Chapter Text
Prologue: Best Friends Once and For All
No one had known that they were coming. That itself is not much of a surprise, most of the residents on this boat had been reluctant to leave Middle Earth behind. Yet even the most stubborn had been forced to retreat as the centuries passed and the world changed.
"It still astonishes me that you're among the people who waited until the very last moment," Celeborn says as they get closer to the harbour. Calls are directing them where to tow their boats, and from her,e Erestor can see how much excitement this unexpected arrival brings. "As Noldo I always thought you'd yearn to travel to Aman."
His eyes are studying his surroundings, the other ships and the waving people. From what he gathers, this place is relatively new, a mix of many cultures and influences. With a pang of guilt and relief, Erestor concludes this is not Alqualondë. A part of him prepared himself for this possibility, yet now he's glad that he doesn't have to stare down this ghost.
Erestor turns to Celeborn. The last centuries forced a lot of people to become unlikely friends since the rest of their kin had been unreachable. Either dead, lost in time or simply because they set foot on one of the ships long before them.
"I have been here before," he finally admits, and his mouth twitches as Celeborn's eyebrows travel up to his hairline.
"You are that old?" Celeborn wants to know. "How come you never told me that you were born in Valinor?"
His voice is almost drowned out by Thranduil's orders, who had taken command of their planned journey as soon as they had convinced him to finally leave the fading Greenwood. Though he was the oldest Celeborn hadn't minded yielding his place as a leader. His Telerin roots and his time in Lindon hadn't made him an expert in sailing and building ships, while Thranduil had needed the distraction.
Erestor, on the other hand, had been a quiet but very knowledgeable advisor. Celeborn witnessed how he tracked down alternative sources, went through Círdan's old books or caught him reading up on inventions the Edain made throughout history. In the end, they modelled their ships after a Numenorean idea since it held the promise to last months on the open sea, and they didn't know if they would make it into the West at all. After a long discussion, Celeborn agreed that they should put safety first and put historical aesthetics last. A sensible proposal, though it perplexed Celeborn how many Erestor got to vote for his idea to forgo the more popular Telerin design.
The truth is that Celeborn doesn't know that much about the Noldor, other than that he served Elrond for ages. The twins have known him since their birth and even they admitted that their teacher's origin is a bit shrouded. Or maybe they knew the truth and refused to bring up ancient history again by confessing that their grandfather missed avoiding a surviving Kinslayer.
Perhaps he should be questioned further at the revelation, but Celeborn catches the wary look Erestor throws at the noisy fisherman and the growing excitement around them. It won't be long now until they can leave the boat. Yet the Noldo next to him looks as if he would rather go below and hide there until he can sneak off unseen.
Erestor pulls a face and shrugs. He doesn't look as if the journey here is plagued with nightmares. From past experiences, Celeborn has learned that Erestor possesses a very rational mind and will only yield to logical arguments, not ones born out of pride and questionable historical accounts.
"I never corrected the assumption that I was born in the First Age. In the end, it didn't matter that I had been part of three Kinslayings instead of just two." Erestor glowers as he says, "After a certain point, it would have been too much of a bother to explain myself."
"I assume you mean my dear wife?" Celeborn replies in good nature.
Centuries of living in the same settlement and joining Erestor in the effort to keep the twins out of trouble taught him a bit of Erestor's carefully hidden personal opinions.
Time and growing loneliness mellowed them both since Erestor sent a wry grin instead of an irritated growl. Around them, the first passengers are leaving the ships, wide-eyed and full of awe at their surroundings. Aman is so much brighter than Middle Earth has been lately, yet neither of the ancient Elves is in a rush. They waited and struggled with their decision to make this journey for so long that a few more minutes wouldn't matter.
"Artanis doesn't remember me. She was a young and foolish girl, the few times we met. But that's always been this way, people don't remember me." The accompanying hand gesture is dismissive as if Erestor could never be bothered to join the family drama surrounding the House of Finwë. "I have always been glad to stay out of the spotlight."
"Lies!" someone screams and interrupts the commotion at the dock.
Celeborn spots a tall and dark-haired Elf close to the edge. One well-aimed jump would be enough for him to join them on deck. It's exactly what he does, though Celeborn still has the time to take in the comfortable stance, the light-footed way he moves and lands on the railing with ease and gentleness. The boat barely quivers as the Elf joins them just a few feet away. Up close, Celeborn is dead sure he's looking at a Noldo. The features are distinctive, in a way that few things had been in Middle Earth anymore. Three Ages of slow mingling turned divisions like Sindar, Silvan and Noldor into a choice of lifestyle rather than a truth you had been born with.
The old Sindar turns to Erestor to comment but stops when he sees the shocked expression.
Erestor is frozen on the spot, speechless in a manner Celeborn has never witnessed before. In all those years he has known him, Erestor has always been quick on his feet. A good tactician, an excellent warrior and someone you can count on to fulfil the task appointed to him, no matter to the cost. Even if he complained about the weather and uncomfortable boots all along the way.
The foreign Noldor is still crouching on the railing. Since Erestor seems to have trouble processing what he's seeing, he opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Their visitor greets Celeborn with: "Don't let him fool you. This one likes to hide his brilliant mind behind a pretty face and a lot of stubbornness. He caused a lot of mischief as a child."
"That's rich, coming from you," Erestor croaks. One look is enough to determine he is on the verge of tears, but to Celeborn's great relief, they are tears of happiness.
With a smile, he pulls back, it's obvious that this is a reunion of those who care a great deal about each other. Not lovers, if he has to guess. Within the Noldorin history, it's more common to lose most, if not all, of your kin, and you're left behind to find a new family without any House or family to fall back on. One reason why the Noldor left Middle-earth so much earlier than Celeborn's people was the hope of being reunited with those they had been separated from.
While the Kinslayings cost the Sindar one or two generations, the Noldor suffered from the loss of entire realms. Celeborn is not proud that it took him long to grasp the sheer number of people Galadriel had seen fall. Yet it's exactly this faint feeling of hope, of encountering something good again without struggling through loss and grief in return, that finally made him sail West.
Celeborn doesn't look back as he sets foot on this new land. One day, he will track down Erestor and get the story out of him, but the glimmer of silver hair in the distance causes him to forget the strange encounter. The faces of his daughter and his wife blow away any inkling of familiarity he might've felt towards the strange Noldor who is now busy hugging Erestor.
"I had not thought you would turn my last words to you into a challenge," Fëanor whispers. He's still holding Erestor in a tight embrace and refuses to let go.
"No one has ever accused me of having bright ideas," Erestor mumbles into his shirt, having buried his face in his friend's tunic. A mixture of emotions wrecks his famous composure, and he's not ashamed of the tears streaming down his cheeks.
"You are the last to join us, besides Elrond's sons. Everyone else is safe and back already," Fëanor says as he rubs circles over his best friend's back. Working with friends and family through their grief and their surprise at seeing again is nothing new now. To the surprise of many, he had been one of the first Elves to return. A fact that had been questioned until it became apparent how many of the newly returned sought him out, seeking his approval. He might not be their King anymore, but in the end, the Noldor recognised him as the reason why they uprooted themselves to join a gruesome and almost hopeless war.
Hearing Fëanáro himself tell them that they did good, that their sacrifice had been worth dying for, helped them heal, and for him, it had been a way to contribute. To give back strength and fill the minds of their people with curiosity again, as they recounted all the discoveries they made in Beleriand.
It didn't matter what King they served once, the re-embodied all sought him out to tell him of their first life and how it ended. Some had screamed, many had cried, and a few had apologised. It had been difficult at times to be the first person they saw after walking out of Mandos, yet Fëanor could appreciate Lord Námo's intention behind it. Otherwise, his own anger might have boiled down to an all-compassing feeling of helplessness.
His greatest fault, aside from a few others he made, had been dying so early in the war.
Perhaps it had been Fëanor's fear of too little, too late that caused Námo to release him far earlier than anticipated.
Yet whatever grief he went through, undeserved or not, Fëanor would do it all over again if it meant that he could now assure his oldest friend that everything was alright.
Erestor is still looking at him with wonder as if he can not believe what his eyes are telling him. Fëanor has seen the expression in his children. In all of those who witnessed his death. Yet unlike everyone else, he had only asked Erestor to remain behind.
'Look after them', he once had asked, entrusting his best friend with the welfare of his children.
He should've known that Erestor would dig his heels in until he deemed the task as fulfilled.
Four Ages of True Loyalty. Three of them, because Makalaurë adopted two tiny Elflings and remembered that his own father once decreed that his best friend is more of a brother to him than the rest of Finwë's sons. Today, Fëanor would retract his harsh words. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë have proven themselves worthy of his respect.
Yet the truth is that he will never love them as he loves Erestor.
No one else waded through rivers of blood to look after his brood of unruly children, wreaking havoc and yet defending them to their last breath.
"Thank you, brother," Fëanor whispers to the person who was there when Míriel left him, who teased him endlessly when he met Nerdanel and who cried with him when Maitimo was born.
Who swore another, far more important oath when his King lay dying leagues away from Angband.
They stand like this, wrapped in each other's arms, foreheads pressed together until Erestor believes this is real. Until he hears ruckus approaching the by-now abandoned ship and a twist of his neck gifts him with the sight of the entire House of Fëanáro. Each and every single one of the boys he was there to greet when they were born, aside from Elrond. Who looks good, better than Erestor has seen him in a long time and who has to obviously resist the urge to take his two fathers by his hands, like the little Elfling he once was.
In comparison, Elladan and Elrohir look worn out, tired and thin, but they are grinning happily - at the Ambarussa. The first pair of twins they have ever seen among their kind and have heard so much about. They are so distracted that they don't even have eyes for Maitimo, another soul Erestor barely recognises.
Gone is the tortured General, who went after Dragons and Balrogs at the end of the First Age. Who lost himself in battles until he didn't know how to stop when Beleriand sank beneath the waves.
"Uncle Erestor, bloody time you're back," Caranthir hollers, his arms wrapped around a set of Elves that must be Celegorm and Curufin.
Who looks so happy and relaxed that Erestor barely recognises them. His memories from Aman, from his first and very different life, are far away and have been washed out by time and distance. But they are still there, like a dusty old book that he kept in the attic, buried under years of useless rubble.
Eventually, Erestor huffs and climbs off the boat.
"It's not my fault that I had to stay behind and clean up your father's mess like always," he says.
He earns himself a slap on the back of his head for it, but Erestor can only laugh at Fëanor's feigned indignation.