A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 22: Brotherhood and Fealty

LAKE MITHRIM - THE YOUNGER HOUSES

As sunlight streamed in through the crack between the tent flaps, Nelyo marveled at the smile on Tyelko’s face. His brother had ever been quick to anger, but it had been so long since his brother had been quick to laugh. Had Tyelko laughed since the Valar had freed Morgoth from his prison?

And yet here he lounged, stretched out against Huan on the hide covered floors, cackling at a story Káno told about their nephew Tyelperinquar. His stomach churned between elation and despair. He had met Tyelpë the day before, a beautiful boy who shared his mother’s poise and father’s eagerness to learn. He only wished it had not taken years to hug his own family.

He wished Tyelpë had been allowed to see the Light of Valinor.

Nelyo turned back to the conversation with his brothers. Tyelko sipped at a glass of wine, barely recovered from his laughing fit.

“You really should get back on your feet, Nelyo. Someone needs to help Nixiel with Tyelpë and I'm not going to do it,” Tyelko said. “Curvo is enough work on his own.”

Nelyo forced a smile, adjusting himself in bed to air straighter. “I took care of six brothers and a cousin.” Memories of happy days flashed across his vision for a moment: chasing toddlers on verdant fields, dodging fists thrown by boys but waste high. “I will leave Tyelpë in the capable hands of his mother.”

“Not his father?” Káno said. A wry smile graced his lips. “Your true colors come out now.”

“Have you been sneaking wine, Nelyo?”

He let out a small laugh. “No. No wine, and not his father’s hands. Curvo has enough on his plate in the forge. Tyelpë should learn from Nixiel.”

Tyelko nodded. “There we very much agree. He and his smiths have been hard at work perfecting weaponcraft. Irissë has shown us some of what the younger houses have created and it pales in comparison. If they are to be useful against Morgoth, we will have to work even harder.”

His brother's voice dropped with disdain at the mention of the houses of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Not all hurts could be mended so easily. His gaze drifted down to the bandages on his severed wrist.

Some moments, Nelyo could feel his hand. He felt the pain of tightened iron digging into his flesh. White hot agony filled his arm as he felt Finno’s blade slice through bone.

But then he would look down, reaching to grasp his own hand to his chest. Then he would remember what happened. He saw the weeping bandages from the slowly healing stump.

Eve assured him he would recover. She had faith in his strength. He had not survived for nothing. She helped as best she could, but sometimes Nelyo yearned for silence.

Finno understood. As Eve had slept upon his awakening, they spent many hours in quiet conversation. Nelyo knew he could never apologize enough to make things right. Elenwë’s drowning, Arakáno’s death, their blood was on his hands.

His and his brothers’. Nelyo glanced up at Káno and Tyelko. Conversation had drifted to war news. The Hunters had found some pocket of orcs in the mountains that they managed to root out. Fury, arrogance, recklessness. These traits they all shared drove daggers into their hopes at unity.

No apologies could make up for the mistakes made by firelight. And he wasn't sure his brothers would make the gesture even if there were.

Perhaps Eve had been right. Perhaps he had survived for a reason. Hung from the side of a cliff like forgotten refuse, he would do what his unmaimed brothers would not.