From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Thirteen

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Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
- “O Me! O Life!” by Walt Whitman

 

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In the morning Fëanor woke and then rolled over to bury his face in the pillows again. Outside of his window a bird was singing cheerfully. He felt mostly rested, though he hadn’t fallen asleep until late, but he also did not want to get out of bed. His room was in a different part of the house from all of his sons’, but there was always a risk of running into one of them unexpectedly, and he didn’t think he could bear it that morning. 

Eventually, though, he sighed and dragged himself out from under the blankets, taking his time in dressing and brushing out his hair. As he started to pull it back for braiding, he heard snuffling at the door, and then a scratching noise. When Fëanor opened the door, he found himself staring into Huan’s dark eyes, which were always so knowing—even when he had been a puppy it had sometimes been disconcerting. “Huan? What—hey!” Huan took Fëanor’s sleeve in his teeth and pulled, and Fëanor was unprepared enough that he nearly pitched forward onto his face in the hallway. No one else was there to see, luckily, but there were plenty of witnesses downstairs and outside to laugh at him as Huan dragged him unceremoniously through the house and out into the gardens. Fëanor could either go along with it or lose his sleeve, and this shirt was one that Míriel had made, and even if she could make him a dozen new ones he still didn’t want to damage it. Besides, he thought a little sourly, Huan would probably just grab the other one—or maybe just his arm itself, and then he’d have to deal with getting blood all over his clothes. 

It was useless to try to talk Huan out of something when he was determined—in this he had always fit right in with their family—but Fëanor tried anyway. “Huan, I haven’t even had breakfast—slow down—where are you even—Huan!”

Finally, Huan let him go, stepped behind him, and used his enormous head to shove him forward off the path. Once again, Fëanor nearly fell on his face, catching himself just before he landed in a brown and ragged clump of last year’s flowers. It was a beautiful morning, cloudless and cool, still early enough that dew clung to the grass, and the air smelled of daffodils and niphredil. Birds sang a merry chorus in the trees and hedgerows. Huan had brought him out to a large oak that grew beside one of the many streams that ran through the valley, glimmering in the early morning sunshine.

He had also brought him to Maedhros. When Fëanor glimpsed him in the seconds before he got shoved and had to look away lest he fall, he looked as startled as Fëanor felt. This was not, Fëanor thought as he regained his balance, how either of them had wanted this meeting to start. He kept his gaze on his sleeve as he rubbed his thumb over a few loose threads that had snagged on Huan’s teeth. 

“This is why Maglor calls you a menace, you know,” Maedhros said, tone mild but something strained hovering underneath. For a moment Fëanor wondered what in the world his sons had been saying about him—but then Huan woofed. Fëanor glanced over his shoulder to find him sitting down, tail wagging, as though he intended to keep both of them there until he was satisfied. Menace, indeed.

When he looked back at Maedhros, he found him looking tired and sad, strands of hair already working themselves out of his braid to fall around his temples. He had his arms behind his back as he leaned against the tree, posture deceptively relaxed. “Maedhros,” he said, and then didn’t know what else to say. He still didn’t know what Maedhros had meant when he had spoken of Losgar, and that meant he didn’t know where to begin. 

“Atar,” Maedhros said quietly, and then looked away, across the streams and the gardens. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something, but was at just as much of a loss as Fëanor. 

Fëanor looked at Huan again, but found him busy sniffing at something on the path by his feet. Then he turned back to Maedhros, hating this uncertainty, hating that even if he couldn’t see them, the marks on Maedhros’ hand were surely hurting him. It was very quiet where they were, but in the distance someone else was singing—there was always someone singing in Imloth Ningloron. Just then the bright music felt horribly out of place—or maybe it was just Fëanor who was out of place, bringing with him as he did so many shadows of the past that everyone else wished to leave behind, marring whatever he touched even when he tried so hard not to.

He had to say something, so he might as well just start with the hardest part. Better to get it over with—to give Maedhros a chance to say whatever he needed to say. Maybe then at least Fëanor would understand. “I remember Losgar better, now.”

“Ambarussa told me,” Maedhros said. He didn’t look away from whatever had caught his attention somewhere downstream. 

Fëanor felt again like he was trying to cross a frozen river in the dark. This felt dangerous, only he didn’t know what step he took would be the one to bring disaster. “You were right,” he said. “About the ships. About Nolofinwë.” 

“I never expected you to listen to me,” Maedhros said, and Fëanor winced. “But I also didn’t expect—” His voice shook and he stopped speaking, biting his lip and blinking rapidly. 

Fëanor waited, but when Maedhros didn’t go on, he said, because it was important that Maedhros hear him say it, “Nothing I said to you was true. Maedhros, I’m—I’m sorry.” It felt like there should be more, but— “I don’t know what else to say.”

“You never say anything you don’t mean,” Maedhros said. He did look back, then, and his eyes were dark with memory and with pain that didn’t seem to have faded at all, even after centuries in Mandos and decades in Lórien. 

There was something he was missing, Fëanor thought with growing unease. There was something he still didn’t remember, or that he did not recognize the significance of. It wasn’t just that he had been angry, there was something else, and he didn’t know what it could be. The ice was shifting under his feet.

“So it doesn’t matter if none of it was true. You meant every word.”

“Maedhros—”

“You accused me of treason. You said I was no better than your hated half-brother. That I was no son of yours—even though that is all I am, all I have ever been—”

Once, being Fëanor’s son had not been a terrible thing. Then it had become the worst thing in the world, and now—now it was just something that hurt, like the scars on Maedhros’ palm and his missing hand that had followed him even through Mandos, something Fëanor couldn’t change or fix or take away. “Maedhros, I—” He didn’t know what to say except I’m sorry and I love you, but neither of those things would make any of this better. 

“But that’s not—I expected all of that. I might forgive all of that, but you—” Maedhros voice cracked, along with the closed off and stoic mask he had been wearing. His face broke open like a wound, bleeding misery and pain. “That was the last time you ever spoke to me—just me, alone. Those were the last words you ever—” He seemed to trip over whatever he was trying to say, like Náriel had tripped over her words, except this was Maedhros trying not to say them. “—and you weren’t wrong. It would have been better if I had burned with the ships.”

Wait.

Wait, what?

“I did burn in the end, but only after I led us all into disaster after disaster—”

Fëanor’s mind raced as he tried to remember Losgar and all that had come afterward, tried to think if there was another conversation he had failed to recall—but there wasn’t. He knew there wasn’t. He had never said that—he would never say such a thing. It didn’t matter if he had entirely lost his mind, there was no world in which this was possible. Except—

You never say anything you don’t mean, Maedhros had said, and he was right, but that just made this so much worse. The ice had broken under their feet and there was nothing to grab onto, no way for Fëanor to pull either of them out.

“Maedhros, what—I never said—Nelyo, I never wished you dead!” Not his Nelyo, not his baby boy who was afraid of honey bees and loved the color blue, who had been the first person to whom Fëanor had ever shown the Silmarils, who had Míriel’s smile and Finwë’s bearing, who filled his sketchbooks with flowers, who seemed to be on the verge of breaking apart before his very eyes. Never, ever would he be capable of such a thought, let alone to say it. 

Maedhros stared at him, expression unreadable. Finally, he said, “You said yourself you don’t remember—”

“I remember enough,” Fëanor said, more forcefully than he’d meant to—he didn’t miss Maedhros’ flinch—but if it meant he would be believed— “I would never say such a thing! I would never think such a thing! You are my son, and however angry I was it could never, ever be enough to wish for that!”

Maedhros just shook his head, even though he had just said himself that Fëanor did not speak words he did not mean. He had to know Fëanor meant every word now, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. “That’s—”

“I know I did terrible things,” and now it was Fëanor’s turn to struggle against the tears that threatened to choke him, to get out what he needed to say before he couldn’t anymore, “and I said awful things, and I doomed you to walk a terrible road—and I deserve every ounce of whatever hatred you might have for me, but at least hate me for what I actually did!” 

Maedhros opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. He stared at Fëanor like he wasn’t really seeing him—like he was seeing the version of him he remembered from Losgar. Something was wrong, horribly, horrifically wrong, and Fëanor didn’t know what it was. He didn’t understand how the palantír could show him one thing—the palantír which he had made to show only what was there, to be a clear window, not something that could distort or invent anything—while Maedhros remembered something so different. This memory had haunted him for more than six thousand years, but Fëanor was certain that it was not real. 

Both of them couldn’t be remembering correctly. These days, Fëanor was more used to being wrong than not, but he could not be wrong now. Not about this. 

Then Maedhros’ gaze flicked over Fëanor’s shoulder, and a second later Celegorm burst out of the bushes, Maglor just behind him. Fëanor took a step back as Celegorm prepared to take a swing, but Maglor managed to pull him back at the last moment. “How dare you even show your face here after—” Celegorm snarled.

“Celegorm, stop!” Maglor yanked him back, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.

“Tyelko, I never—” Fëanor tried to say.

“After everything he did for you!” 

“I didn’t—”

“Celegorm!” Maglor finally managed to step in front of Fëanor—and what a startling turn of events this was, to find himself being defended by Maglor—and Huan took a hold of Celegorm’s shirt, holding him back when he might have just knocked his brother out of the way to get to Fëanor. “Enough!” Maglor’s voice cut through whatever else Celegorm was trying to say. Behind Huan, Curufin appeared on the path, and Fëanor wished, desperately, that he had not been there to hear. The hurt and confusion in his eyes was worse than any anger—far worse than any damage Celegorm could do with his fists.

In between them, Maglor seemed to have grown. He had always been tall, but in recent years he held himself small enough that it was easy to forget that he was in fact of a height with Celegorm, only a little shorter than Fëanor himself. “Maglor, you can’t—” Celegorm began. 

“I said enough, Turcafinwë!” Maglor snapped, and Fëanor had never heard him sound like this. This was a voice out of the wars of Beleriand, the voice that had sent orcs fleeing before the riders of Maglor’s Gap. He did not like hearing that any more than he liked the look on Curufin’s face. “Go back to the house.”

“But—”

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Maglor said, voice harder than Fëanor had ever heard it, sharp as flint, a voice that would not be gainsaid, “and you aren’t going to resolve it with your fists!”

Fëanor looked at Celegorm, who was furious—but furious in a way that made Fëanor think he was trying very hard not to burst into tears instead. Their gazes met, for the first time in years, and the betrayal in Celegorm’s eyes made Fëanor almost wish that he’d gotten a hit in before Maglor stopped him. 

“What kind of misunderstanding can there be?” Curufin asked, and the thought came into Fëanor’s mind that this was what he might have sounded like in Nargothrond, at his most dangerous. He had seen his sons in Beleriand, but the palantír did not allow him to hear, and hearing what they had sounded like then was somehow very different—it was horrible; they didn’t sound like his boys at all. Even the occasional glimpses he’d gotten over the years of what Curufin might have looked and sounded like as Lord of Himlad hadn’t been like this. “Someone has to be lying. I don’t think it is Maedhros.”

“Curv—” Fëanor began, but Maglor held up a hand, and he thought better of it. There wasn’t anything he could say now that would make any of it better, and most likely he would just make it worse. Of course they believed their brother over him—they should side with their brother over him—it was just that—

There was so much he had done that was already terrible. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of them believing this. 

“I was there after Losgar,” Maglor said, voice still hard; the air seemed to hum around him with every word he spoke as he reminded them all just how deserving he was of the name Canafinwë. “I know exactly what was said, and I say now there are no liars here.”

Fëanor knew that—Maedhros had no reason to lie, especially not when he thought they were alone, and he knew that he was not lying—but it still made no sense. But Maglor seemed very confident, which was something. At least someone seemed to know what was going on.

“Both of you,” Maglor went on, “return to the house. Do not speak of what you heard here until I come back.”

“But—”

Maglor’s voice sharpened further, and Fëanor took a step back, though he wasn’t Maglor’s intended target. “Do as I say, Curufinwë!”

Curufin grabbed Celegorm’s arm and pulled him away down the path, both of them looking over their shoulders at Maedhros, who had remained frozen and silent through the whole confrontation, leaning against the oak tree now like it was the only thing keeping him standing. When Fëanor looked at him, it seemed as though his mind was somewhere very far away, his face ashen, eyes over bright with unshed tears. Huan licked Maglor’s hand very gently before following after Curufin and Celegorm. 

As soon as they were out of sight, Maglor’s entire demeanor changed. His shoulders dropped, and he seemed to shrink back into himself. “Atar,” he said, more softly but with a thread of steel underneath, “please wait here.”

“Canafinwë, what—”

“I will explain, I promise.” Maglor wasn’t looking at him, though. There was still something he was missing. “Please trust me, and wait. Maedhros, come with me.”

Maedhros didn’t move, but he blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Maglor—”

“Please, Maedhros.” Maglor held out his hand. 

But Maedhros was just as stubborn as his brothers, and he was not someone Maglor could or would even try to command. “No,” he said. “No delays. Explain now. Here.” 

“Maedhros—”

“Now, Maglor,” Maedhros snapped, and Fëanor saw Maglor flinch just a little, as he dropped his hand to his side. He didn’t immediately answer, and the longer the silence stretched the more fear grew in Fëanor’s heart. If neither he nor Maedhros were lying, then one of them was mistaken. If the palantír showed only the truth, then it was Maedhros’ memory that was wrong, but Fëanor still couldn’t understand how.

“What you remember, Maedhros,” Maglor said finally, confirming that awful suspicion growing in the back of Fëanor’s mind, “is not what happened. I don’t—I cannot say I know with certainty why, but I have a guess and I think it is the right one. Atar did not wish death on you. He said he should have left you behind in Araman.”

Fëanor had said that—he’d meant it at the time, and at the time he had expected Fingolfin to turn around and lead his people back to Tirion, slinking back to the feet of the Valar to beg forgiveness. He had rejected the Helcaraxë as a possibility, and it had never occurred to him that they would have tried to cross it anyway. 

It had been disdain and fury behind the wish that Maedhros had been left behind with them, rather than any real wish for his safety—he hadn’t really been thinking of anyone’s safety, then—but that was still so different from what Maedhros thought he had said. 

“I remember what I heard, Maglor,” Maedhros snarled, a cornered animal lashing out because there was nothing else he could do. “I remember it very clearly.”

“But it is not what happened, Maedhros, it wasn’t—you were taken to Angband so soon afterward—”

Oh. Of course. Fëanor closed his eyes, silently cursing Morgoth. Again. “Maglor,” he said, even though he knew he shouldn’t interrupt, except Maglor seemed terribly certain, for someone who claimed to only be guessing, “how do you know what happened in Angband?”

Maglor’s voice shook when he replied, without turning away from Maedhros. “I don’t. What I know is what happened to me. I know what the Enemy was capable of. Lies—it was all lies, from the time Morgoth left Mandos to the moment the Ring was destroyed. This is exactly the sort of lie that he—that either of them would have delighted in.”

“But there is no point—” Maedhros began.

“The point is what’s happening right now—the point is that it’s haunted you for all this time. I’m sorry, but—”

“No! No, I know what it was like when he tried to put things in your head—I know what that looked like, what it felt like, and I never fell for it—”

This was a glimpse into Maedhros’ time in Angband Fëanor hadn’t expected to get and wished he hadn’t. He heard the growing desperation in Maedhros’ voice, the increasingly frantic denials, and all it did was convince him more and more that Maglor was right.

“I don’t know how he did it,” Maglor said, “but—”

“Because he didn’t! Don’t lie to me, Maglor, to try to make this better or—”

“Maedhros, please just—just let me get Elrond. He can—”

“I don’t need Elrond!”

“Maedhros, please—wait—” Maglor reached for Maedhros, but he was too slow, and Maedhros would not be held back. Silence fell as Maedhros stormed away, vanishing around a bend in the path, going in the opposite direction of Celegorm and Curufin, away from the house rather than toward it. The birds in the nearby trees and hedges had fled, and even the stream seemed to have ceased its song as it flowed by. Fëanor looked at Maglor, who stood very still as though frozen—like in the stories he had told Calissë and Náriel. He was shaking, very slightly, though Fëanor thought he could tell only because he was looking for it. 

“Canafinwë,” Fëanor said after a moment. Maglor stiffened. “Are you all right?”

Maglor didn’t turn around. Instead he pressed his hands to his face and took a shuddering breath. “I have to find Elrond,” he said, voice slightly muffled. He did not sound at all like he had when facing down Celegorm, or when pleading with Maedhros. Fëanor took a step forward before stopping himself, unsure if Maglor wanted any kind of comfort that he might be able to offer. Not when he was the source of all of this in the first place. After taking another breath, Maglor lowered his hands. Still without turning around, he said, voice flat and dull, “There are many things you never said, Atar, that still echo in our minds in your voice—the worst thoughts we’ve had of ourselves, our darkest doubts and fears. We didn’t need Morgoth for that; we just needed the memory of your anger.”

Fëanor took several steps back. Each word cut deeper than the last, though he knew he only had himself to blame—but he didn’t know what to say.

“Maedhros’ memory of Losgar is more than that,” Maglor went on, “and it’s not your fault, but you made it very easy for Morgoth to put such a thing into his mind. I know you regret everything that happened then, and I know you are trying to be better, but you should remember that.”

As though he could ever forget. “Cáno—”

“You should avoid the house for a little while. I don’t know what Celegorm is going to do.”

Maglor left, heading back to the house. That left Maedhros alone, wherever he had gone. The thought filled Fëanor with dread, but he remained where he was, unsure of what to do, or even how to find him.

That false memory had been echoing through Maedhros’ mind for centuries. Throughout all of the First Age—from Angband onward, he had believed— 

Fëanor sank to the ground, covering his own face with his hands. Rúmil had spoken of Morgoth’s machinations as more than just rumors, more than just mundane manipulation—it had culminated in the Darkening, in Finwë’s murder and Fëanor’s own swift descent into madness as he dragged all the Noldor down with him. And that was in Valinor, when he had had to move carefully, when he had not been able to put forth his full might for fear of discovery.

There had been nothing holding him back in Angband. For years. 

Fëanor allowed himself only a few minutes to weep; it wasn’t helpful, and he was not the one with the greatest cause for tears. As he caught his breath something bumped into his knee, and he started so badly he nearly fell over for the third time that morning—it seemed impossible that he had rolled out of bed less than an hour ago. When he looked down he found a hedgehog, sniffing around the leaves, sniffing at Fëanor himself. He looked around for the other two, but this one had come out there alone. As Fëanor watched, it circled the oak tree, and then trotted away down the same path that Maedhros had taken. 

Curufin’s words to Calissë about Aechen being there to keep an eye on Maedhros had held more truth than Fëanor realized. He wiped his face and hesitated for a moment, before making his decision. He had given Maedhros both time and distance—but that needed to end. The worst thing he could do now was turn his back and prove Maedhros’ worst fears true. Now that he had chosen a course to follow he felt steadier; it was easier to get to his feet and follow after Aechen.