When All Other Lights Go Out by sallysavestheday

Lodestar

The cabin on the swan ship is small but richly appointed. There are no stains, no scars from the recent struggle, and the fittings are graceful and elegant. Telerin-made and well-loved, clearly, by the care that has been taken in their craft and preservation. The vessel is not the flagship, but of nearly the same size. “Fit for the Crown Prince to captain,” Feanor had laughed, in his pride, as he ushered Maedhros aboard. Maglor sails with him; Caranthir and Celegorm and Curufin on the other ship of this same class; Ambarussa with their father on the largest – seasick and heartsick and kept close under his watchful eye. The remainder of their host is divided among these vessels and the lesser ones, silent as they creep away from shore under the cover of the fog.

There are no lights in the cabin. Whatever lamps or tapers the sconces held are gone, hastily snatched as the fighting began and now lost to the sea or the stroke of some Fëanorian sword.

Their torches smoke, too large for the room. They will stain the walls and ceiling and must be put out. Maedhros crushes his into the sand bucket by the door and drops to the bed with his arm flung over his face, weary beyond words, sick with grief and guilt and longing for Fingon, returned to him beyond hope after so long apart. He replays the struggle in his mind: the terrified grappling in the dark, stumbling as his feet slid in the gore, the arm of a Telerin fisherman drawn back to spear him as he flailed and staggered. Then Fingon, bright and furious and beloved, his blade flashing, his arm warm around Maedhros’ waist as he steadied him and kicked the Teler’s body overboard. The slipperiness of the bloody deck. The mingled rage and devotion in Fingon’s eyes.

And now they sneak away, running dark and silent with what little skill they have, aiming the ships’ prows across the Belegaer with anxious hope while Fingolfin’s host sleeps on the beaches behind them. Maedhros cannot keep the tears from leaking out under his lashes as he lies sprawled on the bed. It is the promised treachery, already brewing among them. But his father will hear no word, brook no delay. He trusts his brother not at all. Fëanor must be first to cross; they will up anchor and away.

Maglor watches Maedhros as he weeps in the captain’s bunk, the red fan of his hair across the pillow like blood, shocking in the whiteness of the room. He fumbles in his luggage, then douses his own torch. Singing softly, he calls his lamp to life between his hands. The jeweled glass sends the light dancing around the cabin, and Maedhros uncovers his face in startlement. He stares: remembering, yearning.

Maglor sets the lamp in a bracket in the small, round window, where the light can shine out behind them, dipping and rising with the waves. A watcher on the shore will see it, if he looks with love.

Maedhros is still weeping – almost silently, in a slow, damp drag. Maglor kisses his forehead and curls next to him in the bunk. The ship bucks and yaws in the shuddering seas.