Red by Melesta

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Red

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On the rare occasions when Fingon allows himself to think of Beleriand, one image takes shape in his mind’s eye above all others. The last moments of sunset spilling down the prairies of Ard-galen. 

If one was to wait for the exact hour and find just the right angle, its hue matched to perfection the color of Maedhros’ tresses under bright daylight. The dark reds coming alive with the gentle swaying of tall grasses in the breeze, Fingon would wade between them with his palms spread open and believe that a beloved braid was untangling between his fingers.

He recalls longing for those memories with throbbing intensity, his renewed body unwilling to scar over the notches upon his fëa. Yet time is a potent balm, and time they have now in agonizing abundance. So he had learned stillness, the humble act of quietly remaking oneself age, after age, after age.

But no peace has ever lasted long enough in any of Fingon’s lives, and neither does this one.

He grows old, and so does the world, and after all this time, he can sense his heart regressing to its familiar restlessness.

Fingon gapes at Arien’s flame, grown ancient and ripe, albeit no less feeble. She appears tired of the earth beneath, never dying fully, but nor does she have the strength to rise high in the sky and blaze with the fullness of her splendor. The tint of her light is unmistakable as she dyes the world every dawn in those very same reds that Fingon had forced himself to forget.

After the hundredth bloodstained rising, Fingon decides that he cannot stand it any longer. This tangible, omnipresent reminder of an absence that drives him to madness.

There are no stone-paved roads that lead to the Halls of Mandos, no iron gates that a hand can open. Even its name for a place that is no place at all seems quite ridiculous to Fingon. He journeys to the Gardens of Lórien and, in their tranquility, lulls himself willingly into an enchantment, opening a path within himself, beyond himself, to enter where the unliving reside.

Why is he here? He asks himself even as he feels his body sinking into Mandos’ domain. Looking to reopen bygone griefs? Or perhaps simply seeking a tie to this disintegrating world? 

Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos, Námo had warned them on the edges of Aman where it had all begun, and still they had followed Fëanor. Still, he had followed Maedhros.

There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you.

Many had been slain by their swords, though few now concern themselves with the manner of their death.

Fingon had also been slain by Maedhros’ hand, and it was now all returning to torment him beneath the copper sunlight. Maedhros had suffocated Fingon’s trust on his way to Formenos, smothered it by swearing a father’s Oath. He had drowned Fingon’s honor in the bloodshed at Alqualondë and burned his loyalty at Losgar though he had stood aside.

Again and again, he had killed Fingon by loving him. Dragging his lover with himself beneath the dark currents of a promise without fulfillment until even Fingon’s stubborn estel had been cloven to pieces, trod into the mire of Anfauglith.

Slain by Balrogs, or lovers, or his own arrogance, it mattered no longer. Fingon had gone through death into life again, and here he was, stepping across the precarious border that guards those yet unwilling to return to themselves.

‘You have come for Maedhros self-slain.’ Námo’s voice reverberates before Fingon can fully see him.

The Halls appear no different than anything else Fingon knows of the world, but the air he inhales feels unstable; there’s an uneasiness that cannot be explained.

No need for pretenses, then.

‘What must I do, lord?’ Fingon entreats with a desperation he did not deem himself capable of feeling.

‘You must wish him returned with all of yourself,’ Námo proclaims simply as if such things are nothing more than an ordinary chore.

Fingon stands for long moments staring at the Vala, waiting for another clarifying word. Perhaps expecting some detailed instruction for a ritual, a sacrifice, or a long labor of repentance Fingon must complete in exchange for the body of one he had loved all his life.

But the Halls remain still as summer air, no words emerge to shake the currents between them.

Fingon’s voice cracks somewhere between misbelief and irritation. ‘That is all? I should just wish him alive and he would return to the living?’ 

‘A fëa is never truly dead, son of Nolofinwë,’ Námo says and crosses the space to stand closer. There’s a strange coolness radiating from his form, it puts Fingon somewhat at ease. ‘The fëa is only guarded within itself. It materializes upon Arda with a peculiar intensity and purity of love, such as a mother would conjure. If your desire is such, then a fëa could be tempted to hearken to your call.’

‘And you would not attempt to stop it?’ Fingon challenges on impulse.

‘Imprisoning the essence of beings is not a task that has been given to me. Not even Melkor I could hold before the love of his brother, my Lord Manwë. Maedhros may answer, even as Melkor did, if the call reaches him.’

Námo’s face reveals no hesitation in the words he shares. They fall upon Fingon as a decree that has withstood true since the early days of awakening.

Love. He must love enough, and Maedhros will be granted to him. Fingon can do that easily enough, he thinks to himself. He had returned Maedhros from the dead before, had he not?

Fingon possesses no conscious memory of his own time in the Halls, but he treads their pathways with innate familiarity. He searches, not knowing what he will find, and wanders with no destination ahead. The longer he walks, echoes of things past weave tightly around him. They are light as spider silks and part for him as he passes, letting him travel from one lifetime to another.

It is tempting to tangle himself in these instants, to relive them and see them closer, but he focuses on seeking a thread among the tapestries that might lead him to Maedhros, to that place that was them.

He directs his thoughts to the very beginning. Not to their coming together in Valinor when they were much too young, and the word grief sounded so foreign as if uttered in a language unknown.

The true beginning had been at an uncomely place for love, with dried orcish blood upon their swords and a taste of ashes lingering in their mouths. Fingon invokes the glory of victory, his father’s trumpets resounding against the stony walls of Angband, the grasses of the battlefield tickling the legs of their horses, the tiredness in their limbs. He had called for Maedhros. Bloodied, battle-mad, monstrous Maedhros. Beautiful and glorious Maedhros surrendered before him with his heart cut open.

‘I do not ask for forgiveness nor redemption, for there is none,’ he had told Fingon. ‘This body is left to me, and I offer it such as it is. Take it, take all of it and ask for more.’ 

Fingon had taken everything that night, flesh, love and loyalty, and given all in return until they had both burned.

The memories materialize before him as he summons them spun into threads of love, joy and grief entwined with one other, and Fingon wishes he could stay cradled between them endlessly, fold himself in that single knot of time.

This is where he finds Maedhros. No more than a soft indentation in the space before him, a gentle warmth radiating against Fingon’s fingertips, but he recognizes him instantly.

He knows Maedhros.

In life and death, he knew Maedhros.

In the youth of the world and its remaking, he would know Maedhros.

All of him aches to reach for this small presence, to press it to himself and never be parted from it. Fingon extends a finger, but the matter around his hand turns viscous, and he cannot bring himself to close the imperceptible distance.

To find what he believed would never be found. It should be a victory, another prayer answered. But instead, it cripples him.

Fingon had spent years and years beneath the aging Sun, pondering what he would say to Maedhros if they were ever to reunite. He had planned and rehearsed long speeches telling of everything that assailed his peace, of all things old and new, iterating his tone and language meticulously to the point of absurdity. Yet now that he can all but grasp Maedhros’ fëa in his palm, all thought flees from his mind. There is one thing, and one thing only, that is asking to burst free from his mouth.

‘I loved you,’ Fingon says with a whisper so sharp it could pierce in half the ancient ice peaks of Ilmarin. ‘I loved you until it made me sick, Maedhros. I loved you until it brought us both back to life out of the ashes!’

He falls silent for a while, his body expelling its grief with such urgency that it overwhelms his mouth and leaves it slack with numbness. Did Maedhros not know this already, even in life? What need is there to say it now and again? What difference did it make in Beleriand?

Fingon’s chest constricts, and he pants heavily. His harsh breath begins soaking the shifting tapestries around him, and his nails leave dagger-sharp tears between the fibers. He had called to Maedhros long ago and received an answer, hoping against all hope, but at what cost?

This is another battle for the King. Not against Balrogs or nameless monsters from the shadows that he can mercilessly trample beneath the hooves of his mare. Fingon is battling with his own heart, a last stand against this horde of feelings he has left dormant for ages.

‘I loved you, Rus,’ he says again in a muffled cry as if swinging a weapon one more time, knowing it is futile. ‘And I love you still. But you should remain in these Halls for both our sakes.’

Fingon lowers his guard then and gives up at last, trod beneath the weight of his verdict. ‘Stay dead, my love.’

The words seep out of him like the last droplets of blood sustaining him with life. They are absorbed by the thick currents of the Halls the moment they leave his lips as if they were never his, and he sways there, empty of all sensation, good or bad.

He doesn’t know how or when he slips outside Mandos’ domain, only that it’s another daybreak, and Arien returns to scorch his vision. It is worse than ever before. He cannot hide from the memories she brings, and his body succumbs to its old weaknesses. 

Weary of his loneliness, Fingon journeys again and goes to the only place he trusts to bring him comfort.

His mother’s house is simple but not poor. Streaks of light filtering through painted windows warm the clean marble floors, and a wisp of incense cleanses the air of heaviness. Everything here is so solid and palpable, it instantly grounds Fingon. He extends a hand playfully to disturb the gentle cloud of smoke and allows himself a smile. 

With surer steps, he cuts through the hallways and finds his mother diligently ordering a pile of scrolls and, likely, her thoughts. 

Anairë, like all of them, is not the person Fingon used to know. She has become more beautiful with time, come into her own in their absence. The realization pained Fingon at first, but he does not begrudge his mother this change. It is a relief, rather, to know that some good had come out of their leaving, that it was not ruin in the wake of abandonment but cause for living on, for something different.

There are no titles his mother assumes now, none call her princess, lord, or queen, but people see her as such, that much is clear. Anairë, no longer in the shadow of Finwë's sons, has long held her rightful place beside Eärwen of Alqualondë in friendship and council and perhaps a little more. Those that remained of the Noldor and many among the Teleri seek her wisdom and trust her word. It is more than Fingon can claim for himself.

‘Findekáno!’ The greeting is unaging warmth that coaxes seeds to grow from the cold earth.

Arms stretch open, and Fingon waists no time to fall in their embrace. He clutches the fabric of his mother’s robes desperately, clinging to that distinctive solidity of those who have never gone through death.

As they disentangle, Anairë is quick to read the disquiet on his face. ‘What ghosts have assailed you?’

Fingon’s tears surge then, all at once, accompanied by the laughter of one mad. He crushes Anairë’s hands between his own while he waits for the storm to pass.

‘Ghosts, indeed.’ He catches his breath finally and then pleads, ‘Tell me what it was like when I returned to you from the Halls.’

‘Why go back to that after all this time?’ Anairë asks with evident concern, but when Fingon says nothing in return, she does not question him further.

An exhale. ‘For a long while, I could do nothing but watch you, your father, your brothers, your sister, one glorious king after another, sung by all who had followed you in the Hither Lands. But you were no kings to me, no proud lords I could call my own.’

Anairë’s voice shakes, but she does not falter. She steadies herself by tightening her grip around Fingon’s wrist to the point of pain. ‘Do you know, my dear Findekáno,’ Anairë goes on, ‘what it's like to see a foreigner before you and know he had once been a part of your own flesh and heart? A piece of yourself you can never regain again?’

She brings her hand to her lips as if preventing them from saying anything else. Fingon tears her hand away gently. He must hear this to the end.

‘And still, you forgave us,’ Fingons prompts, marveling now that his mother had done so.

‘Of course I did, what else could I do? Although the forgiving lasted a while, and it was not just I that had to learn it. You know this.’ A wistful smile returns to Anairë’s face, crinkling the skin beneath her lower eyelids.

She is as lovely as a newborn stream of water, Fingon thinks. Anairë’s smile wipes her face clean of the woes that make her look weary at times. He recognizes himself in the river blue of his mother’s eyes, in the ever-rebellious curls she had failed to tame. There are some things, after all, that endure the aging of the world, and Fingon finds comfort in the thought. 

'How did you do it, Mother? How can such things be forgiven?’

Anairë thinks for a while, arranging and rearranging words between her closed lips. She hums as she takes Fingon by the arm and leads him through the marble hallways outside, where a terrace offers an unobstructed view of Taniquetil.

Anairë seems to inhale the grandeur of the Holy Mountain and finds her words with renewed strength.

‘I had mourned for you, Findekáno. The first time, when I knew what you had done to Olwë’s people, then again when you decided to cross the Ice, and I mourned still when your fëa left your body behind.’

‘Mother–’ Fingon attempts to interrupt and put an end to this anguish he has brought upon her, but she won’t allow it.

‘I had to teach myself how to mourn and let go,’ Anairë says unperturbed. Fingon breathes in the familiar scent of holy sage as his mother’s palm rests upon his cheek. ‘To love someone deeply, my son, is to watch them die repeatedly. The deaths of the people they used to be, the people they no longer recognize in themselves. And then, to stand by them as they grow into someone new. Sometimes, the fire of a spirit renewed will burn yet brighter. Sometimes, it will be a flicker that wanes and floods the space with a profound, most necessary darkness.’

Fingon cannot recall being in awe of his mother more than at this very moment. A strength more enduring than any kingdom of Middle-earth. They turn to the mountains and allow a comfortable silence to fill the air between them.

There, in his mother’s high gardens, he finds stillness again. He looks up at the Sun and finally takes the time to see her. Unmoving, Fingon traces her slow journey across the vast skies until she descends to caress Manwë’s high peaks.

Even Arien will die and plunge their world into darkness, and Fingon already mourns her, but for now, he simply admires her beauty.

It would be the hour of sundown over Ard-galen. He finds the courage to notice the veins that cross Arien’s body. The scarlet of a well-aged Sindarin wine packed for Himring, the browns and oranges of a freshly polished copper circlet, the vermillion of berry-stained lips before he claims them in a kiss.

'Russandol.' 

The call departs Fingon’s lips without his doing.

And somewhere, persistent as young stalks of grass, red locks are beginning to emerge beneath a glorious sunset. 

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Chapter End Notes

Inspired by Heidi Priebe’s A Thousand Funerals.
With much thanks to searchingforseredipity for the brain sparks.