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

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To Dream

Elenya= my star

There was a crackling, low and insistent, that pervaded his dreams. It was not an ominous or irritating sound, but a soothing one, and from it Maedhros unconsciously drew comfort. He was barely aware that it was there, until, flitting between one strange vision to another, he found himself turning toward it to find that it was warm; warm like the sun, or a hearth fire brightening the hall on a winter’s day. Maedhros let the radiance caress his cheek and went on dreaming. It was strange to realise that in Mandos a soul could sleep. This was not merely a walling of one’s consciousness from others, but a stilling  of one’s mind. Asleep, one could dream. The visions were not cruel, not like the images Maedhros conjured habitually when awake and alone. Irmo it seems, was kinder and gentler with his heart than he was himself.

Sometimes the dreams were mere nonsense: a kaleidoscope of strange images with little meaning. At other times it seemed that Maedhros slipped behind the eyes of another. On this night Elrond’s vision swam as he read by lamplight, a dozen books and scrolls piled before him across a beautifully made walnut desk. Rest, elenya, Maedhros wished to say, you are burning the candle at both ends. And Elrond stretched tired limbs, kicked off well-worn boots and stumbled his way beneath a fine feathered comforter. His body felt deliciously comfortable as he closed his eyes. Vision dimmed then, vague shapes swirling in the pulse-pink dark that one sees behind their eyelids, until the world coalesced again in a different form.

Elros stood on the docks of a sheltered bay with the unaccustomed weight of a crown pressing upon his brow. Mingling in the warm air hung a fecundity of blooming evergreens, cut through with the tang of fresh, salt breeze. Over the wine-dark sea, sped a small Telerin fleet, bound for their home. As the white ships diminished to hazy shapes on the horizon, Elros treasured in his heart the continued friendship between their peoples. Ai, what a fair thing you have found! Maedhros thought. Elros agreed as he turned toward the green slopes that would take him to his home. As his foster son’s thoughts turned to the comforts of dark ale and hearth fires, Maedhros withdrew, questing outwards over sea and land. Briefly, he caught a snatch of song in a secluded cove and continued on, soon settling in a harbour city.

Boundless energy thrummed through Celebrimbor, who was far from sleep though the stars wheeled in the sky overhead; his mind teemed with aspirations and plans. Maedhros watched on in awe as his nephew riffled through dozens of schematics in his mind, discarding and sketching with imaginary quill until the solution he sought was found. Adept fingers brought the vision to life in chalk on slate. This sketch his nephew tinkered with and improved until, satisfied, the design was set aside to test in the morning light. Afterwards, his mind drifted unmoored, enamoured with thoughts of mountains and buildings. In his thought shone a fair city; a sister to Mithlond that could one day be. This place, unlike cosmopolitan Lindon, would be imbued with a distinctly Noldorin flair, full of craft and ambition. Maedhros thought, not for the first time, how like Fëanor Celebrimbor was, and the both of them smiled. The hearth fire that crackled away beneath it all, burned a little brighter.

Then came images that were Maedhros’s alone, delved from memory of long ago. In them Fëanor leaned back in his seat and stared intently at the wall with faraway eyes. Standing on tiptoe, Maedhros saw that the kitchen table was spread with plans, scrawled thick with notes in a hasty hand. Really, Fëanáro? Nerdanel had said, a spurious frown creasing her brow and a twinkle in her eye as she set a steaming, cobalt-blue mug before him. Must your work invade the entire house? But father caught her in a kiss and the frown dissolved into a laugh. Maedhros had crawled into his lap then, placed his small hands on Fëanor’s cheeks and asked, atar, what do you see? And Fëanor had shown him a whole world that spun with the scutter of creation: crystals and fine powders melted and combined until they caught cerulean light, shapes unfamiliar to his young mind rotated through endless configurations, a melody repeatedly hummed, and in the centre of it all, a design was coming to life. Maedhros and his father had smiled in unison.

There had been no swords then, and no open dissent. Here was the undoing for which he had hoped, not for his brothers, but him; a soft and trusting child, untouched by cruelty. Here was a boy who did not even know yet what a sword was, let alone the kinds of atrocities he would be capable of reaping with one. And here too was a version of his father unravelled from the dark stains that would later mark him. And Maedhros wondered, could this Fëanor and this Maitimo have ever made a different choice? Was there a world in which they did not become what they later had?

Do you seek to understand? Or to punish yourself further? Finwë asked, reaching for him as he woke.

Starlight shone on the cool, calm waters, and only once Maedhros was surrounded by that steadying presence did he realise that his soul wept.

Neither, haru, Maedhros replied. Rather, I grieve.

Rains cold and stark raked across the lake, raising dimples and splashes in the mirror surface. He felt their melancholy chill. Finwë, too, grieved. And yet, when the squall had passed, the air was fresh and light, as if some stifling heaviness had been lifted from it. A shiver passed through his soul like a sigh, and in its wake there was a small measure of peace.

What I saw before— of Celebrimbor, Elros and Elrond—was that real? Maedhros asked.

Tell me, what was it that you saw? Finwë prompted. So Maedhros shared with his grandfather the visions from his dreams and it heartened them both when Finwë said simply, yes.

They are well. The ghost of a smile warmed Maedhros’s soul and was taken up by Finwë’s.

They are well indeed.

I am glad, Maedhros said, and he was, deep in his heart. Yet sadness gnawed at him, insatiable in its steady devouring, and for a time he strove not to dream. Wandering the halls alone, he observed with indifference their cold elegance and the stark beauty moved him not. Sometimes he caught flashes of gold in passing from a soul too bright and vital for these halls, and wondered that Fingon remained still. Go, he told him, go. And Fingon assured him each time that Námo had said the time grew near, before trying to extract a bond that Maedhros would take the same path after. He offered his cousin warm assurances that always fell short of promise.

Long it seemed he drifted, past tapestries that cut him to the quick with shame, and others that stung for reasons he did not wish to name; long he lingered in empty rooms that offered refuge from those hurts even as they caused him to ache with loneliness. Yet Maedhros was no longer who he had been when first he had died, and inevitably he found himself turning back toward those he loved.

Have you seen Celebrimbor? Maedhros asked of Curufin.

What kind of a question is that? My son is alive. His brother replied indignantly, bristling with much that went unshared, the shape of which was painful and raw beneath.

They met in stark, empty places, and touched each other only lightly, rejecting the fabricated comfort that echoes of the familiar gave; the soft furnishings of a life lost that Finwë favoured. Such a thing, Curufin considered, was like bile on the tongue, fit only to be spat out. He could not understand why others thought it sweet. They were alike in this, not wishing to escape the harsh realities of the world through vaulting fantasy. Ever had they lost themselves instead in something more tangible. Curufin designed ever more sophisticated devices and weaponry; Maedhros had built Himring and drawn up strategies. Mandos was eating at them both.

Have you dreamt, little brother?

A ripple passed through Curufin, of what, Maedhros could not tell. His brother bared his soul to none. Maedhros had long ago accepted this. Some corners of the mind were their own fortresses, and both of them had great need of those.

I see him at times, Maedhros went on, so full of intention, with designs whirling through his mind, just as it was with atar once. He is happy, Curufin.

I know. I have seen, he admitted, though it seemed to bring him little comfort.

So, you do dream. Can we influence it, the dreaming?

How should I know? If you want speculative philosophy, Curufin answered, go bother one of Arafinwë’s brood, not me.

Perhaps I would, were I more interested in morals than mechanics.

His brother would have sighed, had he lungs and air to fill them. There was exasperation and fondness within him, heavily mired with guilt.

You have worked it out, Curvo. I know you. You never could leave a mystery unsolved.

Don’t ask questions you will regret the answers to, Maedhros.

Their father was well known for his obstinacy and in this Curufin was truly Fëanor’s son. It was, in Maedhros’s mind, far more than their aesthetic resemblance or curious minds, the thing that marked him most definitively as their father’s closest likeness. Maedhros, of course, could be obstinate too, but he possessed also the stoic patience of their mother, and this had always been the stronger, overcoming stubborness nearly every time. There was a door between them that Curufin kept locked, and it could not be forced. But, if allowed to open it himself, to remain in control, his brother may let him peer inside. All he need do was wait expectantly, and eventually Curufin would yield. Time was no obstacle in Mandos.

One may only dream behind another’s eyes if that person holds them dear, Curufin explained carefully. We, the dead, may learn in time to seek out their sight, only to observe, but we cannot enter unless they allow us. I do not think they are conscious of our presence. It is something their heart has chosen for them.

The workings were benign enough, of course, but the pain, as it so often did, lay hid in the implications they revealed. Maedhros was flooded suddenly with understanding.

Oh, Curvo… He denounced you aloud, to the world…

…but never in his heart, Curufin finished, holding gently between them the image of his son as he had been when young: open-hearted, curious and even then so very strong. The loss of his love had been a devastating ache of which all of his brothers were keenly aware, even if Curufin would never bare it to any.

But why, brother, did you think that it would pain me too?

More gentle than his usual wont, Curufin asked of him, who do you dream of Maedhros?

He dreamt of Elrond, whom he had abandoned in sinking Beleriand, and of Elros on a foreign shore. Rarely, he caught glimpses from Maglor, the brother to whom he had been closest, and failed most of all. And his heart dropped like a stone to the cold and murky depths of the vast and lonely sea.

It is more painful, sometimes, to love and to be loved than to be rejected, is it not? Curufin observed cooly.

He was right. Many may not think so, but Maedhros understood. How do you bear it?

He can live in this fair world because I do not. He is happy, precisely because I am not there.

Long then Maedhros stayed with his brother, saying nothing, as they took solace in the quiet presence of each other’s souls. Sometimes, it was comfort enough merely to know another understood. Slowly, between them, the warmth of a hearth fire grew.

They have a chance, Maedhros said, remembering the innocent hands of a young boy pressed to his father’s cheeks as all about them wonder took flight. A chance that we did not have, or perhaps one we threw away. An opportunity to make this world fairer, not darker.

Maedhros. Curufin bubbled with exasperation. When have you ever thrown aside that goal?

Ai, Curvo. What wretched darkness I caused, before the end!

We were fools. Oath-bound fools. But no longer. If you found yourself back in the world this moment, you would not rest ‘til it were made fair.

Curufin was right. There was an itch in his mind to right things, to build refuges and defend them until all that was foul was swept away. Yet it had all gone so wrongly the first time, he did not dare risk trying again. And you? What would you do if you found yourself again in the world?

I do not think I wish to inflict myself upon it.

You would not be an affliction.

Yes, I would, Curufin argued, an image of Celebrimbor in his mind that he resolutely raised a balustrade around. He was, Maedhros saw, quite determined not to cause him any more harm, even if it should mean relegating himself to Mandos until the world’s end.

We can love the world even as we let it go, Maedhros mused and ignored the resolute incredulity that Curufin projected his way. Do you think atar would do the same? Let the world go on without him?

Atar could never leave well enough alone. You know that! Why do you think he is haunting us now? Though he cannot truly touch us until we too wish it.

Then Maedhros understood the hearth fire warmth for what it was and it unsettled him to realise how he drew comfort from it. For the prospect of drawing close to their father, truly meeting again with soul bared to soul, filled him with a sick sort of apprehension. This dread was mirrored in his brother beside him, who quickly sought to smother it.

You really are not the sharpest sword, are you? Curufin needled, and he was grateful for the familiarity of the taunt.

We cannot all have your brains, Curvo.

 

Maedhros dreamed. He dreamed of a world built anew in peace through the eyes of those he had once loved as sons. He dreamed of an island nation that grew in splendour. He saw the reams and reams that Elrond read in his quest to bring healing to the world, now he was no longer forced to cut down creatures that would befoul it. And Maedhros dreamed of his father. Memory led him through a complex tangle of contradictions. Here was Fëanor, generous beyond belief as he near carelessly distributed the works of his hands throughout Valinor, who awoke ardour within Maedhros’s breast as they tested new materials and theories side by side. And here also was father, arrogant and proud, finding insult where it had never been intended, in those who spoke with different sounds. Had his fervour led them toward damnation long before the oath had been sworn? Would he ever know? The flames, though licking at him impatiently, seemed to understand and neither sought to burn him, nor to withdraw their warmth.

Maedhros woke with the pull of the living world a small but bright spark within. Resolutely, he tried to ignore it, and turned once more to those he loved who numbered among the dead.

He found Finwë amongst the room of familiar furnishings. Maitimo, join with me. There is something I would like for you to see.

What is it, haru? Maedhros asked.

Watch. Finwë reached out for him then, and Maedhros sensed that they joined with many others in an interlacing of minds, and not all were Eldarin. What was this?

Just trust, Maitimo. It is a wonderful thing to witness.

Maedhros peered into the darkness before them; watching, waiting. Then out of the darkness there came a thread spun of golden light. And as he watched the light spiralled ever upward, trailing an iridescent path behind that shimmered bright in the dark. It climbed ceaselessly, reaching such dizzying heights that Maedhros thought he would no longer be able to bear to watch, and then, at last, the light winked out. Or no, not precisely. It had not been snuffed, he thought, but had passed onward to place unseen.

There came a long moment when all interlaced consciousness seemed to hold its breath. Maedhros almost pulled away, but Finwë was alive with anticipation beside him and so Maedhros waited. He did not know when he began dreaming. All he knew was that the world had shifted, and before him a deep pulse-pink fluttered as it does behind heavy lids in the brief moment after wakening. Then, Fingon opened his eyes to the light of the sun.

Chapter End Notes

Curufin? Being vaguely vulnerable and supportive? *visible shock* I know... look, I think Maedhros gets certain big brother privileges here for which Curufin is occasionally willing to crack open his tough, spiky shell and let out a little of the warmth hid deep inside.

I was trawling through LaCE and found this idea in the footnotes that unhoused elven fëar in Mandos could commune with the Living who remembered them, but could only observe and not act upon the world... and there was no way I was not going to riff on that!

Apologies for any typos and little errors that I have missed. Illness has been kicking my butt in real life so I am not quite on top of my editing game right now (and if I am honest, finding all the little errors is not my strong suit anyway). Thanks to everyone who is reading this story (even though updates are a little slow)! As only the second fanfic I came up with I am honestly so happy to see it getting the love it has. <3

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