The Comfort of Kin
Year 1373 of the Trees | Year 13,153 in the Years of the Sun
The reign of Alcaron and Nimloth was unlike that of many rulers. They did not sit high upon thrones in distant halls, ruling from a place of separation, but instead walked among their people, speaking with them, listening to their joys, their sorrows, and their dreams. Their rule was one of wisdom and unity, where the voice of the people shaped the city's destiny. In Eärondë, they were not merely a king and queen, but guardians of their people's hopes and ambitions.
Under their reign, Eärondë thrived. The harbor, once a simple dock for the first ships of the settlers, now bustled with life, great vessels sailing in and out, carrying goods, stories, and songs between Eärondë and Alóquandë. The streets echoed with the sounds of craftsmen shaping stone, the rhythmic hammering of smiths, and the calls of merchants offering wares of pearl, silver, and woven sea-grass. The people, both Noldor and Falmari, flourished side by side, their crafts and traditions intertwining, forming something neither purely of land nor sea, but a harmony of both.
Nimloth, wise and kind, dedicated herself to ensuring that both cultures remained vibrant within the city. In the heart of Eärondë, a school was founded under her guidance, where children learned not only the histories of their people but also the old songs of the sea, passed down from Falmari harpers. Their voices carried through the streets in the evenings, lilting melodies that echoed over the water, a reminder of the first music Ulmo had taught them.
Alcaron, ever the master of stone and craft, found joy in teaching young artisans the delicate art of shaping the world around them. His presence in the forges was frequent, not out of necessity, but out of passion; the creation of beauty from raw material was his gift, and he wished to pass that gift to others. Young smiths and sculptors worked under his careful eye, their hands guided by the knowledge he had gained in Aulë's halls, ensuring that the traditions of the Noldor would live on through the ages.
In the thirty years of the Sun since their coronation, the city had grown. From its humble beginning with 30,000 inhabitants, the population had now reached 37,000, a sign of Eärondë's prosperity. New districts had been built, roads paved with smooth stone, and aqueducts carved to bring fresh water from the mountains. The city no longer felt like a settlement—it was a realm of its own, filled with light, knowledge, and a promise of eternity.
One of the greatest undertakings of this time was the construction of a new library. The first library, though grand in its own right, had become too small to house the ever-growing collection of scrolls and tomes. Scholars and scribes from both the Noldor and Falmari had recorded histories, poems, and treatises on the lore of the Valar, the making of Arda, and the journeys of their people from the time before the Great Journey to the present day. The new library, built upon a foundation of white marble and crowned with a dome inlaid with silver and sapphire, stood as a beacon of knowledge in Eärondë, a place where wisdom was treasured above all else.
Each morning, as the first light of Telperion's lingering glow met the golden radiance of Laurelin, the city stirred to life. The scent of salt and sea breeze drifted through the streets, mingling with the aroma of fresh bread from the bakeries and the sweet notes of morning flowers blooming in the gardens. Craftsmen set to work in their shops, chisels tapping against stone, silver heated in the forges, and looms weaving intricate patterns in the silken threads drawn from the sea.
As the sun climbed higher, the great marketplace of Eärondë filled with life. Merchants called out their wares—pearls from the deep, intricately carved shells, golden filigree from the hands of Noldorin smiths. Fishermen returned with their catch, while scholars and poets sat beneath the shade of towering arches, debating philosophy and crafting new verses that spoke of the sea's endless song. The harbor, ever busy, was filled with the sound of waves against stone, the creaking of ships, and the calls of sailors preparing for distant voyages.
In the evenings, as the sky deepened to twilight, music filled the air. Falmari harpers played soft melodies that echoed like the lapping tide, while Noldorin poets recited ballads of ancient heroes and lost cities. The people gathered in the courtyards and along the shores, where lanterns flickered like stars upon the water, and children danced to the rhythm of the sea.
For Nimloth, the shores were a place of solace. She would often walk the length of the beaches, the waves lapping gently at her feet, her mind lost in thought. To the Falmari, the sea was not merely water, but a living presence, a whispering voice that spoke of old songs and distant lands. It was here, beneath the light of the stars, that she felt closest to her ancestors, to Ulmo's call upon the waters.
Alcaron, in contrast, often found peace in the forges. Despite the weight of his crown, he never abandoned his craft, and there were times when he worked late into the night, shaping stone and metal as he had once done under the guidance of Aulë. His hands, though now bearing the marks of a ruler's responsibilities, still held the skill of a master artisan. The fires of the forge were his meditation, the shaping of metal a reflection of his thoughts.
But together, they found their greatest peace in the gardens of their palace. Here, silver trees, gifted by Yavanna herself, stood tall, their leaves shimmering with an inner light. Among them bloomed pearl-white flowers, their petals soft as the waves. It was a place untouched by time, where they could sit in quiet companionship, speaking of nothing and everything, bound not by duty but by love.
As the stars rose over Eärondë, their city glowed like a gem upon the shore, a testament to what the Eldar could build when they worked together. It was not just a kingdom, but a home—a place of unity, of knowledge, and of dreams made real.
It had been many years since they last stood face to face. Though letters had passed between them—formal messages at times, heartfelt confessions at others—it was different to see one another again.
Fëanor rode at the head of a small company, his bearing proud and unmistakable, his dark hair, streaked with fire beneath the light of the Trees, blowing freely in the wind. His keen grey eyes drank in the sight before him—Eärondë, Alcaron's city, a dream given form. Though he had heard much of it, seen its beauty described in letters, it was another thing entirely to behold it with his own eyes. He had shaped many things in his lifetime, but never had he sought to build a city, to create a home in the way his twin had. And for all his pride, he could not help but marvel.
At his side rode his seven sons, each marked by the fire of their lineage. Maedhros, the eldest, rode with the steady poise of one who carried great responsibility. Maglor, ever the singer, traced absent patterns along the strings of a harp slung across his back. Celegorm's wolfhound padded beside him, while Caranthir's sharp gaze studied every detail of the city's splendor. Amrod and Amras, whispering to one another, watched the harbors with undisguised curiosity of the youth they were, and Curufin, ever his father's shadow, rode closest to Fëanor, already analyzing the craftsmanship around him.
The streets of Eärondë were alive with movement and song. Noldorin artisans carved intricate patterns into white stone, while Falmari jewelers wove delicate silver filigree into their craft. At the harbor, ships gleamed in the morning light, their hulls painted with the patterns of waves and constellations. Music drifted through the air, a mingling of Falmari harps and Noldorin flutes, and above them all, banners of blue and silver fluttered in the wind.
The people of Eärondë paused as the company passed, watching in a mixture of awe and wariness. The tales of Fëanor's brilliance had long reached their city, his legend one of both wonder and fire. But beyond his name, he was also the long-absent brother of their King—the twin whose presence had always been a shadow in Alcaron's life.
At the steps of the Great Castle, Alcaron stood waiting, Nimloth beside him. He had known this day would come, had known that his brother would one day step foot in Eärondë. Yet now, as he looked upon Fëanor, the years between them seemed both vast and inconsequential. He smiled—a knowing, quiet smile—as he took in the familiar sharpness of his twin's gaze, the restless energy that had never left him.
Fëanor halted before him, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, they simply looked at one another, as though seeing not only the men they had become but the children they had once been. Then, without a word, Fëanor stepped forward and embraced him.
Alcaron did not hesitate to return it. It was not the careful greeting of rulers, nor the formal gesture of long-separated kin. It was the embrace of two who had drawn their first breath together, who had shaped one another in ways neither fully understood. It was the embrace of brothers.
"You have not changed," he murmured, though he knew it was not true. Alcaron had changed, but not in ways that lessened him. His brother stood taller, not in stature but in presence, his wisdom and years of leadership woven into every movement.
"And yet you have," Alcaron said with a chuckle, stepping back to look at him. "A father of seven now, and still, you carry the fire of your youth."
Fëanor laughed, the rare sound like steel ringing upon stone. "Seven sons, yes, but no daughters. It seems the Valar saw fit to deny me a child like you, brother."
Alcaron smiled but said nothing, for they both knew there was always time.
That evening, a feast was held in Fëanor's honor. The Great Hall was lit with silver lanterns, their light reflecting in the polished stone, as both Noldor and Falmari musicians played in celebration.
As the night deepened, the brothers found themselves alone on the balcony overlooking the city, the sea beyond glimmering beneath the mingling lights of Telperion and Laurelin.
"You have built something remarkable here," Fëanor admitted, arms crossed as he gazed out over the city. "A city of your own, a people who look to you not as a ruler they must obey, but as one they would follow willingly."
Alcaron tilted his head. "Yet you do not understand why I chose this path."
Fëanor turned to him, his sharp eyes gleaming. "I do not. You are no lesser than I, and yet you allow yourself to be guided by the Valar's will. You shape a kingdom with care, while I—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I am a smith. Creation, not rule, is my purpose."
Alcaron smiled. "And is creation not also rule in its own way? To forge something new, to shape it with skill and vision—that is what I have done here. This city, this life—it fulfills me, brother."
Fëanor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I may never understand it," he admitted. "But I see that it is what you desire, and I will not scorn it."
The two stood in silence for a moment, watching the waves beyond the city's walls. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Fëanor spoke again.
"Do you ever think of having children?"
Alcaron laughed. "You sound like a father burdened with too many sons, hoping his brother will share in the trials of parenthood."
Fëanor smirked. "Perhaps."
"There is time yet," Alcaron said, his voice thoughtful. "And I do not doubt that one day, the halls of Eärondë will echo with the laughter of children."
Despite Fëanor's infamous temper and his distance from most of their half-siblings, he treated Nimloth with unexpected respect. Perhaps it was because she was not of their father's line, or perhaps because he saw in her the wisdom of the sea—unmoving in the face of the storm.
"Nimloth," he greeted as she approached, her silver hair catching the light. "You have tamed my brother well."
She smiled, undeterred by his sharp words. "He was never meant to be tamed, nor should he be. He leads as he wills, as do you."
Fëanor studied her, then inclined his head. "A wise answer."
He did not offer warmth as he did with Alcaron, but he spoke with her as an equal, and that alone was a sign of his esteem.
If there was one thing that truly captivated Fëanor, it was the craftsmanship of Eärondë. The blending of Noldorin precision with the flowing grace of Falmari artistry intrigued him.
In the forges of the city, he examined the weapons and works of metal, his skilled hands testing the weight of a blade, his keen eyes noting the subtle engravings of waves and starlight.
"This is fine work," he admitted. "But it can be greater."
Word spread quickly that Fëanor himself would instruct those willing to learn, and soon, the city's finest smiths gathered in the forges, eager to witness the legendary craftsman at work.
For days, he worked alongside them, shaping metal with a speed and skill that left even the master smiths of Eärondë in awe. He shared techniques unknown to them, methods that made their work stronger, more enduring.
Even Alcaron, who had learned under Aulë himself, stood back and watched as his brother worked, knowing that in this craft, Fëanor would always be unmatched.
When Fëanor finally left the forges, he clapped a hand on Alcaron's shoulder. "Your city has great craftsmen. I expect to see their work grow ever finer when next I visit."
Alcaron chuckled. "And I expect you will challenge them again when you do."
Fëanor smirked. "Of course."
The stars shimmered above Eärondë, their light casting silver reflections upon the waters of the harbor. The great feast that had been held in Fëanor's honor had long since ended, and the city had grown quiet, save for the soft murmur of waves against the shore. Yet in the gardens of the palace, beneath the swaying silver branches gifted by Yavanna, two brothers stood together, lingering in the hush of the night.
It was the last evening before Fëanor's departure, and though neither had spoken of it, they both knew this moment was inevitable.
Alcaron watched his twin carefully, studying the sharp lines of his face, the way his keen grey eyes seemed lost in thought. There was a tension in Fëanor's shoulders, something restless, something unspoken. Even now, after days spent walking the streets of Eärondë, after seeing the city with his own eyes, after laughter and shared stories and the warmth of family—something weighed upon him.
"You have built something beautiful, brother," Fëanor finally said, his voice quieter than usual, lacking the fire that so often burned in it. His gaze swept over the city, the distant lights of lanterns still glowing faintly in the streets, the faint echoes of a song carried by the wind. "And I see now that this place is not a prison from the Valar for you, but a dream realized."
Alcaron exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You thought me a prisoner here?"
Fëanor's mouth quirked upward in a wry smirk, but it did not reach his eyes. "No. But I feared, perhaps, that they had set you here to keep you apart from us. That they had chained your spirit to the will of others." He shook his head. "I was wrong."
Alcaron's expression softened. He knew his brother too well. Fëanor had never trusted the Valar completely, had always questioned their wisdom, their right to shape the fates of the Eldar. And in truth, there had been a time when Alcaron had wondered if his path had been chosen for him rather than by him. But those days were long past.
"This city is mine, Fëanor. I did not build it at the command of the Valar, nor for any purpose but my own. It is a home—for me, for Nimloth, for our people. And when I walk its streets, when I hear the laughter of children or the ringing of the forges, I know that I would not trade this for any other life."
Fëanor regarded him for a long moment, then nodded, though something in his gaze remained shadowed.
Alcaron hesitated. He had seen that look before. He had felt it in the way Fëanor's mind turned, ceaseless and untamed, forever reaching for something just beyond his grasp. And he knew, with the same certainty that had bound them since birth, that his brother carried a burden he would not share.
"Whatever troubles you," Alcaron said softly, "you do not have to bear it alone."
Fëanor's fingers curled slightly at his sides, as though some great answer trembled upon his tongue, but he did not speak it. Instead, he reached out, gripping Alcaron's shoulder in a strong, steady hold.
"You are my heart's mirror, Alcaron," he said at last, and there was something both proud and sorrowful in his voice. "But our fates will lead us down different roads." His hand tightened briefly, as if he meant to anchor the moment between them. "If ever you have need of me, call, and I will come."
Alcaron held his gaze, feeling the weight of that promise.
"And if you have need of me, will you call?"
Fëanor's smile was fleeting, but real. He did not answer. Instead, he let his hand fall away and stepped back, the cool night wind stirring his dark hair. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his form soon swallowed by the flickering torchlight.
Alcaron remained where he stood, listening to the sea.
His brother's warmth lingered in the space between them, but so too did a whisper of foreboding.