Song by Melesta

Chapter 3

Lake Mithrim, Hithlum:

Maitimo was not dead. Not dead. He had asked Maglor to repeat the fact at least a dozen times and could not grasp still what that even meant. He had to be dead. Fingon had felt his spirit diminishing as he was crossing the Ice. The pull to him fainting in his chest until he felt half his heart was hollow. And Fingon had mourned him. He had already forgiven, for anger could not possibly reach the Everlasting Darkness. Not anger. And certainly not love. So he mourned to survive. Survived he did, and yet, Maitimo was not dead.

'Does he live then?' Fingon asked and knew how ridiculous that question must be the moment he closed his mouth. Was life not the opposite of death? What could possibly exist in between?

'How can anyone be truly alive in there Findekáno… Fingon.' Maglor corrected himself and it sounded more like a statement than a question. Fingon knew the resignation in his voice was practiced, rehearsed a hundred times over. In Valinor, Makalaurë the minstrel rehearsed songs. In these new lands, Maglor the Regent High King of the Noldor rehearsed resignation.

'You should know that at Losgar Nelyo did not… He and father…' Not this again, it was too much.

'No, Maglor, please. It matters not.'

'I suppose not. Rarely anything matters now.' Maglor sighed, the pain now transparent on his features. 'There is one last thing I must say. Nelyo kept saying that you will come. That you will not stop searching for him. No one paid him much mind, we were all at the end of reason after Losgar, after father… Before he left he asked me to sing you a song if he was not to return.'

'A song?' Fingon asked with visible frustration. They were all doomed, Maitimo was worse than dead, and here was Maglor talking about songs. All Fëanorians truly were insane. That had not changed. Maglor kept staring at him patiently.

'Very well then, sing it.'

'Now?'

'Why not?' Fingon responded with a challenge. It was all so absurd.

With the same resignation, Maglor stood and returned with a small harp that Fingon remembered from Valinor. It was one of the first instruments Maglor had thought him how to play in Fëanáro's house. Just a simple, modestly adorned practice harp. But here in these new lands, it seemed a small treasure. Maglor let his eyes fall shut and it took but a few plucks of the strings for Fingon to recognize the Song.

He listened as the Regent High King sang for him, the spell in his voice now tainted with grief, but no less powerful. Fingon refused to acknowledge the emotions that rushed up to his chest. Instead, he focused on the clear melody despite the tears flooding down Maglor's beautiful face. The mask of a High King now crumbled, Fingon saw raw agony, helplessness, and utter regret. His cousin looked young and vulnerable. Yet his pain seemed aged. Fingon remembered the night when he had first heard his beloved cousin sing this Song, long before their family had fallen apart. A night that seemed to belong to another lifetime altogether. But how could he possibly forget? By the time the Song faded, Fingon had made up his mind.

'Thank you, Makalaurë.'

He whispered as he pulled his cousin into a tight embrace and wiped away his tears. Maglor's body tensed but he quickly let his head relax against Fingon's shoulder. How long had it been since someone had held him lovingly? Either of them. Fingon pushed the thought away and mustered as much serenity as he could before asking.

'May I borrow this harp?'

'Of course, anything at all. Are you leaving already? Finno?'

But Fingon had no time to answer questions. There was much preparation to do and too much time had already passed.

***

The new Moon and Sun must have completed their dance for the thirtieth time since he left the camps at Mithrim. Or perhaps more, Fingon knew no longer. The poisonous mist between the bare rocks on Thangorodrim barely let any light through and time felt trapped. Fingon could not determine if he was thinking consciously or found himself warped in a subtle nightmare. Some terrible dark magic twisted his mind and crept under his skin, consuming him slowly. Perhaps Moringotto had already trapped him in his stronghold and he was not aware yet. Maybe he would be cruelly left to starve or wander until he loses all reason. He had to ration every last bit of the scarce supplies he had left. His body was bruised and scraped all over from the numerous falls he had taken on the slippery rocks and he could not remember when he had last slept. One could hardly call sleep the instances of unconsciousness in the shadows. Fingon walked and climbed and the hollows all looked the same. He was desperate.

When he next stopped on a high cliff the wind had picked up and cleared some of the mist. Fingon very briefly spotted a trace of the blue sky above him and his nose caught the faint scent of wildflowers. It passed much too soon but it was enough to let him regain his senses slightly. He was lost and could barely remember why he had come. To find Maitimo, right. If a piece of Maitimo could survive among this desolation. Maybe find a thrall in the body of his cousin, as Maglor had feared. Better thrall than find nothing at all, he thought. Or mayhap the utter truth was that he had come here to die. Let the orcs consume whatever spare flesh was left on him after the Helcaraxë. Or better yet, allow the Dark Vala to capture him, join Maitimo in his cruel destiny even here, in this new life of doom.

'This life… every life… all of my lives…' Fingon began hallucinating out loud. He laughed uncontrollably, sure now that he had lost his mind entirely.

'Now and in all of my lives, Maitimo!' He yelled and the mournful hollows echoed his words …lives …Maitimo… itimo… Like the songs of old. The forsaken song, their Song, he recalled. Then he remembered the harp he had taken from Maglor. Yes, he would sing, the rocks were to be his choir. Let darkness take him at last. He was insane already. What was there to lose, here, at the end of all things. So he took his harp and sang a Song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old:*

Under the shimmering stars of dark Cuiviénen…
to the blessed light of Valinórë…
till the end of Eru's Song so bright…
now and in all of my lives…
in the darkness and the light…
your hand I will hold…
my spirit in yours will delight…

Fingon's Song reached into the deep currents of life, for even Thangorodrim was part of Arda, part of Eru's music. The dark spell of Moringotto could twist life into a terrible form, but it could never diminish it fully. Fingon's voice grew stronger and he felt the heartbeat of Endórë, it filled him with a strength he did not know lived in him. He sang and sang, again and again, until in the midst of his insanity he believed that a voice answered his Song. With the hope of those mad, he looked up and found the source of the answer. It sounded far and faint, and barely recognizable, but he knew that voice. And he knew the body despite the terrible evidence of torment. He knew it now and he would know it in all of his lives. The Song must continue one way or another, he decided, as tears clouded his sight.

Chapter End Notes

*From the Silmarillion, "Of the Return of the Noldor":
'Then in defiance of the Orcs, who cowered still in the dark vaults beneath the earth, he took his harp and sang a song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old, before strife was born among the sons of Finwë; and his voice rang in the mournful hollows that had never heard before aught save cries of fear and woe.
Thus Fingon found what he sought. For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment.'