Look Up by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Maedhros rises each morning before the sun. This is not an unusual habit for an elf. There is a quiet bustle about the settlement in the early hours when stars still dot the horizon, their light beginning slightly to pale as a warm glow peeks between the crests of Ered Wethrin. Noldor and Sindar alike raise their eyes to the skies, be they clear or cloudy and grey, in fond acknowledgement of Elbereth’s oldest lights. There is a difference in the quality of their appraisal, Fingon has found, when  he can spare moments on unhurried observation. The folk of Mithrim, who have dwelt here for time unrecorded, gaze upon them nigh mournfully, as old friends who too seldom these days meet, as the paths of life draw them apart. The younger Noldor, by contrast, see in them something new and precious, drinking in their light with almost hungry eyes. There is a splendour to their shine unique to the darkness, a quality hidden from Fingon’s people by the holy light of trees. Starlight is more ancient and strange that that of Laurelin and Telperion by far, full of remote mystery. 

Maedhros never looks at the stars. 

There is much he can achieve that proved impossible for his starved and abused body a month ago. He can, for example, take himself to the lakeshore and wade into its chill waters until they pool about his knees. He will not fall, though his legs seem thin as any heron stirring the waters for fish in the reedy shallows. Maedhros occupies himself in this manner on many a morn, though it is a cold and unpleasant venture in the dusk with no sunlight to warm one’s skin. Today he has not gone so far, and merely stands before the door of the building that houses his chamber gazing northeast. His expression is grim and his eyes dark.

“What do you see?” Fingon asks. A fool’s question, for seldom will such an inquiry receive an answer. Maedhros, gripped by some pensive mood or another, is a quiet, obstinate creature. Far from the laughing hedonist of Valinor’s carefree days is he. Fingon does not, for the most part, mind the change. Neither is he who he once was. 

“The mountains,” Maedhros answers today. He seems ill inclined to elaborate. 

“Those within sight, or those beyond?”

Maedhros’s jaw tightens. The iron mountains cannot be seen from Hithlum, with Ered Wethrin’s shadowy heights obscuring their visage. This is no object. He sees them with the same clarity as a trumpet’s call is heard in the stillness of dawn after such a long, intimate acquaintance. Maedhros’s thoughts are too often preoccupied with the fortress that lies beneath and behind that vaporous range. He looks often to the northeast with anger and determination in his eyes.

“We will fight them. And you shall take your place, unconquered and mighty, on the field with a blade flashing in your hand and my bow ever its brother-in-arms. But the day is not this one.”

“No,” Maedhros agrees rationally. He is a patient elf; he always has been, for all the pleasures they chased and the exploits they once dared together.

“Then look up,” Fingon bids. “Let not the dark and foul imprison your gaze when there is light to behold. Survival is an instinct, but life, ah! Life is a choice.” 

Eventually, Maedhros does, and the stars are even more wondrous reflected in his grey-green eyes.

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