Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Time frame: T.A. 265. late spring.
Rating: PG-13 for themes of rape.
A/N: Title arguably stolen from an (excellent) Incubus song.

Shadow Child
Chapter XVIII: The Warmth

Findur dreamed no dreams in the few minutes between his swoon and his awakening. Though unmoving, he was dimly aware of being borne up by many arms. Voices washed over him, low and sweet, like separate currents of a great river. The air around him smelt of leather and honey and faint perspiration.

He was brought to to a warm, lightless place, where the world shifted, and then steadied and grew still. The voices faded. In the silence, the darkness made a picture, weaving itself into strands long and sleek, black against pale skin, twisted at the nape of a swan neck... but the image faded, falling back into a sea of pure sensation.

Dark, and soft, and fragrant, and something cool on his forehead.

"Look! He's waking. I saw his eyes flutter open."

"Yes... Perhaps I should leave."

He could not remember what the words meant. Instead, the timbres of the voices drew him closer to consciousness. One was like petals of gold scattered on a white path, but the second was soft and intent as a single leaf blown by great winds. Familiar strains, bringing with them long-forgotten memories...

"What?" asked the first voice. "For what reason? Surely—"

"I will go," repeated the second voice. "I... I fear I should not be kind. If there is a confrontation, let it wait. For his sake as much as my own. We will speak later."

Footsteps fell, and fabric rustled, and dialogue ran dizzily through his mind - I fear... I fear I... Remembered what the words meant, and was Findur again.

He opened his eyes. He could see only white, interrupted by a triangle of undulating sky to which the second voice had apparently disappeared.

A moment later, his field of view was dominated by a unexpected familiar face leaning over him.

"Welcome back to the waking world, Master Findur," said Amroth with a gentle smile.

Astonished, Findur sprang from the ground and stepped back quickly, taking in the white canopy of the tent above him and the makeshift bed of blankets below in one glance. The blurry images seemed to spin and reel about him. Amroth... what was Amroth...?

Even as he found himself on the verge of collapsing once more, Amroth seized him, holding him steady.

"Slowly, slowly now," said Amroth, leading him back to the pile of blankets and beckoning for him to sit. "You are safe and have nothing to fear."

Findur was not afraid. He felt curiously still, an anomaly of gears and wheels against the neutral surroundings, something ever-turning, yet ever-fixed. He lowered himself onto the blankets, his back and arms sore—from carrying Liniel—?

"Where is she?" he asked hurriedly. "Liniel—where is Liniel—"

"The lady?" asked Amroth, kneeling again at Findur's side. "She is being cared for. First—"

"Where? I must see her!"

"And so we will. But first... friend, do you have any notion of where you are?"

"There were tents," said Findur vaguely, too distracted to fully comprehend Amroth's question. A few moments' muddled reasoning, though, sorted out the import of the statement. He looked up at Amroth with newly wrought confusion. "Did... Elrond send you?"

"In a matter of speaking," said Amroth. He ran a critical eye over Findur. "You are not hurt—do you feel well enough to walk?"

"Yes, yes," said Findur. "Please—bring me to her."

Amroth nodded, and with the support of his outstretched hand, Findur rose once more and stiffly walked to the door of the tent. Evening was falling fast, leaving the gold fields and white tents shrouded in a purple darkness.

"Who is she, this woman?" asked Amroth softly from behind him.

"She is my wife," said Findur without thinking, but when he turned to gauge Amroth's reaction, he found only understanding in the king's clear gray eyes.

"She has a beautiful name," said Amroth, and smiled, taking Findur by the hand and leading him out into the darkening night.


They cut swiftly across the meadow, Amroth staying close at Findur's side. Findur saw that he was girded with a hunting knife. He wondered if he was to be held prisoner here, and, if so, what had these strange invaders had thought when they had beheld their enemy running directly into their midst.

Amroth halted before one of the larger tents. "In here, Findur," he said, lifting the tent flap and nodding for him to enter.

Findur did not move. He stared at Amroth in realization. "Findur," he murmured. "You called me—"

Amroth's smile had twisted and frozen, and he stared blankly at his feet as he spoke. "What would you prefer to be called? Morfindel?" All of the humor had drained out of his voice. He smirked, but his eyes were cold. "Gwathion?"

"I—"

"No." Amroth sighed and looked up, meeting Findur's gaze. "Do not apologize, my friend... I have no great grievance toward you. Others will make their case soon enough." He beckoned towards the tent. "Come. She lies within."

Every thought in Findur's mind vanished the instant he saw her. In the cool darkness of the tent, two or three attendants at her side, his wife lay unmoving upon a bower of blankets and pillows and wraps and reeds. Her blood-stained bodice had been removed and replaced with a clean, loose-fitting tunic, and Findur saw that her side had been well-bandaged beneath. But her skin was a ghastly white, and she did not stir.

He sank feebly at her side, taking her hand in his. Her skin was like ice against his own, but he only clutched it the tighter, closing his eyes against coming tears. A hand was resting on his shoulder, and a voice murmured words that sent the attendants shuffling away, but he was hardly aware of them. There was only this ice between his palms and a sea of memories he could not bear to think on, could not push away.

Think on it, Findur. Think on it, and look upon your own reflection. It's happened before. And once, before, you knew how to be angry—drawing a knife when that snake, Curuan, merely referred to your mother's undoing. (Less than an hour later, you had already allowed yourself to be snared by his poisonous lies... but remember nevertheless the fury that stirred your blood, that sent you crying aloud when you heard "bastard" in the same sentence as "Galadriel.")

Fifty years, and you've learned insensibility, a silence of the heart. Blame no one: Liniel, with her carefully guarded passions, did not teach you to stop feeling altogether. Even Curuan, rational and cruel, desired too openly. But you closed your eyes. It was easier that way, wasn't it? Compassion is a hard master, but impulse and fancy make no demands.

Say not that you did not know. You knew. You saw the way his eyes passed over her form. You knew what he was capable of, with the Deceiver himself as his master...

And your master, Findur. And your master.

He dimly recalled the night that Narion's letter had fallen into his unsuspecting hands. Standing alone in a darkened field, he had inexplicably turned away from death, choosing instead a life in exile. Now he imagined the cool hollowness of unbeing... complete disassociation from sensation... and could not conceive of a more perfect bliss.

A shudder of emotion ran through him, quicker than fire and colder than shadow. He opened his eyes, looking down upon Liniel's almost-lifeless form, and chastised himself for his selfishness. How could he think of death when she... when she...

A new thought came into his mind.

I would die... for her.

Let me do it. Let me die for her. My life for hers, this wretched fire for the stirring of her frozen veins. I will do it gladly, and rest in Mandos for all eternity.

He did not know who he was addressing. Elbereth? Ilúvatar? His mother?

Of course it didn't matter. He could think of no means by which his death could equate to Liniel's life. Even if such a transaction might be arranged... what power would care to make the offer? Who would ever heed his call?

What a fool he had been, the day of his marriage to Liniel. Bless our new life together, he had petitioned silently. For Liniel's sake, if not for my own. But the words had not been enough to dispel the shroud of his past, and behold!—the response to his prayer lay before him.

"What are you thinking of?"

Findur looked up. Amroth was knelt across from him, watching Findur's face intently. His own lips were parted, and he wondered if he hadn't been murmuring aloud, however softly.

"I was thinking of the Valar," said Findur.

"Your mother saw them with her own eyes, did she not?" asked Amroth eagerly, and then flushed. "Forgive me," he said quickly. "I did not mean to—"

Findur scarcely heard Amroth's attempts to retract the impertinent question. "Yes," he said softly. "She knew them. She loved Elbereth best."

Amroth fell silent.

"On a clear night in the summer," said Findur, "we would walk for hours beneath the stars, just us two." The recollection spun a warm blanket around him, distancing his mind from the present horror. "She taught me all their names. Valacirca, Wilwarin, Anarríma, Remirrath... Menelvagor was the one I liked best. She would tell me stories of him, the great warrior who prefigured the last days of battle. And then... she would tell me of—of Celeborn. And sometimes I would mix the two up. Both warriors, you see. When she told me she had seen her—had seen the hand that set the stars in the sky—I didn't believe her. No. No, I did, because I believed everything she told me. She told me how beautiful the Star-Kindler was. That the light of Ilúvatar was in her face. I think she felt ugly in her presence... small and stunted and ghastly pale... She never said so. She didn't resent it, not anymore. I think, once, she did. I could see it in her eyes." He looked up. "I'm talking nonsense."

"No," said Amroth fervently. Immediately, he lowered his eyes, his face reddening once more, but he murmured, "Please... if you wish... continue."

"Celeborn... was enamored with Yavanna," said Findur. And he wanted to stop, to excise the face from his mind, but he could not, for all he could see was his mother and Celeborn embracing in a field in Imladris, and to exile the latter from his memory would be to banish her as well. "He liked her because... because he could understand her," he said slowly. "He was always self-effacing. He said that matters of Valinor were too far above him, but I always knew it wasn't true. He liked Middle-earth better. That was all. He was always self-effacing... and I never understood why. I thought... I thought he was wonderful. But he would only speak of Yavanna. Mother of the land. Tree-planter, earth-mother..." He found his voice was breaking on the last syllable, and went on hurriedly, "Please Yavanna... Elbereth... anyone... I have no right to speak these words. I know it. I have betrayed her, and you, and all my people. But for Liniel's sake... my life is meaningless, I would be rid of it, but for Liniel's sake, please... save her... do not let her die for my treason..."

But only silence, and the wind through the grass.

"Not treason," said Amroth softly. "Folly."

"What do you know of it?" cried Findur, looking up disgustedly at Amroth's calm face. "Nothing. You know nothing!"

"You've told me nothing," said Amroth. He lay a hand on the bower, just beside Liniel's head. "How was she wounded?"

Findur clenched his teeth, barely suppressing a keen desire to wrench Amroth's hand away from his wife's side. "She was attacked," he muttered.

"By whom?"

He could not do this. He could not sit passively while Amroth pried away at truths too deep for such a blameless heart to comprehend.

"She was attacked," he repeated. He saw Amroth's eyes dart nervously at the statement. Quickly he understood. "You think I did it."

"I—"

"I would never! I would never hurt her! Am I such a monster—"

He realized the irony of the words he had just uttered. A sudden blow, a rivulet of blood trickling across his wife's upper lip flashed before him, seen as if with vision. He was still clutching the ice-cold hands, and now held them the tighter, falling forward and burying his face in the blankets of the bower.

"I am a monster," he said, his voice muffled by the folds of cloth. "But I did not do this. I would slay myself before I committed such a deed."

"You are no monster, Findur," said Amroth. "And I believe you." And there was silence for a few minutes, as each contemplated the meaning of the words.

"You are here to end my rule," observed Findur.

"As I said, I am here to stop you from making a fool of yourself," said Amroth gently.

Findur sat up, meeting Amroth's eyes. "Do not patronize me, please."

"I do not patronize, Findur of Imladris. If you wish to know what brought me here—"

Findur rolled his eyes, feeling too weary for political games. "Elrond sent you. We have established that. Let him do what he likes."

"Elrond set the events into motion, yes," said Amroth. "But it is by the authority of the king of Greenwood that I have come now, in the event that you declare war upon Arnor, and thus lead his people into a war against their own kin. I assume you have done so based on the expression on your face."

"Against Arnor only," said Findur. "But it matters not now... Yet I do not understand. Greenwood has no king."

"It has one now," said Amroth with something of a smile. "Legolas, son of Thranduil, has not yet declared himself in his own land, but he met me in Lórinand as soon as he learned of your... activities. Many of his people now dwell there in exile, and they met him with joy. Elladan, Elrond's son had already informed me of recent events. He suggested that we make an unannounced appearance before hostilities had the opportunity to escalate."

"But..." Findur's head spun with numbers. "It's been less than a month since Arnor declared war. I've only known of it a week. The Redhorn Pass—"

"We did not go by the Redhorn Pass. Durin was quite willing to let us pass through his halls when he heard that Arnor was in danger. Apparently he was in the dark when it came to the quality of your connection with Angmar. He does not forget the friendship of Dwarves and Men in the Last Alliance, and besides, Arnor is one of his best trading partners. All of Eriador has benefited from increased trade with Khazad-dûm, not Eregion and Angmar alone."

"Durin," muttered Findur. "And I was sure that I had Durin."

"Findur. I understand that you are grieved. But word must be sent to the city. What do you intend to do?"

"Tell them I abdicate," said Findur. "Tell them to pack and go home and try to forget that Naurhir Morfindel ever existed—"

It occurred to him that Curuan's dead body was still lying in his bedroom. That, as far as he knew, a shadow still lay over Ost-in-Edhil.

You cannot just undo this, Findur.

He shuddered, clutching Liniel's hands the tighter. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know. Please, just leave me be."

Amroth left him then, with soft words and a promise to return later in the night. Findur was left with the sound of Liniel's shallow breathing, and found himself breathing with her, until there was nothing but their two pairs of lungs.

As long as I continue to breathe, so will she. And as long as she breathes, she is not gone.

And so the long night passed. Medics flitted in and out, checking the state of the wound and giving Liniel all manner of poultices and draughts. Amroth came and urged Findur to sleep, but Findur spurned his offer of lodgings.

A few hours before dawn, he finally succumbed to sleep, such was his weariness. But his rest was dark and unsettling, full of shadowy gardens and leering faces, and, even as the sun rose, a dark and terrifying presence that caused him to sit upright, eyes open, and shudder uncontrollably until it passed over him and fled into the east.

After the shadow had retreated, Findur slept the more soundly. No dreams troubled him, and he did not stir until after noon, when he heard a soft familiar voice calling him.

"Morfindel?"

Findur, whose brow was resting against Liniel's hip, and whose head was buried in blankets, pushed himself slowly from the bed, groaning and turning to see who had called.

"Arandu—?" he murmured groggily.

Arandulë stood in the opening of the tent, soft white light filtering in behind her. Amroth was standing beside her, and behind him...

"Lórimir," exclaimed Findur without thinking. But the golden-haired figure quickly turned and fled, and Findur realized his stupidity. Of course it was not Lörimir, but his brother.

Meanwhile, Arandulë had suddenly blanched. She was staring past Findur, transfixed by the sight of Liniel's inert form.

"She's not—"

"She's alive," said Findur in what was meant to be a reassuring voice. His hand had lost its grip upon Liniel's in the night, and he clutched it now, as if to assert her continued vitality. He felt a sudden stab of guilt for having fallen asleep.

Arandulë ventured a few steps into the tent.

"Did... did he do it?"

"Who?" demanded Findur and Amroth simultaneously.

"The—the man we found in your house. No one knew who he was."

"But—"

"He was dark-haired, gray-eyed. He looked like... but it couldn't be..."

Findur gave no sign, and she hurried on, "It looked—like Curuan. I did not know him before the war, nor Liniel. But I saw him when he came back. Morfindel—" She was tilting her head back imperceptibly, with a learned expertise that came with habitual crying. "It couldn't be him, could it?"

When Findur did not answer, Arandulë went to the bower, kneeling and looking down at Liniel's body with all the gravity of a vigil for a corpse.

"They say you are going to abdicate," she said.

"Yes."

"But you can't. You can't abandon us."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"You are the only one who has sustained us—"

"I have betrayed you!" cried Findur, rising swiftly and stepping away, his hands fisted in an effort to divert his anger. "What, do you think me strong? Fair? Wise? You do not even know who I am. What I am. I am worse than that man you found in my house. I am an abomination, do you understand?"

There was a silence, all averted eyes and ragged breath.

"What do you mean?" demanded Arandulë finally, looking frightened. She threw an imploring glance in Amroth's direction, as if in hope that he might answer the riddle in Findur's stead, but the elven king regarded her coolly, not stirring from his post in the entrance of the tent.

Findur followed her line of sight, her ignorance a palpable weight on his skin, in his stomach. A thousand dreadful images followed: a fluttering parchment, familiar voices speaking in unfamiliar ways, clouded gray eyes on the wrong side of a transparent veil. He shuddered, filled suddenly with an overwhelming desire to tell her everything.

"Your parents are dead, Arandulë," he said. "They died in the war."

Startled, Arandulë returned her attention to him immediately. She nodded once.

"My mother, the Lady Galadriel, did not die in the war. Instead—she—" He drew in a deep breath, and went on. "Instead she was taken. Taken by force, do you understand what I mean? Not to satisfy the lust of some rough man or mad Orc. Instead—" Emotion outreached the constraints of language. He stopped and tried again. "Sauron feared that his downfall was near. In which event... I would live on, Arandulë, to prepare the way for his return. His child. His heir."

He had never seen eyes so wide.

"They hid it from me. But I discovered the truth, and I fled. I couldn't stay. Not if it meant pretending that nothing had happened, that I was still Lord Celeborn's son. But I swore, naively, that I would never seek fame, nor power, nor succumb to the will of the one whose heir I had been designated. I thought... like them... that I could be different..."

A mad grin crept onto his face. Arandulë looked horrified.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But don't you see the irony of it? Isn't it funny? A man who has more reason to hate Sauron than any other—accepting the Black Hand's rule—not just accepting it—wanting it. Imagine that man, so blinded by his desire for power and stability and control that he does not see... or want to see... as his most trusted official, Sauron's from the beginning, is taken over by even baser desires. Prepared to reenact the very deed of my begetting, and I do not see, not until it is too late—"

"Then he—!" Arandulë cried aloud, looking positively petrified.

"No, no. I—I killed him before he could do that."

He smiled another insane smile—he could feel the corners of his mouth unnaturally curving. "Yes, Arandulë. This is the great elven prince you have put into power. A traitor, and a liar, and a coward."

Arandulë did not reply. She was staring vacantly at the ground, her arms folded in a one-sided embrace. Tears were streaming down her face. In the silence, Findur slowly became aware of the rapidity of his own breathing, the tenseness of his muscles as he loomed over Arandulë's small form.

"And now," he said. "Thinking he is reformed, he proceeds to browbeat an innocent woman, horrifying her for his own selfish gratification. Forgive me... I did not mean..."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Arandulë softly, letting her arms fall to her sides and sniffling a little. "You told me the truth. I don't know how long you've been lying, but you told—and that was what I wanted." Her voice was choked. "I only hope that she—that she—"

There were no words, of course. Why should there be? With the spontaneity of Arandulë's clumsy speech and trembling glance, Findur felt another veil tear and fall away. Behind it was a portrait of a people. He saw the mighty branches of trees in this elf maiden's long, woven hair, and the trembling of stars in her eyes, and felt that, even if the people of Greenwood could never, never forgive him, at least the crime would be etched like a testament in their faces, never to be forgotten.

"I only hope—" Arandulë tried once more, but faltered.

"So do I," said Findur.

He could not decide if she was angry or not. Everything about Arandulë seemed to be numb, her mannerisms imbued with a sort of calm acceptance that asked no questions and passed no judgment. When he asked her to go down to the city and reinforce the news of his abdication, she nodded and said nothing. Only as she was leaving did she ask what should be done with Curuan's body.

It was a blunt question, and a horrible one. Guilt, to Findur, had been a sort of hollow chagrin, the aftermath of broken windows and skipped lessons. Weightier crimes produced something intense and visceral, mingled inexorably with love. Never had it been quite like this—a disease of the mind—a nervous shivering that shifted and rearranged his cognitive process and led him to the most unexpected realizations.

Findur. Dark-haired. Shadow-son. Fire lord.

Kinslayer.

When Findur spoke, his mouth was dry and his voice shaky.

"Bury him properly," he said. "He was an elf, and a warrior. I do not know what he suffered in captivity, but he was not the first of our people to be turned to dark purposes."

He stopped when he realized that Arandulë was staring at him intently. Before he could ask her what was wrong, or react in any way, she had strode over to him, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his brow.

"You escaped," she said, staring at him what Findur recognized for the first time as misguided love. He shook his head and gently pushed her away.

"Curuan escaped as well," he said. "Sauron wished no harm against Liniel. He forbade Curuan to... to attempt what he did. Curuan died in an act of rebellion."

When she was gone, Amroth stepped forward. Something about his face was very stiff and strange, and a sense of despondency filled the room. The memory of Arandulë's acceptance seemed ridiculous, like a pantomime of a love story.

"So," Amroth said, his voice a toneless whisper. "That is the answer to all our questions. The Shadow is here. In Eregion. With you."

"Was," said Findur, and immediately wished he had not spoken. "I think—he has gone now," he explained hastily.

There was a pause, during which Findur readied himself for the onslaught of accusations, recriminations, and outright threats.

"You have not yet broken your fast," Amroth observed.

Findur felt an offer of breakfast was hardly an appropriate sentiment under the circumstances. "I'm not hungry," said Findur. When he saw Amroth open his mouth to protest, he groaned. "Please, do not harry me. I cannot eat—not when—" He threw a desperate look in Liniel's direction.

"I understand," said Amroth. "Then... we will go directly to business, and you will help me to understand something that I do not understand."

Findur saw for the first time a carefully guarded anger in Amroth's eyes.

"I want to understand, Findur. I do not know what I would have done... but..."

"You want to know why I did it."

He searched the recesses of his mind, trying to unearth the faintest ghost of a response, and found nothing.

"I don't know," he said, in slow realization. "I don't know why I do anything. I do things because they appeal to me. There are reasons, of course, appearances and charades and power struggles to resolve, but I don't decide to concern myself with them. They simply are, and there's always just one way to navigate them."

Amroth threw him a skeptical look. "Everyone makes choices, Findur."

Findur considered the sense of this. He remembered walking the old path through Greenwood, not knowing what he would do when he came to a fork in the road. He'd halted, of course, but not of his own volition. Instead, an enchanted river had blocked his path, and a cry of stop! had slowed his steps. It had been so easy to fall in love with Liniel. A vision had shown him their future, and suddenly he had found it reflected in his own heart.

"I chose not to choose, then," he said.

Other things he had seen: Imladris burning. A valley of ashes. Memory, though, had dulled them, the images sliding effortlessly through his consciousness, softened by the very fact of their inevitability.

What? No, now he was making things up. All that you have seen holds a certain truth, but none of it is inevitable, Liniel had said.

Imladris burning, beautiful and terrible, wreathed in flames.

What else had she said? Why couldn't he remember? His memory was normally flawless, but now he was misconstruing images and sensations, every memory colored by his current state. What else had she said?

Ah, yes. It is said that the complexity of such visions depends in part on the beholder himself... his willingness to see.

Findur, staring idly at the ground, saw the trampled-down grass beneath his feet.

Imladris burning.

It would be a way to do it.

"Perhaps you should stand back," he said aloud to Amroth.

Less than thirty seconds later, open to the scrutiny of the elven king's tremulous gaze, a small and self-contained flame was flickering at their feet, consuming the dry grass at a speed that only Findur's careful unseen tending kept in check.

"Oh," said Amroth. And then, "But you did not speak—or sing—or—"

"It's what I do," said Findur miserably, fully aware of the self-pity audible in his voice. "I start fires. I start fires, and I make things, and I somehow convince people to like me. And when he—" He shook his head. "I thought there was no other choice."

He looked down. With the lapse in his concentration, the fire had begun to spread. He extinguished it with a glance.

"Findur," said Amroth. "It does not have to be that way. You know now there is a choice. And I assure you that there is more to you than starting fires."

Findur shrugged, walking back to Liniel's side and kneeling, taking her hand in his.

"Not enough," he murmured.

If only he could do it. If only he could die, and exchange his fiery fëa for her own... (1)

His mental processes came to a screeching halt.

He let go of Liniel's hand, and regarded his own, palm up, fingers extended. He let his mind relax in the old way, and felt a nimbus of heat surrounding his hand—not fire, but kindled air.

"Findur?"

He remembered something else, something that had happened long after the night of his vision.

Liniel would sketch sometimes at the dinner table, with worn cloth napkins as her canvas and a spare piece of graphite or charcoal as medium. Halfway through the main course, she'd hold up a rough miniature masterpiece, smiling and asking him what he thought.

Once she had drawn what Findur had taken for a tree, with long limbs and tangled branches against a woodland backdrop. When he'd complimented her on her landscape, she'd given him an incredulous look, and handed him the drawing, bidding him to return it when he worked out the actual subject of the sketch.

Three weeks of scrutiny had come to naught, and Findur had been ready to admit defeat. Was there some deeper meaning to said tree that he had passed over? Something in the forest that he'd missed?

One morning, while trimming his fingernails, his gaze had randomly fallen over the sketch, laying on the table beside their bed.

It was different this time. Instead of an old tree, he saw an image of two lovers embracing, bodies tall and lithe, hair wild and entwined.

"Dear," he'd begun aloud, "did you—?"

But she hadn't changed the sketch, or made the slightest alteration. What he had mistaken for a tree was the lovers, and had been all the time.

Now, feeling the warmth of his hand, a thousand preconceptions rearranged themselves just so, resolving in a single image, one that he had never seen and whose presence he had never guessed at. Peril dissipated, and words fell away. There was only Liniel, and this new thing, transparent as a gem, waiting for him like an unused gift that he could not recall having received.

Could this work?

Once more, he took Liniel's hands—both of them, and tightly. He closed his eyes, and bent his mind upon the thing he needed to do, not gripping it like a vice, but enveloping her body in the sea of his thoughts. Soon, it was as if she were a part of him... part of the fire...

Gently now. Not fire, only warmth. Think: the glow of the hearth in the Hall of Fire. Gentle music. Dark and golden and silver heads. Feel it. Be there.

He passed into a world beyond words, all bright eyes and soft elusive shadows, enveloped in warmest love.

Energy transformed and flowed from skin to skin, traveling through the circuit of their joined hands.

The fire spread. Particle quickened particle; blood trembled and stirred, making its courses down separate vessels, flooding skin and organs with warmth.

"Findur!" cried Amroth breathlessly.

Findur opened his eyes and saw that Liniel's cheeks were flushed with color, her lips slightly parted.

A spasm of hope stabbed his heart. "Liniel," he whispered.

And then, almost silently and with closed eyes. "Please. Please. Elbereth... Varda... I know I have failed... Do not hold her accountable."

"Findur?"

Findur opened her eyes to find Liniel staring back at him. She was still very pale, but her eyes were bright.

The world seemed to change at that moment, grow brighter and richer in hues, with more air to breathe. Findur became suddenly aware of the white of the tent, the soft blue of Liniel's bedclothes, the beautiful gray of her eyes. He exhaled deeply, and tried to smile.

"You—you wouldn't wake," he said.

"I... I don't think I remembered how." Her voice was very hoarse.

Amroth, whose presence Findur had all but forgotten, swooped down with a cup of water. "Are you thirsty?" he asked.

Liniel nodded, and Findur took the cup, helping her to hold it to her lips. She drank deeply. When she was done, Findur set the cup on the ground beside them.

When he returned his attention to Liniel, he found her eyes darting about, taking in the tent and Amroth and her own bower. "Where are we?"

"We are with friends," said Findur.

"You were praying. You were asking forgiveness." Her speech was languid and disjointed, giving it a dreamlike quality. "Then what Curuan said was true."

"What did he say?" he asked warily.

"He said that... that you were Sauron's. Both of you were. But Curuan would not abide by his rule any longer. Sauron would be furious, but he didn't care. He was his own man, not a puppet like you, and this was his first act as a free man..."

"He's dead," said Findur. He could think of nothing else to say, no way to justify himself to Liniel. "I—I'm—"

"Please don't apologize." There was a certain desperation in her voice. Please, said her eyes, don't make me remember, in turn, the apologies I owe you. The betrayals on both sides. The shattered past.

"I can't forget," he told her. "I've forgiven you; you need not say a word, but you must know—"

"I do."

Her nonchalance made him feel vaguely nauseated. Have I done this to you, Liniel? Have I made you so complacent?

"Liniel," he said aloud, and with the single word, dearer to him than any word, he burst into tears like a child.

Liniel inhaled sharply, blinked. She laughed, then made a sound like a sob.

"Please don't—" she began, then stopped. Finally, she whispered, "Findur... I'm confused."

"So am I," he said, leaning forward and caressing her brow, her cheek, her lips. Then he lay his head beside her, still crying, but feeling strangely filled. He remembered Arandulë's calm eyes. He remembered the flurry of golden hair rushing past the tent. He remembered Curuan's youthful body in a pool of blood. The impressions tore across his unconsciousness like shards of broken glass, cold and terrible... and real.

"I'll not run again," he murmured, and Liniel's hand found his, and gripped it. It was what she had wanted to hear.


After that they were alone, as two people in a crowd can be alone. Amroth left, and Findur remained at Liniel's side, listening to the sound of tents being collapsed and messages being shouted across the encampment. A portion of the camp was mobilizing, explained a fair-haired man who brought them a very late breakfast of waybread and cool, sweet water. They would meet Elrond's forces in Imladris and coordinate their strategies from there.

Findur felt light-headed from this intrusion of reality, and even stranger when he realized that Liniel knew nothing of the upcoming war. He told her everything, in low and urgent tones, and she listened unflinchingly. When he observed her silence and asked her if she was all right, she told him that she was having a love affair with pain, and that once they had had their tryst, she would return to him once more. She smiled at her joke, but he could not bring himself to do the same.

They both ate heartily, and Liniel sat up, insisting that her wound hardly pained her. But neither Amroth nor Arandulë returned, leaving Findur to silently agonize over the fate of Ost-in-Edhil, Angmar, and the elves who were to make siege upon it.

Soon after they had finished eating, a new face peered into the tent. It nodded in greeting, and Findur hardly had time to take in its features before, with a flurry of blue cloth and dark hair, its owner was kneeling beside him, setting some medicinal supplies on the ground.

"I have come to change the lady's bandages, if I may," said the medic, the piercing luminosity of his eyes resting upon Findur for a moment before attending to Liniel. "You really should not be sitting up," he told her. He was very well-spoken, but his voice was unemphatic, marked only by a veneer of good humor.

Liniel opened her mouth to protest, but her argument deteriorated to a sigh. She shook her head with a tired humor, but lay down once more. Findur helped her adjust her pillows to compensate for the change in position. All the time, he watched the medic out of the corner of his eye. The man's face was strange, his strong, angular features put into relief by a softly curving mouth, and his eyes... his eyes...

A spark of some emotion, bordering on epiphany, stirred in Findur's consciousness, but quickly it plummeted down from whence it came. He was weary and teasing himself with false patterns.

Meanwhile, the medic had begun working on Liniel's blood-stained bandages, carefully unwinding them from about her middle. This operation required her to sit up after all, earning the medic an offended glare from his patient.

The medic smiled, shrugged, and continued his work, his fingers moving deftly as he finished unwrapping the bandages. Removing the ugly remains of some kind of poultice, he came to the wound itself, a jagged gash across discolored skin that nevertheless had begun to knit together to form an ugly, but harmless, scar.

The medic produced a clean cloth and a phial of amber liquid from a small leather case strapped to his belt. "To reduce the swelling," he explained, and spilled some drops onto the cloth. He pressed the cloth against the open wound, allowing the liquid to spread evenly across the skin.

"May I?" asked Findur softly.

Liniel stared at him as if he had gone mad.

"Of course," said the medic. He handed the cloth to Findur. "Be gentle, of course, and don't rub. It's more of a blotting motion."

Findur nodded. Leaning forward, he pressed the cloth against the wound, mimicking the medic's movements. The fabric was very soft, like a fine silk, and Liniel's skin was surprisingly warm to the touch. Of the three of them, he felt that he was the most surprised. He'd never treated a wound in his life, and it had never occurred to him that the same agility of motion that allowed him to bend and temper metal could be applied to such a dissimilar vocation.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Findur. Bandages and phials are a far cry from the fine and subtle art of healing... He smiled. Involuntarily, he had been thrust into a distant memory of childhood instruction in the rudiments of medicine. He could still hear Master Elrond's voice droning on: Healing is a fine and subtle art, one that relies on the most fundamental resources of the practitioner. It is a spiritual exercise as much as a physical one. A man does not merely heal...

"He is a healer," Findur finished aloud with a laugh, and for a moment it was as if he were still Findur of Imladris, and nothing had changed since then, and no one was going to war over anything.

Liniel let out a long breath, a gentle note that brought him back to reality.

"You laughed," she said. "You've not smiled once today, not even ironically. It was rather terrifying."

Findur did not know what to say, and concluded that words were worthless. The amber liquid exhausted, he set the cloth aside. Then, spontaneously, he took her hand in his and kissed her palm.

It took them both a moment to remember that the medic was still there, and, what more, that he was tapping his fingers in an aimless pattern on the ground.

"So you received that lecture too," he said, so quickly and quietly that Findur was sure he had misheard him.

"That old discourse on the joys of healing, I mean," the medic went on. "I suppose every child born in Imladris heard it in one form or another. I, of course, had the privilege of hearing it at least once a week. Mother would tease him about it dreadful—"

He cut himself off, smiling shyly in a way that softened all his features.

Findur narrowed his eyes. For the first time, he really saw the man before him: his pale blue, finely embroidered tunic, his dark hair, his strong jaw, and above all, the startling light of his eyes, which he now realized was all Galadriel's...

"I should have told you," Celebrían's son was saying. "I am sorry. I wanted to see you; that is all. I did not mean to deceive either of you. My name is Elrohir, and, you see, I am—"

"Celebrían's. Yes." Findur nodded slowly, and added as a guilty afterthought, "I met your sister. She told me of you and your brother."

"I know."

"How much do you know?"

"Everything, now." Elrohir gave him a reassuring look. "I am one of the very few who do."

There was a pause. Elrohir took the opportunity to begin bandaging Liniel's side with clean cloth strips.

Liniel, meanwhile, was regarding Findur with a very hard and thoughtful look. She turned to Elrohir.

"What are Elrond's intentions regarding my husband?" she demanded.

It was a question that Findur had been deeply preoccupied with since Liniel's awakening. He waited to hear what Elrohir would say.

Elrohir did not speak at once. He studied Liniel for a moment. "I remember you now," he said, with all the coolness of a medic making small talk with his patient. "You came to Imladris. You spoke with my father."

Liniel did not reply, but her eyes burned. It was, Findur realized, the effect Elrohir had been aiming for.

"Liniel, peace," he said. "We are among friends."

"Friends who imprison us. Friends who will gladly punish us—not that we don't deserve—" But she stopped. Apparently, that subject was too delicate to broach, no matter what rewards it might offer on the verbal battlefield.

"You are not held here, lady," said Elrohir. "As soon as your health has returned, you are free to go as you wish. As for your husband, we do not retain him here in malice. My brother and I are simply to escort him to Imladris. You will find that the elves of our household are not interested in vengeance, nor blood sacrifices, like the heathen Men might use to appease their gods."

"No," muttered Liniel under her breath. "Only the Silvan would stoop so low."

Findur knew she did not mean it, and was only retreating to old prejudices to guard herself against the winds of change. Staring blindly at the browning trampled grass beneath him and remembering the flames that had blazed there just a few hours before, he forced the aimless argument to a climax, and said the thing that was heavy on his heart.

"After Imladris... I hoped to fight, if you will let me."

"Are you mad?" screamed Liniel with as much volume as her weak lungs could muster, a veritable inferno now blazing in her eyes. "Even supposing they allowed you to go—and that I doubt—"

"Now that we have finally recovered you," Elrohir admitted, "I do doubt that the household will be inclined to watch idly as you ride off to death and destruction."

"Why not? You'll ride, won't you? You and your brother. It was my war. I put that idiot Dolgubêl in power. I was the one—"

"Findur, hold your tongue," muttered Liniel peevishly.

What do you know of it? Findur wanted to cry, but he set his jaw and remained silent.

Liniel saw this. She sighed and gave him a gentle mocking look. "Shall we never argue, then, dear?"

Yes. We shall never argue, and Naurhir shall save us all. "I'm sorry," he said.

Elrohir had finished Liniel's bandages. He gave her a clear liquid to drink for the residual pain, although Findur suspected ulterior motives connected with the silence that followed as Liniel drank. He watched his nephew collect his materials, glancing at Findur peripherally as he himself had watched Elrohir.

"I do not know what my father will say," said Elrohir. "I am not sure he would wish such a burden upon you, not now. And, after all, there are other ways to do penance, Findur."

It was something that his sister might have said.

That night, Liniel was able to sit up without pain. She could even walk across the tent when no one was looking and Findur was too weary to argue. In the exhilaration of her recovery, he had kissed her, then remembered they were supposed to feel distant and self-conscious and stopped. Liniel had smiled, though, and returned the gesture in a pointed disavowal of such feelings. But the second try had only made their truth the more inescapable, and Findur and Liniel had found themselves forced to settle for a wordless embrace that lasted until Amroth arrived with promise of a proper meal and news of Ost-in-Edhil.

"They'll not march?" asked Findur quickly. They had walked outside to talk, giving Findur a chance to return to the open air after a day of confinement by Liniel's side.

"They'll not march," Amroth confirmed. "We—or Arandulë, I should say; she seems to be intimately familiar with the entire city—explained that Curuan had attacked you and Liniel in a fit of madness, and that you were forced to defend yourself. It was news not altogether unbelievable of an elf who had undergone such horrors in Mordor. No one blames you, nor should they.

"As for the war, word of it had scarcely traveled. They'll hear more of your unsavory dealings later, no doubt, but as of now, you're nothing but a mysterious smith turned leader whose goings were as strange as his comings. They spoke highly of you, and many are still dubious as to your reasons for leaving them... but they will not mourn indefinitely. News of Legolas's kingship has been received with approval by even the hardest hearts among them. A few have already decided to return with him to Greenwood."

Findur nodded thoughtfully, and knew his words must sound trivial when, a moment later, he asked where his sword was.

Amroth pretended not to know what he was talking about. Findur, however, pressed the matter, and a bit of verbal backtracking revealed that, yes, Findur had been wearing a weapon when he had collapsed in the midst of the camp.

"I can find it if you like," said Amroth. "I had entirely forgotten its existence until you mentioned it now." He paused. "But... why do you want it?"

"I'm not staging a one-man armed rebellion, if that's what you fear," said Findur waspishly. He had adopted the mood ever since Liniel's health had improved; any undue pessimism or foreboding seemed profane in comparison.

"Yes... but what do you want it for, then?"

Findur was lost for a suitable reply. The idea that had prompted his question was naive and ridiculous; he felt ashamed. Nevertheless, Amroth stood waiting for an answer.

"I wanted to give it to someone," he said quietly.

Amroth, who seemed to have an inkling of whom someone might be, nodded and promised to find it, on the condition that he or one of Elrond's sons be present while Findur bore it.

"I do trust you, Findur, but..."

"Yes, yes," said Findur impatiently. "I scarcely trust myself, so you should hardly be the exception."

They parted then, with Amroth promising to bring him his weapon after the evening meal, and Findur returned to Liniel's tent. Slim, strong arms greeted him at the doorway, gripping his shoulders and bringing him into an embrace.

Findur allowed himself to be enveloped in his wife's arms, but at a length he pulled away, giving Liniel a dubious look. "If you don't rest—" he began cautioningly.

"They told me I may walk a little, as long as I'm careful. And I need to regain my strength. I have decided to go with you to Imladris."

He had been afraid she would try something like this. "And you called me mad? You're in no shape to walk, let alone—"

"They have horses, Findur." Her face was all serenity, and it looked strange. "I'll be fine."

She came close and rested her head on his shoulder blade, and he felt protected as well as protecting, and hated himself even as he loved her.


Amroth had delivered his sword as promised, washed of blood and polished well. Called off on some technical business concerning the packing of tents, he had appointed Elladan to keep Findur company.

Elladan looked identical to his brother, down to the arrangement of his hair. He did favor a deep red tunic rather than a blue one, but that was the only differentiating trait Findur could detect. Likewise, Findur was sure there were subtle shades of differences in their mannerisms and personalities. What precisely they were, however, he was lost to say.

Only a few minutes into their acquaintance, Findur was compelled to visit a remote point amongst the scattered trees that bordered the meadow, which had been designated as a lavatory. Unwilling to part from his sword, he was graced with Elladan's accompaniment.

"What, are you afraid someone will take it and hide it while you're away?" asked Elladan with a bemused smile, as they trudged down to the forest.

Findur's reasoning was rather more backwards, and had to do with maximizing the number of minutes he had over the next day to bequeath said sword without actually actively seeking out his intended recipient. He did not reply.

Needless to say, he was taken aback when, some distance from the beginning of the trees, he quite suddenly beheld a pale-haired figure on the horizon, returning from the very destination he was approaching.

Findur and Legolas came within a few yards of each other before both stopped, staring.

Findur had already planned what he was going to do when he first encountered Legolas. It involved bending on one knee and uttering graceful words of apology. Now, he found he could not look the elf in the face.

He really looks remarkably like his brother.

The thought seemed truer than any association between this tall, slender man and the small creature he had known in Greenwood. Legolas had Thranduil's sharp gray eyes, which Lórimir had shared, and a bearing that bespoke gentility. He was slim, but there was a tautness to his limbs and back that gave a definite image of agile strength. His young face served as an ideal instrument for expressing emotion. Right now, a maelstrom of confusion and resentment was visible upon it. Amroth, Findur decided, had not told him of Findur's heritage or his involvement with Sauron. There was not quite enough outright revulsion in his eyes for that.

Findur withered beneath the power of those eyes, and found himself uttering the last words he could have imagined himself saying in greeting to Legolas, out of sensitivity as much as anything.

"You brother was one of the most generous and clear-sighted people I have ever known," he said in a voice that was not quite his own. "He was guilty of no crime. I should have died that day in his stead."

Legolas's eyes slowly rose to meet Findur's own. He spoke so softly that Findur had to strain to hear him.

"He wouldn't have wanted that." His voice was gentle but intent. "He wished ill of no one."

"Do—do you know why I speak of it?"

"I've guessed." Bitter humor danced in Legolas's eyes. "Later, when I looked back upon the events, I remembered you and realized how deeply my father had depended on you. My mother thought I was making things up. She'd liked you very much. Surely, she said, you would have tried to convince him not to do what he did...

"She was wrong, wasn't she? And look! You would have led all of Greenwood to murder if you had had the opportunity, is that not right?" His eyes blazed even as his voice broke. "Would you have done it, if that man hadn't gone mad and frightened you out of it? What, was it too terrifying to see what your purported designs meant before you eyes? Wasn't my brother's death enough to dissuade you?"

The hatred and sorrow audible in Legolas's voice was not the purifying fire Findur had hoped for. Instead, he could only gaze at this boy-king wearing his brother's face and speaking words that only began to express the horror of what Findur had done. He tried to think of some reason that he should not kneel on the ground and ask to be slain with the same sword that he had purported to present to him, save for the vain hope that he could somehow begin to set right his transgressions.

Nevertheless, he clumsily removed his sword and laid it, sheath and all, at Legolas's feet.

"I want you to have this," he said. "You can discard it, or... I don't care. I don't mean for it to have any significance, or satisfy any debt. I will always be in your debt. I cannot begin to utter the first letter of an adequate apology. I wish there was something more I could do."

Legolas eyed the sword suspiciously, as if it were some kind of dead animal. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry," said Findur, feeling far worse than he had when he had begun. "I'm so..." He shook his head. "I'll go now." He pushed past Elladan, who also looked very sorry, and continued on his way to the trees.

When he returned, the sword had gone. So had Legolas.

"He took it?" asked Findur dubiously of Elladan, who had apparently not moved.

"First he threw it as far across the field as he could," said Elladan. "He has a very good arm. Then he retrieved it. He said that his brother would have taken it, and it would be somehow hypocritical not to do the same. He told me to thank you, because he didn't think he could manage the words himself." His steely eyes met Findur's. "That was a very good thing of you to have done."

Findur shook his head. "What does it matter in comparison to what have I done?"

"It mattered to Legolas," said Elladan simply.

In Elladan's words there was hope of redemption. Findur thought of Legolas. He wondered what Greenwood would be like when its king returned.

Redemption, he thought—and for a moment, he, too, hoped.

The next day, in the darkness before dawn, the camp stood almost empty. Illuminated by the thin red line of the coming day, Amroth's people could be seen beginning the march to Imladris. They went on foot, but already they looked the part of an army—their gray cloaks uniformly fastened, swords at their sides. The king of Greenwood was among them, bearing Findur's sword. He would fight, he said, for his people first, and only then think of reestablishing a kingdom.

Before the lines of departing elves, however, was a fairer sight. There galloped a white horse, its flanks gleaming as the sun ascended. It parted the golden fields easily, and often the gray-clad figure on its back leaned forward to whisper words of speed in the steed's ear. It was the last messenger of Naurhir, and it was upon this distant sight that Findur, standing amidst the remaining tents and holding Liniel close, fixed his eye, not looking away until the rider was a distant point against the approaching dawn.


1. fëa - roughly, an elven soul