The Tempered Steel by Lyra

Part I, Chapter VIII

In which there is a duet, and in which Fingon learns to fly.

The song had begun suddenly, familiar and yet alien, distant as he now was from his past life. At first he had not realised that it had its source not in his mind - he had been forcing himself to recall songs and poems whenever he had managed to grasp a moment of clarity amidst his pain, and if this memory was more lucid than usual, he hadn't noticed it immediately. Only when he had tried to sing along and his voice, unfamiliar with uttering anything beyond the occasional groan, had joined the other without drowning it out, his hoarse croaking not replacing the other voice but adding to it, he had realised that there must be somebody far below, somebody to do the singing.
And the voice was familiar. At first he had believed that he remembered his brother singing, but now that he was listening more closely, the voice was less rich, less precise, though not less dear.

Hope awoke in him, springing up like a flame, shooting through his worn-out body. He sang louder then, trembling with the effort and with mingled fear and excitement. His left hand clutched at the rock in a desperate attempt of grounding him lest he loose his mind now of all times; his fingers felt raw against the rough stone, but he did not care.
It would be over.
It would be over after all.
He sang, ignoring the protests of his parched throat, but he did not have much strength; even at the loudest he was capable of, he was not sure that he would be heard. He hardly awoke the echoes. Hope and despair battled in his mind, and when the harp below stopped playing, he panicked. Arching his back, resting his head against the mountain-wall, praying that he would be heard, he forced the next notes out louder. His left hand was bleeding by now.

And then, after what seemed like another eternity of fear, the voice was there again, calling his epessë. Wild hope coursed through his veins, making him tremble harder. If he'd had any tears left to cry, he would have shed them now. As it was, all that happened was that he began to sob, dry and soundless. He clenched his fists, trying to regain control over his breathing. Finally he managed to call, "Findekáno!"
It sounded pitiful to himself, but the voice called again from below, strong and full of life and promise, "Russandol! Wait! I'll be with you right away!"

Maitimo almost laughed, for what else but wait could he do? If there had been any way for him to leave this place, he certainly wouldn't have stayed. Squeezing his eyes shut in anguished relief, biting a finger to make sure this was not just another illusion, sending a fervent prayer of thanks to whoever had brought Findekáno here, he waited.

- - -

Findekáno was climbing again; but now his heart was filled with wild joy. The sharp stones tore his clothing and scraped his knees and hands, but he hardly noticed. His exhaustion was forgotten. He had been right to come here after all.
But his heart sank soon after. He had scored the ravine and was now standing, lightheaded, at the foot of a precipice of steep Thangorodrim. He looked up again for Russandol and felt as though he'd been struck in the stomach. He quickly looked back down, clutching the rock wall before him, panting for breath.
He had often dreamt about finding Russandol and rescuing him in the past months. But he had never thought about the state in which he might find him. From the much closer distance, he could see some of what had been done to his friend and cousin, and he cursed himself for being so foolish as to believe that he would find Russandol hale and strong. What he saw instead was misery, pure and simple. The stretched body was hanging by its right wrist in helpless torment, skin grey with soot and ash or, more often, covered with the brown and black of old, clotted blood and the red of more recent wounds; he was pitifully meagre, bones protruding clearly under parched skin. Findekáno could not even begin to imagine how badly Russandol must hurt, and his eyes welled up. All the more reason to bring him home swiftly, he admonished himself and made to climb the last wall.

He found that he couldn't. After only a few feet he hung by his fingertips, unable to move any further, his feet searching for a hold and finding none. He returned to the foot of the precipice and took off his boots, hoping to be better able to climb with his toes to support him, but he got no further, no matter how often he tried. He attempted to get over the piece of smooth wall by jumping – it might be that further up the chances for climbing might be better again, after all – but found no hold at all and fell back onto the ravine, sliding downhill until he managed to stop his tumble. An avalanche of small, sharp rocks went down around him.
"Findekáno?" came a frightened call from above.
"I'm all right," called Findekáno soothingly, gritting his teeth. He was aching all over from the fall. "But I can't reach you!"
"You needn't," gasped Maitimo. "As long as I'm within bowshot…"
"No," cried Findekáno, guessing what his cousin meant to say. "No. I'll think of something."
"No," called the other in return. "Findekáno, you cannot linger. You mustn't. They'd find you and take you. I couldn't bear it…" he stopped, laboured breathing breaking into dry coughing. When he had regained his breath, he went on, "Kill me. Please, Findekáno. Kill me and run, run to safety, and forget that you saw me. Please."
"No!" Findekáno shouted. "I haven't come to see you die. I have come to rescue you, and I will!" His voice broke, and he began to cry. "By Eru I will."
"Do not swear!" cried Maitimo, alarmed. "And do not stay! Slay me, I beg you, so I must bear this no longer, and then go! You will rescue me even so. Kill me, release me from this; that is all I want. Please." Speaking was hard and steadily growing harder; he was panting, shaking from the effort, the pain in his shoulder flaring up from its throbbing sleep. "Please." he gasped again.

Findekáno was sobbing, but he was moved by Maitimo's desperate plea, and he saw nothing else to do. "All right," he cried, blinking away his tears. "All right, I will. But Russandol, there must be another way!"
"There isn't," said Maitimo, trembling but calming a little in expectation of a merciful end. "Oh, how long I have hoped to die! I thank you, Findekáno, though I wish it didn't have to be you... I wish you didn't have to be here. Promise me –" he was coughing again, tasting blood from his dry throat, "promise me you'll get home safely."

Findekáno, stringing his bow slowly and carefully as he didn't want to make any mistake in his haste, and also because he wished to delay the deed, didn't answer immediately. Now that singlemindedness was what he needed most, his brain brought him memories unbidden, of their childhood and youth and also of their division during Fëanáro's banishment, of their brief reunion after the Darkening, of Alqualondë and the bitter time that came after. He saw the burning of the ships, but not from the far shore as he had seen it then, but as Macalaurë had described it to him: Russandol arguing with Fëanáro, unsuccessfully; Russandol standing back, strong and beautiful and defeated, as the ships burned. The string was upon the bow, the arrow fitted to the string, but now he felt that he had not eaten properly these past days, and his bones ached from the long march and the climbing and the fall, and also from imagining how horribly Maitimo upon the mountain must hurt. He could not do it; his mind protested against the mere idea; his hand trembled as he took aim. The angle was bad. It would be difficult to hit Maitimo so that the arrow would indeed kill him and not only add to his pain. Findekáno's vision blurred again with tears. He could not do it.
Yet from above he could hear his cousin's pained breathing, could almost feel his longing for the peace of death. He wiped his eyes and forced his breath to calm. He took aim again, steadying his hand as well as he could, and cried aloud, "Oh Lord to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!"
Holding his breath, he made ready to release the arrow.

A loud, clear shriek pierced the air and startled him. The arrow hissed from the string, aimlessly, and hit the rock next to Russandol where it broke. The captured elf gave a small cry of dismay. Findekáno meanwhile turned to see where the noise had come from and saw a great eagle flying towards him, far greater than any ordinary eagle of this world. Findekáno felt awe but no fear. When the noble bird landed on the ravine, he bowed, breathless with wonder. "Has Manwë heard my prayer then?" he asked, recognising the eagle to be Sorontar himself.
Yes, he heard the answer in his own mind, he has. Findekáno's eyes wandered up to his helpless cousin, then back to the majestic bird, taller than himself. "Could you carry me?" he asked.
I can and I will, he read in the eagle's golden eyes.
Light-headed with rekindled hope bordering on exhilaration, he climbed onto the eagle's back, uncertain where to hold on to even as Sorontar took flight again, ascending swiftly. Findekáno gasped in surprise. It was unlike anything he had ever known. His stomach twisted as though in fear, but altogether he found the experience of flying by no means unpleasant. The wind rushed against him, roaring in his ears, and the ground fell away far beneath him; yet he trusted that Sorontar would not let him fall.

They were soaring as high as the peaks of the mountain now, and circled a few times until Findekáno realised the problem: There was no chance to land and still reach Russandol. A frustrated growl escaped him - so close to his goal, and yet so far! He shook his head, sending his long braids flying. There was no way that he'd give up now. "Take me closer to him," he called against the wind, "I'll try and jump!" The eagle complied. Their next round took them as close to the mountain as was possible without the wings touching its walls. Considering the enormous span of Sorontar's wings, there was still a fair distance, but Findekáno was beyond fear now. He made ready, and when they passed Maitimo where he hung, Findekáno jumped. He flew, or fell, through fog and thin air. Then his hand grasped the band of steel that held Maitimo, and his feet caught him against the rock and broke his fall, toes squeezing into the smallest cranny to prop him up. He was afraid at first that his added load would pull it free, leaving both of them to plunge into the depth, but he need not have worried. The shackle held true, keeping them safely suspended.
With his free hand Findekáno embraced Russandol, pulling him up and against his chest to take his weight (though weight was hardly the right word: his cousin weighed next to nothing) off the poor stretched arm. Maitimo groaned at the movement, his emaciated chest heaving. Torn between helpless laughter and tearless weeping he gasped his cousin's name, disbelieving.
"Yes," said Findekáno, crying in his turn, "I am here. And I'll free you." His hand closed more tightly on the gyve, his other hand held Maitimo more firmly, and he bent forward to kiss his cousin's drawn face.

Chapter End Notes

It should go without saying, but just to be on the safe side: Findekáno's prayer ("Oh Lord to whom all birds are dear...") is a direct quotation from The Silmarillion, "Of the Return of the Noldor".

Sorontar - Maedhros would say 'Thorontar' if he were inclined to chat - is the Quenya version of Thorondor's name.