"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.