Year 5 of the First Age

THANGORODRIM 

Finno doubted the stones beneath his hand had heard music ever before. It pierced the darkness. Ignoring the way the acrid air burned his throat, he continued his song of bliss long lost, of shining trees and jeweled beaches with docks made from ivory and pearl. He clutched his lyre to his chest as he pulled himself up another small shelf in the mountainside. 

Still more beautiful than his verse came the weak but unmistakable refrain from his cousin. For hours, they had traded melodies. He couldn't be far now. Somewhere beneath this choking darkness, Nelyo clung to life.

He couldn't be far. The orcs cowered in their tunnels, fear of light, of goodness, rooting them to the spot. But Finno would not cower. He would find his cousin.

The winds tossed loose strands of hair into his face. They had escaped his braids and nearly blinded him, so fierce were the gales in this crevice. 

He stood upon a large shelf which slanted ever so slightly to the East, seemingly made of slabs that had fallen and been wedged between two sharp cliff faces. Gravel crunched beneath his scuffed up boots. A slight bloody tang filled his mouth. The dry, nearly acidic smoke from Angband had cracked his lips. 

Still he sang. His lungs ached. His fingers burned. But Finno lifted his head high, scanning the grey and snow-tinged rocks towering on either side of this oddly valley-like shelf. He wondered, as he saw how smooth the sides were, if some weapon wielded by the Ainur had carved this out in the Ages before peace.

Overwhelming anxiety filled his body. His voice faltered, his fingers stilled. In this vale of stone amidst Thangorodrim, his chest tightened. Muscles ached. He was but a single elf, one voice amidst a world carved out by Valar and Maiar, powers far beyond him. 

Then came the refrain. Finno's heart leapt. He opened his eyes. Where did it come from? He had a mission, he had a cousin, a brother, to rescue. He could not afford to despair. And yet, when his eyes found Nelyo, he felt the wave of despair crash over him once more.

He dropped the lyre. It clattered against the stone. But all he could do was cover his mouth and resist the tears that threatened to blur his vision. How could he sing? 

Finno looked upon a corpse. Hanging by a wrist, the emaciated body of Nelyafinwë swayed against the rock. Finno could count every rib, every bone in his body. His red hair had been hacked off. It fell now to just below his chin. 

Still, Finno could not speak, could not sing. If not for the harmonies that Nelyo had spun over the last few days, he would not, could not, have believed he lived. But then his eyes opened. The fire in him still smoldered. Finno could see it. But it waned.

Any bitterness left in his heart burned away. Nelyo had not traversed the Grinding Ice, had not watched Elenwë drown. No. He had fought against the flames of Morgoth, watched as they stole his youngest brother from him.

They were Morgoth's flames. Not Fëanáro's. Fëanáro had lost everything to those flames, too. To the Enemy, the Liar, the Black Foe.

Hatred raged in his heart. Finno could feel his chest burning, as he let his hands fall from his mouth at last. He took a few steps forward, never looking away from his cousin.

He had done this, and he alone. Morgoth had spun the lies. Morgoth had turned them against each other. Morgoth had pushed them to rebel, to take up arms, to slaughter their kin. None of the Noldor had escaped his corruption. 

Itarillë had lost her mother to Morgoth's flames. Turvo had lost a wife. He had lost a sister. 

There were no handholds on the clifface. Finno ran along the edge, where it swept up hundreds of feet. He couldn't find a way. He had to find a way. But all he found were bloody cuts along his palms and ripped off finger nails from his failures.

"Finno."

He closed his eyes. Nelyo sounded so hoarse. But he looked up.

"I'm coming!"

"No. No you aren't."

How could he say that? Finno had languished for time unknown to reach this point, to reach him. He had to get to him. They needed him. The Noldor, his brothers, Eve. He needed him. Finno knew, as he looked upon the broken form of his cousin dangling far above, that he needed Nelyo. No more did he desire to wring an apology from him. 

Finno wanted to apologize. All those years when Morgoth had walked among them, he had allowed the Enemy to twist his mind with lies and turn him against his mentor, friend, confidant, brother in all but blood. That ended here. That ended now. 

"Finno, please."

"I will find a way up!"

But blood stained now his hands, his knees, his arms. Jagged rocks had split his skin. And no closer was he to rescuing Nelyo.

"Finno."

Perhaps if he left the crevice and found a way up top? If he could lower a rope down, he could get next to him. 

"Finno!"

His stomach dropped. He had already tried to go higher. There had been no way up beyond this massive rock shelf. 

"Finno, please! Look at me!"

Nelyo's scarred face had two trails of tears. Some of his cuts were fresher than others, red and puffy instead of white or pink across his body. Finno could not imagine the pain he has suffered. He did not wish to imagine it.

He took a deep breath, stepping away from the rock wall. "What would you have me do?"

"Do you remember, our first hunting lesson?" Nelyo flinched as the wind picked up swaying him from side to side. "You killed a stag with my bow."

His breath left him. Like it was yesterday, he pictured the towering trees in the vast forest of Oromë, crouched beside Nelyo as they looked at a lone deer. He held the finely crafted yew bow and struggled to pull it back. The first arrow had pierced its neck, causing it to stumble to it's knees with a bellow.

"What did I say, when I had you fire a second shot?" 

Finno's throat ached. He struggled to swallow. But he held his head high. "I needed to end his suffering swiftly."

"You did not miss a second time."

Finno backed up. Though tears blurred his view of Nelyo, he could not bring himself to turn away. How much suffering Morgoth had caused them. How many lies? Too many.

His heel kicked the fallen lyre. Finno stopped. With his left hand, he brushed aside his tears. With his right, he drew out his bow.

One arrow. He would need only one. Finno tried to stuff down all the raging anger. Morgoth had taken so much. He had driven kin against kin at Alqualondë. And here he was, waiting for the wind to cease so he could do it again. They were without hope.

But still he prayed. He looked down the feathered shaft of his arrow, whispering words of exaltation, of penance, begging Manwë and Varda and Eru Himself to take pity on the Noldor. Even if they would not take pity on the eldest son of Fëanáro, or the eldest son of Nolofinwë, perhaps they could aid the others.

The wind settled. Finno took a deep breath. In his mind, he sent Nelyo as many words of comfort as he could. His suffering had come to an end.

Finno let go.

An eagle screamed. A flash of golden and brown dove between him and his cousin. Wind rushed through the moutainous canyon, sending Finno to his knees, hiding his face.

When he looked up, he beheld a massive eagle aloft on a wind of Manwë's creation, a feathered arrow clutched in his talons. Finno couldn't speak.

But the eagle could. "Findekáno, son of Nolofinwë. Lord Manwë has heard your cries. He has beheld your quest. And it is not his will that Nelyafinwë should die by your hand."

He took a few deep breaths. The pounding of his heart finally slowed. "By what name may I call you, my lord?"

"I am Thorondor. Come, son of Nolofinwë. I shall allow you passage to your cousin."

Finno didn't question it. He grabbed his pack from the ground and climbed atop the eagle as he landed on the rock shelf. Manwë's pity would not be forgotten. The Valar stood with them, even if from afar. They would bring justice to the realms of Beleriand.

Nelyo looked even worse up close. It was difficult for Thorondor to hold steady anywhere near the rock wall. Only by the grace of the Valar did he stay aloft. But as Finno beheld his cousin, it became difficult to look beyond the carnage.

So instead, he reached out. Finno took Nelyo's shoulder his hand. He felt him shiver at the touch. It had been too many years since his cousin had been given a hug, a pat on the back, anything but wounds.

When he turned his attention to the shackle holding Nelyo in place, he felt despair closing in once more. It would not budge. Even as he drew out a knife and tried to hack it free from the stone, it failed. He dropped the broken blade to the ground. They were here. So close. Victory within their grasp, and yet beyond their reach.

"Please! Finno, end my suffering!" 

Nelyo's tears flowed freely now. With every failed attempt at freeing him, Finno had watched his cousin lose himself to despair more and more. This had to end. He was right about that.

Finno drew out his last blade. Thorondor angled as close as he could get. He struggled to grab Nelyo's other hand. Grasping it tight, he bit his lip. Nelyo closed his eyes.

He swung.

Nelyo screamed as Finno hauled him onto Thorondor's back, just in front of him. Blood splattered onto the golden eagle feathers as Nelyo tried to grasp his now handless right arm. Finno blinked back tears. It had to end. But he would not kill another kinsman. Not again. Never again.

It didn't take long for Nelyo to pass out. Finno focused on keeping them from falling off the back of Thorondor as he sped across the darkened sky. The blood had mostly subsided, Finno wrapping his arm as tight as he could with torn scraps of his clothing.

He longed for sleep. For rest. For food and a bath in the waters of Lake Mithrim. As he clung to Nelyo's emaciated body, he tried to think only of brighter days. Of the smiles on Eve, Elenwë, and Amarië as they traveled with Nelyo and Findaráto. The way the gurgling streams in Lórien had calmed even the saddest of days. Memories of Itarillë giggling as she ran barefoot through fountains, chased by her golden haired mother.

Of Eve's gentle kisses against his skin.

Thorondor landed amidst their camp with the sound of a howling wind. All around them, elves came out to gawk at the massive Eagle bearing their prince. Before he knew what was happening, he slid down the wing to the grass, Nelyo still his arms. 

Steady hands caught him. Finno blinked back tears and weariness, nearly able to force a smile at the sight of golden hair and grey eyes. Findo held him up, worry lines etched in his face. But they said no words.

Others came to him. He heard a gasp, a cry of fear, as his sister ran forward through the crowds. She looked at him, and he nodded, assuring her he was safe. So she turned her attention to Nelyafinwë. Iri took him from Finno's grasp, gentle as she ran a hand through his hair. 

As Thorondor left then to return to his vigil at Thangorodrim, more joined them. He saw Eve from across the way, covering her mouth as she joined Iríssë and Findo with Nelyo's limp body. They locked gazes. Silently, he assured her he was fine. He would follow soon.

But the crowds had doubled, and redoubled, until Finno realized he could not simply leave them to crawl into a tent alone with his family. A prince could not abandon his people. So he found a crate, and stood above the throngs of his people.

"My friends! It is with great joy that I have found my way home to you." He looked over their faces, followers of all the princes of the younger houses. "My journey was long, and I did not take it lightly. But what I have done, I would do again without hesitation."

The crowd murmured, latecomers trying to push through, to see over their friends and neighbors. He did not want to rule over so many. He never had. But right now, that was his duty.

"I have brought back from the torments of Morgoth someone we all once loved without question: Prince Nelyafinwë."

He saw their anger, he heard their murmurs. Finno's heart sank. If only they knew, if they could understand that this was what Morgoth wanted. So he had to make them understand.

"We have all been lied to!" 

At his shout, the crowd settled. He saw two figures move a bit closer at the back. His father and his brother, silent, stoic, locked eyes with him.

"We all lost family on the march to this land. Many lost family even before. But did we not all lose our king? Did we not all lose the peace we once loved?" He took a deep breath, turning to look at his father and brother. "We have been lied to since Morgoth freed himself from captivity. The enemy is not Nelyafinwë. The enemy is not our sundered friends across the lake. Our enemy is the Black Foe of the world." Finno bit his lip. "The enemy is Morgoth."

He didn't know how long he spoke, reminding his people of the golden years in Valinor, when they lived in harmony with the House of Fëanáro. When they had been but one people: the Noldor, followers of the House of Finwë. His voice ached. But he continued. They had to know. They had to understand. They had to forget their hatred of the other house and turn all their attention to Morgoth, only.

When at last he stepped down, tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks as exhaustion crashed over him, he found himself looking into the eyes of someone altogether unexpected. Ambarussa, with his red hair loose except for a single braid, watched him through tears. When had he arrived?

A few rays of sunlight broke through Morgoth's acrid cloud cover. He looked around. Few had stayed: his father, his brother, Aikanáro, Angaráto, and to his surprise, Kánafinwë and Telvo.

Finno stumbled. Telvo wrapped his arms around him, silently weeping into his shoulder. Finno took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He would not be the one to break this hug. Eve, his beloved, could wait. This could not. He let his cousin cry.