People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

Chapter 1

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Makalaurë watched as Nolofinwë, Lalwen, Findekáno, Findaráto, and some of Nolofinwë’s other Lords and Ladies approached them on foot. This was Makalaurë’s first glimpse of his kin, at least they had once been kin in better times. Now they were unrecognizable, so Curufinwë had warned him, though Makalaurë had believed his brother exaggerated. He had not. Makalaurë chided himself. Thirty years to cross the Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice, a place that needed no evil overlord to kill, maim, and torture. Makalaurë dismounted his horse. It would not be wise to peer down at Nolofinwë from atop a mount that was descended from the horses that Fëanáro’s host had taken from his uncle. At first Makalaurë had thought riding the horse would be message enough about his kingship, a show of his strength, but seeing Nolofinwë, Lalwen, and his cousins, made Makalaurë regret the choice. He had been too influenced by his brothers, by his own pride. Makalaurë smiled bitterly, thinking to himself, Father would be proud.

 

The first meeting of the Noldorin King and Nolofinwë’s host was held on neutral ground, between the camps. Too much distrust and discord lay between them for any other setting to work. It was on the western edge of the lake, on the flatland that gave way to the foothills of the Mountains of Mithrim. Not too long a trek for the Nolofinwion host that did not have horses, though that mattered little, for Nolofinwë’s host was used to walking, to marching, had learned to live and be a people that were on the move. Makalaurë could not imagine what that would do to a people and yet what he saw on the faces of those he had once laughed with, had named friend and cousin, disturbed him. And when he saw him, Findekáno, who had been like a brother to him, and dearest to Maitimo, Makalaurë fought the urge to look away. Findekáno, like all of them was gaunt, but there was something more disturbing about him that sent shivers down Makalaurë’s spine. Hate. Raw hate. Makalaurë had never known Findekáno to hate, but with every step Findekáno took towards the group, Makalaurë could see how his body was tense, how his eyes glowed with fierceness, and the way his hands were balled up in fists at his side, near his sword.

 

When Nolofinwë’s group halted, Findekáno’s eyes settled upon Makalaurë and scanned the remainder, inspecting the group. Fëanáro was dead. This much they knew. Of course, Findekáno was looking for Maitimo, looking for the source of his deepest betrayal, but he would not find him. Findekáno wore his emotions openly and what Makalaurë saw in him did not bode well for peace between them. Makalaurë thus decided, rather impulsively, that he needed to speak to Findekáno privately before sharing words with all of them, protocol be damned! Makalaurë called out to Findekáno, surprising his brothers: “I would like to speak with you Findekáno. Please…for a moment.”

 

Findekáno flinched, hearing Makalaurë’s words directed at him. It took a great deal of strength to keep himself from retaliating physically.

 

Makalaurë observed how Findekáno’s jaw tightened, how his eyes narrowed and shoulders hunched forward. He was sinewy now, a victim the long famine endured during the crossing of the Grinding Ice, but there was yet power, a power that Makalaurë had never seen in anyone. Indeed, Nolofinwë’s host seemed to possess whatever strange aura the Ice gave them. It was disconcerting.

 

Findekáno stepped in Makalaurë’s direction, Nolofinwë kept himself a safe distance, but not so far he could not hold his son back if Findekáno broke, for he recognized that Findekáno was riding a dangerous edge. “Say what you must in front of my kin,” Findekáno whispered, afraid if he spoke his voice would echo across the lake.

 

Makalaurë cast a weary glance to the group, “It would be better said to you in private, only a moment.” Makalaurë could hear his brothers begin to rumble behind him but a quick flick of his hand and his brothers quieted. They knew that Findekáno would need to be dealt with first, understood Makalaurë’s quick decision, but they cared for it not.

 

Findekáno turned away from Makalaurë and marched back towards his father’s group. Findaráto was furthest way, his face unreadable, but yet grim, his fairness no longer a happy sight. Nolofinwë laid his hand on Findekáno’s shoulder, gently halting his step. “You can always share with us what he has told you,” Nolofinwë’s voice dropped so only Findekáno could hear. “I do not think you want what he has to share with you spoken aloud. Think on it Findekáno,” Nolofinwë reminded his eldest that his and Maitimo’s relationship was not a widely shared story.

 

Findekáno turned to look back at Makalaurë who had moved forward, the rest of the brothers were at a safe distance, obviously annoyed by his insistence. Of course, it was about Maitimo. Nolofinwë had asked after him when first they met with Curufinwë who had come to tell Nolofinwë that Fëanáro had died. When Nolofinwë had asked after the other brothers and if Nelyafinwë was now king, Curufinwë had simply smiled, answering that it was not his place to speak for the King, and so he would allow the King to speak for himself. At that brief meeting Curufinwë had informed the Noldor host that they could set up in the southern part of the lake and do what they would with the buildings left behind by Fëanáro’s host. They had long before began building another settlement north of the lake and it was here that Fëanáro’s host had moved once they had word that Nolofinwë’s host had crossed the ice.

 

Findekáno nodded curtly. Nolofinwë urged him on with a glance. Findekáno turned and slowly walked towards Makalaurë, his eyes taking in all his surroundings, accounting for where on their bodies Fëanáro’s sons carried weapons, the placement of their hands, the rhythm of their breath, the twitch of their nostrils. Though Findekáno had the power to open himself up and search for Maitimo’s fëa, the hate that filled him, no longer allowed such connection. It had been broken, so Findekáno believed. Findekáno halted a few steps from his cousin, allowing his cold, blue eyes to settle on Makalaurë. Findekáno looked down his nose at Makalaurë and though he wore no crown he had guessed Makalaurë was now their leader. That only meant one thing…

 

Makalaurë spoke quietly but formally to Findekáno, though Makalaurë silently mourned for it seemed the Findekáno he had known in Aman was gone, lost to the ice. This person in front of him was not an elf. Makalaurë spoke, “Maitimo was killed by Moringotto.”

 

Findekáno drew back, but he did not take his eyes off of Makalaurë. A feeling stirred in his heart, or so he thought, but Findekáno allowed his hardened and bitter heart to reclaim whatever feelings stirred there. “We have lost many,” Findekáno replied shortly. “Some have no kin to grieve for them for entire families were lost, but thankfully your father and Nelyafinwë have all of you to grieve for them.” At that Findekáno allowed his eyes to linger on each of the brothers, daring them to come for him. He hungered for their blood, their healthy scent filling his nose, filling him with rage.

 

Makalaurë wanted to tell Findekáno, to reveal to him that Nelyo had never abandoned him, at least not easily. He should have said to Findekáno: You should know he turned away, could not, did not set fire to the ships. He implored father to return for you. He named you. He tried to keep us from torching the boats, but as soon as he stilled one of our arms, another put fire to the wood. He did not abandon you. But he said nothing. This was not the time for it. Makalaurë had to consider the political challenges of his own claim to Kingship. It was a complicated time, even within his own host.  Makalaurë cast his eyes to the ground instead.

 

Findekáno’s nose flared. His heart was ice and he used the cold to still the hand that desired to take his sword and permanently quiet Makalaurë who in that moment revealed his weakness. “Then the lot of you have lost much,” Findekáno hissed.

 

Makalaurë flinched, of course Findekáno would indict him. He too burned the boats. And why he did it, why he acted against the shouting within him that said “don't’ do it,” that ached as the fires burned, he could not say. They were the worse for not having Maitimo around.

 

Findekáno turned away from Makalaurë unexpectedly, announcing to his father, “Makalaurë is King. Nelyafinwë is lost.” Walking away, without turning to look at Makalaurë, Findekáno spat out, “It is him you should deal with father,” Findekáno pointed at Makalaurë. Findaráto moved to meet Findekáno and bring him back to their group lest Findekáno turn and unleash his rightful anger on Makalaurë.

 

Tyelkormo made a growling sound behind Makalaurë and Curufinwë spoke up, the haughtiness of his voice like a nail grating on the surface, “Findekáno should show deference to his King.”

 

Findekáno spun around enraged and Findaráto laughed aloud. Nolofinwë spat out a curse, “Do not mistake us for beggars. With one word, I can unleash my host upon your small contingent and we shall devour you and fill our bellies with your flesh. We are not the people you left behind.”

 

Carnistir’s eyes widened with disbelief. Tyelko quieted.

 

Nolofinwë walked towards Curufinwë, taking time to look upon each of his dead brother’s sons: “We are….” Nolofinwë glanced taking in the immensity of Endórë, “hungry.”

 

Makalaurë took a step back. He had not expected this. He needed to act quick. “Forgive us Nolofinwë,” Makalaurë dared not yet name him uncle. “We are fools to forget your peoples’ needs,” Curufinwë shot a look at Makalaurë but Carnistir shot Curufinwë a glance that said, dare not utter a word.

 

“What provisions will you share?” Nolofinwë quickly questioned, not forgetting his people were in need.

 

“We have food that shall last you for a time.”

 

“Yes,” Nolofinwë agreed, “you have left us some, but what of the horses you stole?” Nolofinwë looked around Makalaurë to the horse that stood riderless next to his brothers.

 

Makalaurë had to bite his tongue. “We shall give you one-third of our herd. I believe that shall recompense the numbers from your herd that we took.”

 

It was now Tyelkormo’s turn to speak up. “That is outrageous! We cannot simply surrender the animals we have brought to flourish in these wild lands!!”

 

Nolofinwë turned to look at Tyelkormo. “Then we shall kill the exact number of horses you took. We need food and horse meat is hardy and shall last us the winter,” Nolofinwë countered sharing an icy grin with his nephew.

 

Tyelkormo was horrified. Who was this person standing before him? Nolofinwë was mad, absolutely mad! He looked to the rest of the elves who accompanied Nolofinwë. All of them had the same feral look about them. Whatever they endured had utterly changed them. Tyelkormo saw them and feared them.

 

Makalaurë once more felt the earth shifting beneath him. “Of course not Nolofinwë, we shall bring one-third of our herd to you with enough feed to last for a few months. The hunting is plentiful if managed well. You will find the fields near your settlement to be generous. We did not harvest those grains. They await your peoples’ industry.”

 

Nolofinwë turned to look at the fields in the distance, his look softening, as if he was remembering something from the person, from the life that had long been abandoned. “You do well to offer this,” Nolofinwë spoke, turning his attention back to Makalaurë. Nolofinwë did not forget who Makalaurë was, who he had been as a child, as friend to Findekáno, but that had been then, before the ice.

 

Nolofinwë and Makalaurë spoke like this for some time, arrangements were made, but nothing was signed, no pledge made. It didn’t need to be. The very lives of the elves depended on it.

 

All the while Findekáno watched and heard, standing so very still as he had, as they all had learned to do on the ice, finding that stillness and quiet that would allow them to feel, to hear the subtle changes in the ice beneath him, but instead of the groaning or popping sound of ice he felt the earth beneath him, felt and heard its vigor and this gave him strength. His father made him proud. He did not bow down to the treacherous sons of Fëanáro. He was their King and he saw it on their faces, their doubt, their fears, but most of all that they were rudderless without their father, without Maitimo.

 

Later Findekáno would come to see that Makalaurë was stronger than he appeared, led more firmly than Findekáno cared to admit, but in this moment watching them quell filled Findekáno with a crooked joy, not a happiness for that seemed a lost story. Nolofinwë’s host had lost too many to the ice: sons, daughter, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers. Too many. But all the names were known, woven into the lamentation the Noldor sang as they crossed the ice, a lamentation that grew long. The dead would not be forgotten.

 

Carnistir leaned over to whisper to Tyelkormo who was looking upon the faces of those he had known with wide-eyed disbelief. “Tell me now if you desire to see your beloved Irissë.” Tyelkormo did not turn to look at Carnistir nor answer his brother. Carnistir sat back onto his mount, shifting back, allowing himself to exaggerate his comfort on his horse.

 

The initial negotiations were concluded. It was agreed that Lalwen would be the go between. She was hated least, if only because as a woman, Noldorin law did not reposit power into her line and so Fëanáro’s sons did not perceive her as a threat in same way as the men. The ice had changed even the most conservative of the Noldor in Nolofinwë’s host. Many of the customs of Aman were lost to the Grinding Ice. That wasteland imparted harsh lessons, stripping the Noldor to the bone of who they were as a people. They would no longer abide by laws and morals that did not help them survive. Endórë would impart her wisdom and they would remake themselves as a people in her image.

 

Findekáno stood tall, his long braid swaying in the wind. He watched proudly as Lalwen closed the initial talks. Findaráto came to stand next to Findekáno. “That went well enough,” Findaráto quietly observed, “but I cannot help but feel disappointed that my hunger has not been appeased.”

 

Findekáno grunted, laying a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can hope that this hunger that drives us can be satiated.” Findaráto smiled. It was not a happy thing. What was there to be happy about? They had arrived in Endórë and the price was great. Truly, they were relieved, relieved that the death march was over, that they could turn to healing and take the stillness in to mourn their lost ones.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë jumped off his horse, wordlessly sending the horse to the stalls. Elves were scrambling all over the Fëanorian outpost, reacting to the barking orders of their king. Makalaurë was reinforcing the perimeter of the camp, ordering more guards. Ambarussa followed silently at his side, making note of any gaps that he would later need to account for, but as was usually the case Makalaurë missed nothing.

 

Once inside their private quarters, Makalaurë allowed his anger to boil over, slamming his fists against a table that sent the contents flying across the room. It was a spectacular scene as a water jug tumbled and shattered, its contents spilling across the floor. Telvo watched as his brother raged, giving him the room to curse his uncle, to curse Findekáno, to curse the lot of the host that stupidly dared to cross the ice and survive. But Makalaurë’s rage could not be subdued. Telvo had enough of it. “Some poor fool will have to clean all this up,” Telvo spoke to Makalaurë who had thrown himself on chair. Makalaurë jumped up to yell at Telvo but the youngest brother rebuked his brother, his king, pushing him back onto the chair. “I will not tolerate your misplaced anger Kano.”

 

Makalaurë seethed but the feel of his youngest brother’s hand on his chest gave him pause. Makalaurë seemed to remember his breath, closing his eyes to focus on the sound and sensation of it, allowing it to still his nerves. “One more word from Curufinwë and I will have his head,” Makalaurë hissed.

 

Telvo laughed. “We shall take turns then.”

 

Makalaurë felt the anger drain out of him. “I know he thinks his words are meant to succor. At best, they are an annoyance and at worse they reveal the depth of his unwillingness to understand the threat of Nolofinwë.”

 

Telvo grew serious. “He has always been unwilling to see our uncle as equal to father, indeed himself. His conceit clouds his thinking, but he too will see beyond it. He is not a fool.”

 

It was Makalaurë’s turn to laugh. “You mean he will not remain a fool for long.” Makalaurë allowed himself to fall back on the large wood armchair. Makalaurë remembered his earlier tirade, scanning the room for the crown he so carelessly discarded.

 

“Over there,” Telvo offered, pointing to the corner where it had been thrown. Makalaurë picked himself out of the chair once more, walking over to retrieve the crown. Makalaurë cursed himself, retrieving the crown. It had been damaged.

 

Telvo looked over Makalaurë’s shoulder. “Nothing Curufinwë cannot fix.”

 

Makalaurë sighed. “Of course it can be fixed, though I do not know if the larger matter of the Crown can be fixed by as easily. Dark times await us,” Makalaurë murmured, the anger replaced by despondency.

 

Telvo went to stand at a window, looking across the lake towards the South. They would have a few years of peace, at least while it concerned his uncle. The other encampment would be busy establishing themselves, but that would only last a few years. And what of Moringotto? Would he strike, take advantage of their conflict? This could not bode well for the Noldor. Telvo’s thoughts went to Nelyo. Their meeting would have turned out different if Nelyo had been there. Feeling guilty he shot a glance at Makalaurë who was studying his brother.

 

“I miss him too,” Makalaurë offered. Telvo tried to smile, but he could not. Makalaurë continued, “I too consider what it would be like if he were here. What he would say.” Makalaurë walked towards a wooden table Maitimo had built, his hands settling on the grain of the wood, finding, tracing the line Maitimo found in the wood. “I often find myself asking him what he would do in such and such case.” Turning to Telvo, who watched him silently, Makalaurë sighed: “It helps you know, to think of him in this way.”

 

Telvo shook his head.

 

Makalaurë shared, “That I cannot find him, feel him, that I am constantly aware of his absence, of the void of him is a grief that has taken form, follows me.”

 

Telvo hesitated, but his words had their own mind to speak: “That I do not know if he is alive or dead is a bigger burden. We know not if it is Moringotto’s black magic that shields him from us, but then I believe if Nelyo were alive, Moringotto would revel in letting us know he lives.”

 

Makalaurë turned to face his brother. “And yet I dare hope he fears us enough and thus would not let us feel, know that Nelyo lives.” Perhaps that is what he had to believe.

 

“Yes,” Telvo replied, “there is some hope in that.” This time a small smile managed to break on his face.

 

Outside there was a stillness in the air, a type of melancholy that shaped itself into mist. It was not an evil, but a sorrow that would forever more become a part of the Noldor. Even upon the end of their exile, even upon rebirth, this sorrow would haunt their hearts for how could it not? To know such loss and to know that the world and its inhabitants were capable of both beauty and ugliness utterly transformed the Noldor, making them more like their kin that did not complete the Journey west.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

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Chapter 2: Is your heart together now?

 Is your heart together now? The words his niece had asked upon their return to the encampment from the meeting with Fëanáro’s sons filled Findekáno with sorrow and anger. Is your heart together now? Such an innocent question, but Itarillë was not innocent. She was a child that had lost too much and yet she always worried about others, about those that cared for her, held her to their hearts to keep the cold at bay and keep her heart together. But her heart had broken. Shattered and somehow she managed to put her heart together, over and over. Perhaps it was made possible by the little pieces of themselves that her family gave her every time she experienced loss. She was a child of the ice and the new Journey. She was not made in the image of Aman. She would be what the Noldor would become: resilient, born from a brokenness that would make her a survivor. And what of him, what of Findekáno? Is your heart together now? The words haunted him. Findekáno felt his stomach turn in knots from hunger and anger. He felt that icy bitterness claim him for well he knew that Itarillë deserved a gentleness from him, deserved his smiles, the dance of light in his eyes that would make her coo when she was a baby curiously watching Findekáno’s face contort with happiness.

 

Findekáno allowed his breath to mingle with the gentle breeze in a way that conjured the Green magic of Endórë. It did not bring him joy. Not yet. It was a mere utility for him.  It had only been but a few days after their return with their meeting with Fëanáro’s sons and disgust refused to leave the pit of his stomach. He wanted to take his knife to Makalaurë’s throat and run it across the delicate skin, allowing the blood to spill, warm his hands and drain the wretched life out of him. Findekáno remembered how the warm blood of ice creatures could warm their hands in that icy hell, like a soothing balm. Though the blood was spilled it was jealously collected to make a hearty broth that sustained, a rare treat. From the blood of the dying came life.

 

Findekáno walked on, a movement to his left caught his eyes. A deer. Quickly he paused and strung his bow but he lowered it as a fawn trotted out from behind bushes to catch up with its mother. The mother looked apprehensively about her, her nose catching the scents in the wind. She smelled him, looking in his direction, recognizing his breath. She took her little one and walked on, confident of her safety, instinct telling her that elves did not hunt mothers, not during the warm seasons. Findekáno understood the mother’s lack of fear towards him and he cursed himself for wanting to take her life and fill his belly with her meat. It took great self-control to keep his arrow pointed to the floor.

 

Stilling his anger, Findekáno allowed his anger to seep into his bones and down through his feet, to the earth beneath that was solid and warm. Some solace. The breeze tickled his nose, a scent was carried on it. Not a doe, not a small thing. This smell was of iron and blood: a living creature, strong with life. Findekáno stilled himself and allowed his senses to reach out. He heard its hooves landing tentatively on the earth below. He was not in sight but Findekáno was sure that he would soon find the large buck. Findekáno crept forward, his steps silent, his breath like the breeze. He saw the buck through the dense trees, a large and fine creature. Not one of the oldest for those also should not be killed as they carried the knowledge of their herd’s migrations. Findekáno allowed his mind to drift towards the buck, find its patterns of thought and look through the myriad of colors and shapes that were deer language. He does not know the way yet, Findekáno surmised. He would make an honorable kill. Findekáno notched his arrow and allowed it to fly. It was true and it fell the buck, killing him instantly. Findekáno did not pray to the Valar. Instead he offered his words to Endórë, to the deer, to that story that was contained in the life he claimed. Findekáno walked over and using leather ties, bound the legs together. He picked up the large animal, arranging the bound legs like satchel over his head. The deer was heavy but Findekáno managed. He would only have a short distance to travel before he could hand it off to others.

 

Before long he found the others and they came and took the deer from him to quickly dress the deer. Findekáno walked back towards the encampment noticing that his people had assembled a good amount of food: grouse, rabbit, deer, and even a large boar, all taken with respect to the laws of Endórë. Her laws were not fickle, not prone to the capriciousness of the Valar as they were in Aman. Endórë had opened her bosom for them and they were thankful for this for well the elves knew that the Black Foe could send out his pestilence at any moment. They foraged finding wild berries and onions, and other greens that came in spring. From the hearts of ferns, they took the fiddleheads, assuring continuous growth, and found caches of wild rice that were not ready to harvest but this brought joy for they knew they could tend these things that would come for days ahead. Some of the smaller animals such as rabbit were set aside to be domesticated for food production. Satisfied with the industry of his people Findekáno walked towards the horse paddock quickly taking shape. While elven horses did not need to be corralled, the darkness of Endórë required such security measures.

 

Findekáno was given space to be alone. That would not last long. They all had roles to play, duties to look after, and a people to inspire. There would be a feast, a celebration of the fullness of the moon that revealed her cycle to them as time wore on. Some elves prepared for the feast while others readied impromptu housing for the larger number of Nolofinwë’s host that found themselves in the old Fëanorian encampment. Findekáno for his part, besides organizing the hunts and patrols, took immediately to the task of making sure their new herd of horses was properly housed and fed. This was an easy task as the old Fëanorian encampment was well equipped for this, but these tasks cemented Findekáno’s role amongst Nolofinwë’s people as their leader of armies.

 

Írissë oversaw the housing of the Nolofinwion camp. She was in the large hall that served as both throne room and banquet hall during the inclement weather found in Endórë. A large part of the hall was turned over to living space that was given to the men and women that would become Nolofinwë’s army. The smaller mud huts and stone buildings became homes to the families that crossed. At least for now, the spring weather afforded them the comfort of sleeping under the stars, but secure housing was needed, particularly for when Morgoth would send out foul weather. The kitchens were Lalwen’s domain and for now, they were busy preparing the bounty the elves had gathered and storing away foods in the large storage rooms that were an indication of the harsh winter weather.

 

Turukáno quickly began to oversee the task of looking for building materials, assessing the nearby quarries that Fëanáro’s people had abandoned, and quickly finding the ink, quills, and parchment left behind. On this paper, he sketched out what their new home would look like. Nolofinwë, for his part, had gathered the leaders of the various houses, sharing the news of the meeting. In this task, the children of Arafinwë were useful. In all, the host committed themselves to making their new homes safe, but they knew that this would only be temporary for in ways of safety they needed to look towards a better refuge. And through Arafinwë’s line they also began to make alliances with the Sindar, the people of these lands. Indeed, many of those born on this side that had Journeyed and were now returned and those who remembered the names of relatives and friends began to seek them out. There was many a homecoming of sort. This bode well for Nolofinwë’s host.

 

Itarillë had taken to a task of her own, one she preferred to keep to herself. She was allowed such choices. Not because elven children mature quicker—sure there was that—but because her childhood was different. There would be no innocence growing up under the light of the Two Trees for her. And yet Itarillë, like the youth that had survived the Journey across the Ice, were bound with a different type of childhood magic, gifted by the shortness of life and the scope of knowledge they had gained. They were tender, quiet, and patient. They loved fiercely and their hope was iron clad, born from hardship and heartache. So Itarillë quietly set about to talking to people, venturing out with Irissë on hunting trips, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Green elves. They had come across a sort of earthen shrine the Green elves devoted to what must be their dead and departed: a testament to the different lives lived in Endórë.

 

Findekáno watched her and another young elf reverently carrying a basket. In better days Findekáno would have teased her for such a show, but these days were different and Findekáno grew somber knowing that whatever was in that basket meant a whole lot.

 

Itarillë found her uncle. It was obvious that her task was sensitive for the other young elf walked ahead, giving the elder elf and his niece privacy. “Uncle,” Itarillë greeted Findekáno. “I knew I would find you here after the hunts.” Findekáno nodded his head, an elegant brow raised, as Findekáno of old tended to do. “A fine stag you brought us,” Itarillë continued, holding the basket gently against her.

 

Findekáno broke his silence. “It was indeed.” He was going to say no more but Itarillë’s smile reminded him he still had a role to play as uncle. “It will fill many a stomach. It bodes well for the winter.”

 

Itarillë’s smile grew brilliant. “It does indeed,” she offered, repeating her uncle’s words. This elicited a snort from Findekáno who found it hard to laugh. For Itarillë it was enough. “I have fond memories of our times together riding out in the wild lands of Aman,” Itarillë revealed, her eyes looking into memory. Findekáno found it ironic that anything had been considered wild in that place they left behind. Itarillë came to the same conclusion: “Funny, isn’t it, that we called those places wild.” Itarillë grew serious. There was nothing comical in her observation. They both knew it. They were traversing the gap between two ages, where what was known was completely and utterly sundered, and now they were embarking on something new, heretofore unimagined. Itarillë looked down at the objects in her basket, her face struck with sorrow. “These things here are part of that story of who we were and who are to become.” Itarillë paused, looking up at her uncle. “These things here are what we lost in the in between.”

 

Findekáno’s spirits fell. Whatever brief joy he met when Itarillë greeted him seemed to tumble into that little basket. The in between: a way of talking about the journey that had quickly caught on. It wasn’t meant to distance the elves from that crossing. Nothing ever could. It was simply a profound sentiment capable of holding everything that the journey meant. Sensing her uncle’s sadness, Itarillë lifted an unfinished carving of a seal her uncle Arakáno had been making for her. When he died, she remembered he had it and through an anguish of tears and screams searched the clothes on his dead body for it. She found it in the pocket of his vest. The Journey had forced Nolofinwë’s elves to relate to death: to the smell of it, to the bodies (if they remained), and to the grieving. A child clutching a loved one became common place. They all needed to, had to touch their dead to grieve them and understand that loss of life. A worse pain was born when the dead were taken from them as Elenwë’s body was taken and sunk into the depths of the icy waters. All this history filled Findekáno’s thoughts. In Itarillë’s too, but differently. She chose to carry that memory through a different path.

 

Findekáno’s voice caught with grief, rendering him unable to speak. With a finger he caressed the unfinished seal that Arakáno had been carving out of a creature’s broken tusk. Itarillë tenderly put it in Findekáno’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Looking into her uncle’s grieving face, Itarillë offered comfort. “When I ventured out with Irissë not two days ago we came across a thicket of trees.” Her voice resonated with a strange quality as she related her encounter to Findekáno. “Hidden in the heart of that place was a wondrous assortment of trinkets placed in the trees or hung from their limbs. It shimmered with sound and light in the darkness of it. Calmacil, who was with us,” Itarillë shared, “knew what it was.” Itarillë was in her mind, traveling back to that sacred place, accompanied by Calmacil, one of the Unbegotten who had pledged himself to the House of Nolofinwë in the springtime of their lives: “He said to us, ‘It is a shrine to the dead and lost of the Laiquendi, a place of offering and remembrance.’ Findekáno, I wish you could see it,” Itarillë continued, her focus back on her surroundings. “There was such a peace to be found there. I felt I could exhale,” Itarillë confessed, exhaling deeply, finishing her tale. “We are new to death and perhaps this thing the Green Elves do is something that can be for us, too.” Itarillë’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “A place to remind us, that can help us mend…put our hearts together.” Of course there would never be mending, but something put together differently: that they could do.

 

Findekáno gathered his niece up in his arms. He held her for a time, breathing in her scent, finding comfort in her youth and hope. Daring to break the magic of the moment, Findekáno gently put Itarillë back on the ground, opening his hand to hand back his brother’s work. “It is a fine thing you do,” Findekáno replied, not able to quite find words adequate to speak from the depth of emotion he found himself battling with.

 

Itarillë spoke words he could not. “I think you have something you can offer. I found a place nearby where we have begun to leave tokens to our loved ones.” Before Findekáno could say “no”, Itarillë implored her uncle, “If you could only come with me, with us,” Itarillë clarified not forgetting her companion. “There are not too many yet who have the heart to do it themselves so they have offered these things here to us which alone is more than they could bear parting with even a day ago.”

 

Findekáno sighed. He would not refuse Itarillë this, though he suspected her reason for coming to him was purposeful. “Very well. I will go with you though I do not think I have anything to give, yet.” Itarillë offered her uncle a radiant smile, not the smiles of unabashed joy. This was a radiance born of hope that knew much sorrow. It was the most beautiful thing Findekáno had ever seen. It struck him then, in that moment that he walked with his companions to the dense thicket of trees, that beauty had revealed itself to him amidst his anger and bitterness. His heart just maybe, just might be put back together, even if imperfectly.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë observed the encampment across the lake. Who had they become, his uncle’s people? Silently he wondered who he had become-his father’s people. It had been months since the fateful meeting between the two camps. Nolofinwë’s people had settled to making a home for themselves, filling their bellies with game and the industry of their gardens. He waxed philosophically about it to whomever would hear him. Curufinwë was his audience on this day, but Makalaurë was strangely quiet, so much so it began unnerving Curufinwë. “You’ve been speaking so prolifically since last we saw Nolofinwë that I thought I would desire your silence, but now that I have it, I like it not. Say what is on your mind.”

 

Makalaurë grimaced. He did not find the capacity to smile, even if it was meant to convey irony, so he offered a grimace. He was tense. There was much to do and plan and consider in this new world with Nolofinwë and his people in it, alongside the threat of Moringotto. Curufinwë looked more cross, expecting that Makalaurë should immediately respond to him, but Makalaurë was unhappy that up to this point, some of his brothers did not think it important to consider what he had been going on about. Truly, it was not their fault. They were all reacting to the new world order that had descended upon them and the grief of their father’s death and Maitimo’s loss that came raging back.

 

Makalaurë went over to a large wooden table that had a large map upon it. “New lands we have charted,” Makalaurë finally offered, “though others have called these lands home for longer than you or I have lived. Nevertheless they are new to us.”

 

Curufinwë stood up from his chair and went to stand next to his brother. “We debated the orientation of the map,” Curufinwë acknowledged, “questioning whether these lands should be oriented in relation to the West.” 

 

Makalaurë let out a heavy sigh. “And yet here this map lies, its coordinates oriented to the West, to that place we cannot return.”

 

Curufinwë could smile and he did. It was not a pretty thing. “A terrible irony that what is most familiar to us is also what rejects us most and that we have denounced.” The oath clamored in both their heads, coming to them as it was wont to do, from the depths and darkness where it found a home, waiting to be conjured and fulfilled.

 

Makalaurë spread his large hands on the map upon the details of the expanse of water between Aman and Endórë. “Nolofinwë’s peoples do not look to the West as we do,” Makalaurë spoke, conceding what troubled him. Curufinwë pursed his lips. Makalaurë was right. Nolofinwë’s people had an advantage. Makalaurë continued, guessing what Curufinwë was seeing on that same map: “Cartography is a science we both studied under father, but what I think I failed to understand then,” that Maitimo had grasped Makalaurë thought to himself, “was the world making in it. We were so arrogant to see the world solely through our eyes.” Curufinwë crossed his arms in front of him. Part of him wanted to argue that theirs was the best way to see the world and yet he understood his brother. Makalaurë let his fingers trace the contours of the coast and travel to that point where Nolofinwë’s camp was newly marked. “They are utterly changed. Unrecognizable,” Makalaurë shuttered, memories of that fateful meeting seared into his thoughts. Curufinwë nodded his head in agreement. Makalaurë’s point hit home hard. Makalaurë offered his final assessment, “If they are to be our enemy we cannot rely on what we knew of them to guess a move or motive on their part, much less an outcome.”

 

Curufinwë frowned. “Their Journey is unimaginable,” he shared, agreeing—for once—with his elder brother.

 

“And this makes them dangerous my brother,” Makalaurë turned to look at Curufinwë, his pained eyes revealing what it cost him to be a King to a fierce people that may not understand such paradigmatic shifts in elven history and time. Curufinwë sighed, bringing his hand up to rub his temple. Makalaurë knew he had him so he pressed on. “We need to forge an alliance, though not a friendship, use their need to keep us close. Only then can we begin to understand them as they are now.”

 

“Aye,” Curufinwë answered, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat. Clearing his throat, Curufinwë proposed what had been seemingly impossible just hours earlier. “You will have my vocal support in this.”

 

Makalaurë fell back into his chair. He missed Maitimo and his father fiercely, but Maitimo more, though that gave him an awful sort of guilt. Maitimo would have understood this scenario immediately. Fëanáro would have understood it but his pride and anger towards his brother would have blinded him. And now they were all paying for those emotions. Looking up at Curufinwë  caused Makalaurë to laugh, in spite of himself. “If I did not know you so well, brother, the way you are looking at me just now, I would think you look down upon me with disdain… and pity.”

 

Curufinwë inclined his head, “But you know me better.”

 

“I do. But there is pity there in your eyes. I see it.” Curufinwë did not correct Makalaurë. “This is not a title I wanted nor ever imagined I would have,” Makalaurë confessed what he knew Curufinwë and the others intuited.

 

Makalaurë’s words resonated with Curufinwë in light of their previous conversation. Mustering as much emotional demonstrativeness as he could, Curufinwë gingerly placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I do feel sorrow and compassion for you,” he admitted. This caused Makalaurë to put his hand over Curufinwë’s, meriting more surprise from Makalaurë when his brother did not remove his hand. Curufinwë was not finished and though he would not speak to Makalaurë like this again, he confessed a sentiment that Makalaurë would carry with him until the end of his days: “And yet you are our champion. None of us could stand in your shoes. We would sooner bring us to folly. You are our King.”

 

Makalaurë’s mouth fell agape. He had no words. The moment was fleeting. Curufinwë removed his hand from under his brother’s hand and cleared his throat to bring back attention to his face that he had once more schooled to sternness. “I must go find my son. We have much work to do.” As Curufinwë  exited from Makalaurë’s room, Makalaurë whispered a “thank you” that reached his ears. Curufinwë too would never forget this moment.

 

Chapter 3: In times of war

Morgoth is not supposed to attack during these early years because he sent up clouds of smoke, darkening Hithlum as a result of the sun and moon. I change this in my story. Seems a bit too easy.

Read Chapter 3: In times of war

Chapter 3: In times of war

 

One day of ominous luminescence, Findekáno, like a parable to his people, changed his name. Years from that day, Turgon would always remember his brother’s defiance and righteous anger. On that day, he left behind Turukáno and started dreaming. Irissë too would remember, though for her, it was also a reminder that as much as things changed others remained utterly constant. Nolofinwë held steadfast because he needed to, at least he convinced himself of that, but the queer hues of color unsettled him enough that not long from that moment in the accounting of elves he would whisper his children’s names before heading off into the annals of elven history in the First Age of their days on Middle Earth. They were, on that day, truly people of the Ice remade in the shadow of Endórë.  But this day came after their first battle and it came because of it….

 

)()()()(

 

Mysterious shadows settled on the land. The angle of them was all wrong even though the sun was true to its course. Under the cover of night, the effect was stranger, the black edges of the shadows crooked, untrue to the material object that cast the shape. It was unsettling, the first of Moringotto’s ill magic that the host of Nolofinwë encountered in Endórë. The attacks were coming. Nolofinwë felt it in his bones, through his skin, a whisper in the corners of his mind. Moringotto was readying his evil armies to check their defenses, test the tensions between the two Noldorin factions.

 

Quietly, a group of Noldorin soldiers—for that is what they were—readied weapons: quivers filled with arrows, swords sharpened, daggers readied. In pairs, the elves braided each other’s hair in plaits flat against the head. Nimble fingers deftly wove in threads enchanted with old Eldar magic. There were few who remembered the old incantations, but enough to whisper protections and courage into the fibers that were threaded in the long plaits of hair. Similar trinkets adorned the horses’ manes and tales. While history would later paint these elven traditions as simply faerie whimsy, to behold an elven steed thus adorned would soon cause foe and ally alike to quell with fear.

 

Findekáno stood ready at the edge of the camp, watching the black smoke that rose from the Fëanorian camp. His face grim, he directed an elf that stood next to him to answer. She would become his lieutenant, leader of his guard when the kingship came to him, a rank earned through the misery of the Helcaraxë.  Approaching the watch fire that remained lit, Accarrë felt the weight of the pouch in her hand. The strange compound within began to respond to the heat generated from the blood pounding within her. Her family had found it as they crossed into Endórë. Of all of Nolofinwë’s host, they would be the ones to covet such a substance and gather it for the powder in her pouch was the ashes of wood burned by Morgoth’s fire demons, the Malkarauki, becoming a thing of darkness unto its own. A pinch of powder thrown into the fire would raise black smoke and the resulting flames would devour the wood.

 

Accarrë marched across the camp, those near her parting. Not many would desire such a substance, and yet the accusations of old were left to rot in the Blessed Lands. Once, in another time, accusations of witchery were laid at her family’s feet. No more. The knowledge they kept from the time of Awakening by the shores of Cuiviénen was once more…useful. Irissë watched the new order announce itself. She stood proudly next to her father, observing her dear friend take her rightful place amongst their people and next to Findekáno. Accarrë removed the pouch from her belt, carefully opening it to reveal its precious contents. Whispering words long forgotten by elvish memory, she called forth shadow and with a quick flick of her fingers deposited the ash into the fire.

 

The fire moaned causing the fine hairs on Findekáno to rise, such was the power of fear and horror it provoked. Muttering and soft cries rumbled throughout the camp. Nolofinwë held up his hand to quiet his people. “Long ago,” Nolofinwë pronounced, “our people were wedded to all of Endórë. We understood then that darkness and light were not a duality but a continuum in the melody of all that was around us, in us.” While Nolofinwë spoke, Irissë made her way to the fire, at first whispering the same incantations Accarrë had spoken. From the other direction came Lalwen, and finally came Artanis, their voices in whispered unison, proclaiming with power the old magic. Itarillë was mesmerized, both shaken and awed by the world revealing itself. Her arm was aching so strong was her father’s hold on it. He was forgetting himself, also watching in awe as things he had only heard about in whispers were now conjured.

 

Nolofinwë signaled the new age: “Let us remember who we are, who we are meant to be.” His hands raised towards the fire followed by a whoosh of sound as arms were thrown up in the air around him. The voices of the four maidens grew louder whipping the fire into a frenzy. A thick black smoke snaked its way into the air, reaching to the stars. Nolofinwë’s host surrounded the pit. The black smoke was meant as more than just a signal to the Fëanorian camp that acknowledged their warning of the threat. The billowing smoke sent its thick tendrils into the strange day, announcing to Morgoth and his creatures of what was to come. Nolofinwë contemplated what such a show from his host would elicit from the fallen Vala.

 

Findekáno made his way to his father’s side. Nolofinwë’s mind turned to his son, regarding for a moment the task Findekáno had taken on: to find the best military organization for the time and place they were. While they relied on the units formed on the Ice, in Endórë they would need time, experience, and advice from their kin that did not Journey to consider what military infrastructure would work best for them. Nolofinwë faltered, We too have fallen, he conceded. Would it help or hinder them in their fight against Morgoth?

 

“We stand ready,” Findekáno briskly addressed his father. Nolofinwë nodded. Findekáno’s hunger was palpable. There was a wildness to the blue hue of his eye, made more so by the strange light. His muscles twitched subtly beneath his light leather armor, but this was his eldest. Having time to know and study their children, Elven parents were keen in the observation of their children, taking note of the smallest details: the way the pupil dilated, the flare of a nostril, the relaxation of a certain muscle, the tensing of another, and the planting of the feet just so upon the earth. But Findekáno was also new to Nolofinwë, a wildness to him.

 

Nolofinwë gifted his son a feral smile. Speaking so that all could hear him, he addressed his eldest: “Go now our Captain. Herald death and fear to those that would threaten us.” Findekáno inclined his head and held his hand to his heart. It was not lost on him that his father’s words were as much about the Fëanorians they would meet up with as well as Morgoth’s creatures that marched against them. Around father and son, the crowd broke out in a hungry roar, smaller moments of encouragement shared with those loved ones that would be taking the horses to meet up with the Fëanorian host to battle the oncoming darkness.

 

The crowd parted, allowing the members of the elven company to walk to the horses that awaited. The mighty elven steeds were a sight to behold—rearing, neighing, nipping at one another—the bloodlust of their elven kin intoxicating. Riders took to their mounts. Findekáno allowed his horse room to ready itself for battle in the way horses did; it reared, dancing on its hind legs, letting out a hearty war cry as it leapt forward to meet whatever evil lay ahead.

 

)()()()(

 

Accarrë’s brought her horse to a halt beside Findekáno. They stood but a league away from the other encampment which was more truly a fort. Knowing the Fëanorians observed them the entirety of their route, Findekáno could only guess what thoughts they held, what they spoke aloud. This was to be the first test of whether the two camps could come together to face the threat of their common enemy. In the months that had stretched between Nolofinwë’s arrival and this moment, they had few dealings with one another. Findekáno had not seen his cousins since that initial meeting. Lalwen and other lords of Nolofinwë’s people were charged with this diplomacy. And yet here he was. He knew this moment would arrive sooner or later. His stomach was twisted in knots, his anger like a cauldron boiling within him, but Findekáno tried to contain that anger. The threat lay beyond the Fëanorians this day. Each camp knew that Morgoth was testing them, poking and prodding, hoping he could promote further tension and division within the ranks- the easier to defeat them.

 

Accarrë glanced at Findekáno. He wore his hate openly. “My captain,” Accarrë named Findekáno by a title that had not yet been decided on. Findekáno’s attention snapped to Accarrë, amused by the honorific she used for him, as his father had. Having known Accarrë since she was a child, Findekáno knew better than ignore the advice she had for him; and coming to know her across the ice he knew her words would have merit. “You must learn to better mask your feelings for the others. We all know how you feel for we share in it.” Turning to face the Fëanorian encampment, she continued, “They know how you feel, but having to bear such a scathing reminder of our disdain for them would not bode well marching into battle.”

 

Findekáno chuckled, a rare thing for him, but Accarrë was right. With a stiff nod, he acknowledged her words, trying as best he could to school his features into a blank slate.  “That’s better,” Accarrë offered. Closing one eye and with the other observing Findekáno she declared, “If all goes well and we all do our part, I might just find it in me to share my bed under the stars with you.”

 

Findekáno raised a single eyebrow. They were an angry and sad people, but that did not mean they abandoned their bodies’ needs. Sex was something that saved them on the ice, reminding them of the heat of life. Perhaps it was also a sad commentary that for many it was merely instrumental. It was a difficult path back to find that sort of intimacy for those that bore the guilt of surviving. Findekáno replied, “What of my sister’s bed? Will she not miss you in it?”

 

Accarrë grunted, “She will not quarrel me this one night.”

 

The creases around Findekáno’s eyes softened.  The brightness in his eyes shifting from darkness to tenderness. Nothing more needed to be said. Findekáno urged his horse on with a flicker of a thought, leaving Accarrë behind. No, Irissë would not begrudge Accarrë sharing intimacy with Findekáno. In fact, Irissë would encourage it, so worried was she that her brother was losing too much of his elvishness and becoming a dark thing. The Kinslaying and Maitimo’s betrayal had robbed him of much of that part of himself and yet somehow Accarrë found a way to squeeze through his barriers just enough to keep him from closing that part of himself off.

Accarrë rode behind Findekáno, the other riders falling in line behind them. They were those most loyal to Findekáno, friends from youth, distant cousins, sons and daughters of those families within Nolofinwë’s inner circle: nobles, crafts people, farmers. The old distinctions did not matter in the same way. Survival dictated the new order.

 

From ahead of her she heard Findekáno call out: “Witch.” Accarrë smiled to herself. The others found it amusing too and they each said a prayer for Accarrë, their enchantress who offered them a different sort of gateway to Endórë, the second to Findekáno’s lead. Though they too had lost many, they did not carry quite the darkness their beloved Findekáno did, but darkness indeed was wedded to all them, all Kinslayers: Findekáno’s company.

 

)()()()(

 

“Vengeance is thy name,” Tyelkormo whispered, observing Nolofinwë’s people gather outside their encampment, and in particular observing Accarrë, a figure he was familiar with.

 

“I always thought it strange her parents gave her such a name. I remember the scandal of it,” Carnistir murmured, noticing Tyelkormo’s gaze was locked on her.

 

“Your memory of it is off,” Tyelkormo corrected his brother, “It is her mother name, given to her after a dream her mother had.” A dream that had proved to be a prophetic vision of their damnation and their will.

 

Carnistir waved off his brother with a flourish of his hand, “True, I did not care enough about Accarrë or her family to give a tinker’s damn, but now….” Carnistir’s voice trailed off, his keen eyes focused on Accarrë. “She’s a witch,” Carnistir snarled.

 

Tyelkormo leaned out over the crenel to get a better view, using Carnistir as an anchor. “So it was said of mother,” Tyelkormo retorted knowing Carnistir outwardly spoke of their mother with contempt.

 

Carnistir eyes grew narrow, “And so it was said of your white lady.” He felt Tyelkormo tense, his grip on Carnistir deepen.

 

Releasing his hold on Carnistir, Tyelkormo did not respond, choosing instead to change the subject to one that was also on their minds: “Are we simply going to let Makalaurë lead our company? He should not endanger himself so.”

 

Carnistir sighed, “There is no changing his mind. He goes with good men.” The Fëanorians were all fierce fighters.

 

“He does,” Tyelkormo admitted, “but he should not expose himself so.”

 

“That is why you must do your best to see no harm comes to him,” Carnistir advised his brother. “I worry about more than just a horde of orcs,” he added, eyeing Findekáno who had not spoken a word and simply waited quietly for the Fëanorians to acknowledge him. It was unnerving. “Protocol be damned,” he spat out.

 

Tyelkormo grimaced. They were making protocol anew if such could be said of it. Of all of them, he believed he had the best chance of reading Findekáno, of understanding him. They had similar personalities which caused them to butt heads in better days, and conceivably, this was something he could rely on to help Makalaurë make sense of the new order of things. If they were to be battle allies, Tyelkormo was their best hope in figuring out what that alliance would look like in the heat of the clash.

 

Makalaurë walked into the courtyard, helm in hand, sword at his side. “To your horses,” he commanded which prompted a flurry of activity.

 

Tyelkormo ran down the stairs of the battlement to find his brother. “Are you sure of this. You do not have to do this.”

 

Makalaurë offered a thin smile. “Would you say the same to father or Nelyo?”

 

Tyelkormo shifted his weight back onto his heals, biting his lips. Of course he would not. Inclining his head to his king, Tyelkormo leapt onto the horse that awaited him.

 

Ambarto handed him his silver helm. “Come back to us, Tyelko. Bring them all back.”

 

Tyelko leaned over his horse, grasping his younger brother’s shoulder, “We will Pityo. I promise that.”

 

Ambarto knew better than to remind Tyelko that promises could no longer made. They were illusions, but he knew that it was in his brother’s nature to believe he could. Beautiful Tyelko, Ambarto reached up and touched his cheek. This would not be good bye. Not yet.   

 

Makalaurë’s horse let out a battle scream, commanding the other elven steeds for the ready. It acted for its lord and Makalaurë decided it was time to meet with the company outside the gates and then to whatever awaited them. Previous to this moment many conversations were had, orders given, and plans conceived concerning Findekáno and his people. The gates opened and Makalaurë led his company to meet Findekáno’s.

 

Horses snorted and kicked the earth sensing their riders distrust of the other. Findekáno pushed his horse forward, Accarrë following behind him. The others remained where they were. Makalaurë and Tyelkormo went forward to meet Findekáno their helms held at their sides. Findekáno removed his white helm that did not offer near the protection that the more stalwart helms of the Fëanorians. Findekáno noted the differences in armament. The Fëanorians wore fine steel mail under their leather, thick leather greaves on their legs, and leather braces on their arms. Findekáno’s company had few such accoutrements. Many of these things were lost to them when the ships sailed without them and left on the path of the grinding ice. The few items offered to them by the Fëanorians were shared by those who scouted and hunted. Another reminder of the betrayal. Another Fëanorian affront to Nolofinwë’s people.

 

Findekáno spoke first. “I will speak plainly for we cannot afford any discord to follow us when we go to battle.” Makalaurë, inclined his head. Tyelkormo kept his eyes trailing from Accarrë to Findekáno. He knew others were watching the remainder of Findekáno’s company. His face was drawn tight, his eyes filled with the eerie glow of those that had seen the light of the Two Trees. Findekáno had only eyes for Makalaurë. Speaking through gritted teeth, holding back the venom that wanted to spill forth, he spoke of what was plain for all to see. “You are better equipped than we are and we know the reasons why,” Findekáno hissed.

 

Tyelkormo allowed his horse to move close to Findekáno’s. “We will allow your company to use our armament if you need it,” Tyelko retorted, his eyes narrowing, daring Findekáno to a confrontation.

 

Makalaurë pushed Tyelkormo’s horse off with his leg, announcing, “Enough, Tyelko.” Makalaurë turned his attention to Findekáno, his eyes glowing with both anger and the light of the Two Trees. “There will always be a reminder of the burning of the ships and your march across the ice. I cannot do anything to remedy that now,” Makalaurë breathed, his words tumbling in anger and frustration. “Let us settle this if you need to after we meet whatever comes for us. My men will take the foreguard.”

 

“We will not…”

 

“Findekáno do not be a fool. We are better equipped and can take more blows and direct arrows than all of you. This is only tactic, not a question of your worth.”

 

Findekáno growled. Makalaurë was right. Findekáno spun his horse around to face his people. “So it shall be,” Findekáno agreed unhappily. Before he returned to his company, Findekáno nudged his horse to walk backwards to Makalaurë so he could be face to face with his cousin. “We will take the rearguard.”

 

“Then let us go and meet them,” Makalaurë growled, impatient, needing to get on with it and meet those responsible for taking his brother and his father.

 

Findekáno allowed his horse to gallop to his men, Accarrë at his side. Findekáno whistled and the elven riders lined up in their formation, waiting for the Fëanorians to form the arrow in front of them. Findekáno took the rear, sending Accarrë to the middle which did not make her happy but his orders were brisk. Makalaurë rode in the front. Tyelkormo came to the rear to ride with Findekáno. Even if they did not speak they could at least feel each other out.

 

What is that? Something buzzed at the edges of Tyelkormo’s consciousness. Realization dawned on him: Findekáno. Mind speak? It made sense. There were many birds in the sky, some surely spies. Tentatively Tyelkormo allowed Findekáno in, but it was unfamiliar, not the Findekáno he had known.

 

What did you expect? Findekáno spoke to his cousin in the curious elven manner. Tyelko glanced at Findekáno who was watching him intently.

 

He answered, I am not sure what to expect. No need to beat around the bush.

 

I need you to tell me as much as you can about these orcs.

 

Of course, Tyelkormo reasoned. Findekáno and his company did not have as much experience as the Fëanorians fighting the orcs. He exchanged as much information as he could, noticing that as he related the information Findekáno was passing it on to Accarrë. Certainly, they all needed to know. Nevertheless, he peered at her through narrowed, untrusting eyes. They’d never gotten along. Findekáno nudged Tyelko’s leg hard, commanding his attention and warning him. Tyelko hissed and gritted his teeth.

 

Before closing their connection, Findekáno offered Tyelkormo what Tyelko took to be a generous thought: Some things do not change. Or was it meant as an offense? Tyelko could not tell. Noting the confusion on his face, Findekáno snorted, settling into the ride.

 

 

)()()()()(

 

Makalaurë gritted his teeth waiting for the onslaught. They’d lost the advantage of allowing the horses to charge into them. The horses could not be exposed too long to such close combat. A rider stopped next to him. It was Findekáno. Of course it would be. Though his company stayed in the rear lines, there was no way in the void that Findekáno would not be at the fore. Suddenly, time slowed for Makalaurë. The clouds cleared and the roar of the orcs grew to a mere whisper. Findekáno was whispering words, calling into being power, words that Makalaurë had known his father to speak. It dawned on him then the resemblance between Findekáno and Fëanaro. How come he’d never seen it, never thought their personality so alike? Is this what his father would be like if he did not have the burden of losing a mother in a land where there was supposed to be no death?

 

Findekáno was summoning forth the songs of power they possessed, but he was not using them as Fëanaro had. Instead he was pulling the power into him. No! Makalaurë thought to himself, what was he doing? Findekáno’s face was bathed in darkness and light, the border between shadow and light cloven between his eyes. The horse beneath him danced, its fury held in check by the thighs of the rider pressed against the horse, willing it to still. Its hooves clamored on the stone, its masters breathing heavy, both creatures restive, ready for battle, smelling the blood of their enemy.

 

Tyelkormo’s horse pranced beneath him. Secrecy was not demanded so he allowed the horse to release its nervous energy, to whip itself into battle fury. He too could feel the energy stir within him. He could smell it, the feral primacy of battle. They would all, in time, come to recognize the elven battle fervor, but this was not a quality cultivated in Aman.

 

The wind stopped, the chirping of birds quieted, and the shadows grew longer. Above them clouds were obfuscated by an unnatural shadow. Morgoth’s creatures were here. The horses’ eyes grew large, their breathing hard, spit dropping from their mouths. Findekáno’s mount danced in circles, its rider’s head whipping back and forth, eyes shining with fury. The others in Findekáno’s company were similarly dancing in place, waiting for the attack. They had no other choice.

 

Over the hill they came, a vicious horde. Thousands to the elves hundred. They marched but a sudden wind made such a sound that their heavy footsteps were muted. They came. They were coming, coming for them. The whites of their eyes and razor sharp teeth gleaming in the moonless night. Dark fires within, indeed. The fiends stopped, willing the elves to meet them on the crest of the hill, but the elves stood their ground at the bottom of the hill that offered them some protection. Instead the orcs were greeted with rain of arrows, but they were ready, shields held up, locked together, but another wave of arrows came lower finding the vulnerable openings. The first lines fell, and then the second, but the orcs were many and they advanced trampling over the dead.

 

“Forward!” An orcish creature cried in the shadow language. The orcs cried out and ran to meet the elves. 

 

Makalaurë sang out, a clear and bright note, its power ripped the wind back into a frenzy sending it like a whip into the orc horde. Twenty fell, then thirty. Other elves raised their voices with Makalaurë, but the orcs had a strong magic on them, able to better resist the songs of power, even if only momentarily. Findekáno could not sing with them because he had taken all that power into himself. Songs of power were tiring. The elves could not expend all their energy this way, but they would have better odds. Makalaurë called the song back. Hundreds had been killed and hundreds more felled by arrows that rained on them in the confusion the Song produced. Better odds. The horses leapt into the battle with their riders claiming hundreds more. Better odds at every stroke, at every slice.

 

It was time. The elves jumped off their steeds, sending them back, though the horses desired to remain in battle they did as their masters desired, retreating, but not before kicking and ripping and biting at any orcish thing that got in their way. Elves in battle were a terrible sight to behold. The Fëanorians and the Nolofinwions were brutal, allowing their doom to serve them in devastation. Kinslayers. Dealing death, offering no mercy.

 

Findekáno stood in the middle of the carnage, a silver glean of moonshine finding him. He could die on this night. It would be a good death. Findekáno answered his death song, bringing it to bear on his enemies as his elven peers tired around him as he knew they would. Findekáno’s small company had this going for them, stores of energy that they learned to pull in, to keep going. A lesson from the Ice. His sword sang and cried, slicing, beheading, crunching, catching bone. The smell of rotten iron of orcish blood filled his nose with fury. His lungs were on fire, propelling him forward into the melee, dancing and killing, all in one beautiful motion. Merciless, brutal, following the rhythm of dying and dealing death. His sword pummeled and found its way through flesh. His hand reached and ripped at heads, ears and eyes, such was elven strength that he could rip a head, clean from the spine. It brought him joy, allowed him to feel light and dark. The music of slaughter summoned the kinslayer, called into being destruction.

 

And then Findekáno saw the mark of the orcs that attacked them when they first set foot in Endórë. Remembered Arakáno, saw him fall, the anguish of not being able to get to his brother on time. The smell of his brother’s death filled him, causing bile to come up, but he spit it out, crying out vengeance for his brother. Enraged he flew into the orcs, his company with him for they all knew the red mark of those creatures. Their swords were brutal and violence and terror was inflicted upon Morgoth’s minions. The orcs cowered under the onslaught. Bright fiery eyes of violence would be the last thing they would witness before their death. Their death was carnage. They deserved nothing more, so Findekáno’s people fought, terrorizing those evil creatures that had once laughed at them, fleeing with elves, taking them as prisoners to Morgoth. Findekáno’s aim had been true that day not too long ago. With his few remaining arrows he had been able to bring peace to those captives. Their people would not be taken in that way. Findekáno. Kinslayer.

 

Most of the orcs were dead. Findekáno was not yet spent. He was bent over catching his breath, willing the rage that welled inside him to dissipate but it was stronger than he was. Findekáno stumbled on the blood covering the ground but he would not allow any orc dying to take one more breath, not while he was there. With a hand he ripped apart the bodies, finding those that clung to life, slicing their throats, and throwing their bodies. He kept searching, frantic, looking for more. His people knew better, knew that their captain needed to spend his anger and rage, allow his bloodlust to find an outlet.

 

“Enough,” Makalaurë commanded, but Findekáno did not hear him. “Enough!” Makalaurë cried out, walking over the dead bodies to get to Findekáno. Tyelkormo was tending to wounded elves, but his eyes were trained on his brother.

 

Findekáno would not listen. “Enough,” Makalaurë whispered, tentatively placing a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder.

 

Findekáno growled. “Do not touch me.”

 

Makalaurë stepped back. “Findekáno, find yourself.”

 

“Find myself?” Findekáno snarled, turning on Makalaurë.

 

In an instant Tyelkormo jumped up to ready an arrow but Accarrë was quicker, catching Tyelkormo and putting a knife to his throat. Findekáno’s men were pointing arrows at the Fëanorians. Accarrë commanded the Fëanorians to lower their weapons or risk losing both their Lords. A standstill.

 

Findekáno threw Makalaurë to the ground drawing a knife on him. Makalaurë had not expected this. He should have, but Makalaurë was too overwhelmed. A different shadow of fear and memory washed over him. Findekáno seethed, “I am myself. You on the other hand.”  Findekáno snarled, readying himself to kill the man in his hands.

 

Makalaurë saw another. Those eyes, so cold and remote. So much pain. So much pain. Recognition. Fear. Love. It was all familiar. “Father!” Makalaurë cried out, “please stop!”

 

Findekáno froze.

 

“Father, I love you,” Makalaurë pleaded.

 

The dagger slipped from Findekáno’s hands. He recognized Makalaurë. Saw in his eyes what he had seen in Maitimo when he watched Fëanaro. I am not him! Findekáno recoiled. “I am not him,” Findekáno uttered, stepping back, confused. In the process he released Makalaurë, dropping him to the ground.

 

The thump brought Makalaurë back to the present. Tears clouded his vision. What had just happened? “Findekáno?” But Findekáno did not look at him.

 

Instead, Findekáno turned to face his company. “Put your weapons down.” His people did.

 

Accarrë hissed, releasing Tyelkormo, “Don’t you dare turn on him. I will have you if you touch a head of his hair.”

 

Tyelkormo sneered at Accarrë before running to Makalaurë. He had heard everything. They all had. It was unsettling. They were in shock, both from battle and from the intensity of everything that had brought them here to this moment. There could be no more violence this night. Everyone present understood this. They needed to return to their horses, assemble together once more. They needed the safety of numbers. The road back was not safe.

 

“Findekáno, look at me,” Accarrë pleaded, grabbing at his arm, but Findekáno shrugged her off. “Fin,” she whispered softly, “don’t do this.” Findekáno looked back at her, breaking her heart, again. His anguish and hurt marked his face. It was terrible to see him so exposed. Anger was one thing, but this pain and vulnerability could be the ruin of them all, Nolofinwë’s host. They could not let themselves succumb to it. From a strap on her arm she took out a dagger and held it out in menacing manner. “Do not force my hand.”

 

Findekáno was dazed, the coming down from the battle song he had woven around himself emptied him further. Accarrë lunged at Findekáno cutting his arm.  Findekáno hissed.  “Come back to me you fool,” she demanded of her friend.

 

Findekáno looked at his wound and then back at Accarrë. “Who am I?”

 

“No!” Accarrë howled lunging at him once more, this time cutting his cheek.

 

“You crazy bitch!” Tyelkormo cried out, leaping towards her only to be pulled back by Makalaurë. “What are you doing?” he demanded of his brother. Makalaurë shook his head, understanding what Accarrë was doing.

 

Findekáno growled. “Yes!” Accarrë hissed. “One more time,” she whispered, lunging at Findekáno with deadly force. This time Findekáno caught her arm, twisting it quickly, causing her to release the dagger in hand. He held on to her for a moment, inflicting pain. “That’s it,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her arm on the verge of breaking.

 

Findekáno’s company kept watch of their surroundings. Not a one of them moved to interfere. They understood what was happening, why it needed to happen. The Fëanorians were wide eyed, once more reminded their kin were unrecognizable.

 

Accarrë swept out Findekáno’s legs underneath him. He landed with a loud thump. Groaning, he let out a small laugh. Accarrë stood over Findekáno offering him her hand. “You no longer need to break it.”

 

Findekáno replied with a feral smile as Accarrë pulled him up. Looking down at her, his smile intact, he finally spoke: “Witch.” This caused the Nolofinwions to let out a cheer.  Findekáno turned to look at Makalaurë, deciding whether to say something, whether to address what happened before.  But what had happened before? Findekáno needed time and a clearer head to think on it. “Let’s get our wounded back to your healers,” Findekáno declared, his attention on Makalaurë. Makalaurë inclined his head and quietly spoke orders to his men.

 

Tyelkormo, for his part, walked by Accarrë, whispering, “You are still one crazy bitch.” Accarrë let out a snort. Tyelkormo had not changed, at least not much. This angered her. It was a luxury to have the opportunity to keep a part of who you had been with you. She spit in disgust at Tyelkormo’s feet. He raised his hands, indicating a truce.

 

“To your mounts,” Findekáno commanded. One of the Fëanorians whistled summoning the horses. Soon enough horse and rider were reunited. This time no horse had been maimed. That was a good thing. The elves bodies were sore and bruised. They returned more slowly. Not much was spoken. There was nothing that needed to be said then. Perhaps at another time.

 

)()()()(

 

Dawn greeted them at the gates of the Fëanorian encampment. The wounded of Findekáno’s company were treated. Findekáno could not bear the wait, but bear it he must. Once the healers had finished, Findekáno’s wounded companions were free to go. It was folly to suggest they stay to recover even though some merited it. They had been lucky to not suffer a loss. Too lucky perhaps. This worried Findekáno. This worried Makalaurë too. Moringotto was up to something.

)()()(

 

They returned victorious; the weathered Nolofinwion standard held high. People cheered. The wounded were carried to the healers. The horses were taken and tended to. A crowd had gathered to throw flowers at the feet of the company that had met the enemy and won.

 

Nolofinwë greeted his son with a strong embrace. “I am glad to have you home, my son.” Findekáno nodded, choosing to embrace his father instead of offering words. This worried Nolofinwë. Findekáno had never been a man of few words. “Yonya,” Nolofinwë soothed, taking Findekáno’s chin in his hand, “I know you carry a terrible burden.”

 

“My son,” he repeated, “you must find your words.” Findekáno wanted to pull back from his father. He was asking him to become a Prince again, to step into the role that was no longer mere ornament. “It is your duty,” Nolofinwë reminded him. What a terrible price to pay!

 

“Speak to your people,” Nolofinwë directed his son, knowing that Findekáno had a choice set before him: be the figure his people needed or retreat into the darkness that consumed him. While Findekáno had been given space to be, that time was over. Nolofinwë needed his son’s thoughts, his advice. Their people did. Findekáno was like a beacon for them and on the morrow of this battle, what they needed now were the type of words that would be recorded in books, committed to memory.

 

Findekáno pressed his face into his father’s hand, summoning up whatever strength he had left. Nolofinwë offered his son his own. Lean on me, use my strength, Nolofinwë soothed him. Findekáno felt childish and churlish, knowing his father and brother did not receive the same space to brood and hold themselves apart, indeed the burden of parenthood.

 

Findekáno stood straight and breathed in deeply. He knew what he needed to say. Words had always been easy for him. He needed to find that courage again. Turning to face his audience, Findekáno raised his hand. The crowd quieted. He was tired. He would speak words, but was unsure what would come from him. The battle song took its toll, ripping away barriers Findekáno erected around him. Itarillë’s smile materialized from within the crowd. If not for him then for her:

 

“I died today. I died yesterday. I died on that ice.” The crowd hushed. Smiles gave way to somber faces.  “And yet here I stand,” Findekáno offered, his hands turned out to his people. “I am….” Findekáno’s voice faltered, emotions stirring within. His father’s hand at his back urged him on. Clearing his throat, he continued, “We are not the people we once were.” Findekáno took a moment to survey the faces that looked at him, all known to him. Murmurs of understanding rippled through the crowd. “We must become a people anew. Not to turn our backs on those that were needlessly sacrificed to the Ice. Not to forget them.”

 

Findekáno sought out Turukáno and focused on him. “We are remade to avenge them.”

 

“Yes,” many in the crowd shouted. Turukáno’s eyes were filled with tears. How he missed his beloved.

 

“We were victorious. It was a bloody victory and they felt the wrath of our people,” Findekáno cried out, emotion overtaking him. The crowd now roared their approval. “I say to you again. I, we died on that ice. We died the moment we understood death. We cannot go back,” Findekáno spoke, pointing to the west. The crowd was again subdued but there was also a determination to them.

 

“We are remade because death is now wedded to us. We will not forget our dead. From death we remake ourselves.” Findekáno whipped out his dagger, holding it up to the crowd. “From their blood, from their memory, we remake ourselves in this place.” Findekáno sliced open his palm. “Siya Eldalië, Behold, people of the Eldar,” Findekáno’s blood dripped to the earth. “To Endórë we are now wedded.”

 

“To Endórë!” the gathered elves shouted, many mimicking Findekáno’s blood offering, a ceremony of elder days.

 

Findekáno felt the surge of the old magic stir, sensed the thrum of it, the heat stirring in their circle. They all could. It was a first, a first in a long time for them. They experienced a small happiness. It struck Findekáno that he truly was no longer Findekáno and that it would take time for him to come to terms with who he was now. Father, Makalaurë, had seen Fëanáro in Findekáno. Truly, a bit of his uncle had always been in him. It was not a terror, for Fëanáro had been bright and bold in better days. But what about these darker days?

 

“My name,” he whispered to himself amidst the shouting of his people.

 

For Findekáno, his old name too closely resembled innocence, reminded him of things he no longer wanted to remember. One of his clansmen, a distant relative from before the cleaving of the Clans called forth by Oromë’s horns, took to calling him Fingon, Findekáno’s name in the Sindarin fashion.

 

“On this day forth,” Findekáno shouted, quieting the crowds, “I shall be known by a new name I have chosen. It has come to me by way of our kin who never journeyed. I know of no better way to come by a name.”

 

Looking upon the crowd, Findekáno smiled, but this was for his father. Turning to Nolofinwë, Findekáno kneeled before him, offering his sword. “My liege, my lord, my father, my King…” That Findekáno dared name Nolofinwë king was the boon needed to mark that morning of historical record. “My king,” Findekáno offered, “receive me your son and servant as I now wish to be known.” Findekáno swallowed thickly, the sentiment of the moment, of discovery- a weighty emotion.

 

The crowd was silent.

 

“How shall you be known?” Nolofinwë summoned.

 

Findekáno looked up to his father: “Fingon.”

 

)()()()(

 

That day marked many things: a shift, a different angle, a new paradigm. Darkness in the light. Light in the Darkness. It comes and goes, like the tides, surging and pulling back. Memory is a strange companion when it travels between the deep chasm of two ages that could not be further apart. Thusly would Turgon remember Fingon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4: The In Between

Notes: Úmanyar- elves that did not reach the Blessed Realm and behold the light of the two trees.

Read Chapter 4: The In Between

Chapter 4: The In Between

 

“What did you see and hear,” the dark figure demanded of the two figures crouched on the ground.

 

“There was an argument…” one of the small deformed figures spoke, glancing up nervously at the menacing figure. 

 

“…We could not hear what they were saying, our lord,” the other offered quickly.

 

The tall figure spin around causing the two creatures to cower, their hands raised over their head.

 

“But we saw them threaten one another, pull knives on each other,” the first spoke quickly, avoiding the punishment the menacing figure was surely going to administer.

 

This made the tall figure pause. “Tell me everything you saw.” The two described as best they could the details they saw from their hidden vantage point.

 

“Does this please our Elder King?”

 

Moringotto laughed. He was pleased. “Leave,” he commanded the two creatures. He spared the spies’ lives this time. He could not lose assets that were valuable to him. The easy defeat of his host proved this. The appearance of the sun and moon struck fear in his servants, rendering them too easy to kill. That the elves were so fractured bode well for his plans. Planting seeds of doubt was too easy. The Valar left fertile ground in the First Born.

 

A demon like figure entered the dark throne room. “It is done our Elder King,” the person with eyes of fire announced. Moringotto’s pleasure grew. He would break the elves.

 

)()()()(

 

1^st day of Reckoning.

 

Findekáno escaped to the large hall. The banners of the many houses united under Nolofinwë were proudly displayed. What should have given him comfort unsettled him. The throngs of people he walked through patting his back, smiling, showing signs of hope, of strength, was beyond what he could endure. A dark figure in a corner caught his eye. Findekáno turned his back. He had no desire to speak with anyone, choosing to seek solitude in the empty hall.

 

He heard footsteps approaching him: Artanis. He recognized her gait. Even though his back was to her, he could visualize her: her elegant gait, the way she carried her arms at her side, and her head carried high. Whatever she was going to say would not be welcome. They were too much alike. After the crossing, Findekáno disapproved of her traveling to see her relatives in Doriath, a place closed off to the rest of them. Elwë, in better times was friends with his grandfather, but the Sindarin King now known as Thingol was also brother to Olwë. If Thingol learned of the Kinslaying that would prove a third Elven faction for the elves.

 

“I was moved,” Artanis expressed, her voice musical and delicate.

 

Findekáno leaned against a table, gazing up at the standard of his father’s house, ignoring his cousin. Next to it was the standard of Arafinwë, now the standard of Findaráto yet unchanged. Artanis too looked upon the standards. Coming to stand next to him she looked from the standards to Findekáno. “You spoke of change, of a people remade.”

 

Findekáno did not go out of his way to acknowledge her, choosing instead to allow his blue eyes to meet the blue of hers. Besides their tallness, this is where the resemblance ended. Artanis was a pale beauty, befitting of an ice queen. Her hair spun of gold, her broad shoulders, once strong, protruded beneath her dress. Though they were no longer famished, their bodies were long on healing, slow to recover.

 

Artanis glanced briefly at the standards. “We are remade and yet…” she paused, looking shrewdly back at her cousin allowing the silence and the standards above speak for her.

 

Findekáno rubbed his face in frustration. “What would you have me do?” he finally spoke.

 

“Offer me more than platitudes.”

 

Findekáno sighed. It was plain for all to see that there was no standard for Lalwen, no standard for the widows of Lords of houses that had perished on the ice. And yet the standards of those dead elves were raised. Findekáno pushed himself off the table irritated by Artanis’ needling. “I am not the leader of this host.”

 

Artanis raised an elegant eyebrow. “Are you not a Prince of the Noldor? If not a leader, then what shall this Fingon be?”

 

Findekáno exhaled. The words that had come to him, gone.

 

“You reminded me of him, you know,” Artanis added those last words to make her observation seem less accusatory, more personal. “Your words have power.”

 

Findekáno stiffened. Artanis could not know, she had not been there. Father! Makalaurë’s voice rang out in Findekáno’s mind. No, Findekáno wanted to shout, but instead he found his rage a better consort, kicking a wooden chair, shattering it.

 

Artanis gasped, startled by Findekáno’s reaction.

 

Findekáno balled up his fists and gritted his teeth. He wanted some rest, some escape, needed space. He moved to stand in the shadows of the great hall, his back towards his cousin, though she could see the rise and fall of his breath. Artanis swore it seemed as if her fallen uncle now stood before her, a cold dread taking hold of her. Little could she know she was harnessing the strange prophetic magic she would learn to wield in these lands.

 

Fëanaro had been compelling, magnetic in their better days. These were not those days. Findekáno whispered, the only words he had left for Artanis: “These are darker days.”

 

The sound of the shattering chair caught the attention of others. Findaráto ran in from the outside. Accarrë stepped out of the shadows. Artanis did not intend this, but she did not know, could not know she touched the heart of Findekáno’s fear. She stared at her cousin, spooked by his uncharacteristic break. Turning to Accarrë and then back at Findekáno, she felt her friend’s hand on her back. Accarrë suffered sorrow for Artanis, for Findekáno, for all of them. They went from the exultation of Findekáno’s words, back to this uncertainty. They were rudderless.

  

Accarrë whispered to Artanis, “Your words are potent.” Artanis felt that rebuke. She had not intended to wound her cousin. 

 

Accarrë mouthed “no” to Findaráto who started to walk towards Findekáno. Findaráto stopped short. “Fin?” he spoke tentatively, softly. Findekáno took in a deep breath and walked away from his family, and into the day beyond the hall.

 

Artanis wanted to follow her cousin but knew there was nothing she could do. She felt impotent, a different rage growing in her. Findaráto exchanged glances with Artanis and Accarrë, seeing in them the same uncertainty he’d witnessed in Findekáno. Findaráto too was caught in its web. Words were not enough to herald what they now needed. Words had power, but they were simply not enough.

 

)()()()(

 

The Other side

 

Findekáno did not have the energy to muster the emotional work his anger desired. He left his family behind, knowing they would not follow him. They were tending their own wounds, finding their own path, and treading water. Time was stolen from them. Imagine a thousand years of living as Findekáno only to have that stolen, pulled out from under you in a moment. Alqualondë, the Doom, all did this for them. During the crossing of the Ice, time became a different being, at once foe and absent. Absent in the way their focus shifted from the traditional expansiveness of elven time to the mere act of survival of the present where the more time marched on, the more their death was assured. Now they faced Time again and did not know how to make sense of what they had become and who to be.

 

For Findekáno, this new strange sense of time possessed him. It was illusive and unknowable: A first amidst a tapestry of discovery. It was not midday yet, but he found that the time between this moment and the earlier battle was immense. He’d had moments of reverie where he found rest, returning from the battle and offering his speech, but he was not so tired for time to slip between his fingers in this way, so he believed.  

 

The encampment was abuzz with activity. A few elves glanced his way while he walked the paths of the camp. In their eyes he saw something different, already distant from the moments of their congratulations. The most miniscule hope was waging within them, but they struggled to believe. He laughed. No one turned to look at him. They had once harkened to his uncle, to his words, and followed him to the shores of Aman, some killed for him, and all had been abandoned by him. Artanis was right. Findekáno offered nothing but platitudes.

 

Findekáno glimpsed his father’s close friend and ally, Calmacil, teaching a group of younger elves the art of the sword.  Everything around Findekáno was a paradox: from the new light that allowed them to see the world through seemingly new eyes to the meaning of memory in a people who harness it in exacting details. Findekáno was not a philosopher but he understood that memory was a burden, perhaps not into the future, but it most certainly weighed on them.

 

A young elf ran to Findekáno. “My lord, will you join us?” In the distance, Calmacil stood, leaning on the pommel of his sword. Findekáno cursed, “That bastard.” 

 

“My lord?” the young elf replied, surprised by the elder elf’s reply.

 

“Very well,” Findekáno replied, walking towards his mentor, the very man who had taught him to first use a sword. Arriving at the edge of the training ground, Findekáno spoke loudly and firmly: “Never lean on your sword.”

 

Calmacil grunted, gracefully flipping his sword into its scabbard. “Your lord remembers his lessons well,” the gruff elf responded. “Why do we never lean on our sword?” he asked his pupils.

 

Their answer was lost to Findekáno who tumbled into memory, recalling those lessons long ago. He had been but a child, in awe of his first sword, spending many a moment, whipping it through the air, fighting imaginary foes. Another memory: the first time his sword pierced an elven body. He could feel the weight of it in his hands, like a ghost haunting him. Findekáno’s memory took him to the ice. The face of his nephew screaming, crying as his parent held his arm down on a rock, the hands blackened and shriveled. Findekáno struck hard, ensuring a clean cut as the healers had directed. His nephew had fainted. Findekáno clutched at his side to find his sword, the sound of his sister-cousin’s wailing traveling into the present.

 

The younger elves did not find Findekáno’s spell alarming. Elven reverie whether for sleep or memory was a commonplace way that elves interacted. And yet it was new too, particularly the way sorrow would shadow the features.

 

Calmacil pulled his sword out, the sound of it stirring Findekáno. “Your sword, like your bow and arrow, are more than ornamentation. Along with your wits, they will keep you alive.” The young elves looked at their elder, contemplating their lessons.

 

A new people, Findekáno considered, observing the youths. Their memory of Aman would not be the burden it was for others. They would be the children of Exile. Endórë would offer her lessons alongside the darkness of Morgoth. Findekáno’s thoughts turned to the fallen Vala. He felt compelled to linger on the dark figure, his thoughts traversing the borders between light and shadow. The reason why soon became apparent: a lesson from Endórë announced itself, like a large wave crashing on the shore, a surge of power washed over them, dissipating to reveal its terror. Black magic.

 

“Moringotto,” Calmacil cursed.

 

Findekáno, always quick to act, cried out, “Ási, Come now!” Elves ran gathering weapons. Others scurried to ready fresh horses. Accarrë ran to Findekáno, bringing his battle armor. Together, they quickly put on his gear while he shouted orders. The scene was frantic. Elves were calling out, rushing about, preparing.

 

Nolofinwë strode through the encampment, helm at his side, offering words to calm and directing others to their posts. Findaráto walked with Nolofinwë, receiving orders from him, in between the words Nolofinwë shared with the crowds. Findekáno could not hear their exchange. Whatever it was sent his cousin into their growing armory, making it clear that Nolofinwë intended to ride.

 

Findekáno started to protest but Nolofinwë cut him short, holding his hand up. “Findaráto will organize the defenses here. “Calmacil, Findekáno,” Nolofinwë barked out, “bring a small company of your most capable fighters.” Nolofinwë was handed a horse, but before he mounted he spoke to Findekáno, “Make sure your people are rested.” Findekáno acknowledged his father’s command with a nod, though he did not like his father exposing himself. Calmacil jumped on the horse brought to him, taking his place next to Nolofinwë. Others lined up behind their king.

 

Findekáno shouted the names of elves and before long they were galloping, catching up with Nolofinwë’s vanguard. They charged ahead. The discordant song they chased was not newly made. Whatever had caused the havoc was at least a day old, but somehow Moringotto had managed to quell it, keep it from their ears. The source of the broken chords came from a nearby settlement of Grey elves, a hamlet that was readying itself to migrate into Melian’s girdle.

 

The horses came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them smoke from the village started to rise where it had not been before. Findekáno caught a whiff of something. He was not the only one. Findekáno charged ahead, Accarrë and Aikanáro at his side. The remainder of the company surrounded the village, some on horse, others on foot. The scorched village was empty. The haphazard contents here and there painted the picture of the quick skirmish that had occurred. The scent they encountered before entering the village was further away. Findekáno let his horse delicately step around the charred earth of the village and towards the field the foul smell came from.

 

Nolofinwë was stopped ahead, where a narrow path opened up into the small meadow. Findekáno turned to Accarrë. She shook her head. She could sense no enemies in the area, but they remained wary. Findekáno rode ahead, pushing his horse through the dense trees. The bright sun met him as he crossed the border from the trees into the field.

 

Burned remains. Charred remains sprinkled with a white powder. All dead. Findekáno slid off his horse. He walked through the field. Children, Adults, chickens, horses, dogs…. everything. He walked around the remains careful not to step over them, not to repeat the crude way they stepped over dead enemies. It was a small respect he could pay to them. There was no song here. The smell of burned flesh was pungent, stinging his nose. This was a new scent. Never before had they smelled charred elf flesh. It smelled decidedly different than that of game.

 

Calmacil and Aikanáro scouted beyond the field, finding nothing but the retreating steps of the few that had committed this atrocity and steps that indicated a few elves had escaped. “They came in the cover of night. Caught them by surprise,” Calmacil informed Nolofinwë. “Some elves escaped, took to the trees.”

 

Nolofinwë shook his head, his face grim. He dismounted and carefully walked amongst the dead. Soon they were accompanied by the remainder of their company. Those that stood at the periphery openly cried. Calmacil too shed tears.

 

Findekáno knelt before the remains of a child. Gently he touched the remains of a dog at the child’s side. The remains disintegrated into ash, so hot had been the fire that consumed it. Not all were lucky to be thus consumed, leaving behind charred flesh, colors of rawness protruding here and there.

 

“Whatever fire claimed them was unnatural,” Nolofinwë spoke somberly to his people, observing the horror on their faces, feeling it knot up his stomach.

 

Findekáno inclined his head, saying a prayer, and then touched the child, the remains collapsing into ash. A cold wind swept through the meadow, whipping the ash remains up into the air. The particles caught the light of the sun so they looked like snow. Soon the earth was covered in the ash and settled on the elves. Accarrë desperately tried to get the ash off her clothes, too much a reminder of the pouch she kept as unholy kindle. She was not the only one. The elven horses were becoming despondent, the smell of death overcoming them in the absence of their masters’ calming connection.

 

Speaking to Calmacil, Nolofinwë directed, “I need someone to leave no stone unturned.”

 

“Aikanáro and I will scout,” Findekáno spoke, his attention on Calmacil.

 

Accarrë’s eyes grew wide, “You cannot.”

 

“It is not for you to decide. You will ride back with my father as will Calmacil. We shall not leave the king exposed.”

 

Calmacil ordered his people to their horses. “To our King.” Hastily the elves mounted. “And what of you?” Calmacil responded before departing.

 

“I follow my duty,” Findekáno answered. Nolofinwë wanted to override his son, but chose to hold back his words. Exchanging a look with Calmacil instead, Nolofinwë gathered the elves and they rode back to their encampment, heavy with images of such needless loss, enraged at the evilness of Morgoth, and afraid, very afraid.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno tracked the steps until it was wise to go no further. “Balrogs,” Aikanáro whispered, tracing the demon imprint on the wet earth.

 

Behind him Findekáno was crouched over the shape of a human step that showed the first signs of transformation. “How is such a thing possible?” Findekáno breathed.

 

Aikanáro came to stand next to him. “Maiar,” he whispered, answering Findekáno. Findekáno glanced up at Aikanáro. “Moringotto has more Maiar than we anticipated.”

 

Aikanáro cast a weary look into the dark forest ahead. “They will soon be fully formed Malkarauki, but they are not yet fire demons, though these spirits possess fire. Let us leave here for I sense a darkness.” Findekáno did too.

 

Before long they neared the village. Aikanáro broke the silence that had lingered since they retreated from their search of the fire demons responsible for the massacre. “Those being were powerful enough to slaughter a village of Úmanyar.”

 

Findekáno gritted his teeth. Morgoth sent the fledgling Malkarauki to attack the village knowing if he sent them against the Noldor they would be vanquished. The smell in the air was acid-like, pungent, in that way that bodies smell when burnt. “His thralls are weak so he sends them against those that he can hurt.” Morgoth did not want to expend such precious weapons, but he could use them to hurt the Noldor, nonetheless.

 

Instead, Morgoth sent out a rabble of useless orcs against the Noldor, knowing he was sending these creatures to slaughter. “He tested us,” Findekáno growled.

 

Aikanáro guessed as much. “And what did he learn?” Findekáno’s cousin asked, knowing that Morgoth had outwitted them.

 

“Too much” Findekáno admitted, the ghost of Makalaurë’s throat against his knife, pulsating on this thumbs.

 

They heard cries. Findekáno and Aikanáro rushed ahead, making sure to conceal their approach, sure of what they would find in the field. Findekáno’s steps faltered, the wailing was too familiar, obliging him to recall how he had been the source of pain that fateful day in Alqualondë.

 

The few survivors briefly looked up, startled by the two elves that entered the field. One of the elves stood up from where he had been crying over remains. “You have no right to be here,” he managed to say between sobs. “Leave.” The few other elves found their feet, focusing their anger and desperation on the unwelcome Noldor. “Hear him” a woman cried out. “Leave,” she managed to say. “You are harbingers of death. These demons come from your lands and seek you out!” Another elf walked menacingly towards them.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno raised their hands to their hearts in respect and turned to leave the elves to tend their dead. By turning their backs on the elves, Aikanáro and Findekáno showed deference to the Grey elves, demonstrating that their anger was merited. If the Sindar wished to retaliate they would be in their right to attack the Noldor from behind.

 

Quietly they walked away from the field, through the village and back on the path they came on. The smell did not diminish. Neither said a word to the other. After a while they met up with their horses. Aikanáro took time to examine Findekáno. He did not like what he saw in his cousin. 

 

Before Aikanáro could say anything, Findekáno commanded, “Take her.”

 

Aikanáro retorted, “I will not leave you here.”

 

“You will,” Findekáno hissed, his eyes empty of the tears that should be there because he was bereft of the emotions that allowed it. But always, his eyes shone brightly with the Light of the Two Trees, and it was brighter in rage. Findekáno was indeed a harbinger of death: frightening, imposing. This is what those elves must have seen in both of them. Their Noldorin kin were alien, distant, and dangerous.

 

Aikanáro yielded. He too could not think straight, his mind reeling from what they had just seen. Such was the ability of reckless murder, its darkness a poison. Findekáno turned to walk away but not before Aikanáro shared, “I will make sure your father finds you.”  Findekáno hesitated for a moment, a sliver of his emotions reminding him Aikanáro had no mother or father to comfort him. Closing his eyes, Findekáno forged ahead, unsure where he needed to go.

 

)()()()(

 

 

Your words were moving, well done. Good to have you back. You were as I remembered. You reminded me of him. Father. Leave! Leave! You are harbingers of death!  A chaos of words filled him, traversing between the extent of what the day had been: from arriving victorious and sharing inspiring words to Artanis’ words, and finally the accusations laid at his feet by the Sindar.

 

The trees spun, the light stung his eyes. The earth beneath Findekáno shifted. His speech, it was just words, he reminded himself, the image of the burned bodies seared in memory. Good words but empty, powerless in the face of such vileness. The congratulations heartfelt, but empty. The accusations, truer words. Why had he not spoken of darkness, of the way he relished the feel of his hands crushing bone. Did those demons relish their death bringing or was it mere instinct? He could have yelled of the treachery of their kin that cursed them to take the path across the ice. Instead he chose cowardly words. I cannot be the leader father desires, he chided himself. Artanis, the Sindar, were right in doubting him, Kinslayer. Findekáno covered his eyes with his hands, his body desperately searching for a way to make sense of the gritty emotion that threatened to cleave him from within. With his calloused fingers he elicited pain. It reminded him of his status amongst the living. He spoke of being remade. He laughed. I am too broken to be remade. Fingon could never come to be. If his father knew how unhinged he had become he would not have asked him to speak. But Nolofinwë was also broken. What madness had they inherited?

 

Doom. Fëanáro, this how you were driven to madness!

 

Findekáno’s body was spent, his energy dissipating as water on hot rock. Would he fade? Is that what this was? And yet he knew that darker words would have also been well received by Nolofinwë’s host. He understood that he had the power to lead his people, like Fëanáro had, through the eye of the needle and into utter despair for they were all made of it now. The Sindar were right to fear them. And the dead? The burned child, his nephew, Arakáno, all dead or maimed but for the Doom! Findekáno cried out, damning the Valar. Elenwë, the countless faces that kept him awake and crept out of the dark corners and shadows were lost, but for the arrogance of gods. The contents of his stomach came up, again. Like they had when he had come down from the frenzy of killing elves across the Seas in that bay he would never look upon again.

 

His body retched, but he was spent. His muscles contracted. He desperately needed silence, but it was loud. Endórë announced itself around him: water running over rocks in a creek, birds chirping, squirrels scurrying up trees, insects testing their wings, the slight breeze in the trees. “Stop!” he cried out, but it would not let up. Life surged on, birth and death and decay. “Enough,” he sobbed. Findekáno could not see beyond the light, he turned desperately to find quietness, to darkness but could not find it, not the blackness he desired, a blank slate empty of the faces that haunted him. To forget, to feel numb. Neither hate nor love. He spun around, desperate, blinded, looking. Suddenly he tripped lurching backward, falling onto his back.

 

The trees around him closed in, hunching over, studying him. A squirrel paused and looked at him with squirrelish curiosity, its nose sniffing the air in his direction. All was not right with their elven brother.

 

Findekáno tore into the earth with his hands. It was wet with life and decay. The numbness would not come. Instead tears came. They tore through him, worse than the heaving, worse than darkness. The carved a path through memory and bone. Nearly defeated he rolled over onto his stomach, rising onto his knees and hands, his hair full of leaves. The nausea came with the tears. Somehow his body found strength to pull his ribs in and convulse out whatever terror he held inside. Findekáno groaned, his voice hoarse from the bile that burned his throat. It happened too often. He had taken to drinking teas and the honey they found from nearby nests to soothe his throat, but the bile would rise and he would spit it out. They all carried such ailments, no longer elven strong in body. The Ice exacted life, and sanity.

 

The Doom. Ash like fallen snow. Cold.

 

A loud thrum of thunder and fire rolled across the skies. The skies darkened. Damnation must be coming, Findekáno feverishly believed. Heaving again and again, Findekáno fell back against the earth. His tears came, streaking his dirty face, falling to the earth, wetting the soil. A bright light pierced the sky followed by a booming that rumbled deep down into the earth. The smell of the fertile soil nauseated him, mocked him. He wished for death. His body convulsed again and again, each time the effects lessening. There was only so much that his muscles could do. Findekáno’s breathing was shallow, but he was still one of the Eldar. He pulled himself into a stupor, collecting as best he could the tendrils of him that pulsated weakly against the vitality of Endórë. The ice, he remembered. So cold. His heart slowed, the warmth of his hands dissipated. He found stillness.

 

)()()(

 

Beyond the grove stood Nolofinwë, his face pressed against the bark of the tree. Why did he ask so much of Findekáno? He spoke as a leader when he should act as a father. Nolofinwë carried his own pain, his own regret and guilt, and he carried the burden of his children’s hurt. That mattered more to him in this moment, more than his people, but this too was fleeting. He cursed Fëanáro. “Half- Brother in name, full brother in heart!” Nolofinwë spat out, damning the forgiveness he offered once. Hearing Findekáno struggle with his pain, broke him, again and again, but he could not do anything for his son, like he could not save those poor souls that met such an ugly end. The Noldor were damaged creatures, desperate to find a sense of who they were. Speeches alone were not enough. How does one go forward when your sense of self has been so absolutely shattered?

 

Gritting his teeth Nolofinwë cursed the Valar, each of his brothers, his wife, his father, Moringotto. With each utterance, he found anger that he could use to make himself stand up straight. Anger allowed him to turn away from Findekáno, walk back to the camp, and return to being leader they needed amidst such horror. There was only enough for that. Nolofinwë’s strength was finite. Findekáno was strong. He had to believe in that.  Nolofinwë told himself he was not sacrificing him, too. Not his first born, his bright, brash son who now weathered darkness and said too few words. Nolofinwë summoned Námo’s words, brought them to be, whispering them. They gave him strength to retreat and walk away from Findekáno: Tears Unnumbered you ye shall shed. “So we shall,” Nolofinwë spoke, his voice muffled by the stirring sounds of the storm. The thunder boomed, the clouds closed in over Nolofinwë.  Endórë would bring Findekáno back from the gloom he was consumed in. She would wash away the dirt on his face and cleanse his hands. Endórë was Findekáno. She would save him, help him become Fingon. In his anger, Nolofinwë knew, at least, this was true.

 

Nolofinwë reached the edge of their camp that was much changed from the Fëanorian outpost that had been left to them. Buildings had been erected. Storage rooms filled with caches of food and grains. Meats were cured, water stored, fibers woven into much needed cloth. Hides tanned and furs readied to be made into heavy cloaks for the winter that would come. Nolofinwë’s host understood the cold intimately. Nolofinwë needed to speak to Lalwen, but he was hindered.

 

“Father,” Turukáno stopped Nolofinwë.

 

“Turno,” Nolofinwë answered, setting aside his thoughts.

 

“Where is Findekáno,” Turukáno said, almost a threat.

 

Nolofinwë glanced at his son. Their relationship had not weathered the ice well. Turukáno had begged him to stay and look for Elenwë, to devote their people to find her, but Nolofinwë had ordered them to move on. Of course Turukáno’s requests were born from desperation, but Turukáno was nevertheless hurt by his father’s decision. It was unfair on his part, Turukáno understood this. His father’s decision was rational and what was best, but Turukáno hated it nonetheless. He could not be the filial son he had once been.

 

Nolofinwë glanced back in the direction of where he had left his eldest. “He will return when he is ready.” Nolofinwë made to keep walking but Turukáno stepped in front of him, stilling his step.

 

“Where is he,” Turukáno demanded, having spoken to Aikanáro, knowing the fragile state of his brother and what the horror they had encountered might unleash in him.

 

Nolofinwë observed the manner in which Turukáno’s eyes were narrowed and red, his jaw tense. Noticed that his long dark hair was bound up messily at his neck, his clothes worn. Turukáno always looked tired, like he had come from grieving. Nolofinwë tentatively reached up to touch Turukáno’s cheek. Turukáno allowed the tenderness but it did not change his countenance. Sighing, Nolofinwë answered, “He is in the thicket by the small creek.”

 

“You left him there?” Turukáno accused.

 

“What would you have me do, Turukáno,” Nolofinwë breathed, what would you have me do Turukáno, order every soul into that water to find her? While Findekáno fell into his own darkness, Turukáno avoided his own by caring for others, those he believed he could save. Irissë preoccupied herself being Itarillë’s mother, never mourning the child she had lost: a child Tyelkormo did not know of. These were pains and sorrows Nolofinwë could not tend. Bitterly, Nolofinwë understood why he gave himself to anger, not daring to allow himself to explore a wretchedness as Findekáno did, could not allow himself to save his children because he would have nothing left for his people that followed him across the Ice. Hence Nolofinwë poured himself into making his people a home, even if it was imperfect. He would see this done.

 

Turukáno abruptly left his father’s side without a word, heading in the direction Nolofinwë had left Findekáno. Looking back at Turukáno’s retreating figure, Nolofinwë felt regret. His children deserved their father, not an uncrowned King.

 

…not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…

 

“Námo be damned,” Nolofinwë spoke aloud.

 

)()()()(

 

Findekáno caught his breath, taking in his surroundings. He sat up. He was drenched, everything muddy. Blinking, his vision cleared. Findekáno groaned, he was sore from the retching and he was starved.

 

“Fingon,” a voice materialized from within the trees. It was Turukáno. His hood was thrown over him, keeping the rain from his face. It was obvious that he had been there for some time. His cloak was soaked. Turukáno walked over, his boots sloshing through puddles and mud. Turukáno reached down and offered his hand to his brother.

 

Findekáno wiped away the mud on his hands. Hesitantly, he extended his hand to his brother. Turukáno pulled him up. “Why have you come,” Findekáno objected.

 

“Someone needs to watch over you,” Turukáno replied, observing his brother’s weakened state.

 

Findekáno laughed bitterly, “Am I not Fingon?” Fingon, harbinger of death was certainly fitting.

 

Turukáno placed a tentative hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was always startling to feel the bone on him. For a thousand of years he had felt Findekáno, his strength; there was a surety to it: the way Findekáno got caught up in life, embracing it. Turukáno invariably found comfort in the feel of Findekáno, his optimism, the intensity of his bright blue eyes, so unlike his own grey eyes. This man before him was not that. “Becoming,” Turukáno finally answered, aware that he was getting to know this man anew.

 

Findekáno was exhausted, for once permitting himself to lean into his brother. “Words are meaningless.”

 

“Walk with me,” Turukáno murmured, mindful of where his brother’s thoughts took him. Findekáno had blood on his hands. He tried to atone for the Kinslaying by pouring himself into the protection of their peoples, tried to keep the ugliness of killing and death at bay from as much of the host as he could. His brother’s company, all Kinslayers, took this oath on, and it was driving them to madness.

 

Findekáno acceded, permitting his brother to guide his steps. The brothers walked in silence, the rain turning to a drizzle. Findekáno’s words had to mean something, the horror of the massacre of Grey elves difficult to process. “I believe them,” Turukáno stated, knowing that there was truth in brother’s words.

 

Findekáno paused, turning to face his gaunt brother. “I will never be who I was.”

 

“No you will not. None of us will,” Turukáno said. “You doubt your words, but there was truth in them.”

 

“We fool ourselves,” Findekáno replied, walking ahead, though he stumbled, dizzy from hunger and exhaustion, both bodily and mentally.

 

Turukáno placed a strong guiding hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I have to believe,” Turukáno whispered, his words barely audible. It was difficult for him to reveal his own private agony.

 

Itarillë. Findekáno breathed, but what of that other child? “Do we not do more harm to those that depend on us by offering a fool’s hope?” Findekáno debated.  

 

Turukáno smiled bitterly. “It’s all I have.”

 

Findekáno flinched. It’s all they had: Doom. “Forgive me,” Findekáno choked out. Turukáno could not offer his brother forgiveness. They both silently acknowledged this in the manner in which they behaved around the other, the few exchange of words between them. It was not fair, but it was what they had between them.

 

Instead, Turukáno led Findekáno down a different path. Findekáno wanted to complain but he would do this for his brother, suffer the pain and light headedness that washed over him for whatever Turukáno needed to happen. Findekáno knew the route. They walked up towards a bluff that looked through the valley that split the Mountains of Mithrim and beyond, down the Firth of Drengist and out onto the Sea. The sea glistened in the distance. Turukáno looked out over the expanse of land and to the water beyond. Elven sight was a marvel for the Men that would soon come into the lives of the elves.  

 

“There,” Turukáno pointed to Mount Taras in the distance that tumbled into the sea. “That is where I will build a settlement.”

 

Findekáno moved closer to Turukáno. Perhaps it was better Turukáno take Itarillë away, but he cared for it not. To come this distance only to be divided once more. Findekáno answered, “I knew you would leave us soon.”

 

Turukáno nodded. “Father will build at the eastern slopes of Erid Wethrin,” Turukáno shared. Findekáno knew this; he had scouted the area after all. “I will help him raise the fortress, but I will not stay,” Turukáno said this not for Findekáno, but for himself, needing to know that what he desired was not entirely selfish. And I cannot forgive you.

 

Indeed, Findekáno could not offer Turukáno the absolution he sought, nor could Turukáno offer Findekáno the forgiveness he desired. This dilemma would continue to haunt the Noldor and it would end in the closing of this First Age, such was the power of history held in these two brother’s hands.

 

Findekáno turned his attention back to the shores, to the West, compelled by the song of the water beyond. It brought him some stillness to hear this song and not the jarring notes of fiery death. The East was now home. The West was closed.

 

Turukáno tracked the direction of Findekáno’s sight, heard the same song in the sea, suffered the same Doom. But Turukáno needed to believe that he could save his daughter from it, save her from the fate of the children of the Sindarin village. “See the tides?” Turukáno directed Findekáno’s attention, quieting the melody of the waters. “Do you see it?” Turukáno asked, his voice more urgent, finding a different story in the sea.

 

“See what?” Findekáno asked, unsure what his brother wanted him to find.

 

Turukáno observed the water recede and rush in. Findekáno followed suit. They stood there for what in the accounting of Men was but hours, enough for realization to dawn on Findekáno.

 

“The tides,” Findekáno whispered. “They are all different!”

 

“Yes,” Turukáno offered. “It’s the moon,” he continued, not offering much more in the way of information, knowing Findekáno would understand.

 

“Of course,” Findekáno whispered.

 

They stood on the bluff watching the tide retreat, the water line fall back, revealing white pebbles that gleamed under the sun. Something in the way the light caught the pebbles compelled them both to think of another shore, another seaside strewn with gems. Always the story returning to the same fateful moment that changed their history as a people.

 

“You suffer,” Turukáno broke the charged silence, acknowledging the burden Findekáno carried. He could not forgive him but he could find compassion for Findekáno.

 

“We all do,” Findekáno admitted.

 

Turukáno’s shoulders sagged, his eyes closed. “But for my daughter I would have allowed myself to die.” Turukáno wanted Elenwë back, wanted her body, her bones, needed a grave site, somewhere he could mourn for her, instead of the image of her body floating, lingering in the icy dark depths of the Sea.

 

Findekáno turned to his brother, unable to offer an answer that promised healing. Did he not also desire the escape of death?

 

“Itarillë finds joy in the sea and so I shall give it to her.” Turukáno smiled thinly. His eyes were red, the creases around his eyes marked deeply. Turukáno did not expect his brother to respond, knowing that whatever haunted his brother claimed his words, but Turukáno could not bear to see his brother this way. In spite of it all Turukáno had to believe that Findekáno would not die, did not desire it as he did: not bright and beautiful Findekáno. It was enough to lose Elenwë to the Ice, but to witness his brother so changed was too much a reminder of all they had lost.

 

“I found you, earlier.” Turukáno admitted, had watched over his brother for hours. “You were cold like death, your eyes open, but for all the world, it was as if you were dead.” In those hours he stood watch over him, Turukáno understood that he needed Findekáno to thrive, if only as a testament to their will.

 

Findekáno lowered his gaze to the ground. He had not wanted to put his pain on Turukáno. What could he say to him? The truth of his darkest thoughts, admit how utterly weak he was?

 

“You are not alone,” Turukáno gently reminded his brother.

 

“Perhaps I did die today.” Findekáno admitted, relying on words he had spoken before.

 

“You said as much to us,” Turukáno replied. Never one for seeking or speaking to the prophetic, Turukáno was nevertheless compelled to remind his brother that the Eldar were bound to Arda marred: “Endórë took you today.”

 

Findekáno stumbled to find words until a throbbing in his hand found its way to his senses. He observed the wound on his palm. “We do not understand the price of the old ceremonies,” Findekáno conceded.

 

“We do not,” Turukáno agreed.

 

 “I am spent,” Findekáno spoke, ceding to the desire of his body for food and rest.

 

Turukáno pulled Findekáno into an embrace. Findekáno stiffened, but Turukáno would not let up. “I tire,” Findekáno whispered, his voice hoarse, betraying a constellation of terrible emotions.

 

“Fingon,” Turukáno soothed, willing his brother to find another path, make peace with the dark that dwelt within.

 

Findekáno exhaled, his eyes catching the gleam of the sun on the water. The water was far out from shore. In Alqualondë the tides never receded so far.

 

 “You chose a good name,” Turukáno said, observing the dance of the light on the waves.

 

Findekáno smiled. He did not deserve such kindness, such mercy. “Turgon,” he replied in kind. The brothers found a way around forgiveness.

 

Turukáno laughed weakly. He too was spent. Undoubtedly a new name would come to him. He had considered this very one, but now hearing it from Findekáno, it sounded right and did not betray who he had been.

 

In this, the brothers were different in their search for a name. Turgon would build a city by the sea, a testament to his wife’s memory. If he could not find her body and bury her then he would build her white towers, soaring into the sky, so that perhaps her spirit might see it from the Halls she walked. Fingon, for his part, would find a faltering balance between the darkness and light, and Endórë would find a way to save him, if only for an Age.

 

They walked back to their camp by the lake. Fingon and Turgon stopped to forage for berries and mushrooms to quell Fingon’s hunger momentarily. At dusk, they found themselves at the border of their camp. “Shall we,” Turgon stretched out his arm. Fingon took hold of it. Together they crossed through the stone gate and into their new, impermanent home.

 

Nolofinwë spied them from across the field in the middle of the camp. There was a peace to them. Relieved he returned his attention to the crops being tended by Itarillë.

 

Nearing the kitchens, Irissë grabbed Fingon’s arm. “Come, you look famished,” she gently ordered. Looking at Turgon, she directed, “And you, to bed.” A ghost of a smile materialized on Fingon’s face. They were stealing a familiar moment in an utterly changed landscape.

 

Turgon yawned, stretching out his arms. His sister’s command actually sounded appealing. Turgon marched to his room, removing his cloak and boots, followed by his wet trousers. His dry tunic he left on. He climbed into the bed and pulled a blanket over him. He fell into a deep sleep, his eyes even closing. And for the first time since she was lost, he dreamt of Elenwë walking along the shores of the place that would be his new home and he felt a quietness.

 

)()()(

 

“Memory has the power of gravity…Those that have memory are capable of living in the fragile present. Those that don’t, do not live in any place.”

 

-Patricio Guzmán from Nostalgia for the Light

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Read Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5: Forgiveness 

Irissë pulled Fingon into the kitchens, moving baskets filled with recently harvested foods. As they made their way through the maze, she picked up a plate and began loading it with food: fresh bread, recently churned butter, heavy cream, berries, and smoked fish. She found a flagon and filled it with a fresh batch of ale from a nearby barrel. With her foot, she pushed Fingon into a stool at a table that still had flour spread on it. Setting the mug next to Fingon, she retrieved a small besom and swept aside the flour, careful not to sweep any of the flour onto the floor. Satisfied the table was clean she set the plate on it and proceeded to wait for Fingon to eat.  

Fingon hesitated. He should offer some words to his sister. Shaking his head, answering his internal chatter, Fingon decided to eat. Satisfied that her brother was eating, Irissë finished cleaning up the flour and carefully filling a basket lined with waxed cloth, glancing up periodically to watch Fingon eat. It was the best receptacle she could find. The making of kitchen tools offered to be a bigger task than anyone would have believed. They had bartered and traded precious gems for many items from the neighboring Sindarin elves and received a trivial offer from Thingol, but the Noldor were industrious, possessed of nimble hands and mind, so they made quick gains.  

Fingon ate the hearty portions on his plate. Eyeing the ale, he had doubts about whether to drink it. Irissë pulled up a stool next to her brother. “I’ll be the first to use it,” Irissë said, filling a clay mug with ale. “Do you like it?” she turned to her brother, taking a sip. The ale left a foamy mustache on her upper lip. “So good,” she hummed.  

The ale or the mug?  Fingon considered.  

“The mug of course,” Irissë answered, guessing her brother’s thoughts. “Who knew I’d have a knack for making clay dishes.” Fingon tentatively reached for the large flagon in front of him. “Lalwen brewed the beer,” Irissë informed him. She talked like this, filling her brother in on the smaller details of life in their new home while he sipped the ale. It was delicious, its aroma filling his nose with the smell of the hops that they had found stored in the food caches the Fëanorians had left for them. Noticing Fingon’s eyes beginning to droop Irissë carefully set aside her mug. Taking a deep breath, she asked what she had not dared ask until this moment. “Did you speak with Tyelko.” 

Not a question, Fingon deduced. Instead of an answer he raised an eyebrow. She had not spoken to Accarrë, though Fingon doubted Accarrë would say anything of Tyelko to Irissë. 

“Do not give me your silent treatment,” Irissë bristled. “I need…to know,” she faltered. She felt helpless, trapped even.  

Fingon let his chin drop on his chest. He was tired. “I did,” he admitted. Irissë scooted closer. Fingon sighed, sharing, “He did not ask for you. We spoke of battle plans. I insulted him and it went over his head.” This made Irissë laugh, but she did not interrupt her brother who was famous for his lack of words. “He attempted to aim an arrow at me but Accarrë was quicker and put a dagger to his throat.” 

“What?” Irissë cried out, almost falling out of her stool.  

Fingon waved off her concern. “Heat of the battle stuff. I’m sure Accarrë will fill you in.” 

“I would ask her to do no such thing,” Irissë retorted, knowing that Tyelko was an unspeakable thing between them.  

Fingon shrugged.  

“Bastard,” Irissë hit Fingon. Irissë stood up abruptly, sending the stool flying back. “You think you are the only one that has suffered? How dare you treat me as your lesser.” 

Fingon let out a groan. He’d not meant, but… “Spare me your pain, Findekáno, you are not the only one that is crushed,” she accused him. Fingon reached out to grab Irissë’s hand. She slapped it away: “Don’t.”  She walked away from him.  

Fingon stood up to go after her. “Irissë,” he soothed, reaching out for her, but she slapped his hand away harder.  

“Stop,” her voice cracked, but in her eyes was anger. They all treated her as if she would up and vanish into the air. None of them spoke of it, referred to it, named it- her loss.  

Fingon did not let up, wrapping his arms around her. She was bones in his arms, stronger, but not healed. Fingon tried remembering when he had last embraced his sister this fully. It had been before they crossed.  Irissë too remembered. She had not felt her brother’s embrace since before they left Aman, when they saw the ships burning. He held her then for they both shared in the betrayal of those fires.  

Irissë collapsed into Fingon’s arms, weeping. Fingon held her tighter, learning anew what it meant to be there for someone in this way. He rubbed her back, held her as her sorrow was unleashed. She felt frail to him, her loss unimaginable in the scope of everything they had been through. Her loss, the first of its kind for her people, happened so early during their journey across the ice, that it seemed to belong to another story. She marked history and memory in a manner that would not be noted. And so the story of Irissë’s first loss never made it into to the grand narratives of the Helcaraxë and the First Age, sanitized stories of Elven glory and might.  

Fingon pulled away from his sister so he could look her in the eyes. “Come with me,” he whispered, “I do not wish to be alone,” revealing some of the things he dared not admit before. Irissë did not resist, allowing Fingon to lead her back through the kitchen and into the night.  

The stars were bright, the half-moon like a jewel in the sky, resplendent. They walked to the many trees within the encampment. Fingon pushed his sister up the tree and into its sturdy branches where he had fashioned a comfortable bed on top of a flet, a design Fingon borrowed from the Laiquendi. Irissë found her voice amidst her tears. “Really?” Her brother’s choice of bed was so essentially Findekáno that it was both amusing and heartbreaking. Fingon smiled wanly. Irissë rolled over on his bed onto her back. The view took her breath. Fingon flopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her.  

“Rilmien,” Irissë murmured, “her name…” she sobbed. Fingon closed his eyes. Irissë trembled against him as the grieving took hold. Fingon remembered the last time she wept so deeply, that dark first year they spent on the ice.  

Fingon kissed his sister on the forehead. “Rilmien,” he repeated reverently, giving name to the baby that did not survive a fortnight on the ice. Slowly her sobs receded, leaving her spent. Fingon felt warm against her, reminding her of their time on the ice, when they would sleep together for warmth.  

“Tell me what happened out there,” Irissë asked.  Nolofinwë had forbidden people from revealing too many of the details of the massacre to her, but Irissë was astute and managed to put bits and pieces together. “I do not need to be treated as if I will break.” Irissë shared, angry that her agency was but a shadow of what it had once been. Fingon pressed his mouth against her temple. “Forgive me,” he lamented his own participation in her caging. Nolofinwë’s people did not know how to tend to Irissë’s loss, so great and unimaginable it had been: such was their fate. 

Irissë shivered. “I do not need your pity.” She said this not only for Fingon but for her father, for the lot of them that could not look her in the eye without the compassion they thought they held for her. Irissë believed that behind that compassion was also judgement, but most withheld it for Irissë’s punishment had been greater. 

“I know,” Fingon soothed, adding, “nor I yours.” 

Irissë held her breath. She did pity him, saw in him the same disgust she felt for herself. Her people were right to judge her.  

Fingon stirred next to her, “Irissë, look!” Irissë glanced up to the sky and saw a trio of falling stars light up the night sky. Fingon whispered, stirred by the stars’ spectacular death, “She guides us!” 

Irissë was once more overcome with emotion, remembering the brief moments she shared with her Rilmien, glittering light, so named for the light of the stars that infrequently penetrated the mists and fogs of the Helcaraxë during the darkness of the ice, the only hope that dared to pierce that icy wasteland. Irissë curled up close to Fingon and watched the stars; they were bright and clear. Next to her Fingon’s eyes closed. Deep sleep found him and he dreamt of a golden-haired child laughing, dancing. He understood, that one day, he would meet her, Rilmien. 

 

)()()()( 

 

1497: Before the crossing of the Helcaraxë. 

A hooded figure moved amongst Nolofinwë’s camp in Araman in search of someone. The elf had a frantic energy about them, looking through groups of people, peering in the makeshift tents that had been quickly erected. Whoever or whatever they were looking for was not to be found, but the figure kept on in the darkness of the Long Night. The Darkening of Valinor at least aided this elf keep themselves hidden in the shadows, until he spotted her. She was luminous not only because of her white clothes but because like all of the Eldar, she radiated a brightness, a light that Tyelkormo knew intimately.   

Tyelkormo was careful to keep his identity secret. Not eagerly did Nolofinwë follow his father, and less eager and less love was there in the followers of Nolofinwë of Fëanáro’s people. There was no turning back; the Kinslaying, the Oath, and so much more converged upon the Noldor who were beginning their exile. Fëanáro’s host and a number of Nolofinwë’s host was leaving on the ships as part of the first group. The ships, it was expected by Nolofinwe and his people, would return and take the larger host across the sea to Beleriand. Nolofinwë’s host was readying itself to leave. The horses that had come with his host were being led to a ship.  

Tyelko was in charge of this but he took his leave to go into Nolofinwë’s camp. Hidden behind his hood, Tyelko waited for Irissë to walk away from the group she had been talking to that included Turukáno and Elenwë. As soon as she walked away he discretely followed her until he found the opportune moment—a private space between tents and carriages filled with foods and other crates. Before he could speak she turned to look at him.  

“What do you want Tyelko.” Her eyes glared at him. 

“I needed to see you Irissë.” 

“Now you desire to see me?” she retorted.  

“Come with me on the ships with my father’s host,” he spoke, betraying what he swore he would not do.  

“Are you mad?” Irissë seethed, taking a hold of his cloak. “After everything, you come to me now, in this moment?” She was incredulous. Tyelko had lost his senses. 

“I know,” Tyelko admitted, grabbing Irissë’s hands and pulling her closer into him. She resisted, but he kept her close, whispering desperate words. “Listen to me Irissë, I know not what will come. I do not want to lose you. I made a mistake walking away from you before.” 

Instead of pulling away she stood on her tiptoes so she could be eye to eye with Tyelko. “Too late for mistakes, Tyelko,” she recriminated him. “You swore an oath.” 

Tyelkormo pleaded with her, “Please, listen to me. It is all so mad and frenzied, I know not what to think, how to think. But amidst it all, my feelings for you have not changed. Irissë, I love you,” Tyelko begged, his eyes bright with tears. His father’s words, spoken in secret to some of his sons, were a warning to Tyelko, and in a moment of desperation as he guided the horses onto the ship he knew he would never see her again if his father’s plans materialized.  

Irissë caught her breath, “You tell me this, here, now?” She was irate. How dare Tyelko do this to her now? “Was it not enough that I rejected your marriage proposal? You want me to follow you?!” she added, in shock and disbelief.  

“Hear me,” Tyelko begged. “I could not bear it if I lost you.” 

“You act as if you will not see me again,” Irissë replied.  

Tyelko wove his fingers through her hair. “A strange thing indeed happened, it came to me, the possibility that I might not see you again.” Tyelko held her cheek with his other hand. “It grows and as hard as I try, I cannot shake it.” 

“Tyelko?” Irissë breathed. Just what was going on in the Fëanorian camp. “What has your father said that has you so spooked?” 

“He has said nothing.” Tyelkormo lied. “Irissë, please listen to me.” 

Irissë furrowed her brow, Tyelko was not revealing everything to her. She needed to find out more. “Come,” she decided, a choice she would grow to regret. Pulling her hood up she led him through the dark into an empty tent. Once inside the tent, she removed her cloak. Tyelko too removed his. She was going to say words to send him back but what he did next was unexpected. He dropped to his knees in front of her and wrapped his arms around her. Between sobs, he kissed her hands, speaking feverishly of loss and the smell of horses, of their rides together, and how he regretted that he had not asked for her hand in better times. “If I had asked you to marry me before Moringotto, before everything fell apart, maybe it would have been enough to unite our families and all this,” Tyelko indicated with his hand to the commotion outside, “might have been different.” 

Irissë closed her eyes in frustration and to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “Tyelko,” she groaned. How could he be such a fool?  

Tyelkormo desperately grabbed at her hands, kissing them. “Irissë,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. Irissë would always be undone by that face, those eyes, so fair, so brash. In better times, she had wished for this moment.  

“Not like this,” she whispered. Tyelko wrapped his arms around her and brought her down, embracing her fully. Irissë was enveloped in her old lover’s arms, found his familiar scent, felt his strong arms and legs around her. Looking up into his eyes, she cried, wanting to say more but found she was overwhelmed.  

Tyelko smiled through tears, whispering, “Irissë.” With a hand at her chin, he led her into a kiss. It was tentative and pleading at first. Irissë was not unwilling and Tyelkormo became more urgent, his kisses searching her for what he needed. Like a moth to a flame, Irissë fell into him once more, not knowing it would indeed be the final time. Their kisses became feverish, frantic, and they experienced passion in a way they never had encountered: at the edge of death and the unknown. The moment, more than an aphrodisiac, was punctuated with the searching whispers of love and crying, giving and taking.   

Frantically they pulled off each other’s clothes, revealing soft skin beneath. This was a well-worn ritual between them. Irissë climbed atop her lover and took him and he welcomed her, filled her. Together they rode, their rhythm familiar, but there was something more. “You will always be my only love, Irissë,” Tyelko’s voice managed to share though it took him much effort. 

Irissë looked into his eyes as she straddled him, her forehead touching his. Each watching the other, observing, kissing, and taking in everything they could of their lover. Little could they know they were creating life. It seemed the end of times and their passion was given over in a way that was not familiar to the Noldor. Had they slowed, had they not been under threat, without a Doom looming over them, they would have recognized the act of creating life, of filling the other so completely and with such finality could only result in one thing. There were many firsts for the Exiled Noldor. This would be one amongst many things that had once been impossible.  

They filled one another, and bit back their cries of passion, afraid to be found out. Tyelkormo lost himself within Irissë, loving her so completely even if it was only momentary. He gave her all of him, came inside her carrying so much dread and desire, mixed with the unknown of tomorrow that he became blinded by light. Irissë could feel every pulse of Tyelko within her, her own desire claiming him, and together they shone so brightly their tent filled the night with light.  

They stole a few moments together after their love making, knowing Tyelkormo had to return to his post or incur the wrath of his father. “Come with me,” Tyelko implored, “you and others will be welcome on the ship with the animals.” Tyelkormo deceived her once more. While Nolofinwë’s debates raged on with Fëanáro about who would get on what boat, Fëanáro secretly conspired to abandon them. Nolofinwë believed that Fëanáro had acquiesced to at least the vanguard of his host being given one ship that would allow them return for more, but Nolofinwë could not in his heart imagine that Fëanáro desired that.  

Irissë traced his face with her finger. “I,” she faltered. “Your father will not allow it.” Silently, she thought, my father will not allow it. He will want me on the ship with him.   

Tyelko pulled her in to kiss her. “My father will grant me this. I believe it,” Tyelko whispered, not believing his own words, though he was desperate for them to be true. “Meet me when I light my lamp, you will recognize it. Come to the ship with the horses. You only have to pretend to offer me instructions for your noble Vilintál and I will bring you on the ship with me. You can wait with me there until we depart. You will be needed there and your father will allow it.” He would sneak her on board.  

“Vilintál,” Irissë sighed, her beloved horse. It would be comforting to make the crossing with her beloved steed, surrounded by horses and Tyelko. Perhaps. “I will try to meet you,” she said.  

She was going to say more but Tyelko did not want to hear it. “I will be waiting,” he whispered, gathering his clothes.  

*-*-*-*-*-* 

It had been days since Tyelkormo met with Irissë, though the Long Dark made the accounting challenging. He’d wanted to escape to see her again, but was thwarted by his father’s needs. But he found a moment to slip away, waiting by the boat. Much of the cargo that could be put on the boats for the first crossing was loaded. There were few around the boats. The icy mists would not retreat. Tyelko found his lamp and lit it, trying to look through the mist. It was thick even for keen elven eyes, but beyond he could manage to see a light flicker here and there. Surely Irissë would be looking for lamps lit by the boats, surely she would see it. He knew she would recognize it, the same lamp he used on many a hunting trip that they left to guide them back when they found themselves needing a beacon. He waited for long hours, but she did not come. 

“What are you doing?” Fëanáro hissed. “Do you wish to stay behind?” Fëanáro accused his son, the threat and fear growing in his mind that his sons and his people would not follow through on the oath. “Of course not father,” Tyelko replied, “It is just that there are so many of us.” And one I wait for, he wished he could have said.  

“Too many,” Fëanáro corrected. “To the ship, Tyelko,” Fëanáro commanded. A breeze from the northwest began to stir. “A good wind comes,” Fëanáro whispered. “Our people are on the ships. We must leave now, take advantage of the wind and use what we learned to cross the seas.” 

Tyelko hesitated.  

“Would you abandon your father?” Fëanáro recriminated his son, “and for what,” he spat out, guessing that Tyelko did not want to abandon Irissë. “Remember that Nolofinwë wishes to usurp me my son,” Fëanáro spoke darkly, grabbing Tyelko’s shoulder. “Do you wish to see that?” 

Tyelko cast his eyes down. “No father.” He did not wish for Nolofinwë to cross with them. There was only one person he wanted making that crossing from that host and she had not come.  

“To the ship then and no turning back,” Fëanáro commanded.  

Tyelko took one quick glance but boarded the ship on his own accord, understanding that they would not return for them. Orders were whispered and the ships were soon groaning, moving into the open water, propelled by the wind that picked up from the Northwest. Tyelko stood at the stern, watching the lights of the camp disappear. She had not come.  

*-*-*-*-*-* 

Irissë walked on the shore. She found another figure on the rocky beach. Gracefully she walked across the rocks to an outcropping upon which large waves crashed. On it stood Findekáno. She came to stand next to her brother.  

Findekáno reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why does my heart feel such a heaviness,” Findekáno confided in his sister, both contemplating the lovers they had lost, were losing.  

Irissë shuddered. “I feel a shadow of a doubt growing,” Irissë admitted. Findekáno shared a meaningful look with his sister. Irissë knew she would not be leaving with Tyelkormo. She would walk with her family just as Tyelko would go with his. It would always be this.  

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, sensing a change in her. “What has happened?” Irissë looked up at her brother, startled. 

“What are you suggesting?” she offered, surprised by Findekáno’s words, the guilty memory of her last meeting with Tyelkormo a constant source of agony.  

Findekáno’s bright blue eyes grew large, “Irissë, do you not hear it?” 

Irissë gasped. She had not been listening, but she heard it now that Findekáno had brought her attention to it.  

“Irissë?” Findekáno queried, turning fully to face her and turning his back on the water. The waves broke wildly behind him but he did not fear them. 

She looked up at him, her eyes panicking. “I, I, how?” The new song was faint, but it was there, the first signs of a new life growing inside her.  

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, pulling her into a hug, “Tell me all you can.”  

Irissë shared that Tyelko had visited her, revealing all he had said to her. Findekáno listened, but he could not help but frown. Damn Tyelko for this, he thought to himself. She did not offer him details, but she offered enough context for Findekáno and Irissë to realize what had most likely occurred and why.  

“Oh Finno, my heart grows darker,” Irissë voiced. 

“You must hide this new song,” Findekáno urged, unsure what such a happening might do to the fragile peace.  

“But how?” Irissë asked, scared.  

“Let me find Accarrë,” Findekáno offered, knowing that she would surely know of a way to hide the song.  

Irissë nodded, sad to put this on her friend. Findekáno left in search of Accarrë and Irissë made sure to keep herself away from the camp, worrying that perhaps others had heard the new song she carried with her.  She settled on Findekáno’s cloak, a rock behind her, waiting for Findekáno to make it back. 

When he finally did he had Accarrë with him. Her eyes betrayed that she knew what afflicted Irissë, but she did not recriminate her, instead offering her what little she knew how to make the song hide within Irissë’s song so that others would not hear it. “You might be able to manage a month or two. I have never heard of anyone hiding it for more than that.” 

Findekáno said what the others did not: “What about extinguishing the song? Have you considered this?” 

Irissë sighed, of course Findekáno would think this. It was not out of the question under normal circumstances, but these were not them.  

Accarrë answered for her, “Extinguishing a song can be done, but such a thing takes much from a person. Irissë would be in no condition to travel for a few weeks to a month. She would not be able to board the ships.” 

“Then it is settled,” Findekáno answered his own question, knowing as did his sister and Accarrë that it was impossible for Irissë to stay behind.  

Findekáno built a fire and they settled in listen to the roar of the waves crashing on the shore. Irissë and Accarrë sat on a patch of sandy shore, the rocky outcrop behind them, keeping the cold wind at bay, speaking quietly. Findekáno stood on the rocks, his eyes turned to the sea. A breeze started to pick up. Irissë looked up expectantly towards the boats, believing that Tyelkormo stood and waited for her there, but swore she saw no boats. Surely it was just the mists.  

Findekáno cried out, “The boats!”  

Irissë and Accarrë stood up and ran up the rock to where Findekáno stood. The breeze was now a strong wind, whipping the boats out quickly to the open sea. The mist gone, it was plain for all to see, the Fëanorian encampment was emptied and the fleet of boats was all departed. 

“The boats!” Findekáno cried out, grabbing hold of Irissë, joining the chorus of shouts on the shore as Nolofinwë’s people looked on.  

Later when they saw the flames from the far-off shore, they knew that it was the boats set aflame. Fëanáro and his people abandoned them. Findekáno and Irissë held on to one another and wept. Not only for the betrayal by the ones they loved but by the inescapable journey they knew they had before them. There was no turning back. Findekáno and many others were Kinslayers, could not go back.  

Irissë was not a kinslayer, but she carried the child of one who betrayed them. Bitter were her tears. Tyelkormo knew that Fëanáro had no desire for Nolofinwë’s people to go with them on the ships. It was why he came begging her to sail with him. Coward, she indicted him. His selfishness regarding her had always been a spot of contention in their relationship. She had been but a thing for him to possess, had not considered what he asked of her, to abandon her family. Had he ever known her? She would be crossing the ice carrying his child, knowing she would face rebuke from her people, her father, and most likely Turukáno. Turukáno’s hate of Fëanaro and the brothers was mighty and he had no sympathy for Findekáno and Irissë. To know that Irissë had taken Tyelkormo to her bed would surely earn her enmity from Turukáno and many others. She felt it for herself.  

Indeed, Nolofinwë and his people were determined to take vengeance on Morgoth and to meet Fëanáro and challenge him for his betrayal. A fire was lit within her brothers, Arakáno being the most outspoken. The quietness that had descended on Findekáno after the Kinslaying grew more noticeable, and he grew more distant, but no less determined to cross the Ice. All three took their charge seriously, to help their father lead their people across the ice.  

“Until the bitter end, and bitter it will be [1],” Findekáno spoke for all to hear as they crossed the threshold into the Grinding Ice.  

)()()()( 

Morgoth’s brutality weighted heavily on all of them. The details of the massacre had spread like wild fire though Nolofinwë did not wish it.  

Findaráto stood in the Great Hall: the dais was fully elaborated, an ornate wood throne sat upon it. The jewels of Nolofinwë’s house sparkled upon it as the fruits of the branches that reached out from the crest rail. He did not understand his uncle’s desires to keep the details of the latest assault from spreading. Had they not faced enough darkness and ugly death to face such news?  

A soft light filtered through the large windows, illuminating Findaráto. He glowed and his figure was regal. Nolofinwë looked upon him and saw Findaráto’s future. You too want to be a lord, a king in your own realm, he thought bitterly to himself, though he did not like such thoughts coming to him. It made him feel too much like Fëanáro, not trusting those around him. Perhaps Findaráto was right. The people needed to know all that occurred. Why did he cower away now? 

Nolofinwë sat on the throne, his head resting in his hand, in contemplation. “Your advice is sound,” Nolofinwë relented, sitting up straight, letting his eyes settle on his nephew. “We shall allow transparency to rule us.”  

Findaráto inclined his head. The lords and ladies that stood beyond Findaráto murmured in approval. This bode well for Nolofinwë, demonstrated he was willing to listen. After all there were many wise amongst the Host that were deserving of having their voices be considered. They could not imagine such a leadership under Fëanáro, reminding them of why they followed Nolofinwë in the first place.  

)()()()( 

Accarrë found Fingon in the thicket. Many more trinkets and objects filled it as more and more people began to frequent the memorial to their dead. In his hands, he held lock of his own hair. Reverently he tied it to a branch, snugly fitting between the portrait of Elenwë and Arakáno’s seal.  

Hearing her behind him, he whispered, “For Rilmien,” 

Accarrë replied, “Yes,” acknowledging Irissë’s loss, her memory of the child a bright detail she would never forget.  

Fingon pressed his hand to his heart. Accarrë pondered whether he prayed, did not know if he could any more. Fingon turned and left the thicket without acknowledging her, but she followed him—as she always would even unto her death--through the narrow path amongst the pines.  

She trailed him for much of the way until he turned to face her. “What do you want?” he challenged, though he did feel remorse for his bitter attitude towards her. His friend did not deserve it, but she was there and he had nowhere else to place his anger and bitterness.   

Accarrë reached for Fingon. He turned away from her touch it seemed on instinct. On the one hand, he wanted to be held, consoled, and on the other, he wanted nothing to do with anyone, and be left alone to contemplate his own outrage, to be allowed to cultivate it for violent ends.   

But she would not be dissuaded. “Fin,” she whispered, using the short of his name that did not change regardless of linguistic origins.  “You cannot do this,” she urged, wanting to tell him, you must live, you must begin to find some joy in the world that we have inherited here.”  

She reached for him again, but he pushed her hand away. “Leave me be,” he directed, walking away from her, but he was met with her persistence. 

“I will not,” she muttered, her own anger growing at Fingon. “Stop being insolent.” 

Fingon spun around to face her causing her to flinch. This made Fingon pause. Who had he become that one of the few people left with patience for him, cowered because of him? How much patience would they have for him, not knowing what Fingon they would meet. It was too easy for sorrow to move him to fury and bitterness. That anguish would never leave him. If he were cultivating it for violent ends, it seemed that he was condemned to lash out at those he loved.  

“I do not know how…” Fingon floundered. Looking at Accarrë, he shrugged his shoulders. “I am at a loss.” He wanted to say that he needed help, needed guidance, that he was entirely adrift and unsure how to do what she asked of him. What of you healing, what space was are you given to work through your torment? Fingon thought to himself, wishing he could offer her the same patience and care she did for him.  

Fingon laughed bitterly. “But I am a Prince!” he cried out, knowing the women and the commoners of their host were afforded little room to lick their wounds as he was. 

Accarrë laughed in turn. “We are not,” she replied, growing angry with Fingon. “Indeed, you are a bastard, thinking only of your own pain.” She said it, naming the feelings she harbored for her friend.  

Fingon wanted to grow wrathful. This time he only allowed himself to grunt at Accarrë, but Accarrë understood that Fingon needed to meet his anger and wrath head on, be allowed to succumb to darker desires and know he could control them. He needed to fully meet Fingon and accept who he was.  

And she needed to be more than Fingon’s auxiliary whether in battle or emotions. She dared name their treason: “I too am a kinslayer, but the people need what I offer to them, and I need what they offer me.” She placed her hand on her sword’s pommel, observed as Fingon’s bright blue eyes followed her motion. “We need you Fingon.” Accarrë ripped off her sword belt throwing it to the ground. Taking deep breaths, she began to hum, her voice buzzing, creating a magnetic energy. It was dangerous to call forth Eldar magic alone as they were but she needed Fingon to feel her pull, her energy.  She spoke, “What you feel is the pull of Endórë reminding you of your inheritance, what you feel is the need to express your fury, and what you need is a good thrash. In our early days, it was not uncommon for our people to battle one another.”  

It was Fingon’s turn to laugh, though he recognized that her conjuring had quickly turned his mood. “And you shall be the one to mete out this punishment?” 

“Aye,” she snarled.  

Fingon dropped his own sword belt. “Very well.” 

They rounded each other, like wild animals circling each other, waiting for the moment to go in for the kill. Accarrë expected Fingon to attack. He needed to do it. While they had momentarily grappled after the battle with the orcs, it was not enough. 

Fingon answered. He came at her violently, dropping her to the ground. She retaliated, elbowing him in the jaw and kicking him in the stomach. Momentarily stunned, she flipped up and went to attack, but Fingon caught her by the hair, throwing her to the ground. Her lip split and her teeth felt like they would shatter, but elven bodies, even these Ice worn bodies, were hardy. With a leg, she kicked his feet out from under him. He landed with a thud, hitting his head. With a quick motion, Accarrë landed a solid kick to his brow.  

Yet Fingon did not lose his elven gracefulness. Swiftly he flipped himself up and threw himself at Accarrë. Fingon was much larger than Accarrë, weighed significantly more though she was also tall and strong. This would be the end of it. She would surely cry out parley. Fingon pinned her to the ground, held her arms down with his hands, wrapped his legs around hers to keep her down. He ground down on her, not allowing her to push up. Accarrë’s eyes were narrowed and she was hissing at him like a wild thing. This exhilarated him. The sight of blood on her lips was rousing. They were both breathing heavy from their exertion, but there was a change in their struggle. Where there was battle fervor was now giving way to arousal. Elves, the Second Born would soon say, were strange, fey cousins. 

Blood trickled down his own face from the cut on his brow. He tasted his blood, licking it provocatively. Accarrë tasted the blood from her own lips, pushing up on Fingon, wanting to feel him there. Fingon responded, pressing his hard cock into her. She moaned, meeting and moving against it. Hungrily he pressed his lips against hers and they kissed roughly, but Fingon would not release her, causing her to buckle under him. He savored the feeling of her under him, voicing his pleasure, but she found the upper hand flipping him over.  

Fingon laughed. He was happy to have her dominate him. He grabbed her around the waste and brought her hard against him, willing her to ride him and feel him. Falling into their ecstasy, Accarrë closed her eyes and rode Fingon, but she wanted more. Fingon brought his hand up under her shirt to fondle her breast, his index finger finding and teasing her nipple. Accarrë growled, impatient. Getting to her knees she pulled down Fingon’s trousers, not caring to remove his boots. She exposed him, letting his cock spring free. It was large and hard, waiting for her. Together they frantically pulled off her boots and her trousers until was ready. Indelicately Fingon picked her up and drove into her. Accarrë cried out and pushed back against him. She rode him slowly at first, despite his growing protestations until she could hold out no longer. She rode him fast and hard.  

The two focused on the sensation of their bodies, giving into whatever dictates their lust directed. Lucky for them, nobody ventured onto that path, otherwise they would have happened upon a most indecorous scene. They fucked hard and fast, then slowed and laughed, wiping the blood that trickled from each other’s faces. Fingon teased Accarrë pumping hard here and there as they worked to catch their breath. Giving in again to their hunger, they worked themselves into a frenzied love making, their voices carrying into the surrounding forest. They did not care who heard, did not care how they sounded. They gave themselves solely and wholly into carnal desire. It is what they needed, to come out on the other side of violence feeling alive.  

Accarrë was growing wilder, nearer to ecstasy promised by sex, but Fingon could not hold out long enough to meet her pleasure. He expertly moved his hands to lay around his cock so she could grind into his knuckles, helping her tumble more rapidly into the brightness of her climax. Accarrë’s movement was frenzied, her stroke deepened. Fingon cried out, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He came with a violent urgency, but Accarrë held on longer, riding out beyond Fingon’s climax, until she too collapsed in savage release.  The bright light that enveloped them, slowly dissipated.  

Accarrë tumbled off Fingon. They lay next to one another, their eyes closed, hands on their chests, catching their breath, allowing their bodies to come down from that very peculiar elven energy of sex, experienced not by the other creatures of Eru’s creation. Fingon laughed, the pain and aching of their coupling was hard to distinguish from the aches and pains from their fight. “Battle lust,” he moaned, his voice unwilling to cooperate so great had he given himself to their battle.  

Accarrë grunted. She could not yet find her voice to speak. Instead she allowed her hand to fall on Fingon’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. The two laid on the path until dusk found them.  

“Witch,” Fingon whispered, stirring from the reverie that had taken him. He felt unencumbered, at a distance from his anguish and sorrow. It was not gone, but he could observe it. He had come out on the other side, for once.  

Accarrë giggled, causing Fingon to glance at her, surprise written on his face. He’d never witnessed Accarrë behave so vulnerably. Noticing Fingon’s surprise, Accarrë, mouthed a “what?” though she momentarily regretted allowing Fingon to see her vulnerability. 

For once, Fingon had the distance from his own anguish to discern the slight change in her features. Leaning onto his side, Fingon took her hand into his. “I am a fool, forgive me,” he asked, understanding that what he desired the most was…forgiveness, had been asking for it over and over from those he loved.  

Accarrë detected this change in Fingon and said a quick prayer of thanks to the goddesses that had been left behind long ago for her momentary lapse. “Not a weakness,” she whispered as much for her and for Fingon. With her hand, she pulled Fingon’s face towards her. “Fingon, I have never held you at fault for any of your missteps, for they belong to all of us.” 

Fingon touched his nose to hers, “Please forgive me.” He needed this more than the understanding she was offering.  

Accarrë sighed. She began, “I forgive you Fingon,” but what came was unexpected: tears. She also needed to grieve. 

Fingon too was overwhelmed. Forgiveness. I forgive you Fingon, the words reverberated within him and with a gentle kiss he thanked Accarrë. For the first time, beyond his dreams, he saw his sorrow and his loss, could recognize it in others, and believed he could walk with it. Accarrë’s magic was potent, had been once forbidden. Fingon truly understood that their people would need to reflect this new order: to be remade, his words began to take meaning and shape.  

)()()( 

Fingon and Accarrë walked into the encampment looking a mess. They were bruised and bloodied, their hair tangled, small branches and leaves caught up in their hair. Their clothes were dirty and wrinkled, blood dried on it. Many an elf stood and gaped. Their Prince and his witch always surprised them so. But most striking was the grin on Fingon’s face and the twinkle of mischievousness in his eyes. Being in the eye of his people, they watched him keenly, and many reckoned that on that day, Findekáno found a way for Fingon. It marked the capacity for elven whimsy to take hold and be celebrated in light of darkness and terror. For Fingon he began to understand what it truly meant to be an elf, feeling in his bones the changes that Endórë wrought, the desires she awakened within the First Born to harken to the elven qualities that had made them fey and dangerous, joyful and sorrowful- an enigma for all around them.   

Irissë and Artanis observed the pair make their way to the communal showers. Artanis snorted, “A good fuck is all he needed.” 

Irissë laughed, knowing Artanis was being flippant. “The power of women must be accounted for if we are to thrive,” she said, determined to find her place in this world.  

Artanis pulled Irissë closer to her. “We will not forget her. I will not allow it,” Artanis voiced, naming the baby that had been lost, that too many would not speak of, but not the women that surrounded Irissë, they kept her memory as a beacon. 

Irissë held her head up high, watching as Accarrë led Fingon into the baths, whispering words to him that made him smile. In the stories that would be passed down by the women folk, the names of Accarrë, Rilmiel, Celebrían and others would be celebrated, their deeds told. These histories would record their fears, their desires, and whisper the intimacies of Noldorin history lost to the tales written by men in the annals of formal history.  

)()()()( 

 “…they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe. There Elenwë the wife of Turgon was lost, and many others perished also; and it was with a lessened host that Fingolfin set foot at last upon the Outer Lands. Small love for Fëanor or his sons had those that marched at last behind him, and blew their trumpets in Middle-earth at the first rising of the Moon.”  

-The Silmarillion 

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

[1] From Silmarillion, Chapter 9, Of the flight of the Noldor 

Chapter 6: Renewal

Read Chapter 6: Renewal

Chapter 6: Renewal

 

Soon the colors of fall would blanket the land and the land would begin to ready itself for slumber, but on this summer day, the air was hot and humid, latent with life and fertility. On a gentle slope, under the boughs of a large oak, two bodies lay together, entangled.

 

“Acharedel,” Irissë savored the sounds of the letters come together on her tongue.  She scrunched her nose, whether in displeasure Accarrë could not tell.

 

“Do you not like it?” Accarrë inquired, her eyes studying the beautiful profile beside her.

 

“I do,” Irissë replied, turning to face Accarrë. The breeze picked up to blow a strand of hair across her face which Irissë gently tucked behind Accarrë’s ear. She allowed her finger to trace the elegant length of her lover’s ear.

 

Accarrë shuddered, laughing softly. “Then what is it that causes you to wrinkle your nose just so!” Accarrë pulled Irissë into her lap.  Irissë’s black hair was loosely bound in a knot at her nape. The wild flowers Accarrë had lovingly placed Irissë’s hair were as fresh as when she first plucked them, a token of her faerie magic.  Irissë was the most beautiful creature Accarrë had ever seen and would ever know. Of this Accarrë was certain and it made it so easy to conjure the old green magic that favored such frivolities.

 

Irissë sighed contentedly, secure in the familiar warmth of Accarrë. Looking up at the older elf, Irissë shared, “I understand our peoples’ desires to take on new names but hearing yours… it makes you feel farther away from me.”

 

Accarrë sighed. The slight translation from Quenya to Sindarin was indeed ominous. While her mother name of vengeance was little approved in Aman, it was nevertheless prophetic, but in Sindarin, it was entirely unsettling: a hostile return.

 

Irissë continued, “Are we not colonizers, believing our Return to these lands our destiny? What of the Grey, the Green, those we consider Fae and dark?”

 

Accarrë did not like Irissë’s words. “How can we be colonizers if these are the lands where our ancestors were born? My mother and father are from these lands, following only in your grandfather’s footsteps because of a loyalty to their friend. We are not the ones that look down our noses at those that did not Journey,” Accarrë replied fiercely, her eyes scanning the lake in the distance, not wanting to see the anger in her lover’s face. “I leave those attitudes to the Lords and Ladies of the nobility.” Accarrë exaggerated the phrase knowing she was offending her friend.

 

Irissë sat up. She was about to fall into a well-worn debate between them, but she knew that the words she spoke were meant to distance Accarrë. It tore at her, that fateful night—in what were many of many that she would chronicle—that Turgon spoke to her of his towers by the sea and asked if she would come with him. Irissë had said yes. Of course, she would follow Turgon, not for Turgon but for his daughter, like a daughter to Irissë. This impending departure, though not for many years, nevertheless grew a distance between her and Accarrë. It was foolish really. How could the small distance from Turgon’s city to the camp by the lake and to the place at the mouth of the River Sirion her father had chosen to build a fortress seem like such an immense divide? And yet Irissë, for better or worse, was tied to Turgon’s fate, and Accarrë to Fingon’s. This was a bitter pill for Irissë to swallow for in her search for freedom Irissë was still bound to the will of men. She took in a deep breath and grabbed Accarrë’s hand. She could find no words to speak.

 

Accarrë found one instead: “Íreth,” she whispered using the Sindarin of Irissë’s name. “Do not think I am blind to your emotions, that I know not what thoughts tumble about in here,” Accarrë indicated, placing her hand upon Irissë’s chest. “In the time I have loved you, you have never been completely mine,” Accarrë admitted, the specter of Tyelko emerging from the past shared between them. And now Turgon, but she could not ask Irissë to stay for well Accarrë knew that she went with Turgon not for him but for Itarillë. Accarrë could not take this from Irissë, knowing it helped soften the pain of the loss of Rilmiel.

 

Irissë leaned into the familiar body of Accarrë, wrapping her arms around her lean form. Accarrë whispered as she closed in for a kiss, “Know this my white lady, I will always love you.”

 

“I know,” Irissë whispered, “and I you,” but the unspoken words, but not enough, filled her thoughts. Her Accarrë, like Fingon, fated to love someone who could not be there the way they wanted. Tyelko had not been there for her. Doomed lovers.

 

Accarrë pulled away momentarily from her lover. A feral grin spread on her lovely face. “Not Artanis! She will forge her own fate!”  Irissë mouthed an incredulous “what” but was quickly quieted by her lover. Accarrë closed her mouth over Irissë’s and gently laid her upon the verdant grass. No, it was not enough, but this moment, their present, was enough for her to claim Irissë, to show her how much she loved her. With her free hand she slipped her hand between Irissë’s trousers and her skin, making her way to the path between her legs. Irissë had an easier task, lifting up the skirt that Accarrë was wearing and finding her ready, stroking her between the legs, finding the contours of the buds of the flower that bloomed.

 

Summer would soon give way to fall, and fall to winter, but the lovers’ heat kept the chill of fall at bay. And time passed this way in the camp by the lake.

 

)()()()(

 

A chill had crept into the air and though elves did not chill easy the warmth of a fire was rumbling in the hearth, heating a kettle of water hanging from it. Irissë kept quiet while Accarrë arranged her bow and quiver in the room. Irissë knew the drill: return from patrol and hand over your dirtied and dulled weapons and armor to the smiths and their apprentices; hastily disrobe as you make your way to the showers, gathering the gloves, the leather braces; enter the large stone bath building and unceremoniously discard your items on the floor; peel away leather armor and road worn clothing, dropping it atop your growing pile; and finally slip in to the heated waters and let it work its way to your bones. A fine system had emerged amongst vocations now held in high esteem. The young would gather up the items and distribute them as needed to be; whether to the leatherworkers, the seamstresses, and the washers, the soldier’s gear would be tended, mended, or replaced.

 

Accarrë had just returned from a long scouting trip with Findaráto and Artanis that included a visit with the Fëanorians and a trip to the borders of Doriath to meet with the kin of the Arafinwions. Accarrë’s face did not break out into a smile. The journey was most assuredly a demanding one, not only because of the distances travelled but because of the people involved.  Accarrë felt her lover’s eyes trailing her as she moved through the room. Her room was now connected to a larger stone structure that had been built by the third year of Fingolfin’s hosts time in Middle Earth. A building boon was upon them. The Noldor had perfected their system, from quarry to stone mason, to the building of walls. Earthen homes were erected, some with timber, some with stone floors, but all with an eye that they would not be permanent. To the eyes of men that were recently awoken Fingolfin’s settlement would be a beauty to behold, but for the elves, it was too exposed. Fingolfin’s eyes were set to the East at the mouth of the River Sirion where soon the ground would be set for Fingolfin’s fortress, though that building would not come to be for some time.

 

Turgon, on the other hand, begun building a settlement to the West on the slopes of Mount Taras by the sea. The proposed settlement had attracted a lot of attention and debate within the ranks of the Noldor, laying bare the divisions that still festered. It was bitterest of all between Turgon and Fingolfin, though Fingolfin did his best to quell the resentment he felt for his son for taking Idril and Ireth away from him, but as a father, he also understood his son’s motivations. Fingon, though, felt Turgon was acting selfishly, not considering what was best for all the Noldor, and not just his inner circle. Militarily, it was spreading their forces thin, dividing up the territories to be defended, but it was clear that there were many who would follow Turgon. Fingolfin believed that at least a third of their people would follow Turgon. It was the one of the conversations that were had officially and intimately. For Fingolfin, he saw how it tore his people apart. The Noldor were fractured not only within his host but also from the Fëanorians. They would never defeat Morgoth so broken.

 

Irissë moved to the hearth to fill a mug with the water from the pot. “Here, drink this,” Irissë offered, placing the mug on a table near the hearth. Accarrë nodded, walking over to the table. Steam rose from the mug, filling her nose with the sweet scent of chamomile. She plopped herself on the chair. She was bone tired. It had been a long trip but more than anything it had been a trip that required a great amount of mental energy.

 

Irissë was waiting for her report, knowing that Accarrë had been obliged to spend part of the trip with Tyelko, exchanging scouting information. Accarrë first relayed to Irissë that upon arriving to the borders of Doriath, she had not been allowed entry, while Findaráto and Artanis had been welcome. The guards cared little for how and where Accarrë would stay but the group had anticipated such a greeting and so Accarrë found hospice with some of the Green elves that lived in the Forest of Brethil.

 

Irissë was incensed by Thingol’s rebuke. “He’s an arrogant ass!” she seethed.

 

“Yes, he is,” Accarrë acknowledged. “I like it not that the Arafinwions are welcome guests of his. Little love does he have for us, if he were to know the full tale-“

 

“It would be a disaster!” Irissë interjected. “More than a disaster, it would have profound implications for us all!”

 

Accarrë rubbed her temples. “But I am the worst for my time spent in that camp,” she admitted.  

 

Irissë moved behind her. “I can only imagine,” she soothed, massaging Accarrë’s shoulders. “Did you gain anything from your time with the Fëanorians?”

 

Accarrë grunted, “My time with Tyelko was the only useful moment I stole away from that shit hole.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Tyelko and I exchanged useful tactical information. We triangulated information on Morgoth’s ilk, and between the two of us gathered enough information to build a useful scouting map to share between our camps.” 

 

“And the others?” Irissë probed.

 

“Pointless,” Accarrë replied. “Makalaurë and Findaráto spent their time arguing about chain of command and Artanis was artfully answering pointed questions and responding to not so veiled threats from Curufinwë and Carnistir.

 

“What of the twins?”

 

“Telvo and Pityo were out scouting for much of the time we were there and when they returned they did not go out of their way to greet us.” Turning to face Irissë, Accarrë divulged, “Something about Maitimo stirs them, something of his death pains them.”

 

Knowing that Accarrë was a keen observer, Irissë pressed her for more information.

 

“There is something they are not telling us about Maitimo,” Accarrë revealed.

 

“But we have it on good authority that he died at the hands of Morgoth like Fëanáro,” Irissë replied.

 

“Those men were not there. They only know what they were told. And trust me when I say, even then, Ondion and his brother were not fully trusted by the Fëanorians. I believe much was kept from them.”

 

“That is very possible,” Irissë considered. After all, Ondion was her sister-cousin’s husband, even though he was a man of Fëanáro.

 

Accarrë turned around to face Irissë. “Say none of this to Finno. I fear it would stir up more than is needed within him.”

 

“I will not,” she vowed, knowing that Fingon least needed to have doubt planted in him over Maitimo’s death. Regardless of Maitimo’s betrayal, their love had been deep and fiery. Where there had been such fire there was sure left to be embers.

 

“Enough of my questions. To the bed!” Irissë commanded, satisfied Accarrë had drank enough of her tea. Accarrë rewarded her with a lopsided grin, too tired to manifest more. Irissë scooped Accarrë up from the chair and carried her to their bed where she plopped her on the mattress. “Sleep,” she ordered, sliding onto the bed next to Accarrë. Accarrë snuggled back into Irissë’s embrace, warm, comforting and familiar. Sleep found her quick.

 

Irissë laid next to her for hours, combing her hands through her hair, and feeling the familiar rise and fall of her breath. ““Acharedel,” Irissë whispered, this time like a prayer.

 

)()()()(

 

The chill of the harvest season was a strange companion. On the one hand it announced the cold that would soon arrive. Fingon sat next to his sister-cousin, Enelyë, the eldest daughter of Lalwen. She had her head on Fingon’s shoulders, her arm looped through his. It had been too long since they had sat this way.

 

“I have missed you,” Enelyë whispered to her brother-cousin. Fingon turned to look at Enelyë. It had taken him much effort to reach out to her. He hadn’t really spoken with her since he took her son’s arm on the ice due to a terrible accident that resulted in severe frostbite, a condition they had not known could even occur before Helcaraxë. Fingon kissed his sister-cousin on the brow, but he was drunk enough to bump his head into hers, making them both laugh.

 

“Aye, I have missed you,” Enelyë repeated, her face beaming with a happiness that was rare also for her.

 

Fingolfin’s host was celebrating their first true harvest. A large bonfire lit the night. Much wine and ale were being consumed as well as a draught of potent mushrooms that aided the elves in their journeys into the land of fae.

 

Witches night. A thread in a song wailing like a banshee, reminding those willing to listen that witches’ souls were also bound to darker things. The song reached out to the moon, conjuring, teasing with the tip of a finger, come hither. Desire and death consumed the logs, the fire whipped into a frenzy, its finger light tendrils reaching out, clamoring for more, overwhelmed with the need to burn, consume, always on the edge of dying.

 

Feet clamored around the fire, jumping, delighting in the song of the fire, the song of the Laiquendi.

 

Fingon was drunk with the strange green spirits. He never bargained for the feeling in the pit of his stomach: a strange desire devoid of love. This was less than what he had known, but for now it would do. It was awoken in him now, desire. Perhaps he could no longer love, give his heart for he had given it and there was no having that back. He brought the drink to his mouth, took a sip, let his tongue play with the spirit. It burned going down.

 

Accarrë danced around the fire. Fingon smiled, watching how her hips swayed back and forth, the way her hair swung around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her whole body given over to the dance. Enelyë noticed her brother-cousin’s eyes, trailing the woman around the fire. “The fire consumes much more than we can see,” she offered.

 

Fingon turned to look at her. “That it does,” he answered, turning back to watch his witch.

 

Accarrë could feel his eyes on her, burning through her, pulling her closer to him, but she was caught. The fire too demanded of her, desired her body, calling her closer to its heart.

 

Accarrë had fucked Fingon back to some kind of forgiveness, an absolution they revisited on occasion. She smiled. Deep within her she felt her own heat kindled. The blood rushed down and she ached, desired release. With her hand she traced the feeling of desire along the paths of her skin, feeling it electric. She gave herself to the erotic dance, relished in the freedom of the Harvest fire. Her heart was given and she had felt it broken. Irissë would not stay in Nolofinwë’s camp, would not move with them to the new fortress. Instead, Irissë would follow Turgon to his city by the sea.

 

While the Noldor had not abandoned the fertility rites of harvest there were many in the Undying Lands that turned their noses to their old customs, naming them crude. But they were never abandoned, and in Endórë they found their sundered kin wishing to feast their harvests together as their kin had done.

 

After a while of the two cousins sitting in quiet contentment, Fingon rose. “Some advice?” Fingon offered his cousin, his eyebrow raised indicating he would not take a no.

 

Enelyë laughed, feeling light of spirit momentarily, yet also nostalgic for this banter reminded her of better days between her and her beloved Fingon. “Your advice has always been terrible,” she chided. They had been thick as thieves in Tirion, two of a kind, given to their impulses. Fingon grinned impishly, “Get fucked.”

 

“What?” Enelyë responded, half laughing, half offended.

 

Fingon kneeled before his cousin and took her face between his hands. “Look at that husband of yours, he looks lost.”

 

Enelyë looked over at her husband, Ondion, and back at Fingon. “And why should I be the one to offer him a remedy for his thoughts tonight?”

 

“You misunderstand me,” Fingon interrupted, “and you misunderstand him. He misses you.”

 

Enelyë frowned. Of course he did. She had poured herself into the work her mother asked her to do and into the healing of her son, avoiding the work of trying to remake her life with her husband, a follower of Fëanáro who had boarded the ships expecting he would be able to bring his wife along. It had taken quite some time for her to believe that Ondion had not been allowed to disembark from the boat when he found out Fëanáro meant to sail without Fingolfin’s host. He’d not believed they would return, had been proved right and had been among the few from the Fëanorian encampment that left to live with Fingolfin’s host upon their arrival.

 

“Don’t let Fëanáro continue to be a wedge between you. He did not abandon you,” Fingon urged, more gently.

 

Enelyë sighed. “It’s not so easy, you know.”

 

Fingon nodded. Enelyë was as proud as him, and she was as bold as him. Fingon narrowed his eyes, a mischievous look returning to his eye.

 

“And just what are you scheming Findekáno,” Enelyë asked, knowing Fingon too well.

 

“Here,” Fingon offered, raising his cup to her lips. “This will help.”

 

Enelyë raised her eyebrows, knowing the concoction that was held in the cup being offered. “Take it,” Fingon urged.

 

Enelyë broke out in laughter, gathering Fingon up into a hug. “I thought I’d never have this part of you back,” she spoke, her voice giving way to emotion.

 

Fingon leaned into her embrace. “Here I am and here this is,” he urged. “It has a way of helping you find your way to the here and now.”

 

“Well there’s nothing for it,” Enelyë replied, taking the cup and gulping down the rich drink. “Oh that’s interesting,” she offered, finishing her drink.

 

Fingon pulled Enelyë up to her feet, “Now go,” he ordered,  pushing her in the direction of her husband. Turning to look at Fingon, she winked, knowing what Fingon was after that night.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon grabbed Accarrë pulling her close to him. Accarrë laughed, falling into his embrace. She was dizzy with spirit. “Faerie,” Fingon whispered into her ear from behind. With one hand he held her tight to him and with his other, he combed some of her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He allowed his fingers to trace the tips of her fingers eliciting a hum of appreciation from Accarrë.

 

“You bewitch me,” he whispered. Indeed, she did, conjured their connection. They were to be tied forever more, not in romantic love, but in fealty and the kinship of warriors, and unknown to them, something more, something tender.

 

Accarrë pressed back against Fingon, finding his erection. She ground against him catching his penis between her buttocks. Fingon growled wanting to be inside her, unhindered by the clothing between them, but she teased him, rubbing up and down against the length of his shaft. Fingon too teased, bringing his fingers against her crotch, finding her clit through her dress, pressing in, rubbing.

 

Accarrë laughed, pulling away from him. She turned to look at Fingon, loved how she could arouse him, his blue eyes dark from arousal, his full lips filled with blood. Batting his needy hands away she loosened the ties of her dress, letting it fall over her breasts and then hips, and finally letting it pool on the floor. Fingon hummed in approval his mouth parted, his breathing shallow. How he desired her. Accarrë stepped up to him not allowing him to touch her. Instead she pulled the tunic over his shoulders and undid the belt that held up his loose trousers. Soon Fingon too was disrobed. She pressed her mouth against his and kissed him hard, aggressively. Fingon spun her around and pressed her against the tree. The rough bark caught her hardened nipples, eliciting a pleasurable gasp. Fingon picked her up from behind and sheathed himself in her. It was not gentle. Nothing between them was. This wasn’t about love, but about need. It was the way these friends found to express some kind of bond beyond the broken hearts they both carefully had put aside. Accarrë steadied herself, arms on the tree, pushing herself back onto him. Fingon thrust hard and quick, and was met by Accarrë’s own need, demanding he take her into the center of that fire.

 

“Consume me,” she demanded of Fingon, willing him to kindle the fire, to bring their bodies into the heat of creation. They fucked hard, fucked without the consideration of love between them. Fingon could never love another and Accarrë would always love Irissë, but at least they had each other to lose themselves in, and absolve themselves of their sins in each other. Fingon called her witch, but he too was Faerie, allowed Endórë to consume him with its being. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, felt as his moans took shape deep within his chest and were released. She loved to make him moan this way, she loved to hear him beg and cry out so utterly lost in wanton desire. She pushed back harder against him, taking him in deeper, deeper, harder, loved the way it felt for her skin to make contact with his. So alive, in the moment, bodies given to a different type of ceremony. It was a way of warriors to find the desperate edge of living so close to being dead and dying. Accarrë cried out for him and he for her. “Fuck me,” she demanded. “Do not come,” she hissed knowing he was too close to his edge but she was not so she bore down on him and he responded bringing her up against that tree.  She held onto it crying out desperately with the desire that claimed her.

 

“Fingon,” she gritted out, pushing back against him and he against her. He was coming she could feel him, hear him as he cried out, moaned her name, their own personal prayers. She was so close, so close, she closed her eyes feeling the tree, its bark, its life within and in her mind,  she saw the river of hues of green and brightness of the trees life, into the depths of earth, and she was carried into the essence of the tree. Her desire road the currents of Endórë, of Ea. Upon her head a crown of flowers bloomed and Fingon pushed into her one more time until the river of energy washed up through her, into him, and beyond so that together they witnessed the elemental glory of the Eldar of old, born by the shore of Cuivienen.  Her voice soared and they sang together a strange elven song conjured by desire and the flowers bloomed and the petals fell from the flowers, melting into their skin.

 

They were faerie manifest.

 

“Acharedel,” Fingon managed to whisper, using the Sindarized form of the name Accarrë had adopted. Accarrë fell back into Fingon who managed to catch her. Gently he brought her into his lap, circling his arms around her. They leaned into one another.

 

“You fuck me so good,” she murmured contently.

 

Fingon laughed softly, catching his breath. “There is no other way to fuck you. You’d have my head if I did otherwise.” Unspoken was her heartbreak, but not unnoticed. Fingon held her tighter, breathing her in. The tale of Irissë and Accarrë was coming to an end. It broke his heart for Fingon knew the love that Accarrë had for Irissë and Irissë for Accarrë, but Irissë needed to leave for a time and Accarrë would not leave Fingon’s side. They had quarreled about it, but Accarrë’s own words convinced Fingon that whatever bond tied her to him was not to be trifled with. There were bonds beyond those of lovers. Whatever bond Fingon and Accarrë had, it was that of warriors whose lives were tied together. They had no idea then, that Harvest evening how much so.

 

A voice from behind them startled them, someone clearing their throat. Fingon looked up and saw a maiden, daughter of one of his father’s lords.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, annoyed by the interruption. At least she had the manners to turn her face discreetly away from them.

 

“My lord,” your father requests your presence.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. “And he ordered you to fetch me?” he asked, knowing his father had an idea of where he was and that he would surely not send this lass looking for him.

 

“Yes, the young maiden hesitated. “Well, he asked for you, and I,” her cheeks were now rosy with embarrassment.

 

“You volunteered to fetch our lord,” Accarrë interrupted, amused by the clearly besotted young maiden.

 

“I had no idea,” she stuttered. And yet she did not move to leave.

 

Fingon’s ire grew. Instead he rose to his feet and brought Accarrë up with him, propping her up next to him which elicited giggles of pleasure from his friend. They were both naked as the day they were born and likewise unashamed.

 

“Fetch me my tunic,” Fingon directed the maiden. He might as well put her to use if she refused to leave.

 

Fingon gave Accarrë her dress and then slipped on his trousers.

 

Her head looking down towards her feet, Líssien handed Fingon his top. “My lord, I promised your father I would retrieve you.”

 

“Indeed you did,” Fingon shared, amused by the young woman’s clumsy effort. She was but a young thing, come of age on the ice. This made Fingon pause. The young woman did not deserve his scorn. She too should desire, should want to find her heart’s love.

 

Accarrë watched as Fingon’s eyes softened with compassion. Her captain was a good leader. She knew Fingon would have words to exchange with the young women. “Thank you,” Accarrë leaned over to Fingon, placing her hand on his heart.

 

Fingon pressed his hand over hers, looking into Accarrë, sharing with her that she was not alone. Should not allow herself to care for her broken heart alone. Accarrë smiled. Fingon brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Witch” he whispered. Accarrë laughed and spun around to face Líssien, offering a quick curtsy and skipping off. Fingon watched her go, but he could also see that the young maiden followed every word shared between them closely.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, more gently than he first addressed her.

 

“Your father awaits,” Líssien repeated, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.

 

Fingon sighed, gently raising Líssien’s face up to face him. “Do not set your heart on me,” he gently chastised her.

 

Líssien looked up into the blue of Fingon’s eyes. He was transformed. More beautiful than she remembered him before the Ice. The healing had come to them quicker and he was haler, whole, his figure filled out. Stronger than before. “But do we not deserve to remake ourselves?” she questioned boldly.

 

Fingon dropped his hand. “You deserve it Líssien, but I cannot, do not have a heart to give.”

 

Líssien pressed her lips together, not wanting to speak too impolitely. “Or do you mean it has been given over to that…”

 

“Careful now,” Fingon interrupted, warning the young woman, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I do not have to answer to you, or to anyone for that matter, when it comes to what company I choose to keep.”

 

Líssien had the wherewithal to look contrite. But she was young and still impetuous. “Say I have a chance!” she pleaded.

 

Fingon stepped away from the young woman who moved to be closer to him. “Does it not matter what you just witnessed? Would you want a man who you saw with another?” Fingon opted for a different tactic.

 

“Things are different in times of exile and darkness,” Líssien repeated the now mantra that guided Nolofinwë’s people.

 

“They are,” Fingon sighed. “I do not want to hurt you Líssien, so please hear me. I have no heart to give. Look to find love in another. You will not find it in me.”

 

Líssien looked up at Fingon who towered over her slight frame. “Not many have hearts to give and yet we are expected to find matches, to have children, and make life anew. How? I do not know how my lord?

 

Fingon hesitated, his hand dropping back to his side. In this moment there were no words he could offer the young woman that would suffice. In truth she was right, and her question was not one he could answer. Instead, Fingon sighed and pointed in the direction of the festivities. “Go back,” he ordered. He did not feel guilty for the harsh way he spoke to her. He was used to it, had given himself over to the military life. He did not wait for her reply and instead turned away from her and walked towards the darkness of the trees.

 

Líssien did not follow. Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not let them fall. Fingon had not noticed that it was she who collected his gear and clothes when he returned from his many scouting trips, from battles; that is was she who laundered the battle worn clothes, mended them, and made them ready for him. It was she who took his leather braces to the leatherworkers for repair. It was she that vocationed with the leathersmiths and tooled the incantations of protection onto his leather armor.

 

In her later years she would fondly remember her childish infatuation with Fingon and even share in laughter with her lord over her antics. She never married a Noldor, finding a partner in a Sindarin elf and having children of her own. In her later years, in the service of Gil-Galad, she would confess that she only came to know of love as an Exile, never the love that grew in the Blessed Lands, and for this reason she was heartened to know that her first love had been Fingon. Fingon the Valiant. She would be one of the ones who did not die. And upon her return to Tirion she made sure to tell the lesser known tales of Fingon, of Fingolfin, of Gil-Galad, and to her family, she would tell them of her life and finally know of love in peace.

 

The Doom of the Noldor was thus twice fold for the lady folk for their fates were tied to the Houses of their fathers, their brothers, their husbands., or their sons. Few would emerge to forge their own path, at least in the histories written. In these Galadriel’s name would emerge and she would be counted amongst the Greats. But it was not with the Greats that the day to day, year to year, age to age, world of the Noldor was built. It was between those pages, in the spaces of intimacy, the unspoken work, the mending of clothes, of a scraped knee, that the will of the Noldor was mightiest and enduring.

 

Chapter 7: All is not what it seems

Read Chapter 7: All is not what it seems

 

Fingon peered down the steep mountain side of what the Grey elves referred to as Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft, towards the water falls.* The people Turgon had sent out were exploring the area, recently emerged from behind the water fall, looking for a way to build a hidden entrance to what would be Turgon’s settlement in the coastal region of Nevrast. The cleft was known by Fingolfin’s people in the old tongue as Glorfalc, the Golden Cleft, but the Noldor also called it Falqalaure for none of the exiles had known these lands before they had Journeyed.

 

Fingon stood on a narrow rocky outcropping and above him rose the steep face of the eredlemrin, the echoing mountains, named the Ered Lómin by the Sindar. Though that name did not satisfy the Noldor as it did little to differentiate from the Ered Wethren to the South, name given to the Mountains of Shadow by the Sindar that encircled their new home.

 

Fingon felt exposed. He could not see or hear the elves he had stationed at points above him. The sound of the waters of the incoming sea at the Firth of Drengist was loud. He had to rely on his eyes to see Turgon’s people in the distance and the others stationed along the northern side of the eredlemrin. The range ended here at the Firth of Drengist. On the other side began the Mountains of Shadow called eryd-lómin by the Noldor, that they only named amongst themselves, to prevent confusion with their Sindarin neighbors. A few elves had made their way across the Falqalaure. As the crow could fly, these men were closer, but by land they were hours apart. Fingon’s unease made him cold. Though the steep rise of the cliff stood behind him he could not help but be aware of his brother’s grave near the shores of Lammoth, where others had been buried after their first battle fought on these middle earth lands: lands of their origins that were now destined to be hold their bodies in death. For the Noldor feared death, the Doom of Mandos a whisper ever present upon them.

 

Fingon saw the signal from Turgon’s group as well his own scouts. The signal was relayed by sight to the scouts above him by those on the other side of the cleft. Now began the arduous task of carefully picking out paths along the narrow ledges and rock outcroppings of the steep mountain side, until he could find a safer path down to Turgon’s people at the foot of the waterfall. It took him a better part of an hour to find his path back, even for nimble elven feet, the slick rock walls were treacherous, but Fingon and his group managed. The remainder would make their way through the easier high ground and meet them on the other side of the waterfall.

 

Fingon felt a tremor in the Song, a different chord and it shook him to his core: Orcs

 

They descended upon them like ravenous carrion from the ground above. Around him Fingon could only see bodies falling, flailing, letting out a fierce battle cry. These orcs were committing suicide with their attack, but they did not die. Somehow the wretched creatures managed to survive and attack with a fury that Fingon had not witnessed before. Elven warning calls were shouted out. Fingon braced himself as an orc slammed hard into him, casting him with great force against a boulder. Fingon bounced off and landed face down upon the wet earth. A spear glanced off the back of his helmet. Fingon knew he had but a moment to act. From the edge of his sight he saw one Turgon’s men violently impaled with such force, it split the body in two.

 

Vomit came up in his throat. Fingon wielded his sword desperately, hacking at whatever was near him. Around him he heard the desperate cries of his people, shouting out enemy numbers, anything that could be useful. Battle cries from both friend and foe echoed through the steep valley, so fierce the sound of the raging waters could not dampen them. The stones deep within the mountains trembled and the earth was electric with the terrible energy of battle. Fingon kept watching for the elves that had been stationed at the tops of the cliffs of the Cleft, but they did not come.

 

Fingon allowed himself to reach out to them through the Song that was elven brutality- a Song both beautiful and terrifying to behold. The threads of their unique voices were gone. Dead, they were all dead. Damn these shores, Fingon thought bitterly with every slice and pounding he took against his shield. This was close combat and he was taking a beating, surrounded by three orcs against the cliff, but elven battle fury was worth more than three enemies. Fingon too was stronger than the last time he battled orcs from such close distance. This too caught them by surprise. Managing to knock one Orc to the ground, Fingon charged the other two. Using his sword’s broad side, he pummeled the shield of an orc, shattering it, and with his own shield, Fingon took the impact of the sword, driving it in to his shield with such strength that the orc could not free his sword from it. It gave him enough time to slice at its feet as he rolled away, bringing one orc with him. The other orc let out a guttural shriek. Fingon had sliced through its tendons to the bone. Fingon rolled onto the other orc. They teetered dangerously on the cliff’s edge, the river raging below. It would be an easy out for Fingon to jump below but he could hear his company being slaughtered.

 

The orc grunted and screamed at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword found its belly. Spinning to his feet he ended the other creature’s life. Fingon ran as swiftly as possible towards Turgon’s people. Around him, some of his men and women fought fiercely but they all said one thing to him: Get to them!

Fingon spotted one of his men also racing ahead: Ondion! With great effort the two elves flew to the waterfalls. The sound of the melee ahead of them was sickening. Too many desperate elven cries were heard.

 

Too few of Turgon’s people stood. Fingon noticed some of that party missing. “They must have been taken,” Fingon heard Ondion answer him. This was a fate worse than death for the Noldor had first learned from the Sindar and come to witness themselves that Morgoth would not kill all his captives.  Fingon and Ondion felled a number of orcs with arrows but had to draw their swords quickly for the orcs were fast upon them. Fingon had little energy to call forth a Song of Power. The fighting waged heavily in favor of the orcs. Fingon’s company were fighting for their very lives.

 

Fingon raised his sword to strike down an orc but an arrow brought it down and it fell dead at his feet. The sounds of elven voices rang around them. Where this company had come from Fingon did not know but he had little time to ask questions.

 

The skirmish was soon over. Fingon was barking out orders and about to go speak to one of the elves that had come to their aid unexpectedly, but Fingon felt woozy and fell back. Ondion caught him.

 

“I’m well...” Fingon attempted to reply but threw up.

 

“Help me,” Ondion barked to a young elf that had come with the other company.

 

Eyes wide with shock the elf hurried over to help Ondion sit Fingon down. Ondion took his water skin and poured it over Fingon. They were all bloodied. Sure enough, after washing away the grime of battle, Ondion found a large gash and swelling at the back of Fingon’s head. “A serious wound, though not life threatening,” Ondion observed, more for the young elf that was helping him.

 

To another elf he shouted for medicine. A small vile was thrown in his direction. Ondion caught it and gave it to the young elf named Nildo. “Give him some,” he ordered and “You,” he called out to another youngster he knew from Fingolfin’s camp, “help Nildo carefully lay Fingon down and check him over for any other wounds. I do not like the look of the bruising on his arm,” Ondion ordered. While he wanted to tend to Fingon there were others with more serious wound and he was the most battle savvy healer they had in the company. Fingon would have his head if he knew he stayed to tend him and not the most gravely injured. None of Fingon’s company would break their carefully constructed protocol and Ondion being the newest member would never dare it. Fingon had set aside an intense animosity towards him and asked Ondion to join the company.

 

Ondion spied Ireth coming down the rocky precipice near the waterfalls. “Ireth,” he whispered. It had been her archers that had saved them. Ondion shouted at Fingon, “It is Ireth we owe are lives to,” but Fingon did not respond.

 

Ondion turned to look for Fingon, expecting him to be sitting up and protesting the young elves attempts to get him to lay down, but was surprised to find Fingon laying down. Ondion walked over and stooped over Fingon, lifting his eyelids. Fingon was out cold.

 

Ireth was quickly at his side. “Tell me it is not serious,” she exclaimed, not liking the sight of an unresponsive Fingon.

 

Ondion shouted out to the younger elf that had earlier assisted Fingon. “Just how much of the curare did you give him.”

 

Ireth was a step ahead of Ondion. “The whole vile!” She answered in disbelief picking up the empty vile. “Nildo!” She hissed, walking over to the young elf who was tending another injured elf.

 

Ondion smiled bitterly. It was a grave mistake to knock Fingon out. Nildo would never make this mistake again. They were not out of danger. They needed all the elves that could tolerate it to be alert as possible to fight and flee if need be.

 

Ondion turned his attention back to the Fingon. His arm had been broken. Ondion quickly checked that it had been set correctly. Satisfied, Ondion began the task of carefully moving Fingon onto the makeshift litter. Fingon would be in a lot of pain, but for now, they would have to carry him out along with the other seriously injured.

 

Ondion did not covet Ireth’s position. The wounded were tended and a plan had been elaborated for returning to their camp, but she now had to decide what to do with the dead elves as the ranking officer. Ondion surmised they could not burn their bodies as this would alert any near-by orcs that the elves were victorious.

 

One of Fingon’s scouts that had accompanied Turgon’s surveyors spoke up: “We can leave them behind the water fall. There is a cave. It has not been touched by evil.”

 

Ireth gritted her teeth. “Move the bodies,” she ordered, deciding that perhaps at another time they could return to bury the bodies. Her brother Turgon would surely come back for them. More immediately, they needed to leave this place.

 

The wounded were sent ahead with a group of guards, scouts preceding them. A number stayed behind to guard while the elves moved the bodies. “What of the scouts we had positioned above?” Ondion inquired, hoping Ireth would say they were safe.

 

Ireth spared a glance at Ondion. “Dead.”

 

“All of them? Are you sure? There were 6,” Ondion replied, his stomach churning with anxiety, anger, misery- a concoction of emotions that were too familiar.

 

Ireth shook her head affirmatively. “Aye, one of your people was able to relay to us the number. All were found as we made our way here.

 

The group walked back in silence. Ondion and Ireth speaking sporadically to put the picture together of what had happened and how Ireth had found them. She would speak to Fingon when he was conscious, so she thought, but was surprised to find Celegorm and his people making their way to them, with many of Fingon’s company’s horses with him.

 

Celegorm spared them fresh horses knowing that Ireth’s company had rode theris hard to find Fingon and Fingon’s horses had also spent themselves running away from the orcs that had surprised them.

 

Ondion travelled with the injured on the horses, leaving Ireth and some of her company with Celegorm. They would part ways after passing through the Mountains of Mithrim. For once, all of Fingon’s people were glad to see the Fëanorians.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon awoke with a start, screaming and in pain. In his dreams he saw hands sticking out from the snow. The fingers were curled over, twisted and desiccated from the bitter cold. The wind blew the snow, moving, revealing what had laid there before. Graves quickly dug in the snow, revealed. He saw his nephew’s face, frail and blackened at the nose, the cheeks, and ears. The sockets of the eyes empty, the teeth protruding from the dried lips. Yet his nephew had not died on that ice, but many others had.

 

He saw the faces of the hundreds that perished, saw the faces of those he had killed. In his dream he saw his own silhouette searching the snow drifts, digging, desperately trying to dig new graves for the bodies, but the wind was too strong, and he was buried in snow. Memory would never abandon him, nor would it forgive him. Faces, worn images, testament to the lives that lived but perished all for a Doom that should never have been. Lovers, fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, friends, faces that had been someone in the time before the other side of exile, lost to the Ice in between Heaven and Earth, Aman and Endórë, the Blessed Lands and Middle Earth, between what was and what is.

 

He reached out to find the pebbles he kept by his bed, pebbles he had collected from the seashore near where Arakáno was buried. He needed to go back. They had buried him by moonlight and thus would the elves inter their dead, by the light of the moon under the stars. Fingon moved to stand up and was hit with a wall of pain. His arm had been broken and was bound across his chest. His head felt like it wanted to explode. Carefully he sat back on his bed. The pebbles stayed cold in his other hand. Most times, if he dreamed, they were a terror. How could they be otherwise?

 

Look to the stars! Let them be the guides to your pain, to your loss, Fingon heard Acharadel’s prayers echo. Here alone, in his dark room he allowed tears to fall. We are all part of the currents of Eä, the very essence of Life. Stars are born and stars die. Elves are not eternal but tied to the fate of Arda, a fate not unknown. They were bitter but at least he found he could mourn. Look to the stars! In the intimacy of the space between you and them find the song, Fingon remember Acharadel’s words shared with him when he returned from the ill-fated scouting trip. Not the song you were taught but the song that is primordial and future, present and absent, all at once. Fingon tried to find the Song but failed time and time again.

 

The expected knock at his door came, then the familiar voice worriedly calling out: “Finno?”  Turgon.

 

Before he could bid his brother come in, Turgon opened the door. “I heard you cry out,” Turgon offered matter-of-factly. “Are you well?”

 

“I am,” Fingon replied, observing the dark circles under his brother’s eyes. “I must have been speaking in my sleep,” Fingon surmised.

 

Turgon sat down on a wooden chair near the hearth, noticing his brother had been crying. “More than speaking.”

 

Fingon grunted. That would explain why his throat felt raw.

 

“Ireth would offer you some tea, but she is not here,” Turgon said, knowing Fingon little wanted to speak of the dreams that tortured him.

 

“Where is she?” Fingon asked, realizing he had not seen her since his hasty return that evening.

 

“She was part of the party that came to your aid.”

 

Fingon raised his eyebrows. He had not seen her.

 

“Tell me what happened out there,” Turgon spoke, his voice indicating he would not accept no.

 

Fingon rubbed his eyes, his hand still in a fist. Opening his hand, he revealed the pebbles. Turgon’s eyes settled on the familiar grey pebbles, collected from the shores of Lammoth. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Turgon, “I was on patrol along the Cirith Ninniach, protecting the crew of elves you sent to assess the building of the underground tunnel that will connect to your settlement.”

 

Turgon stuck out his chin, “I know this. I want to know how it was you came to be attacked and whether our plans were revealed.”

 

Fingon clenched his jaw. “The orcs were surprisingly cunning and organized in their attack. They killed the scouts positioned at the entrance of the cleft. They rained down on us from the ridges, aided by some magic.” Fingon turned to look out at the stars visible from his window, the twitching of a muscle along his neck revealing his anguish. His thoughts had taken him back to the midst of battle. “Those orcs should have died, had their necks broken, from such high ground they leapt. But they did not die, and they landed upon us.”

 

Fingon’s thoughts brought him back to the room. “It’s how I got this,” he indicated with his chin. As if listening to his words, a piercing pain ran through his arm. Fingon did not wince, turning his pain into words, he hissed, “And worry not, your men are dead. They have no tale to tell.”

 

Turgon sat up straight. “Do not admonish me, Fingon.” Turgon felt the loss of the men just as keenly. Unlike Fingon, for him it was further evidence that he needed to build a city behind the protective height of the coastal mountains.

 

Fingon stood up, tossing the pebbles back into the bowl. “Do not admonish you?” he laughed. “No, brother, I am simply relaying to you that you need not worry. Those orcs also did not survive to tell a tale.” Rather than plan another fortification in a strategic area, Turgon was pulling his people back, relying on others to protect him.

 

Fingon walked curtly to the window. His breathing was shallow with anger. Willing himself to calm, he finally said to Turgon, “I lost many good soldiers.”

 

“I know,” Turgon replied coming to stand next to Fingon. “Do not believe me so absorbed that I do not also mourn their loss.”

 

Fingon glanced at Turgon. His hair was unbound and he was wearing the same wrinkled clothes as the day before.

 

“Ireth’s scouts found you. If not for her insistence that she follow after you, I am afraid you too would be dead,” Turgon shared wanly.

 

Fingon closed his eyes, his thoughts fixed on the dead.

 

“You did not see Ireth because she is the one who found the bodies of the guards you posted in the mountains.” Turgon tentatively reached out towards Fingon but pulled his hand back.  Fingon noticed.

 

“I see,” Fingon replied, unsure what else to say. His break was a serious one and he had suffered a concussion. That Fingon was disoriented soon after the skirmish was not a surprise. He had been given a draught for pain that made him go limp. It had been too much. The scouts were young, not the most experienced healers and soldiers, and thus did not know that all soldiers are kept alert, giving just enough to take the edge off from the pain.

 

“Ireth scolded them good,” Turgon shared, smiling. This made Fingon smile too. He could imagine how severely she must have come down on them. He did not feel pity for them. Such mistakes and naïveté were costly.

 

Fingon was tired. He had spent much of his energy into healing himself. He did not want to fight with his brother.  Instead, Fingon noticed that his brother looked more than miserable, he looked translucent. “You have not been sleeping,” Fingon observed, knowing that Turgon’s sleep escaped him more than just this night.

 

Turgon cast a tired look at his brother. At least Fingon decided not to argue and pin the losses on him, though he deserved it.  “Rest alludes me,” Turgon answered, the brightness of his eyes dimmed.

 

Fingon understood that Turgon hoped to find some semblance of peace, some rest, in his city by the sea, a dream he had shared with him years ago as they watched the waters of the sea. And maybe Turgon was right to take Idril away from their camp, to give her a tower by the sea. It would not last. Both brothers knew this, but how could Fingon prevent his brother from offering his daughter this small joy. “It is folly,” Fingon whispered gently.

 

Turgon did not speak, replying only with the bitterest of smiles.

 

)()()()(

 

Forsaken, Makalaurë mused as Fingon stood before him, inside the Fëanorian throne room. It had been more than a year since he had laid eyes upon his cousin. In Valinor a year was but a day, but in Endórë, days were counted, and minutes and hours valued. Their sense of time had come undone. And once again Fingon was changed, no longer starved, but still hungry.

 

Maglor stood and walked towards a table laden with food. With a finger he indicated Fingon should join him. It was a gesture stolen from innocent times, intimate in nature, a way of saying something with his body that Fingon recognized as from a time before, but now was not that time or place. A mere gesture, now a daring show of authority. Maglor knew this. He was no fool. Fingon locked his eyes on his cousin and Maglor smiled. Of course, Maglor knew that he was playing with time, playing with the theater of what had once been and the dangerous present of the moment.

 

Fingon gifted Maglor a bitter smile. “Your father’s crown fits you well,” Fingon replied, not willing to engage Maglor in his game of cat and mouse. Findekáno, clever as he was, would have relished the challenge, but Fingon did not have time for such frivolity. Maglor knew this, Fingon was sure of it.

 

Sit and eat,” Maglor ordered, “I know you are hungry.”

 

Fingon preferred this directness. “Very well, I will join you.”  Fingon kept his eyes on Maglor as he crossed the large room and took a chair across from his cousin. Fingon served himself a healthy portion of the venison and wild rice stew. Pausing between mouthfuls, Fingon spoke, his voice not hinting at any emotion, “Ondion told me that your brother refused to burn the ships.”

 

Maglor sat up straight. The time had come for this conversation. Maglor had expected it earlier, but this new person was not one he knew well. Maglor let his fist fall on the table. “He did not. He asked our father to return for you. Demanded it, even,” Maglor answered coolly, his calculating gaze watching for anything as much as a twitch in Fingon.

 

“I know,” Fingon replied. Leaning towards Maglor who sat across from him, Fingon smiled, waiting for Maglor’s reply.

 

“Does it warm you to know my brother thought of you even in our darkest hours?” Maglor spoke, his voice silky and appealing.

 

Fingon threw his head back and laughed, slamming his fist on the table, causing the dishes upon it to shake. Maglor watched, appreciative that Fingon too was enjoying the absurd dance of power between the two. Fingon caught his breath. “Once upon a time,” Fingon answered. Sobering, he added, “I have little capacity to love.” Fingon grabbed Maglor’s hand. “This you condemned us to,” he hissed.

 

Maglor shook away Fingon’s hand. “We did not compel you to cross that ice,” Maglor accused.

 

Fingon stood abruptly, sending his chair to the ground. “You well know that we could not return.”

 

“Some of you did,” Maglor purred, enjoying Fingon’s anger.

 

Fingon, leaned on the table, bringing his face close to Maglor’s. “Not all of us could.”

 

Maglor whispered, “No, not you Kinslayer.”

 

Fingon grabbed Maglor’s throat, “Why? Why do you do this!” The few guards in the hall had their arrow aimed at Fingon, but Maglor threw his hand up, stilling them.

 

Ripping Fingon’s hand away from his throat, Maglor coughed, managing to whisper, “To remind you that you are not our betters.”

 

Fingon backed away from Maglor. He was not going to be pulled into this well-worn argument again. The two camps were at an impasse. Though they greatly needed one another to survive, the divide was too vast between them. Running his hand through his unbound hair, Fingon sighed, “You are worse for his death.”

 

Maglor moved to stand at a distance from Fingon, though he could not see his face as it was hidden behind his hair. “Thank you for returning our horses. Celegorm wants to thank you himself if you will have him,” Maglor offered, changing the topic of the conversation entirely. Fingon nodded.

 

Maglor walked towards the hall doors. Pausing he turned to look at Fingon, a strange light in his eyes. “Nelyo was captured by Morgoth’s creatures. We know not whether he was killed or his held captive.”

 

Fingon’s eyes grew wide. But he was dead! Had believed him gone for all these years. Fingon’s hands curled into fists. He did not turn to face Maglor, could not face him. Fingon heard Maglor leave the hall and another set of steps enter: Celegorm.

 

“Findekáno?” Celegorm queried, noting that Fingon did not respond.

 

Fingon turned to look at Celegorm. “Tell me what happened to Maitimo. All of it.”

 

The icy fury in Fingon’s eyes bore witness to Fingon’s turmoil. He would hear all of it and Celegorm would tell it. Celegorm sighed. His people were tired. Morgoth’s forces were constantly checking them at their borders. “Very well,” Celegorm answered and relayed the tale of how Maedhros went to meet with Morgoth, was betrayed and captured by Morgoth. Celegorm told Fingon of the missive that they received to surrender to Morgoth and he would in turn release Maedhros.

 

Maglor listened from outside the Hall, heard the desperation creep into Fingon’s voice as he questioned Celegorm, accused him of cowardice for not saving their eldest and beloved brother. Celegorm said nothing in rebuttal, feeling much the same as Fingon did, but had his hands tied by the will of the Fëanorian King and council.

 

Fingon stormed out of the Hall and pausing to stand in front of Maglor, Fingon spat on the floor in front of him. Maglor winced but stood his ground unwilling to look down in shame. Fingon’s eyes were ablaze, his internal Song pulsating outward into the space around them. Fingon called out to his people and they rode away with their horses and into the evening.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon’s sword clamored on the cold stone floor of Fingolfin’s Council Hall, echoing through the empty room. He could not remember warmth, could not recall words spoken that belonged to his life, but seemed like they belonged to another. Slowly his eyes focused on the empty throne room, taking in the colors of the banners that hung from the high ceilings. They retained their original splendor but that seemed a crime to him for those banners of the Houses that crossed the Grinding Ice were the only things that survived intact.

 

He was alive. He was sure of it.

 

)()()()(

 

TBC…

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

* I seem to remember that Tuor gave the name “Rainbow Cleft” to the place or if it was named that prior to him. My memory is probably wrong on this!

Chapter 8: The Hero’s Journey

Unbeta’d. Forgive the mistakes and clunkiness.

Read Chapter 8: The Hero’s Journey

Terror. Fingon had first understood this emotion when his grandfather had been slain. There had been the terror of the Ice, knowing that the grinding of the ice would signal death. Over time, that terror had turned to horror. Fingolfin’s host had succumb to it. It was a terrible blow to have a world view shattered. The Noldor went from being the center of their universe to a cold knowledge that in the scheme of a larger world, the elven was not central. Their Creation story became linked with the knowledge of their demise: the utterly cold fact of a world without elves.

 

Morgoth was cunning, understood the epistemological breaking endured by the Noldor. Morgoth wielded the theater of horror, demanding the depraved and corrupted slaughter of life. From the burning of bodies to the evisceration of the whole into parts- flesh, matter, limbs, guts- the word barbarism had new meaning post Exile. They were writing, discovering, experiencing a world anew.

 

Maglor shuddered. What more can you do to the dead if you have already killed them? To witness this brutality for elves was beyond the seeing of the thing, it was a visceral assault on their senses. For Maglor, he felt it more keenly than most, being so attuned to the Music. Morgoth’s brutality reached beyond the flesh and into the notes. Maglor had gathered that the hunger he first saw in Fingon so many years ago was horror- a sentiment, a state of being that Maglor had not quite understood then. How things had changed for them. Fëanor’s death had been a terror to witness, but Morgoth’s monstrosity swallowed them and those around them, leading them into the heart of horror.

 

But what also worried Maglor was that the elves too could exact horror. Father, Maglor spoke to his Fëanor, now beyond, perhaps in the Halls of Mandos. I understand what you knew then. The Noldor were but a reflection of Fëanor, the greatest among them. They could achieve cosmic brilliance, but by that same token they could also be possessed of the power to incite and inflict horror. It was a terrible revelation.

 

“Why did you tell him?” Curufin demanded, interrupting Maglor. Curufin sat himself down at the same table Maglor had attempted to share a meal with Fingon.

 

Maglor spared Curufin an annoyed glance. He was used to Curufin’s insistent interruptions. They came often.  What he was going to say to Curufin would possibly, most likely enrage him, but Maglor did not have the patience to censure himself. As King, he could not. “Because I see in him a hunger that just might save our brother.” Maglor saw this when Fingon revealed he knew that Maitimo had not burned the boats, witnessed the flicker of something in his eyes.

 

Curufin growled, “Nelyafinwë is dead,” he declared using Maitimo’s formal name.

 

Maglor leaned forward to face his brother, as he had done with Fingon. “What if he is not?”

 

“Then send our armies to rescue our brother!” Curufin cried out. Both camps retread the same well-worn arguments. They were eating themselves from the inside, knowing where they had failed and unwilling to face that failure less they admit defeat.

 

“An army will not save him,” Maglor retorted, his voice dropping in tone. He stood, kingly and mighty. “A single man might.”

 

Curufin laughed. “Do you really believe that Fingon is mad enough to do this? Can do something none of us can?” There it was again, judging the worth of one House against the other.

 

Maglor’s voice grew soft and he let himself drop the king and be a brother. “A fool’s hope,” Maglor admitted, his shoulders sagging. Curufin sat back in his chair, waiting for his brother to explain himself. “I know,” Maglor confessed, “that such a feat is fantasy, but in my madness, I am prone to believe it.”

 

Curufin grunted. Maglor could conjure their father and speak from the space that should have been occupied by their father, but it came at a cost. It did not for Curufin, for the two were most alike, but not Maglor. Maglor was not weak, but he had never been stern and harsh like their father. The crown required this and Maglor gave himself to it; had to if they were going to survive.

 

Maglor reached for his harp, understanding he needed to sooth his own nerves with music. There was no saving Maitimo, dead or alive. He was gone from him for all time. Even in death, Maglor believed they would not be reunited.

 

Curufin sat back. Listening to Maglor sing was a sort of healing and an opportunity for grieving.

 

Maglor sang of a people utterly changed, a people of exile.

 

)()()()(

 

Finrod had ridden beside Fingon in silence, had observed when Fingon stormed out of the Fëanorian throne room, chased after by Fingon’s attendant. Finrod was engaged in tense conversations of his own, as always with Carnistir. They had been arguing about who would patrol the farthest Northern reaches of Hithlum. After the attack on Fingon at the Firth of Drengist, the elves would have to increase their patrols in the northern mountain passes. Both groups were stretched short, and Carnistir had been arguing that Fingolfin’s people should take up these patrols as it was Turgon’s move that left them more vulnerable. Finrod understood Carnistir’s argument, but he was more worried that the two were becoming increasingly divided in ways that did not bode well for their survival.

 

On their return to the settlement Fingon had hastily dismounted, walking away from the others in the company. Finrod followed Fingon’s path into the great hall with his eyes. He would not follow. Whatever Maglor and subsequently Celegorm had shared with Fingon had unnerved him. While they were all more prone to emotional turbulence, Fingon was more unraveled than usual. Whatever it was, Finrod would bide his time and speak with Fingon. These were the things they did for each other, it seemed all too often. The Noldor Princes revealed themselves to be brave, yes, but also undone by the new order that built itself around them and in spite of them.

 

Finrod waited for Fingon at the baths, knowing that their visit with the Fëanorians and their subsequent patrol had left Fingon bone tired. Finrod felt it. Slowly he removed the soldier’s gear: leather vambraces and other leather armor. He peeled away his under shirt. It was full of grime and clung to him, wet with his own sweat. Finrod kicked off his boots and ripped off his trousers. He was impatient, needed to submerge himself in the healing waters.

 

Finrod sighed contentedly the moment his foot stepped in the pool. The heat of the pool steamed around him as he submerged his body. The ritual was repeated by others. Some came later wanting to first fill their bellies with food. Others had already found their corner of the pool to relax and wash away the Journey’s grime and weight.

 

After a while Fingon entered the baths, stripping away the soldier’s gear. Finrod kept his eyes fixed on him, communicating with Fingon in that uniquely elven way, that Finrod would have his ear whether Fingon liked it or not.

 

Fingon allowed himself to exhale deeply as he sunk into the hot water next to Finrod. Laying his head back on the smooth stone, Fingon’s eyes closed. Finrod would let him be momentarily, but sooner than later he would have to speak to Finrod.

 

Fingon spoke up. “You wish to speak with me.”

 

“I do,” Finrod replied, his arms stretched out on the gentle, sloping curve of the stone. The ends of his hair floated on the water, the gold catching the candlelight that lit the baths.

 

Fingon opened his eyes, submerging the back of his head so that his hair would be slicked back and out of his face. Wiping the water away from his eyes, Fingon turned his attention to Finrod who was studying him closely in that way Finrod was known for. It was unnerving for many, but not for the Finwions. It was a trait they all possessed. It came from power and status, having the ability to allow their examination to pierce and perceive others below them in the order of the elven world.

 

“Will you speak of what Maglor and Celegorm revealed to you?”

 

Finrod was not dancing around with words, choosing directness. Finrod knew something was disclosed to Fingon.

 

“They want the question of Kingship resolved. There has been an ultimatum.” While this was true, Fingon would not share the question of Maitimo. On his ride back to their encampment he had made his mind up to go in search for him. Whether Maitimo was alive or dead was a matter of the order of Kingship. And more pressing, Fingon dared believe that he could find him and bring him back alive, understood that just maybe, Maglor desperately clung to this as well.

 

Finrod frowned. Fingon was not willing to speak to him of all that transpired, but there was also truth in his words. “And what of Celegorm. You two seem to be getting along better.”

 

“I am thankful he offered us help is all,” Fingon asked. “Is that forbidden?” he sarcastically accused Finrod.

 

Finrod laughed in response, both amused and frustrated by Fingon’s unwillingness to engage. “Many things have been forbidden to us, but our desires are larger.” Finrod was provoking Fingon, knowing that in anger he might be more vulnerable.

 

Fingon narrowed his eyes. “I see it in you too. You desire your own kingdom. Like my brother,” he accused, willing to follow Finrod where he wanted.

 

Finrod’s smile evaporated with the steam that rose. The water subtly rippled around them. The energy of the elven fëa was palpable at times, especially in times when elves allowed it to be, and amongst themselves they allowed it to serve as another avenue of communication that lent weight to their words.

 

Finrod stood. “You act with impunity and yet you believe you have the right to criticize me?” Finrod angrily replied to Fingon. Finrod’s muscles rippled with tension, the water droplets running down his sinewy form. Finrod smiled, a devilish thing, that if one saw without context would remind one how beautiful Finrod was, but Finrod too was changed. “Brother, tell me that these were not your own desires, that this imperial desire stirred your heart for I remember your words.”

 

The fractures were growing wider, bolder.

 

Fingon bit his tongue. Of course, he had shared these sentiments. And he could not accuse Finrod of what he accused Turgon for Finrod took to his duty seriously to protect their people. Fingon accused Finrod for something that had not yet come to be but would.

 

“Fuck off,” Fingon muttered, defeated by Finrod.

 

Finrod sat back down in the pool, satisfied. This time his laughter was ethereal, less heavy with power. “It is inevitable that we will all seek our own domains,” Finrod spoke to the heart of the matter. “It is our destiny,” Finrod breathed, filling his words with enchantment of a prophetic nature. Finrod’s eyes held steady on Fingon, willing him, pulling him to admit what the story had been about, in a way, all along.

 

Fingon could feel Finrod’s magnetic energy lapping gently against him, soothing him, pulling him. It was Fingon’s turn to laugh. “Enough!” he half shouted slapping down the water near Finrod to splash him.

 

Finrod splashed back at his cousin. After a few splashy retorts and allowing laughter to soothe, Finrod leaned back onto the rocky bench under water. These arguments were common place between them.

 

“I gave a good tongue lashing to Turgon,” Finrod admitted. “I understand his desire, but I like it not. I feel terrible for it.”

 

“I do not want to be parted again,” Fingon admitted, speaking the root of their turmoil.

 

Finrod sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to will away the deep-seated fears he too had. “Too many partings,” Finrod admitted.

 

Fingon reached out and touched Finrod’s face. “Aye, brother, forgive me for my attitude. I know you share my struggle.”

 

Finrod was startled momentarily. When Fingon touched him, he sensed something like a decision, like a stone that had been pushed down a hill and was picking up momentum.

 

Fingon sensed Finrod reach into him. Pulling back, Fingon averted Finrod’s touch, but Finrod probed more, choosing words as his weapons. “What did you and Maglor quarrel about?”

 

“The usual,” Fingon answered, knowing he could not reveal what he found out about Maitimo. Finrod would be too keen and guess Fingon’s heart, had clearly sensed something in him.

 

Knowing Finrod had similarly engaged Carnistir, Fingon turned the topic of their conversation to speak of their patrols of the Northlands until Finrod decided it was time for him to eat.

 

“I take my leave of you,” Finrod said politely but the impish grin on his face betrayed otherwise.

 

“I will be taking dinner in my quarters. I have no mind to fraternize tonight,” Fingon replied.

 

Before leaving the baths Finrod looked back to Fingon. “I have not finished interrogating you.”

 

“I know,” Fingon lazily groaned, leaning back on the stone ledge, eyes closed.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon stared at the stars. The heavy mists sent out by Morgoth had been cleared by a westerly wind from the sea. A cold beauty clung to their brilliance. He was leaving…to save him. Maybe he believed he might save himself, but Fingon dared not admit that. Perhaps it was a crossroads. He could choose to be present or to be distant like the stars above.

 

The heart of the galaxy circled above him, purple, silver and blue colors clustering, waiting to welcome new life. Elven sight reached far into the universe, but through song, elven senses reached deeper, to feel the deep thrum of life emanating from its center. Constant. Eä’s heart was comforting and yet it reminded Fingon of the fractures that splintered families, friends, Houses. Fingon loved Finrod, but their tense words were common in this life lived on edge. They needed to fall off the abyss or find sturdier ground. Fingon’s choice would push them in one direction. Which one, he did not know.

 

Fingon heard footsteps approach him. Fingolfin came to stand next to his son. Fingon acknowledged his father with words, “I often wonder what is beyond the stars and in the spaces between them.”

 

“Eä is unknowable,” Fingolfin reminded Fingon, hinting at the melodies familiar to them. While the Noldor were great astronomers Fingolfin understood that Fingon’s question was metaphysical, a question of what would, in the long road of Time, be of the Eldalië who were tied to Arda that would inevitably fade like the stars they tracked above.

 

“Father,” Fingon whispered, his decision weighing heavy on his heart. “I love you still,” he spoke, saying things he needed to say. He had never stopped loving Fingolfin. For Fingon, though, the person he now was, needed to claim the new stakes he inherited: different ways to love and be.

 

Fingolfin answered. “My love for you has never wavered.” This was also true. Fingolfin was steadfast, unwavering in many regards. It was why he would be King. It was why, despite all the anger and resentment his own children might harbor for him, they could also fall back on their love for him. Fingon would understand this one day when he too would have to make a decision for a child not yet come to be.

 

Fingon shook his head, acknowledging the depth of a parent’s love for their child. “Forgive me for my shortcomings.”

 

Fingolfin wrapped an arm around Fingon. “My valiant son, you have met this world with bravery. Do not recriminate yourself for the sins we all carry.”

 

Fingon smiled, leaning into his father. Fingolfin kissed his son’s brow. The fragile present was like the wing of a butterfly, translucent and ephemeral. Fingon took his father’s hand and kissed it. “Good night apa,” he spoke, using a childhood name for his father.  

 

“Good night, son,” Fingolfin replied, leaning in to breath the scent of him in. In turn Fingon took in the familiar scent of his father- warm, inviting, and comforting.

 

Fingolfin watched his son walk back to his rooms and disappear into a doorway. He was strong again. And yet his heart was filled with a foreboding, but he could not keep Fingon away from danger. That part of their relationship had passed long ago with Fingon’s childhood. Instead, Fingolfin turned to look at the stars above. They circled above him, the heart of the galaxy moving across the night sky, steadfast and constant, but inevitably to an end.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon looked back onto the camp. The lights of life glittered like fireflies. He was filled with an intense longing. Fingon understood, in this moment, that he was forever leaving behind a life…and if he returned, it would be to another. Yet again. This was the choice he made, that they had all made. Though he was bitter and angry still, he understood that those lights glittering upon the lake and horizon needed more than what was going to come to be. Now was the time for great deeds, but he did not feel heroic. He felt incredibly sad. With every step he took from the camp, he mourned for who he had been: young, brash Findekáno, who filled a room with his deep reverberating laughter. He mourned the Noldor, for he was leaving them behind knowing that even if he succeeded he would bring to them a terrible thing. No matter, without this choice, they would not last the season.

 

And yet there was some Grace that had not abandoned him. The harp on his back was proof of this. In different times, Fingon would have prayed, but he no longer believed in such vanity for it was self-worship to ask for such interventions, and it was arrogant for the Valar to concede to such supplications. They had all been prisoners of the absurd, so he believed. But a Song, a Song, Fingon smiled to himself, was more than a prayer. It was their ability to express Life, to sing their fëa into being. It was faerie and Fingon would nevermore forget that they too carried that story in their bones.

 

He followed the River Sirion. Though hurried, there was an easiness to this part of his journey that he knew would not last, but he relished the sounds of the river, the breeze in the trees, the meadows of flowers that would open up to him and delight in the presence of the First Born. He journeyed to darkness but Endórë opened herself to him, reminding him he was more than the son of a throneless King, more than the Noldor. Most simply and elegantly, he was a child of hers, the likeness of a flower or perhaps a deer, and some of the birch, and the black feathers of the crow, and strong like the wolf. Eldar brother she whispered and Fingon traveled as in a dream, along currents of stars and flowers, the river a Song. He lent his voice to his travels, quietly, unwilling to be found. She covered him in her own darkness, more quiet and gentle than the heavy, stinging mists sent out by Morgoth. There was power in Endórë and Fingon felt enchanted, understood she was filling him with Power for the dark road that waited ahead. Fingon took from the waters, plucked a petal here and there, and sometimes the flower to smell. With his hands he plunged into the currents of life around him. And like a lifetime before, flowers sprung at his feet. Yet for the Eldar such enchantment was also melancholy for the story was about partings and death. Endórë in her vastness and beauty also mourned these lost children.

 

When Fingon awoke he was in the foothills of the Ered Wethrin. The Mountain greeted him, bidding him pass, a warning upon its snowy peaks, thundering above. Power rippled within him and Fingon tended it, secreted it away in a soft song he had learned from the river. His harp proved to not be mere vanity and more elven whimsy, spirit and crafty. Fingon hoped he would remember these lessons. Alas, he did not have time to philosophize for the mountain grew dark and shadow-filled. Morgoth was set against them. The rolling darkness Fingon encountered would surely meet his people in the noon time. On this morning, though it seemed like a somber evening, Fingon made his way through narrow passages between rocks, following the river until it disappeared underground. He climbed and scaled the large mountain though the passages were hard to come upon. Fingon found himself retracing steps, trying out different paths. The Shadow thwarted him at every turn, making sheer rock appear as passage and blanketing paths in heavy mist.

 

This took him many weeks and while he did not encounter evil creatures outright, the shadow was set against him, until one evening he felt the ground beneath him begin to descend. A large heaviness was eased from Fingon’s heart. His path cleared before him and with elven agility and the light of the moon that broke through the mists, he quickly found his way back to the river Sirion that emerged back out from its underground passage it had disappeared into.

 

He approached the site of his father’s future fortification: Eithel Sirion, the mother of the River Sirion. Below him stretched out the Ard-Galen, the grassy plains that stood between him and Thangorodrim. He would sleep here until morning, hoping some light would accompany him on his descent to the plains below. Before turning over to rest Fingon caught some fish, cooking them over a fire. He gathered berries and other such foods he could take with him. He’d managed to not eat much but knew he would need food for what lay ahead.

 

Morning greeted him, Arien daring to break through the foul mists that emanated from Angband. A great sense of awe descended upon him. Fingon took a moment to embrace the beauty of Endórë. Below him the tall grasses of Ard-Galen waved in the gentle breeze of the morning. Even here, on the precipice of Morgoth’s lands, Fingon was reminded of something beyond him, a life that exceeded his capacity to understand. And that made him glad. Tears fell freely. Oh life, he thought, what paths have I chosen that seem so insignificant in the presence of your creation.

 

He allowed his fëa to stretch beyond his skin, shake away the shackles of the body, to be truly elven. The currents of his spirit caught the scent of green things, of deep, dark and earthen things, and the stone at the root of the mountain. From his feet he traveled out to the roots of the plains. The roots of the grasses were still strong and deep, but there was also a sense of trepidation. They spoke and whispered a storying, a telling, quite like the Stars above, but from deep, deep within the earth itself. Beware! They whispered but there were no words. Darkness and Death, the growing things pulsated, a song not song but older and wiser. The shape of it like the insides of the womb: a heartbeat, static, a crackling sound. The language of Endórë was beyond Song: Primordial rhythms, like the heart of the universe.

 

Fingon collapsed back into himself, the voices around him overwhelming him. Did he dare continue? But he also felt a familiar prickle at the edge of his senses. He was alive. Maitimo was alive. Fingon was sure of it. Felt it in his bones the way the roots felt the earth and the sky above. He was alive. Fingon forged on.

 

The tall grasses of the Ard-Galen greeted Fingon, encircling him in gentle embrace as they waved in the gentle breeze. They reached tall towards the sky. From the Sindar, Fingolfin’s people had learned that with the appearance of Arien, the grasses had grown tall, the height of an elf. Indeed, strange new life was called into being by the new cycles of the sun and moon. It was the Song of Eä manifest. But little sun now reached through the mists sent out by Morgoth. Already the grasses were yellowing, unable to drink the light of Arien.

 

Thangorodrim grew taller, more menacing as Fingon advanced. It appeared as a wound against the horizon at once dark and foreboding while flashes of fire and unknown green mists lit the cliffs. The mountain was speaking to him, taunting him. Do you dare pass Elf? Do you dare give me your life? I devour life, it threatened.

 

Fingon closed his eyes, shaking away the whispers, remembering that the mountain was also stone, stone like any other, but it was enchanted by Morgoth’s menace, raised by him. Still stone, Fingon reminded himself, still rock and earth, still of those things that were a part of Ea. Not good or evil, and even beyond capacity for Valarin will.

 

The foothills of Thangorodrim. Fingon crouched down to inspect the land, reached down to feel the earth. He dug his fingers into the moist soil. So very gently and circumscribed he allowed tendrils of elven magic seep into it. No response, but Fingon was not deterred. He dug deeper, risking himself found out, but he had to know. There it was! A note, a pause, like a deep breath: an awakening from slumber. Fingon saw grasses on a hill. It chilled him to the bone, though he could not make sense of why a vision of a grassy hill under a bright noon sky would cause such dread. Come what may, he said to the earth and the seeds dormant in its bosom, it gives me great comfort to know you will once more grow.

 

Beware the line of Kings! The gasping life that rumbled awake from slumber warned the future King.

 

Fingon quickly retracted his hand from the earth. Whatever prophecy, whatever it was that spoke to him on this journey, was here with him too; he was not alone. Fingon stood up, his elven sight scanning the face of the mountains before him.

 

He walked on, shrouded in mists. If animal life was here it had fled for Morgoth had dug his own hands into the earth, ripping it in two. Chasms of broken earth spewed forth foul gases and green mists. Fingon could barely tolerate to look within so great the stench and stinging to his eyes. His throat quickly grew raw form breathing in the putrid air.

 

Through the darkness he found a path. Orcs. he could hear them ahead. He retraced his steps but could not find another path into the mountains. Out here in the East it seemed his direction was fated, so he forged forward. There was at least twenty of them, but if he was quick and cunning he could fell ten with his arrows, four with his sword-the element of surprise still on his side. The last six he could take on, the wall of the mountain at his back. For once luck was on his side: they did not have arrows. He only hoped their cries would not bring more enemies closer. 

 

The orcs fell quickly as he plucked away at his bow sending his arrows speeding into the narrow crevasse. Drawing his sword, he spun and cleaved a couple of orcs clean in two and drawing his sword back he took two more heads. What had been beauty was now wrath. His sword hummed with its own song and he took two more orcs without hassle, their guts spilling out. Finally, four were left and they raged, running at Fingon, but Fingon was graceful and he too ran at them at the last moment skidding under them while his sword sliced at their guts. Two were left. One turned to run and the other threw its blade at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword caught the blade and with his next motion he stabbed the beast. He chased down the other creature and slit its throat.

 

The orcs were many on his path but Fingon found nooks and crannies to hide, ledges to leap upon and pass unnoticed if the odds were against him. He killed as many as he could for he believed he’d have to return this way if he found Nelyafinwë. It was also terrible deeds he committed these hours that turned into days of Fingon hunting in those mountains. A darkness grew in him, but not so dark that he did not cry for the younglings he came upon and massacred. Kinslayer, his own thoughts betrayed him. But Fingon could not be paused by remorse. Whether it was day or night he could not tell, but the green mists and fires of Morgoth and the dense fog hid him well. Fingon smiled. Morgoth’s own shadows allowed him safe passage as he made his way deeper into Thangorodrim.

 

He traveled on and came upon no more orcs. He was deep inside Morgoth’s territory. Shadows whispered and threatened but Fingon was of the Eldar and he fought back with his own Song, his own story, and kept going forward. It was madness what he was doing. Surely the orcs had alerted others that there was an enemy in their midst. Without a thought for himself, Fingon traveled further and further into mountain.  A sickness descended on him, a spell of dark magic, threatening to consume him. It crept into his chest and rung his lungs like wet rags until he could no longer breath. Fingon crawled on the ground, gasping, willing himself to live, until a slumber like death came upon him and he lost consciousness. How long he was lost to the world he did not know but when he awoke his body was sore and he was starved, but Fingon’s body was cleverer, had been trained by the Grinding Ice to survive bitter hunger.

 

It was afternoon, revealed by a break in the mists.  He could see the steep crests of Thangorodrim before him. Nothing else. No Maitimo, no path. Before him a great stone wall punctuated what seemed to be the end of the road for Fingon. This is the moment Fingon would remember as his bravest: the moment he took his harp and laid his hands upon it, tears wetting his face not from sadness but from utter frustration and anger. Trembling he sang the song of the River, of the plains, and it took him to a childhood song of innocence. Bravely he sang louder, allowing some semblance of Power to fill the notes, allowed them to reverberate in the stone. His voice sounded clear and strong. He gave himself to it, closed his eyes, knowing he was tempting his own death. The earth rumbled beneath his feet and even in the stench of Angband Fingon found a tendril of beauty: A sound like the cry of a broken thing. Fingon paused, hearing nothing but the rumbling of the fires around him. Again, Fingon raised his voice, this time with greater strength, challenging Morgoth to come meet him on that mountain side. He heard it again. A voice. Fingon lowered his own voice- a voice answered him! A voice he knew intimately.

 

Maitimo! Fingon sang out and Maitimo answered. They called out like this, Maitimo’s voice leading and Fingon following, finding hidden passages in the rock until Fingon scrambled his way up a precarious ledge that crumbled beneath his feet. With much care he followed it until it opened into a large flat area. It was then that Fingon saw him on the steep mountain side far above him. Maitimo was nailed to the mountain side. He had to look away.

 

Inside his head, Fingon could hear Morgoth. See? See my banner? But it does not dance in the wind. Why is it not resplendent, like the colors of Fëanor and Fingolfin?

 

Fingon stifled a sob. Maitimo was hung, a broken thing, no more than bloodied flesh. Fingon could not contain the moans that escaped him. They rolled through him and Fingon experienced a most wretched sorrow that could only be born from the depravity inflicted on his friend. Utter evil. Maitimo’s body hung on the cliff side- Morgoth’s hideous banner. If Fingon did not understand Morgoth’s evil, he did now. But this too made Fingon more angry and guilty. Was it not enough to witness Elenwë fall into the icy abyss of Helcaraxë? Was it not enough to see the charred bodies of children? Was it not enough to see his own men and women cloven in two by Morgoth’s armies?  Fingon found descent into a place even beyond horror.

 

Fingon called out to Maitimo, “Tell me how I can get up to you!”

 

“There is no way,” Maitimo answered, his voice paper thin, parched. It hurt to speak. “Spare me,” he begged of Fingon. “Your arrow,” he begged. Fingon could not answer him, but Maitimo managed to scream and beg: “Please!”

 

“I cannot,” Fingon found the courage to cry out, desperately surveying the cliff for a route to Maitimo. Cruel destiny to bring him to his feet and leave him with no recourse but one.

 

“Please,” Maitimo’s voice begged. It was a cruel thing to force him to beg, such anguish and pain echoing in his words, but Fingon needed to find a way. Broken and with what seemed final words, Maitimo begged, “Please!”

 

Fingon was desperate, whatever hope he had managed to cultivate, was now utterly destroyed. He laughed like a madman, like Fëanor had once. He believed he could reunite the Noldor, bring them together.

 

Whether he returned or died too on this mountain, Fingon had one choice before him. Save Maitimo the only way possible. Wiping the tears away from his face, Fingon steeled himself and brought forth his bow. He reached behind him to his quiver that had been emptied of many arrows and found the arrow with eagle feather fletching. Quieting his breath, stilling his body, Fingon raised the arrow, sighting his friend above. Their eyes met and Maitimo’s eyes closed, managing to turn up a side of his mouth into a smile. Fingon breathed into the arrow and he drew the arrow back, crying out: “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!” Not a prayer as some would later claim, but a semblance of the story that had been Fingon’s journey to this place upon Thangorodrim.

 

A great wind came upon him, unsteadying Fingon’s hand. A light shone bright and from the heights a great eagle descended. Its great wings threw Fingon back, so great was the force of the air they generated. Fingon watched in awe as the great creature landed. Its head poked back and forth in that way of eagles, inspecting its prey. His bright eyes studied Fingon. Fingon stood, tentatively raising his hand to the eagle’s breast. Cautiously, Fingon laid it upon the soft feathers.

 

Thorondor was the bird’s name and he spoke to Fingon. “A prayer young son of Nolofinwë?”

 

“A plea,” Fingon answered casting his eyes back in the direction of Maitimo who watched with the eyes of one utterly defeated. “I have no prayers left,” Fingon’s voice croaked, broken in a different way than his friend.

 

“Then I truly pity thee,” Thorondor answered.

 

Fingon found the courage to answer: “Whether it is deserved, I dare not ask.”

 

Thorondor turned his head to Maitimo. Did he deserve to live? Turning his attention back on Fingon, Thorondor revealed, “The River and flowers whispered of your Journey.”

 

Fingon pushed on, “Then I dare ask you help me save my friend.”

 

The bird bobbed its head back in Fingon’s direction. “Fingon the Valiant, I will bear thee to your friend, though I do not know if he deserves my pity.”

 

Fingon did not answer, for none of them deserved pity. The great bird extended its wing and Fingon climbed upon it. Pity or not, Fingon was going to save him. Thorondor beat his mighty wings and up they flew until Fingon found some footing near Maitimo, but only enough for one foot. Fingon kept his other foot on Thorondor, balancing on the moving bird and the toe hold on the mountain side. Fingon did his best to ascertain how Maitimo was chained upon the cliff side. The currents of wind created by Thorondor’s wings managed to kick up dust, but there was no other way.

 

“It is hopeless,” Maitimo croaked, while Fingon managed to pass his hands over the shackle from which Maitimo was hung. Fingon tried a million ways in the span of minutes to try to pull the shackle form the stone. It would not budge.

 

“Please,” Maitimo moaned, “I cannot bear another breath.” 

 

“Then I will free you however I can,” Fingon spoke, steeling himself for what came next. Remembering the Ice, Fingon pressed his hand over Maitimo’s arm. Steadying himself on the slight ledge and Thorondor was quite a job in itself as the bird could not hold steady such was the physics of the situation. Fingon ripped out the leather thong that tied his hair together. It would have to do. Fingon tied the leather thong around Maitimo’s forearm, wrapping it as tight as he could. Maitimo screamed out in pain.

 

“Forgive me,” Fingon begged.

 

Fingon tumbled, but Thorondor caught him with his wings. “Almost,” Fingon breathed desperate to free Maitimo. “Steady,” he breathed, Thorondor’s keen eagle eyes fixed on Fingon. With one hand Fingon took hold of Maitimo’s upper arm, grabbing it with such force that Maitimo cried out in more pain. Fingon flinched but he had little choice.  Swiftly Fingon drew his sword raising it above his head. With elven precision, Fingon allowed his body to fall forward with the sword as he brought it down against Nelyafinwë’s arm, just above where the shackles caught his wrist. He trusted that Thorondor would do his best to catch them as they fell. Elven steel was strong and sharp and Fingon’s strike was clean. Maitimo fell, released from his shackles. Fingon threw his sword aside, closing his arms around Maitimo. Holding onto him they struck the cliff side, but Thorondor was quick to catch them.

 

Gently, the great eagle brought them to the ground. Maitimo groaned. His eyes rolled back in his head. The pain was so great he lost consciousness.

 

“I will save you,” Fingon breathed, not a prayer but a statement of will. This time he took his leather belt and wrapped it more securely as a tourniquet around Maitimo’s arm. Rummaging through his pack he found his healers’ kit.

 

“Here it is,” Fingon announced, unsure if he was speaking aloud for the eagle or to calm himself. Fingon pulled out a vile of a coagulating herb. With his teeth he ripped off the top and carefully allowed a few drops to drip down into Maitimo’s throat. Maitimo gagged. Fingon expected this pulling the vile back, less he spill some. He did not want to waste the precious elixir. Satisfied he had given Maitimo enough, Fingon opened up another vile, a pain reliever. He did his best to get it down Maitimo’s throat. This proved to be harder as Maitimo kept retching at the unfamiliar feel of liquid in his dried and scorched throat.

 

Fingon gently wrapped Maitimo in his cloak and checked to see if the tourniquet had done a good enough job stopping the bleeding. It would suffice, Fingon surmised.

 

Fingon scrambled to pick up his sword. Having safely sheathed it, he picked Maitimo’s frail frame up in his arms.  “Will you bear me, us, home?” Fingon asked the great eagle, but there was no us: no longer an us in the way the word hinted at relationships and friendships of long past.

 

Thorondor lowered its great wing and Fingon settled upon Thorondor, securing Maitimo in front of him. Thorondor’s great wings beat once more and they ascended into the skies.

 

Fingon sang, conjuring rivers and flowers, recalling Endórë’s magic, pulling the chords of her song into healing, filling Maitimo with it. Thorondor cried out, his voice adding to the Song. Fingon was brave and relentless. Stretching out and beyond he pulled tendrils of music from the clouds, from Morgoth’s mists, and tended them with beauty, willing Maitimo to live. Most of all, he found hope, a hope he thought had completely abandoned him. Not a prayer. Not a penance.

 

An enchantment, a melancholy storying of the lives they had led, a fire deep and fierce, bold and everlasting. Fingon was creating futures, tomorrows. Perhaps the story of Findekáno and Maitimo was no more, no us in that story, but that was not an end, though the path of Thorondor’s flight marked a direction that nevertheless found Doom.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon the hero. Fingon the Valiant they would say and sing and remember.

 

But we know better: Fingon the Fey. Fingon the Kinslayer.

 

And what of the man that would henceforward be known as Maedhros? He would be the Dispossessed.

 

TBC….

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

Chapter notes: Ondion is the husband of Fingon's cousin. Ondion was a follower of Fëanor, but soon after Fingolfin's people crossed the grinding ice he made peace with his spouse and returned to Fingolfin's encampment to be with his wife and child. 

Also, in The Silmarillion, Tolkien states that Fingon did not know that Maedhros had not burned the ships when he set off to save him. I did change this in this story because it would have been a bit out of character for the Fingon I have crafted here to do this without some motivation. 

"Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war . . . . Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros; and though he knew not yet that Maedhros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships, the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros."

There is a transition to Sindarin names in this story. Some still use Quenya forms, some Sindarin, some both. It seems in keeping with Elves and how names come to them

Read Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Wide World

"The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot for ever fence it out."

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

The Wide World. Faerie. The world beyond. These were the things that were at the heart of so many tales of the later days. And the elves, the residents of faerie, who were beyond, before, the world of Men, were also at the heart of it. Faerie was at once about innocence and youth, betrayal and growth. Perhaps there was some redemption in it, but there was also much darkness. Faerie was the story of the young days of the Eldar.

Epochs after the fading of the elves and their return to Aman, Acharadel Reborn would think upon the elves of the First Age and of the stories that came later, the stories that followed the world she lived in and experienced first-hand. There was an enchantment to them, she would remember, even in those early days when there was so much pain and anger. For the story of Maedhros and Fingon was a story of faerie, of bending an impossible idea into a reality so unimaginable, it could only be by magic, then. But Acharadel's memories did not solely rest on the lives of others, of men, they dwelled on her own paths, of the loves she had. Indeed, she remembered the inside of the Wide World, knew the shadows that lent the contour to the portrait of that time.

 

And faerie called to Acharadel that night that Fingon chose to walk into a tale that would outlast their time in those lands. It was no surprise that she looked to Finrod for council. 

)()()()(

Acharadel found Finrod in the hall, engaged in a tense conversation with one of the Lords that had earlier requested a report from Finrod. "My lord," she announced, catching Finrod's attention, knowing that the last thing Finrod wanted to do was trade words with this arrogant Lord who was more interested in reading the terrain to plot and plan his own strategy and path in the corridor of power. But she could hardly find the lord at fault: they were all ambitious.

Finrod used Acharadel's words to excuse himself, "I will take my leave. I need to account for supplies with my men." Finrod stood, taking his plate with him. Facing Acharadel, Finrod rolled his eyes, knowing the Lord was back to talking with whoever he thought would be of use to him. 

Acharadel grabbed Finrod by the arm and led him to a quiet corner of the hall. Setting her own plate down, she waited for Finrod to sit. With her lips she indicated Finrod eat. The two ate alone in quiet companionship, allowing themselves to tend to their hunger.

Belly full, Acharadel turned her attention to Finrod. "Fingon has avoided me this entire trip. You must have noticed," she offered, knowing Finrod too observed Fingon's queer behavior on their trip to the Fëanorian encampment and subsequent patrol. 

"I did," Finrod replied, the exchange between him and Fingon replaying in his head. Acharadel watched as Finrod leaned back in his chair, his eyes given to going over the minutia of the day. 

Acharadel's mind also traveled, but hers was to an earlier time. Fingon's behavior on this last trip reminded her of the time when Fingon first discovered Nelyafinwë had not burned the ships. Ondion and his brother had returned to Fingolfin's encampment, deciding to leave their home in the Fëanorian camp. It was not an easy decision for the brothers, and it proved to be a hard time for the friends and family that welcomed them back into their lives. For Fingon's cousin Enelyë, it proved to be a bitter reunion between her and her estranged husband. Much time was spent between Enelyë and Ondion getting to know one another again, figuring out a way for forgiveness. If not for their son, Ondion might not have been forgiven, but Enelyë witnessed how it brought her son joy to have him returned. It was some time after his return that Ondion revealed to Fingon that Nelyafinwë had not burned the ships, had fought Fëanáro asking him to return for Fingon. Like most of Fëanáro's men, Ondion believed Nelyo was dead.  After all, he had not been part of the contingent that had travelled with Nelyafinwe to parley with Morgoth, and for whatever reason, Makalaure himself had told his people that his eldest brother had been killed. Soon after, Ondion left the encampment.

That Maitimo had not burned the ships proved to be heavy news for Fingon. He had kept himself apart from friends and family for a time, threw himself into military training, driving his cavalry through merciless training, taking them on scouting trips, instilling a discipline and loyalty that would become the norm for the Noldorin military order that depended on it. Fingon never spoke to Acharadel, or anyone else for that matter, about what this revelation meant to him. But on one occasion she happened to witness a bit of how it weighed on him, this new knowledge. One evening, in the grove where the trinkets for the dead were hung by Fingolfin's people, she witnessed how Fingon reverently touched the green stone Nelyafinwë had given him. She observed how Fingon went to remove the stone from the tree, but decided against it, leaving the stone on the branch. His mouth set in a grim line, he turned away from the tree. Fingon saw her in that moment and said nothing, pushing her aside as he walked away. For Acharadel, it seemed that Fingon had made his peace with Nelyo, acknowledging his right to be mourned, but he never spoke of it to her.

"Acharadel," Finrod repeated, his hand shaking her shoulder, getting her attention. 

"I'm sorry Ingo," Acharadel replied, her thoughts back in the present. "My thoughts were elsewhere."  

"I know," Finrod acknowledged. "I'm sure my own thoughts traveled to the same moments. And of course, he's avoided you. He hides something," he added, cleaning his mouth with a cloth. 

"What did he tell you?" Acharadel inquired knowing Finrod had cornered him in the baths. If she would have tried to do the same, Fingon would have surely exited the baths. Sometimes men were entirely intolerable!

"Not much," Finrod admitted. "He was evasive the entire time."

"As we feared," Acharadel acknowledged, turning to look at the scene in the hall where soldiers sat at long tables eating, accompanied by family and friends. 

They had all witnessed how Fingon left from his meeting with Maglor and Celegorm. Acharadel, more than most, could see how deeply Fingon had been disturbed. It was a momentary break. Fingon had composed himself quickly and during their subsequent scouting mission he used his duties as an excuse from conversing with the others. This was not uncommon as many of the elves took to silence during these trips as elven senses were in constant work, feeling, exploring the land around them. And while they used mind speak during such excursions it was not uncommon for it to be sparse, relaying only what needed to be shared. Life on a mission for an elf was not easy, it exacted much effort, mental and physical. 

"It annoys you that we are so preoccupied with Fingon," Finrod astutely observed.

Acharadel laughed in return. "It does. I feel I am simply a minder for Fingon and not a friend."  

Finrod frowned. "I am sorry we are such a burden."

Acharadel leaned towards him. "The lot of you hold the fate of our people in your hands. We know this, but it is tiring having your fits, your desires, your anger become the center of our world."

"If not for you," Finrod soothed, "and those we call friends, those we trust to council us, we might have perished long ago."

Acharadel snorted, "Not so. The Fëanorians survive and they take the council of none outside their family."

Finrod inclined his head in agreement. After a moment of quiet, Finrod too leaned closer to study Acharadel. She held his keen eyes, knowing Finrod was broaching something that many spoke about.  "Do you love him?" 

Acharadel put her spoon down. "Of course I love him. He is my lord. I am his liegeman. You know this." She picked up her spoon and continued eating the hearty stew, but her eyes were focused on Finrod. She knew what he was after. 

Finrod looked over at Aredhel and back at Acharadel.  "I think your heart is given to my uncle's children."

"And what of yours?" Acharadel shot back, "does it belong to Amarië or do you think only of Curufinwë?" She too could play at this game. 

Finrod said nothing, focusing his attention on his spoon balanced on a finger. He watched as it swayed back and forth and used ever so slight movements to keep the spoon balance. Finally, he spoke, "When we left Aman, we wanted to find kingdoms of our own, but also be free to love as we so desire." Looking up at Acharadel, Finrod laughed in that soft way of his that hinted at the power that lay coiled like a snake ready to strike. "Amarië was disturbed by my relationship with Curufinwë. Found it revolting."

"And yet she was your betrothed," Acharadel countered.

"She knew to have me she would have to accept the peculiar Finwion trait of not being satisfied by one person alone." At least that trait skipped a generation for the children of Finwë had but only one love. Not so with the grandchildren.

"But she had your heart in a way he could not."

Finrod sat up straight. "That was impossible," he answered dryly, thinking of his half-cousin's haughtiness and aloofness. "In those lands, it was easier to give your heart to someone you could imagine living an eternity with."

"And yet Fingon and I gave our hearts to impossible stories, so we thought then." Acharadel countered.

"But you managed to keep each other as a possibility," Finrod replied. "There is nothing wrong with that." Grabbing her hand, Finrod continued. "What will you do? Our people begin to see you two as marriageable. You have gone from being a witch to the Princess they believe might provide an heir in these fragile times where the line of kings is fragile."

"You seek to create an idea in me," Acharadel accused Finrod, knowing he wielded words carefully, potently, and with foresight. 

"Perhaps," he answered. 

She sighed. "I am lonely," she admitted. Aredhel had continued to distance herself from her, and though Acharadel did not want to admit it, she revealed that Aredhel had said to her as much about  Fingon. 

"As am I," Finrod admitted.

Acharadel caught Finrod's hand, allowing the heat of her radiate into his skin, touching that center where elven thought became matter. Finrod looked at her from beneath his long lashes. 

Quietly they escaped into the night and sought some reprieve from the sorrows they carried. Together they did this while the galaxy circled above them and Fingon began his preparations to find the one who had claimed his heart once upon a time. And for a stolen moment a child of Fingolfin did not occupy Acharadel's thoughts. 

)()()()(

"Have you seen your brother?" Fingolfin asked Turgon, who was working in the stables, attending to the recently returned horses. The scouts had returned and though Fingolfin had spied Fingon's horse in its stables he could not find his son. Strange, Fingolfin thought, Fingon was listed as travelling in the scouting unit in his military reports. Fingon's own hand marked him there. 

Turgon put his rake down. "Fingon's horse just recently arrived. Fingon must be nearby."

"Very well," Fingolfin answered, walking towards the dining hall. Surely Fingon would be eating, but he was not  in the halls nor the kitchens. Fingolfin spied Ondion walking into the dining hall. "Ondion, if you will," Fingolfin motioned to his nephew by marriage. He did not wish to keep him from his meal, but he knew he could confide in him. 

Ondion made his way to Fingolfin. "Yes, my lord," Ondion spoke, standing at attention before his Lord.

"Tell me where Fingon is. I need to speak with him." 

Ondion answered with a perplexed look. "Fingon, my lord? I have not seen him since I left with my company a week ago."

"But Fingon's horse. It is just returned," Fingolfin replied, his voice beginning to betray worry.

Ondion's own concern grew. "My lord, Fingon himself asked me to take his horse. He wanted his steed to learn to bear others in training."

Fingolfin frowned. "But Fingon's name was on the roster with your company."

Ondion shuffled. "Nay, my lord. Fingon's name was not on our roster. Fingon himself ordered who would go out this last scouting round."

Fingolfin's eyes grew with apprehension. His heartbeat quickened. "Fingon did not go out with scouting unit."

"He did not," Ondion repeated, a shadow growing in his own heart. Tentatively, he asked, "Is he not here my lord?"

Fingolfin's keen eyes focused on Ondion. "No, not since you all left. I assumed he had left with his company. His name was on the roster Fingon gave me himself. The kitchen staff spoke to Fingon the night before you all left. He told them he was leaving with all of you, had them pack his usual." 

"My lord!" Ondion exclaimed, but Fingolfin cut him off.

"Say nothing until I speak with you further. I need to find Aredhel." With a nod, Fingolfin dismissed Ondion who felt sick to his stomach. He had been ravenous. Now he did not think he could eat. 

Fingolfin first found Finrod and Acharedel, hoping that perhaps Fingon had secretly told them about where he was going. Both were as shocked as Fingolfin to find out Fingon had indeed lied about going with the scouts. It was from Finrod that Fingolfin was told of the strange way Fingon behaved after his meeting with Celegorm and Maglor, but that Fingon appeared composed the days after. Fingolfin cursed Finrod for not revealing it sooner.

"Uncle," Finrod soothed, "if we were to tell you of all the goings on, you would have our heads. We live in strange times. While odd, it wasn't anything so out of character for our relationship with Fëanáro's sons that I thought it something to bring to you."

Fingolfin turned to Acharedel. "What say you?"

"Like Finrod, my lord, while I was concerned, it was nothing so out of the ordinary, or rather these new times we live, that I felt compelled to share it with you."

Fingolfin could not be mollified. "You will tell me anything that happens to my children."  The younger elves did not respond. Fingolfin was speaking from a panic, a panic they too felt. Fingolfin was certain that wherever Fingon had gone had to do with the Fëanorians. "Find my daughter," Fingolfin ordered Acharedel. To Finrod he ordered, "You will go with her to the other camp and see if they know. I will leave no stone unturned here. Now go!"

Finrod and Acharadel hurried away to do their Lord's bidding. This was not good. Something was terribly wrong.

Fingolfin went over the last few weeks in his mind. Nothing had been amiss. He'd felt Fingon's fëa, strong and bright, soon after the patrol left, but then it had become faint and subsequently hidden. This was normal in these new times as elves on patrol had to close themselves off as the dark things could also sense elven fëa. Fingolfin had thought nothing of his closed connection with Fingon, but now he wondered if he should have felt something more. Fingolfin cursed himself.

)()()()(

"Father," Aredhel spoke, her voice heavy with worry. "Finrod and I leave to the Fëanorian encampment." 

Fingolfin shook his head. "Find my son," he commanded them. 

Hastily they readied and before long they were crossing the space between them and the Fëanorian encampment. Whatever, wherever Fingon was, had to do with the conversation with Maglor. Finrod knew this to be the case, but he dared not speak aloud the picture that began to emerge in his mind: images of Fingon before the fires of Angband. 

Upon entering the gates of the Fëanorian encampment, Finrod jumped off his horse in search of Maglor. Aredhel searched for Celegorm. Between these two they would find out the truth. Finrod made his way to Maglor, threatening not one but many who tried to stop him on his path. 

It was Carnistir who saw the futility in it. "Let him pass," he ordered the guards that tried to slow Finrod in his path. "Send word to my brother that Finrod seeks him out," Carnistir ordered another elf, "and make haste!"

Maglor was waiting for Finrod. Celegorm was also in the room as were the twins. Crossing the threshold into the throne room, Finrod wasted no time. "Findekáno has gone.  We do not know where. I know something you told him has precipitated this."

Maglor's face was motionless, but there was a fire in Celegorm's eyes. Finrod gasped, "Maitimo?"

Maglor's face fell. Finrod crossed over to them, "No, no, tell me my heart's warning is but a lie."

Maglor's eyes were wide with surprise. "He has gone then."

"Gone where?" Aredhel spoke, entering the room and hearing Maglor's statement. Her eyes were locked on Celegorm. She could get it out of him, if he knew.

Celegorm did not have the mind to keep up the lie of his eldest brother's fate. "Findekáno has gone in search of him," Celegorm whispered, also shocked with the news that Fingon had indeed done what they all believed was folly. For Celegorm, there was no doubt that Fingon had gone to find Maitimo.

Finrod spun around to face Celegorm. "Nelyafinwë lives?" But Ondion, the Fëanorians themselves had told Fingolfin's host that Maitimo had died in battle with Morgoth, like Fëanáro. "All lies!" Finrod cried out.

Maglor's world began to spin. First Maitimo. Now Fingon. He landed clumsily in his seat. "Nelyo was taken by Morgoth himself. We were deceived. We believed we could parley with him, but he took our brother. This is what I revealed to Findekáno when last we spoke." Sensing Aredhel's question, Maglor offered, "Our people who accompanied Nelyo were sworn to secrecy. Even our people here believed Nelyo dead."

Celegorm interrupted his brother, "We could not have doubt sow discord amongst our people. But even amongst those who knew the truth, most believe him dead." Celegorm observed his brother, a fey look brewing in his eyes. Ever did Celegorm wish to go after Maitimo.

Maglor looked up at Celegorm, heard the blame in his voice. "Even if he lived, how could we pluck Nelyo from the clutches of Morgoth?"

Finrod faltered. "Findekáno left to save Nelyafinwë."

"Bastards!" Aredhel hissed.  "You knew this would provoke him," she accused, pulling herself up taller, regaining the regal posture she was known for. She seethed, "You have sent him to his death. Well you know my brother's temperament."

Maglor sighed. He could not hide his sadness behind a cool facade. "Perhaps he left because of what you speak."

One of the twins that lingered in the shadows of the space spoke up, "Surely Findekáno would not do such a thing. It is madness!"

Maglor felt tired, the weight of his father's death and Maitimo's unknown fate like the weight of all of Eä upon him. He offered sincere words: "Fingon would do this thing, not because of the love he once had for Nelyo, but for the conviction and righteousness that such an act, if successful, would bring to the fractured Noldor." It was not lost on his audience that Maglor used his cousin's Sindarin name. Maglor turned his attention to Celegorm. "Is this not what he demanded of us?"

Celegorm looked to Finrod and Aredhel. Aredhel was stoic and Finrod's eyes were wide with fear.

"You knew his heart. You knew that Findekáno would go," Finrod accused Maglor. Finrod feared that Fingon was now lost to all of them, but for this betrayal by Fëanáro's sons.

Aredhel spoke what Finrod felt in his heart. "And you shall never receive forgiveness from us. Hear me Maglor, you are now our enemy. There can be no coming back from losing him."

"And if he succeeds?" Celegorm interrupted, looking intently at all of them. 

Finrod pulled Aredhel back, walking away towards the door to exit. "If he succeeds, if he succeeds and my cousin is not dead, only then can we perhaps share words again. Only then…" Finrod turned his back on the Fëanorians and holding Aredhel's hand they left, finding their horses and taking leave.

Celegorm watched them gallop away. Maglor stood staring at the large fire in the hearth. Curufin and Carnistir were deep in conversation with the twins. After a moment Celegorm returned into the hall. "We should make ready for a larger force coming from Nolofinwë's camp," he advised.  Maglor nodded. His eyes were locked on some unknown image in the fire. 

Composing himself, Maglor turned to speak to all his brothers who were now all watching him. "Go make ready!" Maglor ordered.

)()()()(

"Too soon," Fingolfin whispered, hearing the watch guard signal the return of Finrod and Aredhel. It was bad, whatever it was… Fingolfin retreated to his study. Turgon followed after him. The children of Arafinwë went to meet the riders at the gates. Acharedel watched from afar. Fingon was gone. He'd gone. 

Finrod and Aredhel entered Fingolfin's study. The remainder of the family waited outside, except for Turgon. Artanis had Idril with her. The young elf knew something was terribly wrong. It wasn't elven custom in these new lands to shelter young ones from bad tidings. The Ice had been merciless on innocence.

Aredhel ran to her father, falling to her knees and embracing him. Fingolfin fell back onto his desk, his hand in his daughter's hair. Aredhel spoke, "Nelyafinwë was taken by Moringotto, not killed as we were led to believe. Or, or, some think him dead, others…others think he yet lives. Maglor told Fingon this."  Aredhel cried into her father's robes. 

Fingolfin looked up at Finrod. "So my son went to find him."  

Finrod shook his head. "It is our best guess."

"Not a guess," Fingolfin revealed. "Your sister sensed Fingon near powerful fires of darkness. There is only one such place in Endórë."

Turgon interrupted, "Is he alive? Did Artanis see this?"

"She did not," Fingolfin sighed, closing his eyes. "I cannot find my son." 

"Nor did I," Finrod admitted. 

"He is out of my reach," Fingolfin shuddered, spent from the energy he put into trying to find the threads that bound him to his son.

Turgon held his father and picked Aredhel up with his other hand. "I do not believe him dead," Turgon breathed, fire in his eyes. "I will not give up on Finno so easily."

 

Chapter 10: The Healing Wards

There is a transition to Sindarin names in this story. Some still use Quenya forms, some Sindarin, some both. It seems in keeping with Elves and how names come to them.

Read Chapter 10: The Healing Wards

Chapter 10: The Healing Wards

Time in between. Time that managed to shake the shackles of Story and slow down, experience the expansiveness time could be in a mere second. For Fingon, his flight home upon the great eagle’s back was about to collapse time, to set in motion a series of events that would catapult the Noldor into a future that had been but distant. Now it was before them. Yet Fingon wanted that time in between. Needed to find the pauses, the blank slate of time, to find himself, to understand the whirlwind of emotion warring within him. In his arms was Maitimo, though it seemed cruel to use that name, for it came from a time of vanity. It seemed the Valar were toying with them in those early days, gifting mothers with foresight for names that revealed a doom hidden within. Maitimo was but a shell of himself, barely a semblance of flesh, but his hair, there yet remained the fire within it, so Fingon settled on whispering the name, Russandol.

 

Fingon also needed time to speed in this moment. How much time did Nelyafinwë have to live? Not long, he surmised. “Make haste,” Fingon shouted to Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles, Manwë’s scion. Thorondor turned to look at Fingon, his pupil narrowing. Very well, Fingon thought, while wrapping his legs and body around Nelyo, digging himself as deep into the feathers on the back of the bird as he could manage. Thorondor let out a piercing cry, bringing his wings in one elegant motion to his side, catapulting them like a shooting star through the sky.

 

The skies were blue on this day. Morgoth’s mists were retreated. A slight breeze in the air brought the welcome scent of evergreen from the forests just beyond the lake. Keen elven sight first saw the great eagle in the sky. Manwë’s servants were not unknown to the Noldor. Indeed, on occasion they surveyed the elven encampments, a small section of their large territories.

 

A song and a cry shot out in the skies. The air reverberated with a thrum of song. The notes were beginning to peel away the layers of dormant energy in the earth around them. The earth trembled ever so slightly, only perceptible to elves. It was as if a river made its way to them from the sky, a wild, roaring river that tumbled and found its way through the currents of air announced by the cries of Thorondor, lord of eagles.

 

Fingolfin spotted him first. “Findekáno!” he cried out.

 

Fingon! Shouts went up from the encampment that was now a fortified city.

 

As the great eagle descended in their midst, Fingon spoke to Thorondor. “I shall forever be in your debt, oh great lord of eagles.

 

Thorondor responded, “We eagles need no oaths to act. Oaths are the object of your people and those to come.”

 

Fingon did not have time to make sense of the mystery of eagle speak, so he said what he needed to. “My gratitude and most humble thanks. I must run now.”

 

“Fingon, Findekáno!” he could hear his father shouting, switching between who he had been and who he now was. The uproar of the crowd grew louder, making it hard for him to distinguish voices. As they landed Fingon slid off Thorondor, carefully holding his precious cargo, while shouting orders for healers to make ready. 

 

Fingolfin was at Fingon’s side ready to stop him in his tracks. Fingon had returned, his son was back!

 

“Do not block my way,” Fingon ordered. “Now is not the time for words and reunions. Nelyafinwë is dying.”

 

Fingolfin and the crowd gasped. Whispers and shouts of “Fingon has Nelyafinwë!!!” sounded.

 

Fingon walked as fast he dare towards the healers with the delicate package he held secured in his arms. Nelyo was mere raw skin on bones.  The life in him was evaporating quickly.

 

“How can this be?” Fingolfin walked beside Fingon, eyeing the thing that was supposed to be an elf, fighting the desire to envelope his son in an embrace.

 

Fingon ignored his father, barking out orders to the healers, trying his best to describe Russo's injuries. To the healers and not his father, he spoke quickly detailing the information the healers must know. “Nelyafinwë has been prisoner of Morgoth for 30 years of this new age. I found him hung on the mountain side. I know not how long that was. And...” Fingon faltered in both words and his step.

 

Fingolfin caught him. Fingon’s voice raw, he continued, “And I had to sever his arm to release him from his shackle.”  Fingon felt his father’s grip tighten around him.

 

One of the Sindarin healers in camp stopped Fingon. “I can take it from here.” The healer turned to Fingolfin, “My lord?”

 

“No!” Fingon shouted, “I will take him to the healing quarters. Do you simply wish to see if he is worth saving?” Fingon accused the healer. Did the healer need to receive Fingolfin’s permission before attending to Nelyafinwë? A million paranoid thoughts filled Fingon’s exhausted mind. He did not come so far only to be thwarted by whatever prejudice and hate lay between the elves.

 

The healer replied, “Your father may be lord of us but as healer if an elf comes to us, we will save them. It is our duty, it is our sworn oath. Uncover him. I’m walking beside you.” Fingon opened his mouth in surprise and decided no more needed to be spoken. Instead he slipped the cloak off of Nelyafinwë, eliciting a gasp of horror from those who could see. Fingolfin too shuddered. Fingon steeled himself against the flurry of questions thrown in his direction. Turgon, Finrod, Lalwen, too many voices so he ignored them all. Focusing only on the healer and steadying his steps, he marched straight into the healers’ quarters where the crowd was prohibited from entering, save Fingolfin.

 

A healer indicated a bed for Fingon to lay the once mighty Nelyafinwë. It was a hard surface, made for those wounded terribly. Fingon asked, his voice breaking from his own tiredness and wear: “Is there no more comfortable bed to lay him, some comfort…” Fingon last words were pleading­­, some comfort, for it seemed silly, but all he could think of was succoring Nelyo who had endured such cold brutality.  But the healers did not have time for Fingon. Fingon recognized he was in the way, but was too tired and dazed to move. Behind him Fingolfin reached out and pulled Fingon back. Fingon let himself be handled by his father.

 

The healer’s eyes did not come off of Nelyafinwë, appraising the injuries she could see. Another healer was tending to the severed arm. They spoke quietly and quickly. A flurry of activity dizzied Fingon but he stood steady, watching as they made quick work of removing the bandages and assessing the arm. A soothing balm to prevent infection was applied after a quick washing of the injured arm and the tourniquet reapplied. Whether a good sign or not, the arm did not bleed profusely, Fingon did not know. “Is all lost?” he cried out, but received no answer back.

 

The healer laid her hands on the still figure of Nelyafinwë, searching for the threads that were left of him. Elven healing was a sort of energy work. Each part of the body, each organ, tissue, cellular cluster had its own vibration, its own pattern, and from this the healer could ascertain the depth of the physical and spiritual damage. 

 

The healing rooms were in commotion. A younger apprentice healer came and stood next to Fingon, offering context for their process.  “For the seriously wounded a hard surface makes better work space for us. Cíleth is stitching together what she can. He will be moved from here if he betters.” Cíleth was a Sindarin healer, from a nearby community of Grey Elves. She was here on an exchange program as the Noldor and Sindar friendly to them realized that together, their healing knowledge was best. The Sindar were intimately familiar with the ravages of Morgoth’s evil.

 

“Will he live?” Fingon asked from behind the healer, his eyes travelling between the healer and Nelyafinwë. Nelyo’s eyes were shut, his body unmoving. His breathing was unsteady and weak.

 

From her position over Nelyafinwë, Cíleth spoke to Fingon: “What medicine did you give him?”

 

Fingon answered, worried. “I gave him the coagulant. I tried to slow the blood loss.”

 

“Perhaps that is why his heart is slowed,” the healer shared with another healer that was also working on Nelyafinwë. “Or perhaps the blood loss is too great,” another added. Cíleth continued, “His body is also so weakened by the length of who knows what was done to him.” The healers exchanged glances. What had been done to him? “Alas, we can only go by what presents itself before us,” Cíleth shared, redirecting the healers back to their task.

 

Cíleth gave further orders. The room Nelyafinwë was in was a flurry of activity. The elves had ways to counter act blood loss from times in Valinor where accidents happened, but their knowledge of tending battle wounds were honed on the ice and bettered by exchange of knowledge with the Sindarin and Silvan peoples.

 

One elf brought a tonic of Polygonum multiflorum, a root found in Beleriand that generated new blood. A healer gently propped Nelyo’s head back and opened his mouth. Another introduced a narrow, straw-like grass down Nelyafinwë’s throat. The injured elf did not flinch. Nevertheless, Fëanáro’s eldest had been tied down in case his body seized. Carefully, drops of the Polygonum were placed into the tube.

 

While scientific, elven healing was also magical. The healers gathered around Nelyo, using their own fëa to help the tonic take effect and generate new blood cells. Their work was feverish, requiring support of others, like Fingon, to sustain them, so great was Nelyafinwë’s blood loss. This was their primary worry, for the moment. The energy work was unlike anything Fingon, had previously perceived. While he had tended to injuries from blood loss, the depth with which the collective work dove him into the matter of the body was something else! He could see the very essence of blood, the cells, the individual molecules, see them begin to replicate. Their fëa worked to speed the natural process of blood regeneration. It was intense, demanding work, and it took a lot out of Fingon. Suddenly that connection was gone.

 

“That is as much as we can do for this part,” Cíleth looked up, speaking to Fingon, noticing how uneasy he was on his feet. Fingolfin had not moved from his side, holding him, not daring to speak, for he did not know what to say.  She continued, “His own body must begin to heal, and take the blood. My fear is he has long been without enough blood. I know not how his organs are functional. I could not sense all of them when I laid my hands on him.”

 

Another healer announced, “His heart grows stronger.”

 

“Get Ready!” Cíleth commanded knowing that this could send his weak body into shock. As expected, Nelyafinwë started to crash. His organs stopped working, precipitating a cascading series of crises. This time his body did start seizing. How there was strength left in him to do this was a question they all marveled at.

 

The apprentice healer, what to Fingon seemed like just a boy, on Fingolfin’s urging, continued to explain what the healers were doing, describing to Fingon and his father what would come next. “They will submerge him in ice. It seems counterintuitive that we steadied his heart, but it is the rest of his organs that trouble us.”

 

Fingon watched wide-eyed as the healers worked quickly: one group to stabilize Nelyo, the others preparing the ice bath.

 

“We must slow his body down, gently,” the young healer explained.

 

“What of his arm,” Fingon asked, his voice raw from the shadow filled everlasting night he encountered in Angband.

 

“He will be submerged in his entirety.”

 

Fingon looked at the young healer anxious, with some understanding of what they were attempting to do.

 

“Look,” he motioned to Fingon. He watched as a healer placed some strange contraption over his face. “That device will seal around his face so he can breathe.”

 

“Now,” a healer directed. The group picked up Nelyafinwë and carefully and ever so slowly submerged him in the ice water. Nelyo’s thrashing slowed as he was submerged bit by bit, until he was fully underwater. Surrounding his face was a thick bark of a cedar tree in the shape of a tube that somehow the healers had devised to suction to his face. Peering over Nelyafinwë, one could look down and observe his face that remained dry. Whatever was left of his hair fanned out like a fiery halo in the ice water.

 

The young healer continued after a while. He described to Fingon and Fingolfin that the healers sensed growths in Nelyo’s lungs that caused him to start choking as he was made stronger by the infusion of blood. His lungs had obviously not tolerated taking in more than a shallow breath. Submerging him in the ice slowed his breathing and heartrate, but it also protected the delicate organs.

 

“But why give him blood if only to slow his body down?” Fingon asked.

 

“Without the blood he would have died earlier. He needed that to keep going if only to get him to this moment.”

 

Fingon turned his worried face back to the tub and though he wanted to go forward and peer into it to observe Nelyafinwë he had to hold himself back and allow the healers to work.

 

Once submerged, Cíleth brought out a long needle (a prized possession given to the Sindar by the Noldor) which she introduced into the lung and into the growth. While the Noldor had developed such needles for veterinary care and husbandry in Aman, the needle was now used for medical emergencies on elves. In a short time, the advances it offered to the wounded were many. Slowly she injected the content. Once emptied she carefully removed the needle. Around her, other healers worked to keep Nelyo stable, taking turns working on the threads of his being as the water was cold and their hands could not tolerate too long in the ice water. As the healers did this work, others listened, through mind speak, describing what organ, what tissue, what cells they were tending too. While elven healing seemed quiet and peaceful, it was actually quite active and powerful.

 

Cíleth, satisfied that she had found and injected all the growths, turned her attention to his kidneys.

 

“They are full of stones,” another healer announced. “I cannot dissolve them for his kidneys cannot process the waste.”

 

Cíleth nodded, “Let’s get his heart and lungs stabilized. We need to protect the brain so his fëa can begin to regenerate. The fëa will know what to heal first. The rest is lost if we cannot save this.”

 

From the grinding ice they discovered how the elven body slowed when submerged in ice cold water, how the body went dormant, but stayed alive, even how the heart could stop and come back to life, without injury. But too much time in the ice and the elf would succumb, but there was a sweet spot that the healers had learned, though it was not a lesson they were happy to have learned. This knowledge came from terrible first-hand experience.

 

How long Fingon stood near the healers he did not know until he felt faint and stumbled.

 

“You too are unwell my lord,” the apprentice healer observed, speaking loud enough so that those his senior, and Fingolfin, could order Fingon to stand down.

 

“I seem a picture of strength compared” Fingon’s voice faltered. He was overcome with his own injuries, his own sorrow.

 

"But you ail nonetheless,” the apprentice soothed, gently taking Fingon’s arms and motioning to Fingolfin to bring a seat to Fingon.

 

Cíleth was more direct. She ordered Fingon to take a seat. Fingon did not have the power to resist his father’s strong arms that made him sit. Another healer came to him and looked him over, not hiding his concern for his lord’s state. “Fingon, you are unwell. How long has it been since you have eaten or drank anything?”

 

“You must drink this,” another person spoke. Fingon was having a hard time keeping track. His eyes were closing. He was so tired.

 

“Of course,” Fingon answered dizzily. “But I do not want to sleep,” he fought back. “I need to be here.” Fingon was stubborn.

 

The healer indicated for help. Fingolfin who had been constant in his observation, standing next to his son, helped the healer move the faltering Fingon onto a bed.

 

The apprentice offered Fingon a drink and bread.

 

Fingolfin recognized it as a sleeping cordial that imbued the recipient with life and allowed their body to slip into a healing, deep sleep. Fingon sipped the drink. Fingon passed out quickly, falling back on the bed. The healer turned to Fingolfin. “He will sleep for a long time.” Satisfied that Fingon was sleeping as he should, the healer left Fingolfin and his son alone, knowing Fingolfin would want time with Fingon.

 

Fingolfin sat in the chair next to Fingon’s bed. He leaned into Fingon, kissing him on the cheek. Tears fell. His son was alive! Fingolfin whispered words of strength and love for Fingon, allowed his fëa to mix with that of Fingon, giving him healing strength. After a while, Fingolfin sat back to look over his son. Carefully, Fingolfin began unbraiding Fingon’s hair. Once this task was done, he took a cloth and dipped in the warm water basin placed next to Fingon’s bed and began tenderly wiping away the grime.

 

“Father,” a tentative voice broke through the active sound of the healing ward. It was Turgon. His eyes were focused on his brother. “I knew you’d return,” he whispered to Fingon.

 

Looking at Fingolfin, Turgon asked, a slight doubt creeping into his voice, “How fares my brother?”

 

“He has seen much,” Fingolfin shared. “He is weak, but he will recover quickly.”

 

Turgon sighed with relief, though Fingolfin felt guilty that he solely cared for his son in this moment.

 

“What of Nelyafinwë?” Turgon inquired.

 

Fingolfin cast a look towards where Fëanáro’s eldest was being attended to. Shaking his head, he spoke plainly, “It will be a miracle if he lasts the night.”

 

Turgon continued. “You must speak to the people. There is a growing ruckus.”

 

Fingolfin passed his hand over his face, exasperated.

 

“And what do we tell the Fëanorians?” Turgon charged on, knowing that his father needed to attend to such matters sooner than what he would like.

 

Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed. Just moments ago, he was grieving for what he thought was Fingon’s death. And now, Fingon was returned to him. And there too was Nelyafinwë. Fingolfin knew that Nelyo had asked for the ships to return for them, heard what rift it caused between father and son. He did not want to have any ill will towards his nephew, but Nelyafinwë’s one action was not enough to absolve him of blame.

 

Turgon once more prodded his father. “Now is the time to diffuse what has been a mounting call for war. We must find some good in this. Fingon did not do this for us to simply keep waging the same wars against our own kin.”

 

Fingolfin was surprised by Turgon’s words. He knew well the little love Turgon felt for his cousins. But he also understood that a peace between houses was a better future for Idril. Fingolfin too was a father, a grandfather. Placing his hand on Turgon’s shoulder, he said, “Come with me.”

 

Fingolfin stepped out into the clearing outside the healing ward. The buzz of sound died down as the host waited expectantly for their leader’s words. “Fingon is resting,” Fingolfin started, eliciting murmurs of relief. “What he has accomplished we do not yet know the full tale of. Yet I can tell you that he, alone, snatched Nelyafinwë from the grips of Moringotto himself. Why did Fingon dare such an impossible feat?”

 

The crowd was eerily silent. What had been a surge to face the Fëanorians was now paused. What now?

 

“For us,” Fingolfin answered his own question. “Since we stepped on the ice my son has only ever wanted us to more than survive, he has wanted us to thrive. Like your children, like your brothers, sisters, parents and friends, we have all fought to make a home in these new lands.” Fingolfin paused and looked back to the healing ward. “In there,” he motioned, “my brother’s eldest fights to live. For thirty years of this new cycle of sun and moon, Nelyafinwë endured what I cannot imagine. And Fingon saved him.” Fingolfin was quickly losing his hold on his emotions. “Let us come together and hold Nelyafinwë up in healing. Let us set ourselves to this task, so that perhaps tomorrow we can be on the other side of a miracle. Hour by hour, day by day, we will make sense of this, together.”

 

Turgon grabbed his father in a hug, not caring for propriety. This was not a moment for that. Fingolfin melted into Turgon, quietly crying. Fingon was alive. Fingon was alive! And Fingolfin felt terrible for the joy that brought him, even though Nelyafinwë’s life hung by a thread.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon woke up abruptly. He was not used to such deep slumber. His bearings were unfamiliar, but quickly enough the totality of the last few weeks of Time rushed back to him. He wanted to jump off the bed but he found his body, though renewed, was worn from all he had spent.

 

The young healer, Olosto, that had stood by Fingon when he first brought Nelyafinwë, was quickly by his side, with a plate of food. Fingon thanked Olosto, “I am famished,” he admitted, nodding for Olosto to speak as he ate.

 

“You have been asleep for almost a full day,” Olosto let Fingon know. “Lord Nelyafinwe made it through the night. He hangs to life by a thread.” Olosto offered Fingon an energetic drink. Fingon drank it quickly. Olosto continued, “We tend to him at all times, working feverishly to weave together the most fundamental parts of him. It’s as if he would disappear with but a breeze.”

 

“Take me to him,” Fingon ordered feeling replenished.

 

Olosto led Fingon to Nelyo, except this time, Fingon found Nelyafinwë on a more comfortable bed. He looked no different, but for the grime now cleaned off of him and his hair clean and trimmed.

 

Fingon felt his someone behind him. “Lalwen” Fingon spoke, feeling his aunt’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“You feel strong,” she shared, rejoicing for the return of quick elven healing, only possible because Fingon had regained his full strength and more before leaving. But in this new world there was little time to stretch victories out into comfort. “We must send word to Makalaurë.”

 

Fingon tensed under her hand. Lalwen released him and stepped back. Fingon walked towards Nelyo, moving to stand at his feet.  Fingon dared not allow himself to listen, to feel, his inner most thoughts, scared he would be lost in fear and the unknown. With much trepidation, Fingon paused before his hand felt Nelyo's bones, searching for that familiar essence that had been Maitimo in different times. There it was. Fingon’s fingers hovered over Nelyo, felt his energy, so weak. Fingon allowed his own energy to merge with that of Nelyo for a moment. The familiarity of their song shook Fingon to his core but he did not have time to dwell in that sensation in this moment. Fingon buried his warring emotions and instead looked upon Nelyo, who had the look of a cadaver and not someone still living.

 

Lalwen nodded towards the healer, giving Fingon the opportunity to speak with the healer tending Nelyafinwë.

 

Cíleth, reading her cue from Lalwen, informed Fingon, “He will undergo more rigorous healing.”

 

Fingon nodded. Rigorous meant there would be some sort of surgery.

 

“Multiple,” she offered. “First and soon, we will remove a fragment implanted in his skull.”

 

“What is it?” Fingon gasped, surely one of Morgoth’s evil devices.

 

Cíleth responded, “We know not but some of the chemicals we are sensing in his blood and the manner in which energy is responding in his nervous system indicate that his brain is starting to swell.”

 

“And it did not before?” Fingon asked.

 

“He was severely dehydrated and this impacted his brain, but with the hydration he has received it is responding too vigorously.” Cíleth explained. “That he is alive is astonishing,” she offered, her hands on Nelyo’s forehead, her healing energy directed at keeping the swelling under control.

 

“And after that,” Fingon inquired, hoping that his friend could make it to the next surgery.

 

“We must remove some lesions we have found on his pituitary. We believe it is from the high levels of stress he has endured. The surgery is transsphenoidal,” Cíleth described, using her hands to indicate the route. “We will enter from the upper lip above the teeth. We must remove them for the growths impede the slowing down of what you feel as adrenaline.” Cíleth looked at Fingon, “We healers understand it as laus,  and the gland that is responsible for producing that sensation is not functioning correctly. In Nelyafinwë it is like a water faucet we cannot shut off.”

 

Fingon shuddered. He understood the cost of having laus a too constant companion. The stress of the ice had altered their own responses and once in Endórë, the elves of Fingolfin’s host worked long and hard to cure one of the many sicknesses caused by their time on the Ice.

 

Cíleth observed as Fingon’s eyes traveled up Nelyafinwë’s body to his arm that had been recently cleaned and tended. “While we closed the wound, once he is more stable, we need to take this part of his arm.” Cíleth traced a line inches above the wrist, showing Fingon where they would cut, again. Fingon grimaced. What Nelyafinwë would have to endure.

 

Having heard Lalwen’s words with Fingon, she spoke so her Lady could hear her. “Send word after this first procedure. I do not want any of their healers here dictating what I should do.”

 

Lalwen answered, “I will send a messenger after the first surgery. We cannot stall more than that. Otherwise we might have a diplomatic incident on our hands.” Lalwen waited for Fingon’s rebuttal, knowing one would come. 

 

Fingon looked up at his aunt. “They will not dare reproach me or our people…” Fingon stopped and walked towards his Lalwen, taking her aside.

 

“Or?” Lalwen asked out of earshot of most of the healers.

 

“They are impotent,” Fingon hissed quietly. “I did not walk into Thangorodrim at no cost. Those cowards knew Moringotto had taken him, some of them even believed he might be alive. They have no right to him.”

 

“But they do,” Lalwen countered.

 

“Not until I say they do,” Fingon spat back. “Makalaurë knows this much. He played his hand, hoping I would venture to do what he couldn’t. And I did.” Fingon seethed, “I have authority in this matter, according to Fëanorian protocol.”

 

Lalwen narrowed her eyes, observing her nephew. “Think hard on this and speak as a diplomat. The hero’s moment is over. Be sure of your appraisal of the situation,” but Lalwen knew what Fingon said was true.

 

Fingon did not intend to be angry with Lalwen. She was only doing her duty, as they all were. Taking a deep breath, Fingon cast a weary glance towards Nelyafinwë. “While it will not make them happy and they will bristle at our position, they will abide by this,” Fingon assured his aunt.

 

“Very well,” Lalwen replied. She was about to turn to leave, but paused and put her hand up to touch Fingon’s cheek. Fingon’s façade softened. He was so much like Lalwen. “I would scold you but I know better.”

 

Fingon smiled.

 

Lalwen dropped her hand and left. Fingon turned back and sat vigil next to Nelyafinwë.

 

)()()()(

 

Maglor ran towards the yards and out into the bright day. Towards the wall he ran and up the stairs and to a watch tower. From the crenel he leaned out, the sun on his face. Alive?! Maglor looked out from the battlement towards the lake and across to Fingolfin’s encampment. The group from Fingolfin’s camp was making their way back to their home.

 

There, over there, so close was Nelyo! To have him returned. It was as if one of the dead had returned from their grave. Indeed, one of the dead had returned. Maglor was alone with his thoughts. Many had seen Thorondor’s arrival to Fingolfin’s camp, but little could they imagine what the Lord of the Eagles had carried. Maglor fell to his knees overpowered by joy and guilt. He had dared not hope for any miracles, but there his brother was, across the lake. And yet, Nelyo’s death was more certain than his survival. Oh doom, what mistress they had chosen! Maglor suffered. Would this be but a momentary victory? Would it not be crueler to know that Nelyafinwë had survived years of torture under Morgoth than to imagine him dead? Better for whom? Maglor chided himself. Would it not have been preferable that Nelyo had died that dreaded day Morgoth took him? Maglor wrangled with his own thoughts. Better that than to know what his eldest brother had endured. But no, Maglor could not wish his death. Maglor needed to cling to the belief that his brother would survive!

 

Maglor willed his tears to subside, standing once more to look across the lake. Fingon, he breathed, Fingon.  He had he done it. Fingon went and did what none believed was possible. Of course, it had been Fingon! Maglor could not help but feel deep passionate love for his cousin in this moment. Not jealousy, not anger, but a love and gratitude that was genuine. “Fingon,” he whispered, willing his thoughts to cross the lake.

 

Maglor heard his brother’s steps. Celegorm came and stood next to him, his eyes bright. Together they looked across the lake. In this moment they shared a hope, but it was only a stolen moment for Caranthir bounded up the stairs.

 

“We must go and get our brother,” Caranthir demanded.

 

Maglor spun around. “Did you not hear a word of what was said? He cannot be moved!”

 

Caranthir was about to argue, but Celegorm spoke first, “One or two of us will go and stay with Nolofinwë. “When he is well enough, we will bring him home.”

 

Maglor cautioned, “He may not yet survive.”

 

Caranthir snarled. “He has a better chance of it here.”

 

“Did you not hear a word the messenger shared,” Celegorm, repeated Maglor’s words to Caranthir. “He was one of the healers tending to Maitimo. There were no lies in his words. He cannot be moved. Not yet.” These last words were whispered. Not yet, Celegorm feared, like all of them, that their brother might not survive.

 

“I have decided,” Maglor interrupted.  “We will respect their timeline. Celegorm and Pityo will leave tonight and a few of our healers within a fortnight.” He stared down at Caranthir, daring him to challenge him. Maglor knew Curufin was stewing, pacing in the yards below. Curufin had let them all know just what he thought of Fingolfin’s healers handling Maitimo, but in truth, they were better equipped.

 

Caranthir relented, “I want to see him. I want him home.”

 

“As do we all,” Celegorm offered, relieved that Maglor had chosen him. “We need him to get through these next few hours, days, weeks,” he said, knowing Caranthir, all of them, also deserved to see their brother, but for the delicate politics of the situation.

 

Maglor reminded them, “I as much dared Fingon to go save him. I believed him dead and wished him alive.”

 

Caranthir glanced at Celegorm. “You believed he was alive.”

 

Celegorm retorted, “I only hoped he was alive.” They all carried immense guilt. While Celegorm had been the most vocal about Maitimo being alive, he never went to save him, never dared what Fingon did. “With my actions I pronounced him dead, as we all did,” Celegorm added.

 

Maglor agreed, “We are all indicted and bound by Fingon's actions. The Nolofinwions are in their right to ask us to abide by their timeline. It is reasonable, though I hate it too.” Maglor looked back and across the lake. They had forfeited Maitimo to inaction. “Time is a new mistress in this middle earth. She reveals herself and we reacquaint ourselves with her again and again.” These words were not meant for his brothers but they appreciated them regardless. Maglor whispered, “Maitimo.”

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon looked up from where he sat near Nelyafinwë, searching for a voice that called to him and yet the healing quarters were quiet. Looking to Lalwen that was sitting next to him, Fingon announced: “The Fëanorians are coming.”

 

 

Chapter 11: The Fëanorians come to visit

Read Chapter 11: The Fëanorians come to visit

Chapter 11: The Fëanorians come to visit

 

Fingon held the device in his hand. It was a cold metal, heavy for its size. It was a type of bolt that would expand with what they could only assume was a torque type tool. Morgoth had placed the device in Nelyafinwë’s skull. The healers had sensed the contraption through energy work. To their horror, they discovered its details when they pulled back skin from his skull to remove it. The bolt-like device expanded and contracted when turned, depending on direction. The breaks and regrowth in Nelyafinwë’s skull evidenced this.

 

The bolt had been sealed into Nelyo’s cranium. A dark magic was infused in the metal, seeping its ill will into Nelyo. What shape this took, the healers could not know, but during the surgery to remove it, the healers worked first to fight the dark spell contained within it. Once broken, they focused their work on delicately removing the contraption. It was an unimaginable torture. Fingon replayed the image in his head of Nelyo screaming as Morgoth wrenched the bolt, slowly and steadily opening his skull, but never so much so that he would kill Nelyo, repeating the process by closing the gap in the next round. Morgoth understood   the morbid limits of elven anatomy.

 

Nelyafinwë showed some improvement after the removal of the device. The healers were able to concentrate their work to healing the cranium, removing the deformities that had taken shape with the constant movement of the bone.  The metal, even after removed, remained infused with Morgoth’s malevolence. Though he had been urged to get rid of it, Fingon kept the device, knowing exactly who it needed to be given to so it could be studied, mastered.

 

Fingon opened a drawer in his desk dropping the bolt in it. Fingon had built the desk himself, carved runes for patience and rest upon it. His desk was a quiet, peaceful place in his room. It would be safe within it, Fingon assured himself. He walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a tunic that he quickly put on. 

 

Fingon headed back to the healing wards to return to his place by Nelyafinwë. “Russo,” Fingon would whisper, but say no more. Fear and dread gave way to anger and resentment. As Nelyo grew stronger, Fingon’s mind turned to other thoughts he had not given himself time to consider: Nelyafinwë did not burn the ships, had turned aside, but could he have done more? These thoughts kept turning in his head. Fingon chided himself for these ideas. Up until a few weeks ago, Fingon, had not allowed his thoughts to dwell on Nelyo. But having him here, sitting hour after hour next to him, sensing his fëa, it was only a matter of time before Fingon focused on questions previously avoided. Up until this incident, time to reflect was not a priority for Fingon. Indeed, life on this other side of the Sea demanded his time. He was given to work, building, scouting, to battle, not to contemplation.

 

And then he heard Maglor’s voice, whispering in his thoughts. Fingon announced the impending visit of the Fëanorians to Lalwen. She was sitting with Fingon lending him strength, knowing he was sitting with thoughts he previously had ignored. It was obvious to those that knew him well that having Nelyo returned rekindled a brew of emotions. It also caused a minor political calamity as lords and ladies were wagering on the Kingship. If they were to be united, surely Fingolfin would be loyal to Nelyafinwe? Lalwen was not convinced of this. Fingon’s heroics opened other opportunities.

 

“We are ready,” she informed Fingon. “They will be spared rooms closest here.

 

“Only a few will come,” Fingon surmised.

 

“And if he survives, more will come. We are ready,” Lalwen answered, keeping track in her mind of what needed to be prepared. Lalwen was the head diplomat of Fingolfin’s host. She decided who would venture to first meetings: in some cases, traveling herself, in others, sending those she deemed would make best first impressions.  She was also responsible for getting ready for visitors from the outside. It was more than readying rooms. She had to consider what paths visitors would take, who they would interact with, and for what purposes. She decided, with some help, what foods to serve, what wines to offer, especially if displays of power were necessary. From the placement of standards to the furniture in rooms, every detail was accounted for.  Necessities were one thing, but the message and symbolism of such visits and trips were of utmost importance. This game they perfected in the endless time of Tirion, but the consequences were much more tangible in Endórë and time on the other side demanded quick action and thought.

 

Observing Fingon, she inquired, “Are you prepared to receive them?”

 

Fingon’s bitterness towards the Fëanorians had not diminished. While he questioned Nelyo’s own inaction, he also ruminated on the inaction of his brothers. Fingon’s thoughts inevitably turned darker as Nelyo’s treatment revealed just how much he suffered during his captivity with Morgoth. That the Fëanorians had not acted, chose to believe their own brother dead, was more than Fingon could fathom. Cowards, he thought to himself.

 

Assessing Nelyo, Fingon grunted, “Ready enough, though do not expect me to be their minder.”

 

Lalwen responded, “I have appointed handlers for each member of Fëanáro’s House. We will be ready for any one of them.”

 

“Surely one of the twins,” Fingon guessed. “They are the most innocuous, though they too burned the boats,” he added candidly. There was no forgiveness for them even if they needed peace to exist between them.

 

“Nevertheless, you will encounter them here,” Lalwen pointed out, “though I do believe they will walk with great care around you. They owe you much.”

 

Fingon studied Lalwen. She was calculating just how much and what advantages she could gain because of Fingon’s heroism. “We need them,” Fingon offered, knowing his aunt cared little for his feelings towards his cousins. It was one of the reasons he dared to find Nelyo, after all: bring the two camps together to fight united against Morgoth.

 

Lalwen shared a radiant smile, “While heroes fill the pages of story, it is what comes after that shapes the tides of opportunity.”

 

Fingon once loved gossiping with Lalwen, honing his diplomatic skills at her side. In Tirion he enjoyed the way carefully chosen words could demonstrate power, how which doors he chose to use in Finwë’s palace sent messengers gossiping to their lords about what to expect. Even during social events, Noldorin intrigue and plots were being watched for. In those innocent days, Fingon was always reminded: be careful who you choose to dance with, share a drink with, otherwise you might propel a diplomatic incident. It was a game he enjoyed toying with. That seemed trivial now. The power of diplomacy was now life and death. They needed allies in the Fëanorians. “What if Tyelko comes,” Fingon broached the possibility with his aunt.

 

Lalwen understood Fingon’s deeper question: What of Aredhel? What if someone chooses these delicate times to tell Celegorm of Aredhel’s loss? “There are some lords that might use his presence to vie for power,” Lalwen admitted. Such crass tactics were now more commonplace. “And we will not keep her away from him.” Studying her nephew, Lalwen charged Fingon: “Do you not believe that this is Irissë’s choice?” Lalwen leaned back in her chair, carefully folding her hands on her lap.

 

Fingon recognized his aunt’s rebuke. “I do not judge her,” he insisted. Lalwen raised an eyebrow, which exasperated Fingon further. “That is not fair. I do not think Irissë weak!” Fingon retorted, keeping his voice low.

 

Lalwen leaned slightly forward, lifting her chin so she was peering down her nose at Fingon. “But you do,” she countered.

 

Fingon raised his voice, “Not so!”

 

Lalwen raised a finger at Fingon, making him hold his tongue and not bring attention to them, lest they wanted more gossip.

 

Fingon held his breath, anticipating his aunt would say more. He knew better than to speak when he was commanded otherwise. Instead he turned his attention to Nelyo, focusing on the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

 

Lalwen too looked at Nelyo, considering the consequences if he lived. Finally, Lalwen broke the silence, her eyes moving back to her nephew. She dragged Fingon’s chair closer to her: “I will have you know that she is the strongest of my mother’s line.” Pulling him to whisper in his ear, she admonished Fingon: “You will never come close to understanding her loss and what it took for her to come out on the other side of that.” She pushed Fingon away and stood up, but before she left, she declared, “You are the hero, but heroes are not necessarily wise. I demand you be both.”

 

Chastened, Fingon considered Lalwen’s words. She never treated him tenderly nor allowed him to be churlish with her. He’d avoided her for it, but of late, he found himself returning increasingly to her side. Fingon recognized he needed her council. He had not yet shared the full story of his search for Nelyo. Why? he asked himself, what compelled me to find you? Fingon knew the easy answer. A chance. A wager that such a feat would unite the broken Noldor. But, there was still something more.

 

Cíleth returned to Nelyafinwë’s side with a group of healers, offering Fingon respite from his worry. Cíleth did not possess the light of the Two Trees so she relied on Noldorin healers for the particular healing strength that light offered. Assessing Nelyo, she said what they all knew, “He is showing the smallest of improvements.” She worriedly glanced at Fingon, observing his furrowed brows, the manner in which he clenched his jaw. Another healer began working on other parts of Nelyo that needed tending.

 

“What do you need me to focus on?” Fingon asked Cíleth.  

 

Fingon possessed an intimacy of Nelyafinwë’s song that would be key in saving Nelyo’s life. Cíleth gleaned that Fingon despised the forced intimacy, and yet he wielded his power to help save Nelyo. Cíleth suspected their connection was unusual. She said nothing of it. Nelyo was not yet saved. And even if they could stabilize his vital organs, they would also have to attend to his mangled body.

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm and Amrod’s horses drew near the large gates that now stood, marking the entrance to Fingolfin’s hold. The encampment was a proper village, circled by a high, defensive wall. Outside its walls were a variety of gardens and other buildings that could be abandoned if needed in case of an attack.

 

The morning was clear and bright. Not a cloud hung in the sky. Amrod looked up at the expansive sky, searching for an answer in the blueness of it, finding only doubt and guilt. In this moment, every breath he took seemed a betrayal. His heart beat strongly in his chest. His own body seemed to condemn him for his health. Celegorm was lost to his own thoughts, but the sound of an eagle far off in the distance reminded them they needed to go forward and face their choice.

 

Celegorm spoke to his brother. “Let us hope he has lasted the night.” The Fëanorians were filled with a mixture of dread, fear, and longing but most of all, uncertainty. How would they find Maitimo? The reports they had received did not offer them hope. Their brother had been tortured and hung on a cliff, left to die. While the reception they would receive was also on their mind, it seemed trivial next to the question of their eldest brother’s life.

 

“We come to see our brother on permission of your Lord,” Celegorm formally hailed Fingolfin’s guards, announcing their purpose. One of the guards offered a customary court greeting, now the warrior’s greeting. The other signaled for the gate to open. The large wooden doors opened and the Fëanorians were directed to ride through. A few of Fingolfin’s people stood and observed them, but most went about their business, doing their best to keep tensions at a minimum.

 

Amrod was grateful for it. “I was expecting us to be a spectacle.”

 

Celegorm predicted differently. “Lalwen knows better. I am sure each and every person was harassed to go about their business.” Unlike Amrod, Celegorm had seen his aunt in action in Tirion. She was a force, and one that their father often complained about for she was cunning, an equal of Fëanor, but for her station as a woman.

 

Amrod nodded. Another of Fingolfin’s people came up to them. It was Ondion. “This way, my lords,” Ondion offered, walking them in the direction of the stables housed in the inner yards.

 

“Well met,” Amrod addressed Ondion. He and Ondion had been good friends and he was happy to see a friendly face.

 

Celegorm grew more nervous. Waiting at the stables was Lalwen. Turgon stood tall at her side.  Celegorm was reminded just how tall Turgon was, not having seen him since Fingolfin’s host first crossed to Endórë. The riders dismounted and handed their gear to attendants. 

 

Lalwen bid them welcome. “I will not exchange needless words. Know you are welcomed in your capacity as family of the injured.”

 

Celegorm bowed formally in greeting to his aunt. “We thank you for your consideration. We are honored to be under the same roof as Fingon the Valiant. We owe him much.”

 

Turgon smiled. It was almost a sneer. Lalwen offered a more serene smile. “We are thankful for Fingon’s valour and in that spirit offer you the hospitality of our home.”

 

Amrod offered his quiet thanks. He had little practice in the politics of protocol.

 

Wishing to dispense with formalities, Lalwen indicated they lead their horses to the stables. “You can leave your horses there. Once satisfied that your companions are properly housed, I will take you to your rooms to wash and eat, if you wish, in private.”

 

Amrod was anxious. All he wanted to do was see his brother. He cast his eyes about the encampment looking for the healing quarters. Turgon offered, “Your brother survives still. We would not keep you from him.”

 

Amrod nodded. Celegorm exchanged glances with his brother, letting him know, be patient. The Fingolfians needed to establish their protocol. This was, after all, the first visit of a Fëanorian to Fingolfin’s stronghold.

 

Satisfied that their horses were properly attended to, Celegorm and Amrod came out to where Turgon and Lalwen waited for them. Celegorm casually observed Turgon. It struck him how much Turgon and Aredhel looked alike, but Celegorm forced those feelings aside. He was not here to see her, but for Maitimo.

 

Once in their shared room, Celegorm allowed himself to catch his breath. “All is well so far,” he sighed, but he could not soothe his uneasiness.

 

Amrod paced the length of the large room that had a great hearth on the far wall and on the other a window that looked out over a number of vegetable gardens.

 

“This is a new structure,” Celegorm observed. He was trying to distract himself from the waiting.

 

“This anticipation is more than I can take!” Amrod declared.

 

Fortune was on their side. The sound of feet tapping the floor announced the arrival of someone from Fingolfin’s house.  Amrod ran to the door and swung it open. “My lord,” he stepped back, surprised by the figure on the other side. It was Fingolfin himself.

 

Celegorm bowed once more, this time before his uncle. “Lord Nolofinwë,” he greeted.

 

Fingolfin observed his nephews bend their backs to him, noted they kept their eyes on his feet. “Be welcome,” Fingolfin replied after a moment. Amrod and Celegorm straightened. Like Lalwen, Fingolfin had no mind for frivolous exchanges. “I assume you want to see your brother most of all,” he inquired.

 

“Indeed, my lord,” Amrod answered expectantly.

 

“Follow me and we will exchange pleasantries later,” Fingolfin commanded.

 

Celegorm and Amrod followed Fingolfin. Opportunely they did not run into anyone on their way to the healing ward. Celegorm said a silent thanks to Lalwen. He knew this was her doing.

 

Fingolfin walked up to a door, and paused. Turning to face his nephews, he warned them, “You will be alarmed by your brother’s state.”

 

Amrod did not hide his fear, his hands shaking at his side. Celegorm spoke for them, “Thank you my lord. I fear that crossing this threshold will irrevocably change me.”

 

“You can be sure of that,” Fingolfin replied, opening the door.

 

Celegorm and Amrod walked in. Fingolfin did not follow. Instead a young elf greeted them. “This way,” he offered leading them to another room. Before they could see their brother, the young elf gave them some instructions. “You may touch his legs, though lightly. Mind your fëa as any change in his song at this moment can undo the work we have done.”

 

They walked together through the threshold into a larger room. There he was, lain on a table. Celegorm and Amrod abandoned any protocol, running to their brother’s side.

 

“Maitimo!” Celegorm cried out, his eyes taking in the sight of his brother, but the healer next to him cautioned him, “Be mindful of your energy.”

 

Amrod held back sobs. “What has been done to you?” he wept quietly, struggling to stay calm. The two brothers stood by their brother weeping softly, passing their fingers back and forth over his legs.

 

Celegorm wanted to reach out and hug Maitimo, but he could not. To have him here but unable to hold him, to comfort him. Celegorm believed seeing his brother would assuage some of his fears, but that was not so.

 

“Moringotto!” Celegorm cursed the fallen Vala, gritting his teeth, holding back his anger.

 

Amrod spoke softly, “Nelyo, we are here.”

 

Celegorm caught his breath, “Yes, brother we are here.”  The two stood over their brother, overwhelming anger and fear, coursing within them. “Oh despair!” Celegorm whispered, “little did I know you.”

 

“Indeed,” came a voice from the far side of the room.

 

Fingon. Celegorm recognized the voice. Wild eyed he looked from his brother to Fingon who stood at another entrance, his figure a shadow.

 

Amrod looked over at Fingon and overcome with emotion, proclaimed, “You brought him back.”

 

“And yet,” Fingon spoke quietly, “he might not last the night.”

 

Celegorm tried hard not to sob, but was overcome.  Fingon came into the light and led a protesting Celegorm out of the room. “It will do him no good to have your fëa so raw,” Celegorm wanted to shake Fingon away, but Fingon grabbed him firmly. “Think of it as a quarantine. Unregulated emotions are like weapons to him. He is keenly sensitive to them.”  Knowing Amrod was listening, Fingon ordered, “Go to your rooms and shout, cry, scream if you will, but not here.”

 

Amrod observed how the healers worked more feverishly on Maitimo.  “Let us go collect ourselves,” Amrod offered, willing himself to calm.

 

Celegorm lifted his head, catching site of an agitated Maitimo. Standing abruptly, Celegorm left the healing ward. Amrod followed closely behind. The way back to their rooms was short. Once inside the rooms, Celegorm threw himself on his bed and screamed into the bed. Amrod fell to the floor crying.

 

Fingon closed the doors as the brothers fled. “It is as you expected Cíleth. What do we do now?

 

“I need you to sit with him and hold his song steady. Let none of the pain of his brothers reach him.” Fingon nodded and sat next to Nelyo, closing his eyes and finding the hints of his song. Fingon did not reveal how much this cost him, but with every moment he sat with Nelyo, Fingon grew darker. Fingon understood the costs, felt how Morgoth’s malevolence clung to Nelyo’s song, and took those threads into his own fëa. Cíleth and the other healers were not blind to this.

 

The brother’s cries came. Many in the camp heard their wailing. This host was not scared or unused to such pain. This type of terror and pain was a consort that joined them on the ice, forever to mark them.

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm’s cries subsided. Amrod quieted earlier. They were spent.

 

Amrod stood next to the door. “Are you ready brother?”

 

Celegorm nodded and once more they made their way back to Maitimo. Fingon was still there, sitting next to their brother. He stood and stepped away from him when the brothers came into the room.

 

They were passed the initial shock and now stood quietly next to their brother. Amrod was the first to speak. “He will survive.”

 

Fingon did not share that their brother had begged for his death. Fingon had not granted Nelyo’s wishes then, but now Fingon believed that perhaps he should have given him that mercy.

 

“Tell me,” Celegorm asked Fingon, “how fares his song? Is it as it once was?”

 

Fingon sighed. “It’s hard to describe,” he answered, searching for words to explain yet another first. “What we knew as Maitimo is not there. His fëa is so dispersed and weak, he has no consciousness, not in the way we knew it. His song is familiar, but changed. I know not how else to describe it.”

 

Amrod did. “Like yours,” he countered. “Your song is familiar, but different.” Fingon had not considered this.

 

“In time,” Fingon continued, “the healers will need your fëa to help him heal. You will soon hear his song for yourselves, but...” Fingon faltered.

 

“But?” Celegorm insisted.

 

“He will take much from you.”

 

“We will give all of ourselves,” Amrod answered. It was the least they could do for their brother. He would take much from them, but not as he did from Fingon for they were bound together.

 

The three sat vigil for the remainder of the night, watching as the healers came in and worked continuously to heal Nelyafinwë. With the coming of the sun the next morning, Fingon was sent to rest by Cíleth. Fingon did not argue or put up a fight. Amrod watched as Fingon left the room, Fingon’s eyes revealed how taxing the effort was to save Nelyo. Amrod readied himself for what was to come. Whatever his brother needed, he would offer. Whatever fears or mistrust the Fëanorians had of Fingolfin’s healers’ ability was quickly dismissed. Celegorm and Amrod observed first-hand their feverish and committed work.

 

Cíleth warned the brothers. “While you may not yet heal him directly you can support the healers and learn. Through them you will relearn how to merge your song to his and help him weave the threads of his being back together. We need to get him ready for his next procedure.”

 

)()()()(

 

Another surgery, another small victory. Nelyafinwë’s pituitary gland was healing. How strange that even though Nelyo had yet to become conscious he could rest more fully. With every hour, he grew stronger, his energy patterns grew increasingly recognizable, the threads easier to work with. The healers relied less on manual surgeries and concentrated on healing work. They cleared his kidneys of stones, using their fëa to dissolve the stones, little by little, allowing Nelyo’s body to remove the waste.

 

Fingon was not happy to be in the company of Fëanorians. While their ability to heal Nelyafinwë grew, Fingon retreated. Cíleth encouraged it, knowing how much Fingon had given of himself to heal Nelyo. Indeed, the presence of Nelyafinwë’s brothers was important. They quickly figured out how to help Maitimo, offered a different type of healing than Fingon could. Cíleth explained that being brothers, they could reach the molecules, the smallest fragments of Nelyo’s being that needed repairing. The brothers shared the most fundamental patterns with Nelyo. Nelyo’s molecules recognized the patterns and rebuilt themselves. It was as if Nelyo was being made anew, and yet he would be unrecognizable in many ways for Endórë and his time at Angband was now a part of that DNA.

 

But Fingolfin’s healers could only do so much. It was after some time and the decision to keep Nelyafinwë in a state of sleep that Fingolfin agreed that it was time for the Fëanorian healers to come. Amrod would depart and after him would the healers com. Fingolfin did not allow too great a number of Fëanorians stay, so only Amras, of the brothers came with the group of healers, and after the arrival of Amras and Fëanorian healers, Maglor would soon come and Celegorm would return.

 

The presence of the Fëanorians in Fingolfin’s camp was met with anger, confusion, and hope. Some wanted nothing to do with those that had abandoned them, others wanted to heal the divide between them, if only to be united against Morgoth. What was agreed upon that while there could be no living together, there could be an alliance and trade between the two. Fingolfin was no fool. He judged that having the Fëanorians in his stronghold would provoke these conversations. Having them present in not too large numbers refamiliarized Fingolfin’s host to the Fëanorians, and it was on his terms, he dictated the manner of their alliance so far.

 

)()()(  

 

Nelyafinwë was not out of danger, but he was stable. His breathing regularized, his heartbeat grew stronger. It would be some time before he regained consciousness but with time, he grew stronger, bones were repaired, fingers straightened, teeth regrown. The healers that had come from the other camp focused their work on mending bones, resetting breaks, and healing the shredded shoulder that had been pulled out of its socket for so long that layers and layers of scarring, the worn muscle, the ligaments like knots, needed to be regrown, untied and smoothed. This was yet another torture for Nelyo to endure. Even in his induced coma, he screamed, his voice raw from the ravages of years of torture, starvation, poisoning, and so much more. They tended also to the vast network of scars on their King’s body. Slowly the deepest scars were unthreaded and a new layer of skin was woven together. Most scarring responded well, but some scars did not, leaving behind a story on his skin, testament to his capture.

 

Nelyo remained skin and bones. They could not get enough nourishment in him. While the sharing of fëas could offer energy, there was no replacement for food, and the liquid diet they fed him was insufficient. They needed Nelyo to gain consciousness soon! The Fingolfian and Fëanorian healers worked feverishly, lent support by Celegorm and Amras. Fingon too would help when Cíleth called for him, but he watched from afar most of the time, unwilling to spend too much time in the Fëanorians presence, choosing instead to help his father wield the political advantage they had.

 

Celegorm’s presence stirred many, and Lalwen and Fingon, even though they had no love for him, worked to counter political conspiring resulting from it. It was up to Aredhel to decide what to do with him. No one else. Though some pitied her, none dared cross the White Lady. She’d become a formidable figure on this side of the Ice, her own losses and pain giving her an edge over those that had lost less. Such was the way in which loss helped define power.

 

The time for Celegorm in Fingolfin’s camp was ending, but not before Aredhel sought him out.

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm was walking back to his room from the baths when he saw her. He had not looked for her, did not want to cause another political commotion by seeking her out. His heart caught in his throat. She was radiant, like the moon. Tall and fair and stronger than he remembered.

 

She watched him, tracked him, and when she was ready she hunted him down. Silently, she walked towards him. Celegorm stood speechless. What could he say? What should he say?

 

“I will speak with you now,” Aredhel declared, letting Celegorm know she would not tolerate anything but his obedience.

 

“Yes,” he muttered. His answer insufficient, but for the wild beating of his heart.  

 

“Follow me,” she indicated. She led him to another stone complex and into the kitchens. In a quiet corner she sat him down. She sat across from him, a table between them, and for some time silently observed him.

 

Celegorm was unnerved, did not know what to say, but knew she wanted him to speak first. Ashamed, Celegorm offered her the meekest apology. “I did not want to leave you,” he offered meekly, as if it had been just yesterday he abandoned her.

 

Aredhel laughed. “You wanted me to forsake my family.”

 

“I am filled with deep regret,” he responded. He remembered the darkness of Valinor that allowed him to reach her, how he begged her to come with him on the boats, knowing, if she accepted, he was stealing her away from her family.

 

“Regret?” she retorted. “You would have me go with you, taking the choice away from me whether I would see my family again.”

 

Celegorm looked at the table. He did not raise his eyes to meet hers. He was selfish. He regretted his impulsive choice to ask her to go with him, but Celegorm did not regret going with his father. He never considered staying with her. It was who he was. Speaking, he shrugged. “What do you want from me Irissë. I am not a better man.”

 

She laughed. “You are not. But…” her voice trailed off, and a deep pain washed over the two of them, reflected in the storm brewing in her eyes.

 

Celegorm grew startled. What was Aredhel wedded to that conjured such terrible sadness and loss?

 

“You have no idea the extent I suffered-” she paused. “-the extent I suffered because of you.” Grabbing his hand, she demanded, “Listen to me. Hear me. You will know my pain for it is yours also.”

 

“Irissë,” Celegorm queried, feeling the familiar probe of her mind. She was insistent he open herself to her. Defeated he obliged. She shared with him a vision of the ships burning, her terror, and her immense fear. And then there was something else, someone new.

 

“Irissë,” Celegorm whispered, recoiling away from the images she shared.

 

She was relentless and offered none of the customary elven curation of mindspeak. She allowed her fëa to plunge into Celegorm, drowning him in her memories. “No,” Aredhel seethed, unwilling to let Celegorm go. She insisted more, pulling his hand towards her.

 

Celegorm was flooded by visions of the child growing within her, his child. He stood abruptly, but Aredhel would not release him, willing him to see more. He witnessed the judgement imposed on Aredhel even as the host made their way across the ice, saw as the months came and went, how Fingon cared for her, how Elenwë made sure she had more to eat than the others. How Fingolfin wrapped her up in his arms at night with Idril between them. He beheld the birth of baby, fluffy blond wisps of hair on her small head. She was small and weak.

 

Celegorm wept. The child died and she was buried and left in the Ice. Rilmien, shining light. Aredhel’s loss. Celegorm looked up at Aredhel, understood he could never fathom the depth of her loss. For him the story, the tragedy, was momentary. For Aredhel, she had grown the child, birthed it, and suffered her death.

 

“How?” Celegorm asked.

 

Aredhel answered, her voice composed, steady, and strong, like steel: “Do you not remember that night she was conceived, the night you tried to steal me away from my family?”

 

Celegorm remembered, letting Aredhel guide him back to their memories once more, but he had his own memories to explore. These were memories he did not dwell on for once the boats burned, he put away that night in the recesses of his mind. But now he peeled away the layers of forgetting and his memories became vivid. He was there once more.

 

“Remember,” Aredhel insisted.

 

And there it was, Rilmien’s beginnings: a life. He had been so careless.

 

Aredhel stood tall. Grabbing Celegorm to stand to face her. “You will never know what it means to survive as I do. You will never know my strength. And I will never forgive you.” She pushed Celegorm back into his seat and left him sitting there.

 

For once she felt light, the burden not hers alone. 

 

Celegorm grasped that it was time for him to return to the Fëanorian hold. Little could he offer his brother in healing with this new knowledge he carried. He would need to sit with it, to reflect and consider the light wedded to him on that fateful night, a light he had not seen as darkness had consumed him. In time, knowledge of Rilmien would drive him to do the unimaginable. For Celegorm, too, her creation and loss would dictate his doom.

 

)()()()(

 

Maglor would forever remember the night he crossed the divide between his stronghold and that of Fingolfin. It was a hot, humid night. No breeze stirred the air. It was an unnatural heat, so close to harvest season, but Maglor did not possess the patience nor will to dwell on Morgoth’s actions. Maglor trusted that those around him would act as needed. Instead, he focused on the fall of his horse’s hooves on the earth. The horse walked steadily towards the other side, each step propelling him forward. It was a lazy trot.

 

Maglor’s guard trailed behind him. Curufin was ahead. The guard would not enter Fingolfin’s keep, even though many in the Fëanorian camp had warned against exposing Maglor in such a fashion, but Maglor understood they were in no condition to barter with Fingolfin. Maglor’s crossing was filled with less dread than the first crossing of Amrod and Celegorm. He had more hope, for word had come that Maitimo was stable, but he also dreaded his meeting with Fingon, knew they would confront one another in some fashion over the words that sent Fingon on his journey. Maglor closed his eyes. His horse was sure footed, the path well-worn, familiar. There would be no surprises in this journey. This was, at least, something favorable, something he could rely on not to generate tremendous disorder.

 

Maglor’s thoughts turned to Celegorm. He was surprised by Celegorm and Amras’ return, but it meant another of the brothers could visit Maitimo. Surprisingly it was Fingon that sent word asking for Curufin to come with Maglor. That made it easier for Maglor, but Caranthir cared for it not, arguing that Fingon should not dictate who should go. But Celegorm insisted they should abide by Fingon’s word. Though Celegorm was in no mood to speak with his brother’s, he shared a look with them, a look that said: do not cross Fingon; do not cross Fingolfin’s people. Not with this. 

 

Curufin paused before the gates, waiting for Maglor to pass him and be in the lead as his station dictated.

 

“Hail, Lord Nolofinwë, it is I, Makalaurë,” Maglor called out, not using his title as King. Curufin positioned his horse directly behind Maglor’s.

 

A guard from the battlement towering over them whistled and the gates opened. Maglor and Curufin crossed the threshold into Fingolfin’s stronghold.

 

)()()()(

 

Maglor rushed to Maitimo’s side, had seen visions of his brothers. This meeting with Nelyo was a happier one for this version of Maitimo was healthier, stronger, promising. Curufin was beside him, weeping openly. The same admonishments first shared with Amrod and Celegorm were less severe. The brothers were mindful of their own fëa, but they were allowed to connect and share with Maitimo who was coming back to consciousness.

 

Maglor’s love and gratitude for Fingon exploded in this moment. Maitimo had been returned to them. Whatever the political costs, Maglor did not care. If asked to give up his crown he would, though he also knew this would not be asked of him. Not yet. That would be up to Maitimo.

 

Maglor spoke aloud what his brothers had warned him of: “And now I see for myself, truly see, why they could not come to call you Maitimo.”

 

Curufin grimaced. “Our names hid in them a doom. Curse the day mother called him Maitimo.”

 

Maglor glanced at Curufin. “Perhaps there was a doom to his name, but I choose to believe that there is power yet to it.” Maitimo would rise once more to his name. Maglor was sure of it.

 

“May it be so,” Curufin responded. The blanket on his brother caught his attention. It was one woven by their mother. “Amrod, of course,” Curufin indicated.

 

Maglor smiled. Of course Amrod had brought that with him.

 

Curufin continued, “It surprises me still that this blanket has lasted as long as it has.”

 

“Not really,” Maglor replied, his fingers passing the fabric between his hands. “Our grandmother herself spun these threads and mother used them in its making. I always believed it would last until the end of time.” Maglor grew somber.

 

Curufin answered, ““And now you are sure of it.”

 

The brothers quieted, sitting next to their brother, tentatively letting their fëa to touch the slumbering fëa of their brother. There were flashes of thought that were more like colors. The emotions were subdued, but the name of fear and despair, colored Nelyo’s fëa. For all who came into contact with him, the growing sense of dread grew, for as Nelyo physically healed, the emotional and spiritual damage to his fëa became increasingly apparent. 

 

Lalwen came to speak with Fëanorians. “I will have food brought to you here, if that is to your liking,” she offered.

 

Maglor stood, bowing before her, and thanked her for this courtesy, “Lady Írimë, thank you for your consideration. We will oblige you and take food here.”

 

Curufin stood next to his brother, though stiffly, inclining his head in thanks.

 

“It is always a pleasure to see you Atarinkë,” she replied, knowing Curufin did not favor his mother name.

 

Curifin stiffened like a plank, and fighting his instincts, he managed to reply, “Thank you.” Swiftly he sat next to his brother and focused his energy on Nelyo.

 

Lalwen glided by the two figures and with a flourish of her hands the food was before them. “If you are in need of anything else do let me know.” 

 

Maglor bowed once more. “The courtesy of your house is appreciated.”

 

Before leaving, Lawlen shared, “Fingolfin will see you before you retire to rest, for you will need to rest as Nelyo consumes much of the fëa.”

 

“And we will be glad to offer our thanks,” Maglor answered.

 

After she exited Maglor sat in his chair, exhausted. That had gone better than he anticipated but it was unsettling nonetheless. Maglor and Curufin briefly exchanged words with each other through mindspeak, Maglor insisting that Curufin be on his best behavior, which earned Maglor Curufin’s ire. Just who did Maglor think Curufin was? Some brute?

 

Breaking their connection, Curufin answered. “I will be on my best behavior, for him.” 

 

Maglor observed as Curufin settled his head besides Nelyo. Maglor was content to rest his hand on his brothers remaining hand and watch the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes inevitably made their way to his right arm. They had recently taken more of his arm to make the amputation cleaner and a better fit for a prosthetic. Somehow this gave him comfort, that they were thinking ahead to Nelyo’s survival. Maglor could not imagine what it took for Fingon to cut off Nelyo’s hand to free him from Morgoth’s shackles. Maglor understood that no one but Fingon could have saved Nelyafinwë, for he would not have had the heart nor the grace of Thorondor.

 

)()()()(

 

Lalwen returned, a shadow in the door. Maglor looked at Curufin. It was time. This, Maglor did not look forward to. They followed her as she turned and walked through a pathway that led through gardens. Maglor recognized the well they had built and a few buildings, but the building they entered was new.

 

“I leave you now,” Lalwen spoke, the only words she offered them.

 

Maglor made sure his hair was neatly braided. He appraised Curufin, though he knew his brother was always exceptionally presentable. With a look he indicated to a guard they were ready. The guard tapped his spear on the floor. The large wooden door opened and the guards bid them pass.

 

Upon entering the room that was a library filled with newly bound books, maps, and other sorts of found objects unfamiliar to the Noldor, the pair laid eyes on Fingolfin. Neither had seen their uncle since the first year of Fingolfin’s host crossing into Endórë. He was healthy, vital, and it hurt them both to see him. While Curufin looked more like their father, the resemblance between the half-brothers was uncanny. It was a resemblance of movement, of the manner in which the 

eyes moved, how a hand was held to convey meaning as he made his way to greet them.

 

“I trust you have been treated well since you arrived,” Fingolfin inquired, his question indicating there would be no need for formalities and thus no true test of protocol to test whether Maglor would impose his Kingship on Fingolfin.

 

“We have,” Maglor answered, the brothers still standing.

 

“Please sit,” Fingolfin said, his eyes pointing in the direction of the seats meant for his guests. The brothers inclined their heads and moved to sit. As the brothers sat, the sound of a spear tapping on the floor announced the arrival of another guest. This time Fingolfin did not indicate whether the guest should enter. The door opened and in came Fingon.

 

Maglor bolted out of his seat but stopped himself. Curufin also stood, abruptly, his body betraying him.

 

Fingolfin walked over and put his hand on Fingon’s shoulder in greeting. Turning to look at the anxious Fëanorians, he said, “It is Fingon you should speak with, not I. Not yet.”

 

Fingon’s face was blank, but he did his best to break the awkward silence. “Makalaurë, Curufinwë,” he spoke, greeting the brothers.

 

Maglor could not resist himself. He went to Fingon and took him into an embrace. Fingon awkwardly allowed himself to be embraced knowing that Curufin stood near them, shifting in his boots with discomfort. Maglor released Fingon, keeping his arm on his shoulder, “Let me say to you Findekáno, now known as Fingon, we are indebted to you and name you hero and savior.”

 

Fingon smiled wryly, “Make sure your debt to me is no oath,”

 

This caused Curufin to snort and Maglor to smile.

 

Curufin offered, lowering his head towards Fingon, “Thank you for this.” This is as much as Fingon would ever get, at least in public from Curufin. But Fingon did not care. He hadn’t done it to receive personal accolades. He’d done the impossible to preserve a hope for the Noldor, and perhaps keep the doom at bay.

 

“May our houses be united once more,” Fingon stated. “We do not have to love or respect one another.” Fingon shared the last with emphasis, “but we must act together.”

 

Curufin wanted to sneer back at Fingon in the manner Fingon was looking down on them, with the upper hand, but he could not. Fingon had dared what they thought was at minimum foolish, but mostly impossible. Curufin believed Nelyo dead, but here he was, breathing, his heart beating, moments away from coming back to them.  

 

Fingon could see the love in Maglor’s eyes and found it unsettling. Rebuking him, he said, “I understand the gratitude you feel towards me. I cannot personally accept it. I can however ask that you demonstrate your gratitude politically.”

 

“Doubtlessly,” Maglor replied, his gratitude towards Fingon undimmed, but nevertheless weary to offer too much.

 

Fingolfin chose this moment to speak, knowing Fingon, now a man of few words, expected him to speak: “Maglor, I request you converse with me for a moment. I know you require rest the sooner to return to your brother’s side, but we must talk before the night settles.”

 

Maglor agreed. In the back of his mind he noticed that none in Fingolfin’s host used Nelyafinwë’s formal father name, but instead called him by his nicknames, Nelyo or Russo. It was the issue that hung between them- succession. Maglor made up his mind he would direct their conversation towards related issues such as joint patrols, information sharing, and other such matters that would need immediate attention.

 

 “Come with me while we leave my father and your brother to speak,” Fingon directed himself to Curufin.

 

Curufin inclined his head. “Of course.” He would now know why Fingon had asked for Curufin to come.

 

“Follow me,” Fingon ordered. Curufin rather liked this more serious Fingon. He needn’t be subjected to his teasing, for Fingon had loved to tease him in Tirion. Curufin followed him to his room. A few elves gawked at him and he looked down their noses at him. What else could he do?

 

Fingon opened the door to his room and invited Curufin in. “You are still a pretentious asshole.”

 

Curufin laughed, “Why would I be otherwise?”

 

Fingon did not answer, choosing to usher Curufin in and close the door behind him.

 

“Why did you invite me here?” Curufin asked. “We both know you and I have never been close or had much in common.”

 

Fingon walked over a to a desk in his room. “Until now,” he answered, opening a drawer in a desk and removing the bolt.  Walking over to Curufin, Fingon revealed, “This is the bolt removed from Russo’s skull. Moringotto’s malevolence has been forged within it. I thought you might unlock its secrets.”

 

Curufin gasped, offering his hand. Fingon dropped the bolt in it. Curufin felt its evil, the cold of the metal. “May I?” Curufin asked, wanting to sit.

 

Fingon pulled a chair up for him near the desk. Curufin looked up at Fingon, “You wouldn’t have a loupe?” he asked. Fingon smiled, knowing that Curufin would make such a request and offered him the small magnifying glass he carried in his pocket. For a few minutes, Curufin studied the bolt, feeling its weight, the manner in which it rolled strangely in his hand. After a while he looked up at Fingon, “I’ve never seen anything like it. The metal is like a weaving of silk. The manner of its making seems to have melted his darkness into it.” Curufin did not usually exchange many words with Fingon, but today was an exception.

 

“Can you master it,” Fingon asked.

 

Smiling, Curufin answered, “We can.”

 

Fingon knew that we referred to Celebrimbor, Curufin’s son, now a young man.

 

“What do you have in mind?” Curufin inquired, curious to Fingon’s desires.

 

Fingon replied, “When this device was still in Nelyo it felt,” Fingon shivered, pausing.

 

Curufin was told Fingon was one of the few who had gone toe to toe with the evil to release its hold.

 

Fingon continued, “It magnified Moringotto’s power. If we could harness its potential, perhaps we too could use the method and make our weapons even stronger.” Elven smithing infused power into their weapons, their armor and helms. Fingon believed they could harness Morgoth’s skill and infuse more power into them in the smithing process .

 

“I will need to take it,” Curufin replied, satisfied that he and Fingon were after the same ends.

 

“Understood,” Fingon answered.

 

“You trust me?” Curufin queried.

 

Fingon smiled. “You are indebted to me. I know you value your oaths.”

 

Curufin laughed. “Indeed, Fingon the Valiant, I shall harness this power.” Turning back to examine the piece of metal in his hand, he added, “Of this you can be sure.” Curufin imagined armies of elves with such armor, swords, spears that could more powerfully transmit Songs of Power.

 

)()()()()

 

Soon after Curufin returned to the Fëanorian encampment, satisfied Nelyafinwë was on his way to recover, but also happy to be away from the stifling weeks in Fingolfin’s camp. Maglor begrudgingly knew he too would need to leave soon, but not before Carnistir came to visit. Thankfully Moryo was well-behaved and focused his energies on weaving his brother back together. Slowly they brought Nelyo closer and closer to consciousness, but the brothers found they had to deal with the onslaught of spiritual damage, a horror so profound it had weight to it. Fingon was required to return and help with Nelyo, and though he hated the closeness to his cousins, he would appear when they were tiring.

 

Maglor felt Fingon’s presence before he saw him. It was a darker thing, unlike the lightness and cheer that had been Findekáno. Maglor hated to admit it, but Fingon was better able to tolerate and understand the darkness that would inevitably be core to Nelyo. “It will be long before we can take him back with us,” Maglor observed knowing Fingon was in earshot. “I need to return soon.”

 

Fingon materialized in the room. “Winter comes,” he replied.

 

“And before the first snows we must be returned,” Maglor shared, knowing this would make Fingon happy. He had expected to exchange more words with Fingon, but the opportunity had not come. He’d been here but a month, but the mercurial climate had made it seem that time stretched on. The cold, brisk air was nothing like the hot, humid night he had made the journey to Fingolfin’s encampment.

 

“The weather is fickle,” Carnistir added, bitter that he was not trusted to stay alone with Nelyafinwë.

 

“I’m afraid I will not be here when Nelyo awakens,” Maglor added bitterly, disappointed he would surely not be present for his brothers awakening.

 

“You will not,” Fingon agreed. “But you have done much to bring him to the brink.”

 

“It will be another nightmare,” Maglor admitted.

 

Carnistir added, “His spirit, though mending, is…” Carnistir did not know how to describe it. Indeed none of them did for Nelyo’s state was a first for all of them.

 

But Fingon was not deterred. “Then it bodes well for Russo that he will awaken and find his kin unrecognizable. Who better to understand him than us?”

Fingon’s rebuke stung. Maglor looked up at Fingon who watched them from the door. He glared at him, but dared not speak for his words would only bring more conflict. Silently he commanded Carnistir to hold his tongue. But they could not hide their anger.

 

“Better your anger than your love,” Fingon spoke. “Honesty will help us survive more than any gratitude you feel towards me.”

 

Maglor rushed to speak for he knew Carnistir would undoubtedly say something worse. “You are yet wise.”

 

Fingon inclined his head, smiling. Carnistir simply sneered back and Fingon’s mouth grew into a bigger smile.

 

)()()()(

 

Before long Maglor and Carnistir returned to their stronghold, but the healers remained behind. Maglor and Carnistir felt better for it, but nevertheless were filled with a mix of emotions: dread, guilt, and anger for having to leave their brother behind once again. But with winter Morgoth’s attacks always grew and they needed to be prepared. The Fëanorians needed their king back. Maglor was sure of that. He’d received too many missives of conflicts brewing that he would have stifled, of brotherly disputes that he would have adeptly managed. He would return to their home for Nelyo, to bring order back to their home and make it ready for Nelyo. They had orders from the healers on what would be needed. This they could pour their energy into. Maglor hoped Nelyo would be home come the close of winter.

 

Fingon for his part, took up his silent and steady post next to Nelyafinwë. No one begrudged him this time away from the daily activities of a soldier. In fact, Fingolfin reflected that this time of quiet was good for Fingon, a much needed time for him to sit with his own thoughts and pay close attention to emotions, to his mental state, and tend to things he’d dismissed by pouring himself into the life on patrol.

 

Before long Nelyo opened his eyes on this side of his ordeal. At first he would wake as a sick and feverish patient, but not sick from ailments of infections, those medical crises were no longer at issue. These fevers were brought on by the damage to his psyche, but these were the types of illnesses elven healing was keen to, and the Sindar were familiar with Morgoth’s evils.

 

The first snows had fallen and the skies grey with cloud cover. It was quiet out. Fingon stood leaning on the door when he saw Nelyo’s eyes open, but this time there was something different to them: focus. Fingon moved over quietly and quickly.

 

Fear. Nelyo started shivering with it. He tried speaking, but his voice was hoarse from unuse. Fingon was at his side, speaking his name. “Russo, it is me, hear me, see me,” he softly commanded, allowing his fëa to find Nelyo’s. Nelyo’s eyes settled on Fingon.

 

Nelyo was terrified, utterly, but Fingon kept speaking to him, whispering to him, “I sang and you replied. I found you. You are here, safe. Safe.”

 

“Tirion?” Nelyo whispered his eyes shooting about. Was he dead?

 

“No, Russo. Endórë. We crossed over.”

 

Nelyo was confused. “Kano,” he whispered, more like a hiss, looking for his brother.

 

“Safe,” Fingon answered, “waiting for you to get better so you can go back to them”

 

A look of pain and confusion flashed across his face. He was growing more agitated. Of course he would be upset to not find his brothers with him.

 

A Fëanorian healer spoke, “My lord, it is I Herendion. Your brothers were here. They had to leave your side and return to our encampment, but they very much wish they could be here.”

 

“Remember,” Fingon urged, “think back on your slumber, how they supported you. They have all been here.”

 

Herendion urged Fingon to show Nelyo what had taken place. “Will you let me show you?” Fingon inquired. Nelyo nodded weakly, preparing himself for the onslaught of Fingon’s mind. He did not know how to resist such commands anymore. But what came was not a terror, was nothing like what Morgoth did to him, but there remained pain. Fingon’s mind took him back to where he found him hanging from the cliff, the eagle, his arm,” Nelyo winced. Fingon soothed, “Yes I took your arm.” He showed him how Thorondor carried both of them back to Fingolfin’s stronghold. Nelyo saw, through Fingon’s mind, how Fingon sat vigil next to him, how the healers worked to save him, witnessed his brothers crying over him. Nelyo too started crying.

 

Fingon looked up at the healers and they assured him, go on. Fingon showed him each and every one of his brothers, walked him through his recovery, and brought him to the present moment.

 

Nelyo, exhausted by consciousness and the struggle to put together a coherent storyline, could no longer sustain the connection. It was much easier to fall back into a feverish state where everything was a haze of feeling, color, anger, fear, and relief, but he was also starved. Herendion brought a drink to his mouth. Nelyo found he could drink some. The healer shared how even though he had been unconscious they managed to get him to drink. Elven healing was indeed magical and mystical.

 

Nelyo slept much during these first days of consciousness. He slept to deal with the pain as they began moving his limbs, slept after the work it took him to start drinking, moving on to mush. Found his voice growing stronger, but still weak. Slowly, very slowly, his body started to respond, but he also found his memories of his captivity did too. Both the Fëanorian and Fingolfian healers struggled to help Nelyo deal with the horrors of his captivity. His sleep became less restive, nightmares now haunted him and he plunged into a darkness they could not reach.

 

It was Cíleth who suggested they convince a healer from the Green elves to come to their aid. She had discussed this with them previously, describing how the Laiquendi were better equipped to deal with such torment for they were more familiar than most with the cruelty of Morgoth and, unlike the Sindar, they did not shun those that had been released or escaped Morgoth. Unlike the Sindar, that their kin were changed and prone to a deeper darkness, did not unsettle them. Instead they understood it as part of their nature and used it in their favor. Cíleth and many other healers had anticipated this. Morgoth was not defeated yet. He still had a hold on Nelyo.

 

Word was sent to the Fëanorian encampment that one of them should come. Nelyo had regained consciousness but they had lost him to a different sort of illness, one born from the dark torture suffered by Nelyo. Amrod made the journey and though he hoped that seeing his brother stronger, awake, would be better than when he first saw him, he could not be more wrong.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon volunteered to go find Sílahul, the healer Cíleth had never met, but heard of for his skill was well-known and infamous. Amarthan, one of the grey elves, went with Fingon being more familiar with Green elf territories. They would meet up with Celegorm on their way to find Sílahul for they needed the most skilled rangers for such an arduous journey. Acharadel would go to. Amongst Fingolfin’s people, she knew best the Laiquendi’s ways. She hoped the kin she’d heard her family speak of that didn’t journey were still among them. Another journey, in the deep of winter. Fingon too was ready for this, welcomed it, though he felt guilty for leaving an ailing Nelyo behind, but there was little he could do staying behind. Fingon had been stifled. This was his opportunity to leave behind the home that was suffocating him.

 

During Nelyo’s outbursts he expressed an immense anger for his brothers, for abandoning him, for leaving him be tortured. He screamed his voice raw. Nelyo could not access that part of himself that could reason with what were legitimate feelings. Instead the words of his anger, his fear, his pain took hold. Morgoth would not let go. It tore Amrod apart having to keep a distance from his brother during these times. When Amrod’s letter reached Maglor describing Nelyo’s state, it caused a great commotion in the Fëanorian encampment. It would once more be up to Fingon to help save Nelyo, but this time, at least one of the Fëanor’s sons would go.

 

)()()()(

 

 

Chapter 12: The Forest Between Rivers

Chapter notes: To follow the path the Elves are taking here follow the interactive map that is part of the interactive LOTR project:http://lotrproject.com/map/beleriand/#zoom=3&lat=-850&lon=1500&layers=BTTTTTT

Read Chapter 12: The Forest Between Rivers

Chapter 12: The Forest Between Rivers

 

story notes: Pitya-naucor: petty dwarves

 

“The first Avari that the Eldar met again in Beleriand seem to have claimed to be Tatyar [the first name of the tribe which came to be referred to as the Noldor], who acknowledged their kinship . . . . They were actually unfriendly to the Noldor, and jealous of their more exalted kin, whom they accused of arrogance.” from The War of the Jewels, Quendi and Eldar.

 

 

Amarthan traced their route on a map. “We will cross to the west of the Mountains of Mithrim, here,” she pointed, to the crossing now familiar to all the houses of elves for they frequented the pass. The Fingolfians were particularly familiar with it as many crossed to begin the construction of Turgon’s settlement near the coast. “We will keep to the foothills until we come to the crossing that leads south and to the mouth of the Taeglin. From there we will proceed to the Crossings of Taeglin and take cover at the edges of the Forest of Brethil.”

 

Celegorm spoke up. “Will we be allowed? Thingol has no love for us.”

 

“He does not,” Amarthan agreed, keeping her eyes on the map. “The Sindar there will not block our way. Their forest is outside the girdle. Their loyalty has not been bought, yet. We can rest there and resupply.”

 

“I see,” Celegorm answered, making sure he avoided eye contact with Acharedel. Celegorm was unnerved by her, could feel her eyes on him. He decided it would be best to not engage her except for matters related to their journey. He did not want to have to discuss Aredhel with her, though he knew of the love Acharedel had for his former lover. As for Fingon, he had not spoken much to Celegorm. Celegorm had to rely on Amarthan for most of the logistics of the trip. This deeply angered Celegorm, but he focused on what needed to be accomplished: find the healer that they hoped could save Nelyo.

 

“From the ravines of Taeglin we will head straight south to Amon Rûdh,” Amarthan continued.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. That would lead to territories Fingon had not scouted. “I’ve heard say that the Pitya-naucor live in that region, though none of us have seen the stunted people.”

 

Amarthan looked up at Fingon, “They do not wish to be seen. Some of my people have good relations with them, others not. We will not dwell on finding them unless we have need.”

 

Acharedel agreed, “Such curiosity would take us from our goal.”

 

“I assume we will cross towards the Fens of Sirion,” Celegorm continued, not engaging Fingon or Acharedel.

 

Amarthan added, “Yes, and on around the Falls of Sirion and beyond to the Gates. We will follow the River Sirion south to Nan-Tathren. From there we will cross to Taur-Im-Duinath, where we have heard your healer resides.”

 

Remembering the mighty river Sirion, Amarthan added, looking at Fingon,  “My heart desires to see the source of the great River Sirion. Tell me, my lord, is it still beautiful?”

 

“Aye,” he answered, “it is, though my eyes spent more time examining the plains.” Left unsaid by Fingon was that Fingolfin had begun building a settlement there.

 

Celegorm glanced at Fingon. He would hear the detail of Fingon’s journey to Thangorodrim on this trip even though it would be arduous, not for the terrain, but for its speed. They needed to find the healer and return to Nelyo as quick as was possible. They selected their most sturdy and enduring mounts for the trip.

 

Celegorm directed himself to Amarthan. “And you are certain the Sindar at Brethil will exchange our mounts for fresh horses?”

 

“You can be sure of that. They will take advantage and breed your horses while they have them. When we return we will pick up our horses. A fair trade.” The group agreed. She continued, “We should be at the Forest of Brethil in three, maybe four days’ time, depending on how swiftly we travel.”

 

The snow would lessen considerably as they crossed the Mountains of Mithrim that trapped much of the Northern weather over the lake. Combined, the lake effect caused larger amounts of snow to fall. Lucky for them, the snows had fallen in lesser amounts South of Lake Mithrim

 

Amaranth reminded them, “That is the longest part of our journey. From the Forest our path south is mostly plains and rolling hills and the snow will recede. We should be to Nan Tathren in two or three days.”

 

“A two-week trip,” Celegorm calculated.

 

Acharedel retorted, “Assuming the Laiquendi quickly agree to our plan. No, Tyelko it will be at least three weeks before you return.”

 

“Then let us leave, for I cannot withstand the fear growing in my heart,” Celegorm spoke.

 

Fingon did not rebuke Celegorm for his haste. He felt it too. Nelyo’s torment was slowing his physical healing. His anguish was unbearable. The healers had anticipated some of what befell Nelyo, though they had hoped they knew enough to help him, but that was not so. Indeed, that this journey was successful was of utmost importance.  

 

“Let us linger no more,” Fingon declared. Fingon understood that Nelyo’s survival was more than just about one man living, it was the event that could swing the pendulum in favor of Fingolfin’s host. If Nelyo died, there would be no reason to come together. The Fëanorians would too easily slip back into resentment and disregard, provoking Fingolfin’s host. Nelyo needed to survive. It was why Fingolfin agreed so quickly to this not entirely safe trip.

 

Celegorm whistled for Fëanorian mounted soldiers and they came, ready to escort the group to the western most passes of Mithrim. From there the cavalry would make its way back due to the snows, but the elven steeds were strong, the cold but a nuisance for them. Normally, elven patrols preferred to be on foot in the winter for the elves could move at a quicker pace, but they needed the horses for this short part of the journey.

 

 “We are ready,” a Fëanorian rider announced.

 

“Away with you then,” Celegorm ordered, slapping the horse on the rump and sending off the small company of riders. They would act like a plough, packing down the snow for Fingon’s group to make better time. While elves were light on snow, they would make better time yet with a packed path.  

 

)()()()(

 

The small company departed and made quick time crossing the Mountains of Mithrim. Fortune was on their side. Snow did not fall which would have slowed them down considerably. They hoped this luck would accompany them on the remainder of their trip.

 

Approaching the camp fire, Fingon positioned himself next to Celegorm. He too needed to find out more of the Fëanorian’s story. Celegorm moved over and offered Fingon a piece of roasted rabbit. Before eating, Fingon asked, “Tell me how Moringotto took Nelyo. I do not know the details of this story.” Fingon started eating the rabbit looking expectantly at Celegorm.

 

Celegorm eyed Fingon, “If you tell me the details of your journey to save Nelyafinwë.”

 

“Fair enough,” Fingon replied, between mouthfuls of food.

 

Celegorm began his tale. He described the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Battle under the Stars and Fëanor’s death, and Fingon shared details of the Battle of Lammoth and Argon’s death. In this manner they created a timeline of sorts of their time in Endórë. Privately, Celegorm pondered if Fingolfin and Maglor have put such a timeline together. It would be important information for military purposes, to understand Morgoth’s larger movements. That he would have to find out later. He picked up his story, “Very soon after father passed on, an emissary from Moringotto came to offer us details of the surrender, offering us a prize in return.”

 

“Fëanáro’s body was turned to ash?” Fingon asked, returning to this part of Celegorm’s tale, ignoring for a moment the detail of Moringotto.

 

“He did,” Celegorm answered, “his own fire devoured him.” The stunned audience was quiet until Acharedel broke their silence: “It is not a surprise. Fëanáro’s fëa burned bright in life and it consumed him.” There was much behind Acharedel’s words.

 

Celegorm’s eyes narrowed, but before he could offer a retort, Fingon interjected, returning to Morgoth’s offer: “Though Nelyo knew it was surely a trap, he hoped to gain advantage of Moringotto’s offer.”

 

“Indeed,” Celegorm answered knowing Fingon was moving them away from a needless argument. “He believed that we could take our own force and take back what was ours, but they were waylaid by Valaraukar.  His company was killed and Nelyo taken, so we were told by another of Moringotto’s emissaries who came to negotiate Nelyo’s freedom.”

 

Fingon’s face was grim, pressing him on more information about the Valaraukar, sharing with Celegorm of the Balrog’s that attacked the Sindarin village. These were foes Fingolfin had not encountered directly.

 

Amarthan spoke up, “I knew those families.” 

 

Acharedel replied, “I was there. They suffered a terrible fate. Words cannot convey comfort.”

 

“I know not how to pray for them, though I mourn their loss. Words are indeed not enough,” Fingon agreed.

 

“Darkness is visited upon all of our clans,” Amarthan replied.

 

After a few quiet moments of reflection, Fingon asked of Celegorm, “I assume it was up to Maglor then to decide.”

 

Celegorm nodded. “Maglor refused. We all agreed. After all there was no way to know whether Nelyo lived. Many believed him slain and even if he were alive, we did not believe rescue possible.” Celegorm appreciated the irony of his words shared with Fingon.

 

“No, indeed for your vow,” Fingon added, reminding Celegorm of the reason of their failing. Their priority would always be the oath, beyond the individual lives of each of them.

 

“Yes,” Celegorm whispered, his eyes watching the fire, keenly aware of the primacy of his oath. “Before father died, he reminded us of our duty to him, demanding we avenge him.” Celegorm avoided naming the oath outright or the Silmarils in Amarthan’s company. Though he knew she was sworn to Turgon, he trusted her little.

 

Amarthan chose to listen quietly, still she desired to know more. There were aspects of the tale she did not understand, but she knew enough not to pose questions that would cause Celegorm and Fingon to be more guarded. She was sworn to Turgon, nevertheless the two Noldor did not trust outsiders. Amarthan was loyal to Turgon, for her family and many of the Sindar from her village were relocating to Vinyamar. As a result, she knew of the betrayal between the two factions, heard aspects of why and how they left Aman. Because of her oath she was bound to secrecy. This tale did not venture beyond those loyal to Turgon.

 

Fingon said no more about their choice regarding Nelyo; but for their oath for Fëanor’s Silmarils. That Fëanor had reminded them of their oath as he died was preposterous. Acharedel too believed the same, squeezing Fingon’s hand as Celegorm told this part of the story. Amarthan was a scout, a tracker, observant. She noted Acharedel’s familiarity with Fingon, knew there were stories about the two of them, but had not put much thought into it until then.

 

Celegorm threw some more wood on the fire. “You decided to go find Nelyo after you found out Moringotto took him,” Celegorm declared, willing Fingon to now tell his tale.

 

Amarthan leaned in. She’d wanted to know the details of Fingon’s story, but not heard much. Fingon had been stingy with what he told others. Perhaps the only ones who knew the full tale were his father and siblings.

 

Fingon laughed, leaning back from the fire. It cast a shadow on his face, but it did not dim his beauty, only added contours of shadow. Fingon decided he would share the story with Celegorm, knowing he would share it with his brothers. Let them know what their allegiance to a dead father has made them cowards. Fingon started: “The night we returned from my last visit to your camp, I readied. I did not take much with me as I did not wish to alert anyone that I was intending to be gone.”

 

“Many of us believed you had left with the cavalry,” Acharedel added, letting Fingon know she had not let go of her resentment for being deceived.

 

Fingon responded, “I did not lightly make that decision. You would have tried to dissuade me, even telling my father of my plans, for surely I was heading towards my own doom.”

 

Acharedel conceded, “Perhaps you are correct. Nevertheless we suffered for it.”

 

Celegorm listened to the two go back and forth. Fingon’s decision weighed heavier for him as a result. As the story marched on, Celegorm knew, he would be indicted with every part for his inaction.

 

“It was an easy journey, at first,” Fingon stated. Looking at Amarthan he added, “I learned much about Endórë. The Sirion was my companion and the growing things sang to keep me company.” Amarthan smiled. Fingon continued, “Crossing the Ered Wethrin proved perilous. Shadow is upon that land, but the mountain still persists.  That crossing took much time.” This part of Fingon’s journey brought crucial information to Fingolfin’s host for with it they sent out scouts to ascertain Fingon’s suggestion of a fort in the region.

 

Celegorm inclined his head in question.

 

“Days,” Fingon admitted. “Until I found the river once more and made it to Eithel Sirion. I rested there. Replenished my energy and waited for the sun to truly see the expanse of Ard-Galen.”

 

Amarthan spoke, curiosity getting the best of her, “What was that like?”

 

Fingon paused, searching for words. “The grasses were yet tall, dancing in the breezes of the clear morning. She companioned me,” Fingon spoke, remembering Endórë’s presence. “The growing things were exuberant, happy to share a thought with one of the Eldar. They are lonely,” Fingon frowned. “And Thangorodrim grew taller, but always menacing. As I neared Moringotto’s lands, the grasses died and gave way to barren earth, ripped by great upheaval. Foul mists emanated from within. Though living, this life is turned by Moringotto’s darkness.”

 

Acharedel was chilled. She too was hearing Fingon’s story for the first time. She’d not spend much time with him since his return with Nelyafinwë.

 

“My throat was raw, the mists poisonous. I had to take great care to find pockets of cleaner air. In the darkness of the foothills I found many paths and encountered many enemies.” Fingon’s eyes narrowed. “It was not a pleasure to kill.”

 

Celegorm caught Fingon’s eyes. “How did you avoid alerting the enemy?”

 

“I tried to avoid the enemy so as not to alert Moringotto, and those that I did, I hid or made their injuries appear as one inflicted by one of their own, for they are vicious to each other.”

 

Fingon found himself in a trance, speaking more than he was accustomed to, but he felt compelled to tell the story. “The Shadow plays tricks on your mind,” sharing knowledge they all knew. “The poisonous air grew thick. I succumbed to it and lost consciousness for I know not how long, but came to after a time. My body hurt, I was starved. Luckily, I’ve endured such starvation and misery before.” Fingon looked up at Celegorm, anger shining in his eyes. Celegorm looked away and into the fire, understanding Fingon’s accusation.

 

Acharedel gently guided Fingon back to his story. “How did you find Nelyo?”

 

“After coming to, the day was clear, probably why I awoke once more. In fact it was day. Before me was revealed a terrifying landscape. I looked upon a series of cliffs that seemed impenetrable, their menacing heights reaching defiantly to the sky. As I made my way forward through crooks and crannies, I came to the wall of a cliff. The wall was smooth, not a hole, not a ridge, nothing I could climb. There were no ledges above I could throw a rope to. After hours of searching I despaired and so I sang,” Fingon shrugged when he revealed this part of his story. Amarthan and Acharedel smiled. In better days and not indicted Celegorm too would have smiled, knowing intimately how song and nature are intimately one.

 

Fingon continued, “I sang the song the River gifted me and it reminded me of a childhood tune from Tirion and so I sang that too. The songs gave me strength.”

 

“Which song,” Celegorm dared interrupt.

 

“I have not the heart to tell you,” Fingon answered. Observing Celegorm closely, he revealed: “Nelyo answered.”

 

Celegorm gasped, his eyes grew wide. He would be foolish to cry, but he could not resist the emotion.

 

Fingon confessed that Nelyo begged for death, his eyes fixed on Celegorm. “Full of anguish and without hope he begged for me to end his life, for what remained was agony.” Celegorm looked away. He could not reproach Fingon for indicting him so. “I am not sure if it was hours or days that passed, but I searched for any way to get to him, but there was none. How could I not answer Nelyo’s need in that moment? To hear his desperation, the manner of his suffering...No elf should ever sound like that. He begged for his death and I was going to give it.” Fingon choked up. Even still the memory of Nelyo’s wailing provoked such pain.

 

But Fingon forged on with his tale: “I whispered power into the arrow, crying out: ‘O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!’ I will never forget those words for Thorondor answered.”

 

Acharedel could not contain herself. That Thorondor came to him was almost cruel. “He answered a prayer?”

 

“Not a prayer,” Fingon corrected her, “a plea.” Acharedel settled and did not interrupt again. Fingon did not give too much detail of what happened next, simply describing that Thorondor bore him to Nelyo, but that he could not free him, deciding to amputate his arm to free him from the shackles. “He fell on to me and the great span of Thorondor caught us and he bore us hence. And you know the rest,” Fingon spoke, finishing his story. Celegorm did not know the rest. How were they received? He had so many questions but knew he would get no more from Fingon.

 

Fingon frowned, “I’ve not uttered so many words in some time. I am tired from it.” Fingon stood and made his way to rest, but not before offering his hand to Acharedel.

 

“Lord Celegorm sleep,” Amarthan offered. “I will take the first watch.” Celegorm accepted. He needed to sit with his thoughts. He would not do his job well as sentry so preoccupied. Acharedel and Fingon too knew their minds were elsewhere. Amarthan’s decision was wise, considering.

 

Acharedel looked up at Fingon, noticing his sadness and wear. She accepted his hand and he pulled her up. “Sleep with me under the stars,” he whispered, surprised by his own neediness. Fingon figured that his mood had been lifted being away from Nelyo. Fingon took Moringotto’s darkness into him, to relieve Nelyo. As a result of some of that weight being lifted, Fingon had room to feel vulnerable after recounting his journey to save Nelyo. But out here, with Endórë under his feet, Fingon felt those tendrils dissipate. He tucked this knowledge away, knowing this would be a part of Nelyo’s healing. Surely the green elves understood this.

 

“You are not alone,” she offered. Fingon smiled, placing his hand briefly on her cheek.

 

Celegorm observed the brief intimacy. He’d not considered that Fingon could harbor feelings for anyone. Whatever had been between Nelyo and Fingon was long dead.

 

The group rested and took up their journey a few hours before dawn broke.

 

)()()()(

 

The Gates of Sirion were impressive. Amarthan took copious notes in a field journal she kept. Fingon also drew a quick sketch of the gates, documenting how the river Sirion emerged from underground. Looking over at Amarthan he noted, speaking quietly “You take good field notes. I assume you will share them with my brother.” 

 

Amarthan looked up at her Lord’s elder brother. “Indeed. This is a task I was appointed to by your brother and your father.” Little did she know then that her observations would serve Turgon well when founding the secret city of Gondolin, a place she would meet her end.

 

“Of course,” Fingon observed recognizing that there would be more than one task accomplished on this journey. After all, Celegorm was likewise filling a leather bound book with drawings and notes. They all needed to gather as much information as they could on this journey to find the mysterious healer.

 

The group walked slowly for a few miles, eating some of the food they had hunted, their horses grazing.

 

“Are you disappointed we did not see any Pitya-naucor?” Acharedel asked Fingon.

 

Fingon glanced at her, before turning his attention to the forest that lay far ahead. Sighing he answered, “I was hoping for at least a glance, but alas.”

 

“Alas,” Acharedel repeated. “I have a feeling we will have a chance before long.”

 

Fingon smiled. This journey brought him some reprieve, though he knew Nelyo’s life still hung in the balance. Fingon felt guilty for having a semblance of excitement lighten his mood while Nelyo suffered, but he did not let himself linger too long on these feelings. He needed to focus on the surroundings around him.

 

Celegorm came up next to Fingon. They’d established a respectful protocol for the journey, letting Celegorm and Amarthan lead. Amarthan for her familiarity with the lands and Celegorm for his keen skills observing the land, reading the terrain. While they were all greatly skilled, Celegorm’s abilities were more than skill. He had a gift for it and elves did not grudge the gifts of others. Instead, elves were quite prudent in their respect. “We should ride fast,” Celegorm announced.

 

Fingon whistled for his horse. The others did the same.

 

Amarthan concurred, “Something comes this way.”

 

Acharedel did not sense anything. Getting on her mounts, she asked Amarthan, “I do not feel anything. What do you sense?” Acharedel was not challenging Amarthan’s observation, but wanting to learn.

 

“It’s a change in the feel of the grasses, do you not feel it?”

 

Acharedel shook her head, “I do not.”

 

Amarthan hummed a tune, though to mortal ears that would soon come it was a haunting thing. After a moment she asked Acharedel, “Do you recognize it?”

 

“Of course,” Acharedel exclaimed, “the song of the grasses of these meadows.”

 

“Indeed,” Amarthan answered, “but listen close and you will hear the slightest misregister in the song.”

 

Acharedel concentrated. Fingon too sent his senses to the songs of the growing things. Acharedel breathed in. There it was. So subtle that she did not register it for her unfamiliarity with the songs of the grasses in these parts. She looked at Celegorm, remembering that in better times, she marveled at his skill. Indeed she was not surprised with his ability to hear such minute patterns in nature, but she had long lost any respect for him.

 

“Let us ride,” Celegorm commanded. The group took off on their mounts, riding fast, but not pushing their mounts to their limit.

 

A dark cloud darkened the skies. Morgoth had sent out his malice, turning weather patterns on their head, bending the natural order to inflict misery. Of course Morgoth did not know of the group of riders going South, but it did not matter. His malevolence he sent to reach all the corners of free Endórë. And unbeknownst to the group he send groups of orcs south through a gap near Mount Rerir that would in the future be known as Maglor’s Gap. It was through this attack that the elves would come to know of the ease that land allowed Morgoth’s emissaries to lay waste to the southlands and torment the Green Elves.

 

They found the edges of Nan Tathren and took shelter there, but not from the great storm that had descended on them. They needed to make haste. The night would catch them in the willows that did not offer cover. The group decided to make for the cover of the Forest Between the Rivers, Taur-Im-Duinath in Sindarin. Something was coming. They could feel the presence of orcs and though the Forest was a place of darkness, so Amarthan revealed, they needed to find their target and make haste to return to Nelyo. 

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm held up his hand, indicating silence. The elves quieted their steed’s under them. They were at the edge of the Forest that lay between the southern parts of the River Sirion and the River Gelion, fed by the many rivers that flowed down from the Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, so named for their tall blue granite peaks.

 

Acharedel took her position next to Fingon, ready to defend her captain. Was it folly that they came searching for this healer to help Maitimo? Fingon should not have come! Why’d they allow it? Surely such a thought must have crossed Fingolfin’s mind. Sending his son to potentially lose him again? Acharedel’s thoughts threatened to undo her disciplined mind that she needed to focus on the encroaching threat. But she could not help to meditate between battle readiness and her thoughts. They lived in dark times. They would always be at risk. And seeing Fingon grow lighter on this journey, leave some of that darkness behind had to be worth something! That his time in the wilds of Endórë was a healing reminded them all that they needed to spend time cultivating that curious elven connection with Endórë and not tend to only war and mere survival.

 

“They’re coming!” Amarthan announced.

 

The group jumped off their horses. Mounted battle in the trees was not wise but they needed to keep them close for escape, but there was no time to send them away for safety. From afar they heard the rumbling of the orcs, previously disguised by Morgoth’s storm, heard their war cries. It was a large group and in no time they descended on the small group of elves. They were severely outnumbered. While these orcs were not sent to find them, it was clear this band of orcs were on the hunt. The orcs were not mindless brutes. They immediately recognized that they encountered a group of Noldor and grew in glee as they attacked. The leader shouted commands in a speech they could not completely make out though they could understand snippets.

“They want to take Celegorm or Fingon,” Amarthan cried out, being more familiar with the black speech.

 

“They will have to kill me!” Acharedel cried out! But their number was great, even for these mighty Noldor. The onslaught began and the group was surrounded on all sides. The orcs pushed them deeper into the forest. At least the elves could use the trees as sentries on their sides. At first the orcs showered them with arrows, many finding their mark on unprotected, but such wounds were not enough to stop a mighty Noldor! Fingon and Celegorm did their own damage with bow and arrow, taking down many a beast. Acharedel and Amarthan shielded their comrades their own longbows unsuited for close melee in heavily wooded area. Their armament had been carefully chosen, making sure they were ready for battle in open plains, close quarters, mountains. Indeed, battle had come. The elves had a thick grove of trees to their backs that protected them, but not for long.

 

Celegorm cried out: “They are hacking at the trees!”

 

Amarthan redirected him. “There is not much we can do but hope these old trees are hard to bring down.”

 

“Ahead!” Acharedel shouted.

 

The orcs drew their swords and descended on them. It was in this moment that Celegorm raised his voice, Fingon joining him. They could not spend too much energy on conjuring battle song for their were outnumbered, but just enough for Acharedel and Amarthan to slaughter the stunned beasts. They repealed the assault for a good while. The orcs retreated back and gathered once more, understanding fully that the elves would tire. They had the numbers on their side. Their attack began once more. All the elves drew their weapons and attacked, but the orcs closed in on them.

 

Acharedel stood next to Fingon and slashed and hacked, but she was growing tired. Amarthan took an arrow in her arm that caused her to falter, but she was quick to switch her sword to her good arm and keep fighting. Celegorm took a blow causing him to stumble. Amarthan jumped in front of him and Fingon quickly pulled him up, but in the confusion of battle Acharedel was separated from the group. Fingon fought valiantly through the horde to get to his friend. He was able to pull her behind him but that move cost him his own safety. While Acharedel was side by side with Celegorm and Amarthan, Fingon found himself surrounded. He wielded his mighty sword with renewed vigor, slashing and hacking way, but there were too many. Fingon was aware that the orcs were being careful, if such could be said, not to kill him. This did not prevent them from inflicting other wounds until his sword was knocked out of his hand. Fingon felt orc hands descend on him, holding him down. He could hear Acharedel and Celegorm yelling his name just beyond.

 

Fingon was dragged off, though he struggled mightily and managed to bite a hand, and break the arm of another, but those orcs were readily replaced by others. Desperately Fingon managed to see the other elves. The orcs that surrounded them were abandoning them to come help the horde that carried him away. Fingon continued to struggle and even without his sword, he was strong and could wield much power. It was then that Fingon heard Celegorm’s Song ring out. The reverberations sent shock waves through the orcs. Good Fingon thought. This meant Celegorm had time to collect himself to conjure song. He heard Acharadel’s song join his. Fingon’s heart was lifted and he grabbed onto the threads and thrashed and turned as they tried to carry him deeper into the forest. More and more orcs surrounded him and the forest grew thicker and darker until Fingon could no longer hear the songs of his companions. It was then that it became clear to Fingon that he now was a captive of the orcs who were surely taking him to Morgoth. What irony: only to dare enter Morgoth’s realm and release Nelyo was he now going to suffer the same fate, but something stirred and the orcs became alarmed. Something had spooked them and perhaps having a prize they had relented their attack on their friends and took to the forest to escape out the northeastern edge towards the eastern river valley and flee North towards Angband. Fingon feigned he was growing tired, but the orcs were too cautious to stop their march.

 

Finally the orcs stopped and Fingon calculated what he needed to do to get free of his captors. The orcs were hasty. They had not tied him. Perhaps they believed the wounds on Fingon serious enough to slow him. They should have learned better from Nelyo, but whatever the reason Fingon knew he needed to take advantage of their disorganization. He was thrown to the floor in the middle of the pack as a leader barked orders, reorganizing the group. Fingon used his strange elven eyesight to disguise his observation. He saw one retrieving rope from a pack. They meant to tie him up! It was now or never! He saw that to his right only two orcs stood between him and the forest. This would be the direction he would have to take to make his escape. Groaning on the floor, Fingon got on all fours and pretended to wretch. An orc didn’t like it and decided to kick him hard. Though it hurt mightily, Fingon used this mistake to propel himself towards the weak spot. Surprised by his agileness, two orcs were quickly taken down by Fingon and he found himself free of the group running ahead. He knew not what direction he was heading for the forest was dark and though Fingon tried to use his fëa to find the sea, the strange magic of the dark forest arrested his powers. The orcs were irate. Clearly these were not orcs that had dealt with Nelyo or any of the Noldor for the misjudged his endurance and strength. And so Fingon ran, but so too did the orcs. Clearly they feared their master more if they lost him so they chased after him and into the dark forest.

 

)()()()(

 

Their song faltered, sending away the few remaining orcs, but something beyond their song spooked them too. Acharedel shouted, but was held back by Celegorm. “How do you think you can save him?” Celegorm hissed at her. They were all badly wounded.

 

Amarthan sat on the ground tending to her wounds. Looking around, she observed, “The orcs do not often dare tread far into these forests for they fear what dwells within. We can only hope that their path into the forest has called upon the Guardians who dwell here.”

 

Acharedel pushed against Celegorm, “Coward, you will let them take Fingon like you did your brother!” she accused him.

 

Celegorm stiffened and released her. “Very well, go save him.” Rebuked, Celegorm fell to the floor, having a hard time catching his breath.

 

“My lord,” Amarthan scooted over to Celegorm whose condition deteriorated quickly. “Lady Acharedel!” Amarthan cried out, knowing the Noldorin maiden was an adept healer.

 

Acharedel stumbled over to Celegorm, her own wounds now burning. Celegorm was coughing up blood and his breathing was labored. Searching his body, she found the culprit: a dagger puncture to his lung. Acharedel mouthed, “You fool.” Conjuring a song of power with such a wound was perilous. Celegorm hadn’t retreated as she accused him, but now was not the time to consider Celegorm’s deeds. “You can survive this,” she hissed, tending his wound. She quietly sang a healing song for him and Celegorm weakly lifted his voice to join hers. Together they wove a spell that slowed the bleeding, allowing Celegorm’s fëa to begin the work of healing, though it would not be enough, for Celegorm’s wound was serious.

 

“Call for the horses,” Acharedel ordered.

 

“But the orcs,” Amarthan countered.

 

“Orcs or not, we need our horses to get out and hope to survive,” and find Fingon, she said to herself.

 

Amarthan whistled knowing that the horses that had dispersed would return to their masters, but surprisingly they did not hear a single one. Amarthan exchanged a look of horror with Acharedel.

“We are doomed then,” Acharedel whispered. She wanted to cry and scream and curse Nelyo. The irony that Fingon, if he survived, would soon meet his same fate. And it would be worse for surely Morgoth knew now that it was Fingon himself who dared go into his lair and snatch Nelyo away.

 

Night fell and Celegorm’s breathing was shallow, but he could speak. The Noldor were strong in mind and body after all. It was the strange bird whistles that caught the groups attentions. Celegorm’s eyes looked wildly about. The two women looked frantically about, fearing another attack. Suddenly before them a group of elves materialized from out of the forest.

 

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

According to some research, a horse can walkapproximately 40-48 milesper dayif they walked constantly for 12 hours a day. So it would take approximately 4 days to travel 200 miles. According to this site on distances in Beleriand, I estimate that the distance between Lake Mithrim and Nan Tathren is about 400miles. Since these are elven steeds, they have much more endurance, travel faster, and can also be made to go farther and faster by elven magic.

Chapter 13: Of the Laiquendi

The Laiquendi names I use here don’t necessarily refer to canon characters.

Read Chapter 13: Of the Laiquendi

Chapter 13: Of the Laiquendi 

Cíleth managed to keep Nelyo in a state of stupor as much as possible, but such heavy sedation also severely slowed his physical healing.

 

“How long can we do this?” Fingolfin questioned, knowing that Nelyo needed to live if there was to be a fragile alliance between the two houses. It was frustrating to have brought him out of the severe bodily damage only to be thwarted by the wounds of the spirit. Morgoth continued to inflict his fury on Nelyo.

 

Cíleth shook her head. Fingolfin did not like the look of uncertainty on her face. Sighing she straightened. A Fëanorian healer kept his hands on Nelyo, his eyes locked in deep concentration. They’d attempted song healing after the worst of the physical injuries were attended, but found that such an approach threatened the health of the singer. The notes that rose up from Nelyo to join the song were discordant, forcing them to quietly focus on Nelyo’s energy, strengthening the essence of Nelyo’s song. The beads of sweat on the healer’s brow revealed the energy spent to fight with the psychic wounds warring for Nelyo. “We do not know. None of us have dealt with an elf so long in captivity,” Cíleth answered.

 

Fingolfin pressed his hand over his mouth. “Anything you need, let me know.” Fingolfin had witnessed the despair and pain of Nelyo’s waking moments. His body recovering allowed Morgoth’s malevolence to wreak havoc on the strengthened fëa. They only strengthened him for Morgoth’s ill will to renew its dark magic. In his witnessing of Nelyo’s torment, the words Nelyo uttered without stop about “days of judgement” and the begging of mercies for the sins of the father” left Fingolfin shaken. Fingolfin too loved Fëanor and knew that all those he loved would be judged. He was thusly resolved in his belief of the rightness of sending out to find the Laiquendi healer. They needed hope and secretly Fingolfin needed Nelyo to overcome Morgoth’s evils if only to demonstrate to his people that despite their words of doom the Noldor would thrive.  Too many found their loyalty waning. Already there were camps: those loyal to Turgon, those to Finrod, and others.

 

“Of course my lord,” Cíleth replied.

 

Fingolfin took his leave and returned to his main study. Upon opening the door, he was not surprised to find Lalwen and Finrod there, each ready with questions. Lalwen was the first to stand. “How much time do we have?”

 

Fingolfin shrugged his shoulders. “They cannot say. This is a first for all of them.”

 

“Thus we rely on the measly company of four we sent to find this healer,” Finrod responded cynically.

 

“We could not send a larger group. I will say no more on this,” Fingolfin replied, exasperated. Indeed, it had been debated long who would go, how many would go, and in what manner. In the end, with Maglor’s agreement, it was determined a small group would go and that leaders from Fingolfin and Fëanor’s houses would go to demonstrate the desperate need for the healer come to the Noldor. And of all the elves, Fingolfin trusted Acharedel most to protect Fingon. She would not hesitate to die for him. That she was but a means to an end weighed on Fingolfin, for he loved her too, but Fingon he would not lose again.

 

Lalwen pulled Finrod to the large table with the map on it, annoyed by his petulance. “With help from the Fëanorians we have mapped out the orcs movements on this map. See how he tests each of our houses, how he pulls us apart? Not lightly did your uncle send your brother-cousin, his son, on such a dangerous journey.”

 

Finrod knew better than to argue with his aunt. Finrod believed he could have been sent in Fingon’s stead, but for Fingon’s stubbornness. But Lalwen was having none of it as she observed Finrod frown ever so slightly. “Fingon’s skills in the wild surpass yours. We needed soldiers to keep up with Celegorm or his gifts?”

 

“I have not,” Finrod replied, frustrated. Celegorm would lead them on a relentless pace. Amarthan was well suited not only for her skills but for her knowledge of the lands. Acharedel…Turning to Fingolfin, Finrod spoke aloud what had been truly bothering him: “She is but a tool for you. You know she’d fall to save Fingon, no matter the cost to her.”

 

Fingolfin spun around to face his nephew. “And they call you silver-tongued.”  Catching himself Fingolfin smiled and approached Finrod who stood defiantly, his eyes lit with that peculiar fire of those that journeyed. “Learn this lesson now Arafinwion. I know your desires for lordship. You too will make decisions to protect your own.” Fingolfin turned around to look out the window to survey the coming and going outside. “At least I hope you will.” And I fear as much that you will, Fingolfin thought to himself grimly.

 

Finrod would remember his uncle’s prophetic words near his time of dying, but Finrod in this moment also cared for Acharedel the elf, not simply the warrior and liegeman of Fingon, bound to his service.

 

Lalwen watched the two, deciding now was time for her to speak. “I will go find Amrod and see if he needs anything. We need to make sure one of us is there when Nelyo wakens.” For he did despite the feverish work to keep him under. Sometimes he would wake up in a hallucinatory state and rave, trying to escape what he perceived as shackles. Other times he was lucid, but those times were few. He was so weak that he could barely manage a smile and ask for Fingon. Opening the door, she turned back and called to her nephew: “Finrod.”

 

Arafinwë’s youngest knew when he was discharged. With a curt bow he excused himself.

 

Upon Finrod’s exit Fingolfin threw himself on a couch, his hands over his eyes. Lalwen observed her brother. “Go train. Imagine you are pelting your churlish nephew.” Fingolfin laughed.

 

)()()()(

 

Running. The branches stung his face. Fingon was running for his life, stumbling. Running so fast the world was a blur. Where he was headed, he did not know. He simply ran. His heart beat wildly, threatening to leap out, his body demanding much of it. Thank Eru for the strength and endurance of elven bodies, he thought. He’d been running for what seemed the length of the night. A few more well-chosen paths and he could make it to sunrise. The branches were thinning, no longer mercilessly whipping him with every step he took. The sun would find him here, if only, if only he could keep running. 

 

These snow-covered trees, he thought, were young, as if newly and purposefully replanted. Though he ran, he had time for thought for keeping these thoughts was what kept him from giving up. The Laiquendi. They must have planted these trees. There had been a fire where he now ran, patches of charred earth revealing itself black under the snow. Fallen trees, blackened by fire, lay afoot. Fingon ran, leaping over the debris, the remains from whatever set fire to the forest, but that meant that this was only a clearing, that the forest up ahead would close in on him which meant the orcs could circle him, rain in on him from the darkness of tree cover despite the light of the sun that he could feel on his skin. He felt Power surge through his bones. His limbs responded. He hurdled the trees beneath his feet. It might offer him more speed, more time, but for what, if indeed he did not make his way out of the forest and into the coming dawn. 

 

Merciless he drove himself on. He. must. keep. running. Out here, his body would not be found, if indeed he were to be killed. No, he thought bitterly, these orcs would take him alive. If it came to that, if he was surrounded, he would not allow it. Better to die by my own hand than be tortured by them and taken to Morgoth, he deliberated, like Nelyo. He could not end up like him, who he had once named the Betrayer. There is never a good day to die, Fingon thought to himself. A soldier. His duty. His fate.

 

Fingon hoped the others had fared better than him. I do not gain a victory, he thought. Fingon chided himself, such foolish, ego filled thoughts. Too much did he care for tales of heroes. But those mighty (and those some believed weak) also fell: Finwë, Elenwë, Fëanáro, Arakáno, all dead. Yet not so Nelyo! But too much did Fingon also believe in those tales of his own bravery: Fingon the Valiant. Fools luck, he spit back, trying to drown the Valiant. If captured he would surely be taken to Morgoth himself and Morgoth would know it was Fingon who dared rescue Nelyo. Fingon would be made to suffer all the more for his rescue of Nelyo

 

Yet Fingon also believed he could live, make it out of the forest to see the sunrise and live! He dared go into Angband and survived that. He would survive this as well! He filled himself with Song, a pulsating tune that rose and rose like a mad symphony of quarrelling parts, pushing him forward, drums beating, driving him onward, onward! It had been easier believing Nelyo dead: Fëanorian fools for keeping Fingolfin and his people in the dark regarding their eldest brother’s fate. Cowards, Fingon had accused Maglor and his brothers, though his accusations now fell silent amongst the trees.

 

“No!” he cried out, seeing the forest canopy ahead darken, trees closing in, the forest retaking form. “No!” he breathed. The Song became a chorus of screaming, but he willed the drums to pound more loudly, focusing on the wild beat of his heart, his internal melody. Onward! Onward! Son of Nolofinwë, onward! Unexpectedly, a blur, a flash of silver: an elf! Dare he stop his running to look and see if indeed his eyes did not deceive him? Run! his thoughts commanded. Do not stop! There were the silver figures again, more of them, appearing in the trees before him. He heard a command from behind him, telling him “Stop!” He didn’t have a chance to respond. He hit the ground hard, his feet caught up in a rope with heavy stones at the ends encircling his feet.

 

He was quickly and quietly surrounded by elves that looked over him curiously, some inspecting him with their hands. One elf leaned over him, carefully and quickly binding his arms. Fingon’s lip was split from the impact of the fall; at least he knew that for sure. Certainly there were more injuries, but his head spun. He’d hit the floor hard. “Orcs,” he whispered.

 

“Golda,” one of his elven captors answered, scrutinizing Fingon’s person, “the Orcs are being dispatched.” The elf, an archer, motioned to a companion to examine the growing lump on Fingon’s forehead and the blood pouring from his mouth. Continuing his interrogation, the archer queried, “Why are you in our wood, Golda, bringing the ūriʃ with you.” The elf’s speech was strange to Fingon’s ear, what sounded like a mix of Sindarin and Nandorin speech, the Sindarin for Fingon’s sake. The elf’s accent was musical and breezy, Fingon’s own speech sounded hard, like steel and stone in comparison. These were Green Elves, only Green Elves referred to the Noldor as Golda.

 

Fingolfin’s host began trading with the Grey elves of Mithrim, like Fëanor’s host before them.  It required Fingolfin’s people learn Sindarin, a task made easier by the fact that the Mithrim had become familiar with Quenya through their dealings with Fëanor’s people. Their relationship grew from there, leading to exchange of ideas, of materials, of people.

 

“Golda,” the archer shook Fingon more forcefully earning him a silent reprimand from the elf tending to Fingon’s injuries.

 

“ūriʃ?” Fingon asked, unsure of the term, never having heard it before, but the world was spinning so concentrating was a difficult task. In fact, he found talking was taking more energy than he could devote to it. The Song spell Fingon had woven around himself was fading, the energy that buzzed within him dissipating, his body succumbing to his injuries. He heard another whisper, speech he could not quite make out, not in his state.

 

The archer tried again, pushing the elf attending Fingon aside, though careful not to touch Fingon, “Yrc. You brought them with you.”

 

“Orcor,” Fingon repeated. “They were chasing me,” he offered in Sindarin. His head fell back to the ground with a loud thump, causing the world to spin around him. Pain washed over him, shooting up to his eyes. He closed his eyes as any semblance of light felt like a thousand tiny daggers were piercing him. His pain was so great he moaned softly, almost like a whimper.

 

“Leave him be,” the elf attending Fingon admonished the archer interrogating their patient, resuming their place over the elf. This elf appeared to be a healer of some sort, though she too was quite clearly a competent archer bearing broad shoulders and calloused hands, which Findekáno could feel as the elf’s hands traveled over Fingon’s body, feeling for more injuries and imparting healing energy. Perhaps this elf could lead Fingon to Sílahul?

 

Another elf leapt quietly down from the tree canopy. “We must leave. Our company is small and the orcs that trail this Golda is greater than the company we killed.”

 

Fingon heard these words. Had the rest survived?

 

It was a strange time indeed. Morgoth’s emissaries had been silent, but of late, companies of orcs had taken to waylaying elves, letting them know that Morgoth though hidden in his mountain was not to be forgotten. The archer studying Fingon through narrowed eyes silently signaled for the elves to make their way back from wherever they came from.

 

“Did you send Lindóren ahead?” the archer asked the scout.

 

The Green elves were speaking in Nandorin of which Fingon could only make out bits and pieces, desperate to find out about the fate of his companions, but he could not put words together for he was fading out.

 

“I did. He will alert the others and a party will be dispatched to cleanse the filth that has encroached, but,” he offered more sternly, “we must make haste for it will take them more time than we have to meet the encroachers.” The lead archer nodded her head, looking to the healer expectantly.

 

“He can be moved, Nimloth” the healer referred to the lead archer by name, “but we must be careful. He has taken a serious blow to the head. I have stopped the bleeding from where his teeth cut through the skin, but he has many other wounds that need more time and attention.”

 

“Then arrange it,” Nimloth commanded.

 

A makeshift litter appeared. The other elves had anticipated such a need. Carefully, Fingon was moved onto the litter, no longer conscious.  One of the elves responsible for lifting the litter cursed, “This Golda is heavy.”

 

Nimloth laughed, “Yes the Golda are large brutes, but are you certain you won’t tire with your burden Denethor?”

 

Denethor gritted his teeth at Nimloth. “The beast is large, but my strength is like the branch that bends in the wind, unbreakable.”

 

“Good,” Nimloth replied, casting a questioning glance at the other elf that had the burden of Fingon’s litter. The elf did not complain, choosing to silently take to their task.

 

The Lindi moved quickly and silently through their dense forest, intimate with every tree and branch, the shape of the land, whether stone or earth, familiar to them. They heard the leaves of the trees rustle like the sound of a soft breeze weaving its way in and out of the tree tops. There was no breeze. This was a Galadgwaith, a company of Lindi warriors moving to meet the scattered orcs. They could pass silently above if they chose too, but they allowed their movements to whisper like the wind amongst trees, sending comfort to their retreating comrades that had taken to the ground, a precarious place for the Lindi to be.

 

Fingon fell in and out of consciousness as the company moved swiftly and quietly through the trees. In his moments of awareness he could see the dark canopy of the trees above moving steadily. The light of the dawn was shadowed beneath the eaves of the forest. That was well enough. The light only caused him more pain.  Fingon tried to weave Song to clear his head, but he was having a hard time drawing from the threads of súlë, the breath of spirit that was woven in all the matter of Arda.

 

Denethor felt a teasing and disparate energy tingling his fingers. He frowned, looking around him, searching for the source. His search was interrupted by the Golda’s stirring. Denethor noticed the elf staring at the trees above, his eyes clouded over. Try as he might the Golda could not focus his eyes to see. Good, Denethor thought. He didn’t know if the Golda could make out patterns of the treetops that might indicate the path the Lindi were taking to their home. Denethor felt the warmth in his fingertips again, the growing energy causing his hands to itch. Denethor let out a quiet curse, the damned Golda was trying to weave a Song spell about himself.

 

Fingon started singing quietly, remembering songs taught to him by Calmacil, one of the Unbegotten that accompanied Finwë and the Second host to Aman in the Great Journey, the sundering of the Clans. If he could not silently conjure Song, he would have to try his luck and sing aloud.

 

Denethor was about to shake the litter, hoping to send the Golda back into his unconscious state, but the hands of the healer, who appeared quite unexpectedly at his side, stilled him. Denethor shot the healer a look of disgust. Why was she allowing the Golda to capture the Breath within their lands?  The healer shook her head, this time Denethor felt a mental poke. The healer wanted Denethor to open himself up to mind-speech. Very well, Denethor replied. Why do you insist on allowing the Golda to take Breath into Song spell?

 

The healer answered, He only attempts to heal himself. Fear not. I know the healing notes of Song. Denethor grunted, causing the small company to turn to look at him. Though they did not pause their steps, Nimloth shot a threatening look back at Denethor, warning the surly warrior to keep silent. The healer fell back, keeping an eye on her patient, closing the thought pathway with Denethor, though the healer knew that Denethor was more than just angry. Denethor was surprised the Golda knew how to weave Song from breath. Many of the Golda they had encountered did not display such knowledge, though the healer knew this was not the case of all. Were not the Golda their kin long sundered? Surely some that made the Journey did not forget these things. The healer hoped that some of those that had left Endórë’s shores had indeed returned. The healer looked at this Golda. He did not bear the same emblem as the few Golda they had come across. This Golda’s heraldic device was different. He must be part of the host that had appeared with the moon and settled beside the great lake, at arm’s distance from the other Golda encampment.

 

Denethor and his people were reclusive. After Denethor’s father was slain in the First Battle of Beleriand, his son took his dead father’s name, but not as king. The Lindi would never take a king again, but they were well acquainted with Morgoth’s evil. The Lindi had little love for the Noldor, for they knew it was their deeds that led Morgoth’s return to their lands, had heard the tale of the fallen Vala. The Valar had no sway over them. The Noldor and Valar might as well be one in their eyes. Their people were slaughtered in the First Battle and Morgoth hunted them, enjoyed the sport of taking them captive. Some he released, others escaped and from them their desire to remain hidden, secret grew more intense, if only to keep their people safe. But with the coming of the Noldor, Morgoth’s armies grew, his patrols encroached on their lands. They had little place to go for Thingol, who they had little love for, kept them out of the enchanted girdle. The elves that believed themselves wise for journeying were nothing but self-absorbed peoples, thinking themselves better than the Dan.

 

 )()()()(

 

Nimrodel came up next to Nimloth, sharing a thought. I will go ahead and let the clan know we bring one of the Golda. Nimloth agreed. It would be wise to let them know what was coming their way though she anticipated that the other group of Golda would be in the clan encampment.

 

Nimrodel flew through the trees. The strange scars on the Golda’s arms were peculiar. Elven skin was prone to healing. Such scarring was purposeful, only possible with a root found in Endórë. Perhaps these brutes had not forgotten their origins after all.

 

)()()(

 

Amarthan fell on all fours in front of the Laiquendi that appeared from the forest, speaking in broken Nandorin, “Please help us.” Acharedel had the sense to follow Amarthan’s lead. Celegorm simply looked up at the strange elves from where he lay.

 

“Your horses are safe,” one of the elves spoke.

 

Amarthan sat up and raised her hands in thanks. With a flick of her finger she motioned Acharedel do the same. They kept their hands up for a few moments while the elves inspected the area around them, including the dead orc bodies. After a while, a woman came forward and placed the seed of a tree in each of their hands. Amarthan breathed in with relief. Acharedel understood this must be a sign of welcome at best.

 

Switching to Sindarin, Amarthan spoke, “We are indebted.”

 

“Lower your hands,” the woman spoke, her Sindarin tinged with what to Amarthan was an odd accent. To Acharedel’s ears it sounded as if it was spoken with detached elegance. The manner in which she extended certain vowels, and rolled her tongue; Sindarin sounded right spoken in this manner.

 

The elves lowered their hands, meanwhile one of the Laiquendi knelt over Celegorm, speaking to the woman, relaying the type and severity of his injury. Walking over to Celegorm the woman laughed. “Golda, we dreamt of you not long ago, but we thought it absurd we would meet, but here you are.”

 

Acharedel spoke, “We came in search of someone who might help us but were attacked by orcs. Our friend was taken by them.”

 

Turning to Acharedel, the woman answered, “If he lives, we will find him.”  Acharedel looked up with hope in her eyes. The woman was stunning. She had silver hair and bright grey eyes that she had kept hidden under a hood. The woman smiled. In turn, Acharedel shared a tentative smile.

 

“You are right to be fearful of us, Golda,” another elf spoke, “for little do we want your kind amongst our trees. Enough we have with the darkness that comes for us.”

 

“So it is,” the silver haired woman spoke, “but these orcs were not meant for them, but for us, and they took the pain of that attack. For this we will aid you.” The elves bowed solemnly before the group.

 

Acharedel said a few words in her own accented Sindarin. “Will you help our companion? He needs medicine and we hear you are gifted in the healing arts.”

 

“We will help him,” the man standing next to the silver haired woman replied. “But we must move quickly and away from the edge of the forest.”

 

A litter appeared and Celegorm was placed on it. An elf came and laid hands on him, speaking, “He is strong. He will withstand transport.”

 

“Very well,” the man replied, “we must go.”

 

As the group gathered themselves, blindfolds were placed on the trio. They did not complain for they knew the secretive ways of the Laiquendi.

 

As she walked ahead being led by an elf, Acharedel asked, hoping someone would answer: “And what of our lost companion? Will we know if he is found?” Dread filled Acharedel. If she failed her duty to protect Fingon she could not return to Fingolfin.

 

The younger elf leading her answered, “You will know.”

 

The Silver haired woman watched the intruders closely. Her eyes stopped on Celegorm. She spoke, “Are the descendants of my kin as equally beautiful as he?”

 

Acharedel stumbled in her steps. Celegorm roused from his stupor and Amarthan’s mouth dropped open. Who indeed was she related to?

 

The Laiquendi woman was now toying with them. Clearly, she enjoyed her opportunity to do so. “Worry not young ones, my name is Kyelep, and I awoke next to your King. Though we are unbegotten we were gifted kinship.” Her voice faltered and a heavy sadness descended on the group. “I had a sister who followed him,” she revealed. “She was fair and silver haired.” The forest memories were stirred for mists came falling from the limbs. The elf next to Kyelep grunted. Kyelep offered an apologetic smile to her companion. After all she had not expected to find a nephew amongst the wounded.

 

Celegorm nearly fell out of his litter. “Miriel, my grandmother!” he cried out. The woman now known as Kyelep went to him and placed a hand over him. She sent him into a deep slumber. “So much like her it hurts me to see you, young one,” she whispered.

 

Speaking to Acharedel, she revealed, “I mourn my sister for she has come to me in my dreams.” Growing angry, she recriminated the Noldor, “You think we are blind and ignorant of your world but dreams do not abide the borders built up by your valar.” For Acharedel these words stung her more than Kyelep could imagine for the Doom of Mandos seemed crueler: “and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountain…”* Yet it seemed crueler that the Laiquendi were the ones to bear the Noldor’s lamentations.

 

Amarthan, for her part, quietly noted that the Laiquendi were certainly cousins of the Noldor, with a temperament that went from whimsy to anger to sadness without reason and such speed, at least for her Sindarin temperament. It was why she was drawn to Turgon’s level headedness.

 

Acharedel hung her head in shame and followed quietly. Fingolfin had anticipate meeting kin of old long sundered, anticipated the conflict. Whether this bode well for them on this quest she did not know. Kyelep walked ahead. Soon they entered a thick grove of trees where the settlement was hidden away. With a whisper the trees extended their limbs to form stairs and the group walked up. Acharedel was the only one to witness as her blindfold was coming undone, allowing her to peer out. She judged this was no mere accident. Perhaps a subtle way to allow her to witness the power and might of Green elf magic. They reached tall heights and there a series of thick vines grew across the trees providing support for a platform of wood. In the trees around them were the homes of the elves, like small triangular tents attached to the trees, supported by the same strong vines. Acharedel spied a series of similar platforms beyond that one would not see from the forest floor as they were sheltered in the dense canopy of the forest.  They were brought to the platform where they had their blinders removed. Amarthan gasped. Acharedel was likewise impressed: the full beauty of the Laiquendi settlement now fully in view.

 

They were surrounded by curious onlookers. The man who seemed to be Kyelep’s second spoke to the intruders: “Your friend will be taken to the healers and treated there. You two,” he indicated to Amarthan and Acharedel, “will be treated here while you are interrogated. We will know your story.”

 

Amarthan spoke up, “And we will tell it. We are thankful for your welcome.”

 

Acharedel bristled when the man referred to Celegorm as their friend, but that mattered not. They needed to find Fingon and the healer they sought and head back as soon as possible!

 

A sound on the other side of the small camp lodged high in the trees alerted the group. An elf emerged from the trees beyond. She was surprised to see Acharedel and Amarthan. Surely, they were companions of the Golda they captured.  She announced, “We bring another Golda. We will need more healers to attend to him.”

 

Acharedel looked over at Amarthan. “What did they say?” she mouthed. Amarthan’s eyes were wide, responding, “I believe they found Fingon!”

 

Kyelep watched Acharedel closely. She saw doom wedded to her, but also observed the bright hope in her dark eyes. This Fingon was lucky to have a liegeman such as her. To the intruder’s she spoke, “Your companion is alive and he is being brought here.”

 

Acharedel felt her body dissolve into itself. He was alive. He did it again. Found a way to survive. For a moment, Acharedel believed, that perhaps at his side, they could cheat fate.

 

)()()()(

 

Acharedel anxiously anticipated Fingon’s arrival, but she had to focus on the elves tending to her as they asked questions about what types of weapons inflicted the injuries. Acharedel glanced at Amarthan who was also observing her surroundings and speaking to the elves that tended her.  They didn’t have time to waste. Acharedel nodded her head. It was up to them to find who they sought. The men in their company could not.

 

Amarthan asked to speak to Kyelep. The elf who was tending her injured arm looked curiously at her before whistling a series of sounds that must have been speech, Acharedel surmised. She’d notice their whistles, like birds calling to each other across the platforms. It made sense to develop such a language that would travel far and quick. 

 

Kyelep soon arrived. “Very well then, we will hear what it is that brought you here for only with great need would you make such a journey.”

 

Amarthan nervously cleared her throat. “Perhaps it would be best if my companion tells our story as she is more closely related to the events that sent us here.”

 

Kyelep smiled thinly. While they had military rank in their groups, they were not slavish to class in the same manner the Noldor and Sindar were. Sitting on the platform by Acharedel, Kyelep ordered, “Out with it.” The Lindi were notoriously indirect when dealing with outsiders, but amongst themselves directness was preferred concerning speech.

 

Acharedel took a deep breath: “We were sent by Lord Nolofinwë to find a healer by the name of Sílahul. We hope he will help us render aid to one of our people who was rescued from Moringotto’s grasp.”

 

Kyelep raised an eyebrow. From her dealings with the Sindar she knew that Nolofinwë was the son of Finwë--whom she had known long ago—from another marriage, but what was most surprising was hearing of a rescue. “Rescued?” Kyelep repeated. This was unheard of! She’d not heard of any such tale, not even in her dreams. Gasps and whispers surrounded the group who heard Acharedel’s tale.

 

“Indeed,” Acharedel answered. “He was rescued.” Acharedel knew she needed to offer more detail. “My lord Fingon who is being brought here now journeyed alone into Angband and released his Kinsman who had been long held and tortured.”

 

“Alone?!” Kyelep asked, incredulous. “How is this possible?” Many in the area crowded around closer to hear the miraculous tale. Who was this elf who dared cross into Angband?

 

“My lord is courageous,” Acharedel answered. “I hope he can answer your questions himself.”

 

Kyelep and her second separated and spoke in hushed tones, glancing at the intruders. What they debated, Acharedel could only guess. Amarthan offered a guess, “perhaps they do not believe your tale.”

 

“It could be,” Acharedel replied. How could they convince them, she mused, but not for long, for she noticed that Kyelep and her companion had ceased speaking.

 

Kyelep came to them. “I will know more when your companion you name Fingon comes but I can ask why come in search of our brother Sílahul?”

 

Acharedel swallowed dryly. She never anticipated being able to answer these questions. “So long was our countryman’s captivity that despite physical healing he is succumbing to wounds of the fëa. Our healers are at a loss. Cíleth, one of the Sindar, suggested we find Sílahul as your people are known to have healing skills that surpass our own healers in this regard.”

 

“I see,” Kyelep replied. Still the chatter around them went on, but Kyelep paid no mind to it. “Sílahul is their own person. They will have to decide.” Looking up at Acharedel Kyelep asked, “Why were the four of you sent or are there more?”

 

“There are only four of us. Amaranth of the Sindar, Celegorm of House Fëanáro, Fingon of House Nolofinwë, and I, liegemen to my lord Findekáno, now Fingon in the Sindarin fashion.” 

 

Kyelep replied, “So the identity of this Fingon is now truly revealed to me.” She would press this Fingon for more information. Though she knew of her sisters passing, the death of Finwë at Morgoth’s hands, and of Fëanor and his death, the story of Finwë 's subsequent marriage and children was unclear. Kyelep continued, “I am glad to see Nolofinwë has not forgotten the ways of his people. I’ve heard that on the other side of the sea, women are not equals. Nolofinwë is wise in choosing you as his son’s protector.” Turning to Amarthan, she asked, “This patient that is in need of Sílahul must be important?”

 

“Very,” Acharedel acknowledged. “He is Fëanáro’s eldest, Nelyafinwë.” Kyelep straightened. “We’d heard of one of Fëanáro’s people being taken by the Black foe! We did not know that it was Fëanáro’s eldest. He’s been held for so long,” she said, the disbelief evident in her voice. The history of the Noldor’s short time was coming together like a puzzle. “We know of Fëanáro’s passing,” she continued, “for his spirit burned bright in the dream world. It was a terrible thing to witness,” Kyelep frowned. “Your valar play with the currents of time in ways they do not understand.” She would find out more from this Fingon and from Celegorm, put together the pieces that were missing.

 

Acharedel held her breath. She did not want to say more lest she reveal too much or information that would damn them in some other way. It was supposed to be Fingon or Celegorm describing the houses of the Noldor, but it seemed the Laiquendi knew much of them, regardless.

 

“You are surprised we know who your people are. You should not be.” Kyelep held Acharadel’s eyes, “Child, you are but a tool of these great houses. Alas we will not ask you to overstep the boundaries that govern your own thinking. We are not ignorant of others views of the world, how it shapes their thinking, indeed how they learn to be in this wide world. Lessons your people desperately need.” Kyelep stood and walked away with her second, speaking in hushed tones with him.

 

Acharedel perceived him to be her second. She was reading the Laiquendi world through Noldorin eyes. Much had she chaffed at Noldorin attitudes of superiority, but this journey would reveal just how much she needed to relearn and learn to see with different eyes.

 

“And who is your mother?” the elf tending Acharedel asked with that same sensuous accent.

 

“My mother?” Acharedel replied, pulled out of her thoughts.

 

“Yes, your mother.”

 

“We are mere commoners.”

 

The elf raised a curious brow. “You only became a commoner after your kin were sundered from us. We do not divide ourselves in your manner. Your hierarchies came to be after you crossed the sea. Easier to control you, I think…” the elf trailed off, watching Acharedel intently.

 

Acharedel grit her teeth.

 

“Is it not why you have come?” he asked, reminding her of her service to Fingolfin and of their crossing of the Ice.

 

Acharedel decided it was better to give vague answers than to fall into the taunting of the elf that was surely trying to pry more information from her. “In a manner of speaking,” she answered.

 

The elf tending her laughed and slipped a strand of hair behind Acharedel’s ear. She pulled back at the intimacy. The elf laughed louder. “It is but a mere touch! You Golda are strange lot. Drink this,” he ordered.

 

Acharedel complied, focusing on composing herself. Whether this elf was toying with her or being honest, she did not know, but she most certainly needed to restrain herself. She was a scout. She needed to gather as much information as she could, but as she was mulling these thought, drowsiness overtook her. They’d managed to sneak a sleeping draught into her drink and before long she was overcome. The elf tending her laughed softly. “Brutes,” he shared with the elf helping Amarthan sleep.

 

)()()()(

 

Acharedel woke with a start. She sensed something familiar. A bright song, dulled a little, but strong nevertheless. Fingon was nearby! She was still drowsy from whatever she had been given. Carefully, she stood, though her feet were unsteady. She waited, hearing shouts and instructions in the Laiquendi language. A commotion to the far side of the platform caught her attention. The elf she’d seen earlier with news of Fingon appeared once more. She was the one shouting orders. Up the stair of tree limbs came two green elves, helping Fingon walk. This was a good sign. It meant, she believed, he was not seriously hurt.

 

“Fingon!” Acharedel breathed. Amarthan stirred next to her and rubbed her tired eyes as if not believing that it was really Fingon.

 

Fingon raised his head. He was groggy, bloodied and tired, but he was whole. The smile that lit his face was brilliant and his dulled eyes shone bright with the light of the two trees. One of the elves helping him, pushed Fingon away, shouting at the change in his eyes. The elf who had been giving them instructions laughed, saying something that made the company that came up to the platform with Fingon also laugh causing the offended elf to frown.

 

Acharedel sensed Fingon’s mind. Celegorm is wounded, she reported,  but he will be well. How fare thee, lord?” She couldn’t refer to Fingon in a familiar manner, not in this context where she felts out of sorts. Truly, the world of the Laiquendi unsettled her Noldorin surety.

 

Fingon looked confused. They brought Fingon next to Acharedel and Amarthan. The Laiquendi tended Fingon while Acharedel likewise looked him over, sharing in quiet Quenya and using their coded language the extent of what she had found out, of Kyelep and her relation to Miriel, of her knowledge of Finwë’s house. Fingon, for anyone observing him, did not reveal surprise. Perhaps it was also because he was exhausted and injured.

 

After a time, Kyelep came from another platform to greet Fingon. She smiled as she laid eyes on Fingon: “To see you both reminds me of the grief of their parting.” Placing her hand on Fingon’s cheek, she whispered, “You look so much like my sister’s man.” Through narrowed eyes, Kyelep, spoke to the heart of what she wanted to know: “I will hear the tale of my sister’s death and how you came to be.” Kyelep had heard of Nolofinwë’s return, knew of him, but needed to know why Miriel chose death.

 

Fingon, stoic as ever, looked up at the silver haired woman. “And I see in you your kinship with Miriel and the Fëanorians.” Little did she know that Fingon had studied them well. Knew the contours of their nose, their eyes, the shape of a brow. Nelyo had her lips. The same mouth. The mouth Fingon knew so utterly well. Fingon cautiously shared the tale of Miriel and Indis, of their children, of Finwë’s death, leaving out the details of kinslaying, of betrayals, of oaths. 

 

Kyelep spoke softly, “Though I know there is not much you are telling me, it is good to hear that my kin did not give up all of who they’d been before the journey.”

 

“Will you help us save him?” Fingon pressed. Kyelep observed the young elf. He was sure of himself, his position, his words, in ways his two companions were not. It was a shame. The Noldor were truly sundered kin. Kyelep bowed her head. “Only they can decide. They will be here soon. They have been tending to your cousin.”

 

“Half-cousin,” Fingon corrected, though he’d not meant to. It was such a customary thing to do that in his tired state it just came out.

 

Kyelep considered Fingon’s words. “I can imagine the pain Finwë caused your close-minded society, remarrying after my sister departed. It is not uncommon here, but I imagine in that place where death was distant, such an act became unimaginable. Too long have you been sundered from who you were.”  Kyelep paused. “Your battles on the other side of the sea have unleashed darkness here.”

 

Fingon lowered his head. “I cannot speak for my father, but I understand the consequences of our deeds.”

 

“Indeed. Why would the mighty Noldor think of any other people but themselves?” She picked up Fingon’s face to look at it, stare into his bright blue eyes of ice. “The Noldor will not leave. You will seek land and make war. Why should we seek to help those that bring evil?”

 

“As you said before,” Fingon answered, “if only because we are kin. I am here for Nelyafinwe. I did not dare deliver him from his prison only for him succumb to wounds I cannot save him from.”

 

Kyelep witnessed the fire in his eyes grow. It was beautiful and terrifying. “Only they can decide wish otherwise, but I do long to see your father and meet the rest of our kin.” She desired this despite the doom they brought. “You shall be tended. When you are better, I will hear this story of your journey to the Black foes lands and perhaps, Sílahul will come.” Kyelep departed, disappearing into one of the many trees that surrounded the platform.

 

Fingon let out a deep breath, laying back on the bed in room woven of vines. The Laiquendi could control the shape of the structure as needed. For now, Acharedel, Amarthan and Fingon had privacy, except for the healer tending Fingon.

 

“I am Nimrodel,” the healer spoke looking at Acharedel and Amarthan. “We caught your companion deep in our wood, chased by a ravenous band of orcs. You have endurance,” she added, looking at Fingon.

 

Fingon grunted in response as she placed some sort of compound on a wound. “It will close in its due time, but you will be able to walk and ride on it with the coming of the sun. Your head on the other hand needs attention.” Looking at Acharedel, she asked, “Do you think you can tend to his head injury? It helps to have someone knowledgeable of the patterns of the person.”

 

“I can, of course!” Acharedel replied, knowing quite well, as any soldier did, the protocol for head injuries.

 

Acharedel with the help of Nimrodel, settled herself behind Fingon. This elicited a hum of pleasure from the patient. “If only Denethor and the other fellow would have liked me so,” Fingon joked. Nimrodel smiled. “Denethor is a good elf. He’s lost much. As we all have. We give each other room to grieve as is best for us.”

 

Amarthan perked up. “Is he related to Denethor your former king?”

 

“His son,” Nimrodel answered, assisting Acharedel’s work on Fingon.

 

Fingon grew serious. “That explains much,” he offered, having heard of the battle. “Your people then are of the second and third clans?”

 

Nimrodel shook her head. “Those are your stories. Stories you tell on the other side of the sea to justify your hierarchies. Denethor is a descendant of Linwë as you are a descendant of Finwë. Kyelep is sister to his first wife. This, at least I know. But the silver of her hair does not make her part of the third clan though I hear your people associate silver hair with what you call the third clan. And yet your Miriel was silver haired and she was considered your people?”  Nimrodel kept Fingon thinking and talking for it aided in the healing of his head injury by keeping his brain active.

 

 “Yes, “Fingon answered. “She was silver-haired and of the Noldor, though we largely have dark hair. But there are exceptions.”

 

“Exceptions?” Nimrodel laughed. “It sounds absurd to me?”

 

Fingon acknowledged, “I can see that.”

 

Nimrodel added, “Some groups left together. Others mingled. There were those that left first and returned from the journey your people completed. Others lingered but made haste to catch up with another. Just as there were those that never left and those that wandered and found a good home.” Fingon followed Nimrodel’s hand as she traced the various journeys in the air. “Many of us you name unwise have red hair. Does that in turn mean red hair means one is not wise amongst your people?”

 

Fingon coughed.

 

Acharedel answered. “No, indeed, it is different, but a sign of comeliness for some.”

 

“I see,” answered Nimrodel watching Fingon’s shift slightly. “Did you leave behind a love on the other side?”

 

“I did not,” Fingon answered. With some sadness, he concluded, “Love is lost to me.”

 

Nimrodel paused, looking up at Acharedel. “You are truly a strange people.”

 

“Even so,” Fingon answered, growing sleepier, unable to finish his thoughts. Acharedel’s work led him towards slumber. After she was satisfied he slept deeply, Acharedel removed herself from Fingon's side.

 

The Laiquendi healer, Nimloth, looked curiously at Acharedel then at Amarthan. “Both your peoples replace loyalty with love,” she observed.

 

Amarthan answered carefully, knowing how the Green elves viewed her own people, “At times.”

 

Nimloth asked, “Is there any hope for your lords?”

 

“I must hope for it,” Amarthan responded, believing that her people were best defended allied to Turgon.

 

Nimloth looked over them curiously, considering their words. “I will go. I suggest you drink more of this,” she shared, pointing at mugs with what looked like water. She noticed Acharedel eyed the drink suspiciously. “They will help you sleep and when you are sleeping we will come and help you heal. We will not harm you.”

 

Acharedel was about to protest but Amarthan spoke first, “We are in your debt and know no harm will come to us.”

 

Acharedel sat back. Amarthan was correct in her appraisal of the situation. They needed to show complete trust in the Laiquendi. Acharedel’s inclination to have one of their group awake to keep watch was a sign of deep distrust. She needed to take this leap of faith. Acharedel reached for the cups and shared the other with Amarthan. “We are indebted to you for your aid,” Acharedel repeated before drinking the contents of the cup.

 

Soon the two were lost to slumber and their bodies were led on the path of elven healing, the green healing of the Lindi was perceived to be mysterious, but it was simply a healing that harnessed more fully the currents of Endórë, of the growing things around them,  a healing that understood well the contours of those melodies and used them to weave together the most elemental strands of that which was elven.

 

)()()()(

 

 

Chapter 14: Elk Home

Read Chapter 14: Elk Home

Chapter 14: Elk Home

 

Sílahul passed their hands over Celegorm’s face, bringing him out of his deep sleep, though they wished the young elf could spend more time in the dream world and perhaps would find hope for a different path. Alas, such choices were not for Sílahul to make, though they looked upon the face of one they knew long ago. And Sílahul mourned for those that journied and now seemed forever lost to them.

 

Celegorm woke with a start. He did not need to remember where he was. His dreams had him traveling in Laiquendi lands, desperately on the trail of his grandmother’s path. Celegorm caught glimpses of her, laughing, carefree, unlike the quiet and withdrawn woman he’d heard about.  He’d wanted to follow her, to see his grandfather once more, but he was called forth, like he had been hanging in the dreamscape by a silver thread that was snapped, sending him plummeting to waking.

 

Sílahul soothed Celegorm. “Be calm child, you are landed.”

 

Celegorm grimaced. He was sore. Surrounding him was an intricate wall woven of branches and leaves.  As he looked to the ceiling it would shimmer with the light of fireflies, but only for a moment.

 

“Be not afraid to breathe,”  Sílahul urged the younger elf, allowing their own fëa to shimmer a bit brighter. There was need for extensive lighting in the Laiquendi home for the elve’s own glimmer provided enough.

 

Carefully, Celegorm took in a deep breath, afraid of the pain that would greet him, but to his surprise he found he could take a deep, purposeful breath. Though he was sore, he felt his lung healed, filling, the parts of his hröa, working as they should be. “Thank you,” Celegorm said.

 

Sílahul dipped their head. “Now sit up. Your companions are eager to see you.”

 

And what of their task? Celegorm grew apprehensive. He needed, they needed to get back to Nelyo! “My brother,” he uttered, “we came here to find him help.”

 

Sílahul smiled. They’d known from the first moment they set eyes on Celegorm that curiosity would dictate their answer. “And help you shall have,” Sílahul reassured the younger elf, helped him sit up.

 

The tension Celegorm held dissapated. Realization dawned on him. “Are you who they call Sílahul?”

 

“That is so,” Sílahul replied.

 

Celegorm sat up straighter, taking time to make sure his body could take to the task of movement. Satisfied that he could sit up properly, Celegorm pulled his legs over the side to sit, feet on the floor. “I am indebted to all of who you are,” Celegorm spoke seriously, his hands touching his heart in a show of gratitude and debt.

 

Sílahul noted that Celegorm was serious about his offer and not blind to their multiplicity. “Be careful of indebting yourself to us,” Sílahul warned.

 

This made Celegorm pause. “Wise words,” Celegorm offered, saying no more of oaths and debts. “Yet I need to express my gratitude nonetheless. My brother has been saved but he’s not yet cheated death.”

 

The sound of approaching voices put their discussion to an end. Sílahul and Celegorm turned to greet the familiar voices.

 

“It is good to see you strong,” Fingon shared, crossing the threshold into the space where Celegorm was being tended to. The small woven room grew brighter with the entrance of the other elves, and particularly those born on the other side. Their light was dazzling.

 

Celegorm’s eyes lit up while also feeling immense guilt for not asking after Fingon. “Somehow you managed to escape your predicament,” Celegorm answered.

 

“I seem to have a knack for that,” Fingon answered, leaving unsaid the whispers in his mind that warned him that his fortune would turn soon enough. His light dimmed, though it did not diminish.

 

Sílahul smiled for in Fingon they saw Finwë. “I’ve let your kinsman know that we will travel with you to help your friend.”

 

“That is indeed welcome news!” Fingon replied, the light of his fëa shimmering. Like Celegorm,  Fingon brought his hands to his heart. “I can speak for my father and offer our gratitude but also acknowledge that we are in Sílahul’s debt.”

 

“Let not the artifice of governance be the source of debt,” Sílahul answered, “for debt should be only amongst friends.”

 

Fingon bowed his head. Sílahul’s words were wise and the few days they tarried waiting for Celegorm, Fingon realized just how much Noldorin social order was dictated by their capacity to mortgage good deeds to some future endeavor or promise. “Then let us have the bonds of friendship be the liability that holds us together,” Fingon replied.

 

Looking to Celegorm whose own light was brighter, Sílahul added, “We prefer that and yet we are also selfish in our desires. We are curious about your brother’s state and more curious still to see another of your grandmother’s children.” Moving closer to Celegorm, Sílahul leaned over and whispered in his ear, “We loved her so and pleaded with her not to journey.” Leaning back, Sílahul said for all to hear, “And yet because of her journey you are here.”

 

It brought Celegorm great sadness to know his grandmother’s life was once so full, had been loved so greatly, and in spite of that, she chose the Halls to rest. That was now a more bitter tale. Celegorm ached for his father.

 

Sílahul interrupted Celegorm’s thoughts, “We will be ready to travel tomorrow. We leave you two to plan.”

 

Fingon and Celegorm bowed their heads and Sílahul departed.

 

“Our horses?” Celegorm queried.

 

“Safe and ready to carry us hence. Our provisions are replenished and we are all in good enough health to travel,” Fingon replied, wondering of Kyelep too was going to make the return journey with them.

 

Celegorm winced. “I did not ask how you fared, but I will not apologize. My mind is elsewhere and lies do not sit well between us.”

 

“Indeed they do not,” Fingon answered. “I take my leave. We must prepare to leave.”

 

“As soon as we can,” Celegorm agreed.

 

Fingon replied, “I will see to it.”

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm was reunited with Amarthan and Acharede, accompanied by Fingon, later in the day. While Celegorm was sore he needed to move if he was going to travel. They could not wait on him to fully heal. They needed to get back to Nelyo. The four discussed the advice the group was given on what road to take back and how much time to take.

 

Before long, the group had another visitor. This time it was Kyelep. “I request the remainder of your time,” Kyelep spoke to Celegorm. To the other three, she offered, “I know you all need to make haste to ready your group to travel. I expect my request is reasonable.”

 

Celegorm answered for the group, “And I would be humbled to have your time and if you would have it, answer the many questions I have.”

 

Kyelep smiled. “If only because I see my sister in your features, though I cannot say yet if she is present in your convictions.”

 

This stung, but Celegorm did not protest. Acharedel, Amarthan, and Fingon said nothing and took their leave, but not before Kyelep informed that that she too would accompany them. This was welcome news for all.

 

Once out of earshot, Acharedel bristled, “He has none of the convictions of Míriel.”

 

“Careful now,” Fingon cautioned, knowing that though they were on the forest floor away from most of the prying ears and eyes of the Laiquendi, those elves were stealthy enough to be close, nonetheless. And whether they knew or understood Quenya was not revealed to Fingon.

 

“I only speak truths,” Acharedel retorted.

 

“Of this I am always reminded,” Fingon shot back.

 

Amarthan laughed at Fingon’s reply.  Steering the conversation back to their preparations, Amarthan offered, “I have some of the medicines Sílahul asked us to carry. We should split them between us as Celegorm will have to travel lighter and we will also have to bear some of his original burden.”

 

“We are experts at that,” Acharedel answered, shooting a look at Fingon who simply smiled at his liegeman’s temper.

 

“I too am in a hurry to return,” Fingon admitted. “I cannot bear to consider how much worse Nelyo will be.”

 

Acharedel’s countenance softened. “We’ve received no messengers from the sky. Surely if he worsened your father would have sent out the hawks.”

 

“I can only hope,” Fingon answered, ruminating on thoughts of what if. What if the hawks were sent and had not found them? What if?

 

Amarthan spoke, “I for one would like to return in different circumstances. I’ve learned more in these few days than in my entire life about them.” Shaking her head, she added, “It’s a pity that what I did know about the Laiquendi were at best misconceptions and worse still, simple prejudice.”

 

Acharedel confessed, “I am embarrassed to admit that I leave here understanding how little I truly know.”

 

Fingon placed his hand on Acharedel’s shoulder. “Then we gained something beyond our original intent.”

 

“Certainly,” Acharedel responded. “I believed myself tolerant and perceptive and now see how narrow and biased my views of this world are.”

 

“This bodes well for all our peoples,” Amarthan observed, thinking that the mighty Noldor needed to be brought down a notch, or two.

 

A whistle from above caught their attention. An elf soon materialized from the forest canopy. “Your horses will be guarded. You can leave your supplies here. A farewell awaits you amongst the leaves of the forest between the rivers.”

 

Fingon looked to the dark and imposing canopy of the old forest. “And we will show our gratitude to the forest and all that dwell within. Thank you.”

 

The elf smiled and like an enchantment the branches of the trees extended and the elves walked up towards the heights of the trees of the mighty Forrest between the rivers, noted for its darkness and despair. And yet while they encountered despair under its dark foliage, the group also found wisdom and friendship. They were returning with Sílahul but also with more than that.

 

)()()(

 

For most of the journey Kyelep and Celegorm spoke, with Celegorm describing his brothers, their likes and dislikes. He avoided offering more intimate details about his parents’ relationship, of Indis, of the fracture of the Noldor.

 

They were taking a Laiquendi path along the foothills towards the Fens of Sirion. They would cross the Andram after hours of riding and continue along the other side of the gentle hills. They were making good time, but on seeing those hills that the Sindarin called Andram, the long wall, Fingon felt the tiniest of that terror that took hold of him when Thangorodrim loomed in the distance. Though these were gentle and rolling hills not covered in shadow there was something of a warning in them. Fingon turned his eyes towards his companions, hoping to shake away the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

Sílahul glanced from the hills and back to Fingon, observing the young elf’s turmoil. Ever the healer, Sílahul spoke, “We know those hills as anc kawa.”

 

Fingon raised a curious eyebrow. Acharedel and Amarthan too listened.

 

Sílahul continued, “Elk home, for the herds here were a sight to behold.” Sílahul sighed. “They are less in number and tend to hiding since the dark lord’s creatures began hunting them. There is no reciprocity in their taking.”

 

“Tell me more of this relationship,” Acharedel urged. Fingon too wanted to hear more. Sílahul did not speak much but when they did their words, their stories taught them much.

 

“We have depended on these herds for sustenance, for clothing,” he shared, pointing to his clothing.

 

Amarthan offered, “I noticed your elk tooth tunics. These are highly valued amongst my people, though we do not make them.”

 

“They make for valuable trading,” Sílahul shared. Their smile turned into a frown. “With the decimation of the herds, we found ourselves without a major source of food. The anc are important people to us and we to them.”

 

Fingon looked to the hills to see if he could spot the tell-tale signs of elk. He smiled when he saw a trail left by a sizeable group. The hills darkness was dispensed by Sílahul’s words.

 

“In older days,” Sílahul continued, “when a member of our people would die, we would bring them to the hills and lay them to rest.”

 

Fingon sighed, feeling himself a fool. “That death is a long tradition of your people tells me much of the chasm between how we know and feel in the world. I feel like a child to the story of death.”

 

“Aye,” Sílahul agreed, “That your people are.” Sílahul looked up at the hills with heartache and love. “But for us, this is a place for our dead and with time they become of the earth and sedges grow where the body was laid to rest. ”

 

“Elk grasses,” Amarthan spoke with realization. “I did not know…” she faltered and cast an apologetic glance at Sílahul. She asked what was on all the young elves minds: “We had assumed your dead were returned to Ossiriand?”

 

Sílahul shook their head sadly. “These lands, from the river Sirion” they indicated sweeping from east to west, “to the Western mountains are our territories, but since the Dark lords return we are circumscribed in our ability to visit all our relatives.”

 

“Do you bring your dead here still?” Fingon asked, his eyes tracing the horizons of the vast territory.

 

“As best we can,” Sílahul replied.

 

“I feel a fool for treading over these sacred hills without offering a prayer,” Fingon shared apologetically.

 

Sílahul narrowed his eyes at the Noldo. “Then remember the lesson that all of Endórë as you call her is this. Get to know her many parts and you will come to understand them as relatives so you can greet them as they deserve.”

 

Acharedel glanced at Kyelep who was walking ahead but obviously listening to the exchange. Acharedel hesitated, but felt what she had to say was important: “The, the ice,” she stumbled, “our journey across the ice exacted this knowledge at a price, though we believed we were one with all before, we didn’t quite understand it.”

 

“I would hazard you didn’t. Without knowledge of death you could not conceive yourself as kin to the life around you that perishes,” Sílahul answered.

 

Kyelep spoke to Celegorm, “I will know more of this story of the Ice. You Noldor are tightlipped about it.”

 

“It is not my story to tell,” Celegorm whispered, trekking with care on the ground he walked.

 

Speaking up, Fingon replied, “I am afraid we are bound by our lord to not speak on it. Surely my lord Fingolfin will discuss this story with you upon our arrival to our camp.”

 

Acharedel looked ahead. She wasn’t sorry she let that slip. She desired to learn more, to understand what the road ahead might be, and who the Noldor could become.

 

Kyelep shook her head exasperated. To Sílahul she said, “Our long lost kin now known as the Noldor are queer creatures.”

 

“That they are,” Sílahul observed. “Perhaps if they were always honest and straightforward and not ego bound, their actions would not create stories that are so scandalous they need to be secret.”

 

Kyelep laughed, “Imagine a life like that.” Kyelep turned back to face the hills, allowing her thoughts to focus on that place. Sílahul did the same.

 

Sufficiently chastised the Noldor of the group also looked at the far green hills that were closer now, observing the sedge sprouted on the hillside, in the crevices, in the ravines and beyond. Fingon did not know if each sedge represented a burial site. If that was the case, there were an awful lot of them. This was sobering.  Perhaps this was the feeling in his stomach: death. The Noldor were but children in the face of it.

 

Celegorm’s own thoughts took him to his father’s death and all that was left of him: ashes. They had taken those ashes with them after the battle that took Fëanor’s life. The ashes were remade by Curufin into a gem that was secured upon the chair the king sat on and housed in the makeshift throne room. Nelyo often shared how he could feel the heat from the gem on his back when he sat on the chair. Celegorm had not asked Maglor if he too felt that heat. Surely he did. Celegorm glanced at the witch. Acharedel reminded him of the ice, of what Aredhel lost, their child. Fingolfin’s host should not have the kingship, he thought bittelry to himself. They were of ice and Fëanor, his people, his sons were of fire! Fëanor was a spirit of fire and it was only just his legacy would pass on to his sons. No one else! Celegorm’s raging thoughts were cut short by a song

 

Sílahul began singing a haunting melody. The other elves, save Kyelep, did not understand the words, but hearing it and seeing Kyelep’s face of mourning, they knew that Sílahul was praying, was singing a song of greeting to the Laiquendi dead and they realized a greeting to the anc. They crossed into the territory of the elk, the sedges, the grasses, and roots of the hill through the enchantment the singing spun, finding melody in the breezes and tall grasses. The further they walked into the hills the more it seemed that they were accompanied by shapeless spirits. Every now and then they could see the twinkle of an eye of an elk that came to answer the greeting, quietly snorting. The stars above lighted the path through the sacred lands and on to the other side of the elk home into the Fens of Sirion.

 

)()()()(

 

“We are being watched,” Celegorm shared quietly.

 

Indeed a small group of Doriathin elves trailed the group as they neared the Fens, following them until they reached a neutral crossing at the river Sirion, just south of Doriath’s borders. It was there that the leader made themself visible to them. He was a tall elf, of silver hair and carried a large black bow.

 

Amarthan spoke up, “Beleg the Archer, I am glad to see you on a border you normally do not frequent.” That Amarthan’s face beamed upon the sight of this elf offered some ease to the Noldorin companions.

 

The elf paused, allowing a quirk of a smile form on his lips. After a moment he lowered his head and raised it, the queer smile still gracing his beautiful face. “Amarthan, you are known to me and counted as kin. ‘Tis true, I am far from my northern assignment.” Looking over the others he revealed, “I heard of your journey on your way South and see now the reason for it.” He glanced at Kyelep and Sílahul. “Welcome to borders you cannot cross dear friends. Ah to have you close and not be able to invite you into my home. Alas my King has spoken!”

 

Kyelep replied, “Little do we care of lords. I don’t hold it against you Cúthalion.  You are kin and kindred. I have missed you too!” Kyelep, the elf known as Beleg, and Sílahul hugged, exchanging quiet words. The Sindarin scouts behind them kept still, their eyes locked on the Noldor. Celegorm locked eyes with them, but his ears were trained on the words exchanged by the others.

 

Beleg stood back, “We will ferry you to the other side for we need to get to the other side to find some wayward sheep!” Looking at Fingon and Celegorm, Beleg greeted them, “Well met sons of the Noldor. I have long wanted to make each of your acquaintance.

 

“And I yours,” Fingon offered, taking Beleg’s hand in a warrrior’s greeting. “I have heard many a story of your bravery and skill with a bow. I would like to exchange information with you sometime, if only to make all our peoples safer.”

 

“I too would like that,” Beleg replied to Fingon. “I think you’re a trouble maker and prone to fits of disobedience. This suits me,” Beleg continued, with a wink.

 

Fingon smiled. “I look forward to meeting soon at a time we can break bread.”

 

“And I will find you out in the wilds and we shall know one another,” Beleg affirmed.

 

Celegorm too greeted the warrior, thanking him for his hospitality and saying nothing of Nelyo, quietly thanking Kyelep and Sílahul for not saying anything about their mission, though obviously Beleg had a clue and certainly had knowledge of Nelyo’s predicament.

 

Turning to Acharedel, Beleg spoke, “Perhaps then I will have the pleasure of your name?”

 

“My apologies, lord,” Acharedel offered, having falling into her role as liegeman to Fingon. “Acharedel.”

 

“So you have also taken a Sindarin name,” Beleg declared. Coming closer to Acharedel he looked her over. “A wise choice of liegeman.”

 

“Indeed,” Fingon answered.

 

Amarthan chuckled. “I would like you all to know that Beleg is hardly ever this talkative,” she informed the others.

 

“It’s the moon,” he teased leaning on his bow, a move most bow people would not make, but Beleg was not just any elf. “Truth be told my words are meant to diffuse the terror you did not witness here but hours ago.”

 

“You mean those sheep you are after?” Amarthan rightly guessed. The remainder of the group exchanged concerned glances. None of them had seen or felt anything amiss. This was worrying.

 

Beleg smiled, quieting his tone. “You will be safe. Now make haste! Follow the western border of the river Sirion. We give you permission to travel close to the border, but do not cross it! The dark forces have been testing our defenses recently.”

 

Fingon and Celegorm exchanged worried glances.

 

“I’ve not heard word of anything serious coming from Mithrim,” Beleg added. “The people of Brethil have word of your return. Make haste!”

 

The group bowed deeply before Beleg. “Thank you for your aid,” Celegorm offered sincerely.

 

Quickly the group was ferried across the river alongside a number of Doriathin soldiers, making for quite an uncomfortable ride. On the other side Beleg and his company quickly disappeared to their task. Understanding Beleg’s words, the group hurried North and into safety where their elven horse friends were waiting to carry them back to Mithrim.

 

)()()()(

 

Dawn saw them coming to Fingolfin’s keep. The rising sun over Ered Wethrin was a welcome site! Though the last part of the trip after their departure from their Sindarin guests in Brethil was demanding. They wasted not much of a moment to rest. Too much darkness was stirring and there were warnings of foul creatures testing Sindarin defenses. Messenger hawks had been sent to Fingolfin and Maglor, announcing their return.

 

Celegorm found his own hawk being kept by the Sindarin elves. It had not made its way back for it had been wounded. It found its way to Celegorm’s horse and this is how the Sindar found it and helped it heal. It was not quite ready to journey so it travelled with Celegorm, safely stored in a stiff pouch under his cloak. He hoped the other hawks fared better than his, but Celegorm was also satisfied that this exchange of information could hopefully become commonplace. Beleg’s words affirmed to him and the others that they needed to at least exchange security intelligence.

 

Acharedel couldn’t contain her relief. She rode a bit taller on her mount and her eyes shone brighter with the light of the two trees. They were safe. Well into the guarded territory of Fingolfin’s army.

 

“I feel it too,” Fingon whispered riding close to her. Looking from Acharedel to his father’s standard flying in the distance, Fingon could not help but appreciate the tenacity of his people, of all that the blue and silver standard represented.  His eyes shone bright.

 

“Strange,” Sílahul commented, coming up to ride next them. “How your eyes flicker with light when overcome with emotion. From the dim glow of a candle to the radiance of a star, your eyes do deceive your emotions, when you allow them.  We prefer that you not tame this.”

 

Fingon raised an appreciative brow not tearing his eyes away from the home that grew closer.

 

Sílahul looked over at Celegorm. His eyes were dim. Celegorm was also relieved but certainly not happy to be headed to Fingolfin’s keep, it appeared, revealing more of the tensions that lay between the Noldor. After a quick moment, Sílahul turned their attention back to Acharadel. Her eyes shone with particular delight. Sílahul was fond of this elf, appreciated her curiousity and youth, but also felt for her. Speaking to her, Sílahul asked, “What is your word for dawn?

 

“Ára,” she answered, the shape and weight of the word filling her with light and purpose.

 

“Ára,” Sílahul repeated allowing the words to roll across their tongue. “We like the sound of it,” they approved. “Its better suited to that what we see.”

 

Fingon turned to look at Sílahul, unsure of what the Laiquendi healer was getting at, but there was something political about it, that was for sure. 

 

“Accarrë is my mother name and I have taken the Sindarin form. Are any of your names not prophetic? For my mother’s was…” she trailed off. That her mother had remained in Tirion was something she never spoke of, never thought of. The pain too large to confront.

“Prophetic,” Sílahul answered, looking to the standard far in the distance. Acharedel’s name reminded him of that standard. Too proud, too vengeful. Too veiled. Speaking to Fingon, Sílahul asked, “Is it not also a tradition of your people for you to come by your own name?”

 

Acharedel looked ahead at the standard, her duty, and answered for her lord: “It is for many of our people, but I was guided by duty. I felt my name spoke of that duty. It suited me.”

 

“It does not suit you now,” Sílahul countered. Acharedel stiffened on her horse causing Fingon to reach out and grab her arm. Sílahul shook their head and laughed. “Your Sindarization of your name is incorrect you know.”

 

Acharedel let out her breath and finding some amusement, chuckled. “Oh I know. Been told as much.” With this she glanced at Amarthan who was also smiling. “I kept it.”

 

Fingon released her but rode next to her. He knew his friend, that they were all spent and being so close to home, perhaps a little too open with their emotions.

 

“Just now, though, we saw you speak what Endórë tells us is your name,” Sílahul said.

 

Acharedel looked thoughtfully at Sílahul. “I felt it too,” she revealed.

 

“Ára,” Fingon whispered. “It suits you,” he said, nudging her with his leg. Fingon did not care for her mother name, felt it put too much of a burden on his friend, found that he used it more as a reminder of duty than the friendship they once had.

 

Acharedel glanced at Fingon, observed he was watching her closely. She sighed. “I want to be Ára but…” her voice dropped off.

 

“What is it?” Fingon urged. Celegorm leaned over on his horse, curious as to what his former lover’s friend would say.

 

“Do you think it will change me? That I will fail in my duty to you?”

 

“Folly!” Fingon countered. “If all in your name is a duty to me, then I say, name yourself.”

 

Acharedel shook her head vigorously, “But what am I if not your liegeman?”

 

“My friend,” Fingon answered quetly.

 

Kyelep spoke up, “A friend, a lover, a son, a daughter, a mother. These relations make for survival.”

 

Acharedel glanced back at her with understanding. Amarthan, once again, said not a word, choosing to be the quiet observer once more in this world.

 

“Then to my friends,” Acharadel announced, “I shall be known as Ára even if it is unusual for one of our names.”

 

Sílahul laughed, “Is anything usual about the Noldor? Crossing the Ice, leaving a home twice?!”

Fingon leaned towards Acharadel and caught her. Grabbing her hand he said, “Ára, my friend. I am glad you are with me in this unusual journey.”

 

The group laughed. Even Celegorm grunted. They turned to watch the sun rise fully in the sky and in an hour they were in front of Fingolfin’s gate, greeted by the crystal clear sound of trumpets.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon couldn’t contain himself as he crossed the threshold into his father’s camp that was truly a proper village. He slid off his horse, handing his gear to waiting elves and into his father’s arms. These elves watched quietly, much like Amarthan, did their job, and would later tell their loved ones of all that conspired.

 

“How fares he?” Fingon asked his father in his accented Sindarin.

 

Celegorm too was hasty but stood back, though he wanted to demand the same.

 

“Not well,” Fingolfin admitted. Looking up from his son he appraised the Laiquendi elves that stood quietly. Using Sindarin as Fingon did, Fingolfin declared: “I offer you my welcome and gratitude. My daughter, Irissë, will help you with whatever you need in the way of comfort. In the healing ward you will have whatever we have at your disposal.”

 

Sílahul bowed their head. “We hear the urgency in your voice. Let us not waste a moment on unnecessary frivolities. We need to see the patient immediately. We will take some light food in drink in your healing ward.”

 

“Of course,” Fingolfin commanded. Looking to Kyelep, Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. She was utterly familiar.

 

Kyelep smiled. This elf was a closer replica of Finwë than Fingon, she considered. “I wish to speak with you and my nephews.”

 

“Nephews?” Fingolfin questioned, though he had guessed the woman was related to Miriel for she seemed a copy of the Miriel that Fingolfin remembered from paintings and from his father’s memories, except that this elf was happy.

 

Fingon cleared his throat, but Kyelep spoke instead: “Miriel was my sister and I seek to make acquaintance with my family. I also want to know the story of why my sister perished and how you came to be.”

 

Behind Fingolfin, an elf chuckled. Fingolfin’s eyes were round with surprise, responding, “Strange days!” Fingolfin was caught off guard by the forward request coming from the sister of Miriel. He did not know how to respond to her request. Was there danger in telling her that part of the story? How much would she deduce of the other parts of their nefarious story? What did she know of the Fëanorians? It was clear he had to tread lightly with her as Fingon’s eyes were wide with caution. Do not offend her. She is not danger to us. Of this I am sure, he heard his son share through mind speech.

 

Fingon spoke up, “Kyelep saved us. The Laiquendi, we, I, owe them our lives.” At that Fingolfin spun to look at Fingon. Silently Fingon shared an image of his pursuit by orcs in the forest. Fingolfin gasped and turned to look once more at the silver-haired Laiquendi woman. Fingolfin wanted to throttle Fingon for once more finding himself in such danger. More importantly he understood he now stood in debt to the Laiquendi.

 

It was Lalwen who answered this time, “And you shall hear that story. I will gladly tell it.” Moving closer to Kyelep, Lalwen introduced herself, “I am Írimë, sister of Fingolfin, and daughter of Finwë and Indis, a woman I am sure you are curious about.”

 

Kyelep studied Finwë’s daughter. Surely she looked like her mother, but she also had her father Finwe’s nose. “I would like that very much,” Kyelep replied.

 

Lalwen glanced at Fingolfin and winked so all could see, diffusing the situation and shifting the protocol to one that was more informal. “It is settled then. I will be your minder while you are here.” Looking at Fingolfin, she offered provocatively, “Noldor men do not come easy to trust, so it is up to the women to tend to these things.”

 

Kyelep laughed at this. “The women of the Noldor surprise me indeed!”

 

It was Sílahul’s turn to speak. “And how would we fair amongst the Noldor,” they asked pointedly but politely.

 

Fingolfin bowed his head. “Amongst the people of my house and those loyal to me, we honor kwen though it was one of the many traditions made outlaw on the other side by the Valar.”

 

Sílahul smiled softly. “We are pleased kwen was not lost to you, though it seems we were not welcome in your Blessed Realm.”

 

Aredhel spoke up, “One of the many, many ways we were imposed upon.”

 

Sílahul observed a different manner of being in the young woman that they did not see in the other Noldor. She carried it quite proudly. She had won much but at such a cost! Perhaps they could help her too, they wondered.

 

Aredhel glanced past Celegorm, ignoring him. “Follow me,” she spoke to Sílahul. They followed. This adventure was turning out to be more interesting than they could have imagined, but their thoughts also turned to the patient. There was a darkness in the village that was surely coming from him.

 

Likewise Lalwen also offered Kyelep much needed respite. “You must be famished from your arduous journey,” Lalwen observed the muddied clothes and the tired horses.

 

“I am,” Kyelep admitted. “Food and company would be welcome.”

 

“I shall have the rooms near my own quarters readied, if you agree?” Lalwen queried.

 

“I do,” Kyelep responded. She liked Lawlen.

 

Lalwen gestured, “This way.” They walked away together caught up in quiet conversation.

 

“That leaves you,” Fingolfin directed himself to Celegorm. “You are in need of rest. You may stay in replacement of your brothers.”

 

Celegorm looked around but did not see Amrod or Amras.

 

“They are in the healing ward. Nelyo is not well,” Fingolfin informed Celegorm. “They do all they can to keep his fëa tethered. In your state you will not help Nelyo. Go rest and regain your strength.” Fingolfin ordered. “One of your healers will be with you shortly and assist you in whatever manner you best see fit.”

 

With that Celegorm was dismissed. Instead of complaining Celegorm followed Finrod, though he was livid with Fingolfin’s treatment of him. It seemed relations between the Fëanorians and Nolófinwëans had soured more.

 

“It is wise you were not contrarian. The mood here is tense,” Finrod shared. “The love between our houses is more a burden of memory than something tangible. Our future together, I dare say depends on your brothers survival,” Finrod spoke, leading Celegorm to his quarters.

 

“How much longer will I be welcome here?” Celegorm asked.

 

Finrod looked to Celegorm, his eyes cool, appraising his half cousin. “If your healer asks it, we will tolerate it for a while, but if he deems it unnecessary for you to be with your brother then you will return to your camp.”

 

Celegorm gritted his teeth. “And we are in no place to counter,” Celegorm replied. “I hope he lives because I love him,” Celegorm added, more for himself than Finrod.

 

“Nevertheless,” Finrod countered, “Let us hope Nelyo recovers because we need him. Otherwise Fingon’s deed will have been in vain, I fear.” He loves him more, Finrod silently indicted Celegorm.

 

“He will survive, “Celegorm countered, his mask of calmness replaced by eyes full of fire.

 

“Here you are,” Finrod indicated, ushering Celegorm into his room and closing the doors. Finrod did not wait to see if Celegorm needed anything.

 

Celegorm stifled an angry and frustrated shout. He wanted to yell and curse his cousin, but not now. He needed to focus on Nelyo’s well-being and his own healing. He was dreadfully sore. His lung ached. After a moment there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Celegorm announced and in came one of the Feanorian healers with a tray of food and drink. Celegorm wasted no time in barking out orders to the Fëanorian healer: “I need to rest, regain my strength quickly to aid Nelyo.”

 

The healer nodded. “Eat and drink this tea,” he directed, offering a mug to Celegorm. The healer’s words broached no argument. “While you sleep I will tend to you,” the healer added. Celegorm sighed and sat, ate, and swallowed his tea quickly, under the watchful eye of the healer. The healer informed Celegorm of the exchanges between Maglor and Fingolfin, how Curufin had come demanding Nelyo be moved back to their camp. Indeed, things had quickly devolved. Celegorm had felt more at ease in the forest of the Laiquendi. The danger that lurked there he could tolerate. The unease that seeped into his bones in Fingolfin’s camp was disconcerting. He was entirely at their mercy and little did he trust them. Nelyo needed to get better to put a stop to his upstart uncle. Like it or not, Nelyo was the rightful leader. Celegorm smiled thinly. Kyelep would be an ally in this.

 

 

Chapter 15: Sing to Him

Read Chapter 15: Sing to Him

Chapter 15: Sing to him

 

Sílahul felt the darkness as he neared Nelyo. It was surprising to feel Morgoth’s presence so viscerally. It was as if something was breathing on their neck. Indeed, approaching the healing wards was akin to heading to battle for Sílahul. It disturbed them that such darkness was found inside the Noldorin encampment, but it seemed that these Noldor were unafraid of such depth and heaviness of dark. Nelyafinwë stood a chance, they believed.

 

Earlier, walking through the camp , Sílahul conversed with Aredhel, asked her to share Nelyo’s names, which they were familiar with, but they were nevertheless curious of Aredhel’s opinion of Nelyo as she was not close to him as Fingon and Celegorm were. Sílahul needed to know all the facets of Miriel’s grandson. Indeed, Sílahul had spent much of their journey to the Noldor camp finding out as much as they could about Nelyo.  From Fingon and Celegorm, Sílahul learned how much time Nelyo was held in Morgoth’s captivity. What Sílahul discovered was unnerving: not only the length of Nelyo’s captivity and torment, but the physical manifestations of Morgoth’s cruelty, and worse yet, the spiritual damage that Fingon was able to articulate in detail.  It was also during their journey to Fingolfin’s camp that Fingon shared with Sílahul details of the numerous procedures and treatments Nelyafinwë endured. But the darkness that grew as Sílahul neared Nelyo’s room warned them that all those treatments did was prolong Nelyo’s suffering, making him grow stronger, only to encounter a renewal of the pain that came with healing.

 

Upon their entry into the healing ward, Sílahul was greeted by a Sindarin elf. Cíleth, Sílahul guessed before she introduced herself. Fingon told them she was the one who advised the Noldor to seek them out. Sílahul did not know her, but guessed why she had sent for them. This weighed heavily on Sílahul. The Sindarin too possessed knowledge dealing with captives released by Morgoth, but not as extensive as the Laiquendi for the Sindar shunned many of those that were released from Morgoth’s clutches, unlike the Laiquendi that folded them back into their communities. The Noldor were more kin in this regard, for Fingon and Celegorm never expressed that Nelyo would be rejected. Indeed it seemed he would be their leader if returned. This was a fascinating insight into the Noldor, but perhaps it also revealed their ignorance of escaped thralls of Morgoth.

 

Before entering the room Nelyo was in, Sílahul asked to see him without anyone present: “I need to be alone with the patient. This is important.” The pair of Fëanorian healers that came out of Nelyo’s room protested. “Under no circumstances,” one replied. “For what purpose?” another inquired.

 

Sílahul studied them. They could not blame the healers for not understanding what they did not know. Sílahul offered, “Your presence will contaminate what I am looking for. My work goes deeper than the fëa or hröa. My work encompasses all of Ambarenyā, or Endórë as you call her.” Sílahul continued, “Tell me, do you know how Moringotto uses Ambarenyā, twists her to achieve his evil will? Do you know the currents of her power, the deep quiet notes of her song and all that is in between?” The Fëanorian healers said nothing, but their faces reflected their worry and uncertainty. While Sílahul understood the Fëanorian healers’ trepidation, Sílahul did not have time to wait for them to come to understanding. Well they knew the Fëanorians distrust arose from not only from their lack of knowledge Sílahul’s work, but also because of the animosity between the camps. That was clear.

 

Cíleth answered, “They do not. Indeed, this torment reached the limits of my own learning; thus we sent for Sílahul.”  Cíleth stood firm by her decision, agreeing to Sílahul’s request. She moved to stand in front of the Fëanorian healers, addressing them, “We leave this room and will be ready when needed.”

 

The healers walked after Cíleth, continuing their protestations, but they listened to Cíleth, also trusting her medical knowledge. They had no other choice.

 

Sílahul did not find the healers’ reaction inappropriate. The Fëanorians simply lacked knowledge. This ignorance seemed to be what joined the different camps firmly together, but Sílahul did not have time to ponder the state of things between the Noldor factions, though they understood that this conflict had greater repercussions for all of Elvendom in middle earth.

 

Emptying themselves of those thoughts, Sílahul prepared themselves for encountering Nelyafinwë. Sílahul walked into the room and gently closed the door behind them. Sílahul steeled themselves. The stench of blackness and decay made its way into everything. They were frightened, startled by the manner which darkness consumed life. But there had to be a crack in that too. This they would find out. Sílahul slowly opened their thoughts, nearing the unconscious figure of Nelyo. At first, Sílahul was hit with the onslaught of decay, the peculiar, withering stench of death. Morgoth’s intent was to devour Nelyo, to consume his fëa so that there would not be a remnant of him left. Yet this was also Morgoth’s mistake. Morgoth believed so deeply in his capacity for evil that he ignored the limits of his own power, believing himself capable of inflicting something that he simply could not. It was the stench of death that allowed Sílahul to see this flaw, for Morgoth was devouring Nelyo, but only as a wolf can devour their pray, leaving its spirit behind. Sílahul perceived that some larger power claimed Nelyo’s fëa, a power beyond Morgoth’s grasp.

 

There was still hope Sílahul could find Nelyo! Sílahul plunged into the dark, into the currents of song and melody that Morgoth wove. Sílahul had been on such paths before. Morgoth’s blackness was duality, born of it, as were all the Valar, but Sílahul was multiplicity. Morgoth did not understand Sílahul, could not know them. Perhaps this is why kwen was outlawed in the Undying Lands. Sílahul’s song crept between crevices, found gaps in Morgoth’s sorcery. While there were binaries in creation, there was also a wider prism of possibility from which creation emerged, a creation that Morgoth did not hear. Sílahul believed that like the other Valar, it was Morgoth’s arrogance that prevented him from reaching understanding and not something innate.

 

It was in these absences and gaps in Morgoth’s thought where Sílahul found Nelyafinwë. He was cowering deep, deep, within the earth, chained to an infinite and shifting prison. Sílahul knelt before Nelyo. “Nelyo,” they whispered, hoping they could reach Fëanor’s son with the simple gesture.

 

Nelyo recoiled. “You are not Findekáno!” he retorted.

 

Sílahul was surprised. How had Fingon reached him here? This, Sílahul told themselves they would discern, but in this moment, they needed to bring Nelyo out from this utter darkness. No matter, that would be a question for later.  “I was sent by Findekáno to help you,” Sílahul answered, using the name Nelyo used for Fingon. “I was sent by your brothers. They believe I have the knowledge to free you from this.”

 

“How?!” Nelyo whimpered, a look of abject terror distorting his face.

 

“With time,” Sílahul revealed, “but I need you to help me.”

 

Nelyo shook his head cautiously. That Nelyo did not scream in horror spoke to how strong this elf was. Nelyo was stronger than he anticipated. Sílahul quietly chastised the other healers. They had been so close to helping him, but for their inability to think differently they had not found Nelyo here, but Fingon did. Fingon did not understand this himself. Otherwise he would have led others here. These elves still had much to learn.

 

This would take time, Sílahul observed looking around the shifting prison, the manner in which matter and chaos melted into one another, defying laws of the known world. It reminded Sílahul of Black holes in the universe: places in space that devoured stars, that devoured the light. The science of the elves, what the Noldor referred to as Nolmë, could not see beyond these limits, not yet. Sílahul’s own knowledge, that the Laiquendi understood as Nóleme, was humble, open to mystery. From this perspective, those absences in the universe were not an end. Sílahul believed they were transformation. Sílahul intuited they held a different kind of life, if it could be named that. In that utter nothingness they too held creation, but Nelyo could not discern this; thus, Morgoth’s prison, in part, was one Nelyo bound himself in, but for the limits of his beliefs! Sílahul would need to unweave the web of deceit, of dark magic, of pain, of terror that trapped Nelyo here.

 

The healers had at least managed to unlock the door to this prison. Sílahul took respite from this for breaking that open might have cost them too much time. Sílahul hummed quietly, almost a whisper, not wanting to bring Morgoth’s focus upon them. Their melody was simple: a clear note that harnessed Endórë’s totality, harnessed it in such a manner that with it, Sílahul sliced at the webbing, undoing the thick threads knotted together that held Nelyo prisoner. From this chaos, which itself was not an evil, Sílahul sought to unbound Nelyo, though they did not seek order; instead it was through chaos that Sílahul allowed unthought to emerge: that which was not imagined. Sílahul offered Nelyo a different vision of life. Grasses and flowers bloomed in the webs, trees stretched slowly within them, their branches ripping the fine tendrils apart. The weight of stone was made manifest and unbeings were birthed, for their presence was not one imaginable to the limitations of Arda and the finite knowledge the Valar possessed of song. In their might, the Valar did not fathom that there was matter beyond the song that was revealed to them. Sílahul’s strength was their humility, for well they understood there was that, that was beyond them.

 

But the effort was great and Sílahul’s song started to grow weak. They tired. Blinking away the dust from their work, they found themselves back in the healing room in Fingolfin’s camp. “Food and drink,” they whispered. Cíleth offered them the most potent mead and a simple waybread. Sílahul smiled their thanks.

 

“We are with you,” Cíleth offered. “May I?” she asked placing her hands tentatively on Sílahul’s back. Sílahul nodded their appreciation.

 

“Fingon,” Sílahul managed to say.

 

“Here,” Fingon answered.

 

Sílahul felt Fingon’s warm hand on their back, heard the multitude of breath of the healers in the room, felt the strength of Nelyo’s brothers, Celegorm and another unfamiliar to them. Sílahul gathered their strength into their center and ready once more, they drifted back into the darkness. It was deep and dark and wet, like a womb, but that was not an evil! This provoked an immense sadness in Sílahul. Morgoth did not understand creation. A womb would never hold a prisoner. Even if it made a life it could not tolerate, that did not survive, it would be expelled, or absorbed, but never devoured to nothingness.

 

Sílahul sunk deeper into the embryonic fluid, the roots of Endórë. Sílahul found beauty and began their own weaving, tethering together what remained of that darkness. Nelyafinwë had recognized what Sílahul was doing, had been hacking away at the darkness that tried to keep him rooted in his prison while Sílahul had emerged from this dark place to replenish themselves. Yes! Sílahul praised Nelyo. You are strong and stubborn! Fingon told me stories about just how strong you are. Nelyo raised a hopeful face up towards them. Celegorm too painted a beautiful picture of your stubbornness, Sílahul shared. Nelyo smiled. Sílahul hesitated, I warn you son of Fëanáro, you will be forever one with darkness. You cannot survive without taking a part of this with you.

 

Nelyo paused his work. I know, Nelyo answered, sadness and despair reflecting back to Sílahul, recognition of his fate weighing heavily on him.

 

Sílahul continued their work: removing darkness and taking some to remake some of what remained of Nelyo. It was a new tapestry, a new song, but also more ancient, for Sílahul pulled threads from before the time of Cuiviénen. Nelyo relied on Sílahul for that work, for Nelyo could only hear the threads, the notes that were born from the creation of the elves. He did not have the ability to hear before this time, but as Sílahul pulled from these chords they became music Nelyo could hear. How did Sílahul possess this? What Nelyo did not understand is that even in this remaking, he was bound by the Oath: an oath that tied him to the limits of the universe the oath was spoken into.

 

How long Sílahul worked in this darkness they did not know, but they forged until Nelyo was closer to being birthed once more. Nelyo’s spirit grew stronger. It was a matter of days, or weeks, or was it seconds, before Nelyo would spill out of what had been a prison and back into the conscious world. But Nelyo was scared for he had been in that world of wakefulness and was not strong enough to maintain his grip when he first awoke.

 

Sílahul comforted Nelyo. You were tethered then, Sílahul shared. No one I know could have come up for air, so strong is the prison that drowns you. This is a testament to your strength, they reassured Nelyo. There remained a tether tying Nelyo to his prison, but it was weak. This last bit needed to be severed to release Nelyo.  Are you ready? Sílahul announced, grasping the last thread that held Nelyo deep in his prison. Nelyo shook his head firmly. He was ready to be freed! With a shout and a swift gesture, Sílahul ripped the thread causing the two to tumble out into the world. It was a rough passage, even for Sílahul. After all they’d never had to rescue anyone so deep, so far gone into the darkness. Sílahul would forevermore be in awe of Nelyo and Nelyo of Sílahul.

 

Sílahul fell back and was caught by Cíleth. Fingon stood up abruptly bounding to Nelyo’s side in one, quick step, hoping for a miracle, but this was no miracle. This was Laiquendi knowledge.

 

Nelyo tentatively opened his eyes, sucking in each breath like a new born babe. “Finno,” he whispered, barely able to make a sound. Fingon again, the first one he saw.

 

“Here,” Fingon spoke, reassuring his friend of old. “I am here.”

 

To the other side of Nelyo were Celegorm and Amras, crying, whispering Nelyo’s name. Nelyo looked from Fingon to his brothers. Nelyo could not know that days earlier Amrod had departed, in part, to inform Maglor of the success of finding the Laiquendi healer, but most of all because he shrewdly observed their welcome was wearing thin: better only two of them remain with some of the Fëanorian healers.

 

Fingon glanced at Sílahul. Sílahul’s eyes were closed from their efforts, but they managed to say, “If only just. He has survived.”

 

Fingon did not know whether to hug Sílahul or stay at Nelyo’s side. Sílahul laughed breathlessly, “Thank me later.” To Cíleth they spoke quietly for a moment. What was exchanged Fingon did not know. He guessed it had to do with what would come next for Nelyo, but he could not focus on that conversation. His full attention needed to be on Nelyo.

 

After a moment, Sílahul said aloud, “I need rest and food”.

 

“Of course,” Cíleth responded, signaling that the elves waiting to do just that. Quickly Sílahul was helped away by some healers and Kyelep for she had also stood vigil with Sílahul and now would tend them.

 

Cíleth was barking orders. Nelyo’s physical ailments, his wounds, were still present. They needed to make sure whatever losses they’d incurred would now be gains.  Cíleth had never doubted Sílahul’s abilities and what she witnessed supporting them increased her awe of their deep and unfathomable knowledge. Sílahul painted for her what she must do next, understanding what this new melody of Nelyo would need.

 

“Speak to him,” Cíleth urged Fingon. “Keep him here and help him feel himself, his body.”

 

Celegorm looked up sharply at Cíleth. Why was she only speaking to Fingon but the look she shot him made Celegorm hold his tongue. He hadn’t time to argue now. He turned his attention back to tend to his brother, lending him strength while Fingon spoke quietly to Nelyo.

 

Cíleth turned her attention to Celegorm and Amras, noting Celegorm’s displeasure. “You do well to support his healing thus,” Cíleth gently reminded Celegorm, understanding that Celegorm, rightly, desired to be a more central part of Nelyo’s healing. He and the other brothers would become this, but not in this moment. Cíleth would discover why Fingon’s bond with Nelyo was so overwhelming, why they were so dominant in each other’s mindscapes, though she had a suspicion.

 

Fingon spoke quietly to Nelyo, caressing his face with his fingers. His touch was hesitant. Still, Fingon recoiled from that which had been them, but he forged ahead, describing Nelyo’s scars and wounds, for Fingon knew this would be the first thing Nelyo would see and was feeling. Fingon felt exposed touching Nelyo so intimately in such a public manner. Fingon looked briefly at Celegorm, expecting scorn from the other elf, but he found no such anger reflected in Celegorm.

 

Nelyo closed and opened his eyes to communicate, glancing at the elves that surrounded him. He was too weak to speak, too weak for mind speech, and unable to shed a tear. After some time Nelyo drifted off to sleep. At first, this alarmed Fingon, but while he watched Nelyo sleep, he observed it was a deep sleep, not the corpse like stupor Nelyo had previously succumb to.

 

“Tis a good thing,” Cíleth observed over Fingon’s shoulder. Turning her attention to Celegorm and Amras she shared, “He heals. And he will heal well and quick. Your Nelyo is stronger than an ox.”

 

“And more stubborn too,” Celegorm replied. Fingon grunted in agreement.

 

“Fingon, sing to him like the day you rescued him,” Cíleth urged, knowing that saying this would be taken as a rebuke by Celegorm, but it was not meant to be. She needed Fingon to guide Nelyo back into his memory of his rescue, to begin to mend the timeline of what occurred in the world of the living, and not dwell in the time spent in the underworld of Morgoth’s prison.

 

Obediently, Fingon sang Nelyo songs of the times in their youth. Amras joined in and together they sang softly to Nelyo. Celegorm could not find his voice, so he focused on feeling the bones of Nelyo’s body, caressing the thin skin with the most utmost of care for the skin that clung to Nelyo’s bones was gossamer thin. All the while the Fëanorian healers resumed their quiet work of making strong the physical aspects of the body while Nelyo’s kin tended to his spirit.

 

After a while, Cíleth interrupted them, directing herself to Fingon: “You must not coddle him so! Sing him the songs of your journey over the ice.  Sing him songs of who your people are now. Nelyo needs to know this.” She paused, and looking squarely at Fingon, knowing that what she was going to say was treading on topics for only Noldorin ears: “It will help him know that he’s not the only one that’s become unrecognizable to he once was. He needs to understand that he is not so different from you after all.”

 

This stung Fingon. He grimaced. Indeed, he’d hated himself for the dark thing he’d become. Fingon did not want this for Nelyo. He admitted this to Cíleth, “I do not want this for him.” It was absurd, Fingon silently considered. How could Nelyo not be irrevocably different?

 

Celegorm glanced up at Fingon momentarily then back at Nelyo. How unrecognizable would Nelyo be? The thought of him being as changed as Fingon stirred much heartache in Celegorm, in Amras.

 

“Do you want him alive?” Cíleth challenged both Fingon and the Fëanorians.

 

“Yes,” Fingon breathed.

 

“Are you afraid he’s going to be one of those elves bound forever to Morgoth?”

 

Celegorm locked eyes with Cíleth. He knew what she spoke of. Whispers had found their way into the Fëanorian encampment of Nelyo’s potential thralldom, but Maglor had assured the brothers that thrall or not, Nelyo would be returned and never rejected.

 

“Say not!” Amras whispered, overwhelmed by the notion that even in life, Nelyo would be tied to Morgoth.

 

“Have faith in Sílahul,” Cíleth responded. “While they would allow such a tortured thing to survive, Sílahul did not find Nelyo so twisted.” Cíleth had utter faith in Sílahul’s work.

 

Fingon and Celegorm glanced at each other, Nelyo’s sleeping form between them. Fingon knew the Fëanorians would not turn Nelyo away, no matter how dark he emerged. In this, Fingon discovered an attitude towards the Fëanorians he believed to be long gone: faith, faith they would take care of Nelyo.

 

“Do you know what we do with those poor souls?” Cíleth asked them, reminding them that the Sindar, unlike the Laiquendi, rejected and shunned Morgoth’s thralls.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively, he did know.

 

“I do not believe this to be Nelyo’s fate. Do you not believe in Nelyo’s strength to resist?” Cíleth added.

 

“I do,” Fingon whispered, turning to inspect his cousin.

 

“And what of you?” she asked the Fëanorians.

 

“I have no doubt of it,” Celegorm breathed. He needed Nelyo to come back. When Nelyo was first taken captive by Morgoth he hadn’t truly believed Nelyo could be saved. He could and he did now. Amras did not answer but silently he made up his mind he would do whatever was needed to help Nelyo heal, even if it meant angering his brothers.

 

Cíleth gave them a moment to sit with their thoughts while she and other healers tended to Nelyo, taking stock of his vitals.

 

After a while, Fingon spoke up, more at ease. “It makes sense,” he said, “for Nelyo to know he’s not the only one that is so different.” Celegorm spared a glance in Fingon’s direction, but Fingon didn’t notice. Making the choice not to censor himself, Fingon spoke softly to Nelyo, knowing everyone listened: “Darkness is wedded to me. You will not be a horror.” Fingon managed a smile. “You’ll fit right in,” he shared.

 

The Nolofinwion healers smiled bitterly. What Fingon said was not an insult, but for he questioned what right Fingon had to claim him that way. Amras understood this, though it made him sad to acknowledge the truth of it.

 

Ever so astute to the undercurrents at play, Cíleth spoke up and said to Fingon, “Show him that.”

 

Fingon caught Celegorm and Amras’ attention, daring them to stop him. He would sing songs that indicted them, but he would not ask permission nor forgiveness in this moment. So Fingon sang Nelyo mourning songs born from the Ice. In some of these the Nolofinwion healers joined.

 

Cíleth listened to these quietly. This was a part of the Noldor she only had glimpses of, until now. Celegorm and Amras too listened, but what Fingon sang next chilled Celegorm.

 

Fingon sang the song of Rilmiel, how Aredhel had borne the brunt of much scorn from her people in their first years after leaving. The lament and regret in Fingon’s voice reached Celegorm and he too cried, seeing before him the blonde wisps of hair of his daughter. Fingon was showing Nelyo that Fingolfin’s host was unrecognizable from who they had been before, had been transformed in ways they could have never conceived before the Ice. Fingon also sang of a people changed, a people that could be cruel and cold but also love and desire things they had never before. Fingon sang songs that his people made of him in battle, of the dark warrior, of the terrible things he’d done, of the kinslayer. And Nelyo was at peace. The songs were a healing. Even for Celegorm there was some respite for a glimpse of the daughter that did not survive through Fingon’s song, a daughter he might not ever know if the everlasting darkness claimed him. Amras was utterly shook by the revelation.

 

)()()()()(

 

While Sílahul slept deeply, recovering from his long healing of Nelyo, Kyelep walked the enclosed village. She was allowed this courtesy though she knew she was always being watched, even if it was not obvious. She walked and observed the goings on, the Noldor doing the work of the everyday, took time to witness the world that was revealing itself to her. She noticed the windows in some older buildings faced the wrong direction, she saw traces of garden beds long abandoned, and rightly so for their position to the sun was all wrong. She walked to a garden bed filled with what the elves quickly came to call winter vegetables. She knelt before it and allowed herself to feel the growing things. They had been tended with love, vibrated with life.

 

She heard footsteps behind her. It was Turgon, Fingon’s younger brother. He loomed over her though she knew he didn’t mean too. Turgon was unlike Fingon. “It took us some weeks of observation to determine how the sun pulled living things in the sky, and some more time to understand the path of the sun and moon,” Kyelep offered.

 

Turgon responded, equally thoughtful, “We didn’t notice these things at first. We were unable to find focus in those days.” Turgon would not speak of Nelyo or the Fëanorians. It was enough for Turgon to know that Nelyo would survive.

 

Kyelep stood up, cleaning the dirt from her long tunic. “I imagine it would be some getting used to,” she assessed, studying plants she had not seen before. She walked over to the other side of the garden to inspect plants she was more familiar with.

 

Turgon knelt beside her, his hands gingerly lifting the leaves of the plants, inspecting them, and sharing some of his light.

 

Kyelep shared, “We have grown root vegetables long before the sun came. We needed to coax them to emerge from their slumber in the soft dark under the stars. When the sun came, they sprang to life on their own, but those deep in the forest have remained unchanged.” Kyelep smiled, her hands passing over the familiar leafy sprouts of carrots and parsnips.

 

Turgon shook his head in understanding. “We took this for granted in the West for we had the light of the two trees, and as you can see, we didn’t quite understand the path of Arien and her relationship to growing things. We do now.”

 

Kyelep remembered the abandoned vegetable beds. “Aye,” she agreed. “In the darkness of the forest, little of Arien’s light makes its way to the ground so we yet tend our gardens as we did before her journey lit up the sky to make day.” Kyelep glanced up to the forest beyond the keep. “But the trees,” she breathed, losing herself in the knowledge of those first moments of greeting, “The trees,” she repeated, “they greeted Arien’s journey with curiosity and after some time, with gratitude, for they had to work less to keep themselves alive. In this way the tree tops of our forests are changed, denser.” Kyelep continued, “I for one am thankful I can still walk in darkness under the cover of the forest.”

 

Turgon studied her face, his eyes following her observation of the trees beyond. Turgon, ever the architect turned his thoughts to the buildings that also now stood in relation to the sun. “If you notice our buildings, the first structures were not built by us, not built in relation to the sun and moon, for these buildings preceded their emergence.”

 

“I did see that,” Kyelep shared.

 

This made Turgon happy. Excitedly, he continued on, “If you observe the buildings that have emerged beyond those first buildings you will note how they take advantage of the sun’s light in the cold season and how they protect from the heat of the hot season.” Turgon stood up and offered Kyelep his hand. He was offering her a tour of their village from his standpoint.

 

Kyelep accepted his offer and walked through the camp next to Turgon as he explained the layers of buildings, of technology that emerged in relation to the new seasons brought by the sun and moon.

 

“Your brother referred to you as an architect, a builder,” Kyelep shared, walking next to Turgon.

 

Turgon’s face was neutral, “I was, I am,” he answered, weighing whether Kyelep knew about the building of Vinyamar. He assumed she did as word tended to travel quickly, but he was not going to offer up that information. Instead, he focused on showing her more of the camp. “Come with me,” he offered, “I’ll show you how we have brought water from the lake into the camp.

Kyelep laughed, “Indeed you Golda want everything brought to you!”

 

“Golda?” Turgon questioned.

 

“Our name for you,” Kyelep answered, curious if Turgon would inquire further.

 

“It sounds brutish,” Turgon observed. Smiling down at Kyelep, Turgon offered, “a rather accurate label.”

 

Kyelep laughed. She liked Turgon. She could see in him the pain of a deep loss, marked in his eyes. Lalwen had described their losses over the ice, the loss Lalwen’s own family endured, of Elenwë and Argon. While Lalwen did not tell the entire tale of why they marched over the ice and the others sailed, she did mention that there were betrayals between the two camps. Lalwen did not tell her of the Kinslaying and Kyelep, when she found the total truth of the story, would later forgive Lalwen for it. But only when the truth was revealed to Kyelep—of kin killing kin, of Fëanor and Fingolfin’s bitter feud, and the depth of their exile from their homelands—would the Noldor truly make sense to her, the story would fall into place in a way it did not for her in this moment.

 

The Noldor bore the story on their bodies. The notches on their ears, the strange marking on their hands and bodies, so unlike Thingol’s Sindar, yet more like their long lost relatives that chose to stay. In Turgon she noticed the same purposeful notches on his ears as many of the other Noldor carried, though not the few Fëanorians she knew. On his hands were the same black lines, covered in ink, though she could see some of those marking were carried beneath the skin. Those were strange markings. Interestingly, Turgon did not bear the rune scars and etchings on the skin as Fingon and his company did, as some of the golden haired descendants of Finwë did. She wondered at this, but did not ask.

 

Indeed, Kyelep could see the influence of the Sindar not under Thingol’s rule and of the other nearby clans of the Laiquendi on certain customs the Noldor adopted. This bode well for their survival, and yet there was an undercurrent of darkness to who the Noldor were. Lalwen shared stories of conflicts, of brave peoples desiring to return to kin once known, to lands that were once home, but she was a diplomat, not actually revealing much. The Golda were strange, dark cousins, indeed!

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm wanted to slit Fingolfin’s throat. Word had come to him and Amras that they would be expected to depart now that Nelyo was assured recovery. “That bastard,” Celegorm seethed.

 

Amras observed his brother thoughtfully, “Perhaps if you had not asserted Russo’s lordship over him, we might still be welcome here.”

 

“They needed to be reminded just who their patient is,” Celegorm barked back.

 

“And yet we are at their mercy,” Amras told him, though Celegorm’s look of disgust at his brother’s suggestion was answer enough. “We need them as much as they need us,” Amras challenged Celegorm.

 

Celegorm growled. He did not want to hear wise words from his little brother.

 

Amras smiled, “Nolofinwë is right to despise you. You should not have spoken to him thusly.”

 

“What do you know of it!” Celegorm roared.

 

Amras passed his hands over his face, exasperated. “You think it wise to provoke Irissë’s father after what you provoked? A child, Tyelko, a child!!!” Amras was shaking.  “And father’s betrayal?”

 

Celegorm’s grip on any ability to see sense was lost. “Father did not betray him. They could have stayed!” Celegorm blamed Fingolfin for Rilmiel’s loss, turning the loss of his child onto Fingolfin himself.

 

“Nolofinwë did not know,” Amras shot back. “I found Irissë and accused her of as much,” Amras admitted. “I wish I had not,” Amras offered, his voice sorrowful. “They could not go back. Irissë too is a kinslayer.”

 

Celegorm’s face grew white. “What did you say?”

 

“You did not know,” Amras replied, the weight of the revelation shaping the contours of his voice. “Of course, she killed for you, like Fingon, both thinking those they loved threatened.”

 

The anger drained from Celegorm, though he fought the reason that wanted to infiltrate his thoughts.

 

“It is best we leave,” Amras said again. If Nelyo was to take leadership over the two camps, they needed to tread with care during these next few months of Nelyo’s healing.

 

“But he is just returned to us!” Celegorm retorted. “How can you advise this?!”

 

“Because I have more sense than you,” Amras replied smoothly. “I want Russo back too, but I am also thankful that he is alive. If a few months of parting is all it takes for him to come back to me, in the scope of me thinking him dead or forever beyond my reach, well, this is a small price I can bear.”

 

Celegorm was not convinced, but a knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

 

“Not now,” Celegorm ordered, not caring who he offend.

 

“It is I,” Kyelep announced from the other side of the door.

 

Celegorm was immediately diffused. Kyelep had a way with him. “Come in,” he answered.

 

Kyelep let herself in the room. “I came to see that you are making the right choice.”

 

“And what is that?” Celegorm shot back impatiently.

 

“To leave,” she answered looking from Celegorm to Amras. In Amras she found much of her sister’s humility and pensiveness. “You gain nothing by staying here though I understand your desire to stay with your brother, but you forfeited that right long ago.” Kyelep’s words stung, but she was correct in her cold assessment. Fingolfin had the upper hand. Nelyo needed space to heal quickly to resolve this current state of affairs.

 

“Indeed,” Amras answered. “I was just saying as much.”

 

“Fingon was on his way here, just now,” she shared.

 

Celegorm looked up sharply. “What for?”

 

“That is easy enough to guess,” Kyelep answered.

 

“Let him come,” Celegorm growled.

 

Kyelep shook her head in disapproval. “I convinced him otherwise, told him I could convince you to leave quietly.” Looking pointedly at Celegorm, she asked, “Can I?”

 

Celegorm had no choice. “We will leave, but-“

 

“We will leave,” Amras interrupted. “Our healers are anxious to return and set up for Russo’s return to us. They trust Russo’s healing to Cíleth, completely.” Amras emphasized this last word.

 

“I am not privy to the depth of the fight between your houses,” Kyelep added, “and if Nelyo is truly your king than the matter of it will resolve quicker the sooner he heals and is returned to you.”

 

This was true, Celegorm reasoned. Maglor’s letter to him in response to the growing tensions in the camp indicated as much. “We will leave,” Celegorm spoke, defeated, though he liked it little. “Within the hour we travel.” Looking at Kyelep, Celegorm asked, “And when will you come to know the rest of your sons?”

 

“When Nelyo returns, I too shall go with him,” she answered. She would indeed know them, but there was more she needed to find out in Fingolfin’s camp.

 

Amras sighed, relieved. “Then let us make haste.”

 

)()()(

 

From light and dark and all that was in-between and above and absent, Nelyo saw the multiplicity of Endórë. Yet she was finite. This stirred a great sorrow in his heart, though this knowledge was now wedded to him. Sadness and anger and fear and terror would stay within Nelyo, but so too would bravery, and fierceness, and gentleness, and immeasurable strength. He was made anew. Anew. Different. And what of Maitimo? That name, the prophetic name was a part of him, a history of who he was, foundation to who he was becoming. He’d honor it.

 

Nelyo woke with a start, expecting to be in his dark prison once more. Instead, the soft light of the sun filtered in through a window. He recognized the room of the healing ward of what was Fingolfin’s camp. There was quiet activity around him. Nelyo hesitated, but the reflex of breath was more powerful. He was apprehensive of the limits his body would encounter, but thankfully he was not met with overwhelming pain as he filled his lung with air.

 

A face materialized from the bright light that his eyes filtered. Slowly, Nelyo’s eyesight adjusted and he saw a familiar face. The question of who are you was apparent in Nelyo’s eyes. Sílahul brought their hand up to Nelyo’s face, smiling. “Welcome home,” they whispered. 

 

Nelyo stuttered. It was hard to find how to make a sound, but he managed a ragged whisper: “You saved me.”

 

“A little,” Sílahul agreed.

 

“Thank you,” Nelyo mouthed.

 

Sílahul watched Nelyo closely, carefully noting the hesitant glances that Nelyo took of his surroundings. Nelyo did not quite yet believe he was free from his prison. “With time you will know your freedom. Do not judge yourself too harshly for doubting it now,” Sílahul offered, allowing their gentle fëa to wash over Nelyo.

 

Cíleth brought some water over to Nelyo. Nelyo too recognized her. Blinking his eyes Nelyo realized they were not burning. His vision was clearer than it had been for many years. “We are going to help sit you up,” Cíleth spoke, her tone gentle and powerful. Nelyo did not move his head but his eyes locked on her, fear shining in them. “Worry not Nelyo,” she soothed, “we have been moving you. You are ready for this.”

 

With an almost imperceptible nod, Nelyo acquiesced to Cíleth’s request. Carefully Cíleth and Sílahul sat Nelyo up while another elf angled the bed with a lever to raise it up to meet him. Pillows were placed carefully to make him comfortable. Nelyo held his breath while the carefully planned movement proceeded.

 

“Breathe,” Sílahul reminded Nelyo. “You will not break.”

 

Nelyo glanced at the elf with gratitude. Once settled, Cíleth brought Nelyo a glass of water. She brought it to his lips and gently wet them. “You have been drinking water even in your slumber,” she informed him. “You will not hack this up.”

 

This too comforted Nelyo for he feared not even water would be welcome. But before he drank he looked up at Cíleth his eyes reflecting back that he did not entirely believe her.

 

Cíleth smiled and to Nelyo it was the most beautiful thing. “Surely you remember the dropper we have been using to feed you water.”  Nelyo shifted through the haze that was his memory since Sílahul brought him back. He did remember his brothers using droppers to drip water into his mouth, remembered them sitting him up to have him start feeling the sensation of a cup against his lips, wetting his lips with water. He realized then that his lips were not parched and split. The sores were healed. Nelyo pressed his lips together and could taste the sweet salve on his lips. Ah such a small but wonderful thing to be grateful for. Once again, Nelyo nodded. Cíleth brought the small cup to his lips. Nelyo, without realizing leaned forward. He took a small sip. Another discovery! Eagerly he took another sip until the glass was emptied.

 

“You are stronger than you imagine,” Sílahul shared. “Now you must drink something of more sustenance.”

 

Cíleth brought another cup. “Miruvor,” she explained. “I hear you have a similar drink amongst your people.”

 

Nelyo found confidence to speak, considering that perhaps his vocal cords were not as damaged as they once had been. “Yes,” he answered. Though not strong, his voice was recognizable. This was another first. Eagerly he leaned forward to drink the liquor. It was sweet on his lips and it burnt a little going down his throat. It was not entirely unlike miruvórë made from Yavanna’s flowers.

 

Sílahul guessed their question. “We have our own sacred flowers. It is from these petals that the miruvor is made, alongside the most healing honey donated by a colony of bees not too far from here. The queen was most honored to have her colonies work be offered as a gift to you.”

 

Nelyo tried to smile, but the pain from a deep scar tugging at the edge of his mouth prevented him. Without thinking, he brought up his right arm to touch the scar. There was effort in the movement. The healers did not stop him, though they knew he would encounter the fact he had no hand to feel his mouth with. Nelyo sucked in his breath in surprise. His bodily pain did not allow him to feel the singular pain of the amputation. That would come soon. Forgetting the scar near his lip, Nelyo observed his stump, wrapped in clean gauze. He carefully lowered his arm onto his lap. The memory of Fingon’s sword striking his arm returned. Nelyo cried then, allowed his body, though weak, to give itself over to grief, for he grieved this loss. Not solely because of the missing hand, but what his body had endured.

 

From afar he heard Fingon. Fingon stood at the doorway, having been called by one of the healers when Nelyo came too. “Nelyo,” Fingon called out, afraid to speak too loudly as if his voice would break his friend. “Nelyo,” Fingon whispered, watching his friend grieve.

 

Cíleth indicated Fingon come close. Fingon hesitated, weighing the warring desires within him to go to Nelyo, the other to turn away. Hadn’t he done enough? After a moment, Fingon walked reluctantly to Nelyo’s sides, his slumped shoulders carrying the weight of what his rescue had cost Nelyo. Apprehensively, Fingon put his hand on Nelyo’s left arm. Nelyo looked up at Fingon, his eyes wet with tears.

 

With his bandaged arm, Nelyo carefully wiped away the tears from his eyes. “Tears,” he spoke, “for joy and loss.”

 

Fingon understood. Nelyo’s tears were new to him. How much time did Morgoth’s torture steal the possibility of tears away from Nelyo? Fingon buried these thoughts. He needed to help Nelyo heal here and now, he decided. Fingon took a deep breath and said simply, “What do you need from me.”

 

“Describe my body,” Nelyo requested, his voice sounding the strongest it had for many years. Nelyo would not cower and lose himself to self-pity.

 

Fingon witnessed the steel of Nelyo’s fëa shining in his eyes. Fingon started with his right arm, describing to Nelyo, as briefly as he could, about the procedure to fix the initial severing of Nelyo’s hand. Fingon continued on like this, naming the procedures Nelyo endured, pausing to observe Nelyo, and continuing with Nelyo’s urging.

 

Feeling the scars, the wounds Fingon described, Nelyo filled them and stretched them. Some, with the help of the healers he would tend and mend. Others were stubborn and those would be worthy of remaining. From these scars Nelyo would cull might and memory. But what of the missing hand? This troubled him the most for he felt Fingon’s regret. And yet the missing hand, its absence also represented the fear and the doubt of what the unknown meant for Nelyo. It was the most potent symbol of this rebirth, something Nelyo would have to deal with when wakefulness was more constant. At least in his sleep Nelyo was healing. There would be no dreaming, for now, for he had the help of many. They kept those images at bay. And in time too, Nelyo would need to learn to dream again, even though there would be horror in that.

 

)()()(

 

Nelyo awoke. Carefully he stretched his aching limbs. He tensed realizing someone was in the room with him, but relaxed when he saw it was Findekáno. Nelyo watched Findekáno pace in front of the large hearth, the warm fire casting a gentle glow in the room. Animal skins were laid upon the floor, warming up the stone and earthen floor, cold from winter. Findekáno was unrecognizable. He had grown in strength as they all did in Endórë, but his soft beauty was gone. Instead, Maitimo found Findekáno was now grim, that broad smile he remembered, a memory. He wore his long black hair in a long plait, secured with gold thread. Findekáno was imposing, scary even. No longer Findekáno. Now Fingon.

 

Fingon paused, feeling eyes upon him. “You’re awake,” he turned, speaking to Nelyo in that now customarily short way of his. Instead of saying to Nelyo that he was content to have him returned from the clutches of Morgoth, Fingon chose silence.

 

Nelyo motioned for Fingon to help. He asked, “I’d like to sit up.”

 

Fingon nodded, moving over next to the bed, helping Nelyo sit up. Nelyo did the work of sitting up, while Fingon helped move pillows behind his back. “The healers believe you will gain your strength quickly,” Fingon offered, awkwardly, fumbling for words that used to be so comfortable between them.

 

“Hard to believe,” Nelyo groaned quietly, the aches and pains of his body as he settled into the pillows not allowing him to believe the healer’s wisdom.

 

“I do,” Fingon countered. “You’ve grown strong in a few weeks.”

 

“My memory shifts,” Nelyo whispered, referring to how much even his memory was stretched by how tired he was.

 

“In time that too will fully return,” Fingon replied,.

 

“Not sure I want it,” Nelyo answered.

 

“Perhaps that is wise,” Fingon agreed. “Will this do?” Fingon asked Nelyo, inserting another pillow.

 

“Quite,” Nelyo assured Fingon. He wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Too long he’d suffered discomfort and torture to not make sure his needs were carefully attended to.

 

Fingon helped Nelyo grasp a tea sweetened with honey gifted by the colony that had taken an interest in helping Nelyo heal from a side table. Nelyo wrapped his large, bone thin hand around the mug, using his other arm to keep it steady, though he was clumsy learning to use the arm, new as it was to him without the lower part of it. The warmth was comforting. More comforting was the fact he could raise the mug of his own accord. The warmth and sweetness going down his throat was a treasure. He hummed with satisfaction.

 

“I never thought I’d treasure this,” Nelyo shared. Finding his voice that needed exercise to sound less horse. “Must seem silly to you…”

 

Fingon smiled.

 

“Oh,” Nelyo breathed, realizing his time in Morgoth’s dungeon was about the same time it took Fingon and his father’s people to cross the Grinding Ice.

 

Their intimacy translated on this side of the ice as well. “It’s fitting that I can commiserate with you on such detail,”  Fingon admitted, though he didn’t have the heart to say to Nelyo that while the Ice was brutal, it paled in comparison to what Nelyo endured.

 

“Indeed,” Nelyo offered, a hint of his strength and character of old shaping the reply.

 

Fingon let Nelyo focus on his tea while he pulled up a chair by the hearth and sat his normal vigil. Silence between them, at least, was comfortable. Nelyo relaxed back into his pillows, finishing his tea. With focus and determination, he turned and leaned over to set aside his tea. After his accomplishment, Nelyo frowned slightly. “I will heal quickly?” he asked, carefully raising his arm to examine what was left of it.

 

“A few nights ago you could not sit up on your own,” Fingon reminded him.

 

“And now hear me and see me,” Nelyo laughed, between coughs. After a few moments, Nelyo looked at Fingon, not disguising his sadness. “You are changed,” Nelyo observed, this time referring that beyond the physical.

 

Fingon frowned. “As are you.”

 

Nelyo coughed in response. After catching his breath, he answered, “I’m disfigured.” Both physically and spiritually, he thought to himself.

 

Fingon paused before replying, “I am sorry for that.”

 

Nelyo closed his eyes. While Morgoth’s hold was broken, there were other hurts to tend, other changes.

 

Nelyo whispered, observing Fingon. “I should thank you…”

 

Fingon cut him off, “You owe me nothing.”

 

“But I do,” Nelyo managed to say.

 

Fingon ruminated on Nelyo’s words, moving his chair closer to the fire. Holding his hands above the flames, Fingon found an answer: “Then I trust you will find a recompense that will absolve you of any feelings of debt.” Fingon remembered Sílahul’s cautionary words of debt. Fingon smiled. He was a Noldo after all. Debt and recompense he understood well.

 

Nelyo sighed. “Oaths, debts, these things I understand.”

 

Fingon replied, “Indeed.”

 

Nelyo relaxed. “I’m famished,” he admitted, changing the subject.

 

“I’ll send for your food,” Fingon answered. “I return when the moon rises.”

 

Nelyo nodded his head.

 

Before leaving, Fingon stopped and turned to look at Nelyo from the door. “I am sorry that your brothers are not here. They will come for you soon enough.”

 

Fingon shut the door behind him. Nelyo wanted to scream in frustration, but knew better. Nelyo understood in that moment what he must do. Fingon was right after all. Nelyo frowned again, angry that his salvation was met with much bitterness. His brothers’ insistence that Fingolfin needed to acknowledge Nelyo as rightful heir of the Noldorin crown so soon after Nelyo was saved by Sílahul earned their banishment from Fingolfin’s camp. They had clamored to take Nelyo with them but even their own healers advised against it. At least they still had some sense left in them, Nelyo thought bitterly. His brothers left Nelyo no choice. For this too, Nelyo was thankful for his newly discovered kin, Kyelep. She used her power over the Fëanorians, wielding Miriel’s image to advise them, to counsel them to return to their camp. Though he had not exchanged many words with her, Nelyo looked forward to speaking with her. He needed to know just how close she and Celegorm had grown. Nelyo closed his eyes overwhelmed. Already the political landscape of this world he woke into was more than he could bear, but this too he would meet with fierce determination.

 

 

Chapter 16: Scars

Read Chapter 16: Scars

Chapter 16: Scars

  

Nelyo felt the scar on his cheek, tracing it with his left hand, a gesture that took great effort. Both acts were deliberate, moving and using his left hand was not instinctual. Nelyo had to think of the lift of the arm, of extending the fingers on his left hand, taking care so he wasn’t heavy handed. The trace, touching the scar, reminded Nelyo of searching in the archives of Tirion, about the process of deliberation and care and concentration, and also discovery of searching that the work demanded. Nelyo’s skin demanded the preciseness of such searching.

 

Fingon surveilled Maedhros’ actions, choosing silent observation as he accompanied Nelyo this day. Sílahul warned them to not attempt mind speech until Nelyo was stronger so they relied on spoken speech. Fingon wasn’t keen on mind speech anyway, the intimacy of such communication was not something Fingon wanted rekindled.

 

Nelyo and Fingon were in the same room together, yet occupied different spaces, different sites of contradiction. Theirs was a parallel journey, one in which their paths came together, and yet they remained estranged. The ability to connect, the notion of it, was not something either desired, though truly it was more a manifestation of a deep psychic divide, a rift of worldview from the before and the after that informed each one’s alienation.

 

Days ago, it took Nelyo much effort to sustain anything more elaborate than simple dialogue, but words came easy to him again. So sure of Nelyo’s healing was Sílahul that they took their leave to visit nearby Laiquendi kin. Acharedel had left with them, hoping, through Sílahul to find family. Kyelep stayed. Indeed if not for her the conflict between the two camps might have turned bloody. Thus the days progressed, for once, uneventfully.

 

Fingon could not fathom what internal dialogue Nelyo was having as he traced the ruin on his body. Most of Nelyo’s wounds would heal, but some of the scars would remain.

 

“May I sit,” Fingon asked pointing to the chair next to the cushioned chair Nelyo sat on. They were together, but the space between them was vast. And yet the map to finding each other once more was written on their bodies, in a way, and also in memory.

 

Nelyo nodded his head. Fingon walked over and sat next to his half-cousin. Removing a light jacket, Fingon revealed his arm. Nelyo lifted an eyebrow. Fingon was momentarily shaken by that gesture for it was too familiar. He’d seen Nelyo do that so many times, but the familiarity, in that moment, it seemed absurd, stolen from a time that was outside the boundaries of their new reality.

 

Shaking these thoughts away Fingon took Nelyo’s hand and helped Nelyo trace the runes on Fingon’s bicep. Nelyo’s face contorted into a question. “A custom we took up from the local elves,” Fingon informed Nelyo.

 

Nelyo asked, “We?”

 

“My company,” Fingon revealed.

 

“Company?” Nelyo inquired, just coming to understand the organization of this new world he was delivered into.

 

“I lead a company, mostly on horses,” Fingon answered. Nelyo wanted Fingon to say more, but as usual, it was difficult getting him to keep talking. Instead Nelyo turned his attention back to Fingon’s arm, “How,” Nelyo asked, tracing over the pattern. Elven skin did not keep scars, not usually.

 

“A poison from a root is applied after the pattern is cut,” Fingon explained. “This causes the scarring to be long-lasting.”

 

Nelyo raised his other eyebrow, curious as to whether the scars were allowed to fade.

 

Fingon pressed his lips together, attempting to share a smile, but failed. He knew Nelyo did not need smiles to help him feel better. Forcing a smile was infantilizing after all. Looking at his bicep, Fingon continued. “Runes for protection and for victory,” he shared grimly. “I don’t believe they will fade completely.”

 

Nelyo understood. These runes were not given time to fade for there would be more battles and more victories that would demand a price of the flesh. No. Fingon’s scars too would also companion him.

 

With his eyes, Nelyo looked to Fingon’s ears and hands.

 

Fingon sighed. The notches on their ears were entirely Fingolfian. The Fëanorians dared never ask about them, though they didn’t hide their study of the strange markings. Nelyo was the first to ask. It was the reason Fingolfin’s people wore ear jewelry when traveling amongst non Noldorin peers. They did not want to draw attention to it. The Laiquendi had certainly noticed, but had not asked after their Noldor kin’s strange body adornments. Fingon understood at the end of his time with the Laiquendi that it was out of respect and not needing to know everything. The Noldor were not so inclined.

 

“To mark the dead from the Ice, our journey here,” Fingon admitted. There were two notches on Fingon’s right ear and one on the other. “I’m lucky,” he added, absentmindedly tracing the notches on his ear. Nelyo paused on Fingon’s hands. “The ice left marks,” Fingon clarified. Fingon’s eyes narrowed, recalling the horror of their time on the ice: “In those first years of the ice our bodies were unused to such bitter cold.” Fingon glanced at Nelyo, wondering if such a topic was appropriate, but the light in Nelyo’s eyes betrayed his curiosity. Fingon would speak more than he wanted. “The bitter cold,” Fingon continued, “caused some veins close to the skin to freeze. As a result, it left these black marks etched on our extremities where our own blood froze within the vessels. In time, because of the cold, we grew more veins in our hands, our feet, faces, to keep us from freezing,” Fingon revealed. Fingon rubbed his hands together, memories of the cold causing them to ache.

 

Nelyo asked, “Ice damage?”

 

“Yes,” Fingon answered, “but not the type that would require us lose a limb.”

 

Nelyo looked up thoughtfully at this revelation.

 

“Though some did,” Fingon revealed, thinking of his nephew, Enelyë and Ondion’s son, Lalwen’s grandson. The boy had grown quickly, accustomed to his missing limb, lost to a terrible frostbite caused by the ice. The boy had survived it and now wore prosthetics if needed, but that was rare.  

 

Nelyo kept his eyes focused on Fingon. This was curious, but Nelyo did not want to dwell on his arm. He would have time for that later. Nelyo wanted to keep Fingon talking. This was the most he’d heard Fingon speak since he regained consciousness. Hearing Fingon’s familiar voice was soothing. Nelyo missed the deep, sonorous timber of Fingon’s voice, noticing that Fingon lost the playful inflection in how he spoke Quenya in better days.

 

Unsure if Nelyo wanted to know more about those in Fingolfin’s host who lost limbs, Fingon grew silent. “Go on,” Nelyo urged, nodding in the direction of Fingon’s hands.

 

The conversation of Fingon’s nephew would be for another time then, Fingon surmised. It was understandable that Nelyo did not want to dwell on his lost arm. Reluctantly, Fingon took up the story of the marks left by the ice, a story he was sharing with an outsider for the first time: “Eventually we understood the shape left by the ice on our skin, in our veins, our blood, told a story.” Fingon let out a long sigh. “It gifted us knowledge we had not asked for.” Fingon spoke soberly, “These runes born from the ice mark our journey. Once here we noticed there was a permanence to them so we did what Noldor do and made them prettier.” Fingon had to smile at this. “The tattoos began as vanity.” 

 

Fingon held up the outside of his hand to show Nelyo. There was a series of stars and arrows in patterns that curved into intricate patterns. Nelyo observed how the patterns overlapped with the black traces of the veins. At the top of one of Fingon’s hand, Nelyo noticed what must be a rune for the moon. On his other was a rune for the sun. At the beginning of his convalescence Nelyo had noticed these strange markings on many of Fingolfin’s people, but had not have the energy to inquire about them. Perhaps it was good Nelyo’s curiosity was born again. Nelyo could make out what those runes represented for he had much time to study both the sun and moon during his time on the cliff. It had been cruel that the power of the moon and sun revealed themselves to Nelyo hung on that cliff side, but seeing that revelation marked on Fingon’s skin was unsettling. Both because the revelation of the moon and sun runes for Nelyo caused him much misery and because they were also, in part, why he managed to survive for as long as he did.

 

Fingon noticed Nelyo was overcome. Tears gathered in Nelyo’s eyes. “Medically good,” Fingon declared pragmatically. Fingon regretted the words immediately. “I am sorry I brought you pain,” he offered, regretful also. Fingon’s own thoughts took time to travel between the space between them. Like Nelyo, Fingon was looking for the appropriate emotions, remembering when he was thoughtful and intuitive, but that seemed distant. Now he was awkward in searching for it.

 

Nelyo shook his head. “Tilion and Arien witnessed my torment,” he revealed, emotion surfacing, that Nelyo did not wish to come. “Bitterly, they could not aid me. In recompense they traced their shapes in my mind,” Nelyo shuddered. “I was almost without vision, and the runes, when I spoke them, warmed me and cooled me. I cursed myself for conjuring them for they prolonged my life, but my will to survive compelled me.” Nelyo collapsed back into his seat from where he had been leaning forward, studying Fingon’s hands.

 

Fingon helped him settle comfortably. Sitting back, Fingon looked intently at Nelyo, weighing whether to share his thoughts with him. Darkness is wedded to him. Sílahul’s words echoed in Fingon’s mind.

 

“I speak them to inflict damage on my enemy with these hands,” Fingon whispered, looking over his own hands. The space between was made smaller, that darkness a thread that bound them together.

 

Nelyo looked up at Fingon’s figure. His face was cast in shadow. Nelyo managed to turn up a corner of his mouth in the first of a true smile.

 

)()()()()(                                   

 

Nelyo sat on a chair just outside of the healing wards, watching the goings on of the village. His presence disturbed many of Fingolfin’s people. He had been a dead man to them, and now he was resurrected, and he looked like death alive. They too had endured starvation and were many times near death, but Nelyo’s body revealed the singularity of Morgoth’s torture. It reminded them of the stakes of their lives in Endórë, and the evil they faced.

 

Fortunately, Nelyo either did not notice or did not care. He was here on Cíleth’s orders, breathing in fresh air, but it was also a political move on Lalwen’s part. Fingon had told him as much. If Nelyo was to be king, he would need to be known in this new form. The healers were confident his body would heal, and Lalwen believed that if the Noldor accepted him in this tortured form, his leadership would be succored by his transformation. Nelyo smiled bitterly. No one saw him do it, but he shared it nonetheless, appreciative of Lalwen’s political maneuverings. Nevertheless, Nelyo felt trapped. He was but a pawn in this game. He understood he needed to heal quickly, set order to things once more, be in charge of his own destiny and that of his family’s, as much as he could. Prior to his capture, such political theater might have interested Nelyo. He no longer cared for it.

 

The sound of chains clanking against one another startled Nelyo. His mind sunk into memories of being chained, the sound of them being dragged by his captors, chaining him within  his standing prison. The chains clinked loudly, menacingly. Gasping for breath, Nelyo held on to his chair. He wanted to throw himself to the ground and cower as he learned to do to protect himself in those dungeons. Nelyo was warring with his instinct, honed by many years of torture and abandon. Not without reason was Nelyo later said to become mightier after his imprisonment. That strength, that determination was forged from utter terror and what lay beyond. Nelyo endured! With all his strength he held onto the chair and prevented his own demise, this time. The sounds of the chains clanking together diminished but the visions in his mind grew starker, bloody in detail. Nelyo’s ragged breathing transitioned into whimpers, just audible above the din of daily life.

 

Sílahul watched as Nelyo fought to maintain a hold on his freedom, but they did not move to interfere. Nelyo needed to face these memories, find the path towards coming back from them. They could not succor him as one would a child. Nelyo needed desperately to find something in the here and now to draw him back.

 

A breeze picked up. Nelyo felt it on his cheeks. There were no breezes deep down in the dungeon his vision took him to, and hanging on the cliff-side it was either a cutting wind or suffocating stillness. This breeze was merciful and gentle. “What horror,” Nelyo gasped, coming out of his intense reverie. Nelyo focused on his breath, calming his heart first. He moved his attention to his tense muscles, concentrated on relaxing them. The ability to relax was a revelation for Nelyo in his early healing days. Next, he redirected his eyes to take in his surroundings.

 

Not far from him stood Sílahul, like a sentry, their eyes fixed on Nelyo. Nelyo locked his own gaze on Sílahul, mouthing thank you. Sílahul did not intervene in the horror of the memory that consumed him, allowing Nelyo to learn the skills he needed to live with the horror. Because of Sílahul, Nelyo learned to rely on Endórë as healer.

 

They did not exchange words. Instead, Nelyo returned to his observations, his eyes roaming the different parts of the camp he could see and on to the trees beyond, willing himself to ground himself in the now. The sight of a bird cleaning itself in a puddle, its dance with the water exuberant, caught Nelyo’s attention. The joy this act brought him was large. Nelyo was seeing the world anew, a starved man, being fed once more. The mundane was no longer trivial.

 

Nelyo turned his attention to a group of children at play. Fingolfin’s host had more children than the Fëanorians. Perhaps it was their journey across the ice that encouraged it. He heard another elf, an adolescent call out to one of the children. Nelyo turned to look at the young elf across the way who was near a large oak, but as the boy came around the tree, Nelyo’s mouth fell open. This must be Fingon’s nephew! The boy, an adolescent, was missing a part of his arm.

 

The group of children called out to the young man and he ran and joined in their play, helping the young elflings carry out their imaginary tasks. Nelyo watched them for the next few hours, fascinated with the ease of the young man’s movement. His missing hand was not an impediment.

 

Looking for Sílahul, Nelyo called the healer over. “I wish to speak to Fingon’s nephew,” Nelyo asked.

 

Sílahul smiled. “His name is Meldo. Perhaps you should call him over.”

 

“Are you sure?” Nelyo asked, looking up at Sílahul, not convinced that Sílahul’s suggestion was wise. Nelyo was not an easy thing to look upon. He’d hoped Sílahul could stand in as a buffer between he and the boy. Surely Nelyo himself was too scary a thing for a child to speak to.

 

“Go on,” Sílahul urged, knowing that Nelyo resisted it.

 

After some time and a very stern look from Sílahul, Nelo muttered, “Very well.” He was not happy that Sílahul would force him to do this for himself. Intellectually, he understood the reason for it. Nelyo leaned forward, calling out “Meldo!”

 

Meldo stood from where he was playing with the children. The young man didn’t recognize the voice that called for him, but his eyes stopped on Nelyo, drawn to the regal figure on the chair. Of course Meldo knew who Nelyo was, remembered him from Tirion. He had been very young then. Meldo knew the entirety of Nelyo’s story, from his rescue, to his miraculous recovery.

 

“I am told your name is Meldo,” Nelyo spoke. He didn’t need to shout for elven hearing is keen.

 

The youth ran over to Nelyo, pausing in front of him, somewhat sheepish. “I remember you,” Meldo answered.

 

“And I you,” Nelyo answered, smiling in such a manner that he hoped would not spook the young man. “You are grown,” Nelyo commented.

 

Meldo hesitated, answering, “I came of age on the ice.”

 

“Is that from the ice?” Nelyo asked looking at the youth’s arm.

 

Meldo smiled, lifting his arm up, inspecting it as if anew. “I’m sure my uncle told you that some of us lost limbs and other extremities to the ice.”

 

“He did,” Nelyo replied. “You survived it,” Nelyo remarked.

 

“Because it was cold,” Meldo reflected. “That is, the cold was the reason for it.”

 

Nelyo raised an eyebrow. He did not know the full story. “Sit with me and share your story,” Nelyo inquired softly.

 

Meldo smiled. He was shy and unsure, but Nelyo seemed truly interested and Meldo reasoned Nelyo would certainly be curious about their shared trait. “I was hoping I could get to know you,” he revealed. “I think I might have something to share with you that might help.” Meldo blushed, before quickly adding, “I don’t want you to think that I am overstepping, that I could have something to teach you.”

 

“But you do!” Nelyo insisted. “Go on,” Nelyo urged.

 

“It was gangrene from the freezing of my hand,” Meldo revealed, getting right to the heart of it.

 

 “I am familiar with it from Aman; however I only heard of it happening to livestock that wandered and were lost in those lands near the cold,” Nelyo shared.

 

“Then you know that once it takes, and takes good, no healing song can stitch back together the parts. And the song,” Meldo shivered, “or the infection as the healers call it spreads quick,” Meldo reported, both excited that Nelyo understood what it was, but also shaken by the idea of it.

 

“I see,” Nelyo answered.

 

“To stop it from spreading, the healers knew they needed to amputate, so it was done.” Meldo hesitated, not knowing whether he was sharing a part of the story he should not, but he felt a kinship with Nelyo over the arm, and well, over Fingon. “My uncle, Fingon, he’s the one who did it. Saved me he did. Like you. I guess you and I share this very singular thing.”

 

Nelyo had enough wit to not let his shock show.

 

Meldo continued, “I think the manner of yours,” Meldo did a chopping motion with his arm, “was, um, less clean.”

 

Nelyo laughed at this. “That’s an understatement.”

 

Meldo laughed nervously. “I hope I did not say something I should not have.”

 

“On the contrary,” Nelyo answered, “you make me feel not quite such a freak.”

 

Meldo grew serious. “You are not a freak. You are a survivor!”

 

Ah to see through the eyes of the young! “I must remember that,” Nelyo answered earnestly.

 

Meldo’s smile grew wider. “Fingon saved us both,” Meldo said. “And this is the duty he is now sworn to.”

 

“His duty?” Nelyo inquired.

“To keep us safe,” Meldo answered. “I train with the cavalry, you know. Soon I will take my place riding beside him.”

 

This made Nelyo immensely sad. “So you will.”

 

“This,” Meldo shared, shaking his arm in front of Nelyo, “is not the limit you imagine it to be. It just simply is. Different than others, but not different for me, and not different for you.”

 

“I understand,” Nelyo said, touched by the wisdom Meldo was sharing. An intense burning sensation where his hand once was prompted Nelyo to reach to itch it.

 

Meldo’s smile fell momentarily. “Phantom pain from the amputation,” Meldo observed. “That was the hardest to deal with.”

 

Nelyo frowned. The pain was sharp and incessant. “When it comes I cannot imagine a time beyond it,” Nelyo revealed, finding it easy to speak of it to Meldo.

 

“It will come, the pain will lessen,” Meldo assured Nelyo. “What you have come back from,” Meldo shook his head in disbelief, “well there’s no doubt that you will be a force to reckon with.”

 

Nelyo raised an eyebrow in response.

 

“Fingon shared that you will grow to be a greater warrior than even he!” Meldo divulged, knowing it would comfort Nelyo. “How does he know this?” Meldo asked, not because he did not know the answer, but because he wanted Nelyo to answer him, to believe it.

 

Nelyo laughed, “Probably because I always bested him.”

 

“Because you are strong!” Meldo replied. Nelyo, even though he was feeble and thin, was still intimidating and tall. And to have endured such captivity and torture, was all the evidence Meldo needed to know that Nelyo would come out on the other side of this stronger and hardier than most.

 

Nelyo patted Meldo’s shoulder. That Meldo did not contradict him, did not tell him that it was impossible for that to happen because how could it? It made Nelyo start to believe that he truly would emerge from this stronger and more determined.

 

Meldo shrugged his shoulders. “We are not afraid of what we are becoming nor should you.”

 

“Wise words,” Nelyo replied softly. “Thank you Meldo. You have given me strength…and hope.”

 

Meldo smiled brightly. “Fingon will be happy to hear it!”

 

Nelyo couldn’t help but ask, “He will?”

 

“Of course he will,” Meldo responded. “I know he’s changed and yes, he’s dark,” Meldo spoke forthrightly, “but he still cares deep down. Otherwise he wouldn’t throw himself so fully into protecting us.” Meldo paused, calculating whether to share his opinion. Mind made up, he forged on, “If Fingon was as terrible as he considers himself to be, he wouldn’t have gone to save you.”

 

Nelyo sighed. “Thank you Meldo. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

 

“Anytime,” Meldo answered cheerily.

 

The young man’s joy was infectious and healing. “Go on,” Nelyo spoke, urging the youth, a boy in Nelyo’s eyes, back to the games with the children.

 

Meldo shared one last smile before headed off to find the other young elves. What a story he would have to share with them!

 

Looking back to where Sílahul sat, Nelyo offer a silent thank you with a nod of his head. With that Sílahul stood and with the help of another healer took Nelyo back into his room.  Nelyo needed to eat and it was better to do that in private for Nelyo was self-conscious that he struggled with it.

 

)()()()()(

 

Artanis left her aunt’s room. It was obvious she was angry. Aredhel came out after her. “Artanis!,” Aredhel called after her, but Artanis was too angry to stop and wait for her cousin. Surely Aredhel wanted to defend Lalwen.

 

Behind her she heard Aredhel’s footsteps pause. “When you are less angry, we will talk,” Aredhel spoke to Artanis’ retreating figure.

 

Artanis shoulders relaxed. Good, she deliberated, she did not want to speak to Aredhel in this moment. She was angry and frustrated, believed that Lalwen and Fingolfin were too quick to dismiss Nelyo’s brothers. Of course they could anticipate that any of the Fëanorians would quickly point out that Nelyo’s return meant he would once more be the Noldorin king on this side of the sea in a way they didn’t insist with Maglor. After all Nelyo had no part in the burning of the ships. He did not betray Fingolfin’s host!

 

But those words had earned her a bitter rebuke by Fingolfin. In better days, Fingolfin had once loved Nelyo like a little brother, but Fingolfin was still bitter about how Nelyo turned on him and Fingon during the days of discord in Tirion. Nelyo was Fëanor’s right hand person in Tirion. Artanis considered that Fingolfin’s hurt with Nelyo cut deeper than she anticipated.

 

Yet it was preposterous that she was not given permission to visit Nelyo. She would not commit a diplomatic blunder. They took her for a child. This made Artanis seethe. She would see Nelyo, permission or not, but Lalwen was the diplomat, understood her nieces and nephews better than they did themselves. And it was Acharedel’s misfortune that she was the one that received the missive from Lalwen.

 

Before entering her room, Artanis ran into Acharedel. “Not now,” Artanis growled.

 

Acharedel stood back from Artanis. “What have I done?” she asked, not knowing why Artanis was so angry.

 

Artanis shook her head. “Not with you,” she offered, attempting to diffuse her temper.

 

Acharedel leaned back on her heels, “Oh no,” she groaned aloud, “the missive I bring you will surely make you angry.”

 

Artanis spun around to face her. “From Lalwen?” she asked, her anger getting the best of her once more.

 

Acharedel made herself as small as possible. “Yes.”

 

Artanis put her hands on her hips, trying to contain her body from exploding. “What does she want.”

 

“For you to ride with our company. A large company of orcs has been spotted near our southern border. We received a message delivered by a hawk from our Sindarin neighbors. Fingon is readying the horses as we speak,” the words spilled out of Acharedel.

 

Artanis closed her eyes and covered her mouth with her hand. She did not want to yell at Acharedel. This was not her fault. And Lalwen’s orders were not unsound. Indeed Artanis cursed herself for only weeks earlier announcing how frustrated she was that she was not believed to be more capable soldier, demanding to be placed on more patrols, like her brothers.

 

“Fuck!” Artanis cried out, frustrated.

 

Acharedel replied meekly, “Lalwen out maneuvered you.”

 

Artanis replied, exasperated. “She has! Oh Manwë’s balls,” she laughed. “She’s insufferable.”

 

“And yet you aspire to be like her,” Acharedel retorted bravely, knowing she might bring Artanis’ wrath on her.

 

Artanis’ eyes narrowed, but she did not respond. “How soon do we leave,” she chose to ask.

 

“With the moon,” Acharedel answered.

 

“Fuck!” Artanis repeated. Laughing, she raised her hands in defeat. “She wins!” Artanis announced. “I will ready my things,” Artanis added, defeated, but she was not going to give up the opportunity to ride.

 

Acharedel could not help but laugh. “I am happy not to be your family,” she teased.

 

Artanis studied Acharedel. “Just you wait and see,” Artanis said smoothly, her eyes dancing with delight. Artanis turned towards her family’s quarters, opened the door, and slipped inside.

 

Acharedel stood where she was, confused. What was Artanis getting on about? She hated when Artanis said things like this because they could be prophetic words, or she could be playing with peoples’ beliefs that her words were prophetic but were really not, just meant to get under the skin. Acharedel threw her hands up in frustration: “This family!”

 

Acharedel went to the inner stables within the fortification, knowing she would find Fingon. She found her own peace on the walk towards the stables, taking in the movement of life. Once more, she would go forth in defense of her people.

 

“Ára,” Fingon greeted her, using her new name. It sounded good coming from him.

 

Ára grinned. “It certainly sounds more like me,” she admitted.

 

Fingon moved towards her to greet her. “I agree,” he shared, touching her forehead with his in greeting. Fingon stood back, appraising his friend. “I am glad to ride with you,” he spoke. “But first we must tend to our mounts,” Fingon added, handing a brush to Ára. Their horses needed grooming.

 

It was a good sign that Fingon was riding. It meant Nelyo was better. Fingon would not leave his side if he were not. Ára’s horse nudged her with her nose. She was impatient, demanded the soothing brush.  Ára whispered quietly to her horse, letting her know she deserved a good brushing. The horse, in turn shared snorts of gratitude with Ára.  Ára thanked her horse for carrying her to battle once more. The horse listened and nickered.

 

“Your scars grow faint,” Ára observed Fingon’s arm while they worked side by side.

 

“I have not met an enemy in some time,” Fingon declared, absentmindedly tracing the rune on his arm, thinking back to his conversation with Nelyo. The sea raged in Fingon’s eyes. His ghosts were present.

 

“How goes Nelyo’s healing,” Ára asked. Nelyo was not a ghost and yet the memory of their time before seemed something dead in Fingon, Ára believed. Indeed her own love for Aredhel weighed heavy in her own heart, an anchor pulling her to icy depths she could not surface from.

 

“Surprisingly well,” Fingon answered. “I am loathe to leave now,” Fingon admitted, sparing a glance in Ára’s direction, while they inspected their horses, making sure they were healthy. He failed to see the sea in her eyes.

 

“Nelyo,” she said, naming why Fingon did not want to go. “That’s something,” Ára admitted, “the Fingon I know is always hungry to go to battle.” Ára was not holding Fingon’s desires against him, but she did want him to speak on his feelings having Nelyo returned.

 

Fingon shook his head, kneeling on the ground next to his horse. Fingon’s hands were gently checking his mounts joints, inspecting the hooves. “He needs me,” Fingon said simply.

 

“And you need him,” Ára responded. Sílahul had urged her to find her own life, apart from the children of Fingolfin, but she was too frightened to search beyond the certainty of the relationship with Fingolfin’s house that was so well worn.

 

Fingon looked up at her from where he knelt, but said nothing. Ára continued inspecting her horse’s face, next to Fingon who was looking over his horse. Ára moved to the horse’s mane. From her pocket Ára pulled out bells and other trinkets and ribbons that she wove into the mane, singing quiet songs of protection and valor. This, both elves understood: preparing their mounts for battle and weaving enchantments into the ribbons, whispering songs of power so that the bells would chime ominously for the enemy’s ears.

 

“I am compelled to it,” Fingon said, breaking the silence of their work. Looking up at Ára he asked, “If not me then who?” Fingon asked, speaking aloud his own doubts.

 

“His brothers,” Ára retorted.

 

This frustrated Fingon. “Well you know they could not stay,” he answered irritably. Not everyone agreed with the dismissal of Nelyo’s brothers, Kyelep among them.

 

Ára sighed. “Perhaps, they could not, but they also could not offer Nelyo the healing intimacy Nelyo requires for they are not bound to him as you are.”

 

Fingon stood up, “Must you remind me?”

 

“Always,” she answered, unafraid of Fingon’s temper. “You must confront this,” she demanded.

 

“Things are different now,” Fingon muttered, his face betraying the confusion waging within. Ára could always disarm him, with words or arms. “I feel compassion for him,” Fingon confessed.

 

“Compassion and love,” Ára reminded Fingon.

 

“Enough,” Fingon answered, his eyes narrowed. He walked away a few steps but the resentment in him dissipated. Fingon turned back, returning next to Ára. “Why do you do this?” he asked, his voice storming with emotions that were reflected in his deep, blue eyes. This time he saw the sea raging in Ára’s eyes.

 

“Because I am your friend,” she responded softly, the brush in her hand stopping its work. Ára stretched out one hand and cupped Fingon’s face. He was confused, but he did not push her away, choosing to lean into her touch.  

 

Fingon breathed in deeply, looking for courage to speak. He found it reflected back in her eyes. “Always you comfort me and little do I ask about you,” Fingon acknowledged, repeating a sentiment exchanged between them of late.

 

Ára dropped her hand placing it on her horse’s back. She sighed sadly. There was still a long road ahead for her to truly become Ára. She was so comfortable being Acharedel, liegeman. It was easy for her this way too. She did not have to think about her own feelings, her own needs, and she did not have to dwell on those things she was losing. And Fingon seemed content to have her be his minder, to focus her energy on managing his own emotions.

 

“Such are the ways between a liegeman and his lord. Our lord’s lives become our own. I do not have a script for anything else,” Ára conceded. “And you cannot help me find it,” she shared, reminding Fingon that this was for her alone, not for him.

 

Fingon stroked Ára’s horse’s neck, but his eyes were fixed on Ára. But it was for him, for he relied on her selfishly.

 

From behind them, an elf interrupted them. “My lord,” a young woman spoke. Fingon recognized the voice. “I bring your saddle,” she spoke contritely. This time she did not mean to intrude upon the two.

 

“Thank you Líssien,” Fingon answered, acknowledging the young woman. He took the saddle from her. It was light and while the elves did not always use a saddle, these were special made for battle on horseback that allowed the elves more mobility in battle. Without a saddle they could accomplish much of the same, but with the saddle they would not be easily knocked over.

 

The saddle had delicate runes etched into it. “This is fine work Líssien,” Fingon told the young woman, admiring the work.

 

“Thank you my lord. May they protect you and bring you strength in battle,” Líssien answered tentatively. Líssien directed herself to Ára. “With your leave I will retrieve yours.” Líssien curtsied and quickly departed.

 

Ára shared a smile with Fingon. “I think she tolerates me now.”

 

“She does,” Fingon agreed. His memories travelled back to the harvest festival where he had taken Ára on a tree and Líssien happened on them in a most unwelcome manner. It was a good memory.

 

“But only because it is my job to protect you,” Ára teased, knowing where Fingon’s mind journied. “She values my job, for I bring you back safe and…”

 

Fingon rolled his eyes. “Say no more,” he pleaded, knowing Ára was being coy.

 

Ára blinked her eyes innocently. “I was only going to say I often bring you to completion soundly.”

 

Fingon laughed but he willed himself to stop. “I do not wish to tease her,” Fingon said sincerely.

 

“But I like to harass you,” Ára responded. Fingon grunted.

 

“And just when I believed I was getting you to speak more, you answer with a grunt!” Ára teased Fingon who was usually short with words.

 

Fingon shook his head, but smiled to himself. Ára could always lighten his mood.

 

Líssien returned with Ára’s saddle. “My lady,” she spoke, offering Ára the saddle. The incantations tooled into the leather were equally stunning. Ára took the saddle and placed it atop her horse. Líssien helped her secure it.  Ára traced the work on the saddle, admiring it as Fingon had. Turning to Líssien,  Ára shared, “Your work is beautiful and potent.” Ára  looked closely at the young elf, adding, “I am honored to take this into battle.”

 

Líssien blushed. Ára had become a hero of sorts for her. Not only because of her closeness to Fingon, but also because she was so strong and present. Ára was one of those figures that brought Fingolfin’s people hope. They could count on her. She would always stand next to Fingon. Thus Ára was also cursed. In Líssien’s elder days, long after the wars, Ára would hold a most special place in her heart and of all the memories, even those of Fingon, she would cherish the friendship that formed between the two the most. In each other they would find a way to speak to one another of their own hopes and dreams, finding a way to be fully themselves.

 

Fingon walked to the wall of the stable where his armor was ready. Fingolfin’s armory was growing. Something had come of the tentative alliance between the Noldorin factions. They worked together with nearby Sindar mining for iron ore and created shared forges. From these forges they produced armor of many designs in consultation with those that needed it. Fingon’s company was thus arrayed in the armor needed for a cavalry, an elven horse company. The notion of a cavalry turned from one of organized games in Aman to the military units in the larger structures of war that were born on this side of the sea.

 

With his nephew’s help, Fingon strapped on the leather guards that were worn under the steel. The steel armor went on last. Fingon admired Curufin’s work. He had insisted on repaying Fingon in this way. Fingon accepted it gladly. It was light, strong, and easy to move in, but most importantly, it did not injure the horse nor impede the rider’s movement on the horse. The saddle was important for use with the armor for it added layers of protection between the horse and the rider’s armored legs.

 

With Líssien’s help, Ára was readied. Her own armor forged by the capable hands of Curufin’s son, Celebrimbor, assisted by Finrod, though Finrod and Curufin never worked in the shared forges at the same time.

 

From beyond the stables Fingon spotted Kyelep mounted on her horse. She did not wear the armor the Noldor favored, choosing leather armor instead. “I am eager to see Kyelep’s influence in action,” Fingon observed. From Kyelep the Noldor learned to communicate differently with their mounts. While the Noldor had the gift of communication with animals, they needed to overcome their worldview that created a buffer between elf and animal. Kyelep taught the Noldor of Fingon’s company to overcome this. With this learned intimacy of communication with their horses, Fingon’s company were expected to train others in their midst, share in breaking the barrier between being elves of Aman and elves of Endórë. Fingon valued that there was no longer a gap between what the rider desired and the horses execution. Fingon’s cavalry learned to act intuitively, like a swarm, Kyelep instructed.

 

Ára agreed, “She has been invaluable.” Ára looked at the assembled riders and saw the gold of Artanis hair. “She will ride next to Artanis?” Ára inquired.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively. “She will. I can think of no better teacher than Kyelep. Artanis will no doubt quickly pick up on Kyelep’s interaction with the horse.” Meldo brought Fingon his horse. Swiftly, Fingon was atop his mount.

 

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Ára said, pausing before she jumped on her horse. Ribbons of gold and silver were woven in the horse’s mane. Attached to the ends of the ribbons were bells. As the horses danced with anticipation the courtyard was filled with the sound of their hooves and the bells ringing delicately.

 

Fingon rode to greet Kyelep. “We ride together for battle. I am thankful to have you with us, and most importantly, the knowledge you shared.” Fingon brought his hand to his heart in gratitude, lowering his head. Riders around him did the same.

 

“Ride we must,” Kyelep answered, looking at the faces of the elves she’d come to know, men and women, elves that put themselves at the fore of the battle with Morgoth. Kyelep’s time with the Noldor shaped her understanding of them and made her disdain of the Valar more concrete.

 

Kyelep observed the Noldorin military system unfold before her. In her short time in Fingolfin’s camp she learned about the ordered, hierarchical society of the Noldor that lent itself to this type of military organization by rank and file, an inheritance of life in Tirion under Valarin rule. The Noldor chaffed at her naming of this, but Fingolfin begrudgingly admitted that the Noldor were duly and unduly influenced by their Valarin overlords.  The Noldor also borrowed Sindarin organization in their ranks, and with Kyelep’s advising, the Noldor also incorporated Laiquendi tactics into their ranks. The Noldor did not have the time of indigenizing and so they cannibalized, truly children of exile.

 

Indeed Lalwen shared the story of the death of Finwë with Kyelep, of Morgoth’s deceptions, making hearts grow with mistrust and doubt in Tirion and the Valar’s inaction. Lalwen told her the tale of Fëanor’s rebellion and Kyelep’s heart grew proud to hear it but also weary.

 

Around Kyelep the Noldor were gathered, grim of face, tall and strong, a fierceness to them, and a hunger she was unfamiliar with. Fëanor’s words echoed in Kyelep’s mind. Lalwen had shared the moment of Fëanor’s rebellion with her; thus the visage of Fëanor, his beauty and wrath, was forever seared in Kyelep’s own memory to become a part of the oral history the Laiquendi would pass on: “Why, O my people, ‘why should we longer serve these jealous gods, who cannot keep us, nor their own realm even, secure from their Enemy? And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence, but even were it otherwise, I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father’s slayer and the thief of my treasure.”* Fëanor was spectacular and convincing.

 

Fingon’s voice rang out, calling the horse company to march, but for Kyelep, Fingon’s voice was mingled with Fëanor’s: “We march,” Fingon’s voice called out. “Under the light of the moon we shall meet our enemy and they will tremble. Our enemy has met the swift justice of our swords before! Ride forth. Vengeance is our right!”

 

Kyelep witnessed the war-kindling of the Noldor, unfamiliar to her, yet so natural to these people. Fëanor’s words on the other side of the sea echoed loudly across these lands:  “Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have ye not all lost your king? And what else have ye not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the jealous mountains and the harvestless Sea? Here once was light, that the Valar begrudged to Middle-earth, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless forever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the salt thankless Sea? Or shall we go home?” *And the Noldor came home. What a homecoming it was indeed!

 

The young Artanis rode next to Kyelep. The company departed into the lands beyond the encampments, into the outside that for the Noldor was dangerous, but had been a home for the elves of Endórë before that. Kyelep despaired, her heart breaking for Finwë’s terrible death, and for the son that brought his people here to a promised land. Fëanor, wrongly or rightly deemed it home: “In Kuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about where a free folk might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city. But by the blood of Finwë! unless I dote, if the cowards only remain, then grass will grow in the streets.”* But the Laiquendi were wary of their Noldorin brethren, the Golda. Kyelep whispered to the setting sun, “You were the forsaken Fëanáro, not us.”

 

The sun set and Fingon’s company marched to meet the orcs, accompanied by the light of the pink moon on a cool, clear spring night. The pink hue of the full moon reminded the elves that the fish would soon return to spawn. This brought them some comfort as they marched for their would soon be a bounty of food to replenish their stores and the elven clans would gather to welcome the first fish harvest of spring. But tonight the pink of the moon was ominous. While he welcomed life, the moon would also witness death. And so it was.

 

)()()()(

 

Though it was spring, Artanis felt the cold wind whip her face. Morgoth chilled the air. The elves waited. The tales of Men yet to awake would name them a noble company, but on this day of March, they were still counted young in the accounting of the Eldar, eager to conquer. Heroes stories told in later days would remember them aged and wise, but as Artanis witnessed them, as she was herself, they were youths who had no choice but to be soldiers in this world.

 

Valinor. Artanis reflected on the lands they left behind. She saw glimpses of that long last place in her mind’s eye, the great buildings of the Valar shining with the light of the two trees, but she also beheld the ice that was their home for many year. Now before her were plains of tall grasses, tall as an adult elf. Hatred undying, Fëanor’s words echoed in her mind, for she was filled with hatred, and thus her heart was stirred to war!

 

But the elven company would not charge into the tall grasses where the orcs lay in wait. Instead the elves waited, just beyond the reach of the tall grasses. On the other side of the hills were Celegorm’s foot soldier’s, quietly waiting for their chance to sneak upon the rear guard of the orcs and flush out those that did not charge Fingon’s company. Elven scouts were hidden on higher ground. Their bird call signaling the movement of the orcs within the grasslands. The orc’s movement would cause the grass to ripple like water. But when the cold winds came the scouts needed to be more mindful to look for patterns not stirred up by the wind.

 

Fingon’s soldier’s would draw the orcs out and Celegorm’s people would wait until that moment to attack. Although Fingon and Celegorm departed on bad terms, they begrudgingly understood they needed to fight together. This was a first test of that uneasy alliance.

 

The elven company stood still, horse and rider anticipating what was to come, tempering the fear and frenzy of war raging within that would soon be unleashed. To find stillness the elves focused their attention on the grasses, listening to its song, hoping to find a change in the song of the grasses, a song they learned from Kyelep. The grasses too listened and witnessed.

 

The Captain’s strong, the grasses whispered. Here come the brothers in arms, they sang. A holy company that brings down terror and wrath upon Morgoth’s army, the grasses trembled. Away, away with you, out of our bosom and into the night, the grasses demanded of the orcs, for they did not want to be trampled by the scourge and fire of battle. But it was the Captain’s song that called the orcs out. They hated him mightily. Morgoth himself had put a price on Fingon’s head. The sound of his voice was the rally the orcs needed. They charged out from their hiding place in the tall grasses and the grasses were thankful, while the battle raged on at their border.

 

Fingon was ready, calling his soldiers to arms from atop his mighty steed: “Arise, arise!” he cried out, his voice sounding clear and strong, his sword catching the light of the moon like lightning.

 

Artanis called in response, her voice like a whip, striking dead the first lines of orcs that dared charge in her direction. The shores they abandoned forevermore receded in her mind. Here on this battlefield under the light of the full moon, Artanis understood who she would become. She resolved to herself, fighting by her cousin’s side, her captain, that she would never forsake the pride of her people if she survived. She would make a house for herself and her children would be known. Her descendants would be known as hers. The battle propelled Artanis into the wide, wild world. With her own sword she harnessed the light of the moon and unleashed it on her enemy, the lady of the light!

 

Kyelep fought, but she was, like the orcs, struck by the songs of power unleashed by the Noldor. She cried out in anguish and terror. It was utterly incomprehensible that the Noldor were born with this gift. Kyelep’s people had songs of healing and songs of magic, but nothing like this dark and terrible song the Noldor wielded. Kyelep cursed the Valar. Why gift the Noldor with such Songs? Were they not born to a supposed bliss? Why had the Valar created such an army in a peaceful realm if they had not foreseen such wars?

 

For Kyelep, witnessing the Noldor battle song and terror they unleashed, left her utterly distraught. Fëanor’s words were rendered closer to a horror: “‘Journey light. But bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Tauros, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils that he stole, then behold! We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!’”

 

Little did Kyelep know the full tale for the oath of Fëanor was not revealed. In time, Kyelep would know and her despair would turn to sorrow.

 

)()()(

 

A young healer slowly opened Nelyo’s door.  “Come in,” Nelyo spoke.

 

Nelyo breathed easier. It was the young healer, Olosto. Nelyo had grown fond of him, but also despised him some for he would make Nelyo sit up and stand.

 

“Bastard, you come to torture me worse than Moringotto,” Nelyo teased provocatively, but young Olosto was not off put by Nelyo’s dark humor meant to disarm him. It was why he was sent by Cíleth.

 

“Good to see you sitting up, now up, away from the pillows,” Olosto commanded. “You must eat.”

 

Nelyo grunted, but he did as was told and sat up. He ate the food given him. A soup, bread, grain of some sort, and wild berries. The food tasted divine. It was a small quantity for he still needed to take care with his food.

 

After about 30 minutes of rest, Olosto stood up from where he waited for Nelyo to eat. Pointing at Nelyo’s legs, the healer told him, “Now move your legs and bring them over.”

 

Nelyo braced himself with his arms on the bed, exerting himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The food had given him strength to do this.

 

The healer was close, ready to catch him if he needed. “Excellent,” Olosto remarked. Feet firm on the floor. Nelyo was breathing heavily, but the healer was not going to stop not yet. “Shift your weight onto the floor,” Olosto commanded.

 

Nelyo groaned. It hurt but he did as was commanded. Carefully the healer offered his hand to Nelyo’s left hand. Nelyo took it. “Lean forward,” Olosto commanded. Nelyo shifted himself onto his feet and the weight of this body propelled him forward. “Lean on me,” the healer urged, “Now stand!”

 

Nelyo managed to stand, protesting the entire way and cursing under his breath.

 

“I am going to let you go,” Olosto instructed. “Ready?”

 

Nelyo nodded.  Olosto let Nelyo go and for the first time in many years, Nelyo was standing on his own. He was in much pain, but this time he smiled because he was content. Perhaps he would heal quicker than he believed.

 

After a minute or so, Olosto came to stand next to Nelyo allowing him to lean on him. Looking up at Nelyo the young healer asked carefully, “What do you want me to call you?” Lord Nelyafinwë did not sit right with the young healer, nor did it with Nelyo, Olosto observed.

 

Nelyo hummed, thinking for a while allowing his weight to rest on the young elf. Nelyo wasn’t ashamed to need the help. Nelyo’s eyes lit up. “Maedhros!” he announced. He too could take a name in the Sindarin fashion. He’d once been Maitimo, but now he was something more.

 

Olosto’s eyes lit up. “That is a good name! Lord Fingon will be happy to hear it.”

 

Nelyo’s eyebrow shot up. So Fingon cared more than he let on. Innocently, Olosto had let on that he was reporting to Fingon on how the therapies progressed.  Nelyo hadn’t seen Fingon for some days. Fingon was away on daily patrols. Nelyo understood Fingon needed to get away, but he missed the familiarity of Fingon’s presence nonetheless.

 

“Maedhros,” Olosto repeated, letting the syllables of the name pass over his tongue.

 

Nelyo liked the sound of it. “Maedhros,” Nelyo repeated, smiling.

 

“Let’s walk,” Olosto commanded.

 

“And just when I believed us to be friends,” Maedhros playfully shot back knowing that what came next would be harder yet.

 

“Walk,” Olosto urged, keeping to his task. They shuffled around the room with Maedhros’ weight supported by the younger, shorter healer. Maedhros would rest, receive a massage, and get back to the hard work. They worked for many hours this way. At the end of the grueling therapy, another elf would prepare his bath, that allowed Maedhros to be submerged to his neck and sitting comfortably.

 

After working hard for many hours, Maedhros was ready for his bath. Alone with Olosto again, Maedhros allowed the young elf to unclothe him. Aware of Maedhros’ discomfort at being seen, Olosto made quick work putting Maedhros’ robe on him. Once ready, Olosto rang a bell and an elf, would come in and help Maedhros climb into the tub.

 

This work continued for a week, each session seeing Maedhros walk further with less assistance. Maedhros did not see Fingon during this time. Through Olosto, Fingon sent word that he would be gone for a few days. Maedhros considered it curious Fingon did not relay the message personally, but then again, it was clear to Maedhros that Fingon was struggling with becoming reacquainted with him.

 

After another rigorous session, Maedhros was disrobing while Olosto assisted. Maedhros walked the furthest yet and all on his own, but his body was screaming with pain for it.

 

“You will need more than my help this evening,” Olosto assessed. Maedhros shook his head in agreement. He did not want to fall getting in to the tub. He’d come so far only to foolishly hurt himself.

 

Olosto rang a bell. A knock at the door sounded. “Come in,” Olosto announced.

 

This was different, Maedhros considered. Normally the other healer would enter without knocking.

 

Fingon entered the room. Maedhros looked up in surprise. “You are returned,” Maedhros greeted Fingon. His eyes studied Fingon, noticed the slight bruising on a cheek. Maedhros raised an eyebrow in question.

 

Fingon grunted, “I am,” watching how Maedhros looked over him. Of course Maedhros saw the tell-tale signs of skirmish upon him. Indeed Maedhros’ look let Fingon know he required an update. “Dark creatures have been testing our Northern borders,” Fingon reported.

 

This was concerning, Maedhros considered, but he waited for Fingon to finish his report. Olosto stood silently, holding his breath. The tension between the two was palpable. He did not want to get in the way of whatever was afoot.

 

“Your people and mine repelled these forces,” Fingon shared. Maedhros noted it was still a “my people and yours”, not ours.

 

“Together?” Maedhros asked.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively. “Together as much as that can be accomplished,” Fingon responded, his face neutral. Maedhros could see the frustration that simmered beneath. 

 

Maedhros smartly changed the subject. Now was not the time to broach that topic. Instead, he asked, “Will you help me?” Looking at the tub, Maedhros shared, “I cannot make the climb alone.”

 

“Of course,” Fingon answered, relieved Maedhros did not grill him further. Moving to stand by Maedhros, Fingon and Olosto helped Maedhros walk towards the tub. Olosto too was relieved he could focus on his work.

 

Standing next to the tub, Maedhros shook his head in frustration, “I cannot move my legs.”

 

“You worked hard for that,” Olosto countered, knowing Maedhros was frustrated. “Tomorrow we will work even harder. Soon your legs will not tire.”

 

This earned laughter from Maedhros. “Then pick me up and put me in for the hot water will ease my bones,” Maedhros ordered, letting the robe fall to the floor.

 

“Ready?” Olosto asked to both Fingon and Maedhros. Between the two healthy elves, they picked up Maedhros and sat him in the tub.

 

Maedhros sighed contentedly. Relaxing, he allowed himself to float contently in the hot, steaming water filled with eucalyptus, peppermint, and rosemary oils. Fingon took his accustomed chair by the hearth, warmed by the fire. While Fingon sat silently, staring into the fire, he also kept a close eye on Maedhros while he slumbered in the tub. Fingon replayed the battle scene in his mind searching for mistakes. Inevitably his thoughts went to the moments after the battle, after their victory.

 

Fingon and Celegorm had exchanged words:

 

How fares my brother? Celegorm asked.

 

Fingon responded, “He is improving. He will soon be ready to come to you.” Fingon hated admitting this.

 

“How much time?” Celegorm asked.

 

“Summer,” Fingon replied. The idea of it made him sick. He was not ready to give Maedhros up.

 

Carnistir listened but said nothing. Celegorm changed the subject, knowing it was pointless to speak on his brother longer. “We will exchange reports after we have assessed our companies’ actions,” Celegorm said.

 

“Yes,” Fingon answered. “Ondion will share my report with you now.” With that Fingon walked away from Celegorm and back to his company.  

 

Celegorm looked after Fingon’s retreating figure, but said nothing. Ondion greeted Celegorm. They were still fond of one another. They had this at least and Celegorm preferred to deal with Ondion rather than Fingon.

 

After some time, Fingon stood to check the water temperature. It was cooling. “Would you like some more hot water?” Fingon asked. Maedhros nodded happily from his meditative state in the water. Fingon walked back to the fireplace and with a pot holder, carried the pot filled with water that was hung on the hearth to keep heated towards the tub. Carefully setting it down, Fingon helped Maedhros sit up.

 

Maedhros watched quietly while Fingon allowed some water to empty into the drain beneath the tub., “It’s absurd,” Maedhros observed, “you’ve just returned from battle and yet here you are nursing me!’

 

Satisfied with the amount left in the tub, Fingon carefully lifted the hot water pot and slowly poured the hot water into the tub until the temperature was to Maedhros’ liking. He understood Maedhros was feeling particularly helpless. “Soon you will walk to the baths,” Fingon spoke, ignoring Maedhros’ words. “Tyelko saying you were particularly fond of the hot springs,” Fingon said, reminding Maedhros of those things that did matter for him.

 

Maedhros smiled. Fingon would not let him feel sorry for himself. Truly, Maedhros did look forward to bathing in the hot springs. It was one of the reasons they had first settled in this area, for the hot springs that gurgled near the lake. “I am eager for that,” Maedhros replied earnestly.

 

Fingon moved back to his seat by the fire and Maedhros floated, allowing the pain to wash away. When the water cooled again, Fingon woke Maedhros and helped him out.  

 

“Can you stand on your own,” Fingon inquired, pushing a stand next to Maedhros that he could hold on to. Olosto had left some time ago at Fingon’s urging.

 

“Yes,” Maedhros answered, between a yawn. He was bone tired.

 

From the nearby chair Fingon grabbed the robe, and while Maedhros held onto the stand, Fingon

draped the robe over him and moved Maedhros back onto the bed.

 

Fingon helped Nelyo slip on a tunic

 

“I’ve decided on a name,” Maedhros shared with Fingon, while pulling the sleeping shirt on.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow.

 

“Maedhros” he shared, a smug look returning to him, letting Fingon pull his arms through the sleeves.

 

Fingon wanted to roll his eyes at his cousin’s capacity to come to smugness so quickly in his healing process, but he had to admit, it was a good name. “Hmm,” Fingon grunted. “Tis a good name.” Satisfied that the sleeping tunic was on comfortably, Fingon stepped back.

 

“I know,” Maedhros said, too tired to form a smile, but his eyes betrayed his mood.

 

Fingon helped Maedhros lay down. Maedhros watched expectantly as Fingon inspected the different oils. It was obvious to Maedhros that Fingon was reviewing in his head Olosto’s instructions on which oils to use. Maedhros hummed contentedly as Fingon warmed the oils on his hands and commenced the work of kneading Maedhros’ stiff muscles. This too would help him grow stronger for this type of body work was also an intense healing.

 

Maedhros drifted off to sleep. It took Fingon some time to finish his work. Maedhros’ right shoulder needed the healing power of touch to settle and heal it in its righted position. After a while, Fingon tucked Maedhros under blankets and made sure the wooden railing was lifted up to prevent Maedhros from falling. In a strange way, he was getting to know Maedhros’ body anew, and in a manner he’d never understood it before.

 

A healer opened the door indicating she was ready to take Fingon’s place. Maedhros could not be left alone, even in sleep, for the nightmares that came were a terror that Maedhros needed help coming back from.

 

Before leaving the room, Fingon looked back upon the sleeping figure and whispered, “Goodnight Maedhros.”

 

Walking outside into the corridors of the healing rooms that because of need, grown in size, Fingon ran into Olosto.

 

“Fingon,” Olosto called to Fingon who was trying to slip away. “I need to check that bruise and whatever other injuries you might have.” Olosto knew better than to let Fingon disappear without a checkup.

 

Fingon groaned. “Make it quick,” he snipped.

 

Olosto replied, unperturbed. “You cannot order me here. I will do what my job requires of me.”

Fingon grunted, but did not reply. He knew better than to try to argue otherwise. It was why Olosto had been assigned to Maedhros after all. He wasn’t easily intimidated.

 

)()()()(

 

Summer! Maglor looked over the room the healers readied for Maedhros. It had everything Maedhros needed to help him, but somehow it felt small, cramped. Maglor wished he could bring some of the beauty of Formenos here, but he knew that would also be cruel. After all Maedhros had endured, building a replica of Maedhros’ room in Formenos would not help him feel more himself. Indeed Maedhros was coming back a different person. Like Fingon.

 

Maglor sat in his brother’s room and reread the letter. There was no doubt this was Maedhros’ hand. Maglor allowed himself to smile. Somehow with his left, Maedhros found the way to make his letters curve just so. The ink spread on the letters where Maedhros put too much pressure on his quill, but there was no doubt, this was Maedhros writing and voice.

 

Dearest Maglor, my brothers,

 

My healing goes well. I grow strong. I am treated well. Fingon and this dreaded healer drive me to exhaustion. I return when the antlers’ are mostly regrown. Soon. I miss you.…All is forgiven.

 

Maedhros, my chosen name.

 

 

Maglor carefully folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope. All is forgiven. The statement said so much. It told Maglor that Maedhros, his eldest brother, had something to forgive, needed to forgive, felt some kind of way about being abandoned. Of course he would, Maglor reflected. How could he feel otherwise?

 

Maglor explored the room. Here was Maedhros’ quilt, made soon after they landed. The star of their house, Fëanor’s star, quilted in bright detail. Maglor walked to the night table, positioned on the left side. On it was the carving of a bird. Fëanor had made it as they crossed the water to Endórë. Maedhros had kept it after Fëanor died. Shelves on one side of the room were lined with the books Maedhros managed to bring from Tirion. Maglor walked over to the wood shelves, allowing his hands to trace the titles. He stopped on one of the books that Maedhros had been working on. He pulled it from the shelf, carefully opening the unbound book. Inside were watercolor paintings of the local fauna accompanied by Maedhros’ handsome script, describing the plant, its many names, and its uses. Left empty was a seasonal accounting of the plant. Maedhros did not have time to observe the passing of the seasons on this particular plant. Maglor wondered if Maedhros would take this project up again. Surely he would be as gifted with is left hand as he was with his right hand!

 

Soon, the word sent chills through Maglor. Maglor walked and sat in a chair behind a desk set in front of the hearth. On it Maglor placed a wooden stamp he carried in a pocket. Emblazoned on its end was the name Maedhros. There was room on it to add another name or title. Whatever Maedhros desired. Maglor made it himself, reasoning that as King, Maedhros would need his own royal seal. It was fashioned after the one Curufin had made for Maglor shortly after they had lost Maedhros.

 

“It is a good name,” Maglor whispered looking at the stamp, “a good name.”

 

Stretching the length of the room was a woven rug of wool, spun locally from the herds of sheep that the Fëanorians kept. Maglor too had a hand in this: from sorting, carding and combing,  to spinning and plying the wool. Carnistir dyed the wool and built the loom upon which Carnistir wove the rug. The stars of their house were muted motifs in the rug. The room was testament to the work of the brothers: while Maedhros convalesced the brothers kept busy, preparing for him, each in their own way.

 

Maglor took in the room. Above Maedhros’ bed was the painting of a stag, its antlers large. It was Amras’ work. When they first read Maedhros’ letter, Amras knew just what he had to do. The painting was recently finished. It would surely be the first thing Maedhros would see upon entering his room.

 

Maglor paused at the door before leaving the room. Maedhros was growing strong and he would be returned to them, soon.

 

Summer.

 

“When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold, Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold; When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West, Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

 

)()()()()()()(

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

* Fëanor’s speech from Morgoth’s Ring, History of Middle Earth, volume 10

Chapter 17

Read Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Something Different

 

You might lose your lover...
People do sometimes...
But it won't make sense for you...
To sit around cryin'...'
Don't you know that when you fall in love, sometimes...
You're gonna have to lose...
Well, it may take years, but you're gonna shed some tears...'cause
Everybody's Gotta Pay Some Dues.

 

From Everybody's Gotta Pay Some Dues

by Smokey Robinson and Ronald White

 

In later days, a saying emerged: everybody has to pay their dues. Dues. Charges, costs for the borrowing of a thing, living a life in debt. The world thought it rather new, but it was actually quite old, born before the histories some men kept and remembered. And yet there were ancient stories that also told how crow or coyote, the tricksters, had to pay for many of the things they stole; the story of Sisyphus, forever rolling a boulder up a hill.  In other currents of time there are oaths that demand a steep price, a price unimaginable and yet the brave continue to pay the price.

 

But some of us in life are damned to overpay dues, life coming due, over and over. …all because of love, the love of someone, and the things we do, or don’t, because of it.  

 

)()()()()(

 

The sun was rising. The Noldor were victorious, but the blood pooled on the ground was thick and filled with a stench. Kyelep had the sensation she would drown in it. Laiquendi killing was efficient, quick. Not the Noldor. They exacted more than death. There was a horror to their killing.

 

Kyelep reflected on the quick, quiet words she exchanged with Celegorm after the skirmish with the orcs. Celegorm spoke to her in whispers, asking after his brother, curious for Kyelep’s assessment of his brother’s healing. It was also after the battle that she first met Curufin the crafty and Celebrimbor the maker. She recognized their nimble hands, the same hands of her sister, and both carried something of Finwë in their looks.

 

Curufin was uncharacteristically overcome upon meeting Kyelep. He’d seen Míriel in his dreams and visions of her shared with him from his father and his grandfather Finwë. For his part, Celebrimbor was haunted by her, felt chills as she took his hands in hers. She looked up at Celebrimbor, with foreboding in her eyes, and said to him, “Sons are haunted by their fathers. Dark days when mothers are forsaken.”

 

Summer, she told them, come summer, she would travel with Maedhros to stay with them.

 

Celegorm asked after Sílahul. They would not journey with her, Kyelep shared with Celegorm. Sílahul would instead return home, for their work was coming to an end with the Noldor.

 

She bid the Fëanorians a short farewell. “I shall see you soon and be reunited with all my nephews and be glad for it.” She hoped she was leaving them with words that would gladden their hearts. The Fëanorians, so much like their kin on the other side of the lake, but also markedly different. She would come to know them too, in time.

 

One of the golden haired elves of Fingon’s company, Aegnor, he was called, sent a messenger hawk soon after the battle, with the tidings of victory. Aegnor, like Fingon was a beast in battle. Kyelep could not reconcile the tenderness Aegnor shared with the bird with the man that excelled in violence.

 

The company’s return to their camp was a day’s ride. They would not stop and rest, Fingon informed Kyelep, though she wished she could rest, if only for a moment! But Fingon’s battle hardened looks told her all she needed to know: they would return without rest. Indeed Fingolfin’s people were hardy, did not tire easily. They had stores of energy to draw from: a gift of their time on the ice. Indeed, this stamina is what sustained Fingon on his search for Maedhros. But what sustained Maedhros? Was it the light of the two-trees Lalwen spoke to her of? It was something more, Kyelep believed. In time, she would come to know Maedhros and know…

 

Kyelep rode next to Fingon. Fingon, like the other riders, was quiet, so very still on his horse. The riders reflected on the costs of battle, perhaps weaving back together the parts of themselves they expended to kill. That stillness was something Kyelep witnessed in Fingon’s company before the battle. Fingolfin’s people had the ability to slow their hearts, a capacity for utter stillness, that their horses learned to mimic. She learned this attribute as much as she could without the ice as teacher, for it would serve her people well. In Laiquendi lands they did not know the ice in the way these Noldor did. Yet for Kyelep there were also aspects of this stillness she did not want. Something of that stillness was ominous, disconcerting, like the stillness she witnessed in them before battle.

 

Witnessing Fingon’s company before the battle was a horror for Kyelep. It was like stillness of a wild predator waiting for its prey, but for the Noldor what followed was a brutality unleashed. And unleash it they did, delivering blow after blow to the enemy, pummeling the enemy into a gory grave, something beyond a death.  Something in the manner of how they delivered death was apocalyptic, revealing instances of the elvenness they had lost in their crossing. Perhaps the Valar had long stolen this from them? Kyelep pondered if Endórë could return some of this to them? Did not Fingon harness Endórë’s grace in his journey to rescue his kin? The Noldor needed time and patient study to heal. She feared none of them had that. The ice was a cataclysm for Fingolfin’s people. The Fëanorians could not understand this. And yet she would soon come to understand the weight of the oath, the Fëanorians own unique burden.

 

Her deliberations were interrupted by the soft sounds of song. In the distance she saw Fingolfin’s people harvesting the spring foods from the plots of land that sat outside the tall walls of the fortified camp. But these were not the songs of harvest of the Laiquendi, these were songs of lamentation. Kyelep observed the elves picking the bounty from the earth, their voices listing the names of those that died, interspersed with stories of the ice and starvation. Kyelep sighed deeply. Cataclysmic indeed.

 

Who are these people, she wondered to herself. Kyelep attempted to see the world through their eyes, but she could not imagine how she would greet the world, what types of relations she would have with it if she survived such a life-altering event? What cosmologies would be remade? How would the elven mind comprehend the world in that context, in the aftermath of the ice?

 

Kyelep had much time to reflect, to study, and observe the Noldor, but she needed more time. She was not so self-important to believe she could begin to know them, but she desperately needed to understand them for they held the key to her people’s survival and perhaps, destruction.

 

The lamentation’s were picked up by the company. In the soldiers, Kyelep noticed the strange light of their eyes grow bright. They were returning victorious, each of those they killed was perhaps a revenge for one of those names sung. Kyelep wept. The Noldor, were once innocent of death and in one moment it was thrust on them, in large numbers. She was ignorant of the Kinslaying. Had she known of it, she would have kept riding and never desired to return, not to any of them, even if they were her kin, but she did not know. She would come to know, soon, and she would not run.

 

Outside the gates the company paused. Elves waiting for them outside the gates took the horses and the company marched into the enclosure on foot. The company was greeted quietly. The harvest songs of lamentation echoed far and wide carried by the water of the lake. The company retreated to the armory where they removed their armor. Other elves whisked the items away to be repaired and cleaned and be made ready. Family, kin, came to greet the elves. Kyelep recognized the elders, leaders of those families, who come to greet the returned company.

 

Kyelep watched Fingolfin take a small knife from Fingon’s offered hand. Reverently he re-carved the pattern on Fingon’s arm. All around her the same ritual was taking place. This was a Sindarin tradition of the Mithrim Fingolfin’s people adopted, including the application of the dried powder made from the poke root that aided in the scarification process. A few seconds of application was all that was needed, Kyelep remembered. She did not partake in this part of the ritual, but she joined the company marching into the baths where they collectively stripped of their remaining clothes and slipped into the hot, steaming water. This was a welcome ritual for her. Kyelep was bone tired. Fingon drove his company hard. It seemed they believed they have something to repent for.

 

)()()()(

 

After resting in a deep sleep, something elves did not need much of often, Kyelep felt refreshed. The trauma of battle was particularly hard on the Laiquendi spirit, and she was particularly vulnerable out in the open spaces of the lake. She needed the trees to heal, needed to commune with her tree kin. Kyelep heard Aredhel’s voice calling out to her on the other side of the door.

 

“Ah child!” Kyelep whispered joyously, breathing in deeply the smell of the tree on the other side. “Welcome, children!” Kyelep greeted Aredhel and the shy elf behind Aredhel. Nimbly Aredhel entered Kyelep’s small room placing the hot pot she carefully carried over the hearth. Idril followed closely behind.

 

“I thought this might be welcome,” Aredhel smiled.

 

Kyelep breathed in deep the smell of the pine branches and needles boiled in the pot. It was welcome medicine. Instantly she was soothed. “Thank you, white lady,” Kyelep offered, taking up the name the Sindar used for Aredhel who preferred to wear white if possible. It suited her well. “And greetings to you, little lady,” Kyelep greeted Idril, who she grew to love quickly. Idril was always at her father’s side as he tutored Kyelep in the science of the Noldor, always quick to take Kyelep into the trees surrounding the keep once her father was done with his visits with Kyelep.

 

Aredhel smiled, but she grew serious quick. “My brother drives his company hard.”

 

Kyelep stood in front of the pot, breathing deeply, rhythmically, allowing the medicine to reach the very depths of her soul. Kyelep found a gentleness in Aredhel and also a person willing to share with her visions of who’d they been before. Kyelep turned to face Aredhel. “It saddens me that I will never know the Findekáno of your youth. I don’t think I’ve seen him break out into smile that overtook his features.”

 

“I miss that smile,” Idril responded.

 

Aredhel smiled wistfully. “No, he will not,” Aredhel agreed, knowing that it was nigh impossible. He was a kinslayer as she was. Aredhel had not shared her story of her daughter, of her loss, but she knew that Kyelep guessed it, for the Laiquendi read song in a way the Noldor could not. Kyelep had asked about the small tune that accompanied Aredhel’s once, but Aredhel did not speak on it. Kyelep was not one to pry. If Kyelep noticed, and she always did, that the other person was uncomfortable she would drop her inquiry. She was so unlike the Noldor.

 

Aredhel  and Idril sat on Kyelep’s bed. “Tell us of your experience with our people, let us see it through your eyes.” 

 

Kyelep smiled. Aredhel and Idril’s fascination with all things Laiquendi was not arrogant. Kyelep recognized that Aredhel searched for a freedom in it she could not find amongst her own people. In Idril, Kyelep recognized that the young of the Noldor were more of Endórë than of Aman. Indeed Idril had taken to Kyelep to the thicket that housed the trinkets of the Noldor dead, fashioned after the Laiquendi one Idril came across when recently arrived to Endórë. Kyelep found hope in this story. The youth of the Noldor were making this place home in a way she could not see in the generation of Fingon and Turgon.

 

“Very well,” Kyelep replied, taking a seat next to the hearth.

 

)()()()(

 

The burlap sack was heavy, filled with the bounty of the wild rice harvested from the lake.

 

“Place it on the top shelf,” Olosto commanded. Maedhros was learning to use his residual limb and strengthen that arm. The wound had healed over well, the skin stitched back together by elven healing. Maedhros struggled lifting the sack above his head. His shoulders seared with pain. Olosto urged him on, “Fight through the pain. Lift!”

 

Maedhros grimaced through the pain, lifting the sack above him and onto the shelf. Sweat lined his forehead. Maedhros felt his legs sure underneath him.

 

“Now remove it,” Olosto commanded. Maedhros stared at Olosto with disdain, but he understood the work he needed to do. With his raised left hand, Maedhros pulled the sack towards him, using his residual limb to steady it above him.

 

“Keep it there,” Olosto ordered. “Steady. Don’t forget to breathe!”

 

Maedhros held the sack as steady as could above his head, but the movement of the rice within made his task more challenging, forcing Maedhros to shift his hand and limb to keep it lifted above his head.

 

Olosto stood near Maedhros ready to step in if needed. “Bend your knees,” Olosto continued, “and keep the bag as steady above you.”

 

Maedhros growled but did as ordered. His body shook with effort but his muscles responded. Bending his thighs, Maedhros squatted and held the sack in place until Olosto released him. His muscles burned.

 

“Stand,” Olosto spoke. Maedhros breathed deep and exhaled pushing himself up to stand, the bag over his head. “Now bring the bag down slowly.”

 

Carefully Maedhros brought the bag over his head in front of him. His left hand was secure under the bag and his limb held tight on top. “Into the lower shelf. Slowly, squat deeply,” Olosto directed. “Do not let if fall,” Olosto reminded him. “Imagine it is fragile and you cannot let the contents break.”

 

Maedhros cursed under his breath but did as he was ordered. His grip like an iron vice held onto the bag and with his limb he carefully maneuvered the bag into the lower shelf. Maedhros knew that he was not done.

 

“Again,” Olosto commanded.

 

“I will torture you in return,” Maedhros growled. Nevertheless Maedhros did as he was told, knowing this work was healing him, strengthening him. “The fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed that were nurtured in Valinor.”*

 

 

)()()()(

 

Fingolfin searched after his first born. He spotted him in the training grounds outside the walls. He was working with Maedhros on a series of exercises with a sword. Maedhros strength was returning to him quickly. Fingolfin’s people marveled at it, but were not surprised. Did they not also grow stronger after he famine of the ice? Did not Endórë bless them with vitality and strength? But Maedhros strength was also driven by what he endured all those years. This would make him stronger.

 

Maedhros and Fingon’s work always gathered spectators. This afternoon was no different, but with every day, every hour they practiced, Maedhros skill improved. “His body recovered from his torment and became hale…”*

 

In these exercises, Fingon was building Maedhros strength. Their method was unorthodox but it worked. It wasn’t truly fighting for Fingon was swinging his long sword wide, in a way you would not in direct combat, but this was meant to bring more force to the blow. Maedhros was building his strength with his new sword hand, so that with each blow to his sword Maedhros would not be disarmed. They did this for hours, from every angle conceivable until Fingon, too, was tired. Calmacil also urged the younger soldiers, the youth in training, to watch, for Maedhros had knowledge of how to parry; and the angles he used, the way Maedhros maintained his grip, how he positioned his body behind each blow was a show of excellent form.

 

Kyelep stood next to Calmacil as he watched. They had struck up a quick and easy friendship. They had known elves in common long ago, before the journey. From Calmacil, Kyelep learned about the Journey and Aman from one who had not wished to go but who did, but for his love for Finwë.

 

“What am I looking for?” Kyelep asked, her eyes following Fingon and Maedhros.

 

Calmacil dipped his head, keeping his eyes focused on Maedhros. “Notice how Maedhros does not keep on iron grip on the sword. He holds it delicately, allows it movement, but to do that your hand must be strong to contain the vibrations of the sword when struck.”

 

“His hands absorb the shock of the blow?” Kyelep restated Calmacil’s description. This long sword form was unknown to her.

 

“Very much so,” Calmacil replied. “He keeps Fingon in front of him, though that’s not an achievement. Fingon’s work right now is simply to bear his sword down at Maedhros in as many angles as he can.”

 

Indeed, Kyelep noticed Fingon’s non-defensive attacks on Maedhros. “Why?” Kyelep asked. This type of sword fighting was just not practical under a thicket of trees. While they had swords, they were lighter and more compact than these long swords. Laiquendi battle was defensive and secretive in nature.

 

Calmacil watched the movements of the two closely. “See how Maedhros must adjust his legs, balance his body with each blow?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Sword fighting is not just the strength of the hand and arm. It comes from the shoulder, the back, the bottom, and so forth. The blow is distributed in Maedhros’ body and if Maedhros has time, he can use the blow to propel him through to his next movement.”

 

“But this is not how I saw your soldiers fight with these swords?” Kyelep pointed out, remembering how circumscribed the form was in battle.

 

Calmacil answered, “Soon they will engage in true sword combat. But what you see now is how we begin to teach a student to understand their body in relation to their sword. Maedhros needs to learn his body with the sword in his left hand, with different strength. Also his missing limb changes the balance of his body. Maedhros knows the balance of his body with a right hand. He needs to learn it anew without it. This is entirely different than what Maedhros knows.”

 

“How do you understand this?” Kyelep asked, beginning to understand the movements.

 

“I watched Maedhros and Fingon grow with the sword from the time they were children. I know their abilities better than anyone,” Calmacil replied.

 

“How does Maedhros’ form differ?” Kyelep inquired, wanting to understand the details Calmacil saw.

 

“He relies on the strength of his abdomen, his bottom and his legs more,” Calmacil pointed out. “Maedhros has always had superior strength so he could use his upper body in a way others could not, but now he’s leaning into his lower half for balance and strength.” Before Kyelep could return to her original question, Calmacil continued, “Fingon’s form would be terrible for true combat. See how such wide, arching swings expose him?”

 

Kyelep nodded her head.

 

“As you saw, the strength of the long sword is not in how hard you can swing it, but how you can wield it with two hands if needed. Orcs are thick skinned, their armour has grown stronger. The long sword thrusts easily through both.”

 

“I noticed that your soldiers would place their hands on the blade to thrust,” Kyelep shared with Calmacil.

 

“Half-swording,” Calmacil grunted. “It helps the wielder thrust the sword and pierce the target. Maedhros, if you’ve noticed, has been using his limb on the sword in his parries.

 

Their conversation was interrupted by Maedhros stepping back and nodding his head.

 

Fingon dropped his sword to his side, his eyes betraying his uncertainty. Maedhros nodded subtly, his eyes shining with determination. Fingon stepped back and brought his sword in front of him, in the ready salute. Maedhros too stood ready.

 

“But they have no protective wear!” an elf near them interjected.

 

Calmacil held up his hand. The gathered elves turned to look at him. Fingon and Maedhros stared at one another.  Elves ran to them and tied ribbons onto different parts of their bodies. Once done they ran outside the ring and positioned themselves to watch.

 

Calmacil dropping his hand was the only signal Fingon needed to commence.

 

“Neither Fingon nor Maedhros are armoured,” Calmacil elaborated, returning to his discussion with Kyelep. “Their stance indicates they’ve agreed to a practice fight, what we call bare fighting. “

 

“Is Maedhros ready?” Kyelep replied, concerned.

 

Calmacil grinned, “Most certainly!”

 

“You have a highly developed sword culture,” Kyelep observed aloud.

 

Calmacil’s grin grew thin. “There are many of us who never trusted the Valar. We did all we could to anticipate the unrest that would grow, and it did.”

 

Kyelep looked up at Calmacil thoughtfully. His words revealed much and she knew he did not share them lightly or carelessly. She turned her focus back to Fingon and Maedhros.

 

Maedhros body movement regained its elegance, his legs sure beneath him. This fighting was different, there was slicing and cutting in addition to thrusting. Kyelep understood that the winner would be the one who could slice off the most ribbons. This required extraordinary technique and strength for the precision it demanded. Fingon was either brave or stupid to believe Maedhros would not extract some blood.

 

And he did, for Maedhros needed such practice to relearn the minute art of sword fighting that was millimeter precise for elves. The first time he nicked Fingon, the crowd gasped, but Fingon did not wince. It was the price he had to pay for Maedhros to fine tune his skills. The ring grew quiet, watching intently and nervously, but Maedhros was not untested. Indeed unseen by them, Maedhros practiced hours into the night on windy nights doing the same to ribbons on trees. This proved hard at first for Maedhros could not anticipate the wind’s patterns on the tree branches as he did with an elf. He hacked at many a branch decorated with ribbon, but grew stronger and more accurate until not a branch was cut as a result of the ribbons being sliced.

 

The crowd cheered: Maedhros’ first clean cut, a ribbon on Fingon’s bicep. Fingon smiled, but did not let up his attention. There were many more of Maedhros’ ribbons on the floor than those that adorned Fingon.

 

Maedhros sliced off another ribbon cleanly, this time from a leg. The soldiers cheered. Fingon pretended not to notice. It was good, he thought, Maedhros bravery and will was winning them over. They would take his kingship well, but Fingon’s momentary lapse, cost him another ribbon and a purposeful nick from Maedhros.

 

“What was that for?” Fingon asked, half laughing, keeping away from Maedhros blade. “You are not focusing!” Maedhros replied.

 

Fingon went forward his sword in front of him, both his hands on the hilt. He had a better balance because of it. Maedhros had to twist just so to position his limb on the hilt. Fingon chided Maedhros. “You’ve always been stronger, what I need to do with two hands you can do with one.”

 

Maedhros smiled, inclining his head. Either Fingon was trying to convince him to give Fingon the edge or he was being earnest. Maedhros could not tell, but in that moment, with a small movement, Fingon cleanly sliced off the second to last ribbon on Maedhros.

 

Maedhros growled. He dropped his arm slightly and regained his balance. He’d use his other arm as a balance if needed. He could not rely on the grip of a hand he did not have. They parried and danced around one another. Fingon thrust his sword forward in a small movement to go after a ribbon on his arm, but Maedhros used his limb to hit the blade just so, that Fingon’s strike went astray. With his new sword hand Maedhros sliced a ribbon on Fingon’s ankle. It was a clean strike, but the movement (something he could not replicate with the trees) propelled Maedhros forward, giving Fingon a clean strike at his remaining ribbon.

 

Maedhros tumbled onto his back. Fingon laughed and went over to Maedhros. Maedhros reached his hand up and Fingon drew him up.

 

Calmacil sent the watching elves back to their own training, leaving Fingon and Maedhros to speak privately.

 

Maedhros looked at the sword on the floor. “I must be able to jump back up with sword in hand.”

 

Fingon observed, “Olosto has the perfect exercise that will help you with that.”

 

Maedhros pretended annoyance.

 

Fingon did not grin but his eyes betrayed his good mood. “You’ve always enjoyed some torture,” Fingon teased.

 

Maedhros’ mouth fell open. Fingon’s words were intimate, daring to name something from days they both set behind them.

 

Fingon shrugged off Maedhros’ reaction.

 

Maedhros knew Fingon well, understood that for Fingon, his words  were intended to set things right between them for the time being. They had something, once. Acknowledging it allowed them to move forward, so Fingon wanted to believe. He wanted that taken care of quickly and without too many words exchanged.

 

“Five ribbons left,” Maedhros observed, tucking away the knowledge that Fingon was not outright against speaking about their relationship. Fingon’s clumsy attempts to set things straight made Maedhros want to grab his half-cousin in a hug of endearment.

 

“Not bad,” Fingon shared. “In no time, you will be besting me.”

 

Maedhros grimaced, “I truly do not look forward to those exercises I must do before I can pretend to win another sword fight.” Maedhros paused, his voice betraying some emotion. “Today was a good day.”

 

“Aye,” Fingon agreed. But for Fingon it was also a sad exercise for he knew that Maedhros was ready to leave any moment.

 

“I will leave soon,” Maedhros answered Fingon’s thoughts. They did not broach mind speech, but knew each other too well to not be able to guess the other’s thoughts.

 

Fingon said nothing.

 

“I will leave when I can cut at least three more ribbons,” Maedhros shared. “If I wait until I can beat you that will keep me here another month.”

 

Fingon wanted to say, “then stay”, but he knew Maedhros was also desperate to get back to his brothers. After all what had between them was no more.

 

Maedhros and Fingon walked to the baths together. Maedhros knew that Fingon would not treat him softly and gently in training, that he could count on others in Fingolfin’s keep to do the same. And yet Maedhros needed Fingon’s buried rage to erupt, needed that unspoken bond between them to help Fingon drive Maedhros past the line of healing and into warrior. Maedrhos knew his brothers would be too afraid to do that, feel too guilty to accomplish what he desired. Maedhros needed to meet fear in battle in order to know what it was like to fight from such an overwhelming feeling. Fingon was the only one who could and would do that for him.

 

)()()()(

 

Maedhros hummed happily, sinking deep into the hot water. He relished being back in the spring waters. Fingon sat near him, ever vigilant.

 

“I’m not going to drown,” Maedhros grumbled while he floated.

 

“I know,” Fingon laughed lightly. “I am in the habit of watching you float.”

 

Maedhros did not respond, knowing Fingon’s mind traveled to the same recent memory his did. It wasn’t that very long ago that Fingon did have to safeguard Maedrhos from drowning in a small tub.

 

They kept each other silent company. The silence between them was comfortable, well worn, but also a keen reminder of what engendered that comfort, that intimacy. After a while, Maedhros stepped out of the baths.

 

“Will you keep me company?” Maedhros asked Fingon.

 

“Certainly,” Fingon answered.

 

The two changed into clean clothing and returned to Maedhros’ quarters. Fingon anticipated that Maedhros wanted to talk. He hoped it was about Maedhros’ return to his brothers. But Maedhros would disappoint him.

 

They climbed stairs to Maedhros’ room that was one of the few with a view of the lake. It was offered to him because he could view the lights of his brothers’ camp on the other side. It was not a torture for him. It brought Maedhros comfort to see them on the other side, if only from afar.

 

Unlike Fingon, Maedhros needed to confront what had been between them. He had no choice. His torture did not give him the luxury of trying to forget. He needed to deal with this head on, if only to clear his mind of this worry, freeing him at least of one nightmare. Sílahul had convinced Maedhros that this was important not only for his healing but also for Fingon’s. Sílahul was not blind to their bond.

 

Maedhros went to the window and cast his gaze across the lake. “You will not like what I will say, but say it I must.” Maedhros had the edge in this battle unlike the earlier one. Maedhros did not fear what once had been the way Fingon did. Indeed, for Maedhros, he’d always stood by Fingon, even when the boats were burned.

 

Fingon’s shoulder’s tensed. He turned away from Maedhros. Fingon expected this moment would come, even though he’d inelegantly attempted to shut it down earlier. And yet the words Maedhros shared utterly shook Fingon.

 

“You said you would always love me when first you declared it,” Maedhros spoke, his voice lyrical in the way of elves. Maedrhos’ strength was made manifest in a different way.

 

Fingon said nothing. Love. What was that? Keeping his back to Maedhros, Fingon kept his rising anger in check, unwilling to let go of the anger he felt towards Maedhros in this moment. Why now?

 

Maedhros smiled. “It matters not. Home. That was something we had then. We have something different now.”

 

Maedhros words reached Fingon. Fingon’s fierce face softened. Maedhros was drawing him out, always could.

 

Fingon dared look directly upon Maedhros and spoke what seemed like first words to Maedhros though they were not. “I yearned for home on that Ice,” Fingon revealed, “but even then, I knew not what that home was.”

 

Maedhros held his breath, he stilled his body as much as his tired body allowed him.

 

Fingon’s eyes turned towards to window to look out to the expanse of the lake, his eyes focusing on a point beyond. He shared, “When I run through these trees, see the stars above, feel the earth on my bare feet, it seems I recover memories long lost and a love for a different kind of home is kindled.” Kyelep’s lessons under the trees were present in Fingon’s mind.

 

Maedhros let out his breath, long and steady. Findekáno was not lost. Not yet. Maybe there was hope for them both or maybe enough for Fingon. Maedhros dared repeat his earlier words: “You said you would always love me when first you declared it.”

 

Fingon turned to look at Maedhros half annoyed with what he believed to be his cousin’s inability to hear him.

 

Maedhros smiled, but Fingon did not smile back. This did not deter Maedhros. Indeed, Fingon’s face, even with a frown, was a gentle thing, not a horror. Undeterred, Maedhros continued, “You declared your love for me in a different life, a different place. You are not that person nor am I the person you loved.”  Maedhros looked down at his arm. “I was whole then, you were whole then.” Maedhros dared look directly into the fierceness of Fingon’s blue eyes. “We are utterly changed. Who you loved in those days is gone. The person I loved,” Maedhros paused, steadying his voice, “is gone.”

 

Fingon allowed himself a moment of reprieve, his shoulders relaxing, his face softening, now a rarity. He was relieved, relieved that he wouldn’t have to summon words he would not want to share with Maedhros. Not because there was not love. There was something strange resembling that left, he hoped. And hope was what Fingon did not want to abandon. It was something he pledged himself to fight for. Hope was the path that could lead to justice and some goodness in the world. Fingon surprised himself. He had not expected to find a bit of Findekáno remained in him. The bitterness had not overcome him.

 

For Maedhros, Fingon’s actions were enough. Such was their getting to know one another, the men they had become in Endórë, no longer Findekáno and Maitimo.

 

Fingon rewarded Maedhros the smallest of smiles. Maedhros was besting him once more. Holding out his hand towards Maedhros Fingon made a peace offering, a simple gesture. Maedhros’ eyes widened, but he reached out nonetheless. Their hands grasped and Fingon pulled Maedhros towards the door. Fingon led Maedhros outside and towards the edge of Fingolfin’s encampment. Some elves wore their surprise openly, others simply chose to ignore the two figures that silently walked by them.

 

Fingon spared Maedhros a glance, looking him over to appraise whether he was willing to be led. Maedhros nodded, indicating he would follow. Indeed, Maedhros needed to go on. He needed to escape the confines of Fingolfin’s keep, where he found his health returning, but he needed to be beyond those walls to imagine himself whole.

 

They walked into a natural clearing in the middle of the thicket that stood a short distance from the encampment and the lake. Trinkets were strung on the dense trees and bushes: bells, pictures, ribbons, hand carved animals, and a number of other small things. Maedhros took in the sight, a strange sensation of awe and tenderness filling him, reminding him he was still capable of feeling. There were hundreds of small objects. The small meadow encircled by the dense trees softly glowed a green and bluish hue, a kindling of Elder faerie magic. It was a small moment of triumph that through death they discovered something of who they had been as a people. He watched as Fingon walked around the thicket, tenderly touching a small portrait here, caressing the likeness of a bear, making delicate bells ring here and there. Each one a monument to someone who had died. Maedhros eyes settled on a small portrait of Elenwë that had hung around Turukáno’s neck for some time. Next to it was an unfinished carving of a seal. Fingon’s fingers traced these as his eyes closed in reverence. Arakáno and Elenwë. Fingon let his fingers linger over many and then Maedhros saw it. A green stone hung from a silver string deep within the reaches of the trees. His stomach fell. Some kind of love, some kind of emotion hung on that branch, a symbol of who they had once been.

 

Fingon walked towards it, knowing Maedhros trailed him with is eyes. With a finger, he carefully removed the stone from the tree, quickly closing his hands around it. His shoulders heaved with the emotion that threatened to escape his body. Fingon wasn’t sure whether to celebrate the notion that he was not wholly without emotion or curse it for he knew it was a source of weakness. Fingon turned, his eyes catching the glimmer of the many, many objects lovingly placed there to honor the dead. And there Maedrhos stood, like a figure risen from the Dead. Fingon could feel the weight of the green stone in his palm. It had been a gift from Maedhros, once upon a time. It marked their love, a love they had once known and now Fingon held it once more. Maedhros had not burned the ships. Had turned aside and incurred his father’s wrath that led him astray, causing his torture, his imprisonment.

 

But Fingon was changed…utterly. Maedhros too was remade. Fingon walked up to Maedhros and took his hand, placing the stone in it. Daring to speak, Fingon whispered, “I said I would always love you when first we declared ourselves to one another but I am no longer him.”

 

Maedhros closed his hand around the stone, his eyes locked with Fingon’s cold blue eyes. Maedhros whispered, his voice quiet in respect of the dead. “That was something we had then. We have something different now.” Emotions were hard between them, so they chose to say the same words over and over, but each time they shared them, they spoke what was intended, perhaps because by repeating the same phrases to each other, Fingon and Maedhros were discovering the inflection of emotion, the depth of feeling they had to learn anew in the men they now were. It was like being born again and learning language from its beginnings.

 

Maedhros was thankful that Fingon was changed for if he had been Findekáno, Maedhros would not know how to confess that he could not love him, not like he loved him then.

 

)()()()(

 

*From The Silmarillion

Chapter 18

“And he lived to wield his sword with left hand more deadly than his right had been.” So Tolkien tells of us Maedhros’ recovery from his time in captivity. This is the Maedhros I choose to depict here.

Read Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Truths & Partings

  

“The in between.” Maedhros had spent enough time in Fingolfin’s keep to hear the elves refer to the Ice in this manner. What was it for Maedhros? He’d spent almost as much time in captivity as Fingolfin’s host crossing the Helcaraxë.

 

The Devouring, Maedhros had told himself. He’d felt it too, how his soul and body had been devoured.

 

Maedhros waited for the summons from Fingolfin. He knew it would come soon. They’d spoken often, during Maedhros’ stay, and with each conversation, they tread further into questions of kingship. Maedhros ruminated on one of these conversations. Fingolfin, like his father, was not an easy elf to fathom…

 

“You have healed more quickly than I expected,” Fingolfin shared with Maedhros.

 

“Does this please you?” Maedhros asked. Maedhros’ own words sent chills down his spine. How many times had he not asked his own father this?

 

“It does,” Fingolfin answered. “You must understand that the sooner you return to your brothers,” Fingolfin continued, “the less work I have to do to keep lords and ladies from coming to me accosting me about what our world might look like with you as king.”

 

Maedhros frowned openly. Of course, even here the Noldor were vying for power. Just what did Fingolfin expect Maedhros to do? “You are unhappy of my claim on the crown,” Maedhros observed, “and yet you find it more tolerable than Maglor being king.”

 

Fingolfin spun around. “We never decided as a people how it would be passed on after Fëanor. We never imagined he would abandon us!” Fingolfin retorted. Quieting, Fingolfin admitted, “And I never imagined he would die…” Fingolfin added hesitantly, “Of course your father would want you as king.” Fingolfin held his frustration and anger for his brother in check. “We too were banished, lest you forget Maedhros,” Fingolfin bristled. “We had no choice but to leave. You forget my children have blood on their hands, and I followed your father.”

 

“I do not forget,” Maedhros replied, turning to face Fingolfin. Each conversation they had grew with tension. As Fingolfin perceived Maedhros’ strength returning, Fingolfin allowed more and more of his anger to be revealed.

 

Maedhros understood Fingolfin’s anger, yet he resented Fingolfin bringing his father into it., and though he resented it, Maedhros understood that Fëanor’s decisions led them all to this place.

 

“You know I did not burn the boats, that I tried to stay my father’s hand,” Maedhros reminded Fingolfin.

 

“Is that enough to legitimate your claim to kingship?” Fingolfin shot back.

 

Maedhros held his tongue. He did not want to antagonize Fingolfin further. Maedhros had long made up his mind, but he needed to get back to his brothers to put his plan in place. Let Fingolfin have the crown. The Fëanorians had the oath and Fingolfin would leave them to it for Fingolfin still loved Fëanor, followed him after all.

 

“You will not follow me as your king?” Maedhros questioned.

 

“I will follow. It will not be easy,” Fingolfin admitted. “Many of my people do not desire your kingship.” Fingolfin answered bitterly and resigned. He loved Fëanor still.

 

“And yet you are bound by your son’s noble deed,” Maedhros observed.

 

Fingolfin sighed, passing his hand over his face, as if warding off evil. “You stand here, if not for Fingon,” Fingolfin declared, “and our peoples have not come to war if not for Fingon’s actions. He desired us to come together, and together we must come.”

 

Maedhros understood that Fingolfin was not recalling Fingon’s feat to indict Maedhros, but instead to take their conversation back to the figure of Morgoth. Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “The dark lord is our enemy.”

 

“Lo the oath” Fingolfin sighed, “you name our enemy, but your path is bound by your father’s words. I am not. My people are not. That road Fëanor laid out is darkest. I will not lead my people down that path.”

 

Fingolfin was right. The Silmarils were not his burden. That was theirs alone: a Fëanorian duty. Maedhros needed his brothers to be free to follow the oath. Well Maedhros knew Fingolfin would allow them leeway to follow the oath if Fingolfin were king and not the other way around. Maedhros would be too tempted to use Fingolfin’s people to fulfill his father’s wishes. He could not sacrifice Fingon in this way again…

 

“Can I join you,” a familiar voice pulled Maedhros out of his thoughts.

 

“Artanis,” Maedhros replied, “of course. “Pardon, have you Sindarized your name? I have not heard you referred to in such a manner.”

 

Artanis laughed. “Not yet,” she answered, sitting with a plate full of food next to Maedhros.

 

“Why not?” Maedhros asked before returning to eating.

 

Artanis shrugged her shoulders. “I have not felt compelled as of yet, though I do appreciate your name.”

 

She scrutinized Maedhros openly, eliciting a response from Maedhros: “Are you going to lecture me as you do Fingon and your brothers?”

 

“Is that what they say?” Artanis replied, not surprised that she would be painted in such a manner.

 

Maedhros decided to needle Artanis as he had once upon a better time. “Are they not the lords of the houses that inherit these lands?”

 

Artanis rolled her eyes. “Not you too,” she retorted. “Spare me the platitudes of heraldry and house!”

 

Maedrhos laughed quietly. He could feel the scar tugging on his upper lip. He wondered how contorted it looked. He wasn’t fond of looking at himself in a mirror. “And I am king, dearest cousin, what make you of that?” he replied, his voice low. He didn’t want others around him to hear what he shared with Artanis, but he needed to feel her for information. Artanis was astute and cut a path straight through intrigue.

 

Artanis wanted to hug and hit Maedhros. How she had missed him, his wit and humor, and his brash temperament. Instead she opted for sitting up straighter. “Better we would be if lordship passed on to the women folk.”

 

Maedhros cocked his head to the side, appreciative of his cousin’s forthrightness. “Perhaps you are correct, but such is not our story. But truly, what make you of me as your king.”

 

“And I was not jesting,” Artanis replied. “While we will follow, I don’t expect it to last long. You have the oath.”

 

“Ah the oath,” Maedhros hummed.

 

“Your kingship binds us to your oath. I, for one, will not be bound to it. If that makes me a rebel then so be it. Think long and hard on your kingship, Maedhros,” Artanis urged, “I will not be alone in this.”

 

“No you will not,” Maedhros answered thoughtfully. “And what of Fingon?” Maedhros asked, wanting to know what Artanis thought Fingon would do.

 

“He will die for you. Have you not figured this out? He almost did.” Artanis replied, annoyed at Maedhros.

 

“He would…he almost did.” Maedhros, agreed, though it made him sad to speak this aloud. “If I could I would for him too,” Maedhros added wistfully.

 

“But therein lies the problem of your lordship,” Artanis pointed out. “Your heart would desire to sacrifice for Fingon, but the oath and your loyalty to your father will not allow it.”

 

“Always Fëanáro,” Maedhros replied, half angry at his father and himself, and with Artanis too, but she was correct in her assessment. He’d already had this conversation with himself, after all, it just hurt to hear someone else say it.

 

“Now eat,” Artanis commanded.

 

“As ordered,” Maedhros replied. The two ate their food, keeping each other silent companionship for the remainder of the meal. Artanis wanted to fold into her cousins arm. To have him sitting here next to her, sharing such a mundane moment, it was surreal and miraculous!

 

After finishing the food on his plate, Maedhros noticed Artanis staring at him.  “What is it?” he asked.

 

Artanis shook her head, her words revealing her wonder: “You came to us a tortured, disfigured thing, and yet here you are, restored. More than restored, larger than life!”

 

“So I’ve heard,” Maedhros answered. “I don’t see it or feel it,” he admitted.

 

“In time, you will,” Artanis assured him.

 

“Do you think me beautiful, still?” Maedhros asked, taking a chance to speak aloud doubts he found too silly to entertain too seriously, and yet they haunted him.

 

“Dearest Maedhros how much like Fingon you are,” Artanis answered. “Both so changed, yet so unsure of yourselves. I tell you this is a man’s privilege. Even after all you have been through!”

 

“That is not fair Artanis, it is precisely because of what I have been through that one of the things that mattered most to us—though it is entirely vain—is our appearance. So much of who we are and how we think of ourselves as a people...” Maedhros paused, his voice stuck on words that needed to follow. “You need to understand,” Maedhros continued, though it was difficult to share such feelings, “it matters, because it was one of the things he took away from me so painfully.” Maedhros was relieved at his own earnestness. Escaping Morgoth revealed one thing that Maedhros would keep to heart: not hiding from his emotions and meeting the world honestly, even if that was an ugly thing.

 

Artanis pulled back, regret in her voice, “I am sorry Maedrhos. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

 

“And that’s just it”, Maedhros countered. “NO one can, not even Fingon.”

 

Maedhros passed his hand through his hair that reached his shoulders. He felt naked without its length. “I would like to say it matters not, but it does matter to me.”

 

Artanis placed her hand over Maedhros’ hand. With much tenderness, she shared, “I find you more beautiful now than you were then. I think you can safely say that for all of us.” Artanis paused and looked around the room, taking in the elves gathered in the dining room. “Are we not beautiful?” she spoke. “Look at us Maedhros, look at yourself!”

 

“What, with your self-inflicted scars and skin etchings?” Maedhros teased. 

 

Artanis laughed. Of course Maedhros needed to lighten the mood.

 

“I do fancy them,” Maedhros answered his own words, “though I like not the notches on your ears.”

 

Artanis raised her hand and touched the scar that connected to Maedhros’ lip. “There are those things that will remain that none of us desire.”

 

“This is true,” Maedrhos answered leaning into Artanis’ touch. He hadn’t realized how much he yearned for touch. Healing massages were not this intimate.

 

Artanis sighed, “Oh Maedhros,” She breathed, pulling her cousin into a hug, not caring what those around her thought. The work women folk did for the men was vast and intimate.

 

Pulling back from Artanis, Maedhros asked for more from her and not about her: “How do you see Fingon?”

 

Artanis smiled. “Like you, he is needy,” she shared.

 

“I find it easy to be needy with you,” Maedhros replied, smiling. The thought of Fingon being needy brought him happiness, but Artanis’ next words were like a bucket of cold water.

 

“He has taken a lover,” she revealed. She had not intended it, but she felt Maedhros so vulnerable, she wanted him to steel himself against whatever feelings he might still harbor for Fingon.

 

Maedhros sat back. Clearly he was surprised.

 

“Acharedel, Arí,” Artanis shared.

 

“Is there love between them?” Maedhros asked, dumbfounded by the revelation. Of course Fingon had moved on, Maedhros told himself.  Hadn’t Maedhros hoped for as much, and yet he was surprised it stung him so.

 

“You fool,” Artanis gently chided him, “of course it hurts. You two are, were...I do not regret telling you, you needed to know.”

 

“You didn’t answer me,” Maedhros replied.

 

“They are lord and liegemen,” Artanis answered. “There is love, but it is not romantic. Arí alone makes Fingon bearable. He’d be insufferable without her.”

 

Maedhros felt an unanticipated sorrow. Fingon could not even find love in a good friend. Artanis’ answer did not bring him relief in any form it came.

 

“Fingon killed for you Maedhros. That cost him. The ice changed him.” Artanis offered, hoping to lessen the sting for Maedhros. “Acharedel manages Fingon in this way, keeps him from traveling too deeply into his own darkness.”

 

“Did not the ice change you?” Maedhros asked. Of course meeting Fingon on this side of the sea was like meeting a new person. Fingon was changed. Distant at times and easy to anger. So unlike Findekáno.

 

Artanis looked away. “It did,” she responded, “but the women folk and the children bear these costs differently.”

 

“Because you have to support your men,” Maedhros asked gently.

 

“As it has always been,” Artanis answered, her voice filled with a barely veiled bitterness.

 

“I am sorry for that,” Maedhros answered.

 

“More women died on the ice,” Artanis revealed.

 

“How so?”

 

“They sacrificed more of themselves for their husbands and their brothers and their sons and daughters. Oh the mighty women of the Noldor, who will sing their songs when we are gone!” Artanis replied cynically.

 

Maedhros looked down. He hadn’t spent any time considering how these roles would play out in the time after exile. He felt foolish for it.

 

“Promise me you will be a better king in this regard,” Artanis begged.

 

“What of Fingolfin?” he asked. After all, Maedhros was sure he could convince his brothers his plan was the most sound, and Fingolfin would accept.

 

“I trust him more than I do you,” she admitted, “though he has his limitations. But Lalwen is his right hand person, and though I still have to fight to be heard, I am heard. Lalwen sees to it, though she frustrates me so at times!” Artanis revealed.

 

Maedhros smiled at Artanis’ admitting she was still treated as a young woman that needed to be protected. But he was also upset with himself. He hadn’t considered Lalwen in all his deliberations. Maedhros hated himself for it in this moment. His mind was made up. With Lalwen at Fingolfin’s side ruling the Noldor, they had a better chance. The women and children would not be sacrificed.

 

“Thank you Artanis,” Maedhros shared.

 

“Anytime,” she replied.

 

“I need you to do a favor for me,” she asked.

 

“I am not in a position to grant favors, Artanis,” Maedhros replied.

 

“Before you say no, listen to me.” Artanis replied quickly. “Speak to Fingon. Convince him to let me lead my own unit.”

 

“I can ask about it in my own way,” Maedhros answered.

 

“Speak plainly,” Artanis demanded.

 

“I cannot ask that of him without knowing your skill,” Maedhros replied, now like a king should.

 

“I would not ask this if I was not capable,” Artanis retorted.

 

“Capability and training are two different things. You know this.”

 

“That’s what frustrates me,” Artanis admitted. “I need to be given the opportunity to learn!”

 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “Is it Fingon or Finrod that needs to hear this?”

 

Artanis sighed, frustrated. “Finrod is insufferable, acting in place of our father. He thinks too highly of himself and sometimes does not see when he’s being outwitted. Finrod believes too much in how deeply he is loved. I’d rather be loathed,” Artanis observed.

 

“Wise words,” Maedhros replied, raising his cup with wine. “I’ll toast to that.”

 

Artanis raised her cup and their cups clinked.

 

“I will speak to Fingon and ask about you. Will that satisfy you?” Maedhros finally said.

 

“For now, though I know you will be leaving us soon,” Artanis answered.

 

“Indeed I will,” Maedhros replied. “I need to and want to get back to my brothers.”

 

“But you are also torn to leave Fingon’s side?” Artanis inquired. And yet Fingon was not here, was away on a patrol with her brother, chasing after ghosts, it seemed.

 

“I am,” Maedhros sighed. He felt Fingon’s absence keenly, but Fingon’s serious demeanor before his departure signaled just how frightened Fingon was of whatever the scouts had reported back to him. Fingon’s captaincy in Fingolfin’s army was inevitable. It was a role Fingon was born to and raised into. Fingolfin trusted Fingon to discretely do the work that was needed to find out more of this new threat and report back.

 

Artanis spoke, “At least we will hold a feast in honor of your health and departure. Some people will be celebrating you honestly. Others will be feigning their smiles, while others will be counting down the minutes until your departure.”

 

“And what of you cousin?” Maedhros asked.

 

Artanis leaned into Maedhros once more. “I am sad for it. Having you here reminds me of better times. You leaving means dangerous times.”

 

Maedhros kissed the top of Artanis’ head. He needed to get back soon and get his plan in action.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon kicked the dead orc’s body over, revealing the rotten posterior. He crouched over the body despite the stench of death that crawled into Fingon’s mouth and nose and down his throat. With a small knife, Fingon looked over the body, removing the armour that fell over the large wound.

 

“This bite was post mortem,” Calmacil observed, standing over Fingon.

 

Fingon shook his head in agreement. “See here?” Fingon pointed to the orc’s neck. It was ripped cleanly. “This looks like it was ripped open by claws. What creation of Morgoth?” Fingon asked aloud, his voice betraying his utter bewilderment.

 

Calmacil’s face was grim. Morgoth could always unsettle them with each new and grotesque manifestation of his evil. “Judging by the size of the wound, whatever creature it was is larger than a horse to carry a jaw that can inflict such a bite,” Calmacil noted.

 

Fingon used a stick to explore the wound. They could see what parts had been ripped out and were missing, the manner of the tearing away of the insides. Nolmë, the science of the Noldor served them well. Behind them, Calmacil and Fingon heard Aegnor’s familiar steps approaching them.

 

“Whatever creature it was, dragged the orc’s bowels to a thicket of trees to eat the remains. There is only a faint trail left of what was taken, but no care was taken to conceal it,” Aegnor reported. Aegnor was serious of face, not much could disturb his detached attitude. It was a grim personality gifted by the ice. In time, Aegnor would meet his match, and Endórë would reveal itself to him in the form of another.

 

Fingon stood from where he was inspecting the orc. “This orc was out here alone.”

 

“A scout,” Aegnor offered. “But why would Moringotto’s creature kill one of his own?” Aegnor questioned.

 

“Moringotto must not have control of all his creations,” Calmacil deduced. Fingon and Aegnor exchanged worried glances. As much as they wanted to reject Calmacil’s assessment, they knew he was correct.

 

“So now we have to contend with creatures set out by Moringotto that act not through his will but a shear need to devour?” Aegnor uttered aloud, what Fingon was also thinking.

 

Calmacil smiled thinly. “Moringotto’s armies are expendable. Chaos and uncertainty serve him well.”

 

“Indeed they do,” Fingon replied. Directing himself to Aegnor, Fingon asked, “Could you determine the size of the creature?”

 

“Aye,” Aegnor replied. “The beast, or whatever it is, is larger than a horse. As you all saw when we came in, it drags itself at times, but also walks.”

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. “Why would a beast do this?”

 

Aegnor, being more familiar with animal science, offered a guess: “The creature must be crudely made, tiring easy. Its limbs are weak or not well formed. As I followed its trail, we saw that, if needed, it can move quickly, but only for short distances.”

 

Calmacil grunted. “Moringotto distorts creation. Write a report and make sure you distribute it to all the scouts and to our neighbors. See if they have found similar scenes of slaughter and similar tracks.”

 

Aegnor nodded affirmatively.

 

“Let us return,” Fingon added. “Maedhros might know more about this creature.”

 

With much care the three elves retreated from the scene, carrying with them what evidence they could.  

 

)()()()(

 

The summons came. Maedhros was surprised to find a travel weary Fingon in Fingolfin’s quarters. Calmacil and Aegnor were also in the room, along with Lalwen and Finrod. Turgon was noticeably absent, probably because he was away in his new settlement, a plan Maedhros thought dangerous.

 

Fingolfin, as always, eyed his son closely, could tell that Fingon was tired and worried. Calmacil too was more stoic than normal and Aegnor’s eyes burned with an intense fire of fear and anger.

 

“Welcome Maedhros,” Fingolfin offered formally. “Fingon would not speak until you were here. I suppose it is serious and affects us all.”

 

“It is,” Fingon shared and stood up to walk over to the map of the territories. The group fell into place around the map.

 

Fingon shared a look with Aegnor. Maedhros glanced up at Aegnor. Aegnor was watching Maedhros but said nothing to him. Instead, Aegnor turned his attention to the map and with his sword he pointed to a location on the map.

 

“We found our first sighting in the foothills of the Mithrim” Aegnor reported. “We tracked the creature from the foothills north, finding its victims scattered until we lost the tracks north of the lake and into the plains.”

 

Maedhros looked up sharply at Fingon.

 

“We sent word to Maglor,” Fingon reported, locking eyes with Maedhros.

 

“If not for the Sindar traveling, we would not have found these tracks,” Calmacil added.

 

“What is it?” Lalwen asked.

 

Fingon replied, “It is a large creature, bigger than a horse, and it recognizes neither foe nor kin. It devours orcs, sheep, deer, whatever comes in its way.”

 

“Moringotto’s chaos,” Fingolfin observed.

 

“Indeed,” Calmacil added. “His creations are meant to incite fear.”

 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. Calmacil looked at him expectantly. Maedhros realized they were all looking to him. Taking in a deep breath, Maedhros shared: “Moringotto takes creatures and distorts them, but he also has mastered creating new beings, things I could not imagine coming to be. And yet they are disfigured, like the creation of a child who has not figured out the working order of things.”

 

Aegnor spoke, “That coincides with what we observed. This creature, from its tracks, either has underdeveloped legs, or his so strangely built that it needs to walk and drag itself.”

 

“That would be so,” Maedhros added. “Moringotto has not yet mastered creation. His creatures are distorted and warped, though he delights in the outcomes nonetheless.” Maedhros face grew dark and his voice dropped to a whisper. Maedhros’ mind was back in the dungeons remembering how Morgoth disfigured him, how Morgoth disfigured others. Grotesque scenes replayed in his mind, the visions of Morgoth’s creations that could not sustain life claiming space inside Maedhros. Maedhros looked up at the table, his grey eyes were filled with fury and something they did not quite understand. Maedhros divulged, “I saw creatures created from dirt, born without the ability to survive. They would awaken and die a wretched death, trembling and screeching. It was a terrible thing to witness…” Maedhros turned his face away from the group. Even out here, free from Morgoth’s dungeons, Maedhros would meet Morgoth’s hand.

 

Fingon watched Maedhros closely. He knew this discovery was hardest for Maedhros.

 

Lalwen spoke, daring to put a comforting hand on Maedhros’ shoulder. “Then we shall double our scouts, keep a keen eye on the land, and put such foul and wretched creations out of their misery.” Lalwen’s touch was soft and warm. She radiated a motherly energy that Maedhros missed. She had known his own mother well. Maedhros allowed her touch to calm him.

 

“See to it,” Fingolfin ordered Calmacil and Fingon. “Maedhros, if you can, I would like to speak with you in depth about your time with Moringotto. It is time we do this.”

 

Maedrhos shook his head, his eyes fixed on Fingon. “Agreed,” Maedhros replied.

 

Fingon hesitated. He had been dismissed by his father, but wanted to look after Maedhros.

 

“Find me when I am finished,” Maedhros shared with Fingon.

 

Fingon inclined his head and reluctantly left the quarters with the others. They had much work to do, many messages to send, intelligence to gather.

 

Fingolfin poured wine in a glass and sat down. With his hand he indicated Maedhros do the same. “Would you like some wine? This is a gift from the neighboring Sindar.”

 

“Please,” Maedhros replied. Fingolfin filled a glass for Maedhros and handed it to him.

 

Fingolfin got straight to the point. “I know you have not spoken much of your time in the dungeons and what was done to you, but we need to know, just what kind of depravity we can expect from Moringotto.”

 

Maedhros was uncomfortable, though he knew Fingolfin’s request was sound. Of course Fingolfin needed this type of intelligence. Indeed, if the elves did not understand just how depraved Morgoth was, they would remain vulnerable.

 

Maedhros spoke, “I will share the horror of it, though I am not yet willing to share details of what exactly was done to me.”

 

“Understandable,” Fingolfin replied, “What you share, I think, will be enough for us to grasp what we are against.” Looking up at Maedhros, Fingolfin offered, “It is bitter that I can imagine some of the dark things that happened to you, and more bitter still for me to remember the man I was who could not fathom any of this once upon a time.”

 

Maedhros relaxed. Fingolfin’s words reassured him. None of them had the capacity to dream of the darkness of Morgoth in the days of bliss. Not even in their dreams could they conceive of such evil and wickedness.

 

“Be not afraid Maedhros, I will not judge you, for we encountered darkness on the ice that was heretofore not comprehensible to us. Now, at least, I have room for the unimaginable and unknowable to take shape,” Fingolfin said, assuring Maedhros.

 

Maedhros understood Fingolfin’s philosophical statement. Maedhros was thankful for it. He proceeded and told Fingolfin of dark things that emanated from Morgoth’s mind, the brutality of it brought to life and inflicted upon the living.  

 

)()()()()()(

 

Maedhros left Fingolfin’s quarters. Lalwen closed the door behind her after Maedhros’ departure.

Fingolfin was fatigued, mentally worn by Maedhros words and the possession that seemed to come over him as he spoke of his time in those black places.

 

“There will always be a shadow of pain in his heart,” Fingolfin told Lalwen. “Did he find his way to Fingon?” Fingolfin asked.

 

“He did,” Lalwen assured Fingolfin. “You worry about Maedhros,” she observed.

 

“Impossible not to,” Fingolfin replied. He choked up. “No one should have endured what he did. No one.” Lalwen wrapped her arm around Fingolfin. Fingolfin allowed tears to stream down his face.

 

“I wonder if any of this,” Lalwen remarked, “is worth the price of our children?”

 

Fingolfin shuddered. “I cannot bear it,” he admitted. “Moments such as these stir fear and immense regret in me.”

 

“I am glad to hear it,” Lalwen soothed. “If it did not, I’d worry for our future.”

 

Fingolfin leaned over, his head in his hands. “Sister, what have we done?”

 

)()()()()(

 

Fingon walked with Maedhros outside the walls of the keep. Maedhros was unsettled by his conversation with Fingolfin, and he didn’t have to search long for Fingon, knew Fingon would be waiting for him to walk by his side.

 

Maedhros walked towards a tree. The sounds of life and death pulled Maedhros to it. Passing his hand over the tree, he searched for its song, finding it.

 

Fingon stood a few feet away, observing Maedhros, who seemed a stranger. Fingon could not know what Maedhros endured.

 

On the other side of the tree was the figure of a squirrel, long dead, hidden amongst tall grasses. The sound of the worms consuming it, like a soft shuffling of leaves, gave away its position. Leaning on the tree, Maedhros heard  the worms and moving closer he spotted the rotting squirrel, but he did not cower away. Life, the tree, the path of decay, it was offering Maedhros a lesson.

 

Maedhros turned to look at Fingon, his eyes dimmed, receded inward. Maedhros was walking in memory. Fingon grew to recognize that look, the way Maedhros turned inwards, but something was different on this warmest day yet of Maedhros’ return to the world of the living.

 

“Sílahul said I must speak of it,” Maedhros spoke softly. “Speaking to your father has given me some strength to face it, but I could not tell him all of it, not him,” Maedhros admitted.

 

Fingon grew still. This was the first time Maedhros was speaking of it to Fingon, his time in Morgoth’s dungeons.

 

Maedhros voice was soft, vulnerable. “At times I was held in a small cell. I could not sit, I could not move. All I could do was stand. My feet grew so raw that the maggots that littered the floor of that place started eating away at my skin.”

 

Fingon’s eyes stopped on the squirrel that Maedhros was watching. Perhaps it was the presence of the tree that gave him the strength to speak.

 

“One time, the door to the cell was opened. I fell onto the floor. I was in so much pain, but also relieved.” Maedhros’ eyes remained fixed on the maggots consuming the squirrel. “But the guards laughed and threw some of those maggots on my chest. I was horrified, but I was also so hungry…” Maedhros looked up at Fingon. Unimaginable pain, Sílahul had told Fingon.

 

Fingon said nothing. He understood hunger, a devouring hunger.

 

Looking up at the tree, Maedhros’ hugged its circumference. “Do you remember hanging from the great oak tree in the gardens of grandfather’s palace?”

 

“I do,” Fingon answered.

 

“That memory is a terror,” Maedhros whispered.

 

Fingon asked, “What did they do?”

 

Maedhros looked up at Fingon, warring with himself. He wanted the images of his torture to vanish, to cease to exist, but the more he wished that, the more potent they became. Sílahul was right. Maedhros needed to name the horror: “They hung me from strange devices, stuck wires in my toes and feet to do it, but not long enough that my feet and toes would become dismembered. Moringotto had such intimate knowledge of just how much he could push an elven body.” Maedhros’ voice trailed off. He felt the blood rushing to his head, but Maedhros was standing, not hung upside down. To reorient himself, Maedhros looked back at the maggots consuming the dead animal.

 

The two stood silently for some time. It was Fingon this time who chose to speak. Maedhros heard how Fingon drew his breath in, the unsteadiness of it: “We were desperate. We would have died,” Fingon whispered his eyes fixed on the maggots. “There was only ice, only ice, no food,” Fingon repeated. “We survived only because…” Fingon’s voice shattered with grief, both for Maedhros and for those poor lost souls.

 

Maedhros raised his eyes once more. Dreadful things. Hunger, such hunger.

 

Fingon didn’t need to say more, but he did. “I am sorry, I did not mean to compare…” Fingon’s voice trailed off.

 

Maedhros shook his head, dismissing Fingon’s apology. “Thank you,” Maedhros replied. Turning back to the dead squirrel, Maedhros spoke, or perhaps it was a prayer, “It brings me sorrow to know, in some things, I am not so alone.” Maedhros closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “You must promise to be my memory,” Maedhros insisted. “And I shall be yours.”

 

Maedhros looked up at Fingon who watched him intently. “These things must be remembered and not forgotten for I fear who we will become if we forget.”

 

“Aye,” Fingon answered his voice hoarse. “We cannot walk away from the horror.”

 

“Otherwise we condemn who is to come to an innocence that will be shattered, over and over. That…” Maedhros was close to tears, “…that scares me the most.” The oath weighed heavily for Maedhros, his father’s words, recommitting his sons to it before he died, like a weight sinking him in water.

 

Fingon’s breath shuddered. He had been holding it in. Maedhros’ words were the truest, most honest words he’d considered on this side of the divide between who he had been and who he was. In truth, Maedhros words’ spoke to who Fingon had to be, had no choice to be. Fingon would be Maedhros’ memory, he would caretake the story of what happened to him, carry the darkest contours of Maedhros’ torture. In death, this memory would allow Fingon to forgive the Kinslayings that would soon follow, for how could Maedhros’ story have any other conclusion? How could his?

 

The two looked at the maggots consuming the squirrel. The day quieted around them, but the branches of the tree swayed, the leaves rustling.

 

Maedhros struggled with his breathing, his chest was tight, but he willed himself to look at Fingon. Reaching out his hand towards Fingon was all he could do in this moment. This took such strength of will on Maedhros’ behalf and Fingon recognized that. Fingon came forward, allowing Maedhros to touch his face.

 

“To be your memory, I need to see your story,” Fingon urged tentatively.

 

Maedhros drew his hand back.

 

“Be not afraid,” Fingon soothed. “Who if not I can endure this?”

 

Maedhros steeled himself from what was to come. “I will also see your story,” Maedhros cautioned.

 

“So be it,” Fingon declared.

 

Maedhros’ touch on Fingon’s cheek made it easier for them to open their minds up to one another. It was hard for them to find their way back to each other. This helped. The first images were tentative and fleeting. Maedhros’ memories came in flashes, the content distorted, shadowed, but Fingon insisted, and the contours became clear. Fingon saw aspects of Maedhros’ torture, felt through Maedhros, the loss of his elvenness. Fingon did not cry, he bore it bravely, and then Maedhros was in his mind, watching the boats burn from Fingon’s perspective, soon Maedhros was marching on the ice, witnessing the horror of that journey.

 

How long they stood out under that tree they did not realize at first, but with the memories receding, the setting sun managed to remind them to walk back into the world once more.

 

)()()()(

 

Maedhros crouched just behind Kyelep, his legs sure under him. These were his first hunting outings since he’d returned to the world of the living. Bow and arrow were ready and drawn. Maedhros body was strong and he had learned to draw the bow with his left hand and a grip for his right arm had been made so that he could sheath the end of his right arm in it. It required incredible strength and stillness for it to work. Maedhros waited for Kyelep to move ever so slightly, a movement so subtle it barely registered in the vibrations of air. The stag was large, but still a youth.

 

Maedhros and Kyelep followed many deer over a period of two days to know more intimately the deer they hunted. Maedhros needed to reconnect to his ability to hunt, to take a life. This work was healing for both of them. It was silent work, requiring utmost focus and the use of senses in concert with Endórë.  Kyelep was thus teaching Maedhros a lesson about the patience and responsibility of a hunt, as understood by the Laiquendi. Through this process, Maedhros learned the intimacy of deer song, recognizing its tones and depth. From Kyelep and through her, Maedhros understood something Celegorm had told him long before, about the nuances and beauty of deer song. It was in Song that Maedrhos found healing.

 

Satisfied they were not removing a needed ancestor from the line of deer, Kyelep and Maedhros retraced the deer’s steps until they found the stag that would be sacrificed to feed Fingolfin’s people in what would be a feast for Maedhros’ departure. Kyelep waited patiently while Maedhros watched their query. Maedhros listened long and deep to the song of the deer. He allowed his own notes to mingle with the deer. The deer’s head perked up from where it had been foraging, hearing the familiar song of the elves, a song passed down to him by those older than him.

 

Quietly Maedhros drew his arrow back and released it. His aim was true and the deer’s death was swift. Kyelep and Maedhros walked to where the deer fell. Kyelep sang the deer song in the manner of the Laiquendi, thanking it for its sacrifice, promising to caretake the next. Looking up at the tall figure of Maedhros she asked him to join in the song. Through Kyelep, Maedhros helped guide the deer to its ancestors and into a river of endless time and creation. Maedhros was overcome by the song, by the sensation of loss, but also the mystery of life. He understood why Kyelep insisted a hunt would be healing for Maedhros. She was allowing Maedhros to recreate his relationship with Endórë, to grasp the nuances of life around him that would allow him to grow stronger.

 

The song ended, their voices quieted. After a moment Kyelep spoke to Maedhros, “Learn the songs of Endórë and she will not allow you to dwell within.” 

 

Maedhros tied up the deer’s legs while Kyelep spoke to him. He understood her lesson. Endórë, Sílahul had shared with Maedhros, would always be there to remind Maedhros that he was more than just Maedhros, more than the shell of his body. Indeed it was a difficult task for the Noldor to not center their individuality as primary, for their psychology was greatly internalized. In this manner, the Laiquendi were different, were oriented towards relationships, relied on their relations around them to make sense of the world. They understood emotions and being in the world through bonds. Indeed it was difficult for them to fathom the internal psychological life of the Noldor for truly, were not the elves gifted with the ability to understand each other without words? For Kyelep and Sílahul it cost them much to be amongst the Noldor and be cut off from the network that made them Laiquendi. It was very lonely.

 

Maedhros handed off the deer to another group. “Walk with me,” he indicated to Kyelep.

 

Kyelep nodded, following after Maedhros. He walked ahead quickly covering quite a distance with his long legs.  Stopping abruptly, Maedhros spun around. “You must know the full story of what we have done,” Maedhros words spilled out, “if you are to come with me. I cannot bring you with me against your will.”

 

“Against my will?” Kyelep asked, confused.

 

Maedhros grabbed Kyelep’s hands, wondering if this would be the last time she’d allow him to touch them. “You must know of my father’s oath, of the Kinslaying, and all that was done for us to be banished.”

 

“Banished?” Kyelep stepped back.

 

“Surely you must have guessed there was more to us!” Maedhros demanded, unwilling to accept that Kyelep, sister of Míriel would not be wiser and more keen.

 

 Kyelep hesitated. “I have my doubts, but now you will tell me, won’t you,” she deduced.

 

“I will,” Maedhros declared. “You will not love us.”

 

“I will know my own heart. Not you,” Kyelep retorted.

 

Maedhros eyes shone with a ferocity that made Kyelep afraid. “You should fear us, for we bring death. We are death!” Maedhros figure was tall, imposing, and the light that emanated from him was ominous and bright. A different sort of beacon, a harbinger of death.  

 

Kyelep stepped back, afraid. She had seen visions of Fëanor’s might and power through those elves that shared those memories with her. Here, once more she was seeing that power. She feared Fëanor in those memories. Maedhros carried that same fire.

 

“The people of Alqualondë would not hand over their ships,” Maedhros shared. “Father was furious. He would not be delayed in his chase of Moringotto. Not only did the Black Foe kill grandfather who you knew, but he took my father’s greatest creations, the Silmarils.” Maedhros described the making of the Silmarils, the conflict between Fingolfin and Fëanor, the death of Finwë, and the taking of the Silmarils.

 

The story was like unraveling a terrible riddle that Kyelep had known the answer to after all. “Fëanáro did all this?” Kyelep repeated, her voice quiet. Fëanor was her own son, in the way of the Laiquendi.

 

“They denied us our right!” Maedhros exclaimed. “We took the ships from them, but the elves of Alqualondë were brave and they fought back for what was theirs. Father would not be defeated and we fought. Many died.” Maedhros voice did not have remorse, not yet.

 

Kyelep gasped.

 

“We would have been beaten back,” Maedhros continued,  “but Fingolfin’s forces succored us, believing us to have been waylaid by the elves of Eldamar. Fingon and his people saved us, killing those that were coming for our lives.”

 

“Fingolfin?” Kyelep asked, unbelieving.

 

“Nay, he was not with Fingon’s vanguard. He and Lalwen were at the rear of that group, but Fingon, his brother Arakáno who you did not know, and others were in the fore. They saved us, also becoming kinslayers.”

 

Kyelep cried. Maedhros did not succor her. There was no comforting when such horror was real. Maedhros was grim, “Námo himself banished us, not allowing us to return, to be forever doomed. And we, my brothers, swore an oath with our father that we would defeat Moringotto and take back the Silmarils that are rightfully ours.”

 

“Such evil,” she breathed. She turned away from Maedhros.

 

“Behold,” Maedhros whispered, “the sins of your sons. You cannot love us now.” Maedhros walked away and left Kyelep standing there in shock. He did not want her to follow, did not want her tied to the Fëanorian fate. Kyelep was something he had left of his father, of his grandmother, and he needed her safe. Someone needed to survive.

 

Kyelep cried, the many stories she heard, falling into place. What Maedhros did not understand is Kyelep was tied to their fate by something more powerful than an oath: by blood. Now more than before she understood she must stay with Fëanor’s sons. She owed it to her sister who had passed like a shadow. Kyelep wanted to run away, back to the bosom of her forest, but she picked herself up and walked to the only person she knew she could talk to: Lalwen. And finally from Lalwen she heard the story, through their sharing of thoughts was able to see the story from Lalwen’s perspective.

 

In time Kyelep would see the story from many perspectives. And always she would lament the Houses of men.

 

“Do you love us still?” Lalwen whispered as they sat together.

 

A realization grew in Kyelep’s mind and an overwhelming desire to cry out for her sister descended on her. Oh but the Valar were cruel! Kyelep judged. Turning to Lalwen, Kyelep asked, “Do you not see? Míriel was always prophetic, could see and feel what was to come.” Kyelep continued, “But my people do not, did not fear prophecy, for what we see has always been beauty and new things to come.” Kyelep shivered, remembering, “But one day it all changed and prophecy became unsteady, a thing we could not look forward to, rely on.” Kyelep’s words tumbled out: “I believe Míriel saw what was coming, could feel all this death and destruction, after the birth of Fëanor. I can imagine  this is why she became a shadow of herself. Perhaps she could not fully fathom why she saw only an unimaginable darkness and death of all of those she loved, including grandchildren she had not yet come to know.” Kyelep cried out, “Don’t you see? When my sister had these visions, we encountered them too!” To herself, Kyelep whispered, “You were not alone, sister.”

 

“The Valar would not have allowed her to know this!” Lalwen insisted. “Knowing this, Míriel would have indicted one of their own in better days!” Lalwen exclaimed. Did not the Valar control all, know all?

 

Kyelep cried earnestly. The Valar, imperfect gods, sacrificed Míriel, clouding her foresight. But all that she Míriel was left with was an overwhelming feeling of death. They doomed Míriel. “Oh sister!” Kyelep fell into Lalwen’s arms.

 

Lalwen saw the truth of Kyelep’s words. “Forgive us,” Lalwen whispered, holding Kyelep. Arda was marred, not because of something outside of them, but because they were imperfect beings. Lalwen felt impotent and heavy. The damnation of her people was now upon Kyelep. Oh what cruel fate! It seemed this fate of Míriel was a doom shared by the woman folk that would be swept away by the violence of men.

 

)()()(

 

The bonfire was lit. Many of Fingolfin’s host danced around the fires, but Kyelep was not interested in feasts. Kyelep found Maedhros in his room. “Will you not come to the feast?” she asked him. She did not understand that even if Maedhros expected her to come to him, it would not be in this manner.

 

Maedhros frowned. “I was sure my words would horrify you and yet here you are.”

 

“Here I am,” Kyelep affirmed. Kyelep was braver than most, and wiser too.

 

Maedhros turned to look at her, asking, “Why?” He did not meant it as an insult. He simply could not understand her persistence.

 

Kyelep grew frustrated. “You are my sister’s children. Your grandmother was one of us before she went to live in that world you created across the sea.” The Noldor were creatures alien to themselves. “She cannot be here with you. I am now responsible for you.” Kyelep added, her voice sorrowful, “though I do not know what that will look like.”

 

Maedhros face softened. “I had hoped to spook you away with my words, but I see that we are truly blood.” Maedhros too grew sad. “I am regretful that our coming here has cost you so much.”

 

“As am I,” Kyelep agreed, her mind on her sister. As it did for her.

 

Maedhros made his way to make for the feast. “My confession does not deserve such a celebration.”

 

“Not for you, no,” Kyelep agreed. “But Fingolfin’s people deserve some joy,” Kyelep replied thoughtfully.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon sat next to Maedhros. They looked into the fire, each contemplating what would come next. Fingon finally spoke, “I dreamt of steps in the depths of the sea. I follow, but I do not know the way. I swim up, but cannot break the Ice overhead. I wake up gasping for air.”

 

Maedhros eyes were glazed over, lost in the fire. Maedhros understood what Fingon was sharing, answering, “I drowned without water. Darkness would come for me. It always came. It still does.” Fingon would always be there to hear Maedhros, to know Maedhros, not who he had been.

 

Fingon shook his head in understanding. Smiling, Fingon tore his gaze away from the fire. Maedhros turned to look into the familiarity of Fingon’s bluest eyes. “Home,” Fingon smiled. “I desired new lands and find that I am simply returned to ancient homelands, but I am yet a stranger.” The wind in the trees whispered songs of Endórë. She was witness.

 

Maedhros intuited Fingon’s path. “But we are not strangers to each other.”

 

Fingon’s smile diminished. “We are not.” Fingon reached out a tentative hand. Maedhros observed Fingon’s hesitance. Maedhros brought his own hand up and touched Fingon’s cheek. Fingon shuddered ever so slightly, leaning into Maedhros’ hand. Maedhros repeated, “We are not strangers to each other. Let us hold to that.”

 

Fingon closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of Maedhros touch upon him. The fire also a witness.

)()()()(

 

Ice. People of Ice. People of the Ice. Strange encounters. A challenge, Kyelep, understood that though once they were kin, recognizable, the Noldor were no longer that. On both sides of the lake you had peoples of exile, for this is what these elves were. The Noldor used that word often. It was a foreign word to her, to the Laiquendi, but she started to understand it. And yet Fingolfin’s people were also utterly remade, for the differences between the camps were stark. How could it not be? To cross the bitterest North, the Grinding Ice for so many years, to endure, to lose, to survive that? The Fëanorians would never know this. Their burden was another.

 

An impasse. Perhaps the constellations held a hint to this story, the manner in which the journey of the moon hid certain stars that were once visible in the black ink skies now disappeared. In this way the moon also brought loss to the Elves of middle earth. Though deep and far was elven sight, it could not see beyond the laws of the new moonlight. The shapes of some constellations changed. In particular, the tail of the dragonfly, three stars, disappeared to the light of the moon, so the dragonfly became the butterfly. Kyelep imagined the Fëanorians and Fingolfians were like the constellation dragonfly now called the butterfly, though the same, the stars of the dragonfly tail hidden by light, became something different.

 

What she discovered would lead her people to hide further into the forests of the mountains, retreat into the region of the seven rivers. The Noldor brought doom. The Laiquendi were not unknowing, knew doom would come when the dark king made his way to their lands, but the coming of the Noldor was like the knife that would break their lands in two. Little did the Laiquendi know how real this metaphor would become.

 

Fingon watched the waters of the lake, lit by the moon on the clear summer night. The feast was winding down.  “It’s as if I can walk on water, follow the path of the moon,” Fingon shared with Kyelep who stood next to him. With his fingers he traced the moonlight’s path on the lake that led to the Fëanorian encampment on the other side.

 

“You would find the muddy depths of the lake,” Kyelep answered.

 

“Perhaps there I would find the ghosts of those we lost.” Fingon whispered, not saying aloud, those devoured.

 

“Maybe they have built a city there in the dark depths of the water.” Idril offered, embracing her uncle, her eyes traveling the same paths.

 

Kyelep closed her eyes. Such pain. Such loss. How could a people who had never understood this come back from the sudden onslaught of it. The Valar were imperfect beings, unsure how to connect their Sight to the world of the elves, Kyelep believed.

 

Fingon, brought his niece closer. He tried to smile, but he could not. He spoke, even though his words would bring more sadness. Noldor youth were not sheltered. Idril had left innocent childhood behind. “Castles of sand,” Fingon remarked. “Like the ones you built once upon time upon those shores,” he said to Idril, reminding her of Alqualondë before the fall.

 

Idril looked up at her uncle, remembering well those early memories stolen from innocent times, yet she also heard whispers of how those shores in the west they left were drenched with the blood of the dead. She shivered. “Those ghosts would also condemn us.”

 

Fingon looked down. “It seems I should walk that path for it is what I deserve.”

 

Idril held her uncle’s hand. Kinslayer. She loved him nonetheless.

 

Fingon turned to look at Kyelep. “You cannot love us now.”

 

Kyelep’s breath shuddered. The same words as Maedhros. “I cannot love that,” she gently corrected Fingon. The revelation of the Kinslaying, of the oath. It was utterly unimaginable. The fear in her body was more than palpable, it wormed its way to her core, settling in her bones.

 

“You leave in the morning,” Fingon added, bitter and resigned to Kyelep’s decision and the fact Maedhros was leaving. Maedhros’ leaving marked the inevitable. Maedhros would always leave.

 

“I need to see my sister’s children,” Kyelep answered, conflicted that she was compelled to see the faces of her children who’d made such terrible mistakes. Kyelep felt a terrible, deep sadness. Her sister’s death, precipitated all of this, but she died because she saw it? Prophecies were dangerous this way.

 

Idril looked thoughtfully from the Fëanorian camp back to Kyelep. “You will love them more.”

 

Kyelep shook her head. “They are my sons.” So young and yet so wise was this Idril. And what of the Fëanorians? A meager inheritance, a tragic bloodline, her sister’s legacy. It had to be more than this, she thought desperately. It was all she had left of Míriel.

 

Kyelep looked back across the lake following the path the moonlight towards the other camp, its light shining in the night sky. She imagined the depths of the lake bed filled with bodies, hands reaching up from watery graves, dredging the bottom in pain and anger.

 

Fingon too traced a journey towards the other side. He imagined himself submerged in the ice, cold waters, returned to the seafloor, the marks on his skin a map to the depths. He saw them, the ghosts of the sea, barnacles growing on their skin, skin translucent and shimmering like a fish. On the floor would be the remains of the burned ships, their remains dragged to the depths of sea by the currents, there to mingle with the dead. He could see the dead, their eyes, shining with the strange light of sea creatures that emerge from the unknown depths. They would welcome him, devour him, Down there, he would unravel the marks left on his skin, stretch them, tendrils floating in water. His very life would bleed out, the dead feeding, until Fingon too was a ghost: the dead alive. Perhaps there was freedom on that ocean floor. No oaths, no houses.

 

“I intend on surviving,” Idril announced her determination pulling Fingon back from his watery grave. Idril grieved. The water was not her uncle’s resting place. That was her mother’s place, deep and dark, but not Fingon’s. His was elsewhere.

 

The skin on Fingon prickled with that peculiar feeling of prophecy. Kyelep too was taken aback by Idril’s pronouncement, but she also saw the immense sorrow in her eyes as she looked up at Fingon. Kyelep looked away. Such intimacy garnered from a future time, a present, and a not so innocent past was not for her to witness.

 

Fingon leaned down and kissed Idril’s head. He would die. She would survive. She would carry their story. It was more than he could hope for.

 

)()()(