Chapter Text
He screamed, when Finno cut.
“Don’t look.” Findekano was weeping, but his hands were steady. “Russo, don’t look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Don’t be sorry. Maitimo wanted to say. Kill me, Finno, please, kill me and flee, get far from here.
He didn’t say it; he didn’t have the strength. He’d spent most of it clinging to the tiny shred of hope that hearing Finno’s voice had given him, and answering.
Finno cut.
The pain was hot and sharp and terrible, and blood was running hot and slippery down his arm. Consciousness and sanity were slippery things on the side of Thangorodrim at the best of times. The world tilted and went gray, and seemed far away.
Finno's arm was tight around his chest. Finno was saying something, but he wasn’t sure what. Consciousness slid out of his grasp, and he faded out.
He faded in, just. Thought for a moment that perhaps he was hallucinating again. Sensations like soft and warm did not exist on the cliff. He tried to lift his head and moaned; he hurt, he hurt…
“Russo!” Finno, who sounded terrified. “Russo, please hold on. Thorondir is flying as fast as he can.”
He was very cold, for all he was wrapped in what had to be Finno’s cloak and pressed between Fingon’s body and that of the great eagle. He was shaking, and couldn’t stop.
“Hold on.” Finno again, and Russo could feel him reaching along their bond, pressing against his shields. And he was weak, terribly weak and in pain and desperate to know that it was really Finno, so he cracked himself open just enough to feel Finno’s worry and terror and, behind all of it, love.
He would have cried, if he had anything in him to cry with. He was shaking, uncontrollably, and so cold…
He faded out.
He faded in, almost.
People around him. Talking. Shouting. Hands on him. The smell of herbs. His arm and shoulder were a line of agonizing fire, and he made some sort of sound and tried to cringe away from the hands on his forearm. He couldn’t feel his hand.
A voice rose, going sharper. Someone started to sing, and the notes of the song were heavy and dragged his eyes shut even as he tried to open them.
He faded out, and stayed down in the dark for a long time.
Later, much later, Finno sat by the sickbed. He felt raw and wrung out, and he could not look at the bandaged stump of Russo’s right arm. He just sat, and held Russo’s remaining hand between his own, and watched the slow shallow breathing.
Don’t die. He told his husband, silently. Please don’t die. I couldn’t bear it if you died.
He dimly heard the commotion outside. It was the nature of the Noldor to build, and his father’s people had already thrown up temporary rough dwellings of timber, so they were no longer at least in tents. On the other shore of Lake Mithrim, the Feanorian host had already built a town; it had been in timber too at the first, but a fair amount of it now was stone.
He heard a familiar clear tenor, the voice raised and laced with enough power that the rafters shivered. Ah. Yes, of course they’d come, once Nolofinwe had sent word, and Finno’s father had of course sent word at once. It would have only led to more anger if he had not.
He was not surprised when the door was opened, and one of the healers, grim faced and narrow eyed, was shouldered aside by a desperate pack of his law-brothers.
It was Makalaure in front, and he stopped dead, a stride into the room. His brothers piled in behind him, but then they stopped too, and the room was very still and very quiet.
“If you disturb him.” Finno said. “I’ll throw you out myself.”
One of them made a very small wounded sound, more like a wild animal than anything. It was Tyelkormo who staggered forward, and went to his knees by the bedside. He was, when Finno spared him a glance, trembling like a leaf.
“ Nelyo.” Tyelko whispered, and his voice broke halfway through the word. There were silent tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Why.” That was one of the Ambarussa, sounding suddenly very young, and very lost. “Why. Why is his arm…”
“He was hanging from the cliff for a long time.” Tinilame’s voice was soft. “His shoulder is…” She shook her head. “It causes him great pain to try and lower it from that position. If he survives the next few days and regains a little strength, we can attempt to reset it properly and heal it as we can.”
“If?” Morinfinwe’s voice was bleak.
“ A cliff?” Curvo’s voice was trembling, even as Maglor sank down to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Morgoth.” Finno said. “He chained Russo by his wrist, to the side of a sheer cliff of Thangorodrim.” He could not look at the stump of Russo’s wrist. “I don’t know how long he’d been hanging there.”
“A long time.” Tinilame’s lips were thin, as she checked Russo’s bandaged stump. “If he does live…” She shook her head. “We will do what we can, but I don’t think he’ll ever have full use of that arm again.” She looked at Finno, and her eyes were full of pity. “We suspect that the manacle was enchanted, to keep him alive. Without it?” She shook her head. “Half of us are surprised he hasn’t died yet. If he survives the next two or three days, I’ll feel more confident in saying he might pull through.”
Finno could almost see the lot of them thinking. He saw Tyelko look at the stump of Russo’s right wrist, and then to Finno, and his law-brothers were many things, many of them irritating, but none of them were stupid.
“A manacle.” Curvo said, softly. “His hand…”
“Perhaps your father could have sung it open.” Finno said, tonelessly. “But I am not Feanaro. It would not give for me. There was no lock to pick. It was sunk into the stone, and the stone had been shaped around the bolts to hold it. There was only one way I could get him free.”
I’m sorry. He said to Russo silently, again. He would hear that scream as he cut through his husband’s wrist for the rest of eternity, in his nightmares.
Curufin turned away, and stared at the wall. Of all of them, it would have been him who perhaps could have set such a cruel manacle loose, and they all knew it. But, of course, he had not been there.
“He wanted me to kill him.” Finno said, more to himself than to them. “He begged me to kill him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. But I had to…I couldn’t leave him…I had to cut…”
“You did it neatly, at least.” Tinilame said, gently. “It’s better than death, my lord. If he lives, it should heal cleanly.”
Findekano waited for any of his law brothers to rage at him for maiming their older brother. It didn’t come. They all remained silent, horror written on their faces.
It was Makalaure who finally spoke. “What else happened to him?” Makalaure, very gently, smoothed some of the ragged fringe of shorn red hair back from Nelyo’s forehead. “That…that’s not just…that can’t be just from…” His voice broke.
Findekano knew what he meant. His Russandol was covered in scars, many of them terrible. Some looked to have been from blades; some looked like old burns, and some like whips. “I don’t know.” He said, and he had to say it around a lump in his throat.
“ Thirty years of the sun.” Morinfinwe said, agonized. He turned to Tinilame. “What do you need? Supplies? Herbs? More healers?”
“Yes.” She said. “To all of those.”
“You’ll have them.” Makalaure didn’t look up. “Anything you need.”
“Has he said anything?” Curufinwe was hovering behind Makalaure. “Has he woken?”
“He was lucid when I found him on the cliff.” Finno said. “Since? No. He came around for a minute on the eagle, but he didn’t speak.”
“He’s under Songs of sleep and herbs to dull pain right now.” Tinilame said, checking Russo’s pulse. “We hope he’ll wake by morning, at least enough to get food and drink into him.” Her lips thinned. “He lost a great deal of blood, when his hand was severed. He could use some good rich broth of red meat right now, but we’ve…”
Tyelkormo rose to his feet. “There are deer in the forests.” He said, voice tight, and was gone.
The room was warm, and Russo was under a blanket, but in his deep spelled unconsciousness he shivered anyway. Morinfinwe took off his own fur-lined cloak and spread it over his older brother.
“Why…” One of the Ambarussa. Finno couldn’t tell them apart by voice, and he was still looking at Russo. “How is he cold?”
“Starvation.” Finno said, and he said it sharply. “I saw it on the Ice, and often. When you lose too much flesh, it’s hard to stay warm.” Russo’s remaining hand was painfully thin and frail in his own.
Silence. One of the Ambarussa moved without a word to add more wood to the fire. For a long time they all sat without speaking, watching the shallow rise and fall of Nelyo’s chest.
“We owe you.” Makalaure said at last, thickly. “More than we can ever repay, Findekano.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Finno said, shortly. He could feel them all looking at him, and at last looked up to glare at the lot of them, furiously. “I know you all doubted me. I know none of you liked it any better than Feanaro, when I wed him. I haven’t forgiven any of you, for the ships. I haven’t forgiven him. But Eru help me, I still love him. I did it for him, not for any of you.”
They stared back, and he saw guilt in those silver-gray eyes. It wasn’t enough; it wasn’t close to enough. But then…
“He didn’t burn them.” Curufin said, barely above a whisper.
Finno blinked. There was a roaring in his ears.
“The ships.” Curufin’s clever fingers flexed. “He asked Atar when we would return for you…and he named you, Findekano, specifically. And that’s when Atar said it was better that you all remain in Aman, and took up a torch.”
Findekano stared, and the roaring in his ears was louder.
“I helped.” Curufin said. “I helped Atar burn them. So did all of us, except Telvo, who was asleep on one of the ships…and except Nelyo.”
“Atar struck him, when he refused.” Makalaure’s voice sounded far away. “I’d…never seen Atar lift a hand against any of us before. But Nelyo refused to burn the ships. Finno. And we almost killed our own Telufinwe doing it.” His voice was bleak.
Findekano, very slowly, bent over until he was resting his forehead against the mattress, and he realized he was clinging too hard to that thin, fragile hand.
Love. He thought. Oh, my love.