Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Hello, and welcome to this story! Before we begin, I'm going to give a brief warning. Although most of the story is pretty low-key in terms of sex and violence, there will be one scene that is graphically bloody. Don't worry about it sneaking up on you; you'll see it coming a mile away. If you don't like blood, skip that section. It's pretty short, and you won't miss much of the plot by skipping the gory bits.

Part of the tragedy of the Silmarillion is that the main characters are all related to each other. It is the story of a family divided against itself, of the two half-brothers, Fëanor and Fingolfin, who were too alike to get along. The House of Finwë must unite if it is to defeat Morgoth, but time and again, that proves to be beyond them.

There are two lines in this story which are quoted directly from Tolkien. You'll probably recognize them, but if not, I will mention them at the end. Enjoy the story, and I will meet you when it's done.

"You jest. That is the only possible explanation for this, Maglor." Fingon whirled to face his cousin and gave a snort that was almost a laugh. "This is a Fëanorian joke, a jape that is perfectly crafted in all respects save one. It is not funny."

Maglor sighed. "It is no joke, Fingon." His long, elegant hands twisted in his lap.

"I cannot accept that," Fingon said. "For then I would have to accept that you would truly abandon your own brother to the clutches of Morgoth, condemning him to torture and perhaps death, while you wait here and do nothing. And I cannot accept that about you, Maglor. Therefore, for my own sanity, this must be a joke in the worst possible taste."

"No. It is the truth." Maglor's voice, normally rich and vibrant, had grown thin and tight since Fingon had seen him last. He smiled mirthlessly. "If it would help to preserve your sanity, then know that there is sound reasoning behind my decision."

"Sound reasoning!" Fingon cried, pacing up and down Maglor's small yet comfortably appointed private sitting room in Hithlum. "Yes, I would very much like to hear your sound reasoning, Maglor. I would like to hear what reasoning has led you to abandon your brother to torment. Were Turgon captive and not Maedhros, I would not sit in camp and do nothing. I would --"

"Yes, what would you do?" Maglor asked sharply. "What would you do, were Turgon captive and you in my position?"

Fingon stopped his pacing, letting his gaze come to rest on one of the cabin's rafters. Someone had begun to carve a twisting, flowered vine along it, transforming something rough and functional into a thing of beauty fit for a prince of the Noldor. Wherever Maedhros was, he could not enjoy the beauty of this carving. "I do not know what I would do," he admitted with a sigh. "But I would do something. I would not sit back and surround myself with comfort while I knew that my brother wailed in captivity. I thought you were a better person than that, Maglor."

Maglor's face twisted with hurt and rage. With an inarticulate cry, the normally gentle singer surged from his chair. He crossed the hall quickly, spun Fingon around and grabbed two handfuls of his cousin's tunic. "Do not say such things to me," he snarled. "You cannot possibly know what has gone through my head since Morgoth took my brother. How dare you presume to judge my actions?"

"Put me down," Fingon said calmly. His heart beat once, twice, three times, and then Maglor opened his hands and let Fingon go.

"I am sorry," he said. "I should not have done that. I am at my wits' end, Fingon. I truly do not know what to do. We cannot storm Angband; your father proved that. If I were to send a sortie forth, Morgoth would spy it immediately, and I will not endanger the rest of my people. I have my younger brothers to consider, as well. I do not wish to lose any more people I love." Maglor's voice cracked, and he turned away.

Fingon was silent. He had held no particular love for Fëanor, but the news of his death had nonetheless come as a shock. How much more so must it have affected Fëanor's sons? Suddenly, he thought he understood everything that had happened, the disastrous parley with Morgoth, the frantic flight to Hithlum, and now Maglor's refusal to send anyone to Angband.

"You are the High King now," he said slowly. Maglor's shoulders twitched.

"Please, do not remind me. I learn slowly, but I am learning. I can rule well enough, as long as I do not stop to think about what I am doing."

"I see." Fingon shifted his weight awkwardly. "What -- what can I do to help you?"

Maglor dropped into his chair and glared at Fingon. "You can leave. You can go back to wherever it is that you came from and leave me to learn my new trade in peace."

"Shall I bring my father here?" Fingon asked. "If you feel that you need aid --"

"Do not bother," Maglor said. "I know exactly what Fingolfin thinks of me." He held up a hand to still Fingon's objections. "As it happens, he is probably right. And you can tell him that. Now, go. If, among all the other things that I must think about, I come upon a way to release Maedhros from a vast, impregnable fortress of rock, I assure you that you will be the first to know."

Fingon opened his mouth to make a sharp response, but he thought better of it. Instead, he gave a short bow. "Farewell, my Lord High King," he said, not unkindly. "If you change your mind and decide that you need aid, you have but to ask."

Maglor nodded sadly, and Fingon left the hall.

As his horse cantered gently along the lake shore, Fingon regarded the sharp peaks of Angband thoughtfully. When he had arrived with his father and brother and sister and their host of followers, the mountains had seemed a perfect challenge upon which to vent the rage of Fingolfin. After the assault had failed, and he had learned that Maedhros was imprisoned somewhere in that range, they had loomed sinister in his mind. Now, he considered the invisible ties of pain and love and their cursed Oath that bound Maedhros's brothers to the mountains, and he wanted to scream at the senselessness of it all.

His foul mood lasted until he drew within the bounds of Fingolfin's settlement on the north shore. As he dismounted and moved to lead his horse to the stable, he heard a squeal of "Uncle Fingon!" A whirlwind of golden hair and grass-stained dress hurtled towards him, and he laughed as he swung his little niece high into the air.

"What, Idril, were you so eager to see your old uncle that you could not wait until he came politely in the door?" he chuckled. Idril wrinkled her forehead, confused by the twists of Fingon's speech. She nodded her head vigorously.

"No."

"Was that no, you were not eager, or no, you could not wait?"

"You are silly, Uncle Fingon."

"Ah, well, it does not matter," Fingon said. "You are here, after all, and you may as well make yourself useful. I must brush my horse before I go into the house. You may hand me the brushes, and if you are very good, I will let you help with his legs."

"All right." Idril slithered down from his arms and hurried into the stables to fetch the box of brushes and currycombs while Fingon led the horse inside. They worked together for a few minutes before a shadow fell over the door.

"Idril! So that is where you have ended up. I have been looking all over for you." Turgon tried his best to look exasperated, but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

"Hello, Turgon," Fingon said. "Someone could not wait to see her Uncle Fingon back from his ride. She has been very helpful. See how clean my horse's legs are."

"And her dress is filthy." Turgon sighed. "But that has happened before, and it will happen again. I am not concerned about that. Today," he added, waggling a finger at Idril, who giggled.

"Idril, will you hand me that hoof pick?" Fingon asked. "This old boy must have his hooves cleaned, although he does not like it much."

"Why?"

Fingon shrugged. "Perhaps it tickles him. I have an idea. Let us distract him. Turgon, will you show Idril where the apples are kept?"

Turgon cut a golden apple in pieces and showed Idril how to offer the pieces to the horse on the palm of her hand. The horse crunched contentedly while Fingon made short work of his hooves. When he had finished, Idril patted the horse's nose, and Fingon led him into his stall and poured him a snack of oats.

While Idril walked up and down the stable aisle chattering to the horses, Turgon pulled Fingon into a semi-private corner. "Did you see any of the cousins?" he asked.

Fingon nodded. "Curufin invited me to take tea with his new wife; the better to show her off, I think. She is a pretty little thing, though she does not have much to say for herself. And I had audience with Maglor."

"Ah. And did Maglor have anything to say for himself?"

"Quite a bit. Among other things, the cousins have no plans to go after Maedhros in the foreseeable future."

Turgon looked up, startled. "What? Is Maedhros dead?"

Fingon sighed. "I do not think so. Maglor seems to believe that his brother still lives. And yet he will not order a rescue."

"Unbelievable."

Fingon shrugged. "Believe it. Maglor has changed, Turgon. The years have not been kind to him."

"But to abandon his brother . . . " Turgon shook his head slowly. "Father will have plenty to say about that."

"Yes, he will." Fingon grimaced at the thought of the coming conversation with Fingolfin. He heard Aredhel's dinner bell ringing from the cabin and squared his shoulders. Turgon gave him a sympathetic glance and called Idril. Slowly, the trio headed for the cabin and the meal that awaited them.

"Fools!" Fingolfin spat. "Fools and children! They are too stubborn to go off and make a real home, and they are afraid to mount any sort of maneuver that might change their position. They will not even make an attempt for their own brother? Hmph!" Fingolfin stabbed at the bowl of rabbit stew in front of him with his fork.

Fingon sighed and poked at his own stew. The meal had not been a pleasant one. Fingolfin still bore a grudge against the sons of Fëanor and would just as soon have remained peacefully on the north shore of the lake, without ever coming in contact with his nephews on the south shore. Fingon was inclined to forgive his cousins, for he knew well the strain of living with a charismatic father. In the years since they had finally arrived in this new land, he had tried many times to induce Fingolfin to re-establish contact with the sons of Fëanor. Fingolfin had dismissed Fingon's arguments that a family must not let strife divide them forever. However, when Fingon had declared that they could not ignore their obligations to the sons of the High King, Fingolfin had relented and had grudgingly allowed Fingon to ride around the lake to pay what was ostensibly a formal visit to their Lord.

Fingon had been glad of the chance to see his cousins, especially Maedhros, with whom he had always been close. But when he had arrived at the camp on the south shore, Maedhros was nowhere to be seen. After they had finished their tea, Curufin had taken Fingon to see Maglor, and Fingon had learned the true scope of his cousins' misfortunes.

"They are bound to this place by their Oath," he said slowly, aware that he was rationalizing as much for his own benefit as his father's. "They are sworn to recover the Silmarils, and that Oath takes precedence over anything else they might consider."

"If they believe that, then they are fools, the lot of them," Fingolfin snapped.

"From Caranthir I would believe it," Turgon put in. "But not from Maglor. Idril, drink your water or do not drink it, but do not blow bubbles in it. Maglor always struck me as more reasonable than his brothers. Surely he is not as deluded by this idiotic Oath as they are?"

"He was as quick to swear as the others," Fingolfin said. "He is less violent, that is true, but that is only because he puts all his cleverness into singing and playing on his harp. A dreamier child I never did see. And he is now the Lord of the House of Finwë!"

"Be thankful that it is not Caranthir," Aredhel said. "You must admit that, at the very least, Maglor's inaction buys us time to consider the situation fully. For my part, I do not wish to repeat the misunderstandings that led to what happened at Alqualondë."

Everyone at the table fell silent. Turgon winced. In the silence, Idril banged her fork on the table. Turgon took the fork from her, glaring at his sister and brother. "It is precisely because of what happened at Alqualondë that I do not wish to waste my time coddling my cousins' whims. But for their treachery, Elenwë would still be alive."

"If that is so, then why do we remain here?" Fingon asked. "If you and Father are so irritated by Maglor's inaction, then why do you not leave? There is a whole world to explore. What binds you to the cousins? You do not even like them."

"They are hotheaded, treacherous fools," Fingolfin said through gritted teeth, "but they are kin to us. And I refuse to sink to Fëanor's level and abandon my kin in their need. What would they do if we left? What would become of them under Maglor?"

"There is the answer, then," Fingon said. "You use your own pride to conceal your abiding love for your nephews. And because you do love them, you are angry that they do not move to help Maedhros."

"Why do they not move?" Fingolfin asked. "If Maedhros were freed, then we could reason with him and perhaps separate ourselves from the traitors in good conscience. But they will not move, and so we must remain here with them."

"Enough," Aredhel said firmly. "This discussion will take us no further tonight. We are not required to like the cousins, but for the time being, we must live with them. And if we are to do that, we cannot maintain our silence and distance. It is my counsel that Fingon should return to see the cousins and determine the full extent of their situation. Then we may properly decide whether we wish to leave them or to render aid."

Fingolfin sighed. "It is good counsel. We will wait, and then we will see. Do not return to them yet, Fingon. I will let you know when the time is ripe."

Fingon nodded. It was not much, but at least he felt that he had found the crack in the wall that divided the Houses.

Turgon stalked outside with a bottle of wine after the meal was over. His family let him go without comment, for they, too, missed Elenwë. Aredhel took Idril away to put her to bed. Fingolfin, after receiving a goodnight kiss from his granddaughter, retired to his chamber, where a lamp burned long into the night. Fingon sat in the main room for a while and wondered what to do with himself.

Finally, he decided that, if he wanted to make peace among the houses of the Noldor, he had best start with his own. He went outside and found Turgon sitting on the grass gazing at the stars, the bottle of wine open at his side. Fingon sat down next to his brother and saw that he had been weeping.

"I am sorry, Turgon," he said. "I should not have talked about the cousins for so long at dinner tonight. That was a topic perhaps best left for the day."

Turgon sighed. "It was not wholly your fault. I contributed my share, so I am just as guilty as you." He offered the bottle to Fingon. "Have some wine. Let us drink and be friends again."

Fingon examined the bottle. In the moonlight, he could see that it was half empty. He took a sip and then set it down away from Turgon. "It is good wine," he said. "Do not waste it mindlessly in your grief."

"She was so beautiful," Turgon said. "It was so sudden. She fell with Idril. Why could I not have saved them both? I keep asking myself what I could have done differently, and I cannot think of how I could have saved Elenwë that would not have meant Idril's death instead."

"Perhaps there was no way to save them both. You did all that you could do."

"But it was not enough. Nothing I could do would have been enough." Turgon glared across the lake. "That is why I do not especially mourn the cousins' misfortunes; it is no more than they deserve. If they had not burned the ships, we would not have had to cross the ice in the first place. Why did they do that, Fingon? Did they not think of the pain they would cause?"

"I do not know." Fingon had asked himself that very question many times on the long, terrible march over the ice floes. He could not reconcile his memory of his playful, inventive cousins with the shock of their betrayal. "Perhaps if I renewed relations with them, they might tell us that."

"I want to hear their explanation," Turgon said. "But you will have to be the one to ask. I cannot face them yet. I would spit in their faces."

"Then I will go. When Father gives me leave to do so, I will go and ask them why they do what they do. And perhaps this breach will be healed."

Turgon snorted. "You are an idealist, Fingon. I cannot imagine the magnitude of a deed that would be proper restitution for all they have taken from us."

"Neither can I. But the cousins were always inventive. I hold out hope that they will surprise us one day."

They were silent for a while, staring up at the moon that hung large and silver in the night sky. "When will Father let you return to them?" Turgon asked after a while.

"I do not know," Fingon said. "But I am sure that he will tell me in his own way, in his own time. It is unlikely to be tonight, though. We should go in and go to bed. You look tired."

"I am exhausted," Turgon admitted.

"And no wonder. Grief is hard work. Come." Fingon pulled his brother to his feet. "Aredhel has put your daughter to bed, and I will do the same for you."

Fingolfin made no mention of a second visit to the cousins the next morning, nor did he say anything for three days following. Fingon went about his daily business, working at all the little tasks that would transform settlement at Hithlum into a real town.

His latest project was cutlery. When Fingolfin's people had set out to cross the ice, they had abandoned all that they did not need to survive, and all of their forks and spoons had been left behind. When they had arrived in Middle Earth, they had carved new ones from wood, but these were crudely made and tended to warp and split with use. Fingon and some of his friends had carefully saved the antlers from deer that they had hunted. The smaller prongs they carved into buttons for clothing, and the longer branches would make new cutlery.

In exchange for new cooking pots, Fingon had made a complete set of forks, table knives and spoons for their smith's large extended family. Now, he was carving a set for his cousin Finrod. As he sat in his workshop carefully shaving bits of horn, a shadow fell across the table. Fingon looked up from the spoon that he was carving. Fingolfin stood in the doorway watching him. In one sudden movement, Fingolfin approached him and dropped a cloth-wrapped bundle in his lap. Fingon opened it and saw a pair of leather gloves. They were not new, but they were warm and serviceable.

"If you have a mind to visit your cousins again, you may leave those with Maglor," Fingolfin said brusquely. "More than likely, he will need them. A harpist’s hands ought to be protected, and I am sure that he will not have thought to bring a good pair of his own — just those rough war-gloves that the others use."

Fingon smiled. "I am sure he will appreciate the thought, Father."

A few days later, Fingolfin left him a package containing two silver collars set with polished lumps of the amber that he had collected from the lake shore. "These are not because I like Curufin, you understand," he told Fingon. "But you said that he had taken a new bride. Her husband's crimes are not her fault. She should have a wedding gift."

"Of course." Fingon carefully kept his face straight as he laid the collars into a pouch with the gloves.

Over the course of a fortnight, Fingolfin produced small gifts for each of his nephews, leaving them with Fingon. Each time, he announced loudly that the item was certainly not to be understood as a token of affection, but rather as a necessary object which the careless recipient would surely have either forgotten at Alqualondë or not thought to provide for himself.

There was some suspense over the question of a gift for captive Maedhros. Finally, Fingolfin appeared with a small box that contained a checkered board and an assortment of pebbles, some white and some dark. "If he is ever rescued, he will be quite some time in recovering," Fingolfin explained. "If he is still as rambunctious as I remember him, he will be insufferable until he is fully recovered. This will perhaps distract him and keep him from running off and doing something foolish. And if he is not rescued, the others may keep themselves occupied with it as well."

Fingon nodded soberly and tucked the box safely in the pouch containing the other gifts. "Thank you, Father," he said. "I have been thinking. Since there is no immediate work to be done tomorrow, perhaps I will ride around the lake and learn what I can of the cousins' plans for the future. By your leave, of course."

"Do what you will," Fingolfin answered. He made a show of returning to work planning next year's garden. Fingon hid his smile behind his hand and picked up his carving.

"Fingon! Wake up, child!"

Fingon felt his father give his shoulder a hard shake. He wondered what was so urgent, but if Fingolfin felt the need to wake him in the middle of the night, then Fingon trusted that there was a reason. Obediently, he tried to leave the world of dreams behind.

The difficulty surprised him. His limbs felt strangely heavy and wooden, and his eyes slipped in and out of focus. Something smelled rotten, and there was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. As he struggled against the soft dark fingers of dream, he was hauled upright to sit on the edge of the bed. Fingon felt his father's hand patting insistently at his cheek. Mustering all his will, Fingon shoved sleep away and focused his eyes. He looked into his father's frightened face.

"What -- what is the matter?" he asked. His tongue felt enormous, and his voice slurred.

"I was afraid you might not wake," Fingolfin said.

Fingon wondered at that. Then he realized that the rotten odor in the room came from the billowing clouds of smoke that filled it. "Smoke?" he said stupidly. "Is the house on fire?"

"No. There is no time to explain." Fingolfin handed Fingon a handkerchief. "Tie this over your face and go rouse your sister. I will see to your brother and Idril. Climb onto the roof." He pulled Fingon up from the bed and hurried out of the small bedchamber.

Fingon followed him and made his way through the oily smoke to Aredhel's chamber. There was something strange about the smoke, but he could not grasp what it was. Coughing through the handkerchief tied around his face, he knocked at Aredhel's door. There was no answer. Fingon knocked harder and tried to draw enough air into his lungs to call out to his sister. "Aredhel?" he choked. "Open your door."

Still there was no answer. Frightened, Fingon tried to push the door open. It did not move. He put his shoulder against it and shoved harder. The door creaked, but did not open. Slowly, Fingon realized that something was blocking the door from the inside. He fought down a surge of panic. He needed to get into Aredhel's chamber, and to do that, he needed to think. He could take an axe and chop through the door, or he could chop through the thin wall that separated his bedchamber from his sister's. But that would take time he could not afford and energy he was not sure he possessed.

The only other way into Aredhel's chamber was through her window. Fingon groped his way outside. He could feel the cool night air, but the strange black smoke seemed to fill the entire valley. Feeling his way around the house, he stumbled to Aredhel's window, reached in, and yanked down the curtains that covered it. He took a deep breath of the relatively cleaner outside air and climbed inside.

By the dim moonlight that filtered through the smoke, he discovered what had blocked the door. Aredhel lay sprawled against it, as though she had tried to flee before being overcome by the fumes. Fingon made his way across the room and lifted Aredhel. There was no time to try to rouse her; he was already growing dizzy from the poisonous smoke. He slung his sister across his shoulders and carried her out of the house.

Fingolfin had left a ladder propped against the roof, and Fingon climbed slowly, making sure not to let Aredhel slide off of his shoulders. Once he reached the roof, he found that he could breathe again. He laid Aredhel down and took deep lungfuls of clean air. Fingolfin held Turgon's shoulders as Turgon coughed up dark phlegm in great wracking spasms. Idril sat huddled beside him, her eyes round over the scarf she held tightly across her face. Fingon could see other families in the settlement climbing to their own roofs, while grooms led strings of frightened, blindfolded horses out of the stables and up into the hills. Then Fingon realized what was so strange about this smoke.

"It just sits on the ground," he said. "Proper smoke ought to rise. This smoke clings to the ground like mist."

"And it is settling over the lake," Fingolfin said. "I do not know if the water will be fit to drink."

"Where -- where did it come from?" Turgon gasped.

"There is only one place that could produce something so foul," Fingolfin said. "This is Morgoth's doing."

"Then we should rise against him," Fingon said. "We cannot stand idly by and let him poison our homes."

"Another assault on Angband?" Turgon said, his voice hoarse from coughing. "Are you mad? Do you wish to destroy more of our people by dashing them against that rock?"

"We were not at our full strength then," Fingon countered. "We were weary from crossing the ice. But now we have had some years to rest and grow strong."

"There are not enough of us," Fingolfin said. "We lost many to the ice, and many more in our previous attempt on Angband."

Whatever foul poison Fingon had breathed made him feel light-headed. He spoke his mind without thinking. "There are not enough of us on this side of the lake. But if we united with the cousins and their folk, we would be strong."

With a choked cry, Turgon lunged at his older brother, but fell short, collapsing into another coughing fit. Fingolfin was at his side instantly, glaring at Fingon.

"Enough!" he said. "Both of you. Turgon, there was no call for your behavior. Fingon, I will not ally my folk with traitors. Be content that I allow you to visit them on occasion."

Fingon opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, but Aredhel moaned, and her eyelids fluttered. Fingolfin was still occupied tending to Turgon and nodded to Fingon. Fingon knelt on the roof at his sister's side and began to prod her awake.

They stayed on the roof for the rest of the night, breathing in the clean air and allowing the poison to fade from their bodies. They did not mention the sons of Fëanor again. But Fingon gazed out across the lake, hidden by the foul vapors that swirled above it, and thought angrily that the strife between the Noldor had left them too vulnerable to an attack from the real enemy.

By morning, the smoke of Angband had dissipated enough to allow the Elves to return to the ground. It did not vanish, however. Instead, it hung in the air, dimming the sun. For much of the morning, Fingolfin forbade his people to drink water from the lake. They grew thirstier and thirstier, and finally Fingolfin allowed Idril to offer a pan of water to the rabbits they raised for meat and fur. When the rabbits did not fall dead, Fingolfin decided that the water was fit to drink. It tasted bitter, but it slaked the Elves' thirst, and no one fell ill from drinking it.

Fingon did not dare to bring up the subject of a trip around the lake that day, nor the next, but on the third day, he asked permission to visit his cousins and learn how they had fared with the poison smoke. Fingolfin grudgingly agreed, and Fingon rode off.

Curufin met him at the outskirts of his people's settlement. He wore the silver collar that Fingolfin had sent him, and Fingon saw that the silver had grown dim. Curufin noticed Fingon eyeing it.

"It is this cursed vapor," he explained. "It has corroded the metal somehow and tarnished it. My wife tried to polish hers, but the tarnish soon returned. Perhaps, if the smoke ever lifts, the silver may be polished properly."

He escorted Fingon to Maglor's cabin. Fingon knocked at the door and was startled when Maglor flung it open with a bang. Maglor's hair was tangled, and his eyes were wild. He threw his arms around Fingon and held him close. Surprised, Fingon patted Maglor's back awkwardly and attempted to greet his cousin.

"Surely you cannot have missed me that much," he said. "Or have you now become dependant on my infrequent visits?"

"It is not that," Maglor said. "I apologize for my behavior; I was far too forward with you. But I have good cause for joy in seeing you. Come inside, and I will explain." He ushered Fingon into his cabin and poured water for both of them, mixing it strongly with wine.

"I find that the wine masks the foul taste of the water somewhat," he explained.

Fingon took a sip and nodded. "It does help. Thank you."

Maglor sat down and stirred his own cup. He attempted a smile, but it died on his lips, and he looked lost. For a moment there was silence in the cabin. Then Maglor raised his head with a jerk. "You are well?" he asked Fingon. "Do all of the folk in your father's settlement live?"

"Yes. We lost some livestock, but not many. My sister felt poorly for a day, but she has recovered."

Maglor relaxed visibly. "I am glad to hear it. I feared for you and your folk when the smoke came."

"I had wondered about your folk," Fingon said. "In fact, that was the purpose of my visit. I had come to discover how you fared."

"We are well enough," Maglor said gloomily. "We lost two horses, and Caranthir coughed for much of two days, but his breathing is calmer now. It seems that we fare no worse than you."

"I will tell my father. I cannot say that he will be excited at the news, but I will tell him anyway."

"Will you also send him my apologies?" Maglor raised his head to look directly at Fingon. "I fear that I and my brothers are the cause of this plague of foul smoke."

Fingon nearly choked on his drink. "You? How? Maglor, ships are one thing, but unless you have recently burned a great deal of something so foul that I do not even wish to imagine it, you could not possibly have caused such a thing."

Maglor winced. "Perhaps I misspoke," he said. "We did not cause the smoke directly, but I am certain that it is the result of our actions."

"Now this is a tale that I must hear," Fingon said. "What new adventure have the sons of Fëanor undertaken?"

Maglor sighed and looked again at his cup. He stared at the wine and water, as if he hoped to find the right words lurking somewhere in the dregs. All at once, he straightened, picked up the cup and drained it in one long swallow. Fortified, he turned back to Fingon.

"I have been thinking seriously about our first conversation," he began. "You remember. The first time you came to visit us here. You were furious at me because I tarried here and did not immediately rush out in search of Maedhros."

"I am sorry. Perhaps I spoke too harshly on that day. Maedhros was -- is a dear friend."

Maglor waved Fingon's apology away. "No. You spoke truly, and I spent much time thinking about what you said. Your words had merit, and I applied myself to thinking how I could manage such a rescue. Every time that you visited after that, I felt shamed because I had not yet conceived a plan. Clearly, a full assault would have no effect. You had already tried that."

Fingon opened his mouth, but shut it again when Maglor glared at him.

"I know," Maglor said. "Perhaps I should have been bolder. But I am not Maedhros, as your father would no doubt take great pleasure in reminding me. In any event, I decided against such an assault. Five days ago, I thought that perhaps a small sortie could accomplish what a full army could not. I gathered my brothers and ten of our strongest companions, and we crept to Angband that night. But we had forgotten about the Moon. Though it was not yet full, still its light was enough to make our armor shine. Morgoth knew that we came, and he sent a great force of Orcs to meet us. I count myself fortunate that I was able to bring my brothers and some of our party home. But six of our companions died on the mountainside that night. We came home, bound our wounds, and thought that the matter had ended there. We were wrong. The smoke came two days later. I can only believe that it is Morgoth's retribution for what we did."

Maglor fell silent. He dropped his gaze and stared miserably at his lap. Fingon toyed with his cup and considered what Maglor had said.

"You did a brave thing," he ventured. "Now more than ever, I regret the harsh tone I took with you at my first visit. I am sorry for your losses. But I do not think that you should give up hope yet. I will tell this tale to my father, and perhaps it will soften his heart towards you. If he believes that you are making an effort to become the leader he wishes you would be, I might persuade him to give you aid."

"No. Do not waste your breath," Maglor said. "Fingolfin will see no cause to aid me, not after the harm my actions have caused. It would be enough were he simply to consent to speak with me again."

"Then I will ask him to do that." Fingon took Maglor's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We are kin, you and I, and I have not forgotten that. I cannot stand to see this wall of bitterness divide our houses further. Somehow, I will find a way to heal the breach between us."

"You are kind," Maglor said. "When you speak, I almost feel that my crimes could somehow be washed away. But I know that they will remain forever in memory. Nothing can be as it was before. It is enough that you consent to visit from time to time. I would expect no more grace from your folk."

Fingon shrugged. "Do you know what our grandfather used to say? He said that the darkest hours often brought unexpected grace."

Maglor gave a watery laugh. "He referred to his marriage with your grandmother when he said that. My father repeated his sayings sometimes, but that particular one was never one of his favorites." As he mentioned his father, his eyes suddenly grew liquid, and he turned away from Fingon. "I miss Maedhros," he said.

Fingon felt his heart clench in sympathy. "So do I," he admitted.

Not wishing to cause another scene around the dinner table, Fingon waited until after the meal to discuss Maglor's confession with Fingolfin. Fingolfin listened intently as Fingon described the visit, then sat back in his chair.

"So that is the answer to the riddle," he said. "I knew such smoke could not be natural. It had to have originated from Angband. And now I know what precipitated it."

"Maglor sends his apologies, Father. Do not be angry with him."

Fingolfin shook his head. "No, child, I will not hold this grudge against Maglor. It was a brave effort, with unfortunate consequences. All the blame in this matter is upon Morgoth's head."

Fingon smiled. "Then you will go and speak to Maglor? He would love to see you again."

"I did not say that." Fingolfin's expression hardened. "I hold him blameless in the matter of this smoke, yes, but other deeds of his I cannot forgive. His family began the Kinslaying, and they abandoned us to the terrors of the ice. If Maglor or his brothers truly wish my pardon for that betrayal, then they must come here. They must go down on their knees and beg my forgiveness for the hurt they inflicted on my people -- on my family. If they are willing to humble themselves and show that they truly repent of their actions, then I will consider reforging the friendship between our Houses."

"Perhaps Maglor is too ashamed to come here," Fingon said. "I think he is afraid of what you might say."

"Say rather, he is too proud to come and humble himself," Fingolfin snorted. "If he is truly repentant, he will come to me and say so. Until then, the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin will remain officially sundered."

"That is foolishness, Father!" Fingon snapped. "Can you not see what is afoot here? While we sit on our hands and bicker and squabble with our kin, Morgoth grows strong. Today he has tried to poison us with smoke. Who knows what he will do tomorrow? We cannot afford this feud, not with such an enemy at our doorstep."

Fingolfin stood and glared at his son. "I have said all that I have to say on this matter, child. If the sons of Fëanor wish forgiveness and reconciliation, then they must sue for it themselves. One cannot ally with those whom one does not trust, and I do not trust the sons of Fëanor so long as they persist in their betrayal. This discussion is at an end." He stalked off to his own bedchamber.

Frustrated, Fingon slammed his fists down on the table so hard that the crockery rattled. Hearing the noise, Aredhel hurried from her bedchamber into the main room.

"Fingon?" she said. "What is the matter? Why are you so angry tonight?"

Fingon sighed. Briefly, he summarized his conversation with Fingolfin. "I do not understand this," he moaned. "Why can Father not see the danger lying just outside his doorstep? Our very lives could depend on our unity, Aredhel. Is that not worth deigning to see the cousins?"

Aredhel looked down at the table. She traced her finger along the tablecloth, drawing boxy, abstract patterns. Fingon smiled and placed the five fingers of his own hand on the table. Raising his middle finger slightly, he wiggled it around like a little animal sniffing the ground. With the other four fingers, he walked his hand-animal to Aredhel's hand and made it sniff at her wrist. Aredhel giggled, and then fell silent. At last, she spoke.

"I know that an alliance between our houses would be important," she said. "But I think I can understand Father's reluctance to see the cousins."

"You? You used to be friends with them just as much as Turgon and I were. You were always tagging after the twins or begging Maglor to tell you a story."

"Yes, I remember. And I remember the day that Maedhros taught me how to make candy. We made a great big pan full of candy, and then we sat by the fire and ate it, just the two of us together. I had never in my life eaten so much candy at once."

Fingon smiled at the memory. "You looked rather green when I came to collect you."

"But I finally had a chance to eat as much candy as I wanted," Aredhel laughed. "And if I never did it again, I had at least done it once." Her face darkened, and she became serious again. "That is why I do not want to see the cousins now," she said. "They have become Kinslayers and they betrayed us afterwards. It is their fault that we had to cross the ice and that Elenwë was lost. Idril does not remember her mother, and that grieves Turgon almost as much as does her loss. I cannot think such things of my cousins who were once my friends. I would rather remember Maedhros for making candy than for burning the ships and stranding us there at Alqualondë. I am sorry, Fingon."

Fingon bowed his head. Aredhel's words had hit home. He had felt much the same way more often than he cared to admit. But in the end, his basic affection for his cousins usually won the day. He took Aredhel's hand and kissed it.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I understand. I do not know if this conversation will alter my will in this matter, but I think I understand Father's words better."

"Go to sleep now," Aredhel advised him. "The end of day brings poor counsel. Sleep, and perhaps the light of morning will offer you better advice."

Fingon did go to bed, but sleep did not find him. He remained wakeful, worrying over the problems which beset his family. He turned the problem over and over in his mind, and one thing became clear. As long as Maedhros remained captive, the stalemate would endure. Maglor would continue to do nothing, and Fingolfin, feeling honor-bound not to desert his King, would stay in his settlement by the lake and fume. And while both sides did nothing, Morgoth would grow ever stronger. Clearly, the only thing to do was to find Maedhros and release him. Maedhros would make the decisions that would bring action. Someone would have to rescue him.

And then Fingon realized that that someone would have to be him. Maglor would not dare try again, and none of Fingolfin's people would rouse themselves even once to the task. If he wanted Maedhros back, then he would have to go and find him by himself.

Once he had made his decision, Fingon felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He lay awake in the dark for a while longer, and began to form a plan in his mind. He would rescue his beloved cousin. Before sleep finally claimed him, he thought with a certain vicious glee that, if he did manage the rescue, such a deed would force his family to communicate with his cousins again. Confident in his choice, Fingon rolled over and slept.

After dinner was over, he retreated to his chamber and filled a pack with bandages and extra blankets, unable to believe that Maedhros would be unhurt after so many years in captivity. He packed several rolls of bread and a skin of water. Upon reflection, he added a small flask of the strong cordial that Aredhel made and kept for emergencies.

He waited until the house was quiet. His family would surely be asleep by now. He slung the pack over his shoulder and stole out of the house, opening the doors slowly so that they would not squeak and give him away.

As soon as he was outside, however, he realized that all of his silence had been in vain. Idril sat on a bench just outside the door, singing softly and accompanying herself on her small harp. When the door opened, she turned around and saw Fingon. She stopped singing and looked guilty.

"Uncle Fingon," she choked. "I could not sleep. I tried, truly I did. I thought that if I came out here, the stars might sing me to sleep. But the stars do not sing, ever since the smoke came, so I sang to them."

"That is kind of you," Fingon said.

"Oh, Uncle Fingon, will you please not tell Father or Aunt Aredhel that I am out here?" Idril asked. "I did not mean to be naughty. I really could not sleep."

Fingon almost laughed at the situation. "I believe you, Idril," he said. "My lips are sealed, and your father and your aunt will hear nothing of this from me. But only if you promise not to tell them that I am out here as well."

Idril nodded, then put her head to one side and regarded Fingon quizzically. "You did not come out here to tell me to go back to bed?" she asked. Fingon shook his head. "Why did you come outside, then?" Idril asked.

Fingon sighed. He hated lying, and most of all hated lying to Idril, so he settled on something approximating the truth. "I was troubled, too," he said, "just as you are troubled. I came out here to find peace, even as you did. But I am bigger than you are, and I think I must go farther away to find my peace." He assured himself that he had not quite told a lie; if he succeeded in rescuing Maedhros, he would indeed feel more peaceful than he had felt in a long time.

"Here," Idril said. Fingon looked down and saw that she was offering him her little harp.

"That is yours," he said. "You should keep it."

Idril shook her head. "I do not want you to be lonely when you go far away all by yourself. You should take the harp, and then when you are all alone, you can sing to keep yourself company."

Fingon could think of no gracious way to refuse his niece's gift without betraying his secret, so he reluctantly took the harp and tied it to the pack. "Thank you, Idril," he said. "You are very kind to lend me your harp. Now I am sure I will not be lonely where I am going."

"Good. I hope you find your peace soon, Uncle Fingon."

"I do, too. Perhaps you should go to bed now."

Idril slid off the bench. "I think I can be sleepy," she said. "Good night, Uncle Fingon."

"Good night, Idril." Fingon waited until Idril had gone inside and shut the door. Then, he crept to the stables to rouse his horse. Fixing his mind firmly on Maedhros, he set off towards the dark, forbidding peaks of Angband.

Fingolfin pulled his boots onto his feet and stepped out of his bedchamber. Aredhel was just setting breakfast on the table. She looked up when she heard the door open.

"Good morning, Father!" she said. "Here is bread and jam and honey. I have made tea, but it must steep for a few minutes longer."

"Good morning, Aredhel," Fingolfin replied. He sat down at the table and smiled at Turgon, who was smearing a slice of bread thickly with honey. Idril leaned sleepily against her father and blinked at the bread and honey on her plate. "Good morning, Turgon," Fingolfin said. "And good morning, little sleepyhead." He reached out to tweak Idril's nose, earning himself a drowsy giggle.

"She crept outside last night after she was put to bed," Turgon said. "That is why she is less than awake this morning."

"She is not the only one," Fingolfin observed. "Fingon has chosen not to grace us with his presence this morning, I notice."

Turgon frowned. "I thought he was at the stables finishing his chores."

"No," Aredhel said, sitting down at the table. "His chamber is next to mine. I hear him in the mornings when he rises to do his chores, and I did not hear him this morning. I thought that perhaps he was not well this morning. He worked hard in the garden yesterday, and he might have breathed too much of the smoke in the air." She started to rise, but Fingolfin stopped her.

'Sit and eat your breakfast, child," he said. "I will check on your brother. If he is indeed ill from the smoke, I will bring him something to eat and sit with him for a while." Fingolfin rose and crossed the room. He tapped gently at Fingon's door.

"Fingon?" he called. "Are you ill this morning?" There was no answer. Fingolfin tapped at the door again. "Fingon?" Cautiously, he pushed the door open, half afraid that he would find his firstborn so ill from poison that he could not answer. He stopped short at what he saw. The room was empty, and the bed was neatly made. The towel over the washbasin was dry. Fingon had clearly not spent the night there. Fingolfin's heart pounded in his throat. His child was missing.

Fingon dismounted and spoke softly to his horse. He had come to what he thought was a pass over the cliffs into Angband, but the way was narrow. One Elf alone might walk it, but the horse was too large. He told the horse to wait by the trail for him and eat grass. If Orcs appeared, he told it, it should return home, as quietly as possible. The horse snorted gently and looked at him with dark, fathomless eyes before lowering its head to graze. Fingon wondered if it had understood him.

He hefted the pack to his own shoulders and set off up the narrow, rocky trail. The air was relatively clean here, but there was still a gloom that hung about the place, as if the Sun's healing light could never quite penetrate the evil of Angband. The trail was a difficult one, full of sharp switchbacks and covered with loose scree that more than once threatened to send Fingon sliding down the mountain face. It took him far longer to reach the high gap than he had expected, and he guessed that it was around dawn when he finally reached the top of the trail and gazed down into the dark, rocky valley below.

The sky looked overcast, and Fingon decided that this was as close to a real sunrise as he would see in Angband. At home, they would soon be sitting down around the table for breakfast. Fingon sat on a rock and opened his pack. He ate one of the rolls of bread he had brought with him and tried to think how to go about finding Maedhros once he descended into the valley.

Fingolfin swallowed his panic, for it would do no good to alarm the others. "Turgon," he said, trying to keep his voice even, "go and search near the privy and see if your brother is in need of aid. Aredhel, please look in the stables." Aredhel jumped up from the table and hurried out the door. Turgon followed more slowly. Fingolfin turned to Idril.

"I have a special job for you," he said. "Will you run down the path to Finrod's house and ask if he has seen your Uncle Fingon?"

"Why?"

Fingolfin clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking. "Because he is not here this morning, and I want to know where he is. Perhaps Finrod has seen him and can tell you where he went."

Idril smiled. "Finrod does not need to tell me. I know where Uncle Fingon went." She giggled at the look of astonishment on her grandfather's face. "I saw him last night," she said.

Turgon walked into the house. "He is not by the privy," he said, "and there are no signs of anything other than what I presume is normal use." Only after he had delivered his report did he notice that his father was staring open-mouthed at Idril. "What is it? Have you learned something?"

Fingolfin blinked. "Idril seems to think that she knows where Fingon is."

"Where is he, Idril?"

Idril suddenly looked nervous. She stared at the floor, wiggled, and stood on one leg. "I think I am not supposed to tell you. I think it is a secret. He said to promise that I would not tell."

Fingolfin took a deep breath and looked at Turgon. He was nearly frantic with worry over his missing son, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. Idril had to be dealt with gently, or else she might never tell what she knew. Turgon sat on a bench and lifted Idril onto his lap.

"Idril," he said, forcing a smile, "you are a very good girl to remember what I told you about keeping promises. But sometimes, on special occasions, it is all right to break them."

"When is it all right?" Idril asked suspiciously.

"That is something you will learn as you grow up," Turgon said. "I assure you that this is a special occasion. Right now, it is all right to break whatever promise you made to Fingon. Tell your grandfather and me where he is."

"Uncle Fingon will not be angry?"

"If he is angry, then he can be angry at me, for I told you to do this."

Idril twisted around in her father's lap, wrestling with her conscience. Finally, in a very small voice, she said, "I saw him last night when I went outside. He promised that he would not tell you that I was out of bed. He said that he needed to find his peace, and he had to go very far away to find it. I gave him my harp so he would not be lonely."

Fingolfin kept his voice warm and even. "Did Fingon have anything with him?"

"He had a big pack."

Turgon looked at Fingolfin. "He must have been planning a long journey."

The door opened, and Aredhel rushed into the house. "Fingon is not in the stable," she said. "And his horse is missing, as well."

Fingolfin rose, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. "He left the settlement last night on a journey. I think that perhaps it is time for me to pay a visit across the lake. If he is not there, perhaps they know more about this than I do."

Fingon collapsed against a rock and tried to brush some of the grime from his face and hair. He had been wandering around the edges of Angband for hours, and he was no closer to finding Maedhros's prison than when he had started at dawn. The landscape never varied; rocky trails wound between tall cliffs, and foul odors emanated from dark caves. Dust and grit floated on the wind and stung his eyes. He could hear terrible cries of pain, but they echoed through the mountains so that he could not find their source, nor did he know how many prisoners screamed in torment. He had tried calling for Maedhros, but his own voice had reverberated and multiplied, and he knew that, even if Maedhros had heard him, he would not answer.

Despairing, Fingon looked dully at the featureless mountains that surrounded him. Even if he did find Maedhros, he was not sure he would be able to guide them out of Angband again. His stomach knotted at the prospect of wandering lost through Morgoth's stronghold, alone save for an injured cousin. His pack slid from his hand and thumped on the ground. Something twanged gently. Fingon glanced at it and saw Idril's harp, which he had almost forgotten. Slowly, an idea started to form in his mind. Maedhros would not answer a shout among the other screams here, but surely no one else in Angband was singing.

A surge of hope filled Fingon's heart as he untied the harp. He set it on his knee and played a few chords. The harp was smaller than he was accustomed to, being made for a child, but he curled his hands around its strings. He had not practiced in quite some time, but he found that his fingers remembered an old love song that he had particularly liked when he was a gangling adolescent in Aman. He played through the tune once, with only a few wrong notes, then lifted up his voice and began to sing. He paused after each verse, listening intently. Finally, he heard it. Faint and far off, another voice had taken up the song.

Fingon jumped to his feet and slung his pack over his shoulders. Holding the harp before him like a lamp, he played and sang snatches of his song, following the sound of the answering snatches. Gradually, the echoes died away, and he realized that the other singer must be very close. He sang half of a verse, and the other singer answered, his voice rough but immediately present. Fingon looked around him. This valley looked just like all the rest, dark and rocky, ringed with cliffs. The other singer did not appear to be in the dark hole that opened at one end of the valley, nor was there a hidden prison anywhere that he could see.

Fingon sang another phrase, and the other singer answered him. The sound seemed to float down from above his head. Slowly, Fingon looked up. Halfway up a high cliff, near a small ledge, Maedhros hung by a chain attached to his right wrist. He was filthy and emaciated, his thin red hair matted and hanging limply about his shoulders. He resembled nothing so much as the corpses that Fingon had seen littering the Grinding Ice. And yet, Maedhros was singing.

Fingolfin's great war horse thundered into the other settlement, sending startled Elves flying out of its way. He brought the horse to a stop and dismounted, eyes blazing. "Where is Maglor?" he demanded of the nearest Elf. Wordlessly, the Elf pointed to a cabin standing near the shore, a little apart from the others. Fingolfin strode to the cabin and flung the door open without ceremony. Maglor jumped to his feet and smiled.

"Uncle Fingolfin!" he cried. "You have come to see --" His words were cut off as Fingolfin charged across the room and grabbed his shoulders.

"Where is he?" Fingolfin demanded, shaking Maglor until his teeth rattled. "Where is he?"

"Wh -- where is who?" Maglor gasped.

"Where is my son? What have you done with Fingon?"

"Fingon?"

"Your cousin, brat. My son. Perhaps you know him. He visits here on occasion, or so he claims."

"Stop shaking me!" Maglor cried. "I cannot think when you shake me." Reluctantly, Fingolfin loosed his grip on Maglor. Maglor retreated a few steps and stared at Fingolfin, shock and confusion chasing each other over his face. "I do not know where Fingon is," he said. "He has not visited today. Is he not at home with you?" The puzzlement was so plain on Maglor's face that all of Fingolfin's rage drained away, and he collapsed to the floor with a moan. Maglor ran to help him into a chair. "What has happened?"

"Fingon is missing," Fingolfin said. "He did not sleep in his bed last night. Idril -- my granddaughter -- says that she saw him leave our house near midnight. Today his horse is gone from our stables. I had hoped he would come here to see you."

Maglor bit his lip, beginning to worry as well. "He is not here, Uncle Fingolfin," he said. "I can assure you of that. His last visit was the day before yesterday. We talked of the smoke, and of how we both missed Maedhros and wished that he would return to us. Then he left to go home, and I have not seen him since."

"He spoke to me about your conversation," Fingolfin said. "He asked me to come speak with you, and I refused. I said that you or your brothers would have to come and beg pardon of me for your crimes before I would speak to you."

"We are speaking now," Maglor observed dryly. Then he stiffened. "Oh, no," he murmured. "Oh, Fingon, no."

"What is it?"

Maglor gulped. "I think I know where Fingon went," he said. "With all the talk about how much we need to have Maedhros home again . . . what if Fingon went to Angband himself?"

Fingolfin gripped his chair for support as his insides froze solid. "If he gets himself killed for Maedhros, I will . . . I will . . . I do not know what I will do."

Maglor sighed. "For the moment, there is nothing we can do. Fingon is an adult, Uncle. This was his choice. Let us give him the rest of the day to return on his own. If he does not come back, then we will decide together what to do. Stay here. I will make you a cup of tea."

Fingolfin nodded blankly. Maglor hung a kettle on a hook over the fire and searched among jars on a shelf. Fingolfin wrapped his arms around his body and wished with all his heart that his firstborn would return safely to him.

Bound and determined, Fingon scrambled over the debris at the foot of the cliff where Maedhros hung. He was good at climbing, and he was sure that he could find enough handholds in the jagged rock to climb to the ledge near Maedhros. His cousin grunted as the wind blew, slamming his battered body into the rock face. Fingon found the first of several small crevices in the rock and began to climb.

When he was halfway up the cliff face, he felt the rock crumble and give way beneath him. He barely had time to cry out before he fell, landing hard on his back on the scree. He tumbled head over heels down the scree slope, finally sliding to a halt at the bottom, bruised, scraped and covered with grime. The shattered remains of Idril's harp lay before him. His head spun, and he panted for breath, amazed that none of his bones were broken. From above, he heard Maedhros's wail of pain and fear. Slowly, he lifted his head.

The rock face had crumbled away beneath his weight. He would not be able to climb it again. Fingon hauled himself to his knees and stared up at his cousin dangling cruelly above his head and wept with frustration, the tears streaking through the dirt on his face. Maedhros stared back at him, his face almost unrecognizable with grief.

"Fingon," he croaked out, "you should not have come. It is too dangerous for you."

"I had to come. I had to find a way to free you. But I do not see how I can do that now."

"There is a way." Maedhros's body slammed into the cliff again, and he moaned with the impact. "Kill me."

The shock made Fingon's blood run cold. "What?"

"You have a bow. Kill me. Set me free of my torment."

"I cannot do that!" Fingon cried, aghast.

"Please. You must. I beg it of you. Shoot me and end my pain."

"No!" Fingon slumped down among the rocks and wept fresh tears of rage and helplessness. Maedhros waited patiently, and at last Fingon became calm. He rose and reached for his bow, hoping against hope that it had broken with his fall. But the bow was whole, and Fingon knew he had no choice left. Without taking his eyes from Maedhros, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and strung it. Slowly, he bent the bow and aimed at Maedhros's chest.

Fresh tears sprang to his eyes, blinding him and spoiling his aim. Desperate not to miss the heart and cause Maedhros any more pain, he cried aloud to the heavens, "O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!" Gritting his teeth, he blinked the tears from his eyes and prepared to shoot.

Something soft and enormous whooshed through the air, and Fingon dropped the bow in surprise, the arrow bouncing harmlessly off the cliff face. He turned around and saw a giant eagle, as large as a house, staring at him. It dipped its wing, looking for all the world as if it meant for him to climb on its back.

Fingon laughed aloud when he saw it. There was no doubt in his mind that this was Thorondor, King of the Eagles in the stories that his father had told him when he was little. "Oh, Thorondor, you are real," he breathed. "Will you help me?" The great eagle dipped its head once.

Fingon scrambled to collect his sword, his knife and his bow and climbed onto the softly feathered back. The muscles beneath shifted, the eagle lurched, and suddenly they were flying high into the air. Fingon felt the wind blow cold through his hair and shrieked with the new joy of flight. He had broken the bonds of earth and was coming ever closer to the ledge he had sought to reach. Surely nothing was beyond him now. He would lift Maedhros onto the ledge and free him from his chain, and both of their families would be whole again. Nothing was impossible now.

"It is of no use!" Fingon cried in frustration. "The bolt will not come free of the rock face, and my sword cannot cut through the chain or the cuff. I cannot see a way to free your hand from this bond."

"Then perhaps you must kill me after all, " Maedhros croaked. "Do not grieve. Since I ask death of my own free will, it will not be a crime to give it to me. I am glad to have seen you once more. I think I will not mind death so much if I might look upon your face as I die."

"I cannot kill you," Fingon said. "Not now. Not while we are together on this ledge and Manwë has seen fit to send Thorondor to aid us. He has sent us a chance, and I cannot bear to waste it."

"What more can you do?"

Enraged at the resignation in Maedhros’s ruined voice, Fingon rose to his knees and hacked again at the iron cuff. He raised a furious shower of sparks and chipped another notch in his sword, but the iron remained smooth and black and unharmed. After a while, Fingon stopped, moaning in despair. He caressed the abused fingers of Maedhros’s right hand, grown waxy and cold for lack of blood. Maedhros looked at him with bloodshot eyes and coughed.

"Hold my other hand," he said. "That one is dead and does not feel."

Fingon paused and stared at the dead hand, struck by a new idea. He shuddered at the horror of it and tried to push it from his mind, but it was too late. Maedhros had seen the light in his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked. "You have thought of something. Tell me."

"No. It is too awful. I do not wish to think about it any more."

Maedhros coughed again, and a little of the old fire flared back into his eyes. "Is it more awful than the time I have spent hanging on this accursed mountain?" he gasped. "Tell me."

Fingon gulped. "I have thought of a way to remove you from the mountainside," he said. "But it would not be easy nor painless, nor am I certain that you would survive. I thought that, since I cannot free your hand from this cuff, I could free you from your hand." The terrible idea hung in the air between them. Maedhros closed his eyes and turned his face to the side. At first, Fingon thought his cousin had fainted.

After a moment, Maedhros opened his eyes and gazed up at his lifeless white hand. "It is dead anyway," he said at last. "Even if you could free it from the cuff, I doubt that I would have use of it again."

"Are you willing, then?" Fingon asked. Maedhros bit his lip and nodded. Fingon took a deep breath and tried to steel himself. "It will hurt," he said.

"It already hurts. Do it."

Methodically, before he could reflect on what he was doing, Fingon began to prepare. He removed his cloak and laid it out on the ledge ready to wrap Maedhros warmly afterwards. He untied one of the leather thongs from his hair and laid it on the cloak to have to hand as a tourniquet. He drew his knife and sliced strips from the bottom of his shirt to serve as bandages. Finally, he took the tooled leather sheath and placed it in Maedhros's mouth. "Are you ready?" he asked. Maedhros nodded. Fingon swallowed back tears and tapped the sheath. "Bite," he said.

There was no going back now. Fingon picked up a large rock and smashed it into his cousin's arm with all his might. He heard a soft crunch as one of the bones in the arm broke. There was a strangled gasp, and Fingon looked down.

All the color had drained out of Maedhros's face. Sweat beaded across his pale brow, and he was panting as if he had just run himself into exhaustion. Fingon shivered and stroked his fingers through the remains of Maedhros's hair.

"I am so sorry," he said. "Forgive me. I cannot stand to be the one to cause you such pain, but it must be done. Everything will be well. We will have a little rest before the next bone." He stroked Maedhros's patchy hair and whispered soothingly until Maedhros's breathing calmed. Then he took a deep breath, seized the rock again and swung.

This bone seemed to be stronger than the other, and Fingon had to swing the rock several times. At last, the bone shattered. Fingon heard a loud cry of anguish and looked down to see that Maedhros had passed out from the pain. Fingon noticed that his throat was sore and realized that he himself had cried out when the bone broke.

At least Maedhros was unconscious and would not feel any more pain from the procedure. Fingon took up the leather thong and tied it as tightly as he could around his cousin's arm. He checked one last time to see that the bandages were ready, then took up his knife. The blade was keen, but the sinews of Maedhros's arm were tough. Fingon found that the actual amputation took far more effort than he had anticipated. Several times, he reached for his notched sword and used it as a saw against the tendons.

At last, the bloody job was done. Fingon pulled the leather thong even tighter and swathed the stump in bandages. Gently, he laid Maedhros's limp body on the cloak and wrapped his cousin well. Only then did he look up at the white, forlorn hand still held fast in the iron cuff, slowly oozing blood down the mountainside. Fingon's stomach turned at the sight, and he leaned over the ledge to vomit. When he had finished, he whistled the signal that he had agreed upon with Thorondor. The great eagle soared down to the ledge, and Fingon clambered onto his back, clutching the bloody bundle that was Maedhros. With a mighty shove of wings, Thorondor launched himself into the open air.

It was only after they had reached Hithlum, and Fingon had lowered Maedhros into the waiting arms of his brothers, that he began to shake. He slid from Thorondor's back, barely retaining the presence of mind to thank the great eagle before he flew away. As Fingon watched the healers examine Maedhros and prepare him for further care, a gray mist seemed to fill his mind, and he stood still on wobbly legs, not knowing what to do. Dimly, he felt an arm slide around his shoulders, and he was aware of his father's comforting presence.

"Come, child," Fingolfin said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. "Let us get you home. Your part in this is over now." Fingolfin gently steered Fingon to where his great war horse waited, and helped him mount. Swinging up behind him, he allowed Fingon to lean back against his strong chest and wrapped warm arms around him.

"Foolish child," he murmured, as they headed for home. "Where did you learn to be so brave? To risk so much, all for one of Fëanor's brats . . . It was a great deed, child, great and mighty, and the minstrels will sing about it. I will make sure of that if Maglor does not." Fingon's breath hitched, and Fingolfin tightened his embrace. "You did well," he said. "The strength of your friendship is matched only by your courage. I am proud of you."

Fingon did not speak during the ride home. Tears flowed down his face, and sometimes he gave a great sob. When they arrived home, Fingon allowed his father to lift him down from the horse and lead him into the house. He sat passively as Fingolfin stripped him of his filthy clothing, washed Maedhros's blood from his face and hands with a warm, damp rag, and pulled a clean sleep tunic over his head.

"I know it is the middle of the afternoon," Fingolfin said, "but you have clearly had a great shock, and the place for you is your bed." He laid Fingon down and tenderly drew the blankets over him before sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "I used to do this when you and Turgon and Aredhel were little," he said with a gentle smile, rhythmically stroking Fingon's hair. "Try to sleep. Turgon will deal with business today, and I will stay with you."

Gradually, Fingon's trembling eased, and his muscles began to relax. Fingolfin hummed a soft lullaby, and Fingon allowed himself to slip away into dreams.

He did not know how long he lay there. His dreams were dark, filled with choking dust, the sound of flesh and bone being ripped asunder, the coppery stench of blood, and a powerful wind. Sometimes he was asleep, but sometimes he would be aware of the sound of his own weeping. Then his father would stroke his hair and sing to him. Once, he was given cool water to drink. Fingolfin never left his side.

He blinked his eyes. The room was dim, and he could just see the last rays of sunset through the window. Fingolfin was still in his chair, his face illuminated by a single candle set on the night table. Fingon winced. His head spun, and all of his muscles ached.

"Hello," Fingolfin said gently.

Fingon's nose stung, but no tears came. "So you are awake," Fingolfin went on, brushing his hand lightly across his son's cheek. "I am glad. It tore at my heart to watch you dream. I think you must have wept all the tears in your body." Fingon's face crumpled, and he clutched at his father's hand.

"You are safe here," Fingolfin assured him. "What happened on the mountain is past. We will put the pieces together when you have recovered somewhat. I am not going anywhere today." The sound of his father's steady voice made Fingon feel a little calmer. He relaxed, but did not let go of Fingolfin's hand. In silence, they watched the last rays of the sun vanish through the window.

There was a faint tap at the door. Fingon watched as it opened just enough to show Idril standing in the doorway, in her nightgown, a worried look on her face.

"Father says that I may not come in," she said, "but I was frightened. I wanted to make sure Uncle Fingon was safe."

Fingolfin smiled at his granddaughter. "Fingon will be safe, my dear. I think he will need much love and gentle handling, but he is safe." Idril straightened, visibly cheered by her grandfather's words.

Fingon made an effort to speak, for he had something important to tell Idril. "I am sorry," he croaked. "I left your harp behind on the mountain. I did not mean to leave it, but I could not carry it away with me."

"That is all right," Idril said. "Father says that Maglor will make me a new one. Even if he has to lock Maglor in a workshop, Father says."

Fingolfin chuckled. "Your father said that? Good. That is as it should be."

Fingon managed a half-smile. "Maglor makes good harps," he said. "Your new one will be even better than the old one was. Thank you for your harp, Idril. It helped to save a life."

"Good. Then I will not miss it so much."

"You should go to bed," Fingolfin told her. "Your Uncle Fingon is safe, and he will be here in the morning."

Idril sighed. "Good night, Grandfather. Good night, Uncle Fingon. I hope you feel better tomorrow." She closed the door silently. Fingon raised his eyes to meet his father's.

"I know it is evening," he said sadly, "but I feel as though I ought to get up. I should do something useful."

Fingolfin gave his hand a squeeze. "You feel that you ought to get up? Is that what you really want?"

Fingon sighed. "No," he admitted. "I am comfortable here. If I get up, I will have to face what . . . what I did." He shivered, though the room was warm.

"Then rest a while longer," Fingolfin said. "Your deeds are done for now, and the only thing required of you is that you rest and recover from them. I think you may delay facing them for a while longer. You slept lightly, and that for only a few hours."

"Father, I did a terrible thing."

"Hush." Fingolfin pulled the blankets higher over Fingon's shoulders. "Eventually, I will ask you to tell me about it, for I wish to hear of these events in full from you. But this is not the proper time. I believe that I can guess much of what took place in the mountains, and I do not think that it was so terrible that your father could not forgive it. But we will speak of this later. Rest now, and try to sleep without dreams. I will stay here."

"But will you not need your own rest?"

"I will be well enough," Fingolfin said. "I cannot leave you, my firstborn, when you are still in such distress. Compared to that, my physical comfort is of little importance. I will not leave you unless you wish it. Do you wish me to leave?"

"No," Fingon said.

"Then I will stay with you." Fingolfin leaned over and kissed Fingon's temple. "This was always the sweetest kiss. Sleep, child, and be comforted." He sat back in the chair and held Fingon's hand until the grip slackened, and Fingon slept.

When he woke, it was morning. He could hear birds chirping contentedly, and muted light filled his chamber. In the chair beside the bed, Fingolfin stretched.

"Good morning," he said. "I had never realized how pleasant your chamber is in the mornings. You were clever to claim it for your own when we built the house. Do you think that you are able to eat breakfast with the others?"

Slowly, Fingon sat up, his muscles screaming in protest. He could smell freshly baked bread, and he realized that he was hungry. "I hurt all over," he said. "But I think that I can move, if only to get that bread."

Fingolfin laughed. "If there is one thing to draw a body from a comfortable nest, it is the scent of your sister's bread. I will leave you alone while you wash and dress, and when you have eaten, I will ask Aredhel if she has any of the salve she uses for sore muscles." He embraced Fingon briefly and left.

Fingon carefully rose from his bed and stripped off his sleep tunic. At once, he realized why he was sore. Enormous dark bruises covered his body in irregular patterns. For a moment, he wondered how he had acquired them, and then he remembered how he had fallen while trying to climb to where Maedhros hung. He walked stiffly to the washbasin and cleaned himself as best he could. Some dust still clung to his hair, and he feared that he would need help to wash it out completely. He pulled on loose trousers and a shirt, decided that boots required too much effort, and took a deep breath before venturing out barefoot into the main room.

His family was sitting at the table waiting for him. Turgon gave a broad, relieved smile, and Aredhel ran and embraced him gently, making sure not to aggravate his bruises. "We were worried about you," she said. "Come and eat. You must be famished." She seated him at the table and put a plate with three slices of fresh bread on it before him. Idril passed him the crocks of honey and jam, and Turgon poured out a cup of tea.

Fingon thought that nothing had ever tasted so good as that bread smeared with sweet jam and washed down with warm tea. He tried to remember when he had last eaten, and decided that it must have been the roll of bread on the mountain ridge the previous dawn.

"You spooked us all, Fingon," Turgon said. "We searched the house and the yard for you, and then we heard that you had gone off alone. It has been a long time since I saw Father as upset as he was when he rode off around the lake. And then just past noon, your horse returned home without you. I was sure that you had met with some ill fortune and were winging your way to Mandos at that very moment." Turgon's voice shook, and Fingon could see the glitter of unshed tears in his younger brother's eyes.

"But I did come back," he said. "I am not with Mandos. I am here with you." Then he thought back over what Turgon had just said. "Father, did you really ride around the lake? You did not go to the cousins?"

"I did," Fingolfin said. "Finish your meal and let Aredhel see to your hurts. Then I think we must all talk to each other and thoroughly discuss the events of yesterday."

After they had eaten, Turgon washed the dishes and gave them to Idril to wipe while Fingon followed Aredhel into her chamber. She removed his shirt as gently as she could, though Fingon winced when she pulled it over his head. Aredhel gasped when she saw Fingon's back. "This looks dreadful," she said. "Father said you were hurt, but I did not expect this."

She opened a pot of salve, and Fingon smelled its pungent scent as she smeared some on her hands and began to massage it into his back and shoulders. Her hands were gentle, and the ache began to fade just a little. Idly, Fingon wondered if someone was caring for Maedhros with as much love as he was being shown. The salve felt warm on his back, and Fingon leaned into Aredhel's touch. Far too soon, she stopped and wiped her hands on her apron.

"That should ease some of your pain," she said, handing him his shirt. "All the same, perhaps you should not undertake heavy chores today. Turgon and I can trade light work with you."

"Thank you," he said. "It is a generous offer, but I wonder how much work any of us will do today."

"We will see. Come. We are going to talk now."

Fingon and Aredhel joined the rest of the family in the main room. Fingolfin sat in his comfortable chair by the window. Turgon had dragged a bench from the table across the room, and he sat with Idril at his side. The child looked nervous, and Fingon did not blame her in the least. Aredhel sat on the bench beside Idril.

"Sit," Fingolfin said, indicating the other comfortable chair, the one they kept for guests. "We have much to discuss." Slowly, Fingon eased himself into the chair and forced himself to meet his father's eyes. "Where to begin?" Fingolfin asked. "We have seen not a few strange happenings these past two days."

Suddenly, Idril squirmed on her bench. "I will start!" she cried. Everyone looked at her in surprise, and she turned bright red. "I told Father about how I saw you go away, Uncle Fingon," she said in a small voice. "You said that I was not to tell, and I did not mean to tell, but Grandfather asked, and Father said that this was a time that I should tell a secret, but I felt as if I had told a lie, and I did not like it. I am sorry I told your secret, Uncle Fingon."

Fingon chuckled, and felt some of his nervousness flow away. "I forgive you, Idril," he said. "In truth, I think now that I am glad that you told it, for I do not know how I would have come home if your grandfather had not come looking for me."

"Then you are not mad?"

"I am not mad." Fingon smiled at Idril, but then he sobered. "Idril, are you sure you want to hear the tale I have to tell? There are parts of it that are very bloody, and I do not wish to frighten you."

"Yes. But if it is too bloody, then I will put my fingers in my ears."

"Very well." Fingon sat back and took a deep breath. Slowly, he told the entire tale, beginning with his conversations with Fingolfin and Aredhel the night before his adventure. He told about his decision to rescue Maedhros and of his long journey to the cliffs of Angband. He recounted how he had used Idril's harp to locate Maedhros, and what had become of Fëanor's eldest in captivity. As he described his efforts to reach Maedhros, his heart began to pound. He looked at Fingolfin and drew strength from his father's impassive gaze. He forced his voice to remain steady as he told of Thorondor's arrival and his ultimate solution to Maedhros's imprisonment. Idril huddled against Turgon, but did not put her fingers in her ears.

"I asked Thorondor to bear us directly to Maedhros's family. I do not know how long we flew, but we arrived. I tried to tell myself that Maedhros was safe. I do not remember much after that." Now that the awful truth was told, Fingon felt drained. He clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking and looked at Fingolfin, steeling himself for punishment.

Fingolfin sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Fingon," he said. "I must confess, I am completely at a loss. I am sorry that things ever came to such a pass. You are an adult, and you are certainly old enough to make your own choices. But Fingon, why did you not tell me what you planned to do?"

"You would not have listened," Fingon said miserably. "You wanted nothing to do with the cousins. If you had tried to stop me from going to find Maedhros --"

"I have never been able to prevent you from following your heart's desire, Fingon. You would have found a way. Perhaps I might even have aided you in such a task. But to run off alone into Morgoth's own stronghold was a foolish thing to do. It was running off alone that cost my brother Fëanor his life. You are lucky that you and Maedhros both returned alive. If you had not . . . if you had been killed on that mountain . . . dear Varda, have you any idea how you would have hurt us?"

Fingon shuddered at the terror in his father's voice. "I am sorry, Father," he said. "I will not undertake such a task without counsel again. Am I to be punished?"

"Of course," Fingolfin said. "I am confining you to our land, where you may be watched. For one turn of the moon, you are not to venture beyond the stable yard unless I am with you."

Fingon relaxed. To be confined for a month was a difficult punishment, but he knew that it was far more lenient than he deserved. "Unless you are with me?" he asked. "Are you planning to take me somewhere?"

"Yes." Fingolfin rolled his eyes. "I do not see that I have a choice. It appears that your hope was correct; now that your deed is done, I must speak with the sons of Fëanor, whether I will or no. We will go as soon as you are able. I will speak with Maglor, and you may inquire after Maedhros, for I know that you long to do that."

Fingon smiled. "Thank you, Father." Fingolfin snorted and tried to sound gruff.

"It is only fair. No matter what I think of your methods, you did rescue him. It was a great deed, and you paid dearly for it. You should have joy of it as well." Fingolfin rose and kissed Fingon's brow. "I am glad to have you home safely," he said. "And now, I believe that there are still chores to be done here."

All the rest of that day, Fingon stayed near the house and did such work as he was able. He finished carving the cutlery for Finrod and was chagrined to realize that he was not allowed even to go down the path to Finrod's house to deliver the set. Instead, he waited patiently until Aredhel released Idril from her lessons and sent the package with his niece. He stood at the door and watched her go, then turned to see Fingolfin looking at him with an odd smile upon his face. Fingon sighed. This was his punishment, and he felt it was fairly earned. There was nothing to do but to bear it bravely.

In the middle of the afternoon, Aredhel examined him and rubbed more of her salve into his back. Some of the soreness had faded, so they went together to the vegetable garden to thin the carrots. They worked in companionable silence for a while, pulling some of the baby carrots so that the rest might have room to grow large. Morgoth's smoke had nearly vanished during the day Fingon had spent in Angband, and the sun shone down once more, barely impeded by the lingering wisps of gray cloud. The next rain would wash the air clean once more.

Enveloped in the warmth of the sunshine and the fragrance of the fertile earth, his hands caressed by the soft carrot fronds, Fingon felt the urge to speak once more. He did not look at Aredhel, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the carrots in his basket as he told her some of the horrors of Angband. He spoke in a halting monotone, and she did not interrupt him, nor did she look directly at him. After the terrifying passage across the ice, all three of Fingolfin's children had become accustomed to confiding in each other thus. They knew that the words must come out, and that the slow trickle must not be interrupted. And they knew that when the words were over, tears would often follow. Just as Fingon began to choke on his speech, Aredhel came to his side. She took her brother in her arms, and he laid his head on her shoulder as he wept.

When he had finished, she dried his tears and they continued thinning the carrots in silence. Fingon dug his hands deep into the earth and reminded himself that he was alive and safe. He hoped that the same was true of Maedhros.

Over that day and the next, Fingon began to notice another aspect of his confinement. As his initial physical shock wore off, he began to come to terms with what he had done. At odd moments during the day, a wave of grief would rise up to strike him down, and he would stop whatever he had been doing and weep. Always when that happened, someone was nearby and could come to his aid. Fingon was grateful for his confinement then, for it meant that he was never far from someone he loved and trusted.

At the end of the third day after the rescue, Fingolfin declared his intention to ride around the lake the next morning. "I have much to discuss with the sons of Fëanor," he said. "If you wish, Fingon, you may come along on the journey, for I am sure that you will wish to speak with Maedhros, if he is awake and healing."

"I do wish to come with you," Fingon said.

"Do you think that you can mount a horse?"

"Yes."

"Then it is settled. You will ride with me around the lake tomorrow and see your cousins. And then you will come home and remain here for the rest of the month I have set you."

The next morning, Fingon and Fingolfin set off. They rode slowly around the lakeshore, taking time to enjoy the clear blue sky and the darker blue of the lake.

"The air has cleared, and the water tastes less foul than before," Fingolfin remarked. "Perhaps Morgoth is acknowledging defeat."

"Over the loss of a single prisoner?" Fingon said. "I doubt that. Surely he is simply drawing his strength together."

"Maedhros was not merely a simple prisoner," Fingolfin said. "After his father, he was the prize Morgoth most desired. I believe that you struck the Evil One a great blow when you snatched Maedhros from under his nose."

At last, the other settlement came into view. Silence hung over the little collection of cabins, and the people of Fëanor greeted Fingon and Fingolfin with respectful bows. Maglor stood at his door as if he had been expecting them. They dismounted, and grooms led their horses away. Fingon looked at Maglor's face, drawn and pale, and his limbs grew cold. For a moment, no one spoke. Fingolfin bowed politely to Maglor, then put his hand on Fingon's back and gently nudged him forward.

Fingon looked into Maglor's eyes and took a deep breath. "I am sorry," he said. "I hurt Maedhros terribly. I meant to return him to you whole, but I could not see any other way. Forgive me for my assault on your brother."

Maglor looked puzzled, then his mouth quirked into a half-smile. With a sigh, he shook his head. "Oh, Fingon, that is nonsense," he said. "You have no cause to ask forgiveness of me. Instead, it is I who must offer you my deepest thanks, for you have returned my brother to me, whom I had despaired of seeing ever again. He has lost his hand, but he has not lost his life. That his heart still beats is your doing, and I and my family will forever be in your debt." He put his arms around Fingon and held him for a moment, then turned to Fingolfin.

"Please," he said. "Come inside, both of you. I am glad that you are here." He ushered them into the cabin and offered them comfortable chairs. He poured hot water from the kettle into a little silver teapot and turned to Fingon. "You look better," he said. "I did not think to ask how badly you had been hurt that day when you arrived on the eagle's wings, but my brother seemed in more immediate need of attention. When we had delivered him into the hands of the healers, I returned to seek you out, but your father had already taken you away."

"I was only bruised," Fingon said, "and that is healing."

"The bruises on his body are fading," Fingolfin put in. "As for his spirit, we are caring for that as well as we are able. I fear that it will be some time before that wound is fully healed."

Maglor glanced from father to son. "Then perhaps tea is not what you need right now," he said. "Do you wish to see Maedhros instead? He regained consciousness a few days past, and he has asked about you."

Fingon brightened. "May I see him?"

"Of course."

Maglor led him to the back room and tapped on the door. "Maedhros?" he called. "You have a visitor." He opened the door and smiled at Fingon. "Go in," he said. "I cannot promise that he will remain awake for long, but you may see him. Rejoin us when you are finished."

Fingon slipped into the room where Maedhros lay between clean sheets, covered with a light blanket. His bones jutted from beneath his pale skin, and the tendons of his neck could be seen clearly. His eye sockets were hollow above sharp cheekbones, and his eyes glittered. His right arm ended halfway between the elbow and where his wrist had been, a smooth curve of bandage. When Fingon approached, Maedhros raised his left hand in greeting, and the corners of his mouth turned up.

"Fingon," he said. "I wondered if I would see you again. I am glad that you have come. Now we may have a real conversation, as we could not on the mountainside."

Fingon sat in a chair by the bed and clasped Maedhros's hand. Maedhros returned the grip, though his hand was weaker than Fingon remembered. "Tell me how you fare," Fingon said.

"I am deeply exhausted," Maedhros said. "I find that my strength of limb and body has all but vanished since I was first taken captive. The healers assure me that I will grow hale and strong again with rest, and I do not worry about that. Mostly I find that I am hungry. I feel as though my stomach were a newborn babe mewling and crying for food. I do not always have the strength to eat as much as I desire, but I eat as much as I am able, and Maglor always brings food when I call."

"And your arm? Does it pain you?"

Maedhros frowned. "It is a strange thing," he said. "The wound itself does not cause much pain. I am told that the healers trimmed it and closed it neatly, and it is healing well. But it seems to me that I can still feel the hand that is now gone. It burns as though I had put it in a blazing fire."

"Can the healers do nothing to ease that pain?"

"No. There is nothing there to cause it, and they cannot soothe a phantom pain. I bear it as best I can. It is easier when I have someone to talk to, for when my mind is occupied, I do not feel the loss of my arm as much."

Fingon tried not to stare rudely, but he could not prevent his eyes from drifting to the clean, terrible stump of Maedhros's arm. "I am sorry," he said. "I would have spared you this pain." Maedhros's eyes blazed, and he squeezed Fingon's hand.

"No," he said. "You have nothing to regret. Had you not severed my hand, I would still be hanging on that mountain side, and that was a pain a thousand times worse than the loss of an arm. And do not forget: I chose this course. I consented with full mind. The responsibility is as much mine as yours. I do not regret my choice, and you must not regret yours. I owe you my life, Fingon, and I will not forget that."

"You are my cousin and my friend," Fingon said. "I could not have done anything else."

"Are you still my friend?" Maedhros asked. "Then your heart is far greater than I have any right to expect."

Fingon frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean? Of course I am your friend. I have been since I was very small."

"Much has happened since then," Maedhros said wryly. "We have become exiles and Kinslayers, you and I. I stood on the shores of Losgar and watched the swan ships burn, stranding you at Alqualondë. And now Maglor tells me that you and your people did what we had deemed impossible and crossed the Helcaraxë with much loss of life. Through all of that, you still count yourself my friend. I am honored, Fingon."

"I tried to hate you," Fingon confessed. "For a long time after we arrived on these shores, while we grieved and built our new homes, I tried to tell myself that you were evil, and that I should banish you from my thoughts forever. But I could not do it. If you shed blood at Alqualondë, I did as well, and our hands are equally stained in that regard. And it was our choice to cross the ice . . . just as it was your choice that I sever your hand, I suppose. Finarfin turned back, and it seems that we could have done so, too. But we did not. My father led us over the ice, and so I deem that all that befell us there is at least partially of our own doing. I cannot hate you, Maedhros; at least, I cannot hate you so strongly as to blot out my friendship with you."

Maedhros relaxed, and his peaked face glowed with a real smile. His eyes shone. "Thank you, Fingon," he said. "Your words soothe my heart." He paused for a moment, as if gathering the courage to speak again. "Was it bad on the ice?"

Fingon laughed mirthlessly. "How can I speak of terror to one who has endured the prisons of Angband?"

"Come now, surely there is room for more than one kind of terror in the world. Will you speak, or is the memory still so evil?"

"I suppose you are right." Fingon heaved a sigh and forced himself to remember the awful trek through the frozen, treacherous waste at the top of the world. "It was so cold," he said. "I thought that I would never be warm again. The wind howled, and it blew shards of ice that cut our faces. The ice shifted under our feet constantly. That was how we lost Elenwë."

"Elenwë." Maedhros frowned a little as he tried to place the name in his memory. "She is your brother Turgon's wife. She is dead?"

Fingon nodded. "She had their little daughter Idril in her arms. She must have stepped on a thin patch of ice, or perhaps the floe simply chose that moment to shift. We heard the ice crack, and she was gone before she had a chance to cry out. Turgon was able to pull Idril from the water, but the current pulled Elenwë under the ice, and we could not find her again." Fingon paused and looked Maedhros straight in the eye. "Turgon hates you," he said. "He blames you and your family for the death of Elenwë. And he is not the only one, for others of our folk were lost even as she was."

"It grieves me to hear that," Maedhros said. "But I do not blame them. They have just cause for their hatred. I will have to think of some way to make restitution."

"You will not be doing anything for a while. You look terrible. I am surprised that you are still alive."

"After such a rescue, it would be churlish of me to die. You gave me a chance, at what cost I am not sure I can appreciate. I will not waste it."

"Then rest and recover your strength before you think about restitution."

Maedhros smiled. "Yes, mother. In the meantime, I will think about food, for that is much more pleasant. I believe that I can smell a meal, and that is also not a chance that should be wasted. Maglor has become quite the cook. Will you ask him to give us some of his latest creation?"

"I will." The scent of a spicy stew was indeed drifting into the bedchamber, and Fingon found that he, too, was hungry. He got up, went to the door and poked his head into the front room. Maglor was just scooping stew from a cauldron into bowls for himself and Fingolfin, and he smiled knowingly when Fingon appeared.

"You do not need to tell me. It is just past the noon hour. Maedhros is hungry again," he said. "That is good; it will put flesh on his bones. I will bring bowls for both of you." He set the full bowls down on the table and filled two more. Placing them on a tray, he followed Fingon into the bedchamber. "Your stomach calls, and I have answered," he said cheerfully to Maedhros, placing the tray on the chair. "Do you need help to sit?"

"No." Slowly, Maedhros raised himself to a lopsided sitting position. Maglor helped him to adjust the pillows so that he was supported comfortably. He handed one of the bowls to Fingon and placed the tray with the other bowl on Maedhros's lap. "Eat as much as you are able," he said. "The rest can be warmed later when you have more strength to eat again." After he had finished arranging Maedhros and his meal, Maglor left, closing the door quietly.

Fingon took his own bowl and sat down in the chair to eat. The stew was delicious, the meat tender and spicy, the broth fragrant with floating chunks of vegetables and -- "Are these plums?" Fingon asked.

Maedhros tasted his and nodded. "It seems so. I would not have thought to add fruit to a stew, but Maglor was always more creative than I."

"It is good. I will have to remember it and tell Aredhel."

They ate in silence for a while. Fingon smiled to see how Maedhros savored every bite, inhaling its fragrance and rolling it around in his mouth. Maedhros's left hand was still awkward holding the spoon, but he took small bites and managed not to spill any of the broth.

When they had finished, Fingon put both bowls on the tray and set the tray on the floor. "What will you do with yourself now?" he asked.

Maedhros turned his eyes to the ceiling and thought. "I do not know. I will have to see how much of my strength returns to me. I will be of no more use as an archer, but I still have one hand remaining. I will simply have to learn to wield a sword in my left hand."

"Maedhros, why? Have you not shed enough blood?"

"Morgoth still has the Silmarils, Fingon. I swore an Oath to recover them, and I cannot go back on my word."

Fingon sighed. "No," he said. "I suppose that you cannot. But you are so badly wounded already, I hate to think of you putting yourself in more danger."

"Perhaps it will not be so bad. Curufin has offered to make me a new hand out of steel. He thinks he can even craft it so that the fingers could be moved."

Fingon wondered what it would be like to have a cold steel hand strapped to living flesh forever. He shuddered a little at the thought. "Will you accept his offer?"

"I have not yet decided, but it is something to consider." Maedhros blinked. "I am growing sleepy," he said. "That was the first meal I have finished since I awoke, and it is making me very warm and comfortable inside."

"Then you should sleep and heal. I am glad that I was able to speak to you for a little, though."

Maedhros smiled. "Will you return soon?"

"No. For my foolishness in traveling to Angband alone, my father has confined me to our homestead for a month so that I may be watched. I was only able to come today because he wished to speak to Maglor."

"Well, it seems that you have earned a father's punishment, and I will honor that. I will see you when your month is finished, and I will be content. Will you at least stay with me until I am sleeping?"

"Gladly."

Maedhros curled up beneath the blankets, and Fingon held his hand as he fell asleep. Then he tucked Maedhros's hand under the blankets, quietly gathered up the tray and returned to the front room where Fingolfin and Maglor were just ending their discussion.

"Ah," Fingolfin said. "Here is my son now. We will return home now, Maglor, for there are still chores to be done, and Fingon cannot ride very fast yet. Think on what I have told you, and see that you fulfill my conditions."

"I will," Maglor promised. "I will start on Idril's new harp tonight, and it will be the finest I can make. Farewell, Fingon. I hope to see you again when your month is past."

"Farewell, Maglor." Fingon inclined his head politely and followed Fingolfin out the door.

When they arrived home, Fingolfin assigned Fingon some of the chores in the stable before going to seek out Turgon. Fingon did not hear their conversation, but Turgon appeared for dinner looking thoughtful. He was silent throughout the meal, and seemed to be mulling over a new idea in his mind.

After they had eaten, Idril helped Aredhel to clear the table, then carefully wiped the dishes that Aredhel washed. "I want Uncle Fingon to tell me my bedtime story tonight," she announced. Fingon smiled.

"Gladly, Idril. Come to me when you have cleaned your face and teeth and put on your nightgown, and I will tell you whatever story you wish to hear."

He passed the time idly whittling and discussing the weather with Turgon until Idril appeared before them, clean and ready for bed. Turgon smiled and kissed his daughter goodnight. "Be careful which story you choose to hear," he said. "Your Uncle Fingon may surprise you and tell a scary tale. He seems to have a talent for the unexpected."

Fingon laughed and swatted his brother gently. Taking Idril's hand, he escorted her to her chamber and tucked her into her bed. "Now, what story will you hear tonight?" he asked.

Idril snuggled into her pillow and looked at Turgon with round eyes. "Father said that you went to see them across the lake today."

"I did. He knew that I needed to visit my cousin Maedhros, and so he took me along as a special exception to my punishment."

"Is Maedhros all right?" Idril asked.

"He is still sick," Fingon said. "He is very thin and very weak, but he is alive, and his spirits are good. I would say that he is as well as could be expected of him right now."

"But you cut his hand off," Idril said. "Was he angry when you did that?"

Fingon shook his head. "No. He is not angry. Before I cut his hand off, I asked him if he truly agreed that I should do that, and he consented. He chose to lose his hand, and he is not angry at me at all."

"So he will still be your friend, even though you cut his hand off?"

"Yes. We will still be friends."

"Good. Can I meet him sometime?"

Fingon sat back in his chair and thought about that one. "I do not know, Idril. I think it would depend on what your father might say. He does not like Maedhros very much. He has been angry at Maedhros for a long time, and I think that he would not want you to visit with Maedhros. Perhaps when you are grown up, you will meet him."

Idril wrinkled her nose, but seemed to accept the decree. She poked her hand out from under the blankets and waggled it around, studying its movement. "Poor Maedhros," she said. "Now he only has one hand. How will he do things with only one hand?"

"He will learn. He was always clever."

"Did you see the place where his hand was? Was it scary?"

Fingon remembered the neat, bandaged stump of Maedhros's arm. It had grieved him to see it, and to know that Maedhros would always bear this wound as a reminder of his captivity and torture in Angband, but the stump itself had been clean, and Maedhros carried it with dignity. He reached under the bed and found a rag doll that Elenwë had made when Idril was a baby. Its embroidered face smiled placidly, and it wore a little silk dress with wide sleeves that showed the smooth endings of the arms. Elenwë had not sewn hands for the doll. Fingon showed it to Idril. "Maedhros's arm looks just like your doll's arm now," he said. "It is so neatly stitched up that it does not look scary after the first glance."

He tucked the doll in with Idril, fussing a little to hide the cloud of despair that threatened to settle over him with the discussion of his deeds. "Idril," he said, making an effort to keep his voice steady, "this is a very sad story. Is this truly the story you wish to hear?"

"No," Idril said, hugging her doll. "I only wanted to know. I am sorry if it makes you sad."

"What story would you like to hear?"

Idril smiled. "Tell me about the eagle," she said. "Tell me what it was like to fly."

Fingon smiled. This was the part of his adventure that had truly seemed like an adventure, and he was glad to remember it. As Idril listened, fascinated, he described the swooping, weightless sensation of flight, the thrill of leaving the ground behind and feeling the wind blowing through his hair as he sat clutching Maedhros, safely nestled in the eagle's warm feathers. As he spoke, he remembered how the thrill of flight had made him think that nothing was impossible, and he took new courage and hope from the memory.

At last, Idril fell asleep. Fingon kissed her and went to his own rest, feeling as though a wound deep in his heart had begun to heal.

After Fingolfin and Fingon returned from their visit to the sons of Fëanor, they gave news to all who wished to hear it. Life settled down into its normal pattern. Fingon remained within the confines of his family's land, and everyone soon grew accustomed to that restriction. His bruises healed, the soreness in his muscles faded, and he was able to spend much time working in the garden, baling hay, or chopping wood for the winter. Sometimes he woke sweaty and trembling in the night, a dream of dust and steel and blood fading from his mind. But more often, he dreamed of the wide lands beyond Hithlum that waited to be explored.

When three weeks of Fingon's confinement had passed, a messenger bearing the insignia of Fëanor's house came riding around the lake. Fingolfin went to greet the messenger and politely invited him to stay and refresh himself, but the messenger refused. He placed a letter into Fingolfin's hands and left in the same hour. Fingolfin looked at the letter in surprise, then carried it to the garden where Fingon was weeding.

"This is for you," he said.

Fingon examined the letter. His name was written on the outside in unfamiliar handwriting, but the seal was Maedhros's. Hastily, he broke the seal. The letter was short, and the script was wobbly and uncertain, but still legible.

Fingon stared at the letter for a long time, then glanced at the lake. The water shimmered in the sunlight, and a duck swam lazily among the reeds. Someday soon, Maedhros would come riding around that lake, and Fingon hoped fervently that whatever happened would be enough to calm Fingolfin's anger and end their feud, for then his deeds would not have been in vain.

It was the last day of Fingon's confinement. His cousin Finrod had appeared that morning and invited Fingon to dine with him the next evening to celebrate his release. Fingon had accepted the offer with an eagerness that made Turgon laugh out loud at him.

"Now you are the one pining to be free," he said. "Should I chop your hand off, I wonder? Snatch you from under Father's eye?"

Fingon laughed and threw an early windfall apple at his brother. Turgon dodged the missile and seized a bucket of water intended for the horses.

"Here's what will quench your burning need for freedom!" he cried and sloshed the bucket. Fingon jumped back, but the edge of the arc of water splashed over his knees. He leaped at Turgon with a cry of mock rage, and then the two of them were wrestling and squirming in the dust of the stable yard, shouting with glee as they had done when they were small.

Aredhel appeared at the door, her hands floury from the bread she had been kneading. Idril looked over from where she had been feeding the rabbits and squealed to see her father and her uncle wriggling playfully in the dirt. Fingolfin hurried out of the stable and tried his best to look stern.

"Boys!" he said. "Your chores will not do themselves while you play." He did not move to interrupt them, however, for it had been long since both of his sons had laughed so freely.

Fingon had just pinned Turgon to the ground when the sound of distant trumpets filled the air. He looked up and saw a great, formal procession marching around the lake. Astonished, he knelt in the dust while Turgon squirmed out from under him.

"It is the sons of Fëanor," Fingolfin said. "They are coming here on business." Fingon remembered Maedhros's letter and stared at the procession.

"Now?" Aredhel said. "I cannot possibly receive them like this. I am covered in flour! I must set the bread to rise and change my apron, and then Idril must help me lay the table with the good dishes, and . . . " Still chattering, she vanished inside the house.

Turgon leaped to his feet and glanced at Idril. "Your face is smudged," he said. "Come inside and wash."

"You are dirty, too, Father," she said. "And so is Uncle Fingon."

"You are all dirty," Fingolfin said. "But there is no time for you to bathe properly. Go inside and clean yourselves off as best you can. There will be no shame in meeting the sons of Fëanor looking as though we have been interrupted at our work, for that is the truth."

Fingon ran to his bedchamber, stripped off his work shirt and muddy trousers, and scrubbed at his face and hands. The water in the washbasin quickly turned brown, and he hastily dumped it out the window. There was no time to wipe the basin. He pulled a fresh shirt over his head, struggled into clean trousers and pulled on his boots. As an afterthought, he dragged a comb over his head. Deciding that he was clean enough, he hurried outside.

Aredhel was waiting with Fingolfin, wearing a fresh apron, her hands clean and damp. Turgon emerged from the house a moment later with Idril in tow, a hairbrush in his hand. He ran the brush through Idril's hair distractedly as Idril stared at the approaching procession, too fascinated to complain that her father was pulling her hair.

Heralds sounded their trumpets, and standard-bearers marched stiffly, the banners with the insignia of the house of Fëanor flapping in the breeze. Maglor drove a light carriage, and Maedhros sat beside him. He was still terribly thin, but he sat with dignity, and some color and life had returned to his face. The younger brothers rode on their horses behind the carriage, in full armor, gleaming in the sunlight. Behind them rode a small host of retainers surrounding a wagon. All the Elves of Fingolfin's settlement had come outside, drawn by the glitter and noise of the procession, and they stared at the visitors in amazement.

"We will never be able to feed them all," Aredhel wailed. Fingolfin patted her hand.

"We will do what we can, Aredhel," he said. "Let us discover what they want of us first." He stood tall and solemn, as befitted a son of Finwë, in spite of his plain work clothes and stable-smudged face. The procession halted at the edge of the stable yard.

Maglor climbed down from the carriage and assisted Maedhros out. He retrieved a small package from the seat. Tucking it under one arm, he offered the other to Maedhros. Maedhros gripped Maglor's arm and nodded to the rest of his brothers. Slowly, the sons of Fëanor approached Fingolfin.

"Fingolfin, son of Finwë," Maedhros said. "The sons of Fëanor, son of Finwë, have arrived to make our deepest apology for our betrayal upon the shores of Araman. We acknowledge the shame of our deeds, and we regret with whole heart the suffering we thereby inflicted upon your people, our kin. We beg most humbly for your pardon and seek to offer what restitution we may to you and your people." Supported by Maglor, Maedhros went down on one knee there in the stable yard. His brothers followed suit.

For a moment, no one moved. Fingon became aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he shut it, glancing at his family. Fingolfin and Aredhel looked just as stunned as he felt. Turgon's face turned gray, and he clutched Idril's hand so tightly that she whimpered and tugged. Turgon released her abstractedly, and Fingon, thinking that Turgon was about to faint, quickly put a supporting arm around his brother's shoulders. Turgon leaned against him, shaking a little.

At last, Fingolfin found his voice. "I accept your apology, Maedhros son of Fëanor," he said, "and I declare that the ancient friendship between our houses shall be restored. Whether my folk choose to renew their ties to yours is their own business, but I will encourage them in this matter. Rise, nephews, and be welcome."

Fingon let out a breath he had forgotten he was holding. Turgon sagged against him, and Fingon drew him into a swift, strong embrace. There was no time to say anything more, for the sons of Fëanor had risen to their feet, and Maglor was smiling broadly.

"We thank you for your kindness, Uncle," he said. "We would also make restitution for the ills we have inflicted. By your leave, we would begin with Idril."

Idril looked dubiously at the tall stranger in the shining armor, then looked at her father, who stood pale and trembling, Fingon's hand on his shoulder. "No!" she cried, backing up against Turgon and wrapping her arms protectively around her body. "I will not let you do the bad thing to me! Father!"

Turgon laughed shakily, knelt down and stroked Idril's hair. "Do not be afraid, Idril," he said. "They will not harm you. 'Restitution' is a big word, but it is not a bad thing. It means that Cousin Maglor wants to give you a present to make up for something you have lost."

Slowly, Idril turned back to Maglor. She squirmed and stood on one foot in embarrassment as he went down on one knee to her. "I am given to understand that you lost something precious to you when my brother was rescued," Maglor said. "Therefore, I have made this especially for you." He offered her the package he had taken from the carriage. After only a moment's hesitation, Idril reached out and took the present. She untied the linen wrapping and found a beautiful little harp made of cherry wood. Her name was inlaid in gold on its body. Her mouth hung open, and she could not speak.

"That is lovely," Turgon said. "What do you say, Idril?"

Idril gulped. "Thank you, Cousin Maglor," she said. Maglor smiled at her.

"You are most welcome. If you would like, and if your father would permit it, I could teach you some of my favorite tunes."

Idril looked at Turgon, who nodded. She grinned and turned back to Maglor. "I would like that very much," she said. "Can you teach me today?"

"Perhaps," he said. "If time remains at the end of the day. We still have much to do here." He rose and walked back to the wagon. Lifting the cover, he pulled out a wooden chest and returned to Maedhros's side. The younger brothers murmured among themselves, and Maglor exchanged a look with Maedhros. Fingon did not understand what was going on, but he thought that his cousins were not all in agreement about what would happen.

Maedhros silenced his brothers with a glare. He beckoned Fingolfin to come and stand before him. "I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor the High King of the Noldor," he said formally. "In the presence and hearing of all assembled here, I do hereby foreswear and renounce my own and my family's claim to the title and rank of High King, choosing instead to pass that honor to my uncle Fingolfin, son of the High King Finwë."

With his left hand, Maedhros flipped the latch on the chest that Maglor held, lifted the lid, and withdrew the shining crown that Fingon had seen his grandfather wear. This he placed delicately on Fingolfin's head, saying, "If there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwë, and not the least wise." He nodded to Maglor, who handed the chest off to a page and helped Maedhros kneel at Fingolfin's feet. The younger brothers exchanged glances of varying degrees of resentment, but they, too, knelt before their new King.

Slowly, the people of the settlement realized what had happened. In a great wave, they knelt. Fingon sank to his knees before his father, stunned. He was dimly aware that Aredhel and Turgon had knelt as well, and that Turgon had pulled Idril down beside him. In the silence, Fingolfin looked around at the throngs of the Noldor bowed in reverence before him. He reached up to touch the crown on his head, then glanced down at his rough work clothes. Fingon saw him visibly gather his wits together, and he stood tall to address the sons of Fëanor.

"Get up!" he said. "You are kneeling in my stable yard, and the dirt will ruin your clothing and dim your bright armor. Get up, you foolish boys!" He hauled Maglor and Maedhros to their feet and embraced them, holding Maedhros long. "Welcome back, nephew," he said. "I deem that you have paid for your sins and paid for them fairly. Be welcome among your kin." Then he kissed each of his nephews in turn and beckoned for the people to rise.

There was a great feast that evening in honor of the reunion of the sundered branches of the house of Finwë. To Aredhel's relief, nearly everyone in the settlement contributed a dish. The sons of Fëanor uncovered the wagon they had brought and gave Fingolfin's people many rich gifts to replace the treasures they had abandoned before setting out across the ice. The wagon held beautifully illuminated books, bolts of fine silks and linen, and many useful and beautiful objects of metal and glass. Fingon received a bright new sword to replace the one he had notched trying to cut the cuff that bound Maedhros's wrist. Finrod and Fingolfin both accepted strings of horses of Valinor, more graceful and slender than the large draft horses they had tamed for themselves in the valley. Aredhel held several bolts of silk and was already planning fine new dresses for herself and Idril.

Those who had skill with instruments brought them to the feast, and the Elves sang and danced as the evening fell. Idril played a short piece on her new harp and received much applause. Maedhros reclined in the comfortable guest chair which Fingon and Turgon had carried outside for him. Fingon brought two plates full of food, and sat with his friend to eat. Maedhros's eyes shone, and even though he could not join in the dancing, his feet tapped in time to the music.

"You seem almost too cheerful for one who has just dispossessed his family of their inheritance," Fingon remarked.

"I am happy," Maedhros said. "I am much happier than I expected to be. I suppose that is a sign that it was the right thing to do. Maglor was wilting under the strain of acting as regent, and I did not want to burden any of the others with the crown."

"What about you? You were wrong, you know. By rights, the crown should have gone to you as Fëanor's eldest."

Maedhros shrugged. "That is true. You did not witness the long quarrel I had with my brothers over that very fact."

"They do not support this act?"

"They support it now; I have made sure of that. Being the eldest still has its advantages. They do not all agree with the decision, and I fear that they never will. Maglor supports me with whole heart, as he has ever done, and the twins do not seem to care either way. Curufin would prefer that I had not given up the crown, but his main intent is the recovery of the Silmarils, and he relented when I suggested that we might be freer in our pursuit of them if the responsibility of the Kingship were on other shoulders. Caranthir and Celegorm proved difficult. I must admit that, in the end, I did not convince them of anything. I simply ordered them to support my choice."

"And you are sure that they will obey your orders? I do not want to face the wrath of your brothers, and I certainly do not want to witness another Kinslaying."

Maedhros shook his head. "No, cousin, do not fear. Though dispossessed of the Kingship, I retain full rights as head of my House. Caranthir and Celegorm will obey my orders in this."

"That is good. But you have still not answered my original question. Why did you give up the crown?"

"I gave it up because I do not want it," Maedhros said. "I have no interest in being the High King of the Noldor. That is what your father wants. I want to keep our Oath, and recover the Silmarils and avenge my father's death. I could not do that and be High King at the same time, for I could not be responsible for all the people while on my quest. The only way to fill the needs of all was to pass the Kingship on to the one who truly desired it, your father."

"May he have joy in it," Fingon said. "He has already proved himself an able leader." He waved at Turgon, who was following Idril through the crowd. Turgon waved back, and Idril spied them. Clutching her new harp, she ran over to them, Turgon close on her heels.

"Did you hear me play, Uncle Fingon?" she said. "My new harp sounds like. . . like summer! It makes a very warm sound."

"I did hear you play, Idril," Fingon said. "Did I not tell you that Maglor makes good harps? You will be a fine musician someday if your father allows Maglor to teach you."

"We will see about that," Turgon said dryly.

"This is your daughter?" Maedhros said. "She has you wrapped around her little finger, Turgon. My brother will be giving harp lessons yet."

Idril looked from her beloved uncle to his tall, thin companion. In her efforts to be polite and not stare at his truncated arm, she found herself gazing steadily at his bright eyes and sharp-boned face. Fingon smiled and winked at Turgon. "Idril," he said, "this is Maglor's older brother, our Cousin Maedhros. Will you greet him nicely?" Turgon's eyes went wide, and he sucked in a sharp breath, but he did not speak. Idril stared for another moment, then bobbed a little curtsey.

"Hello, Cousin Maedhros," she said. "I am Idril, Turgon's daughter. I am glad to meet you."

Maedhros smiled. "Hello, Idril," he said. "I am Maedhros, Fëanor's son. It is my pleasure to meet such a charming little lady as you are." He reached out and took her left hand in his, planting a delicate kiss on her knuckles just as if she were a grown lady. Idril giggled, and Turgon put his hand on her shoulder.

"Come along, Idril," he said. "We have interrupted Fingon and Maedhros in their private conversation."

"Not at all," Maedhros said cheerfully. "I was simply explaining to my cousin here about all of the weighty responsibilities he will enjoy as the Crown Prince of the Noldor."

Fingon choked on his drink. He spluttered and coughed, and Turgon had to slap him on the back. Idril's face lit up. "Are you really a Crown Prince, Uncle Fingon?"

"His father is now High King, and he is the oldest son, so he is indeed a Crown Prince," Maedhros said, clearly enjoying the moment.

Fingon coughed. "Neither does the younger son escape responsibility," he told Idril, determined to spread the shock around. "Turgon your father is also a royal prince now."

Idril whirled to face her father. "Really, father? Are you really a royal prince?"

"It seems that I am," Turgon said, and he gave Fingon a look that promised mischief later.

"Does that mean that I am a princess?" Idril asked.

Turgon laughed in spite of himself. "You have always been my princess, Idril," he said. Maedhros put his hand over his heart and inclined his head.

"Indeed you are a princess, Idril," Maedhros said. "The daughter of a prince and the granddaughter of the High King can be nothing less."

"Did you hear, Father?" Idril said, dancing a little with excitement. "I am a really truly princess. Cousin Maedhros said so."

Turgon sighed and finally cracked a smile at Maedhros. "Cousin Maedhros does not have any idea what he has begun by naming Fingolfin High King," he said. "He has unwittingly created a princess out of a whirlwind. Either the whirlwind must now learn some manners befitting a princess, or the Noldor will find themselves facing a greater peril than any they have yet known."

"I knew my decision would have interesting consequences," Maedhros said cheekily. "Idril, have you met the rest of my family? I have five other brothers besides Maglor, and I am sure that they would be eager to dance with the new Princess of the Noldor."

"More cousins?" Idril asked. "There are more cousins to meet?"

"Five more," Turgon said. "Come, let us go say hello and leave Uncle Fingon and his friend to their conversation."

"All right," Idril said. "I like cousins. Cousins are the best thing in the world! Goodbye, Cousin Maedhros."

Maedhros waved goodbye as Turgon and Idril vanished into the crowd. Fingon barely managed to contain himself, and as soon as his brother and his niece were out of sight, he doubled over laughing.

"Now that is what I like to see," Maedhros said. "A Crown Prince who truly enjoys his station in life."

"Oh, Maedhros," Fingon gasped. "Did you see Turgon's face? He will spoil that child rotten!"

"That is what daughters are for," Maedhros said. "My father always wanted a daughter so he could do just that. But he has left me with nothing but six brothers, none of whom have daughters of their own. Your sister and Finrod's sister are all grown up, and so Idril is the one I shall spoil now."

"I am glad," Fingon said. "I am glad that our families are friends again and that you have the chance to spoil her."

Maedhros put his hand on Fingon's shoulder. "It would not have happened without you, my friend," he said seriously. "You saved my life on the mountain. All of this is ultimately your doing. Look on your work and rejoice."

Fingon looked out at the crowds of friends reuniting with friends. "It is not wholly my work," he said. "There remain many deep grievances to be worked out between our peoples. But they are talking now, and I suppose I can claim that, at least. But most of all, I am glad that you are here with us. I missed you, Maedhros."

"And I missed you, even at the burning of the ships. You are right, Fingon. There remains much to discuss. But we will do that later. Tonight we will simply celebrate being alive."

"Agreed." Fingon raised his glass and drank. Then he sat back with Maedhros and watched the Noldor dance. Celegorm danced with Aredhel, and Caranthir twirled Idril off at the edge of the dancing. Fingolfin presided over the celebration with regal dignity, as if he had been born to the Kingship. Fingon slouched happily in his chair and finally decided that all of his pain had been worthwhile. The Noldor had begun to reunite, and he could dream of adventures and exploration once more.

END

Many thanks to all who have read and enjoyed this story. It's the first R-rated story I've written, and I was minorly nervous about it, but it seems to have done pretty well. No one seems to have run from it screaming in horror. I'm fascinated by the responses, as always. It's neat to see that new perspective on something you wrote, to see which details stick and which emotions come across.

The first scene of this that I wrote was the amputation scene. At the time, it was just an exercise in detail writing, bloody and violent details in this case. As I wrote it, I began to get a sense of the two characters involved in that scene, and it began to feel more and more like the middle of a story. I was hung up on the idea of a beginning and an ending until I finally realized that Maedhros was not a main character in the story I had in mind. Once I realized that the story was not about Fingon-and-Maedhros, but more about Fingon and his immediate family, I was good to go.

Idril is a precocious little girl, and she wormed her way into the story entirely on her own. She proved enormously useful when I asked myself why Fingon "just happened" to have a harp along on a rescue mission instead of signal flares or chisels or something useful like that.

Two lines are taken directly from Tolkien: Fingon's prayer to Manwë, and Maedhros's line "If there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwë, and not the least wise."

Again, many thanks for reading this, and I'll see you next time!