A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 13: Beneath Fangs of Slate and Shale

LAMMOTH

Finno couldn't shake the unease he felt gathering in the pit of his stomach as he scanned ahead of his host. Above them, Varda's cold stars sank in the darkness of the night sky. In the midst of that cold celestial crown there continued to rise this first new Moon, and though Finno did not know if it was indeed the moon that Eve used to speak of, he decided to think of it as such. It made him feel closer to her.

As his boots crunched on gravel and loose shale, Finno tried to focus on his wife. She had to be alive and waiting for him. He hadn't crossed the Grinding Ice to lose her now. But the mountains rising like teeth to either side of the wide path did give him pause. The shale and slate peaks resembled fangs when he let his mind wander.

The Helcaraxë had looked like these mountains in some places, too. Finno frowned even deeper, pausing in his step. He felt small, standing alone. Small just like the trip across the Ice. For the first time in weeks, he led the host at the front. On the Helcaraxë, too often he had let grief and anger cloud his judgement, leaving the leadership to his father or cousins. Not anymore, though.

Findo told him this wasn't his fault. And while he supposed the blame for their exile lay squarely on the shoulders of Morgoth and his murder of Finwë first, he had known the sway his voice held among the people when he spoke in favor of the return to these lands. The Noldor listened to him. They always had.

Findo had not fought the Falmari. But Finno had. His people had followed his haste into battle without question. The people listened to him, always. It had been that way for as long as he could remember.

So it was only natural that he should lead them here, now, upon the hither shore. He led from the front, much to Turvo and their father's chagrin. But Finno had no intention of letting anyone else put themselves in danger yet again for his mistake in Tirion upon Tuna before the brilliant Holy Mountain

Everything in these mountains seemed to be monochromatic. There were crevices as black as the void and rocks pale white like bone, with every grey in between. Eerie, really. Finno turned back from where he'd walked forward a few dozen paces. His people still stood together, awaiting his signal. They listened like always.

The men trained with swords lined the mass of women and children huddled in the center. Some of the women bore weapons as well, but Finno had felt it prudent to make sure that someone trained to defend remained close to the children and in the center, in case the flanks were ever breached. The exception was Voronwa, the only maiden captain among his forces. She stood now at the front, chatting quietly with another of his guards, Lámino.

His attention was pulled to the left side of his host. Aro pushed through his people without issue, his height giving him an advantage against even the tallest warriors. Finno frowned. As he caught Aro's eye, he started back.

"What are you doing up here," Finno asked. It came out a bit harsher than he had intended, but he worried for his little brother. Here in the vanguard it was dangerous. Too dangerous for Aro. "You should be with Irissë."

Aro just scoffed. "I have been with Irissë for longer than I ever care to do again. She can be insufferable."

They met a few paces ahead of Voronwa and Lámino. Finno now got a better look at Aro. He held himself with less confidence than Finno remembered, hunching a bit forward and not a trace of a smile in sight. The Helcaraxë had hurt them all.

"Irissë only wants to help."

"She was going mad those last few weeks on the ice, and I cannot stand any more of it."

Finno forced a small laugh. He turned to look at Voronwa and Lámino, both now smiling too. As he went to say more, the sound of a low whistle split the air followed nearly immediately by a thunk. Voronwa and Lámino stopped laughing.

Finno knew that noise. The last time he'd heard it, he'd been at their parents' cottage in the Fields of Yavanna. He could still feel the warmth of the sun beating down on him, sweat pooling on his brow and near his hair as he'd stood a hundred paces from the target. The arrow's feather had slit his cheek ever so slightly as it had flown into the dead center of the wooden target with a satisfying thunk.

He spun around. Aro's eyes were lifeless, red blood that looked nearly black pouring out from around the embedded orc arrow in the back of his neck. Finno couldn't even scream orders as Aro collapsed on him. He couldn't think. He could only grab his little brother to his chest, guiding him to the ground.

His hands shook as he cradled his brother into his chest. Aro's hair caught in his fingers. He was still warm. Finno's heart ached, tears doing nothing to cool his hot cheeks. He sobbed into his brother's hair, his chin resting atop Aro's head.

It took far too long for Finno to realize that a battle raged around him. Shouts and orc shrieks bounced off the rocks. Crying children joined the cacophonous lament. Only when he felt a hand grab his arm did he regain his composure. Finno turned. He recognized the golden-silver hair of his youngest cousin instantly.

"Artanis."

He saw the sadness in her grey eyes as she looked from the limp body of Aro back to him. She had passed her sword to her left hand, letting the other sit on Finno's arm and linger there awhile longer. Her hand brought a little warmth.

"I am sorry."

Finno couldn't respond. Instead, he allowed her to help him off the ground. The noises of battle were already fading as he lifted up Aro in his arms and followed his cousin. Whatever force had attacked them had been either small, or weak, or both. And yet he held now in his hands the second member of the House of Nolofinwë to die from this exile: Elenwë upon the grinding ice, Arakáno upon this jagged mountain path.

"My lord!"

Finno turned. Voronwa and Lámino hurried towards him, blood on their clothes and across their faces. Tears caused streaks through the blood on their cheeks. He waited for them, telling Artanis to go find his father. Finno wasn't ready to let go of his brother yet, anyways.

"We slew the orcs," Lámino said. He paused again, glancing down through blurred eyes at Aro. "Though it was not soon enough."

None of them spoke more for many rapid heart beats. The world around them seemed to quiet as the others gave them a wide berth. Finno forced back more tears.

"We are fortunate," Voronwa began, lowering her lilting voice so they along could hear her, "that Prince Arakáno was there with us. He saved us when he slew the orc captain, though it cost him his life."

Finno met her gaze. Though at first he'd been confused at her tale, it took him only a moment to understand her meaning. He glanced down at Aro. He deserved more than to be struck from legends by a stray orc arrow. His family needed to know he had died defending them.

His voice cracked as he looked back at Voronwa. "Yes. It is fortunate."

She nodded.

The sound of several pairs of boots against the loose stones made him pause. Finno closed his eyes. He did not want to see the faces of his siblings when they saw their little brother dead in his arms.

He turned. His eyes went first to Turvo. He stopped in his tracks a few steps behind their sister and father, who hurried towards him. Finno didn't hear what they said. He couldn't hear their crying as his father took Aro from his arms. Everything faded away.

Everything, that is, except the hard, angry eyes of his surviving brother staring back at him from unstained armor. He opened his mind, allowing his brother's voice in.

"When we find our half cousins-"

Finno cut him off. "I will see that they answer for this, and all other deaths in their wake. Father will deal with Fëanáro, and I will deal with our cousins."