Just One Victory by Feta

The Flaw

Read The Flaw

“You are being unreasonable.” The dark-haired one is looking out the window as he speaks, but not for long. He turns and paces across the sunlit room, absentmindedly reaching up to adjust the crown upon his head. He has worn it for well over four centuries of the sun, but still it does not sit naturally; with it he feels like an imposter.

“Strange. And here I thought that was you.” The blond approaches his brother without caution, laying a hand on his arm. “This is our chance,” he says.

“Chance?”

He shrugs away from the hand, and returns to the window, north-facing, revealing a landscape that feels like a lament.

The younger persists. “We win Nolofinwë back to us. We fight for him. We earn his respect once more. His people bow to us.”

“To me, you mean,” the king corrects.

“To you.”

“Your plan is illogical,” the crowned one states plainly. “We fight for him, we bow to him, he takes away the last of pride, we are slaughtered in his so-called great battle and he no longer has to worry about us.”

“When did the mighty singer become so cynical?”

“When did the crown first touch my head?”

The blond is silent. He states at last, “If you won’t do it for politics, do it for the Oath.”

The king shakes his head, not to disagree but to clear his pounding thoughts. He is tired.

“For our father,” his brother persists.

A pause. He thinks of fire slain by fire beneath the stars. He thinks of wisps of ash carried on the wind.

The younger one aims his next blow lower. “For our brother,” he says.

Time stops. The crown is very heavy. He returns to the window, gazes unseeingly on the sandy ground, the gnarled trees, the jagged hills, imperfect scenery that never would have pervaded in Paradise.

“Makalaurë?” asks the fair one. “Brother? My lord?”

Makalaurë feels old, so old. “Send a message back to our uncle,” he orders. “We will join in his great battle. We fight at his command.”

Tyelkormo nods.

---

 

 

He has had a good year and so they are kind to him. He must be careful not to be too good or too soon he will be sent back where he does not want to go. This is how he thinks.

The flaw in this thinking is obvious. He does not know how long a year is anymore, and kind has become relative.

He lies on the floor. It is grimy, but at least there are no rats here. Illumination comes from barred windows set here and there; these portholes leak flame-light that accents his hair. Beyond the door is a stone corridor, with throne-room in one direction and mines in the other. It is a very central place to be. He feels powerful to be in such a position.

He does not dare make a sound; he does not welcome punishment; he simply mouths the words, as he does often, the words that should remind him of his legacy and the life that shimmers with tree-light in the depths of his memory. First comes his own name.

“Maitimo.”

Next he recites like a prayer the ones for whom he endures. The names no longer have faces; they are empty syllables with unattainable meanings.

“Makalaurë. Findekáno.”

Finally, a curse. A desperate love and resentment that ordinarily he masks with cold pride.

“…Fëanáro.”

No sound leaves his lips. He closes his eyes and waits.

When she comes to gather him, Maitimo greets her and she helps him to his feet. She is not a captain or anything of that sort, but has status nonetheless; he would name her orcco for her figure and her language, but is not precisely sure if that is accurate. Their relationship is warm but tentative at best, and yet still strong enough that she unchains his ankle and guides him from the room with her arm instead of her whip.

He trusts her. It is a mindless faith, based only on plain fact, and nothing more. She is his shepherd; she takes him to places unspeakable, but always brings him back. Her presence is comforting, in its own way, but also threatening; he has been in her care throughout years he no longer cares to count; she has brought him to some fates he cannot himself fathom, and some less bad.

They exit the room. He does not waste a thought wondering where she will bring him today. Sometimes while she is readying him for an audience with her master and he is feeling edgy, she tells him stories of Utumno to distract him. When she says she was not born there, he knows what she means. It is she who returned from a scouting mission, long ago, to tell him in wonder of the newfound existence of sun and moon. She has given him lessons in the Elvish language of this land, as well, for use in the occasional instance that he comes across a Sinda; he hates its hastiness, the words do not fit easily in his mouth, but it is something to distract him, and he treats it like a gift.

He did not know that one of her kind could feel wonder. She told him that she is a special case. When he asked for her name, she answered, Amil. It was years before he could address her as such, though now he does it effortlessly. It is easier now that he no longer has other features to associate with that word. It is easier because after years of disusing that sacred language from whence it came, he hardly remembers what it means.

Her appearance is unclear, masked by rusted metal armor, just the color of his hair, and the veil she casts across her face, thin enough that she seems to still be able to see him clearly. He only knows that she is female by instinct and from her supposed name.

Maitimo supposes that he is not much to look at. He limps after her like a wounded animal while she barks at him to hurry. Sometimes he trips and scampers for a few paces on all fours. A great deal of this behavior has made his hands rough to the touch.

They play a sort of game. He’ll lag in his pace or stride too quickly, speak a word of his own tongue or swipe her arm away when she moves to direct him forward. In return, she will kick him to the ground or snap her whip once against his back; later, she will report this disobedience to the higher-ups and he will be kept away from his nightmares for a while longer, all in the name of being broken like a disobedient dog.

That is not to say that life is pleasant. Wherever Amil brings him now will surely result in a great deal of pain and humiliation, to which members of his old life would be horrified to see him walk willingly. But it makes him want to laugh; to laugh with the air of a creature that knows that its doom is near.

It should be impossible for Maitimo to feel mirth, by now. He should look at himself objectively, and see that the regime meant to break him is what he considers kindness; that his situation is precarious and the only reason that they have been easy on him recently is that he is so near breaking point.

All he knows is that when they are done, if ever they are, he will not have to feel terror as his wrists are chained behind his head; the touch of orcish skin will not make his own crawl; his fëa will be shattered and he will not have to feel anymore.

Amil tells him to hurry up.

 

---

Findekáno reaches to knock on the tent-post, but finds the canvas already pulled back, revealing the flickering light within.

“Father?”

“Come in.” The tone is impassive.

Inside is not ornate, but practical. Nolofinwë is the only one in the tent. The candles are nearly burned out, but they cast light upon his drawn face, cautious and world-weary.

“Your brother’s children have sent word. They will fight for us.” Findekáno’s speech is hesitant, but hopeful.

“Which brother?”

A pause. It is not a necessary question. The sons of one brother have already camped with their warriors not far away.

“You know.”

Nolofinwë nods. “They are the last ones,” he states unfeelingly. “Everything is settled. We are ready.”

It is lucky that they are ready; they have uprooted themselves and traveled swiftly; they are less than a day from the enemy’s stronghold, and even closer to the lands governed by their cousins.

Traveling has been difficult, marching over mountains and across plains, soldiers looking to their lords, and their lords looking to battle, triumph feeling not far-off. It is slow going, but feet are propelled by a sense of purpose, the fire of pure and grave intention. The alliance is set in motion – the Union of Nolofinwë, they are calling it, the masses being unaware that it was truly his eldest son’s proposal – and nothing short of total defeat will halt it.

“When do we attack?” questions Findekáno.

“You so quickly relinquish authority over your own plan?” It is a rhetorical question but nonetheless receives an answer.

“It is not exactly mine. You would have challenged him in single combat long ago. This is a better way. This will be the end of the war. The people will unite beneath Lord Nolofinwë, the rightful high leader of the Noldor. That is what they have promised.” He announces this with pride.

“You are so calm,” says his father.

“If doomed we are, then at least we shall go down fighting.”

The older one smiles. “Always the valiant,” he murmurs fondly.

Findekáno looks away, and thinks of a different cousin, of a hell of iron, of a decision that nearly broke his frozen heart. “Not always,” he replies softly, careful to remain composed. “We leave at dawn?”

A pause, a consideration, a firm resolve. “Yes.”

---

Maitimo does three things that he had not planned.

First, he shuts his eyes. It does not make much difference, because the room is already dim – and he wonders how they have such perfect aim, if their vision is nocturnal, if they are just taking lucky shots and hitting their mark each time – but underneath his eyelids looks just the same as it always did, and it is the only thing that still reminds him of home.

Second, he screams. He has not done so in some time, and the action is not purposeful now; in all the years since this phase of his existence began, he has been quiet. There is something different about today.

That is incorrect. There is nothing different about today. It is simply that he has looked into his future, and seen eternity. And whether he is going to spend that infinite time on his back, or writhing in pain – what kind of a choice is that?

And so, third, he says:

“Please.”

It is a whisper, or a whimper, hushed but audible, spilling out from between parched lips. At first he is not sure if he has spoken aloud at all, but the laughter around him proves it. Next comes the sound of scattered footsteps retreating, as though that small word was a signal for the withdrawal of all present. He opens his eyes, and even the dull light of the single torch hurts at first. As it happens, he is sticky with blood and the thought that Amil might heal him, as she has done previously, in preparation for some new torment or other, is not a heartening thought.

It feels as though he is alone for a while. It feels as though only a second has gone by. Time, as always, has become irrelevant. Dizzy and shivering, it takes him a moment to realize that he is unbound, and yet another to remember that this means he can sit up. He has not had the opportunity to make such a move without permission from a jailer in such a long time that the freedom feels awkward.

Hunched over but no longer lying down, Maitimo tentatively fingers the new wounds on his chest and feet. They sting, but as usual, not enough for a journey to Mandos. He did not scream because he has not experienced this a thousand times before. He screamed because he cannot imagine enduring such treatment a thousand times again. The door to the cell is closed; whether or not it is locked, he is unsure, but a failed attempt to stand proves this to be beside the point. His clothing he discovers in a heap nearby and crawls to it, leaving trail of smeared red in his path. Dressing is a slow and tedious process, after which he collapses, full aware that he will have no control in whatever comes next.

Amil returns for him. He waits for her to help him to his feet and maybe scold him for sitting on his own. He almost does not wait. Something is building up inside him, something powerful, like a flare, a fire that flickers uncertainly and may be no more than a thing of imagination.

Instead, the only orc for whom he has something akin to respect, kneels beside him. Her master would like her to speak with Maitimo, she says. She does not use his Elvish name, of course, but that is the gist of it. She calls him child. He supposes she has the right to. She cannot be much younger than his grandfather. Drained, weary, it takes him some time to process the words, spoken in harsh orcish. He answers:

“Talk?”

“Yes.”

This happens every so often: she interviews him carefully and surely, when her master is too haughty to do so himself. She is his keeper. His every move and thought is her responsibility.

And so they talk.

---

The night before a battle is always difficult. The night before almost certain death is even more so. Near midnight, Findekáno retreats to the camp’s makeshift armory and spends far more time than necessary sharpening his sword. Every few minutes he holds it up to examine it by moonlight.

A voice comes from behind him. “I think it might be sharp enough.”

Findekáno spins around. “Turukáno,” he greets. He has not seen his brother in quite some time.

“Nice to see you, too.”

“I suppose you’ve got a rather large army camped nearby?”

The younger nods. “Naturally. No one else refused the summons; why would I? We are all here for you,” he states plainly.

“For Father, you mean.”

Turukáno scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Father never would have made such a rash move without your suggestion.” He presses on: “Why now?” Turukáno cannot keep the mingled curiosity and scorn from his speech. “Are you weary of this world? Shall we all return to the care of Mandos who cursed us?”

“We cursed ourselves.”

Evidently this response is not enough. “What are we doing? Marching on Angband itself? What can we possibly find there, but death and destruction? Would you face the defeat of your entire people…”

Findekáno tenses. He knows what is coming. He knows, because beneath this great alliance of all the first and second children on this side of the sea, is his own greed and hunger.

“ …all in vain hope? There are not enough of us.”

The older one relaxes. That is not the expected argument.

Turukáno presses on, with the air of one desperate who knows it is too late. “There is still time. Call this madness off.” Then, more softly, yet colder: “We did not swear their Oath. This war is not ours.”

Findekáno sheathes his sword. “He was our grandfather, too.” He exits.

---

Memories, unlike time, do not move in a straight line; they are akin to a chain, linked but bendable, coiling or stretching out. Findekáno once crossed a hell of ice just so he could confront his lover and say, “I’m cold, and all because of you. Warm me.” But it did not work out that way.

Findekáno once caught a glimpse of Ambarussa on a stormy night, russet hair swept by the wind. He ran to the youngest son of Fëanor and called, “Maitimo, Maitimo,” before realizing his mistake.

After the drawing of a sword and the pronouncement of a banishment, a young Findekáno ran to find his cousin, grabbing him around the waist and insisting, “Stay with me.” But this was not to be.

Upon arrival in Mithrim, it would seem that a confrontation with his lover was in order; but the only cousin to confront was a half-distraught second son, one who could not stop pacing or meet Findekáno’s eyes.

“He told Father to send the ships back,” Makalaurë said blankly. “He never forgot you.”

That night was the last time Findekáno ever cried.

---

“What does your master want to know?”

Maitimo always says it like that – your master – because he does not have the energy for a childlike competition of name-calling and derision anymore. He is sitting with hands to the stone floor, fingers splayed, using his arms to support his body. When he thinks about it, he realizes what an uncertain existence he leads. They wait until he is nearly beyond repair and then fix him up again. Each time, he feels a bit of his fëa crumble like sand; this he both welcomes and abhors.

She speaks. “He would like me to ask you if you remember why you are here.”

That is a difficult question. He is certain he has not always been here. Obviously the names in his head belong to connections made outside of this place; and anyways, he must have come from somewhere else, because he can still envision the starlit sky as he knelt by a dying figure and said…

The memory ends there. “I was brought here,” he says, “someone took me here.” He is just a little proud to know that much.

She might be smiling, but with the veil it is hard to tell; shaking her head, she counters: “No. I mean, do you remember the… incident… do you know why you are in this room right now?”

That is altogether another matter. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

He stiffens. “But you already know.”

She nods. “Do you know what you need to do to leave here?”

It does not cross his mind that she means: leave this hell, this prison. In his mind, to go away means to return to four walls of which he knows every last detail, to fetid, callous bodies against his protesting skin, to choking and drowning in bile and less pleasant things, to being torn apart.He says:

“I don’t want to go back.”

Simple sentences. It is not a tongue that allows for much more. Memory is a better language.

---

It is before dawn when the Fëanorians begin preparations, arming and forming divisions; orders are shouted, weapons sheathed, and they depart. Red banners like blood flutter above the armies of the six brothers. Not far-off are the horn-calls of allies. Everything is set.

Makalaurë the king marches first, his crown exchanged for a helm. With each stretch of land they cross, he thinks he can feel something, a tug, pulling him forward. He fancies that this means he is doing the right thing, though it may be no more than the call of duty. It should have been him, he thinks. He should not be riding at his uncle’s command; their positions should be somewhat different; the poet was never meant to be a monarch, but if that is his fate he should at least do it properly.

In truth, he has had little contact with his uncle or his uncle’s people since they reached this land. A polite, necessary assembly here or there, a few letters or messages back and forth; that is all. After only a few years he had taken his brothers east of Sirion and left Hithlum and the land surrounding it to the ones who had crossed this ice. He supposed that this was the least he could do.

Some days it seemed that his every move was made in the painful knowledge that he could no longer stand to meet his eldest cousin’s eyes, and vice versa. There was a gap separating them that had nothing to do with kingship or betrayal; a ghost stood between them at all times. And so while in the back of his mind Makalaurë is sure that this great alliance is of Findekáno’s design, he chooses to believe that it is Nolofinwë’s; he chooses to be one with every other Elf or man in this land, to fight and maybe, just maybe, fulfill an oath and be at peace.

A blatant question comes to mind. Hours before they began to march, a little brother came and sat beside him. “Is this all we are good for?” he asked.

“I am not sure that I know what you mean, Ambarussa.”

“Fighting. Dying. Like we swore.”

“It would seem that way.”

How the war seems is: everyone is fighting for a different reason. Five sons of Fëanáro want three jewels to share amongst themselves, over which they will most likely squabble and bicker unto the ending of the world. Nolofinwë and one of his sons, along with four of another, would want an end to darkness, or so they would claim. The various tagalong mortal elf-friends seek glory and a place in the history of the world. And as for Makalaurë and Findekáno? Well, that is not a difficult answer.

“I might not see you again.” Ambarussa said.

“It is something I’ve always wondered,” Makalaurë agrees. “Do the spirits of Mandos have eyes?”

“More likely than those of the everlasting dark.” He stood, and left: most likely to find his twin.

That is right, the king thought, that is right. Go back to your redhead and let him tell you that everything will be all right. Be glad that yours is still in your possession.

The wishes of Makalaurë and Findekáno, it would seem, are not so different.

In the distance, in the hazy orange dawn-light, black smoke curls around the three-peaked mountain. An army approaches like a mass of darkness and doom. Makalaurë draws his sword.

---

Makalaurë, too has memories. Once, he awoke to a panicked Tyelkormo shaking his shoulders. “It’s Maitimo,” he said.

“He has returned?”

“No.”

Once, he was strolling through a garden, and heard faint laughter from beyond a tree. Makalaurë investigated. It was Maitimo and Findekáno. Now he wonders why he was surprised.

He watched Maitimo leap to their father’s side, sword drawn; solemnly, his brother nodded at Makalaurë, which was the incentive he needed to draw his own weapon and follow.

Moringotto’s messenger made it sound so simple: did they want their brother back, or not? The messenger left a lock of copper hair at Makalaurë’s feet. He keeps it always stowed away, and never looks at it.

Maitimo taught him to climb trees when he was very young. Makalaurë asked him if they could climb Telperion, and his brother laughed.

When the moon first rose, he hoped, that somehow, inexplicably, Maitimo would catch a glimpse of it, and remember him.

 

The Time

Thank you to belevechange, anolinde, and darkshine for reading through this, and all your helpful comments.

Read The Time

Here is what Maitimo recalls.

He has divided the time into phases, for simplicity. When Amil first told him of the rising of the moon, he thought she was making it up. Next, she told him of how it waxed and waned, and he decided that he himself was just like this mysterious orb.

He began new, blank, under different possession, determined and proud and resolute. This phase involved ample amounts of gritting his teeth so as not to make a sound, then at last shouting, whimpering –

– until he realized that this did no good. After that, he was a full moon, at the height of his glory, his fire burning brightly, until the pain and sorrow and determination that was sapped away so rapidly was his fëa itself, burning less and less, so that he felt more like a thing of slime than of fire.

That was when they decided he was ready; their reasoning most likely related to conduct that was sporadic at best. To be honest, there were no parameters or logic to Maitimo’s behavior at all. He found himself overcome by someone who was not him, someone who chose to struggle and thrash on some days and remain still on others.

This someone had not sense or reason to him. He raged with hopelessness or was calm in acceptance. He was Fëanáro and he was Makalaurë and he was Findekáno.

This suited Maitimo just fine. If he could not be with the ones for whom he cared the most, to himself be them was the next best option. And his wildly irresolute moods aggravated Moringotto no end.

When finally he proved that he was not, in fact, ready, he was returned like a shoe that does not fit, and the process spiraled back to the beginning once more. Moon phases.

Maitimo let go of the control of his body, and found himself floating.

---

He knew that the last word from his brothers came after five months, because that is what Moringotto said, sitting on his dark throne and leering at his so-called thrall, jewels glittering from an iron crown.

There is not much to say about that period, aside from the fact that it was a great deal like what he is going through now.

In that time, he learned of the yellows, greens and purples that bruised skin can turn. He learned that for the elves who were slain when he was captured, at least it was a swift and decisive death. For the various ruined elves who were brought before him and killed in ways he does not like to think about, while he was chained to the wall and could do nothing to save them, it was oftentimes slow. And here, there was no ocean into which blood could drain. It clung to the stone floors and smudged across his feet when he stepped in it.

He never thought he would miss those days; but with no concept of the unspeakable, he never thought that things could get worse, either.

The main difference between then and now was faith: surprisingly innocent for one damned. The childlike trust that there is no doom worse than death. The conviction that as long as he can recall the names of a father or a brother, a lover or a friend, he will find some reason to endure. The confidence that survival will always be a priority, and not a curse.

On the day when the last of that confidence made itself scarce, he was brought before the one he called Black Enemy.

Moringotto spoke of other things that have not a lot of significance now: your brothers send word that they do not want you back, you are my property, I shall have to find a use for you, and so on. What it came down to was: you are never going to leave here, you are dead to the world, and no one will save you.

Maitimo recollects struggling to stand, spitting at his captor’s feet, though all that came up was blood. Acts of defiance after this were to be few and far between.

He thought he was going to die soon. Strange, how he could have such little faith in immortality. He has none of those qualms now.

Where Amil took him was to a passageway with tiny cells all along it, small windows carved into their doors, from which came moans that made Maitimo shiver. Something was not right. Such a statement feels illogical now. There is no longer such a thing as right or wrong; or, if there is, he does not think he can sense it anymore.

Amil brought him, naked, into one of the rooms, and how she knew which one was to be his remains a mystery. Inside were nothing but iron fetters and he remembers shivering and thinking that whatever happened he was not going to cry out as he so often had previously, which is the type of naïve absurdity that could only come from the same idiot who thought his father would send back the ships.

 

 

---

 

Actually, though, he stuck to his word for quite a while. Amil has told him that it was many centuries of the sun. He has decided to believe her, mainly because if days are now counted by the passing of a flying piece of fruit, anything is possible.

She explained the situation to him with the abrupt minimalism of her kind. He was the entertainment, he was the plaything, and anyone or anything who merited a reward might be sent to him. She would be by every now and then. Good luck.

The first time was not particularly difficult. He lay there like a dead thing and let it do what it wished. Luckily, all it wanted was to touch him, to run perverse fingers along his pale skin and exhale thick, heavy breaths that made him feel polluted.

It kept one hand pinning his shoulder to the ground, while with the other it roamed down his stomach, lower and lower, so that the relief when it pulled its fingers back sent him almost into shock.

Next, it kicked him, just to see how he would react. In reality, he had been struck by so many hands and feet by that time that one more did not make much of a difference. He let it think that it was very clever. This was not so bad. Maitimo had never really minded being the center of attention, and he had gained quite a tolerance.

And then it was over.

When the second orc came, Maitimo started thinking that maybe he should fight back. He did not put this idea into action, but it was something to contemplate while the orc in question tried to decide what to do with him. With a knife it traced a thin line across the elf’s cheek; he could feel a bead of blood trickle down like a teardrop.

Next it snatched up one of his hands above his chained wrists and this time drew a thinner blade from a sheath at its leg. Maitimo bit down on his lip, which was already shredded and mangled from years of such conduct, and kept his gaze fixed on the stone ceiling as with the blade the nail of his index finger was pried off, and fell to the floor.

His breathing grew fearful and labored, but he made no sound as this action was repeated three times more. Finally, it gave up, and left.

He kicked the third orc rather forcefully in the crotch, mainly because it seemed to want a bit more than the first one and he got the feeling that Manwë and Mandos might have more pity on him if he upheld the laws and customs of his people.

Amil was sent to punish him for that one. He forgives her wholeheartedly. As far as he is concerned, she did the right thing. If nothing else, she bought him some time, and elucidated Manwë’s concern for him more clearly.

It wasn’t until the wounds she had left were almost gone that she returned. She asked if he was going to be good from then on. He said yes.

 

---

 

Time went on, measured by such trivial things as the regrowing of missing fingernails and the lengthening of hair that had been sheared upon his arrival at the fortress. There were good years and bad years. Sometimes he was left alone for so long that even the company of an orc seemed a relief. Sometimes he savored his every moment of peace.

He learned quickly that the laws that he had thought would bind him so forcefully to his first love were not as strong as previously thought. After he discovered that one, hope became irrelevant. Days when whatever soldier or miner he was confronted with wanted nothing more than to see him bleed were at first a welcome alternative from other options.

He is unsure of when that logic flipped. It happened so casually that he hardly noticed: at some point he found himself thinking that blood is difficult to clean up.

He longed, thorough the years, to be treated once more as himself: a dangerous adversary; an elf to be taken seriously; a son of the spirit of fire, with his own hidden white flames that could at any moment ignite.

This came to pass naturally, as it was only a matter of time. To this day, he is unsure of what role he prefers to play, but there is no going back.

---

Occasionally the Master of Lies himself came by to examine his captive. His hulking form took up any remaining space in the cell; the first time, Maitimo struggled to his feet only to be pushed back down again by a burned and blackened hand. The elf looked upon the charred fingers with sympathy as much as hatred; he thought – that must have hurt – and even though the true story was still clear in his mind, he could not shake this feeling.

Moringotto ran a rough finger along his prisoner’s scarred cheek and said what a shame it was that his followers have not been taking better care of Maitimo; but then, his function in the world did not call for much better. The jewels in the enemy’s crown gleamed with hope unattainable.

Maitimo kept quiet and did not reply. That is one thing he had learned to do in a hurry. Moringotto left, but assured his hostage that he would be back. Life went on, punctuated by various happenings. Time was calculated through Amil’s visits, the only times in which his wrists were unchained and he was unrestrained, allowed to move about on his own. Deep red welts always remained where the shackles had been. He was never permitted to leave the cell.

Quite soon after he made his promise to be good, two orcs came at a time, grumbling about a lost battle; Maitimo was fettered as usual. He watched impassively as they withdrew knives; he was roughly overturned so that his wrists bent back at awkward angles and his forehead collided sharply with the stone floor.

“Let him fight,” one of them protested. “More fun that way.” At the time, he was still just becoming proficient in their language.

Coarse laughter. Something that felt very much like a booted foot came down hard on his wrist, followed by another snigger as he felt bone shatter.

“Too weak,” a voice said, “fragile. Not worth fighting.”

They set to work with their blades instead. Maitimo was unsure of whether or not he was relieved. He closed his eyes, and did not react as…

As the feeling in his injured wrist faded from sharp pain to a dull pounding as line after line was sliced into already-scarred skin.

As he was slimy with blood and shivering but not so unaware as to not recognize the telltale sounds of one of the creatures undressing.

As a body forced its cold, clammy flesh against his own, wrapping itself around him and pressing its hardness against him before entering him swiftly and callously.

There was a round ruthless cackling from the second orc as Maitimo hovered on the border of unconsciousness, coming and going in waves.

These two particular orcs returned many times during the ensuing years; he recognized them and learned their names, sometimes even calling out to them when the moment seemed right. They appeared to like this. Often they would take turns, one standing by the door and looking down with distain and delight.

Sometimes, they did not take turns.

---

Other instances merged together in his mind, an endless time-after-time generic occurrence that followed a relatively standard format.

An orc would enter the room. It would nudge Maitimo with the toe of its boot. This seemed a universal gesture, as though they were for some reason afraid that their master would give them a dead elf. Even Maitimo has more faith in Moringotto than that.

The orc then would crouch or stoop over him; if it was wearing any kind of helm it would remove that and toss it in the corner, none too gently, and the rattling, clanking sound was Maitimo’s signal to remain still and try not to breathe. Remaining somehow, inexplicably alive, however, made breath necessary; but the stench, after a while, became routine and did not make him gag.

It could go in a couple directions from there. The most common involved the grabbing of his shoulders, pulling him up onto his knees, which was all the movement that the chains permitted. It might touch his face or hair with warped fingers before it removed the remainder of its armor; and, naturally, it was all downward from there.

The first times were the worst. Laughter was common; it broke against his ears and went straight to his fëa. Once or twice he felt something warm and damp against his cheeks, which he recognized belatedly as tears, but it made no difference, because then the orc would say something like:

“New, are you?”

To which he would not answer but become more determined to give it what it wanted and get it over with. There was no pretending this was Findekáno, as it pulled him toward it and it was slippery and slick against his lips until finally his mouth was full and probably for a while after that.

After some time, there was no mention of him being new.

He felt like something had crawled inside him and died there, and he could not get rid of it, he could not forget it, except in the instance that he was lashed with metal or leather until all else became extraneous and he reached blindly for Nerdanel and grasped Amil’s hand instead.

Once, he thought he saw Mandos standing over him, tall and shadowy, but Mandos would not have lain down atop him, heavy so that he felt crushed against the floor and tried in vain to get out from underneath this bulky creature who thrust against him until when it at last rolled off of him he was sick all over it.

They punished him for that one, too, but he did not even notice.

---

As time stretched on, sanity ran thin. He looked up one time and it was Makalaurë who pinned him to the floor. A moment later, it was an orc again.

Another time, his blood was black, but something was wrong; it flickered crimson every now and then; his eyes could not decide how to color it. This phenomenon came and went.

The door was opened by a tall and solid figure, clutching a thick weapon, and beyond him were the Trees.

Not dead and broken, but gleaming like never before, silver meeting gold and mingling, light so bright it nearly blinded him. The door was shut, but the light remained; it shattered and formed into glowing shapes of yellow-grey mice and spiders that crawled up the walls and exploded into tiny stars, each time that the sharp weapon collided with his flesh, indiscernible in the otherwise dim cell.

Amil questioned him about all of this. He told her everything. There was no reason to lie.

She arranged for him to have a day off. She sat by him so that he would not have to be alone, careful not to touch him, and said that she used to have the same problem. It would go away, she told him.

It did.

---

However long it was, Maitimo remembers clearly the last time, how his every move was routine, how he knew when to stay still or to shut his eyes or to spread his legs or to open his mouth. Why something changed that time, of all times, was an uncanny fluke, a simple mishap that shattered his uneasy reality. For the time being, at any rate.

What happened was, Amil came in, and not just for an ordinary check to make sure he was still breathing. She said that today was special. Sitting his wilted body up against the wall, she painted his lips red and put something sticky on his eyelids and waited for it to dry. As she worked she told him how very lucky he was. He didn’t speak much. Conversing was an old habit he had grown out of.

She turned him around and started on his hair. Her hands were gentler than he was used to, but he hardly noticed. He had retreated inside himself long ago, and all that remained was a shell, a wraith who nodded when she said he was beautiful and asked if he wanted to see a mirror.

It was not his reflection that started the bonfire, not precisely. Thin and wan, scarred and gaunt. It was no surprise to see what he had become. What transpired was: he caught a flash of gold and tilted his head. Ribbon. In his hair. Amil must have put it there. He had not paid much attention. Just hours ago he had recited the names – Makalaurë, Fëanáro, etc – but now one came back.

It stuck in his head, complete with a flash of a wavering image. Findekáno. Dark hair with gold ribbon, grey eyes and perfect lips that said – “Russandol” – and then the evidence was gone. A few embers sparked.

He lay down with his arms above his head and wondered what Amil had meant by – special – and kept his eyes shut while she chained his wrists so that she could not catch a glimpse of the light that had crept back into his eyes. The name echoed thorough his mind, the friction of it warming him and making him quiver with pent-up emotion.

As it happens, the day was special in a number of ways. Once Amil had stroked his cheek fondly and departed, he counted the seconds until the door creaked open once more: one hundred, no more, no less. Expecting at least something new or different, when another orc entered the cell he was not exactly excited. “Findekáno, Findekáno,” his mind chanted.

Well, it didn’t take much to know that this grotesque creature, twisted and misshapen, was not his Findekáno. He kept his eyes shut and remembered his father teaching him to fight blindfolded. He remembered the pure light in Fëanáro’s eyes when he removed the blindfold five minutes later and congratulated his son on his apparent talent. That is what he tried to channel; that brightness, that radiance…

The radiance of tow fëar in a garden lit by tree-light, as Findekáno rolled off of his older cousin onto the grass, while Maitimo lay there licking his lips to gather the last of the dark-haired one’s taste and wondering how something could be both so wrong and so right.

…His veins were on fire. Aman was in his eyes. The memories had slept long enough.

---

This particular orc was heavy and when it climbed on top of his thin form he lay tense and prepared like a cat waiting to strike. Stiff and still and alert. Eyelids hid fiery eyes. Hands above manacled wrists were clenched in fists.

He found his opportunity after the creature had removed its armor, after it grabbed his shoulders and tried to get a good grip. After it had spread its legs just enough, and slipped itself inside his waiting mouth.

It didn’t take much to know how to deal with that one. He bit down vehemently.

The creature retreated hastily with a hiss of anger; Maitimo rolled over and spit out a great deal of thick, sour blood. It did not seem pleased with the situation. Maybe he had chosen the wrong orc to mess with. He seemed to remember a time when any orc would have been an enemy, instead of a natural part of his occupation. The thought of such a time…

A time when he drew a sword that had been baptized at the swan haven and ran it though such a creature while fire-demons flamed in the background and the ashes of white ships lay not far off. His father called war-cries and Maitimo first truly understood the heat of battle and the pure joy of fighting for a cause that was his.

…is what made him coil and then strike.

Amazing, the power of memory. It comes and goes as it pleases. The ghost of Findekáno fought beside him as he kicked and clawed at the creature, its anger drawing it closer and closer until it was in biting range once more. This time: its cheeks, wrists, neck. Maitimo shrieked as he fought; screamed of hope and honor that just for a moment he possessed, while its blood sullied his scar-crossed skin and stuck like tree-sap. They came running, but by the time the door was opened he was pushing the dead weight of its corpse off of his chest, the motion difficult without the use of his hands.

Memory is a funny thing. An hour or two later, as he bled like nothing else, Findekáno was once more only a name.

Findekáno was a name that had nothing to do with his disfigured, struggling hroa, his hands clenching into fists and then unclenching again as he focused on enduring.

And therefore, Findekáno was irrelevant.

---

 

Later they told him it had been a captain that he had killed, a favorite of Moringotto’s, one that had been with him almost from the beginning. Amil said that she used to love this precious captain, long ago, but admitted that she no longer knew what this meant; she did not seem as upset or disappointed in Maitimo as she should have.

He was taken away from that room in which he felt as though he had spent the majority of his life; he was given clothing to wear, and led through a maze of corridors. From that time on, he was never to be left in the same place for more than a few hours. This was both a relief and revelation, that the fortress itself was far too big for him and he no longer had much desire to do aught but curl himself in a ball and avoid penalty.

It was the beginning of something new. What was this new joy that he acts out even to this day? That is not complicated. Right now everything done to him is performed methodically, a long and tedious ritual designed perhaps by the Enemy himself, systematically destroying his each and every hope or reason for rebellion until the thing that is left is not a Fëanarian at all. Certainly those who perform each torment seem to find a hefty amount of enjoyment in the process, but the difference lies in purpose. He is a task and not a toy. He prefers this role infinitely, or he sometimes supposes that he does. He finds himself hoping wistfully that it will go on forever, and hardly notices how drastically his standards have been lowered.

But no matter. By now he has sunk back down again. It is difficult enough to remember that the name – Maitimo – belongs to him, if still it does. He has a few other names in his head and the hazy knowledge that two of them may or may not belong to living, breathing beings in a world where light comes from the sky. All he knows that his ability to count himself among them is a thing soon to be gone. He lifts his gaze to where he supposes Amil’s shrouded ones are. The question comes unbidden to his lips:

“What is it like?”

---

“What is it like?”

 

“What?”

Maitimo persists: “Do you still have to feel? Hatred? Longing?” The words tumble from mouth, unwarranted and altogether inappropriate; he has to borrow near-forgotten syllables of his old language because orcish to which he has grown accustomed cannot express such things properly.

It would be treasonous and self-destructive for Amil to answer; the enemy hears all. Supporting his theory that she is far more than any lowly orcco, she responds: “Yes. But…”

“But?”

“But it is a dull ache. An old wound, healed over. He has made me that which I am. Who am I to ask for more?”

“I would be lucky to be you.”

“You would.”

“But if that is my fate…”

If he is doomed to be: a creature who staggers down stone corridors on misshapen feet to face each new torture it is presented with as though it is a gift, a being whose face is its only feature that remains nearly unblemished, a thing that treats torment like a routine. If that is his fate.

He continues: “You’d think he would have gotten this over with first. Spared some trouble. Made sure I was ready. He’s never seemed like the type to take chances.”

But then again, Moringotto did take chances. He took the chance that Fëanáro would follow him to Beleriand, so that rather than sitting alone in an iron fortress with no move to make toward power or dominion, he had a war to wage. He took the chance that Fëanáro’s eldest would take his bait.

He took the chance that his prisoner might be strong enough in fëa not to make a sound in the face of agony. In truth, the Dark One need not have worried. In a small room with no chance of a change in his fate, Maitimo kept quiet for some time; but it had not been so previously. It would stand to reason that in a darkly glorious chamber with a Moringotto who had climbed down from his great throne, the niceties of this court were a bit different than elsewhere in the prison.

Speech was required when spoken to. Screams were required when applicable.

It was a trap. To disobey and remain silent was disobedience. With disobedience came more punishment. With punishment came the desire to call out. Such cries were only incentive for a tormentor to continue. And so it spiraled.

And thus as the charred hand of Moringotto himself held burning metal to his flesh, there was no need to keep quiet. He writhed and whimpered the first time, and did so the latest time just the same. By then, they were running out of unblemished skin, and though his screams were just as childlike, desperate, agonized, it was for altogether different reasoning.

He was tired of both his fëa and hroa. He wanted an end.

He wanted to break.

---

As Amil prepares to answer Maitimo’s query, she grows cold. “Our lord does what he deems best. I do not question him.”

He envies her this attitude like he can remember envying nothing before.

Out of nowhere comes shouting and the stomping of heavy feet. Another orc peeks his head into the room.

“You are needed,” the newcomer informs Amil. He tosses her a sheathed sword, a clunky thing that fits awkwardly in her gloved hand.

“What about my child?” she questions, gesturing to Maitimo.

‘Does he know how to fight?”

“He would likely betray us. We haven’t finished with him yet.”

The orcco nods. “Get yourself to the gate,” he commands. “You can deal with your child later.”

And then he is gone.

---

Amil chooses her words very carefully. She says:

“Our lord told me that there would be a battle soon. This is a day we have been expecting for a very long time. I don’t know what will become of us.”

She turns on her heel and walks out, her gait discomfited, her veil fluttering.

Maitimo watches her go; watches the door left wide open; glances down to see the sword she has left on the grimy stone floor. He is not completely sure of what he is doing. He unsheathes the weapon. It is heavy so that he can hardly lift it; he could not accurately be called strong, not anymore.

Sitting up already takes up so much effort that it does not cross his mind to attempt to stand once more. He drags his body out into the hallway laboriously, arms supporting his weight, scraped by the rough floor.

Not completely sure what he is doing? That is more than an understatement. Several feet down the corridor he feels a bit of power trickle into his system, the energy of exhilaration as for the first time in a long time he is his own master. He may lack an inner compass, but it does not take a mastermind to know that the thundering of thousands of orcish feet is going in the same direction he is.

Footsteps approach from nearby, and he drops to the ground at an uncomfortable angle, lying there like a dead thing. When whoever or whatever nudges him with his foot, he does not breathe. The passerby continues on. His auburn hair covers his face; some of it is in his mouth. Before he can think of slumping his way back up again, more individuals approach, grunting to one another; he catches a few strands of conversation:

“Damn it… “

“Where the…”

They find him. One kicks his chest, making recent wounds sting; he shudders involuntarily.

“Alive, is it?” the creature cackles. “I’ll bet his family is missing him. Get him up.”

They do their best to haul him into a standing position but he crumples the moment his weight is placed on his bruised and bleeding feet; he collides with one of them, grabbing at its armor to hold himself up. It pushes him to the ground, then lifts him and slings him over its shoulder. The sword that he tries to cling to, they pry from his hand, sniggering and sneering all the while.

His world becomes the rhythm of his captor’s footsteps and a hazy view of the filthy ground above which he dangles. This sudden break in his inexhaustible routine is confusing; it leaves him nearly in shock. He shivers slightly and waits to see what will happen next.

The Fire

Read The Fire

Now in the heat of battle, Balrogs are approaching. But there is no reason to flee them, because Findekáno always knew it would come to this. He knew it from the moment that thawed ground touched his feet and he had survived the ice-journey. He knew that once upon a time in Paradise, he had bound himself to fire, and now it would take nothing short of flames to destroy him.

 

---

 

The Fëanarians had abandoned their abodes to the north of Lake Mithrim and moved to the south, upon hearing of the crossing of the Helcaraxë; they left abandoned homes convenient for their cousins, but it was a gesture of fear and shame rather than generosity.

Still, Findekáno found it nice to curl up on the floor of a dwelling where, at the time, he supposed that only days ago Maitimo had slept. He basked in the comfort of the feel of a roof against the driving rain, and the surety that the next day, he could traverse to the other side of the water and curse his lover with far more force than Mandos himself.

But it was not meant to be.

He stood on a sandy beach while Makalaurë told him of Fëanáro’s death – “Balrogs… there was nothing we could do…” – and all that he could think was that someday there would be nothing to do about himself, either. The wet sand clung to his shoes, and he concentrated on the rippling surface of the lake rather than the news that was being stoically delivered.

For sure there was nothing to be done about Fëanáro, but the same did not hold true for his eldest son; and the news of the loss of Maitimo felt as sharp as nails to a grieved Findekáno. And so began his search for his cousin.

Throughout all those long and silent days surrounded by iron and grey stone, he fancied that he could feel his lover burning with him in unison; that their matching white fires were one and the same; that both lived and struggled against the same indomitable metal walls and prison gates. He fancied that the mountain he climbed was mocking him silently, and still he pressed ever onward.

All for nothing. All for the sound of harsh wind and stifled cries and mile upon mile of impenetrable rock.

Two days after he ran out of food, he turned back toward Hithlum. He had never realized how much hurt could overcome him by the simple act of walking the other way. Several times, he tripped over loose rocks or crevices, which felt like a sign that he was moving in the wrong direction. If he could have been called valiant for the daring act of coming on this futile search, it was nothing compared to the metallic will that was required to turn around.

Upon his empty-handed return, forced to face Makalaurë and say those words – “I could not find him… I could not find a way in… I am… I am sorry…” – he saw something die in the singer’s eyes. It never came back.

His father was less compassionate. “It is just as well,” Nolofinwë stated coldly, in a tone that was not to be disagreed with.

“I suppose so,” Findekáno replied stiffly.

He did not speak to his father of his lover again for a very long time, nor did he reveal to him the nature of their relationship. This seemed to suit Nolofinwë just fine.

 

---

 

Makalaurë was another matter.

It was just as difficult to meet the now-king’s eyes as it was to lie awake at night and come to terms with the fact that he might not see Maitimo again until the end of Arda. Nor was it easy to attend a council and watch Fëanáro’s six youngest sons bicker among themselves while the one who could tame them was beyond help.

No one liked the Fëanarians, but Findekáno liked them least of all.

He hated their short tempers and their perfect hair and ruthless swordsmanship. He hated that they were driven and determined and oftentimes rude. Their closeness and pack mentality and various skills angered him to no end.

Most of all, he hated how much he used to love them.

 

---

 

One night in Hithlum, Findekáno had a dream.

He saw himself climbing that three-peaked mountain, clinging to the cold, grey stone, which was razor-sharp in places and smooth in others. Everything was obscured by thick fog, but high above him was auburn hair and the pale skin of a half-cousin who did not seem alive, but was not yet dead.

He saw himself clutching Maitimo, this skeletal Maitimo, pressing him against the rock and fumbling with the band of steel that shackled his cousin’s wrist to the mountain. He saw that beautiful face bury itself in his shoulder, a left hand clutching him as alternately he or his cousin murmured each others’ names, or variations on:

“I should have… I should not have… I am sorry… Please forgive me… Oh, Eru…”

He saw himself press a sharp blade against the pallid skin of an arm.

He woke up.

 

---

 

“I suppose so,” he had said to his father. And he pretended that he did indeed suppose so. After a while, when he got used to the concept of never-again, he could imagine that passion had faded, and ancient memories were enough to sustain him.

Ancient memories. He tries to recall one, tries to decide if it is real or a desperate delusion. It appears to be the latter. There is something not quite true-life about it.

In a garden, at the mingling of the lights, sometime in the first half-century of his existence. Tall trees and thick, winding flora shield the two of them from view. Behind their barrier of flora, a young Findekáno and Maitimo lay side-by-side, watching the clouds.

“That one looks like an orcco,” Maitimo announced, pointing to a mass of white haze.

“What’s an orcco?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. But they are evil. Or at least, I think they are. Grandfather talks about them.”

There was a silence. Then:

“That one is you.” Findekáno gestured at another cloud. “And that one is me.”

Maitimo laughed. “You pointed to the same one twice, Káno.”

“No,” said the other, “they are two, but together. Like this. Watch.”

The dark-haired one scrambles onto his hands and knees, crawling on top of his half-cousin and lying himself down on top of him, propped up by hands in the grass to either side of the elder elf’s head.

“Like this,” he said again.

“You are a great deal heavier than a cloud,” Maitimo protested, and it was unclear whether or not he was teasing. “And we are not flying through the air.”

“Are we not?”

It was inevitable. There was no more stopping Findekáno from lowering his head, gradually, than there was Maitimo snaking a hand around the back of his cousin’s head and pulling him down more forcefully than gravity. Lips met, brushed, gently, and then separated.

“Look,” said Maitimo, motioning once more to the sky. “That cloud there… it reminds me of a ship.”

Findekáno turned his head to see for himself. The phantom ship reflected bright tree-light as it sailed away.

But of course, that never happened. There were no cloudy days in Valinor. A fabricated memory, it must have been; memory is a faulty thing; and the world feels that much emptier for it.

 

---

 

At one celebration or another, Findekáno pulled his tall cousin away from the festivities, into an abandoned corridor; unless, the opposite occurred, and it was Maitimo who dragged the other past their rejoicing family members and into privacy.

Whatever the case, a hand was in a hand, and as the dark-haired one grinned, the other said:

“I’m surprised that you’re here with me, Káno.”

He paused. “Are you?”

“Shouldn’t you be off with some fair maiden or other?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

Silence ensued, but was not uncomfortable, as Findekáno slowly, gently backed his half-cousin against the wall. By the time Finwë stumbled upon the scene, lips and tongues were gracefully interlocked in a way certainly not meant for his eyes.

The older elf stood, politely looking elsewhere, until they noticed his presence. Maitimo was the first to do so; he gently and carefully pushed Findekáno away from him.

Catching sight of their mutual relative, the latter addressed the newcomer cautiously. “I… Grandfather… My Lord… We were just…” In his near-panic, all charisma had flown away. If there was one elf who would have the power to forbid the past several moments from ever happening again, it would be the king.

A pause.

“Your father has been looking for you, Nelyo,” Finwë stated smoothly, speaking to Maitimo. He smiled. “I shall have to inform him that you are otherwise occupied.”

 

---

 

Maitimo fought the way he breathed; easily, almost pleasantly, going along with whatever sparring game Findekáno came up with, and winning each time. “What are we pretending now?” he would call, swinging his wooden practice blade in easy circles while the other elf got to his feet. “Am I an orcco again?”

“Yes,” said the young Findekáno, “You are an orcco. You used to be an elf, but you aren’t anymore, so I have to fight you.”

Maitimo scoffed. “How could an elf turn into an orc?”

“I don’t know. But they were. Grandfather said so.”

There was no time for a retort, because the dark-haired one charged, mock sword raised, and soon the two were locked in a frenzied battling, half sparring and half wrestling, in a lightning-fast game almost too quick to follow.

Moments later, Maitimo held his weapon triumphantly to his half-cousin’s throat. “A valiant try,” he said. “Maybe you’ll do better next time.”

 

---

 

“I suppose so,” Findekáno had told Nolofinwë.

Findekáno convinced himself that this was true.

He let the sting of betrayal make his thoughts harsh and cold. He told himself that burning ships meant more than the burning of a fëa, that Moringotto could do nothing that his lover did not deserve; that he himself meant nothing to Maitimo alongside that cursed oath; that any words or love exchanged in the holy land were void in this strange new world; that no one need know of the bond he might have shared with a cousin of whom he could no longer bear to speak.

He decided that when the ships were destroyed, Maitimo must have stood aside for no other reason than a sullen rebellion against Fëanáro. He decided that nothing set Fëanáro’s eldest apart from so many younger brothers, aside from his sheer and lilting beauty, and therefore anything he might have considered love was not more than shallow lust.

And he did not believe himself for a moment.

He stayed in Hithlum because it was a safer land than those to which his various cousins had traveled. He stayed in Hithlum because the desire for adventure and exploration had faded the moment it became apparent he would not be doing so with a redheaded lover by his side.

He was a perfunctory leader, going through the motions, smiling at crowds or doing paperwork or fighting a dragon. Valiant, they still called him. It made him vaguely sick, because it recalled earlier times and felt like a mockery of the way it was first spoken.

“A valiant try.”

 

---

 

He dreamed once more. This time, it was Fëanáro.

Findekáno saw himself in a vast desert, with a great white ship placed haphazardly in the sand nearby, his half-uncle standing not far off and clutching a burning torch.

“Come with me,” the other elf called, and if he could have been labeled mad, it was only in a pleasant sort of way.

He approached the other only slowly, each footstep a deliberate motion, and did not stop until the two of them were only feet apart.

Fëanáro held out the torch. “It is your turn,” he said.

His half-nephew accepted that which was offered, but then stood quite still, unsure of what to do.

“Go on,” said Fëanáro, “it is not difficult. Nothing could be easier.”

With each step Findekáno’s feet sunk slightly into the sand. It was several moments before he reached the ship. He turned back around to see the other give him an encouraging nod.

He held the torch to the white ship, and watched the flames spread.

 

---

Time wore on, and she came into Findekáno’s life as naturally as if she had always been there. She was petite and distinctly Avarin, and would not take no for an answer.

She was nothing like his first lover; she was the wrong shape and size and color and gender and when he was with her he could never meet her eyes for fear that in them, she would see that he was not truly free to love her. But then, averting his gaze was already a habit, and she was no different from the rest.

He was leaned back against a tree, eyes closed, while she kissed him over and over, when he finally found the words spilling from his lips as though his inquiry were the most natural thing in the world.

She smiled and answered that yes, she would be glad to marry him. She would like nothing more than to be his wife. He needn’t have waited so long to ask. They should tell his family straightaway.

She did not question him, but he questioned himself. Why had he asked such a thing? To spite the Valar who, with such an easy elegance, had disowned him.

To acknowledge the feeling that had come over him so long ago, the feeling that he in some way had been betrayed, the feeling that a bond that had been shared in Paradise was not quite so holy any longer.

Such an awkward and unsure sentiment is really no reason for a marriage proposal, but for Findekáno it would be an end to the constant fear that yet another elf was going to ask him who his secret lover was. Terrible reckoning, to be sure.

In the end, he did it to give himself a rationale to forget Maitimo once and for all. But it did not work out that way.

Nolofinwë, at least, seemed thrilled by his child’s decision. “You have made a good choice. I am very happy for you,” he told his son in private one evening, as they sat together in the moonlight.

Findekáno looked away from his father. “Then I’m glad that one of us is,” he replied. He stood and turned to leave, but a hand was on his shoulder.

Nolofinwë held him at arm’s length. “She is beautiful, and she loves you. I cannot imagine why you would…” He paused, and Findekáno held his breath, but the next question was unavoidable. “Don’t tell me you are still hung up on that boy?”

That boy. What a phrase for a half-nephew and a son-in-law and the only elf to look back at Losgar. What a name.

Findekáno had two choices, lies or truth. After years of averting his gaze to keep his secret safe, once more would not be a problem. But in a split-second decision, he went with the latter option. He met his father’s eyes. “That boy and I were married,” said he.

Silence. Echoing, penetrating, pervading silence.

The son continued. “This is not right. It is not supposed to happen. Grandfather got away with it, but he had the grace of the Valar. What do I have?”

Nolofinwë was watching him shrewdly; his grip on the younger elf’s shoulders was so tight it was painful. At last, he said: “None of us are in their favor any longer. You have made your own second chance, you are getting over that which is past, and I am proud of you. Do not be afraid of it.”

 

---

 

“That boy and I were married.”

The statement was careless, but tense with passion. So was the marriage itself.

After an uncomfortable greeting from Fëanáro, a Findekáno who had traveled a great distance to see his favorite cousin in exile was allowed to dart after Maitimo, up graceful flights of stairs into his bedroom, and then bolt the door.

Neither noticed a second brother who scampered after them, still clutching the small harp that he was never seen without. Neither was aware that he pressed an ear against the door, or peered under the crack beneath it.

“I’ve missed you,” one lover said to the other, and this sentiment was returned.

“It’s been too long,” Findekáno insisted with a sort of childlike dedication that Maitimo had always both loved and scorned.

“We can thank the Valar for that,” he said, his coldness not directed at his lover but at the gods who had kept them apart with their icy and unfeeling banishment.

It was a mockery, of course – “Thank the Valar” they used to say, in moments of delight. And now, if not for the decree of those high powers, they might have spent the past several years chasing each other down the streets of Tirion, stealing kisses in alleyways and dodging out of sight to hide from passing brothers.

Thank the Valar.

“It wasn’t – you can’t blame – Remember, it was – ” Findekáno abruptly stopped speaking. No need to lay blame and damage an otherwise perfect reunion.

No need to remember peeking through a doorway at a gleaming weapon that should never have been unsheathed, tightly clutching Maitimo’s hand and wondering: what happens now?

They stepped closer and closer together, until their bare feet were inches apart. This was followed by a silent stalemate, two elegant figures, two heads of glossy hair, two haughty princes, each waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally, Findekáno reached a leg out and nudged Maitimo’s toe with one of his own.

Sometimes that was all it took. The slightest bit of contact, even such an awkward, childish one, and they would be gone. This time, at first there was only a smile, and a bland, gentle statement from the elder of the two. “I keep forgetting how young you are, Káno.” They were so very close, close enough to each sense the warmth of the other’s skin.

The grin he returned, as his body trembled ever so slightly with anticipation. “Not so young. Not anymore.” At the time, it was an innocent remark from an innocent boy, eager to prove himself. Looking back, Findekáno realizes that he was asking for exactly what he got. He does not regret this in the slightest.

In any case, Maitimo’s kind reply was, “So you are,” but the subsequent actions on both sides were of passion far more than benevolence.

When Makalaurë questioned them the next morning, they denied nothing.

---

Sometime the next day, three elves sat on the floor of some unused room or other, stealing glances at one another in unsure silence. Then:

“Káno.” It was Maitimo who spoke.

The two of them turned toward him. “Which one?” they asked in an Ambarussa-like unison, Findekáno and Makalaurë Kanafinwë, similar in so many ways but in devotion to Maitimo most of all.

Maitimo took a deep, steadying breath. “Both of you,” he responded.

“What is it?” It did not matter which one spoke.

“I want…” A pause. “I want this to be a secret.” This was not a surprise announcement, and it was spoken with a force not to be easily disputed.

They watched him, wide-eyed. They looked like young ghosts, instead of a brother and a lover. The young Makalaurë appeared confused, but Findekáno nodded. “Me too,” the latter said quietly.

No one thought to use a phrase like to the grave; they lived in a place where death meant, at most, the still body of a grandmother, asleep in a garden. They were not ever going to die. It was inconceivable.

And, as it happens, they did not die, nor did they spill their secret. They inhabit diverse locations, now; they are far apart and divided in every way possible. The only thing they all still hold true to is that secret, that padlocked and buried secret – the knowledge that once, life held so much more.

 

---

There was no pretending that this new wife was his Maitimo. She knew not a word of Quenya, and Findekáno did not have the time or the heart to teach her. Her name for him was “Fingon,” and he learned to answer to it. At least this new title could not be shortened to “Káno” – to be called such a name by this usurper would feel treacherous at best.

It was not that he did not love her, in his own way. It was not that their marriage was entirely due to her determined perseverance or that he did not feel a rush of something as in the early hours of the morning after their wedding night she lay beside him, staring out the window or into his eyes.

The child, born one year later to the day, was called Ereinion. He loved the stars, and looked nothing like his mother.

“He has my father’s eyes,” Nolofinwë said by means of congratulation. This seemed to be the cue for everyone to make similar comments.

“He has your sister’s hair.”

“My uncle’s cheeks.”

“The same lips as your brother.”

“The same left eyebrow as my great-aunt’s nephew’s seventh cousin twice removed on my mother’s side.” That last one was not actually spoken. A Maitimo occasionally took up residence in Findekáno’s head, a playfully sardonic one who made the most inopportune comments and spent most of his time mocking anyone who walked by.

The real Maitimo would have added, in all seriousness, “He looks just like you, Káno, just like you.”

And this, at first, made the child a thousand times more beautiful, in Findekáno’s eyes.

After a while, this changed. After a while, every moment he spent with his son made him itch with resentment and self-loathing, and a horrible sense of doom. Findekáno was, after all, only half a fëa – and the thought that he could have created something so whole, so strong, filled him with more horror than wonder.

It was Findekáno’s idea to send the two of them, wife and son, to the Havens, but she went along with it. Amidst scrambles to plan a battle and achieve one sort of victory or another, Findekáno told her, “I do not want you to get hurt, either of you. It will be safer this way.”

“I suppose so,” she replied.

Those words.

 

---

 

He dreamed again.

This time, he saw Nerdanel seated cross-legged on the sand by the seashore. “Why did you do it?” she asked.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Why did you leave him?”

He took a breath, steeled himself. “He left me.”

“Indeed?” Her gaze was shrewd; it made him feel as though he were about to melt.

For a moment it seemed that she merely swayed with the wind, until a strong gust came; she crumbled, and was blown away as nothing more than the ashes of a burned-out fire, carried on the breeze; the same end as was attributed to her Fëanáro.

When Findekáno awoke, he knew what he had to do.

 

---

 

And that is why, as Findekáno stands before a hoard of fire-demons, sword drawn, he knows that this is the end. His only regret is that he cannot do as he said, once, as his people marched away from Paradise, the curse of Mandos lingering in their ears.

“If I am going to die…” Findekáno had said.

Maitimo slipped his hand comfortingly into his cousin’s. “You are not going to die.”

“But if I am… I would like to be with you.”

Now, a Balrog cracks a fiery whip. Fire to extinguish fire. Things are not going according to plan. And Maitimo is not here.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for enduring another flashback-dump; now that we've got some background sorted out, I'll do my best to make the plot go forward. :)

The Valiant

Read The Valiant

“We may feel about to fall, but we go down fighting
You will hear the call, if you only listen
Underneath it all, we are here together...”

-Todd Rundgren, “Just One Victory”

 

---

 

The battle is raging; that much is clear. Forces have met and clashed. It is very bewildering, because after years of orcs and Balrogs and other less than appealing characters, years of any other elves in his presence being maimed, bleeding, dying, Maitimo finds it highly unusual to catch glimpses of pointed ears like his own, of fair skin and Elvish banners fluttering and polished armor shining in light that seems to originate from a glowing ball of gold above their heads. He thinks he catches the sound of a familiar voice from far away, crying:

“Utúlien aurë!”

But he cannot place the speaker; it takes his worn out mind several moments to process the words at all; and he does not draw the hope from them that so many mighty armies in the distance seem to. They say:

“Auta i lómë!”

And the phrase breaks meaninglessly against his ears.

The sky is a strange color, and everything is very loud. His own thoughts are hard to hear above the din. But then, he is not accustomed to clear thinking, anyway.

The orc who holds him is moving at a rapid pace, pushing its way through orcish allies toward the frontlines; there is an unsheathed sword in its hand; Maitimo kicks wildly, but cannot get free. Everything sways in his vision, and though they are certainly surrounded by a crowd, he cannot deduce any more than this. It is so bright, and the visible sliver of sky is startlingly blue, a blue like blood is red, a very final and altogether unnatural color.

The world spins madly, the ground is getting closer, and he hears rather than feels the collision as he hits the ground, beside the motionless body of the orc that had carried him. Things are moving so fast, he cannot keep track; the world is a blur above him. The orc’s sword, by some fortune, has landed nearby. He wraps his fist around the hilt, holding it as tightly as he can.

There is a lot of shouting going on. It pounds through his head. But he does not need to move, anyway; he is just going to stay very still, because instinct tells him to do so, and at the moment careful planning of his actions is not an option.

A great many things need to be figured out. For a start, out in the open air he finds his memory much more substantial. His father Fëanáro is dead. Makalaurë, it would seem, is his brother; Findekáno is his cousin, and possibly lover, depending on circumstances; both are very likely somewhere on this battlefield. Finding them is not a priority until he has sorted himself out, and it doesn’t seem like any sorting is going to happen until he escapes the battleground.

That would all be well and good if not for the acrid smell of smoke that warns of approaching Balrogs. After a certain number of run-ins with such beings, he really has no desire to contend with another. This is unfortunate, because a stolen glimpse positions them almost above him, with a rather strong-looking elf, dark-haired and royal, standing over a mass of dead guards and looking rather frantic.

Of course, there is only one Noldo in all of Arda that could ever be so stupidly brave as to land himself in such a situation. And Maitimo, centuries after the fact, feels that, all love aside, he cannot abandon the same cousin first to ice and now to fire.

Standing is not an option. Crawling, rolling, and stumbling are still in the picture. The clash appears rather heated. It would not be intelligent to remain where he is.

Coming back to life, he struggles to his knees just in time to watch his cousin beat down rather forcefully by a whip of fire. Knowing in a rather practical manner that this is not an enjoyable experience, he does the only logical thing and uses the orcish sword to stab the demon in the foot.

If nothing else, this alerts Findekáno to his presence. He inhales sharply, and then starts to say, “Ai! …Russ…”

But there comes another whip-crack, for this is not exactly the time for a cozy reunion. A rather hefty axe comes swinging down, and it is all Maitimo can do to pull the other elf out of the way. Dragging his cousin along with him but leaving the sword behind, he begins to crawl like an insect away from the fiery demons.

This may or may not be the safest course of action; at any rate, several maces come out of nowhere, ripping apart armor and bashing the dark-haired one forcefully into the dust. By some convenience Maitimo lands half on top of him, and lies with his eyes shut tight. Some very large and heavy weapon comes in contact with him and he hears something in his chest snap, but better him than Findekáno.

Several breathless moments later, he cracks an eye open to find that the Balrogs have retreated, that orcs are swarming here and there, and that hoards of men and Elves are withdrawing.

He is unsure of whether or not this is a stroke of luck.

 

---

 

It is all chance and pure will that brings them to shelter, following a hit-and-miss route toward the hills in the distance, unplanned detours taken to avoid several orc-chieftains who seem bent on killing survivors. That Maitimo manages to remove the bent and broken armor from his cousin still does not make Findekáno any less injured, or himself; and while the taller one is accustomed to crossing great distances in considerable pain, this does not make it tremendously easier to travel with one who must be over twice his weight on his back. They chase the retreating elvish armies until these vanish into the distance.

The first time Findekáno speaks, it is Maitimo’s name, softly, as though he is afraid that the other is no more than a fantasy.

He cannot find the energy to answer.

They have stopped to rest in a deserted patch of even ground, lying side-by-side. Maitimo watches the sky in curiosity. The blue that had seemed so stark and unnatural has gone, leaving darkness and stars in its place. It is an interesting phenomenon. It is much more enjoyable to observe this than to think of the journey ahead of them, and wonder whether or not they will make it.

“Maitimo.” Findekáno says the name as though afraid of being corrected.

Maitimo rolls over to face his cousin. “We should leave soon,” he says, or he thinks he does. The words feel as natural as anything, but Findekáno is watching him with nothing short of horror. Maitimo realizes belatedly that his speech was orcish. Through all the apathy that keeps him in the present, he feels a stab of self-disgust.

The dark-haired one looks directly at him, gaze narrowed, straining to see through his glazed eyes. “Maitimo?” This time, it is more of a question.

“We should leave soon.” Quenya, this time.

“I didn’t forget you.”

Maitimo is already dragging himself up into a sitting position. It is not that he does not want to hear it, but they have to keep travelling, they have to go on, and if he were to pause for this, he might break down. “Can you move on your own?” His voice is impassive.

Making a failed attempt to get to his feet, Findekáno laughs a little, somewhere between disbelief and hopelessness. “I…”

Already lightheaded from the motion, Maitimo struggles to haul the younger elf onto his back once more. Fleetingly, he thinks of how ridiculous they must look. The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. It does not feel altogether out-of place, not now that he can feel the warmth of his cousin’s skin against his own.

They set off. Several times more, Findekáno tries to speak, but the older one makes shushing sounds because their position is still precarious. Every so often they lie still to avoid the attention of some passing enemy or other. Once, they do not still themselves in time. Maitimo freezes in place and imagines the worst.

Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with Amil; she is not veiled anymore, but he knows it is she, from her armor and the way she looks at him. Her face is warped and awful, scarred a thousand times worse than his own, which is saying something; it makes him feel sick, but with compassion and not disgust.

She meets his gaze in concern, then nods to him, once. By this time Findekáno is not conscious enough to notice the exchange. Maitimo is worried about him, in a way, but all too rationally figures that what will come will come, and there is another acquaintance to say goodbye to first. Neither says anything aloud; they lock eyes for a moment and then move on. It becomes absurdly clear that this is what she intended all along. He wants to take her with him. And, just as much, he wants to believe that he will never see her again.

He has a feeling that he is not going to forget her.

 

---

 

Rain comes, and Maitimo welcomes it like nothing else.

Water is no longer to be searched for in narrow streams on this endless journey. It is no longer a thing to be lapped out of shallow puddles in stone floors. It is everywhere, in his hair, dripping down his cheeks, wetting his lips.

Every crack of thunder makes him wince, but Eru is in that rain, he is there and he is saying that maybe something has been sung for them besides doom and despair. Maitimo is past knowing whether he has ever felt such rain before.

He falls asleep with a hand in Káno’s hair and that holy water falling from the sky. He awakens in a patch of mud, in a land desolate and silent but for their labored breaths.

 

---

 

A few more yards and Findekáno is whimpering, caught in that state where hurt makes all else irrelevant, a place that Maitimo knows quite well. Stopping to see how much damage was done, however, is not an option; those maces were quite large, the mark on his face where the whip caught his cheek is identical to one Maitimo once had against his shoulder, and the extent of harm does not really affect the need to get to sanctuary.

The voyage is eventless from then on. Either the Valar are watching, or some great scale of balance says that Maitimo has had quite enough trouble for one millennium. While even the slightest movement hurts, while hardly an instant goes by when he is not sure that he cannot go on, he continues.

He breathes. He crawls. He murmurs to his cousin that they are almost there, and that everything is going to be alright. He knows that he has no proof of either statement. They leave smudges of blood on the ground as they journey onward. For all the land is not rough, he feels as though it is a mountain that they are climbing.

He is going to give way, he is going to fall and that is going to be the end. Maitimo knows it. He knows it until those hills rise on the horizons, more beautiful, in that moment, than Taniquetil itself. He draws strength from that vision, from the ground beneath him, from his wounded skin, as though every drop of his blood that smears against the ground beneath him is a drop of energy to push him onward. He is used to the hunger, the weariness, and something about Findekáno’s hair entwining with his own makes it all worthwhile.

The sun has made many full cycles and the moon is in the sky by the time that, on all fours, he makes his way into his younger cousin Turukáno’s transient encampment in the hills. He has become good at skulking around unnoticed, when necessary, and so getting within, unseen, is not as difficult as it sounds.

Like a phantom he creeps, avoiding the few watchful guards; his lover, if they still can be called such, he leaves in the center of the camp, brushing a kiss on the wounded elf’s cheek, before finding himself a hideaway in some nearby bushes.

Amazing, how he could have forgotten the existence of such plant life. The leaves are spiky but welcoming, and he falls asleep quickly, buried in foliage, concealed from view. Soon he will have to worry about his cousin, but right now he has done all that he can, and he is drained and confused, and even what might still be love must wait.

 

---

 

When Turukáno is woken at sunrise by an anxious servant who announces that his brother, alive, has been found nearby, he is skeptical at best. If Findekáno has survived, he is certainly the only one of his and Nolofinwë’s combined armies to have done so; and anyway, the guards should certainly have alerted him to his brother’s presence long before he entered the camp.

There is no denying that the near-lifeless body belongs to Findekáno. It is, on the other hand, equally true that there does not appear to be much sense left in him. When he awakens, hours later, it is only to mumble about being saved by a lover who he insists is not his far-off wife, but refuses to name. Turukáno dismisses this story as delirium.

The first part of the tale, involving Balrogs, whips, axes, and maces, is far more believable, and would explain his brother’s condition; but though he constantly questions his elder sibling as to how he reached the camp, the answers he receives all lead back to this mysterious, unidentified savior.

After a while, he stops asking. He refuses, however, to leave Findekáno’s side, or to pay much attention to the news he is brought. Significant news, pertaining to the Hill of Slain, beneath which he supposes his father lies, or to the orcs that have fast overtaken much of the surrounding land; or less momentous, such as the disappearance of food from their stores, as though taken by a ghost.

 

---

 

“They say that the lord Findekáno is dying.” The speaker is gathering firewood on the edge of Turukáno’s encampment; the sound of wood being broken into kindling masks any rustling of a nearby hidden watcher. “They say he will not last the night.”

“It is the Valar,” his companion replies, his hatred cold and chill. “Glad to doom us all… some days I think they do it out of spite.”

“You shouldn’t speak of that.”

“No? Then what of Eru Ilúvatar, who on a whim lets all six of Fëanáro’s sons live, after… what happened in Menegroth…” A pause. “Who is he to take away our lord Nolofinwë and leave them intact?” The elf snaps a dead tree-branch with a vehemence inappropriate outside the fiercest of battles.

Maitimo darts away.

 

---

 

As night falls, Findekáno grows agitated, and cannot lie still; he refuses the presence of the healers to whom he has been nothing short of obstinate since his arrival, and now commands his brother to leave as well.

This does not need an explanation.

There is not much to do except obey, both the order to leave and the subsequent one to remove all others from the immediate area.

It is a moment before Turukáno departs; Mandos is etched into his elder brother’s eyes, and the thought of willingly walking away from him at such a time feels immoral, almost treasonous, despite what he is commanded.

“Do not worry,” Findekáno says, “I will see you soon.”

“Was that meant to be comforting?”

“No.” A wry, unbefitting smile. “But it’s true.”

Turukáno does not answer. He drinks in the image of his brother one last time, nods to him, and departs the tent.

 

---

 

Findekáno may not have had the foresight to prevent a failed battle and the destruction of a vast number of his people; but he certainly has enough to know that his time is running out, and that there is one face he needs to see again or the Halls of Waiting will be unbearable. He lies in his pile of blankets on the tent floor and prays to Manwë that Maitimo will come soon. Most of all, he prays that this is not some desperate delusion that has come from years of yearning.

An eternity passes before he comes. With every passing second Findekáno is afraid that he cannot last and that he will not see his cousin again.

But he enters. Not elegantly: stumbling, falling and then staggering back to his feet; his coordination has improved drastically in the past couple days, but not enough that he might be considered graceful. His clothing is stolen from Turukáno, but his expression is distinctly his own, and entirely unreadable. Straight through the front entrance he comes, unceremoniously, as though they are back in Paradise and he is just stopping by to say hello.

That is, in fact, exactly what he does say.

“Hello.”

Findekáno reaches uncertainly in the direction of his half-cousin; Maitimo kneels beside him and takes the proffered hand. For a while all they do is stare at one another. With his other hand the younger reaches out and takes a lock of copper hair between two fingers.

There is enough understanding between the two, even after centuries, that when Findekáno rolls over, wincing, Maitimo curls up against him without being asked; that when the latter says: “You must have known you could only get away with being the Valiant for so long,” the former answers, “Well, I did it for you.”

Findekáno finds himself all at once fearful that he is going to have to leave without the time for a full explanation. The thought terrifies him. Words trip over themselves as they slither from his lips:

“I knew we would not win. I was going to get myself captured… I was going to see you again… I could not… I could not live without…”

“Shhh,” Maitimo soothes “I am here now. You have been a fool, but I am here.” He runs his thumb against the other’s cheek, gently, avoiding the burn mark there. He murmurs, “I could have… I should have saved you. I should have…”

“That is more than I ever did for you.”

Maitimo burrows into his cousin’s arms and rests his head on the other elf’s shoulder, clearly unmindful of any pain he might be causing him. The younger one does not oppose this, but carefully moves to accommodate him, so that they lie together, interlocked, a mass of pallid skin, of wounds and untidy hair.

At some point the candle in the corner extinguishes, right around when Findekáno’s breathing becomes more labored and Maitimo is forced to loosen his grip. Time stands still. Exhale, inhale. Exhale…

Silence.

The Ghost

Read The Ghost

Maitimo detangles himself from the marred, lifeless body without a single sign of emotion; not a kiss on a still-warm cheek or the stroking of a dark tress.  Moonlight filters through tears in the canvas, leaving streaks of silver across the dirt floor, illuminating various scattered items: specifically, a cast-off brown cloak lying heaped in the corner.  How convenient.

Shrouded, he makes his way out of the tent, finds himself face-to-face with Turukáno, and feels very fortunate that his own face is now covered.

“He is gone?” the younger cousin asks coldly, but with an underlying sorrow that cannot be fully masked.

“Yes.”  Maitimo is not afraid of having his voice recognized.  It is hoarse and rough, now, after so long of conversing in orcish, or not at all.  Certainly, he does not sound as he once did.

“Will you stay with us, stranger?  I would learn more of the one with whom my brother chose to spend his last moments.”

Maitimo is having some difficulty standing upright, and has a feeling that if they choose not to let him leave, he is not going to have much say in the matter.  That is fine.  He is not accustomed to having power over his own fate anyhow, and it will be difficult to get where he wants to go without more news of what is going on in the world.  He replies:

“I would speak with you a while, if you have the time.”

“Certainly.”

He refuses to enter any of the various nearby makeshift dwellings, but sits himself on the ground near a campfire, and Turukáno follows suit.  It crosses his mind that getting back up is going to be easier said than done, but there are more pressing issues.

Turukáno seems convinced that Maitimo is a spy from the Enemy, who deceived his brother and led him to his doom.  It takes a great deal of calm words and a fair amount of well-pronounced Elvish to convince him otherwise.  The two exchange uncomfortable pleasantries and talk of their mutual friend.  Maitimo explains exactly what went on between Findekáno, several Balrogs, and himself, leaving out the events that led him to this particular fight.

“But you already knew my brother.”

Turukáno does not speak the departed elf’s name; this is a respectful gesture that Maitimo follows as well.

“I did,” he says.  The subject is closed.

The conversation is steered toward the overall outcome of the battle: it appears that only half of the allied fighters have survived, and that Nolofinwë was not among them.  This is not a surprise; Maitimo had eavesdropped a great deal while waiting for a chance to see Findekáno; he had been distracted at the time, hoping for someone to leave that fateful tent and say that his cousin was going to be fine.  With no such luck, he listens attentively to Turukáno’s careful analysis of the state of those for whom he still has some emotion left.

It seems, as he had heard, that all six of Fëanáro’s sons have escaped alive, as well as many of their followers, all underneath the command of the high king, Makalaurë.  That last bit is an interesting development.  Maitimo questions:

“Do you know where they went?”

“South, most likely.”

This is not particularly helpful.  He stands, arms flailing as he grasps for support.  Turukáno steadies him, and comments, “You don’t seem to have fared so well in battle, yourself.”

Maitimo shrugs, not affirming or denying this.  He changes the subject rather abruptly.  “It seems that I will be going south.”

That one does not need an explanation.  The night does not mask Turukáno’s obvious displeasure.  “I suppose you will be needing a horse?”

“That might be helpful.”

It is to his credit that Turukáno does not demand a name or face from his mysterious visitor, but lets him ride away into the night.

 

---

 

Like leaves in the wind.  Makalaurë may have limited time for poetry nowadays, but he finds that this phrase sums up their situation exactly.  That he manages to gather up the remainder of his people and get them to relative safety is a miracle in itself.  Always a brother or two will attempt to question his authority; he has proven, however, that he was named commanding-Finwë for a reason, and one battle lost does not entirely undermine a range of prior victories.

It is a week at least that they have been on the run, and not having a destination makes it just as likely that their final home will be among these trees as any others.  A river runs nearby; mountains loom in the distance; it is not exactly Valinor, but not unattractive either.  They have recently met up with the women and assorted other non-fighters with whom they had parted before leaving for battle, none of whom seem to want to travel any farther.  Even these are fewer than before; a few stray orcs are responsible for this, he is told.

“Are we staying here?”

Makalaurë looks up.  He is not one too place blame, but a nagging thought that it was Tyelkormo who got them into this mess in the first place makes this particular brother’s presence irksome.  He replies:

“I remember when we were younger, and would travel with Father, every five minutes you would ask: are we there yet?”

Tyelkormo is not amused.  “Well, are we?  If so, you really ought to give the order to make camp, you know.”

Makalaurë nods.  “I suppose we are.  You can give the command.”

After a decent amount of time shouting orders and battle-cries it is a relief to have his younger brother give his orders and leave him be.

It is equally relieving to think of a proper encampment, with roofs over heads and places in which to sit and think.  Recently, they have been sleeping in trees, for the most part; an uncomfortable business, with everyone scrambling for the best branches.  It will be nice to lie on the ground once more, with all enemies a decent distance away.

He feels infinitely lucky to be able to sleep at all, now: last he heard, Nolofinwë was dead, and Findekáno missing, and several thousand others had met similar fates.  His own people are not without casualties.

“We are still six,” Tyelkormo says.  “We have survived and we are going to be all right.”

Makalaurë does not think to remind him that they used to be seven.

 

---

 

Days pass uneventfully.  That is to say, Maitimo sleeps through them, and rides at night.  Old habits die hard, and he has grown so accustomed to darkness that even the moon feels unnatural, and the harsh light of the sun is more than unpleasant.

He does not cover much ground, and when he does he is never sure if he is going in the right direction.  It is difficult to concentrate, because darting from one extreme to the other is hard work.  First he thought he would never see his love again; next they were unexpectedly reunited; and now they are parted again.

It would not do to dwell on memories.  Just the knowledge that he once loved an elf-boy named Findekáno in the gardens of Aman is good enough, for now at least.  That sooner or later they will see one another again is a nice thought, but by this time Maitimo is quite familiar with the concept of immortality, and knows that this will most likely not happen for a while.

He is sincerely fine with that.  What is going to come is going to come, and now that he has a great deal more control over it, he is entirely willing to deal with whatever ventures his way.  And while he has no specific plans, there is a brother who he misses rather fiercely, and five more as well, all of whom he would rather not confront.

Undoubtedly the younger ones would raise messy questions about who is the rightful ruler and whether or not a brother is still a brother if he no longer acts like one.  Maitimo would rather not bother.  It will be enough to see them alive, from a distance, and to know that they are living and breathing and fighting.

Traveling is a good time to reminisce and sort out feelings.  Maitimo is not in the mood for either activity.  He concentrates on his destination, which is hard to do when he is not exactly sure of where he is headed.  He has noticed that the sun rises in the same place every morning, but not knowing which direction it is makes this rather unhelpful.

Riding is not a pleasant experience; where a few words in his mother tongue would have once tamed any animal, this does not seem to work anymore.  This could be because he seems to have picked up an accent that takes a great deal of concentration to get rid of; such a level of focus was possible with Turukáno, but is too much to bother with at the moment.  In any case, it is a jarring ride; crossing rivers and weaving through trees makes slow going; and the food stolen from his cousin’s stores has run out.

He knows better than to count the days.  As he has no clear path in life, it does not really make a difference.  Mad thoughts cross his mind now and again: he should avenge himself; he should fulfill the Oath; he should turn back around and head straight to Angband, knock on the gate, and politely ask for the jewels and his honor back.  It is unclear which will be more difficult to recover.  The first two sentiments, in any case, are left over from an Elf who does not exist anymore.

Regardless, when he catches sight, far off in the distance, of a familiar banner that he never thought he would see again, as well as a large group of makeshift dwellings, he dismounts, and abandons the horse. He proceeds to creep his way forward on foot: a difficult action still, but there are always hands and knees when his feet feel like fire and he does not think he can stay upright any longer.

It would not do to be found.  He does not want to face all of their questions or run the risk of growing too attached to his family again.  Affection only leads to a horrible lonesomeness in the case of abandonment.  He is not sure if that rejection can be felt on both sides; but in the event that it can, a situation might arise comparable to the last time he heard from them.  And he is not going to subject either side to that again.

Maybe he is not being very fair.  All he knows is that one minute a very large and very dangerous enemy was telling him about his brothers, and the next there was an orc on top of him.  The situations may or may not equate; but logically he is not going to take that chance.

Freedom is a very precious thing.

 

---

 

Tyelkormo is trying to prove a point.  Makalaurë is not interested.  The former says:

“We have found a horse.”

“That is good.  We are short on them.”

“There is food missing.”

“Our two youngest brothers have a bad habit of taking without asking.”

“I saw someone dart away.  I thought it was Ambarussa.”

“My point exactly.”

“I saw him a few moments later.  He denied it.”

“The other Ambarussa, then.”

“I think…”

“Yes?”

“I think that it was a spy.”

“Or a hungry brother.”

The fair one is growing aggravated; he fidgets, clenches and unclenches his hands.  He and Makalaurë are sitting on a log by the river; life on the run does not allow for many chairs or tables, and certainly no thrones.

“Have you forgotten so quickly?” Tyelkormo questions.  “If not for spies and traitors, we might already have won the war.  We must not let such a thing happen again.”

The king says: “We will deal with this if it gets to be a problem.”

“It is a problem now.”

“Of course.”

Makalaurë’s tone is bland and patronizing.  Tyelkormo rises, and departs.

 

---

 

After much time watching their lives go on without him, Maitimo can now name each one of his brothers, and has caught sight of all, though only two have glimpsed him as of yet.  They fascinate him; they are dysfunctional but work together nonetheless; if ever they feel the need for a seventh member among them, they keep this to themselves.

Makalaurë: Almost as tall as him.  Fancy crown.  Likes to sing, but only when no one is listening.  Stays very calm, but is also quite opinionated; speaks forcefully when necessary, but rarely shouts.  Clearly does not enjoy power.  Does not pray to Eru or Manwë, but to his father and elder brother, which is an endearing form of blasphemy.

Tyelkormo: Blond hair.  Pesters Makalaurë quite a bit.  This must mean he has moved on; back in the old days, it was always Maitimo.  Pretends that he is in charge of the camp; shouts lots of orders; is obeyed more than half the time.  When Makalaurë is frustrated with him, he reminds him of some situation with a girl and a dog; this generally silences him.  Caught sight of Maitimo making off with some stolen bread.  Has blown said situation way out of proportion, but appears not to have recognized the thief.

Carnistir: Red-faced as ever.  Could be a result of his extensive drinking.  Keeps to himself.  Gets angry when anyone approaches him.  Apparently, lost more soldiers in the battle than any of his brothers.  A bit of a sore loser, but that is nothing new.  In denial that the battle has actually failed; when not sulking, tells anyone who will listen of plans for new attacks.

Kurufinwë: Still looks uncannily like his father.  Spends most of his time whining about not having a forge, or not having his son; apparently, is unaccustomed to a nomadic existence, and has chased away his offspring by being too Fëanarian.  While complaining, gambles away large quantities of old trinkets made in his days as a metalsmith.

Ambarussa: Could not be called little anymore.  Spends hours practicing archery, kind of like a redheaded Findekáno.  One of his arrows came into the flora where Maitimo was hiding, and he caught sight of him scampering away.  Fortunately, only appears to have seen the flutter of a cloak; has mentioned this to his twin only.  Has adopted the horse that Maitimo abandoned.  When not relating to said mount, can often be found cooking, of all things.

Ambarussa: Unsurprisingly, looks just like his twin.  Also plays around with weaponry, but prefers swords and spears.  Spars with various soldiers on a regular basis, and almost always wins.  More friendly than his brothers with the mortals living in the camp; also generally used as ambassador to neighboring Sindar.

Maitimo? Hides in shrubbery and keeps himself cloaked at all times; generally travels on all fours, but has become quite proficient at this means of transport.  Would not hesitate to compare himself to an animal.  For the first time in centuries, finds himself comfortable with his own existence, simply because he does not have one.  Living like a ghost means that he does not need to admit to his own presence.  As a spectator, he can be as dead to himself as he is to them.  As long as he is not caught, he does not exist.

Of course, that is only a matter of time.

 

---

 

Something is going on.  Tyelkormo knows it.  Makalaurë denies it.

The second gets the distinct impression that his younger brother is not pleased with him; but that is not a new experience.  Tyelkormo is sure he could be a better king than Makalaurë.  Makalaurë is sure that he is a better king than Tyelkormo would be.  Both know for a fact that Maitimo could do better than either of them, but neither has spoken that name to the other in a very long time.

The two of them are seated in Makalaurë’s tent.  The younger is quite busily explaining the situation.  The older feigns attention.

“Yesterday Ambarussa was telling me he was short on arrows.  He came to me several hours later saying that he found a pile of ones that he had not recovered sitting on his bed.  Someone had seen where they landed and returned them.”

“Interesting.”

“Last night Carnistir couldn’t find enough firewood.”

“And brooded?”

“Fell asleep.  When he awoke, the fire was blazing.”

“I suppose it couldn’t have been any one of the thousands of inhabitants of the area?”

Tyelkormo is not paying attention.  He continues:

“And then this morning I found a tunic that had ripped days ago… mended.  Not neatly.  It can’t have been an elf.”

“Next you are going to tell me that I only found my missing harp by the grace of our friendly local spy.”

“Clearly, it has been busy.”

“He or she is fond of us, you mean.”

“Or getting on our good side before it sets the enemy on us.”

“Illogical…” Makalaurë mutters, shaking his head.  He does not think much of the situation.  Obviously a son of Fëanáro would be wary of good luck or favor; but this is probably nothing more than some young mortal or other trying to get on their good side.

Tyelkormo storms off.

 

---

 

Sometime after twilight, Ambarussa is sitting beside a campfire, looking into the flames that match his hair so well.  A figure seats himself beside him.  The newcomer wears a brown cloak, hood up, and stumbles as he walks.  Neither of these traits stands out particularly.

There are a few moments of silence.  “Hello, friend,” Ambarussa says warily.  When he receives no answer, he presses on: “It is a nice night.”

“Yes,” agrees the stranger, speaking slowly, as though it takes great concentration.  His speech, nonetheless, is clearly Noldorin.  Most doubt that Ambarussa might have about him is allayed by this fact.

“Do you have a name?” Ambarussa inquires casually.

“A few.”

A pause.

“I’m called Ambarussa.  Or Amras, if you like.”

There is silence, again, though not altogether uncomfortable.  The stranger seems unaccustomed to casual conversation.  He fidgets, restless.  Ambarussa says:

“Do I know you?”

“Possibly.”

The conversation respites once more, until: “That is a change.”  Ambarussa puts forth.

“What is?”

“You haven’t tried to talk about the war.  That seems to be the first thing out of anyone’s lips, these days.”

“A battle was lost.  It is not the end of Arda.”

“Most seem to think so.”

This evidently upsets the stranger, who says, “That is downright ungracious.  You live, you walk the world freely.  Those are not things to take for granted.”

“Of course.”

“Some good may have come of all this.  You never know.”

“I suppose not.”

Another interval; then the stranger stands.  He does not look back, but says as he strides off, “Good night, Telvo.”

The darkness swallows his form as it limps away.  There is something off about the entire encounter.  Ambarussa gets the distinct impression that he has been visited by a ghost.

 

---

 

Whether he had planned that meeting, Maitimo is unsure.  As makes his way through a maze of tents and crude dwellings, occasionally pausing to hide from a passing insomniac mortal, he decides that this encounter has been quite enough to last him a lifetime.

The thing about Elves, even brothers, is that they are going to expect him to fight for them, bleed for them, and most likely land himself right back in their enemy’s possession, all for them.  They would have every right to feel this way.  He has done all of these things in the past, as far as they are concerned.

Maitimo has very little sympathy for the elf that behaved thus, and no intention of taking on this role again.

Makalaurë is his weak spot.  One of two: the second being his inability to travel with much ease.  He attributes this to a combination of years comprising limited or no time standing or walking, and various instances of injured legs and feet.

In any case, these two weaknesses find a way of attacking him in very rapid succession.

When he reaches his usual hideaway in the flora behind the king’s tent, he is careful as usual, but not entirely silent.  He does not suppose that he will ever regain faultless, graceful motion ever again.  This does not bother him.  As long as he has the ability to keep himself hidden, nothing else matters.

He has chosen this particular place as a home because he likes the thought of being close to his brother, even though he knows that the younger Elf is better off without him.

Makalaurë’s guards are all mortals, and have attributed any rustling or movement from him to a stray dog.  Sure enough, within moments they are discussing him offhandedly, with such asinine comments as:

“Dog’s back.” – and – “Do you suppose it’s hungry?”

Maitimo curls up, collapsing in on himself, folding into a tight ball, wrapped securely in his cloak.  The cloth still smells like Turukáno.  Tired from the effort of conversing normally with his younger brother, he slips halfway into sleep, eyes open.  Discussion wafts towards him.

“Careful you don’t scare if off like last time.”

Footsteps approach.  It seems that the guards have decided that tonight is the night to meet their alleged dog; and so it is time to move.  Unfortunately, approaching guards have formed a semicircle, whether purposefully or not, and he is fenced in.  The only route of escape, naturally, is the back entrance to Makalaurë’s tent.  If he is to avoid capture, he had better get inside.

He should have seen this coming.  Irony never dies.

And so he scuttles inside.

It is very bright in here, considering the time of night; candles are everywhere.  The light hurts his eyes, though less than it once did; he still sleeps through daylight more often than not, and somewhere in the back of his mind he still equates large amounts of lights with tormentors needing to see what they are doing.  This is odd, an arbitrary thing, because for the most part Maitimo has managed to stay almost entirely in the present.

The more pressing issue, however, is that the king is not nearly as asleep as Maitimo had hoped or expected.  Actually, he is entirely awake, busily pacing back and forth with his crown lying discarded on his bed.  He looks up sharply at the intruder.  From the other side of the thick canvas walls the guards’ conversation is still audible, remarks like:

“It’s gone again.”

“Damned dog.”

“I told you not to scare it.”

Makalaurë keeps his voice quiet; he seems to inexplicably understand the need for secrecy.  He inquires guardedly, “I suppose you are the dog in question?”

“It would seem so.”

Maitimo finds himself suddenly self-conscious; he does not like his brother hearing his voice, and more than anything, he does not want the younger elf to see his face.

It is time for a quick departure once more.  Hopefully, the mortals will not question a hooded stranger leaving the king’s tent.  With all the tangled love lines of their kind, they will most likely assume that their lord is having an affair.  Maitimo tries not to think about love right now.  Any such thoughts, recently, have done nothing but make him feel sick.

The king is cautious.

“Maybe you can explain to me why you were lurking in my bushes.”

It is obviously a command.  Maitimo has no time for commands, anymore.  He strides gracelessly for the exit; but logically, the Valar are not going to favor him with a second easy getaway in such a short period of time. 

Makalaurë reaches out to stop him; his hand catches on the hood of the cloak, it is pushed back, revealing copper hair and grey eyes in the candlelight.  The younger elf stares.

Maitimo has a feeling that this was inevitable.