The Noon-tide Night by Agelast

Chapter 1

  A note on names: 

Fingon - Findekáno
Maedhros - Maitimo / Nelyafinwë (Neylo)
Maglor - Makalaurë
Finrod - Ingoldo (Finrod’s mother-name)
Curufin - Curufinwë
Celebrimbor - Telperinquar (Tyelpë)

Read Chapter 1

I. A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, —
Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, —
The spacious world cannot again afford.

Fingon was never prone to fits of doubt; he just wasn’t built for it.

Turgon, his little brother, would have said he hadn’t the imagination (read: the intelligence) for it, but that was Turgon for you. Elenwë had been the only one who could ever draw him out his caustic little shell, and she was dead, lost in the ice-belt of Helcaraxë, her frozen body floating in the void of space for evermore.

So. Turgon’s behavior was to be excused.

Now Fingon here, he was a man of action, the kind of person who shot first, and asked questions later. Much to his detriment, yes, as the fiasco at dockyards of Alqualondë proved. No, he thought to himself, call it what it was -- a slaughter, and the questions I should asked might have saved lives.

One of the perks of having only a little imagination was that honesty was much easier to come by.

Fingon prowled the halls of the S.S. Hithlum (formerly the Finwë) like a particularly disconcerted ghost. If his mother had been there and not back in Aman, she would have forced him to sit down and to read something, which was she always did when she suspected Fingon was about to do something especially rash. Stupid, she would have meant, but Anairë rarely resorted to insults, and certainly never used them on her own children.

Unfortunately, she rather neglected to monitor what sort of books Fingon was forced to read -- a tract written by Fëanor, railing against the Valar here, A Boy’s Own Space Adventure there...

Well, all of that had an influence, somewhere in the puzzling recesses of Fingon’s mind.

In any case, his mother’s opinion on the matter at hand was simply unavailable, barred from him, and so Fingon had to decide things on his own. It did not occur to him to ask his father.

The trouble had started when Fingon had set up a tentative line of communications with the Fëanorians -- he had even been able to get Maglor on the line, and that was no mean feat, for his cousin had proved far more elusive now than he ever had been in Aman, when he was constantly hounded by his more obsessed fans.

They had a brief conversation -- the first since before Alqualondë -- and the news Fingon received shook him deeply.

Fingon was about to do something very rash indeed.

 

 

 

* * *

He managed to get away with a stolen escape pod and rucksack full of supplies, but once he approached the surface of the planet, he realized that he had no idea where he was supposed to be looking.

He was looking for Maedhros.

Fingon had made it his life’s task to follow Maedhros, although up until now it had not been a conscious effort. It had always just seemed like the thing to do, and Maedhros loomed so large in his mind that --

Maedhros must be saved. If he could be saved.

And it was equally certain that Fingon had to be the one to do it. It was not the best thing, however, to spare a thought for his own motivations. That only made Fingon’s stomach clench and his heart contract strangely.

All right, yes, he was going to find Maedhros because he loved him, always had. They had once been best of friends before things had gotten so messy and terrible between their fathers, and before Fingon had killed for his best friend, and before Maedhros had abandoned his to die...

Fingon scowled; the destruction of the swanships and what happened after was still a painful wound in his memory. He remembered well the flares of energy that had lit up the skies as the ships burned. The other exiles had watched, dead quiet, on that Eru-forsaken rock that was Araman. There had never been a choice after that -- the way behind them had closed, and the way forward was … It was what it was, one vastly overcrowded ship and deadly passage through the ice-fields, bombarded every minute with pieces of ice and rock many times the height of any elf. They had lost so many on the journey.

He landed badly, his escape pod smashed on the surface the planet. But he emerged from the wreckage without a scratch on him. There was a thick cloud layer over the night sky; it was impossible to see the stars.

The atmosphere was not wholly poisonous, but Fingon kept his suit intact nonetheless. He expected to be attacked at any moment. But the solar system-wide disturbances of late had left their mark. The intervention of the Valar and the unveiling of the Sun and Moon had cowed the creatures who made their homes here. They preferred endless night to anything else, and their fear allowed Fingon to go undisturbed.

But even for all that, still he could not find Maedhros. Yes, he saw the debris of the Fëanorian mission that had gone so disastrously wrong. A burned out shell of a vehicle, torn up armor, a cracked breastplate etched with a Fëanorian star, a ragged bit of cloth, a scattering of bones.

Fingon dreaded seeing some familiar shade of red in the debris, but his search yielded nothing.

He kicked a helmet (cleaved in two) disconsolately, ignoring the gnawed look of the thing.

He was much too late to do anything.

 

 

* * *

He didn’t remember why he started singing. He hummed as he picked his way through no-man’s land. He saw the mist rise over the darkly cratered lunar surface, and felt that he was the only thing alive in this whole world. He pressed the button that would amplify his voice.

He sang louder, because he had decided that he would not care if he should die. He wasn’t sure that everyone else living hadn’t died as well.

He sang, louder still. And somewhere quite close, a person answered him.

 

 

 

* * *

“You’re alive!” And because it was true, absolutely true, Fingon did not feel especially foolish for saying so.

Maedhros was alive and hanging like a slaughtered steer, his hand chained to the rock. He ignored Fingon as best as he could, but that didn’t do very much good, because Fingon waved his hands and shouted, “Yoo-hoo, Maitimo! How can I get you down?”

Maedhros decided that Fingon was actually a very persistent delusion. (He had a lot of those.) A delusion that would not stop shouting.

“Oh, just shoot me,” he said. And Fingon become quiet.

After a few minutes of silence (where Maedhros wondered if perhaps he wasn’t suffering under a delusion after all) Fingon said, trying for brashness, “Certainly not! Do you think I’ve traveled all the way down here just to kill you? That’s just the kind of pointlessly harmful tactics I would expect from some of your brothers, Maitimo, but not from you.”

Perhaps, Maedhros thought, Fingon was real.

“Please,” he said. “If you ever loved me...”

This went on for far too long. But eventually, their words slowed to a sluggish crawl, and then stopped entirely. Having come to a decision, Fingon raised his blaster. Maedhros closed his eyes, and smiled. Fingon never missed a shot in his life. He was in good hands.

But before that, down below, Fingon bent his head down and prayed.

 

 

 

* * *

The eagle’s feathers were thin filets of gold; it gave the impression of both being alive and mechanical. (Fingon was reminded of Huan, the great Hound of Valinor, that had been designed by Oromë. Good and gracious, was Huan, a noble beast.) But Thorondor was of an even greater pedigree. He was designed by Manwë himself, swiftly traveling throughout the galaxy and points beyond it, the whistle of news always upon his beak.

For Manwë, as everyone knew, dearly loved gossip.

But now Thorondor’s fine feathers were streaked with Maedhros’ blood, and Fingon struggled both to stay on the bird and to keep Maedhros conscious.

Just a few minutes before, on the mountaintop, as soon as Fingon touched the shackle around Maedhros’ right hand, it began to squeeze around his bloodless wrist, grinding down on his bones. In the blindness of utter panic and despair (Fingon remembered Maedhros going dead and white, he was dying) Fingon cut off Maedhros’ right hand, at the wrist.

Not that much later, through the semi-translucent bubble of Thorondor’s containment sphere, Fingon could see the long grey bulk of the Hithlum. Maedhros, who was drifting in and out of consciousness, stirred and asked, “How did you know?”

“Know what?” Fingon watched as the bay-doors of the ship opened before them.

“That father destroyed the ships without my … without me wanting it.”

A crowd of people waited in the landing bay. Foremost among them was Fingolfin, Fingon’s father and Maedhros’ uncle -- but all stepped back (except for Fingolfin, who did not flinch) when they saw what (and who) Fingon carried in his arms.

There was another collective step back when the corpse stirred to life. “You did not know! But you still--”

“It’s all right,” said Fingon gently, “it doesn’t matter now.”

 

 

 

* * *

Maedhros refused to be put in a healing coma, no matter what the healers said. It would take only a few months of complete stasis to heal his injuries (the burns, the cuts, the bones, not properly set and grown twisted), but he said, impatiently, that he had already missed too much.

It was Fingon and Maglor (despite his late arrival, and cold reception) that convinced him to at least try a partial stasis -- the two of them took turns staying with Maedhros, though they couldn’t speak to him.

Maglor looked older, more worn down than last Fingon had seen him, his hair tied up in a hastily made braid, with dark circles under his eyes. He was the the de facto leader of the Fëanorian faction now, and the role wore at him, as anyone could see. It was Maglor who eventually told Fingon about Losgar, of how Maedhros had stood aside when the ships were destroyed. And, he said, with sorrow creeping into his singer’s voice, how their youngest brother had been on one of those ships...

Fingon nodded, dazed, and remembered young Amras as he had last seen him, on the blood-soaked docks of Alqualondë. Mechanically he gave his condolences, but he could not think of anything to say when Maglor came at last to the death of Fëanor, and the capture of Maedhros.

“It’s lot of things to process,” said Fingon, when the silence went on too long.

Maglor nodded, and rubbed his temples worriedly.

Fingon knew that he ought to spare a word for the crossing of the Ice, but his mouth stayed stubbornly shut. He believed in forgiveness, yes, and making allies of his cousins, but some things were still too close, too painful to be spoken of.

Instead, he glanced back at Maedhros’ sleeping form; and as if he knew he was being watched, Maedhros shifted in his sleep, and frowned.

 

 

 

* * *

There had been a great outcry in the Hithlum, when it was announced that Fingolfin would allow his nephews abroad to visit their brother. Turgon worked himself into a froth and took Idril to the farthest corner of the ship. He stopped Idril’s ears and said that they wouldn’t have to see hide nor hair of those accursed sons of ... Fëanor. And without a doubt, Turgon was not alone in his opinions.

At first, Fingon thought that he would have to receive his cousins by himself, and the thought alone filled him with dismay. But on the morning of their expected arrival, he saw Finrod sidle in, to stand beside him as they waited for the Fëanorians on the landing bay.

Fingon shot his cousin a grateful look, and Finrod clasped his shoulder briefly and gave him an encouraging smile.

There was flurry of activity just behind them, and both Finrod and Fingon turned to see Aredhel and Galadriel come in.

“Irissë!” Fingon couldn’t think why Aredhel should be here. But then his sister gave him a cool (freezing, really) look, and he decided not to question it any further.

The Fëanorians arrived in appropriate style, though they were somewhat subdued (they barely swaggered at all). One by one, the sons of Fëanor filed into the sick-bay, Fingon, Finrod, Aredhel and Galadriel all following behind them.

Maedhros took in the sight of a great majority of his family surrounding him with an expression that was somewhat akin to panic. That pulled Fingon out his nervous stupor, and he began to usher people out. Caranthir took this badly; his entire body stiffened when Fingon touched his arm. He said nothing, but Caranthir was always eloquent in his disdain.

But the look of relief Maedhros gave him made it almost worthwhile.

 

 

* * *

But the brothers soon gathered around the bed like a shiver of inquisitive sharks.

“When do you think you’ll be good to move?”

“Are they treating you well here?”

“Well, this is a dump.”

“Moryo, be polite! But he’s right. It’s a shithole.”

“Have they tried to kill you yet?”

“Have you tried to kill them yet?”

 

 

* * *

Maedhros woke up again in the hazy-half light of the evening, as the ambient light of the sick bay softened to mimic the changing of the light, Arda-side. Fingon was curled up on a chair nearby. He looked uncomfortable, the gold twists in his hair poking into his face and leaving red marks on it. Maedhros wondered if he ought say something, but then Fingon suddenly shook himself awake, and sprang up. His eyes alight, he hurried towards Maedhros’ side.

“How do you feel?” His voice was hushed, hesitant, and Maedhros blinked. He looked up and gave Fingon a painful smile, knowing how much it cost Fingon to speak quietly, when he really felt like shouting. Or at least, speaking very quickly, in rapid, ratta-tat-tat way that came so naturally for him. Fingon was restraining himself for Maedhros’ benefit, the least he could do was help him along.

Maedhros said, agreeably, “I’m very well. I hope my brothers were not too much for you?”

“Oh!” Fingon’s hand brushed a stray lock of hair from Maedhros’ face, fingers lingering on his cheek. “For a moment I thought things would come to blows when Tyelkormo tried to speak to Irissë, but in the end no one was hurt.”

He paused, taking his hands away. He continued to study Maedhros’ face. “Much, anyway.”

“What a relief,” said Maedhros.

They watched each other for a while, until Maedhros motioned for Fingon to come sit on his bed. Fingon did not need much more in the way of prompting, but he climbed into rather than sat on it, and Maedhros had to push his bed sheets away to give him room.

Maedhros’ bed, while generous enough for one (taller-than-average) elf, could just barely accommodate two. They faced each other, scrutinizing one another for signs of permanent change. Maedhros’ right arm lay between them, an unvoiced accusation, a reminder of how permanent some changes could be.

But some things never did change. Fingon’s elbows had not gotten any less sharp in the days that they had been apart, and his knees too, dug into Maedhros’ own, the material rough against his bare skin.

Speaking barely above a whisper, Maedhros asked if Fingon wouldn’t be more comfortable without -- all that. Fingon considered, and asked in return if Maedhros felt at a disadvantage, being clothed only in a hospital gown.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, smiling. “That’s it, exactly.”

Fingon got up and began fiddling with the door, muttering about the stupidities of technology. Room closed for cleaning, said a faintly glowing sign over Fingon’s head, and it said the same on the other side of the door. The light too, had dimmed, and the room was draped in soft darkness. Fingon got undressed swiftly, and came back.

They had shared a bed together often enough, as children. But neither of them were so innocent now. And it was not exactly tender cousinly feeling that prompted Fingon to help Maedhros out of his hospital gown.

Fingon hesitated, suddenly unsure. “Maitimo.”

Maedhros said softly, “Don’t lose courage now!” He pulled Fingon down to him. It was awkward going, because Maedhros’ left hand did not have the strength of his other, lost hand. But Fingon, finding his courage again, swooped down and kissed him, as eagerly as he had done before.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” Fingon asked when they had stopped kissing, his breath warm against Maedhros’ neck.

Maedhros struggled to think of a good reason why.

“There was no time, before, I suppose,” he said, before Fingon kissed him again. “But. Findekáno. How long have you wanted to do this?”

Fingon didn’t pause to consider. “Forever,” he said promptly. “How about you?”

“Maybe a little less than forever, but still a very long time.”

“Oh,” Fingon said, sounding a little disappointed. But then he took a long, indrawn breath as Maedhros began to touch him -- cautious touches, at first, but they grew bolder until Fingon hissed from between his clenched teeth, “Maitimo, I’m supposed to do this for you.”

“We’ll help one another, it’s the best way,” said Maedhros, kindly, and Fingon huffed a soft laugh.

“Well, thank you for consenting to be loved, at least.”

“Dearest Findekáno, must you talk so much?” They were looking at each other, eye to eye, Fingon’s fingers tracing a line of scars from Maedhros’ hip to his stomach, a long, meandering line. Biting his lip, Maedhros was about to say more when his words were cut off, and he sighed.

 

 

 

* * *

It was a secret, at first, one that they couldn’t keep very well.

Finrod came to visit on the last days of Maedhros’ stay. After a series of effusive greetings and best wishes, Finrod and Maedhros retreated to their own safe corners, and studied each other. “Well,” said Finrod, after a long silence, “I am glad you’re getting better, Maitimo. We’ve missed you.”

Maedhros smiled slightly. “You are too generous, Findaráto.”

And Finrod was about to say that he had said nothing particularly generous when Fingon came in, whistling some tune under his breath. He stopped short on the sight of Finrod. “Oh. Hello, Ingoldo. What are you doing here?”

Finrod shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I know I should have come sooner.”

Maedhros said, “Don’t be rude, Findekáno. I want to speak to all of my cousins, if I can.”

Fingon said, “Have you grown sick of me already?”

“Never,” said Maedhros, his eyes not leaving Fingon’s.

Finrod coughed -- he felt that he was missing something in the conversation, and that was a feeling he did not like at all -- and said that he ought to be going now. His cousins bid him a rather distant goodbye, and before the doors had closed in Maedhros’ chamber, Fingon was sitting at the foot of Maedhros’ bed.

It was later when --

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” said Fingon, but Maedhros only shook his head and pressed him closer. It did hurt, but it was hurt mixed with pleasure so intense that Maedhros found himself shaking a little. He did not try to hide it from Fingon; he couldn’t, in any case.

Maedhros had been starved too long for a kindly touch, for anything good -- and the heaviness of Fingon’s body against his was good -- very --

But things fell apart almost as quickly as they built up, and suddenly Maedhros froze, still and stiff, leaving Fingon bewildered.

“Maitimo...?” Fingon looked at him, stricken, and began to move away. Maedhros found that he was breathing hard. He reached out to grab Fingon’s wrist.

“Don’t -- please?” He hated asking, but Fingon embraced him and whispering comforting nonsense to him in dark.

Maedhros wanted to say -- I’m sorry, of course you don’t want this, you should have someone who can these things with you, who can always be with you. It would be selfishness to do anything else.

But Maedhros had never been particularly unselfish.

 

 

 

* * *

“Now, remember, this is just a prototype. I’ve installed the normal range of motion, although you’ll benefit from a slightly extended reach, and a much more solid grip. Try it now.” Curufin watched him expectantly, and Maedhros eyed the bowl of apples in front of him.

Curufin’s lab was deserted except for himself, Maedhros, and Amrod, the latter claiming that he had nothing better to do. The room was cluttered with experiments -- dismantled engines, machines pulled apart with extraordinary violence and pierced together with special care, and many, many deadly weapons.

Curufin’s lab was his refuge, his pride and joy. It was a rare day indeed that he let anyone in it.

Maedhros’ new hand clenched and unclenched, experimental, new. It shone faintly because, Curufin informed Maedhros proudly, it was made of a titanium-mithril blend that he had invented. Maedhros extended a cautious finger towards the bowl. To his surprise, the finger extended beyond its usual length and nudged the apple on the top of the bowl. It toppled over, and Maedhros pulled back his finger with a soft curse.

“Told you, a slightly extended reach,” said Curufin, faintly smug.

“Quite,” said Maedhros, examining his right hand with a little alarm.

Amrod, who had been watching all this quietly, now asked why Curufin didn’t install something really cool into Maedhros’ new hand. “What about a laser in the palm of his hand? Or fingers that --” He made finger pistols, waving them frantically in front of him. “You know.”

Maedhros answered for Curufin. “I asked for the most basic model that Curvo here could give me.”

Amrod pulled a face. “How boring!”

“No,” Curufin said, crisply, pulling out another prototype, an elegantly shaped hand that was covered by skin-colored latex. He nudged it, and they all watched as it began to flex and stretch by itself, obscenely alive. “It’s flesh that’s boring.”

Maedhros made a little noise of disgust. Amrod began to look a little frightened.

There was a commotion from the bank of life-containment cells on the other end of the lab. Without looking up, Curufin said sternly, “Get back into your growth pod, Tyelpë! I won’t tell you again.”

The noises eventually stopped.

“Clones, honestly,” said Curufin. “I should have never given him free will.”

 

 

 

* * *

Maedhros, fully recovered, had retired to his guest-chambers almost as soon as the announcement was made that that he would cede kingship of the Noldor-in-exile to Fingolfin.

The S.S. Himring, docked alongside the Hithlum, was to depart in the morning. The night before, Fingon went to Maedhros’ door and began to knock on it impatiently.

“Maitimo,” he said, “let me in.”

There was nothing for it; the door remained closed, though he could hear Maedhros moving around in the room.

“Please,” said Fingon, wondering if it would be very wrong to use the lock override.

As if Maedhros knew what he was about to do, he cracked open his door and scowled down at Fingon. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to see you,” said Fingon, flushing.

“I should think you saw plenty of me this morning.”

“Come now, Maitimo. I didn’t mean to look so surprised! But you never said that you planned such a thing.”

Maedhros pulled Fingon into the room, saying,“Come in, come in. Let’s not air our laundry in public.”

Fingon said, in a mutinous undertone, “As if you’ve ever done laundry in your whole life.”

Maedhros turned to him. “And you have?”

Fingon smiled broadly. “I never said that.” Seeing Maedhros’ unsmiling face, he sobered. “Do you regret it already?”

Maedhros turned away, and began to pack his trunk. He didn’t look up when Fingon maneuvered over to his bed, and sat down on it with a sigh. Instead, he went on, folding a formal robe (but sloppily, Fingon could see that Maedhros’ manservant would have do it again) and putting it back into the trunk. He closed it and locked it, and got up. He pushed a lock of hair from his eyes, and looked around for something else to do.

“Let me see your hand.” Fingon was now lying on Maedhros’ bed, examining the leaf-patterned walls. He offered Fingon his left hand.

Fingon shook his head. “The other one.”

With a great show of reluctance, Maedhros came to sit next to Fingon on the bed. Fingon rolled over to give him room, and took Maedhros’ offered right hand. He examined it critically, his fingers probing its smooth metal surface.

“Do you wear it all the time?”

Maedhros shook his head.

“Do you take it off when you sleep? When you bathe?”

Maedhros snapped it out of Fingon’s grasp. “Why are you so interested in my hand, Findekáno? Do you think that because I have a replacement now that you can --” He faltered, looking at Fingon’s face.

Fingon smiled slightly and leaned close to Maedhros. “I know that no lump of metal can replace what I took from you, Maitimo.”

Maedhros came closer still, his lips brushing against Fingon’s. “Curvo would be angry to hear his work dismissed as a lump of metal.”

He lifted his hand -- his right hand -- and slowly traced the line of Fingon’s jaw. The metal fingers slid from jaw to chin to cheek. Fingon caught his breath. His blue eyes widened, and his mouth opened, though no sound came out.

Slowly, deliberately, Fingon turned his face and pressed his lips against Maedhros’ chilly palm.

* * *

Later, Maedhros said, idly, “You must spend some time onboard the Himring. I think you’d like her.”

Fingon nodded, half-asleep already. “And you must come to the Dor-lómin as well.”

“What, that little tugboat?”

“Hey! Some of us aren’t in love with our own sense of ostentation.”

“You can hardly be of the Noldor without it.”

“True,” Fingon leaned in to nuzzle Maedhros’ collarbone. “I’ll just put up a tower or two before you come, shall I?”

“Ha!” Maedhros’ laugh was rough with disuse, more of a rasp than anything else, but Fingon took it as an encouraging sign.

 

 

 

* * *

“Well, as a wedding present, it is noticeably lacking.” Fingon examined the Dragon-helm more minutely, peering into its empty eye sockets. “But it is better than curtains, I suppose.”

Fingolfin, who was looking over reports, uttered a heavy sigh. Fingon looked up from the Dragon-helm, which he was trying to put on. “What’s the matter, Atar?”

Fingolfin opened his mouth to say exactly what he saw as wrong in this scenario, but then he closed it again. With an effort to gather his thoughts -- his son watched him very sharply -- Fingolfin said, in a neutral tone, “Do you think you shall use it?”

Fingon considered. Maedhros’ letter, that had accompanied the helm, had passed along the many claims its dwarven makers had made about it. Fingon did not think that Maedhros himself believed half of those claims. But it was a gift, and its meaning to Maedhros was clear enough...

But, Fingon thought, whatever safety there was in battle, it would not come from wearing especially frightening things. Probably. He asked his father, “What do you think I should do with it?”

Fingolfin’s answer was instant. “Give it to the House of Hador. It would honor them, and yourself.”

“But I --” Fingon hesitated, his fingers running along the seams of metal. “I suppose that’s an idea.”

Maedhros would understand.

 

II. Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath
That they may crush down with heavy fall
The usurping helmets of our adversaries

Like a star falling to earth, Fingolfin shone with righteous anger.

He passed furiously and despairing out of the Hithlum, and sped towards Angband. Fingon was left behind, trying to shore up their defenses -- so many parts of the ship were dangerously compromised, and the reports were pouring in of massive fatalities elsewhere in the confederation. Aegnor and Angrod’s forces were certainly lost, and there was no news from the Himring, nor from the Nargothrond, and the little settlements that were terraforming Ard-galen had gone up in flames. The whole planet was now a heap of ashes, as dead and as dried as a bone.

Dust to dust.

The video was running as Fingolfin challenged Morgoth, and when Morgoth, with loathing and fear, accepted. Fingon did not look away for a moment, his eyes following his father as he darted away from the Enemy’s blows, and wounding him. Once. Twice. There was a low gasp in the control-room at every hit.

Fingon watched, numb to all feeling. Even he did not believe that his father could prevail -- the Vala was like a mountain, walking and Fingolfin was a little spark against the darkness.

Three times.

Fingolfin grew weary. Four times. Fingon saw how his father’s shoulder began to stoop. His vitals flashes across the screen, his heart rate was elevated, his breath, shortened. Fingolfin slowed, became less alert. Five times. He stumbled. Six times. He was thrown into a huge crater. He raised his sword as giant form descended on him. The light went out. The video link went dead.

Seven times.

The room was dead quiet. Fingon shouldered past everyone, and did not hear someone start the chant-- “The king is dead! Long live the king!”

 

 

 

* * *

“No,” Fingon said, finally. “I won’t join in this madness.”

Maedhros said, carefully, “But the news from Doriath is clear. If Moringotto could be assaulted, by two people only, and one a mortal man, then the way is clear for us. We bring the fight to him.”

Fingon interrupted, “Of the two, one was a daughter of a Maia --”

Maedhros went on, “One of the Silmarils was stolen -- well, taken back. And the Enemy is more vulnerable now than he has ever been before! Even what your father did proves -- ”

“Do not speak to me of my father, or I shall have to speak of yours.” His fingers clutched at the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

Maedhros said, “Findekáno...” But Fingon would not meet his gaze. Quietly, Maedhros said, “I suppose we would have to have this out sooner or later.”

“There’s nothing more to speak of. I’m not sacrificing my people for this, Maitimo, I cannot not in good conscience do it.”

“You suppose failure is inevitable, but I disagree.”

“You may, but I will not --”

And there was a knock at the door, and the generals came in. Fingon stood, calm and clear-eyed, and introduced Maedhros and his plan. He sat back and watched Maedhros sway the audience. Fingon listened, and occasionally turned to speak to Húrin. That particular meeting lasted many hours; by the end of it, Maedhros had been speaking steadily for hours, and had gone quite hoarse.

His right hand tapped on the polished stone table for emphasis. A metallic click followed every point he made, one after the other.

The audience ended, and people left the the room, Húrin the last of all. He had a shuttle to catch back to the Dor-lómin, where his wife, the Captain, waited for him. Fingon watched them leave, then motioned Maedhros to follow him to his private chambers. Maedhros seemed to consider his options.

He stood and stretched, casually towering over Fingon, as he followed him out into the hall.

The door closed behind them, and Fingon spoke the command to lock it. Maedhros spoke musingly, “To evil end shall all things turn that began well! The Doom comes to pass yet again.”

Fingon snorted. “Don’t be an ass, Maitimo! Now tell me what you mean by this absurd plan of yours. And --” He held up a finger before Maedhros could begin to speak. “Do not speak like I am a child, or slow of understanding.”

“I believe that you can understand anything I can,” said Maedhros, and with an ironic bow, “your majesty.”

Ignoring him, Fingon went to his private observation deck. The darkness of space gathered behind him, and stars showed very dim. But Arda turned slowly below them, day turning into night. For a moment, Fingon stood absolutely still; as the light in the room shifted and dimmed, he seemed almost a part of the void, his black hair melting into the dark, his gold twists the only spark of light in the eternal night.

Maedhros took several steps forward, but stopped short when Fingon held him off.

Urgently, Maedhros spoke. “Findekáno, my dearest, if I speak, then you must listen. I believe this battle is one that we must fight, with all we have. There can been no true peace without it, not until Morgoth is defeated. You agree with me there, at least?”

“I do, but Maitimo--”

“We are dying, Findekáno. Either one by one, like Findaráto, or wholesale, like Dagor Bragollach.”

He took a few rapid steps forward, until he was facing Fingon again.

Fingon sucked in his breath, but Maedhros stopped him from speaking with a quick touch of his lips. “I know that you hate to hear your father’s name on my lips, love, but you must know that what your father did was show that Morgoth was not unassailable. As Luthien and her lover proved.” He gave Fingon a twisted smile. “Or do you believe our love to be less true than theirs? That it is worth less than theirs?”

Fingon made a little noise of protest. “Do not value our love at a Silmaril, I beg you.”

Maedhros bent his head, acknowledged the hit. Both turned their attention to what was in front of them: Arda below them like a dimming jewel, earth, sky, and water mixed together and still shining.

“Do you miss it? The feeling of earth under your feet?”

“At times.”

They stood together in silence, until Fingon spoke again. “Atar and I argued, you know, just before he died.”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow, but Fingon did not see. “About me?”

“No, not just about you. It was just -- It was just that he wanted to keep me so close, but at times, I think he could not stand the sight of me. He was so disappointed in so much of what I’ve done.”

Maedhros was quiet for a time, considering.

“Sometimes,” Maedhros started slowly, and Fingon turned to look at him, for the first time that night, without a trace of hostility in his eyes. “Sometimes, I think that Atar and I were switched around, during those last days. So that I died and he lived. And if I am dead, what does it matter what I do? How I feel? I am only here to carry out my father’s oath, it is the only reason for me to keep going.”

“You do not believe that!”

“Only sometimes.”

“If we could avenge them...”

“We would exorcise their ghosts?” Maedhros laughed, a short and bitter sound. “If only we could! Dead fathers, what are we to do with them?”

Fingon came to a decision. He looked out to Arda again, slowly rotating in its axis. He said, distantly, “Tell me your plans. Be honest and be clear.”

Maedhros cast his eyes down. “Of course. Always.”

 

 

 

* * *

Once Fingon decided that he believed in something, he did so with his whole heart. And he believed in Maedhros’ plan. He threw all of his energy into shoring up support for it. But that proved difficult -- messenger after messenger came back from Doriath and the Nargothrondwith this discouraging news: Thingol would not go to war with the Noldor, and Orodreth would not go to war with the sons of Fëanor.

“Hopeless! It’s hopeless! They want to have it both ways, to benefit if we succeed, and to be left unscathed if we should fail,” said Fingon, crumpling up the latest piece of correspondence from Orodreth. Maedhros tutted at Fingon’s loud remarks, and glanced pointedly at the young page who sat on the floor, taking notes.

Fingon, seated in his favorite chair, sighed and leaned back, his eyes half-closed. “You may go, Hinnor,” he said, with a gesture of dismissal.

The boy sprang up, saluted smartly, and went off. When the door closed behind him, Fingon turned his attention back to Maedhros, who was pacing around the room.

“Can’t you sit?” said Fingon, a little impatiently. It seemed to him that Maedhros had not stopped pacing since he had arrived, and that had been hours ago.

“Hm? Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” said Maedhros, who continued to pace. He was silent for a few more minutes. Then he said, “What of Turgon? Have you heard from him at all?”

Fingon shook his head. “Nothing since he left Vinyamar. I’ve always thought he and father had a secret line of communications between them, but I was never privy to it.”

“But he knows what’s happening?” Maedhros did not need to remind Fingon that it was not he who had received Fingolfin’s broken body, in the aftermath of Dagor Bragollach. Clearly Turgon had means at his disposal to get news.

But Fingon only shrugged, looking weary. “I do not think we can depend on my brother to arrive at the nick of time.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Maedhros slowed and stopped until he was in front of Fingon; Fingon, who had put his feet up in the the chair facing his, put them down again with a thump and gave Maedhros an embarrassed smile. He gestured to the now-empty chair. “Please sit.”

Brows slightly raised, Maedhros did so.

They sat in silence, aware that for better or worse, this would be the last time they would see each other again. Until the battle, of course, and whatever came after.

Maedhros watched as Fingon picked several strands of reddish-brown hair from his sleeve, then began to wind his forefinger around them.

“Finno, don’t be disgusting.”

Fingon gave him a baleful look and tucked the lock of hair back into his pocket. “Húrin does not think we have picked a good name for our endeavor.”

Maedhros blinked, not quite following. “Húrin? But I thought he was all for it.”

“He is. He assures me that he most ardently for it -- his littlest, you know, died in the spring. Because of that contagion that Morgoth released.”

Maedhros nodded. He had heard. “But what is Húrin’s objection to the name?”

Fingon smiled. “As it happens, you’re not very popular, Maitimo. Húrin thinks that more people would join up if the thing wasn’t called the Union of Maedhros.”

“What should we call it? The First Alliance of Elves and Men?”

“Not all elves are participating, nor are all men.”

“Not all are elves or men. The dwarves that choose to follow me would not like to be cut out altogether.”

Fingon’s smile widened and became altogether too sharp. “That was what I told him. It is your idea, after all. You deserve the credit.”

“And the blame, if it should fail?”

Fingon opened his eyes wide, and leaned forward. “It will not fail!” Then he relaxed again, saying thoughtfully,“Though if it does, the blame would lie with me, as much as you.” For saying yes, for not stopping you. For not killing you when you asked.

“That is not exactly comforting.”

Fingon shifted in his seat, looking speculative. He nudged Maedhros with his foot. “Well, if it’s comforting you want...”

Maedhros cocked his head, considering his options.

Fingon stood abruptly, swaying a little; then Maedhros hooked his foot around Fingon’s legs and toppled him. But Fingon fell with both of his hands open and grasping, and took them both tumbling to the floor.

Spitting out a mouthful of clothes and hair, Fingon said, “I was going to suggest beating the stuffing out of you at practice, actually.”

Maedhros pinned him to the ground, pushing everything else away. “I would have to lose both of my hands and a leg before you could even hope to beat me at anything.” And he pressed Fingon against the floor, to provide his point more thoroughly.

Fingon arched up, whispering, “Overconfidence, now? I thought you’d gotten over that.”

Maedhros laughed and let Fingon go. They were both of them far too old to wrestle on the floor like a pair of callow youths. Perhaps also thinking this, Fingon helped Maedhros up, gripping hard against the metal of Maedhros’ right hand.

Maedhros wound his arm around Fingon’s waist and pulled him to bed.

It did not occur to him until later that this time would be different, that it should be different. In hindsight, of course, it was obvious that this was to be the last time. But he was blind, almost, to any other considerations except this -- a kiss, Fingon’s hands cupping his face, Fingon’s lips on his, his hands running through his hair.

He watched Fingon struggle to get off his robe, swearing softly under his breath. Maedhros was silent as he worked patiently to peel away the rest of the clothes that separated them.

With a cry of triumph, Fingon was free and surged forward, catching Maedhros’ chin with his long fingers and crushing his mouth against Maedhros’ mouth. He was eager today, set to the task of pulling Maedhros apart with his hands and with his mouth.

Maedhros was pushed onto the bed, with Fingon clambering on top of him. There were still plans to finalize and tempers to soothe, still so much to do... He twisted one of Fingon’s braids around his finger and pulled, listened to Fingon’s soft hiss of pain.

Maedhros asked, “Do you want to turn on the zero-grav?”

“No,” said Fingon, bending down for another kiss. “I like this. The weight.”

Maedhros hummed his approval, his hands gripping Fingon’s hips, urging him onward. Upwards and onwards, always at breakneck speed. It couldn’t be healthy, and according to the more stuffy prescripts of their people, not something to be desired. Though he did desire it. He desired it so terribly.

Fingon was panting, already, and saying, “I know, I know,” and yes, he did.

It was odd, Maedhros thought, how easily people mistook their relationship for something other than what it was. His brothers certainly did so, even perceptive Maglor. They assumed that he was the power behind the throne, and that all commands issued forth from Maedhros’ lips to find a place in Fingon’s ear.

After all, Fingon had not especially wanted to be king, and had said as much in others’ hearing. And he was not expected to be a very good king, though he did sometimes surprise people with his competence.

But he was the king, and Maedhros was not, and of all the words he could pour into Fingon’s ear, the only ones he chose to speak were these: yes, more, and harder. And sometimes, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Fingon thrust between Maedhros’ scarred thighs and came quickly. With one last regretful sigh, he said, “I do love making a union with Maedhros.”

Then he was quickly felled by a pillow, and ceded his spot at last, laughing.

 

 

 

* * *

The video quality was degraded, a copy of a copy. The original had been lost when the Hithlumhad crashed, leaving a crater ten miles wide in an already devastated land. Maglor had managed to rewire the holoscreen into rough working order, and suddenly the darkened control room was lit by the dirt-colored air of the battle-field. Men and elves, scrabbling to get out of the way of falling shrapnel, gave only brief flashes of their faces, pale or streaked with dirt and blood. It was dusk on the second day of the battle, and the hope of victory was still alive.

Maedhros dismissed everyone, and watched in the dark. Only Maglor defied him, standing at some distance, watching over his brother worriedly. Maedhros ignored him, his entire attention given over to what was happening onscreen.

“Coo-ee! Over here!” And jerkily, the camera changed direction, to show Fingon resting, his head lowered in his hands. Realizing that he was being observed, he sprang up again, his weariness apparently forgotten.

He said, “What do you have there, Huor?”

The cameraman’s fingers wiggled in front of the screen. “It’s for posterity, sir. I thought you’d like to say something.”

Fingon smiled, pulling his helmet off his head. The shelling had stopped, momentarily. Fingon rubbed at the smudge on his cheek, grounding the streak of oil deeper into his skin. His braids, usually the neatest thing about him, were a mess, mostly undone and half of the gold twists were missing.

Fingon asked, “What shall I say?”

Just then, Húrin poked his head onto the screen. “Morwen, my love!” he said, his voice too loud for the microphone, the static-y feedback reverberated around them. Fingon and the others began to laugh, but Húrin was unbothered. He continued, saying, “Don’t be too angry with me! And take care of the boy, he’ll need you.”

With that, Húrin was out of frame. Fingon appeared again, the camera steady on his face. “Maitimo,” he said cheerfully, “I hope you do not make me wait too long for you. You know how impatient I can get.”

Someone behind him made a muffled joke and there was a burst of laughter. Fingon flushed underneath his layer of grime and turned to give a sharp retort, when a large explosion rocked the ground beneath them. The lull was over, and the fighting began again, in earnest. Huor left the camera running, and he rushed into the fray.

It kept running, the action garbled and hurried. It kept running as the night fell over the valley. The last time Fingon appeared, he was looking even more worse for wear. His helmet slightly crooked, he shouted, “Utúlië 'n aure! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatari, utúlië 'n aure! Day will come again!”

His voice echoed through the silent room, and down the halls of the ship.

Suddenly, a large body fell and knocked the camera off its perch. The dark obscured everything, and then there was blood, bright red and steaming, that splattered against the glass.

The screen went dark, and the lights came on again.

“I did not come in time,” said Maedhros, his voice flat.

Maglor knew better than to try to comfort him.

 

IV. The advancement of your children
gentle lady, is our aim.

Contrary to expectations, being kidnapped by space-pirates was not particularly exciting.

Most days seemed to be spent making sure their flying deathtrap of a ship (the only protection they had against the cold vacuum of space) stayed aloft. Elros liked being here more than Elrond did. Elros always wandered around, trying to persuade anyone he encountered to show him how to shoot a blaster or throw a knife. Because of the general disposition of the crew, he had plenty of teachers.

When Maglor caught him, though...

Elrond, on the other hand, went out of his way to avoid the crew, and Maglor, and even Elros. He got to know the ducts and secret passages of the ship well enough, and he had with him a collection of books. They were stolen mostly from Maglor, though the sweet feeling of thievery was mostly ruined by Maglor asking later if he had liked the book, and if he would like to read others like it?

 

There was a good chunk of the ship that both he and Elros had free run of -- Maglor did not especially subscribe to strict notions of child-safety. The mess-hall, the engine rooms, the command room, even the weapons room -- they could go to all of these places, if they liked. (And there would always been a quiet crew member watching to see that they did not do anything wrong, or else Maglor himself.)

But there were parts of the ship that they could not go. Maglor had explained that there was nothing there that could of interest to them, nothing at all. And his expression, usually unsettlingly calm, became agitated when they asked why.

“It’s not important why,” he had said, giving away to impatience at last, “just do it.”

The forbidden part of the ship -- a good half of the whole ship, in truth -- was given over to Maedhros. The very mention of his name could put a shiver down the twins’ spines. Both of them remembered how the Havens burned, how their mother had -- how she had disappeared -- while Maedhros had appeared instead, terrible and covered with blood. It was not an image that anyone could forget.

Elrond had taken Elros’ hand, and they had run for their lives.

In the end, it was Maglor who had found them and brought them here.

 

He told them that it would be better for all if they would leave Maedhros alone (because Maedhros had not wanted them here) and not go to his part of the ship. (Maedhros did not like the sound of children.) As the years passed, and the twins grew bolder in their explorations, that advice had become a rule, one of Maglor’s few.

But today, Elrond planned to sneak into the forbidden part of the ship. He wasn’t afraid, of course not, no matter what Elros said. Elrond had not cried since Mother died (turned into a bird, flew away, and as young as he had been then, Elrond could not quite believe that) and the Havens burned. And in any case, Elrond could so be as brave as Elros, braver, even, and that was why he was determined to break the one rule Maglor had set them.

He wanted to see Elros’ face light up with admiration and envy when he told him about it at supper.

Elrond was very small and very light, and he made his way through the ducts easily enough. There was one hideous moment when he thought he would be caught -- when a crewman looked right at him as he was putting a box of rations back on the shelf -- but no, he was still free. Carefully, ever so carefully, he crossed over from the part of the ship that they had free access to -- Maglor’s half -- into Maedhros’ half, which was expressly forbidden to them, unless they were with Maglor.

Elrond sniffed the air, but it smelled the same as it did in the rest of the ship, just as stale from being recycled from hundreds of lungs over many, many years. It wasn’t much darker than the the rest of the ship, either, though it was deserted. Elrond thought of how crowded the ship could get, especially at meal times, and wondered why all this space was needed for only one person.

He crept to the stateroom. It was darker than the rest of the ship, lit only by tiny recessed lights in the back. He couldn’t see very much at all --

Something tore away the cover the duct and grabbed him. A cold hand squeezed at his throat; inhumanly cold, like a corpse’s hand. There was a metallic tang in the air. Elrond could taste his own blood, he was choking --

“What are you doing here?”

A voice, rough with disuse, rasped in his ear. Inhuman. Elrond struggled desperately against his iron grip. Maedhros had released his throat, but still he was not free. He kicked and kicked, until he made contact with Maedhros’ knee, and Maedhros let him go with a curse.

Elrond scrambled away, but before he could open the door, it opened for him and Maglor hurried in, Elros trailing in behind him. Elros took in the scene quickly -- his brother, white and shaking -- but upright -- in front of him, and Maedhros rubbing his knee, grimacing.

“Neylo, what did you do?” said Maglor, his voice like a jangle of glass shards.

“Elrond beat Maedhros!” said Elros, in awe.

“This -- child -- came in here without my leave.”

“Come here, Elrond,” said Maglor, and for once, Elrond did not hesitate to obey him.

“Adar, please,” Elrond said, his voice tremulous with fear, and Maglor lay a hand on his shoulder. Maglor liked it when the twins called him father, or gave them any sign that they had accepted him as family. Elrond knew this well enough.

Maglor took him and Elros back to their room and tucked them in into their bunk beds. A quick dry kiss tickled briefly on his forehead. Then Maglor bend down to do the same for Elros.

“I’m too old for that stuff,” Elros said loudly, rubbing his forehead in disgust.

Elrond peeked out cautiously from his bed. Maglor smiled at him.

“Is it all right?” Elrond asked.

Maglor nodded. “You mustn’t worry about it.” And then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

 

 

 

* * *

The next morning, Maedhros came into the mess for breakfast, a thing that had not happened for many long years. Stiffly, he apologized to Elrond, who watched him with huge, disbelieving eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Maedhros said, staring at some point just above Elrond’s head. “I was just startled and relied on instinct.”

Instinct, Elrond thought, yes, your instinct makes you a killer.

“And it won’t happen again,” said Maglor firmly, coming to stand by his brother.

Maedhros shot him an unreadable look. “No,” he agreed slowly, “it won’t.”

Elrond and Elros exchanged glances. There was much more going on here than they could know.

From then on, Maedhros took a more than cursory interest in them. He was better at fighting than most, and Elros was determined to learn from him. Elrond took no part in these lessons, content only to watch at a distance. It seemed to him that Maedhros was more relaxed with Elros than he was with him, as if he understood him better. He wondered if he could present himself as Elros one day, just to see what would happen.

But that would make Maglor unhappy, and Elrond found that he didn’t want that. As if summoned up by Elrond’s thoughts, Maglor came in and called the twins for lessons. Elros groaned, and asked if he couldn’t skip lessons today. Maglor gave a short laugh, but then he saw that Elros was serious.

Shaking his head, Maglor said, “Lessons must be taken every day.”

“Except on raiding days,” said Elros, sharply, and Elrond hid a smile.

Maglor’s smile faltered a little, and he gestured them to him. “Come on, then.”

“I think I’ll sit in on you today, Makalaurë,” said Maedhros, suddenly, putting his weapon away. Elros scrambled to follow him. Maglor looked less than enthusiastic, but he agreed.

They took their lessons in Maglor’s room, surrounded by the books that had been rescued when the Himring had been abandoned. The twins sat on a carpet that was worn bare at some spots, though it was kept scrupulously clean. The flowery patterns on it were quite beautiful, dark red and twisting. There were a few other pieces of bric-a-brac and furniture about, but the books overwhelmed everything else. They spilled from the shelves to the tables and then to the floor.

Elrond didn’t know exactly why his foster-father clung stubbornly to such artifacts, when it would be easier, more rational to download everything into holosheets.

But then again, Maglor was very, very old, and remembered the first time elves took to the stars. There was an old saying in the Havens (which themselves were not very old, but had existed before Elrond was born and so were ancient) that the elves were of the stars, and men were of the earth -- was it such a surprise, then, that their fates were ever sundered?

Elrond came from those who had mingled the stars and earth together, that had come together as stardust, and he felt the pull of the earth below him as much as he did the longing to be among the stars. He knew that Elros felt it too.

“Daydreaming again,” said Elros, his elbows digging into Elrond’s side. Elrond scowled, and batted him away. They scuffled for a few minutes, before Maglor cleared his throat.

“If you are quite finished? Elros, you start off. What have you learned from your readings today?”

Mechanically, Elros listed off the offspring of Finwë with his second wife, Indis of the Vanya. There was Fingolfin, who went on to be the High King of the Noldor in exile, and Finarfin, who was -- presumably -- the King of the Noldor remaining in Aman. Maedhros, who was listening at the edge of the room, stirred. “You’re forgetting your great-great aunts, Lalwen Irimë, and Findis. Really, Maglor, what are you teaching these children?”

Maglor said quite calmly that neither Lalwen nor Findis came into the story as much as Fingolfin and Finarfin did. Maedhros made a rude noise, and said, “Lalwen did more than Finarfin, at least. She went into exile with Fingolfin, and died in the crash of the Hithlum. I believe she refused to evacuate and managed to to pilot the ship into a deserted spot.”

At the wide-eyed stare from both of the twins, Maedhros shrugged. “For us, family history is also just history.”

Quickly, Elrond asked, “About that. Is it true that your nephew Celebrimbor is a clone of your father?”

Elros gave a surprised cough --they weren’t supposed to talk about that! -- and Maglor began to massage his temples, very slowly. Maedhros asked where Elrond had learned about that, but Elrond would not say.

“Well, he’s not, poor boy. He is the result of some -- experiments that my brother made, centuries ago, when he mixed his own genes with our father’s -- I did not approve, of course, but Curufinwë never obeyed me if he could help it. But Telperinquar is an elf entirely other than his father or his grandfather. He is free from our --” Maedhros shrugged again. “Our obligations. Much to Curufinwë’s disappointment.”

Elrond and Elros exchanged glances. Then Maglor demanded to see how their tegwar was progressing, and eventually, they became more absorbed with the intricacies of writing than the oddities of their shared family history. They continued on this vein for a few more hours, meandering through the subjects Maglor thought important.

At noon, lunch was brought in - simple things, bread and dried fruit - and they ate quietly and in peace.

In the afternoon, both of the twins were curled up in Maglor’s bed, a blanket spread over them, though both protested that they weren’t sleepy, not in the least. “You don’t have any more questions, today, Elrond?” asked Maglor, as was their tradition. Elrond always had more questions.

As Elrond considered his options, Maglor brushed a stray lock of hair away from Elrond’s face.

Elrond shifted so he could look at Maglor closely. Behind him, the shadows shifted, and Maedhros emerged from the gloom. Something sparked in Elrond, and he asked, in as innocent of a voice as he could, “Adar, could you tell me about Doriath?”

Elros, beside him, sucked in his breath. Maglor retracted his hand as if he had been bit. Maedhros laughed, low and dark, and looked at his brother. “Yes, brother, tell him about Doriath.”

“I would rather you tell it, Uncle Maedhros,” said Elros suddenly and Maedhros fixed him with an unsettling grin.

 

“You are brave,” Maedhros said with approval. “Not many grown-ups would want me to tell them about Doriath.”

He told them first of things they already knew -- Doriath, the planet with endless forests and a hidden people, its atmosphere protected through the cleverness of the Maia who was Elrond and Elros’ great-grandmother. Maedhros paused and said, “I myself never met Melian, or Thingol, for that matter, though my cousins tell me that she was not a person that you could easily forget.”

Maglor, who was listening as much as the children were, snorted. “Oh, yes, I’m sure Artanis learned much from her.” Maedhros gave him a side-eyed look that Elrond couldn’t read, though Maglor smiled back at his brother and the mood seemed to lighten a little.

Impatient now, Maedhros said, “You have heard of Luthien and Beren, I think?”

“Naturally,” said Elros. Elrond nodded. Maedhros went on, as he had not heard. After the Nirnaeth, there was the trouble with Húrin’s son -- a monstrous brat, Maedhros said flatly, and Maglor piped in to say that Beleg had been an extraordinary elf. Saintly, even.

“And what about later? When you decided to attack?”

“Do you really want to know all that?” said Maglor.

“Yes,” Elrond said, keeping his eyes on Maedhros.

And so Maedhros told him of the letters to Dior that went unheeded, of the bitter winter that had settled upon Doriath as the last of the Maia’s protective Girdle dissipated, of how its other defenses were pushed to the breaking point by the loss of their most experienced captains.

The sons of Fëanor had no trouble at all, coming in, though eventually they came under heavy fire as they approached Menegroth. There were miscalculations on both sides; the Fëanorians were not prepared for the ferocity of the Doriathrim, protecting their homes, and the Doriathrim had underestimated the determination of the Fëanorians to recover the Silmaril, at any cost.

“I will not lie to you -- though I suppose I could, and say it was for your own good -- we did not come to Doriath expecting an easy time of it. But we did not expect such a bloodbath, either.”

Maglor said, “Our brothers Curufinwë Atarinkë, Morifinwë Carnistir, and Turkafinwë Tyelkormo all died that day.”

Elrond said, “As did Dior Eluchíl and Nimloth of Doriath.”

Elros said, “As did others whose names we do not remember.”

“Ah, the disadvantages of a Fëanorian education,” said Maedhros.

There was a long silence. Maglor took out his harp and began to tune it, idly, as Elrond watched. The evening stretched out before them, strained and somehow momentous.

Elwing, with a Silmaril on her neck, hovered in the edges of everyone’s minds, but no one would mention it.

One of the twins asked, “What really happened to Eluréd and Elurín?” Under the blanket, they reached out for each other’s hand.

“This is not the right time for such conversation,” said Maglor. “Neylo, please, let them rest, they are only children.”

Elrond wanted to say, no, we are nine and have lived longer than our uncles. We are not children. Elros squeezed his hand and they exchanged a look. They were in agreement.

Maedhros pushed the hair from his face in an impatient gesture, making a show of not hearing what Maglor had said. Elrond watched the metal of Maedhros’ right hand flash dully against the red of his hair, like a sword in a sea of blood. They stared at each other for a moment; then Maedhros looked away. “I do not know,” he said, finally. “I never found them, there was no hint of where they might be. I came back and killed the ones that did it instead...”

He shrugged. Another kinslaying, two more names on a long list.

Elros asked, “If you had found them -- alive -- what would you have done? Would you and Maglor have raised them, like you are raising us?”

Maglor had finally had enough. He got up and shooed Maedhros away, not letting him answer the last question. Then he turned to the twins. “You may stay here, if you like, or go back to your rooms,” he said, kindness and guilt radiating from every word. But Elrond looked and saw another Fëanorian, alive while the others were dead, one who had his family’s blood in his hands.

Sleepily, he pulled at Elros’ hand. “We’ll go to bed in our room, Maglor.”

Maglor said, “If you’d like.”

 

 

* * *

“Maglor says you were the best big brother anyone could ask for,” said Elrond to Maedhros one day. They were waiting for Elros and Maglor to come back from market, docked on a small rocky outpost at the edge of Gil-galad’s territory.

Maedhros, who was leaning against the metal doors, lifted his head and examined Elrond with muted interest. “Really?” he said, considering. “Would you like some brotherly advice from me?”

Elrond shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“Yes, I’m sure you won’t need it.”

“Was Maglor married once?”

Maedhros accepted this seeming non-sequitur with a nod. “Yes, he was. I suppose you can’t quite tell?”

“Not really. What happened to her?”

“What else could happen? She died, of course.” He said it as if it were obvious, as if death were an inevitable consequence of loving a son of Fëanor.

“What about you? Were you married?”

Elros, coming up from the dusty road, gave a shout and waved to Elrond. Maglor staggered up behind him, hauling large bags of vegetables behind him. Elrond waved back and went out to help them.

As he left, he heard Maedhros say quietly, “Yes. He died too.”

 

 

 

* * *

Elros wanted nothing more than to have his own ship. Elrond, nervous, ruffled his hair and bit his lip. “But...but then you’d be a pirate.” Like them, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Elros kicked up his heels, scruffing his new boots against the walkway. “Better a pirate than a prince, didn’t Maedhros used to say?”

“Maedhros is full of crap. And he’s. You know. Mad.”

Elros snorted derisively. “He’s not mad. He’s the least mad person I know --”

“You know a lot of mad people then, Ros.”

“Happens that I do. Did you know, he told me me that if given a choice in the matter, he’d choose to die like Men do? A life without an end is unbearable, he said.”

“Well. He should know about ending lives.”

Elros squinted at the sky above them, brightly lit with stars. One in particular shone down on them, brighter than the rest. It was new. Stars, Maglor had said, were ancient light, coming to them even after the star itself was long dead. But the star above them wasn’t like that. It was a Silmaril. It was their mother’s Silmaril, his father’s responsibility. Elrond could barely remember his father at all, just a pair of work calloused hands and bright golden hair that shaded his eyes.

Eärendil had traveled for a long, long time, and far, far away.

When Maglor and Maedhros saw the new star, they exchanged glances but said nothing about it. Elrond wondered if they would hare off and try to capture the star -- if such a thing was possible -- but Maglor shook his head, looking very weary. “Impossible. It isn’t -- it isn’t quite there, you see. It’s like Aman, in another place. Quite unreachable to us.”

It was when the star appeared that things began to change again. There were rumblings of a massive campaign in the offing, of a war that was to be fought -- the Valar would finally make their move against the Enemy at last.

“Countless dead, whole civilizations destroyed -- some of them that, to be honest, I myself helped destroy -- and only when a Silmaril falls in their hands do they finally chose to act,” said Maedhros over dinner, his bottle of pilfered wine dangerously low. “That’s what I call priorities.”

“May I be excused?” Elrond was already up before Maglor could dismiss him. He went to his bunk, his legs now too long to fit comfortably in it (Elros had already moved to more comfortable digs with the rest of the crew), and curled up with a book. It was a book of poetry, some of Maglor’s old stuff, naive but beautiful, and Elrond went to sleep with Maglor’s rhymes echoing in his brain.

He was shaken awake a few hours later. Elrond blinked in the dark, before making out pale face looming over him. It was Maglor himself. He said urgently,“Get up quickly, Elrond, and start packing.”

“What? Why?” Elrond got up too fast and banged his head quite hard against the bulkhead, He groaned and clutched at his brow. “Are we under attack?”

“No, nothing like that. Get up now, I’ll help you.”

Elrond didn’t have much in the way of possessions and Maglor didn’t seem to think he would need his clothes. His stomach was churning, and he felt more nervous than he had ever felt in his whole life, but Maglor refused to tell him anything. Their ship was landing, Elrond realized, as they walked out together into the hall where Elros and Maedhros waited.

From the muzzy expression on his face, Elros looked as confused as Elrond felt. A soft ding echoed through the ship, indicating that it had landed and the atmosphere outside was breathable. The remaining crewmembers, partisans of Maedhros and Maglor to the bitter end, gathered behind them, quietly waiting for the blow to fall.

Maedhros cleared his throat. “Well, that’s the end.”

And he said no more, only glancing at Maglor.

Maglor seemed to gather himself up and said, “Elrond, Elros, outside is the territory of Ereinion Gil-galad, your distant cousin. He will see to your future happiness. Good luck to you, children.”

“What?” Elros said, panicked.

“Why now?” asked Elrond, clutching at his small bag of possessions, as if he was afraid someone would try to snatch it away.

Maedhros looked impassive, but Maglor’s eyes were suspiciously bright. His beautiful voice shook a little when he said, “It’s all right. You’ll understand later on that this is the best thing we could’ve done.”

“But -- Adar, please don’t send us away.”

Maglor looked stricken and was about to speak when Maedhros interrupted him. “Listen here. See those men and women behind you? They’ve followed us for a long time now -- some even came with us from Aman. We can no longer keep them with us. They are to follow you now, and I hope that you can lead them well.”

Elros and Elrond looked at each other.

The farewells were subdued and quiet, their baggage unloaded on a deserted beach, far away from anywhere. Maglor took turns embracing both of them, whispering encouraging things in their ear. When it was over, they all had wet cheeks, though Elros scrubbed furiously at his.

Maedhros stood aloof, a tall figure scratched into the blurry mix of mist, surf and sea. When Maglor was done saying goodbye to the twins, he lurched forward, offering Elrond his hand.

After a little hesitation, Elrond shook Maedhros’ hand, the metal cool against his sweating palm.

“I hope you get what you need,” Elrond said, quietly.

Maedhros cocked one russet-colored eyebrow. “Don’t you mean what I deserve?”

Elrond shook his head.

Elros didn’t wait for Maedhros to come shake his hand. He sprang on him, crushing him in an enormous hug. Elros was still growing, and though he was not (would never be) as tall as Maedhros, they could see eye-to-eye now, almost. “Thank you,” Elros said, pulling away at last. He was smiling, and Maedhros laughed. It was a genuine laugh, at odds with the rest of him.

“You foolish boy,” he said, and Elros only grinned.

There was a low hum of another ship coming in low, and the sons of Fëanor took their leave. Elros and Elrond and the rest of them watched their ship go, knowing that they would never see Maedhros and Maglor again.

They waited on the beach for a few minutes more, some pacing up and down the sand, and others were content to watch the water. Elros threw stones into the surf, and Elrond stood with him, handing him smooth stones when he wanted them.

The ship landed in the same place the Fëanorians’ ship had. The doors swung open and a tall, dark haired elf tumbled out. He was followed by another elf, also dark-haired, though a little shorter than the other. The second elf took in the beach and its ragged-looking crowd with evident displeasure. He was rather splendidly dressed, in a long red robe beautifully embroidered with golden thread, like the court-robes that Elrond had seen in some of Maglor’s books.

Maedhros and Maglor must have worn such things too, when they were princes in Aman, though it was hard to imagine that.

His companion was less impressive, wearing a dark blue shirt with only a little silver thread on its hem, and black breeches. Elrond blinked when he realized that the blue-elf had been speaking to him. “How was your journey? I hope it was not too onerous on you. We had planned to come earlier, but it was better this way, don’t you think?”

Elrond looked at the red-elf, who looked serene now, and a bit regal besides. He said, “Excuse me, but are you Gil-galad, by any chance?”

The red-elf’s mask-like face cracked at once, though a full out grin seemed still to be below his dignity. The blue-elf began to laugh. He said, poking the red-elf’s side, “See, Erestor! I told you not to get dressed up for them! You’ve quite upstaged me.”

And then he turned to Elrond and said kindly, “I’m afraid that this noble-looking creature is Erestor, one of my advisers. I’m not nearly so impressive. The name’s Ereinion Gil-galad, at your service!” He stuck a hand out and Elrond shook it.

Gil-galad’s hands were calloused and tanned, tougher than Elrond expected from royalty.

“I’m your cousin,” Gil-galad continued, “though exactly how, I wouldn’t be able to tell you just now. How do you do?”

Elros, who had been watching the drama unfold quietly, took Gil-galad’s hand shook it. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Elros. The idiot next to me is my brother, Elrond.”

They spoke about what to do next -- there was more people on the beach than Gil-galad’s small ship could manage. Elrond did not take much part in the conversation, he was afraid that he would make a fool of himself again. But soon it was decided that all could be fitted into the ship, though it would be a tight squeeze.

And what was more, Gil-galad did not seem to mind Elrond’s earlier mistake at all. “It happens more than you’d think,” he said, confidentially to Elrond, as they moved back onto the ship and got things sorted. “Maybe I’m just not the royal type.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Elrond said, though he had no idea what it was. Gil-galad shrugged, and then began asking what sort of experience he and his brother had.

“We’re not so desperate for soldiers that we would send rank beginners into the fray, but I do not want to tread on your toes if you should happen to be very good.”

“Elros is the fighter,” Elrond said, “he was Maedhros’ protégé, not me.”

At the mention of Maedhros’ name, Gil-galad sobered a bit. “My father used to say that the sons of Fëanor were -- if nothing else -- excellent at fighting.” He bit his lip, and looked uncomfortable.

Why, Elrond realized with a start, he does not want to offend me by insulting them.

He wondered if he should tell Gil-galad that no, he would not be insulted. Well, he shouldn’t be insulted. Though he was, a little, which made him look away and peer out the window. The sunshine was weakly pushing through the thick glass.

When Elrond turned back to Gil-galad, he was speaking “So, you’re not a fighter.” Gil-galad was smiling again, and Elrond reflected that he did that a lot. It was odd. “Are you a lover, then?”

And his smile sharpened into something a little more than friendly.

Elrond blushed -- which was absurd, but -- “Not at all. I’d like to be a scholar, if I can. And a healer, too.” He had actually never thought much of the last thing, but he felt like he needed something more to add.

Gil-galad nodded. “We can start you on those things, at least. There are plenty of people who will be eager to tear your education apart and put you back to into decent shape, but for now, rest for a bit. I’ll go see how Elros and Erestor are getting on.”

And since the other end of the cabin was characterized by a particularly chilly silence, it did not seem as though they were getting on at all. Elrond leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and fell quickly asleep.

 

 

 

* * *

It was years later when Elros was about to depart finally to Númenor, when Elrond asked him, “It’s not because of Maedhros, is it?”

Elros startled, said, “Because of Maedhros? What?”

“That you want to die?”

“Elrond! You of all people should understand -- I don’t want this because I will die --”

“But first you’ll get old, and get wrinkles on your face, and your back will begin to ache, and then you’ll begin to stoop and your joints will pain you, your body will begin to fail and -- Ros, I’ve seen the Men who come into the houses of healing. There is no true healing for them at all, only a few more years of suffering and then -- nothing.”

Elros smiled, “You don’t believe in the Second Music, brother?”

Elrond frowned, and said, “I think it is a very cold comfort.”

Elros looked at him, and Elrond looked at Elros. They were no longer mirror images of each other. The difference between them, that were tiny at first -- tanned skin from a summer sailing there, a hair-cut, to better fit in with the Men here -- had wrought a complete change in Elros. Though Elrond was conscious that he had changed too, albeit more slowly. As it was now, people could no longer look at them and say, oh yes, they are twins.

Elrond reached out and rubbed his fingers against Elros’ cheek. The stubble felt strange and wrong, but Elros laughed, lines creased in the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Elros said, “Not all change is bad! And I don’t think being unchanging forever is the ideal life, myself. Imagine how bored you’d get--”

Elrond began to protest, but Elros interrupted him. “I want to grow, El, and change, and yes, and one day I will die, but I will leave something behind for others to follow. Something worthwhile.”

Sullenly, Elrond said, “It’s not like elves don’t have children.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

Elrond laughed, suddenly, struck by an old memory. “Imagine! Here is my brother Elros, sitting in front of me, telling me so earnestly that he wishes to build and guide his people to greater wisdom... when once his greatest ambition was to be a pirate!”

Elros looked sheepish. “Perhaps it better to be a king than a pirate.”

They said their goodbyes, and Elrond stood next to Gil-galad when it came to watch Elros sail away to his future, and to his undefined end.

 

IV. Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace
Have no delight to pass away the time
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

 

That it should be so easy was almost an insult.

Eonwë would not have them slain; he bid them only to take the jewels and go. The oath, he said, was forfeit, as was their claim on the jewels. But if that was true, who else had a better claim to it? Certainly not Eonwë, looking cool and nonplussed as he stepped over the bodies of the dead. He gleamed like he was still in Aman, and Maedhros, who had not thought of Eonwë for a long, long time, thought for the first time how much he disliked him.

He took the lead box that contained the Silmarils and nodded to Maglor, who fell into step behind him. Their swords were out as they headed back to the ship. Elves followed them, giving them a wide berth. The crowd was mostly silent and grave. At the head of it was Maedhros’ half-uncle (the only one still alive) Finarfin, who looked outraged and sick to his stomach at the same time.

Maedhros paused for a moment, and Maglor bumped into him with a muffled curse. He looked at his uncle, and Finarfin looked back at him. Surely it was not the best time to inquire about lost family members. (He no longer felt that old stab of pain that the thought of Fingon usually brought, as he was so far away from the person he had been, when they were together.)

Instead he said, “I am sorry about Ingoldo, uncle.”

His uncle looked bewildered, as did the rest of the crowd. Behind him, Maglor groaned aloud. Finarfin seemed to gather himself up and said, “He had been rehoused, and has finally married Amarië. His son is with me, Maitimo. Come along, we shall talk about it.”

Maedhros shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid I cannot.” It was as if he was turning down a dinner invitation instead of --- what he was doing. The dead part of his heart began to snap and whine. Ask about Fingon. Ask about him! Has he been rehoused? Has he forgiven me?

But he turned and left without another word, with Maglor close behind him.

 

 

 

* * *

They landed on a deserted beach and staggered out of the ship, blinking in the weak sunshine.

Maglor held out the box to Maedhros, who took it. “Two for two,” he said, slowly.

The wind howled around them, snatching greedily at their hair. Awkwardly, he tore open the box and the jewels fell out onto the sand with a soft thud. A cold glow lit the beach. Maglor shuddered, and Maedhros braced him.

They stared at the Silmarils.

Maedhros said, finally, “Fuck it.” Maglor, who hated most kinds of profanity, considering them expressions for the creatively bankrupt, said nothing.

The world held its breath as Maglor picked up one Silmaril and Maedhros picked up the other.

The next few minutes was a blurred confusion. Maedhros rushed back to the into ship, ignoring Maglor’s shouts. Maedhros calibrated the autopilot and released one of the auxiliary vehicles. It land on the beach with a heavy thud.

He settled into the captain’s chair, and held the Silmaril to his chest. His good hand was unusable now, and his other was a hunk of melted slag, but still he held stubbornly on, the light leaching the color from his face. The ship was on its final course, traveling across the skies.

 

Down below, Maglor’s hands were burning, charring. He took a moment to stare at the Silmaril before he hurled it into the sea. The water swallowed up the jewel swiftly, and the light perished.

Maglor wondered what he should do now. Drown himself? He was already knee deep in water, the surf pushing against him. He collapsed into it, letting the water and sand suck at his skin. He pushed his burning hands deep into the water, but there was no relief, none at all. The wind began to pick up again, raking at his hair, the salt burning against his cuts and bruises.

He looked to the darkening sky and wondered, what now?

Meanwhile, on the ship, Maedhros set the Silmaril down on the controls, its light casting a cool glow in the room. His right hand was wreck, twisted metal fused to his skin. His whole hand, the left, was a twisted shape, balled into a fist.

He watched the clock. Only a few hours now.

He was weakened, for the Silmaril had burned into his chest. But still he got up and made his way to the stateroom. It was a wreck. Hissing in pain, he kicking away the clutter, the debris of a few decades living in the same place. In Aman, and on the Himring, he had kept his quarters scrupulously clean, believing that control in some aspects of his life would help him just to get on with life.

Afterwards, it did not seem to matter.

A soft chime reminded him that another hour had elapsed.

With a groan, Maedhros sank into his bed, and immediately fell into fitful sleep.

He dreamt. He was back in Aman, on a day lit by the soft mingling of Treelight, silver and gold. He shaded his face against the brightness, and was pleased to see both of his hands were present and unmarked. Maedhros shook his head ruefully. It was only a dream, after all.

There was shouting, a tumult of boys’ voices that came to him from far away. In the distance, he could see his brothers and cousins playing and fighting together. It made no sense, as not all of them had been children at the same time. But still he sat and watched them for a while, until a figure separated itself from the crowd and came running towards him.

 

The figure resolved itself into Fingon, dust-streaked and smiling. He collapsed next to Maedhros in a heap of messy limbs and tangled braids. He grabbed at Maedhros to steady himself. He felt real. Maedhros could feel his pulse beating out a familiar rhythm.

Fingon asked him, “Is it time?”

“Not yet.”

Fingon sighed, and stretched himself with a contented sigh. “I’ve waited for you.”

Maedhros nodded. “Stay with me?”

Fingon gave him a look, bright with compassion. “I’ve always been with you.”

 

 

* * *

The chimes woke him. Over the intercom, the countdown started. He got up, stiffly. With dull surprise, he found that his shirt was soaked through with blood. He did not remember where he had gotten the wound. He rooted through his cabinets until he found a fresh white shirt. His last. Pleased by this inevitability, he shrugged it on, trying not to get more blood on it than necessary.

“You’ve certainly changed things,” said Fingon, appearing at the doorway. “I would help, but I’m not really here.”

“No need.” Maedhros came to the door, and Fingon slid away. “Where are you going?”

Fingon said, seriously, “Aren’t you going to show me your prize?”

The Silmaril was where Maedhros had left it. The countdown was running down.

An hour left.

Maedhros sat in the captain’s chair and began to uninstall the failsafes. Fingon made a few passes over the Silmaril, its light burning through his translucent hand. He remarked, “I never cared for them at all, the Silmarils.”

“Is that so?”

Fingon looked up, humor in his shaded grey eyes. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“No.”

For a while, there was no other noise except the countdown and Maedhros’ ragged breathing.

“The boy reminded me of you,” Maedhros said, finally.

Fingon looked puzzled. “What boy?”

“Elros --” he did a few mental calculations, it was beginning to be difficult to think -- “Turgon’s great-grandson.”

“Oh yes?”

“Stupidly brave. Last I heard of him, he had chosen to be counted among Men, if you can believe it.”

“We have known many great Men, have we not?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros, closing his eyes and leaning against the chair. “We have.”

Then he frowned and said, “His brother is another story.”

“A brother?”

“His twin. Elrond, I never quite liked. I suppose it was because he reminded me too much of myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would have liked that.”

Thirty minutes.

His shirt was soaked through, again. His one good hand was crumpled into a fist. “I left Makalaurë on the beach. Otherwise he would have insisted on coming with me. That’s twice now that I’ve abandoned him.”

“He’ll understand why you did it.”

“Will he? I don’t understand half the things I do anymore...”

“Poor Maitimo, you are very mixed-up now, aren’t you?”

Fifteen minutes.

“I’m sorry I got you killed.”

“Never mind about that now.”

Ten minutes.

Silence.

Five minutes.

Maedhros forced open his hand and took up the Silmaril again. He caught Fingon’s eye.

“You were the best delusion,” he said.

Thirty seconds.

 

Everything burned white.

 

The End.

---

Chapter End Notes

Though as characters and as people, neither Fingon nor Maedhros are much like Richard III, I have borrowed freely from that particular play, because stealing from the Bard is fun and some lines are oddly appropriate.