Somebody Else's Rescue by Susana_R  

Lirulin lay curled in a miserable ball in the cell she shared with her family in Angband. She did her best not to think about the 'special' fate awaiting her and her father and brothers tomorrow at Sauron's hands. In his plans for them, she felt he'd more than earned the name the thralls called him - 'Gorthaur the Cruel.'

Lirulin's chains kept her so far away from her father and brothers that they could not even huddle together for comfort. At least the cold of being shackled to the stone wall meant that Lirulin could be fairly confident that this current moment of respite was real. She did not intend to sleep. Sauron was adept at slipping seamlessly into her dreams to impersonate her loved ones. He would create detailed false realities. Visions of more palatable presents and futures which had included, at one time or another, everyone she had ever cared for. Most of the time, his impression of them was so flawless that she believed it right up until he chose otherwise.

Down the hall from their cell, the broken wails of the redheaded thrall whom Sauron had mockingly called 'King Nelyafinwe' increased in volume. Sauron had tormented him for hours in front of Lirulin and her family. To show them what would happen to them, each in turn while the others watched, if they did not 'freely consent' to participate in his plans for them. Lirulin did not blame Nelyafinwe for his cries. But she wished that he would be quiet, so that she could enjoy what little peace was left to her. 

The next thing she heard from that direction was the sound of a cell door opening, followed by the orc guard shouting insults at Nelyafinwe in the Black Tongue. The poor thrall's wail intensified, until both it and the orc's insults were cut off. Then she heard only a quiet gurgling noise. Afterward came the soft, unsteady sounds of a body being pulled along the floor. Lirulin supposed that must be the orc dragging Nelyafinwe's dead body from his cell to the nearest rubbish heap, or to the warg pens. 

"What are you doing?" exclaimed Lirulin's father Malindo. He directed this query in the direction of the bars which separated their cell from the hall.  

Lirulin's head snapped around at that. She witnessed the bizarre sight of the thrall she'd thought utterly broken laboriously pulling himself to his feet despite his badly broken leg. He was covered in blood, his own as well as fresh black orc blood. In his hands he held the orc guard's key ring. 

"I overheard your son say that you have a plan for escape," spoke Nelyafinwe in his deep, roughened voice. The same voice in which Lirulin had heard him begging and pleading to Sauron throughout the past day. 

"We do," Malindo replied cautiously, "we've made a tunnel . . ." 

"Don't tell me," the red-headed elf cut him off while he unlocked the door to their cell, "What I don't know I can't give away. No matter what they do to me." 

"We can't take you with us," cautioned Malindo, gesturing at Nelyafinwe's broken leg. 

Nelyafinwe made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Of course not," he agreed. "They would never have left me so lightly guarded, were I capable of running."

"Why are you helping us, then?" challenged Rithorion, Lirulin's eldest brother.  

"To irritate my tormentors," offered Nelyafinwe dryly, "Or because it pleases me to think that someone might escape the fate planned for them here. Take your pick." 

He dragged himself with both arms and his good leg to free Malindo from his chains. He then gave Malindo the keys. 

Lirulin's father proceeded to unlock her chains, then those of her brothers. 

"Thank you," whispered Lirulin, meeting Nelyfainwe's mist gray eyes. 

He nodded gravely back. Then he asked, "Is the Host of the Noldor still camped by Lake Mithrim?" 

"They have a settlement there, now," answered Lirulin. 

"Good. I think that your best bet is to make your way towards them. They will likely send patrols as close to Angband as they dare. If you would do me a kindness, remember this - the names of their traitors are these." He proceeded to list three names in Quenya, none of which she recognized as any of the few elves of the Noldor to whom her father had sold firewood or herbs. 

"I will remember," she swore. Lirulin had an excellent memory. 

"Good. Give those names to King Maglor Feanorion, and to him only, should you get that far. You and your family are of the north Mithrim Sindar?"

"We are," answered Malindo, putting an arm around Lirulin's shoulders. 

"The names of your traitors are these." He shared four more names. 

On this list, Lirulin recognized three names. One of them was that of an elf who knew the way to their family's cabin in the woods. It was there that the orcs had captured them, to bring them to Angband.

Rithorion hissed in anger. Lirulin's youngest brother Berior cursed. 

Malindo promised, "We will remember, and bear witness. To King Maglor, and to our lord.”

“I thank you. Take this knife,” Nelyafinwe instructed, holding out a short blade. It still bore traces of the orc guard's blood.

Rithorion reached for it, but their father held up his hand and countered, “You should keep it, Nelyafinwe.”

“Call me Russandol.”

“Russandol. You would be better off cutting your own throat, compared to what I expect they will do to you for helping us." 

“That is . . . kind of you, to offer,” replied Russandol, “But they will not let me die. Not at my own election, and not before they are through with me. Please take the knife. I hope that it will help you, should you need it in your escape. If things become desperate, it will at the least give you an option besides recapture. The Necromancer likely will not care to exert the effort required to bring any of you back to life.”

“Thank you, Russandol,” answered Malindo as he accepted the knife.  

“You are welcome,” Russandol replied. “While I do not wish to know of your plans, I can share with you my own memories of several different routes out of this pit. I also know where they’ve stationed sentries, in the past.”

Malindo held Russandol’s gaze for a moment. Then he nodded, and waved Lirulin forward. She had some training from her grandmother, who had been a priestess and mind-mage.

Lirulin knelt before the other thrall and met his eyes.

“This may hurt,” Russandol cautioned. “I do not know you well, and we have little time.”

“Do it anyway,” Lirulin insisted. “I am accustomed to pain.”  

There was some discomfort. But it was not entirely unwelcome to Lirulin, for the contrast it made between Russandol’s sharing of his ‘map’ and Sauron’s suave, covert invasions of her mind.

Most of what Russandol gave her were images, impressions. His mind voice when he added a few notes in words was beautiful, yet tragic. It was like sunlight through a crystal. If that crystal had been repeatedly smashed and then painstakingly pieced back together into something - someone - strong enough to do this selfless deed for Lirulin and her family.  

“Thank you, Russandol,” she said solemnly, when he had finished.  

"If you would do me another kindness,” requested Russandol, “Tell King Maglor 'well done, for keeping the little ones from running off into the woods to get eaten by bears.' That way he will know that these words come from me."

After that they left Russandol behind. He sat against the wall of the cell with his broken leg straight in front of him. He had a faint, ironic smile on his face. 

Malindo sent Lirulin and Berior on ahead after Lirulin told him of one of Russandol's short cuts. Their father insisted that they take the knife. Meanwhile, Malindo and his oldest sons went towards the mines, to free their fellow thralls from their work gang. From there, they would make their escape through their painstakingly dug escape tunnel. 

Russandol’s map was a blessing. Lirulin and Berior made it out of the fortress through a well concealed exit. They came across an orc sentry just outside, right where Russandol had expected that there might be one. 

Lirulin went ahead to distract the orc. When his attention was on Lirulin, Berior jumped him from behind. Berior’s first strike with the knife into the orc’s throat was true. The monster might have still killed Berior, but that Lirulin grabbed the wrist of its weapon-hand. Berior stabbed it in the throat a few more times. Then it was dead. They dragged it out of the way, so it would not be easily seen. Then they ran.

They had been running for hours before they heard the dreadful sound of orc horns from Angband. The discordant noise was accompanied by the eerie, horrifying sound of warg howls. 

Lirulin and Berior were tired, but they forced themselves to move even faster. The stars were bright overhead when they ran into a patrol of Noldorin warriors. The Noldor wore armor, but it was cleaner and shinier than orc armor. It looked like it would give these warriors better protection than the armor made by Morgoth’s slaves for his orcs.

As the mounted Noldor surrounded them on their powerful horses, Lirulin thought to herself that she might have been scared of these intimidating warriors, once. But she could see that the faces inside these helms were the faces of fellow elves. In their eyes she saw wariness, yet also sympathy and concern. They did not seem cruel. So, she was not afraid.

But she did reach out to grasp Berior’s hand for courage as she called to the raven haired elf with the fanciest armor, “My brother and I escaped from Angband. We were helped by a Noldo slave who called himself Russandol. He gave us two messages for your King Maglor.”

The dark-haired elf with a gold coronet on his helmet gasped, “Tell me. Tell me what he said.”

Lirulin paused, “One message, he said to give to King Maglor only. But the other was 'well done, for keeping the little ones from running off into the woods to get eaten by bears.'”

“My Prince,” warned the elf with the second most decorated armor, “It could be a trick. The Sindar warned us of such.”

“It’s not a trick, Endeyaro,” the ebon haired prince murmured. More loudly, he shared, “That is what Maitimo would say to Makalaure, when Makalaure had been in charge of watching the five of us, and he had let some task go undone because he was too busy caring for us. What Maitimo meant whenever he said this was that as long as the five of us were safe, then Makalaure had done well, so far as Maitimo was concerned. If Father or Mother were angry about whatever chore Makalaure had neglected, then Maitimo would intercede on Makalaure’s behalf, and all would be well. Only Maitimo himself would know that, of those of us who have been captured or gone missing.” He thought a moment, then added, “Only Maitimo and the six of us would know that, out of anyone, really.”

“I understand, Prince Caranthir,” said Endeyaro.

Prince Caranthir asked Lirulin, “Why didn’t Russandol escape with you?” There was anguish in his voice as he spoke. 

As gently as she could, for she could tell that this Caranthir loved Russandol, Lirulin explained, “Russandol could not have escaped with us because his leg is broken. He had to kill an orc guard to get to us. He told us that the Enemy never leaves him so lightly guarded when he is at all capable of running.”

“I see,” replied Caranthir hoarsely. “I thank you for carrying his message. I will take you to my brother King Maglor.”

Just then, the ominous sound of orc horns and wargs could be heard again, carried on the foul winds coming from Angband.

“If you would dare more to honor Russandol’s sacrifice,” petitioned Lirulin, “then you might ride forward to rescue our father, our older brothers, and any who come with them. Our kinsmen sent us on ahead through a shortcut Russandol knew of, while they went back to free the other members of our work gang. We dug a tunnel out of the mines. But they are being pursued.”

Prince Caranthir lifted a tube of steel to his eye and gazed in the direction Lirulin’s family would be coming from. Endeyaro did the same.

“We have the numbers to take on the pursuit, my Prince,” Endeyaro reported. “We may be able to reach the escaping slaves before the orcs do. We should have the time to skirmish with them, field-treat the wounded slaves, and then retreat before reinforcements can be sent out from Angband.”

“We shall, then,” commanded Prince Caranthir. “Or, I shall. Captain Endeyaro, I want you to take this lady and her brother back to the settlement to see Maglor.” As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t let her meet with him alone, though.”

 “I will do as you say, my Prince.”

Endeyaro gestured to two other warriors. He helped Lirulin mount behind him.

Berior shook his head when one of the other two dismounted to aid him. “I want to help my father and brothers and our friends,” he asserted stubbornly. “I have a knife. Russandol gave it to us.” 

Prince Caranthir grinned, “I like your spirit, lad. Come along, then.”

Then it was one of the soldiers going with Prince Caranthir who gave Berior a hand up to sit behind him on the saddle.

Endeyaro brought Lirulin before King Maglor and several of his brothers. Lirulin entrusted Russandol’s words to King Maglor, as she had promised. 

King Maglor wept to hear the messages, for he turned out to be Russandol's brother, just as Caranthir was. Maglor offered Lirulin and her brother a home, and promised them work with his Host. 

Berior returned with Prince Caranthir’s patrol. He told Lirulin that he and the patrol had met the pursuing orcs before they ran down the escaping thralls, but not until after the orcs mounted on their wargs had entered the range where they could shoot down the fleeing slaves with their arrows. Lirulin and Berior’s father and elder brothers were shot down that way. But many of the strongest slaves from their work gang survived to be rescued. King Maglor offered sanctuary and healing to them, as well as to Lirulin and Berior.

Lirulin and Berior mourned their father and brothers. But they were comforted by the knowledge that their kinsmen had suffered relatively clean deaths. The warriors of Caranthir’s patrol had brought back their bodies. Lirulin and Berior were able to give them the proper death rites.  

At Lirulin's request, King Maglor sent to her people for a mind-healer for her and her brother, as well as for their fellow escaped thralls. The Noldor had no mind-healers. They explained that they had never needed them, in the bright land from which they'd come. 

The mind-healer who came, Thangur, was a cousin of the leader of the north Mirthrim Sindar. Thangur was able to forward Russandol's message about traitors amongst their ranks to his kinsman.

Thangur was able to attest that Lirulin's and Berior's minds were still their own. It was rare that captives successfully escaped from Angband of their own effort, whilst still remaining themselves. More often, if an elf left Angband, it was not until their mind and spirit had been so thoroughly broken that they had been converted to serving the Enemy's designs. As a result, the Sindar, Nandor, Laiquendi, and Avari were understandably wary of escaped thralls. 

It would be hard for Lirulin and Berior to return to their people and be accepted among them while they still bore the marks of Angband on their bodies. The whip scars on their backs, left by the orcs supervising their work gangs, could be hidden. Not so with the marks around their wrists from the hell-wrought iron cuffs and chains. 

Thangur worked together with Maglor's royal healer, Raveno. The healers told Lirulin and Berior that all of their scars from Angband would eventually heal. Except for those which marked injuries inflicted by Morgoth's Maiarin servants. Those servants included not just Sauron, but also the balrogs. 

So, Berior might eventually be able to resume his old life amongst the Sindar, if the marks on his wrists faded. But not Lirulin. Once, when she had been posted to distract overseers from noticing the work on their escape tunnel, she'd had to decoy a balrog away. It had struck out at her with its whip, the very tip of which had lashed her face. She had turned her head away from the whip in time for it to miss her eye. But she would always bear a scar, a white line on the left side of her face. It went from her jaw, past the side of her eye, through her brow, and up her forehead nearly to her hairline. 

Berior promised Lirulin that he would never go home, as long she could not. So, they made their home with the Noldor.  By and large, King Maglor and his brothers were responsible leaders who took good care of their people. Even if Maglor did sometimes have trouble reigning in his most quarrelsome brothers. The Feanorian retainers were mostly welcoming to Lirulin and Berior.

Lirulin and Berior would have liked the Noldor, anyway. For rescuing them, and for coming to Beleriand’s rescue. If it hadn’t been for Feanor’s armies, then all of the elven peoples of Beleriand would have been dead or enslaved by the hosts of orcs and other foul creatures which had been in the process of conquering the continent when the Noldor arrived. Well, all of the elves, except perhaps for those in the heartland of Doriath, protected by Queen Melian the Maia.  But Lirulin wasn’t sure that even Melian could have stood against the full might of Morgoth. Not once he’d finished conquering everyone else.

While the vast majority of the Noldor were nice to Lirulin and Berior, all six of Russandol’s brothers were especially kind. At Healer Thangur's request, Lirulin and her brother were given light duties for the first months after their capture. In time, they both came to work for Prince Caranthir. Lirulin he employed as a procurer of supplies from the local Sindar. Berior, who desired vengeance against Morgoth, trained as a warrior. But on days when their wounds, mental and physical, yet pained them, their princes gave them grace to heal. At such times, their duties were assigned elsewhere, and they would meet with Healer Thangur and engage in rejuvenating activities, until they felt well again. 

They both attended the trials of the Noldor who had betrayed their people to Morgoth. Given the weight of the evidence against them, Lirulin thought that Maglor had been wise to sentence them to death. She and Berior attended the executions. Although she did not relish bloodshed, she felt grimly certain that such traitors could not be left alive to continue their perfidy.  

Not long afterwards, three things happened in rapid succession. Morgoth hung Russandol by his wrist from the cliff above Thangorodrim. The moon and the sun rose. Then another Host of Noldor, led by Russandol's uncle, arrived and settled nearby. There was some dispute between them and King Maglor's Noldor, the details of which Lirulin and Berior did not entirely understand. 

A short time later, Berior pulled Lirulin away from her duties. He was accompanied by a dark-skinned Noldo with gold bedecked braids. 

"Little sister, this is Fingon, son of Fingolfin," Berior explained. "He wants us to draw him a map into Angband."

Lirulin stared and gaped at the new Noldo. When she could speak, she exclaimed in disbelief, "That's insane! Why?!?" 

"I am going to rescue Maitimo," the handsome dark-haired Noldo explained stubbornly. 

Lirulin by now knew that 'Maitimo' was yet another name for Russandol. 

"You will fail," Lirulin assured Fingon harshly. "You will be captured. Watching as you are tortured will probably be the worst thing that has happened to Russandol in quite some time. Which is saying a great deal. For Sauron has excelled himself in torturing the heir of his Master's foe." 

"Still, I will go," insisted Fingon. He wore a familiar adamant expression on his face. Lirulin had seen its like on Russandol's countenance, the night he had freed them. She had seen it also on her new King Maglor's face, when he would not be moved from a decision. 

Lirulin sighed, “They do not leave him lightly guarded. Not when he is at all well enough to run.”

“Then I will carry him,” resolved Fingon.

When Lirulin still stared, Fingon favored her with a rueful half-smile, “He carried me down a mountain once, after I’d fractured my ankle doing something he’d warned me not to do. I can carry him.”

She shook her head, unsure of what else she could stay to dissuade him.

"Will you help me, or not?" asked Fingon obdurately. 

Lirulin drew him a map. She had an excellent memory. Then she said a prayer to Eru Iluvatar, pleading that he bless this fool and his impossible mission. 

Ten days later, Berior came running up to her while she bargained in the market for herbs for King Maglor's table.  

"That crazy elf Fingon did it!" he gasped, "He rescued Russandol!"   

"Oh, thank you," whispered Lirulin, "thank you, thank you, thank you."  

Chapter End Notes

I didn’t come up with the idea of Sauron emotionally and mentally torturing his captives by pretending to be their loved ones on my own. Right now, the two stories that I can remember reading and liking that inspired me to include this element are TheLionInMyBed’s “Up Where the Mountains Meet the Heavens Above” and Curuwen’s “Yanasenesse.” Both are on Ao3. They can be found in my Bookmarks (my Ao3 name is SusanaR) under the Bookmarker’s Tag “Maedhros Favorites.”  

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“My oldest brother prefers to be called ‘Maedhros’ now,” young Prince Amras counseled Lirulin in a whisper as he led her into Maedhros’ sickroom. 

“He’s asleep,” Amrod informed his and twin and Lirulin softly. He waved Lirulin towards a chair to the right of Maedhros’ bed as he explained, “He’ll probably wake soon. It’s almost time for his next dose of pain medicine.”

“I understand,” said Lirulin. 

She sat where she had been bade, while Amras switched places with his twin. He had been stationed in the chair on the left side.

It was only a few minutes before Maedhros did awake. Though he pretended to still be asleep, at first.

Lirulin tilted her head in Amras’ direction and mouthed, ‘He’s awake.’  

“It’s safe to wake up, Maitimo . . .I mean, Maedhros,” encouraged Amras. “Fingon rescued you. You’re safe. We're in Uncle Fingolfin's camp on the other side of Lake Mithrim.”

Maedhros opened his mist-gray eyes. He regarded his younger brother skeptically.  Then he turned his head and noticed Lirulin.

“Ah,” he said, with a faint smile, “You made it, I see.”

“I did,” she confirmed, smiling back. “So have you, now. Thanks to your crazy cousin.”

“And here I thought that Sauron’s creativity had improved,” jested Maedhros. “My cousin come over the Grinding Ice to rescue my undeserving self, aided by an Eagle of Manwe. It certainly seems more like fantasy than reality.”

Amras grumbled, “How come the mere sight of Lirulin made you believe that this is all real? Normally you make us recount some time we made a fool of ourselves, before you’ll give us credence.”

Lirulin couldn’t help but laugh darkly, at that. Taking pity on Amras’ obvious confusion, she explained, “Maedhros doesn't really know me. We only met the once. So, Sauron must not have thought that I’d be any fun to torment him with.”

“She is right, little brother,” Maedhros explained gently. “I apologize for putting you through such tests every time. But it is the only way for me to be certain that you are real, and that all of this is real.”

“How does it help?” wondered Amras.

Maedhros hummed thoughtfully, then explained, “Sauron is adept at his impersonations. Every emotion is note perfect, except for sometimes one. He doesn’t have the best grasp on humor. At least not as we elves understand it. He rarely laughs, you see. And he never laughs believably, when the joke is on himself. Not even on a ‘self’ whom he is only pretending to be.”  

“I wish I had known that,” Lirulin murmured.  

Maedhros favored her with a dryly approving look, “Even only having met you the once, I am confident that you would have picked up on that pattern, given enough opportunities to observe it.”  

“So,” Amras asked Maedhros, “this Sauron pretended to be us?”  

“He pretended to be every person whom I love, at one point or another,” answered Maedhros, his tone rueful yet mild.  

Amras shook his head, but he couldn’t seem to help but want to know, “What misadventures of mine and Ambarussa's did you use to test him with?”  

Instead of listening to Maedhros’ answer, Lirulin reflected on what he’d already said.  She couldn't imagine how terrible it must have been, to have had Sauron in her mind enough times to make a scholarly study of his deceits. She did not know how Maedhros had survived it, and stayed sane. But he quite evidently had. He wouldn't have helped Lirulin and Berior, if he hadn't. If he'd been willing to become Morgoth's creature, he wouldn't have been hung from a cliff by his wrist. 

As Lirulin half-listened to Maedhros relate to Amras various instances in which Sauron had failed to convincingly simulate self-deprecating humor, she became convinced that Maedhros was not as well as he was taking care to seem. How could he be? Yet she was sympathetic to his pretense. After all, what was the alternative to getting on with life as well as possible? Sitting in a corner and gibbering? 

While she had been waiting to see Maedhros, Lirulin had asked Healer Thangur, whom Maglor had sent to Fingolfin’s camp to aid his brother, if Thangur thought that Maedhros could recover. Well, if he could recover at least enough to live a normal life.

Thangur had answered that he thought Maedhros was remarkably sane, considering what he'd been through. But Thangur had added that he believed Maedhros would always bear the scars of his torment on his body, mind, and spirit. The longer Maedhros could take to focus on his healing, the better off Thangur thought he would be. In Healer Thangur’s opinion, for Maedhros to effectively process the traumas he'd been through, so that they cast as small a shadow as possible on his mind and heart, would take years at the least, if not decades or even centuries.

For her savior's sake, Lirulin hoped that he would have the time he needed to work with Healer Thangur and engage only in rejuvenating activities until he felt well again. But she had witnessed too much of how both his own Host and his uncle's Host needed their 'King who had Burned No Ships' to think that Maedhros would be willing to take anything like the time he needed to heal as much as he could.  

From outside in the hallway, Lirulin heard Fingon’s loud, cheerful voice approaching the room.

“Amras,” asked Maedhros, “Did you bring me those scrolls I asked you for?”

“Yes, older brother, I did. But I still don’t understand why you would want last year’s inventories.”

“I have a use in mind for them,” Maedhros assured his brother, as he accepted a heavy roll of scrolls from Amras.

“Caranthir wants them back,” cautioned Amras. “Although I don’t know why.”

“He will have them. They’ll be slightly dented, perhaps, once I’ve finished with them. But no worse off than that.”

A guard in Maglor’s colors entered to make sure that Maedhros was awake and receiving visitors. The guard explained that Fingon and Fingolfin had come to pay a call. After receiving Maedhros’ approval, he admitted them.

“Ah, Fingon,” greeted Maedhros, “Come here.”

“You look better today,” replied Fingon, as he approached Maedhros’ bed, “I am glad.”

Lirulin arose to give Fingon her chair. He sat and leaned over the bed, to meet Maedhros halfway. The two touched foreheads. Maedhros’ left hand came up to firmly cup Fingon’s raven braids, while Fingon’s right hand tenderly cradled Maedhros’ short wavy red hair.

Maedhros released Fingon first. “Stay there a moment,” he commanded.

“Alright,” agreed Fingon. He appeared baffled but willing.

Maedhros took the scrolls from the bedside table. Then he bashed Fingon about the head with the scrolls as he reproved loudly, “What were you thinking? You could have been killed. Or far, far worse!” Maedhros punctuated each word with a swat of the scrolls.

Fingon chuckled as he half-heartedly fended off the assault. Amras and Fingolfin laughed to witness it, while Lirulin smiled.

“I knew that you'd scold me once you began feeling at all yourself,” commented Fingon. He sounded infinitely tender and also thoroughly resigned.  

“Uncle Fingolfin,” called Maedhros, aggrieved, “couldn't you have found someone with better sense to keep Fingon constant company? To keep him from doing such stupid things?”

“I would have, nephew,” answered Fingolfin kindly, “But you see, his 'better sense' was held captive by our Enemy. Is it any wonder that he went to such great pains to retrieve it?"

Maedhros put his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Fingon, my Valiant Eagle, please, please promise me that you will never again do something so reckless.”  

“I promise, my Bright Flame,” Fingon answered solemnly, although a spark of humor danced in his eyes. Lirulin noted that they were more a blue-gray, in comparison with the lighter mist-gray of Maedhros’ eyes.  

“Thank you,” said Maedhros, relieved.  

“As long as you don't get taken by Morgoth again,” Fingon amended his promise.  

Maedhros sighed, “You, my dear one, are impossible.”  

“I know,” replied Fingon, sounding smug, loving and comforted all at once. “But you like me that way."

Maedhros only shook his head with a faint smile. Yet his hand reached out to squeeze Fingon's nearer hand fiercely. “You should not have risked so much to save me," he reproached. "Especially not after our betrayal. Not after it cost you Elenwe, and hundreds more lives lost.”   

“You did not betray us,” Fingon countered firmly. “You did not burn the ships.”

Lirulin couldn’t decide what emotion was conveyed by Fingon’s emphatic tone of voice. Triumph? Vindication? Relief? Maybe all of those, and a few other things she couldn’t discern, besides.  

Maedhros sighed again, “First, Fingon, please tell me you knew that before you set off to rescue me.”  

“Well . . .”

Maedhros shook his head in affectionate yet despairing resignation, “Just as I thought. Second, I did not stop my father from burning the ships. That is bad enough, considering all that it cost you.”    

Fingolfin interrupted, “I have a few things to say to that, Nephew.”  

“I am listening, Uncle Fingolfin,” Maedhros assured him graciously. His expression was what Lirulin would later come to think of as his ‘unintimidating court expression.’  The polite, neutral one, which concealed any emotions he might be feeling at what he was seeing or hearing.

Fingolfin sighed with an exasperated smile, “First, if I did not know you as well as I do, I would demand the name of the healer or healer's assistant who was so ungracious as to discuss our losses within your hearing, while you are still on your sickbed. As I do know you, I will spare myself the frustration of that insistence, which will spare you the trouble of lying to me, or evading my question.”  

“I thank you,” said Maedhros, with a wry half-smile.  

His uncle smiled back, before becoming serious again. “But I want you to know how displeased I am that one of my people was so unkind. I will do my best to see that it does not happen again. I want you to focus on healing, Maedhros.”  

For a moment, Maedhros seemed flustered, perhaps even overwhelmed. “I . . . there is a great deal that must be done . . . if only I could think more clearly . . .”

Gently yet adamantly, Fingolfin promised him, “It can wait. Everything can wait. I will make sure of it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” answered Maedhros, his expression courteous yet controlled once again. “I thank you for your forbearance. For my own sake, and for the sake of my father's Host.”  

“For your own sake, you are welcome, but you need not thank me,” Fingolfin replied sternly. “You defied an order from your King and father. That was insubordination at best. Legally, I am sure it could be considered treason. It was a great deal to risk. For any subject, let alone for a crown prince who is also a son known for his filial obedience to a demanding father.”  

“You do me too much credit,” Maedhros countered. “For my Father would not have harmed me. Not even as fey and maddened by grief and paranoia as he was at the end.”  

“I hope that he would not have. Still, my point remains. You risked a great deal for us, as it was. What else do you think you could have done?”  

“There must have been something,” ventured Maedhros, sounding pained.  

“Oh?” questioned Fingolfin, raising a skeptical brow, “I have it on good authority that you argued the burning of the ships with your father until two things happened. The hands of his most fervent followers going to their swords, and the hands of those who had begun to look to you instead doing the same. Is that not so?”  

Maedhros did not dispute this. Instead he argued, “You likely lost more lives on the ice then we might have lost, had I pressed on until my defiance sparked a brawl.  Or even a Kinslaying or a civil war.”  

“We likely did,” allowed Fingolfin. “But I do not believe that you knew we would dare to cross the Grinding Ice. Am I wrong?”

“No. I knew that you would not go happily back to Aman. I knew that my father had misjudged you, and that your hearts were fierce and true. But I did not think it was possible to cross the Grinding Ice.”  

“So, you chose to avoid certain bloodshed, instead of fighting on in an attempt to spare us from going home to Tirion to beg the Valar's pardon. Is that not so?”  

“But I was wrong,” Maedhros said, horror and self-hatred in his voice. Lirulin noticed Fingon, who still held Maedhros’ hand, squeeze it in reassurance.  

Fingolfin sighed. Then he inquired almost tenderly, “Tell me, Nephew, in a trial, what is the legal standard for judging the actions of someone accused of a crime?”

Maedhros, too, sighed. His expression was exasperatedly fond as he answered, “What that person knew at the time when they committed the purported crime.”  

“That is correct,” praised Fingolfin. “While I do blame my brother for our losses on the ice, as his criminal actions proximately led to them, I do not suspect even him of having knowingly condemned us to anything worse than going home and begging the pardon of the Lindar and the Valar.”  

“You are kind, Uncle,” said Maedhros.  

“To you, who bears no fault in this," replied Fingolfin, "I will be as kind as it is in my power to be.  For your sake, I will show as much forbearance as I can, when it comes to your Host. Remember that.”  

“I will. But I also know that a leader of his people cannot always do as he wishes. At least, not a leader who is as responsible as you are.”  

“While that is true,” allowed Fingolfin, “one thing that is within my power, is to give you the time you need to heal, before such matters as stem from the damages we sustained crossing the Grinding Ice must be considered. I will thank you to remember that, as well.”  

“I will try,” conceded Maedhros.  

“Thank you, Nephew. I will leave you to visit with Fingon, Amras, and Lirulin now. Please listen to your healers.”  

“I will try,” said Maedhros again, this time with another wry half-smile.   

Fingolfin laughed. He walked over to press a paternal kiss to Maedhros brow as he instructed, “See that you do, Maedhros. Be well.”   

After Fingolfin had left, Fingon told Maedhros, “I think that, in my heart of hearts, I did already know that you hadn’t willingly consented to Uncle Feanor burning the ships.”

“Oh?” queried Maedhros sardonically.

“Yes.”

“If I say anything further that is demeaning of my own actions, no matter how appropriate it may be, you are going to tattle on me to your father, are you not?”

“Maedhros, you know me so well!” exclaimed Fingon, batting his long dark eyelashes at his cousin.

Maedhros laughed, “Although you are even more valiant and mighty than I remember, you can still be just as ridiculous. I have missed you.”

Fingon smiled back at him, “I missed you, too. Even though you can be quite the wet blanket, at times.”

Later that day, Lirulin was giving a Sindarin lesson to several of Fingolfin’s supply clerks when Fingolfin and Maglor summoned her to meet them in Fingolfin’s office.

“Mistress Lirulin,” Fingolfin requested courteously, “Would you be willing to give up all of your other duties for the foreseeable future, in favor of keeping Maedhros company?”

Maglor explained, “Amras told us how – and why – our oldest brother had only to see you, to believe that his rescue really happened, and that he is safe with us and no longer imprisoned in Angband.” He added wholeheartedly, “Caranthir and I can spare you from everything else, for this.”

“I would be happy to,” Lirulin accepted.

“Good,” said Maglor and Fingolfin simultaneously.  

“Thank you,” they added, at the same time again.

Lirulin stifled a giggle as uncle and nephew exchanged surprised looks. 

Then Lirulin recommended, “I suspect it would be best if you came up with a reason for me to be at Maedhros’ side. Other than your real one, I mean.”

“That would be wise,” agreed Fingolfin.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” marveled Maglor. “You’re quite right about that, Lirulin. Yet Amras said that you only met Maedhros the once, in Angband?”

“Only one time. But it was memorable.”

Fingolfin ventured thoughtfully, “Maedhros mentioned that he would like to learn more about the Sindar. About their culture, their history, and the current state of affairs in their various settlements.”

“I could tell him some of that,” offered Lirulin.

“He also needs a scribe,” said Maglor. “He wants to start learning to write with his left hand. But the healers won’t let him, yet.”

“Tell Fingon, about that,” suggested Fingolfin. “Even he has trouble getting Maedhros to take it easy. But he’s best at it.”

“He is,” Maglor seconded ruefully.

“Maedhros will need a scribe for a long time, even so,” remarked Fingolfin.

“Lirulin writes well,” Maglor complimented her, with his dazzling smile. “Her cirth is superb, and her tengwar is passable. Although it is excellent, given the few years you have been practicing,” he half-apologized.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Lirulin, with a dimpled smile. “If one of you has a lap desk and some parchment, then I’ll take up my post at King Maedhros’ bedside. That way, he’ll believe my story.”

“He probably won’t, even so,” remarked Fingolfin, with laconic affection. “But he can pretend that he does. Hopefully, that will be just as good.”  

And so it was that Lirulin became Maedhros’ specialist on the peoples of Beleriand and his scribe.

Chapter End Notes

End Note 1: I have notes for a third chapter of this. It starts with Lirulin being there when Maedhros wakes and him doing his best to determine if being his companion/scribe is really a job she wants to take on. Then Fingon arrives, and there is some light-hearted banter. Please let me know if you might be interested in reading that, as that would encourage me to finish writing the extra chapter. 

End Note 2: If you would like to read more about Lirulin and her relationship with Maedhros in the First Age (and later in the Fourth Age), you can read the character notes I’ve made for her (and her relationships with Maedhros and Fingon). Those notes are available here: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47725663/chapters/120304477

End Note 3: If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy the other stories in my "Stories about Maedhros and Fingon" sub-series on Ao3.  My username is SusanaR

In my Second Age story “Out of Time,” Elrond thinks back to lessons he learned from Maedhros several times. It is available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47745574/chapters/120356290

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