When they had both managed to stop crying, Turukáno let go of his brother and took a good look at him.

"Finno," he said, "you're skin and bones."

Findekáno couldn't help but chuckle - I am gone for weeks and weeks and weeks, and that is what he notices first? - but as the laughter faded he realized that yes, he had faded to a shadow of his former hale and hearty self. His cheekbones stood out starkly under dry and paper-thin skin, and what little muscle he had clung to through the ice and the darkness was more or less gone, and when Turukáno had embraced him he had been frail and small.

"You could probably span my waist with your hands," he said, looking down at himself. "I… I rather forgot. How thin I was getting. I mean, I had to stop and stitch my trousers tighter, else they would have fallen off of me. But it - I didn't quite understand that it meant I was getting thinner."

"Your sewing leaves much to be desired," Turukáno answered, glancing at the awkward bunches of leather that ran alongside the outer edge of each leg. "Remind me to teach you to lay down a proper seam when all else is finished."

"All else?" Findekáno said. "I mean to drink the tea that Amdis hands me and then go straight to bed."

"And leave us all guessing at where you have been, what happened to you?"

"Yes," he said, and then remembered that his father had ordered him to give account of what he had done. "No. Valar damn it all, I am meant to explain myself."

"Good," Turukáno said. "Good, because I desperately want to know what has happened to you."

Findekáno looked at the floor, ducking his brother's eyes, and shook his head. "There is not much to tell," he said. "But I will not begin until you are all present. I only want to tell this tale the one time."

"What did you do?" the other nér asked. "Atya would not tell us, would not say a word save that you had gone north and east. And Írissë hinted - she thought…"

"That I had gone to Angamando?" Findekáno asked, still staring at the gaps between the floorboards.

"Yes."

"She was not wrong," he said, and he was saved from further questions by the sudden appearance of Amdis in the door, bearing a steaming mug in one hand and a wooden crutch in the other.

"Here," she said, thrusting both at Findekáno with a somewhat forceful smile. "Drink up, and then if you don't mind, I shall return to my bed."

"I'll try and be quick, then - hold this, would you, Turvo?" Findekáno said, passing the crutch to his brother and taking the mug in both hands. He could smell a blend of many herbs and spices wafting up from the dark water, and he looked up at Amdis quizzically.

"What's in this? It's not purely ránelet, is it?"

"No," she said. "I had no idea how long it had been since you truly ate something, and so I took precautions to ensure the tea would guard against nausea, and would not shock your system into vomiting or cramps. I can say it will not taste very good, but it will not do you harm, and that matters more to me."

"Right," Findekáno said, grimacing. "Thank you." He had been looking forward to food ever since it became evident he was in fact going to live, and yet the thought of this tea being the first thing to pass his lips in weeks uncounted was not an appetizing prospect. Well, he decided at last, after some seconds of staring into the steaming brew, I cannot make this more pleasant by putting it off. So.

"I suppose I really am back," he said, glancing at Turukáno, and then lifted the mug to his lips and downed its contents in one long swallow. As soon as he'd begun, he realized this was not the best plan - the tea was many things, but pleasant-tasting was not one of them, and he was forced to drink it all very quickly to avoid coughing and choking on it. Imagine traveling all this way only to die by accidental drowning in my own bedroom… He survived, but came up gasping nonetheless, and he realized Turvo was laughing at him.

"Were you trying to prove something, brother mine?" he asked with a wry smile. "You've already done something far braver, and far more foolish, than I ever will."

"You don't even know what I've done," Findekáno answered, and as he shifted position the dregs of his tea swirled at the bottom of his mug. "You have no idea what it is."

"I'll only know if you tell me," Turvo replied, and shook his head fondly. "You're back five minutes and already it is as if you never left. Come on, then, I imagine Atya will want to know everything." He straightened up and offered his brother a hand.

Findekáno waved him off, setting the mug down on his bed and tucking his crutch under one arm. "It is well that I am uninjured in this wrist," he said as he stood, "else this would be quite awkward."

"It is already awkward," Turvo said, eyes never leaving his brother. "But let's go. The sooner you tell your story, the sooner you get get to bed."

Findekáno nodded, and took a few tentative steps. When he was satisfied the crutch would hold his weight, he walked slowly and carefully out of his room, in search of the rest of his family. He could hear Turukáno behind him, always ready to catch him if he fell; it was almost an annoyance to suddenly be surrounded by such care and intense focus. He made his way down the cramped halls, keenly aware of the plaster and wood on each side of him, wondering if it would fade away in a moment and leave him stranded in mist and mountains again. At last, he rounded a corner and came to the wide door that led into the dining room, and he paused for long enough to run one hand over the intricately carved frame. It had been plain when he left; this was tangible evidence of the passage of time, and he found it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Turvo asked behind him. "How is your ankle?"

"It's not my ankle," Findekáno replied. "It's only - I've been gone a long time, haven't I?"

Only silence answered him; at last, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Írissë was sitting in her place by their father, bleary-eyed and obviously annoyed; Artanís and Aikanáro and Angaráto were clustered at the far end of the table. Itarillë was nowhere to be seen - probably sleeping, he guessed - and Findaráto and Artaresto were absent as well.

"I don't understand why you roused us all from our beds," his sister was saying as the door opened. "We have to be up at dawn, and I only just got to sleep, and…"

Her voice trailed off, the next word forgotten; she had been interrupted by the creak of leather hinges and now she was staring at the two néri who were looking into the warmly-lit room. The color drained from her face, and her mouth fell open, and she rose up out of her seat as if she were in a daze.

"Finno?" she mouthed, silent and shocked, and when he nodded she flinched back, almost as though he'd struck her, and there were tears streaming down her face.

"Á ercat," Aikanáro said quietly, his eyes alight with some deep emotion. "You're alive."

"You ass!" Írissë cried indignantly, jerked out of her silence by her cousin's curse. She stumbled around the table awkwardly, her whole body shaking, and crossed the floor in three steps to throw her arms around her brother. "I don't know if I ought to kiss you or kill you!"

"Hopefully the former," Findekáno replied, doing his best to return her embrace with his plaster-cast hand. She had nearly knocked him over with the force of her affection, and while he guessed she would say he deserved any bruises that resulted, he knew his father and Amdis would be annoyed if the past hour's work was undone. "Please - Írissë - be - be careful, I - !"

"I'll give you 'careful!'" she retorted, letting go of him only to seize him by his undershirt and glare at him. "What were you thinking? Where did you go? You let us think you were dead!"

"I summoned you all here to get those answers," Nolofinwë said from his seat, though he was chuckling. "Some of us know more than others, but the whole of the tale ought to be told at least the once." He glanced at his niece and nephews. "Where are Findaráto and Artaresto? I did ask for the whole family."

"Findaráto is coming," Angaráto answered, "and as to my son? I could not say."

"Did he receive my summons?" Nolofinwë asked. "He was there by the lake, was he not?"

"He was," Artanís said, "and he begged off to go to bed. He said he was exhausted, and I told him that I would make his excuses but that he would have to answer to you if he had acted in error."

"I suppose I cannot fault him for being tired," Nolofinwë replied. "I am near exhaustion myself. So." He gestured at a chair in front of him, glancing at Findekáno and Írissë. "Sit, and tell us what happened to you, yonya."

Findekáno sighed, and shrugged off his sister's embrace, and awkwardly moved across the room to sit before his father. Behind him, Findaráto came through the same door that he and Turukáno had used, and he quickly came to stand beside his siblings.

"Where's Artaresto?" he asked, and Artanís brushed off his question with a wave of her hand.

Silence fell. All eyes were on Findekáno. He took a deep breath and let himself speak.

In the night that lay thick over the shores of Mithrim, a lone figure waited, gazing up now and again at the stars. He wore close-fitting dark clothing that blended well with the shadows and the green-grey-brown of slumbering plants, but his eyes were bright and fiercely intelligent. For some minutes he stood at the edge of the copse of trees where he had halted, and then, his steps impatient, he turned on his heel and paced back into deeper darkness.

And then, suddenly, there came a low call, low and undulating like the cry of a bird. He paused, tensing, waiting until it had faded, and then opened his mouth and answered in kind. The sound was distinct on these hither shores - there were no bright-plumed starhawks here, so far as either caller had found, and yet the noise would be familiar to any less-observant listener. The figure returned to the western edge of the copse and waited as a second shape detached itself from a nearby cluster of low bushes to join him.

"Forgive me," said Artaresto Angarátion, coming to a halt just under the leafy branches of the oak where his companion stood.

"Finally!" replied Curufinwë Tyelperinquar Curufinwion, and his voice verged on exasperated. "I very nearly had to leave!"

"I'm sorry," Artaresto repeated. Unlike his cousin, he wore the same roughly made tunic and breeches that he had been clad in all day, and his golden hair was loose over his shoulders. "There was... a troubling amount of family drama, and - !"

"Say no more," Tyelperinquar said, and he nearly smiled. "I understand."

"But - !"

"Come on, we really have no time," the dark-haired nér said, interrupting him. "I daresay I've heard all the possible permutations an argument might take in this family anyway." He turned and made his way deeper into the copse.

I have a choice here, Artaresto thought to himself as he watched his cousin leave. I can say something - I should say something - by rights he ought to know, only -

He winced. What if Maitimo dies? What if I tell Tyelpë, and he tells his father and atarhánor, and then their brother dies under our healers' care? Then it would be war, surely. He sighed deeply, and shook his head, and followed after the other nér. I can always tell him as soon as it is certain whether our guest will live or die. Yes. That is what I will do, what I must do.

"I brought another barrel of foodstuffs," Tyelperinquar said, and he was gathering up a pair of bundles from where he had hidden them under a fern. "And two packs of tools, these ones for building out of wood."

"Tools?" Artaresto asked, and his heart leapt up into his throat. "Won't they be missed?"

"No," his cousin said. "They're quite old, crafted when we first began to make our encampment. They aren't used anymore."

"Oh," Artaresto said, and when Tyelperinquar passed him a pack he slung it over his shoulders. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Tyelperinquar answered, and his voice was strained as he began to push a heavy barrel out from behind a tree. "My grandfather sabotaged and stole from you. This is restitution, as best as I can give it."

"I mean," Artaresto said, and he had to fight not to laugh, "I suppose you're not wrong."

"I'm not - now, help me with this barrel! It's heavier than that demon horse we're stuck with!"

"Demon horse?"

"Your - Roccolórë? Nolofinwë's nightmare."

Artaresto burst out laughing as he took his place bent over the barrel. "Roccolórë? A nightmare?!" He could see the horse in his mind's eye, a massive stallion watching Itarillë gather bits of stray hay to feed him with through the sleepy eyes that gave him his name.

"Is that - ngh - so hard to believe?"

"He - he let my cousin climb on top of him when she pulled on his mane! He didn't flinch when I accidentally hit him with the door to the gate!"

"That horse tried to murder me!"

"How? By boring you to death?"

"He lunged to bite my hand when I came to visit him after his stable had been constructed!"

"Maybe he doesn't like thieves."

"All I wanted to do was say sorry he'd been stolen!"

"He's a horse," Artaresto said, and chuckled when Tyelpë rolled his eyes. "Perhaps he doesn't understand what 'I'm sorry' means?"

There was no answer, and the golden-haired nér shrugged and turned his full attention to pushing the barrel toward the edge of the lake, where they would follow the shore until drawing near to the Nolofinwëan encampment.

"You left without any food?!" Írissë cried, and Findekáno winced.

"I didn't exactly have a choice," he said, and he was rewarded with a fierce glare from his sister.

"You might have talked to me!" she said. "I could have helped you, gone with you!"

"And risk Atar finding out?" he replied, and then glanced guiltily at his father, whose face was remarkably impassive. "I mean - sorry, Atya - there's no way that two of us could have done what I did!"

"Then perhaps you should not have gone," Turukáno said. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows propped on the table as he watched his older brother carefully. "After all, he's one of them."

Anger blazed up in Findekáno's heart, but before he could answer, Angaráto interjected with a haughty sneer.

"Really, Turvo?" he asked disdainfully. "We're still playing that game, when you are just as guilty?"

"I'm not - !" the other nér said, but Nolofinwë raised a hand and gave both his son and his nephew a sharp look.

"Enough," he said. "I will be speaking to the both of you before I dismiss you. Holding on to that grudge, on either side, is pointless folly and only opens us up to Moringotto's influences."

Turvo spluttered indignantly. "But Atya, he - !"

"No, Turukáno," Nolofinwë insisted. "If you have not yet learned the importance of alliances and open hearts in these dark times, I shall send you to live with the Sindar and their king for a good twenty-four months at least."

"Twenty-four months? You can't - !"

"Try me," the King said, and his expression was stony and solid and his brown eyes were deep wells of anger. "Isolationism will not save us. I would have you understand that now, and not when it is too late."

For a moment, a tense silence lay over the table, and then Turukáno nodded and relaxed back into his seat.

"Sorry," he said to Angaráto, though it was obvious he didn't mean it. Everyone turned their attention back to Findekáno, who sighed. He had been enjoying the reprieve from the constant stares.

"Írissë was right," Artanís said. "You should have taken food, and then you would not have been reduced to gathering berries and stealing from Tyelkormo, regardless of how much he deserved it."

Findekáno chuckled. "It is well I did steal from him, cousin," he replied. "His bow was very nearly my saving grace."

"What do you mean?" Aikanáro asked. It was the first time he had spoken since their impromptu council had been called to order.

"Well, after I took the pack, I wandered nearly lost and disconsolate in grief for nearly eighty days all told, and then at last I came to the first range of mountains. I hoped my journey would be over soon, but little did I know that it had barely begun…"

"What's in this barrel, anyway?" Artaresto asked. There was sweat on his brow and running down his back, and both he and Tyelpë were breathing heavily. The pack of tools on his shoulders seemed to grow heavier by the minute, but their late start meant they couldn't afford to stop and rest without risking discovery in the early dawn light.

"Salted pork," his cousin answered, exhaling heavily.

"What?" Artaresto cried, and he nearly lost his grip on the barrel. Biting back a curse, he resumed his place by the dark-haired nér. "But - but that's - this is too much, Tyelperinquar. They will miss it."

"No they won't," Tyelpë replied. "The tools and the pork were meant to be traded to the Þindar in exchange for the rope they make, called hithlain; we cannot match it."

"I know," Artaresto said. "Trust me, what few artisans we have are mad for it. But it is dearly bought, at least when we trade for it - how can you hope to do anything but return empty-handed?"

"I'll just trade something else," Tyelpë said, and grinned, and his teeth were white in the moonlight. "My father and grandfather gave up their work on stone lamps once it became apparent that silima could be crafted into gems - they were rather obsessed, or at least Fëanáro was. And so my father was drawn after. But I never lost interest. The quartz we have mined here is of lesser quality than at home, but - !"

"Mined? You have a mine?!"

"Is that so unusual? We have been here for far longer than you. And anyway it's more of a cave that we expanded upon, and a pit that we dug beside the hill. You can barely call it a proper mine, or even anything at all."

"Still," Artaresto said, indignant and hurt at the continued evidence of his cousins' prosperity, "you're mining, and building, and smithing, and we're living in tents!"

"I know," Tyelpë said bitterly. The smile was gone. "It isn't fair." He shook his head, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been anger. "It isn't fair at all."

"You're telling me," Nolofinwë said slowly, "that you found Maitimo hanging from the side of a cliff, and the only reason he is not slain is because Sorontar himself appeared out of the sky and carried you to his side?"

"You say it like that and it really does sound impossible," Findekáno answered with a nervous laugh. He was staring at his fingers as they drummed on the table, wondering how he'd failed to notice how thin they'd become and hoping he could manage to avoid direct eye contact for the rest of this interrogation. "But - but I'm telling the truth, Atya. I would have had to try and shoot him through the heart otherwise."

"How did you reach him?" Írissë asked. "Since the rock was so sheer."

Findekáno laughed brusquely. "I was a fool," he said. "I leapt from his back, and bashed my face against the cliff, and nearly fell to my death, and broke my wrist and my ankle." He lifted his plaster-bound hand and glanced quickly around at the foreheads of his family, hoping that would give the impression of looking at them. "You can see the result of that."

"You obviously didn't fall to your death," Artanís said. "I assume you caught hold of that shackle that bound Maitimo."

"Yes," he said. "And from there I was able to - to free him." He shivered, and blinked back sudden tears. When his eyes closed, he flinched; he could see the blood pouring out of the stump of Russandol's arm as plainly as if it were before him a second time. A sob built in his throat, and he forced it down with a low moan and stared at a spot on the table where the joined boards had left a gap.

"Findekáno?" Írissë said. He knew she was watching him. He could feel her eyes catching every shift of his shoulders, every gasp, every sigh.

"Damn," he muttered. "I - I cannot…" He sank his head into his hands as best he could, and groaned.

"I cut his hand off," he said, and he was glad he was hiding his face when he heard the gasps from his siblings and cousins, for he had already begun to weep and he knew he would not have been able to hide the truth of his marriage.

"You what?" Turukáno asked. He sounded aghast and incredulous.

"I couldn't do anything else!" Findekáno cried. He wasn't sure who he was defending himself from, and decided that it was probably his own doubts. "I - he - the shackle was welded to his bone! It had pierced through all flesh! His hand was rotting away! I could not save it!" He was shaking, and his heart was pounding in his ears, and he thought he would blind himself with tears. "I - I had a knife, and I used its hilt to break the bone, and then…"

He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to grow calm, to once again be the master of his own body. His eyes fixed again on that gap in the table, and when he continued speaking his voice was heavy with shock and grief.

"The healers know," he said. "Amdis mentioned it, called it slapdash. I did not even think to challenge her or ask how she had guessed it. I suppose the recent nature of the wound must have been obvious. And the fact it was made with an elven knife." He shivered. "There was - there was so much blood, it…" He sighed. "I think I will remember it always."

No one answered him. He guessed that they were all staring at him, just as shocked and horrified as he was, and that only made the mounting misery worse. He realized suddenly that he was exhausted, that he had not slept in more than a day, and that even his hours under Sorontar's watch had been a pale shadow of true dreaming and respite. He shook his head, trying to shake off sleep as well, and when he tried to sit back in his chair he slid out of it and onto the floor.

"Finno!" Írissë cried, and he dimly heard the scrape of her own chair as she left her seat to come and aid him.

"I think," his father said, "that we have spoken on this for long enough. I can guess, more or less, what happened after that."

Findekáno realized he was sitting on the floor, his legs tucked under him; suddenly there were footsteps behind him and hands reaching down under his arms to pull him up.

"Finno," Írissë said again, and her voice was very close to his ear, and he guessed it was her who was holding him upright, "you're exhausted."

He tried to nod, and then the world dimmed to black behind his eyes, and he knew no more.

"They think I'm trading for everything with the Sindar," Artaresto said. He could see the pale canvas shapes of his side's tents in the dimming moonlight. "My father, and my atarnésa and atarhánor, and Nolofinwë and the cousins."

"That's probably wise," Tyelperinquar said. There was a pause, and then he asked "Do they really hate us that much?"

"Hah!" Artaresto laughed, and then winced. "I'm sorry. Only…"

"Only they really do hate us," his cousin said. "And they're right to, but - !"

"But it's not fair, to hold to a grudge like that," Artaresto finished. "And anyway - just because Nolofinwë and your grandfather didn't get along, or our parents don't, does that mean we have to hate each other?"

"Clearly it doesn't," Tyelperinquar replied. "And it's definitely because I like you that I'm helping you."

"Oh?"

"My family sets people on fire when they desert. And yet I'm here anyway."

Artaresto flinched, and swore. "They set people on fire?!"

"Did nobody tell you what happened to my atarháno Ambarto?"

"I mean - I knew he died, but - I thought - !"

"You thought it was some sort of terrible accident."

"How could it not be?"

Tyelperinquar shrugged, though his face was somber and his jaw was set so his mouth was a firm, angry line.

"My grandfather was a very troubled man, before the end."

"I feel like 'troubled' barely begins to describe him," Artaresto said. "I mean. I tried to argue some sense back into him, when he started rallying us all to his cause publicly, and even then I knew there was something deeply wrong, but I never thought he would purposefully burn his son!"

"I can't be sure it was entirely on purpose," Tyelperinquar corrected. "I mean. He definitely burned the ships on purpose. And when we knew that my atarháno was aboard one of them, he wouldn't let anyone go to save him. But I can't promise that he knew there was someone in danger of being killed."

"You sound like you've made up your mind regardless of certainty."

"I know my family too well."

Silence fell over the two néri after that, save for the occasional low grunt as they pushed the barrel along the shore. Despite the good news of Maitimo's rescue, and despite his efforts with Tyelperinquar, Artaresto was suddenly afraid - if anyone of influence across the lake was even slightly like Fëanáro, did their family have any hope of true reconciliation?

"So," a voice said from the kitchen door. "You've heard his story."

Nolofinwë nodded. His children were dismissed, and his brother's children had gone with them. Findekáno's collapse had alarmed everyone, and once Írissë had taken her half-conscious brother to bed it had been easy to push Turukáno and Aikanáro into true reconciliation. Now, he was sitting alone in his place at the dining table, staring into a cup of tea and thinking.

"I have," he said, and glanced up to see his sister Írimë standing silhouetted by the brighter lamps of the kitchen. She was wearing the same dark blue tunic and leather breeches that he had seen her in that day, and her dark hair fell about her shoulders in thick curls. She was a little paler than he was, but not so pale as Arafinwë; still, none of them were comparable to poor Findis, who burned if she so much as set foot outside for longer than ten minutes at a time without a hat.

"He was wrecked by the telling," Nolofinwë added. "He had to leave the table."

"Can you blame him?" she asked, and came to sit across from him. "He has faced a horrible ordeal."

"And he's hiding something," he said grimly, "though I could not guess at what." He looked up at Írimë, searching her face for any clues. "Did you speak to him?"

"I did," she said, fiddling with a frayed thread in the sleeve of her tunic.

"And? Was he - ?"

"He was not taken captive," Írimë told him, "or so he says. And I believe him."

"But there is something he is not telling me," Nolofinwë said. "Something I could not perceive, something that he is going to great lengths to conceal." He sighed. "Do you know more than I do, Lal?"

The use of her childhood nickname made his sister laugh. "I know a little," she said, "but nothing I judged ought to be told you without his consent." She shrugged. "He is your eldest, and a grown nér in his own right. He is old enough to have some things kept private."

"And if he is wounded? Poisoned? Scarred by some great horror he bore witness to? If - Eru forbid, if Moringotto hurt him, I will - !"

"You will know when he decides to tell you," Írimë said. She reached across the table and took his hand. "If he does decide to tell you, which I hope he will, if only because there ought to be no secrets between a High King and his chosen heir."

Nolofinwë sighed again, and nodded, and squeezed her hand. "Thank you," he said, and smiled faintly. "It is moments like this that I miss Anairë more than ever," he continued. "She always knew what to say in moments like this."

"Well, she is my best friend," Írimë replied, and she returned his smile with a bright grin of her own. "I can guess at what she'd tell you, if you like."

"Forgive me if I'm not exactly confident in your ability to playact at being my wife," her brother answered, sitting back in his chair and taking a sip of his tea.

"Well, now I'm offended," Írimë said. "Some brother you are, second-guessing my knowledge of my dearest bosom friend!"

"Given half a chance you'd fill every conversation with bawdy jokes," Nolofinwë shot back wryly. "And my wife is pure as the driven snow."

"You can't even say that with a straight face," she said, watching the edge of his mouth threaten to break into a wide smile.

"Oh, hush," he said, but his eyes were full of mirth.

"Only if you will."

For a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, and then Írimë stretched and got up. "Well, my mission is more or less accomplished," she said. "I got you to smile, and think about something else besides how sad you are. Now go to bed. I've already sent word out that we shan't be up at dawn. There is some confusion, but I doubt that anyone will regret not being dragged from their beds at such an unholy hour."

"Is that where you were, then?" Nolofinwë asked as he got to his feet. "Rather than hearing Findekáno's tale."

"Not precisely," Írimë said. "I went to the bathhouse to see our nephew. That is where the healers are keeping him, for the moment. I've been there more or less since he arrived, with a short break to speak to Findekáno."

"How is he?" the High King asked. "I would have been, only…"

"You have other responsibilities beyond your family," his sister told him. "That's why I went. And…" She sighed, and when she looked at her brother her face was grim.

"And?" Nolofinwë asked.

"It's bad," she said. "I - I have never seen anyone who was so badly injured. There is not an inch of him that is not burned or bruised or cut."

"Damn," he said softly. The weariness he had carried since his son's disappearance had returned in force. "Damn it all. I had hoped…"

"So had I," Írimë told him. "But he is not dead yet. He may very well make it through the night."

"And if he doesn't? What do I tell my nephews?"

"Send me over," she said, "with Alcarinquar and Aegthel. We are not familiar faces in the squabbling that you and Fëanáro were endlessly caught up in, so perhaps Macalaurë will take the news well if it comes from us."

"That is quite the risk," Nolofinwë countered. "Especially since they might try and kill you."

"They can try," his sister said, and her expression turned fierce. "Who's to say they will succeed? Aegthel is nearly better than you are, and I am quicker with a knife than I look."

"You're asking me to send you off to your death," he protested. They had reached the far door of the dining room, the one that led back into the family suites.

"You are our King," Írimë said. "You will have to send many more off to their deaths before your reign is over."

"Don't remind me," Nolofinwë sighed, but he couldn't argue with her logic. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

"Fine," he agreed. "If he dies, it will be you and those two who deliver the news. And they can come collect his body, provided they do not come armed."

"If they come armed to a funeral, they are truly beyond help," Írimë agreed, and pushed the door open.

"This is as far as I dare go," Tyelperinquar said, and stopped. They were crouched next to a hardy pair of shrubs near the outskirts of the Nolofinwëan encampment. "I will already be back late; if I linger here for any longer I will definitely be missed."

"And I am meant to be in my bed," Artaresto agreed. He looked gratefully at his cousin. "Thank you, Tyelpë."

"Of course," the dark-haired nér said, and shrugged his pack off onto one arm before offering it to his companion. "Will you be all right from here?"

"Yes, I think I can manage. I usually hide what we bring, and then wait until my weekly meetings with the Sindar to fetch them out. And since you were meant to trade these things, then it will be easy to suggest that perhaps they came from your side of the lake originally, if anyone suspects."

"And they will have spoken with me by tomorrow evening, and exchanged their rope for my lamps."

Artaresto nodded, and smiled softly. "Who could have guessed we would be keeping our families from total hatred?"

"This is barely enough to qualify as anything more than good business," Tyelperinquar answered, "and yet you're not wrong." He mirrored the smile he was given, and offered his hand. "Friends?"

"Yes," his cousin said, and grasped the proffered hand firmly. "Friends." He chuckled. "Now get yourself back across the lake before your father decides to burn your bed."

There was no slumber that night in the little bathhouse by the shores of Mithrim. The healers had a challenge, and a true battle - their first since the frightful battle that had lost them their youngest prince, in fact - and they attacked their unwelcome guest's injuries with every ounce of the fury they held in reserve for Moringotto. He was bathed, and bathed again, and bathed a third time, in tepid water and mild soap, and he left blood and dirt and filth behind him, and the bath ran red when at last they had finished. His injured wrist was cleaned, and stitched closed, and his shoulder was broken again so that it might be set and braced and given half a chance at proper healing. The room was filled with apprentices, and just-schooled novices, and above them all was Endanáro, the only master healer to have survived the Ice and the darkness. He was singing, his low bass voice rumbling through the air beneath every whispered conversation and sharp shocked gasp; he had been singing for hours. Amdis was with him, having ventured back from the great house; she matched him beat for beat to ease the exhaustion from his hröa with an easy melody.

At last, after nearly sixteen hours of continuous labor, he opened his eyes and ceased his song, and Amdis trailed off behind him in shock, and everyone fell silent to look at him.

"He will not die thanks to lack of care," he said, and the breath that the room had been holding was let out all at once in relief. He glanced down at Maitimo, who lay unconscious on a flat table normally used for laying out stockings to dry, and his face was inscrutable.

"There is no enchantment laying over him," he said, "and I have done all I can to return him to something resembling a nér and not a piece of meat freshly butchered. But we have a long road ahead if we are to truly save him."

"Are we going to?" a voice asked, and Endanáro looked up sharply. The speaker was Indîrië, one of the apprentices; he fixed her with a fierce glare.

"What kind of question is that?" he asked. "We are healers. We heal. It does not matter who is brought to us, or what sort of person they are. We give of ourselves freely, and when they are either returned to wellness or dead, we judge their actions."

"Oh," the nís answered, and swallowed hard; she clearly did not appreciate being singled out and chastised.

"I am glad you spoke up," he said. "Else I would have to say as much again and again in private conversation. No. We will not simply let him suffer thanks to what his father did, what he might have done. When he wakes - if he wakes - we will let our King decide what to do with him. Am I clear?"

No one answered aloud, but he read the agreement easily in the faces of his underlings. "Good," he said, and was satisfied. "Now, get some sleep, all of you. It is probably nearly midday by now, and tonight I would like to try and seal up some of the cuts on his legs."

"Who will watch him?" Amdis asked. "I can, if you like."

"No," Endanáro answered. "I'll stay with him. I could not sleep if I tried thanks to your song."

"Oh," she said, and blushed, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"For doing your job, and doing it well?" he asked. "No, child. You have a powerful gift. Use it."

She tried to smile, and bowed, and left him alone; he shook his head bemusedly and returned his attention to his patient.

"You have a fight ahead of you, my lord," he said once they were alone, "but you are not soldiering on alone."