Findekáno was speechless, and scarcely daring to believe his eyes. Surely, surely, he had truly lost his wits, surely this was another ausa, surely there was something, anything , to explain what he was seeing. But as the moments passed, and the dust and rock settled, and the bird neither vanished nor changed, he realized that this was no shade or illusion.

"Sorontar," he whispered, awestruck and half-dazed. He had seen the great eagles before, far-off and flying about Taniquetil in Valannor, and it was rumored that his uncle Fëanáro had once spoken with them; still, no scholar or loremaster knew aught of their lord and their mightiest warrior save his name. And it had to be Sorontar before him - no other of their race was so large. He staggered back, mouth falling open.

"No," he gasped, voice raspy and unsure. "No, I - this can't - !"

The eagle turned its head and fixed him with one massive eye the size of a serving-platter. And why not? it asked him, and Findekáno was nearly driven to his knees by the force of its thought.

"I," he said carefully, breathing heavily as he forced himself to rise to his full height again, "I am - I am doomed, I am cursed , even! How - ?"

Would you rather I leave?

"No!" Findekáno answered, sudden fear rising up out of his gut. "I - please, no."

Something shifted in the bird's gaze, and he was forced to scramble backwards as an immense thing unfolded itself from Sorontar's side. It stretched out and then angled itself down, and as it reached the lower ledge Findekáno realized it was a wing that was longer than the dining room in his parents' home in Tirion, with feathers that nearly matched his own hröa in size. It lay across the whole of the ledge when it was completely outstretched, and draped over the precipice beyond into empty air.

Accept my gift, then, Sorontar said.

"What - what gift?"

The eagle shifted itself, fluffing its feathers as though it were any other bird. I shall bear you up to him, and then take you both far from this place, to wherever you will.

Findekáno flinched back a second time, the sheer weight of what he was offered threatening to overwhelm him.

"But - !" he began, and then shivered and coughed and tried again. "But I am - I am an apostate, a Kinslayer! How - how can I deserve this?"

Do I need a reason to be kind? Sorontor asked, and the eye that was fixed on Findekáno shifted, the iris contracting. Does anyone?

"Oh," the nér said dumbly. Take the gift, fool, a small part of him thought fiercely. Else you shall be stranded here and forced to try and shoot him again!

Right, he agreed, and began to assess how he might best climb atop the bird. Where he stood, the wing was above him, and even if he reached for it he would still fall short, but it neared the ground as it reached the edge of the precipice. Findekáno walked unsteadily alongside it, shock and disbelief haunting his steps, until it was low enough that he could climb up from the pale grey that had been his constant companion and grab hold of feathers rather than sheer rock. Immediately, he felt better than he had in days uncounted - he was warmer, and less dizzy, and when his boots were settled against skin and down and he was truly standing on the wing he felt better still.

Sorontar was large enough that the climb to his back was an easy walk up a sloping ramp, and yet Findekáno still bent over and crawled. This was fortuitous - as he made his way up, his foot slipped on a small feather, and he would have lost his grip and fallen had his hands not been steady and sure. The eagle was solid, and alive, and quite different from the emptiness and dreary chill of the mountains, and it was tempting to curl up in the warmth of the creature and truly sleep, after so long.

No, he told himself sternly. No. Russandol needs you, and once he is freed, both of you can sleep.

If he does not die in my attempts to save him, that is.

This thought anchored him, and he crawled up the last few feet until he was able at last to sit cross-legged in the massive hollow between the eagle's wings. The great pinions and coverts had given way to flat feathers that lay close against Sorontar's body, and they were warmer and softer than the wing had been. Findekáno reached out and stroked them absently, reveling in the softness and the sudden awareness of himself that simply being near one of Manwë's beloved birds had seemed to give him.

Are you settled? Sorontar asked.

"Yes," he answered.

I can barely feel you, the eagle told him. You had best hold on.

"Hold on to what?" he asked, but Sorontar was already moving, great shifting and pivoting steps that shook his whole body. Findekáno slid sideways, swallowed several particularly filthy curses, and clung with both hands to all the feathers he could find before he was sent toppling off onto the ledge again. He found himself sprawled out over the eagle's back, fingers and toes buried in down; he hoped the frantic hold did not hurt, even as he swung and shifted. If it did, Sorontar did not say, instead turning so that he was facing away from the cliffside and looking out over a wide chasm that was slightly to the right of where Russandol hung. His talons were locked on the edge of the shelf of rock that had seemed so wide when his passenger had stood on it, and he was unmoving save for his head, which turned at sharp angles and scanned the skies.

This isn't so awful, Findekáno thought. He had managed to master the shifting steps, body rocking from side to side in mimicry of crawling, and had pushed himself up onto hands and knees so he could better move with the great bird. Now, he was peering out over the massive head and shoulders, looking out over the chasms and peaks and wondering how Sorontar would climb up the rocks. I should be able to keep my hold easily, it -

The eagle leapt forward, diving down into fathom after fathom of empty air, wings angled back at its sides.

Findekáno screamed, and slid backward, pushed down the sloping back by the force of the sudden wind. He kept his wits somehow, however, and plunged his hands into soft down and held tight to it, and so even as he was lifted bodily from the back of the bird he did not fly off to be dashed against sharp rocks or fall to his death. Tears filled his eyes until he was forced to shut them, and he blindly clung to the feathers in his grasp and prayed to anyone who was listening that he would not lose his grip even for an eyeblink of time. He was no great stranger to falling - in Valannor, he had quite enjoyed cliff diving with Artanís and Írissë when they visited Olwë in Alqualondë - and yet this was something far beyond even the most daring heights outside that once-fair city.

Their fall seemed to last for an eternity, but it could not have been more than a handful of seconds, and it was ended when Sorontar let his wings snap out to their full span. He flapped them once, twice, thrice; his whole body flexed and curved in on itself to propel them both skyward again with immense speed. After another near-eternity, the eagle leveled out, wings stilling as he soared in high circles about the mountains.

Findekáno swore, and swore a second time, and crawled back up to the hollow behind Sorontar's neck where he had first made his seat.

"Did you forget I was there?!" he demanded, but was stopped by a sudden shifting warmth in his thoughts that felt remarkably like -

"Are you laughing at me?" he cried, and the sensation only intensified.

I would not have let you fall, Finwion, Sorontar said, and he seemed distinctly pleased with himself. And besides, are you not called Astaldo?

Findekáno spluttered indignantly, but was interrupted by a sharp bark of sound that soared up from his own gut. For a moment he was frightened, unsure, wondering if he needed to climb to the edge of a wing and cough up bile, and then he realized it was not anything so frightful, but was his own laughter.

He sat back on his heels, shoulders shaking, and could not help but laugh again, this time at himself; the sound seemed to grow and echo back at him despite the cold winds. He had not laughed in truth since before the Darkening, and he found he could not think of a reason to stop now that he had begun. So he let himself go, lying back in feathers the color of burnished bronze and finding nothing but absurdity in his current situation as Sorontar flew a wide circle about the cliffs.

At last, the mirth faded, and Findekáno sat back up, the echoes of a genuine smile on his lips. He felt warmer, and more real, anchored by the eagle and by the memory of his laughter, and even as he assessed himself he knew it was time.

"Take me to him," he said, pitching his voice up to carry over the wind, and Sorontar did not answer but dipped one wing down to descend in a wide arc and come close to the sheer rock. It was nearly beautiful, in the high cold air, with the mist pooling around the paths and jagged spits of stone and the sun striking the mountains at just the right angle to set them sparkling; he wondered if such things existed in defiance of what Moringotto had done, threads of Song that had not yet been found and unraveled. Somehow, the thought gave him hope.

When they at last drew near to the cliffs, he pushed himself up onto hands and knees again. Sorontar made one final pass above and then dipped down into the space between the mountains where Findekáno had first spotted Russandol, outstretched wings nearly brushing stone on each side. The nér on his back scanned the cliffs, looking for some crevice or crack that he might slip off and cling to, or else a nearby perch that Sorontar might land on; he found nothing but slick stone all around the forlorn figure of his husband. From this position, Russandol looked even worse, though there was a frightful shift of ribs beneath thin skin every few seconds and so at least he had not died.

"Make another pass!" he called to Sorontar. "I want another look at the cliff." He had begun to guess at what needed to be done, but by now Russandol was nearly behind them, and the distance widened by the second.

I may be able to land beside him, and cling to the rock, Sorontar said. My talons are quite strong, and there are some of my smaller brethren who do thusly.

He ascended again, making another wide loop; when they came down into the mountains proper this second time, Findekáno braced himself against an immense shoulder joint and forced himself to stand.

"Stay nearby," he said, taking several deep breaths. "I will not be long."

What do you mean to do? the eagle asked, but he had already backed up along the width of Sorontar's back and started to run. I made another leap earlier, he thought, breath coming faster, I will make this one. I just have to catch hold of the shackle.

Wait, Sorontar said, you - !

Findekáno jumped, launching himself from the gap between neck and wing, legs treading empty air. He was aiming for the single shining point of metal below him, guessing that he would fall enough to grab it. One heartbeat passed, then another, and the rock drew closer and he was still too high, and his eyes were fixed on the shackle some four ells beneath his boots, and he looked up -

- he slammed face-first into the flat stone.

Before he could think, could breathe, he was falling again, only this time there was no Sorontar to catch him. His fingers sought fruitlessly, thoughtlessly, for a hold, any hold; somehow rock that was slick as glass shredded nail from skin and left bloodstains behind as proof he had been there. His head ached, and spun, and he could not catch his breath, and always, always, the descent -

- his left ankle slammed into something hard, bringing him to a jarring halt for long enough to feel burning, bone-crunching pain radiate up through his leg, and then his newfound foothold slipped away and he fell for half a heartbeat more until his right hand caught hold of that same something. He was abruptly turned onto his back, and he ceased to slide for a second time as his wrist gave a pop that left him seeing white behind his eyes. His fingers had grabbed onto cold, unyielding metal and held fast by some miracle, and he lay against the stone until the world had stopped spinning. At last, when he had caught his breath and got his bearings, he was greeted by pain, in his head and his face and his hands and his ankle. But this anchored him, kept his thoughts clear; he turned his head to see what he had managed to hang onto. When he realized what he had done he could not help but laugh again, thin and reedy and keening. He had found the shackle, and dangled from it now just as Russandol did to his right.

Russandol.

Giddy joy and relief spurred him into motion, and he reached up with his left hand and caught the same shackle, turning his body around so he could brace his feet against the rock and straddle his husband. Twice, the pain flared in wrist and ankle, and he nearly slipped and lost his grip, but he forced himself to breathe and to hold on. If I fall, I will die. I cannot die. Not yet. Not after so long.

He did not know how he managed to master the pain, but somehow he could; the blazing agony in his wrist seemed to fade into memory once he was eye-to-eye with the other nér. But as he scanned his husband's face, heart turned cold and sank down into his toes.

Russandol was insensate, unmoving; he breathed, but he did nothing else. And now that he was near enough to touch, Findekáno could see the full extent of his injuries. His first impressions held true - every inch of the pale nér was bruised, or bloody, or burned. Beyond that, the black mottling on his right shoulder had hidden obvious breaks in more than one bone, and there was a deep cut in his hip arcing down over the bone to the groin, and his face -

Findekáno breathed a sigh of relief. Russandol's nose and mouth and eyes seemed more or less intact, though it seemed as if someone had taken a thin-bladed knife and carelessly drawn it across his once-elegant features. There was no rhyme or reason to the incisions, unless the object was to render his face nearly unrecognizable; if the open wounds pained him, he said nothing.

"Russo," Findekáno said quietly, and then louder. "Russandol."

Nothing, not even a faint stirring from their bond.

"Damn," he muttered, and hissed in a sharp breath as a fresh burst of pain came up from his ankle. He shifted his weight, forcing his right side to take the brunt of it, and let his left hand drop before bringing it up to Russandol's face. He found he could not keep from caressing it, running brown fingertips over bone-white cheek and forehead; he traced the edges of the nearest cut and wished bitterly that he could heal it with a simple touch. The first time I have laid hands on him in Valar know how long, and it is like this…

"I will not leave you," he murmured gently, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his husband's forehead. As he moved, Russandol shifted beneath him, eyes opening. At first they were cloudy and distant and half-aware, and then suddenly something sparked within them and they snapped into focus, pinning Findekáno in place with their achingly familiar intensity. After another moment, they grew wide, and his face drew up in shock, splitting open skin and scab and tearing through newly-healed scars; his mouth fell open as chapped lips began to try to sound out a word.

"Hush," Findekáno said softly, suddenly fearing that any movement would only make Russandol's injuries even worse. His own voice was breaking, and he was weeping openly at the sight of what had become of his husband. "Hush, my love. I'm - I'm here, I've found you, I've - I've come to free you, please…"

Russandol sighed, and shut his eyes; what little life he had left seemed to bleed out of him into the air around the two of them. He breathed still, but that was the most Findekáno could know for sure; no amount of coaxing or careful touch could rouse him.

We can't stay here forever, Findekáno thought at last. Even if I want to speak to him before aught else. He resigned himself to the apparent certainty of Russandol's silence, and he turned his attention to the shackle. But when he properly looked at it for the first time, what little hope he'd had of an easy rescue turned to grim dismay. His husband's right hand was black, and grey, and blotched with red; it was in the advanced stages of rot.

" Muk," Findekáno muttered, and pushed himself up from the crouch he had been in. trying to get a better look at the metal. The more he saw, the lower his spirits sank - the shackle was not bolted or anchored into the rock, but seemed to emerge from it as if it were completely natural and had always belonged there. As if it had been sung into being, he thought, and even as he wondered he knew that was how it had been done. He probed the edges, seeking what ought to have been gaps between it and the flesh it encircled, and he found that even when he could slip his fingers beneath the edges they ran against yet more cold metal.

It - his wrist has been pierced through, Findekáno realized, and another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. The iron is welded to skin and bone and goes back into the rock. That is why his hand is rotting. Sudden panic welled up in his chest, and he was blinking back yet more tears. I… I will not be able to undo this, or cut through the metal, even with the knife I have brought, I -

- how can I free him now?

His left hand dropped to his side, fumbling with the clasp that held his satchel closed. It was the one thing he had borne up with him from the ground, hanging half-forgotten from his shoulder. He opened it and drew out the knife, awkwardly pulling it free of its sheath; his thumb ran over the runes set into the blade and the eight-pointed star of the maker's mark.

Do I kill him now? he thought, wincing. He - he asked me to, he begged me to. And - and I could. I could put this through his heart and end it.

His eyes were fixed on the shackle, on the bone-white skin of Russandol's forearm, on the deathly still nér beneath him.

I could kill him, or - or…

… or I could free him.

Findekáno was shivering now, the tremble in his hands spreading across his whole body. He looked at the knife in his hands, finding the runes a second time. Keen edge, he read. Clean cut. A blade enspelled never to break.

"You promised me this could cut through anything," he said aloud, voice frail and falsely confident as he turned the blade toward himself, angling the pommel toward Russandol. "If it fails, I shall have to have a word with the smith, impossible though that may be."

He raised his left arm high, willing it not to shake, and it was as if time slowed to a fraction of its former speed. The world shrank about him, the whole of the Song fixed to the point just below the cursed shackle.

"Melindo-nînya, óravanyël," he murmured, and brought the blunt end of the knife down hard against his husband's wrist.

He felt bone shatter beneath his blow. Russandol flinched violently, a soft whimper fighting its way through closed lips, and he had to stifle a cry of his own at the sound. Again the pommel came down, again bone cracked and broke, and Findekáno was sick and swallowing bile with every breath. All I have to do is move my arm, he told himself, turning the blade over in his hand a second time. All I have to do is move it.

For a moment, all was still, even the wind dying down to nothing. Findekáno let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and the sound filled the air and echoed about him. His hand moved down, resting the point of the blade against the stone next to a wrist distorted by broken bone.

Can I do this?

The question went unanswered, and he found himself staring at the bright edge of the knife as if it could speak to him, could order him out of frightful indecision. But there was nothing, only the silence, and he realized again how terribly alone he was. The minutes spilled past him, and the wind picked up again, and the cold crept down into his joints and burned him. He shifted position again, passing off the knife to his right hand and letting his left cling to the shackle. One knee moved up to rest between Russandol's legs, and he shivered and tried not to sob once he was finished and they were more or less eye-to-eye.

"It doesn't matter if I can't do it," he said aloud at last, after he did not know how long. "I must."

He bent forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his husband's forehead, and shut his eyes, and sliced the knife through quickly-yielding flesh.

The world seemed to speed up, cramming every sensation and realization into a scant handful of seconds. All at once, Russandol went limp, sagging against his leg and sliding left; his left arm kept the other nér from falling. His injured wrist and ankle throbbed, the dull burn of the cold sparking into sharp agony; he almost dropped the knife, but somehow held on. And the blood -

He had not guessed that there would be so much blood in a limb half-claimed by rot. He had thought, in some instinctual and ignorant part of his mind, that perhaps by now the blood would have drained out of it. But no, no, there was red pouring out of the wound he had made, seeping his tunic and cloak and all the layers beneath, staining Russandol's filthy skin, irrevocable and undeniable. He stared at it, helpless, frozen, gaping, barely able to think of what he ought to do as his vision turned pale and hazy and every heartbeat left him dizzy.

Let go!

The thought was solid, unyielding, and forceful enough to be a blow to the back of his head. He shuddered, retching.

Findekáno Astaldo Ñolofinwion, let go!

This time, the weight of the voice in his head was enough to make him flinch; his fingers slipped, losing their grip on metal grown slick with blood. A bone in his left ankle shifted, and pain like a white-hot knife stabbed into the joint.

He could not help himself.

He let go.

He fell backward, arms tight about Russandol, still gripping the knife, and shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crunch of rock on bone -

- but it never came.

He struck something sturdy but soft, and the impact drove the air from his lungs all at once, and then he was sliding sideways, and rolling over himself, and then, suddenly, it was over, and he was flat on his back and staring up at the sky as it rushed past.

"What?" he asked at last, once the world had stopped spinning and pulsing at the edges with every beat of his heart.

I told you, Finwion, said Sorontar, I would not let you fall.

Findekáno shuddered, more from relief than fear. He could feel the feathers beneath him now, could see the wings of the eagle on either side of him; Manwë's messenger had kept his promise, and he had not perished.

" Muk, " he swore, and sat up. "Russandol."

His husband was still and quiet in his arms, wrist still bleeding.

"No," he said, and bit back five or six more desperate curses. " No. " There was room enough on Sorontar's back that he could lay Russandol down, and Findekáno settled the pale nér into feathers the color of burnished copper. He tore his cloak from his shoulders, cursing himself for leaving his pack with its many bandages behind. I still have my knife, he thought, and wiped the blade clean of blood on his tunic before using it to cut a narrow strip of cloth from the bottom of the cloak that now lay over Russandol to shield him from the winds.

"I have to stop the blood," he said, speaking to himself to keep focused. "I have to keep him from bleeding out." He seized his husband's wrist and pulled it out from under the cloak, retching yet again when he saw his bloody handiwork, and he let the knife fall into his lap and fastened his crudely cut bandage into a tourniquet.

"Don't die," he murmured when his work was done, and lay down beside the other nér and drew him into a tight embrace. "Don't you dare die and leave me here."

It will be dark soon, Sorontar said suddenly, interrupting him. I will have to land, and wait for the dawn. It is not safe to fly by night in these lands.

"Will it be safe?" Findekáno asked.

I do not sleep, Sorontar answered. And so I will keep watch while you rest.

"But I can't sleep either!" he said. "He - he might die in the night!"

Warmth suffused his thoughts, seeping through terror and exhaustion, almost forcing him to relax; he found he did not have the strength to fight it.

He will not die, Astaldo, the eagle told him. I cannot do much, but I can do that. There was a shudder that ran through his whole body, and his wings drew in and folded to his sides; Findekáno sat up and looked around to see that they had landed on a wide ledge set high into the sheer peaks that made up the walls of Angamando.

I will set my wing down again, Sorontar said, and you can carry him to the ground, and lie beneath me. I often wait out the night here; prying eyes will not find you.

It had not occurred to Findekáno until that moment to think of pursuit, of orcs or fouler creatures seeking him out. In fact, he had not thought of what came after finding Russandol at all, and in that moment he was intensely grateful to Sorontar - he could not imagine what the return journey would have been like if he'd been forced to carry another nér strapped to his shoulders in place of pack and harp. He sat up onto his knees, and gathered his husband and his cloak up into his arms, and when the eagle extended a wing to the rock he slid down it and skidded to a halt on grey stone.

Under me, the eagle said, glancing at the darkening skies, and quickly.

Findekáno did not wait, scrambling to his feet; he darted in beneath the wing and found himself standing between a pair of legs like massive tree trunks. Each talon was big enough to sit upon and use as a stool.

Get comfortable, if you can, Sorontar said. Lie down, and I will crouch on top of you, and warm you through the night.

Findekáno glanced at Russandol, still pale and motionless in his arms, and nodded.

"I don't have a proper blanket," he said, "but I can try and keep you comfortable." He knelt down, and lay Russandol on the stone, and quickly stripped out of tunic and badly-mended breeches and boots. Every scrap of clothing he had brought with him had been pushed into service as layers against the chill, and now he divested himself of them all save for a thin linen undershirt; he piled them close to try and lend any protection from the cold that he could spare. Once that was done, he lay down beside the other nér, shivering himself at a particularly biting breeze. His left arm went under Russandol's head, to serve as a pillow, and despite how much taller his husband was than him, it was easy to hold him close and cover his neck and shoulder with desperate, relieved kisses. Above them, Sorontar settled down on his massive legs, and pale feathers the color of fresh cream blanketed them both in soft down.

Findekáno almost cried out from the shock of sudden warmth - it had been days and days and days since there was truly no chill in his fingers and toes - and he buried his face in the back of Russandol's neck and shuddered. Exhaustion was creeping up on him fast, and even keeping his eyes open set his whole body to trembling. Now that the dreadful deed was done, he found he had no strength left for aught else.

"Thank you," he murmured, and he did not know who he spoke to. "Thank you, thank you, you brought him back to me, I can hold him again - !"

Hush, Astaldo, Sorontar answered, and his thought was soothing. Rest, if you can; I will keep you safe.

Findekáno shivered again, and shut his eyes, and let the soft darkness of Irmo's labors claim him.

If he dreamt, he did not remember it. He woke, ensconced in soft comfort, with his husband in his arms, and while he did not know at first where he was he knew he was in no danger. Russandol breathed still, though he did not stir when Sorontar got back to his feet and Findekáno again gathered him up and returned to eagleback; he was as quiet as death, and grew nearly as cold in the early morning's chill.

Well, Finwion, Sorontar said at last, once all were settled, the night has passed, and the day has come again. Where would you have me bear you?

Findekáno looked around him, watching the Sun rise up and catch the mountain-peaks.

"We could go anywhere," he said aloud, looking at his husband's scabbed and mutilated face in the morning light. "Fly far from this war, from our families and our duties."

But if you did that, he answered himself, you would not be yourselves, would you?

No, he admitted, and sighed. Homeward it is, then. He reached out with one hand and caressed Russandol's face, and bent down to kiss his forehead, his lips. Homeward, and back to our lives.

"To Misrim," he said, in answer to Sorontar's question. "Take us back to my father."

As you wish, the eagle said, and sprang out from the cliff into the dawn.