The feast was held outside the doors of the great house, inside a large pavilion erected in the flat space before the shores of the lake. Findekáno wondered if it was purposefully placed where Sorontar had landed, or if that was some twist of fortune; regardless, the fabric and wood had been erected, and filled with torches and candles and whatever stone lamps had survived the crossing, and now there were trestle tables and long benches in the sand that only weeks ago had been torn up by talons as large as his arms.
"This is large enough to hold all our host, though there are scores of us left - how did we find enough cloth for it?" he asked Súlwë as they descended the steps down to the rear entrance. "Were the Sindar unexpectedly generous? Were we blessed by Vairë with some strange gift?"
"Neither," his companion answered, and pointed to the walls of the pavilion. "Look - it is crafted of our own tents, that we have been sleeping in."
Findekáno started back, realizing in shock that Súlwë was right. He could see the seams and patchwork if he tried, though the fading daylight made it harder to tell where one canvas ended and another began.
"But - !" he began, only to be interrupted.
"This was not levied upon us by your father or anyone else," Súlwë told him. "We wished to celebrate your deeds as one whole host. And it is warm, and the night is clear - sleeping under the stars as our fathers and grandfathers did in Cuiviénen, and as we did when we first arrived here, will not harm us."
"But the tents - what if it grows cold again?"
"The seams and bindings that hold the pieces together can be cut easily, or unraveled; each person who gave up their sleeping-place has marked their cloth in a way that they will recognize."
"But… but why?"
"Because you are a hero, haryon-nînya," Sulwë said, glancing at him. They had stopped just before the open entrance, and before them was a low dais with the high table upon it, and then the other benches and tables beyond. Findekáno felt the eyes upon him as much as he saw them, though he did not turn to meet their gaze. Inside that pavilion are some two thousand eldar at least, he thought, doing his best not to shiver. They will all look upon me and hail me as a conquering hero, as a selfless and noble prince of my house. Are they right? Can they be right? I - I had no hope of saving him, not really, and I did not go forth into the night for the sake of my own heart alone. I could not let him suffer. Even if he does not love me, even though I truly cannot be certain that he had no hand in the burning of the ships. I could not leave him to torment and death and disgrace.
Am I a hero, then?
The thought chilled him, not least because he could not argue it. Surprisingly, no tears came; instead, he took a deep breath, and then another, and steeled himself for the incoming ordeal.
"I suppose I must be," he answered Súlwë, and his grimace was very nearly turned into a faint smile by the time they walked into the bright lights of the feast.
Immediately, he was spotted, though not by anyone he was expecting.
"Atarháno Findekáno!" a high voice called, and he looked to his left to see Itarillë scrambling out of her seat. She almost fell off the dais in her mad dash to throw her arms about his waist, and she hit him with enough force to make him stagger backward.
"Hello!" he said, laughing and looking down at her. She was wearing a dress of pale lavender linen, and there were white flowers braided into her hair. "You look lovely."
"You didn't come to see me!" she protested indignantly, ignoring his compliment. "You've been back for weeks and you haven't seen me once!"
"I'm sorry, Itarillë," he answered. "I've been sick."
"Sick?" she asked, stepping back from him confusedly. "Did you eat something bad?"
"No," he said. "But I had a long journey, and I was very tired, and every one of my bones ached." This last sentence was punctuated with several exaggerated gestures at himself; his hánoanel burst into a fit of giggles that she then tried to suppress in favor of being a proper lady, and her grievance was forgotten.
"You should sit beside me!" she told him, seizing his plaster-wrapped hand in both of hers. "Please?"
"Well," he answered, "I don't yet know where my own atar wants me to sit, but if he has not assigned me a place, I will."
"Oh, good!" Itarillë said. "You're the only one who's any fun at these things."
Súlwë chuckled behind him; Findekáno smiled.
"I'm sure you're being too kind," he replied.
"I am not ," Itarillë answered, and then lowered her voice. "Atya is depressed, and atarnésa Írissë has been so quiet, and most days the Arafinwëans don't eat with us, so I can't see Artaresto."
"Oh," Findekáno answered, and he let her lead him awkwardly up onto the dais. He glanced over at Súlwë apologetically.
"You're - I mean - thank you," he said. "As you're not my valet yet it's rather awkward to dismiss you, only - !"
"Oh, no, haryon-nînya, I think I'll stay," the other nér answered.
"What?"
"You need someone to be a cupbearer, and assist in serving you, don't you?"
"Um," Findekáno replied, and glanced around the pavilion. There were some people bustling in and out with benches still, and the far edges of the seats were beginning to fill up with soon-to-be celebrators, but he did not see anyone in anything resembling formal servers' livery.
"The social order has been put somewhat out of place by all of this unpleasantness," Súlwë told him. "I am not hungry myself, not yet. I would be happy to serve."
Findekáno nodded. Ever since we left home, things have been turned quite on their heads, he thought. I suppose it is time we returned to normalcy.
"Yes," he agreed, smiling faintly, eyes fixed on the other nér' s forehead. "Please. I - I would be most grateful, so long as it isn't any trouble."
"You're the guest of honor," Súlwë told him as he began to look for his father in the bustling preparations. "It isn't any trouble at all."
"Still," Findekáno said, "since you aren't officially in my employ yet - !"
"Ah, onóro," a voice interrupted him. "I am glad you are able to join us."
He glanced over his shoulder to see his younger brother stepping up onto the dais from the left side. Turukáno was wearing a dark blue tunic that reached to his knees over pale leggings and brown boots, and his hair was loose about his shoulders.
"Hello, Turvo," Findekáno said brightly. "It is rather lovely to be feeling more like myself."
"Good," the other nér said. "Is Itarillë bothering you?"
"No," he replied, smiling at the wendë who was still holding fast to his hand. "Not at all. I was going to sit beside her, actually."
"Atar wants you on his right," his brother informed him. "I'll be on his left, and Itarillë will sit on the other side, with Artaresto beside her."
"Ah," Findekáno said, and glanced down at his hánoanel ruefully. "Perhaps the next time we have dinner?" he asked her, and she let his hand drop.
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe, since you're back, we'll all start having dinner together again."
"Somehow I doubt that," Findekáno said sadly, glancing up through his eyelashes at Turukáno, who was stony and silent. But he didn't elaborate further, even when she looked at him curiously; rather than agitate his brother, he silently hobbled along to his assigned chair and sat down in it with only a little difficulty. Soon enough, Írissë joined him, sitting on his right, with Lalwendë following soon after to sit on her right. Finally, his Arafinwëan cousins filed in, dressed in pale yellows and whites and looking distinctly prouder than everyone else seated thus far; Findaráto sat beside Lalwendë with Angaráto on his other side at the end of the table, while Artaresto, Artanís, and Aikanáro took up the last three seats on the left. By now, nearly every table was full, and the pavilion was no longer quiet but buzzed with polite conversation and excited whispers. The only person missing was his father.
"I wonder how long we'll have to wait," Írissë murmured to Findekáno after a handful of minutes had passed. By now, every bench was lined with eager eldar awaiting the start of the festivities, and every cup and goblet and horn had been filled from several barrels in one corner of the pavilion. "Any longer and Atya will have a bit of an uproar on his hands."
"If he isn't here soon, I will make some sort of announcement," Findekáno answered, looking out over the crowd and feeling his heart begin to pound. I never enjoyed public speaking. It serves me right, I suppose, that I must now give speeches.
Just as he began to puzzle over what he would say, however, the assorted host fell silent and rose out of their seats as if on command. Automatically, Írissë and the rest of his family followed, and as Findekáno joined them awkwardly there was a steady hand on his shoulder. He looked over to see the blue and silver robes of the High King, now devoid of mourning embroidery, stretching up to drape over broad shoulders.
Nolofinwë had at last arrived, and stood behind his high-backed chair.
"I will not make a long speech of this," he said, voice even and calm but carrying to every corner of the pavilion. "We are gathered here in joy and amity, and so I think it would be best if I kept things brief - not least because I can smell the venison from here." This got him a polite laugh; Findekáno saw the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a near-smile.
"Tonight, we celebrate many things," he continued. "It has been some seven hundred of these new days and nights since our arrival on the hither shores of the world, and we are not languishing in despair. Instead, we grow, and thrive, and work as one to craft homes for ourselves. We have learned the crops to plant here, and mastered an unfamiliar tongue to trade with our long-estranged brethren who dwell in the woods and the forests, and despite our near proximity to our cousins across the lake, there have been no injuries or disputes that have led to bloodshed and strife. That, I think, would be reason enough to feast, and yet we have still more to uplift and give thanks for. My eldest son," he said, and Findekáno did his very best not to wince as all eyes turned to him, "your crown prince, has returned to us after a long absence and a fearsome quest which he embarked upon for the sake of peace between our Houses. Alone, and at great risk to life and limb, and with no certainty of success, he crossed the mountains and went north to Angamando to bring back our esteemed cousin, the condo Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, who had been kept in cruel bondage and thraldom by our enemy."
The silence turned cold, and sour; Findekáno could tell that quite a lot of the assembled eldar felt that Russandol probably deserved whatever he got, and even those who looked upon him with favor - which was, he had to admit, more than half the crowd before him - seemed more pleased at the thought of his supposed valor than the fact that he had been valorous in the name of a traitor.
"I know many of you will wonder why this deed was done," Nolofinwë said, casting his eyes out over the pavilion. Findekáno noticed that many seemed ashamed of their obvious vitriol, even looking away from his father; that, at least, gave him comfort. "And I will say that it was done for the sake of unity, and fellowship between our people and theirs, and peace on these shores." He paused, taking a deep breath; he was unshakable when he spoke again, and his voice was heavy with purpose and gravitas.
"It was not only my own family that was torn asunder by Fëanáro's betrayal," he said. The tone of the silence that cloaked him changed instantly - it was as if the mood of the crowd was a thing he could predict and catch and hold. Findekáno realized as if for the first time that his father might not have had his atarháno's gift of fiery rhetoric, but he was a master of quiet persuasion.
"Many of you lost someone," Nolofinwë continued. "Parents, siblings, friends, children. They dwell less than a day's journey from us, and yet the rift between our kindreds seems nearly impassable. But we must find a way to do just that - we cannot have bloodshed and death and yet more anger dividing us still. They are our people, our family in bond if not in blood, and what's more, we cannot hope to oppose Moringotto without them."
The listening eldar were silent and watchful, listening to every word. Findekáno spotted a few of them even nodding in assent.
"We shall have peace," his father said at last, gesturing to the host and to those at the high table. "We shall douse the fires of enmity, and offer forgiveness, should they be amenable. And if they are not, then we will be cordial, and fair, and we will hold ourselves to a higher standard than theirs in our dealings with them. And so, to mark this new beginning, and to celebrate a deed that will no doubt be renowned as long as our people endure on this or any other shore?" He reached down to the table and picked up his goblet, which was full very nearly to the brim. "We feast!"
For a heartbeat's worth of time, the silence held, and then the pavilion filled with the sounds of cheering and hearty approval as the other eldar all seized their own cups and mirrored his toast. Once that was done, everyone sat down again, considerably more animated and cheerful. Findekáno wondered if the resentment and bitterness that he had perceived earlier was truly gone, or merely buried by good humor and the promise of a fine meal. But there was very little time to think, for almost immediately, Súlwë and several others moved up onto the dais behind the seated royal family to retrieve the empty plates that were before their chairs.
"That was a good speech," he said to Nolofinwë as soon as their attendants had stepped away. He could not be certain that his father knew the truth, even now; he chose to look at forehead and brow rather than warm brown eyes.
"It was not my best," his father admitted, "and it was rather off the cuff. I chose to forego my planned remarks and I fear I was less than eloquent."
"You were convincing enough for me," Lalwendë commented, leaning forward so that her brother could see her. He chuckled.
"I am always convincing enough for you."
"That is because you are a gifted rhetorician in your own right, onóro-nînya, despite your refusal to see it."
"I am a poor imitation of Fëanáro," Nolofinwë replied, and she scoffed and took a drink from her goblet.
"You will never see your worth for what it is if all you can do is compare yourself to him," she said. "So stop."
"As you wish," he answered, laughing when he saw how Findekáno and Írissë were watching them. "I am properly chastised."
"Not quite," Lalwendë retorted as he raised his own goblet to his lips. "You'd need your wife for that."
This very nearly made Nolofinwë lose his composure mid-sip; it was obviously a struggle to keep from bursting out into laughter and choking on his drink.
"Lal," he said when he had swallowed, but she was laughing with him.
"I won't say anything more, don't worry," she said, sitting back in her chair and turning to Findaráto, who had been talking with his brother.
"You see what awaits you?" Nolofinwë asked Findekáno drily. "All younger sisters are the same."
"They are not," Írissë retorted. "I would not have held my tongue."
Before Findekáno could reply with something suitably witty, Súlwë was beside him again, returning his plate to its place. He found himself looking down at a hearty portion of venison, roots and tubers and onions covered in spices and roasted until they were brown, and a sauce made of some sort of fruit. The smell made his mouth water.
"This cannot have been easy to organize," he said, more to himself than anyone else, but his father heard him and answered.
"It was not," the High King said, "but we needed something more than digging and building and planting. There has not been time for merrymaking and cheer since our arrival here in this place, not until now."
"What did we have to trade for these spices?" Findekáno asked. "I hope the price was not too steep."
"It was not," Írissë said. "Artaresto arranged everything."
"Did I hear my name?" the youth in question asked, and Findekáno glanced down the table to see his cousin peering out toward them.
"Yes," he said, keeping his eyes locked on pale forehead and golden hair. "I was wondering how many of our people are enthralled to the Sindar in exchange for spices and - I assume - for whatever it is we are drinking, as I was under the impression that our own barley and wheat had not yet reached a point where we had enough of a surplus to brew anything at all, and this is clearly not wine." He looked down at his goblet, frowning. "Actually, what is this, Artaresto? I have never seen the like of it before."
"Oh," the other nér said, "I've taken to calling it távananda."
"Tree-mead?" Írissë asked.
"Yes," their cousin replied. "It is fermented from the sweet sap of trees that grow deeper in the forest. They have been making it for a very long time - without light, they could not grow grain or grapes to turn to ale or wine, you see."
"That's quite ingenious," Nolofinwë said. "I would not say I am fond of the taste? But it is also new to me; with time, I am sure I could call it a fine drink."
"What you mean, Atya, is that you hate it but you're too polite to say so," Írissë said. "And I cannot blame you. It is an odd sort of thing. But I am grateful beyond measure for the chance to get properly drunk again, so I cannot complain, can I?"
"This is my victory feast," Findekáno told her, though he was half-smiling. "Please try not to disgrace yourself too much."
"Disgrace myself?" his sister answered. "Hardly. Now, getting pleasantly lightheaded and spending the singing in the lap of some fair wendë? That is another thing entirely."
"I told you," Nolofinwë said cheerfully as she turned her attention to her food. "Younger sisters? All the same."
Findekáno laughed, and turned his full attention to his food.
There was only one lárëa course served, but enough had been prepared for everyone to have several helpings, and he found himself faced with the reality that he could not remember the last time his stomach had been truly full. Even in the early weeks before his journey north, his family had dined as sparsely as anyone else; there had been precious little to share. But now, it was almost as if they were back in Aman, even though this was a paltry affair compared to the sumptuous dinners and balls that had been fixtures of his life before. I am glad I am not spoiled, at least, he thought, and when he swallowed the last of his távananda he nodded to himself in satisfaction. I have taken to a reversal of my fortune far better than I could have ever guessed. That, at least, is something to be proud of.
Once his plate was cleared for the third time, Súlwë appeared seemingly out of nowhere to take it and bring it back heaped with nuts and sweet cheeses and a pastry made of thin layers of dough soaked in honey and chestnut cream. This, then, was the lissë course, meant for savoring in between glasses of whatever nenvalaina was offered while minstrels did their work.
"Oh, thank the Valar," Írissë said. "I have missed láramasta dearly." She pulled her plate closer to her, picking up fork and knife and immediately devouring the pastry. "Ai, Elentári, that is good!"
"Someone is enjoying herself," Nolofinwë said drily, smiling at his daughter. "But - I have news for you, Findekáno."
"News?" he asked nervously. The cheese in his mouth seemed to turn to ash; he swallowed painfully. "What news?"
"Only this," his father said, and there was a warm undercurrent to his voice. "Nelyafinwë is going to live."
Findekáno dropped his fork, coughing on the cheese that had been trapped mid-swallow by his shock. Nolofinwë gave him a solid clap on the back, which was enough to set things right; he swallowed properly and downed a large mouthful of távananda to ensure no such accident would happen again.
"Mana?" he managed at last, looking up at his father's nose and cheekbone.
"I came here from Endanáro and the bathhouse," Nolofinwë explained. "He has not only had the last of his surgeries, but many of his open wounds have closed and begun to heal. We cannot be certain until he wakes, of course, but…" He smiled at his son. "It seems the worst is over."
Findekáno let out a breath he had not even known he was holding in. The world seemed to pitch and upend around him, tilting on its edges. Live, he thought, again and again. Live, live, live, he will live, he will live - !
"I," he began, and found his eyes were filled with tears. "I am - I am glad, Atya, I am glad beyond measure, I am so glad." He was more than that - he would have leapt onto the table and shouted for joy, if his ankle would have permitted it. Live! Live! He shall live!
No, he told himself futilely, feeling the grin spread over his lips, you must be calm, you cannot be glowing and bright and instantly cheerful, someone will notice, someone will see!
And who cares if someone sees? he retorted, taking another drink. This is a feast, I am the guest of honor, and I have been told that I will not have to wait for the Halls to see the love of my life again! Let me be joyous, let me be ebullient as I once was. Only if for a night.
He nodded, satisfied, and let himself smile out at the room. On the ground, and to his right, was a cluster of musicians, bearing harp and pipe and a crudely made tungaquerma; they began a bright and lively song that was still quiet enough to permit conversation.
"More távananda, haryon-nînya?"
Findekáno flinched, looking over his shoulder to see Súlwë there.
"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "But I noticed you were nearly holding an empty goblet."
"Oh," Findekáno said, and almost giggled, and wondered when he had become so giddy. "Yes. Please. Maitimo is going to live; this is a night for celebration indeed!"
"Live?" Súlwë said, and he was clearly shocked. "You mean there was doubt before?"
"Yes," Findekáno said. "When I saw him last, there was a great deal of doubt." And it very nearly killed me, he added silently, passing his goblet to the other nér.
"That - that is good news, isn't it?" Súlwë asked, bowing slightly when he took the cup.
"Yes," he answered. "Very good news."
His companion nodded, and stepped back off the dais effortlessly as if he had been serving at table all his life; Findekáno could not help but be impressed. And, if his father's attentive gaze was any indication, he was not the only one.
"You need a valet," Nolofinwë remarked as Súlwë made his way to the piled barrels in the corner of the pavilion.
"I do," Findekáno said. "It is time I grew out of childhood. I hear you've taken on Endanáro, when he is not busy with R - with Maitimo."
"I have," the High King said. "He is an amicable companion, and old and wise enough to make me feel young, which is no small thing."
"Why does he want to leave the healing arts behind him?"
"Beyond the fact that he has been a healer since long before my birth?" Nolofinwë asked. "In truth - and I ask you to be discreet, as there will be a proper ceremony sooner rather than later - it is because he has decided to marry, and he wishes to try for a different path in life. New shores mean new beginnings, after all."
"And he has decided to be your valet?"
"He has decided to try it, for a time, and see if it suits him. If it does not, there is another I would offer the position to."
"May I ask who?" Findekáno inquired, pausing for Súlwë to return his newly-filled goblet to the table.
"There is a youth - he has taken the name of Isilórë for a kilmessë, to match his sister's Anorórë - who has been assisting Turukáno with the diggings and the construction of more permanent buildings in our camp," his father said. "He is very far in the back of the pavilion, so I will not point him out and draw attention to him, but he is keen-eyed and quick-minded and dextrous and nimble with his hands. He has very little confidence in himself, but he is skilled in song and crafting, and I think I could shape him into a fine nér given the chance. His mother died on the Ice, and his father remained in Aman, and he is only newly come to his majority; he is in dire need of guidance."
Findekáno nodded, and took a forkful of láramasta and chewed it thoughtfully.
"You are a first-rate atar, did you know that?" he asked in between bites. Relief was welling up in his chest - relief that he was not interrogated, or scorned, or hated, or met with fury and blazing anger for betrayal, and relief that even if he had failed to keep this most precious of all his secrets he would not be cast out from his family. Nolofinwë did not answer him; there was an odd look on his face that was somewhere between warmth and pride and confusion.
"I mean it," Findekáno said, once he had swallowed. "Fëanáro would have probably murdered me, if I had been his son and I did this. And - and you do not have to seek out those in need of guidance, to mentor them, but you do, and - oh, I am getting drunk, and losing all eloquence."
"I am glad you are not his son," Nolofinwë told him, and for a moment his voice was strained and tired, weary under the burden of many years in Fëanáro's shadow. "He would not deserve you, if you were, and I would probably attempt to take you from him."
"It would have been you holding the sword," Findekáno said with a low laugh, "and it would have happened at my birth."
"You jest, but I would have," his father answered, taking a bite of his own láramasta. His eyes were bright with mirth. "And I would have been the banished one, surely."
"All for my sake?" Findekáno asked, laughing again. "I am not worth such grand sacrifices, surely."
Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and his father's expression was solid and serious.
"You are worth far more than you think, yonya," he said. "You ought to value yourself more highly."
Findekáno could not argue with this, nor could he muster enough will to change the subject; he forced an awkward smile and returned his attention to his plate as the music swelled around them, carrying the pavilion forth into the night.
Many hours of merriment later, when the last of the revelers had stumbled off to their beds under the stars, all that remained in the pavilion to indicate it had been filled with light and song was a low-burning brazier in the far corner. It, too, was slowly losing itself, turning from open flame to dying embers, but it still gave off warmth, and so it was surrounded by three néri who had not yet lost the battle against sleep and dreaming. They were solemn, and somber, and very, very drunk. They drank still, passing around a nearly-empty bottle of távananda as they spoke; their voices were low and bitter.
"I don't understand why he's been allowed to live at all," the first one said, taking a drink from the bottle and passing it to his right. "He's a traitor."
"The High King won't execute him, Artanen," the nér who took the bottle said. "He has to keep his hands clean, after all, else we might all get slaughtered."
"That doesn't mean we have to like it," their third companion interjected, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. "Did you hear that speech he gave? Calling for peace, with them? Disgraceful, if you ask me."
"More than disgraceful," Artanen agreed. "How can he say that after all we have suffered? After your wife froze in her shoes, Aryaráto? Or you, Ailinwë - your sons died for this? For our High King to barter with our torturers, to keep one of them from death? For his son, our Crown Prince and the jewel of all our people, to save him from a well-deserved punishment?"
"At least he will die soon," Ailinwë said, shaking his head and watching his two friends from across the coals. "And we will have some measure of vengeance."
"Hah!" Aryaráto laughed, taking a drink and passing the bottle. "As if even that torment could be vengeance enough for all our losses."
"You know he's going to die, then?" Artanen asked Ailinwë.
"I know that's what half the healers said two days ago."
"Good," Aryaráto said, nodding as Artanen took a drink. "That's good."
"What is good?" a fourth voice asked, and the three friends glanced up to see a slender figure stepping into the pavilion.
"Oh," Ailinwë said, nodding. "Hello, Súlwë."
"Hello," the nér answered, letting the tent flap fall back behind him. "I came to see if you were still here - it is very late, and I think in the morning they mean to begin to disassemble this pavilion."
"Thank you, ammë," Aryaráto said, grinning mirthlessly; he was more than a little drunk. "We will be gone soon enough."
"Where were you all night, anyway?" Artanen asked. "Did you eat at all? You weren't sitting with us."
"No," Súlwë admitted, "I wasn't. I wasn't hungry; I went out to the lakeshore and thought."
"That's our Súlwë," Ailinwë said almost derisively. "Always thinking."
"You ought to try it sometime," he answered.
"Oh, we are," Artanen said, and there was an unkind light in his eyes. "We are toasting the soon-to-come death of that miserable fop of a nér, Nelyafinwë."
"Death?" Súlwë asked. "What do you mean? He's going to live."
The other three eldar went deadly silent.
"Excuse me?" Aryaráto said at last.
"He's going to live," Súlwë said. "I heard it from someone who spoke to Endanáro directly, earlier today."
"Oh, Valar damn it!" Artanen swore, and dashed the bottle and what was left of its contents against the brazier. It shattered, spraying távananda and glass, but he ignored it. "Damn, damn, damn! How dare he get to live!"
"He has suffered greatly," Súlwë said hesitantly. "Surely that is penance enough?"
"Oh, Súlwë, you were always too soft," Artanen said bitterly. "You don't see it, do you? Our High King is forgiving them, our Crown Prince is enspelled by one of them - soon, we will be joining our hosts again, and it will be as if none of this even happened!" He groaned. "Every ércala elda in this camp except us four seems to think it's all well and good for him to live. I hope Námo rots in his Halls."
"Since we know better than to think this is a good thing," Aryaráto said suddenly, "who says we cannot kill him ourselves?"
"You are drunk, Aryaráto," Súlwë interjected immediately, but Ailinwë and Artanen ignored him.
"That fool Endanáro stays with him through the night, and might raise the alarm, or sing us into the ground," Artanen said, "but I've seen him leave the bathhouse before dawn more than once. There is at least a little time when that monster is alone and unprotected."
"And we all have our knives still," Ailinwë said gravely. "I would not condone this, in better times, but - !"
"But it is not better times," Aryaráto said, cutting him off. "It is not better times, and so we must act, to save our people and the whole ércala royal family from this."
"Go to bed," Súlwë said. "The lot of you. Please. You are more drunk than I have seen you in a long time, and you are not thinking clearly, and - !"
"Shut up, Súlwë!" Artanen demanded, reaching out awkwardly with one hand and shoving him back. "We're - we are - not drunk!"
"And even if we were," Ailinwë said, "we'd still be right." He was grim, and cold, and his voice shook with anger and grief. "This has been a long time coming. Ever since those damned ships burned."
"You don't have to help us, if you haven't got the stomach for it," Aryaráto informed him.
"You don't," Artanen said, "but if you tell anyone, you might just wind up dead alongside that sorry excuse for a prince."
Súlwë flinched, stepping back from the brazier and the three conspirators. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he felt sick.
"All - all right," he said. "All right. I understand."
Before they could say anything more, he turned on his heel and fled back through the pavilion, almost running out the rear entrance towards the great house.
"Haryon-nînya Findekáno?"
The words were soft, and hesitant. Findekáno groaned, stirring; he had been in some dream of bright water and strange half- eldar half-fish néri, and he was slow to wake. Maybe I dreamed that, he thought, rolling over to a cooler part of his pillow. Maybe I will go back to sleep.
"I'm - I'm sorry, haryon-nînya, but you must wake up."
He gasped in air, and opened his eyes, turning onto his back. There was someone bent over him with a candle in hand, and the light cast flickering shadows across the walls and floor.
"Who…" Findekáno groaned, and then blinked and frowned at the unexpected visitor. "Súlwë? What - what is - ?"
"I am so sorry to wake you," the nér said, and he was trembling badly enough that the candle was shaking. "I am - I did not - I cannot think of who else to go to, forgive me."
That drew Findekáno totally out of sleep. He sat up, looking sharply at Súlwë.
"Sit down," he said. "Tell me what has happened."
The nér nodded, and Findekáno realized there were tears in his eyes as he settled on the edge of the bed.
"I - I have some friends," he began. "Or else, I thought they were my friends, but I cannot call them thusly now. They - they have been grieving, and hurt, and bitter, ever since the Ice. They all lost someone. And tonight, they…" He shuddered, and took several frightened breaths, and continued. "They mean to kill condo Nelyafinwë."
Findekáno felt as if his heart had been pierced through by a blade of pure ice. By the time he could move again, his mouth had fallen open in shock, and his whole body was shaking, and he was instantly sick with terror.
No, he though at last. No, they can't, they can't - oh, I was a fool to bring him here, I was the worst sort of idiot, I - I might have fled to the Sindar, oh Halls, oh Valar damn it, Eru damn it - I am, once again, the worst sort of idiot, and I cannot even defend him while I am injured, and -
- Atya.
Suddenly, he remembered his father's speech at the feast - the calls for peace, for reconciliation - and he found himself certain of what had to be done.
"Rouse my father," he said, looking at Súlwë. "There may be a guard by the door; his name is Alcarinquar Laurëfindil. Tell him I sent you, and that it is a matter of life and death, and he will wake my father and then you can tell him all you know. I am a mess of fright and helplessness, and I cannot stop this." Another spike of fear stabbed through his chest, and he swallowed hard. "Is it - it cannot be happening now, can it?"
"No," Súlwë said. "Else I would have gone straight to the bathhouse to stop them. They mean to strike just before dawn, when Endanáro abandons his nightly vigil."
"Muk," Findekáno swore. "All right. All right. I - I will wait for my father's orders, and you must be quick. We - we can stop this."
"We can," Súlwë said, though he did not sound convinced. He bowed, more out of anxiety than aught else, and blinked back more fearful tears, and left, closing the door behind him.
No sooner was he gone than Findekáno seized his pillow from its place, buried his face in it, and screamed. When his lungs at last emptied of air he threw the pillow across the room, hearing it hit the door with a soft thud; he was bent double at the waist and shaking so badly his vision was blurred.
I couldn't protect him, he thought, terror seizing him as it had not since he first learned of Russandol's captivity. I couldn't - I tried, I tried, and I couldn't! What good am I as a husband if I cannot safeguard the one I love most? What good am I as a prince, as a future king? I ought to have died in those mountains. I am worthless, and none may argue it - I brought back my beloved into a den of wolves waiting to devour him, and I did not even know I had done it! Damn me, damn me!
At last, he could summon no more horrified self-loathing. When he managed to take a proper breath again, he fell back against the mattress, staring out into the dark, hoping against hope that warning had not come too late.
Russandol, he thought miserably, I am sorry, I am so sorry.
The sky was an odd grey color when the three conspirators at last reached the bathhouse. Endanáro had left by the main door, as always, and they had waited another half hour before deciding that any more delay would mean waiting until the next day.
"All right," Artanen said under his breath. He was still very drunk, and becoming more obviously intoxicated as he moved. "Let… let's do this."
"Yes," Ailinwë agreed, and Aryaráto nodded his assent.
"Let's put an end to this foul thing," Artanen continued; he drew his knife and crept from the large gorse bush they hid behind towards the wooden structure. The rest of the conspirators followed behind him, stumbling and awkward, but they reached the door upright and without leaning on one another, and they counted that as something of a victory.
The door opened easily, which surprised them; the rooms beyond were quite dark.
"Come on," Ailinwë muttered, stepping into the bathhouse first. Artanen was next, and then Aryaráto after; he shut the door again.
"Where is he?" Artanen asked, taking a few tentative steps forward. "We haven't got a lot of time."
Suddenly, light flared up out of nothing, surprising the three néri and drawing out pained groans from intoxicated throats. Once their eyes had adjusted, they realized with shock that it was a stone lamp sitting on the long, flat table that had served Russandol for a bed. Behind the table, seated in a chair as if at a desk, was Nolofinwë. He was flanked on either side by guards in full armor - Aryaráto recognized Laurëfindil on his left, and on his right was a slightly built and fine-boned elda with narrow eyes and long, straight, dark hair.
"Aegthel," Artanen spat at this second guard. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"It is you who bears the shame," Aegthel replied coolly. "Conspiracy never suited you, Artanen; you do not have the brains for it."
Artanen lunged forward, only to be held back by his compatriots.
"Don't," Ailinwë said. "We are in deep enough as it is."
"How right you are, Ailinwë Núranenion," Nolofinwë said, straightening up in his chair and looking over the three would-be murderers disdainfully. "Now. Let us discuss what is to be done with you."
When Findekáno next opened his eyes, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and the sky outside was a brilliant blue. For a few moments, he watched the clouds pass above the trees, and then with a jolt of nausea he realized what had happened the night before.
"Russandol!" he said aloud, and scrambled to sit up, casting his eyes about frantically for his crutch. Oh, please, whoever hears my prayers - don't let me be too late -
"He's safe," a voice answered him, and Findekáno looked up to see Súlwë in his closet, folding up the blue and silver tunic that he had given up for scraps.
"I - what - ?" he asked. "What?"
"He's safe, haryon-nînya," Súlwë said again, turning to face him. "Your father dealt with the problem."
"What happened?"
"First, he went with Alcarinquar and Amdis and someone named Aegthel to the bath house," Súlwë told him, "and they brought condo Nelyafinwë to this house, and he lies in a bed in the room across the hall right now, guarded by that same Aegthel. Then, Endanáro retired early, and aran Nolofinwë and both those guards went back to the bath house to catch the conspirators in the act."
"Where are they?" Findekáno asked. His fear was turning to anger, to sparking fury. "They had no right to - !"
"They are no longer in this encampment," Súlwë said. He had finished with the tunic, and stood in the doorway to the closet, looking back at Findekáno. "I got the impression that they had better places to be. Your father told Endanáro that they had gone to live with the Sindar, though I do not know how their king will take to having near-murderers in his halls."
"Why didn't he summon me for any of this?" I would have liked to see Russandol…
"Because, haryon-nînya, when he sent me to fetch you, you were asleep, and he judged it best to let you rest." The other nér shrugged, nearly smiling. "Unfortunately, his orders outrank your own." He began to walk across the room, toward the door. "Is there anything more you need before I return to… well, to whatever I was doing before all of this?"
"Be my valet?" Findekáno asked, and then realized that he had asked such a thing, and winced. "I mean - !"
"Yes," Súlwë said, and his smile spread across his face.
"What? Really?"
"Of course I will," his new valet answered. "You need a valet, and I need a set position, and - I think we are both very lonely, if you'll permit my boldness. We might be good for one another."
"We might," Findekáno answered, and smiled himself. "Thank you."
"You are most welcome," Súlwë told him. "May I beg off a few minutes more of freedom to get myself some breakfast?"
"I will do better than that - bring back enough for two," Findekáno said, "and we can dine as friends."
"Friends," Súlwë said, and nodded, and his smile crept up to his eyes. "I like the sound of that."
"Good," Findekáno told him, "because so do I." As Súlwë left, he found himself truly grinning, and he turned his gaze back to the clouds and the brilliant sky.
I have a valet, he thought, and Russandol will not be murdered, and perhaps I have made a true friend after all these years.
The only thing I could ask for beyond this is my husband, awake again and by my side at last.
Oh, melindo, wake up soon.