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The storm battered the swan boats. It felt like divine intervention. Ossë raging and spitting at the murderers, Ulmo allowing it. That felt worse. The permissibility of their suffering.

Findekáno stumbled below deck, having risen to pry stale bread from over-full stores. His back hit the wall before he sunk down to the mildly damp floor.

The bleached wood of the ships was well-crafted, but clearly made with mind for pleasure sailing, fishing. Not long journeys over the vast ocean towards a wild land. The boats creaked and moaned, straining against the unstoppable power of the waves. Two boats had sunk, with a third just about ready to give.

The bread was dry in his mouth, and Findekáno could not summon up any saliva to soften it. His throat felt as if it was being cut up as he swallowed.

The jostling and rolling of the floor underneath was enough to incite illness in many, driving them up to the deck, facing the dangers of mad tides and powerful gales. Eldar who were already unused to sea travel easily unfooted and swept over the side, into the freezing, punishing waves below.

Barely anything could be heard over the noise of the storm. It had begun shortly after they set sail and had lasted all four weeks of their voyage, unending. Punishment indeed.

Findekáno sat, hunched over his knees, arms tight around to provide some measure of comfort. Four weeks at sea, confined to a miniscule cabin below deck, following Maitimo’s plan, his plea. It was unbearable.

An unbearable necessity.

Guilt rolled in his belly. The mariners who died, who he killed. Arno’s sleeping face, not realising his brother was leaving him.

His body was wrecked with tremors. A chill from the sea water which dried on his skin, his clothes tough and itchy with salt. 

“Findekáno.”

A hand brushed against his face, holding him, grounding him. One bright spot of warmth in the endless night that blanketed them.

Maitimo’s face hovered in front of him, the only clear thing, the taller nér bent down, grey eyes flooded with concern.

“Are you alright?”

Findekáno startled from his frozen state, holding Maitimo’s hand with both of his own, face turned to press a kiss into the palm.

“No.” His nails tightened their grip. “I fear that I never will be again.”

There was a terrible look to Maitimo’s face then, as if someone had torn him open and removed everything that wasn’t grief.

Findekáno allowed his head to drop against the creaking wooden walls. Maitimo had lifted them both from the sand then, walking a distance away from Alqualondë and her docks, out to the long grass and streams which cradled the outside of the city. He had cleaned the blood from Findekáno’s face, kissed over his wounds and Findekáno shook beneath the tenderness, the contrast to his earlier violence. He didn’t want to think about the mariners he killed (his aunt Eärwen’s family Eru above) or the exile they had brought themselves to. About their grandfather’s death or the madness which had consumed his uncle. He wanted to be held by Maitimo and to hold him in turn.

Their kisses turned from gentle to passionate and, by wordless agreement, Maitimo had shed his cloak and lay Findekáno upon it. The weeds were their marriage bed.

Findekáno did not meet anyone’s gaze when they at last returned to the main host. He was afraid of the old myth, that marriage bonds could be seen in the eyes. He had scoffed at the saying before, but found he could not bear to risk the knowledge revealed. Not then, ankles-deep in Teleri blood.

It was easy, to avoid. A communal sense of guilt kept every Elda apart from the other. It was a simple thing for Findekáno to ignore his father’s questions, his confusion which preceded horror. Easier still to ignore the form of his uncle Arafinwë, fallen to his knees in grief.

Findekáno felt the bitter tang of blood blossom in his mouth, noticing that his teeth had bitten into the soft flesh of his inner cheek, as if his hröa demanded penance to be brought forth.

It was a dangerous road to walk down.

The Doom was inescapable. An almost physical weight once it was laid down. He had known what he had done. Why he had done it. But his mother’s face, so similar to Findekáno’s own, flashed before his eyes before disappearing, and he wept to know he would not see her again in life.

Findekáno was shaken from his musings by the slightest change in the clamour of the storm. The one sound he looked forward to hearing. The one light of his days.

He toyed with the corded necklace around his throat, the jewel which hung on it was a steadying presence.

“The extent of the skill I inherited from my father, I’m afraid.” Maitimo’s smile had verged on bashful and Findekáno had felt like one of the lovers in songs. “But never let it be said that Fëanáro’s sons cannot craft an engagement gift.”

The stone was a polished green, radiant in Lorien’s glow. It was warm in his palm.

Findekáno looked up at his beloved (his betrothed!) with tears gleaming in his eyes.

“I will never take it off.”

And he hadn’t. Not even when Maitimo followed his father into exile, not when news of Finwë’s death reached them, not when he brought death to the Blessed Realm to save Maitimo’s life.

But the warmth was ever-present at his breast, the weight grounding.

The wooden frame of his cabin’s door slid open to reveal a face more beloved to him than any before, and Maitimo spared him the smallest of smiles before entering and closing the door behind him.

Findekáno smiled back, ignored how the muscles in his face pulled strangely at the sensation. Before him was the nér he would, and had, given everything for. His home, his family, his fëa itself, tarnished though it may be. Stained as his blade drew across a mariner’s throat; stealing one life to preserve another.

It hadn’t mattered then, their motives or reasoning. It hadn’t mattered his. Promises of discussion and agreement broke apart before his eyes like paper over-wet, once Maitimo’s life was threatened.

He was terrified he would do so again.

Sleep came to an end abruptly for Findekáno, the glow of a Feanárian lamp bleaching the inside of his tent. A figure far larger than his own was illuminated.

“Maitimo?”

The words were hushed and carried an almost frantic air. “I need to speak with you.”

Findekáno was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and words had moved beyond him. He sat up straighter and merely grunted at his husband.

“Atar… My father seeks to take the swan boats now.”

Findekáno released a low groan which failed to hide his anger towards his uncle. “Can he not give me two hours of fucking rest first?”

Maitimo’s hand was firm and still where it held onto Findekáno’s arm. “He seeks to take them without your father or his hosts.”

With that, any remaining sleep fled from him. “What?”

“He will not hear reason, nor will he compromise.” Sharp teeth bit down into the yield of Maitimo’s lip, uncertainty painted along each line of his body. “He sees traitors in every shadow. His speech is riddled.”

Findekáno threw his blanket away, reaching blindly for his overcoat, his anger a storm encasing him. “Well, if he thinks to leave my father I will quickly assure him otherwise!”

“Finno, please, be calm for a minute.” That same beloved grip pulled him back down, grey eyes steely where they met Findekáno’s. Maitimo continued, “His temper has risen with Mandos’ proclamation – you know how he hates when the Valar interfere – we will leave now, with him, and once at Endórë’s shore, when reason has again found him, we will sail the boats back for the rest.”

“We?”

Maitimo leaned further down, brushing their foreheads together. 

“Finno. You are my wedded husband. I will not be parted from you so easily.” A kiss was placed on his brow. “I will not leave you behind.”

The intimacy which the kiss betrayed softened at calmed Findekáno’s temper. But still the voice of reason, which sounded far too much like Turukáno’s, whispered at him. Warning him. “But…Maitimo, I cannot leave my father. Not Arno or the rest.”

Hands larger than his own traced aimless roads up and down the length of his arms. The betrayal of uncertainty but the conviction of devotion. “It will not be forever. And once we explain, they will see how this was the wisest course to take. But until then, please, beloved, do not leave me. I would be lesser without you.”

His heart soared once again, and Findekáno wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck, pulling him down for a deep kiss.

“What will you tell Fëanáro?”

“Nothing. I will not risk him saying no. I will hide you away in one of the cabins, tell only Makalaurë.”

Findekáno grinned despite the tendrils of foreboding which wound around him. “I am to be your kidnapped bride, then?”

Maitimo let out a bark of laughter. “Hardly! I would sorely like to meet the Elda who would think to cage you.”

Findekáno leaned back up to kiss him again, and paid a visit only to the still-sleeping Arakáno before he stole his place on the swan boats.

The wood of the ship creaked again, louder, screaming in protest of the rough waves and the inexperienced sailors who could not properly control her.

Maitimo sank down beside him, smile vanished, head thudding back against the wooden side. The bob of his throat still tantalising to Finno as his eyes closed in exhaustion.

It was difficult, Findekáno knew, to keep any sense of optimism in a place as dark and cold as a ship they had no right to be on.

The deaths of those they had called friends further tore at them. Any time Findekáno closed his eyes, flashes of burning buildings and bloated corpses caught in the water’s hold seared the back of his eyelids. 

His breathing came heavier as Maitimo sat next to him in silence, his right hand drawing idle shapes on the back of Findekáno’s left.

He turned toward his husband, a cry leaving his throat. “Your hair! I keep telling you how messy it gets when you don’t tie it back.”

Findekáno fussed over Maitimo, used it to distract from his shaking hands.

“Finno.” His clumsy attempts at tidying his husband were halted by Maitimo’s hands over his own. “It’s alright.”

Findekáno sank back against him, head resting on Maitimo’s shoulder.

“Was it all a mistake?”

Maitimo was silent for a long time. Findekáno had always loved it, how he took his time with a question, thinking about it with the utmost care, puzzling the answer out. Careful and considerate in all things. “Maybe some things were. But not loving you.”

The whimper which escaped from Findekáno’s throat may have once shamed him, but he had cast off much of himself with the breaking of dark waves over straining hulls. He allowed his head to slump onto Maitimo’s shoulder, allowing his husband to share in the burden of its weight.

There was much which had begun to burden Findekáno, the most immediate of which was the continual fear that haunted him: Fëanáro did not know he was there.

The eldest son of the slain Finwë had been great, once. Even Findekáno could admit that. Brilliant and wily and even charming when he wished to be.

But all Findekáno could recall was his way in recent years. The biting words and dark looks. The secrecy he insisted upon and the dark things created in his home. All that Maitimo had admitted and all that he hadn’t.

“He’s building weapons, Findekáno.” Angaráto’s voice was hushed at him. “Swords and lances, a thousand arrows to each Elda of his house.”

“How would you know such a thing?” The defence of family was instinctive, as was the desire to protect Maitimo’s reputation. Yet it was also a demand, for Maitimo had said nothing of it.

Angaráto’s cheeks had darkened in shame. “Moryo said to me. Though I don’t think he meant to.”

“So it is baseless rumour, nothing more?”

“Findekáno. The bow Tyelkormo carries has been forged anew. Fëanáro’s house now dresses in chainmail. Why would there be need for violence in the blessed realm if not to stage a rebellion?”

Findekáno hadn’t wanted to believe it, but even then he could sense the truth of the words. It was only two months later that his uncle drew steel against another Elda. Findekáno’s own father.

So what if it had been all Melkor’s lie? Did the dark Vala command Fëanáro’s every action? No. There was a rage simmering just under Fëanáro’s surface. Flames that had been fed by Melkor and that had now reached their crescendo. But the rage itself was not the Vala’s creation. It was simply a tool that he had used. And, no matter the conviction or the passion of Maitimo’s words, Findekáno knew that as soon as his uncle saw him depart from the swan ship, that rage would be focused on him.

Let him try. I did no wrong, I merely followed my husband. He who would deceive my father, his own brother, let him raise a voice to me if he dares.

But despite the words Findekáno repeated to himself, doubt whispered back.

He is changed. You know that. It is clear to all. The uncle you once knew was never a murderer.

Neither was I.

A soft warmth captured his hand, unfurling his fingers where Findekáno had clenched them inwards, scoring the crescent bite marks of his nails into the yielding flesh.

Findekáno kept his eyes fixed on a distant point in front of him, as if the panelling was actually a door that could take him away from the tilting motion of the boat. The awful blending of salt and iron.

But the hand holding his was firm and anchored him to the present. Its twin came to clasp against his jaw, turning his face upwards.

Maitimo ran his thumb gently over the ridge of Findekáno’s cheek and only then did he register the tears that had fallen there.

“Whatever is next, whatever waits for us in Endórë, it will not change my love.”

“Maitimo…” There were no other words he could say, there were none he needed. Maitimo had always known him best.

His kiss was bold, when he leaned forward to give in. Bold and daring and all that Findekáno was and had always been. Even foolishly so. 

If there was a slip of desperation in the way Findekáno grabbed at his husband, pulling him in even closer, he would not admit it. Maitimo held his face in one hand with the other wound up in the curls of his hair, pulling gently. It was a beautiful escape.

He allowed himself to be pulled into Maitimo’s embrace and down into love.

No more than a day passed before the storm gentled and the pattern of the waves changed.

Maitimo was again in Findekáno’s hidden room, sharing the last of the fresh fruit with him when Telufinwë’s voice clamoured down the stairs.

“Nelyo? Nelyo!” The closeness had them both frozen in place.

Once the footsteps stopped, Maitimo responded. His sigh was the deep resignation of an elder brother that fought to keep fondness at bay. “What is it?”

“The fog has lifted. Land is not more than ten miles off!”

“Very well. I’ll be on deck in a minute.” They kept still as Telvo’s footsteps retreated, tension bleeding out when the sound faded completely. 

Findekáno reached for his husband’s hand, trailing aimless patterns over the knuckles. “Time to face Endórë?”

Maitimo ran his hands up and down the expanse of Findekáno’s back, seeming to gentle him. “Indeed.” His brow furrowed in a look Findekáno had always found more charming than stern and he almost missed his husband’s next words. “Finno… It may be best if you were to wait here. Until I had the chance to speak to my father.”

“What? No. Maitimo, no! I will not cower away as if I fear the nér! As if he has any authority over any of the choices you and I were to make.”

“He is my father and our king.”

A familiar temper flared within him. “And I left my own father because of it! Because I would show my loyalty to his house and to you! Maybe he should be reminded of that.”

“Finno—”

“No. I have slain Teleri, abandoned my father, forsaken my home. I have done all of this with my head facing forwards if not held high. I will not cower now, not when Fëanáro has no more claim to this land than I do.”

Maitimo let out a deep sigh, hints of frustration in it. His head fell backwards onto the wooden frame and his eyes slipped closed. Findekáno watched the pulse of his neck, where the apple of his throat bobbed and even his fury could not stop his desire to bite at it.

“Eru save me from the stubbornness of Ñolofinwëans.” His eyes slipped open and they were softer than the set of his mouth might otherwise betray. “Very well. Dress warmly and we will see what my brothers will make of you.”

Findekáno grinned up at his husband, leaning up to press a brief kiss to his brow.

“Peace and troth in all things, beloved.”

Maitimo’s arms slipped beneath Findekáno’s shoulders and moved him from the perch of the taller nér’s lap (and Findekáno marvelled once again at the strength that was contained in his cousin’s arms), allowing them both room to stand.

The roll of the waves was still constant, and the walk from cabin to deck was made difficult by the shifting gravity of the floor. Findekáno was thankful that Findaráto had never insisted on his presence in the fishing boats during summer.

Then his stomach fell again. They used to spend long days on the white beaches of Alqualondë. Findekáno wondered if they would ever be so clear again. Certainly not as pure, with the taint of murder forever haunting them.

Desperately, Findekáno steeled his mind away from such thoughts. His actions could not be taken back, and he would not let them sully this new world.

A warmth in his hand and the reassurance of steely eyes reminded Findekáno again of the bond between spouses, and allowed him to draw strength from Maitimo’s support.

The final door opened and, for the first time in weeks, Findekáno met the bracing cold winds of fresh sea air. The shock of it had him gasping. Findekáno had spent so long in the complete darkness of the ship’s hold that he was not prepared for the first taste of the natural environment.

A cry escaped his lips before anything. The stars above burned.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, they began to register distinct shapes which became landscape. They had landed in a cove sheltered more so by the natural rock formations of the coast than any real hills. Yet, in the distance, Findekáno could perceive the snowy tops of mountain peaks and the roll of low-lying clouds as they passed over.

The entire land was half-submerged in mist and it gave the air a damp feeling when it met the exhausted Noldorin host. Unlike Aman, darkened but still lit by the lamps of Fëanáro’s design, by the raiment of the Valar and the glow of living streets, there was no light to be found on the shores that didn’t originate from the stars. Despite that, the air sung of life. The croak of frogs, the wings of insects. Branches in the distance broke beneath the footsteps of animals. A blend of foreign and familiar beneath shades of grey and indigo.

Findekáno was so taken by the marvel of new lands that he nearly missed the argument which had erupted beside him. But the steady rise of voices soon brought his attention back.

“You are a sentimental fool.” The biting tones of Carnistir, face tilted up toward his eldest brother in a marriage between fury and sorrow. He was joined by Ambarussa, who seemed to herald him at either side, and Makalaurë, his face resting in one of typical sorrow. Findekáno could not spot Tyelkormo or Curufinwë, nor Tyelperinquar, before he realised that they would have sailed alongside Fëanáro. The most loyal of his sons. (The most fanatical, a voice which sounded like Turukáno whispered.)

Maitimo’s voice nearly thundered in response. “I was not about to leave him!”

“Oh yes, you are quite the romantic, Nelyo. Tell me, how do you expect Atar will react when he finds out?”

The slightest of pauses betrayed his uncertainty. The nature of Finwë’s eldest becoming as changing and dark as the tides which had carried them.  But Findekáno saw the gleam in his husband’s eyes. Saw how Maitimo straightened into the High Prince and the command he wore as a second skin. “Atar does not command my heart.” It was resolute, a vow as binding as his oath. Findekáno could love him for only his conviction.

Makalaurë’s voice spoke then, much softer. “But he does require your loyalty. He will not take this as the actions of a devoted cousin. This will be seen as your rebellion and you know it.”

If Maitimo was hesitant or afraid, none would be able to discern it. “He is not completely beyond reason. I will speak with him.”

Findekáno stepped forward to stand at his husband’s side, proud to face down the ire of his cousins. “And you will not do it alone.” His eyes didn’t move from Carnistir or Ambarussa, but he didn’t need sight for his hand to find Maitimo’s own.

Telvo, always the one to idolise Tyelkormo, the one to let passion drown his reason, spared only a glare in Findekáno’s direction before ignoring him entirely. When he spoke, it was in a parody of his elder brother’s voice. “What place does he have amongst us?”

If Findekáno expected Maitimo’s rage to erupt like thunder, he would have been disappointed. Fëanáro’s eldest did not tear at his brothers, berate them for their callousness. It was not the impassioned fury of Fëanáro that he spoke with, but instead the quiet but firm tones of Nerdanel.

“You carried with you your pencil and tongs. Your swords and needles. You came with your arms and your legs, your lungs and head. You did this because these things are a part of you, your craft indistinguishable from yourself. You could not be parted from these tools, these extensions of your identity, any more than your stomach could be carved out from your hröa. It is the same for me. Findekáno is as much a part of me as my eyes; he is my heart that beats outside of my chest. I could no more leave him than my hands, than my blade, than my very self.”

Findekáno’s heart overflowed with love for his husband in that moment. At the absent but furious way Maitimo described his devotion, as if it was not even a conscious thought.

While the twins seemed to be cowered and Makalaurë, as always, sunk back into a passive acceptance, Carnistir only scoffed. It was his sardonic way that implied he knew the ending before starting the fight. “Well, Nelyo, I can only hope that you’ve kept that tongue of yours polished because Atar seems to be walking over here very quickly.”

True enough, in the time it had taken them to argue of Findekáno’s presence, most of the other ships had struck the sandy banks of Endórë’s land, Noldor leaping from the restriction of their wooden frames. In the middle, Fëanáro strode toward their boat with purpose, flanked by his two remaining sons. His look was, as always, dark and terrible as the Void.

Maitimo merely released a deep sigh, a grief haunting him, settling naturally on his face. “Then we had best move this to land. I want something solid under my feet before we begin.”

Leaving Pityo behind to guard the boat, Findekáno went with his cousins to meet with Fëanáro, trying to diminish his foreboding by looking at the grains of sand and gravel beneath his feet. The earth of a new land, one even his father had never known.

Do not think about him now. You have arrived safely, and soon he will be allowed to join. Atya and Írissë and the rest.

Yet the thought didn’t comfort him.

Neither did Fëanáro’s stance; firm and unrelenting as the nér himself was, fists held tightly at his sides and an air of impatience about him.

Findekáno drew up alongside Maitimo and the rest, torches held in hand to hold back the press of the darkness Moringotto had left them with. The burning itched at Findekáno’s nose and his stomach turned again. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë both seemed shocked at his presence and Findekáno felt a barely concealed snarl from Tyelko which was sent his way. The High King did not seem to see him.

“Atar—”

Fëanáro held up a single hand, commanding silence from his eldest. “No words for me, Nelyo. Not now. We have work to do.”

“That much I would agree on. And I have much to discuss with you which may be better said in private.”

Curufinwë’s arms folded. “You are not the king, Nelyo. You do not give commands to use or dismiss our presence like—”

“Curvo. Enough.” Curufinwë’s eyes widened before he sunk back down, cowed and obedient in a way that only his father was ever able to inspire in him. Fëanáro turned back to his eldest, “What you have to say can be said in the presence of your brothers. Be hasty with your words, no doubt the Enemy has wind of our arrival.”

The mere implication of the Vala sent a shiver running through Findekáno’s body. He had never met Melkor yet his presence was always felt. Aside from anything, he had his grandfather’s stories of the dark beasts that Melkor used to breed in the days before the Trees, the fear that had stalked the Eldar at every turn. More than that, he had the images Maitimo had tried to keep from him, but which seeped through their marriage bond nonetheless. Formenos gone dark, the figure of Melkor looming far taller than it should have, Finwë– 

No. He could not think of what had remained of his gentle grandfather. Not when his uncle was already preparing for some fight.

His husband’s voice was a firm anchor to his fear. Measured and compassionate. “Who are we to send the ships back for first? Turukáno has a commander’s eye, Findaráto will have the most materials. My aunt Lalwendë has much knowledge of the healing arts, and—”

Maitimo’s voice broke off, and every eye turned towards a brittle and mad laughter that came forth from Fëanáro.

“Dear son of mine! You have your grandfather’s smarts but your mother’s naivety. It becomes you, make no doubt, but I would advise you to quell it if you ever hope to rule.”

Maitimo’s brow furrowed, a grim look muddying his handsome features. “Atar. You would do well to speak plainly. Your meaning is not clear.”

“Look around you, Nelyo! What need have I for what lies behind? Did I lose anything from our journey? I have freed us! Freed us from the command of the Valar and the lies of my half-brother. They called me mad? Let them, we are no poorer for it! They will grovel at the feet of those who would jail us, their nature revealed for the usurpers they are. No. These boats will not sail again.”

A moment passed in complete silence. Every son of Fëanáro was shocked still. But Findekáno was no son of Fëanáro, and Ñolofinwë had bred in him more courage than sense.

“You dare? You have stolen these boats and slain those who they belong to, and now you would keep them from those who still await them? You would leave your people behind?”

At last, Fëanáro’s gaze turned its ire upon his nephew. Steel grey eyes which belonged to the nér Findekáno loved were instead cold, shrouded with fury and distant and a feeling which could be called madness.

“Findekáno.” His voice was a snarl, as if just speaking Findekáno’s name brought distaste to his mouth. It hadn’t always been like that. There was a time, so many years ago now, when Findekáno could have gone to his uncle for a hug, sat at his table as Fëanáro explained his new writing system and Findekáno, the son of Anairë the scholar, took to it like a fish in water, his uncle had laughed and told him. Findekáno had felt safe, in his uncle’s house. He had felt loved. There was no such feeling now, and hadn’t been for a great many years. “Just like a rat, thieving onto your escape. You see, my children? See how far the deceit of Ñolofinwë’s house reaches.”

“Do not—” Maitimo began before Findekáno leapt forward, his passions roused.

“Liar! I am no thief or craven,” yet the words were ill-fitting on his tongue as he again thought of the mariner with silver hair, “I was invited to board your stolen prizes by one who has not forgotten his family or the regard with which they hold him!” He could feel his voice rise in volume as his body trembled with rage and months of tensions brought unceremoniously to their head.

Fëanáro glanced to his favoured son, “Curvo, hand me the torch you carry.” The flame was passed between them, dancing in the wind and bracketing the nér who was named for it. “If any of you count yourselves as mine, then you will be quick to join me. These cousins who you loved, I can promise will not show you the same, not when Ñolofinwë spins his silver lies and turns you from me.” He walked to cradle Maitimo’s cheek in his hand. His voice became softer, “You and your brothers are more dear to me than I can say. I will not risk your lives. Not for his sake.”

Maitimo’s hand wrapped around his father’s, hesitating before prying it away. “Your mind is muddied, Atar. Your brother loves you, our cousins would not betray us.” His eyes turned pleading, hand tight around Fëanáro’s wrist. “Atya, you have made yourself arrogant and cruel. Please. Do not make yourself a hypocrite. Show your children that there is love in you yet. Show them that our path forward will come from unity and not division.”

The warmth which had rested on Fëanáro’s face had ebbed more with every word Maitimo spoke. Makalaurë shifted uneasily, Tyelkormo was positioned as an animal ready to leap.

“I will not abide weakness, Nelyafinwë. I will not permit inaction.” His arm wrenched free and the king strode with purpose into the gentle waves where the swan ships lay.

Curufinwë set to follow him, Carnistir looked up at Maitimo in confusion, waiting for an order. Makalaurë gazed on in resignation, sad eyes fixed on where Telvo ran over to join Tyelkormo as the princes were caught amidst indecision and fear.

Findekáno was not to be stilled or held at bay. He watched the torch and the fire which would squander all hope for his family and their safety, thought of Arakáno not as the sleeping youth but as the toddler who laughed first for his big brother, and let his feet move without thought.

Findekáno leapt forward, grabbing at Fëanáro’s arm where it held the torch. There was a surprised cry as if Fëanáro had forgotten about his nephew. Findekáno pressed his advantaged.

Findekáno had spent his adolescence riding on horseback, sparing with his brothers, adventuring with his cousins. There was a great deal of strength corded in the muscle of his arms. But his uncle had spent his life at the forge, lifting ore and metals, hammers and anvils, brute force used to pry their shape forth. Adrenaline gave Findekáno the upper hand, but it soon yielded to Fëanáro’s greater strength.

Fëanáro’s sons stood frozen, shock painting their faces to various degrees.

In Findekáno’s struggle with Fëanáro, they had twisted closer to the boats and the unsteady surface of wet sand.

One misjudged step and they were both falling. Maitimo eventually broke out of his stupor and ran to Findekáno’s side, pulling him from the cold water.

As if cursed by Manwë, the wind chose at that moment to pick up, and embers ran quickly in the breeze to the closest surface: the other boats.

The linen of the sails caught like tinder and in an instant, half their fleet had caught alight.

Curufinwë marched forward with another torch but Carnistir reached out to grab his wrist, unclear words spitting from him.

Maitimo was shouting at Makalaurë, calling forth nearby Noldor, trying to control the blaze.

All the while, Fëanáro stood in knee-height water, the inferno roaring behind him as his eyes were fixed manically on Findekáno, and on where Maitimo still had him held.

It was then, for the first time, Findekáno believed his uncle would kill him.

Screaming broke through the air. It was a terrible sound that caused the soft hairs lining Findekáno’s arm to rise and shivers to break out across his body.

Telvo froze and turned towards its source.

“Pityo.”

Like lightning, the youngest of Fëanáro’s sons was in motion, his head turning to look for stability landing, as was true for all of them, on the constant shadow of Finwë’s eldest grandchild.

“Nelyo! Help me!”

Maitimo’s face paled then, remembering his brother and the wooden boat he had been left on.

The words were not conscious things that Maitimo stumbled out. “Wait here.” Then, he was on Telvo’s heel, weaving through the panic to where Pityo burned.

In a matter of seconds, the inferno raged, one ship already sunk with most of the rest now on fire. Confusion reigned as Eldar crashed into each other, following contradictory instructions as the fire’s smoke and the mist of the land steadily reduced visibility.

A shadow loomed where Findekáno knelt, lost.

Findekáno had stood and watched as his uncle drew steel against his father. He thought then that he had understood Fëanáro’s rage. It was nothing compared to what faced him now. 

“This is your doing. You and your like. From the moment he was born, your father spread nothing but grief.”

The water was cold and seeping in to every inch of his body. His cousins had scattered, his husband was absent. Every action taken since the Tree’s destruction carried enough regret and guilt to drown him. But in the face of it, or perhaps because of it, anger spread through Findekáno like a fever. Burning rage and rotten grief. “He is more than my father, he is your brother!”

“I owe you no justifications, child of Indis. I owe you nothing, not even your life!” A strong hand wound around the fabric of his tunic collar, pulling him up, out of the water, face to face with insanity incarnate. “I know your character, I have seen it clearly, over the years. You have always sought discord within my house. A ploy to have your father rise above his station! You would seduce my eldest, cloud his judgment with your honeyed words, lead him to folly!”

Findekáno’s hand wrapped around his uncle’s and he let the bitten-down nails dig viciously into calloused skin.

He bared his teeth, a clarity descending on him as if he had reached the storm’s eye. “I love your eldest! The only one who would lead him to such folly is you! I stand by Maitimo in all things, even in his errors, for I would seek to help them. To help him.”

Fëanáro pushed him away but Findekáno did not fall, his feet finding purchase on the sand. “Watch your tongue, son of Ñolofinwë! Else I will cut it out.”

“And strike against your kin?”

“You are no kin of mine.”

Findekáno crossed his arms, his stance resolute.

“I am more so than you know. I am your son’s wedded husband!”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Findekáno knew it the second it slipped past his mouth.

For Maitimo and Findekáno were the eldest sons. Marriage was therefore more than a personal bond, it was a political commitment.

And Fëanáro’s gaze pierced at Findekáno, sorrow and fury telling him exactly what he had always been terrified to hear.

“I long suspected, but it is a bitter thing indeed to be proven right.” Fëanáro’s head shook, hand falling to grasp at his side. “You would seduce my son, my beloved child, for little more than political ambition.” With the tremble of his voice, Findekáno almost believed Fëanáro to be crying. “You would break his heart.”

“No! I would never! My entire life, my heart has been his and his mine. You would know this if you looked beyond your own pride to see what is plain in front of you!”

The grinding of Fëanáro’s teeth could be heard even above the chaos which shrouded them. “How like your grandmother. Taking advantage of the emotions of those grieving, grabbing senselessly for power!”

“I will not allow you to disparage my grandmother so! Not a nís who has been nothing but gentle and courteous towards you!”

“Was it courteous to steal my mother’s title? Was it gentle to take her rooms for her own?”

“Any mother would be ashamed to have a son such as you! Any son would despair to call you father!”

The grinding of steel cut through the noise of burning and Findekáno felt the chill of the metal brush against his neck. It sat just above the chain of his necklace. He knew then that, however true his words might have been, they should never have been spoken. He was daring and courageous and reckless. He should not have mentioned Míriel.

Fear nearly toppled him. A rough swallow around his dry throat pressed the edge of the sword down past skin, and there was a flush of heat from where his blood beaded.

Wood burst apart in the distant. Smoke was thick in the air, sheltering their conversation, hiding them from the world.

For all that Fëanáro’s voice shuddered, his hand was steady. “No more. Not one more poisoned word will I allow you to speak. I will not allow my heir to be lead so carelessly astray. I will not allow his heart to be trod under the heel of ambition.”

“He will hate you for this.”

“I will take his hatred in exchange for his life.”

There was movement drawing in around them. There was still a sword at Findekáno’s side. His hand inched towards it. He would not kill his uncle, but he could parry his blade way.

But could he? The edge was right against the tender skin of Findekáno’s throat. If he was a second too slow, if he misjudged it by a hair, the honed blade would slip easily into his vein. He would be dead in a heartbeat. A flash of red was at his side. Maitimo. Could he risk leaving him?

Findekáno’s head raised alongside the gleam of Fëanáro’s blade. His husband the wordsmith. There was another way of escape. “Would you strike down your grandchild as well?”

It was then that Fëanáro halted. His body shook before going still and the world was noiseless.

A whine behind Findekáno from a voice he knew as well as his own before Fëanáro no longer stood in front of him. Instead, he lay on the ground with Maitimo’s hands around his collar, fire alight in his eyes as words were spat from him.

“If you dare. If you even dare—”

The water lapped softly, drawn out seaward by the tide.

“Nelyo!” Makalaurë and Tyelkormo were quick to intervene. There was blood on the sand, in the water. There was blood across Fëanáro’s face, on the edge of Findekáno’s mouth.

Maitimo was heaved away, still spitting rage and shaking in what Findekáno knew to be fear. He looked towards his uncle, ready for retaliation, for anger, for the nér who had stood and set their only safety alight.

But Fëanáro didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. It seemed the light in his eyes had diminished, and they glazed over, looking at nothing in particular.

Findekáno spared his uncle no more than a passing glance before he turned and ran away from the smouldering embers of barely-restrained destruction.

He stumbled aimlessly into a nearby grove, chest trembling as his breaths came erratically, tears a wash in his eyes 

Findekáno knelt in the dew-damp graze and emptied the contents of his stomach. He had nearly died. His uncle had nearly killed him. There was no salvation for his family.

Behind him, the fires slowly died. But not before there was one last groan as one final ship sunk to its watery grave.

Standing alone on uncertain legs, Findekáno made his way slowly to the shale where Feanárian followers had erected temporary shelters in the form of canvas tents.

Their supplies had been diminished; not everything had been moved off the destroyed ships.

Findekáno slipped mostly unnoticed through the Eldar until he found a tent suitably empty of people and completely empty of furniture or tools.

He sat on the unmoving grey rocks below him for a time that could have been seconds or years before the flap of the open was pushed aside and a rush of red hair warned him of his husband’s presence.

Maitimo fell to his knees beside him, bringing him into a tight embrace, kisses laid against the crown of his head.

“My beloved, my dearest one. I am so sorry. I should not have left you with him, I should not have brought you here.”

“Maitimo…”

“I will take you away from here. We will raise this babe together, as we should have always been, far from the demands my father would place on us. We will have each other and our child and that will be enough.”

It was strange. How, even distances unfathomable he was from everything he ever knew, how danger pressed in from every side, he still felt completely safe in Maitimo’s arms. For a moment, he yielded to the picture Maitimo painted. The peace he knew lurked just out of reach.

And then guilt caught him again, and his lie was heavy on his tongue. The tender way he was cradled, the warmth of Maitimo’s hand brushing over his stomach where nothing grew. It choked Findekáno and he could no longer allow it. There would be no peace for them.

“I… I’m not.”

“Hmm?”

A shaking breath drawn in. “I’m not pregnant.”

The body beside Findekáno went still, a panic to it. “Finno… I don’t—”

Maitimo’s confusion made his confession so much worse. It forced the truth from him again and again. A tragedy of his own making. “There’s no child. There never was.”

His husband pulled away entirely and the two sat together in silence, their thoughts very far away.

Soon, Maitimo’s voice broke through in a tone which struggled to hide its anger. “You would lie to me like that?”

It was then that Findekáno looked up at his husband, panic and outrage sending his voice into terrible, high tones. “I thought your father was going to kill me! You weren’t there, I have no friends amongst your brothers, what else was I supposed to do? Kill our king? He—” It was then Findekáno hesitated, the machinations of his reasoning laid bare. “He adores children, he always has. He cherishes Tyelpe more than anything. He loves his children and all that they are. I thought…” His tongue ran over his lips, the inescapable taste of iron and salt. Findekáno allowed himself the comfort of his arms wrapping around his torso, the place which was devoid of a babe. “He would never harm a child of yours.” The words sounded pathetic on his tongue. They had saved him, true enough, but what had they cost?

“You think Káno would not have intervened? That Moryo would allow something that would break me?” Maitimo’s head moved back and forth, as if he could not even comprehend of the lie. The worst part was that he could not meet Findekáno’s eye. “Why—” 

“I never knew you wanted a child!” But even as he spoke the words, Findekáno knew they were false. Knew how Maitimo’s head would perk up at every child’s cry, how his gaze would linger on a couple who carried their babe across Tirion. How capable he had always been with the host of brothers and cousins he had to contend with, how glad he always was to do it. There was a reason why Eru had ordained Maitimo to be the eldest of them. He had always been a father. Findekáno’s voice shook over the next words. “Not with me.”

Maitimo’s eyes shone all the brighter with the tears which were held back. “If you permitted it, there is not one thing in Arda I would have wanted more.” Then, Maitimo drew into himself, the icy front he had inherited from Nerdanel shadowed over Fëanáro’s rage. His voice was carefully controlled, and glacial enough to burn. “I have to speak to my brothers. You can stay or leave, but they won’t want to speak to you.”

“Maitimo…” But his voice came out in a whisper and, even if Maitimo heard it, he pretended not to.

The tent flap closed back over, submersing Findekáno in a darkness bereft of even starlight.

Emptily, Findekáno bunched up spare fabrics which had been abandoned in the tent into a makeshift pillow. Allowing his mind to go carefully blank, the dark tide of sleep at last washed over him. His tears were his only companion.

What would have before been counted as days passed the Feanárian camp. The Eldar there were caught in a state of inertia.

From the whispers that Findekáno caught as he walked aimlessly among them, Fëanáro had not uttered a word since the night of the burning. Their orders surrounding the remaining swan ships were unclear; Fëanáro had wanted them burned, but issued no commands. Maitimo was the next in line, but the word was that they were to be kept afloat, ready to send back. Yet no return party had been formed, and none had made an indication of creating one.

Half of Findekáno wished to rally the Eldar himself. Take the boats and sail back to rescue his family from an uncertain fate. But Findekáno had few enough friends east of the sea and none who were eager to again board the aged wood.

So they remained in place, faced with only each other and their mistakes.

After being pulled from the wreckage of the boats, Pityo had been ferreted away by his twin, kept out of sight from everyone. Findekáno would have believed his cousin dead if not for the screams which erupted every time his bandages were due to be changed. It kept him from proper rest.

Findekáno’s time passed somewhat monotonously. Maitimo had been avoiding him, the initial fire of his temper cooled into passive embers. None of Fëanáro’s other sons seemed eager to approach him. There was almost a sense of blame placed on Findekáno for Fëanáro’s silence. That much, he would own gladly. Rather Fëanáro’s silence than more of his ravings of betrayal.

Rather his silence than a blade again pressed against my neck. And my lie won’t work twice.

Findekáno bit back the bitterness and regret which met him. He refused to think about a child with his eyes and his beloved’s hair. Not the possibility which Maitimo had accidentally revealed to him. They had both gone long past that.

He shifted the bucket of freshwater to a more comfortable place on his hip, beginning the long trek back from the closest stream.

The Noldor had not been idle; it was not in their nature to be so. Levies were being created with scouts moving east, past the marsh land, scouting for suitable foundations for fortresses to be raised. 

They had come for war, after all.

If the eyes of Melkor were upon them, the Vala made no show of it. And that was a new sense of dread, to be at the mercy of an enemy who remained unseen, motives unclear.

Findekáno left the water outside their makeshift kitchen, making his way back to the tent which had been silently agreed as his to sleep away more of his empty days.

Except his tent wasn’t empty when he returned to it. Instead, a nér stood hunched over, too tall to stand upright under the canvas roof.

“Maitimo?”

The head turned towards Findekáno and he had to stifle a gasp. Maitimo’s eyes were irritated red, tracks of tears running across his cheeks, lips quavering as if sobs were just barely kept back.

“Pityo’s dead.” His voice was completely empty, as if to reveal one hint of emotion would send his wall of composure crumbling.

Findekáno felt his mouth drop open in shock, mind filling with thoughts of assassination or an attack from Moringotto. “What? How?”

Maitimo’s head shook, an empty look to his stare with an emptier tone of voice. “His injuries were too great, or maybe it was just that we were too inexperienced with treating burns that severe.” Maitimo laughed with no humour, hand running through the messy strands of his hair. “Lalwendë was the nurse amongst us.”

Findekáno rushed to his husband’s side. A tide of sorrow rushing through him as his mind went, again, to Arakáno asleep. He tried to muster images of his little brother, face destroyed by the fire’s kiss, days spent suffering in a cold tent before death claiming him. The image alone nearly ruined him

“Maitimo. Oh, I—” There were no words that could possibly help. He could not heal this. “Maitimo I am so, so sorry.”

It was then that the torrent burst forth. “Eru, Finno. He was my little brother!” A mess of red hair landed on Findekáno’s shoulder and how many tears had they shed? In the past year there had surely been more than their first millennia of life. His husband’s sobs were muted and his hands were steady where they gripped at Findekáno’s back, but the smaller nér still held him as if to let go was to permit him to fall apart.

A short time passed. Findekáno estimated it would have been a week. Possibly two. The lack of measurable time was driving him mad. They did not need more insanity.

After Pityo’s death, Maitimo and his brothers had spoken at length and elected to move their camp further inland. Findekáno was partially privy to this meeting. Fëanáro was absent. The king had not uttered a word since the night of the burnings.

Findekáno had protested against leaving the boats, but weaker than before. His fight with Fëanáro, with Maitimo, had wounded something in him. Pityo’s death had silenced the rest. So Findekáno turned his back on the only source of rescue for his family and followed his husband’s people.

Or are they my people too? Findekáno asked himself. We are Noldor. We have faced unspeakable hardship and we keep walking. There may be hope yet for Atya and the rest. The thought comforted him.

Their eventual campsite was at the shores of a lake which was completely still under the perpetual starlight. The lights shone in its surface giving the water an appearance like a mirror. 

They had raised only a rudimentary fort before Moringotto at last showed his hand, a battalion of orcs ambushing the sleeping Noldor. The fight was a brutal affair. The pent up grief of Fëanáro’s host at last given an outlet, his people still strong with Aman’s light. While the orc’s defeat did not come without loss on their side, the victory of the Noldor was a sure thing.

Tyelkormo and his host had utilised guerrilla tactics, undoubtedly learned from Oromë, and had cut off Moringotto’s southern host. After the battle, Tyelko had shocked his brothers with news of other inhabitants of the land: the Teleri who had remained in Endórë, those who hadn’t followed Olwë.

Their tongue was strange, but had echoes of Telerin and it took everything in Findekáno to not mention how much easier communication would have been if Aikanáro was amongst them.

But he wasn’t. None of Arafinwë’s children were. And so Maitimo, along with the wordsmiths and scribes of his host, was left to deduce their title of Falathrim and their leader Círdan.

While communication was difficult, the Falathrim were nevertheless hospitable, and offered a series of maps and dictionaries which the Noldor were taken with. From cirth writings, they learned that the land was called Hithlum: a land of mist and shadow.

Absent from almost all of their actions was Fëanáro. The nér had become like a wraith; seen only in glances, spoken about in hushed voices. 

A bitter, cruel part of Findekáno hoped that his son’s death haunted him. The kinder part just wished to see his own father.

It would have been optimistic to say that relations between Findekáno and his husband had warmed, but the tension between them had softened considerably. It was why Findekáno was not immediately surprised when Maitimo pulled him aside while he was on one of his countless water runs.

There was a hesitance which sat ill on Maitimo’s face and it immediately told Findekáno that, whatever his news was, he wouldn’t like it.

“What’s wrong?”

Absently, Maitimo played with one of the rope fastening of the tent. “Telvo captured an orc scout, maybe five miles east of camp.”

Five miles. It was nothing. That they could get so close. Yet, “Why would the orcs tarry so close to the camp?”

“Because they were ordered to.” Finally, Maitimo brought his full attention to bear. His face was uncommonly grim. “It was a messenger, sent to bring word to my father.” Before Findekáno could inquire further, Maitimo continued, “Moringotto seeks to parlay.”

The finality and shock of the statement settled for a moment before Findekáno’s mind caught up. He did not try to hide the panic in his voice. “He lies. He always lies. He will use this as an opportunity for something foul.” The viciousness of his tone nearly surprised him.

“Yes. I have no doubts about that.”

“Then why do I get the feeling that your next words will not be ones of avoidance.”

Maitimo swallowed and the noise was deafening. “Moringotto offers a Silmaril in exchange for my father’s surrender.” His stare was imploring. “It is our oath, our sworn word. Even if the message is false, the opportunity is too great to be passed away on chance.”

Findekáno knew he was scared, and knew that he was disguising that fear with anger. “It’s not chance, it’s stupidity which verges on suicide! Your father would yield to the Enemy’s demands, leave us again without a king—” 

“My father insists on remaining to watch over you, he’s sending me in his place.”

It would have been kinder for Maitimo to slap him. Findekáno reeled back as if he had. “No. You cannot possibly think— Maitimo, this is madness.” 

His husband let out a deep sigh which betrayed an age he had not yet reached. “I know, but what can I do? It is a command.”

Findekáno hardly heard the words, too focused on the miniature. “Why would your father want anything to do with me? Did you not tell him the truth?”

Maitimo’s head snapped away sharply, “He would only hate you more.” Findekáno saw where his hands grasped at the freckled skin of his arms. “He is not in his right mind.”

He would not cry. Not again, not when wrath was easier. “He has not been in his right mind since the day he brought those accursed jewels into the world.” Findekáno had worked himself into a storm, pacing across the tent’s length in an aimless passion. “He is hateful and cruel and bitter and has been stained in blood since he drew his first breath!”

Arms held onto his shoulders, turning him around. “What would you have me do? He is my father!” Maitimo was pleading and desperate, arguing the cause as fervently as he did any. “He is my father and I love him.”

“You do his bidding like a dog.”

“I follow his orders for I wish to be rid of Moringotto! For I wish for this world to be one where you can live in peace, in safety.”

There was something else hidden in his voice. It spoke of a house, maybe a small farm, a studio. Children running outside, chasing each other over grass. Peace and security and a life on unfamiliar shores which was unburdened by their titles or their family or anything which had once governed the Eldar.

A beautiful, impossible dream.

Do not cry. You will both start and will not be able to stop.

The pair drew in unsteady breaths, and Maitimo’s voice was diminished when he next spoke.

“Just… I will not go unaccompanied. If it truly is a trap, my host and I will be prepared for it.” The rough ends of fingertips trailed along the swell of Findekáno’s cheek, toying at the gold weaved into his hair. “I am not willing to seek out my death just yet, Finno.”

“I would rather you never did at all!” He turned away, tears escaping despite his best efforts. “Why was it you I had to love? You and your duty.”

Then warmth pressed against his back, strong arms draping around him as a chin rested in the braids of his hair. Arms tight enough to break him but never would. A sob caught in Maitimo’s throat before he murmured against Findekáno’s ear, “I truly wish it was otherwise. But you know my father, you know my position. Choice has only ever been an illusion for me.”

“You chose me.”

A soft laugh that ran through the length of Findekáno’s body, gentling him better than any hymn. “It did not feel like it. It felt more like my heart had always been tied to yours and I merely followed that thread.”

“How like a grandson of Míriel to turn love into a sewing metaphor.”

“And how like one of Indis’ to suffer fools.”

He turned to cradle the sharp cut of his husband’s face. “You are not so foolish as that. Not really.” Even then, he couldn’t help but betray his fondness.

Maitimo bent down, allowing their foreheads to touch as their eyelids shuttered closed. “Yes. I have you as a husband, my reasoning is sound.”

“You are unbearable, you know that?”

“I have been told, on occasion.”

What could Findekáno do but kiss his lover? Deep and soundly, tongue stretching out to sweep the taste of Maitimo into his mouth. To allow himself one moment to engrave it all in his mind, allowing their ósanwë bond to hum and thrive like a living pulse.

Breaking away, Maitimo brought Findekáno into an embrace; ungently as he was pressed against every inch of his husband’s body. “Please. Be safe until I return. Do not rouse his anger.”

One last trembling breath, taken in resignation. “Until you return.”

Their moment passed, a brown leaf falling in the autumn wind. Then, Maitimo was no longer in his arms. Instead, he was marching out of the tent, towards the camp’s edge where his host stood alongside their mounts, awaiting the word of their captain to ride into unknown.

Findekáno rushed out of the tent and the imposing figure his husband cut marching towards the Enemy brought the words from where they had hidden in his chest.

“Maitimo!”

The taller nér turned, his face painted in terrible melancholy.

“Come back to me.”

The faintest beginnings of a smile graced his lips. Maitimo said nothing, but he never needed to. Their promises had always been silent.

The eldest son of Fëanáro mounted his horse and, with a shout, he was racing across the plain into the hills where emissaries of Melkor waited for something yet unknown.

Findekáno watched his husband’s disappearing figure until he could see no more.

Maitimo had been gone too long.

Even in a place where time was uncertain, Findekáno knew that a message at least should have arrived back.
Tents were collapsed after stone houses had been raised up, the start of a castle forming, and still no word came from the north. Findekáno shivered. Stone never seemed to hold heat as well.

Had it been a week? Two?

Apparently, Fëanáro had ordered Findekáno to remain in the confines of the building, though his actual words could only be guessed at, as he seemed to be in hiding from his nephew.

But, when the captain of Maitimo’s guard limped past their gates, even lock and key could not keep Findekáno out of Fëanáro’s throned hall.

He threw the doors open just another nér was speaking; Fëanáro’s seneschal. All eyes turned to Findekáno, and he could not discern the look Fëanáro had for him.

His uncle did not look well. His hair was greasy and unbrushed, skin unnaturally pale without even the starlight. He was haunted, and not even rage seemed to brighten him. Finwë’s crown no longer sat on his head.

Fëanáro eyes glanced up and down the length of Findekáno’s body, as if checking for any signs of harm, before his seneschal spoke up hesitantly.

“Your highness…”

At the noise, Fëanáro’s head snapped back to where the nér stood uneasily. His voice barked out, “Speak!”

Lips were wetted before words came out. “My lord, a missive has arrived from Serech. The parlay was a trap, and the High Prince has been taken to Angband.”

The room went still. There could have been wailing, but it was too strangely pitched to be heard. Findekáno threw up what little he had taken for dinner.

The immediate details of the meeting were a blur to Findekáno; he didn’t see anything until the brown mare in front of him, whinnying gently as she tried for a kiss, nuzzling at the tears on Findekáno’s face and the halting breaths his chest forced out.

He allowed his hands to sink into her dark mane. It was a desperate attempt to ground himself from the panic which was swallowing him. The despair unlike any he had experienced before.

Findekáno would save him. He would march into death if it would give Maitimo only a chance of survival. He would face unsurmountable odds, walk to the earth’s end, defy the gods themselves, if only for one last glance at his husband.

He fell to his knees, more bile rising up.

Sobs broke out in between his heaving. His eyes burned. Findekáno knew he was sick and had been for a while. He would master it, cower his hröa into submission, he had done so before. He could afford no distractions.

He did not notice the stable door opening or the march of footsteps coming up to his side. He only noticed the harsh bite of his cousin’s voice when it was little more than two inches from his ear. Findekáno tilted his head up. 

“It stinks in here.” If Curvo had been crying, there were no tells on his face.

Findekáno scowled back, secretly glad for the anger, for the distraction it brought. “Fuck off.” But the bite of it was lost under a fresh wave of vomit. He hadn’t even eaten all that much.

“You shouldn’t talk to your brother like that.”

“You are not—” His stomach heaved again. Then, there was a warmth against his back moving in calming circles.

There was silence for a while, broken only by the sounds of Findekáno’s groans.

Curufinwë’s muttered words that were almost incomprehensible. “I was much the same, with Tyelpe.”

His head was pounding, he had no time for his cousin’s games. “What are you talking about, Curvo?”

“When was your last bleed?”

A strange panic shot through Findekáno; it was the strike of lightning against a lone tree. His body froze in place.

“I suspect it was more than a month past.”

No. It wasn’t possible.

He was so gentle with me, the night the sea bleed and cried.

“No…”

Curufinwë merely sighed, disappointed and sombre and caustic all at once. “Ginger water settles the stomach easily. I will see if Tyelko has any.”

The words were lost on him. 

“No, no.” Not now, not like this. Not with Findekáno alone and Maitimo imprisoned.

Dead.

No! Not dead! I would know.

He didn’t want to believe it, he truly didn’t think it was possible for him. But, looking deeper, there was a spark of fëa that felt like Maitimo, that Findekáno had assumed was a side effect of their marriage bond, and it did not lie to him.

Findekáno wept at his words which had become prophecy.

The moon rose mournfully in the sky.

Findekáno sat outside to watch it’s trail, arms hugging around himself for there was no one else to hold him. Not as a spouse would.

Not as a parent.

Another shuddering breath fell past his lips, and Findekáno allowed himself one night to mourn what had happened, and what might have otherwise been. One night, for the next day the choices he made would no longer belong to him alone.

Findekáno would walk to his own doom for Maitimo. But he could not sentence his child to the same fate.

The news spread amongst Fëanáro’s sons like wildfire. Despite Findekáno not uttering a word, suddenly, he was the centre of attention once more, his cousins strangely hesitant yet typically forward in their way.

In under a week, he had a room filled with small clothing sets, meticulously carved toys, odd bits of furniture.

If nothing else, his cousins would care for their brother’s child. Findekáno chuckled bitterly. Doting uncles. 

He was, hesitantly, brought into their fold. It was needed, as they were left leaderless.

If any news had reached Fëanáro, Findekáno had heard no news of it.

He allowed a number of days to pass for the pattern to become a habit before he entered Makalaurë’s study.

The rest of Fëanáro’s sons were already gathered there. For what reason, Findekáno didn’t care to know, but their presence made little difference to his argument.

“My father and the rest are still in need of the boats.”

Makalaurë didn’t look up at him, attention fixed on re-stringing his lyre. “And the king has said nothing more of his intended purpose for them.”

Findekáno felt his temper jump, struggled to rule it. “So what? He is hardly in his right mind most days! His word is less than nothing.” He pressed in closer, demanding his cousin’s attention. “Would you let your cousins die?” He turned to Tyelkormo, “Írissë?” Then to Curufinwë and Carnistir, “Angaráto?” Telvo, “Arno?” Their eyes met him in a mixture of remorse and anguish, fury and indifference. There was no mistaking his cousins to be the children of any save Fëanáro and Nerdanel.

Maglor’s voice, soft and terrible, covering like fog. “We cannot been seen to be divided. While Atar remains in this camp, his word is law.” Finally, grey eyes which were unspeakably sad peered up at him. “It is what Haru would want.”

“Haru is dead.” The words were final. Heavy. Finwë was dead and the world collapsed from the weight of it.

Sad, unchanging depth. “He is. Now we remain.”

With Makalaurë’s words, the conversation was ended.

His belly hadn’t grown much, but enough to finally be visible. It was how Findekáno kept track of the time.

He would have guessed he was three months into his pregnancy, if the child had truly been conceived at Alqualondë, but his stomach was too swollen for that.

It should have felt wrong, that new life could be born even after so much death. Death that Findekáno had caused. Closing his eyes for sleep, there were still flashes of silver as his blade cleaved at another mariner. An Elda who had not provoked the fight. Maybe that was why Maitimo had been taken. He bit back a sob at the thought.

But, no matter how much the kinslaying haunted him, the tide of regret and grief that moved ceaselessly in him, Findekáno needed to only glance at his abdomen and fill with the most bitter happiness he had even known.

Sitting alone in his rooms (his and Maitimo’s), Findekáno kept the pain of his loneliness at bay by talking to the yet unknown child he carried.

“Your uncle Tyelkormo is very annoying. He never lets me have the prime cut of meat he brings back.” When he was feeling particularly affectionate.

“Your grandfather would be beyond thrilled to learn of another grandchild. Your cousin Itarillë may be even more so.” Reserved for his times of sorrow.

“Your Atya is alive. Let no one tell you otherwise. He is alive and he will come back to us,” whispered around tears, “you will love him as I do.” For every emotion and feeling between the two.

Just because the daylight was gone did not mean that the rain was, Findekáno was soon to realise.

In the grey lands, clouds came down low and opened in a torrent, flooding grasslands which lay too close to the water line, coating the rest in a bright sheen which softened the ground.

Findekáno sat on his bed, watching the flood.

The door to his room creaked open slowly, unassuming. It was why Findekáno was not expecting the voice to belong to his uncle.

“Are you comfortable, Findekáno?”

He could only stare, disbelieving, at the wearied stance of the High King. The ghost he appeared to be. 

Fëanáro hadn’t intentionally sought him out since the night the swan ships burned, and Findekáno believed his uncle had forgotten about him and the near thing their fight had been. He would have prayed for it if he still believed that his words carried weight.

The older nér was still waiting for an answer. At a loss for what to say, Findekáno settled with nodding.

Fëanáro’s gaze went past him, to the rain which trailed gently down the window pane. His head shook, mind clearly elsewhere. “Good. That is good.”

The civility was utterly unexpected. Findekáno hated it. It was why he couldn’t abide politics; if he had grievance with someone, rather speak of it and avoid the pointless subterfuge. The snide remarks and double meanings. It was tiresome.

Still not making move to leave, Fëanáro instead closed the door over and stood awkwardly in front of where his nephew sat. In that moment, Findekáno felt uncomfortably like a father, about to hear what all mischief his child had caused.

Instead, Fëanáro gestured in the vague direction of Findekáno’s stomach, shy yet unable to keep the hope from his face. “May I?”

After all that had transpired between them, after all the pain and sorrow that had been born, Findekáno wanted to turn his uncle away. To spit and scream and burrow so deep into himself he would never emerge.

He is my father and I love him.

Findekáno missed his own father. Missed Ñolofinwë’s bright smile and great presence. How he had never resented Findekáno his choices.

What would he think now?

Findekáno nodded his permission.

Fëanáro sat tentatively beside him. His posture restrained and hand trembling as it reach towards where Findekáno’s stomach had begun to curve outwards, looking larger against his small frame. It was gentle, where it moved across the fabric of his tunic.

A foot kicked outwards against Fëanáro’s hand and he startled before a small smile, so unbearably tender, broke across his face.

“Such strength already. Her feet are unceasing in their dance.”

Findekáno couldn’t stop the smirk. “Her?”

Fëanáro seemed almost bashful. “I was envious of my brothers for a great many things, but perhaps most of all were the daughters they were blessed with.” He seemed to note where Findekáno shifted in discomfort and hastily turned to him, “I may not always see eye to eye with Írissë or Artanis, and I adore each of my sons, but one little girl…what a joy she would have been.” His face turned infinitely sadder, his eyes very far away. “For Nerdanel especially.”

Findekáno shrugged, “One may be a girl, or even both.”

Fëanáro’s head jerked up to Findekáno’s face, a desperation to him which Findekáno realised with a start was a mirror copy of his eldest’s. “Both?”

He smiled down at his stomach, almost proud. “Eru has seemed fit to bless me with twins.”

“Twins.” Fëanáro’s face crumpled in on itself.

Of course. Ambarussa.

His voice was heavier, the gleam of tears on his cheeks. “My little Pityo… I miss him more every hour he is gone.”

You set him alight. You shed no tears for him. He was precious to you, but the Silmarils more so. And now my husband is to be burnt on the same pyre.

But what would cruelty benefit either of them? Pointless. Tiresome.

“He loved you enough to know that you would never raise a hand to him in malice. You would never hurt any of your sons with intent.”

Fëanáro’s next words were bitter. Condemning and tormented. “And yet I have done all the same.”

To that, Findekáno had no answer.

With a sudden movement, Fëanáro’s hand lifted away from its hold against his grandchildren, and he rose swiftly from the bed, gaze resolute. A long debate ended.

“No longer.” Turning, Fëanáro had crossed to the room’s threshold, Findekáno once again stunned to silence. He paused at the door, considering.

“I… I will do right by you, Findekáno.” It felt like a goodbye.

No more words were said, and the last that Findekáno saw of his uncle was the bright red of his cloak disappearing into the dark of the corridor.

Findekáno was still tired from a poor night’s sleep as he made his way to the kitchen a number of hours later.

There was an uncommon amount of movement surrounding him, voices hushed but growing louder, more frantic. Startled, he picked up his pace, going instead to the main hall.

Inside, the panic was no less. Carnistir and Tyelkormo stood deep in discussion, and Findekáno could only process fragments of their words, distorted so much that their meaning was obscured to him.

“Where’s Atar?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“He hasn’t left his room in months, what’s prompted him now?”

“Am I supposed to know?”

“Well I don’t!”

Their argument was halted by the door again opening, this time with more force than Findekáno had given, and Curufinwë marched in, Makalaurë and Telvo tailing after him.

His words were concise, his glance towards Findekáno brief and dark before it went to his brothers.

“He’s gone.”

Carnistir was the first to bite words out. “What do you mean gone?”

Curufinwë scowled in response. “Why don’t you read for yourself?” And threw a roll of paper towards the other nér.

Green eyes scanned over the page, growing more frantic with each line. Where there had been worry before, Fëanáro’s sons were now on the cusp of true panic.

Unable to bear the uncertainty, it was Findekáno who at last spoke up.

“Well? What does it say?”

Swallowing roughly, Carnisitr’s voice reverberated throughout the room.

“He has gone to fetch Nelyo. He has gone to Angband.”

The words were spoken, heavy as the tomb.

The Noldor were left, again, without a king.

Findekáno allowed his cousins a day of mourning. When the shadow of Tilion again left the sky, he marched into the hall were Makalaurë had hidden away.

It was almost understandable. Fëanáro’s second son would never have expected to hold the crown, or any type of ruling authority. But stability needed to be maintained, and Findekáno would ensure that his cousin knew what duty demanded.

His desk was a mockery of authority, Makalaurë’s figure drowned behind it. But Findekáno was not there to give his cousin condolences. He was there to make demands.

“Fëanáro is no longer in this camp. We are sending the boats back.”

Makalaurë’s mouth moved, to agree or argue Findekáno didn’t know, but he refused to let the words come forth. “It is what Maitimo wanted.”

It was then that Makalaurë could no longer meet his eyes. Water pooled in his own as his fingers ran over a quill which Maitimo had left behind. “Yes. It was.”

In an hour, Makalaurë had a group of thirty gathered, ready to begin the voyage back.

They stopped him, in the end, from boarding the remaining ships. It was Curufinwë whose nails bit into his arm as Findekáno was dragged back from the shore.

“Let me go!”

“And risk losing you on the voyage? Atar would never let me live it down.”

He was biting and hissing like a feral cat. He was putting himself and his house to shame and he didn’t care. “Your father would forgive you anything.”

Curufinwë gave no quarter. “As yours would you, so you can wait here until Tyelko brings them back.”

He allowed himself to be pulled back. There was a deep part of Findekáno that needed to hear those words. That Ñolofinwë would still love him, would forgive him his betrayal. Would hold him close and allow him to cry.

But it was no secret that Curufinwë disagreed with their plan. He was not the only one; Tyelkormo and Telvo were also vocal in their anger. The seeming betrayal over their High King’s wishes. Carnistir had remained silent on the issue, preferring instead to glower at anyone who came near, his grief a volatile thing. Makalaurë was the only one in open support of Findekáno’s plan, but it was anyone’s guess as to his actual thoughts.

But, despite the discord amongst the sons of Fëanáro, they allowed a compromise to be made. The passage of the Ñolofinwëan host in exchange for Findekáno’s open endorsement of Fëanáro as king, to stem the discord that still lingered amidst the Noldor.

That was the reason, Findekáno assured himself. It was that, and not sympathy that moved his cousins. It was politics, and not a joint grief over the loss of a father and two brothers both. Begrudging help and not indulgences for a bereaved husband.

Findekáno ran his hand absently over his stomach, returned to the eerie still of Mithrim as the swan boats passed into the distant fog. His growing children were the only constant in his life, the only sure source of comfort. They, at least, would love him.

They could kick up a storm in him. He found he didn’t mind when it kept him from sleep.

“One day, when you are grown, I will come into your bedrooms in the late of night and begin singing and then you will see how it feels like.”

The slight patter of growing feet again hit against his palm. It was the oddest sensation and brought light to his fëa.

“Very well, you have stolen the knowledge from me! I used to drive your father to distraction when I entered his rooms unannounced. He always was one for plans and schedules.” Soon, he would grow big enough to lean down to kiss where they grew. It was easier to smile, when he spent time alone with them. “He will probably take your side and you will be spoilt for it! The two of you will be glad that I at least can enforce some sort of discipline.

Meldo, he heard, as if the voice was right beside him, do you truly believe that you will be a firm hand? You could not even tell Turno when it was time for bed.

Even the ghost of that beloved voice had Findekáno shivering. “Yes. I always left that job to you, didn’t I?”

I was told I was a natural at it.

“You were. Are.” His tears escaped in a flood. “Please. Come back to us.”

But there was no answer.

Findekáno was first alerted by shouting in the courtyard.

Frightened that it signalled the arrival of Melkor’s armies, he rushed to the window, plans rushing through his mind of how to ensure the safety of his still-growing children.

There were indeed banners in the distance, but they were not the Hand of Moringotto or the Eye of his Lieutenant. Rather, it was fields of deep blue laden with silver stars. It was the heraldry of Ñolofinwë’s house.

There was no hesitation before Findekáno was sprinting from his room, out into the plains which embraced Mithrim’s shores.

His father’s people met him just outside of the encampment’s walls. Looking upon their prince, there was a collection of shock, anger, and exhaustion. But it didn’t cower Findekáno, for pushing through the crowd was a face he knew well, tall and dark, the first comfort he had known.

“Atya.” He could not school himself. His voice trembled and his vision blurred despite his resolution. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be resolute in his manner, precise in his conviction. But Tilion rose steadily in the sky and he was merely a boy far away from home who missed his father.

A flurry of emotions passed over Ñolofinwë’s face before he was striving forward, firm in his step. Marching to Alqualondë, leaving Tirion’s hall. Preparing to march on a journey that could kill them.

Findekáno didn’t know what he should prepare for and he didn’t have time to think before he was swept up into his father’s arms and crushed to his chest.

“I thought you were dead. I thought—” Ñolofinwë’s voice was as vulnerable and shattered as he had ever know it. “I thought I lost you.” Then, both neri were crying into the other.

“You didn’t, Atya. You didn’t.” His fingers could have torn the expensive fabric at his father’s back, but Findekáno could neither notice or care. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t think—“

“Hush now, yonya. My stubborn, brave child. You did no wrong.”

“I did. I left my people. I left my family.”

Ñolofinwë pulled himself back, an expression on his face that Findekáno had never seen before but still recognised somewhere in his fëa.

“They are your family too.” His eyes flitted away, and Findekáno knew him to be thinking of Fëanáro; the heights of his love, the depths of his hate, the kiss of steel against flesh. “I think we all forgot that.” Turning back to his son, a grin broke across Ñolofinwë’s voice that seemed far too close to sorrow. “Finno. I have so much to say to you. The first thing must be how much I missed you.”

“Atya…” Findekáno couldn’t voice any more words. More had to be said, but what remained silent was enough for him.

That was, until Ñolofinwë looked over Findekáno, eyes taking in his entire form. They widened and Findekáno realised the most important subject he had forgotten to breech.

His father’s hands shook and hovered just above the curve of his belly, utter shock carved onto his features. “Findekáno… You— Who?”

Findekáno allowed his hands to sit beside his father’s, petting against his sleeping babies. “Maitimo. We… We married after Alqualondë.” His tongue wet against his lips. He was unsure of what to reveal to his father. His joy? His anguish? Was Ñolofinwë excited? Disappointed? Would it be this that at last estranged them? “Please don’t worry, don’t be angry. We— You know I have loved him for so long. Surely you knew it went beyond that of cousinly affection?”

“I…admit that I had my suspicions.” Ñolofinwë shook himself, glancing up from Findekáno’s stomach to reveal his continued state of disbelief. And the traces of reproach. “But, Finno, you are young still, and he is devoted to his father, and—”

“He is devoted to me also. I know this, I know him. I—” It was then that confidence left him. “I miss him.” He drew in a gasp, fighting back the familiar sting of tears. “But of course, you don’t know. Atya, so much has happened, and so much has been for ill. But this,” he drew Ñolofinwë’s hand back to press against where his grandchildren slept, “this has only ever been my comfort and my love.”

Ñolofinwë’s brow creased into a strain of tenderness that bent towards grief. “Finno—”

The words were not finished before Findekáno’s arms were again full, his vision flooded with white.

“You little idiot! Foolish boy! I’ve missed you.”

He drew his sister in close, her grip around him tight and warm.

“Írissë.” He laughed around tears, “I am so happy to see you.”

After holding each of his siblings and cousins in turn, and peppering little Itarillë’s face with kisses, Findekáno and his father finally managed to find a moment alone, more than happy to let Fëanáro’s sons greet their cousins and answer questions pertaining to Findekáno’s pregnancy and the state of the Noldor’s kingship.

With a sudden increase in bodies with no walls to shelter them, the tents had once again been raised, and Findekáno found one a distance enough a way to allow a semblance of privacy.

“Admittedly, I spent the first twenty miles on the ice fuelled by the express desire of punching Fëanáro very hard in his face.” Were Ñolofinwë’s first words once they were both seated at the table with hands clasped around cups of warmed milk. “We saw the fire, you see. We had given the ships up for destroyed.”

“Some of them were. We couldn’t stop him.” Findekáno allowed his genuine regret to bleed into his tone.

“You don’t need to explain your uncle’s actions.”

“But it wasn’t just him. It was he drew the first flame forward, but it was all so confusing, I don’t truly know which of my cousins took part and—” He drew back, the force of the memory stealing breath from him. “Oh, Atya. Pityo is dead.”

“Dead? Melkor—”

“It was not Moringotto. He had gone back onboard, no one knew why.” He sniffed hard in an attempt to clear the emotion from his voice, the flames of that night still clear in his mind. “To go back for you? Home to Nerdanel? But now he won’t, because he— Atya, the smell.”

Ñolofinwë was at his side in an instant, and Findekáno had forgotten what it was to be comforted with so much ease, to be held with such warmth. Ever since his lie and the distance it had cast between Maitimo and himself, since his husband had rode off to a false parlay, he realised how seldom even touch was. Findekáno only realised in that second just how isolated he had become.

His father spoke with a gentle authority. “No more of that. We will mourn Pityo but first, tell me, where is my brother? Where is your husband?”

Findekáno looked away, his words falling out in a whispered torrent.

“Melkor sent word, shortly after we arrived. He claimed he wished to treat with us, bargain over a Silmaril. But it was a lie. Fëanáro sent Maitimo, you remember how he was always the politician, but he was captured, and Fëanáro left afterwards.” He glanced up again to the torment of his father’s eyes. “That was nine months ago. We have heard no word since.”

Ñolofinwë leant back, and a trick of the lamp light made it seem as if a tear fell.

“Then…”

“They’re not dead.” Findekáno was surprised by his own fervour. “We would have heard if it were otherwise. They aren’t dead.”

Father and son watched each other for a long time.

“Very well,” Ñolofinwë agreed finally, his tone one as if indulging a child, “then Makalaurë has assumed regency? I will have to discuss with him matters related to housing and farm allocations.”

“Yes,” he replied, utterly drained of conversation, “that would likely be ideal.”

Standing to go, Ñolofinwë paused before turning again to face his son.

“Finno… Take care, with your siblings. You know how Irissë can be, and Arakáno,” he could not restrain a smile, “Arakáno can become so brash, when the mood takes him.” Ñolofinwë’s expression quickly sobered. “But Finno, you should know that Elenwë became very sick from the cold. Her mind…” His fingers toyed with the fraying canvas, distracted. Or avoidant. “She has become lost, almost. You know how Turno dotes on her. He is angrier, than he was when you left.”

Findekáno glanced up from where he remained sitting, “Does he hate me?”

“He’s your brother, he could never hate you.” There was a very loaded way to Ñolofinwë’s words. “Just…tread lightly around him.”

Then, his father’s arms were around him once more.

“I am so, so glad to see you safe.” He pulled back, teary eyed. “And with grandchildren on the way, no less. What a marvel you are, yonya.” With a final kiss to his brow, his father turned and left.

Despite the empty tent he was left it, Findekáno had not felt warmer in weeks.

In the days that followed, there was many a meeting that took place, and many embraces to catch up on.

Findekáno was told that the punch Írissë threw at Tyelkormo was spectacular to behold. She must have packed some strength into it, for Tyelkormo still bore the deep purple of it when Findekáno next saw him. In typical Tyelkormo fashion, however, he advertised it as a war trophy.

“Not all can fall into Írissë’s sights and live to tell the tale!” He boasted at dinner.

Írissë rolled her eyes, but Findekáno could tell she was pleased. She had missed her cousins.

Not every reunion was resolved as amicably as Írissë and Tyelkormo’s.

Findaráto and Curufinwë had stared at each other a very long time, not a word said, before Findaráto turned and marched away, Curvo left seething. Bitter words were the only thing they had for each other.

Artanis was no better, avoiding any conversation with her Feanárian cousins, and bristling with Írissë as a result. Angaráto seemed torn between the role of an elder brother, and desire to watch a fight break out between his sister and Carnistir.

There was more general tension, in the way the two reunited hosts interacted. Makalaurë and Ñolofinwë were always quick to descend and no violence had broken out. But there was a fragility to their peace. The absence of Fëanáro and his tempered eldest son was a visible wound.

The months passed, and the Noldor settlement at Mithrim expanded and strengthened, the canvas of tents changed to the hewn stone of castles. The peoples of Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë set aside their grievance and came together out of a common interest towards survival. Together, they did what their ancestors had done for millennia and built.

Land was set aside for farming and irrigation systems were implemented. Though, not without a few arguments from their chief architects Turukáno and Curufinwë. However, any time it seemed as if they would come to blows, Elenwë would appear with sweet words at her husband’s side and Findaráto with snide ones at Curufinwë’s, and the conflict would be dispelled for another day.

As Mithrim grew, so too did Findekáno.

Írissë in particular took great joy in seeing what all she could balance on top of the curve of his stomach and was even more delighted to find the answer to be most things found on their father’s desk.

“Your father will love you both.” It was a promise muttered in the dark of his room every night before he slept. He would never allow himself to consider the past-tense. Maitimo would live, and he would return to them.

The moon would rise and sink and still Maitimo would not return. Neither, of course, did Fëanáro.

Findekáno grasped the Elessar and kissed the gentle warmth of the stone, as if doing so could summon Maitimo from wherever he was. It was a foolish hope, but he was made of it.

Tiny voices whispering at his door altered Findekáno to his visitors.

Leaning back against the pillows, he called out, “It is considered rude for children to lurk.”

There was a resounding silence before a reply was braved.

“We aren’t lurking, uncle. We are collecting information.”

He couldn’t stop the grin that lit across him. “Oh, well, in that case come right in.”

The door sprang open. Itarillë and Tyelperinquar came rushing in, leaping up onto the bed to join him, wiggling until they were beneath the blankets, cold feet pressed up against his sides.

Findekáno held his arms out to embrace them both, his heart fluttering strangely when he realised he had best get used to two children of the same age seeking his affection. “Are you two having fun, lurking about the lake?”

Itarillë turned her soulful pout towards him, offended at the entirely correct assumption made against her character. “Collecting, uncle Finno. And yes, we are!”

“And what information have you come here to collect?”

They glanced at each other, a hesitant mischief about their air. It was reassuring, to see them as friends.

Two pairs of pleading eyes turned towards him, and Itarillë spoke as she did when requesting an extra sweet from Turukáno. “Can we see where the babies are growing?”

A laugh slipped lightly from him. “Of course.” Hiking his shirt up, Findekáno revealed the broad expanse of dark skin, kissed with stretch marks, which housed his children. “There you go.”

They moved closer to his stomach, watching with an intensity only found in children.

Not moving his gaze, Tyelpe whispered, “Can I touch?”

“Yes, Tyelpe.”

Then, a small hand pressed against Findekáno’s skin, petting him as his stomach was studied with an intensity that could only be Feanárian.

Tyelpe jerked back, a startled grin painting his expression. “I felt him kick!”

Findekáno chuckled, “Him?”

“It’s going to be a nér.” The words were spoken with complete assurance.

Itarillë looked over to the boy, scowl appearing, creasing her brows. “No! It’ll be a nís, like me. I’m her cousin, after all.”

“And I’m his cousin!”

“You know,” Findekáno stemmed the argument, “there are two. It could be one of each.” Another conversation, so long ago. A father caught in grief, a husband lost.

It flew from his mind at the sound of his niece’s voice.

“Well, my cousin will be the nís.”

After so long, it felt good to laugh.

Curufinwë glared at Findekáno more and more since Fëanáro had disappeared, but there was something that had always resonated between the two. A certain understanding which they shared. It was that, and Curufinwë’s previous experience with childbirth, that had him seated beside Findekáno when his labour set in.

He had been confined to his bed for eight hours, and both his energy and patience were starting to collapse.

Curufinwë occasionally ran a damp cloth across his forehead and Elenwë would poke her head in to offer support or food but, apart from that and a midwife, they were left undisturbed.

“It is childbirth,” Ñolofinwë had said, wearied, “it will last until the children are good and ready to come out.” That, combined with Anairë’s famously long labours, failed to instil any type of confidence in Findekáno, and Curufinwë had swiftly barred Ñolofinwë from the room.

Another pain leapt across Findekáno’s stomach and he cried with it. Sweat had stuck his hair to his face and shirt to his back.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” His voice trembled. Findekáno would not admit to his fear, but he knew well of Míriel and her fate. He knew what haunted the steps of every Feanárian and the almost pitying looks which had followed him into his bedroom.

Luckily, Curufinwë was not the pitying sort.

“You are birthing twins, and you are of small stature, of course it will take time.”

He levelled his cousin with a withering look. “You’re smaller than I am!”

“And I only had one. Drink more water.” He remained unmoved. “Push with the contractions.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Complaining.”

Findekáno would have found a cutting response for the words if another, greater contraction had not stolen the air from him. He couldn’t even scream out, and was left gasping.

After the air came back to him, Findekáno found that the pain had not passed, and exhaustion brought tears to his eyes.

“I want Maitimo.” He knew he sounded like a child. He didn’t care. His children were coming and he was stuck in a foreign land and he was scared. Scared for Maitimo and the torment he might be facing, for his children who only had one parent to care for them. He was scared for himself.

His words were left unanswered; they could not bring Maitimo there.

Another hour or so passed before there was one last push, and then a great tension gave way and a baby’s screaming filled the air.

Curufinwë at last stood from his chair to join the midwife and, child in arms, he turned back to Findekáno. His face almost seemed as if it were smiling.

“A boy.”

A mania descended upon Findekáno, then. As if he didn’t immediately hold his son, shower him with love, the boy would vanish. “Let me see him! Let me hold him!”

His cousin moved to his side and then the was a warmth in his arms, fidgeting gently. Dark hair was stuck in every direction, suggesting curls that might one day take hold.

Findekáno gasped out softly, his heart a tender, aching thing in his breast. “Yonya. A little son all of my own.” He couldn’t react any other way, there were too many emotions battling in him of a strength he had never known before.

Curufinwë’s hands again reached out, winding their away around his nephew.

It prompted a wail from Findekáno. “No! What are you doing?”

“Checking his breathing, and letting you get ready for the second.” His voice was stern, if not careful, but Findekáno’s gaze kept to his son, impossibly tiny as he was wrapped in a soft yellow blanket.

The three minutes that came next were the longest of Findekáno’s life. Separated from both children in different ways, caught in a state of limbo.

Then, the pain passed and there was wailing, much louder than his son had been. Again, Curufinwë was at his side with a baby, who was already kicking small limbs into the air.

There was a soft laugh, too gentle to be called a smirk, “It’s a girl.”

She wasn’t placed in his arms fast enough. Here eyes were closed but a wrinkled forehead was crowned with red hair. It was the hair Findekáno had first seen, a lifetime ago, the word ‘russa’ on his tongue. The first one he had ever spoken.

“A girl.” Two words, but they couldn’t encompass all that he felt. The love and the grief and the joy bursting from him. He was delirious with feeling.

One little girl.

“Erien. Her name is Erien.”

Another smirk, but kinder than he was used to. “Fitting.” There was a considering pause, “Shall I call your father in?”

“Please.” He didn’t have to think about it.

When both children were placed in Ñolofinwë’s arms, the elder nér did not attempt to hide his tears.

“Beautiful. Oh, Findekáno, they are beautiful.”

His smile could have torn his face apart. “I know.”

“Have you named them yet?”

“I have!” He had been given a lot of time to think about them. “My daughter is Erien and my son is Artánaro.”

Ñolofinwë seemed both joyous and wretched at the news. “For your uncles?”

Findekáno hummed, opening his arms to receive his children back. “I owe them both much. And he is of noble flame.”

His father remained seated, eyes still fixed on the infants. “Just one name for them?”

“Of course. The other belongs to Maitimo.”

He will come back to me. He promised he would.

Findekáno would have been a fool to miss the pointed looks which occurred over where his head was bowed, but Erien’s mouth had dropped open in sleep, and it was the most adorable sight he had ever seen, so he was content to ignore them.

Peace didn’t last as the door burst open, Írissë running through with her skirts amuck, Tyelkormo and Huan close on her heels.

“Outside! Atya, look outside!”

The curtains were pulled back and, sure enough, the western horizon was alight with bright fire.

It burned to look at, but none could tear their eyes away. Suddenly, the vibrant greens of the landscape came forth, the pale blue of the lake. The distant mountains distorted the light, and reds and yellows melded together and painted the sky.

Ñolofinwë’s gaze was distant when he spoke, eyes still fixed to the west. “We have not been forsaken. Not completely.”

Findekáno tightened his hold on his children and allowed himself to pray.

At last, Findekáno had means to count the time.

Days for Arien’s grace, nights for Tilion’s rule. In and out, like the lake’s tide.

Artánaro stretched chubby hands up towards Findekáno, reaching for the golden ribbons to play with.

“You are a little imp, are you not? Always messing my hair.” Findekáno unwound one to place it in his son’s hands. “Of course, your father was much the same. I don’t know how I will ever find rest between the two of you.”

A little cry alerted him to the occupant of the second crib.

“Maybe my brave girl will save me.” Lifting Erien up, Findekáno sat down to feed her. “You are far more easily contented than your brother.”

Mouth locked around his nipple, Erien only blinked up at Findekáno with shining grey eyes, lit up like stars.

“No. Both of you are terrors who will make my days so much brighter.” He leaned down to kiss his daughter’s forehead. “I will always have you both, if nothing else.” He fought back tears. “And I am so glad of that.”

The last rays of the setting sun warmed Findekáno from his core outwards. The space to his right had never felt emptier.

The twins were two months old when a horse that should have been long dead made its way slowly past the gates which cradled Mithrim. There were two figures seated upon it, two Findekáno did not think to see again, despite his hope otherwise.

Maitimo was slumped over the horse’s neck, caked in dirt and clothes bloodied, supported only by the strong arm of his father which wrapped around him. Fëanáro looked near death himself. His eyes were sunken and stained with dark circles; he had lost weight and his arm sat strangely in its place. Yet his gaze still burned with conviction.

Both collapsed from the mount but were caught by Findekáno and Ñolofinwë, who was at his side.

While Ñolofinwë was occupied with shaking his brother, crying as he asked questions which went unanswered, Fëanáro’s gaze was for Findekáno only, his hands still holding onto Maitimo.

“You will look after him, won’t you?” His words could barely be heard over the rough scratch of his throat. Yet his gaze upon Maitimo was unspeakably soft. “He was my first child.”

Findekáno could only move his hand thoughtlessly through his husband’s hair, trying to convince himself that it was real. “Of course. Uncle, of course.”

“Good. Good…” Footsteps came closer as more drew around them, but still Fëanáro was blind to the larger world. “I wish I could see all that he will become.” Broken and bleeding fingers stretched out to brush against Maitimo’s scarred cheek. “But it is worth it, that he still lives.” The smile fought to remain on his lips. “He was always much easier to love than I. Moringotto will never touch him again.”

Then, Fëanáro collapsed, jerking away from Ñolofinwë as he did so. The smell of burning was pungent.

Curufinwë was kneeling beside Findekáno, cradling Fëanáro’s head and sobbing. Findekáno couldn’t register it all as hands took hold of him and Maitimo both, moving them up and away. Voices surrounding him turned into a singular clamour. It was the collective cry of grief.

Fëanáro had brought his son back from the dead at the cost of his own life.

Maitimo slept for a week.

In that time, Findekáno moved from his bedside only to visit his children, returning to grasp his husband’s hand in his own, thumbing over his pulse just to ensure it still beat.

Findekáno didn’t know what all he might have witnessed, what he might have experienced at the hands of the Dark Lord and his Lieutenant. But he was there, laying on a bed before Findekáno with his chest rising and falling, his heart beating strongly.

Lalwendë shuffled in and out, eyes red rimmed over the death of her eldest brother who she was so like. Water and food was forced down an unresponsive throat as the Noldor waited on bated breath to see what would become of their prince.

Fëanáro’s death had sent them all spiralling, though the wound was not so bitter, this time. Knowing that, no matter his actions in life, there was valour in his death.

“Death is still death,” Lalwendë had spat, “and my brother is gone.”

Fëanáro’s sons by and large shared her sentiment. Though, they too were overcome with relief that their brother had returned to them, worse for the wear but still whole.

Excepting half his ear and much of his face.

But Findekáno refused to allow the thoughts to overwhelm him. There was a hurt to his uncle’s death, but it was nothing compared to his relief at Maitimo’s life. If that thought damned him, he would let it.

Absently, Findekáno watered the flowers which sat by the window, allowing the still-new sun to warm him, Artanáro’s favourite nursery rhyme on his lips.

It was then that a whisper called out to him from the bed. A voice damaged but still recognisable.

“Finno…”

Shock stilled him for a second before he was scrambling across the bed to hold Maitimo in his arms.

“Maitimo! Oh, my love. Dearest husband mine.” He pressed his face, wet with tears, into Maitimo’s hand, the crook of his neck, laughter battling with sobs and both falling from his mouth unstopping.

“You… Finno, you’re here.”

“Of course, of course! I knew you would come back, I never gave up hope.”

Maitimo pulled back for a moment, a trembling hand going to tuck back a strand of Findekáno’s hair which had fallen lose. Then, a grin was breaking forth.

“Melenya.” Arms came around to hold him in turn.

An age passed before Maitimo pulled away, a question on his tongue.

“I— There is much I remember which I wish to forget. But there is some that I cannot recall. Tell me, my father…” He trailed off, eyes going distant.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno’s heart cried for his husband, “I am so sorry, but he died.”

Maitimo’s eyes slipped closed and a halting breath passed through him, as if he were preparing himself. “How?”

“He… You were held captive for a long time. He went to save you. And he did. Maitimo, we didn’t think he could, but he did.” He paused over the next words. “We aren’t sure how, or what happened. It’s been nearly a year since you left Mithrim. But he brought you back, and he died to do it.”

Maitimo gazed towards the window, straining against the sun, distracted again. “He came for me. I thought he would hate me forever. But he came, and he offered his life for mine.”

Findekáno held his face with both hands, thumbing over fresh wounds. “He could never hate you. He told me as much, even when the ships burned.” Findekáno tucked more red hair behind the scarring of Maitimo’s ear as his husband watched him, rapt. “Even then, he loved you more than life. He tolerated nothing that would steal your joy.”

His husband nodded, small tears falling down his cheeks. They sat together and allowed the grief to wash over them.

“Finno,” Maitimo spoke eventually, “I’m sorry. For what I said to you, for how we left things. My words have haunted me all this time. I should have never held your actions against you, not when I led you to worse. If you could forgive me… I should have stood by you.”

Findekáno couldn’t help his smile, brushing his forehead against Maitimo’s own. “If there was anything to forgive, I have done so already.” He started then, remembering with a shock what Maitimo didn’t yet know. “Would you wait here? I have something to show you.”

In a moment, he was back, two gentle weights in his arms.

He waited until Maitimo looked again towards the window before he walked over to the bed, speaking lowly so as not to shock the twins into crying. “Close your eyes, hold your arms out.” Erien grinned as if she knew of their joke.

Maitimo’s head turned in confusion, but he obeyed all the same. “What is this?”

“Hold like this,” Findekáno curved his husband’s hands around the children they had made together. “Now open your eyes.”

Steel grey peaked open. “What—” He drew up short and Findekáno could see the breath leave him as his eyes widened impossibly.

“I was wrong. Oh, Maitimo, I was so wonderfully wrong.” The twins looked up at the father they had never before seen, but seemed to know instinctively. Like a bird picking its mother’s voice out amongst thousands, they knew the nér they stared at would love them and protect them.

“They…Finno.” His voice was breaking apart, fingers twitching against skin still new born-soft.

Findekáno joined him at the headboard. “Artánaro and Erien. Your children. Yours and mine.”

His tears fell in a torrent when he looked up at Findekáno with a smile that trembled under the weight of its disbelief. It was as fierce and soft as anything he had ever known.

“Ours.”

Their shared laughter was wet and Maitimo shivered when he bent to kiss the twins, sobs of joy muffled against their brows.

The scars of Angband were still there and would not hide forever. Fëanáro was dead and his sons were strained, restless. Appealed for the return of their brother but already chafing against their other family. Ñolofinwë had arrived, better for the ships having been sent but still angry and now grieving too.

Their new world was unfamiliar and danger lurked barely out of reach. The designs of Melkor were unknown but undoubtedly sinister and the Noldor still hungered for revenge. There were maps to be drawn up, allies to make. Hurts to mend, if they even could.

There were wars to come, and the future was uncertain. But Findekáno looked at the nér he had loved his whole life and the children that had only ever been a blessing and knew that, whatever road awaited them, it was not endless. The shadow would pass.

In answer, Findekáno’s own chest filled with a light and hope he hadn’t even realised how much he had missed. It rose within him as surely as the tide, and crested like the first rays of sun kissing the distant mountain tops.