The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part III, Chapter IX

In which reconciliation talks are turned into a coronation.

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

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

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

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

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

- - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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