Erinyator by ziggy

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Chapter 1

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Erinyator

 

Maedhros had not intended any of this.

The thought came to him as he watched the sleeping children snuggled under their blankets with the red light of the hearth fire against the softness of their cheeks, their dark heads just over the top of the blankets.

The smaller one snuffled and rubbed his nose in his sleep and Maedhros automatically smoothed his hand over the warm dark head and hummed the lullaby he had hummed over countless ages to other small boys. All dead now but one.

And this was not life.

No. He had not intended this.

His stump itched and he scratched it carelessly; it did that when he remembered.

He frowned slightly; it was Nármo’s fault the children were here, he thought. But it was Macalaurë’s fault too.

Whose fault was it that they had gone to Sirion though?

That was his.

So it was his own fault that the twins were here too, he acknowledged. After all, it was his fault that Elwing had fled, his fault that Dior had got away, his fault that his mad dangerous brothers had not persuaded Luthien to be on their side instead of going off with Beren. His fault that they had sworn the Oath for he had sway over his father, his brothers and he could, if he had really tried very hard, perhaps, have persuaded Feanor to revoke the Oath. Maybe he would have persuaded their father to only make Maedhros swear it perhaps and spare his poor brothers? Of course he was not Maedhros then and weak. Nelyo. Maitimo. Weak. Perhaps he had not succeeded in persuading him to not burn the ships but he would have tried harder.

The stump itched again, unbearably, and he scrabbled at the skin.

He could have tried to stop the bloodshed at Alqualondë. And maybe he should have stayed behind with Finwë that dreadful day when the Dark had descended, the scuttling hunger that was Ungoliant and the awfulness that was Morgoth Bauglir that had killed his beloved, kindly grandfather, Finwë. He could have stood alongside him.

No. Nelyo did not have the balls for that. His fault too.

…but most of all, he should have killed Uldor.

Yes. He should have strung Uldor up by his feet and slowly sliced his belly open, reached in and drawn out his entrails and fed them whilst he lived, to Huan. it didn’t have to be Huan, any hound, wolf, Orc even would have done. But that was his greatest failure.

Because of him, Fingon had died.

Because of him, Caranthir had died, Celegorm, Curufin… Perhaps not the last two.

Smoke curled upwards through the cunning chimney that drew the smoke upwards but allowed warmth to flood the once elegant hall. Ruined but not derelict. He heard Caranthir whisper long these walls of his home and it comforted him. And punished him in equal measure. They looked at him, the ghosts of his victims, they peered out of the gloom and he stared at them, meeting their accusing gaze. Sorry, he said Sorry. Sorry.

He knew he was making the skin over his stump bleed with scratching, could feel the sting but oh, he wanted to feel something. Because he often didn’t now, he felt frozen, stiff, his blood like ice in his veins.

‘You will bring down your house more completely than I could ever do,’ Bauglir had said in Angband, so amused. His titanic hand had clenched into a fist. ‘I am bored by your refusal, your defiance. What is left of it. Even that is no longer a diversion.’ Then he had turned slowly to his Valarauki, to his slaves, to Sauron. ‘Hang him from high Thangorodhrim and set no guard. See how long he lasts. See who comes for him…’ Looking back now, Maedhros realizes that Bauglir had always known that Fingon would come; had set this hugely entertaining piece for him, and then watched from afar as Maedhros fell further and further into his trap, his disgrace.

‘I will crush every hope, every dream, every piece of love.’ Bauglir had leaned towards Sauron, whose cold wickedness and malice had been more calculating than amused. ‘Watch as I thread his bones on a spit of despair, as I drain every drop of blood into a cup of misery. Watch as I crush his very bones until nothing is left but ash….’

Maedhros blinked. A softness was pressed against the painful stump, his bleeding, painful stump that he clawed at in misery and penitence for killing Fingon. Looking down he saw a small hand placed over the stump, stopping him from scratching. A little face staring up at him, the roundness of the child’s cheek, the fine skin, sleek silky hair like a cap of black silk. And grey eyes watching him.

Elrond of course. He could always tell them apart no matter they they tried to confuse everyone else.

‘You are awake?’ he said unnecessarily.

Elrond nodded.

‘Is the wind keeping you awake?’

Stealing a quick glance at him, the child nodded.

‘The wind is just air. Remember we talked about how heat displaces air and how the cold temperature…’

‘Yes,’ Elrond interrupted quickly. ‘I know…’

‘Then you know not to be afraid. Not of the wind.’ Maybe of a wicked old Feänorian kinslayer, murderer, betrayer, he thought harshly.

The soft warmth on his stump was still startling for Elrond had not let go. Maedhros never let anyone touch it. But this warmth as not an intrusive probing. It was a soothing calm that washed over him like Peace.

Slowly, he looked down at the where the small hand was pressed so softly against the raw skin. Elrond looked up at him gravely. ‘You must stop scratching,’ he said solemnly. ‘You will make it worse.’

Maedhros wanted to laugh but it would hurt the boy and he would never do that. So he nodded as solemnly as the boy. ‘If you say so, little Erinyator,’ he said and Elrond had started for a moment at the word and then as he worked out the meaning, his smile widened into a beam.

‘I do say.’ He raised an eyebrow quizzically in the way that Maedhros himself often did. It was strange to see his own gesture on the child’s face. But Elrond continued, ‘And if you will, I shall put a soothing ointment on it that will draw the itching from your …arm.’

A sigh battled its way out of the knotted pain in his chest. Aye but the pain in my soul? The betrayal in my heart? The blood on my hands?

‘It will draw everything,’ said Elrond with immense tenderness that had Maedhros staring. Had this child perceived his thoughts?

He found those serious grey eyes gazing intently at him in concern. How could little Elrond have concern for him, his kidnapper, murderer of his grandfather, you could argue his mother even though she had jumped and had not needed to. But he knew he had looked wild, sword drawn. He could not blame her. His heart clenched like a fist over the bitter sorrow. Mercilessly, he opened himself to it so he could punish himself with his grief.

My fault. My fault, he mentally struck his breast in contrition. All. My. Fault.

Elrond was still watching him with an intensity that was so like the child Findekáno had been when he had first come to stay at Formenos; curious, intelligent, careful. Watching so he could learn, so he would not make a mistake, so he could fit into this extraordinary family where emotions were always close to the surface, where they would fight one moment and then be laughing and teasing the next….Kano had been such a solemn child at first, but his devotion to Nelyo…No, Nelyo was dead. Like Fingon.

Findekáno was, in Maedhros’ mind, a different person from Fingon.

‘Nelyo?’

His lips parted in shock. ‘Nelyo is dead,’ he said automatically.

Elrond blinked. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said with that familiar solemnity.

He reached up and touched Maedhros’ face, ran a finger curiously down the faint trail of the scar that had never healed. ‘But you are alive and you are looking after Elros and me.’

‘Yes,’ said Maedhros. ‘I am.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Your feet must be cold,’ he said, noticing the small bare feet clenched against the cold stone. He meant that Elrond should get back into bed but instead, the child put his hand onto Maedhros’ shoulder and hauled himself onto his lap.

‘They are,’ said Elrond and he pulled himself close to Maedhros and Maedhros threw his cloak around both of them.