People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 3: In times of war

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

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Chapter 3: In times of war

 

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

 

)()()()(

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

)()()()(

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

)()()()(

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“We will not…”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

)()()()()(

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Findekáno growled. “Do not touch me.”

 

Makalaurë stepped back. “Findekáno, find yourself.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Findekáno froze.

 

“Father, I love you,” Makalaurë pleaded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

)()()()(

 

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

)()()(

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The crowd was silent.

 

“How shall you be known?” Nolofinwë summoned.

 

Findekáno looked up to his father: “Fingon.”

 

)()()()(

 

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