People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 16: Scars

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Chapter 16: Scars

  

Nelyo felt the scar on his cheek, tracing it with his left hand, a gesture that took great effort. Both acts were deliberate, moving and using his left hand was not instinctual. Nelyo had to think of the lift of the arm, of extending the fingers on his left hand, taking care so he wasn’t heavy handed. The trace, touching the scar, reminded Nelyo of searching in the archives of Tirion, about the process of deliberation and care and concentration, and also discovery of searching that the work demanded. Nelyo’s skin demanded the preciseness of such searching.

 

Fingon surveilled Maedhros’ actions, choosing silent observation as he accompanied Nelyo this day. Sílahul warned them to not attempt mind speech until Nelyo was stronger so they relied on spoken speech. Fingon wasn’t keen on mind speech anyway, the intimacy of such communication was not something Fingon wanted rekindled.

 

Nelyo and Fingon were in the same room together, yet occupied different spaces, different sites of contradiction. Theirs was a parallel journey, one in which their paths came together, and yet they remained estranged. The ability to connect, the notion of it, was not something either desired, though truly it was more a manifestation of a deep psychic divide, a rift of worldview from the before and the after that informed each one’s alienation.

 

Days ago, it took Nelyo much effort to sustain anything more elaborate than simple dialogue, but words came easy to him again. So sure of Nelyo’s healing was Sílahul that they took their leave to visit nearby Laiquendi kin. Acharedel had left with them, hoping, through Sílahul to find family. Kyelep stayed. Indeed if not for her the conflict between the two camps might have turned bloody. Thus the days progressed, for once, uneventfully.

 

Fingon could not fathom what internal dialogue Nelyo was having as he traced the ruin on his body. Most of Nelyo’s wounds would heal, but some of the scars would remain.

 

“May I sit,” Fingon asked pointing to the chair next to the cushioned chair Nelyo sat on. They were together, but the space between them was vast. And yet the map to finding each other once more was written on their bodies, in a way, and also in memory.

 

Nelyo nodded his head. Fingon walked over and sat next to his half-cousin. Removing a light jacket, Fingon revealed his arm. Nelyo lifted an eyebrow. Fingon was momentarily shaken by that gesture for it was too familiar. He’d seen Nelyo do that so many times, but the familiarity, in that moment, it seemed absurd, stolen from a time that was outside the boundaries of their new reality.

 

Shaking these thoughts away Fingon took Nelyo’s hand and helped Nelyo trace the runes on Fingon’s bicep. Nelyo’s face contorted into a question. “A custom we took up from the local elves,” Fingon informed Nelyo.

 

Nelyo asked, “We?”

 

“My company,” Fingon revealed.

 

“Company?” Nelyo inquired, just coming to understand the organization of this new world he was delivered into.

 

“I lead a company, mostly on horses,” Fingon answered. Nelyo wanted Fingon to say more, but as usual, it was difficult getting him to keep talking. Instead Nelyo turned his attention back to Fingon’s arm, “How,” Nelyo asked, tracing over the pattern. Elven skin did not keep scars, not usually.

 

“A poison from a root is applied after the pattern is cut,” Fingon explained. “This causes the scarring to be long-lasting.”

 

Nelyo raised his other eyebrow, curious as to whether the scars were allowed to fade.

 

Fingon pressed his lips together, attempting to share a smile, but failed. He knew Nelyo did not need smiles to help him feel better. Forcing a smile was infantilizing after all. Looking at his bicep, Fingon continued. “Runes for protection and for victory,” he shared grimly. “I don’t believe they will fade completely.”

 

Nelyo understood. These runes were not given time to fade for there would be more battles and more victories that would demand a price of the flesh. No. Fingon’s scars too would also companion him.

 

With his eyes, Nelyo looked to Fingon’s ears and hands.

 

Fingon sighed. The notches on their ears were entirely Fingolfian. The Fëanorians dared never ask about them, though they didn’t hide their study of the strange markings. Nelyo was the first to ask. It was the reason Fingolfin’s people wore ear jewelry when traveling amongst non Noldorin peers. They did not want to draw attention to it. The Laiquendi had certainly noticed, but had not asked after their Noldor kin’s strange body adornments. Fingon understood at the end of his time with the Laiquendi that it was out of respect and not needing to know everything. The Noldor were not so inclined.

 

“To mark the dead from the Ice, our journey here,” Fingon admitted. There were two notches on Fingon’s right ear and one on the other. “I’m lucky,” he added, absentmindedly tracing the notches on his ear. Nelyo paused on Fingon’s hands. “The ice left marks,” Fingon clarified. Fingon’s eyes narrowed, recalling the horror of their time on the ice: “In those first years of the ice our bodies were unused to such bitter cold.” Fingon glanced at Nelyo, wondering if such a topic was appropriate, but the light in Nelyo’s eyes betrayed his curiosity. Fingon would speak more than he wanted. “The bitter cold,” Fingon continued, “caused some veins close to the skin to freeze. As a result, it left these black marks etched on our extremities where our own blood froze within the vessels. In time, because of the cold, we grew more veins in our hands, our feet, faces, to keep us from freezing,” Fingon revealed. Fingon rubbed his hands together, memories of the cold causing them to ache.

 

Nelyo asked, “Ice damage?”

 

“Yes,” Fingon answered, “but not the type that would require us lose a limb.”

 

Nelyo looked up thoughtfully at this revelation.

 

“Though some did,” Fingon revealed, thinking of his nephew, Enelyë and Ondion’s son, Lalwen’s grandson. The boy had grown quickly, accustomed to his missing limb, lost to a terrible frostbite caused by the ice. The boy had survived it and now wore prosthetics if needed, but that was rare.  

 

Nelyo kept his eyes focused on Fingon. This was curious, but Nelyo did not want to dwell on his arm. He would have time for that later. Nelyo wanted to keep Fingon talking. This was the most he’d heard Fingon speak since he regained consciousness. Hearing Fingon’s familiar voice was soothing. Nelyo missed the deep, sonorous timber of Fingon’s voice, noticing that Fingon lost the playful inflection in how he spoke Quenya in better days.

 

Unsure if Nelyo wanted to know more about those in Fingolfin’s host who lost limbs, Fingon grew silent. “Go on,” Nelyo urged, nodding in the direction of Fingon’s hands.

 

The conversation of Fingon’s nephew would be for another time then, Fingon surmised. It was understandable that Nelyo did not want to dwell on his lost arm. Reluctantly, Fingon took up the story of the marks left by the ice, a story he was sharing with an outsider for the first time: “Eventually we understood the shape left by the ice on our skin, in our veins, our blood, told a story.” Fingon let out a long sigh. “It gifted us knowledge we had not asked for.” Fingon spoke soberly, “These runes born from the ice mark our journey. Once here we noticed there was a permanence to them so we did what Noldor do and made them prettier.” Fingon had to smile at this. “The tattoos began as vanity.” 

 

Fingon held up the outside of his hand to show Nelyo. There was a series of stars and arrows in patterns that curved into intricate patterns. Nelyo observed how the patterns overlapped with the black traces of the veins. At the top of one of Fingon’s hand, Nelyo noticed what must be a rune for the moon. On his other was a rune for the sun. At the beginning of his convalescence Nelyo had noticed these strange markings on many of Fingolfin’s people, but had not have the energy to inquire about them. Perhaps it was good Nelyo’s curiosity was born again. Nelyo could make out what those runes represented for he had much time to study both the sun and moon during his time on the cliff. It had been cruel that the power of the moon and sun revealed themselves to Nelyo hung on that cliff side, but seeing that revelation marked on Fingon’s skin was unsettling. Both because the revelation of the moon and sun runes for Nelyo caused him much misery and because they were also, in part, why he managed to survive for as long as he did.

 

Fingon noticed Nelyo was overcome. Tears gathered in Nelyo’s eyes. “Medically good,” Fingon declared pragmatically. Fingon regretted the words immediately. “I am sorry I brought you pain,” he offered, regretful also. Fingon’s own thoughts took time to travel between the space between them. Like Nelyo, Fingon was looking for the appropriate emotions, remembering when he was thoughtful and intuitive, but that seemed distant. Now he was awkward in searching for it.

 

Nelyo shook his head. “Tilion and Arien witnessed my torment,” he revealed, emotion surfacing, that Nelyo did not wish to come. “Bitterly, they could not aid me. In recompense they traced their shapes in my mind,” Nelyo shuddered. “I was almost without vision, and the runes, when I spoke them, warmed me and cooled me. I cursed myself for conjuring them for they prolonged my life, but my will to survive compelled me.” Nelyo collapsed back into his seat from where he had been leaning forward, studying Fingon’s hands.

 

Fingon helped him settle comfortably. Sitting back, Fingon looked intently at Nelyo, weighing whether to share his thoughts with him. Darkness is wedded to him. Sílahul’s words echoed in Fingon’s mind.

 

“I speak them to inflict damage on my enemy with these hands,” Fingon whispered, looking over his own hands. The space between was made smaller, that darkness a thread that bound them together.

 

Nelyo looked up at Fingon’s figure. His face was cast in shadow. Nelyo managed to turn up a corner of his mouth in the first of a true smile.

 

)()()()()(                                   

 

Nelyo sat on a chair just outside of the healing wards, watching the goings on of the village. His presence disturbed many of Fingolfin’s people. He had been a dead man to them, and now he was resurrected, and he looked like death alive. They too had endured starvation and were many times near death, but Nelyo’s body revealed the singularity of Morgoth’s torture. It reminded them of the stakes of their lives in Endórë, and the evil they faced.

 

Fortunately, Nelyo either did not notice or did not care. He was here on Cíleth’s orders, breathing in fresh air, but it was also a political move on Lalwen’s part. Fingon had told him as much. If Nelyo was to be king, he would need to be known in this new form. The healers were confident his body would heal, and Lalwen believed that if the Noldor accepted him in this tortured form, his leadership would be succored by his transformation. Nelyo smiled bitterly. No one saw him do it, but he shared it nonetheless, appreciative of Lalwen’s political maneuverings. Nevertheless, Nelyo felt trapped. He was but a pawn in this game. He understood he needed to heal quickly, set order to things once more, be in charge of his own destiny and that of his family’s, as much as he could. Prior to his capture, such political theater might have interested Nelyo. He no longer cared for it.

 

The sound of chains clanking against one another startled Nelyo. His mind sunk into memories of being chained, the sound of them being dragged by his captors, chaining him within  his standing prison. The chains clinked loudly, menacingly. Gasping for breath, Nelyo held on to his chair. He wanted to throw himself to the ground and cower as he learned to do to protect himself in those dungeons. Nelyo was warring with his instinct, honed by many years of torture and abandon. Not without reason was Nelyo later said to become mightier after his imprisonment. That strength, that determination was forged from utter terror and what lay beyond. Nelyo endured! With all his strength he held onto the chair and prevented his own demise, this time. The sounds of the chains clanking together diminished but the visions in his mind grew starker, bloody in detail. Nelyo’s ragged breathing transitioned into whimpers, just audible above the din of daily life.

 

Sílahul watched as Nelyo fought to maintain a hold on his freedom, but they did not move to interfere. Nelyo needed to face these memories, find the path towards coming back from them. They could not succor him as one would a child. Nelyo needed desperately to find something in the here and now to draw him back.

 

A breeze picked up. Nelyo felt it on his cheeks. There were no breezes deep down in the dungeon his vision took him to, and hanging on the cliff-side it was either a cutting wind or suffocating stillness. This breeze was merciful and gentle. “What horror,” Nelyo gasped, coming out of his intense reverie. Nelyo focused on his breath, calming his heart first. He moved his attention to his tense muscles, concentrated on relaxing them. The ability to relax was a revelation for Nelyo in his early healing days. Next, he redirected his eyes to take in his surroundings.

 

Not far from him stood Sílahul, like a sentry, their eyes fixed on Nelyo. Nelyo locked his own gaze on Sílahul, mouthing thank you. Sílahul did not intervene in the horror of the memory that consumed him, allowing Nelyo to learn the skills he needed to live with the horror. Because of Sílahul, Nelyo learned to rely on Endórë as healer.

 

They did not exchange words. Instead, Nelyo returned to his observations, his eyes roaming the different parts of the camp he could see and on to the trees beyond, willing himself to ground himself in the now. The sight of a bird cleaning itself in a puddle, its dance with the water exuberant, caught Nelyo’s attention. The joy this act brought him was large. Nelyo was seeing the world anew, a starved man, being fed once more. The mundane was no longer trivial.

 

Nelyo turned his attention to a group of children at play. Fingolfin’s host had more children than the Fëanorians. Perhaps it was their journey across the ice that encouraged it. He heard another elf, an adolescent call out to one of the children. Nelyo turned to look at the young elf across the way who was near a large oak, but as the boy came around the tree, Nelyo’s mouth fell open. This must be Fingon’s nephew! The boy, an adolescent, was missing a part of his arm.

 

The group of children called out to the young man and he ran and joined in their play, helping the young elflings carry out their imaginary tasks. Nelyo watched them for the next few hours, fascinated with the ease of the young man’s movement. His missing hand was not an impediment.

 

Looking for Sílahul, Nelyo called the healer over. “I wish to speak to Fingon’s nephew,” Nelyo asked.

 

Sílahul smiled. “His name is Meldo. Perhaps you should call him over.”

 

“Are you sure?” Nelyo asked, looking up at Sílahul, not convinced that Sílahul’s suggestion was wise. Nelyo was not an easy thing to look upon. He’d hoped Sílahul could stand in as a buffer between he and the boy. Surely Nelyo himself was too scary a thing for a child to speak to.

 

“Go on,” Sílahul urged, knowing that Nelyo resisted it.

 

After some time and a very stern look from Sílahul, Nelo muttered, “Very well.” He was not happy that Sílahul would force him to do this for himself. Intellectually, he understood the reason for it. Nelyo leaned forward, calling out “Meldo!”

 

Meldo stood from where he was playing with the children. The young man didn’t recognize the voice that called for him, but his eyes stopped on Nelyo, drawn to the regal figure on the chair. Of course Meldo knew who Nelyo was, remembered him from Tirion. He had been very young then. Meldo knew the entirety of Nelyo’s story, from his rescue, to his miraculous recovery.

 

“I am told your name is Meldo,” Nelyo spoke. He didn’t need to shout for elven hearing is keen.

 

The youth ran over to Nelyo, pausing in front of him, somewhat sheepish. “I remember you,” Meldo answered.

 

“And I you,” Nelyo answered, smiling in such a manner that he hoped would not spook the young man. “You are grown,” Nelyo commented.

 

Meldo hesitated, answering, “I came of age on the ice.”

 

“Is that from the ice?” Nelyo asked looking at the youth’s arm.

 

Meldo smiled, lifting his arm up, inspecting it as if anew. “I’m sure my uncle told you that some of us lost limbs and other extremities to the ice.”

 

“He did,” Nelyo replied. “You survived it,” Nelyo remarked.

 

“Because it was cold,” Meldo reflected. “That is, the cold was the reason for it.”

 

Nelyo raised an eyebrow. He did not know the full story. “Sit with me and share your story,” Nelyo inquired softly.

 

Meldo smiled. He was shy and unsure, but Nelyo seemed truly interested and Meldo reasoned Nelyo would certainly be curious about their shared trait. “I was hoping I could get to know you,” he revealed. “I think I might have something to share with you that might help.” Meldo blushed, before quickly adding, “I don’t want you to think that I am overstepping, that I could have something to teach you.”

 

“But you do!” Nelyo insisted. “Go on,” Nelyo urged.

 

“It was gangrene from the freezing of my hand,” Meldo revealed, getting right to the heart of it.

 

 “I am familiar with it from Aman; however I only heard of it happening to livestock that wandered and were lost in those lands near the cold,” Nelyo shared.

 

“Then you know that once it takes, and takes good, no healing song can stitch back together the parts. And the song,” Meldo shivered, “or the infection as the healers call it spreads quick,” Meldo reported, both excited that Nelyo understood what it was, but also shaken by the idea of it.

 

“I see,” Nelyo answered.

 

“To stop it from spreading, the healers knew they needed to amputate, so it was done.” Meldo hesitated, not knowing whether he was sharing a part of the story he should not, but he felt a kinship with Nelyo over the arm, and well, over Fingon. “My uncle, Fingon, he’s the one who did it. Saved me he did. Like you. I guess you and I share this very singular thing.”

 

Nelyo had enough wit to not let his shock show.

 

Meldo continued, “I think the manner of yours,” Meldo did a chopping motion with his arm, “was, um, less clean.”

 

Nelyo laughed at this. “That’s an understatement.”

 

Meldo laughed nervously. “I hope I did not say something I should not have.”

 

“On the contrary,” Nelyo answered, “you make me feel not quite such a freak.”

 

Meldo grew serious. “You are not a freak. You are a survivor!”

 

Ah to see through the eyes of the young! “I must remember that,” Nelyo answered earnestly.

 

Meldo’s smile grew wider. “Fingon saved us both,” Meldo said. “And this is the duty he is now sworn to.”

 

“His duty?” Nelyo inquired.

“To keep us safe,” Meldo answered. “I train with the cavalry, you know. Soon I will take my place riding beside him.”

 

This made Nelyo immensely sad. “So you will.”

 

“This,” Meldo shared, shaking his arm in front of Nelyo, “is not the limit you imagine it to be. It just simply is. Different than others, but not different for me, and not different for you.”

 

“I understand,” Nelyo said, touched by the wisdom Meldo was sharing. An intense burning sensation where his hand once was prompted Nelyo to reach to itch it.

 

Meldo’s smile fell momentarily. “Phantom pain from the amputation,” Meldo observed. “That was the hardest to deal with.”

 

Nelyo frowned. The pain was sharp and incessant. “When it comes I cannot imagine a time beyond it,” Nelyo revealed, finding it easy to speak of it to Meldo.

 

“It will come, the pain will lessen,” Meldo assured Nelyo. “What you have come back from,” Meldo shook his head in disbelief, “well there’s no doubt that you will be a force to reckon with.”

 

Nelyo raised an eyebrow in response.

 

“Fingon shared that you will grow to be a greater warrior than even he!” Meldo divulged, knowing it would comfort Nelyo. “How does he know this?” Meldo asked, not because he did not know the answer, but because he wanted Nelyo to answer him, to believe it.

 

Nelyo laughed, “Probably because I always bested him.”

 

“Because you are strong!” Meldo replied. Nelyo, even though he was feeble and thin, was still intimidating and tall. And to have endured such captivity and torture, was all the evidence Meldo needed to know that Nelyo would come out on the other side of this stronger and hardier than most.

 

Nelyo patted Meldo’s shoulder. That Meldo did not contradict him, did not tell him that it was impossible for that to happen because how could it? It made Nelyo start to believe that he truly would emerge from this stronger and more determined.

 

Meldo shrugged his shoulders. “We are not afraid of what we are becoming nor should you.”

 

“Wise words,” Nelyo replied softly. “Thank you Meldo. You have given me strength…and hope.”

 

Meldo smiled brightly. “Fingon will be happy to hear it!”

 

Nelyo couldn’t help but ask, “He will?”

 

“Of course he will,” Meldo responded. “I know he’s changed and yes, he’s dark,” Meldo spoke forthrightly, “but he still cares deep down. Otherwise he wouldn’t throw himself so fully into protecting us.” Meldo paused, calculating whether to share his opinion. Mind made up, he forged on, “If Fingon was as terrible as he considers himself to be, he wouldn’t have gone to save you.”

 

Nelyo sighed. “Thank you Meldo. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

 

“Anytime,” Meldo answered cheerily.

 

The young man’s joy was infectious and healing. “Go on,” Nelyo spoke, urging the youth, a boy in Nelyo’s eyes, back to the games with the children.

 

Meldo shared one last smile before headed off to find the other young elves. What a story he would have to share with them!

 

Looking back to where Sílahul sat, Nelyo offer a silent thank you with a nod of his head. With that Sílahul stood and with the help of another healer took Nelyo back into his room.  Nelyo needed to eat and it was better to do that in private for Nelyo was self-conscious that he struggled with it.

 

)()()()()(

 

Artanis left her aunt’s room. It was obvious she was angry. Aredhel came out after her. “Artanis!,” Aredhel called after her, but Artanis was too angry to stop and wait for her cousin. Surely Aredhel wanted to defend Lalwen.

 

Behind her she heard Aredhel’s footsteps pause. “When you are less angry, we will talk,” Aredhel spoke to Artanis’ retreating figure.

 

Artanis shoulders relaxed. Good, she deliberated, she did not want to speak to Aredhel in this moment. She was angry and frustrated, believed that Lalwen and Fingolfin were too quick to dismiss Nelyo’s brothers. Of course they could anticipate that any of the Fëanorians would quickly point out that Nelyo’s return meant he would once more be the Noldorin king on this side of the sea in a way they didn’t insist with Maglor. After all Nelyo had no part in the burning of the ships. He did not betray Fingolfin’s host!

 

But those words had earned her a bitter rebuke by Fingolfin. In better days, Fingolfin had once loved Nelyo like a little brother, but Fingolfin was still bitter about how Nelyo turned on him and Fingon during the days of discord in Tirion. Nelyo was Fëanor’s right hand person in Tirion. Artanis considered that Fingolfin’s hurt with Nelyo cut deeper than she anticipated.

 

Yet it was preposterous that she was not given permission to visit Nelyo. She would not commit a diplomatic blunder. They took her for a child. This made Artanis seethe. She would see Nelyo, permission or not, but Lalwen was the diplomat, understood her nieces and nephews better than they did themselves. And it was Acharedel’s misfortune that she was the one that received the missive from Lalwen.

 

Before entering her room, Artanis ran into Acharedel. “Not now,” Artanis growled.

 

Acharedel stood back from Artanis. “What have I done?” she asked, not knowing why Artanis was so angry.

 

Artanis shook her head. “Not with you,” she offered, attempting to diffuse her temper.

 

Acharedel leaned back on her heels, “Oh no,” she groaned aloud, “the missive I bring you will surely make you angry.”

 

Artanis spun around to face her. “From Lalwen?” she asked, her anger getting the best of her once more.

 

Acharedel made herself as small as possible. “Yes.”

 

Artanis put her hands on her hips, trying to contain her body from exploding. “What does she want.”

 

“For you to ride with our company. A large company of orcs has been spotted near our southern border. We received a message delivered by a hawk from our Sindarin neighbors. Fingon is readying the horses as we speak,” the words spilled out of Acharedel.

 

Artanis closed her eyes and covered her mouth with her hand. She did not want to yell at Acharedel. This was not her fault. And Lalwen’s orders were not unsound. Indeed Artanis cursed herself for only weeks earlier announcing how frustrated she was that she was not believed to be more capable soldier, demanding to be placed on more patrols, like her brothers.

 

“Fuck!” Artanis cried out, frustrated.

 

Acharedel replied meekly, “Lalwen out maneuvered you.”

 

Artanis replied, exasperated. “She has! Oh Manwë’s balls,” she laughed. “She’s insufferable.”

 

“And yet you aspire to be like her,” Acharedel retorted bravely, knowing she might bring Artanis’ wrath on her.

 

Artanis’ eyes narrowed, but she did not respond. “How soon do we leave,” she chose to ask.

 

“With the moon,” Acharedel answered.

 

“Fuck!” Artanis repeated. Laughing, she raised her hands in defeat. “She wins!” Artanis announced. “I will ready my things,” Artanis added, defeated, but she was not going to give up the opportunity to ride.

 

Acharedel could not help but laugh. “I am happy not to be your family,” she teased.

 

Artanis studied Acharedel. “Just you wait and see,” Artanis said smoothly, her eyes dancing with delight. Artanis turned towards her family’s quarters, opened the door, and slipped inside.

 

Acharedel stood where she was, confused. What was Artanis getting on about? She hated when Artanis said things like this because they could be prophetic words, or she could be playing with peoples’ beliefs that her words were prophetic but were really not, just meant to get under the skin. Acharedel threw her hands up in frustration: “This family!”

 

Acharedel went to the inner stables within the fortification, knowing she would find Fingon. She found her own peace on the walk towards the stables, taking in the movement of life. Once more, she would go forth in defense of her people.

 

“Ára,” Fingon greeted her, using her new name. It sounded good coming from him.

 

Ára grinned. “It certainly sounds more like me,” she admitted.

 

Fingon moved towards her to greet her. “I agree,” he shared, touching her forehead with his in greeting. Fingon stood back, appraising his friend. “I am glad to ride with you,” he spoke. “But first we must tend to our mounts,” Fingon added, handing a brush to Ára. Their horses needed grooming.

 

It was a good sign that Fingon was riding. It meant Nelyo was better. Fingon would not leave his side if he were not. Ára’s horse nudged her with her nose. She was impatient, demanded the soothing brush.  Ára whispered quietly to her horse, letting her know she deserved a good brushing. The horse, in turn shared snorts of gratitude with Ára.  Ára thanked her horse for carrying her to battle once more. The horse listened and nickered.

 

“Your scars grow faint,” Ára observed Fingon’s arm while they worked side by side.

 

“I have not met an enemy in some time,” Fingon declared, absentmindedly tracing the rune on his arm, thinking back to his conversation with Nelyo. The sea raged in Fingon’s eyes. His ghosts were present.

 

“How goes Nelyo’s healing,” Ára asked. Nelyo was not a ghost and yet the memory of their time before seemed something dead in Fingon, Ára believed. Indeed her own love for Aredhel weighed heavy in her own heart, an anchor pulling her to icy depths she could not surface from.

 

“Surprisingly well,” Fingon answered. “I am loathe to leave now,” Fingon admitted, sparing a glance in Ára’s direction, while they inspected their horses, making sure they were healthy. He failed to see the sea in her eyes.

 

“Nelyo,” she said, naming why Fingon did not want to go. “That’s something,” Ára admitted, “the Fingon I know is always hungry to go to battle.” Ára was not holding Fingon’s desires against him, but she did want him to speak on his feelings having Nelyo returned.

 

Fingon shook his head, kneeling on the ground next to his horse. Fingon’s hands were gently checking his mounts joints, inspecting the hooves. “He needs me,” Fingon said simply.

 

“And you need him,” Ára responded. Sílahul had urged her to find her own life, apart from the children of Fingolfin, but she was too frightened to search beyond the certainty of the relationship with Fingolfin’s house that was so well worn.

 

Fingon looked up at her from where he knelt, but said nothing. Ára continued inspecting her horse’s face, next to Fingon who was looking over his horse. Ára moved to the horse’s mane. From her pocket Ára pulled out bells and other trinkets and ribbons that she wove into the mane, singing quiet songs of protection and valor. This, both elves understood: preparing their mounts for battle and weaving enchantments into the ribbons, whispering songs of power so that the bells would chime ominously for the enemy’s ears.

 

“I am compelled to it,” Fingon said, breaking the silence of their work. Looking up at Ára he asked, “If not me then who?” Fingon asked, speaking aloud his own doubts.

 

“His brothers,” Ára retorted.

 

This frustrated Fingon. “Well you know they could not stay,” he answered irritably. Not everyone agreed with the dismissal of Nelyo’s brothers, Kyelep among them.

 

Ára sighed. “Perhaps, they could not, but they also could not offer Nelyo the healing intimacy Nelyo requires for they are not bound to him as you are.”

 

Fingon stood up, “Must you remind me?”

 

“Always,” she answered, unafraid of Fingon’s temper. “You must confront this,” she demanded.

 

“Things are different now,” Fingon muttered, his face betraying the confusion waging within. Ára could always disarm him, with words or arms. “I feel compassion for him,” Fingon confessed.

 

“Compassion and love,” Ára reminded Fingon.

 

“Enough,” Fingon answered, his eyes narrowed. He walked away a few steps but the resentment in him dissipated. Fingon turned back, returning next to Ára. “Why do you do this?” he asked, his voice storming with emotions that were reflected in his deep, blue eyes. This time he saw the sea raging in Ára’s eyes.

 

“Because I am your friend,” she responded softly, the brush in her hand stopping its work. Ára stretched out one hand and cupped Fingon’s face. He was confused, but he did not push her away, choosing to lean into her touch.  

 

Fingon breathed in deeply, looking for courage to speak. He found it reflected back in her eyes. “Always you comfort me and little do I ask about you,” Fingon acknowledged, repeating a sentiment exchanged between them of late.

 

Ára dropped her hand placing it on her horse’s back. She sighed sadly. There was still a long road ahead for her to truly become Ára. She was so comfortable being Acharedel, liegeman. It was easy for her this way too. She did not have to think about her own feelings, her own needs, and she did not have to dwell on those things she was losing. And Fingon seemed content to have her be his minder, to focus her energy on managing his own emotions.

 

“Such are the ways between a liegeman and his lord. Our lord’s lives become our own. I do not have a script for anything else,” Ára conceded. “And you cannot help me find it,” she shared, reminding Fingon that this was for her alone, not for him.

 

Fingon stroked Ára’s horse’s neck, but his eyes were fixed on Ára. But it was for him, for he relied on her selfishly.

 

From behind them, an elf interrupted them. “My lord,” a young woman spoke. Fingon recognized the voice. “I bring your saddle,” she spoke contritely. This time she did not mean to intrude upon the two.

 

“Thank you Líssien,” Fingon answered, acknowledging the young woman. He took the saddle from her. It was light and while the elves did not always use a saddle, these were special made for battle on horseback that allowed the elves more mobility in battle. Without a saddle they could accomplish much of the same, but with the saddle they would not be easily knocked over.

 

The saddle had delicate runes etched into it. “This is fine work Líssien,” Fingon told the young woman, admiring the work.

 

“Thank you my lord. May they protect you and bring you strength in battle,” Líssien answered tentatively. Líssien directed herself to Ára. “With your leave I will retrieve yours.” Líssien curtsied and quickly departed.

 

Ára shared a smile with Fingon. “I think she tolerates me now.”

 

“She does,” Fingon agreed. His memories travelled back to the harvest festival where he had taken Ára on a tree and Líssien happened on them in a most unwelcome manner. It was a good memory.

 

“But only because it is my job to protect you,” Ára teased, knowing where Fingon’s mind journied. “She values my job, for I bring you back safe and…”

 

Fingon rolled his eyes. “Say no more,” he pleaded, knowing Ára was being coy.

 

Ára blinked her eyes innocently. “I was only going to say I often bring you to completion soundly.”

 

Fingon laughed but he willed himself to stop. “I do not wish to tease her,” Fingon said sincerely.

 

“But I like to harass you,” Ára responded. Fingon grunted.

 

“And just when I believed I was getting you to speak more, you answer with a grunt!” Ára teased Fingon who was usually short with words.

 

Fingon shook his head, but smiled to himself. Ára could always lighten his mood.

 

Líssien returned with Ára’s saddle. “My lady,” she spoke, offering Ára the saddle. The incantations tooled into the leather were equally stunning. Ára took the saddle and placed it atop her horse. Líssien helped her secure it.  Ára traced the work on the saddle, admiring it as Fingon had. Turning to Líssien,  Ára shared, “Your work is beautiful and potent.” Ára  looked closely at the young elf, adding, “I am honored to take this into battle.”

 

Líssien blushed. Ára had become a hero of sorts for her. Not only because of her closeness to Fingon, but also because she was so strong and present. Ára was one of those figures that brought Fingolfin’s people hope. They could count on her. She would always stand next to Fingon. Thus Ára was also cursed. In Líssien’s elder days, long after the wars, Ára would hold a most special place in her heart and of all the memories, even those of Fingon, she would cherish the friendship that formed between the two the most. In each other they would find a way to speak to one another of their own hopes and dreams, finding a way to be fully themselves.

 

Fingon walked to the wall of the stable where his armor was ready. Fingolfin’s armory was growing. Something had come of the tentative alliance between the Noldorin factions. They worked together with nearby Sindar mining for iron ore and created shared forges. From these forges they produced armor of many designs in consultation with those that needed it. Fingon’s company was thus arrayed in the armor needed for a cavalry, an elven horse company. The notion of a cavalry turned from one of organized games in Aman to the military units in the larger structures of war that were born on this side of the sea.

 

With his nephew’s help, Fingon strapped on the leather guards that were worn under the steel. The steel armor went on last. Fingon admired Curufin’s work. He had insisted on repaying Fingon in this way. Fingon accepted it gladly. It was light, strong, and easy to move in, but most importantly, it did not injure the horse nor impede the rider’s movement on the horse. The saddle was important for use with the armor for it added layers of protection between the horse and the rider’s armored legs.

 

With Líssien’s help, Ára was readied. Her own armor forged by the capable hands of Curufin’s son, Celebrimbor, assisted by Finrod, though Finrod and Curufin never worked in the shared forges at the same time.

 

From beyond the stables Fingon spotted Kyelep mounted on her horse. She did not wear the armor the Noldor favored, choosing leather armor instead. “I am eager to see Kyelep’s influence in action,” Fingon observed. From Kyelep the Noldor learned to communicate differently with their mounts. While the Noldor had the gift of communication with animals, they needed to overcome their worldview that created a buffer between elf and animal. Kyelep taught the Noldor of Fingon’s company to overcome this. With this learned intimacy of communication with their horses, Fingon’s company were expected to train others in their midst, share in breaking the barrier between being elves of Aman and elves of Endórë. Fingon valued that there was no longer a gap between what the rider desired and the horses execution. Fingon’s cavalry learned to act intuitively, like a swarm, Kyelep instructed.

 

Ára agreed, “She has been invaluable.” Ára looked at the assembled riders and saw the gold of Artanis hair. “She will ride next to Artanis?” Ára inquired.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively. “She will. I can think of no better teacher than Kyelep. Artanis will no doubt quickly pick up on Kyelep’s interaction with the horse.” Meldo brought Fingon his horse. Swiftly, Fingon was atop his mount.

 

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Ára said, pausing before she jumped on her horse. Ribbons of gold and silver were woven in the horse’s mane. Attached to the ends of the ribbons were bells. As the horses danced with anticipation the courtyard was filled with the sound of their hooves and the bells ringing delicately.

 

Fingon rode to greet Kyelep. “We ride together for battle. I am thankful to have you with us, and most importantly, the knowledge you shared.” Fingon brought his hand to his heart in gratitude, lowering his head. Riders around him did the same.

 

“Ride we must,” Kyelep answered, looking at the faces of the elves she’d come to know, men and women, elves that put themselves at the fore of the battle with Morgoth. Kyelep’s time with the Noldor shaped her understanding of them and made her disdain of the Valar more concrete.

 

Kyelep observed the Noldorin military system unfold before her. In her short time in Fingolfin’s camp she learned about the ordered, hierarchical society of the Noldor that lent itself to this type of military organization by rank and file, an inheritance of life in Tirion under Valarin rule. The Noldor chaffed at her naming of this, but Fingolfin begrudgingly admitted that the Noldor were duly and unduly influenced by their Valarin overlords.  The Noldor also borrowed Sindarin organization in their ranks, and with Kyelep’s advising, the Noldor also incorporated Laiquendi tactics into their ranks. The Noldor did not have the time of indigenizing and so they cannibalized, truly children of exile.

 

Indeed Lalwen shared the story of the death of Finwë with Kyelep, of Morgoth’s deceptions, making hearts grow with mistrust and doubt in Tirion and the Valar’s inaction. Lalwen told her the tale of Fëanor’s rebellion and Kyelep’s heart grew proud to hear it but also weary.

 

Around Kyelep the Noldor were gathered, grim of face, tall and strong, a fierceness to them, and a hunger she was unfamiliar with. Fëanor’s words echoed in Kyelep’s mind. Lalwen had shared the moment of Fëanor’s rebellion with her; thus the visage of Fëanor, his beauty and wrath, was forever seared in Kyelep’s own memory to become a part of the oral history the Laiquendi would pass on: “Why, O my people, ‘why should we longer serve these jealous gods, who cannot keep us, nor their own realm even, secure from their Enemy? And though he be now their foe, are not they and he of one kin? Vengeance calls me hence, but even were it otherwise, I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father’s slayer and the thief of my treasure.”* Fëanor was spectacular and convincing.

 

Fingon’s voice rang out, calling the horse company to march, but for Kyelep, Fingon’s voice was mingled with Fëanor’s: “We march,” Fingon’s voice called out. “Under the light of the moon we shall meet our enemy and they will tremble. Our enemy has met the swift justice of our swords before! Ride forth. Vengeance is our right!”

 

Kyelep witnessed the war-kindling of the Noldor, unfamiliar to her, yet so natural to these people. Fëanor’s words on the other side of the sea echoed loudly across these lands:  “Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have ye not all lost your king? And what else have ye not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the jealous mountains and the harvestless Sea? Here once was light, that the Valar begrudged to Middle-earth, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless forever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the salt thankless Sea? Or shall we go home?” *And the Noldor came home. What a homecoming it was indeed!

 

The young Artanis rode next to Kyelep. The company departed into the lands beyond the encampments, into the outside that for the Noldor was dangerous, but had been a home for the elves of Endórë before that. Kyelep despaired, her heart breaking for Finwë’s terrible death, and for the son that brought his people here to a promised land. Fëanor, wrongly or rightly deemed it home: “In Kuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about where a free folk might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city. But by the blood of Finwë! unless I dote, if the cowards only remain, then grass will grow in the streets.”* But the Laiquendi were wary of their Noldorin brethren, the Golda. Kyelep whispered to the setting sun, “You were the forsaken Fëanáro, not us.”

 

The sun set and Fingon’s company marched to meet the orcs, accompanied by the light of the pink moon on a cool, clear spring night. The pink hue of the full moon reminded the elves that the fish would soon return to spawn. This brought them some comfort as they marched for their would soon be a bounty of food to replenish their stores and the elven clans would gather to welcome the first fish harvest of spring. But tonight the pink of the moon was ominous. While he welcomed life, the moon would also witness death. And so it was.

 

)()()()(

 

Though it was spring, Artanis felt the cold wind whip her face. Morgoth chilled the air. The elves waited. The tales of Men yet to awake would name them a noble company, but on this day of March, they were still counted young in the accounting of the Eldar, eager to conquer. Heroes stories told in later days would remember them aged and wise, but as Artanis witnessed them, as she was herself, they were youths who had no choice but to be soldiers in this world.

 

Valinor. Artanis reflected on the lands they left behind. She saw glimpses of that long last place in her mind’s eye, the great buildings of the Valar shining with the light of the two trees, but she also beheld the ice that was their home for many year. Now before her were plains of tall grasses, tall as an adult elf. Hatred undying, Fëanor’s words echoed in her mind, for she was filled with hatred, and thus her heart was stirred to war!

 

But the elven company would not charge into the tall grasses where the orcs lay in wait. Instead the elves waited, just beyond the reach of the tall grasses. On the other side of the hills were Celegorm’s foot soldier’s, quietly waiting for their chance to sneak upon the rear guard of the orcs and flush out those that did not charge Fingon’s company. Elven scouts were hidden on higher ground. Their bird call signaling the movement of the orcs within the grasslands. The orc’s movement would cause the grass to ripple like water. But when the cold winds came the scouts needed to be more mindful to look for patterns not stirred up by the wind.

 

Fingon’s soldier’s would draw the orcs out and Celegorm’s people would wait until that moment to attack. Although Fingon and Celegorm departed on bad terms, they begrudgingly understood they needed to fight together. This was a first test of that uneasy alliance.

 

The elven company stood still, horse and rider anticipating what was to come, tempering the fear and frenzy of war raging within that would soon be unleashed. To find stillness the elves focused their attention on the grasses, listening to its song, hoping to find a change in the song of the grasses, a song they learned from Kyelep. The grasses too listened and witnessed.

 

The Captain’s strong, the grasses whispered. Here come the brothers in arms, they sang. A holy company that brings down terror and wrath upon Morgoth’s army, the grasses trembled. Away, away with you, out of our bosom and into the night, the grasses demanded of the orcs, for they did not want to be trampled by the scourge and fire of battle. But it was the Captain’s song that called the orcs out. They hated him mightily. Morgoth himself had put a price on Fingon’s head. The sound of his voice was the rally the orcs needed. They charged out from their hiding place in the tall grasses and the grasses were thankful, while the battle raged on at their border.

 

Fingon was ready, calling his soldiers to arms from atop his mighty steed: “Arise, arise!” he cried out, his voice sounding clear and strong, his sword catching the light of the moon like lightning.

 

Artanis called in response, her voice like a whip, striking dead the first lines of orcs that dared charge in her direction. The shores they abandoned forevermore receded in her mind. Here on this battlefield under the light of the full moon, Artanis understood who she would become. She resolved to herself, fighting by her cousin’s side, her captain, that she would never forsake the pride of her people if she survived. She would make a house for herself and her children would be known. Her descendants would be known as hers. The battle propelled Artanis into the wide, wild world. With her own sword she harnessed the light of the moon and unleashed it on her enemy, the lady of the light!

 

Kyelep fought, but she was, like the orcs, struck by the songs of power unleashed by the Noldor. She cried out in anguish and terror. It was utterly incomprehensible that the Noldor were born with this gift. Kyelep’s people had songs of healing and songs of magic, but nothing like this dark and terrible song the Noldor wielded. Kyelep cursed the Valar. Why gift the Noldor with such Songs? Were they not born to a supposed bliss? Why had the Valar created such an army in a peaceful realm if they had not foreseen such wars?

 

For Kyelep, witnessing the Noldor battle song and terror they unleashed, left her utterly distraught. Fëanor’s words were rendered closer to a horror: “‘Journey light. But bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Tauros, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils that he stole, then behold! We, we alone, shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!’”

 

Little did Kyelep know the full tale for the oath of Fëanor was not revealed. In time, Kyelep would know and her despair would turn to sorrow.

 

)()()(

 

A young healer slowly opened Nelyo’s door.  “Come in,” Nelyo spoke.

 

Nelyo breathed easier. It was the young healer, Olosto. Nelyo had grown fond of him, but also despised him some for he would make Nelyo sit up and stand.

 

“Bastard, you come to torture me worse than Moringotto,” Nelyo teased provocatively, but young Olosto was not off put by Nelyo’s dark humor meant to disarm him. It was why he was sent by Cíleth.

 

“Good to see you sitting up, now up, away from the pillows,” Olosto commanded. “You must eat.”

 

Nelyo grunted, but he did as was told and sat up. He ate the food given him. A soup, bread, grain of some sort, and wild berries. The food tasted divine. It was a small quantity for he still needed to take care with his food.

 

After about 30 minutes of rest, Olosto stood up from where he waited for Nelyo to eat. Pointing at Nelyo’s legs, the healer told him, “Now move your legs and bring them over.”

 

Nelyo braced himself with his arms on the bed, exerting himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The food had given him strength to do this.

 

The healer was close, ready to catch him if he needed. “Excellent,” Olosto remarked. Feet firm on the floor. Nelyo was breathing heavily, but the healer was not going to stop not yet. “Shift your weight onto the floor,” Olosto commanded.

 

Nelyo groaned. It hurt but he did as was commanded. Carefully the healer offered his hand to Nelyo’s left hand. Nelyo took it. “Lean forward,” Olosto commanded. Nelyo shifted himself onto his feet and the weight of this body propelled him forward. “Lean on me,” the healer urged, “Now stand!”

 

Nelyo managed to stand, protesting the entire way and cursing under his breath.

 

“I am going to let you go,” Olosto instructed. “Ready?”

 

Nelyo nodded.  Olosto let Nelyo go and for the first time in many years, Nelyo was standing on his own. He was in much pain, but this time he smiled because he was content. Perhaps he would heal quicker than he believed.

 

After a minute or so, Olosto came to stand next to Nelyo allowing him to lean on him. Looking up at Nelyo the young healer asked carefully, “What do you want me to call you?” Lord Nelyafinwë did not sit right with the young healer, nor did it with Nelyo, Olosto observed.

 

Nelyo hummed, thinking for a while allowing his weight to rest on the young elf. Nelyo wasn’t ashamed to need the help. Nelyo’s eyes lit up. “Maedhros!” he announced. He too could take a name in the Sindarin fashion. He’d once been Maitimo, but now he was something more.

 

Olosto’s eyes lit up. “That is a good name! Lord Fingon will be happy to hear it.”

 

Nelyo’s eyebrow shot up. So Fingon cared more than he let on. Innocently, Olosto had let on that he was reporting to Fingon on how the therapies progressed.  Nelyo hadn’t seen Fingon for some days. Fingon was away on daily patrols. Nelyo understood Fingon needed to get away, but he missed the familiarity of Fingon’s presence nonetheless.

 

“Maedhros,” Olosto repeated, letting the syllables of the name pass over his tongue.

 

Nelyo liked the sound of it. “Maedhros,” Nelyo repeated, smiling.

 

“Let’s walk,” Olosto commanded.

 

“And just when I believed us to be friends,” Maedhros playfully shot back knowing that what came next would be harder yet.

 

“Walk,” Olosto urged, keeping to his task. They shuffled around the room with Maedhros’ weight supported by the younger, shorter healer. Maedhros would rest, receive a massage, and get back to the hard work. They worked for many hours this way. At the end of the grueling therapy, another elf would prepare his bath, that allowed Maedhros to be submerged to his neck and sitting comfortably.

 

After working hard for many hours, Maedhros was ready for his bath. Alone with Olosto again, Maedhros allowed the young elf to unclothe him. Aware of Maedhros’ discomfort at being seen, Olosto made quick work putting Maedhros’ robe on him. Once ready, Olosto rang a bell and an elf, would come in and help Maedhros climb into the tub.

 

This work continued for a week, each session seeing Maedhros walk further with less assistance. Maedhros did not see Fingon during this time. Through Olosto, Fingon sent word that he would be gone for a few days. Maedhros considered it curious Fingon did not relay the message personally, but then again, it was clear to Maedhros that Fingon was struggling with becoming reacquainted with him.

 

After another rigorous session, Maedhros was disrobing while Olosto assisted. Maedhros walked the furthest yet and all on his own, but his body was screaming with pain for it.

 

“You will need more than my help this evening,” Olosto assessed. Maedhros shook his head in agreement. He did not want to fall getting in to the tub. He’d come so far only to foolishly hurt himself.

 

Olosto rang a bell. A knock at the door sounded. “Come in,” Olosto announced.

 

This was different, Maedhros considered. Normally the other healer would enter without knocking.

 

Fingon entered the room. Maedhros looked up in surprise. “You are returned,” Maedhros greeted Fingon. His eyes studied Fingon, noticed the slight bruising on a cheek. Maedhros raised an eyebrow in question.

 

Fingon grunted, “I am,” watching how Maedhros looked over him. Of course Maedhros saw the tell-tale signs of skirmish upon him. Indeed Maedhros’ look let Fingon know he required an update. “Dark creatures have been testing our Northern borders,” Fingon reported.

 

This was concerning, Maedhros considered, but he waited for Fingon to finish his report. Olosto stood silently, holding his breath. The tension between the two was palpable. He did not want to get in the way of whatever was afoot.

 

“Your people and mine repelled these forces,” Fingon shared. Maedhros noted it was still a “my people and yours”, not ours.

 

“Together?” Maedhros asked.

 

Fingon shook his head affirmatively. “Together as much as that can be accomplished,” Fingon responded, his face neutral. Maedhros could see the frustration that simmered beneath. 

 

Maedhros smartly changed the subject. Now was not the time to broach that topic. Instead, he asked, “Will you help me?” Looking at the tub, Maedhros shared, “I cannot make the climb alone.”

 

“Of course,” Fingon answered, relieved Maedhros did not grill him further. Moving to stand by Maedhros, Fingon and Olosto helped Maedhros walk towards the tub. Olosto too was relieved he could focus on his work.

 

Standing next to the tub, Maedhros shook his head in frustration, “I cannot move my legs.”

 

“You worked hard for that,” Olosto countered, knowing Maedhros was frustrated. “Tomorrow we will work even harder. Soon your legs will not tire.”

 

This earned laughter from Maedhros. “Then pick me up and put me in for the hot water will ease my bones,” Maedhros ordered, letting the robe fall to the floor.

 

“Ready?” Olosto asked to both Fingon and Maedhros. Between the two healthy elves, they picked up Maedhros and sat him in the tub.

 

Maedhros sighed contentedly. Relaxing, he allowed himself to float contently in the hot, steaming water filled with eucalyptus, peppermint, and rosemary oils. Fingon took his accustomed chair by the hearth, warmed by the fire. While Fingon sat silently, staring into the fire, he also kept a close eye on Maedhros while he slumbered in the tub. Fingon replayed the battle scene in his mind searching for mistakes. Inevitably his thoughts went to the moments after the battle, after their victory.

 

Fingon and Celegorm had exchanged words:

 

How fares my brother? Celegorm asked.

 

Fingon responded, “He is improving. He will soon be ready to come to you.” Fingon hated admitting this.

 

“How much time?” Celegorm asked.

 

“Summer,” Fingon replied. The idea of it made him sick. He was not ready to give Maedhros up.

 

Carnistir listened but said nothing. Celegorm changed the subject, knowing it was pointless to speak on his brother longer. “We will exchange reports after we have assessed our companies’ actions,” Celegorm said.

 

“Yes,” Fingon answered. “Ondion will share my report with you now.” With that Fingon walked away from Celegorm and back to his company.  

 

Celegorm looked after Fingon’s retreating figure, but said nothing. Ondion greeted Celegorm. They were still fond of one another. They had this at least and Celegorm preferred to deal with Ondion rather than Fingon.

 

After some time, Fingon stood to check the water temperature. It was cooling. “Would you like some more hot water?” Fingon asked. Maedhros nodded happily from his meditative state in the water. Fingon walked back to the fireplace and with a pot holder, carried the pot filled with water that was hung on the hearth to keep heated towards the tub. Carefully setting it down, Fingon helped Maedhros sit up.

 

Maedhros watched quietly while Fingon allowed some water to empty into the drain beneath the tub., “It’s absurd,” Maedhros observed, “you’ve just returned from battle and yet here you are nursing me!’

 

Satisfied with the amount left in the tub, Fingon carefully lifted the hot water pot and slowly poured the hot water into the tub until the temperature was to Maedhros’ liking. He understood Maedhros was feeling particularly helpless. “Soon you will walk to the baths,” Fingon spoke, ignoring Maedhros’ words. “Tyelko saying you were particularly fond of the hot springs,” Fingon said, reminding Maedhros of those things that did matter for him.

 

Maedhros smiled. Fingon would not let him feel sorry for himself. Truly, Maedhros did look forward to bathing in the hot springs. It was one of the reasons they had first settled in this area, for the hot springs that gurgled near the lake. “I am eager for that,” Maedhros replied earnestly.

 

Fingon moved back to his seat by the fire and Maedhros floated, allowing the pain to wash away. When the water cooled again, Fingon woke Maedhros and helped him out.  

 

“Can you stand on your own,” Fingon inquired, pushing a stand next to Maedhros that he could hold on to. Olosto had left some time ago at Fingon’s urging.

 

“Yes,” Maedhros answered, between a yawn. He was bone tired.

 

From the nearby chair Fingon grabbed the robe, and while Maedhros held onto the stand, Fingon

draped the robe over him and moved Maedhros back onto the bed.

 

Fingon helped Nelyo slip on a tunic

 

“I’ve decided on a name,” Maedhros shared with Fingon, while pulling the sleeping shirt on.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow.

 

“Maedhros” he shared, a smug look returning to him, letting Fingon pull his arms through the sleeves.

 

Fingon wanted to roll his eyes at his cousin’s capacity to come to smugness so quickly in his healing process, but he had to admit, it was a good name. “Hmm,” Fingon grunted. “Tis a good name.” Satisfied that the sleeping tunic was on comfortably, Fingon stepped back.

 

“I know,” Maedhros said, too tired to form a smile, but his eyes betrayed his mood.

 

Fingon helped Maedhros lay down. Maedhros watched expectantly as Fingon inspected the different oils. It was obvious to Maedhros that Fingon was reviewing in his head Olosto’s instructions on which oils to use. Maedhros hummed contentedly as Fingon warmed the oils on his hands and commenced the work of kneading Maedhros’ stiff muscles. This too would help him grow stronger for this type of body work was also an intense healing.

 

Maedhros drifted off to sleep. It took Fingon some time to finish his work. Maedhros’ right shoulder needed the healing power of touch to settle and heal it in its righted position. After a while, Fingon tucked Maedhros under blankets and made sure the wooden railing was lifted up to prevent Maedhros from falling. In a strange way, he was getting to know Maedhros’ body anew, and in a manner he’d never understood it before.

 

A healer opened the door indicating she was ready to take Fingon’s place. Maedhros could not be left alone, even in sleep, for the nightmares that came were a terror that Maedhros needed help coming back from.

 

Before leaving the room, Fingon looked back upon the sleeping figure and whispered, “Goodnight Maedhros.”

 

Walking outside into the corridors of the healing rooms that because of need, grown in size, Fingon ran into Olosto.

 

“Fingon,” Olosto called to Fingon who was trying to slip away. “I need to check that bruise and whatever other injuries you might have.” Olosto knew better than to let Fingon disappear without a checkup.

 

Fingon groaned. “Make it quick,” he snipped.

 

Olosto replied, unperturbed. “You cannot order me here. I will do what my job requires of me.”

Fingon grunted, but did not reply. He knew better than to try to argue otherwise. It was why Olosto had been assigned to Maedhros after all. He wasn’t easily intimidated.

 

)()()()(

 

Summer! Maglor looked over the room the healers readied for Maedhros. It had everything Maedhros needed to help him, but somehow it felt small, cramped. Maglor wished he could bring some of the beauty of Formenos here, but he knew that would also be cruel. After all Maedhros had endured, building a replica of Maedhros’ room in Formenos would not help him feel more himself. Indeed Maedhros was coming back a different person. Like Fingon.

 

Maglor sat in his brother’s room and reread the letter. There was no doubt this was Maedhros’ hand. Maglor allowed himself to smile. Somehow with his left, Maedhros found the way to make his letters curve just so. The ink spread on the letters where Maedhros put too much pressure on his quill, but there was no doubt, this was Maedhros writing and voice.

 

Dearest Maglor, my brothers,

 

My healing goes well. I grow strong. I am treated well. Fingon and this dreaded healer drive me to exhaustion. I return when the antlers’ are mostly regrown. Soon. I miss you.…All is forgiven.

 

Maedhros, my chosen name.

 

 

Maglor carefully folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope. All is forgiven. The statement said so much. It told Maglor that Maedhros, his eldest brother, had something to forgive, needed to forgive, felt some kind of way about being abandoned. Of course he would, Maglor reflected. How could he feel otherwise?

 

Maglor explored the room. Here was Maedhros’ quilt, made soon after they landed. The star of their house, Fëanor’s star, quilted in bright detail. Maglor walked to the night table, positioned on the left side. On it was the carving of a bird. Fëanor had made it as they crossed the water to Endórë. Maedhros had kept it after Fëanor died. Shelves on one side of the room were lined with the books Maedhros managed to bring from Tirion. Maglor walked over to the wood shelves, allowing his hands to trace the titles. He stopped on one of the books that Maedhros had been working on. He pulled it from the shelf, carefully opening the unbound book. Inside were watercolor paintings of the local fauna accompanied by Maedhros’ handsome script, describing the plant, its many names, and its uses. Left empty was a seasonal accounting of the plant. Maedhros did not have time to observe the passing of the seasons on this particular plant. Maglor wondered if Maedhros would take this project up again. Surely he would be as gifted with is left hand as he was with his right hand!

 

Soon, the word sent chills through Maglor. Maglor walked and sat in a chair behind a desk set in front of the hearth. On it Maglor placed a wooden stamp he carried in a pocket. Emblazoned on its end was the name Maedhros. There was room on it to add another name or title. Whatever Maedhros desired. Maglor made it himself, reasoning that as King, Maedhros would need his own royal seal. It was fashioned after the one Curufin had made for Maglor shortly after they had lost Maedhros.

 

“It is a good name,” Maglor whispered looking at the stamp, “a good name.”

 

Stretching the length of the room was a woven rug of wool, spun locally from the herds of sheep that the Fëanorians kept. Maglor too had a hand in this: from sorting, carding and combing,  to spinning and plying the wool. Carnistir dyed the wool and built the loom upon which Carnistir wove the rug. The stars of their house were muted motifs in the rug. The room was testament to the work of the brothers: while Maedhros convalesced the brothers kept busy, preparing for him, each in their own way.

 

Maglor took in the room. Above Maedhros’ bed was the painting of a stag, its antlers large. It was Amras’ work. When they first read Maedhros’ letter, Amras knew just what he had to do. The painting was recently finished. It would surely be the first thing Maedhros would see upon entering his room.

 

Maglor paused at the door before leaving the room. Maedhros was growing strong and he would be returned to them, soon.

 

Summer.

 

“When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold, Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold; When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West, Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

 

)()()()()()()(

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

* Fëanor’s speech from Morgoth’s Ring, History of Middle Earth, volume 10