A Sense of History: Straight Road
The next in a series of articles about ships passing to and from the West, Simon uses "The Fall of Númenor" to attempt to arrive at Tolkien's reading of the exordium to "Beowulf."
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Maedhros in Angband
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Straight Road by Simon J. Cook
The Fall of Númenor offers the evidence used to arrive at Tolkien's reading of the exordium to Beowulf.
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The Song Remains The Same by Lotrfan
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Chapter 2
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!
