Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

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Firebrand

"Perhaps we may find them among the people of Himring, friend. You look wearied. What are you called?"

"There are other things of importance," Erestor said, "such as destroying the Foul One, but I shall tell it to you on one condition: give to me your own, otherwise it shall not be a fair exchange."

"You cannot tell?"

Erestor gave him a flat look, the withering one that deflated so many egos in Imladris. "If I could but see past the lifeblood draining from my eyes, I should look upon your visage and guess."

---

Erestor did not die. He wept until the tears froze salt to his face and the sun rose again. Then he palmed a handful of snow clumsily to his mouth, recalling Elrond's words on the importance of water. He resolutely did not look at the state of his hands. They moved without pain, stretching against his skin, whatever was left of it. They were stiff, unfeeling. Like that of a corpse. Perhaps he was dead, and this was a dream of Lórien in the halls of Mandos. Perhaps this was that fabled land beyond that Men were to go to, to pass beyond the veil. If it was so, he could only expect to be met by Elros. He shook the remaining snow from his hands and looked to the South where Þaurondⁱ held court in the unnatural ring of Mordor. His power would yet grow even if it had waned in the dousing of his servants.

Erestor must move. He could not languish while breath yet in him lived. He must see the ruins of Elrond's homely house, and then South to destroy Þaurond. It was perhaps a self-destructive impulse, to see this through, but Erestor was destroyed in any case. His House was gone, the host he had been a part of, his warriors, his scholars. But how could they have vanished in an instant? He stood slowly, agonizingly. He found purchase on the tree he had sat against, swaying. His vision had left him but for a brief moment, the way it did now. How could so much have changed? The snow was thick and began falling fast again like the ash of Melkor's cursed volcano. Erestor squinted against it. His breathing was ragged, his heart thumping to hard it shook every part of him.

Then, his vision so pared, he saw the movement of one in the blinding snow. A shadow, like Oromë on the ridgeⁱⁱ. Erestor did not draw back in fear—his sword, gone from his side, he grasped for it anyway and felt his hand stick to his clothes with blood. He hummed quietly, never having learned the songs of the Eldar in the West except from Elrond, and it allowed him to come to his feet. The figure was darkened by virtue of the light around him. Any would have appeared dark to Erestor's eyes, and yet this one carried the air of something else dark around him.

He raised his hands, blind to their damage or else uncaring of it. The creature's head was crowned in red, shining in the sun like fire. Erestor huffed. Few of the Eldar had hair of that color. Perhaps it was Thranduil's Toriel? But no, the figure was tall and disfigured.

"Who is it that passes by this fortress," he asked. "Those who travel are fain to stand the cold, the desolate wastes of this Gap. Know ye where ye stand?"

So it could speak, this figure. Erestor would answer. "I fought flame, stranger. I have extinguished it even as I held it. Who are you?"

The figure paused. Erestor could still not get a good look at him. "Truly, you cannot tell?"

Erestor laughed wryly. "There is much I cannot see, for the light upon the snow blinds my eyes and my wounds seem to drain my wisdom. Forgive me, for my company is not well."

"...truly, then. Your company is not good, you say, and yet we have met in peace during this new terror of the Enemy. That is good enough for me."

"I have said it was not well, not that it was not good," Erestor said. "Though some have said that I have been neither." He paused. "Or both."

The figure, Erestor was fairly certain he was an Elda, approached at that. Erestor's vision was flickering, his spirit flagging. The song he had so briefly hummed was swiftly losing its strength. Even in his death, his sharp tongue persisted, rare though it was to loose. Erestor supposed that none would comment on it, given that no one he knew yet lived. To share a moment of lightness with a stranger was enough. Erestor would travel South and finish the deed that had finished Elrond. To eliminate all traces of darkness from the world.

First, he must banish the darkness from his eyes. The stranger was close in front of him now, though Erestor's limbs felt bloodless. Indeed as he looked down, his blood stained red the snow. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to gain back some sight. He almost pressed his fingers to his eyes, but his arms would not obey him below the elbow. He was afraid to look, still. He did not. Instead he opened his eyes to the stranger and spoke in supplication.

"I am loathe to ask a favor, as it is unbecoming to do so of a stranger so new, but would you have anything to eat?" Something, anything would bring him strength. Food and rest would bring Erestor back to himself. "It is only—I have been in battle for some time, now, with nary a chance to sup."

"Nary a chance to—?" The stranger paused again and asked, "Come you from the Gap?"

Erestor tried to speak, but the words caught on his dry throat. He tried again. "Nay, I come not from there. I was fighting here, and thought myself lost to the flame. I know not where my companions are, or if they yet live." Erestor knew most did not.

"Perhaps we may find them among the people of Himring, friend. You look wearied. What are you called?"

"There are other things of importance," Erestor said, "such as destroying the Foul One, but I shall tell it to you on one condition: give to me your own, otherwise it shall not be a fair exchange."

"You cannot tell?"

Erestor gave him a flat look, the withering one that deflated so many egos in Imladris. "If I could but see past the lifeblood draining from my eyes, I should look upon your visage and guess."

"Ah," the figure said. He cleared his throat. "I am called Maedhros, Lord of Himring."

...well. "I am Erestor."

"Have you no other name?" Maedhros, surely an unfortunate namesake, said.

"Ai, the priorities of Noldor," Erestor groaned, only half from pain. He leaned against the tree and set his head against it, reasonably sure the poorly-named Maedhros would not slay him like his forebearer did. He wished he had not stood if only for how far the snow was now. He dearly wished to wet his throat. "I have been called many things, many of which Elwë Singollo would shake to hear even as he would his own Quenyan epessë. Leave my names to the ash, Lord Maedhros, I am to follow soon. Go seek the counsel of your own and think no more of Erestor of nowhere."

Erestor let his eyes fall shut, no longer straining to see against the blinding snow and the wooziness which stemmed from his wounds. His ears rung fiercely, and the nausea of Men crept from his gut. There was a fëa deep feeling, a black dread which crept through him. He would be dead soon. While he had never been as skilled at healing as Elrond, for few were, Erestor had sometimes been called upon to perform osanwë to find where the hurts of a mortal lay. The dread he felt now was an echo of that sensation, that impending death where Men go beyond even the eyes of Mandos. Perhaps it was a sign that Mandos did not know Erestor, and that indeed his fate was to be lost from the Halls for ever.

Maedhros was suddenly closer, though Erestor did not hear his approach. His mind was playing tricks on him again, fleeing him at inopportune moments. If his wounds did not kill him soon, the Enemy would catch him unawares and take his life.

"Come, friend, we shall house and feed you and tend to your wounds," Maedhros said. His voice was somehow softer, though it retained that commanding note. Elrond had that same tone when he wished to care for your wounds: kind, but unabating. Nothing would sway him from his quest. Why, even a small cut had Elrond practically dragging him by the ears. Though he had heard later that Elrond was tempted to give him seventeen stitches rather than seven, and stitch him directly to his bed with the remaining ten.

"Aye, I should think to run South to dash myself against the pike of the Enemy rather than refuse, but much good it would do me when I cannot even run to begin with."

"Can you walk?"

Erestor stepped forward experimentally. Though his legs were shaking, he did not feel them. It was the cursed dizziness that would have him, for as soon as he attempted a second step he nearly tripped over his own feet. "If you will but lend me a hand..."

Maedhros snorted, and then stopped, as if shocked by his own laughter. He sighed, though it seemed amused rather than put-upon. "I do not know if you are brave or foolhardy, Erestor, for though your name is Sindarin your tongue is sharp as any Noldor."

"Then it is good that you do not resemble an enemy, else I should truly lash you to pieces," Erestor said, knowing not why he still spoke. His tongue was loosened with blood-loss it seemed, the way Men's were when drinking. His candor had lightened the road before, yet now that it came to an end he could not stop it from running. Glorfindel would have swallowed his own tongue had he heard what Erestor said, and Elrond would have looked stern with that crinkle of laughter around his eyes. That child was far too serious, Erestor thought. Another sign he was near the end. This sappiness. He reached for Maedhros' offered arm and found it did indeed have one hand, though Erestor did not remember stealing it. He looked upon it in confusion, the edges blurring.

"Ai Elbereth," Maedhros gasped. "Your hands—"

"It is not as though the Enemy has done worse."

"I am only sorry I have not brought something for the pain."

"It is alright, I cannot feel them," Erestor looked at Maedhros, now that he was close. His face was scarred, one eyelid nearly torn in two, and part of his mouth was fused shut by the scars on his cheek. His eyes shone with that inner light of Valinor. Maedhros looked as if he wanted to speak, but Erestor held up one stiff hand. "Aye, I know that is worse. It matters not."

"Have you been running since the Bragollach?"

The Bragollach? Odd to choose the echo of the death of Beleriand to describe the near-razing of Imladris, but sudden flame was indeed fitting. Erestor would not have protested save the dark memories the name would recall for many who had survived it. "I have scarcely been running, my Lord."

Maedhros looked very much like he wanted to roll his eyes. "You are worse than Moryo."

Of all things, that silenced Erestor. Maedhros and Caranthir. He would have to meet these brothers' parents and shake some sense into them. Had the stewards of Gondor not served as example enough?ⁱⁱⁱ Elrond had nearly had a conniption when he heard about the appointment of Túrin I. He lost the pattern of his thought among the snow and trees for what seemed like many ages. The sound of a great rushing river filled him, stealing the feeling from his limbs, the sight from his eyes. He could not even be sure he was walking. Was this Mandos flushing his fëa from his body?

He heard someone calling him from afar. Perhaps they were on the river, too? Was it Estel, the boy's spirit trying to call to him before it passed beyond the veil? Erestor called back, the noise ripping past his throat before he could stop it. "Estel!"

The voice turned questioning. Erestor could not hear what he asked. Erestor could not take Estel's last words to Elrond. That child was far beyond the reach of him now, gone to wherever Men go. Where perhaps Erestor would go, for certainly he had never seen Valinor's light, but was not yet of men. Perhaps his fëa would be lost forever, simply fading. So much for killing Þaurond on the way out.

Erestor died feeling the patter of rain on his cheek.

 

Maedhros had not expected to find a survivor of the Dagor Bragollach so late after it had happened. In the first few months, the fire was so intense it had melted the snow around Himring. It had melted the ice too—there were almost as many victims of landslides as there were slain in battle. Anyone who could be spared to patrol the foothills of Himring and the March^iv were sent to recover survivors. Many soldiers had to be barred from joining with, for their injuries were too great. Maglor was one of them. He had rode out among his riders until his horse collapsed from the heat, and then had run on foot, tearing off his cloak and half his armor so he could run past the dark arrows of the Enemy. There was nothing to say of Glaurung, for that great and terrible beast still slunk through the countryside and Maedhros had not the power to stop him. Some days it felt as if his life was a perpetual cycle of clean-up. But it was what he was born for, and so he took to it easily enough.

It was that pattern which he followed now. Maglor still languished in fever in Himring, and Celegorm and Curufin were lending aid to Orodreth in his retreat. Himlad was not quite lost, but it was a close thing and more battle would yet be waged for its retaking. Rerir was entirely ruined, but not Caranthir. He had sent word of his survival and of his intent to meet with them in Himring. That had been a few months ago, delayed by his own survival efforts and the recent death of High King Fingolfin, their uncle. Maedhros bore the duty of ruling his own fortress and his brothers both, and was gladdened not to be ruler of the Noldor as well. It was from this ruling that he sought to find some relief in the cold, rolling forests of the line he held.

He did not expect this walking corpse.

The elf he had come across seemed fresh from battle, his very breath singing of pain even as he spoke. Erestor, he called himself, although his look was of the Noldor. His hair was dark gray like the bark of an oak, but it could have been from dust. His eyes were simply dark. His hands were a horror, burnt beyond belief. Whatever flame had touched them had crawled too up his arms. His flesh, though destroyed, leaked sluggish blood that patterned the snow in red. It looked as if the elf had crawled to rest upon a tree for a time, though beyond that the trail was lost. Maedhros did not know how Erestor lived with such wounds. Even now, his tunic froze with blood. Erestor was speaking nonsense long before he swooned. Undoubtedly that was the work of his wounds. He seemed fine in all other respects. He even had the boldness to mention Maedhros' own trial at Thangorodrim^v, something even his brothers had yet to speak of.

Maedhros hoisted Erestor into a tighter hold now that he had fallen unconscious. Ticin^vi, his horse, stood not far away. It would be tricky to place Erestor on the horse without him falling, but Ticin was a gentle and good horse who would tolerate much. Maedhros was loathe to dirty her coat with blood, but Celegorm had not been remiss in his lectures on properly treating a horse. Nevermind that Celegorm usually would rather accompany Huan, and that Maglor was the one whose riders held the Gap. Maedhros sobered. No longer, he supposed. He secured Erestor to Ticin and climbed on behind him, the elf's remaining armor digging into Maedhros' unarmored chest. There was little choice. Maedhros was used to discomfort.

They rode swiftly and harder than usual. Himring was not so far, but the cold could kill an elf hale, let alone one so weak as Erestor. The trip seemed to be eclipsed by thoughts darker than he wished to give name to, and so Maedhros resolved to at least sit at Maglor's bedside and give him company for that day. If nothing else, he could be there. Maglor had done it when he could after Angband, though spent much of that time looking out, cold-eyed, over the plains that separated them from Morgoth's stronghold. Now Maedhros rode as he was sure Fingon had, though Thorongol would never have permitted himself to be called "Ticin." Ticin herself ran gleefully through the snow, unaware of her rider's dark mood.

Soon enough they came to the gate, and Maedhros lifted his handless arm in hail. He needed the other to prevent Erestor from falling. The guards opened the gates slowly, permitting him entrance. Nieninquë, Maedhros' captain of the guard, came to greet him at the gate. She was dressed in light armor, though she was dressed so warmly that it may well save her from an arrow. Her hair was in countless black braids, threaded with white ribbon, and her skin was dark. Though she looked severe, she had an air of tranquility that none could match. Any disturbance was a mere ripple in her pool—one that was rippling now.

"Who is this?"

"He is called Erestor. Where is Brógano?"

"I shall call him."

Maedhros and Nieninquë dismounted and walked through the fortress to a room lit by a small fireplace. It was a healing hall fit to hold eight beds, though most were empty. Maedhros deposited Erestor in one of them and stepped back to lean against the wall. He crossed his arms. Brógano arrived shortly after, bringing supplies and one of his apprentices. Nieninquë stood at attention until Maedhros told her to sit, and they both watched over Brógano as he began to cut the clothing off of Erestor.

Far too many had died of infection, and even more from time wasted about how or why—though those deaths had been at the beginning, when death was still new to them. No, Maedhros thought, not death, for there had been killing at Losgar and Finwë's terrible mutilation in Formenos. The aftermath. The searching of the shores, and the preparing of a corpse. Maedhros had not searched the shores of Losgar for survivors, Fëanor had not lingered long enough for that, but he had been the one to see Finwë. Maedhros and Maglor had been the ones to care for their grandfather in the end, and set the task of keeping Fëanor away to their brothers. What they did now was a terrible mirroring of the Darkening: searching, tending, and watching as people died. Maedhros distantly hoped that he would not have to watch this elf die either.

Brógano did not speak, and had not for all the time Maedhros had known him. The apprentice, whose name Maedhros forgot, spoke instead. "He is much wearied and hurt, my lord. His body is starved of food and water, and he has not slept for some time. His fëa is closed to us, though I would not be surprised if it did not fray as well."

"And the wounds?" Nieninquë asked when Maedhros did not.

At that, the apprentice quailed. They looked away for a moment, avoiding Maedhros' gaze before Brógano pushed them gently with one large hand and they continued. "Well... he grabbed onto something hot. Very hot. And he didn't let go for quite some time. It has burned his hands beyond repair. He is lucky to move his elbows, and then lucky to be alive at all. Were it not for the siege on Minas Tirith, I would say it was..."

A balrog. Maedhros had found an elf who had burns from a balrog's whip. "How could that—"

Brógano did not speak, but his look did for him. It did not matter: Erestor was here now. Maedhros nodded.

Brógano and the apprentice tended to Erestor for a long while, cleaning wounds and singing softly over them with songs of rest and hope. Brógano stood after a short while and bobbed his head at Maedhros. The apprentice stood and bowed. "My lord, we have done all we can do for now. We can only wait for him to wake."

"Thank you, Master Brógano and Tinwerúmë," said Nieninquë. She shot Maedhros a look that was stern and hid her amusement. Maedhros smiled. That was the young apprentice's name.

"My thanks," Maedhros said. He dismissed the healers with a wave of the hand, and Brógano and Tinwerúmë stood to leave. Nieninquë stood as the healers left and closed the door behind them. They stood next to each other, arms crossed, neither speaking.

Erestor looked peaceful in his sleep. Part of his face was scraped up and burned by hot air. The portions that weren't were ashen, turning his tanned skin gray. His hair was still bound up in a battle braid, though some of it was loose and frayed at the edge. His face had one small wrinkle between the brows like he drew them often. It was not often that Eldar gained wrinkles: the last time he had seen them other than on Men was on Finwë, his own grandfather. Finwë was an old elf indeed.

Nieninquë looked at Maedhros, her dark eyes glinting with the memory of treelight. "It has been just over a year since the Bragollach, my lord."

"I have told you not to call me that, Nieninquë," Maedhros said, "but I concede your point. I know not where he could have been so wounded if not by dragon fire, but you have heard Brógano. It was the balrog's flame."

"I had thought the balrogs to stay in Angband," she said, a corner of her mouth quirking, "my lord."

"Ai..." Maedhros sighed. "I would think so as well. It is not often that Morgoth sends out his lieutenants so hastily. I would say he is a thrall escaped, but he bears none of the long marks of captivity. Despite his state of hunger, it seems to be the work of a few days rather than months or years. He spoke well when I met him, and did not tremble at the sight of another living creature. Indeed he had a powerful hate in him for Sauron and his evils, too, and did not mention Morgoth's name. Perhaps Sauron has some other working that he was fleeing from."

"If Sauron has a new working, Morgoth may deign to let him take a balrog with him."

"Aye, you are right, but I cannot think Sauron would give up his siege of Minas Tirith so soon. There have been whisperings of a new name for it. If indeed Celegorm and Curufin have lost..."

"They are strong, and will hold the line."

"It is not the line I worry for. Indeed they are so foolhardy as to die for it." Maedhros realized his face had formed into a thin snarl of worry. He quickly pursed his lips as best he could with the scars on his face biting into his cheek. "Still, if they do not make it back..." He sighed. "I know. I cannot control their fate. But I shall be damned if I cannot try."

Nieninquë's eyes widened. Her lips parted briefly before she wrestled her expression into something more neutral. "Shall I send a missive?"

"No, thank you. I shall write it myself. Maglor should like to give his input."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, Nieninquë departed, shutting the door behind her.

Maedhros sighed, the responsibilities of lordship dripping from his shoulders like water from the back of a duck. Never had he been so glad to be rid of the crown, though he knew it lay heavy on his cousin's head. There was yet to be a coronation after the death of Fingolfin. Fingon wanted to wait for his father's body to be retrieved, but Thorondor had borne Fingolfin's body to his brother, Turgon's lands. Fingon had heard of this only by eagle, and then had sent official missives to all heads of state. They read of the death of the High King of the Noldor. Fingon had written to Maedhros and his brothers in a far shakier hand, though these letters only read of the death of his father.

That he, Lord Maedhros of Himring, could not abandon his post to see his cousin, was a great regret. Letters could not contain the true depth of what he wished to say to Fingon; that he loved his cousin as their fathers never could love each other, for though Fingolfin offered his true brotherhood in heart, Fëanor had never accepted it. It was rare for all of Finwë's grandchildren to gather under one roof after the shadow began to plague the Noldor. Fëanor's distrust of Fingolfin made it so not even Aredhel could join Celegorm on his hunts. Maedhros, Fingon, and Finrod would steal away moments together to wonder if they could sway their fathers into friendship, if not brotherhood. Those times were past now, with Arafinwë ruling the Noldor of Aman and Fëanor and Fingolfin slain. Now it was all Maedhros could do to comfort the cousin who was the brother of his heart. Even then he did it from afar, holding the cold walls of Himring against Morgoth's forces.

Maedhros would not leave now if he could. Maglor still lay sick in his room. Celegorm and Curufin were fighting even now. Caranthir would be upon them soon, and Amras was hidden among the Laiquendi of Ossiriand. Amrod joined their father in fire. Maedhros would stay as he was, guarding the North and fighting Morgoth as best he could. It was, after all, what was demanded of him. The Silmarils nipped at his fëa for a moment at the reminder of his Oath. Now that the Long Peace was broken, it was stirring at the chance for Morgoth to come with his iron crown. Without hope, the Oath would starve. As long as Morgoth had been shut up in his fortress, Maedhros had no hope. And yet with the Bragollach, there was the possibility of victory. The smallest chance imaginable, perhaps, and yet a glimmer nonetheless. A single star on the horizon.

And he would not sway from his path—he meant what he said. He should be damned if he could not try.

---

i Þauron/Sauron was only named so once he became a subordinate of Melkor, his original name being Mairon, "the Admirable." In Sindarin, his name is Gorthaur gor "horror/dread" + thaur "abominable/abhorrent." In this 'verse, Erestor would only know Sauron by his modern name through speaking to other elves. The equivalent in Primitive Quendian is þaurond, and so I elected to go with that one because of reasons :).

ii Oromë on the ridge is a reference to how he found the first elves on the shore of Cuiviénen: apparently riding a horse and calling them then to Aman. The elves who did not come to his call hid from him and feared he was a servant of Morgoth. Those elves who stayed to heed him became those who went to Aman, the Eldar. Those who refused were Avari.

iii Shoutout to Gondorian stewards for being named after the most cursed figures in history even if they were heroes. No way they got away with that.

iv Of Maedhros!

v Thangorodrim are the volcanoes around Angband, the tallest of which was the famed cliff where Maedhros hung for so long.

vi Anyone who gets this reference gets 1 bucks.