Chapter Text
“Ought never to have trusted her to that Celegorm,” Davy muttered close to Turgon’s ear, shaking his head bitterly. That Celegorm, he repeated again, as though once had not been enough to properly communicate his disgust.
“Hush,” Turgon snapped, shooting the man a quelling look that was likely not even noticeable in the dark. “Not the time, Davy.”
Not the time, but more to the point, not the place. Mithrim was long-vanished into the dark behind them, and Hithlum was now in sight, a dusk-draped mass of buildings still mostly alive with lamplight and candlelight, warning of countless eyes open to spot them—countless ears to hear them—countless spying mouths to betray their coming to—whom? Who could have taken Aredhel and Celegorm in a fight? Who could have come successfully between Huan and his vicious master?
Turgon’s head ached, and his heart was in his throat, as he mercilessly forced himself to contemplate all the possibilities of horror in the unknown.
Davy nodded in sheepish apology. “Right you are, Master Turgon,” he whispered, and subsided into silence. The man had been part of Fingolfin’s household longer than Turgon himself, as he had been hired to drive the family coach not long after Fingon was born. Turgon knew he loved Aredhel dearly, as they all did. It was unjust to chide him for speaking ill of Celegorm when Turgon himself wanted nothing more than to shake his cousin himself, to shout at him for daring to lure Aredhel out of Mithrim’s safety and then fail to protect her. But Celegorm was not here, and Aredhel was not here, and it was possible—it was even probable—that both his sister and his cursed cousin were dead.
Fingon had said, before they left Mithrim, that Maedhros did not think they were dead.
Trust Fingon to frame even the most desperate and fragile of hopes on the convictions of Maedhros Feanorian.
Father had called the halt, and they had dismounted at his quiet command, standing in a huddled knot in the darkness while he and Wachiwi coordinated dividing their party into two groups: one to guard the horses and one to furtively press on into Hithlum. Turgon vaguely heard Curufin speak of a blacksmith whom Celegorm had befriended, insisting that was where their search should begin. Of course Curufin would be part of the group entering Hithlum, as he had scarcely been persuaded to wait for the rest of them as it was. Finrod would also go, along with Beren, and Wachiwi, and Turgon himself. Galadriel refused to be left behind, with a stubborn ferocity that was ironically very similar to Curufin’s. Finrod’s displeasure at her willfulness was clear to see even in the dark, but he was as ever unwilling to force his own will upon hers. Turgon, standing apart and still more preoccupied with swallowing down useless words than speaking them, found it difficult not to envy Finrod his ever-squandered good fortune. Out of all of their branching clans of cousins, Finrod’s was the only one who had not had to suffer the loss of a sibling, and yet he continued to allow Galadriel such freedoms! If Turgon was in Finrod’s position, he would have locked Galadriel in one of Mithrim’s storerooms, never mind her anger, and refused to have let her venture out at all.
(Or so he thought briefly, uncharitably, before grudgingly admitting that this was, of course, a lie. He had argued against letting Aredhel go to Hithlum, yes, but still: he had not locked her away. Why was it that love made it impossible to properly guard that which one loved?)
Fingon would also join their expedition into the town, for he was the one Huan insisted upon shadowing. He had not spoken all the frantic gallop from Mithrim; he did not even join in the whispered planning now, or seem to pay the discussion any heed at all. Turgon watched him closely, half-expecting with bitter anticipation that he would at any moment see his elder brother leap up and dash alone into the night, off to save their sister in the same reckless, foolish, miraculous way he had saved their cousin. It was unfair—worse than unfair, it was cruel—but Turgon felt the expectation weighing upon him like a stone.
You saved Maedhros, he thought, watching Fingon where he crouched silently in the road, one hand gripped in Huan’s thick scruff, his whole focus, like the hound’s, fixed upon the town ahead.
You saved Maedhros, so you must—so Aredhel must—Fingon, if you can save Maedhros but cannot save—
If the loss of Argon had struck Turgon like a club, it had taken Fingon like a gutting knife. There was a difference between the pain of being stunned by grief, and the pain of being disemboweled by failure. Turgon had been so terrified, in the snow, that Fingon would choose death over further pain. He had told Fingon again and again, his voice cracked by the ice, harsh with the cold:
It was not your fault. It was not your failure.
He had thought he believed what he said. He had believed it. So why had Maedhros’ rescue felt like a knife of its own? Why was he unable to look at Fingon now without putting the weight of Aredhel’s recovery on his rigid shoulders, too?
Oh, Elenwe, he prayed, invoking his wife’s name in private as he never dared to speak it now aloud: Oh, how you would be disappointed in me.
When a hand gripped him by the shoulder, Turgon jumped, his overtaxed heart still racing as he belatedly recognized his father. Perhaps the men of Mithrim did not know Fingolfin well enough to read his expression in the dark, but Turgon knew the look upon his face at once. It was an echo of an expression he had seen upon his father’s face only twice before, in snow and in blood. Fingon had had that look, when they first came to Mithrim all those months before, and he had been told that Maedhros was dead.
Turgon had almost hated his brother, when he had seen how he grieved their cousin the way he grieved their mother.
“Turgon,” his father said, in almost his usual way, but then he fell silent again. His hand tightened on Turgon’s shoulder.
Lost, is what that look meant.
Don't, Turgon wanted to beg: You cannot look so. Not for Aredhel. Not yet.
Instead, he forced back his shoulders, lifting his chin as he whispered: “Time, then?”
“Curufin will lead us,” his father answered, equally quiet, but he did not release his hold on Turgon’s arm. “Davy, I know you also are fond of—of my daughter, and I shall not forbid you to accompany those of us who press on now. But I had thought—if you would be willing to remain, to take charge of the horses here, I should be—that is to say, I would be grateful to you, sir—“
The loyal old coachman covered Father’s faltering with a stout nod. Behind him, Wachiwi was helping Fingon to his feet, both his hands in hers. Huan whined, low and wounded, and in the dark the sound was almost more human than dog.
“Wherever you need me, sir,” said Davy, as Finrod slipped silently towards them, his golden hair only half-muffled by his hat.
“You know that, Master Fingolfin. Wherever you need me.”
No one spoke as they wended their wary way through the narrow paths of Hithlum. There was only one main road, which struck directly through the town east to west, and around which would be gathered most of the lively businesses at this time of evening: the tavern, the adjacent eating house, and—according to Curufin—the smithy. Turgon by his own efforts did not have much experience with the ways of metalworkers, but he found his own lack of knowledge galling now, as he was forced to rely upon his cousin in such a dire time. The houses and low-roofed buildings they passed were silent, their windows dark. Turgon could not prevent himself from straining his hearing, listening for any sound of his sister as window by curtained window slipped by. The irrational, dangerous temptation to call her name was almost overwhelming. If Aredhel knew he was near, surely she would call back to him, wherever she was. Surely, he would hear.
Huan was not moving like a hound on a scent, as he limped doggedly onwards besides Fingon, so close that they were almost one shape in the shadows ahead, following where Curufin led. Turgon wondered, fleetingly, if Celegorm was dead. He would not have thought it possible for his wild cousin to be snuffed out as easily as that, with so little warning; but then again, he had not thought his uncle could have been killed as simply as he was, either, or that brilliant cousin Maedhros could have been so wholly changed in so short a time. This land was perilous. It had proven so time and again, to Turgon’s cousins before it even tried to test Turgon himself, and he had tried so very hard to heed the warning he saw there, in what had been done to them first. But what use building a wall, if your willful, clever sister is pleased to climb over it? Turgon had not seen Maedhros often, since his rescue; most of what he knew he saw reflected in Fingon’s haggard looks, at table and in sleep. He knew from his brother’s suffering that what had been done must be a horror beyond anything he could imagine, beyond even what his brief, confused recollections could decipher of the bloodied wreck Fingon had fallen to earth with, that long-ago night at the camp. If his family’s enemies could do that to Maedhros, of all people, what could they do to Aredhel?
His own sob surprised him. Angrily, he clapped one hand over his mouth, forcing his thoughts away from such evil possibilities. Aredhel could have Celegorm with her yet. Doubly galling, to place his hopes first in Curufin and now in Celegorm!
Wachiwi, moving like a hunting cat beside him, seemed to overhear his sound of grief, for he felt her glance towards him, with a quick, measuring flick of interest. He ducked his head and ignored her. Wachiwi was friendly with Aredhel. Turgon had thought she might be a good influence upon his sister: a woman of similar independent mind, but more prudence, someone for Aredhel to admire but also respect.
Why did you not warn her? Was yet another shameful sentiment to swallow down for the sake of silence’s shield. Why did you not tell her what danger there was waiting for her, outside Mithrim’s walls?
Why was he the only one to ever see all the dangers, and the only one who was not heeded?
Ahead, Curufin darted to the right, not troubling to make certain that they followed. The building he hastened towards was at first sight larger than most, until Turgon realized it was actually two buildings standing close together: a tin-roofed house like most in this settlement, but beside it a narrower cabin with wide chimneys and a hitching post and shutters at the windows. A light was burning in the house, but the forge stood silent and dark.
Turgon pulled his gun from its holster—not trusting the speed of his draw in need—and followed close at Fingon’s heels.
Azaghal did not seem wicked.
In truth, despite the fact that he spoke kindly of Celegorm, he even seemed a good-hearted sort, ushering their entire company into his small home as soon as he heard what was amiss, and locking the door behind them. Turgon found himself squashed elbow to elbow between Fingon and Beren, uncomfortably close to the fireplace. Huan, who had perked up his ears when he saw Azaghal, had quickly turned restless again and was nosing disconsolately about the floorboards. This was clearly the home of a bachelor: the mantel and table were barren of any decoration, and the smith had materials of his trade stacked along the walls and leaning up in the corners: ingots and cords of wood and sacks of charcoal. The whole place smelled earthy and warm, spiced with bundles of dried herbs and plants Turgon did not know, which hung in bundles from the already low rafters. Azaghal was a short man, easily more than a head shorter than Fingon, so the ceiling did not trouble him. Finrod had to stoop a little, a bundle of lavender tapping him on the side of the head whenever he shifted. Father, standing near him, had to stoop even more.
Turgon had been struck before by how similar Father and Fingon sometimes looked, especially when they were thinking or in distress. Grandmother Indis had told him once, with a wink, that it was the Finwe look. Father looked like Fingon now, with his arms folded close and tense, and his dark brows furrowed together. When he told Azaghal Aredhel’s name, it was like his voice caught in his throat.
Curufin stood even closer to Father than Finrod did, his gun in his hands. He turned it over and over in his quick fingers as he listened, frowning and clearly impatient to be gone, now that Celegorm was not here.
“—he might have seen something,” Azaghal was saying, folding his own arms with a gruff sigh. “Then again, if ‘twere the militia who accosted your Celegorm, and at his establishment, he mightn’t be willing to talk. Most folk in these parts live in fear of one power or another, whether it come from the mountain, or the city—or your fort, truth be told. But the tavern’s run clean enough, to my knowledge. I can’t see him allowing any harm to come to any girl, stranger or no.”
“If anyone here knew who Celegorm was, they would have no reason to spare Aredhel,” Curufin snapped.
“So I’m beginning to see,” Azaghal rumbled, with a dark look towards Curufin. “Yet I liked him fine. I’ve not a head for politics; the West is a place for those starting over, no matter what they’ve done. If you give me work, and pay me what I’m owed, that’s enough for me. Your brother was mannered enough, and never argued a price. If you’re honest and civil, and keep your affairs to yourself, that’s generally enough to get in folks’ good books here. And your daughter,” he added to Father, “seems to have been even likelier to make friends, if what you’ve told me is right.”
Turgon had never considered his sister to have a talent for making friends before; she was so headstrong, and so unlike the other women of her age, that he had come to think of her as a naturally solitary creature—an oddity apart, very precious, but an oddity all the same.
For the first time he found himself considering that she had been lonely.
“That is my fear,” Father confessed, as Azaghal tapped one square finger in thoughtful rhythm on the tabletop. “That she may have come seeking friends, and have made wrong ones. She is a trusting child.”
“I shouldn’t think she would have anything to fear from the people who live here,” Azaghal mused. “As I said, they’re largely a decent lot. The ones I cannot vouch for are the panhandlers who come in for provisions and repairs, and the trappers, or the hired guns; we do get those types moving through on the regular, though not as often now as used to be. Less militia, too, for weeks now, as far as I’ve noticed. Although,” he added, shaking his head: “Come to think of it, there is a queer fellow whom I’ve seen about lately—“
When Huan began howling, it felt as though the whole house shook around them.
“I’ll go with him,” Fingon said, because of course he did. Huan had bolted straight to him, clamoring and frantic, and entirely indifferent as to who he knocked down to get there. Celegorm’s dog had been massive back East, and he seemed positively monstrous in size and energy here, in this cramped little low-ceilinged room, with all the dark and fear outside.
“Hush, you,” Galadriel said, shrilly—but she was talking to Huan, not to Fingon. Beren, who had somehow contrived to stand beside the shuttered window, face half-turned along the wall so he could peer out through the thin crack at the frame, said nothing. He held his leaf-shaped knife unsheathed in one hand, but although he was clearly tense he gave no sign of alarm. No sign of movement then, in answer to Huan’s howls, and no lights approaching. But for how much longer? Whoever entrapped Celegorm surely knew he had a dog. Would they care to hunt Huan down too, or disregard him now that his master was safely caught or worse?
(Wherever Celegorm was, was Aredhel with him?)
And now Fingon was determined to vanish into the night again, in pursuit of mad and foolish hope, as he had done once before.
‘Take me,” said Turgon.
Fingon, still half-kneeling on the plain wooden floorboards, still with his arms flung about Huan’s great shoulders, looked up at him wordlessly. There were Huan’s dark eyes, with their strange dog-eloquence, and there were Fingon’s, bright and yearning with a hunter’s yearning. A hunter, desperate to run. A brother, desperate to save.
Was this the face Maedhros saw, alone, on that blasted mountainside?
Take me, said Turgon, and Fingon did not nod, but he did not say no, either.
Four of them slipped out of Azaghal’s lamplit house, one after the other, blinking in the dark. Fingon, Wachiwi, Beren, Turgon.
Five of them, if one were to count Huan, who led the way. Turgon would not, but he supposed Celegorm would. Even Aredhel might. She was very fond of Huan. She had not spoken Celegorm’s name after the betrayal at the bridge, but she had mentioned Huan, sometimes, when out hunting.
In the quiet, early days after they left Ulmo’s Bridge, there had been moments of peace, and even seeming leisure, despite the recent wound of Feanor’s treachery. Turgon could look back upon those times now and realize he had spent many hours happily, in retrospect, taking advantage of the new environment to pass the time in company with his wife without any of the furtiveness that had characterized their dalliances in New York. He had even enjoyed spending more time with his brothers and sister, whom he had seen so little in the city, as each had grown up to pursue different interests and amusements. Fingon, of course, had been still very much subdued, but in other respects was still very much the same brother Turgon had grown accustomed to observing and loving and resenting from afar. Brought into new focus, his foibles were even more aggravating, but his virtues were likewise all the more admirable. When Turgon expressed an interest, Fingon had obligingly lectured him upon a variety of interesting developments in modern medicine and practice—lectures which he had undoubtedly meant to deliver to Maitimo first, but if Turgon did not dwell upon that he did enjoy them, regardless. It had been while they sat minding the fire on one of those lazy, late summer evenings that Fingon had first volunteered to show Turgon the contents of his doctor’s kit, letting him handle the mysterious bottles and marvel over the tiny blades.
It was Aredhel who had proven herself most surprisingly. Ever since their first departure from civilization, she had taken upon herself the role of their lead tracker, and hunter, and lookout, eagerly and swiftly learning whatever Finrod might teach her but also already possessing a shocking amount of knowledge herself. Turgon, never having had much excuse or opportunity to see Aredhel on any of her country excursions with Celegorm, had been astonished by her easy skill with both rifle and pistol. At Father’s suggestion, it became common practice to break camp shortly before dawn, drive until midday, and then halt for a few hours when the heat would make travel most disagreeable for Mother and Elenwe. During these brief halts, the time would be spent eating, resting, checking the maps, doing any necessary repairs, replenishing water when possible—in short, doing any assortment of the varied tasks that passed for domesticity upon the road. What these halts also came to mean, however, were shooting lessons with Aredhel.
It had been Father who asked for her tutelage first. She had agreed quickly, and began setting up targets with that forthright energy which was so characteristic of her, and had shown how shy and flattered she was over the request only by the blush which rose in her cheeks. She had taught Father how to shoot, and Fingon, and Turgon—although Fingon himself had been much more adept than Turgon, with a revolver.
Father had not allowed Argon to partake in the lessons. He had said he was too young.
Now, Turgon followed close at Beren’s heels, the weight of his gun a familiar shape in his hand. His fingers were a little sweaty on the grip, despite the cold air, and he panted and puffed quietly as he moved at a crouching run, eyes fixed on Beren’s feet in front of him. Huan was too far ahead in the dark for Turgon to see him clearly, but their pace was swift, so evidently the hound was certain of where he was going. Turgon wondered if Huan knew whom he was hunting: was it Celegorm? Aredhel? Was it the scent of whoever it was who managed to subdue or surprise them both? Turgon would never have dreamed that he should ever be on a rescue mission to save Aredhel from danger; surely it had always been more likely that she would be the one to have to protect him, the stolid city boy so little suited to the wilderness. Aredhel herself had thought so. She had teased him enough, over the prospect, before Argon’s murder and the long winter that followed ended any humor to be found in the possibility of familial peril.
That’s a mighty big world out there, Turgon, Aredhel had said, only two nights ago. She had brought him his supper on a tray, and lingered while he ate, boosting herself up to look over the wall he was building. The late evening sun had still enough radiance to light up her face with warmth, and she looked so vivacious and young, with her booted feet teetering to balance in the cracks between two stones, and her thick hair all unbound and still damp from her washing in the afternoon.
That’s a mighty big world out there, Turgon. This is a splendid sort of wall, but do you think it shall ever be big enough?
That, he supposed, had been his crucial error: his choice to think of his wall as a fence to keep evil outside of Mithrim, instead of a barrier to keep what he loved within.
Dear God, he thought in awkward, earnest prayer as he ran: If you only keep Aredhel safe, and help her back to us, I shall never be careless with her safety again. I shall never lose her again.
Idril! Aredhel had exclaimed with a tenderness and delicacy that was so unlike her usual manner. She had held Turgon’s infant daughter more naturally than he himself did, cooing at the tiny lips, the fragile fingers, the golden hair.
It is such a darling name! Like a fairy-tale princess. I know it must be Elenwe’s doing, same as that pretty yellow hair. You haven’t a fairy-tale bone in your body, Turgon.
The tavern did not so much loom in the darkness as it lurked, sullen and defensively hunched between much smaller buildings, its windows still bright with lamplight in defiance of how most of the rest of Hithlum seemed deep asleep. Huan bolted across the open road in front of the tavern, which was much wider than elsewhere in town and rutted with the marks of wagon wheels and horse hoofs, and vanished into the shadows along the left side of the building, beneath the warning glare of an open window.
Fingon nearly bolted after him, but Turgon having caught up at last lunged forward to seize his older brother by the coat sleeve. When Fingon whipped around to protest, Turgon shook his head sharply, glowering.
“You promised Father,” he whispered, wheezing fiercely as he caught his breath. “You promised you would not be rash.”
Thus chastised, Fingon allowed Beren to take the lead, moving cautiously not across the open ground but further down to where the houses pressed closer together, then circling quickly back, slipping from cover to cover until they were right next to the tavern, keeping carefully out of the line of sight from the glowing window. Beren nodded once, gestured briefly with one hand, and darted forward to press himself against the tavern wall, listening. There was no commotion from within. His movement did, however, invite welcome from another source: Huan came barreling towards them from the shadows behind the tavern building, silent but frantic. He bounded up to where Beren still hid and snapped anxiously at his hands, then raced to Fingon again, impatient.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Fingon whispered, which seemed to satisfy the dog, who promptly wheeled about and sped back towards the rear of the building. Beren hastened in pursuit, as did Wachiwi, both of them dropping easily into low crouches and crawling silently, catlike, beneath the open windowsill before continuing along the wall into the dark. Fingon followed, not nearly as elegantly, and Turgon once again was last, his squatting waddle even more ungainly than Fingon’s.
When Fingon was directly beneath the window, he paused. Looking upward he hesitated, considering the inviting aperture. The window was paned with yellow glass, muting the noises from within, but there were no sounds of commotion. With a glance back to Turgon, Fingon shifted, twisted, and carefully raised himself up a little to peer over the edge of the sill, into the room.
The sight of Fingon pressed against the rough wall, his face tilted up so cautiously into the edge of the light, was bizarrely painful—like seeing an image of childhood, one of the rare moments they had been brothers together, creeping to avoid being caught at mischief in those blurry, distant years before Maedhros came to the city to steal Fingon’s affection and attention away.
Beren had already disappeared around the corner of the wall, following Huan. Wachiwi had reached the corner also, but she paused and turned to check on their progress, her slim hand poised lightly on the hilt of her long knife. By the slight tilt of her head, she looked to be as confused by Fingon’s delay as Turgon was.
“What is it?” Turgon whispered, more harshly than he intended. He crept closer to Fingon, his heart in his throat. “Is she—“
Fingon’s eyes were wide as he peered over the lip of the window frame, lit with reflective lamplight, but ever so slightly he shook his head no.
Turgon leaned out slightly and followed his brother’s gaze to see a plain, common eating room: mostly empty, and entirely unremarkable. A couple rangy fellows in dusty shirts smoked at a back table, the remnants of their dinner scattered on the table between them. A couple more were lazily playing cards, sharing not a meal but a bottle. The only other patron was a man still midway through his late dinner, and he was dining alone. He sat nearer the window than the others, but half turned from it, with only his thick jaw and heavy shoulder clearly visible; Turgon thought he looked a brutish sort, despite the cleanliness of his cloth. There was something unpleasant in the way he chewed his meat.
Fingon was regarding this last man when he whispered: “We might go in to ask if anyone saw anything earlier, of Aredhel or Celegorm.”
“And be shot ourselves?” Turgon hissed, aghast. “Fingon, are you daft?”
“They don’t look like they know each other,” Fingon pointed out. “So they could hardly all be in on whatever scheme is afoot here. It seems calm. I would wager our chances are more that these men are locals, and they could have heard or seen something valuable, or noticed anything unusual.”
“That is still a wager,” Turgon whispered with all the emphasis he could muster while keeping quiet. Fingon hesitated, then sighed, and dropped carefully below the window again, moving at a silent crouch along the wall towards the back of the building where Huan had vanished. Turgon, relieved, followed suit.
As he did, he realized suddenly what had had him so uneasy: the man eating alone had set his revolver upon the tabletop, in the place where more homely utensils were wont to be, gleaming dark and heavy in the firelight. There was his weapon, ready to hand, even in the quiet, lazy room.
Huan had found something behind the tavern. Something that Turgon, with his dull human eyes, could not see; something he could not smell, could not touch. Was it blood, fallen invisible upon the trampled ground? Was it hair, dark or golden-yellow, mingled with the straw? Was it gunpowder in the air, or sweat on the stones, or a bootprint only a dog would know?
The yard was quiet, and the stones were cold. Even wood-wise Beren, half-knelt upon the dusty earth, saw nothing. But whatever Huan found there was, at last, a certainty. Huan found it, and then Huan was away, racing back into the dark, out towards the edge of the town. Clever Huan, who did not make any sound to betray them, and who trusted them to follow.
Who trusted Fingon to follow, for it was to Fingon the hound sprang again, in his moment of triumphant discovery, before leaping away in pursuit.
“We have to report back to father,” Turgon whispered through numb lips, his heart thumping deep and loud. Fingon was trembling; Turgon could see that even in the dark. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, but was not certain in the moment if he was trying to steady him, or to hold him back. He could feel Fingon’s tension rigid beneath his fingers even through his ragged coat.
“We haven’t any time,” Fingon hissed, not even turning around. In the darkness he breathed like Huan breathed: panting, sharp and quick. Straining towards the hunt—and towards the quarry.
Aredhel.
Turgon had never known that hope could feel like this.
Beren: left alone at the tavern, to run back and tell Fingolfin where his foolish sons had gone despite all their promises. Wachiwi: racing light and certain at Turgon’s left, keeping pace with him so that he did not fall behind. Fingon: running with heedless, headlong speed deeper into the forest beyond Hithlum, crashing through the brush, outpacing them both. Turgon: a stitch in his side, a knife in his throat, gasping and sweating and running, running, because Huan had run before them, and Huan had run beneath the the evergreens, and that meant that somewhere else beneath that dark canopy must be either Celegorm or—
Or—
Ahead of them, Huan howled.
The voice that answered him from the Stygian trees was not Celegorm’s voice at all.
“Aredhel!” That was Fingon, his voice wrecked by the strain of his speed and his hope all together. Turgon could not see his brother anymore, in the dark. The pain in his side was in his chest now, as he screamed his sister’s name, too.
“Aredhel!”
And there at last was Huan, baying and barking like a mad creature, and there was Fingon, fallen upon the soft, needle-strewn earth, and there in his arms, her own arms thrown about his neck in frantic embrace, not dead, not dying, was—
“Oh, God,” sobbed Turgon, as his own knees finally buckled, and he dropped to the ground beside the only two siblings he had left, in all this vast, cruel world. “Aredhel.”
His rash, splendid, fearless sister. His brave, headstrong, impossible brother.
When he put his arms around them both it did not feel like safety but it did—somehow—feel like home.