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The pressure had been building for the last month—no, the last year—the last decade? century?
It was a pressure behind his eyes, in his very mind and soul; it was physical, it was mental, it was spiritual. It was everything, all-encompassing, and it was on the brink of overwhelming.
Maitimo held it back. He had to hold it back. Everyone was counting on him: his brothers, his father, his grandfather; his cousins, his uncles, his friends...his Findekáno. He had promised them all so much, though not always in words, and he could not fail.
Perhaps the pressure had been building all his life.
When his father, the great Fëanáro, drew his sword on Nolofinwë—it became so blinding as to bring him to his knees. He felt the stress overtake him, threaten to shut him down entirely, but he resisted. He could not show weakness, could not collapse before all the Noldor and shame his father in such a way.
Though perhaps after this, Fëanáro would deserve a little shame.
—No. He couldn’t let himself think that way; he couldn’t show any wavering in his loyalties; he had to be strong, to endure, to lead—
Maitimo held himself together through the immediate crisis, reassuring his brothers and counseling his father. He held himself together through the trial at Máhanaxar. He held himself together through his bitter argument with Findekáno over their fathers’ deeds, and lack thereof. He held himself together through their departure to Formenos, through helping everyone settle in.
And then, when he finally felt safe enough to let his mask of calm collection fall, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.
He did not wake up.
For the first few days, no one noticed. Or rather, they did notice, but they did not bother him.
“Let him rest,” said Makalaurë. “He has done so much work. Let him recover.”
“I don’t want him watching my every move,” muttered Tyelkormo. “The longer he stays shut up in his room, the better.”
Carnistir said nothing, for he was also locked up in his own quarters, disinclined to speak to his family any time soon. For him, this was typical.
“I suppose I can find someone else to watch Tyelpë,” huffed Curufinwë, even if privately he thought his eldest brother would enjoy spending time with his only nephew.
“We’ll catch something grand, and throw him a feast when he’s ready to come out,” decided the Ambarussar, and disappeared into the forest.
“Let him rest,” agreed Finwë, soothing Fëanáro, who still ranted and raved about the injustice of his exile, and demanded Nelyafinwë’s presence to help him plan his next move. But he bowed to his father, and took pity on his eldest son, for he knew well the pressure that came from being the heir of a remarkable elf.
And so Maitimo rested. And rested. And rested.
A messenger hawk flew to Formenos, bearing a letter of—not apology, but of reconciliation. It tapped on Maitimo’s window, but when there was no answer, it flew back to Tirion from whence it came.
Findekáno tossed it into the hearth, furious that his once-beloved would spurn him so. He had not even opened the letter!
“He has not come out since we arrived,” worried Makalaurë. “Should we check on him?”
“I suppose,” Carnistir sighed. If even he had emerged from his solitude, surely Maitimo should have, also. This was not like him.
They knocked on his door. There was no answer. Uncomfortably, Makalaurë Sang the lock to open, and they peeked inside.
Maitimo slept.
“He’s just tired,” Carnistir surmised.
“He’s wearing the same clothes he arrived in.” Makalaurë frowned, approaching. “Has he been asleep all this time?”
“Hmm,” Carnistir said, troubled. “Nelyo? Wake up. Nelyo!”
Makalaurë Sang. Maitimo’s eyes moved below their lids, but did not open. He was breathing, slow and steady, but he would not wake.
“Ai,” Makalaurë wept, his voice breaking. “What happened?”
“Is he—” Carnistir broke off, truly terrified now. “Is...what happened to Grandmother happening to him?”
Some months later, sick at heart and missing his beloved, Findekáno wrote again.
This time, the messenger hawk returned without its letter, for Carnistir had been watching over Maitimo and had confiscated it. But there was no return missive.
Findekáno let himself hope he would receive a reply, but he never did.
They decided they could not let their father know. The brothers counseled together, and concocted a story that Maitimo was caught up in writing a new treatise on government, and refused to be bothered. They would deliver him food, but he had no wish to speak to anyone at this time.
Curufinwë, who was excellent with a quill, forged little notes in his brother’s hand to appease Fëanáro. Carnistir composed snippets of the supposed treatise to fool Finwë. The Ambarussar took him his meals, and ate them for him. Tyelkormo, of them all the most friendly with the Valar, went on a journey to the Gardens of Lórien to ask for advice. And Makalaurë Sang to him every day, hoping to draw him out of whatever cursed slumber had overtaken him.
Their ruse worked for three months, until Tyelkormo returned empty-handed and distraught. Irmo and Estë had no help for them, and seeing Míriel’s empty hröa upon her bier had upset him deeply.
This was when Fëanáro noticed something was truly wrong, and burst into Maitimo’s room to discover the truth.
His scream of anguish when he saw what had become of his eldest son echoed throughout Formenos’ halls. Never had such agony been heard before in this land, yet it would not be the last time such pain was endured here.
Findekáno grew impatient. He grew furious. How dare Russandol ignore him like this? How dare he not even write to him? They had parted so bitterly, and Findekáno had tried to reach out, to reconcile, and yet Russo would not even deign to respond?
He sent another letter, this one full of harsh words, echoes of their last argument.
This time, he received a response—but not in Maitimo’s hand.
Half-cousin,
Nelyafinwë does not wish to converse with you. Do not send another letter.
Sincerely,
His brothers
Fëanáro devoted himself to waking Maitimo. For months he worked on potions, concoctions, songs, spells, enchanted jewels—and nothing worked. Nothing.
Finwë prayed every night to Ilúvatar to spare his first and greatest grandson. He prayed to Námo, begging Maitimo’s soul to be released. He prayed even to Míriel, his first wife, his favorite son’s mother, beseeching her to lend Maitimo what strength she had.
Nothing worked. Maitimo slept.
“At least he looks peaceful like this,” Tyelperinquar said sadly.
Makalaurë paused in his futile singing. He had not the strength to put true Power into all his music, but he would keep Maitimo company with lesser ditties as well. He appreciated when one of his brothers stayed with him also, and especially when his young nephew took time to sit with them.
“He does,” Makalaurë sighed. “At least...at least he has no more burdens to bear. Not anymore.”
“Will he wake up?” Tyelperinquar asked, his lower lip trembling. “Uncle Káno, will he come back? Or—is Haru right that he’s gone, like...like Queen Míriel?”
Makalaurë kissed his nephew’s brow. “I do not know,” he murmured. “But if he does, I would like him to wake to music.”
For his next song, Tyelperinquar took up the melody, and Makalaurë sang counterpoint, his hands mournfully strumming the strings of his harp.
When Findekáno received another letter from Formenos, this one unprompted, he could not believe himself. His heart pounded as he tore open the envelope, eager and heartsick and desperate to know what Russandol would say to him.
But the letter was not from Russandol.
Dear Findekáno,
I write to you asking for aid. Nay—begging for it. I apologize for keeping the truth from you, knowing as I do the fondness you hold for my brother, but we must put all that aside now. Nelyo needs your help.
Before he had even finished reading Makalaurë’s missive, Findekáno had thrown on his boots and hurried out the door, without so much as leaving a note for his own family.
Not all of Russandol’s brothers were glad to see Findekáno. Curufinwë scowled at him, and Carnistir glared pointedly at Makalaurë, but the relief evident in Makalaurë’s embrace and Tyelkormo’s uncharacteristically enthusiastic welcome was enough to reassure Findekáno that the situation was indeed very dire. The Ambarussar were nowhere to be seen as he approached Formenos, and Makalaurë quickly filled him in on their plan.
“Pityo and Telvo are distracting Atar and Haru,” he explained. “We can’t let them know you’re here. We’ll all take turns keeping them away from you and Nelyo, but it won’t last forever. They’re both worried out of their minds for him.”
“I still don’t understand what he can do that we can’t,” Curufinwë muttered.
“Shut it,” Tyelkormo snapped. “Nothing’s wrong with Nelyo’s hröa. It’s his fëa that’s in trouble, same as—same as with Grandmother.”
“So why should we let the spawn of Indis help?” Carnistir growled. “What have they ever done for us?”
“Plenty,” Findekáno shot back, but a warning glance from Makalaurë kept him from going further.
“We need Findekáno because—well, Nelyo needs Findekáno because of how close they are,” Makalaurë insisted. “No one knows his fëa better than Finno.”
Carnistir’s lip twisted. “How can that be true? I’ve tried using ósanwë, and it didn’t work—”
“Because you are not his melotorno!” Findekáno interrupted, boiling over with frustration. “You are not his lover! I am, and I know him best of anyone, hröa and fëa—”
“How dare you lie about such a thing—”
“It’s not a lie, Curvo,” Tyelkormo hissed. “Have you truly not noticed?”
“Some of us have been busy with a wife and child, instead of fucking our bastard half-cousins—”
Findekáno was a moment away from throwing himself at Curufinwë, but Tyelkormo got there first.
“Keep your mouth shut about this,” he snarled into his brother’s face. “You know nothing about what Nelyo’s going through!”
“And you do?” Carnistir challenged.
“Enough, enough!” Makalaurë cried, the power of his voice striking their hearts. Tyelkormo released Curufinwë, and Carnistir staggered back, momentarily struck dumb.
“We have tried everything,” Makalaurë said, softer now. “And nothing has worked. Findekáno is our last hope.”
“I will not give up on him,” Findekáno promised. “I—I love him, despite everything. Please, let me save him. If I cannot—if I could not even try—” His voice broke. “Please.”
Makalaurë grabbed him by the arm and led him into the fortress before the others could object further. “Turco will take care of them,” he said quietly. “Come on. Nelyo’s rooms are this way...”
Findekáno’s eyes filled with tears as he beheld his beloved’s sleeping form for the first time in nearly a year. It was all he could do to not fall to his knees at Russo’s bedside and sob.
“He’s been like this since we arrived,” Makalaurë said quietly. “It took a few days for us to notice...and we managed to hide it from Atar for a few months...but...”
“Leave—leave us alone,” Findekáno rasped. “Please.”
Makalaurë stared at him, silver eyes seeming to bore into Findekáno’s soul. All of Fëanáro’s children had their father’s eyes, piercing and bright, and Findekáno felt almost as if he were under scrutiny by the great Curufinwë himself. In Russandol, those eyes were keen and captivating, but Makalaurë’s were endless pools of pensieve sorrow.
“You truly love him,” he said softly. It was not a question.
“With all my heart,” Findekáno murmured. “Káno, please—I promise...”
Makalaurë bent to kiss his brow. “Of course, brother,” he said. “And—thank you.”
When he closed the door behind him, Findekáno let go of his self-control. He crumpled to the floor, grasping Russandol’s hand and weeping quietly.
“Russo, Russo,” he whimpered. “Russo, please, come back to me...!”
But his melotorno did not react, lying still and silent save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Findekáno swallowed, and gently moved Russandol’s sleeping hröa so that he had room to lie next to him upon his bed. He curled up beside his beloved, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and closed his eyes.
He searched inside himself, finding and grasping onto the core of light that was his own fëa. He and Russo were not bonded, though they had wished to be, before—before the exile and Fëanáro’s outrageous actions had forced them apart. But they had let their fëar touch before in moments of great intimacy, and Findekáno knew his melotorno’s soul almost as well as his own.
With his fëa bared, he reached out, probing gently at the borders of Russandol’s mind. There were great walls of rippling darkness separating them, but Findekáno was undeterred. Slowly, steadily, he pushed through, reaching for the bright copper warmth that was Russandol.
How long he searched, he did not know, but at last he found it, a single spark of Russo’s fëa. He caught it and clung to it, and felt another spark light up in the abstract mind-space he had fallen into, and then another, and he followed their trail to the core of Russandol’s soul.
That same darkness coiled around Russo’s fëa, dense and despairing. It was almost enough to push Findekáno away, but no. He would not be deterred. He would do this.
(Ai, no wonder Carnistir had been unsuccessful with establishing an ósanwë connection...!)
He pushed and pushed, clearing away enough darkness to make actual contact with the core of his lover’s soul.
Russo, he murmured, his own golden spirit tangled up with his beloved’s copper strands. Russandol, meldanya. It’s me. It’s your Finno. Let me in, beloved. Let me help you...
For a moment the darkness snapped back, coiling around him also, and despair welled up with him—but he clung on, whispering words of love and loyalty, and at last something gave.
Findekáno gasped, the last thing he consciously did with his dim and distant hröa. And then he was pulled in, and fell entirely into Russandol’s mind.
He was walking in a dark forest. It was darkness beyond darkness, oppressive and suffocating. Indistinct branches hit his face as he stumbled through a thick, clawing brush, but he pressed on. He was looking for something—someone.
How long he walked, he did not know, but eventually he heard the sounds of commotion. Blindly, he scrambled through the wood, pushing through the cloying trees toward the noise. He must get there, he must...
At last, a light: a flame of red amid the darkness. A flash of steel, a burning sword, slicing through writhing vines and gaping maws.
The shapes the flame fought were impossible to discern, but the flame itself was bright and brilliant. Indeed it was no flame at all, but an elf, tall and proud.
Maitimo, Findekáno realized, and remembered who he was. My Russandol.
Russandol’s battle was crazed and erratic, his foes unpredictable and ever-shifting. Yet he stood firm in his stance and met each attack with his mighty blade, exactly like the one forged by Fëanáro’s hand, the one he had revealed to Findekáno only days before Fëanáro put his own sword at Ñolofinwë’s breast.
Findekáno stood, mesmerized by his melotorno’s strength and agility, the rhythm of his blade and the dance of his hair. He shone, for this was his fëa unmasked, copper-bright and powerful against the darkness that ensnared him.
Ai, he was strong—but though he did not falter, neither did his enemy. They were locked in a stalemate, an eternal battle, and would remain so forever if Findekáno did not intervene.
And so he drew his own blade, perhaps of lesser make, for it was made in his brother Arakáno’s forge and not that of the great Curufinwë Fëanáro; yet it would cut through flesh and shadow just the same. Where the sword came from, he did not know: but it came, and with a mighty shout he leapt into the fray by Russandol’s side.
Russandol did not so much as look at him, but he adjusted his footwork and allowed Findekáno to take up the dance of battle beside him. They had trained together often in their youth, when their swords were blunted and their dance but a game in memory of the trials of Cuiviénen, and yet still their fëar remembered one another. Findekáno’s spirit sang with joy to whirl alongside his melotorno, and they both grew stronger, faster, fiercer in their harmony.
With every blow, the shadow-shapes withered away. With every step, the light radiating from their fëar flared more brilliant. With every strike, the darkness retreated, until it was only they that remained, still caught in their battle-dance, their swords turned against each other.
Findekáno laughed, bright and clear, and dove under Russandol’s guard, nicking his wrist. Russandol grinned, and lunged left—but it was a feint, and before he knew it, Russo had disarmed him and toppled him over onto his back.
He landed with a gasp of surprise, but made no move to get up, not when he could admire the view his melotorno gave him, looming over him in all his ruddy glory. Russandol pointed his blade at Findekáno’s neck, an echo of their fathers not so long ago, and yet Findekáno felt no fear. His Russo would never hurt him.
“Arimelda,” he breathed, and offered his throat for the cutting. “How I have missed thee.”
Russandol’s expression was handsome and grave. “Ai, Findekáno,” he murmured—and let his sword fall aside. In one smooth motion he knelt over Findekáno, cupping his cheek gently and rubbing his thumb along his jaw. “What are you doing here?”
In response, Findekáno surged upward and caught his lips in a kiss. It was bursting with color and the sweetness of berries, vibrant in a way only possible in dreams. Russandol sighed into his mouth, pulling him closer, and they twined together in gladness as they had not in so very long.
Yet even in dreams, a kiss could not last forever. Their dream-hröar still close, Findekáno whispered, “Russo, dearest. What have you done to fall into such a state?”
Confusion flickered across Russandol’s face. “I know not of what you speak,” he said.
Findekáno waved his hand. Around them, the forest was full of light and spring, much less ominous than it had been upon his approach. “I am in thy mind, meldanya. Your hröa lies sleeping in Formenos, and has for months. What did you do?”
“I—” Russandol frowned. “I do not...I do not know. All I remember is...pressure. Pressure, building behind my eyes. I ignored it—I always have—I cannot falter, Findekáno. Not even around you.”
“Russo!” he protested. “Even you need rest. Even you cannot carry all the burdens of Arda upon your shoulders! How long have you ignored this ‘pressure’? How long have you put aside your own needs?”
Russandol did not meet his eyes. “I do not know,” he admitted, and Findekáno knew with a dreadful certainty that he had not ever, not since his earliest childhood. Perhaps not since Makalaurë was born.
“No wonder your exhaustion overtook you,” he said. “Russandol, you’ve scared us. Your father is out of his mind—more than usual!”
“Finno,” Russandol protested. “I am just—just resting. You said I needed to rest: well, am I not resting?”
“For months, Russo?” Findekáno shook his head. “We thought—we feared—ai, Russandol. If you took the path of Míriel Serindë—”
Russandol rose to his feet suddenly. “I am not dying,” he said firmly. “I—I admit I did not...realize what was happening... Indeed, I cannot remember much past the battle you just ended... Before, there was only a mist of soft greyness. Peace. Emptiness. But then I stirred, and the shadows came...”
He looked frightened, in a way he had not since he first laid his feelings bare to Findekáno many years ago. Findekáno stood beside him and took his hands, staring deep into his silver eyes, shining like Telperion’s dews.
“I am here with you now,” he said firmly. “The shadows shall not return; but if they do, I will fight them at your side.”
“I do not think I can simply—wake,” Russandol whispered. “There is too much...it weighs on me...”
Indeed, his dream form seemed less solid now, fading away. Findekáno clung tighter to his hands, and yet they slipped through his fingers.
“Russo!” he cried as the greyness enveloped them both. “Russo! Russo, I will find you! I swear it—Russandol—”
He threw himself forward into the mist, willing his fëa to burn bright like a lighthouse in the fog. “Russo!” he shouted, over and over again. “Russandol! Melotorno! Russanya!”
He stumbled through nothingness, refusing to allow panic to overwhelm him. He would find him. He would. He would find him, and save him, and bring him back, back home where he belonged, with Findekáno—
All at once the mist vanished, and Findekáno jerked to a halt in a jarringly familiar place. There was Finwë, high and regal in his throne; there was Fëanáro, pacing back and forth beside him. There was Ñolofinwë, his own father, standing still at Finwë’s side; there was Lalwendë, wandering amongst the crowd of eager petitioners. There were a hundred faces he knew, and a hundred more he did not; there was Tirion, gathered in the throne room Finwë’s palace.
And in the center, sitting at his writing desk, was Nelyafinwë, the King’s scribe.
His hands moved quickly, so fast they were nearly a blur, each scribbling away upon a different scroll. Findekáno had seen him perform this trick before, but never at such speed, nor with such precision; Russandol favored his right hand, and though he was competent with his left, using both at once was a feat requiring great concentration.
Upon his nose perched a pair of spectacles such as Curufinwë had designed for minute, delicate gem-work. In his hair was placed his copper circlet in the style of the High Prince, a title reserved for him and his father alone. He wore his finest court robes, a rich green with golden trim, and a red brooch in the shape of an eight-pointed star sat proudly upon his breast.
He was magnificent, and yet unapproachable. Findekáno had always felt intimidated by the part of his beloved that was Nelyafinwë, High Prince of Tirion and the truest heir of Finwë Ñoldóran. It was an intimidation fixed in admiration, but the awe this persona inspired was tinged with uncertainty—for how could he, Findekáno of the lesser line, prove worthy of one so noble?
But though his aura was regal, it was not content. Stress radiated from Nelyafinwë’s fëa, all the more apparent now that they were in this realm of dreams, and as he bent his ear to the concerns of the public and private spheres alike, Findekáno realized just how deeply unhappy he was in this position.
As each petitioner approached him, Nelyafinwë dutifully recorded their request and the King’s response. From his quill spilled dark ink onto parchment, but also faint strands of thread, wrapping around his arms. The more he wrote, the more threads manifested, winding around his wrists and up to his neck, making his movements stiff and jerky.
“Nelyafinwë,” boomed Finwë from the throne. “Have you resolved the issue in the Merchants’ Corridor?”
“Almost, your Majesty,” Nelyafinwë replied, and another thread, thicker and darker, snaked around his throat.
“Nelyafinwë,” said Fëanáro sharply. “What do your friends in my half-brother’s house report of his actions?”
Findekáno bristled, taking a step forward, but he moved slowly, as if the air was choked with honey.
“I have little to say of him, your Highness,” Nelyafinwë said, and a great red cord tangled up in his hair.
“Nelyafinwë!” Ñolofinwë thundered, and a blue rope bound Nelyafinwë’s feet together. “Have you been spying upon my house? Have you been abusing the trust of my son?”
“Atar, no,” Findekáno tried to shout, but all that came out was a croak. He scrambled for his sword, or a dagger, even a pocket-knife—anything that might cut the threads now threatening to choke Russandol—
“Nelyafinwë,” cried the petitioners. “Nelyafinwë, Nelyafinwë, Nelyafinwë—”
“Russandol!” Findekáno shouted, his voice working at last. “Russo, I’m here, Russo—”
But to his horror, his words did nothing to disentangle his melotorno from the knot of strangling threads. Instead a golden chain appeared, wrapping around Russandol’s entire body, until all Findekáno could see were his eyes, the silver light within them nearly extinguished in his weariness.
Findekáno fell to his knees beside Russandol. “Russo, Russo,” he wept, and summoned up his sword at last. He cut through the chains and cords and threads, desperate to free his lover, but with each slice the strings bound themselves together in horrid knots, only tightening their grip on Russandol’s hröa.
“Finno...” Russandol whispered, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Russandol!” he sobbed. “Don’t you dare—don’t give up— I know you’re stronger than this, I know you can do this; please, Russo, my Russo, please break free!”
I love you, his fëa sang, anguished and pleading. I love you, I love you, I love you no matter what—I love you in court and outside it, in freedom and in bondage; I love you, I love you, I love you—
Nelyafinwë’s eyes closed, and Findekáno wailed, collapsing against his writing desk. He did not care what a scene he was making; damn his father and his uncle and the King and everyone else! Damn them all, damn himself for tying the noose that killed Russandol, the best of them all—!
Then Russo moved, and Findekáno fell silent, looking up in awe at the mass of thread and iron that had consumed him.
The golden chain, Findekáno’s chain, began to glow. As Findekáno watched, it melted away, dissolving into nothingness: and then the blue rope frayed, and the red cord broke, and the black thread fell away. One by one, thread by thread, the bindings around Nelyafinwë were shaken off, until he stood tall and radiant, his fëa shining bright and strong.
“I am taking a leave of absence from the court,” he announced, and turned his back on the King. Then he looked down to Findekáno, and smiled, offering him a hand. “Wouldst thou, my best beloved, care to join me on a journey west?”
“Russo,” Findekáno croaked, and leapt into his arms for an embrace.
“Finno,” his Russandol whispered. “Thank you...”
“You needn’t do more than you can handle,” Findekáno told him fiercely. “You aren’t responsible for all Noldolië, nor our family. We need to work things out ourselves—”
“Finno,” Russandol sighed, and his voice was more distant. Findekáno shivered, stepping back to realize he had been embracing nothing at all, and the grey mist had returned.
“Russo!” he called into the nothingness. “Russo! Damn you, I’ll find you again! I always will! Russandol!”
He set off at a sprint into the mist. He ran and ran, now and again hearing snatches of what could only be Russandol’s innermost thoughts:
If only they would listen...
...can’t let Atar know...
...ai, Finno, I miss you...
...damned meddling Ainur...! Must they continue to...
...why, thank you, Pityo, that is exactly what I need; oh no, don’t bother apologizing...
...your fault for leaving! If you’d just stayed, we might...
...ai, Finno, my love, please...
“Russo,” he cried out in answer—but the response he received was not one he wished to hear, not ever again.
“So it is, even as I guessed,” cried Curufinwë Fëanáro. “My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters.”
And suddenly Findekáno stood in the King’s chamber once more, reliving the scene that had fanned the flames of Tirion’s unrest into outright feuding. Fëanáro stood all in red, a helm upon his head and his armor gleaming in the Treelight filtered through the windows. He turned upon Ñolofinwë and drew his mighty sword, and Findekáno flinched as he heard again the damning words that had driven home just how little Fëanáro and his line thought of he and his father.
“Get thee gone, and take thy due place!”
And as he had before, Ñolofinwë bowed before the King and departed. Findekáno did not even move as the scene shifted: now he stood outside in the courtyard, watching as Fëanáro rushed after his father to threaten him again.
“See, half-brother!” he snarled, and set the point of his bright sword against Ñolofinwë’s breast. “This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.”
Yet this time, in Russandol’s memory, Ñolofinwë did not again take his leave in silence. This time he pushed aside the sword and stood tall and firm, his face growing darker, and spat out in response: “Who is the master of thralls, o prideful brother? Thou seekest to usurp our own father and take the Ñoldor from their peace and into lands of darkness!”
Findekáno jumped forth, drawing the blade he had not brought with him to Finwë’s council that day in reality. He moved just in time, for Fëanáro moved to strike Ñolofinwë, and Findekáno’s sword intercepted his uncle’s just in time.
Now Fëanáro’s ire turned to him. “Foul traitor!” he cried. “False friend to my son, fiend of thy father’s lies!”
“Thou’rt arrogant, prideful, conceited, cruel—!” Findekáno shouted out each word as their swords clashed, parrying Fëanáro’s every blow. But this was no sparring match with Russandol; his melotorno’s father attacked with sincere fury, and the fire of his spirit was ferocious and overwhelming. Before he could hurl another insult, Fëanáro knocked his blade aside, and now it was Findekáno whose life was a breath away from ending.
“Atar, no!”
And there stood Russandol in all his glory, shining brighter than ever, eyes blazing. He stepped between Findekáno and his father, proud and noble in his own right, and said to Fëanáro, “Do not dare harm him.”
“He has beguiled and bewitched you,” Fëanáro growled. “Stand aside, Nelyafinwë!”
“Thou canst not think to slay my son, thine own kindred!” boomed Ñolofinwë. “Such would prove thou to be the true tyrant!”
“Findekáno is innocent,” Russandol said steadily. “He is my friend. I trust him.”
I love him, he did not say. Findekáno knew why, knew everything they risked loving one another even in secret; and yet still it hurt.
“He is the spawn of that foul liar!” Fëanáro cried. “You are too soft-hearted, Nelyafinwë—”
“I will hear no word against him!” Russandol snapped. The passion in his voice was such that even Fëanáro took a half-step back.
Russandol reached down his hand and lifted Findekáno back to his feet. Their hands clasped together, he smiled, and in full view of their fathers, their families, and all the Ñoldor of Tirion, he pressed a sweet kiss to Findekáno’s lips.
Findekáno gasped softly, and Russandol flicked his tongue teasingly into his mouth. He felt dizzy, and leaned forward, kissing back for just a moment.
Then Russandol turned back to his father, the most beautiful he’d ever been. “I love him,” he declared. “He is the other half of my fëa. You have gone too far, Atar, and I will not stand with you any longer—not if it leads to this.”
“Nelyo,” Fëanáro whispered.
The courtyard shimmered, then shifted. The elves around them faded away, until it was just Russandol, Findekáno, and Fëanáro who remained. Even Ñolofinwë vanished, last of all.
But Russandol paid no more mind to his father, turning back to Findekáno with bright eyes. “Meldanya,” he murmured. “Thank you. I—I know now what I must do.”
“Nelyo,” Fëanáro repeated. “Nelyo—!”
“Begone,” Russandol said firmly, and the dream-memory of his father crumbled to ash, blowing away into the grey mist.
“Russo?” Findekáno asked, clinging to his hands. “Are you ready to wake? Are you ready to live again?”
“With thee, I am,” Russandol swore.
A wave of darkness rose up out of the grey, but with his copper-bright fëa Russandol pushed it back. A wall of fire roared up behind them, but Russandol only laughed.
“Come, Finno!” he cried. “Let us break free!”
Hand in hand, they raced through the mist. Flashes of the past blocked their path, but together they pushed through them: the courtyard, the palace, the forest. Further and further they ran, back through Russandol’s memories, and gasping with exertion and excitement, they burst back into the real world.
Maitimo woke heaving for breath, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He felt dreadful: aching, hungry, trembling. And yet he felt more alive now than he had in years.
Beside him, Findekáno stirred. His eyes, brown and beautiful, were wide as he stared at Maitimo with undisguised joy. Maitimo knew he must look just the same, drinking in the sight of his beloved, so long sundered from him; at once he drew Findekáno into his arms, his true arms in this hröa of flesh and blood, and held him close enough to hear the beating of his heart.
“Finnonya,” he breathed, and felt Findekáno shudder in his embrace.
“Russanya,” his melotorno whispered, voice cracking. “Arimeldanya...”
A flood of relief and gladness washed over Maitimo, bright golden like Findekáno’s fëa. He reached back instinctively, twining their spirits together and laughing with the joy of true reunion.
How I have missed thee! Findekáno cried. Russo, I am sorry for the harsh words I spoke to thee upon our last meeting—
“Hush,” Maitimo said, and pressed their lips together in a kiss. It is I who should beg apology of thee. I ought to have stood up for you—the dream we shared, it has been haunting me ever since we parted...
No more sorrow, Findekáno said firmly. We are together now, and always will be.
Maitimo’s fëa soared—only to swoop low again in shock. Always—Finno, I—
“Russo?” Findekáno murmured.
Maitimo stared helplessly into the warmth of those rich brown eyes. “Finno, I think...we...”
He reached out his fëa once more, and found Findekáno there immediately, without even trying. Their spirits were bound together, inseparable: they were one, in the eyes of the One.
“We bonded?” Findekáno whispered, his eyes even more impossibly wide. “But—how?”
“You saved me,” Maitimo croaked. “You came into my mind and brought me back...you saw the innermost parts of me...how could that leave us unaffected? Your fëa and mine were made one. You saved me.”
“I will always save thee,” Findekáno promised, and pulled him into a fierce and desperate kiss.
Maitimo let himself be pulled down into the bed, eager to surrender to the passions that came along with the union of fëar. Let their hröar become one also: they were as good as wed, and naught could change their bond!
But before they could get farther than Findekáno sliding his hands under Maitimo’s shirt, there was a loud thumping of feet. Maitimo and Findekáno guiltily jumped apart, blushing furiously, and barely had time to compose themselves before the door flew open, and the great Curufinwë Fëanáro burst into Maitimo’s room.
Findekáno leapt to his feet, coming to his defense even as he had come to Ñolofinwë’s in their dream. “Uncle,” he said, squaring his shoulders, “I can explain—”
But Fëanáro only pushed him aside, falling to his knees at Maitimo’s bedside with a ragged cry. “Nelyo,” he sobbed, and clung to him, shaking with a pure emotion Maitimo could not remember him showing since he was a child. “My baby boy...you’re alive...!”
Tears pricked at Maitimo’s eyes, and he pulled his father up into a proper embrace, resting his chin on the crown of Fëanáro’s head. “Atar,” he rasped. “Ai, Atar... Yes, I live, and I swear I shall not leave thee!”
“I was so afraid,” Fëanáro whispered. “Ai, Nelyo...I am so sorry—!”
Even as he had shushed Findekáno, Maitimo quieted his father now. Yet he did not grant forgiveness: it was simply not now the time for discussions of guilt and remorse.
“I love you, Atar,” he said. “I will not fall to such exhaustion again.”
After a few minutes more of holding his eldest son, Fëanáro sniffed, wiped his eyes, and stood back up. Now Maitimo noticed that all his brothers, and Finwë himself, had gathered in the doorway, their eyes shining also with tears.
“Nelyo!” little Tyelperinquar cried. “You’re awake!”
“I am,” he agreed, and found his eyes wandering to Findekáno, who stood awkwardly between the door and the bed.
Maitimo knew now what he must do. The stress, the pressure that had driven him to his wakeless sleep must be dealt with. He had rested, and now he must recover: and the first step was to proclaim the truth of his heart, and share his burdens with his best beloved.
He strode over to Findekáno and clasped his hands. Along their bond, he murmured, Finno? Are you ready?
You—really? Findekáno asked, those big brown eyes shining with hope.
Really. Maitimo smiled. Dearest, I cannot bear to live without thee. I will not do it again. We will face the storms ahead together, you and I. If...if you would have me?
“Ai, Russo!” Findekáno gasped, and pulled him into a kiss before all their kin.
There were gasps and cries of surprise, but Maitimo cared not. He was kissing Findekáno, holding him, declaring his love and hope for the future. He was breaking free of his bonds, save the one bond that mattered most.
At last, still arm in arm, they turned to face Fëanáro, Finwë, and the Fëanárioni. Maitimo’s father had staggered back in shock, while Finwë only smiled knowingly. His brothers looked less surprised—ai, they must have known, for Finno to have gotten this far into Formenos! And little Tyelpë was clapping with glee.
“Atar, Atar!” he cried. “Are Uncle Nelyo and Cousin Finno getting married? Can I come to the wedding? Please? Pleeeaase?”
“Congratulations, my grandsons,” Finwë said, and opened his arms. Findekáno beamed and rushed to embrace him, Maitimo following only a step behind.
“I have long hoped for something of this nature to bring my family together,” Finwë murmured to them as he held them close. “May your days be blessed!”
“Nelyafinwë?”
Maitimo stiffened, then turned to face his father. He wished almost that he had his sword on him, in case things went very wrong. Fëanáro had shown such gladness and relief upon his waking...but faced with the revelation of his love for Nolofinwë’s son, Maitimo did not know what he would do.
But though Fëanáro was plainly shocked, he looked not nearly as angered as Maitimo feared.
“Atar,” Maitimo began. “I will not apologize for my love—nor even for the hiding of it for so long. But I know this must be...difficult for you, and I—”
“Ai, Nelyo,” Fëanáro sighed, and grabbed him in another fierce hug. “I cannot... I do not... I know not what to do, what to feel, but I have come so close to losing you already. I could not bear to lose you now. It—I cannot promise there will be no difficulties, but I swear, I shall do all I can to make your marriage a blessed one.”
“When is the wedding?” Makalaurë teased.
Maitimo turned red. “Erm,” he said. “We sort of...already bonded?”
“Nelyo!” Tyelkormo laughed. “I didn’t think you would lack such decorum!”
“Well, ah—”
“It’s a consequence of sharing a mindspace the way we did,” Findekáno said breezily. “We shall, of course, have an official ceremony, once your exile is over, Uncle.”
Fëanáro grimaced. “Absolutely not,” he declared, and Maitimo turned back to him in dismay. Then he rolled his eyes. “Only because we must have a proper wedding here and now, in Formenos!”
“But my family—” Findekáno protested.
“And Amil!” Maitimo added.
Fëanáro waved a hand. “You may have another celebration later, with all of them, if you insist,” he drawled. “But I will not countenance a half-marriage in my own house, not if I can offer a proper wedding feast!”
“We would be honored,” Findekáno replied, radiant in his happiness.
“Let me get my strength back first,” Maitimo said, leaning against his half-a-husband with a heart lighter than it had been in years. “I shall surely need it for the days to come!”