Lessons from the Mountain by MithLuin

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Chapter 6: Freedom

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He was still like that when someone appeared in his cell. "Maitimo, Son of Fëanáro, I bid you greetings."

He looked up. He had never seen the person who stood before him, of that he was sure. It was no elf; that much was also clear. "Who are you?" he asked abruptly. He could not complain of being disturbed from doing…nothing…but he was thrown off balance.

"I am Ringanoirë, servant of the Lady Vairë." The woman, who was dressed all in misty grey, had long black hair and impossibly dark eyes. Her eyes were like pools of ink, with not the least speck of white in them. He was reminded of looking at a bird. She stood expectantly, waiting.

Maedhros stood, for he felt it was rude to stay seated when he had no seat to offer a guest, no matter how disembodied she might be. "Greetings, Ringanoirë," he answered, shuddering slightly at her name, and inclined his head towards her. "May I ask why you have come?"

"I am here at the request of Lady Míriel," she said. "She has been thinking of you, and wished you to have this." From within her robe, she drew out something wrapped in brown paper.

Maedhros was intrigued. He reached out his right hand and took it. His guest waited expectantly, so with the aid of his teeth, he loosened the string and pulled away the paper. It was a pillow. On the side facing him was a likeness of the Two Trees, shining with silver and gold threads. He made an inarticulate sound and let the paper fall when he recognized it. Father had kept one of Míriel’s tapestries when they went into Exile – one of his few personal possessions. As far as he knew, it was still at Himring in the keeping of Maglor’s sons. It was…remarkably similar to this one.

"Please thank the lady Míriel for me," he said, his voice feeling disused all of a sudden. "She has my gratitude for finding a way to share her work with me. I will treasure this gift, and she is free to return here whenever she wishes."

Ringanoirë bowed and murmured, "I will tell her." Then she was gone.

Maedhros just stood looking at the pillow for a long time. It had been so long since he had had any possessions, that he wasn’t really sure what to do with it. He didn’t want to put it down. But eventually, he turned it over…and laughed. Staring back at him was a portrait of his family, when the youngest were still children. When Nerdanel was still with them. He leaned against the wall, and slowly sunk to the floor. He hugged the pillow to himself fiercely, and began crying.

When he stopped, he knew he was not alone. "My Lord," he said, not getting up.

"Maedhros," the Voice answered. "What am I to do with you?"

"Please, Lord, tell me what I must do to see my family. Lady Míriel will not speak of them to me."

He was pleased with his words. He was not begging, nor was he demanding. He had confined himself to asking for information. He had not even called Lord Námo here, but allowed him to come on his own.

"When you are ready, and they are ready, you will see them. Not before. Time exists here, for no one in Arda may escape it. But here we pay it less heed than even those of Aman. Patience is a bitter counsel to receive, but I have no other for you."

"The waiting is difficult when so much is unknown," Maedhros said quietly. "I do not know what the rules of your Halls are. I wait, but I do not know for what."

"You are waiting for freedom," Námo said gravely. "With it will come knowledge. But you must remember that you have been entrusted to my care, and I will keep faith with my cousin."

"I know I will never be free of your Halls," Maedhros said. "I have accepted that fate. What freedom do you mean?"

"The only kind that matters," the Lord Námo said, and Maedhros could not help but look at him. He was smiling, and it was neither cruel nor terrible.

"You continue to surprise me, Lord," he said, and realized that he was at peace, despite the fact that his questions remained unanswered. Námo nodded once, and vanished.

Maedhros put the pillow Míriel had given him on the floor, and laid his head on it. He closed his eyes, and remembered his family in Valinor, before any shadow fell on them. He neither slept nor dreamed, but long did his mind stray down the path of memories.

"Aia, indyonya," a voice interrupted him.

He opened his eyes to see Míriel standing over him, her smile glad for once. "Time to wake up," she called down to him.

"I was not sleeping," he said, standing. Then he gasped. The wall behind her was now broken by a stone arch, and in the recess beneath it was a heavy wooden door. "There’s a door!" he said in wonder, stating the obvious.

"And now that you can see it, I can take you to see my tapestries," she said happily. "Go ahead, open it."

For a moment, he hesitated. If this were his other captivity, it would be a cheat. She would be a phantom that vanished as soon as he touched the door, or worse, she would speak with that voice…. He shook his head, and the fear fell away. The Lord of Mandos was trustworthy. He had said that Maedhros would be free, and so the door was real. He approached it cautiously, and put his hand to it. It swung open easily. Turning back to Míriel, he gestured for her to leave first. She led him down a long dim hallway, and turned into another. And then turned again, and again. The place was a labyrinth, and he was glad not to be alone. They entered a large hall lit by torches, and he saw that the walls were covered in large tapestries – very intricate, vivid tapestries. "Are these yours?" he asked respectfully.

"No. These were made by Vairë’s maidens."

"Like the one who delivered my pillow?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered simply. "Did you…like it?"

"Very much," he said sincerely. "Now, where are yours?"

She laughed. "You’re as bad as Finwë. They’re through this hall…"

She led him down several more tapestry-covered halls, and eventually reached one that was lit by lamps. Maedhros caught his breath. He was standing on the quays at Alqualondë. It was so…vivid. All that was missing was the tang of salt in the breeze and the cry of gulls. It was the moment before battle had been joined. He turned. There was Father…there he was. And his brothers. It was odd to see them there. They all looked grimly determined. He could not remember how to feel that way any more.

He wandered through the galleries, caught up in scene after scene. Míriel was really quite good – he had never seen a picture that was as absorbing as one of Maglor’s songs. He found himself paying attention to the colors of his hair when she had depicted him, and was amazed at how lifelike the blended threads were. He paused before a tapestry in a hall by itself, of an eagle alighting on rocks, the setting sun reflecting off his wings. The motion was perfect, and he half expected the wings to move as the bird settled into place. Of course, nothing happened. But he did not know how he knew the sun was setting, and not rising. He turned to say something to Míriel, and realized that she was no longer standing behind him. But he was not alone. Another elf was frozen in the doorway, staring at him.

His movement was enough to break the spell, and the other elf took a few steps forward, tentatively. "Maedhros?" he asked, and that voice flooded through his memories. Here at last was an elf he knew! He closed the distance between them, but stopped a few paces away.

"Fingon?" he said, suddenly uncertain.

"It really is you," Fingon said in reply. He took a step forward and reached to grasp Maedhros’ left arm without looking. Fingon was the only one besides Maglor who always remembered and never paused awkwardly before greeting him. But now he was confounded by Maedhros’ clenched fist. He looked down, and exclaimed, "Your hand!" He grabbed Maedhros’ right hand in both of his, and kissed the knuckles fervently. "It is good to have you whole and healed again."

"I’m dead, Fingon," he pointed out patiently.

"Well, yes, and so am I," Fingon admitted with a grin. "But you have your hand back!"

Maedhros smiled. He felt he had never been so happy in his life.

"Who else have you seen here?" Fingon wanted to know.

"Only my grandmother," Maedhros answered. "This is the first time Lord Námo let me out."

Fingon cocked his head at that. "No visitors?"

Maedhros shook his head. "The Lady Míriel is allowed to visit whenever she likes. I don’t know about anyone else. I…don’t know how things work here," he admitted.

Fingon frowned. "No one told me you were here," he said by way of apology. "But now that I know, I will ask. It cannot be chance that we met here now." Fingon paused. "I don’t want to know what happened, after the Battle, do I?"

"You will not learn it from me today," Maedhros agreed.

"But are you…I mean…did they say…" Fingon looked down, unable to ask his question.

"My doom is to remain in these Halls till world’s ending," Maedhros said quietly. "But I will have good company, I think." He smiled crookedly.

"At least for a time," Fingon agreed, smiling helplessly. "They did not tell me one way or the other." He shrugged. "But now that we are together, we can go exploring!" He beckoned for Maedhros to follow him, and they plunged into the labyrinthine corridors again. Fingon seemed to know his way around fairly well, and confidently led Maedhros through all his favorite places. For the second time since his judgement, Maedhros felt as though he had been drinking heady wine. They made their way into a room with a fountain surrounded by benches. Maedhros took a seat and swung his legs, realizing it was the first time he had sat on furniture since his death. He looked up to find Fingon staring at his left hand.

Unconsciously, he made to move it, and then Fingon looked up at him guiltily. "Why do you keep it clenched?" he asked.

"I can’t open it," Maedhros explained with a shrug. "And if I do, it just hurts."

"Do you know…why?" Fingon asked, confused.

Maedhros shook his head. "Not really. The pain is mine, though; nothing the Valar inflicted on me, if that’s what you’re thinking."

"Do they know how to get rid of it, though?" Fingon asked doubtfully.

Maedhros nodded. "I think so. Lord Námo seemed to think it would go away, eventually. I think he’ll tell me when I need to know."

"You are correct."

Lord Námo stood by the fountain, and both elves scrambled to their feet to greet him. Maedhros suddenly felt caught. "I…ran into him," he stumbled over the words. "I hope… that’s permitted."

Lord Námo just smiled. "No one meets by chance in these Halls, so you need not apologise. But now that you have come out of your cell, I think it is time for you to have your freedom."

"Can I visit…other elves?" Maedhros asked hopefully.

Námo shook his head. "No. I spoke of freedom from your pain. Are you ready to be free of it?"

Maedhros looked at him in surprise, and just nodded. Námo withdrew a long silver knife from his belt, and handed it to Fingon. Fingon, for his part, looked shocked. "What are you asking me to do?" he whispered as he took it.

"The hand needs to come off," Námo said dispassionately.

Fingon dropped the knife as if it had burned his hands. "No," he said, backing away a few steps. "Don’t make me do that again."

Maedhros looked at Námo calculatingly. "There is no reason I cannot do it myself this time. I will not ask such a favor of a friend again." He picked up the knife carefully by its hilt, shuddering as he touched it. He poised the blade at his wrist, and then paused. "Is there no other way?" Now that it came to it, he was as reluctant as Fingon had been a moment ago.

"The pain cannot be separated from the hand, and so the only way to separate it from you is to separate you from your hand."

Maedhros nodded, but made no move to continue. Finally, he presented the hilt to the Lord of Mandos. "You do it; it’s your blade."

Námo shook his head and did not take it. "That blade will sever a fëa. I do not have permission to wield it."

"Who made such a dangerous weapon?" Maedhros asked in exasperation, not expecting an answer. "And I am giving you permission."

"My cousin Aulë made it, as you could no doubt guess. But it is not your permission I need, Maedhros, so you cannot grant it to me."

"Then ask Lord Manwë if you can cut off my hand!" he said, losing his temper. "He entrusted me to your care, and will not deny you."

"It was not he who rebuked me never to harm the fëar in my care. Never forget whose Children you are."

Now it was Fingon’s turn to get angry. "Then why ask such a thing of me? If even you fear to do it, as it seems from what you say, then what right have I?"

"Dare I ask why you have such a deadly weapon, that even you fear to use?" Maedhros asked, looking again at the knife in his hand.

"The blade was made because it is needful, and I carry it because it is my duty to wield it."

"Then why would you make Fingon do it?" Maedhros asked indignantly.

"Peace, Maedhros. That blade was made with one fëa in mind, and that is not yours nor any other elf’s. When I am given the command, I will wield it."

The knife glittered as Maedhros shifted his hold on it. Dread came over him as he realized just what he was holding. "This weapon…could slay a Vala." For one perverse moment, he wondered if he could find his own heart with it before the Lord of Mandos could stop him. But he no longer longed for oblivion, and the thought skittered away as quickly as it had come to him.

Námo did not contradict him, but merely looked at Fingon.

"Is there no healing for his hand?" Fingon asked, in one final attempt to avoid what was being asked of him.

Námo turned to Maedhros. "Open your left hand."

Maedhros looked down. "I cannot," he said quietly.

But nevertheless, he put the knife down on the bench, and with his right hand sought to pry open the tightly clenched fingers of his left hand. It was harder than the last time, but eventually he did open his palm. He was wreathed in flames, the pain instantly all through him, hungrily eating away at him. He let go his hand, and it clenched tightly shut again on its own. He knew he had cried out, and his body still shuddered, but at least he was not sobbing.

Fingon was standing before him, with the blade in his hand. "I will do it," he said quietly. "You needn’t watch." But Fingon was watching him for his reaction, making sure he had his permission.

"You are fated to bear my burdens, dearest to me of all the Noldor," he whispered. "I will never be able to repay my many debts to you."

Then he calmly held out his left arm, and bowed his head. The pain lasted only an instant, and then was no more. When he opened his eyes, his hand was gone, vanished into nothingness, as if it had never been. There was no blood, either. As soon as he moved his arm, he gasped.

"I’m naked!" he cried out, yelping in consternation.

"No more than you were a moment ago," Fingon said bemused, not expecting that reaction. Maedhros appeared clothed in black and silver to him….

"I…have no body," he said, confused.

Fingon tilted his head sideways. "We lost those when we died. Surely you are not telling me that you only just noticed?"

"I never…missed it before. What happened?" he asked Lord Námo, who had not said a word since Fingon picked up the knife.

"You have lost your last connection to your body. The fëa cannot feel the pain that you were experiencing."

With that reminder, he realized that the pain that had been a dull background to every thought and movement was indeed gone.

"Have I only just died, then?"

Námo shook his head. "No, you died when your body was consumed by the flames. Your fëa simply refused to release its hold completely. When was the last time you felt any hroafelmë?"

"Not since…before I died," he admitted. "I have been neither hungry nor thirsty here, nor cold, nor….anything."

"Your pain was the last of them, and the only one you were still capable of feeling. Now that it is gone, you are free."

"Does freedom always come at such a cost?" he asked, looking down at his newly maimed arm, and then up at Fingon.

"Only in some cases," Námo answered, as brutally honest as always. "It is not every day that I can recall a thrall of Morgoth."

Fingon cried out. "No! Nothing would have brought him to that end, nothing! I will not believe it."

But it was not Námo who answered him. "Think, Fingon. The Oath," Maedhros said quietly. "I was bound to do Morgoth’s will before ever I set foot in Middle Earth."

"I…should have killed you on the Mountain," his whispered hoarsely.

"No," Námo said, "Your deed was well done. He learned what he could there, and the cost was what it had to be. He is well now, so do not regret your mercy."

Maedhros smiled crookedly. "There are no more Oaths here. Else I would swear my life to you, but as it is, it would be a poor gift."

Fingon laughed, but his voice shook. "You are dangerous to know, my eldest cousin. It is well that we are both dead."

"And well that you never saw what I became," Maedhros answered quietly. "But come, there is no past nor future here, nor any pain…and I would spend what time you have remaining in your company, as often as you would permit it."

Lord Námo retrieved his knife, and bowed to each of them. "I will not hinder those plans." Then he vanished.

Maedhros shook his head. "I am not sure I will ever learn how things work here."

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Chapter End Notes

Ringanoirë = "cold tomb" An awful name!

hroafelmë = "bodily impulses" – ie, hunger, thirst, desire, etc.

The phrase "dangerous to know" was borrowed from truehobbit.  This chapter, even more than the rest of the story, has some influences from George MacDonald's Lilith. 

Míriel's original tapestry also makes a brief cameo in my other (as yet unposted) story "On the Edge of Ruin."