So, here finally comes the fourth chapter. It has taken me longer than usual, because I have been occupied with learning for my exams. But now I have more free time and the next chapter will follow quite soon, I think.

As a little update concerning the progress of the story: Chapers 5 and 6 are already written and I am currently revising them. The end of chapter 6 is about half way through the story. When it is published, there is going to be a longer break, in which I will finish off the raw version, before I begin revising and publishing the second half of the story.

Also, thank you very much for your comments and your positive feedback! I am really happy you like the story so far and it is a great motivation to keep on writing. So now, enjoy this next chapter!

Nútine Mát – Tied Hands

"Ñolofinwe yondo ataryo né, halla, ñolya ta valatin, tambe haurasta Ñoldoron, ar i teldesse, fó kotse imba sé yo Feanáro, nirme-senyanen yantanes inse mir i amortale yo 'n eltende, ananta kakarranes ankane aranusse ilye Ñoldoron."

"Fingolfin was his father's son, tall, dark, and proud, as were most of the Ñoldor, and in the end in spite of the enmity between him and Feanor he joined with full will in the rebellion and the exile, though he continued to claim the kingship of all the Ñoldor." (PM:336)

.***.

Findekáno arrived at the lakeshore just in time to see the boat of the ambassadors fade into the black reek.

"Damn it!"

Heavily panting, he stood on the landing stage. His throat itched and tickled from all the fume he had inhaled while trying to wriggle through the tangle of preoccupied Eldar as fast as possible. All for nothing. Discouraged, he turned back. There was not much he could have told Tankastel anyway. He had merely wished to soften the sharp words of his father. Now that chance had passed as well.

"Aryondinya! Can I help you?"

Findekáno looked abound to see who had spoken. He merely glimpsed blurry shapes among the vapours, scurrying about the ship decks. Currently, the harbour was replete with carpenters and craftsmen striving to prepare the boats for the journey.

"Over here, aryonya."

A woman standing at the prow of a small catboat waved her arm. When the plumes of smoke lightened for a moment, he recognised her. It was Núranende, a seamstress from the house of his brother and a good friend of Faniel. He approached unto the edge of the jetty and greeted her politely.

"The pleasure is all mine", Núranende replied. "What brings you to the port? Are you looking for someone?"

Findekáno stiffened and rummaged through his brain in search of an unsuspicious way to explain why he sprinted over the quay like a madman. Since Turukáno had been appointed to take care of the ships, there was no real reason for him to show up at the port. "Well ... I will be organising the loading of the ships once they are ready for departure ... thus, I came to see how your work is proceeding", he improvised.

"Is not your squire commissioned to gather such information for you?", the woman asked sceptically.

"Oh, sure", Findekáno nodded. "Yet I was passing by anyway and thought I might take a look for myself. So, how is it going? I heard there has been some delay", he added quickly before she could pose further, uncomfortable questions.

Núranende frowned, but answered freely. "That is correct. We are doing our best to gain up on the time lost, though I am afraid leaving this evening as was sceduled, lies beyond our means. But wait a moment, aryonya!"

She lifted up her skirt, climbed the curvate railing and hopped onto the pier. In the gloom however, she must have missed a wet spot on the planks and when she landed, her feet slipped. For a heartbeat, she flailed about, fighting for her balance.

Findekáno, in a presence of mind, grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the water. "Carefully!", he chuckled.

Núranende gave him a timid smile. Even in the dim light, he distinguished a shade of blush on her cheeks. "Thanks", she murmured and tucked a loosened strand of hair behind her ear. "This way, it will be more comfortable to talk."

All the noises from hammers and saws, mixed with the continuous chopping of water against the hulls, produced a clamorous cacophony indeed. Findekáno had to stand very close to the seamstress to understand her words.

"You are welcome. I did not want to cause any inconvenience, though." In fact, he just wanted to get away from the port as fast as possible. But Núranende was not going to let him escape this easily.

"Oh, it is no inconvenience at all!", she assured him. "I shall gladly answer any of your questions.

Although Morifasse has a better overview and could provide far more information. I can just tell you what I noticed during work."

Findekáno shrugged. "Never mind. I can find him afterwards." He left his gaze wander about the harbour.

Moored at thirty landing stages, the high masts piercing through the thick vapours, their fleet gave an impressive sight. Yet compared to the ships of the Teleri, two hundred feet long, suited for the open sea, and each granting room to cargo, horses and a hundred people on top … their vessels were but a bad joke. They were built for the safe and easy crossing of the calm Mísiringwe, for scouting, for fishing. Also, they had been devised by a folk that had never before shown any affection for shipbuilding. The constructions were based on their memory of boats which the Eldar had used on the rivers and lakes in Valinor – all of them gifts from the Teleri. And this fact was not to be overlooked.

"How many boats will you be able to prepare until tomorrow morning?", Findekáno queried after a thorough inspection.

"At the moment we have got sixty barques, five hundred and thirty sailboats, and eight hundred and fifteen skiffs, most of them in our port", Núranende explained eagerly. "A few were out on the lake when the smoke fell and have not returned since. Some are already underway to the eastern camp. I can give you no certain number, but I estimate about half of the fleet will be ready for transport. Perhaps even two thirds."

The eastern camp. When did they start calling it that?

"But all of these ships have been built within the last four years. Surely, most of them should be still in a good state."

"Oh, they are! Yet none of our ships were constructed for the transport of heavy load. The first barque we began lading was pushed down from all the weight and we managed to discharge the cargo just in time before in would have sunken. Luckily, the architects came up with new designs to allow the vessels endure more weight. So now we are reconstructing them."

"I see", Findekáno mumbled while pondering what else he might ask. "And the work is going well? Is there anything you need?"

"We are fine, aryonya", Núranende asserted. "We have got plenty of material and in the morning, the first sailboat was finished and tested. Due to the new design, they can bear twice as much weight as before. The only thing …"

"Yes?"

"It's just …" She lowered her gaze to the soaked planks of the jetty. "We are trying to have people working at every ship simultaneously, lest time is wasted. We labour in shifts, day and night, because it makes no difference anyhow. But the smoke … it is hard to stay outside for more than a couple of hours. A number of Quendi already suffer from heavy respiratory problems. So … some more workers would really help."

Findekáno could all too well imagine the struggle of working under such conditions. And the young woman seemed truly concerned. "I shall relate your plea to my brother", he promised. "Actually, some Eldar from my own house can assist as well."

Núranende's face lit up. "That would be a great relief indeed. Thank you very much, aryonya!"

"My pleasure. And you are reconstructing all of the ships?" He did not know where the question had come from. It just popped up in his mind and spurted from his lips ere he could hold it back.

A bit surprised, the seamstress shook her head. "No, not all. Only the ones moored at the main port. Half of the rowing boats are anchored at the eastern quay and those we leave be. Aryon Turukáno figured they would mean more work than benefit."

"That sounds reasonable enough", Findekáno said absentmindedly, still puzzled by his own enquiry. "Well, I thank you for your time, Núranende, and shall not keep you from your work any longer. But take care! Grant yourself enough breaks to recover from the reek! It is no help to anyone if our craftsmen fall ill by overstraining themselves."

"As you command, aryonya", she smiled and curtsied.

The prince nodded his head and walked back across the landing stage. After a few steps, he heard another call: "Aryon Findekáno!"

He turned around.

"I believe the chief-constructor Morifasse is currently in the architects tent – if you are still looking for him."

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Núranende!"

With knitted brow, Findekáno continued his way. He harboured quite some doubts as to whether the seamstress believed his story. Particularly after that strange remark in the end. And not having the slightest intention of talking to Morifasse and making a fool of himself once more, he hurried back to the camp. Before it would cross anyone else's mind to offer their help to the son of their king.

A stripe of swampy meadows seperated the port from the dry valley bottom where the tents and houses spread. As Findekáno followed one of the drained pathways among long grass and sedges, he toyed with the idea of returning into his office. It was not very fair to have his poor squire do all his paperwork. But his mind was still raging from his father's behaviour towards the messengers of Makalaure and probably, he would hinder the work of Híson more than support it. So as he reached the Malle Maklaiva, he steered his steps left and headed for the training area. Right now, he was in need of a sword in his hand.

.***.

Three hours later, when Findekáno redressed for dinner, his muscles were shaking from exhaustion and his arms and legs sported a number of fresh bruises. And yet, at least he felt like he had achieved something.

Normally, he was not that keen on fighting. Not like Russandol had been, or even Faniel. The Feanárion had taught him the basics of handling a sword when his family started forging the first weapons. Back then, both of them regarded it as sport. A mere pasttime. Though soon they had to learn by great sorrow that it was far more than that.

Findekáno had trained along with the other Ñoldor during the preparations for their long voyage. And he had fought in the battle of Alqualonde, thinking he was fighting on the side of good. Realising only afterwards what evil he had wrought. And since that cursed day, his óre rivelled whenever he laid hand upon a weapon, be it for hunting or slaying Orqui – it just felt wrong.

But blessed Ilúvatar, it's so incredibly simple! Step, stroke, step, parry. Turn, stab. Simple as that. What a boon for the troubled mind! His thoughts had finally calmed down, his breath was long and deep, and his movements steady.

Findekáno pulled a fresh tunic over his head, fastened a belt around his waist and slipped into a pair of black leather boots, recalling the past afternoon. Lately, his skill with the sword had become quite rusty. He ought to practice on a more regular basis. Nevertheless, it had sufficed to beat five out of seven sparring partners today. All thanks to you, Nelyo, he mused with a certain melancholy. You always brought out the best in me.

At last, he draped a cloak around his shoulders and closed the door to his private chamber. Hísion had already left for the kitchens, having finished not only the chart laying out the system of housing at their new settlement, but also completed a draft assigning all the respective families to the available ships.

Findekáno strode through the empty office, his gaze trailing over Hísion's perfectly tidied desk right next to his own mess, and smiled. Sometimes, he figured the boy would make a far better lord for his house than he himself could ever be.

He deserves the position of my deputy, not Tundamir. In a couple of years, he comes of age – then I shall promote him.

Findekáno stepped out of his modest hut and gagged on the nasty stench emitted by the omnipresent smoke. A mixture of scorched horn and rotten eggs. Disgusted, he quickened his pace and made for house of his father.

Ñolofinwe's domicile was not exactly a palace and not nearly a quarter of the size their mansion in Tirion had ranged. Still, it was the second greatest building in the camp, surpassed only by the Oromar. Three-storied and built out of wood and fair limestone, it housed not only the suite of the king, but also lodging for his servants, several meeting chambers, a stockroom for their most precious treasures from Aman, as well as a large dining room where the nobles and high commanders could dine among themselves. Most of the time, Findekáno preferred eating in one the common refectories spread across the camp, together with the people of his house. On this evening though, he appreciated a bit of privacy. A warm, welcoming light fell through the tall and slender windows and danced on the gravel in the forecourt.

When Findekáno entered, the hall was already quite full and buzzing with multifold chats of the gathered lords and ladies. His father was missing, he stated while looking up and down the long dining table. Likewise Narwe and Kelwe. His cousins Angaráto and Aikanáro were sitting a little to the right and chatted animately with some lords of the house of Arafinwe. Findekáno already wanted to join them when he spotted Faniel and Turukáno at the far end of the table and veered in their direction.

"Aiya Findo!", his sister hailed him.

"Good evening", he answered and took a seat opposite to his cousin Laurefindel, son of Findis. Next to the golden-haired Elda sat Itaril and Lalwende, who greeted him as well.

"I thought you were already on your way to the Karniramba", Findekáno remarked, turning to his brother.

Turukáno shook his head. "There were still a couple of pressing matters to be organised. I will be leaving right after dinner."

"And how comes the mighty aryon graces us with his presence today?", Faniel said in a mocking voice.

Findekáno sighed internally. He was not at all in the mood for silly pranks and childish jokes.

Better this than the trivial courtesies at the refectories. Or would you rather dine alone?

So he reached for the wine carafe and forced himself to smile. "Who can say? Maybe atar sent me in his stead to keep an eye on you lot. Where is he, by the way?" A part of him had hoped to find his father here. Unlikely as it was that he could convince the king now where he had failed earlier, he cherished the faint hope that food and the informal atmosphere might do the trick.

"When I left", Lalwen said, "he was still confering with Findaráto and Héru Kelwe and did not wish to break off."

Great. So he does listen to advise, just not mine.

"All the better", grinned Faniel. "Less people means more food for us. Try some of the pheasant, Findo – it's delicious!"

Of course his ever perceptive sister sensed his tension and tried to take his mind off things. If only it were this easy.

Though being in fact quite hungry after his training, he nodded and filled his plate with roasted meat, lentils, and honey-sweetened carrots. "Not bad indeed", he admitted after a bite.

"Not bad", their aunt agreed with a sigh. "Yet a little more variety of vegetable would be more than welcome. Or at least some fruits. Honestly, I cannot stand all this meat any longer."

"Well, it is the food most easily achieved up here in the north", Faniel said lightly. "And it is tasty."

"Oh don't you try to deceive us, little sister", Turukáno taunted. "We all know how much you relish finally having a good reason to go hunting."

Faniel spiked a small piece of meat with her fork and lifted it graciously into her mouth. "Perhaps", she said after chewing. "Though you should rather be grateful if there are people willing to fulfill this unpleasent task for you."

"It is not becoming to a héri", Lalwende remarked.

"When has our Írisse ever cared for etiquette", Laurefin smirked. "But surely, there is food from Aman you too miss, dear cousin? If only I think of the plentitude of spices …"

Faniel chuckled at his dreamy look. "It is not like we are starving at the moment. Compared to our first year in Endóre, we are living on the fat of the land. Do you remember the first winter, when we rejoiced at the sight of a single mushroom?"

Their cousin grimaced. "Do not remind me."

"Now we grow corn and vegetables, and the woods abound with nuts and berries. That is enough to be content with." Faniel paused to reach for another slice of bread. "Though I must admit I would kill for just one tomato."

"Or an orange", added Laurefindel.

"Or a pomegranate", Lalwen sighed.

Findekáno fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had entered the dining room with the firm intention to spend a merry evening of lighthearted chatting to escape from his sombre thoughts. But such trivia was more than he could bear. Do they not care for the feanárian ambassadors at all? Are they completely unconcerned about the message of Makalaure?

Finding himself in no state to join the conversation, Findekáno clenched his teeth and concentrated on eating, giving monosyllabic answers only when spoken to. Indeed, he was so focused on exercising restraint, that it took him quite some time to realise that Itarille was unusually silent as well. She kept her gaze fixed at her plate and had not uttered a single word since he sat down. Findekáno wondered what was bothering his niece tonight.

Meanwhile, the talk trailed on, lingering for a while on the Eldar's favorite foods before turning to all the pompous feasts they used to have in the blessed realm. Findekáno managed to stay calm until the plates were almost emptied. Then, they started moaning the lack of material to fashion colourful garmets and that was when he had enough.

"Seriously?", he burst out. "Is this all you have to talk about? The lack of pomegranates and indigo? As if there were no bigger problems at hand!"

The happy chatting on their end of the table stopped abruptly. Itarille looked up from her half-finished meal. Even some Quendi seated further away turned their heads at the sharp sound of his voice. Findekáno couldn't care less. He had tried, actually tried, to pretend everything was normal. It just did not work.

Faniel was the first to find her voice again, her grey eyes full of compassion. "You are taking it the wrong way, Findo. Of course, these are luxury problems and certainly not the important matters at present. However, it is tiring to speak of nothing but enemies and war all the time. We are just trying to distract ourselves from the darkness outside, at least for a short while."

"I know that. And on any other evening, I would shut my mouth and leave you be. But after what happened today, I assumed we would have something else to comment on – if one is not completely oblivious to the incidents around them, that is", he added with a note of sarcasm.

His brother and aunt tensed simultaneously and exchanged a meaningful look.

"Not in front of the child, Findo", Lalwen muttered.

His gaze drifted to Itaril, who continued eating as if nothing had happened. Which wasn't like her at all. Findekáno raised an eyebrow. "You did not tell her?"

"We decided she did not need to know", Turukáno explained. "And I would appreciate it if you dropped that specific subject for now."

So that is why their conversation has circled around the most ridiculous topics without even touching the event of the day. Well, at least they are not indifferent to it. Just overly caring. He shrugged. "As you will."

Itarille swallowed her last bite, took a sip of water, courtly dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and said: "If you are talking about Tankastel, Solondil and Milye submitting to Yáratar the offer to join forces with the Feanárians, and Yáratar turning them down because he does not want to subordinate as long as the Feanáriondor fail to apologise for deserting us in Araman – I already know that."

With a loud clatter,Turukáno's knife landed on his plate, causing once more several heads to turn. "How on Arda do you know about that? The contents of this meeting were strictly confidential! Only the highest ranks were informed!"

His daughter produced a mischievous smile. "I have my sources."

"Someone blabbed?" Turukáno narrowed his eyes. "Tell me who, and I shall skin him alive!"

"Save your violence for a time when it is more founded", Itaril said tranquilly. "Nobody blabbed. I heard the conversation for myself."

"You eavesdropped?!"

"No eave was involved, but basically – yes."

"I did not know it was possible to overhear the talks in the Oromar without being seen", Laurefin reflected. "You must have stood close nearby to grasp what was being said." He sounded a little too impressed and promptly, earned himself a chiding glance from his aunt.

Itaril shrugged. "The beginning was somewhat hard to understand, though towards the end it got better. Yáratar has a very distinguishable voice when he is angry."

Turukáno shook his head indignantly. "That is so …"

"Clever?", suggested Findekáno, unable to hide a smirk.

"Cheeky! You were not only acting against the rules of morality by eveasdropping on a declaredly confident meeting, but also violating the laws of our house. The Oromar is only to be entered by permission of the king."

"Something, for which I am terribly sorry", Itaril said dryly, "but which I would not have been forced to do if you eventually stopped treating me like a child."

"You are a child!"

"I am forty-four years old! Those six years won't make much of a difference."

"She has a point there", Findekáno sided with his niece. "Do you not think she has a right to know what is going on at the moment? It affects her future too."

"Thank you, uncle Findo. That is what I have been telling them for ages!"

Turukáno sighed. "All we are trying to do, is to spare you more sorrow and trouble than necessary, my love."

"You should appreciate the fact that you are still underage, Rille-honey", Lalwen added softly. "The innocent years of childhood pass so quickly compared to the centuries and millenias of adulthood with their duties and responsibilities. For now, you still hold the privilege of being cared for. Council meetings and negotiations are the business of the king. They must not be your concern."

Itarille's expression darkened in an instant. "The king's business is the wellbeing of his people. That concerns me as well as anyone. And do not tell me about innocence." She looked each of them firmly into the eyes. Her voice was steady. "I saw my folk raise swords against each other. I saw them drown and starve and freeze. I saw my mother vanish amidst the crushing ice. By the count of years, I may still rank as a child, yet what innocence I possessed, has long been lost along our way. I struggled and suffered no less than any of you, so quit claiming I am too young to know! Rather would I bear every single worry of Arda Hastaina myself than cherish a false hope in this gloom!"

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then, Faniel chuckled. "I believe she has no need of your support, Findo."

Turukáno leaned back in his chair, looking a bit shaken. His breast heaved and dropped again. "All right", he said haltingly. "You win. I guess I have to apologise to you, yenya. Maybe I have been a little overprotective since … well, lately. For that I am very sorry and I promise hereafter not to withhold any important information from you and treat you more appropriate to your age – or at least I shall try."

A smile, glorious as the rising sun, lit up the face of the eldarin maid and her resoluteness was wiped away like morning mist by a gust of wind. "Thank you, atto. That means a lot to me. I, in turn, promise not to do any more eveasdropping … unless it is absolutely necessary."

Relieved and contented, Turukáno nodded. Only someone who knew him very well could discern in his features a vague trace of the not quite unrealistic worry to which mischief his daughter would be up to next.

Findekáno decided to intervene before his brother had the chance to voice any of those reservations. "Wonderful", he commented. "Since now we are allowed to mention said meeting – I would be curious to hear your opinions on what the messengers offered. And the response they were given."

Thereupon, Turukáno stiffened. "Don't ask me, Findo. You know how I feel about the Feanárians. An allegiance with them? Never. That is all I got to say."

Findekáno nodded resignatively. From Túro he had expected no different answer. And though it pained him to admit this, he understood. The death of Elenwe had left a deep wound in his brother's heart. One that was very likely never to heal.

"And what about you, Lalwen? You have been terribly silent this noon." He couldn't quite suppress the snide remark.

His aunt looked up from her already emptied plate. "I did not speak up against my brother when offered the chance to – is that what you are criticising?"

"I am not criticising. I was merely a little disappointed that no one else had the heart to weigh in, both in favour and counter."

"That much was more than obvious", she remarked piquedly. "You ask for my opinion? Well, there you go: I agree with Ñolofinwe in every point. If the Feanárians want our support, they ought to come crawling, begging us for help. And then, still, it would be a great mercy of our king to grant it. For we owe nothing to the Feanárians. They owe us a lot."

"That is not going to be of much avail against the Valaraukor", Findekáno said bitterly. "Is insisting on one's rights really worth dying for?"

In Lalwen's warm and gentle eyes, a sharp flame emblazed. "Better embrace death in dignity than band together with turncoats!", she snarled. "For my part, I came to Endóre to see justice done. Justice for the slaughter of my father by the Morikotto and justice for the sufferings of my people caused by the house of Feanáro. I want to see them pay for their sins both, and both I regard as enemies."

"You cannot equalise the Feanárians with the Morikotto!", Findekáno exclaimed appalled. "No matter what terrible crimes they committed, they are still our kin!"

"And the Morikotto is akin with the Valar!", came the blunt retort. "Them we revered, him we curse. Where is the difference?"

He opened his mouth, but Lalwende raised a finger and said: "You wanted to hear my opinion, Findekáno. This is it, so stop arguing!" She paused for a while and sipped her wine. "However, I intended anyway to have a word with you on the part you took in the course of the reception."

"Not you as well!", Findekáno groaned. "Atar has already lectured me on this."

"I know. Which is why I am approaching the topic now. I spoke with Nólo earlier. He is angry with you, really angry."

"When is atar ever not angry with me?", he scoffed.

"Do not take this lightly!" A steep crease appeared between the eyes of his aunt and dispersed his humour. She wore that crease only when she was deeply worried. "After your talk, he was absolutely determinded to ban you from the council."

"Findo was banned from the council?", Faniel echoed with a full mouth. "How did I not hear of this?"

"He threatened to ban me", Findekáno corrected his sister. "And I would very much like to see him go through with it."

"Do not underestimate your father", Lalwen warned. "You have put him in a really tough position, Findo. He does not want to ban you. It would be humiliating for the both of you. But the way you behaved during this meeting was unacceptable and he will not let it slip. Also, your unwillingness to see reason afterwards did not really help your case. It took all my persuasiveness and a lot of time until he agreed to give you another chance. He will approach you in the morning concerning the consequences of your speech. Though if you apologise, he shall forgive you. I made sure of that."

Findekáno regarded his hands. He knew Lalwen just wanted the best for him. And yet, already the thought of asking forgiveness made his entrails boil. "What if I do not want to apologise? What if I still think I am in the right?"

His aunt sighed resignedly. "Oh Findo, where is all this rebelliousness coming from? Your father has led us kindly and justly from the moment on that we chose to follow him. Tell me, how did he deserve this kind of demeanour? Because he did not heed to your advise today? After all, he is our táro and he has the right to make such decisions on his own accord."

"Exactly", said Findekáno and sullenly moved the remainder of pheasant over his plate. "He is a táro, but that doesn't make him flawless. What if he is mistaken this time?"

"Well, I was not there in person", Faniel chimed in, "so I can only judge from what I heard. But I too, think that atar has made the right decision."

"You do?" Findekáno was unable not to let his frustration show. At least from his sister, he had hoped for support.

Faniel eyed her empty goblet and took the time to pour herself more wine before saying: "Yes. Although I understand your reservations. Certainly the Feanáriondor will be wrath once they find out we took possession of their old camp. Kurufinwe in especial. I can imagine his reaction only too well. Still, I do not see where atar could have acted differently."

"He could have overcome his pride and accepted the offered allegiance."

"True enough. I won't deny that joining forces would strengthen our position against the Morikotto. The point is, I doubt such a union could end well. Even if our two kings got it all together. Even if they ordered their people to collaborate. Even if it was the most logical thing to do."

Findekáno furrowed his brow. "Why not?"

"Because of the people themselves, Findo", she explained wistfully. "The soldiers, those who would bear the consequences of such a decision. They would never get along with each other. Long enough have we lived next to each other and you saw what became of it. Disputes and quarrels on a daily basis. And if those resulted in harsh words and one or another curse, we could count ourselves lucky. We almost started a war amongst each other because of a stag pierced by two arrows at the same time. Do you really think all these years of mistrust and resentment could be swiped away in an instant if a táro commanded it? Never."

Like freezing water, the truth within her words trickled into Findekáno's concience and made him shiver. Faniel was right. Winning over the king was one thing. But it would take more than an appeal to reason, were the Ñoldor to forgive all that had happened in the past. The Valar had used to preach clemency and forgiveness. In Aman, any crime could be pardoned, as long as it was regretted genuinely and redemption achieved. Alas, they were not the same people that had left the Blessed Realm. No one could cross the Helkaraxe without remaining unaffected. The long years of bitter pain and desperation had moulded an icy shell around the hearts of the Ñoldor. And it would take the heat of Anar herself to melt that ice away.

Findekáno cleared his throat. "This is actually the first reasonable argument I heard so far for rejecting the union. I agree in that it will be a difficult task to reconcile the Ñoldor. Though at least we must try. Lords and kings ought to set a good example for their people. If we overcome our rivalry, the rest of our houses would be encouraged to do the same."

"Perhaps. But is that going to suffice?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea. After all, we are all Eldar. There has to be some way to achieve a reunion! Even if our hate for the Morikotto is the only thing we have in common!"

"Hate is never a good basis to build on", commented Laurefindel. "In battle the warriors have to rely on each other. If all that ties us together is the despise of our enemy, how are we to know they won't sacrifice us gladly at the very first opportunity in order to save their own hide? How are we to trust them ever again?"

Abruptly, Turukáno got up from his seat and in his sudden motion almost knocked over a chalice. "I am off", he stated. "The route to the Karniramba is long and my companions will be waiting. A good night to you all!" And without further ado, he strode out of the room.

Findekáno hesistated for some moments, then he rose as well and hurried after his brother. On the hallway, he caught up with him.

"Hanno wait!"

Turukáno halted and gave him a questioning look. "What?"

"Don't go. Don't ride to the Karniramba. It will cause nothing but further strife and misgivings. I beg you – don't!"

"Atar ordered me to procure iron for our armouries", his brother answered coolly. "I do not intend to disobey him. And I will certainly not stay here any longer and listen to your jolly chatter on how to reconcile the Ñoldor. For it is not going to happen. Not under my watch." And again, he turned to leave.

"All your rancour and hate is not going to bring back Elenwe either!", Findekáno called after him.

Turukáno spun around, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Leave Elenwe out of it!"

"But this is all about her, is it not?" Findekáno took a deep breath, trying to adopt a sympathetic tone. "You have suffered a great loss, I know that. But it is over, Túro. It is past and you cannot change it now. Your wish for revenge, albeit understandable, will lead to nothing. Just think it through logically and you will see that I am speaking the truth."

Turukáno had turned into a marble statue. "You know nothing of loss!", he hissed. "You never loved someone the way I love Elenwe! I would have given my life for her! I wanted to give my life for her. And I ... I ..." His words trailed off.

"There it is. You are not angry at the Feanárians. You are angry at yourself for failing to rescue her. It was an accident, Túro. No one has fault in it. Not you. Not me. Not the Feanáriondor."

With a few steps, his brother crossed the distance between them and halted right in front of his face. Turukáno was half a head taller. "I know it was an accident. And you are wrong. It is not revenge I desire. It is redress. I want the Feanárians to be made accountable for what they did! And you, háno, cannot excuse them." He pulled back and threw on his heavy, black cloak. "But why don't you row over to their encampment and join them if you fancy those traitors so much", he added snidely and walked out of the door.

Findekáno stood alone in the dark hallway and stared after his brother. All of a sudden, he felt terribly hollow. Why did he never find the right words to make people understand? He merely proposed what reason demanded. And yet no one wanted to see it. Not his father, not Lalwen, not Túro. Why was none of them willing to put their feelings last when it concerned the Feanárians? Findekáno strove to gain control of his curning emotions. In vain. Túro's words had struck harder than expected. Perhaps his brother was right. Was he unaware to what love really was?

I love my family. I love Russandol. And I love my people. I just want the best for all of them. Though never could I do harm to one of them for the sake of another. Does that diminish my love?

Confused and upset, he entered the dining hall and returned to his seat.

Lalwende clicked her tongue deprecatingly. "That was not very tactful, Findo."

"You heard it all?" Findekáno blushed.

"Most of it."

"Oh. That was not my intention." Contraitely, he glanced over at his niece. Itarille held her glass with both hands and had turned her face, a curtain of long golden strands hiding her expression.

"Well ... let us simply forget about it and enjoy the rest of the evening", Lalwen suggested. "Have I told you about the little squirrel I stumbled upon some weeks ago?"

"Yes, you have", Itaril answered and brushed back her hair. "And I endorse that uncle Findo confronted atar. Even if atar does not want to hear what he said." She met Findekáno's eyes for a second, before fixating on the tablecloth. "I have the feeling he still thinks of emil a lot. Although he never mentions her. Nor talks about her death. Not even once. At least not to me."

Findekáno swallowed hard. "I know. To me neither. And yet, whenever I look at him, I see the pain within, eating him up. And I want to shake him, make him finally acknowledge his grief!" He shook his head. "I am sorry, though, you had to witness my harsh speech, Rille. It was not designated for your ears."

"No, it's fine", Itaril countered. "All you said, is true. And sometimes I wished you would shake atar! Make him open up. He has to deal with emil's death at some point!"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "If you want, I can talk to him at his return."

Itaril rested her chin in her palms and shook her head. "Thanks for the offer. But it won't do any good. I guess atar just needs more time to cope. We cannot force him, nor any of the Ñoldor, until they themselves are ready for it."

"And how long is that supposed to take? Centuries? Millenias?" Findekáno pushed his plate aside. His appetite was gone. "We cannot grant ourselves the privilege to dwell in the past forever. The present is demanding our full attention."

"The problem is not our past, but our presence", his niece said deliberately. "The Ñoldor are not only at odds with each other. But rather the two camps have become sundered in heart and spirit. We are no longer able to see into each other's óre, nor comprehend our action. If we are to ally with the Feanárians ever again, first we need overcome our alienation."

A grave silence followed those words. A subtle darkness, as if the oppressive gloom, lurking beyond the window panes, had found its way into the brightly illuminated hall and swallowed all sound.

Findekáno contemplated the slender girl and a smile passed over his face. "Itarille, my brother is doing you injustice by treating you like a child. You behave more maturely than any of us."

"That is down to you, not me", Itaril giggled, though she looked quite pleased.

And then, the spell was broken. Faniel and Laurefin began to chat about the time when they had been at Itaril's age and Lalwen gladly joined in, entertaining them with funny stories of Ñolofinwe's youth. Soon, laughter erupted again on their end of the table.

Findekáno however, pondered what Itaril had said. Yes, their estrangement reached further than a common feud. But was it beyond remedy? Was he actually condemned to wait and hope for time to heal their wounds? It was time, they now lacked the most.

What else could you do? He felt so helpless! Like groping about, trying to catch the billowing smoke outside with bare hands. He did not even manage to milden the hatred of his own brother. How was he supposed to settle the agitated feelings of a whole people?

Findekáno sighed. He himself was just a lord of just one house, holding no real power. He was no táro, let alone ingaran. In truth, there no longer was an ingaran. And only a high king, to whom all Ñoldor answered, could hope to reunite the divided folk.

If only Russandol was here. When he used to talk, he managed to stir something within the hearts of those who listened. Similar to Feanáro's talent of speech, and yet different. Instead of merely sparking an ephemeral ardour, Russandol could kindle true commitment. He ought to be ingaran now. Him, the Ñoldor would have followed.

In the corner of his eye, Findekáno saw his cousin Findaráto enter the room. But instead of joining his brothers, the head of the house of Arafinwe came over and slumped into Turukáno's vacant chair.

"Good evening", Findaráto greeted with a warm smile that quickly yielded a more earnest face. "I was looking for you, Findo. I believed I would find you dining with your own house."

"This eve, I felt the need for a change. What is it, Ingo? You do not look like you bring good news."

The fair Ñoldo shook his head. "Sadly not. I just came from Ñolofinwe. May I?"

Upon a nod from Findekáno, he reached for his cousin's goblet of wine and had a quick sip. "I want you to know that I support what you said at the meeting today. Ñolofinwe should have been honest with the Feanárians. Concealing our enterprise from them is ... well, not a nice thing to do. Sorondil was already suspecting and they will eventually figure it out."

Findekáno raised an eyebrow. "Then why did you not speak up at the council?"

Though the words came out harder than intended, Findaráto seemed to take no offence. "For the same reason why everyone else kept quiet. It was not the right time to disagree with the king. Also, I must admit I was still making up my own mind. Anyway, I talked with your father. Asked him to overthink his attitude and disclose the plans of our relocation to the Feanárians. Perhaps even send our own messengers offering new terms."

"And he declined."

"He did. Barely hearkened to my case."

"He denied you, just like this?", Laurefindel exlaimed with astonishment. "You are the leader of the house of his brother, he cannot simply ignore your demur!"

Findaráto took another draught of the red liquid. "He can if he wants to. And by now, he is totally filled with his hatred for the house of Feanáro. I do not blame him for that. But he is putting his own resentments before the weal of his people, and this a good ruler should never do."

Findekáno felt coldness spreading through his veins. If even Findaráto, closest to Ñolofinwe in rank and power, failed to make the king reconsider – who else could succeed? "What do you suggest we do?"

"Would I be drinking all your wine, Findo, if I had the slightest idea?", his cousin said with a feeble smile and placed the empty goblet back on the table. "I guess we have to make the best of the situation as it is now."

Itarille shifted in her seat. "But Yáratar did not completely decline the offered allegiance. Isn't there still the possibility that Táro Makalaure agrees to his terms?"

"That is just as possible as Manwe and Mandos descending from their thrones in the west to ask our forgiveness and free us from the doom that has been spoken", Findaráto said bitterly. Though when he saw Itaril droop, his gaze softened. "Keep that hope as long as you may, Rille. But I say the Feanáriondor are far too proud to humble themselves before Ñolofinwe."

Lost in thought, Findekáno twiddled with his empty goblet. "The Feanáriondor, yes", he mused. "Though all of them? Makalaure is their king. In order to avoid further trouble, might he not decide to relent and accept the terms?"

"Makalaure has a pure mind and a gentle heart", consented Findaráto. "He is no warrior and surely just wants the best for his people. Of all the remaining sons of Feanáro he is the most manageable. Yet …"

"Yet he never stands alone", Faniel tossed in. "And he is weak. He lacks the strength to go against the will of his brothers."

Findekáno said nothing. He knew Makalaure well enough to admit his sister was right, though he would not phrase it that rigorously. Even so, Makalaure was weak. Not really fit for the position of a king. He was a singer, not a leader. And a singer understood best the language of music. Findekáno stopped spinning the goblet and frowned, as in his mind, slowly, a plan began to evolve.

"I think I have had enough for today", he said and put down the chalice.

As fast as possible, he then took his leave, hoping none of them would notice his sudden haste. Faniel eyed him a little curiously, but she just said "Sleep tight!", and turned her attention back to the dessert. Thus, Findekáno gave it no further thought and hurried back home. For if he wanted to go through with his plan, there was a lot to consider and not much time.