People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 8: The Hero’s Journey

Unbeta’d. Forgive the mistakes and clunkiness.

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Terror. Fingon had first understood this emotion when his grandfather had been slain. There had been the terror of the Ice, knowing that the grinding of the ice would signal death. Over time, that terror had turned to horror. Fingolfin’s host had succumb to it. It was a terrible blow to have a world view shattered. The Noldor went from being the center of their universe to a cold knowledge that in the scheme of a larger world, the elven was not central. Their Creation story became linked with the knowledge of their demise: the utterly cold fact of a world without elves.

 

Morgoth was cunning, understood the epistemological breaking endured by the Noldor. Morgoth wielded the theater of horror, demanding the depraved and corrupted slaughter of life. From the burning of bodies to the evisceration of the whole into parts- flesh, matter, limbs, guts- the word barbarism had new meaning post Exile. They were writing, discovering, experiencing a world anew.

 

Maglor shuddered. What more can you do to the dead if you have already killed them? To witness this brutality for elves was beyond the seeing of the thing, it was a visceral assault on their senses. For Maglor, he felt it more keenly than most, being so attuned to the Music. Morgoth’s brutality reached beyond the flesh and into the notes. Maglor had gathered that the hunger he first saw in Fingon so many years ago was horror- a sentiment, a state of being that Maglor had not quite understood then. How things had changed for them. Fëanor’s death had been a terror to witness, but Morgoth’s monstrosity swallowed them and those around them, leading them into the heart of horror.

 

But what also worried Maglor was that the elves too could exact horror. Father, Maglor spoke to his Fëanor, now beyond, perhaps in the Halls of Mandos. I understand what you knew then. The Noldor were but a reflection of Fëanor, the greatest among them. They could achieve cosmic brilliance, but by that same token they could also be possessed of the power to incite and inflict horror. It was a terrible revelation.

 

“Why did you tell him?” Curufin demanded, interrupting Maglor. Curufin sat himself down at the same table Maglor had attempted to share a meal with Fingon.

 

Maglor spared Curufin an annoyed glance. He was used to Curufin’s insistent interruptions. They came often.  What he was going to say to Curufin would possibly, most likely enrage him, but Maglor did not have the patience to censure himself. As King, he could not. “Because I see in him a hunger that just might save our brother.” Maglor saw this when Fingon revealed he knew that Maitimo had not burned the boats, witnessed the flicker of something in his eyes.

 

Curufin growled, “Nelyafinwë is dead,” he declared using Maitimo’s formal name.

 

Maglor leaned forward to face his brother, as he had done with Fingon. “What if he is not?”

 

“Then send our armies to rescue our brother!” Curufin cried out. Both camps retread the same well-worn arguments. They were eating themselves from the inside, knowing where they had failed and unwilling to face that failure less they admit defeat.

 

“An army will not save him,” Maglor retorted, his voice dropping in tone. He stood, kingly and mighty. “A single man might.”

 

Curufin laughed. “Do you really believe that Fingon is mad enough to do this? Can do something none of us can?” There it was again, judging the worth of one House against the other.

 

Maglor’s voice grew soft and he let himself drop the king and be a brother. “A fool’s hope,” Maglor admitted, his shoulders sagging. Curufin sat back in his chair, waiting for his brother to explain himself. “I know,” Maglor confessed, “that such a feat is fantasy, but in my madness, I am prone to believe it.”

 

Curufin grunted. Maglor could conjure their father and speak from the space that should have been occupied by their father, but it came at a cost. It did not for Curufin, for the two were most alike, but not Maglor. Maglor was not weak, but he had never been stern and harsh like their father. The crown required this and Maglor gave himself to it; had to if they were going to survive.

 

Maglor reached for his harp, understanding he needed to sooth his own nerves with music. There was no saving Maitimo, dead or alive. He was gone from him for all time. Even in death, Maglor believed they would not be reunited.

 

Curufin sat back. Listening to Maglor sing was a sort of healing and an opportunity for grieving.

 

Maglor sang of a people utterly changed, a people of exile.

 

)()()()(

 

Finrod had ridden beside Fingon in silence, had observed when Fingon stormed out of the Fëanorian throne room, chased after by Fingon’s attendant. Finrod was engaged in tense conversations of his own, as always with Carnistir. They had been arguing about who would patrol the farthest Northern reaches of Hithlum. After the attack on Fingon at the Firth of Drengist, the elves would have to increase their patrols in the northern mountain passes. Both groups were stretched short, and Carnistir had been arguing that Fingolfin’s people should take up these patrols as it was Turgon’s move that left them more vulnerable. Finrod understood Carnistir’s argument, but he was more worried that the two were becoming increasingly divided in ways that did not bode well for their survival.

 

On their return to the settlement Fingon had hastily dismounted, walking away from the others in the company. Finrod followed Fingon’s path into the great hall with his eyes. He would not follow. Whatever Maglor and subsequently Celegorm had shared with Fingon had unnerved him. While they were all more prone to emotional turbulence, Fingon was more unraveled than usual. Whatever it was, Finrod would bide his time and speak with Fingon. These were the things they did for each other, it seemed all too often. The Noldor Princes revealed themselves to be brave, yes, but also undone by the new order that built itself around them and in spite of them.

 

Finrod waited for Fingon at the baths, knowing that their visit with the Fëanorians and their subsequent patrol had left Fingon bone tired. Finrod felt it. Slowly he removed the soldier’s gear: leather vambraces and other leather armor. He peeled away his under shirt. It was full of grime and clung to him, wet with his own sweat. Finrod kicked off his boots and ripped off his trousers. He was impatient, needed to submerge himself in the healing waters.

 

Finrod sighed contentedly the moment his foot stepped in the pool. The heat of the pool steamed around him as he submerged his body. The ritual was repeated by others. Some came later wanting to first fill their bellies with food. Others had already found their corner of the pool to relax and wash away the Journey’s grime and weight.

 

After a while Fingon entered the baths, stripping away the soldier’s gear. Finrod kept his eyes fixed on him, communicating with Fingon in that uniquely elven way, that Finrod would have his ear whether Fingon liked it or not.

 

Fingon allowed himself to exhale deeply as he sunk into the hot water next to Finrod. Laying his head back on the smooth stone, Fingon’s eyes closed. Finrod would let him be momentarily, but sooner than later he would have to speak to Finrod.

 

Fingon spoke up. “You wish to speak with me.”

 

“I do,” Finrod replied, his arms stretched out on the gentle, sloping curve of the stone. The ends of his hair floated on the water, the gold catching the candlelight that lit the baths.

 

Fingon opened his eyes, submerging the back of his head so that his hair would be slicked back and out of his face. Wiping the water away from his eyes, Fingon turned his attention to Finrod who was studying him closely in that way Finrod was known for. It was unnerving for many, but not for the Finwions. It was a trait they all possessed. It came from power and status, having the ability to allow their examination to pierce and perceive others below them in the order of the elven world.

 

“Will you speak of what Maglor and Celegorm revealed to you?”

 

Finrod was not dancing around with words, choosing directness. Finrod knew something was disclosed to Fingon.

 

“They want the question of Kingship resolved. There has been an ultimatum.” While this was true, Fingon would not share the question of Maitimo. On his ride back to their encampment he had made his mind up to go in search for him. Whether Maitimo was alive or dead was a matter of the order of Kingship. And more pressing, Fingon dared believe that he could find him and bring him back alive, understood that just maybe, Maglor desperately clung to this as well.

 

Finrod frowned. Fingon was not willing to speak to him of all that transpired, but there was also truth in his words. “And what of Celegorm. You two seem to be getting along better.”

 

“I am thankful he offered us help is all,” Fingon asked. “Is that forbidden?” he sarcastically accused Finrod.

 

Finrod laughed in response, both amused and frustrated by Fingon’s unwillingness to engage. “Many things have been forbidden to us, but our desires are larger.” Finrod was provoking Fingon, knowing that in anger he might be more vulnerable.

 

Fingon narrowed his eyes. “I see it in you too. You desire your own kingdom. Like my brother,” he accused, willing to follow Finrod where he wanted.

 

Finrod’s smile evaporated with the steam that rose. The water subtly rippled around them. The energy of the elven fëa was palpable at times, especially in times when elves allowed it to be, and amongst themselves they allowed it to serve as another avenue of communication that lent weight to their words.

 

Finrod stood. “You act with impunity and yet you believe you have the right to criticize me?” Finrod angrily replied to Fingon. Finrod’s muscles rippled with tension, the water droplets running down his sinewy form. Finrod smiled, a devilish thing, that if one saw without context would remind one how beautiful Finrod was, but Finrod too was changed. “Brother, tell me that these were not your own desires, that this imperial desire stirred your heart for I remember your words.”

 

The fractures were growing wider, bolder.

 

Fingon bit his tongue. Of course, he had shared these sentiments. And he could not accuse Finrod of what he accused Turgon for Finrod took to his duty seriously to protect their people. Fingon accused Finrod for something that had not yet come to be but would.

 

“Fuck off,” Fingon muttered, defeated by Finrod.

 

Finrod sat back down in the pool, satisfied. This time his laughter was ethereal, less heavy with power. “It is inevitable that we will all seek our own domains,” Finrod spoke to the heart of the matter. “It is our destiny,” Finrod breathed, filling his words with enchantment of a prophetic nature. Finrod’s eyes held steady on Fingon, willing him, pulling him to admit what the story had been about, in a way, all along.

 

Fingon could feel Finrod’s magnetic energy lapping gently against him, soothing him, pulling him. It was Fingon’s turn to laugh. “Enough!” he half shouted slapping down the water near Finrod to splash him.

 

Finrod splashed back at his cousin. After a few splashy retorts and allowing laughter to soothe, Finrod leaned back onto the rocky bench under water. These arguments were common place between them.

 

“I gave a good tongue lashing to Turgon,” Finrod admitted. “I understand his desire, but I like it not. I feel terrible for it.”

 

“I do not want to be parted again,” Fingon admitted, speaking the root of their turmoil.

 

Finrod sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to will away the deep-seated fears he too had. “Too many partings,” Finrod admitted.

 

Fingon reached out and touched Finrod’s face. “Aye, brother, forgive me for my attitude. I know you share my struggle.”

 

Finrod was startled momentarily. When Fingon touched him, he sensed something like a decision, like a stone that had been pushed down a hill and was picking up momentum.

 

Fingon sensed Finrod reach into him. Pulling back, Fingon averted Finrod’s touch, but Finrod probed more, choosing words as his weapons. “What did you and Maglor quarrel about?”

 

“The usual,” Fingon answered, knowing he could not reveal what he found out about Maitimo. Finrod would be too keen and guess Fingon’s heart, had clearly sensed something in him.

 

Knowing Finrod had similarly engaged Carnistir, Fingon turned the topic of their conversation to speak of their patrols of the Northlands until Finrod decided it was time for him to eat.

 

“I take my leave of you,” Finrod said politely but the impish grin on his face betrayed otherwise.

 

“I will be taking dinner in my quarters. I have no mind to fraternize tonight,” Fingon replied.

 

Before leaving the baths Finrod looked back to Fingon. “I have not finished interrogating you.”

 

“I know,” Fingon lazily groaned, leaning back on the stone ledge, eyes closed.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon stared at the stars. The heavy mists sent out by Morgoth had been cleared by a westerly wind from the sea. A cold beauty clung to their brilliance. He was leaving…to save him. Maybe he believed he might save himself, but Fingon dared not admit that. Perhaps it was a crossroads. He could choose to be present or to be distant like the stars above.

 

The heart of the galaxy circled above him, purple, silver and blue colors clustering, waiting to welcome new life. Elven sight reached far into the universe, but through song, elven senses reached deeper, to feel the deep thrum of life emanating from its center. Constant. Eä’s heart was comforting and yet it reminded Fingon of the fractures that splintered families, friends, Houses. Fingon loved Finrod, but their tense words were common in this life lived on edge. They needed to fall off the abyss or find sturdier ground. Fingon’s choice would push them in one direction. Which one, he did not know.

 

Fingon heard footsteps approach him. Fingolfin came to stand next to his son. Fingon acknowledged his father with words, “I often wonder what is beyond the stars and in the spaces between them.”

 

“Eä is unknowable,” Fingolfin reminded Fingon, hinting at the melodies familiar to them. While the Noldor were great astronomers Fingolfin understood that Fingon’s question was metaphysical, a question of what would, in the long road of Time, be of the Eldalië who were tied to Arda that would inevitably fade like the stars they tracked above.

 

“Father,” Fingon whispered, his decision weighing heavy on his heart. “I love you still,” he spoke, saying things he needed to say. He had never stopped loving Fingolfin. For Fingon, though, the person he now was, needed to claim the new stakes he inherited: different ways to love and be.

 

Fingolfin answered. “My love for you has never wavered.” This was also true. Fingolfin was steadfast, unwavering in many regards. It was why he would be King. It was why, despite all the anger and resentment his own children might harbor for him, they could also fall back on their love for him. Fingon would understand this one day when he too would have to make a decision for a child not yet come to be.

 

Fingon shook his head, acknowledging the depth of a parent’s love for their child. “Forgive me for my shortcomings.”

 

Fingolfin wrapped an arm around Fingon. “My valiant son, you have met this world with bravery. Do not recriminate yourself for the sins we all carry.”

 

Fingon smiled, leaning into his father. Fingolfin kissed his son’s brow. The fragile present was like the wing of a butterfly, translucent and ephemeral. Fingon took his father’s hand and kissed it. “Good night apa,” he spoke, using a childhood name for his father.  

 

“Good night, son,” Fingolfin replied, leaning in to breath the scent of him in. In turn Fingon took in the familiar scent of his father- warm, inviting, and comforting.

 

Fingolfin watched his son walk back to his rooms and disappear into a doorway. He was strong again. And yet his heart was filled with a foreboding, but he could not keep Fingon away from danger. That part of their relationship had passed long ago with Fingon’s childhood. Instead, Fingolfin turned to look at the stars above. They circled above him, the heart of the galaxy moving across the night sky, steadfast and constant, but inevitably to an end.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon looked back onto the camp. The lights of life glittered like fireflies. He was filled with an intense longing. Fingon understood, in this moment, that he was forever leaving behind a life…and if he returned, it would be to another. Yet again. This was the choice he made, that they had all made. Though he was bitter and angry still, he understood that those lights glittering upon the lake and horizon needed more than what was going to come to be. Now was the time for great deeds, but he did not feel heroic. He felt incredibly sad. With every step he took from the camp, he mourned for who he had been: young, brash Findekáno, who filled a room with his deep reverberating laughter. He mourned the Noldor, for he was leaving them behind knowing that even if he succeeded he would bring to them a terrible thing. No matter, without this choice, they would not last the season.

 

And yet there was some Grace that had not abandoned him. The harp on his back was proof of this. In different times, Fingon would have prayed, but he no longer believed in such vanity for it was self-worship to ask for such interventions, and it was arrogant for the Valar to concede to such supplications. They had all been prisoners of the absurd, so he believed. But a Song, a Song, Fingon smiled to himself, was more than a prayer. It was their ability to express Life, to sing their fëa into being. It was faerie and Fingon would nevermore forget that they too carried that story in their bones.

 

He followed the River Sirion. Though hurried, there was an easiness to this part of his journey that he knew would not last, but he relished the sounds of the river, the breeze in the trees, the meadows of flowers that would open up to him and delight in the presence of the First Born. He journeyed to darkness but Endórë opened herself to him, reminding him he was more than the son of a throneless King, more than the Noldor. Most simply and elegantly, he was a child of hers, the likeness of a flower or perhaps a deer, and some of the birch, and the black feathers of the crow, and strong like the wolf. Eldar brother she whispered and Fingon traveled as in a dream, along currents of stars and flowers, the river a Song. He lent his voice to his travels, quietly, unwilling to be found. She covered him in her own darkness, more quiet and gentle than the heavy, stinging mists sent out by Morgoth. There was power in Endórë and Fingon felt enchanted, understood she was filling him with Power for the dark road that waited ahead. Fingon took from the waters, plucked a petal here and there, and sometimes the flower to smell. With his hands he plunged into the currents of life around him. And like a lifetime before, flowers sprung at his feet. Yet for the Eldar such enchantment was also melancholy for the story was about partings and death. Endórë in her vastness and beauty also mourned these lost children.

 

When Fingon awoke he was in the foothills of the Ered Wethrin. The Mountain greeted him, bidding him pass, a warning upon its snowy peaks, thundering above. Power rippled within him and Fingon tended it, secreted it away in a soft song he had learned from the river. His harp proved to not be mere vanity and more elven whimsy, spirit and crafty. Fingon hoped he would remember these lessons. Alas, he did not have time to philosophize for the mountain grew dark and shadow-filled. Morgoth was set against them. The rolling darkness Fingon encountered would surely meet his people in the noon time. On this morning, though it seemed like a somber evening, Fingon made his way through narrow passages between rocks, following the river until it disappeared underground. He climbed and scaled the large mountain though the passages were hard to come upon. Fingon found himself retracing steps, trying out different paths. The Shadow thwarted him at every turn, making sheer rock appear as passage and blanketing paths in heavy mist.

 

This took him many weeks and while he did not encounter evil creatures outright, the shadow was set against him, until one evening he felt the ground beneath him begin to descend. A large heaviness was eased from Fingon’s heart. His path cleared before him and with elven agility and the light of the moon that broke through the mists, he quickly found his way back to the river Sirion that emerged back out from its underground passage it had disappeared into.

 

He approached the site of his father’s future fortification: Eithel Sirion, the mother of the River Sirion. Below him stretched out the Ard-Galen, the grassy plains that stood between him and Thangorodrim. He would sleep here until morning, hoping some light would accompany him on his descent to the plains below. Before turning over to rest Fingon caught some fish, cooking them over a fire. He gathered berries and other such foods he could take with him. He’d managed to not eat much but knew he would need food for what lay ahead.

 

Morning greeted him, Arien daring to break through the foul mists that emanated from Angband. A great sense of awe descended upon him. Fingon took a moment to embrace the beauty of Endórë. Below him the tall grasses of Ard-Galen waved in the gentle breeze of the morning. Even here, on the precipice of Morgoth’s lands, Fingon was reminded of something beyond him, a life that exceeded his capacity to understand. And that made him glad. Tears fell freely. Oh life, he thought, what paths have I chosen that seem so insignificant in the presence of your creation.

 

He allowed his fëa to stretch beyond his skin, shake away the shackles of the body, to be truly elven. The currents of his spirit caught the scent of green things, of deep, dark and earthen things, and the stone at the root of the mountain. From his feet he traveled out to the roots of the plains. The roots of the grasses were still strong and deep, but there was also a sense of trepidation. They spoke and whispered a storying, a telling, quite like the Stars above, but from deep, deep within the earth itself. Beware! They whispered but there were no words. Darkness and Death, the growing things pulsated, a song not song but older and wiser. The shape of it like the insides of the womb: a heartbeat, static, a crackling sound. The language of Endórë was beyond Song: Primordial rhythms, like the heart of the universe.

 

Fingon collapsed back into himself, the voices around him overwhelming him. Did he dare continue? But he also felt a familiar prickle at the edge of his senses. He was alive. Maitimo was alive. Fingon was sure of it. Felt it in his bones the way the roots felt the earth and the sky above. He was alive. Fingon forged on.

 

The tall grasses of the Ard-Galen greeted Fingon, encircling him in gentle embrace as they waved in the gentle breeze. They reached tall towards the sky. From the Sindar, Fingolfin’s people had learned that with the appearance of Arien, the grasses had grown tall, the height of an elf. Indeed, strange new life was called into being by the new cycles of the sun and moon. It was the Song of Eä manifest. But little sun now reached through the mists sent out by Morgoth. Already the grasses were yellowing, unable to drink the light of Arien.

 

Thangorodrim grew taller, more menacing as Fingon advanced. It appeared as a wound against the horizon at once dark and foreboding while flashes of fire and unknown green mists lit the cliffs. The mountain was speaking to him, taunting him. Do you dare pass Elf? Do you dare give me your life? I devour life, it threatened.

 

Fingon closed his eyes, shaking away the whispers, remembering that the mountain was also stone, stone like any other, but it was enchanted by Morgoth’s menace, raised by him. Still stone, Fingon reminded himself, still rock and earth, still of those things that were a part of Ea. Not good or evil, and even beyond capacity for Valarin will.

 

The foothills of Thangorodrim. Fingon crouched down to inspect the land, reached down to feel the earth. He dug his fingers into the moist soil. So very gently and circumscribed he allowed tendrils of elven magic seep into it. No response, but Fingon was not deterred. He dug deeper, risking himself found out, but he had to know. There it was! A note, a pause, like a deep breath: an awakening from slumber. Fingon saw grasses on a hill. It chilled him to the bone, though he could not make sense of why a vision of a grassy hill under a bright noon sky would cause such dread. Come what may, he said to the earth and the seeds dormant in its bosom, it gives me great comfort to know you will once more grow.

 

Beware the line of Kings! The gasping life that rumbled awake from slumber warned the future King.

 

Fingon quickly retracted his hand from the earth. Whatever prophecy, whatever it was that spoke to him on this journey, was here with him too; he was not alone. Fingon stood up, his elven sight scanning the face of the mountains before him.

 

He walked on, shrouded in mists. If animal life was here it had fled for Morgoth had dug his own hands into the earth, ripping it in two. Chasms of broken earth spewed forth foul gases and green mists. Fingon could barely tolerate to look within so great the stench and stinging to his eyes. His throat quickly grew raw form breathing in the putrid air.

 

Through the darkness he found a path. Orcs. he could hear them ahead. He retraced his steps but could not find another path into the mountains. Out here in the East it seemed his direction was fated, so he forged forward. There was at least twenty of them, but if he was quick and cunning he could fell ten with his arrows, four with his sword-the element of surprise still on his side. The last six he could take on, the wall of the mountain at his back. For once luck was on his side: they did not have arrows. He only hoped their cries would not bring more enemies closer. 

 

The orcs fell quickly as he plucked away at his bow sending his arrows speeding into the narrow crevasse. Drawing his sword, he spun and cleaved a couple of orcs clean in two and drawing his sword back he took two more heads. What had been beauty was now wrath. His sword hummed with its own song and he took two more orcs without hassle, their guts spilling out. Finally, four were left and they raged, running at Fingon, but Fingon was graceful and he too ran at them at the last moment skidding under them while his sword sliced at their guts. Two were left. One turned to run and the other threw its blade at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword caught the blade and with his next motion he stabbed the beast. He chased down the other creature and slit its throat.

 

The orcs were many on his path but Fingon found nooks and crannies to hide, ledges to leap upon and pass unnoticed if the odds were against him. He killed as many as he could for he believed he’d have to return this way if he found Nelyafinwë. It was also terrible deeds he committed these hours that turned into days of Fingon hunting in those mountains. A darkness grew in him, but not so dark that he did not cry for the younglings he came upon and massacred. Kinslayer, his own thoughts betrayed him. But Fingon could not be paused by remorse. Whether it was day or night he could not tell, but the green mists and fires of Morgoth and the dense fog hid him well. Fingon smiled. Morgoth’s own shadows allowed him safe passage as he made his way deeper into Thangorodrim.

 

He traveled on and came upon no more orcs. He was deep inside Morgoth’s territory. Shadows whispered and threatened but Fingon was of the Eldar and he fought back with his own Song, his own story, and kept going forward. It was madness what he was doing. Surely the orcs had alerted others that there was an enemy in their midst. Without a thought for himself, Fingon traveled further and further into mountain.  A sickness descended on him, a spell of dark magic, threatening to consume him. It crept into his chest and rung his lungs like wet rags until he could no longer breath. Fingon crawled on the ground, gasping, willing himself to live, until a slumber like death came upon him and he lost consciousness. How long he was lost to the world he did not know but when he awoke his body was sore and he was starved, but Fingon’s body was cleverer, had been trained by the Grinding Ice to survive bitter hunger.

 

It was afternoon, revealed by a break in the mists.  He could see the steep crests of Thangorodrim before him. Nothing else. No Maitimo, no path. Before him a great stone wall punctuated what seemed to be the end of the road for Fingon. This is the moment Fingon would remember as his bravest: the moment he took his harp and laid his hands upon it, tears wetting his face not from sadness but from utter frustration and anger. Trembling he sang the song of the River, of the plains, and it took him to a childhood song of innocence. Bravely he sang louder, allowing some semblance of Power to fill the notes, allowed them to reverberate in the stone. His voice sounded clear and strong. He gave himself to it, closed his eyes, knowing he was tempting his own death. The earth rumbled beneath his feet and even in the stench of Angband Fingon found a tendril of beauty: A sound like the cry of a broken thing. Fingon paused, hearing nothing but the rumbling of the fires around him. Again, Fingon raised his voice, this time with greater strength, challenging Morgoth to come meet him on that mountain side. He heard it again. A voice. Fingon lowered his own voice- a voice answered him! A voice he knew intimately.

 

Maitimo! Fingon sang out and Maitimo answered. They called out like this, Maitimo’s voice leading and Fingon following, finding hidden passages in the rock until Fingon scrambled his way up a precarious ledge that crumbled beneath his feet. With much care he followed it until it opened into a large flat area. It was then that Fingon saw him on the steep mountain side far above him. Maitimo was nailed to the mountain side. He had to look away.

 

Inside his head, Fingon could hear Morgoth. See? See my banner? But it does not dance in the wind. Why is it not resplendent, like the colors of Fëanor and Fingolfin?

 

Fingon stifled a sob. Maitimo was hung, a broken thing, no more than bloodied flesh. Fingon could not contain the moans that escaped him. They rolled through him and Fingon experienced a most wretched sorrow that could only be born from the depravity inflicted on his friend. Utter evil. Maitimo’s body hung on the cliff side- Morgoth’s hideous banner. If Fingon did not understand Morgoth’s evil, he did now. But this too made Fingon more angry and guilty. Was it not enough to witness Elenwë fall into the icy abyss of Helcaraxë? Was it not enough to see the charred bodies of children? Was it not enough to see his own men and women cloven in two by Morgoth’s armies?  Fingon found descent into a place even beyond horror.

 

Fingon called out to Maitimo, “Tell me how I can get up to you!”

 

“There is no way,” Maitimo answered, his voice paper thin, parched. It hurt to speak. “Spare me,” he begged of Fingon. “Your arrow,” he begged. Fingon could not answer him, but Maitimo managed to scream and beg: “Please!”

 

“I cannot,” Fingon found the courage to cry out, desperately surveying the cliff for a route to Maitimo. Cruel destiny to bring him to his feet and leave him with no recourse but one.

 

“Please,” Maitimo’s voice begged. It was a cruel thing to force him to beg, such anguish and pain echoing in his words, but Fingon needed to find a way. Broken and with what seemed final words, Maitimo begged, “Please!”

 

Fingon was desperate, whatever hope he had managed to cultivate, was now utterly destroyed. He laughed like a madman, like Fëanor had once. He believed he could reunite the Noldor, bring them together.

 

Whether he returned or died too on this mountain, Fingon had one choice before him. Save Maitimo the only way possible. Wiping the tears away from his face, Fingon steeled himself and brought forth his bow. He reached behind him to his quiver that had been emptied of many arrows and found the arrow with eagle feather fletching. Quieting his breath, stilling his body, Fingon raised the arrow, sighting his friend above. Their eyes met and Maitimo’s eyes closed, managing to turn up a side of his mouth into a smile. Fingon breathed into the arrow and he drew the arrow back, crying out: “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!” Not a prayer as some would later claim, but a semblance of the story that had been Fingon’s journey to this place upon Thangorodrim.

 

A great wind came upon him, unsteadying Fingon’s hand. A light shone bright and from the heights a great eagle descended. Its great wings threw Fingon back, so great was the force of the air they generated. Fingon watched in awe as the great creature landed. Its head poked back and forth in that way of eagles, inspecting its prey. His bright eyes studied Fingon. Fingon stood, tentatively raising his hand to the eagle’s breast. Cautiously, Fingon laid it upon the soft feathers.

 

Thorondor was the bird’s name and he spoke to Fingon. “A prayer young son of Nolofinwë?”

 

“A plea,” Fingon answered casting his eyes back in the direction of Maitimo who watched with the eyes of one utterly defeated. “I have no prayers left,” Fingon’s voice croaked, broken in a different way than his friend.

 

“Then I truly pity thee,” Thorondor answered.

 

Fingon found the courage to answer: “Whether it is deserved, I dare not ask.”

 

Thorondor turned his head to Maitimo. Did he deserve to live? Turning his attention back on Fingon, Thorondor revealed, “The River and flowers whispered of your Journey.”

 

Fingon pushed on, “Then I dare ask you help me save my friend.”

 

The bird bobbed its head back in Fingon’s direction. “Fingon the Valiant, I will bear thee to your friend, though I do not know if he deserves my pity.”

 

Fingon did not answer, for none of them deserved pity. The great bird extended its wing and Fingon climbed upon it. Pity or not, Fingon was going to save him. Thorondor beat his mighty wings and up they flew until Fingon found some footing near Maitimo, but only enough for one foot. Fingon kept his other foot on Thorondor, balancing on the moving bird and the toe hold on the mountain side. Fingon did his best to ascertain how Maitimo was chained upon the cliff side. The currents of wind created by Thorondor’s wings managed to kick up dust, but there was no other way.

 

“It is hopeless,” Maitimo croaked, while Fingon managed to pass his hands over the shackle from which Maitimo was hung. Fingon tried a million ways in the span of minutes to try to pull the shackle form the stone. It would not budge.

 

“Please,” Maitimo moaned, “I cannot bear another breath.” 

 

“Then I will free you however I can,” Fingon spoke, steeling himself for what came next. Remembering the Ice, Fingon pressed his hand over Maitimo’s arm. Steadying himself on the slight ledge and Thorondor was quite a job in itself as the bird could not hold steady such was the physics of the situation. Fingon ripped out the leather thong that tied his hair together. It would have to do. Fingon tied the leather thong around Maitimo’s forearm, wrapping it as tight as he could. Maitimo screamed out in pain.

 

“Forgive me,” Fingon begged.

 

Fingon tumbled, but Thorondor caught him with his wings. “Almost,” Fingon breathed desperate to free Maitimo. “Steady,” he breathed, Thorondor’s keen eagle eyes fixed on Fingon. With one hand Fingon took hold of Maitimo’s upper arm, grabbing it with such force that Maitimo cried out in more pain. Fingon flinched but he had little choice.  Swiftly Fingon drew his sword raising it above his head. With elven precision, Fingon allowed his body to fall forward with the sword as he brought it down against Nelyafinwë’s arm, just above where the shackles caught his wrist. He trusted that Thorondor would do his best to catch them as they fell. Elven steel was strong and sharp and Fingon’s strike was clean. Maitimo fell, released from his shackles. Fingon threw his sword aside, closing his arms around Maitimo. Holding onto him they struck the cliff side, but Thorondor was quick to catch them.

 

Gently, the great eagle brought them to the ground. Maitimo groaned. His eyes rolled back in his head. The pain was so great he lost consciousness.

 

“I will save you,” Fingon breathed, not a prayer but a statement of will. This time he took his leather belt and wrapped it more securely as a tourniquet around Maitimo’s arm. Rummaging through his pack he found his healers’ kit.

 

“Here it is,” Fingon announced, unsure if he was speaking aloud for the eagle or to calm himself. Fingon pulled out a vile of a coagulating herb. With his teeth he ripped off the top and carefully allowed a few drops to drip down into Maitimo’s throat. Maitimo gagged. Fingon expected this pulling the vile back, less he spill some. He did not want to waste the precious elixir. Satisfied he had given Maitimo enough, Fingon opened up another vile, a pain reliever. He did his best to get it down Maitimo’s throat. This proved to be harder as Maitimo kept retching at the unfamiliar feel of liquid in his dried and scorched throat.

 

Fingon gently wrapped Maitimo in his cloak and checked to see if the tourniquet had done a good enough job stopping the bleeding. It would suffice, Fingon surmised.

 

Fingon scrambled to pick up his sword. Having safely sheathed it, he picked Maitimo’s frail frame up in his arms.  “Will you bear me, us, home?” Fingon asked the great eagle, but there was no us: no longer an us in the way the word hinted at relationships and friendships of long past.

 

Thorondor lowered its great wing and Fingon settled upon Thorondor, securing Maitimo in front of him. Thorondor’s great wings beat once more and they ascended into the skies.

 

Fingon sang, conjuring rivers and flowers, recalling Endórë’s magic, pulling the chords of her song into healing, filling Maitimo with it. Thorondor cried out, his voice adding to the Song. Fingon was brave and relentless. Stretching out and beyond he pulled tendrils of music from the clouds, from Morgoth’s mists, and tended them with beauty, willing Maitimo to live. Most of all, he found hope, a hope he thought had completely abandoned him. Not a prayer. Not a penance.

 

An enchantment, a melancholy storying of the lives they had led, a fire deep and fierce, bold and everlasting. Fingon was creating futures, tomorrows. Perhaps the story of Findekáno and Maitimo was no more, no us in that story, but that was not an end, though the path of Thorondor’s flight marked a direction that nevertheless found Doom.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon the hero. Fingon the Valiant they would say and sing and remember.

 

But we know better: Fingon the Fey. Fingon the Kinslayer.

 

And what of the man that would henceforward be known as Maedhros? He would be the Dispossessed.

 

TBC….