Like a White Fire Within by fingonsradharp

Chapter 1

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Ñolofinwe’s wrath burned through him, his eyes blazing with fire as he drove his sword once more into Moringotto’s flesh, and the Dark Lord howled in anger and pain.

The Vala brought down Grond once more, and once more Ñolofinwe dove out of its path. He was just quick enough to avoid the crater the warhammer made in the scorched earth before the Iron Hells.

He was beginning to tire. He could not keep this up for much longer.

“You cannot possibly believe that you will survive this,” Moringotto snarled. He towered over Ñolofinwe, his presence terrible and discordant. Just being around him made Ñolofinwe want to tremble in fear, but he could feel nothing past his rage.

“I do not need to survive,” the king growled. “I only need to bring you down with me.”

“You have not that power,” Moringotto taunted. “You are but an Elda. I am the strongest of the Valar, the King of Arda, the Master of Fate! And you, son of Finwe, are nothing.”

Ñolofinwe snarled, and Ringil glittered as ice formed on the blade’s surface, harder than steel and just as sharp. His eyes blazed with silver and gold, and he bared his teeth. 

Valariande had fallen. His sister was dead, his children either dead alongside her or out of reach. Námo’s prophecy had been fulfilled, as they had all known it would be. 

He could no longer protect his people, but he could hurt the Enemy. He could make his death mean something. He had nothing left to lose. 

His vision went red as he screamed. 

 

---

 

Findekáno’s coronation should have been a grand affair. Moringotto was dead, and the Ñoldor could begin to rebuild and slowly retake the lands the Enemy had destroyed in the battle that they had all thought was the beginning of the end. 

But Findekáno’s father had fallen even as he slew the Black Foe. Over four hundred years he had ruled, and Findekáno knew this was quite possibly the worst time for a change in leadership. 

He still didn’t know where Turukáno and Írisse were. 

He still had not heard from Russandol. 

They were far enough apart that he could get nothing from their marriage-bond, and word of how the March fared in the Battle of Sudden Flame, as they were calling it, had not yet arrived. 

He felt utterly alone. 

He sat down at his father’s desk—his, now—and took off the golden crown. It hit the wood heavily, the harsh sound making him wince. 

He allowed himself a moment to sit with his head in his hands, trembling, forcing himself not to tug on his braids that had been done that very morning, gold wire as was his custom and sapphires for his place as the new head of the House of Ñolofinwe. 

He should be stronger than this. He was Astaldo, the Valiant, named for his joy and his fearlessness. He had been given a great honour; he should not be weeping over what was easily the most heroic act any of the Ñoldor had accomplished. 

He should be celebrating Moringotto’s demise, should be feasting and toasting with the rest of his people, and yet all he could think about was what had been lost. 

That he was alone, without his father or any of his siblings or his husband. 

He had never wanted to rule, never trained for it in Aman when death seemed an impossibility and his father was but the third child of the king. And though he had led his own faction of people, he had been only a vassal to his father, not even a king in his own right. 

He sighed. Feeling sorry for himself would not make him a better king. He picked up the correspondences that had been put on his father’s desk and began to read through them. 

Among the letters was the message from Findaráto that Angaráto had assured him was coming. The King of Nargothrond had been gravely injured in the battle, only narrowly avoiding death with the aid of a handful of Beorians. 

He gave also a warning, which Angaráto had only hinted at, not wanting to trouble Findekáno until the coronation was complete. 

I do not know anything for certain, Findaráto wrote. But my heart tells me this fight is not yet over. 

Findekáno agreed. He had not heard what had become of Moringotto’s dreadful lieutenant, but he did not doubt that the sadistic Maia would be nearly as difficult to overcome as the Black Foe himself.

There was a knock on his chamber door, and he heard the voice of his guard. “Princess Írime and Lord Angaráto are here to see you, my king.”

My king. He was never going to get used to that. 

“Thank you, Moicanerdo,” said Findekáno. “You may send them in.”

Lalwende was still walking slowly, one hand gripping a cane. She, like Findekáno’s father, had done the impossible. She had slain a Valarauko, once thought unable to be destroyed, though it had nearly killed her. Her injuries from the battle had not yet healed, but she stood tall and refused help from her nephews before lowering herself into a chair across from Findekáno. Angaráto sat beside her, worry clear on his face as he flicked his eyes between the two of them. 

Angaráto nodded his head at the letter in Findekáno’s hands, stamped with his brother’s seal. “You heard from Findaráto?”

Findekáno nodded. “He worries about further threats, as do I. We are not yet past this darkness.”

Angaráto shook his head. “Indeed we are not. As I crossed the land to come into Hiþilóme I heard disturbing rumours. Some new threat has emerged in the northeast. I believe it has taken over Himbaringe.”

Findekáno’s blood ran cold. “No, that—that cannot be true.”

Lalwende frowned. “Still no word from the sons of Feanáro?”

He shook his head. “None.” He had hoped—he had hoped that Russandol would be there to support him as king (or even to retake the crown; Valar knew Findekáno didn’t want it), but he had not shown. 

“I am sorry, Finno,” said Angaráto, “but so much territory has been lost. Strong as Nelyafinwe is, he may not have been able to—”

“Tell me about the new threat,” Findekáno said. No one knew about his marriage to Russandol, and he could not listen to another word of speculation. “What have you heard.”

Angaráto took a moment to gather his words, and that more than anything made Findekáno truly afraid. 

“A warlord,” he said finally. “Someone who means to take Moringoþo’s place.”

“Sauron?” asked Findekáno. “He would be the obvious successor.”

But Angaráto shook his head. “Þauron fled to the Isle of Werewolves. And this Warlord does not command the orcs—they flee from him.”

“Have you seen him?” Lalwende asked. “Have you seen the creatures he does command?”

“I have not,” said Angaráto. “All I have are rumours.”

Findekáno scowled. If anything had happened to Russandol, he would destroy this so-called ‘Warlord’ with his bare hands. Centuries he had fought Moringotto and was unable to exact revenge for the harm done to his beloved—if Russandol was dead now, there would be nothing to temper his wrath. 

 

“You are a fool,” Lalwende told him later as he packed. 

“Many said the same when I went to the Sangoronti, and yet I returned successful,” Findekáno said. 

“You will not be so lucky a second time. Nor will he.”

He turned to glare at her, the avoidance of eye contact now a habit after centuries. “I will not believe that he is dead. Not until I see it with my own eyes.”

Her gaze softened. “I know you love him—”

“Of course I love him,” Findekáno said stiffly. “He is my kin.”

Lalwende scoffed. “I know not whom you think you are fooling,” she said. “It is clear that you have been in love with him for many years.”

Under different circumstances, Findekáno might have smiled. He may not be able to hide his feelings, but his marriage, at least, was still unknown. 

“The Ñoldor will answer to you while I am away,” he said. In the absence of any of Findekáno’s siblings, she was next in line for the throne. “I imagine you shall be a better leader than I could ever hope to be.” 

“You give yourself far too little credit, súyon.”

He took a deep breath and grabbed his harp. “I suppose we shall find out.”

 

Before the Battle of Sudden Flame, Findekáno could have set out from Taras Ehtele and crossed the Green Plains, then gone south to Himbaringe. Now, however, the region was filled with fire and poisonous fumes. Dorthonion to the south, where Angaráto and Aikanáro had once ruled, had also been overrun by the Enemy’s forces, and south of that lay the impassable mountains and valley full of terror. He would therefore have to leave Mísinóre to the south, following the Ash River, and pass close to Thingol’s forested realm before travelling north to Himbaringe. 

He had no idea what he might encounter on the way there. He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late. 

Russandol was alive, that much he knew. Turukáno had been catatonic for days after Elenwe perished on the Ice; it was as if he had to relearn how to be a person. After seeing so many lose their spouses in the war, such things had become almost common. 

Findekáno would know if his husband was dead. He also knew that if someone or something had managed to imprison Russandol once more, death would be the far kinder option. 

He disguised himself for the journey, leaving behind everything that might identify him as the High King of the Ñoldor, even removing the gold from his braids. Moicanerdo was not happy about the fact that he would not take even his most trusted guard with him, but Findekáno knew the nér would be invaluable to Lalwende, and Findekáno couldn’t bear to put anyone else in danger. 

And the path was fraught with it, remnants of Moringotto’s forces scattered across the lands. Findekáno dared not enter the Girdle of Melian, and thus was forced to take the road that skirted the edge of the terrible land inhabited by Ungoliante’s spawn. Every day that passed increased Findekáno’s anxiety that he would be too late, every night that passed he lay awake later and later, fearing that he would wake with the pain of a marriage-bond severing.

 

He’d lost count of the days by the time he could see Himbaringe in the distance. He felt almost as he had approaching the Iron Hells what seemed like a lifetime ago. But this time, he was better prepared. He knew these lands; he’d spent years here during the Siege, he knew the secret passages of the fortress that he and Russandol had used to sneak around.

He saw vague shapes he thought were guards, but dared not go closer to get a better look. 

The only passage into the keep itself other than the main gates was a hidden door in the back of an underground cave on the western side. It was hard to get to, and impossible to open or even see if one did not know it was there, which even inside Himbaringe most did not. Privately, Findekáno had thought the whole thing was rather paranoid, even for Russandol, but he was very glad for it now.

The cave was lightless, only illuminated by Findekáno himself. Every flutter of bats’ wings made him freeze, waiting for one of them to reveal themself to be a vampire and attack, but none did.

He placed his hand on the cold stone and felt for the edge of the door, softly singing a song of revealing under his breath. He dared not be too loud, lest he be detected. He had not seen anything near the cave’s entrance, but… well. Perhaps Russandol’s paranoia had rubbed off on him. Or perhaps he had just been fighting a war for too long.

The lines of the entrance slowly became apparent, and Findekáno took a slow breath to steady his nerves. First he would spy, gather as much information as he could. Once he had some idea of where to look for Russandol, he would begin his true quest.

The door was unadorned save for Feanáro’s heraldry carved into the centre. Findekáno strummed his harp, pressed his lips to the fiery star and whispered, “Milkilbund.”

It swung open soundlessly, and Findekáno stepped through and closed it behind him with another deep breath. 

The passage was long and dark, stifling in its silence as it passed beneath the threshold of the fortress. It felt like an eternity before he began to hear noises, the sounds of a keep going about its daily routine. The air slowly heated as he approached the forge, and the sound of ringing hammers pounded in his ears, muffling the voices and mangling their words.

Findekáno’s jaw clenched. How dare these usurpers create their tools of destruction in the forges of Himbaringe, made to oppose the Enemy? How dare they desecrate everything Russandol stood for?

As he got further into the keep, he was better able to make out the voices of the inhabitants. They certainly didn’t sound like orcs. In fact, they could have been Elves or Men. A Mannish warlord, then, though certainly not any of the Atanatári.  

Findekáno would slay them all. He would find Russandol and destroy whoever was foolish enough to try and take his husband from him. 

“Take this to the prisoner,” one of the voices said. 

A laugh. “Tyelperinquar is still uncooperative?”

Findekáno stopped in his tracks. It could not be—the sons of Feanáro would die, every last one of them, before they allowed any harm to befall Tyelperinquar. 

“The lord was very clear regarding the circumstances of his release,” said the first voice. 

Findekáno’s rage burned brighter. Tyelperinquar was in the keep, then. Which meant that the others, if they lived, were here as well. 

Himbaringe had no proper dungeons. Russandol took no prisoners, and thus Findekáno was unsure where to search for any that would be kept inside the fortress.

He would go to the great hall, then, to the place that would be a throne room if Russandol did not hate the very idea of having one so much. Perhaps there he could overhear something of more use.

The passage led to another hidden door into the keep proper, near the entrance to the great hall. After listening for several moments, Findekáno wrapped his cloak around his harp to muffle it, said a quick prayer to whichever Vala watched over fools and Finweans, and slipped into the keep. 

He quickly darted behind a corner and pressed his back to the wall, ears pricked to listen intently on any sounds he might have missed.

He was sneaking down the corridor leading to the large double doors of the great hall when they opened. A great figure strode through them, a thick fur cape making him look even larger and more imposing than he already was. 

“I care not for excuses,” he was saying, his voice a ruined, hoarse snarl. “I want to know what happened to them. I shall go myself if I must.”

His gaze fell on Findekáno, who had stopped in his tracks the moment the figure appeared. Grey eyes stared into one another. For several moments, Findekáno could not speak, his mouth agape as he took in the sight before him.

“Finno,” said the red-haired elf, impossibly tall, a circlet of copper upon his scarred brow. 

“Russo,” Findekáno breathed, and fell into his husband’s arms.

---

Chapter End Notes

Milkilbund is my very amateurish translation of Russandol “copper-top” into Khuzdul. the name (and the door) were gifts from Azaghâl.

Chapter 2

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“How is it that you are here?” Nelyafinwe asked. “You were not announced—Someone surely would have informed me if—”

“I snuck in, of course,” said Findekáno. He looked exhausted, like he had been travelling rough and hardly sleeping for many weeks. His face and clothes were dirty. “I heard—I heard that Himbaringe was overrun. There was no word from you.”

Nelyafinwe frowned. “No word? I sent messengers, led by my best captain. Surely they should have reached Taras Ehtele long ago.”

Findekáno shook his head. “No messengers arrived. There were rumours of a warlord that made his stronghold here. I feared you were…” He trailed off, his eyes scanning Nelyafinwe’s form as if searching for injuries. His fea reached out and twined with Nelyafinwe’s own, and Nelyafinwe nearly slumped in the relief of that contact. He was not alone; Findekáno was here. 

“I know nothing of a warlord,” Nelyafinwe said. “Himbaringe is the only part of the March that has not fallen.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Arhesto’s company must have been intercepted.” He doubted that any of them lived still, but he could not abandon them without being sure. Þauron, he knew, was still at large, and Nelyafinwe could not bear it if his people were in the clutches of that madman. 

“You are alive,” Findekáno said. His eyes shone as he looked up at Nelyafinwe, a smile dancing across lips that Nelyafinwe ached to kiss. “We are both alive, and Moringotto is dead.”

Nelyafinwe felt his own lips curl at that. Something had settled in his chest when he saw the defeated form of the Dark Foe, a deep satisfaction that vengeance had been wrought, even if it was not him who had done it. 

He wished he had seen Moringoþo fall. He wished he had been the one to deal the mortal blow. 

But Nelyafinwe had learned long ago that the things he wanted, the things he wished for, begged for, did not come to him. Findekáno was the one immaculate exception. 

And if Nelyafinwe was to have only one exception to the rule he had lived by since before the Darkening, he would choose Findekáno every time. 

Behind him, Makalaure cleared his throat. “We are, ah, still here.”

Carnistir snickered. Nelyafinwe’s headache returned. 

He sighed and ignored his brothers. “I was on my way to visit Tyelperinquar in the healing wing. Do you wish to accompany me?”

Findekáno shook his head as if remembering something suddenly. “As I was sneaking in I overheard someone refer to him as a prisoner! I cannot fathom any reason why you would—”

“He was injured on our most recent expedition,” Nelyafinwe said, “and he refuses to sit still long enough to be healed.”

“I wonder where he got that from,” Findekáno said dryly. “I will accompany you.”

With osanwe, he said, I would never be parted from you again.

Nelyafinwe turned to his brothers, cursing his pale skin that reddened so easily. “You know your tasks.”

“No detours,” said Carnistir with a smirk. Makalaure elbowed him in the ribs. 

Nelyafinwe made a rude hand gesture at them and walked towards the healing wing, his gloved hand resting between Findekáno’s shoulders. 

You brought your harp, said Nelyafinwe. He could feel it beneath Findekáno’s cloak, the strings muffled by the thick fabric.

Of course I did, his husband replied. After all, I was to rescue you.

Nelyafinwe’s heart squeezed. He can imagine how Findekáno must have felt, if he’d expected to find Nelyafinwe once again captured by some unknown evil, once again risking his life with nothing but hope that he would succeed.

I am sorry to have frightened you so, Nelyafinwe said. Oft have I turned westward in hopes you would arrive.

I doubt I could have made it were I not alone. The road was perilous.

I know. Nelyafinwe stopped at the entrance to the healing wing, and after checking that no one was around, stooped to press his face to the top of Findekáno’s head, breathing him in. “I wanted to go to Hiþilóme, to you. But there has been so much to do, I could not get away.”

“What have you been doing?” Findekáno asked. “You mentioned expeditions.”

“I promise to tell you all.” Nelyafinwe was sure he’d get the same lecture from Findekáno that he got from every single one of his brothers and Tyelperinquar when he explained what they had been doing, and he wanted to put that off, at least for now. He needed more time with his husband before he would be ready to face the sad and worried face Findekáno was sure to make.

He opened the door to the healing wing to find Tyelperinquar and Curufinwe arguing.

“I am not a child anymore, Atto!” Tyelperinquar was saying. “I am free to do what I wish; you cannot keep me from—”

“I will not put you in further danger—” Curufinwe hissed. He cut himself off when he noticed Nelyafinwe, then did a double take when he noticed Findekáno. 

He visibly swallowed back whatever he wanted to say. “Findekáno. It is good that you are here. We have been in need of reinforcements for some time.”

Reinforcements? Findekáno asked. Even his mind-voice sounded bewildered, and only centuries of practice kept Nelyafinwe from visibly wincing. 

In time, he promised again. Aloud, he said, “How is your arm, Tyelpe?”

“It is fine,” his nephew said long-sufferingly. Nelyafinwe turned to the healer, Sailawende, for her assessment.

“He needs rest,” she said immediately, but managed to hold back her smile when Tyelperinquar let his head fall back against the wall in despair. “I am positive no debris remains in the wound, but there is still a risk of infection. I will need to continue to check it daily.”

“But I can leave?” Tyelperinquar asked, sounding hopeful. “If all I must do is come back here once a day—”

“Absolutely no forgework,” Sailawende said. Her tone brooked no argument. “I shall give you a sling to put your arm in—you must make do with your right hand for now.”

Tyelperinquar sighed in defeat. “Very well.”

“What on Arda did you do to get debris in your wound?” Findekáno asked. 

Before Nelyafinwe could lie and say it had happened in a forging accident, Tyelperinquar smiled wryly. “Does it surprise you to learn that the road to Angamando is full of traps?”

This time, Nelyafinwe did wince.

Findekáno turned to him, eyes wide with alarm. “Anga—What have you been doing?” 

Curufinwe raised his brows. “He doesn’t know?”

Nelyafinwe shot him the most withering glare he could. Curufinwe visibly held back a flinch and lowered his gaze in silent apology.

“Pardon me, my lords, but I would ask that you argue somewhere that is not my infirmary,” Sailawende said. 

Nelyafinwe dipped his head towards her and returned his hand to its place on his husband’s back, all but herding him out of the healing wing. “We have much to discuss.”

“Indeed we do!” Findekáno said incredulously. “You have been—”

Please, said Nelyafinwe. It was easier to say when it was just in his mind. When we reach my chambers, I will tell you all. You have my word.

Findekáno huffed, but said nothing until they reached Nelyafinwe’s rooms and the doors were shut and locked behind them.

Nelyafinwe sat heavily at his desk chair. His shoulder was aching again. Rolling it in its socket was agony, but his face didn’t so much as twitch. 

Findekáno didn’t take the other chair in the room, instead pacing around it with his arms crossed. “Why?” he finally asked, coming to a stop in front of Nelyafinwe. His eyes were anguished. “Why would you go back there?”

“Someone has to,” Nelyafinwe said. “I have the most knowledge of it. I know the layout. I have been in nearly every part of the fortress. Nearly every other escaped captive saw only one part of it.”

“Then draw a map!” Findekáno cried. “You need not—”

“Moringoþo is dead,” Nelyafinwe said. “I have seen his corpse with my own eyes. That alone has done much to ease my mind.”

The tension in Findekáno’s shoulders released, and he moved to stand right in front of Nelyafinwe until he had to look up to meet his husband’s gaze. He traced his thumb over the eight-pointed star scarred on Nelyafinwe’s face. “You are far stronger than anyone can hope to imagine,” he whispered.

Nelyafinwe kept his face expressionless. He was not strong. If he were strong he would have killed Moringoþo long ago. Instead, the Dark Vala had broken him.

Findekáno kissed his forehead, and he closed his eyes.

“Angamando is still full of orqui and ulundor,” Nelyafinwe said. “The creature you fought in 260—the golden worm—there may be more like it.”

“Valaraukor?”

“Those, too.” He sighed. “Though I have less hope of killing them. They can be defeated, but they do not seem to stay dead.”

“Lalwende managed it, though it nearly killed her.”

Nelyafinwe looked up sharply. “Lalwende lives?”

“She does.” Findekáno smiled, but it quickly faded. “I imagine Sauron is hiding in Angamando as well?”

Nelyafinwe shook his head. “I wounded him badly in the battle. He fled, and likely remains in Tol Ñauroron. It will take much time ere he heals.”

“Good,” Findekáno said fiercely. “Let him rot there.”

“I cannot. The more time we take to build our forces, so too does he.” 

“We have time, still. The death of the Enemy has bought us that.”

Nelyafinwe leaned his head against Findekáno’s chest, burying his head in the warm fabric of his cloak. “Why are you still wearing your travelling attire? Set your things down.”

“Not going to give me a separate room this time?” Findekáno teased. “Keep up appearances?”

“There are none to give. My brothers’ surviving people have all come here.”

Findekáno set his harp gently against the wall, his pack beside it. His cloak and outer robes Nelyafinwe put in his own closet.

Findekáno sat down on the bed and held out his arms. “Come to bed, arimelda. I can feel how exhausted you are.”

Reluctantly, Nelyafinwe took off his boots and sank down next to his husband. It was all he could do not to collapse under his own weight, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe from the pain.

Relaxing his muscles hurt almost more than having them tense did, but Nelyafinwe forced himself through it one at a time, starting at his feet and ending with his neck.

“Russo, when was the last time you slept?”

Nelyafinwe had to think about it. “I’ve not slept fully since before the battle. But—”

“Russo, that was a year ago!”

“Has it been?” He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m afraid the days have all run together of late.” He turned over and tangled his fingers with Findekáno’s. “But enough about me. You have been crowned High King of the Ñoldor.”

Findekáno groaned. “Do not remind me. You know well I have never wanted the crown.”

“Yet I can think of no one better to wear it.”

“I cannot possibly live up to my father. And do not think I have forgotten that the crown only passed to me because you abdicated!”

Nelyafinwe smiled. “If I remember correctly, you supported my decision to do so.”

“I did. You needed time to heal, and it reassured many of my people that you did not have Feanáro’s ambition.” He laughed mirthlessly, his eyes glistening. “I suppose I foolishly believed that my father would not die.”

Nelyafinwe squeezed his hand. He had thought much the same, before Feanáro’s death.

“The kingship should go back to you,” Findekáno said quietly. “You are the eldest of Finwe’s eldest.”

“Your people would never accept a Feanárion as king.”

“And yours will not accept me! They barely accepted my father!”

Nelyafinwe grimaced. His brothers would indeed be an obstacle. As soon as they’d learned of Ñolofinwe’s death, Tyelkormo and Curufinwe had urged him to declare himself king once more.

“Technically,” he began, “I ceded the crown to the eldest of the House of Finwe. You tell me Lalwende lives—she is the eldest now.”

“I have already made that argument,” said Findekáno. “She will not take it. Artanáro has not yet reached majority, and she says now that the Enemy is dead she wishes to spend more time in the Falas with her family.”

Nelyafinwe sighed. “What shall we do, then?”

Findekáno bit his lip, then slowly smiled.

Nelyafinwe narrowed his eyes. “You are plotting. What are you plotting?”

“I may have an idea on how to unite our peoples.”

If anything, that made Nelyafinwe more sceptical. “What is it?”

Findekáno’s smile was now a wide grin. “Why, we must get married, of course.”

Chapter 3

brief and mild nudity, references to Maedhros's torture in Angband

otararánu - "co-high kings," from o- "together" + tararan "high king" + -u dual suffix

Read Chapter 3

Russandol looked at him blankly. “Finno, we are already married.”

Findekáno laughed. “Yes, but no one knows that. All we must do is have a ceremony, renew our vows, and our succession crisis is over!”

Russandol’s brows were still furrowed. “You suggest that we should both rule? As… otararánu?”

“Indeed. Who should object? Our fathers? They are both dead.” Findekáno managed to keep the grief out of his voice, though he was sure Russandol could feel it over their bond.

“My brothers—Makalaure knows about us, but the rest—”

“Your brothers, arimelda, will do whatever you ask of them. I would be more worried about Turukáno, should he ever reappear.”

Russandol pressed his lips together into a thin line. “It cannot be sudden. We must have a proper period of engagement. If you return to Hiþilóme married to me of all people, many will think I forced you into it.”

Findekáno snorted. “No one will think that. My feelings for you are well known. But I agree that an engagement period would be best.”

“It will lessen the scandal, at least. But there will still be one.”

He smiled. “To think that we were wed in secret in Valinóre because we feared such a thing. We did not know the meaning of fear, then.”

Russandol’s face darkened. “No, we did not.”

Findekáno ghosted a hand up his husband’s back until it rested on the nape of his neck. There was so much tension held there. He pressed down, trying to get it to release, and Russandol went nearly boneless. 

After a few minutes, Findekáno could feel Russandol struggling not to make a sound. The pain, at least, had lessened, so he stopped his ministrations. “If we bathe, I can work on your shoulder as well.”

“Later,” said Russandol. He caught Findekáno’s gaze, and warmth flooded through their bond. “Thank you.”

Findekáno kissed him. It was soft and sweet, born of love that had begun when they were young, when the Trees still bloomed before darkness took the world.

“I love you,” he said in a low voice. Russandol nudged his nose along Findekáno’s and slotted their lips together once more.

“And I you,” he breathed into Findekáno’s mouth. His eyelids fluttered, caught between the desire to close in bliss and the need to keep looking at his husband’s face.

A knock sounded on the door, pulling him out of his thoughts, and a brusque voice followed it. “Lords Turkafinwe, Pityafinwe, and Telufinwe have returned, my lord.”

The permanent crease between Russandol’s brows lessened slightly. He stood slowly and adjusted the collar on his robe so that it lay flat. “Thank you, Hendunáro,” he said. “Inform my brothers that we will hold council in two hours.”

When the footsteps retreated, he turned to Findekáno, lips quirked in a tiny smile. “About that bath.”

“Valar, please,” Findekáno said. He stood eagerly. “I have dirt in every conceivable crevice, and a few inconceivable ones.”

Russandol raised a scarred eyebrow. “Is that so?” His eyes lighted in a way that, even amidst his exhaustion, sent heat down Findekáno’s spine.

“How improper, Lord Nelyafinwe,” he said, managing to keep his voice cool and regal despite the warmth in his face. “Attempting to seduce me into consummating our marriage before the ceremony.”

He could almost see the eye-roll Russandol held back. He stepped closer, forcing Findekáno to lift his chin to maintain eye contact. His hand caught Findekáno’s own, his right arm caressing his side. He pressed his lips to Findekáno’s knuckles, eyes blazing with want.

“My apologies, my king,” Russandol murmured.

Findekáno’s breath hitched. It took several moments for him to find his voice again. “Extremely rude of you, to do that to me when we are both too tired to do anything about it.”

Russandol hummed and stooped to kiss him. “Tomorrow, if you wish, I will spend hours taking you apart. But for now, allow me to wash your hair?”

Findekáno grinned. “You are bribing me!”

Russandol smiled slightly. “Nay, veru, though I confess my motivations are purely selfish.” He kissed Findekáno again, and together they exited his bedchamber and went into the bathing room. I have missed you terribly these last years, he finished in thought.

As I have missed you.  

Russandol turned a lever above the tub, and steaming water came out of the spigot. Beneath Himbaringe there were hot springs, but Russandol would not bare himself around anyone but Findekáno, and Findekáno himself had found that after the Helcaraxe he could no longer stand the heat.

“I too have been caught up in the aftermath of the battle,” he said. “It was not until settling the refugees of Dorthonion in Brethil that I was able to take leave to search for you.”

“What of Artaresto and the folk from Minasse Tirista?”

“They fled to Nargothrond, aided by Angaráto and Aikanáro. Artaresto, Meril, and Findelótelas are all safe there.”

Russandol nodded. “Good. I worry the messengers I sent to you may have been intercepted by Þauron, but short of sending more straight to him I know not how to confirm that.”

“What are the chances they still live, if they were?”

He grimaced. “High. Þauron will want information from them, on me. And he is… skilled, at getting what he wants from those who do not wish to give it to him.”

From Russandol’s side of the bond, Findekáno felt cold shame, quickly replaced by his own anger. “I have thought to take back the isle,” he said. “Many times I discussed it with Angaráto. But we do not have the strength.”

“Nor do we,” said Russandol. “I doubt even together we would be able to defeat him, not for many years.”

“The siege of Angamando took four centuries.”

“And it depleted our forces to near nothing.” Russandol was silent for a moment, jaw clenched. “My brothers have returned from a scouting mission. They may be able to tell us more about lands we can retake.”

The tub was full, so Russandol shut off the water. Findekáno disrobed and slid into it, breathing a sigh of relief as the warmth penetrated his aching muscles. He admired his husband as he stepped in as well, letting his eyes feast on the hard planes of his body, knotted with scars.

Findekáno couldn’t help himself. He needed to touch, to run his hands over every bit of skin he could. He placed open-mouthed kisses across Russandol’s collarbone, up to his throat where the skin had been discoloured from a chafing iron band, down to his chest where he could gently tug on a nipple and hear his husband’s breath hitch.

“You know we don’t have time,” Russandol rasped in his ear. He shivered, his body reacting despite his exhaustion.

Findekáno wanted to pout. He was sure if he looked desperate enough Russandol would relent. But kings did not pout to get their way, and they were not late to council meetings because they wanted to make love to their husband.

Before he could decide what to say, Russandol’s fingers were in his hair, massaging soap and herbs into his scalp. It sent a tingling sensation down his entire body, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep there.

He tilted his head back at Russandol’s command, and the soap was rinsed out. Russandol opened a vial of hair oil with his teeth, and Findekáno wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

He spread a small bit of oil on each of Findekáno’s braids, and fixed the ones that had started to come out to the best of his ability.

“I miss braiding your hair,” Russandol murmured, so quietly Findekáno almost didn't hear it. His eyes prickled with tears. He’d been doing his own braids ever since the battle, everyone in his immediate family either dead or lost. It was just another reminder of how alone he had been.

Russandol had been good at braiding his hair, despite the vast difference in their hair textures. But he could not braid with only one hand, and even the various prostheses that Curufinwe had made for him did not offer enough control to handle the tiny strands of hair.

Findekáno would be lying if he said he did not miss it as well. But more than anything he had missed Russandol, and as long as they were together he was sure they could handle anything.

“I could braid yours,” he said. Russandol had kept his hair short ever since Angamando, and it barely reached past his shoulders. It was in simple braids now, the front pieces woven to keep them out of his eyes and tied back in a tail. 

Russandol kissed his forehead. “I would like that.”

“First, your shoulder.” He bade his husband to turn, and kneaded the muscle there. “Has it been bothering you recently?”

“No more than usual,” Russandol said. His voice did not betray any pain, but Findekáno could feel it bleeding through their bond even as he could feel Russandol trying to contain it.

“You have not been wearing your brace.”

“You know I cannot stand that thing.”

“I also know you are in less pain when you wear it than when you do not.”

Russandol groaned as Findekáno pressed on a particularly sensitive spot, and the tips of his ears turned red. Findekáno just kissed the nape of his neck and kept going until the tension released.

“Thank you,” Russandol said. Around them, the water had become cloudy with dust and dirt accumulated from Findekáno’s travel. They stepped out and dressed again in clean clothes. 

Findekáno helped his husband lace up the neckline on his tunic, and brushed his fingers over the brand on his chest. Three spikes, like the peaks of the Sangoronti or the Iron Crown. It burned with the Enemy’s malice, his hatred for the line of Finwe and Feanáro in particular concentrated into Russandol’s flesh.

“Is it better, now that he is dead?” Findekáno asked. 

“Somewhat,” his husband replied. “He put so much of himself in the very earth. It is likely why your father was able to destroy him, but it also ensured that his power and influence would persist after his death.”

Findekáno tied the tunic’s laces, the brand disappearing beneath black fabric. Over it he laid Russandol’s pendant, crafted by Curufinwe and enchanted to keep away nightmares and memories that were better off forgotten. It gleamed silver, the symbol of their house encrusted with tiny jewels.

“Russo, forgive me for bringing this up, but…” He paused and wet his lips. “What of the Silmarilli? What of your Oath?”

“Fulfilled,” Russandol said. “But the jewels themselves are hidden. Curufinwe managed to separate them from the iron crown, but I have no wish to see them. I… do not yet know what should be done with them. For now I am merely glad to be rid of that particular chain.”

When they finished dressing, Findekáno wished for a mirror so that he could admire them both. They looked lordly, red and black beside blue and gold. Even without the gold in his braids, Findekáno felt like himself again.

“Would you like to announce our… betrothal tonight?” Russandol asked him. There was a slight curve to his lips. “Better they hear the news in private, so that their reactions do not provoke further scandal.”

“That would be best, yes,” Findekáno agreed. Tyelkormo, in particular, could be unpredictable, and despite his former friendship with Írisse, Findekáno had no idea how he would react. Loudly, he suspected. 

He redid Russandol’s braids quickly. If they had more time, he would make them as elaborate as his husband’s short hair would allow, braids fit for a king of the Ñoldor. But for now he only kept it out of Russandol’s eyes and secured it with an intricately-wrought clasp, leaving the rest to flow down his back. 

They left Russandol’s chambers and made their way toward the great hall once more. The keep was near-silent at this time of night, the corridors illuminated only by torches and the elves’ own glow. 

“Ready?” Russandol asked, letting go of Findekáno’s hand so that he could open the doors.

“To finally be able to show how much I adore you? Of course.” He grinned as his husband flushed.

Inside, the head table was filled with Feanárions. To Findekáno’s surprise, the seat to Russandol’s right, usually occupied by Makalaure, was vacant. The musician himself instead sat to the left of the head chair, and smiled at Findekáno when they came in.

Well, Findekáno supposed that he was High King now, and therefore outranked all of them. But as this was still Russandol’s keep, and not his own, he took the second chair. Covering Russandol’s right side, just as he would in battle. 

This sat him next to Tyelkormo, who nodded at him in acknowledgement. He looked exhausted, his normally white hair streaked with dirt and blood. There was a new gash across his cheek; it looked like stitches had been recently taken out.

I’ll hear what they have to report first, Russandol said in Findekáno’s mind. And they will want to hear word from West Valariande as well.

Findekáno sent a wordless agreement. It would be better to get all of that out of the way before whatever argument was inevitably coming.