The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter IV

In which the host of Fingolfin enters the scene, and in which Fingon serves as a herald.

These were the days of wonders, Macalaurë thought. First there had been the arrival of sun and moon, the end of perpetual darkness. Then there had been the awakening of life to a spring of so many flowers and colours that many professed never to have seen such beauty (although there had been springs like this and more beautiful in Aman - but that had been long ago, and pain lay in between). There would be a true harvest this year, a welcome change to their diet that had, so far, consisted mostly of fish and meat and such plants as thrived in the darkness.
And now their encampment had received an addition.

They had stared as the host of Nolofinwë had arrived, disbelieving and intrigued, and (most of them) not just a little ashamed. It was obvious that the Nolofinwëans had suffered, and their host was decimated in size; yet, unbelievably, they were there. Cold looks and few words had been exchanged when the new arrivals had taken up camp right next to the Fëanorian settlement. Macalaurë longed to speak with his uncle and cousins; but he did not know how to begin it, and, afraid to provoke the others by any deed, he did nothing and waited. Nolofinwë and his sons, and Findaráto who was leading the host of Arafinwë now (Macalaurë had been relieved when he received the intelligence that their youngest uncle had returned to Tirion, not died on the road as he had at first feared), showed no interest in dealing with their treacherous kin, and thus there was no contact for the time being between the leaders of either faction.

There was no talk between the two camps, but there was plenty within them. On the Fëanorian side, there was surprise, even delight to see that those abandoned had followed them after all. There were wild speculations about how they might have gone about it – had they built new ships? had Ulmo uprooted an island again to ferry them over, now that those who had insulted the Valar were no longer among them? – and how their coming might be related to the new lights. Then two healers who had asked leave to go and see whether they might help the ill or wounded in the other camp, and who had grudgingly been admitted among the host of Nolofinwë, brought the news that the Helcaraxë had been crossed.
This intelligence was greeted with doubt if not downright disbelief at first. But the injuries matched their tale, the healers said. Turukáno's wife had been lost, and Arakáno son of Nolofinwë had perished, and many others, especially the younger folk. Yet all in all, those that were still alive were in surprisingly good health, if worn-out and malnourished.

Macalaurë did not know how much about the events that had befallen since the ship-burning the healers had in turn told in the other camp, and he did not ask. He and his brothers took the news each in his own way. Macalaurë was saddened by the tales of losses and deeply moved by the loyalty of Nolofinwë that had brought him over the Ice. "Pride, more like," judged Curufinwë, "and stubbornness. He just couldn't bear to be left behind." He maintained that the hardships that had been suffered in the crossing of the Helcaraxë were none of their responsibility, as Nolofinwë could just as well have returned to Valinor. Tyelkormo agreed almost too eagerly. It was Carnistir who pointed out that since Nolofinwë had made a promise to their father he could, in fact, not have turned back, but Curufinwë brushed this inconvenient consideration aside. "He wouldn't have followed us for any promise if he hadn't wanted to. He'd probably laugh at us for believing the Ice uncrossable, if we were on speaking terms."
Macalaurë sternly forbade such talk lest rumours of it reach the other host and complicate matters further. But naturally that only meant that these things were no longer mentioned in his hearing but happily discussed in private. Curufinwë's interpretation of things was welcome enough for many, as it took away the blame and prime responsibility from them and placed both on Nolofinwë's shoulders.

As a matter of fact, the healers had not been asked many questions about how the Fëanorians had fared, and they hadn't told much of their own accord, being busy with their work and their own questions. Thus the host of Nolofinwë knew nothing about the other side but vague rumours and guesswork. Curufinwë's accusations, of course, were known to them in full after a few arguments between two guards of either side. Hearing no other voices, they took it to be the opinion of all.
After that, the healers were no longer welcome, and the only contact between the two factions was the occasional quarrel that often turned violent before it could be broken up.

"We will abandon camp," Macalaurë announced when the hostility between the factions threatened to turn into open warfare. "We'll make our way to the opposite shore of the lake. That way, I hope there will be less encounters that end in a battle." He cast a meaningful glance at one of the pages; the young man by the name of Orecalo had accused two of Nolofinwë's men of stealing supplies. They had not liked the reproach, and a fist-fight had erupted until knives were drawn. Several guards had been needed to pull the fighters apart. It hadn't been the only incident of that kind lately, but it was the most recent one, and unlike the others, it had been at blade-point.
The page, sporting a purple bruise on one cheek and a thin cut on his forehead, looked away embarrassedly but said nothing.
"You cannot be serious," Curufinwë protested, jumping to his feet.
"I can," replied Macalaurë, "and I am. Firstly, we are less than they are – " Angry murmurs arose all around, stating that on the other hand they were stronger, and surely they would not bow to numbers, and the like.
Macalaurë raised his hand, forbidding further protest. "We are less than they are, and we cannot have open war with our own cousins. We will need them as allies if we want any hope of succeeding. This is a chance – if we manage to heal this rift. So we will give way. It is spring, and bright; it will be easy to begin a new settlement. A better one, even," he added with a look at his more impetuous brothers. "After all, we have no idea whether this really is the best place for a camp. We simply arrived and stayed. We should have looked about much sooner. And the time now is ideal. It is mild enough to sleep outside till we have built houses, and still early enough in the year to give us the time and freedom we need. Later there would be crops to worry about; now everything is unwritten."
"You make it sound like you're doing us a favour," Curufinwë growled.
"I hope I am," Macalaurë replied. "We will leave within the week." He leaned back and gave the signal for the plates to be brought and the meal to begin, declaring his decision final.

"Sometimes you're quite tyrannic," Tyelkormo pointed out to him later when they were standing on the ramparts, looking out over the lake towards the banks that were to become their new home.
"Not really," Macalaurë said softly. "But I must try to be. You and the others can doubt all you want - that is your prerogative. But as I am the King, I must appear certain in what I do, or nobody will follow me. I mustn't permit myself to doubt, and thus I must prevent you from making me doubt. Otherwise, I would crumble."
"I doubt you'd crumble that easily."
The shadow of a smile slid over Macalaurë's face.
"Then I suppose I'm acting my part well."

- - -

Despite the grumblings and misgivings, when they had actually left the camp and trekked half-way around the lake, the mood among the Fëanorians lifted. There had been a feeling of stagnation about them of late, days passing in inaction (that is, filled only with everyday business with nothing more unusual than, perhaps, somebody falling off a horse or a particularly large fish to be caught or a petty squabble) and without excitement. Now there was new work in abundance, and once they had decided on a place, they set out to get it done. In the blossoming spring, it wasn't unpleasant to sleep in make-shift tents or under the stars while the camp was being fortified. They knew now where to find stones and clay and ores, or sand for making glass, or elm trees for lean but strong pillars. They'd had time to familiarise themselves with the surroundings, and they had learned how best to arrange the buildings in a fortified settlement. Fields were prepared, and foraging troops brought dozens of young seedlings for cultivation. Cattle and sheep were kept on fenced pastures, and as spring drew on, the fledglings of wild chicken or fowl were taken to the camp to be brought up there and provide eggs or meat and feathers. All the while, the building progressed, and the hammer-falls from Curufinwë's new forge where he laboured with his son and the other smiths rang almost without cease.

Then one day, just after summer had begun, Macalaurë woke up to find Findekáno waiting before his tent. In his surprise and still drowsy from sleep, he forgot his usual caution and wrapped his cousin in a tight embrace. Findekáno did not move, but Macalaurë could feel his muscles tense in repulsion. He stepped back quickly, saying, "Findekáno! It is good to see you."
The other folded his arms across his chest. "Is it, now?" He was wearing very simple clothing, Macalaurë noted: a light tunic with cut-off sleeves, with breeches and simple bracelets of leather. He was quite obviously not trying to impress anyone. The belt around his waist made plain how thin he had grown. A sheath for a dagger hung from the belt, but the weapon itself was nowhere to be seen; Macalaurë assumed that it was with the guards.

With a sigh, he said, "It is. But as it seems you haven't come for pleasantries, what brought you here?"
"I have some words from my father the King –" he stressed the last word, challenging Macalaurë to contradict him – "and also I intended to speak to a former friend."
"I see", said Macalaurë, a shadow passing over his face.
"I bet you do," retorted Findekáno. "So where is your father?"
Macalaurë winced visibly, and it took him a while to answer. "He is dead," he said eventually, forcing himself to look the other in the eye. "He was slain shortly after we arrived here."
"Oh," said Findekáno. His voice remained cold although Macalaurë believed that he saw his cousin's eyes soften. "And your brothers?"
Macalaurë took a deep breath, telling himself that Findekáno was not doing this on purpose. "Tyelko's out on a hunting expedition, as is Ambarussa. Curufinwë is busy in the forge, I believe. Carnistir is probably still asleep, or in bed, at any rate."
"You forgot Russandol," Findekáno noted, his nonchalance betrayed by a trace of anxiety in his voice.
Macalaurë closed his eyes briefly, chewed his lip, looked away, no longer capable of meeting the other's eyes. Finally, he carefully asked, "You have not had much news about us, have you?"

Findekáno still remained hostile; only his widened eyes betrayed his growing alarm.
"No. We had our own problems to deal with without bothering to catch up on traitors. What of Russandol?"
Macalaurë hung his head. It was a kind of unwritten law that their brother would not be mentioned, although he was always thought of. The grief and fear were better kept inside than voiced, everybody seemed to agree. It was easier to bear that way.
Now Macalaurë found it hard to speak of Nelyo at all, especially to one who had no idea what his innocent question meant to him. But the stormy look in Findekáno's eyes told him that there was no talking around the painful topic. He released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, took another deep breath, finally said, "He was captured by Moringotto, twelve years ago."

Findekáno's composure crumpled then; his hands fell to his side, powerless. "Tell me that is not true!" he demanded. The coolness had left his voice entirely, making way for pain.
Macalaurë could feel his eyes well up. "I wish I could."
"Is he dead then?" Findekáno asked, and his voice was trembling slightly.
"If he is lucky." Macalaurë looked away so his cousin would not see his tears. But by the sharp intake of breath he knew that the news grieved Findekáno as well.
"You mean he might still be alive?" Nolofinwë's eldest asked when he had regained control over his voice.
"He might be," Macalaurë said carefully. "We have heard nothing to the contrary." He reached out and touched Findekáno's shoulder sympathetically. "I am sorry. I know you were friends."
Findekáno looked up, his eyes dark. "A long time ago. Still…" He shook his head. Then his brow creased. "When did you last try to free him?"

Macalaurë closed his eyes desolately. "Never. There was nothing we could do."
Staring at him in disbelief, Findekáno shrugged his cousin's hand off his shoulder. "You can't mean that. Surely you sent an army, or scouts at least!"
"There was no point, Findekáno. We were too few; we still are. Even united with your host, as I hope we shall be one day –" Findekáno clenched his fists angrily at these words, scowling, though he said nothing – "we might hardly hope to have strength enough. As it was… everything we could have tried would have endangered our lives, our quest, and not least of all Nelyo. I know it is horrible, but there was nothing we could have done." He reached out again.
Findekáno slapped his hand aside furiously. "I cannot believe this. Abandoning us was bad enough, but abandoning your own brother in the Enemy's hands, that is disgusting beyond thought! You are heartless! Surely even your father would have sacrificed all to free Russandol!"
"Sacrificed many other lives for the vague hope of saving one? Possibly," said Macalaurë, growing impatient. "But I am not my father. I don't know what he would have done. I do know what I had to decide, and I did not do it easily, but it was the only decision I could make."
"I cannot believe it," Findekáno repeated through gritted teeth. Even while listening he had just barely contained his anger; now he let it break free as he hissed, "You're abominable, Macalaurë, and I regret to be of your kin, truly I do." He spat at Macalaurë's feet, then turned and marched away briskly. Macalaurë found himself running after him.
"Findekáno, you do not understand. Anything we could have done…"
Findekáno stopped and turned to face him so abruptly that they almost collided. "I do not want to understand such treachery. I would have done anything if it were my brother. Anything. Leave me alone; I will not have anything to do with you." He resumed his march to the wall-gate, Macalaurë helplessly tagging behind.
"My dagger, if you please," Findekáno snapped at the guard as he had reached the camp's end.
The guard shot a questioning glance at Macalaurë, who nodded resignedly, then returned Findekáno's dagger to its owner. As his cousin sheathed it, Macalaurë could see that the blade was notched and dulled. Findekáno managed a nod for the guard. Then he stepped out of the camp and hurried away without looking at Macalaurë again.

"That did not go well," Carnistir said. Macalaurë jumped; he hadn’t noticed that his brother had joined him.
"No," he said, restoring his composure with some difficulty, "it didn't." He felt tears on his cheeks and wiped them away almost angrily.
"You were right, you know," Carnistir whispered with a glance at the guard, who tried very hard to pretend that he wasn't actually present. "He does not understand."
"Nobody should have to understand," Macalaurë said, trying a shaky smile for his brother's sake. But Carnistir wasn't looking at him anymore; he was watching the retreating figure of Findekáno. Macalaurë did likewise. Their cousin walked, almost ran, at an unsteady pace, doubtlessly overcome by emotion.
Finally, Macalaurë shook his head.
"There is no hope in Eä that our family can ever be reunited."