A half-life, a cursed life by Lyra

Chapter 1

"You know," Anárion said, "sometimes I wonder if it isn't true after all."
"What is?" Isildur asked. They were walking along the beach in a heavy unseasonal rain that would ordinarily have kept them scooped up indoors. The atmosphere in the house was so tense, however, so full of helpless anger and futile plans, that both of them were glad to escape, even into the downpour. Anárion would have preferred to move quickly, but Isildur had not regained his full strength, so their pace was slow, and Anárion was forced to let his mind run since his feet had to crawl. It was a miracle that Isildur was up and walking at all, of course. One must not grumble. Still...
"What the Zi -- the King's advisor says," Anárion responded, catching himself just in time. It was rumoured that the Zigûr would be alerted by the mere mention of his name - any name - and then could listen in on your conversations even from afar. Anárion didn't believe it, not really, but it was better to be safe than sorry. They had too many reasons to be sorry these days. He went on, "That his master - the Giver of Freedom, Lord of All, what-have-you - can give life everlasting. Or at least, can keep people alive against nature." Part of him was horrified of himself - how could he ask a question like that? Above all, how could he ask his brother, who had ostensibly just barely escaped from the power of the Zigûr's master? What would Isildur think?

Isildur said, "What makes you think that?" His voice sounded tense, although that might also be from the strain of walking, or from some pain that his pride forbade him to complain about. Either way, Anárion wished he had kept his musings silent. They had been bothering him for over a week, but it had probably been a mistake to share them.
Still, now the thought was out, and so he explained, "Well, I've just been thinking about history. We are agreed that the Giver of Freedom is ultimately the Dark Enemy, right? And we know what he did."
"Bestow immortality?" Isildur asked, his face unreadable, but Anárion knew his brother well enough to feel his skepticism.
"Yes - in a way," he pushed on. "I mean, think of Maedhros. Even if we assume that they were somehow feeding him while he was up on Thangorodrim, nobody would have been able to survive that long hanging from a mountainside, right? When people are tortured in that manner, they have to be propped up after a while so they won't die. First they fall unconscious, and then if you just keep them hanging, they die. And it's a matter of hours, really. You can't keep someon hanging by just a wrist for so long without them dying."
"Your knowledge about these matters is slightly worrying," Isildur said, tilting his head in bemusement. "Should I ask where you got it?"
Anárion raised his chin. "I did some research, if you must know. We're threatened with these things all the time, right? So I wanted to know what exactly would happen. Now I do."
"Has it helped you?" Isildur sounded mildly curious now.
Shrugging, Anárion said, "It has helped me to understand why Father is so worried. Why he won't do anything. Why he won't let us do anything."
"Hm. Fair enough."

They walked on in silence for a while, and Anárion didn't dare to raise the subject again. But it appeared that Isildur had continued to think about it, because eventually he said, "Maedhros was an Elf, of course. We're told they can bear things that would kill us mortals. They didn't starve on the Grinding Ice either, did they? Not to death, anyway. Perhaps months are like hours to them."
"But we're talking about years upon years!"
"We don't know that."
"It's what the chronicles suggest."
"The chronicles don't even agree," Isildur pointed out. "And some of them were written decades, or even centuries, after the fact. And Maedhros probably didn't tell the writers too many details about his captivity, if they even asked him in the first place."
Anárion scowled. "Fine. Let's take Húrin, then. He was mortal. And he was sitting in a single place for how long?"
Isildur frowned as he did his calculation. "About 28 years. If the Chronicles are correct."
"So he should have died from exposure alone. Or from sores. Even if they kept him fed and clean and everything. And he certainly wouldn't have been able to walk all the way to Doriath. You couldn't walk on your own just a few weeks back, and that was just after one winter."

Isildur chose not to comment on that, asking instead, "So you are saying that the Chronicles are wrong?"
"No," Anárion said forcefully, "I think that maybe something was done to keep Húrin - and Maedhros, too - alive against the natural processes that would have made them die. And if that was done, then it was probably done by the Enemy. So he can do that. Not in the sense of true immortality, but in the sense of keeping death away. Don't you think?"
Isildur took his time thinking. "Maybe," he conceded. "But even if he is, then it's clearly not something to be desired. It is life, but it is a cursed life. Even when they were released, neither Maedhros nor Húrin came to a good end."
"I didn't say it was desirable. I just said it might be true. It's not an outright lie."
"Maybe not." There was a long, heavy pause. They were both sodden by now, and all of a sudden, Anárion felt very cold.
"We should turn back," he said. "We must have been walking for an hour."
"Hmm," Isildur agreed. "If we go missing again, Father will go mad for sure."
"Again?! I've never gone missing before!"
"Very well. If I go missing again, and you go missing for the first time, Father will go mad." Isildur said it jokingly, but Anárion could hear the edge underneath - the knowledge that they really might go missing, the knowledge that their father might truly go mad. Anárion thought of Húrin, forced to witness the destruction of his family. He thought of Maedhros, fighting a fight that could not be won. He thought of the black smoke from the Temple, and of his brother who had nearly died, for something that might mean nothing. He thought of the aging King, and wondered whether he would be granted what he was looking for. Life beyond mortal nature, but at what price? A cursed life it would surely be. Then again, it certainly seemed to be cursed already.
Huddled into their drenched cloaks, the brothers made their cumbersome way back across the wet sand.