#caranthir: i heard you the first time nelyo

[aotearoa20]

Penance: Part One. One/Two/Three

The little messenger of the Valar was actually very lucky to have found them all together at the same time.

There were many rooms and long corridors in Mandos. Ambarussa had found Curufin in this one some time ago, on the small outcropping of rock by an underground waterfall. And he would not be moved. He sat with a form that was barely distinguishable and stared out at where the water hit the pool, causing a continuous spray of bioluminescence.

Caranthir had no intention of lingering beside his brother’s bitterness. He wandered, often to the Halls of Vaire. He met his grandmother and her handmaidens. Sometimes he looked for news in the tapestries. Sometimes he could persuade the solemn to give him work. They never let him do more than untangle threads but in a being barely corporeal, it was enough of a challenge to keep him for utter boredom.

Ambarussa wandered too, Amras trailing after his twin as he showed every nook and cranny left in the Halls. But they returned now and again, trying to coax their brothers into their explorations. Celegorm followed them once or twice but usually remained within eyeshot of the little room with the waterfall.

It was pure chance that Caranthir had ended at back there at the same time as the twins and nothing was said of it. They didn’t speak all that much, well, save Amrod who never really stopped. He seemed scared of the empty space.

Mandos is quiet. For weary broken souls, the silence is a balm. A space to reorient and to heal. But Amrod has long come to terms with himself. Amrod is long healed and Caranthir knows the dark quiet has been smothering him. He thinks he may go mad and could almost laugh at the irony.

A light appeared in the doorway and it was strange. There was light down here. Green flamed lamps and plants that glowed hues of violet and blue. But this was different. This was warm and too bright for his imagined eyes. The figure obscured its glare was tangible enough for his footsteps to echo.

"What news, friend?" Amrod smiled.

Caranthir shivered. It’s eerie the ease with which Amrod could speak with Namo’s Maiar. Their presence still filled him witth a sense of dread, though this one didn’t seem to. Celegorm stood as it drew near but made no move towards it. There was somethingwrong about it. It was too bright, too solid -

“I’m looking for Maedhros Fëanorian.”

There was a beat of silence before Amrod grinned, “You are not dead”

There was a excitement in his voice that sounded nearly like a threat. The stranger lowered the lamp and as his face came into view, Caranthir was almost certain he knew him.

“Lúthien,” he heard Celegorm whisper and with that he was certain.

“You’re Elros’ brother” he said as he rose to his feet. The elf opened his mouth to reply but for a moment no words come out. As if he didn’t know where to pursue his first question or ask a new one.

“He came this way before he left.” Caranthir continued making the choice for him, “He also asked for Nelyo.”

“I am Elrond Peredhel.”

Half Elven. Dior’s grandson. He would have been the Prince of Doriath if fate and his family had been kinder.

“But you are not following him?”

He would have assumed so. He knew their own twins dealt ill with being parted. Elros had not stayed long. Caranthir’s remembered thinking of asking him to carry a message to the otherside. Perhaps he should have.

But it would appear this one was not bound for the Doors of Night. Amrod was right, he was still living and evenso he could sense a solidness to his fëa that his brother did not have.

“No.”

“What do you want?,” Curufin's voice cut sharp from his little crevice of stone.

“To speak with Maedhros.” Elrond replied, undeterred by the coldness of it. 

“Why?”

Caranthir took a breath he didn’t need, ready to defend the poor boy from whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth when they were both silenced.

“Elrond?”

They all turned to the shadowed door.

Maedhros had arrived so close to fading, they feared they would lose him forever. Even now his fëa was barely a wisp of a thing. It was as if the darkness had found a voice.

“So for this one he’ll appear, but we are not so worthy,” Celegorm doesn’t quite growl but Caranthir elbowed him as hard as an incorporeal spirit can elbow another. He might scare Nelyo away for another hundred years.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began, the word hung in the air a moment before he shook his head and looked away, “I have petitioned the Valar for your release.”

“Little pity,” Amras echoed softly.

Elrond turned to the voice and nodded, “but not none at all, I have come to you all with a proposition”

“All of us?” Celegorm said in surprise, he like the rest, assumed any bargaining would be for Nelyo alone. But the half-elf smiled and went to sit on a small shelf of rock. His grip on the lamp shook faintly as he placed it down.

He took a breath and said, “The Valar, Namo especially, have no desire to keep you in here until the world’s breaking. Some of you have been in these Halls longer than Morgoth himself and your crimes though terrible could not be counted as worse than his.”

Caranthir didn’t intend to laugh, but Celegorm chuckled beside him and he found he could not help himself.

“Even so,” Elrond stared at them both unimpressed, “There are many who would argue most of the great woes of the world came to being at Morgoth’s first release and the Valar would have you free to sow discord in Aman. If you were to return there would be conditions.”

Unease shivered through his fëa. Caranthir wasn’t sure he wanted to know of whatever deal Elrond teased out of the Valar. Return would be a curse while the Oath hung over them. Here at least it slept once they realised there could be no escape from the Halls. Better they languish here until Maglor deigned to joined them, and with him any chance of reclaiming the last of their own. And then to Darkness, whatever that entailed. Compared to rhe alternative it would be a relief.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the boy’s efforts. Misguided though they were he had no reason to go through the trouble. It was sweet really.

“You would be put under the responsibility of one of the Valar and under their service – ”

Never mind, he was a petty bastard. Caranthir almost respected him for it. He laughed again, harsh and deliberate. This had to be a joke.

“That’s no reprieve, it is another prison.” Curufin had no face with which to glare. The flickering mist the made him up seemed to pulse and condense in on itself.

“But we could be free of this place.” Amras muttered, wincing more out of habit than anything else as his twin gripped his shoulder.

“To what end?” Curufin hissed, “Are we to be thralls until the end of time?”

“The Valar agreed they would be poor judges of the length of such service. A small council was appointed to judge when it would be safe for you to be left free and unchecked. Olwë, Elwing and Nimloth. Idril also was asked but she said would trust in the wisdom of the three.”

“Then we should be slaves forever! Who would agree to such a bargain?!”

More was said, by most of them, with far less grace. Caranthir himself had no desire to be the lackey of any of the Powers. He was quite comfortable down here, awaiting their doom in his own dread and despair and he was more happy to explain that to the little upstart.

Elrond sat patient enough until their protests died down.

“I have spoken with my father,” he said, quietly softly now, his eyes landed on each of them, “He said if you would agree to these terms, he would return to you the last of the Silmarils for as long as it was necessary to release from your Oath.”

The silence that fell was black and cloying. Maedhros had told them he and Maglor had watched over the peredhel twins for a time. He’d said little more, only to get him off his case, the last time they had been visited by other. Given the extent the Oath had ravaged him by the time he arrived here, they all gathered that it would not have been a pleasant experience for any involved.

He studied the boy’s gentle expression. Did he know the power he held over them all in a single sentence? He must. He must know he could get them to agree to anything for the sake of that offer. It would be a fitting and complete vengeance for this prince of the Sindar to hold the fate of them all at his mercy. Except he couldn’t align such cunning with the person before him.

And for all the humiliation being at the beck and call of the Valar would be, given the truly limitless possibilities, it was a fairly tame punishment. Perhaps it would have to be for the Powers to agree to it.

“What of our father?” Celegorm said suddenly, his voice strangely void of its usual elegance, “and Maglor, we don’t even know where he is.”

“This offer is open to all of you, I can go no further into Mandos like this but Namo said he would speak to Feanor” Elrond sighed, “As for Maglor, he is found. He rests in my house.”

“Is he alright.” Maedhros asked in a tight voice.

“He is not,” Elrond replied and for some strange reason he seemed grieved, “He will not allow himself to be helped but has conceded to follow whichever fate you choose. I... it is not a choice to taken lightly, but please don’t tarry, for his sake.”

“We will do it,” Curufin spoke up. He paid no heed to the stared that stares leveled his way, instead he turned to Maedhros, “We have to don’t we? What use is there debating it?"

Maedhros sighed so deeply him might have dissipated himself into dust. But he nodded and all at once Caranthir’s grip on eternity pitched once again. He had half a mind to resist it. He did not have to agree to this deal that he had not hand in shaping or bargaining. There were too many loop holes that could be explored and exploited both ways. But a familiar heaviness gripped him and turned his tongue to lead. He could not risk Elrond recinding his offer by asking too many questions.

The smile on the half elf’s face was drenched with relief. If he didn’t know better Caranthir would have thought the lantern itself shone brighter at the news. He couldn’t fathom why. His head hurt, so little has happened for so long, for everything he knew to change once more! But to be free... Such hope was as sharp as a knife pericing the depths of his fea. He tore it out and shook his head. Free to do what?

[thelordofgifs]

Part the fourteenth! I've been looking forward to this one :)

A ripple of shock goes through Curufin’s temporary camp when the High King of the Noldor rides in.

“What is going on here?” Fingon demands, all bright hard-edged fury. “Have you all gone mad?”

“My King,” croaks one of Maedhros’ people. “We thought you lost—”

It is very easy to believe, looking at him now, that Fingon’s father dealt seven blows to Morgoth himself.

"Did you," he says. "Well, here I am! So you can all stand down this instant." And when they hesitate, "Where's the command tent?"

Curufin is not expecting Fingon to rip his way through the tent-flap.

"Fingon!" he exclaims, instantly on guard. "What a surprise."

"So I've heard," Fingon says coldly. "Where's Russo?"

Curufin wills himself not to falter under that thunderous glare. "Himring," he says.

"Himring," Fingon repeats flatly. "Am I supposed to believe that? He let you march on Doriath without him? What is he thinking – what are you thinking? And why are my people all looking at me as though I've walked straight out of Mandos?"

Curufin's mouth is dry. He wants, very badly, to confess to everything: to say, as he might in childhood, having broken one of Caranthir's toys, I made a mistake, help me fix it.

But Fingon is not one of his brothers. Curufin can't trust him, especially not after what he's done.

"He is at Himring, truly," he says. "He wasn't – well, when we left. We thought you lost."

"Why?" Fingon asks, puzzled. "Curvo, you knew where I was – you saw me go!"

"I thought Thingol would kill you," Curufin says.

Fingon's eyes harden again. "Did you? Or were you just angry because I took the Silmaril?"

"I thought you'd fail, and Thingol would take it from you!" says Curufin. "As you clearly did – where's Káno?"

"I did nothing of the sort," says Fingon, stung. "He's in Himring. With both the Silmarils. So you can call off this idiotic attack, for a start. How were you even planning to get through the Girdle of Melian?"

Fingon, as we've seen, has absolutely no compunctions re: lying about Silmarils.

Curufin thinks this sounds far too good to be true. But then he realises. "Wait. You mean that?"

"I'm not the one who can't go five minutes without some sort of deceit," Fingon says, more sharply because the accusation is true.

Curufin shakes this off and presses. "You left Káno in Himring," he says, "but you didn't see Nelyo there?"

"I left in a rush," says Fingon; "I thought he was here." Then he pauses. "When you say he wasn't well, what do you mean?"

Maedhros in the foothills around Himring, deciding to take on a party of orcs entirely by himself—

Maedhros pale and wild-eyed, his knife pressed against Curufin's throat—

"I have to," says Curufin, through suddenly numb lips, "I have to get back there."

Fingon stares at him. "I think first you might let me know what it is exactly you're not telling me."

Curufin feels a little sick.

"You don't want to know," he hedges.

"I'll be the judge of that," says Fingon.

Curufin takes a breath. "I told him you were dead," he says. "You and Káno both."

There is a long silence. He stares at the ground.

"I see," says Fingon at last, his tone very level.

"Fingon—" Curufin says.

"Get out of my sight," says Fingon. "I have no wish to become a Kinslayer again."

"I have to get back to Himring," Curufin says, feebly.

"Planning to finish the job, are you?" Fingon asks. He isn't looking at Curufin.

Not so long ago, Curufin manipulated an entire people into turning against their king.

If he can only have a little time, he can summon up the words to convince Fingon of the danger he has seen—

One of the scouts he sent ahead while setting up camp chooses that moment to burst in.

"My lords," he gasps, glancing with some confusion between Fingon and Curufin, "we've seen them: the banners of the Sindar. Thingol is marching to war."

Meanwhile

[juggling timelines for dramatic effect. "meanwhile" here means "some hours earlier"]

"Nelyo, I'm sorry," says Maglor, rapidly. "Thingol took the other Silmaril from me – I tried to convince him to give it back but he didn't listen – I'm sorry—"

"You aren't," Maedhros says faintly.

His lips are slightly parted. He still hasn't moved from the doorway.

Maglor flinches. "I failed you," he says. "You mightn't believe me, but I am sorry, truly."

"No," says Maedhros. "You are not – he is not—"

Maglor has made Maedhros his chief study for many years.

He looks at him, now, and understands.

“Can you tell me where you are, Nelyo?” he asks gently.

Maedhros shudders and closes his eyes.

“Nelyo,” Maglor says, “listen to me. You’re in Himring. You’re free. Take as long as you need – I’m here.”

Slow and careful. Don’t startle him.

“Enough,” says Maedhros, “enough. You have overstretched your hand, Sauron. He cannot be both dead and alive. You will have to pick one.”

Don’t ever contradict him directly. That only makes it worse.

“Why do you think I’m dead, Nelyo?” Maglor asks. “Talk to me.”

“You cannot trick me anymore,” says Maedhros. “You are – he is alive. I know it. I rode away from him in Mithrim. It does not matter what you say! You are not he.”

“But we left Mithrim, Nelyo,” Maglor says softly. “Do you remember? We went to East Beleriand. You hold Himring yet, and I with you.”

Maedhros opens his eyes. Maglor has not seen them filled with such anguish for many centuries. “Well, then, which is it?” he asks. “If he is dead then you are only a wraith wearing his shape. If he lives – and – and none of it was real at all—”

(It's worth noting that, with the exception of the twins, Maglor and Curufin are the two sons of Fëanor who most resemble each other: they have the same colouring, and they're both slighter than their brothers, with the same long skilful fingers.)

(It is not implausible that a shape-shifter, tired of impersonating Curufin, might switch to Maglor's form without too much difficulty.)

"It was real, Nelyo, I promise," says Maglor. "Listen to me. You know it to be true."

But Maedhros laughs despairingly. "I don't know anything to be true," he says. "You have made sure of that. Well, you have got what you wanted. No doubt it amuses you."

Be kind. Remind him he is loved.

"Nothing that hurt you could ever amuse me, Nelyo," Maglor says. "Look at me. Look at this."

He picks up the Silmaril and, with an effort, gets out of bed. Very painfully, he limps the few steps across the room to where Maedhros is still shivering at the door.

Maedhros glances at the jewel as it's held out to him, but his eyes snap almost immediately back to Maglor's face.

"You don't need to do anything," Maglor says, soothingly. "But there is light beyond the darkness, I promise you."

Maedhros shivers. "I won't," he says. "I won't believe you again."

Don't try to use force to convince him – the Enemy did that often enough.

"That's alright," Maglor says, still holding out the Silmaril. "Take your time."

Maedhros' eyes are so strange and wild. Maglor would almost be afraid, if he had ever in his life thought to fear Maedhros.

"I do not," says Maedhros, "I do not want this anymore. It was – it was not so terrible, when I could still pretend – but now – you are only taunting me now, doing this. Let it end."

Maglor's bad leg gives out. Before he can fall Maedhros catches him, putting his right arm around Maglor's waist.

Don't ever touch him without asking. But it can be a good sign, if he's the one who reaches out.

"Thank you, Nelyo," Maglor breathes.

Maedhros' lips are white and trembling. "Let it end," he says again.

The heat hits Maglor first, before the pain registers.

Too late, he looks away from Maedhros' face, down to where his brother's knife is protruding from his side.

He always keeps a knife on him, Maglor recalls.

Maedhros' breath is coming sharp and terrified. Forgetting every rule, Maglor reaches up to put a hand against his cheek.

"It's all right," he says calmly. "It's all right."

Quickly, unsubtly, he starts to sing a lullaby. The same lullaby he sang to Carcharoth, in fact, not that it helped much then.

But Maedhros is so very tired, body and soul. And the song was written for him.

His eyes slide closed.

Maglor sits down hard on the floor before he can fall, drawing Maedhros' head into his lap, keeping up a quiet hum as he does so.

There is blood soaking through his clothes, beginning to form a puddle on the stones.

It hurts more than Maglor expected.

He does not have the strength to shout for help – and who would hear him, up here in the tower room he calls his own? So that you don't keep the whole fortress up when you're composing every hour of the night, Maedhros told him with a laugh, when he first gave him the room.

And he cannot stop humming long enough to call for aid, anyway. He will not be able to subdue Maedhros again should he wake.

He can stay here, then, with one hand holding the Silmaril, and the other resting in Maedhros' hair, and the steady drip-drip-drip of blood onto the floor his only metronome.

It is not the worst way to die.

(Maglor has never really wanted to die.)

He is still sitting like that when he hears the orc-horns outside.

(to be continued)

the fairest stars

What if Angrist was a little tougher, and Beren and Lúthien managed to steal two Silmarils from Morgoth instead of one? Somehow I’ve already written NINE parts of this unhinged bullet point AU here and decided it was time for a fresh post to avoid that one getting too long.

Where we left off: Lúthien has been negotiating with Mandos like a pro, Maglor is nearly-but-not-quite-dead in Menegroth, Thingol has taken one Silmaril from him, Fingon has the other Silmaril and ditched Curufin outside the Girdle even though they did some bonding on the Worst Road Trip, and people are still upset about Celegorm’s death. YES I am well aware that the pipeline from the fairly normal first sentence of the post to this mess is insane.

Fingon and Maedhros are both very, very good tacticians. Between them, it isn’t very difficult for Fingon to follow Maedhros’ directions towards Menegroth, and then to find the hidden pathways by which Huan led Maedhros out of Thingol’s halls.

It helps that Thingol is still under the impression that the Girdle is impenetrable with the aid of his Silmaril, so he doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye out for the High King of the Noldor sneaking into his realm on an Adventure.

Finding Maglor's sickroom/prison cell/whatever is a little trickier, but not impossible. Long ago in Tirion Fingon was a mischievous child, so he's well aware that the best way not to get caught sneaking into a forbidden place is to make it perfectly clear that you belong there.

He strides confidently down the corridors, silently reciting Maedhros' directions to himself. Nobody stops him.

He's hoping that Curufin was wrong, and he'll know Maglor's door by the holy light showing through the cracks; but when none is evident he's forced to take his chances and start trying doors in the area Maedhros indicated at random.

Since he has plot armour is very lucky with this whole improbable-rescue thing he comes across Maglor without any trouble.

Maglor is only half-conscious – quite apart from the wounded leg, he hasn’t eaten in days – but his eyes flicker open when Fingon comes in.

“Hello, Makalaurë,” Fingon says, deliberately cheerful. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“You can’t do that,” Maglor says dazedly. “It burned – in the Bragollach – remember?”

Fingon opts not to answer that. “Russo said you were healing when he left,” he says instead, frowning at the bloodstained bandages around Maglor’s leg. “What happened? Has Thingol been mistreating you? I thought Lúthien at least was kind!”

Maybe he was too hasty in leaving Curufin outside the Girdle.

Maglor hurries to explain that Lúthien is dead, and that he’s actually in this pathetic state by choice or something.

“Right,” says Fingon, “well, you’re coming back to Himring now.”

But Maglor shakes his head. “I can’t, Finno,” he says. “Thingol took the Silmaril from me. I don’t – I’ve been trying to hold it back. The Oath. But I can’t leave it in Doriath and go, I can’t. So you’ll have to leave me behind.” He manages a brave and tragic smile.

On Thangorodrim while Fingon was struggling futilely with Morgoth’s iron shackle, hopeless tears running down his face, Maedhros said, You’ll never be able to free me, Finno, just kill me, please—

Fingon is rather sick of Fëanorian melodrama.

“One step ahead of you,” he says brightly, and he produces Maedhros’ Silmaril from its box, handing it to Maglor before his Oath can stir at the sight of it. “Here it is.”

This would never normally work. But Maglor is very tired and ill, and not thinking as clearly as he otherwise would.

As long as the obvious question doesn’t occur to him until they get outside the Girdle again—

Maglor takes the jewel and gives a relieved little sigh as the bite of the Oath eases. “You really took it from Thingol?”

“Of course,” Fingon lies. “Let’s put it back in the box for now so that it doesn’t attract too much attention?”

Maglor acquiesces. He and Fingon aren’t close exactly, but they get on well – certainly far better than Fingon does with Curufin. There’s an odd shared camaraderie that comes from loving Maedhros; it lends itself well to cooperation in difficult circumstances.

Fingon picks Maglor up – he's alarmingly light – and they begin to make their way back out of Menegroth.

"You're to be my betrothal gift," Fingon tells Maglor, and Maglor actually laughs.

Unfortunately it's much harder to look innocuous when you're carrying someone about five minutes away from expiring on the spot.

They haven't got very far before an angry voice comes from behind them: "Who are you and where are you going with the Fëanorion?"

Damn.

Meanwhile

[I should clarify my definition of "meanwhile" here. Evidently time runs much slower in Aman than it does in Middle-earth, even post-Darkening, or it's difficult to fathom why Beren and Lúthien canonically took two years to return from death. In vague support of this, the Fellowship find that time runs slowly in Lothlórien, presumably with the aid of Galadriel's ring, so I posit that the more Divine Stuff there is near a place (and Galadriel was ofc a student of Melian too), the more weird time shit occurs. So since I've anyway fudged the timelines so that travel times work out conveniently, we can also put the bits of story occurring in Aman here for funsies.]

Meanwhile, Finrod has been following Celegorm around in the Halls of Mandos.

"Was it worth it?" he asks. "Did you take joy in the lordship of Nargothrond, once I was gone?"

"I could ask you the same," says Celegorm, responding for the first time. "Did you die for anything in the end, Ingoldo? The mortal's here, after all your efforts. So much for your oath."

"So much for yours," says Finrod; "it looks like that eternal darkness you doomed yourself to wasn't that dark. Or eternal. So what was it all for? Do you even regret any of it?"

The dead can't lie. Artifice and deception are matters of the flesh, and they are buried with it.

"I didn't want you to die," Celegorm says.

"Well, that's a start!" says Finrod. "I can't say I'm glad to see you here, either."

"O Fair and Faithful one," says Celegorm, "spare me none of your pity. They are already whispering that you will be released soon, first of all the Exiles to walk again in Aman. So it's all turned out rather well for you, despite your evil cousins' machinations."

"I suppose it has," says Finrod, thinking.

The thing is, it was worth it. Beren's life mattered. It mattered that he saved it, even if he died to do so, even if Beren is dead now too (although word is that might be changing).

He did not do it expecting a reward.

"And my werewolf was bigger than yours," says Celegorm.

Finrod rolls his metaphorical eyes. "At least I actually killed mine."

Cousinly bickering is still kind of fun, even when you're dead.

Curufin, fuming outside the Girdle, would not agree.

After a time he's forced to conclude that the only thing he can do is head back to Himring.

The ride through Himlad, once as green and fair a land as any, does not improve his mood.

Also his burned hand is still hurting.

Look: here's the little stream where Celegorm caught a huge fish once; and here are the low hills where, a couple of centuries ago, they held some war games and Curufin's people thrashed Celegorm's decisively.

Here's the copse where, years before the Dagor Aglareb brought tentative peace to East Beleriand, Curufin and his son were surprised by a party of orcs, who took their small patrol all captive.

Tyelpë was just barely of age at the time. How trusting his eyes, then, how baby-soft his hair: how easily he had believed that his father would fix everything.

As for Curufin, he spent the hours-long ordeal learning anew what terror was, rendered compliant by the mere possibility that they could hurt his child.

They were fine, in the end. Celegorm rode up to the rescue while the orcs were still quarrelling over where to take them.

But Curufin remembers: how disabling love can be.

Meanwhile Fingon finds himself surrounded by a crowd of angry Iathrim in their home city.

He sets Maglor down on the floor and sets a hand on his sword-hilt, wondering if he is about to become a Kinslayer again.

(Fingon regrets Alqualondë more than anything; and he'd do it again, for Maedhros' sake. He knows this about himself.)

Before things escalate too far, Thingol shows up at the scene of the disturbance.

"We haven't met," Fingon says. "Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. I've come for my cousin." He gives Thingol a rather dangerous smile.

Thingol thinks he might be in serious trouble. He attempts to adopt a conciliatory tone (which is really really hard for Thingol ok he's trying).

"He'll die if he's moved," he says, nodding to where Maglor is slumped against the wall, shivering.

"He'll die if he stays here!" Fingon says. "Is this the famed hospitality of your halls?"

"He has been offered every treatment he could ask for," Thingol says. "It is not the fault of Menegroth if he chooses to refuse them. Now tell me, son of Fingolfin, how came you through the Girdle of Melian – without her leave or mine?"

Maglor puts the pieces together. "Finno, you lied to me," he breathes, glancing at the box in Fingon's hand.

Fingon wonders if it would be diplomatically insensitive to kick Thingol.

"The jewel alone does not explain it," Thingol insists. "While I hold the Silmaril my daughter won, surely—?"

"I could have told you that, had you asked," says Maglor. "Silmarils aren't weapons! You can't use one as some sort of military defence."

Thingol is now questioning all his life choices.

He only took the Silmaril from Maglor in the first place because he thought it would protect his kingdom, and now—

Maglor is feeling resigned. He should have known Fingon's claim was too good to be true. Thingol still has the Silmaril, and Maglor can't leave Menegroth without it.

Face pale and set, he attempts to get to his feet, mostly unsuccessfully.

Fingon looks down at him. "Seriously, Makalaurë?" And when Maglor ignores him, he says, "Sorry about this," and kicks Maglor's bad leg – carefully, but still hard enough to hurt.

Maglor faints.

Fingon picks his limp body up. "The Silmaril isn't yours," he tells Thingol.

"The white ships of Olwë my brother's people were not yours, either," Thingol returns.

Fingon inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I don't wish to start a war over the Silmaril," he says. Maglor is so cold and still in his arms. "My cousins have done enough for that cause lately. Only let me take my kinsman home."

Thingol hesitates. The iron box in Fingon's hand is so close, and Fingon is outnumbered, and he has his injured cousin to worry about—

It could all be over, if he took the second Silmaril. He'd never need to worry about his people's safety from invasion again.

"Elu," comes a voice from behind him, "enough of this. Let them go."

"Queen Melian," says Fingon, bowing his head.

She barely looks at him, meeting her husband's gaze instead. "Time and again you have disregarded me," she says. "Lúthien is lost, and yet you persist with this. Will you heed me now?"

Thingol stares at her, and then, finally, he waves his hand. The bristling guards move aside, allowing Fingon free passage down the corridor.

"I trust you can remember your way out," Thingol tells Fingon, and turns away.

Fingon looks at Melian. "Thank you," he says, "and I am very sorry about your daughter."

He has met Maiar before, of course, in Valinor: but Melian is still unsettling, with her implausibly flawless face and eyes that hold yet the memory of a time before Time.

"Little king," she says, "only hope that you will not know any such pain yourself."

Fingon manages a smile. "I'm good at that," he says. "Hope."

On that note he leaves Menegroth, carrying Maglor, and begins to make the long trek back through the Forest of Region, and thence to Himring.

Curufin has managed the journey significantly more quickly. On a crisp cold morning he rides back through Himring's gates.

Maedhros has been... managing. Not well, but he trusts Fingon.

Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you.

But here's Curufin by himself, looking pale and tired, and after all it was only a hastily-scribbled note, not an incantation.

Maedhros arrives at the gate at a run.

Scarce weeks ago it was the other way around, Maedhros riding into the fortress with Fingon's cloak only just concealing his bloodstained clothes: and Curufin met him as he came in and he can still feel the terrible jolt of knowledge in his stomach, and Celegorm is still dead.

How can it be borne?

A thought comes to Curufin and for a moment he thinks it the cruellest idea he has ever had, but Celegorm is dead and his hand is still burned and nobody expects any better of him anyway.

"They're dead," he says flatly, "they're both dead," and Maedhros just – stares at him.

(to be continued)

[the-doom-of-mandos]

Maedhros: *speaking Spanish*

Caranthir: I know, I know

Fingon: You speak Spanish?

Caranthir: No. I just know the phrase ‘this is all your fault’ in every language Maedhros speaks

[onthesandsofdreams]

Loom & Thread

Fandom: The Silmarillion Characters: Caranthir & Maedhros Rating: G Summary: “Don’t listen to him. Do what you love Moryo, and I’m sure you’ll be the best at it.” He nods, grateful for Nelyo’s comforting words and his understanding; he’s always been the one that knew what to say, to make them feel better, no matter what. And for that he’s glad Nelyo’s the eldest, he is grateful for him, always will be. Two days later, Nelyo gifts him with cloth, thread, needles and other things he may need. A week later, Atar gives him a loom with a solemn look in his face, “It was my Amil’s,” his voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “Nelyo spoke about your wants, so I figured you could use it. Treat the loom with care Moryo, and use it well.” Words: Notes: For Fictober-Event, prompt #3.- you did this? Warnings: None apply.

Read @ AO3

Carnistir prefers the loom and embroidery over the forge, over his mother’s sculpting too. It starts at a young age, at an age when most ellyn are running about and climbing trees, he doesn’t, instead, he grabs a shirt and needle and thread and makes a simple design.

It ends a little crooked, but he considers it a good first attempt. Being the son of his parents, he knows better than most that, innate talent can be nurtured and grow. So, that’s what he does. He practices on his things, little simple designs here and there.

When someone another boy asks about the embroidery in his tunic, he proudly declares they’re his. The other boy laughs, says it’s not something ellon do. His temper flares, pushes the boy into a mud puddle and stalks homes.

It’s Nelyo who asks – but then again, he always does – about it.

“I like it, I want to work on the loom and embroider.” He says, he does not pout. “A boy made fun of me.”

Nelyo, Varda bless him, simply puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles softly down at his brother. “Don’t listen to him. Do what you love Moryo, and I’m sure you’ll be the best at it.”

He nods, grateful for Nelyo’s comforting words and his understanding; he’s always been the one that knew what to say, to make them feel better, no matter what. And for that he’s glad Nelyo’s the eldest, he is grateful for him, always will be.

Two days later, Nelyo gifts him with cloth, thread, needles and other things he may need. A week later, Atar gives him a loom with a solemn look in his face, “It was my Amil’s,” his voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “Nelyo spoke about your wants, so I figured you could use it. Treat the loom with care Moryo, and use it well.”

“Thank you, Atar, I will.” Solemn and serious he promises. He knows that his father treasures that loom. And another wave of gratefulness washes over him for Nelyo. Decides to make him something nice as thanks.

So, he throws himself at learning, discovers how fast hours pass him by with ease. He starts small, and as his skill grows, so do his works. Through it all, Nelyo keep bringing him things, his shirts that need mending (so he can practice), thread, beads and needles, lace, pen and ink for his designs and sketches and other things besides. He’s grateful for the confidence his brother has in him. Soon enough, he’s made a tapestry that atar hangs in the drawing room. A shawl for amil. But for Nelyo, he designs a shirt in deep blue with green, gold and silver designs that he’ll embroider on. A belt in the same design. And so, he starts and does so with care. Hides this particular work, doesn’t want anyone to see it until it’s ready, doesn’t want a word to reach Nelyo until he presents his gift. He’ll work on something for atar and amil, but that’ll come after.

He wonders through the market once Nelyo’s shirt and belt are ready to be embroidered. He seeks gold  and silver thread, beads in red, gold and black. Finds his treasures and hides them alongside Nelyo’s gift. And with care and a patience that – before he started working on the loom – he didn’t know he had, he works slowly. Every stitch is made with the utmost care, every bead placed in the right spot, one after the other. And his design comes to life in the blink of an eye.

Before he even declares his work ready, he inspects it three times. Runs his hands over the designs, makes sure the beads are placed correctly and in such a manner they shine in the light. Once he is completely happy, he wraps it in silk and adds a bow. He’ll give it to Nelyo in the morrow, it’s late, there’s no need to wake Nelyo over this.

The following morning, once everyone has left the table, he follows Nelyo to his work space. Nelyo prefers to work with clay, something that he never quite got, but then again, they all like different things. Creativity is something that runs strong in their family. And he speaks before his brother can dirty his hands.

“Nelyo,” He near bounces at the door of his brother’s work space. “Brother, I have something for you.”

Nelyo blinks, then his smiles. “Oh?”

He shifts, from one foot to the other. “Can you come into my room, I have a gift for you there.”

“Of course.”

He rushes to his room, pleased to see that Nelyo has followed, dives into his closet and retrieves the bundle he stashed there the previous evening. His brother sits on his bed, he offers the gift. “Here, for you.”

Nelyo smiles and opens carefully his gift. His brother’s eyebrows shoot upwards, he looks up and grins, “You did this?” He nods and Nelyo’s grin grows. He watches as his brother inspects first the belt, sees the careful way his fingers go over the embroidery and the gentle way they touch the beads, as if he were afraid of disturbing them. Nelyo lifts the shirt next and he watches as his brother repeats his actions with the belt. “You are gifted, little brother,” Nelyo finally says. “These are a fine pair of gifts that I will always treasure. The feather patterns are flawless, and the colors are well chosen. Thank you. I will wear them at the next formal dinner we attend.”

He grins at his brother, Nelyo never lies about these things, so he rests easy knowing that he has pleased his brother. Pride in his work grows. Now, all he has to do is design a shawl for ammë and something for atto. With that in mind, he starts making plans.

Nelyo, true to his word, wears his gifts on the next chance he gets. His brother looks great in them, with his pale skin and copper hair, the blues and greens he picked compliment him quite nicely and he resists the urge to bounce in excitement. It’s not princely to do so in public.

He’s thankful for his darker complexion when he overhears someone ask Nelyo about the shirt and belt, specially because the pride in his brother’s voice when he says, “Well, it was a gift. From Carnistir. Isn’t my brother quite talented?”

He stands taller than he’d ever done.

[thatfeanorian]

Hello, i hope you are safe and doing great!

For the Fëanorians ask game: 4 with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir. 14 and 21 with Caranthir and Maglor. 23 with Curufin, Caranthir and maglor.

I know its so much 👉🏻👈🏻 but i really like your writing. Please take your time.

Thanks in advance 🖤

Thank you so much, I’m glad you like my writing, that means so much to hear ❤️❤️❤️

04. What is the biggest secret that this character keeps from their siblings?

Maedhros: Maedhros doesn’t like keeping secrets from his siblings if only because he feels like his brothers are his best friends and he should treasure that. Definitely, the biggest secret he kept from them was that he had a crush on Fingon, and that was only a secret he thought he was keeping because he made it blatantly obvious despite his best efforts. Sorry Nelyo, but it kind of gives it away if every time you see Fingon you turn bright red and start tripping over your words. 

Maglor: Maglor’s secrets tend to be things that he is either embarrassed about or worried his brothers would laugh at (which most of the time, and depending on the brother, they probably would). The biggest secret Maglor has ever kept from them was in his childhood when he felt like he was not good enough to be his father’s son because he didn’t have the same general area of interest as his brothers, all of whom seemed to enjoy being in the forge and outdoors and adventuring. While Maglor could enjoy these things every once in a while he tended to prefer sitting inside with his music and instruments and spent a long time trying to conform and hide his passion and self-consciousness from his brothers

Caranthir: Caranthir hides a lot about himself from his brothers. He tends to be a more private person by default but all the same, he doesn’t like to open up even to his family and as a result, he is the one with the most secrets. Out of those secrets that he purposefully kept from the others, the biggest one was by far his relationship with Haleth. No one really knew that what they had between them was more than a political alliance until after she was dead by virtue of his personal nature and the fact that his brothers rarely heard from him apart from his monthly reminders to pay their taxes.

14. Which sibling is the most jealous of this character?

Maglor: Celegorm. Celegorm wishes that his passions and pastimes were as accepted as Maglor’s who seems to have gained their father’s approval simply through being judged the best of his chosen career. Celegorm meanwhile can hardly be counted the best follower of Oromë and as a result, often finds himself getting snappish and angry at Maglor for seemingly no reason. He finds it unfair that everyone seems to love and support Maglor while he (less outwardly needing of it but none the less wanting support) languishes in the grey area between approval and disapproval without any sign as to how he can help their father to see that he really loves and deserves to have his family support his passions. 

Caranthir: For this one, I’m going to go a little against the prompt but yolo I guess. Caranthir is extremely jealous of Finrod. He envies Finrod’s appearance as well as his naturally bubbly and effusive personality. Finrod seems like everything Caranthir could never be: outgoing and joyful and flirty and confident, and Caranthir is --to say it plainly-- extremely jealous of him. Finrod seems so comfortable in his own skin in a way that Caranthir can’t emulate and wishes he could reproduce and despite the two being good friends Caranthir often comes home from hanging out with him feeling down and upset with himself because he sees Finrod as a paragon of perfection that he himself could never hope to achieve. 

21. What is the best present this character has ever gotten from a sibling?

Caranthir: Amras once gave Caranthir a small polished green rock because he said it reminded him of his older brother’s eyes and Caranthir pretended he hated it but in reality kept it for the rest of his life. He is sure that Amras doesn’t remember giving it to him and that to his little brother it was simply a trinket that he gave away as a moment of generosity before promptly forgetting, but to Caranthir it is a symbol of how much he cares for his littlest brothers and he treasures it. 

Maglor: His first harp. Maedhros hand-crafted and gave Maglor his first harp when Maglor was about the human equivalent of 5. He thought that his brother’s voice deserved accompaniment and it was the best gift that Maglor ever received. From the first day he got it forwards he and the harp were inseparable and he would pluck each string in no particular order making up discordant melodies that he said were songs for Maedhros. 

23. For which sibling would this character spend multiple days learning how to make their rare, difficult favorite food?

Curufin: This one is a little bit surprising but Caranthir. Curufin and Caranthir have the kind of quiet friendship that simply exists in gestures of affection rather than words and both tend to get awkward when required to speak to each other. Still, Curufin would do almost anything for his brother as long as it doesn’t involve telling him to his face that Curufin actually loves him.

Caranthir & Maglor: Caranthir would cook for Maglor and Maglor alone. He is too worried about being compared to Maedhros for whom cooking and baking is a passion but he knows from experience that Maglor doesn’t judge and he and Maglor have an unspoken agreement that when the other is upset they cook food to help them feel better. Both Maglor and Caranthir tend to eat as a comfort activity and they have devoted themselves to learning each other's favourites no matter how hard they might be.

[arofili]

Cause & Consequence (ch5 alt draft)

Since some people expressed interest, here you go! @himrings :)

This is from the POV of Ryndil, my Haleth/Caranthir baby, and takes place directly after the Nirnaeth after the Feanorians fled to Caranthir’s stronghold in Amon Ereb. I intended it to be part of Cause and Consequence ch5, but having reread it now after I’ve written ch1 of that fic, I know I’ll have to rewrite most of it to fit the Caranthir characterization as well as the general tone.  This confrontation will happen, and there are parts of it I’ll probably keep, but overall I’m gonna have to change most of it.

Still, I had a lot of fun with the arguing Feanorians, especially Maedhros who is less “in denial about Fingon’s death and crumbling entirely as a person” and more “completely Does Not Care about anything now that Fingon is dead, would be happy to watch the world burn because Nothing Matters, but still has his wits about him.” and I really let myself go off with my headcanons! I’ll have a note at the bottom explaining some of them :)

~

“Who are you?” demanded Celegorm.

Rýndil glared up at him, undaunted by his blood-stained figure and the astonished looks of his brothers.

“I am Rýndil,” they proclaimed. “Rýndil of Brethil.”

“Didn’t I see you in the fighting?” one of the twins asked suspiciously. “You aren’t one of the Accursed’s people, are you?”

“I’m from Brethil,” they said, affronted. “I’m one of the Haladin!”

“Regardless, this is no place for mortals,” Maglor said flatly. “You do know who we are, don’t you, Rýndil of Brethil?”

A shiver ran down their spine. Seven tall elf-lords, gaunt and scarred and bloody in the aftermath of a disastrous battle. Maedhros, the eldest, was a shell of the glorious figure he’d been on the battlefield; they weren’t sure if he was even awake, his eyes were so glassy and unfocused. Grief, they supposed. They’d heard the rumors about him and the High King, after all.

Maglor, leading in his place, trembling despite the firmness in his golden voice. Celegorm, bitter and angry and mean despite his fair features. Curufin, his dark shadow, flint in his eyes and venom on his tongue. Amrod and Amras, mirroring each other in their distrustful glares. And yet despite the blood and dirt and pain, a light shone from each of them. These were men to be feared, men to be worshipped.

And then there was him. Caranthir the Dark. Rýndil’s father, the blood flowing through their veins, the reason they were here in the first place. Gaunt and red-faced, the weary host of his defeated brothers, he had scarcely stopped moving about and making room for them since they arrived.

As much as Rýndil was of the Haladin, as much as they were the child of Haleth, they were bound to this family and people also.

Rýndil stuck their chin out and glared directly at the unobservant Caranthir. “I know who you are,” they said evenly. “You are the Fëanorians. Well, so am I.”

There was a horrid pause, in which Rýndil wasn’t sure if they were going to be sliced open from gut to throat or welcomed with open arms. Even those that hadn’t been staring at them before turned to look at them with open mouths.

“They’re not mine,” said a wry voice at last. Everyone turned to stare at Maedhros, speaking his first words since their arrival.

“What?” he said. “Fingon is—he’s dead. No point in hiding it any more. Yes, I was sleeping with him. We were in love. You’re all shocked, I know—yes, Curvo, I was being sarcastic, don’t even start, I’m well aware that we were the worst-kept secret in Beleriand.”

“More like all of Arda,” muttered Maglor.

Maedhros ignored him. “My lover is dead,” he said, a deep and righteous grief rumbling in his chest. “And so. This bastard child. Is. Not. Mine.”

Bastard! Rýndil recoiled. They knew it was true, knew that the Fëanorians could see the truth of their relation but also the truth of its illegitimacy in the way that elves had. The way Rýndil only partially understood, like they only partially understood everything about who they were.

No one else spoke. Maedhros stuck his feet up on the table, crossing his arms. “I’m done with dancing around unfortunate subjects,” he said. “Whoever of you bed some mortal woman, fess up. I faced my scandal, time for you all to face yours.”

Still no one moved, until Maglor blurted out, “I know you’re looking to me, Nelyo, but Arasdil’s children had other fathers.”

“What?” Curufin yelped. “You slept with a mortal? And you mocked me for being faithless to Quilla with Finrod! What would Ezellë think of this, at least I didn’t stoop that low—”

“This is rich,” Maedhros drawled, “coming from the person who would never shut up about me being a cousin-fucker.”

“Look, Finrod was the whore, look at him, he had Edrahil and Bëor and at least two of those dwarves, and besides he was already fucking Turgon well before me—”

“I’m asexual,” Amrod said, raising his hands and stepping backward. “It wasn’t me.”

“And unlike some of you, I remember my marriage vows,” Amras snapped. “Thennes may have died in the Bragollach, but if we get out of this blasted Oath and reunite in Aman I’ll be doing it on a clean conscience!”

“Tyelko?” Maglor demanded.

“Hell if I know,” Celegorm growled. “I’m not the type to get tied down—”

“Valar damn it, Tyelko, how many times have we told you—”

Rýndil watched, wide-eyed, as the Fëanorians fell apart into bickering about their various sexual exploits, bringing up long-buried grievances while Maedhros watched with a morbid amusement. Morbid, that was the right word for him; just looking at him unsettled them.

Throughout all this, Caranthir stayed silent in the shadows of his own home, his face growing more and more red. Rýndil looked at him, crossing their arms. They weren’t going to say anything—this was his fault.

“I think I’d know if they were my kid, though,” Celegorm argued. “Has Tyelpë been sleeping around?”

“How the fuck should I know?!” Curufin snarled. “Ever since you fucked up our perfectly good plan with the witch of Doriath I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my unfortunate whelp!”

“I fucked it up?” Celegorm shouted. “Really now?! You sending your boyfriend off to his death had nothing to do with that?”

“It was me,” Caranthir said quietly. The others didn’t seem to hear him at first, though Rýndil saw Maedhros’ eyebrows shoot upward at the confession. “I’m their father.”

Slowly, the Fëanorians fell silent, looking to their middlest brother in astonishment.

“Moryo!” Maglor groaned. “Of all of us, only Ambarussa were less likely!”

“And me, don’t kid yourselves,” Maedhros interrupted. “I had my money on one of the ‘Three Cs’ as I hear they’re calling you all in Dor-lómin. Though I doubt Dor-lómin will be around for much longer.”

“Don’t group me in with those idiots,” Caranthir said scornfully. “Yes, I fathered the brat.”

“I’m not a fucking brat,” Rýndil growled. “And I may be a bastard, but that’s to your shame, not mine, Father. My mother’s people treat me very well.”

“Who is the mother?” Amras asked. “I never pinned you for the romantic type, Moryo.”

“Haleth wasn’t, either,” Caranthir said glumly. “She...conquered me, I suppose. I didn’t even realize that she got a child out of the exchange until I met Rýndil several years later. And frankly, they’re so unimpressive, even for a peredhel, that I’d forgotten about them until—”

Rýndil sprang across the room and bitch-slapped Caranthir to the ground. “Fuck off,” they spat, hitting him where it hurt. “My mother was right to send you away when she did. You’re worthless, all of you Noldor princes, bringing only ruin to this land and blaming it on everyone but yourselves. Look at who brought Beleriand to ashes in this last battle—it wasn’t the Sindar, nor the Edain! It was you lot and your double-crossing friends! And maybe I’m an unanticipated, unimpressive peredhel, but everything I can claim is thanks to Haleth, not you. I may be a Fëanorian, but I’m worth seven of you.” They curled their lip. “And for the record, uncles, I think Celebrimbor had the right idea.”

They gave the stunned Caranthir one more knee to the groin and stormed out of the room. “Thanks for giving me a place to spend the night,” they called as they left, “and for letting me get that off my chest.”

“I like them,” Maedhros observed sardonically once Rýndil had rounded the corner. They hung by the doorway, catching their breath and trying to regain their composure. “They’re not afraid to tell you all the truth.”

“I’ll remind you who led this Union of peoples that failed so disastrously,” Caranthir hissed, “and if tonight has proved anything, it’s that Ambarussa have the right way of looking at things.”

Rýndil didn’t know if they would go that far, but they smiled grimly. So much for finding a place with their father’s people—but at least this venture hadn’t been uneventful.

~

A/N: So really this turned out to be more of a sequel to “Unanticipated” than part of C&C - my Halenthir characterization there is fairly antagonistic and playful, but after thinking about it I don’t think Caranthir is actually...ashamed of Ryndil, or particularly regretful of their existence, he just...doesn’t know what to do with/about them. So I’ll tone down his disdain for the actual fic, because I don’t think this is really representative of how he feels anymore.

A lot of my headcanons for the Feanorians and their relationships showed up here! I went into more detail about some of that in my longfic “ATATYA.” That fic, however, is not set in the same universe as this one; Ryndil is discussed in Moryo’s chapters of “ATATYA” but he didn’t actually know they existed until after his rebirth in that story, where he does know here.

There are references to Quilla and Ezelle; these are my OCs for Curufin and Maglor’s wives, respectively.

I mentioned Amras’ wife Thennes in this fic - she’s another character discussed in “ATATYA,” but her fate is different here than in that fic. Here, she dies in the Dagor Bragollach instead of absconding with Elured and Elurin after the Second Kinslaying. I have some headcanons about her relationship with the Ambarussa and how that plays out in both fics; one of these days I’ll get around to writing them.

Someone else I mentioned was Arasdil, a mortal lover of Maglor’s. That relationship was something I was workshopping around the time of writing “ATATYA,” but I ultimately ended up going with a different version of his life in my fic “Sins and Sorrows,” which is set in the same verse. I still think she existed, but they weren’t married like I originally envisioned. Basically, Arasdil was a woman of the house of Beor that Maglor rescued from an abusive marriage and had a relationship with. His comment about her children having “other fathers” is just that - he slept with her, but she never had his child. This is an affair that Maedhros knew about, but the rest of his brothers didn’t until this moment.

There’s a lot of swearing here that I’ll probably end up toning down, and I don’t think I’ll be as explicit with Amrod’s line about him being asexual, though that’ll still be there in spirit. And by the end, with Ryndil “bitch-slapping” their father and just Going Off at him and his brothers - I don’t think that would fly in actuality, but it was too fun to resist, tbh.

Also, the main thing this fic is missing is Ryndil’s dog!! They always have a dog with them - though perhaps Tallagar also died in the Nirnaeth.... :(

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this snippet, and if you haven’t checked out the actual fic, you should definitely do that!! :)

[arianaofimladris]

Time for everything

This short story was written for Silmarillion Whump Bingo. Takes place a few months after Nirnaeth.

Prompt: cry into chest.

Time for everything

Dolmed was a curse and a blessing. The dwarves offered them help and shelter – two things they were in dire need of. There was enough food for everyone and they got some rooms for their wounded, allowing them to heal and rest. There were many things to do, shelters to build, weapons and clothes to mend, precious horses to take care of – enough to keep them all too busy to think.

It was also suffocating. The rooms carved in the mountain, too small for the Eldar. The forges hidden underground, hammers working tirelessly, their banging echoing on the corridors. No chains accompanied the work of both elves and dwarves, but it was only a small relief.

Maedhros never thought he would miss the ever cold Himring so much, but he did. He missed terribly the plain lands visible from his fortress, the high hills and even the grim chain of the mountains in the North where the Enemy dwelled. It was a harsh place to live, but it had been his home for the past few centuries, a place where he could keep his watch and make sure Morgoth would not go south to wreak havoc.

It was all gone now. The hills, the fortress, the other strongholds they had kept for so long. Gone was their strength and their hope, their armies scattered and broken beyond repair. The despair was lurking in the corners, creeping on them and his folk wherever he looked.

And gone was Fingon. Maedhros did not believe at first, would not believe, that all the plans he had crafted so carefully with his friend and his king, all their alliances would in the end bring nothing but death and destruction. And that Fingon would die. This, this just wasn’t supposed to happen.

Having all his brothers around was a small mercy. They reminded Maedhros that there were still things to be done and they kept him busy. After having been their own lords in their own lands, crowding again in such a small place was taxing at best. Disastrous, more likely. But even with all of them ready to argue over the smallest matters, it wasn’t enough. After a busy summer and autumn, which they had spent in the wilderness, winter brought snow and frost that forced them all to hide in their hastily built houses. And what was worse, winter brought idleness. Oh, of course Curufin and his craftsmen continued their work, of course Celegorm and Amras escaped on hunts whenever they could. Maedhros, however, suddenly found himself with more time than he ever wished to spend on his dark thoughts. Everything he had been pushing aside during the last few months just came back to plague him.

His brothers tried to keep him occupied, sometimes without even hiding their intentions. This time Curufin had yet again dragged him to the dwarven forges to discuss their progress and show him what had been done so far. He probably didn’t notice that the underground workshops were the last place Maedhros ever wanted to see; a place where he felt utterly useless, unable to perform even the simplest tasks with just one hand. The eldest son of Feanor came anyway and listened to the plans his brother presented, aided surprisingly by Caranthir, who had apparently grown bored enough to join the work by Curufin’s side and recall what Feanor had once taught each of them. But Caranthir could actually do something useful. Planning was all that was left for Maedhros and he found himself drifting away as Curufin spoke. This one matter could be left in his brother’s care, Maedhros would trust him with that; anything that would not force him to come to the forges he hated so much. It took a lot of effort to hide his dismay; it would do no good if he betrayed his feelings and offended their hosts.

“You are going to bore us to death, Curvo.” Caranthir’s impatient voice broke through Maedhros’s thoughts. “Just get things going, brother.” He spoke to Curufin, but as the eldest son of Feanor glanced up, he saw that Caranthir was watching him closely. Too closely and too perceptively, the way he tended to. Right now he made Maedhros wonder just how successful he was at hiding his urge to flee. Whether Curufin noticed that as well, he couldn’t tell. The smith just looked properly irritated.

“Don’t get upset just because you hardly have things to keep records of,” he snapped back. “You are free to leave if you wish.”

“Are we both?” Caranthir pointed at his eldest brother.

“If you need Nelyo so much... But I can’t think of anything else you could be doing right now.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Caranthir shrugged and rose from his seat. “The blizzard looked unusually charming today,” he claimed mockingly. “Are you coming too?”

A friendly poke in the ribs made Maedhros reach for his knife before he could think what he was doing. With an enormous effort he eased his hand back on his lap and looked apologetically at Curufin.

“I don’t think you need my expertise here, as I can hardly compete with you on that field,” he said. A bit of flattery usually worked well for Curufin, and with all of them being grim and frustrated, it wouldn’t hurt to ruffle his feathers. And probably take Caranthir away before they start arguing over nothing.

“Very well.” With a half-offended huff, Curufin pointed at the door. “Enjoy your blizzard.”

Caranthir didn’t give Maedhros time to think, he simply pushed him slightly and left close behind him, sending Curufin a knowing glance. The smith nodded slightly, though he still looked offended.

“Idiot,” muttered Caranthir when they were far away from the forges, heading towards the main entrance.

Maedhros quirked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Caranthir looked at his eldest brother challengingly. “Curvo for dragging you down there or you for being so stubborn – it is a hard choice,” he said bluntly and regretted it instantly, as Maedhros realised at once what he was doing and why he insisted on leaving. Shame and anger appeared on his weary features and he stopped.

“I can’t always hide away from my demons, Moryo.” Clearly it cost him a lot to say it aloud, but Caranthir decided there was no point in pretending the problem didn’t exist.

“Nor do you have to face them all the time,” he replied. “Shall we see that blizzard?” He asked in hope to get a ghost of a smile, but to no avail.

Maedhros ran his hand down his face and sighed. “Is it so visible?” The question was but a whisper. Caranthir didn’t like that Maedhros tried to hide his feelings from them, but he hated that bare, vulnerable side of his brother even more. Maedhros should not have that urge to hide in the first place...

“If it was, Curvo, wouldn’t have dragged you down there.” He claimed with more confidence than he felt. “He can be a pain in the behind, but he’s not that much of a jerk.”

This time he forced some kind of response. Maedhros stopped staring at the ground before him and the look he sent his brother was properly disgusted. “Language, Morifinwe.”

“It isn’t rude to state the truth.” Caranthir shrugged and pushed himself from the wall. “And I know you won’t tell him,” he risked a flash of a crooked smile, but Maedhros didn’t bother to return it. “Let’s go outside,” he added with unusual softness. His brother again had that look of a trapped animal, much like he had had in that human village they were forced to stay in.* No good could come from that.

The blizzard was far from charming, decided Caranthir as soon as they left the protection the dwarven caves provided. They could hardly see the nearest houses in the snow. The wind blew the icy snowflakes right into their faces. Still, Maedhros looked better despite the dreadful weather. He pulled up his hood and kept the sides of his cloak, but otherwise seemed indifferent to the cold.

“Where are you going?” Asked Caranthir as Maedhros passed their house and just kept walking with no apparent intention to seek shelter. “I’ve seen enough of this snow, Nelyo,” he added pointedly.

“I’ll go keep watch,” replied Maedhros absent-mindedly. “You go home.”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Caranthir grabbed his arm. “I’ve got better idea.”

“Moryo...” Maedhros shook his head. “I appreciate your perceptiveness and I’m glad of your excuse. But please, let me be.”

“Not today.” Caranthir crossed his arms on his chest, hoping his brother could not hear his chattering teeth. “I’m going with you, and I’d appreciate it if you chose a place where we would not freeze.”

“It’s not that bad...” muttered Maedhros. His eyes went glassy as he stared at the snow dancing before his eyes. “Finno would claim it’s not even cold really.”

This was the first time Caranthir heard him speak of Fingon since he had shared the news about the king’s death. Seeing that his brother no longer seemed to acknowledge his whereabouts, he grabbed him gently by the elbow and steered him into the nearest stable. Maedhros let himself be led inside. To Caranthir’s relief, the building was empty save for the horses, which welcomed them quite enthusiastically.

“They looked bored,” remarked Caranthir casually. He leaned over the fence and reached to pet the nose of a young black mare, one of the few Celegorm had managed to save.

“No wonder.” Maedhros walked past him. His own mount was looking over the doors, eager to greet his master. The eldest son of Feanor went into the box and caressed his stallion’s neck, indifferent to the muzzle nagging him in search for treats. His eyes were still unfocused and even though he had been usually so careful to guard his thoughts, right now Caranthir could sense his despair.

“You know,” he joined his brother and leaned against the wooden wall separating the boxes for the horses. “You don’t always have to be the eldest.”

“Carnistir... don’t.” The plea came out as a muffled sob. Maedhros rested his forehead on his stallion, his hand clenching at the mane.

“There’s nobody here save for you and me.” Caranthir moved closer and put his arm around his brother’s shaking form. He wasn’t Maglor, who would probably know how to soothe Maedhros and calm him, but of one thing he was certain – burying the feelings never worked for anyone in this family. Maedhros was no exception. Even if he was more restrained since his captivity, letting him suffocate with his grief would result in a disaster.

“We screwed.”

The sound that escaped Maedhros’s throat was half a sob, half a mad laughter. “Screwed? It’s over, Moryo,” he whispered. “Fingolfin was too quick to judge Dagor Bragollah as our end. He may consider himself lucky he didn’t have to face this.”

“We are still alive. And we are still together.” Caranthir dared to point out. Maedhros whirled from under his arm to face him.

“Are we? I don’t feel alive,” he spat out. “I don’t know whether I want to.”

The grief in his voice made Caranthir shiver. He’d rather face Maedhros’s outburst, wrath even; anything but that dead voice. He wanted his brother alive. “You can mourn him, you know,” he said softly. “I might not have been the closest friends with Findekano, but I do regret his death.”

He could have slapped Maedhros and he wouldn’t have got more violent reaction. His brother looked ready to flee, but then he just sank down the wooden wall separating horses. He covered his eyes with his shaking hand, no longer able to control his emotions, as if avoiding to speak of his deceased cousin and friend was the only reason he had been able to keep them at check.

Caranthir hesitated. He achieved what he wanted, he made his brother open up, or rather he forced him to tear, so leaving was not an option. Nor was calling for Maglor. Caranthir slipped down next to Maedhros and pulled him into an awkward hug.

“You don’t have to be the eldest all the time,” he muttered again. To his surprise, Maedhros didn’t push him away, only leaned to the touch and rested his head on Caranthir’s shoulder.

“It’s my fault he’s dead. They all,” whispered Maedhros after a while. “Don’t deny it. I was blind and I didn’t see traitors among my men.”

Cheeks flushing with anger, Caranthir snapped. “They were my people too. My people who turned against me and tried to stab me in the back.” He took a deep breath, then another, trying to wipe away the images his mind brought before his eyes. “But we are still here, Nelyo. He had not got us all yet.”

Caranthir could swear Maedhros whispered something like ‘what does it matter?’, but his brother just snuggled closer and wept silently, for the first time since the battle. The burden of long months of tireless working and pushing the grief aside weighted him down and as they sat there on the hay, Caranthir doubted they would be able to rise. He didn’t really want.

But there were only so many tears they could shed. In the end Maedhros collected himself, his breathing slowed and the despair Caranthir could sense dimmed.

A snort startled them both. Maedhros’s stallion turned towards them and sniffed, as if intrigued what the two elves were doing. Seeing that they would not be left alone much longer, Caranthir stood and offered his brother a hand. Maedhros reluctantly pushed on his feet and blinked in surprise as Caranthir handed him a brush.

“I think he’ll like it,” Caranthir gestured at the horse, which had lost hope for any treats, but demanded attention. He was pleased to see a ghost of smile as Maedhros picked the brush and started combing the black mane of his horse. Perhaps he didn’t have such a bad idea after all.

This story, as well as other whumpy bits, can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/silmarillionwhumpbingo

[amethysttribble]

Smells like Teen Spirit

This fic is for me, me, and @bluedancingkittykat who encouraged me to write this teenage wankfest that my 14yo self would be so proud of unironically. As for me now, I hope some some of the ‘this kid is 14 and throwing an extended hissy fit because he hates himself and it’s colored his worldview’ comes through.

Oh this is so bad, haha. If you don’t want to read about Maedhros (21) and Maglor (19) being shitty brothers (in this moment) and Celegorm (14) being a heinous little shit about it, please pass ahaha. Curufin (3) and Caranthir (11) are here too.

“Tyelkormo, you’re spoiling him.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t know how to take care of the baby!”

Atarinke was screaming in Tyelkormo’s arms. His baby brother wailed and wailed, screeching in his ear, face beet red and wet with the fat tears and snot and drool. He’d been crying like this for almost an hour at this point, because he’d gotten in trouble with Nelyo.

And Maitimo kept trying to make it worse.

“He’s not a baby,” Maitimo said, using that voice that meant he thought the person he was talking to was very stupid, but he was being nice about it, “Atarinke is a child, and little though he is, he should know better than to pick up knives.”

Yeah, duh. Maitimo really thought Tyelkormo was that stupid, that he didn’t know that babies weren’t supposed to play with knives? Idiot.

“This isn’t about the knife,” Tyelkormo shouted over Atarinke’s screams, desperately bouncing him and trying to calm him down. “You can’t put him in timeout like that!”

“He needs to know he did something wrong-”

“You can’t put him in timeout, he’s going to cry!”

“He’s already crying!” Maitimo yelled, “He’s crying and you’re making it worse!”

“I’M NOT!” Tyelkormo screamed, “I’m not, I’m not! You don’t get it, you can’t put him in timeout, he gets lonely! And you’d know that, you’d know that if you were EVER home!”

“Oh, fucking Void,” he heard Macalaure mutter as he slinked out of the room, and if Tyelkormo didn’t have the baby in his arms, he’d smack him. He glared after Macalaure, running away from the situation as he always did, the asshole.

“Tyelkormo,” Maitimo said, in what he must thinkwas a very patient tone, but it just made Tyelkormo shake with how angry he was. Atarinke was still crying. “I’m in charge, and I know what I’m doing. I watched after you, and Carnistir, and-”

“No, you’re the dumb one this time!”

Maitimo didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t, Atarinke clinging to Tyelkormo’s neck like a lifeline was proof of that. He just thought Tyelkormo was so stupid he couldn’t possibly know what he was talking about. But Tyelkormo was the one who was always here with Atarinke; this was his baby brother!

Maitimo was always off with those Nolofinwion and Arafinwion brats he liked to baby-sit so much, because they were ‘so much better behaved’. Just the thought pissed Tyelkormo off more.

“And you don’t know anything because when you are home, all you do is pick fights! You’re always fighting with Dad and don’t you think that upsets Atarinke! And now that Dad’s not here you’re picking a fight with the baby like a loser-”

“Turkafinwe, you’re being completely irrational right now!”

“Oh, fuck off!” 

“If we’re going to devolve to cursing-” Maitimo said, and that was the last straw.

“Shut up!” Tyelkormo yelled, “Shut up! I’m not one of those stupid counselors you like to shadow, and I’m not in your debate guild, and I’m not Dad! You can’t lecture me like you know better than all of us!”

He turned away from Maitimo then, and stalked out the door, Atarkine wailing in his arms. Tyelkormo slammed the door behind him and just walked, not clear aim in mind, until he realized Nelyo hadn’t followed.

Typical. 

Then, Tyelkormo slowed down and readjusted Atarinke in his arms. He wasn’t a baby. He probably wasn’t even a toddler anymore, as he was four. But he was so small and so needy, and this was the first time Mom and Dad had lef thim. Nelyo could stand to be a little nicer and to listen. 

Atarinke hated being left alone. It made him cry like... like this! Even timeout in a corner was too much for him. Maitimo and Macalaure spent too much time away from home to know that. 

But Tylekormo knew what to do.

He swung by the orchard he and Carnistir planted with Mom and grabbed an apple off the tree, while still holding Atarinke with one arm, then kept walking. That was another think Maitimo liked to scold for, holding the kids with one arm. Like he knew Tyelkormo’s strength better than he did!

“Asshole,” Tyelkormo muttered as he sat himself and the baby down in a patch of scraggly wildflowers. “Idiot. Jerk. Know-it-all.”

He pulled the knife Grandad made for him out of his belt, and kept it well away from Atarinke, who had quieted to just whimpering and weepy now that the yelling was over and his big brother was here. 

“He thinks he’s so smart,” Tyelkormo told him as he sliced the apple. “He thinks everyone will just do what he says because he’s so charming and diplomatic. And mature. Yeah, the guy who gets in fights with babies.”

He handed Atarinke an apple slice, something sweet and soft for him to chew on. Once he had a makeshift pacifier, Atarinke stopped crying, eating his apple. He still kept one small, chubby hand resting on Tyelkormo’s knee.

If Maitmo was so great, why couldn’t he get that Atarinke hadn’t been alone hardly ever since he was born? The pregnancy was so hard on Mom and it scared Dad so badly, they’d rarely let go of him until it was time for him to walk. Even then, Atarinke had to be coaxed from one pair of arms to another.

Sure, maybe he was spoiled. But Tyelkormo didn’t think it was worth making Atarinke cry and cry and cry over. There were better ways to do these things.

“Hey, Curvo,” Tyelkormo said, making his baby brother look up from his apple. He held up his knife for Atarinke to see. “This? Don’t touch it. Not ever without me or Dad or Mom. Or I guess Nelyo.”

“I- I- I hate ‘im,” Atarinke said, with all the indignation his little body could muster, “I hate Nelyo!”

“No you don’t,” Tyelkormo sighed. 

“I do! ‘Cause he- he hates me!”

“No he doesn’t,” Tyelkormo said, and this time his words came out even weaker. Atarinke started to cry again, so he gave him another apple slice. Then he flopped back in the grass.

Scowling, Tyelkormo wondered why they lied to babies so much. Because, duh, he had to tell the baby that Maitimo didn’t hate him, but Tyelkormo... Well he wasn’t sure Maitmo didn’t hate him!

He and Carnistir talked about it all the time, and then Mom would say ‘Of course he doesn’t hate you!’ But she had to say that. 

These days, Tyelkormo was half sure Maitmo hated all of them, except for Macalaure. Everything at home was awful when he came, Tyelkormo had started to dread the visits he used to look forward to more than anything else. And it was all Nolofinwe’s fault.

He’d turned Maitmo against them, Dad said so.

“Turko,” Atarinke’s little voice suddenly popped up, shaking his arm. When Tyelkormo looked over, he could see how sleepy and droopy his eyes were now. All the crying had tuckered him out.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, moving to stand. 

He pulled Atarinke into his arms and made for his house. Before they even reached the door, Atarinke was fast asleep against his shoulder. Tyelkormo envied him. It had been a long sucky day.

Nelyo was, naturally, no where to be seen when they went inside.

Tyelkormo went up to the nursery. He laid Atarinke down in the crib he was almost too big for, and then considered going to fish or something. But no. If Atarinke woke up alone after all that, it would be a nightmare.

So instead, he went to lay down on the daybed that Mom and Dad spent many nights on, sighing, as he laid his head down on the pillow, “I hate everything.”

“Not me!” a voice suddenly popped up from the middle of nowhere, making Tyelkormo jump. 

The words had come from the little black-haired head peaking out from under the bed.

“Fuck, Moryo,” Tyelkormo whispered, though he really wasn’t supposed to curse in front of Carnistir. Carnistir didn’t rat though- unlike Macalaure- so it would be fine. “What were you doing under there?”

“Hiding.”

Ah. Carnistir only liked yelling when he was the one doing it.

Silenlty, Tyelkormo flopped back onto the bed and held out and arm for Carnistir. He took up the offer instantly, crawling in next to him and settling close. He wasn’t much younger than Tyelkormo, but still acted like a little kid. 

It had been lonely recently, how Carnistir felt so much younger for some reason.

He had a mouth big enough for an adult, though, when he said, “That was a dumb fight.”

“Maitimo was wrong.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t explain yourself well. How come you always know what other people are saying but can never figure it out yourself?”

Tyelkormo groaned . Figuring out what other people were saying- even when they didn’t use their words- was easy. People talked really loudly with their bodies. Picking his own words was harder. Dad said he should have a better vocabulary at his age, that he should read and practice his writing more but it was so hard.

“Because I’m dumb,” he whispered.

Carnistir giggled. “Yeah, duh.”

Tyelkormo had no answer to that. Moryo was so smart. He was the smart one, Tyelkormo was sure. Moryo was the smart one, Kano the talented one, and Nelyo was the one everyone liked. 

Tyelkormo was the one who caused trouble. What a shit thing to be.

Carnistir suddenly kicked him.

“Hey,” he whispered and Tyelkormo raised an eyebrow at him. “How much do you think Nelyo and Kano would sell us for? A donkey or a horse?”

Tyelkormo laughed, then caught himself. He tried to laugh quieter, hiding his huffs in Carnsitir’s shoulder as he laughed too.

“Come on, come on,” Carnistir giggled, “How much?”

“Aaaahhh, for a donkey and a horse. So that they can both ride away for good once they sell us.”

They fell into laughing again, trying to muffle themselves so they didn’t wake Atarinke. When their mirth subsisded a little bit, Moryo sat up on his knees and said in a hushed voice, “I hope that next time Mom and Dad go away, it’s just us. We don’t need Nelyo and Kano.”

“Nah,” Tyelkormo agreed, “Fuck them.”

“Fuck them,” Carnistir said, seeming too relish the words. Then he hopped down from the bed.

“I’m getting a snack now that there’s no war in the kitchen. Want something?”

Tyelkormo shook his head. “I’m good. You go.”

Carnistir scampered off, and Tyelkormo flopped back onto the bed. He only got to doze in the soft light of the nursery for about ten minutes, though, when the door creaked open with a, “Moryo? Moryo, where are- Oh.”

“Ssshhhhhhhhhhh!”

It was too late. Atarinke started to fuss and whine, but thankfully Macalaure ran over to the crib. He started to sing. In a minute, just like magic, Atarinke was back under again.

Tyelkormo let out a sigh of relief.

He expected Macalaure to leave after that, but he didn’t. He kneeled by Tyelkormo’s face and whispered, “Have you seen-”

“He’s gone to get a snack.”

“Oh.” Macalaure sat on the ground, rolling his eyes. “Typical. I’ve been looking all over for him. And Curvo? He’s, ah...”

“He’s fine. Just needed a nap after all that.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Macalaure muttered. And then almost immediately, because he couldn’t shut up, he said, “Did you mean that stuff you said earlier? About us coming home?”

“Why do you care?” Tyelkormo asked, brows furrowing.

“I don’t,” his brother sniffed disdainful. “But Nelyo does. You hurt his feelings.”

“What about my feelings?”

“You’re thirty-five now, Turko. Act your age. When you do something wrong you have to own up to it.”

Tyelkormo scowled. Own up to it? That was rich coming from Kanafinwe ‘I don’t write home unless Mom threatens to send Aunt Earwen after me’ Macalaure and Nelyafinwe ‘I’m nice to everyone but my brothers’ Maitimo.

Before he even realized what he was saying, Tyelkormo whispered, “I hate you.”

“Real mature,” Macalaure snorted, shooting to his feet and stomping out.

Hiding his head under the pillow, Tyelkormo didn’t care. Five more days, he thought, five more days, five more days.

Five more days until Mom and Dad was home and he didn’t have to watch the baby constantly. Five more days until Nelyo and Kano left to go back to their super accomplished and amazing lives. Five more days until he and Carnistir could get back to that board-game they were making without getting unasked for advice.

Five more days.

Hm, don’t know what it is about me today, but I wanna write bitchy teenage Celegorm fucking hating his older brothers and making their lives hell

[thelordofgifs]

Part the thirty-second!

Warnings on this one (deep breath): graphic violence of the torture variety, force-feeding, emetophobia, non-explicit sexual assault, and a lot of dissociation. If pressed to pick one word to describe this part, I wouldn't choose fun.

In Amon Ereb:

Amras is working in the vegetable-gardens. He is growing restless these days, eager to be away from these stone walls and out in the wild where the rules are simpler.

Hunting was not always such solitary work – nor so purposeless, for in more innocent days he knew he would find what he sought eventually.

Caranthir, his face troubled, finds him methodically yanking out weeds from the tomato-plants.

“What is it?” Amras asks tersely. His brother should know better than to bother him for unimportant matters.

Caranthir swallows. “A letter,” he says, “from Káno. Will you come and read it?”

A letter is putting it rather generously, Amras thinks, when he looks it over – the note Maglor attached to his messenger-bird’s leg is frantic and incoherent, spotted with tears, and barely longer than a sonnet.

[do elves have sonnets? they do now]

“What could Nelyo have been thinking?” says Caranthir. “Poor Káno!”

Why, Amras wonders, was his first reaction not pity, too? Why can he not suppress the little stab of spiteful satisfaction at Maglor’s news – why does it bring him some measure of gladness to know that now Maglor, too, knows what it is to have been left behind?

"He must be rather desperate," he says, "if he is asking whether Nelyo has come here of all places."

"Perhaps he would," Caranthir says, "if he wished to mount an attack on Doriath..."

"What, by himself?" says Amras, dismissing this instantly.

Caranthir bites his lip, steels himself, and says, "You might go searching for him, perhaps."

Amras laughs shortly. "Now that Tyelko is dead, I am the errand-runner of the family, I suppose?"

"You said you were leaving anyway," Caranthir says carefully. "To seek out Curvo."

Amras has not mentioned Curufin again since he first floated that plan. Caranthir has been rather hoping he forgot about it.

He shrugs, now. "Perhaps I will."

"But if you searched for Nelyo, instead," Caranthir presses, "and brought him back to safety—"

"Think you that he wants that?" Amras asks, his tone very even. "He left for a reason, after all."

Caranthir flings his hands up in the air. "I don't know why I bothered asking. Do nothing, then."

"I didn't say that," says Amras. "You have reminded me: Curvo has been allowed to get away with all he did for far too long. No, it is time I went hunting him in earnest. Perhaps I will find Nelyo on the way, or perhaps not."

"Are you sure that is wise?" Caranthir says hesitantly.

"I don't care," says Amras.

He is gone when Caranthir rises the next morning.

Meanwhile in Dor-lómin:

Aerin is very fond of Lúthien. When she heard that she and Beren were leaving Morwen's house, she begged Indor her father to take them in.

Beren, humiliated and unhappy, does not spend much time outside the little room he shares with Lúthien. But Lúthien is sitting in the main room with some mending-work when Rían comes in, her eyes bright and abstracted, and asks for her help with a song.

Lúthien acquiesces with no small measure of relief. Rían's songs are always sweet things, made to praise the flowers and the grasses and the laughing streams, and she thinks her sore and aching heart could do with a balm right now.

But this one is different. A song of praise, indeed, for the pine-trees in the highlands and the cool clean air on the hills, and the clear blue waters of Aeluin.

Put plainly: a lament, for lost Dorthonion.

Rían's eyes are a little damp when she has finished singing, but she smiles bravely at Lúthien. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," Lúthien manages, through the lump in her throat. "I like it very much. But – I always thought you had little memory of Dorthonion."

"I was very small when the Sudden Flame came," Rían agrees. "I think Morwen likes to believe so, that I have no recollection of the land as it was once. If Dor-lómin can never be a home in truth to her, she wants to think it is one to me, at least."

"And is it?" Lúthien ventures.

"I like these lands," Rían says mildly. "But I think a part of me will always miss the hills where I was born."

"Beren misses them, too," Lúthien murmurs. "But he does not think they can be reclaimed – especially now that we know for sure that Sauron himself dwells there." She pauses, and then adds, unhappily, "Morwen told me I was foolish to hope for it."

"Morwen has been mother and sister to me both," Rían tells her. "I love her very dearly." She gives Lúthien a serious look. "I do not think she is right about everything, even so."

Lúthien, heartsick, is not sure whether or not she believes that.

“Tell me about Huor,” she says, to change the subject. “You have spent a great deal of time with him, since his return, I think.”

Rían blushes, and shows Lúthien the little silver betrothal-ring she wears on a chain around her neck.

"We are keeping it all very quiet," she says, "while he mourns his brother, but – soon, perhaps."

"I am very happy for you, darling," Lúthien says, with real warmth now.

Rían smiles at her. "He is wonderful," she says. "And it will be very lovely to have a home all of my own, too."

Lúthien looks at her, disturbed. "But you do," she says. "You have—"

Rían spends a lot of time at Aerin's house, but she lives with Morwen her cousin. Lúthien had not thought of it until now.

"Should I ever have a child of my own," Rían says dreamily, "I should like him to grow up knowing where exactly he belongs. And, perhaps – within the span of his years, if not mine – he might see the land of my birth reclaimed again."

She smiles at Lúthien again, and thanks her for listening to her song, and then drifts away.

Meanwhile, in the land of Rían's birth:

Maglor is calling for him again. The awareness of it jolts Maedhros out of his uneasy doze, a faint insistent patter against the walls of his mind.

He had not expected this. In Angband Morgoth's power smothered all attempts at ósanwë, for he never much liked those flickers of life that he could not bend to his will; here it is not so.

At first Maglor's attempts to touch Maedhros' mind were practical: he and Fingon seemed to be taking it in turns. Where are you? they would ask, and Are you safe? and Why didn't you—? and, again, Where are you?

Eventually they understood that Maedhros would not answer. Today the brush of Maglor's thought against his is unfocused, barely more than a wordless anguished cry; it goes on far longer than Maedhros can bear, but at last Maglor gives up and closes off his mind, leaving Maedhros drained and shaking.

It will stop, in time. In time Maglor will understand that this is better.

Anyway, he is awake now: preferable, on the whole, for Sauron's methods of rousing him are not pleasant.

And just in time, for here is Sauron at the entrance to the little cave, his eyes like twin points of flame in the darkness.

"Awake, Maitimo?" he says, coming to stand before Maedhros. "Good: I have brought you some breakfast."

He crouches down to where Maedhros is shackled, taking care to avoid the shattered ruins of his legs, and holds a rough wooden spoon to his lips.

Maedhros keeps his mouth closed. At best this is the meat of some unfortunate orc, and at worst—

He has grown too used to gentle treatment, in the intervening centuries, his mind and body too willing to rebel.

(Picture it, Maglor kneeling beside him: Will you not eat, Nelyo?

I am not hungry, Maedhros might say, and turn his face away.

It is only a little slice of apple, Maglor would respond, it will do you good.

I don't want it, Maedhros might answer.

All right, Maglor might say, no trace of disappointment colouring his words, we will try again later, perhaps.)

(Oh, but he must give up longing for him, must continue to remind himself that he is not Maglor's brother any more.)

Sauron grasps his chin, forces his mouth open, pinches shut his nose, and pours the whole bowl of stew down Maedhros' throat, leaving him choking and spluttering.

"You have forgotten how to make this easier for yourself," he muses, as Maedhros tries and fails not to vomit. A tiny splash of it lands on his own robes, and he tsks and vanishes it with a wave of his hand. "No matter: you always were a swift learner, were you not?"

Maedhros draws in a few ragged gulps of air and says nothing. There is vomit in his hair and splattered on his chest, and it might be hours before Sauron decides to clean it off him.

He misses his clothes.

"What you kept down will give you some strength, I think," says Sauron, "so we might commence our conversation."

"What conversation?" Maedhros rasps, forgetting himself.

Sauron looks pleased. He likes for Maedhros to engage with him. "Did you not say you came to bargain, pretty one? Here I am: bargain with me."

"You made no mention of it in all this time," Maedhros says, as he tries to gather his thoughts, "I thought you had forgotten."

Sauron laughs. "It has been less time than you think, Maitimo," he says. "And you spent much of it unconscious. But I think we are well enough reacquainted now, and I confess I am curious. What brings the great lord of Himring, the head of the fabled House of Fëanor, to my doorstep?"

Maedhros squeezes his eyes closed.

"Look at me," Sauron says, his voice still light, still amused: even so Maedhros takes the warning for what it is, and opens them again.

Sauron examines his face thoughtfully. "But you are not any of those things now, are you?" he says. "Is that why you came? Did you tire of pretending to be aught but a fair little ornament to decorate the halls of your betters? But you are not so lovely any more, either."

"If I am not, that was your doing," Maedhros says. His voice is trembling.

"Oh! Perhaps," says Sauron. "But even a broken toy has its uses. Tell me, then: what have you to offer me?"

Maedhros draws a breath. He must be clever, now, and careful: must make the truth seem a lie and lies seem truthful.

"There is a Silmaril in Angband," he says. "I want it."

"Is that so?" says Sauron. He tucks a strand of Maedhros' hair behind his ear. "You have come rather a long way to tell me that."

"Did you ever lay eyes upon Carcharoth the wolf?" Maedhros asks. "I have seen him, more than once."

Maglor crumpled on the ground, blood gushing from the wound in his leg—

Celegorm with his arm torn off at the shoulder, gasping his last in Maedhros' hold—

Sauron slaps him, hard, the force of it jerking Maedhros' head to the side. His cheek burns as though it has been branded.

"You were drifting," Sauron says, unconcerned. "I said, what of it?"

"Did you never wonder how he passed through the Girdle of Melian?" Maedhros says, trying to focus. He cannot – he cannot allow his mind to be vague and unreliable, not now. "Her magic is no match for one of my father's jewels. If anyone should bear one Doriath is his for the taking."

"And the King of Doriath's Silmaril, too, I suppose?" says Sauron.

"It is not his," Maedhros says instantly, sharply.

"Of course not," says Sauron, his voice dry. "But you have held a Silmaril these many months, Maitimo. If you desire the one in Thingol's halls, why come to me instead of going there yourself?"

Maglor sitting up in the bed at Barad Eithel, still much paler than was healthy, his eyes very bright: we cannot use it to attack Menegroth, Nelyo – do you not see? It would be evil to do so. The jewel would not suffer us to pass the Girdle if we came with war in our hearts.

All right, Maedhros said at the time, peace, Káno, I have no mind to attack Thingol; and Maglor had smiled.

The crack of breaking bone brings him back to his surroundings even before the pain registers. He cannot see his fingers, for his left hand is shackled above his head – Sauron likes a parallel – but sharp new anguish ripples now down his arm.

"The average adult elf has three hundred and eight bones," says Sauron. "You will have fewer, of course." He nods at the stump of Maedhros' right wrist. "How many need I break before you pay attention?"

"I am here," Maedhros says hoarsely, "I am not – my mind does not wander."

"See that it does not," says Sauron, "and answer my question."

What was the question again?

"Why have you come here," Sauron repeats, his eyes glinting dangerously, "instead of going to Thingol?"

Maedhros manages an unsteady laugh. "I am a good commander," he says, "but even I cannot hope to assail Doriath alone. You have orcs here in Taur-nu-Fuin. It was not a small force you brought against Barad Eithel."

"And so you would have them as your mercenaries?" Sauron says thoughtfully. "How far has the son of proud Fëanor fallen! Shall your dear Findekáno approve of this?"

"It does not matter what he thinks," Maedhros says, keeping his voice cool and unaffected. He thinks of Fingon drawing him into a kiss after the battle, holds the memory out to Sauron like bait.

Sauron takes it, and laughs with real pleasure then. "Poor Maitimo," he says, petting Maedhros' filthy hair. “Is that why you came to me so willingly, then? You might as well belong to someone.” He runs a finger affectionately down the side of Maedhros’ cheek, leaving what feels like a trail of fire in its wake.

Maedhros is beginning to remember himself, now. He does not shudder at the touch.

Sauron must think him angry with Fingon, must believe that Maedhros has turned from him, if his plan has any chance of working.

“So will you send for the Silmaril?” he asks. “With me bearing it you might have a chance at conquering Doriath – and restoring yourself to favour, too.”

“Think you that I have fallen from it?” Sauron asks, his voice very soft.

“Yes,” Maedhros says bluntly. “That is why you made a bid for Barad Eithel, is it not? A prize to present to your master, proof that you are not quite as incompetent as Lúthien’s humiliation made you seem.”

"How very clever you are, Maitimo!" says Sauron. "Answer me this, then: if Lord Melkor has lost his trust in me as much as you believe he has, why would he send me a Silmaril? He values the jewels above anything – more so since they were stolen from him."

"He is a murderer and a thief," says Maedhros, "and they were never his to begin with."

"Everything in Arda is his," says Sauron, "you included, little jewel."

Maedhros cannot argue with that.

Easier, in some ways, to be only a lovely thing to be admired, a pretty little pet for Sauron's entertainment.

Fingon would protest, but that does not matter, for Maedhros will never see Fingon again.

Snap! Another finger. "You have not answered my question," says Sauron. And when Maedhros meets his gaze, he smiles. "Are you so very afraid of me, pretty one? I did warn you what would happen if you drifted again."

You made me so, Maedhros wants to cry out, I was sane before I met you, I never got lost inside my head, I could tell what was real from what was not— oh, the knife in Maglor's side, how can he forget it—

But it will only amuse Sauron, to learn what he twisted Maedhros into.

There are splinters of bone poking through his thighs. He fixes his gaze on one of them as he speaks. "You will – you will have to convince him that the Silmaril must be yielded up to him. Does it not anger him also that the witch-queen in Doriath defies him yet? How pleased he will be with you, should you present to him that land conquered and ruined."

His voice is too dull, too flat: Sauron will not believe it, Sauron will see through him—

"And if he sends the jewel to me," says Sauron, "why should I give it to you? I might wield it myself, and bring down the Girdle without any assistance from you at all."

"But you cannot hold it," Maedhros breathes, with a little rush of triumph. "Not for nothing are you named the Abhorred. My father's jewel will burn your hand, as it does your master's. You need me to bear it for you; you saw what I did with the other when you attacked Barad Eithel. You need me. You need me."

"I see," says Sauron. He cups Maedhros' cheek again. "And so this is your ploy, Maitimo? You would make yourself a lieutenant of darkness, a weapon of the very Enemy you claim to despise, for the sake of the Silmarils? I cannot say the irony fails to amuse me."

Maedhros thinks of Himring, which would not have fallen had he not in his daze cancelled the watch to the north.

He thinks, again, of the knife jutting out of Maglor's side.

He has been a thrall-thing, a weapon of his Enemy, for much longer than Sauron knows.

Or perhaps he always knew. Perhaps he laughed, when he heard that Maedhros had been taken from Thangorodrim.

Maedhros is not sure whether he is expecting an answer, but he would rather like not to have another finger broken.

(Sauron knows him well: he is a swift learner.)

"I want the Silmaril," he says simply, willing his voice not to shake. "It is in your interest to see that I get it."

He holds his breath for a moment; but at last Sauron nods. "Your proposition is intriguing," he says. "Very well: I will send word of your plan to Lord Melkor, although there is no guarantee that he will approve it."

"How long will that take?" Maedhros asks. He lets the back of his head rest against the stone cold wall of the cave. It is working. It is working.

"That is none of your concern," Sauron says, sounding amused. "You need only wait here until my lord sends some response." He glances at Maedhros' ruined legs. "I do hope you did not have any other appointments."

"Fine," Maedhros says, closing his eyes. He is very drained, now, and he does not know when Sauron will see fit to give him food or water again.

The important thing is that Sauron has believed him; Sauron is sending for the Silmaril in Angband; Sauron does not yet understand what Maedhros has long known, that the gem will burn him when he touches it. It must burn him, after this.

He supposes Sauron will be very angry with him, when he learns that Maedhros has tricked him.

It will not matter – as long as he has the Silmaril, none of it matters – and Doriath will remain unconquered, as Maglor insisted, but Maedhros will have the Silmaril, and the Oath will ease its hold on them, on Maglor—

"But it occurs to me," says Sauron, surprising Maedhros, who thought he had left, "that we have not yet discussed the matter of surety."

"Surety?" asks Maedhros, opening his eyes. "What surety? You have me in bonds already."

"But you chose that of your own free will, Maitimo," says Sauron. He runs his hand down Maedhros' side, in the manner of one examining some fine new horseflesh. "There are many who name me the Deceiver, did you know? And yet the Noldor are the most prodigious liars of them all! Tell me, pretty one, how can I be sure that you are telling me the truth?"

"Is not my honour enough?" Maedhros asks, keeping his voice dull. Sauron must not suspect, he must not suspect – and anyhow there is nothing more he can do to Maedhros now, he needs to keep him alive until he hears Morgoth's answer—

Predictably, Sauron laughs at this. "Your honour, little Kinslayer?" he says. "I think not. No, answer me this: you told no-one where you were going, when you departed Barad Eithel, did you?"

Maedhros does not bother responding to that.

"Of course not," says Sauron. "Your Findekáno would have stopped you, had he known. Poor foolish prince! He has ever been reckless, where you are concerned – ever loved you more than you have deserved."

Maedhros can refute him no more than he could Turgon. He draws a breath, and tries not to weep.

"He will realise," he says. "He will forget me in time."

"Perhaps he will," says Sauron; "or perhaps, should he learn somehow what has become of you, he will feel bound to come after you, as he did long ago."

Maedhros stares at him, his mouth somehow drier than it was.

"You are a fair little toy," says Sauron, "and yet you are not now the prince of the Noldor with the greatest price upon his head. Would not you and he make a nice matching pair, shackled here together?"

Maedhros did not realise he still had something to fear.

"Do not," he says, his voice cracking. "I beg you, do not."

"Very well," says Sauron, surprising him. "I can make do with you well enough for now. But if you are lying to me, Maitimo – if you harbour any foolish plan of escaping with the Silmaril, or else denying me what you have promised – I will send a messenger to Barad Eithel, and we shall see whether your hero of old will come for you a second time."

"He will not," Maedhros says, his breath coming rapidly, "you cannot threaten me so – he will not come—"

He does not believe the words himself, and so it is little surprise that Sauron does not, either.

"Don't look so afraid, my pretty one," he says. He bends down and kisses Maedhros on the mouth, long and slow. "As long as you are truthful with me, you need not worry."

Then at last he departs, leaving Maedhros cold and shaking in the dark.

Back in Barad Eithel:

Maglor likes to sit in Fingon's rooms, of an evening. These days they are each the only person who understands the other.

Today Fingon is looking over some reports, and Maglor is whittling a rough little wooden flute.

"Maeglin asks me if he might take a force of warriors to the Fen of Serech," Fingon says, breaking the silence, "to root out any orcs who might shelter there."

"Oh?" Maglor says, trying to summon up some faint flicker of interest. "What did you say?"

"I approved it," says Fingon. "He seems a capable commander, for all his youth. Willing to help, also – and he alone of all my council has had no bitter words for me lately."

Maglor hums noncommitally.

Fingon glances at him sharply. "Do you disapprove?"

"I did not say that," Maglor says, keeping his voice mild. Sometimes the only way to deal with it all is by lashing out; but he and Fingon have never derived much satisfaction from arguing with each other, and he does not want the conversation to deteriorate so. "But he is very young, and you have not known him long."

"Turno trusts him, clearly," says Fingon. Then he wonders why he brought up his brother. He does not want to dwell tonight on all the people who have abandoned him. "Besides, he is very clever."

"I suppose he is," says Maglor.

"But you do not like him," says Fingon. "Why not?"

Maglor stares at his little flute for a while. "He reminds me of my brother," he says eventually. "Curvo, that is."

Fingon bristles. "My sister's son is nothing like Curufin."

"I think he is hurting a great deal," says Maglor, "and willing, perhaps, to hurt people because of it."

"He has not hurt anyone," says Fingon, "which cannot be said of Curufin."

"I suppose not," says Maglor, with an unhappy little smile.

Fingon looks at him, and exhales. "I did not mean to speak harshly."

"I know," says Maglor, and then all at once it is too much effort to be calm and patient, and to smile; he buries his face in his hands and lets out a muffled scream.

The painted glass jug on Fingon's desk, a gift from Hador Lórindol when first he settled in Dor-lómin, shatters.

"I liked that jug," says Fingon.

"Sorry," Maglor mutters.

Fingon laughs bitterly. "What a pair of fools we look! Makalaurë, is there nothing we might have done differently? Was it always going to come to this?"

Maglor sighs, and sits up. "Everything," he says, "and nothing. You know as well as I do that there is no changing Nelyo from a course of action once he has set his mind to it. Even had we known what he was planning he would not have listened to us – he always knows best, after all!"

"You are very angry with him, I think," says Fingon.

"I'm not," Maglor says quickly.

He cannot be angry with Maedhros; the idea is repulsive.

Fingon looks at him searchingly, but does not press further.

"I know it is foolish," Maglor says, turning his flute over in his hands, "but I keep thinking – he was sleeping so badly after the battle – and now – is there anyone watching over his rest? Do they wake him when he starts to dream, and talk him through it? How can he – did he not need me, to do that for him?"

When he looks at Fingon he sees that his cousin, too, is near tears.

"If only I knew where he was," Fingon says, blinking hard. "I would – I would save him again, if I could. If I knew how to."

"I know, Finno," Maglor murmurs, wishing he had something kinder to say.

He does not know how to be Maedhros to Fingon, any more than Fingon can be Maedhros to him.

(Maglor does wonder, sometimes, if he is going a little mad. People look at him strangely these days; his control over his voice, the most powerful of his weapons, is faltering. Incidents like the breaking of Fingon's jug are growing common.)

Fingon sighs, and stares at the reports on his desk with a look of some disgust. "I was not made for kingship," he says. "I care little for any of this. I would leave it all behind in an instant, if I knew where Russo was. My brother was right: our people deserve better than me."

Maglor manages a half-smile. "I have been where you are, you know. I think you are managing it all far better than you believe."

"Thingol hates me," says Fingon. "Huor has not responded to the last of my missives. Gondolin has come to my aid once, and shall not again, for my brother will not forgive me. Half of my own lords believe me a traitor, and Russo a spy for the Enemy. And he is not here. He is not here."

"Finno," Maglor murmurs.

"How could he do this?" says Fingon. "I know – I know I wronged him – and yet – how could he not realise what he was leaving me, what his disappearance would seem to them! Did he not care?"

"He cared," Maglor says softly. "You know he cared."

Fingon does know. But seeing his own misery reflected in Maglor's pale face – so like and yet unlike his brother's – it is very hard to remember.

(to be continued)

the fairest stars: post vi

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, everything spins out of control, et cetera: we are 78k words and 30 parts into this monster bullet point AU now! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.

Part 31: on saving people.

Lúthien finds Maglor in the rose garden.

"I came as soon as I heard," she says, sitting down beside him.

(It isn't a lie – she knows Maglor needs a friend right now. But it is true, also, that Barad Eithel is easier at the moment than thinking of the dull unhappy look in Beren's eyes as they departed Morwen's house, and begged shelter like outlaws with others of the Hadorians.)

Maglor does not look at her. He is staring at his lap, very still.

"Maglor," says Lúthien. She dares to put an arm around him, and then tenses, thinking of Morwen's blank and silent grief, and how she rebuffed all Lúthien’s attempts at comfort.

But Maglor shivers, when she touches him, and then leans against her gratefully.

"I didn't know," Lúthien says. "I'm sorry – I would have stopped him, had I known—"

"How could you have known?" Maglor asks, very heavily. Maglor does not wear his grief gracefully: it is an awful frozen thing, numbing his tongue and coarsening his tuneful voice.

Lúthien thinks of those dreadful days after Beren died, and her heart twists again with pity.

"I did not know, either," Maglor says. "You would think – you would think I would have known, if anyone had."

"I am sorry," Lúthien breathes. "I am so, so sorry."

Maglor manages the faintest of smiles for her, but says nothing else.

They sit in silence for a while.

Lúthien does not want to ask the question burning on her tongue, but ask it she must. "Have you any idea where he might have gone?"

"Do you think I would be here, if I did?" Maglor asks, wearily.

He and Fingon have spent hour upon hour pacing around Fingon's study, fruitlessly turning over the same half-questions: why and how and could we have— before returning, inevitably, to the most pressing of the lot: Where is he, where is he, where is he?

They do not know. They have no idea what Maedhros was thinking in the hours before he disappeared, which frightens them almost more than the rest of it.

Lúthien takes a breath. "Do you think – is there any chance – might he have gone to Doriath? My father still has the Silmaril he took from you."

Maglor barely flinches at the reminder of that past failure. "It's possible," he says. "What makes you think of it?"

"He spoke to me," says Lúthien, "just before I left. He asked me if I might not try to persuade my father to relinquish that Silmaril – for your sake."

"For my sake!" Maglor says. He laughs, bitterly. "For my sake! How very considerate of him. What did you answer him?"

Lúthien meets his gaze unhappily. "That I would not try," she says. "If I had only spoken differently..."

“If only, if only, if only,” Maglor says. “Do not blame yourself, Lúthien. Fingon and I have gone down that path too many times already – but the truth is that I do not think anything could have stopped Maedhros, once he had made up his mind.” He shrugs. “Or perhaps I did not know him as well as I thought.”

“You speak of him as though he is dead,” Lúthien breathes.

“He could be,” Maglor says, matter-of-factly.

“You are very angry,” Lúthien murmurs, “are you not?”

Maglor is quiet for a moment. “This is the third time Maedhros has left me to go after a Silmaril,” he says. “In Mithrim, when Morgoth made his false offer of parley. In Menegroth, when he went hunting for Carcharoth. And now this! Yes – yes, I am very angry. It is the Oath – were it not for the damned Oath—”

“I asked you once before,” Lúthien murmurs, “if you would un-swear it, if you could.”

Maglor looks at her with anguished eyes. “I would,” he says. “In an instant, if only I knew how – look what it has taken from me!”

His breath catches. Lúthien puts her arms around him again.

“Maedhros loves you,” she says quietly, after a moment. “He was – I do not think he was very well, when I spoke to him – but even so it was clear to me how well he loved you. You must not doubt that.”

Maglor thinks of Maedhros whispering, What would it take, to make you hate me? and his own low voice answering, If you left me.

How much easier it would be, he thinks sometimes, not to understand! How comforting bewilderment would feel, to say, I know not why he has done this – what a burden, to know Maedhros as he does, to know what drove him to leave and know that it is, at least in part, Maglor's own fault, that Maglor, utterly trusting, handed his brother the very weapon he turned against him.

Useless, all useless: for all that matters is where Maedhros is now, and he does not know that.

"If he did go to Doriath," he says, attempting to return to Lúthien's question, "he would not have been able to get through your mother's Girdle, anyway." He means to explain, He left the Silmaril with me, but his voice catches halfway through the sentence – he who has always claimed such mastery of words – and all that comes out is, "He left – me, he left me, he left me."

"Oh, Maglor!" Lúthien exclaims. She flings her arms around him again, and Maglor hides his face in her shoulder until he has recovered some of his composure.

(Important, these days, to be composed, to show Fingon's shocked and doubting court that the sons of Fëanor can yet be relied upon – and Maglor's world might have fallen to pieces around him, but he is still good at performing.)

“You must not lose hope,” Lúthien says. She squeezes his hand. "He lives yet, does he not?"

"We cannot tell," Maglor says dully. "He has closed his mind – to me and Fingon both."

It is an awful, suffocating thing, to reach instinctively for the part of his heart that belongs to Maedhros and come up every time against nothing but a smooth impenetrable wall – to cry out, again and again, Where are you? Come back to me, and receive only endless uncaring silence in response.

"I am sure he lives," Lúthien says resolutely, "and you will see him again."

"I have thought him dead once before," says Maglor, "for thirty years, I thought him dead. He was not – and yet—"

Fingon, his voice flat and strange, said once, Makalaurë, is there any chance – he could have – there is a Silmaril in Angband still—

Don't say that, Maglor cried, quicker than thought, don't say that, Finno!

Neither of them have mentioned the possibility since; and so it has lingered, as unspoken things tend to, lurking just beneath the surface of every frantic circular conversation.

"It was not a happy homecoming," he says, "when he was returned to me."

"But he was returned!" Lúthien says. "And he will be again – I am certain of it."

Maglor says, his voice very dreamy, "Celegorm used to shout at me, in those years Maedhros was lost. He said I was a coward, for not attempting a rescue." He shrugs. "He was not wrong – and perhaps little has changed. Am I – am I always to be left behind, waiting for him to return to me?"

"You do not have to be," Lúthien murmurs. She thinks of Hírilorn, and pacing helplessly between its great boughs while Beren lay suffering in Sauron's dungeons.

"Perhaps," Maglor says, "that is the way the story goes, after all – and there is nothing I can do about it. Perhaps unshackling the chains of doom are not as easy as you made it appear, for us."

Lúthien looks at him. "I do not think you really believe that," she says softly.

Maglor meets her gaze, his eyes bright with despair. "I do not believe anything, any more," he says; and when Lúthien, her heart aching, presses a kiss to his cheek she tastes salt.

Meanwhile in the Halls of Mandos:

Withdrawn into the depths of the Halls, where he can nurse this new hurt in peace, Finrod is surprised to sense another approaching him.

For a moment he thinks Celegorm has come to apologise for his harsh speech; but the resemblance between the two spirits is merely superficial.

"You are hard to find, cousin," says Amrod. "I began to think you had taken Mandos up on his offer, and returned to life after all."

Finrod laughs hollowly. "I swore to remain here," he says, "and so I shall – until the breaking of the world, should your brother have his way."

"Is forever always forever?" Amrod asks, dreamily. "Queen Míriel once swore that she would never leave these halls; but she had taken up her body again by the time I arrived here."

"The line of Míriel," says Finrod, "is rather more prone to faithlessness than I."

He regrets the words as soon as he speaks them; barbed, unkind things, more suited to Celegorm than himself.

But Amrod looks at him with pity. "Don't let him make you cruel, Ingoldo," he says. "He did not win when he forced you from your kingdom – nor when he threw all your mercy in your face – but he will, if you grow to imitate him."

Finrod makes an effort to follow this advice. "I would have thought you would be on his side," he says.

"I am," says Amrod. "Why else do you think I want you to save him?"

"I am not sure that is possible, anymore," Finrod says bitterly.

"Neither am I," says Amrod, with a shrug, "but you did swear to try."

Finrod hesitates.

Amrod's story has always horrified him. How bitter a monument to the folly of the sons of Fëanor – how incriminating, that they did not realise after their brother's death that their Oath was pointless, their project Doomed before it could begin!

But Amrod was not just a morality tale: he was Finrod's little cousin, too.

And they have both suffered at Fëanorian hands.

"Why did you stay on the ship?" he asks. "Did you think the Valar would show you mercy, if you returned to these shores?"

"No," Amrod says neutrally. He offers Finrod the edge of a smile. "Only that I had to try."

"I didn't," Finrod says quietly. "I could have turned back with my father, after Alqualondë. I think it would have been better if I had."

"Beren would have died, then," says Amrod, "in the darkness in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. To say nothing of what other good you wrought in Middle-earth."

Finrod thinks of Lúthien, who thanked him for his sacrifice.

"To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well," Amrod muses. "I knew what I was facing, when I decided not to set foot on the beach at Losgar! Not – not that my father was already so consumed by madness – but I did not expect any mercy from the Valar, no." He laughs slightly. "And now here I am. Tyelko tells me it was all for nothing."

"He might not be the best judge of that," says Finrod.

"The brother I remember was kinder than this," Amrod says, thoughtful. He worries at his fingernails as he talks. Sometimes the light, such as it is, shifts and his form becomes that of a charred corpse, his skin crumbling away to reveal the blackened bones beneath. "Was it the Oath that made him so, do you think?"

"The Oath was his own folly," says Finrod. "You do not need to delve so deeply for his motivations: he told me himself that he cast me out of my kingdom because he wanted to, and he does not regret any of it."

“Yes,” Amrod says with a sigh, “it was our own folly, was it not? I was afraid of it, in truth. Afraid of what it might make me become – what it had already made me become, in Alqualondë. And poor Tyelko has gone much further down that dark and lonely path.”

“He killed you,” says Finrod, “and yet you pity him.”

“He killed you, too,” says Amrod, “or as good as – and you pity him too, I think.”

“I do,” Finrod admits. "But he will not accept any pity from me."

Amrod looks at him carefully, and then says, "You ask me why I was willing to turn away from my Oath. Why are you not willing to turn from yours?"

Finrod bristles. "What?"

"You didn't have to go with Beren," says Amrod. "And you didn't have to vow not to leave Mandos until Tyelko can. What made you do it, then? Is it naught but pride – let them add more verses to their songs about Finrod the Faithful, so pure of heart that he forgave his own usurper?"

"No!" Finrod says. "No."

"A hard thing," says Amrod, "to pity someone who does not want or deserve it."

"Quite," Finrod murmurs. "Perhaps that is why I pity him."

"It is a difficult task you have chosen," Amrod warns, "and a thankless one, with little hope of success: even I his brother can tell you that."

"So was the path you chose, when you stayed aboard the ship," says Finrod. "All the same – I have to try. For my sake, perhaps, as much as his." He looks at his cousin again. Amrod's spirit is a pale, flickering thing. "And yours."

"Mine?" says Amrod, sounding truly surprised for the first time.

"It matters, does it not?" Finrod says softly. "That you grieved your deeds – that you were willing to turn back, and face the consequences for them."

"It didn't do anything," says Amrod. "It didn't save anyone."

O for the solidity of a body! Finrod would clasp that small unhappy form to his own, if he could, and squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

"Then let me save you," he says instead.

Amrod's smile is sad. "I don't think it's that easy," he says.

Back in Barad Eithel:

Before she leaves, Lúthien seeks out the High King.

Fingon is expecting to find one of his lords at the study door, ready to harry him some more about his terrible life choices; so seeing Lúthien is something of a relief.

Even so, he is very tired.

"Is there something I might help you with, lady?" he asks.

"I rather thought I might help you," says Lúthien, tilting her head and offering him a winning smile as she sits down. "But first I owe you my thanks."

Fingon thinks, absurdly, of his abortive promise to behead Curufin. "For what?"

"We have never really spoken, you and I," Lúthien says slowly. "And yet we have rather a lot in common, I think." She smiles at him again. "It was the story of Thangorodrim I was thinking of, when I saved Beren in Tol-in-Gaurhoth."

"I am glad some good came of it, then," Fingon answers bitterly.

Lúthien's eyes on him are sad. "I thought you might say that."

Fingon forces a smile. "Do not mistake me!" he says. "I was pleased indeed to hear how you saved Beren: and pleased, too, that you avenged Finrod my cousin in doing so."

He breaks off. Lúthien's face has filled with sudden pain, hearing Finrod's name.

"I mourn him, too," she says simply, noticing the question in his eyes. "I wish I could have saved him."

At some point you will have to learn that you cannot save everyone, Maglor told Fingon, during the fall of Himring.

Afterwards Fingon thought it mere Fëanorian dramatics; Maedhros had survived the battle, and against all odds so had Maglor, and even Curufin's head was still attached, after all.

Now he thinks perhaps there was a grain of truth to his cousin's words.

Maedhros' distant half-smile and his wide bright eyes and the little tremble in his mouth when Fingon kissed him that last evening—

How did Fingon not see it? How could he have been so blind?

"It is all very well," he says wearily, "to go into the dark armed only with a song, and free one you love from his chains."

Lúthien shudders. She can smell the blood – can feel it, warm and sticky, lapping about her ankles.

"But what can I do," Fingon continues, "if he goes back to the shackles? Am I to break them anyway, against his will?"

"Do you think he has?" Lúthien asks. "Do you think he went to Angband?"

"I don't know!" Fingon exclaims. "How can I not know? I have told myself – I have told him that we are as good as wed – but it is not true! I don't know where he is. How am I to find him, if I don't know where he is – if he has hidden himself from me, deliberately?"

"You can," says Lúthien. "You will. You found him on Thangorodrim, after all. Oh, you of all people must not lose hope!"

"No," Fingon says hollowly. "A High King must not be allowed to despair, after all."

Easier, these days, to understand what drove his father to the breaking point.

"Believe me," says Lúthien, "I know what it is to give your heart to one set on his own destruction." She offers him a faint, comradely sort of smile, but Fingon cannot bring himself to return it. "But is not love about following whether you are wanted or not – about saving them, as many times as it takes?"

Fingon looks at her carefully. Maglor speaks highly of Lúthien, and so did Finrod, but Fingon thinks he would take a liking to her even were it not so: beneath all her ethereal loveliness it seems to him there is a spirit rather akin to his own, both cheerful and practical.

"You do not understand," he says, and closes his eyes.

How is it that this dull defeated voice is his own? Look what you have done to me, he might tell Maedhros; look what you made of me. But the truth is that he left bruises on Maedhros too, with his grasping, over-eager fingers.

"It is not," he says, "it is not merely that I do not know where to follow him this time. It is that – how can I even know whether he wishes me to find him? How do you save someone who does not want to be saved?"

Lúthien thinks of Beren, who heard her singing outside Sauron's tower, and lifted his own voice in response.

She thinks of Maglor telling her that perhaps he need not be bound forever.

"I don't know," she admits.

Fingon tries to master himself. Lúthien may be trustworthy, but all the same he cannot afford to grieve too openly these days.

Is this Maedhros' vengeance on him, to make Fingon's proud and foolish declaration of love into a public stain – to have branded on his cheek, The High King is bound to a traitor?

(There are very few people in Barad Eithel who view Maedhros' disappearance without suspicion.)

"Your story is a happy one, and I am glad of it," he tells Lúthien. "But in truth I know not if its like will be told again – and not of the Noldor, certainly."

Lúthien looks at him unhappily. "Yours is not over yet, either," she says. "Maedhros told me once that I had brought hope to all Elvenkind with my deeds. But you did that long before I."

Fingon smiles at her, practised and kingly, without meeting her gaze.

(to be continued)