To Be A Son of Feanor by Luxa

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Chapter 1

 

 

Findekano- Fingon

Maitimo, Nelyo, Russandol- Maedhros

Macalaure- Maglor

Carnistir- Caranthir

Tyelkormo- Celegorm

Ambarussa, Pitya- Amrod

Curufinwe- Curufin

Nolofinwe- Fingolfin

 

 

 

"He can speak."

Five pairs of eyes turn to him.

"I heard him. He..."

"He what?"

Macalaurë's voice is quiet with despair.

Findekáno glances at his cousin, his best friend, the one he's risked life and limb to find and save, only to bring him back to find he hasn't saved him at all. Maitimo's dull eyes are unfocused and don't react to the voices speaking in hushed tones around him. The Maitimo he knew is gone, replaced by a puppet with empty eyes.

"He spoke to me, on the cliff. I know he can speak."

"Then..." said Tyelkormo, voice rising in desperation. "Then...what's wrong with him? The healers said he should be talking by now! He acts like...like he can't even see us..."

"Who knows if he can?" said Carnistir, his voice a low growl that somehow sounds more heartbroken than even Macalaurë's melodious voice. "It's our fault. We left him."

Findekáno looks away; this is their grief, entirely of their own making. He cannot say whether it was right of them or not to leave their brother to torment, only that, thirty years later, Findekáno couldn't, not even with the memory of the Helcaraxë so fresh in his memory.

Maitimo makes a noise, and the Fëanorians whip their gaze to him, wanting, hoping, for him to speak, to reassure them, to say 'It's all right' and be their strong, tall, eldest brother again. They want him to forgive them or even hate them, as long as he is moving and speaking and talking.

Findekáno keeps his gaze averted, because he knows that their hope is false.

Sure enough, Maitimo's eyes are closed and he is humming a tune that is heartbreakingly familiar to Findekáno but means nothing to the others, nothing at all. He is smiling, but that means nothing to the brothers. Findekáno feels that Maitimo is thinking of Valinor.

"He is gone," says Curufinwë harshly. "Our brother is gone."

"Please," says Pitya, and Findekáno later reflects that he probably would not have answered anyone else there, because the Ambarrusa is now one, not two, and he alone there has felt the piercing grief of losing a best friend. "Please, tell us. What did he say on the cliff?"

"He..."

Findekáno's eyes were stinging. yet another reason not to meet their gazes.

"He asked me to kill him."

"You may as well have," says Carnistir.

Maitimo is still humming when Findekáno leaves.

"Here, Maitimo," says Findekáno. "Eat."

The Fëanorians have left Lake Hithlum and they have not taken their brother with them. Findekáno does not hate them for it; he even understands. They have left him to take care of his own mess.

They are not happy, either, and that Findekáno really understands. Macalaurë has relinquished his hold over the crown and passed it to Nolofinwë; his brothers are not pleased.

Maitimo accepts the proffered apple and stares at the wall behind him, his expression unchanged.

"Maitimo," says Findekáno gently. "When the healers ask you to stretch, you need to do it."

His cousin shakes his head, newly grown bangs hiding his eyes. He would look a child if not for tanned skin and harsh scars.

"I know they hurt," persists Findekáno. "But you won't be able to move very well if you don't do them. And that means...that means, oh Russandol, I won't be able to take you into the garden if you can't walk there, and how will you be able to see the birds and the trees otherwise?"

Maitimo perks up at his epessë, but Findekáno cannot tell if this means he has agreed or not.

"I will be back tomorrow," he promises, and Maitimo resumes his blank stare at the wall.

"My beloved son," says Nolofinwë. "You have shown great bravery with your deed, but it has failed. I do not think you should spend so much time with Maitimo. It does nothing for him and only hurts you."

Findekáno knows that his father is right, but there is still a part of him that wishes to see Maitimo's bright smile, and it is strong enough that he opens his mouth to argue.

"My lord!" shouts a healer, bursting into the room, expecting to find Findekáno by himself. Her face flushes when she sees the High King.

"Speak," commands Findekáno, suddenly nervous. "What is it?"

"Maitimo," she says excitedly, and his heart, beyond all reason, jumps. "He's doing the stretches, all by himself. At this rate he should be healed and limber in no time."

Findekáno forces a smile and thanks her, but his heart is heavy. He had thought, for a moment...

"Thank you," he manages. "This is wonderful news."

She leaves in a bustle of excitement, and Nolofinwë watches his son critically.

"He will only hurt you," he echoes.

"I am scared, Russandol," admits Findekáno, sitting side by side with his cousin. He has long since realized that Maitimo reacts best when referred to by his epessë. "Moringotto is strengthening, and I do not think our siege can hold much longer. If only..."

He trails off, knowing it to be unfair to Maitimo to wish him into action and unfair to everyone else to say they could only succeed if this broken-down husk of an Eldar were restored to his former glory.

He tells Maitimo all of his problems, partly because Maitimo cannot betray his trust with words and partly because he wishes desperately that Maitimo would speak up and advise him true, as had so often in a past that is rapidly fading away.

Findekáno glances at his cousin's face, which, despite being worn and scarred and still better than the rest of his beaten, marred body, a body covered by high-collared, long-sleeved clothing and a vacant expression, is peaceful as he stares at what Findekáno has long believed to be Maitimo's favorite tree in the garden. He sees that it has finally blossomed and stands up, moving to pick one for Maitimo.

He is stopped by a surprisingly firm grip on his arm and looks over (never down, even now) to see Maitimo shake his head, what had once been piercing eyes trained on the ground.

Maitimo raises his eyes, and their gaze meets for a split second. Findekáno understands.

'Let the blossoms live,' Maitimo is saying. 'Please, let them live.'

The war is going badly. Nolofinwë Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, has perished in battle, leaving Findekáno in charge of a diminishing people. Moringotto is relentlessly attacking, and Findekáno has been neglecting the relatively unimportant task of taking his insane cousin out for a daily walk.

When he finally remembers, months and months (surely not years, though, right?) since the last visit, Findekáno arrives in his cousin's room to find it empty.

After a moment of panic, of terror so pure he cannot begin to comprehend it, a nurse informs him that Maitimo often sits by himself out in the garden, now that Findekáno is High King and too busy to visit.

When Findekáno reaches the garden, Maitimo is not the only one there. There are children, brazenly standing directly in front of Maitimo as they loudly taunt him and, realizes Findekáno, his blood boiling, throwing rocks at him.

He shouts and they run, tripping over themselves in their haste to get away from the bright, strong warlord who is then moved to tears over the blood and bruises on Maitimo's blank face.

Maitimo still slouches, he thinks as he wipes blood off his cousin's cheek. Still sits as though he is afraid of towering over his family (not his family, Findekáno thinks, but his father).

"Wish me luck," he whispers. "I ride to battle tomorrow."

He likes to think Maitimo understands.

He survives that battle, but he knows he will not survive the next one. He appears in Maitimo's room in the middle of the night and watches him sleep, his face contorted in a silent scream . Red hair flies as as he thrashes.

He kisses his cousin while he sleeps, and Maitimo calms. He does not feel guilty; Maitimo is most alive when he sleeps.

"Goodbye, Russandol," he whispers.

The warrior hates that this is his task, hates that he must leave the battle for this, but he knows that it is his duty to do so; he was assigned this by the regent, who stated this was the High King's wish were he to perish in battle.

Which he has. The warrior does not want to accept that the mighty King is gone, but he must. His grief is not helped by having to lead the insane Fëanorian all the way to his brothers' lands in the North.

"Follow me," he says harshly, gripping the tall Elf by the arm. Maedhros staggers at the sharp tug, and the warrior is embarrassed when the sleeve rips. He has been cruel to this former lord, a wretched early casualty of Morgoth.

"I am sorry," he murmurs, pulling Maedhros more gently.

Maedhros does not protest as he is led into the forest.

Their journey is held in silence. Maedhros does not speak, as he has not spoken for many years now. The warrior does not feel the need to fill the air with meaningless chatter, so he keeps his silence.

Once, during their trek, the warrior glimpses Maedhros's arm through the rip. He is sickened, thinking of the pain that this Elf has been through. He is also shamed, shamed for the thoughts he continues to think about him. He has never seen skin so mutilated, so scarred.

The warrior is beginning to starve when they reach the end of the forest, Ahead of them, there are only plains. The warriors fears that neither of them will survive at this rate. His one job, failed.

"Go back."

The warrior did not expect this. He jumps and falls back when the tall, thin, ruined son of Fëanor speaks. His voice is cracked and brittle with centuries of disuse.

"I am not worth it."

The warrior looks into his eyes but sees no difference. It appears that Maedhros is struggling to speak, as though he is trying to reach the warrior over a very long distance.

"I cannot leave you here," says the warrior. "I am sworn to protect you."

There is a long pause. Maedhros is silent, as he has been silent for so long. Then, "Tell them I am dead."

"You want me to leave you here, alone, in the forest? In your state, you will surely..."

"Go back."

There is something, something commanding and powerful and shining in Maedhros's gaze when he says it again. The warrior obeys, because he feels that he must, if only because Nelyafinwë son of Fëanor was once a mighty lord.

That isn't true. The warrior obeys because he feels privileged to be the only one honored with speech from Maedhros, the only one to see true strength from him, and he correctly believes that only the greatest need could have driven words from that broken mouth.

When news reaches the three surviving sons of Fëanor (Amrod and Caranthir having fallen in a tragic, fruitless attempt to hold Himring) that their eldest brother is dead, there is no mourning. They have already mourned for him. To them, he has been dead a long time.

Nonetheless, Maglor dusts off his harp and sings a song of Valinor, one that means nothing to him but everything to the one who had hung on a cliff.

Maglor is not proud of himself. He is not proud of the attack on Doriath. He is not proud of the attack on Sirion, nor the loss of Dior's twin sons. He is not proud of driving Elwing to cast herself into the sea. He is not proud of watching each and every one of his brothers die.

But, as he watches these boys sleep, he thinks that maybe he could grow to have pride for them, warped as that pride may be. Warped as he may be.

Things changes when they wake. They scream and sob and cry for their mother, for their friends, for their home, which Maglor has destroyed. All Maglor can do these days is destroy.

Then Maglor hears a noise. Before he can even form a thought, his blade is in his hand. The boys scream louder. He wishes they would shut up (although that is cruel of him, because he caused their crying).

A stranger emerges from the trees. Maglor does not recognize him. He is wearing rough clothing, the crudest of animal skins. His hair, matted and tangled, is hidden by a hood. He is tall. He towers over, not only the children, but Maglor. His back is straight. His one visible hand is gnarled, layered with gruesome scars.

He bends down, and Maglor sees that he has no right hand.

"I have been looking for you," says the stranger, and although Maglor should not know the voice, being as hideous and worn as the rest of him, he does.

"It cannot be," whispers Maglor.

The children, strangely, have stopped crying. He always did have that effect on them.

The stranger throws back his hood, and Maglor sees a mat of red hair, a sharp, angular face with a crooked nose that has been broken more than once, marred with crisscrossing scars. Maglor has not seen that face for many, many years.

"I thought..."

"I am not dead," said Maedhros.

He does not, or cannot, elaborate.

He reaches for the children. Elrond and Elros rush into his arms, and Maglor wonders at his brother's mysterious ability to take care of all children before he, too, is swept up in the embrace.

When Eönwë tells Maglor his right to the Silmaril is void, it is Maedhros who convinces him, stiltedly, with words he has barely recovered, that he should submit to the Valar and come back to Valinor for punishment. It is the look in his eyes, however, that truly convinces him. Maedhros needs rest. He needs healing.

So, after promising Elrond they will see him in many, many years, and saying goodbye to Elros forever, they set off to find a boat.

Chapter End Notes

Obviously, I barely touch of the many implications Maedhros not being there would be. The Union of Maedhros would never have happened, so Hurin would never have been captured the way he was, making the Children of Hurin void. I think Beren and Luthien's tale might have been very similar, but Beleriand itself would probably have been in a great deal more turmoil. In this version Maglor, Celegorm, and Curufin attack Doriath, and only Curufin dies; Celegorm dies at Sirion, and Maglor is the last one. Or so it seems. Anyway, back ot the point; I don't have the mindset to write a full if-Maedhros-wasn't-there fanfic, so you have to fill in your own gaps. :)

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