I own nothing.

The torches within the palace grounds are all lit, every last one, and lit also are the candles, lanterns, and fireplaces. Nothing that could possibly give them some light has been left out; anything to banish this accursed, unnatural darkness. The Eldar are no longer accustomed to darkness, and darkness is abhorrent to them.

But no matter their efforts, darkness still finds them. Between the perimeters of candlelight and lantern light, between the domains of torch and firelight, shadows creep in. Wherever the light does not touch, there is inky darkness, spreading all the time. To Nerdanel, it is as though someone has spilled an inkwell, or a bucket of black paint, but where ink or paint once spilled would eventually stop spreading, this will not.

Nerdanel tries not to look at it. As an artist, she knows that there can be no art without ugliness, but this utter dark outside of the windows goes beyond the simply ugliness of the world. This is the ugliness of the foul murder of Telperion and Laurelin, and the lightless world left behind without them.

What shall we do now? Will we go without light in the sky for all time, and learn to live with only fire to light the ground where we set our feet? Are we to live as our ancestors did by the shores of the Lake, fearing every lightless place?

And what are we to do, now that the Enemy, or Moringotto as my husband has named him, has killed the Two Trees? What are we to do, now that he has slain Finwë?

Finwë…

Nerdanel turns back towards the center of the chamber, and her heart sinks at the scene playing out before her.

She does not think that she has ever seen Indis weep. Not even when Finwë went willingly into exile with Fëanáro after the latter threatened Nolofinwë did Indis weep. Instead, she fell into a sort of stony silence, neither lamenting Finwë's departure nor berating him for siding with the son who threatened his brother with death over the son who was threatened. In those days, Nerdanel could marshal no such composure, and she could not help but admire Indis's.

But as time went on, Nerdanel was no longer quite so sure that Indis was as calm as she seemed to be. Something in the way her eyes would be too bright, her voice too sweet and her mouth too placid rang false. Now, here's the proof.

They burned Finwë's body a short time ago. Indis had wept silently then, along with most of the Noldorin royal family, including Nerdanel herself. She had not made a sound. However, the moment she was back in her own chambers she dissolved into forlorn, desolate sobbing, and here all of her female kin, sans one, attempt to comfort her now.

Indis is slumped in a chair in her sitting room, moaning wordlessly into her hands. Findis, one of the few to remain dry-eyed throughout the funeral and remain so, asks Amarië to go fetch a pitcher of water; Indis's other ladies-in-waiting have all been shooed out. Elenwë, her former lady-in-waiting, sits nearby, ready to aid her. Little Itarillë sits at her mother's feet, confused and terrified and tear-stricken; Elenwë strokes her hair absently.

Lalwen mirrors her grand-niece, sitting at Indis's feet and resting her head against her mother's shin. Anairë sits near them, visibly shaking. Eärwen and Eldalótë hover at Indis's shoulder. Nerdanel's two daughters-in-law stand off to the side, conversing quietly.

Nerdanel feels utterly apart from them, as though she's standing in another world, but then again, she usually does. She is the daughter-in-law of Míriel Þerindë, not of Indis. However well they get along, however much Indis cares about her and Nerdanel cares about Indis, she is still Fëanáro's wife, not the wife of Nolofinwë or Arafinwë. Never have any of these nissi, Indis and her scions, made her feel as though she should be ashamed to be Fëanáro's wife, but Nerdanel does not think that she will ever feel as though she is moving in the same circle as them.

And her daughters by marriage have also shut her out, and likely just as unintentionally. Nerdanel does not know Telpalma at all—she and Atarinkë met less than ten years ago in Formenos—and the exile seems to have caused Ilmanis to shut herself off to her mother-in-law, to some extent. So Nerdanel feels very alone indeed, in this room of light and shadow.

Then, she catches sight of the other currently outside the circle. Irissë sits in one of the deep window seats, staring out into the darkness beyond the glass. Her knees and long legs are pulled up close to her chest; the netted, diagonal silver stripes on her dress gleam in the torchlight. The tear tracks on her cheeks are old and glitter with salt. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but dry.

"Irissë?" Nerdanel calls, trying to be gentle but mostly coming across, she's sure, as raw. Her niece does not acknowledge her, and she puts a hand on Irissë's shoulder. "You should come away from the window, dear."

"Can't help it," Irissë mutters in response, nostrils flaring as she draws a deep breath.

Nerdanel bites back a sigh, remembering her niece as a little girl. Irissë, always wanting to see over the edge of walls and fences, wanting to see into her uncle's forge, wanting to look into dark forests and still ponds and raging rivers. Always wanting to peer over the edge of what's known, and into what's not. Nerdanel was a child like that, and perhaps she indulged her niece more than she ought to have on account of that. Irissë is always wanting to look over the edge. Why should now be any different?

But all the same, Nerdanel doesn't think Irissë needs to be looking too deep into this darkness. It won't do her any good. "It won't do you any good, staring into this darkness."

Irissë shrugs, reaching up to brush a stray tendril of hair out of her face. "I really just can't help it, Aunt Nerdanel." She sounds very tired, Nerdanel can't help but notice, as though she's fit to fall out of the window seat in a deep sleep at any moment. After all that's happened, Nerdanel understands that weariness all too well. "I feel as though there's something out there, watching me."

Nerdanel frowns. "Some vision of the Enemy?" she asks tensely. Nerdanel isn't sure what the record for extra-cognitive abilities in Anairë's line; she knows it to be non-existent in Nolofinwë's. Perhaps one of her children could have inherited some extra-cognitive gift from her.

After a long pause, in which Irissë seems to be debating whether to even tell her, she shakes her head. "No, it's not that. It's the darkness itself. It…" A flash of some secret horror passes behind her pale eyes; her shoulders quake in a shudder. "It's like it's alive." Irissë's head snaps up sharply. "You must think I've lost my mind."

"No, child," Nerdanel responds, a little more sure of a gentle tone this time.

Irissë has never known darkness such as this. Neither has Nerdanel. She can not speak as to what exactly is going through her niece's mind, but she can speak to her own experiences. In the alien dark, her eyes seem to play tricks on her. Every flickering shadow cast by a torch in the street becomes some great beast, gathering strength into its haunches, readying to strike. Would Irissë the huntress be more likely to see such a thing, or less? Either way it could certainly lend credence to the idea that the darkness is alive.

And how many times have you confided such thoughts in me, as a child? How many times did you come to me asking about strange dreams? More times than you went to your mother, I suspect. It frustrates Anairë. She says she feels as though she does not know you.

But I know you. I know what you want. You want to be able to ride out and meet it. You want to strike down this darkness and set the world to rights. You must not try, Irissë. No one can do that unaided; it would only lead to your death.

"These shadows seem to have a mind of their own," Irissë goes on, conscious enough of the way her words must look to keep her voice low. "As though they have some sort of consciousness." Her mouth tugs in a half-hearted grimace. "It's seemed that way to me since it fell, and still does. It has a shape. It has eyes; I look into the dark, and it looks into me. I can hear it talking—nothing I could put into words," she adds when Nerdanel opens her mouth. She hunches her shoulders. "A voice of sadness, and longing. It has a shape, but it can not discern it, for its eyes are blind. But there's malice in that voice too. If I listen hard enough, I can hear it trying to sing me away from the city."

"Irissë." Nerdanel puts her hands on her niece's shoulders and forces her to face her. The world beyond the two of them seems to melt away. "I know that this is frightening, that this is utterly unlike what you are used to. And do not protest to me that you are not frightened! If I am, I doubt that you are not. There is no shame in being frightened when the world has been drowned in darkness. But the darkness itself has no consciousness, nor does it have a soul. It does not see, it does not speak, and it certainly does not sing."

She gets a disgruntled frown for her troubles. "I know that," Irissë snaps. For one moment, some of the old lively fire enters back into her eyes. But then, it is gone, and she looks even wearier than before, her face gray with exhaustion. "But it's how it seems, in my head," she whispers. "They're out there, you know? Right now, somewhere, trying to figure out what to do next."

Yes, Nerdanel knows that. She knows that her brothers by marriage, their sons, Arafinwë's daughter, her sons, and her husband (in blatant defiance of his exile, which is not yet over) are discussing the Noldor's next course of action. Her lip curls despite herself. The embers of Finwë's funeral pyre have yet to cool, and Fëanáro is already plotting revenge and retrieval of his stolen gems. And not once does he consider that they are not his to hoard.

"Artanis is out there with them," Irissë remarks, and there's no mistaking the note of envy in her voice.

Nerdanel knows that as well. Along with Findis, Artanis was one of the only ones in attendance for Finwë's funeral who did not weep, nor shed tears. She stood, tall and erect, expressionless and enigmatic. When the neri went one way, and the nissi another, Artanis alone went with her men-folk, walking at the tail-end of the group, behind her brothers. Still straight-backed. Still proud. As though all of this can not even touch her.

"She's in the thick of things," Irissë goes on, and there really is no misunderstanding the envy in her tone of voice. "She's actually doing something; Uncle Arafinwë may even let her be helping him make decisions. Even if he isn't, she's not on the sidelines, sequestered away from everything. And here I am." She nods towards the center of the chamber, where Indis is attended to by her scions, and a decidedly bitter look passes over Irissë's face.

Oh, child. "You could go," Nerdanel suggests to her. "We have things well in hand here." Well, no, they really don't, but Nerdanel doesn't see that Irissë's presence or absence is really going to make much of a difference anymore. "I'll give your excuses, if you wish to find your father and your brothers."

Irissë shakes her head violently. "No, no, I can't," she murmurs, sounding as though she's trying to convince herself of that, as much as she's trying to convince Nerdanel. "I'm supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be here, with Grandmother. I'm not supposed to be running off listening to my father and uncles at their 'council of war' or whatever else on Earth it is they're calling it. I'm supposed to be here. I can't leave." She smiles up at Nerdanel, weakly, bitterly, and Nerdanel can't restrain her heavy sigh.

How often have I heard something along those lines before? Always the air of soldiering on, always the air of resentment hidden further down, and there are precious few who ever catch on to the latter.

But Nerdanel says nothing. She really doesn't know what to say to her niece that will make that bitter smile leave her face. It seems so much stronger now, but is that simply the influence of this oppressive, alien dark hanging over all of their heads? The darkness twists expressions. Why should it not twist emotions as well?

Finally, Nerdanel directs her gaze out of the window, and really looks into the darkness for the first time since they brought Finwë's body back to Tirion.

She doesn't see what her niece has been claiming to see. She does not see a shape coalescing out of shadow. She does not see sightless eyes. She does not see something with a consciousness or a soul. But as Nerdanel stares into the dark, she feels progressively smaller, more insignificant, more vulnerable, more lost. And as she stares, maybe, maybe she does hear something. Not anything she can put into words. A voice singing in the confines of her head, a song of indescribable sadness, and unspeakable malice.

At that, Nerdanel draws Irissë away from the window, and shuts the curtains.

Moringotto—Morgoth
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Itarillë—Idril
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Atarinkë—Curufin
Irissë—Aredhel
Artanis—Galadriel

Nissi—women (singular: nís)
Neri—men (singular: nér)