Disclaimer:  They’re all Tolkien’s, not mine.

SOUTH MITHRIM:

Fëanáro’s brood, seen through the friendly eye of Huan, Celegorm’s hound, at the time they moved camp to South Mithrim.

I. Kinslayers

Oath-takers, kinslayers, ship-burners, dispossessed; betrayers of their people, angry ghosts of revenge, descended upon Morgoth under the wings of their mighty rage…

Haughty children of the greatest among the Firstborn, he who brought his own demise in his madness and his arrogance, they were beautiful to behold, in wrath as well as in peace.

Grieving sons, caring brethren, thoughtful rulers of doomed people, stranded scions of fate, they carried their burden with pride.

Singers, hunters, warriors, crafters of beauty, husbands, friends and lovers, all consumed in the unquenchable fire of their curse…

I was honoured to be counted among them.

II. Hasty riser (Celegorm)

We used to climb a small hill before dawn, my master and I, and look northwards. He’d curse and rage, fists raised against the unyielding mountains. He’d weep, too.

I knew him better than most; we had learnt to hunt together, following the hosts of Oromë. I’d seen him await his chance calmly, melting into the forest, belying his mother-name, “Tyelkormo”.

I loved him well, but that wasn’t enough to make me speak words of comfort to him. The compassion I had glimpsed in his eyes in front of dying beasts was lost since Alqualondë, and that made me wary.

Tyelkormo: Celegorm’s mother- name, meaning “hasty riser”

III. Dispossessed

In the mornings, I’d follow the twins.

Those two still resembled their old mischievous selves, though somewhat wilder.

Their antics were as welcome as their help. We could pretend we were back in Formenos, wandering around the encampment, looking for ways to entertain ourselves -being useful or plain nuisances- while awaiting the next hunt.

And still, they were not the same; something was frozen in their eyes.

A harsh rebuke or a not so playful shove would put me on edge and make me grunt menacingly.

“You’re frightening Huan, brother!” one would smile; but their smiles were feigned.

IV. In the forge. (With Curufin and Celebrimbor)

“One of these days, I shall forge a stronger collar for you, Huan, lest you run into one of Morgoth’s beasts out there…”

Intended to be kind, those words always managed to make me uneasy.

His father had shaped a silver collar for me long time ago in Valinor -a work of art. "Celegorm's hound deserves no less," he had pronounced then.

Yet, as I enjoyed the warmth of the forge in the cold midday mists of south Mithrim, watching father and son work their magic by the flames, Curufin’s words only reminded me of the Doom we all shared.

V. Morifinwë (Caranthir)

He was good at hunting, killing, doing whatever was needed without fussing.

He wasn’t good, though, at suffering fools or listening to idle words. He hated unnecessary arguments, and usually cut down to the heart of things. He had a focused mind, and the inner fire that had burnt their father alive.

I guess he was the first to come to terms with their deeds.

His eyes would stray northwards, then to me, then down to the ground, as if we were to unearth some mighty doom to overcome Morgoth’s stronghold.

Fists clenched tightly, his growls were wilder than mine.

VI. The singer

We all had our evening meal with Maglor.

Around the fire, they chattered and gossiped and even joked, trying to ignore the vacant place among us.

At night, I’d stay by his side.

I knew my words would be needed before the end, so I’d howl instead, joining the mightiest of singers in his woeful lament. 

He wished his powerful voice could carry across those dreary peaks, and bring some comfort to the one they never spoke of, the one who was lost, the one who would have been king…

I wondered whether our wails would reach the northern shore. 

NORTH MITHRIM

Idril's family at the time they were settling down in North Mithrim, after crossing the Ice. Eight drabbles, Idril's POV. (She refers to Finarfin's children as her uncles and aunt as well.)

I. North Mithrim.

It was long before I was able to wake up and feel not the need to weep at the sight of a roof and walls around me, and birds on trees across the window.

The cruelty and despair of the Helcaraxë had cast a dark veil upon memories of light and happiness, until we were numb. Then, the light of Anor, the works of Yavanna and Elbereth’s stars brought us back some comfort and sense of pride.

A carved chair or an ornate tool left behind by our kin would remind us of those who had moved south.

Exiles, too.

ºAnor: the sun

II. Grandfather.  

“Finrod says Anor goes back to Valinor every night, to tell Manwë and Varda how we’re faring. Is that true, Grandfather?”

Busy as he was, he always found time to spend with me in the evenings, to talk about our things, or go for an adventurous stroll full of discoveries, like we used to do in Tirion.

Only it was Aredhel's voice to call us in for dinner, instead of Grandmother’s. He missed her dearly, though he never told us. He was the one everybody turned to for strength, and all I wanted was to comfort him in some way.

III. The Vala.

Back in Tirion, I used to think that Fingon was a Vala.

Tall and mighty, he was always gentle with the little ones; he wielded his sword gracefully and glared at the elflings that played tricks with my plaits in a most menacing manner.

"I know you're a Vala, Uncle, but your secret's safe with me."

“I’ll be a Vala for you, child,” he had promised, half seriously.

Even now, as I see him working restlessly, that grim look upon his eyes, sadness and guilt carved on his fair face, I can’t help but smile.

“You’re still my Vala, Uncle.”

IV. Finrod.

Finrod always reminded me of my Ammë. Not only because of his fair mane, which he carelessly tied back in a loose tail. He, too, was patient, caring and loving. I felt safe by his side.

He could mend broken toys, and bring laughter out of tears, and tell stories and sing beautiful songs…He’d carve figurines in the ice; when the moon first came he invented a tale about Tilion. We still sing the verses he made up for Anor…

Atar was happier when Finrod was around, like everybody else.

And I wondered where he hid to do his crying.

V. I Wendiº (The maidens)

Atar used to frown when I said I admired my aunts: tall and beautiful, skilled and determined, good riders and proven hunters.

He’d roll his eyes, too, when I asked for siblings I could order around like Galadriel and Aredhel did.

Atar claimed that my aunts were reckless and stubborn, and that no daughter of his would ever be caught in such companies as they kept…

He must have changed his mind, though, for now he encourages me to follow them around the encampment, bringing help and comfort to those who have less than I do, or have lost more.

VI. I Torni  (The brethren)

"Please, don't tell your Atar I let you ride my horse, Idril, or I'm done!" 

Aegnor knows how much I love riding, and so he indulges me as often as he can.

He’s the uncle I see as a brother, the most optimistic and energetic of “the brethren”, as Grandfather affectionately calls Finarfin’s younger sons.

Angrod and Oropher are different, sterner, as most of us are since the Ice. Yet the three of them can be found wherever there’s hard work to do, always ready to give a hand, or a smile, to help dispel a passing cloud of despair.

VII. Atar.  (Turgon)

He’s called “The Wise”, and for most of my life I’ve turned to him when I’ve needed answers: Why birds can fly while I cannot, which is the best tool for carving limestone, why the Trees never sleep, why Fëanáro always looks angry, why some words sound better than others, where do my dreams come from…

I still burn with questions, but now I’m old enough to know that not even the very wise know all endsº, so I don’t ask him why we’re here, why Ammë died and where has she gone, or if we’ll ever meet her again.

Atar: Quenya, for “Father”

º purposely borrowed from FOTR, “The shadow from the past” cause it sprang to my keyboard and it seemed so in place.

VIII. Ammë.

She was home to me. The cold began after she was gone.

She was tall and blond, sweet and caring; her smile could dispel every cloud, her eyes shone with the mingled light of the Trees.

When she danced, Nessa would stop to watch her. When she sang, Estë was reminded of Melian, a Maia who once taught the birds in her gardens…

When she spoke to me, I felt that Manwë himself could be no wiser. Atar and I felt happy and complete when she was with us.

She was home to me. I began to forget after she was gone. 

Ammë: Quenya for Mother

HOMECOMING.

Fingon brings Maedhros back from Thangorodrim. Two drabbles, Huan and Idril’s POV.

Homecoming, South Mithrim.  (Huan’s pov)

“Tell Fëanáro that I’ve brought his son home”.

Fingon was delirious. Or was he? I could almost feel the mighty smith’s feä lingering there, among his stunned children.

The feud, and its healer. The fool, and a greater one.

A heap of bloody limbs and broken feä, Maedhros was a ghost of former beauty. 

But he was alive, and Maglor would see that he remained so, calling out for the healers in his mighty voice. As the cousins lay there, exhausted, one holding, one being held, I thought their friendship was proof that even Mandos could be defied and defeated.

Homecoming, North Mithrim. (Idril’s pov)

“A Vala, indeed.”  

Was there pain, hurt, love, hate, anger, jealousy, grudge, affection, compassion, pride? Those days, my Atar was a riddle to me.

Uncle was a mess. Nobody knew for sure, but everybody suspected. The foul vapours that had disturbed us by the lakeside must have been thicker up there in the mountains; he had trouble speaking and even breathing.

He didn’t expect us to understand or to forgive. A pained look in his eyes was the only explanation he’d offer. “I’m sorry Atar, but I did what needed to be done,” it said.

I learnt that lesson well.

A/N : Many years later, after Turgon refused Ulmo's advice sent through Tuor, and following her own counsel, Idril had an escape tunnel built in secret in Gondolin, thus "doing what needed to be done," even against her father's will.

I just found out that I had not posted the last two chapters of this....so here they are. The events in Mithrim drabbled by Idril and Huan, from the arrival of both hosts in M-e (Chapters 1&2) to the rescue of Maedhros from Thangorodrim (Chapter 3) to the Reunion (4 &5) 

Once at it, I went back and polished the preceding ones a bit, brushing off all Quenya, mainly.

REUNION: LOST KIN

Idril watches as her Fëanorian relatives make their way towards them, and wonders what lies beneath their stern and proud demeanours. Idril’s POV.

I. Fear and Sorrow. (Maedhros and  Maglor)  

They came with little fanfare: the Fëanorians, two guards, a standard-bearer, a great hound. They wore black, the colour of doom. "We mourn in white,"  Atar told me once. "To remember the Ice."  

I knew Maedhros well, Uncle’s best friend; tall, courteous, strong. He seemed now a candle that’s been burning for too long; an empty shell with vacant eyes, someone who has known fear by name and is trying to forget. 

Maglor walked by his side, as if fuelling life into him. The joyful singer who had given me my first harp seemed now a stricken creature, bowed by grief. 

II. Pride and hound. (Celegorm and Huan)  

The one behind them resembled one of those proud horses that know too well they’re being admired. They are graceful but stubborn, lively but skittish, self-willed and deceitful. They flaunt their long manes and will try to dismount you at the slightest provocation. They need masterful riders who hold them short and tight and show them the way with tender but firm hand.  

The hound walked proudly by his side, his yellow eyes searching our faces, his tail coming alive at the sight of Aredhel. Uncle was not the only one who had friends in the other camp, I thought.  

III. Darkness. (Curufin, Celebrimbor, Caranthir, Amrod an Amras)  

They followed, side by side. Dark and red heads, pale faces, haunted looks. They reminded me of some of our children: motherless, stunned, groping blindly in search of what they once had, wondering how and why their world was suddenly shattered into pieces, dealing blows to those offering help… The Ice has done that to most of us. Comfort was taken as often as given, among us.

But these Fëanorians… Grief and despair we have all endured, yet I wondered which of their grim deeds had summoned that unfathomable darkness, that hopeless sorrow to their eyes. I pitied them, then.

REUNION: THE USURPER

The Fëanorians meet their betrayed kin.  Huan ponders familiar faces. Huan’s POV.

I. The Children. (Fingon, Turgon, Aredhel, Idril; Angrod, Aegnor, Orodreth, Galadriel, Finrod.)

We marched up proudly, among hostile looks, to where the usurper stood.  

The dark-heads were there: the Valiant, impassive; his brother, eyeing us with hatred and contempt; the beautiful maiden who should have been one of us, smiling at me. The child among them I didn’t recognize. 

The golden-heads stood to their right. Two were like my twins: lively, mischievous, dangerous. Another, unreadable and aloof. The maiden’s glare unnerved me for an unknown reason. The older one, the ever inquisitive and adventurous child who had once tried to teach me stealth, was leveling upon us his steady and compassionate gaze.

II. The King.  

He stood there.

This was a King we all would follow to the depths of Morgoth’s pits and beyond the walls of the world, if need arose. Proud and mighty, his stance asserted his birthright, his inner fire the strength to hold that claim. I shivered in anticipation, the display of authority and sheer power raking through my nerves. That was our King!  

Suddenly, one of his red plaits hit my muzzle, and I almost yelped in despair, as I looked up wildly and saw him kneeling before another, his bandaged stump to his heart, pledging loyalty to the usurper!  

III. Fingolfin. 

I stood in proud -if stunned- defiance, as he studied us all with his grey gaze. Never before had I noticed how much he resembled his half-brother. There was something in his eyes, though, that I could not wholly place. There was pain, compassion, anger, guilt, blame...

Under that piercing stare, I froze. I owed something to this one, I realized, for I, too, had ran away cowardly before Melko, leaving his sire to die aloneº...  

As my king had done before, and despite my master’s angry hiss, I bowed to the son of Finwë. The rest followed as one.

The End

ºI’m following the Silm, “...for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark...” (Chap.9, of the flight of the Noldor) Of course, Huan sees himself as “standing” and “bowing,” he’s one of them!