"You shouldn't be here."

There are hands on his hands, and the comforting weight of a head on his shoulder, and his knees are tucked under long legs that are drawn up against his chest. They are sitting in his tent, curled up into one another, propped up against a haphazard collection of pillow and blanket and bedroll. They have been weeping, but now all eyes are dry.

"I don't care what I should or shouldn't do," the other says, and his breath is hot in the cool of the night against bare collarbone, and his voice is low and anxious. "I… I had to get away from him. I had to."

Findekáno turns, his arms drawing tighter as if to screen out the world, and he catches Russandol's eye in the dim echoes of torchlight.

"He… I fear he has gone mad," his lover admits. "He is irrational, and paranoid, and flinching at shadows. He fears treachery that does not exist. I thought - it seemed that surely - when you and your people…"

"When we plunged into blood and water and damned ourselves?" he asks, and it is almost bemused.

"Yes. That. I thought surely, surely , he would have seen that you and your father were not usurpers seeking to grasp at a throne you do not desire."

"He is still convinced my father is a threat?"

"He will not believe me, or Carnistir, or anyone, who tells him that it was a populist movement that sought to supplant him and not Nolofinwë himself. We his sons are deceived, all others are lying to him."

Findekáno sighs, and holds Russandol to him. "I suppose this is a terrible time to tell him about us?"

His lover splutters, and protests, and pushes himself out from encircling arms. "We - !"

But he is already laughing, voice quiet in the dark.

"This is not something to jest about!" Russandol hisses.

"I have damned myself to save you," Findekáno answers. "Let me make a jest of it."

Russandol sits up, looking at him; when he is not curled up cat-fashion against his lover he is tall enough that he could reach up and touch the canvas roof of the tent.

"You should not have done that," he says, all mournful where moments before he was sparking and indignant.

"I care not for what I should have done," Findekáno says. "You would have been slain. I could not let that happen."

"And if I - if we all - deserve death?"

He scoffs. "If we deserve death, the Allfather will almost certainly deliver it to us."

"If you believe Námo - !"

"I do believe him, but I also note that he did not say when we would come to his Halls. And I say we have many long days and nights ere we must face that final call."

Russandol sighs. "You are full to the brim with optimism, my love, and I know not what kindles it in you." He is silhouetted against the dimly lit tent, lithe and lean and perfect even in the darkness, and Findekáno's heart is pounding in his chest.

"You," he says, and he reaches out and takes Russandol's pale hand in his own a second time. "You are alive, and I thought surely you would perish in that dreadful fight. And we… we have done frightful things this night, but we live still. We have faced doom and damnation, and now a world opens up before us. And - and even here, in the bloodstained aftermath? You are lovely to me."

"You're - you're flirting with me?" Russandol's voice is incredulous, and he starts back. "Here? Now?!"

"And why shouldn't I flirt with you? You are here, and we are more or less truly alone."

Russandol stares at him, more or less aghast. "I just - we just - how many of my kindred did I murder , only hours ago?"

"Roughly as many as I did," Findekáno answered, and moves closer to him. "And surely in a few more hours I shall be wrecked and wrathful and sick with guilt. But now - now I am none of those things." His hand runs up Russandol's arm to his shoulder, drawing him near. "Now, I am something else entirely."

His lover raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what would that be?"

Findekáno looks up at him, and his brown eyes are smoldering. "Amorous," he says, and kisses Russandol suddenly.

The other nér moans, and gasps, and returns the kiss, though it is clear he is surprised. When they break apart, he is shaking his head.

"No," he says. "No, we ought to be remorseful, we - !"

"Russandol," Findekáno said, and his words are plaintive and desperate, "I can feel the rising horror in me, at what we have done, at what I have done. If I think on it, I will be sick with fright and guilt and shame." His other hand rises to cup his lover's face, and caresses his cheek, and the creamy skin is even starker beneath his own brown hand. "I have a people to lead, alongside my father - those who will only heed us despite his pledge of loyalty to Fëanáro. And I - I must be firm for them, be solid and immovable and sure. I must believe I made the right decision. I must. And I…" He laughs, and it is shrill and sharp-edged. "I did this for you. I plunged us into doom for you. My people followed me, and I attacked for you. I… I would see that to its ending, before that damned horror takes me and I am loathe to look at myself."

Russandol turns his head, lips brushing the palm of Findekáno's hand.

"I, too, would flee from horror," he says, and seizes his lover's wrist and kisses it.

It is Findekáno's turn to moan as his world shrinks rapidly to a patch of skin and the softness of Russandol's lips, which are trailing up from hand to forearm to elbow, pushing back wide sleeve and leaving blazing heat in their wake. He bites his own lip, and feels it bruise, and when his lover is at his shoulder he seizes red hair in his free hand and pulls that ravenous mouth up to his own for another kiss.

This time, Findekáno leans back into the pile of blankets and pillow, drawing Russandol down on top of him. They are breathless and gasping and starving for one another, every kiss deeper and more fierce than any they have shared before. He becomes dimly aware that his hands are moving, sliding down over well-muscled shoulders and hips and thighs to fumble with the laces of his lover's breeches. Russandol's own hands are likewise occupied, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers as they undo button after button, and he finds he is barely able to keep from melting into each brush of fingers on skin. He is moaning, and Russandol is moaning, and then there is a hand against him, grasping, palming -

He does not know how they manage to strip out of what is left of their clothes, but in a few scorching seconds they are bare before one another, groping and kissing and caressing. Russandol is grinding against his thigh, hard and hot and throbbing; the hand on his own cock is stroking him off in quick, fervent motions. This is further than they have ever gone before, further than they have dared, dancing closer and closer to a line that cannot be erased once crossed.

He does not care.

"Marry me," he murmurs, when Russandol's tongue is not in his mouth. There is nómilt dripping over the crease between his hip and his thigh, cooling on his skin, and the feel of it drives him forward. "Marry me, and we will not be parted again, even by distance."

Russandol groans, shuddering against him.

"I… what?"

"I mean it," he says, and his hand moves to take his lover's cock in its fingers and begins its own slow stroking. "Slip inside me, and bring yourself to your release, and bind yourself to me." He draws a whimper from Russandol's mouth and kisses him again.

"I - !" Russandol gasps. "I want you. I want - !"

Another kiss, another groan.

"Then take me," he says. "I am yours."

Russandol's eyes are burning, molten silver in the dark, and he runs his fingers over Findekáno's weeping cock, coating them in slick nómilt, before letting them trail down between his lover's legs.

Findekáno sat up all at once, pulled to wakefulness by something he could not quite grasp. His dream was a fast-fading memory, of darkness and joy and wet heat and lips and hands, but now, in the light of dawn, he was cold and utterly alone.

He had fallen asleep while sitting against the bole of a great oak tree, its roots creating a hollow near the earth that had been easy enough to rest in. He had not meant to sleep at all, merely to catch his breath and plan out his approach to Angamando; Irmo, it seemed, had other plans for him. He hoped it had not been very long - he was too close to his home for comfort, even after hours of blind flight in what he hoped was a northward direction - and that even now, he would have time to not only learn in what direction he had been walking but also to plot out how best to do what he sought to do. And -

- oh, damn it, damn me, a thousand times over, he thought, and bit back a few choice curses. I have no food, no water-skin. I brought a fishing hook and some twine. I cannot eat fish always, especially as I highly doubt they dwell in the mountains of iron. I am a fool and an ass and an imbecile, I ought to go home with my tail between my legs and act as though this was a foolish attempt at venting my grief, I should - mana ëa ta?

His litany of self-castigation was interrupted by the sudden sound of movement through the underbrush before him. Immediately he reached for his boot knife only to find it gone; he remembered with dismay that it was somewhere in his pack. His second knife was in the satchel at his side; he was fumbling with it as the noise grew louder and louder. Suddenly, whatever had been coming toward him burst through the underbrush, and before he could undo the clasp of the bag, it was standing over him, and the top of his head was being enthusiastically licked.

" Mana ?" he sputtered in confusion, and looked up to see the shaggy head of a wolfhound. He could just spot its wagging tail beyond. It was immense, the size of a pony or a small horse, and even though he had moved, it had not stopped licking him. His heart sank and turned icy.

"Huan?" he asked softly, hoping, praying -

- the hound let out a low chuff of air and put its - his - head on Findekáno's shoulder, tail still wagging so quickly it seemed it might fall off. Huan was his cousin Tyelkormo's hound, but he had great love for all the Finwëan cousins; Findekáno put his arms about the beast despite his mounting terror, and his eyes filled with tears. They really are here, he thought with a shiver. Ambarussa in the woods had seemed distant and dreamlike, despite their fierce argument and the tents and low sheds clearly visible across the lake, but Huan was breathing heavily and smelled of earth and moss and pine needles, and his paws were dark with dirt and mud. There was no denying him.

But, where Huan went, there was almost certainly -

"Huan?" a deep and booming voice called, and Findekáno froze. Tyelkormo. Unlike Ambarussa, his older cousin would not bother with civility; he had never been friendly toward anyone outside his own family to begin with, and the Darkening and its fallout had only driven him into greater isolation. He was some distance off, by the sound of his voice, and yet too close for comfort.

I shall have to kill him, Findekáno thought frantically. He will not let me pass, he helped to burn the ships. I shall have to slay him to keep him from stopping me, from slaying me instead…

His hands were shaking as he pushed Huan away from him and got to his feet. I have killed my kindred once, he thought, and remembered torches and screaming and blood foaming up in the water, I can do it again. His hand went to the satchel at his side again; this time, the clasp opened easily, and he slid his hand inside and seized the knife, pulling it free of its sheath as he drew it out into the air.

It's very nearly funny, he thought grimly, to think I am slaying him with a knife made by - wait, what in Arda am I doing?!

"Huan, where did you run off to?" Tyelkormo called again, and he was a little nearer than before, and Findekáno's heart was pounding.

You cannot kill him, you imbecile, he told himself sternly. That would be a lovely thing to tell Russandol! 'Ah, yes, hello, I've come to free you, I stabbed your brother to death with the knife you gave me as a betrothal gift!' Yes, that is an excellent thing to tell your husband when you carry him out of the Iron Hells. So no, I cannot kill him.

He flinched suddenly, fear flooding his every breath a second time. Grinding Ice, he cursed, I cannot kill him.

"Huan!" Tyelkormo called a third time. "I know you can hear me! I will be very displeased if I have to come after you because you've gotten yourself into some mud hole!"

Huan gave Findekáno a look that was almost apologetic, and let out a deep bark.

He's coming. If Findekáno had been nervous before, he was terrified now. He is perhaps a few seconds away. I have to hide, I have to hide -

He had stepped back instinctively, as if to cringe away from the phantom presence of his cousin; his outstretched hand brushed against the trunk of the tree that had sheltered him. In an instant, he knew what he had to do; he spun around on the heel of his boot and began to climb. The oak had no branches very near to the ground, but he was still strong even after crossing the Ice, and it was easy enough to cling to the bark and push himself upward with both legs. A few frantic heartbeats passed; beneath him, Huan was pawing at the ground where he had slept. Finally, Findekáno could reach out and grab the lowest branch, and he quickly scrambled up into the welcome protection of still-green leaves. He did not stay low, instead climbing up even higher, and he silently thanked the tree for every second that he did not fall.

At last, when he was high enough that he could see the ground clearly while remaining shielded by the generous oak, he sighed in relief and let himself sit back against the trunk, with one leg propped up under his chin and the other stretched out before him. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to be calm and be still. Tyelkormo is a huntsman, he reminded himself, born and bred to it, beloved of Oromë; it will take more than mere leaf and branch to elude him.

"There you are," his cousin said, and now he was very near indeed. Huan paused in his sniffing to glance over his shoulder, and then turned around and lifted a leg. He marked the earth where he had pawed at it; Findekáno realized suddenly that the hound might have destroyed any sign of his own presence. Thank you, he thought, though he doubted Huan could hear him. He could see Tyelkormo below where he sat, dressed for a day in the woods with a full quiver on his hip and a robust pack on his shoulders; he watched the other nér keenly.

"Did that morco come through here?" Tyelkormo asked, in the same playful tone he might use to ask Huan if he were enjoying his dig in the palace gardens in Tirion. "Is that what you're fussing over?"

A morco ?! Findekáno thought, and started back so violently he thought he might fall from the tree. A morco is what they are hunting? I hope to Tulkas I do not encounter it. Below him, Huan chuffed, and turned back to his master, tail wagging slowly.

"Well?" Tyelkormo asked. "Which way did it go? I should like to find it before sundown tonight - I do not relish another night in the woods knowing it might be anywhere nearby."

Huan seemed to shrug, almost, and walked around the tree in a slow, ever-widening spiral, nose to the ground. Suddenly, he stopped, alerting suddenly. He let out a short but deep bark, and began to move off in a straight line. Findekáno watched through the leaves and wondered if it was a true scenting, or if the hound was purposefully throwing his master off the trail. Either way, it was fortunate, for Tyelkormo followed him without a backward glance.

"Through there?" he asked, and the disappointment was clear in his voice even from the branches. By craning his head around, Findekáno could just see what it was his cousin was so upset by - Huan was alerting in front of a thick bramble that would have given way to the sheer size of a morco but that proved a challenge for a hound and a nér. When his companion chuffed in agreement, Tyelkormo sighed.

"I suppose there's nothing for it," he mused. "We could use the meat, and the last thing we need with year's-end coming on is something that might turn on us for food in a few months' time. But I'm not taking my pack through there to get torn to bits." He nodded, and turned back to the tree and the place where Huan had marked the earth; he was already taking off his pack. He set it on the ground, and opened it, and drew out a heavy blade in a simple sheath and a water-skin; these he fixed to his belt before retrieving a small leather pouch and selecting a short recurved bow from its place at what would have been his back, leaving a second wooden bow behind. He opened the pouch, took out a length of sinew, and strung the bow before securing it over his shoulders.

"I doubt anything will trouble where you've marked," he told Huan, covering over what was left of the pack with leaves. "And if the trail goes cold, we shall know where to camp." He lifted a hand and put it on the tree, eyes slipping shut briefly; Findekáno wondered if he was thanking it for sheltering his belongings, and hoped it would not give up its secrets. Once this was done, Tyelkormo stood, and wiped his hands on his breeches.

"All right," he said, and glanced at Huan. "Lead on, would you?"

The dog barked sharply and turned back to the bramble, plunging into it. A moment later, Tyelkormo followed, leaving the little clearing in silence once more.

One heartbeat passed, and then another, and another, and when the count had bled into the triple digits Findekáno sighed in relief. That was a narrow thing , he thought, but it seems I have some good fortune on my side; whatever Vala I have succeeded in not angering has my eternal gratitude. He wondered for a moment if he ought to get out of the tree, and then stopped, realizing that his current position might give him yet another unlooked-for boon. If it is direction I desire, and direction I lack…

Slowly, carefully, doing his best not to fall from the tree, he got to his feet, crouching with one hand braced against the trunk. Twice, his foot slipped, and once he very nearly lost his balance entirely and toppled earthward. After many tries, though, and with the help of many branches, he was standing up and secure in his footing. I am no woodsman, he thought, to himself and to the tree and to anyone who might be listening to him, but I hope I can at least manage to climb a little higher.

The trees here were strange and fey compared with those he had grown up with in Valinor, and yet they were not unkind. More than once as he made his way up, he heard the creak of wood and found a handhold where there had been none moments earlier; twice, when he slipped, a thick branch at his back kept him from falling more than a few inches. He was not sure what, exactly, he had done to so hearten the old oak - for it was old, far older than he was - but he was grateful for its care. The light overhead grew brighter as he climbed until the contrast between it and the shadows cast by the leaves was dizzying, and then at last he found a final foothold, pushed himself up, and broke through the canopy to find himself looking over the whole of the land.

It was an impossibly lovely day, of the sort he had never thought to see again. There were no clouds in the sky, only deep blue overhead, and the Sun was near the zenith of her daily journey, and if he turned his face toward the lake he could feel the faintest edges of the breezes that blew eastward from its shores. The air was warm enough that he did not need to wrap himself in layers but cool enough that he was not uncomfortable, and all around him the trees' leaves were beginning to change from green to gold and brown and red. He had never seen this before, and wondered what it portended; he remembered Tyelkormo's comment about year's end and supposed that the two things might be connected. But it was the mountains he was looking for, and the pass that led north, and so he turned away from the lake and the forest and the bright specks of color signifying his people and their encampments. It was easy enough to find the line of peaks encircling the low plain like dark arms, and if he followed one curve or the other toward the center he could plainly see the gap in them that his father's host had marched through many days ago.

That is my mark, then, he thought, and did his best to fix the direction in his mind and to memorize the angle of the Sun so that he might find it even on the ground. I can climb another tree if I must, and I care not how long it takes to reach it, so long as I am going away from Tyelkormo.

Oh, damn - Tyelkormo.

His thought had brought him back again to the narrow escape of a few minutes past, and to his chance of escape, and he knew that every moment he lingered in the treetop was a moment he might be spotted. Not that his cousin was foolish enough to look above him for a morco - Tyelkormo could indeed be a fool, but never in the woods - but some unseen rise or clearing might lend itself to a pair of sharp eyes and reveal him standing in the thin branches. He had to return to earth, and make himself scarce, and the faster the better.

Findekáno's descent was awkward and reckless, if less desperate than his climb; he had a bruise on his back by the time he was standing by the trunk of the tree once more. It throbbed, and he made a face and tried to reach it to assess if there was broken skin; when he failed he grimaced further and stepped down off the root he was standing on. Before his boot hit the ground, it slipped on something soft; he fell backward with a cry and slammed into the knobs and twining fingers of the oak's roots.

"What in the Halls?" he muttered aloud, groaning; he glanced down to the pile of leaves that he had slipped in and realized with a start that it had not been leaves at all.

He had forgotten entirely about Tyelkormo's pack, buried and shielded from any passing animal; it was this that had caused him to lose his footing. Gingerly, he sat up, massaging the sore spots on his back where it had struck wood, and he stared at the pack as he wondered what to do with it.

I could steal it, he thought. Simply take it and walk away and leave my own in its place. I daresay it is better prepared for the wilds than I am. But - if I do that, he may be able to guess what has happened, and the last thing I want is to cause more hostility between our families. Family. Just the one family. We are too close to be two branches.

If I do not steal it, though, what am I to do? Leave it here? Surely not. They stole my father's horse, they stole our livestock and our grain and most of our valuables. I have every right to take it. Findekáno nodded, as if to agree with himself, and reached forward to seize the pack before suddenly stopping.

But - but what of the harp?

This was troublesome. Tyelkormo's pack was larger, with many leather loops and pouches on the outside all filled with various tools that would doubtless be useful to a woodsman; there was no space to fasten the makeshift hooks and clasps that he had made, nowhere to anchor the bandages that held the harp in place. And I need the harp, if I am to find a way into Angamando, he told himself. So I cannot steal it.

He groaned, thinking of the long march that awaited him with only fish for victuals and of the stores of food that were surely in Tyelkormo's possession. There can be no harm in looking, surely - perhaps I can make space in my own pack for something.

And he did steal Roccolórë.

His mind made up, Findekáno bent forward and opened his cousin's pack. What he found put his own preparations for a journey to shame - here were spare cloak and bedroll neatly stowed, and oilcloth pouches filled with waybread and strips of dried meat buttoned to the inside of the leather, and even a series of blades clearly meant for butchering a kill. These he passed by - surely, I shall have no need of a bonesaw - in favor of a water-skin and several of the pouches of food. Last of all was a bowstring in a small leather pocket, and - oh, if he finds me, he shall kill me surely - the elegant but sturdy bow that Tyelkormo had left behind in favor of its shorter, heavier companion.

I need a ranged weapon, he told himself as he took off his own pack and slid the curved wood between the strips of bandage so that it would be pressed close against his back as he traveled. I need something - anything - better than knives alone. Despite this, the thought of what Tyelkormo would do to him if he were caught was nearly enough to make him reconsider; after some frightful minutes weighing his chances of being tracked down by the master hunter, he at last decided he had no other choice. Huan saved me once, he concluded as he covered the pack with leaves again, perhaps he will save me again.

He rose to his feet, newly supplied and feeling far better about his chances, and began to make his way north at an easy, loping run.

After two weeks, Findekáno was forced to admit that he was no woodsman. The days had wound into one another, and despite his best efforts, he was still many miles from the pass that his father's host had marched through to reach the lake. He did not dare leave the forest and follow the same trail he had taken that first time - by now, surely, his people were searching for him, and even if he was not found by one of them he ran the risk of being spotted by orcs or (worst of all, by his reckoning) one of the Fëanárian loyalists, if not his cousins themselves. At least he had seen no sign of Tyelkormo since that first day, and he began to hope that he had truly gotten away with his theft, though he would be hard-pressed to return the food that he had taken. There were no streams or rivers here that he had found, and he had wasted two days chasing after skittish deer; in the end, he was forced to rely entirely on the rations he had taken from the quick-tempered nér .

And they were near to running out.

"What am I doing? " he asked himself one evening, huddled below the spreading branches of a hospitable hawthorn. It was raining, and he was more damp than dry, but at least he was not soaked through and shivering.

You are going after Russandol, he answered himself, and scoffed. It was not the first time he had let this imagined debate play out.

But why? What does it matter now? It has been Valar only know how long since his capture. He is almost surely dead.

He is not dead. You saw, you felt him. That vision of the throne room of Moringotto -

- which might have been an illusion, a trap set by the Enemy to ensnare any who seek to save him! Macalaurë is right to forbid any attempt at this impossible, foolish deed!

But I cannot leave him there without knowing the truth! He is my husband, and I do not abandon my family to torment and death.

And yet he abandoned you all too easily.

Tears pricked at Findekáno's eyes; he drew his knees up under his chin and rested his folded arms over them and laid his head down. The sobs that had been building in his chest for these uncounted days were bitter and hot and sick; he did not wish to weep in the woods and give himself away by the sound of his grief and anger, and so he had forced them back time and time again. But now, with the rain and the darkness of night and the tree all shielding him, there was nothing to stop him, and so he at last broke down and wept. He wept for his grandfather, for his mother in distant Aman, for the Teleri whose blood had stained his blade and made him a kinslayer, for Elenwë and all the others lost to the Ice, for Itarillë who was fated now to grow up with a father twisted by grief, for Arakáno dead by the shores of the sea, for -

- ai, Ilúvatar, Herunúmen, Russandol!

There was a high, keening cry in the air about the rowan, like a horrible shriek from a dying animal. He realized it was coming from him , and it only spurred him on to greater weeping.

I have abandoned my people, my station, my duties, my family , all for what? A love I cannot know is returned! I am a traitor twice over now, once for Alqualondë when I led my host to damnation and once for this foolish, useless quest that I have undertaken solely for my own benefit! It has been long enough now that my father will notice my absence, perhaps he thinks I am dead and devoured by some ravenous rá or morco , perhaps he believes me a captive of the Enemy!

Every new thought drove him deeper into misery, leaving him cold from his tears and from his guilt. I cannot return like this, he realized, and what little hope he had left withered and died. Better that I wander forever, or fall to my untimely death, or slay myself! Better that I, too, be held in thrall in Angamando! What have I done ? What manner of prince abandons his people in the name of selfish desire? And what else can I do and still keep my marriage-vow? I have become a traitor and an apostate, I cannot violate yet another sacred trust!

I am a disgrace, I am the least of my father's children, I am the least of my whole Valardamned House! I ought to be executed for my crimes. I ought - I ought -

What was left of his will broke apart, and he lost himself to his tears.

He did not know how long he spent beneath the hawthorn tree, only that the sun rose and set and rose and set in an endless cycle of light-dark-light-dark while he lay on his side and thought of nothing but what was lost. He did not stir, did not rise, even to seek out water or food; he was consumed by grief and by misery. Every waking thought was of the dead, and every dream was of Russandol lying in his arms, bleeding and as cold as a corpse. He wept, and wept, and wept still more, until there were no more tears left to shed for his family or his victims or himself, and the hawthorn sheltered him as the world passed him by.

At last, one morning when the sun was bright enough to pierce through the thick shield that the tree had woven about him, Findekáno opened his eyes. He groaned, and tried to sit up, and his arms gave out from beneath him and sent him slamming into the leaves and the soft earth. His head ached, and his throat was dry and rasping, and for a long while all he could do was roll onto his back and stare up at the branches above him. Where their leaves had been green, now they were a vivid scarlet, and there were red berries dotting in between them.

Haws, he thought, and frowned at the presence of such a word in a mind long devoid of reason. Not true berries, and edible enough, if you are a squirrel. He reached up with one hand, brown fingers outstretched; he did not reach the lowest branch.

How long have I been here? he asked himself, and was shocked to get an answer. It was a slow, pondrous presence, imprecise and solid both, and yet it touched his mind nonetheless. It spoke, or nearly spoke, in sensation and green and red, in thirst and touch and the feel of water on leaf and bark.

"You?" he said aloud, turning to the trunk of the hawthorn tree, and he was given a disconcerting sensation of hairs on the back of his neck standing up in response that he supposed was a near thing to 'yes'. He closed his eyes again and tried at once to focus on what he was told and to open his mind even further, and as he drifted off into the space between his own thought and whatever it was that the hawthorn offered, he began to form a vague picture of what he was being told.

He had been curled up in a place that the tree could feel him against its roots for some sixty light-dark cycles - he had been calling them days but they were at once shorter and longer than the true days of the Trees - while the air grew colder and the haws grew ripe and the leaves on all but the spruces turned crimson and gold and brown. He had tried to ask why such changes were happening, remembering suddenly that Tyelkormo had spoken of the world going cold in a few months; the hawthorn could only tell him that it knew a long sleep was coming, and that the Kementári had told it that it would change, and dream, and awaken again to warmth and sunlight.

I suppose if Yavanna spoke thusly to her beloved forests, Oromë might have warned the beasts, Findekáno thought. That might be how Tyelkormo knew, unless these cycles of cold were the truth of the world even under stars. He shivered - it had not occurred to him that the very air itself might, devoid of Ice or darkness, turn frigid - but smiled faintly at the tree and did his best to open himself to his gratitude, strange though it must surely be to the child of earth. Once that was done, he got to his knees to take stock of his pack only to be stopped by a sharp pang of -

- hunger?

Oh. He grimaced, and glanced down at himself, frame already unnaturally slight. He had been trim before, but the Ice had nearly starved him, and now he was barely eating yet again. I will be skin and bone and nothing else before I see this quest to fruition, he thought wryly, unless…

He drew his pack close to him, opened it, and straightened up again, glancing back at the hawthorn. May I - I do not know how to put this politely, or intelligibly at all, I… His thought trailed off, and he frowned and did his best to send a sensation of fruit being plucked from many branches. I would not take from you without permission.

There was a long silence, perhaps as the tree weighed what it was he was asking, and then the same eerie twinges dancing along neck and shoulders as the first time, indicating - hopefully - another yes. And then the presence in his mind was gone, as suddenly as it had come, and he was alone with his thoughts once more.

He got up into a low crouch and began to gather the haws from the lowest branches. It was a mindless task, interrupted only by an occasional pause in which he ate one or two of the small red fruits at a time; before he knew it, every empty space in his pack was filled with them, and he was staring at hands stained scarlet with their juice.

What am I doing? he asked himself, and he knew he had done that much before.

Going after Russandol, obviously.

But - really? He sat down beside his pack, frowning, staring at the leaves that had fallen to earth. Really? Even now?

Yes, even now - I can't just leave him there!

But - but what if - what if he is dead, what if he does not love you, what if you cannot find him, what if you are slain or yourself caught?

I have to do it, he answered, and found that in the aftermath of endless weeping and despair was cold resolve. I follow after him, I am his inverse and his shadow.

What if he is dead? he thought, staring at his hands stained red.

Then I shall bring his body home.

What if I cannot find him?

Then I shall not leave Angamando, I shall search and spy and never cease to seek for him.

What if I am caught?

It is easier to find a prisoner when you are yourself imprisoned.

What if -

His breath caught in his throat, and the all-too-familiar tears pricked at the edges of his eyes. He knew what it was that held him back, what it was he feared.

What if he does not love me? What if - what if all I have done, all this death and woe that I caused to our people in the name of my wretched heart - what if it means nothing to him?

He had no easy answer for that. For a moment, the red on his hands was the red of blood, and he was standing on the docks of Alqualondë in the shadow of death, and anger flared deep within him. My choices were my own , he told himself, though he was not sure he believed it. I must take responsibility for that. Even if - even if he cares nothing for me, even if he feels nothing? I am still a Kinslayer.

He swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his breeches.

"If he does not love me, still I would bring him out of bondage," he said quietly. "To heal the rift between our houses, and to hope for peace in the wake of the tragedy I have plunged us into."

He shut his pack, checking that his harp was still secured, and brushed dirt and leaves from his hair and clothes.

"I must do this," he said. "I have no choice." As he spoke, his resolve settled into him, turning wavering will into something deeper than mere emotion and stronger even than steel.

I have no choice.

Findekáno stayed in the shadow of the hawthorn for two more weeks. It was too long, and he knew it, but he could not afford to move any faster. His two-month fast had left him weak, and shaking, and for the first few days he could barely stand, let alone think of scaling trees and mountains in search of his husband. He found a stream behind his unintentional shelter, and crawled to it, and drank his fill more than once; he managed to fish on the third day and catch several perch. These he baked over a fire made of dried twigs that fell from the ever-generous tree, and once he had eaten them he felt more like himself.

The next morning, he rose early and strung his stolen bow and began to practice with it. After a few hours of shooting at leaves, he was familiar enough with the draw weight to try for a real target, and that night he dined on haphazardly roasted rabbit that was at once half-raw and mostly charred ash. He was not much of a hunter, but he could skin and butcher a kill as well as his siblings could, and while he was not much of a cook, he needed the fat and the protein more than anything. Beyond that, it was a test of skill - Findekáno reasoned that if he could shoot a running rabbit through the eye, he could probably kill any orcs that he came upon in the mountains. Not that it will help me much, if I am surrounded, he thought, but if I am surrounded I would be better off slaying myself. His early bravado had dimmed - while he knew that he could theoretically find Russandol from within Angamando, and that imprisonment did not always mean confinement, he also knew that as crown prince he was too valuable to let Moringotto have him. I have a knife, he thought grimly. I have several knives - I can take my own life if I must.

He spent the last of his days by the hawthorn working to rebuild his strength. He stretched, and took short walks that turned to long walks that turned to awkward stumbling sprints, and climbed every tree he could find, and practiced for hours on end with the bow. Each day he grew steadier, surer; he knew that he was very nearly to where he had been when he left. At last, when he could run for what he hoped was a furlong and not pause and gasp for breath, he knew he could linger no longer. Russandol needs me, he told himself, and so on that final morning he rose and gathered enough haws to fill every crevice of his pack and prepared to leave at last. He sharpened the knife in his pouch on a suitable whetstone substitute he had found in the stream - not perfect, not even truly good, but usable in a pinch - and brushed the worst of the mud from his cloak.

At last, he turned to the hawthorn tree, reaching out and putting a hand on its rough bole.

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "I think I would have been lost without your kindness." He felt the same odd sensation as before, brushing against his mind for a moment, and then it was gone. The tree had answered, and seemed pleased with him, and now that his dues had been paid, it was time to go. Findekáno got to his feet. His pack was in his hand; he slung it over his shoulders and stepped out into the forest proper.

The first thing he did was climb yet another tree - a towering pine that he had practiced on many times over the past days. Today, he climbed as high as he could - he needed to find where he was in relation to the mountains and the pass, so he might continue to make his way north - and was once again greeted by the breathtaking sight of the woods stretching out almost to the lake. Before, it had been unbroken green before him, but now the leaves were yellow and scarlet and brown and red, and their beauty was striking. Only the pines and spruces were still themselves, and he wondered if they would remain thusly through the coming cold.

The mountains were behind him, very nearly in a straight line, and he guessed he had perhaps three more days' worth of travel before he reached them. His heart ached as he let himself look back one final time at the far shore of Misrim, where he could see the tents and primitive structures that his own people had built, and he wondered if even now they waited for him in vain, if they knew of the long months of cold that the trees and the beasts seemed to warn against.

I cannot go back, he told himself sternly, and he forced down the tears that rose to his eyes. I cannot. They will survive. They will endure. I cannot return without trying to free him. His words were almost unconvincing, but in the end he climbed back down from the pine, thanked it, and set off in a direction that was very near to true north.

The next days passed easily enough. He had to climb often, to make sure that the twisted route he was forced to take between trees and bushes did not set him too far off course, and twice he had to ford streams that were very nearly rivers and left him drenched and soaking. But his pack survived, held above his head, and so he was not dismayed, though he spent those two nights shivering before weak fires. The nights were growing colder, and the colorful leaves were falling to the earth and breaking apart. It occurred to Findekáno suddenly that they were dying, like a plant that had been poorly cared for - would everything die, in the coming cold? The thought chilled him very nearly to the bone, bringing back memories of bodies frozen in place as they walked through the snow to an unknown end.

No, he told himself. Yavanna would not do such a thing. Neither would Oromë.

Would they?

But such matters were beyond his concern. He was neither a Vala nor a Maia. He could do nothing save watch, and survive, and search.

So search I will.

Five days since leaving the hawthorn tree, he found the woods beginning to thin out, and he realized he was climbing steadily uphill. First, the shrubs and low ground cover were gone, replaced by grass that was pale and yellow-green; next, after some hours of marching, Findekáno noticed that the oaks and beeches and rowans were giving way to their spine-leaved brethren, and even these grew further apart. At last, there were none of even these, and he found himself horribly exposed on slopes lit by a setting sun. He could see grasses and the very rare scrubby bush stretching on for some miles, ever upward and ever more thin. And beyond them, high and formidable, were bare shelves of rock that stretched into perilous peaks and narrow cliffs.

He had come, at last, to the mountains.