Like a White Fire Within by fingonsradharp

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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. 

 

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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.

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Chapter End Notes

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