The first moonrise by yletylyf

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Rescue

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Maitimo was thirsty and hungry and yet not desiring food or drink. He felt utterly broken and bereft.

And then he heard it.

Someone was singing.

Of Valinor.

It wasn't Mairon.

Maitimo did not stop sobbing, but he heard the song and wondered if he had finally gone mad. There was no possibility, absolutely no chance, that Findekáno was here climbing Thangorodrim above Angband, and moreover, if he was, it the worst idea Findekáno had ever had.

Maitimo swallowed, painful in his dry throat, and lifted his head and sang back.

His voice was thin and reedy and nothing beautiful. But as he sang, there below him appeared the most beautiful sight Maitimo had ever seen: Findekáno with his shining face and his perfect dark hair, strong and proud and fierce and defiant, heedless of the danger and horrors of this place.

He stood at the bottom of the cliff, and could clearly go no further.

"Nelyo?" he shouted, peering up. "Oh, my angel and light of my life. What have they done to you?"

Maitimo could not answer. He heaved wordless sobs. To be so close and yet so far! To think of Findekáno being found and captured himself! It was far, far worse than anything Maitimo had suffered yet.

"Kill me," he pleaded. "Please, kill me, please just kill me, and get out of here, before he comes back. Please!"

Findekáno did not reply. Maitimo could not tell what he was thinking or see the expression on his face. He was so far down there—an impossible distance.

"Just kill me," Maitimo sobbed. "If you ever loved me, do it quickly."

Findekáno slowly took the bow off his back, and strung it, and notched an arrow to the string.

Findekáno was crying too, Maitimo could see, as he faced upward and sighted along the arrow towards Maitimo.

"Please," Maitimo said again, squeezing his eyes shut. He had forgotten the rest of his words.

Findekáno drew his arrow back, and said a prayer to Manwë, carried away on the wind.

"He can't hear us here," Maitimo whispered, his chest heaving and hurting. "No one can hear us here."

But Maitimo was wrong.

The wind answered, carrying with it an eagle, brave and bold and fearless of the shadows of Morgoth over Angband, and he swooped to Findekáno and carried him up the cliffside.

The eagle folded his wings and swooped close to the rock, and Findekáno jumped off the back of the eagle, stretching out his hands and grabbing the same iron band holding Maitimo fast to the cliffside.

"Oof," Maitimo said, as Findekáno could not quite avoid slamming his knees into him.

"Sorry, oh love I am so sorry. Sorry, how does this thing come off?"

Findekáno had both his hands on the iron band, digging painfully into the sores on Maitimo's wrist, and now he planted both of his boots against the rock on either side of Maitimo and strained with all his might against the metal.

"It doesn't," Maitimo said dully. "Morgoth sank the metal into the rock himself. Even Mairon could not undo it. He thought maybe he could burn through it, but not without burning my skin."

"Ok," Findekáno said. "All right. How dreadful. We'll talk about who or what Mairon is, later."

But Findekáno didn't give up. He let go of the iron with one hand, steadied by his feet still planted on the wall, and drew a small knife from his waist, and said a prayer over it that set the knife to glowing.

"Whatever of Aulë's power that is in that blade is not going to work here," Maitimo warned.

Findekáno ignored this, and attacked the iron band with the knife.

He did not seem to have any success.

"Maybe if I tried destroying the rock around it, instead of the iron itself," Findekáno mused.

"You brought a pickaxe with you, did you?" Maitimo said bitingly.

"No," Findekáno said. "Do you think anyone marches to war with a pickaxe? I wonder, if I asked around...."

There were pickaxes inside Angband, but Maitimo was not about to tell Findekáno to go look for one there.

"Finno," Maitimo said. "You are not leaving me to go find a pickaxe. Please. Just kill me and get out of here before they find you too. The only thing that could make this place worse is if you were captive too. The orcs may be hiding, but Mairon is overdue for a visit."

He could tell because he was far more hungry and thirsty than usual.

"I am not leaving without you!" Findekáno cried.

"No," Maitimo said. "You must kill me. Please."

"No," Findekáno said, his tone defiant. "Thorondor, will you be ready to catch us as we fall, on my call?"

"Yes," the eagle replied. "But do hurry!"

"Nelyo, angel, I am going to cut your hand off. Sorry, it's all I can think of. Ok?"

Maitimo was very taken aback by the idea. For so long, he had wished only for death, and had never thought of another escape. For he was so beaten in spirit that the idea of escape was almost as terrifying as the idea of staying here.

But Findekáno was waiting on his response. Maitimo had to answer.

Maitimo licked his lips, and nodded. "All right."

"Wrap your other arm around my waist?" Findekáno suggested.

Maitimo's left arm had dangled uselessly for so long, it was nearly as unresponsive as his right. He tried to move it, and could not manage it. Findekáno seemed to understand the problem right away, and he put his knife away, reached down with his free hand, picked up Maitimo's left arm, and lifted it to wrap around his waist.

Maitimo managed to tighten his grip just enough for it to stay there.

Findekáno took up the knife again, said another prayer over it, and then searing pain cut through the numbness of his right arm. Maitimo smelled burning flesh, and then he was dropping, his feeble grip on Findekáno's waist not enough to hold him up.

Findekáno dropped with him, letting go of his own hold on the iron, and cried: "Thorondor!"

The eagle, who had been circling the sky, suddenly folded his wings and dove. He swiftly came alongside their fall. Findekáno reached out and grabbed his feathers with one hand, hauling on Maitimo with the other, and they both tumbled onto the great eagle's back. Thorondor steered clear of the cliff walls, and unfolded his great wings again, beating strong and swift, bearing them up and away from the great precipice.

Findekáno wrapped both of his arms around Maitimo very tightly. He squeezed him as hard as he could—and his strength was considerable—and then let go and picked up Maitimo's hand.

Well, the stump of his hand.

The end of his wrist was awful and shiny and very angry. The knife had been hot enough to cauterize it, though, and it wasn't bleeding. Tears were staining Findekáno's cheeks as he looked at it.

"I have nothing to treat this with," he said. "And I am all out of food and water. I am so sorry, Nelyo. I am the worst rescuer in history."

"You are not," Maitimo said through his own tears. "I can't even feel it."

That was not true. His shoulder was certainly dislocated again and his nerves numb, but the pain of having his hand severed from his arm had managed to penetrate. It hurt horribly.

Findekáno ripped off part of his sleeve, and wrapped it around the end of Maitimo's wrist. That only made it sting and throb worse, but he didn't say anything.

"Thorondor," Findekáno called out, "how far can you take us?"

"I will take you back to Mithrim," said the eagle.

"Praise Manwë!" Findekáno sang out, tears falling freely.

Maitimo was so startled to hear someone say something like that out loud after his long time in Angband, that he actually shuddered and shivered at the name. He could not shake the sense that Morgoth would appear out of midair and seize him and take him away again in retaliation.

"Are you cold? Have my cloak."

Before Maitimo could protest, Findekáno unwrapped his cloak and threw it around Maitimo's shoulders, and drew their bodies close together.

"I can't believe you came for me," Maitimo muttered, burying his head in Findekáno's neck and closing his eyes.

"I had to," Findekáno replied, and held Maitimo closer.

Sobs rose again in Maitimo that he could not suppress. He wept against Findekáno's shoulder.

Findekáno soothed him, humming a little song, and ran his fingers over Maitimo's braids. "Oh, darling, you're still wearing them?"

He referred to the small jewels braided in Maitimo's hair that were originally a gift from Findekáno, when they were very young, before the unchaining of Morgoth. By some miraculous chance, Morgoth had not taken them again after Parwë had braided them back into Maitimo's hair.

"Are you not wearing yours that I gave you?" Maitimo said, and did not think he could bear it if Findekáno said no.

"I am, I am, always," Findekáno said hurriedly. "You don't have to look now, but of course I am. But I thought—after my harsh words to you—I thought you might have taken yours out."

"Every word was justified," Maitimo said, and started weeping again.

"Shhh," Findekáno said. "It was not. You are not your father. I cannot fault you for faithfully loving your father. I have regretted my words bitterly ever since I spoke them. I love you so much."

Maitimo clung to Findekáno and cried.

He remembered little of that long journey. It was bitterly cold, high in the northern skies, and Maitimo had nothing left in him to fight against the cold in mind or body. He was wasted, starving and pathetic, and there was nothing in him that could even feel a sense of relief at his escape.

Or perhaps the problem was that he could not really believe in the escape. Not even when they left the dreadful slopes of Thangorodrim. Nor when the snowy peaks of the Ered Wethrin passed quickly beneath them, and Thorondor started dipping his head downward, and the camps around Lake Mithrim came into view.

Nor even as Thorondor landed amid shouts of surprise and joy in the camp, as Findekáno pulled Maitimo off the back of the eagle, supporting all his weight as they went. Not as Findekáno half-carried him into a tent, and set him down gently a bed of furs, and helped him drink an elven healing cordial that was the most warming thing he had tasted in years.

The darkness of his captivity had not lifted from his spirit even as he sank into sleep.

When Maitimo returned to awareness, he was miraculously still in the healing tent, on the bed of furs, with soft glowing light in the corner. Morgoth had not appeared and swept him back to his torment, and he still struggled to believe it.

Someone was holding his hand—his left hand—and Maitimo turned to look. Findekáno was asleep on the ground next to him, but had fallen asleep holding hands.

Maitimo did not like to disturb him. He took stock of his situation instead. Someone had re-located his shoulder—for the third time! This was getting old. They had bandaged it, and put his arm in a sling, which was a very sensible measure Maitimo should have thought of in the fortress. There was also a clean white bandage around the stump of his wrist. The smell of healing herbs was very strong. He felt less parched than he had earlier, which meant someone had managed to get water into him while he was passed out. He was still very hungry.

"Oh, you're awake!" someone cried. A shape that had been huddled in the corner unfolded itself and sprang to his side. It was Makalaurë. "How do you feel?" Makalaurë asked, coming to sit by Findekáno, who was also now awake and sitting up.

"I don't—I don't know," Maitimo whispered. "Is this real?"

"It's real," Makalaurë said firmly. "Brother, I am so, so sorry. We thought—we thought there was no possibility you were still alive."

"I might as well not be," Maitimo said, which caused Findekáno to start weeping again.

"Stop that weeping," Makalaurë hissed at Findekáno. "You're upsetting him."

Findekáno quickly tried to wipe his face off with his sleeve.

Maitimo stared at the two of them, feeling hollow.

"Is it true," he asked, his voice cracking, "that you lot have been fighting with each other since Arakáno arrived?"

"No!" Makalaurë protested, but Findekáno did not say anything.

"That you've been living in separate encampments?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Is right now the first time you have spoken to each other since Araman?"

Makalaurë and Findekáno finally looked at each other, but still said nothing.

"You've done nothing," Maitimo whispered, his heart stinging. "I've been Morgoth's plaything and you've sat around fighting over nothing."

Maitimo let go of Findekáno's hand, or tried to. Findekáno clung to it very tightly.

Maitimo's heart rate sped up, and it was hard to remember that this was Findekáno, who would never hurt him, it was not Morgoth pinning him down and dragging him off to torment.

Something in his face must have terrified Findekáno, because he winced and let go very quickly.

Maitimo sat up, and struggled to get his legs under him and stand up.

"What are you—" asked Makalaurë.

"No, Nelyo!" Findekáno cried at the same time.

His legs felt weaker than they ever had before. Was it the cumulative times of hanging from the rock strung together, or had this last episode lasted longer? Maitimo couldn't decide. He leaned his left arm heavily on Findekáno's shoulders and pushed himself up despite the trembling.

"Love, my dearest love, my only love, what are you doing," Findekáno cried in distress.

Maitimo took a few steps towards the door of the tent, and would have fallen, but his brother wrapped strong arms around him and steadied him.

"Help me walk," Maitimo ordered.

"You are ill," Makalaurë protested, his voice and his face pained.

"Help me walk!"

Findekáno came up on Maitimo's other side, and the three of them together made it out of the tent. The healing tent was in the middle of the camp of blue and silver, and it seemed that everyone dropped what they were doing and stared at Maitimo.

"Your father," Maitimo said to Findekáno. "Take me to your father!"

"No," Findekáno cried, very distressed. "No, you must go back and lie down."

Maitimo ignored this. He stumbled forward. The crowd of elves around them started murmuring in concern.

"Arakáno!" Maitimo cried. "Arakáno!"

"He's gone mad," Makalaurë muttered at his side, but very low; for Findekáno's ears only.

"Can you blame him if he has!" Findekáno cried bitterly, rather than defending his sanity.

The crowd of muttering elves parted, and Arakáno strode forward.

"Maitimo," he said. "Maitimo! Son of my brother, you should be resting."

"You have been fighting," Maitimo said bitterly, his voice ringing out across the crowd. "You have been fighting, wasting your chance while the enemy was weak and hiding from the sun and cowering in the depths of his fortress."

"Maitimo," Arakáno said again, looking and sounding very alarmed.

"You have no idea how funny they thought this was," Maitimo cried, shutting his eyes against the memory of the ringing tones of amusement lacing Mairon's voice as he described the conflict between the two camps. "But it ends now."

Maitimo shook off Makalaurë and Findekáno, and collapsed onto his knees.

"Forgive us, my lord," he said. "Forgive us for the desertion in Araman and the burning at Losgar, for the terrible long passage you took instead and those you lost on the way. We are greatly and completely humbled and we beg for forgiveness, and we take you, eldest living son of Finwë, to be our High King."

"Oh, no," Makalaurë said under his breath. Maitimo ignored him.

Findekáno was utterly silent.

"Eldest son of my brother," Arakáno said, shocked and dismayed, "please return to the healing tents and rest yourself. You are not well! We can discuss this when you are well."

"I will not move," he insisted, "until you say we are forgiven and we are blood and we are one to march against the enemy with no dissension."

"For goodness sake," Arakáno said, coming forward and hauling on Maitimo's left arm to force him to his feet.

Maitimo shuddered under the harsh touch and Findekáno cried out. "Don't, you cannot handle him like that!"

Arakáno let go of his arm, and moved his touch to a light support around his waist. "You're forgiven," Arakáno said, "all of you." This last bit was presumably directed at Makalaurë. "Will you please go back and lie down!"

"As you are my king," Maitimo said, with the ghost of a smile on his lips, "I shall if you command it."

"You are impossible!" Arakáno said. "Yes, for pity's sake, I command it."

Maitimo leaned heavily on Arakáno as they walked back to the tent. Around them, voices cried out in many different exclamations, and Maitimo felt more exhausted than he could remember being at any time in Angband.

He limped back to the tent and collapsed on the furs.

"What is wrong with you," Makalaurë hissed, the moment the flap closed behind them. "You are our king. You are the eldest son of the eldest son of Finwë. Father would never have permitted it. Ceding the claim to his half-brother. Our brothers are going to kill you!"

"They can do their worst," Maitimo said with a yawn, "but somehow I don't think their worst is worse than Morgoth's worst."

Makalaurë looked like he was torn between amusement, pity, and fury.

"Please give him another drought," Arakáno said to the healer who came into the tent behind them. He assiduously, and stiffly, ignored everything Makalaurë had said.

Maitimo did not protest, and drank deeply from the cup that was offered to him.

Arakáno left them in privacy at that point, and Maitimo gave Makalaurë his sternest glare.

"I have not left you with any choice," Maitimo told him. "Unless you mean to declare yourself High King next and fight Arakáno for it."

"Of course not," Makalaurë said. Every line of him softened, and he stepped forward and fell onto the ground beside Maitimo. He laid a hand on Maitimo's left shoulder. "I would not do that to you, nor do I think Father would have wished me to do such an outrageous thing. But I expect some of the others to think of it next."

"I don't really care what they think," Maitimo said, his glare dissolving into another yawn. "As long as the Noldor stop fighting with each other and unite under one banner."

"We will unite," Findekáno said softly. He took a seat next to Makalaurë, and took Maitimo's hand in his. "I promise."

Maitimo was being drawn underneath the pull of the draught, but before he sank, he turned and looked into Findekáno's eyes. They were the warmest brown Maitimo had ever seen in a person, and his soft brown skin felt like such a safe, familiar sight after the colorlessness of Angband. At long last, Maitimo felt something fill him that might have been comfort.

"Beloved," he managed, and fell asleep.

In the agonizing process of healing the same injuries for the third time, Maitimo managed to talk himself around to believing that he had truly escaped. He was determined not to slight his strength and his body this time around, and was on his feet as soon as the healer let him. When the healer let him take the sling off, he worked out his right shoulder gently and gradually, and practiced writing and drawing with his left hand.

Findekáno did not leave his side for a single moment in all of this, not even when his brother arrived and begged him to.

"You're the eldest son of the High King now," Turukáno said bitterly, unable to bring himself to look at Maitimo. "You're needed in the war counsels. Fëanáro's sons are louder than us, and very reckless."

"Send them in here," Maitimo said, laughing, "and I will deal with them." Maitimo was simply pleased they were all attending the same war counsels now.

"No," Findekáno said firmly. "Seeing all of your brothers at once in this tent is the least healing measure you could possibly take."

Maitimo smiled. "Finno, I have to face them eventually. And maybe they will be marginally quieter, if I see them in the healing tents."

"Well, someone should do something," Turukáno said acidly, and stalked off in the same foul mood he'd arrived in.

"I'm sorry about him," Findekáno said. "I am sorry for his behavior, I mean. He—we—you should know—but maybe now is not the best time—"

"Finno, what?" Maitimo asked, taking Findekáno's face in one hand and tilting it towards him.

Findekáno licked his lips. "We lost Elenwë on the ice."

"Oh," Maitimo said, closing his eyes and leaning forward until he bumped foreheads with Findekáno. "Oh, Finno, I am so so sorry."

"You shouldn't be apologizing to anyone," Findekáno said harshly. "Makalaurë told us that you would have sent the ships back if you could."

"It wasn't good enough," Maitimo said, tears stinging his eyes again.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," Findekáno said, agonized, as he pulled away from Maitimo's hand and fiddled with the furs of his bed. "Everything is horrible but it's not your fault."

"No," Maitimo agreed grimly. "It's Morgoth's. From start to finish, all of it is his fault."

Findekáno went silent, and looked deeply at him for a long time.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, very tentatively.

"I will have to, and soon," Maitimo said, trying to keep his tone light. "For I learned a great deal about the Enemy, and not all of it is cause for useless despair."

"I mean... do you want to talk about what happened to you," Findekáno said, the words seeming wrenched from him with great effort.

Maitimo's chest heaved, and burned with shame. He found he did not want to speak of the hanging or the repeated sessions of healing that were more like torture when followed by hanging again. But there was something else that he desperately needed Findekáno—and no other—to know about him.

"I told him everything he wanted to know," Maitimo said, licking his lips. "It was all very curious stuff that he cared about—nothing about our troop strength or our plans or our allegiances and internal disputes and who is most dear to whom. But I didn't even try to resist, Finno. I told him everything he wanted. For as long as he had questions, I answered them."

"No one will ever blame you for that," Findekáno said, low and fierce. "I defy anyone to prove it with a demonstration, if he says he would have done otherwise!"

"It's not what you think," Maitimo said, wretchedly. "It was well before the torment began. I told him everything he wanted to know in exchange for some meat stew and feather cushions."

"I... I will never judge you for doing what you had to in that place," Findekáno said, but he was more hesitant now.

"You still do not understand," Maitimo said desperately. "I told him everything because I liked him. He was charming, and relatable, and clever and entertaining and made me feel like I had a friend there."

Findekáno was looking alarmed by this point.

"You, ah, became friends with Morgoth?" His tone was very delicate, as though he feared Maitimo was truly mad this time.

"Oh, no no no. Not Morgoth," Maitimo clarified. "Mairon."

"Ah," Findekáno said, relaxing a little. "This name surfaces again. I see. Who is Mairon?"

So Maitimo spilled out the whole story of the attractive, charming, brilliant Maia who was capable of emulating great kindness and friendship.

"But... he is the Enemy's greatest servant? He has deserted the rest of the Ainur to serve Morgoth?" Findekáno summarized when Maitimo had finished.

"Yes," Maitimo said. "And he is actually very horrible beneath the charming veneer. He has no empathy for anyone else; his heart is black and it is entirely given to Morgoth. Their subjects in the fortress call them husbands."

Findekáno looked predictably shocked at this.

"But I cannot rid my heart of his kindnesses in that place," Maitimo said, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. "I taught him to sword fight, and made him good at it, which I fear our people will long rue. And even as you came for me, I was still attached to the idea of his next visit and named him my friend."

Findekáno sighed, and took Maitimo's hand in his. "Dearest. This is all very understandable. It's... it's the same routine we would use against your little brothers when they got into trouble as children, remember?"

Maitimo was utterly bewildered by this turn of the conversation. He shook his head.

"I would be cold, and pretend to treat with them harshly, and you would come along with soft kindnesses, pretending it was behind my back, and they would spill everything to you."

"Oh," Maitimo said, a strange feeling flooding through him. He felt simultaneously disgusted and elated. "Oh, oh, Valar save me, oh. It was the exact same thing... just like that."

"Yes, and we used it because it works, it's just our nature," Findekáno said, pressing on Maitimo's hand. "It's no failing of yours, and not remotely a sign that you are compromised in your heart by the teachings of the Enemy. It's just a tactic that happens to work."

"Oh," Maitimo said again, and he wanted to laugh. "Finno! It's so obvious when you put it like that."

"I am sorry it was weighing on you so," Findekáno said quietly.

"No. I—I was not likely to ever see it that way. But it's all right. Now I do not fear facing my uncle to tell him everything I know. And everything they know."

"You should never have feared my father," Findekáno said, slightly reproachfully.

Maitimo raised Findekáno's hand to his lips, and kissed it. "Never mind," he said. "It doesn’t matter. We will all take counsel together and plot war. I think we should lay siege to that fortress. It will inconvenience and infuriate them, though probably not cripple them. We have a chance of maintaining it, I think, if we all work together. Oh—but is it true that King Thingol sent us angry messages?"

"Well, not angry, but... he isn't our ally," Findekáno said. "How did you know that?"

"They have spies in our camp—or well, actually, now that I say it, I think Mairon is the spy. We should spread the word to chase off any crows we see."

"Crows?" Findekáno cried.

"Oh, yes, he is a shapeshifter," Maitimo said casually. "And he thought it was incredibly funny to tell me all the things that were going wrong in this camp."

Findekáno scowled. "Mairon is the wrong name for him," he said darkly. "How about... Sauron? That's much more accurate, it sounds like."

Maitimo burst out laughing. "The abhorred, rather than the admirable! My clever Finno. Have I never told you how much I love you?"

Findekáno stilled, and tucked his chin and looked at the floor. "Ah, no. Actually. I do not believe we have had this conversation."

Maitimo reached out with his stump and placed it on top of where Findekáno held his other hand. "I suppose we haven't," he agreed quietly. "I love you, Findekáno, son of Arakáno. I give my heart to you—I gave it to you long ago—and I will never love another."

"And I love you, Maitimo, son of Fëanáro," Findekáno answered, placing his other hand on top of Maitimo's stump, which no longer bore a bandage. "If it were permitted—if we were not both Finwë's grandsons—I would gladly marry you."

"It is enough that we speak these words," Maitimo said. "Is it not enough, for union of our spirits?"

"It will have to be enough," Findekáno said, his voice low and fierce. "For I too will never love another."

Maitimo and Findekáno leaned toward each other at the same time, and their lips met. Although Maitimo had known for a long time he was in love with Findekáno, they had not kissed before. Apparently, it took a crisis for them to admit it to each other. Kissing Findekáno was everything he ever dreamed it would be—electrifying and enlightening and beautiful.

"Your brother is going to kill me," Maitimo laughed when they pulled away for breath.

"My brother?" Findekáno cried. "Who cares about my brother? You have six of them!"

"They will just have to deal with it, like they just have to deal with my giving up the kingship," Maitimo said smoothly.

Findekáno groaned. "Even with you back, this alliance is going to be difficult and finicky."

"Yes," Maitimo agreed. "But I think we can manage it. Your father will be a good king. And now I know what we are up against."

Maitimo wrapped his good arm around Findekáno's waist, and pulled him closer. "But right now," he said in a low voice, "I want to enjoy being free, and with you."

"I will never let you go again," Findekáno vowed.

"And I will never let anyone make me leave you behind again," Maitimo replied.

"Forever," Findekáno agreed.

"Forever," Maitimo said, and kissed him again.