Findekano surveys his reflection on the mirror. A very familiar face looks back at him – not thoroughly recognizable because of the fracturing scar that traverses the said face diagonally, akin to a river with silver water, crossing the landscape of his face, beginning from the right temple, cutting across his right eye, then across his nose, his left cheek, then all the way toward his left jaw. The exact place where this scar cuts his eyebrow is a barren piece of skin; no hair has regrown there, and nothing will, ever. The eye itself, which had been gray-blue, is milky-white, not completely blind, but not restored with perfect vision either. It can still see, but for shadows – and when he had first come out of the Halls of the Awaiting, Anaire his Amil had been rightly distressed, and even petitioned to the Valar sitting at Mahanaxar to ‘put him back to rights, as someone healed should not look damaged’. But Namo never took Findekano back into the halls for a ‘repair’, considering he is no tool, nor broken ornament.
And anyway, Findek– Fingon would not have chosen an undamaged hroa other than this one. Why his Amil would like him back untouched and smooth he does not understand.
He finishes dressing. These days he does not braid his hair into its age-old familiar plaits twined with gold; instead he lets loose all the gorgeous and thick curls of his black hair, to hang until his bottom, unbound. It lets him disappear into a crowd easier, this new way of presenting himself to the public. If his scarred face does not otherwise deter the rudely curious, then by looking like a generic Noldo or Sinda, he can make a quick escape to avoid unwanted questions and prying.
Fingon sets out from his house (his house, his old one, he had returned to as soon as his hroa stabilized; as soon as he could feed and bathe himself and not rely on his mother and the scores of attendants she hired for him), smoothing down his tunic. These days he has forsaken the blue and silver he had been known for before the Exile, at Beleriand. Colors of his father’s house. These days he wears soft browns, dark grays, whites. Something different.
He turns now to the path toward the royal palace in Tirion, and for a moment he pauses on the street to admire the beacon of Mindon Eldalieva. He wonders if the builders are anywhere near finishing the house he has commissioned for himself, away from Tirion – because like countless others Re-embodied like him, Fingon felt it wrong to be returning to Tirion, and be expected to pick up the threads of an old life. He cannot do that. Who can do that, in the first place? Not him.
Ingoldo, who had Re-embodied first among all the exiled Noldor, could not do it. Fingon resumes walking and he pauses again just before the palace, where the ruins of a statue are left, and nothing remains of it except the legs. It is the only eyesore in Tirion – the only destroyed sculpture there. It had been Ingoldo’s statue, standing proud and unmarred, extending his hand in victory, his blank face looking ahead. Fingon had only heard the stories, but what he knew was this: Ingoldo had hated that statue, and took a sledgehammer to it, bashing it down, destroying it, and the citizens of Tirion could only look on in horror and pity, thinking their crown prince had gone mad.
After that, Ingoldo left Tirion, and nobody knew where he went.
Fingon walks onward, thinking vaguely: but who can blame Ingoldo?
==
Council is not the same. The people who sit by the king’s table these days are lords and ladies of the Noldor who are Arafinwe’s people; many of them never left Aman. Fingon is unsure why he is invited to sit in these sessions; he was only king in Beleriand, and upon Re-embodiment, his title was forfeit. Yet he still comes, because Arafinwe looks to him to help in matters of accommodation: how to welcome the returning Noldor, Re-embodied or Returned or, in the very rare cases, Reborn. Fingon could only offer so much help; and even then mostly pertaining to his host, which remained with him to the end. He cannot answer for the Nargothrondrim, or the Gondolindrim – and Eru forbid, the Feanorian people.
He sits at the far end of the table, Fingon. He is silent during these sessions, only taking down personal notes, content to listen. The lords and ladies have adjusted to his presence, though many still shoot him looks – looks which they think he cannot sense, nor perceive. There is always a varying degree of pity in their glances; if not pity, then shock, then horror.
He knows what they think of him: not healed enough; a terrible death; not healed enough, why was he let out? Are we going to expect more like him?
They had their answer a few years prior, where more Eldar were released from Mandos: many were allowed to Re-embody with scars and injuries intact. But there were the very few who were returned flawless, as was in Maedhros’s case – he stumbled out of Mandos unscarred, with both hands, and his skin was smooth and untouched. Aikanar, Aegnor– Egg – had returned in pretty much the same way. No scars. Smooth. Unmarred and perfect. Angrod has returned like that as well. On the contrary, Curufin, Celegorm and Caranthir – they all retained their scars. Curufin had a dark necklace of scar tissue around his neck: a decapitation. Celegorm had many starburst scars of arrows, and two gruesome explosions of scar tissue on his back and across his gut. Caranthir had a big, diagonal scar down his back, and a bald, scarred patch near his nape, which could be concealed by his long hair, but it was there, and on that patch of scar tissue, no hair will ever regrow again.
No questions were posed onto Fingon today. Council ends, and the lords and ladies pile out, and he remains seated, completing his notes. He supposes Ingoldo– Finrod, was supposed to be the one to do this, to answer for the needs of the returning exiles, but Finrod had long absconded, escaped Tirion. Fingon knew for a fact that Arafinwe tried and tried, but whatever royal summon Tirion sent never reached its intended recipient, or else Finrod threw them straight into the fire, never bothering to read the contents.
==
Entulesse is the unofficial name that town by the foot of the Pelori has been given, both by its inhabitants and the elves that never left Aman. At first a hamlet that sprung up like a mushroom in the wild, it blossomed into a village, then a hamlet, then a town as more were Re-embodied and sailed back. The inhabitants were mostly Noldor, as the greater population of the Sindar chose to reside in Eressea, though a handful dared to sail into Valinor completely and then eventually found their way to Entulesse.
Fingon finds Finrod by the market, his pretty nose crumpled as he inspects some bushels of apples. He stands beside his cousin and picks up an apple with a gloved hand, making Finrod exclaim a surprised Ai! Which was followed by a laugh, and a hug. Fingon returns that hug, squeezing the golden-radiant elf. His extremities are not scarred, Finrod. But Fingon knew he was lucky; his scars could be hidden by clothing.
After Finrod’s business in town is tended to, they return to his homestead together. Maedhros is already there, feeding some ducks and chickens. He straightens up, and under the daylight, his red hair glints like a thousand rubies.
“Look what I found at Entelusse!” Finrod beams as they get down from his wagon. “A lost Finno!”
“Where is the usual companion? Where is Egg?” Maedhros asks with a smile as he sets aside his emptied bucket of feed.
“Egg went to Eressea,” Fingon replies as he approaches his cousin and hugs him briefly. “He will not be back until next season I think.”
“And he let you leave him? Impossible.”
“Contrary to common belief, we do things in separate ways now and then.”
==
Supper was lovely. Mulled wine was served, and the fire at Finrod’s hearth was warm and welcoming. At some point, peering into it, Fingon confirms that the royal summons from Tirion are tossed straight into it– there were still there the remnants of the tie used by the King – the same small, thin rope Finwe used, long ago – smoldering by the log. He says nothing of it.
After supper, and amid cups of wine, they play a card game learned in Beleriand. Finrod floors him and Maedhros each time, such that there comes a point where Fingon exclaims, “What are you, a Balrog?!” to which Finrod only laughs and laughs.
==
The three of them eventually join a few of the ornery goats at Finrod’s rooftop. They are all tipsy, and Fingon feels warm in the cheeks as they pass the bottle of wine between themselves, taking a sip each. The great billy goat is resting by the biggest chimney and Maedhros is using it as a pillow. For once, the menace of an animal is cooperative and tolerating Maedhros.
As the hours pass and as they watch, sunrise slowly unfurls from the east, bathing the world first in purple, then lavender, then pink, then rose – then everywhere, gold, gold, gold.
Fingon closes his eyes against the gentle light, and he both wants to smile and weep at the same time.
“I think we should sail,” comes Finrod’s voice. “Who’s with me?”
“Sail where?” Fingon asks, opening his eyes.
“Sail back east, of course,” Finrod says, and he sits there, all golden-radiant, hugging his knees, and his gaze shifts from Maedhros to Fingon. “Oh come now, do not tell me you will both remain here until Dagor Dagorath? Let us sail -- and be the first Eldar to return to Cuivienen, or make it all the way to the Gates of Morning!”
“And how do you suppose we will find the Straight Road back to the east?” Maedhros laughs, but he is sitting back up now, unaware the billy goat is sniffing at the ends of his red hair.
“Come now, Nelyo. It’s us three. Nothing is impossible,” Finrod grins.
“I should tell Egg,” says Fingon. “He’ll go with us.”
“Put him to use,” says Maedhros. “Tell him to look for a nice coastal place where we can build and provision a boat undisturbed and undiscovered.”
The three of them exchange mischievous looks. Fingon feels his blood slowly start to warm, then run hot, and excitement courses through him again, spurred on by the promise of a proper return.
