Findekáno could barely think, or feel, or move; the fire and burning light of their bond had completely overwhelmed him. He was hot and cold and hot again all at once, fingers and toes burning, and he felt as if the back of his head had been cracked open to bleed into Russandol's. Every breath was his husband's exhalation, and every heartbeat was only a rebound of another heart in another ribcage. He closed his eyes, and opened them to sparks of fire, to echoes of warmth and the last edges of their mingling voices. He could feel his own hands, and both of Russandol's, as if their furtive coupling in the darkness was beginning anew, or as the past and the present had interwoven until they were indistinguishable. And beneath it all, heavy as cold lead, coiled about half of them like a serpent, was the inescapable weight of the Oath.

There was a breath - he could not say whose - and then Russandol gasped, and shivered, and tried to crawl beneath him and use his arm as a cloak despite the fact that they were lying flat on a bed and were twined about one another already. The world cleared and solidified into focus, and Findekáno realized he was staring at a ceiling, and then he sat up on his elbows as his husband clung to him with a faint whimper.

"Don't go," he said, voice rough and ragged; Findekáno looked down at him, stricken.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, and the words shook as he spoke. "I want to get us both back up onto the pillows. You're going to tear your stitches."

"Don't care," Russandol muttered. "You're here. You're real."

For the second time, Findekáno found himself speechless, and chilled to the bone. But this time, Russandol clearly felt it - he flinched, and shrank down until he was wrapped about his husband's lower half, with his own legs curled up beneath him. He looked up at Findekáno with wide, frightened eyes, only made the more desperate by the bandages that still covered much of his face.

"... come here, Russo," Findekáno answered, sitting up all the way. He reached down and put his arms underneath his husband's, guiding the other nér carefully up until he was doing his very best to hide in the lap of someone that he towered over, even sitting down.

"You are a foot and a half taller than me," Findekáno said, almost laughing when he was knocked about by elbows and knees that did not belong to him.

"And?" Russandol asked.

"Nothing, it only seems as though I have married a cat."

"Hah," his husband answered, burying his face in Findekáno's tunic as both arms went about his chest.

"It is the truth, I think," he said bemusedly. "Come on, let's get further up. You're shivering."

"Mn," Russandol protested weakly, but he let himself be moved nonetheless.

It was an awkward, fumbling series of movements that drew them up to the head of the bed in fits and starts, but finally, Findekáno was sitting upright, and his husband was reclining beside him, tucked beneath his right arm and resting against his chest. Warmth surged up between them, gentle and sustaining; he bent down and kissed the top of Russandol's head. This made the other nér shiver and begin to weep again, and soon his tunic was soaked through on his right side.

Driven on by sparks of bright anguish, and with his heart surging up inside his own chest, Findekáno slid down the pillows until he could wrap up his husband in a tight embrace.

I'm here, he thought, and was met with a surge of frightened relief that swept away the last of his resistance; he clung to Russandol and wept, and wept some more, the sensations mounting between them until every gasp and cry and acrid tear belonged to both and neither of the eldar tangled in the bedclothes.

You're here, his husband answered in the same fashion, as if he scarcely believed it. You're here, you found me, you freed me, you - !

A hand feebly seized his tunic, joined by awkward bumps and brushes from the wrist of its twin, and then there were lips on his, hot and frantic, kissing him again and again. He returned each one eagerly, the bond blazing back to its full life the longer they touched, and then his own hands were on Russandol's shoulders, his chest, his back -

"Wait," he said aloud, and there was enough heat in his voice to send shivers down the spines they shared, and his breeches grew achingly tight in an instant. "Wait."

"What?" Russandol asked. "I…"

"We - we're almost…"

"Oh," his husband replied, and tried to laugh; it came out withered and half-dead. He sighed and rested his forehead against Findekáno's shoulder.

Probably the bond, he said silently. In the newly-restored silence it was easy to hear how raspy and labored his breathing had become, as if every exhalation was tearing away his strength. I… I remember my mother talking about it, before…

"As do I," Findekáno answered, easily embracing Russandol again, cradling frail limbs and torso against what warmth could be offered by another hröa. The now-familiar heat of their shared awareness settled over them both like another quilt, and he gave of himself freely, letting it rise until it had stilled the trembling in the other nér's shoulders. "It will take some time until we've sorted out which hands belong to each of us, or so I am told." He could dimly recall a handful of conversations with his parents, and the few teasing barbs he had exchanged with a then-newlywed Turukáno, regarding the nature of marriage-bonds. "This will be harder than I had thought."

What do you mean? Russandol asked him, and whether or not it was possible for ósanwë to be sleepy his husband certainly sounded it.

"Well," Findekáno said, "we are still technically newlyweds, aren't we?"

Mm, his husband answered, shifting against him and sliding down his side; they could both feel the change in their bond, as if it were a bowstring that had just been tested.

No, Findekáno ordered himself sternly, trying and failing to will himself out of several more minutes of painfully tight breeches. He remembered at the last second that Russandol could hear him, and indeed, this was met with a far more genuine laugh than their earlier fumbling.

"You… really?" the other nér said aloud, and though his face was still pressed against Findekáno's chest, he was smiling.

"It isn't as if I can help it."

"Hm," Russandol replied, still smiling. Is the world always heaving and too bright like this, he continued silently, or is that the bond too?

"I think it must be the bond," Findekáno answered, glancing around at the room that was now bursting with color. "I've been awake here for weeks and it has never looked like this. And Turukáno - well, I used to tease him, when he got back from his time away with Elenwë…" His voice trailed off; he had not thought about his lost sister since the day he had fled into the mountains.

Tease him about what? Russandol asked; he flinched.

"Oh. He had lost all grace and balance. He was tripping over his own feet half the time."

Curufinwë was the same, his husband informed him. Though in his case it was far more amusing, since his dexterity in the forge suffered intensely for some months.

"And I am sure you all mocked him mercilessly for it."

We did, until our mother informed us that someday, should we forge bonds of our own, we would be in the same situation with no room to talk. He sighed, tightening his feeble grip on Findekáno. I never could have guessed she was right about something.

"Hah," Findekáno answered, reaching down with one hand to stroke his husband's hair and feeling the tension in a newly-discovered other half begin to unspool. He is so frail, he thought, and there were hot tears in his eyes. Oh, I wish I could kill Moringotto.

I have first blood, Russandol informed him, and he flinched again, and this time they both laughed.

"We need to decide which parts go in which hröa," he said, sounding far more decisive than he felt. "Else I doubt we shall walk again, let alone ride or hunt or fish."

"That is easy," his husband said, still bemusedly tired. "I only have the one hand, and you have two."

Findekáno swallowed hard, and the tears began to stream down his face as guilt seemed to pierce through his heart. His embrace tightened, and it was his turn to shiver.

"Finno?" Russandol asked, looking up at him. "What is it?"

"I - !" he said, and he had to stop for fear he would cry out in grief and shame. He shoved five or six sobs in succession back down into his gut, and Russandol could feel each one and he did not care, and with every passing second he felt his limbs grow heavier and more rigid until all he could do was tremble.

I am sorry, he thought miserably, tears half-blinding him. I am so sorry, I had to, I had no choice - !

Understanding flooded Russandol's features, clear despite the bandages still masking most of his face.

You - you did this? he asked, shifting his right arm.

Yes, Findekáno answered, shutting his eyes, not daring to look at his husband. Yes, I couldn't - there was no other way, I - !

"Finno," Russandol said aloud, startling him out of yet another litany of self-castigation. "Look at me."

He obeyed, though the motion was slow and torturous. His eyes were burning with weeks' worth of self-loathing.

"You saved me," Russandol told him, and for once his own expression was solid and grounding and the fear was momentarily banished. "You saved me. You took me away from - from that, how…" He took a breath of his own, and anchored his chin against the curve of Findekáno's ribs, and pressed on. "I do not hate you. Not for this."

Oh, Findekáno thought. Oh.

The sobs he had fought so hard to suppress once again won their battle, and he lay back against the mattress and wept, and Russandol was kind enough to be silent when the wave of relief swept up around him and carried him after.

"I…" he managed to gasp at last, still clinging to his husband. "I thought - I thought you would loathe me, I thought you would never forgive me…"

Well, that is nonsense, Russandol told him matter-of-factly. Without you I would still be dangling from that damned cliff.

"But - but your hand, I - how?!"

I can live with one hand, you know. He sighed, and lay his head down against Findekáno's chest. I will have to remind you of this more than once, I can feel it. And not just because I am tired.

"Is there a reason you're only speaking mind-to-mind?" Findekáno asked, purposefully changing the subject. "I - your voice, I've heard you speak, only…"

I am exceedingly weary, and you understand me better like this.

"Do you want to sleep?"

This time, he was answered with a nod; it brought the ghost of a smile to his lips.

"All right, melindo-nînya," he said. "I will not leave your side."

Good, Russandol told him, and he was almost instantly asleep; the shift from awareness to dream was so sharp and sudden that Findekáno could not help but be drawn down after him into what felt like a great yawning pit lined with shadowy teeth.

Despite the return of his eldest, Nolofinwë had not been able to find the time to reinstate a formal family meal. As a result, supper was a messy, drawn-out affair, and he was forced to carve out a good three hours of his evening just to ensure that he saw every one of his family at least once a day. But it was worth it, even if it led to longer nights and longer council meetings; he had little desire to go on as he had, in solitude and in grief, and he had been negligent in managing the more tempestuous members of his house. This evening, his work had taken over one full half of the long dining table, and he managed to fill his stomach with two helpings of rabbit stew in between signing inventories and reading over proposals for what he hoped would soon be the beginnings of a proper town. Around him, the household orbited, with servants and guards going about their duties as the Sun began to descend out of the sky.

By the time Írimë and Írissë at last turned up for dinner, grimy from a day's hunt and wearing matching smiles, the candles were lit and he had managed to get to the bottom of that evening's pile of paperwork. It was a series of complicated blueprints for introducing plumbing to the great house, and while he appreciated the attention to detail of the author, he had every intention of vetoing the proposal, and he said as much to his sister and his daughter.

"But why?" Írissë asked him, sounding very nearly plaintive. "I have missed being able to take a proper bath."

"We have a proper bathhouse again, now that Maitimo is no longer occupying it," her father said. "And as to why - do you really expect me to approve such a luxury for our family when our people are living in tents?"

"So get them out of tents!"

"As if it were that simple," Nolofinwë sighed. "Technically, we are living on Sindarin land, and though we have a vague permission to dwell here, and to take steps to ensure we do not immediately perish, I am reluctant to engage in any large-scale building projects without more explicit consent from their King."

"Our hánoyoni across the lake are not so considerate," Írimë said, and took a bite of her stew. "Artaresto says he learned from the Sindar that they have a mine."

"They what?" Írissë cried. "But - but we are - Atya!" She glared at him, as if expecting him to right such an injustice instantly. He shrugged.

"They do not answer to me as their King," he said calmly, though beneath his relaxed veneer he was quite vexed. "I cannot command them to cease excavating stone, or felling trees, or beginning new industries. And even if I could, I doubt I would be successful."

"It isn't fair, though!" Írissë said, bristling with indignation. "We are trying to be polite, and they are acting as if they own the world!"

"And that is different from before how, exactly?" Írimë asked before Nolofinwë could answer. "They are Fëanárion to the bone. There is very little we have ever been able to do to stop them."

"Still," Írissë said, shifting in her seat.

"Still," Nolofinwë agreed. "Though, perhaps - since they do have a mine, we might begin to trade for stone with which to build in."

"It would enable us to have more weatherproof housing without clearing whole groves of these wonderful trees," his sister said. "And it would force them to talk to us in some capacity."

"They will already have to do that, though," Írissë said. "Since Maitimo has awoken."

The room grew tense, and uneasy. The three eldar all glanced at one another, as if all considering the same unspoken thing, but no one said a word. Nolofinwë found himself wondering both if the níssi before him had any clue to Findekáno's enormous secret and if he had in fact chanced upon the truth of it - there was no way to be truly certain, not unless the parties involved were spectacularly indiscreet.

Of course, it is my eldest son I am considering…

"How is Maitimo?" Írimë asked, breaking the silence at last. "I have been too busy with the excavations for the forge to stop and visit him, and when I last spoke to Endanáro I was told he was in no state to speak to anyone not actively engaged in his care."

"I was turned away by Aegthel," Írissë said, nodding. "Please, tell me - is he going to - ?"

"I can only tell you that when I saw him, which I think must have been near to when he first awoke, he was quite shattered," Nolofinwë said. "I have not seen him since. Endanáro and Findekáno have been quite protective of him. Findekáno especially."

"They are very close," Írissë said, and it was awkward and rushed, as if she was unexpectedly coming to her brother's defense.

"They are," Írimë agreed with another bite of stew. "I am unsurprised to hear that Finno is more or less inseparable from him. It is what he wanted since he returned."

"Hm," Nolofinwë said, hiding a smile in a quirk of his lips. "I am glad he is happier."

"I'm sure he is," Írissë said, "but what are we going to do about him?"

"What do you mean?" Írimë asked.

"We have to let his brothers know, don't we?"

"Not yet," Nolofinwë said, and both níssi looked at him curiously.

"Why not?" Írissë said.

"Because," he answered, "what happens if they don't believe us?"

"I'm not sure I understand," she replied. "Why wouldn't they believe us?"

"Say that they do, for a moment - that they believe we have their brother, and take our word at face value. But they may not think he is kept here out of kindness. What is to stop one of them from riding over here in the night and cutting a bloody swath through our people until he finds Maitimo and carries him off?"

"Atar!"

"What is to stop them from sending an army?" he pressed on, ignoring her. "Or, worse, they do not believe us, and think we have lied, and they decide to make war upon us for having hurt their feelings."

"But they wouldn't - !"

"Wouldn't they?" Nolofinwë asked, cutting off his daughter. "They already nearly slaughtered us all by stranding us on the Ice."

Írissë couldn't argue with him, and he could see the frustration bleeding out of her face as it turned from blotchy and red to its true shade of brown.

"You are remarkably blunt," Írimë said, taking a sip of water from her cup.

"I have no choice," Nolofinwë replied. "When he can write to them in his own hand, and tell them he is alive - or better yet, when he can return to them wholly - I will permit talk of his presence here to leave the camp." He sighed again, and this time it was heavy and subdued. "I wish it could be different."

"So do we all," Írissë said, glancing out the window behind him as if it were facing the right direction, as if she could see all the way across the lake to the far-off camp of her cousins. "But - but I cannot believe that - really? You think they would slaughter us for… for this?"

"I see no reason why not."

"Have you spoken to them at all?" she asked. "I… I only…" Her voice trailed off, and she sighed herself and shook her head. "I want to think well of them. Fëanáro was mad, but - it does not mean that they are."

"It does not," Nolofinwë agreed. "But if our places were reversed - if it were you, across the lake, in their care, or your brothers - I would be very concerned that they meant to hold you hostage. Even if you were saved in good faith."

"I suppose," Írissë said.

"Your father knows best here, I'm afraid," Írimë told her. "I think so, anyway."

"Thank you," Nolofinwë said, smiling faintly. "Now, if you'll pardon me - I ought to read the rest of this proposal before I deny it."

Írimë chuckled and dedicated herself to her stew in earnest.

Findekáno awoke all at once, gasping and shuddering in the half-darkness of Russandol's room. The back of his throat burned, raspy and rough, and he was certain he had been screaming, and that it was a terrible sound. But the door had not been flung open, and there was not a ring of the household's guards around the edges of the bed with their swords drawn. Instead, the world was soft and silent, and he could see the Moon slowly beginning to set above the treetops when he looked out the window. The sky was a pale grey, near to dawn but not quite there.

I must have dreamed the screaming, then, he thought, reaching up one hand to massage his still-aching throat. But I don't remember what I dreamed. Casting his thoughts back over his sleep gave him nothing but burning pain, and a darkness hot enough to wring every last drop of sweat from his skin, and white-hot agony in his lungs and in his mouth that seemed to enflame him from the inside out.

It… it doesn't feel like I dreamed it, he realized, frowning. It - it's almost as if it belonged to -

- ai, ércalamando, Russandol.

He turned onto his side, finding his husband easily. The other nér was still, curled up on himself like an animal or an infant, breathing so softly it would have been easy to assume he was dead if Findekáno hadn't felt his every heartbeat as an echo in their bond. And indeed, as his attention shifted and fixed into place, that same bond moved with him, rising up and filling him with a quiet dread. Something is wrong, he thought, though he could not say how he was so certain. Something is very wrong. The pain in his throat grew along with everything else, and each breath became difficult and raw.

"Russandol," he murmured, forcing out the word and wincing at the sharpness it left behind. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare, I think."

Before he could reach over with his left hand to shake his husband's shoulder, Russandol had awoken, pushing himself up onto his elbow in one fluid motion and scanning the room as if expecting an attack to come at once. All traces of the frightened, wrecked nér who had buried his face in Findekáno's tunic were gone, and in their place was someone who, despite his emaciation and shaking limbs, was bracing himself for a fight.

"What - ?" he began to ask, and then their bond washed over the both of them, newly sparked to life by their shared consciousness, and he moaned softly and fell back onto the mattress.

"I am out," he murmured faintly. "In… in Miþrim. And - !" He looked over at Findekáno, eyes still molten silver, and reached over with his right arm to try and pull the other nér into an embrace. This goal was obfuscated by the fact that said arm had no fingers, and he muttered a curse in a language Findekáno did not know before shifting so he could use his left arm instead.

"You are real," he said when his husband was pressed close to his bandaged chest, though his voice was distant, as if he were speaking to himself alone. "This is real."

"It is," Findekáno answered, returning the embrace. He was awkwardly sandwiched against his husband, but he did not mind; he was beside Russandol, holding him, being held, able to follow where the ebb and flow of their bond led and press kiss after kiss to side and chest. His husband gasped, groaning; the warmth that had wrapped the both of them up grew deeper and more intense, and he gave himself over to it eagerly.

"Do - do we want - ?" Russandol began, only to be interrupted by a low grumble originating from somewhere around their waists. He frowned. "What is that?"

"Oh, damn," Findekáno sighed. "Damn damn damn."

"What is it?"

"My stomach growling," he said, and reluctantly moved away from his husband. "Or yours, I suppose. I ought to get us food."

"You ought to, but I was rather enjoying you kissing me." The fear in Russandol had grown quieter, and settled, but it was still close enough to the forefront that he could hear it and feel it in every word.

"Do you want me to keep kissing you?"

"I do, but if you're hungry, I want you to eat first, and then kiss me later."

Findekáno groaned. "That means getting out of bed."

"I could go," Russandol offered. "I can't remember the last time I stood upright."

"Ignoring how horrified that makes me," Findekáno said, "you are not walking at all. Healer's orders. And besides, all you are wearing are bandages." He smirked as he rolled over onto his back. "There are some parts of you I'd like to keep for myself."

"Only some?" Russandol replied.

"Well. One part in especial."

"Hah," his husband answered, and he grinned and sat up and instantly regretted it.

"Oh," he said, shivering. "Oh this is awful."

"What is awful?" his husband asked. "Are you unwell?"

"No," Findekáno said, frowning. "No, I - I feel…" He winced. How do I feel? Half of him was still lying in place on the mattress. He had four legs and four arms and three hands, his skin was pale pink and brown, his hair was intermingling crimson and black, and now he was attempting to take half of that and move it away from itself, to walk and to fetch and carry when it was impossible to tell who belonged in which hröa.

"This was a horrible idea," he said.

"Why?"

"How many legs do you have?"

"Four, why - oh. Oh no."

"Oh yes," Findekáno said. "This is going to be interesting." He slid to the edge of the bed, grounding himself against the one thing in the world that seemed solid, and began to scan the nearby ground for his discarded crutch. "Damn," he sighed. "I think it fell under the bed."

"What fell under the bed?"

"My crutch."

"Why do you have a crutch?" Russandol asked, voice suddenly sharp and intensely focused.

"Because when I saved you, I slammed face-first into the mountain and bled all over it and broke my nose and quite a few bones."

"You what?"

"It was nothing, love," Findekáno said, and poured out his own calm to staunch the shock and panic that were so quick to drown first Russandol and then him. "It - I will heal easily, see?" He turned back to look at his other half and waved his right hand. "This was all bound up in plaster as well, but it is good as new. My ankle is taking longer because I am not listening to Endanáro and Amdis, and I have been using it."

"Finno," Russandol said, and there was a prickle of reproach in his voice that sent ripples of heat through the air between them.

"What?"

"You ought to listen to them. You are quite valuable to me, and to your people. And besides," his husband continued, the same undertones returning to his voice, "you were given instruction, and you ignored it, and I would have more to say about that if I were not so weak."

Findekáno shivered, and groaned both in arousal and frustration as he realized he'd grown hard yet again. Am I doomed to always be like this?

I hope so, Russandol said. When I am feeling more myself, I plan to take advantage of it as often as possible.

I am pleased enough at that thought that I cannot be annoyed with you for eavesdropping, Findekáno replied, swinging two of his legs over the edge of the bed and testing the floor. It felt as if he were still lying on the mattress, and every movement was jerky and exaggerated, for half his limbs were still and heavy with fatigue.

"All right," he said aloud. "Let's try this."

He pushed up off of the bed, propelling himself onto his feet, took a step forward with his good leg, realized too late that it was less of a step and more of a spontaneous high kick, and promptly fell backward onto the floor. He landed with a loud smack , shoulders and side taking the brunt of the impact, and all the air was driven out of his lungs at once as his head cracked against the wood.

For several seconds, all he could do was lie still and gasp for air as the white that had filled his vision faded away, and when the roaring of his own blood in his ears had stopped, he realized he could hear a faint wheezing noise that sounded uncannily like laughter.

"What was that?" Russandol demanded from his place in the bed; it had evidently been his laughter Findekáno had heard.

"Shut up," the other nér muttered, rolling onto his right side and flailing about with his left hand until he found the end of his crutch.

"No, really," Russandol said, sounding quite pleased with himself. "Did you Nolofinwëans pioneer some new method of locomotion during your long isolation?"

"I was trying to walk," Findekáno said grumpily, slamming his crutch against the floor. Two of his eyes were peering over the edge of the bed, and the other two were focused on the business of rising up from beneath it; he hoped that the crutch was both upright and in the proper position.

"You aren't very good at it," his husband commented, and then had to keep back yet more laughter when this statement was proven true by the awkward, flailing leap that he took to get himself up from the prone position he had lain in.

"I am fine," Findekáno answered, trying to ignore Russandol's chuckling as he took one step, and then another. They seemed to be larger than he was used to, and he knew he was not supposed to cling to the crutch as if it were a walking stick or a dance partner, but he could not quite grasp where these feet were meant to go.

"You look like the worst dancer in all of Aman got extremely drunk and then attempted a querië." Russandol informed him.

"So you try it, then!" he retorted.

"I can't," his husband said, and if he had been pleased with himself before he was practically soaked in his satisfaction now. "Healer's orders. No walking."

"Ai, ercalyë," Findekáno said, and then groaned when their bond took this as an expression of intent. "No!"

Russandol was helpless with laughter now, and not bothering to hide it. "Perhaps you ought to come back to bed, love."

"And miss out on breakfast, when I skipped supper in favor of holding you? Endanáro would be annoyed. Apparently I am still quite near to starving." He took a few more careful steps, painfully aware of the shuffling and thumping that was coming from this pair of his unsteady feet.

"And, I would guess, you mean to force me to eat something as well."

"Yes, that is rather the point."

"What am I being offered?"

"On the menu this morning is broth, I think, and perhaps some bread."

"Oh, I am being spoiled!" his husband cried, and though his voice was light it seemed as though he was half-serious. "I cannot wait to see you attempt to bring me back a bowl of broth."

"If I have anything to say about it, I won't be doing the carrying," Findekáno told him. "Not when it is all I can do to breathe and take steps at the same time."

"Look on the bright side. You have not fallen on that face yet."

"No, though that does not lend me much confidence. I used to be so graceful!"

"And doubtless you will be graceful again! Neither Curvo nor Turukáno walk in such a manner, and they are married."

"For a moment I thought you meant 'to each other', and I was nearly sick," Findekáno said.

"Ai, Eru, no," Russandol answered, and they shuddered, their fëar still more or less intermingled. "That is the worst thing I have ever heard."

"Worse than your father's ravings?" he asked, trying a few more steps. They were rushed, and still far too large, and he was making what seemed to him to be a ridiculous amount of noise as his crutch slammed into the floorboards again and again.

"I think I must be in Aulë's own forges, the pounding is so great," Russandol said, and Findekáno felt his other head incline and gesture towards him.

"Are you going to shut up?" he asked.

"I will once you have learned how to walk."

Findekáno resisted the temptation to make a rude gesture with the second and third fingers of his left hand.

"But, back to what I was saying earlier," Russandol said, though there was a bright gleam in that pair of their eyes that suggested he was more than aware of what his other half had thought. "There has to be some sort of - solution, perhaps, to all this waddling. We cannot always be moving through life as though the whole earth is a frightful and restless sea."

"I think," Findekáno said, coming to a halt at last and spinning on his right ankle to face his husband, "that the solution is, erm…" He gestured down at the part of them that was upright, and at the still-present bulge in the breeches this hröa wore. "Well. Coupling."

"... oh," Russandol answered, and winced yet again. "I… well, I cannot deny that we certainly seem to want it."

"We do. Perhaps there is a reason Turukáno and Elenwë went away for those seventy months."

"They were gone for seventy months? Curvo and Annamírë only went away for eighteen!"

"They found a little cabin by the coast. It was apparently very homely."

"If only we were in Aman still," Russandol said, sighing; Findekáno was suddenly dragged into bright memories of gold and silver Treelight that drenched the gentle slopes of the meadow they had spent so many days in. "We, too, could go away."

"You could build us a cabin of our own, by the shores of that lake where we nearly wed before my father's birthday banquet."

"I doubt I shall ever make anything again," his husband said. All the vigor had gone out of his voice suddenly, and when they breathed out again it was as if his good mood left with the air. He stared up at the ceiling, and then raised their second right arm to stare at it instead. Findekáno felt the movement and sighed and shook his head.

"You're being silly, Russo," he said, refraining from doing what he truly wanted and calling his husband an idiot. "Of course you will make things again."

"You need two hands for that. And a far less broken mind."

The panic was back, a frantic, scrabbling fear that Findekáno could feel sinking into their shared awareness. I must do something to stop it, he thought, brushing off Russandol's scoffing dismissal. He clambered across the floor until he stood at the foot of the bed, and proceeded to hit the carved post nearest to him with his crutch.

"Stop it," he said sternly.

"Stop what."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself! You just woke up. You don't yet know what you're capable of."

"You need two hands to build, to forge, to craft," Russandol said to him, and shut his eyes. He lay very still, his whole body tense and rigid with fear and misery; it was a bruise on their bond, seeping black and red.

Findekáno sighed yet again, and dropped his crutch, and climbed back into the bed. Moving to Russandol's side a second time was far easier than walking had been, and when he lay against his husband and pulled the other nér's arms tight about his shoulders he realized for the first time how neatly they fit together. It brought tears to his eyes.

I love you, he thought, and once more their bond and its warm ocean of sensation threatened to drown him. Oh, I love you.

Russandol shuddered, and jerked; he wondered what was wrong, and then he felt the first of many hot tears drip down through his hair.

I suppose I can stay in bed a while longer.