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.