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.