I May Be Some Time by sallysavestheday

I May Be Some Time

Maedhros is no fool. There is no reason to believe an offer of parley will lead to any such thing, in truth.

That they have been fortunate, at best, in their first encounters with Morgoth’s beasts seems clear. More likely, the Noldor were simply a surprise: an unexpected irritant, like flies that at first seem destined to claim a summer’s meal, until the host returns with a swatter and a toxic spray. Orcs are easy enough to slaughter, but the monsters that welcomed Fëanor’s furious charge bode ill for any who preened after the first victories or thought the war near-won already – those breathless gloaters who believed it would be simply a skirmish; a brief, sharp foray into the simmering dark.

No, Maedhros knows in his bones that this victory, if it comes, will not come soon. All the wealth of the Noldor in lives and dreams and arms forged in rage and splendor is as nothing against the scale of the triple peaks above Angband, the smoking hells from which the Valaraukar issued to smite his father, almost casually, and to which they then withdrew. Like the flies, the host of Fëanor hovers now, wary but hungry yet. They will be hungrier still, although far fewer, before this dance is through.

But what else can he do? It is Dark; they do not know the land; their ships and goods are burnt behind them: stock and seeds and shelters all gone up in the smoke of his father’s fury, his implacable rage. And then his father, too, all seared to ash. Carried away on the treacherous wind, but not without a last sharp gust that stung their eyes and left the cinders crackling in their hair, their teeth.

He knows better than to take Morgoth’s word on faith. Double the requested number will accompany him openly, and another third in hiding. Picked fighters, all, the grimmest and the least restrained.

Already they learn to bend themselves to match the faults of their Enemy, to dance his dance, smiling as the stars catch in their naked blades.

Maglor knows it for a trap; he sings back the dissonance in the Music that the offer letter shapes, the dark tune bitter as it tumbles from his mouth. He pleads: Don’t go, don’t leave, what will we be without you? His hands shake as Maedhros presses the Regent’s circlet into them and folds his musician’s fingers around the band. He tries for humor, sweating: I am not Uncle Nolo, Maitimo. Second son or no, I have no wish to be King. Maedhros silences him against his shoulder, humming as Maglor weeps, breathing deep of the dusty sweetness of his brother’s hair.

Celegorm has raged and raved and threatened mutiny, desperate to ride with Maedhros, to fight or, failing, fall. Caranthir and Curufin guard him now, bleak and miserable, the three of them huddled in a chilly tent as far from the assembly of the company as Maedhros could arrange. But there is no hiding the stamping horses, the clank of the armor, the restless wave of fear that sweeps the camp as he walks the lines, assessing, inspecting. As they mount with a rush and a rattle, he hears Celegorm howl.

Amras slips into the space beside his stirrup, slides a hand into Maedhros’ own. He lifts his face for a kiss, still on the edge of a child’s softness, tear tracks in the dirt on his cheeks. When he pulls away, there is a feather in Maedhros’ fist, trembling. Maedhros tucks it into his braids, thinking of other adornments, other places, other times.

He gathers his reins, collects his mount beneath him.

Turns.

A lone star shivers in the steams over Thangorodrim. The fires tint it red as it hangs near the peak.