The Tempered Steel by Lyra

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Part III, Chapter I

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

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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.

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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.