Lost and Found by awwyeah107

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Chapter 1: Lost...

Chapter 1, "Lost...", is focused on the aftermath of the Second Kinslaying.

There's more details below, but feel free to skip and move on to the chapter.

Language Choices + Character Nicknames
The use of “Fëanorian” (follower of Fëanor) versus “Fëanorion” (son of Fëanor) is intentional in this story, so you will see it shift throughout the chapters depending on which aspect I wanted to note.

Character nicknames:

  • Maedhros = Nelyo (short for Nelyafinwë, his father-name)
  • Maglor = Káno (short for Kanafinwë, his father-name)

Songs Used as Inspiration
There were several songs I used as inspiration for this fic, all of which are by composer Adrian Von Ziegler. You could consider the songs a soundtrack of sorts for the fic. Here is the full playlist on YouTube. At the start of each chapter, I will list the song(s) corresponding to that chapter, and at the end of the chapter, I’ll reveal which songs inspired which scenes. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I hope my explanation is clear!

The song for this chapter is, appropriately, titled “Lost” XD Here is the link to the song on YouTube.

The two eldest sons of Fëanor looked at the gruesome scene before them with grim acceptance. The vision of blood sprayed across the floor and walls and bodies…with Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir—their brothers—sprawled out, unblinking eyes staring into nothing…Nimloth and Dior hand in hand, weapons forever rooted in elven flesh…this would never fade from Maglor’s memory, as long as he lived. Finally Maedhros turned away.

“Come,” he said, beckoning his brother. “We must find the Ambarussa.” Maglor nodded silently, and they marched off down the hall.

They had to reroute course many times, for they did not know the paths of the palace, and they ran into several dead ends. Menegroth was so unknown to them, but Maglor couldn’t help noticing its cold beauty, despite the darkness that shrouded it.

Finally, they reached a room that looked like a nursery. Clouds and tall trees were painted on the walls, and a rocking chair sat in the corner across from a crib. Clothes and toys were strewn about, and it seemed as though the last people to have been in here were throwing about items in a hurry. The two elves came to the conclusion that someone had come to take the babe away who slept here, and it was likely that that babe was Elwing, the daughter of Dior and Nimloth.

That left Eluréd and Elurín, the twin sons.

The Fëanorians moved to the next room, which clearly belonged to the young twins. Two beds stood side by side, but these looked curiously unrumpled; unlike Elwing’s room, which looked like a hurricane had swept through it, this room looked quite tidy in comparison. There were a few odds and ends here and there, but nothing unusual.

Maglor frowned and opened his mouth to comment on this, when the leader of Celegorm’s followers briskly entered the room. “Ah, Lord Maglor! Lord Maedhros! There you are.”

Maedhros inclined his head. “Geredíl. I am sorry to report to you that Lord Celegorm—as well as Lords Caranthir and Curufin—is dead.”

It is a wonder he can speak those words without even flinching, Maglor thought. He could barely even think of his brothers without images of their bloodied, slaughtered bodies appearing before his eyes. He took a deep breath.

Geredíl nodded. “Yes, we…that is, I and the others in his service, are aware.” There was a note of sorrow in his voice.

“Do you know of the status of others in Doriath?” Maedhros asked. “Maglor and I only arrived in the royal family’s quarters just now, and we were not involved in the heart of the fighting.”

“Yes, Lord Maedhros. Lords Amrod and Amras are still alive, and they are in the west wing. Many of the Doriathrim have fled, and they have taken the Silmaril with them. One of our scouts spotted a keeper with the young princess, Elwing, but was unable to keep up with them.”

Maglor’s heart twisted. All this death, another kinslaying, for a Silmaril to evade them again? Mixed anger and grief rose in his throat, and he swallowed.

Maedhros nodded cordially, as if this was merely a matter of state. “And what of the twins? Eluréd and Elurín?”

Geredíl shrugged. “I expect they are quite a ways away from the palace by now.”

Maedhros tilted his head. “What do you mean? Did they escape with the others?”

Geredíl shook his head. “Oh no, nothing like that. We drove them into the forest.”

A wave of horror washed over Maglor, strangling his tongue.

It was several seconds before Maedhros spoke. His voice came out as a deep growl, tinged with disbelief. “What?”

“We drove them into the forest,” Geredíl repeated. “At the eastern side of the palace.”

“And what reason,” Maedhros spoke slowly, yet Maglor could see the tension in his older brother’s face and rigid stance, “could you possibly have had for doing such a thing?”

For the first time since he had admitted to his actions, Geredíl began to look uncomfortable, though his voice stayed as casual and confident as before. “Well, Lord Celegorm always said it was best to kill wolf pups before they could grow up and become dangerous…”

Maglor could hardly breathe. “Are you saying that our brother commanded you to do this?” he asked, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

Geredíl shook his head. “No. The others of his followers and I simply thought it would be in keeping with his mindset…”

“For all his faults, I do not believe that my brother would ever condone driving children out into the woods with nothing but the clothes they were wearing and no place to go—in winter, no less. You have condemned them to certain death,” Maedhros said in a deadly calm and serious tone. It betrayed nothing of the anger Maglor knew must be simmering beneath the surface.

Geredíl looked down at the floor and then back up at Maedhros, meeting his eyes. “We—”

“Get. Out. Get out of my sight,” Maedhros snarled as he drew himself up to his full height, eyes flashing dangerously. Every aspect of his being radiated pure, barely restrained rage. Maglor nearly shuddered. He had never seen his brother this angry—not after Thangorodrim, nor after hearing of what happened with Celegorm and Curufin at Nargothrond, and certainly not back in Aman. Maedhros looked like he was moments away from drawing his sword and killing Geredíl then and there.

“If I ever see you or any of your filthy friends ever again, you will not live to see another day. GET OUT!” He roared thunderously, and Geredíl immediately fled the room.

Maedhros stared after him, breathing heavily, before taking a deep, shuddering breath and turning to Maglor. “You go find the Ambarussa. I am going after Eluréd and Elurín.”

Maglor stared back at him uncertainly. “Do you think they’re…”

“I don’t know. I have to believe they are still alive.” Maedhros looked out the window distantly. His entire demeanor had changed; his anger had given way to anxiety, and it was evident to Maglor in every line of his body.

Maedhros turned back to him. “Find the Ambarussa. I will return.”

Maglor could only helplessly nod before Maedhros turned and left the room with a determined stride.

A few seconds elapsed before Maglor collapsed to his knees on the floor, and he could not stop the tears falling. He knew he needed to find Amrod and Amras, but everything felt so, so wrong, overwhelmingly so: they had failed to retake the Silmaril, three of his brothers were dead, and innocent children had been left to die in the woods.

In the end, it was Amrod and Amras who found Maglor weeping. They knelt together, collectively feeling the loss of their three brothers and the absence of their older brother in his pursuit to right the only possible reversible wrong that had happened that day.

The Ambarussa were restless, fidgeting and whispering anxiously under their breath to each other in the cold. Maglor wanted to fidget and whisper with them, but he was the oldest here, and he had to remain the picture of strength for them. The last time he had carried the mantle of being the eldest Fëanorion on his shoulders was…..was when Maedhros was in Thangorodrim. It was quite a lonely feeling, having to lead his brothers completely on his own. He had fervently hoped he would never have to experience it again.

They were waiting for Maedhros outside, at the eastern side of the palace. The rest of the contingent, except for Celegorm’s servants—which were who knows where now, Maglor reflected—were ready to leave Menegroth. Maglor had been loath to touch his dead brothers’ bodies, both because he could not bear to feel their cold skin under his fingers and because he thought Maedhros should be there with them for the burial. Finally, however, he had let some of the attendants do the job of preparing the bodies, so now Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin were laid side by side, looking like they were simply asleep. The attendants had also prepared Dior and Nimloth’s bodies for burial; to Maglor’s centuries-old eyes, the fading winter light made the couple appear even younger than they were.

Just when Maglor was on the verge of deciding to venture out after Maedhros, he heard faint rustling from the forest. A couple of minutes later, Maedhros staggered out from the trees and bushes, looking bedraggled and disoriented. Maglor’s heart fell as he saw that there were no small figures making their way out with him, no elflings holding his brother’s hand or clinging to his back.

“Maedhros…” he began, and then trailed off.

“They’re gone,” Maedhros rasped hoarsely, the harshness of his voice evidence that he must have called and called for the twins until he couldn’t pretend they were there any longer. “They’re gone, Maglor.”

A chill ran down Maglor’s spine, and it wasn’t just from the breeze picking up and brushing against his skin. He nodded slowly, bleakly. Eluréd and Elurín were gone, never to be found again.

He bowed his head for a moment, overwhelmed by the weight of all the loss that had occurred that day. He wished he could simply lay down and sleep, for maybe all of this was a bad dream, and he would wake up from this nightmare back in Tirion. But then he shook himself, because night had almost fallen and they needed to bury their brothers.

He met Maedhros’ eyes, and immediately he could tell that his brother was not in any state to be leading himself, the Ambarussa, and their people. Maedhros’ eyes were dull and unfocused, and there were leaves in his hair. Exhaustion was written in every line of his frame, and apathy rolled off him in waves.

So Maglor took charge.

He directed their attendants for the burials. He sang a lament over their brothers’ graves, while the Ambarussa wept and Maedhros stood numbly beside him. And he led them as they left to return to Amon Ereb, as the stars came out in the sky above and the cold wind blew through the trees.

He should have known it would not be a good night for Maedhros, and yet it still surprised him when he heard the sounds of furious cursing and stomping on the floor above him.

Maglor resolved to leave him alone, for it was rare that his presence would help on nights like these, but once a particularly loud crash reached his ears, he sighed and left his room.

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and thumped on Maedhros’ door.

“It’s Maglor,” he called through the door. “I—”

The door abruptly swung open to reveal Maedhros, looking unkempt and wary. “What?”

“I just…” His words caught in his throat. I wanted to check on you.

Maedhros sighed and walked back towards his bed, leaving the door open for Maglor. He came in and closed the door carefully behind him, before turning to see Maedhros stalking back and forth—presumably what he had been doing before Maglor arrived. The flickering fire in the hearth cast long shadows across the floor, and the room was in disarray with clothes, armor, and papers everywhere. A glance at the broken pieces of an inkwell on the floor next to Maedhros’ desk told Maglor where the earlier loud sound had come from.

“It was my fault.”

Maedhros’ low mutter drew Maglor’s gaze from the scene. “The inkwell?”

“No—yes, well—that too.” Maedhros sat down heavily on the end of his bed. “Even after all these years, it is nearly impossible for me to handle anything at a table without spilling something.” His face twisted in bitterness, and he shook his head. “Everything I do comes to no good end. Following Atar…foolishly attempting to parley with Morgoth…believing we ever stood a chance against him. This Oath has only ever worked against us, and it is only now that I can see the poison that it truly is. It has finally led to our brothers’ deaths and those of innocent children.” His voice was thick with self-contempt. He absentmindedly rubbed the stump of his right wrist with his left hand, a motion that was quite familiar to Maglor as an attempt at self-soothing.

Heart aching for Maedhros, Maglor sat down next to him on the bed. “First of all, you lived for much longer with two hands, so you needn’t feel badly about handling things at a table. And…you’ve done plenty of good in the time we’ve been here in Beleriand,” he offered feebly.

Maedhros snorted. “Like what?”

“You brought our forces together with the other factions of our family. You held Himring for centuries. Those have to count for something.” Maglor voiced the first things that came to mind.

Maedhros stared into the fire for several long minutes, and twice Maglor opened his mouth to say something, to try to give his brother some comfort, but found he had nothing to say.

Maedhros stood up and began pacing again, and Maglor could see that self-reflection had only made his brother more agitated. “If I had gone sooner, perhaps there may have been a chance of finding them. If I could have caught those bastards before they chased off the children…”

“Nelyo. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Maglor’s plea went unnoticed as Maedhros’ voice grew sharper and more desperate. “If I had kept a closer eye on Celegorm and his followers, if I had been able to correct his teachings, those children would be safe. But they are not, because I failed. I failed and they are never coming back.”

“Nelyo, stop. There is nothing you could have done better.”

“Fingon should never have rescued me,” Maedhros snarl-shrieked. “I should not be here—should not be here, in the warmth, where I have food and shelter, where I have everything Eluréd and Elurín cannot—”

“Don’t say that!”

“BECAUSE THEY ARE DEAD!” Fire blazed in Maedhros’ eyes.

Aghast, Maglor stared at him, and for a moment a deep sense of helplessness and grief tangled together in his throat, rendering him speechless. But then it all came out in a frustrated yell to match Maedhros’ as he rose from the bed and stood toe-to-toe with his brother, hands balled into fists at his sides. “IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!”

“Yes, it is! I was the one who agreed to attack Doriath! I was the one who—who let our—”

Maedhros suddenly broke off and turned away from him, shoulders starting to shake, and Maglor realized that he was trying not to cry.

“Leave me. Now.”

From years of experience, Maglor knew that at this point, pushing Maedhros or trying to stay with him would not end well. He bowed his head in silent admission and walked out of the room. He closed the door behind him, but it could not fully muffle the sound of Maedhros weeping violently.

Chapter End Notes

I did consider having (or, well, letting) Maedhros kill Geredíl when Geredíl told him what they had done, but I decided that 1) Maedhros letting him go served the purpose of driving all of the servants away (by virtue of Geredíl passing that on to the others) and 2) killing him would be slightly too dark for the story and detract from it, though I fully believe that Maedhros could have done it. In another version of this story, definitely.

Also, Geredíl was simply a name I made up for the fic—it doesn’t have any particular meaning in Elvish, in either Quenya or Sindarin. (However, when I looked into it after I wrote this chapter, I discovered that “ger-” means “dreadful” in Sindarin, which he certainly is! “-díl” doesn’t have any meaning, though in Sindarin “-ndil” means lover or friend. I decided to simply leave his name the way it was, because “dreadful” is meaning enough in my opinion, lol.)

Song-to-Scene Inspiration

Lost: The song was used as inspiration for this whole chapter, really, but the back half (starting at 2 minutes, 28 seconds in) was specifically used for inspiration for the scene in Maedhros’ room.
To me, the start of this song really captures the bitterness, grief, and regret felt by Maglor and Maedhros upon finding their brothers dead, and it also sets the scene for the grim conversation with Geredíl. As for the back half of the song, I loved how it grew in intensity and the feeling of something stalking or looming over the main characters (the Oath and Maedhros' trauma). It felt very right for Maedhros' downward spiral, and I used it to fuel that writing.

Full playlist link here.

Next chapter coming tomorrow, and it’s not as dark as this one!

All editing done by me. If there are any typos or grammatical errors, feel free to let me know. Thank you for reading :)

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