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.

"Where's Itaril?"

"With Laurefindel," Turvo said.

Finno nodded. He expected nothing less. The man had a way with Itaril, an ease that made him the perfect protector for the girl when Turvo had to attend to other matters. Turning away, Finno stared out across the lake. They stood near the shore. Glistening blue waters reflected back the sunshine above.

"I'm surprised you haven't left yet," Turvo said.

Finno turned back to him. He didn't speak to his brother of his hopes of finding Eve alive amongst the host of Fëanáro. It didn't seem right. He had lost his beloved wife to the waves. Finno clung to the faintest echo of hope that his own still lived.

He sighed. "I fear what I might find."

What if she had died? What if that echo of hope he clung to like a raft amid a sea of despair no longer existed? Could he continue? Could he do without hope in its entirety? Finno didn't know the answer to those questions.

"My wife is dead, Findekáno. She is gone forever, sundered from me and from our daughter." Turvo placed a hand on his shoulder. "Eve may not be. If you wish to march to their camp and demand answers, I will not stop you."

Finno looked at him. His grey eyes held back tears. Here he was, wallowing in the thought that he might be alone, while his brother lived that reality. What was he doing? If he could not face the truth for his own sake, he owed it at the very least to Elenwë and Itarillë.

"You're right."

"Of course I am."

Finno cracked a tiny smile. He clapped his little brother on the back before striding back through the camp. He would go find Eve. He would go find Nelyo. He would face the fire of Fëanáro's wrath. And if he found nothing but the ashes of his hope, then he would mourn her, and fight for what they had believed possible once. A good life. Peace. Not for himself, but for those who would come after. Like Itaril.

Finno strapped his sword tighter to his side. He fastened his cloak about himself, rubbing his fingers over the worn, scuffed sunflower clasp that Eve had sewn in ages ago. And as he strode towards the edge of their protected lines, he braided in one golden thread.

A cry went up. The sound of hooves pounded against the ground. Multiple sets. Finno drew his sword alongside his guards. Perhaps reckoning would find them sooner than he imagined.

Good. Finno would first get answers, and then he would get justice.

"Hold the line," Finno said. He didn't turn to see what warriors stood beside him. He didn't need to. They were his people. "No one moves unless I give an order."

He took a few steps forward as the galloping horses closed in. He could see them now. One ahead of the others. And his heart stopped.

Her red hair shined like rubies under the light of the sun. Finno lost track of the world. Everything blurred. Desperate not to lose sight of her again, he wiped away his tears.

Elmendë, his hope, still lived. Finno dropped his sword and covered his mouth with one hand, trying to calm himself. So many times he had imagined losing her as they'd lost Elenwë. Beneath waves, to flames, to the arrow of an orc. But now, here on these grassy fields of the far land, under the light of the sun, he knew those to have been lies born of Morgoth's black heart.

Before he realized what was happening. He had her in his arms. Finno felt her heaving shoulders as she cried into his chest. He couldn't keep her on her feet so he let her gently to the ground, never releasing her. He wouldn't. Not again, not ever. He stayed in his knees.

"You're alive," he said, not moving from the embrace. "Eve."

"Finno. Finno, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she said, choking on tears. "I'm sorry—"

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

She pulled her face away from his shoulders and he looked into her beautiful grey eyes for the first time in months, years, he wasn't sure anymore. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except her.

He kissed her.

He had his wife back. His beloved, his soulmate, the woman who had found beauty in everything he'd taken for granted. He had hope again.

When the kiss ended, he pulled her into another hug. She continued to cry. But Finno steeled himself and looked up at the two who had come with her. They stood silent beside their horses.

Káno.

"Nelyafinwë did not have the courage to face me himself, then?" Finno said.

Káno did not respond. The man beside him, a young elf with shoulder length brown hair, flinched back.

"Finno," Eve said. She pulled away, face stained with tear. "Finno, he's gone."

Gone. He glanced from his wife to Káno. All the rage he'd felt racing to get out evaporated in an instant. But he hadn't been able to yell at him yet for taking his wife, for leaving him alone to face the ice. He couldn't be gone. He couldn't.