To Build The Bonds That Tie by ThatFeanorian

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What We Lose

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Even before his Grandfather died, family gatherings had always been a mess, and though Maedhros should have predicted that with his funeral, things were bound to get worse, he dared to have hope. An air of dismal silence rests over the car, the only sound Maglor’s feet as he slams his heels repeatedly into the seat below him, and Fëanor’s occasional angry exhales explained to Maedhros in a barely audible whisper by Maglor as “no doubt the result of having to share a funeral with Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë.” How he knows who Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë are, Maedhros isn’t sure. He himself doesn’t really know them besides shadowy figures that always seem to feature in his father’s rants. Celegorm kicks viciously at Maglor shins, running a hand through his neatly coiffed hair, which Amil had gone through hours of effort to tame earlier, and hissing,

“Can’t you fucking shut up for one second?” loud enough for us to hear, but not quite so loud as to alert Amil and Atar in the front, who surely would have had some choice words in response to his eight-year-old* mouth spouting that kind of language. Maglor gives an even louder bang to the seat underneath him as his only response. Seeing that Celegorm’s expression is nearing a dangerous level of anger, Maedhros leans over and nudges Maglor’s side. Immediately, he ceases, throwing his older brother an upset glance but not voicing any of his discontents. At ten, he has finally given up attempting to refuse his Maedhros. Sighing, Maedhros settles back in his seat, looking out of the car gloomily. Later in the day, he will look back and give anything to be in this car, away from father’s venomous glare as he yells after Uncle Nolofinwë,

“Snake. Coward. Flee while you can, for I promise no one in the world can save you from the crimes of your false heritage.” He will give anything to be back in the car, where he cannot see his cousins faces, pale and thin under the mist surrounding them, to be back in the car where there is no coffin, and no anger, and no death.

But for now, he is in the car, watching Junior**; who is curled into a ball in his car seat, eyes focused on a small insect crawling up the glass, watching Amras and Amrod --too young to understand what was happening-- gurgling happily in the back seat, and all he wants is to get out. Somehow, even in the huge van, it takes to house all of his expansive family, the black cloud of Fëanor’s grief and simmering hatred still seem to take up all of the extra room. Celegorm shifts uncomfortably, itching at his neck in a movement Maedhros longs to copy, the wool of his collar is itching nearly unbearably. Celegorm looks utterly miserable, and Maedhros is sure he knows the reason: their father forbid him to bring Huan. Even now, on his suit, there is evidence of the hound. The pale yellow hairs only hinting to the desperate struggle that had gotten them out of the house; Celegorm practically clinging to his pet as Fëanor raged, having to bodily drag him out of the house in order to leave Huan behind.

It is no familial mourning that pulls on Tyelkormo’s heartstrings now, but the loss of his closest friend to logic and sound reasoning. Maedhros can not help but feel a flash of anger at that, though he quickly quells it. By the time Celegorm was old enough to remember Grandfather, he had been preoccupied with their new (and first) cousin, whose birth had been shortly after his own. He had never had the benefit of a grandfather with an open lap whose sole purpose in life was to read your stories and cook your food. Maedhros’ relationship with Grandfather was something that Celegorm had never been given the opportunity to have, and one of the few points on which Maedhros pitied him. In that regard, he is unique. Being the eldest meant the deepest love, and the most pain when that love was wrenched away, but he will not cry.

Not again.

He has already done so in the privacy of my room with Maglor’s shoulder below his head, and Maglor’s arms around him. To his twelve-year-old mind, the deed is done, and will not be repeated. When his father parks, Maedhros does not know how his legs carry him out of the van; does not know how they support him, or if they were even there, because his eyes never see them

It is raining, the light soft misty kind that everyone ignores until they are soaked to the bone and shivering. The sky is a bright monotone grey, matching the colour of Maglor’s eyes beside Maedhros where he is clinging to his older brother’s hand; a flawless act of helplessness designed in every aspect to make Maedhros feel needed. He knows that it is fake, and Maglor knows it makes everything better.

Despite the fact that it is quite early, there is already a small group of six people gathered around the plot of land that Fëanor has reserved for his father. Maedhros watches his father’s back stiffen and a defensive scowl paste itself across his mouth as he catches sight of the group, and he grips Maglor’s hand more tightly as if somehow the pressure of his hand could send away the people who are making his father angry.

Hasn’t their family suffered enough? Why do these others have to come and hurt his father more than he has already been hurt?
Maedhros can’t answer these questions. The tallest person in the group seems to catch sight of them and detach himself from the others. He is tall and broad, similar to Maedhros’s father yet not so. Where Fëanor’s eyes are always bright sparks of blue, this man’s are a soft dull grey, seeming to absorb light instead of radiate it outwards as Fëanor’s do.
“Nolofinwë.” Maedhros’s father says stiffly, and the man’s mouth quirks, as if attempting to decide whether to turn up or down. His face is pale and streaked with tears, his suit damp with the misty rain. Maedhros’s first thought is that he looks lost, but he quickly brushes that thought off. They are all lost now.

“Fëanáro.” the man --Nolofinwë-- replies softly, his voice gentle and deep like the thrum of the ocean that Maedhros once visited with his grandfather. He sniffs once and angrily wipes at his nose for betraying him, but the damage is done. Nolofinwë draws his eyes away from Maedhros’s father. A soft smile lights his face upon seeing them as if he simply had not noticed Junior in his father’s arms while the intensity of his grey gaze cast its heaviness elsewhere. Now, however, it lands on each of them in turn, making Maglor squirm beside Maedhros and Celegorm scowl and fold even farther in on himself than he already had.

“Your children are beautiful, brother, I wish that I had gotten to meet them on a happier day,” Fëanor grunts noncommittally, while Maedhros’s mother deftly steps in,

“Thank you Nolo, I think we all wish that today was under better circumstances.” Although he had not been talking to her, Nolofinwë nods once and then turns to walk back to his family. Maedhros follows with his father, head down, careful not to slip in the mud of the unsown earth beneath him. Faintly, he hears his mother behind him hiss,

“You be nice to him Fëanáro, he is grieving just as much as you, there are no grounds for your childish behaviour here.” If his father responds, Maedhros does not hear it. The earth over his grandfather’s grave is already soaked, a brown blight on a field of green. The stone is simple, yet Maedhros can not find it in him to look directly at it, for fear of the finality of death finally being internalized. Instead, he stands very still, grasping Maglor’s hand tightly, and feeling the light rain slowly accumulate into droplets and slide, freezing, down his neck.

It is a shock to realize the grave has already been dug and filled without him, a shock to realize that there were perhaps others in his grandfather’s life who had a greater claim over it than he did. Maedhros isn’t quite sure when he starts to cry, but suddenly the tears are there, sliding down over his cheeks and he is hiding his face, embarrassed to have broken his own vow and even more upset that it is in front of people he has never seen before. (They say Fingolfin was at his second birthday party, but Maedhros can only remember the colour red and a loud voice shouting as he cried into his mother’s dress).

A car pulls up next to theirs and emits five people who go to stand next to Fingolfin, their golden hair darkening in the dampness. The oldest of the children looks to be about Carnistir’s age, but while Maedhros’s five-year-old brother stands scowling angrily at the dirt, ignoring the world around him, the golden-haired boy looks vaguely confused, as if he has been pulled from a nap, his hair a tangled halo around his head. Maedhros feels a fierce burst of pride in his stomach that even little Junior who is only three does not look quite so out of place as this boy does.

But then a taller boy with dark hair and a round young face crosses from Fingolfin’s group and takes the golden-haired boy’s hand, and Maedhros suddenly feels very lonely. The dark-haired boy looks up at Maedhros for a moment, as if sensing his gaze, and his brilliant blue eyes seem to see straight through Maedhros as if in that one glance they boy saw him and knew everything. Which is, of course, silly. This boy looks younger than him by at least three years. He does not know anything at all compared to Maedhros.

As if the arrival of these new people has signalled something, Maedhros’s father lets out a little breath of air, loud enough for Maedhros to hear as he stands beside him, and takes a few steps forwards. His eyes are lowered towards the rectangle of brown dirt as he begins to speak. What words he says, Maedhros does not know. But he knows one thing: When his father steps backwards again, he is supposed to go up (his father says) immediately afterwards and take his turn saying goodbye. He is supposed to wait (according to his mother) until after Fingolfin and the new golden-haired man have taken their turns.

He knows who he will listen to. Fingolfin, with his sad steel eyes, must not go first. Maedhros looks up, only for a minute and sees those eyes filled with barely restrained tears, and falters. As his father steps back, his eyes locked on Maedhros as if waiting, the fire within them simmering, and Maedhros remains, eyes locked on Fingolfin as he is pinned down with the full weight of his eyes, being sucked in with all the light in the world. There is a pause --a second, a minute, a century-- and then Nerdanel, still holding the twins tightly, breaks the tension, and steps up to whisper her own words.

Fëanor’s hand closes over Maedhros’s shoulder, but it is not angry, it is soft, drawing his gaze away from Fingolfin’s eyes, which felt more than halfway through devouring him. Maedhros looks up into his father’s face, and Fëanor squeezes his shoulder gently, reaching farther down to scoop Maedhros’s small hand into his.
When he takes his turn, Maedhros steps up to the ugly bare land which holds his grandfather and whispers,

“I will bring you flowers so that you can have a garden here as you did at home. I will not let them go away.” He turns away, only to meet the dark-haired boy’s eyes. He is staring at Maedhros again, with a little smile on his babyish face that somehow makes Maedhros absolutely positive the boy heard him promise his grandfather flowers. He is not sure why this makes him blush. Maglor reaches over to take his hand again as he steps backwards to hide in the mass of his family but is shooed forwards to take his own turn. Maglor’s mouth moves in the shape of the words,

“I wrote a song for you grandpa, I’m sorry you won’t get to hear it.” Maedhros shoots a covert glance over at the dark-haired boy, but the boy’s eyes are not on Maglor. They are still on him, his hand still clasping the golden-haired boy’s, and Maedhros quickly looks away, barely able to open his arms in time for Maglor to come crashing into them, no longer able to restrain his tears. Maedhros wraps his arms around Maglor’s back, trying to pretend that the reason he is shaking is the force of Maglor’s sobs and not the added weight of his own.
“It’s okay Káno.” He murmurs, not sure if he is speaking for himself or his brother, “Don’t cry. I’m here, and Dad’s here and Mom’s here, and Tyelko and Moryo and Junior and Pityo and Telvo. We’re all still here.” He repeats it over and over and over like a mantra, sure that if he can just say it enough times they will both believe it.

Although he doesn’t look up, he can feel eyes on him and is sure it is the dark-haired boy again. Maedhros wishes he would stop looking. When Maglor’s cries calm enough for Maedhros to let him go and turn his attention back towards the grave --and oh, how he wishes Maglor had kept crying-- he sees the dark-haired boy kneeling close to the brown dirt. Instead of whispering, instead of talking at all, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper with something scribbled on it. He reaches out and presses it into the dirt, covering it and hiding it from view. Then he stands promptly, and rushes back to his father’s side, blushing furiously. Maedhros’s eyes follow him curiously, wondering what he knows that is so secret that he cannot say it out loud.

His cousins (who he has never seen before) take their turns. None of them shoves paper into the ground, none of them blushes and tries to hide, but Maedhros finds himself walking in the direction of the dark-haired boy once they have all taken their turn. The rain has let up, but the sky has grown darker the clouds thickening. They have a half-hour before they must go to the restaurant where Maedhros’s mother placed a reservation.
Just for their family. No others.

The boy sees him, and lets go of the golden-haired boy, telling him something that sends him scampering off to another dark-haired boy who is standing, half-hidden, behind his mother. The dark-haired boy fixes him with his bright electric gaze, and Maedhros speeds up, coming to stop about a foot in front of him. Then there is silence, because Maedhros does not know what to say, and has never in his life been the one to actually initiate a conversation.

“I heard what you said about flowers to Grandpa.” The boy says matter-of-factly, and Maedhros is surprised for a moment by the loud authoritative voice that comes out of his little body. He cannot be older than Celegorm, and yet he has never heard his brother talk in such a manner. More often it is whining pleas for more time outside and candy. Still, Maedhros turns pink,

“Are you going to make fun of me?” he asks, embarrassed that he cares so much over the opinion of a child. The boy blinks, frowning,

“No. Why would I make fun of you?” Maedhros’s face turns a deeper shade of red and debates the merits of running to their car and locking himself in for the next half-hour.

“I don’t know,” he says defensively, “It sounded like you were.” The boy’s baby face crumples in confusion as he looks up at Maedhros, but whatever he was going to reply with is suddenly cut off by,

“You are too tall.” Maedhros laughs. The boy is tiny, only half his height,

“Not really… well, maybe. I’m way above average for my age, but Dad says I’m probably done growing.” The boy shakes his head firmly,

“No, you are going to tall forever.” There is another pause as if he is trying to figure out what to say, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is,

“I’m Findekáno Vanimar***. I’m eight. My Dad says someday I am going to be a lawyer because I am too good at arguing.” Maedhros fought back another laugh,

“Nice to meet you Findekáno. I guess we’re cousins, right?” Fingon nods and seems to be waiting for something, but when Maedhros doesn’t respond, he says,

“You’re supposed to tell me your name now.” his mouth quirking in an involuntary smile, Maedhros responds

“Okay, I’m Maitimo Noldoran, I’m twelve. Why do we have different last names?” He asked curiously, and Fingon replied

“I don’t know. I think my Dad and Uncle Aro used a different last name than your dad and Grandpa Finwë. I don’t know why though.” Maedhros nods, still curious, but satisfied for the moment with this response and allows Fingon to point at every member of the “other people” to give them names.

Turgon, Aredhel, Argon… (to the messy-haired boy) Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, there are so many names, and Maedhros tries his best to remember them all while they slip through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing behind but the boy in front of him and his name:

Fingon.

Fingon hops around, tugging on his hand and looking half his age as he leads Maedhros around, taking them on a wide loop of the graveyard and away from their families as he chatters about useless nothings, Maedhros becoming more and more endeared by the second. By the time they get back into shouting distance of their families, Maedhros knows that he wants to be friends with this little boy forever. He opens his mouth to tell him so when suddenly words erupt, though they are not from his own mouth. He whips around, eyes wide because he has never seen his father this angry in his life. Even when Tyelkormo let Huan bath in a mud bath and then lay him down on their priceless wool hearth rug, Fëanor has never been so angry that his eyes are burning, his arms forceful hand back by Nerdanel as he shouts, a twin each shoved hastily into the arms of Maglor and Celegorm, with Junior looking indignant in his shiny black shoes which have never touched the ground before standing ankle-deep in mud. Maedhros turns back only to find Fingon halfway across the yard, legs pumping and dark curly hair streaming out behind him. Maedhros is quick to follow, but even with his long legs it is too late by the time he gets there to stop his father’s words as they fly like daggers from his throat,

“Snake. Coward. Flee while you can, for I promise no one in the world can save you from the crimes of your false heritage and your slander of my father’s legacy.” Uncle Fingolfin, for that is (of course) who his father is shouting at, takes a step backwards, and shoots Fëanor a cool look before gathering Fingon up into his arms (nevermind the fact that Fingon is eight years old and far too old to be carried), taking his wife’s hand and leading all four of his children away and back to the big white car that they must have arrived in.

Maedhros stands, frozen, emotions warring inside of him, anxiety (his father looks livid, and Maedhros hates making him mad), anger (how dare these people come and make his father mad?), and terrible crushing fear: that he will not see Fingon again. Fëanor watches the white car pull away and then scoops Junior back into his arms, wiping at his black shoes, now caked in mud. Junior’s lip is wobbling and he looks ready to burst into tears as Maedhros’s father coos,

Oh darling, oh my baby, I am sorry I dropped you, my love.” Nerdanel has scooped the twins back into her arms and is whispering sweet nothings to them, while Maedhros is left with Maglor and Celegorm, staring at the spot where the white car vanished around a corner and wishing that for once, he might be comforted as well.