Waiting

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Maglor never dies.  His sons continue to live on.  And none of them ever come home.  But she is still there...  Quenya names used (Finrod = Artafindë, Curufin = Curufinwë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Fëanor = Fëanáro, Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno).  Also, a plethora of OFCs that appear in many stories, including but not limited to "Locked", "Beach", "Disconsolate", "Broken", "Blush" and "Tea".  Takes place in Tirion sometime during the Second Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, but some of these characters are mine

Pairings: too many, but mainly Maglor x Vardamírë

Characters: Vardamírë, Maglor, Eldalótë, Curufin, Lindalórë, Finrod, Amarië, Maedhros, Istelindë, Celegorm, Turgon, Elenwë, Fingon, Fëanor, Vairë, Varda and Nienna

Warning: non-canon compliant, spontaneous children, facial scarring, other scarring, canonical character death, religious stuff, dysfunctional family, mentions murder in a roundabout way

Song: Hymn For the Missing

Words: 914
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wait (verb): to remain stationary in readiness or expectation; to pause for another to catch up; to look forward expectantly; to hold back expectantly
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/wait

Sometimes Vardamírë wondered how she remained sane.

Days dragged on for an eternity each of their own.  Every crack in the far wall of her bedchambers she knew, for so long she would lie upon the mattress and stay awake in the faint candlelight, afraid to let darkness fall entirely.  Many mornings she did not even want to arise from bed and walk through another day entirely alone.

They all ended the same way.  She would come back to the empty house and prepare dinner, her ears listening for the sound of footsteps upon the porch, for the click of the door swinging inward.

For the sound of her husband's melodic bass ringing through the hallways and vibrating through the floorboards like a force all its own.  For her eldest son's laughter and her youngest son's protests.  For the crackling of the sitting room fire and the squeak of the familiar second-to-last stair.

For the sound of them.

She was waiting.

It had been so long.  So very, very long.

And still, she expected to hear him snoring softly in the morning at her side.  Still expected to hear her children arguing over the last home-baked muffin.  Still expected to feel hands wrap about her waist as she set off for the bakery as the sun rose, a kiss falling upon her cheek and soft love-words whispered against the shell of her ear.

But they never came.  No matter if she stood upon the porch for hours until the sun was fully overhead or if she stepped off without hesitation, they never came.

They wouldn't.  She knew they wouldn't.  But still...

Slowly the others reappeared.

Artafindë came first with his face twisted and scarred.  And yet Amarië had never seemed more blissful than when she pulled that monstrous face close and kissed lips cut and deformed with all her spirit.

And soon the others followed.

Her husband's cousins and their children.  One-by-one, coming home to their beloveds.  To Elenwë, who stood in the highest tower of the palace in Tirion each day for five hundred years if only to breathe words of comfort and serenity to her spouse upon the wind.  To Anairë, who seemed to lose every ounce of her hot-burning spirit and will without her husband at her side to take the butt of her jokes and smile in the face of her overwhelming temper.  To Eldalótë, who despondently tended to her flowers with her silly golden shears, guarding her tulips as though her life depended upon their survival.

And, finally, to her sisters in all but blood, daughters of the House of Fëanáro.

Back to her companions.  To Lindalórë, more broken a woman than ever had there been, one who would never be whole no matter how many years Curufinwë spent piecing her fragile cracks back together with glue and bandage.  To Istelindë, who tried to be so very strong when all of them just wanted to lay down and give in to the prejudice and the hatred.

But not to Vardamírë.

Not her husband.  Not her sons.  Not her life.

Suspended in time, she stood, each day looking so hopefully, hopelessly toward the Halls of the Waiting, wondering if he would one day walk over that horizon humming beneath his breath, see her and smile at her with that face she held so beloved in her heart, his sons standing on either side of his shoulders as whole and hale as the day they had departed.

As bright.  So bright they could only be a daydream.

For she saw what darkness shrouded those who came back from the other side.  Saw the edges of Curufinwë's smile so sharp they were no longer safe to brush against.  Saw the depression that ate away at Artafindë as he sat in the gardens beyond the palace, wistful and bitter.  Saw the madness that clawed its way beneath Turkafinwë's free spirit and the harshness that would never fade from Turukáno's face.  Saw how Nelyafinwë's strength waned in the face of adversity and Findekáno's courage faltered in the wake of guilt.

She feared what she would find.  But she longed still to see.

Because the waiting would be her death.

The waiting to discovery why Nelyafinwë could never meet her eyes when she asked after her husband.  Only he would tell her that he had died before his brother, and that he knew not of the fate of his younger sibling.

But underneath were the signs.  Damning and damning and damning.

And all Vardamírë could do was sit and pray for guidance.  Look up to Varda's stars and beseech her lady to tell him that she was still here.  Look back to Vairë in her halls of the past and wonder if he walked there amongst the memories, watching her.  Look to the Lady of Mercy and wish that somehow he would be spared suffering, that he would know.  That she still loved him and needed him.

That she was waiting.  That she would stand forever and stare at the far wall until his image once again appeared.  Until his footsteps once again filled her house.  Until his voice once again rumbled against her back.  Until his embrace once again cloaked her in safety and passion and bliss.

Until he was at her side again.  At home.

She would continue waiting.