People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 18

“And he lived to wield his sword with left hand more deadly than his right had been.” So Tolkien tells of us Maedhros’ recovery from his time in captivity. This is the Maedhros I choose to depict here.

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Chapter 18: Truths & Partings

  

“The in between.” Maedhros had spent enough time in Fingolfin’s keep to hear the elves refer to the Ice in this manner. What was it for Maedhros? He’d spent almost as much time in captivity as Fingolfin’s host crossing the Helcaraxë.

 

The Devouring, Maedhros had told himself. He’d felt it too, how his soul and body had been devoured.

 

Maedhros waited for the summons from Fingolfin. He knew it would come soon. They’d spoken often, during Maedhros’ stay, and with each conversation, they tread further into questions of kingship. Maedhros ruminated on one of these conversations. Fingolfin, like his father, was not an easy elf to fathom…

 

“You have healed more quickly than I expected,” Fingolfin shared with Maedhros.

 

“Does this please you?” Maedhros asked. Maedhros’ own words sent chills down his spine. How many times had he not asked his own father this?

 

“It does,” Fingolfin answered. “You must understand that the sooner you return to your brothers,” Fingolfin continued, “the less work I have to do to keep lords and ladies from coming to me accosting me about what our world might look like with you as king.”

 

Maedhros frowned openly. Of course, even here the Noldor were vying for power. Just what did Fingolfin expect Maedhros to do? “You are unhappy of my claim on the crown,” Maedhros observed, “and yet you find it more tolerable than Maglor being king.”

 

Fingolfin spun around. “We never decided as a people how it would be passed on after Fëanor. We never imagined he would abandon us!” Fingolfin retorted. Quieting, Fingolfin admitted, “And I never imagined he would die…” Fingolfin added hesitantly, “Of course your father would want you as king.” Fingolfin held his frustration and anger for his brother in check. “We too were banished, lest you forget Maedhros,” Fingolfin bristled. “We had no choice but to leave. You forget my children have blood on their hands, and I followed your father.”

 

“I do not forget,” Maedhros replied, turning to face Fingolfin. Each conversation they had grew with tension. As Fingolfin perceived Maedhros’ strength returning, Fingolfin allowed more and more of his anger to be revealed.

 

Maedhros understood Fingolfin’s anger, yet he resented Fingolfin bringing his father into it., and though he resented it, Maedhros understood that Fëanor’s decisions led them all to this place.

 

“You know I did not burn the boats, that I tried to stay my father’s hand,” Maedhros reminded Fingolfin.

 

“Is that enough to legitimate your claim to kingship?” Fingolfin shot back.

 

Maedhros held his tongue. He did not want to antagonize Fingolfin further. Maedhros had long made up his mind, but he needed to get back to his brothers to put his plan in place. Let Fingolfin have the crown. The Fëanorians had the oath and Fingolfin would leave them to it for Fingolfin still loved Fëanor, followed him after all.

 

“You will not follow me as your king?” Maedhros questioned.

 

“I will follow. It will not be easy,” Fingolfin admitted. “Many of my people do not desire your kingship.” Fingolfin answered bitterly and resigned. He loved Fëanor still.

 

“And yet you are bound by your son’s noble deed,” Maedhros observed.

 

Fingolfin sighed, passing his hand over his face, as if warding off evil. “You stand here, if not for Fingon,” Fingolfin declared, “and our peoples have not come to war if not for Fingon’s actions. He desired us to come together, and together we must come.”

 

Maedhros understood that Fingolfin was not recalling Fingon’s feat to indict Maedhros, but instead to take their conversation back to the figure of Morgoth. Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “The dark lord is our enemy.”

 

“Lo the oath” Fingolfin sighed, “you name our enemy, but your path is bound by your father’s words. I am not. My people are not. That road Fëanor laid out is darkest. I will not lead my people down that path.”

 

Fingolfin was right. The Silmarils were not his burden. That was theirs alone: a Fëanorian duty. Maedhros needed his brothers to be free to follow the oath. Well Maedhros knew Fingolfin would allow them leeway to follow the oath if Fingolfin were king and not the other way around. Maedhros would be too tempted to use Fingolfin’s people to fulfill his father’s wishes. He could not sacrifice Fingon in this way again…

 

“Can I join you,” a familiar voice pulled Maedhros out of his thoughts.

 

“Artanis,” Maedhros replied, “of course. “Pardon, have you Sindarized your name? I have not heard you referred to in such a manner.”

 

Artanis laughed. “Not yet,” she answered, sitting with a plate full of food next to Maedhros.

 

“Why not?” Maedhros asked before returning to eating.

 

Artanis shrugged her shoulders. “I have not felt compelled as of yet, though I do appreciate your name.”

 

She scrutinized Maedhros openly, eliciting a response from Maedhros: “Are you going to lecture me as you do Fingon and your brothers?”

 

“Is that what they say?” Artanis replied, not surprised that she would be painted in such a manner.

 

Maedhros decided to needle Artanis as he had once upon a better time. “Are they not the lords of the houses that inherit these lands?”

 

Artanis rolled her eyes. “Not you too,” she retorted. “Spare me the platitudes of heraldry and house!”

 

Maedrhos laughed quietly. He could feel the scar tugging on his upper lip. He wondered how contorted it looked. He wasn’t fond of looking at himself in a mirror. “And I am king, dearest cousin, what make you of that?” he replied, his voice low. He didn’t want others around him to hear what he shared with Artanis, but he needed to feel her for information. Artanis was astute and cut a path straight through intrigue.

 

Artanis wanted to hug and hit Maedhros. How she had missed him, his wit and humor, and his brash temperament. Instead she opted for sitting up straighter. “Better we would be if lordship passed on to the women folk.”

 

Maedhros cocked his head to the side, appreciative of his cousin’s forthrightness. “Perhaps you are correct, but such is not our story. But truly, what make you of me as your king.”

 

“And I was not jesting,” Artanis replied. “While we will follow, I don’t expect it to last long. You have the oath.”

 

“Ah the oath,” Maedhros hummed.

 

“Your kingship binds us to your oath. I, for one, will not be bound to it. If that makes me a rebel then so be it. Think long and hard on your kingship, Maedhros,” Artanis urged, “I will not be alone in this.”

 

“No you will not,” Maedhros answered thoughtfully. “And what of Fingon?” Maedhros asked, wanting to know what Artanis thought Fingon would do.

 

“He will die for you. Have you not figured this out? He almost did.” Artanis replied, annoyed at Maedhros.

 

“He would…he almost did.” Maedhros, agreed, though it made him sad to speak this aloud. “If I could I would for him too,” Maedhros added wistfully.

 

“But therein lies the problem of your lordship,” Artanis pointed out. “Your heart would desire to sacrifice for Fingon, but the oath and your loyalty to your father will not allow it.”

 

“Always Fëanáro,” Maedhros replied, half angry at his father and himself, and with Artanis too, but she was correct in her assessment. He’d already had this conversation with himself, after all, it just hurt to hear someone else say it.

 

“Now eat,” Artanis commanded.

 

“As ordered,” Maedhros replied. The two ate their food, keeping each other silent companionship for the remainder of the meal. Artanis wanted to fold into her cousins arm. To have him sitting here next to her, sharing such a mundane moment, it was surreal and miraculous!

 

After finishing the food on his plate, Maedhros noticed Artanis staring at him.  “What is it?” he asked.

 

Artanis shook her head, her words revealing her wonder: “You came to us a tortured, disfigured thing, and yet here you are, restored. More than restored, larger than life!”

 

“So I’ve heard,” Maedhros answered. “I don’t see it or feel it,” he admitted.

 

“In time, you will,” Artanis assured him.

 

“Do you think me beautiful, still?” Maedhros asked, taking a chance to speak aloud doubts he found too silly to entertain too seriously, and yet they haunted him.

 

“Dearest Maedhros how much like Fingon you are,” Artanis answered. “Both so changed, yet so unsure of yourselves. I tell you this is a man’s privilege. Even after all you have been through!”

 

“That is not fair Artanis, it is precisely because of what I have been through that one of the things that mattered most to us—though it is entirely vain—is our appearance. So much of who we are and how we think of ourselves as a people...” Maedhros paused, his voice stuck on words that needed to follow. “You need to understand,” Maedhros continued, though it was difficult to share such feelings, “it matters, because it was one of the things he took away from me so painfully.” Maedhros was relieved at his own earnestness. Escaping Morgoth revealed one thing that Maedhros would keep to heart: not hiding from his emotions and meeting the world honestly, even if that was an ugly thing.

 

Artanis pulled back, regret in her voice, “I am sorry Maedrhos. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

 

“And that’s just it”, Maedhros countered. “NO one can, not even Fingon.”

 

Maedhros passed his hand through his hair that reached his shoulders. He felt naked without its length. “I would like to say it matters not, but it does matter to me.”

 

Artanis placed her hand over Maedhros’ hand. With much tenderness, she shared, “I find you more beautiful now than you were then. I think you can safely say that for all of us.” Artanis paused and looked around the room, taking in the elves gathered in the dining room. “Are we not beautiful?” she spoke. “Look at us Maedhros, look at yourself!”

 

“What, with your self-inflicted scars and skin etchings?” Maedhros teased. 

 

Artanis laughed. Of course Maedhros needed to lighten the mood.

 

“I do fancy them,” Maedhros answered his own words, “though I like not the notches on your ears.”

 

Artanis raised her hand and touched the scar that connected to Maedhros’ lip. “There are those things that will remain that none of us desire.”

 

“This is true,” Maedrhos answered leaning into Artanis’ touch. He hadn’t realized how much he yearned for touch. Healing massages were not this intimate.

 

Artanis sighed, “Oh Maedhros,” She breathed, pulling her cousin into a hug, not caring what those around her thought. The work women folk did for the men was vast and intimate.

 

Pulling back from Artanis, Maedhros asked for more from her and not about her: “How do you see Fingon?”

 

Artanis smiled. “Like you, he is needy,” she shared.

 

“I find it easy to be needy with you,” Maedhros replied, smiling. The thought of Fingon being needy brought him happiness, but Artanis’ next words were like a bucket of cold water.

 

“He has taken a lover,” she revealed. She had not intended it, but she felt Maedhros so vulnerable, she wanted him to steel himself against whatever feelings he might still harbor for Fingon.

 

Maedhros sat back. Clearly he was surprised.

 

“Acharedel, Arí,” Artanis shared.

 

“Is there love between them?” Maedhros asked, dumbfounded by the revelation. Of course Fingon had moved on, Maedhros told himself.  Hadn’t Maedhros hoped for as much, and yet he was surprised it stung him so.

 

“You fool,” Artanis gently chided him, “of course it hurts. You two are, were...I do not regret telling you, you needed to know.”

 

“You didn’t answer me,” Maedhros replied.

 

“They are lord and liegemen,” Artanis answered. “There is love, but it is not romantic. Arí alone makes Fingon bearable. He’d be insufferable without her.”

 

Maedhros felt an unanticipated sorrow. Fingon could not even find love in a good friend. Artanis’ answer did not bring him relief in any form it came.

 

“Fingon killed for you Maedhros. That cost him. The ice changed him.” Artanis offered, hoping to lessen the sting for Maedhros. “Acharedel manages Fingon in this way, keeps him from traveling too deeply into his own darkness.”

 

“Did not the ice change you?” Maedhros asked. Of course meeting Fingon on this side of the sea was like meeting a new person. Fingon was changed. Distant at times and easy to anger. So unlike Findekáno.

 

Artanis looked away. “It did,” she responded, “but the women folk and the children bear these costs differently.”

 

“Because you have to support your men,” Maedhros asked gently.

 

“As it has always been,” Artanis answered, her voice filled with a barely veiled bitterness.

 

“I am sorry for that,” Maedhros answered.

 

“More women died on the ice,” Artanis revealed.

 

“How so?”

 

“They sacrificed more of themselves for their husbands and their brothers and their sons and daughters. Oh the mighty women of the Noldor, who will sing their songs when we are gone!” Artanis replied cynically.

 

Maedhros looked down. He hadn’t spent any time considering how these roles would play out in the time after exile. He felt foolish for it.

 

“Promise me you will be a better king in this regard,” Artanis begged.

 

“What of Fingolfin?” he asked. After all, Maedhros was sure he could convince his brothers his plan was the most sound, and Fingolfin would accept.

 

“I trust him more than I do you,” she admitted, “though he has his limitations. But Lalwen is his right hand person, and though I still have to fight to be heard, I am heard. Lalwen sees to it, though she frustrates me so at times!” Artanis revealed.

 

Maedhros smiled at Artanis’ admitting she was still treated as a young woman that needed to be protected. But he was also upset with himself. He hadn’t considered Lalwen in all his deliberations. Maedhros hated himself for it in this moment. His mind was made up. With Lalwen at Fingolfin’s side ruling the Noldor, they had a better chance. The women and children would not be sacrificed.

 

“Thank you Artanis,” Maedhros shared.

 

“Anytime,” she replied.

 

“I need you to do a favor for me,” she asked.

 

“I am not in a position to grant favors, Artanis,” Maedhros replied.

 

“Before you say no, listen to me.” Artanis replied quickly. “Speak to Fingon. Convince him to let me lead my own unit.”

 

“I can ask about it in my own way,” Maedhros answered.

 

“Speak plainly,” Artanis demanded.

 

“I cannot ask that of him without knowing your skill,” Maedhros replied, now like a king should.

 

“I would not ask this if I was not capable,” Artanis retorted.

 

“Capability and training are two different things. You know this.”

 

“That’s what frustrates me,” Artanis admitted. “I need to be given the opportunity to learn!”

 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “Is it Fingon or Finrod that needs to hear this?”

 

Artanis sighed, frustrated. “Finrod is insufferable, acting in place of our father. He thinks too highly of himself and sometimes does not see when he’s being outwitted. Finrod believes too much in how deeply he is loved. I’d rather be loathed,” Artanis observed.

 

“Wise words,” Maedhros replied, raising his cup with wine. “I’ll toast to that.”

 

Artanis raised her cup and their cups clinked.

 

“I will speak to Fingon and ask about you. Will that satisfy you?” Maedhros finally said.

 

“For now, though I know you will be leaving us soon,” Artanis answered.

 

“Indeed I will,” Maedhros replied. “I need to and want to get back to my brothers.”

 

“But you are also torn to leave Fingon’s side?” Artanis inquired. And yet Fingon was not here, was away on a patrol with her brother, chasing after ghosts, it seemed.

 

“I am,” Maedhros sighed. He felt Fingon’s absence keenly, but Fingon’s serious demeanor before his departure signaled just how frightened Fingon was of whatever the scouts had reported back to him. Fingon’s captaincy in Fingolfin’s army was inevitable. It was a role Fingon was born to and raised into. Fingolfin trusted Fingon to discretely do the work that was needed to find out more of this new threat and report back.

 

Artanis spoke, “At least we will hold a feast in honor of your health and departure. Some people will be celebrating you honestly. Others will be feigning their smiles, while others will be counting down the minutes until your departure.”

 

“And what of you cousin?” Maedhros asked.

 

Artanis leaned into Maedhros once more. “I am sad for it. Having you here reminds me of better times. You leaving means dangerous times.”

 

Maedhros kissed the top of Artanis’ head. He needed to get back soon and get his plan in action.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon kicked the dead orc’s body over, revealing the rotten posterior. He crouched over the body despite the stench of death that crawled into Fingon’s mouth and nose and down his throat. With a small knife, Fingon looked over the body, removing the armour that fell over the large wound.

 

“This bite was post mortem,” Calmacil observed, standing over Fingon.

 

Fingon shook his head in agreement. “See here?” Fingon pointed to the orc’s neck. It was ripped cleanly. “This looks like it was ripped open by claws. What creation of Morgoth?” Fingon asked aloud, his voice betraying his utter bewilderment.

 

Calmacil’s face was grim. Morgoth could always unsettle them with each new and grotesque manifestation of his evil. “Judging by the size of the wound, whatever creature it was is larger than a horse to carry a jaw that can inflict such a bite,” Calmacil noted.

 

Fingon used a stick to explore the wound. They could see what parts had been ripped out and were missing, the manner of the tearing away of the insides. Nolmë, the science of the Noldor served them well. Behind them, Calmacil and Fingon heard Aegnor’s familiar steps approaching them.

 

“Whatever creature it was, dragged the orc’s bowels to a thicket of trees to eat the remains. There is only a faint trail left of what was taken, but no care was taken to conceal it,” Aegnor reported. Aegnor was serious of face, not much could disturb his detached attitude. It was a grim personality gifted by the ice. In time, Aegnor would meet his match, and Endórë would reveal itself to him in the form of another.

 

Fingon stood from where he was inspecting the orc. “This orc was out here alone.”

 

“A scout,” Aegnor offered. “But why would Moringotto’s creature kill one of his own?” Aegnor questioned.

 

“Moringotto must not have control of all his creations,” Calmacil deduced. Fingon and Aegnor exchanged worried glances. As much as they wanted to reject Calmacil’s assessment, they knew he was correct.

 

“So now we have to contend with creatures set out by Moringotto that act not through his will but a shear need to devour?” Aegnor uttered aloud, what Fingon was also thinking.

 

Calmacil smiled thinly. “Moringotto’s armies are expendable. Chaos and uncertainty serve him well.”

 

“Indeed they do,” Fingon replied. Directing himself to Aegnor, Fingon asked, “Could you determine the size of the creature?”

 

“Aye,” Aegnor replied. “The beast, or whatever it is, is larger than a horse. As you all saw when we came in, it drags itself at times, but also walks.”

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. “Why would a beast do this?”

 

Aegnor, being more familiar with animal science, offered a guess: “The creature must be crudely made, tiring easy. Its limbs are weak or not well formed. As I followed its trail, we saw that, if needed, it can move quickly, but only for short distances.”

 

Calmacil grunted. “Moringotto distorts creation. Write a report and make sure you distribute it to all the scouts and to our neighbors. See if they have found similar scenes of slaughter and similar tracks.”

 

Aegnor nodded affirmatively.

 

“Let us return,” Fingon added. “Maedhros might know more about this creature.”

 

With much care the three elves retreated from the scene, carrying with them what evidence they could.  

 

)()()()(

 

The summons came. Maedhros was surprised to find a travel weary Fingon in Fingolfin’s quarters. Calmacil and Aegnor were also in the room, along with Lalwen and Finrod. Turgon was noticeably absent, probably because he was away in his new settlement, a plan Maedhros thought dangerous.

 

Fingolfin, as always, eyed his son closely, could tell that Fingon was tired and worried. Calmacil too was more stoic than normal and Aegnor’s eyes burned with an intense fire of fear and anger.

 

“Welcome Maedhros,” Fingolfin offered formally. “Fingon would not speak until you were here. I suppose it is serious and affects us all.”

 

“It is,” Fingon shared and stood up to walk over to the map of the territories. The group fell into place around the map.

 

Fingon shared a look with Aegnor. Maedhros glanced up at Aegnor. Aegnor was watching Maedhros but said nothing to him. Instead, Aegnor turned his attention to the map and with his sword he pointed to a location on the map.

 

“We found our first sighting in the foothills of the Mithrim” Aegnor reported. “We tracked the creature from the foothills north, finding its victims scattered until we lost the tracks north of the lake and into the plains.”

 

Maedhros looked up sharply at Fingon.

 

“We sent word to Maglor,” Fingon reported, locking eyes with Maedhros.

 

“If not for the Sindar traveling, we would not have found these tracks,” Calmacil added.

 

“What is it?” Lalwen asked.

 

Fingon replied, “It is a large creature, bigger than a horse, and it recognizes neither foe nor kin. It devours orcs, sheep, deer, whatever comes in its way.”

 

“Moringotto’s chaos,” Fingolfin observed.

 

“Indeed,” Calmacil added. “His creations are meant to incite fear.”

 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. Calmacil looked at him expectantly. Maedhros realized they were all looking to him. Taking in a deep breath, Maedhros shared: “Moringotto takes creatures and distorts them, but he also has mastered creating new beings, things I could not imagine coming to be. And yet they are disfigured, like the creation of a child who has not figured out the working order of things.”

 

Aegnor spoke, “That coincides with what we observed. This creature, from its tracks, either has underdeveloped legs, or his so strangely built that it needs to walk and drag itself.”

 

“That would be so,” Maedhros added. “Moringotto has not yet mastered creation. His creatures are distorted and warped, though he delights in the outcomes nonetheless.” Maedhros face grew dark and his voice dropped to a whisper. Maedhros’ mind was back in the dungeons remembering how Morgoth disfigured him, how Morgoth disfigured others. Grotesque scenes replayed in his mind, the visions of Morgoth’s creations that could not sustain life claiming space inside Maedhros. Maedhros looked up at the table, his grey eyes were filled with fury and something they did not quite understand. Maedhros divulged, “I saw creatures created from dirt, born without the ability to survive. They would awaken and die a wretched death, trembling and screeching. It was a terrible thing to witness…” Maedhros turned his face away from the group. Even out here, free from Morgoth’s dungeons, Maedhros would meet Morgoth’s hand.

 

Fingon watched Maedhros closely. He knew this discovery was hardest for Maedhros.

 

Lalwen spoke, daring to put a comforting hand on Maedhros’ shoulder. “Then we shall double our scouts, keep a keen eye on the land, and put such foul and wretched creations out of their misery.” Lalwen’s touch was soft and warm. She radiated a motherly energy that Maedhros missed. She had known his own mother well. Maedhros allowed her touch to calm him.

 

“See to it,” Fingolfin ordered Calmacil and Fingon. “Maedhros, if you can, I would like to speak with you in depth about your time with Moringotto. It is time we do this.”

 

Maedrhos shook his head, his eyes fixed on Fingon. “Agreed,” Maedhros replied.

 

Fingon hesitated. He had been dismissed by his father, but wanted to look after Maedhros.

 

“Find me when I am finished,” Maedhros shared with Fingon.

 

Fingon inclined his head and reluctantly left the quarters with the others. They had much work to do, many messages to send, intelligence to gather.

 

Fingolfin poured wine in a glass and sat down. With his hand he indicated Maedhros do the same. “Would you like some wine? This is a gift from the neighboring Sindar.”

 

“Please,” Maedhros replied. Fingolfin filled a glass for Maedhros and handed it to him.

 

Fingolfin got straight to the point. “I know you have not spoken much of your time in the dungeons and what was done to you, but we need to know, just what kind of depravity we can expect from Moringotto.”

 

Maedhros was uncomfortable, though he knew Fingolfin’s request was sound. Of course Fingolfin needed this type of intelligence. Indeed, if the elves did not understand just how depraved Morgoth was, they would remain vulnerable.

 

Maedhros spoke, “I will share the horror of it, though I am not yet willing to share details of what exactly was done to me.”

 

“Understandable,” Fingolfin replied, “What you share, I think, will be enough for us to grasp what we are against.” Looking up at Maedhros, Fingolfin offered, “It is bitter that I can imagine some of the dark things that happened to you, and more bitter still for me to remember the man I was who could not fathom any of this once upon a time.”

 

Maedhros relaxed. Fingolfin’s words reassured him. None of them had the capacity to dream of the darkness of Morgoth in the days of bliss. Not even in their dreams could they conceive of such evil and wickedness.

 

“Be not afraid Maedhros, I will not judge you, for we encountered darkness on the ice that was heretofore not comprehensible to us. Now, at least, I have room for the unimaginable and unknowable to take shape,” Fingolfin said, assuring Maedhros.

 

Maedhros understood Fingolfin’s philosophical statement. Maedhros was thankful for it. He proceeded and told Fingolfin of dark things that emanated from Morgoth’s mind, the brutality of it brought to life and inflicted upon the living.  

 

)()()()()()(

 

Maedhros left Fingolfin’s quarters. Lalwen closed the door behind her after Maedhros’ departure.

Fingolfin was fatigued, mentally worn by Maedhros words and the possession that seemed to come over him as he spoke of his time in those black places.

 

“There will always be a shadow of pain in his heart,” Fingolfin told Lalwen. “Did he find his way to Fingon?” Fingolfin asked.

 

“He did,” Lalwen assured Fingolfin. “You worry about Maedhros,” she observed.

 

“Impossible not to,” Fingolfin replied. He choked up. “No one should have endured what he did. No one.” Lalwen wrapped her arm around Fingolfin. Fingolfin allowed tears to stream down his face.

 

“I wonder if any of this,” Lalwen remarked, “is worth the price of our children?”

 

Fingolfin shuddered. “I cannot bear it,” he admitted. “Moments such as these stir fear and immense regret in me.”

 

“I am glad to hear it,” Lalwen soothed. “If it did not, I’d worry for our future.”

 

Fingolfin leaned over, his head in his hands. “Sister, what have we done?”

 

)()()()()(

 

Fingon walked with Maedhros outside the walls of the keep. Maedhros was unsettled by his conversation with Fingolfin, and he didn’t have to search long for Fingon, knew Fingon would be waiting for him to walk by his side.

 

Maedhros walked towards a tree. The sounds of life and death pulled Maedhros to it. Passing his hand over the tree, he searched for its song, finding it.

 

Fingon stood a few feet away, observing Maedhros, who seemed a stranger. Fingon could not know what Maedhros endured.

 

On the other side of the tree was the figure of a squirrel, long dead, hidden amongst tall grasses. The sound of the worms consuming it, like a soft shuffling of leaves, gave away its position. Leaning on the tree, Maedhros heard  the worms and moving closer he spotted the rotting squirrel, but he did not cower away. Life, the tree, the path of decay, it was offering Maedhros a lesson.

 

Maedhros turned to look at Fingon, his eyes dimmed, receded inward. Maedhros was walking in memory. Fingon grew to recognize that look, the way Maedhros turned inwards, but something was different on this warmest day yet of Maedhros’ return to the world of the living.

 

“Sílahul said I must speak of it,” Maedhros spoke softly. “Speaking to your father has given me some strength to face it, but I could not tell him all of it, not him,” Maedhros admitted.

 

Fingon grew still. This was the first time Maedhros was speaking of it to Fingon, his time in Morgoth’s dungeons.

 

Maedhros voice was soft, vulnerable. “At times I was held in a small cell. I could not sit, I could not move. All I could do was stand. My feet grew so raw that the maggots that littered the floor of that place started eating away at my skin.”

 

Fingon’s eyes stopped on the squirrel that Maedhros was watching. Perhaps it was the presence of the tree that gave him the strength to speak.

 

“One time, the door to the cell was opened. I fell onto the floor. I was in so much pain, but also relieved.” Maedhros’ eyes remained fixed on the maggots consuming the squirrel. “But the guards laughed and threw some of those maggots on my chest. I was horrified, but I was also so hungry…” Maedhros looked up at Fingon. Unimaginable pain, Sílahul had told Fingon.

 

Fingon said nothing. He understood hunger, a devouring hunger.

 

Looking up at the tree, Maedhros’ hugged its circumference. “Do you remember hanging from the great oak tree in the gardens of grandfather’s palace?”

 

“I do,” Fingon answered.

 

“That memory is a terror,” Maedhros whispered.

 

Fingon asked, “What did they do?”

 

Maedhros looked up at Fingon, warring with himself. He wanted the images of his torture to vanish, to cease to exist, but the more he wished that, the more potent they became. Sílahul was right. Maedhros needed to name the horror: “They hung me from strange devices, stuck wires in my toes and feet to do it, but not long enough that my feet and toes would become dismembered. Moringotto had such intimate knowledge of just how much he could push an elven body.” Maedhros’ voice trailed off. He felt the blood rushing to his head, but Maedhros was standing, not hung upside down. To reorient himself, Maedhros looked back at the maggots consuming the dead animal.

 

The two stood silently for some time. It was Fingon this time who chose to speak. Maedhros heard how Fingon drew his breath in, the unsteadiness of it: “We were desperate. We would have died,” Fingon whispered his eyes fixed on the maggots. “There was only ice, only ice, no food,” Fingon repeated. “We survived only because…” Fingon’s voice shattered with grief, both for Maedhros and for those poor lost souls.

 

Maedhros raised his eyes once more. Dreadful things. Hunger, such hunger.

 

Fingon didn’t need to say more, but he did. “I am sorry, I did not mean to compare…” Fingon’s voice trailed off.

 

Maedhros shook his head, dismissing Fingon’s apology. “Thank you,” Maedhros replied. Turning back to the dead squirrel, Maedhros spoke, or perhaps it was a prayer, “It brings me sorrow to know, in some things, I am not so alone.” Maedhros closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “You must promise to be my memory,” Maedhros insisted. “And I shall be yours.”

 

Maedhros looked up at Fingon who watched him intently. “These things must be remembered and not forgotten for I fear who we will become if we forget.”

 

“Aye,” Fingon answered his voice hoarse. “We cannot walk away from the horror.”

 

“Otherwise we condemn who is to come to an innocence that will be shattered, over and over. That…” Maedhros was close to tears, “…that scares me the most.” The oath weighed heavily for Maedhros, his father’s words, recommitting his sons to it before he died, like a weight sinking him in water.

 

Fingon’s breath shuddered. He had been holding it in. Maedhros’ words were the truest, most honest words he’d considered on this side of the divide between who he had been and who he was. In truth, Maedhros words’ spoke to who Fingon had to be, had no choice to be. Fingon would be Maedhros’ memory, he would caretake the story of what happened to him, carry the darkest contours of Maedhros’ torture. In death, this memory would allow Fingon to forgive the Kinslayings that would soon follow, for how could Maedhros’ story have any other conclusion? How could his?

 

The two looked at the maggots consuming the squirrel. The day quieted around them, but the branches of the tree swayed, the leaves rustling.

 

Maedhros struggled with his breathing, his chest was tight, but he willed himself to look at Fingon. Reaching out his hand towards Fingon was all he could do in this moment. This took such strength of will on Maedhros’ behalf and Fingon recognized that. Fingon came forward, allowing Maedhros to touch his face.

 

“To be your memory, I need to see your story,” Fingon urged tentatively.

 

Maedhros drew his hand back.

 

“Be not afraid,” Fingon soothed. “Who if not I can endure this?”

 

Maedhros steeled himself from what was to come. “I will also see your story,” Maedhros cautioned.

 

“So be it,” Fingon declared.

 

Maedhros’ touch on Fingon’s cheek made it easier for them to open their minds up to one another. It was hard for them to find their way back to each other. This helped. The first images were tentative and fleeting. Maedhros’ memories came in flashes, the content distorted, shadowed, but Fingon insisted, and the contours became clear. Fingon saw aspects of Maedhros’ torture, felt through Maedhros, the loss of his elvenness. Fingon did not cry, he bore it bravely, and then Maedhros was in his mind, watching the boats burn from Fingon’s perspective, soon Maedhros was marching on the ice, witnessing the horror of that journey.

 

How long they stood out under that tree they did not realize at first, but with the memories receding, the setting sun managed to remind them to walk back into the world once more.

 

)()()()(

 

Maedhros crouched just behind Kyelep, his legs sure under him. These were his first hunting outings since he’d returned to the world of the living. Bow and arrow were ready and drawn. Maedhros body was strong and he had learned to draw the bow with his left hand and a grip for his right arm had been made so that he could sheath the end of his right arm in it. It required incredible strength and stillness for it to work. Maedhros waited for Kyelep to move ever so slightly, a movement so subtle it barely registered in the vibrations of air. The stag was large, but still a youth.

 

Maedhros and Kyelep followed many deer over a period of two days to know more intimately the deer they hunted. Maedhros needed to reconnect to his ability to hunt, to take a life. This work was healing for both of them. It was silent work, requiring utmost focus and the use of senses in concert with Endórë.  Kyelep was thus teaching Maedhros a lesson about the patience and responsibility of a hunt, as understood by the Laiquendi. Through this process, Maedhros learned the intimacy of deer song, recognizing its tones and depth. From Kyelep and through her, Maedhros understood something Celegorm had told him long before, about the nuances and beauty of deer song. It was in Song that Maedrhos found healing.

 

Satisfied they were not removing a needed ancestor from the line of deer, Kyelep and Maedhros retraced the deer’s steps until they found the stag that would be sacrificed to feed Fingolfin’s people in what would be a feast for Maedhros’ departure. Kyelep waited patiently while Maedhros watched their query. Maedhros listened long and deep to the song of the deer. He allowed his own notes to mingle with the deer. The deer’s head perked up from where it had been foraging, hearing the familiar song of the elves, a song passed down to him by those older than him.

 

Quietly Maedhros drew his arrow back and released it. His aim was true and the deer’s death was swift. Kyelep and Maedhros walked to where the deer fell. Kyelep sang the deer song in the manner of the Laiquendi, thanking it for its sacrifice, promising to caretake the next. Looking up at the tall figure of Maedhros she asked him to join in the song. Through Kyelep, Maedhros helped guide the deer to its ancestors and into a river of endless time and creation. Maedhros was overcome by the song, by the sensation of loss, but also the mystery of life. He understood why Kyelep insisted a hunt would be healing for Maedhros. She was allowing Maedhros to recreate his relationship with Endórë, to grasp the nuances of life around him that would allow him to grow stronger.

 

The song ended, their voices quieted. After a moment Kyelep spoke to Maedhros, “Learn the songs of Endórë and she will not allow you to dwell within.” 

 

Maedhros tied up the deer’s legs while Kyelep spoke to him. He understood her lesson. Endórë, Sílahul had shared with Maedhros, would always be there to remind Maedhros that he was more than just Maedhros, more than the shell of his body. Indeed it was a difficult task for the Noldor to not center their individuality as primary, for their psychology was greatly internalized. In this manner, the Laiquendi were different, were oriented towards relationships, relied on their relations around them to make sense of the world. They understood emotions and being in the world through bonds. Indeed it was difficult for them to fathom the internal psychological life of the Noldor for truly, were not the elves gifted with the ability to understand each other without words? For Kyelep and Sílahul it cost them much to be amongst the Noldor and be cut off from the network that made them Laiquendi. It was very lonely.

 

Maedhros handed off the deer to another group. “Walk with me,” he indicated to Kyelep.

 

Kyelep nodded, following after Maedhros. He walked ahead quickly covering quite a distance with his long legs.  Stopping abruptly, Maedhros spun around. “You must know the full story of what we have done,” Maedhros words spilled out, “if you are to come with me. I cannot bring you with me against your will.”

 

“Against my will?” Kyelep asked, confused.

 

Maedhros grabbed Kyelep’s hands, wondering if this would be the last time she’d allow him to touch them. “You must know of my father’s oath, of the Kinslaying, and all that was done for us to be banished.”

 

“Banished?” Kyelep stepped back.

 

“Surely you must have guessed there was more to us!” Maedhros demanded, unwilling to accept that Kyelep, sister of Míriel would not be wiser and more keen.

 

 Kyelep hesitated. “I have my doubts, but now you will tell me, won’t you,” she deduced.

 

“I will,” Maedhros declared. “You will not love us.”

 

“I will know my own heart. Not you,” Kyelep retorted.

 

Maedhros eyes shone with a ferocity that made Kyelep afraid. “You should fear us, for we bring death. We are death!” Maedhros figure was tall, imposing, and the light that emanated from him was ominous and bright. A different sort of beacon, a harbinger of death.  

 

Kyelep stepped back, afraid. She had seen visions of Fëanor’s might and power through those elves that shared those memories with her. Here, once more she was seeing that power. She feared Fëanor in those memories. Maedhros carried that same fire.

 

“The people of Alqualondë would not hand over their ships,” Maedhros shared. “Father was furious. He would not be delayed in his chase of Moringotto. Not only did the Black Foe kill grandfather who you knew, but he took my father’s greatest creations, the Silmarils.” Maedhros described the making of the Silmarils, the conflict between Fingolfin and Fëanor, the death of Finwë, and the taking of the Silmarils.

 

The story was like unraveling a terrible riddle that Kyelep had known the answer to after all. “Fëanáro did all this?” Kyelep repeated, her voice quiet. Fëanor was her own son, in the way of the Laiquendi.

 

“They denied us our right!” Maedhros exclaimed. “We took the ships from them, but the elves of Alqualondë were brave and they fought back for what was theirs. Father would not be defeated and we fought. Many died.” Maedhros voice did not have remorse, not yet.

 

Kyelep gasped.

 

“We would have been beaten back,” Maedhros continued,  “but Fingolfin’s forces succored us, believing us to have been waylaid by the elves of Eldamar. Fingon and his people saved us, killing those that were coming for our lives.”

 

“Fingolfin?” Kyelep asked, unbelieving.

 

“Nay, he was not with Fingon’s vanguard. He and Lalwen were at the rear of that group, but Fingon, his brother Arakáno who you did not know, and others were in the fore. They saved us, also becoming kinslayers.”

 

Kyelep cried. Maedhros did not succor her. There was no comforting when such horror was real. Maedhros was grim, “Námo himself banished us, not allowing us to return, to be forever doomed. And we, my brothers, swore an oath with our father that we would defeat Moringotto and take back the Silmarils that are rightfully ours.”

 

“Such evil,” she breathed. She turned away from Maedhros.

 

“Behold,” Maedhros whispered, “the sins of your sons. You cannot love us now.” Maedhros walked away and left Kyelep standing there in shock. He did not want her to follow, did not want her tied to the Fëanorian fate. Kyelep was something he had left of his father, of his grandmother, and he needed her safe. Someone needed to survive.

 

Kyelep cried, the many stories she heard, falling into place. What Maedhros did not understand is Kyelep was tied to their fate by something more powerful than an oath: by blood. Now more than before she understood she must stay with Fëanor’s sons. She owed it to her sister who had passed like a shadow. Kyelep wanted to run away, back to the bosom of her forest, but she picked herself up and walked to the only person she knew she could talk to: Lalwen. And finally from Lalwen she heard the story, through their sharing of thoughts was able to see the story from Lalwen’s perspective.

 

In time Kyelep would see the story from many perspectives. And always she would lament the Houses of men.

 

“Do you love us still?” Lalwen whispered as they sat together.

 

A realization grew in Kyelep’s mind and an overwhelming desire to cry out for her sister descended on her. Oh but the Valar were cruel! Kyelep judged. Turning to Lalwen, Kyelep asked, “Do you not see? Míriel was always prophetic, could see and feel what was to come.” Kyelep continued, “But my people do not, did not fear prophecy, for what we see has always been beauty and new things to come.” Kyelep shivered, remembering, “But one day it all changed and prophecy became unsteady, a thing we could not look forward to, rely on.” Kyelep’s words tumbled out: “I believe Míriel saw what was coming, could feel all this death and destruction, after the birth of Fëanor. I can imagine  this is why she became a shadow of herself. Perhaps she could not fully fathom why she saw only an unimaginable darkness and death of all of those she loved, including grandchildren she had not yet come to know.” Kyelep cried out, “Don’t you see? When my sister had these visions, we encountered them too!” To herself, Kyelep whispered, “You were not alone, sister.”

 

“The Valar would not have allowed her to know this!” Lalwen insisted. “Knowing this, Míriel would have indicted one of their own in better days!” Lalwen exclaimed. Did not the Valar control all, know all?

 

Kyelep cried earnestly. The Valar, imperfect gods, sacrificed Míriel, clouding her foresight. But all that she Míriel was left with was an overwhelming feeling of death. They doomed Míriel. “Oh sister!” Kyelep fell into Lalwen’s arms.

 

Lalwen saw the truth of Kyelep’s words. “Forgive us,” Lalwen whispered, holding Kyelep. Arda was marred, not because of something outside of them, but because they were imperfect beings. Lalwen felt impotent and heavy. The damnation of her people was now upon Kyelep. Oh what cruel fate! It seemed this fate of Míriel was a doom shared by the woman folk that would be swept away by the violence of men.

 

)()()(

 

The bonfire was lit. Many of Fingolfin’s host danced around the fires, but Kyelep was not interested in feasts. Kyelep found Maedhros in his room. “Will you not come to the feast?” she asked him. She did not understand that even if Maedhros expected her to come to him, it would not be in this manner.

 

Maedhros frowned. “I was sure my words would horrify you and yet here you are.”

 

“Here I am,” Kyelep affirmed. Kyelep was braver than most, and wiser too.

 

Maedhros turned to look at her, asking, “Why?” He did not meant it as an insult. He simply could not understand her persistence.

 

Kyelep grew frustrated. “You are my sister’s children. Your grandmother was one of us before she went to live in that world you created across the sea.” The Noldor were creatures alien to themselves. “She cannot be here with you. I am now responsible for you.” Kyelep added, her voice sorrowful, “though I do not know what that will look like.”

 

Maedhros face softened. “I had hoped to spook you away with my words, but I see that we are truly blood.” Maedhros too grew sad. “I am regretful that our coming here has cost you so much.”

 

“As am I,” Kyelep agreed, her mind on her sister. As it did for her.

 

Maedhros made his way to make for the feast. “My confession does not deserve such a celebration.”

 

“Not for you, no,” Kyelep agreed. “But Fingolfin’s people deserve some joy,” Kyelep replied thoughtfully.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon sat next to Maedhros. They looked into the fire, each contemplating what would come next. Fingon finally spoke, “I dreamt of steps in the depths of the sea. I follow, but I do not know the way. I swim up, but cannot break the Ice overhead. I wake up gasping for air.”

 

Maedhros eyes were glazed over, lost in the fire. Maedhros understood what Fingon was sharing, answering, “I drowned without water. Darkness would come for me. It always came. It still does.” Fingon would always be there to hear Maedhros, to know Maedhros, not who he had been.

 

Fingon shook his head in understanding. Smiling, Fingon tore his gaze away from the fire. Maedhros turned to look into the familiarity of Fingon’s bluest eyes. “Home,” Fingon smiled. “I desired new lands and find that I am simply returned to ancient homelands, but I am yet a stranger.” The wind in the trees whispered songs of Endórë. She was witness.

 

Maedhros intuited Fingon’s path. “But we are not strangers to each other.”

 

Fingon’s smile diminished. “We are not.” Fingon reached out a tentative hand. Maedhros observed Fingon’s hesitance. Maedhros brought his own hand up and touched Fingon’s cheek. Fingon shuddered ever so slightly, leaning into Maedhros’ hand. Maedhros repeated, “We are not strangers to each other. Let us hold to that.”

 

Fingon closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of Maedhros touch upon him. The fire also a witness.

)()()()(

 

Ice. People of Ice. People of the Ice. Strange encounters. A challenge, Kyelep, understood that though once they were kin, recognizable, the Noldor were no longer that. On both sides of the lake you had peoples of exile, for this is what these elves were. The Noldor used that word often. It was a foreign word to her, to the Laiquendi, but she started to understand it. And yet Fingolfin’s people were also utterly remade, for the differences between the camps were stark. How could it not be? To cross the bitterest North, the Grinding Ice for so many years, to endure, to lose, to survive that? The Fëanorians would never know this. Their burden was another.

 

An impasse. Perhaps the constellations held a hint to this story, the manner in which the journey of the moon hid certain stars that were once visible in the black ink skies now disappeared. In this way the moon also brought loss to the Elves of middle earth. Though deep and far was elven sight, it could not see beyond the laws of the new moonlight. The shapes of some constellations changed. In particular, the tail of the dragonfly, three stars, disappeared to the light of the moon, so the dragonfly became the butterfly. Kyelep imagined the Fëanorians and Fingolfians were like the constellation dragonfly now called the butterfly, though the same, the stars of the dragonfly tail hidden by light, became something different.

 

What she discovered would lead her people to hide further into the forests of the mountains, retreat into the region of the seven rivers. The Noldor brought doom. The Laiquendi were not unknowing, knew doom would come when the dark king made his way to their lands, but the coming of the Noldor was like the knife that would break their lands in two. Little did the Laiquendi know how real this metaphor would become.

 

Fingon watched the waters of the lake, lit by the moon on the clear summer night. The feast was winding down.  “It’s as if I can walk on water, follow the path of the moon,” Fingon shared with Kyelep who stood next to him. With his fingers he traced the moonlight’s path on the lake that led to the Fëanorian encampment on the other side.

 

“You would find the muddy depths of the lake,” Kyelep answered.

 

“Perhaps there I would find the ghosts of those we lost.” Fingon whispered, not saying aloud, those devoured.

 

“Maybe they have built a city there in the dark depths of the water.” Idril offered, embracing her uncle, her eyes traveling the same paths.

 

Kyelep closed her eyes. Such pain. Such loss. How could a people who had never understood this come back from the sudden onslaught of it. The Valar were imperfect beings, unsure how to connect their Sight to the world of the elves, Kyelep believed.

 

Fingon, brought his niece closer. He tried to smile, but he could not. He spoke, even though his words would bring more sadness. Noldor youth were not sheltered. Idril had left innocent childhood behind. “Castles of sand,” Fingon remarked. “Like the ones you built once upon time upon those shores,” he said to Idril, reminding her of Alqualondë before the fall.

 

Idril looked up at her uncle, remembering well those early memories stolen from innocent times, yet she also heard whispers of how those shores in the west they left were drenched with the blood of the dead. She shivered. “Those ghosts would also condemn us.”

 

Fingon looked down. “It seems I should walk that path for it is what I deserve.”

 

Idril held her uncle’s hand. Kinslayer. She loved him nonetheless.

 

Fingon turned to look at Kyelep. “You cannot love us now.”

 

Kyelep’s breath shuddered. The same words as Maedhros. “I cannot love that,” she gently corrected Fingon. The revelation of the Kinslaying, of the oath. It was utterly unimaginable. The fear in her body was more than palpable, it wormed its way to her core, settling in her bones.

 

“You leave in the morning,” Fingon added, bitter and resigned to Kyelep’s decision and the fact Maedhros was leaving. Maedhros’ leaving marked the inevitable. Maedhros would always leave.

 

“I need to see my sister’s children,” Kyelep answered, conflicted that she was compelled to see the faces of her children who’d made such terrible mistakes. Kyelep felt a terrible, deep sadness. Her sister’s death, precipitated all of this, but she died because she saw it? Prophecies were dangerous this way.

 

Idril looked thoughtfully from the Fëanorian camp back to Kyelep. “You will love them more.”

 

Kyelep shook her head. “They are my sons.” So young and yet so wise was this Idril. And what of the Fëanorians? A meager inheritance, a tragic bloodline, her sister’s legacy. It had to be more than this, she thought desperately. It was all she had left of Míriel.

 

Kyelep looked back across the lake following the path the moonlight towards the other camp, its light shining in the night sky. She imagined the depths of the lake bed filled with bodies, hands reaching up from watery graves, dredging the bottom in pain and anger.

 

Fingon too traced a journey towards the other side. He imagined himself submerged in the ice, cold waters, returned to the seafloor, the marks on his skin a map to the depths. He saw them, the ghosts of the sea, barnacles growing on their skin, skin translucent and shimmering like a fish. On the floor would be the remains of the burned ships, their remains dragged to the depths of sea by the currents, there to mingle with the dead. He could see the dead, their eyes, shining with the strange light of sea creatures that emerge from the unknown depths. They would welcome him, devour him, Down there, he would unravel the marks left on his skin, stretch them, tendrils floating in water. His very life would bleed out, the dead feeding, until Fingon too was a ghost: the dead alive. Perhaps there was freedom on that ocean floor. No oaths, no houses.

 

“I intend on surviving,” Idril announced her determination pulling Fingon back from his watery grave. Idril grieved. The water was not her uncle’s resting place. That was her mother’s place, deep and dark, but not Fingon’s. His was elsewhere.

 

The skin on Fingon prickled with that peculiar feeling of prophecy. Kyelep too was taken aback by Idril’s pronouncement, but she also saw the immense sorrow in her eyes as she looked up at Fingon. Kyelep looked away. Such intimacy garnered from a future time, a present, and a not so innocent past was not for her to witness.

 

Fingon leaned down and kissed Idril’s head. He would die. She would survive. She would carry their story. It was more than he could hope for.

 

)()()(