The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter VII

In which Fingon's hike continues, and in which his harp proves its worth.

For the first days he kept up a rhythm of long, fast marches and brief rests, anxious to put distance between himself and his father's camp to ensure that he could not be reached and brought back with his mission unfulfilled. It was fortunate now that they had no horses (those few that had not been taken away on the ships had not survived on the Ice for long). On foot, it was unlikely that they would catch up with him after the first days. He thought it doubtful that his father would borrow horses from the Fëanorians, even if they offered to give them. Nolofinwë might not have his half-brother's ferocious temper, but he was no less proud.

To be safe, however, Findekáno still strayed from the direct road, walking through the woods and wide fields, across little brooks and sloping hills, keeping slightly to the northwest rather than turning straight towards the north. He avoided being seen by anyone, lest a coincidental encounter with wood-elves might betray his whereabouts to his father's scouts. His luggage bumped against his back unpleasantly with every step, and the straps that held the quiver and sword and wrapped-up harp in place began chafing before long. He had been tempted a few times to trade the heavy harp for things more useful on his march but refrained because he feared to give himself away, or even just to tarry and lose his lead. Then the lands grew emptier, and the sparse population made way for none but birds and beasts. By that time he had grown used to his burden, and was loath to part with it, one of the few items of luxury that had been made since the crossing of the Ice.

He marched on steadily but no longer without rest, taking the time now to gather food on his way: roots and berries, mushrooms and nuts, and the seeds of wild rye and oats which he ground between stones to get flour for cooking gruel. Once or twice he shot a rabbit. The fading year was kind to him; most nights were cold but dry, and the days were bright while they lasted. The trees proudly displayed their many-coloured leaves in fiery hues of gold and red and copper, dew glistened on cobwebs. The mists wrapping the hills and trees were painted a soft pink by the rising and setting sun. Had he not been driven by his dire purpose, Findekáno might have enjoyed his journey thoroughly.
Yet the year was unmistakably fading, and as he came further into the north, the trees grew barren and the days cold. A bitter wind blew southwards, carrying ash and soot and decay on it. Rain fell often now, and it was not the clean, sweet rain he knew from home, but a foul-tasting, spirit-drenching rain that fell in torrents and soaked his clothing until he was wet to his bones. At other times, a disheartening drizzle wrapped him like a damp cloak, falling relentlessly and creeping everywhere. The lands grew silent but for the whistling of the harsh winds. Even the drumming of the rain seemed subdued as though it was holding its breath.
Findekáno knew then that he must be close to Angamando.

Indeed he reached the Mountains of Ash early the next day, having walked through the night (for he did not dare to sleep so close to the Enemy). There was no rain now, but there was icy mist and searing vapour issuing from cracks in the rocks. The ground was frozen, littered with lumps of stone and ashes. Off the trampled road to the Gate of Angamando, it rose sheer and uneven, torn by deep clefts and abysses, obstacled by large rocks. Findekáno spent wearying days climbing through the clefts and over boulders, searching for a secret way in and finding none. Often he had to spend long stretches of time hiding from Orcs. His provisions began to run out. He never dared to sleep, instead climbing, walking, searching desperately. He often discovered what looked like deep tunnels, but whenever he followed them into the dark rock, after a promising beginning he found the way blocked after a long march, and had to turn back, always afraid that he'd find the entrance guarded by Orcs ready to slaughter him. Every time he left such a tunnel unapprehended felt like a small miracle. He was desperately afraid that he would run out of luck; yet he could not ignore the crags and tunnels, for maybe one of them would finally lead him into Angamando. He did not know how many miles he walked in his fruitless search. The pain in his feet and back was nothing compared to his frustration. More and more often, the realisation that he might have to go back to his father's camp, alone, facing his father's wrath and his own failure, began to niggle at his mind. He always pushed it away, yet even in his most optimistic moments – and there were no longer many of those – he had to admit that he had no idea how much longer he would be able to go on like this. He forced himself to keep moving, but his feet slipped frequently now, and he was finding it hard not to stumble, or to get up again after ducking behind a rock; hunger and exhaustion were beginning to take their toll. He was merciless with himself, telling himself that he had born and survived worse on the Helcaraxë and could surely do it again, that he had no right to rest until he found what he'd come here for. He pushed all thoughts, hopeful and desperate alike, from his mind, focussing entirely on his search, until one day he emerged from yet another cleft in the rocks and stared at the broken landscape around him and realised that the sights and findings of the past hours had felt familiar, and the reason for that feeling was that he had searched this stretch of rock before. And he had found no entrance but the Gate, by which he would never be able to pass unseen and uncaught.

The thought, bitter in its irony, struck him how much like the Pelóri these mountain-walls were. Much though Moringotto hated the Valar, Findekáno realised, he still imitated them. There had been no way into Valinor but through the Calacirya, yet Moringotto had entered in secret by another way. If this was a reversal of the Pelóri – not keeping evil out, but keeping it safe – Findekáno hoped that he would be the one to find a way across them. But he had searched every ridge and crevice for a chance of slipping in, and there had been nothing. He knew then that he was defeated, and that he should return back home. He had done what he could, and it had not been enough.
Still he would not accept it.

Thinking about the Pelóri had reminded him of a song. It had been going around in his head for the past hours already, steady and insistent to the point of annoyance. He hadn't been able to get rid of it. More than once he had caught himself humming, and whenever he had thought he'd finally managed to force his mind to think of other things, it returned, rising from a slow and hopeful theme to exuberant joy. Macalaurë had taught it to him years, no, centuries ago, when there had still been friendship between him and his cousins. It was a song about the first Elves who had marched the long way from Cuiviénen to the sea, and then crossed it and reached the Undying Lands and passed through the Calacirya, seeing for the first time the light and the splendour of the Two Trees. And now it was worming its way through Findekáno's brain while he was on a rather different, far less hopeful journey, and the Trees were dead.

He could not later say just what it was that moved him to do what he did then. Maybe it was exhaustion that overcame all reason, maybe it was frustration that made him reckless. Maybe it was providence. Whatever it was, he took the harp from his back, and sitting down against the steep walls of the mountain, he began to sing that ancient song that would not leave him alone. He began softly, picking the tune on the strings hesitantly; but soon the song took hold of his voice and hands, the music surging through him; and his voice swelled over the wasteland, angry and defiant, loud and clear. His fingers fell onto the harp-strings with determination, and over his anger he felt a certain satisfaction at having brought some beauty to this desolate realm.

And then another voice joined his song. It was an unpleasant voice, raw and Orcish, harsh like the cawing of the ravens that had descended on Alqualondë to feast on the dead; and all of a sudden Findekáno remembered where he was and in what danger, and how foolish it was to have betrayed himself with a silly song.
But he could not stop himself now. Though the voice was still distant and he might yet have had a chance of running and hiding if he'd set off at once, he remained where he was and kept up his song, closing his eyes and awaiting his fate, while the tune was sung back to him in mockery, distorted, from afar.
And then he began to doubt.
Flowing on the music, his thoughts began to meander and converge like brooks running through an undulating country, leaping over hills, flowing together and apart and ending, in the end, in a clear lake.
The song had been written after the Great Journey, in Valinor.
No Orc would sing this song.
No Orc would know this song.

His fingers fell from the harp, and he jumped to his feet, heart pounding. Wrapping the instrument hastily, he scanned his surroundings for the source of the song that continued even now. Finally he realised that it was coming from high above, not from afar! He looked up. Narrowing his eyes to better see through the vaporous air, he saw what looked like a pair of feet, tiny in the distance.
He steadied himself against the rock, squinting again. Shouldering his harp, he called as loud as he could, "Russandol?"

The singing ceased, and there was a brief silence that felt endless while he listened, straining his ears, desperate for a response.

And finally it came.
"Findekáno!"