People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 13: Of the Laiquendi

The Laiquendi names I use here don’t necessarily refer to canon characters.

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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.

 

)()()()(