The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part III, Chapter V

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

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".)