XXXI.

The triumph of Fingolfin, come in the hour of grief, eased not the sorrow, rendered the loss none the lighter to bear; his House mourned still, the victory felt vacant.

And yet there was the dark satisfaction, somewhere deep in the High King's heart, of having wrenched away the power from his treacherous kin, as if in subjugating the House of Feanor, he could reach the one no longer counted among their number.

The demon of Morgoth who had once been a Noldo; the monster who had left Argon to die, hardly sparing him a glance.

His blood will flow.

XXXII.

'He means to launch an attack on Angband. To seal it off, kill anything that crawls out,' said Celegorm.

'I know.'

'And you, Makalaurë, told us to obey him.'

'I did.'

'What will you tell us now?'

Scornful. Challenging.

'Now?'

'Spare us,' said Caranthir. 'You understand perfectly well.'

'We cannot-' Amrod began.

'We cannot afford to disobey, courtesy of Kanafinwë,' drawled Curufin.

'Were you intending to?'

'I rather think you were.'

'Nolofinwë,' Caranthir interjected, 'craves revenge for Arakáno, and lacks the subtlety to employ us in its execution.'

'In that case we merely stand aside?'

'I do not meant to.'

XXXIII.

No matter what, he had said.

Neither hesitation nor mercy, the one he had accepted as High King had said.

Already irreconcilable.

'Are you proposing treason?'

'And you kinslaying?'

'Either way, nothing new.'

Curufin smiled mirthlessly.

'I would rather slay Nelyo myself than watch Nolofinwë or any of his ilk spill his blood. It is us he betrayed. He is ours.'

Despair.

'I would not count,' said Celegorm, 'on him struggling with similar dilemmas.'

Not if Argon's death is any indication.

Pure despair.

'We fight against the Enemy,' said Maglor, with an air of finality. 'We do what we must.'

XXXIV.

And so the Noldor, united at last (almost, almost all), and if not of one heart, then at least at one purpose (almost, almost every) clashed against their Enemy and his servants (willing or not), and pushed them back into the depths of their nest (into the darkness that had spouted them).

And with them, the one the House of Finwë no longer recognized as one of their own (not recognized, but felt, and knew him to be).

He caught their eyes, one after another, eyes that sought him out, and held their gazes unflinchingly, challenging, deriding.

Loathing.

Accusing.

Contemptuous.

XXXV.

And furious, and resentful (and envious, and longing, and all the more livid for that).

Let them see. Let them all see.

There was Nolofinwë, pale and murderous; there was Turukáno, grief engraved deeply into his features, fueling his daring; Findekáno, focused and precise, and deadly.

Finadaráto, swift and bold; Aikanáro, fierce and resolute; Angaráto, grim and determined.

And the little brothers, they whom his eyes sought out, watching for shock, for pain, for guilt.

For defiance (and it was there, too).

Yet time had not come for him to engage any of them; and so he taunted them instead.

XXXVI.

The gates shut, and suddenly it was done; guards were positioned along the borders, and Siege commenced.

Fingolfin declared victory, and although no one had reached the elf-demon whose name they no longer spoke, Argon's blood had been washed down in a flood of orcish gore.

The Enemy was weakened, restrained; Middle-Earth lay before them, as vast and beautiful as they had imagined, offering freedom they had dreamt of it in the dark days of trial.

No that all wounds could be healed.

Not that all could grievances could be forgotton.

Yet there was a life to be lived, here.