Second Childhood by HannaGoldworthy

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Chapter 5

Warning: feels.  No, seriously, feels.

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Two mornings later, the farm was blessed with an early spring thunderstorm.  The rain was not heavy enough to wash away the wheat seeds, but the noise was loud enough that it seemed Manwë and Ulmo were having quite the spirited debate.  Maedhros meandered out to the porch to watch; oddly enough, thunder helped him sleep, and perhaps this could help him break his streak of restlessness.

 

Curvo was there, however, and he’d somehow found or made enough dye to color his hair back to its natural black.  That was odd enough.  The way the boy held himself was odder still; shoulders back, chin up, and a distant note of arrogance in his eyes underneath a veneer of benevolence.  He remained in the simple work clothes of a farm boy, but his manner was obviously meant to invoke the hauteur of a Ñoldor prince.

 

“I need to speak with you,” he began – and the effect for which he was striving was immediately lost, for his voice hit three different octaves on his final three words.

 

Maedhros pressed his hand to his mouth with bruising force; he would not laugh, not when Curvo was trying so hard to be serious.  He glanced away, briefly, to let the boy get his composure; when he glanced back, the Ñoldor prince had returned in force, without even admitting he had ever been gone.

 

“How may I assist?”  He fought to keep the dry wit out of his tone, and studiously avoided saying ‘my lord,’ but Curvo’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“I think the question is rather how I may assist.  It’s evident that you are putting aside your grief in order to help me, and it should not be necessary.  I’m the one who should be comforting you.”

 

Maedhros kicked himself inwardly, again.  He’d been very good at hiding his own feelings throughout his first life; in his second, he tended to display them more openly as a matter of keeping his sanity, which was why he typically sought solitude.  But he was not the one who had to grow up all over again; Curvo had enough to deal with without having to nursemaid his forgotten son as well.

 

“I’m sorry, Curvo.  It seems this whole affair was rather ill-timed.”

 

“Nelyo, you have no reason whatsoever to apologize to me.  And this visit was perfectly timed, in my estimation.”

 

And, suddenly, Fëanáro was standing there…rebuilt in miniature, perhaps, but still as fiery and charismatic as he had been in the beginning.  Maedhros gaped, suddenly feeling very small, in a way that he had not been since his father had last set him on his knee.

 

Fëanáro searched his face, his lips set into a stern line.  “You’re very good at lying, but not as good as you have been.  Did you think I wouldn’t guess exactly what you’ve gone through?”

 

“You remember.”

 

“You’re deflecting.  Your wife’s death, however impermanent, affects you more than you’re willing to admit.  Why?”

 

“Because death hurts!  You of all people should know that!”

 

“And yet, I seem to be the only one still acknowledging that.  But, that’s not true.  Your best friend still feels the bereavement.  Why will you not seek his help?”

 

“There’s no point.  Grief is a thing that does not belong here.”

 

“And yet, you’re not grieving anything that has happened here, are you?”

 

The conviction in Fëanáro’s eyes bore terrible testament to that painful truth.  Maedhros was suddenly afraid, and turned away sharply, staring out into the rain for some degree of comfort in his escape.

 

“This is ridiculous.  Father or not, I’m not about to be lectured to by a boy in his thirties.”

 

“Grown or not, I’m not about to let my son wallow forever in self-pity in silence.”

 

“It is not self-pity!”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“The truth!”  Despite himself, Maedhros felt exhilaration as he whirled to answer; he’d never had this sort of fight with Fëanáro, always the peacemaker between his father and mother and brothers.  “It’s the simple truth, nothing more!”

 

Hulking, brutishly strong, and fiercely red, Maedhros knew full well how terrifying he was when angered, even when healed of all his corporeal scars.  But Fëanáro seemed triumphant, and leaned toward him, just as incensed as he was.  “And what is that truth?  Please, enlighten me.”

 

Maedhros felt his lip tremble treacherously, and before he could even think, he’d jumped off the porch into the rain, heading mindlessly toward the barn.  Steam was rising from the ground because the rain was so cold, but he didn’t feel it.

 

“You can run away from me, but not from this!”  Fëanáro had followed him, but he still had the longer legs.

 

“Oh, you’re not going to pursue me to the ends of the earth?  That’s not like you at all, Atto.”

 

“You need to talk this out!”

 

“Perhaps, but not with you.”  He’d made it to the barn, and his prized chestnut colt looked up in anticipation as he pulled the most lightweight of the saddles from its peg.

 

“If not with me, then with whom?”

 

“Eru Himself, if He’ll listen.”

 

“He always listens!  Why do you think I’m here?”

 

There was a tremor of rage in Maedhros’ hands as he saddled the colt, and the saddle slipped to the ground.  Biting back a curse, he tried to calm the animal, which was eying him nervously.  “There you go again, acting like you’re a gift from Eru,” he growled.  “I guess some things never change.”

 

Fëanáro did not answer that, which Maedhros took to mean that he’d won.  He should have known better; as he bent to pick up the saddle, the small, boyish voice spoke up again, softly this time, hurt.  “Son, don’t.  It’s too wet outside to ride.  You’ll get him killed.”

 

Maedhros glared at his young father, who was sopping wet and flush with tears, and had rivulets of black dye running down his face.  Fëanáro had only ever pleaded for one thing in his previous life.  It was the one thing Maedhros had ever denied him.  Guilt lanced through him, and self-hate flowed poisonously into the wound.  Leaving the saddle where it was, he exited the stall and closed it carefully behind him.

 

“What do you want me to say?  I’m sorry that I did not swear the Oath a second time.  But I’m sorrier that I was ever stupid enough to swear it in the first place.”  There was a flicker of doubt in Fëanáro’s face; perhaps he did not remember that yet.

 

For a moment, Maedhros tried not to continue; father or not, before him stood a boy of thirty, who did not deserve to withstand the burden of almost twelve thousand years of an old soldier’s regrets.  But it was as if the Dragon-Helm had been forced upon his head; as that accursed helmet had once magically opened all his old physical scars at once in a misguided effort to heal him from their damage, so too had this confrontation sliced open all his memories.  Eru help the poor soul in front of him; he would not be able to stop if he wanted it, which he desperately did.

 

“Or, I could tell you that I left my little brother alone to suffer for the rest of time in Middle-Earth, after he was my closest companion for well-nigh two Ages, and knew every one of my secrets.  And yet, he wrote a lament that eventually made it back here, written with all his talent and putting even Daeron’s work to shame.  It’s considered his masterpiece, and it was written about me.  And not once did he ever blame me for all his pain, which was my fault.”

 

A tear ran down the boy’s face – it was especially cruel to mention Maglor, who would not return even now and would likely not get the chance to reconcile with his father until Dagor Dagorath.  But Fëanáro lifted his chin in challenge, and stood firm.

 

“I could tell you how I watched as my best friend was cloven nearly in half, at too great a distance to do anything but watch.  I could not help Fingon, who followed me into Kinslaying, who forgave me even on the Helcaraxë, who took on the burden of being crown prince and thus forsook any normal relationship with his wife and children in order to hide them from Morgoth’s wrath.  Even then, he would stand in front of my cell in Mandos for years at a time, gleaning sense out of my gibbering rage and never once leaving without properly ending the conversation.  He smuggled my mother in there once to let me speak to her, and earned himself a long exile.  He smuggled my wife in there later, and would have gotten himself thrown out of Valinor if he’d been caught.  He still sends flowers on my begetting day; he sent them even when we were fighting.”  He probably threw parties still, even though Maedhros would never attend them.

 

Fëanáro nodded in approval, even as his jaw worked to stop him from sobbing.  Maedhros was beginning to grow angry again – was there nothing which would drive him away?

 

“I could tell you about the awful crunch of Azaghâl’s bones under the dragon’s foot, how they could be heard across the battlefield.  He’d been the fastest of my friends in Middle-Earth, and saved me, once, from a blasphemer’s death by quartering because it was discovered I could speak Khuzdul.  He’d emptied his halls for my plan to destroy the enemy for good, and Belegost never regained her former power or glory.  And he still threw himself under a dragon, to cover my retreat.  And he’s probably the only reason you’re not hanging by your toenails in some dungeon janitor’s closet for your slight against Aulë’s sacred Halls.”

 

The boy had the audacity to laugh, tearfully though it was.  “Right, I’d almost forgotten about that.”

 

Maedhros ground his teeth in fury.  “Or, perhaps, I could wax poetic about my dear, sweet, stubborn wife, who once put an arrow in a man’s eye for attempting to hamstring my horse.  I could tell you how she and her family eked out a living in a cold and barren land, and refused the chance to relocate to Caranthir’s rich farmland because they had sworn an oath to me.  I could give you every detail of how her father and brothers were slaughtered and butchered like cattle in punishment for their betrayal.  Or I could tell you about the plague that spread like wildfire through all our human vassals, and how I held her as…” the breath caught in his throat, and he realized he was crying outright.  “I held her as she drowned in her own blood, unlucky as she was to survive the fight.  I never left her side for a moment.”

 

He sunk to the floor, curling his legs underneath him, staring at the simple boots in front of him.  “We couldn’t even grieve them properly, for fear of reprisal against any of their living relatives in Mithrim.  Maglor gave them false names and wrote a lament, but I could never bear to hear it.”

 

Fëanáro approached, and extended a hand to lay on his, but he brushed it away.

 

“On top of that, Amras had spent the time after the battle in frenzy to find some sort of cure for the plague.  He was livid that he could not help, and wanted to comfort me in my grief by obtaining at least one Silmaril, but unwilling to follow Celegorm’s mad plan to attack Doriath.  Due to his travels as a healer, he had connections in Nogrod, and asked them to find some sort of way to buy the Silmaril from Thingol.  It got his daughter killed.”  Well did Maedhros remember how Beren’s force had glowered from the forest as his little brother, heedless of the river’s current, howled like a wounded animal and clutched one particular dwarf to his chest; they’d never even realized Amras had been wed until that day, so secretive were dwarvish marriages and families.  It was fitting that his father felt the same shock of the unheralded revelation.

 

But Fëanáro showed no shock, if he was surprised.  He sat in front of him, seeming content to wait, for now.  Maedhros still avoided his gaze, staring at his right hand, which felt numb.

 

“No matter how eloquently or brusquely I spoke, after that day, the voice of reason was outnumbered amongst our brothers.  Celegorm wanted blood.  He says that he only intended to take the princes of Menegroth as ransom for the Silmaril, and he still hates himself viscerally, because they still have not been found, in Mandos or anywhere else within the circles of the world.  They died, and three of my brothers died, because I hadn’t the strength to argue against them.

 

“And still, Amras struggled with his own grief, and I was too blinded by mine to help him.  At the Havens of Sirion, he attacked without even waiting for their answer to our letter, so keen he was on punishing the last of them for his loss.  Elwing took him with her when she fell; he was still alive when I found him, but not for very long.”  Even now, seagulls bore enmity for Amras, even if Elwing was courteous to his face for Elrond’s sake.  At the moment, he got away with droppings in his hair, but Maedhros had it on good authority that Amras had nearly lost an eye more than once when he went to Elwing’s tower seeking forgiveness.

 

“And Elrond and Elros?  Maglor and I were kind to them, but our influence distanced them from their family in a way that can never be undone.  Elros chose the Gift of Men for the specific purpose of being able to beg Eru’s clemency at my trial.  Elrond will never see him again, because of me, and yet, he still calls me Atto.”

 

And then, the realization of just how cold he was suddenly hit him, and he shivered as he looked up at Fëanáro, who was, somehow, still there.  “You wanted to know the truth about me?  Well, there it is.  I’m a terrible person who has somehow managed to gain the loyalty of many people much more worthy than I am.  I don’t deserve their love.  I don’t deserve their constancy.  And I certainly do not deserve that remarkable woman, who gave up everything promised to her beyond the circles of the world in order to limp along on a technicality from century to century, after a tattered, faithless old murderer who was ruined before the first members of her mortal tribe awoke in Hildorien.  And yet, I am here, even though they do not deserve the punishment of even knowing me.”

 

Fëanáro sat still, his teeth clenched in a spasm of emotion which Maedhros could not interpret.  He swallowed, loudly, and released the tension in a sigh.

 

“And what have I done, that you were willing to go through all that pain out of loyalty to me?  How have I merited your love and constancy?  I’m ultimately to blame for everything you’ve just told me, and I wasn’t strong enough to even be there for you through any of it.”

 

The sob that racked Maedhros’ ribcage surprised him, but Fëanáro didn’t so much as jump.  “Oh, Atto,” he wept, suddenly twelve years old again.  “You’re my father, and I love you.  You’ve never needed to earn that.”

 

Fëanáro inched forward, and laid his left palm on his son’s hand where it lay limp on his knees.  With his right, he cupped Maedhros’ cheek, gently tilting his head in order to look him dead in the eye.

 

“And your family loves you.  Still.  Always.  So stop questioning it, and let them forgive you.”

 

Perhaps it should have felt odd, crying like an infant on the shoulder of someone so small.  But Maedhros had never allowed himself to feel anything so strongly, and Fëanáro bore the bone-crushing embrace with his usual ferocious grace.  Time would level out the irregularities eventually; for now, it was enough to simply be his father’s son.