Blood and Light by SonOfMandos

Blood of Light

This oneshot caused me much grief. I cannot write plotless sentimentality despite trying; I need questions to be answered and elements to intertwine and interconnect by the end of a fic (save for the parodies and nonsense I am known to write). This does not happen in this oneshot, hence my frustration. However, I settled it in a verse of mine. This verse is my Melkor/Fingolfin story in which Fingolfin is the illegitimate son of Indis and Ossë, and whose life (and later dubious decisions and morality) is motivated by cultist obsession for Melkor. It is under writing and is not published, however, this is the only background information needed before reading this Sauron/Maedhros oneshot.

Read Blood of Light

The spider remained motionless in the corner of the room. Maedhros stared at it with apprehension. In the three days he had been here, the spider never came to attack him. It patiently waited until the captive was done with his meal—raw meat he could never finish and a variety of strange vegetables and fruits he refused to touch. He had grown distrustful of anything that was unlike what he had known in Valinor.

His room was sparse. It was considerably smaller than the one he had in Himring. There was no window, only a bed, blankets, a pot chamber, a carpet, a low table and cushions. Four lamps hang from the ceiling at each corner of the room and lit it with a red glow. There was a strange sense of constant drowsiness that lingered. Maedhros attributed it to the weakness of his body; his ankle and arm were sprained and kept in place with tight bandages. The faint throbbing pain dulled him. He was never alert but never could fall in the arms of Irmo.

The door opened and a loud hiss echoed. An Orc had tried to relocate the spider from the corner without success. He sighed and shook his head. Maedhros lied down on the bed and resolutely turned his head away. The mere sight of an Orc, so alike yet so different to the Elvekin, reminded him where he was. He found solace in thinking he was dead and his soul hid in Mandos, away from the Oath, his deeds and prying eyes. The Orc fetched his chamber pot with one hand and his half-empty bowl with another. The spider hissed again and the Orc stretched his hand so the glutton ate the last remnants of meat. He came back slightly later.

It was the same Orc everyday. His appearance had everything of an Elda, save for the pale greyish skin, white hair and orange eyes. He was bulky like the Secondborns. He treated Maedhros with a thinly veiled interest. The son of Fëanor fell fingers creep in his hair, brush the pointy tip of his ear and linger on his neck. He did not dare to move. A strong grip rolled him on his back. One hand was steady above his nose and the other applied a light pressure on his chest. After an excruciating minute, the Orc lowered to Maedhros’ ankle and pulled the fabric of the robe away from it. He made a ‘tssk’ between his teeth. He kneeled on the carpet and undid the bandages. Maedhros tensed. He bit his lower lip but a grunt rumbled in his throat. The Orc redid the bandage with a hint of gentleness. Maedhros knew his ankle was swollen and worse than it was the day prior. He sighed from relief when his discomfort lessened.

The Orc exited the room, but not for long. When he was back, he intimated Maedhros to sit up. The Ñoldo complied. The Orc said words in a language the Elda could not understand. He blankly gazed at the small glass bottle the Orc was holding. The Orc put the bottle and a spoon on the low table. He pointed at the bottle, then at the spoon and raised two fingers in the air. Two spoonfuls, that Maedhros understood. The Fëanorian nodded. The Orc poured thick oil in the spoon, grabbed Maedhros’ jaw and forced the spoon into his mouth. Maedhros swallowed and made a face; the taste was unbearably sour. He felt drool slide on his chin. The Orc repeated his motion. Maedhros moaned but the other had none of it. He swallowed again, tears tingling at the corner of his eyes. The Orc gave him a cup of water he gulped without hesitation.

Maedhros waited for the unknown effects of the oil to come to life, still sit, his head against the stonewall. The spider moved from the other side of the room to crawl above his head. Once settled, the creature became immobile again. Maedhros shivered. The spider was as big as his head.

Time went by and the Ñoldo noticed the pain had faded. His breathing deepened and his mind was no longer numb, but at peace and ease. Maedhros smiled lazily. He shifted to move under the heavy covers, he rested his head on the pillow and grinned at the spider. There was calm euphoria that took possession of him. Content, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

 

***

The oil killed the pain and quickened his recovery. For the most part, Maedhros slept. When he was awake, he executed basic bodily functions: eat, drink, relieve himself. After a week, the Orc allowed him to take walks in the corridors. Orcs passed by and went on. If curious ones briefly gazed at him, most ignored him. Maedhros preferred it to blows and insults.

To keep him busy, the Orc brought him illustrated books. Maedhros could not read this strange script, but he could look at depictions of even stranger animals, reptiles and felines from another world. The Elf started to talk to the spider. It kept him sane. In an excess of bravery, he tried to pet it, but the creature crawled away.

When his arm recovered, the Orc carried him to another wing of the place he was in. For the first time in weeks, Maedhros glimpsed through a window. To his surprise, behind the black fortress, Angband was an average city of thousands of inhabitants. He suspected there were farms at the foot of the mountains.

Orcs, it came to his understanding, were nocturnal people whose sight operated better in darkness. The place was poorly lit, and it was difficult for him to distinguish dark doors from dark walls. This never caused problem to his caregiver. This last one showed Maedhros a room—another bedroom. This one, this time, had a window. The Orc then led him to another place. It was an office with an enormous library of scrolls and books. The Orc exchanged a few words with another Orc—or was it an Elf? The man replied in the same language and motioned Maedhros to follow him.

“You will work for me,” the figure said simply.

“You speak Quenya?” exclaimed Maedhros in surprise.

The man rolled his eyes with annoyance. “My mother was a follower of Ñolofinwë,” he huffed. He showed the Fëanorian a desk with a pile of empty parchments. “If you want to stay alive, you must make yourself useful. You will participate to the confection of clothes during the first half of the night, and, in the second,” he said as he fetched a quill and ink from a shelf, “you will write down everything you know about the followers of Fëanáro. If you refuse to comply, I will happily throw you in a cave full of juvenile and hungry trolls, but I’m afraid the Master requested us to keep you alive and unharmed.”

Maedhros sat down. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you not kill me?”

“Fuck knows,” the other shrugged. “You’re a vital source of information. I warn you: don’t try to lie about the political endeavours of your father and his host. The Master will know. He will penetrate your mind to extract secrets from you, if he had not already.”

Maedhros glanced at the empty parchment. He had taken one spoonful of the oil earlier and it made him strangely compliant. He had no will to rebel.

“One last thing,” said the Orcish Elf. “See this girl over there? The Master forbade her from drinking your blood, but a vampire remains a vampire. Be careful.”

He turned on his heels and disappeared behind the shelves.

Maedhros started to write. The vampire stared at him like a predator watched its prey.

 

***

A lullaby was sung. It waltzed around him like a soft caress. A song he remembered she hummed when she held him in his arms, the same song he sang Maglor and Celegorm when they were upset. He could not see her. White light gently cupped his face. Was it his guardian Maia? His mother had told him that Maiar sometimes chose to bound themselves to an Elf and look after them. Maedhros reached his arms to the light but touched nothing.

He woke up. His arm was up in the air, brushing against pale white glow. Maedhros blinked and turned his head. A luminous silhouette sat on the edge of the bed, observing him. The Elda sat up, alert and his heart pounding against his chest. The figure tilted his head and blinked slowly. His hair was a trail of light that floated around his waist like he was underwater. He was naked. The light was not fully opaque, and Maedhros saw through it.

“Are you my guardian?” whispered the Ñoldo.

The spirit said nothing. The Fëanorian tentatively touched him with his fingertips. Something tingled in his veins. He leaned forward and pressed his palm against the chest of the Maia. Warmth travelled from Maedhros’ neck to his spine.

Suddenly, the eyes of the figure became dark red like blood and his hair glistened like fire. He disappeared in the bat of an eyelash.

 

He came back the other night, wearing the same naked, masculine but sexless body.

“What’s your name?” asked Maedhros. The same tilt and slow catlike blink answered him.

They faced each other for a longer time than the night prior. Maedhros touched him again. Warmth gently spread through his body. Then, the spirit’s eyes became like fire and he disappeared into the dark emptiness of the night.

The other night, Maedhros dreamt he was an Elfling and his mother held a cat. He wanted to pet him, but the cat bit his wrist. He woke up with a taste of blood in his mouth.

He tossed around in his bed. Unable to fall asleep back, he slightly opened the curtain. A quarter of the moon shone high in the sky. The Fëanorian decided to take a short walk in the corridors. He wondered if he would see the Maia again.

He had forgotten nighttime meant a busy time for Orcs. The Orcish Elf he worked for had accepted Maedhros followed a daytime schedule that suited him better. He, who hoped for a walk in silence and solitude, accidentally bumped into two domestics. ‘You’re awake, sir?’ asked one. ‘I thought Elves slept during the night,’ said the other. Or so believed Maedhros; he did not speak a word of their language but their curious expressions made him deduct so.

The Elda jumped when he entered his room. He had not expected the Maia to be standing by the window.

“I thought you’d never come,” Maedhros exhaled with relief.

The man did not stir. He was, noticed Maedhros, taller than he. Maedhros moved next to him with prudence. He did not wish the spirit to go away. The Ainu shifted to face him. His face was a depiction of beauty. The Fëanorian dared to rest his knuckles against the figure’s cheek. The Maia mirrored him. Maedhros sighed and leaned into the touch. His healing oil, he mused, had a piece of his guardian Maia. The same wellness flowed through them. The man brushed hair from his face and tucked his hair behind his ear. The Ñoldo shivered with pleasure. He heard the sound of a crackle as the Maia’s hair turned into fire.

“No!” cried Maedhros. “Stay!”

As always, the Maia was gone.

He waited for his return until the night.

It became a routine. Maedhros dreamt then woke up in the company of the Maia. Often, he drifted back to sleep almost immediately. One night, Maedhros was pushed by a wave of recklessness. He took the man’s handsome face in his hands, tilted his head to his side and parted his lips. He kissed the void of the air.

Oil at day; Maia at night. Maedhros never considered escaping and when he did, the thought crossed his mind like an absurd mockery. His brothers had become to him a distant past from another life. He had escaped the Oath, the real villain of this story. Apart from the lingering threat of the vampire’s hunger, nothing presented an immediate danger to Maedhros’ life. Orcs, despite their strange language, curious clothing and opposite lifestyle, were not to be scared of. Most never acknowledged his existence. The few curious ones treated him like an exotic animal before resuming to indifference once satisfied with what they had discovered.

Terror assaulted him for the second time of his detention in Angband. As he walked through a hall on his way to his room, he saw that a werewolf slept in the middle of it. The beast stretched one leg and opened its eyes. It had three.

Maedhros sprinted for his life. He locked his door and hid under his covers. There was no way he could run away; this land was, afterall, the land of werewolves. He then reasoned his attempt to protect himself from the beast was futile. His covers and a doorlock were insignificant against the strength of the creature of Morgoth. He prayed for his guardian Maia to be by his side.

The Maia was on the edge of the bed as soon as the prayer was sung. He appeared amused. The Ñoldo took his hand and held it tightly.

“Please, don’t let me die,” he pleaded.

The spirit covered Maedhros’ hand with his own, and he brushed his thumb in circles. Fear eloped his body and the Elf’s lips twitched in a grin. The certainty of being protected from evil envelopped him. His eyelids were heavy, so was his body. He fell in Irmo’s embrace.

He dreamt of the three-eyed werewolf. It was a werewolf but Maedhros knew it was also a bat, a vampire, a snake, a priest and a smith. It was everything it wanted to be. A growl rumbled at his side. Huan was snarling at the werewolf, and the beast roared back. Huan lunged at Maedhros. The Fëanorian woke up with a gasp.

An arm of light rested against his shoulder, and fingers brushed through his hair. The Maia was lying next to him. Maedhros savoured the moment, afraid to make a move that would startle the other and make him go away.

“Mairon,” said the Maia. His voice was like honey.

“What?” said Maedhros.

“This is what they call me.”

 

***

He had run out of his oil. He did not care the first day nor did he notice. He dutifully continued to sew clothes in the company of the very few Elves that lived in the castle and were awake during the hours of sunlight, and wrote notes on the customs and philosophies of the Ñoldor in the afternoon. Mairon lied by his side until he fell asleep. The next day, he was slightly nervous. With enough focus, he made the trembling tremors of his hands cease. The third day, his chest was tight and painful and restlessness infiltrated his mind. The fourth day, he bled the blood of agony. Panting, his mind injured, Maedhros refused to leave his room. He paced like an animal in a cage. His nightrobe strangled him. He took it off. He scratched his skin until it was red and irritated. Each scratch expelled the pain away.

He thought of his brothers. He had made them promise to never come to Angband should be one of them captured. It was a lure and they would lose their men under the claws of Orcs and the whips of Balrog. The Fëanorian bitterly regretted this promise. He wanted Maglor to take his hand and tell him nothing was in vain.

Maedhros hit himself for spending weeks without considering to escape Angband. He hated himself for complying and never opposing and resisting his opponents. He blamed himself for the peace of mind the oil brought him and for the pleasure of the touch of his guardian Maia that heated his hröa.

He had followed his father to Beleriand to honour his will, but he had betrayed him. He had betrayed everyone. Maedhros lost face and resigned to perish under Morgoth.

He shouted in his room until his throat burned and his voice broke. Drained, he curled himself on the bed and sobbed bitterly behind his hands.

The lullaby of his mother soothed his wounded spirit. He heard her voice in his mind, the voice of a love that made him stronger and invincible. The love he no longer deserved, he thought with a caustic scoff.

Two hands trailed on his calves, thighs, buttocks, back, turned on his chest to travel to his stomach, brushed the pelvic area, and fingers walked up to his ears. Maedhros moaned. His skin suffered from his pitiless scratches and cold daggers pierced his skin each time the Maia touched him. Hands of ice took his own away from his face. Mairon looked at him with the same air of serene and mild curiosity he always carried.

Maedhros passed a hand through the hair of light of the spirit. He removed it instantly, hissing in pain. The cold bit him like he had jumped into a frozen river.

Why did it hurt? Where was the gratifying pleasure the Maia routinely granted him with?

“Because this is what you wish,” whispered Mairon.

Maedhros gulped. Pain and discomfort were the punishment he deserved for the blood he had spilled and tears that were shed by his fault. He propped himself on his elbows to face Mairon. His fingertips brushed the neck of the Maia. The Elda would tame pain until soothing euphoria would come back. He needed to be full and alive again.

He doubted he could master his demons. What mattered was his physical and mental bliss. The harrowing nervousness took over him. Mairon was right; he wished for pain because pain purged agony from his mind and body. There was a blessing in sorrow.

“Touch me,” ordered Maedhros. His voice was hoarse. “Please, touch me, I can’t bear it anymore. Touch me.”

Mairon parted his lips and bit his tongue with his teeth. They were all pointy, noticed Maedhros. A solid grip pinned the Ñoldo on the bed. The Ainu leaned in and nibbled his cheek, neck and shoulder. He pressed his body against the Fëanorian. This last one wriggled, groaned and squirmed under the pain. It only made the situation worse. He panted like a horse after an intense race. A tongue licked the trail of sweat that pearled on his left temple. The tongue, unlike the rest of Mairon’s body, was warm like a velvety caress. Maedhros lifted his hands, numb from the cold, to hold the neck of the Maia. He captured the glowing lips and slid his tongue in the spirit’s mouth. The second he kissed Mairon, this last one disappeared.

 

***

A servant brought him another bottle of oil. Peace was back. Maedhros dutifully completed his tasks. He impatiently waited for the darkness of the night to veil the day.

Mairon was there. His light brought pleasure back to Maedhros’ flesh. The Maia lied on him, chest against chest. He was on his elbows, caressing Maedhros’ dark copper hair. The Ñoldo bent his knees and pressed his thighs around Mairon’s waist. Blood pounded in his member and throbbing desire made it grow firm.

“You are curious to gaze at,” said Mairon.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow, confused.

“Mahtan and Míriel never wed, yet you have the colour of his hair and the beauty of her face,” he explained. Mairon played with copper hair, twirling it around his index finger.

Maedhros trailed his hands on the Maia’s sides. “Don’t you miss it? Life at Valinor, the forge of Aulë…,” he asked. He knew of Mairon the Admirable his grandfather spoke of with fondness.

“Sometimes,” hummed Mairon. “It’s not the time in Valinor that I miss, but someone.”

“Who?”

Mairon paused. He resumed to play with Maedhros’ hair before answering. “Your mother.”

 

***

“It’s been a year,” declared Maedhros to no one in particular. He stared at the ceiling.

Mairon, who was lying next to him, replied with a simple ‘hm-mmh.’

“Why are you coming here every night?”

“I am waiting until you reveal vital information about the Oath,” responded the Maia.

Maedhros scowled. “I will not break under your patience and gentleness.”

“That’s right: you won’t,” admitted Mairon with thin indifference.

“Then why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you,” Maedhros threw his hand in the air, “visit me shortly every night? I thought they called you ‘The Cruel’. With your sickly affection, you are no more cruel than an innocent bug.”

“Would you like me to torture you, then?” said Mairon.

“No,” conceded the Fëanorian.

“I thought so,” mumbled the Maia with slight triumph.

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?” asked Maedhros after a pause. “You wouldn’t dare to touch her firstborn.”

Mairon tapped his fingers together impatiently. “I have no allegiance to you, your mother, neither do I torture uselessly. I was commanded to keep you unharmed.”

Maedhros held his breath. “Really…,” he said tersely. His voice had a note of disbelief. “By whom? Moringotto?” He huffed. “I doubt he is merciful. I wonder what evil he’s plotting…”

“Toying with your uncle beloved, maybe?” Mairon gave him a condescending smirk. “You’re lucky Melkor is fond of that bastard son of Ossë who pleaded for you.”

Maedhros lowered his gaze. He remembered Alqualondë and the fury of Fingolfin who waited that the swanships sailed before swimming up to their ship. They had been certain he would slay them all, but he was stopped by Ossë himself. He remembered the merciless warrior who had crossed the Helcaraxë, who was not scared to drink from the blood of his enemies. That his uncle, who had a blatant hatred for the followers of Fëanor, asked for his safety unsettled him.

“It’s time,” announced Mairon. “I have to go.”

“Stay,” Maedhros wanted to be firm, but his voice faltered.

“I’m a doer, young Russandol. I don’t have time to endlessly contemplate my regrets.”

The Ainu faded in the air, and Maedhros was alone again.

 

***

“Why didn’t you stay by my mother’s side?” asked Maedhros.

“Pardon me?”

Maedhros sat up on his bed.

“You swore to protect her!” he cried.

Mairon rolled on his side. “A promise made by a fool in love.”

“But you were her guardian! You were her guardian and you betrayed her trust!” the Fëanorian roared. “What kind of half-hearted love is that?”

“Do not speak of what you don’t know,” growled Mairon between his gritted teeth. “I did love her profoundly.”

“You chose Melkor.”

“She chose your father,” countered the Maia. “She chose your father and her children. I couldn’t give her a family.”

“You could,” retorted Maedhros. “Melyanna had a daughter with Elwë Thingollo, hadn’t she? Unions between Maiar and Eldar are possible. Ossë had Ñolofinwë with Indis.”

“Ossë wants to push the limits of the world. Melyanna walked into Middle Earth with curiosity of the possibilities. This is why they both had half-elfling offspring.”

“And you?” the Ñoldo challenged him. “What is it that you want? You are not in Valinor with your kin.”

“I wish to restore order in the world.”

The Fëanorian took time to understand the meaning of these words.

“Yet you revere the Vala of Chaos,” it was Maedhros’ turn to smirk.

“Melkor does not limit himself to what already exists. Aulë wishes to create but under Eru’s will. Eru is not infallible and Melkor knows that. He traced his own path. Under Melkor, I can execute my plans without restrictions.”

“You speak as if Melkor is magnanimous.”

“Melkor embraced evil; so did the Fëanturi. The only who is not good nor evil is the Void. I respect those who do not hide from themselves.” Mairon brought the ghost of his touch to Maedhros’ jaw. He smiled. “Adoration makes one do strange things,” he finally confessed.

“So you love him.”

“Just like you love your father,” murmured Mairon.

Maedhros glanced at his palms. Two eight-branched Fëanorian stars were carved in his flesh.

 

***

“I am on the Thangorodrim.”

“Yes.”

“I’m hanging.”

“Yes.”

Maedhros rubbed his forehead. “What kind of bad joke is that…,” he groaned.

Mairon shrugged. “It’s a well-executed illusion, isn’t it?”

“That’s besides the point!”

“It’s precisely the point,” retorted the Maia. “You’ve been here for over a decade. It’s time you go. Maybe in the face of a picture of torture, a sense of urgency will awake and one of your brothers and their army will come to collect you.”

Maedhros’ expression became sombre. “None will. I made them promise.”

Mairon shrugged. “Or one of your millions of cousins, then.”

“They hate me. I slayed the people of four of them, and the three remaining…,” he trailed off.

Having failed to send the swanships back to Fingon, the son of Fingolfin had turned his back on him. Celegorm hoped to one day win the friendship of Aredhel once more, but she would not deter. Turgon shared the same venom of his father; love for the sons of Fëanor was no longer possible for him. His aunt followed Fingolfin and seldom kept contact with her nephews.

“Then that uncle of yours will come. He was the one to request your freedom. According to Melkor, he was in a foul mood.” Mairon shook his head. “Why my lord bends his will to that stupid half-breed is beyond me… It’s Melkor you should thank for the trickery of the illusion.”

Maedhros put his hands on his hips and gazed at the Thangorodrim through the window. “I don’t suppose you will set me free without a price.”

“Naturally not,” Mairon grinned. “When someone will come—and they will—I’ll hang you, a trade with the illusion, until someone delivers you from your bonds.” Noticing that the Elda remained expressionless, the Maia purred, “You have proven yourself useful here. The price to pay won’t be too expensive.” He leaned in and his lips swept on Maedhros’. “It might serve as repentance of your sins… if Námo’s will allows it to be.”

For the first and last time, the spirit of fire kissed the kinslayer.

 

***

Fingon had not listened to his plea.

The pain of the oil withdrawals was unlike anything he had suffered from before. He had been hanging for three days, three excruciating days without his favourite euphoric narcotic. He could and would not endure. His life had ended the moment he swore the Oath and death embraced him when the blood of the Teleri stained his hands. Withdrawals brought him only grief and misery. It was the price he had to pay.

He had laughed when his cousin had cut his hand. The relief that took over him was beyond his understanding. Blood spilled, carrying with it the evil of the drug away. Delirious, he had not realised Fingon carried him on Thorondor’s back. He did not know how long they had flown.

He vaguely remembered the servants that rushed to bring him to the healing wing of his uncle’s castle. He had stopped laughing then. He only remembered his uncle, his icy gaze, and his hand that had glowed and rested on his forehead. He succumbed to his magic.

 

***

He stirred. He stretched his arms above his head. He noticed with surprise his right hand was missing. He searched in his memory what had happened and encountered nothing but darkness.

“Wha-…,” said Maedhros hoarsely.

A figure next to him shifted and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Do you not remember?”

“You… I know your voice…,” said the Ñoldo helplessly.

The man smiled softly. “You do.”

Maedhros looked around him. It was not a room he recognised. “Where am I?”

“Hithlum.”

The Fëanorian nodded. “I need to know what happened. There was war, and then… and then…”

The figure shifted closer and took his handless arm tenderly. “One thing at a time. I’m afraid it’s a very long story.”

Maedhros held his gaze. He recognised the unique turquoise eyes. “U-Uncle…?” A sob broke his voice.

Fingolfin smiled softly. “I’m here,” he whispered sorrowfully.

Fingolfin stayed until his nephew mastered the strength to talk again. “I not only lost my father; I also lost my hand during battle, didn’t I?” asked the Fëanorian.

“One may say so,” replied Fingolfin.

Maedhros remained silent for a while. “Uncle Ñolo,” he said at last. “I dreamt of ammë. She said she had lost her guardian Maia. Then a statue became light and took her away. They went to Mandos together. The place was dark and I was left behind.”

Fingolfin waited. But there was nothing else to say. The past could not be undone.

“Uncle Ñolo?”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe in guardian Maiar?”

Fingolfin scoffed. “Maiar? No. None to guard me, at least.”

Maedhros frowned. Something in him hurt at the words.

“Maybe I can ask my guardian Vala to find you a guardian Maia,” said Fingolfin smoothly.

The scar of the Fëanorian star tingled. Maedhros curled the fingers of his remaining hand.

They heard hushed steps from afar.

“Your cousin Findekáno and your brother Makalaurë are coming,” announced Fingolfin. “Do you feel strong enough to see them?”

“No,” replied Maedhros.

“I will tell them you have not awakened.” Fingolfin stood up and brushed his silver robe. “The physician will come to see you soon.” He pointed at a glass on the drawer next to Maedhros’ bed. “This tea will help you dream and find answers. You are free to drink it.”

He bent forward and kissed Maedhros on the forehead. “Goodnight, son.”

 

Maedhros slept. He never dreamt.

His Music had stopped playing.

---

Chapter End Notes

One of Fingolfin's powers is to erase memory.