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When they arrived on the shores of Endórë, the land they would come to know as Beleriand, there was not time for thoughts of revenge. They had survived the Grinding Ice, and the attack of Moringotto’s creatures, and the rising of the dreadful and glorious new lights in the sky, and they would not pause now to set grievances right, not when there were folk yet hungry and wounded and dying.
All in good time, Ñolofinwë thought viciously as he rallied those who had strength to set a camp. He would have Fëanáro at his mercy, he would, but not until his people were safe.
And yet—
And yet it was hard to keep himself focused, knowing that across the lake, in that camp where banners emblazoned with stars flapped smartly in the wind, where they had years to prepare for the confrontation to come, he was there, no idler than Ñolofinwë himself, his mind full of fire and blood. These long and dreadful years had changed Ñolofinwë, but Fëanáro had not endured the Helcaraxë, nor the death of his youngest son (his favorite son, he wept in the night when no one else could hear him; Arno, little one, has Námo taken pity on your soul?), nor the biting pain of an Oath left unfulfilled. Fëanáro waged his war to reclaim his thrice-cursed jewels, actively pursuing his vow’s completion, while Ñolofinwë’s soul was rent with shards of ice, tattered beyond recognition.
He dreamed of killing Fëanáro, for all he had done. He was no Kinslayer—not yet—but he had slain orcs, now, and he imagined the feel of sliding a blade into his brother’s chest was not so different from doing so to a creature of Moringotto’s darkness. But more than murder he dreamed of Fëanáro’s fear at his coming, his suspicious mind at last proved right, Fëanáro sinking to his knees and begging for forgiveness, entirely at Ñolofinwë’s mercy—
Yet deep down, whatever Ñolofinwë thought Fëanáro deserved for abandoning them to the horrors of the Helcaraxë, he knew such bloodthirsty fantasies were in vain. For he had sworn an Oath, to his king, to his lord, to his brother: he had sworn to follow, to obey, to kneel, to take whatever Fëanáro gave him, to be his.
And that, more than fury, more than vengeance, had spurred him onward. He had bound himself to be Fëanáro’s servant, and he knew that when their meeting came at last he would not be strong enough to resist the Oath that drove him to these distant shores.
But that did not mean it would be the end of it. Ñolofinwë’s people would recognize no other as their king, not after what Fëanáro had doomed them to endure. They held themselves higher in regard than their Kinslaying cousins, but if Ñolofinwë commanded it, they would unleash their fury upon those who had left them behind.
He would not command it. He would never do such a thing, not when they had a greater enemy in common. Moringotto may have stolen jewels upon which Fëanáro alone laid claim, but his brother too often forgot that Ñolofinwë loved his father as much as he. In Finwë’s memory he would treat with Fëanáro, swear fealty to him anew, fight alongside him against the Dark Vala. But it would take nothing short of a miracle for his people to bind themselves to the Ship-burner, when the Lord of the Ice yet stood tall and strong.
And so it was that his inner turmoil, the deadly games of politics and blood, kept him from marching around the lake to confront Fëanáro immediately. He could have entrusted the keeping of the camp to Findekáno, but he stayed, using that as his excuse. His people loved him for it all the more, that he cared for their needs above his own desire for revenge. He felt sick as they bowed to him, called him Aran; he did not deserve their adoration, not he who would fail to hold his own against his brother.
When the messenger came a month later, Ñolofinwë was not ready to face Fëanáro. He still was torn between damning himself and damning his people, between demanding justice and fulfilling his Oath—but that did not matter, not when Makalaurë himself rode to greet him upon Roccolórë, Ñolofinwë’s most beloved steed.
Of course Fëanáro would send his second son, and not the first, he thought as he awaited Makalaurë’s approach. He deemed them important enough to send one of his children as messenger, yet not important enough for that to be his heir. Either that, he thought grimly, or he was afraid Maitimo would be given a harsher welcome, if Findekáno stood by.
Findekáno did stand by, though not at Ñolofinwë’s side as he would have liked; it was wiser to keep him at a distance lest he derail the conversation with irrelevant questions. Fëanáro underestimated the depth of Findekáno’s devotion to Maitimo, if he thought his heir would be treated badly. It was still wise to send Makalaurë in his stead—Findekáno might not have let Maitimo go again. Sometimes Ñolofinwë wondered if they had sworn their own Oaths, of a deeper kind; it would explain Findekáno’s absolute heartbreak upon the burning of the ships.
Makalaurë halted before them, not quite meeting Ñolofinwë’s eyes as he spoke. He did not bother to dismount from Roccolórë, and Ñolofinwë clenched his fists as he saw his horse saddled with gear that bristled with Fëanárian symbols.
“Nolofinwë,” he greeted with a nod, his musical voice warmer than Ñolofinwë would have expected. “Greetings.”
“Makalaurë.” Ñolofinwë did not nod to him; his people acknowledged him a king in his own right, and Makalaurë was but a prince.
Makalaurë surveyed the makeshift camp the Ñolofinwëan host had erected in the past month. “I must admit my astonishment at your arrival,” he said slowly. “You have more than proven your fortitude, as my father would have done well to remember.”
“Fortitude?” demanded Turukáno, stepping forward. “And you dare speak of your father’s judgement of us? You have no idea—”
Ñolofinwë raised a hand, and Turukáno fell silent. Írissë tugged him backward, whispering into his ear. They had long since put aside any grievances between them: there simply was not space for argument on the Ice, especially not after Turukáno lost Elenwë.
Makalaurë looked suitably ashamed. Ñolofinwë observed him with cool detachment; there would be time to rage later, when he had left. Now, he needed to prevent further bloodshed, even at the cost of his pride.
When Ñolofinwë did not speak, Makalaurë shifted in the saddle. “I—regret what was done,” he continued, still not looking him in the eyes. “I do not expect you to understand how much I regret it, nor to forgive us for it. But you are here now, and we are also. I hope...I hope we can come to an understanding.”
“You speak for yourself,” Ñolofinwë said at last, calm as ice before the storm. “What says your father, the king?”
Makalaurë’s eyes at last met his own, surprise gleaming behind them. “You do not know?” he said softly. “No...no, of course you do not.”
“Know what?” demanded Írissë.
At last Makalaurë slid from the saddle, wringing his hands as he met them at their level. “My father is—” he broke off, his voice carrying a note of deep pain, such that reminded Ñolofinwë of his own despair at Finwë’s slaughter. “The king is dead.”
And then the storm broke, the ice shattered beneath his feet, and Ñolofinwë felt like he was drowning, the biting cold consuming him like it had his law-daughter. Dead? Fëanáro was dead? No—no, he could not be! Surely he would have known, felt his Oath dissolve, surely he—
But he said none of this, though Makalaurë certainly saw something writ across his face. Before Ñolofinwë could react, Findekáno stepped forward, crying out, “But if Fëanáro is dead, then Russ—then Maitimo is king!”
“Unless our father is king,” snarled Turukáno.
Ñolofinwë raised both his hands this time, and his sons fell silent. He trembled, ever so slightly, as he asked, “How did he die?”
“He...” Makalaurë grimaced, trying and failing to hide the tear that fell from his eye. “We attacked Moringotto’s fortress, shortly after arriving on these shores. Creatures—orcs and Úmaiar we have begun to call Valcaraucar—overwhelmed us, and...he fought, and slew many of them, scores beyond counting, but at last he was overcome.”
“Typical,” Írissë muttered behind them, just soft enough so Ñolofinwë could hear her but Makalaurë could not. “Of course he would get himself killed in a blaze of glory during his first battle here, and leave the rest of us to clean up after him...”
Ñolofinwë’s nose twitched; he could not help but agree—if this was the case, for he could still not comprehend a world without Fëanáro in it.
“Where is his grave?” Ñolofinwë asked, for if Fëanáro was dead but his Oath still held, there must be some way to free himself, and perhaps his grave could give an answer—
At this Makalaurë grimaced. “He has none,” he said softly, “for his body still breathes.”
“Then he lives!” Ñolofinwë shouted, his heart ready to burst from his chest. The others flinched at his outburst; he had not been so lively since Makalaurë’s arrival.
“His fëa is gone,” Makalaurë said miserably. “Our healers, those who still can Sing healing after all the blood we have shed, restored his hröa, but his fëa is not in it. It is... It is like...”
“Like Míriel Serindë,” Ñolofinwë said in horror. He could not seek vengeance upon a houseless soul, nor a body without its spirit, but neither could he free himself from his Oath...! It had taken the Valar’s intervention, and Míriel’s promise to never return from the Halls of Mandos, to allow Finwë’s second marriage; and the Valar had forsaken them. Ñolofinwë was doomed, truly, and Fëanáro had made it so.
“Yes.” Makalaurë bowed his head. “Like my grandmother.”
“Then you greet as us Maitimo’s messenger, and not your father’s,” Ñolofinwë said with some difficulty. His nephew, Findekáno’s secret lover, king of the Ñoldor! What a dreadful age they lived in!
Makalaurë looked then at Findekáno, beseechingly, and whispered, “Nay. I am my own messenger, king-regent of the Noldor.”
Findekáno trembled, and Ñolofinwë let him step forward. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What has happened to Russandol?”
“He feigned treaty with Moringotto,” Makalaurë said, looking to Ñolofinwë for support. Once, he would have given it gladly, as he had when Makalaurë admitted he did not know how to ask for Fëanáro’s permission to marry his sweetheart and Ñolofinwë had advised his nephew the best he could. But now—
“And?” Findekáno whispered, his voice tight in his throat.
“And he was captured,” Makalaurë admitted, hanging his head. “We could not save him. His soldiers were slaughtered, and he was dragged into the depths of Angamando...”
“And you left him there?” Findekáno cried. “To suffer and perish, while you assumed his crown and cowered from Moringotto’s might—”
“And what would you have done, Astaldo, marched through the very gates of Angamando and dragged him out?” Makalaurë spat. “Do you think we did not exhaust our options? Do you think it was easy for me to damn him so? Do you think I was not tempted by Moringotto’s offer to release him if we but forswore our Oath? Hah! But such a thing is impossible, and we are already Kinslayers, you and I both. What is one more soul sacrificed in pursuit of the Silmarilli, be it one dearer to me than any other? The Teleri at Alqualondë were as dear to their loved ones as he is to us!”
Then Findekáno drew his sword, and Makalaurë also, and had not Ñolofinwë intercepted them with his own blade, the tide of his anger rushing forth to consume him, there would have been bloodshed on the shores of Lake Misrim.
“Enough,” he boomed, and felt the air around him snap, an echo of the Helcaraxë freezing Makalaurë and Findekáno in their places. He disarmed them both, then stepped between them. “There will be no more Kinslaying, not while I am king.”
“You are no king,” Makalaurë hissed through numb lips.
Ñolofinwë fixed him with an icy glare. “I am more a king than you shall ever be. Get thee gone, Makalaurë. In two days time I will treat with you again, but for now, I wish to see your face no more.”
Makalaurë retrieved his sword, burning with shame, and remounted Roccolórë. The noble steed, ever loyal to Ñolofinwë, huffed and would have bucked him off had Ñolofinwë not reached out to stroke his mane.
“Next time, do not bring my horse with you unless you wish to return him to my care,” he told Makalaurë coldly. “And find him a better rider than yourself.”
So caught up was he in Makalaurë’s retreat, Turukáno and Írissë cursing his name, and the maelstrom of his thoughts at Fëanáro’s doom, that he did not notice until it was too late that Findekáno had vanished.