A Song in Darkness

by Luinyelle

Who would voluntarily enter the Dor Daedeloth and seek out a way to sneak into Angband? Except for the lonliest, most desperate outcast with no one to say goodbye to. With nothing to loose and everything to gain. - This is the story of how Fingon rescued Maedhros from his bondage at Thangorodrim and what led him to dare such a hopeless undertaking.

8. Koloitie

It has been almost nine months since I published the last chapter of this fanfiction, but I am happy to say that during this time I have written eight more chapters and am now once again in the process of revising them. Knowing my usual speed with revisions (which is slow as I tend to pay a lot of attention to details), you can now expect to get about one new chapter per month, so that by Christmas this story should be completed.

Also, I have made some minor changes to the first half of the story, mostly to the Elvish names and phrases that appear. And last but not least, I'd like to mention that for this chapter I have had a beta reader - many thanks to Ñarmondil, you helped me a lot with improving my language here (and reducing the amount of commas^^)!

Now I hope I didn't keep my dear readers waiting for too long and you will enjoy the following chapter, in which we finally advance towards the Sangoronti and the central events of the story.

---

Koloitie – Endurance

"Ente Findekáno yo Turukáno nánet veryu ta úruhondu ta yeltailu hehta ai tarasse ya mápienette tenna i naika metta, quí marta san naika ná."

"Moreover Fingon and Turgon were bold and fiery of heart and loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be." (MR:118)

.***.

"Ela!" Russandols eyes were brimming over with excitement as he held out the peculiar widget. "What do you think of it?"

"Well ..." Unsure, Findekáno took a closer look at the device. Set within a circular wooden chest and arched over by a dome of glass, a thin needle oscillated around its pivot, and the four letters Númen, Hyarmen, Rómen, and Formen were carved into the wood underneath.

"Pretty", he finally decided. "But what is it?"

"Pretty? This is almost an affront, melda rendonya! It is supposed to be far more than just pretty. It's a compass!"

"A what?"

"A compass", Russandol repeated triumphantly. "It shows you the direction you are facing. See – the arrow always points toward the west. Turn until you bring it in line with the letter Númen, and you know that Númen lies just ahead." He directed Findekáno slightly to the left and the needle swang to and fro, but settled at the exact same position as before.

"Brilliant, isn't it? I have built it together with Kurvo."

Findekáno raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I assisted Kurvo in building it", his friend admitted. "But the design is my own!"

"It is impressive indeed. Though I do not quite understand – how does it work? What is the mechanism behind it?"

"There is none", Russandol replied with a grin. "The needle is oriented by this certain force ... Melkor spoke of it the other day ... he called it magnetism."

"You have been attending Melkor's lectures again?" Findekáno blinked. From one moment to the next, he was cold. "I thought we both agreed that we don't like his teaching."

"We do agree!" His cousin shrugged apologetically. "Kurvo dragged me along. And the lessons Melkor gives are not that bad, you know? Once you get accustomed to his sense of humour, that is."

Findekáno sighed. "I have a bad feeling about him. It is not necessarily what he says. Rather how he says it. I always get the notion that his words convey two things at a time. But the second remains hidden, never can I place my finger on it. And when he laughs, it gives me chills. I do not trust him, Nelyo!"

"Neither do I. And I am wary when listening to his speeches. But the knowledge!" His cousin shook his head, an air of dreamy rapture on his face. "The knowledge he gifts us, Findo, is beyond imagination! To think how much I have learned on this one evening! With the help of Melkor, we get insights into the most fundamental principles holding Arda together. Secrets so mysterious, so profound, we would never figure them out on our own. This sort of knowledge can only be passed on by one who has been present at the very beginning, at the creation of Ea!" In Russandol's eyes flickered a fervid flame and for an instant, he seemed to blend with the image of someone else.

"Just take magnetism for example! It is some kind of web, spanning and pervading every part of Ambar and connecting the east to the west. Though its force works solely on certain metals, most prominently on iron. And without Melkor, we would have observed the effects of this force, but never perceived its origin. To be honest, I still do not quite understand what exactly it is that initiates the movement of the metal. Hopefully he will be explaining it some other time."

"You are making use of a force you do not know the source of?"

"Well ..." Taken aback, Russandol stared at him. "Yes, but ... why, I mean to do no harm. It's just a compass. I made it for you, Findo. So that you will always find your way. Take it!"

Findekáno took a step back. His friend was beginning to frighten him. But Russandol followed after. "Take it, Findo!", he whispered. "Take the compass! Lest you loose your way. You do not want to loose your way, right?"

Blank fear seized Findekáno. He spun around and ran. The glistening cobblestones beneath his feet blurred and he only halted when standing in front of the grandiose mansion that was his home. Slowly, he walked up the many stairs. Wasn't there something wrong with them? They looked different, somehow different. In a ruminative mood, he went on.

"Where have you been?"

His father planted himself in front of Findekáno the very moment he stepped into the entrance hall.

"I was just –"

"You have been seeing that offspring of my infamous half brother again, haven't you? Oh, I shall not put up with this any longer. I forbid you to continue any friendship with schemers and traitors!"

"Maitimo is no traitor!", Findekáno retorted, but his father seemed to hear him not.

"You should have been here! Your place is here, with your people!" Ñolofinwe's face was now very close, overarching. "Why were you not there when they needed you? Look what has happened while you have been away, head in the clouds, chasing after your fleeting whimsies!"

He parted the curtains on the tall front window, and revealed the sight of Tirion. Elegant tower, slender bridges, pallid squares stretching down the slopes of Túna. But the streets were full of folk. Folk clad in armour. The golden light of Laurelin glittered and blinked on swords and lances, helmets and polished shields, and the heavy steps of booted feet echoed in the fair alleys as the Ñoldor paraded up and down in long rows.

"There you see what the pack of your so-called friend has brought about", Ñolofinwe hissed into his ear.

Findekáno averted his gaze, horrified and confused. Russandol, he needed to find Russandol! There had to be an explanation for this warmongering! "I must go", he muttered and made for the door. And suddenly, there was his mother, gently touching his shoulder.

"Yonya." The word was barely more than a whisper on her trembling lips. "Do you really have to leave? You as well?"

He took her small hand in his. It was pale and cold. Cold as the bodies of those that had went to sleep in the long night on the ice. "Yes, emya, I have to. My people need me."

Anaire closed her eyes and nodded. "But look after your brothers, will you? They are so spirited, both of them. You are the oldest, the sensible one. Take care of them, Findo!"

"I shall. I promise. Namárie, emilinya!"

He freed himself of his mother's clinging grasp, and stormed out of the house. The stairs ...

Now he saw what was wrong with them. The clean white marble was defiled by puddles of scarlet red. Blood! Blood had been spilled, here, in Aman!

Findekáno ran faster. Where was Russandol? He had spoken to him only minutes ago! He had to find him, quickly!

It was getting dark in the streets and torches flared up. Night was close.

Wait a moment! Findekáno halted. There was no nightfall in Valinor. The light of the Aldu shone unceasingly, either silver or gold, or both. What was going on? Hammering rang in his ears. Where was Nelyo? The pavement bent and buckled. Cracks were beginning to show.

"Findo!"

"Nelyo!", he cried with relief, and spun around. But it was not Nelyo. It was Faniel, and her face was contorted with fear and desperation. She reached out for him, yet a broad cleft had opened in the street and sundered them.

"Fáni, I can't come over to you!", he called. "The chasm is too wide!"

"You have broken your promise, Findo", he heard her accusing voice amidst the thunder. "You promised you would return, but you did not. You lied."

"That's not true! I want to return, only I cannot!" Desperately, Findekáno sought to jump across the expanding gap, but it had already gulped half the width of the street. Too wide to overcome. Now even the pavement under his feet began to crumble and plummeted into the black abyss. Findekáno stumbled back. And tripped over something. A body. A corpse. He rolled it over to see who it was. And stared into the dead eyes of Arakáno.

Look after your brothers, will you?

And the crack extended on, right through his chest. An abyss formed within his heart.

"No!", he wailed and fiercely hugged the limp body. "Not him, not Áro!"

"Findo, we need you!" Faniel was so far away, he could hardly see her anymore. Only her flying white dress amidst the growing darkness. "Come back, Findo! You promised me! Come back!"

The rest of the pavement caved in. Findekáno lost hold of the corpse and fell. Into darkness. Into void. The voice of his sister only a faint whisper. "Come back. You promised."

Then, there was silence. Endless, beginningless, measureless ... silence.

.***.

Findekáno woke with a start and it took him some seconds to recollect where he was. Then, it all came back. The smoke, the darkness, the fire. And at the same time, he realised what had woken him. The clamour of the hammering had subsided. All was still. Only the memory of the violent blows still lingered in the bosom of the shaken, almost exhausted earth. There was a soft ringing in Findekáno's ears, overlain by the imploring calls of Faniel, echoing from his all too vivid dream.

He had not thought of her when he made the decision to go and venture into the lair of their greatest foe, nor ever since. He hadn't spent one single thought on his sister. On his promise to her. On what it would make her feel like if he did not return. Or rather when. He would never see her again and they hadn't even had the chance to say farewell to each other.

It is not bound to come that way. Why, you can still turn back from your folly, spoke a clement voice in his head.

Findekáno was hearing it more frequently ever since he had begun his march, as if it was taking advantage of the fact that there now was no one else for him to talk to and he himself questioned the sensibility of his undertaking. And it unsettled him that he was still unable to pin down whom this voice, though certainly familiar, belonged to. Nor determine whence it originated.

In any case, it strongly opposed his decision to search for his cousin and told him so at any given opportunity. But Findekáno shook his head. It was a folly – yet a well conceived one.

Faniel will understand, he told himself as he rose from his bed of moss and fern. And hesitated again. No, she would not. She had no idea of his noble purposes. Nobody knew that he had left for Angamando. Nobody would ever know. He would simply be gone.

In his mind's eye still hovered the image of Faniel's distraught face amidst the shrouds of smoke. "Promise me", she had said before he paddled away. "Promise me you shall return!" As if overtaken by some dark premonition.

Findekáno sighed and tried to chase away the unsettling thoughts of his sister. I'm sorry, Fáni. There is no other way.

He peered into the sky. The fallow smudge that once had been golden Anar hung low above the western horizon, which meant he hadn't slept for more than two hours. Good. Tiredness had overwhelmed him when he had only just left behind the eastern end of the Mísiringwe, yet wanted to reach the feet of the Wahtaine Oronti ere granting himself a proper repose. The crossing of the mountains was an arduous hike and one was well advised to be sufficiently rested in advance. Thus, Findekáno strapped on his sparse equipment and continued his march.

After setting out from the camp of the Feanáreans, he had been following the lakeside, up to the mouth of Sírinke. (Thus named, somewhat humorously, because the stream sprang up quite close to the Ehtele Siriondo, but never reached the size of its larger namesake on the yonder side of the mountain chain.) For now, Findekáno stayed within earshot of the still fairly broad river that would lead him straight up to the mountain pass where he intended to cross.

Whatever direction one headed from the shore of Mísiringwe, the land rose steadily upward. Findekáno traversed the dense beechwoods by the waters, and walked on through forested dells, while the land grew more and more hilly. Most of the time he tread on the winding paths of the Sindar, formed over the millennia by the soft steps of eldarin feet. Though those paths were wayward like the Sindar themselves and could be treacherous, sometimes misleading. They might begin at a clearing and lead on for several miles before ending abruptly, right in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense thicket or at the bank of an uncrossable river. The underlying logic of their intricate system would always remain a source of puzzlement to Findekáno, and more than once, when their peculiar course would take him too far off from Sírinke, he left the trails and continued on through the undergrowth.

All the while he carried his crystal lamp and in its pale light, the outlines of the surrounding trees stood out, clear-cut and pitch-black. Stilted elms and long-fingered ashes, swimming in a sea of fern. Mighty oaks, gnarled ironwood and elderberries clad in a shiny ivy cloak. The forest stood, wild and intertwined as ever, barely affected by the concussions, save that the sounds were missing. Gone were the birds, hidden the beasts, and with them all jolly noise of life and growth that used to fill up the woodland. Instead, an unnatural silence had taken hold of the ghostly groves, deserted and dark.

After a while, Findekáno's thoughts wandered back to his dream, or rather his nightmare. Though the beginning had been fairly realistic. This conversation between Russandol and him had actually taken place, in more or less the same way. Like most of his memories from the long, golden yéni in Valinor, it had become outdazzled by all the light and intermixed with a thousand other scenes from this happier time. Indeed, almost forgotten. But now that it had been brought back to the surface... Had it been the first foreshadowing? He wondered. Should he have seen it then? Had there been other signs? He could not tell for sure. Whenever he thought back of his life in Eldamar, his most prominent recollection was merely a fuzzy blend of brightness, laughter, and song. All that came later was far more distinct. Etched into his mind. Pictures he would never forget.

He remembered how his father had climbed the deck of the swan-ship, a dead body in his arms. And the moment when he realised this body was Arakáno. He remembered his father's face. A face of such grief, such terrible, terrible woe, it still made his blood run cold. That was the last time he had seen Ñolofinwe let his sorrow show. Or any kind of emotion, other than anger or disdain.

But before all else, he remembered the sight of his brother. The arrow still sticking in his throat, and the blood, the blood all over. And his flat, glassy, staring eyes. The battle itself, the killing, the wails, the corpses, the destruction in the streets of Alqualonde... In his memory it was only a wild turmoil, a hurricane of swords and gore. And in the eye of the storm were the dead eyes of Arakáno.

Look after your brothers, will you?

So many failures. So many broken promises. Findekáno gritted his teeth. He knew he would never be able to compensate for Arakáno's death, but at least to Russandol he could remain faithful. And if I die, I might even meet Áro again. That is a glint of hope.

Then again, his mother would also hear word of his death once his fea returned into the west. How would she cope with the loss of another child? Perhaps he could appeal to Mandos to keep the news of his arrival secret. So as to spare Anaire from further pain.

And what of your father?, asked the voice from the back of his mind.

Findekáno blinked. His family would search for him, he realised. Faniel might maintain silence of her knowledge for some days, but eventually she would tell them where he had meant to go. Then they would turn their attention to the Feanáreans. And find his skiff at their port – proof enough that he had arrived at the camp and not left, at least not by boat – yet not a sign of him whom they sought. It took not much imagination to guess what conclusion Ñolofinwe would draw. Atar will believe that the Feanáreans have taken me captive.

Or worse, complemented the voice, a tinge of triumph resonating in its tone. And in view of the current tensions ...

Findekáno halted, just in the middle of a small glade. Although he did not like the voice, it wasn't quite wrong. Had he made a mistake – again?

Poor Makalaure would gainsay it all, assuming his cousin had returned home a long time ago, and thereby only foment Ñolofinwe's wrath. Or - would he? If Úrion delivered his message faithfully, Makalaure might surmise that Findekáno had not rejoined his kin and, after questioning the boy, guess whither he had turned instead. But even so, Ñolofinwe would hardly believe such an unlikely explanation.

Did you really think you could walk into your death just like this, without anyone caring? You are not a nobody. People shall look for answers. Do you want to be the cause of another war?

Findekáno struggled against his proliferating doubts. He should have left a message indeed. But he could not rectify this now without completely giving up on his enterprise, which was likewise impossible. After bracing himself for meeting his death, he could not simply change his mind and continue on with his life as if nothing had happened.

He raised his gaze up to the clouded sky and sent a silent plea to Manwe, that this time it wouldn't be the wrong decision.

In view of the current tensions, there is going to be war, one way or another. My disappearance will merely be the trigger.

Thus Findekáno walked on, though a certain unease remained.

The faint gleam of the sun had long set at the western horizon, when at last the dell of Sírinke became increasingly narrow and rocky. Findekáno strayed away from the river and climbed the barren fells at the western rise of the Wahtaine Oronti, where gaunt pines seamed dry upland meadows, interspersed with boulders and smaller debris. As he strode through the long grasses, the beam of his lantern revealed a plentitude of flowers and herbs on the rocky ground. Yet their heads were hanging, their colours had faded and their beauty withered away in the smoke. Above him peaks and pinnacles rose from the hazy billows, tall and grim, like towers. And when he looked back, he saw a dense mass of impenetrable gloom lying on the valleys. Smooth and motionless, like the surface of a vast stretch of water.

But still, the air did seem cleaner up here, if only a little, and Findekáno could breathe more freely. He found a small pool in a sink in the ground and by its waters, he decided to rest for the night. He stretched out on the stiff grass and, tired as he was, immediately fell asleep.

.***.

When he awoke again, Findekáno felt whacked. As if he had spent his night battling a host of Orqui. But at least he remembered naught of his dreams, except for a vague notion of darkness and a guileful menace, spreading in secret.

He rose up, stretched his stiff shoulders and shivered. The morning dew had moistened his mantle and chilled him to the bone. Anar had not yet risen over the mountain peaks and was not going to before noon. However, her warmth would not reach him anyhow and since there was no time to light a fire, he ought to get moving to warm himself up.

Findekáno retrieved the loaf of coimas and some strips of dried meat from his bag, but ate only a few bites. He had to economise his food. On the way back, even though he did not expect there to be a way back, it would have to nourish two. For he was not going to return without Russandol. And should he actually manage to free him, in what state would his friend be? What if he wasn't even fit for travelling?

"First of all, I have to find him", Findekáno murmured to himself as he packed away the food and the unwelcome thoughts.

Water was quite another issue, though. He had taken along two waterskins from home, one of them empty by now. And the further he approached the Nóre Andyelwa, the less likely it became to get an opportunity for refilling them. Findekáno bowed over the small pool beside which he had spent the night and contemplated the water. It was black. Turbid, just like the Mísiringwe had been. Something told him he wanted to avoid drinking such water until he was left with no other choice.

In the mountains there is no shortage of water. I will wait for a cleaner well, he resolved, turned his back on the puddle and headed toward the mountain range.

To his left, Sírinke cut a narrow ravine into the rocks of the Wahtaine Oronti, leading up to a series of waterfalls. But the path Findekáno had chosen led over the summit of Norsanóla, a bald, dome-shaped foothill, whence it wound its way deeper into the mountains, along vertiginous slopes high above the little stream, before ascending to a broad col in the central ridge, called the Wasarando. It was a well established trail, having been used by the Ñoldor on multiple occasions since their arrival in Hísilóme, and of course equally well known to their enemy. Other passes existed, both to the south and to the north, yet the Pass of Sirion lay on the direct way to the Sangoronti and, as long as the darkness prevailed, Findekáno hardly feared any danger of Orqui or other servants of Morikotto in the mountains. If anything, they would be looking out for a troop of scouts, not a lone Elda.

The first part of the way was rather pleasant. He walked fast, without making too much haste, for he knew there lay a full day of walking ahead. His surroundings presented themselves drear and boring – a wavy upland plain, grey and yellow and waste. The spectacularly jagged mountaintops and steeply tumbling ravines, the beauty of the vast pine forests, and the breathtaking waterfalls, those all remained hidden in the thick billows of smoke. Only at times, when the veil of gloom was shortly lifted and a dim ray of light broke through, he could glimpse the outline of the hoar, snowcapped mountain heights lying ahead.

From the flat, grass-grown plateau, he passed on into a dense forest composed of pines and firs, stretching across the steeply slanting flank of Hísiras, the first tall peak on this side of the Wahtaine Oronti. There the small trail led along its wooded flank, nestled tightly into the steep slope. Far below he heard the gurgling waters of Sírinke, an unseen noise in the background, for the glow of his little lamp never reached further than the next wisp of opaque reek. Only the haggard conifers with their bristly branches emerged from the dark and receded as Findekáno came and went by. And in the changing light, his eyes played tricks on him. He began to see things in the silhouettes of rocks and trees. One boulder he passed looked quite alike to their house of old in Tirion. He wondered if his mother still lived in it. And over there, the bark on that stem – it wore Mandos' face! The doomsman was standing upright, clad in a long, frayed cloak, waiting for him! But nay! The light grew, the shadows flitted away, and it was just an old, rutted pine. Findekáno shook his head at his vivid imagination and walked on.

The darkness did not scare him, though in the smoke all seemed contorted and strange. He felt like he was faring through a realm of phantoms, sombre and full of spectres and ghosts. Abstracted from the land of the incarnates, and yet calm, peaceful, serene. Indeed, there were moments when it seemed he had broken the veil of Valinor and was wandering the gardens of Lórien once again. And for the most time, he thought of nothing at all, moved like someone in deep trance.

The way was long and sloped steadily upward. Findekáno made few stops and never rested long, except when he came across a shrub of blackberries and halted to pick a handful. Afterwards, the hillside soon became more rocky and rose up steeper. The tall trees stayed behind and were replaced by crippled mountain pines. The path almost disappeared between their dense clusters reaching just about Findekáno's head, and more than once he had to turn back after he found he had strayed from the track. There were even passages where he needed to climb, and carrying the crystal lantern in one hand was not facilitating this task. The great waterfall of Sírinke, at which the river tumbled down from the main ridge of the Wahtaine Oronti, was quite close now, its thundering loud enough to drown out the sound of his ragged breaths.

Eventually the ground levelled out again and Findekáno emerged from the shrubbery. The sun had just risen above the crest of the mountain range, a grey disk in the blackness, and before him unfolded an elongated cirque, a waste of stone and debris. Or rather he remembered this was what his surroundings looked like, for all he could discern now was the rim of the encircling mountains and the glitter of Sírinke's flowing waters somewhere to his left. And at the head of the valley, two striking peaks, the jewels of the Wahtaine Oronti: jagged Míraika to the north, slender Táringa to the south, separated by a broad col. The Wasarando. With a soft sigh, thinking of the most demanding ascent still to come, Findekáno proceeded.

Out on the bare plateau, the air was cool. Here he was robbed of the protecting woods and a sharp wind fell down from the east, bearing further vapours, it seemed. Findekáno pulled his cloak tighter and moved his fingers to keep them warm. He walked beside the river that now streamed in a shallow channel, slightly meandering around the larger boulders. Its gurgling sound paired with the howling winds unsettled Findekáno. The tips of his fingers holding the lamp already turned numb. And even amidst the stinking smoke, he could smell the snow on the mountaintops. Everything up here resembled the Helkaraxe. And it certainly was not a memory he treasured very much.

The first convulsion came without warning. Findekáno fell forward and scraped his palms and knees. The lantern rolled over the gravel. A loud cracking sounded from the southern rock walls and some blocks came thundering down. Paralyzed with shock, he pressed flat to the tremoring ground, his heart racing, until they had stopped their fall. He got back to his feet, his whole body shaking, just like the stone of the mountains. He had forgotten about the hammering! Down in the forests it had been no more than a marginal nuisance, but up here, surrounded by masses of fragile rock ... Findekáno did not finish his thought. He had to get out of the mountains as fast as possible. But the path into Hísilóme was now no less dangerous than the way that lay ahead. There was no turning back. He was trapped, and the hammers of Morikotto had only just begun their work.

He picked up the ñoldorin lamp and hurried on through the desert of jolting debris while ever new blows shook the ground, pleading to the Valar that he would not be smitten by the boulders that suddenly came loose on all sides of the surrounding slopes. He could not see them, only hear. Strident rupturing and a rushing like a thousand waterfalls, somewhere in the darkness.

Findekáno tried to run, but with every further concussion the unstable rubble on the ground trembled, bounced, rolled around, and he had to watch where to place his feet. His eyes and ears were almost useless, so he had to rely on his more intuitive senses to keep his balance. He hopped and stumbled forward, but he was slow, too slow, and the Wasarando was still far ahead, while any moment a mass of rock might descend into his direction. And he knew there was no hope to escape in time. Naked fear flooded his body, tightened his throat. I don't want to die, he was made to realise. Ai Manwe, ai Elentári, take some pity on one who turned against you! Do not let me die!

He clung on to his prayer as if to a lifeline and hastened on, his blurred gaze fixed at the uneven ground in the small circle of pale blue light. And for once that annoying voice in his head was silent, gleefully silent. All he heard was the bloodcurdling din of rumbling avalanches and crashing boulders, echoing back and forth in the corrie, increasing in volume until he thought his eardrums would burst.

And then, the ground rose. Barely noticeable at first, it soon yielded a steep incline. The loose scree gave way under his feet and Findekáno felt that he began to slide. Without thinking, he jammed the handle of the lantern between his teeth and dug both hands deep into the gravel. Tiny grains were thrust under his fingernails, scratched his skin. He came to a halt, gasped for breath. Then he worked his way up again, crawling on all fours now to find better hold on the unstable slope. Showers of small, sharp-edged pebbles hailed down on him. Larger blocks, rumbling to his left and right, blew clouds of dust into his face, but by some rare chance, all passed him by. And thus he made progress, though it was a constant struggle between climbing up and sliding back down.

Rock was replaced by snow and finding hold became easier. And relentlessly still, Findekáno clawed into the dazzling white mass. Smote his boots into the wall. Pulled himself upward. And repeated. Again. And again. Soon he could feel his fingers no longer. His toes were burning with the fire of bitter cold. Snow and ice splashed into his face, trickles ran down his cheeks. Meltwater and sweat and tears.

The slope was almost vertical now and the weight of the water in his bag dragged him down. The bow poked into his side, constricted his movements. Normally, the ascend to the Wasarando wasn't that steep. There was another, more convenient way, running in serpentines. Somewhere. But Findekáno had only one thought in mind. Up. Up and across the pass and stay alive.

The peaks of Míraika and Táringa loomed above like two fangs of some monstrous beast. He could already descry the col by which they stood sentinel. It was close, so close. He was almost there!

A grey disk hung between the two pinnacles. Anar. It was high noon and dark as blackest night! Findekáno climbed faster, though every fibre of his body protested. He craved to reach the ridge! Afterwards, it would be easy. Just a long descend.

He missed a step and down he went, rapidly gaining speed on the icy mountainside. In panic, he groped for a hold, but his nails scratched over frozen snow, futilely. Until he bumped against a protruding rock and his slide came to a brute stop. His teeth knocked against the silver bail of the lantern and sent a flash of searing whiteness through his skull. Findekáno tasted blood on his tongue, and groaned. Less for the pain but for the progress he had lost.

He peered up to the Wasarando, once again so small, so far away, and quailed. He wasn't up to the climb, not a second time. He closed his eyes and breathed. The hammer blows shook his body to the core. The clamour was grating on his nerves, he could stand it no longer! And only the thought of climbing on ... His body was exhausted, his hands sore and half frozen, his lungs full of dust and smoke. What were the chances of escaping from these mountains without being hit by rockfall anyway?

Then wherefore the effort?, whispered a sweet, familiar voice. Just lay down. There is no need to prolong your distress when there is no hope of achieving your goal. Why make it harder than is has to be? Give in. Sleep.

The words filtered into Findekáno's mind and he was too weary to fight them off. The coldness was paralysing his limbs. His body was so heavy, the Wasarando high up, and the snow soft and cosy. Like his bed at home. Home ... with his mother ... and Áro ... and Nelyo.

His eyes flew open. No! He had to endure, for Nelyo! Either he brought him home safely or died in the attempt, but not here, not in the snow! Too many had closed their eyes on the march across the Helkaraxe. Too many had he seen lie down and fade, subtly and almost without change, like a flower caught by a late spring frost, still beautiful and yet devoid of life.

Fierce determination seized hold of Findekáno. He stuffed the lamp into his bag, licked the blood from his lips, and in a complete darkness now began to climb. Pounded his numb hands into the snow cover and hammered out steps for his frozen feet. The wind wailed like a dying seal, and the concussions continued without cease. But the thunder of avalanches came less frequent. Perhaps all unstable masses had tumbled by now and it would take time for the quakes to loosen further rocks. Findekáno drew a faint glint of hope. The exhaustion made him feel dizzy and the edges of his field of view blurred, yet still he forged ahead. And after what seemed like an eternity, the steep slope flattened out so that he could straighten up. Two sable cliffs rose to his left and right, visible even amidst the fume. Míraika and Táringa.

Findekáno massaged his stiff hands and strode on into the Wasarando, his heart pounding heavily, in synchronism with the hammers of Morikotto. The cleft wasn't broad, no more than some three hundred feet. With every new jar, a rock might come off from the sheer mountain faces and bury him underneath. Every moment in the col increased this danger, and yet he dared not run for fear of sinking into the freshly fallen snow. Even so the fluffy powder reached up to his ankles.

A shower of gravel trickled down from Táringa and made Findekáno jump. But the stones just slumped into the blanket of snow and were gone. He hastened on as fast as he dared on this untrustworthy ground, his tension now raised to the highest, his senses ever alert. And the pass seemed to stretch on endlessly.

When at last the two cliffs receded to the sides, Findekáno breathed a wary sigh of relief. He found himself standing on the edge of an escarpment of roughly twenty feet high, overlooking the eastern slopes of the mountain ridge and the long stretched valley wherein Sirion had its source. The descent here was less steep, mostly lacking bare cliffs and thus the danger of falling rocks. He might make it, Findekáno thought to his own amazement. He might actually reach the Kalina Landa.

Stepping back from the edge, he went to look for a way round the scarp, when suddenly a loud bursting sounded from above. His head flew up and he saw, as if in slow motion, a large block on the flank of Míraika tremble. Tilt. And topple. A great shadow rushed down the mountainside. Findekáno turned and ran, though he knew it was too late. The jolt of the impact kicked him off his feet and he dove headlong towards the scarp, his only chance. But not far enough.

Cold wetness splashed into his face, branded over his head, and utter darkness engulfed him. Silence. Then, he felt another punch from behind. The masses of snow around him began to move, bulged over the edge of the cliff, and Findekáno's world was turned upside down. He half fell, half slid and tumbled down, now in the air, now muffled by crunching, smothering snow. Snow in his mouth, his nose, his ears. Snow twisting his limbs, contorting his neck. Then again, the giddy feeling of free fall and Findekáno gasped for breath, only to swallow smoke and more snowflakes. He was tossed around like a puppet, tried to paddle, but there was no escape from the pull, deeper and deeper into the deadly swirl, until Findekáno just pressed eyes and lips together and hoped it would end soon.

Something hit hard against his chest and pressed all air from his lungs. Half-delirious, he hugged the jutting rock and clung on to it with all his remaining strength. Another wave of snow surged over him, lifted him up, while he still strangled the rocky spur. But his arms trembled, already they began to slide off. He could not hold on for much longer. Findekáno clenched his teeth, fought for every single second. All around him swooshed the white masses, roared, hissed, ripped and tore. And then it was over. The battle of the elements ended, the noise of the avalanche trailed off in the distance. Findekáno drew a shaky breath of the calm, silent air surrounding him. And with his strength failing at last, he collapsed on the bare stone and was swallowed by blackness.

.***.

"Findo? Findo, are you okay?"

The auburn locks of his cousin tingled Findekáno's nose and he sneezed. "Sure", he retorted, still somewhat winded. "Or at least I would be if you let me catch my breath."

Russandol's face vanished from his field of vision and with an effort Findekáno sat up.

"Sorry about that", his friend murmured and Findekáno could read the bad conscience in his eyes. "I did not mean to hit this hard."

Though his ears were still ringing from the blow on the head, he just waved aside. "I knew what I was embarking on when I agreed to practise with you. And at least we know now that the helmets of your people are actually worth something."

Russandol nodded. "Without it, I would have cloven your skull in two." He had grown quite pale and stared at the sword in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. It was beautifully crafted, the blade shining like a mirror, the gilded handle adorned with engravings of leaves and beset with scarlet gems. Beautiful, yet deadly.

"I will be more careful next time", Russandol said, brushed a loose strand behind his ear, and shoved the sword back into its sheath. "But for today we have had enough, I think. Would you like to go down to the Nuntarwar? Káno will be performing his new poem today."

Findekáno cracked a smile. "Sure." And he took the outstretched hand of his friend, who pulled him back on his feet. The sudden jolt sent a wave of pain through his head and his eyelids flared up. Instead of the pale golden sky, there was darkness. He lay on his back, his arm awkwardly contorted, and every inch of his body hurt.

He let out a soft sigh and squirmed with pain. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his fea returned into brute reality. And he understood. He was not in Tirion. He was on his way to a place that was the polar opposite of Tirion, and the avalanche, triggered by the hammering, had relieved him of a part of the road. The earthquakes had ceased now. All was silent. He snorted – and whimpered. Then he lay immobile for another while, not yet ready or willing to pick himself up.

I have to go on, he told himself. The longer I delay, the more precious time I loose.

Only then did Findekáno realise that something was poking into his back. Something long and stiff. With a groan he rolled to the side, stretched his aching arm, and fumbled for the bow at his back. After some attempts, when sensation had returned to his numb hand, he managed to open the straps and freed himself of bow and quiver. Then, he sat up. His head felt rather dizzy and drawing breath sent a sharp twinge through his chest. Possibly a slightly broken rib, but nothing life-threatening at the least.

He ran his fingers over the bow and found it, much to his surprise, still intact. Apart from a few scars and notches, the wood had survived the crashing force of the avalanche unscathed. His hands wandered on to the quiver. It was empty, except for one arrow. Better than nothing. Perhaps he would find some more arrows lying around, he just needed – the lantern! The water! The bread! The bag was no longer hanging over his shoulder and Findekáno was seized by a growing panic. Without the light and the proviant, he was lost!

He sat up with a jerk and at the sudden movement a sharp pain erupted in his left knee. Tears sprang to his eyes and an ugly curse spurted from his lips. A distorted knee was the last thing he could use right now! He sat still for some moments, waited for the twinge to abate, fully aware that it was bound to flare up anew, and tried to brace himself. The lantern was more important than his minor ailments.

He got on all fours and began crawling, groped and scrabbled about, his hands grazing over nothing but coarse rock and snow. As it turned out, he had landed on the flat top of a large boulder that rose like an island from the surrounding sea of frozen water and that had saved him from being ultimately buried in those cold, white masses. He halted and peered up the slope to where the avalanche had descended, just a shade of grey lighter than the murky peaks towering above. The bag could be anywhere, he sullenly thought, high up on the mountain or deep beneath the snow cover. That was when his fingers suddenly touched upon smooth leather.

Findekáno gave a laugh, wrested the sack out of the crack wherein it had got stuck, and pulled it open. A homely blue gleam shone forth and made his indo rejoice. Quickly, he searched the interiour of the bag to insure that none of his other belongings had been lost. All was still there. Even his harp had remained whole, not one string torn. Apparently he himself had taken the most damage from the fall.

Findekáno rose up and winced as his body protested forcefully. No matter how careful he tried to be, even the smallest movement of his leg sent a fresh and searing wave of pain up his thigh and he could tell it was unwise to strain the joint any further. But there was no use in moaning. He had to go on.

After drinking the last icy sips from the second waterskin and forcing himself, despite his lack of appetite, to swallow a bite of coimas, he gathered up all of his belongings and struggled to climb down his boulder. Then he began the long eastward descent, trying to pay as little heed as possible to the indetermined stinging in his chest or the incisive pain every time he bent or stretched his left knee.

This side of the mountains was less forested and less fissured by ravines. He walked down a gentle slope at the bottom of a broad valley that was bordered by two long-stretched, rounded crests. Soon, the rocks became interspersed with sallow lichens and tufts of grass, before it transitioned to a flat plateau, covered by a dry pasture, in the midst of which rose an unshapely knoll. Findekáno discerned no more than its hazy outline in the gloom. From this side, it looked like nothing more than a small bump in the ground, whereas on the eastern side, it appeared as a mighty mountain. The Ñoldor had named it Lumba Tirmo, the faithful guardian of Ehtele Siriondo, for the river sprang up between its bulky feet. Whether the Sindar had their own name for the hill, Findekáno knew not, or remembered not, and at the moment he certainly didn't care.

His most pressing problem was time. He did not know how long he had blacked out for, and Anar was hidden behind the tall peaks of the Wahtaine Oronti, so until she rose again in the east, he remained bereaved of any sense of time. Yet he knew he had lost too much of it already. And now, with a sore leg, how was he supposed to return from Angamando before a war broke out? Where was Makalaure at this moment? Had his message reached him? And if so, had he hearkened to it? If not ... Findekáno would rather not think of it. One kinslaying weighed upon the Ñoldor already. Never must there be another one.

Oh, but there will be. Because of you, because you left. And you have no chance of hindering it now. You cling on to a feeble hope, while deep down you know you must fail. And if you do, the blood of your people will be on your hands.

The voice in his head was back, now that he was out of mortal danger. And Findekáno could think of no reply, only walked a little faster.

At last, he drew near to the Lumba Tirmo. A long, barely rising slope led up to its rocky peak, whereas to the left and right the ground descended on, so that its flanks grew into ever higher walls of rock as one passed them by.

Findekáno surrounded the wedge-shaped mountain on its northern side, walking beneath the shadow of its massive cliff, a black patch amidst the all-encompassing grey. The first trees began to grow here, pines mainly, and some scattered larches. In the distance Findekáno could already hear a burbling and gurgling that grew louder and more distinct the further he went and lent new vigour to his steps. Water. Fresh, clean water! He hadn't drunk for hours and his tongue and lips were dry as dust.

The wall to his side abruptly broke away and Findekáno stopped dead at the sight of the full panorama of the east unfolding, unobstructed before his eyes.

He overlooked an undulating chain of hills, their bare summits abraded by the dry winds, their long, grass-grown slopes gently declining and petering out into a vast flat. An endless, fuzzy blanket overspreading the level land. The Kalina Landa. And beyond was darkness. Layers and layers of foul vapours obscuring the view to what he knew lurked north of the plain. Even now, wrapped in thick, impenetrable gloom, he felt the evil emanating from there. Felt his neck prickle and his muscles tighten. And he almost believed to see, albeit solely in his memory: a jagged row of mountains, cupped in white snow, seaming the northern horizon, sharp and crooked like fangs snapping at the firmament. But one jutting out from the line, one mountain surmounting all others. Cone-shaped, black as pitch, and ever emitting a column of smoke. The three-peaked Sangoronti. A shiver ran down through Findekáno's back and instinctively he hid the blue lamp in the folds of his mantle.

Yes, there they lie. The Nóre Andyelwa and the impenetrable walls of Angamando. You have been there before. You know what awaits you. But the last time, you had a host of Ñoldor at your back and the young sun in all her brilliance shining upon your march while you sounded your trumpets. This time the sky is darkened, you are crippled, and on your own. You won't even get beyond the gates of Morikotto's fortress, let alone find the one whom you seek. Nothing awaits you there. Only death.

Fear, unalloyed fear took hold of Findekáno. Somehow, the proximity to Angamando had lent new power to the voice. Unhampered, the words ravaged his head, quenching his determination and leaving behind nothing but utter horror, paired with a feeling of self-disgust. For his own weakness. For his impuissance. For his desperate wish to turn around and go anywhere, just away from those mountains.

It was the soft rippling of the nearby brook that in the end, slowly filtering back into his conscience, calmed down his sudden dread and reminded him of Russandol. Of the darkness his friend was facing, for so long already. Of the torment he probably suffered. And every step that brought Findekáno closer to Angamando, brought him closer to Russandol as well. His breath steadied and the tenebrous fogs withdrew from his mind.

Say what you will, you are not going to make me turn around. Decisively, he averted his eyes from the line where the hills faded into the reek and went after the sound of the water.

This face of the mountain was a vertical rockwall, cloven by numerous fissures in which grew grass and even some small conifers. He didn't have to follow it for long before he came to a narrow opening at the foot of the cliff, from which gushed out a small streamlet that, along its way to the sea, would grow and broaden to become the mighty and beloved Sirion.

Findekáno climbed down to the bank of the river, flinching when a stinging pain in his chest flared up anew, and crouched beside the water. The blue light of the lantern glittered and sparkled on the many ripples. He produced a weary smile. Here at least, the water was still clean, undefiled by the black soot of Morikotto.

Findekáno scooped a handful of the precious liquid and drank. Fresh and delicious it ran down his parched throat. Never before had water tasted better.

After having appeased his most urgent thirst, he ascended upstream to where the water welled forth from the rocks. There he filled both his waterskins, drank one up, and filled it for a second time. Once his water reserves were replenished, he sat down on a stone, closed his eyes, and listened to the multilayered burble, trying for a short while to forget about everything. The voice of the rivulet was music to his ears. A harmonious, unceasing, perfect music, and it reminded him of his home, of Tirion.

Heavy-heartedly he rose again and climbed out of the creek bed. But he decided to go no further on this day. It had to be late already and he needed to rest. Whether he spent the night up here or down in the lowlands didn't make much of a difference.

After looking around a bit, he found a small hollow under the overhanging roots of a pine, and there he huddled up. The air smelled of moist earth and resin. A soothing fragrance that almost masked the foul stench of the smoke. Findekáno drew a deep breath and shut his eyes. In this night by the Ehtele Siriondo, he slept soundly and peacefully, and his dreams were filled with flowing waters.

.***.

Findekáno woke as the greyish disk of Anar just arose on the eastern horizon. He felt much better than the day before and even his knee hurt a little less when he put weight on it. Today, I am going to make up for the hours I lost yesterday, he told himself and swiftly got ready. For a last time, he drank from the clean waters of Sirion before beginning the next stage of his journey.

The descent into the plain was not without difficulty, though nothing compared to his struggles in the mountains. He found back to the beaten track normally us

d by the Eldar and followed its course down the barren hillsides. After an hour or so, the ground levelled out and he was standing at the edge of the Kalina Landa. In front of him grass, nothing but an untouched forest of long blades of grass. The trail here veered to the side, leading on under the shadow of the mountain chain to join again Sirion, that had already bent southward a while ago. From now on, there were no more landmarks to follow.

Findekáno turned back to throw a last glance at the Wahtaine Oronti, at the long, unforested foothills and the bleak rocks above. This side of the mountains looked so different from their rutted green western face, and yet it was the same chain of mountains. The same ice-clad peaks Faniel would be looking at when she wondered why her brother did not return. Findekáno tried to brand their outline to his memory, as a last token of his new homeland that perhaps he would never see again. Then, he averted his gaze and walked straightway into the steppe.

The grass barely reached to his knees at first, though not long and the blades lapped round his hips, making him feel as if he was wading through a dry, rustling pond. In spring, at the light of day, the Kalina Landa was a beautiful place, sporting a bright, lush green. But now the long blades blended in with the surrounding dark, only their tips tinged in an unhealthy, greyish bleach. Though colours were often misleading in the blue light of the lamp.

Dreary and tenacious hours passed by. Findekáno walked briskly, despite his distorted knee. The barely subdued stinging in the joint had become a constant uneasiness on the borders of his consciousness and there wasn't much to distract his attention. Apart from some minor undulations of the ground and the dwindling skyline of the mountains at his back, the surroundings didn't change at all. Everything looked exactly the same. Grass. Long grass, stretching endlessly into all directions. Only then Findekáno became fully aware of the vastness and the emptiness of the Kalina Landa. A lot of room for his thoughts.

Without the mountains as a shield, he could no longer retain them from straying to Angamando. Morikotto's fortress had been a vague threat far to the east. Now, it was only a two day's march away. He would reach it without difficulty. And I have no idea of how to proceed from there.

The Ñoldor knew where Angamando was located. They had stood in front of the great gate, at the foot of the massive Sangoronti, taller than the highest peaks of the Pelóri*. They had seen the defensive fortifications of Morikotto – the towers and battlement parapets, the embrasures and sally ports scattered on the mountain face. But the Sangoronti were merely an outpost, the entrance to his hidden dwelling, while of what lay beyond its gate, they had learnt by hearsay alone.

There had been whispers among the Sindar. Some of the deported Eldar were said to have escaped, some from the depths of Angamando itself, and to have spread the most terrifying tales. Though how much of those reports had been exaggerated in the course of passing on, over and over again, or whether in truth no one had managed the flight and those accounts were no more than the spawn of the wild imagination of a frightened, wandering people ... who could tell?

The rumours spoke of a long, dark tunnel, leading far into the mountains, followed by a labyrinthic system of dikes and hallways. And stairs, endless stairs, going ever down and down into the depths. Of dreadful sculptures along the walls. Of many-eyed shadows and infernal creatures lurking in the corners and on the ceilings. Of mines, deep within the bosom of the mountains, of smithies and workshops, of fire and metal and stone. Of whips and swarming Orqui and horrible tortures and atrocities, most of which Findekáno couldn't even bear to hear. For they made him think of what his friend might be made to suffer.

If only a tenth of the stories told the truth, then just a day in Angamando was worse ... worse than words of the tongues of Quendi could even describe. Worse than death, worse than life. The epitome of agony. And Russandol had been there for thirty-seven years.

Suddenly, Findekáno was assailed by doubts and for the first time began to wonder in what state he would find his cousin. If he found him at all. Years and years of fear, distress, and hopelessness couldn't leave a person unchanged. They had to leave scars, physically ... and mentally. He swallowed.

The hroa of the Eldar was strong and could endure and recover from unthinkable injuries – up to the point when it was utterly wrecked and unable to house a fea any longer. Yet the fea was not imperatively constrained to abide in the hroa if the burden of life became too heavy. This they knew ever since Fíriel had faded away, died of nothing but languor and weariness. Russandol's grandmother. What if, after all he had seen and suffered, Russandol grew weary of life as well? What might, good or evil, was then supposed to hold him back?

Something within Findekáno's chest wanted to cry out in desperation, rail against all the injustice in this world. Yet he blinked away the upwelling tears. This is not the time to think about what once has been, he told himself. Nor of what perchance may come.

For a while, he stared into the distance where the grassland vanished amidst the vapours, and thought of nothing. Somewhen, he halted to drink some water and nibble on his loaf of coimas, but didn't sit down, for he was loath to bend his knee any further than needed be.

When shoving his provisions back into the leather sack, his fingers touched upon the wrapping of the harp. And all of a sudden he was seized by a ravenous yearning for its sweet, melodious sounds. One accord alone would give him solace in this desolation!

Grimly, he pulled back his hand and closed the bag. This was no place for music. He should have given the harp to Úrion. Now, he would only loose or break it. In fact, he should just drop it here. Better it lay forgotten somewhere in the steppe, than fall into the claws of Orqui. Findekáno's hand rested on the leather flap as he struggled with himself. But in the end he did not have the heart to throw away his dearest instrument. Not yet.

With a sigh, he stood up again and resumed his walk, now trying to consider the task ahead more reasonably. The rumors were one thing, but where would Russandol be held captive? Possibly he was among the other slaves, forced to labour in the forges, yet something told Findekáno that Morikotto would not treat his high-born hostage like a common thrall. Perhaps he detained him close to his throne where he could keep an eye on the Ñoldóran. Or he lay in some dark and solitary prison, deep beneath the roots of the Angoronti and far off from any living soul. Either way ... how was Findekáno supposed to find him in the maze of caves and tunnels, crawling with Orqui and Ulundi and Manwe knew what other spawn of Morikotto's evil, who would gladly lunge at any intruder? The longer he thought about it, the more insane his undertaking seemed to be.

Findekáno spent the following hours trying to devise some kind of plan, while the miles and miles of unchanging grassland passed by and the grey smudge of Anar wandered across the sky. In the evening, when her dim light sank behind the now invisible Wahtaine Oronti, his results were still rather poor. He needed to find an entrance into the Sangoronti, and he could not take the main gate. This was all he had. Any further considerations were vague. Futile. Vain. And all the while, it became harder and harder to think straight.

He had been walking throughout the day, never sitting down, not even when he stopped to drink. The first waterskin was already half emptied by now and he didn't permit himself to drink any more, although the dusty air fanned his thirst. His limbs were heavy, his feet sore. The pain in his knee had become more and more pressing and ached now constantly, even when he kept it still.

Night was drawing close and Findekáno just continued walking. He knew he ought to rest, find some sleep. But time was short and the way still far. He needed to cover a few more miles today if he still wanted to cross the Kalina Landa within two days. Sleep would have to wait.

Whenever his eyes threatened to shut or his legs were close to failing, he thought of Russandol and found the strength to keep going. Though his left knee felt like it had been plunged into pure acid. Though his body seemed to be filled with stones. He could put up with all of this. If only it hadn't been for the voice.

The further he approached Angamando, the more power it seemed to gain. Without cease it kept whispering into his ears. Hissing words of discouragement, reinforcing his anxieties, and casting doubt. That there was no chance of freeing Russandol. That he was going to be captured and slain, or worse, turned into a slave as well. That he was throwing his life away, for nothing.

He tried not to listen. He tried hard. But the longer the voice spoke, the more unbearable became his tiredness, his thirst, the aches of his body. He only wished he was back home, far from pain and fear, far from this unhealthy stretch of land. He felt a growing anger. Why had he even embarked on this silly enterprise? For whom? For the Ñoldor? Were it not for their stupidity, their blindness, their stubbornness, he would not be forced to resort to such an act of desperation and endure such misery! Did they even deserve to be saved? And Maitimo, he was not a whit better! Had he not forsaken him in the first place? Suddenly just thinking of his cousin was enough to make him clench his fists.

Findekáno violently shook his head, aghast by his change of mood. These emotions were not his! It was the voice, it ... its ways of thought were different to his own. The words it used, the pictures it wove, were alien. A terrible suspect arose from his reasoning. Had another mind found entrance to his thoughts? Had his sleepiness made him unwary, unattentive?

Leave!, he commanded angrily, expecting the voice to be expelled by his express will. And was all the more stupefied when there was no reaction. None at all. He did not understand. How could this be?

Filled with horror, he rose up against this foreign consciousness, he focused, concentrated, and wanted to force it out of his mind. Only there was nothing to force out. Nothing distinct, nothing of substance. He was grasping at fog.

You cannot shut me out, the voice remarked charmingly. I am a part of you.

The recognition hit him like a slap in the face. There was no denying it. Findekáno knew ósanwe well enough, knew what it was like to converse in thought, and this felt different. These hateful thoughts did not come from without. He had been wrong. They were his, the product of his own mind. Thoughts he had never believed himself capable of. Thoughts that questioned everything he had believed in.

Maitimo is a traitor. You know it, deep down you feel it. The anger. The disappointment. The hatred. It is time to stop closing your eyes to the truth. You will never forgive him his betrayal.

Findekáno cringed. The bag slipped off his shoulder and he made no attempt to pick it up again. He wanted to argue, but what was there to say? The voice laid bare all the feelings he had tried to suppress for so long. Always had he defended Russandol, even after the burning of the ships. Against his father, his family, his house. But there was no defending him against the accusations of his own heart.

"He has not always been like that", Findekáno insisted, though his demur sounded feeble. "He got deluded by the sick visions of his delirious father. But I know he only ever wanted the best for the Ñoldor. He believed in Feanáro's high aims and followed him trustingly as so many have done."

And yet his intentions can't make unhappen his deeds, the voice purred. Remember your people's suffering on the Helkaraxe. Remember how many died. Stupidity is no excuse for this.

"No", Findekáno agreed tonelessly. "It is not."

He looked around, across the ailing grasses and the black billowing vapours, an image of dreariness and despondency. Suddenly, he felt hollowed out, an empty shell in the poisoned air.

"But this isn't about me", he heard himself say and it was a stranger's voice. "Nor about Nelyo. It's the Ñoldor who need someone to reunite them, someone strong and respected. A leader. A king. And I will bring them that king if I may. That's all."

Oh, for sure! The brave, the selfless Ñolofinwion, readily giving his life for the sake of his people – what a noble cause! But you are fooling yourself. The voice was very near now, near and pervasive.

You are not ready to die, it whispered, savouring every single word, each a dagger that cut a new wound into Findekáno's heart. You are frightened. Horrified. Don't try to deny it. Do you not remember the concussions in the mountains, when you thought you would perish there and then? Don't you remember how you begged the Valar to spare you? Aryon Findekáno, you are no hero. You are just a silly, frustrated loner. And thus you will meet your end – sobbing and wailing and alone. Without glory, without grandeur. And no one will ever know.

Findekáno frowned. "Glory?", he repeated and lifted up his head. "Grandeur? Feanáro used to talk like this. And he was not the first, though perhaps the loudest. Oh yes, our glorious return to liberty, long-awaited and hard-earned, by which we shall win renown and veneration beyond measure – I remember it still. But in the end, what did it yield? Enviousness, malice, and treachery. Kindreds were sundered, families estranged, and the Eldar fell under the shadow of sorrow and death."

All of it brought about by the haughty kin of your half-uncle.

"No", Findekáno countered plainly, himself astounded by his renewed confidence. "We all brought it about, because we went along with it. Nourished the grudge, allowed the hatred to grow. And when they could have shown magnanimity and forgivingness, both sides just fuelled the flames. But resentment will only ever entail more resentment. It was the beginning of all evil. And if I now turn back and leave Russandol to his fate in the same way he deserted me afore, then this will be the end of it. Then disloyalty will have won, faithlessness become the norm. What is life worth in such a world? No", he said again and lifted his bag from the ground. The last doubt had evaporated. He finally saw it all clearly, saw the voice for what it was. A mere spring of discouragement and doomsaying, born from his own anxieties in a moment of weakness. "You may be a part of my mind, but that does not mean I must follow your evil counselling. Nay, I will go on!"

And he did. He walked until late into the night, then slept on a bed of grass, and continued his march before Anar had yet risen above the horizon. About noon, the trembling of the earth began anew, but Findekáno barely gave it any heed, for here, out on the plain, the concussions were harmless. He continued his long and joyless march, untiring, persevering, spurred on by nothing but a tiny, irrational crumb of hope, while the miles of waste grassland melted away under his feet. And on the evening of the second day, through the curtains of black smoke and reek, he caught the first glimpse of a colossal three-peaked mountain.

---

* Actually, Taniquetil is said to be the highest peak on Arda. But since the Ñoldor left Aman before the Pelóri were raised to their final height, I assume that at this point the Sangoronti seemed higher to them.