One In the Fires of the Heart of the World by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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Stitches are for Healing

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It was a strange thing, to find a living soul in the halls, thrumming with a quality that the dead did not share, anchored in a way they could not be. Stranger still was the one that followed, a many faceted, kaleidoscope of a soul, just as dead as he. The fëa was deep, deep green, like an oval-cut emerald with many precise facets coming together to shape a thing of beauty. Each face, polished and smooth, reflected something of the person within, a multitude of streams of consciousness at once travelling in many directions, yet remaining resolutely side-by-side. Maedhros looked on in fascination, thinking there was something familiar to the light that gleamed along the edges. 

             Silver was the living soul, at once as sharp as a needle and possessed of the silken-tough softness of sheep’s fleece. Certainly, he had not met this one before, though there was something about her brightness that drew him in. As Maedhros watched on, the living one began to work, and to his surprise the workings were visible to him, though her tools were not. She bent before an image that slowly took shape, growing one small stitch at a time. As the jewel-bright soul leaned over her shoulder, watching her work, the facets began to smooth and shift as if they sang together in a rich harmony, running into one great sheet of glass of a thousand shades, mysterious and deep as the forest. Caranthir, for that is who Maedhros now knew it was, could not stitch as the living soul did, but he watched on and bent toward her to lend what help he might, as before them a thing of beauty took shape. Maedhros leaned closer to see Maglor picked out in rich colours before him, a harp in hand, sadness in his eyes, and an ironic little smile playing at his lips.

             “I wondered when I would see you, my dear,” the woman spoke in the familiar form of address. This should have registered as an offense, from a stranger, but Maedhros could not find indignity within him at her words, so affectionate and gentle was her tone. There was instead only the curious feeling of a well-worn word on the tip of the tongue that remains obscured.

             Who are you? He asked, almost certain he would be expected to know, vaguely concerned about causing offense himself.

             A rich, melodious laughter rang out from the woman instead.

             “Míriel,” she said, “and do not worry so. How could you have been expected to recognise one you have never met?”

             Námo said you came here still, but I was not sure whether I should believe him.

             “Námo is not known for untruth.”

             Míriel went deftly about her work, apparently little inclined to drive the conversation further. Maedhros supposed that one who had waited long years in these halls, wishing not to come forth, must be comfortable with silence. He found himself likewise content, watching as silver threads gradually strung the instrument in his brother’s hands. After a time, Míriel spoke again.

             “It is a joy to finally meet you, Maedhros.”

             And you, grandmother. He replied, mystified by the use of his Middle Earthen name, from one who had never set foot on those shores.

             “Are you surprised that I know it, or that I use it?” Míriel asked, a rhetorical question, as she went on without waiting for an answer, “Caranthir has spoken to me much of what passed between the seven of you in the Hither Lands. And, grandson, as you have always done me the courtesy of using my preferred name, should I not also greet you with yours?” 

             Thank you, that is kind.

             “Kindness has nothing to do with it. Only respect. Do you not wish to greet your brother?” Míriel prompted, completing the last string. The work paused for a time, perhaps as Míriel prepared a thread that Maedhros could not see.

             I would, but it has never been prudent to interrupt Caranthir when he is deep in thought. I am content to wait until he is ready.

             An amusement emanated from her then, shivering along the silver-bright soul like the gold of Laurelin melding with Telperion during the mingling. 

             “Your brothers were right when they said you knew them better than your father ever did, weren’t they? I should not think it a problem now though, my dear. Go ahead.” 

             Maedhros reached out as gently as he could manage, running a tendril of awareness down the smooth shifting-green glass, surprised to find it warm.

             Caranthir?

             Maedhros? His brother rippled with surprise, Is that you? You look strange.

             Hark who talks, brother! 

             Caranthir seemed to bark out a laugh, harsh-sounding and startling as it had been in life. It is you. 

             Beside them Míriel hummed in contentment as she watched Caranthir wrap him in a tentative, slightly stiff yet very genuine embrace. It was like holding Caranthir as a small child, smooth and gentle, without any of the rough edges he had quickly accrued in life. 

             I have missed you. Maedhros reached to embrace Caranthir in kind. 

             And we have missed you. 

             You are different to how I remember.

             I am better than I was. This place, it wipes away the blemishes if you will let it. 

             “It is not quite that easy!” Míriel cut in, “You and I have spent quite some time working together, haven’t we? I would say it was you that stitched together the tears and darned the holes.”

             Well, that is not untrue. It became easier once the oath stopped holding the worst of them open, of course. Caranthir turned his thought to Maedhros, gratefulness plain in the warmth that radiated toward him.

             Our brothers? Are they better too?

             Do not expect too much of them, Maedhros, we are not all the same. Change does not come easily for all of us. 

             I hoped not for change, but undoing. Maedhros confessed, the startling picture of Caranthir at two clinging to his back, trusting hands loose around his neck was forefront in his mind. All of them had been so soft and trusting once. I wished you all to become more like you were, before war made us hard and cruel. 

             Us? But what about you?

             Maedhros’s laugh was harsher than Caranthir’s had been. Me? There’s no cause to hope that I could. I’m the worst of us all.

             You don’t know yourself very well, do you?

             “No, I don’t think he does, Caranthir,” Míriel raised her eyebrow but did not look up from her work.

             You don’t know what we did before the end, Maedhros argued, the heat of shame rising like gorge inside him.

             Míriel and Caranthir seemed to be laughing at some joke that Maedhros wasn’t privy too, and worst of all, it seemed he was the butt of it. Anger began to burn inside him. 

             But we do.

             “To what do you refer? Raising two quite respectable youths? Or your stalwart contribution during the War of Wrath?” Míriel shot toward him, dripping with sarcasm.

             Moreso the orphaning of the boys you’re referring to, and certain hostile events pertaining to a particular two Valar-forsaken jewels. Maedhros snapped back.

             “You haven’t lost your spark. I was afraid for a time that you had,” Maedhros could feel the edge of concern in her voice, mingled with fire and passion, not so unlike his father’s, though hers came wrapped in softness, “peace, we don’t mean to mock you. But do try to imagine what your brothers might have done had they lived. How many of them would be men those fosterlings still wanted to cling to, by the end? Would any have forgone attempting to steal the gems from Eonwë? Don’t you imagine some of them committing worse wrongs during the act? You must ask yourself why you consider yourself beyond redemption and not they.”

             She’s a wonder, isn’t she? Caranthir cast toward him a knowing grin.

             She has father’s fire. Maedhros reluctantly conceded, feeling as though he were a field recently burned clear of the remnants of the last harvest.

             She has a point. 

             She has several and I’d rather not be pricked by them, Maedhros quipped, feeling her insufferable grin upon him even though he chose not to look. 

             “You cannot suture without a needle, my dear, but the stitches are for healing, not for harm.”

             Whatever drove Námo to agree to release you, I wonder? Did you piss him off one too many times? Surely it was not your charming wit.

             Míriel roared with laughter, “that’s more like it!”

             Maedhros found he began to feel a certain fondness for this oddly contradictory creature. His grandmother, like a caressing fleece wrapped over stone! That figured. She’d have fit right in in an argument among his brothers, or traded fire for fire with father more adeptly than any other.

             Why exactly have you come in here to stitch a picture of Maglor? Maedhros asked, seeking to divert both his temper and the topic of the conversation.

             “Hmm? I employ my talents for Vairë, stitching the tapestries of histories with her. I still find the living quite tedious, truth be told. Sometimes I work in Vairë’s halls. Sometimes I like to work here.”

             Maglor is history?

             “Did you think the only important things were the events that make it into stale treatments like Rúmil’s? The Valar find all manner of things worth recording. This one is for Lady Nienna. A morose Noldo slowly regaining a semblance of happiness.”

             He has found some happiness, then? Maedhros asked, rising up onto the tiptoes of hope.

             “A small measure,” Míriel agreed warily.

             Good. Perhaps it may grow.

             She looked at him, her gaze unfathomable as she studied his soul with an uncomfortable intensity, “the two of you were always good at finding hope in unlikely places.”

A memory came unbidden then. The first sunset had come after a day of warmth such as Maedhros had not experienced since the light of the trees had been extinguished. Its light had seemed to caress his exposed skin, almost like a promise. Later, he would discover it could also burn, but on the first day it was a comfort such as he had not felt in a wearily long count of time. When Arien sunk low in the Eastern sky she set the heavens aflame, casting the landscape in gold and bronze. Maedhros had the inexplicable thought that it was wonderful to witness the spectacle from such a height. He had not even a word for this strange golden orb that came unlooked for out of the West, but not even the unbearable pain that tore through his shoulder could stop Maedhros from hoping that it would return to paint the world in those colours again. When it continued to rise and set amid a new masterpiece each day, Maedhros was both grateful, and bitten by the guilt of thinking even the smallest good had come of his captivity.

             It was beautiful, Finwë agreed, surprising Maedhros, who had not been aware of his joining their company, even if it came amid the worst, and would not have been the same without it. Why should you be ashamed for finding what small joys that you could?

             “And now, you have shared with me something beautiful such as I have never seen,” Míriel thanked him, though she seemed also to be grieved, “for not even from the heights of the Pelori does Arien seem quite so grand.” 

             Sunsets and songs, Caranthir mused, my biggest brothers are even sappier than I suspected.

             Will you go to your other brothers now? Finwë asked, they would welcome you gladly. 

             I think they are better off without me, haru. I led them all to their deaths in the end. 

             Finwë sighed, his frustration clear, they’d surely have found those more quickly had they not had you to lead them. Go to them, Nelyo.

But Maedhros would not. Whatever Míriel, Finwë and Caranthir thought, he was sure no good would come of it. What was he to them but sword, shield an armour, well-worn and familiar, binding them comfortably to the violence of the past? What was he but a torch to set the world alight with, while his brother’s danced among the flames.

             “If I were to create a tapestry of you, do you think that’s what you’d be? Weaponry?” Míriel asked.

             Yes, Maedhros answered truthfully, what else have I ever been?

             The pictures Míriel called to her mind were as vivid as those Maedhros had comforted Elrond with when he was small and afraid. With them wrapped about him there was a hush that dulled his self-contempt in its bittersweet embrace. The sky stretched over head, a gentle gradient of lavender on the horizon rising to cornflower blue, and beneath his feet was cool grass, laden with flowers.

             “The morning sky, Maitimo,” Míriel whispered in a voice like Tussah silk, rough with tears, echoes of Nerdanel within her words, “You were the morning sky, and the promise of day to come in the midst of night. Stop living in the darkness, child, when you have the chance to walk in the sun.”

             Maedhros did not resist when Finwë began to gather them both in, until it seemed Míriel’s fields stood at the edge of a lake not so different from Mithrim. At its edge a bed of stones, smoothed over and flat, was lapped gently by the cool waters. Five figures stood on the shore. One bent, gathering the best stones to skip. Two sat with knees bent up to their chests, staring quietly across the waters. Another faced the field, all their attention bent to examining a sprig of yarrow that was held delicately in their hand. The last turned to him with a smile so open and warm that Maedhros almost thought the image a trick. For Caranthir with the stormy face and flashes of anger had never smiled like that, had he?

             What are you doing? Maedhros pushed back at Finwë, panicky alarm rising within him.

             Mending my family, Finwë told him calmly.

             Stop! Maedhros yelled. Let me go.

             I’ve never been able to hold you against your will, Nelyo. Leave if you wish.

             And he would have, except that at that moment Caranthir reached out to take his hand, and he knew from the warm smooth feel of his soul that it was no trick. 

             Stay? his brother almost begged, I promise you won’t break us.

             If a soul could be said to breathe hard, drawing in whatever passed spiritually as air in ragged gasps, this was what Maedhros’s did. Four faces turned gradually toward him, familiar but uncanny, just as Caranthir was. Celegorm dropped the stones and turned to him with an almost savage grin, Amrod and Amras scrambled to their feet and hurried forward, Curufin frowned and turned away to hide a softer expression that hid beneath. They gathered close. 

             Maedhros grasped for the familiar, commanding tones he’d used so often on his brothers in Beleriand, only to find them slip through his fingers. His words seemed more like a plea. What are you all doing? Haven’t you learnt yet that a flame will burn you? You should run far away. 

             Don’t be an idiot, Celegorm rolled his eyes, pulling him into an embrace that smelled of dirt, raw meat and smoke. Somehow it didn’t seem surprising to Maedhros that Oromë’s favoured remained marked by the Hunter even in death.  It wasn’t you that burned us. How the fuck do you still not realise?

             I can’t say I’m much shocked, Curufin answered drily, Fëanor’s eldest was never his sharpest sword.

             No, Amras agreed with teasing affection, he was too busy to sharpen it, gathering this rowdy brood under the skirts of his cloak and trying to keep us out of the cold.

             I don’t think he’s managed to shake the impetus, Amrod observed, he still tries to shield us from the storm.

             But you’re not a storm, nor a sword either brother, Amras finished, let us be the ones to wrap you in our embrace for a change.

             Hope entered his heart like a splinter, close under the surface of his skin and irritatingly hard to ignore. Maedhros saw himself for a moment through their eyes, a great, ancient cloak rent and torn in a hundred places, faded from long years exposure to all manner of weather, stained from misadventure, and yet far too valuable and dear for even the thought of discarding it to pass one’s mind. He perceived also that repairs had been made, some patches as old and faded as the original and some darns bold with threads startlingly new. When had that happened?

             “A cloak,” Míriel mused, “is much like a shield is it not Maedhros? Though it remains useful in times of peace too.”

             Maedhros could not disagree. 

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Chapter End Notes

I'd always planned for Caranthir to make an appearance with Míriel. He was originally going to do so alone, but you know how it is with the Sons of Fëanor, they rarely appear without at least one other brother. To my surprise they've all decided to show up at once. If Maedhros thinks he's likely to be left to quiet contemplation after this he's in for a rude shock. As for what else the future holds, I doubt Námo is foolish enough to leave a tangle of Fëanorians unsupervised in his halls.

I hope you've enjoyed this one. Please let me know what you thought!