And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Prackspoor  

Unnumbered: Life Goes On

Findekáno,

I hope this letter reaches you safe and sound, and I trust that this time you won't have any reason to criticise my penmanship as scathingly as you did last time. Maglor had me practising for weeks, and while I try to remind him that I do not aim for calligraphy so much as a legible hand, he goes conveniently deaf every time I mention this. I think I might just give it up as a lost cause and assume that you're both in league to pester me as much as you can.

The plan is proceeding reasonably well, although predictably the Laiquendi of Ossiriand could not be convinced to join our cause against Morgoth. They still fear involvement in the war more than they fear the Fiend himself. The eyes of the Shadow have not yet taken note of them as a threat. If they have suffered at Morgoth's hand, it was not because he purposefully sought to destroy them. Their losses were merely collateral damage when Morgoth wanted to strike us. Morgoth's focus is elsewhere and he has not yet recognised them as a danger to himself. Thus, for the Laiquendi the benefits of keeping quiet still outweigh the risks of drawing attention to themselves - for now at least. Understandably, they do not see a reason why they should take up arms at this point, if this means to ally themselves with Morgoth's arch-enemies and put an end to their convenient state of momentary invisibility before Morgoth. I cannot deny I left Ossiriand with a feeling of harsh disappointment in my own kin, but I understand their reasons for not joining us, even if I do not endorse them.

In any case, I find myself putting my faith more in Men and less in Elves these days. Nearly all of the tribes and leaders of Men have heeded our call for aid and joined our ranks. For all their faults, they have strong convictions and even stronger wills. They will fight for what is dear to them and the best of them are headstrong enough to send the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains running.

That being said, both Belegost and Nogrod have also allied themselves with us. This happened in no small part due to Cousin Finrod and I cannot thank him enough for taking it upon himself to meet us at Belegost. My friendship with Azaghâl goes a long way, but they say in order to persuade a dwarf you have to be able to think like a dwarf, and in that Finrod is second to none of the Eldar. I'd go so far as to say he was predestined to lead this mission. Had I not known that he was born in Aman to Elven parents, I could easily believe that he has been a Dwarf in an earlier life. He arrived at Belegost and within the hour, he and Azaghâl were lost in a talk about masonry, stone-hewing, and architecture. I chose this opportunity to politely take my leave in order to allow them a discussion undisturbed by the bothersome questions of someone who understands little to nothing of the subject. By the time I rejoined them for dinner (which I am reasonably sure took place after midnight, but dwarves heed the course of the sun as little as our kind heeds seismic movements), you'd think they were two life-long friends from the way they were prattling on and on, although they were kind enough to change to less “dwarvish” topics once I sat down with them. Belegost assured us of their assistance that evening, and Nogrod followed two days later.

On another note – and at the risk of sounding like a gossip – my dear brother Curufin is getting married and he and his chosen lady are expecting a child. Or more correctly, they are getting married just in time for the child to be born. I know he would not wish me to tell you this for reasons that should be obvious, so please do not sent him a letter of congratulation first thing after you receive this message. I know you itch with every fibre to get back at him for the many times he taunted you. If you absolutely must taunt him back, wait for my sake until you both meet in person and I don't have to bear the repercussions of your cheek in your stead. In the meantime rest assured that my brothers and I have made sure to give Curvo more than his due share of teasing for his astounding (some might even go so far as to say improbable) ability to time his marriage and the birth of his child, since curiously enough both coincide so closely. Maglor even threatened to write a stanza about it and read it out loud at the party following the ceremony. If I know him at all, he has every intention to follow through with his plan. (I will tell you the details of how Curufin met his spouse in my next letter; for now you should only know that the announcement of a new family member reminded me of your insolent remark that I would make a horrible father. Being an uncle should give me plenty of time to practise and prove you wrong on that account.)

The wedding is set to be next spring and no matter how much we all deny it to our faces, I think it is the best thing that could have happened to us. We need some laughter, some dancing, some joy, even in these dark times—maybe especially in these dark times. Our new dwarven friends have promised us to do parts of the ceremonials according to their old rites, which is an unforeseen honour and token of friendship. Dwarves are not the most open and trusting of people, and they are very secretive about their history, their lore, and their craft. All the greater is the gesture, and I think even Curufin was at a loss for words for a moment.

Then again, I think he and the dwarves here are kindred spirits, not unlike Finrod and Azaghâl. I haven't seen my brother in such a frenzy to learn and work since we left Tirion for the shores of Beleriand. I think he must have missed his forges and the process of creating a great deal more than he let on, and it might be one reason why he has been ill-tempered ever since he came to Middle-earth. That is not to say that he is changed entirely—he is still sullen and withdrawn, but sometimes he comes over to me and starts talking to me about his latest project. I do not understand most parts of it, but from what I have gathered the dwarves here are incredibly well-versed in mechanics and creating devices to serve them in their every-day life. They have no wind and no tides to power their mills and bring fresh air to their homes under the mountain, so they have had to invent machines to pump water and ventilate their shafts and halls. They also have no way of telling the time by the position of the sun, and to make up for this they have created intricate clockwork devices which gives them a more reliable way of measuring the passage of hours than counting rings on a wax candle. I do not usually call myself interested in technology, but even I can't deny that the depth of dwarven knowledge and the use of their inventions are fascinating. I plan to visit those workshops one day if I am allowed, especially seeing as Curufin plans to use his newly acquired knowledge to build me a better hand than the one I am wearing now. He has gone on and on explaining the details to me and I have to say it is incredible what is going on in my little brother's head: pliable joints, artificial tendons, lockable in certain positions! If he ever manages to accomplish this, I'll never speak ill of him again (– ai, stop laughing, I know you are. This one is a promise I intend to keep – until he starts the next argument, that is.)

Curufin has assured me the hand will be done in time for the marriage, so we will have to wait and see. The ceremony is going to take place here under the mountain and I do not doubt that this will be a unique occasion, even though I would have preferred to hold the festivities under the open sky. But you must not think me ungrateful or unable to appreciate the hospitality of our friends in the Ered Luin. Their cities under the mountains are vast, sprawling, and magnificent. Their halls are tall and illuminated by golden lamps and they spread wider than most cities aboveground. And yet—a ceiling of stone is not the sky, an artificial aqueduct is not a river, a pillared hall never makes a forest, and no number of golden lamps could ever replace the distant magnificence of stars scattered on a sky-dome of midnight blue. Although I can never utter this aloud, I am counting the hours to our departure. We Quendi are not made to live away from the sun and the stars; I honestly cannot fathom how Curufin or Finrod can bear being away from the world for so long. They might be different from most Elves; but my heart at least aches for the open sky, for the sun above and the wind in my hair. Down here, time passes slowly and there is no remarkable difference between seasons. Aboveground, it will be spring soon and I cannot wait to step out into the blinding sun and spur my horse forward over the lush green plains of Ossiriand.

We will leave Belegost at the end of spring and from there we will follow the Gellion upstream. If the weather is kind I will reach Himring before the end of summer and then my part in this war will be over for the time being. Over — a strange thought, though I doubt that I will be able to sit still for long.

In your last letter you asked me how I was faring. Would you believe me if I told you that I spent a whole day just pondering how to answer this short question? Truth be told, I have not spent a lot of time thinking about myself. I hoped that travelling and trying to bring the alliance into being would be enough to keep my mind tied to matters at hand, and leave me tired enough in the evening that I would be unable to ponder myself and the past. From the time when the idea for the union first occured to me until now I forbade myself to think of the past at all. I made work, travel, negotiation and exhaustion my sanctuary, which would keep me from examining myself too closely. In fact, I am avoiding an answer right now, but I have learned that avoiding what you fear does not make it any less unpleasant, so you shall have your answer today.

I almost hesitate to write it down for fear of assuming too much, but – I am feeling well, Finno.

I will not lie to you, I am far from healed. My right arm pains me a great deal and my right shoulder will probably stay stiff until the day Arda breaks apart. And no matter Curufin's prowess, no prosthetic will ever be able to replace a healthy hand. I am a cripple and a cripple I will remain forever.

Neither are the nightmares becoming any gentler or fewer in number. There are still times when I wake and can barely breathe, then doubt the reality of the world around me and wonder whether I will wake up a second time, once more back in Angband's torture chambers. But then I get up, light a lamp and practise my writing or wander around the nightly city under the mountain, visiting the libraries or the markets (as a consequence of their independence from the sun cycle dwarven cities never sleep), before I either fall asleep again or the morning business sweeps me up once more.

There are still days when I can barely get out of bed, but on those days my brothers are there and they pull me out by my ears if they must. They are as tireless as they are ruthless in reminding me why I have to go on and what we are fighting for, so I doubt I will ever be able to forget it again. They might be cold and aloof towards others, but neither Morgoth nor any other Valar could make them abandon me, no matter how often they have threatened to do otherwise.

But strangely enough, all of this – the dreams, the exhaustion, the pain – is not so bad. There would have been times when these things would have been enough to pull me under, but those days are becoming fewer and fewer. I am learning to shake off the dreams and I try to see the upside of it all: sleeping less means that I get done more tasks in my waking hours. I am often tired, but it is a good kind of tired—not the sort where you tire of the world and of life, but the pleasant exhaustion and soreness after a day of hard work, with the knowledge of having accomplished something meaningful. You could compare it to how you feel after a day filled with training when you managed to learn a particularly trying series of strikes. (Speaking of fighting – I have been practising my sword-fighting diligently and while it is far from how I was able to fight with my right, I think it might be enough by now to give you a serious challenge once more.)

I know I will never be the same as before Morgoth took me, but I find that I miss my past less and less. A lot of lost things can be replaced (like teeth) and it is incredible what time can heal, not least of all broken bones. That being said, losing my sword hand was undoubtedly bad and if I could choose to have it back I would do so in a heartbeat. On the other side, the loss forced me to consider alternatives I might never have tried otherwise. I used to hold myself, my brothers, and our own kind in very high regard before. Then I saw Elves breaking under Morgoth's torture long, long before Men and Dwarves; I saw them caving in where some Men would not, I saw Second-born dying in the quarries when they took the whipping for a friend instead of standing aside to allow him to be killed. I saw that they were our equals in some ways and our betters in others. I would have considered them beneath my notice before, but fate has a way of humbling the haughty. However much evil Morgoth's imprisonment wrought, it must be true that evil carries within itself the seed of its own destruction, because it was Morgoth who opened my eyes to the Second-born and made me consider them as possible allies.

In a way, it was Morgoth who brought about what I am doing now—working toward his destruction by uniting the Free Peoples of Beleriand against him. In a way, it was Morgoth himself who created the strongest alliance against him the world has ever seen! I am laughing right now, Finno. Can you believe it? Can you imagine what the Fiend would say if I told him what I am telling you now?

It is all so strange. There are still times when I wake up and I am surprised that I am alive and free when by all rights I should be captured or dead. It has been five years since you rescued me and there are still days when I can barely believe it. My entire life ever since you showed up at the foot of the Thangorodrim has been a series of events, each more incredible than the last. I am a cripple playing at war with the gods; I should lose and yet I am winning and I feel like there is nothing I could not accomplish. Our list of allies is growing by the day, while Morgoth is steadily losing ground and unable to win it back.

I do not know whether it is wise to do so before our task is fulfilled, but I find myself dreaming of an “afterwards” again, Finno. Morgoth has been there for as long as we can remember and his Shadow seems tied to Middle-earth as the stars are bound to Varda. But in times like these I believe that we could win this war, that there could be an end to the darkness, and that we might live to see it. I can believe that there will be a day when the Shadow is banished forever and you and I will be able to roam a world where the darkness is without terror once more. So many unlikely things have already happened, why should we not succeed in bringing about the fall of the Enemy as well? And after all of this over and done, we can travel together and I can show you all the places, cities, and marvels I have seen on my journey and we will be able to properly appreciate it without haste and war councils disrupting our days. We will ride as fast or as slowly as we please, without swords on our belts and shields strapped to our backs, with only the wind and the rain and the stars as company.

It feels strange to say so in the middle of a war, but my life is good right now, Finno. I know that the fighting will not be over tomorrow or even next year, but I feel like we are getting closer to the light at the end of a very long tunnel and that is enough for now. I do not doubt that this letter would have ended on another note had I chosen to write to you on one of the worse days, but I chose to write it today, just as I chose to hope and fight and do so again every other morning, no matter how hard it might be. I like to think that our own determination and our decisions are more important than the odds we are presented with.

But enough of me for now, I refuse to believe I am interesting enough to warrant a second scroll of parchment on unprofessional introspection.

On to more important and delightful matters: I already mentioned my journey is nearing its end, and according to my brothers I have proven myself to be a – I quote – “passable” diplomat, which probably means I was useful enough on my own campaign to just about make up for the bread and water needed to feed me. While I have enjoyed my travels, I do look forward to returning to Mithrim, if only for a while, and doing nothing except practising sword fighting with my left hand. I won't have much else to do and it grieves me to say that I lack an appropriate opponent on the training grounds. Now, if you knew anyone who would be willing to take it upon himself to spar with a crippled grouch, I would be much obliged if you sent him my way. If this coincided, by chance, with meeting an old friend I have not seen in far too long, I would gladly welcome him here as well. My gates would be open to him on any day at every hour, and should he choose to stay over the winter, there will always be a place for him on Himring.

I will be awaiting you or your answer back on Himring, whichever arrives first. I did not think five years could ever be considered a long time for one of our kind, but I stand corrected. There is a great deal I wish to tell you and I am sure you have much to say in return. Letters are helpful, but a poor trade for an evening spent in armchairs in front of a lit fire, with two goblets of mulled wine in our hands. Let us hope time will fly quickly until this day arrives.

Also, give your siblings and His Highness your father my kindest regards. He is a far better king than I could ever have hoped to be, and your siblings' aid has been invaluable in the last few years. (But don't tell them I wrote that, they are smug enough as it is!)

(And don't tell them that last bit either! If I find out you did it regardless, I will no longer feel any obligations not to tell Curvo and Tyelko a few choice tidbits you dropped about them, so consider your options well.)

May the Song and the starlight guide your path until we meet again.

Yours always,

Russandol