From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Fourteen

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I have failed you
I have failed you
I’ve closed my heart and I have failed you
But I love you
How I love you
All my days will rearrange to say I love you
- “Swing Low Sail High” - The Wailin’ Jennys

 

- - 

 

Aechen, having chosen his course, moved surprisingly quickly, and once he left the gardens and disappeared into the grass and wildflowers of the river meadows Fëanor had some trouble keeping up, for Aechen passed through the grass with hardly a ripple of disturbance. However, he was also heading in more or less a straight line, which made it easier. Eventually they left the grass and climbed a gently sloping hill that led into the woods beyond the edge of the valley. The ground rose ever upward ahead of them, and under the enormous pine trees with their thick canopy high above it was shady and still quite cool. The birdsong was faint and distant; closer at hand the only sound was the soft scuffle of Aechen’s tiny feet as he scurried over the pine needles that carpeted the ground. Fëanor’s footsteps made no sound at all. 

Maedhros had made his way very deep into the wood. Aechen found him at the base of a tree, curled up with his head bowed and his braid coming unraveled. Fëanor stepped on a twig and froze as Maedhros’ head jerked up, eyes going wide. He looked—lost, afraid. When he had been young and small enough for it, he’d often run off to hide under his bed or in the back of a closet or wardrobe when he was particularly upset, because even as a child he’d hated for others to see his tears. Then, Fëanor had always been able to find him and coax him out to accept comfort and reassurance—then, he had been able to promise that everything would be all right, and be believed. Eventually, Maedhros had grown too big for such hiding places, and Fëanor had stopped looking, believing that he had outgrown the need to hide at all—if Maedhros wanted his advice or a shoulder to lean on, or just a listening ear, he had only needed to ask. And for a long time, he had.

Then he had stopped asking, and started hiding again—not in wardrobes, but in plain sight, behind false smiles and masks of calm, never letting hurt or tears show except behind closed doors and never in front of anyone else save, perhaps, Maglor or Fingon. 

And now there they were.

“Maedhros?” he began, and Maedhros immediately burst into tears—the kind of tears that were impossible to stop once they began, that wracked the whole body, a sudden release of everything that had been held back for years beyond count. It was suddenly very easy to know what to do. Fëanor went and knelt beside Maedhros, who collapsed against him as soon as Fëanor put an arm around his shoulders, weeping as though the tears would never end.

Through the worst of it Fëanor just sat and stroked his hair, and when Maedhros began to calm enough that he thought he would be heard he said, “I’m sorry, Maedhros. I’m so sorry—for all of it. I never wanted this.” He kissed the top of his head. “I love you so much; I wish I could take this from you, I wish I knew how to fix it. I’m so sorry that I can’t.”

Maedhros took a few shuddering breaths, and, hardly able to get the words out, whispered, “You—you really never—”

“Never. Never, ever.”

After another few minutes, Maedhros spoke again. “I don’t—you—I thought that you hated—”

“I never hated you,” Fëanor said. “I was angry and I was wrong, but I could never hate you.”

Maedhros turned his face into Fëanor’s shoulder, shuddering through another wave of tears. He didn’t speak again, not until Elrond appeared, moving soundlessly through the trees. His expression was grave but calm, and he knelt on the pine needles in front of them. “Maedhros? Will you let me help?”

“Can you?” Maedhros asked after a moment, without moving. “I don’t—if it’s all just false—”

Fëanor had also wondered that—what other things Morgoth might have tampered with, damaged, or invented out of whole cloth, things that Maedhros had spent centuries believing without realizing there was anything wrong. He looked at Elrond, but Elrond’s focus was entirely on Maedhros.

“If all your memories were false ones,” Elrond said, “it would have been noticed much sooner than this. I can at least help to trace the source of this one, and—”

“Is that not already known?” Fëanor asked, unable to stop himself in spite of the fact that he knew Elrond was far more knowledgeable of this sort of thing than he was, that he would know better than anyone what to do. 

“Maglor’s guesses are good ones,” Elrond said, still unflappably calm, “but still only that: guesses. Many terrible things happened in very quick succession, and that can muddy the keenest of memories even without outside influence—and even elven memory is fallible.” 

Fëanor knew first hand how true that was, and bit his tongue to keep himself silent. There wasn’t anything he could do or say here that would help, except to keep quiet and just be there for Maedhros to lean on.

“Maedhros,” Elrond said, “I promise this will not hurt.”

For a moment Fëanor thought Maedhros would refuse. He would have refused, never wanting to give anyone such access to his thoughts and memories ever again. But in spite of the difficulties of their past, Elrond was clearly someone Maedhros now trusted implicitly, and finally he held out his hand. Elrond’s hands were smaller, and he took Maedhros’ in both of them, handling it very carefully. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant in a low voice. 

Fëanor had known that Elrond was someone who could wield immense power—that he had wielded it, for many long years—but aside from one or two brief flashes of it in the beginning of their acquaintance he had never seen that power at work. Now it did not look like anything more than quiet singing, but Fëanor could feel it, an indefinable change in the air around them. It felt warmer, and the smell of pine seemed stronger. The way he shaped his song was familiar—Fëanor could hear Maglor’s teaching in it—but everything else was strange, a blending of Elvish and mortal and divine that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

Maedhros relaxed almost immediately, muscles loosening as he leaned a little harder against Fëanor, who didn’t move except to shift his own weight, settling in for what would likely take the rest of the morning. It was still very early, though it felt like he’d been awake for hours. Maedhros continued to tremble, and every so often his breath hitched, but he remained quiet. 

Hours passed, until finally Elrond opened his eyes, and ended his song. As the power of it faded away, Maedhros let out a soft sigh. “Your mind has always been your own,” Elrond said. “There are no other falsehoods lying undiscovered—and there will never be any more, because he is gone—he is gone, and you are here.”

“I never wanted to be,” Maedhros said, half-whispering. Fëanor couldn’t help but tighten his arms around him, remembering what he had seen in the palantír, Maedhros’ quietly desperate plea of send me back. “I never wanted to come back—”

“Maedhros—” Elrond began.

“If I hadn’t—”

“Maedhros,” Elrond cut him off, gently but firmly. “You know you don’t mean that. Come back to the house; Maglor is worried for you.”

But Maedhros shook his head. “I don’t—” Fëanor glanced at Elrond, who did not look away from Maedhros’ face. “Celegorm was furious.”

Fëanor had nearly forgotten about his other sons. He would have to figure out some way to explain this to Curufin, assuming Curufin would be willing to listen, but he didn’t have any idea of where to start. 

“I doubt he still is,” Elrond said, mouth twisting a little wryly. “Maglor has seen to that.”

Oh no. “What happened?” Fëanor asked. Celegorm had not been in a mood to argue, he had been in a mood to fight. 

“Nothing worse than a few bruises,” Elrond said, speaking lightly. Fëanor could see the slightly pinched look around his eyes, could tell he was still very concerned, but he couldn't tell whether it was only for Maedhros or for Maglor and Celegorm too. Then he said, “Maedhros, please come back to the house. I am speaking as a healer; you need to lie down—in a proper bed, not on pine needles. We will meet no one between here and your room if you do not wish to.”

Maedhros sighed, and nodded, and moved to get up. He set Aechen down, and Fëanor gripped his arm to help him to his feet. Fëanor’s own legs were stiff from having spent so long in one place, but he could ignore that. “Elrond, can we have just a moment?”

“Of course.” Elrond smiled at him and stepped away. Aechen scurried after him, and Fëanor turned back to Maedhros, who kept his gaze lowered as though he couldn’t bear to look Fëanor in the eye. As though he were ashamed. 

“Maedhros,” Fëanor said. He kept his hands on Maedhros’ arms. “Please hear me now: what I said to you at Losgar—you were right, I did mean it when I said it, but that doesn’t make any of it true. I was wrong—I was wrong about you, and about my brother, and about the Oath, and—and all of it. But however angry I was or could ever be, I could never, ever hate you. I am not asking for your forgiveness, because I will never again ask for what you cannot give, but you’re my son, and I love you more than anything in the world. I forgot that, before, but I won’t again.”

Maedhros nodded, keeping his eyes downcast and his lips pressed tightly together as though he didn’t trust himself to speak. That was fine—there would be time for him to say whatever he needed to say later, when this storm had passed. He didn’t pull away from Fëanor when they joined Elrond, though, and that was something. 

They saw no sign of any of Fëanor’s other sons either outside or inside the house, as Elrond had promised. He left them outside of Maedhros’ room, but Fëanor hesitated to follow Maedhros inside when he opened the door. The room was well appointed and comfortable, as all the rooms in Imloth Ningloron were. The rugs were green and blue, and there was a vase by the bed that Fëanor thought Maglor might have made; it held a bright bouquet of daffodils. A closed sketchbook rested on the desk, with a couple of pencils dropped beside it and a small tin of charcoal sticks. Fëanor leaned against the door and asked, “Do you need anything from me, Maedhros?”

Maedhros went to the window seat and sat down, like his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. “I don’t know.” His voice was still tremulous, and he didn’t raise his head. Aechen sniffed at his feet, and he bent down to pick him up. “I don’t hate you,” he added after a moment, very quietly. “I don’t—I wanted to, for a time, but I don’t think I ever really did.”

Fëanor did enter the room then, and went to take Maedhros’ face in his hands and kiss his forehead. “I love you,” he said. “Try to rest, as Elrond said.”

“Thank you, Atya,” Maedhros whispered.

He retreated to his own room, then, where he could shut the door and slide to the floor to bury his face in his arms and weep. 

Maedhros was going to be all right—Elrond and Maglor would see to that. Fëanor had done all he could for the moment. His other sons were somewhere, hopefully all together, hopefully not fighting. But Fëanor could easily see the ways in which that morning might fracture their family all over again, if they could not all agree on what to think or believe. He could all too easily imagine a future in which he never got to see his granddaughters again, or even meet his youngest grandchild—in which he never again heard Maglor sing, or spent an afternoon picnicking with the twins, or got the chance to even try to make amends with Celegorm or Caranthir. When their absence had been because of his own actions, he’d been able to stand it. It had been hard, and he missed them more than words could ever say, but he understood. 

This, though—

He couldn’t breathe, suddenly. There was a horrible tight feeling in his chest, like his ribs were contracting and not allowing his lungs to expand, and it didn’t feel like he was dying, but it didn’t not feel like that either. He couldn’t think—it was like all thought had been driven from his mind except for a terrible certainty that everything had gone so terribly wrong that there was no coming back from it.

He had made it so easy—he had done half of Morgoth’s work for him before Maedhros had ever set foot in Angband. Even if Maedhros really believed what Fëanor had told him that morning—that was still six thousand years too late. And it wasn’t only Maedhros—both Celegorm and Curufin had been very quick to believe it, and the only fraction of a saving grace was the fact that Maglor had never been far from Maedhros’ side.

Fëanor bowed his head between his knees and gripped his hair at the roots until, somehow, his lungs started to work properly again and he could take a few deep breaths, dizzy with the sudden rush of air. Then he stumbled to his feet and went to the bed, so he could at least be comfortable if he was going to fall to pieces. 

The next thing he knew it was dark in the room, and something had thumped on the floor. Panic surged again, and he sat up just as someone lit a lamp, casting a warm yellow glow over the room that wasn’t very bright but which felt bright. His head ached and his muscles were stiff—he felt hungover, for some reason, and exhausted even though he had apparently slept the day away. “…Pityo?” The thump had been Amrod hitting the floor. Fëanor felt sluggish and stupid, and rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to wake himself up. “Did you—climb through the window?”

“Your door was locked,” said Amrod. Fëanor heard the sound of water being poured, and then Amrod said, “Here, Atya,” as he pressed a cup into Fëanor’s hands. It wasn’t until he took a sip that he realized he felt terrible because he was thirsty. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, either. He sighed and drained the cup. As he did so, Amrod went to the door, opening it to let in Curufin and Amras, the latter carrying a tray. 

“What are you—” Fëanor began, but Curufin just sat down next to him and threw his arms around his neck. “Curvo—?”

“I’m sorry,” Curufin said.

“For what?”

“I know you wouldn’t ever say something like that. I’m sorry. I should’ve stopped Tyelko—”

“Curvo, don’t—”

“I’m not sure you could’ve stopped him, if even Huan and Maglor had such trouble,” said Amras, ever practical. “We brought you dinner, Atya. Maglor said we were supposed to leave you alone until Elrond said otherwise, but I think that was mostly for Celegorm—unless you want to be left alone.”

“I don’t. Thank you,” Fëanor said, as he rubbed a hand up and down Curufin’s back. “It’s all right, Curvo.”

“No it’s not,” Curufin said, voice muffled by his arms and Fëanor’s shirt. 

“What happened that I don’t know about?”

“Do you know about Maglor and Celegorm coming to blows?” Amras asked.

“Elrond said something, but did not share details.”

“Celegorm was angry, and Maglor just defended himself,” Curufin said without lifting his head. “I should’ve tried to stop him then, too.”

“They’re all right,” said Amras. “I think it was probably good for all of us to be reminded that Maglor’s fiercer than he looks, even now.”

Fëanor would have thought the confrontation by the oak tree enough of a reminder—but he had not been angry, as Celegorm was. “Where is everyone now?” he asked.

“Maedhros and Maglor are both resting. Caranthir’s been with Maglor most of the day but I think he’s gone downstairs for dinner. And speaking of dinner—Curvo, you’ve got to let go so we can all eat.”

Curufin finally raised his head, and after some shuffling they all ended up on the floor with their plates, an impromptu picnic that should have been more cheerful than it was. “Nothing else happened,” Amras said after a minute, “and all we know about what happened this morning is what Maglor told us when he came back—but he was very angry, and I think he just wanted us all to go away as soon as possible.”

“What did he tell you?” Fëanor asked after a moment.

“That the Enemy put something terrible into Nelyo’s head, and none of us ever realized it until today,” said Amrod. 

“Did he tell you what the memory is of?”

“Yes,” said Amras. “It explains a lot of how he’s been acting ever since you returned. Why he seemed to be better when we were away traveling, but got worse when we got back.”

“And a little of how he reacted to some things in Beleriand,” Amrod added quietly. “But this can be laid squarely at Morgoth’s feet, Atya, not yours.”

Fëanor shook his head. In this, even now that he felt more clear-headed than he had been that morning, he agreed with Maglor. “I made his work very easy, Pityo.”

“Not that easy,” Amrod said. 

“Easy enough.”

“Please don’t you start,” said Amras. “We’ve only just gotten Maedhros to stop doing that sort of thing—don’t make us drag you off to Lórien too.”

Fëanor tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I wasn't aware he had to be dragged there.”

“We were about ready to try,” said Amrod. “He only went because Maglor asked him to, because he didn’t want to go alone.”

“I don’t need to go to Lórien, Ambarussa.” He did not want to go to Lórien. If he had enjoyed the quiet and relative idleness of the mountains over the winter, it had been because he was with Ambarussa. In Lórien he would be alone but for whatever Valar or Maiar shadowed his footsteps—it had been Estë’s folk the first time, upon his release from Mandos, there to help him get used to being alive again with all that it entailed. If he went back, this time it would be Nienna’s, and one encounter with her was already more than he wished for or could stand. 

“That’s what Maedhros said, right up until he went,” Curufin muttered. He had only picked at his meal, and as Amras gathered up the dishes to return them to the tray, Fëanor put an arm around his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say that would be reassuring. “You aren’t just going to leave, are you? Ambarussa said you weren’t planning to stay long.”

“I wasn’t, and I still don’t think I should linger—”

“At least wait to talk to Maedhros again,” Amrod protested.

“I’m not staying much longer,” Curufin said after a moment. “Just a few weeks. Tyelpë and I are wanted back in Tirion. You could go home with us.”

Fëanor sighed. “All right, Curvo. I’ll stay as long as you do—unless it becomes clear that it would be better if I left. It isn’t only Maedhros—”

“Tyelko won’t try to hit you again,” Amras said. 

“I’m not worried about my own discomfort—but if my presence drives a wedge between the seven of you—”

“It won’t,” said Curufin firmly. “Tyelko’s being stupid right now, but we won’t let him continue for long.”

“Please trust us, Atya,” Amrod said, very quietly. 

Fëanor swallowed another sigh. “Of course I trust you,” he said. He was just so tired of being the thing that hurt his children—he couldn’t seem to stop, no matter what he did or didn’t do. If he stayed, it would make things that much harder for Celegorm and Caranthir at least. If he left, it would hurt Curufin and Ambarussa. 

“Maglor said earlier that things have been getting better, and he believes they can still continue to do so—and if they don’t, that’s us letting the Enemy have one last victory over us,” said Amras. “I think he’s right. It really does all go back to him—he probably didn’t imagine this happening when he did it, because he thought he would destroy us all, but I’m sure he would be pleased with himself if he did know.”

“Sometimes I feel rather envious of our uncle,” Amrod said, tone musing but eyes gone hard.

“Your uncle?” Fëanor repeated, startled. “Which one?” 

“Seven times, he struck true—and Morgoth went with a limp ever after. It’s too bad no one can reach him in the Void now.” Amrod got up to take the tray away. Neither Amras nor Curufin reacted except to murmur agreement, but it left Fëanor slightly shaken. He might have expected such a sentiment from Curufin, but not either of the twins. It wasn’t surprising, exactly, but it felt shocking—the same way hearing Maglor speak as the Lord of the Gap that morning had been shocking. He didn’t like it.

Both Ambarussa and Curufin remained with him late into the night. They talked a little of Losgar, but at the twins’ urging Curufin started to speak of the goings on in Tirion, and the things he and Celebrimbor had been making and planning. Some of the tension left him as he spoke of Celebrimbor and how he was stepping smoothly and confidently back into the kind of leadership he had undertaken long ago in Eregion. Curufin’s talents lay in the background—in organization and logistics. This had, Fëanor knew, made him and Celegorm a formidable team in Beleriand—and now it meant he and Celebrimbor worked equally well together. 

Fëanor could have listened all night, except that in spite of having slept most of the day he still felt exhausted. His sons all noticed, and he received three kisses goodnight in quick succession, and an admonition to go to bed—with a promise that everything would seem brighter in the morning.

The twins left first, but Curufin lingered. “I’m sorry,” he said again. 

“Oh, Curvo.” Fëanor hugged him tight. “There’s nothing to forgive. Did you not warn me years ago that if it came to it you would side with your brothers?”

“Yes, but—”

“I would much rather bear the brunt of all your anger than see anything drive the seven of you apart.”

“I would rather none of us be angry at all,” Curufin said.

“So would I.” Fëanor kissed the top of his head. “I’m all right. I’m sorry this is all happening now—you of all people shouldn’t have to worry about any of this. Go to bed, Curvo.”

Left alone, Fëanor changed out of his rumpled clothes and combed the snarls out of his hair—he rarely wore it loose, and for good reason. Once it was braided he tried to go back to sleep, but tired as he was it just wouldn’t come. His mind kept turning in circles, trying to find something it could latch onto, a problem it could solve.

He dozed fitfully off and on until morning. When he rolled out of bed he looked out of the window that faced toward the front of the house, and saw Maedhros leading a horse from the stables. Fëanor ran for the stairs, but only reached the door in time to see Maedhros vanish at a gallop into the distance. Elrond was also watching, and when he came back inside Fëanor asked, “Where has he gone?” Letting Maedhros race away to who-knew-where seemed like the worst of ideas, however calm Elrond seemed to be about it.

“To Fingon,” Elrond said.

Oh—oh yes, of course he would go to Fingon. The burgeoning panic guttered out like a candle, leaving him feeling shaky and lightheaded. “Good.” 

Elrond’s eyes were kind but very keen. He hadn’t looked at Fëanor quite like that in years, and it was just as uncomfortable now as it had been then. “Are you all right?”

It wasn’t worth trying to lie. “No,” Fëanor said. He was still exhausted, his head ached, and he had to figure out how to live with the fact that he had been the deadliest weapon Morgoth had ever wielded against his own son. “But that doesn’t matter.” He would manage, just as he had been managing—his own feelings were nothing compared to what Maedhros was dealing with, and once he was back in Tirion with so many things to distract him it would be easier. 

He regretted, a little, promising Curufin that he would stay. Not enough to change his mind, but enough to make the mere thought of the next few weeks as exhausting as yesterday had been. 

When he reached his room he found Huan laying by the door, head in his paws, looking mournful. “Oh, absolutely not,” Fëanor said, taking several steps back. “Whatever it is you want, I am not going along this time!”

Huan just whined and lumbered to his feet. He paused to lick Fëanor’s hand with surprising gentleness before trotting away. It felt a little like an apology, and maybe a little like reassurance. Fëanor sighed, and went to get properly dressed.