Many thanks to my beta, Istarnie.

Disclaimer: Playing in Tolkien’s sandbox and making no money from it.

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“I just cannot believe they are gone.”

The nér shook his head as he took another long pull of his drink. Trembling bejeweled hands replaced the cup on the table, still clinging desperately to the vessel. Red-rimmed eyes stared at him from the eleven heads which solemnly nodded in agreement.

“All of my children…” another added quietly.

“My youngest son’s wife was with child when they…when they left. I begged them to stay. I begged all of them to stay. We parted with angry words. I was told my sons and that new grandson died in the Dagor Bragollach in year 455 of the Sun,” a third sighed heavily.

“I cannot believe a child that young was allowed to fight!” Someone exclaimed in dismay amidst many murmurs around the table. “So many of our people left Aman! Were there not enough néri among them to fight without bringing mere children into this?”

“Aye,” the third agreed, his fair voice quavering. “I… I believed…I do not know what I believed. Sweet Eru! I never even saw my grandson...I never…” He folded his arms before him on the table, pushing his drink out of the way, and quietly buried his face in the heavily brocaded silken fabric of his sleeves.

The others drained their cups again, lost in their own misery.

A short time later, a weary voice interrupted the mournful reverie.

 “May I join you?”

The neri looked up startled, clearly not expecting this visitor. As one, the twelve swiftly yet uneasily rose to their feet and made their obeisance.

“Innkeeper!” the owner of the voice called out, “Bring two more rounds to this table and bring me two as well.”

The innkeeper bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord.” And immediately set to work.

Someone brought up a chair and the group shuffled around, making room at the already crowded table.

“Please forgive my bluntness, King Arafinwë,” the first one asked after they were all properly seated at the table once again. “But the meeting with Lord Eärendil ended hours ago. Why have you not departed for Tirion?”

The king took a long drink, draining most of the cup in one go.  “My Lord Sanarondo, I was about to ask you gentlemen the same question.” Arafinwë emptied the cup and started on the second.  The twelve stared at him nervously, clearly not wanting to answer and obviously uncertain as to what to say next.

“I had to meet with Ingwë to begin planning.” Arafinwë  said simply as he signaled the innkeeper to bring him two more rounds, then he continued on as if the king of the Noldor sitting in a Vanyarin tavern with twelve emotionally distraught Noldorin lords were an everyday occurrence for him.

“Afterward, I sought out my amillë and my sister, informing them that in addition to myself, the only surviving members of my dear amillë’s extensive and beloved family consist a granddaughter, a great-granddaughter, a great-grandson, Eärendil, and his sons. Actually, I do not recall if Eärendil said if his little sons survived or not. He may not know himself.” He finished the drink and started on the third which had just arrived. “I also told them of the survivors of Fëanáro’s line – at least the ones about whom Eärendil knew. It is possible that some or all of them died in the third kinslaying.”

“I seriously doubt that they cared much to hear about them,” Sanarondo scoffed.

Arafinwë moved his head in subtle agreement. “Still, they are surviving sons of Finwë and, as such, I felt Amillë and Findis needed to know what had become of them, dubious though that outcome has been.”

“Will you slay Fëanáro’s accursed sons when you see them upon our arrival in Endorë?” ventured Sanarondo.

“Would I desire to slay them? Undoubtedly. Will I actually do it…” Arafinwë smiled ironically.  “I know not yet. One of you might beat me to it if you come upon any of them first.”

When the open comments of agreement subsided, Arafinwë pushed aside his now empty third cup and gestured with his fourth to the others at his table who were busily trying to catch up with him in drinking. “I suspect that you gentlemen are here for the same reason that I am.”

“And what would that be,” Lord Guilin asked, glancing over his cup at the rapidly imbibing king.

“You are afraid to go home and tell your wife that she is childless or her siblings and parents are dead or that you are not only the last of your atar’s line alive in Aman, but in all of Arda as well. And what is more, you are beginning training immediately to go away to war and taking the rest of your sons and grandsons or her sister-sons and her atar with you.”

Twelve heads shamefully nodded in silent agreement as cups emptied again.

“Unfortunately for me,” Arafinwë continued quietly. “I also have to tell Anairë the fate of my brother and his line. Then I have to tell the lovely Nerdanel …” he bowed his head, covering his face with his hands for a few moments. When he looked up again, he wiped his hands on his robes, a few stray tears glistening in his lashes. “By the Valar I do not know how I am going to do this. Nerdanel does not deserve the pain the knowledge of their choices and actions will bring her. She is such a good nís... Would that I could protect her from this!” He sighed heavily. “But as mother and wife, she has a right to know.”

Arafinwë looked around the group, his steely gaze piercing each lord in turn. “When word of what has befallen in Endorë reaches your houses, I implore each of you to encourage your folk to treat Nerdanel and her kin with the grace and dignity which they deserve.  They tried so very hard to bring Fëanáro and his sons to see reason -- though it was all for naught in the end. Lord Mahtan’s house should not suffer for the actions of Nerdanel’s husband and sons.”

The twelve gave their immediate assent; such was their loyalty to their king.

Nodding his gratitude, Arafinwë moved to order another round when he was stopped by Lord Guilin.

“My king, it is my turn to buy. I am drinking to remember my sons and brothers and grandchildren and nieces, to regret how we parted, to mourn how they died, and to forget what I must tell my wife and parents.”

Six rounds later, the Lord of the House of the Fountain, atar of Ecthelion the balrog-slayer, shakily raised his glass for another sip, then paused, sloshing liquid on the table. “Did any one of us remember to tell our kin, our children of our bodies- the dearest things added unto our houses- that we loved them in spite of what they were embarking to do? Or did you all curse your sons and kin as I cursed mine after the kinslaying when they refused to come to their senses and return home with me?”

“Given the heat and anger and…” Arafinwë nodded gravely to the group. “Fear of the Valar at the moment…If any of you had known those would be your last words to them, would you still have said them?”

“I knew,” Sanarondo admitted ashamedly, but the others looked on him with understanding and not horror. “I knew in my heart as I prepared to say the words -- my Edrahil would not be returning to me by any path other than Mandos’ Halls. I foresaw, in that moment, a wretched vile creature with slathering bloody fangs and sharp claws rending my son’s chained body asunder in a dark stone abode. At the time as I shook him, begging him to see reason and slapping his face to bring him back from his foolish decision, I thought such an end to be a just reward for his idiocy. But now…now I just wish my son could have died knowing that his ammë and I still loved him…still love him now.”

A few around the table nodded in agreement, adding their tales of foresight come true and angry partings filled with regret.

Five rounds later, Arafinwë ordered rooms for them all and himself at the inn for the night, then unsteadily raised the parting glass. “To our vengeance against Morgoth for what he has wrought, to the assuaging of our guilt for what we have wrought, and may those with whom we must part to do these things, send us away with words of love --unlike the words we spoke to those who parted with us all those years ago.”

Amidst murmurs of agreement, all drained their last, then helped each other to rise and hazard the climb up the steps to their rooms. The new day would come too soon for all of them.

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Terms:

Nér/ neri -male elf

Nis – female elf

Amillë /ammë- mother

Atar-father

Endorë—Middle-earth

Arafinwë – Finarfin (Galadriel’s father). Galadriel is the only surviving child of his line at the time of this story. All of his sons, including Finrod Felegund were killed.

Nerdanel- The wife of Fëanor.

Edrahil – The chief of the elves of Nargothrond who went with Finrod and Beren to steal a silmaril from Morgoth’s crown. When Finrod and his group were captured by Sauron, all but Beren were killed in the dungeon by the werewolf that Finrod slew.

Guilin—His sons lived in Nargothrond, serving Finrod. Both sons were captured by Morgoth. The body of one was mutilated before the elven host and speared on a pole as a banner for Morgoth and the other escaped, but was ensnared in Turin’s fate and met his death.