I Believe in Second Chances by NelyafinweFeanorion

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Chapter 2

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Beleriand 

First Age year 470 (pre-Nirnaeth Arnoediad) 

There was something majestic and raw about Himring in the winter, Fingon acknowledged, formidable in its stark outlines and sturdiness.  It was no less imposing in springtime, but the edges were softer, the green of the hills tempering the thick stone walls, grounding the fortress in the lands around it, rather than setting it apart at the peak.

It had been years since he had ventured this far to the north. Years of strife and turmoil in the lands. Years of loss and grief and unrest.

Fifteen years since his father had ridden off alone, to face their greatest enemy.

Fifteen years since Rochallor had returned to Hithlum, to succumb to his shuddering death at Fingon’s feet to irrevocably confirm the loss of their king, for that mighty steed would never have abandoned Fingolfin had he still lived.

Fifteen years since Morgoth’s malevolence had brought an unwanted crown to Fingon’s head and the wearying burden of kingship that came with the artfully twisted metal of it.

Fingon squared his shoulders. Enough of that kind of thinking. This was a new day. The sun was shining and their plan was coming together, bit by bit, years in the making but finally bringing him a surge of hope he had not expected to ever feel again. 

Maedhros’ plan was solid. The two of them had covertly hammered together the foundation of it when Maedhros had last come to Hithlum, eyes bright with excitement, spirits soaring with the belief that this time they would triumph.

Long nights pacing the length of Fingon’s room as they considered each obstacle. Early mornings spent debating the flaws in their plan. Nights stretched out on the thick rugs that carpeted the floor, Fingon’s fingers tracing the planes of Maedhros’ skin as they talked and deliberated and drew breath from each other’s lips when the words could come no more. 

They had kept up the dialogue through the winter months in coded missives, the clandestine cipher they had devised in their long-ago youth serving a far different purpose than simply allowing them to put their abject longing for each other into words no others could interpret. 

Now he was here, finally back at Himring, the plan solidified and strengthened by the intense scrutiny and analysis Maedhros’ brothers brought to every deliberation.

It was time. Time to reach out to their allies, to bring their strategy to those who could make this become a reality. To the Edain. To the Dwarves of Belegost. 

To Orodreth, in his fallen brother’s cavernous kingdom. To Thingol, safe and secure behind the Girdle that protected his realm from the savagery of Morgoth’s raids. 

Perhaps word would even reach Turgon, his own brother, sundered from him for so many years. There must be someone, some way, who could bring word to him of their ambitious plan for an all-out assault on the might of Morgoth himself. 

It would work, Fingon repeated to himself. It would. It was a masterful plan, exactly the kind of brilliant, devious, unexpected, strategic endeavour that was a hallmark of Maedhros’ dazzling intellect, honed to perfection by the often confrontational input of his brothers.

Maglor’s persistent interrogation, Celegorm’s unfailing directness, Caranthir’s unique ability to conjure up the most challenging obstacles, Curufin’s devotion to detail, Amrod’s unorthodox diversions, and always Amras’ tenacious belief that they would only succeed if they could put aside their differences and bring the diaspora of their kin together. 

There were trusted messengers being sent out to do just that. Amras himself would venture to the Green Elves. Emissaries would travel to Doriath, to Nargothrond, to the Falas, to Turgon himself if any trace of his secret stronghold could be found.

Fingon knew the Edain would be stalwart allies. He had no doubts regarding the surety of Hurin and Huor, or in Haldir’s commitment to this cause. Caranthir had brought his own assertions—that the men of Bor and Ulfang were steadfast and true.

Maedhros would venture to Belegost himself, to speak to Azaghâl face to face. The Dwarves were numerous and hardy, well armored and resolute. Their skill in forging would not be amiss—there was need for many weapons to be amassed for this assault. But the sheer numbers and tenacity of the Naugrim would serve their Union well. The fires of the dragon had not daunted them in years past and they were renowned for their fierceness and determination. 

Fingon had faith in Maedhros’ powers of persuasion.

Maedhros had not been so assured, the night before. “I ask much of them, Finno. Their caverns are not like our fortresses—they are far easier to defend than our strongholds and greatly undervalued for their concealment. They can hide thousands in those caves and surprise a foe from behind, if one can even penetrate their vastness. They are far safer there than in our ranks.” 

“But should we fall they have no safeguard, Nelyo. Their caverns may be vast and deep, but with an unmitigated assault by Morgoth—which will come to them if we falter—they too shall fall, cave by cave, cavern by cavern, until Orcs swarm their corridors and the smoke of their fires drives them out into the merciless hordes surrounding them.” He had squeezed Maedhros’ hand. “He will come. I cannot believe Azaghâl will sit in his hills and wait this out. That is not who he is.” 

Maedhros had given him that crooked smile of his. “And how would you know the mind of Azaghâl? You have not met him.”

“No thanks to you,” Fingon had answered. “Take me with you when you go to him. You know I have longed to see Belegost and to meet this Dwarf who is your friend.” He had grinned at Maedhros then. “I need to see with my own eyes the warrior who once bore that immense helm that so weighed me down, Curvo’s modifications notwithstanding.”

“I shouldn’t take you, you know. You are quite a liability to me, in my endeavor to bring him to our cause, seeing as you gave his magnificent helm away.”

“You gave it away yourself! Why should I be reprimanded for doing the same?” Fingon had frowned and leveled a glare at Maedhros. 

“Yes, but I gave the helm as a tribute to my noble king, my overlord, the leader of my people, my beloved sovereign.” The twinkle in Maedhros’ eye had been infuriating. “Not to some short-lived mortal with a large head.” 

That had made Fingon snort. “You know better than to say that. Even with all of Curvo’s efforts, I still couldn’t tolerate the damn thing. Too heavy, too large, prone to shifting at the most inopportune moments.” He had leaned closer to Maedhros, his voice dropping as he spoke. “You wouldn’t have wanted me to risk wearing it, you know that.”

Maedhros’ had shifted closer, his intertwined fingers tightening their hold on Fingon’s hand. “I do not want any risk to come to you. It was foolish of me to think I could make it work, when I could not manage it myself.” His grey eyes gazed into Fingon’s and in a moment of unexpected tenderness he had traced the stump of his right wrist along Fingon’s jawline. “I would leap at any chance of keeping you safe, you know that. There are incantations woven into that helm, enchantment that is unfamiliar to me.  Perhaps it is no more than clever words said in blessing over molten metal. It is likely no more than that, despite Telchar’s skill. But if there were any power to those invocations, I wanted them to protect you. But the repository of those words is too unwieldy. I would never forgive myself if it put you at greater risk.” Fingon shivered at the sensation of Maedhros’ skin against his own.

Maedhros had drawn him into the circle of his arms, lips pressing against Fingon’s temple, breath stirring Fingon’s loosened curls. “The only flaw I see in our plan is that we are not fighting side by side. That I will not be able to keep you in my sight as the enemy draws close. That I will not hear your voice, your battle cry, and know that you are near me.”

“You know it can be no other way, love. The core of the whole endeavor hinges on our armies being split, in lulling Morgoth into thinking we are fewer, in pinning him between our furious assaults and laying his hordes to waste.”

The crease in Maedhros’ forehead had been achingly familiar to Fingon. He had reached up to smooth it away, as he had so many times in the past. “Don’t think that way, Nelyo. This will work. If we can unite the peoples of Beleriand, to fight against Morgoth together, as one—there is nothing that can stand in our way. Trust me on this.” He had let his fingers sink into the mass of Maedhros’ hair, his thumb skimming against Maedhros’ cheekbone. “Now promise you will take me with you.” He had smiled up into the troubled grey gaze. “It seems I’ve some explaining to do before we can bring Azaghâl to our cause.” Fingon’s grin had widened. “I promise you, I can be surprisingly charming and persuasive.”

That had finally broken through the cloud of gravity that had come over Maedhros. “Nothing surprising about it at all.” He had leaned closer. “Not to me. I’ve always thought that.”

The angle of the sun had shifted while Fingon had been clearing his head with this ride through the grassy plain at the foot of Himring’s towering hill. Time to head back.

They would leave for Belegost in the morning.

 

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Belegost

 

“It has been a long time since you have graced us with your presence, my Lord of Himring.” Azaghâl greeted them from the top of the dais at the far end of his colonnaded great hall. He was almost of a height with Fingon at that level. “And I am pleased to make finally make your acquaintance, King Fingon.”

Fingon followed Maedhros across the space until they were only steps away from the Dwarven ruler. “It is my pleasure, my Lord of Belegost.” He inclined his head in greeting to the ruler of this realm. “It is past time I visited your glorious halls.” 

Maedhros dipped his own head in greeting. “It has been too long, my lord.”

Azaghâl waved away his courtiers and beckoned them to a table set behind him. “Join me.”

Once they were on the same level the height difference was far more noticeable, but Fingon had been misled by the rumours that the Naugrim were not even half the size of the Eldar. Perhaps the others were, but despite Azaghâl not being tall by any comparison, he was not small either.

He was broad of shoulder, far broader than any Eldar or Man that Fingon had ever seen. Broader even than Hador. 

Stocky and sturdy, with thick legs and arms and a large head set above those wide shoulders, Azaghâl radiated a solidity of form. Fingon tried to imagine the Dragon Helm on him and it was not as ludicrous an image as he had expected it to be. With Azaghâl’s flowing beard it would make a formidable sight. 

“Now we are alone, and I can greet you properly.” The Dwarven king stretched out a hand in the manner of Men, Fingon noted, and Maedhros clasped it warmly with his left hand. Azaghâl pulled at him with a grin and Maedhros bent down to share in the embrace.

It seemed they were on friendlier terms than even Fingon had anticipated.

Azaghâl then turned to Fingon and extended a hand, expression far more serious than it had been a moment ago for Maedhros. “Welcome to Belegost, King Fingon.”

Fingon clasped his hand back, grateful for the years of such gestures with Hador and Hurin. The Dwarven King had quite a firm grip. “No need for formal titles from you, my lord. Please call me Fingon.”

Even after all these years, it was still odd to hear himself referred to as ‘king.’ Fingon didn’t think he would ever get used to anyone other than his grandfather bearing that title. Even when his father had ruled it had not seemed real, to hear him spoken of as High King of the Noldor.

It was even more surreal to hear it in reference to himself.

Azaghâl had grinned at that. “It goes both ways then, Fingon. I am simply Azaghâl.”

They settled themselves at the low table, Maedhros shifting the cushions back a bit to accommodate his long legs. 

“So, what brings you to my halls and with such an illustrious companion?” Azaghâl fixed Maedhros with a penetrating stare.

“I seek counsel from you, old friend. Counsel and alliance.” 

A surprised expression flitted across Azaghâl’s face before he schooled his features. “You shall have my counsel, should you wish it, but my alliance you have had for many long years.” 

Maedhros met his gaze. “And for that I am most grateful. But I have come to speak with you of the future. Of our people and the continuous assaults to our borders, our lands, our homes. Of the enemy we share. Of the dangers that we face from the malice that he holds for us.” 

Azaghâl’s eyes narrowed. “You have my attention. You wish my counsel, old friend, but there more you seek from me, is there not?” 

Maedhros kept his gaze steady, his voice the strong, determined one Fingon had heard countless times during debates and expositions, the calm surety of it so familiar to him.

Azaghâl did not need much convincing. His realm might be somewhat isolated from the direct assaults that Himring and the Gap so often faced, or the incursions into Himlad and even Hithlum, but that did not make the danger any less. The Orcs had assaulted him on the very road to Belegost, years before, when he had first met Maedhros. They had not ceased aggressions in the intervening years.

“It is only a matter of time,” Azaghâl said. “The dragon was a taste of what is to come, I fear. It may have crept away that first time, after you so valiantly assailed it, Fingon, but as you know from the last battle, it has grown in might. I do not doubt there may be more to fear from that quarter.” He steeped his fingers together before continuing. “You are suggesting a bold assault, Maedhros. Not a feint or a diversion, but a full-scale confrontation, decisive but perilous if all does not go to plan.”

“I am aware that much hinges on timing, location and the resoluteness of our forces, Azaghâl. We were ever watchful, but still taken unawares when the flames came out of Angband and Dorthonion burned to dust and ash and the Ard-galen was laid to waste.” Maedhros leaned forward. “I do not mean to be deceived that way again.”

“So by making the first strike you believe you will catch the enemy unaware? His spies are many and his dominion wide. The movements of your forces will be scrutinized from the very first steps they take.”

He proceeded to question Maedhros on the logistics, the proposed alliances, the methodology of their plan. They talked late into the night, Fingon joining in occasionally with opinions, observations, reassurances, when needed. 

But mostly he observed the camaraderie between these two disparate individuals, brought together by fate on the old road years before, and now bound not by any sense of obligation or debt, but by mutual respect and the unexpected friendship that had grown between them as a result. 

“You have said your piece,” Azaghâl placed his hands on the table and tipped his head up. “I have my concerns. I have my misgivings.” 

Fingon’s fingers clenched together under the table as he leaned forward. It would be a grievous blow to not have Belegost with them. It would not bode well for their cause if Maedhros failed in his mission tonight. 

A slow smile creased Azaghâl’s face. “But do not doubt that I will be at your side when you send out the call. I will march with you, to whatever end this may bring us. And I will be proud to do so.” He reached out and clasped Maedhros’ good hand with both of his own.

Fingon sank back against his chair, the tension draining from him as he did. His legs felt stiff and cramped from being folded under him at this low table. A glass of wine would not go amiss to settle the fluttering sensation in his stomach.

They were doing it. This was the first of many steps on a path that would lead them to vindication and victory. 

Or desolation and death.

No.

He wouldn’t think like that. They had not toiled and fought and lost so much to give up now. To settle for an uneasy watchfulness that could only end in their deception yet again. No. This time they had to wrest control and fight the battle on their own terms, on their own chosen ground, at the time of their choosing.

It was time to end this.

It was time for the sons of Fëanor to fulfil their Oath and redeem not only their stolen treasures but their very souls from eternal anguish. 

Azaghâl stood and then crossed the room to a cabinet built into the wall, returning with a flagon and three glasses. To Fingon’s satisfaction he poured a dark red wine into each of their glasses and then raised his own, tipping it in Maedhros’ direction. “To our continued alliance, my friend.” 

Maedhros raised his glass in turn. “To our victory, Azaghâl.”

A shiver went through Fingon at his words, a chill along his skin, a momentary uneasiness that made him want Maedhros to take it back. But he shook it off—a case of misplaced nerves. He had never been the one prone to premonitions or portents. He gave no credence to that.

Fingon tossed his head and pushed himself to smile, taking his own glass in hand and raising it to the other two. “To the future.”