THANGORODRIM

Finno shut his eyes, trying to remember the bliss of Valinor, but all he could conjure was the same memory over and over and over. There'd been a picnic in the forests near Tirion. Nerdanel had wanted to spend a day with her boys—Nelyo, Káno, and Tyelko—as Fëanáro had increased their hours of study down in the forges. Finno had been invited to come along. He couldn't remember his exact age, but he had been young. Turvo had not yet been born.

While Káno had sat with his mother to demonstrate the newest song he's composed, Nelyo sat against a tree upon the river bank, heckling Tyelko over how far he could swim across. Finno remembered the fire in Tyelko's eyes as he boasted he could reach the far bank with ease.

Finno shivered, pushing himself further against the slightly curved partial shelter in the rocks. He didn't dare try to light a fire here. But by the Valar, did he want one. Biting wind buffeted his hood against the sides of his face. It sounded almost like a thunderstorm, or the crashing waves from whenever Ossë got in a mood. 

His fingers ached as he pulled his cloak closer. He tried to block out the occasional spray of snow that kicked up into his face and dampened not only his clothes, but also his spirit. Finno closed his eyes again.

Tyelko had dived shirtless into the river. Keen to prove his brother wrong, the young man started out into current. Nelyo just smirked as he watched, leaning forward with both hands draped over his propped up knees. Finno had done the same. He copied every movement Nelyo made. He laughed at every joke Nelyo laughed at. 

He remembered how Nelyo had let out a sigh, drawing Finno's attention from graceful strokes of Tyelko's swimming. Finno glanced back, eager to make sure that he wasn't annoyed with him. But Nelyo wasn't. He didn't even look annoyed, really. More amused. But he had cracked a smirk when he met Finno's gaze.

"Just wait, Finno." Nelyo had clapped him on the back. "Someday, you'll have to deal with silly younger siblings."

"Hey!" Tyelko's voice had rung out over the swift current of the river. "You just going to stand there, or can you match me?"

As Finno squeezed his eyes tight against another gust of wind, he remembered the way Nelyo's eyes had sparkled with mischief. His stomach twisted. He had watched Nelyo dive into the water to join Tyelko on the far bank. Káno's music had mixed with his mother's light laugh. There he had sat, alone.

And now he sat alone amongst the crags and boulders of Thangorodrim. The Enemy's foul darkness hid Finno from his sight, but as he was buffeted by sharp wind and icy snow off high peaks, he wished for the sun.

No. He wished for the fullness of Laurelin.

Finno did not like to be alone, not when there were others he could share life with. As he'd sat on the riverbank and watched Nelyo and Tyelko share laughter and playful insults, he felt adrenaline fill his body. He had stood half Nelyo's height, and Nelyo hadn't been able to stand in the center. The river would be difficult to cross.

But he had to do it. Finno wanted to be like them. Finno wanted to be like him.

Prince Nelyafinwë Maitimo, beloved by the people for the power of his voice, mild tempered but unyielding, joyful but attentive to the needs of the Noldor, Finno wished to be even half the leader his cousin was.

He hadn't expected the water to be so cold. He hadn't expected it to be so fast. The current wrapped around his ankles, his chest, dragging him down stream as he fought against it. He struggled for air. He thrashed at the surface.

Icy fear shot through him. Finno couldn't see beyond the blur of the river. He couldn't hear his own screams. 

Strong arms had wrapped around his midsection. Red hair filled his mouth as he was slung over a shoulder, forced above the waves. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself on the grass of the river bank. Finno coughed and sputtered, Nelyo and Tyelko both staring down at him in concern.

That day, Nelyo had saved him. So why hadn't Nelyo been there to save Elenwë. Finno told himself not to cry. Tears would only freeze here. But he should've been there.

Finno shifted against the rock. He looked out beyond the shallow hiding spot that provided limited cover. Grey rocks surrounded him in every direction. His chest tightened. He balled his fists.

Nelyo should've been there. What had gone wrong? When had it all fallen apart? He tried to imagine his family around him, Eve by his side. His body filled with the heat of rage only when he conjured up an image of Nelyo.

It wasn't that he had entirely forgiven his half cousins. As much as he bristled in the presence of Káno and would never take him as King, over the years he had tried to look more logically at the problem. 

Division helped no one. Fëanáro had betrayed them all at Losgar. He had broken what nearly non existent trust remained between the houses. But the House of Fëanáro had not been at fault alone for the broken bonds.

Who of the younger houses had spoken up against the exile of Fëanáro? Finno had not. They knew it had been Morgoth at fault for the division of the Noldor. The Valar knew it. The Noldor knew it. His own father had been willing to forgive Fëanáro his threat of violence then and there. 

But when the Valar had insisted Fëanáro still pay the price, none had tried again to stop it. Finno had not visited them at Formenos. Finno had not apologized for his part in the broken trust.

Tyelkormo, Curufinwë, Carnistir, they were not ones to forgive easily. Finno knew this. He no longer begrudged them their anger. They had lost much too. Ambarussa… little Telvo, he could grieve as long as he wished. 

And yet Finno felt such a burning rage for Nelyo. He hid his face under his cloak against another gust of wind. He should have been there. If he had been on the Helcaraxë, Elenwë would not have died. Had he been with them in the mountains, Aro would still draw breath.

Nelyo had checked him over on the bank, making sure he could breathe. Nerdanel fussed over him when they finally got back to the other side, Finno relying on Nelyo's strength once more. He had wanted to see pride in his cousin's eyes. But he had seen only concern and pity. 

It had hurt, failing the cousin who raised him more as a brother. Finno had vowed to never see that look in Nelyo's eyes again. He would become just like him: the perfect prince, the perfect man, the perfect older brother.

His mother had shaken her head when they got back to Tirion and Nerdanel told her of his accident. He stood alone beside her, the others returning to their homes. When Nerdanel had left, his mother met his gaze with pursed lips and the shake of her head. 

"Every day you become more like a son of Fëanáro than a son of mine," she said, a tiny smirk creeping into her expression. Anairë had hugged him, and he had melted into her embrace.

The Noldor had often joked like that, especially when he'd been but a child in Tirion. Any time he acted before he thought things through, they pointed to Nelyo and said it came from him. Too much like brothers, they had said. 

The seed of anger that sprouted whenever he thought of Nelyo also did the same when he thought of his own role in all this. He had urged them to seek out new lands and adventure, and the people listened just as he'd known they would. He had charged into Alqualondë without a second thought, and his people became kinslayers. He had led from the front nearly every day, but others had suffered. 

Too much like brothers. Perhaps that was the problem. Finno took a deep breath. The chill hurt his nose and throat but it cooled the anger. It took the edge off the heat of rage. 

Took much like brothers. Finno breathed deeply again. He caught only the ever present stench of rotting flesh and acrid smoke. 

Too much like brothers. The air filled his lungs once more. Finno pushed his hood back, catching the slightest hint of flowers on the wind. It had died down, the wind lessening.

Too much like brothers. Finno had black hair braided with gold while Nelyo's red locks always hung loose. Nelyo towered over his brothers while Finno looked up to his own. But they were brothers nonetheless.

Perhaps Nelyo was not the hero Finno had always seen him as. But as he pushed himself to his feet, bones aching from long hours huddled in one place, he sighed. Finno was not the perfect leader of his people he had aspired to be, either.

They were here now. Elenwë had drowned in the waves, Nelyo nowhere to save her. Pityo had burned in the inferno of the ships, Finno unable to rally the people against the insanity of their enraged leader. 

He reached into one of his two packs. Beneath the last few pieces of dried meat he found a velvet sack. Eve had slipped it in without him noticing until he had ridden away in search of his cousin.

Yet another impulsive decision. Too much like brothers to the Fëanorians.

He undid the tied cords and let the velvet bag drop to the rocks. In his hands he cradled a small lyre carved with flowers and painted blue and gold. He had thought about bringing it as a gift for Káno, a peace offering, but decided against it.

Here it would serve another purpose. Finno would find his brother. He would bring him home. The Noldor had joked they were too much like brothers. Finno had the impulsivity, sparks of the fire of the house of Fëanáro because of Nelyo's guidance. But as he looked up into the roiling dark clouds of ash and smoke, the rising cliffs and sharp crags of the mountains, he knew part of himself had shaped Nelyo too.

Finno closed his eyes. He clutched the lyre. One at a time, he plucked the strings. The wind died. His song would not drown here. He would pull Nelyo out of the waters of the Enemy's hatred. Each stroke poured his hope, his love, his memories of elder days into the melody. He wove a song they had sung together years before, when he had been but a small child without brothers, longing for direction. The lullaby carried through the darkness. 

As he stepped forward into the open, Finno stopped breathing. There, on the cold wind, came the refrain. 

Nelyo lived.