Give Your Heart (The Cold Hard Earth Remix) by Agelast

Chapter 1

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I. A Pulled Thread

Young Nelyafinwë knew more about death than anyone in his generation had cause to. Death, for other children, came with the stories of the long march, one of the many perils of Middle-earth that their parents and grandparents had gladly left behind.

But Nelyafinwë knew better.

He had been quite young when his father (over the objections of his mother) had taken him to the gardens of Lórien -- to see the spot where Míriel Þerindë had laid down for the last time. It was a quiet place, and very green, both the grass below Nelyafinwë’s bare feet, and in the waving leaves over his head. There was no indication, no slight depression on the grass to indicate where Míriel had been. Only his father knew it now.

But Fëanáro was silent, apparently lost in thought. But when Nelyafinwë took his hand, he squeezed it tight.

Nelyafinwë tried to think of what he would say to his grandmother if he had the chance to see her. Certainly, it would be different than the cheerful chatter he engaged with Sardë, his mother’s mother.

He looked up again to ask a question when he saw her. She was a small woman, hardly taller than a child. Nelyafinwë practically towered over her, though he was still young -- his father said that it was likely that he would be the tallest of the family once he reached his full height. But despite her petite stature, Nelyafinwë was sure this stranger was not a girl, straying into their path by accident. Her eyes were ancient -- and sad, and her hair was the color of pewter.

She held out her arms to him and he saw that her hands were red and cracked.

“Let me see you,” she said and smiled hesitantly, as if she did not know how to smile -- or had forgotten how to do so. Her small teeth were like seed pearls against the red velvet of her mouth.

Nelyafinwë shook his head sharply and took a step backward.

The gardens of Lórien was a place of dreams, Nelyafinwë knew (because his mother had said so when she dressed him this morning) and so this was a dream. All he had to was open his eyes to make it go away.

Nelyafinwë’s knees sagged and he stumbled heavily against his father’s side. Fëanáro shook him gently and said, “Well, your mother was right, as always. You are too young to have made the journey. Do you want me to carry you back to the horses?”

“No,” Nelyafinwë said, “I am all right now.” He never mentioned his vision to his father, or to anyone else, not even his mother when she had asked, worried, what made him so still and quiet that night.

Death, he thought, is not such a neat thing as he had been told. The dead did not always keep to the Halls of Mandos. He shivered in his bed and regretted not speaking to Míriel. Perhaps, in his dreams, he could have another chance…

 

II. Ashes in the Wind

“Do you hear that?” Amrod asked, uncurling from his spot on the floor.

He was thoroughly dirty, covered in ash and dirt so that he looked almost grey, as if all the color in him had been leached dry -- starting from his hair and working downward.

Maedhros shrugged. It was not unusual to hear fell voices in the air, and it seemed that they had grown louder since his father’s death.

“I don’t like it,” Amrod said, getting up.

“Mm. Go to bed then,” Maedhros said absently and led him to the door. As soon as Amrod disappeared from view, Maedhros leaned heavily against the door frame. It had been built, specifically, for an Elf of his particular height. Details like that were what made this house, and others like it in the settlement huddled around Lake Mirthrim not seem so slapdash. Otherwise the haste in which they were built would have been unconscionable.

The local Sindar had watched them build with amusement. They were wanderers, for the most part, and lived in no fixed abode. One of them, a woman who was their informal leader, had asked him, “Why do you build here? Why not go somewhere warm before winter comes?”

“We will build to keep the wind out,” Maedhros had replied. And indeed, the wind was stronger now, whistling through tiny cracks that he was sure he hadn’t put there.

Along with it, he thought he heard his father’s voice.

Fëanor only said the same thing, over and over again. This was in itself, difficult to accept. In life, Fëanor was always bursting with new words and ideas. In death, buffeted across the harsh, new landscape of Beleriand, Fëanor whispered only the Oath into Maedhros’ ear.

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords -- .

Maedhros mouthed the words along, a force of habit. Dread nor danger, not Doom itself --

He turned away from the hall and shut the door behind him. Outside his little room, the wind rose and grew harsher.

Shall defend him from Feanor, and Feanor’s kin.

On Maedhros’ desk, there sat a letter, whose paper was of a strange and probably unspeakable provenance (“Elf-skin,” Curufin had quipped after seeing it and laughed at the glares he received) and the message, written predictably in blood-red ink. Maedhros picked it up and read it again, though the paper felt greasy and unwholesome against his fingers.

It was from Morgoth, and offered to treat with him, as king to king.

Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth

Maedhros scoffed aloud. If his father really was standing in front of him, Fëanor would say that nothing in the world would get him to trust Morgoth’s words. Nothing, but…

A Silmaril.

 

III. Followers

Maedhros watched as the line of people going up the hill from his little outpost on the the road. Below him was the valley and above him loomed the great bulk of Himring. The wind was brisk -- some would call it cold, but he prefered to think of it as invigorating, fresh. And he badly needed to be invigorated -- after three weeks on the road, sleeping rough, and overseeing the slow movement of people from Hithlum and to Himring -- even Maedhros’ energies had begun to ebb low. The fortress itself was only a third of the way finished -- many buildings did not have roofs.

At least he had timed it right -- it was high-summer, and in any other place, the weather would have been hot.

Still, it was a dangerous business -- not all the defenses were in place and he felt exposed. But fighting the feeling, he turned his attention to people filing past him, observing them with mute appreciation. They were a valiant lot, having volunteered to follow him -- they were both of the Noldor and some of the more adventuresome Sindar. Those who he had known the longest had also come, despite how Maedhros’ past mistakes had lost them their fathers, brothers, friends.

Maedhros had been so arrogant then! Bursting with pride, he had gambled and lost -- lost his best people in the battle of Angband. There had been Lalindo, of the quick smile and ready jest even in the darkest of times. He had grown up with Maedhros and had followed him through the chaos of Aqualondë. Lalindo had been killed first, taking an arrow to his eye.

The fight had quickly turned desperate. It was obvious that the Morgoth’s army vastly outnumbered Maedhros’ party. It was simply a matter time until Maedhros’ forces were defeated.

(He thought now, though at the time it had been unthinkable.)

 

Vórimë who had been killed last, defending him until she could not. She had been stern, taciturn woman, a warrior from the days of the March. Maedhros had not quite known why she had decided to follow his father back to Middle-earth. She had been a better fighter than Maedhros was -- he had only survived because Morgoth’s captains had orders for him to be taken alive.

In his mind’s eye, he could see them -- Vórimë and Lalindo, and all the others that had died -- even the ones that had frozen on the Helcaraxë -- as a part of the endless line that followed him... Forever and ever.

The wind blew against his face and Maedhros blinked. Enough of that. He needed to think more about those who would call Himring their home and less about those who were beyond such things.

He turned away, and began to make the slow climb up to the fortress.

 

IV. Turn

“I told you not to move,” Maedhros said impatiently. Fingon rolled his eyes and stilled, presenting his profile for Maedhros’ scrutiny.

Of the skills that Maedhros regained after the loss of his hand, one of the least consequential must have been that of making candlelight silhouette portraits. In Valinor, for a time, it had been something of a fashion to make silhouettes of friends and family, a light evening’s entertainment before moving on to other more serious pursuits.

Maedhros had inherited little of the vast creative power of either his parents -- in the arts, at least. But he could, however, be relied upon to turn out a good silhouette.

There was a small easel by him, and a stick of charcoal in his hand. The large, white candle threw Fingon’s shadow across the page. A perfect silhouette. There was something pure about the curve of the cheek, the sweep of lashes looking downward, and heavy braids threaded with gold.

“Let me see,” Fingon said impatiently, half-turning and reaching for the page.

“No,” Maedhros said, pulling the paper away from Fingon’s grasping fingers. There was a brief scuffle. The paper tore and fluttered to the ground. Maedhros bent to pick it and when he looked up again, Fingon had gotten up, facing him.

The atmosphere shifted and grew strange -- Maedhros’ stomach dropped, as if he riding fast downhill. Fingon regarded him sorrowfully, his expression incomplete. Char and bone and blood had done much to change this most familiar face.

“Please listen, Maitimo,” Fingon said desperately, his teeth moving over his half-lipless mouth.

But Maedhros cried and woke to the sound of the wind coming through the flap of his tent, fluttering the pages of an old sketchbook.

 

V. Spring

The fortress at Amon Ereb had been a dismal place when Caranthir had built it, and the years had done nothing to improve it. Maglor waited for Maedhros’ return, or else news of his demise. Neither came. He thought he was going mad.

Days and weeks fled from him, until one day the door to his study opened with news of his brother’s return. Maedhros had a broken ankle that he had been dragging across the country, as well as many cuts and bruises along his face and arms. He endured the healers' attention long enough to have his ankle set and his wounds patched up.

Maglor hovered in the background, feeling as useless as he had when Fingon brought his brother back from Angband. Maedhros caught his eye and beckoned him closer. The healers discreetly withdrew, after extracting a promise from both of them that Maedhros would neither stir from his bed nor have any cause for excitement.

Maglor took a chair next to Maedhros’ bedside and stared at his brother.

Maedhros stared back at him. Then he wet his lips and said slowly, “There was once an Easterling woman -- one of Bór’s folk -- who claimed that she could talk to the dead.”

Maglor raised a weary brow. “Is that so?”

“It was. I met her when she was dying -- of old age, though that was hastened by an Orc-arrow, in the end. She told me… she said to me that it was very easy to talk to the dead. The problem lies in how to get them to stop. She was right. I do not know how to make them stop.”

“Nelyo…”

“Will you not ask how my mission went?” Maedhros asked, and then he smiled. Since returning from Angband, Maedhros' smile had become almost as difficult to endure as his wrath, but Maglor had more experience with both than most.

Maglor cleared his throat and said, “I assume that you did not find Dior’s sons.”

Maedhros shook his head, still smiling. "No, I did not. I wandered long through the woods, looking for them. It’s funny -- when Findarâto was alive, he would describe the woods of Doriath so lovingly and in such detail that it was as if I was there myself! I grew sick of his descriptions, in truth. But they were nothing like how he described. But why would they be? They were stricken on to death -- all life had fled there. Only I walked through the woods, and I am all but dead.”

“Oh, Nelyo, that isn’t true…”

“I called their names, until my voice failed me. I do not know what they looked like. I imagined them to be -- like Ambarussa, twins, but in truth I had no idea… “

Maedhros’ voice cracked for a moment and he coughed, and forged on ahead. “I saw them all,” he said, “Atar and Curufinwë, Tyelkormo and Carnistir, all of my dead…”

Maglor stopped pacing.

Maedhros went on, as if he had not noticed, “Even those who had perished in Helacraxë, in battle… Even Findekáno…”

Maglor said, “Please, brother. Have some pity for yourself.”

“Why? Do I deserve any?”

“I will not battle with you, though I know that is what you want.”

“What I want -- I want so much to be stopped, Makalaurë! And I need to be -- and that is what happened in Doriath.”

“What?” Maglor said, crossing the room and taking up his old seat.

“Nothing,” Maedhros said flatly. “Only that I was stopped.”

Maglor shook his head sharply and said, “You broke your ankle.”

“I must have stepped on some brush, hidden by the snow because the ground gave out under me. I was hardly aware of it.”

“Who stopped you?”

“Did I say --?”

“Tell me.”

“A woman’s voice told me they were safe.”

There was a long silence.

“Melian? But she -- ,” Maglor stopped himself and got up, his movements deliberate. “I am keeping you from your rest. We will speak about this later.”

Maedhros said nothing, and turned away.

*

Maglor came in Maedhros’ room few weeks later and found it empty. Struck by a sudden dread, he raced down the hall and down the stairway to the open courtyard below. He shouted for someone to attend to him and ready his horse. Still in a state of panic, he was stopped short by the sight Maedhros himself, standing there in his riding clothes, waiting for his own horse to be led to him.

“Brother,” Maedhros said with bland courtesy. “Will you ride with me?”

“Your ankle…”

“Completely recovered,” Maedhros said shortly.

Maglor did not miss a spark of something in his brother’s eyes, something that promised make this ride a memorable one. “All right,” Maglor said evenly. “Let’s go.”

Winter had finally thawed into spring, raw and fragile thought it was. Maglor glanced at the small buds on the trees and idly wondered if he had already made all possible rhymes having to do with the first green leaves of the season.

Maedhros stopped in front of him and Maglor stopped, tensing, his hand reaching out for the hilt of his sword, and pulled up beside him. “What is it?”

Without turning to look at him, Maedhros said, “I have decided to put aside the Oath, for now. Do you have any objections?”

Hope, mad and irrepressible, bubbled up within Maglor. He almost choked saying, “No! I have no objections.”

For the first time, his brother turned to look at him and gave him a wry, almost painful smile.

“Good.”