You can consider this a sequel or spiritual successor to a oneshot I published a while back, Despair.

I own nothing.

This time, he had no tears to shed.

The news came to him in the four-hundredth year of the Sun. It might have been the same messenger who brought Fingolfin Turgon's missive the last time his second son penned him a letter, but Fingolfin knew not, and cared not. This messenger received a response to take to his lord as terse as the last one, but this time, Fingolfin's reply had a request in it for his second son, now his youngest surviving child.

Things had changed in the last eighty years. There would be no need to think about Lalwen's reaction to the news, for Lalwen was dead—she had led a party against the Orcs of Angband and never returned. He had missed her, had missed fierceness and practicality and the way she never let him give in to his own despair. But in a way, he was glad that she was not here anymore, that he would not have to tell her. He was glad that Anairë had not come with him from Valinor; he was glad that his mother had not come, and that his father was dead, so that Finwë could not see the ruined house that Fingolfin's had become, and the utter mess he'd made of everything, and all of the things that were slipping out from in-between his fingers, one by one by one…

There was a wine goblet at his left hand and Fingolfin pushed it away. His thoughts were already maudlin enough sober; he did not want to think of what they would become if he were to drink himself into a haze.

But there was already a haze over his mind, and it cried out the same line, over and over again.

My daughter is dead, Irissë is dead.

That was what the letter said. It was the second letter Turgon had ever sent him since taking his people to Gondolin, and if the first had been terse and written in a shaky, almost trembling hand, this letter was nearly illegible, the ink blotched and runny.

Aredhel had vanished for so long because she had been taken in by some Sindarin, or Avarin (Turgon did not seem entirely certain which) lord named Eöl, and they had wed. Normally such an announcement would have been a cause for joy, even if they had apparently not been wed according to Noldorin customs; however, Aredhel had found in married life a cage, trapped was she in her husband's lands. Who would dare imprison my daughter? Who would be so insolent, so cruel, so petty as to keep my Irissë from her family, from the plains and hunting grounds she so loved?

Aredhel and her husband had had a child, named Lómion by his mother and Maeglin by his father; frankly Fingolfin preferred the former name, but he supposed that was only natural. This would have been another cause for joy, that Fingolfin could now count himself a grandfather twice over, but there was only grief in his heart. 'He is in his eightieth year, and much resembles you and Irissë, Father,' Turgon had written. Lómion had grown to manhood in the dark forests of Nan Elmoth, forbidden, as his mother was, to ever venture away from his father's lands and seek out his kin.

Eventually, though, Aredhel and Lómion had struck out for Gondolin while Eöl was away from his halls. They left Nan Elmoth on foot and were provided horses to complete the journey by Celegorm and Curufin in Himlad. Mother and son were watchful on their way to the former's rightful home, but apparently not watchful enough, for Eöl followed them. Aredhel and her son arrived in Gondolin, much to her brother's surprise and joy; Eöl was close behind them. Once discovered, the Lord of Nan Elmoth was given a choice—either stay in Gondolin and swear loyalty to Turgon, or be killed.

What sort of policy is that?! Fingolfin raged in his head, wondering just how drunk Turgon must have been when he decided that that would be how he dealt with unexpected guests in his city. Perhaps his wrath was so great because Turgon's demands of either loyalty or death had ultimately cost them Aredhel's life.

For Eöl would not swear loyalty to Turgon—'I choose death, for myself and my son!' he had cried, and drew a poisoned javelin hidden on his person and threw it to strike his son. Only Aredhel had leapt in front of her child, and been struck by it instead.

Aredhel had died that night, and Eöl was cast from the city walls to his death the following morning. In the same breath that Fingolfin learned that his daughter had not died in the wilderness all those years ago, in the same breath that he learned that he had a grandson, he discovered that his daughter had been murdered by her husband.

She who had been Exiled was now home again, but not in Valinor with her parents and older siblings, but in Mandos' Halls with her younger brother, her grandfather and her uncle. Unless Aredhel was released from the Halls and Fingolfin from his Exile, he would never lay eyes upon her again.

This letter, it says nothing about how she was? Was she well? Did she seem happy to be home? What is the boy like, besides his resemblance to her and I—I suppose I'll find out soon enough, but why didn't Turukáno say anything about her or the boy? Why didn't he tell me if she was well, if she seemed happy? What sort of face did she show in her dying moments; what did she say at the last? Why does this letter say nothing?

There was grief, grief beyond Fingolfin's ability to count. His family was shrinking by the day, it seemed. First Finwë, then Arakáno, then Fëanor, then Lalwen, and now Aredhel. His family was shrinking, shrinking, fractured at its seams. But beyond grief, there was an emotion that he felt guilt even to admit to.

Beyond grief, Fingolfin felt relief.

He felt relief that, at long last, he knew what had become of his only daughter, his Irissë.

He imagined her withering in the silence of Nan Elmoth, felt himself doing the same in Hithlum here. He imagined the silence and the shadows swallowing her whole. She might have stayed there for eternity, until she became a shadow and even if he had known that she was there and came looking for her, he would never have been able to find her. But Aredhel had not stayed in Nan Elmoth and become a shadow. She'd returned to light, returned to Gondolin, and was killed there.

Fingolfin would never see his daughter again, but at least he finally knew what had become of her. At least it was finally over.

Irissë—Aredhel
Turukáno—Turgon
Arakáno—Argon