The Brightest of Us All by Ilye

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Chapter 4

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Ñolofinwë’s rousing speech to his own people was met with the grim cynicism he expected. Findekáno, who was already short-tempered and agitated at being wrenched away from Maitimo, stood smiling through gritted jaw at his side throughout, but when Ñolofinwë finished to a smattering of half-hearted applause amongst sceptical whispers, the facade clattered to the floor.

 

“I should have kept the hand as proof,” Findekáno muttered under his breath, then twisted on his heel and stalked away. Ñolofinwë let him go with a swallowed retort about long memories versus forgiveness. There were some, he knew, who would have taken joy in removing a Fëanárian hand, and here he was asking them to instead join hands with their aggressors. It was no wonder that Findekáno had failed to receive the hero's welcome he otherwise deserved.

 

By the time the assembly had dispersed and Ñolofinwë reached Findekáno’s tent, his son was already packed and ready to leave. By his side was Irissë, also with a pack at her feet, sword at her hip and bow over her back.

 

Ñolofinwë sighed. "Now where are you going, Findekáno?"

 

"Away," came the short reply, accompanied by an aggressive sheathing of his own blade.

 

"Are you, now?"

 

"We shan’t go far, Daddy," Irissë supplied. Ñolofinwë canted an eyebrow at her; Fëanáro’s camp was not far.

 

"We're going to explore the area and hunt some," she added. She, at least, sounded enthused by the prospect. Ñolofinwë bit the inside of his lip: it had been too long since she’d had something to enjoy. Besides, she might temper Findekáno’s–

 

"I know I'm not welcome here."

 

That from Findekáno again. Ñolofinwë heard the unspoken addendum: So I am going somewhere that I am welcome.

 

On impulse he stepped forward and caught both of his children against him with an arm about each of their shoulders. Irissë fitted immediately against him and laid her head on his shoulder with a soft chuckle of surprise. Findekáno allowed the embrace with more reluctance, his shoulders stiff and his jaw set.

 

"Just be careful, both of you," Ñolofinwë murmured, indulging in his protective instincts for once. "Come back safely, do you hear me?"

 

Irissë's arm came up around his middle and squeezed acknowledgement, and even Findekáno huffed a nod. Resisting the urge to ruffle their hair as he had done when they were children, Ñolofinwë released them.

 

“And if you bring back a beast we can make a feast of then so much the better, hmm?”

 

Findekáno, to Ñolofinwë’s utter surprise, flinched and closed his eyes. In a flash Ñolofinwë recalled the last time that Findekáno had brought home a carcass, painstakingly tracked through the wilds and bleeding out through a careful wound made with his hunting knife. He groped for words that might soothe that memory, but Irisse had already looked to her brother and taken him consolingly by the elbow.

 

“We’ll see you in a few days, Daddy,” she said stiffly, her face now nearly as dark as Findekáno’s, and off they went. Reluctantly, Ñolofinwë watched them go.

 

No, they are not going hunting at all.

 

~~~

 

The letter came two days later. It was addressed from Fëanáro, son of Finwë and Miriel Therindë, to to Ñolofinwë, son of Finwë and Indis of the Vanyar; may Ilúvatar keep him and may no shadow fall upon him. Yet within the pomposity and assurances that Maitimo was conscious and asking for Findekáno, and that Fëanáro therefore demanded his presence, there was a veiled request to Ñolofinwë.

 

Russandol wishes for Findekáno’s company.

 

You may accompany him when he visits, if it pleases you.

 

Findekáno reappeared half a day after Fëanáro's messenger and did not appear in the least surprised when Ñolofinwë relayed the summons -- which in turn did not surprise Ñolofinwë and only confirmed his suspicions that Findekáno and Irissë had met with Tyelkormo whilst exploring the area.

 

This time he urged Lalwendë to stay behind. She resisted, even when Ñolofinwë insisted that she had not been explicitly invited.

 

"None of us were invited the last time, and still he let us in when we appeared on his doorstep."

 

Ñolofinwë cringed inwardly; she was on the mark, as always. "That is true enough. Even so--"

 

"Besides, you never know," Lalwendë continued blithely, "he may even wish to thank me."

 

Ñolofinwë stared at her for a moment, and then they both cracked into cynical laughter. He curled his arm around her shoulder and made a point of ignoring Findekáno's impatient sigh.

 

"You are eminently sensible as always, Ñolvo," she sighed, and kissed his cheek. "I shall wait here and ensure there is no mutiny in your absence. But if that dear boy looks anything other than in the rudest of health then you are to send for me at once, do you understand?"

 

"We will, we will," Findekáno said hurriedly and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. He crouched as though to shoulder his pack, which he had not even emptied yet from his previous excursion. "Father? Shall we?"

 

Ñolofinwë finally succumbed to his son's impatience and set off around the lake once more. Fëanáro met them outside the gates as before, although this time he was alone except for the guards stationed at the entrance.

 

Ñolofinwë dismounted with a squelch into the mud left by last night's drizzle. This time, though, Fëanáro gave him no chance to kneel.

 

"About time," he said with a rough jerk of his chin at them both, and turned back into the camp. "Findekáno, I want to speak to you. Alone."

 

Findekáno appeared unfazed as he also dismounted, but Ñolofinwë felt the hairs on his nape prickle in alarm. He opened his mouth to protest, but Fëanáro looked back over his shoulder with a toss of his hair and huffed.

 

"We shan't harm each other – will we, boy?" he said with an arch look at Findekáno. Findekáno returned the look with uptilted chin and received a grin from Fëanáro, bright and sharp.

 

"I'll make you a deal," Fëanáro offered, his hand going to his sword belt. "I shall leave my sword at the gate just as you have yours, if you also leave that dagger you have hidden in your boot."

 

For this first time in many days, Ñolofinwë saw a smile crack across Findekáno's face. "The dagger I have hidden in my boot has proven extremely useful in recent days," he said, now biting the inside of his cheek to curb his smirk.

 

"Yes, well, if we need to remove any more body parts during our conversation then I have an axe in the forge and stocks behind it," Fëanáro answered shortly. He pivoted in the mud. "Now come with me, before you find yourself locked inside them."

 

It was all bluster, Ñolofinwë could see now. Despite his ever-whetted wit and brusque manner, Fëanáro looked tired. His impatience to speak to Findekáno and the fact that he'd met his nephew's cheek with jibes – however forced – intimated his need for efficient, temper-free conversation. His black humour and sharp remarks were simply a diplomatic foray to smooth Findekáno's feathers and get what he wanted from the situation.

 

Ñolofinwë appreciated the effort. He nudged Findekáno with his elbow and nodded in the direction of Fëanáro's retreating back.

 

"Go on," he muttered in response to his son's scowl, "off you go. And keep your temper, please."

 

Findekáno rolled his eyes, but jogged the few steps to catch up with his uncle. As both stopped by the guards to leave their weapons as agreed, Ñolofinwë cleared his throat and called out,

 

"Fëanáro – may I look in on Maitimo in the meantime?"

 

Fëanáro glanced back over his shoulder. He waved a hand as though it were of the least concern to him, but the tight lines around his eyes belied it all.

 

"Suit yourself," he said, "though he is most likely asleep. You remember the way, I presume?"

 

Ñolofinwë did, and soon found himself alone at Maitimo's bedside. The single healer who had been appointed to keep vigil excused herself and left, and so Ñolofinwë set her vacated stool next to the bed and occupied it himself.

 

His nephew was sleeping as Fëanáro had predicted, but peacefully now and he looked better than expected. His cropped hair did his poor gaunt face no favours, for it honed the bony angles already sharpened by starvation. But his features were relaxed and that softened the hollows of his cheeks, his arêted cheekbones and the caverns around his eyes.

 

Ñolofinwë took in the scars radiating from Maitimo’s lips; his broken nose no longer quite straight; the wide interruption across the hairs of one eyebrow; the purple-circled eyes. It was his nephew’s face still, but after it had been taken from him and abused by somebody else. He wondered how he would feel if it were one of his children in Maitimo's place and tasted bile.

 

Maitimo must have sensed his agitation, for he stirred, groaned, and squinted up at Ñolofinwë in confusion for a moment.

 

"Father?"

 

Ñolofinwë offered him a gentle smile and a softness of voice. "No, lad, it's your Uncle Ñolvo. What do you need? Shall I fetch him?"

 

Maitimo's head twitched on the pillow in what Ñolofinwë presumed to be a headshake. "No, no," he mumbled, already dropping back into slumber. "I just... You looked at me... It explains why the Silmarilli didn't burn."

 

Ñolofinwë frowned, but Maitimo was already asleep again. He was still trying to puzzle the meaning – if there were any and it was not simply a pain-addled dream – when Fëanáro and Findekáno emerged from their discussion.

 

Their attention immediately went as one to Maitimo. Ñolofinwë took the moment of distraction to survey them. Both looked harried and tired, but resigned, as though they had given each other what-for and come to a grudging agreement at the end of it. As though feeling the weight of their attention, Maitimo stirred a second time.

 

"Fin–" He gasped and his eyes shot open. "Findo?"

 

"I'm here." And he was, in an instant, gently taking Maitimo's groping hand in his own as he knelt by the bed. "I'm here, and so is your father, and mine."

 

Awareness seeped back into Maitimo's eyes. “I dreamed...” he began, then broke off into a series of stuttering breaths.

 

Ñolofinwë felt that strange, penetrating warmth again. He looked over to the door and saw that Fëanáro had his eyes closed and his head bowed, much like before when he had settled Maitimo from his nightmare after he first awoke. And, as before, Maitimo then let out a long, slow breath and went still beneath the blankets.

 

As Findekáno dipped his head and began murmuring to his cousin, Ñolofinwë sidled towards the door. Fëanáro’s face had turned dull and grey, like the ash on the outside of burnt-out charcoal. He caught Ñolofinwë’s eye and jerked his chin at the door. Together, they stepped outside and left their sons in privacy.

 

“You should leave the healing to the healers,” Ñolofinwë admonished. Fëanáro scowled and sliced a hand through the air.

 

“They were doing a poor job. He looks much improved.”

 

Ñolofinwë bit his lip. “This is true. But – oh, Fëanáro! –"

 

He darted forwards as his brother suddenly staggered sideways against the wall of the hut. But before he reached him, Fëanáro straightened again and glanced backwards with an irritated jerk of his head.

 

"It’s nothing,” he muttered, his hand going to his side and pressing hard. “My wound pains me, that is all."

 

"I didn't know you were injured."

 

Fëanáro shrugged. “Yes, gravely, in the first battle. Osombauko nearly had the better of me.” He turned side-on so that Ñolofinwë could see him in profile and they could avoid looking directly at each other. “It didn't seem important – I survived, after all, and the bastards had my son. It is no issue, except that it pains me a little from time to time, particularly when near fire.”

 

Ñolofinwë wondered how that fared for him working in the forge, but guessed instead, “And it pains you when your fëa burns to heal him, no?”

 

Fëanáro lifted his head, eyes glinting, and said sharply, “Would you let that stop you if it were one of your children?”

 

“Of course not, if I had your ability.” Ñolofinwë said it evenly enough, but he knew the look on his face implied a far stronger sentiment. Fëanáro uptilted his chin in his manner of aggressive acknowledgement, and Ñolofinwë nodded.

 

“And he does look better for it. But, Fëanáro, I have to ask: when I was sitting with him, he half awoke and mistook me for you. He said that I looked at him, but the Silmarilli didn’t burn.”

 

Fëanáro’s lip curled up in a sneer and a renewed heat flushed his cheeks. "Yes. He tells me that Morgoth has set them into his crown. They burned his eyes in the darkness, he says, like –”

 

He faltered, and with it Ñolofinwë’s heart did the same, such a rare occurrence as it was. Fëanáro sucked a deep breath across his teeth and spoke again with his voice like the low, dangerous crackle of a far-off fire.

 

“He says it was like I was watching him, whenever Morgoth looked down on him and tormented him, and he could do nothing."

 

Ñolofinwë swallowed at the thought, both heartened and alarmed. “So Maitimo has spoken of his torment?” he ventured.

 

"Don't call him Maitimo."

 

This time, Ñolofinwë's self-control got away from him. He gawped at his brother. Did you just...? But Fëanáro simply waved a dismissive hand at him and turned his shoulder towards Ñolofinwë.

 

"Don't look at me like that. I couldn't care less what he looks like. He asked me not to."

 

Cheeks warm from embarrassment and his chastening, Ñolofinwë dipped his head. “And so what may I call him instead?”

 

Fëanáro’s eyes scraped across him. “Russandol,” he said, in a tone that clearly closed that line of conversation. Ñolofinwë blinked, but accepted the statement and nodded.

 

“Very well. Poor lad, he must be in a state. It is a shame.”

 

Fëanáro’s eyes flashed, though whether from pride or anger or simply the shying of a cloud from the sun, Ñolofinwë could not tell.

 

“It is nothing of the sort,” Fëanáro declared. “He is not a shame. He is strong and he will heal, and we will manage his limitations. He will be like a gemstone, crystallised from the filth, the heat and the pressure, in the depths of the earth. He will be the brightest of us all.”

 

A replacement for the Silmarilli, forged with the flame of your own fëa? Ñolofinwë wondered, but held his tongue and instead acknowledged his brother’s words with a graceful dip of his head.

 

Their conversation was interrupted by Tyelperinquar, who emerged quietly from between the buildings and halted a few paces away

 

“They said I might find you here, Grandfather,” he said, dropping into a shallow bow. “Father asked me to inform you that the reports are on your desk.”

 

Fëanáro glanced up at the sky to gauge the sun’s position. “Late today,” he said, frowning. “Is everything well?”

 

“Nothing has come to my attention,” Tyelperinquar replied. “I believe Father was simply delayed in a meeting.”

 

“Ah,” Fëanáro replied, as though he could well believe that. “And are the smithies in good order?”

 

“Yes Grandfather. The sword-count is on track and the arrowheads are above predictions.”

 

“Excellent!” Fëanáro clapped him on the shoulder. “I am pleased to hear it. I shall drop by later and inspect the quality.”

 

“I have done so myself,” Tyelperinquar replied, “and I can assure you that the quality is exceedingly high.” There was a touch of insulted pride to his features that reminded Ñolofinwë of both Curufinwe and Fëanáro himself, but then he swallowed and his mask slid back into place. “However, I should be glad to have your approval also.”

 

Fëanáro nodded and did not acknowledge the challenge. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Thank you, Tyelpë; you are dismissed.”

 

As Tyelperinquar disappeared again, Ñolofinwë turned to Fëanáro with a raised eyebrow. The entire exchange, coupled with Curufinwë’s conspicuous absence, implied a subtle disobedience from Fëanáro’s closest son.

 

Fëanáro rolled his eyes. “Curvo is simply put out because he thinks he is no longer my favourite.”

 

Ñolofinwë’s other eyebrow lifted. Fëanáro smirked.

 

“Ridiculous, no? That implies that I have favourites.”

 

“Well, I was rather under the impression that you did.”

 

Fëanáro tossed his hair. “Presumptuous.” He looked away. “Even if I were to have a favourite, it is assumed that because Curufinwë is most like me – even in name – that he would be said favourite. Why? It assumes that I am overly fond of myself. And, whilst I know that I am great at many things, that does not mean that I am likeable, even to myself.”

 

Ñolofinwë filed that latter comment away for later discussion. “And yet Curufinwë resents your attention being spent elsewhere,” he suggested. Or perhaps he recognises that you identify with Maitimo – no, Russandol – after his torment more than you might realise yourself.

 

“I am certain we could all find something to resent about each other,” Fëanáro said, shrugging in that way of his that intimated a barb had struck deeply. “Not everyone chooses to act upon it, though.”

 

Indeed, thought Ñolofinwë, and said,

 

“Findekáno tells me Russandol defied you at Losgar.”

 

"Findekáno always was an insufferable brat," Fëanáro replied with a glint in his eye, "just like his father." He eyed Ñolofinwë pensively. "Russandol tells me Findekáno refused to kill him on the cliff."

 

Ñolofinwë felt his pride swell. "Well how about that?" he said with half a smirk. "Insufferable and disobedient – just like his father."

 

Fëanáro's shoulders lifted in a silent laugh. “Oh, go back to your followers,” he said with no real heat. “You have a diplomatic incident on your hands, I presume?”

 

"Something along those lines, yes. No thanks to you."

 

Fëanáro gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “In that, at least, I am merely the scapegoat, Ñolvo, and you know it very well indeed.”

 

Ñolofinwë offered him a serene smile, worthy of Lalwendë. “I do – and I have every intention of keeping it thus. They did follow me here, after all, and they will continue to do so provided their offence lies with you alone.”

 

It was said lightly enough, but beneath it he was deadly serious. Fëanáro regarded him a moment with his most calculating expression, then shifted to face North-east again as though drawn by what lay beyond the mountains. And perhaps he was.

 

“None of Morgoth’s slights will go unavenged, Ñolvo,” he said. His voice had drifted into that faraway place between ambition and foresight. “Not a single one: not my Russandol, or your Arakáno, or the Silmarilli, or the Trees. Or,” and his lips tightened before he finished, “our father.”

 

There it was: veiled, but the peace offering Ñolofinwë awaited. Everything slotted into place. Much water had flowed under many bridges between them, but now what his brother needed most was a chance to prove himself; an ally whom people would follow, and Ñolofinwë was it. Ñolofinwë’s blood swooped at the same time as his heart leapt in his chest: grief, mingled with new, united purpose.

 

“I would be honoured to take revenge at your side, Sire,” he said, stepping alongside Fëanáro. “Brother.”

 

They looked at each other and grinned, bright and sharp: a careful balance of deference and cameraderie.

 

“That is well, then,” Fëanáro said and turned, an indication for Ñolofinwë to follow him. “What say you we revisit our plans?