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Findekáno is guided through the camp in a daze.
He is distantly aware of the commotion surrounding them, the bodies that weave to and fro in their path and the clamour of overlapping shouts, but it all comes to him as if from underwater; like he is back once more in the golden days of his youth, having whiled away an afternoon in the lake behind Grandfather’s palace, hearing Father calling him inside to wash up before dinner. But these are not shouts of fond exasperation— they are cries of cold panic, or shock, or else utter disbelief, and several times he nearly falters, but Findaráto’s guiding hand between his shoulder blades will not let him.
He cannot crumble, not now. Not yet.
Findekáno blinks, and suddenly he is being let into Findaráto’s tent.
It is warm in there where a brazier is burning low, and Findekáno will be thankful, in later times, that it is only now they are alone that he notices the blood that stains his hands. He stands rooted to the spot, staring down at his own palms, while Findaráto turns back and secures the entrance to the tent.
There is blood soaking his tunic also, Findekáno notices absently. Fabric clings heavily to his stomach and chest where he had cradled Maitimo against himself. But it is his hands he cannot look away from, rust red, sickly in the wavering light. It occurs to him that he must have broken his fingernails in his efforts to free Maitimo from the fell manacle, for they are split and torn, his nailbeds left raw and exposed.
He feels not quite tethered to his body. Like he is standing to the side of himself and watching himself stare down at his own shaking hands. Distantly he understands that it is not only his hands that shake but all of him, trembling like the last leaf on a barren tree in a chill late-autumn wind, and that is the last thing he knows before Findaráto’s arms are around him and he is locked in an embrace so tight it quickly becomes the only thing keeping upright.
He clings to Findaráto with bloodied fists clenched in his tunic, fingers aching from the strength of his grip. “I…” he starts to say, but cannot find the words.
Findaráto shakes his head, and squeezes him harder. He clutches at the back of Findekáno’s head and holds him to his chest as one would a suckling babe, and Findekáno can feel the almost-hidden tremble of his fingers, hear the hitching of his breath in his lungs.
“You are alright,” Findaráto whispers at last. He pulls back and frames Findekáno’s face in his hands, looks him over like he can't quite believe it to be true. His eyes are wet. Findekáno knows vaguely that his should be also, and yet he cannot find it in himself to feel anything except hollowed out, scraped thin at the edges.
“You are shaking,” Findaráto says then with a frown, and he drags Findekáno over to his cot and sits him down on the edge. Something about the worry in his eyes makes Findekáno want to snap at him.
It is not fair, of course, but bitter anger churns all the same. Surely Findaráto knows that he is not the one who needs his concern right now. Findekáno is not the one bleeding out on a cot in the healing tent. Findekáno is not the one who has endured horrors they dare not speak of at the hands of Morgoth, Findekáno is not the who could be dead or dying at this very moment. All of this Findekáno means to say, but his lips will not move to form the words.
That is probably for the best.
Findaráto is flitting about the tent, a terrible habit of his when he is anxious. He refuses to be still, moving constantly to and fro and fiddling with things that do not need fiddling, trying to find a way to fix things that cannot be fixed. He knows it drives Findekáno mad and yet he still does it now: digs around through his things until he finds a set of clean clothing and some rags, pours water from a jug into a pot, sets it above the brazier to warm.
“I need to find my father,” Findekáno finds himself saying. “He will be searching for me.”
“You need do nothing in that state," Findaráto tells him. His voice is firm, and almost steady.
Findekáno swallows. He must see his father— this he knows, yet the thought fills him with dread. He has a great many things to answer for, and apologies to make, and he has not yet decided whether he wishes to make them. And he must... he must be strong, if he is to endure such a quarrel, and he does not feel strong. Not in the way he needs to be. He feels small and vulnerable, and Findekáno hates to feel vulnerable, hates it in a way he hates little else.
“Ingo,” he says, and he means for it to be commanding, but it comes out a thin, pleading thing.
Findaráto turns at last from where he has been needlessly stoking the brazier. And he looks at Findekáno with his heart worn upon his sleeve like always, and the downturn of his lips makes Findekáno want to scream or hit him or else start crying and never stop.
He is powerless to control his own expression right now and so he does not know what it is that Findaráto sees written all across his face, but whatever it is makes him abandon his fretting at last. He comes and kneels between Findekáno's legs, sits back on his heels, and rests his palms on Findekáno’s knees. And he does not say anything— he just looks at Findekáno, and in his eyes there is a storm of pain and fear and pity, and Findekáno can hardly stand it.
He shuts his eyes and bows his heads, knuckles white around the edge of the cot.
The din of voices outside is deafening. Distant shouts bounce around the inside of Findekáno’s skull and they are joined by the echoes of Maitimo’s cries of anguish and woven through it all is the ear-splitting emptiness where once lived the constant shrieking winds of the Helcaraxë, and Findekáno’s stomach is cold and tacky where his tunic clings to him, soaked in a blood that is not his own. Sudden panic claws at his throat.
With an abruptness that makes Findaráto jerk back in alarm Findekáno starts yanking at his tunic. He needs it off— needs to get away, needs it as far from him as possible, but his shaking fingers cannot grasp the buttons.
“Get it off,” he wrenches uselessly at the fabric, “take it off, I need it off—”
“Okay,” Findaráto reaches for him, eyes very wide. “Okay, here, just let me—”
Findaráto does not bother with buttons— he wrestles the tunic up Findekáno’s torso and over his head and then throws it quickly to the side, out of sight.
Now it is off, Findekáno can breathe again. He tries to focus on the warmth of Findaráto’s hands resting once more on his knees, the soothing back-and-forth motion of his thumbs; lets it pull him back down to earth. Though he does not meet Findaráto’s eye, he can feel him watching him— waiting for him to speak.
At length, Findekáno says quietly, “He begged me for death.”
Findaráto stills. Findekáno keeps his eyes trained on the floor; can't bring himself to offer anything further. After a long stretch of silence, Findaráto whispers tightly, “Show me.”
It comes as something of a relief to Findekáno, not to have to speak it. To be invited to share in the burden, rather than be made to ask Findaráto to help carry its weight.
He opens his mind.
He shows Findaráto only brief snatches of memory. How his heart had leapt in his chest at the weak sound of Maitimo taking up his song, and how instantly it had plummeted when dread and terror seized him. The sight of Maitimo as he had hung there upon Thangorodrim’s peak, once-hale body reduced to mere bone with the thinnest layers of torn skin stretched overtop. The look of anguish in long-beloved silver eyes as cracked lips had begged him for death, once first and then again, when Findekáno had hovered there on eagleback with his own fingers bleeding and his sword sparking against iron that refused to yield.
Findekáno is careful not to show Findaráto the worst of it. He does not show him how cleanly his blade had sliced through Maitimo’s wrist, how instantly scarlet had bloomed forth and how the vibrations of steel meeting bone had rocketed up his own arm. He does not share Maitimo’s terrible cries, nor the way his pleas for death had not ceased even when Findekáno had raised the sword to his wrist. Keeps to himself the unspeakable anguish of the sounds Maitimo had made when he was cut free, for already they will haunt Findekáno until the world’s ending, and that is not a weight Findaráto need carry.
When at last he can bear no more, Findekáno slams closed the connection.
It is only when he feels tender hands come up to cradle his face that he realizes he has curled in on himself. Findaráto gently lifts his head and makes him meet his eyes, and Findekáno finds in him an understanding that he does not deserve but cannot help siphoning anyway.
“I was going to grant it," he whispers. The admission claws its way up his throat and tears itself free, a bloody, mangled thing.
Findaráto says nothing. He just strokes Findekáno’s cheekbones, smooths slender fingers through his hair, mollifying touches that Findekáno presses helplessly into. He looks into Findaráto’s eyes with a desperation that disgusts him and begs him silently to understand. “I cannot stop thinking that perhaps I should have.”
The softness in Findaráto’s eyes does not morph into disgust between one blink and the next the way he feared. It remains there, warm upon the surface of him, mingled though it is with exhaustion and fear and sadness and terrible, all-consuming love.
The very same love that brought Findekáno to Angband alone. The same love that had him taking up his harp and song in defiance when he failed to find a way inside, the same love that had his arrow quivering upon his bow as he whispered a prayer to gods who had long since abandoned him, whose pity he did not deserve. The same love that brought his sword through Maitimo’s wrist, so that he might take home whatever of him was left.
For when it comes down to it, Findekáno has always been selfish. There was never any world in which he made any choice other than the one that let him keep a piece of Maitimo— whole or not, sane or not, himself or not. Findaráto knows it as well as he does. There is nothing he need say.
But now that one terrible admission has been made, it is all too easy to make another.
“I am still so angry with him.”
It comes out less than a whisper, barely even words at all. Findekáno’s fingers ache around the edge of the cot.
“How can I still be angry with him? After all that he has been through? We don’t…" He shakes his head. "Ingo, we both have heard the legends of the fates of those lost from the shores of Cuiviénen. We can guess well enough at what has happened to him at the hands of the Enemy.” He can hear his own voice rising, quickening, the words tripping over his tongue in their haste to escape him. “Should that not be payment enough for his wrongs? Or indeed his hand, which I now have taken from him too— is that not his recompense? I do not understand why I am still… why I just…”
Findaráto swallows. He glances aside, as if he cannot bear to look at Findekáno when he asks him, “Is that why you were going to do it?”
Cold dread sinks Findekáno’s stomach down to his toes.
“What?” He leans back, letting Findaráto’s hands fall away. “How could you… no, of course not, how could you even—”
“I’m sorry,” Findaráto shakes his head quickly, “I know, I know. I’m so sorry, I just needed to ask.”
“You did not,” says Findekáno sharply. His heart is in his throat, voice thick with a shame that makes his skin crawl.
“You’re right.” Findaráto reaches out to cup his face again, and though Findekáno does not relax, he can't bear not to let him. “I’m sorry.”
He means it, Findekáno knows he does. It is written all over his face. He lays a hand over Findaráto’s where it cradles his cheek and lets out a long, shuddery exhale, and tries to let the matter go. “I just do not understand how he could let himself be taken,” he says hoarsely. “How could he put himself in such a situation? How could he let it happen?”
“I’m sure that will come to light before long, darling,” Findaráto says, far too reasonably, and Findekáno’s jaw tightens. “Maitimo is not one to do anything without a reason. If he put himself in such danger, he must have felt there was no viable alternative.”
Findekáno offers him a bitter smile. “You have always given him too much credit.”
“Not so. Love may make me quicker to forgive, but it does not blind me.”
“You think me blind, then?” There is an edge to Findekáno’s voice, and Findaráto’s eyes narrow slightly, though he does not call him on it.
“I think you reckless.” Findaráto smooths the pad of a thumb over Findekáno’s cheekbone, and considers him. “I think you valiant to a fault. And I wish I could be angry with you for putting yourself in such danger, but now that you are here I care only that you are safe and in my arms.”
Findekáno feels the words as a speartip between his ribs.
They had fought that night, before he left. Findaráto had argued with him at length, not to keep him back but rather to join him, and much had been said that could not be unsaid. But if indeed Maitimo was lost already, and if indeed this foolish quest claimed Findekáno’s life in turn, then Findekáno needed to know that still out there, somewhere without him, would be Findaráto carrying on. He needed Findaráto to live; he had not the strength to go on without the assurance that this would be true.
Findaráto had not understood, of course, but Findekáno did not need him to. Had he his time back, he would make the same choice again.
“If you must hear it again," he begins coldly, "I am deeply sorry that I was not willing to risk your life—"
Findaráto slides a finger over his lips, a gesture that is both gentle and stern. “Please stop trying to start a fight," he says quietly. "I do not wish to fight with you, Finno, not now. If you feel that we must then we may do it later, but I have not the strength to do it now.”
After a long beat, Findekáno lowers his gaze. The apology poised on the tip of his tongue dissolves the second his gaze lands on his bloodied hands.
His chest squeezes tight.
“Shit,” he mutters. His fingers curl into fists, and he pushes them into his thighs. Dried blood splits around his knuckles like cracks in the Ice. “Shit.”
The cold flood of panic in his lungs is rising up, up, as if to spill over. The dam begins to burst. He digs his fingernails into his knees and squeezes his eyes shut so hard it makes his head hurt, tries to breathe in, but finds he cannot draw enough air to fill his lungs.
Suddenly there are warm hands around his, pulling him away from himself. They remain utterly unyielding even when he struggles against their grip.
“Stop it,” says Findaráto evenly. “Look at me.”
So steadfast is the power of his voice, Findekáno obeys him without thought.
He finds Findaráto looking back at him with conviction, his jaw set. “Breathe deeply,” he tells Findekáno quietly. “Your panic helps no one.”
He is right, of course, though if Findekáno still had the wherewithal to argue he would. Instead he tries to do as he has been told: draws in a long breath until his lungs feel full to bursting, lets it out slowly. He does it again, and again, and gradually he feels his heartbeat begin to steady itself.
Findaráto waits patiently. He raises Findekáno’s hands to his lips and kisses them each in turn, blood and all. At the last, he says,
“We will be okay.”
Findekáno forces another bitter laugh, but along with the last dregs of icy panic had left him every remaining scrap of energy he possessed. “You cannot possibly know that,” he accuses, without heat.
Findaráto purses his lips and shakes his head. “We will be okay,” he repeats, more emphatically. “Not yet, maybe, perhaps not even soon. But someday. We will have to be.” He thumbs over the backs of Findekáno’s knuckles as he speaks, as if to soothe him. “There is no other choice, Finno. Do you see? We have made it already. You have made it already.” And he offers Findekáno the smallest of smiles; an exhausted, sad little upturn of his lips that makes Findekáno ache. “All there is now is to move forward.”
And Findekáno cannot help that he thinks of the Swan Haven. Can't help that he thinks of a crystal sea stained red, rust coloured sand, slick pools upon the cobblestone.
And then inexorably from that memory comes several more, all in quick succession. A dull orange glow across the sea and a heavy boulder of grief in the pit of his stomach; the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë and the fell light in his father’s eyes; Maitimo’s hand, still clasped in the manacle upon the mountainside, the sickly heat of blood and the sharpness of every bone in Maitimo’s body digging in where Findekáno had cradled him against himself. A body frailer than anything he had felt before, save the bodies of their dead upon the Ice.
Of course, Findaráto cannot truly know if they will be okay. There is every likelihood that all that awaits them here in this doomed land is more death and loss and grief. But Findekáno looks now into Findaráto’s eyes, and he sees in them a steely determination, and he understands that Findaráto is being strong for him.
It is a look he recognizes well. He had seen it often in those awful first days after Elenwë had been lost, and again when little Itarillë had been badly hurt, and then again after the Lammoth, when Arakáno had been slain. And it is a feeling that Findekáno, too, knows intimately from all the occasions on which he had been the one to be strong for Findaráto. Knows it from the way they have long taken turns, finding strength where the other could not.
Without one another, Findekáno knows, they would not have survived it. Had it not been for Maitimo, they would not have had to. But Findaráto is right: they have made their choice, they cannot go back.
They can never go back.
So Findekáno can let Findaráto be strong for him, for now. He will take another turn later.
He lets Findaráto rise and fetch the heated water, and lets him scrub the dried blood from his chest and stomach. Closes his eyes and breathes through the bright-sharp scent of copper that fills his lungs, focuses all of his attention on Findaráto’s touch, lets it steady his stumbling pulse. At length Findaráto takes Findekáno's hands in his own; lowers them carefully into the water basin and washes them clean with tender swipes of the rag, sliding over each knuckle, into the spaces between his fingers. When he is finished he raises Findekáno's hands to his lips once more and kisses each of his knuckles in turn, then the palms of his hands, the delicate insides of his wrists.
At last, Findekáno stands and dresses himself in borrowed clothing. He lets Findaráto wash clean his face, and almost manages a smile when Findaráto kisses his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks and his chin, and then finally his mouth.
And then, once he is dressed and clean and feels in control of himself once again, he lets Findaráto draw him into an embrace.
Findaráto cradles him to his breast like a small child, and Findekáno lets himself be held. Lets out a heavy breath, long and near-steady. He siphons comfort from Findaráto like a sponge; draws it from the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms, the familiar scent of him, the cadence of his heart which beats in a rhythm Findekáno knows as intimately as he knows his own, as intimately as he once knew Maitimo’s.
When at last he draws back, Findaráto presses dry lips to his forehead. Findekáno leans into it, clings to it; this moment of calm in the midst of a storm that can only get worse before it gets better.
“I must go to my father,” he says at length, and Findaráto nods and squeezes his hands.
“I will be here.”
And he will be, Findekáno knows. Not only tonight and not only tomorrow. Findaráto will be here.
He lets the knowledge bolster him as he steps out into the crisp night air. He draws in a fortifying breath that stings his lungs, steels himself, and chooses to believe that he will be okay. Chooses to believe that Maitimo will be okay; that they all will be okay.
For what is the alternative? All they can do now is move forward.