The Tempered Steel by Lyra

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.

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.