Hand Over Fist by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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Here are his hands, as beautifully shaped as the rest of him. Admired, worshipped, sometimes stained with ink. They are not untalented hands -- good for crafting speeches, writing essays, recipes, and an odd bit of doggerel -- though, regrettably, not adept at forgecraft.

Here, a little brother grabs his hand and holds on tight.

 

He has blood-stained hands. First, he gathers up what remains of Finwë, confused, for death is a mystery, but the culprit is clear. Then there are others, the mariners of Aqualondë, whose names he does not know.

 

The Oath, the doom, he is caught.

 

What of Fingon the Valiant? His father's laugh is high and fey, and is picked up by the wind. Maedhros douses his torch into the churning water, but it is far too late. The ships burn.

 

Fëanor’s ashes trickle through his fingers and blow away. The oath still echoes in the wind.

 

They take his gauntlets away, and they smash his fingers. He does not think he will see them healed, but he is wrong. They grow back crookedly and are smashed again.

 

Fifty years he hangs, his right hand no more than a claw, bloodless and useless. Still there is pain when Fingon cuts it off. The pain tells him that this is real and no delusion.

 

Fingon, his valiant mutilator and beloved cousin, presses his lips against the knuckles of Maedhros' remaining hand. His mouth is warm though he speaks of years of ice and snow.

 

“You cannot not forgive me so easily,” he tells his cousin, but Fingon always disobeys.

 

“I can forgive you if you can forgive me,” Fingon says, and they both look at stump of his right hand, neatly tucked away from all but the most prying of eyes.

 

He gives up the crown easily enough -- it rested so heavily on his head. Perhaps Fingolfin will do better.

 

Eventually, he grows more deadly with a sword in his left hand than he ever was with his right. Sometimes he feels it, the missing hand, as ghostly shots of pain. He remembers that he has left a part of himself in Morgoth's tender care.

 

His hand smooths out the edges of the map and he points to a high and lonesome hill, not yet inhabited. There, he says. There I will be.

 

The years pass and he forgets nothing.

 

When it comes time to swear again to the new king, he looks up to see Fingon looking down. He is on his knees, and he knows he would not do this for any other king. He takes Fingon’s hands into his and kisses them. The metal of his rings tastes strange, of skin and salt, and blood still yet unshed.

 

There is a turn in the conversation, a subtle shift in mood, a chill in the air. They talk of small, insignificant matters, the movement of regiment of soldiers to the east rather than the west, how the harvest is progressing. The news from Nargothrond.

 

Fingon’s mouth tightens and Maedhros scowls, unwilling to make excuses, or to apologize for the actions of his younger brothers. They are stuck at an impasse.

 

Later, he has a handful of Fingon’s braids and he pulls them taut. Fingon bucks against him but he holds his lover tight. Fingon's hands grip at Maedhros' thighs. Fingon breathes harsh and fast. Maedhros bites at his shoulder and Fingon gasps, my love my love, my love.

 

A scrap of Fingon's banner still survives. He wraps it around his finger, the silver and the blue unrecognizable under the grit and the blood.

 

He kills now without thinking. There is nothing he can feel, nothing he can make right. Doriath lies buried under a blanket of snow. All is hushed, and the drifts of white cover his footprints. He shouts their names, the little princes, and he is answered by a mocking echo. Frost creeps into his vision until he is blinded. The dead look back him through the cracks of his hand.

 

He dictates a letter to Elwing under a driving rainstorm, the water drips through the hole in the tent and marks the paper, makes the ink run. The letter itself lacks a certain finesse, he would be the first to admit.

 

It is repetitive, sacking a town only to have the Silmaril slip through his fingers. More dead brothers, more to bury. Maglor comes back, leading two ashen-faced children by hand. Maedhros does not protest, but then again, Maglor does not ask permission.

 

There it is, at last. The Silmaril. How it burns! The flesh of his remaining hands blackens and curls around his father’s jewel. He is aware that the world waits for him to speak, to justify himself one last time.

 

He cannot do it. The earth swallows him up, the Silmaril still clutched to his chest. Now it burns in the heart of the world, and he is gone.