Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He exited Mandos without fanfare, and was entirely unsurprised to find his parents on the other side.

“Ingoldo!” his mother cried, clutching him close.

His hroa felt awkward around him, and the name seemed barely to belong to him, but her embrace did much to settle the conflicting signals between his fea and hroa.

“Findarato,” his father whispered, enfolding both of them.

Yes, he thought. He could be Findarato again. “Mum, Dad,” he murmured. Quenya felt awkward in his mouth. He leaned into them both and let their energy settle his.

“If you weren’t ready, you shouldn’t have come back,” his mother admonished him.

Findarato smiled. This felt very familiar indeed. “I was ready, Mum,” he insisted. “It’s just odd still.”

Of course, she had no idea what he meant, not having died herself, but she nodded. “We missed you,” she said instead.

He bowed his forehead into her kiss, letting her tuck him close again.

Arafinwë pressed his forehead against Findarato’s temple. “Son,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Dad,” Findarato replied, leaning into his father’s strength. He had missed them fiercely. He had a lot of practice keeping discomfort from his face and bearing, so he didn’t let on the way his hroa immediately wavered around him, like his fea hadn’t connected to it correctly, when his parents released him. That would get better soon, right?

Being on horseback was better, because it didn’t matter whether his feet felt like his own or not; the placid gelding his parents had brought for him wouldn’t spill him even if his whole body stopped responding.

Reverie that night helped, and he woke feeling slightly more tethered.

And then he saw Amarië again, in his father’s receiving room in Tirion, both of them clearly using it as a path elsewhere and neither expecting the meeting. His hroa immediately felt disconnected, and Findarato wasn’t even aware of falling over until Amarië was cradling his jaw, and his face felt like it belonged to him for the first time in days. “Ingoldo?” she asked gently.

“Marya,” he whispered, and then jerked back. “Shit, sorry, no. Amarië.”

Amarië’s head tilted slightly. She took his jaw back in her hand and tipped his chin up to face her. “I waited for you,” she said.

He shook his head slowly. “I-” he said. “I’m sorry for that, too.”

“Are you telling me you no longer love me?” she asked wryly, sounding just like she always did when she thought he was being stupid.

Findarato shook his head. “Just that I’m no longer the ner you loved.”

Her eyebrow arched. “I find that hard to believe.”

He blinked at her. “I changed in Beleriand,” he insisted.

She scoffed. “Not from what I’ve heard,” she said. “It’s very you to challenge an umaia in Song.” She shook her head. “Don’t be stupid, Ingoldo, it doesn’t suit you. I waited for you all this time, and the only way I’m giving you up now is if you tell me you no longer hold true to the promises you made me in the light of the Trees.”

He closed his eyes. “Never,” he said.

“Good,” Amarië replied. Then she kissed him, and for a brief moment, his entire hroa actually felt like it was his again. “Can you stand up?” she asked him when they broke.

“...Maybe?” he said after a moment of taking stock of himself.

“You shouldn’t have come back if you weren’t ready,” she scolded him.

“I felt ready,” he argued. “It wasn’t until I was back that things got odd.”

“You haven’t told your parents, have you?” Amarië asked.

He shook his head.

“No,” she agreed. “They would never have organized this party if they’d known you fall over at the drop of a hat.”

“In my defense,” Findarato said dryly, “This is the first time I have actually fallen over.”

Amarië kissed his forehead. “That is a terrible defense.”

“Also,” he said. “Party?”

“Did they not tell you or were you not listening?” Amarië wondered. “There’s a party tonight to celebrate your return; you’re the first of the exiles to re-embody. Your grandparents are here from Alqualondë, and the High King himself has come. Ingwion is here too, which is why I am here, though I think he would’ve let me come even if he wasn’t.”

Findarato blinked at her, and made a noise of question, not certain what he meant to ask.

“I’m the High Prince’s aide-de-camp,” Amarië answered. “I had to do something with myself once you left, and it turns out I’m good at organizing.”

“She’s a holy terror,” a wry voice said. “But you probably know that.”

“Hi Ingwion,” Amarië said.

“Hello,” the High Prince of All Elves said dryly. “Should I fetch someone?”

Amarië looked at Findarato.

Findarato considered himself. “No,” he said. “I think I can get up now.”

Ingwion came over to them and helped Amarië help Findarato up. His hands were callused and strong, which didn’t surprise Findarato, but the fact that some of the calluses were obviously sword-calluses did. He smiled lopsidedly at Findarato when he saw him notice. “Don’t spread it around,” he said softly.

Findarato nodded.

“Are you all right?” Ingwion asked him. “Your fea feels strange.”

Findarato shrugged. “It’s the hroa,” he replied, “That feels strange to me. I think I’ll settle back into it, but I was separated from the last one sort of… messily, so it’s bound to take some getting used to.”

“Messily, he says,” Amarië muttered. “You can say ‘violently’ my heart; we won’t faint or shiver. You can even say ‘painfully and terribly.’”

Findarato shrugged again. “Compared to some,” he said softly, “It didn’t feel all that terrible.”

Ingwion’s eyes sharpened somewhat. “Will you share with me, Findarato Ingoldo?” he asked formally. “In the knowledge your words will make it, in time, to my father the king, who needs must know what happens to his folk in Beleriand?”

Findarato met his keen gaze. The emphasis there, the phrasing; Ingwion, he suspected, might have some Opinions about the Exile of the Noldor; or perhaps even some Regrets. “My cousin once said, ‘A king is he who can hold his own,’” Findarato observed wryly. “‘Or else his title is in vain.’ He was talking about Elwë, at the time, but it has stuck with me.”

Ingwion nodded gravely. “Which cousin?” he asked wryly. “Though his words are wise indeed, even were he the most vapid of your cousins, if there is such a one, for all I knew were shrewd and keen.”

“Russandol,” Findarato replied. “Perhaps the best statesman among us, and the one best suited to be king, though he wore the crown but briefly. He certainly held more of Beleriand than anyone else, if you count his hold on his brothers.”

Ingwion sighed softly. “Indeed, the Maitimo I knew in our youths in Valmar was much like your grandfather in wisdom and bearing.” He nodded once, sharply, and gestured to the couches. “But come, you speak obliquely of politics I only partially understand. What will you tell me about Beleriand?”

Findarato, still leaning on Amarië--because he wanted her hands on him not because he needed the support-- led the way to the seating area. “What would you hear?” he returned.

Ingwion frowned. “All we know comes from the returned among the Sindar, as they call themselves, and the Teleri. You are, as Amarië has told you, the first of the exiles to return.”

Findarato stared at him. “Then you know precious little indeed, for Elwë Singollo has little to do with life in Beleriand, though much to say.”

Ingwion nodded.

So Findarato told him, to the best of his ability, of the political situation in Beleriand as of his death--he was sure something had gone terribly wrong in Nargothrond once he’d left Artaresto at the mercy of Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, but he could hardly guess what. It took hours. The Dispossession of the Feanorions made Ingwion hiss quietly, and the death of Nolofinwë made him bow his head.

“Anairë, your aunt, knew of her husband’s death,” Ingwion said softly. “But none of us knew the how of it. I do not think this will comfort her.”

Findarato shook his head. “It was hard enough comforting Findekano,” he replied grimly. “And he at least understood the despair.” His heart clenched tight. “Did I do well enough describing that, High Prince of All Elves?” he asked; the words could have been vicious, cutting, but they were empty instead. “Do you understand the inevitability of ruin, which we spent every day clawing against in futility until we died screaming?”

Ingwion said softly, “I do not think I can.” He added gravely, “But I can see the shape of it, in your voice, in your eyes, and in the gaps between your fea and your hroa.” He squeezed Findarato’s hand once. “And I will make sure my father knows, as well.”

Findarato nodded slowly.

“A king is he who can hold what is his,” Ingwion reflected in thoughtful slowness. “And Elwë claimed to be king of all Beleriand, while behind his girdle. Nolofinwë, King of the Noldor fought Morgoth in single combat to keep the dark at bay from his people for one more night. And Nelyafinwë Maitimo holds the eastern marches against even dragonfire, though he refused the crown that was his.” He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I understand.” His mouth twisted wryly. “It is, of course, a stunning indictment of the High King of All Elves, and one perhaps best not repeated aloud.”

Findarato nodded, mouth twisting bitterly. “I had no intent in doing so.”

“I might,” Amarië said. Her grip on Findarato’s hand had gone white-knuckled as he’d spoken, which Findarato had not noticed until this moment. He still couldn’t feel it, only see the tension of her grip and the paleness of his own fingers.

“No, Amarië,” Ingwion said, smiling fondly. “Let me be the one to break it to my father.”

Findarato gently prised her fingers off him.

“Oh, Ingoldo, I’m sorry,” she said when she saw his white fingertips.

He shrugged philosophically. “Well it doesn’t hurt,” he observed.

Amarië sighed and kissed his fingertips. “I am still sorry,” she replied.

He kissed her hand and said brightly, “Now, your prince has come looking for you-- I assume that’s why you were coming this way?” Off Ingwion’s nod, Findarato continued, “And I distracted him for far longer than he intended, I bet. So I think you have things to do. I must get ready for the party tonight, which may take me some time, as I have no idea what fashion is like these days, and I likely need to be fitted for new clothes.”

“Undoubtedly,” Amarië agreed, kissing his cheek. “Will you be all right?”

He nodded. “As I ever am,” he replied, which would have made Latyahilë laugh, but only made Amarië and Ingwion frown. “Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps a too-Beleriandic joke.”

Amarië frowned, but Ingwion tipped his head thoughtfully.

Findarato waved them off, rising to force them to do the same. His legs held him and his feet went where he put them, so he kissed Amarië’s cheek again and hustled himself off to his quarters to cry for a while before his father’s valet came to make him get dressed.

The party took place on the great green between Tirion and Valmar, and Findarato was glad to be outside--the palace at Tirion had started to feel a little stifling after an afternoon in a windowless room being prodded at with pins. They were nothing like the teeth of a wolf, but by the end of the fitting, Findarato thought--though he would never voice it among the Valinorian folk like he might have to Latyahilë--he preferred the wolves.

There was music and wine and dancing, and no one asked him any insensitive questions, though there was a thoughtful look in Ingwë’s eyes that suggested Ingwion had spoken to him.

His mother fussed over him incessantly, adding food to his plate and refilling his goblet and stroking his hair like he was a child. His grandmother Indis watched with something like pity in her eyes; they’d been close once, he perhaps the grandchild closest to her, but the Exile was an insurmountable gulf between them. His other grandparents alternated between trying to dote on him like an elfling and being entirely unable to look at him, depending on whether he had recently said anything about Beleriand.

Findarato kept his tongue between his teeth and a smile on his face. It was even a true smile most of the time.

And then someone held out a harp and asked him to sing.

He hesitated; truly he did. He wasn’t going to do it. And then someone else said, “Sing us a song from Beleriand.”

Findarato watched Amarië’s eyes go very wide, and Ingwion’s gaze jerk around to him. Amarië was shaking her head sharply, but Ingwion nodded once, just slightly.

Permission granted from the High Prince, Findarato hefted the harp and smiled with all his teeth; he had learned something of wolfish grins, there at the last. “Not one of mine,” he said, ducking his head graciously to hide his predatory smile, “But a better representation of the Beleriandic mode than anything I wrote. It’s called Ice After Fire.” And then he started Makalaurë’s lament for Nolofinwë, which also happened to contain a brief summary of the battle that had preceded it and a scathing political commentary. Kano did nothing by halves.

There was a long silence after he finished. Aunt Anairë was crying silently, wrapped in his mother’s arms. His father’s face was stone.

“Well that was in poor taste,” Olwë said mildly into the silence. It was phrased as a gentle rebuke, but his eyes were cold.

Findarato met his grandfather’s eyes squarely. “Would you rather I had sung a marching song of the Grinding Ice?” he asked sharply.

Olwë started to puff up in indignation.

Indis tried to intercede. “Surely there was something less… grim… you could have chosen?” she asked lightly.

Findarato set the harp aside carefully and stood. “No,” he said coldly. “There wasn’t.” He strode away until the murmurs of the crowd were a whisper behind him and the trees were hushing his tattered heart. He leaned his forehead on the bark of an aspen and breathed.

Arafinwë cleared his throat quietly from behind him.

Findarato whirled, startled, hands reaching for a sword he no longer wore.

His father smiled wryly. “Yes,” he murmured. “I rather thought it was a bad idea to startle you from too close.”

Findarato lifted his chin. “I’m not sorry.”

“I’m not asking you to be,” Arafinwë replied. He stepped closer, and opened his arms for a hug, which Findarato buried himself gratefully in. “Can you ever be happy here again?” his father asked softly into his braids.

“I don’t know,” Findarato admitted into his father’s shoulder.

“You feel strange,” Arafinwë said softly. “Are you all right?”

Findarato shrugged. “I’m getting there.”

“I could wish you had never gone,” Arafinwë said softly. “Or I could wish you were still there, but neither would be fair, would they?” he asked. “I missed you, when there was a sea between us, and I worried always. But your heart is bent on building, and protection, and war as well, much though I rue it. And you will find little of any of those here.”

Findarato swallowed. “I missed you too,” he said. “And I never wished you were there. Nor did I wish to return here.” He did not say home, and he knew his father noticed. “You would not have been happy in Beleriand,” he told his father honestly. “But I was.”

“I know,” Arafinwë agreed. “But embarrassing your grandparents will not make the point you wish to, I don’t think.”

“They asked,” Findarato replied.

“It was a good song,” Arafinwë observed. “Makalaurë’s?”

Findarato nodded. “I’m not going to be less combative,” he warned.

Arafinwë sighed. “I know,” he agreed. “But I can dream.”

“I will pretend to be suitably chastised, if you need me to be,” Findarato conceded. “But I will not stop, and I will not pretend that I do not resent the blinkered peace of Valinor.”

“I know,” his father sighed again. “You will be exactly as you have always been, my son, and I have no wish to change it. You need not even act chastened, for I am not unhappy with your behavior, as your father or your king.” He smiled wryly. “Things need shaking up, now and then. It has been awfully quiet here without you and your cousins to do so.” He looked stern, suddenly, “But try not to goad your grandfather? Your mother worked very hard to make peace with him after you left.”

Findarato scoffed. “I will be exactly as polite to him as he is to me,” he replied. “I was a king in my own right in Beleriand, and if he persists in talking to me like I never crawled off his knee, I won’t be sorry for my actions.”

“You learned to be rude in Beleriand,” his father observed, without judgment.

“I learned to be rude from Uncle Feanaro,” he retorted. “You’ve just never seen me turn it on anyone except him and Curvo before.”

Arafinwë took his arm. “Ingoldo,” he said gently. “Your grandfather lost very much, and the connection of his grandchildren to the worst time of his life is very hard for him to bear. He is handling it badly, but still. Be gentle with him.”

Findarato said firmly, “Everyone lost much, some more than he, and many handled it much better. I will not be condescended to like a child because he thinks my griefs are my own fault and therefore well deserved.”

Arafinwë startled back. “He doesn’t!”

“He does,” Findarato replied. “And you may ask him if you don’t believe me, but it is clear in his face when he meets my eyes. He thinks it serves me right, for going over there at all, as if one deserves to be dismembered by wolves and devoured, for daring to question the Valar.”

Arafinwë stepped slowly back, fumbling for a tree to steady himself on. “Is- is that what happened?” he asked hoarsely.

Findarato considered this. He hadn’t told them, he realized distantly. The whole ride from Mandos, almost two whole days entirely in their company, and he hadn’t told them how it had happened.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I was not devoured like my companions,” he added, aiming to reassure, though by his father’s face it didn’t help much. “I killed the wolf in return,” he tried.

Arafinwë said, “Stop, unless you will tell me the whole tale. These bits are making it worse.”

“Not tonight,” Findarato said gently. “When I have just told you of the manner of your brother’s passing, and we are supposed to be celebrating in any case.”

Arafinwë shook himself, standing tall again and dredging up a smile. “But you will tell us?”

Findarato nodded. “I had not meant to keep it from you,” he promised. “Only, it seems so integral to me now I forgot you could not know.”

Arafinwë squeezed his hand once, and led the way back to the revelry, which, he hoped, had moved on in their absence to something less fraught.

The central pavilion, where Findarato’s family and their most important guests had been ensconced, was still and silent, and the rest of the gathering buzzed with much speculation and little merriment.

They strode in side-by-side, Findarato trying gamely to ignore the way his fingertips no longer felt as though they existed, and his knees were partially numb. His feet, at least, still consented to land where he asked them to.

The light was the first thing Findarato noticed. The maia was the second.

“Ah, Arafinwë,” Eonwë said gravely. “Excellent.” He gestured at the incredibly shiny secondborn standing next to him, and the elf-woman clutching his arm. “Earendil must speak to the Valar immediately, but I thought perhaps Elenwingë would be well suited to explain their presence and their purpose to the kings.”

Ingwë caught Arafinwë’s eye and nodded slightly.

Arafinwë nodded back, and answered, “I am at your disposal, Lord Herald,” he assured the maia.

Findarato wobbled, and felt Amarië prop him up discreetly.

Eonwë nodded sharply, caught the shiny secondborn by the arm, and they both turned into the air and vanished. The light went with them.

“Was that a silmaril?” Findarato asked into the silence.

Elenwingë, the elf-woman, crossed her arms. “I don’t speak Quenya,” she said in Sindarin.

There was a moment of silence.

“Hail and well met, Elwing of Beleriand!” Findarato said, in the same language.

“Dioriel,” she replied.

He nodded politely. “I am Finrod Felagund, and I think I shall have to act as translator, because I doubt anyone else here has learned Sindarin.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Prove it,” she snapped.

He blinked. “I- I’m sorry?”

“You can’t be Felagund, he’s dead. So.” She crossed her arms across her chest. A flash of green at her hand caught his attention.

“You’re wearing a ring,” he replied. “Which likely anyone who knew me could describe in detail, except for one thing; it has my mother’s name engraved on the inside, because it was originally a gift for her, when she joined my father’s house. It was to go to my wife, when she joined mine,” he added, squeezing Amarië’s hand where it was still on his arm even though she had no idea what he was saying. “Except that I left her behind, and then gave it to Barahir, who passed it on to his son Beren.” Findarato examined the woman’s face; she looked just enough like his cousin Luthien for him to make a guess. “Are you his daughter?”

“Granddaughter,” she answered. “You’re really him.”

Findarato nodded gravely.

She flung herself into his arms.

Findarato went utterly still and blank for just a second, and then swept her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Shh,” he murmured. “Sh, it’s all right.”

“No,” Elenwingë wailed. “It isn’t!” She was weeping.

Ingwë looked bewildered. Arafinwë shifted uncomfortably. Amarië produced a handkerchief, which she offered.

Findarato tipped Elenwingë’s face up and dried her tears. He guided her to a seat and knelt in front of her. “Hush now,” he murmured gently. “I will do what I can to make it right. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Beleriand is doomed,” she answered, and blew her nose in the kerchief.

Findarato choked. “I’m sorry?”

“We’re here to beg for aid, for without intervention, Beleriand will fall to Morgoth in months, not years.”

Findarato took a deep breath, and repeated this in Quenya for the kings.

“Can she tell us more?” Ingwë asked gently.

Findarato tipped Elenwingë’s face up and said gently in Sindarin, “The last thing I know is when I died. What can you tell me?”

She shook her head, shrugging helplessly. “Nargothrond and Gondolin have fallen to Morgoth,” she reported. “And Doriath and the Havens at Sirion have fallen to the Sons of Feanor.”

Findarato choked again. “They did what?”

“We had a silmaril,” Elenwingë said grimly, and told the story of Beren and Luthien in brief.

Findarato closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Who’s left?”

“Balar,” she answered. “Cirdan leads the Sindar and Gil-Galad leads the Noldor. I think two sons of Feanor, but I can’t be sure. They were headquartered at Amon Ereb before the fall of Sirion, but that’s when I left, so I don’t know for sure.” Grimly, she added, “There were four of them before the Havens.”

Findarato opened his eyes again, took a deep breath, and relayed all of this except the death of two more of his cousins, to the kings around him.

“Who is Elen-Alta?” Arafinwë asked.

Findarato relayed this.

Elenwingë shrugged. “The king of the Noldor, I don’t know.”

“Does he have a patronymic?” Findarato asked, fumbling to think who it could be. “Wait, Artanaro?” he asked, using the boy’s Quneya name without thinking.

Elenwingë shook her head. “I have no idea. They say he got the name Gil-Galad on the road from Nargothrond, though.”

Findarato nodded, told his father, “Artaresto’s son, Artanaro.”

“Artaresto has a son?” Arafinwë demanded.

“And a daughter,” Findarato replied. “The son was adopted, though. I think he was Findo’s originally.”

“Findo got married?” Arafinwë yelped.

Findarato considered this. “You know, I don’t know? I didn’t like to ask.”

“I mean, I assume,” Earwen said wryly.

Findarato shrugged. He looked back at Elenwingë. “You know we’re all related,” he said dryly. “My father--” he waved at Arafinwë-- “Wanted to know who had taken the kingship.”

Elenwingë nodded. “My family is all gone,” she said gravely. “I will not grudge you asking for news of yours.”

Findarato got himself back on track. “So the free peoples of Beleriand have retreated to the Isle of Balar.”

Elenwingë nodded. “And so we have come to ask for aid.”

Findarato repeated this to Ingwë, his father, and Olwë.

Arafinwë said immediately, “If the Valar allow it, the Noldor will not abandon our kin to death. The Noldor will march.”

Ingwë looked for a long time at Elenwingë. Then he looked at his son, and then, to Findarato’s surprise, at Findarato himself. Then he nodded once. “The Vanyar will march,” he said. More wryly, he said softly to Findarato, “A king must hold what is his.”

Findarato’s throat went tight.

Olwë scoffed. “The Falmari will have nothing to do with the folly of the Noldor.”

Findarato’s fea drew tight within him, furious and wounded, but his hroa failed him for the second time.

Amarië stabilized him.

Elenwingë leaned forward to check that he was okay.

The three kings were looking at each other, and had failed to notice Findarato’s struggle.

“Ciryatan is one of yours,” Arafinwë was saying carefully to his law-father.

“If Lestanorë has fallen, then I have no kin left on the far shores,” Olwë answered, “And I have little interest in saving fools from their choices.”

Ingwë turned away, his face impassive. “I think you’re wrong, Olwë, my friend,” he said gently. “But I will not argue with you when your mind is made up.”

“A fine army we will make, and no aid to our friends in Beleriand without the Falmari ships,” Arafinwë observed sadly.

Olwë bristled. “Would you take them again?”

Findarato growled low.

“You overstep,” Ingwë said. “Arafinwë has never been your enemy. And you did not say you would not aid us, only that your folk will not fight. If the Valar grant us leave, old friend, you will not lend us your sails?”

“What are they saying?” Elenwingë asked.

“The High King and my father have promised that their people will fight if the Powers allow it,” Findarato replied in Sindarin. “But the Lord of Alphlond wants nothing to do with what he calls the ‘folly of the Noldor’ and will not even lend us ships to sail there in, let alone join the war.”

Elenwingë made a noise much like an angry cat. “What keeps him from it?”

“He says, that with the fall of Doriath, he has no kin left on the far shores, and his anger at the Noldor outstrips even his concern for the innocents.”

“He has kin,” Elenwingë snarled. “I am his kin!” She stood up and grabbed Olwë’s shoulder to jerk him around to face her. “I am Elwing daughter of Dior, who was called Eluchil, the heir of his grandfather, your brother Elu!”

Findarato repeated this in Quenya, but he rather thought Olwë had understood enough of the Sindarin, even.

“My sons yet live in dying Beleriand. If it is kin on the far shores that will convince you, know that you have it!”

Olwë looked at her. “You are welcome, and you come with news beyond hope!” he replied, embracing her warmly as Findarato repeated his words in Sindarin. “But,” he said gently, but firmly, “You cannot understand this choice.”

Findarato winced, but repeated this.

Elenwingë flared in beautiful indignation. “I cannot?” she demanded, jabbing a finger into Olwë’s chest. “I? Who saw two homes burned, who has lost all kin but my husband, who abandoned my children to kinslayers to come here for help?” she was shouting by the end of this. She ended, though, in a quiet, dangerous hiss, “Do not presume to tell me what I cannot understand, as you hide behind your indignation to cover your cowardice.”

Findarato cleared his throat. To his grandfather, he said in Quenya, “She survived the destruction of two homes, and the loss of all her family, and left behind her children in danger, to come here for help.”

“She called him bad names, didn’t she?” Amarië observed dryly into the uncomfortable silence.

“Several,” Findarato agreed, wishing his legs would work so he could stand up for this. They continued to not do so, so he let himself tip over so he was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Olwë took Elenwingë’s hands gently. “Niece,” he said, “Your passion does you credit. But the Noldor’s failures are not our problem.”

When Findarato repeated this, Elenwingë stared at him. “Is he an idiot?” she asked him.

Findarato sighed. “He’s an old man set in his ways,” he answered. He was not really sure he was emotionally prepared to defend his grandfather--who he was still mad at--to his distant cousin. “And he’s stupid, and he’s wrong, and I don’t know what else you can tell him.”

“I have to,” she said. “I cannot allow,” she choked off, pulling away from Olwë and Findarato both to bury her face in her hands. She took a shuddering breath, squared her shoulders, and turned back to them. Her eyes were wet, and her hands were trembling, but her mouth was firm. “I cannot fail,” she said to Findarato. She turned back to Olwë. “It is not the Noldor I would see you save, uncle,” she said gravely, clearly reining in her fury and her passion. “It is the innocents of Beleriand, the Sindar and the Green Elves who followed your brother, my great-grandfather. The secondborn, who have been good and valiant and honorable in the fight against evil. The children who have never known peace and safety, only a leaguer of swords.”

Findarato did his best to replicate her meaning and tone, but also the poetry of her words in Quenya.

As Olwë opened his mouth, Elenwingë interrupted. “Uncle,” she said softly. “You are hurt, I see it. I understand it even if you cannot believe that I do. But I was Queen of Sirion, and my hurt is not more important than the lives of my followers, and I would heal even the Sons of Feanor, even the white-haired one who struck my father down in front of me, with my last breath if it would save my people from Morgoth.”

Findarato’s throat stuck as he tried to repeat this. He had to clear it twice before he could get her words out.

Olwë looked at him for a long time. “What happened to you, in Beleriand?” he asked finally.

“I was a king, for a little while, though I failed my people in the end,” he answered. “And I fought Morgoth with everything I had, sword and spear and shield and diplomacy and Song, and nails and teeth alone by the end, for more than four hundred and fifty years of the sun. I Sang a duel with an umaia and I lost because we are none of us ever as good as we think we are. And I died,” he added. “In the jaws of a wolf, with my own teeth in its throat, to buy my friend time.”

After a considering moment, Olwë asked, “What did he do with it? The time you bought him?”

“Stole a silmaril from Morgoth’s crown and married the love of his life, I think. That’s his granddaughter, there, that you’re arguing with,” Findarato said wryly.

Olwë sighed deeply. “And you, grandson, would you sail to Beleriand again?”

“I didn’t sail the first time,” he answered mildly. “But yes, if the Valar agree and the army marshals, I will go with them back into the east and face again the Lord of Wolves and his Dark Master, because they are evil, and they must be opposed for any good to ever thrive.”

Olwë flinched at the reminder of the grinding ice, or maybe of the burning of the ships. “You’ve grown,” he observed finally.

Findarato said snidely, ”One of us needed to.” More gently, he added, “You once said you thought some responsibility would do me a world of good.”

Olwë offered a slight smile, the first one that touched his eyes since they landed on Findarato that afternoon. “So I did.” He sighed and turned back to Elenwinge. “The Falmari will not fight,” he said again. “But if the Valar decree it, the armies of the West will sail in the Falmari ships.”

Elenwingë did not need translation for his capitulation. She flung herself into his arms, weeping. Olwë cradled her tenderly, as he had once cradled a very young Findarato, weeping over a wounded swan.

Amarië tugged gently at his arm and guided him slowly up into a chair. “Are you all right?” she asked gently.

His parents were staring at him in concern; great. “I’m okay,” he insisted. “Just wobbly.”

Amarië petted his hair briefly.

Arafinwë crossed to him and tipped his chin up to look in his eyes. “You are not well,” he said.

Findarato shrugged one shoulder, the only one that would do as he asked it. “It’s a process,” he replied. “Relearning to be in a hroa when I was so violently removed from the last one. I do better when I’m not thinking about it.”

“You should have said,” Arafinwë chided.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he answered. “It is improving,” he insisted.

Elenwingë broke away from Olwë to sit next to him again. “Finrod,” she said softly in Sindarin. “Will you introduce me to the others? I feel I have been very rude.”

Findarato smiled. “My father,” he said, waving at his father, “Arfin Finuion, Finarfin, probably actually? King of the Noldor; and my mother Aearwen of Alphlond.” Then he stared briefly at Ingwë, wondering if anyone had ever rendered the High King’s name in Sindarin. “The High King,” he said eventually. “Which I think would be Taenu, but it would take at least three lore-masters and probably my dead half-uncle for me to be sure of that.”

This made Elenwingë smile. She waved vaguely.

Findarato continued, “And his son, Taenion, I suppose. And my… beloved,” he decided on, “Ovareth.”

“High King, Prince Ingwion, Mum, Dad, Marya, may I make known to you Elenwingë, former Queen of the Lestanorim, daughter of Neuro called Elwëhil, the son of Beren One-Hand and Lossiel Elwiel, called Tindomiel.”

“A lineage which would be more impressive, I think, if I knew who any of those people were,” Arafinwë observed dryly. “But well met indeed, kinswoman.”

Findarato told Elenwingë, “My father greets you as kin, but apologizes for how little he knows of your family.”

“Will you tell us, Findarato, of her family lineage, and who those are who are so merited of being part of her introduction?”

“She’ll have to help me,” Findarato replied, “As much of it came after my death, but yes.”

“We have time,” Ingwion observed. “We certainly must wait until Eonwë brings her husband back.”

So Elenwingë told the three kings the story of her family, and Findarato translated. He found himself frequently doubling back to add information about geography or Noldorin politics of the area, and when she reached the fall of Gondolin and the coming of Idril and Tuor to Sirion, he had to stop to breathe, the hollow in his chest threatening to swallow him.

Amarië rubbed his back and the Quenya speakers waited patiently to hear what had upset him so. When he managed to relay it, Arafinwë bowed his head as well, for Turukano had spent much of his youth in their house.

Elenwingë wept as she told of the fall of Sirëlanda. “I failed them all,” she whispered brokenly.

Findarato gathered her into an embrace. “I know,” he murmured. He’d done the same--abandoned the people who depended on him for a personal charge.

“I left them,” she sobbed.

“I know,” he repeated, thinking of his people in ruined Nargothrond and for hers in Sirëlanda. Then he mustered himself and relayed the fall of the Havens to his audience. “Ambarussa were slain in the assault,” he added to his parents, the only ones who would likely care.

Arafinwë and Earwen looked down, hands tightening in each other’s grips. Twins were rare, and Feanaro had allowed everyone to dote on Ambarussa in a way he had not allowed with his other children, hoarding them like his gems. The whole family had loved Pityo and Telvo.

Elenwingë said, “I woke up in Earendil’s bunk, and I realized what I had done. I didn’t-- the silmaril drowned out everything else. Nothing seemed more important than it, till that moment.” She shook her head. “When I realized I had doomed my people and left my sons to the same fate as my brothers, to save a rock.” She wiped her tears away. “I gave it to Earendil and want nothing of it anymore.”

Findarato kissed her temple; she was Beren’s descendant, and he felt in some small way responsible for her. “I know,” he murmured. “I picked my personal honor over the safety of Nargothrond. I should’ve stayed.”

Never mind that Beren would never have lived to get a Silmaril and Beleriand might very well be doomed without it, he owed it to them. He was their king.

Elenwingë nodded into his shoulder.

Arafinwë cleared his throat.

Findarato straightened somewhat and explained--without Elenwingë’s self-deprecating commentary.

“I cannot believe Russandol would harm her children,” Earwen said after a moment.

Findarato cocked his head, thinking. He repeated this for Elenwingë, who admitted, “It’s said Maedhros searched the woods for hours for my brothers.” She seemed both reluctant to believe this, and also desperate to.

“That sounds like Russo,” Arafinwë said, more quietly. “He loves children.” He nodded firmly, appearing to make up his mind. “No, Elenwingë, if Russo and Kano came across your sons, they will be well-cared for. Russo is excellent with children, and loves them deeply besides. He would never hurt one, nor allow one to be harmed in his presence.”

Findarato repeated this verbatim, and then added, “He was the consummate babysitter, when we were young, always trailing a brother or cousin or three.”

Elenwinge rested her head on his shoulder, tears still slipping silently down her cheeks. “I want to believe you,” she whispered. “The twins deserve to be loved.”

Amarië nudged him, and he belatedly relayed this to the Quenya speakers.

Earwen leaned forward eagerly. “Tell us more about your boys,” she asked.

So Elenwingë obliged, telling tales of childhood mishaps and playful days in the surf.

Then the light returned. Findarato squinted against it to make out the features of Elenwingë’s husband, Earendil, his best friend’s grandson. The man looked nothing like his grandfather; though there was quite a bit of Itarillë in the shape of his face, he definitely took after his human father, brilliantly golden blonde, and blue-eyed instead of the Noldor grey. He rushed forward to clutch Elenwingë close. “They’ve agreed,” he breathed.

Elenwinge bowed her head into his neck to weep with joy.

Findarato perked up.

Eonwë nodded to him, politely confirming. Then he turned to the kings. “The Valar have decreed; we will go to Beleriand and stop Melkor’s predations on the land and its people.”

Findarato wilted with relief into Amarië’s arm around his shoulders.

Ingwë bowed low. “We hoped that would be their decision, Lord Herald, and our decisions are already made. The Vanya will march with the Valar, under the command of my son, Ingwion.”

This was clearly news to Ingwion, but good news. He bowed to his father and the herald with a smile on his face.

Arafinwë added, “And the Noldor will march to war, at their sides. I will lead.”

Findarato stared hard at his father, silently willing him to address him.

Eonwë nodded gravely. “And the Teleri, King Olwë?”

“We will not fight,” Olwë said, bowing his head. “We are not the folk our kin are, and fighting is not our way. But our boats are yours, to cross the sea, and we will man them for you.”

Eonwë smiled. “It is well, friend. Your expertise and your sails are a generous contribution, and one I would have above any swords.”

Olwë bowed in reply.

Eonwë sighed softly and turned to Findarato. “I am sorry,” he said, and he sounded genuinely to be so. “Lord Manwë has decreed that you may not go.”

Findarato opened his mouth and nothing came out. He was shaking, he realized when Amarië took his hand to still it. “Lord,” he croaked, “Please?”

Eonwë bowed his head, shaking it slightly. Then he turned back to the kings. “We will begin to gather our hosts in Alqualondë in eight days’ time. Return to your homes, notify your people, and prepare to begin the muster.”

Each of the kings nodded once, and then Eonwë was gone.

Findarato bit his tongue until it bled, heart pounding in his chest. Amarië held his hand tightly, rubbing his back with her other palm.

Arafinwë offered a wry smile. “I know you’re disappointed,” he started.

“Do you?” Findarato replied sharply, something ugly curling in his chest. “A wonder, you might’ve said something.”

Arafinwë looked surprised. “Said what?” he asked.

“An indication you wanted me with you? An intercession on my behalf? Anything to indicate you might be on my side?” He was shaking.

Arafinwë frowned. “Findarato, it’s no good fighting a Vala once he’s made up his mind.”

“What do you think I have been doing for the last five hundred years of my life?” Findarato bellowed. Then he stood and stalked away again. He nearly fell again, ruining his dramatic exit, but Amarië tucked herself under his shoulder and helped him away.

They stood silently aside as the party was wound up, the people dispersed, and the rulers of the realms prepared to return to their palaces to begin the organization of things.

Amarië leaned her head on his shoulder and didn’t say anything, for which he was deeply grateful. “I love you,” he murmured finally, when it came time to part ways, as Ingwion’s retinue left for Valmar and the Noldor turned towards Tirion.

Amarië kissed his chin and squeezed his shoulder. “You too, love. Have hope.” Then she was gone, and he was riding in stony silence back to Tirion with his parents.

In the entry hall, Arafinwë asked tiredly, “Are we doing this through the entire preparation? Because as it happens, my son, I don’t want you along. You can barely stand, and I’d be worried about you constantly.”

Findarato clenched his jaw. “I see,” he said. Then he bowed politely. “As you wish it, sire,” he said graciously. “I will cease whatever this is and follow your whims as befits a follower of Arafinwë.”

“Ingoldo,” his father said irritably, “Surely you see that you’d be a liability.”

Findarato went cold all over. It wasn’t that his hroa stopped responding; indeed, his fea felt more tied to his hroa than since before his duel with Sauron. It was only that his fea felt cold, so his hroa obliged. “As you say, my lord,” he said through numb lips, and turned away.

His feet led him unerringly now. Apparently all he’d needed to recall how a hroa felt was despair. It led him to the room that had been his once, and was now his again, and he lay down in his bed, and he stared at the wall, eyes utterly blind to the mural painted on it.

There was noise, sometimes, but it didn’t matter. Someone touched him once, but he didn’t bother to respond. Nothing mattered. He was a liability, and he was a failure as a king and a friend, and he should never have come back from Mandos. There was nothing for him here.

Findarato drifted, and eventually a song began to penetrate. He blinked a bit, and then his eyes focused again.

Amarië had her face on the pillow next to him, and she was singing a soft Vanya working song. When she saw his gaze, she smiled and said, “There you are.”

“Did I go somewhere?” he asked hoarsely.

Amarië petted his hair. “For a little while,” she replied. “But you’re back now.” She kissed his forehead, then his nose, then his cheek. “I have some broth, if I can tempt you?”

Findarato considered his stomach, and felt nothing. He shrugged half-heartedly, and thought perhaps he ought to have been surprised by how weak his limbs felt. “If you want,” he said, genuinely unable to muster any feeling about it.

Amarië helped him sit up. “You look terribly pale, Love,” she observed, coaxing him to drink the thick broth. She kissed him warmly after every swallow.

“If you like the broth so much you could drink it yourself,” he observed.

She kissed his nose that time. “I like you so much,” she replied. “You scared us, a bit.”

His head tilted.

“It’s been four days, Ingoldo,” she murmured, nuzzling his face with hers.

He couldn’t really muster any surprise for this either, but he thought maybe he ought to. “Oh,” he murmured.

Amarië huffed a soft noise. “I have a surprise for you, if you feel up to it.”

Findarato didn’t know what ‘up’ felt like anymore. He didn’t feel up to anything. Or down. Or anything. “If you want,” he said again.

“Come on in,” Amarië called over her shoulder.

Findarato frowned at her for a moment, and then belatedly followed her gaze to the doorway.

The ner in the doorway was wearing clothes unlike anything Findarato had ever seen him in--Vanya day clothes in the current style--but his face was unmistakable. “Edrahil?” he croaked in Sindarin.

“My Lord,” he said softly in the same language.

Findarato scrambled out of bed, tangling himself, and nearly falling.

Latyahilë caught him unerringly, as he always had, and crushed him close. “My lord,” he whispered brokenly. “You feel strange.”

“Oh I’m so sorry,” Findarato sobbed into his neck. They wound up in a tangle on the floor and neither of them cared. “Edrahil I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Latyahilë protested, “No, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“I failed you,” Findarato whispered.

“Don’t say that,” Latyahilë moaned helplessly. “Not when you fought so hard and you saved our names. My Lord, no.”

Findarato admitted hoarsely, “I should never have gone on that stupid quest.”

Latyahilë shook his head fiercely where it was pressed to Findarato’s shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“I owed it to our people. Did they tell you that Nargothrond fell?”

“Yes!” Latyahilë cried, pulling back to stare him fiercely in the face. “To a dragon! You could not have stopped that, there or no!”

“I could have bought time,” Findarato argued.

“We didn’t want you eaten by a dragon any more than we wanted you eaten by wolves,” Latyahilë said, weeping. He dragged Findarato close again. “Oh my lord, not that, never.”

“You are more than I deserve,” Findarato whispered.

Latyahilë shook his head again, still weeping into Findarato’s hair.

Amarië knelt behind him, rubbing his back gently. “I’ve taken the liberty of dismissing the valet your father assigned you. It’s well below Latyahilë’s station, but I thought you’d want him close.”

Findarato nodded. “How-?” he asked, first in Sindarin, and then repeated it in Quenya, not sure which of them he was asking.

“Lady Amarië asked Eonwë to ask Mandos for me,” Latyahilë explained, switching to Quenya. “And as soon as I heard you needed me I begged to be released. He thought I was ready, so here I am.”

“And Ingwion wants you to teach me Sindarin, because he thinks he’ll need it,” Amarië added. “I just… picked up some help along the way. Sindarin tutors are going to be in high demand as soon as everyone realizes most of the people we’re going to help don’t speak Quenya.”

Findarato nodded and leaned into the two of them, bowing his head. “They’ll need combat training too.”

Latyahilë nodded, but Amarië frowned. “Most of us are sword trained,” she said.

“No one’s ever fought a Valarauko,” Findarato pointed out. “Let alone a dragon. But I have Kano’s firsthand accounts of the Gold-Worm’s assault, and my own experiences at the Fourth Battle.”

“Ooh,” Amarië hissed. “Hadn’t thought of that yet. Let me send word to Ingwion, and then we can have dinner, how’s that sound?”

Findarato’s stomach still had no opinions on food. Latyahilë immediately nodded, though, so Findarato shrugged and acquiesced.

In the end, with the new drills Findarato and Latyahilë designed, the arming and armoring of the Vanyar host--the Noldor, unsurprisingly, almost all seemed to have weapons and armor already--and the building of more ships by the Teleri, the muster of the host of the Valar took almost three years.

In that time, Findarato discovered, with Amarië and Latyahilë’s help, a lot of coping strategies for the emptiness in his chest. They talked a lot about what had happened, and convinced him eventually to let go of what should have happened, and he eventually relented in his temper against his parents.

Things did not, however, grow easy with them; Arafinwë had taken Findarato’s sudden recovery to mean that he had been faking all along, and was frustrated by what he termed his son’s ‘melodrama’, and Findarato did not have the energy to correct him. He continued to answer to his father as a king instead of a parent, on the rare occasions that they spoke, which further frustrated Arafinwë. Findarato couldn’t bring himself to care.

Everything he had went into preparing the Host for what they would face in Beleriand.

Elenwingë helped; she, at least, had slightly more recent political and geographic information, even if she was less than familiar with Morgoth’s military might. Earendil, once the Valar posted him to the sky, became an invaluable source of intelligence upon his roughly-weekly returns.

Findarato, Amarië, Latyahilë, and Ingwion worked closely together to build a viable strategy. As the only one of them who’d even fought in a war, Findarato was integral to these meetings, however much Arafinwë hated it.

Findarato’s hroa also seemed to have settled; he had no more issues with it. Amarië did not appreciate his joke that despair fixed all kinds of things.

But in the end, the Host of the West mustered, marshaled, and boarded the boats. Findarato, being dragged by the ear like a recalcitrant child, wasn’t sure what else anyone had expected from him.

“I found him, King Arafinwë,” Ingwion said dryly, depositing Findarato before his father. “Trying to sneak aboard one of the troop ships.”

Findarato firmed his jaw. It had been worth a try.

Arafinwë just sighed. “Today of all days, Findarato?”

Findarato bowed politely. “Forgive me, Majesty,” he said flatly.

Arafinwë shook his head. “I have to go,” he said, nodding at the flagship, which he would board, to be the first to greet Ciryatan and the Exiles. Ingwion would be on the last ship, to oversee the end of the muster.

Findarato bowed again. “Farewell, my lord.”

“Not even a proper farewell for you father?” Arafinwë asked tiredly.

Findarato did not know he had been waiting for this moment until now. He had not realized either that he was still so angry or that he was so petty. But still, he said with some hated joy in it, “I would hate to be a liability to your travels, my King,” and turned away, ignoring the sharp hiss of breath from Ingwion.

Amarië, somewhat to his surprise, fell in at his elbow. “Come on,” she said softly, and linked their arms together to lead him away. He followed because he hadn’t been sure where he was going as he stalked away, and following Amarië was always easy.

In the rooms Amarië had been assigned, she dismissed her page and shoved him into the bedroom. As she started peeling off her armor, he stared at her. “Marya, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Marrying you,” she replied. “Unless you have objections?”

Baffled, Findarato shook his head. “None,” he said slowly.

Bare, Amarië went to work on the fasteners of his clothes. “Good,” she said, and tumbled him to bed.

It wasn’t until the morning, when she joined Ingwion on the last ship, that he understood.

Latyahilë stood at his elbow while the ship sailed away, and Findarato clung hard to his new marriage bond with Amarië.

She was laughing in the bond. I knew you needed it, she told him. If you couldn’t come, coming through me was the next best thing I could give you.

I love you, he replied fervently.

Tell Latyahilë to look after you, she said. And don’t spend too much time with me. Your mother will need your help.

I know, he replied. But I need to be with you.

Their bond should not have still been conversible at the distance; some couples had difficulty conversing over their bonds just between Tirion and Valmar. But Amarië was a Vanya grown up under the Light of the Trees, and Findarato had always been the most powerful of his family, even after he’d turned his Songs to war. They made it work, though it was exhausting.

Findarato had been exhausted since his re-embodiment. No one looked askance that he took long rests in the afternoons to secretly watch the war through Amarië’s eyes.

Latyahilë stood at his elbow, supported him when he grew too weak, made his excuses, and pulled him from Amarië’s mind when his attention was needed in Aman. He also made sure Findarato ate more than once a day, slept at night, even if he had to sing into the small hours, and got exercise enough not to waste into nothing.

Findarato, who went still and cold when the emptiness in his chest reared up--at things in Aman or in Beleriand--and trembled with a constant weakness, would not have made it without him. When the nightmares came or the reality of Amarië fighting his war without him overwhelmed him, Latyahilë held him up, wrapped him in blankets, and refuted his fears.

It was a long war, even still. And then Amarië called him in the middle of an early morning council session. Love, she insisted, You have to see this.

Findarato considered very briefly, caught Latyahilë’s eyes in the corner, and swooned straight out of his chair.

There was immediate commotion, which Latyahilë deftly redirected, and simply scooped Findarato up and bore him back to his rooms. Safe in Latyahilë’s arms, Findarato followed the bond to Amarië.

She was on the ground in a battlefield, though the area around her was clear, and Ingwion stood at her side, leaning on his spear.

Above them, the biggest dragon Findarato could even imagine was swooping, fire spewing from his great mouth.

Earendil, balanced on the prow of his great ship, silmaril on his brow, was challenging the dragon.

Eagles harried at the creature’s eyes, and the great sweeping arcs of Eonwë’s flight--his current fana had had wings, spreading almost twice his height from his shoulder blades-- kept the dragon away from the armies fighting on the ground.

Ancalagon, Amarië told him. The dragon is called Ancalagon the Black. We thought he was going to kill us all, until Earendil arrived.

Findarato couldn’t reply, breathless with wonder as Earendil smote the great beast in a soft place behind the jaw, and with a shriek, he plummeted from the sky.

Findarato felt like he could feel the concussion of the body striking the ground, and he watched with a tight throat as the dragon’s fall collapsed the towers of Thangorodrim.

He had never been able to look at that mountain without seeing his cousin’s ruined face and wrist. Are you watching, Maitimo? He wondered helplessly.

No one’s seen them, Amarië said softly. Elenwingë’s boys turned up at the rear camp not too long ago, saying Ambo Eressëa had sunk, but there was no sign of their former guardians. Then she looked back to the south and west, and Findarato felt his breath catch in her chest as he shook with the shock of it.

What wasn’t ash and barren hills was water.

I know, Amarië said gently.

Where is the rear camp? He asked, I thought it was at Balar.

Elenwingë calls it Ossiriand, Amarië replied, the Sindarin name feeling awkward in her mind. Balar was one of the first places to go.

Wait, sunk? Findarato said, the word registering from several minutes before.

Amarië hummed agreement. The war between the Powers is more than the land can take, she said sadly.

Nargothrond was gone. Minassë Tirion was gone. Everything he’d built, everything he’d fought and died for was gone.

Love? Amarië said, but she felt distant.

“My lord,” Latyahilë said sharply.

Findarato blinked back to his own body, in his bedroom in Tirion upon Tuna. He was clawing at his own arms, teeth tearing at his wrists.

Latyahilë gripped his forearms to stop him. “My lord, what’s wrong?”

Findarato folded forward into his arms. “The Powers will save the scattered remnants of the Noldor and Sindar,” he said hoarsely in Sindarin, “But Beleriand is gone.” And he snarled bitterly into Latyahilë’s collar.

Latyahilë tucked his head beneath his chin gently. “It’s not the end, my lord.”

Findarato choked off a noise.

“So Beleriand is gone,” Latyahilë said gently. “You didn’t fight and die for Beleriand, my lord. You fought for her people.”

“I wasn’t there,” he whispered hoarsely. “I wasn’t there, and now it’s gone.”

“Both of those can be true, but one doesn’t lead to the other,” Laythailë argued.

“My grandfather is right,” Findarato realized distantly.

Latyahilë tipped his face up to look at him, skeptically. “I doubt it,” he muttered.

Findarato ignored him. “I did deserve it.”

“No,” Latyahilë said.

Findarato murmured, “I should’ve been there.”

“It wouldn’t’ve made a difference,” Latyahilë pleaded.

Findarato went cold again, and pulled out of Latyahilë’s hold. He headed for the balcony and the winding stair down to the beach. He was calf deep in the water when Latyahilë wrapped around him from behind.

“No, my lord,” Latyahilë whispered in his ear, holding him against his chest. “Not like this.”

“I should be with my kingdom,” Findarato muttered.

“No!” Latyahilë cried, and wept into his hair, still clinging to him.

Findarato felt empty. He struggled weakly against Latyahilë, but his friend held him fast, pulling him backwards away from the surf. They toppled to the sand together, and sat there, Latyahilë still cradling Findarato to his chest. The strong arms around him and the steady heartbeat under his ear were all that kept him from the easy, comforting silence calling him.

“May I weep with you?”

Findarato looked up in surprise. There had been no footsteps, no approach, but now there was a maia beside them, elven in form, and robed and hooded as a follower of Nienna. His voice was soft and warm.

Findarato shrugged.

The maia sat beside them, his head bowed. “Do you weep for Fallen Beleriand,” he asked through his tears, “Or those who fell before it?”

Findarato shrugged again. He wasn’t weeping, but it wasn’t worth the energy to correct him.

“You know this is why you were not allowed to go, yes?” the maia offered tenderly. “Such loss would have killed you a second time, and none wanted that.”

Latyahilë said darkly, “It should have been his choice, just as the first time. He is a grown ner, and a fine king, and ought to have been allowed to make his own choices.”

The maia shrugged. “When you love someone,” he observed, cheeks still wet with tears, “You want to choose their safety over the happiness.”

Latyahilë scoffed. “I love him more than you,” he answered tartly, “And still would see him in Beleriand, even if it killed him.”

Findarato spared a thought that he should interrupt, speak for himself, but had not the energy to care.

“Then why stop him now?” the maia asked. “If it is his choice to die?”

“Because this is not him,” Latyahilë snarled. “This is grief and fear and the wound in his fea which he did not allow to heal before returning, that he could fulfill his obligations to his people.”

The maia leaned forward suddenly. A hand emerged from the robes, strong and work-calloused, and lifted Findarato’s chin. The eyes beneath the hood were a bit like firelight, and a bit like opals. “You have a wrinkle in your Song, friend,” the maia observed gently.

“Do I?” Findarato rasped. Probably he should have roused some at this, but he still found it hard to care.

The maia nodded. “Sing with me?” he invited. “I will try to smooth it.”

Findarato could not find the Music, which had come so easily to his voice before his death.

Latyahilë hummed a soft note, and the maia picked it up. Findarato fell in with them, followed them easily once they were with him, but he couldn’t feel the Song in his chest or in the sand below him as he usually would.

“Hmm,” the maia murmured after a few moments.

Findarato lost the tune immediately.

“Hmm,” the maia said again, and took Findarato’s face gently between his hands. “You’ve a Song at work in you,” he observed. “And I recognize the flair of he who Sang it from his years as my friend in Almaren.”

Findarato realized what the maia meant well before Latyahilë. “I am sorry that you lost him,” Findarato replied. “But he wrought much ill for many, me not the least.”

The maia nodded. “He is no longer my friend,” he agreed. “For when I knew him, he would not have Sung this.”

Latyahilë stiffened in realization. “Sauron?” he hissed.

The maia inclined his head. “He was precious to many of us, then,” he agreed. “Though he is no longer so to any but the Dark Vala.” He hummed again, a low, exploratory note. “I can fix this,” he murmured.

Their foreheads tipped together, Findarato’s and the maia’s, and Findarato lost himself in the strange flickering eyes and the lilting lull of the Song. He didn’t know how long he drifted, but the skies were dark when he blinked awake again.

His heart hurt, he thought. There was pain where the hollow had been since his return. “Oh,” he said softly, and his voice cracked with emotion.

Latyahilë clutched him tightly. “My lord?”

“It hurts,” he sobbed, and turned into his friend's arms to bury his face in Latyhailë’s neck.

“Yes,” Latyahilë murmured. “It does.”

The maia rubbed his back gently. “But the pain is cleansing,” he observed.

Findarato told him to do something anatomically impossible, deeply rude, and also phrased in Taliska.

Latyahilë, who did not speak Taliska but had heard that particular phrase several times, huffed into his braids. “That’s unkind, my lord.”

“Was it?” the maia asked curiously.

Latyahilë nodded. “He doesn’t appreciate being soothed. He never has.”

Findarato managed to stop sobbing hard enough to sit up to join the conversation, even if tears continued to stream down his face.

The maia produced a handkerchief.

Findarato accepted it. “Everything I built is gone,” he observed aloud. It hurt like a stab wound.

Latyahilë nodded grimly.

The maia hummed. “Only in the world,” he argued. “The Song, and the songs, will linger.” It wasn’t a platitude; it was a challenge.

Findarato considered this. “I suppose,” he said.

Latyahilë squeezed his hand. “Your worth was not what you built, my lord.”

Findarato sighed. “But I failed at that too,” he said. That was less a stab and more the burning of Harda-calen.

“That’s ridiculous, my lord,” Latyahilë snapped.

Findarato smiled at him through his tears; he did hate to be soothed. “You say so?” he asked his friend.

“I do!” Latyahilë snapped. “Nolofinwë and Findekano aren’t kings anymore either, are you going to tell me they failed?”

Elenwingë had had the chance to tell them the full story of Unnumbered Tears by then. Findarato recoiled from the suggestion that Findekano had done anything but right by his people.

“He couldn’t hold it either,” Latyahilë growled.

Findarato put his hands up. He didn’t have an argument except the guilt in his gut.

“So what do you do now?” the maia asked.

Findarato blinked at him. “What?”

The maia shrugged. “You’re not a king. So what? You’re not dead anymore, and your old life is under the sea. What comes next?”

“You’re still the king’s son,” Latyahilë said. “It’s not like that comes with few responsibilities.”

“Ones I may even be better at than being king,” Findarato said slowly.

Latyahilë made a disparaging noise, but Findarato was following a thought trail in his mind, and paid him no heed.

“Ingwion,” Findarato said slowly.

Latyahilë cocked his head, squeezing Findarato’s hand again in encouragement.

Findarato waved vaguely. “He spoke to his father after I told him about what Beleriand was like. He told him– I think it’s why Ingwë agreed to fight.”

“So you speak to your father,” Latyahilë said. “You become our voice in his ear.”

“There are plenty who will not understand,” the maia agreed slowly. “Your father will need perspective as more of the Exiles return.”

Findarato nodded slowly. “I’ll have to apologize,” he said with some wry whimsy. “For my melodrama.”

Latyahilë scoffed.

Findarato smiled at him gently.

“I think you will find the grieving easier now,” the maia observed. “Though you might do it more often.”

Findarato nodded. “I am no stranger to grief,” he assured his new friend. “It was only that it seemed there was a veil between me and it, and I could not feel it.”

“Yes,” the maia agreed. “That did seem to be a symptom of the problem.”

“I told you that you felt weird,” Latyahilë grumbled.

Findarato kissed his forehead. “You were right,” he agreed. “As you so often are.”

“Speaking of,” Latyahilë said wryly, “You should probably tell Lady Amarië what happened.”

Findarato said a very profane word in Taliska, and immediately did so.

His new clarity did not make it easier to watch Beleriand sink, even as the war was won. In many ways, it made it harder, but better. Amarië watched the drowned lands pass by from the back of the ship as they returned, finally, to Aman, forty five years since she’d left.

Findarato watched through her eyes as the new city of Lindon, further east than Findarato had even been, and yet now the westernmost land, receded on the horizon.

I’m so sorry, my love, Amarië said, apologizing for the first time since she had sailed away from him. The first of the ships were landing in front of him, but he simply bowed to his father and let his mother do the talking, so he could continue to watch the waves that covered everything he’d died for. It wasn’t fair, them refusing you this, she thought.

At least I had you, he finally replied. I would’ve gone mad without you to see for me.

I have a surprise for you, she said, and he could feel her smile.

Findarato let them both look at Latyahilë through his eyes for a moment. Another? He asked

She laughed. Maybe not that good, but good.

He waited at the docks as his parents moved away, waited for the last ships. Latyahilë waited beside him.

Amarië’s ship--Ingwion’s ship--was the last to come in, and it housed, he discovered as they disembarked, not Vanya warriors returned home, but Beleriandic refugees. And as they stepped slowly off the boat, Findarato realized he knew every single one of them.

Amarië followed the survivors of Nargothrond off the ship, smiling a sad half smile.

For a few moments, Findarato could not greet her for all the hugging and weeping as he greeted his people after so long apart. His re-embodiment was a miracle to them, in the same way their survival was one to him. Then one of Latyahilë’s soldiers, who hadn’t been able to leave his family to join his captain and had lived for it, pushed those nearest Findarato. “Let him greet his lady,” he scolded them. “After all she’s done!”

Amarië took this as her cue and stepped into his arms.

Findarato buried his face in her neck. Lost, he thought to her. I would’ve been lost without you.

I love you, she replied.

“I love you too,” he said aloud.

Amarië met his eyes. “Love,” she said softly. “I know you know Laitwë,” she said, “But they’ve been studying a new discipline in Endorë. It’s called mind-healing. I think you should talk to them.” It’s about coming to terms with trauma; one of Elenwingë’s boys pioneered it, she added silently.

Findarato looked at his long-lost friend. They’d been a young healer in Nargothrond, all those years ago, and he could see that the war had aged them and tempered them. He smiled.

Laitwë smiled back. “I’d be glad to help,” they said gently.

Findarato nodded. “I think I need it.”

“Your majesty,” Latyahilë’s soldier said softly, his eyes warm and understanding.

Findarato shook his head. “Not that,” he said gently. “Not anymore.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t hold it,” he said quietly, more to himself.

“They’re going to need someone who knows what they went through to speak for them,” Amarië told him. “Your father still doesn’t get it.”

Findarato nodded. They were his, still, despite his failures, and he would do his best by them now. And maybe someday he would deserve their veneration of him. He smiled at them all, looped his arms around Amarië and Latyahilë. “Come,” he said, feeling the old note of effortless command in his voice for the first time since his return. “Let’s get everyone settled.”