People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

---

Chapter 15: Sing to Him

---

Chapter 15: Sing to him

 

Sílahul felt the darkness as he neared Nelyo. It was surprising to feel Morgoth’s presence so viscerally. It was as if something was breathing on their neck. Indeed, approaching the healing wards was akin to heading to battle for Sílahul. It disturbed them that such darkness was found inside the Noldorin encampment, but it seemed that these Noldor were unafraid of such depth and heaviness of dark. Nelyafinwë stood a chance, they believed.

 

Earlier, walking through the camp , Sílahul conversed with Aredhel, asked her to share Nelyo’s names, which they were familiar with, but they were nevertheless curious of Aredhel’s opinion of Nelyo as she was not close to him as Fingon and Celegorm were. Sílahul needed to know all the facets of Miriel’s grandson. Indeed, Sílahul had spent much of their journey to the Noldor camp finding out as much as they could about Nelyo.  From Fingon and Celegorm, Sílahul learned how much time Nelyo was held in Morgoth’s captivity. What Sílahul discovered was unnerving: not only the length of Nelyo’s captivity and torment, but the physical manifestations of Morgoth’s cruelty, and worse yet, the spiritual damage that Fingon was able to articulate in detail.  It was also during their journey to Fingolfin’s camp that Fingon shared with Sílahul details of the numerous procedures and treatments Nelyafinwë endured. But the darkness that grew as Sílahul neared Nelyo’s room warned them that all those treatments did was prolong Nelyo’s suffering, making him grow stronger, only to encounter a renewal of the pain that came with healing.

 

Upon their entry into the healing ward, Sílahul was greeted by a Sindarin elf. Cíleth, Sílahul guessed before she introduced herself. Fingon told them she was the one who advised the Noldor to seek them out. Sílahul did not know her, but guessed why she had sent for them. This weighed heavily on Sílahul. The Sindarin too possessed knowledge dealing with captives released by Morgoth, but not as extensive as the Laiquendi for the Sindar shunned many of those that were released from Morgoth’s clutches, unlike the Laiquendi that folded them back into their communities. The Noldor were more kin in this regard, for Fingon and Celegorm never expressed that Nelyo would be rejected. Indeed it seemed he would be their leader if returned. This was a fascinating insight into the Noldor, but perhaps it also revealed their ignorance of escaped thralls of Morgoth.

 

Before entering the room Nelyo was in, Sílahul asked to see him without anyone present: “I need to be alone with the patient. This is important.” The pair of Fëanorian healers that came out of Nelyo’s room protested. “Under no circumstances,” one replied. “For what purpose?” another inquired.

 

Sílahul studied them. They could not blame the healers for not understanding what they did not know. Sílahul offered, “Your presence will contaminate what I am looking for. My work goes deeper than the fëa or hröa. My work encompasses all of Ambarenyā, or Endórë as you call her.” Sílahul continued, “Tell me, do you know how Moringotto uses Ambarenyā, twists her to achieve his evil will? Do you know the currents of her power, the deep quiet notes of her song and all that is in between?” The Fëanorian healers said nothing, but their faces reflected their worry and uncertainty. While Sílahul understood the Fëanorian healers’ trepidation, Sílahul did not have time to wait for them to come to understanding. Well they knew the Fëanorians distrust arose from not only from their lack of knowledge Sílahul’s work, but also because of the animosity between the camps. That was clear.

 

Cíleth answered, “They do not. Indeed, this torment reached the limits of my own learning; thus we sent for Sílahul.”  Cíleth stood firm by her decision, agreeing to Sílahul’s request. She moved to stand in front of the Fëanorian healers, addressing them, “We leave this room and will be ready when needed.”

 

The healers walked after Cíleth, continuing their protestations, but they listened to Cíleth, also trusting her medical knowledge. They had no other choice.

 

Sílahul did not find the healers’ reaction inappropriate. The Fëanorians simply lacked knowledge. This ignorance seemed to be what joined the different camps firmly together, but Sílahul did not have time to ponder the state of things between the Noldor factions, though they understood that this conflict had greater repercussions for all of Elvendom in middle earth.

 

Emptying themselves of those thoughts, Sílahul prepared themselves for encountering Nelyafinwë. Sílahul walked into the room and gently closed the door behind them. Sílahul steeled themselves. The stench of blackness and decay made its way into everything. They were frightened, startled by the manner which darkness consumed life. But there had to be a crack in that too. This they would find out. Sílahul slowly opened their thoughts, nearing the unconscious figure of Nelyo. At first, Sílahul was hit with the onslaught of decay, the peculiar, withering stench of death. Morgoth’s intent was to devour Nelyo, to consume his fëa so that there would not be a remnant of him left. Yet this was also Morgoth’s mistake. Morgoth believed so deeply in his capacity for evil that he ignored the limits of his own power, believing himself capable of inflicting something that he simply could not. It was the stench of death that allowed Sílahul to see this flaw, for Morgoth was devouring Nelyo, but only as a wolf can devour their pray, leaving its spirit behind. Sílahul perceived that some larger power claimed Nelyo’s fëa, a power beyond Morgoth’s grasp.

 

There was still hope Sílahul could find Nelyo! Sílahul plunged into the dark, into the currents of song and melody that Morgoth wove. Sílahul had been on such paths before. Morgoth’s blackness was duality, born of it, as were all the Valar, but Sílahul was multiplicity. Morgoth did not understand Sílahul, could not know them. Perhaps this is why kwen was outlawed in the Undying Lands. Sílahul’s song crept between crevices, found gaps in Morgoth’s sorcery. While there were binaries in creation, there was also a wider prism of possibility from which creation emerged, a creation that Morgoth did not hear. Sílahul believed that like the other Valar, it was Morgoth’s arrogance that prevented him from reaching understanding and not something innate.

 

It was in these absences and gaps in Morgoth’s thought where Sílahul found Nelyafinwë. He was cowering deep, deep, within the earth, chained to an infinite and shifting prison. Sílahul knelt before Nelyo. “Nelyo,” they whispered, hoping they could reach Fëanor’s son with the simple gesture.

 

Nelyo recoiled. “You are not Findekáno!” he retorted.

 

Sílahul was surprised. How had Fingon reached him here? This, Sílahul told themselves they would discern, but in this moment, they needed to bring Nelyo out from this utter darkness. No matter, that would be a question for later.  “I was sent by Findekáno to help you,” Sílahul answered, using the name Nelyo used for Fingon. “I was sent by your brothers. They believe I have the knowledge to free you from this.”

 

“How?!” Nelyo whimpered, a look of abject terror distorting his face.

 

“With time,” Sílahul revealed, “but I need you to help me.”

 

Nelyo shook his head cautiously. That Nelyo did not scream in horror spoke to how strong this elf was. Nelyo was stronger than he anticipated. Sílahul quietly chastised the other healers. They had been so close to helping him, but for their inability to think differently they had not found Nelyo here, but Fingon did. Fingon did not understand this himself. Otherwise he would have led others here. These elves still had much to learn.

 

This would take time, Sílahul observed looking around the shifting prison, the manner in which matter and chaos melted into one another, defying laws of the known world. It reminded Sílahul of Black holes in the universe: places in space that devoured stars, that devoured the light. The science of the elves, what the Noldor referred to as Nolmë, could not see beyond these limits, not yet. Sílahul’s own knowledge, that the Laiquendi understood as Nóleme, was humble, open to mystery. From this perspective, those absences in the universe were not an end. Sílahul believed they were transformation. Sílahul intuited they held a different kind of life, if it could be named that. In that utter nothingness they too held creation, but Nelyo could not discern this; thus, Morgoth’s prison, in part, was one Nelyo bound himself in, but for the limits of his beliefs! Sílahul would need to unweave the web of deceit, of dark magic, of pain, of terror that trapped Nelyo here.

 

The healers had at least managed to unlock the door to this prison. Sílahul took respite from this for breaking that open might have cost them too much time. Sílahul hummed quietly, almost a whisper, not wanting to bring Morgoth’s focus upon them. Their melody was simple: a clear note that harnessed Endórë’s totality, harnessed it in such a manner that with it, Sílahul sliced at the webbing, undoing the thick threads knotted together that held Nelyo prisoner. From this chaos, which itself was not an evil, Sílahul sought to unbound Nelyo, though they did not seek order; instead it was through chaos that Sílahul allowed unthought to emerge: that which was not imagined. Sílahul offered Nelyo a different vision of life. Grasses and flowers bloomed in the webs, trees stretched slowly within them, their branches ripping the fine tendrils apart. The weight of stone was made manifest and unbeings were birthed, for their presence was not one imaginable to the limitations of Arda and the finite knowledge the Valar possessed of song. In their might, the Valar did not fathom that there was matter beyond the song that was revealed to them. Sílahul’s strength was their humility, for well they understood there was that, that was beyond them.

 

But the effort was great and Sílahul’s song started to grow weak. They tired. Blinking away the dust from their work, they found themselves back in the healing room in Fingolfin’s camp. “Food and drink,” they whispered. Cíleth offered them the most potent mead and a simple waybread. Sílahul smiled their thanks.

 

“We are with you,” Cíleth offered. “May I?” she asked placing her hands tentatively on Sílahul’s back. Sílahul nodded their appreciation.

 

“Fingon,” Sílahul managed to say.

 

“Here,” Fingon answered.

 

Sílahul felt Fingon’s warm hand on their back, heard the multitude of breath of the healers in the room, felt the strength of Nelyo’s brothers, Celegorm and another unfamiliar to them. Sílahul gathered their strength into their center and ready once more, they drifted back into the darkness. It was deep and dark and wet, like a womb, but that was not an evil! This provoked an immense sadness in Sílahul. Morgoth did not understand creation. A womb would never hold a prisoner. Even if it made a life it could not tolerate, that did not survive, it would be expelled, or absorbed, but never devoured to nothingness.

 

Sílahul sunk deeper into the embryonic fluid, the roots of Endórë. Sílahul found beauty and began their own weaving, tethering together what remained of that darkness. Nelyafinwë had recognized what Sílahul was doing, had been hacking away at the darkness that tried to keep him rooted in his prison while Sílahul had emerged from this dark place to replenish themselves. Yes! Sílahul praised Nelyo. You are strong and stubborn! Fingon told me stories about just how strong you are. Nelyo raised a hopeful face up towards them. Celegorm too painted a beautiful picture of your stubbornness, Sílahul shared. Nelyo smiled. Sílahul hesitated, I warn you son of Fëanáro, you will be forever one with darkness. You cannot survive without taking a part of this with you.

 

Nelyo paused his work. I know, Nelyo answered, sadness and despair reflecting back to Sílahul, recognition of his fate weighing heavily on him.

 

Sílahul continued their work: removing darkness and taking some to remake some of what remained of Nelyo. It was a new tapestry, a new song, but also more ancient, for Sílahul pulled threads from before the time of Cuiviénen. Nelyo relied on Sílahul for that work, for Nelyo could only hear the threads, the notes that were born from the creation of the elves. He did not have the ability to hear before this time, but as Sílahul pulled from these chords they became music Nelyo could hear. How did Sílahul possess this? What Nelyo did not understand is that even in this remaking, he was bound by the Oath: an oath that tied him to the limits of the universe the oath was spoken into.

 

How long Sílahul worked in this darkness they did not know, but they forged until Nelyo was closer to being birthed once more. Nelyo’s spirit grew stronger. It was a matter of days, or weeks, or was it seconds, before Nelyo would spill out of what had been a prison and back into the conscious world. But Nelyo was scared for he had been in that world of wakefulness and was not strong enough to maintain his grip when he first awoke.

 

Sílahul comforted Nelyo. You were tethered then, Sílahul shared. No one I know could have come up for air, so strong is the prison that drowns you. This is a testament to your strength, they reassured Nelyo. There remained a tether tying Nelyo to his prison, but it was weak. This last bit needed to be severed to release Nelyo.  Are you ready? Sílahul announced, grasping the last thread that held Nelyo deep in his prison. Nelyo shook his head firmly. He was ready to be freed! With a shout and a swift gesture, Sílahul ripped the thread causing the two to tumble out into the world. It was a rough passage, even for Sílahul. After all they’d never had to rescue anyone so deep, so far gone into the darkness. Sílahul would forevermore be in awe of Nelyo and Nelyo of Sílahul.

 

Sílahul fell back and was caught by Cíleth. Fingon stood up abruptly bounding to Nelyo’s side in one, quick step, hoping for a miracle, but this was no miracle. This was Laiquendi knowledge.

 

Nelyo tentatively opened his eyes, sucking in each breath like a new born babe. “Finno,” he whispered, barely able to make a sound. Fingon again, the first one he saw.

 

“Here,” Fingon spoke, reassuring his friend of old. “I am here.”

 

To the other side of Nelyo were Celegorm and Amras, crying, whispering Nelyo’s name. Nelyo looked from Fingon to his brothers. Nelyo could not know that days earlier Amrod had departed, in part, to inform Maglor of the success of finding the Laiquendi healer, but most of all because he shrewdly observed their welcome was wearing thin: better only two of them remain with some of the Fëanorian healers.

 

Fingon glanced at Sílahul. Sílahul’s eyes were closed from their efforts, but they managed to say, “If only just. He has survived.”

 

Fingon did not know whether to hug Sílahul or stay at Nelyo’s side. Sílahul laughed breathlessly, “Thank me later.” To Cíleth they spoke quietly for a moment. What was exchanged Fingon did not know. He guessed it had to do with what would come next for Nelyo, but he could not focus on that conversation. His full attention needed to be on Nelyo.

 

After a moment, Sílahul said aloud, “I need rest and food”.

 

“Of course,” Cíleth responded, signaling that the elves waiting to do just that. Quickly Sílahul was helped away by some healers and Kyelep for she had also stood vigil with Sílahul and now would tend them.

 

Cíleth was barking orders. Nelyo’s physical ailments, his wounds, were still present. They needed to make sure whatever losses they’d incurred would now be gains.  Cíleth had never doubted Sílahul’s abilities and what she witnessed supporting them increased her awe of their deep and unfathomable knowledge. Sílahul painted for her what she must do next, understanding what this new melody of Nelyo would need.

 

“Speak to him,” Cíleth urged Fingon. “Keep him here and help him feel himself, his body.”

 

Celegorm looked up sharply at Cíleth. Why was she only speaking to Fingon but the look she shot him made Celegorm hold his tongue. He hadn’t time to argue now. He turned his attention back to tend to his brother, lending him strength while Fingon spoke quietly to Nelyo.

 

Cíleth turned her attention to Celegorm and Amras, noting Celegorm’s displeasure. “You do well to support his healing thus,” Cíleth gently reminded Celegorm, understanding that Celegorm, rightly, desired to be a more central part of Nelyo’s healing. He and the other brothers would become this, but not in this moment. Cíleth would discover why Fingon’s bond with Nelyo was so overwhelming, why they were so dominant in each other’s mindscapes, though she had a suspicion.

 

Fingon spoke quietly to Nelyo, caressing his face with his fingers. His touch was hesitant. Still, Fingon recoiled from that which had been them, but he forged ahead, describing Nelyo’s scars and wounds, for Fingon knew this would be the first thing Nelyo would see and was feeling. Fingon felt exposed touching Nelyo so intimately in such a public manner. Fingon looked briefly at Celegorm, expecting scorn from the other elf, but he found no such anger reflected in Celegorm.

 

Nelyo closed and opened his eyes to communicate, glancing at the elves that surrounded him. He was too weak to speak, too weak for mind speech, and unable to shed a tear. After some time Nelyo drifted off to sleep. At first, this alarmed Fingon, but while he watched Nelyo sleep, he observed it was a deep sleep, not the corpse like stupor Nelyo had previously succumb to.

 

“Tis a good thing,” Cíleth observed over Fingon’s shoulder. Turning her attention to Celegorm and Amras she shared, “He heals. And he will heal well and quick. Your Nelyo is stronger than an ox.”

 

“And more stubborn too,” Celegorm replied. Fingon grunted in agreement.

 

“Fingon, sing to him like the day you rescued him,” Cíleth urged, knowing that saying this would be taken as a rebuke by Celegorm, but it was not meant to be. She needed Fingon to guide Nelyo back into his memory of his rescue, to begin to mend the timeline of what occurred in the world of the living, and not dwell in the time spent in the underworld of Morgoth’s prison.

 

Obediently, Fingon sang Nelyo songs of the times in their youth. Amras joined in and together they sang softly to Nelyo. Celegorm could not find his voice, so he focused on feeling the bones of Nelyo’s body, caressing the thin skin with the most utmost of care for the skin that clung to Nelyo’s bones was gossamer thin. All the while the Fëanorian healers resumed their quiet work of making strong the physical aspects of the body while Nelyo’s kin tended to his spirit.

 

After a while, Cíleth interrupted them, directing herself to Fingon: “You must not coddle him so! Sing him the songs of your journey over the ice.  Sing him songs of who your people are now. Nelyo needs to know this.” She paused, and looking squarely at Fingon, knowing that what she was going to say was treading on topics for only Noldorin ears: “It will help him know that he’s not the only one that’s become unrecognizable to he once was. He needs to understand that he is not so different from you after all.”

 

This stung Fingon. He grimaced. Indeed, he’d hated himself for the dark thing he’d become. Fingon did not want this for Nelyo. He admitted this to Cíleth, “I do not want this for him.” It was absurd, Fingon silently considered. How could Nelyo not be irrevocably different?

 

Celegorm glanced up at Fingon momentarily then back at Nelyo. How unrecognizable would Nelyo be? The thought of him being as changed as Fingon stirred much heartache in Celegorm, in Amras.

 

“Do you want him alive?” Cíleth challenged both Fingon and the Fëanorians.

 

“Yes,” Fingon breathed.

 

“Are you afraid he’s going to be one of those elves bound forever to Morgoth?”

 

Celegorm locked eyes with Cíleth. He knew what she spoke of. Whispers had found their way into the Fëanorian encampment of Nelyo’s potential thralldom, but Maglor had assured the brothers that thrall or not, Nelyo would be returned and never rejected.

 

“Say not!” Amras whispered, overwhelmed by the notion that even in life, Nelyo would be tied to Morgoth.

 

“Have faith in Sílahul,” Cíleth responded. “While they would allow such a tortured thing to survive, Sílahul did not find Nelyo so twisted.” Cíleth had utter faith in Sílahul’s work.

 

Fingon and Celegorm glanced at each other, Nelyo’s sleeping form between them. Fingon knew the Fëanorians would not turn Nelyo away, no matter how dark he emerged. In this, Fingon discovered an attitude towards the Fëanorians he believed to be long gone: faith, faith they would take care of Nelyo.

 

“Do you know what we do with those poor souls?” Cíleth asked them, reminding them that the Sindar, unlike the Laiquendi, rejected and shunned Morgoth’s thralls.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively, he did know.

 

“I do not believe this to be Nelyo’s fate. Do you not believe in Nelyo’s strength to resist?” Cíleth added.

 

“I do,” Fingon whispered, turning to inspect his cousin.

 

“And what of you?” she asked the Fëanorians.

 

“I have no doubt of it,” Celegorm breathed. He needed Nelyo to come back. When Nelyo was first taken captive by Morgoth he hadn’t truly believed Nelyo could be saved. He could and he did now. Amras did not answer but silently he made up his mind he would do whatever was needed to help Nelyo heal, even if it meant angering his brothers.

 

Cíleth gave them a moment to sit with their thoughts while she and other healers tended to Nelyo, taking stock of his vitals.

 

After a while, Fingon spoke up, more at ease. “It makes sense,” he said, “for Nelyo to know he’s not the only one that is so different.” Celegorm spared a glance in Fingon’s direction, but Fingon didn’t notice. Making the choice not to censor himself, Fingon spoke softly to Nelyo, knowing everyone listened: “Darkness is wedded to me. You will not be a horror.” Fingon managed a smile. “You’ll fit right in,” he shared.

 

The Nolofinwion healers smiled bitterly. What Fingon said was not an insult, but for he questioned what right Fingon had to claim him that way. Amras understood this, though it made him sad to acknowledge the truth of it.

 

Ever so astute to the undercurrents at play, Cíleth spoke up and said to Fingon, “Show him that.”

 

Fingon caught Celegorm and Amras’ attention, daring them to stop him. He would sing songs that indicted them, but he would not ask permission nor forgiveness in this moment. So Fingon sang Nelyo mourning songs born from the Ice. In some of these the Nolofinwion healers joined.

 

Cíleth listened to these quietly. This was a part of the Noldor she only had glimpses of, until now. Celegorm and Amras too listened, but what Fingon sang next chilled Celegorm.

 

Fingon sang the song of Rilmiel, how Aredhel had borne the brunt of much scorn from her people in their first years after leaving. The lament and regret in Fingon’s voice reached Celegorm and he too cried, seeing before him the blonde wisps of hair of his daughter. Fingon was showing Nelyo that Fingolfin’s host was unrecognizable from who they had been before, had been transformed in ways they could have never conceived before the Ice. Fingon also sang of a people changed, a people that could be cruel and cold but also love and desire things they had never before. Fingon sang songs that his people made of him in battle, of the dark warrior, of the terrible things he’d done, of the kinslayer. And Nelyo was at peace. The songs were a healing. Even for Celegorm there was some respite for a glimpse of the daughter that did not survive through Fingon’s song, a daughter he might not ever know if the everlasting darkness claimed him. Amras was utterly shook by the revelation.

 

)()()()()(

 

While Sílahul slept deeply, recovering from his long healing of Nelyo, Kyelep walked the enclosed village. She was allowed this courtesy though she knew she was always being watched, even if it was not obvious. She walked and observed the goings on, the Noldor doing the work of the everyday, took time to witness the world that was revealing itself to her. She noticed the windows in some older buildings faced the wrong direction, she saw traces of garden beds long abandoned, and rightly so for their position to the sun was all wrong. She walked to a garden bed filled with what the elves quickly came to call winter vegetables. She knelt before it and allowed herself to feel the growing things. They had been tended with love, vibrated with life.

 

She heard footsteps behind her. It was Turgon, Fingon’s younger brother. He loomed over her though she knew he didn’t mean too. Turgon was unlike Fingon. “It took us some weeks of observation to determine how the sun pulled living things in the sky, and some more time to understand the path of the sun and moon,” Kyelep offered.

 

Turgon responded, equally thoughtful, “We didn’t notice these things at first. We were unable to find focus in those days.” Turgon would not speak of Nelyo or the Fëanorians. It was enough for Turgon to know that Nelyo would survive.

 

Kyelep stood up, cleaning the dirt from her long tunic. “I imagine it would be some getting used to,” she assessed, studying plants she had not seen before. She walked over to the other side of the garden to inspect plants she was more familiar with.

 

Turgon knelt beside her, his hands gingerly lifting the leaves of the plants, inspecting them, and sharing some of his light.

 

Kyelep shared, “We have grown root vegetables long before the sun came. We needed to coax them to emerge from their slumber in the soft dark under the stars. When the sun came, they sprang to life on their own, but those deep in the forest have remained unchanged.” Kyelep smiled, her hands passing over the familiar leafy sprouts of carrots and parsnips.

 

Turgon shook his head in understanding. “We took this for granted in the West for we had the light of the two trees, and as you can see, we didn’t quite understand the path of Arien and her relationship to growing things. We do now.”

 

Kyelep remembered the abandoned vegetable beds. “Aye,” she agreed. “In the darkness of the forest, little of Arien’s light makes its way to the ground so we yet tend our gardens as we did before her journey lit up the sky to make day.” Kyelep glanced up to the forest beyond the keep. “But the trees,” she breathed, losing herself in the knowledge of those first moments of greeting, “The trees,” she repeated, “they greeted Arien’s journey with curiosity and after some time, with gratitude, for they had to work less to keep themselves alive. In this way the tree tops of our forests are changed, denser.” Kyelep continued, “I for one am thankful I can still walk in darkness under the cover of the forest.”

 

Turgon studied her face, his eyes following her observation of the trees beyond. Turgon, ever the architect turned his thoughts to the buildings that also now stood in relation to the sun. “If you notice our buildings, the first structures were not built by us, not built in relation to the sun and moon, for these buildings preceded their emergence.”

 

“I did see that,” Kyelep shared.

 

This made Turgon happy. Excitedly, he continued on, “If you observe the buildings that have emerged beyond those first buildings you will note how they take advantage of the sun’s light in the cold season and how they protect from the heat of the hot season.” Turgon stood up and offered Kyelep his hand. He was offering her a tour of their village from his standpoint.

 

Kyelep accepted his offer and walked through the camp next to Turgon as he explained the layers of buildings, of technology that emerged in relation to the new seasons brought by the sun and moon.

 

“Your brother referred to you as an architect, a builder,” Kyelep shared, walking next to Turgon.

 

Turgon’s face was neutral, “I was, I am,” he answered, weighing whether Kyelep knew about the building of Vinyamar. He assumed she did as word tended to travel quickly, but he was not going to offer up that information. Instead, he focused on showing her more of the camp. “Come with me,” he offered, “I’ll show you how we have brought water from the lake into the camp.

Kyelep laughed, “Indeed you Golda want everything brought to you!”

 

“Golda?” Turgon questioned.

 

“Our name for you,” Kyelep answered, curious if Turgon would inquire further.

 

“It sounds brutish,” Turgon observed. Smiling down at Kyelep, Turgon offered, “a rather accurate label.”

 

Kyelep laughed. She liked Turgon. She could see in him the pain of a deep loss, marked in his eyes. Lalwen had described their losses over the ice, the loss Lalwen’s own family endured, of Elenwë and Argon. While Lalwen did not tell the entire tale of why they marched over the ice and the others sailed, she did mention that there were betrayals between the two camps. Lalwen did not tell her of the Kinslaying and Kyelep, when she found the total truth of the story, would later forgive Lalwen for it. But only when the truth was revealed to Kyelep—of kin killing kin, of Fëanor and Fingolfin’s bitter feud, and the depth of their exile from their homelands—would the Noldor truly make sense to her, the story would fall into place in a way it did not for her in this moment.

 

The Noldor bore the story on their bodies. The notches on their ears, the strange marking on their hands and bodies, so unlike Thingol’s Sindar, yet more like their long lost relatives that chose to stay. In Turgon she noticed the same purposeful notches on his ears as many of the other Noldor carried, though not the few Fëanorians she knew. On his hands were the same black lines, covered in ink, though she could see some of those marking were carried beneath the skin. Those were strange markings. Interestingly, Turgon did not bear the rune scars and etchings on the skin as Fingon and his company did, as some of the golden haired descendants of Finwë did. She wondered at this, but did not ask.

 

Indeed, Kyelep could see the influence of the Sindar not under Thingol’s rule and of the other nearby clans of the Laiquendi on certain customs the Noldor adopted. This bode well for their survival, and yet there was an undercurrent of darkness to who the Noldor were. Lalwen shared stories of conflicts, of brave peoples desiring to return to kin once known, to lands that were once home, but she was a diplomat, not actually revealing much. The Golda were strange, dark cousins, indeed!

 

)()()()(

 

Celegorm wanted to slit Fingolfin’s throat. Word had come to him and Amras that they would be expected to depart now that Nelyo was assured recovery. “That bastard,” Celegorm seethed.

 

Amras observed his brother thoughtfully, “Perhaps if you had not asserted Russo’s lordship over him, we might still be welcome here.”

 

“They needed to be reminded just who their patient is,” Celegorm barked back.

 

“And yet we are at their mercy,” Amras told him, though Celegorm’s look of disgust at his brother’s suggestion was answer enough. “We need them as much as they need us,” Amras challenged Celegorm.

 

Celegorm growled. He did not want to hear wise words from his little brother.

 

Amras smiled, “Nolofinwë is right to despise you. You should not have spoken to him thusly.”

 

“What do you know of it!” Celegorm roared.

 

Amras passed his hands over his face, exasperated. “You think it wise to provoke Irissë’s father after what you provoked? A child, Tyelko, a child!!!” Amras was shaking.  “And father’s betrayal?”

 

Celegorm’s grip on any ability to see sense was lost. “Father did not betray him. They could have stayed!” Celegorm blamed Fingolfin for Rilmiel’s loss, turning the loss of his child onto Fingolfin himself.

 

“Nolofinwë did not know,” Amras shot back. “I found Irissë and accused her of as much,” Amras admitted. “I wish I had not,” Amras offered, his voice sorrowful. “They could not go back. Irissë too is a kinslayer.”

 

Celegorm’s face grew white. “What did you say?”

 

“You did not know,” Amras replied, the weight of the revelation shaping the contours of his voice. “Of course, she killed for you, like Fingon, both thinking those they loved threatened.”

 

The anger drained from Celegorm, though he fought the reason that wanted to infiltrate his thoughts.

 

“It is best we leave,” Amras said again. If Nelyo was to take leadership over the two camps, they needed to tread with care during these next few months of Nelyo’s healing.

 

“But he is just returned to us!” Celegorm retorted. “How can you advise this?!”

 

“Because I have more sense than you,” Amras replied smoothly. “I want Russo back too, but I am also thankful that he is alive. If a few months of parting is all it takes for him to come back to me, in the scope of me thinking him dead or forever beyond my reach, well, this is a small price I can bear.”

 

Celegorm was not convinced, but a knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

 

“Not now,” Celegorm ordered, not caring who he offend.

 

“It is I,” Kyelep announced from the other side of the door.

 

Celegorm was immediately diffused. Kyelep had a way with him. “Come in,” he answered.

 

Kyelep let herself in the room. “I came to see that you are making the right choice.”

 

“And what is that?” Celegorm shot back impatiently.

 

“To leave,” she answered looking from Celegorm to Amras. In Amras she found much of her sister’s humility and pensiveness. “You gain nothing by staying here though I understand your desire to stay with your brother, but you forfeited that right long ago.” Kyelep’s words stung, but she was correct in her cold assessment. Fingolfin had the upper hand. Nelyo needed space to heal quickly to resolve this current state of affairs.

 

“Indeed,” Amras answered. “I was just saying as much.”

 

“Fingon was on his way here, just now,” she shared.

 

Celegorm looked up sharply. “What for?”

 

“That is easy enough to guess,” Kyelep answered.

 

“Let him come,” Celegorm growled.

 

Kyelep shook her head in disapproval. “I convinced him otherwise, told him I could convince you to leave quietly.” Looking pointedly at Celegorm, she asked, “Can I?”

 

Celegorm had no choice. “We will leave, but-“

 

“We will leave,” Amras interrupted. “Our healers are anxious to return and set up for Russo’s return to us. They trust Russo’s healing to Cíleth, completely.” Amras emphasized this last word.

 

“I am not privy to the depth of the fight between your houses,” Kyelep added, “and if Nelyo is truly your king than the matter of it will resolve quicker the sooner he heals and is returned to you.”

 

This was true, Celegorm reasoned. Maglor’s letter to him in response to the growing tensions in the camp indicated as much. “We will leave,” Celegorm spoke, defeated, though he liked it little. “Within the hour we travel.” Looking at Kyelep, Celegorm asked, “And when will you come to know the rest of your sons?”

 

“When Nelyo returns, I too shall go with him,” she answered. She would indeed know them, but there was more she needed to find out in Fingolfin’s camp.

 

Amras sighed, relieved. “Then let us make haste.”

 

)()()(

 

From light and dark and all that was in-between and above and absent, Nelyo saw the multiplicity of Endórë. Yet she was finite. This stirred a great sorrow in his heart, though this knowledge was now wedded to him. Sadness and anger and fear and terror would stay within Nelyo, but so too would bravery, and fierceness, and gentleness, and immeasurable strength. He was made anew. Anew. Different. And what of Maitimo? That name, the prophetic name was a part of him, a history of who he was, foundation to who he was becoming. He’d honor it.

 

Nelyo woke with a start, expecting to be in his dark prison once more. Instead, the soft light of the sun filtered in through a window. He recognized the room of the healing ward of what was Fingolfin’s camp. There was quiet activity around him. Nelyo hesitated, but the reflex of breath was more powerful. He was apprehensive of the limits his body would encounter, but thankfully he was not met with overwhelming pain as he filled his lung with air.

 

A face materialized from the bright light that his eyes filtered. Slowly, Nelyo’s eyesight adjusted and he saw a familiar face. The question of who are you was apparent in Nelyo’s eyes. Sílahul brought their hand up to Nelyo’s face, smiling. “Welcome home,” they whispered. 

 

Nelyo stuttered. It was hard to find how to make a sound, but he managed a ragged whisper: “You saved me.”

 

“A little,” Sílahul agreed.

 

“Thank you,” Nelyo mouthed.

 

Sílahul watched Nelyo closely, carefully noting the hesitant glances that Nelyo took of his surroundings. Nelyo did not quite yet believe he was free from his prison. “With time you will know your freedom. Do not judge yourself too harshly for doubting it now,” Sílahul offered, allowing their gentle fëa to wash over Nelyo.

 

Cíleth brought some water over to Nelyo. Nelyo too recognized her. Blinking his eyes Nelyo realized they were not burning. His vision was clearer than it had been for many years. “We are going to help sit you up,” Cíleth spoke, her tone gentle and powerful. Nelyo did not move his head but his eyes locked on her, fear shining in them. “Worry not Nelyo,” she soothed, “we have been moving you. You are ready for this.”

 

With an almost imperceptible nod, Nelyo acquiesced to Cíleth’s request. Carefully Cíleth and Sílahul sat Nelyo up while another elf angled the bed with a lever to raise it up to meet him. Pillows were placed carefully to make him comfortable. Nelyo held his breath while the carefully planned movement proceeded.

 

“Breathe,” Sílahul reminded Nelyo. “You will not break.”

 

Nelyo glanced at the elf with gratitude. Once settled, Cíleth brought Nelyo a glass of water. She brought it to his lips and gently wet them. “You have been drinking water even in your slumber,” she informed him. “You will not hack this up.”

 

This too comforted Nelyo for he feared not even water would be welcome. But before he drank he looked up at Cíleth his eyes reflecting back that he did not entirely believe her.

 

Cíleth smiled and to Nelyo it was the most beautiful thing. “Surely you remember the dropper we have been using to feed you water.”  Nelyo shifted through the haze that was his memory since Sílahul brought him back. He did remember his brothers using droppers to drip water into his mouth, remembered them sitting him up to have him start feeling the sensation of a cup against his lips, wetting his lips with water. He realized then that his lips were not parched and split. The sores were healed. Nelyo pressed his lips together and could taste the sweet salve on his lips. Ah such a small but wonderful thing to be grateful for. Once again, Nelyo nodded. Cíleth brought the small cup to his lips. Nelyo, without realizing leaned forward. He took a small sip. Another discovery! Eagerly he took another sip until the glass was emptied.

 

“You are stronger than you imagine,” Sílahul shared. “Now you must drink something of more sustenance.”

 

Cíleth brought another cup. “Miruvor,” she explained. “I hear you have a similar drink amongst your people.”

 

Nelyo found confidence to speak, considering that perhaps his vocal cords were not as damaged as they once had been. “Yes,” he answered. Though not strong, his voice was recognizable. This was another first. Eagerly he leaned forward to drink the liquor. It was sweet on his lips and it burnt a little going down his throat. It was not entirely unlike miruvórë made from Yavanna’s flowers.

 

Sílahul guessed their question. “We have our own sacred flowers. It is from these petals that the miruvor is made, alongside the most healing honey donated by a colony of bees not too far from here. The queen was most honored to have her colonies work be offered as a gift to you.”

 

Nelyo tried to smile, but the pain from a deep scar tugging at the edge of his mouth prevented him. Without thinking, he brought up his right arm to touch the scar. There was effort in the movement. The healers did not stop him, though they knew he would encounter the fact he had no hand to feel his mouth with. Nelyo sucked in his breath in surprise. His bodily pain did not allow him to feel the singular pain of the amputation. That would come soon. Forgetting the scar near his lip, Nelyo observed his stump, wrapped in clean gauze. He carefully lowered his arm onto his lap. The memory of Fingon’s sword striking his arm returned. Nelyo cried then, allowed his body, though weak, to give itself over to grief, for he grieved this loss. Not solely because of the missing hand, but what his body had endured.

 

From afar he heard Fingon. Fingon stood at the doorway, having been called by one of the healers when Nelyo came too. “Nelyo,” Fingon called out, afraid to speak too loudly as if his voice would break his friend. “Nelyo,” Fingon whispered, watching his friend grieve.

 

Cíleth indicated Fingon come close. Fingon hesitated, weighing the warring desires within him to go to Nelyo, the other to turn away. Hadn’t he done enough? After a moment, Fingon walked reluctantly to Nelyo’s sides, his slumped shoulders carrying the weight of what his rescue had cost Nelyo. Apprehensively, Fingon put his hand on Nelyo’s left arm. Nelyo looked up at Fingon, his eyes wet with tears.

 

With his bandaged arm, Nelyo carefully wiped away the tears from his eyes. “Tears,” he spoke, “for joy and loss.”

 

Fingon understood. Nelyo’s tears were new to him. How much time did Morgoth’s torture steal the possibility of tears away from Nelyo? Fingon buried these thoughts. He needed to help Nelyo heal here and now, he decided. Fingon took a deep breath and said simply, “What do you need from me.”

 

“Describe my body,” Nelyo requested, his voice sounding the strongest it had for many years. Nelyo would not cower and lose himself to self-pity.

 

Fingon witnessed the steel of Nelyo’s fëa shining in his eyes. Fingon started with his right arm, describing to Nelyo, as briefly as he could, about the procedure to fix the initial severing of Nelyo’s hand. Fingon continued on like this, naming the procedures Nelyo endured, pausing to observe Nelyo, and continuing with Nelyo’s urging.

 

Feeling the scars, the wounds Fingon described, Nelyo filled them and stretched them. Some, with the help of the healers he would tend and mend. Others were stubborn and those would be worthy of remaining. From these scars Nelyo would cull might and memory. But what of the missing hand? This troubled him the most for he felt Fingon’s regret. And yet the missing hand, its absence also represented the fear and the doubt of what the unknown meant for Nelyo. It was the most potent symbol of this rebirth, something Nelyo would have to deal with when wakefulness was more constant. At least in his sleep Nelyo was healing. There would be no dreaming, for now, for he had the help of many. They kept those images at bay. And in time too, Nelyo would need to learn to dream again, even though there would be horror in that.

 

)()()(

 

Nelyo awoke. Carefully he stretched his aching limbs. He tensed realizing someone was in the room with him, but relaxed when he saw it was Findekáno. Nelyo watched Findekáno pace in front of the large hearth, the warm fire casting a gentle glow in the room. Animal skins were laid upon the floor, warming up the stone and earthen floor, cold from winter. Findekáno was unrecognizable. He had grown in strength as they all did in Endórë, but his soft beauty was gone. Instead, Maitimo found Findekáno was now grim, that broad smile he remembered, a memory. He wore his long black hair in a long plait, secured with gold thread. Findekáno was imposing, scary even. No longer Findekáno. Now Fingon.

 

Fingon paused, feeling eyes upon him. “You’re awake,” he turned, speaking to Nelyo in that now customarily short way of his. Instead of saying to Nelyo that he was content to have him returned from the clutches of Morgoth, Fingon chose silence.

 

Nelyo motioned for Fingon to help. He asked, “I’d like to sit up.”

 

Fingon nodded, moving over next to the bed, helping Nelyo sit up. Nelyo did the work of sitting up, while Fingon helped move pillows behind his back. “The healers believe you will gain your strength quickly,” Fingon offered, awkwardly, fumbling for words that used to be so comfortable between them.

 

“Hard to believe,” Nelyo groaned quietly, the aches and pains of his body as he settled into the pillows not allowing him to believe the healer’s wisdom.

 

“I do,” Fingon countered. “You’ve grown strong in a few weeks.”

 

“My memory shifts,” Nelyo whispered, referring to how much even his memory was stretched by how tired he was.

 

“In time that too will fully return,” Fingon replied,.

 

“Not sure I want it,” Nelyo answered.

 

“Perhaps that is wise,” Fingon agreed. “Will this do?” Fingon asked Nelyo, inserting another pillow.

 

“Quite,” Nelyo assured Fingon. He wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Too long he’d suffered discomfort and torture to not make sure his needs were carefully attended to.

 

Fingon helped Nelyo grasp a tea sweetened with honey gifted by the colony that had taken an interest in helping Nelyo heal from a side table. Nelyo wrapped his large, bone thin hand around the mug, using his other arm to keep it steady, though he was clumsy learning to use the arm, new as it was to him without the lower part of it. The warmth was comforting. More comforting was the fact he could raise the mug of his own accord. The warmth and sweetness going down his throat was a treasure. He hummed with satisfaction.

 

“I never thought I’d treasure this,” Nelyo shared. Finding his voice that needed exercise to sound less horse. “Must seem silly to you…”

 

Fingon smiled.

 

“Oh,” Nelyo breathed, realizing his time in Morgoth’s dungeon was about the same time it took Fingon and his father’s people to cross the Grinding Ice.

 

Their intimacy translated on this side of the ice as well. “It’s fitting that I can commiserate with you on such detail,”  Fingon admitted, though he didn’t have the heart to say to Nelyo that while the Ice was brutal, it paled in comparison to what Nelyo endured.

 

“Indeed,” Nelyo offered, a hint of his strength and character of old shaping the reply.

 

Fingon let Nelyo focus on his tea while he pulled up a chair by the hearth and sat his normal vigil. Silence between them, at least, was comfortable. Nelyo relaxed back into his pillows, finishing his tea. With focus and determination, he turned and leaned over to set aside his tea. After his accomplishment, Nelyo frowned slightly. “I will heal quickly?” he asked, carefully raising his arm to examine what was left of it.

 

“A few nights ago you could not sit up on your own,” Fingon reminded him.

 

“And now hear me and see me,” Nelyo laughed, between coughs. After a few moments, Nelyo looked at Fingon, not disguising his sadness. “You are changed,” Nelyo observed, this time referring that beyond the physical.

 

Fingon frowned. “As are you.”

 

Nelyo coughed in response. After catching his breath, he answered, “I’m disfigured.” Both physically and spiritually, he thought to himself.

 

Fingon paused before replying, “I am sorry for that.”

 

Nelyo closed his eyes. While Morgoth’s hold was broken, there were other hurts to tend, other changes.

 

Nelyo whispered, observing Fingon. “I should thank you…”

 

Fingon cut him off, “You owe me nothing.”

 

“But I do,” Nelyo managed to say.

 

Fingon ruminated on Nelyo’s words, moving his chair closer to the fire. Holding his hands above the flames, Fingon found an answer: “Then I trust you will find a recompense that will absolve you of any feelings of debt.” Fingon remembered Sílahul’s cautionary words of debt. Fingon smiled. He was a Noldo after all. Debt and recompense he understood well.

 

Nelyo sighed. “Oaths, debts, these things I understand.”

 

Fingon replied, “Indeed.”

 

Nelyo relaxed. “I’m famished,” he admitted, changing the subject.

 

“I’ll send for your food,” Fingon answered. “I return when the moon rises.”

 

Nelyo nodded his head.

 

Before leaving, Fingon stopped and turned to look at Nelyo from the door. “I am sorry that your brothers are not here. They will come for you soon enough.”

 

Fingon shut the door behind him. Nelyo wanted to scream in frustration, but knew better. Nelyo understood in that moment what he must do. Fingon was right after all. Nelyo frowned again, angry that his salvation was met with much bitterness. His brothers’ insistence that Fingolfin needed to acknowledge Nelyo as rightful heir of the Noldorin crown so soon after Nelyo was saved by Sílahul earned their banishment from Fingolfin’s camp. They had clamored to take Nelyo with them but even their own healers advised against it. At least they still had some sense left in them, Nelyo thought bitterly. His brothers left Nelyo no choice. For this too, Nelyo was thankful for his newly discovered kin, Kyelep. She used her power over the Fëanorians, wielding Miriel’s image to advise them, to counsel them to return to their camp. Though he had not exchanged many words with her, Nelyo looked forward to speaking with her. He needed to know just how close she and Celegorm had grown. Nelyo closed his eyes overwhelmed. Already the political landscape of this world he woke into was more than he could bear, but this too he would meet with fierce determination.