The Song Remains The Same by Lotrfan

Chapter 1

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.