The Song Remains The Same by Lotrfan

chapter 1

Fingon stormed out of Makalaurë's tent. Hostage. Maitimo was a hostage. Morgoth's hostage. He strode through the camp, past the sentries. He ignored the sounds behind him, the brothers' voices raised in anger, arguing with each other now that he had left them.

He made his way alone to the north side of the lake, to his father's encampment. He slowed when he reached the first sentry, making his presence known but moving swiftly to his quarters. Fingon pulled aside his tent flap and entered, gratified that the fire was lit but that the tent was otherwise empty. He had no desire to speak to his brother or father tonight.

He sat down heavily in the chair in front of the fire. Maitimo. Captive. For years, if what Makalaurë- Maglor as he called himself now- had told him was true. Those accursed sons of Fëanor had not even attempted to get him back. It was too much. He couldn't sit. He stood up and began to pace the narrow confines of his tent. True, it had been even more years since he had shared time with his eldest cousin. Fingon was still bitter with regard to the events at Alqualondë. His rage at the burning of the ships at Losgar had not lessened, but this wasn't Fëanor, this was Maitimo. Maitimo. How could they not have even tried to learn his fate?

Fingon stopped pacing. He had to know if Maitimo lived. He could not think of leaving him to pain and torment if he still did. Despite Losgar . . . he had to at least try.

Try what, he asked himself, as he resumed his pacing at a more agitated rate. Maitimo had been captured-ambushed at a parley with Morgoth, Maglor had said. They had been given tokens to prove the story-his sword and bits of his armor had been returned to Maglor by one of Morgoth's emissaries. And the worst token of all-a lock of his distinctive hair. None of Maitimo's guard had survived to tell the story. Maglor said they had never been shown a body, never been given proof that he was dead. If Morgoth had killed him surely he would have proclaimed it through the land.

No. Morgoth would keep Maitimo. Keep him alive to taunt the remaining sons of Fëanor with their weakness. How could they dare attack Angband-Maitimo would pay for it with his life if they did. Morgoth had stymied them. He had taken their leader, their best warrior and strategist, the one who still inspired loyalty in their followers now that Fëanor was dead. Morgoth had taken him and rendered Maglor's army useless against him. They dared not attack and they would not bargain with Morgoth to get him back.

How could they leave Maitimo there? Fingon could not. He could not consider leaving him to certain torture and no doubt an eventual agonizing death. He had been abandoned when the ships had burned but he would not abandon Maitimo.

Let the sons of Fëanor sit in their tents and argue. They would not send their army to search for Maitimo. His father would not send his men either, Fingon knew without having to ask. Even with Fëanor dead there was still no trust in his sons, not after Losgar.

If he could not rely on Maglor or his own father then he would have to just do it himself. He would search for Maitimo. He would draw far less attention going alone anyway.

Decision made, he grabbed his leather satchel, hurriedly filling it with waybread, dried fruit, spare clothing. He took his weapons-he was a far better archer than a swordsman but he could not trust his bow alone. Not for this.

He fastened his cloak about him and looked around the room. His eyes fell on his harp. He had carried it with him, in this very satchel, over the ice. He had expected to use it on the ship voyage; he had carried it from Tirion for that very reason. But there had been no ship for him, he thought bitterly. He had thought to soothe Idril with it as they crossed the Helcaraxë but the cold had been so much worse than he expected that he could not get his fingers to do his bidding. It had been in his satchel until they had reached Lake Mithrim, unpacked now but not touched since days far happier than these, in Tirion long ago.

How many nights had he and Maitimo traded songs, forging words and music together? Neither had the unparalled perfection of Maglor but it had brought them joy and often laughter, especially when they had drunk more than enough wine to simply soothe their parched throats.

He shook his head. That was long ago. He was not that person anymore and neither was Maitimo.

Fingon left at nightfall, slipping out of the camp and walking alone through the wilderness to reach the lands of Morgoth. Through blasted gray desolation he walked, the darkness of Morgoth surrounding him.

He climbed within sight of Thangorodrim itself, surveying the terrain. He could find no sign of passage, no breach or cleft in Thangorodrim's might.

Despair came over him as he rested in the shadows, his eyes scanning the vastness of the cliffs near him. His gaze travelled up searching through the darkness and there, faint amidst the gloom around him, he spied the light of Varda's stars.

He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He understood now why Maglor had hesitated. This vastness was impenetrable. How could he even hope to pass through, let alone find Maitimo, in the depths of Angband beyond?

It would be daylight soon, he thought. Some unseen weakness might be found in the brighter light of the sun, if it could break through the darkness shrouding the peaks ahead.

As the light grew Fingon crept closer to those forbidding cliffs, black and sheer ahead of him. There was no break in their surface, no entrance that he could see, no opening or crevice at their base. He closed his eyes. He had failed. He had berated Maglor for his weakness but he was defeated too. Fingon could not get through to search. He scanned the smoke-wreathed mountains one more time. He would have to turn back.

An image of Maitimo, laughing over the comic song the two of them had written for Findarato's coming of age celebration so long ago, came to his mind.

He could at least pay tribute to his friend before he returned to the camp by Lake Mithrim. He could sing. A final farewell. A song of lost Valinor. A song of memory, friendship and love.

Fingon stood tall and raised his voice in song, the melody floating over the desolation in front of him, where song had never been heard before. He sang and he remembered. The last clear notes faded and he bowed his head. Maitimo would live in his memories.

He turned to leave when he caught the impossible echo of his song coming faintly from the direction of the cliffs. A voice he knew. A voice he thought never to hear again. A voice he loved.

Thangorodrim

Some days the smoke and mist were so thick he could not even see the blasted lands around him. His eyes would burn and his lips, already dry, would crack further bringing the taste of blood.

At first he would raise his head to the sky, desperate to glimpse the stars. The vapours and shadows from Thangorodrim's peaks kept them hidden so much that over time he had no strength or will to look up, not able to face even that small disappointment.

He had tried to count the days at first. The light did not change enough for him to be able to mark the passage. The awareness left him and the dimness around him merged into one unending torment.

He had thought he would die in the depths of Angband. There were times he wished he had but somehow he had survived the cruelty of Sauron and the wrath of Morgoth. They had grown tired of him it seemed. Unable to break him and unwilling to kill him, Morgoth had hung him here, amidst the slag heaps and sheer cliffs of Thangorodrim. Unable to escape and unable to die.

He had expected it would finally end here. This body would finally waste away and allow his Fëa to escape. If it could be called escape. He had not fulfilled his Oath so perhaps his escape would be to a darkness even more deep than this. The Everlasting Dark.

But it was not to be. Whenever he felt the despair begin to overwhelm him, when his body could no longer will his eyes to stay open, when he felt his breath burn in his lungs and his skin crack from dehydration-then she would come.

She would come to him, perch on the manacle that bound him to the rock, the agony in his wrist intensifying with her weight. He would turn his face away, clamp his lips shut but somehow each time Thuringwethil would find a way to extract a cry or a howl out of him. As his mouth opened in anguish or rage, she would drop the water or food into it-choking him at first but then his body would greedily take what she had given. Even as his mind rebelled.

So he survived. He lived, if it could be called living, hanging by his right arm on a cliff, surrounded by shadow and smoke.

The days may have passed unmarked but he knew she would come again. When the cracking of his lips wouldn't even bring a drop of blood to his mouth. When his body would shiver and burn. Then she would come and he would have to live until the next time.

It was not long after her last visit that he had noticed the stone give way. Movement was agony to his wrist and shoulder but sometimes he just had to shift position, to move his feet, roll his neck. He tried to hold off until he couldn't stand it anymore and then he shifted his feet, pressing his heels into the cliff behind him.

It scraped the skin off his wrist and burned but for those few seconds his shoulder and wrist pain receded just a bit.

Today was different. As he pressed his heels back, trying to gain just a few seconds purchase on the cliff, he felt a rock turn under his foot and plummet below. The wrench on his wrist and shoulder was sudden and excruciating. A cry broke from his lips at the sudden shift. He did not know how much time passed before he could think clearly again. He tentatively moved his foot to where the rock had been.

There was a ledge. A hollow. He closed his eyes and tried to dampen down the surge of hope. Could he get his heel to sit where the rock had been? He shifted, biting his lip as the manacle tore at the scabs on his wrist, making the blood run down his outstretched right arm.

There. He had it. He felt his bare heel cupped by the hollow and dared to put his weight on it and lift himself fractionally up.

Valar. Oh blessed rock. His wrist was still agony as it scraped up now but for the first time the pull on his shoulder eased. He felt the tears trickle down his cheeks and he silently cursed his weakness. That a moment of relief could render him so feeble.

He took a deep breath. He could not keep his foot there long, could not risk wearing away the edge. He would use it sparingly he decided; but he had found a respite, brief though it might be.

The agony came rushing back when he moved his foot but even knowing the hollow was there gave him something to look forward to. He would have to be careful. He could not risk Thuringwethil noting it on one of her feeding missions. He would have to forego the respite as he grew weaker and her time to come for him approached.

He was using the hollow again, days later, when he heard a sound that startled him. He could hear distant sounds-trumpets-trumpets that sounded like those of his Uncle Fingolfin, if that were possible. They were faint but he could hear them. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sound, gazing West.

The light grew. He had not seen light like this since his days in Tirion. It came from the West and a great light was cast all about him, the mists and smoke around him withering away. He could see! Finally he could see. The bright light was moving through the sky and he felt his skin grow warm as the light fell on him.

The trumpets were closer now. He could hear a mighty host nearing the Gate of Angband and hope unlooked for kindled in his heart. He pushed up as far as he could, his eyes searching the distance.

The trumpets rang clearly now, they were so near and he could see the blue and silver banners. Fingolfin! His uncle had come. He could not think how. The ships had been burned at Losgar. Had they braved the Helcaraxë?

Maedhros' heart raced. Was this some evil vision from Morgoth to entice him? To give him false hope? But it could not be. This new light in the sky-so like Laurelin-could only come from the Valar. Morgoth could not make light-he could only destroy it.

He could see the host. He could see the banners of Fingolfin, hear the triumphant trumpet call. This was no vision. The rest of the Noldor had come.

Thangorodrim shook at their passage and he lost his footing, dropping those few inches. With a howl of anguish as his shoulder jerked, his weight shifted, his wrist pinching in the manacle. His eyes closed as the agony took him over. He took a gulp of air and tried to calm himself. His eyes opened to the brightness of the light around him, glittering off the banners that were passing by him in the distance.

He called out to them desperately, his voice echoing off the stone around him. They passed by and before long he lost the sight and sound of them. He had not been heard.

The light faded and darkness came over Thangorodrim again and over Maedhros' heart. His despair was near complete. He had given up on hope, all this time as a captive. The sight of Fingolfin's host-so near-had given him a false hope and plunged him into devastation now that it was gone. It may as well have been a vision from Morgoth.

His brothers had not come for him. Would not come for him. He knew why and he knew he would have had to make the same choice if Morgoth held one of them. How could he have even thought there was a chance of rescue from his uncle? It was a fool's hope and he had learned long ago not to be a fool.

His moment of joy at the sight of the banners turned bitter.

But they had survived the crossing, he thought. A crossing they had to brave because his father burned the ships. He would find no sympathy in Fingolfin's host, of that he was sure.

What sympathy could there be for a kinslayer like himself? Doubly a kinslayer-killing not only the Teleri at Alqualondë but dooming his own fellow Noldor by allowing the burning of the ships.

He thought of Fingon and his head dropped to his chest. He had seen the banners-Fingon and Turgon marched with their father. They would believe him forsworn-that he had betrayed them at Losgar. They could not know he had protested to his father, had refused to take part in the burning, had mourned for those left behind. He had felt the first stirring of loathing for his father and his Oath that night, when Fëanor had denied his plea to sail back, if only for Fingon.

He had hoped that Fingon had turned back, back to the safety of Tirion and the mercy of the Valar, as Finarfin had done. Once Fingolfin had comprehended the treachery of Fëanor what else would they have done? Face exile perhaps for their role at Alqualondë? He had never thought that they would follow, follow Fëanor after his betrayal of them.

He grew cold as the light faded away. He could see Varda's stars-the mist and smoke burned away by the earlier brightness let them shine out now. He gazed up at them, thankful for their light and beauty, even in his anguish.

Anguish not only for himself but now for Fingon. He had thought him back in Tirion or Formenos. Safe. But now he was here, to battle the forces of Morgoth, perhaps even battle with his own brothers for their betrayal.

He had wished for Fingon's counsel and companionship so many times since their arrival here. Now that he knew he was here, Maedhros desperately wished he had stayed behind and never followed this doomed mission. There was only death and sufferering here. He did not want that fate for Fingon the Valiant. He would not see him in this life again, he had known that as the ships burned. But knowing it again, now that Fingon was so close, was as devastating as the first time.

The bright light in the sky came and went each day now. His skin burned as it passed and he grew accustomed to its warmth and felt the cold of its absence in the night.

Thuringwethil came in the night and he struggled against her efforts to give him sustenance. She scratched his face and chest but he prevailed this time. He did not want it. He wanted to be done with this.

She came again the next night and the next. The heat of the day was dehydrating him more quickly. His tongue was swollen. His every breath burned. He shook and shivered with fever. To his everlasting horror his body betrayed him as he grew weaker and he did not have the energy or will to spit out her offerings.

Days passed and the smoke came forth from Thangorodrim's peaks again. The light still came and went every day. Maedhros felt his skin crack and peel. He dreaded Thuringwethil's next visit. He was parched and raw; he doubted he would have the strength to fight her off again even though he knew it only prolonged his torment.

He looked to the West as the light faded from the sky. The cooler air brushed over his skin, making him shiver as the heat of the day left his body. The light spread over the horizon-orange and pink fading into purple. Watching it settle into the West he thought how beautiful it was and he was surprised he could still think of anything as beautiful.

The light was just coming again in the morning-light orange, yellow and gold in the distance. He put his foot in the hollow again, gently pushing himself up, a groan escaping him as he raked his wrist on the metal.

He stood there, momentarily grateful for the easing of the tension in the joints and ligaments of his shoulder, when he heard it.

His head moved forward as he strained to hear. There it was again. He knew that song. His eyes closed and he could see Fingon, golden ribbons braided into his black hair, smiling next to him as Maglor sang his latest composition at the festival.

Fingon had loved that song. Even though his voice was no match for Maglor's he would sing it all the time- at gatherings, summers at Maedhros' home in Formenos, at his own home in Tirion, when they would return from nights carousing.

It couldn't be real, he told himself. First the glimpse of Fingolfin's host and now this. It must be of Morgoth's doing, another way to break him.

But the song continued. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall. Tears for the elf he had been all those years ago in Tirion. For who Maglor had been. For his lost friendship with Fingon.

He could not help himself. He found his cracked lips opening. His swollen tongue licked his lips. He swallowed once, twice, then the words and melody came to him and he began to sing. His voice was initially weak and raspy-not like the voice he remembered but he kept singing, his eyes closed, tears running down his face in silver tracks.

The song grew louder, coming nearer. His eyes flew open. He knew that voice! It could not be but he knew that voice. He had joined his voice in song countless times with Fingon. He scanned the land ahead of him. His eyes locked on movement at the foot of Thangorodrim, on the slag heaps that undulated in front of the sheer cliff from which he hung.

Black hair. He could see a figure with black hair but this was no orc or spawn of Morgoth. The figure raised its face as Maedhros' voice failed him. He looked into the eyes of Fingon.

"Findekáno," he whispered.

Chapter End Notes

Author notes: in the Silmarillion it is noted that the arrival of Fingolfin coincides with the first rising of the Sun. I have incorporated that here.

Thuringwethil was a vampire who was a servant of Morgoth. I couldn't think of any other way for Maedhros to get food!

Fingon had followed the faint sound of the answering song, scarcely believing what he heard. He climbed the mounds of rock and dirt to the very base of the sheer cliffs of Thangorodrim. As the light increased the mist faded and he now saw the figure hanging from the cliff above him.

His breath caught as he saw the distinctive red hair and his song faltered. "Maitimo," he breathed, then shouted it louder. "Maitimo!"

The face looked down at him and he heard the quiet answer. "Findekáno."

He scrambled to the cliff, searching for a handhold, somewhere to grasp. "Maitimo!" He shouted again. "I will come." His hands slid on the dirt and rocks, unable to gain purchase. He pounded his hand against the cliff in frustration.

"Findekáno." His name came to his ears, the voice a dry and rasping growl above him. "Findekáno, there is no way up." Maedhros said, his words drifting down to Fingon. "There is no release for me, save from your bow."

Fingon shook his head and scraped his hands trying to climb up yet again.

"Finno, please. You cannot linger here," Maedhros called, his voice rising in volume.

"I will not leave you," Fingon called up, frantic in his scrabbling at the rock now.

"Finno, you have your bow. One arrow and you end this torment for me. Please. I am beyond hope, beyond rescue. You can give me peace and release me-it is the only way."

Fingon pressed his forehead against the rock wall in front of him. He was here. He had found him. Curse these cliffs, he thought as he pounded his hands against the surface one more time, dislodging a rivulet of dirt and pebbles that gained him no handhold.

"Finno, please." Maedhros tone was distraught now. "You must go! I cannot stand it if he gets you too. You must put an arrow in me before you leave." He paused and Fingon looked up to see his anguished face. "I cannot bear it anymore, Finno. End it, please."

Fingon felt the tears on his own face and wiped them from his cheeks roughly. He had come for nothing. His search for his friend would end with another kinslaying. He shook his head angrily as he prepared to string his bow. He would not leave Maitimo like this, kinslaying be damned. This was mercy. How he had survived so long up there. . . it must be excruciating. Fingon could barely stand to look, now that the light was bright, at Maitimo's gaunt, scarred body, hanging by his bloodied arm.

"Finno."

Fingon strung the bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. "I will not leave you like this, Maitimo. Trust me, I cannot."

A faint smile appeared on Maedhros' face. "Good thing I taught you how to aim properly, Findekáno."

Fingon swiped angrily at his face again, the tears obscuring the view of his intended target. He bowed his head and called out "Oh Manwë, King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need." He lowered his voice and whispered "May Eru forgive me for what I do."

He wiped his face one more time, then stepped back a few paces to improve the angle of his shot.

"Thank you, Findekáno," Maedhros said, as he saw Fingon raise his great bow.

He strung the arrow and bent the bow, taking slow and careful aim, for he would end it painlessly and instantly if his arrow flew true. As he paused and readjusted his stance a great gust of wind stirred his hair and temporarily blinded him. He heard a rush of wings and fearing some evil of Morgoth's he pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked to the sky.

It was no spawn of Morgoth. Mighty Thorondor, King of the Eagles, messenger and eyes of Manwë, approached. He landed next to Fingon with a forceful rush of air.

"Stay your arrow," commanded the eagle. Fingon's hands dropped to his sides. "Climb onto my back and I will fly you to him."

"Finno!" came Maedhros anguished cry from above.

Fingon shouldered his bow and leapt onto Thorondor's broad back. Thorondor flew to the face of the rock where Maedhros hung and he hovered there as Fingon scrambled toward the cliff.

He caught sight of the manacle and reached out to touch Maedhros' hand gently. Maedhros raised his face to Fingon's and they locked eyes. The light still burned in Maedhros' eyes and Fingon pulled out his sword and struck the metal cuff.

To no avail. No matter where he hit-the rock, the cuff itself, the hinge-it did not budge or break.

"Finno, end it!" Maedhros growled. "I cannot endure one more day here and I cannot endure what will happen if the dark one takes me down. Release me from this torment, Findekáno! Must I beg you?"

Thorondor flapped his wings and spoke to Fingon. "I cannot stay, child. Either end it or break the hold but I cannot keep you here like this much longer."

Fingon moved even closer to the cliff wall. "I will end it, Maitimo," he whispered to his friend. Maedhros closed his eyes and sagged. Fingon threw his left arm around Maedhros' waist and pulled his body onto Thorondor's neck.

Maedhros cried out in pain as his shoulder was wrenched further and his hand wedged into the cuff. "What are you doing, Finno?" he shouted as Fingon swept his sword back and struck at Maedhros' wrist. Maedhros screamed and collapsed onto Thorondor's neck, Fingon's arm tight around his waist.

"Go, Thorondor! I have him!" Fingon shouted, sheathing his sword and pulling Maedhros closer to his chest, holding him tightly to him. He took one last look at the cliff wall, Maedhros' right hand still held by the manacle. He looked down at his friend and clamped his hand tightly around the bleeding stump to stem the swift flow of blood.

"I've got you, Maitimo," he whispered. "I've got you."

Maedhros opened his eyes and gazed up at Fingon. "Foolish boy. You know that's not what I meant when I asked you to release me." His cracked lips curved up into a smile.

"Sorry, I must have misunderstood then," Fingon smiled down at Maedhros, keeping his grip tight on both his wrist and his waist. There was almost nothing to him but skin and bones, he thought.

"Findekáno the Valiant," Maedhros whispered and then his head fell back, unconscious now, leaning on Fingon's chest.

"Who's the fool, Maitimo?" Fingon whispered back. "It was a fool's hope I'd find you. A fool's hope I'd reach you. A fool's hope I could set you free. But here we are." He rested his chin on Maedhros' matted and tangled hair as he watched Lake Mithrim come into view below.

Now came the hard part. Dealing with the remaining sons of Fëanor and his father.