Maps by grey_gazania

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Chapter 10: Fingon

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Maitimo's physical condition continued to improve, but he was still plagued by nightmares and, in his waking hours, by fits of panicked terror that left him shaking and short of breath. His mental state seemed to be deteriorating, and twice we had to turn his brothers away because he was in too much distress to see anyone.

 

"It's because he's safe now," Carnistir said one day, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

"I don't understand," I said. We were standing outside, where our conversation would not disturb Maitimo's sleep.

 

"He's safe," Carnistir repeated. "Before you rescued him he was..." He trailed off, making a frustrated gesture like the words he wanted were just out of reach. "He was just hanging on," he finally said, "and I know that's a poor choice of words, but it's the truth. Now he's safe, and he can't help actually thinking about what happened instead of just trying to survive it."

 

I had done my best thus far not to think about what had happened to my beloved, not to think about the horrors hinted at by his hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, by the web of scars that covered his skin, by the way he tried to push us all away when he was still half in dreams. (No had never held so many shades of desperation back in Valinor.)

 

If Maitimo was reliving whatever hells he had seen even in his waking hours, it was no wonder that he was distressed.

 

Before I could respond, Carnistir said, "If you're about to ask me what to do about it, don't bother. I don't have any more of an idea than you do. I'm just doing what I did for Makalaurë after Melindil died."

 

Melindil. Makalaurë's wife. I had heard that she had been killed, though I didn't know the exact circumstances of her death. But now was not the time to ask. Maitimo's wellbeing was my priority, not Makalaurë's. Instead I said, "You should sleep. I know you were up with Maitimo all night.

 

"I should," he said, though he seemed to struggle with the admission. "Take good care of him until I— Actually, you know what, I don't need to say that. I know you'll take good care of him."

 

With that, he turned away. But it was a rare thing indeed for Carnistir to place his trust in anyone outside his own family, and I found myself strangely touched by his faith in me.

 

***********

 

Maitimo had been sleeping when I left his room, but when I entered now I found him hunched over, his breathing harsh and his head resting in his hand. Taking care not to surprise him, I approached slowly and took a seat beside him on the bed. "Another nightmare?" I asked.

 

He raised his head to look at me, and I saw again the shadow of his pain clouding his eyes once-bright eyes. In a hoarse whisper he said, "I do not think I will ever be free of them, Káno. I do not think I will ever be free of him."

 

There was no question as to who Maitimo meant by him. We were alone, so I embraced him and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. "You are free of him now, Maitimo. He will never lay hands on you again. I swear it."

 

He shook his head, his body rigid in my arms. "I wish you had killed me when I asked," he said dully. "Why did you not kill me, Káno?"

 

I considered my answer for a long time before speaking. "Maitimo," I said, "I do not believe that Manwë intervened so that I could kill you, but so that I could free you. I do not think he intended for you to die."

 

"I do not care what Manwë intended," he said with uncharacteristic bitterness, pulling away from my arms. "I do not care what any of the Valar intended. They did not intervene when Moringotto was poisoning my father's mind. They did not intervene when Moringotto murdered Finwë. They did not intervene at Alqualondë, nor when you were suffering on the Helcaraxë. They did not intervene when Atto was killed. They did not intervene when Moringotto slaughtered my friends and took me captive. They did not—"

 

"Maitimo!" I said, shocked. Never before had I heard him speak of the Valar in this way, and never before had he sounded so very much like Fëanáro.

 

"It is the truth," he insisted. "I prayed for death, Findekáno, not for freedom. When I heard you singing, I thought my prayer had finally been answered. But Manwë intervened, and now I am left in this— this wreck of a body, with a mind tainted by shadow, and too many people relying on me. I asked you — I begged you — to release me from this. You had no right to force me to live."

 

"You have no right to force me to kill again," I shot back. "Did we not have more than enough of that at Alqualondë? And has Moringotto not taken enough already? Our grandfather, your father, the Silmarils, the light of the Trees… Would you allow him to take you from us as well?"

 

"There is nothing left of me that he has not already taken."

 

"I do not believe that. You are strong, Maitimo. You will recover, and you will avenge our grandfather and your father. Moringotto will regret that he ever laid hands on you." I gently brushed my thumb across his hollow cheek and then reached for him once more. I was not certain that I had convinced him of anything, but at least this time he came willingly to my arms. "No more talk of death, beloved," I whispered. "You are alive, and you are here with me, and you will survive this."

 

He didn't answer.