A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 15: By Light of the Sun

LAKE MITHRIM

Surrounded by haunted mists and grinding ice, Finno's hope had run dry. It had evaporated, fled his body from the flames of Losgar, from the flames that drowned Elenwë. The Valar had forsaken them.

No. They had forsaken the Valar.

Then he had run his fingers through the dirt upon this hither shore and the moon had risen. A last gift from the Valar to the elves. He had let the last fruit of Telperion guide his footsteps while he led his people through slate and shale.

His brother had died beneath that moon. Arakáno had bled out in his arms, against his chest, the arrow of an unnamed and unimportant orc sticking out of his neck. Few people knew that though. The rest of the Noldor, aside from himself, Artanis, and his two captains, believed Aro had died with a sword in his hand to defend the vanguard. It was better that way. They'd tried to make sense out of the senseless.

So when Laurelin's fruit rose in the sky, a first sun to accompany the first moon, he'd not rejoiced. More would die. He knew this, and his heart hurt to think of it. They'd lost Finwë. They'd lost Elenwë. They'd lost Arakáno. And he'd lost Eve.

But even as anger had settled in his stomach like cold, black ice, he'd set his mind on the task at hand. They had to find the elder house. He had to find his wife. And he had to find Nelyo, so he could make his cousin answer for the ache in his heart and the tears on his niece's face.

The moment Finno had crested the hill and caught sight of the red banners waving in the wind from tents along the lake, his heart had lept. Perhaps the sun wouldn't betray him like the moon.

He'd blown the first trumpet. He had never left the front of the host since landing upon this shore. He had led his people into doom at the battle at Alqualondë. He would lead them to some semblance of safety, now.

And maybe, just maybe, Eve would hear their calls.

They settled on the shore, far apart from the other host. Anger gripped Finno as cold as the ice on the Helcaraxë but in some of their people it burned as hot as the maia, Arien. His father wanted to look Fëanáro in the eye before demanding justice. If one of their people shot an arrow through his head first, that wouldn't do.

Though he had to admit, as Finno finished setting up a tent for his host, the thought of an arrow through his half uncle's eye felt like justice sometimes.

As he offered some of the women and children of his host a small smile, Finno turned away. He kept those thoughts to himself. Even Turvo, who now strode towards him with purpose, didn't know. Though he guessed his brother felt the same.

"I've set a guard around the perimeter," Turvo said. "Aikanáro and Angaráto are taking care of the far side."

Finno nodded. "Good. And father?"

"Father and Findo are in counsel."

A gentle breeze off the lake blew through the camp. It rustled his loose hair. Finno noted that his brother had fixed his own, brushing it clean and straight so it lay almost regal about his shoulders. Finno hadn't bothered with his own in weeks.

"Have you thought about what you will say to them?" Finno said.

Turvo straighted up. His frown deepens and his brow creased. No names needed to be spoken. "I have thought of little else besides that and my daughter since we set foot on his shore."

He had guessed as much. Turvo wore his pain in his posture. The straight shoulders, practiced countenance, to those who knew him well it betrayed his hurting heart. He tried to be strong for Itarillë. They all tried to be strong for Itarillë. His niece had already been robbed of a home and a mother and a mentor in Eve.