Somebody Else's Rescue by Susana_R  

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Chapter 2

Chapter Two Summary: 

Lirulin accompanies Amras to visit Maedhros in his sick room. She and Maedhros bond over some of their shared experiences. While Lirulin is there, they are joined by Fingon and Fingolfin. Lirulin then bears witness to Maedhros’ strong friendship with Fingon. 

Quotes: 

“But when [Feanor’s host] were landed, Maedhros . . . spoke to Feanor, saying: “Now what ships and rowers will you spare to return, and whom shall they bear hither first? Fingon the valiant?" 

Then Feanor laughed as one fey, and he cried: "None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!” Then Maedhros alone stood aside, but Feanor caused fire to be set to the white ships of the Teleri.” - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillon

“[In Mithrim] Maedhros in time was healed, though shadow of pain was in his heart; and he lived to wield his sword with his left hand more deadly than his right had been. By this deed Fingon rescued his friend of old from torment, and their love was renewed; and the hatred between the houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor was assuaged.”  — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillon

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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.

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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