Her father had warned Iestiel that the air would grow fouler the closer they drew to the Iron Mountains. The three volcanic peaks of Thangorodrim had been smoking for years, blocking the sun. Even leagues from the epicenter of the Enemy's power in Endor, daylight was still hazy.

Iestiel awoke suddenly, her eyes blinking away sleep. The fire had died down, her father and his two apprentices sleeping across from her. She groaned. One of the apprentices should have been keeping watch. They had been taking turns each night, changing shifts at the midnight hour. 

It had been a day since they had left the company of the Noldor. Despite their arrogance and uncouth behavior, something about the wild Princes of the West had appealed to Iestiel. They were blunt, honest to the fault. The Sindar of Doriath were warm and hospitable, disagreements were often met with veiled insults and word play. Iestiel did not get the impression that was how the Noldor worked. And she found it refreshing, a little exciting even.

Sitting up from the hard ground in the barren valley where they'd camped on the outskirts of Hithlum, she scanned the short semi circle she'd made as a perimeter around them. The air was clear in their small camp, but outside the barrier of clean air was a wall of grainy mist, swirling silver and black. The poisonous fumes made those who breathed them grow ill. Plants caught in it's wake shriveled and died. 

Iestiel tried not to let the specter of fog intimidate her. She stirred the fire, listening hard for the winds overhead. Part of her schooling had been spent learning to interpret the scents and soft words caught in the drafts. At this moment, a southern wind brought hints of metal and forge smoke, faint commands for more stone or lumber being shouted in Quenyan. That wind had passed through the Noldor camps.

Breathing in deeply through her nose, Iestiel closed her eyes and tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders, the stick she'd used as a poker for the fire clutched in her hand. Another current rushed down from the north, cutting through the evil smelling smog as it swept from the highest peaks of the Iron Mountains. A weak voice could be heard in it. Faint whispers in Quenyan. She didn't know the language well, but she knew the word for help.

Iestiel's eyes snapped open. She recalled what the Noldor had said of their lost friend. Missing for thirty years as a captive of Morgoth. Fingon seemed determined that they would either find him alive or at least recover his body. Perhaps, because of the enemy's tendency to dig deep into the earth, they had focused their energies on dark, cavernous spaces. 

She wondered if they had ever thought to look upwards to the heavens for the lost prince.

"Adar," she whispered, kneeling beside her father and patting his shoulder. "Adar, there is something on the wind. I think it might-"

Lalvon sprang up from his blanket, pressing a finger to his lips. His blue eyes were wide, eyebrows arching as he scanned the surrounding area, his body rigid. Iestiel suddenly sensed it as well.

Another presence lurked somewhere out in the dark smog.

"Wake the others. Quietly," he commanded, retrieving his sword. "Ready yourself, my daughter. We are not alone."

Iestiel did not have a chance to wake the apprentices. A band of orcs broke through the barrier into the clear air and made straight for them. A beast cleaved the head of a sleeping apprentice in half before Iestiel or Lalvon could do anything to stop it.

***

Morning sun slanted through the slender trunks of the pine barren on the southern end of Lake Mithrim. It shimmered along the water, banishing the heavy mist stinking of sulfur that settled there at dawn. A northern wind, fresh and clear, blew in from the distant mountains and banished the smog. Even so, it left black silt on the ground that stained feet and choked plants.

Luimëníssë hitched a knitted bag over her shoulder. Her hose was rolled up to her knees and feet bare as she shifted the chilly mud. She shivered. It was growing colder every year in the change of seasons. The enemy's hold on the land was strengthening as the frigid hatred between the two camps of the Noldor cemented with every passing decade.

"Here is a patch!" A bright voice called out.

Idril, Turgon's bright haired daughter, held up a mussel shell like a trophy she'd dug from the grey mud under her feet. Luimëníssë and the maid were foraging for fresh water clams and mussels on a new sand bank, a source of food that had become a staple for the elves along with fish they caught from the lake. 

But with the coming of the mists from Thangorodrim, the fish were growing scarce. As was game in the forests and glens. 

"Very good!" Luimenisse threw her heavy bag over her back. "I think we have enough for today, don't you?"

The only grandchild of Fingolfin, Idril had grown into a profoundly graceful young elleth, wiser than Luimëníssë had ever been at her age. Tragedy and trials had matured both Idril and Vantaro past their years. Still, Idril loved the water much like Luimëníssë so the two were often down at the lake, helping build narrow canoes and square currachs and weaving fishing nets.

The guard at the stone and pine wood fence hemming Fingolfin's camp nodded greeting to them as they passed under the guard tower. The encampment was busy with the day's duties. The forge was belching smoke from a clay brick chimney, horse stables were being cleaned, meat being roasted and bread baked. 

The Great Hall where Fingolfin held council was a round building made of several wings where those kin closest to him lived. The living quarters had been completed after their first five years of arriving in Endor. Luimëníssë surmised that she had dwelt in tents for ten years total. She did not miss it. Celebrimbor, who had not known any other life but as a homeless nomad, could still  be found sleeping under the stars on warm nights.

Luimëníssë and Idril left their findings in the kitchens as Írissë was returning from an early morning hunt. With a broad smile of accomplishment, she slung a brace of pheasant onto the table and boasted of her achievement. Despite the many years since their departure from Aman, some things had never changed. 

Without bothering to change her clothes, Luimëníssë made her way towards the House of Healing on the doorstep of the Great Hall. She was eager to speak with Artanis to see if she had made any breakthroughs. 

As she strode into the light of day, her eyes flickered towards the forges out of habit. A familiar ache filled her chest. Forcing a faint smile, Luimëníssë reminded herself that her son would return home to her soon. Though she had been experiencing these separations from him for thirty years, they never got any easier. Three months with her and then three months on the northern end of the lake with the Fëanorians. That was the rhythm of their lives, one that seemed like it would never end until Celebrimbor came of age.

"Any luck with those new greens your apprentice found?" Luimëníssë asked Artanis when she found her at a work table in the back.

Artanis tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear, her thick braid bound tightly from her face as she ground a dried herb with a pestle. She shook her head, dipping her finger into the mortar and dabbing a taste of it on her tongue.

"I have found some new ways to help manage the pain, but nothing to cure the malaise," Artanis grumbled under her breath. With a sigh, she dropped the pestle on the table and ran a hand over her face. "More and more are sickened every day."

"Fingolfin has set up a curfew. None may emerge from their home before dawn has completely broken and the mist has dissipated," Luimëníssë said, scanning the cots behind them.

Most were filled. Fishermen and hunters. Farmers. Jobs that required early starts to the day, but put them in danger of breathing in the poisonous mists coming down from the north. The Noldor had never suffered ailments in their existence, the Eldar were impervious to death by disease. But it did not keep them from discomfort. They'd heard that those of the Fëanorian camp were suffering worse. She found herself praying again, something she hadn't done since she was a maid in Valinor, begging the Valar to keep her son safe. 

"It is the curse upon us," Artanis spoke calmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "There is no other explanation. Most of these cases are from our people. Sometimes we take in a grey elf with the symptoms, the cough, pain in the chest, the heaviness of spirit. But mostly it is only our people being affected."

Luimëníssë gingerly laid a hand on her friend's elbow, worried by the deadened look of exhaustion in her bright eyes. "When was the last time you rested?"

"I cannot rest-"

"You must," Luimëníssë insisted. "You cannot keep up this pace and expect your best work to come of it."

Artanis pressed her pale lips together. "I know you are right."

"Then let's get you back to your quarters for an hour or so of rest. I'll wake you soon, don't worry. You need to eat something too, you have been living on coimas bread for days. We aren't traveling the wilds anymore, you can have some fish and wheat loaves as well."

After seeing Artanis to her rooms, a horn bellowed at the gate. It could only mean one thing. Smoothing her messy hair and quickly splashing water on her face in her bedroom, Luimëníssë raced towards the stables. 

It was hard to believe her son was thirty four years old. Still a youth for their people, a gawky adolescent blooming into young adulthood, he wouldn't reach his full height until he was fifty years old or so. Three months in the long life of the Eldar was nothing, but every time he returned to her, Celebrimbor looked different. 

He was growing up. And it terrified her.

"Emilinya!"  

Celebrimbor dismounted from his black horse. Even his voice had taken on a deeper timbre since she had last seen him. His legs were long and lean. It was said he would be taller than his father some day, closer to his Uncle Maitimo's height.

Luimëníssë embraced her son, relief flooding her to have him home. He wore a black tunic edged in silver, much in the style of Curufin's clothes. His black hair was short, he always had cut it since he was old enough to make the decision himself. Cropped at his ears and tousled by the wind, there was even a little curl to it that reminded her of dear Náretarnon.

Every time he returned from the Fëanorian camp, she feared to find him changed in his manner. Perhaps colder, more arrogant, harsh like his uncles. But Celebrimbor had ever been his own person. Observant, slow to speak but wise in his words, unwilling to forget a slight but open to forgiveness if asked politely. A quiet leader.

Luimëníssë peered up into his bright face and gripped his chin. "Still in one piece?"

He snorted and pushed her hand away. "Yes, emil," he groused like the youth that he still was.

"No trouble on the road?" she asked Fingon as he came alongside them.

Fingon shook his head with a pained smile. "It was a relatively quiet trip."

An odd look passed between Fingon and Vantaro as her brother moved by them without saying hello. Though he usually brooded, there was something about Vantaro's countenance that disturbed her. Patting her son once more on the arm as though to remind herself that he was there and safe, she followed behind Vantaro.

"No greeting for your sister after you've been gallivanting in the wild for an entire fortnight?" she said, catching up and walking alongside him.

"Hello sister," he muttered under his deep hood, wisps of white hair peeking out from the green edges of the fabric

"That sounded painful."

"Always thrilled to be home is all."

Luimëníssë grabbed his forearm and brought him to a halt before the Great Hall. He had the decency not to roll his eyes. Though Vantaro had become less difficult after being separated from the Fëanorian camp and given an occupation in his scouting, his moods could change swiftly. Fingon and Ingoldo, now called Finrod, both said it was only the age that made him so. 

But Luimëníssë feared it was something that could not be fixed or would fade with years. The violent loss of their family and home had affected them both, but Vantaro had only been a child. She was terrified the experience had damaged him irrevocably. Worse, she secretly blamed herself for dragging him into the unknown. Perhaps he would have been better off if they had remained in Valinor. But after the kinslaying, staying in Alqualondë had been out of the question.

"Something is wrong," she said, studying his frown. "Something is very wrong."

He blinked down at her, his eyes widening. To her shock, they started to dampen. "Yes. But you mustn't ask me. Please. I cannot bear to speak of it."

As he strode away, his shoulders hunched and fists clenched, Luimëníssë decided to ask Fingon. Before she could say anything, Fingolfin called a meeting with his children, nephews and nieces. By default, Luimëníssë, Vantaro and Celebrimbor had become a part of that group. She wondered if it had been out of Fingolfin's guilt for what happened to her people, but she never asked. It wasn't worth reopening the wounds.

"I have called for this meeting," Fingolfin said from the head of the oval table where they all sat. "But I do not plan on speaking much at it. I would like my son Fingon to address you on a serious matter that may come to affect us all in the near future."

Fingon stood, brushing his fingertips over the murky grain of his chair. He lifted his grey eyes, his mouth tight and somber. Vantaro was hunched over on a bench by the wall, whittling at one of his little figurines. Fingon's gaze grazed over the young ellon, his jaw clenching.

"A few days ago around the eastern side of Lake Mithrim, we came across a party of grey elves from Doriath. They were peaceful travelers. Three males and one female, a daughter of one of the ellyn. We camped with them one night and then parted ways the next day. After meeting to bring Celebrimbor to this side of the lake, we retraced our steps. It wasn't long before we saw that something was wrong. The sign in the floral and fauna, it all read of intruders. A pack of orc had passed that way, venturing further south than we have seen in these parts since the coming of the sun."

Finrod rested a steady hand on the table. "Is it due to the rising of the dark mists? Their ability to journey farther?"

"We believe so."

"The Enemy is sending out smog from his lair in order to give his servants safe passage into these lands," Artanis surmised.

"We have heard rumbling in the earth. He is rapidly growing in strength," Fingon added. "He is preparing to make war upon us."

Fingolfin sighed loudly. "As we sit, stewing on these banks. Divided."

"Despite our history with them, the sons of Fëanor are fine commanders in battle. Well trained and ruthless-"

"We know they are ruthless, brother," Írissë interjected with a protective glance in Luimëníssë's direction.

Fingon shook his head. "If we could only find a way to bring unity between us. We have done very little these past decades, but survive. We haven't been creating or building as we did in Valinor. It is as though we are..."

"Cursed." 

The room went silent at the single word from young Celebrimbor. His voice was so certain, it sent a shudder through Luimëníssë. She reached for his hand, if only to anchor herself.

"All I am suggesting is that we... find a way to live peaceable with our kin on the other side of the lake. Enough years have passed-"

"Passed for what?" Turgon snapped, rising from his chair, his eyes alight. Idril paled, biting her lower lip as she fidgeted with her sleeves. "Enough time has passed for us to forget our grief? Is that what you are trying to say, brother?" He sank into his chair, cradling his forehead in his hand. "As if we ever could."

In the dead stillness of the room, Luimenisse drew a quick breath. "And what of the travelers from Doriath?"

"Killed," came the quick answer from Fingon.

"All of them?"

"We found the bodies of the three males." Fingon shook his dark head as though he wanted to forget the sight.

"And the female? You said one of them had his daughter with him?"

"We can only assume that she is as well."

"But you didn't find the body?" Artanis asked.

"No," Vantaro answered firmly from his place outside the circle. "We did not find the body of the elleth."

Fingon glared over at Vantaro. "We believe she may have been taken captive by the orcs to be brought back to Angband."

"For what reason?" Idril asked.

"Slave labor. We have spoken with many grey elves that have mentioned this occurring more often lately. Their people taken and never return. Or if they do, they are so altered that life is barely worth living for them anymore," Vantaro ranted, standing from the bench. "I am going to ask again, Fingon. This time of your father. Lord Fingolfin, I ask your permission to track the pack of orc to retrieve the young elleth if she lives."

Fingolfin eyed Vantaro with interest. "What reason do you have to go after the maid except for youthful enthusiasm? Hunting a group of orcs alone is not a feat I would recommend to any."

"She is from Doriath, the former pupil of the great lady herself, Queen Melian. She may have some influence in that sphere to help us gain an audience. Especially if we do them a favor. The Sindar of that veiled kingdom appreciate acts of service in exchange for charity," Vantaro said, his tone turning to venom at the end of his speech. 

Despite this, Fingolfin seemed to be seriously considering his words, much to Luimëníssë's dismay. She rose up in her seat. "Risk your own life for a stranger? A maid we know nothing of, who is not even one of our people?"

"I told you she'd have something to say on the matter," Celebrimbor grumbled under his breath towards his volatile uncle. Luimëníssë ignored him.

"Fingon." She whipped towards her cousin when Vantaro only met her eyes with a look of bored disdain. "Surely you must see the folly in this?"

Fingon glanced in his father's direction. "Though at first I wished to speak with you on the matter, father, if we have your permission, I will go with Vantaro to track the orcs."

Fingolfin nodded slowly. "Very well, you may." Vantaro hopped up from his seat to race from the room, but the Lord of the Noldor held up a hand for him to wait. "You may search for the elleth only until you reach the plains of Ard-galen before the seat of the Iron Mountains. I will not risk my kin and best scouts for the sake of a stranger."

Luimëníssë watched helplessly as her little brother strode from the room, his expression one of pure determination. She knew there would be no persuading him otherwise.

****

Adar- Sindarin, formal word for father

Coimas- Quenyan, Lembas bread, Elvish waybread

Emilinya - Quenyan, my mother

Emil - Queyan, mother