People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 17: Something Different

 

You might lose your lover...
People do sometimes...
But it won't make sense for you...
To sit around cryin'...'
Don't you know that when you fall in love, sometimes...
You're gonna have to lose...
Well, it may take years, but you're gonna shed some tears...'cause
Everybody's Gotta Pay Some Dues.

 

From Everybody's Gotta Pay Some Dues

by Smokey Robinson and Ronald White

 

In later days, a saying emerged: everybody has to pay their dues. Dues. Charges, costs for the borrowing of a thing, living a life in debt. The world thought it rather new, but it was actually quite old, born before the histories some men kept and remembered. And yet there were ancient stories that also told how crow or coyote, the tricksters, had to pay for many of the things they stole; the story of Sisyphus, forever rolling a boulder up a hill.  In other currents of time there are oaths that demand a steep price, a price unimaginable and yet the brave continue to pay the price.

 

But some of us in life are damned to overpay dues, life coming due, over and over. …all because of love, the love of someone, and the things we do, or don’t, because of it.  

 

)()()()()(

 

The sun was rising. The Noldor were victorious, but the blood pooled on the ground was thick and filled with a stench. Kyelep had the sensation she would drown in it. Laiquendi killing was efficient, quick. Not the Noldor. They exacted more than death. There was a horror to their killing.

 

Kyelep reflected on the quick, quiet words she exchanged with Celegorm after the skirmish with the orcs. Celegorm spoke to her in whispers, asking after his brother, curious for Kyelep’s assessment of his brother’s healing. It was also after the battle that she first met Curufin the crafty and Celebrimbor the maker. She recognized their nimble hands, the same hands of her sister, and both carried something of Finwë in their looks.

 

Curufin was uncharacteristically overcome upon meeting Kyelep. He’d seen Míriel in his dreams and visions of her shared with him from his father and his grandfather Finwë. For his part, Celebrimbor was haunted by her, felt chills as she took his hands in hers. She looked up at Celebrimbor, with foreboding in her eyes, and said to him, “Sons are haunted by their fathers. Dark days when mothers are forsaken.”

 

Summer, she told them, come summer, she would travel with Maedhros to stay with them.

 

Celegorm asked after Sílahul. They would not journey with her, Kyelep shared with Celegorm. Sílahul would instead return home, for their work was coming to an end with the Noldor.

 

She bid the Fëanorians a short farewell. “I shall see you soon and be reunited with all my nephews and be glad for it.” She hoped she was leaving them with words that would gladden their hearts. The Fëanorians, so much like their kin on the other side of the lake, but also markedly different. She would come to know them too, in time.

 

One of the golden haired elves of Fingon’s company, Aegnor, he was called, sent a messenger hawk soon after the battle, with the tidings of victory. Aegnor, like Fingon was a beast in battle. Kyelep could not reconcile the tenderness Aegnor shared with the bird with the man that excelled in violence.

 

The company’s return to their camp was a day’s ride. They would not stop and rest, Fingon informed Kyelep, though she wished she could rest, if only for a moment! But Fingon’s battle hardened looks told her all she needed to know: they would return without rest. Indeed Fingolfin’s people were hardy, did not tire easily. They had stores of energy to draw from: a gift of their time on the ice. Indeed, this stamina is what sustained Fingon on his search for Maedhros. But what sustained Maedhros? Was it the light of the two-trees Lalwen spoke to her of? It was something more, Kyelep believed. In time, she would come to know Maedhros and know…

 

Kyelep rode next to Fingon. Fingon, like the other riders, was quiet, so very still on his horse. The riders reflected on the costs of battle, perhaps weaving back together the parts of themselves they expended to kill. That stillness was something Kyelep witnessed in Fingon’s company before the battle. Fingolfin’s people had the ability to slow their hearts, a capacity for utter stillness, that their horses learned to mimic. She learned this attribute as much as she could without the ice as teacher, for it would serve her people well. In Laiquendi lands they did not know the ice in the way these Noldor did. Yet for Kyelep there were also aspects of this stillness she did not want. Something of that stillness was ominous, disconcerting, like the stillness she witnessed in them before battle.

 

Witnessing Fingon’s company before the battle was a horror for Kyelep. It was like stillness of a wild predator waiting for its prey, but for the Noldor what followed was a brutality unleashed. And unleash it they did, delivering blow after blow to the enemy, pummeling the enemy into a gory grave, something beyond a death.  Something in the manner of how they delivered death was apocalyptic, revealing instances of the elvenness they had lost in their crossing. Perhaps the Valar had long stolen this from them? Kyelep pondered if Endórë could return some of this to them? Did not Fingon harness Endórë’s grace in his journey to rescue his kin? The Noldor needed time and patient study to heal. She feared none of them had that. The ice was a cataclysm for Fingolfin’s people. The Fëanorians could not understand this. And yet she would soon come to understand the weight of the oath, the Fëanorians own unique burden.

 

Her deliberations were interrupted by the soft sounds of song. In the distance she saw Fingolfin’s people harvesting the spring foods from the plots of land that sat outside the tall walls of the fortified camp. But these were not the songs of harvest of the Laiquendi, these were songs of lamentation. Kyelep observed the elves picking the bounty from the earth, their voices listing the names of those that died, interspersed with stories of the ice and starvation. Kyelep sighed deeply. Cataclysmic indeed.

 

Who are these people, she wondered to herself. Kyelep attempted to see the world through their eyes, but she could not imagine how she would greet the world, what types of relations she would have with it if she survived such a life-altering event? What cosmologies would be remade? How would the elven mind comprehend the world in that context, in the aftermath of the ice?

 

Kyelep had much time to reflect, to study, and observe the Noldor, but she needed more time. She was not so self-important to believe she could begin to know them, but she desperately needed to understand them for they held the key to her people’s survival and perhaps, destruction.

 

The lamentation’s were picked up by the company. In the soldiers, Kyelep noticed the strange light of their eyes grow bright. They were returning victorious, each of those they killed was perhaps a revenge for one of those names sung. Kyelep wept. The Noldor, were once innocent of death and in one moment it was thrust on them, in large numbers. She was ignorant of the Kinslaying. Had she known of it, she would have kept riding and never desired to return, not to any of them, even if they were her kin, but she did not know. She would come to know, soon, and she would not run.

 

Outside the gates the company paused. Elves waiting for them outside the gates took the horses and the company marched into the enclosure on foot. The company was greeted quietly. The harvest songs of lamentation echoed far and wide carried by the water of the lake. The company retreated to the armory where they removed their armor. Other elves whisked the items away to be repaired and cleaned and be made ready. Family, kin, came to greet the elves. Kyelep recognized the elders, leaders of those families, who come to greet the returned company.

 

Kyelep watched Fingolfin take a small knife from Fingon’s offered hand. Reverently he re-carved the pattern on Fingon’s arm. All around her the same ritual was taking place. This was a Sindarin tradition of the Mithrim Fingolfin’s people adopted, including the application of the dried powder made from the poke root that aided in the scarification process. A few seconds of application was all that was needed, Kyelep remembered. She did not partake in this part of the ritual, but she joined the company marching into the baths where they collectively stripped of their remaining clothes and slipped into the hot, steaming water. This was a welcome ritual for her. Kyelep was bone tired. Fingon drove his company hard. It seemed they believed they have something to repent for.

 

)()()()(

 

After resting in a deep sleep, something elves did not need much of often, Kyelep felt refreshed. The trauma of battle was particularly hard on the Laiquendi spirit, and she was particularly vulnerable out in the open spaces of the lake. She needed the trees to heal, needed to commune with her tree kin. Kyelep heard Aredhel’s voice calling out to her on the other side of the door.

 

“Ah child!” Kyelep whispered joyously, breathing in deeply the smell of the tree on the other side. “Welcome, children!” Kyelep greeted Aredhel and the shy elf behind Aredhel. Nimbly Aredhel entered Kyelep’s small room placing the hot pot she carefully carried over the hearth. Idril followed closely behind.

 

“I thought this might be welcome,” Aredhel smiled.

 

Kyelep breathed in deep the smell of the pine branches and needles boiled in the pot. It was welcome medicine. Instantly she was soothed. “Thank you, white lady,” Kyelep offered, taking up the name the Sindar used for Aredhel who preferred to wear white if possible. It suited her well. “And greetings to you, little lady,” Kyelep greeted Idril, who she grew to love quickly. Idril was always at her father’s side as he tutored Kyelep in the science of the Noldor, always quick to take Kyelep into the trees surrounding the keep once her father was done with his visits with Kyelep.

 

Aredhel smiled, but she grew serious quick. “My brother drives his company hard.”

 

Kyelep stood in front of the pot, breathing deeply, rhythmically, allowing the medicine to reach the very depths of her soul. Kyelep found a gentleness in Aredhel and also a person willing to share with her visions of who’d they been before. Kyelep turned to face Aredhel. “It saddens me that I will never know the Findekáno of your youth. I don’t think I’ve seen him break out into smile that overtook his features.”

 

“I miss that smile,” Idril responded.

 

Aredhel smiled wistfully. “No, he will not,” Aredhel agreed, knowing that it was nigh impossible. He was a kinslayer as she was. Aredhel had not shared her story of her daughter, of her loss, but she knew that Kyelep guessed it, for the Laiquendi read song in a way the Noldor could not. Kyelep had asked about the small tune that accompanied Aredhel’s once, but Aredhel did not speak on it. Kyelep was not one to pry. If Kyelep noticed, and she always did, that the other person was uncomfortable she would drop her inquiry. She was so unlike the Noldor.

 

Aredhel  and Idril sat on Kyelep’s bed. “Tell us of your experience with our people, let us see it through your eyes.” 

 

Kyelep smiled. Aredhel and Idril’s fascination with all things Laiquendi was not arrogant. Kyelep recognized that Aredhel searched for a freedom in it she could not find amongst her own people. In Idril, Kyelep recognized that the young of the Noldor were more of Endórë than of Aman. Indeed Idril had taken to Kyelep to the thicket that housed the trinkets of the Noldor dead, fashioned after the Laiquendi one Idril came across when recently arrived to Endórë. Kyelep found hope in this story. The youth of the Noldor were making this place home in a way she could not see in the generation of Fingon and Turgon.

 

“Very well,” Kyelep replied, taking a seat next to the hearth.

 

)()()()(

 

The burlap sack was heavy, filled with the bounty of the wild rice harvested from the lake.

 

“Place it on the top shelf,” Olosto commanded. Maedhros was learning to use his residual limb and strengthen that arm. The wound had healed over well, the skin stitched back together by elven healing. Maedhros struggled lifting the sack above his head. His shoulders seared with pain. Olosto urged him on, “Fight through the pain. Lift!”

 

Maedhros grimaced through the pain, lifting the sack above him and onto the shelf. Sweat lined his forehead. Maedhros felt his legs sure underneath him.

 

“Now remove it,” Olosto commanded. Maedhros stared at Olosto with disdain, but he understood the work he needed to do. With his raised left hand, Maedhros pulled the sack towards him, using his residual limb to steady it above him.

 

“Keep it there,” Olosto ordered. “Steady. Don’t forget to breathe!”

 

Maedhros held the sack as steady as could above his head, but the movement of the rice within made his task more challenging, forcing Maedhros to shift his hand and limb to keep it lifted above his head.

 

Olosto stood near Maedhros ready to step in if needed. “Bend your knees,” Olosto continued, “and keep the bag as steady above you.”

 

Maedhros growled but did as ordered. His body shook with effort but his muscles responded. Bending his thighs, Maedhros squatted and held the sack in place until Olosto released him. His muscles burned.

 

“Stand,” Olosto spoke. Maedhros breathed deep and exhaled pushing himself up to stand, the bag over his head. “Now bring the bag down slowly.”

 

Carefully Maedhros brought the bag over his head in front of him. His left hand was secure under the bag and his limb held tight on top. “Into the lower shelf. Slowly, squat deeply,” Olosto directed. “Do not let if fall,” Olosto reminded him. “Imagine it is fragile and you cannot let the contents break.”

 

Maedhros cursed under his breath but did as he was ordered. His grip like an iron vice held onto the bag and with his limb he carefully maneuvered the bag into the lower shelf. Maedhros knew that he was not done.

 

“Again,” Olosto commanded.

 

“I will torture you in return,” Maedhros growled. Nevertheless Maedhros did as he was told, knowing this work was healing him, strengthening him. “The fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed that were nurtured in Valinor.”*

 

 

)()()()(

 

Fingolfin searched after his first born. He spotted him in the training grounds outside the walls. He was working with Maedhros on a series of exercises with a sword. Maedhros strength was returning to him quickly. Fingolfin’s people marveled at it, but were not surprised. Did they not also grow stronger after he famine of the ice? Did not Endórë bless them with vitality and strength? But Maedhros strength was also driven by what he endured all those years. This would make him stronger.

 

Maedhros and Fingon’s work always gathered spectators. This afternoon was no different, but with every day, every hour they practiced, Maedhros skill improved. “His body recovered from his torment and became hale…”*

 

In these exercises, Fingon was building Maedhros strength. Their method was unorthodox but it worked. It wasn’t truly fighting for Fingon was swinging his long sword wide, in a way you would not in direct combat, but this was meant to bring more force to the blow. Maedhros was building his strength with his new sword hand, so that with each blow to his sword Maedhros would not be disarmed. They did this for hours, from every angle conceivable until Fingon, too, was tired. Calmacil also urged the younger soldiers, the youth in training, to watch, for Maedhros had knowledge of how to parry; and the angles he used, the way Maedhros maintained his grip, how he positioned his body behind each blow was a show of excellent form.

 

Kyelep stood next to Calmacil as he watched. They had struck up a quick and easy friendship. They had known elves in common long ago, before the journey. From Calmacil, Kyelep learned about the Journey and Aman from one who had not wished to go but who did, but for his love for Finwë.

 

“What am I looking for?” Kyelep asked, her eyes following Fingon and Maedhros.

 

Calmacil dipped his head, keeping his eyes focused on Maedhros. “Notice how Maedhros does not keep on iron grip on the sword. He holds it delicately, allows it movement, but to do that your hand must be strong to contain the vibrations of the sword when struck.”

 

“His hands absorb the shock of the blow?” Kyelep restated Calmacil’s description. This long sword form was unknown to her.

 

“Very much so,” Calmacil replied. “He keeps Fingon in front of him, though that’s not an achievement. Fingon’s work right now is simply to bear his sword down at Maedhros in as many angles as he can.”

 

Indeed, Kyelep noticed Fingon’s non-defensive attacks on Maedhros. “Why?” Kyelep asked. This type of sword fighting was just not practical under a thicket of trees. While they had swords, they were lighter and more compact than these long swords. Laiquendi battle was defensive and secretive in nature.

 

Calmacil watched the movements of the two closely. “See how Maedhros must adjust his legs, balance his body with each blow?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Sword fighting is not just the strength of the hand and arm. It comes from the shoulder, the back, the bottom, and so forth. The blow is distributed in Maedhros’ body and if Maedhros has time, he can use the blow to propel him through to his next movement.”

 

“But this is not how I saw your soldiers fight with these swords?” Kyelep pointed out, remembering how circumscribed the form was in battle.

 

Calmacil answered, “Soon they will engage in true sword combat. But what you see now is how we begin to teach a student to understand their body in relation to their sword. Maedhros needs to learn his body with the sword in his left hand, with different strength. Also his missing limb changes the balance of his body. Maedhros knows the balance of his body with a right hand. He needs to learn it anew without it. This is entirely different than what Maedhros knows.”

 

“How do you understand this?” Kyelep asked, beginning to understand the movements.

 

“I watched Maedhros and Fingon grow with the sword from the time they were children. I know their abilities better than anyone,” Calmacil replied.

 

“How does Maedhros’ form differ?” Kyelep inquired, wanting to understand the details Calmacil saw.

 

“He relies on the strength of his abdomen, his bottom and his legs more,” Calmacil pointed out. “Maedhros has always had superior strength so he could use his upper body in a way others could not, but now he’s leaning into his lower half for balance and strength.” Before Kyelep could return to her original question, Calmacil continued, “Fingon’s form would be terrible for true combat. See how such wide, arching swings expose him?”

 

Kyelep nodded her head.

 

“As you saw, the strength of the long sword is not in how hard you can swing it, but how you can wield it with two hands if needed. Orcs are thick skinned, their armour has grown stronger. The long sword thrusts easily through both.”

 

“I noticed that your soldiers would place their hands on the blade to thrust,” Kyelep shared with Calmacil.

 

“Half-swording,” Calmacil grunted. “It helps the wielder thrust the sword and pierce the target. Maedhros, if you’ve noticed, has been using his limb on the sword in his parries.

 

Their conversation was interrupted by Maedhros stepping back and nodding his head.

 

Fingon dropped his sword to his side, his eyes betraying his uncertainty. Maedhros nodded subtly, his eyes shining with determination. Fingon stepped back and brought his sword in front of him, in the ready salute. Maedhros too stood ready.

 

“But they have no protective wear!” an elf near them interjected.

 

Calmacil held up his hand. The gathered elves turned to look at him. Fingon and Maedhros stared at one another.  Elves ran to them and tied ribbons onto different parts of their bodies. Once done they ran outside the ring and positioned themselves to watch.

 

Calmacil dropping his hand was the only signal Fingon needed to commence.

 

“Neither Fingon nor Maedhros are armoured,” Calmacil elaborated, returning to his discussion with Kyelep. “Their stance indicates they’ve agreed to a practice fight, what we call bare fighting. “

 

“Is Maedhros ready?” Kyelep replied, concerned.

 

Calmacil grinned, “Most certainly!”

 

“You have a highly developed sword culture,” Kyelep observed aloud.

 

Calmacil’s grin grew thin. “There are many of us who never trusted the Valar. We did all we could to anticipate the unrest that would grow, and it did.”

 

Kyelep looked up at Calmacil thoughtfully. His words revealed much and she knew he did not share them lightly or carelessly. She turned her focus back to Fingon and Maedhros.

 

Maedhros body movement regained its elegance, his legs sure beneath him. This fighting was different, there was slicing and cutting in addition to thrusting. Kyelep understood that the winner would be the one who could slice off the most ribbons. This required extraordinary technique and strength for the precision it demanded. Fingon was either brave or stupid to believe Maedhros would not extract some blood.

 

And he did, for Maedhros needed such practice to relearn the minute art of sword fighting that was millimeter precise for elves. The first time he nicked Fingon, the crowd gasped, but Fingon did not wince. It was the price he had to pay for Maedhros to fine tune his skills. The ring grew quiet, watching intently and nervously, but Maedhros was not untested. Indeed unseen by them, Maedhros practiced hours into the night on windy nights doing the same to ribbons on trees. This proved hard at first for Maedhros could not anticipate the wind’s patterns on the tree branches as he did with an elf. He hacked at many a branch decorated with ribbon, but grew stronger and more accurate until not a branch was cut as a result of the ribbons being sliced.

 

The crowd cheered: Maedhros’ first clean cut, a ribbon on Fingon’s bicep. Fingon smiled, but did not let up his attention. There were many more of Maedhros’ ribbons on the floor than those that adorned Fingon.

 

Maedhros sliced off another ribbon cleanly, this time from a leg. The soldiers cheered. Fingon pretended not to notice. It was good, he thought, Maedhros bravery and will was winning them over. They would take his kingship well, but Fingon’s momentary lapse, cost him another ribbon and a purposeful nick from Maedhros.

 

“What was that for?” Fingon asked, half laughing, keeping away from Maedhros blade. “You are not focusing!” Maedhros replied.

 

Fingon went forward his sword in front of him, both his hands on the hilt. He had a better balance because of it. Maedhros had to twist just so to position his limb on the hilt. Fingon chided Maedhros. “You’ve always been stronger, what I need to do with two hands you can do with one.”

 

Maedhros smiled, inclining his head. Either Fingon was trying to convince him to give Fingon the edge or he was being earnest. Maedhros could not tell, but in that moment, with a small movement, Fingon cleanly sliced off the second to last ribbon on Maedhros.

 

Maedhros growled. He dropped his arm slightly and regained his balance. He’d use his other arm as a balance if needed. He could not rely on the grip of a hand he did not have. They parried and danced around one another. Fingon thrust his sword forward in a small movement to go after a ribbon on his arm, but Maedhros used his limb to hit the blade just so, that Fingon’s strike went astray. With his new sword hand Maedhros sliced a ribbon on Fingon’s ankle. It was a clean strike, but the movement (something he could not replicate with the trees) propelled Maedhros forward, giving Fingon a clean strike at his remaining ribbon.

 

Maedhros tumbled onto his back. Fingon laughed and went over to Maedhros. Maedhros reached his hand up and Fingon drew him up.

 

Calmacil sent the watching elves back to their own training, leaving Fingon and Maedhros to speak privately.

 

Maedhros looked at the sword on the floor. “I must be able to jump back up with sword in hand.”

 

Fingon observed, “Olosto has the perfect exercise that will help you with that.”

 

Maedhros pretended annoyance.

 

Fingon did not grin but his eyes betrayed his good mood. “You’ve always enjoyed some torture,” Fingon teased.

 

Maedhros’ mouth fell open. Fingon’s words were intimate, daring to name something from days they both set behind them.

 

Fingon shrugged off Maedhros’ reaction.

 

Maedhros knew Fingon well, understood that for Fingon, his words  were intended to set things right between them for the time being. They had something, once. Acknowledging it allowed them to move forward, so Fingon wanted to believe. He wanted that taken care of quickly and without too many words exchanged.

 

“Five ribbons left,” Maedhros observed, tucking away the knowledge that Fingon was not outright against speaking about their relationship. Fingon’s clumsy attempts to set things straight made Maedhros want to grab his half-cousin in a hug of endearment.

 

“Not bad,” Fingon shared. “In no time, you will be besting me.”

 

Maedhros grimaced, “I truly do not look forward to those exercises I must do before I can pretend to win another sword fight.” Maedhros paused, his voice betraying some emotion. “Today was a good day.”

 

“Aye,” Fingon agreed. But for Fingon it was also a sad exercise for he knew that Maedhros was ready to leave any moment.

 

“I will leave soon,” Maedhros answered Fingon’s thoughts. They did not broach mind speech, but knew each other too well to not be able to guess the other’s thoughts.

 

Fingon said nothing.

 

“I will leave when I can cut at least three more ribbons,” Maedhros shared. “If I wait until I can beat you that will keep me here another month.”

 

Fingon wanted to say, “then stay”, but he knew Maedhros was also desperate to get back to his brothers. After all what had between them was no more.

 

Maedhros and Fingon walked to the baths together. Maedhros knew that Fingon would not treat him softly and gently in training, that he could count on others in Fingolfin’s keep to do the same. And yet Maedhros needed Fingon’s buried rage to erupt, needed that unspoken bond between them to help Fingon drive Maedhros past the line of healing and into warrior. Maedrhos knew his brothers would be too afraid to do that, feel too guilty to accomplish what he desired. Maedhros needed to meet fear in battle in order to know what it was like to fight from such an overwhelming feeling. Fingon was the only one who could and would do that for him.

 

)()()()(

 

Maedhros hummed happily, sinking deep into the hot water. He relished being back in the spring waters. Fingon sat near him, ever vigilant.

 

“I’m not going to drown,” Maedhros grumbled while he floated.

 

“I know,” Fingon laughed lightly. “I am in the habit of watching you float.”

 

Maedhros did not respond, knowing Fingon’s mind traveled to the same recent memory his did. It wasn’t that very long ago that Fingon did have to safeguard Maedrhos from drowning in a small tub.

 

They kept each other silent company. The silence between them was comfortable, well worn, but also a keen reminder of what engendered that comfort, that intimacy. After a while, Maedhros stepped out of the baths.

 

“Will you keep me company?” Maedhros asked Fingon.

 

“Certainly,” Fingon answered.

 

The two changed into clean clothing and returned to Maedhros’ quarters. Fingon anticipated that Maedhros wanted to talk. He hoped it was about Maedhros’ return to his brothers. But Maedhros would disappoint him.

 

They climbed stairs to Maedhros’ room that was one of the few with a view of the lake. It was offered to him because he could view the lights of his brothers’ camp on the other side. It was not a torture for him. It brought Maedhros comfort to see them on the other side, if only from afar.

 

Unlike Fingon, Maedhros needed to confront what had been between them. He had no choice. His torture did not give him the luxury of trying to forget. He needed to deal with this head on, if only to clear his mind of this worry, freeing him at least of one nightmare. Sílahul had convinced Maedhros that this was important not only for his healing but also for Fingon’s. Sílahul was not blind to their bond.

 

Maedhros went to the window and cast his gaze across the lake. “You will not like what I will say, but say it I must.” Maedhros had the edge in this battle unlike the earlier one. Maedhros did not fear what once had been the way Fingon did. Indeed, for Maedhros, he’d always stood by Fingon, even when the boats were burned.

 

Fingon’s shoulder’s tensed. He turned away from Maedhros. Fingon expected this moment would come, even though he’d inelegantly attempted to shut it down earlier. And yet the words Maedhros shared utterly shook Fingon.

 

“You said you would always love me when first you declared it,” Maedhros spoke, his voice lyrical in the way of elves. Maedrhos’ strength was made manifest in a different way.

 

Fingon said nothing. Love. What was that? Keeping his back to Maedhros, Fingon kept his rising anger in check, unwilling to let go of the anger he felt towards Maedhros in this moment. Why now?

 

Maedhros smiled. “It matters not. Home. That was something we had then. We have something different now.”

 

Maedhros words reached Fingon. Fingon’s fierce face softened. Maedhros was drawing him out, always could.

 

Fingon dared look directly upon Maedhros and spoke what seemed like first words to Maedhros though they were not. “I yearned for home on that Ice,” Fingon revealed, “but even then, I knew not what that home was.”

 

Maedhros held his breath, he stilled his body as much as his tired body allowed him.

 

Fingon’s eyes turned towards to window to look out to the expanse of the lake, his eyes focusing on a point beyond. He shared, “When I run through these trees, see the stars above, feel the earth on my bare feet, it seems I recover memories long lost and a love for a different kind of home is kindled.” Kyelep’s lessons under the trees were present in Fingon’s mind.

 

Maedhros let out his breath, long and steady. Findekáno was not lost. Not yet. Maybe there was hope for them both or maybe enough for Fingon. Maedhros dared repeat his earlier words: “You said you would always love me when first you declared it.”

 

Fingon turned to look at Maedhros half annoyed with what he believed to be his cousin’s inability to hear him.

 

Maedhros smiled, but Fingon did not smile back. This did not deter Maedhros. Indeed, Fingon’s face, even with a frown, was a gentle thing, not a horror. Undeterred, Maedhros continued, “You declared your love for me in a different life, a different place. You are not that person nor am I the person you loved.”  Maedhros looked down at his arm. “I was whole then, you were whole then.” Maedhros dared look directly into the fierceness of Fingon’s blue eyes. “We are utterly changed. Who you loved in those days is gone. The person I loved,” Maedhros paused, steadying his voice, “is gone.”

 

Fingon allowed himself a moment of reprieve, his shoulders relaxing, his face softening, now a rarity. He was relieved, relieved that he wouldn’t have to summon words he would not want to share with Maedhros. Not because there was not love. There was something strange resembling that left, he hoped. And hope was what Fingon did not want to abandon. It was something he pledged himself to fight for. Hope was the path that could lead to justice and some goodness in the world. Fingon surprised himself. He had not expected to find a bit of Findekáno remained in him. The bitterness had not overcome him.

 

For Maedhros, Fingon’s actions were enough. Such was their getting to know one another, the men they had become in Endórë, no longer Findekáno and Maitimo.

 

Fingon rewarded Maedhros the smallest of smiles. Maedhros was besting him once more. Holding out his hand towards Maedhros Fingon made a peace offering, a simple gesture. Maedhros’ eyes widened, but he reached out nonetheless. Their hands grasped and Fingon pulled Maedhros towards the door. Fingon led Maedhros outside and towards the edge of Fingolfin’s encampment. Some elves wore their surprise openly, others simply chose to ignore the two figures that silently walked by them.

 

Fingon spared Maedhros a glance, looking him over to appraise whether he was willing to be led. Maedhros nodded, indicating he would follow. Indeed, Maedhros needed to go on. He needed to escape the confines of Fingolfin’s keep, where he found his health returning, but he needed to be beyond those walls to imagine himself whole.

 

They walked into a natural clearing in the middle of the thicket that stood a short distance from the encampment and the lake. Trinkets were strung on the dense trees and bushes: bells, pictures, ribbons, hand carved animals, and a number of other small things. Maedhros took in the sight, a strange sensation of awe and tenderness filling him, reminding him he was still capable of feeling. There were hundreds of small objects. The small meadow encircled by the dense trees softly glowed a green and bluish hue, a kindling of Elder faerie magic. It was a small moment of triumph that through death they discovered something of who they had been as a people. He watched as Fingon walked around the thicket, tenderly touching a small portrait here, caressing the likeness of a bear, making delicate bells ring here and there. Each one a monument to someone who had died. Maedhros eyes settled on a small portrait of Elenwë that had hung around Turukáno’s neck for some time. Next to it was an unfinished carving of a seal. Fingon’s fingers traced these as his eyes closed in reverence. Arakáno and Elenwë. Fingon let his fingers linger over many and then Maedhros saw it. A green stone hung from a silver string deep within the reaches of the trees. His stomach fell. Some kind of love, some kind of emotion hung on that branch, a symbol of who they had once been.

 

Fingon walked towards it, knowing Maedhros trailed him with is eyes. With a finger, he carefully removed the stone from the tree, quickly closing his hands around it. His shoulders heaved with the emotion that threatened to escape his body. Fingon wasn’t sure whether to celebrate the notion that he was not wholly without emotion or curse it for he knew it was a source of weakness. Fingon turned, his eyes catching the glimmer of the many, many objects lovingly placed there to honor the dead. And there Maedrhos stood, like a figure risen from the Dead. Fingon could feel the weight of the green stone in his palm. It had been a gift from Maedhros, once upon a time. It marked their love, a love they had once known and now Fingon held it once more. Maedhros had not burned the ships. Had turned aside and incurred his father’s wrath that led him astray, causing his torture, his imprisonment.

 

But Fingon was changed…utterly. Maedhros too was remade. Fingon walked up to Maedhros and took his hand, placing the stone in it. Daring to speak, Fingon whispered, “I said I would always love you when first we declared ourselves to one another but I am no longer him.”

 

Maedhros closed his hand around the stone, his eyes locked with Fingon’s cold blue eyes. Maedhros whispered, his voice quiet in respect of the dead. “That was something we had then. We have something different now.” Emotions were hard between them, so they chose to say the same words over and over, but each time they shared them, they spoke what was intended, perhaps because by repeating the same phrases to each other, Fingon and Maedhros were discovering the inflection of emotion, the depth of feeling they had to learn anew in the men they now were. It was like being born again and learning language from its beginnings.

 

Maedhros was thankful that Fingon was changed for if he had been Findekáno, Maedhros would not know how to confess that he could not love him, not like he loved him then.

 

)()()()(

 

*From The Silmarillion