The Tempered Steel by Lyra

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.

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.