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 lose 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.

12. Ninde Selesta

Ninde Selesta – Fragile Hope

"Alfírim' Eldar náner, ar ñólelta alde randallo randanna, ar ú kaimasse ú hlíve tulyane ñuru ten. Ananta hroaltar náner i ermallo Ambaro ar polle nankaritat. Epetai pollelte queletya i rúmiessen Ardo, ar ondo yo nén valaner orte, ar polle nahta te karmainen yan' auressen, e fírime Atanínen."

"Immortal were the Elves, and their wisdom waxed from age to age, and no sickness nor pestilence brought death to them. Yet their bodies were of the stuff of earth and could be destroyed [...]. Therefore they could perish in the tumults of the world, and stone and water had power over them, and they could be slain with weapons in those days, even by mortal Men." (LR:247)

.***.

It was pouring with rain. The clouds had burst at last and big black drops were falling from the sky, pattering down on the two Eldar huddled into the plumage of the great eagle. Findekáno had draped his cloak around the body of his cousin to shield him from the icy wetness and biting winds. Russandol's head was still resting on his lap and off-mindedly Findekáno caressed his scraggy hair whilst he stared out into the darkness.

They were moving at great speed. Colossal silhouettes drifted past: walls of clouds, mountains of reek, a marching army of shadow and smoke. He knew not whither the bird was flying and he did not care. Mísiringwe, the two camps, the quarrelling Ñoldor ... it all seemed far away and of so little importance with Nelyo in his arms was slowly bleeding out. His improvised layers of bandage were soaked already and Findekáno had to wrap the remainder of his mantle around the bulbous stump, knowing full well this was of little help. But he was done with worrying. He wanted to mull over the future no longer. He had faith in Manwe's emissary and trusted it would bear them with all the required haste to wherever fate demanded them to be.

The rain was drenching their clothes and washed away the grime. The blood, the horror, the despair. Findekáno drew in the fresh air and relished in the feeling of the cold liquid on his skin. Cleansing, soothing, liberating. He looked into the sky and saw a faint silver spark. A star? But that is not possible. The smoke ... Findekáno held out his hand in wonder and caught some of the raindrops, dirty and black on his palm. No, he had not been mistaken. On its fall through the thick plumes of reek, the water was taking up all the soot that hovered around. Even as he looked, the dark veil shrouding the sky grew less and less obscure. Small holes opened up, enlarged and multiplied. Tiny gleams emerged and shone forth from a firmament of velvet blue. At long last, the smoke was being dissolved, the air purged by the rain. Findekáno could have shouted with glee. But he just closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer of thanks to Manwe, while the cool water ran down his face.

They flew on and, as the smokes gradually dissipated, Findekáno could discern first shapes on the ground. He saw the jumbled crags and spires of the Wahtaine Oronti passing beneath, snow-crowned and twinkling in the silver starlight. He saw round hills and dense woodland, and when he cast a glance over the shoulder, far, far ahead, a shimmering smoothness, black, mirror-like. The Mísiringwe, still half befogged by the morning mists. Yes, they were going home.

Almost imperceptibly the colour of the trees below changed from grey to green, and the stars faded in a brightening sky. Amidst curtains of sparkling rains they flew, while through openings in the clouds the young dawn stretched its mellow fingers across the land and in a stupor of tiredness Findekáno watched the woods wake newly to life after nine days of darkness. With every passing hour it got harder and harder to keep sitting upright. The feathers of the eagle were so soft, cosy, welcoming. A bed he might sink into and find some sleep. But not yet. First, he had to make sure that Nelyo was tended to. That he would survive.

Through half-closed eyelids, he saw a spectacle of colours on the eastern sky. Blues and violets turned cyan and aquamarine. A tinge of rose appeared. The clouds above the mountain range flared up in a glaring orange and all of a sudden the whole horizon was aflame. A beauty beyond words.

Soon the forest had remained behind. Fallow hills now spread to his left, whereas right lay the jetblack surface of the lake. Findekáno frowned. Are we not flying to the camp of the Feanárians?, he thought to himself. Though his exhaustion kept him from wondering much.

Now they circled about a grassy vale, studded with sparkling dots. There were people on the ground. Two crowds opposing each other. Polished armours and pointed weapons gleamed in the pale light of morning. Wet banners flapped in the breeze. Findekáno saw silver patches on a field of blue and an eight-rayed star of gold. The Ñoldor ... ready to wage war ... we are coming just in time.

The eagle began spiralling down. Gasps and awestricken shouts strayed through the air – they had been sighted. A handful of Eldar was standing apart, in the middle between the two hosts. Findekáno glimpsed no faces, but he could guess who met there for parley.

The first ray of sunlight broke over the mountain chain and they landed on the earth.

Silence. The only sound to be heard, was the deafeningly loud chirping of the crickets greeting the new dawn. Findekáno blinked around. Thousands of faces were turned at him, thousands of gaping mouths. The reflections on steel and gemstones blinded him. Thousands of light points, fallen stars scattered across the green. You need to say something, he thought wearily.

"Hear ye, people of the Ñoldor!"

The voice echoed far over the sodden valley, rolling like a thunder and piercing like the sea winds of spring. It resonated in his mind, evoking the memory of great clouds gathering, of clear blue airs high above the earth, of a snow-covered mountaintop glistening in the light of a noonday sun. No tongue had spoken, no lips uttered those powerful words, and yet every Elda on the field listened in awe.

"I, Sorontar, Aran Sornion, bring to you from the slopes of the three-peaked mountain and from the verge of death two of your kin. Consider this a gift from the him whom I serve: Manwe Súlimo, Herunúmen, Aran Anyára, who has looked upon these two Elda and found them worthy. Rejoice now, people of the Ñoldor! Here is Nelyafinwe, your king, who has long been a captive at the stronghold of the Morikotto. And here is his cousin Findekáno, who came and set him free."

No one moved. No one made a sound. Leerily the two hostile hosts eyed the majestic oversized bird. A messenger of the Valar? Returning two exiles from Angamando? They did not trust the good news. Could not believe it. Suspicion had taken hold among them.

Findekáno stroked Russandol's brow, gently lifted the russet head off his lap, and struggled up to his shaking feet. His head felt dizzy and the brilliancy stung his eyes. Black dots danced about his field of vision.

"Nelyafinwe is hurt!", he meant to call out. From his throat came but a hoarse croaking. He cleared it once and tried anew: "Help me get him down! Please ..."

Then his legs would bear his weight no longer and he sunk back into the gold-brown feathers beside his cousin.

"Findo!" The clear voice of his sister cut through the heavy silence, like the first song of the lark ending the night. With enormous effort, he raised his head and saw her white gown, flying over the grass, a feather in the wind, as she raced across the field. And suddenly the ban was broken. Shouts sounded, Eldar came running from all directions. Arms were outstretched, the eagle was surrounded by a surging crowd. Faces popped up and disappeared again. Tyelkormo. Ingoldo. Makalaure. Hísion. Voices called his name, called Nelyo's name, called all at once. He shook Russandol, but his friend did not wake. He got scared. Was Nelyo dead? But his heart was still beating, he must have just fainted again.

Findekáno took up the limp body, dragged him across the shimmering plumage on which he left a smear of red. The dark blots in front of his eyes became rampant. And committed him into the waiting arms. He didn't see whose. Suddenly, Nelyo's weight was gone. And there were other hands, hands grasping his ankles, hands beckoning him down. He slid into a messy, colourful tangle. And blackness. Faniel's face bent over him. Laurefin beside her. With their help he managed to get back to his feet. He had lost sight of Nelyo. Where was he?

Someone tugged at the strap of the leather bag across his shoulder. Confused, he looked around. A golden eye appeared in front of him, round and huge. Humbly he bowed his head. "Thank you, Sorontar. My cousin and I shall forever be in your debt."

"You are welcome, young aryon", answered the mighty, all-pervasive voice. "By your deed of bravery and self-sacrifice, your house has won the favour and friendship of the Eagles. Be sure that whenever in your need you should call to us, we shall be there."

Wind gushed, wings flapped, and Sorontar rose back into the air. Findekáno was blown back into the arms of the waiting Eldar that immediately closed in on him and blocked his view.

"Nelyo!", he cried out. "Where is Nelyo? I need to see him!"

„No Findo, you need to rest", said Faniel somewhere beside him. "Nelyo is in good hands. The healers will take care of him."

"But I can't leave him alone! Not yet. Let me go!" He shook off his sister and stumbled over the green grass. "Where is he? Where is Nelyo?" Now the black patches almost filled up his vision. He turned and turned, but nowhere was to be seen the familiar shock of red hair.

Strong arms closed around his chest and held him tight. "Take reason, hanno", Turukáno spoke into his ear. "You are wounded and exhausted. You have done enough for Nelyo. Let others see to him now."

Findekáno wanted to argue, but his weariness prevailed at last. He slumped into the embrace of his brother, blinked once more, and saw the outline of outstretched wings shrinking on the western horizon before all faded to black.

.***.

"Nelyo", was the first thing he murmured when he woke up. And even to his drowsy ears his voice sounded terrible. Low and husky, almost like the voice of a stranger.

"He is alive", a woman gave as curt answer.

Findekáno opened his eyes, blinked heavily, and saw light fawn beams. He was lying in a bed, he realised. A real bed with padded cushions and an eiderdown, not the thin wool blankets and pillows of straw that he had gotten used to. For a moment he thought he was back in Valinor.

Then the face of his aunt appeared in front of the wooden ceiling and smiled down on him. "Good morning. How a you feeling?"

"Sore", Findekáno replied truthfully. His chest hurt when drawing breath, his throat was swollen, and his knee tweaked a little. Yet all those sensations felt dull and somewhat removed. They've given me painkillers, he reasoned in his laggard mind.

"Naturally. But that will soon pass", Lalwen assured and stroked his face. "Some more days of bedrest and you will be able to walk around again."

"Days?", he hissed with a start. "No way, I want to see Nelyo. Now!"

His aunt sighed as if she had been expecting this demand. "That is not a good idea, Findo. Your body needs time to recover. You have been hypothermic and dehydrated. Two of your ribs are broken, the ligaments in your left knee have been severely harmed, and the healers suspect a mild concussion. And that is not mentioning all the cuts and bruises you have incurred." She helped him up into a half sitting position. "The rib fracture will heal by itself, but your knee required a surgery. You must keep it still for at least five or six days now, so as not to impair the healing process."

Findekáno folded back the blanket and eyed the thick white bandage around his knee. What had been a minor injury in the beginning, had not exactly been made any better by the long walk across the Kalina Landa and climbing the Sangoronti. In fact he should be glad that he had survived at all. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled the blanket up to his chest and leaned back.

"Besides that, you cannot visit Nelyafinwe anyway", Lalwen added and got up to fetch something from the other side of the room. "He is still unconscious and the healers won't allow anyone near him, except for his brothers."

"But he is all right, isn't he?", Findekáno rasped with growing anxiety. "His life is no longer in danger?"

"Are you thirsty?" Lalwen returned, handing him a steaming tin cup. "Tea of melissa, camomile, and lavender."

Gratefully Findekáno sipped the hot brew moistening his brittle lips and running down his parched throat. Too late he noticed the flavour of poppy.

"I didn't want any more sedatives", he complained.

But his aunt just passed his protest over. "Nelyafinwe has lost much blood ", she explained with a sad smile. "And in his weakened state ... Although the healers are doing what they can, it remains uncertain whether he will make it. But you to need to sleep, Findo. Sleep and forget your worries for a while."

And Lalwen remained sitting beside his bed until Findekáno had sunken back into the depths of Lórien's land.

.***.

The next time he woke, it was dark. Only a small candle on the bedside table cast a warm, comforting light on the walls of his chamber. Somewhere at his feet, he sensed the presence of another Elda. Long, deep breaths sounded to his ears. Findekáno did not want to rouse whoever sat there from his sleeping watch, so he readjusted his cushions and closed the eyes. But he couldn't find sleep and for a while lay there and stared into the restless flame of the candle.

The echoes of his dreams still lingered in the back of his mind, though he didn't remember much. Russandol had been there, standing on a cliff above the lake, well-nourished and completely healed. Then he had turned his head and Findekáno startled. His face was blank, his eyes flat, and though he looked at Findekáno, there was no sign of joy or hatred in his mien. No sign of life at all.

"Why did you not kill me when I asked you to?"

The calm question had snapped through his head like a lashing whip.

"Remember that it was I who burnt the ships. I brought suffering and death over your people. Remember how many you lost on the ice. This is your chance to avenge them all. To avenge your brother." Russandol opened his arms wide. "Kill me!"

"I don't believe what you say", Findekáno heard himself whispering.

"You have to. How much longer can you shy away from the truth? You have to decide where you stand, Findo. Kill me!"

He stared at bow and arrow in his hands. Without his bidding, the wood came alive. The arrow notched itself, pointed, and ...

Findekáno squirmed his eyes and tried to shoo away the unwanted pictures. It was only a dream. The spawn of his bad conscience, nothing more.

Know that you may deny him death for now, but you cannot force him to live.

The cute, innocent string of doubt wormed its way into the realm of his thoughts and gnawed at the very roots of his self-conception. The longer he thought about it, the less certain he felt that, up on that cliff, he had made the right decision.

No! Of course he had. Nelyo would forgive him for hesitating four long years before going in search of him. And he would be glad that his friend had dismissed this wish, born from despair.

But what about myself? Will I be able to forgive him?

The flickering candle chased the shadows over the wall, like a hound of hell driving a flock of black sheep. Findekáno lay wide awake and watched the wild hunt, wishing for the light of day to come and dissipate the gluey cobwebs in his head.

The curtains in front of the window were drawn, so that he couldn't see even a stripe of the sky, yet the scent of the cool air was telling him that dawn was merely a few more hours away. He began counting his own heartbeats to mark the passing of time. He got far.

.***.

"They will still sing songs of him and his deed long after our houses are scattered and our names forgotten."

"Why? Because he risked his own life for that of a traitor and a murderer?"

A sigh. "No, because he managed to avert what must never again happen: a war among Eldar."

"For now."

"Yes, for now. But then, I do not think the Ñoldor will draw weapons against each other all too soon."

"You don't? With all due respect to your trustfulness, Ingol, but that optimism I cannot share. The Feanáriondi are cheaters and troublemakers. And Nelyafinwe is no better than the rest of them. Sly, cunning, fraudulent, –"

"Stop talking about him in this way, Túro! Nelyafinwe is only a few streets away, fighting for survival. Perhaps he is not going to make it."

"I know. But losing your arm does not make you sacred, does it?"

An outraged gasp he knew all too well. "You are unbelievable! Findo just risked everything to save our cousin. Show some respect at the very least!"

"Half-cousin." There was a short pause. "I wonder whether he would do the same for one of us. For his brother, his sister?"

"Why, of course he would! But if you wish to find out, go ahead – walk to Angamando and get yourself captivated by Morikotto, then you'll see!"

"I need not try to know that he wouldn't come for me. Not now that his favourite Feanárion is back."

"Are you jealous?"

"Would you two keep it down, please? You are going to wake him up."

Embarrassed silence.

"Well, I am off anyway. I'm joining the hunting party."

"You never go hunting."

"I do today. We will be gone for about a week, so ... when Findo awakes, tell him ... tell him I am glad he is back."

Findekáno heard soft steps, a door opening and closing. Then, silence.

"Do you really believe the rescue of Nelyafinwe is going to change anything? ", Faniel asked after a while. "I mean, Túro is not completely wrong. What difference is he going to make?"

"I do not think it depends on him at all", came the considered response. "There has been a change already. Something changed the moment when that eagle landed. The Ñoldor have seen that the might of the Valar still has a foothold in Endóre and that they shall send aid when they deem that we deserve it. We have been reminded of what can be achieved if we overcome old resentments. This insight may not be enough to reunite the two kindreds, but enough perhaps to prevent us from waging war against each other. And it is completely independent of Nelyafinwe. So even if he won't be able to take up the rule again, even if he dies ..." The voice halted, presumably having noticed Findekáno wince. "Even then, Findo's deed will not have been in vain. Though I do hope he recovers", Ingoldo added. "He would be so much more apt to finding the right tone when dealing with Ñolofinwe than his brother."

At this point Findekáno could hold back no longer. "How's Nelyo?", he mumbled and opened his eyes.

The chamber lay in a dim twilight that filtered through a slit between the long curtains. Ingoldo sat to his right, his hair shimmering in the thin ray of light like liquid gold. Faniel to his left was clad as usual in a snow-white dress and beamed with joy at seeing that her brother had woken.

"Findo!", she exclaimed and hugged him exuberantly. But when she let go of him, Faniel put on a serious face and folded her arms.

"I am disappointed, háno-ninya, very disappointed", his sister remarked, her expression so closely resembling that of their father when telling off his children, that Findekáno involuntarily flinched. "How can you tell me you want to talk to Makalaure and will be back in two days? And then sneak away to Angamando – on your own! Telling no one where you went!" Her voice, sober at first, grew shrill. "Do you have any idea what you did to us? To me? I was worried, Findo, can you imagine? If anything had happened to you ... I shouldn't have let you leave. If I had told atar or Turvo, they would have ... and you ... Drat, you could be dead by now!" Tears shone in her eyes, which she angrily wiped away.

Findekáno blushed. Yes, he had thought of his sister when he went away. Of how it would make her feel. And he had accepted it. He had been prepared to die, to not return and never give the explanations for parts of his indo he didn't understand himself. He lowered his eyes. "Sorry."

"Sorry? This is all I get? Sorry?!" Faniel's voice sounded like the yelping of a cat that someone stepped on the tail.

"You could at least try to defend yourself", she hissed when he kept silent. "We scoured all of Mísiringwe for you. We almost started a war because of you!"

"Faniel", said Ingoldo. "Leave it be."

"No, she has every right to be mad at me", Findekáno coughed and tried to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position. "But all I can say, Fani, is sorry. There is no good excuse. Except that I did as my óre commanded and was incredibly lucky."

Faniel gave no answer, yet the deep furrows on her brow smoothened and her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"And we are all very happy you ventured this undertaking – and succeeded", Ingoldo nodded with a broad smile. "So why don't you tell us what exactly you encountered at Angamando and how you rescued Maitimo? For the speculations in the camp are running wild."

Findekáno hesitated. "And Nelyo?"

"He is alive", Faniel said quietly, avoiding his gaze. "And his arm is healing, fairly well in fact. But he hasn't recovered consciousness ever since you arrived. Over the course of last night he caught a fever, which is now draining his strength further, wearing out his already feeble body. The healers say he is closer to death than to life. I am sorry."

Findekáno tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. "Where is he now?"

"In a hut beside the western watchtower. Away from all the commotion. His brothers were not happy about putting him up here, but as he was not fit for travel, they were left with little choice but to entrust him to the hands of our healers."

He blinked in surprise and it took him a couple of moments to understand. Of course. The noble room, the comfortable bed. They were at the old stronghold of the Feanárians – the abandoned camp on top of the cliffs north of the Mísiringwe – though apparently now occupied by Ñolofinwe's people.

"I need to see him", he stated and wanted to get out of bed. Ingoldo pushed him back, gently, but determinedly.

"Easy, Findo, easy. You must not yet walk around. You will risk permanent damage of your knee if you strain it too soon."

"I don't care about my knee", Findekáno moaned. "I want to see Nelyo and you are not going to stop me."

They quibbled for quite a while. His cousin and sister implored him to stay in bed and rest, but Findekáno barely listened to their arguments. The notion that Russandol might die before he had seen him one more time sat in his brain like a tick and made all else seem unimportant, trivial. Stubbornly he refused to show reason and when at last he threatened to search for Russandol himself once they left unsupervised, Faniel and Ingoldo exchanged a long glance and his sister sighed. "All right, you may visit him. But you are not going to walk! Wait here, I'll be right back."

With that, she leapt up and danced out of the room, a vision of white.

Findekáno threw a questioning look at his cousin, who answered with a shrug. They waited in silence until Faniel returned. In one hand she was carrying a mantle, in the other a walking cane.

"No, definitely not", Findekáno objected at once. "I won't be seen limping through the streets like a decrepit Hrótatorko!"

"Don't worry, it is just until the door. Trust me", Faniel said, smiling quizzically.

Findekáno huffed but nodded his consent. If he was to see Nelyo, what did it matter if on the way he made a fool of himself?

With the help of Ingoldo he got dressed – a clumsy and painstaking task – and finally was half standing, or rather teetering, on his right leg, half leaning on Ingoldo's shoulder. With no small amount of loathing he received the walking cane and the small group set into motion.

Faniel went ahead opening the doors for them, Findekáno on Ingoldo hobbled behind. The small concussions that couldn't be avoided felt like jagged blades thrust into Findekáno's chest. But with the worried gazes of his two companions resting on him, he gritted his teeth, thought of Nelyo, and strove to keep a straight face, lest they would go back on their permission.

In this way, he was led along an aisle, into a small sitting room with upholstered chairs grouped around a shelf with real casebound books, and down another aisle. The whole building was constructed from light-coloured wood. Unobtrusive carvings decorated the walls, floral ornaments and curvate twine, while blue and golden carpets on the floor muted their steps. In this cleaned, dusted state, it took Findekáno quite some time to realise that he had been here before.

"This is the house of the Feanáriondi", he stated and a heartbeat later remembered that actually he wasn't supposed to know the place.

While his sister was well aware of his secret visits to the abandoned town, Ingoldo shot him a curious glance. But he did not enquire.

"Yes, indeed", Faniel nodded. "Atar has chosen it to be our new abode."

Instantly Findekáno began to feel like an invader. A thief. "Where are the Feanárians now?"

"Most of them returned to the southern shore of the lake", Ingoldo answered. "Only a few hundreds remained alongside Makalaure and his brothers. They are camping in the valley to the east. Many here are uncomfortable with their presence, but for now at least reclaiming this town does not seem to be among their chief priorities."

This gave Findekáno a pause and before he had the chance to pose any further questions concerning the Feanárians, they arrived at the inner yard of the building. Not far from the door stood a lank grey dun, grazing on the sparse grass between the cobblestones.

"Her name is Hrívangwe and she is very calm", said Faniel, took the mare by the headstall, and led her closer.

Ingoldo chuckled and Findekáno raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yes?"

He had never been more than a moderate rider and had not ridden since the days of Valinor, for horses were a rarity now and the few they possessed were reserved for the hunters and scouts. He looked into the horse's long-lashed eyes and saw therein a gentle, though strong-minded nature. Findekáno allowed her to sniff at his hand before stroking the dark muzzle. Hrívangwe snorted softly, which he took as a sign of approval.

He thanked Faniel for this idea, then the three of them struggled to get him onto the back of the mare, who remained relaxed and waited patiently until Findekáno was established.

"Hide your face", Faniel advised. "Unless you want the whole camp crowding around, pressing you with nosy questions."

So they all pulled up their hoods and Faniel led Hrívangwe out onto the street.

No word was spoken along the way. As he kept his face down, Findekáno saw only glimpses of the town and soon his thoughts strayed off. A part of him was afraid of visiting Russandol. Afraid of what he might see. Afraid of the blames and accusations once his friend awoke. But for now the fear of not being with him was stronger. He closed his eyes and waited. The steady rocking of the horse's pace was making him sleepy, though failing to ease his anxiety.

"Here we are", Faniel announced at last.

Findekáno looked up and found himself in front of a tiny cot, built of dark wood and thatched with reeds. Rosebushes grew beneath veiled windows, peppered with scarlet hips, while some feet further back, rose the weathered stones of the camp's rampart. A tall sinewy man was pacing up and down the stripe of sere lawn surrounding the modest building. The way in which he nervously clenched his fists and couldn't stand still for a moment, Findekáno recognised at once: Tyelkormo.

He threw back his hood, looked around, and found for what he sought. Karnistir was standing in the shadow of some yews, motionless and like a shadow himself, his black cloak blending in perfectly with the dark needles. Only the wan oval of his face gave him away. And the gloomy expression he sported made Findekáno shudder.

Ingoldo had only just helped his cousin off the horse when Tyelkormo planted himself in front of them.

"Good day to you", the Arafinwion greeted.

Tyelkormo gave no answer. He looked Findekáno up and down, who wondered what kind of welcome he was to receive from the Feanáriondi. He had rescued their brother, yes. And thereby dealt a severe blow to the honour and pride.

"I never liked you, cousin", Tyelkormo stated in his voluminous voice. "I always took you for a wimp and a glamour boy." His light-coloured eyes looked daggers at Findekáno.

"I am so glad you proved me wrong", he then blurted out, pulled him into a bear hug, and gave him a pat on the back that made Findekáno slightly bend the knees. "Thank you", he whispered, so quiet only his cousin could hear it.

Findekáno didn't know what to say, a bit dumbstricken by this sudden exuberance from a man with whom he seldom had exchanged more than a couple of words at festive occasions. Luckily, he was saved by the door of the hut swinging open and a woman clad in a simple grey garment appearing on the threshold. Her hazel hair was tied into a loose knot and the deep worry lines on her otherwise fair face made her look older than she probably was. Findekáno estimated her to be around five hundred years at best, yet her air was that of a seasoned, knowledgeable Elda.

"I already told you, no visitors except for direct relatives", she said with a surprisingly strong voice and a tiny crease appeared between her cerulean eyes. "Come back later."

"This is Failin", Faniel introduced. "She came with the Feanárians, and Ambarussa insisted on her aiding our healers in the treatment of Maitimo, asserting that she was the best herbalist among all their following. And for two days now, she has been playing guard dog of this hut."

"Faelin", the woman corrected. "And I am merely trying to ward my patient from any disturbance to his healing."

"You are no Ñoldo", Findekáno couldn't help blurting out his amazement.

Faelin gave him a critical look. "Well observed. I am one of the Mithrim, born and raised in the eastern vales of Dor-Lómin before I decided to join the host of Makalaure. Pleased to meet you. Though now you have to excuse me, since I do not want to leave Maitimo alone for long. I will inform you when he is ready to receive other visitors."

"Do make an exception for him!", Tyelkormo called after the healer, who was already about to turn away. "This is Findekáno, our cousin. And if it weren't for him, Nelyo wouldn't even be here."

Faelin halted. Her keen blue eyes twitched at Findekáno and he believed to discern a tinge of admiration in her gaze. She blinked and it was gone. "Then I assume it was you who cut off his hand? Or rather hacked it off, I should say, going after the shambles on his arm stump?"

Findekáno winced. "I had no choice", he tried to explain, his gaze resting on Tyelkormo. "It was the only way to free him."

"And you did well." A subtle smile flashed over Faelin's face. "I could see that you had ligated his arm to reduce blood loss, and your bandage afterwards was cleverly devised as well. But most importantly, you managed to perform the amputation in time. Some more negligence on your part, some more hesitation, and Maitimo would not be among us anymore. You saved his life."

At those words, Tyelkormo went slightly pale and clenched his fists anew.

"And yet he might die nevertheless", Findekáno said tonelessly, deaf to the commendation of the healer.

"I am doing everything I can to avoid it. But yes, he might."

"I need to see him."

Faelin scrutinised him for a some seconds and finally nodded. "All right. You can come in for a while. Actually, it might be of help if you talked to him. If he could hear a familiar voice. But just you, not the two others."

"So be it", said Findekáno, and Faniel shut her already in protest opened mouth. He let go of Ingoldo's supporting arm and rested all his weight on the walking cane, determined to cover the short distance into the hut on his own. But before he had taken even one step, the young Sinda was at his side to offer her shoulder. Only with some hesitation did he lean on her slender body.

"Don't be shy", Faelin reprimanded after his first unsteady hobbles. "I am stronger than I look."

So he carefully put more weight on her shoulder, and though she teetered a little, they managed to proceed down the sandy path.

But before entering the hut, Findekáno halted and looked back at the dark figure between the conifers. Their gazes interlocked and Karnistir slightly bowed the head, his expression still petrified. Findekáno returned the nod, somewhat relieved that at least Russandol's brothers seemed to humour him.

Inside, they first traversed a tiny antechamber before they came into the main room, partitioned off by a fawn curtain. It didn't contained much. A long table beside the door was piled with dressing material, bowls with herbs and balms, as well as numerous light and dark tinctures bottled in little flacons, while most of the space was claimed by a bed. Two dark-haired Eldar sat at the side and glanced up when they entered.

Kurufinwe's eyes were reddened, his proud posture slumped. Fear and hurt were written as plainly into his face as were they drawn by a quill. But Makalaure looked worse. He was hunched on the chair, his arms around his leg, his hair a mess, his face crumpled. His nervous teeth had left bloody casts on his lips, the dark shadows under his eyes bespoke of sleep deprivation. Under eyes that were empty. Broken. Like two yawning caverns in a hollowed corpse, eaten up from within.

"Findekáno." Kurufinwe smiled, pleasantly surprised, yet the sorrow in his eyes remained. He rose awkwardly and stepped up to the two arrivals, where he regarded Findekáno, seemingly unsure what to say. Which was not typical of Kurufinwe.

"Thank you", he produced at last, and his eyes were glistening suspiciously. "Thank you, and thanks thrice. I believe I speak for all my brothers when I say that there are no words to express our gratitude. You ventured to do what none of us dared. You went in search for our brother and you brought him back. This we shall never forget. Nai Eru lye mánata!" And a hand at the heart, he bowed low.

"This is very kind of you", Findekáno forced himself to answer, for it would be impolite to contest this sincere gratefulness. And yet he felt uncomfortable still. I brought him back, yes. But in what state?

His gaze trailed over to the bed. There lay Russandol, almost disappearing among all the blankets and pillows, his face swimming in an ocean of white. Alone the stump of his right arm protruded from the waves of wool and down, the broken mast of a sinking ship. It had been bandaged properly and rested upon a clean linen cloth at his side. Findekáno's stomach cramped with feelings of guilt.

He swallowed the bitter taste on his tongue and added: "But do not thank me, Kurufinwe, until we know Maitimo is safe."

"He is safe", said a trembling voice and all heads turned to Makalaure, whose lifeless eyes sent shivers down Findekáno's spine. "He is safe", he repeated and it was a question, an entreaty, an assertion.

Findekáno wished someone would say something encouraging, but no one did. No one could.

At last, the sindarin healer cleared her throat. "Only two visitors at a time", she reminded them.

And once again, Findekáno felt like an intruder. "I just want to see him for a short while, then I'll be gone." He shrugged apologetically.

"Certainly not", said Kurufinwe. "I shall leave. You, rendo, deserve to be here, more than any of us."

Findekáno would have objected, had it not been about Russandol. Thus he just allowed Faelin and Kurufinwe to help him sit down on the chair beside Makalaure.

"Where is Ambarussa?", he asked when he realised that the youngest Feanárion he hadn't seen so far.

Kurufinwe's mien hardened and he nodded toward the window. Confused, Findekáno peered out. He saw the lawn surrounding the house, a couple of bushes, the battered wall of the camp. And up on the wall, he discerned a grey hooded figure, looking out at the lake.

"He can't handle waiting near this place and he cannot bear being far away", Kurufinwe explained sullenly. With that he gave Faelin a nod and left the hut.

The healer returned to the table and soon was busy with her herbs. Makalaure stared straight at the bed, though Findekáno somehow doubted he was seeing anything. He himself watched his younger cousin for a few seconds, trying to imagine the amount of remorse that must be gnawing on him, and then decided he would rather not know. Unlike his brother, Makalaure would be fine.

So Findekáno turned his attention back to Russandol and for the first time, he could take a closer look at him. His sunken cheeks were reddened and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His hair, matted beyond recovery, had been cut and the remaining finger-length locks encircled his face like an aureole of flames. Though he was breathing, his breath came so flat, it didn't even move the blankets. Benumbed, Findekáno contemplated his cousin, filled with a maddening sense of helplessness once again.

They had washed him, he noted, and treated the fresh wounds. In some ways he looked better than when hanging on that precipice. And probably he was better. Of course he was! Only his stillness ... Were it not for the wheezing sound of the air leaving his lungs, he could have believed his cousin to be dead.

"You can moisten his face a little."

Findekáno gave a start. Faelin was suddenly standing at his side and handed him a cloth and a bowl of water, both of which he took, still somewhat stupefied.

"And talk to him."

"About what?", Findekáno murmured, more to himself.

"Whatever comes to your mind", Faelin answered from the table where she was preparing some sort of salve. "If only you managed to rouse him from his coma, that would be a great success already."

Thus, he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and began carefully dabbing the sweat off Russanol's brow and cheeks. His cousin showed no reaction to the cold touch. He lay as unmoving and statuesque as before.

"Nelyo?", he quietly tried. "It's me, Findo."

The closed eyes moved beneath their lids. Could he hear him? Findekáno waited with bated breath, but no further reaction came.

"We are at your old home", he continued on. "Your camp at the Mísiringwe. Do you remember? You were here only for a short while, but Káno, Káno did a lot of construction in the meantime. It has become almost a true fortress, you know? Here you are safe. No one will harm you anymore. Not even me." He swallowed hard and had to struggle to retain his composure. Almost he believed to see Russandol's eyes move again, but this was probably just wishful thinking.

"I am sorry, Nelyo. So sorry for what I did. Had to do. But I wanted you to live, you see? What choice did I have?" The words poured from his mouth and he didn't even know to whom he was speaking. Whom he was asking to forgive him. His unconscious friend? The ossified Makalaure, who seemed lost in his own world of thought? Or himself?

"But you have made it. It is over now. You will be all right. All you have to do is ... wake up." The last word was barely more than a whisper.

He set the water aside on a little bedside table, brushed some strands of hair out of Russandol's face, and regarded him in silence. The thin, almost transparent skin, the cavernous eye sockets, the thin lips and the pointed chin ... those features were that of a stranger. And yet, at the second glance, Findekáno spotted tiny traits he recognised. The line of his straight, elegant nose, the way his eyebrows were curved, the shape of his ears that had always been just a little too long. And those details helped to give Findekáno a small amount of hope. Despite all that Morikotto had done to his friend, his true being he had not managed to quench. He was not yet lost.

"You have to keep fighting, Nelyo", Findekáno muttered. "Don't give up now."

This time he heard Faelin approach. She strode to the left side of the bed, carrying in her arms a pile of fresh bandages, a bulbous bottle, and the newly prepared salve.

"I am going to renew his dressings", she explained and flashed him a stern glance. "If you want to leave the room, now would be the time. It is not a pleasant sight."

Findekáno shook his head without considering. "I stay."

The young healer seemed to feel that she had done her duty by issuing a warning, for she just nodded and began her work. With small skilful fingers, she opened the knots around Russandol's arm and removed layer after layer of tissue. As she reached the fourth ply, the first red brown stains showed up on the white linen.

"Is there anything I can do?", Findekáno asked.

"Yes. Be silent and do not interrupt me."

So he leaned back in his chair and watched. Makalaure beside him had assumed a similar pose – stock-still and attentively following the procedure, despite his mien portraying clearly that he would be anywhere rather than here.

When Faelin peeled off the seventh and last layer, a faint glitter caught Findekáno's eye.

"Silver", explained Faelin, who had noticed the wonder in his gaze. "It possesses many positive qualities – keeping the wound clean, reducing the blood flow, and speeding up the healing process. So we weave fine threads of silver into tissue of súriquesse fibres to create this special gauze. It was your people who brought this art to Endóre", she added with a smile.

Findekáno however, was listening only with half an ear, still intrigued by the beauty of the light and flowing silver fabric that, though mottled with blood, in the pale beam falling through the window rippled like waves dancing across the surface of the pools in the gardens of Irmo.

Beneath this last bandage then emerged the stump of Russandol's arm, covered by an amber-coloured paste, interspersed with the bleared green of minced leaves and seeped through by scarlet red. Findekáno's heartbeat quickened. He closed his eyes for a moment and told himself that whatever he was about to see, it was nothing – nothing compared to the clutch of that iron chain, or the exposure to wind, rock and snow. It was the least of what Nelyo had suffered.

"Marigold and comfrey, mixed with honey", Faelin pointed out, rousing him from his agonised thoughts, and continued to lecture them on the specific effects of each of those ingredients while carefully scratching off the balm, washing the wound, and dabbing it dry. What remained was reddened skin, sewed together with the same silver thread from which the bandage had been woven. The two crossed sutures were seamed by a brownish crust and only at the middle part, where the flaps of skin met, were to be seen spots of raw flesh and trickles of a milky white.

The cleaned and tended wound was far less repulsive than the sight during the amputation itself, and yet its definitiveness, its finality, was even harder to bear for Findekáno. Nevertheless he did not look away. He kept his gaze fixed on the scene of devastation on his friend's arm, as if he wanted to burn the picture into his memory, knowing it to be the product of his decision, with which he would have to live until the end of his days.

"You may find that his arm is shorter now than when you brought him." Faelin now held a small bowl with a dark brown liquid in her hands and began to sprinkle the sutures with what she before had explicated to be a propolis tincture that would seal the wound. "We had to saw off another three inches of bone to achieve a clean cut and have enough of skin left to cover the stump with. But this is standard practice", she added when Findekáno shifted uneasily, "nothing caused by an oversight on your part."

Findekáno avoided her gaze and said nothing.

The Sinda then applied a fresh layer of honey-herb-ointment, before wrapping the stump in clean tissues once again and placing it back on the blanket. During the whole procedure, Russandol had shown not one vital sign.

Makalaure's chair scraped across the floor. "Call for me if there is any change", he said and strode out of the room. He had remained only to witness the arm of his brother being tended to.

Findekáno looked after the king. Why is he doing this to himself? But he knew the answer well enough.

The front door was heard to open and close, and Findekáno turned to Faelin: "How is he? Tell me the truth. What are his chances of survival?"

A deep sigh. The woman cleared away her medicine and the bloody bandages, then she sat down on a stool opposite of him. "Yesterday I would have told you that in a couple of weeks, he would be up and about again", she said in a low voice, "and in some months could reassume the kingship of his people. But now the fever is complicating matters. It is the natural reaction of his body to the injury, raising the temperature to speed up the healing process. Which is a good thing in itself, it's just ... "

"Just what?" Findekáno looked up and stared into two circular ponds of purest azure. The colour was deranging him.

"The fever is climbing higher and higher. And if it doesn't stop rising soon, Maitimo is going to get into serious danger. He is not fit to sustain this stress to his body for long. He is dehydrated and malnourished, and as long as he remains unconscious, there is not much we can do to change this. I am trying to use herbs to keep the temperature down, but on the fire within him they don't show much effect. I have never seen anything like it. It is ... as if his body is trying to fight, but overshooting the mark and become destructive to itself. The fever is too strong. Too hot."

Overshooting the mark. Those words set off all warning bells in Findekáno's head. An unnaturally high temperature threatening the life of his cousin? Nelyo's father before him had suffered severe wounds, only to burst into flames soon thereafter and burn to ash. Nobody had ever been able to explain why Feanáro had met his end in flames. People said it had been his fiery spirits consuming his shell. What if this was a family trait?

Overshooting the mark, Findekáno thought gloomily. This has always been our family's issue.

He turned his gaze back at his friend, white as the pillow upon which his head rested. And more than ever before, the auburn hair seemed like a crown of flames about his face.

.***.

They sat and watched beside Russandol for a long while and none of them spoke a word. Findekáno took the healthy hand of his friend, hot like a glowing ember, and held it in his whilst listening to a barely audible breathing and waiting for a change that did not come.

Faelin sometimes wiped Russandol's feverish brow or opened his lips to pour some water in. But Russandol didn't swallow and most of the water trickled out at the corners of his mouth. When her third attempt to make him drink had failed, she heaved a sigh, set aside the glass of water, and massaged the bridge of her nose.

Findekáno regarded her for some moments. "You look exhausted", he stated. "I can watch over him if you want to rest."

The Sinda smiled and shook her head. "Thanks for the offer. But in such precarious situations I prefer to remain with my patient."

Findekáno just nodded and they fell back into their silence.

"May I ask you something?", Faelin asked after another hour or so had passed.

"Sure", he said without lifting the gaze from Russandol's sleeping features.

"Maitimo's right shoulder was dislocated. The joints in his arm are strained and contorted in a way I have never seen before or even thought possible. You have already said you had no choice but to cut off his hand ..." She halted shortly and Findekáno tensed in expectation of what was to come. "May I enquire where in Angamando you found him and what state he was in? Where do these malpositions stem from, for I cannot unriddle them."

He bit his tongue to stop himself from making a rather inglorious noise. He did not want to tell that tale. Or at least had hoped to delay the inevitable. For what words could ever describe what horrors he had seen? And then he committed the mistake of looking up into Faelin's eyes, and the confounding blueness washed away his trepidation like a flood wave the dirt of a ravaged land.

"I never went into Angamando, nor searched the vaults and tunnels of Morikotto's hideout", he replied truthfully. "It was on the slopes of the Sangoronti that I found him." And before he knew it, he had told her the whole tale. Of the endless climb, of the song on his harp, of Russandol hanging from the precipice. Of the arrow and the eagle and the knife.

Once all was said, he fell silent and it felt as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders. No more hedging, no more secrets. Now all was revealed and the events surrounding the rescue of Nelyafinwe Aran would spread through the camp eventually. Strangely enough, he was quite indifferent to how the Ñoldor would judge his deeds. The only one who could justly reproach what he had done, was Nelyo.

Faelin at any rate, did not comment on his decisions at all. After she had listened, patiently and without disrupting him once, she said: "There are not many who would have survived what he survived."

"They made him survive", Findekáno snorted bitterly. "They kept him from dying and they kept him from living. The worst kind of prison conceivable."

But the healer vehemently shook her head. "Not even a Vala could have prevented him from dying, had he wanted to with all his heart. No ... there dwells a strong indo within him, intent on survival. So do not lose faith, Findekáno. He may come through."

He held her gaze for a few moments, though said nothing. Faelin was right, the fear of the Quendi possessed inherently the ability to leave their hroa when they desired to dwell in it no longer. This choice was theirs, always, for better or for worse, and it could not be taken from them. But why then is Nelyo still alive? He had wanted to die, there was no doubt of it. He had craved death, had called it liberation, and yet he had not made the decision to die. Why? What had moved him to persevere? This was a puzzle that Findekáno noticed only now and could find no answer to.

After a while, they heard the hooves of a horse outside. His sister and cousin had come to fetch him. The two Elda exchanged a glance across the bed and, in a silent agreement, Faelin got up and went to tell Faniel and Ingoldo that he would stay for the night.

The sky outside the window was beginning to darken already, yet Findekáno felt no tiredness at all. He could hear the discussion in front of the door heating up but didn't listen. He moistened Russandol's lips and then began to softly hum a lullaby. When Faelin returned, she was carrying a tray with two cups of tea, some bread with honey, and a handful of berries.

"You should eat something", she said and offered him the plate. Yet Findekáno did not quite feel like eating. He reached for the steaming cup instead, set it to the lips, and halted.

"No poppy?", he asked with some suspicion.

Faelin shook her head. "I do not sedate my patients without their consent", she declared earnestly. "If you want a pain relief, you must tell me so."

Thus reassured, Findekáno began to sip the tea. It tasted unusual, aromatic and a bit tangy, containing a number of herbs he could not name.

"It is good", he noted and earned a fleeting smile from the healer.

"It is my own recipe", Faelin said. And what followed next was a long enumeration of both the Sindarin and Quenya names of all the herbs and fruits contained in the mixture, their positive effects on body and mind, as well as extensive descriptions of where in Hísilome those could be found and at what times of the year were best to gather. Her long monologue didn't bore Findekáno. Indeed he listened with great interest, fascinated by all the different plants that, although it was safe to assume those would have been found in Valinor as well, he had never encountered before, and barely realised how his thoughts were gradually drawn away from Russandol, captivated by the words of Faelin's sober but gentle voice.

Time went by and outside it was soon blackest night. At some point another healer came in and meant to relieve Faelin so she could find some sleep, but the Sinda kindly declined, asserting she wasn't tired, and the man left again. It was an evident lie, yet Findekáno did not comment. For she as well had accepted his wish to stay without contesting and he certainly admired her tenacity and her devotion to a stranger she only knew by name.

Thus passed the night. Sometimes they spoke in subdued voices, though mostly they were silent. Findekáno found Faelin to be a pleasant companion. She did not treat him like the hero just returned from his brilliant feat, nor like a wounded patient she needed to keep an eye on. Nor like the son of the king, or a foreigner from the land of the Valar. She treated him just as who he was for that moment – the friend of her patient.

He asked her about her motivation to join the Feanárians, whereat she smiled and with a flicker in her sapphire eyes said: "The Ñoldor came with their ships and horses, their shining weapons and glistening shields, and they swept across Hithlum like a storm, driving off the Yrch and other lurking creatures that had plagued us for so long. But once the battle was over, they were forlorn, a group of children far from home, lacking supplies and experience with how to grow crops despite lack of light. Without the help of the Mithrimin, they wouldn't have lasted long in the harsh weather of the north. This I could not allow to happen. So I chose to dwell with them for a while and share my knowledge."

"And you are with them still."

"Yes, I ... cannot really explain why." She regarded her hands. "Of course there is much to learn for me as well. But that his not the actual reason. I guess there is something about the manner of the Ñoldor that appeals to me. Their way of life or so ..." She said no more and Findekáno did not probe. For the first time since their arrival in Endóre, it occurred to him that the Sindar and the Ñoldor with time would ultimately mingle. For in spite of their long separation, they were of one kin after all.

Up to midnight Russandol's state didn't change much. Sometimes his fingers twitched or his head moved to the side, but his skin was still glowing and he remained far from consciousness. But slowly, almost unnoticeably, the red specks on his cheeks diminished. His breathing gained in strength, and the hand that Findekáno had been holding for the whole time felt somewhat cooler. Findekáno saw the relief on Faelin's face and knew he was not mistaken. The fever was ceasing at last.

He must have gone asleep some time during the morning hours, for when he woke, the stool on the other side of the bed was empty and he heard a heated discussion going on outside. Among the hubbub he distinguished the voice of his sister.

Findekáno sighed and placed his hand on Russandol's forehead. His temperature had returned to normal, as he noticed with satisfaction. Now it couldn't take long before his friend woke up. He swallowed and for a moment considered whether he should seize the opportunity and leave with Faniel and Ingoldo.

Before he had the chance to make up his mind, the curtain flew away and his sister appeared in the frame, her face flushed with anger. But once she saw Russandol, her temperament was somewhat calmed.

"The Sinda didn't want to let me in", she said apologetically and to no one in particular. Then she came over to Findekáno and handed him a bowl of porridge. "Good morning, hanno. Your breakfast. Eat, and then we shall bring you back into your room."

He stared at the food in his hands and suddenly realised that he was hungry indeed. Nevertheless, he shook his head. "Thanks for the meal, Fani, but I am staying with Maitimo."

Faniel rolled her eyes. She had been expecting this answer. "That is absolutely out of the question. You are still far from convalesced and you need to rest."

"I can rest here."

They argued a little longer, until Faniel's voice was gaining in pitch and Faelin intervened for the benefit of her patient. The whole affair ended with the compromise that a second sleeping place for Findekáno would prepared, so that he could remain with Russandol and the healers at the same time supervise his recovery.

After some blankets and pillows had been brought and arranged into a makeshift bed on the floor, Faniel stayed for a while. She enquired about Russandol's health condition and of course about his rescue, so that Findekáno had to tell his tale once more. This time it was easier though. He used much the same words as he had used before and noticed that he was already developing some sort of routine in phrasing the events, which he was glad about. For he suspected he would have to recount that deed many, many more times. Probably as long as he lived. But he also knew that never again was he going to tell it as complete as he had told it the first time to the young sindarin healer.

.***.

One day went by, and then another. Russandol's health seemed to improve steadily. His bruises turned from blue to green, the smaller wounds were scabbed over already and even his arm stump was healing so well that Faelin said the stitches soon could be removed. But still Russandol had not awoken. He could not eat, he could not drink, he just lay there, all serene, his skin pallid as the blossoms of Aldasilion, while emaciating further with ever passing hour.

"His unconsciousness is becoming the new menace", Faelin told him at one point. "None of his wounds are life-threatening anymore, but he needs to ingest, or his body will just wane away while we stand by and watch."

This prospect gave Findekáno a chill. They had tried everything. They had talked to Russandol, he had played on his harp and Makalaure sung until his voice failed. And more than once Findekáno had shaken his friend (with caution, so as not to hurt him) and implored him to open his eyes. Nothing seemed to work. He felt like he was standing once again at the foot of that unscalable cliff, searching for a hold to climb, in vain. And this time, there would be no Eagle coming to his aid. All they could do, was wait and hope.

Findekáno refused to leave his cousin even for the slightest amount of time, and after some vain attempts of persuasion, no one argued his resolution anymore. He wanted to be on the spot when Russandol awoke. And at the same time, he feared that very moment. Feared, what he would be confronted with. Accusations, blame, even hatred? Certainly, Russandol would demand explanations of what had taken him so long. And there was no answer Findekáno could give, except for the cruel truth: That, upon learning his friend had been taken captive, Findekáno had given up on him. And it was not for his sake alone that he had come. K bhvugfu lkkljlk Thus he sat by the bed and waited with mixed feelings. Afraid of Russandol waking, and dreading that his eyes might stay closed forever.

Meanwhile, the Feanáriondi took turns in watching beside their brother. Some stayed longer, others only for a couple of minutes. By whom exactly the chair at his side was occupied, Findekáno never paid much heed to. By Tyelkormo, who either stroked the hand of his brother with surprising gentleness, or vociferously raged against the cruelty of Morikotto. Or Karnistir, who never said a word, sombre and still like a frozen shadow. By Kurufinwe, who tried to wring even the tiniest shred of information about Russandol's health from the healers and embarked on unending debates about herbs and medications. Or Makalaure, who more and more looked like a living, breathing corpse. The only one that never showed up, was Ambarussa. But through the window Findekáno could see him standing on the wall, from dawn till dusk and often deep into the night.

Faniel came visiting. Even Ingoldo was once allowed in. Healers came and went. Time seemed to lose its fixedness, stretched and overlapped, and sometimes it seemed to Findekáno as if all those people were there at the same time, or none at all.

During these days, Faelin's permanent presence became curiously comforting to him. A constant he could count on. Now that the critical phase of Russandol's healing was over, she too permitted herself to retire at times and get some rest. But she came every day and often sat with him all through the night. And while they never spoke much, her calmness and her benign temper somehow kept him from losing hope. Yet even she worried. Even she was at her wit's end.

"He ought to have woken up by now", Faelin sighed on the morning of the third day after she had redressed Russandol's arm. "His body is recovering. There are no more traumas to justify his unconsciousness. I don't understand why he does not wake up!"

"What if he does not want to wake up?", Findekáno asked quietly, voicing the doubt that was nudging him more and more often. Involuntarily, his thoughts wandered back to those moments on the slopes of the Sangoronti when he himself had been closer to death than to life. He still remembered the darkness, far from his body, and how easy it was to give in.

"What do you mean by that?" Makalaure, who had been silent for hours, stirred from his apathy. His eyes wandered from Findekáno to Faelin and back, seeking, urging. "Why are you saying that? Of course he wants to wake up!"

You may deny him death for now, but you cannot force him to live.

"He will wake up", Makalaure mumbled, almost like a prayer. "He must! He is just not strong enough yet."

Findekáno met Faelin's gaze. She slightly shook her head and he understood. Makalaure refused to see it, but if the fea of Russandol could not make itself comfortable in its hroa anymore, there was not much hope. A strange whiteness began to spread in Findekáno's chest as he tried to embrace this possibility. A cool, blank emptiness, where there was no anger, no grief, no caring at all. And it scared him more than anything.

None of them addressed the issue again, but Findekáno could see the unease in the eyes of the Sinda. They were running out of time. Russandol was running out of time. The next few days would decide his fate. Either he found back to life, or weakness and malnutrition would sap his body ultimately.

Findekáno found it hard to sit still. Oftentimes, he rose and, leaning on his cane, walked around in the limited space. It felt like the hut was shrinking. Choking him up. He wished there was something to do. His restlessness made it impossible to play the harp, let alone sing, and apart from helping Faelin treat Russandol's wounds, he was condemned to inactivity.

At noon, Karnistir took the seat of his brother, and his enigmatic silence deranged Findekáno even more. He got up and stood beside the window.

The birches outside bent, their leaves fluttering like a flock of birds flushed by a hawk. After days of splendid weather, clouds had shrouded the sky once more and a sharp northern wind rushed over the rampart. The mantle of the grey figure on the wall bulged and billowed. It had to be freezing cold out there, but somehow Findekáno envied Ambarussa. He, too, would face the elements out there rather than the oppressing silence of the hut that felt like a tomb already.

The wind hurtled against the window panes, the wooden hut groaned, and the shutters clattered. Findekáno had to strain his ears to pick up the soft noise of Russandol's breath. Any moment, he expected that sound to stop. And if it does ... No, he couldn't even think of it. The whiteness in his heart grew.

"Findo?"

He turned around. He hadn't even heard Faniel enter.

"Atar asks you to have a word with him."

"Not today", he said and wanted to turn away.

But his sister shook her head. "He is growing impatient. You can't string him along infinitely."

Each day, Faniel had delivered him messages from his father requesting a talk and each day, Findekáno had sent her away with the same answer.

"I can't leave Nelyo now", he said tonelessly. Even to his ears, it sounded like a phrase from a theatre play, too often recited to hold any more meaning.

Faniel came closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It has been five days and he has not woken", she said with a sad smile. "What are the odds that he wakes in the very hour you are not by his side?"

It wasn't so much Faniel's argument that convinced him, but rather his own unrest, his horror of the moment when the breath of his cousin failed. And the fact that, in his heart, he was relieved about this excuse to get away.

"Okay", Findekáno heard himself saying. "I will come."

After a last long look at Russandol, his emaciated but peaceful face on the pillows, he followed his sister out of the hut, where Hrívangwe was waiting. Faniel helped him to mount and led the horse through the streets unto the house of the king. None of them was in the mood to start a conversation and Findekáno allowed his thoughts to roam. Briefly he wondered what his father so desperately wanted to talk about. Not that he would have been afraid of reproaches and remonstrations. In fact, he barely cared. The flight on the Eagle for some reason surfaced from the depths of his memory. Those hours when he had believed all dangers lay behind and knew not yet of the troubles still to come.

Inside the mansion they climbed two flights of stairs and walked down a long hallway, illuminated by the glow of blue lanterns.

"Lará", Findekáno said, when Faniel stretched her hand to turn the handle. "From here on I will go alone."

"Are you sure?" His sister regarded him with concern and they both knew she was not worried about his hurt leg.

"Yes", he affirmed. "This I have to do on my own."

"Alright. I will wait outside", Faniel muttered, kissed his cheek, and danced down the aisle.

Findekáno waited until she was out of sight, drew a deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in!"

The room he entered he knew quite well. It had belonged to Ñúlaráno, chief commander of Feanáro. His name that had been removed from the door by now, Findekáno had found on his numerous secret visits to this town. He was a little surprised his father hadn't chosen Feanáro's room for himself, since it was both larger and more comfortable. But then again, he did understand.

Ñolofinwe was not sitting on the large oaken study desk, nor seated in one of the armchairs grouped around a fireplace where lazy flames now and then flared from the glowing embers. He was standing at the window and looked out at the sun stooping down to kiss the western rampart. Which was unusual, as he was not normally a person prone to ruminative musings.

"Atar?"

The king turned around. "Findekáno. Thank you for coming." His face was hard and unfathomable as ever. His steel grey eyes trailed Findekáno up and down, until they stopped at the walking cane in his hand. "Would you like to sit?"

"No. Thanks." Findekáno wanted to get this over with as fast as possible. His former unrest and the feeling of confinement had dissipated on the short ride to his father's house completely and indeed he was now seized by the opposite urge and could not wait to return into the welcome seclusion of the tiny wooden hut, fearing that any moment in which he was parted from him, Nelyo might wake. Or die.

However Ñolofinwe did not seem to be in a hurry at all. He came some steps closer, then halted abruptly, and stood somewhat undecidedly. He crossed his arms, changed his mind, and hid them behind his back. Findekáno frowned. Something was unsettling his father. Were there new problems, problems that his worried sister and cousin had deemed him too invalid still to be told of?

"I hear you spend a lot of time beside the bed of Nelyafinwe", the king began in a casual tone. "How is my nephew?"

"Better", Findekáno replied mechanically, perplexed that his father was trying to show interest. "His temperature is back to normal and the arm is healing well." But still he has not woken.

"That is good to hear." A short pause. "And you?"

"I am fine." Since when did his father engage in small talk?

"Good." Ñolofinwe fell silent again. After a few uncomfortable moments, he walked up to his desk and stood there, one hand on the wooden plate. "I asked you to come, since there is something we need to discuss", he stated in his formal voice. "I suppose you are aware of the topic at hand?"

Usually when Ñolofinwe cultivated his habit of tackling their father-son-talks in the same manner and with the same air of importance as the official meeting with the lords of his house, Findekáno took pleasure in silently mocking him by feigning ignorance and watching his father struggle with elaborating on the respective issue with all his royal formality, knowing of course full well that the king never noticed neither the ridiculousness in his own behaviour, nor his son's intentionally adding up to this. Not today, though. Today, all of Findekáno's thoughts were with Russandol and so he just said: "I left the camp without your permission, I talked to Kanafinwe and revealed to him secrets that endangered our people, and finally I abandoned my obligations by setting out to the Sangoronti, without informing you or anyone else of my whereabouts, aware that a return was more than unlikely. Did I miss anything?"

Ñolofinwe looked like he was about to say something, but then just nodded. "I think you have covered all the important points."

Findekáno held both hands palm upwards in a gesture of subserviency. "I apologise. I apologise for everything!" And after realising that his gruff tone did not exactly sound like he meant it, he drew breath and calmer added: "I am genuinely sorry, atar, for all the trouble that I have caused. I did not wish to worry you, nor bring another war upon our people. I saw no other way. Will you forgive me?"

"I forgive you", Ñolofinwe replied, his mien stern and dignified. "Unfortunately, this will not suffice."

Findekáno was not utterly surprised, having suspected that his father would not let this issue go just like that. He said nothing and waited for the king to go on.

"You have to fear no consequences", Ñolofinwe stated and, upon seeing Findekáno's unbelieving gaze, added: "Oh, do not mistake me! I am not going to applaud your solitary venture the purpose of which I could never endorse. But I understand your motivation and since you are now a celebrated hero, returned from the lair of Morikotto, I can hardly dispossess you of your rank and titles, nor give the rule of your house to someone else. So I shall accept your apology and let this pass if you make one promise." Did Findekáno imagine it, or was there a strange sense of urgency in his voice? "Give me your word that you will not attempt suchlike again. Departing on your own, putting yourself in danger – no more solo efforts, Findekáno, this is all I ask you to promise."

The request left Findekáno perplexed.

"I can't."

"You can't?"

They stared at each other.

"Atar, you know I cannot!", Findekáno groaned. "You and I are not always of the same opinion. Or I should say, the occasions are few on which we ever are of the same opinion."

"Indeed", his father nodded earnestly. "Which is the reason why I must insist on this promise."

"You want me to make a promise I already know I won't be able to keep?"

Ñolofinwe ran his hand over the polished wood of the desk. "I am not only your father, Findekáno, but also a king. I need to be sure of your loyalty."

"I am loyal to you, always", Findekáno said with emphasis. "Yet in case of doubt, I will listen to my óre. It is a higher authority than you are."

"I am not asking you to abandon the counsel of your óre, I ..."

"What?", Findekáno asked impatiently. "What is it you are hoping to achieve through forcing this promise onto me?"

The king opened the mouth and closed it again, apparently at a loss of words.

"You do not trust me, atar, that is the point!" He felt his impatience turn into anger – anger at this tenacious conversation keeping him away from Russandol. "You can't put up with me having a will of my own, making decisions you don't agree with! And not just me – everyone! Everyone, but your children in particular!"

He looked into his father's surprised, almost confused face and suddenly there was no more holding back. All the things he normally thought but never said out loud spurted from his mouth, as for once he did not mind the consequences. For once he had nothing to lose, except for a frail unconscious Elda in a tiny hut half across the town, and his fear paired with undiluted hope lent him a hitherto unknown amount of confidence.

"Why do you think Fani is such a romp, always out and about in the woods? Because she knows it bothers you and likes to aggravate her father? Or because you leave her no other choice, the woods being the only place where find some freedom, be herself? And why do you think back in Valinor I spent more time with Maitimo than with my own family? Because the cunning speeches of a Feanárion led me astray? Or maybe just because I didn't feel comfortable at home? And Turvo ..." He halted and drew breath. "Yes, Turukáno is perfect. He never failed you, never disappointed you like the rest of us. But the day may come, atar, when even Turvo goes his own way. It may come and then he will not to ask for your permission."

Ñolofinwe folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "This is not about permitting or denying. All I want, is my children to let me have a share in their plans, their thoughts, ... their wishes."

"Since when are you interested in what we wish for?", Findekáno challenged. "Since when? Take Faniel for example! Did you ever applaud her when she excelled in hunting and bested men taller and stronger than she? Did you ever offer to go for a ride with her? No, all she got to hear was lecturing on how a lady ought to conduct herself and how much you disliked her friendship with Tyelkormo and Kurufinwe.

And what about Turvo? He has always tried to live up to your expectations, to be the son you wished for, and yet you don't even recognise that he suffers, suffers still! Where were you when he lost his wife? When he would have needed you most? Were you there to offer comfort? Have you spoken just one word of comfort to him ever since?" He glared at his father. "If you want us to confide in you, atar, then maybe you should start acting as if you cared!"

Ñolofinwe stood upright, the perfect image of the marble statues that lined the streets of Tirion, his lips thin as a line, his brow slightly wrinkled, as if his son had presented him with a difficult mathematical problem he now tried to solve. No rage, no shame in his features. Not even acknowledgement.

Findekáno snorted. "But then it is all an act anyway, isn't it? We are acting to be your children and you are acting to be our father, but none of us is. We are no family anymore and haven't been one ever since –"

Startled, he bit his tongue. Almost he would have broken the unspoken taboo around his brother's name. But then ... yes, why not? His father could not deny him to say the name of his own brother.

Findekáno fought down the usual surge of grief and despair that came with the memories and looked his father straight into the eyes. "Ever since Áro's death."

Ñolofinwe turned away. He strode across the commodious room and sat by the fireside. Findekáno, who had no intention of dropping the matter so easily, followed behind, surrounded the group of brown armchairs, and stopped dead. There were tears on Ñolofinwe's face.

The king sat upright, the hands resting on his legs, his mien blank, and two transparent trickles running down his cheeks. Findekáno stared at the glittering wetness with fascination. He had never seen his father cry, never. Not at the leavetaking from Anaire, his wife whom he would not see again in this life. Not at the death of the Aldu, when the tears in Valinor hadn't ceased to flow for months and years. Not even at the death of his son. Whatever woe befell them, whatever new blow fate dealt to them, Ñolofinwe would bear it with grace and dignity. This was an unchanging truth, something to rely on. And now ...

Ñolofinwe's eyes twitched upwards to meet those of his son. His eyes that Findekáno knew as two bright mirrors in which, no matter how deep you looked into them, you would only ever see yourself, your own mirage, in a piercing light that oftentimes revealed unpleasant truths to the contemplator. Now those mirrors were dimmed, their polished surface shrouded with tears, allowing a glimpse of what lay behind.

"I cannot go through this again", Ñolofinwe whispered, barely audibly. "Not a second time." His gaze trailed off to the red embers and the last tentative flames. The fire had almost burnt out.

"The first two days I barely minded your absence. I assumed this was your way of boycotting my decision to move the camp, and with the earthquakes and the damage they did, I was having, quite frankly, enough on my mind. But the two days went by and you did not return as promised in your note." The king spoke slowly, his voice lacking its usual sonority, and Findekáno just stood and listened. "Slowly, I began to worry. The ground was still shaking and I feared you lay somewhere hurt in the woods. I was about to send out a search party when Faniel came to me."

"And she told you where I went." Findekáno did not feel any resentment towards his sister. She had held her silence for as long as he had asked her to. Afterwards she spoke up, naturally, not wanting the scouts to roam the wild for nothing.

Ñolofinwe answered with a curt nod. "I sent our best warriors to go fetch you and they returned empty-handed with nothing but Kanafinwe's assertion that you had left their camp two days earlier." Ñolofinwe narrowed his eyes. "I didn't believe him. I went myself – sailed across the lake, confronted my nephews and had my men rummage the entire camp of the Feanárians, or rather what was left of it. I had no proof that they were hiding you away and of course there was still the possibility ... that you might have found death in the flames." His voice slightly trembled. He cleared his throat. "But I didn't believe it. By that time, we had long guessed their intention of moving back to their old camp and I wouldn't have been surprised by the Feanáriondi, had they captured you as leverage. So I gave Kanafinwe an ultimatum: One day to deliver my son or else there would be war."

Here Ñolofinwe paused. He rose, stepped up to the fireplace, and cast another log into the embers. The two men watched as slowly new flames flared up and began to consume the dry piece of wood. To Findekáno the whole affair began to make more sense now. Yes, Makalaure had meant to wait the twelve days he had asked for. But in the light of this false accusation, his brothers must have been impossible to restrain.

His surmise was confirmed when his father continued: "On the eve of the next day, their host marched up in the valley east of this cliff, ready to take our stronghold by force if need be. Kanafinwe asked for a parley and I agreed. We met on the plain and there the Feanáriondi presented this child with its ridiculous story ... that you had rescued the boy from the fire and then walked off with the words 'there was a matter you had to attend to'."

Ñolofinwe halted again. His voice sounded as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. "Where would you have gone? Shying away from the inevitable fight? Seeking aid from the Sindar? No. It didn't take Faniel very long to figure out what was on your mind. To Angamando you had gone. To that fortress of rock and ice and fire. To the Morikotto."

His hand on the mantlepiece clenched. "I could already see you wandering through the dark caverns under his mountain. I could see you bound in chains, tortured unto death. And I –" Ñolofinwe shook his head. "I refused to believe it. I told Kanafinwe that he could keep his tall stories to himself and went to prepare for battle on the next morn. Though my óre knew the truth all along: That you had chosen your own doom and that I was going to lose you. Just like I lost your brother."

The king held on to the fawn sandstone ledge like the last leaf clinging to an already barren tree, shaken by the winds of autumn. Forlorn and ... lonely.

"Atar." Findekáno approached some steps – and hesitated, held back by an invisible wall. For some moments he stood there, wavering. Then suddenly he took heart, covered the distance to his father, and embraced him.

Ñolofinwe stiffened and Findekáno almost expected him to recoil, but he did not. The arms of his father closed around his midriff and his chin came to rest on Findekáno's shoulder.

"Yonya."

The king was shaken by soundless sobs and Findekáno knew those were not just the tears of worrying about him, but those for Arakáno's death as well. Tears that had been suppressed for far too long.

"I know", he whispered. "I miss him, too. Every day." Awkwardly, he patted the back of his father. "But I am still here, atto. And so is Turvo. And Fáni. We are still here."

It felt strange to comfort a man that had never comforted him, never had allowed any closeness, any sign of affection. But at the same time, Findekáno felt a change within himself. Something broken realigned and suddenly he was whole again. Liberated. Free.

"I cannot do this again." Ñolofinwe's voice was husky beside his ear. "I cannot lose another child."

"I know", Findekáno repeated. Gently he opened the embrace and looked his father into the eyes. He understood now what Ñolofinwe had been on about. "I am sorry. Sorry for causing you that much pain and fear and tearing up old wounds. But I cannot promise to keep out of harm's way. None of us can. We are no longer in Aman."

"Yes", his father took a step back as if suddenly uncomfortable with their proximity. His gaze strayed once more into the flames. "Death is ever-present in Endóre. This is the price we chose to pay for a life in freedom."

He wiped his sleeve over his face and tried to put back on a noninvolved expression. He failed. "What you said ... that Írisse and you are not comfortable with talking to me, that you think you have to feign ... I was not aware of this. And it grieves me to learn that this is how you feel. It is true, I oftentimes criticise my children. But only for your own benefit, to provide some fatherly advice. This does not mean I do not approve of your decisions or appreciate your achievements. Quite on the contrary, I am always proud of you, whatever you do."

It was very strange. All his life, Findekáno had longed to hear those words from his father's mouth, but now that he heard them, they affected him surprisingly little. He stood there, rather detached and in thoughts half back with Nelyo, as if he had outgrown the whole issue.

"Then you have to show it at times, atar", Findekáno replied quietly.

Ñolofinwe gave him a long look before he cast down his eyes. "You are right. I will try. And ... Findekáno, I am sorry that I have not been the father you would have wished for. If there is anything I can do, anything you need ...?"

Findekáno did not want any gifts from his father to ease his conscience. He could see that his Ñolofinwe's regret was sincere and this alone was a gift enough. Thus he was about to decline, when another thought crossed his mind.

"Well ... there is one thing, actually, that I would ask you for."

"Of course." Ñolofinwe nodded encouragingly. "Whatever it is."

Findekáno shifted his weight. After standing for such a long time, his knee had begun to tweak again.

"The question of ownership of this town will arise again. At the moment the Feanáriondi have other worries, but once Nelyafinwe ... once he is on the mend, it may come to their mind to claim their stronghold back. By which I am not saying that you should give it up", he added quickly when the mien of his father darkened. "Just, during the negotiations that are bound to ensue, ... try to behave. Be polite, be reasonable, and be willing to compromise, in particular when the opposite party is not. But Makalaure and you are both sensible men. I see no reason why you shouldn't reach an agreement if both of you try."

That Ñolofinwe was not very pleased was hard to overlook, yet to Findekáno's astonishment, somewhat drawling perhaps, he said: "If this is your wish."

"And also in the future, when it comes to dealing with the threat of Morikotto ...", Findekáno dared to continue, buoyed by his prior success, albeit well aware that he must not push the limits of his father's unexpected leniency too far, "our people would greatly benefit if we worked together with the Feanárians."

"That depends entirely on them and whether they know how to behave", his father declared coolly. Then he regarded his son and an acquiescent smile entered his face. "But I shall not be opposed to such a collaboration if the desire to achieve such is present."

"Thank you, atar. This means a lot to me."

His father reciprocated with a nod and they fell silent, both of them rather unversed in this sort of conversation.

"Alright", Findekáno said at length, his impatience gaining the upper hand, "if there is nothing else to discuss ..."

"There is one more thing, if you allow?" His father straightened up and clasped the hands behind his back. "We both know that the danger of an attack by Morikotto is not over yet. Even though his efforts to darken this land were thwarted, this is not much of a setback for him. He will strike, sooner or later, and every bit of information that we can gain of our enemy – his forces, his weaponry – is of crucial importance. You that have been to Angamando –"

"I have not", Findekáno interrupted before his father could say any more. "I can't report what Morikotto is doing or planning, for I have never been within the walls of his abominable fortress."

Ñolofinwe frowned. "But then, where did you find –"

Again he could not end his sentence, for the door flew open and a white-clad figure with flushed cheeks appeared in the frame. "Findo!", Faniel gasped out. "I just got word. Maitimo has woken up!"