Even More About Maedhros by Himring

Maedhros and the Palantir

Maedhros has just finished collaborating with Feanor on the first Palantir.
The Palantir is launched at a major reception in Feanor's house.

Written for Huinare's June of Doom & Gloom Challenge on LiveJournal.

Rating: General (but see warnings)

Warnings: some dysfunctionality, foreshadowing, canon outcomes

Characters: Maedhros, Curumo (Saruman), Feanor, Mahtan, Olorin (Gandalf)

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"Perilous to us all are the devices of an art deeper than we possess ourselves."

Gandalf
("The Palantir" in: The Two Towers)

 

After a series of astonishingly similar conversations with the more important and illustrious among the Noldor, Nelyafinwe Maitimo discovered he was near the door, took the opportunity and unobtrusively sidled through it. In the hallway, he stopped, took a deep breath—and blinked. There was a subtle movement against the light and he realized that apparently one of his father’s guests had left the room even earlier, just ahead of him. It was a Maia, so much was evident, probably one of Aule’s, but at first that was all Maitimo could discern. He frowned a little. The figure in the hallway shifted imperceptibly and solidified and Maitimo recognized him.

‘Lord Curumo,’ he said politely. ‘Are you being called away? My father will regret missing the chance to say goodbye to you. But thank you very much for your visit on this auspicious occasion!’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Maia named Curumo in his deep, resonant voice.

Maitimo regarded him a little warily. His attitude towards the Ainur in general tended to be one of respectful incomprehension and he was painfully aware that, not being a Maker, he lacked a means of communication with Aule and his Maiar that the Aulendili in his family like his mother and his grandfather seemed to possess. Nevertheless, he had a feeling that Curumo’s utterance was unusually cryptic even for a Maia.

‘I hear you are to be congratulated, Nelyafinwe Maitimo,’ said Curumo suddenly.

‘Thank you,’ said Maitimo. ‘But for what?’

‘You collaborated with your father on the Palantiri, did you not?’

Ah, it was just going to be a variant of the same conversation again after all?

‘No, not really, Lord Curumo. As you know, Father had already discovered the salient principle.’

‘Are you sure you are not being modest?’

‘Indeed, no! It was only when King Olwe requested stones powerful enough to communicate with each other all the way across the sea between Alqualonde and Avallone—for although Father’s original stones worked perfectly, they were not nearly strong enough for effective communication across such a distance, being no larger than pebbles and basically just interesting toys —I believe you saw them, didn’t you?’  Maitimo paused briefly, waiting for an affirmative, which did not come, and continued: ‘It was only at that point that Father called me in to assist. I did a little extra theoretical research for him, to his specifications. It saved him a little time. He was able to augment and channel the effect more quickly—and so he was able to hand over the first of the stones to Olwe today. The second one is almost ready for use as well, just as he announced, and so instant communication with Avallone is only going to be a matter of weeks!’

Of course, most of this had already been said, more than once, in the room they had just left, and he was rather wishing it did not need quite so much repeating.  The shape of the Maia wavered slightly before his eyes, as if heated air was rippling between them. Then it solidified again.

‘The hands and mind of Feanaro,’ said Curumo in that strangely resonant voice of his—and nothing more than that.

No, really, there definitely was something odd about this Maia’s behaviour, Maitimo decided. But who knew what moods Maiar might be subject to? For all he knew they might sometimes find their own moods as inexplicable as he found his.

‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly. And because, at least for a Noldo, the silence was getting distinctly uncomfortable, he added: ‘I will bid you farewell then, Lord Curumo, at this time, but hope you will honour us with your presence again soon,’ and  went up the stairs to his room. It felt impolite to abandon a guest in the hallway, but it felt even more impolite to keep forcing a conversation on him, as he seemed unintentionally to be doing.

But, as he climbed the stairs, he forgot about Curumo the Maia. It had been an awkward conversation, certainly, but considering the high proportion of relatives among the guests that had attended the occasion, perhaps not even the most awkward one he had had that day…

Maitimo shoved aside the thought of the conversation with Indis that had somehow not gone as well as it should and the conversation with Nolofinwe that had started promisingly and then gone wrong for no discernible reason.  There would have to be yet another round of mending fences sometime, but he had not come up here to think about that. He stood in the middle of his study, taking stock, and allowed himself to feel the sinking feeling in his stomach.

There, on his desk, lay in a neat stack his final set of notes on the Palantir as his father had returned them to him, with an orderly tick at the bottom of each section that marked it as incorporated, dealt with, as Feanaro worked through the pages. And on a shelf in the far corner, less neatly, a small stack of notebooks lay piled where he had hurriedly abandoned it when Feanaro had asked him to help him work on the Palantir: his last unfinished project. He closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct, without looking at those notebooks to jog his memory, what exactly it had been about, where he had got to, what conclusions he had reached—and why he had thought it was interesting.

He should have worked out how to deal with it by now, but it went on happening, every single time. His father demanded his help and Maitimo jumped at the chance to work with him. Of course he did! Who would not have?  It was cutting-edge research! It was the best game in town! His father wanted him!  And of course the Palantir in particular had offered fascinating insights into principles of time and space that a part of him was still trying to wrap his mind around and into the structure of Eldarin consciousness—not to mention the diplomatic advantage of having such a major new technology to offer Olwe and the Teleri.

It had been intoxicating, all of it—breathlessly studying his father’s notes on the underlying principles, long hours of immersing himself in calculations and research in the library, the heady thrill of participating in ongoing discussions with his father and his father’s apprentices. It had monopolized his attention almost completely for more than a year. And then it was over. Feanaro, Maitimo knew, already had his next project in mind, one for which Maitimo’s assistance would not be required, and was itching to get the rest of the Palantiri made and delivered to Olwe as fast as possible so that he could get on with it. Maitimo’s help would not be required for that either.

Maitimo was left to pick up the threads of his own work as best he could. It was, he reminded himself firmly, a privilege. It was a privilege to be allowed to work with his father occasionally. It was also a privilege to have the opportunity to work on his own projects, even if his scholarship would never draw the attention of all Valinor as his father’s did, or indeed the attention of most of his own family—yes, despite the fact that so often, in his field, there were no tangible results he could show anyone at all. He simply should have taught himself how to handle the transition better.

He walked along his shelves, greeting books he had neglected over the past year by trailing his fingers apologetically along their spine, carefully straightening Principles of Just and Equitable Government to preserve its worn binding and giving it a small reassuring pat. Maybe he just needed a rest, he ruminated, or maybe what he needed was a little private talk with one of his cousins—Findekano could usually be relied on to share his interests—although relying on Findekano and his hero worship seemed rather like cheating, sometimes—and Findarato had such broad sympathies that he made it easy to forget that his real passion was for stone and any form of carving, architectural or sculptural. Maitimo just had to sort out his thoughts a little.

He returned to his desk, picked up the sheaf of notes and weighed them in his hand, hesitating. They represented a great deal of—meticulously summarized and condensed—work but, now that Feanaro had gone through them, they were already superseded. His father never simply adopted anyone’s results; his mind was always busy refining anyone’s work that he incorporated into his own. There was not much reason to keep the notes, really—he could just throw them away, clearing his working space and, simultaneously, his mind. But he sat down and quickly leafed through them, just in case, flipping through pages of orderly formulas and successions of numbered paragraphs. Suddenly, something caught his eye and he turned one page back over again.

There, clearly as an afterthought, he had added a note, squeezed into the margin: Communication of thoughts and intentions will be much amplified. Possibility of misuse? Consider installing safeguards?  And there was no tick, no comment in his father’s hand, no sign that he had taken any notice of it at all. Maitimo had not remembered to mention that afterthought to his father in conversation nor had his father reminded him of it. However, now as he sat looking at the page in his hand, it struck Maitimo that, in all his work on the Palantir, this had been his only independent contribution. In everything else, however complicated the reasoning and intricate the procedure, he had merely been carrying out his father’s instructions, following his methodic guidelines and continuing his lines of thought. But this note had been his own initiative and his father had ignored it, as he so often ignored uninvited suggestions…

But hold! Maybe it deserved to be ignored? It was simply a scrawled note, an undeveloped thought, not a reasoned argument. Yes, the developed Palantir was a great deal more powerful than Feanor’s original prototype. Perhaps more care would be necessary in using it. But was there any serious possibility of its being misused? How, why and by whom? What kind of safeguards might be needed? He had worked out none of that. It had not really been a practical suggestion, merely the beginning of one, perhaps.  And were these even sensible considerations, here in Valinor? Although maybe…

Maitimo never finished his train of thought. There was the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs and then his father yanked open the door.

‘Nelyo, what are you doing up here?!’ exclaimed Feanaro, wine glass in hand. ‘How can you be moping around up here while everyone else is celebrating downstairs? Don’t you think the Palantir is worth celebrating? It’s not a real celebration without you! Come down at once!’

It was, as always when his father appeared on the scene, an effect almost like sheet lightning. The air crackled. The doorway did not seem large enough to contain as elemental a force as Feanaro and Maitimo felt all his thoughts blow away as in a strong blast of wind. He would have to sort out things for himself all over again, afterwards, he thought, as he obediently got up to follow his father downstairs and accepted the proffered glass.  But he could not bring himself to regret it—whatever else, his father was sincere and he could not help feeling gratified that Feanaro could not fully enjoy the celebration of his undoubted achievement without the presence of his eldest son.

The leaf Maitimo had held in his hand when his father came in, with its scrawled note, fluttered aside and was completely forgotten again. Despite that, by sheer serendipity, it survived the next major housecleaning and the next and then somehow went on surviving on the strength of not having been thrown away already until, a very long time afterwards, Nerdanel passed it to her father Mahtan, who glanced at it, sighed at the sight of the familiar writing that brought back memories of a long-lost grandson, and put it away.

Mahtan brought it out again to show Olorin when Olorin came to visit him after his return from Endore. Although Mahtan had not had a full report of the goings-on in Middle-earth yet and had been slow to ask for it, because of painful associations, he had heard a rumour that touched on the use of Palantiri in the recent War. He suspected Olorin might be interested in Maitimo’s marginal note and he was right.

‘Ah,’ said Olorin, regretfully. ‘I never spoke to your grandson, you know. He was sufficiently aware of me to be made uncomfortable by my presence but not talented enough to be able to communicate, so I stayed away from him. It was only later, in Middle-earth, that I really learned the advantages of face-to-face conversation… And besides I believed, then, that the Finwioni did not need me.’

He read Maitimo’s scrawled note again and thought of Curumo’s fate and of Denethor’s.

‘Excuse me a moment, Mahtan,’ he said.

And he went around to a sheltered corner at the back of Mahtan’s smithy, took on the shape of an old man, sat down and lit his pipe.

Sapphires

In Tirion, Maedhros has just emerged from his first public audience with his uncle, King Finarfin, after his re-embodiment. His former fosterling Elrond is at his side.

Ficlet written for Fandom Stocking 2014 for Winterwitch, who asked for Elrond and Maedhros (among others).
This piece is related very closely to my story "Something Un-Feanorian", which has a great deal more background on the shared history and emotional ties between Elrond and Maedhros, but I think it can probably be read as a stand-alone, too.

Rating: Teens (for vague "mature themes" reasons; no particular warnings)

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‘So that’s over and done with,’ said Maedhros, with a sigh, when they had reached the relative safety of the antechamber.

He brought up his hands and began extricating the string of silver and sapphires from his hair, pulling it free with evident relief. Registering Elrond’s questioning glance, he explained: ‘They’re Findekano’s, of course.’

He held the string out to Elrond by way of demonstration. The piece of jewellery sparkled in the light of the chandelier— silver and blue, Fingon’s colours.

‘I thought myself that sackcloth and ashes would have been more appropriate for my first appearance in public,’ said Maedhros. He smiled tentatively at Elrond, but then he wiped the expression off his face, as if he had decided it was inappropriate. ‘But Findekano argued against it—and I finally had to agree—it would not do to present too much temptation for those justly aggrieved to vent their grievances—I would not want to get anyone in trouble with the higher authorities by making myself too easy a target…’

His gaze drifted away, taking in Finarfin’s tasteful furnishings without apparent interest.

‘Elrond,’ he said. ‘Do you think, after everything that has happened, all I have done…?’ His fingers tightened around the string of sapphires. ‘Fingon…’ he said, almost pleadingly.

‘Maedhros, son of Feanor,’ asked Elrond, after a puzzled moment, ‘can it be that you are asking my permission to be happy?’

He had been more than half joking, but Maedhros seemed to take his question seriously, literally, even, and paused to consider it.

‘That would be entirely too...sneaky of me, wouldn’t it?’ he asked.

He was more accepting of Elrond's affection than he had been and had not questioned his offer of support in this difficult and potentially even dangerous situation. Nevertheless, he was clearly still inclined to regard it as irrational prejudice—or a healer's whim.

‘No,’ said Elrond hastily. ‘In fact, don’t ask anyone but me!’

The thought that Maedhros might take his cue instead from some of the more ignorant and malicious gossip Elrond had overheard—or the stony silence of others, however well founded—was unbearable.

Maedhros gave him a sceptical look.

‘Listen,’ said Elrond, ‘you never killed anyone when you were happy, did you? And you were never happy when killing anyone. It follows that being happy makes you a lot less dangerous to anybody…’

‘A very appealing bit of sophistry, Elrond,’ said Maedhros.

There was some mild reproof in the stress on the word "sophistry", Elrond felt, yet it was outweighed by gratitude.

They both fell silent when they heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind them, but it was Fingon who entered the antechamber. Almost at once, he seemed to spot the string of sapphires dangling from Maedhros’s hand and raised both eyebrows. Maedhros smiled lopsidedly in return.

It had taken Elrond some time to get used to the idea that Fingon loved Maedhros. And then it had taken him even more time to get used to the idea that Maedhros loved Fingon. For a while, it had disturbed him how Fingon kept fussing over the recently returned son of Feanor—bossing him around, almost. Maedhros, who had been such an authoritative figure during Elrond’s childhood, seemingly put up with it. Then Elrond had noticed, once, Maedhros silencing Fingon just by laying a pair of fingers lightly across his wrist. And Fingon, who had been in mid flow, had stopped immediately at that gentle touch, the expression on his face hopeful and attentive...

Now, as he saw how quickly—almost prematurely—Maedhros had removed the disputed ornament, Fingon shook his head, with an answering smile, and did not comment.‘That went as well as could be expected, I think,’ he remarked, instead. ‘And I gather our uncle thinks so, too.’

‘But not to be repeated too soon or too often?’ said Maedhros.

‘Not too soon, at any rate,’ said Fingon. ‘Speaking of which—let us go!’ He plucked the jewels from Maedhros's palm.

Elrond accompanied them out through the great double doors. At the top of the front steps of the palace he took his leave of them and watched them walking away down the street together. Fingon walked with a spring and a swing, ready to advance or defend, each step firmly planted on the pavement. At his side, Maedhros seemed to hover, almost, as if conscious that the ground beneath his feet might drop away at any moment, but nevertheless perfectly controlled. And yet they moved in harmony, those two.

Not exactly happy, no, thought Elrond, despite the conversation they had just had—but near enough for now.

Defensive Architecture

Maedhros and Curufin: two sons of Feanor and a fortress yet to be built.
With an epistolary epilogue.

Rating: General (no warnings)

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‘You want me to turn this hillock into a mountain?’ asked Curufin, regarding the high hilltop of Himring with a scepticism that perhaps it didn’t quite deserve. ‘Who are you taking me for? Aule?’

‘No,’ said Maedhros patiently. ‘I do not want you to turn it into a mountain. What I said was that Hithlum has barriers already that are defensible and we made use of them as we found them: the Ered Wethrin and also the Hills of Mithrim. These lands here are not so well defensible by nature. But if the Valar can raise the Pelori as a defence—and Morgoth can raise Thangorodrim—so can we make barriers, in our own fashion. But I am taking you for a Noldo, not a Vala!

Indeed, if all I wanted to do was to turn Himring into a mountain, I would not need your help, Curvo! All I would need is a great many Eldar carrying a great many stones up this hill and piling them up on top of each other—although I doubt it would be the best use of our time.  But we are Noldor, Curvo, and we do not aimlessly pile up rubble, we build!

I want walls, Curvo—walls to defend us against our enemies and walls to protect us against the weather of the world for I do not think winter will be kind up here. Since we came to Middle-earth, you have devoted much thought to perfecting the weapons and armour we had devised in Valinor. Now think stone, not metal! Make me a shield for a whole people rather than a single warrior! Can you do it, son of Feanaro? For if you are not willing to try, I will go ahead without your help!’

‘You will do no such thing!’ said Curufin. ‘Show me those plans of yours! Give!’

He grabbed the scroll proffered to him, unrolled it and shook his head exasperatedly.

‘No, no, no! Those splendid walls of yours are likely to fall down on top of you if you do that! Here, here and here! You could… Let me think…’

He stalked off muttering, scroll in hand, to inspect the hilltop more closely. Already, in his mind, the fortress of Himring was beginning to rise like a fair crown on the hilltop’s forbidding brow, surpassing anything he had built before...

Maedhros smiled. Curufin had taken even less persuasion than he had expected.

To my lord Nolofinwe, High King of the Noldor in Endore, his nephew Russandol, now of the Marches, sends cordial greetings and I hope my letter finds you safe and well.

Our project of construction at Himring proceeds apace. Curufinwe has just revised the plans again, incorporating a few tricks he learned by studying Dwarven masonry during a recent visit to Belegost. With the building style Curufinwe is now developing, I trust we shall not only succeed in making Himring a place of strength fit to hold against any assault from Angband, we can also make use of it elsewhere to reinforce the natural defences other locations might offer.

With my letter, I enclose another series of sketches made by Curufinwe’s hand and humbly request you, uncle, to cause copies to be disseminated as widely as possible among my cousins and your other commanders, if it so pleases you…

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for B2MeM 2015, for two prompts:

Prompt 1 (by Erulisse, alias Engarian):
Maedhros and Defensive Architecture:
The elves have left Valinor and arrived in Beleriand, a land of opportunity surrounded by enemies. How did elves who grew up in a land without need for major fortifications know/learn enough to build fortresses strong enough to withstand the forces of Morgoth as well as link to other fortifications, creating a line of defense across the landscape? Did they consult with Sindarin warriors? Did they have an intrinsic understanding of thick walls, arrow slots, draw bridges, portcullis entrances, etc? Was one style duplicated in all of the buildings by each "king" (brother) or was each construction totally distinct. Let your imagination go wild. At least one of the Sons of Feanor should be featured, but it doesn't have to be Maedhros.

Prompt 2 (by Amy Fortuna alias Starbrow):
Image Prompt: Fortress on a hill
http://starbrow.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1107/13196
Picture looking straight up at the side of a fortress on top of a rocky hill. Could be Himring?
(Picture is of Edinburgh Castle, taken by me - a fairly unique angle, as it was taken from the train line directly below the castle, one day when a train I was on stopped for a while.)

Quiet Moment

Maglor helps Fingon have a quiet moment with Maedhros--in his fashion.

Rating: Teens (merely to be on the safe side, no particular warnings)

Maedhros/Fingon

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Work Text:

‘You came alone, this time, Makalaure?’

It was childish to feel so disappointed—as if a seven-day festival had been cancelled without notice.

‘I am sorry, Findekano! We could not both travel west at this time and, when we discussed it, Russandol decided I should be the one to go.’

‘You have a letter for me, at least?’

‘I do, of course. Here it is.’

The letter was written in Maedhros’s own hand, in his own familiar style. That much was reassuring and comforting. But as usual the letter did not give very much away. How hard it was to have to try and read between the lines when Fingon had looked forward so much to seeing his cousin here, right before his eyes, and speaking to him in person!

…except that this time, for some reason, it was a little easier. As he read, Fingon almost seemed to catch a glimpse of his cousin’s face, an echo of his voice speaking softly to him and an impression—more scent than sight—of massive stone walls above a windy plain. And, almost, he seemed to read a promise that anything that came between them, yes, anything—whatever it was, whatever it might be—could be overcome…

He looked up. When had Maglor started singing? Singing so quietly that Fingon had not even noticed, so focussed had he been on his letter, and nobody would have been able to hear even a couple of paces away? But even as Fingon looked up, Maglor fell silent and sang no more.

***

Much later, he said to Maglor: ‘You could have told me.’

Maglor answered: ‘When my brother asks me not to speak of a thing, I do not speak of it.’

‘Did you truly think I would turn against him, if I knew?’

‘You forget that I spent much time with you in Mithrim and saw how you were together. He struggled hard to conceal it, but he did not succeed so well that you could not have seen for yourself how it was with him.  Nevertheless, you did not. I concluded you were not ready to see it—yet.’

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for B2MeM 2015.

Prompt by Silver Trails: Maedhros and Fingon spending time together sometime during the Siege of Angband. A quiet moment for them, in spite of all the problems around. Could include Maglor, or Caranthir, helping them to have this moment

The Stable-Master

Feanorians and horses: the story of Maedhros's stable-master.
Backstory for my OMC Celvandil, who had already appeared in several stories of the series.

A drabble sequence written for the Horse of a Different Colour Challenge at Tolkien Weekly.

Warnings for references to canonical violence, torture and suicide, and character death

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First Encounter

The first encounter between Maedhros and his future stable-master, in Valinor during the Time of the Trees.

 

After his first lesson, Maedhros carefully dismounted. The stable-boy waiting to have the reins of the tall chestnut handed to him to had to be the son of the owner. He seemed small to be handling such a large animal, but it was the prince his eyes were fixed on, round with awe.

'Thank you!' Maedhros said, smiling, trying to put him at his ease. 'My family travels a lot on foot, but now my father wants me to learn to ride. You look as if you know all about it and can give me a helpful hint or two!'

Celvandil drew himself up.

'The first rule is: Whatever happens, always get back on the horse!', he said, making his voice as deep as he could to quote his father.

'A good rule, that!' said Maedhros. 'I'll try and take it to heart!'

At first, Celvandil tried to be discreet, nursing the words that had passed between them to his chest. Wasn't he practically a member of the royal staff, now? But the next time he met his friends to play conkers, the secret spilled out. Soon they all knew he was teaching the grandson of their king to ride!

 

Alqualonde

Feanorian horses on stolen swan ships

Horses did not belong on ships. Most especially, horses did not belong on ships like these. Celvandil blind-folded the bay to coax him on board but the animal scented the violence and blood. It shied and turned at bay, almost trampling him. Dimly, it occurred to him that maybe he should not have brought his favourite horse on this expedition. Caught up in the action and the moment, he failed to ask, then, whether he should have been there himself.

Later he thought of the flight of the Noldor as a stampede, startled into motion, trampling people in its way.

 

First Ride

In Mithrim, after the rescue of Maedhros from Thangorodrim.

Celvandil is unable to speak with animals the way Prince Celegorm does, but for the most part the horses understand him well enough. After some thought, he chooses Allinte and has a good talk with her about things. Then they wait outside, he and the dapple-grey mare, until Maedhros emerges on Fingon's arm, discreetly supported by his cousin. Maedhros looks at the mare and then at Celvandil.

'The first rule is: Whatever happens, always get back on the horse,' he quotes, faintly. The corners of his mouth twitch a little. It is a mere ghost of Maedhros's old encouraging smile.

By the time Celvandil recognizes it, it is too late to respond, so they just get on with it. Between them, he and Fingon lift Maedhros cautiously into the saddle and then, slowly, they wend their way to the near grove to take a short turn along a path dappled with shivering leaves and the still-new Sunlight. All the way, Allinte, walking between them, mindful of her rider, is as good as gold. Maedhros says so, afterwards, leaning hard against her flank, too exhausted to stand. He places his hand on her withers and whispers his thanks into her mane.

 

Career Choice

In Himring. (Celvandil is now Maedhros's stable-master.)

'About the dun.'

'The dun?'

'Maglor's stallion--the one that won over the longest distance.'

'Ah yes, I've congratulated my brother on his victory.'

'You should ask to borrow him for a season, my lord. To improve our bloodlines...'

An unexpected silence.

'Ah, by the way. Speaking of which, Celvandil. I've been meaning to ask: Himring, stuck up on a high rock. Not so much scope here for a man of your talents? There would be more for you at the Gap. Or even--in Hithlum, with Fingon.'

News about the success of Fingon's riders against the dragon has recently reached them.

'My lord! I can see you're casting about for gifts to give your cousin along with that dwarven helmet. But I am not a gift! I cannot be given!'

Speaking as firmly as possible. Fingon's horses might be faster, Maglor's sturdier, but Celvandil has helped to build Himring with his own hands. He has a stake in this place and its people.

He hadn't guessed how much Maedhros shared his feelings on the matter until he see the relief on his lord's face.

'Ah, right. Good,' the lord of Himring says, 'I'll just ask my brother about the dun, then.'

 

A Dark Horse for a Dark Hour

After the Third Kinslaying

They might have been alone, he and the black horse, plodding through the night. He began to doubt whether he would ever find them again. Then the mist shifted and suddenly he came upon them, silent in the dark as ghosts unhoused, although--weren't they all dead or as good as dead already? They did not move or speak, merely watching him intently, and he felt a dull anger rise at the accusatory silence as he hovered, remaining ahorse, a few feet away. How dare they condemn him for treachery! Had they not all, all of them, betrayed Elvenkind heinously, three-times-kinslayers?

Still they did not move and he realized they were not condemning him, merely awaiting his final decision. Probably he was not the only one who had attempted to make Celebrimbor's choice and wavered. He had tracked them down--but so long as he remained mounted and separate, he could still change his mind again, turn around, seek out Gil-galad and repudiate all things Feanorian--or maybe take his black horse and hide out by himself in the woods, hoping against hope to be overlooked by the hordes of Angband.

But he made his choice--if it had truly been a choice--and dismounted.

'Where is...?' he asked but then Maedhros's hand closed gently on his wrist in warning.

Ceredir. Gone. Killed at Sirion.

He looked for Narye's face, already knowing he would have no comfort to offer for the loss of her cousin. He could not see her at first. They began to shift around him, and his gaze fell instead on children, two boys where none should be. He stared.

'Ah yes,' said Maglor. 'It looks as if they will be staying with us a little while.' His fingers hesitated over a small head, not quite touching black hair.

'This is Elrond.'

 

  Into White

During the end of the first Age, after the War of Wrath and Maedhros's death

'Take care, Celvandil', says Elrond, in his new healer's robes of pristine linen. He's worried.

Celvandil knows why. Morgoth may be defeated, but the sinking land is dangerous. Among the casualties, the number of Feanorians is high.

Celvandil does not think any have followed Maedhros into the flames, though, or been killed in revenge by Sindar. Robbed of both prince and purpose, it's easy to get careless. It's hard on Elrond, who takes both new and old responsibilities seriously.

'I will.'

Celvandil still has horses to take care of.

Almost everyone has fled Beleriand but a few Sindar stayed stubbornly in their homes, hoping the earthquakes would pass. Celvandil sympathizes. They wouldn't appreciate the comparison but he knows much about lost causes. This family would not be accepting help from a Noldo, let alone a Feanorian, if they weren't in dire straits.

In his arms the silver-haired girl he's carrying struggles, sobbing: 'Whitemane! Whitemane!'

Celvandil deposits her in the boat, rushes back, wrenches open the door to the stall. In panic, Whitemane knocks him aside and escapes just as the stable collapses.

Celvandil is pinned under a fallen rafter. He thinks his spine is probably broken. No use calling for help: soon, the water of the approaching tidal wave will be lapping among the wreckage.

'I'm sorry, Elrond.'

He had not meant to leave Maglor's fosterling, who has already lost too many in his short life, but somehow, he can't be too sorry. He imagines the silver-haired girl riding on Whitemane, joyously riding away into freedom. The image is so vivid; almost he can see them before his very eyes. Then everything empties into white.

---

Chapter End Notes

These drabbles were written on Word Online, using the provided word count tool.
According to that measure they were all true drabbles, double drabbles or triple drabbles of 100 words each.
But some of them have fewer words according to other methods of counting.

Notes on individual sections:

First Encounter

Written for the prompt "Chestnut" for the Horse of a Different Colour Challenge

Alqualonde

The prompt was "bay".

First Ride

The Tolkien Weekly drabble prompt was "dappled".

Allinte, as well as Celvandil, is a previously existing OC of mine. She appeared in the story "Just and Equitable Government".

Career Choice

"That dwarven helmet" is the Dragon Helm of Dor-lomin, originally given by King Azaghal to Maedhros and then by Maedhros to his cousin Fingon, after Fingon and his riders had temporarily defeated the first dragon.

The prompt was: "horse of a different colour - dun".

A Dark Horse for a Dark Hour

The prompt was: "horse of a different colour--black".
Switched back to past tense here--I guess I was trying to keep a bit more distance between myself and the events of this one...

Into White

The prompt was "white". In the first drabble, "white" is represented by "pristine linen".
The phrase "(empties) into white" is an allusion to song lyrics by Cat Stevens.

Maedhros Finds A Reader

Maedhros has recently been re-embodied after a very long time in Mandos and is living in Fingon's household in Tirion. During a temporary absence of Fingon's, he has been pursuing a writing project. At this point, he makes the closer acquaintance of a member of Fingon's household.

Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, OFC

Teens: rated for references to canon violence and vague allusions to mental discomfort.

Some use of Quenya names: mainly "Findekano" for Fingon; also Nolofinwe=Fingolfin; Nelyafinwe Maitimo=Maedhros.

Read Maedhros Finds A Reader

In the lovingly furnished study, Maedhros sat at his desk, staring at the empty page in front of him. Abruptly he began to write, but before he had quite finished recording a snatch of conversation that had taken place ages past, he paused, chose another leaf from the pile and wrote down a fragment of a song, stopped again, mid-verse, put both leaves aside, picked up a third and began a detailed description of a marriage custom. After a few sentences he stopped again and sat, staring blankly into the middle distance.

He sighed, wiped the nib of his pen and put it down. This was no use at all, he might as well give in, go down and hover by the gate.

 

 

Elsewhere in the household, there was a bustle of ongoing preparation, but the front lodge had been very quiet for the last couple of hours. I had spent them on the bench with my book, moving a little along occasionally to stay in the sunny spot as it shifted. As I read, I kept listening for the sound of movement outside in the street. There was none as yet, except for the occasional people going about their business, passing by without stopping.

But eventually, a soft sound came from the other direction, from inside. I looked up and saw a familiar tall figure, much closer than I had thought. His approach had been so silent that it had almost escaped my vigilance. I hastily shut my book and dropped it on the bench.

'My lord!' I hesitated, unprepared for this situation. 'My lord, are you planning to go out? Shall I summon an escort for you?'

Oh, please let me summon a guard or two, I thought--probably you would be quite safe out there, but I really would not want to face my lord Findekano if I let you go without them and anything bad happened...

He shook his head. 'Thank you, but no need to trouble yourself, Porter. I have no intention of going out.'

Ah. He had merely come to inquire. I suppressed a sigh of relief.

'I am afraid there is no sign of Lord Findekano as yet. I was told he would be arriving some time in the afternoon, but I was given no more details than that and there has been no further news, has there?'

'Yes,' he said, agreeing. 'No further news. Thank you very much, Porter.'

But instead of turning on his heel and going back inside, as I had expected, he just stood, looking at the gate.

'I suppose he could not quite predict how long it would take him up the Calacirya,' I said. 'And there could have been quite an amount of traffic to get through--there always seems to be some kind of market or other going on in some part of Tirion, on any given day.'

'Yes, I am sure you are right', he agreed again, politely, not moving.

How awkward, I realized. He did not want information or reassurance. He had simply come here to wait for Lord Findekano and I was being clumsy, somehow drawing unwanted attention to that fact. I wished I could go away and leave him to it, but I couldn't--it was my job to stay by the gate, after all. The next best thing, I supposed, would be to open my book again and go on reading, but somehow I couldn't do that either, not while he was standing there.

I had been on duty when Lord Findekano brought him in, the first time, having picked him up in Lorien, and I had been all afire with curiosity, of course. It was part of the reason that I had applied for the job--the chance to see heroes and leading figures of the earlier Ages stride in and out, observing them discreetly and without drawing attention to myself. Truth to tell, I had glimpsed very little of Nelyafinwe Maitimo, that first time, and what I had seen had disappointed me, to my secret shame.

This pale, gangly shadow being gently nudged through the gate, wrapped in Lord Findekano's cloak and shielded almost entirely from my gaze--this was the legendary Prince Maedhros who loomed so much larger than life in the tales of the First Age, whether for good or for bad? Even the stray lock of hair that escaped from the cloak seemed less red than I had imagined it. But since then, Maedhros had gradually recovered and I had seen him passing in and out in the company of Lord Findekano. He had had no occasion to speak to me then, however, although he would nod in greeting as Lord Findekano hailed me.

I had failed to stop Lord Nolofinwe from entering the premises, that one time. Nobody had reproached me for it. Playing porter to my Lord Findekano was supposed to be a light duty--I had not signed up to defend the household from the onslaught of my lord's father, a warrior king that Morgoth himself had not found easy to fend off. Facing an irate Fingolfin had been a bit more of a taste of the First Age than I had bargained for and the fact that others of the household had crumbled as well, that day, was only a limited consolation. But to mention that event to Lord Maedhros, even if only to apologize to him for my failure, would have been the depth of indiscretion.

Our exchange just now, such as it was, was the first conversation with him I had had. It was already more than I had counted on ever having, despite the fact that I had been set to watch the door of the place in which he now lived.

Still to remain sitting while he stood was beginning to seem a little disrespectfuI, even though it was surprise that had stopped me from getting up right away. I cleared my throat. He glanced at me, distracted from his important business of waiting. I indicated the bench beside me.

'Would you, perhaps, like to sit?'

Well done, I was offering him a seat on what was, to all intents and purposes, his own bench, no matter that nominally Lord Findekano held the sole legal title to the house! But he inclined his head and accepted.

'Thank you.'

I quickly moved aside to make more space and he lowered himself onto the bench. His legs really were very long. We sat for a moment in silence, looking at the gate. I could feel the tension in my back.

Then he said: 'May I, perhaps, ask you a question about something that has been on my mind?'

'Yes, of course.' But what could someone like him possibly want to ask someone like me?

'Let me first explain the background of the question a bit, if you will,' he said. 'Returning to Tirion after such a long time, I made it my business to find out what had happened in the meantime, after my death, both here in Aman and in Middle-earth. Findekano had anticipated my need and supplied me with the necessary books.

I found much to ponder there, much to rejoice or grieve over, but one thing in particular remained with me: the chronicles stated that, after the Fifth Battle and the War of Wrath, the Eldar took to distrusting all Men from the East and allied themselves by preference only with the Edain and their descendants, the Men of Numenor--as if all had been proved untrustworthy by Uldor's deeds and by the fate of Dor-lomin.

There is little I can do now to mend wrongs done in ages past or to meet the failed obligations of my House. But it seemed to me that this was one thing I could undertake: I would take up the pen in defence of those of my allies who remained faithful and who did not deserve to be thus forgotten and perhaps, having recorded what I knew and learned of the tribe of Bor, I would find a few words even to say about the tribe of Ulfang, for their betrayal of us was not such a simple matter that nothing more could be said about them.'

I nodded to show I was following, so far.

'And so', Maedhros continued, 'I began writing and, as I wrote, more and more came to mind that seemed worth reporting--events large and small in the Marches of Beleriand and also Easterling lore that I learned from Bor and his kin. But as I went on writing, doubt came creeping in. I had not, at first, spent too much thought on how I would persuade anyone in Aman to read this screed of mine. Perhaps I had imagined the notoriety of my name would serve me there!'

His lips twitched. It wasn't exactly a smile.

'But now--each detail that I add seems to support what I am trying to prove: that the Easterlings of the First Age were as fascinating a people as any of the branches of the Quendi and far too complex to be all tarred with a single brushstroke. But nevertheless every detail I add makes the work by that much longer. It is not, by any measure, the pithy epistle I originally set out to write. I do not regret the time spent, but I have to ask myself: who in Valinor is going to want to read all this? It is ancient history indeed, by now. So many millennia have passed! Findekano at least has been reading my drafts, but he reads my words simply because I wrote them. I do not need to convince Findekano or, if I needed to convince him at all, he would need far fewer words, far less explanation.'

Maedhros leaned forward a little, pointing at the book beside me on the bench.

'You, I can see, are a reader.'

I blinked. He had taken notice of my reading, had he? And not simply taken it as a sign that I wasn't paying attention enough to my job?

'And I believe you were not even born until long after the Time of the Darkening, is that so?'

I nodded.

'Tell me,' said Maedhros, 'if I have not already reduced you to boredom with my long-winded explanation--tell me, if I finish my work, do you think anyone in Tirion will want to read what Maedhros Feanorion has to say about Easterlings?'

'I will,' I said.

'You will?'

He gave me a penetrating look. I felt my insides cringe a little. It does not come easy to any of us latter-day Noldor, looking those who have seen the Light of the Trees straight in the eyes. Maedhros guarded his eyes better than some; probably, he had learned to, in Beleriand. But I had surprised him, apparently, and his full gaze had an intensity that I found very difficult to bear.

Mutely, I picked up my book and showed him the title page, by way of proof. He took his gaze off my face--immediately, I breathed more easily--and read. It said: "Cultural Sidelights on the History of the First Age".

I could have had a career as a historian at any of Tirion's academies, if I had not quickly established, by sad experience, that my temperament was completely unsuited to the requirements of teaching. I had decided to spare both the students and myself and remove myself from the pressure of the expectations of my colleagues as well, but I had not given up my interests.

Maedhros lifted his gaze to my face again, but before either of us could say anything, there was the sound of quick forceful steps outside. Determined to carry out my duties properly this time, I made a dash for the gate to open it for my Lord Findekano before he could impatiently thrust it open and barely succeeded.

Findekano entered and caught sight of Maedhros, who had risen from the bench to meet him. There was a moment of silence that was as eloquent as impassioned speech. It was clear that both of them had completely forgotten my presence--and that, of course, was exactly as it should be.

But it turned out that Maedhros hadn't forgotten my presence, not entirely. As he turned to follow my lord Findekano inside, he gave me a quick smile. He did not speak, but I knew, by that, that he would remember my promise to read his history of the Easterlings and that he would hold me to it.

 

The cousins walked quickly across the yard, through the front door and along a corridor, side-by-side. When Maedhros thought he had control of his voice again, he asked: 'How did things go then, in Tol Eressea?'

'All right,' said Fingon, in a completely uninterested tone.

He opened a door, pulled Maedhros through and straight into a hard embrace. Maedhros felt Fingon's hands ball into fists behind his neck. It had been too early to ask about Tol Eressea, he thought, he would ask again later.

'I missed you,' said Fingon.

It was only natural, Maedhros thought, that he himself should feel so jaggedly, painfully incomplete when Fingon was away, but he had thought a short break might even do Fingon good. Not that they had intentionally arranged it, either of them--they had merely decided, that it was too early after Maedhros's return for him to venture down into Telerin territory, without risking some kind of incident, diplomatic or other--and as the only route to Tol Eressea lay through Telerin territory, he had stayed behind when neglected business called Fingon urgently to the Lonely Isle. In any case, Maedhros was sure it was not good for Fingon to keep giving up everything else he had been doing to take care of him.

'Next time, I hope, I will be able to come with you,' he said, as he began to smoothing the tension out of Fingon's knotted back and shoulders.

What a luxury it was, really, he thought, to be permitted to miss each other so very fiercely, after such a relatively short separation, when in the past... No, he did not want to think about past separations just now.

Fingon relaxed with a sigh and stretched out against him. Behind Maedhros's neck, the fists uncurled.

'So how did the writing go, in the meantime?' Fingon asked, after a moment.

'Oh', said Maedhros. 'Findekano, I found myself a reader today!'

'You had one!' said Fingon.

'Another reader, besides you, I mean,' said Maedhros, giving him another hug. 'You had not told me your porter was an amateur historian! It should make the writing much easier, I think. I can think of her now when I am in doubt how to pitch my explanations...'

---

Chapter End Notes

 I am using the word "porter" here in a sense that is predominantly British: someone in charge of watching over the entrance of a large building.

Maedhros's "History of the Easterlings" exists as the drabble series I wrote. But what Maedhros is writing in this story is clearly a much longer and more complete work than that.

The episode with Fingolfin alluded to occurs in "No Way You Can Fall".

B2MeM prompts: B2MeM 2016: Memories. B2MeM 2015: Middle Earth Market-place: Maedhros and His Various Non-Elven Allies (prompt by the-disposessed). B2MeM 2012 Bingo: Love in Middle-earth card: B10: Across all the ages of Arda; All OCs, All the Time card: G46: A servant

Land of Mist

During his recovery, Maedhros for the first time encounters a natural phenomenon of the land of Hithlum.

Written for Virgiliana for Fandom Stocking 2018 and not cross-posted here yet, I think.

Teens: warning for aftermath of torture.

Read Land of Mist

Maedhros emerged from the small building and took a step backward, warily retreating again. He could not see, and he wondered whether he had succumbed to a delusion of the enemy. Or maybe it was a physical condition, a medical problem with his eyesight? His body still kept failing him in unanticipated ways, and a sudden fit of blindness would not have been the strangest symptom yet.

Fingon had quickly reached out to support him. However, almost immediately he realized that Maedhros had not stumbled out of momentary weakness, but was reacting to what was to be seen outside, in front of them.

‘Oh,’ he said, enlightened, ‘you will not have seen it like this before, will you? This is just very thick fog. The area is prone to it, especially now in autumn, because it is so wet, and even more so here, so close to the Lake. Nothing to do with the Enemy! It looks quite unfamiliar, doesn’t it, though, with that kind of pale, milky morning light filtering through? I hope it will lift soon, because, although it is not evil, it is not very convenient for the day’s work! It usually does go away some hours after sunrise.’

Maedhros studied the dense whiteness that blanketed their surroundings, carefully extending his perceptions outward. It indeed looked, smelt and felt quite different from the fumes of Angband—he had a clear sense of clean moisture—and he could make out a little more now of his surroundings, faint outlines of familiar objects, but only those that were very near.

‘It is fog,’ he repeated, grateful that only Fingon had been close enough to notice his disproportionate reaction to such a harmless phenomenon, quite unbefitting a prince who still hoped to lead. Which, it occurred to him just afterwards, was actually an advantage of the thickness of the fog, as it would obscure the movement and expressions of people only a few paces away! Fingon, on the other hand, had already pretty much seen it all, by now, so worrying about saving face with him was pointless and would have been a waste of effort.

‘Yes,’ said Fingon, matter-of-factly. ‘They have been calling the land Hisilome because of the natural fog and mist, not just because of Morgoth’s fumes drifting over from Angband and settling in the hollows.’

And half-alone as he was with Fingon in the privacy afforded to them by the mist, the name seemed to Maedhros very appropriate.

---

Chapter End Notes

Hithlum (in Quenya "Hisilome") is the canonical name of the country around the Lake of Mithrim where Maedhros is recovering and translates as "Land of Mist".