The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter I*

In which Maedhros meets Morgoth, and learns various things about the alternatives to dying. *Warnings for torture and violence. (Oh really!)

Read Part I, Chapter I*

He had not been too afraid in the beginning, on the march to Angamando. He expected to die, and soon, but grim and proud and determined - and not just a little ignorant of these matters of war - he told himself that there was nothing to be afraid of, and believed it. They would kill him as they had killed his father, and that would be it. Why should they keep him alive? Although they had not murdered him on the spot as they had slain all his host – his step faltered briefly at the thought of them, many of them friends, and the Orcs behind him shoved him roughly along – although they had not murdered him on the spot but had bound him and forced him along on their victorious return, certainly that was only so Moringotto himself should see him die.
He only wondered why they had left him his armour.

A few miles farther along the way he figured that it was because the armour was heavy, and it was easier to have their prisoner carry it on his shoulders than to carry it themselves. Doubtlessly these creatures wanted to keep it, for it was (naturally, as it had been made by his father) a work of beauty, hard steel engraved and covered with a layer of finest gold, and perfectly suited for its purpose, leaving its bearer room for free movement while nonetheless protecting him faithfully. Indeed, even after the battle, even after all the blows and stabs aimed at him and in part blocked only by the armour, it was still undamaged, the gilt layer unscratched. Only the blood of his enemies (and also his own, from a head wound he had received when he had lost his helmet) and some scorch marks from the Balrog's flails marred its perfection, but that was superficial, nothing that could not be polished away.
Still the armour was heavy, and the thought of being used as a mule made his cheeks colour with resentment, and for the first time he stumbled, only to be kicked and spat at by his jeering captors.

By the time they reached their destination, Maitimo was exhausted, although he refused to let it show. But being led in through the black gates of Angamando he couldn't help but shudder, and a premonition of dread began to weigh down his thoughts. Dragged on through dark corridors of ragged stone and rusty iron, it took more effort to keep his face even and his breath steady, to betray nothing to his enemies. They were setting an even brisker pace now that their triumph had sunk in for good, now that they'd brought their prize home (he suppressed another shudder at the idea that anybody might think of this harsh fortress as 'home'). The air was warmer and drier than he would have expected under the earth, but it smelled evilly, of soot and bitter smoke and something sour and nauseating. Maitimo tried to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose, but it was no better, for the arid air stung in his throat. Aside from the odd torch the tunnel was dark; the dancing shadows cast by the serrated rock walls in the fluttering light made him nervous and jumpy. As he got used to the semi-darkness, Maitimo noticed stains on the floors and walls; many were of a reddish brown. With a flash of panic Maitimo felt certain that they were dried blood, and his own would soon add to it. He told himself that it might as well be rust, tried to fight down the panic that made his breath hitch and his legs buckle. For a moment he felt as though he was suffocating. He could hardly think, let alone act, until finally his pride overcame his fear, and he managed to straighten his back again and breathe evenly. But the Orcs had seen his weakness, and they were jeering and mocking him loudly now, tearing on his hair and the ropes that bound his hands. The walk through the fortress seemed to last as long as the forced march to its gates, but in the end they reached its sanctum where he was cast flat upon his face before a throne of black stone. He struggled to his feet immediately.

In response, he heard a deep laugh. It was a terrible sound, although the voice was fair, rather like Manwë's. But the laughter was not a sound of mirth, and no mirth was imaginable anywhere near it. It was filled with a malice so dark and deep that the very air seemed to be charged with evil intentions.
The owner of that voice, clad all in black iron, stepped up before Maitimo and gazed at him with bright, terrible eyes. "Nelyafinwë," he said. The elf did not reply; he was busy pondering the three bright jewels in his enemy's iron crown.
His father's jewels.
"Maitimo," the enemy said, sneering, touching his face. Maitimo expected the touch to burn, and burn it did, but it wasn't the heat of fire but rather the sharp sting of frozen metal. He felt his flesh bruise where the enemy's fingers had lain. He did his utmost not to flinch. Instead, he spat at the other. "Moringotto."

Fast as lightning the enemy struck his face, so hard that Maitimo found himself on his knees, lip and nose bleeding. Feeling dizzy, he clambered back to his feet, his eyes fixed on the Silmarils. The Orcs laughed, and Maitimo clenched his fists.
"I am not here to play your games, Moringotto," he snapped. "Surrender the jewels, or kill me and be done with it."

The dreadful laughter arose again, and all the Orcs joined in. "Surrender the jewels?" the fallen Vala repeated. "Oh, you have your father's spirit, little elf. And did I not warn him that his treasure was not safe in Valinor?"
Maitimo shook his head. "And whose fault is that? Stop this. I told you I would not be part of your games." He pursed his lips, the taste of his blood on his tongue, and jutted his chin resolutely. "Kill me or give me the Silmarils."

He was struck hard again, and when he tried to rise this time, he was prevented from doing so by two Orcs grappling him by the shoulders.
"Oh, you err," came Moringotto's voice, almost tenderly. "You will play many a game with me, or at any rate provide ample game. You have no idea what I can do to you. I could make you, too, an Orc –" he gestured at his deformed creatures – "and you would willingly serve me…"
"Never," spat Maitimo, trembling with anger and the futile attempts at shaking the Orcs off his back.
"Perhaps you would. But no; that would be a waste. You are too valuable for that.” Moringotto bared his teeth in a smile. “Perhaps, instead, you will have to serve them. They delight in blood, you see, and yours doubtlessly will be especially sweet." His eyes, colourless and loveless and filled with mad delight, bored deep into Maitimo's.
Then he waved at the Orcs. "Take him down."

- - -

Maitimo couldn't have said what he had expected, but it certainly hadn't been a forge. Yet, among all sorts of machines, the purpose of which he couldn't and didn't want to fathom, there were unmistakeably an anvil and furnace. He was confused. Did Moringotto expect him to work here, crafting weapons for the armies of Angband? Memories came to Maitimo of lessons with his father, of disappointment when he could not live up to his father's standards and expectations, and he smiled grimly. If Moringotto wanted a smith, he had taken the wrong son of Fëanáro.

"Bring me the armour," his enemy commanded, and the Orcs that had pulled and shoved him there scrambled to comply, opening the fastenings and cutting the links of the metal plating. When they untied his hands in order to remove the shoulder pieces, he was prepared; he had gathered all his strength and struck.
Three Orcs went down with pained, surprised shrieks, but there were more, and they soon had thrown him onto the ground and ripped away the rest of his armour and his clothing. Dozens of hard hands held him down, naked; one of them pulled his head back by his hair and forced him to watch as Moringotto took his beautiful armour and heated and hammered it into broad bands of steel. At a nod, the Orcs brought Maitimo forward while he cursed and struggled. Growing up with six younger brothers had taught him to wrestle several opponents at once, although even the fiercest brotherly dispute was hardly comparable to this desperate struggle. He fought dirtier than even Tyelkormo had, ramming his elbows in crotches and ribcages, scratching, kicking, biting, spitting. Every foe that fell back fuelled his strength; for a second he actually entertained the hope that he might manage to escape, though he had no idea how he should find his way out through the corridors afterwards, unarmed and naked.

Then he caught a nasty blow to the head that sent him stumbling forward, and in the brief while it took to recover his balance, they brought him to the anvil and forced him to kneel. He ground his teeth and leaned back, trying to remain upright, pushing away from the anvil, but they were warned now and took no chances, and they succeeded in forcing his arms onto the remains of his armour. He yelped when the still-hot metal seared his skin, then groaned in pain and humiliation while Moringotto beat them into shape around his wrists. The strokes were hard and shook his bones; he could have sworn that he felt something break in his left arm. By the time the Enemy had finished his work, Maitimo was trembling badly. The Orcs laughed and cheered.
The same treatment was given to his ankles. Every ringing stroke of the hammer made the fact of his captivity clearer, and it was hard now not to show his terror. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from screaming – even at that small swelling of muscle, the sharp edges of the gyves cut into his wrists – but he couldn't prevent the tears from rising.

Finally he was dropped to the ground again, his head reeling with pain and apprehension. The Orcs still held him down in place, made wary by his earlier struggles. "You are mine now," he heard Moringotto say as if from afar. "What once protected you now protects my property. You cannot escape, nor will you ever be released unless your quest is foresworn, and your people accept me as lord sovereign of the world."
With all the strength he could muster, Maitimo replied, "It's a little late for that now, isn't it?" He had intended for it to sound defiant, but his voice was thick with tears.
"Oh, it's no longer your decision, little Maitimo," Moringotto said. "But perhaps your brothers will be cooperative now that I have you."
The elf shuddered. "They will not play your games either," he said, but even as he said it he knew that the alternative would be leaving him in Moringotto's power. Whatever the outcome, he would lose.
And Moringotto knew that.
"We will see, pretty Maitimo, we will see." He stroked the elf's head. "Such beautiful hair," he added as an afterthought. "I am sure my Orcs would love to have such hair, wouldn't you, boys?"
There were shrieks of agreement and eager nods, some of the Orcs slavering with excitement. Maitimo shook his head vigorously.
"Have at it, then," said Moringotto with a malignant smile, and the orcs fell over Maitimo like a colony of ants over a dead wasp, tearing and cutting at his long red tresses. He clenched his eyes tightly shut while hot tears rose in them.
They tore and slashed, grabbing his hair by the handful, not caring whether their crude blades nicked the skin on his head. Nor did they permit him any rest when his hair was shorn at last. The only warning he got was a crack of leather somewhere behind him; then the lashes bit into his back, again and again and again. He could not help screaming now, helpless beneath their cruel hands and whips. It went on and on until he was certain there could be no skin left on his back, until he could barely breathe and his throat was raw from screaming.

The following days, or weeks, or years – he had no way of telling how long it was, for it was always dark and his torment never ceased – went by in a haze of pain and blood and helplessness. He was beaten and burned and almost drowned – he soon tried to hold his breath just that second more, hoping for salvation in death, but his treacherous body always gave in at the latest possible moment, drawing air into belaboured lungs in deep, hungry gasps – his limbs were stretched and twisted, his bones broken. The only respite he got was when they forced him to watch as they tormented other prisoners: hapless Avari, he assumed, and some of them very young. Witnessing their pain was almost worse than his own.
He screamed until he coughed blood and wept until he had no more tears left. At first, he hoped that his tormentors would tire eventually – surely even these dark creatures must sleep at some point? – but there were always others to take their place, and even when they left him alone for brief intervals, they left him in cruel discomfort, his strained limbs and untended wounds continuing to torture him even in the Orcs' absence.

He did not see Moringotto for a long time. When he did, he had just been dropped to the ragged stone floor after an extended period of hanging by his ankles, arms pulled away from him until he thought his spine would snap. Now he curled up groaning, trying to prepare himself for whatever the Orcs might do next; and then without warning or reason his pain faded into a mere throb of overexcited nerves, barely noticeable after the agonies of the past months.
He managed to lift his aching head, and there, towering over him, stood the Enemy, iron-clad as ever, looking down at his sorry state.
For a moment, Maitimo told himself that he should get to his feet, but he discarded the thought almost immediately. He simply could not muster the strength of will to move. Nor did he see the point. Even coming up with a scornful greeting was too much of an effort: A half-hearted grunt would have to do.
He watched in astonishment as Moringotto stooped and reached out to him. Instinct made him flinch away, and one of the cowering Orcs made to strike him; but the Enemy shook his head. Impossibly, the lash stopped in mid-swing. Maitimo gaped in surprise, and when Moringotto's hand moved towards his face again, he clenched his eyes shut but held still.
This time, the touch did not hurt. On the contrary: the last twinges of pain disappeared. For the first time in he knew not how long, he was entirely free of pain. Absurdly, his first reaction was panic. Only slowly could he remind himself that this was how his body was normally supposed to feel.
“My poor, foolish Maitimo,” the Enemy's voice said, gently. “Why are you forcing me to do this to you?”
Why indeed, said a voice in Maitimo's head, and for a second he did not know the answer, until he opened his eyes and stared into the painful brightness of the jewels in Moringotto's crown. He did not know what to say, so he merely hissed and bared his teeth. Moringotto shook his head. “Has this not gone on for long enough? Don't make me continue. How I long to release you from all this pain...”
Maitimo sneered. “Why don't you, then?” he managed to say as he finally remembered how to speak.
The Enemy gave him an infinitely sorrowful look, the kind that a tutor might wear before telling a student that he had not, alas, passed his examination. “Because I cannot do that before you have learned your lesson and cease your stubborn resistance. It is your decision.”
With a snort, Maitimo said, “How so?”
“Why, my dear, because I must be certain of your loyalty before you can be freed. As soon as you swear it, your torment will be at an end.” He gestured invitingly. “This very moment, if you choose. After that, all that you desire can be yours. Food, healing, riches, revenge – name it, and you will receive. Refuse, and we will have to... wait.”
Part of Maitimo's mind told him to grasp this chance. A memory of his pain coursed through his veins as if to support this line of thought. Better to serve Moringotto than to suffer like that again, it went, and Maitimo couldn't help but see the wisdom in that. He took a deep breath, but before he could speak, another thought sprang up like a flame in his mind: No. Do not forget who you are. Do not forget who he is. Better to suffer than to serve Moringotto.
It won. “I'll die before I swear loyalty to you,” Maitimo hissed, angry with himself for almost succumbing to the Enemy's words.
Moringotto's look spoke of regret as he rose. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “I'm afraid not.” He turned and walked away without another word. As suddenly as it had stopped, the pain washed over Maitimo again, all the more agonising for having been temporarily suspended. He writhed, biting his knuckles to stifle a scream. The Orcs laughed.
“You refused Master,” one of them said, in his rough mockery of Quenya. “You will regret.”
And he did.

In the following months his life before Angamando grew more and more abstract. He could remember events from an older time if he put his mind to it, and he was aware that he had not always been in pain - but nothing of that felt real or even possible anymore. Reality reduced him to his tormented body, and often enough it took up all his mind. It seemed to him that the Orcs redoubled their efforts after Moringotto's visit, and he was certain that he would fall apart any second; but they ever took care to keep him – just barely – alive.
When finally Moringotto came to see him again, Maitimo did not have the strength to do anything but curl into a small ball and weep as the pain that had one moment filled every corner of his mind disappeared, leaving his head empty and fuzzy. He felt something soft and wet on his face, a sweet smell in his nose; and then his mouth was filled with something viscid and warm. Soap and soup, his mind supplied after some moments of confusion. Soap for cleaning. Soup for eating. Good. He swallowed gratefully, leaned into the towel, sobbed without inhibition. He did not open his eyes; there was a strange light in the room, very bright, frightening after such a long time in the dark.
“You do not have to do this to yourself,” a voice said, gentle and sorrowful and old. Manwë, he thought, and then corrected himself, no, Melkor. Names. Neither seemed to mean anything to him.
He suspected that he should say something, and croaked, “No?”
The word felt alien on his tongue, though he did not at first know why. He had picked up enough of the speech of his tormentors to understand most of their conversations, which were at any rate very simple and mostly circled around what he was going to suffer next, but he only realised that he had used their language when the gentle voice said, in his native Quenya, “No. You know that.”
He racked his brain, but found no answer.
“No,” he said, feeling helplessly lost. Why was this happening to him? Surely he was not being punished without reason. He distantly remembered that it was important somehow, but why and what it was he couldn't grasp. He opened his eyes half-way, peering into the blinding light; then he clenched them shut again.
“Poor Maitimo,” said the voice, “have you forgotten that you can end your suffering at any time? A little promise of fealty, dearest, mere words...” A hand stroked his re-grown, filth-matted hair. “Will you not do that? It is high time.”
Something in him protested that he could not - must not - give in, that surely there was a reason why he had refused it so far. He tried to follow that thought. His nerves chose that moment to send new jolts of pain through his body. There cannot possibly be a reason for such an ordeal, his mind told him, and if you can stop it with a few words, just do it. You cannot, the first thought insisted. You mustn't.
“Surely you want relief, sweet Maitimo?” the friendly voice continued. “Are you not hungry? Do you not hurt? None of that is necessary. Give up your resistance, swear to serve me henceforth, and you need no longer suffer.”
Suppose there is a reason, a third thought arose. Suppose you really mustn't serve him – can you not pretend to do it, for the time being? He is right, you do need relief; why not give him the promise he wants, and use the chance to stop this pain?
He blinked against the bright light again, and this time it brought him the answer: The Silmarils, you want the Silmarils. That is why you are fighting him. You swore an oath.
Suppose, his mind insisted, that you gave your promise. You could pretend to serve him, regain your strength, then steal the Silmarils and run away.
He opened his eyes, staring at the bright jewels in the other's crown, at the gauntleted hand that stroked his hair. The face underneath the crown was grey as stone and beautiful as a knife-blade and, Maitimo thought, just as sharp and dangerous; but it smiled. “What say you, Nelyafinwë?”
And why not, he thought to himself. You need not keep a promise to him. You must think of yourself. You can't achieve anything while they torture you. Promise, recover, then break the promise and escape.
“Yes,” he said, coming to a decision. It was not hard to make his voice sound meek; broken and exhausted as he was, he hardly had the strength to speak anyway. After a moment's hesitation he added, though every sinew of his being protested against it, “Lord.”
The smile intensified, and the Orcs surrounding them slowly drew back. “A wise choice, Maitimo,” Moringotto said. “You will serve me then?”
The soup threatened to rise again in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “Yes, lord.”
“Faithfully, and without question, and against any former loyalties you may recall?”
“Yes, lord.”
The gauntleted hand stroked his face again, ever so kindly, and he almost relaxed into the touch.

Then it struck him with such force that his face was slammed into the rock floor. He felt his nose break. Blood gushed forth, filling his mouth within seconds. He cried out in shock, followed by coughs against the blood that threatened to find its way to his lungs. The peaceful lull was gone; the pain came back, almost overpowering him.
The Enemy rose. “You are trying to lie to me,” he said, and there was a note of disbelief in his voice. “You are trying to betray me! I know everything about lies. Little fool, did you think you would get away with this?”
So I did, Maitimo thought, remembering more clearly now why he was resisting, tilting his head back ever so slightly, feeling the warm, salty, iron blood run down his throat. He said nothing.
“Did you think I would not notice? Have you still not learned? You will pay dearly for this...”
I won't; I will suffocate on my own blood, Maitimo thought, and found that the thought did not scare him in the least. An unpleasant death, no doubt, but then there was no pleasure in life either. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.
But his body betrayed him again. He broke into violent, quite involuntary coughs that drove the blood from his lungs and alerted the Orcs to his intentions. When he recovered from the coughing fit, he was held forward firmly, and the blood dripped, harmlessly, to the ground.

Until that day, he later realised, he had struggled against his fate. Now he realised the futility of such an endeavour, and he resigned himself to the pain. His life would never be anything else; until death released him he would know nothing but agony, and then, nothing. The realisation was dreadful, but he welcomed it nonetheless: The certainty of death, he felt, was better than the vain hope for improvement. His prayers, which had so far begged Tulkas for strength and Estë for healing, now turned to Námo. He was no longer afraid of judgement. Whatever Mandos might have in store for him, it would free him from this. Seen like that, every bite of the lash, every turn of the rack, every broken bone brought him closer to freedom. After all, there was only so much that a body could bear, wasn't there? Surely his was nearly at the end of its endurance.
Perhaps the Orcs noticed his new attitude, or perhaps they merely became used to him; at any rate he thought that they grew more listless. There was less malice and more routine to his torment now. More and more often the Orcs turned to more promising victims, leaving him alone for so long that his thoughts had time to clear. At such times he forced himself to recall his name, his brothers, his old life, his quest; but they had nothing to do with him anymore. His part in the story was over.

But Námo, if he received his prayers in the first place, made him wait. Instead Moringotto came to test him again. This time Maitimo did not even bother to acknowledge the other's presence. The pain was lifted from him once more, and he hardly cared. It was merely a brief break from normal business, that was all.
“Oh Maitimo,” the Enemy said, his voice as gentle as before, “will you not relent? Will you not allow me to show mercy?”
Against all reason, Maitimo felt the urge to laugh. “So you know the word,” he whispered. “I was wondering.”
There was a pause, and Maitimo wondered whether he had surprised the other. Apparently so.
“Is that it, then?” the Enemy finally asked. “You will still not serve me?”
“You know that by now,” Maitimo said, staring at the roughly hewn wall ahead. Speaking and staying conscious at the same time was enormously hard; he did not have the strength to move on top of it.
Moringotto paced, armour clinking. “Yes, I suppose I do. I admit that I hoped that you would be more reasonable, however. Your father would have been, you know. Look at this land: wastes and mires and rank forests, inhabited by wild beasts and wilder people. It needs ordering, it needs guidance, it needs teaching. All that I would give them, and I daresay that your father would have done nothing else. You at my side could continue his work. Yes, I think your father understood me better than you know.”
“If you say my father understood you,” said Maitimo, half-surprised how much mention of his father hurt, even now, “and I know he named you Moringotto, that should tell me enough. I don't think I should follow you.” He was childishly proud of this feat of logic. He knew that he would pay for this, but he was beyond caring. He was always paying for something anyway.
Moringotto stopped his pacing. “I truly had hoped that you would be more reasonable. I seem to have been mistaken. That is most unfortunate. But if you do not have the sense to save yourself, perhaps your brothers do?” He shook his head in mock-concern. “I suppose it is time to send a messenger...”

- - -
Maitimo had expected that the Orcs would renew their resolve to break him after that interview. Instead they tired of him for good. After a few more half-hearted weeks he was chained into a small bundle and left alone in a dark, bare chamber. The hours of respite turned into days, weeks, months. He lay, his muscles cramping, his tendons aching, his forehead pressed to the cold ground, alternating between consciousness and merciful oblivion for he knew not how long.

Part I, Chapter II

In which the Brothers Fëanorion receive Orcish messengers, and unpopular decisions are made.

Read Part I, Chapter II

Fog hung over Lake Mistaringë* like a soggy blanket. Although it wasn't raining, by the feel of the air it might as well have been. The stars were obscured from view, the forests hidden by the grey mist; lamps and torches were surrounded by soft coronas. Cloaks were little protection against the damp air: The wet crept everywhere.
Canafinwë Macalaurë, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, looked out over the ramparts into the foggy gloom. It was night - not by any virtue discernible to the eye, but simply by custom, because it was the time of rest and sleep in the camp. Only the guards were awake - and he. Sleep frequently eluded him ever since Maitimo's host had not returned from the parley with Moringotto. Mere days after Fëanáro's death, his heir was presumed dead as well, and all of a sudden crown and responsibility had come to Macalaurë, who had wanted neither. He had accepted quietly, as was expected of him. In truth, it was bearable - by day at least. It kept him busy, there always being some work or some administrative matter to deal with. He knew he had to be strong for the sake of his people and his brothers, and he was. But at night, unwatched, his composure crumbled.

He sat down with a sigh, cradling his harp. He was far enough from the longhouses not to wake any of the sleepers, but he couldn't think of anything to play, so his fingers just slid over the instrument, plucking strings at random, soft, plaintive notes hovering in the wet air. The harp was out of tune again, despite the cloths and the wooden box that were supposed to protect it when it was not being played. It was not unpacked often these days; the King had other duties, and the people had other things to worry about than entertainment.
Sitting more upright, Macalaurë began to tune the harp. It was good to have a purpose, he thought, even if it was as simple as returning harmony to an instrument. Or especially when it was so simple. There were far too few goals now that were easily achieved.

He had not come far when he noticed a light approaching. As it came nearer, he could see through the fog that it was carried by one of the guards. Sighing, he set the harp aside and rose. By the time the man reached him, he had recovered the mask of sober but determined leader that his people had come to rely on.
"My lord King?" The guard's brow was creased with a frown, and his eyes betrayed great unease; Macalaurë wondered what might trouble him in the middle of the night. "Vorondil. How can I help you?"
Vorondil shifted from foot to foot. "There… there is an envoy that demands to speak with you, my lord."
"An envoy?" Macalaurë was surprised and made no attempt to hide it. He couldn't imagine what kind of envoy might come to see him at this time. The wood-elves they had occasional dealings with observed the same rhythm of work and rest. In fact, the count of days and nights in the settlement of the Noldor had been modelled on theirs. Certainly they would not come in the middle of night-time unless there was a matter of great urgency.

"They say they are an envoy," Vorondil interrupted his chain of thoughts, "but truly they are Orcs, my lord."
"Orcs!" Macalaurë exclaimed. "Haven't we decided not to parley with Moringotto or his foul brood ever again?"
"Aye, my lord," said the other, studying the floorboards of the ramparts intently.
"Then why have they not been shot already?" His voice was sharp now, although he kept it low so others would not be woken by their discussion. There was too much grief bound to the last time they had dealt with an envoy of Orcs.
"We meant to, lord, but…" Vorondil swallowed, shifted his weight again. "They said they had news of your brother."
Macalaurë reached out to the log wall to steady himself. Hope and dread both welled up in his heart as he stared at Vorondil, who looked back anxiously, biting his lip.
"They showed us this."
He held up a strand of hair. It was knotted and soiled with dirt and blackened blood, but even through the fog, in the weak light of the lamp, Macalaurë could see that it was red.

- - -

"We cannot accept this," Curufinwë said, pacing agitatedly. He had not even bothered to sit down at the council table where his brothers had assembled in haste. Macalaurë watched him walk to and fro, frowning; it was hard enough to contain his own anxiety without Curvo adding to it.
"This is not an offer, it's a trap," Curufinwë continued, slamming his fist against the wall. Ambarussa winced. "But we cannot leave Nelyo there!" he protested. "I cannot believe we even have to discuss this!"

Macalaurë held his hand up to calm (or at any rate silence) him. "We do not. I'm afraid I already know what our course must be. But nonetheless I would hear your opinions."
"Too kind," quipped Tyelkormo and earned a stern glance. "At any rate, Ambarussa, nobody said we would leave him there. But I certainly agree that we cannot make a deal with Moringotto."
Curufinwë nodded in agreement, leaning over the table where his youngest brother sat. "We have seen often enough how he honours his promises. They are no firmer than the air they're uttered to."

Macalaurë nodded. Outwardly he managed to maintain an air of calm, but his hands were gripping the table so tightly that his knuckles stood out, the skin white. He knew that his brothers would likely notice, that they wouldn't fall for his carefully studied composure – so much like Nelyo! – but it had become a habit by now, a way of helping him master the crises they'd had to deal with. This definitely was one.
"What do you suggest then?" asked Ambarussa defiantly.
"Why, brother," said Tyelkormo, "I should think it is obvious. We cannot strike a deal with Moringotto, and we cannot leave Nelyo in his power; they'll torture him…"
"They already have," Carnistir spoke up in a distant voice. He had remained silent so far, betraying no emotion at the news; but the brothers had grown used to his silences, and had given up pressing him for counsel long ago. Now he raised his head. Macalaurë looked at him sharply. "If you have information inaccessible to us, Carnistir, you had best share it." But the darkest of his brothers did not speak again, only stared fixedly at the lock of red hair that had been placed on the table as if to speak for their absent brother.
Silence fell. Curufinwë slumped into his chair at last.
"It is a reasonable assumption, I suppose," he said, looking down at the table, fingers tracing the patterns in the polished wood. "He has been missing for nigh five years as we count them. It is not likely that he has been unharmed in all this time." There was another uncomfortable silence. The council room was brightly lit, the lamplight reflecting on the white plaster of the walls, yet it felt as though the fog and the darkness from outside had somehow crept in to smother the light.

Eventually, Tyelkormo broke the silence. "To my point, however…"
Macalaurë forced himself to give him a brief smile. "Yes. Please go on?"
"We can, as I said, neither fulfil Moringotto's demands nor leave Nelyo in his power. It is obvious therefore that we must fight."
Curufinwë nodded his agreement.

"We are too few," Macalaurë said in the tone of one who had considered this option but had been forced to reject it. "We have tried to fight our way into Angamando when we were of greater strength, and failed then..."
"But surely you cannot mean to leave him!" said Curufinwë, rising from his seat again. "I don't believe it!"
Macalaurë closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found that his brothers were staring at him. He sighed. "No. I do not mean to leave him." He saw the others relax and felt all the worse for what he knew he had to tell them. "And if any of you have a realistic idea about what we can do, I'll be more than happy to see it through."
"We are not too few if the Moriquendi march with us," Tyelkormo suggested at once, tapping the armrest of his chair excitedly, his mind already at battle.
Macalaurë grimaced, but to his surprise Curufinwë was speaking before he could muster a reply. "Perhaps not. But what would the Moriquendi care about our brother?"
Tyelkormo's eyes widened and Ambarussa gave a small shocked cry, but Curufinwë cut their protest short with a wave of his hand. "No, think about it. I, too, wish to see Nelyo free. But why should they? You know as well as I that many of their own people have been captured by Moringotto: Yet they have never gathered and tried to free any of them. They have no army, hardly any weapons beyond what is needed for hunting. They have survived here by avoiding war with Moringotto. Why should they do otherwise now, for the sake of one who means nothing to them?"
"He doesn't mean nothing to us!" shouted Ambarussa, rising from his chair. "We have to save him!"

"And do you truly think, littlest brother," retorted Curufinwë, getting into his stride, "that Moringotto would sit and wait while we attack? Do you truly think he would not seek to hurt us in any way he can? Even if we were to break the gates of Angamando and march in, do you think we would find Nelyo alive in the end? Nay, by attacking we should likely harm Nelyo more than by waiting. Not to mention that we'd likely kill all our host if we attacked now. I hate it, brother, as you do – and rightly so – yet I am afraid Macalaurë is right after all."
Tyelkormo leaned back, disbelief written all over his face. Ambarussa was on the verge of tears, his eyes shining with anger and hurt. Macalaurë rested his forehead in his hand, wearily. "Thank you, Curvo," he said softly. "That is indeed the conclusion I have come to. We can do nothing but wait. Everything else would make things worse: For us, for our people, even for Nelyo."
"But we will have to fight Moringotto eventually," Tyelkormo snapped at him, "and if not for Nelyo, then for the Silmarils." Macalaurë had secretly wondered when their father's jewels would first be brought up; he was surprised it had taken so long. "I am not sure whether you remember, but we have sworn an oath," Tyelkormo continued, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. "We can postpone harming Nelyo by attacking, but we cannot put it off forever. This is useless."
Macalaurë raised his eyebrows, and when he replied, his voice had a hard edge to it. "Perhaps, Tyelko. But we have not sworn to attack senselessly against better judgement, while we have no chance of winning. We must regain our strength, and make strong allies if we can, and when we strike, we must strike hard and swift. If we're lucky, we may win both the Silmarils and Nelyo. But if we strike now, we cannot win anything. We would only throw away our lives, and every chance to fulfil our oath. We cannot attack now."

"Then we must accept Moringotto's terms," Ambarussa said dejectedly, his voice thick with tears. "We can't give Nelyo up. Not now that we know he's alive!"
"We can do nothing else," said Macalaurë, eyes dark and voice heavy. "It is terrible, Ambarussa, I know, and I wish it were otherwise, but we can do nothing else. We cannot do what Moringotto demands; going back is impossible for us…"
"Then we must go to the south," Ambarussa said between gritted teeth. "No, don't interrupt me, I know as well as you do what we have sworn. I did not say that we had to leave for forever. We could go, and when we have Nelyo again and an army to match Moringotto's, we can return; what could he do against it?"

The others exchanged meaningful glances. "But if even you, Ambarussa, Prince of the Noldor, child of the Blessed Realm, have no intent of honouring these terms, do you believe Moringotto would be more faithful?" asked Macalaurë. "I believe he wouldn't release Nelyo whatever we do. Remember how we lost him in the first place!"
"And Nelyo would not want us to do that," Carnistir added softly. Curufinwë raised an eyebrow but refrained from making a scornful comment, a certain sign that he was very distressed indeed.
Ambarussa sat back down, burying his face in his hands. Nobody found any words to console him.
After a while, Macalaurë rose. His head was bowed as though a great weight lay upon his shoulders. "It is decided then. I will tell them."
"You condemn him to torment!"
"I know," Macalaurë said, resting a trembling hand on Ambarussa's shoulder. "I know." He looked at each of his brothers in turn, then at the brilliant colours of their father's banner on the narrow side of the council room as if expecting encouragement from them. Then he shook his head.
"Nelyo is stronger than all of us together. He'll make it."
It sounded unconvincing even to himself.

---

Chapter End Notes

*We are not given an official Quenya translation for Mithrim (the lake, as opposed to the people), and I thought it would be unfitting to use the name of the people. "Lake Sindar" just sounds absurd. So I cooked something up.
An alternative translation for "Mithrim" as a geographical feature would be "grey lake" (or "foggy lake"), which sounds much more reasonable. I decided for mista rather than sindë so the Quenya name would be an immediate equivalent of "Mithrim", with the added bonus that mistë means "fog, mist" on top of "grey".
Later on I remembered that there are a lot of instances of „Lake + [name of local people]“ in the real world (TM), so it wouldn't have been so absurd after all.
But I still like “Lake Mistaringë” better than “Lake Sindar”.

Part I, Chapter III*

In which Maedhros involuntarily discovers the concept of cliffhanger. *Warning for continued torture.

Read Part I, Chapter III*

Maitimo had no strength or resolve left when they came back to him. Time had stretched shapelessly, filled with pain and darkness, the former increasing and the latter staying reliably the same, although there were spots of light dancing before his eyes whenever he tried to move. He had given up on that long ago, however, crouched in the darkness, waiting – for how long he could not tell. It felt like eternity. And it did not stop. It was absurd, but he could not deny that he was still drawing breath, even when all his reason told him that he should have died long ago. Even that road to freedom, it seemed, was blocked.
Then finally the Orcs returned and a wild flash of hope seared through his throbbing head. Maybe they would kill him at last. Maybe he would have a chance of fighting his way free after all. Maybe they would torment him again: Even that would be better than this black nothingness.

They unchained him and kicked him in the ribs and told him to get up. He couldn't. After having been confined to a single position for so long, his muscles refused to wake from their stasis, and when he tried to rise, the sudden agony was well-nigh unbearable; it felt as though strong, cruel hands had taken hold of his limbs, stretching and twisting them beyond the point of tearing. A pained gasp escaped him; it was all he could do to stifle a howl. The Orcs laughed and kicked him again, and he tried again to move even a little, but all he managed was to fall over. There he remained, teeth dug into his lower lip to keep from crying as his body protested fiercely against the unfamiliar use.

Since he could not move on his own, they took him by his wrists and ankles and dragged him through the endless corridors while he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to make no sound. Finally he was dropped to the floor. Brightness approached, and the Orcs scurried away: not far, but far enough to keep away from the centre of the light. Maitimo forced himself to raise his head - even that minute movement was draining – and saw Moringotto towering before him, all black polished iron, a grim sneer on his face. In his crown the Silmarils still sparkled, bright and cold. Their light fell on Maitimo as he lay there, and he felt some of his pride and will rekindled. Ignoring the agony of his abused body, he slowly got to his feet. His breathing quickened, and he trembled and swayed from the effort, his head spinning, but as long as he kept his eyes on the jewels he felt he could endure it.

"Not bad," said Moringotto, baring his teeth in a grin, "not bad at all. You're a strong one, sweet Maitimo."
Maitimo meant to laugh, but what came was a dry, raspy sound like the grating of metal on stone. He had seen enough of himself while rising: the sores and bruises where the chains had been; the old cuts and welts and burns from his earlier torments that had begun healing but badly with so little nourishment and so many injuries; the awkward angle in his left foot where the bones had healed crookedly; the thinness that made his skin look drawn onto too large a frame – and it was plain that his mother-name was ridiculous now. He did not try to asses the damage again lest his courage leave him; it was safer to look at the Silmarils in their unchanged beauty.

"Such a waste, really," Moringotto went on. "Your brothers do not want you back."
"Good," Maitimo spat with as much force as he could muster. He had intended to say more, but he found that his voice was strangely unreceptive to his wishes and threatened to betray him; 'good' would have to do.

"Is it really, little Maitimo?" Moringotto asked, cupping the elf's chin with his hand – the right one, burnt black at the theft of the Jewels – and Maitimo felt his skin go icy and his body numb with the harsh cold. "Is it? For now I shall never release you, and you will stay in my power while the world lasts."

But the good thing about the numbness was that it also took away the pain, and Maitimo could think clearly for a moment, and felt that, if only for this second, he was perfectly empty of either hope or fear; and he snarled through his teeth, almost triumphant, "While you last, at the most, and you will be brought down soon enough. But I shall die sooner, I daresay, and be free even before you fall, for surely my body will not last much longer."

Moringotto let go of him, and he collapsed. To his surprise, the lord of Angamando appeared to be amused rather than angered; he was laughing again, teeth glinting in the light of the Silmarils in his crown.
"How little you know for a Noldo," he said. "Indeed your body wouldn't have lasted until now, if I had not made it last." He bent down and pulled Maitimo up by his throat. First the elf struggled; then he stopped in the hope of Moringotto strangling him. He had no such luck. "You will not die of hunger nor thirst nor your wounds, though you can feel all three," the Enemy explained, eyes gleaming maliciously. "That would be too easy a way out." He let go again, and Maitimo stumbled as he tried to remain upright. Moringotto took a few paces away, and the elf thought that the conversation was over; but then the fallen Vala turned back to him, and the light in his eyes was terrible.
"I offer you this: Swear me allegiance and your pain will be at an end. I could use another steward, one who knows the counsels of the Eldar, and you have proven to be quite strong… You would be healed, and honoured well. Think about it. Surely you no longer owe anything to your brothers, who left you to this! What is your answer? Will you serve me?"
"Never," hissed Maitimo, clenching his fists.
"Are you so certain? Do you not hurt? Do you not know that I can always hurt you more? I could hang you high upon a mountain, a trophy and a warning to all who think of defying me... Come now, be honest to yourself! Are you not angry with your brothers? They know full well that they leave you to suffer. "
"I am proud of them," Maitimo managed, though he couldn't help but feel thoroughly miserable.
Moringotto shook his head in a mockery of sadness. "I thought you would say no," he said. "Such a waste."

- - -

After an age of being bundled up, it was not too unpleasant at first to hang like this, capable of stretching cramped limbs and of breathing free air instead of the stuffy, used air - always carrying the smell of iron or blood - that he had perforce grown used to. He could make out the stars overhead, and, once his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he could also see the wide lands about him, mountains and rocks at first, hills and meadows beyond them, and far away a glint of water, all robbed of their colour and tinted in greys and blues, giving him an illusion of peace. It was almost like freedom.

If only there hadn't been the growing strain on his right shoulder. It increased by the minute, sending jolts of pain through his already hurting body with every beat of his heart; breathing grew harder and harder. He struggled to reach the gyve around his wrist with the fingers of his now-free left hand, tried to pull out of the band of hard steel that had once been part of his armour, but even now that he had grown so painfully thin the band bit into his arm relentlessly, and all he achieved was to tear his skin open. Blood ran down his arm and then his side, sticky and warm, to drip into the darkness below. He kept his left hand on the shackle, pulling himself up to take the weight off his aching shoulder, and that eased the pain for a brief while; but soon his arms grew tired, and his fingers slipped on the blood-smeared steel, and he fell for his arm's length before the cruel band of steel caught his weight. He could feel the joint in his right shoulder give way. He screamed then, helpless in his agony. The mountain walls took up his scream and multiplied it as he hung, drained and sobbing, on the face of the sheer wall.

Even breathing became an ordeal, yet when he tried to stop, he found that he couldn't. All attempts to hold his breath and die only resulted in more pain to his stretched-out rib cage when his body forced him to draw breath after all. Sometimes there was rain, and strangely it made breathing easier, just as it helped to slake the thirst that was tormenting him. But even that was a mixed blessing, for more often than not the rain was accompanied by storms, and he was shaken like a leaf by the winds, thrown against the rock, scraping his barely-healed skin open against the rough stone. There was hail, and he prayed that it would strike him dead, and there was lightning, and he prayed that it would hit and burn him, but they seemed to be in league with Moringotto, for though they added to Maitimo's pain, they never killed him. There were winds icy and searing hot, and long droughts that left him delirious with thirst.
And then there was light.

Silvery and calm it shone over the peeks of the mountains and lay upon the far hills and lake. It shone through Maitimo's closed eyelids and tore him from furtive sleep (for after a while, he grew so exhausted that even through his pain sleep claimed him). Opening his eyes with some difficulty, he stared up at the new lamp in the sky. He knew that light, he thought; how often had he come home after a day's adventures in the silvery sheen of Telperion, ages ago, in his other life! He wondered faintly whether he was imagining this, but discarded the thought, reasoning that if he were imagining things he would certainly imagine himself in a kinder place. He looked around. In the brighter light, the shadows deepened, and the mountains around him looked crueller and more forbidding than ever. For the first time since he had been brought here he could see the ground of the sheer wall he was dangling from clearly, a ravine of rocks and ashes. It was terribly far below him, and he looked up again quickly, his senses reeling. Yet he could not help feeling that this light was a promise, though of what he had no idea. It had to be good. It had to mean something.
To his surprise, he realised that he was smiling.

If he took the appearance of the moon as a sign of hope, the fiery light that joined it some time later filled him with dread. Oh, at first he cherished the new light, fierce and hot, bathing the land in golden light. He was astonished by the multitude of colours that now appeared, delighted by the far-off birdsong and soothed by the warmth on his torn body; but when the light grew higher, it blinded him, and the black rock from which he hung grew scalding hot. His thirst grew ever more unbearable. He felt as though he were hung in a furnace. His head lolled back against the stone, and his eyes fell shut; memories appeared unbidden of his father working in the forge, explaining to him how to melt ores. Dazed by the intense heat, he drifted into illusions.

He was torn from his reveries by a sound like horns and trumpets far below, and by the sound of distant voices raised in challenge. Shaking his head weakly to clear his senses, he realised what this must mean: an army, a battle; a chance maybe to be saved from this living death. "I am here!" he shouted, or tried to; but it resulted in a cough; clenching his eyes shut, he willed his dry throat and swollen tongue to produce sound: "Here!" he repeated. His voice sounded rusty and raw. The mountains echoed with his scream so that he could hardly hear the horns below, but nothing else happened; and then the voices and trumpets and marching feet grew softer and disappeared before the echoes had subsided. He could see the army now, heading away to the South. A mighty host. Blue banners.
He wondered whether it was another illusion. Perhaps he was losing his mind.

The bright light passed over the land and back again, burning down relentlessly. There was something shrill to the birdsong by now. Maitimo's skin felt burned, raw; he kept his eyes shut for fear that they would shrivel and dry in his head. The insides of his eyelids were red and orange like fire. He remembered a game that had amused him as a child, facing the Trees with his eyes closed, then turning around and opening the eyes to a landscape all tinted in green, even the sky and the mountains and people's skin. Surely enough, when he opened his eyes now, he saw everything around him in dazzling greens. Green, he remembered, hearing his mother's voice, was the opposite of red, so it was what his eyes showed him when they were tired of too much red.
With a kind of detached exhilaration he decided that he couldn't be insane yet if he could remember his lessons in lore.

Time seemed to stand still in the pitiless heat. He was aware at some point of the earth and the rock trembling beneath him, of distant shouts and the ringing of metal. There was a battle in the sky, although through his half-lidded eyes he could not tell what exactly was happening. There were flashes of brilliant light and stretches of deep darkness, but in the end the light persevered, even brighter and fiercer than before.
His skin felt as though he had been bedded on glowing embers (he remembered perfectly well what that felt like from his earlier torments.) He was trembling despite the heat. When a cloud of bitter dust and smoke arose, wrapping around the mountaintops and blocking out the intense glare, he was downright grateful.

Finally the dust-hazed light gave way to gentle darkness. The air cooled, and his dazed mind could clear a little. He stared up at the sliver of moonlight that occasionally broke through the clouds and tried to distract himself from the burning of his blistered hide and the all-overwhelming agony in his right arm and shoulder. He found it almost impossible to focus; forcing himself to recite poems and pieces of lore to himself – the ordering of nature, the names and provinces of the Valar, the history of the Eldar, the three ways of working steel – he was frequently torn out of his concentration as he couldn't push away the pain any longer, his muscles and nerves screaming in anguish.
The lights settled into a pattern of brighter and dimmer hours, and he tried to count the passing time by their change, but he soon lost count. He frequently lost consciousness now and did not know how much time passed in the stretch spent in oblivion or in restless dreams of his family, his life, only to wake again to the still-growing agony. All hopes of rescue had left him; after being tormented but never killed by seasons of extreme drought or bitter frost or cruel storms, he gave up hope of death as well. Yet his life was over; there was nothing he could do but stare at the bleak mountain walls, or watch his many wounds scab over slowly and badly only to be replaced by new sores and welts, watch his hair grow longer than it had ever been only to be knotted and tangled by the winds. Trapped in body and in spirit by physical pain and recurring memories, he considered himself dead to all intents and purposes, hoping that the certainty would make him indifferent to his pains. Yet it did not make the enduring any easier as the endless years of torment crawled by.

---

Chapter End Notes

The length of Maedhros' imprisonment is a perpetual source of discussion, I know, and with "canon" being as vague as it is, I've pretty much heard every option between "20+ years" (supported by the timelines) and "around two weeks", supported by the fact that Maedhros wouldn't still have been alive after a longer time. Personally I don't think the latter point relevant. If Morgoth could make Húrin sit in a chair and watch everything that happened to his family for most of his life without dying or losing the ability to walk, talk or think afterwards, I think we can safely assume that Morgoth could perform a similar trick on Maedhros. It's doubtlessly a cruel trick, but since when is Morgoth averse to cruelty?
So I think we're looking at several years here - my personal count is five years for the events of Chapter One, and seven for the events of this chapter. Of course you are free to disregard that if you prefer a different timeframe.

Part I, Chapter IV

In which the host of Fingolfin enters the scene, and in which Fingon serves as a herald.

Read Part I, Chapter IV

These were the days of wonders, Macalaurë thought. First there had been the arrival of sun and moon, the end of perpetual darkness. Then there had been the awakening of life to a spring of so many flowers and colours that many professed never to have seen such beauty (although there had been springs like this and more beautiful in Aman - but that had been long ago, and pain lay in between). There would be a true harvest this year, a welcome change to their diet that had, so far, consisted mostly of fish and meat and such plants as thrived in the darkness.
And now their encampment had received an addition.

They had stared as the host of Nolofinwë had arrived, disbelieving and intrigued, and (most of them) not just a little ashamed. It was obvious that the Nolofinwëans had suffered, and their host was decimated in size; yet, unbelievably, they were there. Cold looks and few words had been exchanged when the new arrivals had taken up camp right next to the Fëanorian settlement. Macalaurë longed to speak with his uncle and cousins; but he did not know how to begin it, and, afraid to provoke the others by any deed, he did nothing and waited. Nolofinwë and his sons, and Findaráto who was leading the host of Arafinwë now (Macalaurë had been relieved when he received the intelligence that their youngest uncle had returned to Tirion, not died on the road as he had at first feared), showed no interest in dealing with their treacherous kin, and thus there was no contact for the time being between the leaders of either faction.

There was no talk between the two camps, but there was plenty within them. On the Fëanorian side, there was surprise, even delight to see that those abandoned had followed them after all. There were wild speculations about how they might have gone about it – had they built new ships? had Ulmo uprooted an island again to ferry them over, now that those who had insulted the Valar were no longer among them? – and how their coming might be related to the new lights. Then two healers who had asked leave to go and see whether they might help the ill or wounded in the other camp, and who had grudgingly been admitted among the host of Nolofinwë, brought the news that the Helcaraxë had been crossed.
This intelligence was greeted with doubt if not downright disbelief at first. But the injuries matched their tale, the healers said. Turukáno's wife had been lost, and Arakáno son of Nolofinwë had perished, and many others, especially the younger folk. Yet all in all, those that were still alive were in surprisingly good health, if worn-out and malnourished.

Macalaurë did not know how much about the events that had befallen since the ship-burning the healers had in turn told in the other camp, and he did not ask. He and his brothers took the news each in his own way. Macalaurë was saddened by the tales of losses and deeply moved by the loyalty of Nolofinwë that had brought him over the Ice. "Pride, more like," judged Curufinwë, "and stubbornness. He just couldn't bear to be left behind." He maintained that the hardships that had been suffered in the crossing of the Helcaraxë were none of their responsibility, as Nolofinwë could just as well have returned to Valinor. Tyelkormo agreed almost too eagerly. It was Carnistir who pointed out that since Nolofinwë had made a promise to their father he could, in fact, not have turned back, but Curufinwë brushed this inconvenient consideration aside. "He wouldn't have followed us for any promise if he hadn't wanted to. He'd probably laugh at us for believing the Ice uncrossable, if we were on speaking terms."
Macalaurë sternly forbade such talk lest rumours of it reach the other host and complicate matters further. But naturally that only meant that these things were no longer mentioned in his hearing but happily discussed in private. Curufinwë's interpretation of things was welcome enough for many, as it took away the blame and prime responsibility from them and placed both on Nolofinwë's shoulders.

As a matter of fact, the healers had not been asked many questions about how the Fëanorians had fared, and they hadn't told much of their own accord, being busy with their work and their own questions. Thus the host of Nolofinwë knew nothing about the other side but vague rumours and guesswork. Curufinwë's accusations, of course, were known to them in full after a few arguments between two guards of either side. Hearing no other voices, they took it to be the opinion of all.
After that, the healers were no longer welcome, and the only contact between the two factions was the occasional quarrel that often turned violent before it could be broken up.

"We will abandon camp," Macalaurë announced when the hostility between the factions threatened to turn into open warfare. "We'll make our way to the opposite shore of the lake. That way, I hope there will be less encounters that end in a battle." He cast a meaningful glance at one of the pages; the young man by the name of Orecalo had accused two of Nolofinwë's men of stealing supplies. They had not liked the reproach, and a fist-fight had erupted until knives were drawn. Several guards had been needed to pull the fighters apart. It hadn't been the only incident of that kind lately, but it was the most recent one, and unlike the others, it had been at blade-point.
The page, sporting a purple bruise on one cheek and a thin cut on his forehead, looked away embarrassedly but said nothing.
"You cannot be serious," Curufinwë protested, jumping to his feet.
"I can," replied Macalaurë, "and I am. Firstly, we are less than they are – " Angry murmurs arose all around, stating that on the other hand they were stronger, and surely they would not bow to numbers, and the like.
Macalaurë raised his hand, forbidding further protest. "We are less than they are, and we cannot have open war with our own cousins. We will need them as allies if we want any hope of succeeding. This is a chance – if we manage to heal this rift. So we will give way. It is spring, and bright; it will be easy to begin a new settlement. A better one, even," he added with a look at his more impetuous brothers. "After all, we have no idea whether this really is the best place for a camp. We simply arrived and stayed. We should have looked about much sooner. And the time now is ideal. It is mild enough to sleep outside till we have built houses, and still early enough in the year to give us the time and freedom we need. Later there would be crops to worry about; now everything is unwritten."
"You make it sound like you're doing us a favour," Curufinwë growled.
"I hope I am," Macalaurë replied. "We will leave within the week." He leaned back and gave the signal for the plates to be brought and the meal to begin, declaring his decision final.

"Sometimes you're quite tyrannic," Tyelkormo pointed out to him later when they were standing on the ramparts, looking out over the lake towards the banks that were to become their new home.
"Not really," Macalaurë said softly. "But I must try to be. You and the others can doubt all you want - that is your prerogative. But as I am the King, I must appear certain in what I do, or nobody will follow me. I mustn't permit myself to doubt, and thus I must prevent you from making me doubt. Otherwise, I would crumble."
"I doubt you'd crumble that easily."
The shadow of a smile slid over Macalaurë's face.
"Then I suppose I'm acting my part well."

- - -

Despite the grumblings and misgivings, when they had actually left the camp and trekked half-way around the lake, the mood among the Fëanorians lifted. There had been a feeling of stagnation about them of late, days passing in inaction (that is, filled only with everyday business with nothing more unusual than, perhaps, somebody falling off a horse or a particularly large fish to be caught or a petty squabble) and without excitement. Now there was new work in abundance, and once they had decided on a place, they set out to get it done. In the blossoming spring, it wasn't unpleasant to sleep in make-shift tents or under the stars while the camp was being fortified. They knew now where to find stones and clay and ores, or sand for making glass, or elm trees for lean but strong pillars. They'd had time to familiarise themselves with the surroundings, and they had learned how best to arrange the buildings in a fortified settlement. Fields were prepared, and foraging troops brought dozens of young seedlings for cultivation. Cattle and sheep were kept on fenced pastures, and as spring drew on, the fledglings of wild chicken or fowl were taken to the camp to be brought up there and provide eggs or meat and feathers. All the while, the building progressed, and the hammer-falls from Curufinwë's new forge where he laboured with his son and the other smiths rang almost without cease.

Then one day, just after summer had begun, Macalaurë woke up to find Findekáno waiting before his tent. In his surprise and still drowsy from sleep, he forgot his usual caution and wrapped his cousin in a tight embrace. Findekáno did not move, but Macalaurë could feel his muscles tense in repulsion. He stepped back quickly, saying, "Findekáno! It is good to see you."
The other folded his arms across his chest. "Is it, now?" He was wearing very simple clothing, Macalaurë noted: a light tunic with cut-off sleeves, with breeches and simple bracelets of leather. He was quite obviously not trying to impress anyone. The belt around his waist made plain how thin he had grown. A sheath for a dagger hung from the belt, but the weapon itself was nowhere to be seen; Macalaurë assumed that it was with the guards.

With a sigh, he said, "It is. But as it seems you haven't come for pleasantries, what brought you here?"
"I have some words from my father the King –" he stressed the last word, challenging Macalaurë to contradict him – "and also I intended to speak to a former friend."
"I see", said Macalaurë, a shadow passing over his face.
"I bet you do," retorted Findekáno. "So where is your father?"
Macalaurë winced visibly, and it took him a while to answer. "He is dead," he said eventually, forcing himself to look the other in the eye. "He was slain shortly after we arrived here."
"Oh," said Findekáno. His voice remained cold although Macalaurë believed that he saw his cousin's eyes soften. "And your brothers?"
Macalaurë took a deep breath, telling himself that Findekáno was not doing this on purpose. "Tyelko's out on a hunting expedition, as is Ambarussa. Curufinwë is busy in the forge, I believe. Carnistir is probably still asleep, or in bed, at any rate."
"You forgot Russandol," Findekáno noted, his nonchalance betrayed by a trace of anxiety in his voice.
Macalaurë closed his eyes briefly, chewed his lip, looked away, no longer capable of meeting the other's eyes. Finally, he carefully asked, "You have not had much news about us, have you?"

Findekáno still remained hostile; only his widened eyes betrayed his growing alarm.
"No. We had our own problems to deal with without bothering to catch up on traitors. What of Russandol?"
Macalaurë hung his head. It was a kind of unwritten law that their brother would not be mentioned, although he was always thought of. The grief and fear were better kept inside than voiced, everybody seemed to agree. It was easier to bear that way.
Now Macalaurë found it hard to speak of Nelyo at all, especially to one who had no idea what his innocent question meant to him. But the stormy look in Findekáno's eyes told him that there was no talking around the painful topic. He released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, took another deep breath, finally said, "He was captured by Moringotto, twelve years ago."

Findekáno's composure crumpled then; his hands fell to his side, powerless. "Tell me that is not true!" he demanded. The coolness had left his voice entirely, making way for pain.
Macalaurë could feel his eyes well up. "I wish I could."
"Is he dead then?" Findekáno asked, and his voice was trembling slightly.
"If he is lucky." Macalaurë looked away so his cousin would not see his tears. But by the sharp intake of breath he knew that the news grieved Findekáno as well.
"You mean he might still be alive?" Nolofinwë's eldest asked when he had regained control over his voice.
"He might be," Macalaurë said carefully. "We have heard nothing to the contrary." He reached out and touched Findekáno's shoulder sympathetically. "I am sorry. I know you were friends."
Findekáno looked up, his eyes dark. "A long time ago. Still…" He shook his head. Then his brow creased. "When did you last try to free him?"

Macalaurë closed his eyes desolately. "Never. There was nothing we could do."
Staring at him in disbelief, Findekáno shrugged his cousin's hand off his shoulder. "You can't mean that. Surely you sent an army, or scouts at least!"
"There was no point, Findekáno. We were too few; we still are. Even united with your host, as I hope we shall be one day –" Findekáno clenched his fists angrily at these words, scowling, though he said nothing – "we might hardly hope to have strength enough. As it was… everything we could have tried would have endangered our lives, our quest, and not least of all Nelyo. I know it is horrible, but there was nothing we could have done." He reached out again.
Findekáno slapped his hand aside furiously. "I cannot believe this. Abandoning us was bad enough, but abandoning your own brother in the Enemy's hands, that is disgusting beyond thought! You are heartless! Surely even your father would have sacrificed all to free Russandol!"
"Sacrificed many other lives for the vague hope of saving one? Possibly," said Macalaurë, growing impatient. "But I am not my father. I don't know what he would have done. I do know what I had to decide, and I did not do it easily, but it was the only decision I could make."
"I cannot believe it," Findekáno repeated through gritted teeth. Even while listening he had just barely contained his anger; now he let it break free as he hissed, "You're abominable, Macalaurë, and I regret to be of your kin, truly I do." He spat at Macalaurë's feet, then turned and marched away briskly. Macalaurë found himself running after him.
"Findekáno, you do not understand. Anything we could have done…"
Findekáno stopped and turned to face him so abruptly that they almost collided. "I do not want to understand such treachery. I would have done anything if it were my brother. Anything. Leave me alone; I will not have anything to do with you." He resumed his march to the wall-gate, Macalaurë helplessly tagging behind.
"My dagger, if you please," Findekáno snapped at the guard as he had reached the camp's end.
The guard shot a questioning glance at Macalaurë, who nodded resignedly, then returned Findekáno's dagger to its owner. As his cousin sheathed it, Macalaurë could see that the blade was notched and dulled. Findekáno managed a nod for the guard. Then he stepped out of the camp and hurried away without looking at Macalaurë again.

"That did not go well," Carnistir said. Macalaurë jumped; he hadn’t noticed that his brother had joined him.
"No," he said, restoring his composure with some difficulty, "it didn't." He felt tears on his cheeks and wiped them away almost angrily.
"You were right, you know," Carnistir whispered with a glance at the guard, who tried very hard to pretend that he wasn't actually present. "He does not understand."
"Nobody should have to understand," Macalaurë said, trying a shaky smile for his brother's sake. But Carnistir wasn't looking at him anymore; he was watching the retreating figure of Findekáno. Macalaurë did likewise. Their cousin walked, almost ran, at an unsteady pace, doubtlessly overcome by emotion.
Finally, Macalaurë shook his head.
"There is no hope in Eä that our family can ever be reunited."

Part I, Chapter V

In which Fingolfin's household is updated on recent developments.

Read Part I, Chapter V

Though none of them would have admitted it, Findekáno's father and siblings were awaiting his return eagerly, curious to hear the news he would bring from their hated kin's encampment. Thus, when he reached the settlement and had washed off the dust and the tears of the march, he was swiftly provided with a refreshing drink and dragged to the chamber that now as under its former lords functioned as council room.
Fortunately for Findekáno, he'd had time enough on the long way back around the lake to vent his grief and anger and to regain his equilibrium, at least outwardly. By the onset of dusk he reached the settlement, feeling empty but calmer. He wondered how his father would take the news, and whether Turukáno would take any solace from hearing that there had been grievous losses on the other side also.
Likely not.

Now, taking a sip from the cup set before him, he found himself watched by eight pairs of expectant eyes. His family was trying to appear nonchalant and disinterested. Only Findaráto was able to admit his curiosity, leaning forward with his head tilted and his brow creased, staring at Findekáno expectantly.
For a split second, Findekáno was tempted to keep them curious a while longer, feigning exhaustion to escape them for today. But the mischievous thought disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Already his father asked, in a voice so even that Findekáno knew it must be contrived, "Well, what news?"
"Several. Where should I begin?" he replied, buying time, taking another sip of his tea. It was fir-needles infused in boiling water; the healers insisted that this was what they needed after the hardships and want of the journey. It didn't smell bad but tasted bitter, but as it had indeed helped with the journey-sickness some of them had suffered from, it was kept on the menu.
Nolofinwë tapped his fingertips on the polished wood of the table, one of the few pieces of furniture that had been left behind by the Fëanorians. Findekáno almost smiled. His father was showing nerves after all.
His half-smile disappeared quickly when Nolofinwë answered. "Begin with his reply to my message, then."
Findekáno bit his lip and bowed his head apologetically. "I'm afraid I forgot about that when I spoke to Macalaurë. I was too distraught by his news."
"What news then? And why did you speak only to Macalaurë?"
As always, Findekáno thought with a grimace, his father saw the weak points immediately and knew where to prod. Bracing himself, he answered, "I spoke to Macalaurë because he is their leader now."

Now it was Aikanáro who could no longer hide his impatience. "Speak plainer, cousin; it is late, and we do not care to guess riddles tonight."
Findekáno looked at him, sighing. "As you wish. Although I am sure you could guess soon enough under what circumstances Macalaurë would be head of the House of Fëanáro. They are such: Fëanáro was slain, and Maitimo was taken prisoner by Moringotto." He paused to see the effect his words had on the others. There was the one or other gasp of shock and surprise; Turukáno ground his teeth unconsciously, a hard glint in his grief-dulled eyes; Irissë held a hand before her lips to hold back a shout of astonishment or pity; Findaráto was speaking to Angaráto and Artanis in a hushed voice. Nolofinwë had gone pale. Only Aikanáro sat unmoving - but his hands clutched the armrests of his chair, showing that he, too, was stirred by the news.

"Are you certain?" Nolofinwë asked, his voice somewhat strained. "Or are these just rumours you picked up from some servant?"
"I was there, Father," Findekáno replied, trying hard not to let his annoyance show, "and I heard it from Macalaurë himself. Come to think of it, he said something about 'Ambarussa is', which implies one rather than two. I should have enquired, I suppose. But I was too upset. And now I shall never speak with him again."
"Why not?" Nolofinwë asked sharply. "Did he insult you?"
"I am insulted by being his kin," Findekáno said, his voice rather louder than necessary. "But you'll never guess. Russandol has been taken captive twelve years ago, and Macalaurë admits he might still be alive, yet he – or his brothers – have never done a thing to save him!"

Aikanáro slammed his fist onto the table, and Turukáno let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. "So not only did they betray us, but even their own brother! I wouldn't have thought they'd sink so low."
"Macalaurë claimed that they were too few," Findekáno said, bitter but reassured by his brother's support and Aikanáro's anger. "They never even tried."
Turukáno shook his head in disbelief, and the others looked equally unbelieving and dismayed. But when Findekáno turned to his father, he saw that Nolofinwë had remained calm, and although his expression was pained, he did not look the least bit shocked.
"What should he have done in your opinion? Led an army against Moringotto for his brother's sake, at a time unadvisable? Sacrificed many lives in the uncertain hope of saving one particular life? No, if you think about it rationally for a moment, you will realise that Macalaurë made a hard and doubtlessly unpopular decision, but it was a wise one. I confess to be astonished; I would not have believed him capable of that."

Findekáno's eyes narrowed in shock and anger. "You must be jesting, and in poor taste. You cannot agree with him."
Softly, soothingly, Nolofinwë replied, "I know that it is hard to accept. But sometimes the wisest decisions are those that we do not like, painful though it may be. You cannot risk more than you hope to gain. Risking many lives for the dim chance of sparing one may feel heroic to you, but in truth it is madness."

"Does that mean," Turukáno spoke up, eyes wide and dark, "that if it were one of us in Moringotto's clutches, you would do nothing?"
Nolofinwë closed his eyes at the mere idea, unable to suppress a shudder. Nonetheless, he answered, "This is, of course, far harder to decide than it is to judge Macalaurë's deed. It depends on the situation. If I saw any chance of freeing you without risking massive disadvantages for my people – the people who trust me to guide and protect them wisely – I would take it at once. But if all I could do would be likely to make things worse, I would indeed do nothing but try to preserve the given state – a terrible state, yes, but not the very worst that might befall." He paused, looking at each of his children in turn. "I am sorry. If I were the one caught, and the decision came to you, I would hope that you would do the same."
Turukáno laughed again, bitterly. "Who would trust one who would not even protect his own children?"
"Who would trust one who would be willing to sacrifice his people, recklessly, for the sake of his child?" Nolofinwë retorted, but his voice was gentle and his expression sad.
Artanis shook her head. "I would risk all," she said proudly, "and win all, I daresay; none of this cowering pretense of wanting the best and doing nothing."
Nolofinwë sighed. "That would be either selfish or foolish, and quite likely both. There is much you have to learn – and will learn, I am afraid – but for now remember that it was exactly such thinking that brought us here, that made us suffer on the Ice, that slew the Teleri." Artanis winced as though he had struck her. Aikanáro frowned and leaned forward, opening his mouth to protest, but Findekáno was faster, jumping to his feet with such force that his chair fell over and clattered onto the stone floor. "I have heard enough. It is worse than I thought then. Not only have my cousins lost what heart they had, but my own father is the same. I am disgusted." He crossed the distance to the door in three large steps without bothering to straighten up the chair.
"Findekáno," Nolofinwë said, his voice still gentle but with a trace of sternness in it. "Sit down."
"No," he snapped without turning. "I am tired of this day and this talk. I take my leave. Goodnight."
He went out and slammed the door shut behind his back, not even noticing the curious servants and passers-by who jumped to make way for him as he marched, fuming, to his chamber.

He remained there for the following days, avoiding his brothers, his people, but above all his father. Young Itarildë took to smuggling food for him, which he refused at first but ate once he grew hungrier (and also because Itarildë told him, as sternly as someone as young as she could, that he absolutely must eat).
Nolofinwë let Findekáno's absence pass for a while, but when twelve days had gone by and Findekáno still remained in his room, he decided to wait no longer. He knocked on the door and, receiving no answer, went in.

Findekáno sat on his bed, staring out of the window. He didn't acknowledge his father's presence. Nolofinwë, raising his eyebrows, pulled a chair up and sat beside the bed, touching Findekáno's hand, and holding it when his son tried to withdraw it.
"Do not be childish, Findekáno," he said.
His firstborn finally turned his head to face him. Nolofinwë frowned to see the purplish shadows under his eyes.
"So you think my grief childish, do you," Findekáno said, his voice cold and bitter.
"No," replied his father. "But your behaviour is. I have let it pass these last days because I understand that you are upset, but by now your words and your absence have been noted, and you have neglected your duties for two weeks. This must end."
"No," Findekáno said sullenly, missing or ignoring the edge in his father's voice.
Nolofinwë pursed his lips. "From tomorrow on, Findekáno, you will take your place at the table again, and you will take up your duties. It cannot be that you behave in this selfish and immature way. You are doing damage to my House and my reputation, and I will not allow it to go on."
Findekáno's anger erupted then, and he cried, "How dare you call me selfish when all you're worried about is your reputation? How dare you threaten me after what happened? How dare you disregard my grief? Russandol was like a brother to me…"

"I, too, lost my brother!" shouted Nolofinwë in reply, exploding in his turn. His hands clenched to angry fists, and he sprang to his feet. Findekáno looked up at him, gasping with surprise at his father's outbreak, but more at his words: Never had he considered that his news might have touched, even hurt, his father so much.
Findekáno's anger fled and made way for a profound feeling of shame. "Father," he said gently, reaching out with one hand.
But now Nolofinwë kept his distance, shaking his head. "No matter. What's done is done." His voice sounded dull, defeated. He gave Findekáno a nod. "I will not have you waste more tears on Maitimo than you shed for Arakáno, and I will not have you ruin this spring for yourself and all others. Tomorrow you will rejoin your family," he said and left.
"Yes, Father," Findekáno said, although he wasn't sure whether Nolofinwë was still listening. To himself he whispered, turning back to the window to stare at the trees and wrapping his arms around his knees, "This cannot go on. It will destroy us all."

---

Chapter End Notes

Fir-needle tea is rich in Vitamin C – good against scurvy. I have no idea whether Elves with their alleged immunity to illness would suffer from scurvy in the first place, but I think it's much more interesting to assume that they are technically susceptible to the same problems that we humans face (if perhaps perhaps slower).

As Fingon noticed, I am going with the HoME version that has one of Fëanor's twins die in Losgar. It may be cruel to add yet another twist to an already dysfunctional family, but I just can't resist the extra drama...

Part I, Chapter VI

In which Fingon reassesses the situation, comes to a decision, and goes on a hike.

Read Part I, Chapter VI

With avid business on both sides of the lake, the warm seasons passed quickly. There were buildings to erect and repair, ramparts to be drawn up and reinforced, fields to be dug and irrigated, animals to be watched and tended. There was much exploring to be done in the lightened lands, maps to be drawn and reports to be written, there were hunts to be held and fruit to be gathered. Under the drenching fogs and the nurturing new light, the land around Lake Mistaringë proved to be fairly generous. Life became easier as the year progressed, provisions filling the larders. Yet occasionally, dark fumes and vapours came on the Northern wind, turning the rain bitter, making beasts fall ill and plants wither. At such times the Noldor remembered the threat of Moringotto more keenly than on other days, and speculated about when the next war would come. The sons of Fëanor felt their oath draw them to swift action once more; it took Macalaurë much effort to calm them and keep them from rash deeds. He allowed Curufinwë and the other smiths to go on a prospecting journey to the mountains, and sent Tyelkormo and his horsemen hunting (after ensuring that no similar action was taken by the other camp - he suspected that it would not be wise if Tyelkormo encountered one of Nolofinwë's sons in the woods, both accompanied by a host of huntsmen and armed to the teeth).
Thus when Findekáno finally brought himself to visit the Fëanorian camp again, he found it half-deserted. He left his dagger and knife with the guards and went to see his cousin.

Macalaurë resided no longer in a tent but in a proper house, two-storied, with whitewashed stone walls and a roof of reeds. In general the tents had mostly disappeared, except for a few that (Findekáno learned later) were used for storing food, tools and building material. In their stead, houses of stone and wood had sprung up, most of them decked in reeds, fewer with burned and glazed tiles of clay. The paths between them had been cleaned of grass and strewn with white pebbles. The settlement was now more of a small town than a camp. Findekáno was impressed against his will. While they had made themselves at home in the other camp, too much time and effort had to be put into exploring the surroundings to find all they needed for life; there had been little time for additional luxuries. Of course, the Fëanorians had already been familiar with the environment, so they could expend the time on other things. How much we could have achieved, Findekáno thought, if we had worked together.
But that, of course, was impossible.

He was here secretly, against the wishes of his father, and at first he had seen no reason himself to go back on what he had told Macalaurë. But he had been restless, and as there was a brief respite between the summer's labours and the busy harvesting season, his thoughts had returned to Russandol's fate. And with that train of thought persistent questions had sprung up, questions that he could not answer on his own.
Now finally he was here. To his disappointment Macalaurë did not have time to satisfy his thirst for answers immediately: He was busy explaining to an envoy of disappointed Naucor that his brother Curufinwë was, alas, not to be found here at the time. Findekáno watched these strange people as well as he could without appearing impolite. He had seen their kind before, though mostly from afar. The Naucor came rarely to the Nolofinwëan camp, where few of their works were needed and fewer could be paid for, although Findaráto had obtained tools for the price of some lamp-stones or some jewellery that, light and small as it was, had been brought over the Ice. But the Noldor were loath to part with too many of their treasures that were now a reminder of the old days in Valinor, and thus they had been traded for nothing beyond the most essential things. Curufinwë, on the other hand, seemed to have closer dealings with the dwarves. Findekáno found them fascinating and repulsive at once: With their bushy beards ("Even their women?" Itarildë had giggled when Findaráto had told them of his first dealings with the Naucor), short, stout bodies and broad hands they truly weren't beautiful, but their clothes and armour displayed a keen sense of design and an impressive mastery of craft. Intricate patterns were embroidered on their otherwise deceptively simple tunics and engraved into the plates of their armour, and many of them had mail-shirts that looked as though they had been knit from steel. Findekáno looked down on himself; he was better dressed now than he had been for his last visit, but it was still a far cry from the foreign but beautiful dwarf-livery. The embroidery on the collar of his tunic had been made by Itarildë as an exercise, and it showed.

He sighed, growing impatient while Macalaurë dealt with the dwarves and eventually offered them to be his guests for some days until a mounted messenger might find Curufinwë in the mountains. The Naucor accepted and were led to Carnistir, who was asked to take care of their needs, and Macalaurë finally turned towards Findekáno.
There was no embrace this time. "Greetings, Prince Findekáno," Macalaurë said politely and formally, and "Greetings, Prince Macalaurë," the other returned, somewhat less politely and not quite correctly.
But Macalaurë did not comment on the denial of his title, instead passing on to the obvious question. "What brings you here?"
"I want you," replied Findekáno, "to tell me everything that happened since you stole the ships and abandoned us."

- - -

It was late at night when Findekáno returned to the camp. His absence had long been noticed. The gate-warden let him in without trouble, but warned him that had been searching for him and was rather upset about his firstborn's disappearance. Findekáno had meant to slip to bed immediately after his return, for he was weary from the afternoon's tale and the long road back. But he assumed that it was wiser to face his father at once instead of waiting until morning, when there would be more people to witness the argument that was doubtlessly to come. He asked a passing page where to find his father and was pointed to the study. Swallowing nervously, he knocked on the door and was bidden to enter.

Nolofinwë sat, writing, at his desk that had been made earlier in the year from the wood of a walnut tree. Its polished surface gleamed red in the candle-light. When Nolofinwë looked up, the light softened his features, but there was no denying the lines around his eyes, nor the stern set of his mouth. "Where have you been?" he asked by way of greeting.
Findekáno grimaced. "I visited my cousins."
His father tilted his head, raising his eyebrows. "I thought you had decided never to speak with them again? While I disapproved of the way in which it came to pass, I did not disapprove of the decision as such."
"I changed my mind. I had some questions that needed answering, and the answer could be found only with them."
Nolofinwë sighed. "You should have told me."
"Then you would have sought to hinder me, and I would have had to go anyway, against your command."
His father tapped his fingertips on the book he had been writing in - his diary, Findekáno guessed.
"Would you? But at least I would have known where you were. I was worried, Findekáno."
"I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you. I thought I would be back sooner."
"I see," said Nolofinwë. "Very well. From tomorrow on, you will not go anywhere outside the boundaries of this camp without permission and company. I will inform your brothers and sister, and the children of Arafinwë." He paused. "And the guards, of course. This will be so until the end of the harvesting season. Is that acceptable?"
Findekáno's barely managed to stifle a gasp. His eyes widened at the idea of such confinement and the humiliation that would go with it – no freedom to move without permission and a guard, like a small child!
But he nodded meekly, saying, "Yes, Father."
For the first time that evening, Nolofinwë smiled. "It will not be so bad. With the harvest upon us, you will have no time for expeditions anyway. And surely the company of your family isn't too unbearable?"
"It isn't, Father," said Findekáno, staring at the flickering shadows the candles cast on the wall.
"All right," Nolofinwë said, patting his hand. "Well, I assume you'll be wanting to sleep now. Sleep well, dear."
"You too, Father," said Findekáno and kissed him goodnight.

After that, things happened fast and almost beyond his control. Findekáno felt as though he was watching his preparations from the outside, surprised at the quiet efficiency and determination that guided his steps - as though he was following the pattern of a dance that had been choreographed ages ago. In truth he had not planned a thing, and he certainly would have waited a while longer, mulling over his options and calculating his chances, if he had not now been forced to take quick action before it was impossible. He packed a small bundle, so small that it could easily be hidden under his clothing. He took only what he thought to be most necessary: an empty water-skin, tightly folded, that he could fill later on; a light shirt so he could wash the one he was wearing occasionally; a lump of soap for that purpose; a small sharp knife more suited for cutting fruit than the large dagger on his belt; a flintstone. He scanned the larder and took some sweet bread to eat at once, but did not pack any other provisions. It was, after all, autumn, and he would find plenty of fruit and nuts in the woods, or be able to catch small animals and fish. He slipped a length of thin string and an iron hook into the pouch on his belt as an afterthought. The nights had begun to turn cool, so he could wear his cloak without arousing suspicion and did not need to pack a blanket.

He did not hesitate until the turn came to his weapons. How ever could he hide his sword, and moreover his bow and arrows from the eyes of the gate-wardens?
Then his glance chanced on the harp that rested, half-neglected, in its corner, and an idea began to form. It would be heavy and cumbersome to take along, but precisely for that reason surely nobody would think that he meant to go far from the camp, or stay away for long. And wrapped in its protective cloth, its bulk might hide at least some part of his weapons.
He nodded to himself. Carefully arranging the sword and quiver of arrows over his cloak and under the harp, hiding the protruding arrow-shafts and sword-hilt with his braided hair, he set to go. The unstrung bow would hopefully pass for a walking-stick in the gloom of night. Findekáno grimaced; his masquerade wasn't overly convincing. He could only hope that he wouldn't encounter too many people – especially not his father or brother, or sharp-eyed Aikanáro. The others, he thought, might understand.
Might.
He left a note for his father on the desk. If it were found too soon, he would be in trouble, but he could not bring himself to leave without at least an explanation. He disarrayed his blankets, stuffing the pillow underneath to give at least a rough impression of somebody sleeping there, although he knew it would fool nobody who took more than a cursory glance.
Then he took a deep steadying breath, checked the arrangement of weaponry on his back, hid his small bundle in the folds of his cloak, and snuck from the longhouse.

He was in luck, for he met nobody on his way through the camp - it was black night, and most people slept in this dark hour. By the gate he was stopped by the same sympathetic warrior who had let him in: a tall brown-haired fellow named Túrelio, not much older than Findekáno himself. Findekáno explained that he meant to go out to the shore to play on his harp a little and clear his thoughts, wishing not to disturb his family, particularly his dear brother Turukáno, who had trouble sleeping anyway ever since Elenwë…
He was rambling, certain that his nerves would betray him, but Túrelio only winked, saying, “Enjoying your last night of freedom, eh?" With a sinking feeling, Findekáno realised that his father had already informed the others of his judgement. He nodded numbly and was relieved when the guard said, "Well, as long as you're back by daybreak, it should be fine. Hop along."

Findekáno smiled; he felt vaguely sorry for Túrelio, who would certainly take some blame once his disappearance was discovered, but he could not go back now. "Thank you," he only said, "I'll see you later then!"
"Not me," the guard replied, "It's Maneséro on the sunrise shift. But I'll tell him to look out for you."
"Thank you," Findekáno said again, hoping that Maneséro wouldn't look out overmuch, and left. He dared not raise his hand to wave for fear of upsetting his load, and worried briefly that it might arouse suspicion. But nobody called after him, and as far as he could discern, nobody followed him as he walked towards the lakeshore.
He followed the lake until the camp was out of sight. Then he began to run.

Part I, Chapter VII

In which Fingon's hike continues, and in which his harp proves its worth.

Read Part I, Chapter VII

For the first days he kept up a rhythm of long, fast marches and brief rests, anxious to put distance between himself and his father's camp to ensure that he could not be reached and brought back with his mission unfulfilled. It was fortunate now that they had no horses (those few that had not been taken away on the ships had not survived on the Ice for long). On foot, it was unlikely that they would catch up with him after the first days. He thought it doubtful that his father would borrow horses from the Fëanorians, even if they offered to give them. Nolofinwë might not have his half-brother's ferocious temper, but he was no less proud.

To be safe, however, Findekáno still strayed from the direct road, walking through the woods and wide fields, across little brooks and sloping hills, keeping slightly to the northwest rather than turning straight towards the north. He avoided being seen by anyone, lest a coincidental encounter with wood-elves might betray his whereabouts to his father's scouts. His luggage bumped against his back unpleasantly with every step, and the straps that held the quiver and sword and wrapped-up harp in place began chafing before long. He had been tempted a few times to trade the heavy harp for things more useful on his march but refrained because he feared to give himself away, or even just to tarry and lose his lead. Then the lands grew emptier, and the sparse population made way for none but birds and beasts. By that time he had grown used to his burden, and was loath to part with it, one of the few items of luxury that had been made since the crossing of the Ice.

He marched on steadily but no longer without rest, taking the time now to gather food on his way: roots and berries, mushrooms and nuts, and the seeds of wild rye and oats which he ground between stones to get flour for cooking gruel. Once or twice he shot a rabbit. The fading year was kind to him; most nights were cold but dry, and the days were bright while they lasted. The trees proudly displayed their many-coloured leaves in fiery hues of gold and red and copper, dew glistened on cobwebs. The mists wrapping the hills and trees were painted a soft pink by the rising and setting sun. Had he not been driven by his dire purpose, Findekáno might have enjoyed his journey thoroughly.
Yet the year was unmistakably fading, and as he came further into the north, the trees grew barren and the days cold. A bitter wind blew southwards, carrying ash and soot and decay on it. Rain fell often now, and it was not the clean, sweet rain he knew from home, but a foul-tasting, spirit-drenching rain that fell in torrents and soaked his clothing until he was wet to his bones. At other times, a disheartening drizzle wrapped him like a damp cloak, falling relentlessly and creeping everywhere. The lands grew silent but for the whistling of the harsh winds. Even the drumming of the rain seemed subdued as though it was holding its breath.
Findekáno knew then that he must be close to Angamando.

Indeed he reached the Mountains of Ash early the next day, having walked through the night (for he did not dare to sleep so close to the Enemy). There was no rain now, but there was icy mist and searing vapour issuing from cracks in the rocks. The ground was frozen, littered with lumps of stone and ashes. Off the trampled road to the Gate of Angamando, it rose sheer and uneven, torn by deep clefts and abysses, obstacled by large rocks. Findekáno spent wearying days climbing through the clefts and over boulders, searching for a secret way in and finding none. Often he had to spend long stretches of time hiding from Orcs. His provisions began to run out. He never dared to sleep, instead climbing, walking, searching desperately. He often discovered what looked like deep tunnels, but whenever he followed them into the dark rock, after a promising beginning he found the way blocked after a long march, and had to turn back, always afraid that he'd find the entrance guarded by Orcs ready to slaughter him. Every time he left such a tunnel unapprehended felt like a small miracle. He was desperately afraid that he would run out of luck; yet he could not ignore the crags and tunnels, for maybe one of them would finally lead him into Angamando. He did not know how many miles he walked in his fruitless search. The pain in his feet and back was nothing compared to his frustration. More and more often, the realisation that he might have to go back to his father's camp, alone, facing his father's wrath and his own failure, began to niggle at his mind. He always pushed it away, yet even in his most optimistic moments – and there were no longer many of those – he had to admit that he had no idea how much longer he would be able to go on like this. He forced himself to keep moving, but his feet slipped frequently now, and he was finding it hard not to stumble, or to get up again after ducking behind a rock; hunger and exhaustion were beginning to take their toll. He was merciless with himself, telling himself that he had born and survived worse on the Helcaraxë and could surely do it again, that he had no right to rest until he found what he'd come here for. He pushed all thoughts, hopeful and desperate alike, from his mind, focussing entirely on his search, until one day he emerged from yet another cleft in the rocks and stared at the broken landscape around him and realised that the sights and findings of the past hours had felt familiar, and the reason for that feeling was that he had searched this stretch of rock before. And he had found no entrance but the Gate, by which he would never be able to pass unseen and uncaught.

The thought, bitter in its irony, struck him how much like the Pelóri these mountain-walls were. Much though Moringotto hated the Valar, Findekáno realised, he still imitated them. There had been no way into Valinor but through the Calacirya, yet Moringotto had entered in secret by another way. If this was a reversal of the Pelóri – not keeping evil out, but keeping it safe – Findekáno hoped that he would be the one to find a way across them. But he had searched every ridge and crevice for a chance of slipping in, and there had been nothing. He knew then that he was defeated, and that he should return back home. He had done what he could, and it had not been enough.
Still he would not accept it.

Thinking about the Pelóri had reminded him of a song. It had been going around in his head for the past hours already, steady and insistent to the point of annoyance. He hadn't been able to get rid of it. More than once he had caught himself humming, and whenever he had thought he'd finally managed to force his mind to think of other things, it returned, rising from a slow and hopeful theme to exuberant joy. Macalaurë had taught it to him years, no, centuries ago, when there had still been friendship between him and his cousins. It was a song about the first Elves who had marched the long way from Cuiviénen to the sea, and then crossed it and reached the Undying Lands and passed through the Calacirya, seeing for the first time the light and the splendour of the Two Trees. And now it was worming its way through Findekáno's brain while he was on a rather different, far less hopeful journey, and the Trees were dead.

He could not later say just what it was that moved him to do what he did then. Maybe it was exhaustion that overcame all reason, maybe it was frustration that made him reckless. Maybe it was providence. Whatever it was, he took the harp from his back, and sitting down against the steep walls of the mountain, he began to sing that ancient song that would not leave him alone. He began softly, picking the tune on the strings hesitantly; but soon the song took hold of his voice and hands, the music surging through him; and his voice swelled over the wasteland, angry and defiant, loud and clear. His fingers fell onto the harp-strings with determination, and over his anger he felt a certain satisfaction at having brought some beauty to this desolate realm.

And then another voice joined his song. It was an unpleasant voice, raw and Orcish, harsh like the cawing of the ravens that had descended on Alqualondë to feast on the dead; and all of a sudden Findekáno remembered where he was and in what danger, and how foolish it was to have betrayed himself with a silly song.
But he could not stop himself now. Though the voice was still distant and he might yet have had a chance of running and hiding if he'd set off at once, he remained where he was and kept up his song, closing his eyes and awaiting his fate, while the tune was sung back to him in mockery, distorted, from afar.
And then he began to doubt.
Flowing on the music, his thoughts began to meander and converge like brooks running through an undulating country, leaping over hills, flowing together and apart and ending, in the end, in a clear lake.
The song had been written after the Great Journey, in Valinor.
No Orc would sing this song.
No Orc would know this song.

His fingers fell from the harp, and he jumped to his feet, heart pounding. Wrapping the instrument hastily, he scanned his surroundings for the source of the song that continued even now. Finally he realised that it was coming from high above, not from afar! He looked up. Narrowing his eyes to better see through the vaporous air, he saw what looked like a pair of feet, tiny in the distance.
He steadied himself against the rock, squinting again. Shouldering his harp, he called as loud as he could, "Russandol?"

The singing ceased, and there was a brief silence that felt endless while he listened, straining his ears, desperate for a response.

And finally it came.
"Findekáno!"

Part I, Chapter VIII

In which there is a duet, and in which Fingon learns to fly.

Read Part I, Chapter VIII

The song had begun suddenly, familiar and yet alien, distant as he now was from his past life. At first he had not realised that it had its source not in his mind - he had been forcing himself to recall songs and poems whenever he had managed to grasp a moment of clarity amidst his pain, and if this memory was more lucid than usual, he hadn't noticed it immediately. Only when he had tried to sing along and his voice, unfamiliar with uttering anything beyond the occasional groan, had joined the other without drowning it out, his hoarse croaking not replacing the other voice but adding to it, he had realised that there must be somebody far below, somebody to do the singing.
And the voice was familiar. At first he had believed that he remembered his brother singing, but now that he was listening more closely, the voice was less rich, less precise, though not less dear.

Hope awoke in him, springing up like a flame, shooting through his worn-out body. He sang louder then, trembling with the effort and with mingled fear and excitement. His left hand clutched at the rock in a desperate attempt of grounding him lest he loose his mind now of all times; his fingers felt raw against the rough stone, but he did not care.
It would be over.
It would be over after all.
He sang, ignoring the protests of his parched throat, but he did not have much strength; even at the loudest he was capable of, he was not sure that he would be heard. He hardly awoke the echoes. Hope and despair battled in his mind, and when the harp below stopped playing, he panicked. Arching his back, resting his head against the mountain-wall, praying that he would be heard, he forced the next notes out louder. His left hand was bleeding by now.

And then, after what seemed like another eternity of fear, the voice was there again, calling his epessë. Wild hope coursed through his veins, making him tremble harder. If he'd had any tears left to cry, he would have shed them now. As it was, all that happened was that he began to sob, dry and soundless. He clenched his fists, trying to regain control over his breathing. Finally he managed to call, "Findekáno!"
It sounded pitiful to himself, but the voice called again from below, strong and full of life and promise, "Russandol! Wait! I'll be with you right away!"

Maitimo almost laughed, for what else but wait could he do? If there had been any way for him to leave this place, he certainly wouldn't have stayed. Squeezing his eyes shut in anguished relief, biting a finger to make sure this was not just another illusion, sending a fervent prayer of thanks to whoever had brought Findekáno here, he waited.

- - -

Findekáno was climbing again; but now his heart was filled with wild joy. The sharp stones tore his clothing and scraped his knees and hands, but he hardly noticed. His exhaustion was forgotten. He had been right to come here after all.
But his heart sank soon after. He had scored the ravine and was now standing, lightheaded, at the foot of a precipice of steep Thangorodrim. He looked up again for Russandol and felt as though he'd been struck in the stomach. He quickly looked back down, clutching the rock wall before him, panting for breath.
He had often dreamt about finding Russandol and rescuing him in the past months. But he had never thought about the state in which he might find him. From the much closer distance, he could see some of what had been done to his friend and cousin, and he cursed himself for being so foolish as to believe that he would find Russandol hale and strong. What he saw instead was misery, pure and simple. The stretched body was hanging by its right wrist in helpless torment, skin grey with soot and ash or, more often, covered with the brown and black of old, clotted blood and the red of more recent wounds; he was pitifully meagre, bones protruding clearly under parched skin. Findekáno could not even begin to imagine how badly Russandol must hurt, and his eyes welled up. All the more reason to bring him home swiftly, he admonished himself and made to climb the last wall.

He found that he couldn't. After only a few feet he hung by his fingertips, unable to move any further, his feet searching for a hold and finding none. He returned to the foot of the precipice and took off his boots, hoping to be better able to climb with his toes to support him, but he got no further, no matter how often he tried. He attempted to get over the piece of smooth wall by jumping – it might be that further up the chances for climbing might be better again, after all – but found no hold at all and fell back onto the ravine, sliding downhill until he managed to stop his tumble. An avalanche of small, sharp rocks went down around him.
"Findekáno?" came a frightened call from above.
"I'm all right," called Findekáno soothingly, gritting his teeth. He was aching all over from the fall. "But I can't reach you!"
"You needn't," gasped Maitimo. "As long as I'm within bowshot…"
"No," cried Findekáno, guessing what his cousin meant to say. "No. I'll think of something."
"No," called the other in return. "Findekáno, you cannot linger. You mustn't. They'd find you and take you. I couldn't bear it…" he stopped, laboured breathing breaking into dry coughing. When he had regained his breath, he went on, "Kill me. Please, Findekáno. Kill me and run, run to safety, and forget that you saw me. Please."
"No!" Findekáno shouted. "I haven't come to see you die. I have come to rescue you, and I will!" His voice broke, and he began to cry. "By Eru I will."
"Do not swear!" cried Maitimo, alarmed. "And do not stay! Slay me, I beg you, so I must bear this no longer, and then go! You will rescue me even so. Kill me, release me from this; that is all I want. Please." Speaking was hard and steadily growing harder; he was panting, shaking from the effort, the pain in his shoulder flaring up from its throbbing sleep. "Please." he gasped again.

Findekáno was sobbing, but he was moved by Maitimo's desperate plea, and he saw nothing else to do. "All right," he cried, blinking away his tears. "All right, I will. But Russandol, there must be another way!"
"There isn't," said Maitimo, trembling but calming a little in expectation of a merciful end. "Oh, how long I have hoped to die! I thank you, Findekáno, though I wish it didn't have to be you... I wish you didn't have to be here. Promise me –" he was coughing again, tasting blood from his dry throat, "promise me you'll get home safely."

Findekáno, stringing his bow slowly and carefully as he didn't want to make any mistake in his haste, and also because he wished to delay the deed, didn't answer immediately. Now that singlemindedness was what he needed most, his brain brought him memories unbidden, of their childhood and youth and also of their division during Fëanáro's banishment, of their brief reunion after the Darkening, of Alqualondë and the bitter time that came after. He saw the burning of the ships, but not from the far shore as he had seen it then, but as Macalaurë had described it to him: Russandol arguing with Fëanáro, unsuccessfully; Russandol standing back, strong and beautiful and defeated, as the ships burned. The string was upon the bow, the arrow fitted to the string, but now he felt that he had not eaten properly these past days, and his bones ached from the long march and the climbing and the fall, and also from imagining how horribly Maitimo upon the mountain must hurt. He could not do it; his mind protested against the mere idea; his hand trembled as he took aim. The angle was bad. It would be difficult to hit Maitimo so that the arrow would indeed kill him and not only add to his pain. Findekáno's vision blurred again with tears. He could not do it.
Yet from above he could hear his cousin's pained breathing, could almost feel his longing for the peace of death. He wiped his eyes and forced his breath to calm. He took aim again, steadying his hand as well as he could, and cried aloud, "Oh Lord to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!"
Holding his breath, he made ready to release the arrow.

A loud, clear shriek pierced the air and startled him. The arrow hissed from the string, aimlessly, and hit the rock next to Russandol where it broke. The captured elf gave a small cry of dismay. Findekáno meanwhile turned to see where the noise had come from and saw a great eagle flying towards him, far greater than any ordinary eagle of this world. Findekáno felt awe but no fear. When the noble bird landed on the ravine, he bowed, breathless with wonder. "Has Manwë heard my prayer then?" he asked, recognising the eagle to be Sorontar himself.
Yes, he heard the answer in his own mind, he has. Findekáno's eyes wandered up to his helpless cousin, then back to the majestic bird, taller than himself. "Could you carry me?" he asked.
I can and I will, he read in the eagle's golden eyes.
Light-headed with rekindled hope bordering on exhilaration, he climbed onto the eagle's back, uncertain where to hold on to even as Sorontar took flight again, ascending swiftly. Findekáno gasped in surprise. It was unlike anything he had ever known. His stomach twisted as though in fear, but altogether he found the experience of flying by no means unpleasant. The wind rushed against him, roaring in his ears, and the ground fell away far beneath him; yet he trusted that Sorontar would not let him fall.

They were soaring as high as the peaks of the mountain now, and circled a few times until Findekáno realised the problem: There was no chance to land and still reach Russandol. A frustrated growl escaped him - so close to his goal, and yet so far! He shook his head, sending his long braids flying. There was no way that he'd give up now. "Take me closer to him," he called against the wind, "I'll try and jump!" The eagle complied. Their next round took them as close to the mountain as was possible without the wings touching its walls. Considering the enormous span of Sorontar's wings, there was still a fair distance, but Findekáno was beyond fear now. He made ready, and when they passed Maitimo where he hung, Findekáno jumped. He flew, or fell, through fog and thin air. Then his hand grasped the band of steel that held Maitimo, and his feet caught him against the rock and broke his fall, toes squeezing into the smallest cranny to prop him up. He was afraid at first that his added load would pull it free, leaving both of them to plunge into the depth, but he need not have worried. The shackle held true, keeping them safely suspended.
With his free hand Findekáno embraced Russandol, pulling him up and against his chest to take his weight (though weight was hardly the right word: his cousin weighed next to nothing) off the poor stretched arm. Maitimo groaned at the movement, his emaciated chest heaving. Torn between helpless laughter and tearless weeping he gasped his cousin's name, disbelieving.
"Yes," said Findekáno, crying in his turn, "I am here. And I'll free you." His hand closed more tightly on the gyve, his other hand held Maitimo more firmly, and he bent forward to kiss his cousin's drawn face.

---

Chapter End Notes

It should go without saying, but just to be on the safe side: Findekáno's prayer ("Oh Lord to whom all birds are dear...") is a direct quotation from The Silmarillion, "Of the Return of the Noldor".

Sorontar - Maedhros would say 'Thorontar' if he were inclined to chat - is the Quenya version of Thorondor's name.

Part I, Chapter IX*

In which the cliffhanger situation is finally resolved. End of Part One.

* Extra warning for reasonably graphic description of injuries and impromptu field operations. May not be suitable for the blood-phobic.

Read Part I, Chapter IX*

His cousin's skin felt like paper under his lips, dry and brittle. Findekáno was reminded of the lanterns he had made as a child, translucent paper stretched tight over a wooden frame, a candle or light-stone placed within. The bones were visible under the dirty skin just as the wooden ribs of the lantern-frame had stuck out beneath the hide of his childhood lampions. The eyes were sunken, the lips torn; there were dozens of abrasions and sores, bruises and cuts. If he had not known this to be his cousin, Findekáno knew, he would have been appalled and disgusted. As it was, he felt only a profound pity.

Maitimo seemed to have guessed his thoughts, for when his fit of laughter and sobbing had passed, he said, hoarsely, "You shouldn't have come. Not to see me like this."
Findekáno shook his head. "Are you not glad to see me, then?" he asked, half in jest, half in worried earnest.
Maitimo grimaced; perhaps it was supposed to be a smile. "I cannot put into words how glad I am to see you," he said, pausing for air every few words. Findekáno felt Maitimo's heart beat against him, irregularly and faintly. "Yet you should not have come."
"Well, I'm here," Findekáno replied almost irritably, "and I'm going to take you home."
Maitimo closed his eyes; a wistful expression flew over his drawn features. "Home… the closest to home I can ever be now is Mandos."
"Don't talk like that. You're not going there if I can help it. Can you hold on to me?"
A skeletal arm crept around Findekáno's shoulders, the blood-smeared fingers of Maitimo's free hand clutching the fabric of his cloak. Findekáno doubted that there was much strength in them.
"I'll try," said Maitimo nonetheless. "I don't think it'll do much good."
"Hush," said Findekáno, trying to better balance himself. He moved his right hand further around his cousin's back so he could clasp the steel band with it; Maitimo groaned again, trying but failing not to show the pain it caused him to be pinned to the rock like this. "It won't be long," Findekáno promised, drawing his sword with his right hand.

It wasn't easy to manoeuvre in this awkward position, but nonetheless the blow that rang on the gyve was hard and strong.
And entirely fruitless.
Findekáno swung again, and again. At the third stroke his sword burst. The shards fell into the nothingness below, clattering faintly on the distant rocks. Findekáno looked at the bladeless hilt in his hand and cursed in dismay. Maitimo, who could not see what was going on, whimpered at that, and Findekáno felt a violent stab of pity at that desperate sound.
"My sword broke," he told Maitimo, letting the useless remains drop into the deep. He needed his hand free to regain his grip. Already his muscles were burning; his sympathy for Maitimo, who had hung like this for a far longer time, grew immeasurably.
"I'll try the dagger," he announced, reaching for it. "It was made by your father himself; it had better hold, or I'll have words with the smith." It was supposed to be a joke, but his cousin did not laugh.
"No!" he cried instead, alarmed. "It won't hold either, and then you'll have no weapon left!" His breathing quickened, hitched helplessly. "Please, Findekáno, just end it. I can't bear it anymore. Please..."
"I can't," said Findekáno furiously.
"You must," replied Maitimo, growing ever more agitated, "please! It will do no good if you stay. You cannot free me, and you cannot hold on forever. You must save yourself!" He turned his head to look at Findekáno, bloodshot eyes wide and desperate. "Tell…" his voice broke. "Tell my brothers that I love them, and your father that I am sorry." He took another shaking breath. "But please, Findekáno, end it. Slay me, and leave. I beg you."

Findekáno shook his head, weeping. He leaned his forehead against the mountain wall, staring dully at the accursed gyve. It was cruelly tight and had cut into flesh and skin mercilessly, but the arm was now thinner than the width of the iron band. If only the hand weren't in the way…

He suppressed a gasp, chewing his lip unconsciously while he thought. "It will hurt, though," he said softly, more to himself. But Maitimo heard him and sighed, drawn and slow.
"I do not fear pain, as long as it ends," he whispered hoarsely. "Please?"
Findekáno set his jaw, determined. "I've come to find you and free you. Found you I have, and free you I will. Not just in spirit! I'll take you home. I won't give up, not now that I am here. Do you understand?" His free hand caressed Maitimo's cold right arm, stopping at the wrist. His cousin stared at him, then gasped as the meaning of Findekáno's words dawned on him. He clenched his eyes shut, fighting against another fit of crippling sobs.
Finally he nodded.
Findekáno kissed his forehead, then leaned against the rock again, thinking frantically how to go about this. He stroked the poor chained arm again; fragile though it looked and felt, he suspected that it would not be easy to cut through it. He closed his eyes, shuddering. Every possible move was horrible, unimaginable.
Maitimo in his arms was still, trying to await his fate patiently, but Findekáno felt him tense and shiver in apprehension. His eyes were burning; the arm that held his and Maitimo's weight was protesting fiercely. And it was growing dark. He knew that he would have to hurry.

Drawing his dagger, he cut a long stripe of cloth from his warm cloak, wrapping it tightly around his cousin's arm. He was not sure how much blood he should expect, as the arm had been held up for so long; perhaps all the blood had already flowed out of it long ago? But he figured that it was better to be safe than sorry.
He took a deep steadying breath.
Then he brought the pommel of his dagger down hard, several times, feeling the bones shatter under his strokes. Russandol's body convulsed in uncontrollable spasms, his muscles tensing involuntarily with far more strength than he could ever have mustered by will; he almost threw Findekáno off-balance. His face was buried in the crook of Findekáno's neck, teeth clamping down on the cloak in order to keep from screaming, but a high keening sound escaped his throat, chilling to the bone.

Findekáno paused, chest heaving, stomach turning. He was grateful now that he hadn't eaten anything that day. "Please forgive me," he whispered to Maitimo, kissing his face, muttering soothing words that meant nothing, apologising over and over.
With a great effort, Maitimo wrenched his head back, staring at Findekáno with wide, mad eyes. "Get on with it," he hissed between clenched teeth.
Findekáno scrambled to comply. Clutching his cousin yet tighter, clamping him between his right arm and his chest, he began to draw the blade through the emaciated flesh.
Now that the bones could no longer obstruct him, it was not so difficult to cut through the arm – technically. But the sense that what he was doing was fundamentally wrong, even though he knew (or hoped at any rate) that it was for good, was so overwhelming that his head spun and he could hardly force his hand to keep on sawing. And there was so much blood! Findekáno was glad that he'd thought of the makeshift tourniquet, but even so the wound welled up strongly, blood running down his own and Maitimo's arm, surprisingly warm from so cold a body.
Maitimo's tense form suddenly went limp. At first Findekáno thought that he had killed him after all; but he could still feel a heartbeat, though faint and fluttering. Gritting his teeth, panting, he cut through the last strained tendons. Then Maitimo's arm fell free. Findekáno sheathed his blood-smeared dagger – no time to clean it now – and struggled to better balance his unconscious cousin, his hands slippery with hot blood. Breathlessly he turned to seek for Sorontar.

The great Eagle had circled over their heads. Now as he caught Findekáno's gaze he turned and flew right below them. The furthest feathers of his wing brushed the rock wall, but Findekáno dared not jump then; it was now doubly important that he did not miss. He counted his heartbeats until Sorontar came around again, and again he let him pass, waiting, counting. On the third time, he placed his feet firmly against the rock and extended his right arm until he hung as far from the wall as he could without letting go, clutching Russandol with his left arm. When the Eagle neared again, he pushed off the rock with all his strength.
For a moment he was convinced that he would fall to his and Russandol's certain death, but then he felt his legs land on the great bird's back. Sorontar sagged under the additional weight, but caught himself easily and headed off towards the south. With a relieved sigh, Findekáno sat astride the Eagle's back, cradling Russandol tightly. He worked his travel- and bloodstained cloak free and wrapped his cousin's bare body in it. With his spare shirt he tried to staunch the bleeding and bandaged the stump, although the fabric was drenched within a few moments.
Occasionally he loosened the tourniquet, hoping so to save what was left of the arm, and the blood rushed forth with renewed force. He was terrified at the thought that Russandol might bleed to death – it would have been cruel irony if he had survived the years of torment only to die as soon as he was freed, Findekáno thought bitterly, hugging the motionless body against his chest.

Maitimo woke once, though Findekáno did not know whether he was aware of his surroundings. He tried to give him the remains of his water, but Russandol's throat was so parched that it refused the unfamiliar liquid, making him cough and splutter. The water dribbled down his chin, useless, mingling with ash and blood. Findekáno began to cry freely then, exhaustion, pain and the fear for his cousin's life finally overwhelming him. He bent over, his aching body shaking with sobs while Maitimo drifted back into unconsciousness, and while Sorontar bore them back towards Mistaringë through the darkening sky.

Part II, Chapter I*

In which the Fingolfinian healers have a busy night.

*Warning for blood and some medical detail.

Many thanks to SurgicalSteel for her invaluable advice on how not to have Maedhros killed by unskilled healers.

Read Part II, Chapter I*

They landed in the dead of night, but their coming did not pass unnoticed. The keen eyes of the guards had seen the great Eagle while he was still far off. By the time Findekáno could make out more than the outlines of the camp, he was surprised by how many people seemed to be about.
Nolofinwë, roused from restless sleep, had a strange foreboding feeling that he could not explain when he heard that Sorontar was nearing. "A message from the Valar," some said as he joined the gathering crowd consisting of his family, the guards, and those who had been woken by the running, whispering, and shouting. "Another curse, or allegations," returned some others, "and what good could messages do us anyway?"
Nolofinwë said nothing but stood waiting, seemingly unperturbed. But when Sorontar was nearly upon the watchers and he could see that there were strange shapes, like humps, upon the Eagle's back, his composure faded.
"Wake the healers," he ordered the nearest guardsman, "and have a bath prepared!" Then he made his way to the head of the group.

Sorontar landed softly, but a terrible groan could be heard from his back. It made people shudder and draw back. For a moment there was silence; nobody dared to speak or move. Then Nolofinwë sprang forward. "Findekáno," he asked, breathless with hope, "is it you?"
"Yes," said Findekáno, sounding weary.
Nolofinwë's eyes widened with apprehension. "And are you all right?"
"I am fine," Findekáno said in a strangled voice. As Nolofinwë lifted his lamp, light fell on the hunched figure on the Eagle's back, and on the limp shape wrapped in a bloodied cloak. "But Russandol..." Findekáno swallowed. Murmuring arose around.
Nolofinwë gasped. "You found him."
"Yes. I found him," said Findekáno and broke into tears. Findaráto ran towards Sorontar, followed by Irissë; they reached up, motioning Findekáno to lower their cousin into their arms. Cautiously, somewhat awkwardly, limbs stiff after clinging to the Eagle for so long, he did so. "Oh! Be careful!" he cried, fighting against his tears. But Findaráto, when faced with Maitimo's mangled body, almost dropped him, turning his face away in shock. The camp's healers, bleary-eyed and nervous, came pushing through the crowd. To Findekáno, everything moved slowly and with astonishing clarity, yet somehow unreal - as though he were dreaming and knew that he was dreaming, but had no way of waking up.

When he tried to dismount, his aching limbs refused to cooperate, and he found himself descending rather quicker than planned to land sprawling on the ground. He looked up at the no longer silent crowd. Many faces were averted or covered with hands; others were grim and dark with anger, though whether at him or at Maitimo or at what had been done to him Findekáno did not care to guess. He struggled to his feet. "Be careful," he repeated softly, now to the healers who had taken Maitimo from Findaráto and Irissë and bore him up, using the soiled cloak as a bier. For a brief moment Findekáno felt the urge to lie down and sleep on the spot. Now that the responsibility had been taken from his shoulders, it was tempting no longer to fight against exhaustion. Then he shook the feeling off. The responsibility was still with him, he decided; sleep must wait. Gathering his thoughts, Findekáno turned to Sorontar and bowed, murmuring words of praise and gratitude to him and the Lord that had sent him. The words felt awkward and too weak, the farewell overly hasty, but they were the best he could do. Then he hurried after the healers.

He was stopped by Nolofinwë, who wordlessly pulled him into a tight embrace.
Findekáno could feel his father's arms tremble. He returned the hug as firmly as he could, feeling relieved and afraid at once. He longed to remain where he was, safe in his father's arms, until he might be convinced that everything had been nothing but a nightmare, but he had to look after Russandol!
"Father," he said warily, "I am sorry that I caused you grief." He waited. There was no reply. "I know this is not enough, and we will talk about it later. But now..." He swallowed. "Now I have to make sure that the healers take good care of him."
After a long, long moment, Nolofinwë nodded. "Yes. All in its time." He gave Findekáno another tight squeeze, then released him, smiling sadly. "That was a very brave deed, dearest, but I am not certain it was worth the heartbreak." He sighed. "For your sake I hope he can be saved, but not for his."
"It is not his fault," mumbled Findekáno. "He did not burn the ships. He even fought Uncle Fëanáro about it."
"What do you mean?" said Nolofinwë, narrowing his eyes.
"He opposed the ship-burning, Father. Macalaurë told me. So do not blame him - not for that." Findekáno rubbed his eyes; he found it increasingly difficult to stay awake, though he knew he must. The crowd had dispersed by now. Only the guards lingered behind them.

"I see," his father finally said. He looked about to say more, but then stopped himself, shaking his head. "Look to him," he only said. "We will speak later."
Findekáno dashed off after the healers.

- - -

There was only one bathing-house in the camp, a remainder of their predecessors: barely more than two rooms built close to the lakeshore, one holding a stove on which the water could be heated, the other containing a great circular bathtub made of oak-wood and iron rings that was placed upon a dais of burnt clay. Ordinarily it was a place of rest, muffled conversation taking place amid the steam and soap, dim light streaming in through small windows set high in the walls. Now the curtains had been pulled shut over the windows, but many lanterns had been put up to brighten the room, and there was a steady coming and going of healers and servants bringing water and unguents, herbs and candles, bandages and mysterious healer's tools wrapped in leather.

Findekáno held his hand into the bathtub; the water was hardly more than lukewarm. "More hot water," he shouted.
The chief healer, Istimë, came over to join him. She was one of the oldest people Findekáno knew, of about the same age as his grandfathers, and she had been apprenticed to Estë herself. He knew that it had been she who had helped his grandmother deliver both his father and his uncle Arafinwë and their sisters, and who had been there when he and his brothers and sister had been born in their turns, and the children of Arafinwë as well. He wondered now whether she had also been with his aunt Nerdanel for Russandol's birth, and if so, how she was feeling now.
Whatever she was feeling, she kept it to herself. In reply to his request, she held her elbow into the water and shook her head. "Nay, it should be no warmer than that." She caught his confused glance and explained. "I have no experience with injuries that grave, but that's what you have to pay attention to when bathing small children. Their skin is very thin and tender, and if the water is too hot, you'll scald them. I suspect it's similar with him."
"Oh," said Findekáno.

She patted his shoulder and returned to the cot where Russandol had been placed under a thick cover of blankets to keep him warm. He was surrounded by silent healers, staring down at the miserable, pale face protruding from the blankets. When Istimë joined them, they shifted uneasily. Findekáno followed her.
"Right," Istimë said, addressing the others. "We have a night's hard work ahead, so we better get started. If there is anyone among you who, for whatever reason, doesn't wish to heal him, I suggest they leave now. I understand that it will be difficult, and I will not hold it against you if you leave. If, however, any among you will do less than their best for him once we begin, I will be very angry. We are healers. It doesn't matter who the patient is. Is that clear?"
Two of the healers, after some glances at the others, bowed to Istimë and, after another nervous look at Findekáno, left hurriedly. He said nothing. One of them, he knew, had lost both his sons on the Ice. The other probably had a similar reason.
"Good," Istimë said to the remaining three. "I suggest we take care of the hand first, then clean him up and see what else there is to do. And someone cut his hair..."
"No," Findekáno cried. It was absurd, he told himself, but the thought of cutting off Russandol's once-beautiful hair – even if it was a tangled, dirty, stinking mass now – made his stomach clench. Russandol had been punished enough; humiliating him yet more was unthinkable.

"We have no time for discussions, my lord," Istimë said sternly, "and we have no time to fight that tangle. You won't manage to comb that in a dozen years. And it's in the way. If he is to live, his hair will grow again. If not... well, I don't think it will matter much to him."
He gave her a reproachful look, but saw that her eyes were full of pity despite her merciless words. Then he nodded, dully. "I'll do it."
"Good," she said. "And the rest of you..." She pushed the blanket back, revealing the atrophied right arm with its missing hand, wrapped inadequately with Findekáno's blood-soaked shirt. Findekáno was surprised at how much blood a person could lose without being empty. When Istimë removed the shirt, one of the younger healers ran outside in a hurry, and the others could hear retching noises. They exchanged unhappy looks. Istimë sharply told them to keep working without even looking up; she was in the process of tying off the ends of the dripping arteries. Then she told one of her colleagues to remove the tourniquet. Findekáno was relieved to see that there was no renewed bleeding.

He could not bring himself to shear his cousin's hair off entirely, so he cut it to just below his ears, then took a comb and began to try untangling the felted tresses without tearing the remaining hair out. But soon he paused to watch the proceedings. The other healers tried to make themselves useful while Istimë removed dirt and bone splinters from the terrible wound, trimmed the rough edges of the remaining bones and the torn muscles, and cleaned the paper-like skin. Occasionally she called for clean water and, finally, for silk thread, which she used to fix the skin over the open wrist. When she was done, she cleaned her hands while one of the others bandaged the no longer bleeding arm with water-soaked gauze. Findekáno was torn between horror and fascination, and his admiration for Istimë rose beyond measure.
She caught his look and gave him a lopsided smile. "That's one problem dealt with," she said. "I wish there weren't so many others."
Findekáno nodded. "Do you think you can save him?" he asked.
She looked at him, her dark eyes sympathetic. "I am not sure. I have healed many wounds and know how to care for them, but I've never had to deal with so many at once. He must have suffered horribly... nor will it get better any time soon, I'm afraid. We will have to break his leg again to set it –"
One of the healers whimpered, and Findekáno said at once, "No. You cannot hurt him even more."
"If we don't, he'll limp for the rest of time," Istimë said gently. "If he can ever walk again at all. Sometimes something terrible has to be done to set things right."
In his state of grief and exhaustion, Findekáno found that extremely profound and strangely descriptive of his family's history. He looked at the ground, saying nothing.
"Well," Istimë said, "let's see what we can do."

They carried Russandol over to the bathtub. His cousin writhed and moaned weakly when his sore skin came into contact with the luke-warm water, but he showed no sign of waking. Findekáno bit his lip to keep from crying.
He had hoped that, with the worst of the dry blood and dirt and ashes gone, the damage might perhaps prove to be not so bad after all, but the contrary was the case. When the muck was washed away, the sores and bruises, cuts and lacerations were revealed in all their dreadful glory: There was hardly a stretch of skin not marked with some kind of injury, although the sore back and the right shoulder, bruised to a blackish purple, were the worst. Some wounds had scarred over, others had barely begun to heal. Moreover, starvation had turned Russandol's body into a grotesque landscape, all deep sunken valleys and steep mountain ridges. The Nolofinwëans had all grown thin on their march across the Ice, but they had kept their muscle. Russandol, on the other hand, was so meagre that one could see every single bone pressing through his skin, a brutal lesson in anatomy. Findekáno suspected that he could have circled his cousin's thigh with his thumb and forefinger.

He knelt beside the tub, making sure that Russandol's shoulders and head remained above he water while the healers took care of the rest. Even when the clear water turned to muddy red, Istimë did not lose her air of calm efficiency. The younger healers didn't always manage to hide their disgust and dismay so well. Still they were as gentle as they could be while gingerly cleaning the remaining skin. They progressed slowly; the rising sun was sending its first beams through the cracks in the curtains before they were done. Findekáno felt stiff and worn out, but he continued to hold Russandol and to work the knots out of his hair so it could be washed, and afterwards combed properly. He stayed after the bath, too, when the healers moved Russandol back to the cot to take further care of the cleaned wounds, stitching up what could be stitched, and applying sweet-smelling ointments and salves.
Russandol woke briefly towards the morning, but his eyes remained unfocused. He didn't react when addressed, unable to do more than groan pitifully. However, he was able to suckle some water and some broth from a clean rag Istimë had given Findekáno, although he drifted back into unconsciousness swiftly. Findekáno whispered soothing things while the healers withdrew tactfully.

When mid-day approached, they were done with all but the cruellest part: the re-setting of the crooked leg. Findekáno hoped desperately that his cousin wouldn't wake again just now. Despite the Fëanorian's fragile look, it took three strong guards to help with the breaking of the bone, and they were shaking with horror at what they had to do. Findekáno couldn't blame them. The dull crack of the badly-healed bones, and the scraping as the healers carefully pulled them into place, were enough to make him feel thoroughly sick. The leg was then splinted and bandaged firmly, and Russandol was dressed in an old nightshirt that had once belonged to Nolofinwë. It was a little too short for Maitimo, but made up for it by being much too wide.
They carried him to Findekáno's chamber and covered him in blankets and furs. His forehead was glistening with sweat, but he made no noise now, and his breath came flat but evenly. Istimë advised Findekáno to get some food and rest.
He didn't budge.

Russandol's fever mounted over the course of the day, and he tossed weakly in his sleep, whimpering and moaning. Findekáno tried to comfort him, but it did not seem as though anything he said or did could reach through his cousin's tormented dreams. The healers came again to put cooling compresses on Maitimo's forehead, and once tried to feed him some broth, which only made him cough and spit. The younger healers’ gazes were downright hostile by now. Istimë shook her head sadly and again told Findekáno that he ought to sleep. Findekáno continued his vigil.

When the door opened again, much later, it was not the healer but Nolofinwë who entered. He was perfectly composed, but there were dark shadows under his eyes that Findekáno preferred to ignore. He did not know what to say, thus limiting his reaction to a nod in greeting.
"How is he?" asked Nolofinwë.
Findekáno shrugged his aching shoulders, sighing. "I don't know. Asleep."
His father nodded. "As you should be. You've been on your feet for far too long, I daresay. You can sleep in my room while he needs your bed..."
"I cannot leave him," Findekáno protested.
Nolofinwë's face grew stern. "You need rest. One of the healers can take care of him as well as you."
"They hate him."
His father raised an eyebrow. "Not so much they'd kill him in his sleep." He looked at Maitimo, who lay curled up on his side, trembling even underneath the warm blankets.
"Nonetheless," Findekáno began, but he was stopped short.
"No, Findekáno, not 'nonetheless'. You need sleep, and you'll get it. If you are not reasonable enough to rest for your own sake, I must command you - as your father, or if that will not do, as your lord. I can appoint a guard for him or send a healer, but you will eat, take a bath and get a few hours' sleep. Obey me – at least this once."

Findekáno rose. His lip was threatening to tremble; he did not look at his father. He felt exhausted, and he knew that he did need rest, but how could his father demand that Findekáno leave his cousin alone in this state?
But there was no point in discussing things with his father when he began to play on his authority, and thus Findekáno rose, and marched to the door, saying "As you wish, my lord," just barely resisting the urge to slam the door shut for Russandol's sake.
Nolofinwë stayed behind unhappily, looking at his nephew's helpless form. Before he went to inform the healers and write a letter to the Fëanorians, his hand came to rest on Maitimo's shoulder for a moment.

- - -

The message reached the other camp late the next day. It was delivered just as the sons of Fëanáro had finished their supper, the one time of day Macalaurë insisted they share. Orecalo, who had accepted the message at the gate, entered nervously. "A letter for King Macalaurë", he announced.
Macalaurë stared at the rolled-up parchment for a moment. Curufinwë sat up. "That's Nolofinwë's seal," he noted. "What does he want now?"
"You make it sound as though he wrote letters to us constantly," Macalaurë admonished him distractedly, accepting the letter. Orecalo stood back expectantly. Macalaurë didn't look at his brothers, but he knew that they were watching him curiously as well. He broke the seal and silently read the lines penned down in Nolofinwë's elegant handwriting. A gasp escaped him, and a trembling hand rose to cover his lips.
"What is it?" Tyelkormo asked sharply, half-sprawled across the table. "What insults does he send?"
Macalaurë shook his head, blinking back the tears that began to rise to his eyes.
"He writes that Nelyo is alive, and that Findekáno found and freed him."

For a moment there was silence, followed by the sound of wood scraping on wood as his brothers jumped to their feet, pushing over chairs and rushing forward to look at the letter, hovering behind Macalaurë's back like hungry crows.
"'He is gravely injured and cannot be moved from our camp before he recovers'," Macalaurë went on.
"Poor Nelyo," cried Ambarussa, "but hurrah for Cousin Findekáno!"
"Indeed," Macalaurë said softly, and then he fell silent.
"'Considering the current state of affairs between your host and mine, you will doubtlessly understand that you cannot visit him'," Curufinwë read on in his place. "Well doubtlessly I don't understand! He is our brother; how can he believe we don't want to see him at once?"
"We have not tried to see him for the past twelve years," said Carnistir matter-of-factly.
His brothers reacted in shock. "How dare you say that? If we had known that he could be freed so easily, we would have done so immediately," Tyelkormo said harshly.

Macalaurë raised an eyebrow. "How do you know it was easy?" he asked.
Tyelkormo's eyebrows mirrored his. "Why, if Findekáno did it all on his own, it cannot have been too hard. If it had been that hard, all our host would not have sufficed, after all." Macalaurë understood the barb very well and looked down. "'I will write to you again when there are new developments'," he read the concluding line of the letter. "That's it."
"No blessings or regards? Tsk," commented Tyelkormo, accepting the distraction.
"Very impolite," Curufinwë agreed.
"Who cares?" said Ambarussa, his cheeks glowing with excitement, rivalling Carnistir's. "Nelyo's safe!"
"Nonetheless Nolofinwë could come off his high horse," said Curufinwë stubbornly. "I have half a mind to ride over and teach him some basic manners. What is he thinking, holding Nelyo hostage like that?!"
"Peace," said Macalaurë, rolling the letter back up. "He didn't demand anything –"
"Yet," Curufinwë interrupted and gained himself a stern look.
"He didn't demand anything. He merely said that Nelyo is in his camp to recover. Of course we want to see him. I cannot say how much I want to see him. But we have waited for a long time. I am as impatient as you are, but I think we'll manage to wait a bit more." He sighed.
Curufinwë rolled his eyes, but finally he smiled wryly. "Well, I suppose it is easier to wait knowing that Nelyo is in Nolofinwë's care than it was when he was in Moringotto's care."
None of them could argue with that.

Part II, Chapter II

In which Maedhros finds that his overall situation has improved considerably.

Read Part II, Chapter II

Whereas Maitimo had often dreamed of his past life and his family whenever he had been able to catch sleep during his torment, his mind now kept returning to the cruel mountain, and his sleep was not restful but torment anew. The first days he writhed and tossed – feebly, his worn-out body incapable of actual movement - and the closest he came to waking was to drift from haunted dreams into another state of unconsciousness. In those days he knew nothing that was happening around him, locked in fear and pain and fever. Occasionally he felt touches upon his skin and heard whispers and words that he vaguely felt he should understand, but they remained alien and distant. Even trying to think was too much of an effort, and he always fell back into dark dreams swiftly.
When days later he finally woke to full consciousness, it was with a start and a suppressed scream from a nightmare full of Orcs with whips and glowing irons. When he wrenched his eyes open, he found a room in their stead. Promptly his eyes clapped shut again: This was a kind illusion, and he wanted to stay in it.

In his illusion he lay curled up on his side, on something miraculously soft and warm; light was on his face, and the smell of blood was almost overcome by a scent of wood and herbs, wool and honey. His right hand was strangely unreceptive to his commands, so he used his left to slowly explore the surface of closely woven threads that covered him, yielding underneath his fingers. Of course there was pain; there always was. His right shoulder and arm and moreover the wrist burned harshly, sending relentless jolts through his veins with every heartbeat. But beyond that there was no more than a dull ache, not nearly as acute as he was used to. Only his head was spinning. It was almost too warm. Perhaps the clouds had torn and the bright lamp was burning him again, he thought, although it seemed to be a different kind of warmth. Perhaps he had simply gone mad for good. But it was a pleasant madness - he felt better than he had in years. As he gained more and more focus, his roaming hand recognised blankets and something like an animal's pelt. For a while, he was content to lie still and breathe the sweet air without the terrible pressure on his chest that had perforce become what he considered normal. His heart beat regularly and reassuringly behind aching ribs.
Then he slowly opened his eyes.

The room was still there.
It was small and sparsely furnished: Aside from the bed on which he lay there were only a small desk, a chair and a chest. There would have been no room for further furniture. The walls were painted in white, a thin blue line of floral ornaments circling the room at about shoulder-height; otherwise it was unadorned. But sunlight was shining through the glass panes of a window over the desk, falling on its polished surface and onto the wooden boards of the floor. It was the most beautiful thing Maitimo could remember seeing in a long time.

He had never been here before, Maitimo thought wildly, so surely he wasn't imagining it? It was unthinkable that he could truly be in such a friendly place, but he longed so badly to believe it! His left hand, clutching the pillows, let go to feel the wood of the bedstead, the wool of the blankets, the soft furs; it all felt real, and during his other hallucinations he had never been able to push aside the harsh surface of the stone wall beneath his back - surely this must be real?
It was impossible, altogether impossible. He called himself to order, told himself to be realistic. Perhaps this was some trick of Moringotto's. Or perhaps the Enemy wanted him to recover a little, so his torment could begin anew? That must be it, that made sense. But he would escape this time, Maitimo thought. Perhaps he could smash a window-pane and use a shard to kill himself before the hidden guards that must doubtlessly lurk somewhere could stop him?

He tried to sit up, but the mere attempt to raise himself even just as far as his elbows made his heart race and his lungs burn without achieving anything. He was so weak that the blankets bound him as effectively as iron chains would have done. He fell back with a pained groan. As he had expected, there was a guard who came when he heard the noise.
What Maitimo had not expected was that the guard would be an Elf. The face was familiar, but it couldn't possibly be here. It was the slightly aged, somewhat thinner face of the son of one of Nolofinwë's councillors who had often played with Maitimo and his brothers before Fëanáro's exile; Lastaher, Maitimo remembered, had been his name. But why his former playfellow should be here he couldn't begin to grasp. Surely Moringotto could not have imprisoned all the Elves even in the Blessed Realm!

He stared at the guard in confusion and found his gaze returned, hostility obvious in the other's eyes. Yet they were not dull or lit only by malice as those of the Orcs had been. Hope was dangerous, misleading, bringing only new pain when it was smashed; yet Maitimo couldn't quench the hope that began to swell in his heart.
"Lastaher?" he finally croaked, fully expecting that the other would now prove to be no more than a phantom.
Instead Lastaher nodded, almost grudgingly. "You still know me."
"Yes," breathed Maitimo, dizzy with excitement. "Yes. – Where are we?" He raised his head, shaking with the effort, looking urgently at his one-time friend.
"In Hisilomë. This is the encampment of King Nolofinwë," said Lastaher, and his face was like a mask. Maitimo did not care. Surely he could not be imagining this. Had the answer been Tirion, his brothers' camp, Mandos, he might have been hallucinating, he thought; but the idea of a Nolofinwëan camp in Hisilomë had never crossed his mind, and so it could not be a trick of his brain, could it? He closed his eyes; he felt them well up even as the corners of his mouth crept into a smile.
"I am free then," he whispered, trembling at the enormity of the idea, "free," and he wept, and wept more, and whispered praises to Eru and all the Valar.

Lastaher stood and watched as though embarrassed. When Maitimo's sobs grew weaker, he said gruffly, "Forget not to praise Findekáno, for it was he who risked his life for you."
"Findekáno…" Maitimo said. Then he clenched his eyes shut again as finally the memories hit him. His right arm cramped, painfully reliving the terrible moments when it had lost its hand – that, he thought dully, explained why his right hand hadn't worked. It was not there. It was lost, gone forever; his right arm ended in nothing. The thought was dreadful enough to make his eyes well up anew while a scream rose in his throat. But with hope, Maitimo's pride had been kindled also, and he swallowed the scream and grit his teeth and fought for breath, forcing his voice to be steady. "Yes... where is he?"
If Lastaher had noticed the inner struggle or heard the pain in his voice, he did not betray it. "He scarcely left your side. This is not the first time our King had to command him to eat and sleep."
"Right your King is," said Maitimo, disinclined at the moment to react to Lastaher's obvious provocation. He tried to make light of the situation. "Findekáno has no idea what a privilege a soft bed is."
Lastaher was not amused at all. "Do you think we had soft beds on the Ice?" he snapped.
Maitimo recoiled. "The Ice?" he asked, half-offended by Lastaher's rudeness, half shocked. "Is that how you came here?"
Lastaher glowered at him furiously, and for a moment Maitimo was afraid of him. But Lastaher did not strike him. Instead he turned around, looking tired. "I will tell Prince Findekáno that you have woken," he said and walked out without waiting for an answer.
"Thank you," said Maitimo nonetheless.

He had been scared that Findekáno would be similarly hostile as Lastaher had been, but when his cousin entered the room, looking exhausted but beaming broadly when he saw that Maitimo was awake, his fear abated, and he managed to mirror Findekáno's delighted expression with a weak smile of his own.
Findekáno rushed over to the bed and knelt beside it, clasping Maitimo's skeletal fingers in his own strong hands. "Oh, Russandol, you're awake! How do you feel?"
Maitimo took a while to reply as if he had to think about the question first.
"It's so unreal," he finally said, his voice rasping a little; he was still tired, and there were so many words that wanted to be said, and his throat, still raw from screaming, felt dry and sore. "It's like the possibility that I might ever be free didn't exist, and now that it has happened I am altogether unprepared to deal with it. I cannot explain..."
Findekáno was still smiling bravely although his eyes were sad. "You've only just returned. Give it some time."
"I don't think I have returned, that's the problem. Not in full."
Findekáno looked at the floor uncomfortably. "I am sorry about your poor hand - I am! Believe me, if I had seen any other way… but I didn't, and I couldn't leave you. And I couldn't kill you. I had to do it. If you cannot forgive me, I'll understand."

"Don't be silly," said Maitimo, trying to make his voice sound firm, with little success. He laughed weakly at his unconvincing sternness before the laugh turned into a cough again. When he had regained his breath, he tried to explain. "Yes, you robbed me of my hand. But you released me from terrible torment, Findekáno, and the last thing you need to do is ask forgiveness."
He sobered, and with some difficulty he bent his head over Findekáno's hands and kissed them reverently, delighting at the smooth, healthy skin under his torn lips. "I thank you, with all my heart I thank you. There are no words for my gratitude. Though I should heal and find my life again, I will never be able to repay this debt I owe you."
"Don't do that," said Findekáno, withdrawing his hands; his face was flushed. "You owe me nothing. You would have done the same for me."
"But I didn't," said Maitimo thoughtfully.
"If our roles had been reversed…" Findekáno began, but he was interrupted.
"But they were. And I did not come to deliver you from the Ice."
Findekáno grimaced. He had been thinking these same things only a few months ago, but he'd had a lot of time to meditate on them since then. "You couldn't have. How? Taking a ship against your father's will? Likely you'd be dead now."
"Father wouldn't have done that," Maitimo protested weakly, clenching his eyes shut. "Not if he'd known that I was aboard."
Findekáno pursed his lips, but he swallowed the harsh reply that tried to escape him. Letting out a long, slow breath, he said instead, "I mean, you would not have survived the journey. How would you have steered the ship all by yourself, through the ice and the contrary winds?"
Maitimo's eyes drooped shut as he struggled to find voice for his thoughts. After a moment, he said, "Perhaps I could have convinced some more of our people to come with me."
"While your father commanded them to stay and burn the ships?" Findekáno snorted. "No, I doubt you could have helped."
"I could have tried harder," his cousin insisted. His voice was now hardly more than a whisper, and his eyes briefly lost focus, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Alarmed, Findekáno reached for his hand, and with enormous effort Maitimo managed to return his attention to the present.
Findekáno felt frustrated and ashamed at once. "We don't need to discuss this now,” he said. "We're just wasting your strength, and what's done is done. All that matters now is that you heal. Now, are you hungry?" His voice still betrayed his frustration, and he winced at his sharp tone.
So did Maitimo. "I am distressing you. I didn't mean to." He sighed, laboriously turning his face to look his cousin in the eye. Findekáno did not avert his gaze, but his brow creased in dismay; Russandol's eyes held so much despair, so much fear, so little light! He forced himself to smile.
"I don't feel hungry anymore," Maitimo said after some deliberation, "but I probably should eat something."
"Indeed you should," Findekáno said, rising to his feet. "I'll get you something."

When he returned with a bowl of broth, he was accompanied by a plain woman with long braids. "This is Istimë, our finest healer," Findekáno introduced her, setting the bowl and bread down on the table. "She has taken care of your wounds so far and wishes to see how you're faring."
"Good day, Mistress Istimë," said Maitimo, determined not to show his exhaustion. "Please do not think me ill-bred when I do not rise to greet you."
The corners of Istimë's mouth twitched. "So you've got your wits back. That is a good sign." Findekáno, standing beside her, relaxed visibly; until then, Maitimo had not even noticed how tense his cousin had been.
"Well, we'll help you sit up so you can eat and drink. Also so I can check on your wounds." She indicated for Findekáno to assist her, and together they got Maitimo into a sitting position. They were extremely careful, yet both their touch and the exertion of moving sent waves of red-hot agony through his body, and he ground his teeth, eyes shut tightly, in his effort to keep silent. "Let it out, cry if you must; it'll make it easier to bear," said Istimë, but Maitimo shook his head. Through gritted teeth, his voice hitching with his fast breath, he managed to say, "I'd rather not."
She raised her eyebrows, but didn't bother to argue with him. "Neither of us will see any shame in it after what you've gone through," she commented, "and it would make it easier. But suit yourself."
Indeed he managed to keep from screaming while Istimë checked on the healing progress of his raw back and sore shoulder, and while she changed his bandages, gently cleaning his wounds and applying salves; but the pain was more than obvious in his face before he buried it in Findekáno's shoulder. His fingers were gripping the blankets so tightly that the skin over his knuckles looked ready to tear.

"Well," he gasped, struggling for breath when the ordeal was over, "at least I know it's real when it hurts like that." He wasn't certain whom he was trying to reassure, himself or the others, who exchanged a glance over his head.
"Brave fool. It'll hurt a while longer, I'm afraid," said Istimë while cleaning her hands. "You haven't healed much – which is not surprising. It's amazing enough you had the strength to wake. But we can try to give some strength back to you, hm?" She reached for the bowl of broth Findekáno had placed on the desk. "Try to eat this, and then we'll let you rest again."

Maitimo hadn't lied when he had said that he didn't feel hungry, but when the first spoon of broth filled his mouth and his starved body remembered what it was like to be fed, his hunger awoke so violently that he felt almost sick. He swallowed the broth greedily. It was a good thing that somebody else was holding the bowl and feeding him, for otherwise it would have been empty within seconds. Even so he found that the food was gone much too soon. "More," he gasped, momentarily forgetting both pride and propriety as he licked his lips for the last drops of broth.
Istimë shook her head. "No. You aren't used to sustenance yet; if we give you too much, you won't be able to digest it, and trust me, there's nothing more frustrating than losing a meal you desperately need." Her eyes darkened a little. "I've seen it often enough." Findekáno, still propping Maitimo upright, shifted uneasily.

Intellectually, Maitimo understood her words, but they did nothing to assuage his hunger. He closed his eyes. "Very well," he said with some difficulty, trying to focus on speech over the raging demands of his belly. "So what happens now?"
"Now I suggest you rest. You can have tea as much as you want; I've put some herbs in it that should help to ease the pain. Young Findekáno has learned a lot about a healer's craft these past days, so I'll take my leave for now. I'll come back to bring you some more food in a few hours. Until then, try to sleep." She rose and bowed slightly to Findekáno, then left, taking the empty bowl with her.
Maitimo curled up on his side again, sighing. "I must be a terrible burden for you," he said. "Helpless, useless, demanding…"
"You're not a burden, and if you were, it'd be my fault alone," Findekáno said, carefully stroking his shoulder.
"You shouldn't have done it. It was much too dangerous. What if they had caught you?"
"They haven't, Russandol," Findekáno reminded him, a little more sternly now. "And I couldn't not at least have tried."
"Still it was madness," Maitimo mumbled; he was growing drowsy after the eventful morning. His fingers sought Findekáno's, who silently took his hand while Maitimo continued, "You risked too much. You shouldn't have." He glanced up at Findekáno and tried a smile. "Of course, now that it went well I must admit that I am insanely grateful that you did."
Findekáno smiled, relieved. "You are most welcome. I just wish you were better."
"Better…" Maitimo said softly. His eyes fluttered shut. "Ah, but I am better. Better than I have been in ages. I am clean, I am fed, and if I'm especially lucky, I won't even be beaten today." Findekáno winced, and Maitimo grimaced apologetically. "Perhaps I'll heal." He sighed. "Perhaps I will learn to believe it."

Part II, Chapter III

In which autumn comes, and in which there are talks and arguments.

Read Part II, Chapter III

Maitimo began to heal indeed, although it happened so slowly that he didn't even notice it at first. He was far too occupied with the many miracles he encountered, things that had once been natural to him but that were now strange and new: the soft texture of his night-shirt and the blankets; the taste of hot, sweetened tea; the feeling of a full stomach; the sound of fair voices, of laughter in some other room; above all, the absence of new torment. All these were overwhelming during the first conscious days of freedom. His exhausted mind was as weak as his body; the slightest melancholy thought or sight would make his eyes well up, and occasionally he clung to Findekáno's shoulders and wept sorely, unable to either stop or at least know the reason for his tears. Any touch made him wince and shy away on impulse even when he could see that the hands belonged to Findekáno, or Istimë, or some other Nolofinwëan healer; when the touch turned out to be kindly meant, when instead of being put to pain he was washed with warm water, or anointed with sweet balm, or helped to sit and take his tea or broth or thin porridge, he was always surprised and reduced to tears of gratitude, even after a full week.

But if he was quick to cry, he was also quick to laugh for no good reason, delighted just because a leaf looked so pretty in the sunlight, or because Findekáno smiled, or because there was honey in his tea. Together with his need for help with such trivial things as sitting up or eating, it made him feel like a new-born child. Leaning against Findekáno, drowsy after another meal, he mentioned as much.
Findekáno laughed. "Well, as long as you don't start calling Istimë 'Mother', I don't think that's so bad," he said.
Maitimo peered up at him. "Ah, but in fact you delivered me," he said. "Istimë is more the fatherly presence. Perhaps I should begin to call you Nana Findekáno?"
"Ts!" Findekáno made, trying to look stern and disapproving, and Maitimo laughed again just because he could.

After the miracles there were the small triumphs: the first time he felt content, not deprived, when his bowl was empty; the first time he managed to look at his right arm without retching when Istimë changed the dressings; the first time he had regained strength enough to sit up on his own and reach for and hold a cup without help. Outside the window, the leaves on the swaying tree turned red and golden and began to fall, drifting on the wind. Sometimes one of them was carried into the room through the open window – after years spent in the open without anything to protect him from the cold and the wind, the still air in the small room soon felt too warm, almost suffocating, to him – and came to rest on the floor before someone threw it out.
Maitimo realised that he did not need to dread the winter this time.

But he still tired quickly, and as soon as he gave in to the need for sleep, the nightmares returned. Then his mind was convinced to be in Angamando again, or high upon the cruel mountain. It didn't matter that he was safe, lying comfortably on a warm bed in Hisilomë: He could feel the chains, the fire and the icy winds and the ever-growing pain, and he thrashed and screamed in his sleep, unable to escape the terror. Frequently he had to be torn out of his dreams by a guard or servant or healer and awoke sobbing, staring with wide, terrified eyes at the strange but Elvish faces before him. Soon those who woke him and assured him that it had been nothing but a dream were no longer sympathetic but grew annoyed. Once he was awake, they left swiftly, and he lay in the darkness, face burning with shame, trying to stay awake for the rest of the night. He could hear them talking outside in hushed, angry voices. At these times he felt all too clearly that he was unwelcome here. The only friendly faces to tell him otherwise were those of Findekáno and Istimë the healer. No other member of his family came to see him, least of all his brothers. In the dark hours when he tried not to fall asleep again, he found a lot of time to wonder why, and to come up with various explanations, all of them disheartening.
Findekáno of course soon noticed the dark shadows under Maitimo's eyes and the waning of his just-regained strength. After one of Maitimo's meals, Findekáno finally addressed the topic. Maitimo didn't reply at once.

"Have you often dreamt of the Ice even after you were here?" he finally asked. Findekáno shrugged. "Not that I remember. It was harder for Turvo, I think; he lost his wife…"
Maitimo looked pained. "I did not know that." He took a sip of tea, then sighed. "You should tell me all about the Ice. And what else befell you." Findekáno realised that his cousin was trying to steer away from the original question, but he did not try to stop him. "Very well," he said, sitting down on the side of the bed, "I shall tell you everything." And he did, as well as he could. To his surprise he found that the past grew easier to bear in the telling. Maitimo, on the other hand, gnawed his lip, clearly distressed by the tale.
"So much suffering," he said when Findekáno was done, unable to meet his cousin's eyes. "And it was all our fault."
"Not yours," Findekáno protested, "and you couldn't have done anything to help it." He found this drift of the conversation rather frustrating - it would do nothing but irritate him and depress Maitimo.
"Maybe not," the other said softly, "but it was still my family that started it."
The silence that followed was so uncomfortable that Findekáno reached out for a comb and shifted closer to his cousin in order to brush his hair. Maitimo leaned against him, closing his eyes; this was another little miracle, to have clean, soft, tidy hair instead of a tangled greasy mass. The silence grew companionable.
"Still I wish your people would talk to me instead of just glaring," Maitimo suddenly said.

Findekáno halted. "Perhaps they don't know what to say," he suggested, carefully avoiding to say anything that might further his cousin's feeling of guilt. "Or even how to address you."
Maitimo gave a short laugh that still resembled a cough more than anything else. "They know well enough what to call me when they think I can't hear them; 'traitor' is one of the kinder terms."
"At least they don't call you thus to your face. But truly your name is a problem, isn't it?"
"You don't seem to have a problem with it."
Shrugging, Findekáno pointed out, "That is because I can call you Russandol, but for them using your epessë would be too familiar. Even Father won't use it; when you are mentioned, you are 'my nephew'."
"Kin, at least," said Maitimo, finding to his surprise that the idea of Nolofinwë disliking him too much to use his name was painful. "I must speak with him at some point. – But I have other names beside Russandol. I mean, I understand full well that nobody will call me Maitimo," he lifted his atrophied right arm, ending in the firmly bandaged stump, an expression of disgust on his face, "for that would be a lie. But what of Nelyafinwë?"

Findekáno stared at him, laying the comb aside. "Why, you should know why none of my people like that name. It's presumptuous, and your father chose it purely to spite mine. It would not be fitting."
"On the contrary," said Maitimo and leaned back against the pillows, carefully. "It is now more fitting than it has ever been. There is your father, makes the first, and Uncle Arafinwë back home, makes the second, and then there is me, makes the third - now I am indeed Nelyafinwë."
Findekáno frowned and studied his friend's face, pondering that statement and its implications; but he said nothing. Maitimo seemed to be wrestling with exhaustion again. His eyelids fluttered shut only to be wrenched open a few moments later. A little awkwardly, Findekáno patted his shoulder. "You need your sleep."
But Maitimo shook his head. "That does me no good. It only brings the dreams. Keep me awake? Please?"
With another frown, Findekáno said, "You're not strong enough to do without sleep."
"I'm not strong enough to bear the memories," Maitimo replied. "Company will do me better than sleep. Please, keep me busy somehow."
He changed the topic abruptly, looking past Findekáno at the wall. "Why do my brothers not wish to see me?"
"I am sure they would. But Father has told them not to come. He thinks there'd be strife if they were to enter our camp. And he's probably right."
Despite this rather disheartening reply, Maitimo felt profoundly relieved. "Then it is not because they no longer love me."
"Of course not," Findekáno cried, even though he wasn't quite as certain as he pretended. But though the brothers had done nothing to save Maitimo, surely at least some of them would wish to see him again now? "Don't think so lowly of yourself."
"It is hard to do otherwise," Maitimo muttered, "when you're surrounded by people who let you feel you're worthless. Not you," he added quickly when he saw Findekáno's face, "but surely your guards do not pretend to love me. Or your father, either."
Biting his lip, Findekáno replied, "They mean no ill, they just find it hard to deal with the situation. Don't forget that your father --" he stopped himself. "Well. Do not blame them too much."
"I do not. I merely noted what was true."
Findekáno sighed. "They'll get used to you."
"I do hope they won't have to." Maitimo took Findekáno's hand, holding it tightly. "Will you ask your father to speak with me, please?"
"I will try if you sleep."
"That is a cruel condition, for when I sleep I dream."
"Perhaps you'll dream something better this time." Findekáno did not like the dark turns their conversations kept taking and tried to make light of it. He rose and winked to his cousin. "Dream of me."

And Maitimo did, but it didn't make his dreams better in the least, for now his fears took shape in his mind: In his dream, Findekáno had been captured, and now the Orcs tormented him instead of Maitimo, who was instead forced to watch helplessly. Findekáno neither screamed nor pleaded – ever the brave, thought some strangely distanced part of Maitimo's brain – but his agony was obvious, and soon Maitimo was begging the Orcs to release his cousin, to no avail. Worse and worse it got until Maitimo was screaming in Findekáno's stead, weeping at the cruelty he was forced to witness, at the blood and fire and madness. "Do with me what you will, but let him go and harm him no more," he cried, and finally they grabbed him by the shoulders which exploded with pain – and without realising that he had wakened he found himself sitting bolt upright in his bed in Hisilomë, and the hands on his trembling shoulders belonged to his uncle.
"Findekáno," Maitimo sobbed, only half-awake, "where is he?"
"Outside, with the warriors," Nolofinwë replied in an even voice, though a frown marred his composure. "He told me you had asked to see me."
"Yes," said Maitimo, falling back into his pillows, burying his face and crying in anguish and relief.
Nolofinwë took a step back. "Now, now," he said sternly. "It rather distresses my people to hear a grown elf cry like a child."
Maitimo nodded, ashamed of his weakness but unable to reply at once. It took a while until he trusted himself to speak. Then he said, "I apologise. I am not doing it on purpose, I assure you."
Nolofinwë began to pace around the small room. "Some here believe that you are, hoping thereby to gain some pity and kindness."
Maitimo gaped. "You cannot be serious."
"I am not jesting. I assure you that opinion has been heard."
Incredulous, Maitimo struggled into a sitting position and reached for his cup; his throat felt raw after all the screaming. The tea had gone cold and bitter, but it served to shake off the last remains of the dream. When he had taken a generous sip, he spoke again. "Is it what you think," and carefully he added, "Uncle?"
"Is it what I should think," Nolofinwë retorted, "Prince Nelyafinwë – or should I say King?"
Maitimo winced at his tone. "I hear your people name you King," he said defensively.
"I do not ask for it."
"But they do."
"They feel it is right. You have not answered my question."
Softly, Maitimo said, "I do not wish for pity, and I cannot hope for more kindness than I have already been shown." He had thought that his words might ease the tense atmosphere and soothe his uncle, but to his surprise and horror Nolofinwë understood it quite differently.
"There is no need to be ironic," he said, lips pursed. "Findekáno has told me of your complaints."
Maitimo suppressed a grimace. Nolofinwë was a gifted rhetorician, and he obviously felt the need to assert himself. Maitimo had rather wished that their conversation could be on a familiar level, but that seemed to be impossible. This was not just simple talk, it was a competition, and he wasn't sure that he was up to that. Still, he had been educated in politics and public speaking as well, and he could not ignore the challenge. Keeping his voice soft despite his agitation, he replied, "But I am not being ironic, Uncle. Truly, after the past years, you could have made me sleep on the cold ground in the rain and fed me on nothing but hard bread and stale water, and yet I would have perceived it as kindness."
That stopped Nolofinwë short, and he stood, taking a deep breath. Then he surprised Maitimo again by nodding and saying, "Point taken." But his gaze grew sharp again almost immediately. "Now, why did you ask after Findekáno just now?"
Maitimo almost groaned. "No reason." He did not wish to tell his uncle about the terrors of his dream. "It was just a nightmare."

Of course that didn't calm Nolofinwë one bit. "If it concerns my son, I demand to know it," he said, pacing again.
His nephew shook his head wearily. "It was not prophetic, Uncle. Only a fear relived."
"'Just', and 'only'? Then you would not have screamed like that, I daresay. Tell me."
Clenching his eyes shut, Maitimo gave up. "I dreamt of the day Findekáno saved me, but in my dream he failed, and they took him captive," he said. He heard a sharp intake of breath from his uncle and knew that he had to explain no more. "That was what I feared the most when I saw him there, and now it has come to torment my sleep."

For a while he heard nothing but Nolofinwë's footsteps measuring the room, about and about. He opened his eyes and sought his uncle's, hoping to guess at his thoughts, but the other's face was mask-like, unreadable. Finally Nolofinwë stood again, folding his arms across his chest.
"It was foolish of him to try and find you."

Inwardly, Maitimo winced; even though he felt the same, it was a slap in the face to be told so by somebody else. Nonetheless he managed to reply evenly.
"We agree on that."
Nolofinwë raised an eyebrow. "But it is rather good for you that he did, isn't it."
"Oh yes, and now that it has ended well, I cannot even begin to express how happy I am that he dared it. But if he hadn't tried yet, and I should advise him, I would tell him – no, beg him - not to go."
"We agree indeed, then," said Nolofinwë, and for the first time there was the hint of a smile on his face. Maitimo smiled in return, relieved and grateful, and finally found it possible to approach the topic he had wanted to discuss in the first place.
"Findekáno told me that you have informed my brothers of my rescue?"
"I have."
"Thank you."
Nolofinwë nodded graciously.
"I should like to see them again," Maitimo went on. "Would you permit them to visit me?"
"That is out of the question," his uncle said at once. "First, I do not quite see why I should invite them, for they did nothing of the sort when we had only just arrived and could have used their support; second, even if I were inclined to see them, it would not be advisable, for my people have no love for them and would object strongly. Nay, it is safer for all of us if they do not come. There is resentment enough about harbouring you."
"I understand," Maitimo said with a sigh. "I apologise for being such an inconvenience."
Nolofinwë frowned. "I did not say that."
"It does not take explicit words to make me understand that," Maitimo said. He set his now-empty teacup down. "Perhaps it would be wisest if I importuned your hospitality no longer." He paused briefly but went on before Nolofinwë could interrupt him. "I think it is time I returned to my brothers."
His uncle spoke up now. "You are not fit for the journey."
"I was not fit for the journey when your son brought me here, and yet I made it."
"That was a necessary evil. This is madness."
"It may be that, but it will rid you of me. Your people would doubtlessly appreciate it."
Nolofinwë breathed in sharply, and Maitimo winced, surprised; he had not wanted to antagonise his uncle, and he certainly had not intended to hurt him. For all the aloofness he displayed, Maitimo suddenly realised, Nolofinwë wasn't nearly as indifferent as he pretended to be. But how should he have guessed?

Nolofinwë stood at the window now, no longer looking at Maitimo. "You are ungrateful," he stated.
"No," said Maitimo in a soft voice. "Please do not believe that. There are not enough words to express my gratitude. Yet I long to see my brothers again, for I love them, and that cannot change; and I miss them. And it would take at least one burden from you if I no longer distressed your people with my presence."
Sighing, Nolofinwë said, "I still do not think it is advisable for you to travel. Winter is coming…"
"And then you'll be stuck with me for months on end. I would risk it."
"I cannot dispatch anyone to accompany you."
"Then permit someone from my brothers' camp to pick me up here."
Nolofinwë turned away from the window and fixed him with a stern glance. Maitimo returned it as calmly as he could.
"Fine," his uncle said finally. "I shall send a message. Yet I find it unadvisable. You may have regained some strength, but you have lost far more. You cannot even walk. You should wait."
"I cannot," Maitimo whispered.
Nolofinwë made no more reply, but the disapproval in his eyes was obvious.

As soon as his footsteps had died away, Maitimo swung his legs over the side of the bed – or that was what he had planned. It was harder than he had expected, and it took quite a bit of work until his feet finally touched the ground. The splinted leg that he hardly felt when lying down was hurting fiercely already. But he was determined to prove his uncle wrong, and thus, when he had given it a little time to adjust, he pushed himself off the bed and tried to stand.
He barely managed to catch himself against the wall as he fell, the atrophied muscles and the unmended bone refusing to carry his weight, piteous though it was. The effort made his head reel; already he was panting, and cold sweat made him shiver.
He gritted his teeth and tried again, intending to make up for the lack of strength with momentum. It took him halfway towards the window before he collapsed.
There he lay, too exhausted to pick himself up again, and forbade himself to call for help. It was shameful enough that he had brought himself into this predicament; he had no wish for witnesses. At any rate, he was not overly uncomfortable, aside from the embarrassment and the hurt in his muscles. He could wait until Findekáno returned from his training, no matter how long it would take. The floor was very clean and smelled pleasantly of beeswax, and Maitimo couldn't help noticing that there was no dust even underneath the bed. Someone was being meticulous.

Findekáno was in a bad mood, and finding his cousin on the floor didn't make it any better, even after he had been assured that it was Maitimo's own fault. He helped him back onto the bed, and in doing so, he discovered that what Maitimo had believed to be sweat was in fact blood. Findekáno exploded.
"What did you go and do that for?" he snapped while dabbing at the re-opened wounds and cleaning the drying blood away. "You're bleeding again!"
"I wanted to walk," said Maitimo quietly.
"It's too soon for that, and you should know it," Findekáno said, rinsing the linen in a bowl of water. "If you try that again, I'll have to tie you to that bed."
Despite his anger he wasn't serious, but Maitimo didn't realise that and reacted with panic. "You wouldn't!" he cried, eyes widening, and he pushed away from Findekáno before the other had a chance of replying. On any other day the terrified look on his cousin's face would have made Findekáno feel miserable, but now it only served to fuel his anger. It was, after all, not his fault what Maitimo had gone through, and it wasn't his fault that his cousin couldn't keep his mind safely away from the terrors of Angamando.
So he growled, "Not if you don't give me reason to," and Maitimo edged further away until he pressed against the wall. Findekáno stood before him, fists clenched around the cloth he'd used to clean the blood away, and they stared at each other. Maitimo's eyes were wild and glassy, seeing things that were not there; Findekáno's eyes were dark with frustration. Both were breathing heavily.

Only slowly did the terror leave Maitimo's face, and when it did, it was replaced with confusion. "What did I do?"
"Are you asking in earnest?" Findekáno snapped incredulously.
"Otherwise I wouldn't ask at all."
Findekáno's lips were pursed so tightly that they all but disappeared. "Oh, that is strong. You want to leave me, you're endangering yourself – and then you ask all innocently what you did."
Maitimo's eyes widened, this time in surprise. "I do not want to leave you!"
"No? Who then asked my father to send for your brothers, to take you away with them?"
All Maitimo could think of saying was, "Oh."
"'Oh' indeed!" cried Findekáno. "Is it so dreadful to be here? Am I such a nuisance, that the first thing you do now that you're well enough to no longer make me fear for your life is run away?!"

Maitimo sighed. "I am hardly running. And I rather thought I was the nuisance."
"You are selfish, that's what you are."
"Perhaps. But shouldn't you be glad to get rid of me then?"
He rued the words as soon as he had spoken them. "I did not mean that,” he said in a pleading voice, fearing that Findekáno would leave him after that. But instead, Findekáno slumped down on the side of the bed, shaking his head. "You shouldn't go. Even Father says so."
"Findekáno, I am a terrible burden to your father. It is laudable that he can put aside certain grievances and sustain me here, but quite obviously not all of your people can. It'll drive a wedge between you and them sooner or later, and I don't want to be the cause of that. And I…" He moved back towards Findekáno, reaching for his hand. "Look, I've been nothing but pain and memory for so long. I have forgotten what I am. Perhaps my brothers can help me find that again."
"Because I can't," said Findekáno bitterly, but he allowed his cousin to take his hand.
"That's not it!" Maitimo tried to catch Findekáno's gaze, but the other was still looking down. "That's not it. You have helped me so much already. But it's… it's not everything." He sighed. "I am bloody useless here anyway." He lifted his right arm for emphasis.
"How do you think that's going to change when you go to your brothers? For the better? The house of Fëanáro isn't exactly known for its kindness to those it judges to be useless," said Findekáno savagely.

A stunned silence followed his outburst. Maitimo withdrew his hand and curled up on his side. Findekáno bit his lip, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I am sorry. That was a cruel thing to say."
Maitimo shrugged. "Perhaps it's true." He grimaced and went on, "Well, I ought to get used to that now that I am likely to live. Sooner better than later." He closed his eyes.
Cursing himself, Findekáno took Maitimo's hand again. There was no reaction.
"You are still their brother. I shouldn't have said such a stupid thing," he said.
Faintly, Maitimo replied, "Oh, it's fine. I understand."
Findekáno shook his head but dropped the topic, asking instead, "Do you want to sleep?"
"What else can I do?"
"What about the dreams?"
Maitimo turned to face the wall. "I suppose I better get used to those, too, unless they intend to miraculously leave once I have five brothers around to distract me."
"I see," Findekáno replied weakly. "Try to sleep well then." But he did not leave, nor did he let go of the hand, and he thought that Maitimo's sleep was easier, imagining vainly that it might be his presence that kept the nightmares at bay. He knew that he could not remain at Maitimo's side forever, and he knew that it would be selfish to hope that his presence alone could help the other rest peacefully. But although he reminded himself of these things, he couldn't help but feel pleased when in all the long hours that he sat and watched and held Maitimo's hand there was no scream, no writhing, only once or twice some murmured words Findekáno didn't understand.

The day drew on, and in the end a servant came in with a tray of food and the Lord Nolofinwë's urgent advice for Findekáno to go to bed.
Findekáno ate slowly, wondering whether to wake Maitimo so he could have his supper as well. He decided against it; his cousin was sleeping restfully for once, and he would be able to eat later when he woke up on his own. With his features relaxed in sleep, Maitimo looked a little more like his old self, if one managed to ignore the bruises and creases and the hollow cheeks.

Having finished his meal, Findekáno rose with a sigh; there was little point in angering his father, but he dearly wished he could stay so Maitimo could get his much-needed sleep. Even as Findekáno opened the door he could hear his cousin growing restless.
By the time he returned from bidding his father goodnight, Maitimo was tossing underneath the blankets, struggling against invisible foes. Findekáno set his jaw determinedly and covered the lantern, finding his way to the bed in the moonlight. He touched Maitimo's shoulder, and the sleeper started awake, panting, frightened.
"Hush," said Findekáno, unable to think of anything better. "It's only me."
"Oh," Maitimo said. His breath still came fast and hitched.
"Yes," Findekáno said, feeling awkward. "I think you slept better earlier, when I was with you…"
"I don't know," came the drowsy reply. "Just now…" Maitimo shuddered and tried to sit up, fighting exhaustion.
Findekáno shook his head. "Hush. You were calmer earlier. But I was commanded to go sleep…"
Maitimo grimaced even as his eyes fell shut again. "You should go then. Don't worry about me," he mumbled.
"Don't be foolish," Findekáno retorted. "Of course I worry. And I will go to sleep – but I figure there's room enough beside you?"
"Oh," said Maitimo again; Findekáno thought he could discern the hint of a smile on his cousin's face, but it might have been a trick of the shadows. "There might be, I suppose. I can tuck my belly in to make room for you..."
Findekáno smiled, for now Maitimo's voice had sounded vaguely hopeful; and he undressed and slipped under the covers. Maitimo leaned against him, and Findekáno carefully wrapped his arms around his cousin's frail body, remembering wistfully how strong and firm these thin arms had once been when they had lifted him up as a child. Maitimo's breath grew flat and steady very soon. Findekáno lay awake for a long time, lost in thought. But in all that time Maitimo did not scream once.

Part II, Chapter IV

In which King Maglor deals with his brothers and with Uncle Fingolfin.

Read Part II, Chapter IV

'Therefore you are asked to come and take your brother back on Elenya next week. You may bring Ambarussa to help you. I must warn you again that Nelyafinwë is, in my opinion and that of the healers, not yet fit for the journey. However he insists on returning to you…'
Macalaurë's brow creased as he read. The letter had been addressed to him personally, and thus he had decided to read it in private rather than summoning all his brothers to share the message. He was now very glad of that decision. Nolofinwë's letter was brisk to the point of being offensive, his suggestions were barely veiled commands; and while Macalaurë was ready to ignore the insolence, he knew that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë at the very least would have been furious. As it was, he could bring them the news in his own words, and hope that the joyous contents would occupy them too much to ask for the means of delivery.
And thus, although the letter seemed to have been worded as an angry challenge, Macalaurë ignored the aggressive undertone and finished his reading, focusing on the bare message. Wen he stowed the letter in his desk and went to find his brothers, he was smiling broadly.

Carnistir was easily found, brooding over some old book of records from before the Great March, and Ambarussa was watching the warriors' training, every now and then jumping in to offer critique or advice. But Tyelkormo, Macalaurë learned, had ridden off into the woods earlier and wasn't expected back before nightfall. With a shrug, Macalaurë asked the others to accompany him to Curufinwë's forge. If Tyelko thought he had to leave on a whim, he said, he'd have to put up with being the last to know the good news.
Curufinwë was loath to abandon the forge even briefly, but by now Carnistir and Ambarussa were curious, and they finally managed to convince him to leave his work in the capable hands of the other smiths while he and young Tyelperinquar, always at his father's heels, joined Macalaurë's company just outside the forge.

When in the old, innocent days one of the brothers had strange or exciting news to tell, it had never been Macalaurë. He had always been among those begging the other to disclose the secret. He was surprised that he briefly felt the urge to tease his brothers a little – he would have thought that after all they'd gone through he would be well beyond such childishness. But seeing his brothers standing around him, watching his face eagerly, waiting for the reason to their gathering, he remembered many such incidences in the past. Now it was Curufinwë who stared at him with impatient curiosity, Ambarussa who stepped from foot to foot like a skittish horse, and Macalaurë had to admit to himself that he enjoyed knowing more than they for a moment. But he could not contain the news for long; finally it burst out of him: "Nelyo is coming home!"
The others broke into cheers. Curufinwë clapped his shoulders hard enough to make his knees buckle for a second. Tyelperinquar had not joined the choir of cheers, but his eyes were bright. Ambarussa was almost bouncing with excitement.

Curufinwë was the first to speak. "When? How?"
"Elenya next week," Macalaurë replied, grinning like a fool; the news were only sinking in for good now that he had shared them. "Ambarussa and I will ride to Nolofinwë's camp to fetch him." Ambarussa, to whom this plan was entirely new, beamed.
"Why only you two?" Curufinwë asked at once. But Macalaurë had thought of an explanation by now.
"Because the two of us are the least likely to cause a fight while we're there." Most likely that really was the reason why Nolofinwë had chosen them, he thought. "I know I won't pick one, and if Ambarussa feels like it…" He grinned to show that he was joking. "I trust myself to be able to tame him. I wouldn't be too sure about you others."
"Hey!" his brothers chorused dutifully, but they were not seriously insulted.
"Are you sure you'll manage, though?" Curufinwë asked when they had calmed a little. "It seems a bit meagre, the King accompanied only by his youngest brother…"
"And his eldest, on the way back," Macalaurë reminded him. "At any rate this isn't state business but family business."
"Which is really the same thing with our family," Curufinwë pointed out. "You will at least take some guards with you, won't you?"
"I don't think that's a wise idea," Macalaurë replied. "Don't you agree that it might look like a bit of a provocation to Nolofinwë's people?"
"It's only proper," said Curufinwë with a frown. "And you cannot always take care of every little Nolofinwëan who might be offended by whatever we do."
"Not always, but I will now."
Curufinwë clucked his tongue disapprovingly and said, "I don't like it."
"Well, but I'm the one who has to make the decisions here, and I say we try not to offend them. In a week I'll happily yield all this kingly business to Nelyo, and maybe you'll like his decisions better," said Macalaurë, his mirth suddenly gone. Curufinwë had managed to turn the joyful news around, turn them bitter. Yet he did not look triumphant; instead his brow was creased, and his fingers twitched as though tempted to attack someone.

Ambarussa tried to jump in before the situation could get worse. "Oh, but you've been a good king," he said.
"I know," Macalaurë snapped. "After all, we're all still alive."
Ambarussa took an involuntary step back at his unwonted harshness; but Macalaurë had already regained his control. "I am sorry. You didn’t deserve that." If there was an infinitesimal stress on the word 'you', his other brothers chose to ignore it. "Fine. I daresay we have a lot of planning to do."
"We should have a feast to welcome Nelyo back, and to celebrate his return," Ambarussa said at once. "I'm sure Tyelko will be glad to ride out and hunt some fine deer, and the harvest has been good…"
Curufinwë nodded. "It'll do all of us good, too, this close to winter. Warm people's hearts and all that. Although a week is too short to have new robes made, of course…"
"Your old ones will have to do, Curvo," Macalaurë said dryly. "But a week is indeed short, and we'll need gifts for Nolofinwë. And for Findekáno above all."
"Will we? I thought we weren't on overly friendly terms."
"All the more reason to follow the rules of diplomacy. And they have done us a great service in saving Nelyo, friendly terms or not."
"Fine, fine. What do you have in mind then?"
"I am not sure. That's why we are discussing this. Any suggestions?"
"A book for Nolofinwë," Ambarussa suggested, "one of those we have a duplicate of."

"Nolofinwë has books enough, Telvo," Curufinwë commented.
"I wouldn't be too certain about that, after they have crossed the Ice," said Macalaurë, "but it would be too embarrassing if he had a copy of just the book we chose to give him."
"A map, then?" said Ambarussa. "We've been scouting these lands for over a decade; surely we know them better than he does."
Curufinwë shook his head. "That's our advantage, and we shouldn't give it away easily." Tyelperinquar spoke up now. "Nolofinwë is not our enemy!"
"Indeed not," said Macalaurë, "and I do not see what the advantage of knowing the lands is worth against our own uncle. No, if we can get a properly handsome map drawn until Valanya, it should do very well. I'll ask the scribes about it."
"Fine, you do that. Anything else?"
Macalaurë raised an eyebrow at Curufinwë. "Why, yes. We'll need something for Findekáno, remember?"
"Findekáno's sword looked rather notched, when I last saw it," Carnistir spoke up, oblivious of the dirty grin Curufinwë couldn't prevent from creeping onto his face. "Curvo could make a new blade for him."
"That would be more than a simple host gift. My swords are priceless," Curufinwë said.
Carnistir shrugged. "It would be a noble gift. But it would be a noble gift for a noble deed."
"What, you mean we ought to pay Findekáno?" Curufinwë said, eyebrows raised. "That's a rather disgusting thought."
"And that isn't the idea at all," Macalaurë calmly stated. "Which is why we are talking about a gift. I like Carnistir's idea well enough, unless someone has a better one."
"Someone better has, because I really don't think I want to make a sword for one of them," Curufinwë insisted.

Macalaurë was shocked by the cold hatred in his voice; and he was relieved to see that Ambarussa and Tyelperinquar looked as perturbed as he felt.
"Findekáno is not just anyone," Ambarussa said, quietly. "He is the one who saved our brother. That is worth more than a sword, and far more than your pride, Curvo."
"Oh?" snapped Curufinwë. "So why don't you give him something more than a sword, and leave me and my pride out of the equation?"
Before Macalaurë could speak up and berate Curufinwë for his childish behaviour, Tyelperinquar raised his voice. "If my father insists on being obstinate, I can offer my services as a sword-smith."
"You?" Curufinwë snapped. "Well, that'll be a nice gift. You may have to pay Findekáno to accept it."
Tyelperinquar's face fell, although he stood his place without flinching: His father's brothers winced more than he did.
Macalaurë could no longer keep silent. "That is quite enough, Curufinwë," he said sternly. "If you are displeased by my decisions, fine, yell at me, snipe at me if you must. But chastising your son like that is unjust, and entirely unnecessary. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'll thank you not to speak of what you do not understand," Curufinwë said, the muscles in his face quivering with anger. "You know nothing about either smithcraft or about raising a son, so perhaps you shouldn't question my judgement."
"Enough," said Macalaurë, just barely managing to keep his temper in check. "You are being childish. Yes, you are the undisputed master of the forge around here. As such, certainly any sword you would make for Findekáno would be the best possible. But I cannot believe that you would have taught your own son badly, nor that he would not have inherited a good part of your talent."
"But we are all sons of Fëanáro," Carnistir pointed out, "and but one of us has inherited our father's hand in the forge."

Macalaurë blinked, effectively nonplussed for the moment, but Tyelperinquar was speaking again. "Do not worry, Uncle Macalaurë. I know that my father likes to strike wild when he is angry, but that he means little of it. You need not defend me."
"I do not do it because I need to," Macalaurë stated flatly, "but because we ought to support and aid each other. We have difficulties enough without making an effort to make life even harder. Tyelpo, I appreciate your offer, and I should very much like to see your work. Curvo, if you truly believe that no one but you is up to the job, then I'd say the obvious way out would be for you to do it. I am not going to beg, if that's what you're hoping for; and if you don't watch out, I am not going to ask anymore, either."
Curufinwë glowered at him, but no longer looked as though he were about to strike. "A week is too short a time for good work."
"It cannot be helped," Macalaurë pointed out. "Do you think you can do it?"
Curufinwë bristled again. "Do I think I can do it? Of course I can."
"Excellent," Macalaurë said, "that's settled then. I trust you'll put your usual care into this work."
"I do not deliver shoddy work," Curufinwë growled.
"I know," Macalaurë said, offering a cautious smile, hoping that all the ruffled tempers were on the way of cooling. It was hardly believable that such good news should cause such heated arguments. He glanced at Tyelperinquar, who stood impassively. He wished he could have known whether the youth really felt as brave and indifferent as he acted. Curufinwë still stood clenching his fists. "Is there anything else?" he finally asked. "Or can I get back to my work, to which you have so graciously added more?" Before Macalaurë could reply, he turned on the spot and marched back into the forge, slamming the door.

"My goodness," Macalaurë said. "What is his problem?"
"He is furious because he did not go and rescue Uncle Maitimo; therefore he is jealous of Findekáno; therefore he is less than thrilled at the idea of making a gift for him," Tyelperinquar said evenly. "And I probably should not have called him obstinate."
"He was being obstinate," Carnistir pointed out.
"Well, yes," Tyelperinquar said, "but would your father have appreciated it if you had called him obstinate, even though it might have been true?"
His uncles exchanged bemused and slightly horrified glances. "Not in the least," Macalaurë admitted. "Still I am sorry that Curufinwë was so harsh with you. I am certain he did not mean--"
"I know what my father does and does not mean, don't you worry," Tyelperinquar said. "You do not need to defend me. I am no longer a child."
"I know that," Macalaurë said, surprised. "I just thought..."
"Well, I appreciate your concern, but there is no need for it."
"Very well," said Macalaurë, spreading his hands appeasingly. "If it displeases you so, I shall not speak up for you again."
Tyelperinquar gave a thin, sad smile. "I know you mean well, Uncle." He looked at the others and nodded at them. "I am sure we all have work to do. I for my part ought to help my father. A week is a short time for a good sword."
And with that he left them, following Curufinwë into the forge, with his uncles looking after him bewildered.

- - -

Despite the argument, and despite his objections to the task, Curufinwë delivered a beautiful sword to Macalaurë the evening before the journey to Nolofinwë's camp. He didn't speak while Macalaurë admired his work, but when his brother thanked him, he nodded graciously. "I do not deliver shoddy work," he repeated. "We can't have them think that the House of Fëanáro is no longer capable of forgecraft, can we?"
Macalaurë smiled. This was as good a reason as any, and quite possibly as close to an apology as Curufinwë was likely to offer. Macalaurë was happy to accept it. He looked at the sword again, pulling it from its sheath so the polished blade caught the last daylight, its sheen gleaming amid the bold lines and waves in the folded steel. Close to the hilt, a blessing was engraved into the blade in elegant Tengwar, and the hilt itself was wrapped in firm but soft leather, twined with silver thread and blue silk. Five small sapphires embedded in silver and arranged in a half-circle formed the pommel. Macalaurë swung the blade experimentally, and it cut the air with a satisfying swish. "It is beautiful," he said again, sheathing it. "I knew I could rely on you."
Curufinwë nodded and returned to his beloved forge, and Macalaurë set the sword onto the table where the map was already rolled up and stowed in a protective hull of stamped leather. They had been busy this past week: The feast had to be prepared, and they had set to the work with unwonted enthusiasm as if to chase away the memory of the fight between Curufinwë and his son. Tyelkormo was delighted to have a reason to go on an extended hunt (although, as Macalaurë had expected, he had been offended that they had not waited for him with the news), and for a few days, the forests were full of the sound of horns and hoofbeats.
The brothers were not the only ones in the camp to prepare things for Nelyo's return, for he had been well-beloved, and all had mourned his loss. Now they were making wreaths of the year's last flowers, of ivy and evergreen branches; festival robes that had long spent their days at the bottom of a chest were washed and pressed, and there was only one topic of conversation. Even the first frosty nights couldn't diminish the excitement.
Macalaurë had removed his possessions from the grand bedroom on the first floor, and all the books and tools, clothes and trifles that had long ago belonged to Nelyo had been brought out of storage to await his return. Macalaurë had taken up lodging in Ambarussa's room, and he had the impression that his youngest brother was secretly happy that someone was sharing his room again, although he knew that he would never be able to replace Pityo.

It was still dark when the two brothers left the camp the next morning, a third horse carrying the gifts and a set of clothing for Nelyo in tow. It was Roccalaurë, a proud stallion, and he was less than enthusiastic about his role as a beast of burden and sashayed restively until Tyelkormo promised him that he would be carrying a worthy rider on his way back.
Almost all the camp had gathered to bid them farewell; people were waving and cheering as they rode out into the misty darkness. Macalaurë smiled and thanked each of them. Indeed he could not have stopped smiling if he'd wanted to. He felt full to the brim with joy and anticipation. For once, the dark line of trees along the lakeshore seemed to conceal promises rather than threats. When they had finally left the camp behind and the morning grew brighter, he spurred his horse into a gallop, Ambarussa and Roccalaurë following – surprised but delighted. When the sun rose, pale in the foggy air, Macalaurë burst into song before he was aware of it. He would have to be sombre and dignified once they had to deal with their uncle, he knew, but for the moment he felt as though he was young and careless once more and happily indulged in this feeling. The sun rose higher, melting the ice crystals that were glittering on the ground, turning spider-webs into glorious jewellery. The dwarf-wrought mail they were wearing underneath their warm cloaks and jerkins clinked cheerfully to the rhythm of the ride.

When the other camp came into sight, they sobered, slowing their horses' gait and sitting more upright. By the horn-signals they knew that they had been sighted, and sure enough soon the gates opened.
Here, too, a crowd had gathered, but there were no cheers this time. Instead, people stared at them coldly, silently, their expressions somewhere between hatred and condescension. Four guards stepped outside to bar their way, one of them reaching for the bridle of Macalaurë's horse, two taking care of the others. The fourth raised his head stiffly and said, "Please dismount and leave all weapons with us." Despite the 'please', it was clear that he was commanding them. Macalaurë barely managed not to show his irritation. His mare pranced uneasily as the stranger took hold of the bridle. Macalaurë patted her before following the guard's request.
"I am Canafinwë Macalaurë," he said, masking his unrest with familiar formulae, "King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, here with my brother Telufinwë Ambarussa, to take our brother Nelyafinwë Maitimo back home." He saw the guard scowl angrily as he proclaimed his title and added, in a more placable voice, "We are here at the invitation of your Lord, our uncle." He stood on the ground now, but he was still taller than the other, and although he and Ambarussa were wearing only simple travelling clothes, they still out-dressed everyone in the crowd – including Nolofinwë, who was now stepping forward and addressed them in a smooth voice.
"Indeed so. But you will have no need of weapons here, and it would be appreciated if you left them at the gate."
Macalaurë remembered that they had disarmed Findekáno as well when he had come to visit, and he finally nodded his agreement. They unbuckled their sword-belts and handed their daggers to the guards. Macalaurë took the long, wrapped parcel, clearly sword-shaped, in his hands. "This is a gift," he declared, "so I must ask that you allow us to take it in."
The guard cast a questioning look to Nolofinwë, who gave a small nod. Then he stepped out of the way. The Fëanorians walked forward until they stood before their uncle.

To Macalaurë's profound relief, Nolofinwë did not intend to test his power further. It would have been a good time; after all, he had something that his nephews wanted dearly, and he must know that Macalaurë would be hesitant to insist on his rightful honours under the given circumstances. It was all the more praiseworthy that he did not press it.
In fact, when Macalaurë had reached the gate, his uncle gave a low formal bow. "King Macalaurë," he said, and there was only the tiniest hint of bitterness in his voice, although many in the crowd were muttering angrily, "and Prince Ambarussa." He straightened. "I welcome you to our settlement."
With a relieved smile, Macalaurë returned the bow. "We thank you, Lord Nolofinwë," he said, following the formal road down which Nolofinwë had begun. "It has been a long time."
"That is not his fault," somebody in the crowd hissed. Nolofinwë turned his head sharply to see who it was; he said nothing, but his gaze sufficed to silence the complainers. When he looked back at the brothers, his face betrayed nothing. Macalaurë admired his composure.
"Well," Nolofinwë said. "Come inside."

Meeting the rest of the family was less easy. Turukáno, towering over the others, pointedly looked away; he did not even bother to hide his clenched fists. Then his young daughter, who apparently forgot her grudge when she saw and recognised the red-haired twin, waved shyly. "Hullo, Uncle Ambarussa," she said, and the brothers could not help but smile and hail her in return. After that, Turukáno saw himself compelled to acknowledge them as well. He gave them a very stiff nod and a glare that could have turned a flowering tree to stone. Irissë seemed to be strangely amused by that, and the ice between her and her cousins was somewhat broken, but the others were more successful than Turukáno in pretending that they didn't exist. Artanis held her head high and looked through them, although her aloof smile was more pleasant than the others' stony faces. It was an extremely uncomfortable moment, and Macalaurë felt helpless and useless until Findekáno arrived. Although the eldest of his uncle's sons was more reserved than he had been at their last meeting, he greeted them civilly, and Macalaurë felt a little less uneasy.
To Nolofinwë he said, speaking loudly for all the camp to hear, "We thank you for your hospitality, and especially for the care you have shown our eldest brother. Let me offer you these gifts in token of our gratitude."
Nolofinwë took the map with an air of indifference, but the sword was admired by all that could catch a glimpse of it, and Findekáno took a long time to examine it. He smiled, a little sadly. "This is a fine sword, and direly needed: My old blade broke upon the mountain."
What mountain? Macalaurë wondered, but he only said, "I am glad to hear you have use for it." There was something in his cousin's eyes that made him nervous.

Normally a common meal or at least some sweetmeats and a few cups of tea would have been indicated now, but it was easy to see that most people were unhappy about their presence, and neither Macalaurë nor Ambarussa objected when their uncle suggested that they come to the point at once. They followed him to a longhouse while the rest of the crowd stayed behind. Macalaurë could hear them talking behind his back; he could not make out their words, but he assumed that they discussed their manners and their gifts.
It was strange to walk through this house in which they had lived not a year ago. Macalaurë now saw how primitively they had constructed it, how many things they could have done better (and had done better in the new settlement). Everything made a certain make-shift impression, from the chapped beams to the rough, uneven plaster of the walls. The impression was strengthened by the fact that there was little by way of decoration now: no mirrors, no tapestries, hardly any furniture; only some paint had been applied here and there to ease the austerity of the place. Macalaurë realised that the Nolofinwëans had little to spare, and he suppressed a grimace to think that it was his fault also.
It was a gloomy little procession that walked through the long hallway. Findekáno no longer smiled; Macalaurë tried to speak to him, but his cousin was distracted, and even when Macalaurë thanked him again for saving Nelyo, the other only nodded mechanically without paying much heed. At least the house was not all that large, so they did not have to walk like this too long. Soon they reached the door of a room that, with a pang, Macalaurë recognised to have once been his own.

Part II, Chapter V

In which the family reunion begins.

Read Part II, Chapter V

A week of quiet, undisturbed sleep had done Maitimo a world of good, Findekáno thought. The dark blotches under his eyes had almost disappeared, and although he was still unhealthily pale, at least his skin had lost its greyish hue. To be sure, he still looked far from well, and anyone who had not seen him before would be shocked by his frailness, his hollow face, the still clearly visible injuries; but Findekáno had seen him before, and to him the difference was striking.

They did not speak about Maitimo's departure again. Until he could no longer deny it, Findekáno had decided to pretend that it wouldn't happen. In secret, he hoped that it would be put off a bit longer, that the Fëanorians would not be willing to come or that early snows or something of the sort would make the transfer impossible. At the same time he was ashamed of begrudging Maitimo the reunion with his brothers. Maitimo, on the other hand, knew that he had hurt his cousin by his desire to leave, and did not wish to offend him further. They spoke of trivial things or read old poetry to each other from books that Nolofinwë's people had brought over the Ice, books that were missing their leather bindings and all their empty flyleaves. Maitimo had asked why that was so, and had regretted his question at once. Findekáno had given him a long uncomfortable look before saying, "We needed to keep warm more urgently than we needed books."
Occasionally they would play a game of chess or checkers and find themselves evenly matched. But they did not mention the approaching parting.

Thus Maitimo kept his growing anxiety to himself, for the closer Elenya came, the more he was questioning his decision. He had tried to get up again, and failed again; he had no idea how he had thought he could even leave this room, let alone reach the opposite lakeshore. And what would his brothers say? Whenever he imagined their reunion, he saw himself in his old form as it had been before his captivity: strong, beautiful, undamaged. He could not reconcile that image of himself with his new, broken body, nor did he try too hard. What would his brothers do upon seeing the wreck he had become? He was terrified of their reaction, not because he feared that they would reject him entirely – he refused to consider that idea in earnest – but because he was afraid that they would nonetheless be disgusted, as well they might.
But he did not dare to voice his fears to Findekáno, and he grew more taciturn and distracted as the days passed.

Elenya dawned beautifully, the pale sunlight glittering on the frozen dewdrops outside the window. Nonetheless Maitimo couldn't shake off his gloomy mood. Findekáno beside him did not fare much better. "We will have to be all distant and noble when your brothers are here," he said, "so we should say goodbye properly now." They embraced long, and Findekáno said, "I wish you wouldn't leave."
To his surprise, Maitimo admitted, "So do I."
Findekáno looked at him, sighing. "It's too late now for you to stay, huh?"
"I'm afraid so. It would look stupid to have my brothers come all the way here to tell them I won't come along after all." Maitimo's lips curved in a mirthless grin; then he looked grave again. "That may yet happen. I don't actually know if I can travel."
"If you really want to, you probably can," Findekáno said with a snort. "You're the most stubborn mule I ever met."
This time there was a hint of amusement in Maitimo's smile. He pulled Findekáno closer for a moment. "You must visit me often," he said pleadingly.
"I will. If the weather and my father permit it."
Maitimo sighed; he had forgotten that Findekáno was confined to the Nolofinwëan camp until further notice. After all, it had not mattered so far.
"Do you think your father will ever forgive us?" he asked.
"Us? You mean…"
"I mean the House of Fëanáro," said Maitimo, "my brothers and me. Do you think our families can ever be reconciled?"

Findekáno took a while to ponder this question. "I don't know. Perhaps. Sometimes I think he never will, sometimes I think he wants to, if only he could. But it's – we have reasons enough to be angry, you know," he said defensively.
Maitimo waved his hand weakly. "I know. I am not suggesting that you don't, or that your father should simply forget what we did. But I do admit that I wish he could. It is foolish that our houses battle against each other while there is an enemy we should fight together. We have to reunite if we want to have the slightest chance."
"Then your house must begin it."
Maitimo grimaced. "Unless that would be seen as presumptuous. Well, I suppose I shall have to think about this. It's not like I don't have the time," and here bitterness crept back into his voice as he looked at his atrophied limbs.
"I'll try to make the time shorter," Findekáno said quickly. "And I'm sure your brothers, too, will keep you occupied." He hugged Maitimo again. "I'll miss you."
"Even though I'm nothing but a useless, self-pitying cripple?"
"Don't say that." Findekáno gave him a stern look.
"Your people say it," Maitimo retorted.
"That's bad enough. You should show them that they're wrong, not parrot them."
Maitimo raised his right arm. "How exactly am I to show them that I am not a cripple?"
Findekáno snorted. "I meant the 'useless' part. Although perhaps you'd better start on the self-pity."
"I am trying."
"I know," said Findekáno, more softly now. "And yes, I'll miss you regardless." He sighed, unwilling to let go; but now horn-signals were heralding the arrival of the Fëanorians, and he had to rise. "Well, let's hope everyone will behave themselves."
"And let's hope they still want me back once they've seen me."
Findekáno looked scandalised. "Of course they will. – Yes, I'll be there right away," he said as the door opened, even before Istimë could say a word.

"Good," she commented. "Meanwhile I'll help our runaway have some breakfast, so they won't blame us for starving him." Findekáno hastily donned his crumpled clothing and left, and the healer walked over and sat on the side of the bed, handing Maitimo a bowl of porridge. "How are you feeling?" she asked, and to Maitimo it seemed that her voice was colder and more business-like than usual.
"All right, I suppose," he answered; he had grown so used to the healing pains and the everlasting throbbing in his arm that he did not give them much thought. At any rate they were a relief compared to the agonies of the past years. "A bit nervous."
"Nervous, eh? I would be, too. It's a long way to the other side of that lake, and longer for someone who can't make it to the other side of the room."
Maitimo hung his head. "Istimë, I know it's not wise to try and travel. You don't have to tell me – I am frightened enough on my own."
"Hm," she said, but her face softened a little. "Well, eat that before it gets cold." While he did, she cleaned him and changed his bandages for the last time. "You shouldn't lean on your back so much," she said at one point. "It can't heal properly with the pressure on it. Shirt's stuck to it again." She peeled it off as carefully as she could, but of course some of the wounds reopened. "Well, that'll be a fine sight for your brothers to see," she said, and now there was a note in her voice that confused Maitimo – was it fear?
"I won't let them see my back then." He finished his breakfast and set the bowl down; his arm trembled as he extended it although the bowl was not very heavy. "At any rate, it's not your fault."
"Will they know that?" Istimë asked dryly, and Maitimo thought he understood. "Do you fear they'll believe you did not take good care of me?" he asked, frowning. "You think they'll blame you?"
She shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."
Maitimo shook his head vigorously. "You've done a lot for me, and you have done it well – or so I assume; I am feeling so much better that I shan't complain. If anyone dares to say anything else, I won't permit it."
She said nothing in reply but finished her work, and then gathered her equipment and made to leave. Only when she had reached the door did Maitimo realise that she truly meant to go, and he called, "Hey, wait!"
She turned back towards him. "What is it?"
"Is this farewell?"
She pondered him as he sat – upright now instead of leaning against the pillows, careful to spare his back. "I suppose it is."
"Then I wish to thank you for everything you've done for me. Especially considering who I am."
"I did not do it in order to be thanked," said she. "And I try to keep my personal feelings out of my work."
Maitimo chewed his lips. "But now your work on me is done, so perhaps I can ask you: Do you hate me?"
She gave him a strange look and shook her head. "No. After having cared for a patient for a while, I can hardly hate him." Maitimo took a deep breath and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Istimë went on. "I know, I know; that is not quite what you asked. The answer is nonetheless no. I was hurt – I still am – by what your family did to us. But so much that I'd hate them? No. And when you were brought here, it did not matter who you were; first and foremost you were wounded and in dire need of healing, and that is what I did." She shrugged. "For what it's worth, even those who believe in vengeance tend to acknowledge that you have suffered more than enough."
"I see," said Maitimo. "Thank you."
She nodded, a wry smile on her face, and left him.
He leaned towards the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the proceedings outside, but it faced to the wrong side, and all he saw was the familiar tree, now stripped of its leaves, some dewdrops hanging mournfully from its bare branches. With a sigh, Maitimo retired against the pillows, waiting.

When the door opened again, he saw his uncle and his cousins, and amid the throng there was Macalaurë – but he looked so different, so much graver and so much more mature, that Maitimo did not immediately recognise him. Then in a flurry of dun robes and red hair Ambarussa rushed forward, all decorum forgotten, and flung himself onto the bed, wrapping Maitimo in a tight embrace that momentarily knocked the breath from his lungs. "Oh Nelyo!" Ambarussa cried, "Nelyo, Nelyo, it's truly you!" He looked Maitimo in the face and frowned. "My, but you've grown thin." His voice was downright reproachful.
Maitimo, struggling with tears and laughter, gave his youngest brother a one-handed squeeze and replied, "And I've been even thinner. Hello, Telvo, I've missed you too. – No, don't do that," he cried then, for Macalaurë had come forward and fallen to his knees before Maitimo. The Nolofinwëans looked on uncomfortably, waiting outside: The room was too small for so many people.
"Please don't do that," said Maitimo again, and he reached for Macalaurë's hand, trying to pull him to his feet. He couldn't, of course, but Macalaurë understood the intention well enough. He rose. He was crying, unable to stop himself despite the presence of his uncle and cousins. Now he, too, moved to embrace Maitimo, whispering, "I am so, so sorry."
"Aren't we all," said Maitimo softly, returning the hug as well as he could. "I am glad to see you again, except glad is not strong enough a word. I can't quite believe it." He held both of them close, resting his head between their shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he took in their scent, still familiar after all those years: Apples and earth and wet leaves, that was Ambarussa, and Macalaurë's warm scent of soap and wood. He tried to grasp the idea that this was real, that these two were indeed his brothers, that he was truly holding them again. The thought took a while to register. They did not release each other quickly.
When they finally did, Maitimo gave his brothers a watery smile. "I've missed you so much." They assured him that they had missed him at least as much. Their words rang sincere, and he completely forgot that he had feared that they might not want him back.
"We've brought some of your old clothes," said Ambarussa, who alone of the three was not in tears, instead smiling broadly, absurdly.
"Well, then I'd better put them on," said Maitimo. "But you'll have to help me."

They had not truly noticed his injuries yet, and they hadn't been warned about the hand; now they were forced to take note, and their joy was darkened with anger. Although they had read that Maitimo was 'gravely wounded', as Nolofinwë had put it in his letter, and although they had technically been aware that Moringotto might have been cruel, it was quite a different thing to accept the distant idea of torment or to see its marks on their brother's body. When they saw the stump of his right wrist, they were thrown entirely off-balance. Now Ambarussa wept, unable to conceal his anguish. Macalaurë's eyes had gone dry, but they were glowing with fury, and Maitimo was the tiniest bit worried where that fury might find its outlet. He tried to reach for Macalaurë's shaking hands, but his brother withdrew them and used them to cover his face.
"It hardly hurts anymore," Maitimo lied.
Of course they would not believe him. They were unable to help him dress for their anguish. Findekáno grew frustrated with the scene and took their place, helping Maitimo into his silken undershirt. He had seen Maitimo in a state far worse and was somewhat hardened to the sight, and the shock and pointless regrets of the brothers annoyed him.
"You aren't helping him by trying to re-live his pain, you know," he said before he could stop himself, "and you can't. All we can do is move on."
Macalaurë shot him a hurt, almost angry look, but Maitimo agreed, and his brothers had to pull themselves together. Eventually they managed to help Maitimo into the travelling clothes they had brought. Maitimo in his turn found himself amazed by the amounts of clothing put upon him. He recognised the items, even vaguely remembered that he had worn them in the distant past, but their texture had become alien: Another shirt of fine linen came on top of the undershirt, then breeches of soft leather, an embroidered tunic of rich red wool, and a padded vest on top of that. Having spent more than a decade with nothing but his skin to protect him from the world outside, being dressed so generously felt grotesque and wasteful. He let it happen, not daring to delay his journey further. If his brothers had to swallow their dismay whenever they encountered a new patch of raw or scarred skin, he felt he should swallow his objection to being wrapped in so many stifling layers.

Yet the next interruption was Maitimo's own doing. Everything went well enough, and he even felt that he could bear standing while he was being steadied on both sides; the splinted leg hurt badly, but he had learned long ago to shut pain out, although it took focus. Aside from the embarrassment of needing help with the most trivial things, standing with their support worked better than he had feared.
Then he heard the jangling of chains, and before he was aware of it he had pushed backwards and found himself pressing against the wall. His face, which had gained fresh colour at the sight of his brothers, was ashen again. Macalaurë and Ambarussa stared at him in shocked confusion.
"What is that?" asked Maitimo, not quite succeeding at keeping a tremour out of his voice.
"Dwarf-wrought chainmail," said Ambarussa, frowning. "It offers good protection against blades."
Maitimo eyed the mail-shirt doubtfully. It looked as though it had been knit from steel. He could now see that his brothers were wearing similar shirts underneath their cloaks and leather jerkins, but the clinking alone made him feel sick, and the metal was sure to be heavy.
"I don't think I'm up to that yet," he admitted in a small voice. "I think that thing is heavier than I am."
Unhappily, his brothers wrapped the chainmail back in the sheet it had been transported in. Maitimo carefully placed his feet on the ground again, and the brothers hoisted him up and helped him into a jerkin that had once been made to fit his frame perfectly and now only served to underline his painful thinness. Nobody spoke now; Maitimo was ashamed of his outburst, and his brothers could not quite come to terms with even the small glimpse at the terrors of Angamando that they'd seen. They only broke the silence when Maitimo was fully clothed, marvelling at yet another foreign feeling: He now had boots on his feet – or rather on one foot; the splinted leg had been left free, wrapped only in strips of fabric, provided by Findekáno, to keep it warm.
"Now you look more like yourself," said Findekáno encouragingly. It was grossly exaggerated; even though the clothing did give Maitimo an air of normality that he lacked while lying in bed, it failed entirely to hide his weakness.
"Can you walk?" Macalaurë asked anxiously, glancing at the left leg.
"As long as you keep me upright. I just can't carry my weight." Maitimo said decisively.
"What weight?" muttered Ambarussa. Maitimo squeezed his hand.

They made their way outside slowly and silently, followed equally slowly by the equally silent household of Nolofinwë. When they walked through the door, all conversation among those waiting outside was hushed, and they all turned and stared as Maitimo, propped up between his brothers, limped towards the gate. Even though most of his attention was necessary just to move his feet, their silent watch was intense enough to make him feel extremely uncomfortable. He could see in Ambarussa's face that his youngest brother felt the same: His creased brow betrayed his resentment against the reproachful silence of the Nolofinwëans. Macalaurë managed to look indifferent, but Maitimo was the one who had taught him how to don a mask of indifference when he felt the opposite, and even after all this time he could see through it easily. The way to the gate stretched out indefinitely, and the relentless pain in his underused muscles was not the worst part of it. Maitimo was soon sweating despite the frosty air with the effort of clinging to his brothers. It would not do to fall now.

When they had finally reached the palisade and the Fëanorians were handed their weapons again (Maitimo took a brief moment of guilty amusement from watching them try to fasten their swords to their belts without letting go of him), he bid them turn so he could face his uncle's family again.
First he addressed Nolofinwë, inclining his head as he did so. "I thank you again for your generosity and kindness, dear Uncle. I am aware that it must have been a difficult decision to take me in, considering what my house did to yours, and I am most grateful that you had the honour not to repay me in kind." He spoke so loud that all the folk gathered could hear him. This time there was no murmuring; some even looked away as if ashamed.
"To Istimë the healer," Maitimo went on, "and all those who helped her to restore me to my current state of health, I likewise give my thanks. Again, I appreciate that you could forget personal grievances long enough to help me." This was not, perhaps, true for all of them, but he figured he could be generous with his thanks if he had nothing else to give. Istimë, at the very least, smiled in reply.
At last Maitimo turned to Findekáno. "As for you, most beloved and truest of friends, words fail me. I cannot say how grateful I am, foolish though you were. I owe you everything, and I cannot hope ever to repay you."
"And you don't need to," said Findekáno and embraced him, using the chance to whisper in Maitimo's ear, "Get going before I start to cry."
Maitimo sighed. When Findekáno had released him, he spoke again, saying, "To all of you, farewell. May the House of Nolofinwë gain nothing but good from these deeds." He nodded to his brothers, and slowly they left the camp.
"We've brought Roccalaurë for you," whispered Ambarussa as they made their way to the horses.
"Oh my," was all Maitimo could think of saying, his inspiration leaving him after the speeches. It was not too surprising that they had chosen this horse over others, he supposed; Roccalaurë had been his father's steed, and it was fair enough that the next in line should take him. He was a good horse, too, but it took a man of strong will to ride him, and Maitimo was uncertain whether he had that strength of mind just now. In fact he wasn't even sure whether he'd be able to keep himself on even the tamest horse's back. He said so, adding, "I'd rather ride with one of you, so you can keep me from falling off if my strength fails."
They exchanged another glance underneath his chin (for despite his sad state he was towering above them). "You can go on Carnillo with Ambarussa, I guess," said Macalaurë, trying to sound cheerful. "He's a more capable rider than I am, and less likely to fall off alongside you – if your strength fails."

Getting him into the saddle was no small feat, and as they knew they were being watched, their clumsy attempts were especially humiliating. Once or twice Maitimo could barely swallow a scream, and more than once he was sorely tempted to call the whole thing off and return to curl up on his bed in Findekáno's chamber. When he finally sat on Carnillo's back, he was out of breath and shaking with suppressed pain. He could feel the fabric of his shirts beginning to stick to his back and knew that he must be bleeding again. He tried to ignore it, grateful now for the red colour of his tunic.
Ambarussa swung onto the horse effortlessly, and Macalaurë mounted without trouble as well; and off they went, trotting at a moderate pace away into the forest with its leafless trees. As soon as they were out of sight, they rode faster, almost as though they were fleeing.

At first Maitimo managed to notice the cleanness of the air and the fading warmth of the sun on his face, the sounds and smells of the forest and above all the overpowering feeling of freedom; it was as if he only now remembered how wide the world was, and he rejoiced in the feeling. Soon, however, the jolting and shaking of their gallop dispelled his joy, and it took all his determination not to let his brothers notice his agony. The ride seemed to last forever; unused to riding, he soon felt sick and dizzy, his head aching again, his leg and shoulder sending sharp jabs of pain through his weakening body. When darkness began to fall and they were still underway, he could no longer keep his back straight and slumped forward.
"We are almost there," said Ambarussa, noticing his exhaustion. "Just around that bend there." He pointed ahead, and indeed Maitimo could see that the walls of the forest were opening, making space for real walls of wood and stone. They were harder and more lavish than those he had seen around Nolofinwë's camp. His father's proud banner hung above the gate, its colours darkened but still recognisable in the early dusk. As they rode out of the woods, horns and trumpets sounded triumphantly. The gates opened and revealed yet another throng of people, their faces eager, not reproachful. The brothers rode to the gate to the crowd's cheering, and through his exhaustion and pain, Maitimo told himself that he was coming home.

Part II, Chapter VI

In which Maedhros returns to his people, and there are unexpected complications.

Read Part II, Chapter VI

They had hardly dismounted (Maitimo being just barely kept from unceremoniously falling onto his face by Macalaurë's and Ambarussa's combined efforts) when their brothers surged forward, followed by the eager crowd. Tyelkormo was the first who reached Maitimo, wrapping him in a bear hug before he could be stopped. Maitimo groaned, his endurance worn thin after the long day, but Tyelko did not even notice. "Well, finally!" he shouted. "We were half-tempted to start the feast without you!"
"Feast?" Maitimo managed after he had been extricated from his brother's clasp. "You have prepared a feast?"
"What did you expect, when a long-lost brother returns? At any rate you look like you need it; it seems Nolofinwë didn't feed you well!"
"Nolofinwë fed me very well," said Maitimo tersely. By now Carnistir was embracing him, silently leaning his head against Maitimo's collarbone. "It was Moringotto who forgot that Elves occasionally need nourishment."

Tyelkormo fell into embarrassed silence, but the excited babbling of the crowd swallowed it, and already Curufinwë spoke up. "Well, Carnistir, let us others have a piece of him as well," and Carnistir gave Maitimo an apologetic smile and let go of him. Curufinwë seized his shoulders at once, sending his tender right shoulder into a firework of agony. "Sweet Eru, but it is good to have you with us again!"
"Thank you," replied Maitimo, feeling soundly overwhelmed by pain and attention. Curufinwë looked so much like their father now (although a bit more wiry, and with fewer laughter lines around his eyes) that he almost added 'Father', biting it back in the last moment. It seemed to him that there was another, younger Curufinwë standing behind Curufinwë's shoulder, looking at him with a slightly worried expression. Maitimo tilted his head, confused, and the younger version of his brother hastened to smile. "Welcome home, Uncle Maitimo."
Only then did Maitimo remember the gangly youth that Curufinwë's son had been when he had last seen him. The realisation hit him harder than he would have expected, the boy's maturity making clear just how much time had passed. "Tyelperinquar!" he cried, unable to mask his surprise. "My word, you have grown up!"
Tyelperinquar's smile lost some of its nervous quality. "You are the first to acknowledge it, Uncle Maitimo," he said, "for which I thank you."
"I should have come back sooner then, huh?" said Maitimo, noticing that Curufinwë's brow was creasing threateningly.
"Not just for that reason," Tyelpo said emphatically, and Maitimo couldn't help but smile.

Now that his immediate family had had their share of his attention, all the friends and acquaintances, pages and servants in the second row demanded their turn. They'd had more time to take in Maitimo's state, and some of them had noticed the traces of pain and exhaustion, noticed that Macalaurë and Ambarussa had to keep him on his feet, and their joy was no longer unadulterated. Many now looked at him with sorrow and pity. Varnacanyo, his one-time squire, had with his sharp eyes noticed the bandaged stump, half-hidden though it was by Macalaurë's shoulder, and he broke into tears. "My lord," he cried, falling to his knees, "what have they done to you?"
"You do not want to know," said Maitimo wearily. "Please get up, Varnacanyo; it is not your fault."
"But I should have been with you," the squire protested.
"Then you would be dead or worse. I am glad for anyone who could not ride with me that day," replied Maitimo. Varnacanyo had fallen ill from a snake-bite on the day before the parley, an inconvenience to which he now owed his life. "Please get up," Maitimo said again. "I've been forced to kneel too often to bear seeing it in others."
This time, the uncomfortable silence spread to everybody. Varnacanyo rose, reluctantly, and Maitimo thought that suddenly everybody seemed to be huddling closer to each other now. The cheerful excitement had left, and in its place there was a dark cloud. He shivered.

"Well, let us not stand out here in the cold," said Macalaurë in a loud, authoritative tone that made Maitimo blink. "I should like a bath now, and I am certain Nelyo and Ambarussa feel the same; and afterwards we shall have our feast, and celebrate the future to chase away the bitter past. Make room!" The throng gave way, and they marched towards the largest house.
"Macalaurë," whispered Maitimo, dragged rather than limping along between his brothers, clinging to their shoulders with his last strength. "Macalaurë, don't make me attend a feast. I am so tired…"
His brothers frowned once more. "But we have prepared it especially for you," Ambarussa said a little helplessly. "We thought you'd be happy…"
"I am," whispered Maitimo, "oh, I am, but I cannot deal with light and feasts and all these faces just now. Please, I need to rest."

Now they stopped. The other brothers joined them quickly to find out what was wrong. Maitimo glanced at them, catching his breath: Even this short walk had been overtaxing.
"Please, have your feast, and make it joyful," he said when he trusted himself to, "but leave me out for today. I'm so exhausted, and I'd only be a shadow on your festivities anyway."
"Don't say that," Tyelkormo began, but Macalaurë nodded, sighing.
"It is reasonable that you want to rest. And we certainly wouldn't want you to get worse just because we want to celebrate your return. I'll tell the people."
"I can manage that," said Maitimo, drawing himself a little more upright with difficulty. "Turn me around?"

They did, and he faced the crowd again, seeing their eyes, filled with horror or pity or both, fixed on him.
"My dear people," Maitimo said, grasping for formulae, "my friends! I thank you for your kind and eager reception; I admit that I was worried you might be disgusted by what I have become, and I cannot say how relieved I am to be welcomed so warmly. I wish I could properly thank you, and feast with you tonight. But I am not as well as I should like, and the journey has worn me out." He hated to admit it so directly, but then it was fairly obvious anyway. "Therefore I ask you to pardon my absence, and to celebrate without me. One day I will be able to join you, but I must ask you to have patience with me until that day comes." He managed to keep his voice fairly firm, but he had to pause for breath every few words.
A brief silence followed his announcement; then Varnacanyo cried, "Hail Maitimo, our King!" The call was taken up by the crowd even as they took up their slow march to the house again, and although the brothers all took their share in guarding Maitimo now, they could not prevent that many reached out to touch his shoulders or hand or even his feet as if for good luck or blessing. Those who could followed them inside.

Despite his exhaustion the idea of a bath was enticing, and his head was aching too much now to consider his condition. Thus it was only when his brothers and the servants began to help him undress that he remembered the sight his uncovered body would offer. He grasped for the nearest hand – it happened to be Macalaurë's – and said faintly but urgently, "Send these people away. Send them away!"
The brothers looked at each other, confused, and Maitimo tried again. "Don't make them see me like this, send them away! You shouldn't have to see me either, you should go --"
Realisation sunk in for Macalaurë and Ambarussa. "Do as he says," the elder said quietly, and the room suddenly grew silent as the disappointed watchers were ushered outside. Only a few stubborn servants and steadfast Varnacanyo remained. None of the brothers were willing to leave, and Maitimo, who was having trouble keeping his eyes open, now that the determination that had kept him going for so long abated, did not try to push the matter again. Servants efficiently removed layer after layer of clothing; then they reached the bloodied undershirts and froze.
"Oh," one of them said helplessly, giving the brothers a desperate look as if hoping that one of them would know what to do. They stared back at him, their faces betraying terror.
"Nelyo? I… I think you're bleeding," Macalaurë said finally, lamely, and Curufinwë grimaced to keep from laughing at the horrible understatement.

"I might well be," Maitimo conceded, "I do that a lot."
"What do we do?" asked one of the servants, a young innocent elf with a long, pale face. There was a trace of panic in his voice.
"Go on," said Maitimo when none of the others reacted: They all seemed frozen in place. "That's normal, I'm afraid."
The servants gingerly lifted the shirt, shuddering whenever their fingers touched something sticky and wet. Then Maitimo was finally ready for his bath.
A third servant, who had brought towels and phials of scented oils, jumped back with a small cry, the bottles crashing on the tiled floor, bursting into tiny shards and spilling their sweet-smelling contents. Curufinwë swore violently. Otherwise it was dead silent, and Maitimo realised too late that he was no longer surrounded by people accustomed to his injuries. He tried to cover himself up hastily, but his movements lacked coordination. At any rate, the damage was already done. He could see the effect the sight of his wounds had on the others. Some eyes were shut in horror, some had filled with tears, some were turned away; and some were dark with anger at the enemy who had done this.
"This is my fault," Macalaurë said softly, and Maitimo noticed the glance that Tyelkormo shot him; he didn't like it.
"Don't be foolish, it's Moringotto's fault" he mumbled. He gave them a hard look, or tried to, anyway, though he feared it wasn't very convincing. "Can we please get on with this? I am very tired."

Life returned to the small group. Together they helped Maitimo into the bathtub. The cooling water bit his wounds, but he leaned back regardless, glad that he no longer had to keep himself upright, that the water held him safely, weightless. The unfortunate servant removed the shards and puddles of unguent while others took the soiled clothing away and brought a clean night-shirt instead of the festival robes that had been prepared aforehand. Nobody said much, and when they spoke, it was in hushed voices so Maitimo could not hear them. For some reason that bothered him, but he was too weary to do anything about it. At some point he was aware of somebody stepping up to him, and a shaky voice said, "I, um. If you would, I could apply some salve to those… those cuts."
Maitimo nodded his agreement.
"It's just… I've never had a case such as this…"

Maitimo opened his eyes now. He remembered the healer vaguely; the face, though blurred by his tired eyes, hadn't changed much. He seemed strangely young, although Maitimo knew that the man was older than he, almost as old as Nolofinwë. "Herenyo," he said, and the healer, dressed for the feast rather than for the job at hand, nodded uncertainly. Maitimo smiled faintly; at least he still remembered people's names. "Just don't touch the wounds themselves. Only the skin around them." Somebody made a strangled little noise, but Maitimo did not turn.
"I'll try," the healer said desperately, and Maitimo leaned forward and closed his eyes again, bracing himself.

When he was towelled dry and dressed in a nightshirt that seemed to have belonged to a different elf named Maitimo, one who deserved that name, who was strong and well-shaped and not a skeleton wrapped in torn skin, he found that his muscles had turned to jelly. However hard he tried, he could no longer command them to move or even just to be steady, and his brothers had to carry him to his room. He curled up on the large bed, hiding his face, exhausted and ashamed. He felt their presence around them and found it comforting, but he also felt their distress. "I am sorry," he said into the pillow. "I look terrible. You shouldn't have to see this. I shouldn't have come here yet."
"Are you saying that because the journey almost killed you, or are you saying it just because your... current state upsets us?" said somebody – the voice was Curufinwë's, but there was a strange tremour in it that didn't fit Maitimo's idea of Curufinwë at all. "Because if it's the former," the voice continued, and Maitimo decided that it was Curufinwë indeed, "I am tempted to agree; but if it's the latter, it's, excuse me, bollocks."
Maitimo lifted his head a little, blinking through eyelids that refused to stay open. "The journey didn't almost kill me," he protested weakly.
"So you're saying it because you think we can't bear the sight of you."
"Well, you can't," Maitimo pointed out, wishing to be back in the small room in Nolofinwë's camp with Findekáno beside him for protection.
Curufinwë was taken aback a little. "Well, perhaps we can't," he conceded. "You do look terrible."
"It's been worse."
"That is not reassuring."
Maitimo forced himself to smile, although it did not last long. "It doesn't feel as bad as it looks," he said. That was probably quite true, he thought. He was used to it after all.
"I truly hope it doesn't," said Curufinwë. "Is there anything we can do for you? Anything at all?"
"Because so far all we've done only seems to hurt you," Tyelkormo added, and there was a trace of bitterness in his voice.
"Turko!" cried Macalaurë, alarmed.
Maitimo shook his head. "No, Cáno, I understand. As I said, I'm sorry." He heaved a great sigh. "I need some sleep. It'll be better tomorrow. Go to your feast - I don't want you to mourn here. It'll do nobody any good. Tell me how it was, tomorrow." He forced another, somewhat unconvincing smile.
"Don't you want to eat something at least?" Macalaurë asked a little helplessly. "We can have everything brought up here for you. Turko's shot a lovely roe, and there's rabbit, and we've slaughtered a pig..."
"Some fresh fruit would be wonderful," Maitimo said softly, for although he had been fed well among the Nolofinwëans, they'd had no store of fruit to speak off, and he'd had to quell his desire for them with tea and dried berries so far.
There was some scrambling and then some nervous laughter that died at once (Maitimo wished that it wouldn't; he was uncomfortable at the thought that the others did not dare to laugh in his presence) as Ambarussa, Carnistir and Varnacanyo simultaneously made to comply to his request, almost running each other over. Soon they returned with a huge plate (made, as Maitimo noted with a kind of detached curiosity, not of clay or wood but of gold) which bore all the fruit the late time of the year allowed, arranged lovingly in elaborate patterns. There were crescents of sliced apples and oranges; there were thick white grapes, and medlars softened by the early frost. There were the obligatory dried berries, too, and cherries that had been kept in a marinade of rum and sugar, but it was the fresh, juicy bits that made Maitimo smile genuinely for the first time that evening. Hunger overcame his exhaustion then, and he ate greedily, chewing fruit by the handful, closing his eyes in bliss at the long-forgotten taste. It took a while until he had a thought to spare for his watching brothers were watching. When he remembered them, he stopped and looked at them, embarassedly. They were sitting or standing around him, staring as though there was nothing more fascinating than the sight of him eating. Some were biting their lips in an attempt (he assumed) to keep from crying.

"I'm sorry," he said again, resisting the urge to pop another grape in his mouth. "It's just that I haven't eaten anything like this in..." he faltered. "I don't know how long. Since I left."
His brothers exchanged unhappy glances again.
"Twelve years, Nelyo," Macalaurë said eventually, and his brave composure crumbled for good.
"It's been twelve years."

Part II, Chapter VII

In which Maedhros and Caranthir have a talk and a midnight snack.

Read Part II, Chapter VII

They had left him alone after all, and he had fallen asleep swiftly. As usual, the nightmares returned after only a brief phase of dreamless sleep; he awoke in the middle of the night, breathless and terrified.
At first he experienced a strange feeling of dislocation, staring at what little he could see in the sliver of flighty moonlight that crept through a crack in the curtains. Then, slowly, he remembered where he was. His thoughts felt thick and slow, crawling through his aching head like slugs. It was very hot. The heat in the room seemed to radiate from one corner in particular. He squinted into that direction and discovered a faint glow of embers. His heartbeat quickened before he managed to tell himself that it was only a stove, nothing to fear. Combined with the warmth of the thick coverlet (Maitimo felt for its filling and found something very soft and fluffy; not the downy softness of feathers, but the richness of unspun silk), the heat was unbearable to him. He tried to get rid of the quilt, but his limbs were now taking revenge for the exertions of the day, and when he tried to move, they hurt viciously. He did not move much.

There was a soft click as the door opened, and a face peered in, blocking the light from the hallway beyond.
"Who's there?"asked Maitimo. To his dismay, his voice sounded more like a raven than an elf.
"I'm here," the other replied, and then added, a little sheepishly, "Carnistir. You were dreaming."
Maitimo felt his cheeks grow even warmer than they already were. "Did I make much noise? I am sorry if I woke you."
"You made no noise, and you did not wake me. I often lie awake at night. I just thought something was wrong."
"Oh," said Maitimo. His first impulse was to assure his brother that nothing was wrong at all, to tell him not to worry and to send him back to bed. Then he thought better of it. He had been quite good at boasting or telling fibs to his younger brothers, and for the most part they had believed him - but Moryo had always known. Moryo (and, of course, their father) had never fallen even for the most masterfully constructed lie. There seemed little point in lying to him now. At any rate Carnistir had already marched into the room, bringing a lamp with him. When Maitimo's eyes had grown accustomed to the sudden bright spot, he took a moment to take in his brother's strange appearance. Carnistir was wearing a long night-shirt that he held pursed with one hand so it formed a kind of basket, like a child gathering fruit. Maitimo couldn't see what was in it. On top of the shirt, Carnistir was wearing a cloak, but his feet were bare, sinking soundlessly into the soft carpet that covered the floor.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, padding closer. "I have a secret stash of bread and cheese that I'm willing to share."
Maitimo blinked. "Thank you, I'm not hungry, but –"
"No," Carnistiry sad pensively, sitting down on the mattress; Maitimo could see now that he had been carrying the bread and cheese he had spoken of in his shirt, along with a knife. "No, I suppose hungry is not the word. Famished is more like it. I could count your bones this afternoon. At least they're still all there, except -"
With a sigh, Maitimo interrupted him, "I meant, I do not feel hungry just know. Just thirsty and-"
Carnistir handed him his tea-cup at once. The infusion was still lukewarm; either, Maitimo thought, he hadn't slept long, or the room must be very hot indeed. He emptied half the cup in one swig. Afterwards, his throat felt less raw, and he dared to say, "Could you open the window?"
"It is freezing outside."
"And I am melting in here. Please?"
Carnistir gave him a long hard look; then he looked down, placed the food and the knife on the quilt, and rose. As he drew back the curtains of the nearest window, moonlight lit the room more fully; Maitimo could now make out the outlines of the furniture, the shadows of the drapery and tapestries on the walls. The door- and windowframe had been carved elaborately, as had been the bedstead. Obviously a lot of care had gone into furnishing this room - the simple chamber he had occupied in Nolofinwë's house could not compare in the least. Strangely, he still found himself missing that small, bare room where he had spent his first weeks of freedom. He certainly missed having Findekáno beside him.

Carnistir had not exaggerated about the temperatures outside. As he opened the window, a rush of icy air entered the room. It felt wonderfully soothing to Maitimo, whose head was hot and heavy: the cold air on his face was a blessing. There were flowers made of crystals on the glass-panes, he noticed now; the patterns were beautiful but strange, unlike any design he was familiar with. "Who did these?" he asked, indicating the flowers.
Carnistir laughed softly. He touched one of the intricate crystal-patterns and it dissolved, melting under his fingertips. Maitimo gasped.
"It is only the water from the air," said Carnistir. "I told you it was freezing."
"It is wonderful," said Maitimo. "I am wrapped warmly enough."
"Hm," said Carnistir, returning to the bed. He noticed the half-empty cup and went to the stove where he refilled it from a glazed earthenware teapot. Then he sat down again, huddling into his cloak. He cut the bread and cheese, and shoved a few slices at Maitimo. "There. Eat."
Startled, Maitimo took the food. "You don't need to feed me, Moryo," he said cautiously. Now that the first joy about the fresh air had abated, his head was aching again, as if something was hammering inside his skull, trying to get out.
"Someone has to," Carnistir said.
Maitimo closed his eyes. "Of course. But not necessarily in the middle of the night."
His brother made to get up. "Do you want to sleep again? I can go." His brow creased in a frown.
"Eventually," Maitimo said, "but I couldn't fall asleep right now, anyway." It was probably true. Despite his heavy eye-lids he would likely try to stay awake for the rest of the night.

"Hm," Carnistir said again. "Then you might as well eat." There was a tone of hurt in his voice, and Maitimo decided to comply, nibbling the cheese somewhat unenthusiastically. Carnistir, too, began to eat, biting large chunks off his slice of bread. He noticed Maitimo's surprised look and tilted his head, his eyes asking the "What?" his full mouth wasn't currently capable of.
"I remember it was always a bit of a battle to get you to eat," said Maitimo. "It is good to see that your habits have changed."
"They haven't," said Carnistir when he'd swallowed his mouthful. "I still don't eat much. Except at night." He shrugged again. "I'm only hungry at night."
"I see," said Maitimo, taking another careful bite. "Is it possible that you've never talked to me this much before?"
Carnistir gave him an inscrutable look.
"You didn't need me to talk to you," he eventually said. "There was always someone else."
Maitimo frowned. "That doesn't mean-"
Carnistir went on. "Of course it does. You were always surrounded by important people; there was no call for me."
"Carnistir-" Maitimo began, but again he was interrupted. "It doesn't matter. I am not blaming you."
"You should have said something. I had no idea –"
"I said, I am not blaming you. Do not blame me, either."

Maitimo no longer knew what to say. He took another bite of his cheese to make the silence feel less awkward, although he was already feeling queasy.
"Now we are two outcasts," Carnistir went on, his voice softening again.
"Moryo, no," said Maitimo at once. "Nobody cast you... us... out. We've always tried to stick together."
"Yes, but you could never understand me. And now they will never quite understand what happened to you."
"Neither do you," said Maitimo, and then he frowned: "Or do you?"
"Unlikely," said Carnistir, "but I am not afraid of trying."
"I don't understand."
Carnistir leaned in closer. "If you need to talk about what happened to you – you can. I think you want to get it off your chest but you're afraid we can't bear it. I would."
"You don't want to know."
"Indeed not," said Carnistir. "Still, if it would help you to talk -"
"No." Maitimo pursed his lips.
"- I am willing to listen."
"We do not need to discuss this." He gave his younger brother a hard look.
Carnistir turned away swiftly. "I just thought..."
Maitimo's face softened. "I know, and it's a kind offer, but no."
"As you wish," said Carnistir, and his voice took on the distant quality that Maitimo remembered. He sighed. It had been strange but not unpleasant to speak with Carnistir like with his other brothers, and he felt that Carnistir was withdrawing into his shell again now. But before he could think of something to say, his stomach lurched unpleasantly, and the headache returned. He closed his eyes. Soon he felt the additional weight lifting off the mattress as Carnistir rose, doubtlessly in order to leave him. "Moryo, wait," Maitimo said, but then his stomach revolted for good and he just barely managed to roll over and hold his head over the side of the bed before vomiting violently onto the beautiful carpet.

Carnistir stared, dumbstruck; then, to Maitimo's distress, he ran out so fast the door almost slammed in his back. Maitimo curled up and tried not to cry. A foul taste was in his mouth, and his head and stomach would not stop hurting. And the spoilt carpet –
Maitimo dug his fingers into his stomach, trying to force it to be still. He was ashamed of the display he made, angry with his treacherous body, and felt resentful against Carnistir, although he told himself that his younger brother's reaction was perfectly natural. Still he wished he didn't have to lie in the smell and darkness alone. He did not dare to move and reach for the rest of his tea for fear that his stomach would rise again.
The door clanked open again, and Carnistir came rushing in, followed by two other Elves. One wore only a night-shirt and looked sleepy and anxious; Maitimo recognised Herenyo the healer. The other was fully dressed and bore a pitcher and some cloth. He at once began to scrub the stain on the carpet away.
"I am sorry," Maitimo began feebly, but then Carnistir and the healer had reached him, and he was cut short.
"Can you sit up?"
They made to help him even before he had time to reply, and he hurried to uncurl and sit despite the leaden weariness in his muscles. A cup of water was held to his lips, and he drank gratefully while Herenyo took his hand and felt for his pulse, laid a cool hand on Maitimo's forehead, and looked at his tired eyes. "A fever," he diagnosed finally, "doubtlessly brought about by the cold air and the exhausting journey." He looked a little relieved, pleased with his explanation. Carnistir hurried to shut the window.
"I am warm enough," Maitimo protested wearily, "and I can't breathe in this heat."
"My lord, I do beg your pardon, but we have to keep the cold outside," the healer said decisively. "I will make you a draught to pull out the fever, but you must keep warm, too." He hurried out of the room.
Carnistir waited until the servant had cleaned the spot on the floor and left the room again, bidding them a good night with a worried look. Then only did Carnistir meet Maitimo's eyes. His face was flushed darkly. "I did it, didn't It?" he asked, and seeing his brother's confused look, explained, "My prying. That made you sick."
Maitimo pondered this, but then he shook his head. "I don't think so," he said softly. "You didn't make the memories worse than they are anyway, so I don't see how it should have... brought this about." He grimaced. "Maybe it was the cheese."
Now it was Carnistir's turn to frown. "I didn't notice anything wrong with it."
Maitimo sighed. The warm air was making him drowsy and didn't help his headache in the least; he found it hard to concentrate, and his thoughts fluttered apart like scared birds. "I don't know," he managed, and then he didn't know what else to say. They were silent when Herenyo came with the promised draught, a hot concoction that smelled so nasty that Maitimo could barely swallow it. He grimaced at the bitter, barky taste, barely sweetened by some honey.
"I know it does not taste very good," Herenyo said firmly, "but I assure you it'll help."
Maitimo nodded wearily and drank, but he didn't try to hide his dislike, and he dismissed the healer as soon as he had emptied the bowl. At least his stomach was quiet now, although his head was still spinning.

Carnistir looked down at him with a grim expression, brow contracted and cheeks flushed. "Will you be all right?"
"Don't know," Maitimo mumbled. "I think I should sleep."
Carnistir nodded. "I'll leave you in peace then." Again Maitimo felt that there was a hint of bitterness in his voice.
He tried to smile. "I don't mind if you stay," he said, to appease his brother. "In fact, I'd be grateful if you did. I just can't stay awake."
Apparently it had been a good thing to say, for a rare smile appeared on Carnistir's face. "Then I'll stay," he said. He found himself a chair and dragged it to the bed. Before he made himself comfortable, he opened the window again.
"Thank you," whispered Maitimo, his eyes already fallen shut.
Carnistir took Maitimo's discarded cloak and wrapped it around his own.
"You are quite welcome, Nelyo. Sleep well."

Part II, Chapter VIII

In which Maglor apologises, and in which Maedhros shocks, delights and surprises his brothers.

Read Part II, Chapter VIII

Macalaurë awoke with a strange feeling of anxiety. He was alone, and first he thought he had slept long, which would have explained Ambarussa's absence. Yet when he opened the curtains, he found that day was barely breaking. Under his window, the world glittered frostily in the pale dawn; only few people were going about their duties, and of Ambarussa there was no trace.
He frowned, still driven by the strange unrest at the back of his mind; then suddenly things shifted into place, and he dressed hastily and hurried to his old room.

Most of his younger brothers had thought along the same lines, he discovered. Tyelkormo and Ambarussa had taken the window-seats despite the cold air rushing in through the open window, although they huddled into their cloaks. Carnistir occupied a chair right next to the bed, and he, too was wrapped against the cold.
They raised their heads and looked at him glumly as Macalaurë opened the door. He couldn't help staring back.
"If you're cold, I'd suggest you close the window, you know," he said as he walked into the room. Underneath Carnistir's two cloaks he could see the thin fabric of a night-shirt, and he shook his head, slightly bemused.
"Moryo wants it open," said Tyelkormo, at which point Carnistir pursed his lips and said, softly but firmly, "Nelyo asked that it be open."

Macalaurë frowned and stepped closer, finally looking at his eldest brother. Curled up on the large bed as Maitimo was, he looked surprisingly small and terribly vulnerable. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and his one hand clutched the pillow as though his life depended on it. Occasionally he twitched and whimpered, and the brothers winced at the sound.
"He spoke to you then?" Macalaurë said with a nervous swallow.
"Yes," said Carnistir. Macalaurë waited, but Carnistir apparently did not mean to add anything more.
"So he was awake?"
"Yes," Carnistir said again. This time, Macalaurë knew better than to hope that his brother would elaborate on his own.
"Was he all right?"
"No," Carnistir said, and now he looked Macalaurë in the eye. "He was sick. And he said that he was melting."
"It's not nearly hot enough for that," came a voice from the door, and Curufinwë came marching in. "In fact, our kind doesn't melt. We b-"
"Yes," Macalaurë cut him off sharply, with a glare to match. "We know that."

He carefully sat on the bed, hoping not to wake Maitimo, but the movement apparently did disturb his brother: he groaned and curled up smaller. "Nelyo," Macalaurë whispered, reaching out for his shoulder, "are you awake?"
With a start, Maitimo opened his eyes to stare at his brothers, breath coming flat and fast as if he had been running. For a while, he did not seem to recognise them. Finally he relaxed and fell back, grimacing. "Now I am," he said hoarsely. His eyes wandered from one brother to the next while his breath returned to its normal gait. Then he shifted, disentangling his left arm from the blankets, and reached to the side. Macalaurë followed his eyes to the tea-cup on the bedside table, and hastily pushed it into Maitimo's hand. "Moryo just told us that you did not feel well this night," he said while his brother was drinking. "Are you better now?"
Maitimo shrugged, and grimaced again. "Just very heavy. Worn out."
Macalaurë bit his lip. "Is there anything we can do for you? Are you hungry?"
His brother shuddered. "Not right now." From the corner of his eye, Macalaurë could see Carnistir sink deeper into his chair, and he frowned in confusion. "What can we do then?"

Maitimo sat up. It was obviously quite an effort, but when Macalaurë leaned forward to help him, Maitimo shook his head. "No, let me," he said, slowly working himself into an upright position. "There, better." He smiled, but it was obviously forced, and it did not drive the shadow from his eyes.
Macalaurë looked at the ground, then looked up again; he felt he should reassure Maitimo, not distress him further. "What can we do for you?" he asked again.
“Just keep me company, if you have the time,” Maitimo said softly. “Tell me what you’ve done while I was... away.” He indicated the lovingly decorated room. “I can see you’ve been busy -”
Macalaurë winced and grasped Maitimo's hand. "We should have come to rescue you, I know, we should have tried somehow! Instead we wasted our time here..." He felt Tyelkormo's eyes on him and knew that there would be triumph in them, but he did not turn to look. Instead he looked at Maitimo imploringly. "I am so sorry. I – "
Maitimo stopped him. "That is not what I meant." He leaned back, closing his eyes and massaging his temples with slow, laboured movements. "Please, just tell me things. Something cheerful. Tyelko, how are the hunting grounds around here?"
Tyelkormo blinked in surprise, but after exchanging glances with the others, he shrugged, and soon Maitimo could relax to the descriptions of the forests and mountains that grew more enthusiastic as Tyelkormo found into his stride. Macalaurë, too, relaxed slightly. The nagging unease, however, was back, and he could not push it away.

By mid-day Maitimo cautiously said that he might be ready to have lunch. Servants were sent for at once, and soon he was brought a bowl of strong broth. Macalaurë made ready to feed him, but again Maitimo stopped him. "I can do that on my own," he said, and this time Macalaurë looked away so Maitimo wouldn't see the hurt in his eyes.
Maitimo ate slowly, the lack of one hand making it a complicated process, and more than once the other brothers offered to help him, but he remained adamant in his refusal.
When the bowl was empty in the end, Maitimo set it aside with exaggerated care. Then he looked around. "Are you not hungry? I'm not going to disappear if you have a brief lunch, you know." They didn't even move, staring at him as though he was the most fascinating thing they had every seen. Then finally Curufinwë cleared his throat. "Actually, if you do not mind, I should like to return to my forge." He looked around and said, as if to forestall criticism, "I have a lot of work to do. Only if you do not mind, of course."
"By all means," said Maitimo. "Please don't feel compelled to wait on me all day. I wouldn't want to be stuck in here all day if I could help it." Curufinwë frowned as if wondering whether he was sincere, but Maitimo gestured invitingly, and eventually Curufinwë nodded and, with a somewhat lopsided smile and a rather too formal bow, left.
"That goes for all of you," Maitimo said. "I am glad of your company, but I don't want to be a chore. Those of you who have better things to do, go right ahead."

Macalaurë looked around at the others. They did not seem to have the slightest intention of leaving. Biting his lips, he came to a decision. "Nelyo is right," he said without actually looking at Maitimo. "You should go and have lunch. I am sure you must be hungry. And perhaps you should get dressed, Moryo...?"
Carnistir gave him a blank look. "I do not need to go anywhere today."
Ambarussa rolled his eyes, but he proved cooperative. "Come, Moryo, let us see whether the guards have recovered from last night's drinking." He tugged at the other's sleeve, and eventually Carnistir allowed him to drag him outside, although he was not enthusiastic. Tyelkormo stood but gave Macalaurë a challenging look.
"Please," Macalaurë said, looking back sternly, and to his relief Tyelkormo left after a moment of deliberation.

Maitimo watched the proceedings, and Macalaurë thought he detected something akin to amusement in his face. His heart lurched violently at such a sign of hope; but he dared not say anything. For a moment, there was silence.
Eventually, Maitimo broke it. "Well. What's the big secret, then?"
Macalaurë blinked. "What secret?"
"You have sent the others away, and it was obviously not because you were concerned for their appetites or their attire. So I gather you have something you wish to discuss with me – alone." The corners of his mouth were twitching with a suppressed smile.
"Yes," said Macalaurë, and then he fell to his knees, clutching Maitimo's hand. "Yes, I do. Nelyo, it is kind of you to brush it aside whenever it is mentioned, but we need to settle this. I understand full well that we have abandoned you to – to suffer terrible things. And it was I who decided it: Everything you've suffered, and everything-" he swallowed, trying not to cry, "everything you've lost is my responsibility, and I want you to know that I understand if you are angry with me. I understand if you hate me, for I deserve no better, and I will bear whatever punishment you think right.” He looked up, and now his eyes had filled with tears. "I will do whatever is in my power to make amends, Nelyo; just tell me what to do."
"First of all, get up. Up, I say! You heard what I said about kneeling yesterday; my opinion has not changed." Maitimo said, and the laughter had left his face. He paused for breath while Macalaurë got to his feet.

"Second, understand this: I was never so proud of you as I was when Moringotto told me that you would not bargain for my freedom. You heard me right: I was proud. There, I thought, my brothers are strong and wise: They will not fall into the same trap I ran into, no matter what they're promised. They will stand fast and succeed." He took a deep breath. "Oh, Moringotto thought the news would break me, I am certain. But they didn't. They didn't."
There was a raw quality to his voice that made Macalaurë shiver, but before he could say anything, Maitimo was speaking on. How he managed to sound so firm now, Macalaurë could not guess. "You know, he said the same things you said now: That I must surely hate you. That you no longer deserved my love. He offered me to join him, that day: to end my torment, to let me have relief and revenge if I but promised to serve him." He laughed grimly, peering up at Macalaurë's lowered face with a hard glint in his eyes. "And I said no. I could have ended the pain on that day if I had agreed to serve him, to fight against you, and I said no. So you see, it is my own fault as much as it is yours. If anything, your decision gave me hope. So you can stop apologising."
Macalaurë did not know what to say. This was a brief glimpse of his brother as he remembered him, proud and determined: If not for the haggard face and sunken eyes, Macalaurë might have been able to pretend that this was a normal morning, Maitimo soliloquising on some philosophical issue or laying out the plans for the day. Yet he did not dare to believe him.
Maitimo sighed. "Come closer, my silly little brother." Macalaurë obeyed hesitantly only to find himself wrapped in a hug. It lacked strength, but it was nonetheless comforting. His breath quickened with the thrill of having his brother back, and apparently being forgiven. For a while he simply hung on. Then he thought how shameful it was that Maitimo had to console him when it should be the other way around. He sat in the chair Carnistir had abandoned, silent for a while.
"Was that why he took your hand?" he asked eventually, caressing Maitimo's left. Maitimo frowned, and Macalaurë was afraid he had offended him again; but he went on anyway. "Because you would not work for him?"
Maitimo's eyebrows lifted slightly, and his thoughts seemed to be far away. Eventually he took a deep breath as though he had made a difficult decision, and nodded.
"Yes. That is why."*
Macalaurë racked his brain for something consoling to say, but there was nothing to be found but numb horror. Silence settled again, and when it was broken in the end, it was Maitimo who found the words.

"Well," he said. "Now that's settled, will you do me a favour?"
"I told you. Anything," Macalaurë said.
"Sing me a song. Something fair and joyful. So I'll know I've truly returned to you."
Macalaurë blinked, laughing a little uncertainly. "That'll be a bit of a shock to this house. I don't think I've sung anything joyful inside these walls, ever."
"It's about time you did, isn't it, then? And pray let the others in again. I daresay you'll find them in the corridor when you go to fetch your harp." Maitimo raised his voice slightly for the last part, and sure enough they could hear some uneasy shuffling at the door. Macalaurë gave him a bemused stare. One moment he had been terrified by his brother's frailness, in the next all the long years had seemed to fall away, and now he was being bossed around. It was confusing to say the least, and Macalaurë knew it would take him a while to get used to it. But there would be time for that, he told himself. Not right now, because everything was too fresh and too painful, but there would be time. He'd just have to be patient.

He rose with a smile and stepped outside. Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Ambarussa were standing at one of the windows going out to the courtyard, pretending to be extremely interested in the weather.
Macalaurë raised a challenging eyebrow, and they gave him their most innocent looks.
"A week at most before it snows," Tyelkormo ventured.
"Right," said Macalaurë drily. "You are behaving like children." Ambarussa had the grace to look a little guilty, and Macalaurë almost laughed then. How quickly they had fallen back into their old roles!
Even as he marched off, he heard Ambarussa say, "How did you know? We made no sound!"
"My dear Telvo," came Maitimo's voice in reply, sounding just the tiniest bit strained and extremely reproachful, "I may be a wreck, but I am not a fool."

---

Chapter End Notes

*In some of the earlier drafts of the Silmarillion backstory, there is no mention of Maedhros' rescue by Fingon; instead, Maedhros is unspecifically maimed by Morgoth. As I'm a fan of bringing contradictory versions together, I figured that Maedhros himself might have spread or at any rate encouraged the legend that Morgoth took his hand; after all, his brothers haven't exactly proven to understand much about Angband, and as Maedhros cannot yet be certain how his brothers would react towards Fingon if they knew the truth, blaming Morgoth is probably not the worst idea for the time being.
Similar happenings can be found elsewhere in Tolkien's writings: Bilbo doesn't immediately tell the true story about how he got to own that lovely ring, after all...

Part II, Chapter IX

In which Maedhros is discontent, and Maglor suggests a solution.

Read Part II, Chapter IX

Tyelkormo proved right; it took only two more days until the first snow fell. At first it turned into a grey slush on the sodden ground. Maitimo could hear the sound of sloshing and sliding footsteps and the occasional muffled curse or giggle. The windows in his room were almost perpetually open and the stove used for nothing beyond keeping the tea hot, despite all the protests of either his brothers or the healers.
After another day the ground had frozen hard enough so the snow no longer lost its shape, instead piling up higher and higher. Except for Macalaurë, who had his kingly duties to take care of, and Curufinwë, whose work in the forge was independent of the weather, the brothers spent most of their time in Maitimo's room. "I make Curvo attend our supper at least, and I recommend you to do the same when you take charge," Macalaurë explained once. "Otherwise we'd never see him again."
"I'd imagine he doesn't much like you to tell him what to do," Maitimo said with a wry smile.
"No indeed. But so far he's had been kind enough to do it anyway," Macalaurë said with a sigh. Maitimo looked thoughtful at that.

The snow kept falling, and most activity in the camp was confined to indoors, making the people restless. The brothers were no exception. Maitimo, howerver, grew frustrated even faster. Once he had recovered from the journey – which took unexpectedly long; he had not thought that he was still so weak – Maitimo felt exceedingly dissatisfied with his inability to move, and the healers' and his brothers' fussing about him began to annoy him. By the third day at the latest, he thought, they should have realised that he intended to do as much on his own as he could. It was little enough after all. When his fever had finally subsided and the painful heaviness had left his limbs, he grew positively irritable.
"I have rested long enough," he declared eventually, "and I won't take it any longer. I want to walk again."
Macalaurë would have none of it. As his free time was limited to the dark hours, he had moved back into the great bedroom, sleeping next to Maitimo (or, more often, waking next to Maitimo while his brother was tossing and turning in nightmares, and holding and reassuring him until the shadow left - for a while). He thus had ample chance to form his own opinion on the damage. "The last time you took a walk it did you little good. Don't deny it, we've all seen it. You need healing and rest, and I won't allow you to overtax yourself so soon – yet again."

Under different circumstances Maitimo might have found Macalaurë's resolute tone entertaining; obviously his younger brother had grown into the role of leader admirably. But he was in no mood to be amused. The healers, of course, backed Macalaurë. They declared Maitimo's leg not strong enough yet to take his weight, and his mangled shoulder barely capable of bearing the strain put on it when Maitimo sat upright; there could be no thought of standing or walking.
"My hand will never grow back," Maitimo growled when he was informed of their counsel, "does that mean that you'll keep me in bed forever?"
They looked away, unable to face his anger, and said nothing. He took this as agreement, and his spirits fell yet more. Perhaps the worst thing was that they were right; his recuperation seemed to stagnate. The shoulder, which had almost stopped aching before he had left Nolofinwë's camp, had grown very tender by the transport, and it was slow to forgive him. His leg throbbed painfully on occasion, and the end of his right arm had begun to itch horribly.
"A good sign," said Herenyo, who for Maitimo's taste was altogether too cheerful. "It means that the healing is going well."
"I'll rather have the pain again than that rotten itch," Maitimo muttered, and even Herenyo had lost his happy airs. But he removed the bandages, and Maitimo could see that the stump was indeed healing well, angry scars the only traces of the hand that had once been there. He gritted his teeth at the sight; now that it was out in the open, the loss of his hand was somehow even more undeniable. Herenyo or one of his colleagues had mixed a salve, at least, that took away the worst of the itch.

Neither pain nor weakness stopped Maitimo from moving as much as he could within his limits, flexing and stretching his long legs incessantly.
"Can't you sit still?" Carnistir had asked at some point after watching the laborious movement underneath the blanket like a cat, unable to look away.
"I've been still long enough," Maitimo snapped in reply, tired of the reprimands and warnings. "If I don't move now, I never will."
Carnistir said nothing more, instead taking Maitimo's dictation for a letter to Findekáno, but he avoided to look at anything but Maitimo's face after that. Maitimo found the constant stare of those dark eyes rather disconcerting. At that point he had driven most of his brothers from their previously frequent visits; only Carnistir and faithful Macalaurë still braved his temper. Sometimes Maitimo would feel bad about his foul mood and apologised to the two of them.
Macalaurë kissed his hand then, and said that he took it as fair punishment for abandoning him.
"I do not wish to punish you for that," Maitimo said with a frown. "It was the right thing to do."
Macalaurë sighed. "I know. But I can handle it easier if I pretend it is for that reason." Maitimo didn't know what else to say, but he felt embarrassed. Sooner or later it caused him to brood again, and from there it went downwards.

At the same time, many people – old friends and new admirers – began to ask Macalaurë to give their kindest regards and best wishes to his convalescent brother, along with gifts. After a moment's meditation, Macalaurë had suggested that they should visit Maitimo and give him their presents in person.
"He is tired of resting," he explained to the protesting healers, "and I am sure he'd welcome the distraction. And the people could give him their presents without my intermission. Perhaps that will tear him out of his dark moods."
The petitioners greeted the idea with enthusiasm, at any rate, and Macalaurë agreed to ask his brother when he would like to receive his guests.
If he had hoped that Maitimo would be delighted by the prospect of variety, his hopes were dashed at once. "I won't see anyone while I'm lying in bed," Maitimo declared categorically. "They don't need to see me like this, weak and useless and ugly."
"They would truly like to speak with you," Macalaurë said, gently but adamantly. "They have seen you arrive, and worry about you, and I assure you they won't think ill of your state."
"They may try not to, but they will. Even you do." Macalaurë shook his head in alarm, but Maitimo was angry and pushed further. "Oh, don't bother to deny it. I've seen Turko flinch, and none of you bear to look at me for long."

That was true, except in the case of Carnistir, but it was not quite fair to reproach his brothers; Maitimo himself did not bear to look at his own body for long, and he had so far refused the offer of a mirror when he washed his face or combed his hair. But Macalaurë knew better than to point this out. He only said, "Fine, I shall tell Turko not to flinch again – if you allow the people to see you."
"Not until I am recovered enough to visit them on my own," said Maitimo, turning away from his brother and curling up to mark the conversation as over.
Macalaurë ignored the signal. "They have missed you, Nelyo, and they find it hard to know you nearby without seeing you. I know what it feels like. I have born it for months while Nolofinwë kept you! I could not help it, so I was patient; now I can, and I'd be loath to keep them from seeing you regardless."
"I do not want to see them," Maitimo insisted. "And if they knew what I look like now, they wouldn't want to see me either."
"Oh, don't be silly," said Macalaurë, frustrated. "You never were so vain in the old days!"
"I didn't need it in the old days! But now they want to see Maitimo the Beautiful, and he's gone. They don't want to see this… this wreck," Maitimo said, his voice rising; he struck the mattress with his right wrist and flinched when the stump reminded him that it was still very tender.
Macalaurë rose. "They want to see you, brother. Don't you think there's more to you than your beauty? They admire your bravery and pity your pain --"
"I do not need pity," snapped Maitimo.
Macalaurë snorted. "Then why do you pity yourself so much? Now stop being obstinate. You don't have to see them for long, a smile and two or three words will do. It means so much to them."

Maitimo turned to face him again, groaning more than necessary, and gave his brother an exasperated look. "Why don't you marry and have children so you have someone else to boss around?" he growled.
Macalaurë winced as if struck; then he retaliated. "I've thought about it - but with five childish brothers to look after, I can't afford it. Now, I'd appreciate if you at least tried not to make this harder. I don't know what pleasure you gain from your anger, but I assure you that it's highly unpleasant for the rest of us. So if some poor fools wish to tell you they've missed you, you could at least try to be reasonable." He made to leave.
"Macalaurë," Maitimo called after him, and his brother stopped and turned back, although he said nothing. Maitimo reached out for him, his hand suspended in empty air. "Macalaurë, forgive me. I am being an idiot. It's just… I am so tired of all this. I'm incapable of doing anything of consequence. Even when I try to do the small things I can do, everyone seeks to hinder me. I can't wait to move again. It is so frustrating to be free, and yet confined to one room! It forces me to think about myself too much, and I am afraid of what I have become. The idea that I may be like this forever terrifies me. But it isn't your fault, and I shouldn't make you pay for it. I'm sorry."

Macalaurë's expression had softened during Maitimo's speech, and he walked back, taking the outheld hand. "I understand. I try to, anyway."
"You are doing marvellously. If I were you, I'd probably have stabbed me at night."
"Nonsense."
"No, it's true. I am annoying myself so much - it must be even worse for you."
"Ah, but at least I can walk away when it gets too bad," said Macalaurë with a regretful smile. "That's why I thought you might like to have some visitors – someone to keep your mind off... your injuries."
"Someone who'll remind me of them, more like. I can't clear my throat without people tossing a dozen remedies my way! If at least I weren't confined to bed..."
"Perhaps we can carry you down to the Hall, if that's what bothers you so much," Macalaurë offered.
Maitimo's eyes lit up. "Oh, would you? Please?" He gripped Macalaurë's hand harder and sat upright. "I could feel more normal that way."
"There's no merit in being normal; it's the extraordinary that makes us great," said Macalaurë distractedly: one of their father's common sayings. He was already pondering how to organise the visits.
Maitimo snorted, but now it was good-natured rather than bitter. "In this family, it's the extraordinary that makes us normal. Would you really carry me downstairs?"
"I'd carry you around the world if it kept you from moping – as long as it doesn't interfere with your recovery," Macalaurë retorted. "I'll ask the healers."

- - -

"I suppose it should do no harm if it is done very carefully," Herenyo ventured thoughtfully.
"We cannot be certain, however," cautioned Séralcar. "It may be that early movement delays the overall healing by weeks."
"Or it may be that it helps it along. We have no experience in a case like this," said Herenyo. The two healers had checked the signs of Maitimo's recuperation meticulously, but it hadn't helped them to find an answer to Macalaurë's question.

Macalaurë grimaced. "If we do not know, I suppose we shouldn't take the risk..."
Séralcar nodded his agreement. "That would be wiser, my lord. Maybe we can try in a couple of weeks. Until then, he should rest and take nourishment. Especially milk to strenghten the bones."
Maitimo groaned. "No, don't make me wait another couple of weeks! I shall have gone mad by then, and afterwards you'll just say you're still not sure and make me wait yet longer!"
"But if it were better for you…" said Macalaurë.
"No!" Maitimo interrupted. "Give my bones a reason to grow strong again and they'll do it. With or without milk. Or cheese," he added, winking at Carnistir, who pursed his lips and stared out of the window.

The healers exchanged a glance. "We cannot reccommend it. If you insist, however, may we suggest that you plan only one of these meetings for now, and give yourself enough time to recover afterwards? And that means at least a week."
"You may," said Maitimo with a sigh, "although a week is a terribly long time. You try to lie in bed doing nothing for a week."
"We are not in your state, my lord," said Séralcar with a frown. "I should think that your swift recovery is in your own best interest. Perhaps you would be better already if you did not insist on doing so much yourself..."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Maitimo impatiently. "I'm just not certain I believe in the kind of recovery you seem to have in mind. I'd rather learn to make do with what I've got left."
"We will give it a try," Macalaurë said, trying to soothe both sides. "If we see that it doesn't hinder your healing, it can be done more often. For now, a first try should be sufficient." He nodded to the healers, who still didn't look too convinced. But Maitimo gave him a grateful smile.
"Yes, for now it'll suffice."

Part II, Chapter X

In which Maedhros is visited by old friends, old ghosts, and the new generation.

Read Part II, Chapter X

On the appointed day, Maitimo felt almost childishly excited. After his breakfast (by now he had recovered a taste for what his brothers called 'real food'), while Varnacanyo was cleaning and dressing him, Macalaurë explained how they had organised the audiences.
"We've let them draw lots so nobody gets to complain about people being preferred. There are five – well, four people and one family – on the list today. But of course-" he made the mistake of looking at Maitimo's temporarily bare back, and looked away swiftly, interrupting himself. "Nelyo, are you certain that you want to... to lean on that?"
Maitimo craned his neck to see what he was talking about, and then shrugged. "It's used to it. No, really, stop worrying." He nodded to Varnacanyo to continue the ablutions. The squire appeared no longer to be shocked by Maitimo's injuries; although he was extremely cautious, he did not flinch from the task at hand.
Macalaurë swallowed and went on. "Well, if you do find that you are exhausted and rather wouldn't see anyone else at any time, please let Varnacanyo know. Everyone has been informed that you are not fully recovered, and they've agreed that they don't want to put a strain on you. So do send them home if you're too tired, do you hear me? There's no use in wearing yourself out."
"Yes, yes," Maitimo said, muffled by the fabric of the undershirt Varnacanyo was now helping him into. "Are you certain this was mine?"
"Perfectly certain," Varnacanyo said with a sigh. Maitimo raised his arms to demonstrate how much too wide the shirt was, and grunted in annoyance.
"Have you been listening?" Macalaurë insisted.
"Yes, Cáno, I have. No wearing myself out, let Varnacanyo know, send people home. As you say," he shot Macalaurë a sly upwards glance, "my king."
Macalaurë pursed his lips, not sure whether he should be annoyed or not, and decided to let the matter rest.

When Maitimo had been dressed, again bemused by the many layers of fabric upon his skin, Macalaurë and Varnacanyo carried him downstairs.
"You have gained weight," was the first thing Macalaurë said, delightedly.
"Well," Maitimo pointed out, "it's not like there was anything to loose." He was taking his surroundings in with wide eyes. When he had been brought here, he'd been too exhausted to think of anything but his own sorry state, but now he had the leisure to notice the care that had gone into the construction and decoration of the house. He admired the high windows of coloured glass, the carved pillars and murals; his brothers truly had made themselves at home here.
The hall where they brought him now took up most of the ground floor, and it was easily the most impressive part of the building. The high ceiling was born by white pillars; in contrast, the polished and oiled wood of the floor was of a dark wood with a reddish tint. Except for the western wall, where a single suit of armour stood underneath the great banner of the House of Fëanáro, and where one of the corners held Macalaurë's grand harp, it was unadorned as if to underline its sheer size. The only furniture consisted of a huge table surrounded by six chairs, upon a dais; but there was room for many more tables, and Maitimo expected that at times of high feasts a great part of their people could gather here.
One of the chairs had been cushioned generously with pillows and furs, and that was where they carried him. He was brought additional blankets, and the healers had the fire in the great fireplace stoked until they expressed themselves satisfied and took their leave. Macalaurë, too, made ready to depart, leaving Varnacanyo to take care of Maitimo's needs.

"Just one thing," Macalaurë softly said while Maitimo matter-of-factly removed half the blankets that the healers had piled upon him. "Please be patient with your guests. If you snap at me, I know how to handle it, but they didn't do you any harm. So please try to control your temper."
Maitimo hadn't meant to be anything less than patient and indulgent, and he found it insulting that Macalaurë thought he had to reprimand him. He wasn't stupid, after all. So he gave Macalaurë a rather gruff nod and said, "I'll try."
His brother looked about to say more, but then he just nodded in return, and left for his duties.

"Is there anything I can get you before asking your first visitors in?" Varnacanyo asked, seemingly unperturbed, when they were alone. He appeared pleased to be back in his old role.
"Some tea would be good, I think," said Maitimo, "and something for yourself, too. So, who's going to see me first?"
"Tánalindo and his family, my lord," the squire replied.
"Oh my," said Maitimo. The name sounded familiar. "That would be the son of Tánarámë?"
"That's the one."
"Oh my," Maitimo repeated. Tánarámë had been the one of the warriors who had accompanied him to that fateful parley. He was, of course, dead. Maitimo felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of having to face his son. For a moment he considered asking Varnacanyo to send the man away; then he thought better of it. There were many children who had lost their fathers on that day, many wives who had lost their husbands, and sooner or later he would have to look them in the eye. He might as well begin now. But he was not at all certain that he was up to it yet. He sighed.
"Very well. Will you show them in once they're arrived?"
"I will," Varnacanyo said, "although I suspect they may be waiting already."
Maitimo sighed again. "Right. I suppose we shouldn't keep them waiting any longer then."

If Tánalindo intended to attack Maitimo for the loss of his father, he masked it well. He entered and bowed somewhat nervously. Maitimo was surprised to see how he had grown - the Tánalindo he remembered had been as young as Tyelperinquar was now. Now the same young man was accompanied by a fair wife and two children. The youngest still had to be carried, but the older had already grown up to her mother's thighs, although she was still young enough to hide behind her mother's skirts. The mother was, Maitimo realised with a start, Amallë, the daughter of a carpenter who had frequented their house in Formenos. He remembered Amallë as a cheerful, somewhat mischievous youth who loved to play pranks. The sight of these older versions of people he had known gave him a bit of a sting; he kept forgetting just how much time had passed until he saw it made flesh in the people around him.

His feelings must have registered on his face, for Tánalindo looked even more uncomfortable, and Amallë bit her lips nervously, clutching the little girl in her arms tightly to her chest.
Maitimo forced himself to smile.
Tánalindo bowed again. "It is a relief to see you... well," he said. The last word sounded a little uncertain. "You have been missed."
"Thank you. I am quite well indeed, under the circumstances. And I am glad to see you again. Come closer, please? I cannot rise to meet you, but you are welcome nonetheless."
The family stepped closer. Maitimo gestured at his brothers' empty chairs, but Tánalindo shook his head. "We do not wish to importune you, my lord. I only hoped to speak with you briefly."
Somehow, Maitimo thought, that sounded ominous. He grimaced, but he said, "As you wish."

Tánalindo finally smiled, albeit weakly. "Firstly we have brought you some gifts..." He produced two corked bottles that he had kept hidden behind his back. They were beautiful works of pottery, pale grey glazed with dabs of a darker grey and green. Maitimo commented on the fine making.
Amallë looked pleased. "I made them myself, my lord. Although you probably don't want to know how many failed attempts it took to produce these." She chuckled, then covered her lips with her hands. "I shouldn't have said that, should I?"
Maitimo raised his eyebrows. "I don't see why not, unless of course you want me to believe that you are a perfect craftswoman who always succeeds at first try, in which case I shall pretend not to have heard your comment. But if you are worried about formality – there is no need for that."
This eased the mood, at least a little. "Actually, despite the fine making the bottles are merely vessels. As so often, the contents are more important," Amallë said.
"Oh?" said Maitimo, tilting his head. "What would these contents be, then?"
"This one," said Tánalindo, raising the bottle in his left hand, "contains wine. Nothing as good as what we've had in Valinor, but the best vintage we have been able to produce here so far, so I hope you may derive at least a little pleasure from it. And this one," raising the other, "contains a fine ointment Amallë made. We find it rather helpful when our muscles ache after a long day's work, so we thought..." Suddenly his words faltered.

"I am sure I can use it well," said Maitimo as Tánalindo fell silent. "Thank you for your kindness. This is really not necessary, but I have learned to treasure gifts as they come, so I shall forego the usual game of refusing and insisting if it's all the same to you."
"Of course," said Tánalindo, frowning. "At any rate, there is another matter..."
Amallë shifted uneasily, and Maitimo earlier apprehension returned. "Ah. I thought there might be," he said, trying to appear nonchalant. Tánalindo stepped forward while Amallë tried to soothe the infant in her arm, who had begun to whimper as if feeling the change in the mood.
"First of all," said Tánalindo, "I want you to know that I am not here to reproach you. I do not blame you."
Maitimo let out a slow breath. "That is good of you, and I am relieved to hear it," he said, and he was. "Although I do blame myself, and I would understand your anger."
"I am no longer angry. I was, though not truly at you, or your father, but more at everything that happened. And I was heartbroken for a while; but somehow life went on, didn't it? I have a wonderful wife and two beautiful daughters, and we are healthy and safe. That matters. I do miss Father, but blaming or raging doesn't bring him back. I just can't help having questions."

Maitimo was spared from replying at once, for the baby began to bawl now, causing her sister to run from her hide-out behind her mother's skirts. The parents apologised profusely while trying to comfort both the fussing baby and the startled child with little success, but Maitimo smiled. "No, no, it's all right. No, you don't have to go outside, it's freezing there, or so I am told. Is she all right? If she's hungry, you can feed her here, or Varnacanyo can point you to some secluded corner if you' prefer that, I am sure."
"I think she's just angry because she's woken up," Amallë said embarrassedly. "I am very sorry, I should have found someone to watch her while we came to visit..."
"It is perfectly fine," said Maitimo. "It would take a lot more to distress me than a crying child. Just see to stop her distress." He held his left hand out to the older girl. "And what is your name? We have quite neglected our introductions, haven't we."
The child looked at his hand curiously, then placed her own little hand in it sombrely. "I'm Pelalassë. But I already know who you are."
Maitimo gave her a lopsided smile. "So you have the advantage. And your sister's name?"
"Anarórë," the little girl said. "Because she was born just after the Sun rose."
"I see. It is a pleasure to meet you, Pelalassë. And Anarórë, too."
"She is crying all the time," said Pelalassë. "Amil says that's because she can't talk."
Maitimo nodded, matching the child's grave tone. "Yes, they do that when they're small. Even I did that. And you did, too."
She pouted. "I didn't! Did I, Amil?" She turned back to her mother, her brows creasing. Amallë, rocking Anarórë in her arms, chuckled. "I'm afraid you did, love."
"How does he know?" the child demanded, turning back to Maitimo with an almost accusatory look. "How did you know?!"
Now Maitimo could not help but laugh. "I grew up with six younger brothers, Pelalassë. I had a lot of opportunity to learn about children." The baby, hearing the laughter, ceased her crying and stared at him wide-eyed; then the corners of her mouth moved into a smile that looked almost astonished, as if she hadn't yet grown familiar with this ability. The parents were able to settle down again, Amallë keeping the baby occupied while Pelalassë climbed into one of the chairs where she sat down, cross-legged, and watched Maitimo earnestly even though he did nothing more exciting than drink some more tea.

When he put his cup down again, he nodded to Tánalindo. "I will try to answer your questions, if I can."
"Thank you," Tánalindo answered, but his smile had faded. "I have been asking myself these questions for a long time, so I appreciate your answers, whatever they may be." He paused as if to give Maitimo a chance to say something, warning or encouragement. Maitimo simply nodded.
Tánalindo looked down. Then, bracing himself, he said, "Was my father captured as well?"
Maitimo bit his lip, wondering how to put this. Finally he replied, "No. All but I were slain at once."
"Do you know that for certain?" Tánalindo raised his head, and his eyes met Maitimo's. There was grief in them, but also strength, and a deep underlying peace that took Maitimo by surprise. "Yes," he said. Unlike Tánalindo, he felt neither strength nor peace, and he swallowed a lump that had risen in his throat. "I saw him die."
The other's eyes closed briefly, but he nodded. "I suppose this is a dreadful thing to say, but I am relieved to hear it. Was it a painful death?"
Maitimo had to frown at this; what kind of question was that while a young child was listening? Then he wondered whether it wasn't unreasonable to keep such things secret from children. He had grown up with the knowledge of his grandmother's untimely demise as well, after all.
"I obviously cannot judge it for certain, and my definition of 'painful' is very likely different from yours, but if I remember correctly, it was swift. I do not think he suffered."
The young man nodded. He was unable to speak for a while. His lips trembled, and he had to wipe away tears. Maitimo waited in silence, watched Pelalassë jump from her seat to hug her father. Fortunately the baby did not start to cry again despite the tangible sadness, instead making curious gurgling sounds while Amallë whispered to her.
Perhaps it was the distraction by his daughters that made Tánalindo regain his balance. Or perhaps it was because he had in truth come to terms with his father's death long ago, and this was no fresh pain, but rather old grief remembered. At any rate he managed a shaky smile, and holding his child close, he said, "Thank you."
"You are very welcome," said Maitimo, "though I wish I could have helped in a more cheerful matter."

"That opportunity may yet come," Amallë threw in. "For now, it would be more fitting for us to help you. Is there anything we can do for you before we leave?"
Maitimo blinked. "I cannot think of anything for the moment, Amallë. Unless, of course, you know some kind of magic healing that might restore my strength."
"None but patience, I'm afraid."
He grimaced. "Which is the hardest part. But I am trying. Well; then I thank you for your visit. It has given me quite a bit to think about. It was good to see you again, and to learn that you are well. And it's been especially nice to meet your children." He smiled at Pelalassë, but she did not leave her father's side again, though she smiled back shyly. "And of course I also thank you for your generous gifts."
The family left with their best wishes for his further recovery.
Maitimo gyrated his tea-cup, staring at the swirling liquid inside. He felt Varnacanyo stand by his elbow and looked up at him with a crooked smile. "Well, that was interesting, wasn't it? Life goes on. Somehow it always goes on."
Varnacanyo smiled in return. "Yes, my lord. It does."
Maitimo emptied the cup. "Well. Who's next then?"
"Master Encaitar, a silk weaver, calling in his function as head of the Weavers' and Tailors' Guild."
"There are guilds? Since when do we have guilds in these lands?"
"Well, my lord-- " Varnacanyo began, but Maitimo waved his hand. "No, don't tell me. I've been away a long time. Very well. Ask him in."

Part II, Chapter XI

In which Maedhros has to deal with fashion, philosophy, the past and the future. End of Part Two.

Read Part II, Chapter XI

"Thus on behalf of the Guild which I represent, let me express our most heartfelt sorrow at your pain and predicament, and our eager wishes for your quick and complete convalescence. The joy we all felt when we heard about your rescue can hardly be expressed, wherefore we desire to show it in deeds rather than words, if you were so kind as to allow us..."

Maitimo found himself disliking Encaitar immediately. Perhaps it was the fact that the other wore splendid, many-layered robes of fine silks - what a waste on a day like this, when even the short walk through the settlement had sufficed to soak the hems with slush and mud! – as if attending some court function or great feast. Perhaps it was the way that he bowed too low, and with extra flourishes that would have made Maitimo's father snort audibly if this had been Tirion. Perhaps it was his rambling speech, which was predictable and repetitive and made Maitimo's tongue itch with ironic responses. The longer the speech went on, playing for too long on the same limited range of topics, the harder it became not to comment on it. Perhaps it was the self-importance of the silk-weaver's appearance that belied the humility he kept protesting. Maitimo didn't find it at all difficult to make a proper list in head while he had to listen to what seemed to him endless droning. Varnacanyo brought new tea, and they exchanged a bemused glance; beyond that, Maitimo tried not to show his annoyance although he found it hard not to tap his fingers or grind his teeth.

Finally, with another little flourish, the speech came to an end. Maitimo realised that he had stopped paying attention some time ago. He drew himself upright. "I thank you for your kind words," he said gravely, hoping that the irony wouldn't seep through, "and assure you that I will do my best to be of assistance." Then he could no longer keep it back. "I'm sorry, but what exactly did you want?"
The silk weaver looked confused, and Maitimo felt almost sorry; perhaps the man had made himself clear after all, and he just hadn't listened well enough? Then Encaitar gave a nervous little laugh and another annoyingly low bow, and Maitimo's pity subsided.
"Well, my lord, I was rather expecting it to be obvious. Now that you are returned among us – a circumstance for which I cannot express my joy and elation sufficiently – you will doubtlessly desire new robes, especially for your royal office, and I have come to assure you of our great readiness to produce whatsoever you could wish for, and secure these wishes so we may begin to work on their fulfilment forthwith."
Maitimo's eyebrows went up. "New robes? Now?" He checked himself and spoke a little more kindly. "I hardly think new robes are something I need to consider just now. After all, I require no more than a night-shirt at the moment. And when I do, I daresay my old stuff is still perfectly sufficient; it's not as if I've had much chance to outwear it..."
"But my lord!" Encaitar protested. "Your old clothing – though doubtlessly of excellent make – is hardly what you would call fashionable. The cuts are outdated, likewise the patterns; certainly you'd wish to have something more appropriate for these new days?"

"I can't say that I do," said Maitimo. "Up until now I did not even know that anything should be wrong with my old things, and frankly I still don't quite see it. All that aside, it would hardly do to measure me now; I do hope I am going to grow somewhat stronger, and then all your new robes would no longer fit."
"True, true, of course," said Encaitar, bowing yet again. Maitimo almost ground his teeth this time. "But it would take a while to dye and weave the fabrics anyway, you know, and we could prepare everything until you were ready to have the robes fitted."
"By which time you'd doubtlessly tell me that the fabrics I'd chosen were hopelessly old-fashioned, and you'd have to start over," said Maitimo. He no longer tried to keep the scorn out of his voice. "I think not. I'm sure you'll find a more promising object to wrap in your robes for now."
"But my lord, we wish to work for you," said Encaitar, his voice taking on a querulous tone. "Just think: With the right cuts and colours, you could enhance that which is left of your former beauty, and hide that which is lost..."

Maitimo's eyes narrowed. "You are very certain that I need to hide or enhance something." He was tempted to just send the man out right now. Then he thought of something better. "But now that I think about it, there are some silks that I suppose you could weave for me..." A sly smile crossed his face, and he spoke very softly - his brothers, had they been there, would have known this to be the time to take cover. Varnacanyo certainly did; he subtly moved the tea-pot out of Maitimo's reach so it would not be swept off the table, and backed off slightly.
But Encaitar did not know Maitimo, and thus he plunged straight ahead. "Yes?" he said eagerly, drawing a fine silk-bound notebook and a coal pencil from somewhere within the folds of his layered robes.
"Yes," said Maitimo, and his smile would have been enough to make even Curufinwë take flight. "First, pale gray on dark blue, swirls of clouds in the Telerin style..."
"It is called the Valinorean style now, my lord," said Encaitar with a frown.
"It was called the Telerin style when I last heard of it. You obviously know what I mean, so that'll do fine." said Maitimo. He didn't give Encaitar time to reply but went on at once. "Second, blue on blue, light on dark, diamond twill; third, light blue and silver interwoven, no pattern; fourth, a brocade, dark blue base with plum and apple blossoms..."
"But these are Nolofinwëan colours, my lord," Encaitar finally protested when he could get a word in.
"Is that so, Master Encaitar?" said Maitimo, still smiling. "How surprising. Don't you think that some fine silks would be the perfect gift to the lords Findekáno and Nolofinwë, in token of my gratitude?"
"Well, yes, my lord, but truly we were hoping to make something for you!"

Maitimo had risen halfway to his feet before his legs gave way. He fell back into his seat; it did nothing to improve his mood. "Why, first you complain that I give you nothing to do and try to tell me what to want. Now I am giving you a chance to do me a service, and you complain again? Then send me some weaver of less obsequiousness and more conscience that I may ask it of him!" Varnacanyo stood by his shoulder again. Whether to help him if he chose to stand or to make sure he wouldn't try it again, Maitimo didn't know. He did not care much either way.
"No, no, my lord," Encaitar hastened to say. "I assure you that I am not complaining at all. And I shall personally see to it that your request will be fulfilled to your complete satisfaction!"
"Good," Maitimo said bluntly. "That will be all then. You may go."
Encaitar hesitated, obviously unwilling to be thrown out; but before Maitimo could lose his temper again, Varnacanyo spoke up. "I believe my lord's supper has been prepared, and we should not let it go cold," he said in a mild voice. He nodded to Encaitar, who began to realise that he had lost. "I shall accompany you outside, Lord Encaitar."
They left, and Maitimo could lean back and calm down.

Although Varnacanyo had mainly used the meal as an excuse, there was indeed a bowl of broth (and many apologies that it was nothing better on this special day, but they were preparing a small feast for the evening) and some bread for Maitimo. He ate without spirit. "Just one more, if you can arrange it," he said, remembering Macalaurë's words. "I feel worn out. I don't want to send anyone who's already arrived away, but tell the last two not to bother coming here, if you can."
Varnacanyo nodded. "Gladly. I can send the next one away as well, if you'd rather..."
"No, no, I'll manage. Who is it anyway?"
Varnacanyo glanced down at his list. "Tyelparma son of Herentára," he said. Neither name sounded familiar to Maitimo.
"Huh. Should I know him?"
"I doubt it. I hardly do. He's a young scholar, a bookworm. I'm surprised he came out of the library for long enough to request an audience."
"Is that so. Well, show him in; but if he's going to ask to write my biography, I shall not be accountable for whatever happens."
Varnacanyo looked half amused and half worried.

The young man who entered looked like the very parody of a scholar, all hastily braided hair, reasonable dark robes, ink-stained hands, and books tucked underneath his arm. His round, nervous eyes and somewhat pointy chin made him look like a mouse creeping into the cat's den. He too bowed too low, but as it was done a little awkwardly and without any silly flourishes, Maitimo was willing to overlook it. He listened for a while to the awkward speech of the youth, who kept stuttering and forgetting words and blushed fiercely whenever that happened, and he accepted the gift of a small but beautifully illuminated book graciously. Then silence fell. Maitimo waited, and the scholar fidgeted, but said nothing more, biting his lip instead. Maitimo looked at him, emptied his tea-cup, looked again; still Tyelparma stood in silence.
"Yes?" Maitimo finally said, trying to sound inviting rather than impatient. The young man flinched anyway. "Is there anything else you wish to say, or was that all?"
The youth fidgeted some more.
"Truth to tell, I do have something else, my lord, if it isn't too bold..."
"I'll decide on that once I know what it is," said Maitimo. "Let's hear it."
"Well, sir, the thing is, I have copied your essays a while back, and on the third page of your treatise on the nature of thought there's this passage which I don't quite understand..." He took a deep breath, his eyes growing even wider. "Would you be so kind as to explain it to me?"
Maitimo raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was certainly unexpected. "Why not," he said slowly.
The young man beamed and stood expectantly. Maitimo waited another moment before giving him a stern look.
"Now, surely you do not expect me to remember it by heart," he said. "I've written that, what, a hundred years ago? There's been a lot happening since then. If you could show me the passage in question, I might be more likely to be able to help you."
Tyelparma blushed furiously. "Of course, my lord," he said. "I beg your pardon." He took the second book that he'd carried in and leafed through it. "If I may?" he asked, looking anxiously at the dais.
"By all means," said Maitimo with an inviting gesture to the chair on his left. "Varnacanyo, could I ask you to bring some more tea? For yourself and young Tyelparma as well. Unless either of you would prefer wine?"
"Oh no," said the scholar, almost stepping onto the hem of his sombre robes as he ascended to the dais. "Tea would be fine."
"Tea for all of us then," said Varnacanyo, smiling.

While Tyelparma sat down reverentially, Maitimo glanced at the open book before him. On the Nature of Thought, the open page proclaimed in bold Tengwar, a study by Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion. Tirion upon Túna, 1453. Maitimo shook his head in bemusement and turned the page. "My goodness, the things we used to pass our time with," he said softly. "You have a fine hand, young Tyelparma."
"Um, this is the original, my lord," the young scholar said with another blush. "This is your own hand."
Maitimo stared at the elegant, no longer familiar Tengwar. "Are you certain?"
"Absolutely, my lord," Tyelparma said eagerly, warming up now that he could talk about a topic he felt at ease with. "The entire book is a precious original, and even if I had not been assured of this, the writing proves it. Look at the distinctive slope of the telcor, the elegant placement of the ómatehtar, the clear and consistent linearity; there can be no doubt that this was written by the lord Maitimo himself." He stopped and smiled apologetically, correcting himself, "I mean, by you."
Maitimo felt almost embarrassed. "Well," he said, "I shall read what I scribbled and then we'll see whether we can make sense of it, all right?"
Varnacanyo returned with tea and was asked to sit at Maitimo's right side. Aside from the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the occasional distant howl of wind and the rustling of the pages it was silent until Maitimo had finished his perusal of the essay.

"Well. I think I understand what I meant back then," he said eventually. "But really I had no idea what I was talking about."
Tyelparma protested, but Maitimo stopped him short. "No, truly. See, what I seem to have meant was that thought can conquer everything, everything, and therefore any weakness or failure just meant that someone was being stupid or, at the least, weak of mind. That's what the passage you asked about means, just more politely expressed. Arrogant nonsense. That's what it boils down to." His voice had risen and grown agitated. Varnacanyo laid a hand on his arm to calm him while Tyelparma looked as if he regretted having raised the question.
Nonetheless, he bravely asked, "But you wrote it, my lord. How can you now say it's nonsense?"
"How can I contradict myself, you mean? Very easily, with all that has happened since. I have seen – and felt, good grief – things that thought couldn't conquer. I still do. Every night I dream of Angamando, and no matter how much I tell myself that I am no longer there, my mind still locks me there. Does that make me stupid? Naturally I hesitate to stamp myself so. Certainly you cannot say that my father was weak of mind - yet all his thought could not conquer his banishment, or his hatred for his brothers. Or his death." He paused. "Or is that brought about by thought, too? In that case I just neglected the dark powers of thought, the destructive side. Perhaps that's it. I wasn't entirely wrong; but I failed to consider the darkness." He shrugged. "I suppose I didn't know any better."

Tyelparma's frown deepened. "But you wrote it," he repeated as if unwilling to accept that one of his paragons of scholarship might have erred.
"Yes," Maitimo said. "I wrote it, and now I see that what I wrote is no longer sufficient. Am I not allowed to do that? Surely I can change my mind if I have just reason? Surely I may revise my opinion if it no longer matches my experience? Is that not better than pretending that my youthful idealism is the final word on the matter and has to be upheld even though it is plain to see now that I was naïve, that I didn't see all the facts?" His voice was rising again. "Isn't this the point of learning, to be able to correct our errors?" He was getting carried away. Still, the idea held some odd fascination.
"I have half a mind to rewrite it," he said to the others.
"Why only half?" said Varnacanyo with a wry smile. "Why don't you?"
Maitimo looked surprised; then he laughed. "Why not indeed? I cannot write, but other than that there is nothing to stop me." He flexed his left hand.
"I am sure you could learn using the other hand," Varnacanyo pointed out. "You've mastered more difficult arts in the past."
"Don't even try to flatter me. Yes, of course I could learn it. About time, too! Even though that'll mean scholars will have to get used to a different script. No more clarity, no more consistency, no more elegance, I'm afraid. Still..." He turned back to Tyelparma who sat in his chair, confused into wide-eyed silence. "I must thank you for bringing this to my attention, young Tyelparma. Are there by any chance further questions you have about my writings?"
"No, my lord," Tyelparma replied, smiling tentatively. "They seem to make perfect sense otherwise. To me. But if you wish to take another look to see whether I missed anything..." He gestured at the book and looked at Maitimo eagerly. "Perhaps you might be willing to explain it to me?"

By the time Macalaurë had finished his dealings around the camp, it was dark. Macalaurë went bent over by the force of the gale, snow stinging in his face and worries gnawing at his heart. He entered the house, and the howling of the wind grew dim as he closed the door. It felt unnaturally quiet after the stormy evening, until Macalaurë heard voices and something like laughter to his right. He kicked off his boots and handed his soaked cloak to Orecálo, and stepped into the great hall.

Heat from the great fire rushed over him, but more than by the fire Macalaurë felt warmed by the scene before him. Maitimo, Varnacanyo and the young scholar who had won the third visit of the day were sitting at the high table, locked in a lively discussion. The change from the brother Maclaurë had left in the morning was enormous. Even at the distance it was obvious that Maitimo was in good spirits, gesturing animatedly to underline his point, nodding eagerly, and, yes, laughing.
Macalaurë leaned against the doorframe. He would have been perfectly happy to watch and listen in secret for a while, but Varnacanyo chanced to look his way and rose at once, bowing. The scholar copied him hastily. Maitimo naturally remained sitting, but he acknowledged his brother's presence with a smile, and Macalaurë couldn't have wished for more. The corners of his mouth seemed to escape his control, creeping into a grin so broad it almost hurt.

"I have bothered you for too long, my lord," the young man said anxiously as Macalaurë stepped closer. "I beg your pardon."
"Not at all," said Maitimo, leaning back and turning to look at him. "Quite the contrary. This has been a most pleasant and enlightening afternoon, and I thank you heartily. If you must indeed leave now, may I ask that you come back soon? As soon as the healers and my warden brother permit?" There was an almost pleading quality to his voice now, but he was still smiling.
Tyelparma flushed with joy. "Oh yes, my lord, if I may!"
Macalaurë gave him a nod. "I know not yet what you have done to cheer my brother up like this, but I certainly owe you thanks as well. And I certainly don't mean to scare you away. If you have the time, please stay longer. I'm sure our supper will suffice for one more."
The young scholar's face remained beet-red, but it was crossed by a look of regret. "I should like to, my lord. But—I have been here for a long time, and I do not wish to become a nuisance, and anyway, my parents will be waiting for me..."
"I'll let that count," said Maitimo, "your parents, that is - not the nuisance part. I've kept you for a long time; we wouldn't want them to worry." He glanced at Macalaurë, who frowned, somewhat confused. Maitimo shook his head and smiled.
Tyelparma bowed again. "Then I thank you for understanding, and for bearing with me. And I'll gladly come back whenever I may." He bit his lip. "Do you wish to keep the book?"
Maitimo touched it. "Can you afford to leave it here? With your studies, I mean?"
"I copied it already. But I suppose technically I should ask my tutor before giving it away. It's hers, you see."
"Then I suggest you do that," said Maitimo with a grin. "I still have another book to read after all."
"True," said Tyelparma with a relieved smile, and packed his things remarkably less awkwardly than he had arrived. "I am looking forward to my next visit then!"
"As am I," said Maitimo. "Have a good evening, and give my regards to your parents."
"I shall, my lord. Thank you," said Tyelparma. He left with a definite spring in his step.

Macalaurë looked at his retreating figure and shook his head.
"Well, this is certainly intriguing. One of your visitors tells me that the lord Nelyafinwë is amiable and surprisingly collected, considering the circumstances; the next says that, alas, he is very unkind and his spirit is still under some dark spell; and the last is close to worshipping him. What am I to think? Did they really meet the same person?"
"Encaitar tried to interest me in glamourous robes," Maitimo said, the distaste obvious on his face and in his voice. "What should I care for those? Although you can tell him that he – or someone in his guild, anyway – can make a set of robes for me after all."
"He will be very glad to hear that."
"Wait until you've heard what kind," said Maitimo gravely. "What I want is black, woollen and sensible. Simple scholar's robes. No silk and no riotous colours."
"Ah," made Macalaurë, trying not to smile. "He may not like that after all."
"That is not my problem. Why should I cater to what he likes or not?"
Macalaurë sighed. "He's an artist, Nelyo. He wants to show his ingenuity and create marvels, not bother with something anyone could do."
"Well, then he needn't hope for any commissions from me. I don't want marvels, I just want black robes. Let some other tailor of less ingenuity take care of it, or tell Encaitar he can show his ingenuity in ensuring that I can dress and undress using only one hand."
"I doubt that fits his idea of ingenuity, but very well. I'll tell him what you said."
"Yes, do that," said Maitimo, a hint of sharpness in his voice.
Macalaurë's face fell. He had hoped the good mood might last for longer. With a grimace, he said, "I shall. But you must be tired. Do you want to go to bed?" He glanced across the table to Varnacanyo, who shook his head the tiniest bit. Macalaurë paused and frowned. "Or could I convince you to stay here for supper?"
"Do you want me to stay, or would you rather lock me back up in my room where I can be watched more closely? Why don't you ask the healers whether they can even reccommend my staying here for longer?"
Macalaurë recoiled from his brother's sudden anger. "Nelyo, of course I want you to stay. Why should I want to lock you up? I would enjoy nothing more than to have you here for supper, or forever. But I want you to heal, too!" He sighed. "Very well, let's do this without the healers. Do you think you can stay here for a bit longer? Do you feel tired?"
"I am tired," said Maitimo. "But I'd much prefer to eat here with all of you to being dragged back to bed just now."
"Then I'd be honoured if you decided to stay," said Macalaurë, smiling cautiously. "And I'm sure the others will think the same. I'll have another chair brought here."

Thus when the other brothers arrived for dinner they found an unexpected addition to their table.
"Unexpected but certainly not unwelcome," said Curufinwë, granting Maitimo the slightest of smiles.
"So you've rejoined the ranks of the living?" Tyelkormo asked with a glint in his eye.

Maitimo was spared from replying at once by the arrival of the first dishes, which caused the brothers to hurry to their places. Maitimo watched them fondly. Ambarussa kept staring at him with a fixed, urgent smile. Don't you dare to feel bad again, it said, and, you will heal, won't you? Carnistir sat lost in thought, playing with his knife. Curufinwë discussed the day's work with Tyelperinquar; his voice was now hard and his speech curt, and Maitimo surmised that they disagreed about something. Tyelkormo had apparently noticed something in his appearance that displeased him: He was combing his hair with his fingers, using his polished plate as a mirror.
Maitimo looked down at his own plate.
It was the first mirror image he saw of himself ever since the day before he had ridden off to his imprisonment, and he almost shied away from it. Staring at him from the speckless silver surface was a stranger, a grim, malnourished stranger with large eyes in sunken sockets. The cheekbones that had once been lauded as the exemplar of beauty now stuck out ridiculously, and the years of suffering had carved harsh lines around his eyes and mouth and left scars, too. The skin was very pale, making Maitimo's fiery hair and eyebrows look absurdly, unnaturally bright in contrast. His nose was crooked; Maitimo touched it with a shudder, remembering the countless beatings he had received. He was, miraculously, no longer in constant pain, and with the return of strength he had somehow assumed that his looks should have returned as well. Instead he barely recognised himself. He grimaced in dismay, and the face in the bright plate contorted; now it looked entirely orcish. Maitimo clenched his eyes shut. No wonder people were so wary around him, no wonder they sought to keep him confined to his room! If he had known that he looked so atrocious, he himself would have hidden away never to face the world again. Not like this. He thought it a miracle that his brothers, his visitors, above all Findekáno – for he must have looked even worse back then, on the mountain – had recognised him at all.
Yet they had. Perhaps there was hope. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, stared at his deformed face, and gave it a defiant smile.

The effect was startling.
The grimness gave way to astonishment, for suddenly the face was his own again. Not that his nose was any less crooked or his skin any less pale: but somehow the different parts of his face suddenly fitted together again. The smile made his cheeks look fuller, and while it deepened some of the wrinkles around his eyes, it smoothed the harsh lines that had made his mouth look so grim. Perhaps that was just his imagination. But he couldn't deny that the smile made his eyes light up, keeping the darkness that lurked at the back of his mind from manifesting on his face. He still looked dreadful, but somehow that made the smile more meaningful instead of taking away its strength, like a ray of light that crept unexpectedly into the darkest, most overgrown forest. There definitely was hope, Maitimo thought. He just had to remember it.
He looked up and found the eyes of all his brothers, and of the servants and pages, fixed on him. Slightly embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
Then he smiled – never before had he felt the movement of the small facial muscles so consciously – and returned their gazes firmly. They relaxed visibly. Obviously they, too, noticed the difference.
Maitimo took a deep breath and reached for a bowl of sweet onions.
"Yes, Tyelko," he said, remembering his brother's question. "Yes, I'm back among the living."

Part III, Chapter I

In which there are observations on the weather, arguments at the gate, and letters.

Read Part III, Chapter I

Winter was a heavy weight upon the Nolofinwëan community, as though the thick layer of snow that covered the ground dampened their spirits as well.
It was nothing like the Helcaraxë: In spite of the wind, the air was downright mild in comparison to the bitter storms that had hounded them across the Ice. Even when trampled and frozen over, the snow felt softer under their feet than the harsh frozen ground they had trodden to reach Middle-earth. The landscape was no comparison at all: There were trees and rocks, hills and distant mountains, and the lake was frozen into one polished plain, no shifting and grinding shelves of ice anywhere. The very air smelled different: the salty taste was missing, and in its stead there was the smoke and ash of Noldorin fires. Moreover, they had houses – and it had to be admitted that the Fëanorians had built them well, sturdy and reliable, to protect their inhabitants from the worst of the weather.
Nor was it was always dark; there were several hours when the sky turned from black to grey, and sometimes the clouds tore long enough for a flash of sunlight to touch the ground and turn the snow into a glittering field of tiny diamonds.

Yet despite all these heartening differences, despite the milder air and softer ground, the reassuring landmarks and the homely smells, despite the light and the halls in which they could sit and gather around a warming fire, the winter weather was a constant reminder of the Crossing. No-one talked about it, but Findekáno could see it in people's eyes. He heard it in the muffled voices of the guards and their relieved sighs when they returned into a warm hall. He knew that it was the reason why no hunters wished to venture into the forest to bring fresh meat to the camp. There was no need to talk about it – indeed, he suspected that talking about it would only have made it worse, would have turned vague feelings into true memories and unease into terror – because everyone silently felt the same.
To make matters worse, they had no idea how long the winter would last. They'd had a satisfactory harvest, but nobody knew how long their provisions had to last. They had suffered and survived hunger on the Ice, but nobody wanted to go there again. They were counting the days that the cold spell lasted, and as these days turned to weeks, and then to a full cycle of the moon, and still there was snow and bitter wind, their uncertainty turned into another cloud of dread that seemed to hang over their heads. They began to ration their food then, so that nobody went truly hungry but nobody felt truly full, either.

Findekáno had other reasons to count the days, too. He had received one letter from Russandol, one measly letter written in Carnistir's stark hand, before the snow-storm fell. Since then, nothing. Of course nobody would send a messenger through the snow and gale – it was too dangerous, and even without the experience of the Helcaraxë, it would have been cruel – but Findekáno could not help worrying. Most of his father's folk sought each other's company for solace and as a distraction from their unnamed fear, and as only the halls had fireplaces, most people spent every spare minute there. Findekáno, however, often sat solitary in his cold room, staring out over the lake. When the snowfall ceased, he could see lights on the distant shore, where his cousin lived – surely he lived? He dug out the letter, which revealed very little: Only that Russandol had returned safely, that he had been given a warm welcome, that his brothers were trying to help him, that he was surrounded by healers, that he missed Findekáno and hoped to see him again soon. That last bit was the only personal line: Russandol had obviously not wished to dictate too much of his private thoughts to his brother. Russandol's letter ended, I am as well as I can ask for, and hope the same for you. I will visit you soon. Ever yours.
The scribe had added a few lines of his own: Do not let him fool you: Nelyo was ill and feverish after his journey here. He will not be allowed to travel anytime soon. Do not be disappointed: but I feel it is better to be honest. Carnistir. Findekáno sighed. Carnistir was probably right, but it would still have been kinder to dream. He stared out into the night. He read his letter of reply, which sat on his desk unsent. He had only recently added a few lines about the lack of provisions and the additional hardship of remembering the Ice, and he now crossed them out again. Russandol would worry about him when he read those lines, and Findekáno did not want that. He also did not want to come across as begging, and perhaps Russandol would feel guilty about the Ice? Even if not, that fear was perhaps too private to share in a letter. Although it did not matter in the long run, Findekáno thought bitterly, when the letter would not be sent anyway.

But the weather seemed to take pity on him: A few days later, the storm ceased and did not return. The air was too cold for mists, and around the middle of the day, the sun came out. The lake and the snow-covered forest were almost too bright to look at, glinting as though they contained a light of their own.
After a week of cloudless days and stormless nights, a messenger from the Fëanorian camp arrived.
Findekáno heard the commotion at the gate, where the guards barred the way and the messenger protested that he would not make it back to the other camp before nightfall. He was right, too; the shadows of the trees had already lengthened threateningly. Findekáno rolled his eyes and marched to the gate before the guards could succeed in turning the messenger away.

"What is going on?" he asked sternly. Three pairs of eyes stared at him from within fur-lined hoods, and he almost laughed at the sight. If they had beaks, he thought, they would look like baleful owls. He pushed the thought away. He probably looked no less silly himself.
"A messenger from the other side, my lord" one of the guards explained, and Findekáno recognised his voice as that of Lastaher.
"I brought letters for the Princes Nolofinwë and Findekáno," the messenger said in a petulant voice, "and have walked all day to come here, and now you want to make me walk all through the night?"
"One night," the other guard – Cemmótar, Findekáno realised – said, grinding his teeth. "One night is far from enough after -"
"Yes, thank you," Findekáno interrupted him. He turned to the Fëanorian. "Letters, you say?"
"I gave them to him," said the messenger, pointing at Lastaher. "And now he says my work is done and I am to return. When it is about to get dark! Do you want me to freeze?"
Findekáno pursed his lips although they were hidden by the lining of his cloak. "You don't freeze so easily," he said. "We would know."
The messenger met his gaze with an angry glare, but did not speak. After a few moments of silence, he lowered his eyes. "It wasn't my decision," he mumbled.
"No, of course not. Did you stand against it?"
Another moment of silence; then the messenger admitted, "No. But-"
"But?"
"Nothing," the messenger said. Findekáno saw the eyes of Cemmótar light up in triumph.
"On the other hand," he said, "what if we want to reply to those letters?" He looked at the guards. "Should we send one of you, or should we let that one stay the night and send him back tomorrow?"
Lastaher shifted his weight. "Send him," he said.
Findekáno smiled. "Yes, I think that is a good idea."

"You only said that to appease the guards, didn't you?" the messenger said, rubbing his hands and stomping his feet for warmth. Findekáno had brought him to his own, unheated room; he did not want to test his brothers' patience by inviting a follower of his uncle into the warm hall. They would probably not react well to that.
"Said what?" Findekáno said, distracted by the letters in his hand. He had not broken the seal of his own letter yet, but he could see that the inscription was written in an artful hand unknown to him. The same hand had addressed the letter that was meant for his father. Findekáno wondered what it meant.
"That you only let me stay because you needed someone to carry your letter back," the messenger explained, and there was a pleading quality to his eyes even if his voice was still petulant.
Findekáno studied him for a moment. "You know, I think it's better if we don't discuss that," he said in the most even voice he could muster. "You mustn't think I am any less angry just because your lord is my friend."
The messenger looked hurt, and his jaw was working as though he had to chew and swallow his reply. But swallow it he did. Instead of speaking, he nodded.

"Revenge is a petty thing," his father said when Findekáno had given him his letter and related the incident at the gate, "but I cannot find it in myself to judge those two."
"Nor can I," Findekáno said. "But I will not be judged either, I hope?"
Nolofinwë raised his eyebrows. "For admitting that messenger in? No, of course not." He paused. "Not by me, that is. Although I suggest you do not parade him around much."
"I do not plan to," said Findekáno. "He can sleep in my room while I compose my reply, and come sunrise tomorrow he can collect your letter and be on his way."
Nolofinwë grimaced. "You should not have to give up your bed for one of their servants", he said unhappily.
"As long as we have no guest-house, I'm afraid I shall have to, if no-one else is willing," Findekáno said. "Now, may I go?"
His father's frown deepened, as if he only now became aware of the tension in Findekáno's voice. But he nodded. "You will wish to read your letter, of course. And I should look into mine, I suppose. Don't let me keep you."
Findekáno nodded, and turned to go. Just as he had reached the doorframe, Nolofinwë said, "Findekáno, dear?"
Findekáno stopped. "Yes, Father?"
"I am proud of you, you know."
That, at least, brought a half-smile to Findekáno's face. "Thank you."

Findekáno had no chance to read his letter at once, however: when he broke the seal, he found three pages of writing, too much to read before his siblings and friends would come searching for him. So he made a dutiful appearance in the great hall to make some listless conversation and listen to a song or two before taking his leave. He sacrificed his bowl of peas and millet so he did not have to risk an argument over whether or not the messenger should be fed, and while the other was eating, he sat down on his bed and, in the cold light of a Fëanorian lamp*, began to read.

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion to Findekáno Astaldo² Nolofinwion: Cordial greetings!

Findekáno frowned at such a terribly formal beginning, and frowned more at the following line.

My eager right hand writes faster than I can dictate, and he has seemingly been schooled by the dull and unimaginative. Forgive him – he will learn! Let us try again. Best, beloved, dearest cousin, most valiant Findekáno: If I could embrace you in words, I would do it now. I hope this letter finds you in excellent health and spirits – you are not pining, I hope?

That sounded more familiar. Findekáno relaxed, leaned back, and read on.

I also hope that you are not worrying overmuch. I learned that my delightfully honest brother tattled on me, and I can reassure you that my illness and fever have long since passed. I have also found myself a more reliable scribe (or so I hope!), a young fellow named Tyelparma who is penning these words. He is the above-mentioned right hand, in case you were wondering. My body still has none.

Findekáno grimaced.

Aside from that lack, which cannot be helped, I suppose I am feeling reasonably well (and certainly very rested, as they make me stay in bed most of the time). My warden brothers and healers refuse to believe it, but I hope that you, at least, will trust me! I have been virtually free of pain for two weeks now. I have not told the others, but I will tell you (and thus Tyelparma will hear it, too, but I have sworn him to secrecy): It was a powerfully strange feeling at first – terrifying, to be honest! I thought I'd lost another limb, or that I was dying, or that something else was wrong, before I realised that I was merely missing the constant pains. How odd that was. How used I had grown to them! Now that I know what I'm feeling (or, more to the point, not feeling), however, I'm quite pleased with it.

What had the scribe thought when he had written this down, Findekáno wondered? Had he even understood what Russandol was saying, or hat none of it made sense to him? Had he been shocked at the idea that somebody would consider "constant pains" normal, and would be terrified when they were gone? Had he regretted his oath of silence? Or had he felt flattered that he would be told something that Russandol refused to tell his own brothers? He tried to picture the scribe, young and eager, sitting by Russandol's bedside, looking at him with a puzzled or even horrified expression. The script betrayed nothing: Tyelparma's tengwar curved with the same elegant regularity as in the rest of the letter. Maybe the scribe had made a fair copy before sending the letter on its way? Surely his hand had shaken a little?

I am less pleased with my confinement. At the very least, they now carry me to the hall every night so I can have dinner with them – but I am sure I could walk again, if only they would let me try. Instead they carry me around like an infant. I must be grateful that they don't swaddle me, I suspect!

The mental image of Russandol, wrapped like a baby with only his head emerging from white swaddling clothes, made Findekáno laugh out loud. The messenger, who had long since finished his meal and sat nursing a cup of cooling tea, blinked.
Findekáno shook his head and read on.

Russandol continued to explain that once per week, he was allowed to hold court in their great hall - and what a hall it is, Findo, you wouldn't believe that anything like it could be built on this Hither Shore - and what visitors he had received. He laughed again at the story of the silk-weaver, but sobered when Russandol asked,

Did I ever care about such things, Findekáno? I cannot remember. I try to recall how we filled our days in Tírion, and there is so little I can think of. Was my life so empty? I do not like to believe that. Or have I forgotten so much? I do not like to think that, either. I will have to ask my brothers and see if they have any satisfying answers. They will not like the question. They are uneasy around me anyway, even Macalaurë, even Moryo, although they try not to show it. But I am not stupid – it's hard to miss the way they look at each other when I say or do something theat upsets them. After the healers finally removed that confounded splint, I asked to have a bath – I haven't bathed since I came here. You should have seen their faces – on both occasions, really.

Findekáno could imagine their faces only too well.

Good Tyelparma is too well-mannered to say so, the letter went on, but the look he just gave me suggests that he thinks I'm being unfair. He may be right. I cannot expect all the world to be as unflichingly brave as you are! Suffice it to say that I got my wish eventually. It was ever so pleasant. I was told on that occasion that I am healing well, but as they will not let me walk, I am disinclined to believe them.
But I digress! Fortunately, not all my visitors are as absurd as our delightful Master Encaitar. Faithful Tyelparma is one of them, after all, and he has been an eye-opener and is now an enrichment to my life.

The tengwar were still unwavering, showing no emotion, but surely the scribe had been pleased and proud to hear those words, Findekáno thought. He suddenly felt a pang of jealousy for the unknown young man whom Russandol called his right hand and an enrichment. He ground his teeth, and the messenger looked up again. Findekáno ignored him.

Let us also not forget brave Varnacanyo, who has taken up his work as my squire again. I never expected that I would ever be so dependent on him, and surely neither did he. But he is holding up admirably. Next to the healers, he gets to see the most of my state, and yet he has not run away yet. He even bears my temper! Nobody can rival you in terms of valour, but he bravely tries. Tyelparma must remind me that I tell him that on occasion – he deserves something friendly for a change.

"Oh, Russo," Findekáno sighed, forgetting the messenger's presence.

I know that I am not the most pleasant company. Will I be forgiven if I say that I itch to move? On the first day after the storm, I could hear noise and cheer from outside. People were having a snowball fight, Varnacanyo told me! What I would have given to join them. Tyelko and Telvo and their hunters regularly ride into the woods, either for food or for sport. You know I have never been a passionate rider – but how I wish I could go with them now! But I can plead as much as I want: They tell me to be patient and stay put. You will tell me the same, no doubt. Have patience, Russandol! you will write. Listen to your healers, they know what is good for you! I know, I know! (Write it anyway! Write me anything!) But I want to move. I have perforce stayed put for much too long. My patience has run out. Do you understand, at least?

I do, Findekáno thought. But you should still listen to your healers. He sighed again.

I like to think that you do. The only good thing about your absence is that I get to imagine your thoughts. They are not too gloomy, I hope! I am gloomy enough for the two of us. You should enjoy this time of peace and calm. I imagine that you are having snowball fights, too, and afterwards you will have a good soak in that bath-house we built, and then share mulled wine and bawdy songs with your family. Are they well? I truly hope they are! If you think any of them want to hear it, please give them my best. I shall write a letter to your father, but I dare not pester anyone else.
Please also give my best wishes to the admirable Istimë. I miss her – she surely would have told me to stop whining when my own healers here just bow their heads and apologise. They try their best, but I am not certain they truly know what they are doing. Feel free to tell her that. I do not mind her knowing. I am indefinitely indebted to her.
And to you, of course! Findo, I feel dreadful that I have complained so much about everything. Three pages wasted just to whine, when instead I should have sung your praises and spoken of my gratitude! If you can, consider it a sign of my trust, and think that I am more grateful than words can express, for which reason I refrain from trying. I miss you terribly. Do you think there is any chance that your father will allow you to come here? If I must wait to meet you until I am fit to travel, I shall go mad. Write me, at least! I will send Failon to bear my letters: Of all our heralds, I think he is the most likely to hold his tongue if need be. I hope he will return with a letter from you. If I cannot hear your voice, then the written word must do. Until we meet again, I remain...

Findekáno lowered the letter and glanced at the messenger, who had apparently resigned himself to boredom, looking out of the window into the dark. Findekáno resisted the urge to re-read the letter at once. "I apologise," he said. "I have been a graceless host."
Failon shrugged. "I did not expect much," he said. "Your guards would have sent me away, so I must be glad for the roof over my head, I suppose."
"Yes," Findekáno said. "But I should still try to make conversation."

Later that night, when Failon slept on his bed, Findekáno sat down to read Russandol's letter again and write a reply. The letter he had composed before now felt out-of-date and inappropriate, so he started over.

Findekáno Nolofinwion to Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion: Greetings, best, beloved, dearest cousin! Most silly Russandol, feel embraced in return. Of course I am pining, but do not worry overmuch: Compared to the rest of my family, my own mood is quite cheerful. Winter does not agree with us...

He wondered whether he should give an in-depth account of their difficulties, and decided against it. His father would not like it; his siblings would not like it; Findekáno was not even certain he would like it himself: it was such a personal thing,

We are not having snowball fights here, but sometimes we use the bath-house, and we gather in the hall to sing and tell stories every day. If I am not to worry about you, then by all means do not worry about me!

Yes, that would do, he decided. He went on to relate small incidents from the past weeks, ending with the argument at the gate – Maitimo would feel bad about it, no doubt, but Failon would likely report it anyway. To soften the blow a little, Findekáno then wrote some lines praising the workmanship of the houses and palisade.

Indeed, though no-one will acknowledge it, it is a great relief that you left us a camp so ready-made, he added. I dare not think how we would be living now if we had truly started from scratch here. But do not expect gratitude! I think the unspoken opinion is that you owe us so much in compensation (if such compensation is possible at all) that mere houses are no more than a gesture. But no-one would express that opinion. Russandol, there is too much unspoken these days, don't you think?

He grimaced. He was drifting into dangerous territory again, tempted to disclose more than it was wise to say. It was as though in writing the letter, he was stirring up treacherously calm waters, and now the waves threatened to break the dam that held so many words and opinions safely inside. Findekáno shook his head, and hurriedly wrote,

But I guess it cannot be helped. - However, do not feel guilty that you are complaining a little! I forgive you easily. Surely it is a good sign that you have the strength to complain. However, I must say what you feared I would say: Be patient! Listen to your healers! They may not be Istimë, but they will know what to do. And do not fret! You once told me that something I was waiting for would be brought no nearer by fretting. Listen to your own advice, then (that is something that you spent your time with back in Tirion, by the way: giving me advice). I understand your impatience and your frustration, but some things cannot be changed. This winter cannot last forever (I hope!) and everything will be better when it ends. So I tell myself, and so I now tell you! I will visit you as soon as I am able and permitted, and surely that is worth something?
I will give your regards to all the family, whether they want to hear them or not. They must at least acknowledge your existence! Besides, even if they just scowl at me, at least they cannot accuse you of ignoring them, right? I will tell you what they said (if anything) in my next letter. None of our messengers will brave the journey to your camp (unless Father ordered it, of course, but he won't do that, least of all for my private correspondence), but when you reply to this letter, I can reply in turn. Give Failon a hot cup of tea when he returns – he will need it.
That concludes my letter lest I ramble overmuch. Best, beloved, dearest cousin, be kind to your healers and to yourself. I hope to hear from you soon, or even better, to see you in person. But we cannot hurry time. Meanwhile, heal well! I embrace you in my thoughts, and remain, in turn, yours.

He re-read the letter. He was no longer used to this kind of communication, he thought with a sigh: his rhetoric left much to be desired, and he had not always stopped himself from starting on touchy subjects. Had he said too much? Findekáno rubbed his tired eyes and decided against cutting the difficult bits out. Even as it was, his letter was shorter than the one he had received. With another sigh, he dug out an ancient piece of sealing wax from the bottom of his chest, waking Failon in the process.

When the sun had risen, Failon bore only one letter on his way back to the Fëanorian settlement.
"Your cousin sent little more than some dutiful formulae," Nolofinwë explained to Findekáno over breakfast. "I see no need to reply."
"One could ask if they have spare food," Findekáno suggested, chewing the apple that he had been allotted. It was small, sour and dry.
His father looked up and gave him a sharp look. "I hope you did no such thing, and neither shall I unless our people wish it. As things stand, they'll rather hunger than beg alms from traitors."
Findekáno sighed. Too much unspoken indeed.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Despite their origin, I'm assuming that Fingolfin's people wouldn't have thrown out something as useful as those Fëanorian lamps. Of course they're probably referring to them as "stone lamps" instead! Ironically, the Fingolfinians probably have more of them than the Fëanorians – Fëanor's stock, at least, was largely stolen by Morgoth and eaten by Ungoliant...

² As far as I know, Fingon's amilessë is unknown or at the very least uncertain, but I needed one so that Maedhros could address Fingon properly, i.e by his full name. What to do? Well, Fingon is regularly called "Fingon the Valiant" in the sources, although it is not clear whether that's just an epithet (and if so, who started using it at what time) or whether it is actually a translation of Fingon's amilessë. I decided to go for the latter interpretation. The only Quenya word for "valiant" is "astaldo" (another possible candidate, poldórëa, has later been glossed "mighty", which just doesn't have the same ring). That also happens to be another name for Tulkas. Oh well. As we are told that Elvish mothers often have some foresight about their newborn's later talents or fate, and that influences their choice of name, Anairë may well have foreseen her son's later heroics. At any rate, for the sake of this story, Fingon's amilessë is Astaldo. If you don't like the idea, feel free to pretend that it's an epessë that Maedhros made up after his rescue.

Part III, Chapter II

In which there is further correspondence and an invitation, and in which Fingon falls prey to his temper and teasing relatives.

Read Part III, Chapter II

Findekáno had advised Russandol to be patient, but he found it next to impossible to follow his own advice. When the weather remained icy but clear, he felt optimistic that he would soon receive another letter; but then a week passed, and then another, and another, with no messenger from the Fëanorian camp in sight. Maybe Failon had been so upset about his treatment that he refused further errands. Or maybe Russandol had again been assailed by sickness and was incapable of dictating another letter? Findekáno tried to push that idea from his mind, but once thought, it would not go away. The more time passed, the more Findekáno was convinced that something must be wrong. In the end, his unease was so overwhelming that he begged his father to send a messenger himself.

Unsurprisingly, Nolofinwë would have none of it. "We cannot send one of our heralds out there just because you have a bad feeling, dear," he said. Findekáno hated his calm and reasonable voice in that moment. "If he needs anything from you, he can at the very least ask."
Findekáno stared at his father as if trying to hypnotise him. "Maybe he is too weak to ask."
"He is surrounded by brothers and healers. He is probably better off than anybody here. You do not have to look after him – particularly if he will not even send word. He cannot be too weak to ask his brothers, at least."
"But they might not comply. Please, father..."
Nolofinwë let out a slow breath. "Findekáno, I understand that you are upset. But put yourself in my position. You know how badly our people react to this frost. Do you really think I should send one of them out there, just to please some vague suspicions, even my son's? It would be irresponsible."
"Send me, then! I do not fear the ice." Already he had jumped up, ready to go.
"That would be even more irresponsible," Nolofinwë pointed out. "You are so impatient that you would not even stop for a warm cloak."
That was so unfair that Findekáno stomped his foot like a child. At the same time, he knew that he had lost the argument. He took a few steadying breaths, trying to prove that he was by no means as unreasonable as that. "Of course I would take a warm cloak. Please, Father, I must-"
"You must what, Findekáno? You have done more than enough for your cousin. Now you must show that you respect your people's misgivings." He paused, giving Findekáno a pointed look. "And your leader's judgement."

Findekáno stormed out of his father's narrow study, out of the longhouse, out into the sunlit snow. The brightness of it made his eyes water, splitting the light into rainbows. He found himself wondering what his uncle would have made of that. That thought only fueled his worry about Russandol and his helpless anger about being unable to reach him.
He made his way down to the lakeshore. On the far shore, he could see people moving about on the ice. Some appeared riveted to one spot, holding long poles. Findekáno felt as though his breath had been knocked out of him. Somebody must have broken through the ice!
Somebody must have fallen through one of the treacherous crevasses that lined the high, grinding shelves –
He heard himself cry out in dismay when things clicked into place. His mind registered the sunlight, the tree-shadows, the polished plane of ice on the lake. Moreover the movement of the figures across the lake did not suggest an emergency. The group armed with poles stood too still, while others actually appeared to be sliding, dancing, throwing snow at each other. Whatever was going on there, it did not involve anybody drowning or freezing.
"I think they are fishing," Turukáno said.
Findekáno jumped: He had not realised that his brother stood behind him. "Fishing," Turukáno repeated. He spoke between clenched teeth; Findekáno suspected that he was fighting down memories of the Helcaraxë, too. Although Turukáno appeared to be calm and collected, the rigidity of his posture suggested that all his muscles were straining, struggling to keep up an appearance of self-control. Or maybe he was just trying not to shiver. It was, after all, very cold.

"Look," Turukáno said.
Findekáno followed his gaze and saw one of the distant figures toss his pole – a harpoon, he realised – towards the frozen surface of the lake, where it disappeared. Findekáno frowned; the ice looked far too thick to be penetrated by such a frail weapon. Then he shook his head at himself. They must have made a hole into the ice. A terrifying thought to him - why would you do that - but clearly not to the Fëanorians. Of course not.

The harpoonist had been succesful: Findekáno could see him pull on a line invisible at this distance, and then the harpoon reappeared with something wriggling on its end: the silvery body of a sizeable whitefish.
"Well," Findekáno said, finding that his own jaw wanted to clench as well. "I suppose they won't go hungry tonight."
"No," Turukáno agreed in a flat voice, "indeed not."
Findekáno's barely forgotten anger resurfaced again. Here they stood on the shore of a lake teeming with life, and yet, until this moment, Findekáno had not once thought of the delicious fish underneath the protective ice. They had frequently eaten it from spring to fall, of course, but after the lake had frozen over, the fish had seemed out of reach. How foolish! Findekáno clenched his fists underneath his cloak and took a step towards the frozen surface, and then another. Then he stopped short, his toes safely on the gravel of the beach. He took a deep breath and stepped forward – or meant to, anyway. His feet refused to move. Like Turukáno's, his body was rigid with straining muscles. It was just one step, one tiny step! But he could not take it.

"You too, eh?" Turukáno's voice seemed to come from afar. "It seems the lake is out of bounds."
"This is absurd," Findekáno said. "The ice is more than thick enough to carry."
Turukáno gave a laugh like a cough, hollow and humourless. "Tell your feet that."
Looking down at his boots, rooted to the spot, Findekáno had to admit that his brother had a point. Even when he closed his eyes, he couldn't take a step forward. When he turned away from the lake, his feet remembered their duties just fine.
Fury overtook him. Before he knew what he was doing, he made his way to a heap of heavy stones. They were meant for a building project that had been halted by the winter storms, but now they served as a vehicle of his frustration. Findekáno grabbed the next best stone with both hands, carried it down to the shore, and with an angry yell tossed it out onto the ice.
The stone landed heavily, sending a few small chunks of ice flying in all directions, and then skidded away. It came to a stop at a goodly distance where it sat on the ice.
"What are you doing?" asked Turukáno, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"I don't know," Findekáno admitted, slightly out of breath.
"Does it help?"
Findekáno pondered the question. No, he was still angry.
"Not yet," he said, and returned to the stone heap. To his surprise, Turukáno followed him.

For a while, throwing stones at the lake and running to get more took up all Findekáno's mind. He was dimly aware that other people joined them. He heard the rustling of cloaks, the stomping of feet, the huffing and shouting; but he did not stop to see who was present, or what they were doing All that mattered was the heavy coldness of the stones, the thunk they made when they landed on the ice, the way they skidded and crashed into each other. Only when the heap was gone did he catch his breath and take a look at the crowd.
He spotted his sister Irissë next to her hunting companions, Lótilossë and Calimon. Túrelio and Cemmotár were present, as were several other warriors. Young Itarildë and her tutor Ercassë stood on the shore, grinning and flexing their fingers. Now that the stone-throwing had stopped and the adults were too distracted to keep them back, some smaller children actually stepped onto the ice – cautiously at first, but soon they grew bold and hopped, skidded, tried to run after one another.

"You'll have to fetch those stones back, you know," Irissë told Findekáno when she had reached him. Her cheeks were reddened by cold or exertion; her eyes were glinting with amusement. "Before the ice melts."
Findekáno could not think of a clever reply. "I suppose so," he said.
"Worth it," Turukáno said, putting his arm around Findekáno's shoulders and leaning on him, heavily, still out of breath. "That was necessary."
Findekáno blinked and stared at his brother, surprised by the sudden geniality. Before he could answer, however, they all gasped in dread as one of the children, little Oricon, dared a cartwheel on the ice. He landed securely on his feet and waved at his friends in triumph before one of them threw a snowball in his face.
Suddenly, Turukáno began to laugh, tilting his head to the sky. Not the joyless half-cough that Findekáno had grown used to hearing, but the resounding laugh he remembered from their youth, the bane of banquets, the conversation-stopper. Perplexed, Findekáno looked at Irissë, who shrugged and grinned.
When Turukáno stopped laughing, Calimon spoke up. "Look," he said. "They are watching."
Findekáno looked across the lake and saw that the Fëanorians were no longer fishing, or dancing, or prancing around. Instead they stood spread out like a wall, apparently staring across the lake. Turukáno's laughter must have alerted them, Findekáno thought. No wonder. Even as he stared at them, a few of the distant figures tentatively raised their hands and started waving.
Even as he turned away with the others, he could see that the children were waving back.

As the shadows lengthened and the sun was all but gone, the crowd scattered. Findekáno looked at the footprints in the snow and the stones out on the ice. Then he pursed his lips and walked to the very edge of the lake. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out onto the ice. His heart beat painfully fast, and he could feel a sweat on his brow that had nothing to do with the earlier exertion, but he managed a step, and another step, and another. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to a healthier gait.
Findekáno walked out until he reached the first stones. Some had left slight dents in the ice, some had not even scratched the surface. There were no cracks, no rifts to be seen. Findekáno attempted to jump, but his courage did not suffice yet; like a toddler who had just learned to walk, he did not manage to push off the ground.
Oh well, he thought. It was a start, anyway. He returned to the safe shore, and made his way back to the longhouse. He felt light-headed, but satisfied; he almost walked with a spring in his step.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw his father, arms folded across his chest, on the path. He had obviously been waiting for him. Findekáno's elation dissipated at once.
"Don't worry," he said in a cold voice. "I will bring them back tomorrow."
"Yes, of course," Nolofinwë said, waving his hand dismissively. He looked Findekáno in the face, and Findekáno was surprised to realise that his father was smiling broadly.
"Well done," he said. "That was a splendid idea."

The mood in the hall had lifted noticeably the next day. Breakfast was no more generous than it had been in the past weeks, but somehow everything seemed to taste better. Even the pine-needle tea seemed to be less bitter. Every now and then, Turukáno's laugh interrupted all conversation, and it was contagious.
Findekáno smiled to himself. His frustration was, for the time being, soothed. When he saw Artanis stride towards him purposefully, he leaned back and gave her a welcoming smile.
Artanis raised an eyebrow and said, "I didn't know you had a child over there. Some secret mistress?"
Findekáno blinked in surprise. "What? No! Why-"
His cousin smirked. "Well, some Fëanárean brat has written you a letter."
"What?" Findekáno stared at the folded-up piece of parchment in her hand. It was addressed, in the unpracticed hand of a young child, To Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion, in haste. Confused, Findekáno frowned at the clumsy writing. "I don't..." he said, and then noticed the seal, the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanáro.
His eyes widened, and he jumped up. "The messenger?"
"Already on his way back," Artanis said.
"But he won't make it before nightfall," Findekáno protested. "It's too..."
"It would be too far through the forest, yes," Artanis agreed. "But the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He used the lake."
"The lake? Oh." Realisation dawned.
"Indeed," Artanis said with a very thin smile. "Imagine that – one of them crossing the ice. I'll leave you to your letter." With that, she turned away.
Findekáno dashed to the privacy of his room without further delay. Glancing out of the window, he could see a dwindling figure swiftly moving away towards the far shore. The messenger was making good speed; he would surely be back home by afternoon. Findekáno sighed; he would not be able to reply to this letter anytime soon, then.
Still, the excitement of finally having news from Russandol won over. He wrapped himself in his quilted blanket and broke the seal. On the cream-coloured paper, uneven Tengwar declared,

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol Fëanárion to Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion: My best, dearest, most valiant cousin, let me exhort you to practice whatever you do with both hands. I did not, and see where it got me! You will, no doubt, laugh and remember how I made you practice your letters when you were a child. Now I am older than I could imagine being at the time, and have to practice writing again.
But I mustn't complain. It gives me something to do, after all, when the healers demand that I stay abed. If only I did not have the feeling that it was so much easier when I first learned it! I suppose my memory is unreliable, but I do not remember having had to practice quite so much.
You will now ask, 'But Russandol, if you need to practice writing, then why did you not write to me?'

"Indeed," Findekáno muttered.

There are several answers to this. The first is very simple: I did not want to send you an entirely unintelligible letter. Until I had reached a certain level of proficiency and regularity, I was ashamed to let you see my writing. Accursed pride! I am still ashamed, but now that I mostly manage not to smudge everything as soon as it's written, I really must not make you wait any longer.
Pride is the first reason for this delay, and you might be generous enough to pardon what is essentially congenital. You will be less forgiving, I fear, when you hear about my second reason: Practicing my letters was not the only thing to keep me busy. Yes, Findekáno, the horrid truth is that I had other priorities! I have been going through the records that our busy scholars have kept. It is time that I catch up with all the developments I missed. It is daunting how much has happened while I was away. Macalaurë has done good work, I must say: He organised our people and resources admirably. This land is nothing like Aman, and yet he managed to rebuild a society that is much like what we know. I believe I already told you about the delightful head of our weavers' guild. In the past weeks, I have met the leaders of other guilds as well. Some of them are quite reasonable people. But none, of course, are as important as you are, and you will rightly reproach me that I had time to meet them, and not you.

"Don't be silly, Russo," said Findekáno.

My brothers are puzzled that I am so interested in these records – they insist that they are boring and tedious to read. They probably are, if you witnessed the goings-on. But I did not, so even a list of lifestock slaughtered and plants harvested five years ago is fascinating to me! Besides, my brothers insist that I am now King of the Noldor, and as such I assume I should be aware of what my people have been up to. And so I make my way through the accounts – slowly, as there are many of them.
Finally, the third reason for my long silence is the feast I have been plotting with my brothers. They had planned a feast when I returned to them, but as you remember I was in no shape to celebrate back then. Now, however, I feel that I am up to the challenge and should face the whole of our people at last. So we will have a little celebration on Aldúya (1) next. If by any chance your father allows you to attend (and the weather is clement), you would make me very happy by attending as our guest of honour. Do try to convince him if you see any hope! I would write him a letter to ask for your presence myself, but as he did not choose to reply to my last letter, I suspect another would not help. Again, if you see any hope, will you ask him to think about my requests? I have not been too unreasonable, I believe, and considering them would benefit us all.

"'Little more than polite formulae'? I think not." Findekáno sighed. He was now certain that Russandol had asked something important.

I shall be discreet and not repeat here what I wrote to him: I am certain that he remembers. If only he would reply! Accursed pride, again. (Do not tell him I said that!) Yes, wisest of cousins, there is too much unspoken. And we must try to set it right.
But slowly, carefully! There has been too much violence and too much impatience. So do not press your father! Should you find him in a lenient mood, however, a gentle reminder might not go amiss.
- There, enough of these serious matters! I have been told that you were having fun on the lake yesterday. Tyelko swears that he heard Turukáno laugh. If he is right, I am glad of it. Laughter, my kindly healers tell me, is medicine in and off itself. (They fall over themselves with joy whenever I react well to a funny story or one of Telvo's horrible puns.)
My kindly healers also tell me to stop writing when my hand begins to cramp, as it now does (you surely notice how my letters are beginning to look even more crooked than before). I will obey them (this once!). Failon says that if he skates across the lake, you will not have to put up with him for the night. He thinks lowly of Nolofinwëan hospitality, I am afraid. I do not blame you! I understand why things are as they are. Still, I regret it. I am trying to change them, but again – slowly, carefully.
For now, best, most beloved cousin, I embrace you in these unhandy letters. Remember, next Aldúya – if you may. If not, please do not risk your father's wrath. Give my sincere regards to anyone who will have them. I should invite all of you, but I see little hope for that. If I am wrong, do bring company! My best wishes – until we next write or speak.

Compared to the last letter, this was regrettably short. Still, it was better than nothing, and Findekáno re-read the letter twice before he rejoined his family.
Emboldened by the previous day's events, he decided to start working on his father at once. But when he knocked on the study door, he found that the small room was already full: His father was poring over account-books with Findaráto and two of his advisors.
Findekáno apologised and left.
His impatience resurfaced. To quell it, he walked back out to the lake to begin collecting the thrown stones. Stepping onto the ice again was a challenge, no matter how often he told himself that he had managed just fine yesterday. When his feet finally obeyed him, his heart seemed to beat unnaturally loud and fast. He felt the overwhelming urge to run to safety, and barely managed to override it. Remembering the messenger who had skated across the ice, he shook his head, perplexed.
But taking the stones back to the shore gave him something to do; and when he stopped in his work because his hands had grown too cold to go on, he was calmer. Quietly he returned to the hall, and sat down by the fire.

Soon after, his father sat down beside him. "Now I have time for you," he said with an apologetic smile. "Would you like to speak in private, or will this do?"
Findekáno would have preferred the privacy of his father's study, but he could not help noticing how Nolofinwë leaned towards the fire, wriggling his fingers to warm them up. Of course: The study was no better heated than his own room.
Suddenly Findekáno felt pity for his father, who was not sparing himself from the hardships of his people, and was working so hard to keep their people together. And here Findekáno was still holding a grudge because his father did not allow him to run off as he pleased. That was not exactly fair. He tried to smile. "Here will do," he said. "How was your afternoon?"

His father sighed. "Discouraging. As things stand, we have provisions for two more months, give or take a week. We must hope that there will be a time of growth soon. We should muster the strength to go hunting, just in case."
"Or fishing?"
"Yes, or that. I shall have to search for volunteers – I am loath to order people out..."
Findekáno smiled, genuinely this time. "Count me in."
"Thank you, Findo," Nolofinwë said, returning the smile. "Your example will hopefully inspire others."
"I am certain Irissë would be willing to go, too."
His father nodded. "I will ask her. - But you had something you wished to talk about?"
"Yes." Findekáno took a deep breath. "Russandol sent me a letter."
"I see," Nolofinwë said. "He is alive, then, and not too weak to send word?"
Findekáno scowled and was ready to counter-attack, but he held himself back just in time. "Yes," he said. "In fact, he was strong enough to write the letter himself."
"Good for him."
Findekáno sighed. "Father, he mentioned the letter he sent to you..."
Nolofinwë tilted his head. "Did he, now? What did he have to say about it?"
"He regretted the lack of an answer," Findekáno said, keeping his voice as even as he could. "I gathered that he might have sent you more than just formulae."
Something glinted in his father's eyes – an almost wry expression. "How astute. He did not tell you more?"
Frowning in confusion, Findekáno said, "No, he did not wish to be indiscreet. But he asked me to ask you to consider whatever he wanted."
"I see."
"Will you?"
"Perhaps. If it is so important to him that he writes you for the sole purpose of asking me to consider... I suppose I should."
"Well, to be honest, that wasn't the sole purpose of his letter." Findekáno leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke in a softer voice now. "It was also an invitation. They're having a feast next week, and Russandol has asked me to attend."
He was discouraged when he saw the look of distaste on his father's face. "As guest of honour," he added, trying to appeal to his father's pride.
Nolofinwë still looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. "I am not certain that is a good idea," he said. "Hunting is one thing, but going out there just for a feast, on your own?"
"I need not go alone," Findekáno said quickly. "Russandol wrote that I am welcome to bring company, if any want to come."
"There's the rub, Findo. Who else would want to?"
Findekáno shrugged. "What about you, father? As our leader, you have every reason to go."
"As our leader, I have every reason to stay with my people. No, Findo, I will not go to their camp for whatever reason, least of all for something as trivial as a feast. Ask your siblings and friends, if you want. But I predict their answer will be negative."
"If it isn't," Findekáno said, bringing the tips of his fingers together, "may I go?"
"If you find at least two people to accompany you, then yes, you may go."
Findekáno took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "Thank you, father."
Nolofinwë raised his eyebrows. "Do not thank me too early."
"You did not say no outright. For that, I am grateful."
Now his father smiled, although his eyes remained full of doubt. "You are welcome, then."

A couple of days later Findekáno had to accept that his father had been right. Even the prospect of a fine dinner at the expense of the Fëanorians could not tempt Findekáno's brothers and sister, nor his friends or cousins, to accompany him. Some, like Turukáno, he did not bother to ask. Others, like Irissë or Artanis, simply refused.
"Yes, maybe they would tolerate us," Artanis said. "But it's not their place to tolerate us. They should ask us to tolerate them."
"I don't think it's a matter of tolerating anybody," Findekáno said, slightly desperate. "It's a matter of family."
"Well, it's a bit late to think of that now, don't you think?" she said, and he could not think of an answer.
On Valanya, the wind picked up again, and by the next morning a brutal storm whipped snow and ice through the settlement. Every now and then, the sharp cracking noises of breaking branches and the thunder of falling trees drowned out the incessant whining of the gale. The storm and snowfall stopped down in the evening, making way for a quiet and starry night, but Findekáno could not appreciate its beauty. He felt as though everything had conspired against him.

When his father approached him on Isilya morning, Findekáno was so frustrated that he found it hard not to start a fight. He knew that it would be childish and counterproductive, but it was so tempting to let his disappointment out. He managed to nod in greeting, but could not banish the hostile look from his eyes. "Hello, Father."
His father looked disgustingly cheerful, he thought, and wondered why. Did Nolofinwë feel triumphant that his son had found no-one to make his journey possible? Findekáno almost lost his composure at the thought.
"Hello, Findo," Nolofinwë said. "I thought I should tell you that I have discussed your cousin's letter with my council."
"I'm on your council," Findekáno protested. "Or am I?"
The laughter lines in Nolofinwë's face deepened. "You are, dear, do not worry. I merely thought that it was better to exclude you from this particular discussion. You might be considered a little... biased."
Findekáno was still frowning in confusion. "I suppose so, but..."
"I thought that our session had better chances without your temper."
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Findekáno muttered, "I see." His fists clenched behind his back. His resolve not to make a scene was steadily weakening. "Is there anything else?" he said.
Nolofinwë gave him an innocent look. "Well, are you not curious?"
Something was wrong, Findekáno thought. There was something provocative to his father's tone, something playful. He was not certain that he wanted to play along. He shrugged.
"After all the effort your cousin went to..." Nolofinwë began.
"Fine!" Findekáno snapped. "What did you decide, then?" Others were staring at him, but he no longer cared.
Strangely, Nolofinwë did not appear to mind his outbreak. "We decided that we are willing to consider co-operation if they are willing to consider apologising," he said. His voice was even, but Findekáno still had the feeling that he was missing something.
"That... sounds reasonable," he said, uncertain of what was going on. "Russandol will appreciate that when you write him, no doubt."

Nolofinwë's calm expression finally slipped, making way for a broad grin.
"Why don't you go and tell him yourself?"

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) Aldúya: the fourth day of the Elven six-day week, named after the Two Trees. Pointedly NOT Valanya, the closest thing the Eldarin calendar has to our Sunday, most likely to be chosen as a feast day. That's Fëanorians for you.
Isilya, "moon-day", is the day preceding Aldúya.

Part III, Chapter III

In which Fingon arrives a day early for the feast.

Read Part III, Chapter III

It really was nothing like the Helcaraxë, Findekáno thought as he made his way to the Fëanorian camp, taking the long way through the forest – his father had opposed the short-cut across the frozen lake, and even if Findekáno had been eager to take that way in the first place, he would easily have obeyed Nolofinwë in this, now that he finally was permitted to see Russandol again.
It was a pity that none of his siblings or cousins had wanted to accompany him, for the sight of the forest in winter would surely have delighted them as it delighted Findekáno now. The snow glittered under the sunlight, rivalling his uncle's creations.Wind and frost had shaped it into delicate sculptures around rocks and tree trunks. Boughs and branches were encased in ice like living crystal as though Aulë had sought to create a wood made of diamond. Lichen hung from the branches, painting dots of pale yellow and green against the brilliant blue sky and the white snow, while the shadows in the snow appeared blue, almost purple. Findekáno startled a bunch of swans by the lakeshore, and some bucks and does who were eating the moss off tree trunks. Little birds watched him as he passed, singing a few notes of acknowledgement or warning to their brethren, who were picking the red berries and rosehips from the rowans and dogroses in the undergrowth.

Findekáno had been secluded in his father's camp for too long: Now he felt like a small child discovering his parents' garden, excited by every tree, every spot of colour, every rush of movement. His heart beat quickly, not with the exertion of his swift walk but with pure joy. The sheer beauty of his surroundings, the freedom of the wide wintery wood would have been cause enough for his journey. His delight was so great that he almost forgot the purpose of his march. What did it matter that his ears were freezing, that his lungs burned from taking in great hungry gulps of the frosty air? The world was wide, and free, and beautiful in spite of everything; he would have been happy to walk on forever.
But he was also happy when he did reach the Fëanorian camp in the fiery light of evening, looking forward to the reunion with his cousin. As he left the shelter of the forest and stepped out into the open, his hands already unbuckled his sword-belt while he peered up at the barricade, trying to make eye-contact with the guard on duty. He saw no-one, but even so, the gate was opened, revealing not one but five guards who watched his every step as he entered.
He frowned; having expected the usual interrogation at the gate, he found the situation disconcerting. The guards were hooded, their faces invisible in the shadows. They were also armed with spears and bows, and outnumbering him; although it made no sense, Findekáno feared that he was walking into a trap. He stopped halfway through the gate, out of reach of their spears, just in case.

"Findekáno Nolofinwion, here to--" he said before he was interrupted by one of the guards.
"Of course," the man said. His voice appeared to hold no threat, but Findekáno only allowed himself to relax when the others spoke up, too.
"You are welcome, Prince Findekáno, very welcome indeed," said one, bowing low. The other guards followed suit. Findekáno nodded in return.
"You are earlier than expected," said another guard. "Our lord will be overjoyed. - Oh no, you can keep that, my lord," he said when Findekáno held out his sword-belt. "Who is trustworthy, if not you?"
Findekáno blinked, and wasn't quite sure what to say. He settled for "Thank you."
"I will escort you to the hall, if you please," the first guard said. "Or do you know the way?"
"I think I do," Findekáno replied, "but you may escort me, if you wish."
The guards who remained at the gate bowed low again, and Findekáno thought he could see smiles on several shadowed faces.
Findekáno would indeed have found the way to the great house himself, but the young guardsman was friendly company, flattering him and telling him how much everybody admired his bravery. "I am so thrilled that I got to greet you," he said. "My friends will be so jealous."
"I wasn't aware that I was such a celebrity among..." Findekáno pondered how to put it. "Among my uncle's followers," he finally sad.
The guard's eyes widened underneath his hood. "Of course you are celebrated, my lord. You saved Lord Maitimo! We all wish we'd been in your place –"
Findekáno laughed, hard and cold, before he could stop himself. "No. No... what's your name?"
"Carnil, my lord."
"Right. No, Carnil. You don't." He could see the young man frowning, but he didn't want to elaborate. "Trust me on that. You really don't."
"All... right," the young man said, looking crestfallen. Findekáno felt, absurdly, ashamed. Carnil hadn't meant any harm, after all. No, said another voice in Findekáno's head, but he is young and clueless, and just because no harm was meant, that didn't mean none was done. "I do beg your pardon, my lord," Carnil said, overruling the little voice and adding to Findekáno's feeling of guilt. "I intended no insult."
"And I am not insulted," Findekáno said although his shoulders had tensed, although he had to press the words out between clenched teeth. He forced himself to relax again. "But you do not wish that you had been in my place. Take it from me. All right? Tell your friends that, too."
"I will, my lord," Carnil replied, glancing down at his feet. "I apologise."

Findekáno continued to feel guilty about dashing the young guard's enthusiasm like that, but the thought was soon eclipsed by anticipation as he entered the house where he had spoken to Macalaurë, all those months ago. He dimly noticed that the house had changed more since then, but he didn't take the time to stop and study the architecture. Instead of turning right and into the great hall, he was now led along the entrance hall and up a flight of stairs, then along a corridor past wooden doors. Carnil knocked on the very last door – here as in the longhouse in the Nolofinwëan camp, the master bedroom was apparently located at the very end of the hallway, as far away from disturbance as possible. "Come in," they heard, muffled by the heavy wood of the door; Carnil opened it, and Findekáno stepped through briskly.

The room was large, much larger than the biggest bedroom in Nolofinwë's longhouse, but just as cold in spite of the pretty stove in one corner. There were two open double-casement windows, which let in both the fading daylight and the frosty air from outside. Between them stood a large, luxurious bed, but it was not occupied. Instead, Russandol stood on a footstool while a man in amazing many-layered robes was busy pinning up the hem of the stark black robes Russandol was wearing. From the spectacular attire and the intriguingly elaborate way in which he now bowed to him, Findekáno concluced that this must be Encaitar the master silk-weaver.
Then Russandol said one word, and Findekáno had no further thought to spare for the other people in the room. "Findekáno," Russandol said, his voice as warm and welcoming as an embrace. Findekáno felt the corners of his mouth creep steadily upwards into a broad, almost painful grin. Then Russandol stepped down from his stool, wincing a little as his leg touched the ground and took over his weight, crossed the distance between them, and wrapped Findekáno in a tight hug.
From so close, Findekáno could feel what the thick fabric was hiding: That there was still much less of Russandol than there should be, that he was still more bone and sinew than flesh. Yet when Russandol broke the embrace to study his face, Findekáno smiled at him, saying, "You look much better."

"You, meanwhile, look pale and half-starved," Russando dryly said. Then he pulled Findekáno close again. "I am so glad that you're here. I had not dared to hope for it. I trust you did not risk your father's wrath?"
"No," Findekáno said, returning the hug happily. "In fact, he sent me. He will only be wrathful if you will not let me stay this night, and the one after."
Russandol laughed. "I will happily let you stay the week, or all winter, or for as long as you'll bear with me! This is great news." He gave Findekáno a broad smile, and Findekáno realised that he had said the truth: Despite the persistent thinness, Russandol did look much better.
"Now, I'm afraid I must cut my welcome short; we should let Master Encaitar do his work, so he'll have these robes finished in time for tomorrow. My healers will soon insist that I get off my feet, and then we can speak more. Until then, I beg you excuse me. Please make yourself comfortable."

"Of course," Findekáno said, and Russandol climbed back onto the footstool. Master Encaitar looked between them for a moment, apparently uncertain whether he should continue to work on Russandol's hem or pay his respects to Findekáno. Findekáno gave the guildmaster a nod. Master Encaitar replied with a low courtier's bow, the sort that initiated formal Vanyarin dances, making Findekáno blink in surprise. Even in the sophisticated environment of Russandol's lovingly decorated and furnished bedroom, it felt out of place, serving only to illustrate how different the world had become. He resisted the urge to shake his head.
"These do not look like festival robes," he pointed out.
"I know!" Master Encaitar emphatically said, giving him a grateful smile and another Vanyarin bow. Before the guildmaster could say more, as he surely would have done, Russandol said, "No. I do not want festival robes. But I'm sure we could find a set for you, best of cousins!"
Master Encaitar's face took on a dismayed look, but he exaggerated the expression so badly – eyes wide open, eyebrows raised high, lips drooping – that Findekáno was hard put not to laugh at him.
"At such short notice, I'm afraid we will not be able to create something new," he said in a plaintive voice. "Nor do we have anything in your colours, Prince Findekáno. But I promise that I will try my best with what we have in store..."
"That will not be necessary," Findekáno said with a frown. "I need no new robes."
Master Encaitar looked as though he was about to protest, but another person spoke up now. "Master Encaitar, we are wearing Lord Maitimo out. Pray hurry, so that he can soon recover his strength."
"Of course, of course," Encaitar said and returned his attention to Russandol's robes. Meanwhile, the man who had interrupted him came closer until he stood before Findekáno. Then he went on one knee, took Findekáno's right hand and kissed it. "Prince Findekáno. It has been too long since we last met, but I am glad I now have a chance to give you due thanks for bringing my lord Maitimo back."

"You are blushing, cousin," Russandol observed with a grin. "Try to get used to this; you might get more of it tomorrow. For some reason, they all seem to be really happy to have me back."
Findekáno withdrew his hand hastily, touching his cheeks. He could feel the telltale heat that suggested that Russandol was right.
"Well, you are welcome," he said somewhat gracelessly to the kneeling man, who looked at him with a bemused expression on his face, but rose. Findekáno recognised his face, now. The name of Varnacanyo had rung a bell before, when he had read it in Russandol's letters, but he hadn't given it much thought. Now he saw the person it belonged to: the son of two gardeners who had worked in Grandfather Finwë's garden back in the day. Their son had accompanied the king when he had left Tirion for Formenos, and Findekáno couldn't remember having met him again, ever after. So now he was Russandol's squire. Findekáno was amused to see that Varnacanyo was wearing a long, fur-lined vest. He himself did not find the room unpleasantly cold; but then, he was used to worse, and Varnacanyo clearly wasn't.

Still, Varnacanyo did not seem to mind Findekáno's graceless response, giving him a cheerful smile. "Would you like some refreshments, Prince Findekáno? A cup of tea is surely indicated. I can also get something to eat if you wish. It's not long until dinner now, but maybe some fruitcake?"
"That sounds wonderful," Findekáno said, both to make up for his incivility and because he was genuinely hungry.
Varnacanyo gave a small, flourish-less bow. "My lord?" he said, turning to Russandol.
"Not for me, Varnacanyo, thank you. I don't want to spoil my appetite for dinner."

Findekáno, in his turn, was glad to have spoiled his appetite, for otherwise, his dignity would have been sorely at risk. Even before dinner began, the most appetising smells came wafting into the great hall; without the fruitcake to occupy his stomach, he probably would have raided the kitchen. As it was, he could calmly sit down next to Russandol, leaning back into the cushioned chair and taking in the sight of the great hall. It was surprisingly bare, without the marble pillars, the painted walls and vaults and the alabaster sculptures Findekáno remembered from their grandfather's palace. Here, the pillars were made of elm wood that had been oiled but not painted, and the walls were simply white. There were not even curtains before the high, narrow windows. For decoration, there were only garlands and wreaths made of ever-green branches and plants: fir and pine, holly and boxwood, juniper and heather. They looked as though they have been newly put up, maybe in preparation for the feast, and still smelled fresh and spicy, competing with the scent of the beeswax candles, the smoke from the fireplace and the smells from the kitchen.

When Russandol's brothers arrived, and Findekáno took some amusement from analysing their different reactions to his presence. Macalaurë came in first, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Findekáno, then lighting up as he smiled. First he greeted Russandol, bending down to put his arms around his shoulders; Findekáno noticed how he briefly pressed his face into his brother's hair, closing his eyes. Macalaurë would never again take his brother for granted, Findekáno thought.
Out loud, Macalaurë merely said, "Hey, Nelyo. I trust your day was agreeable?"
Russandol raised his right arm to return his brother's hug. "Agreeable, until Findekáno arrived: Then it turned better."
Macalaurë smiled, and turned his attention to Findekáno. "Yes. Welcome, dear cousin." He hesitated, and his eyebrows contracted for a moment of doubt. "May I embrace you?" he asked then.
"If you wish," Findekáno replied and rose. Macalaurë gave him a surprisingly tight squeeze, his arms trembling a little; then, it seemed, he regained his composure, let go and took a step back, giving Findekáno another smile. "Welcome again," he said. "Nelyo was afraid you would not be able to come. I am glad his doubts were unfounded."
"Until this morning, I had these doubts myself," Findekáno returned. "Father kept me waiting almost until the last moment."
"Well, I am glad he decided in our favour," Macalaurë said. "Now, where can I sit?"
"I told Findo that whoever sat on my right had to cut my meat, but he was not deterred," Russandol said. "Or maybe he did not want to contest Tyelko his chair. Do you?"
Macalaurë laughed. "I'm not afraid of Tyelko, but I think I'll take this opportunity to sit next to my brother's saviour. Moryo will find another seat, I'm sure."

Carnistir wandered in without acknowledging anyone's presence, frowned briefly when he found his own chair occupied, then shrugged his shoulders and sat down next to Macalaurë. Macalaurë and Maitimo spoke a few words of greeting, but Findekáno decided that if Carnistir couldn't even bother to say hello, he certainly wouldn't make an effort. At any rate, Carnistir hardly reacted to his brothers' attempts to talk to him, only nodding, then staring off into the hall, his brow creased in thought or anger. There was a deep furrow over the bridge of his nose, suggesting that he did that often.
The next to arrive was Ambarussa, red-cheeked from the cold, rubbing his hands vigorously as he entered. He greeted Findekáno with a broad grin. "How good you're here, cousin! It has been far too long. I hope you had a safe journey?"
"Perfectly safe," Findekáno said. "I took the long way to make certain."
Ambarussa extended his hands, and Findekáno took them. "Careful," Ambarussa announced cheerfully, "I have icicles for fingers."
Findekáno thought that he'd felt worse, but managed not to say so as he let go of Ambarussa' cold hands. His youngest cousin then turned to greet his brothers before sitting down in his chair at the end of the table. He leaned across to continue talking to Findekáno at once. "So, Failon tells us you're trying to grow millet over there? Not a good idea."

Findekáno frowned, both because he didn't feel comfortable discussing the food situation of his people and because he wondered what Ambarussa meant.
"Why is that?" he finally asked, adding at once, "Mind you, we're not exactly spoilt for choice. We had to make do with what you left us, and that was millet." His voice had grown hard and cold; he could not help it.
Now Ambarussa frowned as well. "Well, we also wanted millet, initially," he said. "But then we found out it doesn't grow well here. It needs a warmer and drier climate; you might get lucky when it's early in the year when you sow it, when there's no late frost and summer lasts long, but you might just as well end up with a measly harvest or none at all. We tried it, and found it wasn't worth the effort. Why would you want to repeat our mistakes?"
"Telvo has discovered his passion for agriculture, you see," Russandol said. His voice was calm and even, helping Findekáno to calm a little, too.
"Well, we can avoid your mistakes only if we know them," he pointed out. "But say –" He stopped himself. From what he remembered, it had always been the other Ambarussa who had cared about gardening and plants, while Telvo had rather been given to studying animals. There had been at least one major fight between the twins because the mice Telvo had been breeding to feed his hawk had broken into Pityo's collection and devoured some prized seeds. But surprising though Findekáno found Telvo's change of mind, it would have been unkind to point it out. Maybe it was Telvo's way of dealing with the loss of his closest brother.

"But say, what grain should we grow instead?" he said. He could see in Ambarussa's eyes that his cousin knew precisely what he had originally meant to ask – a sort of raw hurt that he knew all too well. But Telvo did not acknowledge the narrow miss, choosing instead to focus on the question Findekáno had made up in its stead. "Rye grows all right here. Barley and oats are best."
Findekáno wrinkled his nose. "Those are all... inferior crops, aren't they? I mean, barley and oats... that's animal fodder."
"In the luxury of Eldamar, yes," said Ambarussa. "But beggars can't be choosers. You'll have to lower your expectations, now that you're here."
"Oh, because I came here straight from the luxury of Eldamar, did I?" Findekáno retorted, rising from his chair before he was aware of it.
Ambarussa stared at him wide-eyed. "I never said you did, did I?"
"Well, you damn well made it sound that way," Findekáno said, grinding his teeth. Only now did he realise that Russandol was watching him, a pained frown on his face; Varnacanyo had taken a step forward, apparently prepared to hold him back should he try to attack Ambarussa. Findekáno felt ashamed and angry at once. He sank back down into his chair. "Don't you tell me to lower my expectations," he snapped in Telvo's direction, giving the gold plate before him an angry flick with his fingers.
Ambarussa studied his own plate, the tips of his fingers brushing the finely stamped rim. "Mother used to have a saying," he said in a quiet voice. "She used to say, If you simply assumed that anything you perceive as insulting happened out of ignorance, not ill will, a lot of conflict could be avoided. -- Generic you. Not you, Findekáno, specifically."
Carnistir seemed to awake from his trance. "None of us heeded that piece of advice," he pointed out with brutal honesty.
"It's still good advice," Ambarussa insisted.
"It is," Findekáno agreed. "Just let me get over my shock that a son of Fëanáro pleads ignorance."

"Well, that should tell you how serious Uncle Telvo is," said a young voice, and Tyelperinquar stepped onto the dais. He was still wearing his leather apron from the forge, and the sleeves of his grubby shirt were rolled up, revealing strong sinewy arms and neatly scrubbed hands. "Good evening, Uncles," he said to the gathered brothers. "Especially to you, Uncle Findekáno. It is good to see you again, and in good health." He bowed formally.
Findekáno half-rose to return the bow, his irritation forgotten for the moment. "And you, Tyelperinquar," he said. "How much you have grown. You look just like your father did at your age."
Tyelperinquar sighed. "Yes, and I have my mother's eyes; but I hope I am my own person for all that."
Findekáno sat down, not certain what to say, while Tyelpo shook hands with his uncles. "Speaking of your father," Russandol said, "where is he?"
"He'll take a bit longer. Uncle Tyelko had something to discuss with him so they sent me ahead. We don't have to wait for them, they said."
Macalaurë let out a long sigh and stood up. "I'll go get them."
"Yes, please do," Maitimo said, and when Findekáno gave him a confused look, he explained, "Dinner is the one time in the day we all spend together. That was Macalaurë's custom, and I think it is sensible, so I have adopted it. If we now eat before those two are here, they'll probably use it as a precedent in the future, and we can't have that."
"Oh, my," Findekáno said. "Family politics."
"Indeed. We have a lot of those, don't we."

Tyelkormo and Curufinwë did not appear delighted that Macalaurë had torn them from their private discussion. As they entered the hall, Curufinwë was marching ahead rather forcefully as though channeling his displeasure into his feet, even though his face betrayed little. Tyelkormo, on the other hand, was pursing his lips, then tightening them, grimacing as if chewing on something unpleasant – his thoughts about being patronised, perhaps. However, both were perfectly friendly towards Findekáno.
"My apologies, cousin," Curufinwë said smoothly as he nodded in greeting. "If I had known that our guest of honour is already gracing our table, I would not have been so tardy."
Findekáno studied his cousin's face, searching for a wink or a sneer – Curufinwë's voice didn't give anything away, but Findekáno could not imagine that Curufinwë would say something like that without irony. Before he could make up his mind, however, Tyelkormo clasped his shoulder with almost painful enthusiasm. "Valiant cousin! How good to see you." He slumped into the empty chair on Maitimo's left. "What do you like better, venison or boar?"
Findekáno's dignity was again sorely tested. His mouth began to water at the mere thought of either meat, and his treacherous stomach rumbled.
"An evil question to ask when you've already delayed our dinner," Macalaurë said in a tone that immediately reminded Findekáno of his aunt Nerdanel: mild and diplomatic, but slightly reprimanding. Findekáno was grateful for his intervention, but at the same time, he was annoyed that Macalaurë seemed to think he couldn't fend for himself. He turned to Tyelkormo and said, "I cannot honestly decide, cousin. It depends on what you do with the meat. Either can be absolutely delicious, so, given the right treatment, I like them both."
Tyelkormo grinned, and Findekáno felt an urge to return the grin even though he hadn't forgiven his cousins at all – aside from Russandol, of course.
"Well," Tyelkormo said, "it's good then that I shot both!"
Russandol rolled his eyes while Curufinwë chuckled. Findekáno simply snorted to show his disdain. "Well, then, which shall we have tonight?"
Tyelkormo's grin broadened. "Neither!" he said with a glint in his eye. "Today, we must feast on humble pie; all the good meat is for tomorrow."

Now Findekáno rolled his eyes as well, but he decided not to dignify Tyelkormo's meagre jest by paying it further heed. He changed the topic instead. "So how is it, hunting here in winter? Satisfactory?"
"Quite so; the game is fatter now than it was in the summertime. Of course, it's not what we were used to; the deer are leaner, and the boar tougher. But it beats rat or squirrel, and we ate that, too, in our time." Findekáno's eyes widened in surprise; looking at the golden plates and fine robes, smelling the delicious promise from the kitchen, it was hard to imagine that the Fëanorians had ever been reduced to eating rats.
"Telvo was speaking from experience," Carnistir butted in as though he'd heard Findekáno's thoughts. Ambarussa, still studying his plate, sighed. "Yes, well, I don't think we should complain to Findekáno of all people."
Tyelkormo shrugged his shoulders. "Well, cousin, don't worry. Despite Curvo's words, our dinner is not going to be that humble tonight."

Indeed, to Findekáno it seemed a feast in its own right. There was indeed pie, but it was filled with rabbit, not rat. There was a salad of celery and leeks, nuts and dried apples, and even the barley turned out to be perfectly palatable, soft and pearly-white and seasoned with garlic and leeks. There were hard-boiled eggs and boiled turnips also, and a dark wine with a strange, powerful taste that turned out to be made from elderberries. Findekáno again wished he could have convinced some of his siblings to accompany him, or at least young Itarildë. How they would have enjoyed the meal!
The food was excellent, and the company was also annoyingly agreeable; again and again, Findekáno had to force a smile off his face. Sharing his cousins' dinner and their potent wine, it was all too tempting to also share in their laughter and their stories, tempting to pick up their friendship as it had been left so long ago. But of course, that was out of the question. They had, after all, made painfully clear how little they valued that friendship, and charming and congenial though most of them were now, Findekáno would not trust them again – not so soon, maybe not ever.
The single exception among his cousins occasionally cast him a questioning glance, raising an eyebrow when Findekáno alone refused to laugh at a genuinely funny story Ambarussa told of the festival preparations. Findekáno gave him a minitesimal shrug in reply. He would explain himself later, if that was truly necessary.

But before he could return to Russandol's room to relax and talk in private after the meal, Tyelkormo stopped him. "Cousin, may I have a word with you?"
Findekáno was less than eager to have a word with Tyelkormo, who in his opinion was arrogant and short-tempered even for a Fëanorian. He didn't trust his own temper, either, especially as they had both drunken enough of the elder wine to be not fully in control of themselves.
"Can it wait, or is it important?" Findekáno asked, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice.
"It's important to me. It can wait if you want me to have a sleepless night."
Truthfully, Findekáno was half-tempted to leave Tyelkormo to suffer that sleepless night, if that wasn't just a ruse to make him feel guilty in the first place. But Tyelkormo was giving him an intent stare, and his cousin's eyes didn't suggest any falsehood or ruse. Then again, with those blue, round, infant-like eyes, Tyelkormo tended to look deceptively innocent anyway. Findekáno sighed and nodded his agreement. "Fine. If you must."
"When the others are gone," Tyelkormo specified, making Findekáno regret his agreement. He gave another pointed sigh. "Go ahead," he told Russandol with a lopsided smile. "I'll follow you forthwith."
At once, Varnacanyo hurried forward, taking his place on Russandol's right side. Russandol was already leaning on Macalaurë; now he wrapped his right arm about Varnacanyo's shoulder before he slowly walked ahead. Findekáno looked after them, his forehead creased. Tyelkormo, meanwhile, was studying his own hands as if immensely interested in the dirt under his fingernails.
"Right," Findekáno said when they were alone but for the maid who tended the fireplace, out of earshot. "What's so important, then?"
Tyelkormo let out his breath abruptly. "I take it Macalaurë transmitted our thanks, when he last saw you," he said, his tone strangely clipped.
"He did," Findekáno said, trying to figure out where this was going.
His cousin nodded. "Of course; he would. But I would still use the chance to thank you again, in person."

This was not what Findekáno had expected. He couldn't deny that he was relieved that Tyelkormo's grave matter turned out to be so straightforward and simple – if that was all. Still, he could not keep himself from snorting, pointing out, "I did not do it for you."
Tyelkormo pursed his lips. "Did I say that? No, I didn't. I know full well that you didn't do it for me, and you know what? I don't care why you did it. For Nelyo? Possibly. For yourself? Perhaps. For some purpose I won't guess? I don't care. You did it. I am glad to have my brother back, and I owe that to you. So here," he spread his arms like an actor about to proclaim some dramatic truth, then bowed so low that the tips of his golden hair brushed the floorboards, "I swallow my pride, and express my gratitude. I thank you, Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion, for rescuing my brother; and I am in your debt." He straightened again, his lips tightening angrily. "There you have it; take it or leave it."
Findekáno felt a strange twist in his chest when Tyelkormo bent his proud neck before him, swiftly replaced by the warmth of grim satisfaction. It was immediately followed by guilt; he felt he should neither delight in the sight of somebody bowing before him, nor warm up so quickly to one of Uncle Fëanáro's brood. He was at a loss, and didn't know what to say, and masked his confusion with brusqueness. "What do you expect now, cousin?" he said. "That all is forgiven, forgotten because you swallowed your pride for a second?"
"I did not ask forgiveness," Tyelkormo pointed out, clenching and unclenching his fists in rapid succession. "I said thank you. Now you can say 'You are welcome, cousin', or you can say 'I do not want to hear it': I cannot make the decision for you, and I won't try."
Findekáno snorted. "And now you'll tell me again that you'll have a sleepless night?"
The corner of Tyelkormo's mouth twitched, as though he felt the urge to laugh but didn't dare or care to. "No, cousin; I've said my piece, so I can sleep in peace." Now he did smirk, apparently pleased with his word-play. "As I said: Take it or leave it." He bowed again, in his normal manner: a sharp nod of the head, no more. "Good night, cousin Findekáno. Rest well."

Part III, Chapter IV

In which there is so much conversation, reminiscing and arguing that the feast will have to wait till the next chapter.

Read Part III, Chapter IV

Of course, Findekáno did not sleep much that night. In the privacy of Russandol's room, which they now had to themselves, they sat on the bed and talked until the early morning hours.
"Father has asked me to let you know his decision, concerning your request," Findekáno said when Varnacanyo had bid them a good night and left the room after bringing a fresh pot of tea and new candles.
"Oh?" Russandol leaned forward, the nonchalance in his voice counteracted by the intent look in his eyes. "Then let's hear it."
"'We are willing to consider co-operation if they are willing to consider apologising.' There you go."
Russandol sat silent, tilting his head as if waiting for more. When Findekáno turned to look at him to see what he was doing, his cousin's eyebrows shot up. "What – that is all?"
"That is all that he told me. Why?"
Brushing a strand of hair from his face, Russandol said, "Well, that is a surprisingly simple demand. He is asking nothing that we do not owe you, and in fact only a small part of what we owe you. I was prepared to offer more. This is... suspiciously modest."
Findekáno snorted. "If it is so simple, then why has it not already been done?"
"A fair question. Perhaps because we think in overly complicated ways. See, I have been wondering how I could make an apology acceptable to your people. It never occurred to me that the apology in itself might suffice."
"Well," Findekáno said with a sniff, "we are a generous people."
"That is true," Russandol said, nodding earnestly.
"And you are proud, so we assume that asking forgiveness is going to be very hard on you."
"Hah! That is also true."
"At any rate, that is the minimum Father is asking. It probably won't hurt if you offer more."
Russandol nodded again. "I will think about it. For the time being, I wish to alleviate your current plight. Tomorrow morning, I'll have Carnistir and his book-keepers take stock of our provisions and see how much we need to reach the end of this winter. Anything more I will send back with you when you return to your father's folk."
With a grimace, Findekáno shook his head. "Well meant, but you are forgetting something."
"What is that?"
"We, too, are a proud people. I doubt we'll accept alms."
"Alms?" Russandol raised his eyebrows and pouted, putting his hand on his heart to demonstrate utter innocence. "I ate and drank while I was in your people's keeping, didn't I? I should have repaid that as soon as I came here. No alms, cousin – recompense."
"I guess that might work," Findekáno admitted. "You didn't really use up that much of our provisions, though."
"Well, I never said I was good with numbers," Russandol said, still trying to keep an innocent look on his face but eventually slipping into a grin. Findekáno smiled back, simply because he was happy to see Russandol look cheerful. Then he sighed.
"I feel bad about the way I snapped at Ambarussa, during dinner," he said. "I felt that he was provoking me, but he just meant well. Do you think I can ask him for some agricultural advice tomorrow, or will he still be offended?"
"I don't think he's all that offended – I think he understands quite well what happened there. He's not as naïve as he used to be, you know." Russandol sighed. "None of us are, of course, but he was so young when we left... Anyway, should he still be offended, I think he'd consider your request for advice a veiled apology. So that should be all right."

"Hm." Findekáno slipped out of bed to refill the tea-cups. The floor underneath his feet was covered in a rich, soft carpet; the tiles on the stove were beautifully painted and glazed. He returned to the bed and leaned back against the silken pillows, felt the luxurious texture of the sleek fur covers. It was hard to imagine that his cousins should have known scarcity at some point. He shook his head. "Did you really eat rats, ever?"
"Of course. Don't forget that this place was altogether dark when we arrived. There was very little green stuff growing, and we could not risk loosing more people in the dark woods or drawing enemies to our camp while it was not yet fortified. So aside from the provisions that your people had so kindly left on the ships-" Russandol grimaced as though his tea had suddenly turned bitter "- which is something else I should recompense you for, so I really think we don't have to worry about numbers – aside from those provisions, we had to eat what we could find nearby. Rats. Snails. Maggots. Squirrels if we were lucky."
"It's impossible to believe that, looking at your way of living now." Findekáno shuddered. "I wouldn't even have known that you can eat those things. Whatever gave you the idea?"
"Our ancestors' stories from Cuiviénen," said Russandol. "They commonly ate rats and snails and all that, until Oromë came and told them they were being disgusting. Of course, with the abundance of game in Valinor, nobody had to eat what we came to consider vermin; but some people still remembered, and some even wrote it down." He shrugged. "And some people actually read the obscure accounts of everyday life before the Great Journey. So that's how we knew. Your admirable Istimë could have told you, too. Quite honestly, it's not as bad as you may think. The taste is all right, it's just your upbringing that tells you it's disgusting. Oh, what I would have given for a nice rat in Angamando! But I was not at liberty to hunt, nor did I have anything to barter with, of course..."
Findekáno practically felt the blood drain from his face. He turned in alarm, staring at his cousin with wide eyes. Russandol's voice had not changed, maintaining its harmonious and conversational tone; but Findekáno could not imagine that Russandol would speak of his captivity like this, so measured, so matter-of-factly, as if Angamando had been an abstrasct experience that had happened to a stranger. Surely, at least, there was a haunted look, a dark shadow in Russandol's eyes?

Findekáno's inquiring stare wasn't lost on his cousin, who looked back at him with a slight frown. "Am I distressing you? I apologise. I had thought you, who saw me at my worst, could handle some reminiscing. If I judged ill, I am sorry."
"I am surprised that you can talk about it so calmly. I can handle it if you need me to – if you can."
"Maybe I have to. I have been wondering, you know. Have you ever had nightmares as a child?"
"Of course," Findekáno said, confused by the change of topic. "Who hasn't?"
Russandol nodded and went on, "Then maybe you, too, found that as soon as you told your mother or father or tutor about it, or even just a younger brother, the nightmare lost its power – no matter how real it felt when you were dreaming, once you spoke of it out loud, you noticed all sorts of things that made no sense, ridiculous little details, absurdities, and then you laughed at them and the nightmare faded away..."
"Father always chided me for being scared by a mere nightmare in the first place. But yes, I know the feeling."
"There you go, then." Now there was a triumphant glint in Russandol's eyes, almost terrifying in its intensity. "Angamando is on my mind all the time, of course. It haunts my nights, and I find myself pondering it by day as well. But I cannot speak about it to my brothers. They could not bear it, I think, and also, I am afraid of their judgement..."
Findekáno's brow contracted. "Their judgement?"
"Yes. During the nights, I tend to be in my own body, revisiting my pain – and that is not the worst part. I can tear myself away from my body, so to say – I can watch myself suffering, rather than actually suffering. That's where the worst part starts – I see myself groan and writhe and scream, and I hear myself think, what a pathetic fellow. Has he no dignity? And then I feel ashamed of my weakness."
Now Findekáno was speechless for good. He sidled closer and wrapped his arms around his cousin, pulling him into a tight embrace; but he did not know what to say.
"Stupid, isn't it?" Russandol asked with a lopsided smile, and Findekáno nodded.
"Yes. Stupid," Russandol went on, "that's what I tell my mind. Look at the poor fellow, I tell myself, look at what they're doing to him. If he is pathetic, then only in the very oldest sense - inciting pity.* How could he not scream? And that's all very well, but the other voice in my head still insists 'Well, he is wailing like an infant, it's embarrassing.' Now, if I judge myself like this, even though I know how absolute, how inescapable the pain was, what will my brothers say?"
Findekáno had closed his eyes during Russandol's passionate speech, and at once, sleepiness had set in. "I cannot speak for your brothers, but I can speak for myself," he mumbled, and wrenched his eyes open: After all, this was important. He should be awake. "I have seen so many brave people in tears. Father, Turukáno, Artanis... myself. And you. Some things are more powerful than all our fine dignity, and it isn't shameful to be overcome by them. Grief, betrayal, torment... some things just cannot be borne. You are one of the bravest people I know- "
"Coming from you, that is high praise indeed-"
"It damn well is. Don't interrupt me. If your brothers have only a spark of sense, they will know that you are to be admired for your endurance, not scorned for some imaginary loss of dignity." Findekáno jutted his chin out decisively. "Besides, they'd hardly be able to bear the mere tale. You lived it. Who, then, is pathetic?"
"Perhaps you are right," Russandol said, resting his head on Findekáno's chest and listening to his steady heartbeat, smiling.
"Damn right I am." Findekáno almost spat the words out. Then his voice softened. "Now, did it help?"
Closing his eyes, Russandol said, "To some extent. It helps that you're telling my inner voice that it is being stupid." He sighed. "But the nightmare has lost none of its terror."

When Findekáno woke in the morning, Russandol had already risen: He was sitting in the window-seat, looking out into the grey morning, still dressed in his night-shirt. Torn between the desire to stay in the warmth and comfort of the large bed, and the feeling that he should join his cousin, Findekáno rolled over onto his side.
At once, Russandol turned to look at him, and expression of regret on his face. "I did not mean to wake you," he said. "I am sorry. You were looking so peaceful..."
"I slept like a child," Findekáno agreed. "It's like being bedded on clouds, here. But you did not wake me, I think. I just awoke." He yawned and stretched. "So, how is the weather? Is it a fine day for your feast?"
"It's a fine day to stay within the safety of one's walls," Russandol said. "It's so foggy you can hardly see five fathoms wide."
"Well, I am glad," Findekáno said and interrupted himself with another yawn, "that I'm already here, then."
"Indeed," Russandol said with a content smile. "You chose your walking day wisely, best of cousins."

After their breakfast Varnacanyo announced that Master Encaitar had arrived to bring Russandol's robes. They fitted perfectly, but Findekáno thought in secret that the colour was ill chosen. The dark fabric made Russandol's pale face look even whiter. He did not say so, but Master Encaitar seemed to think the same; he unwrapped the second parcel he had brought along. "For your consideration, my lord, I have also prepared something more suitable for a celebration – and a king," he said, revealing a beautiful three-piece combination: a padded undershirt of honey-coloured silk, and a surcoat made of a truly beautiful brocade, stars of Fëanáro woven in gold thread into a fiery copper base, quite nicely matching the colour of Russandol's hair. A pleated vest in a golden colour similar to that of the undershirt was meant to be worn atop the brocade surcoat.
"I have taken the liberty of fitting this along with the work-robe you requested, my lord," Encaitar said with a half-bow and a little flourish of his hands. "As you can see, I have kept it quite simple in respect to your tastes."
Russandol heaved a great sigh and glanced at Findekáno, who shrugged and said nothing. He agreed that Encaitar's suggestion was a much better choice, festival or no; but he did not wish to speak up against his cousin. Varnacanyo likewise caught a glance from his lord, but only raised his eyebrows in reply, refusing to speak.
With another sigh, Russandol said, "Let me congratulate you on your splendid work, Master Encaitar." Now the silk weaver bowed fully in his elaborate manner, his modest, yet triumphant smile disappearing from view as he lowered his head. Russandol went on, "Please understand that there is nothing wrong with these robes you created. Nonetheless, I will not wear them. Not now. I am sorry." He turned and smiled at Findekáno. "Perhaps my good cousin has use for them?"
"But they are not fitted for him!" Master Encaitar protested, while Findekáno crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"I will not wear anything bearing that badge," he said decisively. "Never."
Briefly, a shadow flitted over Russandol's face. "Of course not. Unwise of me. But I am certain Master Encaitar has a piece or two that might fit you?"

"I certainly have a few showpieces, my lord," the silk-weaver said, directing his bow towards Findekáno this time, "so if you do not mind that they are not made to your measure, I will gladly bring you what might be suitable. Sadly, I have nothing Nolofinwëan prepared – my lord has bid me weave some lovely fabrics for your father, but I have made no garments from them yet – but maybe something grey or green would not be objectionable?"
The comfortable lull was beginning to drain away; Findekáno found his temper stir. To his surprise, he was not so much annoyed by Encaitar, but rather by Russandol, who had after all instigated the silk-weaver's offer – for the second time, too. He forced himself to smile. "Please do not trouble yourself, Master Encaitar. I am content with what I've got."
Encaitar gave him a very eloquent look, but still Findekáno could forgive him easily; it was Russandol's soft "But--" that made him snap.
"No!" he said sharply. "Cousin, I do not think you are qualified to tell me what you wear, if you yourself refuse to follow Master Encaitar's advice. We do not need to discuss this further."
He felt guilty as soon as he saw Russandol bite his lip, but he knew he wasn't willing to budge on this.
Master Encaitar saved him from having to say or do anything. "If you change your minds, my lords, pray do not hesitate to call on me at once," he said quickly, giving a final bow before leaving them.
Varnacanyo cleared his throat. "My lord, your eldest brother has requested that he may speak to you when you have a moment's time. Would you like to see him now?"
"Yes, please," Russandol said, sitting down on the bed and massaging the bridge of his nose as though tired already.

As soon as they were alone, Russandol said, "I am sorry if you felt pressed, Findo. I wished to see my saviour shine tonight; it seems that I overshot. But as for your criticism of my dress: It was my desire that I should pale next to you. You are the guest of honour, after all – this is your feast."
Findekáno let out a slow breath. "I understand that, Russo, and I know you mean well. But let me tell you a story." He ignored Russandol's surprised stare. "Long ago and far away, there was a prince who had been invited to a great festival. Now that prince was rightly exiled at the time, and except for this invitation, was not permitted to come near the great city of his people. And for some reason – maybe to show his contempt for his hosts, or maybe he was displeased with the manner of the summons – he obeyed, but did not wear festival robes, but instead appeared in his travel-stained work-clothes. Can you imagine why I am telling you this story?"
"I believe I get your drift, yes," Russandol said with a grimace. "But it pains me. Dearest cousin, I know I did not make my invitation in any inappropriate way, so I must assume that contempt is what drives you. Do you contemn me, then?" There was true hurt in his voice, raw and almost frightened.
Findekáno rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly, Russo; you know I don't. But you are not the only host. If I appear before your people as you would have it, dressed up in Master Encaitar's silks, then they would happily forget how much they stole from us. If they see me as I am, maybe they will stop to wonder just why I am so poorly attired."
"Fair enough," Maitimo conceded with a sigh. "I apologise, again."
"You're overdoing it," Findekáno said irritably. "I already said I understood."

Russandol looked away this time, and Findekáno again felt a sharp stab of guilt. But before he could make up his mind whether he should apologise, or offer an embrace, or try to make things up in some other way, there was a knock on the door. Russandol turned his head, forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile, and called out, "Please enter!"
In came Varnacanyo and Macalaurë, the latter carrying a flat wooden box of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and brass or gold; it looked very old even to Findekáno, who did not feel particularly confident in dating or judging craftsmanship.
"Thank you, Varnacanyo," Russandol said, pushing himself onto his feet. "Can I send you on an errand again?"
"Certainly, my lord," said Varnacanyo, tilting his head expectantly.
"I would like to see Carnistir, if he can spare some time for me. And I believe my cousin wishes to consult with Ambarussa..." he gave Findekáno a questioning look.
Findekáno nodded. "Yes, please. If he is available."
"Very good, my lords. Shall I ask them both to see you here?"
"That will do fine, I think. Thank you." Russandol gave Varnacanyo a nod, and then turned to his brother. "My apologies, brother. It is a busy day. You wished to speak to me?"
Macalaurë smiled. "I wished to give you something, in fact." He studied Russandol's appearance, stroking the shoulder of his dark robe to test the fabric. "I see that Master Encaitar has delivered the robe you requested."
"Yes, with many protestations that he wanted to make something better. I like this just fine. What do you think?" Russandol half-raised his arms and turned around once to show the fine pleating Encaitar had done, and to show the clever pocket in which the right sleeve ended so Russandol could hide or show his stump, whichever he preferred.

Macalaurë seemed to give the matter some thought. "I think this must be the finest robe any scholar on this or the other side of the Sea could ever own," he said smoothly. "And as it happens, I have brought you something that will look splendid with it."
Findekáno raised an eyebrow, and Russandol said, "Splendid? Brother, I hope you won't try to talk me into further finery?"
"No, Nelyo, I accept that this is your choice. However, there's something I thought you should have." He held out the beautiful box. Russandol opened it, frowning all the while.
"Father's old chain of office," Macalaurë explained when the lid was open at last. "And his signet ring."
"Oh," said Russandol, carefully lifting up the chain. It was a heavy thing, meant to circle its wearer's shoulders and hang down unto his chest. Rubies and diamonds set in gold alternated with golden stars of Fëanáro, culminating in a lozenge bearing the badge of the House of Finwë. On the councillor's chains that Findekáno knew, the colours of the badge had been achieved with enamel, but of course that had not been enough for Uncle Fëanáro: He had sliced jewels into thin layers, and cut those into the desired shape. Underneath the lozenge dangled another star of Fëanáro, with a tiny diamond set in the middle.
Findekáno heard himself gasp. He had certainly no intention of showing anything but scorn for anything Fëanorian, but he could not help himself: The chain was an impressive work of art. As Macalaurë had said, it truly was splendid.

Russandol studied it as it dangled down from his palm. Macalaurë in his turn was watching his brother's face anxiously, but could not read anything, pleasure or otherwise, from his face.
"I'll give you the crown at the feast tonight," he explained, trying to get some reaction from Russandol, "but the chain is such a hassle to put on and secure, you always need at least four hands, so I figured we should get it sorted beforehand."
Russandol still stared at the chain as if mesmerised. It was beginning to drag his hand down with its weight, sinking steadily back into the velvet-lined box.
"I suppose it is nicely symbolic, splitting the regalia up like this," Macalaurë went on. "You have been our king all along, of course, but you only officially come into the office tonight..."
Finally, Russandol smiled. "How clever of you," he said. "Yes, you are right. That's how we'll do it. Can you help me to put the chain on? And you, Findo, since I have only one hand to contribute?"
Together they put the heavy chain into place, fixing it to the fabric of Russandol's robes on his shoulders so it would not slip. He shrugged and shifted experimentally, but the clasps held well.
"Isn't it too heavy?" Findekáno asked.
"I think it's all right," Russandol said. "The weight is spread quite evenly. Another advantage of woolen robes, of course. What do you think?"
"Well, it makes you look majestic even in those sombre robes," Findekáno said dryly. Macalaurë smiled, and Russandol laughed out loud. "Cáno, you are clearly a genius."
"Nonsense," Macalaurë said, although he sounded as though he quite agreed. "Now try on the ring – Curvo said he could still fit it if it's too wide or too small, if we give it to him before the afternoon."

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Carnistir, and soon after, Ambarussa. Macalaurë took his leave then, taking with him the ring that indeed needed to be tightened a little. Findekáno felt a bit sorry that he had no chance to speak with Russandol in private anymore, but maybe it was for the better; this way, they would not argue again. Russandol seemed to have a hard enough time with Carnistir; they were speaking in hushed voices, but Findekáno got the impression that Carnistir wasn't pleased with what he was told. He could not be certain, however, as the main part of his attention was fixed on Ambarussa's explanation of crop rotation and intercropping, of recommendable plants and less promising ones. Varnacanyo came and brought a light lunch for them all: A simple, clear broth, no doubt cooked from the remains of the venison Tyelkormo had mentioned the previous evening.
"I can get you something more substantial, if you wish, my lord," Varnacanyo told Findekáno, who smiled and shook his head.
"No, this will do – I expect I'll overeat at the feast tonight." He took a deep breath, savouring the hearty smell of the broth. "Although some bread would be nice, of course."
"Of course," Ambarussa said. "But you may have noticed that we are a little short of ladies.²"
"Ah, yes. Why did none of you manage to secure a wife in all this time?"
Ambarussa took his time to reply. "Please don't ask that question in Curvo's hearing," he finally said. "As for the rest of us, I cannot tell you. Tell me – why are you not married?"
Findekáno didn't reply.

What little daylight there had been soon faded over their discussions. Through the open window, Findekáno could now hear wafts of conversation and laughter, and the crunching of footsteps on frozen snow and the rustling of wollen cloaks. "I think the guests are arriving," he said, loud enough for Russandol and Carnistir to hear as well.
"Yes, of course," Carnistir said. "It is getting dark."
"So... shouldn't we join them?"
"Not yet," Russandol said. "We're going to wait until everybody has arrived, and come in last – that way, we can greet everybody at once rather than having to get up whenever somebody new has arrived. My legs are not as strong as I like to pretend."
Findekáno remembered how Russandol had required Varnacanyo's and Macalaurë's help to get up the stairs after last night's dinner. "Right," he said, biting his lip.
"However," Russandol continued, "those who are not yet in their festival finery might want to change now." He pointedly did not look at Findekáno, only at his brothers.
"True," Ambarussa said. "Shall we continue our conversation later on, Cousin Findekáno?"
Findekáno nodded, while Carnistir gave Russandol a long, dark stare. "Are you not going to change, Nelyo?"
"No, Moryo, I will go as I am. Why?"
Carnistir frowned. "Because on top of those dark robes and with that hair, your face looks like a sheet that's been put on fire."
Findekáno managed to stifle his laugh, but Ambarussa snorted loudly. Russandol ignored them. "Is that so?" he merely said, looking down on himself. "Findo, would you agree?"
"You do look very pale," Findekáno said, biting his lips and trying to put on an earnest expression. "And your hair is very bright."
"I see," Russandol said, and shrugged. "Well, they say that contrasts are attention-catchers. After all, I must make an impression. Now, off with you two," he told Carnistir and Ambarussa. "We'll see you at the table."

---

Chapter End Notes

*Maedhros' etymological niceties are, strictly speaking, based on languages he can't know – the origin of "pathetic" is Ancient Greek pathetos, "prone to suffer". But I've simply assumed that a similar word with a similar history would exist in Quenya (the professor offers none that contradicts me! ;)), but lost its meaning in (almost) suffering-free Valinor, instead taking on a sense of "ridiculous". As son of a passionate linguist, Maedhros is naturally aware of the etymology. ²I'm in two minds about the whole Elves-and-bread-thing. First, I don't actually find it clear whether the whole "bread-baking is a secret female art" thing refers only to coimas/ lembas, or to bread in general. The mere idea that only a very limited number of people would make something as vital as bread is a bit puzzling as well. How literal do we have to be about the "ladies"? I know it was a linguist in-joke for Tolkien, but how far does it extend?
Then again, if we're really talking about traditional European bread (as in, leavened loaves), that is sort of a secret art, and maybe the ladies of the Eldar really guarded the secret of how to raise and use sourdough closely? If it weren't a closed book, I'm sure the Fëanorians wouldn't shy away from venturing into this female domain. I'm so confused. But for the sake of this story, I'm assuming that it really is about all sorts of bread.

Part III, Chapter V

In which there is a feast, featuring songs, oaths and arguments.

Read Part III, Chapter V

After the reception he had found among his cousins, Findekáno no longer expected much hostility from their followers. Still, he was not prepared for the wave of noise that surged against him as he entered the great hall by Maitimo's side. People were stamping their feet, clapping their hands, drumming on the tables and cheering their voices out. Findekáno blinked, unused to such noise after the long term of subdued mood in his father's camp. There was no mistaking the words these people, whom he still considered enemies, were cheering: They were hailing Maitimo ("Our king, our king!"), but there were just as many calls for "Valiant Findekáno! Huzzah, brave Findekáno!" Amidst the riot of jubilation and colour – for all but he and Russandol were decked out in festival robes – Findekáno did not feel brave at all. He was tempted to duck his head and hide in the crowd. Instead, he had to walk along the aisle left between the benches and the rows of applauding people, on full display, until he and Russandol reached the dais where Tyelperinquar and the brothers Fëanárion were already waiting for them. They were looking exceedingly pleased with themselves, all proud grins, raised chins and glowing eyes.
Findekáno did not yet find it in himself to begrudge them their triumph. As he stepped onto the dais, Russandol made an elegant turn so he could clasp Findekáno's right hand with his left, raising them up into the air in a gesture reminiscent of a victorious wrestler. Findekáno would not have thought that the exultations could grow any louder, but for a moment, they did. Then they abruptly died down as the assembled people, including Maitimo's brothers, bowed low in greeting. Findekáno felt his cheeks burn, and glanced at Maitimo's face to see how his cousin was reacting. Maitimo stood tall; he gave a nod in return to his people's obeisance, an indulgent if somewhat lopsided smile on his face.

When all had straightened again, Maitimo let go of Findekáno's hand. People were watching expectantly, clearly waiting for a speech before they sat down. Maitimo slowly made his way to his chair in the middle of the high table and reached for his goblet, but did not raise it to his lips. Instead, he studied the crowd with a sober expression as if searching for somebody. There was some whispering and some shifting among the audience now. Findekáno frowned and noticed that some of his cousins were likewise looking confused or even nervous.
Then Maitimo smiled again. "My dear people," he said in a loud, clear voice, "my friends! Months ago I promised that I would feast and celebrate with you. It has taken far too long until I could make true what I said. You have been most patient and understanding, for which I owe you thanks. I also thank you for the impressive welcome you have given me and my valiant rescuer -" he was interrupted as some took up the shout of "Valiant Findekáno!" again, but silence fell at once when he raised his handless arm. Findekáno bit his lips to keep from laughing at some of the suddenly horrified faces.
"I thank you for your warm welcome," Maitimo repeated, "and for the gift of your presence on this festive occasion. Now let us make it a feast to remember! This is our night. Eat, drink, sing and dance, be merry! A new year is coming; let us welcome it. To the future!" He raised his goblet, and there were a few scuffles as everybody reached for their own cups and goblets. "To the future!" they duly echoed, and many added – louder – "To Maitimo! To the king!"
Maitimo took a sip of wine, then made another nod, almost a bow, to his assembled followers. Then he sat down. The crowd followed suit.

"I hope you have also prepared a speech," Curufinwë said, leaning half-way across the table to speak to Findekáno. "We're expecting a good one – your father is such a gifted orator, after all."
Findekáno felt his brows contract as he tried to read in his cousin's face. Was Curufinwë being sincere, or was this an attempt at mockery? To what point? Findekáno couldn't guess, nor did he want to. "Are you trying to scare me?" he asked sharply.
"Valiant cousin, I am certain that nothing can scare you."
Definitely mockery, Findekáno decided, or something similarly unpleasant. He sneered in Curufinwë's face. "There's no reason to start worrying about me now, Cousin Curufinwë, if you haven't done it before."
Curufinwë's pursed his lips, but he fell back into his chair without speaking further.
In truth, Findekáno had prepared no speech whatsoever; he had not been certain that he would have to deliver one. Now, however, he resolved to put Curufinwë to shame – and everyone else who had conveniently forgotten their treason.

But there was no immediate need for his speech, as the pages now began to carry in bowls and plates laden with food. Now yesterday's fine dinner indeed seemed humble in comparison as the deer and boar Tyelkormo had promised were brought in from the kitchen, accompanied by fowl and fish, pies and pastries, puddings and salads, bowls of baked, boiled or fried vegetables, dried and confected fruits – everything that the larders or the woods could yield had been prepared for the feast.
Findekáno stared with growing amazement and hunger as the high table, and then the long tables below, filled up. He glanced sideways, trying to judge the others' reactions to the splendid dishes. His cousins, as well as Tyelperinquar, appeared satisfied but unimpressed; they did not seem to have expected anything less. Their followers, as far as Findekáno could guess, did not appear overly astonished, either. They made a well-fed impression on him, and that added to the resentment Findekáno felt like a bitter lump in his heart.

Still, he ate with good appetite; and while Maitimo by his side ate only sparingly of the meat that Varnacanyo cut for him, Tyelkormo ate enough for three, so that Findekáno did not worry at all that anyone might think him greedy or starved. For a while, the hall was filled predominantly with the sound of cutlery and the clinking of goblets. The only words spoken were requests for dishes, expressions of gratitude and the occasional toast. Only when a goodly part of the food had been diminished did the hum of coversation spring up again. Findekáno glanced at his cousins. Tyelkormo was helping himself to more meat; it must be his third or fourth helping, Findekáno judged. He marvelled that anyone could eat so much without even slowing. Curufinwë shook his head in disapproval as Tyelkormo asked him to pass a bowl of deep-fried salsify, but nonetheless handed the dish over. Then he caught Findekáno's gaze and raised his eyebrows as if in challenge. Findekáno pointedly looked at Carnistir's plate, which showed hardly a trace of eating, and then at Tyelkormo's, smeared with gravy and rapidly growing emptier again. He raised his eyebrows in return as if to ask "How can I not stare?". Curufinwë gave an amused snort in reply.

When the servants began to clear the dishes away, preparing the tables for dessert, Findekáno was beginning to feel that he had eaten and drunk too much. With his stomach heavy with the delicious food and his head foggy from the wine, he sat as if glued to the soft cushioning of his chair. His eyes were burning, whether from the bright colours, the hundreds of candles or simply from his lack of sleep, he could not say for certain. Sated, warm and comfortable, he meant to close them for only a second, but he must have nodded off, for suddenly he heard his name chanted as in a dream. He sat up with a start, wrenching his eyes open, and realised that it was no dream: He was staring at a hall full of people who called out "Fin-de-ká-no! Fin-de-ká-no!", over and over.
Russandol leaned over to him. "If you do not want to give a speech, best of cousins, I will tell them to stop pestering you," he said under breath.
Findekáno shook his head to clear it. "No, no," he whispered back. "They shall have their speech." He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, which caused the crowd to stop chanting his name and instead to break into cheers and applause.
Findekáno cleared his throat, and the people fell silent. He could see their eyes fixed on him, expectant and wide with admiration. Strangely, he no longer felt exposed or overwhelmed - instead, he had to admit that he found the experience gratifying.

"Followers of the House of Fëanáro," he began, and saw some starts, some frowns. His audience was clearly taken aback. Too much distance, Findekáno thought, and continued, "I thank you for the warm welcome and the excellent feast." The frowns were replaced by smiles. Too friendly, Findekáno thought.
"I find it strange that my own people consider me something of a traitor," he said, watching the smiles falter again, "while those who betrayed us seem to consider me a hero." Some jaws were beginning to work angrily; how long, Findekáno wondered, until these people, too, would think him a traitor? He pushed on. "In truth, I am neither. What I did, I did not do in order to alienate my people, or to be admired. I did it because your lord and I used to be close friends, and always have been close kin. The way I was brought up, friends do not forsake friends, and cousins do not abandon cousins. And that's all there is to it." He sat down abruptly, casting a challenging stare at all those people who had celebrated him a moment ago, and who were now looking confused, or angry – or guilty. Nobody spoke a word.
Then Maitimo rose, steadying his upward motion with his hand on the table. He gazed at the silent, unhappy crowd, and then at Findekáno, who continued to stare ahead. Then Maitimo took his gilded goblet and raised it to the hall.
"To friends and cousins," he said.
The people repeated his toast, although their voices sounded more subdued now. "To friends and cousins."

Dessert was received with a lot less cheer and eagerness than there had been earlier. Even though the large cakes looked delicious, and had been lovingly frosted and decorated and moreover studded with sparklers that burned with green or blue or purple flames, the spectacle elicited only a half-hearted response. Findekáno knew that the low spirits were his fault, but he could not feel sorry. To him, it appeared all too obvious that the Fëanorians had happily forgotten their shameful deed; a reminder had clearly been in order.
"Do cousins shame cousins in front of their people, then?" Curufinwë asked, the resolute movements with which he cut the cake belying his soft-spoken words.
Findekáno raised an eyebrow. "Not what you were expecting? Yes, Cousin, they do - when it is right to do so."
Curufinwë dropped a piece of cake on his plate, his lips pursed tightly. "And you think it is right to ruin our feast in this manner?"
"You burned the ships," Findekáno said in his sweetest tone. "You tell me what is right."
Maitimo interfered before Curufinwë could deliver a (doubtlessly scathing) reply. "Please, for my sake," he said, giving a pained look to both his cousin and his brother, "peace."
To Findekáno's surprise, Curvo obeyed after giving him another furious scowl. However, the way in which he began to deconstruct his piece of cake suggested that the matter was far from settled.

The sorry remains of the cakes were soon cleared away and replaced by small bowls of glazed nuts and dried fruits, in case anyone was, against all reason, still left hungry. With a nod to himself, Macalaurë rose from his seat on Maitimo's left-hand side. Like the others, he was attired splendidly in the fiery reds of his house; he was given additional authority by the crown on his head: not the elegant display of Noldorin craftsmanship that Fëanáro had created for his father in Tirion, but the ancient crown Mahtan had made in Cuiviénen. It was a simple broad ring of gold with tooled rims, polished to smoothness and adorned with gems cut into cabochons: By Noldorin standards, it was primitive work, something that an apprentice goldsmith could have crafted in the early years of training. Nonetheless, it had clearly been the crown that Macalaurë – and even Fëanáro before him – had chosen over the better piece of art. Findekáno could see why; after all, it bore all the additional legitimisation of a kingship established as far back as Cuiviénen. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to the other crown. Had it been left behind in Tirion? Findekáno could not imagine it.
He did not long have time to ponder the question, as Macalaurë made his way around the table until he stood right across from Maitimo, walking slowly so everybody in the hall had time to notice and observe. Findekáno saw that Maitimo's face was unnaturally blank, a mask donned to hide whatever he was thinking.

Macalaurë turned to face the crowd, which fell silent without further prompting.
"Friends do not forsake friends," Macalaurë began, a slight tremor marring his perfect baritone, "and brothers should not abandon brothers; but kings sometimes have to make egregious choices that violate our purest instincts. I hope that my brother will be spared from having to make such choices, and that his reign will be long-lived and happy." Now his words rang out clear and strong; the tremor had disappeared. He turned, took the ancient crown off his head, and held it aloft as he sank to one knee. "My brother – my beloved king – your regent surrenders his office."
Benches and chairs scraped on the floor, brocade and taffeta rustled as the people rose.
Maitimo gave a soft sigh. "Please stand up, Macalaurë," he said, the undertone of brotherly disapproval in his voice contrasting strangely with the solemnity of the situation. Only when Macalaurë had complied did Maitimo take the crown from his hands. Macalaurë swiftly stepped to the right so that their followers could get an unobstructed view of their king, who deliberately studied the golden circlet for a while.

It took Findekáno a moment to realise that it would not be easy to put on the crown with only one hand to guide it. None of his cousins seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, or at any rate no-one offered any help. Findekáno made no such offer, either. Much though he regretted Russandol's impediment, putting the crown of the Noldor onto his head was out of the question – it would be the entirely wrong signal. Thus Findekáno folded his hands behind his back, and limited his support to keeping his lips from twitching as Maitimo finally crowned himself, singlehandedly, screwing up his eyes as he maneuvered the heavy circlet into position.
The whole process was somewhat lacking in dignity, but if anybody objected to a king who could not even put on his crown without difficulty, he or she kept their silence. Instead, the people bowed again (except for a couple of incorrigibles, who insisted on kneeling). When they had straightened up, Macalaurë led them in the ancient oath of allegiance, reciting the words that had been transmitted from the days in Cuiviénen and repeated meaninglessly throughout the days in Aman: "Here do I swear fealty and service to you, my king, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in light or darkness, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth until the world end."* Findekáno was the only one who remained seated, and who did not join in the collective murmur.
Maitimo had watched the proceedings without smiling; now he bowed his crowned head in reply to his people's oath. "I hear you," he said earnestly. "So be it."²
"All hail Nelyafinwë Maitimo, our king!" Macalaurë called out, and again Findekáno was the only one to remain silent.
After the din had died down, Maitimo signalled for Macalaurë to step up before him again.
"My brother," he said, a smile playing on his lips, "my beloved regent. Kings may indeed have to make egregious choices, and you have had to make one of the hardest. Be it known that I am convinced you made the right choice – the only right choice. You have proven your wisdom and levelheadedness, and I am glad that I can make use of both on my council. I am also deeply grateful to you for keeping our brothers and our people safe. I could not have asked for a better regent."
He held out his hand, which Macalaurë shook after some hesitation and to general applause.

That seemed to conclude the ceremonial part of the feast, for Macalaurë did not return to his chair. Instead, he sat down behind his great harp and began to play. Findekáno felt a sharp stab in his chest when he recognised the tune, which he had last heard in a rather less adequate performance – plucked on his out-of-tune, travel-battered harp by aching fingers, accompanied by his own unpractised voice and Russandol's agonised croaking. Alarmed, Findekáno turned to look at his cousin, but Russandol seemed entirely unperturbed. In fact, he smiled serenely, his head tilted backwards and his eyes half-closed. He opened them when he became aware of Findekáno's gaze, his brow contracting in a slight frown. "I asked him to play this song, Findo. I hope you do not mind?"
"I'm fine with it if you are," Findekáno replied. "Merely surprised." Then he hushed; Macalaurë was done with the instrumental introduction and began to sing. Findekáno had heard him sing many times, but that had been long ago, and it seemed to him that he had never heard Macalaurë sing like this, with such power and trueness. Whether he was so relieved at having given Maitimo the crown that he surpassed himself now, or whether the turmoil, grief and responsibility of the past years had given him something that he had lacked before, his voice sounded richer and more beautiful than ever, bringing the words of Rúmil's ancient song alive so that Findekáno, when he closed his eyes, almost felt the pristine waters of Cuiviénen on his skin, felt his legs ache with the fatigue of the Great Journey, felt the tingle of fear and excitement; before his mind's eyes he even saw the pure light of the Trees again. His heart seemed to falter and throb and swell along with Macalaurë's song, at once painful and exquisite.

Apparently, it was affecting the others as well, for when Macalaurë had reached the end of the song, awestruck silence reigned; nobody applauded or spoke or even moved. Unfazed by either the silence or the intense focus on his person, Macalaurë took a sip of water and began to play again.
This time, Findekáno did not know the tune, and when Macalaurë began to sing, he realised why: It was a new song that had evidently been written after the departure from Aman, treating the death of Finwë, the Darkening and its consequences. Findekáno had not heard an account of these events from the Fëanorian side, nor would he have cared to ever hear it, but he could not escape the power of the song. It swept him to cold Formenos when the darkness fell and the gates were broken; he felt the blind terror that commanded him to flee into the woods, and the courage that made his grandfather stay and face Moringotto, to die by his mace. Findekáno's eyes welled up, and he did not feel ashamed of it. Against his will he pitied his cousins, who had found Finwë lying in his blood, the first elf to be slain in the Blessed Realm – how atrocious, how incomprehensible it must have been for them! Findekáno listened, breathless, as the song recounted how Maitimo had ridden to the Máhanaxar without hesitation or pause, to bring the news to his father; listened in astonishment as Fëanáro was questioned by the Valar, and learned of Finwë's death, and fell down in anguish before he cursed Moringotto and fled into the night. Many of the details had been unknown to Findekáno, and although he reminded himself that Fëanáro's sons were naturally biased and would clearly paint their father in a favourable light, he could not deny that the way Macalaurë told the story, things began to make a lot more sense than they had before. Findekáno was not certain that he liked this new perspective, but he could hardly stop his ears.

At any rate, the song was now reaching territory that he knew: Fëanáro broke his banishment and marched into Tirion, gathering the Noldor and inciting them to rebellion. Now as then, Findekáno could not deny that he had felt relieved. The darkness and inactivity and uncertainty had been unnerving; the illusion that somebody knew how to counter it was all too enticing. Macalaurë managed to convey the anxiety and agitation of the day through a sharply plucked staccato, just slightly discordant, while he sang in a voice warm and bright and full of promise the words that Fëanáro had used to instill in the Noldor the desire to leave Valinor, to seek their fortune in Endorë, to take up the fight against Moringotto themselves; had projected his desire for glory and revenge onto them all. The words had lost none of their power; even now, knowing what would follow, Findekáno could hardly esist their lure. An unwelcome thought crept into his mind: If one had witnessed the murder and destruction in Formenos first-hand, if one felt abandoned and betrayed by the Valar and frustrated by the slow pace in which the crisis was handled, then maybe one truly perceived Nolofinwë's caution as faithless. In that light, or rather in that Darkness, Fëanáro's decision to burn the ships made a certain amount of sense. Findekáno shook his head sharply to push that thought away, and pursed his lips tightly when his cousins shot him questioning looks. Let them believe it was disapproval – that was better than explaining what had gone through his head!
At last, the song culminated in the fateful oath, which Macalaurë recited with no apparent sign of hesitation. Findekáno saw several of his cousins mouth along with it, and while Maitimo's lips didn't move, he had placed his stump over his heart. This time, Findekáno suppressed the urge to shake his head. Swearing such an oath once seemed foolish enough to him; repeating it in cold blood, without the pressing circumstances of the first swearing, was downright idiotic, not to mention that it showed an utter lack of repentance.
With the last word of the oath, Macalaurë struck a dramatic last chord. To Findekáno's amazement, there was applause now. So they approved, Findekáno realised in bewilderment – even at this time, they approved!

Macalaurë was already playing the introductory notes of a third theme, again unknown to Findekáno although he recognised some of the elements from the tune he had just heard. This song told the story of the battle that had been fought while Nolofinwë's people had begun to brave the Helxaraxë. It made, Findekáno had to admit, an exciting and heroic tale, at least until Fëanáro began his lonely pursuit of the fleeing Orcs. Even Macalaurë could not help but use words like "rash" or even "unwise" as he recounted his father's last stand, surrounded by a wall of foes that Findekáno could barely imagine. At last he fell, and though his sons now came to his rescue (where had they been before, Findekáno wondered?), they could but carry their father back to their encampment before he died, burning up as his spirit left him.
To Findekáno, unreconciled with his uncle, it seemed to be a rather appropriate, even poetic end. Still, he could imagine that the memory was hard on his cousins. He turned to look at Maitimo, who was staring ahead with a stony expression; glanced at Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, who were weeping openly, and Ambarussa, whose eyes were swimming also. Carnistir was grinding his teeth. Findekáno was slightly embarrassed, feeling like a rock surrounded by melting ice, the only one unyielding amidst all the grief. He lowered his head to show a modicum of compassion. They had, after all, lost their father.
Some stifled sobs could be heard from the hall below, too, and it took a while until the people began to applaud when Macalaurë rose at last. Maitimo, too, got to his feet to embrace his brother as he returned to the table. Then he addressed his audience.
"Let us remember the past so that we may learn from it," he said, "but do not let it weigh down our spirits forever. Enough now of these sad things! This is a night of commemoration, but above all it is to be a night of celebration. Shake off your grief now, and make room for dancing! The past cannot be changed; but we can make the best of the present."
"To the present!" Tyelkormo called out, raising his goblet.
Curufinwë blew his nose.

The tables in the middle of the hall were now pushed towards the walls to make place for a dancefloor, and various musicians came onto the dais, sitting down around Macalaurë's harp and beginning to tune their lutes and shawms and viols. Macalaurë remained at the high table, leaning back into the cushions of his chair with his eyes closed. It made him look weary, as if his performance had drained him. And no wonder, Findekáno thought; three long and complex songs, two of them treating such intimately painful subject matter – no matter how easily Macalaurë handled his instrument, no matter how powerful his voice, it still must have been hard work. Findekáno wrestled down his angry self and leaned across the table.
"I know you don't need me to tell you," he told Macalaurë, "but that was beautiful."
Macalaurë opened his eyes, dull and tired, and gave a small but content smile. "Considering what I sang, I do need you to tell me," he said. "I thank you."

Macalaurë remained seated, as did Maitimo. The others, however, had joined the crowd below as soon as the dancing began. Even Carnistir, whom Findekáno thought of as eminently unattractive, had found a partner to dance with. His facial expression almost passed as animated. Tyelperinquar had a new partner for every dance, while his father sat with a group of broad-shouldered craftsfolk to talk shop. Findekáno nursed his cup of wine and watched the dancing, torn between annoyance – whether he was more annoyed with himself or with these people, he could not even tell – and no small amount of envy. For them, Macalaurë's performance had clearly been cathartic. Findekáno's mind, on the other hand, was in a greater turmoil than before.
After a while, Macalaurë returned to his harp to accompany the dancing tunes. Privately, Findekáno thought that this sort of thing was quite beneath his prodigious cousin, but maybe Macalaurë wanted to show that he did not think himself above the ordinary musicians. Or maybe he simply could not hear others play without joining in.
Seeing Findekáno's frown, Maitimo leaned over to speak to him. "If you'd like to dance, please don't think you have to keep me company here. I am quite happy just to watch. I'm sure that as soon as you demonstrated a willingness to dance, you'd have no shortness of partners."
Findekáno sighed. "I'm not sure that I should dance."
Maitimo tilted his head. "Are you afraid that the people who think you a traitor might see you? I don't think any of them are present tonight. Or is it really you who does not want to dance with Father's – with my people?"
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Maitimo explained, "If you aren't dancing because you're afraid someone might see it and take it the wrong way, I think you should ignore that sort of nonsense and do what you want. But if you aren't dancing because you genuinely don't want to rub shoulders with my followers, that's your decision and I will respect it."

Sighing, Findekáno said, "I think it's a bit of both. I don't want to be seen dancing with your people, and I don't want to see myself doing it."
"I am sorry," Maitimo said. "I thought you would enjoy yourself more."
"I am enjoying myself, as much as I can allow myself to do."
"So you do not want to dance."
"I wouldn't mind dancing, but I won't be dancing with them," Findekáno specified.
"I see." After a deep swig of his wine, Maitimo asked, his eyes glinting, "So would you dance with me? I'll muster the strength if that's what it takes to make you smile."
Findekáno rolled his eyes. "Now you're just being silly – or drunk."
"I could dance the lady's part."
"Now that would be a sight. What would your people think?"
"They will realise that I am being very sensible, since the lady's part requires a lot less use of the right hand."
"Russandol! That is no laughing matter."
Maitimo fell back into the cushions of his seat, his eyes widening with exasperation.
"Best of cousins, I cannot weep all the time. As I said, the past cannot be changed; all we can do is try and make the best of the present." He shrugged. "The offer stands, if you bethink yourself. -- Yes, Fúmella, please come forward!" For a young woman had been standing before the dais, apparently vacillating whether or not to disturb their conversation. "I am afraid that I must disappoint you if you desire to dance," Maitimo continued, "I do not trust my leg, and my worthy cousin does not feel like dancing."
"In truth, I rather have a few questions, if Prince Findekáno would be so kind as to answer them," Fúmella said.
Maitimo raised an eyebrow at Findekáno, who was curious enough to swallow his resentment for the time being. "By all means," he said.
With a bow, Fúmella said, "First, please allow me to thank you in person for your brave deed."
Findekáno bit back his usual retort, limiting himself to a nod.
"And then, if you do not mind letting me know... just how did you manage to find the king in Angamando?"

Confused, Findekáno turned away from Fúmella, frowning at Maitimo. "I did not tell them much about the circumstances of my rescue," Maitimo said in a strangely detached voice. "Only that you found me imprisoned after Moringotto had maimed me - " he raised his right arm for illustration – "and that I begged you for death, but you thought that I was worth rescuing."
"But—" Findekáno began to protest, but stopped when he saw the hard stare that Maitimo was giving him. Well, he thought, that certainly explained why none of his cousins had showed him even the slightest resentment; they did not know that he had cut off their brother's hand. "So would you rather that I do not answer her question?" Findekáno glanced back at Fúmella, who had taken a discreet step backwards.
Shrugging, Maitimo said, "Tell her as much as you want." Almost inaudibly he added, "But do not tell them the truth about my hand, I beg you – not yet."
Findekáno nodded, and turned back to Fúmella. "I am surprised that you did not know, I must say. I found him with a song."
"A song?" She frowned, incomprehending.
"Yes. I sang a song – the very song of the Great Journey that Macalaurë sang tonight. I thought you knew; I thought that was why Russ-- why your king had asked for it. He heard me sing, and sang along, and that was how I knew where to find him."
Fúmella's frown had made way for a broad smile. "How beautiful and moving. And may I also know how you managed to bring him to safety, all the long way from Angamando?"
"Manwë in his mercy sent Sorontar to carry us to safety."
"Truly?" Fúmella's eyes were wide open, shining with delight now.
Maitimo nodded to confirm Findekáno's account.
"Oh, magnificent!" Fúmella declared. "I thank you humbly." She bowed again, and slipped back into the crowd.

Findekáno looked after her, shaking his head. "What was that about?"
"Oh," Maitimo said, studying his empty goblet, "she's a poet. Well, an apprentice poet. She'll probably make a song of it."
"What?!"Findekáno blurted out.
"A song. You know, one of these beautiful histories, the sort that Macalaurë sings. I daresay it'll be enough to make her a mistress of the art, if she doesn't bumble it."
"You should have told me!"
Again, Maitimo cocked his head to one side. "That I lied to them? You are right, I should have. I did not think of it in time. I apologise."
Findekáno bristled with frustration. "Not that, Russandol. You should have told me that she's a poet!"
"Why? Is it worse to tell a poet than it is to tell, say, a cook?"
"Yes it is! She'll make a song of it, and then she'll sing it and everybody will hear!"
"Everybody would hear it either way. A cook would tell her fellow cooks, and they would tell the merchants, and so it would get around. A poet will at least make it sound... what was her word? Magnificent."
"There's nothing magnificent about it."
"Not for you and not for me. There was nothing magnificent about Grandfather's death, or Father's, or about your people's crossing of the Helcaraxë for that matter. It was a mess and a bloody waste of lives and potential. But in the songs, it will sound magnificent. I don't know how it works, but it does."
Findekáno shook his head. He took a sip of his wine, and grimaced: It tasted foul and bitter in his mouth. "I've had enough," he said. "I think I will retire, before this gets any worse." He stood up before the hurt look in his cousin's eyes could change his mind.
Maitimo looked away swiftly. "Very well, dearest cousin. But wait a moment, if you please."
He waved to Varnacanyo, who hurried over at once. "More wine, my lord -- my king?"
"Not now. Please show Prince Findekáno a safe way upstairs – I believe he'll want to avoid the crowd." Maitimo cast a questioning glance at Findekáno, who nodded grudgingly.
"Very good, my king. I will show him through the kitchen. If you would follow me, Prince Findekáno?"
"At once, thank you," Findekáno said. "Good night, Russandol."
"Good night, Findo. I will join you soon."

In the end, it took somewhat longer until Maitimo could extricate himself from the company of his brothers and admirers, especially as he had to explain Findekáno's absence and hear everybody's felicitations. By the time he reached the bedroom, Findekáno's anger had mostly dissipated; he sat in the window-seat and looked out into the darkness, feeling regret rather than resentment.
"I am sorry if I ruined your feast," he told Maitimo, and to Varnacanyo, who was preparing to massage Maitimo's back, he said, "I can do that."
Maitimo nodded his agreement. "Thank you, Varnacanyo. Please get some rest – you've worked so hard today."
"As you wish, my king," said Varnacanyo, looking from one to the other with the tiniest worried frown. "Good night."

Findekáno took the bottle of ointment, inhaling the sweet scent of myrrh and rosemary as he poured some of the oily substance into one hand. "I did not mean to make you unhappy," he continued.
"I had not thought that it would make you so unhappy," said Maitimo. "Otherwise, I would have done things differently."
Findekáno grimaced while he kneaded the ointment into Maitimo's scarred skin. "I don't think you could have done anything differently – aside from not inviting me. And I am glad that you invited me. It's just... I don't know. The anger comes and goes. I don't know how to feel. It's all such a mess."
"That it is." Maitimo sighed, slumping forward. "How oh how can I ever sort it out?"
"If there's anyone who can do it, it's you," Findekáno said gently.
"Such trust," Maitimo said drily. "And I would have said that you are the one who could do it. But no; you have done more than your fair share, and now it is my turn." He sighed again, prodding the crown that lay before him on the desk with one finger. "King of the Noldor. Well, that will take some getting used to."
"I'm sure that you will be a fine king."
Maitimo leaned his head back until he could see Findekáno's eyes. "But not your king."
Findekáno shook his head. "Not my king, no. Why? Do you need me to swear fealty that badly?"
"I hardly need an oath when you have already so impressively shown your loyalty," Maitimo said. "But if even you, who holds me dear, cannot accept me as your king, then how shall I ever unite the Noldor?"
Findekáno could think of no answer.

---

Chapter End Notes

*As you probably noticed, I based the Noldorin oath of allegiance mostly on the Gondorian oath of allegiance we encounter in The Return of the King. Let's assume that it was handed down (with minimal changes in between) via Gil-galad, and then via the Númenorean kings.

²"I hear thee. So be it." is Fëanor's reply to Fingolfin's sort-of oath of allegiance. I have taken the liberty of assuming that this may have been the common oath-accepting formula among the Noldor or even the Eldar in general. (As Maedhros is here addressing the entirety of his people, he is correctly using plural "you".)

Part III, Chapter VI

In which Fingon tries to settle back in among his own folk, and in which diplomatic tricks are applied, and in which the Fingolfinian host have a counter-feast.

Read Part III, Chapter VI

"So... what was it like?"

Findekáno looked up from the bowstring he was waxing. Irissë had paused in her work, flexing her aching fingers and looking at him with a strange facial expression, half stern and half curious. Findekáno assumed that the curiosity wasn't meant to be seen, but there were hints – the just barely perceptible tilt of her head, a slightly raised eyebrow – that a brother could decipher.
It had not been easy for him to return to his despondent people, and harder to be unable to share with anyone about his impressions and the mental turmoil that the Fëanorian feast had left in his mind. Even now that Irissë finally signalled some interest in hearing about it, Findekáno was uncertain what to say.
After some deliberation he opted for, "It was all right for what it was."
A sneer distorted Irissë's beautiful face. "You mean, a celebration of themselves?"
"Mostly, yes." But that was not entirely fair, Findekáno thought, grimacing. "Well, to be honest, they also celebrated me."
Irissë snorted. "Oh, did they?" Her eyes narrowed slyly. "Did you enjoy it?"
Findekáno was tempted to hide from her probing glance, but with some effort managed to meet her eyes. "Yes," he admitted. "A little."
His sister gave another snort. Findekáno hoped that it was good-natured rather than scornful. "What about it did you like?" Irissë continued. "Being celebrated as a hero? Or that it was them who celebrated you?"

Findekáno had to smile. "I know what you're getting at, but no, it wasn't just innocent joy that they were celebrating one of us. It really just was nice to be treated as a hero, rather than some kind of madman, for a change."
"I am not quite certain whether the followers of Fëanáro can differentiate between a hero and a madman, Brother dear," Irissë said dryly and started to twist a new string.
"That is very true," Findekáno replied. "Maybe that shows you how desperate I am for praise – I now take it from wherever I can get it."
"Ah, yes," Irissë said. For a moment, she worked on in silence. Findekáno watched her nimble fingers work around the skeins in her hand, uncertain whether their conversation was at an end. He began to toy with the block of wax in his fingers, kneading it until it went malleable.

"I suppose you must feel a little isolated," Irissë finally conceded when she had given the matter some thought. "Of course, part of that is your own fault. You stand out, and you aren't really trying to blend in, are you?"
Findekáno opened his mouth to protest, and shut it again: He did not know what he could have said. At any rate, Irissë was already going on. "And then, there's nobody you share your life with. You don't even have a room-mate who's forced to put up with you, so nobody has to go out of their way to talk things out..."
Findekáno wondered whether that was jealousy speaking. The room he had for himself, that was indeed a priviledge; his father was the only other person who had a bedroom to himself, everybody else had to share a bedroom with several others. Irissë was rooming with Artanis and their aunt Írimë; maybe she was longing for some privacy, and envying Findekáno the solitary bedroom he had simply accepted as his due as their leader's heir.
But no, Findekáno thought: He was being too kind to himself. Jealousy or no, Irissë had a good point. Findekáno had regularly drawn back into his room instead of trying to bridge matters with his people and his family. Hosting the Fëanorian messenger a while back probably hadn't improved matters. Occasionally, he made contact with the others; but he hardly showed that he wanted to be a part of their lives. He sighed.
"I suppose that I am lucky that I have siblings who still put up with me," he said. The wax had gone sticky in his hand.
His sister handed him the bowstring she had made. "Hey, you made Turvo laugh again. That's higher praise than anything they could offer you."
Findekáno decided to let it rest at that.

Other than that, nobody asked any questions about the feast. Findekáno tried to follow Irissë's covert advice to spend more time in company, but it seemed to him that his presence was not wholly welcome. He stood watch more often than he had to, and thought that his fellow guards talked to him less than they spoke amongst each other. He joined the fletching detail for a couple of days: Nolofinwë had ordered preparations for a hunt, which was to take place as soon as the weather permitted. Findekáno enjoyed the work in itself, as it gave him a sense of purpose and distracted him from undesirable thoughts. But there was little cheer and no songs while they cut feathers and boiled glue and fletched hazel shafts, and Findekáno imagined that he caught some sideways glances that were not friendly. He could not be certain; maybe it just felt that way after the extroverted appreciation of the Fëanorians. At any rate, it made him feel ill at ease; and when one afternoon his father had him summoned into the great hall, he could not help but worry. His apprehension did not lessen when the first thing that he saw when he approached the longhouse was a group of warriors. They appeared to be standing guard over a heap of sacks and wickerwork boxes, but Findekáno half feared that they would turn on somebody next: They were looking so fierce.
But Nolofinwë smiled when his firstborn entered the hall. Findekáno ducked his head in greeting and gave a cautious smile in return. His father returned his nod. "Thank you for joining us," he said, and Findekáno relaxed a little, allowing himself to look around. Many of their people were present; at this time of day, many used it to socialise and to warm up after working out in the cold, but now most of them were standing, arms crossed and faces dark. Surrounded by them stood four men whose fine travelling garb and well-fed faces suggested that they had come from the other side of the lake. That impression was confirmed when Findekáno recognised Failon among them.
Findekáno frowned. "Of course, Father. Can I help you?"

"I do hope so," Nolofinwë said, walking towards him after a somewhat anxious glance between his hostile people and the Fëanorians. "Hold your peace while we step outside," he said sternly to the hall in general and nobody in particular, and then took Findekáno's arm and marched him back into the frosty dusk.
"Your cousin," he said when they were out of earshot, "has sent us a goodly portion of provisions, supposedly to repay us for the expenses of his stay. But it is far more than he consumed – absurdly so. He must know that. So what is his purpose? Does he mean to shame me? Does he want to buy our friendship? For that, it is not nearly enough. But clearly he wants us to be beholden to him. I cannot deny that I am tempted to accept this purported recompense, for the sake of my people, but first I need to know the price it will cost."
Blinking, Findekáno countered, "What price has Russandol asked?"
"None – directly. As I said, his messengers claim that he is sending these provisions to repay us for feeding him, but that makes no sense. That is why I am looking to you for help; you know him best. Maybe you can guess what he expects."
"I do not need to guess! We spoke of it. He wants us to go a little less hungry, and he expects that we will not take alms, so he has labelled them as recompense. It's a ruse that he hopes will make it easier for our people to accept it – without feeling beholden to him. That is all."
Nolofinwë raised his eyebrows in doubt. "That seems too simple," he said. "There is always some price. Does he expect forgiveness?"
"Not that easily."
His father's faze remained skeptical, but he nodded slowly. "Very well. I suppose I must consider it a kindness that he makes his offer in a way that allows me to save face. I can hardly afford to turn it down, anyway." He sighed. "But Findo, you should not have begged."
"I did no such thing! For some reason, he was perfectly capable of guessing at our plight." That made a lopsided smile appear on Nolofinwë's face, followed by a decisive nod. "I see. It is decided then. We can return inside."
He marched back into the hall, where the tension between the large group of Nolofinwëans and the messengers was almost tangible. Although nobody wore arms – at least not openly – even a brawl could have resulted in grievous injuries, considering the numbers. Findekáno was glad to see that some fistd unclenched, some tense shoulders dropped when his father looked around.
"My son has been able to dispel my doubts concerning your lord's sincerity," Nolofinwë addressed the waiting Fëanorians. "We are willing to accept his offer of recompense." Findekáno noticed some displeased frowns among their own people, but they turned into nods and righteous smiles when his father continued, "It is tardy recompense, but better late than never, I suppose."

One of the messengers opened his mouth to protest, and was elbowed into silence by Failon, who quickly said, "We will inform our lord of your complaint. He also asks that you send word if you notice now or later that he did not send enough; as he was not at his best while he stayed with you, he says that it is perfectly possible that he judged the numbers wrong."
"I see," Nolofinwë said. Findekáno saw the corners of his mouth twitch as he suppressed a smirk. "I will take care to check the numbers when we store the items you brought," his father continued. "I suggest that you spend the night here so we have time to see how well your lord judged his numbers, and tomorrow you can return with my answer."
There was no mistaking the relieved expression on Failon's face. "Your suggestion is very sensible, and we accept your invitation to stay the night with good will," he said.
"With good will," one of the other messengers echoed, taking the hint.
"It is decided then," Nolofinwë said. "We have no guest-house and cannot offer you the luxuries you will be used to, but you can stay in this hall until morning comes. None will harm you." He gave his people a stern look to drive the point home. "Now, there is work to do!"

Nolofinwë indeed made a list while his sons and followers unloaded the heavy bags and boxes and barrels from the sleds and carried them into the storehouse, but no-one honestly expected him to demand more. When they had finished their work, the formerly near-empty storehouse was half full again. No-one would stoop to praise Maitimo's generosity, but they found other ways to express their delight and relief as the storehouse filled up.
"Second helpings!" Angaráto said, for instance, wriggling his eyebrows at Findekáno as they passed each other.
Findekáno felt the corners of his mouth creep into a grin.
There were indeed second helpings that night as they feasted on a rich barley stew. Findekáno only ate one bowl, however. Isolation or no, he had to withdraw into the privacy of his room, where he dug out his quill and inkwell.

Findekáno Nolofinwion to Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion, in haste.
Best beloved Russandol, you must be mad! I will say what no-one else here will say: Thank you – a dozen times thank you for the provisions you sent us. It is so much! (How could we possibly claim that you sent too little? But your little game worked; as long as they can say that you only sent us what is rightfully ours, they don't seem to mind eating food that your House harvested.) I am not certain that it is not too much: You will not let your people go hungry for our sake, I trust? We can use it well, but so can you. And you shouldn't alienate (let alone starve) your own people. But if we could speak, you would tell me that you sent no more than you could afford, no matter what the truth – I know you well enough. But I hope that it is the truth.

He shook his head at himself. The letter was a disgrace, but Findekáno's mind was too preoccupied to do any better. He decided against starting over, laying down to sleep instead. He would not write, then – better to send no letter than to send such rambling lines.
But when the messengers returned to the Fëanorian camp in the next morning, Findekáno sent his letter with them, anyway.

It was a good thing that they had received and accepted the provisions from Maitimo, for the hunting trip was not as successful as Findekáno would have expected. Once the oppressive fogs lifted, they went out with high hopes. There were so many volunteers that they had formed three groups of hunters. Whatever the prevalent attitude towards Findekáno, his father trusted him to lead one of the troups. The others were led by Irissë and by Findaráto; they ventured into different directions, Findaráto's troup covering the other lakeshore, Irissë's troup the woodland to the North, and Findekáno's troup took the forest between their own camp and the Fëanorian settlement. But they did not nearly have enough time. In the summer, they had been able to go out for several days at a time, spending the short nights in the open and sleeping under the stars; now, that was out of the question. They went out at the earliest crack of dawn, but they would have to be back before darkness had fully fallen – with their kill as an additional load. The lack of horses was a great drawback now. To make matters worse, the snow was covered in a thick layer of frozen mist or thaw: It was slippery, forcing them to tread slowly, and it made tracking nigh impossible. Findekáno's group managed to spot a few deer, but the animals easily outran them as soon as they realised their hostile purpose. If they hadn't put up snares on their way deeper into the woods, they would have come back entirely empty-handed; as it was, their yield of a couple of rabbits and wrens was rather unsatisfying to Findekáno, who had secretly hoped to best Tyelkormo's hunting spoils.
Irissë's troup had been luckier in that they had shot two fat boars; but as Calimon had been run over by one and had to be carried home with an ugly flesh wound and a broken leg, Findekáno could not envy them their spoils. Findaráto's troup at least brought home a variety of waterfowl – swans, divers and ducks – and no injuries.

But to those who had not heard Tyelkormo boast of his successes, the hunt had been as fruitful as could be hoped: There was more meat now than they could eat at once, and though it might be stringier and less juicy than the game had been in Aman, no-one complained. Nolofinwë therefore declared it fitting that they should have their own feast in order to celebrate their survival, to honour the succesful hunters, and to conjure up warmer days.
To Findekáno, above all it showed how alike they and their estranged cousins were. The hall was smaller and more crowded, and there were less dishes on the tables, but their feast followed the same pattern. It had the same self-celebratory tone and the speeches contained the same formulae. Nolofinwë was hailed as the king, just as Maitimo had been, and Findekáno was asked to deliver a performance of the same old song that Macalaurë had played (and as nobody present but for himself had heard that inimitable performance, he agreed). Findaráto sang a sad but ultimately reassuring song that he had written about the Crossing of the Ice. Turukáno left the hall for the performance, but other than that, Nolofinwë's people seemed to find the recounting of their hardships as cathartic as the Fëanorians had found Macalaurë's song about the Battle-under-Stars and the death of Fëanáro. After a moment of commemoration, Nolofinwë gave permission to dance - and the people danced.

Turukáno returned to the table, nursing his cup of cider and staring at the dancing crowd in anger or envy. Findekáno kept him company, but dared not to try and comfort him. Irissë, who eventually joined them, did.
"I do not think, Turvo, that Elenwë would mind you dancing," she said with a lopsided smile.
Turukáno grimaced. "I am, in fact, quite certain that she would want to see me dancing," he replied. "But I'm afraid that I do not want to see myself dancing." He stared into the crowd again, and had to smile when he saw Itarildë prance around with the other children, exhilarated by the food, the music and the late hour.
How well I understand you, Brother, Findekáno thought but did not say; he could not suppress a sigh, however.
"Not you, too!" Irissë spoke up, her voice less gentle now than it had been towards Turukáno. "Who are you pining for? Some girl you never introduced to us?" Then her eyes took on that sly, probing look, and she smirked. "Cousin Russandol?"
Findekáno clucked his tongue. "I am not pining at all," he said. "I merely sighed because there finally is joy and music, and no-one will ask me to dance."
Irissë laughed. "That can easily be amended! My dear brother, can I interest you in the next dance?" She curtsied to him with exaggerated primness.
After a guilty glance at Turukáno, who shrugged and then nodded his head as if to say Certainly, go, Findekáno rose. He returned Irissë's mock-curtsy with an elaborate courtly bow, the sort that would have made even Master Encaitar proud.
"You can indeed, fair sister," Findekáno said, and offered his hand. "Shall we?"

Part III, Chapter VII

In which Maedhros gets involved in heated arguments and matchmaking; and in which the title of this story is explained at last.

Read Part III, Chapter VII

Findekáno need not have worried about the clumsiness of his letter; Maitimo read it with a smile. "There is no way to reply," he said, more to himself than to Failon or Varnacanyo, "for he will assume that I am trying to put his sorrows to rest even if I speak the truth."
"What truth?" asked the voice of Carnistir.
Maitimo's companions gave a start: They had not heard him come in. Maitimo, on the other hand, showed no sign of surprise; he merely half-turned and nodded to his brother. "Hello, Moryo. The truth that we are not going to starve."
"Unless the winter lasts longer than you expect," Carnistir pointed out.
"Yes, very well – unless that happens."
"That would not be 'very well' at all. What then would you do?" Carnistir said as he pulled up his chair and slumped down.
His brother gave a sigh and turned to the herald. "Thank you, Failon. I am glad that your mission was successful. Would you like to stay for dinner?"
"I'll take my leave, if you permit," the herald said. "I did not sleep well the last night..."
"Of course. Get some rest, then, and come dine some other time."

With Failon gone, Maitimo sat down in his chair, busying himself with the letter. He folded it back up, using the table in place of a second hand, then slipped it into his sleeve. When he looked back up, he found that Carnistir was watching him.
"You did not answer my question."
"I had not realised that you wanted an answer, Moryo," Maitimo said mildly.
"I do not speak just to hear myself think," Carnistir retorted. "What will you do when winter lasts longer?"
With a sigh, Maitimo said, "We've been through this. You will have observed, as I have done, that the hours of daylight have been getting longer over the past weeks. They are not as long yet as they used to be last fall, so it stands to reason that they will continue to grow longer yet. With more light, eventually there will be warmth – and new growth."
"You assume that the Valar will make no new mess of the seasons."
"I assume that they have handled enough change for the next couple of centuries." Maitimo half-smiled at his brother, who continued to frown.
"And what of Moringotto?" he asked, raising his head to give Maitimo a hard stare.

Maitimo hoped that he did not visibly flinch at the name. "Moringotto, I hope, will watch and wait for the time being - now that he has lost his prize hostage."
Carnistir snorted. "You expect him to be wiser than you are, then."
That took Maitimo aback. "I am not certain that I understand what you mean."
"You are certain that you do not understand what I mean," Moryo corrected him. "I mean this: If you might have an advantage, it is unwise to jeopardise it."
"What advantage have I jeopardised, Brother?" Maitimo frowned in confusion.
"Why, the advantage we had over Nolofinwë's folk! If you want to unite our people, you should have left them to starve a bit longer; then they might have been willing to support us if only we fed them. They won't serve you out of gratitude, if that's what you expect. Despair might have done the trick."
Maitimo's eyes widened. "Is that what you think?"
"It's not just I who thinks so; Tyelko and Curvo agree with me on this matter, and many of our people, too, although they wouldn't dare to tell you."
"I see," Maitimo said. "I disagree with you, and with Tyelko and Curvo and whoever else may judge our kinsfolk – and my intentions - so wrongly."
Now it was Carnistir's turn to be taken aback. "Explain," he said, drumming on the table.
"Oh, I shall," Maitimo said. "But I will wait until the others are present as well, so that they, too, may understand me better. Is that acceptable?"
Carnistir shrugged. "Yes. It will be no long wait."
"Indeed. And we can make it shorter by speaking of happier matters."
Carnistir tilted his head. "First I will need something to drink. Varnacanyo, you have been remiss."
The squire, who had been standing back so as not to disturb their counsel, sprang forward. He was biting his lip, and his eyes were wide – whether in apprehension, apology or surprise, Maitimo could not quite guess.
"I do beg your pardon, Lord Carnistir," Varnacanyo said smoothly; he did not sound particularly worried. "What can I bring you? Mulled wine, as usual?"
"It will be no usual evening. No, I will have tea."
"Very well; and you, my lord?"

When the brothers had their tea, Maitimo pressed on. "I was glad to see you dancing, at the feast. If I recall correctly, you did not use to like dancing."
"You recall wrongly. I never minded dancing."
That was news to Maitimo. "I seem to recall that you once said that dancing was a mating ritual and should not be done lightly."
Moryo pursed his lips; the rhythm that his fingers were drumming upon the table grew faster and faster. He did not reply.
His brother initially meant to let it pass, but then curiosity got the better of him. "You did not answer my question," he said with a slight smile.
"You asked none," said Carnistir. "You made a statement, not a question."
Maitimo managed not to roll his eyes. "Very well – I shall ask a question now. Does my memory deceive me, or have you changed your mind?"
Carnistir seemed to chew on something. At last he spat it out: "Neither."
Maitimo blinked a few times, trying to make sense of it. Then his eyes widened in amazement. "Moryo! Do you love that woman, then?"
Carnistir no longer looked merely grim: His eyes had now taken on a downright hostile gleam. "'That woman' is called Tamurillë. You should know her; she is your Tyelparma's tutor."
"I meant no slight to her," Maitimo said, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Carnistir of all people might harbour romantic feelings. "I have heard her name before, of course; but unfortunately I have not met her in person yet. I will make amends as soon as I can." Then it burst out of him, uncontrollably, "Moryo, you are in love?!"
"What is love?" Carnistir retorted. "There seems to be no sensible definition for it."
"I do not think that love is all that sensible. But you feel strongly for her?"

Carnistir pondered the question with great earnestness. It took a whole cup of tea to fuel his thoughts, it seemed, for he only spoke when he had emptied the cup. "I enjoy her presence, and hate her absence. With her, I can be silent without discomfort. I do not see myself tire of her company, ever. I believe I would do anything, and I mean anything, be it in my power or no, to keep her happy. Is that love, Brother, or merely friendship?"
"There can be no love without friendship," Maitimo said, still struggling to mask his bafflement. "But only you can judge what it is."
"Is it what you feel for Findekáno, or more, or less, or what?"
Maitimo waved his hand with a frown. "This is not about me; it is about you – and Mistress Tamurillë, apparently. Does she share your feelings?"
"I do not know. I like to think so, of course. She does seek my company even though she does not have to. She laughs when I try to be funny. She holds my hand when we walk alone, and sits near me in the scriptorium, even when there is room enough elsewhere. Again, is that love?"
"Well, it clearly isn't hate."
"That isn't helpful."
"Moryo, how can I know her mind if you don't even know your own?"
Carnistir let his head sink – so fast and so low that it hit the table with a loud thunk. Maitimo grimaced in sympathy, but Moryo did not seem to care about the pain; he raised his head again, looked past Maitimo, and exclaimed, "Oh Father, what can I do?"

Blinking, Maitimo turned. He had not truly expected their father to be there, but somehow he was still disappointed when all he saw was the empty suit of armour in front of the white wall.
When he turned back to look at his brother, he found that Moryo was again staring at him.
"I cannot speak for Father," Maitimo began, and was cut short.
"Of course you can; that is your place now."
Maitimo shook his head. "I am only Nelyafinwë. But I can speak for myself; and to me, it certainly looks like you love her. So what I think you should do is find out whether she loves you, too; and if she does, the common course would be to ask for her hand in marriage..."
"I cannot!"
"Why not? If you love her and she loves you, and you both would like to spend your lives together, there is no reason why you could not marry."
Carnistir slid down in his chair until Maitimo could hardly see his face without rising.
"I will do it the wrong way," Carnistir mumbled into the tablecloth. "I am not subtle; I'll put it in a way that gives offense, and then she will hate me, whatever her feelings previously were."
Maitimo privately thought that if she indeed loved Moryo, she would not mind his lack of subtlety, which would hardly be news to her. There was, at any rate, no more doubt in his mind that Carnistir was indeed in love; his outbreak and near-despair were clear indicators. Although the thought was strange, the evidence was undeniable.
"Would you like me to ask?" Maitimo said, quickly adding, "I will not do it if you do not want me to. But if you do not dare although you would like to, and think that I can help, I will do the best that I can."
Carnistir gave him another dark-eyed stare. "Do you approve, then?"
"Why should I not approve?"
There was a click as the door opened, and Varnacanyo gave a warning cough. Tyelkormo and Ambarussa came striding in.
Carnistir sat up straight in a hurry. "Don't tell them," he said very quietly, so that Maitimo had to strain his ears to understand him. "But do try."

When his brothers were all present and dinner was on the table, Maitimo decided that it was time to spoil everyone's appetite.
"It has come to my attention that some of you doubt my sense, concerning the decision to feed our uncle's people. Is that so?"
He saw Curufinwë and Tyelkormo exchange glances; he could see that Macalaurë swiftly raised his hand to his mouth to hide his expression, and that Ambarussa busied himself with his spoon and knife. Carnistir stopped pushing the food on his plate around with his knife, and leaned back with his arms folded; he, too, glanced at Curufinwë, tilting his head as if to ask Will you speak?
Curufinwë laid his spoon aside with exaggerated care, and folded his hands on the table. "Indeed. We did not intend to question your counsel, but since you raise the topic: Yes, we believe that your decision was exceedingly unwise."
Maitimo again looked at each of his brothers in their turn. "Who are these 'we' that you speak for? Is it what you all think?"
Macalaurë shook his head, as Maitimo had expected, and so, to his surprise, did Tyelperinquar. Ambarussa also said, "Not me! I will support your every decision."
"We must all support Maitimo's every decision, once it is made," Curufinwë pointed out tersely. "Even if he were not our king, he would still be the head of our house. That is not the point. The point is that I question the wisdom of that decision – and so do Tyelko and Moryo, since you asked."

Maitimo felt his eyes widen before he regained control over himself. "Yes, Carnistir implied as much," he said, pressing on. "He suggested that I blindly surrendered an advantage we had over Nolofinwë; that if I wanted to reunite the Noldor, I should simply have left them to starve, until despair would have driven them to beg us for food. Is that what you think?" His brothers might have noticed that his hand was gripping his chair very tightly, either to support himself against their opposition or to keep himself from rising.
"Yes indeed," Tyelkormo now spoke up. "It is ugly, I'll grant you that, but that's the only way you'll get them to follow you. You could have demanded any terms – nothing too harsh, mind you, but their allegiance – once you'd got them cornered. Now you've opened the corral and let them escape. Don't look at me like that! Am I not right?"
Maitimo continued to look Tyelkormo in the eye, with a glint in them that made his brother quail. When he spoke, he sounded calm and composed; but from his hard stare, Tyelkormo knew that he was barely controlling his anger.
"I do not even know where to begin listing how wrong you are. All I know is that I must question your sense if you truly believe what you just said."
"What is there--" Curufinwë began in Tyelkormo's defense, but Maitimo slammed his stump on the table, silencing him. Macalaurë grimaced and pulled his wine-glass close, bringing it out of immediate danger.

"Let me make one thing very clear," Maitimo said, his voice a deadly whisper. "I will not, under no circumstances, put Nolofinwë's people under duress, either by my actions or by inactions. If they hunger, we will feed them. If they want weapons, we will arm them. If they are attacked, we will defend them. If they are homeless, we will build them houses. We will do this without waiting for them to come begging – which they will not do – and without expecting gratitude – which they do not owe us. We are greatly obligated to them, and we will honour that obligation. If indeed the only way to re-unite the Noldor is by risking harm to them, the Noldor will not be re-united in my lifetime. Do you understand me?"
"I do understand that you owe Findekáno a great--" Curufinwë spoke up peaceably, and was again cut short.
"This is not about me, Curufinwë Atarincë, this is about us: About you, about the House of Fëanor, about all our followers. We owe Nolofinwë's people a great debt, for we took those ships, and everything that they had left on them, too. Whence the horses? Whence the sheep? Whence the grain, the fruit, the silk? We have all that because others thought to bring provisions and lifestock! Father and you were swift to discard Nolofinwë's people as needless baggage, but you happily took their baggage." Maitimo's anger threatened to boil over; he took a couple of breaths to steady himself. "You--" another deep breath -- "we left them in despair. And now we come to the point where your fine plan burns and crumbles, even if it were a plan that I could ever consider. For we have learned what Nolofinwë's people do not do when they are desolate: They do not beg. Father thought that they would crawl back to the Valar and beg forgiveness, but they did not. They braved every hardship - they crossed the Helcaraxë, have you forgotten that? - they suffered cold, and starvation, and death itself, until they reached these shores. And you honestly believe that a little hunger, a brief winter will make them offer me allegiance?" He laughed, harsh and bitter. "You must have taken leave of all reason."

None of the brothers dared to speak up, whatever they thought of Maitimo's impassioned speech. Only Macalaurë moved; his hand inched over towards Maitimo's knee, to soothe or strengthen him. But Maitimo slapped it away. "No, Macalaurë, not today," he said sharply, unmoved by the way in which his brother cradled his stinging hand, by the hurt look in Macalaurë's gentle brown eyes. "You, too, threw your torch – and you, too, kept those provisions, even when Nolofinwë's people arrived here with nothing but their pain and their strength."
Macalaurë bowed his head. "I did this, yes, my brother. I beg your pardon."
"It is not my pardon you need," Maitimo said, the heat in his voice souring into cold ashes, "but theirs."
"We did leave our camp to them," Tyelkormo dared to say.
"At Cáno's behest," Ambarussa muttered.
Maitimo snorted. "Crumbs off the rich man's table! How generous of you!"
"It was a start," Macalaurë said softly.
"A start," Maitimo repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, I will finish what you started."
"Wait," Tyelkormo protested. "Does that mean that you'll return to them everything we have from them – even the horses?"
"I cannot give them what you've already eaten, damaged or thrown away in the past thirteen years. But yes: I will give them the horses, and the lifestock, and everything else that we owe them – everything that is not covered by our Oath, everything that is not rightfully ours, I will give it to them. Does that answer your question?"
Tyelkormo opened his mouth, and shut it again.
Maitimo fell back into his chair, glaring at his brothers. "Good. Anything else?"
Heads were shaken, eyes were occupied with an intense study of the food that was going cold on their plates. Maitimo gave another derisive snort, and turned back to his meal.
Curufinwë cleared his throat.
"Yes?" Maitimo said, his spoon stopping half-way to his mouth. "Is there anything else?"
"There is no point in further discussing this," Curufinwë said, sounding rather petulant. "As I said, we must support your decisions. But we may disagree, I hope."
"Not on this matter. On everything else, you are free to believe whatever you will."

Curufinwë sighed, and put his napkin down: He clearly could not stomach any more. "It is impossible to argue with you," he said. "You used to be more accepting of other opinions, in the old days. Now you have grown hard."
"Oh, have I?" Maitimo asked, tilting his head. "Have I grown hard?"
"Well, Curvo is right in a way," Macalaurë said in his most diplomatic tone, trying to douse the embers of Maitimo's wrath. "You have always been a rock; but where you used to be sandstone, you are now granite."
"Iron ore," Tyelperinquar corrected: the first word he had uttered since the beginning of their discussion.
That elicited a laugh from Maitimo - a harsh, feral laugh. "Hah! I am no raw ore, Tyelperinquar. I have not merely been torn from my native mountain; I have been forged and tempered – I am a blade of steel."
With a snort, Curufinwë said, "Leave the forge-talk to me, Brother – you would not want to be a blade. For that purpose, the steel must be heated and bent and twisted, beaten and quenched, burned and bent again..."
"This will come as a surprise to you, Curufinwë Atarincë," said Maitimo, and Macalaurë took his glass of wine into the safety of his lap again, "but my father did some smithying in his day, you know – and I assure you that I am perfectly aware of what you do to the poor steel in your forge. I also assure you that the analogy is perfectly accurate." He bared his teeth in a terrible smile, and now the light in his eyes was indeed like the hot gleam of steel freshly out of the furnace: Even Curufinwë, who saw glowing metal every day, and who flinched from no heat, had to turn his head away. The others had lowered their gaze even faster. Only Macalaurë managed to meet Maitimo's eyes. In the sudden silence, a gust of wind howled around the house, making the flames in the fireplace dance wildly. The cold air reached the high table, too, carrying with it a smell of ashes and scorched wood; it did nothing to ease the tension.

"I suppose you are right," Maitimo said at last, neither showing satisfaction at his victory nor acknowledging his brothers' discomfort. "I have grown harder. I have no more patience for egotism or apologetics, and I will no longer speak kindly when I disagree with a passion. That may be a fault. But then, I could have broken upon that anvil. Would you have preferred that, Curufinwë?"
He did not truly expect a reply; and indeed, he got none.
Maitimo nodded, picked up the morsel of food that had long since escaped from his spoon, and ate it. "So let me be the tempered steel," he said after he had swallowed. "All things considered, it is the best that I can be."

After that argument, Maitimo needed a couple of days before he trusted himself to speak to Tamurillë on Carnistir's behalf. When his temper had cooled, he first tried to find out whether Tyelparma knew anything about his tutor's feelings, romantic or otherwise. But if Tyelparma knew anything, he kept it to himself. More likely, he truly was ignorant of his tutor's private life – or he simply did not know where the questions were going. Either way, Maitimo did not wish to ask too much or too directly; and so he merely concluded their conversation by asking Tyelparma to pass on a message to Tamurillë, to pay him a visit whenever it suited her.
Tamurillë duly came a day later; Varnacanyo showed her into Maitimo's room as he was working his way through Carnistir's ledgers, trying to write up an inventory of goods that rightly belonged to the Nolofinwëans. She gave a polite bow without unnecessary flourishes. Maitimo immediately found her company reassuring: She seemd to exude an air of quiet efficiency and competence, which distantly reminded him of his mother, even though Tamurillë bore no physical similarity to Nerdanel, being taller and narrower in the shoulders, with high cheekbones and dark hair.

"Is this about Tyelparma?" Tamurillë asked after they had exchanged words of greeting, and after Maitimo had apologised for not sooner meeting such an eminent scholar. "If he is getting on your nerves, you must send him away. He can be a bit over-eager, although he means well. I would long since have told him to return to his studies and stop pestering you, if I had not been under the impression that you encouraged his visits."
"Your impression is correct, Mistress Tamurillë," Maitimo said, invitingly gesturing at the window-seat opposite him. The loremaster nodded and sat down. Maitimo smiled. "As you say, Tyelparma means well – and you have taught him well. He is, if I may say so, a delightful mixture of education and innocence. I quite enjoy his company; it reminds me of my youth. No, truth be told, I wished to speak to you on behalf of my brother – of Carnistir."
There was no mistaking the sudden change in Tamurillë's face: the softening of her probing gaze, a tiny quirk of her lip – a secret smile. Maitimo felt the corners of his mouth twitch in response.
"He has spoken to you, then?" she asked, and the tone of her voice could only be described as hopeful. "Has he asked for your blessing?"
This, Maitimo thought, was going faster than he had expected. "Do you need my blessing, Mistress Tamurillë?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"Well-" she stopped herself short, seemed to sort her thoughts, and decided to take a step back. "In theory, if we were – I mean, if he wished..." She interrupted herself again and shook her head again, speaking more confidently. "I apologise, my lord. I am selling myself short – I assure you that I am more eloquent than that, normally. Help me out, please: On which behalf of the Lord Carnistir did you invite me?"
They were interrupted briefly as Varnacanyo brought them tea. When they both had their cups, and waited for the tea to reach drinking temperature, Maitimo spoke up, "No need to apologise, Mistress Tamurillë; some things will turn all of us into fools. I was under the impression that your... hm... friendship had not quite reached the point of blessings yet. But I may have been misinformed?"
She took a sip of her tea. "I should ask who was your informant, but I suspect I may not want to know. Your impression is not incorrect; we have not, in fact, discussed anything that would require blessings. I know not what he is waiting for; I admit that I had hoped it was only your approval. But I appear to be mistaken?"

Maitimo smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way. "I think what he is waiting for is that his feelings reveal themselves in a more rationally understandable manner. But he did ask whether I approved, although I am somewhat confused why my approval is at all relevant."
Tamurillë raised an eyebrow, and somehow Maitimo suddenly felt like a student – as if he had asked a question that he really should have been able to answer himself.
"My lord, it would be unwise to marry against your wishes – you are my king, and the head of his house."
"I am that, yes," Maitimo conceded with a sigh. "But if I disapproved, would you truly let that stop you?"
"No, my lord; but I would have to convince you that I am a good match for your brother."
"A fine answer," said Maitimo, smiling. "You love my brother, then?"
"I do," Tamurillë replied. "Do you find that strange?"
"Yes, to be honest."
"And why is that? Do you think that he is not loveable?"
Again, Maitimo felt as though being examined; the loremaster had clearly found her footing again. Maitimo could well imagine how Tyelparma and her other students would tremble under the inquiring gaze of her hazel eyes.

"I love all my brothers, most of the time, including Carnistir: So I know that he is loveable. But as a brother, I find it hard to see him through the eyes of a lover. And to be honest - I must admit that if I had been asked who among my brothers would never win a lover's heart... I would have named Carnistir."
"I am aware of Moryo's shortcomings," Tamurillë said. Maitimo was fascinated to notice that her eyes had now taken on an indulgent, even affectionate softness. "But I assure you that I find them endearing; they make him all the more precious to me."
"How long have you been seeing each other?" Maitimo could not help asking, fascinated by their exchange.
Tamurillë tilted her head. "Oh, when did it begin? Shortly after you -- after King Fëanáro's death. He came to me looking for lore about Angamando, and how one might breach it. I could not help him – our records of Angamando are woefully inadequate..." She raised her eyebrows at him. "You could educate us there, of course."
"I doubt I have much useful knowledge of Angamando," Maitimo retorted, feeling his fist clench.
She did not argue the point. "Be that as it may, it showed me that two popular truths about Moryo were, in fact, falsehoods. The Lord Carnistir is incapable of caring for any person but himself, it is said, yet he clearly cared about you, for why would he have wanted to research Angamando if not to try and free you? They also say that he has no brain for planning, but since he was evidently making plans rather than simply running off – and some would have followed him, had he done that - so that also could not be true. My curiosity was piqued. So I continued to collaborate with him; I wanted to know more. It began as a scholarly endeavour, but soon turned into affection, and affection..." she waved her hands instead of finishing her sentence. "Eventually, I realised that I was terrified of the day on which I had no more pretext to spend time in his company. Yes, my lord, I behaved like a raw schoolgirl, making up excuses just to be allowed in his presence! I was ashamed of myself, and I mustered enough courage to confess that my reasons to work with him were a subterfuge. I asked whether he minded my company. He said, 'On the contrary.' And that was that, I suppose."

Maitimo had chuckled at her tale; now he sobered. "If you have been friends for such a long time, why is it that nobody appears to have noticed a thing?"
Another dismissive wave of her hands. "Very easily. Rational, prudent Tamurillë is not expected to do anything as absurd as fall in love. As for your brother... you know his reputation. Nobody expects him to be a romantic creature. But he is that – that is another truth that I learned about him. Not in the conventional way, maybe, but in a way that suits me perfectly well!"
"You do not have to explain yourself, Mistress Tamurillë," Maitimo said. "You are both grown-up; if you both believe that you will add to each other's happiness, that is good enough for me. You have my approval, if indeed you require it; and I will give my blessing also, when the time comes."
"If that time comes," Tamurillë said, and for the first time there was a note of doubt in her voice.
"I probably should not tell you this, but I believe he is not trusting himself to find the right words," Maitimo said to assuage her doubt. "I can try to encourage him. Or you may want to address the question – he will not take it amiss, I think, if you spare him from working out a subtle way to ask you."
Tamurillë smiled in a way that made her look much younger, almost mischievous. "I may do that, if he takes too long. Well, my lord, I thank you – and I hope that I may call you Brother before long?"
"I should like to have a sister," Maitimo replied. "A good evening to you, Mistress Tamurillë, and the best of luck."
Indeed, he thought as Tamurillë bowed and disappeared into the corridor, it was far easier to imagine her as his sister-in-law than it was to picture Carnistir as a husband.

"Odd, isn't it?" Varnacanyo observed, evidently thinking the same. "I daresay she could find a more presentable husband, and one more kind – and yet she wants Lord Carnistir."
"I pray you, do not tell anybody about this conversation – or about the two of them. If you and I find it hard to comprehend, you can imagine how Curvo would react."
"He will find out eventually, my lord."
"Yes – but not before the betrothal; not before the wedding, perhaps."
"It is kind of you to help Carnistir in this matter," Varnacanyo said, "considering how he spoke of your cousin's people."
Maitimo gave a lopsided smile. "Our recent differences notwithstanding, I do want my brothers to be happy. I would not have thought that Moryo of all people --" he stopped himself. "Well, I rejoice that he has found his match. And Mistress Tamurillë is smart and observant; she clearly knows what she is getting into, and if she has no objection, neither have I."
"Of course not, my lord. But still, it is a strange thought."
"It is that." Maitimo conceded. "But then, stranger things have happened."
Varnacanyo nodded earnestly. "That is true. Stranger things have happened indeed."

Part III, Chapter VIII

In which Spring comes, bringing along various forms of psycho- and physiotherapy as well as long-range decisions.

Read Part III, Chapter VIII

When Spring came at last, it began as a curse rather than a blessing. The Noldor had expected something golden and gentle, warm sunlight kissing away Winter's chill. Instead, there were unceasing rains, drizzling down day in, day out. They mingled with the melting ice and snow, turning meadows into bogs, small brooks into rivers and rivers into raging torrents. The lake's level rose threateningly, flooding cellars and outhouses built too close to the shore. The loamy ground, frozen hard not long ago, was quickly soaked so badly that it could hold no more water. Everything was aswim; the world, crisp and clear in Winter, turned into a brown-and-grey puddle. Maitimo's people grew restless, annoyed with themselves and each other and, above all, the weather and the constant mud that stuck to boots, caked in their cloaks and got carried into houses.
Still, the snow was gone, and Maitimo hoped that the water, too, would recede eventually. The weather made his joints ache and his scars sting, but worse than the physical pain was the unfulfilled longing to join the outside world again. It was not exactly boredom: He kept busy with administration, with checking accounts and speaking to guild-leaders, with council meetings and budgeting. He had long conversations and good reads. He had completed his inventory and caught up on the history of his people. No, it was not boredom. It was just impatience, like the restlessness of a dog that had been confined in a room – however cozy – for too long. He felt as though he kept bumping into walls or ceilings all the time. He had explored the house at great length ever since he had mastered the art of walking again; now he longed to see the rest of the settlement, and above all, to walk among trees again and to dip his feet into the unheated, unscented waters of the lake.

It took several weeks until the healers at last consented to a short walk outside – warmly wrapped and accompanied by not just Varnacanyo but also one of his brothers. Putting a foot into the lake was out of bounds; fortunately, the desire disappeared by itself once Maitimo saw the coastline, still covered in mud and debris. Even on the pathway, he could only feel that it had been secured with pebbles underneath the soles of his boots; the visible part was a uniform brown muck.
Instead of the lake, he turned his steps towards the communal garden. Aside from the low hedges of boxwood and juniper that had been planted to keep different patches of herbs apart, it was almost barren; here and there, tender shoots were breaking through the mud, and the berry bushes were bearing the very first hints of buds. The only trace of colour amidst the drab surroundings was the pale yellow of hazel catkins; nature was only just reawakening from hibernation.
But it was a great change from the enclosing walls of the great house, and Maitimo eagerly breathed the cold, humid air, smelling of moss and rot and – maybe – the tiniest promise of growth. His hand brushed the hard-edged boxwood leaves, the bare branches of a cherry tree. He studied the smear of dirt and lichen and tiny bark particles on his fingers at great length, before wiping it on his outer cloak. He turned around himself, taking in the sight of the settlement – his capital, he thought with a smile to himself. Compared to Tirion, it was not much, although it stretched out further than he would have guessed from the window of his room; he doubted that his strength would suffice for a walk from one end to the other.
Of course, he could not know for certain until he tried.
"Well, show me the most important buildings," he told Ambarussa and Varnacanyo. "We'll see how far we get."

It took him over a week to cover the entire settlement in this manner, and his untrained legs punished him with sore muscles and violent cramps that kept him up at night; but he was determined to get to know another part of his surroundings every day, and satisfied when he managed to walk a little further, a bit longer each time.
Once he was reasonably confident that he could find his way around the settlement, Maitimo inspected the fields and meadows that were situated within the second palisade ring. The distance was ridiculous for any grown person, but he still covered it on the back of a docile brown mare at the insistance of his healers. Varnacanyo led the friendly animal. Despite the nightly fogs, the paths had now dried enough for hooves under the Spring sun. The fields had also grown dry enough for tilling. Ambarussa suggested that over the course of the year, they should build drainage channels so they would not loose so many weeks next Spring, but for the time being, the most important business was the to and fro of horse-pulled ploughs, breaking up the compact soil and preparing the ground for sowing. Maitimo watched the proceedings for a while until he felt guilty for not contributing to the labour. He turned to Varnacanyo. "Now that I'm being carried," he said, "we may as well leave the settlement." Varnacanyo raised an eyebrow, expressing his doubt that the healers would agree; but the healers were not present, and the guards did not stop them when they passed through the gate.

They followed the grassy strip that led along the border of the forest uphill up to the little knoll that overlooked the settlement and the lake. The ground here was dry, and clearly got more sunlight: It was dotted with the tiny star-flowers of white, purple and blue anemones and golden celandine. Maitimo heaved a deep, happy sigh. "Please help me dismount," he told Varnacanyo.
He stood amidst the green glass and small flowers for a moment, and then limped towards the nearest tree.
Varnacanyo frowned. "You'll tell me when you need someone to lean on, won't you?"
Maitimo turned around with a small smile. "It's the riding, you know. My learned healers might as well have ordered a beating, because that's what my rear end feels like, and don't ask about my thighs. Clearly, they did not consider that to an untrained man, riding might be worse than walking."
"You should tell them."
Maitimo shrugged. "I do need to practice all this: Walking, and riding – properly. Running. Fighting. I expect that the beginnings will always hurt; so I must grit my teeth and get through it. If I tell my healers, they'll just tarry forever."
"Fair enough," said Varnacanyo.

His lord had by now reached the beech, putting out his hand to stroke the smooth grey bark and glancing up into the bare branches; then he turned around and sat down, rather quicker than he had meant to because his saddle-sore legs simply gave in. Varnacanyo jumped to his side at once, but Maitimo laughed. "I need to practice moving more gracefully, too! Good grief, I feel like a log of wood." He leaned against the treetrunk, brushing the ground with his hand: tender young grass and small flowers, the remains of old leaves, the occasional empty beechnut, pulverised bark, earth and moss. He scooped up a bit of it and brought it to his nose and sniffed. Then he held up his hand to Varnacanyo, who dutifully took a smell as well.
"Ah," Maitimo said, his features entirely relaxed. "What does it smell of, Varnacanyo?"
The squire raised an eyebrow. "Dirt, my lord?" he suggested.
Maitimo clucked his tongue. "In Angamando, the ground smelled of dirt," he said, suddenly hoarse although his face had not changed. "Of blood and ash and shit, acid and pain and death. This here," he brought his hand close to his face again, inhaling as if testing a lovingly composed perfume, "this smells of freedom. Of the wide world." A woodlouse suddenly reared up from the crumbs in Maitimo's hand, crawled for a bit, then fell down the tiny hill of earth and leaf. It rolled up into a small, scaly ball that bounced off his skin and fell to the ground, where after a few moments of shock the woodlouse uncurled and scuttled off into the grass, unperturbed.
Varnacanyo watched the woodlouse with a disgusted sneer, while Maitimo smiled. "Life," he said. "Everything here smells of life. Even the rot -" he let the contents of his hand fall, shaking the last leaf fragments off his fingers – "even the rot will bring forth new growth. Everything is moving, Varnacanyo, and I can move along with it." He heaved a sigh, deep and content, and tilted his head backwards, his hair rubbing against the bark. Narrowing his eyes, he thought he could discern leaf buds at the tips of the branches, waiting for just a little more light, a few more days of warmth.
"This is a living tree – not a lifeless rock wall."
"I'm afraid it holds no special meaning to me," Varnacanyo said, a note of regret in his voice. "I am not entirely certain that I understand."
Maitimo smiled again. "No matter." He heaved himself into a squatting position with some effort; Varnacanyo held out his hands to steady him, and with his aid, Maitimo stood up again. "Well, no time for resting; I have much to do."
"Spring has only begun, my lord – there is plenty of time," Varnacanyo protested.
Maitimo shook his head; but why he thought that he had no time to rest, he did not explain.

Herenyo and his colleagues discouraged Maitimo from taking up fighting practice already, and his brothers, when they heard about it, were likewise horrified at the idea. The resulting discussion threatened to grow heated until Macalaurë eventually found an argument that Maitimo was willing to accept. "Any sparring partner would be terrified of hurt you, so either you'll have none, or if you command them, they'll fight badly just so you'll win."
"And if I commanded them to fight properly?" Maitimo asked in his deceptively gentle tone.
Herenyo wrung his hands. "My King, you can command us all you will, but you cannot force us to do you harm," he said. "And I hope you will not harm yourself, either."
"I am not seeking to harm myself," Maitimo said with as much patience as he could muster. "On the contrary, I wish to defend myself. There will be battles, sooner or later -- "
"I hope you are not considering to fight in a battle in your current state?!" Macalaurë had sprung up from his seat, and Séralcar's mouth actually hung open in shock at the mere idea.
Maitimo gave both of them a very mild smile. "My current state is perfectly fine – the only thing I regret is that I move like a rock, and that I have a rock's proficiency with a blade, or a horse. If I take up practice, I will grow more agile, more endurant, faster and, I daresay, perfectly capable of facing a battle when I have to. You are aware that Moringotto may attack us at any time? Would you rather that I hide when that happens? That maybe I be captured again?"

"My King, that is not at all what I want, but I must insist that you wait!"
"Until what?"
"Until your healers agree that you are fit to fight," Macalaurë said quietly. "Please, Nelyo."
Maitimo threw up his arms in despair. "They call me King of the Noldor," he said, "and swear to follow me – to speak and be silent at my command – yet I am not free to make my own decisions."
"We will follow you in anything that you decide, Nelyo, I swear it, but in matters of health I must beg you to obey your healers," Macalaurë said, the other brothers nodding their agreement.
"What will the Noldor think when their King lumbers around like a drunk infant?" Maitimo made another attempt at protesting.
Ambarussa spoke up. "The Noldor know that you have been... sorely injured," he began.
"Tortured," Maitimo interrupted him. "The word you are looking for is 'tortured'. Injuries are something you suffer in battle. Torture is what happens when you loose the battle against dishonourable opponents, which is precisely why I should be able to fight."
Herenyo had turned away, Seralcár had turned pale, Macalaurë was chewing his lips; Ambarussa, however, took a deep breath. "As you wish, Nelyo. You have been – tortured – and maimed – and nobody expects you to move with the grace of a dancer. Nobody expects you to ride into battle again, you can appoint a household guard and let them protect you --"
"I will brave the same dangers as my people," Maitimo said. "Very well. Master Seralcár, Master Herenyo, that is all for now. Brothers, I am tired; I ask you to leave me alone."
"If you --" Macalaurë spoke up, but Maitimo shook his head, sharply, once. They filed out, some casting worried glances back at their king and brother, others clearly glad to be going. Maitimo gave in to the childish impulse that had sprung up in him, slamming the door behind them, listening in satisfaction to the loud bang it caused.
"My strength suffices for that, at least," he said, and then he slumped down on the bed.
"Show them that you have strength enough to bear the training," Varnacanyo said, "and they cannot speak against it anymore."
"One should think that I have shown that I can bear more than they can imagine. And yet they worry about my fragile health."
"I must remind my lord that none of us fully know what you have born. You say that we do not want to, and you are almost certainly right, but it does mean that we cannot imagine, let alone understand what you can or cannot bear. Have patience with those who fear for you."
"I try, I try – you know that I try, but you also know that they are not always right!"
Varnacanyo offered a cautious smile. "That is why I suggested that you find a way of showing them your strength – something less dangerous than the warrior's drills. Surely you can regain agility and endurance in some other way?"
"To become, as Telvo put it, graceful as a dancer?"
"Nobody can object to your taking dancing lessons, I am sure."
Maitimo's bad mood lifted almost at once. He sat up and smirked at his squire. "Indeed. A perfectly harmless and recreative pastime. Very well, Varnacanyo: Find me a dancing master!"

Maitimo had expected the dancing master to be at least as ridiculous as Master Encaitar, but Mistress Nacilmë made a level-headed impression when Varnacanyo introduced her. She greeted him without unnecessary flourishes, appeared calm and confident, and smiled wryly when Maitimo explained that he wished to take dancing lessons in order to improve his agility. "What shall we do about the music?" she asked when he had detailed what he had in mind. "It may not be entirely simple to get an orchestra together regularly, especially with all the work there is to do at the moment."
"Good grief, no," said Maitimo. "One musician will be perfectly sufficient. I want to practice at least twice a week, afternoons, if possible."
"My husband can play the flute," Mistress Nacilmë said, "and our daughter plays the lute: Whichever you prefer, my king."
Maitimo smiled. "Either, or both – whoever has the time," he said.
"Very well. And what dances would you prefer to learn – the ones newly invented? I expect you still know the dances of Valinor..."
Maitimo raised his eyebrows. "I have forgotten much, I am certain," he said. "Besides, I must first learn to move again. It is not enough to simply know the steps. I must ask you to be merciless, Mistress Nacilmë: You must make me practice until I can dance in a way befitting the king of the Noldor."
"Oh, I can do that," she said, measuring him with her eyes. "If that's what you want. Vanyarin court dances for discipline, then, the old dances for agility and to refresh your memory, and the new dances to bring you in touch with what you've missed. Yes?"
"Very good. And matters of etiquette?"
Mistress Nacilmë raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I can include them in your lessons, that will be no problem. But I was under the impression that you did not care much for, hm, traditional forms of etiquette?"
"Not personally. But I may still need to follow them."
She studied him for a while, her head tilted, and finally nodded. "You will let me know when something hurts too much to bear or when you are exhausted, but other than that, you will repeat motions and practice dances until I am satisfied that you are doing it right. Is that acceptable?"
Maitimo gave her a broad smile. "Thank you, Mistress Nacilmë. Yes, by all means, let me repeat things until I get them right."

Dancing proved astonishingly arduous, and Maitimo soon had no mind to regret that he was not permitted to practice fighting: He was sweating his way through the dance patterns and variations, struggled with different forms of bows and Vanyarin courtly protocol. Mistress Nacilmë indeed proved to be merciless, demanding repetition upon repetition. He often felt silly, bowing to imaginary partners or weaving his way through a longway simulated by chairs and baskets, but even when his teacher's and his own perfectionism made him grind his teeth in pain and frustration, even when he fell down exhausted after a lesson, he could not deny that his strength was steadily increasing, that the little jumps and flourishes that had been impossible at the outset became less and less daunting, that it became easier by the week to bend his legs or arms at exactly the right angle, the right speed, the right moment. Once his muscles had grown used to the regular exercise, his movements became more fluid and his body control improved: In short, his training paid off in exactly the way that he'd hoped. His brothers, too, noticed.
"See?" Macalaurë said one evening, observing the way in which Maitimo now sat down without sudden drops, rose without having to push himself up first, walked with no limp, held his back unbowed. "There was no need to exert yourself; it's all coming back by itself."
Carnistir, who had occasionally watched Maitimo's lesson without taking part, almost snorted wine out of his nose, which took some attention away from Maitimo, who only smiled mildly.
"By itself," he said. "Of course, Cáno. Just as your fingertips hardened to the harpstrings – all by themselves."

The next challenge that he tackled was horseriding. So far, his efforts in that direction had been limited to keeping himself on the old brown mare's back while somebody else led it; now he insisted on learning to command the horse himself, and on a horse that wasn't rather too short for his long legs, too. Roccalaurë was considered too wilful and dangerous, but a replacement was found: A huge and strong-boned black stallion with an untrimmed mane and equally untrimmed tufts of long hair on his lower legs. He had been bred for carrying loads rather than riders, and was extremely sweet-tempered in spite of his size – or, as Maitimo reasoned, because of it. The beast had been named Poldaxo*, a somewhat uninspired name. Ohtalmion, master of the Fëanorian's horses, suggested that Maitimo re-name his suddenly ennobled steed, but Maitimo decided that if the poor beast had to learn a new purpose, he should at least be allowed to keep his old name.
Maitimo grew fond of the impressive-looking but gentle animal as soon as he sat on Poldaxo's back. He developed a way of holding the reins with his single hand, but above all focused on teaching Poldaxo to require no reins at all. Tyelkormo, whose mastery of animals was unmatched, aided him in this endeavour. The horse cooperated well, yet Maitimo fell off regularly before he learned to balance himself on horseback. After the first such incident, which an embarrassing number of people had witnessed, Maitimo removed his practice to a clearing in the woods that Tyelkormo recommended for the purpose. By that time the trees were veiled in tender greens, and the undergrowth was likewise recovering from the frost, bringing forth new shoots and leaves.

Maitimo's life now consisted of administrative work, audiences and writing in the mornings, dancing or riding lessons in the afternoon, and the communal meal with his brothers when darkness fell; in the time that was not yet scheduled away, he began to take walks with Tyelparma or Varnacanyo. He found that his mind seemed to work a lot better when he was outside and in motion: His philosophical debates with Tyelparma grew more inspired, he felt, and when he pored over a problem in the morning, he almost always thought of a solution as soon as he was safely away from his desk, occupied – at least conciously – with something else entirely. He was not allowed to practice fighting yet, but nobody could stop him from attending and watching the warrior's drills. After three weeks, he asked to see their training master, Corintur, during what he considered his office hours. This greatly alarmed the healers, who thought that he would make arrangements for his own fighting practice after all; but Maitimo had other things in mind.
"I have not yet seen any of your recruits practice in armour," he said conversationally.
Corintur frowned. "No, my king; 'tis only practice, and they're only using wooden swords, so padded clothing is perfectly sufficient."
"I am not afraid that they'll cut themselves on their practice swords, you see," Maitimo said. "I just wonder why I never see them in their actual battle gear."
"The padded jerkins are part of that, my king," Corintur pointed out. "If you mean the metal parts, well, they're heavy and quite cumbersome, and since they really aren't necessary, why burden the poor lads?"
Maitimo tilted his head. "Why, because the armour is even heavier and more cumbersome when you are unfamiliar with wearing it. What happens if there is an actual fight – if they have to stand against more dangerous weapons than staffs and wooden swords? Will you send them without armour, too, because it is so heavy?"
"No, my king; they will wear their armour in battle, of course."
"Then they must wear it in practice, too. They must be able to perform their drills in metal plating just as well as without."
"We can practice that when war approaches, my king."
Maitimo, who had so far maintained some amusement at the training master's ideas, felt anger rise within him. "What if it approaches faster than you expect? What if it is not us who carry war to unsuspecting Teleri, but Moringotto's brood who try to overrun us? Will you tell them 'Wait another month, I have to get my recruits into shape'? No, that is not how it works. Drills are a means of preparing these people for the reality of war; and part of that reality is heavy, cumbersome armour, and the exhaustion that comes with it. These are my troups, Corintur, and I will not have them ill-prepared. So you will make them practice in their armour, and ride and run and wrestle in it. Good grief, I expect some of them may not even know how to put it on!"
Corintur folded his arms across his chest. "My ways have always been good enough for your brother, my king."
"You and my brother have always fought in battles that we've won," Maitimo said coldly. "I have seen more. I do not wish my experience on you, but I must demand that you accept my advice."
"Advice, my king?"
"Yes, advice – if you follow it. If you will not follow it, I must command it."
The training master's jaw worked angrily; he was clearly not going to give in easily. "Maybe you want to train your troups, since you've got all that experience." This suggestion was accompanied by a long, dirty look that probably meant to remind Maitimo of his less-than-fit state.

Maitimo refused to be riled. "Thank you, Corintur, I will consider your offer," he said. "Meanwhile, there's something else I would ask of you."
"Ask, or command?" Corintur said.
Maitimo smiled. "That depends on you, of course. I think it would be advisable if everybody at least learned the basics of self-defence – armed and unarmed. Don't you agree?"
"I am not certain that I understand you correctly. Your warriors are already learning armed and unarmed fighting, albeit without their armour." A slight sneer." Or do you mean everybody - milkmaids and weavers and farmers and all?"
"I am glad that you did understand me. Yes, everybody – milkmaids and weavers and whoever else may have to make a stand when all other defences have fallen. Everybody of age, at the very least, and maybe some of the younger folk, too."
Corintur now looked as though he believed Maitimo had lost his mind. "What if they don't want to?"
"I am sure they will understand the necessity of learning to defend oneself, if I make a pretty speech about it. We were victorious when we came into these lands because Father had prepared everybody for battle, and I do not think it is asking too much that we reach a comparable point again." Maitimo waved his right arm vaguely, and Corintur turned his head away uncomfortably.
"As you wish, my king," he said between gritted teeth. "Should they wear armour, too?"
With a wistful expression on his face, Maitimo said, "We do not have suits of armour enough for everybody, and I'm afraid it is not feasible to make them. So, no."
"And how long shall... everybody... be trained?"
"Until the training master – that would be you, Corintur – is satisfied that they will not simply be cut down, but at least take an enemy or two with them." Maitimo smiled again. "I rely on your expertise."
Corintur grunted, but he couldn't quite disguise that he was pleased by that last remark. "That may take a long time, for some of them," he nonetheless pointed out.
"All the more reason to begin as soon as possible, is it not?" Maitimo replied, and Corintur made no protest to that.

He did protest to Macalaurë, who came to see Maitimo one morning not long after that conversation. "Master Corintur complains that you are interfering with the warriors' training," he said.
"Interfering? My goodness, I understood the role of king completely wrong, it seems. Remind me, beloved regent, what else I should leave my hands-- my hand off?"
Macalaurë winced; Maitimo was not certain whether it was brought about by his angry tone, or by the allusion to his handicap. "I am only telling you what Master Corintur said."
Maitimo began to pace. "And what did you reply to him?"
"I told him that you want the best for your people, and that he may want to consider the possibility that you are right."
That made his brother stop in his tracks. "Hah!" Maitimo said. "Thank you. Is the matter settled, then?"
Macalaurë dared a little smile. "Not entirely. It appears that some of the people he has begun to teach at your command enjoy it too much."
"Too much? How so?"
"Well, some of the craftsmen have proved to be exceedingly talented with a blade. Not surprising, I guess, since they swing tools all the time, but now they seem to be uncertain whether to continue training as warriors or return to their trade. Some of the women, too..."
"I'm afraid that a time will come when we can use anybody who knows how to wield a blade," Maitimo said soberly. "In that respect, your news are good news."
"I understand that, but we also need carpenters and tanners and farmers."
Nodding slowly, Maitimo said, "That is true. How many are they?"
"I am not certain whether Corintur was exaggerating matters, but he spoke of several dozens."
"Then we must make it possible to be a craftsman – and yet a warrior."
Macalaurë sat down in the window-seat. "How would you go about that?"
"There are many hours in the day, and six days in the week. It must be possible to offer fighting practice in a way that allows people to still get their work done. Maybe we can form an extra regiment for the sort of people you describe – craftsfolk or farmers or whoever else they are."
"Very well." Macalaurë nodded. "I will inform Curvo that he'll have to arm a new regiment, then."
"I can do that," Maitimo said. "I had no particular destination in mind for today's walk; I shall visit Brother Curvo, then."

He realised that it had been a mistake to enter the forge as soon as the door fell shut and cut off the supply of fresh air, leaving him bewildered in the noisy gloom. Maitimo had believed that he had by now fully recovered – the nightmares had become rare now that his mind had other things to pore over, and when he was awake, he had been able keep his thoughts safely away from Angamando anyway. But the dim, reddish light, the stuffy hot air, the smell of soot and ash and iron, the sounds of hammer upon anvil, the hissing of steel stuck in a cooling bucket, the unintelligible murmur of the ancient crafting spells that the smiths used for their work: All these impressions melded into a dark, threatening fist that closed on Maitimo's throat. He stood gasping for breath, heard himself whimper, felt himself sway. Hard, heavy hands clasped his shoulders. He tore free and tried to escape, away, out, but they tripped him up; he stumbled forwards and was hit over the head with something hard and cold and greasy. His world went entirely dark.

When he returned to consciousness, he was back outside; he lay upon a hard surface, except for his head and shoulders, which were comfortably bedded on somebody's lap. The lap was covered by a dirty leather apron, and as Maitimo's eyes regained focus, he found himself looking up at a familiar face, with a proud, straight nose, firm chin, handsome high cheekbones and grey piercing eyes. The face was framed by black hair, some untidy streaks escaping from a braid in the back. Maitimo's heart clenched with loss and rejoicing. "Father!" he breathed.
His father's face blurred as the other person shook his head.
"That bump must have been harder than I would have thought," said his brother's voice. "Do you not remember where you are?"
Maitimo had by then realised his mistake. He let out a long, slow breath. "Mistaringë," he said. "You are Curvo. I am sorry."
"I'm taking it as a compliment," Curufinwë said with a small smile. His voice was uncommonly gentle, and his look worried. Maitimo now noticed that a wet rag was being pressed to his forehead.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "What happened?"
Instead of Curufinwë, somebody answered from Maitimo's left-hand side. "You seem to have suffered a dizzy spell – I wanted to steady you, but it all happened too fast. I beg your pardon. You stumbled towards the door and fell over the steps, and hit your head on the door handle," said Varnacanyo, sounding guilty and close to tears. Maitimo tried to sit up, but was hindered by Curufinwë's hand on his temple.
"Rest," his brother said in a tone that was soft but brooked no resistance. "I'm surprised, really. After you told me that the goings-on in my forge resemble... resemble what has been done to you, I would not have thought that you'd come here any time soon."
"I had something to ask of you," said Maitimo, frowning. His head had begun to throb; he reached up, but the painful spot was hidden underneath the wet rag.
"You could have sent someone. Now you were obviously overwhelmed by ill memories..."
"Overwhelmed," Maitimo repeated. "Indeed."
Tyelperinquar joined them that moment. "Is he – oh. I have brought you some tea, Uncle Maitimo," he said sheepishly, holding up a cast-iron teapot and a chipped clay cup.
"Thank you, Tyelpo," Maitimo said, and to Curufinwë, "May I sit up?"
Curufinwë and Varnacanyo helped him to sit – they had carried him to the bench on which the smiths sat when they had time for a break and a whiff of fresh air, Maitimo now realised. Tyelperinquar's tea was strong and drove away the last lingering fogginess. Maitimo discussed his business with Curufinwë, who was cautiously enthusiastic at the idea of equipping a greater army; he apologised for having disturbed their work, which Curufinwë brushed off, and left with their best wishes for a speedy recovery.

When Varnacanyo moved closer to steady him as he walked away, he did not protest, although he was confident that he would not take another fall. His head was throbbing where he had hit it, but he had suffered worse.
"I think it might be wiser to cancel your dancing lesson today," Varnacanyo suggested cautiously. "And use the time to rest."
Maitimo nodded his agreement. "No more walks today," he said, "and no dancing. This was a bit much."
Varnacanyo smiled, relieved.
"At any rate, I have a letter to write," Maitimo said. "I may as well get it done instead of putting it off longer. And I'll need to see Master Encaitar, I'm afraid..."
"Lighter robes?" Varnacanyo asked with a smirk.
"Prettier robes," Maitimo sighed. "I'll need to look the part of king at last – at least once."
Varnacanyo tilted his head. "Oh?"
"Yes. I can't put that off much longer, either."
"Does it have anything to do with the letter you're planning to write?"
"Yes."
Blinking, Varnacanyo stopped in his tracks. "Some sweetheart that I'm not aware of?"
Maitimo stared at him wide-eyed; then he tilted his head back and laughed. "No, good Varnacanyo, nothing of the sort."
"Then to whom are you going to write?"
Maitimo had still been grinning, but now his face grew serious again.
"My uncle," he answered.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Poldaxo means "strong-bone" or "sturdy-bone" - suitable for what we'd today call a Friesian, but neither particularly noble nor particularly creative.

Part III, Chapter IX

In which reconciliation talks are turned into a coronation.

Read Part III, Chapter IX

"I am not certain that I understand you right," Curufinwë told Maitimo. "Let me reiterate what I remember."
Maitimo half-turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Please," he said. "We may all benefit from what you remember."
Tyelkormo and Ambarussa stopped in mid-conversation, urging their horses closer to listen in. It was a beautiful day, gentle and warm, the forest around them in full bloom; but the mood among the brothers felt dark, discontent, even angry.
Curufinwë continued to frown. "You have written to Nolofinwë, asking him to invite us for a sort of parley. And he has indeed invited us. But we will pitch a camp next to their settlement, rather than lodging with them, and if there is to be a feast after the parley, we must host it: Am I, so far, correct?"
"Indeed. We cannot expect them to house or feed us; they have, if I recall correctly, less houses than we do – and they are more people."
Curufinwë raised his eyebrows, sneering a little – perhaps at the idea that the Nolofinwëans had not managed to build further houses throughout the past year, although he was wise enough not to say this in Maitimo's hearing. "I don't see why you didn't invite them to our settlement, then."
"Because they would likely not have come," Maitimo said. "It is vital that we bear the burden of the journey." He turned to look at their long, long entourage making its cumbersome way along the forest road, laden down by all the provisions that Maitimo had insisted on taking along: Under these conditions, it was indeed a burden.
"Less of a burden for them than for us," Tyelkormo pointed out, following his gaze with his own eyes.
Maitimo sighed. "On their way to us, yes. Not on the way back."
"Right," Curufinwë said, and the frown on his face had deepened. "That's another thing I don't understand. We're riding there in full force and glory, and then you plan to give them everything that you think should be theirs, and then you are going to ask them to join us?"

Maitimo sighed again. "Incorrect. First, I am going to ask them to forgive us."
"Then why all the regalia?" For even Maitimo had packed glorious silks and brocades as well as the trappings of his office, and he had ordered his brothers to bring their finery as well.
"Everybody expects that somebody who is poor and powerless will kneel before one who might grant him succour," Maitimo said. "It does not attract attention. But when a king in all his splendour kneels, that is noteworthy."
"I still don't see what you're hoping to demonstrate."
"I want to demonstrate that we are not motivated by any economic or military need, but that we are acting out of true contrition." Maitimo gave his brothers a hard look, expecting further protest; and indeed, he did not have to wait long.
"True contrition," Tyelkormo sneered. "That is asking too much. I'll do whatever you ask, Nelyo, but please don't ask me that I mean it."
The corners of Maitimo's mouth twitched, although his eyes remained cold and hard. "As long as you do as I ask, I must be content," he said. "Do not let them see your eyes, though, lest they betray your heart."
Tyelkormo snorted. Curufinwë, whose hands had begun to knead the reins in his hands in agitation, asked, "Do we really have to kneel?"
He was tempted to turn his head away as Maitimo studied him at length, far longer than was either necessary or comfortable. "Yes," Maitimo finally said. "We do."
"It's just that we know how much you detest kneeling," Ambarussa said cautiously. "And still...?"
"Yes, still. We are going to beg their pardon, and when I say beg, I mean it."
"Kneeling to Nolofinwë," Curufinwë said, shaking his head. "Father would burn again if he were there to see us. I am not certain I can live through such an ordeal."
Maitimo's eyes took on that unsettling, far-away look. "I have had to kneel to Moringotto," he said in a distracted voice. "I have survived it. I am confident that you'll survive a short hour of humiliation before our own kin."
"An hour!" Tyelkormo spoke up. "Are you serious?"

Macalaurë, who had so far showed no sign of following their conversation, riding at a steady pace with his eyes and attention firmly ahead, now turned around to face him. "However long it takes," he said firmly.
Carnistir, too, spoke up from behind them. "I do not think it will take an hour, or even half an hour," he said. "Uncle Nolofinwë may say no or yes, but he will not drag it out."
"Bless Uncle Nolofinwë," Curufinwë said through gritted teeth, "because our own brother would have us wear our knees down to the bone if he deemed it necessary."
"Possibly," Maitimo said without the slightest trace of a smile. "One of many reasons why Uncle Nolofinwë will make a better king than I can be."
"That is not what I meant," Curufinwë said flatly. "On the contrary. I think you should hold on to that crown. It meant so much to Father --"
"So much that he almost stabbed Uncle Nolofinwë. Yes. That is something else that we must atone for."
"You cannot blame us for that," Carnistir said. "Yes, we burned the ships; but we never put a blade on Uncle Nolofinwë's chest."
"I am not blaming you. I am merely saying that it is an ill that we, the sons of our father, must mend."
"By giving up what Father fought for?"
Maitimo laughed, loud and harsh, making his brothers wince. "What did Father fight for? Many things, of course, but I for my part have sworn an Oath that makes no mention of the crown. It does mention the Silmarils, and to win them, we need a far greater force than we have or ever will have as long as the Noldor follow two different kings."
"But on the other hand--" Tyelkormo began, but he was cut short at once:
"I have no other hand."
The shocked silence that followed Maitimo's rebuttal was eventually broken by Curufinwë, who obstinately said, "So I was not incorrect.You will ask them to join us."
"Wrong again. I will ask them to let us join them."
"Because you'll not just give them most of our possessions, but the crown, too!" Curufinwë said. His horse was beginning to sashay uneasily, made nervous by its rider's wrath.
"It is the best hope that I see," Maitimo said serenely. "I must keep the Oath; therefore I must give up the crown. It is very simple, really, but I did not expect you to understand."
"But you expect me to go along with it?"
"Yes. Because I still am the head of your house, and your big brother, and because I'll exile from these lands any one of you who will not swear his allegiance to Uncle Nolofinwë, if he pardons us and accepts the crown."
That silenced them again, except for Curufinwë, who muttered, "Steel. Steel indeed," almost under his breath. Maitimo ignored him.
"You should not offer the crown on condition that we be pardoned," Macalaurë spoke up after a long pause.
"I do not mean to," said Maitimo, smiling again at last. "I will offer the crown – whether we are forgiven or not. If we cannot be united with them, the crown is worth nothing to us."
"So we are motivated by military need after all," Tyelperinquar said, earning an approving nod from his father.
Maitimo shrugged. "In part, yes. But we shouldn't let them know."

They arrived as dusk fell, pitching as many tents as they could in the fading light of day. The night was mild but misty; they could occasionally hear the guards on the ramparts, just as they knew the Nolofinwëans could hear muffled talk or laughter from their camp, but could not see far.
Maitimo lay awake on his cot for a while, thinking about his plans for the following day. He had rebuked his brothers' protests and doubts with iron certainty, but alone in the darkness, he considered them again from various angles. But whatever the argument, it could not withstand the firmness of his decision; in the end, he fell asleep satisfied that he really was doing the best thing – the only thing, perhaps – for his house and the people who followed them.
As the next morning dawned, the missing tents were raised, including a field kitchen and the great tent that would house the reconciliation feast – if that was going to happen; but it had to.
Then it was time to dress up, as Maitimo thought of it. Varnacanyo helped him into the festival outfit that Master Encaitar had designed with great enthusiasm and absurd amounts of costly materials. Maitimo felt uncomfortable underneath so many layers of finest linen, soft silk and gold brocade. He frowned at his mirror image, trying to decide whether he looked ridiculous or regal. In that moment, Curufinwë entered the tent, himself searching for a mirror. Maitimo took a step back, making room for his brother, who studied himself critically.
Maitimo gave a cautious smile. "Don't worry, Curvo, you look great."

Curufinwë looked him up and down, and then surprised him by saying, "So do you. No, seriously: You look like Maitimo again." He paused. "Though I don't think I ever saw my brother Maitimo look so grim and determined on a festival day."
"Why should he have looked grim and determined on a festival day, back then?"
"True enough," Curufinwë conceded.
Sobering, Maitimo asked him, "And you will not ruin my plans today?"
Curufinwë met his eyes, his expression uncommonly frank. "Not intentionally. I'll deny I ever said that if you tell anyone, but to be honest, I wouldn't dare to. I'm scared of you, Nelyo. You are more dangerous than you used to be."
With a slight huff, Maitimo said, "It has ever been dangerous to cross your big brother."
"Yes; but now you will mete out harsher punishment."
Maitimo felt as though his blood had run cold. "If you think I ever could –" he began, but his brother interrupted him.
"I am not afraid that you would do to me what has been done to you," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You have changed – been changed, I suppose – but not that much, I hope. But you did speak of exile. Do you have any idea how terrifying that prospect is? Locked out from the lives of my people – my family – for however long?"
"I do. It was my reality for twelve long years," Maitimo pointed out. "Though I admit that missing my family was the least of my concerns at the time. But I will admit that I was hoping the threat would terrify you into obedience – you and the others."
Curufinwë folded his arms around his chest. "I have told you before that we must follow you either way, even if we do not like what you do. So there's no need to resort to such cruel threats."
There was a moment of silence. Then Maitimo bowed his head. "You are right, Curvo. I apologise for my lack of trust. Take it as a sign of my insecurity rather than as an insult to you."
"Insecurity!"
"Yes, insecurity," Maitimo said. "But I'll deny I ever said that, should you tell anyone."

- - -

Findekáno had slept badly that night, sick with anticipation and confusion. The exceedingly polite letter that Russandol had sent to Nolofinwë, asking for a formal invitation, had raised his hopes that there might be an apology at last. But then the Fëanorians had arrived in the evening, not quite in force of battle, but in far greater numbers than had been expected. Instead of a humble envoy of only the brothers and perhaps a few guards, they had brought many warriors and servants and huge amounts of provisions, horses enough for an army, and tents enough to lay a siege (although they did not arrange them in a sensible way if a siege was indeed their purpose). There were proud banners flying, their colours bright in the evening light before the nightly fogs swallowed them up. It did not look like an attempt at reconciliation – more like intimidation. Findekáno told himself that Russandol could intend no such thing, but he still felt a spark of anger within him, and he knew that many others felt the same. They talked about it during dinner; Artanis at last summarised the prevailing sentiment: "If it really is reconciliation that Nelyafinwë wants, he's got his work cut out for him."

Their anger and anticipation weren't lessened when the gates were opened in the morning, again revealing the bright banners and guards in full armour with spears and swords forming a lane. Between them stood the brothers Fëanorion and young Tyelperinquar, all of them in splendid robes of red and gold, decked out in jewellery. Russandol was wearing his chain of office as well as the ancient crown, and there was a lot of angry hissing about that fact. As the Nolofinwëan guards walked out to lead the visitors in, asking them to leave any weapons they might have brought with them at the gate – but apparently, they were unarmed today – somebody at the back shouted, "Make him leave that crown at the gate!" Findekáno tried to see who had called out, but it was impossible to see anybody clearly who did not stand in the very first row.
The guards ignored it, anyway.
The Fëanorians left their guard of honour and their banner bearers outside, at least. Findekáno and Findaráto stepped forward; to them fell the task of greeting the visitors. Nolofinwë would receive them in the hall; it was a desperate attempt at appearing in control of the meeting - or at least at making them walk a long bit before they could have their way.
Findekáno limited himself to a grudging nod, while Findaráto bowed politely; their cousins in turn bowed as well. "Welcome," Findaráto said in a solemn voice. "I trust you had a safe journey and a good night. Our Lord is waiting for you in the great hall – if you will follow me?"
"Thank you, Findaráto," said Russandol. His voice sounded strangely pressed. Findekáno wondered whether Findaráto heard that nervous undertone, too. He did not know Russandol so well, but he seemed to have a way of guessing people's mood. At any rate, Russandol seemed to regain his confidence as he spoke, for the tense note all but disappeared when he went on. "We have brought gifts for you, but I believe they can wait until we've got the important business out of the way, if that is preferable to you."
Findaráto gave a little smile that did not reach his eyes. "It is indeed. We should not keep our uncle waiting."

As they walked towards the longhouse, Findekáno fell behind a little until he almost walked next to Russandol. "I liked it better when you wore a scholar's robes," he said by way of greeting, under his breath.
"As I did," his cousin replied softly. "But I recall what you said about what clothes may express. Would not my black robes suggest contempt to your father? I mean none; on the contrary, I mean the highest respect."
Findekáno's lips curled in annoyance, but he could not think of any good argument against what Russandol had said; his father had also dressed up for the occasion, although Findekáno would have liked to see him outshine the Fëanorians. He picked up his pace a little, but half-turned to see his other cousins. Macalaurë looked surprisingly calm; but then, he had walked this way when he had picked up Russandol in fall, and compared to that, this probably felt harmless to him. Carnistir seemed lost in thought as usual, his left hand toying with a ring he wore on his right forefinger. Curufinwë looked stonily ahead; his son kept very close to him, occasionally casting anxious glances at the crowd of people that followed them closely on three sides. He was clutching some rolls of parchment. Findekáno briefly wondered whether those were the gifts that Russandol had mentioned, but decided that there was no point in asking; he would find out soon enough. He returned to his study of his cousins. Tyelkormo and Ambarussa appeared as worried as young Tyelperinquar about being surrounded. Well, a little unease wouldn't hurt them. Findekáno turned back ahead, where the door of the hall was held open by an armed guard.

Many of their people were already inside, having forgone the prospect of seeing the Fëanorians arrive in order to secure a place at the actual parley. It was a wise choice, Findekáno thought; even though all furniture had been removed except for one high carved chair in which his father sat upon the dais, the hall was too small for all of them. Many would have to stay outside, relying on word of mouth to learn what was happening inside. There was no chair even for Russandol, although Findekáno had cautioned that his cousin might not be able to stand for too long; but he had been overruled: If the Fëanorian wanted more comfort, he would at the very least have to ask for it.
As Findekáno's eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light in the hall, he was satisfied to see that his father looked very noble, sitting straight and proud in his carved chair, in front of the blue and golden banners of their two Houses, like the very epitome of kingship. His old festival robes could not compete with the splendour of the Fëanorians, but neither did they look too shabby: The deep blue colour might have faded a bit, but that was hardly noticeable out of direct daylight, and there was so much silver thread woven in that the silk hadn't broken with age. He wore no circlet on his head, but he had donned the chain of office that Fëanáro had long ago made for their father, just as spectacularly beautiful as the one that adorned Russandol's shoulders.
On Nolofinwë's right-hand side stood his sister Írimë and his children, also wrapped in the finest clothing they still owned; Irissë in her white gown stood out stunningly amid the dark blues and greens of her brothers and aunt. On the other side stood Aunt Írien and the children of Arafinwë in white and gold. They made a fine contrast, Findekáno thought, the fair and the dark.

Nolofinwë did not smile as he looked upon his nephews; in fact, the line between his brows briefly deepened as he took in Russandol's appearance. His features smoothed again almost immediately, but he did not rise to greet them, merely inclining his head in a nod. Maitimo, and with him his brothers, bowed in a courtly manner. Findekáno and Findaráto swiftly took their places among their siblings.
An awkward silence followed. It took Findekáno a moment to understand why. As the host and the elder of the two, Nolofinwë should customarily have spoken a few words of greeting; as king who had actually been crowned, however, Russandol in theory had the right to speak first. As apparently neither of the two meant to forestall the other, neither said anything until Nolofinwë gestured with both hands: By all means, speak!
Maitimo smiled a tense little smile, and then said, "Well met, my lord Uncle. In the name of my House, I thank you for granting us audience."
"I admit that I was, and still am, surprised by your request," Nolofinwë replied. "It would seem that you should grant me audience, not the other way around - King Nelyafinwë."
Findekáno heard a sharp intake of breath from Irissë, heard Turukáno grind his teeth, and wasn't certain that he did not likewise betray his own shock and surprise. His father had simply acknowledged the rank Russandol was claiming: Now Russandol could indeed consider himself the rightful king. There were plenty of witnesses who could confirm that Nolofinwë had given him the title: All the lords of the House of Fëanáro, and - if they were honest - most of Nolofinwë's own followers.

Russandol ignored this shocking development completely. "That might be appropriate if things were less complicated," he said instead, inclining his crowned head. "But alas, they are complicated. Severe grievances have come between our Houses, and it is high time that we attempt to settle them. I feel that this should be done on your grounds, Lord Uncle, and at your will."
"I see," Nolofinwë simply said. Findekáno could see his father's knuckles turn white, so hard did he grasp the armrests of his chair. "It is my will, then," Nolofinwë continued, "that you begin this attempt at settling our grievances now. I am curious to learn what you have in mind."
"Three things," Russandol replied. "I have long thought about the order in which I should address these matters; I pray it will not be taken amiss if I begin with the gravest, rather than the oldest."
Nolofinwë's fingers twitched. "Pray make yourself plainer, Nephew. I did not plan to spend the entire day here, but it seems that I may have to."
"I will try to make it brief," Russandol replied. "The gravest matter is, of course, our betrayal." And with these words, he sank to his knees. For a split second, Findekáno wanted to jump forward and steady him, but then he realised that his cousin had not fallen against his will: The movement had been too fluent, too trained for that. And now Russandol's brothers and young Tyelperinquar followed, falling to their knees before their uncle and cousins. Findekáno felt a vice-like grip on his left shoulder. He half-turned and realised that Turukáno was hanging on to him with all his strength, his eyes open wide, breath coming fast. Findekáno's own heart was beating hard, too. He tried to figure out what the prevailing emotion was – satisfaction? Fear? Plain astonishment?
Russandol continued to speak, in a loud, clear voice that managed to overcome the pounding in Findekáno's ears. "People of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, we have betrayed and abandoned you. Everything that befell afterwards, every loss that you have suffered, is our responsibility. On behalf of all our followers, we beg your pardon. We are aware that we do not deserve it, and that you may not find it in your hearts to grant us forgiveness. That is a risk we must take. But at the very least, we must let you know that we are deeply ashamed of what we have done, and will make amends in any way possible, if you see such a way."
He lowered his head and bent from the waist until his brow touched the dais – Findekáno could hear a soft metal thunk when the crown connected with the wooden step. Russandol had spread his arms so that they parallelled the curb of the dais, his right arm ending at the wrist, his left hand turned upwards: He had no means of steadying himself, demonstrating complete submission. The others, forming a semi-circle behind Russandol, had also bowed forwards; but only Macalaurë let his forehead touch the ground. Carnistir seemed to clutch at the floorboards as if trying to draw strength from the tree they had once been; Tyelperinquar was hugging the rolled-up parchment tightly to his chest; Tyelkormo looked more poised to jump than begging forgiveness.
Still, they were down on their knees, all of them, offering the apology that many of Nolofinwë's people had doubted they would ever hear. A murmur had arisen in the hall, people excitedly whispering about what they saw or describing the scene to those who stood further behind. Eventually, somebody began to clap his hands; then others joined in, applauding, stamping their feet, cheering.
Findekáno, too, was torn between two contrary urges. One part of him wanted to holler and cheer, to join in the triumph and the thunder. The other felt the almost overwhelming need to pull Russandol back to his feet, to help him out of his terrifyingly vulnerable position. Nolofinwë only needed to take one small step if he wanted to crush Russandol's neck under his foot.

Of course, Nolofinwë did no such thing; he merely rose from his chair, staring down at Russandol's prone form, then gazing into the hall at his applauding people, turning to study the faces of his family. He raised his hands, and after a while, the noise died down.
"My people," Nolofinwë's voice cut through the sudden silence, no longer tense with anger or apprehension, but strong and clear. "Is Nelyafinwë's apology acceptable to us?"
"Not Nelyafinwë's," Russandol protested without raising his head. "It is the House of Fëanáro that kneels before you."
Findekáno's heart seemed to constrict painfully.
Nolofinwë sighed. "Stand, Nephew," he said. Russandol got to his feet, a little less elegantly than he had gone down; but he kept his head bowed, and his left hand clasped his right wrist behind his back: A servant expecting a reprimand.
His uncle seemed to ponder his course of action for a moment; then he slapped Russandol's face, hard, once on each cheek. Russandol's head snapped around, and for a moment, Findekáno could see his eyes. They had gone round and wide, and Findekáno suddenly realised why people spoke of blind terror: Russandol's pupils had dilated so wide that the black seemed to drown out the grey entirely. Father will not hurt you badly, he wanted to shout, it is only symbolic – do not fear! But he bit his tongue. By now, he had a hand on each shoulder: Both his aunt Írimë and his brother Turukáno apparently thought it necessary to hold him back, in case he planned to interfere. He'd had no such thing in mind, but here had been a scuffle behind Maitimo's back: Tyelkormo apparently had tried to jump to his brother's rescue, and Curufinwë and Macalaurë had to restrain him, holding his arms tightly. They were successful in keeping Tyelkormo back, although he was trembling with anger.
Russandol seemed to have recovered from the shock; when Nolofinwë gently tilted his chin up to study his nephew's eyes, Findekáno could see no more fear there and no resentment, only a deep sadness. Russandol's pale face had gone red where Nolofinwë had struck him, and there was a thin bloody line where the signet ring had caught on Russandol's cheekbone. Findekáno suspected that his father was already regretting what he had done.
"My people," Nolofinwë called out again. "Do we accept the apology of the House of Fëanáro?"
Findekáno knew that he should not try to influence his people, so he kept his silence; but when at last the audience cried out, "Yea!", he heaved a sigh of relief that to him felt loud enough to be heard even over the tumult that arose again now.
Nolofinwë embraced Russandol, who returned the embrace with his good arm. When Nolofinwë went to raise and embrace the other Fëanorians, Findekáno turned to look at his siblings, trying to judge what they felt. Grim satisfaction in the case of Turukáno, he decided. Itarildë was clinging to her father's hands with wide eyes; it was possibly the first time that she had seen an Elf raise his hand against another, for her mother had kept her safely away from Alqualondë until all was over. Poor child, Findekáno thought. Irissë was smiling in a way that looked amused, as if she was finding the whole thing entertaining rather than momentous. Findekáno looked over to the children of Arafinwë, who were whispering amongst themselves; Angaráto caught his eyes and winked at him.

It took a while until silence and order were restored. Nolofinwë did not sit down again, but stood before his carven chair, waiting for the murmuring and whispering to stop.
"Generous is the House of Nolofinwë," Russandol said in his loud, clear voice; he did not sound the least bit shaken, for which Findekáno was grateful. "We thank you for your mercy, and pray that we will henceforth meet as friends again."
"That remains to be seen," somebody in the audience muttered loud enough to be heard on the dais; but a sharp look of Nolofinwë in that direction silenced further commentary.
Russandol again showed no reaction. "Which brings me to the second matter. In your generosity, you have – to the best of my knowledge – never reclaimed the many things that you had left on the ships, that we stole from you when we left you in Araman." Findekáno heard a couple of gasps; it seemed that like him, many people had no longer thought of the provisions and beasts they had packed before leaving Aman, considering them lost forever.
"It is not right that we should thrive on what is rightfully yours," Russandol went on. "Therefore I have produced lists of everything that we found upon the ships that we had not put there. All these things we restore to you, where it is possible. Some things have unfortunately broken or been lost, the provisions have been eaten, and some beasts have since died; I have noted this down also, and we have tried to provide a replacement." He waved to Tyelperinquar, who stepped forward, holding out the rolls of parchment to Nolofinwë. "All these we return unto you. Much we have already brought along with us; the lifestock and whatever else is missing must be brought here at some other time. One list holds provisions, seedlings and the like, one holds animals, and one holds tools and other things of use. I trust you will be able to determine their rightful owners. Let me know when I have forgotten anything."
Nolofinwë was clearly taken aback; it took him a moment to take one of the lists and unroll the parchment. Over his shoulder, Findekáno could read Horses - 107 in Russandol's unhandy writing, and then various names; he could not look further because his father immediately rolled the list back up again.
"I must say that I had no hope that we would ever see these beasts and these things again," Nolofinwë said. "But you have kept track of your theft, it seems."
Russandol did not flinch at the accusation of theft, although he said, "I hope that in time, we may come to consider it a sort of involuntary loan."

Nolofinwë did not dignify that statement with an answer; instead, he took the other two scrolls, handing them on to Írimë for safekeeping.
"The third matter, if you please," he then said. "It must be time for the mid-day meal soon; I hope you will not keep us from it."
Despite his uncle's impolite words, Russandol gave a little smile. "In fact, I was hoping that you would allow us to invite you to a feast when this meeting is done. Even as we speak, it is being prepared in our camp..."
"A feast?" Nolofinwë said sceptically. "Celebrating what?"
"Celebrating the fact that you have accepted our apology," Russandol replied. "And, perhaps, the third matter..."
"To the point, then," Nolofinwë said. Findekáno almost smiled. His father was clearly curious, or he would neither have minded Russandol's circumlocution nor would he have spoken so impatiently.
Russandol nodded gravely. "Very well. As I said, I did not begin with the oldest grievance, since it is not the worst. But it is nonetheless a matter of some contention, which I feel can be settled very easily."
He briefly paused, but spoke on when Nolofinwë made no reply.
"Upon my head I wear the crown of Finwë, King of the Noldor, that has been passed down to me by my father, eldest son of the king. As you know, my father was extremely intent on his right as the eldest; I therefore feel that I should honour that right." Findekáno's fists clenched. Please, he thought, this has been going so well; you'll ruin everything if you insist on further concessions. Father already called you King; don't push your luck. As yet, the people in the hall were silent, but it was only a matter of time until their anger would boil up again.

Then Russandol took a deep breath, and sank to his knees again. "I wear this crown as the eldest son of the king's son; but I am not the eldest living descendant of Finwë." Artanis gasped audibly; but Findekáno did not understand why until Russandol spelled it out: "If there lay no grievance between us, Lord Uncle, still the kingship would rightly come to you – the eldest here of the House of Finwë, and not the least wise." With these words, he maneuvered the crown off his brow, holding it out to Nolofinwë.
Everybody seemed to start talking at once, no longer in murmurs or hushed voices, but loud and unashamedly; a wave of noise rolled across the hall. Findekáno stared at the crown in Russandol's hand in utter disbelief. He had thought that after the Fëanorians' genuflection, there could be no further surprises, but this eclipsed everything.
Amidst all the commotion, Nolofinwë stood silent and motionless. Findekáno stared at his back, wondered when his father was going to take the crown, what he was feeling right now. He could not guess; Nolofinwë's shoulders betrayed nothing, and he neither turned nor otherwise moved. The crowd fell silent again, and then, first one by one and then in whole groups, they began to kneel; even Russandol's brothers and nephew were down on bent knee again; and still Nolofinwë did not take the crown. Russandol's arm was beginning to tremble from the weight of the crown that he was still holding, struggling to offer it in a dignified manner. Findekáno frowned. Take it!, he thought at his father, take it already, it's yours, we're all waiting for it!
Nolofinwë did not move.
Russandol's arm was shaking harder now; he seemed to decide that there was no point in waiting until the crown fell from his hand. He let his arm sink and laid the heavy golden circlet down at Nolofinwë's feet, and scuffled back a little, so that he could no longer reach it.
Findekáno decided that if his father did not finally pick it up, he would have to do it; but when he made to step forward, Aunt Írimë's hand brushed his arm. He turned, frowning, and she shook her head a little, gesturing over to the other side of the dais. Findekáno understood. Yes, it was better if one of Arafinwë's children crowned his father: That way, it would be clear that all three Houses supported the new king. Findekáno looked over to his cousins, and found them staring back. He sought Findaráto's eyes, and mouthed, Will you?
Findaráto's eyes widened in surprise; then he nodded. With swift, efficient movements he went to Nolofinwë's side, stooped to pick up the crown, and held it aloft. He cleared his throat. "Lord Uncle," he said. "If I may?"
Nolofinwë finally awoke from his petrification. He turned his head to look at Findaráto, blinked, looked back at the people who were staring up at him expectantly.
"Yes, thank you," he said at last, and bowed so that Findaráto could comfortably set the crown upon his uncle's head. Before the audience had a chance to clap or cheer again, Russandol spoke up in his clearest voice.
"Here do I swear fealty and service to you, my king..."
Findekáno joined in, as did his family around him, as did the people in the hall below: "...to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in light or darkness, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth until the world end." Not long ago, Findekáno thought, he had heard this oath and kept his silence; now he could speak the ancient words wholeheartedly. His chest felt too small for his heart, which was full of warmth and joy and love for his father, the king, and his cousin who had given up his crown.
"I hear you. So be it," said Nolofinwë in a warm and happy voice; although Findekáno could not see his face, he knew that his father must be smiling broadly.
Even before everybody had clambered back to their feet, the cheering and stomping and clapping had begun again, louder than ever. Findekáno imagined how the news had travelled to those who were waiting outside, trying to listen in on the parley that had suddenly turned into a coronation, imagined how the people in front of the hall were likewise rejoicing, although they had missed the best part.

In the general exultation, Nolofinwë had stepped off the dais, standing before Russandol. "You...!" he said, but did not go on. Maybe he did not know what more to say.
Russandol inclined his head; now that Nolofinwë no longer stood in an elevated position, he was smaller than his nephew. "I," Russandol said. "Should I have warned you, my king?"
"I would not have believed you," Nolofinwë said. "I did not believe you even now. That you would sacrifice your crown..."
"Your crown," Russandol countered. "I only restored it to you."
Nolofinwë made a strange undignified sound, part snort, part sob, part chuckle: Findekáno could not quite figure out what it was, but then, it probably did not matter.
"I hope I can count on your experience and your knowledge of these lands on my council," Nolofinwë now said. "Yours and your brothers'."
"My brothers' more than mine. My knowledge of these lands is so far limited to a very rough overview."
Findekáno very nearly winced – a very rough overview indeed - but his father did not catch the drift; he merely clasped Russandol's shoulders. "Even so," he said, unwontedly cheerful. "If nothing else, you can keep your brothers in check."
"I hope so, my king."
"I am sure of it," Nolofinwë said. He leaned in and kissed the bruises on his nephew's cheeks. Then he gave him a nod, and went on to accept the homages and congratulations of his people.

Findekáno could no longer stand back now; he jumped off the dais to wrap Russandol in a tight hug. He felt Russandol's hand on his back, light as a feather. "Are you all right?" Russandol whispered, as though it had been Findekáno who had abased himself, had been beaten in front of all these people, and had given up his crown on top of everything else. It was so absurd that Findekáno felt laughter rise within him, bubbling up his throat, and if Turukáno had not cleared his throat loudly behind him, he probably would have laughed out loud. As it was, he turned and saw that Turukáno and the others had followed him, more or less standing in line. Turukáno made an impatient gesture with his head, Make room, Brother! Findekáno gave Russandol another squeeze and then stepped away a little awkwardly, watching in amazement as Turukáno embraced his cousin. "Well done," said Turukáno.
"Thank you," Russandol said, his eyes lighting up.
Aunt Írimë, still holding the rolled-up lists, smiled. "I will embrace you later," she promised, and then turned to Findekáno. "And you, too – you made this possible."
"That is true," Angaráto spoke up wonderingly. "This really is Findekáno's doing."
"Valiant Findekáno!" Irissë said in a cheerful voice, her hand falling on Findekáno's shoulder almost hard enough to make his knees buckle. "Our kingmaker!"
Findekáno's face grew hot. "Ow! Why don't you go and break your chum Tyelkormo's shoulder instead of mine?" he said to downplay his embarrassment.
Irissë laughed. "Very well, worthy Brother, I will! But we won't forget you – no, I daresay no Noldo will ever forget your part in these deeds now!"
"Is that a threat?" Findekáno asked, certain that his face must rival Carnistir's in colour. Now it was he who found himself in Turukáno's embrace while Russandol, smiling in surprised delight, looked on.
"No, most valiant Brother," Turukáno said. "That's a promise."

Part III, Chapter X

In which the reconciled Noldor make plans for the future.

Read Part III, Chapter X

It was the strangest feast that Findekáno had ever attended. It was a disjointed affair: The high table stood in the great tent in the Fëanorian camp, with some additional trestle tables around it; the rest took place in the Nolofinwëan hall, now refurnished, and indeed on the way there, where further benches and tables had been put up. There was a steady coming and going, a to and fro of people and dishes. Most of the food had gone lukewarm by the time it reached the feasting people in the hall, but nobody seemed to care: There was more talking and cheer than eating going on anyway. Those who had missed the coronation were now filled in on the details by the lucky ones who had been present; the retellings generally ended in loud toasts, initially only to the new (and only true) king, but as the story grew more lavish and people began to discuss how these events had ever become possible, the toasts began to be made out to Findekáno and also to Maitimo, who had after all seen reason at last.

Findekáno heard none of it; he was, of course, seated at the high table, though not in the place that would commonly have been occupied by the crown prince. That was another strange thing: They had foregone the ancient protocol for the sake of more sensible seating arrangements. In the place of the king's wife, who was after all not present, sat his sister Írimë; on her right, where the crown prince should be sitting, sat Russandol, with Findekáno on his right, a lesser place (although he would not have exchanged it for anything in the world). On Nolofinwë's left, where his siblings should normally have been seated, sat Findaráto instead of his aunt Írien. Itarildë had been deemed old and reasonable enough to join them on the high table; she sat between her father and her great-aunt Írien, glowing with pride and excitement. Further down the table, Findekáno could see Irissë and Tyelkormo exchanging more or less friendly banter, while Carnistir seemed to be attempting conversation with Artanis. Judging by Artanis' face, he was not doing too well, but they both managed to remain civil. Not much conversation was occurring between Russandol and Írimë, or even between Russandol and Findekáno, after an initial "I think you may have achieved a miracle."
"I only continued what you started, Findo," Russandol had pointed out with a bright smile. He was smiling a lot that afternoon; in fact, Findekáno thought, he was radiating happiness as he looked around the table, his eyes shining, his posture perfectly relaxed.

And why not? They all appeared to be getting along as well as could be hoped, and indeed far better than Findekáno would have expected even one day earlier. Nobody now frowned when Findekáno cut his cousin's meat and broke his bread instead of waiting for a servant to do that; in fact, he occasionally caught benevolent and approving looks from his father and siblings, as if he were performing some slightly distasteful duty rather than feasting with his best friend, whom he could now openly call Friend again.
After a while spent with eating and observing his re-united family, Nolofinwë leaned over to speak with his nephew. "I must apologise for hitting you, Nelyafinwë. Does it hurt much?"
Russandol glanced at him with a glint in his eyes. He did not reply immediately; then he said, "Moringotto struck me like that, you know."
"I am sorry," Nolofinwë said, mortified.
Russandol shrugged. "It was different. He broke my nose. Do not worry, Uncle, I understand. It was a necessary evil."
Nolofinwë nodded, still grimacing. "I needed to know whether you were being sincere. Still..."
"No matter. To be honest, I had expected worse."
"You expected that I would strike you?" Nolofinwë asked with a wide-eyed stare.
Smiling again, Russandol explained, "No; I had not expected anything physical. I had feared that you might make demands that I could not meet, tributes that we could not afford or anything of the sort, or that you would ban us outright from your presence without listening further." He reached up, touching the little bruise on his left cheek. "This was a lot easier."

In the afternoon, King Nolofinwë summoned his new council. The white-washed council chamber in the longhouse was a little small now, and some of the councillors found no more place at the table, instead standing against the wall. Now that they were allies again, Nolofinwë made sure that the privilege of a seat was not limited to his own long-time followers or even his immediate family. Irissë, Angaráto and Aikanáro had to stand just as well as Carnistir, Curufinwë and Ambarussa.
Although it was explicitly Nolofinwë's council, the meeting was dominated by Russandol, who after Nolofinwë's introduction laid down the plans and policies he had made for his people. He went so far as to reccomend which changes Nolofinwë should adopt for his followers; but his most shocking suggestion was that they spread out further, founding new settlements all over Heceldamar*. "While we are concentrated by the shores of this lake, Moringotto can easily overrun our settlements. And many lands are entirely unguarded at this time," Russandol explained. "We can never achieve our true potential if we always remain limited to such a narrow space. We must spread and increase our strength, make as many allies as we can – the indigenous people may be Avari, but they, too, hate Moringotto, and they may support us in battle. It is not enough that they do not mind trading with us: We must try and make them our friends in war as well as peace. We must make sure that Moringotto cannot simply take these lands. We cannot always hide behind mountain walls, as the Valar do. One day, we must face Moringotto in battle again; when that day comes, we must make sure that we stand a chance." He did not speak of the Oath, of recovering the Silmarils; it was not the right time.
"Yes, Nephew, what you say sounds wise. We will consider the matter," said Nolofinwë. "Now, to the question of taxation..."

Russandol stood in the doorway after the council session had ended, looking at the round table and white walls with a thoughtful expression on his face. Findekáno would have liked to go to him, but his father had asked for his and his siblings' opinion on something that concerned only their family. Still, he heard it when Russandol said: "The walls weren't yet plastered when I decided to ride out to the parley that ended so horribly."
Macalaurë, who had waited to see what kept his brother, bit his lips. "They were when I decided that we would not come to your rescue," he said.
Russandol smiled, and turned, and put his arm around his brother's shoulder. "You are so much wiser than I am," he said.
"After today, I seriously doubt that."
"I had help," Russandol said. "Now, I would like to see a healer."
"What is wrong?" Macalaurë asked at once. "Is your leg giving you pain again? Or is it your face?"
"Nothing of the sort! I could not be better. No, Cáno, I just want you to meet the admirable Istimë. Next to Findekáno, I owe her my life."
"Then I shall be honoured to meet her," Macalaurë said, relief colouring his every syllable.
Findekáno looked after them as they marched out side by side.

They dined on the left-overs from the feast, separately this time: The Fëanorians in their camp, and the host of Nolofinwë in the hall or their respective houses. Findekáno should have enjoyed the meal, for next to his father, he earned the most praise and admiration. Now that Russandol had mended matters, Findekáno's adventure no longer looked like folly, a display of misplaced loyalty and confused priorities; instead, it had become an investment in a juster future. It was delightful, of course. The warmth and joy that had filled Findekáno earlier still had not dissipated, and in some way, he felt as though he was walking on clouds. At the same time, he felt an itch to run to Russandol, to discuss the day's events with him in private at last. Findekáno longed to know how Russandol felt now, without his crown; how his brothers had reacted to the shocking decision, and how Russandol thought things would go on. He also needed to express the gratitude that he could not voice before witnesses. Openly, he and the others acted as though it was indeed as natural as Russandol had said that the crown should come to the eldest living son of Finwë, that the Fëanorians simply returned whatever was not rightfully theirs; but in his heart, Findekáno knew that matters were by no means so clear-cut and simple. He hoped that Russandol had not garnered too much enmity by taking property from his people that they had doubtlessly considered their own by now, and that he would be able to hold his followers together now that he no longer was king.
He expected that he could not well sneak away after dinner, being the toast of the party. But as it turned out, his father was quite eager for him to go and speak to his cousin again; and when all plates were cleared and the last jugs of wine and water made the rounds, Nolofinwë stood up for a short speech.
"What a day it has been," he said. "I don't know about you, but I must say that I feel quite exhausted after all these shocks and surprises." There was some laughter. "Therefore I must ask your pardon if I call it an early night. If you wish, you may continue to celebrate, of course; but I will take my leave. There are many things I have to think about." He smiled, and nodded; and under general applause, stopping here and there for a few personal words, he walked out.
Findekáno did not wait long before he announced that he, too, was tired, and asked Turukáno to take his place. Turukáno rolled his eyes at such a transparent excuse, but wished him a good rest and sweet dreams.

In the corridor, Findekáno found that his father had been waiting for him. "I expect you'll want to go to him now," Nolofinwë said.
Findekáno briefly considered feigning ignorance, but then he decided that there was little point. "If I may," he said instead.
"By all means. You will express what I must leave unspoken, won't you?"
Now Findekáno put on a confused face after all. "Unspoken?" he asked.
His father smiled. "Whatever our people may think, my claim to the crown has always been rather feeble – customary at best," he said. "Until today – until Nelyafinwë made it fact. Of course, I could have been a good leader without the title of king; but it means much to my people, I believe, to follow the rightful king; to have followed him all along."
"It does," Findekáno confirmed. "It means much to me."
Nolofinwë put a hand on his shoulder. "There you go, then. Everything has become much easier now. But the sacrifice may have cost him more than he would admit. Let him know that I appreciate it – more than I can admit."
"Yes, Father – I will."
"And we will support his quest, of course, in any way that we can. He is still bound by his Oath, and if we try to hinder them, there will be strife again; they cannot betray their Oath, so they would have to betray us, whether they will or not. That must not happen. He needs to know that I am aware of this risk, and that I will do whatever is possible to aid their cause – and nothing to hurt it."
Findekáno stood open-mouthed for a second. "That is a great concession," he said. "We might as well have sworn the same Oath, then."
"In a way, I have," Nolofinwë said with a heavy sigh. "Do not forget that I swore that I would follow wherever Fëanáro leads."

Outside the palisades, in the camp, Maitimo had likewise retired early. Now that they were amongst themselves, the cheer had left their company. Macalaurë knew how simple it was to surrender a crown if you thought there was a more deserving head, Tyelperinquar did not particularly care for titles, and Ambarussa had been convinced by the ease with which they had been reconciled after Maitimo's abdication. But the other brothers agreed that Maitimo should have kept the list of reparations as well as the crown. After all, Nolofinwë's people had accepted their apology even so.
"Accepted our apology, yes," Maitimo said. "Forgiven us, no. How could they – and so easily? No; we had to show that we meant it -"
"You let him strike you without protest or resistance!"
Maitimo dismissed that argument with a wave of his hand. "That was a test, and I passed it. But it still only made them accept that we regretted our deeds. That was good, but only a beginning. By giving them more than they dared to hope for, I helped them to overcome their righteous anger all in one moment. That might otherwise have taken years to achieve, if not decades."
"And any step in the direction of reconciliation could have been ruined by a rash word or deed from any one of us or our followers," Macalaurë added. "Whereas nobody will forget what happened today."

"That's all fine and well," said Curufinwë, "but it still was our crown, and now you've made it look as if it never really should have been."
With a shrug, Maitimo said, "It was useless as long as only a small part of the Noldor actually considered the man who wore it their king. Now it has meaning again. And it does not matter whether you think that Nolofinwë really had a right to it: You've sworn your oath of allegiance to him, and that makes it real."
"Yes, yes," Tyelkormo conceded.
"I do not honestly see why you care so much," Maitimo went on. "Things hardly changed for you. I remain your direct lord, the head of your House: You answer to me first, and whether I answer only to myself or to one above me makes no difference to you."
"It makes a difference whether we have only you to convince, or you and Uncle Nolofinwë," Curufinwë pointed out.
"You have only Uncle Nolofinwë to convince; he may overrule me."
Macalaurë chuckled.
"Still, should you be killed in one of those battles that you see us fighting, it would have been a powerful consolation if there was a crown to inherit, at least," Carnistir spoke up in a hollow voice.
Maitimo gave him a hurt look. "Until you inherited the crown, Moryo, it would not be enough to kill me off; Cáno and Tyelko would also have to die. May we be spared from such a fate before we have fulfilled our Oath – but should you lose three of your brothers, I would assume that no mere circlet of gold could assuage your pain."
Carnistir shrugged. Maitimo shook his head, exasperated. "I think I've reached the end of my endurance for today," he said. "It has been a long day. Brothers, Tyelperinquar, I bid you a good night. I hope that sleep will help you to accept my decision."
"There is nothing to accept," said Curufinwë. "What's done is done."
"Then why are we still arguing about it?" Maitimo asked with a tired smile. "Good night, gentlemen."
"Good night, Nelyo," said Macalaurë.

Maitimo stood silent while Varnacanyo helped him out of his vest and robes and underclothes. Master Encaitar had done a good job, Maitimo had to admit; the many layers had been alien and unnecessarily complex, but they had been quite comfortable, pleasant to wear once he had gotten over his distaste for such lavish clothing. He did not speak when Varnacanyo unbraided and combed his hair and massaged his back and his tired legs. Varnacanyo likewise said nothing, until at last he brought Maitimo's nightshirt. Then he said, "I didn't think you'd really go through with it until I saw you coming back without the crown."
Maitimo raised his eyebrows. "You know me. Stubborn. If I make a decision, I stick with it."
"Yes, I should have known," Varnacanyo agreed. "Still, your father's crown..."
"I know you always wanted to serve the King of the Noldor," Maitimo said, briefly brushing his hand. "I am sorry. If you wish, I can ask my uncle whether he has a position to fill in his household."
There was a moment of silence as Varnacanyo aided him into the nightshirt; Maitimo briefly wondered whether Varnacanyo had actually listened.
"I can't believe you still remember my childhood dreams," Varnacanyo then said. "Things were so different then... and I so young and foolish." He tilted his head. "I have served the King of the Noldor for a while. It was pretty much exactly like serving Lord Maitimo. If you permit, I'd like to stay with the latter." And he kissed Maitimo's hand.
Maitimo pulled him into an embrace. "I am glad for anyone on whose support I can rely – especially when he has proven as steadfast as you have."

The clinking of armour alerted them to the arrival of company. A slight cough, and the voice of Vorondil: "My lord, are you willing to see a visitor?"
"Who is it, Vorondil?"
"The crown prince of the Noldor, my lord."
"By all means, let him in!" Maitimo said. Varnacanyo stood back as Findekáno entered the tent. Vorondil's leaving footsteps rustled the grass, then faded into the general noise of the evening.
Maitimo smiled. "My lord crown prince! How good of you to make time for me." Varnacanyo bowed low.
Findekáno felt his cheeks heat up again. "Don't call me that," he said.
"It's what you are – but suit yourself. I am still glad to see you."
"No longer a traitor among your own people, I hope?" Varnacanyo said with a wink.
"No, indeed not," Findekáno said with a sheepish smile; and turning to Russandol: "Are you?"
"I'm afraid so. I will now learn whether they'll forgive me in good time, or whether I'll have to beg for a place at my uncle's table in the future."
"For what it's worth, I'm sure we'd make room for you." Findekáno said it with a wink; but then he sobered. "You were so happy this afternoon – if anybody had told me half a year ago that I would ever see you so full of joy again, I would not have believed it. You were practically shining. It pains me that your happiness has already been diminished."
Russandol smiled, and for a moment, his eyes were shining again. "No, best of cousins, I am happy. It has been a great day. Look at what I achieved – almost single-handedly," he added as an afterthought. Findekáno groaned as Maitimo spoke on, "The Noldor are one people again."

Nodding in amazement, Findekáno said, "I would not have thought it possible. How long have you been planning this?"
Another gentle smile. "Actually planning this? For a couple of weeks. But bits and pieces have been with me for a long time. I knew from the start, I think, that I would have to defer the kingship to your father..."
"You said something to that effect back when you were recuperating – that you were rightly named Nelyafinwë now."
"There you go, then! Parts of the plan have been on my mind long before I truly knew what it meant."
Findekáno nodded again. "There's a problem, now that our families are talking again," he said. "You see, my family know the truth..."
"What truth?" asked Russandol.
Findekáno glanced at Varnacanyo, who frowned, but went to the tent-flap and turned away from their conversation – or pretended to, at least.
"About your hand, I mean," Findekáno said very softly. "I told them the whole story before I knew that you wanted to keep it a secret. So I suppose things might get complicated if they hear each other's differing accounts. I am sorry..."
Russandol seemed to be staring into nothing for a while. At last he shrugged. "I'd have to tell them the truth sooner or later, I suppose. Sooner now. Maybe Fúmella can help me – you know, the poet who so terrified you at our Midwinter feast."
"She didn't terrify me," Findekáno protested. "She just threw me off-balance, that's all."
"As you say. But her song may be useful in spreading the true story. She has not yet finished it, as far as I know. I will speak with her when we return. Do not worry; it is going to work out."
"If you say so."
"I do," Russandol said. "Well, no point in standing around like this. It's a balmy night, albeit on the humid side, I believe - shall we sit outside?"

Varnacanyo and Findekáno carried the cot before the tent. They sat down, Maitimo loosely wrapped in his blanket, looking out at the canvas walls of the other tents and the torches that were lighting the paths between them.
"Father has asked me to tell you what he could not say today," Findekáno sat after a moment of companionable silence. "He wants me to thank you for turning his feeble claim to the crown into undisputable fact, and to ask whether it has been very hard for you."
A shrug. "Your father knows, as I do, that a crown can be a terribly heavy thing – especially when it is not undisputed. I would always have had to expend more strength than it's worth on defending my title, and your people might never have accepted it. Now I'm just a lord among others, which is fine for them, and responsibility enough for me."
"You, my lord, will never just be a lord among others," Varnacanyo spoke up.
"I was going to say just that," said Findekáno.
"Don't dash all my illusions at once," Russandol said, putting on a pout; Findekáno had to laugh out loud, and Russandol joined in, just because he could.

When they had sobered again, Findekáno said, "Father also says that he will support your quest for the Silmarils, so that your Oath will not come between your House and ours."
Russandol heaved a long sigh. "I would have to address that matter eventually, yes."
"Well, now you know Father's stance."
"Yes. Your father is generous and wise."
"I know," said Findekáno. "But so are you."
Maitimo paid no heed to the compliment. "My brothers will eventually understand it, too, I hope. It may get easier once they receive their own principalities, if the king follow my advice. That would do them good – their office and responsibilities would keep them busy, and they'd have no more time to pine for a decorative but ultimately useless crown."
The mists kept the warmth of the day from escaping, enveloping palisade and camp and forest like a cozy grey blanket; still, Findekáno suddenly shivered. "So you really meant what you said – about leaving this place."
"Yes," Russandol said with a sympathetic grimace. "I know how it sounds, but I think it is necessary. Right now, we are sitting like fish in a weir. There is so much uncharted land here, so many opportunities, yet we huddle by the shore as if frightened of our own potential. You have only just arrived, I know; but we cannot always hope that Moringotto will stay in Angamando, content to blight our crops and shadow our days. We must make sure that he cannot reach the heart of our land so easily. Ideally, we would beleaguer him, but I am not certain we will have time enough to grow to such strength. His strength is great; we must try to match it, or at least provoke him to make a mistake. For that, we need more room."
"And would you go far away?" Findekáno said, wrapping his arms around himself.
"Likely. I expect that the realms closest to this place will go to you and your brothers. I will be content with some undesirable realm of strategic importance."
"I knew you'd say that."
"Because it is reasonable, I hope."

Findekáno scrunched up his nose and poked out his tongue, the way he had expressed his displeasure as a small child. "It probably is. It's just... it was so wonderful that we were reunited at last. I missed you every day, Russo, and I thought that would be over now. But now it seems that we are going to part again before long. I find it unbearable to just imagine it."
Russandol leaned against his shoulder. "Don't imagine it yet, then," he said. "It will take some time to chart and assign these wide lands. And your father may decide against it, anyway."
Findekáno sighed. "Not if it's as sensible as you make it sound." He stared up at the misty sky; it no felt longer comforting, instead reminding him of the threat in the North again. "It's never going to last, is it? Whenever we find happiness, it is going to be brief before something destroys it. And it's not just Moringotto – we're up against reason, and duty, and your damned Oath."
"Yes," Russandol replied soberly. "But that cannot be helped; such was of old the fate of Arda Marred. And Námo's curse probably doesn't help our cause."
"I still don't see why we always have to suffer from it," Findekáno insisted, hardly ashamed of his childish words: The sentiment might be silly, but it was heartfelt.
Russandol wrapped him in his blanket, holding him close. "Ah, best of cousins, don't let it ruin the good times. Darker days will come, yes, but today, the future is ours. Today, all is right."
"Yes," Findekáno echoed. "Today, all is right."

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Chapter End Notes

*Heceldamar is one of the Quenya names for Beleriand. I was not certain whether any of the other options were already appropriate: Valariandë, the direct cognate, might already exist, but possibly only among the Fëanorians or indeed as a back-translation of "Beleriand"; Ingolondë (literally "land of the Noldor") does not yet fit while the Noldor inhabit only a tiny part of it. Hecel(da)mar, the name "used in the language of the loremasters of Aman", appeared to be the safest choice.

Acknowledgements

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Acknowledgements

This story has been with me for almost seven years, and I cannot quite believe that I actually finished it. Well, of course the story is far from over: But I wanted to end my retelling in a happy place, and this seemed to be a good choice.

It goes without saying, but for completeness' sake, I am infinitely indebted to the late Professor J.R.R.Tolkien, whose characters and world I borrowed.
Other sources of inspiration have been Nol, Ithilwen and Dawn Felagund. Until I stumbled across their work, fanfiction was for me on the same level as penny dreadfuls: Fun, but not particularly sophisticated – a guilty pleasure. But The Vain Songs, the Maedhros series and Another Man's Cage showed me that fanfiction could in fact be literature, just as worthwhile (sometimes more so) than "proper", published original fiction. Back then, that was quite an eye-opener for me. Aside from eventually pushing me to try my own hand at fanfiction, they also informed my view of the Noldor in general and the Fëanorians in particular forever. I am infinitely indebted to them. I have not re-read Ithilwen's Maedhros series in a decade, but I expect that much of my work will parallel hers, because it was so hugely influential for me at that transformative stage. However, no plagiarism is intended or has (I hope) occured.

My friendly but adamant beta-readers, Elleth and Dawn Felagund have helped me to iron out (most of) the kinks of the first book. I learned a lot about writing because they shared their trade secrets with me, pointed out awkward wordings and pushed me to flesh out initially uninspired descriptions. Their enthusiasm and encouragement finally convinced me to share this story with a larger audience.
SurgicalSteel has informed the deeds of Istimë the healer: It is thanks to her that Maitimo got a chance to recover without additional damage. The second and third part of this story were written without beta-reading, which probably shows; all the errors therein are my own. If you catch one, whether typo or inconsistency, please let me know! I may be annoyed to have overlooked a mistake for so long – the embarrassment! Why did nobody tell me before?! - but I'll be happy when it is no longer there.

A big thank you to all those who wrote reviews. You let me know that my story was being read, and that I must be doing something right, which was invaluable at times when the story didn't want to cooperate or when I just didn't know how to go on. I am especially happy about those that included questions, criticism or additional information. They have helped me (I hope) to get better and to form a clearer image of early First Age Hithlum than I ever thought I would have. Winning first place in the 2010 MEFAs naturally was another huge motivation booster, and I owe it to you, my generous readers and reviewers.

Throughout the writing of Book Three, Himring and Marie (my Russian translator – I have a Russian translator, squeeee!) have provided regular motivational comments and e-mails – I probably owe it to the faithful support of you two that the final eight chapters got written over the course of a single year! Marie has also kept me updated on The Tempered Steel's reception among the Russian contingent of the Tolkien fandom. I can't begin to express how thrilled I am that a story of mine has been translated by somebody who is not me, into a language I don't speak.

When I began writing this story, it was because I was unsatisfied with how I had seen the aftermath of Maitimo's torment and his phase of recovery handled in fanfic so far. By the time I actually got there, there were several fics that dealt with it in a manner I found satisfactory, often better than I think I did. If I had read those stories back in 2007, I might never have written The Tempered Steel, but by the time I came across them, I had already committed to this story – fortunately (I guess)!

Finally, thank YOU. Whether I know you or not, whether we ever talked or not, whether you're a fellow writer or a casual reader: While I started to write this story just for myself, it eventually turned into something that I wanted to be read by others. I've dreamed of being an author ever since I learned to write (no, seriously; I wrote my first fanfic, although of course I didn't know it was called that back in the day, when I was 7), and in this comfortable corner of the internet, I actually am. If you're reading this, you're a part of the crowd who have made my dream a reality, for which I owe you my deepest thanks.

~ Lyra
November 2013