Thangorodrim by ford_of_bruinen

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Thangorodrim

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 Not for the first time he wondered if he was actually sane. The air here stank of boiling mud and sulphur and there was a constant fall of ash, colouring the very air a sickly yellow. Beneath his feet the very land trembled and groaned of pain and only a few minutes past water had shot from the ground, coming close to scalding him. It was a perversion of what a healthy land should be, a travesty wrought by one that had forgotten the beauty of life.

 

He had lost count of the days since he left to cool fresh air of Mithrim, slipping away when the guards had their attention elsewhere, all because of an old friendship, already betrayed, and a harebrained idea to do good. It had been a slow progress from there with the constant wariness to avoid both friends and enemy creatures alike, and then the closer he came to the cursed mountains the more misshapen fiends of darkness crawled around the countryside, seemingly undisturbed by the fissures letting steam out of the ground, the almost ankle-deep ash and sludge that covered everything that, itself, was not half hardened molten rock.

 

He wondered, should he actually ever find the gates of Angband, whether his sword or bow would still be any good to him or whether the ash and smoke had already destroyed both string and edge. That thought was about as cheerful as the rest of them.

 

Something screeched to the north-east but in this strange landscape the sound was wrung into something unrecognisable, it could have been an eagle or something far fouler from what he could tell. For minutes it echoed, bouncing of the mountains and valleys, making him feel slightly disorientated before it faded. Taking a sip of tepid water from the flask at his side he cursed at its lightness, he would have to find clean water soon or turn back, hoping he had enough water to sustain him out of these mountains again.

 

Dusk must be close outside this pace of everlasting gloom as around him the murky air grew deeper and darker yet. Sighing he put the flask back and started trying to find his way again. If nothing else he supposed this not-entirely-thought-through adventure would once more set fire to the whispers of his love of his cousin.

 

As always it amazed him how the rumours could get things so entirely wrong and yet, in their way entirely right. He had no other love of Maedhros than that of an exceedingly good friend, or brother, in fact he was closer in friendship to Maedhros than he had ever been with Turgon, yet rumourmongers had for years whispered about both of them being followers of strange fates.

It used to amuse him, knowing well Maedhros's love of the gentler sex. He could remember long talks through the nights of Telperion, drunken discussions and bawdy jokes on the subject of love. A strange fate may well follow his cousin's steps but not the one usually referred. Himself, however, was certainly a disciple of such ways but, fair as his cousin was, such a perfection of face and form had never been desirable to him.

 

Allowing his attention to drift for a moment he started humming as he climbed, a hoarse, croaky mumble that would have made Maglor wince at the discord and serve a tongue-lashing completely out of proportion with the crime committed. Something in the earth under his feet made him hesitate, the odd notion that both the ground and mountains listened, trying to soak up this glimpse of beauty and defiance in a world so badly lacking both. When he took up the song again he sang loudly, in defiance to the misery that Morgoth had brought upon the land, an old song of beauty and grace. As with the shriek earlier the hollows and crags around him took his voice and changed it, making it richer, stronger and making it carry further than he had expected. When night fell the hills would crawl with creatures, he suspected. Perhaps he should just count himself lucky that he had come this far alive; for now, after this, it would almost certainly be far harder to keep his body in one piece.

 

He left the song die away and stood again, never having realised in the first place that he had sat down as he sang. Thoughts of Maglor at times made him lose his focus. Frowning he hesitated, either he had lost his mind or the oddness of sound here was still casting his voice back, fainter and hoarser than he thought it had sounded in the first place. With a curse he spun around, trying to spot the singer, as he recognised the voice, changed from pain and misuse and yet...

 

'Maedhros,' he shouted. 'Where are you cousin? I can hear you but I cannot yet see you.' He raised his head, looking higher as the voice still seemed to come from a great distance and there, almost too high for his eyes to see, even when straining, was a pale streak again the black rock. It could, if he squinted, be taken for a body, clinging to the stone.

 

'Look up, cousin,' came the hoarse answer back, faintly. 'But you cannot reach me here.'

 

He hardly made the time to look for secure hand or footholds as he started scrambling up the rock-face beside him. There seemed to be a plateau higher up, a place where he, maybe, could find  a better view of what options he had available to him. 'I did not come this far to turn around empty handed,' he called back. 'So, unless you chose to give me some useful guidance, rest your voice awhile longer.'

 

Thangorodrim sank into an ominous silence, broken only by the rumbling of the tall peaks, the hissing of steam and gurgling of mud. Everything that may be living held it's breath in expectance of what Morgoth would do to meet this challenge. Yet the sun was still in the sky, albeit lowering herself towards the horizon, and no enemies crawled out of hidden hollows.

 

The rock beneath his hands was sharp as he climbed, in many places melted into shards of glass, and soon his blood made the progress harder, grips slipping away. There were many almost falls but  after what seemed an eternity he reached the small rocky plain he had been aiming for. Trying to catch his breath, at the same time doing his best not to choke on ash, he stood, surveying he scene before him before kicking the closest part of the mountain he could reach. He could see better from here, yet that did him no good. Maedhros was still out of his reach, painfully thin – even at this distance he could count the ribs - and the russet hair now mostly resembled old, dry blood against the stone.

 

His cousin was there on a precipice, seemingly nailed through the wall of the mountain, although Fingon was still too far to clearly make out the details. He felt the rock face in front of him, trying to find crevices that would hold him as he pulled himself up but here the rock was smooth as glass with nothing to give purchase for climbing.

 

'You cannot reach me, little cousin,' Maedhros repeated, his voice laced with a desperate hope despite its hoarseness, doubtlessly watching his search for any small rock that would carry his weight as he climbed. 'You cannot reach me but your aim was always true. Do not leave me here, Fingon, unceasingly waiting for hope that will not come.'

 

He shook his head, although he doubted Maedhros' eyes were keen enough to see him.'No,' he whispered to himself. 'Not this.' No one answered, nor had he expected that anyone would. He felt weary suddenly, haunted by memories of blood on white, sands and ice, and never-ending grieving. Yet there was truth in the words Maedhros had spoken, brutal, unyielding truth. Maedhros would not leave Thangorodrim breathing, unless a miracle came to them and now both Eru and Valar held their powers away from the Noldor. It would be a burden he would never make peace with, nor  would he find peace if he left now, turning his back on what mercy he could still give.

 

He rubbed his bleeding palms against the soft leather of his leggings, grimacing at the oily filth that covered them. Carefully he reached for the great bow on his back and an arrow. One arrow if his aim was true and the wind held. He hoped it would take no more, mercy was easier to give if it was fast.

 

'Father of winds if there is any pity left in you remember Maedhros, son of Feanor, son of Finwe, and in your grace carry this shaft upon your breath.' He was unsure of why he voiced the invocation, even to himself, all belief in the grace of the Valar had faded in the years past. Maybe it was a return to a childhood comfort while doing the unspeakable or perhaps a sought after reassurance for a difficult shot. He took his aim, about to loosen his hold on the string as something huge swept past his vision. He lowered the bow, blinking, wondering yet again if he was truly sane. Raising his eyes he tried to focus on the creature circling above him, attempting to make out whether it was, despite the daylight, a creature of evil. A soft thrumming grew as neared and  he heaved a sigh in relief. There, on the winds above Thangorodrim, soared a messenger of Manwe and even as he was watching the immense wings spread, slowing its descent until it landed, somehow, on the cliff edge where Fingon stood.

 

'You speak with eloquence, small one,' the great eagle said, his voice an odd blend of a deep rumble and high shriek. It seemed an appropriate voice for his appearance. 'Come, I will lift you up the mountain yonder but you will have to reach him and free him. If you succeed I will carry you to Mithrim. Your valour touches the heart of our Lord and so I will aid you.'

 

Fingon looked at the eagle and then up at his cousin. 'It will still not be easy,' he said, loosening the bundle of rope tied around his chest. 'May I use you to anchor us?' He showed the slender rope to Thorondor. The eagle looked back, the large golden eyes blinking slowly before the head bent. 'You may,' he acceded. 'I believe my leg could carry your weight.' He held out a huge claw towards Fingon.

 

It was entirely unreal, he thought as he made a series of careful knots around a leg as thick as his arm, hallucination of poisonous gases perhaps. Yet as the rope was tied he climbed up, trying to scramble as little as possible. One hand was wound tightly around the rope and both of them he buried into golden, glossy feathers and soft down. 'Thank you Lord Eagle,' he said when he felt relatively safe upon the broad neck, 'I believe I am ready now.'

 

Thorondor spread his wings as he threw himself of the rock and an instant later he was beating against the wind, rising higher. Fingon bit back a cry of exultation as the horrid landscape sank beneath them. There was freedom up here, in the emptiness of the sky and the wind through his hair. For a minute he regretted that Eru, in his wisdom, had not seen fit to give wings to the Quendi.

 

It took only a moment before the great claws again found purchase on the mountain, this time clinging horizontally to the black stone. Fingon took a deep breath before shifting sideways until he too, reached the mountain wall. There were only a few feet  to Maedhros, if he could find holds for his hands the straightest way. He kept the rope wound  tightly around his hand as he made his way closer, slowly, carefully. He felt rather like an ant, or a spider, trying to cling to this place. To his side Maedhros watched him, a blend of hope and desperation burning in those brilliant eyes. They did not speak, it briefly crossed his mind to wonder if his cousin too was holding his breath at every painfully slow move, he suspected that Maedhros probably did. To have been trapped here, for so long and finally see a rescue, the thought was enough to make his throat thicken.

 

The sun was starting to lie close to the horizon as he eventually crossed he last of those few feet and reached his cousin's side. 'Well, I am here,' he said. More to break the sudden tension than for it being a particularly intelligent greeting.

 

'So you are,' Maedhros replied, his voice quiet, wary. 'Now, if you have no better thing to do, would you mind releasing me?'

 

Fingon snorted as he let one hand go, carefully reaching up to feel the manacle around his cousin's wrist. It seemed to be the only thing holding him. 'No, he heard himself reply, 'now that I am here I believe I will just return home and leave you. After all I only came for the pleasant scenery.'

 

After that they both fell silent as Fingon worked, trying to find a hinge or a fastening between the metal brace and the rock. There seemed to be neither. Cursing he fumbled for his dagger, striking first the iron and then the rock wall with both the hilt and then the blade. The handle did nothing, at least the blade struck useless sparks. He tried pulling on the manacle with his free hand, putting as much of his weight as he dared behind it but yet again his efforts came to naught.

 

'Witch craft and evil,' Maedhros said after awhile, his voice flat, whatever hope it had held before gone. 'Since it will not shift then use your dagger on me, at least my chest would give way. Everlasting darkness is preferable to Morgoth's care I believe.'

 

'I did not come here to see you die,' His voice sounded tense even to his own ears. 'As I told you before, if you have nothing else to say then save your breath.' Slowly an idea began to form and traced the once elegant hand of his cousin before thoughtfully letting his own hand linger on Maedhros' wrist. The fingers had been cool from lack of circulation yet they were  still alive. 'I will see you to Mithrim, but you may curse the way I do it at times.' He left his fingers follow the brace where it met Maedhros' hand. 'It is a shame you always favoured your right.

 

Maedhros watched him warily. 'Do what you need as long as you release me,' he answered eventually, 'I will not curse you save if you desert me.'

 

'You will need to hold on, no matter the pain nor anything else, cousin, you cannot let go.' he said moving slowly as he awkwardly started moving his cousin onto his back. It pulled oddly at the trapped hand yet  after some time Maedhros' rested against his back, his free arm wrapped across Fingon's chest. Using to his teeth he unwound the rope around his hand and started, instead, to wrap it around Maedhros' right wrist. It was not an easy task to secure it around the skeletal arm yet using hand and teeth he finally managed it to his expectations. It should, with some luck, hold.

 

Taking a deep breath he pulled his dagger again. 'Stay with me,' he whispered before starting to hack away at tendons and bone. On his back Maedhros screamed and the hold around his chest grew fainter. 'Stay with me,' he repeated, putting as much command in his voice as he could. To his relief Maedhros held him harder, desperately, even as he could feel vomit run down his back. It took more blows to his cousin's wrist than he cared to count before it finally gave way, the hand separated from the rest of the body. The sudden shift of weight almost made him fall. He hoped he had tied the rope hard enough to stem the worst of the bleeding or this foolhardy adventure would still end badly. He was less careful on the way back to Thorondor than he had been on the way there, using far more speed than was safe yet it seemed imperative to make it onto the eagle's back as soon as possible.

 

It was far harder this time to mount the eagle's back, there was the weight of Maedhros, as thin as he was, he was still tall, there was blood, more than he cared to think of and there was the fear that they would fall. They did not. Looking back he would never be certain exactly how they came to be upon Thorondor's back yet again but they soon were.

 

'He cannot hold on for long,' Fingon told their saviour. 'Nor is the rope enough to stem the blood. We need to land, and soon.'

 

Thorondor fell away from the cliff, backwards. It was without much grace and with sheer stubbornness that they clung on until he righted himself, rising again. 'My eyrie is atop the mountain,' he told them. 'I will let you see to him there. Please, do not bleed on the bedding.'

 

Fingon could not help the wild, desperate laughter  that escaped him. 'Thank you,' he managed, 'we will certainly do our best.'

 

Only minutes passed before Thorondor folded his mighty wings, gliding into a small cave. One part was lined with down and soft furs, not too clean furs from the smell, and further away lay the remains of dinners, white bones, a bit of gristle. Fingon decided not to look too carefully at what prey the great eagle found within the reaches of Thangorodrim. They had no more landed than Maedhros fell to the floor, too weakened to hold on further. Quickly Fingon slipped off as well, kneeling beside his cousin. Maedhros was shaking from shock and blood-loss, his skin clammy and cold and, under the layers of grime, an unhealthy white.

 

'It would be wise,' Thorondor's voice came from behind them, 'to leave this place again before the night falls. Less arrows to avoid.'

 

Fingon nodded absent-mindedly as he stood, pulling his tunic off and then his marginally cleaner under-shirt. 'As soon as I can ensure he will not bleed to death on the way.' he answered, starting to tear the rather grey garment into strips. 'The rope stemmed the worst so I will work around it rather than remove it.'

 

Thorondor made a sound resembling a cough. 'By grace of claw and feathers,' he said, holding out his leg again, 'I would rather you removed it now.'

 

Fingon stared at him for a moment before remembering the anchoring knots. 'My apologies,' he mumbled. 'I am afraid that part of the rope had escaped my memory.' He drew his dagger again and, after some thought, wiped it against his trouser leg, it would not clean it proper but it should remove some of the blood at the least. Quickly he cut through the bonds around the eagle before returning to his cousin. ..once again kneeling down he cut the rope at the other end as well, securing the end safely. He reached for the strips of clothes and set to work, pulling the makeshift bandage hard around the stump, layering them until there were no more left.

 

'It is the best I can do with what I have,' he said, standing. 'The sooner he reaches Mithrim and her healers, the better.' He glanced outside to where the weak sunlight had disappeared, if the moon shone bright tonight it was hidden behind clouds and ash.

 

'Night is not a good time for careful flying,' Thorondor sounded disapproving. 'Too many arrows. Still I suppose you would fare better among your own kind.' He ruffled his feathers slightly and leant forwards. 'Would it be inhospitable of me to ask you not to leave further un-pleasantries in my feathers?'

 

'I will try to ensure your feathers remain as clean as they are at this moment,' Fingon answered, carefully lifting his half-unconscious cousin from the ground. 'May I ask how long a flight we are to expect to Mithrim?' It did not take him long to realise that there would be no graceful, nor gentle way to climb onto the eagle's back again. Unceremoniously he slung his cousin up  half-against, half-over the eagles neck before mounting up and pulling Maedhros firmly against him.

 

'Less than half a night's flight,' Thorondor answered before spreading his wings and falling against the wind outside the cavern.

 

Wrapping one arm around his cousin and the other in the thick feathers he flinched as the cold air rushed to meet them, biting through clothes, nipping at fingers and noses. He had grown to hate the cold during the long walk across the Helcaraxe, knowing now all too well the damage that cold could do to the living.  He huddled down lower trying to block the worst of the wind from reaching them, yet he was grateful for the speed at with Thorondor crossed the mountains. Despite the eagle's dark predictions there were no arrows chasing them, although the ground below them swarmed with the creatures of Morgoth; his stomach turned at the numbers of them. Was Morgoth ever to send them all out he was not certain even a force of united Noldor, Sindar and Falathrim could hold.

 

The arm around Maedhros was starting to grow uncomfortably damp, he had not managed to stem the bleeding, merely slow it. Quietly he started singing the old words of staunching blood, of strength and health yet healing was not one of his talents. He had been a hunter since childhood, and recently he hunted more than hare or deer. Still Mithrim, north and south both, would have experienced healers on hand to do what they could. As he expected the words of power did little, if anything, to aid his cousin's condition and before long he found himself concentrate on feeling foe the faint breaths of life that still, thankfully, lingered.

 

It seemed an eternity, with Maedhros growing steadily weaker, before the lake came into view, the smooth waters shining like glass in the dulled moonlight. By now they both seemed drenched in blood.

 

'At which side, pray, would you prefer to land?'

 

Fingon hesitated. The north would ensure his father knew he had returned safely and he both knew and trusted the healers and yet, it had been long since word had last come of Maedhros. 'The south,' he replied firmly. 'His brothers will need to see him.'

 

He barely bit back a scream of sudden terror as Thorondor folded his wings, diving towards the ground at a dizzying speed before the wings spread again, slowing the descent only moments before the large claws dug into the sand at the water edge.

 

'From here you may walk,' he said. 'Too many arrows, too many kinslayers. It is not far to the west.' He shifted impatiently as Fingon let go of the feathers and slid of the great back, landing with an uncomfortable thump that sent arrows of pain up his legs. His heart was still beating madly from the descent and he felt oddly unsteady from the fast change of altitude. He had not realised the toll the ride had taken on his muscles, far too focused on willing his cousin to live. He reached up towards his cousin, pulling him down into his arms as gently as he could. His shoulders ached of weariness as he shifted his hold on Maedhros, the long, filthy hair almost brushing the ground.

 

'My gratitude for your aid,' he said, wishing he had better words to express the depth of feeling. 'The houses of Finwe are in your debt.'

 

The eagle bent his neck gracefully before he spread out his immense wings and, beating them against the wind, slowly took to the skies again.

 

Fingon started walking, concentrating on putting one foot ahead the other. In his arms Maedhros seemed to grow heavier with every step. The moon soon came out from behind the clouds, after that it was easier to estimate how long he trudged along the lake shore. It was soon clear that what may not be far for a great eagle was, unfortunately, a far greater distance to one of the Noldor. He was thirsty, sore and tired but he dared not stop walking, fearing even a small break would steal the last breath of his cousin's abused body. They had walked for two turns of the hour when he could finally smell, and hear, the temporary village ahead of them. They were, of course, spotted almost at the same instant, and an array of arrowheads suddenly gleamed in the starlight.

 

'A strange time for visiting. Who walks alone at night in a land like this?'

 

The deep voice made him sag with relief. 'A friend, Caranthir, a cousin, bringing your brother home.'

 

Suddenly the night around them flared with the lights of Feanor's lamps. 'Fingon?' Caranthir's voice was surprised although he hurried to greet them. 'Your father informed us you had gone missing.' He strode closer, becoming a muscular man - darker than most of both hair and skin – thank the shadow he had been only moments before. 'It took us awhile to assure him we had no interest in abducting or keeping his heir, I am still not certain he believed us.' He snorted disdainfully. 'For all his talk of loyalty he owes Maglor a fealthy he never remembers to acknowledge.'

 

Fingon let his cousin's words wash over him, only half-registering the words. The animosity between the houses did not surprise him. 'Caranthir,' he said wearily, trying to break through the flood of words and barely restrained anger. 'He desperately needs a healer. Thangorodim is not a hospitable place and I had to remove his hand to free him.'

 

Caranthir froze suddenly, his eyes lowering disbelievingly to the body in Fingon's arms. 'You...' he fell quiet, speechless as he raised his eyes to Fingon.

 

'Yes,'Fingon replied, feeling oddly calm, He had done what he could now. 'I brought him home, such home as it is. My father may rail against the knowledge of who wears that crown but I do not.'

 

Caranthir carefully lifted Maedhros out of his arms, barking orders at his men and soon they were surrounded by warriors, all staring at Maedhros and at Fingon before an explosion of congratulations, blessings and curses split the air. In the distance a runner was already reaching the edge of the village, no doubt carrying words to the healers requested.

 

Caranthir tore his eyes away from his older brother and met Fingon's eyes, the traces of old friendship back warring with respect, gratitude and worry.  'And you, cousin, should I send healers to you as well?' his voice was gruff from carefully held back emotions.

 

Fingon shook his head, well aware what he looked like, covered in ash and dirt and blood. 'I am merely tired,' he answered, long having forgotten about the cuts on his hands. 'And filthy. I would not recommend a visit to the cursed mountains. And now I suspect I should see Maglor before I rest.'