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.

13. I Mordo Vanwio

I Mordo Vanwio– The Shadow of the Past

"Sínen mettaner túra ruinenen kalima ar aika i anvanyar kiryaron i ailume kirner earesse. Ar Ñolofinwe ar lierya kenner i kále vaháya karne nu lumboli."

"So [...] ended in a great burning bright and terrible the fairest vessels that ever sailed the sea. And Fingolfin and his people saw the light afar off red beneath the clouds. (MR:120)

.***.

Icy wind and scattered raindrops lashed into his face, ruffled his hair, and made his mantle flap like the wings of an oversized bat. The hooves of his mare drummed on the ground. The withered grasses beneath him passed by, a vision of yellow and brown. And ever Findekáno pushed on. North. Away.

At what point had he made the decision? All he remembered was limping along endless corridors and down countless stairs with an excited Faniel by his side. Then the warm flanks of Hrívangwe against his calves, an irritating buzz in his ears, the blinding urge to escape. The bewildered calls of his sister fell behind soon after he had snatched the reins out of her hands, turned the horse, and spurred it into a full gallop. No one in the streets got into his way. No one tried to restrain him, when he broke out of the gates and into the open. The cold, the dampness, the approaching dusk could not daunt him, for it was a flight. An absurd, pointless flight; from family, from himself. But a flight nevertheless.

The wind rushed in his ears, his breath came in spurts, his pounding heart contested with the wild staccato of the hooves until this was all he heard. All he thought about. The world flew past and he was free. Free like the eagles on their mountaintops. Unreachable and alone.

Yea, this was what he wanted to be now – alone. Far from nosy questions and perplexed looks. Because they wouldn't understand. Because he himself did not understand.

What are the odds that he wakes in the very hour you are not by his side?, Findekáno sardonically thought. The answer was negligibly small. Save if it was his presence that had hindered Russandol's awakening to begin with. Findekáno knew it was stupid and he ought not take this all too seriously, yet he couldn't help but read the clear message in this. Consciously or subconsciously, Nelyo did not want to meet him. And to make matters worse, he wasn't even sure he wanted to meet Nelyo!

The thought nearly choked him.

Hrívangwe stopped by herself as if sensing the misery of her master. Findekáno slid off her back, slumped into the wet grass, and began to sob uncontrollably. But tears would not come.

Russandol's desperate cries on the cliff were ringing in his ears. It wasn't my fault!, the Feanárion cried while Findekáno stared into his Turvo's ghastly face when he pulled himself out of the water – alone. While he saw his niece lose all her childhood innocence in one terrible instant. While the black waves swallowed Elenwe for good. I wanted to sail back the ships!

What if Russandol had spoken the truth? What if he hadn't?

Findekáno had rescued his him and waited three days at his bedside, in fear for his life, because he craved for his friend of old. But how could friendship persist when the trust on both sides was gone?

According to Faniel, Tyelkormo had not participated in the burning. If one was to believe Kurufinwe. And if he wasn't the only one? Makalaure had wanted to say something before the earthquakes cut him short, something about truth and the burning of the ships. Had he had the opportunity, would he have spoken in Nelyo's defence?

Findekáno knew not for how long he lay there, torn between simmering wrath and wary hope, doubt and incomprehension. And he came to realise that he was no better than his father – defending Russandol to all and sundry, but stowing away his true feelings because he would not admit them, not even to himself, not until now. For there was no deluding anymore, now that Russandol was back among the living.

When at last he sat up and wiped tears and earth off his face, night had fallen and a crescent moon silently peered down at him. Stiff and cold as he was, Findekáno struggled back to his feet and only now noticed a faint twinge in his chest. His ribs might not have appreciated the impetuous ride.

Who cares?, he thought gruffly and mounted his mare who, whilst waiting, had seized the opportunity to find some savoury herbs.

"Back to the town, Hrívangwe", Findekáno said and the horse broke into an easy trot. "Home, I guess."

His thoughts had become somewhat sorted, though that in no way simplified his situation. Findekáno could not go see his cousin. The questions and consequent wrath, he might bear. But how was he supposed to behave? He couldn't confront a man, barely recovered from years of suffering, with a treason committed half a century ago. And the answer he was to get might put an end to their friendship anyhow, so why even bother? Why reopen old sores, cause new pain to them both? Because neither could he put on a friendly face and pretend there was nothing standing between them. Pretend this uncertainty didn't exist. There was no solution to it. Russandol was best served if left alone.

.***.

Faniel ambushed him at the gate. It was blackest night by now, but in the glow of the torches he saw her reproaching mien. She greeted him with a nod and unceremoniously led him back into his chamber, where she tucked him into bed. Findekáno did not struggle.

"What were you thinking?", she asked before turning off the lights, and these were the first words she spoke.

"Nothing", Findekáno replied, finding it was not that far from the truth. "I needed a bit of fresh air."

"Dimwit", mumbled Faniel and left.

In the morning, a healer came – a woman of his brother's house whom he knew fleetingly – and examined his old wounds. After some minutes she explained that he had been lucky. His knee hadn't taken much harm from the undeliberated ride, though one of the ribs was slightly broken again. Thus she imposed on him a strict bedrest of three days and prudence afterwards. Findekáno merely nodded and asked her to close the curtains.

The next couple of days he spent asleep for the most part, while through the nights, he lay awake and stared at the ceiling. He didn't know what was the matter with him. Had he not achieved it all? He had found Russandol, brought him back from the lair of their enemy, and now at last the tight grasp of death's claws had given him free. And yet, the sweetness of the great success turned to ashes in his mouth.

Nightmares plagued him. Dreams of mountains of ice, of fire in the distance. He saw Feanáro sitting on a rock ledge high up on the Sangoronti, laughing while Findekáno was wrestling with iron chains that wriggled like living snakes and threatened to choke him. Then the face of his uncle changed, turned into features he knew all too well. "Stop laughing at me", Findekáno cried angrily and drew his bow. But arrow after arrow was blown off by whistling winds and Russandol laughed all the harder.

When starting from those dreams, he was bathed in sweat and trembling all over. He knew well whence they came. In his sleep he was mocked for what tormented him as pangs of guilt after waking. He ought to go and see his friend. Speak with him. Find out what had come to pass during the fire at Lósarda. Nelyo had suffered more than any crime could justify. So even if they both had made mistakes, why couldn't they reconcile? Why didn't he manage to do what he had expected of all of the Ñoldor? But he did not muster the courage, neither to admit his own failures, nor to listen to Nelyo's version of the story. Coward!, he thought and meant it.

Faniel, he believed, understood his misery. At least in parts. She visited him every morning and evening and told him about the progress of Russandol's recovery: The tedious first days when he was still too enfeebled to sit up for any length of time and could stomach only tiny amounts of food and water. Then the first major achievements – the day he managed to eat a whole apple, the day he moved his right arm a few inches, the day was able to have the first nameable conversation with Makalaure. He was recovering fast, faster than anyone would have expected, and his own ambition along with the positivity, if not levity, with which he worked to regain his mobility, were perhaps the most astonishing aspect in this. To all appearances, the long imprisonment in Angamando had had no lasting effect on him.

"And he keeps asking for you", Faelin emphasised over and over again.

But when her brother did not react to this, she never pried for his reasons, simply moving on to the next topic. And there was plenty to talk about indeed. So much that Findekáno had to catch up with, for developments at their new settlement came swiftly.

Faelin recounted how after his return it had rained for two whole days and the brooks and rivers had run black with the foul water that fell out of the sky. But when Anar showed her golden face at last, the air was cleansed and the thick blanket of smoke no more than a dark memory. Only the water of the Mísiringwe lay in its basin like polished obsidian and the Eldar shuddered when sailing it. But with every passing day its shade grew a little lighter and soon the last remnants of grime would be washed away.

While Findekáno asked his sister to tell him all that had happened during the five days of his absence, Faniel in return demanded a detailed account of Findekáno's visit at the camp of the Feanárians, which he provided with a sigh (or several sighs, in number roughly corresponding to the not infrequent interruptions of his sister).

After he had finally concluded, Faniel said: "This boy whom you rescued – do you know who he is?"

Surprised, Findekáno glanced up. "Úrion? No, why?"

"He is the son of Faelin's sister."

"Really? I did not know Faelin had a sister." No wonder she is so devout in tending to Nelyo. I rescued her nephew, now she wants to do all she can to rescue my cousin.

"Neither did I until Makalaure told me", Faniel shrugged. "He also said that it was a good decision of yours to have the child deliver your message to him. Otherwise they would have marched on our stronghold without delay and at your return the battle would have been long over."

"One thing I did right at least", Findekáno mumbled.

"Not just one." Faniel smiled quizzically. "Atar. I have no idea what happened during your talk with him, but it must have been something you said or did, and it was definitely right."

Findekáno acted the innocent. "I don't know what you mean."

"He smiles, Findo. In his office, at dinner, out on the streets – wherever I run into him, he gives me a smile. And he talks differently, too. Jut today, he came and asked me if I fancied to go for a ride with him. I was so profoundly taken aback, I almost said no. And yesterday, yesterday I overheard him admitting to Lalwen that he misses emille. Honestly Findo, did you bewitch him? Since when does this man admit that he misses anything?" She made it sound like jesting, but Findekáno knew his sister and could tell how deeply moved she was.

"So, what about our camp? Are we staying here or returning to the former one?"

Faniel's eyes, riddlesome and wild like storm clouds, gave him a scrutinising look. "There is no former camp anymore. The earthquakes made sure of that."

Findekáno swallowed. Although he had dwelt in their camp by the Mísiringwe for less than five years, a blink in the countless years of his life, the loss of another home hit him harder than he would have thought.

"Our luck", his sister continued, "was that we had already packed up most of the tents by the time the earth began to shake. And the wet ground around the area prevented the fires from spreading too far. But yes, in the end there wasn't much left. We have no choice but to stay."

And then she told him about the hassle with the Feanárians, the long to and fro, and how it all had ended the moment that Maitimo had opened his eyes. Makalaure had decided to leave their old stronghold to the houses of his uncle and none of his brothers, not even Karnistir, had argued. Their own people apparently were less pleased by this, yet bowed to the will of their aran.

"As a consequence, Makalaure is always on the run", Faniel said. "Most days, he commutes between atar's office, the remnant of his people still camping down in the valley, and his settlement across the lake, while the nights he spends with Maitimo. He is managing the rebuilding of their camp after most was destroyed by the fire, discusses new defences against Morikotto with atar and his counsellors, and in the meantime already plans the safe transit of his brother across the lake. I honestly wonder where he is getting all the energy from. Hard to imagine that this is the very same Káno that used to sit beneath a tree for three full days, pondering a single line of song."

Findekáno cracked a smile. "It seems as if now that an end to his reign has finally come in sight, he is using his last weeks as king to achieve as much as he can."

"Yes, he wants everything to be in order once he hands the rule back to Maitimo", his sister agreed. "Especially since he still has a bad conscience because it was you and not him who rescued his brother. That much is obvious, even though Maitimo has long assured him that he holds no grudge against any of his brothers."

This remark made Findekáno hush and sink back into his own musings.

When the three days were over at last and Findekáno was allowed to get up again, he lost his excuse of why he could not visit his cousin. Thus he took care to be busy otherwise. And since they had only just moved into what had been a ruin, there was work in abundance.

First, he inspected his new office, which Hísion had picked and completely furnished. His young squire was overjoyed to see him recovered and with devotion took on the task of bringing his master up to date. After unfurling half a dozen maps of the town and reading two endless lists of all the jobs that were finished or just being dealt with and those that still needed to be tackled, he gave Findekáno a tour through their new home.

The people of his house had established themselves in the northern and eastern quarters, whereas his father had claimed the southern parts and Turukáno the northwest. For a while, Hísion and Findekáno walked through the housing quarters full of folk, looked into one of the great gathering halls where the fires burnt day and night, and had a word with the loremasters accommodated in the high limestone tower to the south. Next they visited the workshops, the stables, the armoury close to the gate in the north, before climbing the rampart and viewing the town from above: the net of narrow winding streets, the elegant two- and three-storeyed houses, darkened and damaged by wind and weather. The town had been built with care and thought, that much Findekáno could tell. But compared to white Tirion, it was like a common daisy in the face of a blossom of Telperion.

Findekáno's gaze strayed further and fell upon two fringed smudges of grey and fallow tents in the valleys west and east.

"In the case of an attack, they can all find refuge within the walls", Hísion explained. "But not permanently. The town is crowded as it is."

Findekáno nodded thoughtfully. "We can't dwell here for any length of time. Such a large number of Eldar will sap the land. We have to spread out and found new settlements, throughout Hísilóme and beyond. We cannot refrain from this step much longer."

"Yet Ñolofinwe stalls the decision and we both know why", came the considered answer. "Once the Ñoldor are distributed across Formen, we will be far more vulnerable to any attack of the enemy."

Findekáno did not look at his squire. His eye wandered across the grassy hills and wooded valleys until it came to rest on the ragged mountain chain, their peaks gleaming red in the last rays of the sinking sun. "Only if we let him get that far."

In the evening of that very day, he called upon Tundamir – his deputy that so often gave him headaches with his initiatives that, reasonable or not, he never discussed with Findekáno in advance. "Take a group of scouts", he said, "untiring, hardy men, and ride along the Wahtaine Oronti. Start in the north, for winter is drawing nigh, and soon the slopes will be buried beneath several feet of snow. Follow the mountains down to the southern bend, turn west, thence ride unto the sea. I want a report of every pass, every ravine or tunnel – any possible entranceway into Hísilóme. We will identify the weak spots in our fenceline and eradicate them all."

.***.

During the next couple of weeks, the people of Ñolofinwe were busy with giving their new stronghold a complete makeover and turning it into a habitable town. Houses had to be renovated, roofs needed mending. Rooms were dusted, fountains cleansed, lanterns installed, and the eight-pointed star erased from walls and lintels. The rampart was fortified and the surrounding cleared of the shrubbery that during the absence of the Ñoldor had endeavoured to regain the rule over the hill.

Findekáno watched over all that work, he distributed the tasks of Hísion's list, signed off on proposals or dismissed others, dealt with unexpected difficulties, and with pleasure saw the once deserted town evolve into a dwelling halfway appropriate to a people of craftsmen and artisans.

Having entrusted Tundamir with his mission had the benefit that Findekáno was free to apply himself to his work without needing to worry what was happening behind his back, whilst his deputy had an important task of his own to fulfil. Thus he even found the time to sit down with the commanders and counsellors to draw up a plan of defence for their fort. During one and a half day's discussion, the fortification of the haven was contemplated and the construction of four additional towers along the wall agreed upon.

In the afternoon of the second day, in the midst of their debate on possible evacuation routes, the young captain Aikastelion suddenly rose to speak. "The town needs a name", he said. "We can't keep referring it as 'old fortress of the Feanárians'."

And everybody admitted that he was right.

"What about Már Paityaléva?", suggested Mixamo, a commander from the house of Turukáno house. "For it has been given to us as requital for the stolen swan vessels and the hardships we had to endure."

"Has it, though?", someone muttered and Findekáno shook his head. "You would give our future homestead a name that must always be a reminder of our grievous past? Nay, let us look ahead, to better days to come, and call it Rainemar."

"Yet not out of good will has it been given", Mixamo retorted, other voices were raised and a heated discussion ensued.

Then Hísion, who had been quietly sitting at his master's side, rose up and asked loud and clear: "What is it that to find we have come to Endóre? Not war, nor peace. Freedom we sought and bitterly paid for! So let us name it Már Léraiva, the home of free people, so that no Vala – good or evil – shall ever again restrain us in our heart's desire!"

To this there was nothing left to be added and Már Léraiva the town was henceforth called.

In the meantime, the many late-night meetings of Ñolofinwe and Makalaure resulted in the decision to build an outpost at Ehtele Siriondo, which men of both camps were to garrison together. There would be routine rides across the Kalina Landa and up to the Nóre Andyelwa itself to keep an eye on their enemy. The broad consensus was that, whichever attack Morikotto had meant to carry out or merely been preparing for, it would not fall all too soon. The coming Sorontar could hardly have remained unnoticed and the intervention of the Valar was bound to give Morikotto pause. But an attack would come, somewhere, somewhen, and this time they would be prepared.

The weather worsened. Harsh winds blew out of the north and Anar seldom peeked through the clouded sky. The Ñoldor hurried to prepare new fields in the nearby valleys while the earth wasn't yet frozen and began sowing the winter grain. The last Feanárians now departed from the northern shore of Mísiringwe, only the five Feanáriondi remaining behind. They had been given accommodation in a house close to Russandol's hut and were allowed to stay there until their brother was fully recovered. Findekáno however, tried to avoid that part of town, for every time he crossed paths with Makalaure or his siblings, he saw the silent reproval in their eyes. Two weeks had passed since his cousin had returned among the living, and still he had not visited him, although Russandol was asking for him, day after day.

Then winter made a first show of strength and in the morning after the day when the work on the new gate was completed, the roofs and streets were covered by a layer of fine powdery snow. Faniel walked up to him while he was just taking his habitual stroll around the town, and by the look on her face he could tell he was in trouble.

"Enough", she said, her voice tremoring with suppressed rage. "I have been watching this for too long now."

"Watching what?", he asked evasively.

"You, háno-ninya", she hissed and raised a finger at him, "are going to visit Maitimo. Now and without further delay."

Findekáno felt his muscles tense up. "I may ... in the evening. But at the moment I have my duties to attend to. I'm on my way to Hísion for discussing the next important points on our list and later on I am going to meet up with Sartur to look through the drafts for the new watchtowers."

He wanted to turn away, but Faniel grasped his arm with a force that most people wouldn't expect from such a slender woman. "All that can wait. Maitimo says he refuses to eat or drink until he has seen you. And I will not have him risk his health because of the stupid stubbornness of my brother! So – are you coming or do I have to make you?"

Findekáno blinked at his sister, concerned and conscience-stricken, and almost could he hear the door to his cage snap shut. Acquiescently, he nodded.

.***.

The way to the hut was far too short. Findekáno tried to make up his mind on how to conduct himself, but when they arrived on the little lawn, screened off by its line of bushes, his thoughts and feelings were a complete mess.

Ambarussa and Karnistir were sitting at the table in the antechamber and their accusatory glowers followed him through the room and still were making his neck tingle when he pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the back part of the cabin.

Russandol was sitting upright on his bed, quietly talking with Makalaure. When Findekáno entered, they both fell silent. For a few strenuous moments, they all stared at each other.

Then Makalaure rose, took a bowl of porridge from a sidetable, wordlessly pressed it into the hands of his brother, and strode toward the doorway. In front of his cousin, he stopped, focusing a spot slightly above Findekáno's head. "It is good you came", he remarked and was gone.

Faelin set aside the tincture she had been preparing and walked over to her patient to check his temperature and pulse. Satisfied, she nodded. "I might take a stroll to my storage and fetch a few more herbs. I will return in an hour. If in the meantime there is you anything need, just send word to me."

"Annon allen, Faelin", Russandol thanked. "I shall be fine."

The healer dropped a curtsey and followed the king outside, not without giving Findekáno an encouraging smile.

The other two Feanáriondi had left as well. They were alone.

"Hara máriesse", Findekáno croaked and tried a smile himself. It felt more like a grimace.

"Máriesse", his cousin echoed and put his untouched breakfast back on the bedside table. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Stiffly, Findekáno approached the bed and sat down in the very chair he had barely left for three whole days. Russandol was watching his movements.

His cousin looked good, better than good. Although still gaunt, his cheeks had finally regained some colour. His auburn hair was combed, the bruises on his arms had mostly faded, and a white gown hid all the ugly scars on the rest of his body. But, most importantly, there was a lively sparkle in his eyes.

Findekáno was overjoyed to see his cousin on the way of recovery, yet somehow he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was facing a stranger. This wasn't his friend Russandol whom he had known in Valinor. Neither was it that miserable creature on the slopes of the Sangoronti, begging for death. It was a new, a third Nelyafinwe. One he did not know and had no shared past with.

He wanted to compliment Russandol on his convalescence, but what came out of his mouth was: "You speak Sindarin?"

His cousin snorted and shook his head. "I wouldn't say so, no. Only a few chunks I picked up in the dungeons of Angamando."

"You have been in Angamando itself?", Findekáno blurted out. Then he saw the mien of the other darken and backpedalled. "Sorry, I shouldn't have reminded you."

"No, it's fine", Russandol murmured, more to himself. "I figured you would have questions. We can just as well get it over with at once." He produced a wry smile. "Go ahead! Ask whatever you want to know."

Findekáno regarded him intently. A thousand questions were on the tip of his tongue, yet only one was of importance, only one really mattered. Is it true what you said on the mountain? What Makalaure implied? That the fire was none of your doing?

He was struggling with himself. Wouldn't it be best to to seize the chance and ask? Then he would have clarity – for better or worse – and could decide how to behave towards Russandol. But the thought alone sent shivers down his back and caused a queasy feeling in his stomach. The selfish coward that he was, he would ask that question later. There were plenty of other questions, easier for him, less easy for his cousin. Was Russandol really ready to relive those experiences? Even though he tried to appear relaxed, his eyes now clouded a shadow that hadn't been there before.

I'll be careful, Findekáno decided as his curiosity prevailed. He shifted in his seat and leaned a little forward. "There were Sindar in Angamando?"

Russandol's jaw muscles twitched. "Yes. Many. Far too many."

"And you got the chance to talk to them?"

"Yes. At least in the beginning. I was in a prison wing. A huge cave, the walls studded with uncounted cells cut into the stone and cages hanging in the middle. I could talk to my neighbours, sometimes. Not very much, of course. The guards didn't like chatter." His voice trembled ever so slightly and Findekáno could barely imagine the horrors those innocent words were trying to mask.

"Later on", Russandol continued, "I was sent to work in the mines. Much of the labour there is done by Yrch, but for those tasks that require at least a minimal amount of brain, Morikotto prefers to use Quendi. Most of them are Sindar and amidst the clanging of hammer and chisel, it was easier to bandy some words. My rudimentary knowledge of their language was only just enough to learn whence they came and what cruel fate had brought them thither. But others there were, too – Avari, caught in the east – that spoke strange tongues and shied away from me whenever I tried to approach. With them, converse was impossible and only a few would reveal their names. Then I was transferred to the smithies. Though I wasn't there for a long time ... I think. Next was another cell, darker and isolated from the others. Or maybe it was the other way round. It is all very blurred."

He spoke fast and monotonously and Findekáno could see what he was doing. The same as what he himself had done when being asked about the rescue of his cousin. Russandol had prepared this story. He droned it out like a poem learnt by heart. Like reading from a book. A book about something that had happened, sometime, to someone.

"Until the day they came and got me out." Russandol's voice was now very low. "Over endless stairs they led me, up and up. And when finally the tunnel opened out, I found myself high up on the Sangoronti, overlooking a desolation of rock and fire." He stole a short glance at his friend. "The rest of the story you know yourself."

Findekáno nodded, hesitated a moment, before posing the question that had been bothering him ever since the moment when he first beheld his cousin hanging above that precipice. "And for how long ...", he cleared his throat. "For how long have you been ... up there?"

"I do not know. A week? A year? The sky is always clouded there and one day is like the other." Russandol shrugged. "What does it matter?"

It matters to me, Findekáno thought and he was half relieved that he would never have a certain answer, when Russandol casually added: "When those bright orbs Káno says you call Isil and Anar arose in the west, I had been hanging there for quite some time already."

All of a sudden, swallowing was difficult. And so was breathing. "That means it must have been five years ... at the very least."

Russandol did not seem greatly perturbed by this news. Because he does not know. He knows not that we arrived five years ago.

"Anything else you want to know?", the Feanárion enquired in a factual manner.

Yes, Findekáno thought. Yes, there is. Only the words just wouldn't pass his lips. For the answer he feared more than anything. And yet he had to keep asking, or else it would be his cousin posing the questions.

"What was it like?"

"What was it like?", an incredulous Russandol repeated. "What was what like? The prison? The work in the mines? The time on the cliff? Well, I guess the answer is the same to all anyhow." He leaned back in his cushions and blinked straight ahead at the white curtain in the doorframe. Almost he seemed to have forgotten about Findekáno.

"You know what's the curious thing about pain?", Russandol said at length. "In the beginning, you think there is only so much you can bear. You think there is a certain limit, a certain amount of time or ... intensity, and then ... But you never think about the and then. You think you would die or something. You think it would end, because it has to end. But what if it doesn't? If the pain just continues, on and on and on?" His enigmatic eyes had captured Findekáno's and would not give them free. "Because the truth is, there is no such limit. No breaking point. Because you just accommodate. The pain becomes a part of your life and after a while, you forget that there is, or ever was, a life without pain." There was no bitterness in his voice, no reproach. A little sadness perhaps.

Findekáno stared at his hands and wished he had not asked.

"So what was it like?", Russandol continued on. "Well, it was hell. At first I had a mind of resistance, but that was soon ended. Then I just wanted the pain to be over. I wanted relief. I wanted death."

His dark eyes were darker than ever before. Sunken into the fluffy pillows, his extraordinary height looked diminished. His former air of authority drained together with the blood out of his emaciated face, taken away alongside his flaming locks and his maltreated limb.

"I was indescribably glad, when I heard your song. I knew you would give me what I so urgently desired. I never thought you would hesitate."

Findekáno wanted to jump up and run a thousand miles or more. The door was only a few steps away, but he remained where he was. He couldn't keep running away. It would change nothing, relieve him neither of his guilt nor of his guilty conscience. And Russandol, unrelated to what wrongs he himself had done, deserved to learn the truth.

"I am sorry", he whispered into the room.

"Sorry for what?" Two grey beacons fixated him, their expression inscrutable. A stranger.

Findekáno bit his tongue to fight back the tears. Maybe it would come as a relief if his cousin did not forgive him. Then maybe, maybe, he could avoid asking the crucial question. If only his hands stopped trembling and his chest would not feel as if it was squeezed by one of Morikotto's iron chains. "For everything. For not killing you when you begged me to. For shooting that arrow and for missing. For our row in Araman. For this!" He pointed at the stump of Russandol's arm and swallowed hard. "For waiting too long."

"Waiting?"

Findekáno forced himself to meet the gaze of his cousin. "You may not know it, but ... we entered Endóre that very day when Isil rose for the first time."

Russandol did not bat an eye. "I know."

"We have been dwelling here for almost five years. We knew what had happened to you. And we knew very well where Morikotto's fortress stands. Yea, we had marched to his front gate and sounded a warning to –"

"I know, I heard you."

"You did?" Findekáno's heart missed a beat.

Russandol nodded, his eyes treacherously glistening. "I saw the banners approach from the plain. I cried. Cried at the top of my lungs, but ... the trumpets were too loud."

Findekáno felt the blood freeze in his veins. His throat was tight. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it must have felt like for Nelyo ... to see a host of his own kin march on the doorstep of his prison, swords and spears at the ready, blow their trumpets as a threat to their enemy – and leave. He blinked and two streamlets ran down his cheeks.

"Don't weep, Findo", Russandol said softly and stretched out his left hand. Mechanically Findekáno took it. The skin felt rough, leathery, even his fingers covered with poorly healed cuts.

"Back then, you did not know I was there."

Findekáno jerked up his head and stared into the composed face of his cousin, disbelieving. "That is not the point!", he shouted and pulled back his hand. "Do you not see? We have been here all along! I could have come earlier! I could have spared you years of suffering!"

"And you think I will accuse you of it? Oh Findo!" Russandol reached for his hand anew, but lowered his arm when he saw that Findekáno was too upset. "You are the one who set me free. You are the one who came. Not my brothers, not my oh so loyal house. Those I could accuse, those I could be angry at, but I am not. Because they did exactly what I would have wanted them to do. Because I never expected to be saved. I knew there was no hope. I knew no one would come, let alone find me. Until you came and found me." He managed a skewed smile that Findekáno could not return. But Russandol didn't seem bothered.

"You did more than save my life", he said solemnly. "You liberated me from a life worse than death, and this –", he slightly lifted his mutilated arm, "is but a low prize to pay for an escape from Angamando. Trust me, I know what I am speaking of. I will be forever grateful to you and what you dared to do."

Findekáno did not know what to say. The relief made him fly higher than Manwe's Eagles returning to Taniquetil, only to be violently torn back down to the ground by his internal conflict still raging in his breast, now thricefold increased. His fear that he would not be able to reciprocate the goodness his friend had just shown. His self-loathing for even having doubts about this. And yet the breathtaking shock and gratitude about Russandol's words.

"Thank you", he brought out at last. "You are very kind, Nelyo. To me, to your brothers. Kinder than you would need to be."

A small wrinkle appeared on the brow of the Feanárion. "Is this the reason why you avoided me?"

"I assumed you did not want to see me and merely felt obliged to ask for it."

"Why would I not want to see you?" His voice was astonished, yet for a sincere question a little too faint towards the end.

Findekáno answered with a shrug. "You woke in the very hour I had left your side. Do you mean to say this was coincidence?"

"Well ..." Russandol's face was that of a child having been caught stealing from the biscuit tin. "I suppose it wasn't. I suppose ... a part of me did not want to face you right away. But not due to a grudge against you! Rather that ... I was afraid to meet you."

So here we are at last. The point he had known could not be evaded, merely stalled. There was no stalling anymore. Findekáno's heart pounded in his throat, and yet it felt strangely surreal, as if someone else was speaking, when he asked: "Why were you afraid"? Although he knew the answer already.

Russandol tucked up his legs and propped his arms on the hump of blanket. He moved the head as if to create a curtain of hair around his face, but the short locks just bounced up and down and did nothing to conceal his expression of helplessness. When he noticed the scrutinising gaze of his cousin, his eyes flitted away and settled on the foot of the bed instead. The tips of the bedposts were carved in tapering spirals that, Findekáno couldn't help but think, had a strong similarity with little flames.

A sudden deep breath, and Russandol looked up, the clear light in his eyes trembling like the bright stars near the horizon. "It is just ... I don't see why. Why did you come, Findo? Do you not hate me?"

Findekáno gave no response. His thoughts were more jumbled than ever and he could no longer distinguish between what he felt and what he thought he ought to feel.

"I do", he said at length and watched Russandol wince. "And I do not. Both, I assume, I ..." He looked out of the window. Some stray snowflakes whirled through the air. The rampart was forsaken. Findekáno sighed. "Did you take part in the burning of the ships?"

Dark, ominous clouds passed over the wall of stone in graceful haste. An unending line of hunched exiles, ever wandering to no destination. So low they hung, it was a wonder they did not scrape over the coping.

"No."

The word sounded through the hut, soft and fleeting like the snowflakes outside, and ripped through time and space, shaking the Ilurambar, and touched upon the very foundations of the Lúmenke Solmar amidst Avakúma. Findekáno shuddered. "Then tell me what happened."

"Will you believe me?"

He turned his head and looked at the Feanárion. His cousin. His friend. Would he lie to me? There had been a time when Findekáno would have been sure of the answer. But now ... his heart was empty, his óre kept silent, and he knew not the counsel of his heart. He scrutinised the Elda in front of him. All he read in those grey eyes was question, paired with tension and anxiety. But no evil intend.

"I will."

"Good." Russandol cleared his throat. "Now, where do I begin? The night after our disagreement ..."

"You wanted me to convince my father to grant you the first passage to Endóre and wait for you to return the ships. To have faith in you." He could not banish the note of sharpness from his voice.

"And I did mean it!", his cousin returned forcefully. "I was confident that this was the only way to resolve our situation. It was no trick, no lulling you into a false sense of security."

Findekáno said nothing but waited for Russandol to continue, which, after a moment of recollection, he did.

"That night my father came into the cabin of me and my brothers, woke us, and told us to get the ships ready to leave. And although I did not like his plan, I went along with it. For I figured that stealing off in secret would at least put an end to the stagnant discussions and was still better than lingering in this hostile stretch of land until our fathers would have settled the issue. We all were cold and grumpy and eager to be off. Thus in silence and by all possible stealth, we roused the crews, hoisted the anchors, and set sails." Here he halted and his gaze strayed to the window.

"The crossing went well. Prosperous winds aided our voyage and we didn't lose a single ship. We landed at Lósarda, unloaded the most important goods from the vessels, and camped on the shore. I should have known. When atar refused to remain on the ships until we had scouted the land, I should have known. But I dismissed my uneasy feeling, gave it no further heed. Or perhaps I did not want to heed it. The greater part of the possessions was still aboard and indeed we had only purposed to take a short rest before sailing on to find a better anchorage further south. Who could have foreseen? Who could have guessed?"

Russandol drew an audible breath. His left hand had clutched the blanket as if seeking support. The next words were causing him difficulty.

"I woke to the sound of cracking beams and sizzling flames. Half of the fleet was already ablaze, the rest followed up quickly, one after the other, flaring up like candles at a winter's eve. Then I saw atar. He was standing at the edge of the sea, a torch in hand. And he was laughing. Laughing at the sight of the spectacle, and I knew what he had done. Kurvo was at his side. The only one of us whom he had deemed trustworthy enough to partake in his firework." Russandol gave a dry chuckle. His face was now stern as steel and in his eyes burnt a vivid fire. "I wanted to lunge at the two of them. Strangle them on the spot. I screamed and I raged, but ... it was too late. What was done could not be undone, and the most magnificent fleet ever to sail the sea ... was no more. There was no returning into the west for us and no crossing over to Endóre for you. I had left you behind, knowingly. I had betrayed your trust. And the repercussions came faster and far more disastrously than I could have imagined." Pleadingly he glanced at his cousin, his eyes shining with honest regret and undiluted love. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Findekáno felt the urge to embrace his friend, to make that anxiety leave his expression, and yet he could not – caught in a web of memories that the story had stirred to new life. Memories of icy winds and weary sobs and cries of pain for the loss of a loved one. His face remained blank.

"That night when you left", he stated tonelessly, "I went to my father. I asked him to let you take the ships first and wait until you send them back. And I promised you would. I said, I would vouch for you. I begged him to have faith in the house of Feanáro."

Russandol cringed. "I am sorry, Findo. Sorry we let you down. I can barely imagine what you and your people must have been going through. But I swear I never wanted any of this to happen. I trusted my father ... at a time when I should have known better. Never will I be able to amend that mistake and ever since I saw the ships afire, there hasn't been a day on which I would not have despised myself for my own dumbness." He slowly shook his head. His lips were trembling. "I know there is no making up for this. Yet this one thing you have to believe me: I wanted all of our people to reach Endóre, safely and as swiftly as possible. I said this and I meant it. I have never been insincere to you."

Findekáno contemplated his cousin for a few more moments. Contemplated the left hand that from now on, would have to do the work for two. Contemplated the flamelike hair that, shortened as it was, stuck out into all directions and gave Russandol an air of recklessness. And his eyes that, though filled with deep concern, shone like the windows to a world that knew no darkness.

Then he smiled. "I know. And I think my óre has always told me so. I just lacked the courage to listen."

"You mean it?" The succession of emotions on Russandol's face went by so rapidly, it was impossible to follow. "You really believe me?"

"I do", Findekáno replied, and once he had spoken those words, he was hit by the full realisation of their truthfulness. There was no doubt anymore, no reservations. Nelyo was innocent. Which meant that he had neither forgotten nor forsaken their friendship. Which meant that there was nothing standing between them. A stupid misunderstanding, nothing more.

He sat down on the bed. The two of them regarded each other, then they hugged. Not as they had hugged on the cliff at the Sangoronti, a desperate clasp at the brink of death, impaired by fear and the knowledge that they were about to lose each other again. This time it was an embrace of happy reunion and the end of sorrow. Findekáno felt Russandol's heartbeat against his and it was as if he was flooded by a light brighter than the sap of Laurelin, more beautiful than the dew of Telperion, sacred far beyond the radiance of the Silmarilli themselves.

There Findekáno opened his mind as he hadn't done in nearly half a century and allowed his thoughts to mingle with those of his friend. All of a sudden he could taste salty spray on his tongue, feel his skin burn in the face of a gigantic blaze, and see sparks rise up, red-gold amidst the silver stars. He heard voices calling and saw shadowy figures flit by, but he could not get a clear picture. The memory would not let him delve deeper, seemed to recede the harder he tried.

"What are you holding back?", he murmured, and only then noticed that Russandol in his arms was shaking.

Alarmed, Findekáno let go of his cousin and held him a bit away. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and those were no tears of joy. He was actually crying.

"What's the matter? Hey, Nelyo, what is it?"

Russandol just shook his head, fighting to regain his composure. He managed to stop the flood of tears, but didn't bring forth a word, his eyes downcast.

"Is there something else? Something you haven't told me yet?" Findekáno's euphoria was replaced by a growing disquiet.

"It's ... nothing", his friend stammered. "Nothing important, really."

"Then why are you crying? Come now, Nelyo, let me know."

"It is not about you. Just ... memories." The dark eyes glistened cold, wary, seeking refuge. Still Russandol would not let down the guard of his mind.

It's okay, you don't have to show me. Just tell me.

The dark eyes glistened like two grains of smokey quartz. At last they yielded.

"When I saw the fire ...", Russandol began in a lower tone that sounded nothing like him, "... when I saw the fire, I was out of my mind with anger at my father. I ran up to him, fumed, yelled. I would have lunged at him, but then ... then ..." He broke off. His fingers were clenched around the blanket, the knuckles white as the linen beneath.

Findekáno laid his palm on his friend's trembling fist and asked: "But what?"

Russandol looked up, his face a mask of horror – a sight that Findekáno would never again be able to erase from his memory. "But then", he whispered, "there was Nityo. He was standing at my side and I can still hear him say: 'Where is Ambarussa?'"

A dark sense of foreboding began to fill Findekáno.

"I ...", Russandol staggered anew, fumbled for words. "At first, I did not listen. I was thinking about you, about all of our kin on the yonder shore, and that we had betrayed you. But Nityo just wouldn't stop asking about his twin, asked me, asked Moryo, and Turko, and Káno. I grew so annoyed, I turned to him and shouted: 'I don't know! What does it matter now?'For I felt ... I felt there was no greater tragedy than the loss of the ships." He had grasped Findekáno's hand and squeezed it so hard that his friend had to suppress a pained groan.

"And he said ... he said ... he just looked at me, his eyes wide open in dreamy wonder, and said: 'But did you not then rouse Ambarussa my brother? He would not come ashore to sleep, he said, in discomfort.'*"

The comprehension felt like a punch in the stomach. Findekáno gaped at his cousin, struggling to accept. They had learnt of course that the youngest Feanárion had found death at some point before the rising of Isil and Anar. But never had they enquired ... never sought to learn ... how exactly.

"He was on board of one of the ships?"

Russandol nodded weakly, as if the revelation had cost more energy than he could muster. "He had slept in his cabin, homesick and not fully ready yet to encounter this strange new land. Or maybe he had meant to take that ship and secretly sail back to Valinor. Of us seven brothers, he had always been the one least capable to stomach all the death and violence we had seen. And caused." New tears sprang to his eyes and this time he made no effort to hide them.

"Kurvo was shocked when he understood what they had done. It destroyed something within him. And since then, he has never been the same as before. But atar ... atar turned to look at the blaze, as if to relish the sight of his deed. 'That ship I burnt first', he said. As if it wasn't his son he had just burnt at the stake. As if it didn't concern him at all. He was mad. Mad for his jewels and blind in his hatred and greed. Nothing could get through to his heart anymore. Not even his own family."

"Oh Nelyo, I am so sorry", Findekáno said and pulled his cousin into another embrace, both comforting him and hiding his own dismay. "I had no idea."

It all seemed to come together. Makalaure's reluctance to speak of the events of that night. The way Ambarussa behaved, always prowling around the hut, yet never daring to enter. Faniel telling him that Tyelkormo had taken no part in the burning of the ships. It all made sense now. Findekáno tried to fight down his appal and concentrate on the plain facts. "So your people are not responsible for the burning?", he probed further, gently letting go of his cousin.

Russandol quickly dried his eyes and shook his head. "They are not. Only a handful of Feanáro's closest confidants helped him. The others knew nothing."

"Then why didn't they say so?" Findekáno couldn't help but frown. "Why did they let us believe that destroying the ships had been their plan all along? Had Makalaure told what truly happened ... yes, perhaps my father, stubborn as he is, would not have believed him. But the majority of our house surely would have. There might have been less misgivings, less anger. Why did your brothers keep quiet, thus only confirming my people in their belief of your guilt? Why? Were they afraid to be called liars? Or too proud to admit that they had made a mistake, had misjudged their father? They rather preferred to be hated for a crime they did not commit?"

In a familiar gesture, his cousin curled a strand of hair around his finger, as always when he was stalling for time. Only the strand was now too short and slipped away. Dissatisfied, Russandol lowered his hand. "Well, in parts because not all of them were innocent. Kurvo had helped our father and Káno naturally wished to shield him and the others who were involved from the combined anger of your houses."

"This hiding of the truth might have resulted in a war!", Findekáno called out. "To spare a handful of Eldar the consequences of their actions? By Manwe, we wouldn't have lynched them! Well, maybe Turvo would have, but –"

"It wasn't the sole reason", Russandol interrupted. And after some seconds of staring at Findekáno, he cast down his eyes. "It was mine order. The last one I gave ere setting out for this alleged exchange of a Silmaril. I forbade any mention of the events pertaining to the fire on the water, in especial accusing Feanáro of madness. Never intending this ban to last forever, mind you! Only for a few weeks, a month perhaps, until tempers had cooled down. I deemed this the best, for myself, for my brother, but most of all for Nityo."

"But why?"

"Don't you see?" Russandol's eyes shone brightly and challengingly. "Blaming the loss of the swan-ships on our father, holding him at fault, means admitting his deed was wrong. And then the death of Telvo would have been in vain. As long as the we rally behind the decisions of our former king, all of them, then Telvo has died in a terrible accident, yet he remains one of the inevitable losses on our road to freedom. But once we admit that atar had gone off his head ... then Telvo would have died for nothing. Just another tragedy that could have been avoided, had we seen reason earlier. A son killed by the whimsies of his loony father."

"But that is exactly what happened", Findekáno threw in.

"Of course it is! That doesn't make it any easier to bear!", Russandol snapped and glared at his friend. Somewhat calmer he then explained: "We had only just lost a brother. The last thing any of us wanted to hear, was that our father had been a maniac that had us led into a cold and barren land to fight his own foredoomed war to which we all were bound by oath. That truth which we would have had to face eventually. Though back then I just shushed the whispers, for there was no consequence to the prescribed silence."

"I see." Findekáno regarded the Feanárion intently. He could understand his conflict all too well. Indeed, had they acted any differently after Áro's death? He cleared his throat. "But there are consequences now. The truth must not remain hidden any longer. Are yougoing to reveal it?"

Russandol threw him a long, lugubrious look. "Káno has kept the truth hidden for four and a half years."

"And those four and a half years have been a perpetual medley of tensions, threats and almost-quarrels", Findekáno reminded. "Listen, we know that Morikotto is preparing for battle and he will strike. Our two peoples need to work together, now more than ever before. I have spoken with my father already, he won't oppose an allegiance with you. Nothing more I ask of you, but this I do ask. For otherwise we stand no chance in the war to come."

"War?" A queer expression entered Russandol's face. Both pensive and sad, and then somewhat ... remorseful? "How do we wage war against a Vala? This doesn't leave us any less crazy than my father was."

"What other alternative is there?"

The Feanárion shrugged a shoulder. "None. None for me."

Findekáno regarded his friend for a long while. Something about his comment felt worrisome, though he could not say why.

"Nelyo. My people have the right to hear what really happened. They must know, to the benefit of all the Ñoldor."

Russandol sighed. "Probably you are right."

"Makalaure decided to abide by your command. And maybe that was a good thing, at that time ... to let the past rest. But he is not going to challenge your authority if you choose a different path now. None of your brothers will."

"I know." Russandol stared into the void. At last, he nodded his agreement. "Fine, I will do it. I will give a speech to our people, announcing how the burning of the ships came to pass. But I shall have to talk with my brothers first ... especially with Nityo. And I have to find the right moment. I need time."

Time of all things, is what we possess the least. But despite this sullen thought, Findekáno did not press his friend further. "Of course", he said. "As long as you need."

Russandol smiled faintly, then there was a long silence.

"So ...", he tilted his head to the side.

"You will end your eating strike now?", Findekáno questioned.

"You are not going to avoid me in the future?", Russandol asked at the very same moment.

And they both had to smirk.

"Oh no. In fact, you shall find it hard to get rid of me again", Findekáno assured, folding his arms and putting on his most serious face. "Though I must repeat, you had better eat your breakfast now or else Faelin is going to rip off my head upon her return."

Russandol pressed his lips together and leant forward. His body was quivering. With alarm Findekáno began to wonder if this casual joke had been too much, perhaps stirred a bad memory?

But then Russandol just burst into loud laughter and so absurd, so innocently blissful was this sudden moment of mirth that Findekáno couldn't help it and joined in. And once they had started, there was no stopping. They sat on the bed and snorted and giggled until their bellies hurt and they were panting for breath.

It has been worth it, Findekáno thought, his body still being shaken by fits of laughter. Simply seeing Nelyo happy again has been worth it all.

When finally they had calmed down again, Russandol reached out for the bowl of porridge, which Findekano handed him, and obediently he began to eat. After the second spoon, however, he looked up. "You know, Findo", he said with his mouth half-full, "we really need to work on your Sindarin pronunciation. The 'ae' in 'Faelin' ought to be more open. And you are not going to win her favour by saying her name wrong all the time."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Why would I try to win her favour?

"Oh nothing", the Feanárion gave back with a quizzical smirk. "Just something Káno mentioned."

Findekáno frowned. "You keep eating", he muttered in a perhaps too obvious attempt to change topic. "We have got plenty of time to improve my Sindarin."

"As you wish", Russandol chuckled and swallowed another spoonful. "Then why don't you tell me instead all that I missed out on? I want to know everything!"

"Since we arrived in Endóre? Well, there has been quite a lot", Findekáno began slowly. "We settled down, tried to grow crops, explored the land, fought some Orqui... I assume you have heard about the difficulties between our two hosts?"

His cousin pulled a face. "Yeah, my brothers have told me more than enough about that."

"Oh, indeed? But I bet they left out all the interesting details", he said with a wink and Russandol's grimace changed into an impish grin.

"Pray enlighten me!"

.***.

Over the next few days and weeks, Findekáno was living in two different worlds. One world was rather small, quiet and peaceful. It consisted out of nothing but Russandol, Faelin, and the little hut behind the rose bushes. Sometimes, there were visitors that came and went. Makalaure and his brothers, Faniel and Ingoldo, Narwe, even Itarille. But most of the time, it was just the three of them, and the snow that steadily piled up beneath the windows and on the roof was like a white blanket, a screen that no troubles from beyond could breach. In here, time seemed to almost stand still and progress was slow.

Findekáno helped his friend to train his muscles. Having not walked for an unknown number of years, Russandol's legs were so weak, he couldn't even stand without help and two weeks of tedious, unsatisfying exercises went by before he could take his first shaky steps. And working on his arms was no better. The fingers of the remaining hand were stiff and clumsy, and even something as simple as holding a cup proved to be difficult in the beginning. With only one hand left, many everyday tasks suddenly posed a challenge, be it cutting his own food or getting dressed.

Russandol truly resented having to relearn everything from the start. When Findekáno brought a quill and parchment, thinking it would benefit his friend to train his fine motor skills, the Feanárion grew so frustrated within the first few minutes that he chucked the inkwell at the wall and Findekáno decided that for writing there was yet time.

It wasn't easy. Findekáno could see that the loss of his hand badgered Russandol, more than either of them initially had believed. And though his cousin never complained or blamed anyone save himself, he was impatient and often crestfallen. But Findekáno gave his best to cheer him up, either by telling funny anecdotes about town life or playing cards and other games Findekáno hadn't played for a very long time. At times they even managed to persuade Faelin to join in, who, not knowing any of their games, only kept winning by beginner's luck, as Russandol asserted. They had a lot of fun during those weeks and not once did they mention neither Angamando nor the Helkaraxe. The little hut was a universe of its own, wherein problems and grievances just didn't exist. The one place where Findekáno could be himself.

And then, there was the outside world, the world of Már Léraiva. In this world, Findekáno was aryon and had to fulfil the duties and obligations that came with it. To this world belonged meetings with the lords and captains of his house and listening to the needs and complaints of his people, just as well as having dinner with his father and alarmingly productive discussions with Hísion early in the morning. Outside the little hut, life was going on and remorselessly dragged him along.

The former ruin evolved with a dizzying rapidity. Houses changed their faces over night, watchtowers sprouted up in the blink of an eye, and soon the town shone in new splendour. Findekáno was very proud of all the hard work his people put into their new dwelling, and yet he could not bring himself to fully accept it as their home. He missed the trees, the birdsong, the green. The town was a fortress, a stronghold founded at a time of peril, and apart from the few lawns by the wall and some scarce bushes, there was no vegetation at all. There was quite simply no space for it. But seldom enough was he given the opportunity to bemoan this flaw, for mostly he was too absorbed by his task of keeping up order.

hríve was now close at hand and brought along all the usual deprivations and unpleasantries of that season. The snow that had fallen did not melt again and a long period of frost turned it into a hard white crunchy flooring, followed by another load of snow. The tents outside the town did not provide sufficient shelter anymore and had to be replaced by houses of snow (the swift building of which pitiless Helkaraxe had taught them early on). Nevertheless, a large number of Ñoldor from outside the city walls chose to move to Már Léraiva and it became quite crowded. Then the last supplies of corn arrived from their abandoned camp and the storehouses were filled, whereupon Hísion immediately took to the task of raising an inventory of their stocks and rationing them until tuile. There wasn't as much as would be preferable, he summarised to Findekáno, but it would last.

Indeed Hísion, who first and foremost was to lighten the everyday life of his master and look after his needs, more and more began to assume the duties of his deputy on top of it and Findekáno was increasingly grateful for the relief of being able to hand over a large amount of all the tedious tasks, which his squire carried out with devotion. For there was still enough left to worry about. Aside from the question of how they would nourish their people during winter and disregarding also the growing discontent of certain groups with the continuous presence of Feanárians in their town, there was the enemy lurking just some fifty lári to the east.

The last days of quelle had begun when they encountered the first Orqui since the appearance of the black smoke. A group of hunters found them camping between some boulders in the woods north of Sírinke, where they were feasting on a boar. The Ñoldor made short work of them without incurring any noteworthy injuries themselves, yet the incident suggested that the gates of Angamando had been reopened and so it was.

At first, the bands of Orqui were small and few and easy prey for the blades of the Ñoldor. But as the snow increased, so did their number and soon the woods were swarming with the vile breed of Morikotto. For the most part they came out of the north and east, but other accounts spoke of groups along the southern chain of the Wahtaine Oronti, and on the slopes of the Oronti Mísiringweo even a Torko was sighted. It didn't seem as if they were preparing for a larger attack. Rather they erratically roamed the land, waiting for wandering Eldar to ambush. And not every hunting party that returned, was complete. Findekáno and the other heruvi sent out wave after wave of warriors to clear the woods, but as long as the mountain passes stood open, it was like draining puddles during rain. What they needed were watches all along their borders. Outposts to outlast even the worst snowfall in the mountains. This, however, would have to wait until tuile.

One week faded into another and Findekáno lost count. His days were always busy, but as soon as all work was done, he grabbed something to eat and walked straight to the hut at the western wall to see Russandol. The visits there had become his evening routine and he couldn't imagine a day without them anymore. He sorely needed what little peace and oblivion they provided.

Not always did he find his cousin awake though. Russandol's circadian rhythm was still out of order and he slept at night just as often as during the days, which didn't bother Findekáno. Then he would just sit down on his usual chair and pass the time chatting with Faelin.

She was a sagacious woman and possessed great knowledge of herbs and flowers, berries and trees, and all the nature of Hísilóme, despite her young age of only seventy-one Valian years. Findekáno found the talks with her pleasant, indeed inspiring. She spoke a lot about the time before the arrival of the Ñoldor, when only the circling stars had defined their days and years and life itself had been more like a dream that slumbering Endóre was dreaming. A time of silence, only broken by music of flowing streams and the soft singing of her people. An age when dark had been more dark and light more light, and the faintest of the twinkling lanterns in heaven had shone brighter than the brightest stars during a new moon night. When they had been free to wander whithersoever their hearts desired, knowing no borders and no restraints. When a hundred years passed in the blink of an eye and one heartbeat took up a century.

Then, she told him about that undefined darkness to the north that steadily grew and spread into the lands of Hísilóme and Valariande, of how she had lost her father during a raid by Orqui, of a great battle fought in the south, for which she had no name. And of the arrival of the Ñoldor that changed everything and brought new hope to an afflicted land.

In return, he told her a lot about Valinor and all the different customs and laws among the Ñoldor, which quite amused her and she never got tired of hearing about. The life of the Míserimbi was much freer, defined by only a handful of rules, and the notion of the complex societal structure of the Amaneldi seemed both intriguing and perplexing to her.

At one of those occasions, they stumbled upon the topic of name giving.

"You call him Russandol", Faelin suddenly remarked after they had been silent for a while. "No one else does. They all call him Maitimo or Nelyafinwe." She regarded him with her lurid blue eyes. "Why?"

"It's the anesse I gave him due to his foxy red hair.", Findekáno explained with a smile. "I use it only when I'm alone with him. It's sort of a private name."

Faelin nodded, storing away that piece of information. Then she knitted her brow. "I know but one of your names, yet a Ñoldo never bears just one name. So there must be others."

"There is one other. The name my mother gave me. But few people know it and fewer even use it."

"Why?"

He did not meet her eyes. "Because it is a strange name, not in line with the usual rules of name-giving. Atar never liked it."

"Oh, I can well imagine such a deviation would bother a proud heru of the Ñoldor", Faelin chuckled. "What is it then?"

"Astar", he answered. "Plain as that."

Faelin smiled knowingly. "A mother does not choose her child's name lightly. And after what you have done, nobody can contest your right to this name anymore. You have earned it."

"Thanks." Findekáno averted his eyes, confounded by a warm tingling in his chest. Normally he was embarrassed by the excessive praise he had received from his people over the last few weeks. Faelin's words, however, he knew to be sincere and they touched him deeply.

"How would I transfer 'Findekáno' into Sindarin?", he asked swiftly, before the healer could notice the blush on his cheeks. "If I am to live in Endóre, I ought to have a name that befits its language."

"That would be 'Fingon', I guess. Though its meaning is somewhat lost along the way."

"Fingon", he repeated, tasting the flavour of the word on the tip of his tongue. It sounded strange and familiar at once. Soft and rounded, resonant, and yet bearing some sense of wistfulness ... natural in this land of mist and grey. "I like it", he decided after careful consideration. "And what about 'Maitimo'?"

Faelin hesitated. "That one is harder to translate. Forming a direct cognate would not yield any suitable result. A different suffix has to be used, for example ... although perhaps ... yes, why not? In fact, he might adopt a mixture of two of his names. Something like 'Maedros'."

"Oh no! Not another name with 'ae'", moaned Findekáno and pulled a face. But when Russandol awoke, he was quite pleased with Faelin's composition and the name stuck.

.***.

During all this time, the little cot by the outer wall was Findekáno's safe haven to which he could flee from the demanding and oftentimes disconcerting life in Endóre and escape all his worries, if only for a few of hours. Sitting by Russandol's bed, listening to his breathing, and every now and then meeting the gaze of Faelin's cerulean eyes was all the bliss he would ever wish for. But not even the quietude of their hut was wholly protected from the growing unrest and ever and anon, the issues from the outside world did find their way inside.

"We have been here for long enough", said Makalaure, once again pressing his brother to return to their own camp. "Neither do I want to overstay our welcome, nor can we cross Mísiringwe every day just to visit you."

"I never said one of you has to visit me on a daily basis", Russandol argued. "It gladdens me, of course, yet I know you have more urging duties to attend to and I am quite fine here on my own."

Faelin sided with her patient and firmly advised against exposing him to the harsh winter weather before he was at least able to walk properly and Makalaure was wise enough not to dare challenge her expertise. But they all knew the true reason for his hurry. It was more than obvious. Makalaure couldn't await the day when he was to give back the crown he had never wanted and cede the kingship to his elder brother. He spoke of it often enough, painting elaborate pictures of the coronation and the following festivities, despite Russandol always warding off his ambitious plans.

"I don't want to make a big deal out of it", he kept repeating. "When the time is come, you may simply have our people informed that I reassumed the rule and be done with it. No ceremony, no gathered crowds. It's nothing worth celebrating, really."

"Your return from captivity is worth celebrating."

"Is it?", Russandol muttered, so quiet only Findekáno could hear, and was strangely taciturn until his brother had left.

Findekáno did not comment on his behaviour, but he sensed that his cousin was not particularly excited about the thought of becoming king again. Not that he ever openly expressed any reservations regarding this transfer of power that Makalaure had taken for granted from the very beginning. Instead, he grew absent-minded and reticent whenever the topic of kingship was touched upon and Findekáno could only speculate on the reasons for that.

At other times, taken perhaps by sentiment and the urge to talk, he broached the subject himself, yet ever speaking about the past, as Findekáno noticed, and taking care to keep the conversation from centring around himself.

"You are doing very well as aran, Káno", he once said to his brother, right out of the blue. "It is remarkable what you have achieved during the time of my ... absence. You have seen the construction of two settlements, befriended the Sindar, handled political and environmental difficulties and, most importantly, you have kept our people safe. I am very proud of you." With the help of Findekáno, he edged his way back to the bed and sat down. Standing exhausted him quickly.

"Indeed I believe", he continued, "that you yourself have benefited from that position the most. You are no longer the níka Káno I left behind. You're a leader now."

"Oh ... well, thank you", Makalaure stammered and turned scarlet. "I do the best I can. Yet I am never going to be a great leader such as you. Or atar."

"But is a great leader always a good leader?", came as cryptical response. And then Russandol niftily changed over to a different topic.

Was he afraid of the responsibility? Afraid of not meeting all requirements? That is not like Nelyo at all. But then again, who knew what he had seen and experienced in the fortress of Morikotto and it what ways it had affected him? Findekáno sometimes wondered. Apart from the small bits and pieces of information that his friend had revealed prior to their reconciliation, he was completely in the dark and had never asked to learn more, feeling that if his friend was ready to address this part of his life again, he ought to seek talks himself.

A matter Findekáno did broach though, was the burning of the ships and when the true course of events was to be made public. He did not want to put Russandol under any pressure, yet he had the lingering notion that his cousin was hoping to solve that issue by sitting it out. So every now and then, he unobtrusively raised the question as to when he would talk to his brothers. But Russandol always managed to weasel his way out of the interrogation without giving a clear answer.

"When we returned from the Sangoronti, there were two host opposing each other", he blurted out during the fourth or fifth of those discussions, still disgruntled after just having come from a not exactly edifying dinner in the presence of his brother. "Our people were about to fight each other. The arrival of Sorontar may have warded off that battle, but the thought of what might have been, of what they had been prepared to do, lives on. Such things cannot be forgotten."

"That was an exceptional situation, caused by misunderstandings and the general tension of the smoke", Russandol argued. "The Ñoldor have no reason to fight each other now."

"Oh yes? You should hear Turukáno talking! If it were for him, we were to drive your people forth from Hísilóme or indeed from Valariande itself this very day, to let you know what wandering without home and hope feels like. And he is not the only one who speaks out thus."

That made Russandol fall silent and Findekáno continued more calmly: "As long as the hatred remains, a similar situation may arise anytime, and let it be another misunderstanding. The Feanárians have to make a statement on the stolen ships, or else there will always be the fog of doubt and speculation."

"I know."

"And time is not going to make it any easier", Findekáno noted without taking his eyes off his cousin. "Not for you, not for your brothers, and certainly not for the Ñoldor." He spotted a glint of guilt in his Russandol's gaze, for one second, before it was drawn back into the swirl of sorrow.

"I know, it's just ... I fear", his friend admitted, deferring to the issue for the first time. "I fear for Ambarussa. That we might lose him again."

"What do you mean by 'losing'?"

"You did not know?" Russandol looked surprised. "He was gone, for over twenty years. He went into the woods and ... vanished into oblivion." He shrugged. "When he was picked up by the Sindar, he was more dead than alive. It was Faelin who found him, nursed him back to health. She then joined my people while Nityo just wandered on, living with the Mísirimbi or muddling through on his own. That was his way of coping with what had happened, but I think he never fully did. Kurvo told me that one day he just stepped out of the forest and rejoined them as if nothing had happened. And he never spoke about where he has been during those years."

"And you think he might run away again", supplemented Findekáno, now beginning to understand. Unwillingly, his eyes strayed to the window. Snowladen gusts of wind chased across the rampart and almost he believed to see again that grey figure up there, looming against the clouded sky. Ever gazing out as if longing to take off, yet held back by some invisible band.

"Yes", said Russandol, having read his friend's thoughts. "Had I died from my injury, he would be who-knows-where by now. And I am not sure how he would react if we bring up the fire in which Umbarto met his doom. I don't think he could handle it."

Findekáno turned back to the Feanárion. "What if I tried talking to him?", he offered.

But Russandol shook his head. "This I have to do by myself. And I will, just ... give me some more time."

"Of course. As long as you need", Findekáno found himself repeating the same words as before.

And he let him be, though his heart was heavy. After all, he told himself, Russandol wasn't even king yet. So he turned a deaf hear to the derogatory chatter of the halls and workshops and pretended not to see the oftentimes hateful gazes following him through the streets.

Just because Ñolofinwe, miraculously mildened by the joy of his son's safe return, had swallowed his aversions toward the Feanáriondi and now cooperated quite successfully with Makalaure, to the greater part of his people, this did not apply. And Turukáno was at the very front of that fraction. Yes, they had been allowed to keep Már Léraiva in return for one of their heruvi having freed the king of the Feanárians. But to them, the issue was still not settled. To them, Russandol remained a traitor, may the Valar have blessed his rescue or not. The tensions remained and the presence of the Feanáriondi in their town was looked at askance.

If only they would know the truth, Findekáno thought and wished his cousin would hurry his decision.

.***.

The moon had waxed and waned, and Russandol's health was almost restored. He was still thin but no longer skin and bones. His bruises had faded away, even the worst of them, and all that remained was a network of filigree white scars covering his body, which looked like the first scribbly writing attempts of a child. When Findekáno made that comparison, Russandol burst into laughter, saying those writing attempts were still better than his own. Even to the sight of his armstump Findekáno was slowly getting used. It was only the absent look sometimes entering Russandol's face when he thought nobody noticed that made Findekáno worry.

Then came the day when Faelin removed the dressing of his right arm, explaining it was no longer needed. Beneath the white linen the healed stump came forth, covered by soft rose skin. The scars of the stitches were visible as two pale lines, crossing each other in the middle of the rounded, slightly uneven hump. Russandol was quite intrigued by the sight. He ran his fingers over the surface to which his wrist and hand had once connected and for a few moments, he seemed lost in his another world. At last he tore his gaze away and praised Faelin's fine work. The healer advised him to remain careful nevertheless and avoid any collisions or strains to the still sensitive stump, which Russandol promised to heed.

Since the weather had improved and by now he managed walking short distances without any support, Faelin also allowed them to move his exercises outside. At first they remained close to the hut and soon the space within the enclosure of bushes was littered by the barely recognisable imprints their feet left in the snow. But after a few days, they began to venture further, forth from the safety of their secluded retreat and out onto the streets of Már Léraiva.

The people stared – of course they stared. Maitimo was the one that had returned from the vaults of Angamando, which came close to returning from the dead, and technically he was still the ingaran. The people stared, bowed their heads, and muttered words of deference and admiration. But every now and then, there was a glint of scepticism in their gazes. Discontent, aversion even. Findekáno could see it and Russandol saw it as well. And they both heard the mutters that sprang up as soon as they had passed by.

"That he has the audacity to walk the streets."

"His mere presence is a slap in the face of every man, every woman or child that stands here today bereaved of someone they loved."

"He should say 'thank you' and bugger off to his kin of traitors!"

"Our king he shall be nevermore!"

Russandol held his head high and kept a straight face, yet Findekáno saw that it did not leave him cold and he began to wish they had not chosen Turukáno's part of town for a walk. So he tried to provide distraction from the gaping Ñoldor by telling his friend interesting facts and stories about Már Léraiva and the work of renewing it. He pointed to the houses to which they had added another storey, showed him the new watchtowers that had been erected, and spoke about the current problem of space. They had just ascended a small elevation, that indeed represented the highest point on the cliff, Findekáno now elaborating on their new plans of defence, when he realised that Russandol was barely listening.

"Is everything fine?"

Russandol had left his side and halted in front of one among the few trees inside the city walls. It was a dishevelled fir in the green-white crown of which a group of crows had settled. Their cawing sounded far across the camp.

"Do you want to go back?"

His friend turned around, a strange look in his eyes. "The last time I stood on this hill", he said tonelessly, "it was overrun by Orqui. Ten days later, my father was dead, I was ingaran, and the crows were feasting on the swathe of blood that we had left in our wake all the way up to the borders of Nóre Andyelwa." His gaze wandered over the rampart and then further, to the mountains in the east. "He will never leave us alone, Findo. Never, as long we remain in the lands he wishes to rule for himself. Formen is his dominion. We will not find peace here, only more wars, more suffering, and more spilt blood."

Findekáno could divine what had caused the shadow on his heart. He just needed to close his eyes to hear the din on the quays of Alqualonde, to revive the disgust, the fear, the rush, the throbbing of his heart. What would he not give if this were to remain the first and only time he witnessed a battle? A pipe dream as it is.

"You are right. We haven't won anything yet and another attack will come eventually." He stepped to the side of his cousin and put his arm around him. "But the last time you were taken by surprise before you had even properly settled. The next time, however, we will be prepared. We have strengthened the city and we shall strengthen the borders of Hísilóme as well. The Orqui won't even get anywhere near these walls. This is our land now and we shall defend it."

With a loud croaking, the crows took to the skies and flew east.

"Morikotto still has to learn not to seek the wrath of the Ñoldor", Findekáno added grimly. He turned his head, hoping to see a little bit of confidence instilled into his friend. But Russandol numbly watched the black birds vanish over the wall, the expression on his face unreadable. "Let us head back", he said at long last. "I am tired."

Findekáno gave him a keen glance and obliged without questioning.

On the next morning, he went into the stables and fetched Hrívangwe to carry his cousin into the eastern part of the city. There they encountered no hostile stares and less muttering than the day before, yet Russandol was still very silent and seemed to dwell on his own thoughts. Findekáno left him be. Surely it were a lot of new impressions, a lot to catch up on, and he could understand that his friend needed time to process it all. Thus, he did most of the talking himself (something he was quite unaccustomed to) and showed Russandol around their new home.

Over the next few days, they visited Findekáno's office, the smithies, and the library, which Russandol was especially fond of. It consisted of some hundred scrolls written in Endóre, plus five chests with scripts that had survived the journey. It wasn't much, but the beginning was made and it would grow with time.

The Feanárion seemed to have recovered from the first shock of entering the new life of the Ñoldor and soon was back to normal. Findekáno was content. He had the feeling that no future obstacle could be too great to overcome. After his people had survived the Helkaraxe, he and Nelyo made it back alive from the Sangoronti, and last but not least, together had dismantled prejudice and false assumptions to shed light on the truth, what else was there to worry him?

---

* slightly adapted quote from PM:354f.