A Mirror of My Maladies by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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I.

They said the new king was mad.

Others, doubtful, remembered his father. They asked, “How mad could he be?"

The answer was, of course, very.

The Noldor that followed Nolofinwë were given a choice.

It was as simple as dying, as hard as living. Join us, or die.

And they...Well, they were sick of dying, they remembered the cold and the terror of their passage to Middle-Earth. They remembered the frozen faces of the dead. Most joined the side of the king. If nothing else, as the first grandson of Finwë, the first son of Fëanáro, the madman had an impeccable pedigree.

Do not misunderstand.

No one dared to call the new king mad. Some thought he was right in what he did — and if some malcontents should dare cast doubt on this most noble of kings — well, they were not able to say anything for very long.

Those who did not join, flee if they could. Turukáno and Irissë, rumor had it, escaped to the coast, and their people went with them. The children of Arafinwë sought refuge in the hidden kingdom of Doriath, and nothing more was heard of them. The Maia, it was said, shielded them.

It was no matter. Rebels they were, and now would always be. The king had not yet seen fit to pursue them. After all, they were but offshoots of a lesser branch, of little importance...

Some remembered how the king, when he was but prince, once had great love for his cousins. But of course, that was before. He had his reasons for what he did. (Surely?) And those drastic changes were not all his fault. Of course, the crowd agreed, their eyes downcast. Nothing was changeless, even among the ageless.

Some thought of the fate of the son of Finwë, the only one to follow his brother to exile...

Nolofinwë had disappeared. Killed, perhaps. By treachery, it was said... It was also said that the two brash princes, Tyelkormo the hunter and Carnistir the dark, were no longer seen at court. Of course, it was possible that these two thing were quite unrelated.

Rumors were such odd and insistent things.

 

 

II.

It was Findekáno the Valiant's turn.

Never one for doubt, he resolved not to. He was always one for action, one foot out the door, off to the next adventure. He wasn't used to brooding, he didn't have the time to do it. Not even when his life unwound and morphed into something unrecognizable.

Something monstrous.

He thought he had done right. Impetuous as always, he had rushed off into danger. He had believed that his heart had been sufficiently pure, his reason for wanting had been totally sincere.

He thought he had done right.

And didn’t everyone say the same? And shouldn't their cheers convince him? Shouldn’t the songs? A hero, they called him. One for the ages —- well, of the yen, at the very least.

He had done what no one else had dared. And he had done it for love. Oh, the bards liked that the best. Findekáno the Valiant, nobly restoring the rightful king to his throne, at the loss of his father’s own overweening ambitions. Love and betrayal made for a good story, after all.

And he had done all that.

All that followed was a consequence of what he had done. His family, his people. Dead or gone, all are lost.

Consequence upon consequence.

The guilt weighed on him.

It dragged him down.

Still, he thought. Faith. That's important. He wanted to say aloud, I have faith. (He wanted to have faith.) I have faith in him... His torments were unimaginable. They warped something in him, but he is still Maitimo. Yes, he cannot be the same person as before. None of us can be. But... He is still...

All of it could be true.

It was not.

 

 

III.

And this was his secret, and oh, it was buried deep. It was a thing he wanted to forget.

It was impossible to do so.

He remembered it clearly enough, in the dead of night, as he lay in bed, sleepless and alone.

The secret was...

Findekáno the Valiant never did manage to rescue his cousin from his high prison on Thangorodrim. Oh yes, he brought back a prize, one that looked much like the lost king. But looks, as ever, could be deceiving. Findekáno remembered how Maitimo (who was not Maitimo) had looked then, with his features blurred, yet individual details sharp as a knife. Matted hair the color of rust. Stooped shoulders. A terrible thinness.

Eyes, elven-bright, hungry beyond imagining.

When Findekáno cut off his right hand, the prisoner bled black.

The shackle fell back. The mountain shuddered and below, above, around them, boulders broke apart.

And Findekáno drew back, and wondered what exactly he had released into the world.

He was not...

When the Maitimo-shaped creature woke from his long swoon from the mountain top, his head rested on Findekáno’s shoulders. Instinctively, Findekáno shifted his weight closer to the wounded thing, trying give it what little warmth he could. Some evil enchantment is upon you, but we shall break it. He promised this to himself.

I will get you back.

He watched the wasted figure closely. He saw it twitch.

Between them there was only silence and the bitter wind that bit into their flesh. Not-Maitimo stirred. He openned his mouth to speak. Findekáno steeled himself, he expected... Oh, what did he expect? Weeping, perhaps, or some angry imprecation.

Not-Maitimo did neither. He only laughed - he turned and bit deeply into Findekáno’s neck.

Pulled to the present, Findekáno touched the bite-mark, now only a faint silver scar.

He should have killed him there. It should ended there, as another horror in the landscape of horrors.

Maitimo’s lips were cracked and red with Findekáno’s blood.

“Lover.” he hissed.

It was a curse. It was a fact.

He should have killed him then.

But had he not proven that he can never kill Maitimo? He could even kill a monster that wore Maitimo’s face.

 

 

IV.

It was his turn.

He was escorted, politely, firmly, to a small chamber, not far from the throne room. He was seated, and after declining an offer of refreshments, he was left alone. He waited. He fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, worrying a stray thread until it came loose in his hands.

They had taken away his weapons — all that they could find — shortly after he entered the palace. They took even the relatively dull, mostly ceremonial knife that had been given to him at his coming-of-age ceremony.

He thought, absently, I want only for a sharp knife and a little courage.

The king came in suddenly, as silent as the grave. But that was a trick that has more to do with clever paneling than any supernatural force. He padded softly to him, barefoot and in a loose, informal robe. After all, Findekáno was not a formal guest, he was family. The king was alone, and this too was a token of how much Findekáno was trusted. And he was very trusted, indeed.

Courage, courage! Findekáno clenched his hands.

Never one for games, or courtly tricks, he asked the question that plagued him.

“What are you?” His voice croaked and sounded strange, even to himself.

The king shrugged. “Your cousin was not the only prisoner held there.” he said.

“But I...”

“You did so well, dearest, freeing me from that wretched rock. My gratitude is boundless, simply boundless.”

“I thought I had their blessing.”

“No. But you have mine. Aren't you glad?”

Findekáno stiffened, his back straight. He stared ahead, he did not want to see the king, or his face, at once achingly familiar and completely alien.

“You begged me to kill you.”

“And you so nobly refused.”

There was a long silence, and Findekáno could hear the sound of voices, from far, far away. He gathered his wits, which felt now, more than ever, to be painfully inadequate. But oh, he had to try.

“You are not my cousin. He is -- He was... He was far more than you could ever be. Your actions are proof enough of your worth — Or lack, thereof. You destroyed our -- my family, scattered our — my people. Even your brothers could not...”

The king sneered. And on him, it was quite an elegant expression. His eyes were steel-cold.

Ah-ha, Findekáno thought, half-dazed. Maitimo’s face had never looked more like his father’s than at this moment. It was remarkable, that.

In a tone that contained all the contempt in the world, the king said, “If you used Nelyafinwë Maitimo as your moral compass, or a guide of any sort, your problems far predate any fault of mine.”

Findekáno shook his head, as if to dislodge dark thoughts that chimed in -- It’s true. Ah, but it’s true.

He asked, because he could not help it, “Did he die well?”

The king shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “Your father? Well, I must say – “

“I meant Maitimo.” Findekáno found it difficult to say his cousin’s name. Pride stole into his voice as he continued. “I know my father died with honor.”

The king leaned forward. Almost fondly, he said, “He is with me now. We share...”

Findekáno shuddered at the thought. The king was close now, and Findekáno could see why his presence was... Unsettling, for some. Fiends would indeed flee from his face. It was terrible and beautiful, and completely, completely wrong.

The king was eager. He saw his opening. His words spilled out. They jumbled and tangled with each other. Such carelessness was deeply uncharacteristic, now and before. Findekáno recognized it as put-on for his benefit. But still, he let him speak.

“Stay with me. I remember everything he did, I feel as he does... The whole world is ours for the taking. Beleriand, and then the other shore. Where should we stop? Why should we stop? Ah, those accursed jewels, my accursed brothers; what do I care for those things anymore?”

He slowed. His words trickled into Findekáno’s not unwilling ear.

“Stay with me, Findekáno. "Choose me. Choose us.”

A sweet whisper.

“We could have forever.”

 

 

V.

Findekáno woke with the taste of blood on his lips. As quick as thought, he reached out --

To slit Maitimo’s throat. There was a low gasp, disbelieving, and then silence.

Findekáno cried out softly — he could not help it — “Beloved!”

Maitimo’s blood, red and faintly steaming, spilt across the white sheets.

No!