Epilogue - A Fairy Story by Lipstick

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Chapter 1

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I still wear my hair long and braided.

That means, I can still find someone willing to braid my hair for me.

At this particular point in time, she is called Josie.

Josie lives in New York City.

Her apartment is a palace. I do not know what she does to fund such an extravagant dwelling, neither do I care. Whatever it is, it keeps her busy. So I am free to take long lazy soaks in her marble bathtub, free to spend afternoons wandering where I will.

I do believe I have finally learnt how to take care of myself.

And no, I do not wake up every morning and think shit I am a kinslayer.

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I have never had nightmares. I do not dream at all. I do not know if this has always been the case, but I cannot remember dreaming, ever. I realize this is a rather unusual state of affairs for an elf. To tell the truth I have never been very good at sleeping.

My brother Makalaure dreamt enough for two. When I was brought back from Thangorodrim, he certainly had nightmares.

I have two items alone in my possession: a red jewel, the Elena that my father gave to me many years ago in Valinor, and my rather spectacular, if slightly shop-soiled elven Hroa. Which is more than enough to get by.

I like my body a lot. Some people, particularly those who have some knowledge of what it and I have been through, find that hard to believe, but I really do. It survived when my mind could not, and I feel I owe it some respect.

Right now, I am showing that respect by lying on my stomach, reading in the sunshine. The birds are particularly noisy today, which makes it harder than usual to concentrate. It must be because it is spring.

There is one bird that is really drawing attention to itself. It is not in any way spectacular in appearance, it is just another dull blackish bird of the common variety, the sort that usually contents itself with mimicking the ring tones of mobile phones. This particular specimen however, is a virtuoso. I have never in all my days heard a bird sing so beautifully. And I have heard the nightingales of Lorien.

Little filit, I think, what whim of Yavanna made you such a beautiful freak?

My brother Tyelkormo could talk with the birds of the air. It is a skill that I never had much interest in. However, I know enough to get by with other life forms. It is a gift all Quendi have in some measure. I certainly know enough to see this bird wants my attention. It has landed right in front of me, several inches from my nose.

"Shame on you, Maedhros son of Feanor. Shame on you oath-breaker."

And damn you creature of Manwe to haunt me so. I am not ready for a lecture from one I could so easily crush beneath my left boot.

"I kept my oath." I reply. "I regained the Silmarils. What I did with them afterwards is my own affair."

The bird just shakes its head and continues its refrain.

"Shame on you."

Just as I am about to reach out to wring the pitiful creature’s neck, it takes to the air again. It flies in close so I can feel the air from the wing beats on my face.

"Filit is held. Filit is captive."

Oh. That oath.

"Tell me where."

With that, the little creature flies in close and whispers an address in my ear. Then, it turns tail and is gone.

The address is in London, England.

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Josie always leaves at least one of her credit cards in the apartment, in case she is mugged or in some other way separated from her handbag. It does not take too much rummaging to find the drawer where she keeps it. I have ordered aeroplane tickets before. The sales clerk on the phone has no reason to suspect me. I know I must be quick. She is not stupid that Josie. When she returns home to find me missing, ethereal spirit or no, one of the first places she will look is in the bedside drawer. I do not wish to arrive in England to awkward questions from Interpol. I must be gone before my misdemeanour has been detected.

Concorde it is then, first class while we are at it. I am royalty after all.

The ticket makes a slightly larger dent in Josie's finances than I had anticipated. I hold my breath while the transaction is processed, hoping her credit limit will take the battering. It does. I slip the card in my pocket and leave the apartment forever.

Really, what did you expect me to do, pawn the Elena? Needs must as mortals are so fond of telling me. It is always a danger for mortals to become involved in the affairs of the other kindreds, and compared to many, Josie has got off lightly. She still has a pulse.

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The journey passes smoothly enough. I am mildly amused to find I will arrive in London at almost exactly the same time I departed America. I would think you who have so little time would be more careful with it. I also hoard some of the complimentary refreshments in my coat. One must travel prepared after all.

When I arrive in Heathrow Airport, everything goes smoothly. My passport is a fake of course, one of those international ones given to the lucky few born on aeroplanes and so forth. Do not ask me how I got my hands on such a document. Having been around since before there were humans, let alone nations, I think it is no more than I deserve.

They put a stamp on it, "Indefinite Leave to Remain". I find this very funny indeed.

There are probably not many visitors to London who disembark from Concorde and promptly jump the underground barriers, but I am one. I swing gracefully behind the Australian traveller in front of me, and I am away. I have a little brother to save. At the airport, I had flicked through of one of the many A-Z street maps on sale, and now know, exactly which of the tangled threads of the subterranean railway will take me to my destination. London's system is marginally less confusing than New York's. There it is slow or express trains. Here all trains are slow.

I still have no idea as to who holds my brother captive. From the state of the place where I emerge, it is someone unpleasant. Although the streets are crowded with the respectable, the buildings could only have been designed to crush souls. The drains stink. Everything is covered in a thick layer of grime. The trees are not worthy of the name, and everywhere on the ground are hoards of gray scuttling birds, that look like mutants. They look like someone has tried to do to birds what Morgoth did to elves. Pigeons, I think, these winged orcs are called.

Things do not improve the further in I walk. I am headed towards the river now, salt and slime competes with dustbins for my nose's attention. Along this road, some optimists have built shiny new glasshouses amid the rotting brickwork and industrial panelling. They look like pretty soap bubbles in a sewer. They make me think of throwing stones. The glass buildings thin out as the Thames gets nearer. My destination is the grimmest building in the street.

It is a large building. It manages to combine the worst of the two architectural styles most common to the road, dark Victorian brickwork façade with bloated out cheap modernist to the rear. Brown and white signs point to the entrance down a side alley. There is no number, just a name - Saint Saviours Hospital.

There's only one kind of hospital that has its main door in an alley. The sort where all the patients can at least stand. This is not a place that concerns itself with the petty foibles of the mortal Hroa.

To borrow another modern linguistic curio, Makalaure has gone and gotten himself banged up in a loony bin.

Loony, from lunatic, one crazed by the moon. Once again, the twisted logic of the mortal mind escapes me. For what has the last fruit of Telperion to do with the myriad daylight torments under which even minds of the Eldar can crack? And my brother is older than the silver patron of the despairing. Although, that in itself may not offer him protection.

For the first time in millennia, I am afraid.

I was not afraid, not even in the worst ravages of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. You may see your own death in my eyes, but you will also see the certainty that you shall never be the death of me. I learnt that during my own time in captivity. Nobody will be the end of Maitimo Nelyafinwe, except Maitimo himself. That is the white light, the horror, behind my beautiful Calaquendi gaze.

Just because I have not chosen to do so yet, does not mean I do not retain the right to be my own destroyer. That is why I am afraid.

And for the first time in millennia, I remember how courage feels. It is an oddly pure feeling. The doors to the reception area are closed but not locked, so I push my way inside. They are heavy, lined on both sides with metal. The sort of doors you bar in a siege.

Inside, it is all daffodils in the sunshine. Someone has painted the entire entrance bright yellow. After the many shades of gloom in the world outside, it comes as a shock. I want to laugh. It is like storming an orcish encampment, only to find them taking afternoon tea. There is even a print of Van Gooch's Sunflowers framed on one wall. Chosen, I presume, by someone with an over active sense of irony. Or none at all.

A threadbare security man by the door, dozing on a chair, is the only visible evidence the residents of this building may not wish to retain their tenancy. But it is enough. No amount of buttercup brightness can reduce my sense of unease, or my sense of purpose. I must get my brother out. Saint Saviours is no place for the unredeemable.

"I am here to see my brother," I tell the receptionist.

"What's his name?" she replies.

"Makalaure."

"There is no one of that name here."

"He also goes by Maglor, or Kanafinwe," I add as she continues to look blank.

"Tell me," I say. "Is there anyone here with ears like mine?"

Finally, she gives me her full attention.

"I'll radio someone to take you down," she says.

I have a certain knack of getting people to do things for me. It is a skill that has come to me either from being royalty, or from being a cripple. I do not know which.

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Chapter End Notes

 

The Elena was an invention of Cirdan's, I believe, although it has turned up in several Feanorian fics.

Filit is Quenya for little bird. It was also a nick-name for Maglor, originally invented by Ithilwen. As it suits Maglor rather well, most other fic writers cannot resist using it too. I am no exception.

As for Maedhros' oath to look after his little brother, that was an idea inspired by Klose's story "A Tale of Two Brothers" in which a very young Maedhros promises his grandfather to be the "best big brother in the world."

Oh and Maglor got the trick with the bird from the Mabinogion - The Tale of Branwen Daughter of Llyr.- (When Branwen is held captive she trains a starling to carry a message across the ocean to her brother

Maedhros is using Quenya names because he has a rather keen sense of ironic grandeur. His brother is far more modest.

Maitimo - Maedhros

Makalaure / Kanafinwe - Maglor a/k/a filit.

Tyelkormo - Celegorm.