People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 11: The Fëanorians come to visit

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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.

 

)()()()(