Smoldering by Grundy

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Chapter 1

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Finderato watched as his brother deliberately fed an unopened letter into the blazing fire in their shared study.

It wasn’t the first time – in fact, he’s seen Ango do this five times, which means there’s probably more he hadn’t known about because he wasn’t around when the post packet was brought in. With Tol Sirion and its outlying watchposts still not complete, his attention was often required elsewhere. And he had no way to know if any had been sent directly to Ango in Dorthonion during the warmer months.

On the bright side, Uncle Nolo hasn’t said anything on the subject, which means he hasn’t gotten complaints about it. (Yet. If this keeps up long enough, that’s sure to change at some point. Even the patience of one who knows it’s on him to make amends would only last so long.)

On the less bright and more pragmatic side…

“Ango, it’s been twenty years. I’m fairly sure at least one of those letters must have contained a sincere apology.”

Actually, they probably all had. He had warned Moryo before he’d left Mithrim that this was likely to happen.

His younger brother – not the most stubborn of his siblings, that was still Artanis by a country mile, and they could only thank any Valar that care to listen that she hadn’t been present for that disastrous meeting – glared at him.

“It’s been twenty new years. It’s only two Years as we’re used to counting them. Given what an ass he was about Emmë, Morifinwë can bloody well sweat a while longer. Writing a few dozen more apologies won’t kill him.”

Finderato sighed.

“At some point he’s going to stop feeling penitent and start getting angry again,” he warned. “You’re behaving nearly as badly as he did.”

Ango didn’t bother with an answer.

Finderato tried another tack.

“You do realize our uncle will eventually run short of patience about the two of you being unable to get along.”

Not least because he needed his nephews all playing their part in the effort against Morgoth without concerns about what they’d do to each other the moment his attention was elsewhere.

“In which case, I will get a letter from Mithrim, not from the eastern edge of Beleriand,” Ango pointed out with a smirk. “I do read those. Besides, Moryo can’t be feeling that hard done by – he didn’t show up at Uncle’s feast a few seasons back to complain about me being a snot who won’t answer letters.”

“Because he wasn’t allowed to attend lest the two of you renew the quarrel. Maitimo insisted he and Tyelko be left to keep watch in Himlad and Himring while the others made the trip westward.”

“You know he doesn’t like that name anymore,” Ango reminded him.

“Yes, but he’s not here to hear it, and Nelyo or Nelyafinwë isn’t any better.”

“I believe Finno wrote that ‘Russandol’ is what he’s using now.”

Finderato rolled his eyes.

“Stop trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not, just trying to give our noble cousin his preferred name,” Ango retorted with a beatific smile that Finderato didn’t find at all convincing. “But if Russandol thought his brothers still needed to be on time out, why are you complaining I’ve been insufficiently nice? He knows their mood and tempers better than you do. Or have you been playing diplomat again?”

Finderato shook his head.

“I haven’t seen hide or hair of any of our cousins since Uncle’s feast. So far as I know, everyone else is as busy building as we are – Finno in Mithrim, Turvo in Nevrast, and the others in the north east. Curvo’s written me several times from that pass to your southeast he’s calling Aglon – he’s fortifying it, which should make safe your flank.”

Ango still wintered in Tol Sirion, because his fortress in the highlands of Dorthonion was not quite ready to be fully manned through the harshest part of the year. It still needed larger storerooms to lay in sufficient supplies for the strength of its entire garrison and a few more growing seasons to firmly establish its kitchen gardens.

“Kind of him. Convey my thanks if you must.”

“Are you quarreling with him as well?” Finderato demanded in exasperation.

“I’m not quarreling with anyone,” Ango snapped.  “I’m merely approaching our half-cousins with due caution after Morifinwë’s moment of blunt honesty as to what they think of us and our family. You’d do well not to forget that’s how they see us.”

“Ango, Moryo apologized the very next morning. He spoke without thinking – as I imagine he’s been trying to tell you himself for past few years.”

“Did he really? Or is that just what Russandol the consummate court operator instructed him to say? Not that it matters. You’ll do as you like, and you’re head of our house here. On your head be it if you lead us to disaster trusting them.”

“Thank you,” Finderato said sarcastically. “I had forgotten I was the unlucky one saddled with balancing our Fëanorion cousins, Uncle Nolo and his children, and our prickly great-uncle. You do me a great service reminding me.”

“I speak honestly, brother, as you well know,” Ango said, with only a slight touch of repentance. “And I’ve made a habit of avoiding our half-cousins, so you needn’t worry I’ll compound Morifinwë’s blunder by speaking rashly myself. Besides, if you’re going to scold anyone, you should take Artanis to task.”

Finderato sighed and sank deeper into his chair.

“Nienna save us all, what has she done now?”

He had sent her to Doriath early on, with Ango, Aiko, and Ango’s boy Resto. The expedition hadn’t been quite as bad as disaster, but it definitely hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. (For one thing, he hadn’t planned on his nephew impetuously marrying Thingol’s grandniece on scandalously short acquaintance, nor on Artë attracting quite so much attention.) At least their sister had found enough to hold her interest in Menegroth that she hadn’t protested Thingol’s insistence that she remain there. Well, hadn’t protested much…

Artanis had discovered their kin in Beleriand were just as protective of her as their kin in Aman, and was not particularly liking it.

“Oh, I don’t know that she’s done anything – Doriath really is the safest place in Beleriand to keep her, being the one place we can be sure she won’t run into Tyelkormo by chance. But if I’m getting a scolding for simply being happy to not have to see, hear, or put up with Moryo, I should think she’s due one for her continued insistence on killing Tyelko. She hasn’t given up on it that I’ve ever heard.”

Finderato wondered if their uncle Fëanaro had understood just how impossible he had made everything with his actions at Alqalondë. Probably not, given he’d died even before Aryo, but Ango and Artë are hardly the only ones holding grudges, and he can’t see how they’re ever going to manage a united front against Morgoth under the circumstances.  Out of eight surviving non-Fëanorion grandchildren of Finwë, there are two princes and one princess (possibly two princesses, actually – he hasn’t actually polled Irissë lately on the subject) whose attitudes toward the sons of Fëanaro range from ‘won’t have anything to do with them’ to ‘want at least one of them dead and have expressed a willingness to take an active hand in making that happen.’

It didn’t help that it was his baby sister who was the most sanguine about the prospect of another kinslaying.

“Very well, you’ve convinced me. ‘Scold Artanis’ is on my list for when I next see her. But ‘stop chucking Moryo’s letters in the fire’ is on yours.”

Ango huffed, but didn’t argue further.

The brothers fell into companionable silence, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

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Finderato wasn’t entirely pleased when late spring found an unopened letter on his desk with a note from his brother pinned to it.

Not in the fire, as ordered. Suggest compost heap. –Ang.