One Hundred Words About Maedhros by Himring

He has been careful with alcohol for centuries; the risk of blurting out the wrong truth at the wrong moment is too high. Love can engender a similar range of symptoms, though—and so he finds himself helplessly clutching at Findekano and exhorting him with the earnestness of a drunkard: One whole night! We need to make it count. We need to be making the best of it we can.

What a lapse! But Findekano—bless him for his certainties, how can he be so sure of things?—just grips him even harder and murmurs: We already are. We are.

Chapter End Notes

My second ever drabble. (The first remains unposted.)

In terms of the series, this is set a few years after the Dagor Bragollach and Fingon will be leaving Himring the following morning.

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He wakes and finds himself in a constricted space, unable to move his arms. Are they tied?

His nerves scream a warning: Don’t! Convulsively, he inhales and warns himself again, carefully, deliberately: Don’t lash out, until you know where you are.

Clean air.  A pillow underneath his head.  A familiar presence, stirring.  A weight lifts off his chest.  The constriction eases. His arms are free.

A beloved voice asking, worried: ‘What is it?’

He cannot see anything, but that is only because there is no light.

‘Nothing’, he says firmly, reaches out and draws Findekano’s arm back across his chest.

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‘You are getting rather good at this, you know,’ he says, teasing me gently for my enthusiasm, conscious that he himself is not—not always.

Sometimes, in the midst of things, a little shudder will run through him, the wrong kind. His muscles tense, in the wrong sort of way. His expression, for a moment, goes blank.

He pushes his forehead against my shoulder in mute apology. I hold him as lightly as I can, resting my fingertips between his shoulder blades, until his body responds to my touch again.

And so he allows me a part in this, also.

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Fingon to Maedhros:

Like you, I was raised to abundance and taught the virtue of abstention. Always refuse the second helping. And even on the Ice, if I starved more than others, I did so by choice, saving food for those who were weaker. Royalty imposes its obligations.

When we arrived in Beleriand, I was startled to see Sindarin hunters gorging themselves on venison. They, however, were puzzled by my astonishment.

‘There may be no game tomorrow’, they explained, reasonably.

So let me be greedy tonight, beloved, for both our sakes, for do we not both fear there will be no game tomorrow?

Chapter End Notes

Perhaps this drabble is not quite covered by the title, but it does go with the rest of the series, I think.

"Greed is good" was a prompt for last year's B2MeM (2011).

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He awakes from dreams of Maitimo.

A happy dream. He remembers no details: merely the sense of Maitimo’s presence—his voice in Fingon’s ears, his scent in Fingon’s nostrils—fading upon the air; in Fingon’s mouth that familiar sensation of sweetness, as if a large spoonful of honey were dissolving, slowly.

For a moment longer, Fingon is blessed, secure and beloved.

‘…love you,’ he thinks drowsily. ‘…love you.’

He means Maitimo. He means everyone and everything.

Outside the sun rises, golden. A lark bursts into song.

Now Fingon is fully awake. Maitimo’s absence is like a sword-stroke. The love remains.

Chapter End Notes

Posted independently of this anthology on some sites.

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Maedhros:

I am beholden to you in every breath I take. They call me ungrateful--do not know I battle to keep breathing.
Although you cut me free, I am tied, might sink under the weight of my obligation, but choose the tie that holds me up and breathe for you.

Fingon:

Were you but free! I saved you at great cost, yet ask no recompense but this: keep breathing.  You lean too lightly against me, let me hold you up! Let who will talk of ingratitude--I will deny all obligation and be beholden to you for every breath you take.

Chapter End Notes

Written for a LOTR Community drabble challenge on LJ on the subject of gratitude. The prompt was: beholden.

Word count: 2 x 50 according to Word.

(Posted independently of the series on some other sites)

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Summer. Maedhros steps out onto the balcony to catch the night breeze and sees Tirion, around and below, bathed by the light of a full moon. The moon, he knows, is old, the city older. But still the sight of the rooftops etched in silver and black seems rich and unfamiliar, reminding him of a time and a place when the moon was new.

Half singing, half speaking, he recalls a song in the speech of Mithrim: Who is it who comes sailing the sky, clad in white? Welcome! But where do you hail from, lord of the silver bow?

Another voice takes up the song, more clearly and firmly. He looks down and sees Fingon below.

‘Wait,’ says Fingon. ‘I'm coming up.’

He takes the direct route. Soon Maedhros is reaching out an arm to help haul him over the railing.

‘Why, love?’ he asks, smiling. ‘For once, I don't need rescuing, tonight. And what is wrong with the stairs?’

‘I just needed a bit of practice,’ says Fingon.

Practice climbing or rescuing? Maedhros does not ask. ‘I rather hope you're not planning to summon an eagle to carry us away...’

‘I'm not,’ says Fingon. 'Let's stay right here.’

Chapter End Notes

Written to cover four prompts of Tolkien Weekly's Questions challenge: who, where, why, what.

I first posted a version written in haste to Livejournal, for which I had used an online word count tool. I realized later this had been thrown off badly by my use of quotation marks. The updated and corrected version is 2 x 100 words according to Word.

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Maedhros looked in the mirror. The face that gazed back out seemed only half familiar. A new face matching new circumstances—he was disconcerted to feel a pang of regret, nevertheless…

‘No scars,’ said Elrond, touching Maedhros’s cheek.

‘None,’ agreed Maedhros.

‘When I studied the healing arts, later, I wondered why yours had been so slow to heal—was it the way they were inflicted? Or perhaps you and your body did not wish to forget, entirely?’

‘A bit of both. And I was never very far from Angband. Do you remember how palpable Morgoth’s power became, by the end?’

Chapter End Notes

Apologies for disproportionately long end note:

Tolkien says Maedhros's body recovered in time from his torment by Morgoth, although the shadow of his pain remained in his heart. The question of scars is purely a fandom discussion, but I think this drabble can be understood without having come across it before.

It's a theme in my series that Maedhros's scarring is painfully visible or not actually that disfiguring, depending on who is looking at him and with what kind of expectations. (Men and dwarves tend not to be too impressed, because they aren't habitually counting on elvish healing powers.) In fandom, some assume really heavy scarring and some none at all.

The "flawed porcelain" is a self-quote, alluding to my ficlet "The Knot".

During the time when Elrond was with Maedhros and Maglor, it's suggested here that the power of Morgoth permeated Beleriand so strongly, having conquered almost all of it, that both Elrond and Maedhros could sense it.

True drabble (according to MS Word) written for the Tolkien100 challenge "New You".

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‘…deadlier with his left hand than he was with his right.’

The comment he had overheard was meant as praise. His people were taking it as a sign of hope.

Maedhros brought his arm slowly down, his fingers firmly grasping the hilt.

He had driven himself to regain his strength and hone his skill because mastery was required for survival and the purpose was to deal death. It could be no other. He did not flinch, but in this moment, he measured once again just how far they had come from the broken gates of Formenos.

Harm within and without.

Chapter End Notes

Originally written for the Poetry Fiction: July Comment Fic Challenge 2021

The Poetry Fiction Prompt was:

From:
"Who Owns the Night and Leases Stars"

Harm is in us, and power
to harm

(Reginald Shepherd)

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