too different. In fact, Arafinwë had not seen his father-in-law so upset since… no, he would not go down that memory-lane right now. What the Maia before them was telling them was quite horrendous enough, a tale that did not need the kinslaying’s help to inflict pain.

And all three of them felt this pain, though surely in different ways.

It hurt to hear about all of the crimes of Melkor, of how he had thrown the fair lands beyond the sea under his rule, and of the wicked ways he had chosen to torture those of the elves he could lay his hands on.

“My children are over there.” Arafinwë heard himself say, as soon as the Maia had ended her gruelling tale. “And my brothers and sister, or they were…”

He could not voice it. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were dead, he knew, but Lalwen? She had followed here favourite brother into exile, had she also followed him to her death? And his children? No, it were not his children who still dwelled in Beleriand, it was his daughter only. His sons had already fallen victim to Morgoth and his terrors from what he had heard.

“What is it you would have us do, lady?”

Olwë’s voice trembled, emotions too great and too long buried clearly straining to break through his composure.

“There will be war. Not quite yet, but soon. I beg you to muster your forces, and aid the Powers in the fight against Morgoth, both of you. Ingwion will lead the host of the Vanyar to war in his father’s stead, and what say you, King Olwë, King Arafinwë?”

Arafinwë felt himself nod almost before Melian had finished her sentence, the fiery valour of the Noldor raising its proud head within his chest. He had returned to Valinor, seeking to amend his folly and the crimes of his kin, but he would not dream of shying away from making war against the murderer of his beloved father, and the defiler of the holy light. Olwë, however, took a step back, his voice cold all of a sudden.

“I cannot do that. I shall do as the Powers command me, and shall be happy to aid in any way my people and I can, but I will not join the murderers of my sons and so many of my people in their fight.”

“My lord Olwë.” the Maia took one step more towards Olwë, grabbing his hands pleadingly “I know of your hurt, and I do not blame you for your resentment. It is but a borrowed grief I feel, sentiments I experience in my husband’s stead, but even I -who had never known you and even less your people- felt wrath I had not known before when I learned of what had befallen. You do have every right to refuse my call. But still, I would beg you to remember that we are siblings by law, and that you have other kin suffering in Ennor as well. Lord Olwë,  Círdan and Elmo and Thônwen are among those of your very kin who live under Morgoth’s constant threat. Will you not save them?”

“I know. And I shall see them and my grandchildren on my boats safely as soon as…”

“And Elwë? Morgoth tortured, mutilated and raped him before mortally wounding him, and dragged him before Círdan’s gates as bait. Or rather, he let his orcs take their pleasure. You remember orcs from your childhood, I trust, just as you remember your brother?”

Olwë looked ready to faint, his face as white as his hair, and Arafinwë hastily reached out to steady him. This had been a low blow indeed, though he was well aware that Melian herself was getting desperate. Still, if he had to take sides here, it must always be with Olwë, whom he loved as a father and revered in sheer endless admiration. After all, when he had returned, grieved and begging for forgiveness, Olwë had done naught to scorn him, but forgiven him after only a little while, and welcomed him back into his house with open arms. More, he treated him not only as a son but also as his equal, ever paying him every respect in his own court in Tirion. He therefore could not help but scowl at Melian for so upsetting Olwë, just to jolt him into action.

Nobody spoke or moved for quite a while, and just when he thought her might not be able to stand the tension any longer, Olwë bowed his head.

“I do remember.” Olwë said finally, his voice all but toneless, tears running gently down his face. “And if it be with the Valar’s leave, then I shall fight. I shall avenge my brother. I cannot, however, force any of my people to do the same should they oppose my counsel. I will not force those who lost loved ones in the kinslaying to give their lives to rescue their assaulters. And I think you will find that Elwë would have seconded that.”

For the first time, the Maia smiled, and though sadness surround her like an aura still, Arafinwë felt the tension leaving their conversation.

To war it was, then.

What Will Be Will Be

"See, it was not so bad this time, was it?"

From the look on Elmo's face, Elwë is quite surprised nothing comes flying in his direction. Not that what he said is untrue, not strictly speaking, for climbing the slopes of the Blue Mountains is indeed much easier than crossing the Misty Mountains, with their treacherous ascents and deep ravines, but it has still been exhausting for everyone.

Elwë feels nothing of that exhaustion, though. He feels, for the first time since the begin of their journey, completely elated. Not even his mingled pity and impatience for Olwë and his host will dim his good spirits tonight, nor the fact that he has not seen Finwë in almost a full circle of the stars. Aye, not even the fact that his entire host is angry with him for urging them up the mountains until they refused -point-blank and in unity- to walk another step.

Be it. It is not far now. Soon, soon he will be able to show them.

And suddenly, he cannot bear to wait even a moment longer. He may not be able to do as his heart commands and simply wander on, but he can show Elmo at least. If he can get his brother to move another muscle today.

"I know you are angry with me..."

"I'm not angry, Elwë, I am dead on my feet, like the rest of the host. Just let me sleep, I promise I will be back in good spirits and ready to help you tomorrow."

"Alright, then go to sleep. I will just go a little further. It is only a few more steps before we reach the peak, and oh Elmo, you cannot imagine... will you not come with me? I promise, nay, I swear it will be worth it."

The look Elmo throws him is probably the dirtiest he has ever received, but that does not prevent a guilty grin from spreading over his face. He knows by Elmo's expression that his curiosity is roused, and thus the argument won.

It really is only a few more steps, and Elwë is glad of it, too, for Elmo in truth stumbles more than he walks. His brother might have grown into a young man during the long years of their march, but Elwë stills sees the little boy in him, and for a moment laments the fact that he cannot carry Elmo on his back again like he has done back then. Exhausting though it was to walk at the head of his host with a sleeping elfling on his back, he still misses it, misses the soft snuffling in his ear, and the way Elmo snuggled against him trustingly.

Elmo's gasp when they finally reach the ridge is reward enough, and confirmation that Elwë has done the right thing in urging him to come with him.

"Is that..."

"Yes. It is distant still, too distant for you to hear it, but this silver glint on the horizon, little brother, is the sea. Ah Elmo, I cannot tell you how much it calls to my heart, how much I long to hear it again. 'Tis a music I cannot even describe."

Elmo does not answer but just gazes ahead, mesmerised. Elwë smiles to himself, the look on his little brother's face almost as rewarding as his first sight of the sea in long, long years.

After a while, Elmo gently puts his head on Elwë's shoulder, and Elwë puts an arm around his waist.

Soon, their journey will end, and his task be finished. And then? Will they stand like that by the shores of Valinor, or will Elmo do as is their custom and marry, have children? Finwë surely will, seeing how he and Míriel are never ever parted.

And he himself? His own future seems shrouded in mist, hidden from his sight just like the woods that lie between the mountains and the sea are.

He sighs, and fastens his hold on Elmo.

What will be will be.

(@march-of-the-noldor, this week's contribution to the March of the Quendi. It probably fits the exhausted-prompt just as well as the marvellous things-prompt, I meant to do the former but the story decided otherwise 😅)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58282759/chapters/163875802

Snippet:

After what felt like hours of aimless meandering, Maedhros finally halted, his remaining hand clenched around the gleaming gem, blood oozing from between his cramped fingers.

“I cannot… cannot bear it.”

Maedhros’ voice was brittle when he addressed Maglor, the first real words spoken between them since they had departed Eönwë’s tent, and he swayed where he stood.

“Then let us go back.” Maglor answered, staggering just as his brother had done “Let us do as Eönwë told us. Let them punish us, let them destroy our very Fëar, let them make us undone. It will then be over at least, Russo. All over, all gone. Does that not sound good to you?”

Maglor’s pleas, however, did not seem to register with his brother, for Maedhros only stumbled on, tripping over his own feet rather than the rubble of the destroyed landscape. There were deep crevices everywhere, some filled with the fires of the earth, some with the waters of the sea. Wherever the two met, pillars of steam would issue from the earth, shrouding the stricken land in white, and Eärendil was reminded against his will of Gondolin’s fair fountains, going up in steam under the dragon-fire. 

It was by the edge of just such a crevice that Maedhros finally came to a halt, his face eerily illuminated by the firelight that shone out of the chasm, his tangled hair whipping about him in the hot rising air, and for a moment, the veil of madness seemed to be lifted from his face, so that he stood again fair and proud as the prince of the house of Finwë that he once had been. 

But also sad. 

That was a whole new expression on Maedhros scarred face, one that at least Eärendil had not seen in all the years that he had watched him- a look of honest, deep sadness, not despair or grief.

“I am sorry.” Maedhros whispered gently, turning once more away from the crevice to face Maglor “I am sorry, little brother.”

And before Maglor could ask what Maedhros was sorry for, or indeed move at all, he had bent over and kissed Maglor tenderly, then stepped back and let himself fall into the fiery glow. 

Eärendil let out a scream that trailed off into nothingness unheard by any ears but his, the sight just too terrible to endure. Why would any Elf do such a thing? It was a vain and futile deed indeed, for Maedhros had achieved nothing with that gruesome death than reach Mandos even faster, and from all that Eärendil could surmise, that was the very place Maedhros feared most. He hoped that Lord Námo would indeed grant him some rest now, before Maedhros needed face the consequences of his deeds, so that he might in time be healed. And above all, keep him well away from the spirit of his father until he was strong enough to face Fëanor. 

Briefly, while listening to Maglor’s wails, Eärendil wondered if Elwing would pity Maedhros and Maglor like he did, could she see them now. She bore a very justified grudge against the brothers, holding them in large parts responsible from their separation from their sons, but there was really no way she could not feel for Maglor now. No-one could. His weeping had ceased now, and he stood by his brother’s fiery grave as though he were carved of stone, seemingly forgetting even the pain the Silmaril inflicted upon him, just staring into the fire. 

Then, at long last, he raised his head to the heavens, and for an uncomfortable moment, Eärendil thought that he was somehow talking to him.

“Are you satisfied now? That he did what you asked him to? That he sacrificed everything? That he wasted centuries looking after us in your stead, all in vain? That he ended it like this, burning like you? Are you satisfied?”

Eärendil’s heart was heavy within him, hearing Maglor shout those accusations at Fëanor, who after all would never hear them, would never know of his son’s pain, at least not before it was cooled.

Curing Homesickness

"Elmo!"

His little brother does not stir.

Great. As though his aching back wasn't enough already.

"Elmo, time to get down. We are going to rest here today."

Elmo is barely awake when Elwë crouches down so he can climb down. Conscience stirs. He is by no means the only one who has a small child to care for. Is he pushing this too far? Is keeping up with Finwë really worth tiring his people so early into the journey? He knows what still lies ahead, after all. The great streams. The mountains. The marshes and endless plains. Woods that will cover the stars.

He is least scared of the woods. For one, he has never met a tree that was hostile towards them. For another, Lord Oromë leads them, and no wood would ever turn against him, now would it? But to keep up with Oromë, they must do better, go faster.

Elmo whines, tearing him from his thoughts. Of course. Wake a tired-out elfling so soon after they have fallen asleep. That can only end in disaster. He remembers this feeling, too. Of being woken like this when he was little. When nothing seems right, and there is really nothing for it but to hiss at anybody and anything and curl up to go back to sleep.

He tries to save a situation that he knows from the start cannot be saved, tries to offer Elmo food, but his brother will hear nothing of it.

"I want to go home! I don't want to be on this stupid journey anymore. It's too far!"

"I feel you there, little one."

Ouch.

Hearing that from Olwë stings, though Elwë knows he well deserves this. He has pushed Olwë even harder than he has pushed his own host, so that his brother has been caught between his own impatience and his host's unwillingness to make haste.

Elmo sniffs. Apparently, seeing Olwë again after so long spent apart does take his mind off his misery a little.

"I tell you what, Finwë and Ingwë are on their way here so that we can hold council now that we are all resting in the same place for once. And I bet they are all a little homesick, too."

"Really?"

"Let's find put and ask them. But I am almost certain of it."

Thank you, brother, for saving me. Once again.

"Will Lord Oromë come to that council as well?"

Elmo does not like Oromë much, and Elwë cannot exactly blame him. Not when Oromë has come to take him away so soon after their parents deaths. It must have felt to Elmo as though Oromë outright stole him.

"I would guess so. But you will not be part of that, anyway. You know that. Councils are bedtime."

They sit together not long thereafter, a fire burning merrily in their midst, food being passed around. Oromë sits between Finwë and Ingwë, and though Elmo sits on Elwë's lap and thus with his back turned towards him, he can sense the elfling glowering at the Vala. Good thing Oromë does not take offence in such things.

Ingwë does, though, shooting Elmo disapproving looks.

Please, Olwë, please don't start a row with Ingwë now. We both know his take on family differs from ours.

Olwë heeds his unspoken plea, thankfully. Not that Elwë finds it any less strange that Ingwë ever keeps his family away from his duties. More, when Oromë came to take them to Valinor, Ingwë went without regret, leaving a wife and baby behind. Elwë only left his little brother, and the pain of it was a constant stinging throughout their journey. Remembering it hurts even now.

"You know, Elmo and I both feel a little homesick today, and we wondered if you were, too?" Olwë starts the conversation Elwë has known all along he would start.

"I am. Not today, but on many days. I miss my family."

Elwë would have quite liked to hug his friend. Finwë has left his parents, his siblings, everyone behind, and Elwë cannot fathom how much this must hurt sometimes.

"But I have Míriel, and we will have a family of our own in Aman. And besides, I parted from them in love. We all did what makes us the happiest, and that's the most important thing, after all. Pity only it had to be different paths."

"I miss just living." Olwë chimes in "Just waking and having nothing on my mind but going down to the water with Nowë and seeing how well our new boats will do."

Ouch.

Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Elwë reaches over to press his brother's hand. Not that this is enough, not that this silent thanks comes even close to expressing how grateful he is for Olwë's help.

"But then, as you say, Finwë, it will be over once we reach Aman. I look forward to that. See if Elwë has told the truth or just exaggerated."

"You will like it." Elwë assures him, and means it.

"Are you homesick sometimes, too?" Elmo asks him in a very small and very tired voice.

"I miss our parents, and things how they were when they still lived. But to that, there is no returning, anyway. And the place we go to is just as beautiful, different from Cuiviénen, certainly, but wonderful."

Is that the whole truth, he wonders? He knows he will miss the starlight more than anything else, and the lake. But those memories belong to a boy who is no more, who would go out to play and explore and come home to a loving home. Elwë has laid this part of himself to rest together with the mangled remains of his father. No, leaving Cuivíenen really is the only way forward.

"And after all" he says again aloud "There is no harm in remembering a place lovingly, even if that love hurts. That just means it will always be part of you."

"Wise words" says Lord Oromë, and he smiles.

"I never knew. I am so sorry to hear that."

Ingwë sounds genuinely sympathetic. Has he really left nothing behind that he loved, Elwë wonders. Nothing at all?

"But I agree with you, Elwë. I too shall think back to Cuiviénen with love, and hold the place of my birth dear. The place of Ingwion's birth. If there is one regret I have, then it is the memories I do not have, of the years of Ingwion's life I missed. But then, it was for the good of all the Quendi, after all. My pain is little price for that."

It was good to know that Ingwë did care, after all. Even if he did things differently.

Elmo has fallen asleep on Elwë's lap by the time they have finished eating and turn their conversation to more practical things, marking waypoints on which to wait for each other, decide which parts of the journey they will make alone, and which will require the help of the Vala. Elwë decides against moving his youngest brother, cradling him softly instead. Undisturbed sleep, and a few cuddles, and knowing that one is not alone, is the best cure for homesickness, after all. That, and the hope that it will all turn out well in the end.

(@march-of-the-noldor, my contribution for this week's prompt 😁)