In Dreams by grey_gazania

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In Dreams

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Maedhros lay on his side beneath his woolen blanket in the tent he shared with Maglor, unable to sleep. Thoughts of what he and his brothers planned to do were chasing themselves in circles throughout his head.

 

He had always known that it would come to this. He had tried – how he had tried – to keep the Oath at bay, leaving Elwing and her people untouched for twenty-six years. But no power on this earth could force the Oath to sleep forever, and all too soon, the fear had returned to gnaw at him – fear of the Everlasting Darkness; fear of failing his father; fear that Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin’s deaths would remain in vain.

 

So they had gathered, Maedhros and his remaining brothers, and sent Elwing messages that she had not heeded. They all agreed that there was nothing else to be done. If Elwing would not surrender the Silmaril, then they would have to take it by force. She had no right to it, none at all, and yet she was hoarding it greedily as though she had some valid claim.

 

As for waiting for Eärendil to return from sea – well, that was out of the question. He was no more likely to agree to return the jewel than Elwing was, and all his presence would do would bolster the Havens’ defenses. If they were going to attack, they would attack now, while the city was vulnerable. Any intelligent commander would do the same.

 

Eyes closed, he waited in vain for sleep to come, but it would not. Restlessly, he made to roll onto his other side -- and then shot upright when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Maglor, what–” he began to say. But it wasn’t Maglor. Maglor lay asleep on the other side of the tent. And, sitting between him and his brother, was someone Maedhros hadn’t seen outside of dreams since the Nírnaeth Arnoediad.

 

“Findekáno,” he breathed, and then closed his eyes. Clearly he was dreaming again, dreaming of his lover, his beloved, whom he had lost long ago in a battle of his own devising. At least this dream seemed to be one of the kinder ones; Fingon looked as he’d been in life, hale and whole, not burned by flame or broken beneath Gothmog’s axe the way he so often appeared in Maedhros’ dreams. And his hand on Maedhros’ shoulder was warm and solid.

 

“Findekáno,” he said again, and gazed into his beloved’s face.

 

“Russandol,” Fingon said, meeting Maedhros’ eyes. “Russandol, don’t do this. Let the Oath go. Leave Elwing’s people in peace.”

 

Maedhros looked away, suddenly angry. What did this dream-Fingon know of the Oath? What did he know of the way it tormented Maedhros and his brothers? Let it go? They could no more do that than they could fly.

 

“You know nothing,” he said, roughly pushing Fingon’s hand away. “You’re just a dream. You’re just my own doubts given shape, nothing more.”

 

Fingon’s eyes, which Maedhros knew to be blue, looked nearly black in the darkness of the tent. “Am I a dream?” he asked. “Or am I a warning? You cannot go back from what you’re about to do. And you will regret it. Even if you succeed, even if you reclaim your father’s Silmaril, you’ll regret what you did, just as you regretted what you did in Doriath.”

 

“Is that supposed to stop me?” Maedhros asked. “I regret everything. I regret my entire life. But I’m still bound by the Oath. If you really were Findekáno, you would know that.”

 

Fingon laughed – a dark, bitter laugh that sent a chill down Maedhros’ spine – and said, “If you really were the Russandol I loved, you would never attack innocent people. You did it once in Valinor, and I joined you, and afterwards, when I brought you back from Thangorodrim, you swore to me that you would not make that mistake again. But here you are, preparing to do it not a second time, but a third time. I expected better of you.”

 

“What do you know about it?” Maedhros demanded, anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. “You’re just a dream.”

 

At that, Fingon reached out and pinched Maedhros’ arm, hard, leaving behind a burst of pain and a reddened mark. “Will you insist on deceiving yourself?” he asked. “I’m not a dream, Russandol. I’m a drop of mercy that I’m no longer certain you deserve. I’m your last chance to change course. Your last chance to do the right thing.”

 

“I have no choice,” Maedhros said, wielding the words like a blade. “There is no right or wrong here. There is only Elwing’s refusal and what I must do about it.”

 

“So you will attack a poorly armed settlement of those who fled your swords in Doriath. But Elwing isn’t alone. What if Balar comes to her aid? Will you fight Gil-galad? Will you kill my child?”

 

Maedhros looked away, unable to meet Fingon’s steady gaze. He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to his beloved, especially not now that he was dead.

 

“I would endeavor not to,” he said quietly.

 

A hand shot out and grabbed him by the chin, fingers closing in an iron grip as Fingon forced Maedhros to look at him. He had changed; his skull was now cloven, and blood dripped down his face, landing hot and wet against Maedhros’ bare skin.

 

“Liar,” Fingon said. “You’ve fallen far, Maedhros Fëanorion. I see nothing of the man I loved left in you. Perhaps you deserve the Everlasting Darkness.”

 

Maedhros wrenched himself free of Fingon’s grip, sickened by the apparition in front of him. “Leave me be,” he demanded. “Torment someone else.”

 

Across the tent, Maglor stirred in his bedroll and mumbled, “Who are you talking to, Nelyo?”

 

“No one,” Maedhros said. “Go back to sleep, Maglor.”

 

Fingon had vanished. But a dark smear of his blood remained on Maedhros’ skin, which chilled Maedhros to the very bone.