It was very early the next day when Findekáno got up, dragging himself away from Russandol's side. He'd fallen asleep in his husband's room again, and he could only hope that his actions were either ignored or dismissed as relief for a friend; regardless, he made the trip down the hall to his own room as quietly as possible. Aegthel saw him go, nodding at him; the guard's expression was friendly but alert. Good, he thought. I feel less terrible about leaving him alone with Aegthel there to look after him.

Súlwë was waiting for him when he opened the door to his room, laying out a short-sleeved white tunic with brightly colored embroidery at the sleeves and hem.

"I guessed you'd be getting an early start," he said, "and I managed to finish this last night, so I wanted to give you the chance to wear it if you wanted."

"You made me a tunic?" Findekáno asked, trying and failing to hide his shock. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room to the bed, picking up the garment. It was truly white, not merely the pale creamy grey of raw linen fabric, and he wondered how the weavers had managed it.

"Not exactly," Súlwë replied, moving back to rummage through his closet. "There is - well, something of a market for secondhand clothes that aren't needed. It's been long enough that people who lost loved ones on the Ice are starting to willingly give up those personal effects that they don't wish to keep as mementos."

"Oh," Findekáno answered, and when he looked back at the stark fabric he felt a knot of guilt and worry in the pit of his stomach. Whoever this belonged to is gone, he realized, and it is more or less my fault that they perished.

"I wondered if it was too morbid," his valet continued, seemingly oblivious to the vacant expression that had settled over his face, "but you have trousers that belonged to your brother, and so - haryon-nînya, are you all right?"

Findekáno barely heard him. He was staring at the tunic that he held in his hands, wondering who it had belonged to, wondering how they had died. Was it quick? he asked himself, knowing he would get no answer and wishing for it all the same. His thoughts turned to darkness and bitter cold and freezing water, to the anguished forms of those poor eldar who had frozen in place as they walked, to the bodies they had left to be claimed by the snow.

"Thankfully, this didn't belong to someone we lost," Súlwë said, right next to his ear. He flinched, startled out of his thoughts, and blinked back hot tears that had seemingly come from nowhere, and looked down at the tunic again.

"Then who - ?" he asked.

"There was a nér who wanted a black silk shirt for his wife," his valet explained. "He had nothing to trade that did not come from his own wardrobe, and he said he was growing bored with this tunic. It was more or less your size, and so last night I sat with it and altered it to fit you, and fixed the embroidery to hide the changes."

"Oh," Findekáno said, shivering. "Oh - I thought…"

"You do have a few pieces that belonged to some who died," Súlwë informed him, "but not this one, and these leggings were always yours." He paused, and Findekáno hesitated before turning to look at him.

"What is it?" he finally asked, when it became evident that his valet did not intend to simply let him stew in his misery.

"You know you don't have to blame yourself," the other nér said. "Really. You don't."

"Of course I do," Findekáno said dismissively.

"No," Súlwë said, more insistently. He raised a hand and set it on his prince's arm. "You don't."

Findekáno looked sharply at the other nér. "You don't know," he said, nearly angry. "I doomed us. I damned us. I made Kinslayers of the whole of my people."

"You went into battle because you thought your friend was going to be murdered," his valet said, "and it was dark, and no one really knew what was going on."

"I led us - !"

"We chose to follow you, haryon-nînya," Súlwë interrupted him, slowly and firmly.

Findekáno flinched again, choking on the words in his throat. "I - what?"

"You're the son of our King, but you aren't King yet," the other nér said. "And even if you were King, it is our right as your subjects to say your decisions aren't sound, and refuse to obey your will. Why do you think those of us in this camp are not across the lake?"

"I - !"

"You aren't single-handedly responsible for the Doom of the Noldor. We all followed where you led - we elected to follow where you led, and listen to your orders, and do what you did. We aren't less culpable simply because we aren't royalty."

Findekáno tried to speak, failed, and found himself simply taking the deepest breath of his life. His valet laughed softly.

"You really think you can force a few hundred eldar to bend to your every whim?" he asked. "No. Let us bear the responsibility for our own actions."

"But you," Findekáno managed at last, "you were all trapped by my choices!"

"That might be true in the abstract," Súlwë said, "but if I'd known you believed something so ridiculous, I would have set you straight in the first conversation we had. It is only fools like Aryaráto who hold any real resentment towards you, or your family - the rest of us made our peace with our actions long ago."

Findekáno let out the last of the breath he'd taken in a long, forceful sigh. "I'm not sure I believe you," he said, "but at least I'm more likely to think you're all mad than think you're all lying to me."

"I can live with you being convinced I am mad," Súlwë told him. "So long as I can remain in your service."

"Only an elda who is mad would want to be in my service," Findekáno countered, almost smiling in spite of his tears. "So that is no great challenge on my part."

"Do you want the tunic?" his valet asked, deftly changing the subject. "If not, I think I can give it to someone else."

"No, I'll take it," he said. "And those leggings you laid out, too. What do I have by way of footwear?"

"You've got your boots," Súlwë said, "though they could use a good polish. I got you a pair of those open shoes in the Telerin style, too - I had to guess at your size, but I think I'm close enough."

"You mean the ones with the leather soles that tie in place around your feet and ankles?" Findekáno asked, recalling the one time he had visited Alqualondë and been able to wear them.

"Yes."

"Hm," he said, picturing the strangely crafted things in his head. The ones he had worn before had been fastened onto his feet by tying lengths of cloth into intricate knots, and Turukáno's had even threaded through his toes. "My boots both do need polished, and it's quite warm today. I suppose I'll try them, though if I look ridiculous, I shall blame you." He was smiling earnestly now, looking over his shoulder at Súlwë, who was holding a pair of leather shapes with cloth trailing off of them.

"I doubt you will look ridiculous," his valet said. "But go on, get dressed. Do you want breakfast?"

"I'll take some sweetbread with me when I go," he answered. "Hopefully Itarillë won't be too cross with me for waking her so early."

"She's been able to talk of nothing but going flower-gathering with her favorite atarháno," Súlwë informed him as he stripped out of his old clothes. "I doubt she'll be upset at all." He turned to go back to the closet, stopped by Findekáno's call.

"Súlwë?"

"Yes, haryon-nînya?"

"Thank you. I - I mean it. Really."

"Of course. Now, I should go - breakfast is getting started, and I need to go find out from Endanáro if it's to be broth again for condo Maitimo."

"Look after him, will you?" Findekáno asked, sliding the white tunic over his head. It fit well, and he could not in truth tell that it hadn't first been made for him. He picked up the black leggings that had been beside it and pulled them up over both feet. "Findaráto said he would at least visit him, but - well, he hasn't seen Findaráto yet, and he has seen you."

Súlwë was silent, and inscrutable; Findekáno thought he looked as if he were wrestling with accepting some great honor. But he nodded, and drew his arm up across his chest in a half-bow.

"I'll make sure he's well taken care of," he said, rising back up and turning sharply on his heel to leave the room. It wasn't until Findekáno was quite alone again that he realized he'd looked his valet directly in the eye.

Itarillë was awake when her atarháno came to the room she shared with her father; she had gotten up all on her own at the first sign of dawn and had quickly dressed in a gown of pale linen. It was undyed, and rough, clearly one of the earliest attempts at tailoring that the Noldor on this side of the lake had made, but it had a circle of rustic rosettes about its collar, and it was not something that her father complained about her wearing while she got into the dirt, and so it was the ideal choice for a day of outdoor adventures. As always, she eschewed shoes, and it didn't take long to brush out her hair until it fell about her shoulders like a somewhat frizzy golden cloud. When Findekáno opened the door, holding a candle in one hand, she smiled at him, and crossed the room to say goodbye to her father. Unlike the others of their family, they slept in a very small space - it could almost be called cramped - but there was room enough for what few belongings they still had.

Turukáno awoke as soon as she put her hand in his, sitting upright in one motion; his eyes were only distant for a moment before they focused on the warm light and on the shadowed face of his brother. He had elbowed Itarillë behind him as if to shield her from whatever was at the door.

"It's all right," Findekáno said quietly. "Itarillë and I are going out to gather flowers. We spoke about it yesterday, remember?"

"Oh," Turukáno said, and rather guiltily tried to hide the fact that his free hand had gone to the knife that never left his hip. "Oh."

He sighed and lay back down, shutting his eyes again.

"Be safe," he murmured, already drifting back to sleep. Itarillë squeezed his hand, and kissed his cheek, and made her way out of their room.

"I have sweetbread for breakfast," Findekáno said, shutting the door again and holding the latch as it slid into place. "And I think we could probably get skins of tea to take with us, if we asked nicely.

"Oh, good!" the seldë replied, trying and failing to hide how excited she was. Findekáno realized all at once how horribly difficult her days must be - she was too young to truly contribute to her family's building and governing, and too old to be treated entirely as an infant and given the freedom to do more or less whatever she pleased and monopolize as much attention as she desired, and as she was the only child to survive the Ice, she could not even slip away from her father to spend her days with playmates and friends.

Not that Turvo would let her go far, he thought, and he hoped she could not see the ugly expression he made at the thought of how closely his brother guarded her. His brother watched her like a hawk, since her mother's death, and dismissed all the questions and suggestions of his family with sullen glares and flippant remarks. It was a miracle, truly, that he was allowed to go beyond the walls of the house with Itarillë in tow, but he was fairly certain that if Turvo had objected, their father would have intervened.

Well. I don't have to think about that, he decided, shaking his head. I've been permitted to accompany the prisoner on an outing, and I will make it a good one, in case we encounter a cloud or a determined pí and as a result she is kept in the house for the rest of time.

"Are you all right?" Itarillë asked, and he smiled and offered his arm, as if she were a proper wendë on her way to a ball in Tirion.

"I'm fine," he told her. "I am thinking of the campilossë tea that they have started to keep in the cold-cellar, and of how much I will enjoy sharing it with you while we set out for the meadows south of our little camp."

"Campilossë?" Itarillë cried, and then realized how loud she was being and forced herself to be quieter. "I didn't know there was any here!"

"Neither did I," Findekáno said, and his smile grew as they reached the doors into the house proper. "But I think we might be able to get a skin or two of it, for our long journey."

He supposed, judging by the look on his hánoanel's face, that she thought him to be the most wonderful nér who ever lived.

When Maitimo woke up properly, the Sun was streaming in through his window, and for once, most of his hröa did not ache. He was clear-headed, and breathing easily, and even the pain in his hip was lessened. He did not quite hope that it would be a good day - hope was a faint and distant thing, anymore - but he felt significantly better about spending it alone than he had the previous night.

Súlwë brought him tea, and breakfast, which was yet more broth; he had advanced from a thin drink that was little better than water to a true soup stock, rich with fat and spices and herbs that were certainly all meant to have some medicinal purpose.

"Endanáro says that after a few more days of this, you'll be able to try something more, if you want," the valet said when he had swallowed the last dregs of the stuff.

"More?" Maitimo asked, perplexed. He looked down at the empty mug, and then back up at the other nér, blinking in confusion. "What - ?"

"More food than just broth, I mean," Súlwë said. "Maybe some bread, broken up and soaking in it, or meat and tubers. You'd need a spoon, but you could have it. We've enough to spare."

"Oh," Maitimo answered, shivering; his eyes were sharp with unexpected tears, and he wasn't quite sure why. I don't remember what bread tastes like, he thought, and wondered if that was supposed to be upsetting.

"Only if you want," the valet repeated, voice soft and careful. Maitimo looked up at him more quickly than he meant, and he stepped back from the bed almost instantly as if to punctuate an apology that was only half-articulated.

"The last meat I had isn't fit to be remembered," Maitimo answered, and he shook off the rising revulsion that always accompanied his thoughts when they verged on the black pit of memory that was Angamando. "I… yes. I think I would like to try something more."

When Súlwë began to say something else, he cut off the question by draining his other mug of tea in one long swallow. Finno, when I agreed to let you go, I did not think that it would mean hours with these people!

Family, he corrected himself, and made a face. These people are your family, you fool. Now, if only they felt that way.

He finished his breakfast in silence, and handed both mugs back to Súlwë to be taken away. The valet bowed slightly, and murmured a goodbye, and left; Maitimo found himself alone again very promptly.

I wonder when - or if - anyone will come to see me, he mused. There was a book lying to his left, on the side of the bed, and he picked it up absently. The covers and cumn a pages had been taken off from it, very neatly. Closer examination told him that they had been cut, and trimmed close to the binding, leaving the spine intact but removing everything save the text. Findekáno had been reading it prior to falling asleep on him, and he hadn't been able to see how it had been mutilated.

"Someone wanted very badly to change you," he said aloud to the book, absorbed in his study of the carefully stripped pages. Even the threads holding the spine together had been deftly avoided.

"Or," a second voice said, and Maitimo flinched violently and dropped the book, "someone wanted very badly not to freeze."

Panic sparked in his chest, turning to fear and then to bone-deep terror. He could not flee from the bed, and so he winced, his whole body curving in on itself in preparation for a beating or a scolding. His right arm raised up to shield his head, and he closed his eyes and waited.

Nothing. His heart was pounding like a drum in his ears, his blood had turned to fire and ice, and he was at once dizzy and sharply, intensely aware of the whole world.

Please, he thought, or prayed, or hoped; he could not say which. Beneath the mindless fear, he cursed himself for picking up the book - I should have waited, I should have asked permission, I -

- I am not in Angamando anymore.

This thought, more than any of the others, grounded him. His mind turned to think back on the past days, on warmth and tender care and the all-encompassing brightness that was Findekáno.

He could never imitate our bond, Maitimo thought, clinging to that certainty. He could try, and fail, and he forged ties of his own, but that? That was mine, and not his, and so -

Carefully, painstakingly, he lowered his arm and looked over at the source of the sound. His atarháno, Nolofinwë, stood in the door, carrying a book under his own arm.

Oh, Maitimo realized, and shuddered, and felt himself collapse back against the bed. His head struck the headboard with a hard thunk; he barely felt it. Everything in him was pins and needles and relief.

"Oh," he said again, aloud this time. The word was a ragged, drawn-out sigh. Something in him wondered if he ought to be embarrassed, but he found he was too tired for anything at all. He slid down until he was more or less flat on his back, staring at the ceiling; his eyes filled with tears until his vision blurred. Finno, where are you?! he thought, forgetting that his husband would be gone until that evening. His breath was shallow and hoarse.

Nolofinwë shut the door, and Maitimo could hear the latch fall into place from under the frantic pounding of his heart.

"I came to see you," he said; his hánoyon found himself laughing softly at that. Whatever you were looking for, you found a spectacle, he thought wildly. He was still shaking, and the gentle laugh had grown keening and hysterical in a handful of heartbeats.

No, Maitimo answered himself, no. His left hand turned into a fist that clawed at the bedsheets, and he opened his mouth wider and made himself take a deeper breath, and then another, and then another, over and over until the hammering in his chest had slowed. His eyes screwed themselves shut, and he wrapped what little of his marriage-bond he could sense around his fëa, letting it ground him and anchor him in the here-and-now. His breathing returned to normal, his shoulders relaxed, his legs settled against the mattress and the tension drained out of hips and shoulders. When he opened his eyes, the tears were gone; he was calm again. The fear was still there, knife-sharp and immense, but he could try and ignore it.

"I should leave," Nolofinwë said.

"No," Maitimo answered, for a third time; he saw his uncle flinch out of the corner of his eye. "No, please, I - I have wanted to see you, for some time." The words were distant, and he felt as if he was grasping at falling leaves as he spoke. His strength - such as it was - had deserted him in his terror, and he was left utterly spent and hoping that he would not fall asleep mid-sentence.

"Me?" the other nér asked. "Why me?"

"Because - because I wanted - wanted to thank you," Maitimo said, and cursed himself for his continued weakness.

"You don't - "

"Yes," he interrupted, tired but firm, "I do." He turned his head to look at Nolofinwë properly, and the room spun for a few breaths before it settled back into place. He fixed his eyes to his atarháno 's robes, watching how they met in the center of his chest and joined in a series of delicate clasps, and continued. "You - you have saved me, sheltered me, and asked nothing of me, nothing at all, except…" The tears were back, and he swallowed them and shoved the emotions that caused them back down into himself. "Except ask that I heal, and grow strong, and be well, and - and you - I - !"

"Nelyafinwë," the other nér said, and the name struck him like a blow, setting him to shuddering again. Nolofinwë frowned - evidently this was meant to be comforting - and tried again. "You don't…" He sighed, and shook his head, and sat down on the bed, angling his body so he wasn't looking over his shoulder.

"Don't what?"

"You don't have to thank me for doing what I would have done no matter what."

What?

"I would have helped you regardless of anything," his atarháno said. "You're family."

"But - but I - !"

"I know you didn't burn the ships and strand us."

"How - ?"

"I do talk to my son now and again, you know."

Maitimo fell silent at that, wincing again. What if he told? crept up from his gut like a frightful seedling finally breaking ground, and suddenly everything was ice. He promised, he promised he wouldn't! His eyes were shut again, and his heart was pounding once more. He was very near to truly weeping.

Suddenly, there was something unexpected - a solid weight, warm, unyielding but somehow comforting, settling on him. He opened his eyes to see Nolofinwë stretched back over the bed, one hand reaching out and resting on his upper arm. It was an awkward position, and he had been forced to abandon his book so it didn't dig into his side; it was undignified and uncomfortable and very different from anything that he could remember experiencing in years uncounted.

"You're safe here," his atarháno said to him, and with that, Maitimo's resolve broke, and he curled up onto his side and sobbed, letting the last of his strength bleed out into his tears.

"It's not safe to meet during the day, you know."

Artaresto sighed. It was a plaintive, almost whining sort of gesture - yes, he wanted to say, I know, I am not stupid, but this is important! Instead, he turned to face Tyelperinquar with an expression that he tried very hard to keep civil.

"I do know that," he said, "but I don't know when else I can slip away. Ever since those néri tried to kill - !" He froze, eyes wide. He'd very nearly done what the Alaran had forbidden, and let slip the news of Maitimo's survival without permission. Can I trust him? he thought, watching Tyelperinquar's earnest face. He isn't stupid, who's to say he won't guess the truth anyway?

Well, if he guesses it, let him guess it; I won't be the one to break a direct decree.

"Ever since some néri got angry with what Ar - Nolofinwë said - he ordered us to be peaceful, and forget any enmity we held towards your side - well, they tried to murder one of my cousins in the night - !"

"What?"

"Yes, I know, it's awful, but ever since then, there have been guards patrolling the camp at night, and keeping watch during the day. I can get away all right when the Sun is up - I can pretend to be meeting with my contacts in the Sindar - but at night? No."

"Are you still pretending to be meeting with the Þindar?"

"Yes, I haven't really got another choice as of now."

"Didn't you just say that Nolofinwë wants peace between us?"

"Didn't I just tell you someone nearly got murdered over it?"

"Right," Tyelperinquar said, and made a face. "I mean, I'm pretending the same thing, but I'm doing it because if I tell anyone what I've been doing, I think my father will disown me, and that would be getting off easy."

That's the worst sort of stupidity, Artaresto thought, but aloud he said "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," his cousin answered. "At this point I'm rather used to it."

"You shouldn't be."

There was a long, almost awkward pause, and then Tyelperinquar shrugged. "What was it you wanted, anyway?"

"This is a tall order," Artaresto said, and even as he spoke he wondered if he had entirely lost his senses. What am I thinking, asking one of them for an anvil?! But there's nothing for it, I've done all this already, it's not as if I can just lie and say that nothing is wrong!

"Well?" Tyelperinquar asked, and he realized he'd been staring openmouthed for at least a minute.

"I - we need an anvil," he said.

His cousin sighed, frustration leaving him like lungfuls of air all exhaled at once. He reached one hand up and sank his head into it.

"Of course you do," he muttered. "Of course."

"We can't - !"

"I know what you can't do without an anvil," Tyelperinquar said, irritability creeping back into his voice. "I only - you - how am I supposed to get you one of those?!"

"If I could help at all, then maybe - !"

"You do know how heavy an anvil is, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, I have seen one of them before," Artaresto answered, and he failed to keep the venom from his voice. Ai, damn it all, he thought. We have tried so hard not to bicker, and now this.

"Do you expect me to just make the ércala thing appear out of thin air?"

"I'll do whatever you need me to, but without it, we're - we can't plow, we're digging out fields by hand to plant, we had to trade for all of our metal with the Sindar…" His voice faltered, whatever he was thinking of saying dying in his throat, and he sighed again.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at last. "Really. I - I know it's too much." He drew himself up out of the slump he had fallen into, and turned away from his cousin. If he was quick, he could get back without being missed. He hadn't bothered to give an explanation to any of the guards in the camp; he hadn't seen any of them.

"Why did anyone attack your family?" Tyelperinquar asked, stopping him in his tracks before he could take more than three steps towards the woods.

Muk, Artaresto swore, his eyes widening. No, it's all right, he doesn't know, I can handle this. He took a moment to collect himself, and glanced back at the other nér while trying to look confused rather than guilty.

"What do you mean?" he asked. His voice was steady. He was a decent actor, and had always been good at keeping his cool, like everyone in his family. It was a skill inherited from his grandfather, and he hoped it would be of use now.

"I mean," Tyelperinquar said, frowning, "that your family doesn't really have anything to do with all this."

"I said they attacked my cousins," Artaresto corrected, hoping the tremble he felt in his limbs was invisible. Ai, Valar, if he guesses it…

"But that makes even less sense," the dark-haired elda informed him. "Nolofinwë and his family were popular in Tirion, and even in all of Valannor. Evidently they're still popular, otherwise they'd have been ousted from their positions of leadership. So why would anyone attack them? At least, anyone who wasn't driven mad by something like cold or starvation or grief. If they were going to be attacked, it would make far more sense for it to have happened on the Ice."

"Not everyone is quite so calculating in their madnesses, I suppose. And ordering peace wasn't a popular move."

"If it's so unpopular, why not push for something else? My alatarháno has never been one for pushing ahead and ignoring the will of his people, that's how he ended up in this succession crisis in the first place. If there hadn't been a demand from the populace for him to take the throne, he never would have."

Artaresto found his mouth had gone very dry. It was easy, when he was so often friendly and charming, to forget how very smart Tyelperinquar was.

"I couldn't tell you," he said, every word more brittle than its predecessor.

"Hm," his cousin answered, looking at him sharply. For a long moment he was silent, and then he nodded, something in his face shifting from skepticism to resolve.

"I'll get you your anvil," he said. "It will take me some time to make it, but you'll have it. I promise."

"I - thank you," Artaresto answered, trying to hide his surprise and unease. "Really, truly, I…"

"You don't have to thank me," Tyelperinquar informed him. "It's the right thing to do."

"Oh," Artaresto replied, feeling foolish. "Right."

"One more thing - did Findekáno go anywhere recently?"

"You expect me to keep track of everything my whole family does?"

"No, but I do expect you to keep track of rumors."

That made Artaresto's heart thud in his chest. "Rumors?"

"That night, several weeks ago - the last time I saw you - some of our sentries said they saw something like a winged cloud come out of the North, and land in your encampment. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I wouldn't," Artaresto lied, "no." Ai, ercanyë, ercamando, he knows…

"Hm," his cousin said again, and then straightened up, and suddenly he was all smiles and flawless charm. "Well, I'm glad you told me what you needed."

What?

"I will let you know when your anvil is done - like I said, it will take some time, but we're going to be expanding our forges soon and I ought to be able to request enough extra ore to make it. It won't be a proper anvil, maybe the weight of a large sheep, but you'll be able to make a blade on it."

"How - how heavy is a proper anvil?" Artaresto asked, still reeling from the sudden shift in the other nér's demeanor.

"Oh, at least twice that," Tyelperinquar said. He was almost chipper. "But. I ought to get back, and you ought to get back, and I'll send word to you by the usual sign when it's finished."

"Right," Artaresto said, seizing the first sign of normalcy that he could. Maybe I'm wrong, he thought, but he couldn't shake the sight of the glint in his cousin's eye. Maybe he doesn't know.

"This is our secret," Tyelperinquar continued, and he glanced over to see an especially warm expression and bright eyes looking back at him. "Don't worry. It will work out."

I hope so, he thought, nodding in farewell. I hope so.