I. Eärwen

"I do not think she will come," Arafinwë says as I plait the hair back from his face. His palms are pressed to his knees and his fingers are very stiff. He is trying not to fidget. "No," he shakes his head. "She will not come."

I still him with a gentle hand laid upon the top of his head before he disrupts what I've managed to accomplish so far on his plaits. "You do not know that, Husband," I tell him. "She may well come."

"I do not think so," he insists. At the least, he keeps his head still this time. "I sent a small card in each announcement and asked that it be returned by messenger so that the cooks could adequately prepare for the feast. I inquired yesterday, and hers was not among the cards returned."

I sigh and yank maybe a bit too hard at his hair. He winces. "She is busy with her work," I remind him, "and may have simply forgotten to reply. What she does for our people is important."

"Of course it is," he agrees, "which is why she will not come."

Today is the day of my husband's coronation. For many years now, the responsibilities of the Noldorin kingship have weighed heavily upon his shoulders--shoulders that were never as broad or seemingly strong as those of his brothers--but he has postponed again and again his actual acceptance of the title. First, there was the pardon of the Valar to seek, and reparations to make toward my people, the Teleri. All peoples suffered after the Darkening--we were hungry and frightened--and Arafinwë tossed himself into tasks and claimed not to have even a single night to spare for "frivolity," as he termed it. Then came the building of Vása and Rána, in which the Noldor were naturally heavily involved, and though my husband has never been a craftsman, he made it a point to visit Aulë's workshops regularly during those days.

Now, at last, he has consented to accept the crown in official capacity, but in place of that reluctance has arisen this obsession that our sister-in-law Nerdanel attend the coronation. Nerdanel has spent the past few years building a memorial for the slain Teleri on their beach, and now the sands are lined with statues so realistic that they look as though they might draw a breath, step from their pedestals, and return to their homes at any moment. Arafinwë and I have spent hours, hands linked between us, overlooking Nerdanel's work, on occasion catching a glimpse of her small, hunched shadow moving from one statue to another. But as I said, she is busy and her work important, and he has never so much as suggested interrupting.

Until now.

II. Nerdanel

I come to Tirion by way of a bumping, jostling message wagon. It speeds over the highway that continues to stretch between Tirion and Alqualondë, though it is used less often these days than it once was. I can remember being a young mother and making the journey to the sea at least once per year, and I remember my sons flying to the windows whenever the carriage slowed as it met another carriage and stretching their hands from the windows. If there were children in the other carriage, they also stretched out their hands and, oh, the joy in that quick brush of fingertips with a stranger! Often, a Telerin stranger!

But the road is nearly deserted now.

It feels strange that my hands should lie idle in my lap. For years now, my hands have not been idle save in sleep, and even then, I dream of marble beneath my palms; I dream of lives--breath stilled by my husband--that I must now render in rock. Sometimes I awaken and my fingers are stiff and sore, like they have been working through the night without my awareness.

Atop one of the bags of messages lies a small reply card. The parchment is subpar; Fëanáro would pinch it in his fingers and turn it to the light and purse his lips at its poor quality, but Arafinwë has more important matters on which to expend his resources than the thick, silken parchment that Fëanáro would have used. That, I think, is why Arafinwë is King. Of course, Fëanáro is also a king now, but on that, I do not dwell long.

The reply card says far more about me. Nightly, I would glance at it on the small writing desk in my rented room in Alqualondë; nightly, I would be too tired to pen the required response and leave it for the messenger come morning. Five chips of marble is all the time that I would need, but five chips of marble I cannot spare, not to these people to whom I owe so much, after what my husband has done. Once upon a time, I worried over these tiny niceties and acts of etiquette--seemingly as unsuited as a princess as using steel in the place of silk--and I would have had the card returned the same day that it was sent. I should feel shame, at becoming so lax in my manners. I should, but I do not.

The wagon hits a bump, and I am jostled awake, having drifted into a doze without realizing it. Familiar landmarks--cast under the strange, dull light of Vása--tell me that we are drawing near to Tirion. It has been long since I was last in Tirion; Fëanáro was still in Aman--though in Formenos--and I was doing my duty as a princess and lending my support to his half-brothers. Tirion: a beautiful city, but I never wanted to see it again. In my mind, I am there with Fëanáro's hand in mine, celebrating festival at his father's palace; I am there with my children, at the cobbler's, having them fitted for shoes; I am sitting in a loose triangle with Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, letting the discussion on the coming harvest devolve into a rare, blushing monologue by Nolofinwë about Turukáno's accomplishments; I am there in the Light, in the days of innocence, if never bliss.

I have not been to Tirion since the loss of Light. Since the horror at Alqualondë. In my mind, those white streets cannot be home to hearts and hands capable of doing what has been done. I do not want to believe that. Too often, those hands belong to ones whom I love. What does that say of them? What does it say of me, that I was fooled, and may yet be fooled again?

My fingers touch the reply card, and I wonder why I am here. They tremble slightly as they open the card--subpar parchment, yes, painted by subpar scribes (the luminaries having mostly gone with my husband and the rest with Nolofinwë)--with the standard invitation inside. But at the bottom, in Arafinwë's plain, blockish hand: "I hope that you can attend, Nerdanel."

I hope …

That is why I go.

III. Arafinwë

What my brothers would have given to stand here, in my place! What my brothers gave: perhaps that is more accurate. Driving each other upon thoughtless words to the point of a sword; betrayal and envy; exile; kinslaying. I have none of those ambitions, even the least among them. Just this morning, my breakfast was undercooked but I hadn't even the courage to insist that the cook remake it and so had eaten it without complaint. Though now it gives good excuse for why my gut writhes as it does.

I cannot become King. I am the least suited of all of my family. I tried to pass the kingship to my mother, then Anairë, but neither would have it. Anairë had laughed outright. I would abdicate, but all of my heirs have gone to the Outer Lands. I would refuse--I have refused, for many years--but my love for the Noldorin people is too great to allow them to languish forever for my own lack of courage. Their idle hands are at least as pitiable as their hungry eyes. And, so, here I stand, in hopes that my head beneath the crown proves better than none at all.

I have my doubts at that.

When Vása is at her zenith, trumpets flash into the air, loosing a stone-shaking fanfare the likes of which I have not heard in some years. Nolofinwë--for all that Fëanáro wanted to believe he had sought to usurp the throne--had refused our father's crown and had refused to arrive with fanfare. For a brief moment, I expect my father to pass me, as often he did on his way to greet his people, before remembering that the fanfare is for me.

Grief stabs me, not for the first time at such an unexpected moment. The ghost of my father lumbers past, on his way to greet his people, his head turned to converse with his lords even as he walks, a smile gliding easily onto his lips at the thought of greeting his people. That I could even serve as the shadow of such a King!

All of the Noldor are assembled in the square. Once upon a time, all of the Noldor would not have fit in the top three levels of the city, much less in the square. Their faces are tired beneath the harsh light of Vása, but they are making great noise as though joyful. I see my colors upon badges upon many breasts.

I scan the crowd: so many dark-haired heads! My own hair against the rich blue robes that I wear is conspicuously light, especially with Vása directly overhead. I see Mahtan's coppery head at the edge of the crowd, tall and stoop-shouldered from his labors, applauding tiredly and smiling. A few others of the Noldor differ from the others in coloration and appearance, and my eyes find each of them in turn: a golden-haired man, like me; a few chocolate-brown heads; a lady with a Telerin scarf shading her face and neck from Vása's heat. But Nerdanel is not there. She has not come.

"You are not thinking of asking her to take the kingship, are you?" Eärwen teased me once, and though, yes, the thought had once crossed my mind, that was not why I sought her. I fight that my face does not show my disappointment at her absence. She is busy; the work that she does is important. I should be glad that she is not here but offering comfort to the Teleri, as Eärwen says she has excelled in doing.

I step to the podium and begin the speech where I will accept my crown.

The city at midday is hot, and I have not my father or brothers' charisma or eloquent ways of speaking, and it is not long before I see people beginning to fidget in their places. Vása is beginning to slide down the firmament behind me. With a radiant smile as though I notice naught, I forgo the last pages of my speech, thank my people again for the honor, and invite all to the palace for a banquet. Indeed, the applause that accompanies my leavetaking far exceeds that which cued my arrival.

Eärwen greets me with an embrace and a kiss on the mouth when we are safely returned to our rooms to freshen up for the feast. "You were brilliant," she says, and her eyes sparkle like she means it.

I give her a tired smile. "I was not, but thank you, nonetheless."

IV. Nerdanel

The Teleri wear white scarves to keep the worst of Vása's heat from their heads and faces at the height of the day, and it is a habit that I have gratefully adopted. Working on the beach all day--and the mountains no longer withhold most of the light--my face burned and blistered before one of the women wordlessly handed me a scarf one day. I was carving her son in stone. I have worn the scarf ever since.

The palace, in comparison to the square, is cool and dim, and I lower the scarf to my shoulders. Not much has changed here since Finwë was King; Nolofinwë changed nothing in his few years here, and Arafinwë very little. The colors that hang over the throne are gold and silver and very bright: new, I suspect. Arafinwë has refused to make any public acknowledgement of his kingship until this day, and why he has chosen now, I do not know. Perhaps his lack of excuses at last caught up with him.

Arafinwë is at the front of the room with Eärwen, accepting the congratulations of his lords before all depart for the feast hall. Over the next few days, those of the citizenry who wish to greet him will do so as well. He looks tired, but the crown--made for him by one of the few remaining Noldorin goldsmiths--looks well upon his head. He does not sit in his throne.

I thread my way carefully through the crowd. Everyone is eager to see him, yes, and it seems that for every person I sidle past, two more shove in front of me. Arafinwë is holding his poise well--being deluged now with questions from four people at once--but his smile is getting tighter. I stop pushing. My presence suddenly seems terribly unimportant.

I am beginning to backtrack when Eärwen's gaze alights on my face. Her eyes widen slightly, and she gives me a pointed look that tells me that I am to remain precisely where I am. With a hand upon her husband's arm and a voice sweet but loud, she announces that Arafinwë will finish answering concerns after he has presided over the supper well-deserved by all. The lords look petulant, but Eärwen is unwavering. And she looks back at me to reassert that I am not included with the rest.

The room is mostly cleared before Arafinwë sees me. With a pat upon his arm, Eärwen departs behind the lords and leaves me alone with my half-brother-in-law for the first since before-- Well, suffice to say, for a very long time. Arafinwë was always my favorite of my husband's family; even Finwë, whom I loved, and Indis, whom I admired greatly, could never eclipse the joy I felt at meeting with Arafinwë. I confided this to him once, and he laughed, his face flushing pink at the compliment. "It is because I have no duties aside from keeping everyone happy!" he said, and I answered, "In this family, that is a task unto itself."

A task at which he has failed, I realize, else he would not be standing here.

"You came!" he says as I draw near. The joy in his face reminds me of my children when they were small and surprised by a gift they did not expect. "I did not expect it, though I hoped it. Your work in Alqualondë is so important--"

"But not too important to be interrupted for a coronation," I say, and he surprises me with an embrace. Nolofinwë stopped embracing me when he became King; Fëanáro long before.

"I had hoped to see you before the ceremony," he says as he steps back. Worry etches his face. "I searched the crowd, but I did not see you."

I touch the white scarf now lying across my shoulders, and he chuckles. "Of course. I should have known, and I saw a Telerin lady--or I thought a Telerin lady--in the crowd and knew it not to be you. I should have known. I suppose it reveals how narrow my Noldorin mind remains, even after all of this." He gestures at the hall and, most of all, at his colors above the throne, and I realize that he does not see his coronation as the dawn of a new era for the Noldor. He sees it as yet another symptom of our loss.

My heart pangs at that, but the pain quickly subsides. I smile. He will be a good king.

"I had hoped," he says, "to ask your leave before accepting the crown. Now I cannot." He gnaws his lip.

"You had no cause to ask me for aught," I answer. "I grant you no leave for I have none to grant."

"You are the last of your husband's--Fëanáro's--my brother's--family. I asked my mother and she wanted naught to do with leading our people, nor did Anairë. Were he here, Fëanáro would be King. Always, he feared being usurped, sometimes rightfully and sometimes not. I fear that I have given credence to both his fears and delusions in not seeking your leave."

"You have not," I assure him. "I have not Finwë's blood; I have no right to rule. And women have never been counted in the royal lineage anyway."

"True," he says. "But views and traditions change."

He lifts his crown from his head then. It snags his hair, but he does not flinch, and with an assurance that I haven't seen in this room since Finwë's abdication, releases his hands and lets it clang to the floor.

He may not have startled, but I do. I jump back in surprise, and the crown wobbles between us for a moment before settling to the marble floor. "Take it," he says. His expression is rigid but his eyes seethe with the agony of the last few years. "Take it. It is yours. You restrained him when none of us could, and your work in Alqualondë has started to heal what he has done, and the Teleri and Noldor will be friends again someday. Take it. You deserve to be King more than I. It is time for the Noldor to change."

I glance down at the crown between us. The gold has not the luster that Fëanáro would expect or deliver, but I imagine that Arafinwë does not care much for this. Yet when I kneel to the cold floor and take the crown in my hands, it is heavier than I expect. The wife of a High Prince and daughter-in-law of the King, I never held the crown. It is gone now, I suppose: with Fëanáro or Nolofinwë or taken by Melkor. I am not sure.

I rise, crown in hands. "You are right, of course," I say, and relief and regret mix in his eyes.

I set the crown upon his head.