Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion was growing frustrated. The hunting had been bad, but the hunting was more or less always bad compared to what he'd known in Valannor. By now, he thought wearily as he slipped from shadow to shadow, I should at least have a rabbit to show for my hours of walking, and not empty snare after empty snare. I shall have to return home empty-handed if I am not very successful in the next hour or so, else I shall be caught outside after dark, and I do not trust the land enough to take that chance. He crept forward carefully - he'd planted a snare just ahead, and with good fortune it would perhaps have caught him a rabbit.

There was a sudden noise in the trees, and he tensed, his hand going to his hunting knife. That is no animal. There were few orcs in these woods, if any, with two camps of wary Noldor using them for hunting grounds, but it was safest to be cautious. And besides, Findekáno thought with a sudden burst of black humor, it is probably the other Noldor who are more dangerous. He moved closer to the source of the sound, knife sliding from its leather sheath, and suddenly the branches parted and he was staring into the face of -

"Ambarussa?" he gasped, staring at his cousin in disbelief.

"Findekáno!" the other Noldo said, starting back in shock. "I - I wasn't sure…"

"It's all right," Findekáno replied, sheathing his knife instinctively and then wondering if he should have thought better of it. "I am… well, I cannot say glad to see you, but it is good to know you are alive, I suppose. And better to know you are not an orc."

"The same to you," Ambarussa said warily. "And congratulations. On your marriage."

Marriage? Findekáno thought, terror rising to choke him as he cursed himself for his foolishness. I should not have met his eyes, I should have avoided them just as I have my own family -

- and then he realized that his cousin had no way of knowing who, exactly, he was married to, without true openness of thought between them. He blinked twice but did not answer. They stood in uncomfortable silence, neither one willing to address the problem of Losgar but neither knowing what else to say. Finally Findekáno cleared his throat and spoke again.

"How is your family?"

Ambarussa looked at him in disbelief, and he shrugged. It was a hollow question, but he could not think of another topic of conversation to fill the awkward silence.

His cousin shrugged back. "Well enough, I suppose," he said. "All things considered. Tyelko adores the woods, and Curvo is happy at his forge as he ever was."

Well, how lovely for them, Findekáno thought bitterly, but aloud he merely said "And Fëanáro?" This was a loaded question, and he knew it, but better sooner than later.

Ambarussa paled. "You… you do not know?"

Findekáno froze, a spike of cold anxiety blooming up from his gut. "Know what?"

His cousin took a step back, eyes growing wider and even more wary. "My father is dead."

"What?" he asked. "I… but… but he… dead?"

"Fallen in battle. His fëa consumed his hröa as it departed, leaving ash behind."

"Eru," he swore again. "No."

"And my brother Ambarto burned with the ships at Losgar."

Findekáno started back, gasping. Fëanáro, dead? Ambarto burned? What has happened to my family?

Ambarussa awkwardly reached out and touched his shoulder in support. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm sorry. About the ships."

Findekáno glared at him, shock evaporating and sudden anger rolling off of him like heat from a forge. "Then why did you burn them?" he demanded. Now that he had reason to be hostile, he found it was all too easy.

"Father didn't trust Nolofinwë, and - !"

"Didn't trust him?" Findekáno cried, indignant and gaping. "We left with you!"

"I - !"

"We heard the Doom of Námo just as you did!"

"That does not mean - !"

"I killed people for you! We all did, all my siblings! Was that not proof of our loyalty?!"

"He said you'd hinder us in our goal!" Ambarussa snapped. "And maybe he was right."

"Well maybe he was," Findekáno retorted venomously, "but right or wrong, he shouldn't have done it!"

"Maitimo agreed with you," the other nér muttered with equal venom.

"I know," Findekáno answered before he could help himself, and then winced.

"You know?"

"I… heard of it."

Ambarussa frowned, but continued. "When the order was given, he argued with our father, and tried to stop him, and I don't know if he actually did take part in the burning or not. But all he did was make Atya more angry, and he was told if he resisted he would be held as a traitor."

"And did anyone else speak out alongside him?"

Ambarussa was silent, and Findekáno felt his anger spark into blazing rage. "No one?" he demanded. "Not even you, or Macalaurë?"

"We - !"

"We had to cross the Valar-damned Helcaraxë because of what you did!" he shouted. "On foot, in the dark!"

"... what?"

"Turukáno's wife Elenwë is dead, my brother Arakáno is dead - as are countless others!"

His cousin's mouth fell open, utter horror supplanting any other emotion. "I... you... but he said - oh, Eru."

"What did you think would happen?" Findekáno asked bitterly. "We'd be allowed back into Valannor like no blood had been shed by our host?"

"I don't know! I - we didn't think - !"

"Obviously not."

Furious silence fell after that, soon bleeding out into dull animosity. Ambarussa sighed, his whole body seeming to slump, and then he spoke again softly.

"Please... please tell Nolofinwë that we're uninterested in war. I mean, Curvo is proud and regrets nothing, and Tyelko couldn't care less, and nobody really likes how Macalaurë is running things except me and most of our people., but he's really trying, and - !"

"Wait, Macalaurë rules?" Findekáno asked. "What about Rus - Maitimo?" He was the only one his husband had ever really permitted to use his epessë , and often times those who didn't use it forgot who he meant when he spoke it aloud. But if Ambarussa had paled at his father's name, he went absolutely ashen at the mention of Maitimo. He flinched, head bowing, and swallowed hard, and took several deep breaths in succession before at last he spoke.

"... you haven't had any news," he said. There was a tremble in his voice "I mean, obviously not - had you known about Father, about Pityo, you wouldn't have asked - but you… no one... Valar above."

"What," the dark-haired prince said, nausea creeping up from his stomach.

Ambarussa bit his lip, tears welling in his eyes again. "Dead," he said, almost tripping over the word. He was focused on a spot on the ground, unwilling to look up and maybe meet his cousin's eyes as he spoke.

"No," Findekáno said, his head reeling. "No." Not Russandol. Pityo's death seemed tragic, and frankly though he didn't like his uncle he at least saw it as a loss for his cousins' sakes. But Russandol? Russandol, who knew more of him than anyone, Russandol who had given him so much, Russandol who... Valar, who had shared his bed, and taken him to husband in the sight of the Allfather? "No," he said a third time, more resolved than shocked. "He... he can't be dead."

"I'm - I'm sorry," Ambarussa said. "I know you were close."

Findekáno laughed mirthlessly - if only you knew, he thought - and stood up, his eyes dark and angry.

"How?" he asked. "Was it at Losgar, did he die trying to save Pityafinwë? Or was it alongside his father? Did he, too, burn to ash?"

"Neither," Ambarussa answered. "He... after our father's death, Nelyo began efforts to avenge him." His voice was methodical, like a scholar reciting ancient histories. "It culminated in a false treaty with Moringoþo himself."

"No!" Findekáno cried for what felt like the hundredth time. "Surely not!"

"He thought to win by deception and espionage rather than military might. But it was a trap, and - !"

"Of course it was a trap! How could you think to lie to the father of lies?"

"What else could we do?" Ambarussa demanded. "Storm Angamando? Beg for succor from the Valar, after all we've done?"

"You might have known not to try and trick him! Now Russandol is dead and buried because of it!" Ambarussa fell silent again, shifting where he sat and still staring at the ground.

"Not exactly," he muttered.

"What." Findekáno was livid now, and shaking. "What. Do. You. Mean." Telvo flinched, looking down. His breathing grew ragged. His cousin's rage was tangible, and he didn't dare speak again until Findekáno almost growled at him.

"I ought to kill you for what you did at Losgar," he intoned, hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword. "I'll spare your life for the sake of peace, but you will regret it if you fail to answer me. What. Happened. To. Russandol."

Ambarussa turned away, both to avoid Findekáno's glare and to hide his own tears.

"Captured," he whispered, his voice taut with his own anger. "Captured, and we can only pray that he is truly dead."

Findekáno felt as though he had been pierced through the chest by a particularly large crossbow bolt. Dead was one thing, dead was awful but he could eventually heal from it, perhaps. And perhaps they would see one another again, if Námo saw fit to restore a Kinslayer and an apostate to life.

But captured?

Captured was something else entirely.

Once his head had stopped spinning and the raw edges of the hole in his chest had turned dull, he lifted his head up and looked at Ambarussa.

"When… when was the last time Macalaurë attempted to free him?"

Ambarussa recoiled as if he'd been slapped, the tears in his eyes spilling down his face. He met Findekáno's gaze angrily.

"That is the true disgrace," he spat. "I do not think my brother cares if Nelyo lives or dies. He refuses to free him, to even attempt it! He says it is better if we assume he has died."

Findekáno's mouth fell open in shock. "What?"

Telvo was shaking, his face white with fury. "And when I tried, when I set out to at least discover if we could storm Angamando? He had me confined to my room! He said he would not risk our people's lives for one man, even if he was our brother!"

"Monster." Findekáno growled. "It is him I ought to kill." He was shivering from anger. "I, too, lost a brother - if I could bring him back? I would, in half a heartbeat! How can he be so cruel?"

"It is all the more awful because he - he is trying, Finno. To be a good king, and to do what Atya - well, to lead our people as he would wish them to be led."

"And he is doing a fine job of it, by my reckoning!" Findekáno answered with a dark laugh. "Abandoning his own brother to torment and death? He sounds exactly like Fëanáro."

"That is enough!" his cousin cried. "You should not insult him, you do not know how it has been!"

"I do not care how it has been!" he cried in response. "And weren't you furious with him yourself?"

"He is my brother! I cannot let you demean him, no matter what I may think!"

Findekáno groaned. "Damn your family loyalty in its selectiveness! I, for one, never wish to speak to Macalaurë again. If he dies? I shall not mourn him! It is shameful, Ambarussa! There is no forgiving it! Carry that message to your 'king', and I shall carry what you say to mine."

Almost as punctuation for his statement, he turned on his heel and walked away, fury evident in every step. Ambarussa stared after him, and then sank to his knees, weeping silently.

Captured.

The word thrummed through his whole body again and again like a steady drumbeat. Russandol captured. Russandol, my love , my wedded husband , is a prisoner of Angamando and no-one has sought even to see if he might be freed. His anger grew with every step he took until his vision had nearly gone red with wrath. He reached his own camp sooner than expected; by the time he reached the sentries he was shaking with rage.

"Good fortune on your hunt, milord?" one of them asked. Findekáno shook his head, biting down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming. They exchanged a look as he passed them - he had left in fine spirits - but he was oblivious. His blood was almost singing of death, and he paid no mind to the new-made sunset or the greetings of his people as he strode up to the doors of the hall that was his father's residence. There were no guards for now - he guessed dimly that they were probably helping somewhere in the camp - and so he was free to enter unobserved and make his way down the hall.

He stormed into his room, the door slamming hard against the wall behind him. He knew the noise would likely echo through the house; he could not bring himself to care. He stalked across the floor to the space between his bed and the fireplace and the low couch in front of it and began to pace back and forth, hands clenched into fists at his sides. I have to leave, he thought, and the anger and agony and futile despair boiled in his blood. I have to leave, I have to find him, I cannot simply -

"Findekáno?"

He froze, rapidly enough that he nearly tripped over his feet. Fury collided with shock and anxiety, leaving him trembling but far calmer. The voice belonged to his sister Írissë, who had undoubtedly come to investigate the source of the loud thud of wood against plaster; he guessed that she would be standing in the doorway. He took a deep breath, shoulders rigid, and let it out in a heavy sigh.

"Írissë," he said in acknowledgement.

"What is going on?" she asked. "You are lucky that Atya and Turukáno are out where the bathhouse is being built or else you would surely get some sort of lecture from them for making so much noise."

"It doesn't matter," he said, and turned to face her, his eyes skimming along the floor. He could feel the anger rising in him again.

"Of course it matters," she said. "And - were you not hunting?"

"I was," he said, and his gaze flicked up to rest on her shoulder and the sturdy white gown she was clad in. "I came back."

"Why?" she asked, stepping into the room. He sighed.

"Shut the door, would you?" he asked. Írissë frowned, but nodded, and turned to push his door closed and shut the latch. He found himself walking aimlessly to the back of the couch, resting his hands on it, staring at the hasty upholstering and the shoddy stitches.

"What is going on, Findekáno?" his sister asked. Her voice was quiet, and nervous.

I might as well tell her, he thought, rolling his eyes.

"I met one of them in the woods," he said in reply, voice dripping with venom.

"... oh," Írissë answered. "Oh." She paused for a moment, then sighed and asked "And how did you fare?"

"It was Ambarussa," he said, sighing again himself. "We argued, and argued, and then argued more for a change of pace."

"Was it... m?"

"Arguing with a sword? No. I have spilled no more blood."

"Then why - ?"

"Because I garnered some news of their doings since the burning of the ships," Findekáno answered. The rage was draining out of him, leaving a cold dread in its wake. Oh, Valar, he thought, oh Eru, he is gone, he is gone… His hands began to shake. He let them drop from the couch and paced around it instead, sinking onto its less than comfortable cushions and hearing the straw creak around his weight. "And what I have learned is… is frightful, and frightening, and I do not know what to do." He bowed his head, staring at the floor and at the places where his boots were worn thin.

There was a sound of light footsteps, and then a hand on his arm; he looked at it to find a white sleeve over dark skin, and his sister by his side.

"Look at me, Findekáno," Írissë implored. "You're dodging my gaze like Itarillë when she's stolen an apple tart from the kitchen. Look at me. What's got you so upset?"

What can I say? he thought, and then found that he no longer had the willpower to hide. He sighed, and lifted his head, and locked eyes with her and let his thoughts open to her questions.

She started back, almost tripping over the end table, and her face grew pale with shock and fury.

"You... you didn't..."

"Please - !" he replied, but she was already shaking her head and turning for the door.

"I'm telling Atya about this," she said, voice trembling with anger.

"No!" Findekáno cried, rising to his feet, arm outstretched as he took two steps to follow her. "Írissë, please, no!"

"You're his heir! After we'd settled he was going to start searching for a wife for you! You cannot simply dismiss your own future Kingship!"

"We haven't done anything wrong!"

"After all they've done to us, after all we've endured?" she shot back. "After Elenwë and Arakáno died? You still married him?"

Findekáno shook his head numbly, lips quivering, and dropped his gaze to the floor again.

"No," he said at last, with great effort. "Before."

Írissë froze, her anger turning to confusion. "What?"

He sank to his knees on the floor, hands shaking, staring at a spot between the polished boards.

"The night before he left with the ships. Not today."

Írissë's mouth fell open. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

"And he still - he stranded us, and you - he left you? His husband?"

"It was foolish," Findekáno continued, almost as if he hadn't heard her, " we were foolish, battle-thrilled and elated to be alive, eager to face what came, and - !"

"And then he abandoned you, after you were made one in the sight of the Allfather?" Írissë cried, her voice rising to a shrill and high-pitched anger.

"No!" her brother replied, looking at her again, just long enough to let her see the intense agony in his eyes. "No, he - he tried to come back, he spoke to me, Ambarussa doesn't know if he helped to burn the ships - that was how I knew what they were doing, you know, how I understood what the far-off fires meant - but Fëanáro told him it would be treason to oppose an order from the High King, and I was so angry that I sealed myself off from him completely in the hours when our bond ought to have been strongest, and I've - I've been alone, inside my head, all the way across the Ice, and I would have demanded an apology from him today but I found out - !"

His voice broke, and he dropped his eyes back to the floor, and the tremor in his hands had spread to his whole body. Long-suppressed sobs found their way to the surface, and Írissë watched as her brother, who had not shed a single tear since their grandfather's funeral, finally broke down and wept. Stunned, she knelt beside him, draping one arm over his shaking shoulders until at last he had calmed enough that she felt she could speak again.

"Found out what?" she asked, voice soft. Her indignation and fury had melted away.

Findekáno shook his head, lips white from the effort of keeping them closed.

"Finno…" she pressed, brushing a strand of loose hair behind one ear. "You can talk to me. What did you find out?"

"He's… he's gone, Írissë," her brother said at last, voice thick with sorrow.

Ice poured into her veins. "Gone?" she asked. "What do you mean? Dead?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Worse. Captured, by Moringotto. Held captive for at least one-sixth of a yén."

"What?!"

Findekáno nodded, slowly regaining control of himself. "And what's more - they knew of it - his brothers? They knew and they did not so much as send a scout to see if he might be found and freed or to judge the Black Foe's strength of arms, and I - I was so angry at him, so self-absorbed, that I shut him out completely and I did not know. My own husband has been a prisoner, and I did not know, because I refused to let him in." He shivered, and looked back at her briefly. "I… I still have not let him in."

For a very long moment there was nothing but silence. Findekáno was trembling still, unwilling to say more than he already had; Írissë found she had nothing to say that was not punctuated with endless curses in the direction of their cousins across the lake.

"They... they left him?" she managed to ask at last, and it was clear she could scarcely believe it. "They knew he was held captive and they did nothing "

"Or so I was told," Findekáno replied, shrugging off her arm and sitting back on the floor.

"But this is vile!"

"Can we truly expect better from those who stranded us and left us to cross the Ice?"

"I cannot believe they are capable of such heartlessness!"

"Ambarussa did not call it heartless," Findekáno replied bitterly. "He said I ought to be kinder. That Macalaurë is trying very hard to be a good King."

"What did you say to - wait, that Macalaurë is trying? Why should Macalaurë call himself King, and not his father?"

"Because Fëanáro is dead," he answered simply. "If what I was told is true, he died shortly after they arrived. In battle with an Úmaia, a Valarauko . And Pityafinwë died earlier still, in the blaze at Losgar."

"... what?" Írissë said for the second time, her face again shifting into pale sick shock. "Fëanáro and Ambarto both dead? Is this true? Do you know it for a fact?"

"Ambarussa had no cause to be dishonest," Findekáno answered. "Or if he were to lie, surely it would be to tell me that their ranks were swollen with new recruits from the Avari who dwell here."

"Perhaps," Írissë answered, and shivered. "Have you told Atya of what you heard? He would want to know his brother is - gone."

"No," Findekáno replied. "I meant to come back here, arm myself, and leave at once to rescue Russandol. If you had not stopped me, I would be far from our encampment by now."

"Then it is well I did stop you," she told him, "for while I recognize that you wish to save your husband, you cannot keep this news from our atar."

"I will tell him that Fëanáro is dead," Findekáno said. "I will say nothing of Russandol, or else he would surely forbid me from my errand."

"He should forbid you!" Írissë insisted, her expression keen and desperate. "Do you even know Maitimo yet lives?"

"What?" Findekáno asked, his eyes flicking briefly back up to hers. "What do you mean?"

"If he has been captive for so long, and none have tried to free him or negotiate for his release, then... then how do you know he is not slain?"

Findekáno felt as though his blood had turned to ice. This was his deepest fear, the fear he did not dare consider for more than a moment, the fear he had buried as soon as it surfaced. He shrugged off Írissë's offered embrace and shook his head.

"I do not know for certain," he said dully. "I know Ambarussa believed he was alive. But I know nothing else."

"Would you know if he were dead?" she asked in response. "Would you have felt his death?"

"I have no idea," he replied. "I thought to ask Turukáno, but - "

"But that would mean telling Turukáno, I know," she answered, and frowned. "Atya knows that Ammë is alive and well, despite the great distance between them. He has never said that they can speak mind-to-mind as they could in Aman? But he knows she lives, and that she is in no pain save the pain of separation from her husband and children."

"How do you know?" Findekáno asked.

"I asked him once. I wished to know if he could send her my love."

"So then, if I open myself," her brother said, "it stands to reason that I might be able to at least know that much."

"Do you know how?"

"No. Do you?"

She laughed at that. "I, at least, have no secret spouses. In fact I doubt I shall marry at all."

"I do not recommend it," Findekáno said wryly. "It has brought me nothing but a political headache."

"Perhaps if you'd chosen a more fit husband, then - "

"No," he said, and there was a fire to his words that had been absent before. "No, I have loved him since I left childhood behind me. If he did not feel the same, I would be as you, a perpetual bachelor."

"Pining after grim, unreachable Maitimo?" Írissë said, laughing faintly. "I cannot imagine such a life for you."

Findekáno returned her smile, briefly meeting her eyes again, and she realized that he had become quite skillful at never looking any of their family in the face and never letting it show. "Neither can I," he said. "But come, it is time to face my fate. If my husband is alive, surely this will tell me."

He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back and drawing himself up. His eyes closed, and he began to undo the years of anger and misery that lay thick upon the sparks of his marriage-bond.

"Wait," Írissë said suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Yes?"

"If... if he is alive, if he can be freed, and if the rift between our Houses is healed, then..."

"Then what?"

"Then will you tell Atya? Will you have a proper ceremony?"

"And watch my father turn to flame as Fëanáro did, only this time from his rage at my betrayal?" Findekáno asked, and this time it was his turn to laugh. "No, sister, I think it is best if we keep what we have done a secret."

"Atya will find out eventually, you know," she said. "He knows you too well."

"I am his son, just as he is my father," Findekáno said. "And I will tell him, when the time is right. But that time is not now." He closed his eyes again, took another anchoring breath -

- and opened the bond.

He is bent over, on all fours, bracing himself against something cold and smooth and flat, and his knees are stinging. This is the only pain, and it frightens him, though he cannot say why. The words are hanging from his tongue, and then shrivel and die when he turns his thoughts to them.

He opens his eyes. He is staring down at a black stone floor, massive and seamless, polished to perfection. There is no light save a frightful silvery gleam high overhead, but he can see himself in the reflection. He does not know who he is looking at, and he does know, and there is a burning terror rising like bile in the back of his throat. He is thin, and starved, and gaunt, and pale-skinned, and his face is crossed by angry red lines and covered in bruises. There are scars and cuts and lacerations on shaking hands and arms that struggle to hold him upright. His shoulder burns with a low, comfortable warmth, for his brand has awakened in the presence of he whose sigil it bears. How he knows this, he is not sure.

His eyes are no longer brown, and they burn as if their molten silver could stream out and cover the world, and when he sees them the horror that has been building can no longer be contained. He screams, and there is no sound that escapes the thin lips staring up at him out of the floor.

"Well, well," a low and rumbling Voice says. "What have we here?"

There is a new and fresh terror to mingle with his own, now, and he is seized by its copper fire and dragged down, down. The words are laced with power and rising might and hatred deeper than the deepest sea, and in their echo is a trail of broken chords that form their own mockery of song. He is shaking, and weak, and half-mad with fear. There is nothing that has been done to him, no one who has touched him, and yet, and yet -

"We don't know what to do with this one," a harsh and ugly voice says from behind him. "He's no fun anymore. He just lies there. Doesn't even scream."

"How unfortunate," the Voice replies, and the will behind it curls around him and fills him with fear and pain and terror and nausea and desperate hot need that pools in his belly and his hips, and in that moment he would do anything to be touched and he would do anything to be slain. "And look at you, pet, you pathetic useless thing. I heal your wounds so that you are in a fit state to be brought before my court, and this is how you greet me?"

He says nothing, does nothing. He shivers, and bites back sobs that he does not understand, and he pleads for death and he pleads for relief.

"Look at me," the Voice commands, and his head is drawn inexorably upward and he is blinded by a spark of white fire that at first seems to outshine the stars themselves before dimming and dividing into three. His teeth are chattering, and his shoulders shake, and he knows where he is and who he is staring at.

"You need to learn respect, pet," the owner of the Voice - I will not say his name, I will not dignify him with a word of his own - says. "Rise to your feet, and kneel again. Properly. If you have not been trained to it, we shall teach you here and now." His tone is bored, and indulgent, as he speaks, and this is the worst of it.

He cannot resist, not with the eyes and will of the owner of the Voice upon him. And so he rises, slowly, awkwardly, his legs shrieking protests beneath him, and he stands before the dark shape enthroned in gleaming black stone and crowned with light.

"Kneel," the Voice orders. He obeys, both knees bending as one, and sinks to the floor. The impact is hard, and fast, and with every heartbeat he can feel the owner of the Voice gloating over him. He weeps, and does not know why he weeps, and shivers at the jeers of his guards who have seen the tears.

"Better," says the Voice, "but you can do better still, I think. Get up."

He obeys, the pain in his legs ignored. The collar about his neck is heavy and sharp and he fears it will cut him badly if he tries to shift its weight. He does not know what is going on, and he does know, and the mingling confusion and despair are drowning him.

"Kneel," the Voice orders again, and he obeys, and the need and the terror and the compulsion twist in his gut. This time it is slower, more graceful, and his knees part and his hands come to rest palm-up on his thighs. He is shaking so forcefully that his vision blurs.

"Oh, that is better," the Voice tells him, and he is pleased at the praise, and he is disgusted with himself, and he can do nothing but swallow his screams. "But I think I want to see you do that at least once more. Again. Get up."

He is ordered to kneel once, twice, thrice, countless times more, until all that he is yearns only for approval, for the soft touch of a rewarding caress, for silence and darkness and blessed oblivion. His knees burn and ache. He is barely aware of the pain. But finally, finally, the order does not come to rise, and he fights the urge to curl in on himself and sob.

"So, pet," the Voice says with a sigh, "What to do with you."

"None of us want him anymore," a second guard says. "He's used up. No more sport, no more fun."

"Is he, now?" the Voice asks. Dark amusement pricks at the edges of its words. He trembles and is silent.

"No good for anything," the first guard agrees. "If you want him for something, you can have him."

There is a long, frightful, horrible pause, and then he can feel the owner of the Voice begin to smile. The air shifts and coils about him. He begins to sob and drops his head, staring at his own reflection.

"Bring me up one of Carcharoth's whelps," the Voice says. "Not too young. A little larger than our pet. I know exactly what to do with him."

Panic. Sheer, sharp, bloody panic, and with panic comes clarity, comes wholeness, comes -

"Findekáno?"

He is suddenly not alone. There is another, and this newcomer is burning silver-hot and is brimming with terror.

"Maitimo?" he asks, and no words are spoken, but he knows he is heard. The face reflected back at him grows pale, and sick with horror, and its eyes widen and its mouth falls open in shock, and he realizes - no, this cannot be, you cannot -

"Get out," the other tells him, growing more and more present with every heartbeat.

"What?" he asks, frantic and confused. "No!"

But the other is shoving, pushing, forcing him back, building walls as easily as breathing, and the scene before him grows dim.

"You cannot be here, Findekáno!"

"What is going on?"

"Get out get out get out!"

The world goes black.

Findekáno opened his eyes. The world was dark, and warm, and there was something covering his face and mouth that smelled of straw, and he could not move. His throat ached, and his jaw was sore, and he realized as a frightful shrieking sound died in his ears that he had been screaming.

He took a shuddering breath. There were tears in his eyes, and he found he could not stop shaking. For a moment, there was nothing in the whole of Arda save for his own body and wherever he was resting. One heartbeat, two, three -

- "Findekáno?!" someone asked. I know that voice, he thought dimly, and then suddenly recognition struck.

"Írissë?" he answered, and his voice was muffled, and he struggled to sit up. The weight on his limbs shifted, and moved, and he realized it must have been his sister herself. She had been holding a pillow to his face, and it fell into his lap as he pushed himself upright. He had been lying flat on his back, on the floor of his bedroom.

"You - you were screaming, Findekáno," she said, and her face was unnaturally pale with shock. "I - I am sorry, but I thought - you would have roused the whole house, I - !"

"No," Findekáno said, and shook his head. "Do not apologize. Please." There were tears in his eyes, and a lump in his throat, and he was shaking. Írissë reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Is… is he…?" she asked, and he took a breath and felt it turn to a cold sadness that coiled around his heart. If I say he is alive, she will know it, and she will stop me from going after him. She will tell Atya, even, and he will order me not to go, and then if I defy him I will be traitorous and treasonous -

- I only have one option, Findekáno realized, sadness bleeding into sick and horrified certainty. I must deceive her. I will never be able to slip away unless I do. For I cannot - I cannot leave him to that, I -

"He is dead," he said aloud, and tears filled his eyes. "He is slain. I sought for him in my mind and found only emptiness."

"Oh," Írissë said. "Oh, Findekáno, I - !"

He reached out and seized his sister by the shoulder, pulling her into a tight embrace. The tears came easily enough - they were born of what he had seen, what he had felt, what Maitimo had known was coming - and he buried his face in her tunic and wept. Both her arms went around him, supporting him; he wondered if she would be so gentle if she knew what he planned to do.

"I… I could not save him…" he murmured, and her embrace tightened. That much, at least, was true - whatever horrors his spouse endured right now were beyond his ability to deflect or forestall. What sort of husband am I, to lose myself in my own private miseries while he suffered that ? I am a poor excuse for a friend, a prince, a nér, and I deserve every torment lain upon his shoulders and more besides -

- he gave in to his grief, until the guilt and the shame had bled out of him and left stony resolve behind.

When the dinner-bell sounded, Findekáno and Írissë had no choice but to rise from the floor and file into the modest room that passed for a dining hall. They were the last of their family to arrive, and took their accustomed places closest to their father; Írissë was on his left and Findekáno his right. Beside them on either side were Turukáno and Itarillë respectively, with their Arafinwëan cousins on the other side of the table. His atarnesa Lalwendë, as usual, was absent; almost certainly either dining with her friends in the camp or else in the woods alone. The meal had already been served, baked tubers piled high in an earthen serving-dish and accompanied by cooked greens and mugs of the nearly-ubiquitous ránelet tea that the healers ordered everyone to drink. Though it was a meager repast compared to what they had known in Valannor, it made Findekáno's mouth water.

"It is good of you to join us," his father Nolofinwë said lightly; Findekáno fought to keep from blushing. As reprimands went this was surely a light one, more of a jest meant to remind him of his expected behavior than a true correction, and yet he found it cut more deeply than it would on any other day. Nothing about me must seem out of the ordinary, he thought, but he could feel Írissë's eyes on him and he knew that was nearly impossible.

"We - I - beg pardon for our tardiness, Atya," his sister said, and he picked up a two-pronged fork and stabbed at a tuber with uncharacteristic vehemence.

"No apology is necessary," Nolofinwë replied, though Findekáno could hear the confusion in his voice.

"Still," Írissë said, "we are sorry."

Awkward silence settled over the table. Findekáno could feel several pairs of eyes on him. He took a bite out of the tuber, trying unsuccessfully to lose himself in the bland flavor.

"How was everyone's day?" Itarillë asked suddenly, cutting through the tension.

"I mostly chopped firewood," Artaresto answered just as suddenly, and made a face. "I know it is necessary, but I cannot say I enjoyed it."

Oh, thank Nessa, Findekáno thought, invoking Itarillë's favorite Vala. He turned his full attention to his food as his siblings and cousins fell into light conversation. It occurred to him that perhaps his niece and almost-nephew had planned this - they often fell into intense bouts of silent conversation in defiance of conversational etiquette - but at the very least, it meant that he was not the object of scrutiny by the table.

"We went hunting," Findaráto said, glancing at Angaráto and Aikanáro. "Unsuccessfully, but we tried."

"Findekáno went hunting as well, I think?" Artanís asked. She was sitting across from him, and her blue eyes were sharply intrigued. "Perhaps he had more good fortune than you did."

Findekáno looked pointedly at his tea, taking a sip and ignoring the invitation to speak.

"Alone?" Angaráto replied, almost laughing. "No offense is meant, cousin, but the game here is hardier than we are used to."

"Well, Findekáno?" Nolofinwë asked him, turning to his left. "Did you have any success?"

He sighed deeply and set the mug of tea down. Nothing for it. I shall have to say something, I suppose.

"No," he said aloud, "but I met Ambarussa in the woods."

Silence fell instantly, and all eyes were on him. He kept his gaze fixed on his tea and said nothing more.

"Well, it had to happen at some point," Findaráto said. "I suppose we are lucky it was them and not their father."

"Ha!" Findekáno answered, the laugh bitter in his mouth. "If it had been Fëanáro I would be far more shaken than I am. But no, it was only Telufinwë that I met."

"Only the one of them?" Aikanáro asked. "That is strange."

"Not half as strange as the tale he told me," Findekáno continued, casting his gaze about the table before letting it come to rest on his mug of tea once more. "For, if he can be believed, Fëanáro is dead, and Pityafinwë is dead, and Russandol is dead."

The whole table seemed to flinch, shock and fear and confusion thick in the air.

"What?" his father asked at last. "How?"

He shrugged, and fought back the tears that ever followed him at the thought of his husband, and shook his head, and spoke again.

"Fëanáro fell in battle with an Úmaia," he said. "Burned alive." He forced himself to take another drink of tea and swallow a building sob. "Pityafinwë burned as well, when they set fire to the ships. He had gone aboard one of them and was trapped and could not escape."

"Ercamando," Findaráto swore, and Itarillë flinched and almost giggled at the novelty of it. Angaráto shot her a stern look, and she quieted.

"As for Maitimo," Findekáno said, "he - he was captured, by Moringotto, shortly after his father's death." His voice nearly broke. Despite the lie he meant to tell, he could still barely stomach the reality of his husband's condition. He choked back yet another sob. "His brothers have had no word of him. They assume him to be dead."

Utter silence greeted him once he had finished. He did not dare to look up, to meet the prying eyes that were no doubt desperate for more detail. Instead he took yet another sip of tea. His shoulders were shaking. No one spoke, or ate, or moved.

At last, Turukáno scoffed. "And I am supposed to grieve for them?"

"Turukáno!" Írissë cried, horrified.

"What?" he retorted. "We are all thinking it! After what we have lost, after what they have cost us, we are meant to mourn their dead as though none of this was their fault at all?"

"They are our kin, regardless of what they have done," Nolofinwë said flatly. His tone was unreadable. "And you, my son, will behave as befits a prince of your station."

"I will not," Turukáno said, "not if it means ignoring the deaths of my brother, my wife."

"If we are to go that route," Aikanáro said, "then - !"

"Let's not," Artanís said, "and say we did."

"Are we capable of keeping order at the dinner table?" Angaráto asked drily. "The children are calmer than you are, cousin."

"You are one to talk so, Angaráto, with your beloved Eldalótë safe in Aman!"

"I need to be excused," Findekáno said to no one in particular, and set his mug down on the table with a clack, and stood up.

"Findekáno!" Írissë called after him, but he ignored her, turning on his heel and making for the door at a pace that was very nearly a run.

"Let him go," Turukáno told her, voice dripping with scorn. "He's practically one of them, anyway."

"That is enough," Nolofinwë said, and there was real anger building in his words. But Findekáno did not hear what he said next - he had reached the door, and fumbled with the latch, and pushed out into the hallway.

He reached his room in a blur of tears and fury, hands shaking as he pushed the door open. The light of the setting sun streamed in through his windows, bathing the walls in red-gold light. Like firelight, he thought bitterly, like torchlight; he threw himself onto his bed and sobbed.

I cannot do this - I cannot - I must, I must -

- but how? I do not know where Angamando is from where I stand, I could not find it save to go north and hope for good fortune - I must try, at least, at least…

Findekáno opened his eyes. The sun had set; he could see the stars through the window. Beneath his head, the pillow he had clung to was soaked with tears. I must have fallen asleep, he thought, and carefully began to sit up. Then it hit him, in an instant - it is dark, it is night, I can slip away in shadow!

He got to his feet quickly and quietly, doing his best to avoid the points where he knew the floorboards would creak. He could dress and pack easily enough here - his hardier traveling clothes were folded on a shelf in the small nook that sadly passed for a closet, and there was a crude knapsack hanging on the wall by the door - but when it came time for food, or weapons, he would have to find some way to sneak through the house proper. I can get by without a sword, he reasoned, and I suppose I can forage for food as I go, which means I can bypass the kitchens and the armory. And what is more I almost certainly must bypass them, necessary or not - I dare not light a lamp, and I do not trust myself to fumble around in the dark for weapons or bread. I must make do with what I have here and now.

Findekáno stripped out of his clothes, leaving them on the bed; he quickly donned a woolen undershirt in pale grey and drew a blue tunic in sturdy cloth over that. Layers. Layers will be my salvation, especially if it is colder up North. He took the pack down off the wall, and put three pairs of leggings in the bottom of it, and then added the shirt and trousers he had worn that day for good measure. I have very little time. I must be gone before the sun rises. He reached for a wide-toothed comb that sat on the side table beside his bed, thought better of it, and left it alone. My hair has been in these braids since before we made the crossing; they desperately need to be redone, but they can wait until I have returned. A small pouch with bone picks and a sharp-tasting paste for cleaning his teeth was next, and an iron hook on a length of thread for fishing, and a small boot knife in the shape of one of Telperion's leaves. Rope? he thought absently, and shook his head. Not enough room, and if I need it I shall almost certainly be able to steal it from Moringotto. And what rope we have was hard bought from the Sindar, I cannot take it in good conscience. He went back to his closet and set aside another tunic, and a long scarf, and a hooded cloak, and a thick pair of woolen socks, and put them into his pack.

At last, Findekáno had come to the bottom of his wardrobe, and the small satchel that had not left his side once through the whole of the Crossing. He took a deep breath, knelt, and drew it up out of the corner, resisting the urge to clutch it to his chest and weep once more. His fingers ran over the tooled leather, tracing the intricate spirals embossed into its surface, but after a few moments he sighed and opened the bag. Inside, nestled against one another, were a pale green stone that gleamed in the darkness and a long knife in an elegant black sheath.

Tears filled his eyes again - no, no, I will not weep, not here and now when I have so much to do - and he shivered and rocked back on his heels and fought to master himself. These are coming with me. I will not leave them for prying eyes to find.

At last, Findekáno took another breath and rose to his feet. He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, and slung the satchel over his shoulders with the strap cutting across his chest. I am nearly ready, he thought, I only have to -

- ai, muk.

He froze, his hands clenching in frustration at his sides.

How am I going to get into Angamando? Ercamando, ercanyë, how - Grinding Ice, what am I going to do?

Findekáno paced back to his bed and sat down, sinking his head into his hands and staring down at the floorboards.

Think. You have been there once before, with your father's host, to hear his challenge issued. The gates are - no, I am not going to be able to get in through the gates. Could I issue a challenge of my own? Offer myself up as a prisoner in his stead? If Fëanáro is dead - my father is not, and my father is then King of our people, is he not? Surely a Crown Prince is a better prize than Russo is.

I could get myself captured, and bound as a thrall, and seek to escape from within. But if I take that path, my gear will surely be taken from me, and I will not let Moringotto take this jewel from my hands.

He shook his head silently, the tears welling up in his eyes. I have failed, he thought, I have failed before I have even set out. And yet…

There was something pricking at his thought. He could feel it. An idea, or a hope, lingering beyond the edges of his conscious awareness, like the memory of a dream, or -

- or a song echoing on the air.

Oh.

He sat up suddenly, tense as a bowstring, and turned to look across the room. There was the low couch, and the fireplace, and the chair in the corner, and - ha! - his harp, sitting against the cushions of the chair, catching the first rays of moonlight.

Findekáno stood up again. He had gone from despondent to almost giddy in a scant handful of seconds, and his heart pounded in his ears. The world was crafted of song, he thought, and when he closed his eyes he saw Artanís as she had been just that morning in the rosy light of the dawn, saw her sitting with Artaresto and Itarillë, saw her mend a shattered mug with a smile and a few measures of complicated melody.

I know what I have to do, he realized, and his mouth was dry as he crossed the room and seized his harp. I know what I have to do.

The harp was awkward, and heavy, and too large for his pack. It had been his since his very early childhood, though he had never been particularly good at playing it, and it had survived the crossing of the Ice only because he had refused to let it be burned. Findekáno had not known then why he was so insistent, but now there was a dead certainty in his heart that it had been some final kindness of Irmo or even the Doom-speaker himself to move him; there was a thrill in his limbs and fingers as he held the now-treasured instrument. I cannot strap it down very well, he thought ruefully, but neither can I carry it. I suppose I have very little choice, then - I will secure it as best I can and hope that it is enough.

He set to work in the darkness, not daring to light even a candle and give any sign that he was not asleep, fixing his harp in place with strips of cloth torn from a roll of bandages. It was slow progress, and more than once he despaired of achieving a strong hold, but at last after practically wrapping the whole of his pack in the light fabric and fastening the strips together with makeshift pins crafted from wire from two of his braids, he was satisfied that it would endure. I will not win any prizes for aesthetics, he thought, but I am not aiming for such a goal.

The light of the moon was streaming in through his window by the time he had finished, and the stars were gleaming in the sky as he slipped his pack over his shoulders. His heart swelled to look at them, high and lofty and far above all shadows; he found his gaze resting on the Sickle of the Valar and its unspoken promise of evil defeated. I do not pray as a habit, he thought, directing his attention to the Elentári for the first time in years uncounted, and yet…

… and yet, may I find him, may I find him swiftly, may I bring him home.

His hands were shaking as he climbed out of his window, landing easily in the grass. There were no sentries on this side of their camp, and the guards that watched his family's house were stationed by the doors. He had a clear path to the woods no further than a furlong from where he stood, and it would be easy enough to circle around the lake and make his way north from there. He shifted his pack higher on his back, and felt to ensure the satchel was securely closed, and set off at a run through the darkness.

Hold on, Maitimo, he thought. I am coming for you.