Spark by GoldSeven

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Chapter 3

Maedhros slowly recovers, and finds out some of the things that happened in his absence.

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Guilt

Turgon’s voice was cold. It was always cold when Maedhros heard him speak, which was seldom. Fingolfin’s and most of the others’ were usually rather flat around him, even the healers’.

“His brother is at the gate.”

Fingon turned from his chair at Maedhros’ bed to look at his brother standing in the door. “Which of them?” he asked in surprise.

Turgon laughed without humour. “Does it matter?”

“It does. Can you imagine Caranthir walking through our camp? There’d be blood.”

“It’s Maglor. So there probably won’t be blood. Not that he’d deserve it any less.” Turgon’s voice was dark with resentment. “Atar allowed him to pass. Mainly because he had the decency to request, not to demand.”

“Leave him in peace,” Fingon said wearily. “He is here to see his brother, no more.”

“Why did you have to bring him here?” Turgon said bitterly. “He’s got more than enough brothers on the other side of the lake whom it wouldn’t hurt to have their share in nursing him back to health. And maybe they’d have better luck with him.”

Maedhros understood that this time, it meant him. He hadn’t heard Turgon utter his name once. It was always “he”. But then, what name would Turgon have used? He had never been close enough to call him Russandol, and none of his other names still fit him, or would be uttered on this side of Lake Mithrim.

Over the past weeks, Maedhros had listened. The smell of elderflower outside his window had passed; spring had turned to summer. Fingon had been talking, about seasons and summer and winter, even though he could not have been sure that his cousin actually listened. Maedhros still hadn’t spoken yet or given much recognition, mainly because recognition seemed, to him, like a huge step he wasn’t ready to take yet. He had long since ceased to feel like a docile animal, but actively talking to anyone was still an almost frightening prospect. For the most part, he had been content to just lie there and be a passive part of the life around him, but he knew that, at some point, he would have to take that step. The urge to ask questions was growing, but he still held it back, for fear of their answers – and for fear of having to answer their questions in return.

He had understood that his brothers were not there, that he was in Fingolfin’s camp on the northern shore of the lake, that the people of Fëanor were encamped on the southern shore now, and that there was practically no exchange between the two peoples. He had heard fractions of conversations that had allowed him to piece a few things together, by what had been said and still more by how it had been said. There was grief here, and anger. Fingon remained the only one whose voice held none of it. But gradually, Maedhros had become aware that much of the anger here was directed at his father. And, by extension, at him.

“I had to bring him here,” Fingon said, slowly and deliberately, “so that some of us may be reminded of the idea of forgiveness.”

Turgon turned and left.

“You came across the Ice,” Maedhros said suddenly. His voice sounded both raw and weak.

Fingon stared at him, and Maedhros could tell how much he tried to keep his surprise from showing, for his sake, so as not to upset him, but he didn’t succeed very well. Fingon’s face had always been an open book. Joy at seeing his cousin awake, hearing him speak, mingled with distress at Maedhros’ words as plainly as if he had voiced both.

“I was starting to give up hope of ever hearing you speak again,” he finally said, quietly, reaching out to stroke his cousin’s hair.

It irritated Maedhros that Fingon was starting a second topic without even addressing the first. Niceties and conventions were something he had no energy for.

“You came here though we left you,” he went on bluntly. Talking was more exhausting than he had feared it would be.

Fingon withdrew his hand, taken aback, sensing that it was not a gesture Maedhros appreciated right then. He looked at him for a few moments, then seemed to decide that it would be easier to give his cousin the answers he needed, rather than putting him off with things he did not want to hear.

“Yes, Russandol, we did.” He contemplated telling him more, it was evident in his face that he went through several things to say, but then said none of them.

“You… had losses,” Maedhros said, his voice faltering. He could see the answer in Fingon’s face.

Maedhros closed his eyes. Thinking was easier without seeing. But the images that now came, unbidden, of Fingolfin’s host making its way across the Grinding Ice because Fëanor had deserted them, were so unbearable that he opened his eyes again. Fingon was watching him with worry in his face. As if it was he that had to feel apologetic. Apologetic simply for being forced to bother Maedhros with these things.

“It’s over,” Fingon then said, a bitter tone in his voice. “It’s all over. We are here. And so are you.”

“And so am I,” Maedhros repeated, in a whisper. There was so much more, so much he wanted to talk about, but even if he had had the strength, he wouldn’t have known what to say, or where to start. I didn’t want to leave you. I never thought my father would. But I didn’t speak up against him either. I could have spared you this but I didn’t. I never thought you would go the other way.

He must have drifted off to sleep again, or unconsciousness. The two were hard to keep apart. Even the pain reached him in both.

When he woke, Fingon was gone. Maglor was sitting in his place, head bowed, forehead rested against Maedhros’ left hand he was holding in his. He sat motionless, and it was plain he had been that way for a long time already.

Maedhros closed his eyes again, suddenly wishing his brother would not notice he was awake. He felt strangely like an intruder upon something private. It occurred to him that Fingon had tactfully left Maglor to be alone with his guilt, since nothing Fingon could have said would have rid him of it. Maedhros wished he could do the same, but even if he had been able to, he was the cause of it.

“Forgive me, Russandol,” Maglor whispered at length, possibly not for the first time. “Please forgive me.”

Maedhros couldn’t stand it; couldn’t stand Maglor’s guilt. At the same time, he knew that this guilt was something that might never lift. He didn’t blame his brothers, he truly did not. But he felt that Maglor would blame himself even if nobody else did. It occurred to him that Maglor had been head of the House of Fëanor for some time now, a position that he could never have wanted. Had it been his decision to leave their eldest brother to his fate at the hands of Morgoth?

There was no resentment at the thought. The absence of it surprised Maedhros a little. Would he have done the same? No, the question did not apply. He had not done the same. He had gone charging off in a hare-brained attempt to treat with Morgoth, even though their father’s fate should have warned him. It seemed incredible how naïve they had all been. Try as he might, he wasn’t able to blame them for becoming wiser after his capture.

He wished to tell Maglor this, but he felt too tired, and already, the perfect reasoning he had just thought out was beginning to blur, and he couldn’t think of where to start.

He opened his eyes with difficulty and gave Maglor’s hand a light squeeze. If Maglor was taken aback at finding him awake, he didn’t show it, but Maedhros could tell how much it cost him to meet his eyes. He wished he could have sat up, been strong, comforted his brother as he had done when they were children. For the first time in an eternity, he found himself wondering what he looked like. With Fingon, it had not mattered. Judging by the look on Maglor’s face, he was not a cheerful sight.

“They say you’re getting stronger,” Maglor said, in what Maedhros recognised as a feverish attempt to talk about something more cheerful. He knew it was a lie. The healers were still sceptical of his recovery. “They say you’ll recover, aside from –” He broke off.

Maedhros made himself hold Maglor’s eyes, and his hand, with as much strength as he could. He wanted to say something, wanted to assure Maglor that he was right, that he was going to recover, but felt too weary.

Fingon returned a little while later, carrying a carafe and clean bandages. “I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome,” he said to Maglor, “but the wound needs cleaning. The healer will be here in a minute.”

Maedhros half-expected, half-feared that Maglor would offer to stay nonetheless, and was glad when he rose slowly, with a final light squeeze of his brother’s hand. Cleaning his wound was still painful despite the draught they gave him, and he didn’t want Maglor to witness this. He had enough to deal with on his own without having to worry about what seeing him in pain would do to Maglor.

Maglor didn’t go at once. In the door, he turned abruptly and looked back at Fingon.

“Tell me,” he said, and it was plain to see how much the question cost him. “How did you know?”

Fingon cast him a blank look. “What did I know?” He walked around the bed to Maedhros’ right side, and Maedhros heard him set down the carafe on the small bedside table.

“That he had no part in burning the ships. That he was going to come back for you.”

Maedhros couldn’t see Fingon, but there was no answer. An expression of bewilderment crossed Maglor’s face.

“You didn’t?” he whispered. “You didn’t even know?”

“Does it matter?” Fingon’s voice came, quietly, after a long pause.

Maglor turned and left, and Maedhros understood that it mattered to him. That Fingon had come to his rescue even though he had thought him as good as an enemy, when his brothers had not.

He found Turgon’s righteous anger easier to deal with than Maglor’s guilt.

Fingon reappeared on his left, a cup in his hands. Maedhros feared that he would ask questions, or offer gratitude that he did not feel he deserved, but he only slipped an arm under Maedhros’ head and supported him as he helped him drink.

The door opened, and Aramon, the healer, came in, with a bowl of water and clean towels. As the healer set to work, Maedhros allowed Fingon to gently turn him away from his right arm, almost glad of the pain that brought, at least, a respite from having to think.