Chapter Text
Valinor was a lovely place. Tranquil, quiet, and perfectly suited to purge the darkness of Middle-earth from one's soul. Far removed from the rest of the world, no darkness reached these lands, and neither shadow nor evil could cross the borders of Aman as long as the blessings of Ilúvatar and the Valar held this realm.
In other words, it was the perfect place to live an absolutely uneventful and pleasant life. In theory, at least.
The reality, however, was quite different. Manwë knew what he was talking about. With a sigh of irritation, he watched the discussion between Námo and Tulkas.
'And the day had started so well,' he mourned. Nice, and calm and without trouble - just the way he liked it.
But then, Námo had rushed in. Manwë listened with growing incredulity as the judge of the death reported that Ereinion Gil-galad had fallen back on Middle-earth.
Apparently, the elf had been so shocked at discovering a ninth Fëanorian, that he had fallen off the roof he had been sunbathing on - which happened to be the roof of Mandos' Halls.
To make matters worse, there was this! Surely Tulkas ought to know that he could not charge into Middle-earth with an army of Maiar to capture a flighty Noldo. That being said, Námo, and his prophecy, did not help matters at all.
"When the time is right, he shall return," Valinor's prophet predicted.
Tulkas scoffed. "I could have brought him back ten times before that happened."
"He has a very important mission to accomplish," Námo objected.
Manwë heaved another sigh, and he placed his cup on the table. Time to intervene before the two lapsed into another of their endless discussions. And when Manwë said endless, he meant endless.
Until now, he still remembered the thirty-five days of discussion about the colour of the flower vase in the meeting hall and whether it would not be nicer to place it a bit further to the right on the windowsill.
In the end, Aulë had acted and placed it on the left side, which had led to a new discussion.
Ultimately, the problem had been solved by Fëanor, who had simply marched in and shattered the object in question during one of his especially scathing lectures.
With a mental sigh, Manwë joined the conversation. "There is certainly a reason for Ereinion's return," he commented, "Even if the timing and context are a little…odd."
"You can say that again," Tulkas snorted. "Returning… whilst sunbathing…" He shook his head in disbelief. "So, what do you propose, Manwë?"
The Sovereign of the Valar leaned back into his seat. "For now, we shall allow things to take their course. There is still time for us to intervene."
Tulkas nodded. "As you wish. Now, please do excuse us. We have something important to take care off."
They rushed off.
What was the matter with them all of a sudden? Irritated, Manwë's gaze followed his two fellow Valar, who had just disappeared behind a corner, whispering and laughing most ungodly with each other. Arguing one minute and best friends the next?
With a shrug of his shoulders, he decided that he didn't need to know everything and turned his attention to his - by now cold - tea.
~*~
Eärendil had long since departed for his nightly sailing trip when Manwë finally emptied his - now even colder - teapot and entered his office. There he stumbled over something most surprising.
An invitation. To a celebration. The motto: "Gil-galad is finally gone". Spontaneously organized by Tulkas and Námo themselves.
Ah, so that had been so important!
~*~
Whilst Valinor trembled with joy at getting rid of the overly sparkly elf, a certain Noldo used the opportunity to pursue his own plans.
"I do not think this is a good idea, atarinya," Maitimo commented. He was leaning against the wall with crossed arms, and eyed his father with a critical look.
"Nonsense," Fëanor growled. "We have spent centuries in the halls of this accursed Alatlacarë, and for what? To live the rest of eternity in inaction? I'm getting tired of this perpetual sitting around. I want a holiday."
Impassioned by the urge to do something, Fëanor donned his old armour once more. "Besides, no one would notice if we left now. They're all far too busy with their party, aren't they?"
With a shake of his head, Maitimo stepped behind his father and helped him into his armour. "As you wish, atarinya. But how do you intend to get off this island? The Helcaraxë is destroyed, and we have done the thing with the ships before. Countless dead elves, remember?
Fëanor just rolled his eyes. "My mind is still sharp, son of mine. No, I have a different plan this time." The Noldo grinned ominously. "Did you do as I told?"
His oldest son nodded once in sharp affirmation. "Yes. Ambarussa brought them over. They are waiting in the living room. Atarinya, should you not at least tell them what you are doing? Maybe Elrond does not even want to go."
Fëanor waved him off. "He has an entire eternity to be idle. It will be good for him to go out, and the child might want to return home. Now, tell your brothers to pack. We will return to Middle-earth."
Maitimo sighed and then left the room with a slight grin.
~*~
Twenty minutes later, seven heavily packed Elves stood at the gates of Formenos, dragging a very bemused Elrond and a small human child along.
Ambarussa and Ambarto whispered excitedly, Tyelcormo and Curufinwë chattered away as usual, Carnistir chased furiously after a fly that had the audacity to buzz into his ear, and Makalaurë whistled a merry tune. Maitimo, however, was trying his best to get Carnistir to remain still.
Elnaur exchanged a curious look with her grandfather, who was absently feeling for his ever-present bottle of pure lavender essence.
Amidst all this back and forth, their father finally appeared and managed to bring his chaotic gang of seven to order with a single warning glance.
Fëanor eyed his sons' outfits with a satisfied smile. "I see you are all packed. And right on time. Excellent."
Ambarussa rolled his eyes. "As if we were ever not on time."
Fëanor ignored the objection and shouldered his luggage. "Well then, let's go!"
"Where to, Atarinya?" Tyelcormo and Curufinwë asked in unison. The two of them had been standing in the meadow behind the fortress, practising their aim with a couple of daggers, when Maitimo had informed them of the impending journey. Or rather, when he had wanted to inform them.
For his younger brothers had disappeared so quickly into their rooms to pack the moment he had mentioned the word "journey" that Maitimo had only been able to inform their dust clouds of their destination.
These, and the distraught, apple-balancing elf who had probably served as their practice target.
"And most importantly, how?" Makalaurë added, as always practically minded.
"To Middle-earth, of course." The King of the Noldo smirked. He was used to repeating things two or three times by now. Between his seven sons, there was always one who was not paying attention.
"And with my help," a deep voice suddenly resounded behind them.
The elves turned around in surprise.
Standing in front of them was Ulmo.
~*~
Still disoriented, Ereinion looked around. Where on earth had he landed? This was definitely no longer Valinor. It was far too dark and gloomy. Elbereth would have had a fit. For her, darkness was absolutely unacceptable. In fact, she had a downright aversion to it - Ereinion called it (not so affectionately) excessive paranoia. Whenever she saw even the slightest hint of a shadow, she immediately screamed as if Morgoth had risen again and set up oversized, blinding lamps everywhere. Terrible. No Elf could be at peace there!
No. This was definitely not Valinor. Not unless he had landed somewhere near Formenos. Fëanor would certainly have liked this gloomy atmosphere. After all, this Noldo had always been exceptionally eccentric. People even said that Formenos was darker and scarier than Angband and Barad Dûr together. More stylistically confident, though. And better armed.
But since Gil-galad had not been attacked by angry - or insane - black-robed elves yet, that probably was out, too. Which left him with only one option:
He had landed in Middle-earth.
He had landed in Middle-earth!
Gil-galad's incredulous joy suddenly died away as quickly as it had come when he remembered another insignificant detail:
He was wearing next to nothing!
Ereinion Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldo, stood somewhere in a gloomy forest in Middle-earth, clad in nothing but a bath towel.
Along with his spear, Aiglos. Which he always carried with him. For some unknown reason, even when sunbathing.
Mud-bathing Orcs!
Where in Eru's name was he supposed to find something decent to wear?
~*~
Meanwhile, Fëanor and his sons were still busy staring incredulously at the Valar who had so suddenly appeared before them.
Well, Fëanor's sons were staring. The head of the family, on the other hand, seemed extremely pleased with himself and did not look the least bit surprised. There was, however, a certain amusement in his gaze. Which one could not blame him for.
After all, this was not something one saw very often.
Fëanor mentally counted down from ten - and was not disappointed. Just as he had reached four, Carnistir predictably blurted out:
"Are there pink hearts on your hat?"
Ulmo straightened the pointy purple paper hat and grinned. "Fancy, aren't they? Tulkas passed them out at the party."
Ambarussa and Ambarto exchanged a quick, mischievous glance and then marched around the Vala, carefully stepping over the ever-increasing puddles left by the god's mere presence, and eyed him critically.
"Looks good," Ambarto finally commented.
"Yes," his twin agreed. "It goes perfectly with that green, glittering armour."
Behind them, Tyelkormo had a sudden and mysterious coughing fit.
"Why do you want to help us?" Maitimo intervened, before Ulmo realized that his youngest brothers' apparent compliment was positively brimming with sarcasm, and casually snatched up the incensed child trying to storm past him to assault said god with a loaf of Lembas.
"I'm bored," Ulmo answered, careful to keep a safe distance from the angry girl in Maitimo's arms. "There is nothing left to do. Hardly anyone sails the seas except for a few fishermen, and the rivers have nothing interesting to report either. If I help you return to Middle-earth, at least I'll get to hear something interesting now and then." Ulmo paused for a moment and seemed to think carefully about his next words. "Besides, Manwë has been a little overworked lately and could do with a little...rest."
Fëanor snorted. "Overworked? Yes, I can imagine that. Sitting on the throne all day arguing about interior decorations is really extremely exhausting. Not to mention productive. And if someone opens their mouth and complains about that, they get thrown out. "
Ulmo groaned. "Fëanáro. Please don't start now."
The Noldo waved him off. "Yeah well, whatever. By all means, blame it on your boredom. We both know why and for whom you're doing it. I couldn't care less. All that matters is that we get out of here."
"You will," Ulmo assured him. "This very hour."
"Good," Fëanor answered simply and casually intercepted the bread flying towards the god's head.
~*~
Elrond was not well pleased at the prospect of leaving Aman. He wanted to stay here. With his wife and his other family.
But then again, he did miss his sons and Estel would surely appreciate having his child back. Besides, Valinor was not exactly as restful as he had imagined. Not as long as he had the Fëanorians in his life, and someone did need to keep an eye on this lot.
He would still have appreciated a warning, though. With a deep sigh, he watched as his grandchild tugged on Fëanor's sleeve. "Can I burn off his beard?"
Fëanor chuckled lightly. "Not now, young one. We still need his help. Now, be good, and I will teach you how to brighten a flame."
Elnaur immediately perked up, and Ulmo got to keep his beard. It did not save him from being hit with an apple five minutes after they had passed the apple tree, though.
~*~
Curufinwë was speechless, to say the least. When Ulmo had assured them of his help, he thought they might get a boat from him. At best, a small ship.
There was no ship anchored in front of them. And no boat, either. Not even a tiny raft.
No. It was an island. A small floating island.
That in itself would not be a reason to burst into astonishment. After all, Ulmo was known to occasionally use entire land masses to transport elves who suffered from seasickness, even if he had officially stopped this practice two eras ago.
No. The astonishing thing was that the lush green island was positively teeming with lanterns and lights. And amidst this sea of lights stood a one-storey house of pearly white stones, its structure and architectural style remarkably similar to that of Formenos.
He knew exactly who had a hand in this.
As did his father, apparently.
"VARDA!"
~*~
Once Fëanor had vented his anger and their new means of transport was several lanterns shorter, they finally boarded the island.
Whereby the head of the family strictly forbade his sons to even set foot in this "insulting expression of absolute tastelessness" that "had the impudence to call itself a house."
This prohibition had been completely superfluous, however, as all seven of them had wordlessly agreed that Varda's misguided re-interpretation of their beloved fortress deserved nothing but boundless contempt.
At least until Makalaurë thoughtfully remarked that one could adapt the offered short-term domicile to ones own ideas.
Eight elves smirked at each other.
Somewhere in Valinor, the smug smile faded from Varda's face.
Ulmo made a nervous movement with his hands. He didn't like the grins on the Elves' faces at all. Better, he made sure they disappeared quickly.
Waves rose from the sea and pushed the island out of the harbour at breakneck speed.
"Goodbye!" he called after them. "Have a good journey! And take your time coming back!"
Only when the elves were but small dots in the distance did the tense expression fade from Ulmo's face and morphed into a broad grin.
Whistling happily to himself, he made his way back to the party. No more lectures, and no more human children threatening his beard. What a fantastic day!
~*~
Elrond was silently thankful that they had an entire ocean to their disposal because he was quite sure they would need it very soon.
For some reason, Fëanor thought it to be a good idea to see if his granddaughter's spirit burned brightly enough to touch the flames.
Tied as they were to the fate of the world by the notes of the Ainulindalë, Elves had a close connection to nature.
Some of them, however, were gifted with an especially strong connection to parts of nature that resonated most with their spirt. A connection that allowed them to call nature itself to their aid.
Elrond himself was mostly attuned to water. It answered easily to his call. His sons, Elrohir and Elladan, were not unlike the Tawarwaith and connected easily with the wildness around them. Arwen, however, had always carried a small hint of fire in her soul. She was passionate and strong of will.
"Ruinë."
Elrond turned just in time to see the candle flare up high in front of him, and triumph lit Fëanor's face as one of Varda's paper lanterns turned to ashes. "Well done, young one. Well done. Why don't you practice a bit? There are many more lanterns down this floor."
As the day passed and the island moved on, countless of Varda's paper lanterns found their end at the hands of an enthusiastic child and several maniac elves.
Elrond left them to their fun and went to search for the kitchen. It was best to allow them to get the destructiveness out of their system while they were still in a relatively controlled environment.
~*~
The moon was already high up as they congregated in front of the house and shared a merry dinner.
One of them, however, did not take part in the joy.
"You are unusually quiet. Are you tired?" Elnaur looked up to meet Makalaurë's gentle gaze. The cackling camp fire reflected brightly in his eyes and made them glow even brighter.
"The water scares me," she admitted, and shifted closer towards the older elf. "The waves are so dark. They look angry."
Makalaurë placed his arm around her shoulders and tugged her to his side. "You are safe, titta nár. The waves cannot claim you."
Elnaur peered at him. "Titta nár?" she repeated curiously.
A mischievous twinkle appeared in the elf's eyes. "It means little flame." He brushed through her hair. "Try to rest a bit. Once Arien rises, the world will seem less dire."
He started humming slightly. It sounded peaceful and Elnaur slowly felt the tension leaving her.
Elrond smiled over the brim of his especially durable travel tea cup. "You did the same when Elros and I were frightened," he mused after the last tone had faded away. His voice was quiet, as if unwilling to disturb the tranquil that had fallen over them.
"He did it, when we were scared, too," Ambarussa answered, equally quiet. His twin nodded in silent confirmation.
"Káno has always been good with children," Maitimo agreed in a whisper.
Elrond eyed him with a knowing look. "I distinctly remember a certain red-haired elf sneaking into the room of two twins at night to check on them, despite being quite reserved during daytime."
Maitimo's ears coloured slightly as he was suddenly subjected to the amused looks of his siblings, and his father.
"Alas," Elrond continued, taking pity on the elf's embarrassment. "I have found myself doing the same thing quite often during my children's younger years." He leaned forward to refill Maitimo's tea cup.
"As have I," Fëanor admitted, a distant look in his eyes.
As the elves remembered, the waves raged on around them, and the air started to howl and cry.
It was when the first squall hit, that they retreated inside; walking over scorched floors through the shards and scraps of bright lamps into the quietness of their lodgings.
Outside, the storm raged on, tearing through the very fabrics of space and time.
~*~
As the first sun rays broke through the night's dark grip, unrest broke out in Imladris. For Elrond, their lord and leader, had gone missing.
On a floating island, however, said lord woke with a headache, a craving for ginger tea, and with the unpleasant image of naked dwarves bathing in his fountain fresh in his mind.
He shook his head and quietly stood from his bed, careful not to wake the still slumbering child.
Elrond found Fëanor and his sons peering into the distance and walked up to join them.
"This is strange," Tyelcormo commented.
"It is," Curufinwë agreed.
"This does not look like a coast," Carnistir added.
"No, it doesn't," Maitimo confirmed.
"I do not think we are still on Belegaer," Fëanor furrowed his brows, "I believe -"
Fëanor did not get to share his belief because they suddenly heard a loud scream coming from downstairs.
The elves exchanged alarmed looks and immediately jumped down from the roof. Loud noises came out of the direction of the kitchen.
Elrond threw the door open, his hand on the hilt of his sword and stopped dead, nearly causing the other elves to crash into him.
For several long moments, they simply stared at the scene.
Elnaur was standing in the middle of the kitchen, brandishing a frying pan at a man holding a cookie jar.
It took Fëanor a few moments to contextualize the man's appearance. A snort escaped his lips as he finally realized who was standing in front of them. "What are you doing here, Manwë?!"
"Manwë?!" eight voices exclaimed in disbelief.
"Wait," Elnaur cut in, pointing her frying pan at the man, "this is the windy god? But he's so small!"
"I am not small!" Manwë growled, "I merely took a human form. Now take that thing away!"
"I don't think so," the child shot back, "you tried to rob the pantry. What kind of god does that?!"
"She has a point," Carnistir agreed, reaching for his sword. "This is a very ungodly action."
Behind him, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë readied themselves to draw their blades.
"I am Manwë," the Vala snapped, and for a second, he shed his human form to identify himself. "There, satisfied?" The king of gods looked at the assembled elves. "I am taking a holiday." He informed them and sounded quite pleased at that prospect. "No. I am not here to keep an eye on you, and I have absolutely no intention of following you. I want to relax, after all," he added in a dry tone.
Manwë shouldered his backpack and marched past the cluttered elves. "Ah, before I forget it," he added over his shoulder. "I felt Ilúvatar's touch last night. I am not privy to what he has planned, but your journey might have surprises in store. Good thing, I am off now. Try not to destroy the entire continent."
That said, the god left the kitchen and called for his eagles to carry him off.
For several long moments, the elves stared after him, then Fëanor's loud laughter could be heard clearly across the island.
"He just made off with the entire cookie jar." Elnaur sounded displeased. "I really should have hit him."
Fëanor laughed even louder, this time joined by his sons and Elrond.
But Elrond's laughter soon turned into a weary sigh as he caught Curufinwë, Tyelkormo and Carnistir exchanging ominous looks that prompted the youngest of the trio to remove one of his many daggers to hand it hilt-first to his temperamental granddaughter.
"We will show you how to use this later," Curufinwë told her with a pleasant smile. "Until then, do not touch the edge of the blade and stab the enemy with the pointy end. Aim for the arms and legs if you do not want them to die."
Elnaur nodded seriously. "Hantanyë tyen."
Curufinwë's smile widened, and he ruffled her hair.
"If it glows blue, stab especially hard," Tyelkormo advised, "Because then you will be dealing with the cotto, and you want him to die."
"If it glows blue," Makalaurë interjected, correcting his brother in a stern tone, "you flee until the glow subsides. If you cannot, then you stab. No matter what these three tell you, the first rule of combat is to avoid it. That goes doubly if you are a child in need of protection." He empathized the last words with a pointed look towards his brothers, who inclined their heads to show that they understood.
Makalaurë waited until the child in question had affirmed his words, and then joined Elrond and his eldest brother at the door. "Curvo, Moryo and Tyelko will take good care of her, and Nelyo and I will make sure they don't go overboard," he assured.
Elrond was only vaguely reassured. Makalaurë and Maitimo might be the most sensible of the entire family, but they were still sons of Fëanor. Which meant their interpretation of overboard was, to put it mildly, skewed. Still, those two had taught Elros and him without accidentally killing them and had cared for them to their best abilities. Therefore, he could trust them with his granddaughter's life.
So, he settled for a dry: "Just make sure she does not cut her head off because this is one of the things even I cannot heal."
Then he went off to search the cabinets for potentially calming substances. He would need them if the Terrible Three, as they had been dubbed, had decided to take Elnaur under their wings.
Fëanor threw a fond look at his chaotic family and then ordered them to grab their bags. They would reach land soon.
~*~
Somehow, they had expected their arrival on Middle-Earth to be a little more…well, dramatic.
But there was no light show and no welcoming committee. Instead, their floating island shuddered once as it docked on the shore and the chaotic troupe tumbled about.
Once they had all re-organised themselves a little, the head of the family finally gave the order to leave the island.
"Very cosy here," Ambarussa commented in a dry tone. He sounded unimpressed. Which was probably due to the fact that the empty plain they had landed on did not exactly serve as a poster site for Middle-Earth's hospitality.
Elrond glanced at the landscape and raised an eyebrow. "This is Rhûn. A land in the far east of Middle-earth," he added, seeing the questioning looks of his companions.
"Is this not the homeland of the Ostlings?" Elnaur peered past Elrond's legs at the dreary stretch of land. "How did we even get here? We came from the west!"
"How," Elrond replied dryly, "indeed." He turned towards Fëanor. "Perhaps this is one of these … situations Manwë spoke of."
Fëanor snorted. "Possible, though inconsequential. Here we are, and that is all that matters. It is more important that we find a settlement first."
~*~
Meanwhile, Ereinion had a far bigger problem than lost clothes. A problem that numbered eight legs and stood at least as tall as a hut.
Giant spiders!
"By Elbereth! Be gone, spawn of Ungoliantë!"
He drove his spear into the belly of a spider with a thunderous yell. A loud squelching noise ensued and the beast crumpled.
Frenzied clicks sounded behind him. Would this never end!
Whilst Ereinion heroically stood his ground against the spiders, the people of Valinor seemed to be suspecting his latest heroic deeds.
For at this very moment, Ereinion's entourage started singing a well-known song.
Gil-galad was an elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing;
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
Ereinion jumped from the dead spider and faced his next enemy in his full bathtowel-clad glory.
His sword was long, his lance was keen.
His shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
Ereinion grasped the closest branch he could find and shielded his face with it.
The spider drew back. Ereinion flung the branch aside, "FOR GONDOLIN!" - and pierced the enemy with a mighty blow.
Panting heavily, the Elven King stood on the remains of the battlefield. Until an old man approached him and handed him his towel. "For the king's jewels."
And thus Ereinion Gil-galad met Radagast the Brown.
~*~
Meanwhile, Fëanor and his merry band of miscreants had made it to Dorwinion.
Even though the Elves had pulled their hoods deep into their faces, their procession attracted various fearful glances and the townsfolk kept well out of their way. Elnaur was sure that they, or rather her companions, presented a threatening image. Their gait was straight and confident and if one looked closely, one could see a sword scabbard or two flashing from beneath their cloaks.
It was only when they were seated around a tavern table that Elnaur noticed that the looks falling on her were filled with pity and grief instead of fear.
She turned towards Tyelkormo, who was sitting next to her, and made a quiet comment in Sindarin. "I think they believe you have abducted me."
Tyelkormo paused for a moment, then he laughed out loud and leaned to his left to whisper something to Curufinwë.
The fifth son of Fëanor laughed under his breath and turned to Carnistir, who was eyeing him with curiosity.
The news passed around the table once until Ambarussa, who was sitting to her right, looked up in confusion. "Why does Atarilva want to know if we have a duck with us?"
~*~
While the confused twin was being informed that they were not talking about a duck, but rather about an abduction, a close-knit company of dwarves and a sole hobbit arrived at the house of a shapeshifter.
Amidst them was a perplexed wizard, who was rather puzzled by the news of the unexpected arrival of a naked High King in Mirkwood.
~*~
Fëanor judged Dorwinion to be unsuitable for their new holiday home. The eccentric elf was not very impressed with the landscape. Furthermore, it was not protected enough from enemy attacks.
He had heard of something else, however. Something that interested the Elf greatly and made Elrond pause.
There were rumours of a fortress in southern Mirkwood. A fortress that, in Elrond's understanding, should no longer exist at all.
That was until he asked one of the residents about Dale, and he heard of the dragon that had ravaged the town.
It was now that Elrond realized what had happened.
They had been transported back in time. Smaug was alive, and Fëanor was showing an almost terrifying interest in Dol Guldur.
And that was the moment Elrond first poured lavender into his own tea.