summon forth the wounded night by skywardstruck  

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fade bit by bit

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They were to take the Teleri ships by force. A direct order from Fëanáro. He would not be impeded by those who chose to side with the Valar, who had trapped the Eldar in this lifeless prison. And so his sons would follow.

Maitimo obeyed. An unfortunate circumstance, he was told; the Teleri chose this road, chose to stand in the way of those who would force Moringotto to answer for his crimes. Maitimo obeyed, and drew his sword, the very sword he’d used to swear the oath alongside his Atar. He slashed through the mariners on the docks, only armed with spears and shortbows. Maitimo repeated over and over in his mind, this was inevitable, trying desperately to silence the part of himself that knew this was wrong, for delivering justice would mean damning himself.

Unfortunately, it seemed, his end would come sooner than expected, for fate was against him. Despite the strength in arms of the House of Fëanáro, Maitimo found himself cornered. For who could possibly know the ships better than the Teleri who made them?

A stray arrow found its way into his arm, another in his chest. A spear slammed into his side, and its wielder took advantage of the moment, shoving him with all the force they could muster. Maitimo let out a pained cry, his voice echoing into the cold night as he fell backwards, his weakened body crashing into the deck of a smaller swanship below. Too wounded to move, Maitimo could only watch helplessly as the sea began to rise against him, the waters seeming to cry out in lamentation as the rush of a wave slammed into the ship and shattered the hull.

The last thing Maitimo remembered, as the waters of Uinen dragged him down, was the sound of horns and a glimpse of a banner of blue and silver as he fell deeper and deeper, into the Void, where he belonged.

✵

“It is fortunate that you arrived when you did, Findekáno, else all of this would truly have been for naught,” said Makalaurë, his expression grave, deep sadness and disbelief behind his words.

“I do not take pride in this sacrifice,” Findekáno reminded him, “only that I chose to answer the cries of a friend in peril, and I would do so again. I am glad you are safe...”

“Not I,” Makalaurë replied, his voice shuddering. “Nothing could bring me peace, not even your presence.” He could no longer hold back tears, pretend that this was a victory. “Nelyo, he—”

A sinking feeling came over Findekáno’s chest. Maitimo’s cries were what had led him to the harbour.

“Maitimo... what of Maitimo?!”

“He... he is drowned. Lost beneath the waves,” wept Makalaurë. “He is gone...!”

“No...!” cried Findekáno, the words striking him like a piercing arrow as he gripped Makalaurë’s shoulders. “It cannot be so! He must still be—”

“I witnessed the moment the waves took him,” Makalaurë asserted, refusing to meet Findekáno’s gaze. “There is nothing we can do.”

“Then I was too late...!”

“This is our cruel fate, Findekáno,” said Makalaurë. “Would that the waters could have claimed me instead!”

✵

How Findekáno had longed to see Maitimo again now that they were united in purpose, to heal the wounds of their broken hearts. Now that day would never come.

And yet... none of this bloodshed needed to happen. Surely, Fëanáro and his sons had started it all. Maitimo, who sought to divide, to oust the descendants of Indis; it was what everyone else had told Findekáno, and Maitimo’s exile was proof. This violence, too, was befitting of a selfish person like him, no longer the kind heart Findekáno fell in love with.

Yet Findekáno chose to throw himself into the heart of the violence, to drown in sin alongside him. Why? It was not even a question; Findekáno needed not ponder long to find the answer he knew in his heart. It hurt so much to see Maitimo meet the fate he deserved, because Findekáno knew a part of him still loved Maitimo, the one in his memories, as he longed for the joy, the thrill, the wholeness they had before and could never have again. From every stolen kiss on the streets of Tirion and every heated touch beneath the sheets; every heartfelt speech in the other’s defence and song to lift their spirits; every jeweled treasure they made for each other; every promise for a future that would never come.

Findekáno was doomed to be trapped inside the past and cursed to move forward. Makalaurë was right. If he did not press on, his sacrifices, transgressions, would mean nothing at all.

The winds of Araman battered the tent, interrupting Findekáno’s thoughts. Hearing the voices of his family outside, Findekáno immediately got out of his bedroll to follow the others, and immediately, he noticed something was wrong.

“The ships... what happened to the ships?!” asked Findekáno, dread beginning to creep in.

“The ships are gone!” Arakáno called out. “Could Fëanáro—”

“My brother’s host has indeed departed without us,” answered Ñolofinwë, his heart heavy as he spoke. “Look upon the horizon.”

“It is true, Atar... I can see them,” said Írissë, gazing out into the distance, fur cape fluttering in the wind. She pointed to the vague images of the swan ships peeking through the fog, and Findekáno saw it was true.

“Of course he would do something like this!” replied Turukáno. “Caring for no one but himself...”

“But we know there was not enough room for everyone,” Írissë reminded Turukáno.

“Yes, Fëanáro told me as much,” Ñolofinwë explained, “though I had hoped he would not leave without a word, without a plan forward.”

“Then... are we stranded here?” worried Írimë, standing closely beside her brother Ñolofinwë, noticing the doubt in his voice. “Naught but the Ice lies before us.”

“There is still hope that we may yet cross the sea,” said Findekáno. “I spoke with Makalaurë and felt his concern. Perhaps some ships will return.”

“Indeed they will, if my brother’s vows to me remain true,” replied Ñolofinwë. “We all ought to prepare for the next leg of the journey nonetheless— do you have your sword, yonya? I have not seen it for some time.”

“Yes, Atar, of course I—” Findekáno paused, for he distinctly remembered dropping his sword, during the bloodshed at Alqualondë. He had always planned to look for it after the battle, but Fëanáro would not let anyone linger.

“... of course I will... go and retrieve it,” Findekáno assured his father. “I shall not be long. A few days, at most.”

“Speak to no one,” Ñolofinwë warned, with a subtle sigh of frustration. “After what we have done... we cannot face our former friends now. That love is lost.”

Findekáno nodded, though he was reminded of a different lost love, one which he selfishly admitted to himself hurt far more.

✵

Findekáno tried to keep away from the shoreline to avoid the worst of the winds as he ran through the plains as quickly as he could. The trees seemed to sway as if reaching out to the sea on their own volition, branches snapping as they were flung towards the coast. Findekáno wore a thick fur-lined cloak that Írissë had made for him, which he hoped would cover his face enough when he arrived in Alqualondë.

Unfortunately, by the time he did arrive, Findekáno realized the cloak made him stick out like a sore thumb, as he observed a group of Teleri gathered by one of the docks, preparing for further burials. They seemed to be using some of the wood scraps from destroyed ships to form into caskets, affixing pearls to them, burying their slain with fragments of their people’s most beloved creations.

And one such pile of wood scraps was right next to his sword, which had fallen off the pier and collapsed in the sand. A sigh of relief knowing it was still there, and that the casket-builders were far enough away from it that he could retrieve it unseen... if he was quiet enough. Hiding behind a pillar carved with the ridges of shells, Findekáno carefully tiptoed across the sands, listening to the Music of the wind to blend in with its sound as he made his way to the sword.

Findekáno would recognize it anywhere, a blade of shining silver with elegant swirls carved into it and twisting leaf patterns around the hilt. As Findekáno began to strap it onto his waist, something else caught his eye. A body, collapsed on the shore, leg protruding ever so slightly past the wood pile.... and locks of wavy, frayed red hair sticking out, blowing gently in the wind.

Findekáno dared to let one such lock of hair fall into his palm, thoughts of his once-beloved rushing through his head.

Curiosity got the better of him. Findekáno carefully moved some of the wood scraps, a few small planks tumbling and making a bigger noise than he would have liked. A noise that caught the ears of one of the Teleri.

“Ai— what was that sound?” someone asked. Findekáno quickly hid himself beneath a large curved piece of wood scrap, wrapping himself in his cloak.

“It seemed to come from the northern shore,” another Teler answered, and Findekáno focused his mind to silence his breath, moving as little as possible. Once it seemed the Teler was no longer paying attention, he resumed moving the wood. “Perhaps just the wind,” mused the first voice, quieter now as the sounds of hammering began anew.

Eventually, Findekáno managed to free the body from beneath the wood, Varda’s light bringing the face into view. Warm brown skin dotted with freckles, soft lips, sharp features, a little mole just beside the left eye.

An earring of ruby and silver, swirls wrapped around the ear, a treasure that Findekáno made himself for his once-beloved.

Maitimo. Russandol.

He had been here the entire time, and he had not forgotten Findekáno for one moment.

Maitimo had not fallen beneath the waves like Makalaurë had said, his body instead having washed upon the shore. A mercy, from Uinen. Tears as salty as her waters formed like dew in Findekáno’s eyes as he wept. He held Maitimo’s body close, trying desperately not to let his shaking sobs be heard, and then suddenly—

A weak breath against his skin. The rise and fall of Maitimo’s wounded chest.

Maitimo was still alive, and his family had left him for dead.