faultlines beneath the ice by queerofthedagger  

Why should we be forced to remember:
it is in our blood, this knowledge.
Shortness of the day; darkness, coldness of winter.
It is in our blood and bones; it is in our history.
It takes a genius to forget these things.
—Louise Glück

*

Fingolfin would never tell anyone this, but they set foot onto the eastern continent, and the first thing he feels is an exhausted, foreboding sense of dread.

They have been on the Ice for so long, he can barely think of the beginning of it; of the betrayal, the rage, the determination. Of anything but the sheer stubborn survival, everything else stripped away by endless white and bitter cold.

For years, there has been nought but putting one foot in front of the other; of keeping as many of his people alive as possible; of burying the grief for those who died beneath the Ice alongside them.

It had been unforgiving and cruel. It had been simple, too, in the way that it was a single thing to focus on. No dead father, no treacherous brother and nephews, no leaping flames on the horizon. White, darkness, and Varda’s uncaring creations to bear witness.

Fingolfin is wildly, painfully glad to be alive, and it is as if the world wants to coax him to hope—something almost like Laurelin’s light in the sky, flowers beneath their feet, their banners snapping in the clear air.

And still, and still; he does not look forward to what is to come.

He is proven right when a host of Orcs falls upon them, distorted war cries splitting the deceptive quietude. So long have they gone without anything but the earth itself trying to kill them, they recoil from the vicious attack instinctively.

It is not as if this sort of violence has ever happened in Aman, but they hunted, sparred, tested themselves against each other. On the Ice, they have learnt to make themselves small against the merciless storms, protect the soft and vulnerable parts, rather than try and battle it.

It is almost their undoing now, that habitual stillness. Would have been, if not for Argon who, despite or perhaps because of being the youngest, recovers the quickest. He leaps with a yell and skewers the captain’s head faster than Fingolfin can join the fray.

Just as fast, a blade sinks through his youngest son’s stomach, Argon’s noise of righteous victory breaking, shattering, turning into anguish. Turning silent.

They have grown intimately familiar with the unendurable. To take nothing ever for granted.

Fingolfin does not think he will ever see Turgon truly happy again; does not think the guilt has made anything but a permanent home on Fingon’s brow.

They have grown intimately acquainted with much sorrow.

Seeing his youngest crumple before his eyes tears through him like darkness descending upon Tirion, like news of his father’s head split open, like the realisation of what Fëanor had done. It is worse than that. It tastes like iron and brimstone in the back of his throat, like the rage his brother is so renowned for.

Fingolfin fights before he knows that he has drawn his sword, and his remaining children follow, their people right behind. The screams of their furious anguish echo across the wide plains, are thrown back at them from the snow-crowned mountains, rise and rise and rise until it seems like the whole world is crying out in pain.

A comforting thought, if a false one. Fingolfin knows that they have left behind any mercy long ago, and the unmoving, mutilated body of his youngest son in his arms is only the latest proof of it.

Overhead, the new sun shines in glaring mockery.

They push right onward to the Gates of Morgoth’s fortress, vengeance still driving them, but there is nothing to win there.

The host of Orcs may have fled before them at their onset, but to force their way into the dark stronghold would be folly. They have not survived the Ice to walk like lambs to their own slaughter at Morgoth’s hand.

“We go south,” Fingolfin proclaims, turning away from the black gate. “Perhaps we may find news of where our kin have settled.”

His people shift uneasily at the mention. Beside him, Turgon’s face grows tense, and Aredhel looks away.

Fingolfin does not look at Fingon. He knows what he would find; cannot quite bear how much it resembles what he would see on his own face, if he were to look.

They do indeed hear word of where to find the Fëanorian host.

They reach the calm lake on the second day. Mist clings to the surface of the water, and the trees lining the shore seem ancient and dark even as the sun in the sky does her best to spill gold across the land.

Everything is darker here than in Aman, and Fingolfin sees the dreary anger reflected on his people’s faces.

The Fëanorian camp is an oasis of comfort in the midst of it. Structures have been built, sturdy and decent. Fires are burning in between, and there is warmth and laughter spilling from open doors and from the communal spaces.

It dies at their approach. If ever they are bound to bring ruin to each other, Fingolfin wonders, and then puts the thought away. About to see his brother for the first time in years, it would not do to grow maudlin now.

An elf appears before they can fully enter the camp, flanked by two others. Behind Fingolfin, his own people murmur among themselves, and it is hard to tell which host is larger, but it is clear that they could each do substantial damage to the other if they tried.

“Your Highness,” the Elf says, and Fingolfin thinks he dimly recognises them from Tirion. “I will take you to the King.”

Fingolfin swallows the urge to wince at the memory of his father, or to take offence at the insult.

“Findekáno will accompany me,” he merely says, a fact rather than a request. “If the remains of my people might be fed and taken care of in my absence, it would be greatly appreciated. We have a hard journey behind us.”

All three Elves across from him flush at the unspoken accusation. Fingolfin would have expected to find more satisfaction in such a thing, but about to come face to face with the brother who had abandoned him, he finds that he cannot muster anything but nervous, furious anticipation.

“Of course,” the Elf says, gesturing for one of the guards to run ahead. “Come, then.”

They make a silent procession through the central street that runs between the houses and workshops. From everywhere, people are watching, silent and wide-eyed.

Fingolfin wonders what a picture they must make. Among the well-fed, well-cared for people of his brother’s host, Fingon’s thin form and pallid skin stand out much more than they had among their own people.

He wonders about the picture he must make himself. What Fëanor will make of it. He reaches for the rage that had carried him across the Ice, through storms and losses and the horrors they had to commit to stay alive, and tells himself that it matters not.

Let them see all that they have made them endure. He hopes the guilt of it chases them into Mandos’ halls and into the darkness beyond.

He does not mean that. The Elf that still has not introduced themself stops before a larger structure, something almost like a Town Hall, and gestures at the door.

“He has been informed of your arrival, Prince Nolofinwë. You may enter. Good luck.”

For a fleeting moment, it seems like they want to say something else, their gaze lingering on Fingon. Then they turn on their heels and march away, as if they cannot wait to put distance between them.

Fingolfin exchanges a wary glance with Fingon and then pushes the door open without knocking.

The hall they enter is dimly lit, and a strange mixture of town hall with tables lining the sides for people to eat and spend time on, and a dais at the far end that holds two chairs that could, if one had not his father’s palace for comparison, pass as thrones.

It is ostentatious enough that it could make Fingolfin bristle, if it were not for the person who he finds sitting on the smaller of both thrones.

Maglor rises as they enter, descending the three steps until he stands before the dais. He folds his hands before himself, his shoulders straight, his chin raised.

He looks as old and weathered as Turgon does. Fingolfin does not know where to start.

This is still his nephew, one whom he had adored as a child, one whose plays and concerts he had often watched with great delight. Who had trailed in Maedhros’ wake always, who almost shared a name with his oldest son, who often knew how to diffuse tense and uncomfortable dinners at Finwë’s palace with charm and crass humour alike.

He does not look like the same, carefree Elf. He does not look like an insult devised by Fëanor, to greet Fingolfin so.

Fingolfin swallows, the same sense of foreboding dread prickling down his back once more.

“Makalaurë, I thank you for the welcome. May I ask where your father is?”

Beside him, Fingon shifts uneasily. The hall is empty except for the three of them.

Maglor stares blankly at Fingolfin, his eyes dark. “Dead,” he says, his voice even and terrible. “He died within days of us reaching these shores.”

The words make no sense, and yet they slam into Fingolfin like the blow of an axe. The world tilts precariously, his heartbeat too loud in his ears. All that rage, all that sorrow, calcifying into something sharp and brittle with no outlet within the span of a breath. Fingolfin tries and fails to breathe through it, and finds no mercy on his nephew’s face for the reeling of it.

He is almost grateful when Fingon asks, his voice carefully controlled, “And—and Nelyafinwë?”

Maglor flinches, the blank mask cracking to reveal something terrible underneath, until he regains control of himself.

“Not as lucky, I fear.”

“What do you—“

“He was captured shortly after our father’s death. Rumour has it that Morgoth has chained him to Thangorodrim’s highest peak, but I fear we have not gone to check.”

There is a pause, a brief, awful, terrible pause during which the entire world seems to hold its breath.

Under different circumstances, Fingolfin may have been able to prevent what is about to happen next. As things stand, blood is still rushing in his ears, and he is hard-pressed to keep himself upright.

I should not feel like this, he thinks wildly, almost hysterically. It should not matter, it should not, it should not.

“You—you left him there?” Fingon says, and the bristling, shaking fury of his voice pulls Fingolfin back from whatever brink he has just been teetering on. “We have learnt well that there is no limit to what you will do to us, what you will leave us to. But to do so to your own? To Russandol, who you, above all, ever claimed to love best? Leaving him to Morgoth’s torture—“

“Mind your tongue,” Maglor snaps, and there is a terrible, commanding power in his voice that makes Fingolfin recoil alongside Fingon. “You know nothing—of these lands, of Morgoth’s power, of what I am willing to do. If you are so keen for your people to die in Angband’s pits, you are free to throw them at Morgoth yourself, but do not dare to assume what I would or would not do for my brother.”

At last, Fingolfin moves his hand onto Fingon’s shoulder, staying whatever it is that his eldest would have thrown back, otherwise.

They hover there, uncomfortable and tense. Fingolfin refuses to apologise, and Maglor offers nothing else, his expression a riot of barely contained misery, now that Fingolfin knows to look for it.

At last, Maglor visibly draws breath, loosens his shoulders with deliberate purpose. “I welcome you to our camp. Please stay; please let us know if you need anything at all.”

It is not much. It is, compared to what Fingolfin expected from this first reunion after years on the Ice, barely anything at all. And oh, how many times he had imagined this first meeting; somehow, in none of those scenarios had it ever not been Fëanor who met him.

He takes in the empty room once more, thinks of his own people, starved and frozen through. There is only so much mercy to be had. “What about your other brothers? Are they—are they here?”

Maglor purses his lips, but nods. “They are. I thought it wiser not to let them be present for this if we ever want to move forward in peace.”

“In peace?” Fingon asks, before Fingolfin can. The truth is that he has little intention of stopping his son. Beneath the shock of loss, all this seems a farce, an insult, a poor act devised to mock them and what they have lost. “Is that what you think we are here for? That we can simply forget all that has happened, and live alongside each other in peace once more?”

Maglor raises a brow. Scorn and derision sit as devastatingly beautiful on his features as they did on his father’s. “Would you have us wage war on each other then, Findekáno? Because I can tell you already, it will not return Maitimo from Morgoth’s torture either. Trust me, my brothers and I have tried.”

“Do you know how we made it to these shores?” Fingon counters, his shoulders straightening beneath Fingolfin’s hand. “Do you know that we spent all these years on the Ice? Do you know how many we lost, thanks to you, your father, your brothers? The dead men and women, the withered limbs, the fact that Idril no longer has a mother? Your brother may be stuck in Morgoth’s dungeons and your father dead, but that Doom, you wrought yourself. What you did—“

“No one forced you to come,” Maglor snaps, his eyes flashing. “No one expected you to; my father certainly did not, although I will give you that it most likely would not have made much of a difference. Mandos’ Doom ensnares us all, Findekáno; any choices you have made are your own.”

“How dare you—“

“I am sorry for your losses,” Maglor goes on, ignorant or unheeding of the building rage in the room. Perhaps the worst part is that he sounds genuine, still. “As are our people, I know it. We will share what we have with you; we will live together once more. But if you expect us to grovel and weep, you have yet much to learn about the liberty this land affords any of us for such a thing.”

“I am sure that is a comforting thought to one who condemns his own brother to misery,” Fingon snarls, and he turns and leaves the hall before either Maglor or Fingolfin can react.

In the aftermath, Fingolfin draws a slow, careful breath—in through his nose, out through his mouth.

“I see the intermittent years have not taught him any more patience,” Maglor says with a sigh, but it sounds like he says it more to himself, almost wistful.

He meets Fingolfin’s eyes—still, unmistakably, a proud son of Finwë. “I apologise for any offence. Understand too, though, that I cannot apologise for anything else. I act as regent; nothing more, nothing less. I have no interest in strife between our people, nor in more sacrifice. You are welcome to think of that whatever you will, Nolofinwë.”

It is a dismissal if Fingolfin has ever heard of one.

“My people will not follow you. Surely, you must know this.”

Maglor waves a dismissive hand. “I care little for what your people do. Let us make sure, for the time being, that there is no more violence of kin against kin, and I will consider your arrival here a success. Settle in. Warm up. Get some food into you. We may discuss the rest in time.”

It is annoyingly reasonable considering the utter disregard of it. Fingolfin considers arguing. Takes in the careful, tense way Maglor holds himself, the minute tremble of his hands. Thinks, for a wild, furious moment, how it is possible that even after everything, he can still feel such pity for his nephews—and then, of course, realises how it could never be anything but.

Has it not ever been his lot to love his brother and his line better than it has ever been true in return?

He lets the pang of that resonate through him, and then inclines his head, barely more than a nod.

“Of course,” he says. “I will see you, Makalaurë.”

He expresses no gratitude. There is a certain amount of freedom to be found in the fact that very clearly, Maglor expects none.

They spend the next turns of sun and moon settling in, building something akin to a home on Mithrim’s shores.

They learn of the details of Fëanor’s death, learn of Amrod’s injuries, of how Maedhros had been captured. How he had been the only one to stand aside at the burning of the ships—as if those that reveal such a thing could grasp a little of that redeeming quality they believe such an act to contain.

It is a relief to Fingon, Fingolfin knows. It drives a deeper wrench between him and Turgon at the same time.

“As if it makes a difference,” Turgon says, voice unsteady as he holds Idril closer. “Do they truly think it makes them look better? Him? After all that had happened? The boats still burnt. We still paid the price.”

Fingon says nothing, but Fingolfin watches as his eyes turn north more and more often.

They learn to hunt, which plants can be eaten. How to coexist alongside those that betrayed them so utterly.

Fights break out every once in a while. Fëanor’s children are ever proud, and most of Fingolfin’s people are little different—no less proud, no less furious after the losses they paid their passage with.

The encampment is overcrowded, the supply of resources inconsistent. The Fëanorians share, but then, a lot of their hunting gear and horses come from what had once belonged to Fingolfin’s people in the first place.

He should prevent fights where he can; he cannot quite bury his pain enough to tell anyone else to disregard their own.

Some days, he still waits for Fëanor to walk around a corner, proud and smug. To get to wrap his hands around that virgin-white throat, to shout and spit until all that had been taken from them feels avenged.

There is nothing that could ever avenge it. There is no satisfaction that could be won from such a thing.

There is no brother left to him, to find such closure.

Fingolfin leads his people as he must. Looks the other way, every once in a while, and knows that Maglor and his brothers do the same.

He sees Aredhel and Celegorm cross paths once, down by the water. He knows that his daughter has been avoiding the encounter as much as Fingon is still scanning the crowds as if hoping for Maedhros to materialise out of nowhere.

Fingolfin should not watch. Still, he marks the way Celegorm comes up beside her, the short exchange, the growing tension in every line of her body.

Fingolfin cannot hear what is said between them, but he can tell that Celegorm is lacking in apologies. That Aredhel’s fury still burns bright where Fingon is struggling to maintain his own.

People always think Fingon the most obstinate of his children, but where Fingon has a temper to match his late uncle, it is Aredhel who will hold onto her anger for an eternity.

Celegorm leaves her. He looks as if he struggles to keep his head held high as he does, and Fingolfin would feel vindictive if he had ever learnt how not to look at any of his family and want them free of sorrow.

Relations with Fëanor’s sons remain cold, to downright difficult.

They all learn early on to avoid Celegorm and Curufin, even as they are the ones to provide most of the fresh meat from their hunts. They will share, because they are ordered to; any engagement beyond that will be taken as an excuse for a fight.

Fingolfin wishes he did not know where such animosity stems from, but he recognises the twisting knife of grief that turns any creature into a beast when he sees it.

Things are not much easier with Maglor, although that is owed to the looming spectre of Maedhros that seems to be in the room with them, whenever they meet.

They coordinate their people and resources well enough, and then Maglor will make a careless comment that will set Fingon off. They will finally agree to set their two hosts apart with the lake between them to keep the peace, and Fingon will say something offhand, and Maglor will take it as a veiled accusation.

The truth of the matter is that the two of them had never got along too well in Valinor, too similar in many ways and yet connected mainly through their love for Maedhros. Now, with the buffer that had been Maedhros not only gone but agitating them both, it is like watching a wildfire igniting, over and over.

Fingolfin would consider not taking Fingon along to these meetings, but it would go over even worse with Turgon or Aredhel—and so, here they are.

At last, Maglor removes his people to the southern shore of the lake; makes them rebuild their structures and homes, their workshops and stables. He shares a part of their resources with Fingolfin’s people, so that they no longer depend on the Fëanorians to hunt.

He does not apologise, but then, Fingolfin does not expect him to. Maglor’s grip on his brothers and his people is tenuous, and he risks much already, yielding as much as he does.

The alternative is outright violence between their people, though. On Mithrim’s grey shores, there is little margin for such mistakes.

For all that Maglor has never had aspirations for the crown and its requirements, he fills the role well. Fingolfin can tell, still, after the months of contact, that it is only for Maedhros’ sake that Maglor is still here at all.

Fingon has made no such promises. Fingolfin watches as his eldest son keeps watching the dark north, and tries not to let the dread seep into everything.

He finds Fingon’s rooms empty on a morning in early spring.

As his people still search the camp, Fingolfin already knows that it is no use. Ever has Maedhros loved Fingon above all else save Maglor only, and so ever has he driven Fingon to acts of love like no other in return.

“Will it ever end,” Turgon asks that same night, his eyes red but hard. “How much more will we have to let them take from us?”

“Findekáno made his own choice,” Fingolfin says. Aredhel says nothing, but she watches Turgon and Idril with worried eyes. Does not look at Fingolfin at all.  

“As he did in Alqualondë—ever, it seems, he is willing to spill blood for any other than us,” Turgon says. There is no anger in his voice, just hollow numbness.

Aredhel sighs quietly, and takes Idril from him, leaving their quarters. Turgon says nothing else, merely watches her go.

She had been close to Elenwë, their friendship how Elenwë and Turgon had met to begin with. Where Turgon had been allowed his rightful grief, where Fingolfin and Fingon made sure that he would not fade, Aredhel and Argon had taken care of Idril.

She had been close to Celegorm, too. The chasm that has been torn between them is yet another part of what makes her still look as dark and cold as the depths beneath the Ice. It has become worse again, with the betrayal so near again.

At least Nelyafinwë stood aside, she had snarled at Fingon once, over one fight or another. At least you get to pretend that he did not abandon you to ice and death and irrelevance.

Ever they seem to be fighting, these days. Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; Fingolfin fixes his eyes onto the north, much like his son had done, and prays and prays and prays.

By the time the Eagle appears, Fingolfin has almost given up hope.

Fingon slides off the feathered back with something cradled in his arms. Crimson blood stains his robes, his hands, his face. His eyes are hollow in a way that years on the Ice had not accomplished.

Fingolfin is beside him in an instant. It is only then that he recognises the emaciated white beneath Findekáno’s cloak as his eldest nephew.

“By Eru,” he breathes, and Fingon sobs, once, then clenches his jaw until his teeth crack.

“A healer,” he calls, voice even once more. “We need a healer and a sick room. Now.”

Around them, people fall into action. The time on the Ice has instructed them well in the arts of survival, in the speed of it. Within moments, what is left of Maedhros is taken from Fingon and carried into a room; bandages and clean, warm water are brought; herbs are gathered, potions found, a plan made.

“Findekáno—“ Fingolfin tries, once everything seems well on its way.

His eldest is standing to the side, wide, glassy eyes fixed on the bed. He is trembling so hard, Fingolfin would think him plunged into the deep waters, if his clothes were not dry except for the blood.

“Atya,” he says. “Atya, I had to cut off his hand. I had to—“

He says nothing else. Shakes his head once, harshly; sucks in air through his teeth, and finds a spot out of the way but beside Maedhros’ bed. It is clear that he will not leave, no matter what Fingolfin may think to say.

Fingolfin understands, then, that there is nothing he can possibly say. That there is nothing that will stop Fingon from ever sticking to Maedhros’ side, regardless of the price it may cost him.

Fingolfin wishes he did not understand. Wishes that he felt anything other than gratitude that his son, at least, is not merely chasing the ghost of someone who would abandon him with laughter to leaping flames.

“How could you do this?”

Aredhel’s voice is sharp and vicious as it whips through their quarters. Fingon stands in the doorway, swaying on his feet with exhaustion, but no less furious.

“Oh, I don’t know? Perhaps I should have left him to Morgoth, then? Delivered all his brothers, too, would that have made you feel better?”

“You know what I am speaking of, you—“

“I do not, in fact, Írissë—enlighten me!”

“Does it mean so little to you, what they did? After everything—Alqualondë, the Ice, Elenwë—“

Fingon sighs and presses the knuckles of his fists into his eyes. When he looks back up, he only looks tired. “Do you not see the endless cycle of this? Perceived insult upon actual cruelty, vengeance and retribution and ever more atrocities. What use would it have been to leave him there? Would it have brought her back?”

Aredhel’s eyes are dark and furious, still. “No,” she says. “And I am glad he is well—I am, do not roll your eyes at me. But do I think it was worth the risk to you? To us? What do you think it would have done to any of us, had you not returned?”

“But I did; I brought him back.”

“And that is all that matters?”

Fingon makes a sharp gesture, ever a sure sign that he is nearing the end of his short patience. “I did not do it for me. How do you think all this will continue, with Maglor as regent, our people certain that it is our father’s rightful title? With the lake between us—“

“Are you truly so naive to believe that bringing back the eldest of their house will change this?” Turgon cuts in, and where Aredhel is all exasperation beneath her anger, Turgon is truly, truly furious.

He has the least reason to forgive their brethren anything, and they all know it. And yet, even Fingolfin is briefly startled by the hatred in his voice.

“This will much strengthen our—“

“After all they have done, you, above all others, should know that no love, or faithfulness, or sacrifice, will ever make them give you anything, Findekáno. How can you still be so blinded, after everything? He has abandoned you, again and again, and yet you cannot help but abandon us for his sake. Was Argon not enough, even if Elenwë was not, to you?”

Fingon stares at Turgon as if he were seeing a ghost. “That is not true,” he finally says, and there is a note of pleading creeping into his voice. “I would not—“

“I do not think I have recognised you since the day you raised your sword in Alqualondë,” Turgon cuts in. He does not give Fingon a chance to answer before he sweeps out of the room, leaving silence in his wake.

They linger there, a beat, two; in the end, Aredhel sighs and follows, even as she brushes lightly against Fingon’s shoulder as she leaves.

Only the two of them remain. When Fingon looks at him, Fingolfin finds whatever admonishment he might have left evaporate.

Crossing the space between them, he pulls his son close, the shaking, dirty mess of him. “Do not think that I am not wroth with you for your recklessness,” he murmurs into Fingon’s braids, and smiles at the short sound of laughter that it elicits. “But do not think either that I do not understand. Perhaps eventually, they will, too; do not begrudge them if they do not. You did a selfless thing, if a stupid one. Your grandfather would be proud.”

Fingon makes a short, aborted sound that comes out like a sob. When he pulls away from Fingolfin, his eyes are dry. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft.

It sounds like it is for far more than this. Fingolfin lets him go and tries not to feel like there are fault lines appearing all over the fabric of his family.

Or, perhaps, rather what remains of it.

Maedhros’ recovery is arduous and slow-going.

Fingon spends most of his time at his bedside, in spite of how it leaves him in close quarters with Maedhros’ brothers, and at odds with his own people.

After council with Maglor, Fingolfin decrees that they will keep Maedhros in their own camp. The structures are built better, courtesy of the Fëanorians' removal, and on top, their healers are much better equipped to handle this, experience inevitably having taught them.

In truth, it had not been much of a council. Maglor had pleaded, behind closed doors; even if he had not, Fingolfin would have agreed.  

Unfortunately, it means that the Fëanorians are now regular guests on the northern shores once more. It does not ease the tension, even as most now seem intent on tending to their own matters.

Opinions of their help of Maedhros among his own people differ. In the opinion of some, he has paid his due on Morgoth’s mountains. Others—most often those that have lost most upon the Ice—begrudge him the care and resources with bitterness.

Maglor makes an effort to compensate them; food and fabric, hunting gear and tools to work the earth.

Most of the time, he is in no state to lead, though. Relief at his brother’s return is unmistakable, but the guilt now finds him with a vengeance. There is irony in the fact that Fingon had done with harp and song that which Maglor had not. Fingolfin does not think that Maglor will be able to forget it soon.

And so, between the tension and the hope and the grey mist of Mithrim’s shores, Maedhros claws his way back to life.

Fingolfin visits him often. Witnesses the silent endurance of pain, the night terrors. The way Fingon will not leave his bedside, and how Maedhros fights, and fights, and fights, to return to him.

Outside of the sick room, things are no less uncertain.

Maedhros’ return has brought restlessness anew into both camps. Rumours fly, of Maedhros taking the Kingship of the Noldor; of his incapacity to do so, mutilated as he is. Of a power vacuum anew, one to rival the last days of Tirion, this time with Findekáno caught in the middle of it.

Within Fingolfin’s family, things remain tense. They avoid the topic after one too many fights, all knowing it useless to debate while it is unclear what kind of recovery Maedhros will make. How he will decide to lead his own people or how to treat with them, once, if, he does.

Instead, they take the time to explore this new land. After a year on these shores, they have recovered from the torment of the Ice as much as they ever will. The new sun and moon have brought growth to the grey and brown shores, the forest and open plains teeming with life.

The mountains shine burnished gold in the morning sunlight, Ulmo’s waters singing across the rough rock.

It is beautiful and wild in ways Fingolfin had not been able to imagine when his father had talked of it. Now, when he spends days riding through the forest that breathes around him, when he climbs mountains and finds untouched, ice-cold springs, watches as waterfalls crash endlessly into the depths of the earth—

Now, he finally understands how his father could mourn it, even in the midst of pastel-coloured paradise. Understands, too, in a strange sense, what his brother had been talking about, the images he had been conjuring, urging them all to leave. What his children and nephews and nieces had dreamed of, what made them face all that they had to endure to come here.

Argon would have loved it, he thinks often. So would have Fëanor.

Finrod and his siblings seem to come alive underneath the midday sun, within deep woods and dark lakes. His own children finally thaw a little, remembering that once, they loved each other. Their people settle, recover, thrive.

Spring blankets the land, and it is still a strange, dangerous place, but for the first time—

For the first time since the Ice swallowed them up and threatened not to spit them out again, Fingolfin feels hope, bright like Laurelin’s light in the sky, blooming in his chest.

It takes many turns of the moon, but eventually Maedhros recovers enough to be lucid, to talk, to sit upright and eat on his own.

He speaks mainly to Fingon, at first. To his brothers, especially Maglor and the twins. Those conversations, Fingolfin suspects, are wrought with difficulty.

“He says that he had made Makalaurë promise not to come after him, if anything happened,” Fingon tells him, one night as the two of them sit alone by one of the communal fireplaces, sharing sour wine between them. “I still do not understand how he could ever forgive such a thing.”

Fingolfin sighs and looks at the riot of colour in the sky above them. Unlike Aman, the full measure of Varda’s creation is visible to them here, the darkness of the land revealing the beauty of the night.

“Strategically, it makes sense. What were the odds, of all their people simply perishing in such an attempt? You were very lucky, Findekáno; it is not betrayal, not to count on such a thing.”

“Would you leave me, then, if it were me?” Fingon asks, and there is teasing in his voice, no real concern. “After all, strategy is much more your forte than it has ever been Makalaurë’s, is it not? Abandon your son to Moringotto, for the sake of logic and reason?”

Fingolfin forces a laugh and pulls him close. He is grateful beyond measure for Fingon’s confidence. Wishes, above anything else in this life that remains to him, that this is a choice he will never have to make.

With Maedhros’ recovery fully underway, Fingolfin ceases his visits.

He doubts it would be helpful to Maedhros. Doubts it is time yet to speak of all the matters they must face eventually. Doubts, in all truth, that Maedhros would enjoy seeing him any more than the rest of his brothers do.

He focuses on his people, on exploring the land and drawing up maps, on strengthening their settlement and thinking of the future. Pretends that it does not cut him to the bone to leave his nephew to his recovery, after once, long ago in Finwë’s court, he thought them close in friendship.

That had been long ago though, long before Aman ever went dark. A foolish heart Fingolfin may still carry, but he has learnt not to let it lead him quite as often.

As such, it is all the more surprising when Fingon finds him one early afternoon on one of the fields, where they have started sowing for the coming year. They are slowly understanding how the land works, what grows where, and what does not. What dies because of Morgoth’s poison that ever belches forward in the north, and what does because earth and sunlight and water are not offering the right conditions.

“Atya,” Findekáno says, taking a bag of seeds and coming to kneel beside him. He still spends much of his time with Maedhros, but he sleeps now, eats, goes riding. Helps their people where he can, does his part.

It has eased some of the tension, if not with Turgon. The two of them still speak only haltingly, and mostly when Idril searches out her uncle to teach her how to shoot a bow as Fingon had promised her long ago—back on the Ice, if only she agreed to keep walking a little further.

She has a good memory. Some days, Fingolfin wonders just how well she can tell the distance between them all. How much it is her own way of ensuring that her uncle and her father still talk at all.

“Russandol would speak with you, once you have a moment,” Fingon says now, working steadily. He does not look at Fingolfin, and his hands are certain in what they do.

Fingolfin hums, a silent inquiry that goes unanswered. He sighs. “And what would Nelyafinwë speak to me about?”

Fingon shrugs beside him. “He would not tell me.”

That, Fingolfin knows, would only be partially true, but he does not push. “I will see him tonight, then.”

Fingon smiles, and they plant another couple of rows of wheat seeds, before he pushes upright, stretches. The early October sun bathes him in her light, catching in the gold of his braids. He has grown strong again, in the year and a bit since they reached these shores. Some days, Fingolfin thinks that the air suits him better than Aman ever had, rough cliffs and wide fields, sharp winds and lurking shadows.

Turning back to look at him, Fingon offers him a hand up. “You should talk to Caranthir,” he says, when Fingolfin takes it. “He mentioned that their people have finally built something that helps with the sowing without damaging the seeds. The fact that he mentions it at all means they must be willing to share.”

“For a price.”

Fingon shrugs. “Of course. Caranthir is not unreasonable, though, and if he is, we keep doing what we do. Little to lose, much to gain.”

He makes it sound so simple, Fingolfin sometimes wonders where he got that from. Thinks of Anairë then, inevitably, and pushes the thought away.

No use, ruminating on the past, his father used to say. It is only since coming to these lands that Fingolfin understands the grief that had always resonated through the substructure of Finwë’s voice.

That night, Fingolfin leaves the hall early, where his people are eating and drinking. The cottage that houses Maedhros’ sick room is on the outskirts, close to the family dwellings, and Fingolfin nods at the guard who whiles away by the door.

So far, there have been no attempts at violence. In fact, for the most part, discontent around Maedhros’ presence here has died down, since Maglor compensates them for the resources.

Still, Fingolfin knows what it would mean politically for something to happen to Maedhros on his watch. Knows what it would mean personally, too—to Fingon. To himself.

He takes a moment to steel himself, to put away his sentimentality and his bitterness, both. He knocks.

“Come in,” Maedhros calls, and Fingolfin opens the door.

Maedhros sits in a chair by the window, a knit blanket in his lap. His hair is still short, dark red curling in his neck and around his ears.

He would look much like Nerdanel in the dim light, if not for the ruin of his face. Even after all the healers have done, the scars still stand out starkly—across his jaw, through his eyebrow, above the bridge of his nose. One of his ears has a cut through the middle as if done with a blunt knife. The other misses the tip.

He is still rail thin and white as a sheet, holds himself carefully. And yet, he is a presence; sits straight, not in the way that Maglor holds himself straight as if he is constantly combating forces of gravity, but as if it is a simple thing, regardless of the pain.

At Fingolfin’s entrance, he smiles. “Uncle. It is good to see you—come, sit.”

Fingolfin refuses to let the familiar address throw him off, and takes the chair across from him. The fire is banked and spends pleasant warmth. Between them, someone prepared a table with wine, two goblets, a board of cheese and dried meat.

“They always nag me to eat, Findekáno above all else; I think this is his most recent ploy to trick me into it, as it would be rude to deny doing so in your company,” Maedhros says, and he does indeed take a piece of cheese, looks at it for a few moments, then pops it into his mouth. “It is good; please, try.”

Fingolfin hums, pours them both wine. “This has not been vinted here,” he observes, at the first sip. It lacks the sour quality that they never seem to eradicate entirely, and rather brims with the sweet fullness of Finwë’s cellars.

“It is not. I had Maglor bring it,” Maedhros says. He does not touch his own goblet. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

Truth be told, Fingolfin is not quite sure what to make of it. He had not seen Maedhros since those early weeks when he could do little but sleep and let the healers fuss over him. Fingolfin had not, he realises, allowed himself to expect anything—not his once beloved nephew restored, not anything other; his father, his hostile brothers, a ruined, broken thing.

Maedhros is none of those things. He speaks lightly, easily. He watches Fingolfin with sharp, clever eyes—the same ones that had seen much in Finwë’s court, but with a quality to them, now, that makes Fingolfin wary of underestimating him even a little.

“I am glad to see you faring better,” Fingolfin says, and means it. “I am glad that you no longer have to endure Morgoth’s torment.”

“So am I. I am, indeed, very grateful to Findekáno, even as he was a fool for doing what he did—oh, do not look at me like that, uncle, I know you must agree. Even if he were not your son, to march into Angband’s pits alone for a single Elf, no matter how beloved, is utter madness. We are all just lucky that he returned, and with me alive while he was at it. I do not want to think about the ramifications any other outcome would have had for everyone.”

Fingolfin winces at the mere idea, but at Maedhros’ obvious amusement at that reaction, he pins him with a look. “My son would do anything for you, Nelyafinwë. Surely, you must know this by now. It is a fact that brings me much grief, and yet one that I know I cannot change; and so I accept it because I do not want to find out what choice Findekáno would make, were he ever made to choose. Yet I will ask you—do not trivialise it.”

For the first time, Maedhros looks away from him, something almost like shame washing across his face, there and gone again. “I do not. I owe him much, even beyond my life—and even if I did not, it has only ever been Findekáno who could stay my own hand. So, as little comfort as this may bring you, trust at least that it is a mutual predicament. I will sooner walk back into Angband myself than make light or use of Findekáno’s commitment to me.”

“I am sure you can see how that is of little comfort to me.”

“Then it is lucky for both of us that I have no such intentions. Although, and I will say this only once—Findekáno would choose you. It would pain him greatly, and it would be a hard choice for him to make, but it would ever be you.”

Fingolfin raises a brow. He is not sure if Maedhros is trying to appease him, or what the point of this is. “How could you be sure?”

“Because we have made these choices before, Nolofinwë; what do you think happened between your children and nephews, while you and my father were fighting each other every step of the way? When we removed to Formenos? We were all long since adults by then, but we were also families. We all made our choices accordingly.”

Fingolfin opens his mouth, closes it. His first instinct is protest, is insistence that it had been Fëanor, not him, who instigated any fights in Tirion. It is only a partial truth, though, and the look in Maedhros’ eyes keeps him from leaning into it.

“Morgoth is more dangerous than you think,” Maedhros adds softly, his eyes returning to the window. It faces north, Fingolfin realises. “I do not blame you. I hardly blame my father, although that is a lie. I blame him for other things. What matters is that back then, I would have chosen him—I did. Findekáno would choose you still, even more so than he did back then. So his reckless idiocy aside, you need not worry that he will run away with me into the south.”

There is warm affection in Maedhros’ voice, toward the end. There is steel there, too.

For a few moments, Fingolfin allows the silence to linger. None of this has gone the way he expected it to, which is to say that he did not know what to expect. He is not sure if this is a pleasant surprise or not; certainly, there is less madness, less misery colouring his nephew’s reason than he feared. Certainly, while that assuages some concerns, it only fuels others.

Fingolfin drains his goblet, refills it. Maedhros has still barely touched his own.

“So,” Fingolfin finally says, smiles. “The virtues of my oldest son thoroughly discerned, what is your plan, then? Why did you call me, barely out of your sick bed?”

Maedhros sighs and puts down his goblet. Straightens in his chair, and when he looks at Fingolfin next, there is fire in his eyes much like his father’s, much like a blaze that will devour anything that dares to stand in its way.

It is less unbridled than Fëanor used to be, a sharper, more devastating focus. Less mindless destruction, more will melded, over and over and over, to whatever purpose it sets its mind to.

It is, Fingolfin realises, all Finwë. So when Maedhros looks at him, and looks at him, and looks at him, and then says, “I am sorry, Nolofinwë,” it is all Fingolfin can do not to punch him, or flee from the room.

He breathes, instead. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

“I am sorry for what my father did to you. For Alqualondë, and for how many of your people we doomed alongside us. I am sorry for Losgar, the boats, for all that you have endured on the Ice. I am sorry for your losses. I know there is nothing in this world that can make it right, and I do not expect there to be. I do not expect forgiveness. But you are owed an apology, and so are your people. If you do not think it an unwise thing, my brothers and I would offer them the same apology.”

Fingolfin stares, his throat dry. “Your brothers.”

Maedhros’ expression hardens. “They will apologise. If you will have them.”

“You know that there can be no absolution. I cannot tell you that all is forgiven, even if I wanted to. We cannot—“

“No,” Maedhros cuts in, and his eyes, dark grey like his father’s, like Finwë’s, bear an understanding of horror that Fingolfin wants to look away from. “I do not expect you to. It fixes nothing. My brothers and my people may think that this means any apology would be worthless to begin with, though, and we can see how well it has served them. It will not fix anything, but it is an acknowledgement. And that, perhaps, may at least be a beginning for something like coexistence.”

Fingolfin sighs. “It may be, yes. It is a gesture, at least. If you want peace between our people, though—if you publicly repudiated your father, reproached your brothers—“

“You know that I cannot do that, Nolofinwë,” Maedhros cuts in. His expression is still kind, but his voice leaves no room for argument. “I may not agree with them always; they may drive me to madness; but to humiliate them publicly beyond bowing to my orders? It is no less unthinkable than asking you to restrain Turgon from taking out his grief on my own people.”

One thing Fingolfin had always in equal measures admired and loathed about debates with Maedhros was that he never played around, never worked up to his fatal strike with smaller, less devastating arguments. He always went for the killing blow as soon as possible, nipping any possible argument before it could begin.

Which, Fingolfin had also learnt, is a kindness. One might think that it is possible to soften Fëanáro’s eldest, if one only received the time, the chance, discovered the right spot. It is not so. For Maedhros to change his mind is a rare thing, and he does it only if you can deconstruct all of it, not piecemeal.

Fingolfin would not be able to publicly reproach Turgon for anything without being very, very careful of the signal it would send to their people. Eru, he could barely do so in private, ever seemed Turgon one wrong surge of despair away from fading.

He lets none of this show on his face. Holds Maedhros’ gaze, unflinching, and says, “I have said the same thing to Makalaurë before; surely, you must know that my people will not follow you. Not after everything; not even after an apology, no matter how well delivered.”

Maedhros takes a sip of his wine and leans back in his chair. “You know, where Morgoth’s hospitality was sorely lacking, my time upon the mountain did give me a lot of time to think.”

“Nelyafinwë—“

“Do not be so horrified. Humour is all we have left in this world. Humour, and the might that is the Noldor’s power—all of it combined. Morgoth cares nought for our quibbles—in fact, he delights in them. They serve his purpose. Any power that fights among themselves is one easier to break, and oh, Nolofinwë, you have no idea how thoroughly he will break us.”

“I have seen Angband—“

“I know,” Maedhros says, and there is a wry twist to his mouth that slices like a dagger between Fingolfin’s ribs. “I heard you. Light in the sky and trumpets in the distance, and your voices like the cruellest promise of hope on the wind. You did not hear me; in retrospect, I am glad for it, but despair makes you beg for strange things.”

Fingolfin stares, but Maedhros gestures with his goblet in his one remaining hand, brushing aside whatever he sees on Fingolfin’s face.

“My point is that we will stand no chance against him divided. Eru, we may barely stand a chance against him united. He breeds terrible things in his dungeons, and his Lieutenant is perhaps crueller than Morgoth himself. Morgoth is a darkness, Nolofinwë, worse than anything those days of Darkening have ever let us taste. His is a cruelty we cannot comprehend. His might is beyond Ulmo, beyond Manwë. He is—“

Maedhros breaks off, seems to come back to himself. The room feels like it has grown dimmer in those last few moments, and Fingolfin fights the urge to move closer to the fire.

“If you think it so hopeless—“

“Not hopeless,” Maedhros says, shaking his head. He meets Fingolfin’s eyes once more, and it is the first thing tonight that Fingolfin suspects to be a lie. “Just—none of our pride matters, in the face of it. None of our traditions, or what we hold sacred. I am bound by my Oath, and it is perhaps the one thing I cannot shake in the face of him, but it will not serve me against him. It only serves itself. Which is all a very long-winded way to say that I cannot lead our people, Nolofinwë. You are right, your people would not follow me, as well they ought not. My own will ever be divided between Oath and the Dark Enemy. If we want a chance to withstand him, we cannot afford that. If we want a chance to withstand him, you must lead us.”

“I am—Russandol, what are you saying?”

It is a testament to his shock that he uses the old name. Maedhros barely seems to notice, his face almost feverish with ironclad conviction.

“I will officially abdicate the crown to you. My people and my brothers will hate it, but they will yield—anything else would be hypocrisy, and they might have dared it, perhaps, some years ago, but they know how much they owe to you. How much I owe to you, where they have left me to Morgoth’s servants.”

“But it was—“

“My own order, yes. It does not mean that their guilt weighs any less heavily on them.”

Fingolfin stares at his nephew, the harsh reality of him. For the first time since they stepped off the Ice, it truly sinks in that the danger has not passed. That it is not a matter of learning new ways to hunt and provide for themselves, of defeating the occasional host of Orcs.

There is a terror in the North that has twisted his nephew into something just unrecognisable enough that Fingolfin wants to recoil from it, and it might yet come for all his children. And here they were, fighting over barrels of wine and agricultural tools.

Putting down his goblet, Fingolfin straightens in his chair. “Your father would roll in his grave.”

“May he rot wherever he is,” Maedhros answers, easy. “I would rather he never forgive me than to lose any of my brothers to the results of his madness.”

It is, Fingolfin realises, as simple as that. He takes a while to think it through. To twist and turn it, search for the angle, the chink in it that might be a trap. The strategic disadvantage.

There are none, none Maedhros himself had not already mentioned.

“Your people will not like it,” he says at last, as good as a concession.

Maedhros smiles, returns his gaze to the window. “No, they will not. I think it would be best if we removed from this camp altogether; go east, perhaps. I hear there are open lands there that border on the north, too. They will have to be watched.”

“Russandol, you are in no state to move,” Fingolfin says, before he can stop himself. It is a strange feeling, how easy it still comes, the concern and the care.

Maedhros laughs, a rough, distorted sound that comes out fond, nonetheless. “That, I am not. I am in no state to control my people, either. This is a plan, Nolofinwë, not a call to action. Has not rashness ever been your brother’s trait?”

Fingolfin clenches his jaw and answers not. Maedhros continues as if ignorant of Fingolfin’s pain, but Fingolfin suspects it is rather a lack of care than anything else. Ever Maedhros has been overly observant, and it seems to be a trait he has only honed to sharp precision in his years at Morgoth’s mercy.

Fingolfin supposes he had little choice in the matter, and then, very carefully, does not think about it any further.  

“If I announced any of this now, my brothers would protest. Our people would revolt. I may yet make them fall in line, but it will be far more effort and a far more tenuous grip. I need to regain my strength; I need to learn how to fight again. I cannot sit in my chambers with a blanket in my lap, as I announce to my House that I strip it of its birthright. As I announce to my people that I spit in the face of their king. I need to be a king, first, before I may dishonour my ancestors.

“And, Nolofinwë, make no mistake; I will swear fealty to you, and mean it. I will beg absolution, and mean that too. I will remove my people east, to reduce the odds of conflict. But when all is said and done, those people will still follow me. They will follow you, only because I order them to. It is the only way to bring peace, to unite us, but they would no sooner take you as king than Turukáno would ever kneel before me.”

It is, Fingolfin realises, both a factual description and a threat. He would be more insulted by that if he did not admire how clever it is.

“You know, your brothers will raise hell on you.”

“My brothers will raise hell on me no matter what I do; surely, you must know this.”

And so easily, the hard-edged tension of negotiation dissipates from the room. Only in its absence does Fingolfin understand what has truly happened. He rubs his temples and picks his goblet back up.

“Do you think we stand a chance?” he eventually asks, tilting his head at his nephew.

Maedhros looks tired now, the dark circles beneath his eyes more pronounced, his hands trembling faintly.

He shrugs. “Truthfully? I do not know. But against all odds, I have been freed and given another chance. I shall be damned if I let him ruin it with pre-emptive despair. If I shall not make him pay dearly for any inch he gains on us. He may win, in the end, but we will not take any of it lying down. That, I think, is all we can hope for. For me, that is enough.”

He takes his goblet, clinks it lightly against Fingolfin’s. They both drink.

At last, Fingolfin looks over at his nephew, the child he had once found in his father’s library more often than not, ever eager for knowledge, for acknowledgement, for a new book to read. Looks at him and says, with more honesty than almost all else tonight, “I am sorry for what happened to you, Maitimo. Would that we were reunited under more joyful circumstances.”

“So do I,” Maedhros says, and drains his goblet. “Trust me, uncle; so do I.”

Autumn passes swiftly, and winter drags agonisingly slow in its wake.

Maedhros, after a few more weeks, removes to the Fëanorian camp, which eases relations a little. It helps that Curufin and Celegorm no longer appear among their own people, at least.

Fingolfin still thinks often of their conversation. They meet regularly now, debating strategy, making plans, learning to talk to each other again. Maedhros had sworn him to secrecy, that first night, arguing convincingly that any leaking of his plan could sabotage it.

He is right, Fingolfin knows; rumours of Fingolfin exerting influence before Maedhros’ people see him as healed, strong, and capable again would be devastating. Rumours of Maedhros manoeuvring Fingolfin in any way do not bear thinking about.

Not even Fingon knows. Not even Maedhros’ brothers do.

It is a sound argument, and yet, it puts a strain anew on Fingolfin’s family, his meetings with Maedhros not going unnoticed. Neither does his silence. He promises his children that it is nothing to worry about, and tries not to notice the chasm that keeps growing and growing—he and Fingon on one side, Turgon and Aredhel on the other. Idril, ever the one to hold them all together and suffer for it the most, caught firmly in the middle.

At long last, winter relinquishes its iron grip on the land. Maedhros can be seen riding often now—between the fields first, then through the woods.

The day several of his people report having spotted him and Fingon race across the open plains of Dor-lómin, Fingon returns with flushed cheeks and laughter in his eyes.

Fingolfin wonders, not for the first time, if he is not making a terrible mistake.

It is nonsense, he knows. But he thinks often of his first talk with Maedhros. Thinks often of Morgoth in the north, and how his nephew carries him within him, the keen and sharpened despair turned weapon.

Fingolfin heeds his warnings; he is no fool. He instructs his people to forge weapons again, now that shelter and food are taken care of. Instructs them to train themselves. To look for places to erect strongholds more withstanding than wooden huts and quaint town halls.

Across the lake, the Fëanorians do the same. It does not escape their people’s notice, but for the time, most do not ask.

A temporal peace; as Fingolfin watches dark clouds from Thangorodrim move across the lake, he wonders if that is all they will ever know now.

Maedhros learns to fight again—left-handed, this time, more skilled than before. There are many reports of his training with his brothers, his soldiers. With Fingon, too, and it has been a while since Fingolfin’s children have fought with words and outright accusations, but this, this does it, where a lot else has not.

“You might as well move to the southern side of the lake,” Aredhel says, one night when Fingon returns. She says it conversationally, without looking up from where she is instructing Idril in how to read a map, but the bite in her voice is unmistakable.

“Come here,” Fingolfin says, biting back a sigh. He lifts his granddaughter onto his hip and moves into the next room.

He is not quite quick enough to miss Fingon’s tired answer—this again, Írissë—or Aredhel’s sharp reproach—why not just sell us out entirely?

“Are they fighting again?” Idril asks, wandering over to the fireplace the moment Fingolfin lets her down.

She has long since been too old to be treated as such a young child, Fingolfin knows. Yet he mourns those last vestiges of innocence melting off of her, the way her sharp eyes much too often see what exactly is breaking apart all around her.

“It is what you do with siblings,” Fingolfin says, and succeeds at not laughing at the irony.

Oh, how much would be different if it were not so true. She treats him to a look full of sceptical disbelief and sets to restacking the fire.

She hates the cold more than any of them do. None of them ever admonishes her for the liberal usage of firewood.

Turning, she fixes him with her ocean blue eyes. “Atya says it is because Uncle Findekáno cannot decide what is more important. He never says what the choices are, though. Makes for a bad argument, if you ask me.”

Fingolfin laughs and turns away to heat water. “Indeed, it is. Now come, let them fight it out. All will be well, in the end.”

He believes that, he does. He believes it because he must; because he cannot bear the thought of his children, too, breaking with those who were ever meant to love them most.

When spring finally spreads across the land, Maedhros has grown strong once more.

He is still thin, his scars still stand out, and his hair has barely reached shoulder length. And yet—in many ways, he cuts a more imposing figure than he ever had in Aman.

There are reports already, of his joining raids. Of his viciousness, the ruthlessness of his fighting, the way he and Fingon would decimate a battlefield between them if they were left to it.

His son ever returns with colour high in his cheeks, the tree light of his eyes burning bright. Those are the nights Fingolfin sleeps the worst.

As such, when Maedhros finally tells him that it is time, Fingolfin is almost relieved. A foolish notion, of course; Morgoth will not cease his attacks, and Fingon will be no less eager to meet each and every one of them, if less joyful, for the absence of Maedhros by his side.

And yet. It has been a long time since any of them made decisions for any such thing as happiness.

And so they gather the combined strength of their people on an afternoon in April to the wide, open clearing between their camps. The air is still sharp here between the mountains, even as the sun does her best to dispel the mist.

They have begun the construction of their fortresses; Fingolfin up in the mountains, Turgon by the sea. Finrod builds his tower in the narrow pass of Tol Sirion. Maedhros has sent some of his most trusted into the east.

Things are in motion. They cannot wait much longer.

Maedhros steps in front of their people, stands tall and unflinching like a mountain. He wears armour, simple and functional. He wears his sword on his left, and a hook is fastened to the stump of his right. He looks more fell than Fëanor ever had.

And then he kneels. Sinks to his knees, right there, and looks up at Nolofinwë, chin raised high but supplicant.

“In my own name and in the name of my house, I offer apologies for all that has been done to you and your people, Nolofinwë Finwëon. I apologise for the losses and the pain you had to endure on the eternal Ice. For the slights of pride and honour against you and yours. I apologise, and so do my brothers.”

There is a long, drawn-out moment where everyone holds their breath. Maedhros’ brothers, arranged behind them, stare in open horror at what very clearly is utter surprise.

The command in Maedhros’ voice had left no room for argument, though. It is Maglor who first kneels behind him and bows his head. After another breath, the twins follow. So does Caranthir.

Briefly, wildly, Fingolfin wonders if Curufin and Celegorm will refuse, their eyes wide and hateful as they take their brothers in, Fingolfin’s people across from them.

At last, though, their eyes return to Maedhros’ back. Ever has Fëanor’s house fought its own fights beyond closed doors; to do anything other is unthinkable.

And so, they kneel—revulsion and hatred in every fibre of their being, but they kneel.

Make no mistake, Nolofinwë; they will follow you, because that is my order to them. Fingolfin is not sure he had understood the promise and the threat of it fully, until then.

He meets Maedhros’ eyes and does not flinch from the fire he finds there.

“Now,” Maedhros says, and his voice carries, but he does not rise. “Much speculation has there been about the future of the Noldor. About whom shall lead us, in the days to come. Hereby, I waive any right I or my House has to the kingship of the Noldor. Nolofinwë, now the eldest son of Finwë, shall lead us, as is his right. If there lay no grievance between us, Lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwë, and not the least wise. I thank you for all that you and your kin have done for me and mine. May we stand together against the dark enemy in the north.”

The silence in the wake of it is a tangible, absolute thing. Then someone somewhere in Fingolfin’s host laughs, high and joyful. Yells, “Praise, oh praise to reckless Findekáno,” and the spell is broken. People clap, and cheer, and take up the shout.

Besides Fingolfin, Fingon looks like he has been kicked by a horse. Across from him, Maedhros rises, stands, stays where he is.

The clamour dies down. Maedhros looks at Fingon, looks away. Looks at Fingolfin, inclines his head. “Me, my brothers, and my people will move into the east once the coronation has taken place and we have sworn our allegiance. May no new grief divide our houses from here on out.”

There is another surge of noise and clamour, but the firm lines of their people start breaking up, start mingling. Many of them, from either host, spare a word of gratitude for Fingon, pat his shoulder or his back.

Meanwhile, his eldest looks both shocked and miserable, beneath the tenuous grip he keeps on his expression. Across from them, Maedhros is beset by his own brothers and advisers, none of them looking any less shocked.

It tells Fingolfin one thing, at least; for true, Maedhros had kept his word that none of their council would leave their rooms. It is as good a basis as any for their collaboration, from here on out.

With a quiet sigh, he puts a hand on Fingon’s shoulder. Around them, many are waiting to catch a word of Fingolfin—if he had known, what his plans are, if the word of Maedhros could be trusted.

His family first. Fingolfin steers Fingon along, knows Turgon and Aredhel close on their heels, and moves them free of the crowd and into their own quarters.

“Did you know?” Fingon asks, as soon as the door closes behind them.

There is a terrible gleam of betrayal in his eyes, as if he already knows the answer. As if this, of all things, has the power to break something in him.

Fingolfin sighs. “Yes. Only I did, though; it was one of the conditions Nelyafinwë had set. If you want to know why he did not tell you himself, you will have to ask him.”

“For how long—“

“Eru, what does it matter?” Turgon cuts in, his voice sharp. “Do we think it genuine? Do we think we should even accept this?”

Aredhel frowns, tilts her head. “I see where you are coming from, but how could this possibly be a trap?”

Fingon’s lips are pursed, but he stays silent. Turgon gestures, a little helpless, and looks at Fingolfin as if for help.

Sometimes Fingolfin is reminded with harsh clarity how young his children still are. Turgon may have a child, may have lost a wife already, but most of what drives him now is that very same grief. Is Aredhel on one, Finrod on the other side of him, keeping him upright.

Fingolfin has done a poor job at it, all truth be told. Has been stretched thin between the duty to his people, trying to keep the peace between his children, be there for them, Idril, himself. His own grief for Argon. For Fëanáro, that still he cannot shake, that he cannot help but resent and cling to, in equal measures.

“Perhaps not a trap,” Turgon allows now, running a hand through his long hair. “An insult, though. Our father has been king in all but name ever since Finwë chose to abandon Tirion and all his people in it—now, to act as if it is a right to bequeath, after everything? It is—“

“It is symbolic,” Fingon cuts in, impatient. “Can you not see how it matters, the ritual of it? You might know this. Our people might. Eru, even some of Russandol’s own people probably know it, after these last few months of the camps mingling more, of exchanging resources, of the power vacuum in the Fëanorian camp. And yet, the gesture matters—the kneeling, the proclamation, the coronation. How can you not—“

“How can I not? Perhaps because I spend not half my time with the people who cost us everything. Who parade around still as if they have never wronged us, and still do not even trust you to share their plans. Who—“

There is a precipice, Fingolfin knows, that they have been teetering on ever since they reached these shores. Ever since Fingon brought Maedhros back—willing, in the process, to risk his own life, to risk more grief. There have been cracks all over the matter of them, and Fingolfin has still not found a way to fix them.

“Oh, because your anger and your bitterness have helped so much?” Fingon now throws back, and there is colour high in his cheeks, his hands clenched at his sides. He is slow to true anger, usually—when he does, though, he turns devastating.

The shock of Maedhros’ proclamation would have shortened his fuse. For Turgon to slide his blade into the same notch could only ever go poorly.

“Always, you act as if I am naive, blinded, as if I do not know what I am doing, as if I do not care for the effect it has. And yet, what would have been gained, Turukáno, if our people had ended up fighting? Would it have brought Elenwë back? Or do we have better chances, not only to survive but live, if we try and work together? Is that not what Idril deserves?

“Russandol is my friend, yes; I am sorry that you do not understand such a thing. That you do not understand that I did not do it solely for him, but for everyone. To put aside my own hurts, because it would serve our people. You may wallow in your grief until it eats you alive, but it will not win you a single fight.”

“How can you possibly—“

“That is enough,” Fingolfin cuts in, raising his voice if only a little. He breathes; inhale through his nose, exhale through his mouth. They learnt to do this on the Ice, over rough patches. Where your body would instinctively gulp in much air, and the cold of it would freeze down your throat. If you were not careful, it could choke you.

So—in through your nose. Out through your mouth. Fingolfin looks at his children and sees the gaping pit between them like the growing distance between two pieces of ice.

“This is a good thing,” he says, choosing his steps carefully but firmly. “I talked it through at length with Nelyafinwë, and it is the only way to avoid more conflict between our people. We cannot ignore Morgoth in the north forever, and it does not matter what differences we may have had in Tirion, once he sends his full might against us. Findekáno is right, the gesture matters. Once that is done with, you are free to never see your cousins again, after all.”

They hover there, a beat, the implied order unmistakable. At last, Turgon inclines his head with a jerky gesture and leaves. Aredhel keeps looking at him, her eyes dark.

“I understand your reasoning,” she says at last, her voice hard. “And yet I do not think that you care to understand his pain.”

She leaves, too, leaving the two of them behind. Fingolfin wonders how to breach the topic with his last remaining son, but Fingon, too, shakes his head.

His gaze, already, is on the other side of the lake again. “I need to speak to Russandol,” he says, and he does not look at Fingolfin. “I need—I will see you later, Atar.”

The door shuts quietly behind him. For the first time in his life, Fingolfin feels like perhaps he finally understands the conflict that his father ever had to endure and never resolved. How it tears you apart.

He turns towards the window, looks into the north. If all this is a victory, then why, he wonders, does it feel so little like one?

Fingon returns late that night, slipping into their living quarters quietly.

Fingolfin is still up, whittling by the dim light of the fireplace.

“You will ruin your eyes like that; Grandma Indis always said so,” Fingon says, sitting down on the bench beside him. “How have things been?”

Fingolfin hums. “Quiet. Our people are happy. Your siblings, not so much.”

In truth, he had not seen Turgon, Aredhel, or Idril since that afternoon.

Fingon sighs. “Give them time,” he says. And, “I should apologise.”

“You should. You know, too,  that you are not entirely wrong, right? None of this would have been possible without you.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps, it is all selfishness, after all. Who can tell?”

“Have you reconciled with Nelyafinwë?” Fingolfin asks, because truly, he has no answer to that. Only Fingon himself would know.

Fingon shrugs. “He does as he thinks right, ever it was so. If I begrudged him this, I would have left him to his dreary mountain.”

“You dislike that they remove east.”

“I understand the need for it,” Fingon says, a wry smile twisting his mouth. He grabs a goblet and a pitcher of wine, pours. Drinks, and grimaces at the taste. “That does not mean I have to like it. He throws himself into the fight as if it is his only purpose; I think it would not have to be.”

“Ah, child,” Fingolfin says, wrapping an arm around Fingon’s shoulder to pull him close. “The stubborn tenacity of Finwë’s line; we all know the misery of it.”

Findekáno laughs and takes the toy Fingolfin had been carving out of his hands. “Is Idril not a bit old for wooden animals?”

Fingolfin sighs anew. Lets the pang of it resonate through his chest, lets it pass. “Perhaps. An old man can dream though, can he not?”

To this, Fingon says nothing. As they sit in the glow of the fire, Fingolfin still marvels at the fact that, indeed, it is yet something they can do again. To hope, to dream, to fight about the details of their future.

He does not wonder how long it can last.

The coronation ceremony is set to happen only weeks later, timed perfectly to be held in the newly finished throne room of Barad Eithel—the future seat of the High King of the Noldor.

To one side, the hall opens towards the mountains, revealing their snow-covered peaks in the late spring sun. The sky stretches beyond it, blue so pale it seems grey, clouds low enough they seem possible to touch.

The hall itself is built of Noldorin craft, wrought arches, and solid structures. Their own people are arrayed in blue and gold.

The Fëanorians are bedecked in the colours of their own house, and not even their clear reluctance to be here can dim the moment.

It makes for a stunning picture. As Fingolfin approaches the space where Maedhros is waiting with the crown, he is almost too nervous to pay it any mind.

A ridiculous notion, after everything. And yet.

Nolofinwë kneels. Fingon stands as witness. Maedhros, arrayed, for once, in ceremonial garb and with the prince’s circlet on his head, comes to stand before him.

“Beloved Noldor of all Houses,” Maedhros starts, and his deep, rough voice carries across the open space. “Long and dark has been the road to bring us all here, for some of us more so than for others. With this day, let us leave the shadows in the past. Let us be led into a brighter future by Nolofinwë Finwëon, the oldest of the House of Finwë, and its rightful heir. In the name of our houses and with Varda as witness, I hereby crown you, Nolofinwë, High King of the Noldor.”

It is short, succinct. It feels, with the mountains bearing witness, like the only possible way things could begin.

The crown settles on Fingolfin’s brow. He feels its weight of it down to his bones.

“Arise, my King,” Maedhros proclaims.

Fingolfin does, to the cheers of his people. Within it, the missing timbre of Argon’s voice catches like missing notes.

Midsummer sees the southern camp of Lake Mithrim packed up and empty. The northern camp, too, is in the process of moving to its newfound strongholds.

In the open space beside the lake, the Fëanorian host is arrayed with its red banners snapping in the wind, their golden armour gleaming.

Maedhros stands across from Fingolfin, clad, once more, in armour. His brothers wait on horses behind.

Fingolfin stands with Fingon and a few of their advisers and guards, Turgon and Aredhel notably absent. The June morning is cold and full of promise.

“This is farewell, then,” Maedhros says, and a small smile graces his mutilated face. “I thank you for all that you have done for me—both of you. May Manwë yet watch over us, and all our endeavours.”

Fingolfin inclines his head. They have spent the last few weeks in endless councils, some more fruitful than others. They have spent a last meal together, saying all the private things that wanted to be said.

“I wish you safe travels and fruitful building,” Fingolfin says. “I expect progress reports.”

Maedhros laughs and bows, half in mockery, half in true deference.

“Do not be a stranger,” Fingon says. He does not move from Fingolfin’s side, and Maedhros does not answer, except for the softening of his smile.

“Until then,” he merely says. Turns, mounts his horse with an ease that is reminiscent of lighter days, and joins his brothers at the head of their caravan.

Somewhere, a trumpet blows. None look back, as they ride off into the direction of the rising sun.

Fingolfin and Fingon stay watching, long after the remains of their people disperse.

“Do you think we stand a chance?” Fingolfin asks, at last—for once choosing to voice a measure of the dread that sits on his shoulders, heavy like the crown on his brow.

Fingon sighs, leans against him.

“We might yet,” he says, eyes fixed on the vanishing red and gold of his cousins. “We might yet, if only we do not lose hope.”

Fingolfin thinks of the rift within his own house, the strengthened fortresses. The plans of war, of fortifications, of survival.

He pulls his son close, presses a kiss to his brow. “If only we do not lose hope,” he agrees, and means it like a prayer.

*

The miracle of sorrow, or
Milk and stars.

The deep
Key of death.

A black 
Error on the edge

Of the tall
Blonde field.

And no one knows
Where the besieged city is.

But to go back
To that

Little town and be born.
Again.
—Cynthia Cruz, The Hour of the Star

*

Chapter End Notes

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