Findekáno opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. He was lying facedown on top of something impossibly soft, and above and below him were pale cloth, and when he breathed in the scents of lavender and straw filled his lungs. What? he thought, and groaned when he tried to move his right arm and found it unnaturally stiff. Where am I? I - did I dream? Is this - what?

He took another breath, feeling his chest rise and fall, and winced as pain bloomed across his ribs and shoulders and chest. What did I do yesterday? he continued, adding another question to his continuing litany. Did I go cliff diving again? Ammë will kill me, she hates it when I do that.

Grunting, he rolled over onto his back, pushing himself with his left arm. The effort pulled down the linen sheet and blanket that had been so thoroughly covering him, so that when he was facing upwards he could see the low ceiling above his head. It was flat, and whitewashed, and very different from the lofty, vaulted roof that he lay under at home. So where am I, then? He glanced around the room as best he could, ignoring the protests of the muscles in his neck. To his left was a bedside table, with his comb and brush lying upon it, and a door that was shut, to his right was a low window with a wide sill that looked out onto a flat meadow and a line of trees, and at the foot of the bed was a space with a sofa and a fireplace in the far wall. Mithrim, he realized, and laughed at his foolishness. I am in Mithrim. And what is wrong with me? I have not dreamed of home in months .

Chuckling at himself - I hope I have not slept through breakfast - Findekáno tried to sit up, using his right arm for leverage; he stopped when he again felt the unnatural rigidity protesting against the weight of his upper body. My wrist is wrapped in plaster, he realized, frowning. I - I broke it? That…

… Russandol. The - the cliff, the mountains, I had to - !

- oh, Eru, I made it back.

I made it back.

If he tried, he could dimly remember his midnight arrival, with its many reunions and conversations, but all he could see clearly was his husband, pale-faced and silent and still as a corpse. His heart was pounding through his ribs, and thanks to the fact that he was skin and bone and little else, he could feel every beat. How long have I been asleep? he wondered, and cursed himself. I never should have left his side. What if he has died, and they waited until I was awake to tell me? That thought made him flinch, violently, and he clutched his injured right arm to his chest, fingers wrapping around the wrist but venturing no higher. Ercamando, he swore. Muk. Eitho, as the Sindar say, though I am not supposed to know that word. I have to get out of this bed. I must. But that seemed more or less impossible, as every muscle in his body was burning with a low, furious pain that sapped his strength even as he lay motionless. It felt as if he had slammed face-first into a wall at a great speed, or as if he were a youth again and his high spirits had once more led to foolish games with nasty consequences.

"Of course," he sighed aloud, more for the pleasure of hearing his own voice than anything, "I did slam into a wall at great speed. A thousand curses on Moringotto." Oh, let someone come see me, and quickly…

But minute after minute ticked by, and the door that led into the rest of the house remained closed. Findekáno tried to pass the time by watching the play of light and shadow along the rough ceiling. There had been some change in the weeks since his absence - for one thing, his window was now sealed shut with a pane of thick glass that made the trees ripple when he moved his head - and he wondered how hard it had been to get his father to accept the labors of his people.

"Knowing Atya," he mused aloud, "he is still upset that our glassblowers wasted time on the family rather than making windows for everyone else. Of course, he still uses them, so I wonder how much that discomfort is worth. I would have put my foot down, if I were him, but - !"

His one-sided debate was interrupted by the door opening, and the sound of someone trying to manage a latch and a tray of food at the same time. Findekáno rolled over onto his right side to see Írissë and Lalwendë standing in the doorway; his sister bore the tray and behind him he could see his aunt with what looked like a roll of gauze and a bottle of some kind.

"I hoped you would be awake," Írissë said, and smiled at him. "The healers said to check on you."

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"Three days," Lalwendë supplied. "Are you going to go into his room, Írissë, or are you going to stand there?"

"Three days?!" Findekáno cried, using his left elbow to sit up all at once. "But - but Russo could be - !"

"He's fine," Lalwendë told him, and Írissë moved out of the door so his aunt could close it behind them all. "Or… stable, at least."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't look so terrified, Finno," Írissë said. She sat beside him on the bed and offered him th tray, folding out a pair of legs from beneath it so it sat up over his lap. "He's stable. That's what it means. He hasn't woken or stirred, but he's not dead or dying."

"I have to go to him," Findekáno said, but before he could extricate himself from tray and bedclothes, Lalwendë had sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You have to eat, nephew," she corrected gently. "And rest. Endanáro took a look at you while you slept, and he says it has been weeks on end since you last swallowed more than water."

"... what?" Findekáno asked, frowning. "It cannot - surely, I…" His voice trailed off as he examined his own memory, and he found that he could not remember more than grimy rainwater having passed his lips since the very early days in the mountains of iron.

"Oh," he finished lamely, and looked down at the tray in his lap. "I… I ought to eat, then."

"More than ought to," Írissë said. "I will feed you myself if you argue."

"Do I look like I'm arguing?" Findekáno asked, half-jesting, and began to study his tray in earnest. There were cooked eggs, and toast, and even a mush that smelled of baked apples. Suddenly, he was keenly aware of the great emptiness within him, feeling more like a hollow shell than an embodied elda; in response, he picked up a two-pronged fork made of wood and stabbed awkwardly into the pile of egg. The smell was incredible, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that what he had been given was poorly seasoned by any true standard. The simple meal before him was yet more tangible evidence of how far his father's host had sunk in the crossing of the Ice, and yet he could not deny that it was heavenly to consider that he had a full plate of prepared food before him. Farewell to half-frozen roots, he thought, and smiled before he took his first bite.

No sooner had it passed his lips than he found himself assailed by flavors that he had more or less forgotten entirely - the sharp tang of salt and pepper, the almost creamy egg, the way the fat it had been cooked in seemed to fill every crevice in his mouth - and it left him shivering and wondering how he had been so blessed as to get an entire plate of hot food. I will not cry, he thought, already feeling pinpricks in the corners of his eyes. I will not cry again over something so small, I am sick to death of crying. But it was a futile effort, and he let himself eat with the tears streaming down his face. He said nothing as he devoured the whole of his plate, reveling in butter and hardly believing that the sugar and spices of baked apple could exist in a world that had shrunk to the bounds of what his hands could gather in the cold, and when he was finished he took the tea that Írissë offered and downed it in a single swallow.

"Are you all right?" Lalwendë asked once he had finished. He was staring at the crumbs of food that his fork could not collect.

"I am… I live," Findekáno said, "and I am more or less beginning to believe that, finally." He swallowed again, tasting the lingering warmth, and tried to smile. "I am sorry for making such a scene, only - the last thing I ate was a handful of mostly-frozen haws, and a mouthful of grime and rainwater. There is no snow in the mountains of iron," he added, to address the confusion on the faces of his sister and his aunt, "so even what we fed on while crossing the Ice was lost to me."

"Findekáno," Írissë said gently, her hand going to his arm; he knew she had forgiven him for lying to her.

"I brought him back," he said, willing himself to stay calm, and feeling the looming horror rise again behind his eyes. "I brought him back, and that is what matters."

"Be that as it may, you are a hero now," Lalwendë said.

"No," Findekáno scoffed, and when she raised an eyebrow he felt the urge to sink back into the pillows and disappear within them. " No."

"Yes," Lalwendë amended, almost smiling at him. "Your father made the announcement that you had returned, and brought back Nelyafinwë to heal the rift between our houses, and he means to hold a feast for you, to celebrate your accomplishment. As soon as you are able to sit for it, of course."

"Oh, Eru," Findekáno groaned, and passed his hand over his eyes. "No. I - I did - I cannot - all those people, Lalwendë, how can I?!"

"You cannot mean to hide in your rooms for always now that your husband is back among the living," she said. "Whatever happened to letting them assume what they will?"

"But - but that's - !" Findekáno knew he was fighting a losing battle, and yet he could not help but protest it. The night he had returned was a dim blur now, buried by exhaustion and relief and wonder at his survival, and he could barely recall having agreed to such a proposition. He knew, though, that it was best, at least until he could speak privately to Russandol and ascertain what they meant to do.

Assuming he lives, he thought, and grimaced.

"What is it?" Írissë asked him. "Are you all right? Did something make you sick because it was too rich too quickly?"

"Not that," Findekáno said, and shook his head. "It just occurred to me that I do not yet know if the husband that our aunt refers to will survive, let alone be whole and hale enough to discuss what we ought to do next."

"He's stronger than he seems, if we're any indication," Írissë told him. "After all, we walked for all those days uncounted, and our only food was what we could kill, and it was not a journey free of peril. And look at us now."

That thought lightened Findekáno's mood considerably. His sister was right - and even he was proof of their durability, considering that he had not even truly recovered from the darkness and the cold before setting out alone to scale Thangorodrim, and he too had succeeded and was now sitting comfortably in bed.

"You're right," he said. "I must be optimistic. He will live. He will."

But I will not be satisfied of such things until I see him. And on that note…

"I have lain abed for far too long," he said, and locked eyes with Írissë and Lalwendë in turn. "I must see him. I cannot bear this separation a moment longer, not when I have no way of ascertaining his true state."

The níssi before him glanced at one another, and then Lalwendë turned her gaze to the crutch propped up by the door.

"No," Írissë said, and then shook her head. "No, Findekáno, you are weak and starved, you cannot - !"

"We can't keep him in bed forever," Lalwendë interrupted. "And if we are not with him, you know he will crawl out of this room by himself until he has seen Nelyafinwë with his own eyes and is certain we are not all conspiring to poison him."

"I don't think that!" Findekáno cried, and then winced when he realized his aunt was laughing at him.

"You're acting like he's only safe if you're beside him at all times, with your hand on his shoulder," she said gently. "It was a jest at your expense."

"Normally I would laugh," Findekáno said, "but I nearly died thanks to an ausa in the mountains. I am suddenly quite wary of illusion. And…" And I worked for so long to see him safe again, and I can hardly believe it is real. He sighed, voice trailing off, and leaned back against the pillows. His bed seemed suddenly welcoming, as if the force of his emotions had robbed him of what little strength he had regained, and his wrist and ankle throbbed beneath their plaster bindings. I am exhausted, he realized. And dizzy, and weak, and I am thinking of leaving this room to walk halfway across the encampment? Has my adventure truly driven me mad? Nausea rose up out of his stomach, making him regret his hearty meal, and the pain in his injured limbs intensified. I could stay here, he thought. I could sleep, and sleep yet again, and -

- no. No. I have to see him. I have to. I must.

Findekáno swallowed bile, took a few deep breaths to try and settle his stomach, winced when that failed, and finally pasted a halfhearted smile across unwilling lips as he looked towards his sister.

"Will you help me?" he asked her. "Please?"

Írissë groaned. "You're an ass," she replied as she got up from the bed, "but I can't say no to my favorite brother."

"Oh, so I'm your favorite now?"

"Don't tell Turvo," she answered, grinning.

Findekáno chuckled and moved to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs out over the side. "My lips are sealed."

"Officially," Lalwendë told them, watching as Írissë pulled her brother to his feet, "you aren't supposed to have favorite siblings."

"You're no fun," Írissë said, putting one arm about Findekáno so he could take a few uncertain steps.

"Un officially," Lalwendë continued, "I'm partial to your father."

"Hah!" the younger nís cried. "I knew it. Alcarinquar owes me a drink, as soon as we have proper ale again."

"There's a betting pool for which of my siblings is my favorite?"

"There's a betting pool for everything," Findekáno answered queasily. His ankle burned as if it had been set aflame, and his grip on Írissë's arm had grown tighter with every passing second. His whole body was hot and cold all at once, with nothing looking so wonderful as the bed he had just left. I'm going to be sick, he thought, and then was shocked when he took two more steps and did not vomit up egg and toast.

"You're pale as a corpse," Lalwendë told him worriedly. "You must lie down."

"No," he answered, forcing his voice to be steady. "No. This is only exhaustion and shock. I will be well, given time. I - I must see him."

"But you're - !"

"Talk to me," he said to Írissë, cutting off his aunt purposefully. "Tell me - anything. Gossip, crop yields, what embroidery Artaresto is learning, if the Sindar are any less stingy in their trading. I care not. I need something to fix my mind to."

"Findekáno," his sister said, "I don't know if that's best." But she moved with him, supporting his every step.

"You said you would help me," he told her. "So help me. Get me to the door, and the crutch, and I shall be able to walk on my own."

"Somehow I doubt that," Lalwendë muttered, but she did not stop the two of them as they hobbled to the closed door and the crude wooden support. Írissë was on Findekáno's right, and so she didn't have to move when he took the crutch and tucked it under his left arm.

"There," he said, trying to sound relieved and only sounding sick. "There, now I can go to him. Thank you. This will be quite simple."

In the end, it was not simple. Both Írissë and Lalwendë had to support him, with his aunt carrying the crutch in her free arm, and even the slightest weight on his injured ankle forced Findekáno to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. By now, his whole body was burning, and the bright light of the Sun left him in a daze. This was a mistake, he thought, and then cursed himself for thinking it. No. No, I must see him, I must, if I go back now it is wasted effort… He was vaguely aware that people must be staring at him. He could not bring himself to care, only to watch from somewhere far behind his eyes as the low bathhouse grew closer and closer to him.

"Once I see him," he murmured wearily, "I will go back to bed. I swear it."

"Or you'll drop dead," Írissë replied darkly.

"I take offense to that remark," Findekáno retorted. "I can't die yet. I haven't cut Moringotto's head off."

"You'll never cut anyone's head off if you keep this up."

"Hah," he said, but could not muster the strength to speak again. All around him were the dim shapes of other eldar - watching him silently, probably staring in shock and horror. A fine spectacle I make, he thought, and grimaced. It seems that is my destiny of late: easy entertainment.

At last, the Sun's light was abruptly cut off, and Findekáno looked up to find himself at the door to the bathhouse. It was simple, far simpler than the solid oak that barred off the great house from the rest of the camp, and yet the sight of a few boards nailed together left him shivering with a deep, bone-gripping terror.

"He's not dead," he told himself, and his hands dug into the arms holding him up. "He's not dead."

"I'd better go in first," Lalwendë said, and let go of him. "I've been here before, and Endanáro will tell me off if it is a bad time."

"A bad time?" Findekáno asked, clinging to Írissë with both hands now. "What do you mean?"

His aunt fixed him with a no-nonsense look. "Well, if I were being blunt, I would say 'exactly like you right now,' nephew," she said. "But since you are Halls-bent on being stubborn? Perhaps he is in surgery, or just coming out of it, or preparing for it. Perhaps he is in the bath, or they are changing his bandages and it is an ugly sight."

"I have seen ugliness aplenty," Findekáno replied quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "But… but go. Please."

"Do you promise me you will lie down when you have finished this damn fool endeavor?"

"Yes," he said, wincing. The pain in his wrist and ankle flared up and he nearly retched.

"Then I am satisfied," Lalwendë said, and opened the door, and stepped into the bathhouse.

Both Findekáno and Írissë were silent at first, and then when he shifted his weight onto his injured ankle and nearly collapsed, his sister groaned and turned to murmur in his ear.

"You are making a scene," she said, "which I do not care about, only Atya will in fact hear of this. From many people, if I am not mistaken."

"And you think our father cares if we are seen existing publicly?" Findekáno asked as the edges of his vision turned hazy.

"I think ," Írissë said, "that he cares about you, his son, and that hearing tales of you nearly killing yourself to visit Maitimo will concern him greatly."

"I am not nearly killing myself," he retorted weakly, but their conversation was abandoned as the door opened a second time and Lalwendë came back outside.

"He is just out of surgery," she said, "by perhaps half an hour or so. He is still sleeping off the effects of the Song that sedated him and gave him comfort, though he has not woken yet, and…" Her voice trailed off abruptly, and her face grew flushed, and she looked down at her boots.

"The healers wonder if he will in fact wake at all," Findekáno finished for her. He smiled, though it was more of a mirthless grimace. "It is their job to be pessimistic, I suppose. May I see him, then, or have I come all this way in vain?" And have all these past days and weeks been nothing more than an exercise in forestalling the inevitable? Shall he be the next of us to fall to Námo's accursed Doom?

"You may," Lalwendë said, cutting off his litany of near-despair. "But Endanáro will probably want to have a look at you again once you're inside, so be prepared for that."

Findekáno groaned, and extended a hand.

"My crutch?" he asked. "I… I want to stand on my own, when I see him."

"I don't know why," his aunt said, but handed him the crutch. "It's not as if we won't help you."

"I know," he answered, "but… but let me have this. Please."

Lalwendë rolled her eyes and sighed. "You Ñolofinwion children are all the same. Just like your father, except without his caution. Fine. On your own head be it. 'Knock yourself out', as Findis's jousting team would say."

Findekáno chuckled and drew himself up painfully from Írissë's arms, leaning heavily on the crutch. Pain bloomed up in his injured joints, and he staggered back as his eyes seemed to fill with mist and then grow clear again; at last, after several ragged breaths, he was confident he could walk unaided. He nodded to his aunt, and she held the door open for long enough to let him pass into the bathhouse.

Inside the small structure, the light was dim, and warmer. Despite the risk of fire, there were dozens of candles lit around the single room, anchored into the wall like torches or set on tables or in dishes on the ground. The whole of the place was one room, partially divided by outer walls but not sectioned off, with a large common chamber in front and a smaller room behind that Findekáno guessed was where the baths themselves were. This, then, was a space for changing and socializing - or it would be, when it was no longer a surgery.

"Ah, haryon-nînya," a voice said, and Findekáno flinched as a slender nér rose from a bench to greet him. This was Endanáro, the most senior of their healers; he was silver-haired and an ancient light burned in his eyes. He was of an age with Findekáno's departed grandfather Finwë, and he moved with the same deliberate intensity. Even his white healer's robes were perfectly folded into stiff and unyielding pleats.

"Hello," Findekáno said, feeling very young and very foolish beneath the weight of those eyes.

"You should be abed," the healer said, frowning at him. "Resting."

"I… I will," Findekáno said, wincing as he turned to face Endanáro properly. He could see a large flat table behind the other nér, with a shape upon it that was covered by a white cloth, and he shuddered, hoping that was not Russandol but knowing it almost certainly was. "I will, I only - please, I have to see him."

Endanáro fixed him with a sharp, keen look. Findekáno was suddenly grateful for the dim light that perhaps would shield the fact that he was not truly making eye contact with the old healer, but was instead focusing on a spot just between his brows. If the trick was recognized, the other nér did not say so, and his face bore no sign of recognition; at last, he sighed and shook his head and turned back to the table.

"He is sleeping, as ever," he said, and Findekáno tried not to let his own sigh of relief be too loud as he hobbled awkwardly behind the white-robed elda.

"Is that why it is so dark here?" he asked, coming to a halt at last beside the covered shape laid out in one corner of the room. His breath was short and labored, and he was beginning to see dark spots behind his eyes, and the burning pain in his wrist had spiked into a raw agony unlike anything he had ever felt before. He whimpered as he shifted his weight, and instantly regretted it when Endanáro glanced at him from across the table.

"It is dark here," the healer said, "because we have only the one stone lamp that is bright enough for true work, and there is a team led by your brother and your cousin that is excavating out a false cave for a forge right now, and they need it."

"Oh," Findekáno said, and turned his full attention to the covered shape before him. It looked more or less like Russandol had when he was rescued, but he could not be sure, and the fact that it was still and unmoving filled him with dread. He shivered, leaning against the table, and tried to resist reaching out to pull off the bone-colored cloth that looked too much like an unadorned burial shroud.

"We removed this from his back," Endanáro said, and withdrew an ugly black shape from a pocket of his robe. In the candlelight, at first, it was hard to make out, but Findekáno realized with a thrill of dread that he was looking at a massive claw as big as his palm. He swallowed hard, forcing back bile that rose up suddenly out of his gut. It would not do to be sick here and now, and especially not if it meant vomiting all over his poor husband. "And we repaired the break in his spine."

"What?" Findekáno asked, at once horrified and glad that he had something to focus on. "What break?"

"His back had been broken at some point," the healer told him. "It was a delicate bit of improvised Song - my first on these hither shores, in fact - but I think he will walk again."

"You think?"

"I cannot know for sure until he wakes, haryon-nînya."

"Why is he covered thusly? Is - he is not dead, you said he needed to wake - !"

"The light is too bright for him," Endanáro answered. "He does not wake, or make a sound, but he has taken to responding to things that distress him. Even this is too much."

"Oh," Findekáno said, shivering violently. "Oh."

"I'll draw back the coverlet for a short while, though," Endanáro continued, "so you can see his face. I assume you didn't come all this way just to look at a body under a blanket."

"I didn't," he replied, and tried and failed to laugh. Oh, Russo - !

In a moment, the cloth was drawn away, and folded neatly back so it lay across what he could now see were his husband's shoulders. They were bare, as they had been on the mountain, but even in the dim light Findekáno could see that the filth and grime had been painstakingly cleaned from them, and that they - and probably every other inch of his whole hrõa - were covered in delicate bandages. This is probably the whole of the stock we have been able to make, or trade for, he realized, and winced. He won't like that, when he wakes.

If he wakes.

He had been stopping himself from doubting - it was useless, and foolish, to worry over something he had no control over, and besides, Russandol would live, he simply would - but now, faced with the frightful evidence, he had nowhere to run to, and nowhere to bury his treacherous thoughts.

The nér before him was still, and silent, chest barely rising and falling, face covered by layers of gauze that still showed spots of blood here and there. His hair, which had fallen about his shoulders to his elbows, was shorn off very close to the scalp, and the wounds on his head which had been hidden by it were plain to see. Without the dirt to cover them, the bruises that could be seen between bandages stood out even more starkly, and his skin was nearly as white as the cloth that had covered him.

Russandol seemed to be dead. In fact, Russandol seemed to be so dead that it was easy for Findekáno's frightened mind to twist itself up into wondering if the breathing he saw was only a trick of the light. And as that horror struck home, he found himself shuddering violently, and his heart was pounding in his ears.

"What is it?" Endanáro asked, frowning at him from across the table. He shook his head, and wrenched himself back from its edge, back from the undeniable proof that recovery would be a miracle.

"He.." Findekáno began, and cried out as the pain in his joints seemed to drive knives of white-hot iron into his flesh. The dark spots had grown to cover nearly the whole of his vision, and the world felt distant and airy and far away.

"Haryon Findekáno?" the healer tried again.

"He's…" He's dead, he must be, they are all lying to me, oh, Valar, Eru, Russandol - !

Whatever Findekáno had meant to say was lost. As he stumbled backward, his legs tangled up in one another and in the crutch he had been so reliant on, and he fell to the ground in a dead faint.

He dreamed of darkness, quiet and absolute, and of a vaulted, empty hall that seemed to cling to the absence of noise. The air was freezing and burning at once, every breath a contradiction, and somewhere far below him was fire.

He was not alone. High above him, gleaming in the darkness and yet somehow not penetrating it, was a spark of something pale as starlight that seemed to divide into three as he gazed at it, and beneath it was a sleepless malice. There was no sound, even as the thing that bore the lights seemed to look outward far beyond the darkness of the hall; he hoped he had escaped notice. There was anger in the air, a fury to be reckoned with that seemed to ebb and flow but truly only hid itself beneath a veneer of civility, and it wound about him and seemed to bind him by the wrist and ankle to where he crouched.

The thing that bore the lights looked at him, for a moment, and it was as if flesh and bone had been cleaved away in a single knifestroke, and he could hide nothing. If it was impressed, or angered further, or disgusted, it said nothing, and nothing changed; it only gazed at him, and then turned away.

This time, when Findekáno awoke, it was with a low groan. He felt sick, and weak, and rather like he'd eaten something rancid and was now regretting it.

"What happened?" he muttered, more to himself than anything. He rolled over onto his back, and found himself staring at the ceiling of his room in Mithrim yet again.

"You were sick," a low voice said from the foot of the bed.

He started up, entirely awake all of a sudden, and when the blood rushed to his head he groaned again and lay back on the pillows propped up behind him. His father sat in a wicker chair in front of him, with a lap desk propped up across the armrests and a stack of papers on top of it.

"What?" Findekáno asked, remembering at the last second to keep his gaze fixed on Nolofinwë's brow.

"You went to see Nelyafinwë, and Endanáro said you fainted, and he carried you back here," his father continued, turning over a sheet of paper covered in figures. "It has been two weeks; you have spent them either asleep or needing assistance to the privy."

"I… I don't remember any of that."

"I doubt you would," Nolofinwë said, almost chuckling. "You were entirely incoherent." He set his work aside and looked up at Findekáno; his brown eyes were warm and concerned. "How are you? Really. You are grown, and above telling tales."

Findekáno considered a pithy retort of I'm sick, you said so yourself, but he knew what his father truly meant, and he found he could not conceal it any longer.

"I am wrecked, Atya," he answered, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. "I… I am haunted by what I did on that cliff-face, and I am horribly guilty over all I did before that."

"What do you mean? Your tale that you told us that first night is one of an honorable nér who sought to save an old friend and, in doing so, heal a deep rift between our Houses."

"My motives were not so selfless as that."

"I am not a fool, yonya, and you are not a politician. You do nothing unless led on by your heart. But there is no harm in telling this story in a way that will benefit all of us."

"You mean lying."

"I don't," Nolofinwë said, and sounded offended. "How would you tell it, if asked?"

"'Absolute Idiot Does Idiotic Thing For Love,' obviously," Findekáno said bitterly. "And now he might die and all of this will be in vain, and I - muk, ércala muk, Atya, I - I deserted my people!"

"You did."

"I forsook my place as prince, as heir, and by my actions I sent a very clear message that my duty did not matter!"

"You did that as well," his father agreed, "and you frightened us horribly, and we had given you up for dead, and - !"

"How am I not locked away, clapped in irons and left to rot?"

"Findekáno," Nolofinwë said calmly, "has it ever occurred to you that I trust you to have done this for a good reason?"

"I only did it because I love him!" he said, forcing himself to sit up and look at his father, and then he had to force his hands to cling to the bedclothes rather than clap themselves over his mouth in a vain attempt to catch what it had let slip and bring it back. He was shivering. Somewhere behind the shock and terror that had seized him, he realized he might have looked Nolofinwë directly in the eyes when he spoke.

No, he thought, blinking back hot tears. No, it was not only my secret to tell, I cannot have done this!

When he opened his eyes, he fixed them to the bridge of his father's nose. I don't know for sure that I looked at him, he thought, heart pounding. I might have dodged that pit. He couldn't look away, even to lie back down. Please, anyone who is listening - I had one answered prayer, please let this be another…

"Of course you love him," his father said, rising from his seat and leaving the lap desk behind him. "He is family." His robes were plain blue, and they made a sound like quiet rustling, and when he came to Findekáno's side to put a hand on a still-trembling shoulder, they pooled about the seated eldar as if wrapping them both in the legacy of their family and the weight of the crown.

Findekáno sighed, from relief and fear, and let Nolofinwë put an arm about him. He rested his head on his father's shoulder, still fighting back tears, and when he shut his eyes to keep them away he felt the embrace that held him grow tighter.

"You did well," his father said. "You did well, to bring him back, and I am proud of you."

With that, any semblance of control that Findekáno had was lost. He turned, clinging to his father, and buried his face in blue and wept.