The Sinda removed his muddy glove, rough hand scanning the crudely drawn map laid out between the brothers. Their youngest, the last surviving twin who now went only by Amras, had knocked it together himself. He had taken to disappearing for long periods of time, exploring the land, and making friends with the natives. He was the only one of the Fëanorians that was truly accepted by the Sindar and other elves of Endor.

"Here. This is where their fires were last seen," Celonion said definitively, tapping a patch of wood not far from the lake.

Caranthir hissed through his teeth, drumming his fingers on the table with his unharnessed, natural energy. "Only a few leagues."

"They will be at your doorstep by nightfall, I expect," Celonion surmised.

"Too close for my liking," Caranthir snarled. He turned towards Maglor. "Brother, we cannot wait idly for them. Fingolfin will not have forgotten what happened at Losgar. We must arm ourselves-"

"Thank you for your services," Curufin spoke up with a cold smile for the scout. "You may collect your earnings from the guard outside."

Sensing his dismissal, the Sinda gave a faint smirk that Curufin tried not to let bother him. Thankfully, Caranthir missed the micro-expression entirely. He wouldn't have let it rest until he pulled a blade on the grey elf. The longer the absence of Maedhros, the more uncontrollable Caranthir grew. 

Once their guest had left them alone, Maglor sank into a nearby chair, cradling his forehead in his hand. As the acting head of their family, Maglor appeared more drawn than ever. Maglor was more like Curufin, better at pulling strings in the background than outright leading. Not like Maedhros. 

Besides, their exile had never sat well with Maglor. He had only been married a few years when they'd departed Aman. Though the passion Maglor had felt for his wife in Tirion had fizzled swiftly, their relationship one of comfortable formality, Curufin knew he felt as guilty as the rest of them for leaving their mother. 

"Now what were you blathering on about?" Curufin asked apathetically, satisfied by the rising tension in Caranthir's shoulders at his question.

"I am merely suggesting..." His nostrils flared as he drew a deep breath to appear calm. The red in his face gave him away though. "All I am saying is that we need to be prepared for the worst. I don't want to be caught unawares."

"Like the Teleri were caught unawares?" Maglor morosely surmised, his hand still covering his weary eyes.

Caranthir's tapping on the table started again. "They knew our intentions when father stood before their cowardly king-"

"The Lord Olwë deserves more respect than that." Curufin's voice was bored, but his heart pounded at the mention of the Teleri. "He was our grandfather's dearest friend."

Caranthir snorted. "Great friend indeed. Hiding in his pearly castle, letting others fight the battle for him."

"We got what we wanted out of that situation," Maglor stated firmly. "We got the ships, collected our spoils of war. Now let's be done with it."

"One of us certainly got his spoils of war," Caranthir snidely remarked with a wolfish grin in Curufin's direction.

Spoil of war. Of course, Curufin knew his brother was referring to Luimëníssë. Just as that damnable werewolf had done years earlier before the death of their father. He'd never told a soul what had happened that night on the banks of the Sirion, but the beast's words had gotten to him. 

"Huh, brother? Was she worth the precious blood of great Lord Olwë's people?" Caranthir pressed, seeing he had hit a nerve in his impenetrable younger brother.

Curufin knew he was only goading him on, that Caranthir was a twisted mess of jealousy and pettiness due to their father's disinterest in him. Curufin had received all the love and praise from Fëanor that Caranthir had craved. And he hated him for it. Blood or not.

Which was why Curufin didn't feel guilty about his actions as he pulled out a short knife at his hip and shoved Caranthir against the table, pressing the blade to his throat, his placid face never betraying the rage behind it.

"That's enough, Curvo!" Maglor shouted, tearing him off of Caranthir.

Caranthir lunged towards Curufin. It would have been an even fight. Though all the brothers were tall, Curufin and Caranthir were the smallest of the seven and of similar weight. But Maglor shoved Caranthir across the table with one arm. The ellon skidded backwards over it and tumbled onto the floor on the other side, sending the candle holders over with a crash.

"What in the name of Varda is going on in here?" Celegorm asked, entering the tent with his bow hitched over his shoulder, his brow damp with sweat from being out on the hunt with his men to provide for the camp.

Curufin sheathed the knife and strode from the tent, pushing past his fair haired brother and ignoring the look of dumbfounded confusion on his handsome face.

Let them do what they wanted. He had lost all hope of fulfilling their oath the moment Maedhros went missing. Curufin had begged his eldest brother not to meet with their enemy. It was a trap, he knew even then. But Maedhros could not be dissuaded. It was a matter of honor with him as it always was. The giant, flame haired ellon was only concerned with one thing in this life, his honor. That was how he had been before the oath, the words spoken against Morgoth before the Creator only fueling his drive.

And now Curufin had lost control and threatened another elf for a minor provocation, something he would resent Caranthir for doing. Luimëníssë would always be his wife, but he doubted his ability to revive their marriage if they ever met again. He had accepted it as reality. Perhaps it was best for the both of them. 

For years, he had hoped that she had returned back to Aman and begged forgiveness before the Valar. If only for her sake and her little brother's.

When they received word of Fingolfin's arrival, the high sound of their silver trumpets carried on the wind as the moon rose for the first time over Arda, he had been aghast at the prospect. The idea of his sheltered wife travelling miles over the Grinding Ice in order to join him shamed Curufin beyond solace.

Maglor had offered to travel with him to find the new arrivals and discover if Luimëníssë was among them. Curufin had flat out refused. 

He still wasn't sure if he hoped to see her among them even now. 

"No, no. That angle won't work so close to the lake's edge," Curufin berated the architect over his plans beside the rising structure. "The sod is too soft, I tested it yesterday with a few other ellyn. Whatever is built there will sink and put the rest of the fortification at risk."

The architect wiped his brow, squinting up at the elves on the eastern side. "We'll have to bring it in, swing that section closer..." he peered up as Celegorm joined them. "My lord."

"This looks well," Celegorm commented, scanning the construction. He shot Curufin a wry grin. "No doubt my brother here has been micromanaging the whole endeavor though."

The architect speechlessly looked back down at the plans. Curufin rolled his eyes. 

"Keep me abreast of the situation," Curufin directed the architect as he moved away from them, hoping to leave Celegorm behind.

No such luck.

"So. He finally got to you. He must be proud of himself. How many centuries has Caranthir been trying?" Celegorm spoke, finally catching up to him.

"Is there a point to this conversation or are you just talking to fill the air as usual?"

Celegorm pressed a hand to his chest. "That would have gone straight to my heart if I still had one."

"Charming. Almost original."

Curufin stopped outside their camp's makeshift forge, the familiar clang of metal like a salve to his disturbed soul. 

Yet Celegorm was still there.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Gut a deer perhaps?" He asked dryly.

Celegorm's coy expression faded to seriousness, a look that Curufin never liked to see in his older brother. Celegorm lived tongue in cheek. When he let the curtain fall, there was always a pressing reason that Curufin knew he needed to hear out.

"A moment of time, that's all I want," he asked, his round eyes widening in earnestness.

Curufin crossed his arms over his chest, his stance rigid. "Speak."

"I hear that Fingolfin's people are almost arrived."

"That is correct."

"Maglor said that was the reason for your brawl with Caranthir."

"You really should decide on your point before you start rambling."

"Curvo." Celegorm snapped. "I know that the idea of seeing your wife again is weighing on you. I only hope you don't plan on doing anything rash out of guilt."

"What are you implying, brother?" Curufin's voice dropped low, his patience waning. "After all I have sacrificed with my marriage, do you really believe that I would compromise my honor and abandon you all?"

"Of course not... only.. remember where your loyalties lie. Remember what you swore before all of us, before our father, before the Creator-"

"Have you ever known me to do anything rash?" He demanded coolly, turning to walk into the forge.

"Marrying the Teleri elleth is at the top of that short list," Celegorm groused behind his back before whistling for his giant hound, the two of them kicking up dry dust in the rocky lane running down the middle of the camp.

Curufin took out his frustration on the anvil for the rest of the afternoon, pounding out his trepidation with every swing of his hammer. Finally, spent from his anger, he wiped his face with a rag dipped in water, panting with exertion. He barely registered the blare of horns as the other ellyn working beside him dropped what they were doing.

"Did you hear that, Curvo?" One asked, removing his leather apron. "Could it be our kin?" 

He scoffed. "Who else in this accursed land would announce their presence in such an obnoxious manner?"

"My lord?"

Curufin swung his sharp eyed glare on the unfortunate Noldo. "Yes. Since your dull wits require a verbal confirmation. Yes. It is Fingolfin."

Throwing his apron aside and dunking his head in a barrel of water, he slicked back his jet hair and strode out into the dying light of the afternoon. 

***

Walking behind Fingolfin, Artanis rode one of their reindeer with Itano tucked in front of her. He kicked his legs, batting at the long suffering animal's neck and urging it to go faster. Írissë and Luimëníssë kept up beside them, Itano's mother keeping a firm hand on his thigh.

"See his fire? That little one is all Noldo. No offense, cousin." Írissë grinned, bumping shoulders with Luimëníssë in an attempt to lift her mood.

Luimëníssë laughed for her friend's sake. "You must be looking forward to seeing your cousins. You were close to them in Aman."

Írissë's gaze steeled. She licked her bottom lip and squinted against the sunset, peering towards the top of the hill the caravan was climbing. "Perhaps once. When I was young. I know it hasn't even been a decade since... everything happened. But I feel like I've aged five hundred years."

"What are you planning on doing in this new land?" Luimëníssë asked, hoping she hadn't dug up painful memories for her about the attack on the Teleri.

"Whatever. I. Wish." Írissë spoke, clicking her tongue at the end for emphasis and Luimëníssë believed her. "Have you made a decision yet?"

"Concerning what?"

"You know what..." Artanis added wryly, lifting her eyebrows at Luimëníssë.

Luimëníssë gripped her child's leg a little tighter. "My only concern is my baby's future. If his father wants to be a part of it is up to him, but I'll give him the chance. I have a feeling... I am worried that my son's life will not be easy in our new home. He will need all our support."

"Why do you say that?" Írissë asked, brushing her loose dark hair from her eyes.

Before she was forced produce a vague answer that would doubtlessly lead to more questions, Luimëníssë released a breath as Vantaro came tearing down the line.

"Just over the crest of the hill!" he shouted. "The traitor's camp is just over the hill!"

Ingoldo grabbed Vantaro and quietly berated him, Vantaro glaring poisonously up at him. Luimëníssë was loathe to admit it, but Vantaro was only voicing what the majority of the company felt. There were some among them that carried their hatred with relish, like Turukáno who still deeply grieved his wife lost in the ice the day Itano was born. Doubtlessly, he would mourn her for the rest of his existence, his pain fueling his anger.

As they reached the top of the hill, they were met by a majestic sight. Lake Mithrim glittered golden under the dying light of day, hemmed by snow capped mountains and pine forests. They faced the northern edge. On the shore was a smattering of stone structures interspersed with tents, all hemmed by a ring of wooden fencing with guard towers at each corner. A small city of displaced Noldor. One thing could be said of the Fëanorians, they certainly were industrious.

"Let's see how brother meets brother now," Írissë commented under her breath to Luimëníssë. "I wonder what Fëanor has to say to my father now after leagues of ice and death."

But Luimëníssë knew as they approached the gathering group of Fëanorians at the gates of their encampment that something had changed. She didn't see the same group of ellyn that had entered her grandfather's meeting room back in Alqualondë. Their stride was cautious, their faces smudged and browned by the sun, some limped or were stooped in the back. This new land was taxing them in a way they'd never experienced in Aman, so far from the strength renewing presence of the Valar. 

She could only imagine how they must appear to them, gaunt and road weary, sickened by years of ice.

"Makalaurë! Nephew," Fingolfin called as they drew closer.

Luimëníssë scanned the lead cluster. Her father-in-law was nowhere in sight. Neither was his eldest son, the handsome Maitimo. They halted. Fingolfin held up a hand, stopping his own company. 

Seeing her brother's murderer once more was like reliving the moment all over again. She saw the burning ship, her lover twisting to smoke, her brother being disemboweled by the monster standing before them. Her chin trembled, but she managed to hold her head high.

"Where is my brother?" Fingolfin sounded wary, a hand resting against the reindeer next to him.

Makalaurë's eyes fell to the grass. "He fell in battle soon after we arrived."

Fingolfin blinked in shock. "His body?"

Makalaurë shook his head. A wave of wonderment passed through the crowd. Though none of them actually had ever liked him, the death of Fëanor seemed impossible. His fëa had been like a raging tempest, so strong it seemed it could go on forever. This changed everything. Not only for all the Noldor in Diaspora, but for Luimëníssë and her husband. 

"And your eldest brother?" Fingolfin asked.

"He has been captured by the enemy, my lord. We have searched for him, but he has been missing for four years."

Fingolfin heaved a sigh. "This is all grave news."

"I fear that is all we bear. Angband is much stronger and it's master crueler than we ever could have imagined."

"But our enemy will not conquer us. As long as we..." Fingolfin cleared his throat, his volume rising. "Band together."

Despite the chilly response to his suggestion from the crowd, Luimëníssë noted that Makalaurë's tense jaw relaxed, his eyes softening in relief. Clearly, he had not enjoyed his time as patriarch of the family.

Luimëníssë recognized the ellon with the long, dark blond curls beside Makalaurë, his raiment that of a hunter. He was the brother that Curvo had spoken to that night on the beach before they were parted. One other brother stood to the side, the one with the smug expression with one arm locked to his side, the other hand placed obviously on the hilt of his sword. Out from behind him, there was movement, bodies shifting.

Curvo stepped forward, his gaze cemented on her.

Luimëníssë's breath caught in her throat. Curvo wore the same look he'd had when she had emerged from the lake after washing her mother's blood from her skin. Awe burned in his dark eyes, ignited in a moment's glance and unwavering.

His hair was still short. Slicked back wet, it exposed the harsh planes of his dramatic face. Exile had turned his handsome countenance even harder, all except for his sensual mouth. His was a menacing face, though still elegant in the tradition of his people. 

"Well, we have traveled far. Lost many on our way. But now, we must move forward from past hurts. Ah, my nephew. Atarinkë. Come." Fingolfin waved a hand to Curvo, passing Luimëníssë a quiet smile over his shoulder. "There is someone you should see."

Curvo's first strides towards her were strong, but he slowed as Luimëníssë reached up towards Artanis who passed over Itano. He stopped hard, his head cocking to the side, mouth drawing tight and eyes narrowing at her in a silent question.

Fingolfin pushed the reluctant Luimëníssë forward. "Nephew. Allow me to present your first born son."