fadesintothewest

The Fëanorians find that their kin who crossed the Ice have been utterly changed. Fingon is utterly changed. All of them are.

This Fingon-centric story is an exploration of Fingolfin's host and the impact of the Grinding Ice on who they became as a people once they arrived to MIddle Earth. They are often portrayed as not being changed much by the Helcaraxë. This story presents a different interpretation, exploring the darker edges of elven psyche. In attempt to reconcile some gaps between canon and the length of time it takes Fingon to go out and rescue Maedhros this story explores why that time elapsed. Get ready for a not so nice Fingon, hardened by the many losses of his People and the betrayal Maedhros.

This story will be updated on a monthly basis and will not be too many chapters
 

Chapter 2: Is your heart together now?

Is your heart together now? The words his niece had asked upon their return to the encampment from the meeting with Fëanáro’s sons filled Findekáno with sorrow and anger. Is your heart together now? Such an innocent question, but Itarillë was not innocent. She was a child that had lost too much and yet she always worried about others, about those that cared for her, held her to their hearts to keep the cold at bay and keep her heart together. But her heart had broken. Shattered and somehow she managed to put her heart together, over and over. Perhaps it was made possible by the little pieces of themselves that her family gave her every time she experienced loss. She was a child of the ice and the new Journey. She was not made in the image of Aman. She would be what the Noldor would become: resilient, born from a brokenness that would make her a survivor. And what of him, what of Findekáno? Is your heart together now? The words haunted him. Findekáno felt his stomach turn in knots from hunger and anger. He felt that icy bitterness claim him for well he knew that Itarillë deserved a gentleness from him, deserved his smiles, the dance of light in his eyes that would make her coo when she was a baby curiously watching Findekáno’s face contort with happiness.

 Findekáno allowed his breath to mingle with the gentle breeze in a way that conjured the Green magic of Endórë. It did not bring him joy. Not yet. It was a mere utility for him.  It had only been but a few days after their return with their meeting with Fëanáro’s sons and disgust refused to leave the pit of his stomach. He wanted to take his knife to Makalaurë’s throat and run it across the delicate skin, allowing the blood to spill, warm his hands and drain the wretched life out of him. Findekáno remembered how the warm blood of ice creatures could warm their hands in that icy hell, like a soothing balm. Though the blood was spilled it was jealously collected to make a hearty broth that sustained, a rare treat. From the blood of the dying came life.