People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 4: The In Between

Notes: Úmanyar- elves that did not reach the Blessed Realm and behold the light of the two trees.

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Chapter 4: The In Between

 

“What did you see and hear,” the dark figure demanded of the two figures crouched on the ground.

 

“There was an argument…” one of the small deformed figures spoke, glancing up nervously at the menacing figure. 

 

“…We could not hear what they were saying, our lord,” the other offered quickly.

 

The tall figure spin around causing the two creatures to cower, their hands raised over their head.

 

“But we saw them threaten one another, pull knives on each other,” the first spoke quickly, avoiding the punishment the menacing figure was surely going to administer.

 

This made the tall figure pause. “Tell me everything you saw.” The two described as best they could the details they saw from their hidden vantage point.

 

“Does this please our Elder King?”

 

Moringotto laughed. He was pleased. “Leave,” he commanded the two creatures. He spared the spies’ lives this time. He could not lose assets that were valuable to him. The easy defeat of his host proved this. The appearance of the sun and moon struck fear in his servants, rendering them too easy to kill. That the elves were so fractured bode well for his plans. Planting seeds of doubt was too easy. The Valar left fertile ground in the First Born.

 

A demon like figure entered the dark throne room. “It is done our Elder King,” the person with eyes of fire announced. Moringotto’s pleasure grew. He would break the elves.

 

)()()()(

 

1^st day of Reckoning.

 

Findekáno escaped to the large hall. The banners of the many houses united under Nolofinwë were proudly displayed. What should have given him comfort unsettled him. The throngs of people he walked through patting his back, smiling, showing signs of hope, of strength, was beyond what he could endure. A dark figure in a corner caught his eye. Findekáno turned his back. He had no desire to speak with anyone, choosing to seek solitude in the empty hall.

 

He heard footsteps approaching him: Artanis. He recognized her gait. Even though his back was to her, he could visualize her: her elegant gait, the way she carried her arms at her side, and her head carried high. Whatever she was going to say would not be welcome. They were too much alike. After the crossing, Findekáno disapproved of her traveling to see her relatives in Doriath, a place closed off to the rest of them. Elwë, in better times was friends with his grandfather, but the Sindarin King now known as Thingol was also brother to Olwë. If Thingol learned of the Kinslaying that would prove a third Elven faction for the elves.

 

“I was moved,” Artanis expressed, her voice musical and delicate.

 

Findekáno leaned against a table, gazing up at the standard of his father’s house, ignoring his cousin. Next to it was the standard of Arafinwë, now the standard of Findaráto yet unchanged. Artanis too looked upon the standards. Coming to stand next to him she looked from the standards to Findekáno. “You spoke of change, of a people remade.”

 

Findekáno did not go out of his way to acknowledge her, choosing instead to allow his blue eyes to meet the blue of hers. Besides their tallness, this is where the resemblance ended. Artanis was a pale beauty, befitting of an ice queen. Her hair spun of gold, her broad shoulders, once strong, protruded beneath her dress. Though they were no longer famished, their bodies were long on healing, slow to recover.

 

Artanis glanced briefly at the standards. “We are remade and yet…” she paused, looking shrewdly back at her cousin allowing the silence and the standards above speak for her.

 

Findekáno rubbed his face in frustration. “What would you have me do?” he finally spoke.

 

“Offer me more than platitudes.”

 

Findekáno sighed. It was plain for all to see that there was no standard for Lalwen, no standard for the widows of Lords of houses that had perished on the ice. And yet the standards of those dead elves were raised. Findekáno pushed himself off the table irritated by Artanis’ needling. “I am not the leader of this host.”

 

Artanis raised an elegant eyebrow. “Are you not a Prince of the Noldor? If not a leader, then what shall this Fingon be?”

 

Findekáno exhaled. The words that had come to him, gone.

 

“You reminded me of him, you know,” Artanis added those last words to make her observation seem less accusatory, more personal. “Your words have power.”

 

Findekáno stiffened. Artanis could not know, she had not been there. Father! Makalaurë’s voice rang out in Findekáno’s mind. No, Findekáno wanted to shout, but instead he found his rage a better consort, kicking a wooden chair, shattering it.

 

Artanis gasped, startled by Findekáno’s reaction.

 

Findekáno balled up his fists and gritted his teeth. He wanted some rest, some escape, needed space. He moved to stand in the shadows of the great hall, his back towards his cousin, though she could see the rise and fall of his breath. Artanis swore it seemed as if her fallen uncle now stood before her, a cold dread taking hold of her. Little could she know she was harnessing the strange prophetic magic she would learn to wield in these lands.

 

Fëanaro had been compelling, magnetic in their better days. These were not those days. Findekáno whispered, the only words he had left for Artanis: “These are darker days.”

 

The sound of the shattering chair caught the attention of others. Findaráto ran in from the outside. Accarrë stepped out of the shadows. Artanis did not intend this, but she did not know, could not know she touched the heart of Findekáno’s fear. She stared at her cousin, spooked by his uncharacteristic break. Turning to Accarrë and then back at Findekáno, she felt her friend’s hand on her back. Accarrë suffered sorrow for Artanis, for Findekáno, for all of them. They went from the exultation of Findekáno’s words, back to this uncertainty. They were rudderless.

  

Accarrë whispered to Artanis, “Your words are potent.” Artanis felt that rebuke. She had not intended to wound her cousin. 

 

Accarrë mouthed “no” to Findaráto who started to walk towards Findekáno. Findaráto stopped short. “Fin?” he spoke tentatively, softly. Findekáno took in a deep breath and walked away from his family, and into the day beyond the hall.

 

Artanis wanted to follow her cousin but knew there was nothing she could do. She felt impotent, a different rage growing in her. Findaráto exchanged glances with Artanis and Accarrë, seeing in them the same uncertainty he’d witnessed in Findekáno. Findaráto too was caught in its web. Words were not enough to herald what they now needed. Words had power, but they were simply not enough.

 

)()()()(

 

The Other side

 

Findekáno did not have the energy to muster the emotional work his anger desired. He left his family behind, knowing they would not follow him. They were tending their own wounds, finding their own path, and treading water. Time was stolen from them. Imagine a thousand years of living as Findekáno only to have that stolen, pulled out from under you in a moment. Alqualondë, the Doom, all did this for them. During the crossing of the Ice, time became a different being, at once foe and absent. Absent in the way their focus shifted from the traditional expansiveness of elven time to the mere act of survival of the present where the more time marched on, the more their death was assured. Now they faced Time again and did not know how to make sense of what they had become and who to be.

 

For Findekáno, this new strange sense of time possessed him. It was illusive and unknowable: A first amidst a tapestry of discovery. It was not midday yet, but he found that the time between this moment and the earlier battle was immense. He’d had moments of reverie where he found rest, returning from the battle and offering his speech, but he was not so tired for time to slip between his fingers in this way, so he believed.  

 

The encampment was abuzz with activity. A few elves glanced his way while he walked the paths of the camp. In their eyes he saw something different, already distant from the moments of their congratulations. The most miniscule hope was waging within them, but they struggled to believe. He laughed. No one turned to look at him. They had once harkened to his uncle, to his words, and followed him to the shores of Aman, some killed for him, and all had been abandoned by him. Artanis was right. Findekáno offered nothing but platitudes.

 

Findekáno glimpsed his father’s close friend and ally, Calmacil, teaching a group of younger elves the art of the sword.  Everything around Findekáno was a paradox: from the new light that allowed them to see the world through seemingly new eyes to the meaning of memory in a people who harness it in exacting details. Findekáno was not a philosopher but he understood that memory was a burden, perhaps not into the future, but it most certainly weighed on them.

 

A young elf ran to Findekáno. “My lord, will you join us?” In the distance, Calmacil stood, leaning on the pommel of his sword. Findekáno cursed, “That bastard.” 

 

“My lord?” the young elf replied, surprised by the elder elf’s reply.

 

“Very well,” Findekáno replied, walking towards his mentor, the very man who had taught him to first use a sword. Arriving at the edge of the training ground, Findekáno spoke loudly and firmly: “Never lean on your sword.”

 

Calmacil grunted, gracefully flipping his sword into its scabbard. “Your lord remembers his lessons well,” the gruff elf responded. “Why do we never lean on our sword?” he asked his pupils.

 

Their answer was lost to Findekáno who tumbled into memory, recalling those lessons long ago. He had been but a child, in awe of his first sword, spending many a moment, whipping it through the air, fighting imaginary foes. Another memory: the first time his sword pierced an elven body. He could feel the weight of it in his hands, like a ghost haunting him. Findekáno’s memory took him to the ice. The face of his nephew screaming, crying as his parent held his arm down on a rock, the hands blackened and shriveled. Findekáno struck hard, ensuring a clean cut as the healers had directed. His nephew had fainted. Findekáno clutched at his side to find his sword, the sound of his sister-cousin’s wailing traveling into the present.

 

The younger elves did not find Findekáno’s spell alarming. Elven reverie whether for sleep or memory was a commonplace way that elves interacted. And yet it was new too, particularly the way sorrow would shadow the features.

 

Calmacil pulled his sword out, the sound of it stirring Findekáno. “Your sword, like your bow and arrow, are more than ornamentation. Along with your wits, they will keep you alive.” The young elves looked at their elder, contemplating their lessons.

 

A new people, Findekáno considered, observing the youths. Their memory of Aman would not be the burden it was for others. They would be the children of Exile. Endórë would offer her lessons alongside the darkness of Morgoth. Findekáno’s thoughts turned to the fallen Vala. He felt compelled to linger on the dark figure, his thoughts traversing the borders between light and shadow. The reason why soon became apparent: a lesson from Endórë announced itself, like a large wave crashing on the shore, a surge of power washed over them, dissipating to reveal its terror. Black magic.

 

“Moringotto,” Calmacil cursed.

 

Findekáno, always quick to act, cried out, “Ási, Come now!” Elves ran gathering weapons. Others scurried to ready fresh horses. Accarrë ran to Findekáno, bringing his battle armor. Together, they quickly put on his gear while he shouted orders. The scene was frantic. Elves were calling out, rushing about, preparing.

 

Nolofinwë strode through the encampment, helm at his side, offering words to calm and directing others to their posts. Findaráto walked with Nolofinwë, receiving orders from him, in between the words Nolofinwë shared with the crowds. Findekáno could not hear their exchange. Whatever it was sent his cousin into their growing armory, making it clear that Nolofinwë intended to ride.

 

Findekáno started to protest but Nolofinwë cut him short, holding his hand up. “Findaráto will organize the defenses here. “Calmacil, Findekáno,” Nolofinwë barked out, “bring a small company of your most capable fighters.” Nolofinwë was handed a horse, but before he mounted he spoke to Findekáno, “Make sure your people are rested.” Findekáno acknowledged his father’s command with a nod, though he did not like his father exposing himself. Calmacil jumped on the horse brought to him, taking his place next to Nolofinwë. Others lined up behind their king.

 

Findekáno shouted the names of elves and before long they were galloping, catching up with Nolofinwë’s vanguard. They charged ahead. The discordant song they chased was not newly made. Whatever had caused the havoc was at least a day old, but somehow Moringotto had managed to quell it, keep it from their ears. The source of the broken chords came from a nearby settlement of Grey elves, a hamlet that was readying itself to migrate into Melian’s girdle.

 

The horses came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them smoke from the village started to rise where it had not been before. Findekáno caught a whiff of something. He was not the only one. Findekáno charged ahead, Accarrë and Aikanáro at his side. The remainder of the company surrounded the village, some on horse, others on foot. The scorched village was empty. The haphazard contents here and there painted the picture of the quick skirmish that had occurred. The scent they encountered before entering the village was further away. Findekáno let his horse delicately step around the charred earth of the village and towards the field the foul smell came from.

 

Nolofinwë was stopped ahead, where a narrow path opened up into the small meadow. Findekáno turned to Accarrë. She shook her head. She could sense no enemies in the area, but they remained wary. Findekáno rode ahead, pushing his horse through the dense trees. The bright sun met him as he crossed the border from the trees into the field.

 

Burned remains. Charred remains sprinkled with a white powder. All dead. Findekáno slid off his horse. He walked through the field. Children, Adults, chickens, horses, dogs…. everything. He walked around the remains careful not to step over them, not to repeat the crude way they stepped over dead enemies. It was a small respect he could pay to them. There was no song here. The smell of burned flesh was pungent, stinging his nose. This was a new scent. Never before had they smelled charred elf flesh. It smelled decidedly different than that of game.

 

Calmacil and Aikanáro scouted beyond the field, finding nothing but the retreating steps of the few that had committed this atrocity and steps that indicated a few elves had escaped. “They came in the cover of night. Caught them by surprise,” Calmacil informed Nolofinwë. “Some elves escaped, took to the trees.”

 

Nolofinwë shook his head, his face grim. He dismounted and carefully walked amongst the dead. Soon they were accompanied by the remainder of their company. Those that stood at the periphery openly cried. Calmacil too shed tears.

 

Findekáno knelt before the remains of a child. Gently he touched the remains of a dog at the child’s side. The remains disintegrated into ash, so hot had been the fire that consumed it. Not all were lucky to be thus consumed, leaving behind charred flesh, colors of rawness protruding here and there.

 

“Whatever fire claimed them was unnatural,” Nolofinwë spoke somberly to his people, observing the horror on their faces, feeling it knot up his stomach.

 

Findekáno inclined his head, saying a prayer, and then touched the child, the remains collapsing into ash. A cold wind swept through the meadow, whipping the ash remains up into the air. The particles caught the light of the sun so they looked like snow. Soon the earth was covered in the ash and settled on the elves. Accarrë desperately tried to get the ash off her clothes, too much a reminder of the pouch she kept as unholy kindle. She was not the only one. The elven horses were becoming despondent, the smell of death overcoming them in the absence of their masters’ calming connection.

 

Speaking to Calmacil, Nolofinwë directed, “I need someone to leave no stone unturned.”

 

“Aikanáro and I will scout,” Findekáno spoke, his attention on Calmacil.

 

Accarrë’s eyes grew wide, “You cannot.”

 

“It is not for you to decide. You will ride back with my father as will Calmacil. We shall not leave the king exposed.”

 

Calmacil ordered his people to their horses. “To our King.” Hastily the elves mounted. “And what of you?” Calmacil responded before departing.

 

“I follow my duty,” Findekáno answered. Nolofinwë wanted to override his son, but chose to hold back his words. Exchanging a look with Calmacil instead, Nolofinwë gathered the elves and they rode back to their encampment, heavy with images of such needless loss, enraged at the evilness of Morgoth, and afraid, very afraid.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno tracked the steps until it was wise to go no further. “Balrogs,” Aikanáro whispered, tracing the demon imprint on the wet earth.

 

Behind him Findekáno was crouched over the shape of a human step that showed the first signs of transformation. “How is such a thing possible?” Findekáno breathed.

 

Aikanáro came to stand next to him. “Maiar,” he whispered, answering Findekáno. Findekáno glanced up at Aikanáro. “Moringotto has more Maiar than we anticipated.”

 

Aikanáro cast a weary look into the dark forest ahead. “They will soon be fully formed Malkarauki, but they are not yet fire demons, though these spirits possess fire. Let us leave here for I sense a darkness.” Findekáno did too.

 

Before long they neared the village. Aikanáro broke the silence that had lingered since they retreated from their search of the fire demons responsible for the massacre. “Those being were powerful enough to slaughter a village of Úmanyar.”

 

Findekáno gritted his teeth. Morgoth sent the fledgling Malkarauki to attack the village knowing if he sent them against the Noldor they would be vanquished. The smell in the air was acid-like, pungent, in that way that bodies smell when burnt. “His thralls are weak so he sends them against those that he can hurt.” Morgoth did not want to expend such precious weapons, but he could use them to hurt the Noldor, nonetheless.

 

Instead, Morgoth sent out a rabble of useless orcs against the Noldor, knowing he was sending these creatures to slaughter. “He tested us,” Findekáno growled.

 

Aikanáro guessed as much. “And what did he learn?” Findekáno’s cousin asked, knowing that Morgoth had outwitted them.

 

“Too much” Findekáno admitted, the ghost of Makalaurë’s throat against his knife, pulsating on this thumbs.

 

They heard cries. Findekáno and Aikanáro rushed ahead, making sure to conceal their approach, sure of what they would find in the field. Findekáno’s steps faltered, the wailing was too familiar, obliging him to recall how he had been the source of pain that fateful day in Alqualondë.

 

The few survivors briefly looked up, startled by the two elves that entered the field. One of the elves stood up from where he had been crying over remains. “You have no right to be here,” he managed to say between sobs. “Leave.” The few other elves found their feet, focusing their anger and desperation on the unwelcome Noldor. “Hear him” a woman cried out. “Leave,” she managed to say. “You are harbingers of death. These demons come from your lands and seek you out!” Another elf walked menacingly towards them.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno raised their hands to their hearts in respect and turned to leave the elves to tend their dead. By turning their backs on the elves, Aikanáro and Findekáno showed deference to the Grey elves, demonstrating that their anger was merited. If the Sindar wished to retaliate they would be in their right to attack the Noldor from behind.

 

Quietly they walked away from the field, through the village and back on the path they came on. The smell did not diminish. Neither said a word to the other. After a while they met up with their horses. Aikanáro took time to examine Findekáno. He did not like what he saw in his cousin. 

 

Before Aikanáro could say anything, Findekáno commanded, “Take her.”

 

Aikanáro retorted, “I will not leave you here.”

 

“You will,” Findekáno hissed, his eyes empty of the tears that should be there because he was bereft of the emotions that allowed it. But always, his eyes shone brightly with the Light of the Two Trees, and it was brighter in rage. Findekáno was indeed a harbinger of death: frightening, imposing. This is what those elves must have seen in both of them. Their Noldorin kin were alien, distant, and dangerous.

 

Aikanáro yielded. He too could not think straight, his mind reeling from what they had just seen. Such was the ability of reckless murder, its darkness a poison. Findekáno turned to walk away but not before Aikanáro shared, “I will make sure your father finds you.”  Findekáno hesitated for a moment, a sliver of his emotions reminding him Aikanáro had no mother or father to comfort him. Closing his eyes, Findekáno forged ahead, unsure where he needed to go.

 

)()()()(

 

 

Your words were moving, well done. Good to have you back. You were as I remembered. You reminded me of him. Father. Leave! Leave! You are harbingers of death!  A chaos of words filled him, traversing between the extent of what the day had been: from arriving victorious and sharing inspiring words to Artanis’ words, and finally the accusations laid at his feet by the Sindar.

 

The trees spun, the light stung his eyes. The earth beneath Findekáno shifted. His speech, it was just words, he reminded himself, the image of the burned bodies seared in memory. Good words but empty, powerless in the face of such vileness. The congratulations heartfelt, but empty. The accusations, truer words. Why had he not spoken of darkness, of the way he relished the feel of his hands crushing bone. Did those demons relish their death bringing or was it mere instinct? He could have yelled of the treachery of their kin that cursed them to take the path across the ice. Instead he chose cowardly words. I cannot be the leader father desires, he chided himself. Artanis, the Sindar, were right in doubting him, Kinslayer. Findekáno covered his eyes with his hands, his body desperately searching for a way to make sense of the gritty emotion that threatened to cleave him from within. With his calloused fingers he elicited pain. It reminded him of his status amongst the living. He spoke of being remade. He laughed. I am too broken to be remade. Fingon could never come to be. If his father knew how unhinged he had become he would not have asked him to speak. But Nolofinwë was also broken. What madness had they inherited?

 

Doom. Fëanáro, this how you were driven to madness!

 

Findekáno’s body was spent, his energy dissipating as water on hot rock. Would he fade? Is that what this was? And yet he knew that darker words would have also been well received by Nolofinwë’s host. He understood that he had the power to lead his people, like Fëanáro had, through the eye of the needle and into utter despair for they were all made of it now. The Sindar were right to fear them. And the dead? The burned child, his nephew, Arakáno, all dead or maimed but for the Doom! Findekáno cried out, damning the Valar. Elenwë, the countless faces that kept him awake and crept out of the dark corners and shadows were lost, but for the arrogance of gods. The contents of his stomach came up, again. Like they had when he had come down from the frenzy of killing elves across the Seas in that bay he would never look upon again.

 

His body retched, but he was spent. His muscles contracted. He desperately needed silence, but it was loud. Endórë announced itself around him: water running over rocks in a creek, birds chirping, squirrels scurrying up trees, insects testing their wings, the slight breeze in the trees. “Stop!” he cried out, but it would not let up. Life surged on, birth and death and decay. “Enough,” he sobbed. Findekáno could not see beyond the light, he turned desperately to find quietness, to darkness but could not find it, not the blackness he desired, a blank slate empty of the faces that haunted him. To forget, to feel numb. Neither hate nor love. He spun around, desperate, blinded, looking. Suddenly he tripped lurching backward, falling onto his back.

 

The trees around him closed in, hunching over, studying him. A squirrel paused and looked at him with squirrelish curiosity, its nose sniffing the air in his direction. All was not right with their elven brother.

 

Findekáno tore into the earth with his hands. It was wet with life and decay. The numbness would not come. Instead tears came. They tore through him, worse than the heaving, worse than darkness. The carved a path through memory and bone. Nearly defeated he rolled over onto his stomach, rising onto his knees and hands, his hair full of leaves. The nausea came with the tears. Somehow his body found strength to pull his ribs in and convulse out whatever terror he held inside. Findekáno groaned, his voice hoarse from the bile that burned his throat. It happened too often. He had taken to drinking teas and the honey they found from nearby nests to soothe his throat, but the bile would rise and he would spit it out. They all carried such ailments, no longer elven strong in body. The Ice exacted life, and sanity.

 

The Doom. Ash like fallen snow. Cold.

 

A loud thrum of thunder and fire rolled across the skies. The skies darkened. Damnation must be coming, Findekáno feverishly believed. Heaving again and again, Findekáno fell back against the earth. His tears came, streaking his dirty face, falling to the earth, wetting the soil. A bright light pierced the sky followed by a booming that rumbled deep down into the earth. The smell of the fertile soil nauseated him, mocked him. He wished for death. His body convulsed again and again, each time the effects lessening. There was only so much that his muscles could do. Findekáno’s breathing was shallow, but he was still one of the Eldar. He pulled himself into a stupor, collecting as best he could the tendrils of him that pulsated weakly against the vitality of Endórë. The ice, he remembered. So cold. His heart slowed, the warmth of his hands dissipated. He found stillness.

 

)()()(

 

Beyond the grove stood Nolofinwë, his face pressed against the bark of the tree. Why did he ask so much of Findekáno? He spoke as a leader when he should act as a father. Nolofinwë carried his own pain, his own regret and guilt, and he carried the burden of his children’s hurt. That mattered more to him in this moment, more than his people, but this too was fleeting. He cursed Fëanáro. “Half- Brother in name, full brother in heart!” Nolofinwë spat out, damning the forgiveness he offered once. Hearing Findekáno struggle with his pain, broke him, again and again, but he could not do anything for his son, like he could not save those poor souls that met such an ugly end. The Noldor were damaged creatures, desperate to find a sense of who they were. Speeches alone were not enough. How does one go forward when your sense of self has been so absolutely shattered?

 

Gritting his teeth Nolofinwë cursed the Valar, each of his brothers, his wife, his father, Moringotto. With each utterance, he found anger that he could use to make himself stand up straight. Anger allowed him to turn away from Findekáno, walk back to the camp, and return to being leader they needed amidst such horror. There was only enough for that. Nolofinwë’s strength was finite. Findekáno was strong. He had to believe in that.  Nolofinwë told himself he was not sacrificing him, too. Not his first born, his bright, brash son who now weathered darkness and said too few words. Nolofinwë summoned Námo’s words, brought them to be, whispering them. They gave him strength to retreat and walk away from Findekáno: Tears Unnumbered you ye shall shed. “So we shall,” Nolofinwë spoke, his voice muffled by the stirring sounds of the storm. The thunder boomed, the clouds closed in over Nolofinwë.  Endórë would bring Findekáno back from the gloom he was consumed in. She would wash away the dirt on his face and cleanse his hands. Endórë was Findekáno. She would save him, help him become Fingon. In his anger, Nolofinwë knew, at least, this was true.

 

Nolofinwë reached the edge of their camp that was much changed from the Fëanorian outpost that had been left to them. Buildings had been erected. Storage rooms filled with caches of food and grains. Meats were cured, water stored, fibers woven into much needed cloth. Hides tanned and furs readied to be made into heavy cloaks for the winter that would come. Nolofinwë’s host understood the cold intimately. Nolofinwë needed to speak to Lalwen, but he was hindered.

 

“Father,” Turukáno stopped Nolofinwë.

 

“Turno,” Nolofinwë answered, setting aside his thoughts.

 

“Where is Findekáno,” Turukáno said, almost a threat.

 

Nolofinwë glanced at his son. Their relationship had not weathered the ice well. Turukáno had begged him to stay and look for Elenwë, to devote their people to find her, but Nolofinwë had ordered them to move on. Of course Turukáno’s requests were born from desperation, but Turukáno was nevertheless hurt by his father’s decision. It was unfair on his part, Turukáno understood this. His father’s decision was rational and what was best, but Turukáno hated it nonetheless. He could not be the filial son he had once been.

 

Nolofinwë glanced back in the direction of where he had left his eldest. “He will return when he is ready.” Nolofinwë made to keep walking but Turukáno stepped in front of him, stilling his step.

 

“Where is he,” Turukáno demanded, having spoken to Aikanáro, knowing the fragile state of his brother and what the horror they had encountered might unleash in him.

 

Nolofinwë observed the manner in which Turukáno’s eyes were narrowed and red, his jaw tense. Noticed that his long dark hair was bound up messily at his neck, his clothes worn. Turukáno always looked tired, like he had come from grieving. Nolofinwë tentatively reached up to touch Turukáno’s cheek. Turukáno allowed the tenderness but it did not change his countenance. Sighing, Nolofinwë answered, “He is in the thicket by the small creek.”

 

“You left him there?” Turukáno accused.

 

“What would you have me do, Turukáno,” Nolofinwë breathed, what would you have me do Turukáno, order every soul into that water to find her? While Findekáno fell into his own darkness, Turukáno avoided his own by caring for others, those he believed he could save. Irissë preoccupied herself being Itarillë’s mother, never mourning the child she had lost: a child Tyelkormo did not know of. These were pains and sorrows Nolofinwë could not tend. Bitterly, Nolofinwë understood why he gave himself to anger, not daring to allow himself to explore a wretchedness as Findekáno did, could not allow himself to save his children because he would have nothing left for his people that followed him across the Ice. Hence Nolofinwë poured himself into making his people a home, even if it was imperfect. He would see this done.

 

Turukáno abruptly left his father’s side without a word, heading in the direction Nolofinwë had left Findekáno. Looking back at Turukáno’s retreating figure, Nolofinwë felt regret. His children deserved their father, not an uncrowned King.

 

…not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…

 

“Námo be damned,” Nolofinwë spoke aloud.

 

)()()()(

 

Findekáno caught his breath, taking in his surroundings. He sat up. He was drenched, everything muddy. Blinking, his vision cleared. Findekáno groaned, he was sore from the retching and he was starved.

 

“Fingon,” a voice materialized from within the trees. It was Turukáno. His hood was thrown over him, keeping the rain from his face. It was obvious that he had been there for some time. His cloak was soaked. Turukáno walked over, his boots sloshing through puddles and mud. Turukáno reached down and offered his hand to his brother.

 

Findekáno wiped away the mud on his hands. Hesitantly, he extended his hand to his brother. Turukáno pulled him up. “Why have you come,” Findekáno objected.

 

“Someone needs to watch over you,” Turukáno replied, observing his brother’s weakened state.

 

Findekáno laughed bitterly, “Am I not Fingon?” Fingon, harbinger of death was certainly fitting.

 

Turukáno placed a tentative hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was always startling to feel the bone on him. For a thousand of years he had felt Findekáno, his strength; there was a surety to it: the way Findekáno got caught up in life, embracing it. Turukáno invariably found comfort in the feel of Findekáno, his optimism, the intensity of his bright blue eyes, so unlike his own grey eyes. This man before him was not that. “Becoming,” Turukáno finally answered, aware that he was getting to know this man anew.

 

Findekáno was exhausted, for once permitting himself to lean into his brother. “Words are meaningless.”

 

“Walk with me,” Turukáno murmured, mindful of where his brother’s thoughts took him. Findekáno had blood on his hands. He tried to atone for the Kinslaying by pouring himself into the protection of their peoples, tried to keep the ugliness of killing and death at bay from as much of the host as he could. His brother’s company, all Kinslayers, took this oath on, and it was driving them to madness.

 

Findekáno acceded, permitting his brother to guide his steps. The brothers walked in silence, the rain turning to a drizzle. Findekáno’s words had to mean something, the horror of the massacre of Grey elves difficult to process. “I believe them,” Turukáno stated, knowing that there was truth in brother’s words.

 

Findekáno paused, turning to face his gaunt brother. “I will never be who I was.”

 

“No you will not. None of us will,” Turukáno said. “You doubt your words, but there was truth in them.”

 

“We fool ourselves,” Findekáno replied, walking ahead, though he stumbled, dizzy from hunger and exhaustion, both bodily and mentally.

 

Turukáno placed a strong guiding hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I have to believe,” Turukáno whispered, his words barely audible. It was difficult for him to reveal his own private agony.

 

Itarillë. Findekáno breathed, but what of that other child? “Do we not do more harm to those that depend on us by offering a fool’s hope?” Findekáno debated.  

 

Turukáno smiled bitterly. “It’s all I have.”

 

Findekáno flinched. It’s all they had: Doom. “Forgive me,” Findekáno choked out. Turukáno could not offer his brother forgiveness. They both silently acknowledged this in the manner in which they behaved around the other, the few exchange of words between them. It was not fair, but it was what they had between them.

 

Instead, Turukáno led Findekáno down a different path. Findekáno wanted to complain but he would do this for his brother, suffer the pain and light headedness that washed over him for whatever Turukáno needed to happen. Findekáno knew the route. They walked up towards a bluff that looked through the valley that split the Mountains of Mithrim and beyond, down the Firth of Drengist and out onto the Sea. The sea glistened in the distance. Turukáno looked out over the expanse of land and to the water beyond. Elven sight was a marvel for the Men that would soon come into the lives of the elves.  

 

“There,” Turukáno pointed to Mount Taras in the distance that tumbled into the sea. “That is where I will build a settlement.”

 

Findekáno moved closer to Turukáno. Perhaps it was better Turukáno take Itarillë away, but he cared for it not. To come this distance only to be divided once more. Findekáno answered, “I knew you would leave us soon.”

 

Turukáno nodded. “Father will build at the eastern slopes of Erid Wethrin,” Turukáno shared. Findekáno knew this; he had scouted the area after all. “I will help him raise the fortress, but I will not stay,” Turukáno said this not for Findekáno, but for himself, needing to know that what he desired was not entirely selfish. And I cannot forgive you.

 

Indeed, Findekáno could not offer Turukáno the absolution he sought, nor could Turukáno offer Findekáno the forgiveness he desired. This dilemma would continue to haunt the Noldor and it would end in the closing of this First Age, such was the power of history held in these two brother’s hands.

 

Findekáno turned his attention back to the shores, to the West, compelled by the song of the water beyond. It brought him some stillness to hear this song and not the jarring notes of fiery death. The East was now home. The West was closed.

 

Turukáno tracked the direction of Findekáno’s sight, heard the same song in the sea, suffered the same Doom. But Turukáno needed to believe that he could save his daughter from it, save her from the fate of the children of the Sindarin village. “See the tides?” Turukáno directed Findekáno’s attention, quieting the melody of the waters. “Do you see it?” Turukáno asked, his voice more urgent, finding a different story in the sea.

 

“See what?” Findekáno asked, unsure what his brother wanted him to find.

 

Turukáno observed the water recede and rush in. Findekáno followed suit. They stood there for what in the accounting of Men was but hours, enough for realization to dawn on Findekáno.

 

“The tides,” Findekáno whispered. “They are all different!”

 

“Yes,” Turukáno offered. “It’s the moon,” he continued, not offering much more in the way of information, knowing Findekáno would understand.

 

“Of course,” Findekáno whispered.

 

They stood on the bluff watching the tide retreat, the water line fall back, revealing white pebbles that gleamed under the sun. Something in the way the light caught the pebbles compelled them both to think of another shore, another seaside strewn with gems. Always the story returning to the same fateful moment that changed their history as a people.

 

“You suffer,” Turukáno broke the charged silence, acknowledging the burden Findekáno carried. He could not forgive him but he could find compassion for Findekáno.

 

“We all do,” Findekáno admitted.

 

Turukáno’s shoulders sagged, his eyes closed. “But for my daughter I would have allowed myself to die.” Turukáno wanted Elenwë back, wanted her body, her bones, needed a grave site, somewhere he could mourn for her, instead of the image of her body floating, lingering in the icy dark depths of the Sea.

 

Findekáno turned to his brother, unable to offer an answer that promised healing. Did he not also desire the escape of death?

 

“Itarillë finds joy in the sea and so I shall give it to her.” Turukáno smiled thinly. His eyes were red, the creases around his eyes marked deeply. Turukáno did not expect his brother to respond, knowing that whatever haunted his brother claimed his words, but Turukáno could not bear to see his brother this way. In spite of it all Turukáno had to believe that Findekáno would not die, did not desire it as he did: not bright and beautiful Findekáno. It was enough to lose Elenwë to the Ice, but to witness his brother so changed was too much a reminder of all they had lost.

 

“I found you, earlier.” Turukáno admitted, had watched over his brother for hours. “You were cold like death, your eyes open, but for all the world, it was as if you were dead.” In those hours he stood watch over him, Turukáno understood that he needed Findekáno to thrive, if only as a testament to their will.

 

Findekáno lowered his gaze to the ground. He had not wanted to put his pain on Turukáno. What could he say to him? The truth of his darkest thoughts, admit how utterly weak he was?

 

“You are not alone,” Turukáno gently reminded his brother.

 

“Perhaps I did die today.” Findekáno admitted, relying on words he had spoken before.

 

“You said as much to us,” Turukáno replied. Never one for seeking or speaking to the prophetic, Turukáno was nevertheless compelled to remind his brother that the Eldar were bound to Arda marred: “Endórë took you today.”

 

Findekáno stumbled to find words until a throbbing in his hand found its way to his senses. He observed the wound on his palm. “We do not understand the price of the old ceremonies,” Findekáno conceded.

 

“We do not,” Turukáno agreed.

 

 “I am spent,” Findekáno spoke, ceding to the desire of his body for food and rest.

 

Turukáno pulled Findekáno into an embrace. Findekáno stiffened, but Turukáno would not let up. “I tire,” Findekáno whispered, his voice hoarse, betraying a constellation of terrible emotions.

 

“Fingon,” Turukáno soothed, willing his brother to find another path, make peace with the dark that dwelt within.

 

Findekáno exhaled, his eyes catching the gleam of the sun on the water. The water was far out from shore. In Alqualondë the tides never receded so far.

 

 “You chose a good name,” Turukáno said, observing the dance of the light on the waves.

 

Findekáno smiled. He did not deserve such kindness, such mercy. “Turgon,” he replied in kind. The brothers found a way around forgiveness.

 

Turukáno laughed weakly. He too was spent. Undoubtedly a new name would come to him. He had considered this very one, but now hearing it from Findekáno, it sounded right and did not betray who he had been.

 

In this, the brothers were different in their search for a name. Turgon would build a city by the sea, a testament to his wife’s memory. If he could not find her body and bury her then he would build her white towers, soaring into the sky, so that perhaps her spirit might see it from the Halls she walked. Fingon, for his part, would find a faltering balance between the darkness and light, and Endórë would find a way to save him, if only for an Age.

 

They walked back to their camp by the lake. Fingon and Turgon stopped to forage for berries and mushrooms to quell Fingon’s hunger momentarily. At dusk, they found themselves at the border of their camp. “Shall we,” Turgon stretched out his arm. Fingon took hold of it. Together they crossed through the stone gate and into their new, impermanent home.

 

Nolofinwë spied them from across the field in the middle of the camp. There was a peace to them. Relieved he returned his attention to the crops being tended by Itarillë.

 

Nearing the kitchens, Irissë grabbed Fingon’s arm. “Come, you look famished,” she gently ordered. Looking at Turgon, she directed, “And you, to bed.” A ghost of a smile materialized on Fingon’s face. They were stealing a familiar moment in an utterly changed landscape.

 

Turgon yawned, stretching out his arms. His sister’s command actually sounded appealing. Turgon marched to his room, removing his cloak and boots, followed by his wet trousers. His dry tunic he left on. He climbed into the bed and pulled a blanket over him. He fell into a deep sleep, his eyes even closing. And for the first time since she was lost, he dreamt of Elenwë walking along the shores of the place that would be his new home and he felt a quietness.

 

)()()(

 

“Memory has the power of gravity…Those that have memory are capable of living in the fragile present. Those that don’t, do not live in any place.”

 

-Patricio Guzmán from Nostalgia for the Light