The Line of Kings by Michiru

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Family Politics

Ingoldo turns to Angaráto for help dealing with a Fëanárion. It goes so well he asks Angaráto to be the first Noldorin ambassador to Menegroth. It’s impossible to refuse Ingoldo, especially when you know you should.

 First Age Year 5

 

Shot In the Dark

Not long after Findecáno returns from Angamando, Tyelcormo arrives in the Fëanárian city-turned greater Noldorin encampment. Ostensibly, he has come to reciprocate Nelyafinwë’s rescue by offering the lay of the land as the Fëanárians have found it.

The truth is on every jaded lip in the streets: Nolofinwë still holds custody of Fëanáro’s eldest and shows no sign of relinquishing him any time soon. Gratitude has not moved the ruling house; desperation has. The grim delight with which he hears complete strangers gloat about holding a gravely ill man hostage from his brothers turns Angaráto’s stomach, but then, it hasn’t been settled since long before the Darkening.

Still, in and of itself, Tyelcormo’s visit should be of little concern compared to other, more pressing issues, such as the on-going efforts to expand the city. Even with the losses sustained on the Ice, those who followed Nolofinwë and Ingoldo to Endor vastly outnumber the Fëanárians. And Tyelcormo had sent a messenger before him announcing his intentions and seeking permission to enter the city, so it isn’t as if he has turned up unexpectedly.

The problem arises when it comes time to actually receive him.

Findecáno will not leave Nelyafinwë’s side for the Remaking of Arda, and because the Fëanárians will not renounce their claim to Finwë’s throne, Nolofinwë refuses to meet with Fëanáro’s third son. Ar-Feiniel has not budged on her vow to have nothing to do with her one-time friend, while not even his staunchest supports believe Turukáno capable of treating fairly with the lowliest of Fëanáro’s followers, let alone one of his sons.

So the responsibility falls to Ingoldo, who has not let Angaráto leave his sight since that night, weeks ago now. The agonizing truth still dogs Angaráto’s waking hours, giving the lie to his lackluster protestations of good health. Neither of his brothers believes he is well; between themselves, they seem to have determined to keep him in the company of at least one of them during all hours of the day and night.

He knows they mean well, but at times their constant scrutiny make it seem as though the truth of his shame is etched upon his body. It sets his fingers itching to tear his hroä from his beleaguered fëa, and such urges remind him uncomfortably of Findecáno’s whispered retelling of Nelyafinwë’s plea to be murdered. So perhaps his brothers are not wrong to keep him in their sight.

This is the thought foremost in his mind as he watches Ingoldo pace back and forth across the audience chamber.

“He will ask to see Maitimo,” he is saying, accent slurring towards that odd blend of Vanyarinized Noldorin and Telerin Quenya that only Ingoldo can manage. “Before anything else, he’ll ask to see his brother; how could he not? I don’t know whether Maitimo is well enough today to have visitors, let alone if he’ll want to see Tyelcormo.” Angaráto has always called his eldest half-cousin by his essë. In the wake of his captivity, only Ingoldo still calls him ‘Maitimo’.

“Findecáno certainly won’t want to let Tyelcormo see him,” Aikanáro weighs in from where he is sprawled across Ingoldo’s untouched seat. His fingers absently comb braids into Angaráto’s hair, the grooming primitively soothing. “I wouldn’t risk his wrath if I were you, Ingo; he might feed you to his pet crow.” The bitterness in Aikanáro’s voice pools heavy on Angaráto’s tongue.

His younger brother is only partly impressed with their cousin’s rescue of Nelyafinwë, only partly exasperated by Findecáno’s sheer, blissful stupidity. Mostly Aikanáro is furious that after all the lives lost on the Helcaraxë, the Valar saw fit only to save the life of one who wished to die. Aikanáro has carried the weight of those who wasted away under his care across the Ice into Endor, and hates that his many prayers went unanswered when they now have proof that the Valar are not so deaf as the Prophecy proclaimed.

Angaráto is unsurprised by the seeming contradiction, though he could not say why. Nor does he ever want to; Turukáno still glares murder at him for his long-ago assertion that Fëanáro would return for them. He will never again attempt to justify the actions of those whose minds he cannot comprehend.

“Leave off,” Ingoldo chides Aikanáro, stern but gentle, so much the image of Father that Angaráto’s heart aches—

—and then Ingoldo traces the sign of the swan across his breast, a Telerin superstition meant to ward off ill-fate, and the vision of Arafinwë fades to memory. The swan sign, and the superstition, are wholly Mother’s.

“If you refuse to let him see Nelyafinwë, he may rescind his offer of aid,” Angaráto warns, voice dry from disuse. Ingoldo’s face lights up momentarily at the sound, then falls at the words.

“Then what do I do?” he pleads, as though Angaráto has the answers. Yéni ago, when he was welcome in Fëanáro’s household, he might have. Now, when he ranks alongside complete strangers to be abandoned to cross the Helcaraxë on foot after having left behind his wife and unborn child—

Angaráto scrubs a hand down his face, drops it back to his side before he can seriously contemplate trying to physically gouge the ache from behind his eyes. How does one deal with temperamental Fëanárioni? Temperamental, Kinslaying Fëanárioni wanting to see a brother they had abandoned to Moringotto for years…

“Business must come first,” he says slowly, seeing in his mind the razor-sharp, restless grey eyes of the Fëanáro of his youth, the Fëanáro who had cultivated his endless enthusiasm for theoretical linguistics. “Though we all know why Tyelcormo has really come, he claims to come for business’ sake. You must insist he follow through. Once we have his information…” Angaráto wavers, ultimately unsure. With the lay of the land firmly in their grasp, entertaining Tyelcormo’s desires will no longer be a pressing concern. There is Nelyafinwë to consider, the morale of the people, Tyelcormo’s safety, Findecáno, Nolofinwë, the implications of denying a Fëanárion access to Fëanáro’s heir—

“Emphasize that Nelyafinwë is in a fragile state, and that it must be his choice to receive visitors, assuming he is awake and well enough.” Ingoldo looks immeasurably heartened by the advice, Aikanáro impressed. Angaráto feels sick.

No Fëanárion will ever be led unwillingly astray by such transparent maneuvering. Success will depend on Tyelcormo’s cooperation. Though the yéni have changed much about their half-cousins, some things never truly change.

And Tyelcormo is a stubborn ass. 

 Delayed Realizations

The procession of maps Tyelcormo shares are exquisite, works of art in their own right, from the more fanciful that emphasize important landmarks to the table-sized, fully colored map detailing all of Endor that has yet been explored. He has brought maps marking the migrational patterns of game and fowl, maps that notate climate and speculate on the types of agriculture that might thrive in the present conditions.

More amazing than the maps themselves, Tyelcormo has brought duplicates for their permanent retention, all of which have been so carefully copied as to be indistinguishable from the originals. It is a greater statement of good will than Angaráto had expected to receive from the Fëanárians after the betrayal of Araman; the cartographers must have worked tirelessly to produce such craftsmanship in only a matter of weeks. Even the most cynical of the Noldor will have to acknowledge the gratitude the gesture conveys.

“Why not cut through here?” Ingoldo asks, finger hovering over a brooding, unlabelled forest. Tyelcormo stops short in his descriptions of the horrors of the narrow strip of land between the forest and the mountains that form the southern border of an alpine highland to the east. The Fëanárion scoffs under his breath, and beneath the table Huan grumbles long-sufferingly.

Ingoldo frowns at the show of temper, the first Tyelcormo has displayed since his arrival. “I was only curious. It seems sensible to avoid this place all together with the dangers you’ve mentioned, especially with another route so near at hand. Is there a greater threat in the forest?”

“We don’t know,” Tyelcormo says curtly.

“You don’t know?” Aikanáro echoes dubiously, looking up from his perusal of the latest map—a to-scale representation of established paths and their attendant hazards. “You’ve been here four and a half years and you’ve neglected to explore the largest forest for leagues around?”

Tyelcormo ignores this jab, as he has ignored all of Aikanáro’s inflammatory remarks thus far, glaring down at the unassuming patch of green.

“The natives call it Doriath. Apparently, it is the stronghold of Elu Thingol and his witch wife, and it is barred to strangers. To the Abyss with travelers looking to avoid damned Ungoliant’s brood,” he adds, lip curling.

“What could you have possibly done to offend the Avari already?” Aikanáro mock-wonders, ignoring Ingoldo’s increasingly less subtle commands to hold his tongue.

“King Elu Thingol?” Angaráto repeats, syllables morphing in his mind, the shadow of a familiar name reaching out of antiquity…

“So we’ve been told,” Tyelcormo confirms, glancing up from the map, barely.

“Shut up,” Ingoldo says at last to Aikanáro as their younger brother opens his mouth again. Aikanáro flushes but does as he is bid, slouching back in his chair with the air of one stabbed in the back. Huan sits up and rests his head on Aikanáro’s knee with a soft whuff, tail thumping the stone floor. “What were you saying Angaráto?” Ingoldo asks.

“Elwë Singollo?” he questions, willing Tyelcormo to look up and meet his eyes. The Fëanárion merely shrugs.

“We can only assume.”

“Granduncle Elwë?” Ingoldo echoes, surprised, not quite believing. Aikanáro’s brows rise almost to his hairline. Tyelcormo’s eyes flick up, roving over each of them before dropping back down to the map. He sighs, and apparently resigns himself to being dragged off-topic.

“As I said, we can only draw conclusions based on what little we know. It’s possible this Elu is Elwë himself or a descendent of Elwë or of no relation whatsoever save coincidence. He won’t speak with us and those of his people not behind his damned barrier haven’t told us anything reliable; they insist their queen is a Maia of all things.” Aikanáro snorts at this exasperated proclamation, and even Ingoldo cocks his head skeptically.

“Well,” he begins, awkwardly, and pauses, as though unable to find anything proper to say to that.

“Our long-lost distant Avari relatives are lunatics,” Aikanáro announces, deadpan. “Wonderful to know. Any more good news while you’re at it?”

“Barrier?” Angaráto interrupts, frowning, combing over the border of Doriath, trying to discern the structure. Tyelcormo’s head bobs in a half nod and he runs a finger around the edge of the forest.

“It’s magically sealed,” he explains as a nagging sensation of falling nibbles at Angaráto’s mind. It persists through the rest of Tyelcormo’s clarification and Ingoldo and Aikanáro’s subsequent barrage of questions. Angaráto barely catches half of what is said as he puzzles out the ever-growing feeling of loss yawning in the pit of his stomach.

“Whoever Thingol is,” Tyelcormo concludes, just as the realization falls into place and Angaráto’s breath lodges in his chest, “it’s clear that if he ever knew the name of Finwë, he has long forgotten it.”

“You’ve had contact with the Avari,” Angaráto says, surprised by how even his voice is. His brothers both glance at him sidelong; Huan whines.

“Further south and to the east, yes. The barrier doesn’t extend far enough past the forest to be useful, so they don’t settle this far north.”

“But you’ve—spoken with them? More than just pantomime—actual conversations?” For how could pantomime produce the name Elu Thingol? Still, Angaráto’s heart shrivels and half-formed hopes shatter as Tyelcormo looks down at the tabletop rather than meet his eyes. First Aikanáro and then Ingoldo go stiff as they draw the connection.

“Well, yes. We’ve been here long enough to learn their language.” There is an abashed, unspoken regret in the muttered words, and Angaráto grits his teeth, waiting eagerly for the apology he fervently prays will never be given voice. There is only so much one mind can be expected to accept all at once, and if Tyelcormo has the gall to sit before him and offer trite condolences for invalidating his life’s work in twelve words—

Tyelcormo says nothing further and the madness passes, leaving Angaráto shivering and numb and ridiculously struck by the unfairness of the whole situation.

“Who was it?” he asks hollowly, ignoring the hand Aikanáro rests on his shoulder. “Who was the one who—?”

“Does it matter?” The blunt question sparks another wild fury that fades faster than the previous one, leaves him emptier than before.

“No. You’re right,” he agrees, before either of his brothers can say anything, or Aikanáro reaches across the table to strangle Tyelcormo for his lack of tact. “I suppose it really doesn’t. Let it go,” he adds in an undertone, to Aikanáro, still tense and spoiling for a fight… and to himself.

Ingoldo’s hands fidget where they rest on the table. After a moment he says, “So the shortest route east is between Doriath and this highland.” Somehow, amazingly, Tyelcormo goes back to explaining his maps, and at some point even Aikanáro joins the discussion.

Angaráto sits, and says nothing. 

 Interlude

Days later, Tyelcormo is still there, hovering around like another gust of Moringotto’s poison mist. Angaráto cannot bring himself to understand his half-cousin’s desire to see Nelyafinwë and wonders idly when someone will snap and attack the Fëanárion. He wonders, also, whether he’ll be able to muster up enough feeling to stop them if they do.

He makes an effort to distract himself from the bitterness of it all, he really does. He tries spending more time with Artaher, for he knows his son is lonely and homesick. But everything about the boy reminds him of Eldalôtë, and her eyes searching for him in the dark of their bedchamber, a sleeping child curled in her arms—

Any other torment ever devised is preferable to dwelling on the unceasing horror of that image, the immutable fact that those are the last memories he’ll have of his wife, the only memory he’ll have of their second child, until the Remaking of the world. He doesn’t even know, he realizes one evening, whether he sired a daughter or another son.

So he leaves Artaher in Ingoldo’s care, and eventually throws himself into the study of the language he should have helped decipher. Tyelcormo becomes his partner in this endeavor out of sheer necessity; no one else in the encampment has caught more than bare glimpses of the moriquendi, let alone spoken with them.

The language—Sindarin, Tyelcormo calls it, named for its speakers—is surprisingly easy to pick up. It should be gratifying to learn that many of his theories are at least half-right—the construction of names generally seems to follow the noun-adjective form he had proposed in one of his earliest treatises—but the retroactive vindication means little in Endor. Ancáno remained in Tirion with his father; Lindalëar might well have been slain at Alqualondë; and Angaráto can claim no credit in any case. Besides, many of his later, more elaborate theories have been proven completely false: all the delicate sub-cases he imagined and agonized over are utterly non-existent in reality.

 

Two weeks after he first arrived, with Tyelcormo lingering in the city despite having seen Nelyafinwë several times, Angaráto is able to converse with his half-cousin fluently in Sindarin. It strikes him that afternoon, as he absentmindedly corrects Tyelcormo’s grammar, that, rather than feeling as though his achievement has been usurped, he now feels… bored.

“When are you leaving?” he asks, interrupting Tyelcormo’s much-abridged analysis of common prepositional phrases. Tyelcormo glares at the interruption, but he’s been glaring since Angaráto started balancing his chair on its hind legs, so Angaráto hardly notices. He hasn’t had a restful sleep in far too long, and Artaher is crawling into bed with him almost nightly, crying over nightmares he refuses to talk about.

“Tired of me?” Tyelcormo asks, entirely too casual to not care about the answer. Angaráto rolls his eyes and waits expectantly. Eventually Tyelcormo huffs, slamming Angaráto’s chair back on all floors by catching the front crossbeam of the forelegs with his feet and pushing down.

“You’re so melodramatic, Artanis,” Angaráto says, and ducks as Tyelcormo throws a sloppy punch his way. Angaráto makes no further attempt to emulate the good-natured ribbing of their youth, and Tyelcormo does not follow through with his first attack. They both sit, quiet, looking out the thick window at the warped view of the street below, and if it isn’t quite a companionable silence, it isn’t overtly hostile.

“Within the week,” Tyelcormo announces abruptly. “I’ll be going back within the week.” Angaráto nods absently, allows Huan to nuzzle his snout beneath his clasped hands. The great hound has been following him, and Aikanáro, the whole time he has been in the city, begging to have his ears scratched whenever he catches them still a moment. It’s a sad thing when the dog shows more remorse for abandoning them than its master.

“There’s something I have to do first,” Tyelcormo admits.

“What?” Angaráto asks, because he is clearly meant to. But Tyelcormo shakes his head.

“Not yet.”

 

It is three days more before Tyelcormo finds him again, late at night and coming back from Artaher’s room. As he approaches, he pulls out a dark scroll and offers it to Angaráto.

“Here,” he says, subdued, “our initial analysis of the surrounding area.” Angaráto takes it from him, unfolding the grey-stained vellum and glancing over it cursorily. Compared to the maps Tyelcormo had presented previously, it is decidedly unimpressive—the color of slate and marked over with lighter shades of the same color. Peering closer, Angaráto is not certain how it is oriented—until he cocks his head and the mist shifts outside and the faint lines of the map light up. A blob to the south of the map resolves into a familiar shoreline as Angaráto marvels over the metallic quality of the ink and its light-reflecting properties.

“It pays particular attention to the terrain and its suitability for construction,” Tyelcormo adds. Then he admits, “Curvo said the city would have to be expanded if Nolofinwë planned to settle in it.”

A genuine smile curls Angaráto’s lips, his first in too long to think about. “Is this a duplicate?”

“No.” Angaráto nods, unrolls the vellum a little further.

“I’ll have it copied as soon as possible and return it when it’s done,” he offers; Atarinkë does not part easily with the works of his hands, especially not when they are the pioneers of a new technique. For him to have even let it out of his sight speaks volumes.

“No,” Tyelcormo says. “You keep it.” Angaráto, caught up in his perusal of the map, only looks up as the Fëanárion is turning the corner at the far end of the corridor. With a frown, Angaráto looks back down, following the graceful lines of a landscape that is becoming familiar, until the whole scroll is open in his two hands and he catches sight of the flowing signature scrawled carelessly in the corner.

Curufinwë Fëanáro 

 First Age Year 6

 

Errand-runner

“I am troubled, Angamaitë,” Ingoldo murmurs as they walk around Mithrim’s shore, Artaher and Tyelperinquar wandering several yards ahead. Tyelperinquar is pointing out the different types of rocks embedded in the dirt, and has an avid listener in his son; he shall have to speak with Atarinkë about teaching Artaher stone-lore.

“Over the feasibility of hemming Moringotto into his fortress?” Angaráto asks wryly; they have just come from Nolofinwë’s first council as High King of the Noldor in Beleriand since Nelyafinwë waived his claim to the title. His uncle’s plan to set up a watch on Angamando had not been well received, but, as they all eventually agreed, they had few other options presently.

“Over the high-handed way in which we are sending out messengers across Beleriand,” Ingoldo answers. “These are not fey Avari we’re dealing with; they are a people with a cohesive culture and established ruler. We ought to be treating with Elwë, not his subjects.” Angaráto nods once, conceding the point; Artanis has voiced the same concerns separately to Aikanáro. Their sister is drawn to the quiet Sindar, though Angaráto half-feels it is homesickness that fuels her sympathy. Alqualondë was more Artanis’ home than Tirion in Valinor, and from what he has seen there is some echo of the Teleri in the ethereal beauty of the moriquendi.

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” Angaráto assesses; Tyelperinquar shrieks as Artaher splashes him. The sound has his and Ingoldo’s hands dropping to their swords before they register that the children are merely playing. “He will not permit strangers to enter his kingdom.”

“What if it were not a stranger seeking entry?” Ingoldo muses, almost to himself. “What if one were to go to him as long-lost kin?”

“He did not budge for the name of Finwë,” Angaráto disagrees. Grandfather had spoken of Elwë as a brother, closer than a brother, and he and Granduncle Ingwë had mourned every anniversary of the Telerin king’s disappearance. Either that love had not been mutual, or Elwë had lived too long under the shadow of Moringotto’s evil to still be moved by it. “Why should the name of Arafinwë move him?”

“We, more than most, should be understanding of the anger that can be harbored in the hearts of those whose kin have abandoned them,” Ingoldo remarks delicately. The words summon up the powerless despair of Araman, and Angaráto shivers under the full light of the sun. Ingoldo does not apologize, pausing his walk with one foot braced against a rocky outcropping, his eyes lost in contemplation of the West.

“You mean to seek entry, then,” Angaráto says, steering his brother out of the private melancholy he is apt to fall into at times. After a moment Ingoldo turns back to him, smiling sheepishly.

“I had hoped that you would go in my stead,” he admits. Angaráto stares, his mind full of reasons to refuse; he is a linguist, not a diplomat, and Artaher will need looking after, and he had planned to accompany Aikanáro on a scouting trip with Curvo and Tyelcormo, and it is not Ingoldo’s place to send him anywhere without Nolofinwë’s leave—

But Ingoldo is still smiling winningly, the light of the sun in his hair almost a reflection of Laurelin, and Angaráto knows what answer he will give, the same answer everyone always gives when it comes to Ingoldo. His beloved older brother always seems to get his way.

“I will go if you think it best,” he says. The warmth that lights Ingoldo’s eyes then is enough to drive the misgivings from Angaráto’s mind, at least momentarily. But from the very beginning the errand leaves him uneasy, and as he prepares to travel he continues to be plagued with echoes of the Prophecy in the North. 

 The Warren

Menegroth reminds him of a rabbit’s warren, all tunnels and side rooms and twisting corridors. There are places where the stone floor is uneven, worn down from yéni of traffic, and the flickering torches make these areas hard to distinguish, sending him stumbling into the back of Celeborn, who introduced himself as Prince of Doriath.

The Sindar descend from the trees like spiders, startling Angaráto and his companions and nearly sending their horses bolting. He can hear snickers in the woods around them and holds his head up high, calming his uneasy Noldorin followers with a soft word and the façade of confidence.

The torch light also shatters over his ceremonial armor, worn at Ingoldo’s insistence, spangling the walls in flashes of dancing gold, and the more elusive glint of sapphire from the hilt of his sword; he stands out amongst the grey-clad Sindar, and does not want to. Celeborn’s dark eyes were already mocking and unfriendly when he greeted him in the woods, and had grown more hostile as he took in Angaráto’s bright clothing.

“They dress like magpies,” someone mutters. Angaráto, the only one of his company completely fluent in the language of their hosts, half-turns toward the speaker, but cannot pick him out in the dim light of the forest. When he turns back to Celeborn, the man’s dark eyes dare him to make something of the remark.

“It is not my fault we thrived in light while you languished in shadows,” he wants to say, for every signal he is getting from Celeborn and his Sindarin companions seems to imply bitterness, but he holds his tongue. The slightest implication that the Sindar are lesser than the Noldor has already set Celeborn’s hand twitching to the blocky axe at his side.

He backtracks as fast as he may from “moerbin,” but the damage is done, and even Ingoldo’s Sindarin friend, who won them entry to Doriath by speaking on their behalf to Elu Thingol, is staring at him in open disbelief, heading towards outright anger.

He had not thought the Sindar would find another use for the term “dark Elf,” living in perpetual dark, nor that they would use calben to refer to the state of their fëar, rather than as a description for the surroundings they lived in. The insight into their character is fascinating, but the social blunder is superseding his intellectual interest in their language, and all Angaráto can wish is that Ingoldo had not trusted him to give the Sindar their first impression of the Noldor.

The dark eyes watching him from the shadows of uneven light glare accusations at his back. Angaráto shivers and draws his tattered cloak closer around himself.

Chapter End Notes

1. A rebuttal for a portrayal of the Noldor, and particularly Angaráto, in a story I read once work. While I have great respect for the author, I found the characterizations of both the Noldor and the Sindar to be heavy-handed, with the Sindar inherently good and the Noldor inherently bad, or at least arrogant and intolerant. And the characterization of Angaráto as more or less a spoiled twit set my teeth itching. Granted, this could have had something to with the fact that the author went with the genealogies in the published Silmarillion, making Angaráto much younger than he is in my head canon, but I still found it grossly unfair. 

2. Fëanárion/Fëanárian and Fëanorion/Fëanorian: I use all four of these throughout my writings, and it might seem as though I’m just not thinking or can’t make up my mind on how to spell it. Rest assured, my madness has a method to it. Fëanárion/Fëanárian is meant to be Quenya, referring to a son of Fëanáro or Fëanáro’s followers (also things associated with Fëanáro, such as the city he built), respectively. Fëanorion/Fëanorian is the same, in the same order, but with the Sindarin version Fëanor.

3. On Ingoldo: the published Silmarillion has some very interesting tidbits about our dear friend Felagund. For example, he is the wealthiest and most well-loved of all the princes of the Noldor (131, 140), and it was Ingoldo, not Nolofinwë, who sent Angaráto to meet the Sindar in Doriath (127). I find this interesting, considering Nolofinwë was the High King. This falls to the wayside here, but Nolofinwë is Highly Unamused by the stunt.

4. “…four and a half years…” The Fëanorians arrive in Beleriand in 1496 by my timeline, and the rest of the Noldor arrive four years of the Trees later. Nelyo is rescued in FA 5 according to the Tolkien Gateway’s First Age timeline. So what’s Aikanáro thinking? Well, according to Morgoth’s Ring/War of the Jewels, one year of the Trees is equal to about ten years of our years. Thus, while five years of the sun have passed since the start of the First Age, to the Noldor recently arrived from Aman, it feels like only half a year. This is how I justify Findecáno waiting five years to rescue Nelyo, and explains why there’s been no contact with the Sindar; the Noldor are operating on a time period that feels shorter to them than five years sounds to us. Eventually they notice and adapt to the shorter year cycles of the sun, but for now they’re still thinking of time in Valinorian terms. (Shorthand: elven jetlag.)

5. The Interlude: the Fëanorians have been trying to sidetrack me with maps for a year now. Congratulations are in order to Tyelcormo for providing the only one that has made the cut thus far. Because once he told me his whole plan, I couldn’t leave it out.

6. The ceremonial armor: Ingoldo packed it, and made sure it wasn’t left behind on the Ice.

7. Moerbin/Calben: Sindarin phrases denotationally identical to the Quenya phrases Moriquendi/Calaquendi, which the Noldor use to distinguish between Elves who have not seen the Light of the Trees versus those who have. However, the Sindarin phrases carry the connotation of those who serve Morgoth versus those who don’t, and so take moerbin as an insult when it is not intended so. When tensions later arise among the Noldor and Sindar, the Quenya terms shift from containing an inherent sense of superiority to being meant as insults. (At least in my head-canon.)

8. I've been rewriting this chapter for a year now. I'm still not entirely satisfied...

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