People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

---

Chapter 10: The Healing Wards

There is a transition to Sindarin names in this story. Some still use Quenya forms, some Sindarin, some both. It seems in keeping with Elves and how names come to them.

---

Chapter 10: The Healing Wards

Time in between. Time that managed to shake the shackles of Story and slow down, experience the expansiveness time could be in a mere second. For Fingon, his flight home upon the great eagle’s back was about to collapse time, to set in motion a series of events that would catapult the Noldor into a future that had been but distant. Now it was before them. Yet Fingon wanted that time in between. Needed to find the pauses, the blank slate of time, to find himself, to understand the whirlwind of emotion warring within him. In his arms was Maitimo, though it seemed cruel to use that name, for it came from a time of vanity. It seemed the Valar were toying with them in those early days, gifting mothers with foresight for names that revealed a doom hidden within. Maitimo was but a shell of himself, barely a semblance of flesh, but his hair, there yet remained the fire within it, so Fingon settled on whispering the name, Russandol.

 

Fingon also needed time to speed in this moment. How much time did Nelyafinwë have to live? Not long, he surmised. “Make haste,” Fingon shouted to Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles, Manwë’s scion. Thorondor turned to look at Fingon, his pupil narrowing. Very well, Fingon thought, while wrapping his legs and body around Nelyo, digging himself as deep into the feathers on the back of the bird as he could manage. Thorondor let out a piercing cry, bringing his wings in one elegant motion to his side, catapulting them like a shooting star through the sky.

 

The skies were blue on this day. Morgoth’s mists were retreated. A slight breeze in the air brought the welcome scent of evergreen from the forests just beyond the lake. Keen elven sight first saw the great eagle in the sky. Manwë’s servants were not unknown to the Noldor. Indeed, on occasion they surveyed the elven encampments, a small section of their large territories.

 

A song and a cry shot out in the skies. The air reverberated with a thrum of song. The notes were beginning to peel away the layers of dormant energy in the earth around them. The earth trembled ever so slightly, only perceptible to elves. It was as if a river made its way to them from the sky, a wild, roaring river that tumbled and found its way through the currents of air announced by the cries of Thorondor, lord of eagles.

 

Fingolfin spotted him first. “Findekáno!” he cried out.

 

Fingon! Shouts went up from the encampment that was now a fortified city.

 

As the great eagle descended in their midst, Fingon spoke to Thorondor. “I shall forever be in your debt, oh great lord of eagles.

 

Thorondor responded, “We eagles need no oaths to act. Oaths are the object of your people and those to come.”

 

Fingon did not have time to make sense of the mystery of eagle speak, so he said what he needed to. “My gratitude and most humble thanks. I must run now.”

 

“Fingon, Findekáno!” he could hear his father shouting, switching between who he had been and who he now was. The uproar of the crowd grew louder, making it hard for him to distinguish voices. As they landed Fingon slid off Thorondor, carefully holding his precious cargo, while shouting orders for healers to make ready. 

 

Fingolfin was at Fingon’s side ready to stop him in his tracks. Fingon had returned, his son was back!

 

“Do not block my way,” Fingon ordered. “Now is not the time for words and reunions. Nelyafinwë is dying.”

 

Fingolfin and the crowd gasped. Whispers and shouts of “Fingon has Nelyafinwë!!!” sounded.

 

Fingon walked as fast he dare towards the healers with the delicate package he held secured in his arms. Nelyo was mere raw skin on bones.  The life in him was evaporating quickly.

 

“How can this be?” Fingolfin walked beside Fingon, eyeing the thing that was supposed to be an elf, fighting the desire to envelope his son in an embrace.

 

Fingon ignored his father, barking out orders to the healers, trying his best to describe Russo's injuries. To the healers and not his father, he spoke quickly detailing the information the healers must know. “Nelyafinwë has been prisoner of Morgoth for 30 years of this new age. I found him hung on the mountain side. I know not how long that was. And...” Fingon faltered in both words and his step.

 

Fingolfin caught him. Fingon’s voice raw, he continued, “And I had to sever his arm to release him from his shackle.”  Fingon felt his father’s grip tighten around him.

 

One of the Sindarin healers in camp stopped Fingon. “I can take it from here.” The healer turned to Fingolfin, “My lord?”

 

“No!” Fingon shouted, “I will take him to the healing quarters. Do you simply wish to see if he is worth saving?” Fingon accused the healer. Did the healer need to receive Fingolfin’s permission before attending to Nelyafinwë? A million paranoid thoughts filled Fingon’s exhausted mind. He did not come so far only to be thwarted by whatever prejudice and hate lay between the elves.

 

The healer replied, “Your father may be lord of us but as healer if an elf comes to us, we will save them. It is our duty, it is our sworn oath. Uncover him. I’m walking beside you.” Fingon opened his mouth in surprise and decided no more needed to be spoken. Instead he slipped the cloak off of Nelyafinwë, eliciting a gasp of horror from those who could see. Fingolfin too shuddered. Fingon steeled himself against the flurry of questions thrown in his direction. Turgon, Finrod, Lalwen, too many voices so he ignored them all. Focusing only on the healer and steadying his steps, he marched straight into the healers’ quarters where the crowd was prohibited from entering, save Fingolfin.

 

A healer indicated a bed for Fingon to lay the once mighty Nelyafinwë. It was a hard surface, made for those wounded terribly. Fingon asked, his voice breaking from his own tiredness and wear: “Is there no more comfortable bed to lay him, some comfort…” Fingon last words were pleading­­, some comfort, for it seemed silly, but all he could think of was succoring Nelyo who had endured such cold brutality.  But the healers did not have time for Fingon. Fingon recognized he was in the way, but was too tired and dazed to move. Behind him Fingolfin reached out and pulled Fingon back. Fingon let himself be handled by his father.

 

The healer’s eyes did not come off of Nelyafinwë, appraising the injuries she could see. Another healer was tending to the severed arm. They spoke quietly and quickly. A flurry of activity dizzied Fingon but he stood steady, watching as they made quick work of removing the bandages and assessing the arm. A soothing balm to prevent infection was applied after a quick washing of the injured arm and the tourniquet reapplied. Whether a good sign or not, the arm did not bleed profusely, Fingon did not know. “Is all lost?” he cried out, but received no answer back.

 

The healer laid her hands on the still figure of Nelyafinwë, searching for the threads that were left of him. Elven healing was a sort of energy work. Each part of the body, each organ, tissue, cellular cluster had its own vibration, its own pattern, and from this the healer could ascertain the depth of the physical and spiritual damage. 

 

The healing rooms were in commotion. A younger apprentice healer came and stood next to Fingon, offering context for their process.  “For the seriously wounded a hard surface makes better work space for us. Cíleth is stitching together what she can. He will be moved from here if he betters.” Cíleth was a Sindarin healer, from a nearby community of Grey Elves. She was here on an exchange program as the Noldor and Sindar friendly to them realized that together, their healing knowledge was best. The Sindar were intimately familiar with the ravages of Morgoth’s evil.

 

“Will he live?” Fingon asked from behind the healer, his eyes travelling between the healer and Nelyafinwë. Nelyo’s eyes were shut, his body unmoving. His breathing was unsteady and weak.

 

From her position over Nelyafinwë, Cíleth spoke to Fingon: “What medicine did you give him?”

 

Fingon answered, worried. “I gave him the coagulant. I tried to slow the blood loss.”

 

“Perhaps that is why his heart is slowed,” the healer shared with another healer that was also working on Nelyafinwë. “Or perhaps the blood loss is too great,” another added. Cíleth continued, “His body is also so weakened by the length of who knows what was done to him.” The healers exchanged glances. What had been done to him? “Alas, we can only go by what presents itself before us,” Cíleth shared, redirecting the healers back to their task.

 

Cíleth gave further orders. The room Nelyafinwë was in was a flurry of activity. The elves had ways to counter act blood loss from times in Valinor where accidents happened, but their knowledge of tending battle wounds were honed on the ice and bettered by exchange of knowledge with the Sindarin and Silvan peoples.

 

One elf brought a tonic of Polygonum multiflorum, a root found in Beleriand that generated new blood. A healer gently propped Nelyo’s head back and opened his mouth. Another introduced a narrow, straw-like grass down Nelyafinwë’s throat. The injured elf did not flinch. Nevertheless, Fëanáro’s eldest had been tied down in case his body seized. Carefully, drops of the Polygonum were placed into the tube.

 

While scientific, elven healing was also magical. The healers gathered around Nelyo, using their own fëa to help the tonic take effect and generate new blood cells. Their work was feverish, requiring support of others, like Fingon, to sustain them, so great was Nelyafinwë’s blood loss. This was their primary worry, for the moment. The energy work was unlike anything Fingon, had previously perceived. While he had tended to injuries from blood loss, the depth with which the collective work dove him into the matter of the body was something else! He could see the very essence of blood, the cells, the individual molecules, see them begin to replicate. Their fëa worked to speed the natural process of blood regeneration. It was intense, demanding work, and it took a lot out of Fingon. Suddenly that connection was gone.

 

“That is as much as we can do for this part,” Cíleth looked up, speaking to Fingon, noticing how uneasy he was on his feet. Fingolfin had not moved from his side, holding him, not daring to speak, for he did not know what to say.  She continued, “His own body must begin to heal, and take the blood. My fear is he has long been without enough blood. I know not how his organs are functional. I could not sense all of them when I laid my hands on him.”

 

Another healer announced, “His heart grows stronger.”

 

“Get Ready!” Cíleth commanded knowing that this could send his weak body into shock. As expected, Nelyafinwë started to crash. His organs stopped working, precipitating a cascading series of crises. This time his body did start seizing. How there was strength left in him to do this was a question they all marveled at.

 

The apprentice healer, what to Fingon seemed like just a boy, on Fingolfin’s urging, continued to explain what the healers were doing, describing to Fingon and his father what would come next. “They will submerge him in ice. It seems counterintuitive that we steadied his heart, but it is the rest of his organs that trouble us.”

 

Fingon watched wide-eyed as the healers worked quickly: one group to stabilize Nelyo, the others preparing the ice bath.

 

“We must slow his body down, gently,” the young healer explained.

 

“What of his arm,” Fingon asked, his voice raw from the shadow filled everlasting night he encountered in Angband.

 

“He will be submerged in his entirety.”

 

Fingon looked at the young healer anxious, with some understanding of what they were attempting to do.

 

“Look,” he motioned to Fingon. He watched as a healer placed some strange contraption over his face. “That device will seal around his face so he can breathe.”

 

“Now,” a healer directed. The group picked up Nelyafinwë and carefully and ever so slowly submerged him in the ice water. Nelyo’s thrashing slowed as he was submerged bit by bit, until he was fully underwater. Surrounding his face was a thick bark of a cedar tree in the shape of a tube that somehow the healers had devised to suction to his face. Peering over Nelyafinwë, one could look down and observe his face that remained dry. Whatever was left of his hair fanned out like a fiery halo in the ice water.

 

The young healer continued after a while. He described to Fingon and Fingolfin that the healers sensed growths in Nelyo’s lungs that caused him to start choking as he was made stronger by the infusion of blood. His lungs had obviously not tolerated taking in more than a shallow breath. Submerging him in the ice slowed his breathing and heartrate, but it also protected the delicate organs.

 

“But why give him blood if only to slow his body down?” Fingon asked.

 

“Without the blood he would have died earlier. He needed that to keep going if only to get him to this moment.”

 

Fingon turned his worried face back to the tub and though he wanted to go forward and peer into it to observe Nelyafinwë he had to hold himself back and allow the healers to work.

 

Once submerged, Cíleth brought out a long needle (a prized possession given to the Sindar by the Noldor) which she introduced into the lung and into the growth. While the Noldor had developed such needles for veterinary care and husbandry in Aman, the needle was now used for medical emergencies on elves. In a short time, the advances it offered to the wounded were many. Slowly she injected the content. Once emptied she carefully removed the needle. Around her, other healers worked to keep Nelyo stable, taking turns working on the threads of his being as the water was cold and their hands could not tolerate too long in the ice water. As the healers did this work, others listened, through mind speak, describing what organ, what tissue, what cells they were tending too. While elven healing seemed quiet and peaceful, it was actually quite active and powerful.

 

Cíleth, satisfied that she had found and injected all the growths, turned her attention to his kidneys.

 

“They are full of stones,” another healer announced. “I cannot dissolve them for his kidneys cannot process the waste.”

 

Cíleth nodded, “Let’s get his heart and lungs stabilized. We need to protect the brain so his fëa can begin to regenerate. The fëa will know what to heal first. The rest is lost if we cannot save this.”

 

From the grinding ice they discovered how the elven body slowed when submerged in ice cold water, how the body went dormant, but stayed alive, even how the heart could stop and come back to life, without injury. But too much time in the ice and the elf would succumb, but there was a sweet spot that the healers had learned, though it was not a lesson they were happy to have learned. This knowledge came from terrible first-hand experience.

 

How long Fingon stood near the healers he did not know until he felt faint and stumbled.

 

“You too are unwell my lord,” the apprentice healer observed, speaking loud enough so that those his senior, and Fingolfin, could order Fingon to stand down.

 

“I seem a picture of strength compared” Fingon’s voice faltered. He was overcome with his own injuries, his own sorrow.

 

"But you ail nonetheless,” the apprentice soothed, gently taking Fingon’s arms and motioning to Fingolfin to bring a seat to Fingon.

 

Cíleth was more direct. She ordered Fingon to take a seat. Fingon did not have the power to resist his father’s strong arms that made him sit. Another healer came to him and looked him over, not hiding his concern for his lord’s state. “Fingon, you are unwell. How long has it been since you have eaten or drank anything?”

 

“You must drink this,” another person spoke. Fingon was having a hard time keeping track. His eyes were closing. He was so tired.

 

“Of course,” Fingon answered dizzily. “But I do not want to sleep,” he fought back. “I need to be here.” Fingon was stubborn.

 

The healer indicated for help. Fingolfin who had been constant in his observation, standing next to his son, helped the healer move the faltering Fingon onto a bed.

 

The apprentice offered Fingon a drink and bread.

 

Fingolfin recognized it as a sleeping cordial that imbued the recipient with life and allowed their body to slip into a healing, deep sleep. Fingon sipped the drink. Fingon passed out quickly, falling back on the bed. The healer turned to Fingolfin. “He will sleep for a long time.” Satisfied that Fingon was sleeping as he should, the healer left Fingolfin and his son alone, knowing Fingolfin would want time with Fingon.

 

Fingolfin sat in the chair next to Fingon’s bed. He leaned into Fingon, kissing him on the cheek. Tears fell. His son was alive! Fingolfin whispered words of strength and love for Fingon, allowed his fëa to mix with that of Fingon, giving him healing strength. After a while, Fingolfin sat back to look over his son. Carefully, Fingolfin began unbraiding Fingon’s hair. Once this task was done, he took a cloth and dipped in the warm water basin placed next to Fingon’s bed and began tenderly wiping away the grime.

 

“Father,” a tentative voice broke through the active sound of the healing ward. It was Turgon. His eyes were focused on his brother. “I knew you’d return,” he whispered to Fingon.

 

Looking at Fingolfin, Turgon asked, a slight doubt creeping into his voice, “How fares my brother?”

 

“He has seen much,” Fingolfin shared. “He is weak, but he will recover quickly.”

 

Turgon sighed with relief, though Fingolfin felt guilty that he solely cared for his son in this moment.

 

“What of Nelyafinwë?” Turgon inquired.

 

Fingolfin cast a look towards where Fëanáro’s eldest was being attended to. Shaking his head, he spoke plainly, “It will be a miracle if he lasts the night.”

 

Turgon continued. “You must speak to the people. There is a growing ruckus.”

 

Fingolfin passed his hand over his face, exasperated.

 

“And what do we tell the Fëanorians?” Turgon charged on, knowing that his father needed to attend to such matters sooner than what he would like.

 

Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed. Just moments ago, he was grieving for what he thought was Fingon’s death. And now, Fingon was returned to him. And there too was Nelyafinwë. Fingolfin knew that Nelyo had asked for the ships to return for them, heard what rift it caused between father and son. He did not want to have any ill will towards his nephew, but Nelyafinwë’s one action was not enough to absolve him of blame.

 

Turgon once more prodded his father. “Now is the time to diffuse what has been a mounting call for war. We must find some good in this. Fingon did not do this for us to simply keep waging the same wars against our own kin.”

 

Fingolfin was surprised by Turgon’s words. He knew well the little love Turgon felt for his cousins. But he also understood that a peace between houses was a better future for Idril. Fingolfin too was a father, a grandfather. Placing his hand on Turgon’s shoulder, he said, “Come with me.”

 

Fingolfin stepped out into the clearing outside the healing ward. The buzz of sound died down as the host waited expectantly for their leader’s words. “Fingon is resting,” Fingolfin started, eliciting murmurs of relief. “What he has accomplished we do not yet know the full tale of. Yet I can tell you that he, alone, snatched Nelyafinwë from the grips of Moringotto himself. Why did Fingon dare such an impossible feat?”

 

The crowd was eerily silent. What had been a surge to face the Fëanorians was now paused. What now?

 

“For us,” Fingolfin answered his own question. “Since we stepped on the ice my son has only ever wanted us to more than survive, he has wanted us to thrive. Like your children, like your brothers, sisters, parents and friends, we have all fought to make a home in these new lands.” Fingolfin paused and looked back to the healing ward. “In there,” he motioned, “my brother’s eldest fights to live. For thirty years of this new cycle of sun and moon, Nelyafinwë endured what I cannot imagine. And Fingon saved him.” Fingolfin was quickly losing his hold on his emotions. “Let us come together and hold Nelyafinwë up in healing. Let us set ourselves to this task, so that perhaps tomorrow we can be on the other side of a miracle. Hour by hour, day by day, we will make sense of this, together.”

 

Turgon grabbed his father in a hug, not caring for propriety. This was not a moment for that. Fingolfin melted into Turgon, quietly crying. Fingon was alive. Fingon was alive! And Fingolfin felt terrible for the joy that brought him, even though Nelyafinwë’s life hung by a thread.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon woke up abruptly. He was not used to such deep slumber. His bearings were unfamiliar, but quickly enough the totality of the last few weeks of Time rushed back to him. He wanted to jump off the bed but he found his body, though renewed, was worn from all he had spent.

 

The young healer, Olosto, that had stood by Fingon when he first brought Nelyafinwë, was quickly by his side, with a plate of food. Fingon thanked Olosto, “I am famished,” he admitted, nodding for Olosto to speak as he ate.

 

“You have been asleep for almost a full day,” Olosto let Fingon know. “Lord Nelyafinwe made it through the night. He hangs to life by a thread.” Olosto offered Fingon an energetic drink. Fingon drank it quickly. Olosto continued, “We tend to him at all times, working feverishly to weave together the most fundamental parts of him. It’s as if he would disappear with but a breeze.”

 

“Take me to him,” Fingon ordered feeling replenished.

 

Olosto led Fingon to Nelyo, except this time, Fingon found Nelyafinwë on a more comfortable bed. He looked no different, but for the grime now cleaned off of him and his hair clean and trimmed.

 

Fingon felt his someone behind him. “Lalwen” Fingon spoke, feeling his aunt’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“You feel strong,” she shared, rejoicing for the return of quick elven healing, only possible because Fingon had regained his full strength and more before leaving. But in this new world there was little time to stretch victories out into comfort. “We must send word to Makalaurë.”

 

Fingon tensed under her hand. Lalwen released him and stepped back. Fingon walked towards Nelyo, moving to stand at his feet.  Fingon dared not allow himself to listen, to feel, his inner most thoughts, scared he would be lost in fear and the unknown. With much trepidation, Fingon paused before his hand felt Nelyo's bones, searching for that familiar essence that had been Maitimo in different times. There it was. Fingon’s fingers hovered over Nelyo, felt his energy, so weak. Fingon allowed his own energy to merge with that of Nelyo for a moment. The familiarity of their song shook Fingon to his core but he did not have time to dwell in that sensation in this moment. Fingon buried his warring emotions and instead looked upon Nelyo, who had the look of a cadaver and not someone still living.

 

Lalwen nodded towards the healer, giving Fingon the opportunity to speak with the healer tending Nelyafinwë.

 

Cíleth, reading her cue from Lalwen, informed Fingon, “He will undergo more rigorous healing.”

 

Fingon nodded. Rigorous meant there would be some sort of surgery.

 

“Multiple,” she offered. “First and soon, we will remove a fragment implanted in his skull.”

 

“What is it?” Fingon gasped, surely one of Morgoth’s evil devices.

 

Cíleth responded, “We know not but some of the chemicals we are sensing in his blood and the manner in which energy is responding in his nervous system indicate that his brain is starting to swell.”

 

“And it did not before?” Fingon asked.

 

“He was severely dehydrated and this impacted his brain, but with the hydration he has received it is responding too vigorously.” Cíleth explained. “That he is alive is astonishing,” she offered, her hands on Nelyo’s forehead, her healing energy directed at keeping the swelling under control.

 

“And after that,” Fingon inquired, hoping that his friend could make it to the next surgery.

 

“We must remove some lesions we have found on his pituitary. We believe it is from the high levels of stress he has endured. The surgery is transsphenoidal,” Cíleth described, using her hands to indicate the route. “We will enter from the upper lip above the teeth. We must remove them for the growths impede the slowing down of what you feel as adrenaline.” Cíleth looked at Fingon, “We healers understand it as laus,  and the gland that is responsible for producing that sensation is not functioning correctly. In Nelyafinwë it is like a water faucet we cannot shut off.”

 

Fingon shuddered. He understood the cost of having laus a too constant companion. The stress of the ice had altered their own responses and once in Endórë, the elves of Fingolfin’s host worked long and hard to cure one of the many sicknesses caused by their time on the Ice.

 

Cíleth observed as Fingon’s eyes traveled up Nelyafinwë’s body to his arm that had been recently cleaned and tended. “While we closed the wound, once he is more stable, we need to take this part of his arm.” Cíleth traced a line inches above the wrist, showing Fingon where they would cut, again. Fingon grimaced. What Nelyafinwë would have to endure.

 

Having heard Lalwen’s words with Fingon, she spoke so her Lady could hear her. “Send word after this first procedure. I do not want any of their healers here dictating what I should do.”

 

Lalwen answered, “I will send a messenger after the first surgery. We cannot stall more than that. Otherwise we might have a diplomatic incident on our hands.” Lalwen waited for Fingon’s rebuttal, knowing one would come. 

 

Fingon looked up at his aunt. “They will not dare reproach me or our people…” Fingon stopped and walked towards his Lalwen, taking her aside.

 

“Or?” Lalwen asked out of earshot of most of the healers.

 

“They are impotent,” Fingon hissed quietly. “I did not walk into Thangorodrim at no cost. Those cowards knew Moringotto had taken him, some of them even believed he might be alive. They have no right to him.”

 

“But they do,” Lalwen countered.

 

“Not until I say they do,” Fingon spat back. “Makalaurë knows this much. He played his hand, hoping I would venture to do what he couldn’t. And I did.” Fingon seethed, “I have authority in this matter, according to Fëanorian protocol.”

 

Lalwen narrowed her eyes, observing her nephew. “Think hard on this and speak as a diplomat. The hero’s moment is over. Be sure of your appraisal of the situation,” but Lalwen knew what Fingon said was true.

 

Fingon did not intend to be angry with Lalwen. She was only doing her duty, as they all were. Taking a deep breath, Fingon cast a weary glance towards Nelyafinwë. “While it will not make them happy and they will bristle at our position, they will abide by this,” Fingon assured his aunt.

 

“Very well,” Lalwen replied. She was about to turn to leave, but paused and put her hand up to touch Fingon’s cheek. Fingon’s façade softened. He was so much like Lalwen. “I would scold you but I know better.”

 

Fingon smiled.

 

Lalwen dropped her hand and left. Fingon turned back and sat vigil next to Nelyafinwë.

 

)()()()(

 

Maglor ran towards the yards and out into the bright day. Towards the wall he ran and up the stairs and to a watch tower. From the crenel he leaned out, the sun on his face. Alive?! Maglor looked out from the battlement towards the lake and across to Fingolfin’s encampment. The group from Fingolfin’s camp was making their way back to their home.

 

There, over there, so close was Nelyo! To have him returned. It was as if one of the dead had returned from their grave. Indeed, one of the dead had returned. Maglor was alone with his thoughts. Many had seen Thorondor’s arrival to Fingolfin’s camp, but little could they imagine what the Lord of the Eagles had carried. Maglor fell to his knees overpowered by joy and guilt. He had dared not hope for any miracles, but there his brother was, across the lake. And yet, Nelyo’s death was more certain than his survival. Oh doom, what mistress they had chosen! Maglor suffered. Would this be but a momentary victory? Would it not be crueler to know that Nelyafinwë had survived years of torture under Morgoth than to imagine him dead? Better for whom? Maglor chided himself. Would it not have been preferable that Nelyo had died that dreaded day Morgoth took him? Maglor wrangled with his own thoughts. Better that than to know what his eldest brother had endured. But no, Maglor could not wish his death. Maglor needed to cling to the belief that his brother would survive!

 

Maglor willed his tears to subside, standing once more to look across the lake. Fingon, he breathed, Fingon.  He had he done it. Fingon went and did what none believed was possible. Of course, it had been Fingon! Maglor could not help but feel deep passionate love for his cousin in this moment. Not jealousy, not anger, but a love and gratitude that was genuine. “Fingon,” he whispered, willing his thoughts to cross the lake.

 

Maglor heard his brother’s steps. Celegorm came and stood next to him, his eyes bright. Together they looked across the lake. In this moment they shared a hope, but it was only a stolen moment for Caranthir bounded up the stairs.

 

“We must go and get our brother,” Caranthir demanded.

 

Maglor spun around. “Did you not hear a word of what was said? He cannot be moved!”

 

Caranthir was about to argue, but Celegorm spoke first, “One or two of us will go and stay with Nolofinwë. “When he is well enough, we will bring him home.”

 

Maglor cautioned, “He may not yet survive.”

 

Caranthir snarled. “He has a better chance of it here.”

 

“Did you not hear a word the messenger shared,” Celegorm, repeated Maglor’s words to Caranthir. “He was one of the healers tending to Maitimo. There were no lies in his words. He cannot be moved. Not yet.” These last words were whispered. Not yet, Celegorm feared, like all of them, that their brother might not survive.

 

“I have decided,” Maglor interrupted.  “We will respect their timeline. Celegorm and Pityo will leave tonight and a few of our healers within a fortnight.” He stared down at Caranthir, daring him to challenge him. Maglor knew Curufin was stewing, pacing in the yards below. Curufin had let them all know just what he thought of Fingolfin’s healers handling Maitimo, but in truth, they were better equipped.

 

Caranthir relented, “I want to see him. I want him home.”

 

“As do we all,” Celegorm offered, relieved that Maglor had chosen him. “We need him to get through these next few hours, days, weeks,” he said, knowing Caranthir, all of them, also deserved to see their brother, but for the delicate politics of the situation.

 

Maglor reminded them, “I as much dared Fingon to go save him. I believed him dead and wished him alive.”

 

Caranthir glanced at Celegorm. “You believed he was alive.”

 

Celegorm retorted, “I only hoped he was alive.” They all carried immense guilt. While Celegorm had been the most vocal about Maitimo being alive, he never went to save him, never dared what Fingon did. “With my actions I pronounced him dead, as we all did,” Celegorm added.

 

Maglor agreed, “We are all indicted and bound by Fingon's actions. The Nolofinwions are in their right to ask us to abide by their timeline. It is reasonable, though I hate it too.” Maglor looked back and across the lake. They had forfeited Maitimo to inaction. “Time is a new mistress in this middle earth. She reveals herself and we reacquaint ourselves with her again and again.” These words were not meant for his brothers but they appreciated them regardless. Maglor whispered, “Maitimo.”

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon looked up from where he sat near Nelyafinwë, searching for a voice that called to him and yet the healing quarters were quiet. Looking to Lalwen that was sitting next to him, Fingon announced: “The Fëanorians are coming.”