Angst and ickiness
Oct. 18th, 2005 01:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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silwritersguildI've had a chance to edit this while lurking under my rock. It was meant to be a 1000 word thing. Yeah, right. I blame [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] for this entirely when she said, "I'd really like to read about..." *cough*
Title: The Journey Back (I ran out of imagination when it came to the title)
Author: Mirien
Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon
Rating: NC-17 (for graphic amputation and injury)
Disclaimer: If you're brave (or bored) enough...
Summary: Maedhros wants to die, Fingon won't let him.
Author notes: Not beta'd (yet) so any mistakes are my own.
This is actually for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s VERY belated birthday present (who made me go all mushy because she liked it!) and is cross-posted from my LJ.
“…But Fingon could not release the hell-wrought bond upon his wrist, nor sever it, nor draw it from the stone. Again therefore in his pain Maedhros begged that he would slay him; but Fingon cut off his hand above the wrist, and Thorondor bore them back to Mithrim.”
The Silmarillion
The sound bone makes when it is cut is not a sound that is ever forgotten. It is not a scrape, or a sharp crack, but a dull, brittle sound, a sound like nails on rock, broken and bleeding. It is a very final sound.
When I cut my cousin’s hand off at the wrist, he tried not to cry out. I saw the resolve in his eyes, stoic Maedhros, untouchable Maedhros. Yet in the end, he screamed anyway, then sobbed, childlike in his agony, tears making clean streaks through the dirt and blood on his face, pride, self-possession, dignity, all washed away in the warm crimson soaking us both.
I laid the knife along his wrist and he held my eyes for a long moment, both of us caught and held by too much unsaid. Then he made a soft sound, of loss and resignation both, and turned his head away. I saw the fingers of his bound hand flex involuntarily, as if in final protest, but otherwise he did not move or speak. Until I began to cut, and then not even he could stand it. Fëanor’s eldest, some say the finest swordsman the Noldor possess, screamed his agony, the fingers of his sword hand, already wasted and little more than bone, stiffening, already cooling, set in a position in which they would remain without blood or warmth to move them.
My own fingers were slippery with his blood, my vision blurring with my own tears. I panted with effort and revulsion, the knife slipping in my hand, forcing me to pin him to the rock with my own body and use both hands at last. The world narrowed to the iron tang of blood and Maedhros’ screams. I whispered to him, to myself, words I can barely remember now; that it would be over soon, that this was the only way, words that meant nothing except as a distraction from the horror of it. When his voice broke, he shuddered, groaning and coughing, his other hand clenched, drawn in to his chest as the pain tore through us both. His eyes were closed, his mouth open as he fought for breath, skin bleached of all colour so that the bruises stood out all the more cruelly. He had bitten through his lip, and I felt his blood smear across my neck where he leaned into me, begging quietly, voice like shattered glass, for me to hurry. At last, by some unlooked for mercy, he went limp.
He was still unconscious, mercifully so, when at last the sinew parted and I cut him free. I gritted my teeth, almost blinded by sweat and tears, and drew the knife through it, light headed and nauseous and shaking so badly I almost overbalanced, sending us both to our deaths. It was almost a surprise when at last he was free and all his weight fell into my arms. I had to scramble to hold him, grace forgotten, my balance awkward with his dead weight on the narrow ledge whose razor sharp rocks cut into my boots; no doubt made so that Maedhros with bare feet, could not stand on it. A small cruelty, among so many others, but it hit me like a blow to the stomach and for a moment I thought my nausea would overwhelm me once more so that I stood, eyes closed, the wind whipping our hair around us, trying not to vomit. When it subsided, I swiftly tore a strip from my cloak and with unsteady hands, wrapped it around the bloodied mess of his wrist. I could not halt the bleeding, only slow it a little and the makeshift bandage was soon saturated with it so that is soaked then into my tunic and shirt, obscenely warm, its stickiness making my skin crawl.
Thorondor had hovered close while I cut Maedhros free, great wings beating steadily as he fought the fell currents that swirled around Thangorodrim. I stepped from the tiny ledge I had balanced on, moving carefully, sliding one leg over the soft, slick feathers, fearful of dropping Maedhros. His head fell back over my arm, his glorious hair, matted and dull and covered with unnamed filth. I did not look at him fully yet though, not until we were settled, delaying the moment when I would be forced to. Thorondor shrieked, compensating for our combined weight, then he banked sharply away from the sheer face of the rock.
The ground tilted at a dizzying angle and in that moment, I thought we were lost, but Thorondor’s muscles flexed beneath us and he held us safe, though my legs kept a death grip on him, the which he forbore to comment on. As we turned, carried away from that accused place, I looked back at the rock face, revolted yet compelled to look at what I had wrought and Maitimo had allowed.
But my cousin’s lost right hand was not a thing of blood and gore; severed from his fëa it was already insubstantial, and it glowed with an odd light, as though the last light of Aman was caught and held in it. The light flared briefly, then Maedhros moved in my arms and I was forced to look away and shift to accommodate his wakening.
He opened bruised eyes, trying to focus, frowning as though the light pained him. The dark smudges under them made his skin seem pale, almost translucent. I drew my cloak tighter around him, trying to warm him with my body as he shivered uncontrollably with shock and blood loss. Reflexively, he raised his right arm, reaching to touch my face and before I could prevent myself, I drew my head back, away from the bloodied mess. Up close, it was little short of butchery, no matter that the dagger, one his own father had wrought and gifted to me, had been razor sharp. His eyes flickered to his wrist at my reaction, then widened. His mouth opened, but he made no sound and then his gaze turned once more to mine, sickened, and, I realised, fearful. I had never seen Maedhros afraid and I winced away from it. He tried again to speak, only succeeded in making a noise that was part strangled sob, partly a husky, ruined whisper of my name. He closed his eyes again, and a tremor ran through him, “You should have killed me.”
I looked on him, set his arm around my neck, anything to slow the terrible bleeding. Leaning close, I kissed his brow, “I could no more have killed you than myself, Maitimo.”
Without my intending it, I kissed him then, my lips touching the dry, cracked skin of his. I bathed the place where he had bitten through his lip with my tongue, gently taking his mouth with mine, sharing the breath I had not known since we parted in Aman, breath I thought never to taste again when the frigid air of the Helcaraxë burned my lungs and the deadlier cold of his desertion froze my spirit. But that coldness was banished now with the heat of Maedhros’ breath and fëa, though the ice of his betrayal refused to thaw. He gasped, perhaps guessing my thoughts, then he was kissing me back, his arm tight around my neck, heedless for that moment of the pain. We held on to each other, instinct stronger than thought or the past.
The kiss was an awkward thing, his lips, dry and thin, splitting and bleeding beneath the desperation of it, until both of us tasted blood. His weakness made him shake and he could not lift his head, but we did not part until at last I reluctantly lifted my head, burying my face in his filthy hair that yet held his scent beneath the stench of Angband. He clung to me, trembling with weakness and reaction.
We were quiet for a while, then he stirred and moaned, twisting. I felt him shudder and he vomited then, nothing but thin liquid, curling in on himself, retching at his own mutilation, perhaps even at the sweetness we had shared, after such evil as he had endured. His sobs were raw and wrenching and I wanted to weep with him, my own stomach lurching. He twisted again, struggling in my arms.
“Maitimo, be still!” The brief peace of our kiss gone, my own voice, angry and frustrated, shocked me as it wavered on the edge of control. Anger at whom? At him? At this skeletal, bloodied, broken mess in my arms? But he was still Maedhros and his strength, mental and physical was formidable. He struggled again and I freed an arm from the tangle of my cloak around us to take his chin in shaking, slippery fingers, snarling at him, close to weeping and furious.
“Nelyafinwë, if you yet have any love of life, be still! You will kill us both.”
His eyes, shadowed and haunted, opened again. They held knowledge of horror I could not imagine, yet. Even then I still held the hope I had been born to. The thick lashes were spiky with tears and years of grit and dust, the grey depths I had once lost myself in red rimmed and glazed. I looked at him then and saw little of my cousin in those eyes, they were filled with something no longer sane, and with a fury so profound it shook me to the depths of my fëa. He moved his arm again, reaching, crying out, then he went still. A sudden calm was in his eyes, and I caught my breath, realising what he already knew, that he was rapidly bleeding to death.
Cradling him in one arm, I struggled to find something with which to fashion a tourniquet, my fingers encountering at last supple leather. Fumbling for the buckle, I tugged it free. Something shifted, a weight moved on my back, then fell away. I did not look round to see what had fallen, knowing it was my beloved harp that shattered on the rocks far below us, concentrating only on making my fingers obey my will. Twice I tried to fasten the strap around Maedhros’ arm as he lay passive, twice the leather, slick with the blood that now covered us both, slipped through my uncooperative fingers. I cursed viciously, words I had heard Fëanor use, and Maedhros’ lips quirked, softening slightly from their tight agony. I felt his hand on my cheek, fingers catching my angry tears, “Findekáno…”
I turned my head aside. “You will not die, however much you may wish to, damn you, Maitimo.” I could not speak more for to release my own anger would be to cross a line that once crossed may prove impossible to erase. I got the tourniquet on, pulled it tight, less than gently. Maedhros cried out and lost consciousness once more. I held him to me, and let the tears dry on my face, whipped away by the icy wind.
My cousin lay in my arms, pale and still as death and but for the faint pulse at his throat, he seemed dead indeed. But in the body I held there burned a steady fire that was the heart and spirit of Maedhros. The filthy, starved Elf I held was far from dead, though his ordeal would have killed most even of the Noldor, strong in body and will as we were. It seemed to me then that the fire that kept Maedhros from death was of Fëanor, passed to his sons, and none more strongly than his eldest born. I shivered then, as though Fëanor’s blood and not Maedhros’ covered us. It seemed to burn, and for a moment, I fancied it smoked in the freezing air around us. But no, the blood was not Fëanor’s but Maedhros’ and carried him, not his father, in its warmth.
I felt Thorondor turn again, and looked up in time to see the last of the peaks at the edge of the foul land below us fall behind us. Before lay green among the dust and rock, life emerging from the barren darkness of Dor Daedeloth. In the far distance, at the edge of even Elvish sight, more than a day away even in flight, lay the peaks of Eastern Ered Withrin. Beyond, out of my sight, Lake Mithrim lay deep and cool in the softening grey light, but it would be many hours yet, before the Eagle lord passed over the Eithel Sirion and the peaks which separated the lands beyond from the green of Ard-galen. The land over which we now flew was tainted by the evil smokes and outpourings from Angband, but it was fair still and I lifted my face to the clear cold air, Maedhros held close and tight in my arms.
Even in his swoon, Maedhros shivered, twitching, as though the muscles reacted to the release of strain upon them. He tried constantly to curl up, soft sounds and now and again, harsh cries wrung from him as we flew on. Three times more he woke, retching helplessly, nothing left in him to empty except the water I tried to get him to drink. At last, I stopped trying, fearing the violent reaction of his body to the cool, clear liquid. I wondered how they had sustained him on the rock face, then knew that I did not wish to know, not yet, perhaps never.
Soon after, a fever took hold of him, a reaction to blood loss and his weakness. It was a rare thing for one of our kind, and I watched him, powerless, as he alternately sweated and shivered in my arms. Every so often, I loosened the tourniquet, lest he lose the rest of the arm to lack of blood and whenever I did, the wound bled over us in a warm flood, his blood soaking my back where I held his arm around my neck. He was lucid less and less, whimpering like a child, crying out in fear and pain, at times recognising me, at others, fighting me as though I were a creature of Angband itself that had him in its grip, his eyes wild, body tensing as he sought to escape me. Several times, Thorondor was forced to land when his struggles became violent, threatening to pitch us both to the ground far below, and I knelt in that vast land with my lover in my arms, speaking to him, letting my voice become a steady stream of reassurance to calm him and bring him back to me. Once, I hit him, open handed and hard, as he tried to strangle me, eyes wild, grip relentless, prying his fingers from my throat. His bloodied wrist caught me against the side of the head as he tried to use fingers that were no longer there and the searing pain shocked him enough that his eyes flew open and he turned away from me, too weak to move more than his head, self disgust in his eyes. I set him down gently, panting, wiping the blood from my hair and face with shaking hands, stumbling away from him. We had never known fear, we had had no reason to, but it surrounded us now, tainting the very air we breathed. I looked across the plain, willing the mountains closer, struggling to bring my mind under my control.
“Findekáno.” He had struggled up to his left side, was trying to rise. I ran back to him, taking his weight. He made a soft sound of frustration and disgust as he fell back into my arms, muscles too weak to even sit up.
“Ssssh, Maitimo, rest. We must go on soon.”
“No.” His eyes were clear, unnaturally bright, his will forcing the fever aside for these few moments, “There is…something I need…to tell you.” His breathing was laboured again, his lips flecked with blood a deeper colour than that of split skin so that a new horror began to dawn on me, that the bruises over his ribs hid more damage than I had realised. If it were so, then I could only guess at what had kept him alive. I tried to hush him, fearing he would do himself more damage, but his eyes blazed and I fell silent. Whatever it was that could overcome weakness and his terrible wounds with its urgency, it was important enough for my silence.
He lay in the deep grass and looked up at me, searching for the strength to speak, to tell me what it was that compelled him. I bent close to hear the cracked voice, scraped raw with screaming and exposure, “I did not...” he gasped, tensed as a wave of pain hit him. Gently, I wiped his mouth, stomach and heart twisting within me as he tried again.
“I did not leave you…willingly, Findekáno. I would have sent the…ships for you…I would have…sent them.” He looked up at me, and in his eyes was a pleading I had never known in him. I recoiled from it, for in it, I saw that he knew death was more likely than life and needed me to know the truth of his words.
I took his hand, holding it between us as I nodded. Within me, though I still bled from the wound he had dealt me, the cold thawed and my heart beat again. He had not turned his back on our love nor forgotten it. Seeing that I believed him, Maedhros sighed, the tension leaving him. He closed his eyes and rested his head against my shoulder as, cursing Fëanor silently, I lifted him and walked back to Thorondor.
For the rest of that terrible journey Maedhros lay half in a dream or a nightmare, limbs restless, a fine trembling wracking his body, opening the myriad cuts and abrasions on his body until they bled also. His eyes were closed, the lids fluttering, his pulse, which I checked for reassurance often, a faint beat in his throat. His feet were bent, and one looked as though it had been deliberately crushed so that I could see it would be months before he would be able to put any weight on it, even if the wasted muscles in his legs were strong enough. His ankles were swollen, and one was broken, the muscles in calves and thighs almost gone. Looking at him, could see that his collarbone was broken in at least two places, the shoulder on his right side dislocated and swollen badly. Bruises darkened his skin over at least half of his body, along with cuts, shallow and deep, some recent and from their discolour and the foul odour that emanated from them, likely poisoned as well. By far the worst injury, aside from the one I had inflicted, was the lung I now was certain was pierced by a rib, doubtless broken during one of the times they had tormented him, perhaps even in the last few hours, perhaps even as I sought him. There were doubtless more injuries, but those were the ones I could see. He was so thin I could feel all his ribs beneath my fingers and his hip bones were sharp when I gently swept ran my hand over his body, checking for further hurts. He should be dead, he wanted to be dead, and it defied logic that he was not until I began to suspect they had deliberately kept him alive, keeping him on the edge of agony, healing him enough to hold him to life, never allowing him the rest of Námo’s Halls. In that, his own stubborn will had confounded him, it was not in Maedhros' nature to give in, and certainly not to such a foe as death. And yet, despite it all, despite the broken and dirt streaked body, the filthy hair and the stench of Angband, he was still beautiful, the fire of his hair dulled but not extinguished beneath its layer of dirt, his skin still flawless beneath the bruises and above all, the light of Aman still glowed faintly from him, though now it only served to highlight his pallor and the terrible injuries.
I did what I could, holding him close, bathing his mouth, cleaning what I could of the filth off him, singing to him, talking to him, holding him to me through sheer force of will. I spoke of our youth, of happier times, of our first kiss at the mingling of the lights in his father’s garden, and the first time we lay together, breathless with discovery and incandescent with love, believing in our innocence and naiveté that what he had found would last forever. At last, when my throat closed with the urge to weep I simply buried my face in his hair once more and closed my own eyes.
I must have drifted into waking dreams, dreams in which Maedhros was whole and healed. I woke to the sound of him coughing, a harsh dry sound that grated on my raw nerves. As I wiped the trickle of blood which ran from his mouth Thorondor cried in the tongue of the Eagles that we approached Mithrim. With fierce hope, I raised my eyes and my heart leapt at the gleam of sun on water.
Below us, Eithel Sirion glittered and I looked down into Maedhros’ ravaged face, holding him to me and to life as we began our descent, sweeping down in great circles to the shores of the lake. Elves werelooking up, but we were yet too far away to make out their shouts, or to recognise individuals. Thorondor was taking us to the Southern shore, to the camp of the Fëanorians.
At this height, I could see in the distance my father’s camp on the other side of the lake, and I looked on it, wondering what he would have to say of this rescue of a nephew he considered faithless at best and a traitor at worst. I tore my gaze away from the sight and my mind from the thoughts, looking below once more.
Closer now, I could make out individual Elves. The camp was like a disturbed ants nest, Elves running to the low hill Thorondor circled in his slow descent. Bright banners fluttered in the breeze above tents which had achieved a look of permanency now. The grass seemed very green, the tents white or brightly coloured, according to their owner. Outside one, close to the summit of the low hill, a tall figure stood, slightly apart from the others, dark cloak snapping in the breeze and I knew Maglor’s eyes were riveted on us, searching, desperately hoping. He did not move with the others to the place where Thorondor would land and I wondered why, until I saw who stayed him, angrily gesturing, hand on my cousin’s arm. Maglor’s body was rigid, and I who knew him well read the fury it betrayed, though now I could see his face, he smiled slightly at me, voice low and intent as he replied to my father’s words without turning his head, a dismissive gesture of his hand ending the conversation.
The banner of Fingolfin stood high in the breeze, warriors of his household standing warily around it, ill at ease in this place, their hands resting on their sword hilts. Celegorm watched them, ignoring us for the moment, an unpleasant expression on his face, Curufin with him. The Ambarussa were standing on the hill, looking up at us as we came in to land, fear and worry in their eyes. I could not see Caranthir.
Thorondor’s talons touched the ground and he landed as gently as a feather coming to rest, careful not to jar Maedhros. Despite my distraction, I laid a grateful hand on the sleek feathers and murmured my thanks before we were surrounded by Elves. Thorondor turned a bright eye on us and bowed his head, extending a wing to assist those who reached up to us with eager hands to receive their High King.
But I held Maedhros to me, looking out across the crowd for Maglor. I would not relinquish my burden to any but him, the only one who loved Maedhros as much as I. I saw the dark head emerge from the mass of Elves. He did not raise his voice, but the crowd parted respectfully, despite its agitation, to let him, his brothers and my father pass. My father stared at me, angry and worried, but I did not yet look at him, watching as Maglor came to stand by Thorondor’s wing.
He did not speak, only lifted his arms to us. Our eyes met and in his I could see an agony to match my own, deeper even. He had been compelled to remain here, Maedhros had forced him to that oath no matter what befell and I could see in Maglor’s eyes what that had cost him. For love of his brother, for their people, to keep the Fëanorians from likely conflict with their kin, he had stayed, the only one who could hold them, the one who had been born to bind others to his will with his voice and his music and the quiet ruthlessness he rarely displayed. Maglor was a bard and a poet, but he was also a warrior and a prince and none among his brothers would gainsay him and so, none of the host. They feared him, in a way that they did not even fear Maedhros; Maglor’s power was unknown and not even his kin could tell what lay behind his eyes, or what persuasion was in his tongue, unless he wished it. He cared nothing for rumour or for the opinions of others, he cared for little at all, now. But in his eyes, behind the veil most could not penetrate, agony and anger warred with guilt, relief and his continued fear for his brother.
I leaned down, not letting go my burden go until Maglor held him securely, as though Maedhros might shatter in his arms. My cousin’s face was shuttered now, and I knew he was aware of none but his brother, hearing nothing of the noise which rose in a tide around him, as Elves cried out loudly in distress and fear as they saw Maedhros’ terrible injuries and then his bleeding wrist. He stood, motionless, as I slipped from Thorondor’s back and I saw his jaw tighten, the shock at how little his brother weighed go through him before he concealed it with long practice. He raised his eyes as I landed and for a brief instant, I saw what he would later speak of in the depths of the night as Maedhros tossed in pain-filled dreams between us. But then he was once more the prince and leader of his people that he had been forced to be in his brother’s absence, emotions walled behind an impassive mask that did not come naturally to him. He turned on his heel, at least three healer’s already examining Maedhros as he carried his unconscious brother to their enclosure. The healers were sending urgent calls to assistants, so that Elves ran in all directions through the camp to fetch what would be needed. I followed, feeling oddly out of place and self-conscious, now that questions clamoured in my ears.
Rescue came from an unexpected source. Celegorm raised his hands with a look that commanded, and got, silence. I caught his eyes and we stared at each other; there was no love between us except for Maedhros. His help was merely his acknowledgement of what I had done and no more. I turned to follow my lover and his brother, leaving Celegorm to deal with the upset crowd.
But there was little to deal with. The silence now was for more reason that Celegorm’s silent order, as Elves realised or had it relayed to them how bad Maedhros’ injuries were. I glanced at my father and even he looked shocked, his face pale and I heard him whisper, “Eru, be merciful now.” He looked at me and his eyes widened still further.
I could smell and feel Maedhros’ blood on my clothes and in my hair, stiffening them, but I did not look away, forcing him to accept, to admit that I had done what needed to be done. Even before the oath and the tragedy which followed, he had not approved of us; after, he had tried to forbid my lover to me. Now it was a subject we did not discuss. He did not wish to force a choice on me, for he knew whom I would choose. When the ships had burned and we had realised our straits, he had turned to me and I had silently dared him to speak, until at last he turned away from me, wordless.
Now his expression softened and he laid a hand on my shoulder, so that I knew his great love for me had not waned, despite my choice. He did not protest as I followed Maglor, nor did he object when I refused to leave the small tent where Maedhros was being tended. Instead he sat me down on a stool and with his own hands, bathed the blood from my face and hair then, without comment, from my lips. He spoke to me softly, checking me for injuries, but I did not hear, watching as they tended to Maedhros. Maglor stood close by, holding his brother’s hand, the knuckles white, but otherwise he stood quietly, missing nothing of what was done.
Of Maedhros’ other brothers, I remember little. I saw their faces as they came in and left again, most clearly I remember the Ambarussa, their hair bright in the dim coolness of the tent, distress they were less adept at hiding on their faces, and Caranthir, looking back as he left the tent, eyes suspiciously bright as he turned away.
The day passed in a blur of healers and blood and salves and potions they tried to get Maedhros to drink and which he either refused or vomited back up again, delirious and in agony. Apart from my father, none approached me. Maglor was aware of my presence and would turn every so often and catch my eyes though he did not speak. My father left at some point, to do what I neither knew nor cared, and as dusk approached, I was sitting by Maedhros’ bedside, Maglor on his other side when he came into the tent and quietly approached me.
“Findekáno.” I glanced up, dazed to find him looking down at me, a cloak in his hands, “Come, my son. We will return to our camp. Kanafinwë will send word of your,” he hesitated slightly, “Cousin’s condition.”
I frowned, looking across at Maglor who watched us wordlessly. My father looked across at him and Maglor looked back, gaze clashing with his uncle’s. I stood, a little unsteadily.
“No, I will not leave. Not until Nelyo wakens.”
I saw a muscle jump in my father’s jaw. “That could be days, weeks even, and I have need of you.”
I turned my head. “Nonetheless, I remain here, Turukáno will assist you if you have need.”
“Turukáno lost Elenwë,” Because of the cousin you call lover and his faithlessness. He may as well have shouted the words into the tense quiet. “He still mourns her, besides, it is your responsibility…”
“We have all lost, father,” I let my anger colour my voice, let it show for the first time, saw him stiffen in surprise and then in outrage. Suddenly, I did not care for his sensibilities, anger and weariness making me cruel. “And I almost lost he whom I love. It may yet happen, and if it does, some of us may even mourn him as you did your brother.”
Dimly, I heard Maglor catch his breath, surprised for once, saw him look at my father, who was speechless with shock and thwarted rage and, I saw, a tinge of guilt. But all the fear and anguish of the past day had found its release, on one who did not in truth deserve it. It mattered not. Tired of his disapproval, sickened and weary beyond my capacity to conceal it, I let my voice drip sarcasm, let it border on insulting, “So, my lord father, you will forgive me if I refuse your request.”
Maglor’s eyes had closed and I thought I heard him sigh, when he opened them, they were warm and vaguely amused, despite the situation. Maglor could be cruel, perhaps more noticeably for that it was not in his nature, or it had not been. Even now, it jarred.
But my father did not notice. I could see he was so angry words failed him, and I thought for one wild moment that he had never looked so like his brother. Until now, it had been Fëanáro alone who could make him this angry. I found it a dubious honour that I could now do so.
“You…dare?” My father’s voice was ice, once I would have heeded it, feared it even, but I was no longer a child and we had all been stripped of our innocence. I listened without emotion as he continued, “Your duty is to me and to your people, Findekáno. I could not stop you going after this…after Nelyafinwë, and your folly did not bring you to ruin as it should have. Now you have returned, by the Valar’s grace your cousin is no longer your responsibility.”
I turned slowly, a distant part of my mind noting how my father had in his anger used the name of the Valar as though he had forgotten we were doomed. I chose my words deliberately to hurt, to remind him of what he fervently wished was not so. “My cousin, my lord father, is my friend, my companion and my lover. More, he is my beloved and at last, I would remind you, Nolofinwë, that he is your king.” My father gasped and I continued mercilessly, “I have no doubt that he would wish my presence here and as such here I will remain. Go and speak with Turukáno if you have need of counsel, I know well how he loves his cousin, and neither he nor you need look upon Nelyafinwë, since his return obviously fills you with such joy.”
I had turned away, now I heard my father draw another sharp breath, but this time his voice was soft, as if all the anger had suddenly left him and left only regret, and resignation. “You are mistaken, Findekáno. That my nephew could be returned was my prayer. That it is your doing fills me with hope for our people in this place. Return to us when you will.”
I turned, but he was already at the door, looking at me once more, “I will not say I approve of your choice of lovers, Findekáno, still less your choice to love him. But in such straits as we now are, perhaps it is the last and only good.” He looked at Maglor and inclined his head; Maglor returned the gesture expressionlessly, then my father was gone.
As the tent flap fell closed, my strength left me at last and I sagged onto the stool. Maglor came swiftly around the bed and his bard’s hands guided me down, then he moved before me and knelt, my hands in his, bowing his head. I felt him the tremor that ran through him, impassive, sharp edged Maglor, trembling like a leaf in a storm and I stared at him as he said softly, silken voice rough with emotion, “There are none here besides myself whom I would have trusted to bring him back safe save for you.” It was all, and it was enough. He looked up, his eyes filled with his great anguish of the past years and now tears ran freely down his cheeks, the unflinching mask gone.
I leaned forward, saying nothing, resting my forehead against my cousin’s, our hands clasped between us as we wept. We stayed thus, grieving together, sharing our silent fears, until we heard a movement from the bed. Maedhros’ eyes were open and his smile, though weak and fevered, was real. His voice was barely a whisper, his strength waning rapidly even at this small effort, but we heard him.
“Your father is wise, Findekáno and though he loves me but little, he loves you the more for this and I will make that a thing to strengthen the Noldor, in time.” He smiled and Maglor, sensitive to such things, caught his breath at the look in them, “For now, come here with my brother and tell him…tell him of our journey home…”
“By this deed Fingon won great renown, and all the Noldor praised him; and the hatred between the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor was assuaged.”
The Silmarillion
And the night of Maedhros’ return with Fingon, three cousins rested close together and one spoke of a journey, made in pain and loss, inspired by a great love, a love of which few knew and none now speak of save for those who were privileged to witness it and those who can sense such things, in the way of Elves.
Title: The Journey Back (I ran out of imagination when it came to the title)
Author: Mirien
Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon
Rating: NC-17 (for graphic amputation and injury)
Disclaimer: If you're brave (or bored) enough...
Summary: Maedhros wants to die, Fingon won't let him.
Author notes: Not beta'd (yet) so any mistakes are my own.
This is actually for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s VERY belated birthday present (who made me go all mushy because she liked it!) and is cross-posted from my LJ.
“…But Fingon could not release the hell-wrought bond upon his wrist, nor sever it, nor draw it from the stone. Again therefore in his pain Maedhros begged that he would slay him; but Fingon cut off his hand above the wrist, and Thorondor bore them back to Mithrim.”
The Silmarillion
The sound bone makes when it is cut is not a sound that is ever forgotten. It is not a scrape, or a sharp crack, but a dull, brittle sound, a sound like nails on rock, broken and bleeding. It is a very final sound.
When I cut my cousin’s hand off at the wrist, he tried not to cry out. I saw the resolve in his eyes, stoic Maedhros, untouchable Maedhros. Yet in the end, he screamed anyway, then sobbed, childlike in his agony, tears making clean streaks through the dirt and blood on his face, pride, self-possession, dignity, all washed away in the warm crimson soaking us both.
I laid the knife along his wrist and he held my eyes for a long moment, both of us caught and held by too much unsaid. Then he made a soft sound, of loss and resignation both, and turned his head away. I saw the fingers of his bound hand flex involuntarily, as if in final protest, but otherwise he did not move or speak. Until I began to cut, and then not even he could stand it. Fëanor’s eldest, some say the finest swordsman the Noldor possess, screamed his agony, the fingers of his sword hand, already wasted and little more than bone, stiffening, already cooling, set in a position in which they would remain without blood or warmth to move them.
My own fingers were slippery with his blood, my vision blurring with my own tears. I panted with effort and revulsion, the knife slipping in my hand, forcing me to pin him to the rock with my own body and use both hands at last. The world narrowed to the iron tang of blood and Maedhros’ screams. I whispered to him, to myself, words I can barely remember now; that it would be over soon, that this was the only way, words that meant nothing except as a distraction from the horror of it. When his voice broke, he shuddered, groaning and coughing, his other hand clenched, drawn in to his chest as the pain tore through us both. His eyes were closed, his mouth open as he fought for breath, skin bleached of all colour so that the bruises stood out all the more cruelly. He had bitten through his lip, and I felt his blood smear across my neck where he leaned into me, begging quietly, voice like shattered glass, for me to hurry. At last, by some unlooked for mercy, he went limp.
He was still unconscious, mercifully so, when at last the sinew parted and I cut him free. I gritted my teeth, almost blinded by sweat and tears, and drew the knife through it, light headed and nauseous and shaking so badly I almost overbalanced, sending us both to our deaths. It was almost a surprise when at last he was free and all his weight fell into my arms. I had to scramble to hold him, grace forgotten, my balance awkward with his dead weight on the narrow ledge whose razor sharp rocks cut into my boots; no doubt made so that Maedhros with bare feet, could not stand on it. A small cruelty, among so many others, but it hit me like a blow to the stomach and for a moment I thought my nausea would overwhelm me once more so that I stood, eyes closed, the wind whipping our hair around us, trying not to vomit. When it subsided, I swiftly tore a strip from my cloak and with unsteady hands, wrapped it around the bloodied mess of his wrist. I could not halt the bleeding, only slow it a little and the makeshift bandage was soon saturated with it so that is soaked then into my tunic and shirt, obscenely warm, its stickiness making my skin crawl.
Thorondor had hovered close while I cut Maedhros free, great wings beating steadily as he fought the fell currents that swirled around Thangorodrim. I stepped from the tiny ledge I had balanced on, moving carefully, sliding one leg over the soft, slick feathers, fearful of dropping Maedhros. His head fell back over my arm, his glorious hair, matted and dull and covered with unnamed filth. I did not look at him fully yet though, not until we were settled, delaying the moment when I would be forced to. Thorondor shrieked, compensating for our combined weight, then he banked sharply away from the sheer face of the rock.
The ground tilted at a dizzying angle and in that moment, I thought we were lost, but Thorondor’s muscles flexed beneath us and he held us safe, though my legs kept a death grip on him, the which he forbore to comment on. As we turned, carried away from that accused place, I looked back at the rock face, revolted yet compelled to look at what I had wrought and Maitimo had allowed.
But my cousin’s lost right hand was not a thing of blood and gore; severed from his fëa it was already insubstantial, and it glowed with an odd light, as though the last light of Aman was caught and held in it. The light flared briefly, then Maedhros moved in my arms and I was forced to look away and shift to accommodate his wakening.
He opened bruised eyes, trying to focus, frowning as though the light pained him. The dark smudges under them made his skin seem pale, almost translucent. I drew my cloak tighter around him, trying to warm him with my body as he shivered uncontrollably with shock and blood loss. Reflexively, he raised his right arm, reaching to touch my face and before I could prevent myself, I drew my head back, away from the bloodied mess. Up close, it was little short of butchery, no matter that the dagger, one his own father had wrought and gifted to me, had been razor sharp. His eyes flickered to his wrist at my reaction, then widened. His mouth opened, but he made no sound and then his gaze turned once more to mine, sickened, and, I realised, fearful. I had never seen Maedhros afraid and I winced away from it. He tried again to speak, only succeeded in making a noise that was part strangled sob, partly a husky, ruined whisper of my name. He closed his eyes again, and a tremor ran through him, “You should have killed me.”
I looked on him, set his arm around my neck, anything to slow the terrible bleeding. Leaning close, I kissed his brow, “I could no more have killed you than myself, Maitimo.”
Without my intending it, I kissed him then, my lips touching the dry, cracked skin of his. I bathed the place where he had bitten through his lip with my tongue, gently taking his mouth with mine, sharing the breath I had not known since we parted in Aman, breath I thought never to taste again when the frigid air of the Helcaraxë burned my lungs and the deadlier cold of his desertion froze my spirit. But that coldness was banished now with the heat of Maedhros’ breath and fëa, though the ice of his betrayal refused to thaw. He gasped, perhaps guessing my thoughts, then he was kissing me back, his arm tight around my neck, heedless for that moment of the pain. We held on to each other, instinct stronger than thought or the past.
The kiss was an awkward thing, his lips, dry and thin, splitting and bleeding beneath the desperation of it, until both of us tasted blood. His weakness made him shake and he could not lift his head, but we did not part until at last I reluctantly lifted my head, burying my face in his filthy hair that yet held his scent beneath the stench of Angband. He clung to me, trembling with weakness and reaction.
We were quiet for a while, then he stirred and moaned, twisting. I felt him shudder and he vomited then, nothing but thin liquid, curling in on himself, retching at his own mutilation, perhaps even at the sweetness we had shared, after such evil as he had endured. His sobs were raw and wrenching and I wanted to weep with him, my own stomach lurching. He twisted again, struggling in my arms.
“Maitimo, be still!” The brief peace of our kiss gone, my own voice, angry and frustrated, shocked me as it wavered on the edge of control. Anger at whom? At him? At this skeletal, bloodied, broken mess in my arms? But he was still Maedhros and his strength, mental and physical was formidable. He struggled again and I freed an arm from the tangle of my cloak around us to take his chin in shaking, slippery fingers, snarling at him, close to weeping and furious.
“Nelyafinwë, if you yet have any love of life, be still! You will kill us both.”
His eyes, shadowed and haunted, opened again. They held knowledge of horror I could not imagine, yet. Even then I still held the hope I had been born to. The thick lashes were spiky with tears and years of grit and dust, the grey depths I had once lost myself in red rimmed and glazed. I looked at him then and saw little of my cousin in those eyes, they were filled with something no longer sane, and with a fury so profound it shook me to the depths of my fëa. He moved his arm again, reaching, crying out, then he went still. A sudden calm was in his eyes, and I caught my breath, realising what he already knew, that he was rapidly bleeding to death.
Cradling him in one arm, I struggled to find something with which to fashion a tourniquet, my fingers encountering at last supple leather. Fumbling for the buckle, I tugged it free. Something shifted, a weight moved on my back, then fell away. I did not look round to see what had fallen, knowing it was my beloved harp that shattered on the rocks far below us, concentrating only on making my fingers obey my will. Twice I tried to fasten the strap around Maedhros’ arm as he lay passive, twice the leather, slick with the blood that now covered us both, slipped through my uncooperative fingers. I cursed viciously, words I had heard Fëanor use, and Maedhros’ lips quirked, softening slightly from their tight agony. I felt his hand on my cheek, fingers catching my angry tears, “Findekáno…”
I turned my head aside. “You will not die, however much you may wish to, damn you, Maitimo.” I could not speak more for to release my own anger would be to cross a line that once crossed may prove impossible to erase. I got the tourniquet on, pulled it tight, less than gently. Maedhros cried out and lost consciousness once more. I held him to me, and let the tears dry on my face, whipped away by the icy wind.
My cousin lay in my arms, pale and still as death and but for the faint pulse at his throat, he seemed dead indeed. But in the body I held there burned a steady fire that was the heart and spirit of Maedhros. The filthy, starved Elf I held was far from dead, though his ordeal would have killed most even of the Noldor, strong in body and will as we were. It seemed to me then that the fire that kept Maedhros from death was of Fëanor, passed to his sons, and none more strongly than his eldest born. I shivered then, as though Fëanor’s blood and not Maedhros’ covered us. It seemed to burn, and for a moment, I fancied it smoked in the freezing air around us. But no, the blood was not Fëanor’s but Maedhros’ and carried him, not his father, in its warmth.
I felt Thorondor turn again, and looked up in time to see the last of the peaks at the edge of the foul land below us fall behind us. Before lay green among the dust and rock, life emerging from the barren darkness of Dor Daedeloth. In the far distance, at the edge of even Elvish sight, more than a day away even in flight, lay the peaks of Eastern Ered Withrin. Beyond, out of my sight, Lake Mithrim lay deep and cool in the softening grey light, but it would be many hours yet, before the Eagle lord passed over the Eithel Sirion and the peaks which separated the lands beyond from the green of Ard-galen. The land over which we now flew was tainted by the evil smokes and outpourings from Angband, but it was fair still and I lifted my face to the clear cold air, Maedhros held close and tight in my arms.
Even in his swoon, Maedhros shivered, twitching, as though the muscles reacted to the release of strain upon them. He tried constantly to curl up, soft sounds and now and again, harsh cries wrung from him as we flew on. Three times more he woke, retching helplessly, nothing left in him to empty except the water I tried to get him to drink. At last, I stopped trying, fearing the violent reaction of his body to the cool, clear liquid. I wondered how they had sustained him on the rock face, then knew that I did not wish to know, not yet, perhaps never.
Soon after, a fever took hold of him, a reaction to blood loss and his weakness. It was a rare thing for one of our kind, and I watched him, powerless, as he alternately sweated and shivered in my arms. Every so often, I loosened the tourniquet, lest he lose the rest of the arm to lack of blood and whenever I did, the wound bled over us in a warm flood, his blood soaking my back where I held his arm around my neck. He was lucid less and less, whimpering like a child, crying out in fear and pain, at times recognising me, at others, fighting me as though I were a creature of Angband itself that had him in its grip, his eyes wild, body tensing as he sought to escape me. Several times, Thorondor was forced to land when his struggles became violent, threatening to pitch us both to the ground far below, and I knelt in that vast land with my lover in my arms, speaking to him, letting my voice become a steady stream of reassurance to calm him and bring him back to me. Once, I hit him, open handed and hard, as he tried to strangle me, eyes wild, grip relentless, prying his fingers from my throat. His bloodied wrist caught me against the side of the head as he tried to use fingers that were no longer there and the searing pain shocked him enough that his eyes flew open and he turned away from me, too weak to move more than his head, self disgust in his eyes. I set him down gently, panting, wiping the blood from my hair and face with shaking hands, stumbling away from him. We had never known fear, we had had no reason to, but it surrounded us now, tainting the very air we breathed. I looked across the plain, willing the mountains closer, struggling to bring my mind under my control.
“Findekáno.” He had struggled up to his left side, was trying to rise. I ran back to him, taking his weight. He made a soft sound of frustration and disgust as he fell back into my arms, muscles too weak to even sit up.
“Ssssh, Maitimo, rest. We must go on soon.”
“No.” His eyes were clear, unnaturally bright, his will forcing the fever aside for these few moments, “There is…something I need…to tell you.” His breathing was laboured again, his lips flecked with blood a deeper colour than that of split skin so that a new horror began to dawn on me, that the bruises over his ribs hid more damage than I had realised. If it were so, then I could only guess at what had kept him alive. I tried to hush him, fearing he would do himself more damage, but his eyes blazed and I fell silent. Whatever it was that could overcome weakness and his terrible wounds with its urgency, it was important enough for my silence.
He lay in the deep grass and looked up at me, searching for the strength to speak, to tell me what it was that compelled him. I bent close to hear the cracked voice, scraped raw with screaming and exposure, “I did not...” he gasped, tensed as a wave of pain hit him. Gently, I wiped his mouth, stomach and heart twisting within me as he tried again.
“I did not leave you…willingly, Findekáno. I would have sent the…ships for you…I would have…sent them.” He looked up at me, and in his eyes was a pleading I had never known in him. I recoiled from it, for in it, I saw that he knew death was more likely than life and needed me to know the truth of his words.
I took his hand, holding it between us as I nodded. Within me, though I still bled from the wound he had dealt me, the cold thawed and my heart beat again. He had not turned his back on our love nor forgotten it. Seeing that I believed him, Maedhros sighed, the tension leaving him. He closed his eyes and rested his head against my shoulder as, cursing Fëanor silently, I lifted him and walked back to Thorondor.
For the rest of that terrible journey Maedhros lay half in a dream or a nightmare, limbs restless, a fine trembling wracking his body, opening the myriad cuts and abrasions on his body until they bled also. His eyes were closed, the lids fluttering, his pulse, which I checked for reassurance often, a faint beat in his throat. His feet were bent, and one looked as though it had been deliberately crushed so that I could see it would be months before he would be able to put any weight on it, even if the wasted muscles in his legs were strong enough. His ankles were swollen, and one was broken, the muscles in calves and thighs almost gone. Looking at him, could see that his collarbone was broken in at least two places, the shoulder on his right side dislocated and swollen badly. Bruises darkened his skin over at least half of his body, along with cuts, shallow and deep, some recent and from their discolour and the foul odour that emanated from them, likely poisoned as well. By far the worst injury, aside from the one I had inflicted, was the lung I now was certain was pierced by a rib, doubtless broken during one of the times they had tormented him, perhaps even in the last few hours, perhaps even as I sought him. There were doubtless more injuries, but those were the ones I could see. He was so thin I could feel all his ribs beneath my fingers and his hip bones were sharp when I gently swept ran my hand over his body, checking for further hurts. He should be dead, he wanted to be dead, and it defied logic that he was not until I began to suspect they had deliberately kept him alive, keeping him on the edge of agony, healing him enough to hold him to life, never allowing him the rest of Námo’s Halls. In that, his own stubborn will had confounded him, it was not in Maedhros' nature to give in, and certainly not to such a foe as death. And yet, despite it all, despite the broken and dirt streaked body, the filthy hair and the stench of Angband, he was still beautiful, the fire of his hair dulled but not extinguished beneath its layer of dirt, his skin still flawless beneath the bruises and above all, the light of Aman still glowed faintly from him, though now it only served to highlight his pallor and the terrible injuries.
I did what I could, holding him close, bathing his mouth, cleaning what I could of the filth off him, singing to him, talking to him, holding him to me through sheer force of will. I spoke of our youth, of happier times, of our first kiss at the mingling of the lights in his father’s garden, and the first time we lay together, breathless with discovery and incandescent with love, believing in our innocence and naiveté that what he had found would last forever. At last, when my throat closed with the urge to weep I simply buried my face in his hair once more and closed my own eyes.
I must have drifted into waking dreams, dreams in which Maedhros was whole and healed. I woke to the sound of him coughing, a harsh dry sound that grated on my raw nerves. As I wiped the trickle of blood which ran from his mouth Thorondor cried in the tongue of the Eagles that we approached Mithrim. With fierce hope, I raised my eyes and my heart leapt at the gleam of sun on water.
Below us, Eithel Sirion glittered and I looked down into Maedhros’ ravaged face, holding him to me and to life as we began our descent, sweeping down in great circles to the shores of the lake. Elves werelooking up, but we were yet too far away to make out their shouts, or to recognise individuals. Thorondor was taking us to the Southern shore, to the camp of the Fëanorians.
At this height, I could see in the distance my father’s camp on the other side of the lake, and I looked on it, wondering what he would have to say of this rescue of a nephew he considered faithless at best and a traitor at worst. I tore my gaze away from the sight and my mind from the thoughts, looking below once more.
Closer now, I could make out individual Elves. The camp was like a disturbed ants nest, Elves running to the low hill Thorondor circled in his slow descent. Bright banners fluttered in the breeze above tents which had achieved a look of permanency now. The grass seemed very green, the tents white or brightly coloured, according to their owner. Outside one, close to the summit of the low hill, a tall figure stood, slightly apart from the others, dark cloak snapping in the breeze and I knew Maglor’s eyes were riveted on us, searching, desperately hoping. He did not move with the others to the place where Thorondor would land and I wondered why, until I saw who stayed him, angrily gesturing, hand on my cousin’s arm. Maglor’s body was rigid, and I who knew him well read the fury it betrayed, though now I could see his face, he smiled slightly at me, voice low and intent as he replied to my father’s words without turning his head, a dismissive gesture of his hand ending the conversation.
The banner of Fingolfin stood high in the breeze, warriors of his household standing warily around it, ill at ease in this place, their hands resting on their sword hilts. Celegorm watched them, ignoring us for the moment, an unpleasant expression on his face, Curufin with him. The Ambarussa were standing on the hill, looking up at us as we came in to land, fear and worry in their eyes. I could not see Caranthir.
Thorondor’s talons touched the ground and he landed as gently as a feather coming to rest, careful not to jar Maedhros. Despite my distraction, I laid a grateful hand on the sleek feathers and murmured my thanks before we were surrounded by Elves. Thorondor turned a bright eye on us and bowed his head, extending a wing to assist those who reached up to us with eager hands to receive their High King.
But I held Maedhros to me, looking out across the crowd for Maglor. I would not relinquish my burden to any but him, the only one who loved Maedhros as much as I. I saw the dark head emerge from the mass of Elves. He did not raise his voice, but the crowd parted respectfully, despite its agitation, to let him, his brothers and my father pass. My father stared at me, angry and worried, but I did not yet look at him, watching as Maglor came to stand by Thorondor’s wing.
He did not speak, only lifted his arms to us. Our eyes met and in his I could see an agony to match my own, deeper even. He had been compelled to remain here, Maedhros had forced him to that oath no matter what befell and I could see in Maglor’s eyes what that had cost him. For love of his brother, for their people, to keep the Fëanorians from likely conflict with their kin, he had stayed, the only one who could hold them, the one who had been born to bind others to his will with his voice and his music and the quiet ruthlessness he rarely displayed. Maglor was a bard and a poet, but he was also a warrior and a prince and none among his brothers would gainsay him and so, none of the host. They feared him, in a way that they did not even fear Maedhros; Maglor’s power was unknown and not even his kin could tell what lay behind his eyes, or what persuasion was in his tongue, unless he wished it. He cared nothing for rumour or for the opinions of others, he cared for little at all, now. But in his eyes, behind the veil most could not penetrate, agony and anger warred with guilt, relief and his continued fear for his brother.
I leaned down, not letting go my burden go until Maglor held him securely, as though Maedhros might shatter in his arms. My cousin’s face was shuttered now, and I knew he was aware of none but his brother, hearing nothing of the noise which rose in a tide around him, as Elves cried out loudly in distress and fear as they saw Maedhros’ terrible injuries and then his bleeding wrist. He stood, motionless, as I slipped from Thorondor’s back and I saw his jaw tighten, the shock at how little his brother weighed go through him before he concealed it with long practice. He raised his eyes as I landed and for a brief instant, I saw what he would later speak of in the depths of the night as Maedhros tossed in pain-filled dreams between us. But then he was once more the prince and leader of his people that he had been forced to be in his brother’s absence, emotions walled behind an impassive mask that did not come naturally to him. He turned on his heel, at least three healer’s already examining Maedhros as he carried his unconscious brother to their enclosure. The healers were sending urgent calls to assistants, so that Elves ran in all directions through the camp to fetch what would be needed. I followed, feeling oddly out of place and self-conscious, now that questions clamoured in my ears.
Rescue came from an unexpected source. Celegorm raised his hands with a look that commanded, and got, silence. I caught his eyes and we stared at each other; there was no love between us except for Maedhros. His help was merely his acknowledgement of what I had done and no more. I turned to follow my lover and his brother, leaving Celegorm to deal with the upset crowd.
But there was little to deal with. The silence now was for more reason that Celegorm’s silent order, as Elves realised or had it relayed to them how bad Maedhros’ injuries were. I glanced at my father and even he looked shocked, his face pale and I heard him whisper, “Eru, be merciful now.” He looked at me and his eyes widened still further.
I could smell and feel Maedhros’ blood on my clothes and in my hair, stiffening them, but I did not look away, forcing him to accept, to admit that I had done what needed to be done. Even before the oath and the tragedy which followed, he had not approved of us; after, he had tried to forbid my lover to me. Now it was a subject we did not discuss. He did not wish to force a choice on me, for he knew whom I would choose. When the ships had burned and we had realised our straits, he had turned to me and I had silently dared him to speak, until at last he turned away from me, wordless.
Now his expression softened and he laid a hand on my shoulder, so that I knew his great love for me had not waned, despite my choice. He did not protest as I followed Maglor, nor did he object when I refused to leave the small tent where Maedhros was being tended. Instead he sat me down on a stool and with his own hands, bathed the blood from my face and hair then, without comment, from my lips. He spoke to me softly, checking me for injuries, but I did not hear, watching as they tended to Maedhros. Maglor stood close by, holding his brother’s hand, the knuckles white, but otherwise he stood quietly, missing nothing of what was done.
Of Maedhros’ other brothers, I remember little. I saw their faces as they came in and left again, most clearly I remember the Ambarussa, their hair bright in the dim coolness of the tent, distress they were less adept at hiding on their faces, and Caranthir, looking back as he left the tent, eyes suspiciously bright as he turned away.
The day passed in a blur of healers and blood and salves and potions they tried to get Maedhros to drink and which he either refused or vomited back up again, delirious and in agony. Apart from my father, none approached me. Maglor was aware of my presence and would turn every so often and catch my eyes though he did not speak. My father left at some point, to do what I neither knew nor cared, and as dusk approached, I was sitting by Maedhros’ bedside, Maglor on his other side when he came into the tent and quietly approached me.
“Findekáno.” I glanced up, dazed to find him looking down at me, a cloak in his hands, “Come, my son. We will return to our camp. Kanafinwë will send word of your,” he hesitated slightly, “Cousin’s condition.”
I frowned, looking across at Maglor who watched us wordlessly. My father looked across at him and Maglor looked back, gaze clashing with his uncle’s. I stood, a little unsteadily.
“No, I will not leave. Not until Nelyo wakens.”
I saw a muscle jump in my father’s jaw. “That could be days, weeks even, and I have need of you.”
I turned my head. “Nonetheless, I remain here, Turukáno will assist you if you have need.”
“Turukáno lost Elenwë,” Because of the cousin you call lover and his faithlessness. He may as well have shouted the words into the tense quiet. “He still mourns her, besides, it is your responsibility…”
“We have all lost, father,” I let my anger colour my voice, let it show for the first time, saw him stiffen in surprise and then in outrage. Suddenly, I did not care for his sensibilities, anger and weariness making me cruel. “And I almost lost he whom I love. It may yet happen, and if it does, some of us may even mourn him as you did your brother.”
Dimly, I heard Maglor catch his breath, surprised for once, saw him look at my father, who was speechless with shock and thwarted rage and, I saw, a tinge of guilt. But all the fear and anguish of the past day had found its release, on one who did not in truth deserve it. It mattered not. Tired of his disapproval, sickened and weary beyond my capacity to conceal it, I let my voice drip sarcasm, let it border on insulting, “So, my lord father, you will forgive me if I refuse your request.”
Maglor’s eyes had closed and I thought I heard him sigh, when he opened them, they were warm and vaguely amused, despite the situation. Maglor could be cruel, perhaps more noticeably for that it was not in his nature, or it had not been. Even now, it jarred.
But my father did not notice. I could see he was so angry words failed him, and I thought for one wild moment that he had never looked so like his brother. Until now, it had been Fëanáro alone who could make him this angry. I found it a dubious honour that I could now do so.
“You…dare?” My father’s voice was ice, once I would have heeded it, feared it even, but I was no longer a child and we had all been stripped of our innocence. I listened without emotion as he continued, “Your duty is to me and to your people, Findekáno. I could not stop you going after this…after Nelyafinwë, and your folly did not bring you to ruin as it should have. Now you have returned, by the Valar’s grace your cousin is no longer your responsibility.”
I turned slowly, a distant part of my mind noting how my father had in his anger used the name of the Valar as though he had forgotten we were doomed. I chose my words deliberately to hurt, to remind him of what he fervently wished was not so. “My cousin, my lord father, is my friend, my companion and my lover. More, he is my beloved and at last, I would remind you, Nolofinwë, that he is your king.” My father gasped and I continued mercilessly, “I have no doubt that he would wish my presence here and as such here I will remain. Go and speak with Turukáno if you have need of counsel, I know well how he loves his cousin, and neither he nor you need look upon Nelyafinwë, since his return obviously fills you with such joy.”
I had turned away, now I heard my father draw another sharp breath, but this time his voice was soft, as if all the anger had suddenly left him and left only regret, and resignation. “You are mistaken, Findekáno. That my nephew could be returned was my prayer. That it is your doing fills me with hope for our people in this place. Return to us when you will.”
I turned, but he was already at the door, looking at me once more, “I will not say I approve of your choice of lovers, Findekáno, still less your choice to love him. But in such straits as we now are, perhaps it is the last and only good.” He looked at Maglor and inclined his head; Maglor returned the gesture expressionlessly, then my father was gone.
As the tent flap fell closed, my strength left me at last and I sagged onto the stool. Maglor came swiftly around the bed and his bard’s hands guided me down, then he moved before me and knelt, my hands in his, bowing his head. I felt him the tremor that ran through him, impassive, sharp edged Maglor, trembling like a leaf in a storm and I stared at him as he said softly, silken voice rough with emotion, “There are none here besides myself whom I would have trusted to bring him back safe save for you.” It was all, and it was enough. He looked up, his eyes filled with his great anguish of the past years and now tears ran freely down his cheeks, the unflinching mask gone.
I leaned forward, saying nothing, resting my forehead against my cousin’s, our hands clasped between us as we wept. We stayed thus, grieving together, sharing our silent fears, until we heard a movement from the bed. Maedhros’ eyes were open and his smile, though weak and fevered, was real. His voice was barely a whisper, his strength waning rapidly even at this small effort, but we heard him.
“Your father is wise, Findekáno and though he loves me but little, he loves you the more for this and I will make that a thing to strengthen the Noldor, in time.” He smiled and Maglor, sensitive to such things, caught his breath at the look in them, “For now, come here with my brother and tell him…tell him of our journey home…”
“By this deed Fingon won great renown, and all the Noldor praised him; and the hatred between the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor was assuaged.”
The Silmarillion
And the night of Maedhros’ return with Fingon, three cousins rested close together and one spoke of a journey, made in pain and loss, inspired by a great love, a love of which few knew and none now speak of save for those who were privileged to witness it and those who can sense such things, in the way of Elves.
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The Journey Back
Date: 2005-10-18 12:59 pm (UTC)