Chapter Text
Írimë Lalwen
Beleriand. It was not the land of her father’s childhood, for the shores of Lake Cuiviénen lay far to the East, far beyond the high, smoking mountains of Sangortorimbë, which shielded Angamando. Her brother and her nephews had led their hosts to the very gates hidden between the highest of those peaks and smote upon them, to no avail. Moringotto had not answered their challenge, and Finwë Ñolofinwë had ordered them to withdraw, “for that fortress will not fall to the sound of trumpets alone.”
“And though we are still many, we still too few, too hungry, and too tired,” Írimë had reminded Findekáno, Turukáno, and Írissë when they objected and cried out for swift vengeance for their slain brother.
“Do not make your father lose another child,” she had added more quietly, “or risk orphaning your own children.” She knew that it was a cruel and manipulative thing to say, especially to Turukáno, but it needed saying.
Atar is dead, she had thought, the same fearful numbness setting in again, and Ñolvo wants to replace him. But he knew Atar less well than I do, and he will need help. However else one might say Finwë Ñoldóran might have failed, he had never hesitated to do what needed to be done. (Except when it came to that one person, but she must never dwell on that, not until the work that the Ñoldor had come to do—that she had come to do—was done and her father was avenged.)
And so they had journeyed into Beleriand. It was not the land of her father’s childhood, but it was the land where he became more than Finwë, eldest son of the many children of Tata and Tatië. It was in the midst of these mountains and rolling hills that he had become more than one of the first children born to the Awakened. With every step she took into these green lands, now lit by the fruits of Laurelin and Telperion as well as the stars under which her father and mother had been born, Írimë Lalwen felt the weight of her father and brothers’ kingships settle more heavily upon her. It was in these lands that her father had risen above all of the Tatyar who fled the stars in pursuit of the light of the Two Trees.
But the Two Trees were no more, and each time the new golden light in sky set and the silver light rose against the backdrop of the stars, Írimë remembered. She did not sleep, but waking dreams haunted her nights. Visions of the past danced before her eyes and reminded her of all the times that she had ridden out, a little nís perched in front of her father on his horse, beyond the edges of the Pelóri, beyond the reaches of Laurelin and Telperion, where Varda’s stars looked down upon them.
If the sun and the moon had risen over Cuiviénen, would you have ever gone to Aman, Atar, to grow tall and bright-eyed, to rule your people and raise your children in a paradise where the air grew so sweet and thick that it choked us all? she wondered before she wiped the tears from her eyes and went about her business.
The Ñoldor who had followed Finwë Ñolofinwë and Findaráto Arafinwion had turned nomadic, and it was the duty of their younger siblings, Írimë, Angaráto, and Artanis, to learn to communicate with the Moriquendi, treat with them, and trade with them until they had all the goods and information that they needed.
That in and of itself had been no easy task, for the tongue that they spoke was not Quenya. It was far from the Ñoldorin dialect and farther still from the Vanyarin one. If Írimë had not been familiar with the Falmarin dialect and had not had the aid of her younger brother’s children, who had come of age speaking Falmarin as their mother tongue, she would have struggled all the more to communicate with these elves.
And the first thing that she learned was that elves whom they met did not consider themselves Avari or Moriquendi. They called themselves Celbin, which Angráraro and Nerwen were sure had to be the same as Caliquendi, and they were certainly descendants of the Nelyar who became the Teleri but never crossed the sea and became Falmari. They called themselves Edhel instead of Quendi, a linguistic shift that Írimë could not quite parse, not without the assistance of Fëanáro and Maitimo, who were still terrifyingly far from the reach of her eye and mind. The Ñoldor took to calling them the Sindar, for they wore cloaks as gray as their land and were neither of the light nor the dark. And the land that they had made their home long before Moringotto returned they called Beleriand. The Ñoldor accepted that name more readily and chose not to adapt it to Quenya.
There were, Írimë quickly discovered, no true kings amongst the Sindar whom they first encountered. They had only minor lords and chieftains, whom they called hîr or tûr, depending on the power and perceived nobility of each one.
“You have no aran?” Angaráto asked a Sinda called Bronor, his brows furrowed in concern.
Írimë kept silent and waited for Bronor’s answer, for she knew what her nephew really wanted to ask. Elwë had vanished long ago, but he and Olwë had another brother called Elmo, who had led the Teleri who stayed behind.
Bronor snorted derisively and shook his head.
“No aran,” he said, not changing the word this time. The rest of his speech was harder to follow, but Nerwen grasped the bulk of it.
“He says that the Lestorodrim have no aran, but the Thingrim do,” they explained. “He says that he serves a hîr called Conuion, but that there is an aran in the South called Thingol.”
“Thingrim would be Thingol’s folk then,” Angaráto muttered, his brows furrowing more deeply.
And Thingol could be Singollo, Írimë agreed, sending the spark of hope buried in her nephew’s gaze.
If that is so, if our mother’s uncle still lives and rules, we find him and ask him for aid, Nerwen added, their blue eyes alight with purpose.
But first, we need Bronor’s assistance, for he is the one before us now, offering to take us to his heru, Írimë reminded her brother’s youngest child, placing a hand upon their arm. And he does not seem to respect this Thingol.
Nerwen’s gaze remained unreadable, but Angaráto managed a bland smile as he gave Bronor their names. Even that process took time that they did not have, for Angaráto and Írimë proved too unwieldy for the Lestorodrim’s tongue.
“Lalwen,” Írimë said at last, pointing to herself. “Call me Lalwen.” Her amilessë rested heavily upon her tongue.
I am here for my father, she thought, her fingers clutching at the edges of her robes, the only fine garments of hers that had survived the journey across the Helcaraxë. They were, she realized as she caressed the fine silk, the last ring that she had left from the mother whom she had abandoned, the mother who had abandoned Endórë and never once regretted it. The robes, and her amilessë, which the Sindar evidently found easier to say. It was so funny that she might have laughed.
Conuion had a little Quenya, which could mean a few things, but Írimë did not press him for more information on that front.
He may not have encountered Fëanáro directly or even met those who met him, she thought, sharing her musing with Angaráto and Nerwen. It may be that the rulers of these folk keep the old tongue as a tradition.
He speaks with the Shibboleth, Nerwen argued.
And that is the old way, Írimë retorted, too cautious to hope that they were close to finding her half-brother and his folk. Too bitter and frightened to allow the anticipation of such a reunion to cloud her judgment when her full-brother’s folk had more pressing needs.
Conuion did not lead them to Fëanáro, but he did agree to trade new seeds, furs, and goats for instructions from their smiths on metallurgy, for the Lestorodrim had need for sharper blades and arrows. That news was welcome enough, and Írimë had to stop herself from reacting with too much curiosity when Conuion alluded to other groups of Lestorodrim who lived further South, near a great lake ringed by heavy mists, who had swords, daggers, and arrowheads made from steel instead of bronze and bone.
Fëanáro meant to strand us in Araman, she reminded herself and Arafinwë’s children. If he has made alliances with some of the hérur of the Lestorodrim, we must tread carefully. They might be less welcoming if they discover that we are the half-kin their crafty friend distrusts and detests. We must show them that we are more numerous and have at least as much to offer them before we tell them how we know Fëanáro.
So, she said nothing to Conuion about Fëanáro but a great deal about the petty Sindarin lord to Ñolofinwë.
Conuion’s followers worked more ably with wood than with metal, but they had knowledge that the Ñoldor lacked. That much became clear when a one-handed healer who called herself Crumuieth caught sight of Itarillë moving slowly about the camp, using a walking stick to compensate for her lost foot.
Írimë still did not understand every word that Crumuieth spoke, but she grasped the meaning more quickly now. Life in the shadow of Angamando—or Angband, in the more efficient Sindarin tongue—had exposed them to injuries that Ñoldo had ever experienced under the protection of the Valar. They could help Angaráto and his smiths craft a false foot for Itarillë and make it simpler for her to walk.
That night, over a private dinner in Ñolvo’s tent, when Írimë told her great-niece the news, Itarillë smiled for the first time since her mother had sung her last song, and Turukáno’s lips twitched upwards as though he almost remembered how to smile.
Perhaps I will remember how to laugh soon, she thought before visions of Finwë and Arakáno danced through her mind and blotted out the lights of the moon and stars.
“The Lestorodrim call the Sindar who live nearest to the great lake that we keep hearing so much about the Mithrim,” Írimë told her brother many turns of the moon later as they ate a simple dinner of tubers, goat’s milk, and goat cheese. “And it is from the Mithrim that Dolenor and Agartharon received their steel.”
“And Angaráto and Rôka are certain that that steel is made using the Fëanorin technique, not the Naugrim one. Findekáno let them compare his sword to Agartharon’s to check,” Ñolvo said, his jaw clenching as it did every time something forced him to remember that Findekáno had once been closer to Fëanáro’s heir than any of his other friends and cousins and that Maitimo had once gifted him a sword in secret.
“Whoever the Naugrim are. You might arrange for us to meet them next, nésanya,” he grumbled over his cup.
Írimë raised an eyebrow at him but let him pretend that he was annoyed over how poorly they still understood the peoples of their new land. As she considered her response, she took a long sip from her own goblet. It was hardly miruvor, but the warm beverage was flavored with cloves and cinnamon obtained from the Falathrim, the southernmost of the Beleriand Edhel, who followed her father’s old friend Nowë. So, it would have to do.
“These new hérur might have more Quenya than the previous ones we encountered, but that does not mean that they understand me well enough that I can convince or compel them to produce the Naugrim,” she said.
“Alas for the limitations of your Voice,” Ñolvo said.
Írimë winced but hid her expression behind her goblet. That was an ugly thing for her brother to jest about after all that Fëanáro had convinced and compelled his followers to do using his own power of Voice, but of course Ñolvo knew that.
“I know not if the Naugrim could help us even if the Lestorodrim or the Mithrim could produce them,” she began, putting her cup aside and looking Ñolvo full in the face at last. “But we must acknowledge the likelihood that the Mithrim have been in contact with Fëanáro and his followers and that they are settled somewhere near that famous lake.”
“Which means that we are closer to reckoning with our perháno.” Ñolvo set his cup down and placed both of his elbows upon the wooden table between them. His deep gray eyes peered into hers, and for a moment, she flinched.
Atar looked like that when I saw him alive last, she thought, gripping the wood so hard that it splintered beneath her fingers. And the last time Ñolvo looked like that, he was banging on Moringotto’s gate.
“Írimë!” he barked, reaching for her. She winced again, at least feeling the splinters in her flesh.
“Remember that he is not Moringotto, hánya,” she said, injecting all the steel into her voice that she could muster.
Remember that yourself, Írimë, she thought as she ripped a splinter cleanly from beneath the nail of her ring finger. No matter how humiliating our last encounter with him was, no matter how cruel he could be, even when we were young…
But ai, she would not remember that, not when things hung upon the edge of a knife. Instead of dwelling on the phantom pain in her scalp and upon the lock of hair that had taken so long to grow back after a skilled but cruel hand had torn it from her flesh by the roots, she pulled out another splinter and did not flinch as she waited for an answer.
“He was deceived, Ñolvo. That does not make him as bad as Moringotto,” she added, vocalizing the truth that she knew she could not forget, not until all was said and done.
“Nay, only the one who led us so far from Valinórë that we had no choice but to follow him to Moringotto’s lair, no matter how perilous the path. Only the one who left us to fend for ourselves when we lost the chance to turn back,” Ñolvo said. He had never mastered the most powerful arts of Voice, but he was a skilled orator and dangerously persuasive when his speech was so close to the truth.
“You swore an oath to recognize him as Ñoldóran, Ñolvo,” she said, dropping her voice and infusing it with all the honey that she could muster. “Whatever he has done, you swore an oath before Manwë.”
She pulled out the last splinter and brought her fingers to her lips. Her eyes slid shut, and her mind reached for the powers of the earth, which was still Yavanna’s creation, and the forces of the winds, which blew according to Manwë’s will, and willed the wounds to close so that she would bleed no more.
Their power still lingers here, hánya, she thought, extending her mind and her will out to Ñolvo. Remember that. And remember the bonds of blood that tie us to Atar. Remember the vows that I swore to him in the name of Ilúvatar himself.
“And Fëanáro refused our fealty,” Ñolvo hissed. Írimë gasped at the bile in his voice, then recoiled when she felt the thread between their minds snap.
“Ñolvo, we cannot afford…”
“I will not add to the strife between our peoples when we find him, Írimë. I will not attempt to sway his people to my side or foment rebellion against him. He can even call himself Ñoldóran if he must.” Ñolvo rose to his feet until he reached his full height, until his head brushed against the ceiling of the tent. He was taller than Fëanáro, Írimë noted. Her skin prickled at the thought, and her treacherous mind fled backwards in time, to that awful night in their father’s summer manse by the Bay of Eldamar, when Fëanáro had invaded her room and Ñolvo had been her only protector in that house. He looked like a protector then, like a grim and implacable guardian who would stand between his kin and the forces of darkness themselves to keep them safe, and he was terrifying to behold, especially when his eyes blazed hotter than Laurelin at its brightest and his lips curled into a joyless smile.
“But he is the reason that my son and good-daughter and so many of my best and most loyal néri and níssi are dead,” Ñolvo continued, sounding so righteous that Írimë could not gainsay him. “I will work with him to bring down Moringotto, if he will agree to work with me. But as for me and my children and Arafinwë’s and all of our followers and you, Írimë…especially you, nésanya…he shall never make any of us bow or scrape or grovel or swear to you again.”
What else could Írimë reply besides, “Aye, hánya, aye, aranya”?
Findekáno
Findekáno was not a student of languages, but he had been in love with one for much of his life. (He was still in love with him, Námo take them both! He was still in love with Maitimo, his Russo, who had haunted him across the Grinding Ice, whose memory plagued Findekáno incessantly, no matter that Maitimo had left them stranded on the edge of the Helcaraxë, choosing his father over their love once again. And nothing, nothing, not even the memory of Arakáno’s fëa-less corpse buried beneath a tree could banish those feelings from Finno’s heart.) And Findekáno had, alas, absorbed a great deal of knowledge while lying in his lover’s lap and watching him write treatises on Tengwar, Sarati, various developments in Quenya, and the peculiarities of the Falmarin dialect. And Findekáno had to spend time—so much time, away from his son who was suddenly growing too fast under the light of the yellow sun and away from the wife whose bed he had crawled back into to soothe his grief—with the warriors of the Lestorodrim, slaying urqui and wargs at his side. Findekáno had people to protect, after all. (Arakáno had died to protect them because Findekáno had been too slow to react. They had all been. They could not be slow again.) And Findekáno could not help but hear names. There were so many new names to learn, and even though they were names from an unfamiliar tongue, still he learned them, for it was his duty to charm, inspire, and lead. He had always been good at that at least. (How often had Maitimo told him so, and called him “my commander” lying beneath him, legs spread and hröa so deliciously warm and sweetly pliant?) He has become better at it on the Helcaraxë. (Was his father not proud of him now? Had Finwë Ñolofinwë not said that he was proud of Findekáno, a husband and father and devoted leader? Not a murderer, nor an adulterer, surely not! Not one who could rightly call two Quendi his spouses, for the Statute of Finwë and Míriel swore that such things were impossible.)
And there were two names that he kept hearing as he led his people farther and farther from Angamando, seeking shelter and a place to heal. (Seeking Fëanáro and his sons. Especially Maitimo. Always Maitimo, who must have the answers that Findekáno needed so badly that it burned his innards and set his teeth shuddering as the need rippled through him like cold fire.)
“Celegorm.”
“Dimaethor.”
“Celegorm and Dimaethor.”
Findekáno had never studied linguistics at the feet of Rúmil, Quennar, and Fëanáro, but he knew that the Falmari simplified the “Tyel” in “Tyelkormo” to “Tel” and that Sindarin was closest to the Falmarin dialect. And “Kormo” might well be shortened to “Gorm.”
And Dimaethor….
“Could they have changed Maitimo to Dimaethor?” he asked Lalwen as soon as he came back from the latest raid. He knew that he ought to have gone to see his son, but he was still covered in the blood and guts of a tall urquë he had slain. (So like the one that Arakáno had died to kill. All of the urqui who had swarmed and slain his youngest brother were dead, but it was not enough. He feared that it would never be enough.) He knew that he had to wash in the stream and change first. He did not want to frighten Artanáro after all. So he burst into his aunt’s tent, ignored Angaráto’s presence in the corner, and asked the question that had haunted him for a full cycle of the moon.
“Dimaethor…to Maitimo?” Lalwen hesitated, which Findekáno knew was a bad sign, but he did not stop.
“The Lestorodrim often speak of Dimaethor and Celegorm as though they are a team! Two co-captains taking on the forces of Moringotto together” he insisted, panting as he spoke. He glanced away from his aunt, whose brow was furrowed and whose lips were pursed, and towards his cousin, who stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. It was so much easier to deal with Angaráto’s confusion than Lalwen’s pity.
“And Celegorm must be Tyelkormo!” he added, punching the air as though that would make it true.
But it is true. Of course it is. A determined grin threatened to split his face in two, and it only grew more excruciatingly wide when Angaráto nodded.
“So, Dimaethor…”
“Is a Mithrim hîr,” Lalwen said. Her answer was clipped, and she flinched when she said it.
No! Findekáno nearly shouted the word at her as he turned away from Angaráto.
“How can we be…”
“I met him while you were away,” Lalwen said, holding up her hand and gritting her teeth.
Findekáno took a step back and dropped his chin.
“Oh.” Shame pierced through him, and his desperate eagerness evaporated in an instant. “I did not know. I only thought…if he were frequently in the company of Turcafinwë…”
“Maitimo would be Maedon,” Lalwen said. The finality of her declaration would have been the death knell of his hopes, had his mind not quickly seized upon a new one.
“She is right, Finno, I am afraid, but we have…” Whatever Angaráto meant to say, Findekáno would not—nay!—could not wait for him to say it.
“But Dimaethor knows and fights alongside Turcafinwë, does he not?” Findekáno asked, trembling from head to toe as the last words echoed in his brain.
Does he not? Does he not? Does he not?
Lalwen could hardly answer him fast enough. His hopes were so strong that they shook his heart yet so fragile that he wanted to throw himself into his aunt’s arms and weep.
“He does. And he knows where the Fëanárioni are settled. He has only been in contact with Turcafinwë. I know not why he has not seen any of the other Fëanárioni, but that matters little now. He knows where they are camped, and he has told us where to go,” Lalwen replied.
“Then we must prepare and set off as soon as possible!” Findekáno exclaimed. “Surely we are prepared.” The idea that they would not be prepared to face those who had left them behind, who had a smaller force, who surely needed all the might that Finwë Ñolofinwë and the sons of Arafinwë could muster, was so absurd that he actually laughed. “But of course you were waiting for my forces to return.”
“Aye, we were…” Angaráto answered, and that was as good as if Lalwen had answered, as far as Findekáno was concerned.
“I shall go bathe and see my father then,” Findekáno declared before doubt could set in.
Findekáno had not bothered to set up a proper wooden tub in his own tent, and he had no desire to intrude upon Laitanis’ territory when his thoughts were running so wild and treacherous. Maitimo was close, so close that Findekáno could practically smell the the perfume of his hair—did he still use lissuin oil, as a memory of the love he must have thought that he had left behind for good?—and taste his sweat and skin.
The memory of Maitimo was embedded deep in all of his senses. He could never hope to scrub him away, especially not when he had to confine himself to such a pitiful stream and only had the toughest natural sponge to apply to his skin. He could not escape the sight of that endless expanse of cream-colored skin that flushed and bruised so prettily beneath his lips and hands. He could not forget the hardness of those lean muscles, the lushness of that sweet mouth, or the silkiness of that beautiful coppery hair. And even in the bitter coldness of the water, his own treacherous hröa burned at the memory of the last time he had lost himself in the tight heat of Maitimo’s most secret place. It seemed illogical to miss a clench, but being inside Maitimo was like being embraced, engulfed, and contained in a place where nothing and no one could trouble them.
Stars, Maitinya, I miss you… The thought was disloyal, he knew it, but his hröa and fëa did not care. His pulse raced. His blood sang. His cock was so hard and his stones so tight against his pelvis that his hand acted on its own accord. He grasped himself tightly by the base, shut his eyes so tight that he could see no light, and let himself fall into the treasured memory of their last encounter in the frigid darkness of Araman, when Maitimo had taken him so gently, then demanded to be taken brutally in return.
Findekáno stroked himself hard and fast, pinching the skin at the point where the shaft of his cock met the head, caressing the tip, and using every trick that he knew to mimic the way that Maitimo’s hole clenched and released him, the way that that puckered rim caught his tip at the end of every thrust, and the way that his stones felt slapping against bare skin.
Maitinya, Russanya, vanimelda, he thought until he saw nothing and remembered nothing but the sight of those powerful arms bound behind that broad back by red ropes, the sweep of waist-length hair, smooth skin bruised and bloodied, and the sharpness of his lover’s jaw. It was as if he were on top of Maitimo all over again, his chest pressed flush against his lover’s back, and his free hand resting on that shapely chest, fingers lovingly pinching erect nipples, and his ears filled with nothing but the sound of Maitimo begging for more in that full, throaty voice.
Findekáno muffled his final cry of ecstasy in the crook of his arm and wept as he went limp in the stream, floating in the water and praying to powers who had sworn to never heed his lamentations again.
I love him. I love him. Forgive me, but I do. I know that it seems wrong and disloyal, but I gave myself to him first. I bound myself to him before anyone else. He is my first spouse, my only beloved. I betrayed him first. Please, let it be true that he did not betray me, that he always meant for me to follow him across the sea on the swanships. Please do not let it be his fault that we arrived in Endórë weak, tired, and unprepared for an ambush surely meant for Fëanáro’s. Please. Please. Please.)
Findekáno did not need to explain why he retrieved his jewels and his gold at last and replaited his partly shorn hair as though he were back in Tirion again, nor did he need to explain why he put on his finest surcoat over his plate armor. All the Ñoldor put on their finery as they made the final march to the lake of the Mithrim, where they knew they could find Fëanáro and his sons. His father wore the circlet that he had donned as regent for Finwë in those tense years between Fëanáro’s exile and the Darkening, every sapphire that he possessed, and the finest silks and velvets that Anairë had woven for him. Írissë looked every inch the martial princess in white and silver with her mithril circlet, torque, wrist guards, and rings. Turukáno did not shed his black, but he wore every jewel that he still possessed, as well as some that Findaráto had leant him. Itarillë wore black too, but her newest prosthetic gleamed silver beneath her gown, and she wore her late mother’s jewels proudly. Even little Artanáro, who was at last growing like a child his age should be—faster, if Finno was honest with himself—had been coaxed and cajoled into dressing like the prince he was, in miniature garments in deep Ñolofinwin blue that Laitanis had painstakingly altered for him. And upon his breast, the Greenstone of Fëanáro shone as a challenge to the half-great-uncle whose treachery had lingered like a shadow over his entire childhood.
Your heir gave this gem, your second greatest work, to mine, Findekáno would say if his half-uncle dared question him.
Let Fëanáro choke on his pride. Let Maitimo explain himself if he must, Findekáno thought, spite eclipsing love and desire yet again. I do not care what he says as long as he explains himself to me.
As for Laitanis, she was so beautiful that Findekáno could not stand to look at her. With food more plentiful than it had been for thirty cycles of the stars, she had recovered much of the softness that had first attracted him to her. Her hröa was lush and welcoming again, and it no longer seemed too thin and fragile to contain the fëa of adamant that dwelt within. Her large, gray-blue eyes no longer seemed too big for her dainty, heart-shaped face, and her hair, which was so long that she could step on it when it was unbound, gleamed again, now that it was properly oiled and perfumed and braid with leaflike silver threads set with diamonds and pearls. Her gold band caught his eye and reminded him of his faithlessness, but that was nothing compared to the massive star sapphire that once again rested at the base of her throat, set in a mithril choker and reminding him of how he had deceived her and bound her to him.
Some power must have pitied Findekáno just enough to give him the excuse to avoid looking at his wife, at her blue and silver gown that marked her as a part of his family, or at the bridal gift that his father had given her.
The gift that Maitimo gave him as a sign of goodwill long ago, Findekáno thought, glancing at Artanáro and smiling warmly at his son instead of grimacing at his memories.
“Yonya,” he began, kneeling before his child, who stood at his wife’s feet, and acting the part of a true and loyal husband, “I must go to the front of the march again, to guide and guard our people. Do you know why?”
They had gone through this ritual so many times that Laitanis no longer had to prompt their son, though Findekáno could feel her proud smile—a rare true one—burning the crown of his head.
“Aye, Atya, you must guard us against the urqui and the wargs and show Haruháno Fëanáro that the Ñolofinwioni and the Arafinwioni still have the mightier force and that he must respect us,” Atarnáro said, his high voice not breaking once.
Findekáno smiled and held his tears inside. Laitanis had been the one to explain the feud between the lines of Míriel and Indis to him when they reached the shores of Endórë, but Findekáno was the one who always answered any lingering questions that he had about the conflict. It was an ugly thing to tell a babe, but neither of them could deny that their son’s questions about their circumstances deserved answers at long last.
“And what must you do while I am at the front?” Findekáno asked, keeping his voice steady as he offered a small amount of false hope to his son.
“Keep close to Amya and Amilháno Lanwion, and have my spear drawn so that I can stick it in the eye of any urquë that comes within reach,” Artanáro replied gravely.
Findekáno nodded and asked him to show the small spear strapped to his son’s back. With Lanwion and his guards nearby, Artanáro would likely never have to use the weapon, but if worse came to worst, he was at least protected by the Greestone and the weapon with the longest reach that his gangly little arms could manage. Findekáno and Turukáno had cleared their path to the lake besides, so there should be no danger.
Yet we must always be on our guard, he thought, even the youngest among us.
“Well done, Yonya,” Findekáno said, kissing his son’s brow and rising to his feet. Once he was there, he found that if he focused on no part of Laitanis but her large, dark eyes, he could kiss her brow too, as a good husband ought to.
Once he made his way to his position at the front of the march, he let his thoughts turn to his wayward husband and the dispute that he needed to settle so that he could at last have some peace.
Findekáno kept his mind closely guarded during the entirety of their march through the mists, which grew thicker and thicker the closer they drew to their destination. Perhaps their steps would have faltered in the years before the Darkening, but they had crossed Araman and the Helcaraxë. The fog blanketing their surroundings was as nothing to them, especially with the light of Laurelin’s fruit shining down upon them and the soft, green grass beneath their feet.
Utúlie’n aurë! Findekáno thought, his mind leaping forward through the mists and seeking to see if another sought for his thoughts.
I will not let him in, not yet, not even if he reaches for me, Findekáno thought. Maitimo had not reached for him yet, and no trumpets of warning had sounded on their arrival. No banners of red and gold and fluttered in the mists ahead. Neither bright armor nor tall red plumes flashed ahead, but that only put him more at ease.
Dimaethor may have told them to expect us, but he could not have warned them of the direction of our coming, Findekáno thought, casting his sharp eyes farther ahead and conferring with his nearest scouts.
“What do you see ahead?” he asked Aikambalótsë, whose eyes were sharpest of all. In truth, he was not worried at how little he saw. Tents and dwellings of wood or stone would not stand out as easily this far ahead, and the absence of an army was surely a good sign. The Fëanárioni must have known that a much larger host was coming towards them, and if Fëanáro did not order his sons to challenge them, then he must have known that it was futile.
“Nothing, Aranion Findekáno,” the scout replied, “except a company of a dozen riders, lightly armored and armed. Their leader waves the flag of an envoy.”
“Aye! I see them now!” Findekáno exclaimed, his heart leaping in his chest. The riders were still too distant for him to make out all the details that Aikambalótsë saw, but he could have sworn that he saw the tail of a copper-colored braid peeking from beneath the lead rider’s hood.
It might not be him, Findekáno thought, his blood pulsing wildly nonetheless. It could be one of the Ambarussat. The youngest might make for a better envoy.
“Can you see if any of them are Fëanáro or his sons?” Ñolofinwë interjected, peering ahead.
“Nay, I think not,” Aikambalótsë said.
“But the leader has the hair of Mahtan’s line!” Findekáno retorted.
“And has the shape of a nís!” Aikambalótsë retorted.
Findekáno’s blood ran cold at those words.
Rátindë. The longer Aikambalótsë spoke, the clearer her features became, and the meaning of her arrival made less and less sense.
Why would Fëanáro have sent his estranged wife’s sister’s daughter? A member of Maitimo’s household and not his own? The short hairs at the back of his neck bristled. Something was wrong. Either Fëanáro himself had refused to treat with them or…
Findekáno hardly knew what else could be happening, but he was sure that it was some sort of insult aimed at them by his half-uncle, who had clearly learnt neither humility nor fear.
The fresh crispness in the air had gone sour in Findekáno’s nostrils by the time the riders approached. Rátindë was indeed their leader, but her attendants he knew not well.
They are not Maitimo’s roqueni, he realized. And Maitimo has not come. He has not reached for my mind.
His stomach churned with nervousness, and his throat filled with the bile of disappointment. He tried to calm himself. He scolded himself roundly, reminding his own treacherous feelings that Maitimo may have thought it best to send a cousin as an envoy first.
And after all, she was closer to him than all the others, even Turcafinwë, he reasoned. He must have sent her.
The horses halted, and nearly everything around them came to a halt. Findekáno scanned each horse, marking their markings and temperaments and huffed silently.
At least they had the good sense not to ride up on stolen mounts, he thought, no matter how much he would have liked confirmation that Tulcarocco still lived.
Rátindë alone dismounted and threw back her hood. Her face was ruddier and more freckled than Findekáno ever recalled seeing it, but that was not what alarmed him. He remembered her as being generally merry and amiable, willing to indulge her favorite cousin in his desire to secretly his meldo in the art of true swordplay. Her lips had always been quirked up in a light smile, and her eyes had always danced with a little mischief.
The nís who approached his father and sank to one knee bore little resemblance to the Rátindë of Aman. Her jaw was tense, and her mouth was so tightly clenched that it seemed as if fine lines had permanently embedded themselves in the corners. Her hazel eyes were cold and unyielding, and her nostrils flared as she hung her head and spoke at last.
“Aranion Ñolofinwë,” she began, “I bring you greetings from the sons of Fëanáro.”
The princely title itself was an insult, though not a shocking one. The rest of her greeting however…
“Why only greetings from the sons? What of my half-brother, the Ñoldóran himself?” his father snapped, stepping forward and looming over Rátindë. He did not give her leave to rise, and she remained there, kneeling on the ground. That was the only concession to his father’s rank that she gave, for she looked up at him, her chin titled proudly and her eyes narrowed in defiance.
“Curufinwë Fëanáro Ñoldóran won a great victory near these very shores when first he landed here. He and his sons and all of us roqueni drove the Foe’s troops back behind the gates of Angamando, but the Ñoldóran was too quick to press his advantage. He rode forward almost alone and fell beneath the fiery whips of the Foe’s foulest servants, the Valaraukar, who are demons made of flame and shadow. His sons drove them back, but the Ñoldóran perished from his wounds. Nelyafinwë Maitimo is the Ñoldóran now.”
Someone let out a cry of horror. It might have been Lalwen. It was not his father, who only stood and stared, unblinking and unseeing in the mists ahead.
Fëanáro dead. Maitimo Ñoldóran. It seemed impossible. The half-uncle who had loomed so large over their lives since their births was dead, his fëa fled to the Halls of Mandos before he could fulfill any of his lofty promises or answer for any of his crimes against those who had sworn fealty to him.
“Dead…how long?”
That was his father’s voice, but all of the fight and fire had fled from it. They had come here to demand answers, to seek redress, and now…
“Some twenty-seven sidereals and two cycles of the sun,” Rátindë replied.
So long. They had all spent so long imaging this confrontation and now…and now…nothing. Nothing for Ñolofinwë or Lalwen, but perhaps…perhaps…
“Where is Maitimo?” Findekáno and Ñolofinwë asked the same question at the same time, though Finno’s voice broke with desperation while his father’s was cold as ice.
“The new Ñoldóran ought to have come himself or sent one of his brothers instead of cowering behind the words of a non-royal cousin who is no kin to any among us. Or did he mean to insult us further?”
It was Turukáno who spoke that time, spitting his words at Rátindë, who drew herself up to her full height at last but refused to look at anyone besides Ñolofinwë.
“I am afraid that Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran could neither come himself nor send me as his envoy,” Rátindë replied, speaking to Findekáno’s father rather than to him or his brother, but her words were like a dagger to his heart.
“Why not? You said that he was alive!” Findekáno demanded, rage vibrating through him. This all had to be some cruel joke. What excuse could Maitimo have for not taking control of this situation himself? True, he had failed repeatedly to rein in his father, but he had always governed his brothers. He had ever been careful of courtesy. Why would he have disregarded it now, when surely it mattered so much?
“Answer my heir!” Ñolofinwë snapped, an anxious edge creeping into his voice now.
Rátindë faltered at last. A flash of heart-wrenching grief flashed through her eyes. It was gone almost as soon as it arrived, but the sight shook Findekáno to his core.
No, no, no. Has he been mortally wounded? Has he…has he…
“Nelyafinwë Ñoldóran went to parley with Moringotho and was captured despite all of the precautions that he took. Most of his host fell with him, and my husband was captured and died in Angamando. I felt it as soon as his fëa left his hröa, but we received confirmation ere the Moon and the Sun rose that the Ñoldóran lives as the Foe’s captive. We believe that Moringotho would have sent further messengers to taunt us if the Ñoldóran had died.”
Findekáno had never felt more unmoored, not even when he saw the fires raging across the sea. His fingers were numb. It seemed as though his bones had disintegrated within his skin. His blood ran cold. His skin and his teeth felt like ice. The weight of his hair, bound with the same good wires that Maitimo had gifted him so long ago, decades before they first kissed beside the Bay of Eldamar, was too much for his neck and his skull. It was as if he were being smashed, squeezed, and suffocated all at once. His armor seemed to be crushing his chest. He could not breathe—his diaphragm would neither expand nor contract, and his lungs would not fill. His grip on his banner faltered, and only Aikambalótsë’s quick actions kept him from humiliating himself. But he cared not.
Ñolofinwë and Rátindë kept speaking, a jumble of words about a regency council and which side of the lake was unoccupied, but none of it made sense to him. How could anything make sense when Maitimo was held captive by such a twisted fiend, who had murdered his father, and his grandfather, and who had…who had…
Words from long ago echoed through the caverns of his memory, spoken in a high, cold, mocking tone, its hateful happiness burning within his heart and mind.
“I saw you in the woods, long ago by Formenos, saw you push him onto the ground on all fours and take him like a dog takes a bitch. I saw you plow into him so wildly as though you thought somehow that you could breed him…“Come now, I am not like the others. There is no shame in wanting something so lovely, so fair, so red.”