Reconciliation by Ariana

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Chapter I

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Chapter one

 

The giant eagle flying over the camp caused the motion among the guards. It was hard to miss the majestic bird in the light of setting sun.

The sons of Feanor went outside and watched the eagle pass their camp and fly over the lake to get down at the other side. The eagle landed where Fingolfin’s settlement was, but soon it left the ground and went back east.

The Noldor on the southern side wondered what was reason of one of Manwe’s eagles had to visit Fingolfin, but it was soon clear tha none of them had guessed. The solution came from north in a form of messengers with an invitation for Maglor; a summoning more likely, though put in elegant words.

The news that it was Fingon who had returned in such a spectacular way just fuelled the brothers’ curiosity. Caranthir suspected a trap, Curufin asked why only the eldest should go. Amras was trying to guess.

Maglor cut those discussions and ordered his brothers to wait. He hoped that Fingon had gotten some important news, if their uncle decided to share them with the sons of Feanor and sent for him so suddenly in the middle of the night. He also suspected that Fingolfin asked for him alone to inquire about the situation in the other camp and potential perspectives for cooperation.

The sun was rising when he reached his uncle’s settlement. It was the first time he could see it so close and only now he was able to assess the forces Fingolfin possessed. If they wanted revenge, they could have swept us from the ground, he concluded grimly, not daring to step inside without an invitation.

He didn’t wait long; soon someone took his horse, some other elf led him to Fingolfin’s quarters. Maglor hoped he was able to hide his nervousness; though he had suppressed his brothers’ considerations, he had no clue what was it all about.

Despite what he expected, there was no Fingolfin nor Turgon  in sight. It was Fingon who was waiting for him alone. Was he the least reluctant? ‘For I cannot say the most friendly,’ thought Maglor gloomily, watching his cousin as he approached him.

“Kanafinwe.”

“It is good to see you unharmed, Findekano.” These words, sincere, broke from Maglor’s throat instead some stiff greeting. There was no enmity on Fingon’s face, just a shade of fatigue which made Maglor wish to ask a lot of questions. Considering the strained contact between the two camps, or rather the lack of it, who knew when he would get another opportunity.

“There is someone who will please you more,” answered Fingon, but his serious tone alarmed Maglor. “Come.” He led him down the corridor.

Maglor followed his cousin, confused. Who could Fingon have meant? Among Fingolfin’s host there were many of his former friends, but he could think of no one particular he had missed. For a brief moment he even considered the possibility of this being some kind of a trap, but one glance at his cousin made him blush in embarrassment; Fingon was too sincere and straightforward to repay the sons of Feanor for their betrayal in such way.

“Keep calm.” Fingon warned him quietly and opened the door. He went in and moved to make some space.

Red hair. That was all Maglor saw in the silhouette laying on the bed; now Fingon’s words suddenly made sense.

He didn’t even know how he found himself on his knees beside the bed. His eyes were glued to his brother’s face, gaunt almost beyond recognition. He ran his fingers through the dry, pinched skin on the neck, touched the lifeless hand on the bedding. Carefully, as if afraid that Maedhros would break or disappear under his touch. What he was able to acknowledge with all certainty was that the elf’s ribcage was raising in a shallow breath and that his hand was warm, much warmer than his own, but that didn’t surprise Maglor; he could swear the blood in his veins froze and went still. And then it must have boiled, for waves of heat went through his body, black spots danced before his eyes and Maedhros’ hand ceased burning him. For a brief moment Maglor saw only dirt behind short, broken nails of his brother, the net of blue veins running just under his dry skin burnt by the sun. Then the tension in his temples lessened, the noise of his boiling blood silenced, his sight came back.

Maedhros did not disappear, though he started blurring. It took another moment until Maglor realized it was just the tears that disturbed his sight. He breathed deeply a few times, wiped his eyes with his hand; the other he didn’t dare to move, the warmth of Maedhros drawn him like a moth to the light.

Fingon was silent, waiting, observing. Maglor rose from his knees, sat at the edge of the bed, glanced at his brother more soberly. Maedhros had a clean face, reddened; it must have just been washed. Around his head laid a mess of his wet, copper hair. Maglor consequently continued his examination, looking at everything that wasn’t covered with dressings, he was looking and searching what was left of the Maedhros he remembered.

Fingon remained silent and Maglor was grateful for it, for right now he would not be able to make a sound, lest it be to howl in helpless rage. Or cry. Thank. Beg for forgiveness. And thank again. And shout. Too many emotions to put them into words; even he, playing with them so fluently, could not.

Maglor removed the blankets, subconsciously counted the exposed ribs. And then he saw his brother’s right hand, covered with thick bandages. And what was lacking. A moan escaped his lips.

“What have they...” The words stuck in his throat.

“It was not Moringortto.” Fingon spoke for the first time since they came to this room. “It was my doing. I had no choice,” he admitted sadly.

Maglor was grateful he was sitting, for he felt faint when he realised what his cousin had said. For a brief moment he thought that this was Fingolfin’s sentence for the slaughter in Alqualonde and for the burned ships, so that Maedhros would never again be able to raise his hand against his kin. He silenced it. ‘It’s Findekano,’  he reminded himself again. ‘It’s Findekano and he’s just returned  your brother to you.’ A friend, not bound by the Oath that had already taken it’s bloody reward.

He must have had it written on his face, for his cousin dragged himself a chair and sat down too. He spoke silently, not to disturb the wounded, he spoke from the end  to the beginning, from most important things to the details. Maglor remained silent, clinging to his brother’s hand, he listened and counted Maedhros’s every breath. Fortunately, Fingon didn’t expect him to answer and it was good, because emotions almost chocked him. Relief. Bitterness. Earnest gratitude for his host. Hate. Embarrassment. He could not raise his head to look at his cousin. ‘Coward,’ he thought somewhere around Maedhros’s two hundred breath.

They had betrayed their brother, renounced him, abandoned him to torture and oblivion. They had thought him dead, they had mourned him because it was easier this way, and then they had been sitting silently and fortifying their camp. And as it turned out, all that was needed  was one Fingon, stubborn and brave enough to bring Maedhros home. A shred. Alive. Cripple. Wounded. Wreck. ALIVE.

When Fingon understood that it was going to be a very one-sided conversation and moved to giving some details from his journey, Maglor could no longer sit idly. He grabbed a comb and put it into the mess of hair, trying to untangle them. He would have tried harder if not for the fact that he was afraid to move his brother. Soon he had to give up, accepted the scissors Fingon gave him. Strand after strand he cut the copper hair with his shaking hands. They would grow back. The hand would not. It doesn’t matter. Maitimo is alive.

”I need to go back,” said Maglor long after Fingon ceased talking. “I don’t wish to. I have to.”

“I can send a messenger to your brothers.” Fingon offered, but Maglor just snorted grimly.

“They won’t believe them. If I don’t come back, they may think you have kept me here against my will, even if you yourself would go with the news,” he answered. “Tyelko won’t keep them in line.”

Fingon did not comment, just nodded in understanding. It was hard to doubt the fiery spirits of the sons of Feanor.

“Maitimo will be safe here,” he promised, though Maglor would not doubt it. “Come back when you can.”

Maglor rose slowly, reluctantly letting go of his brother’s hand. He knew he would be back in a few hours at most, as soon as he convince his brothers that their uncle meant no harm. He was about to leave when he realized what was that he hadn’t said, though he had repeated it in his thoughts countless times since he had seen Maedhros.

“I find no words to express our gratitude,” he said at last, for the first time officially. “I am in your debt.” It sounded stiff, unnatural.

“Go, tell your brothers.” There was a friendly smile on Fingon’s face and Maglor blushed. He nodded at his cousin and left, this time not waiting for a guide. His horse was waiting outside.

He was wrong. As he rode back to his camp, the words came at their own accord, forming a song praising Fingon the Valiant.

xxx

“Are you content? Have you discussed with Kanafinwe when they would take him away?’ Turgon snapped at his brother when Fingon left the room where Maedhros had been placed.

“No.” Fingon pulled back his hair from his face; he had no time to comb them after washing and now they hung loosely on his forehead.

When Thorondor left them in the evening beside the settlement, Maedhros was his prime concern. He had passed out just after Fingon had freed him and hadn’t regained consciousness since then, indifferent to all the efforts Fingon had done to stop the bleeding and bring him home alive. Fingon had very few possibilities, he had left most of his things in the saddlebags, and Thorondor had risen from the cliff and took the way west. Fingon had not dared to ask him to retrieve his sacks, afraid that the eagle would leave them by the mountains. He knew he would never be able to ride a horse with Maedhros in this state, not even to mention the potential dangers they would have to face on their way. He had to manage with what little he possessed. Fingon had torn his shirt to pieces and done whatever he could so that his rescue would not prove fatal to Maedhros. He had not even touched any other wounds on his battered body, focusing only on the bleeding of his stump. Fingon had never seen anything this cruel and it didn’t help that he was the one who had maimed his friend.

When they reached the lake, Maedhros was still breathing, though his state had deteriorated during the long hours of the flight and his body burned with fever despite the cool wind from which Fingon’s cloak and Thorondor’s feathers gave little shelter. But Fingon took this shallow breath as a good sign and left his cousin to their best healers; Valar knew they had gotten a lot of experience during the crossing.

“Findekano.” Turgon’s impatient voice dragged Fingon back from his memories. “Father has asked for you.”

Fingon stroke his hair once again; only now he was starting to feel the weariness of his journey. Earlier he had barely found enough time to wash himself and change his clothes.

“No, we made no agreements,” he answered finally, returning to the main topic. “It’s too soon for that, let Kanafinwe go and share the news with his brothers.” He didn’t mention his cousin’s earlier remark. To be honest, Fingon realised, they had set nothing, they had not even gotten to the problem. Maglor had been too flabbergasted until he had remembered that his brothers had known nothing. Maybe it was for the best.

“Just make Kanafinwe take him away and problem’s solved,” snorted Turgon.

After the first moment of joy that Fingon was alive, Turgon seemed resentful. Their father just sighed in relief, but Maedhros caused no warm feelings despite his miserable state. And Fingolfin was even less pleased with Fingon’s spontaneous idea to send a message to Maedhros’s brothers; none of them was welcome here.

“I have no doubts they will want to take him as soon as possible,” retorted Fingon. ‘If Maitimo lives,’ he added silently. “But right now it is not,” he said coolly and gestured at the door, inviting his brother to step in.

Turgon went inside and stood behind the healers who worked around Feanor’s eldest son. He returned after a moment, pale and shaken at the sight what the Enemy could do with an elf if he wanted to.

“Father called me, you said?” Asked Fingon pointedly, knowing that he had made his point and Turgon would not return to the matter of moving Maedhros any time soon.

Turgon just nodded.

xxx

“That was reckless.” Fingolfin left the window and looked at his son. “I don’t want the presence of the sons of Feanaro to cause any trouble.”

Fingon didn’t try to argue. His brother’s reaction at the sight of Maglor had made him realize that many among their elves hated the sons of Feanor, perhaps even more than Turgon did.

“Forgive me, father, I should have discussed this matter with you,” he admitted. “But Maitimo is in such a state that I wanted to inform his brothers as soon as possible.”

“No son of Feanaro is welcome here,” replied Fingolfin. “You cause chaos, dragging them here like that, with no warning.”

“Should I have left him there?” Fingon raised his voice and looked at his father, wounded that he too, like his brother, would rather see his friend dead. “You’ve seen what the Enemy had done to him!? Should I have answered with malice for those burned ships and left him there? Honestly...”

“No!” His father interrupted him. “You should have not risked joining him there! If not for the grace of Manwe, you would have been hung alongside Nelyafinwe, no one here would have known what happened to you and the Enemy would have had another prince in his grasp!” He said agitated.

“But I succeeded and we are both here.” Fingon pointed out meekly; he had no other words to say to face his father’s love. “Perhaps I should have left Nelyo at the other side of the lake,” he got back to the second delicate matter. “But the eagle headed here and I did not know how to ask him to change his destination.”

“it’s done, you can’t move him now,” said his father and grimed at the memory of his nephew’s state. “But if other sons of Feanaro walk around our settlement, sooner or later we will have some incident and then a war with our brothers instead of Moringotto.”

“I have told Makalaure to come back,” cautioned Fingon. “I couldn’t refuse him.”

Fingon just sighed and nodded.

“Well then, Makalaure will have my permission. No one else,” he stressed and Fingon knew his father agreed mostly because he didn’t want to question his authority before the sons of Feanor. “Just tell the guards.”

“Of course.” Fingon nodded in thanks. “And it’s better that the sons of Feanaro learn about Nelyo’s state from one of them. Who knows what they could think if anything happens,” he added, giving his father an argument, should anyone try to question his decision.