In the Rose-Gold Light of Valinor by Rocky41_7

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In the Rose-Gold Light of Valinor

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               “Maitimo!” There was little cousin Finrod, his bright gold locks drawn back into a heavy braid adorned with all the flowers he plucked from Aunt Eärwen’s garden, looking up at him with a kind reverence in his wide brown eyes unique to young children and their childhood idols. Maedhros could not recall that any of his brothers had ever looked at him with such open awe, though perhaps Fingon had once, when he was young. “What was that, just now, that you did?”

Maedhros could not fathom there was much interest for a child as active as Finrod to be sitting there watching him move game pieces around a board by himself, but he had told Finrod he was permitted to watch only if he did not disturb him, and so far Finrod had acquiesced.

“Why did you move that piece so? Was it in danger?” For now, Maedhros played only by himself, rifling through the file in his mind of advice given him by Grandfather Finwe, whom he had not yet managed to beat, though Maedhros’ own father had fallen to his eldest for the first time some years ago. Grandfather said this was because Atar lacked Maedhros’ sense of patience.

The sky overhead was cloudless blue, or maybe there were a few clouds here and there, but the day was bright, or bright enough, or maybe it was just Finrod and the way he seemed to glow.

“There’s little enough to be learned in just watching,” Maedhros told him, making a decision about the fate of the rest of that afternoon’s practice. There was a heartbeat where Finrod’s eager expression slipped. “If you wish to do a thing, you must practice it yourself.” He swept the board then, pushing the pieces to either end of the board, and began to reset the board.

The look on Finrod’s face was if Maedhros had just dumped an armload of diamonds in his lap. He leaped to his feet, knocking over the cup of juice with which he had wandered out to watch his cousin at practice. With no care for spilled juice, he scrambled over to the table at which Maedhros sat and settled himself on the cushion opposite.

“This time you shall be mine, Curufinwë,” Finrod said with a great exaggeration of drama, but he could not cease his smiling to put on even a semblance of an intimidating expression. One got the impression giggles were not far below the surface. A grin pulled at Maedhros’ lips. Truthfully, he did not spend much time with his cousins—at least not as much time as they spent with each other—but there was an undeniable charm to Finrod.

               “We’ll see about that, Arafinwë,” Maedhros replied in his best imitation of Fëanor, something he was careful to employ only in the proper company.

               “Grandfather says you have beaten Uncle Fëanaró,” Finrod said, slinging a chip out towards the center of the board. Maedhros did not respond to that—he didn’t think he had—but instead clicked his tongue at Finrod’s carelessness.

               “I know Uncle Arafinwë has showed you better offense than that already,” Maedhros said, looking at Finrod’s piece before moving one of his own. “You must think more before your attack. What do you plan to do with that piece now? Do you see how easily I can take it from you?” Briefly, Finrod deflated at this criticism, but he then lifted his chin and squared his shoulders to make a better go of it. This time, he scrutinized the board, chewing his lip over the two pieces presently in play before he reached for one, and then another, and then finally pushed another piece out a few squares.

               As Maedhros opened his mouth to opine on this move as well, someone yelled off the third story balcony: “Russandol!” and Maedhros looked up to see who it was, but the railing blocked the better part of his view.

               “What is it?” Maedhros called up.

               “You should hear this argument Kano’s gotten into with Atar! You would think he wants to be cast out of the house!” It had been Maglor arguing, of that Maedhros was certain (Though, perhaps, it was the certainty that came baseless simply from having held the thought so long.)

“Ongoing?”

“Yes!” 

As no child raised among others can bear not to listen in on a sibling’s argument with a parent, Maedhros got to his feet, abandoning the board, and made for the stairs inside.

“Your lesson will be finished later!” he called to Finrod.

“Wait! I want to hear, too!”

As Maedhros took the back steps two at a time, he could hear the patter of little feet rushing after him, struggling to catch up.

***

Evening swathed Aman (yes, certainly it had been evening), and on Auntie Anairë’s veranda he lounged beside Caranthir, plucking purple grapes off the bunch between them.

“I couldn’t possibly fathom what she expected,” he was saying to Caranthir, or something like it. “I think the whole thing has just been embarrassing for ammë.”

“Honestly,” Caranthir muttered, yanking a grape off the stalk. “What was he thinking? It confounds me he didn’t ask ammë. She would have said yes, and the whole thing could have been avoided.”

“Atar never did learn to take no gracefully,” Maedhros replied lowly, his eyes flicking up to where Auntie Eärwen sat with Auntie Irimë, and then over to where some others were gathered, but none were listening in on his conversation with Caranthir.

“What ammë must think, that he asked Artanis and not her…” (Or had they all been yet too young for that moment to have come? Maybe that conversation had come another time.)

“Ah, look, here comes Findaráto.” Maedhros was all too happy to eschew that particular branch of conversation and focus instead on their cousin, who was now taking his seat beside Maglor at the front of the veranda. The entire affair had humiliated the family more than they could say, and so no one was complaining that Fëanor was sulking out of sight over it. Content to turn his attention to brighter matters, Maedhros smiled as Finrod settled himself down, brushing at his robes and readjusting his harp several times. That night he wore his hair down, bound by a silver circlet, and it framed a face still bearing the fullness of youth. The bright green of his dress suited his complexion well and one would not have been surprised to see flowers spring up in his footsteps.

Maglor leaned forward and said something Maedhros was too far off to catch, and Finrod nodded, nibbling his lower lip and giving the strings of his harp a strum. He lifted his soft brown eyes to the assembled elves, taking in who had come, and Maedhros half-raised one hand in greeting, reaching over to pinch Caranthir when he did not do the same.

“Ow!”

“Wave,” Maedhros said to his little brother, and he did, although he scowled fearsomely at Maedhros while he did it, and possibly had pinched Maedhros in return. He probably had; rarely one to let a wrong go unanswered, or escalated, Caranthir.

“This is an original composition of mine,” Maglor was saying then, which he said so often Maedhros could still hear the forced maturity he injected into his words, with some idea that it would make him seem older rather than made of wood. “And joining me tonight on the harp is my cousin, Findaráto.” A polite clapping and tapping of silverware on dishes tinkled through the air before the small crowd before they quieted in expectation of the performance.

Finrod had that furrow between his brows, that pursing of his lips that he got when he was entirely focused on one thing, and Maedhros resisted the urge to grin. That look hadn’t changed since Finrod was knee-high, begging to be allowed to race horses with his older cousins. Maedhros could guess he had practiced this piece until he could play it in his sleep, so eager was he to prove himself a capable accompaniment to Maglor. When Finrod had first told Maedhros that Maglor had suggested it, his eyes had shone as bright as stars, and Maedhros had no doubt that music was the right path for their Finrod.

“He’s not doing badly,” he murmured to Caranthir, who gave a grunt of agreement, but did not take his eyes off the performance, or if he made some reply, it wasn’t worth remembering.

As far as Maedhros could tell, Finrod didn’t make a single mistake—and if he did, and no one noticed or recalled, it was all the same. When they finished, Aunt Eärwen leaped to her feet with applause, and Finrod ducked his head a little, until Maedhros too, rose to his feet (and then glared at Caranthir until he too, got up).

By the time Maedhros caught up with Finrod, the tips of his ears were still flushed, his eyes alight with excitement, and Maglor was telling him they should try another duet soon.

“Nicely done, cousin,” Maedhros said. “Kano has competition now!”

“There is no need for us to be at odds when we can play together,” Maglor said sanctimoniously.

“He needs someone to temper his ego,” Caranthir opined. “Good work, Findaráto.” Finrod shuffled his feet and ducked his head again. “Next time, we should hear something you wrote.”

“There were a few parts that didn’t go as smoothly as I—”

“Hey,” Maedhros said. “You would interrupt our praise to tell us why you do not deserve it? You played well. Enjoy it. Plenty of time tomorrow for you to pick over the details.”

“He’s right,” Maglor said. “If the audience cannot hear your mistake, there is no need to clarify it for them.” Finrod restrained himself from further critique of his playing, and nodded

“Thank you, Maitimo. Thank you, Morifinwë. And thank you for coming!”

“Now, I think we need a toast!” Maedhros said. “To our little cousin becoming a greater harpist than our brother!”

“It’s not a competition,” Maglor groused loudly. Maedhros just laughed, and turned towards the house for more wine, while Caranthir smirked at Maglor, and Finrod allowed himself to bask in the moment, aglow in hope of future triumphs.

***

Fëanor and Fingolfin had been arguing the last thirty minutes.

“They will understand the urgency of this quest! They must lend us the ships!” Fëanor would say.

“Give us their prized treasures to sail off into the unknown? It won’t happen!” Fingolfin would answer. And so they had gone around and around and around with very little variation and precious few alternative suggestions, with Finarfin reminding them at intermittent intervals that they had very few options, to increasingly savage and synchronized responses of “I know!”

Maedhros was doing his best not to look bored, as that was likely to reflect poorly on Fëanor, and was keeping an eye on Amrod and Amras, both of whom kept glancing back up the road they had come, as if they were wondering if it was too late to ask atar if they could stay behind. It was possible one of them had mentioned it.

The whole thing was bound up in momentum; if they lost that, Maedhros wasn’t sure with what force they would be left.

He had thought to go speak with Fingon, if for no other reason than to remark on Aunt Anairë’s sudden decision not to accompany them, but he looked busy trying to keep his own siblings and house together and out of the way of Fëanor and Fingolfin, though he was regularly looking back at his father as though to impart on him the urgency of making a decision. Or else there was something else he had been busy with, maybe checking their supplies.

“Perhaps we ought to just swim across!” Celegorm said, though he kept his sarcastic remark low enough to be out of Fëanor’s earshot. Curufin had some chiding response in defense of the apparent lack of a plan, and Celebrimbor, as usual, was nodding along with whatever Curufin said. Maedhros sighed and took another look around the assembled elves. Fëanor needed to make a decision quickly, before cold feet started popping up.

“Has anything changed?” Finrod piped up from Maedhros’ left. He turned.

“Does it look that it has?” He winced at how short his tone was. Bickering about the best way to proceed was hardly a dignified and auspicious start for the quest, and he wished Fëanor had considered this particular hurdle before they had all stormed out of Tirion. He also wished he had had time to find his favorite riding gloves, instead of the back-up pair he had then, but he was fairly certain if he mentioned this, Fëanor might eject him from the quest entirely for “attempting to cause a delay” or some other such thing, and lay into him with the bared teeth with which he had torn into ammë before their departure.

“Atar was saying—”

“I’ve heard,” Maedhros interrupted wearily.

“If we have not even a plan for crossing the sea…”

“Did you have a point, here?” Maedhros demanded, turning to face Finrod more fully. Finrod shifted on his horse. His braids were lacking in their normal floral touches—perhaps he had decided flower braids were not proper attire for marching to war against a Vala. Had Maedhros remarked on it? He couldn’t recall.

“I just…” Finrod trailed off, and looked up at Maedhros with that soft cinnamon gaze set in that sweet face that made Maedhros feel guilty for snapping. Whatever Finrod was thinking, he was unwilling to voice it, which made Maedhros think he was having second thoughts about the whole thing.

“Worry not.” He put a hand on Finrod’s shoulder. “Arguing is their wont.” A smile pulled at his lips and he saw one in kind twitching on Finrod’s face. The quarreling of their fathers had long been a joke between the three eldest sons. “They will have a plan, and all will be well. One way or another we will get across the sea, and then there are no more oceans to cross. And we will have quite a story for everyone back in Tirion when we return.”

“I wish I had your confidence, Maitimo.”

“Just pretend that you do,” Maedhros advised. “More troubling would I find it if they were all in agreement!” Finrod laughed. “Then certainly some ill magic would be afoot.” That bright smile settled on Finrod’s face and his eyes sparkled, and Maedhros could still see the Elfling who had chased his footsteps around the training pitch and through the halls of Finwë’s mansion.

“You make a fair point,” he said.

“How is your house?” Maedhros asked. He had seen Arafinwë in conversation with Nolofinwë on the road, but he had not heard, being too far off at Fëanor’s side. He had no pointed this out to Fëanor, but he had seen the way his father’s hands tightened on the reins of his mount until his knuckles whitened, and something foreboding twisted in Maedhros’ gut. Fëanor trusted not the sons of Indis, and while that had been a cause of simple enough strife in Tirion, on the road to war, Maedhros found it suddenly a great deal more troubling.

“Well enough. Nerwen is of your mind; she is certain we shall have no trouble, or that if we do, it shan’t trouble us long.”

“See? It’s not often I advise listening to a younger sibling, but…” Maedhros smiled again, hoping it looked a bit more real than it felt. “Fëanor will think of something; he always does.”

***

Kinslayer.

Time passed differently in Thangorodrim. Most often it was long, drawn-out stretches of interminable, lingering fear, of which one was never rid within its walls, and which the mind grew so accustomed to as to leave one bored even in the midst of one’s own suffering. But it was punctuated with moments of acute terror, wretched agony, and the reminder that things could get worse.

It could always be worse.

               For every time Maedhros told himself that wasn’t so, Morgoth proved him wrong. He had stopped telling himself that. Yet, his own interminable, monotonous suffering was enough to make some wretched part of him wish for some fresh torment at the hands of Morgoth, purely for the change of pace, which was a kind of self-torture in itself, wondering what was wrong with himself.

               Kinslayer.

               Death was Man’s great gift, so the Valar said. Maedhros had always scoffed at that idea, but there was, perhaps, a wisdom in it. A Man, at least, could look forward to an inevitable death. Maedhros might endure until Morgoth torched the world in fire—or more likely, until he grew bored with his Noldor toy, which was taking far longer than Maedhros might have hoped.

               Sometimes, he saw Nerdanel. Her eyes chided him for his foolishness in taking his father’s oath, scolded him for ever setting foot in Thangorodrim, and morphed into some horror of Morgoth’s, until she was a balrog screeching at him, with only the barest phantom memory of her caress to comfort him.

               “Maitimo! Maitimo! Maitimo!”

               Other times it was Fëanor, with his lip curled in disgust, shaking his head that his firstborn failed him so badly, had lost the fight before it had ever begun.

               “I taught you better,” he said. “I should have left the reins to Curufin.”

               Maedhros babbled whispered apologies at the apparitions, promising anything and everything, debasing himself in every way he could if they would only come for him, if they would only cut his fëa loose of this miserable existence.

               Atar! he wailed silently. Ammë!

               The rest of him must think him lost, he had realized. They would not come because they were certain he was lost to them already. The moment this understand had reached him, he had sobbed and screamed and clawed at his bonds until his fingernails were ragged, his fingertips bloody, preferring to plummet to his death than remain hung from Morgoth’s strings, his eternal plaything.

               Kinslayer.

               The pain in the joints of his arm sapped all other feeling from his body, as though it were the only part of him that existed, outside those times that Morgoth or his lieutenant saw fit to give him some other part of himself of which to be aware.

               It was his chest then that burned, every careful slice standing out with vividity such that he could feel Sauron cut into him again, and again, and again.

               Kinslayer.

               No one would ever know, so long as he kept it covered; it could be his private shame. Not that it should matter overmuch, when everyone knew the worse of it—the act itself, which he had done on Fëanor’s orders. What should the label matter now? Why should any of his suffering now matter, when he had wrought death and betrayal on the Teleri at the behest of his father?

               Morgoth and Sauron both had a boundless imagination for such tortures; Maedhros had long since stopped trying to keep pace with them, to imagine what other horrors went on in that fell place. Yet overall, they seemed content to simply wait him out, and see how long he could bear up under such hopelessness and baseness of existence before he lost all sense of personhood and became a mindless beast, or else perished.

               Kinslayer.

               Death was Man’s great gift, and Maedhros hung by the wrist and wept that Illuvatar cared so little for his Firstborn.

***

               The voices outside his room were not so inaudible as Fingon might like to believe, no matter how low he kept his volume. But the effort it would take to tell him that Maedhros could hear him corralling people away from his room was more than he had effort for presently. A decade of true-sleep would not be enough to restore him; perhaps nothing would, and Fingon had come too late, and his fëa would still let go of this terrible earth.

               He had thought that leaving Thangorodrim would restore his sense of time, but it continued to flow in uneven increments, and Maedhros felt some part of his mind must still be imprisoned there, for it was often difficult to ground himself in what was happening right in front of him, and entire conversations could be had over his bedside without him being aware of a word. At times, he awoke with that same ache in his shoulder, expecting to open his eyes and see the blackened landscape of Thangorodrim about him, and it was jarring to realize he was abed and belonged no more to that hellscape.

               Now he was aware—not by choice, but simply because his mind had decided to tune into reality—and he could hear Fingon again ushering someone away.

               “Now is…it is not a good time, Ingoldo. He needs rest.” Finrod is come? “Yes, I know. And I will continue telling you this until it is no longer true. I know. He has been greatly weakened by the ordeal, as I am sure you can imagine.”  Or something like that, nearabout. Some mollifying excuses to nudge Finrod away.

               “Findekáno,” he croaked. Even his voice was weak, and he could cry for the frustration of it. He gathered himself to call again. “Findekáno!” The door creaked open slightly and Fingon poked his face in, pinched in concern as it had been since he had first carried Maedhros down from the mountain.

               “Yes, Mai—yes?”

               “Let him come,” Maedhros whispered.

               “Are you…sure?”

               Maedhros made some gesture that he hoped was actually nodding. He felt numb so often it was hard to say if his body was doing what he asked of it.

               Finrod bounced into the room as soon as Fingon would admit him, and rushed to perch on the edge of the bed. He was so bright, so full of spirit and feeling, Maedhros almost looked away, exhausted even to look upon him. It was only on seeing Finrod’s vivacity that he realized he had expected his cousin to be diminished; how could he be otherwise, after his own experience?

               There were a few white flowers woven into the crown of his braids, that Maedhros remembered in startling detail.

               “Maiti—” Fingon hissed, and Finrod looked to see him gesturing and shaking his head. “…Nelyafinwë?” Finrod tried, and was not then cut off. “I would have come sooner, but Findekáno said you wished not to have visitors.”

               Another attempted nod.

               Finrod seemed then at a loss, and Maedhros had to focus to keep his mind from drifting back into the ether. What would Finrod have said to him now, if not for Thangorodrim? This conversation would be about the burning of the Teleri ships, he was sure; a betrayal that felt it had taken place a lifetime ago, or perhaps several.

               Finrod, with his gentle brown eyes and golden curls, who looked over his siblings with the tenderest of hands, who wished to be friends with everyone— whom Maedhros had condemned to the Helcaraxë, to years of wandering through cracking ice and biting snow, because Fëanor had thought they could retrieve the Simarils alone.

               Did he still have his harp? Or did it lie abandoned somewhere in the Helcaraxë, or sunk under the waves, an unnecessary weight he could not afford to bear?

               The touch on his hand shocked Maedhros back into the present, and Fingon again moved to separate them, but though Maedhros’ hand trembled under Finrod’s touch, he forced himself not to pull away.

               “Findaráto, don’t—” Maedhros turned to Fingon, and managed to convey without having to gall himself to speak that Finrod was not going to break him.

               “You are safe with us now, cousin,” Finrod said softly when Maedhros’ attention was on him again. “We are all together again, and so Morgoth cannot have the better of us.” A shine had glossed over Finrod’s eyes as he studied Maedhros’ thin face, and Maedhros saw Finrod’s teeth very briefly worry his lower lip. Fingon had not permitted Maedhros to look into a mirror yet, and Maedhros had not asked, but he doubted Thangorodrim was anything less than branded across his face. “We will not let this happen again.” Finrod glanced over at Fingon, who nodded. “We are all together again, and we will protect each other, and watch out for each other, just as we are meant to do. We will look after you. None shall go alone into Morgoth’s realm; and if ever such a time comes, Findekáno and I will be with you. I won’t let—” Before he turned away to hide his face at the breaking of his voice, Maedhros saw the first tear slip free. “I will come again when I can,” Finrod said in a rushed, husky voice before he quitted the room, with Fingon’s hand on his back.

               Fingon returned and took a seat in the chair beside the bed with a sigh.

               “I think he did not believe me that it was best not to have visitors now,” he said. “Poor Ingoldo…his heart was not made for war. It will take time for him to adjust to Middle-earth. I will make sure he does not come when I am not here to—” Fingon broke off when he looked over and saw the tears sliding down Maedhros’ cheeks.  “Oh, cousin, forgive me. I should not have let him in.” Fingon rose with a handkerchief, and Maedhros shook his head with such strength as he had not displayed in days. “No? You wish not for him to be kept from you?”

               “No,” Maedhros whispered. “Let him come.”

***

Every time Maedhros decided it was time for them to conference, all memory of past such conferences and the difficulties therein dimmed from his mind, leaving him disgruntled and dismayed to encounter the same issues anew. It was a cycle the had not yet managed to break, and he wondered as he made his way down the hall, whether they had all become so quarrelsome as a result of each living in his own kingdom now, or if it was simply age—if they had now become Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin bickering over the faintest perceived slight, or even of slights that had not yet come about, but which were potentially in the making.

As the orchestrator of this affair, perhaps it was on him to stick around and play the diplomat, as he usually did, but truly that day they had reached a point of utter unproductivity, and so in the end, he had few qualms about leaving whomever was still in the hall to slug it out over whatever asinine disagreements they were having now.

Instead, he had stepped out, after a day and a half of such discussion, and the sound of a familiar harp drew him down the hall, or perhaps he had become aware of it only as he passed by, to where Finrod sat in a window well, looking out at the town below and the river beyond. Finrod sang no more in Quenya, but he made Sindarin sound near as lovely, and he smiled when he turned his head and saw Maedhros approaching.

“Have they started to brawl yet?” Finrod asked, or some such remark on their discord. He sat with one leg tucked up on the sill, and his shoes were discarded at the base of the wall (or perhaps Maedhros saw him barefoot because he had been so often, and nearabout never wore shoes in his own kingdom, and so it made sense to picture him thus).

“Knowing Curufin, it remains a distinct possibility,” Maedhros replied, or something like it, taking a seat on what remained of the sill. He looked out and breathed in the fresh air. “I seem to always forget how little we accomplish at these events…”

“Perhaps simply seeing everyone together is an accomplishment,” Finrod suggested, shifting to a simpler tune that he could maintain while he spoke.

“Does that count when every conversation becomes a battle?” Finrod laughed and ran his fingers over the harp strings.

“Personally, I enjoy the change of scenery,” he said. “I have so few occasions to be out east.”

“From what I hear, you make occasions,” Maedhros said. “And acquire many friends along the way, Finrod Felagund.” A shy smile twitched on Finrod’s face as Maedhros addressed him with his Dwarf-given title, and he looked down at his harp, watching his hands rather than looking at Maedhros. “I’ve even heard you treat with Men.”

“So I do,” he replied, lifting his head. “They are quite interesting, Maedhros. And I think they are a people of good heart.”

“They are a people of weak will,” Maedhros said, so stern that for a bewildering moment he was aware how much he sounded like Fëanor. “And I think you should be cautious with them.”

“We should be friends,” Finrod said. “We are all Children of Illuvatar. Would it not please Them for us to be friends? Men are our star-siblings, are they not?”

“They are not like us,” Maedhros insisted. “How could they be? Their lives are too short to see anything in the long-term. This is why they are so consumed with striving for their own personal gain. They see not the larger picture.”

“They want what we want,” Finrod disagreed. “Peace, a plentiful harvest, safety for their children, to be surrounded by beautiful things…” He plucked at the high strings. “I see no reason for us not to get along.” Maedhros wished not to argue more, not after the last day and a half, so he relented, for he doubted there was any talking Finrod out of his belief that everyone could be friends, if they just tried a little harder. Instead, he let them lapse into silence, and Finrod played a tune that seemed familiar to Maedhros, though he could have sworn it once had words.

“Do you know what I was thinking of on the way here?” Finrod asked softly, with his eyes on the harp. Into Maedhros’ inquisitive silence, he said: “Amairë. I do try not to think of her overmuch, and I think I have done well enough with that, but I saw a Man passing through town on the way here, and she made me think of Amarië. What do you think she’s doing, now? Do you think she works still with wood and saw?”

Maedhros struggled to find something appropriate to break the silence of his response. They had all left behind loves in Valinor—friends, family, teachers, spouses. It was rare to speak on it, for it caused them much grief, and so Maedhros knew Finrod’s once-betrothed must have been heavily on his mind for him to broach the subject in words. This he remembered distinctly, for the subject-matter alone.

“I imagine she does,” he answered at last.

“I wonder what things she builds now,” Finrod said. “She has had much time to improve, though her skill was considerable when I saw her last. I wonder what she would think of Nargothrond.”

There was a reason they didn’t talk about Valinor, and Maedhros found himself wanting to crawl out of this conversation, but he could not leave Finrod with no reply.

“I think…she would be proud of you,” he said quietly. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? And it was probably true. Finrod looked up then, and something must have shown on Maedhros’ face (perhaps his talent for keeping an even expression had been worn down by his brothers).

“Forgive me, cousin. I sound very melancholy, and I did not mean to, or to make you so. Let me play you something instead.” He picked a jaunty, upbeat little tune, which he played with a smile that made Maedhros think of childish days long past and a home to which they would never return.

“Your trip with Curufin and Celegorm must have been cheerier than most,” Maedhros said, nodding towards the harp.          

“Ah, I think they care little for my playing,” Finrod replied with a shrug. “Or else they still consider their home in Nargothrond some charity of mine, and feel sore about it. I would not have them think it so; we are all of us family, and I should hope they would extend a room to me, if ever I am in their place.” Maedhros sighed.

“Their pride undoes them,” he said. “Mind it little, for it is worth little. I am glad they have a home with you, cousin.” He reached over to squeeze Finrod’s shoulder with the hand that remained to him. “Although, if you should require someone to show them their place, I am glad to do it.” A little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Finrod smiled back.

“I will be sure to keep that in mind, for I fear any scolding of mine is of little effect on anyone…” Maedhros could believe that.

They decided that little enough use was to be had of further “debate” amongst the family that no one would terribly miss their presence, and so stole out to the garden and there had a much finer time with Finrod’s harp and making fun of past gatherings of the Noldor, and for a brief time, the troubles of Middle-earth seemed to recede, and Maedhros breathed a little easier.

***

The canopy above Maedhros’ bed looked much the same as it had several hours ago, when he had first lain down with the intention of resting.  His mind had not granted him that peace, and Maedhros had long ago accepted this state of affairs—those moments when his mind decided rest was not for him. It was not so bad as it had been in the recent past, and Maedhros was in truth not surprised that sleep came not to him that night, given how illusive it had been the last week.

There were worse things he could have been lingering on beyond such rose-lit memories of his cousin, and if he thought too much on that, they would certainly invade his mind, as their access to it was far too free.

In the darkness of his room, Maedhros ran his fingers over his chest where once he had born the scars of Thangorodrim. They were gone, now, but he could still feel them so clearly as to trace each letter of the brand that had marked him.

Thangorodrim had never truly left him, a truth Maedhros knew he must have been aware of when he first quitted it. Fingon had spared him further torment, but could not erase what had been done, and while Maedhros’ body healed, and his mind repaired much of the damage, there were things that could not be undone.

Lately, the memories had come with greater freedom and vividity than in many years past, and Maedhros found himself reliving those moments—of the branding, of the face of Sauron, of the voice of Morgoth, of the hunger and deprivation and degradation—as though he might glean some fresh understanding from them.

It was only a form of self-flagellation, he was well aware. Pathetic to indulge in even for a moment, and yet he could not stop the thoughts from coming, and indeed worked to bring them to mind as clearly as he possibly could, more fuel for his wretched thoughts of the last week.

Speculation was creeping in at the edge of his mind, and Maedhros cursed his imagination thricefold and rose, grabbing a loose robe to wrap around himself. Movement would still his mind, or at least quiet it, a hope he continued to hold despite its relative lack of success in the past.

Yet he could settle on nothing. In desperation, he might go out to the yard with his blade, but there might be others, and he could not bear the thought of speaking. Nor would it do for them to see him in such a state.

Instead, inevitably, he drifted to the desk, and picked up the message, marked with the seal of Nargothrond. He knew what it said—he’d read it a hundred times in the days prior—and he could not bear to read it again. His eyes betrayed him though, scraping over the parchment once more, picking out those words which he had feared above any other since he had first heard word that Finrod had departed Nargothrond on some personal quest.

Finrod, so noble and amiable he had sworn his service to a Man. Finrod, so loyal and tender that against his own good sense, he had gone in aid of the one who bore the ring of that friendship. Finrod, so foolhardy and brave he had marched into Tol-in-Gaurhoth, which he had built with his own hands, with a skeletal host and none of his family, and challenged Sauron the Maia to battle, knowing his doom was nigh upon him.

Finrod, so pure of heart, so good, so beyond all of them that he had risked all of this, had endured all of Sauron’s torment, to save the life of one destined to die anyway.

Finrod, who was no more in Arda.

Maedhros had told himself he would not succumb to reading the message again, informing him of his cousin’s death, and then that he could read it and remain calm, but he found himself holding the parchment and weeping again, until his knees could not support him, and he slumped down to the floor, his back against the wall, only working to keep himself from sobbing audibly.

“It should have been me,” Maedhros whispered to the night. “Not you. I should have gone in your place! I should have been with you. One of us should have been!” If he had known that Finrod meant to do this—if Morgoth had to have blood—but would Finrod have allowed it? Of course not! Finrod never would have permitted one of his family members to suffer in his stead, nor shifted the responsibility of his oath to another.

None shall go to Morgoth’s realm alone, Finrod had said. If ever any of them was called to it, Finrod would be beside them, he had promised, in love and friendship even in spite of Fëanor’s betrayal, and the culpability of his children.

The old scars that marked him no more burned on Maedhros’ body nevertheless, but it was a pain he had grown to endure with weary familiarity. Now, when he thought of those same scars on Finrod’s body, of his cousin made to be Sauron’s plaything, of how Morgoth took such special pleasure in pulling apart the Elves in his grip, and of Finrod kept in his rank dungeons for months before he had been destroyed, the feeling was unendurable, as though it were Morgoth’s blade digging into his flesh again for the first time.

He felt certain Morgoth must know Finrod’s identity, must know what he had done to Maedhros by torturing him so, by allowing Sauron to slay him. Was his own hand in it, in Finrod’s death? Some act of Morgoth to punish him for escaping with Fingon?

               Maitimo whispered a vile voice in his ear. Maitimo. My little Maitimo.

Maedhros’ mind ruminated on these things, but his heart cried out that it mattered not—the only thing, the only thing that mattered was that Finrod was no more, and by his efforts to support Fëanor and his oath, was barred from return to Arda.

Maedhros burned, and buried his face in his arms, and sobbed until the piercing ache in his breast felt it would end him, if only the Valar would be so merciful.

               We are all together again, and we will protect each other, as we are meant to do.

               But Maedhros was loyal to nothing but his miserable oath, and he had been half a world away when Finrod was taken captive, and now there was nothing to comfort him but the knowledge that a Silmaril existed now outside of Morgoth’s grasp, and there was no respite from the quest that ran ever on, and Finrod’s only mistake, truly, had been in dedicating his beautiful heart to a family as cursed as Fëanor’s.

---

Chapter End Notes

Look Finrod's true calling was to be a wandering hippie minstrel who sleeps in grass fields and never wears shoes.

I also want to note that at the end of this fic, Maedhros is not yet aware of precisely how Finrod died (which will make everything worse), nor is he aware of Celegorm and Curufin's hands in why Finrod left with such a small host. I imagine when he learned of that it was one of the few times he completely lost it and went full Feanor on their asses. He also is not aware that the Valar granted Finrod rebirth on account of his good deeds in Middle-earth, so as far as he knows Finrod is now forever in the Halls of Mandos.