And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Prackspoor  

Zero: Close

When they climbed onto the eagle, the poisonous fumes of the Thangorodrim clogging their throats, ashes on their faces and clinging to their lashes, Fingon was sure they were both going to die.

They were too slow and someone had to have seen them. The Thangorodrim were ever-watched, ever-guarded. Surely some abomination had been watching them from the darkness and would come crawling out of a crevice any moment now. His bow and harp lay shattered at the foot of the peak hundreds of feet below when he had thrown them away in order to have both of his hands free to help his cousin. He was not sure where his sword was. He might have dropped it as well.

Turgon would strangle me if he knew. On the other hand, I am doing a splendid enough job getting myself killed without his help.

After having cut Maedhros free, the good thing was that his cousin was… well. Free. On the downside, his entire weight – earlier held by his shackles – was suddenly in Fingon's arms. Maedhros was slick with grime and sweat and blood and he was slipping through Fingon's hands. Fingon was frantically trying to keep himself and his cousin on the back of an eagle that was clinging to a vertical wall of stone. Thorondor's sleek feathers were sliding through the fingers of his left hand and the grip of his right arm around Maedhros' chest was loosening against Fingon's will. Fingon looked down to find something, anything which might give him a better hold on his cousin, and that was a mistake.

Under a sickly sky blotched with dirty reds and browns the Thangorodrim were a wall of solid featureless blackness, dropping about six hundred feet down where they met the vast desolate ashen plain that stretched from horizon to horizon. Fingon could see something silvery twinkle on the ground, a world away. An arrowhead?

Oh well. Whatever it was, he would not be getting it back any time soon. In this instant, the muscles in Fingon's lower arm cramped and his fingers almost opened their death grip. He wouldn't be able to hold their combined weight for much longer. Fingon turned his face upwards again and straight into the blood-and-dirt-clotted mane of his cousin. He spat out a few strands of the dirty copper hair that had gotten into his mouth. “Maedhros, hold on to me, I'll try to—Valar, don't play dead now!”

At least he hoped Maedhros was only acting. Light-headed with over-exertion, hurry and fear for his cousin, he craned his head to look down past Maedhros' head. Blood was dripping in pulses from his cousin's arm with every beat of his heart, so Maedhros couldn't be dead just yet.

“Maitimo!”

Maedhros mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?" Fingon leaned closer.

Maedhros swallowed, apparently struggling a few moments to unstick his tongue from his palate which must be as parched as the desert around them after being chained to the mountain for the Valar knew how long. His voice was quiet and formed the words only with great difficulty. “Leave me. Drop me.”

Fingon thought he'd misheard. He must have misheard, because the Maedhros he knew could never have sounded so lost, so tired of life, so utterly defeated. He dismissed it as some stray echo twisted by the evil jagged faces and ridges of the Thangorodrim, and with an effort that made his arm and shoulders scream, he pulled Maedhros up and a bit closer to him and shouted to Thorondor: “Fly!”

The eagle lurched under them like an earthquake. There was a flurry of feathers, a whistling of wind and a sharp snapping sound in Fingon's right shoulder. He felt a joint dislodging itself when Maedhros' weight sagged and everything that was keeping him from falling were Fingon's stiff, cramped fingers digging into his skin so deeply they were drawing blood, clinging to his cousin's ribs like clutching a rail—and it was so wrong that he was able to do that in the first place, Maedhros was not supposed to be so wasted, so thin—

They barely made it past the Anfauglith before Fingon's strength gave out at last, and when Thorondor landed on the shore of Lake Mithrim, on the opposite side of where Maedhros' brothers had set up their camps, both of them fell off his back like sacks. The eagle eyed them with an expression that seemed almost disdainful. (Fine, so maybe he did not like Finwë's kin, who could blame him?)

Fingon slumped to the ground, heaving out laboured gasps, breathing in the smells of healthy soil and fresh air and in that moment he did not know how he had survived the past months walking the desert plains of Morgoth's realm without dying, because how could you live without this?

“Thank you,” Fingon said, rolling around so he was lying on his back, the smell of grass and water and life all around him. He was feeling so giddy with relief and excitement, was only barely able to hold in a loud laugh. He looked at the eagle perched on the grass next to him. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

Thorondor did not answer. The eagle only gave him a brief glare that quickly wandered on to a point beyond Fingon's shoulders.

Fingon's heart plummeted and he struggled to all fours, crawling over to where his cousin was lying on his side in the grass – mutilated, starved and ashen-faced, like a blight upon the verdant green all around them. Maedhros' face was white, his lips colourless, and his chest was rising and falling in ever-weakening, horribly-laboured heaves. There was no longer a stream of blood trickling from his stump.

“No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Fingon rolled Maedhros onto his back and shook his shoulders. “We've come this far, don't you die on me now, don't you dare die on me now—”

Just across the Lake, he could see the banners of the House of Fëanor and Fingolfin unfurling in the rising wind. He could hear the noise of the camp, the mingling of shouts and orders, of trudging boots, the swift steps of messengers running to and fro, the whinnying of horses.

So close.

So close.

The damn thing about “so close” was that it was just another expression for “not good enough”.

One: Wake

When Maedhros wakes he is alone. He cannot feel his body and he concludes he must be dead. The thought bothers him less than he feels it should. He does not move, he barely blinks, and he lies there for a while, staring upwards at the white empty sky devoid of clouds and so oppressively close that he is sure he could touch it if he reached out. A few minutes pass, and the murky white above him coalesces into the soft structure of linen. He can see the grain of the fabric and he wonders who has taken the sky away and replaced it with a burial shroud. Then again, he's dead. He's not supposed to be looking at anything. He's not supposed to care.

He closes his eyes and drifts off again.

When he wakes a second time, it begins to dawn on him that he might not actually be dead, even though the only thing he can feel is a slight itch in his right hand. Leaving that aside, he feels fine. (A small voice inside his head tells him that there is something deeply wrong with equating the absence of pain with the absence of a body. The thought winds through his consciousness, but it doesn't snag. Like a leaf briefly caught in the brambles of a tree, a slight gust of wind is enough to take it away again and it's lost in the vast emptiness in his head.)

Also, the white sky above him is in fact a tent and he's lying on a makeshift cot with three blankets weighing him down. And his hand is itching like hell. Maedhros rolls onto his side, moving to scratch his wrist and ends up grasping at empty air. He tries three more times, staring straight ahead at the ceiling of the small tent, and fails. He drops his gaze and finds himself gaping dumbfoundedly at a linen-wrapped stump that's somehow become attached to his right shoulder.

Again, there is a nagging feeling that there should be more to this moment than the dull surprise that almost doesn't deserve the name.

Where is my hand?

But there's no one around to ask and on second thought, he doesn't really care because his thoughts are slogging down again, becoming muddied and vague and he doesn't have the heart to work through the sludge and the dirt, digging for something sensible that would explain the situation, because no explanation could give him back his hand, so whatever-fucking-for would he need an explanation, and he'd rather go back to sleep anyway, because he is tired and he doesn't care and he hates the stupid white tent that looks like the winter sky—

When he wakes for the third time it is because somebody is there with him.

“Back among the living?” Speaking to him is a shadow right at the corner of his vision. Maedhros turns his head and a tall black-haired elf swims into focus. He's dressed in light grey tunics and breeches and were it not for the silver bracers on his forearms and the heavy military boots, you'd never know he was a soldier.

It's Maglor. But then again, it’s not. His brother had a solemn, quiet nature, and Maglor had never allowed the Fëanorian flame to burn him up like it had devoured Caranthir and Curufin. The flame had taken over both of them in a blaze that turned their tempers from mere fire into volcanoes, but Maglor's fire stayed simmering under the surface and Maglor had always seemed to be in control of it. Even after the Oath, Maglor remained a calm counterweight to his brothers, his demeanour quiet and utterly measured, delivering even his seemingly spontaneous witticisms with the calculated precision of a fencer's strike.

That had been Maglor.

Maedhros is not entirely sure who the elf sitting before him is.

He looks like Maglor might look if an imperfect god had tried his hand at making elves, getting the overall picture right, but every single little detail that made them who they were wrong. Maglor had not had the cruel twist around his mouth; Maglor used to smile, not smirk and his eyes had been alight with the—albeit fading—light of the Trees.

This elf's eyes are dull and empty like the winter sky. There is no light in them, only fog and clouds and death. And yet he is smiling—no, smirking.

“You look awful,” Maglor says. Pause.

“Who would have thought,” he adds. “Fingon, of all people. The five of us planned your rescue for seven years and did not manage to get you out, and he just traipses right into the Enemy's lands without a plan, like the air-headed idiot that he is, and he succeeds.”

He laughs and the sound is bitter and raw; and it doesn't fit Maglor, because he has always been about witty songs and friendly quips, never about barbs and wires and words that can sting like knives. These little cruelties have always been more Curufin's domain, as far as Maedhros can recall (and he refuses to accept that he could have forgotten).

“A Valarin moron thwarted by an Elven dimwit. I guess there must be some truth to the proverb that fire can only be fought with fire. If we had known that before we would have treated Melkor differently. Lured him out of his den with a carrot, perhaps, instead of besieging him.” Maglor laughs again and the sound is horrible and grating.

Maedhros waits for something more to come because the air is brimming with unspoken words just waiting to spill forth like water held back by a crumbling dam. Maglor looks like he is trying and choking on them like they are a lump in this throat.

Underneath the thick haze of indifference that's separating Maedhros from everything around him, this doesn't sit well with him.

Maglor, the one who's always been the best of them with words, is getting his tongue tied in knots now. He tries, then tries again, doesn't manage to say “I missed you”, and falls silent at last.

Maedhros cannot bring himself to say it in his stead either. He's too tired to speak and it would have been a lie anyway, because he the stranger sitting in front of him is not the Maglor he has missed so much – and this version of Maglor doesn't look like he would appreciate the sentiment, either. So instead Maedhros watches him wordlessly.

After a few agonisingly drawn-out moments of awkward silence, Maglor stands. He pauses and looks down at Maedhros, still not quite sure what to say; the rules of common decency warring with his evident desire to walk out without another word. “Our brothers will be delighted to hear you're back” he says at last and it sounds like a formality, as insincere and hollow as condolences offered at the funeral of a stranger.

It takes some time for the words to sink in before Maedhros realises that a reaction is expected of him. He nods briefly which is apparently enough, because Maglor returns the nod, then pulls the flap of the tent aside and walks out.

Two: Reunion

“The stump looks good on you,” Curufin says. “But it doesn't befit one of my brothers to run around with only one hand, no matter how well it embodies the heroic tragedy of your suffering. I will forge you a club of massive iron you can attach to your left arm and you can use it to shut up the House of Hador at the war council meetings. I'd do it myself, but Fingolfin has placed me under supervision for the duration of such meetings, after...” He trails off meaningfully.

Caranthir smirks wryly, twirling a short silver knife between his fingers. There is a story he is missing here, Maedhros is sure, but he cannot work up the enthusiasm to ask.

So instead Maedhros gazes at his stump and says nothing. They are standing in a slight but perpetual drizzle in front of a commanding officer's tent, waiting to be allowed in. A lead-grey sky spans above them and the air smells of oncoming winter.

It is the first time Maedhros has left his tent to attend an official meeting after his return. It is also the first day he is reunited with all of his brothers since he had ridden off to negotiate with Morgoth. He saw them in front of the tent; they were stalking about like five big predatory cats, with Men and Elves alike giving them a wide berth. When they moved, they moved as one – as if there was a secret way of sharing their thoughts and intentions without uttering them aloud, as if they were just one part of a greater whole. Maybe they were, Maedhros thinks: tied and bound by their father's will and an oath sworn so long in a faraway land. When anyone happened to pass by them too closely, five heads turned simultaneously and five pairs of eyes followed the passer-by until he was out of sight, wary and hostile.

Maedhros had not noticed this behaviour in previous times, because then he had been part of the group. Only now that he was seeing them from a distance, he noticed how dangerous, how dark they looked – as if behind each of them a second, shadowy figure was standing: an almost corporeal manifestation of the madness and malice the Oath has brought down upon them.

They did not greet him as he walked up to them, barely even looked up, as if even that was too much of an acknowledgement of their failure to bring him back. Perhaps they thought that if they pretended he had never been gone, they could also pretend that Fingon had not outdone them by marching into Morgoth's realm and whisking their eldest brother away right under the nose of his watchful gaolers and gatekeepers. When Maedhros had reached their little circle, Maglor and Amras had moved aside to silently make room for him and he had taken the offered spot and that was it. He was back now and that was obviously enough.

His brothers do not pay him any more attention than if he had been with them without interruption, and it gives him ample opportunity to stare at them. He notes the air of deterioration that surrounds them like a choking shroud, which is likely a sign of the Doom's progression as it is slowly but surely tightening its chokehold on them. His brothers stand as tall and proud as he remembers them, and yet they appear old in a way Elves aren't supposed to look, even though at first glance Maedhros is hard-pressed to pinpoint what it is that is causing the impression.

A slightly wary stalk to their gait, maybe; a slump in a shoulder, or the deepening, ever-present shadows under their eyes; or perhaps it is the haggardness of their faces, the way their skin and flesh is spanned too taut over their skulls, and the way even their gums seem to be pulled back from their teeth when you looked closer.

They are loud, bickering and fighting among themselves as always, but their facial expressions look like waxen masks and for a brutal, vomit-inducing second Maedhros thinks he is looking at a group of Sauron's animated corpses. Even as he realises that he is being absurd, the after-image of the illusion is burned to the back of his eyelids, as if his brain had been branded with the idea. He tries to shake it off and finds he is unable to, and he wonders … he wonders if that is not what they all truly are. Puppets, with the Silmarils, Morgoth, Sauron, and their father pulling the strings, even from beyond the grave.

Caranthir whirls around all of a sudden, his dagger clutched in an attack grip, glaring at the closed flap of the big tent. “Who does he think he is, keeping us standing here like errand boys?” he snarls. “When have we sunk so low that we are taking orders from mere Men? Not so long ago, these short-lived, primitive, laughable imitations of our noble race would not have dared to approach us on their knees, not even while grovelling in the dirt where they belong – and now they're making the Sons of Fëanor wait!”

Maedhros listens, wondering whether it is the Oath or his brother speaking now. With Caranthir, it is hard to tell sometimes. He watches his brother walking up and down in ever-shrinking ovals, cursing and ranting, and he is amazed Caranthir could care so much, because he is unable to come up with anything for which he could work up such fervour, such fire.

Maedhros tries to imagine himself joining in, pulling aside the flap and putting this commander of Men in his place with sharp words or violence, and the thought alone is enough to drain almost all of his strength. He feels tired just thinking about it, let alone that the commander has given no offence he can discern. How could he care?

When the flap is finally pulled aside and a tall and proud bearded man in his middle years invites them in with a courteous wave of his hand, Maedhros doesn't even feel relieved to be out of the rain.

It has become too hard to care.

Three: Strain

Meetings tire him. People tire him.

He has been in Angband for nine years (or so they tell him), and during his stay there his life had become a simple stream of days filled with eating, drinking, interrogation, torture, surviving, defiance, more torture, surviving, behavioural conditioning, torture, and surviving.

He finds that in the meantime he has forgotten the finer points of normal life. There are so many rules, so many unspoken guidelines he has to tiptoe around and mustn't ignore; little courtesies, reading and talking between the lines, flattery and manners and etiquette. Above all he has forgotten boredom (you would think boredom was a luxury after escaping Melkor's pits, but no, no, no, not even that, especially not that.)

He has forgotten so much, and how to put up with living company is one of those things.

He has forgotten how little incentive people have to stick together if there is no threat of torture to spur them on, or no knife to their tongues to encourage them to utter nothing but the truth — or alternatively, exactly what the wielder of the knife wants to hear. Men and Elves meet to discuss battle tactics that should be straightforward and simple, but instead they are circling the truth instead of stating it outright. They blow up speeches of purple prose to epic proportions so eloquence might mask the hollowness of their orations, while their listeners are squirming in their seats, distrust oozing out of every sentence; and all of them are thinking, It could give in now. I could compromise. But I won't give it to them as easily as that, allowing past quarrels to get in the way of present decisions. Sometimes, Maedhros' left hand twitches and he finds himself thinking Morgoth's torturers would have succeeded in making you work together by now; pain makes you exceedingly cooperative— and then he catches himself and remembers that he is not in Angband anymore, even if its shadow is still clinging to him like Ungoliant's webs.

He finds he no longer has any patience for pointless dances around the finer points of meanings of words; no more patience for disputes and debates, or Elves and Men being obstructive and as non-helpful as possible. He is fed up with afternoons wasted in the hot stuffy air of the tents, huddled around braziers with greasy bacon and stale bread as the only food available. (He retched his stomach out and he did not eat anything for three days afterwards.)

He doesn't see the point of making plans. He doesn't care about the stupid war. He doesn't care about the fifth rousing speech one of the generals is going to deliver today. Which is why, after five hours of discussion, he gets to his feet and walks out without another word, leaving dumbfounded silence in his wake. He doesn't know where to go and he has no place he wants to be, so he thinks about where he doesn't want to be and that is among people and it is this realisation that leads him to steer his steps in the direction of the lake.

The surface of the lake is cold and grey at this time of the year, the reeds yellowed and brittle and the grass around trodden down by the countless horses that have been led here to be watered. Prints of hooves and heavy boots are pressed into the soft earth at the shore, forming strange erratic loops and lines. He doesn't step on them, making a game of avoiding the tracks like he'd avoid the gaps between the cobbles in the silver streets of Tirion when he was young. There is no fun in it now with no one skipping next to him, and silence as his only companion instead of the breathless laughter of his brothers who used to try to jostle him to make him stumble and step on a gap. He does not know what he has expected.

His next step lands directly on a hoof print.

At the shore he pauses, unsure, thinking. Then he makes a few steps forward and with every step, his resolve to walk just a bit further strengthens, until his feet are moving by themselves. He walks into the lake and suddenly the land opens up wide before him. The water is a dull mirror of the grey sky above, the wind is rippling the water and cutting the skin of his face. Dark clouds are towering further north. He wades in further and then even the reeds fall behind. The camp is at his back and the wind is carrying its noise away from him and there is land, land, land in every direction, still and vast and empty, but only water around him, and for a moment, he feels at peace. The water bites into his skin and he feels it, feels something, he's no longer numb, and he almost, almost laughs. The water is lapping at his knees and he enjoys the strange, slightly vertigo-inducing sensation of being so close to the mirror-surface of the lake showing the wide merciless sky above. The cold air around him bites into his skin and it hurts a bit, but pleasantly, and it makes him feel alone and alive and alien at the same time.

This is how Fingon finds him.

“What are you doing there?”

Maedhros turns around. The lake is lapping at his legs and the icy wind cuts through the wet fabric of his trousers and into his clammy skin. “I'm thinking about taking a bath,” he says, the sarcasm lost because – he realises – he hasn't bothered to change the tone of his voice.

“Fully clothed?” Fingon comes closer and comes to stand at the very edge of the water. A smile is dancing at the corner of his mouth, but it is not enough to chase the wariness from his expression, the cautious prepared look that Maedhros has seen a lot of people give him lately which annoys him to no end.

“So what?” he says. He taps into the challenge, the mockery, the thought of people wanting to forbid him what he wants to do, and the anger it conjures up – which he doesn't even mind because anger is one of the few things he stills feels and he relishes every second of it.

“I'd say it's a pretty bad idea, what with a storm coming up.” Fingon points north, in the direction of the clouds, of the Enemy's realm, of Angband, of torture and pain and a simple life Maedhros was capable of understanding, unlike the confusing, aggravating chaos freedom has turned out to be.

“I forgot. Valar forbid if I get wet from the rain while swimming in the lake.” Maedhros laughs and the sound is shrill and deranged and ugly even to his own ears. He snaps his mouth shut when he sees the look Fingon gives him.

His cousin is standing at the shore, pulling his heavy winter cloak tighter about himself while its hem whips about his ankles. For the briefest of moments, the horrified surprise in Fingon's face reflects Maedhros own madness back at him, but it is gone an instant later and nobody would have been able to tell it had ever been there.

“You'll catch your death if you stay in there much longer,” Fingon says. It isn't plaintive. It isn't disapproving. He is stating a fact.

Maedhros nods, unconcerned, and then turns around and wades a bit deeper out into the lake just to spite his cousin, to coax a reaction from him, something to which he could respond. He tries to map out the things Fingon could say: if he orders him to come out, Maedhros will stay in because he is tired of people telling him what's good for him. If Fingon is annoyed and walks away, well then Maedhros sees no harm in staying in the lake either, because evidently Fingon doesn't care what his crippled cousin is doing, and guess what, neither does Maedhros.

But Fingon doesn't say anything along either line.

What he does say is, “Well, until you've made up your mind I'm going to go and prepare some tea. Don't come too late or it will be cold and stale.” And then he turns around and leaves Maedhros alone, having somehow managed to find the only sentence that didn't deny Maedhros the full right to get himself killed in the water, but made it sound so decidedly impolite that he could not possibly follow through with it. Maedhros might be an egoistic suicidal cripple, but he would never spit on Fingon's kindness in such a despicable and careless way. He likes to think he was raised better than that.

The sinking sun drops below the clouds and paints everything blood-red. The water turns to a fiery opal, reflecting the inferno of the sunset in the west, the dying embers above and the scorched sky in the east. The wind turns even colder. It comes from the north and it carries the scent of snow and ashes.

Maedhros stays in the lake a bit longer until his calves are numb and then he no longer sees a sense in staying like that, because it's always like that these days: he discovers something that makes him feel less numb and he grasps at it, greedily, scrabbling to hold it close, he rides out the high until the last possible moment, but then, always and without fail, it slips through his fingers and he is left behind, feeling hollow and empty as if somebody has lowered an invisible wall between him and the rest of the world again.

Frustration rises like bile in his throat and before he can think about it he has jumped forward and is diving under the water. The cold pierces him like spears (and yes, he knows what he is talking about), pricking him with a billion needles. It drives the air out of his lungs and sets his skin alight with white-hot flame.

In this moment it occurs to him that he has also forgotten he has just one hand and is wearing a heavy winter cloak that has just now decided to wrap itself around his torso and is so soaked by now that its weight – which is already impressive when dry – has tripled.

Oh damn it.

He is flailing and straining upwards; luckily his jump hasn't taken him very far out into the lake and the water isn't very deep here. But as he strains and paddles and finally drags himself out onto the shore the thoughts going through his head are not, I don't want to die. He is thinking, I can't let the tea go cold, and, Fingon's probably already waiting for me.

He drags his feet, dripping puddles where he goes. Soldiers stop and openly stare at him but he pays them no heed. As sure as Arien finds her away across the sky, he finds his way to Fingon. He always finds Fingon. And Fingon always seems to find him.

He pulls the flap of the tent aside and enters.

Fingon is sitting cross-legged on his narrow cot, a book in his lap and wooden mug full of steaming tea in his hands. He looks up, sees Maedhros, who is dripping a veritable lake onto his carpets, and rolls his eyes.

Four: Isolation

They sit in Fingon's tent.

Fingon is wearing loose leisure clothes and if Maedhros did not know that his cousin was currently one of the commanding officers in a war, judging by his clothing and posture it would be easy to think he was on a vacation at the Bay of Balar: a weird mixture of athletic swashbuckler and sophisticated scholar, turning the pages of his book in his strong, sinewy hands while reclining on his cot.

Maedhros is neither swashbuckling nor sophisticated. He is wearing Fingon's scratchy blanket and staring into the murky depths of his tea.

“Are you trying to divine the outcome of the war from the tea leaves or are you thinking about taking a bath in your mug as well?” Fingon asks jokingly.

“No.” Maedhros does, in fact, want to dip a finger into the liquid to test whether it is still hot enough to scald his tongue (because you can't feel a thing through those stupid wooden mugs), but when he tries he remembers that you can't dip a finger in tea when you only have a stump, and need your working hand to hold your cup. Maedhros frowns, stares for a moment longer and then simply tosses the tea back. He waits for the heat, waits for the burn, his heart making an almost excited leap—but the tea is only lukewarm and he swallows too early and all his hasty action earns him is a coughing fit and nothing else.

It is just another insignificant, formerly effortless thing that is denied to him now, and he grasps the mug a bit tighter. He wants to hurl it and he wishes the mug was made of glass and there were solid walls instead of the tarpaulin of the tent, because he wants to shatter something, to hurt, to destroy. His hands are trembling.

And yet, he won't give this mean, aggressive part of himself the satisfaction of giving in to it – more for Fingon's sake than for his own, but still. He fights the urge down with all his might and he sets the mug down as gingerly as if it was made of porcelain instead of wood. “Thank you for the tea.”

They sit there in silence, not talking for a long while. The only sound are the crackling of the wood in the brazier next to Maedhros and the airy, papery rustle every time Fingon turns a page.

At last, Maedhros climbs to his feet and pulls on his damp clothing, feeling nothing except the uncomfortable stickiness of the wet fabric on his arms and legs. It is like trying to feel the heat of the tea through the wooden mug. Nothing seems to reach him. He turns and walks to the tent flap. He doesn't say goodbye. Silence has settled in his lungs and throat and it actually feels comfortable.

But Fingon doesn't know that, of course. “Do you want to stay here for the night?” he asks.

Maedhros turns around. Fingon hasn't looked up from his book.

Maedhros thinks. Everything about Fingon – his voice, his posture and his kindness – remind him of warmth, of safety, of home; but no matter that he feels drawn to it like a moth to the flame, he doesn't think he could bear this particular fire right now. Maybe never again. “No,” he answers and turns around again.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Maedhros turns around for a second time. “For what?”

Five: Crown

“I don't want it.”

“I don't understand.” Fingolfin is royalty. He is splendour, sternness, and barely suppressed fire all rolled into one. He is tall, he is magnificent, and he is irritated when he towers over Maedhros, the tent intended for the High King only barely providing enough room for him to stand upright. Maedhros is sitting on the floor, still dressed in his old and frayed cast-offs, which are much too big for him now. He doesn't mind, since he only uses them for sleeping anyway. Everyone else has donned their finest armour for the reinstatement and he's here, looking like he just rolled out of bed. (Which, to be honest, he did, because why the hell not. It is them who wanted him to come here, he doesn't care about any of this.) He's looking up at his uncle, feeling like a child again in more ways than one (having to crane his head to look up at Fingolfin, having to justify himself, being scolded as if he was a wayward, stubborn boy).

“I don't want the kingship,” Maedhros repeats.

“You are the rightful heir. You are the High King of the Noldor. You cannot refuse what you are, just as you cannot refuse who you are.” Curufin steps forward. A slight hiss curls around the sibilants, at once both a threat and a reminder not to forget his name and his legacy.

As if anyone could ever forget that.

Maedhros shrugs and turns his head back to Fingolfin. “Just take it, I don't care.”

He can feel the baleful stares of his brothers boring into his back and if they weren't of the same blood he would be sure that they'd massacre him afterwards. Come to think of it, he is not even sure they won't do it anyway, even though they are related.

“The title is passed along according to male primogeniture, with no respect to brothers,” Fingolfin says. “Your own father made those laws.”

“My father is dead,” Maedhros retorts and when Curufin's eyes narrow and Celegorm's eyebrow twitches he almost laughs. Then he thinks, I am an arsehole.

“You have a strange way of honouring his memory, I grant that,” Fingolfin says coolly, but there is something else in his voice. Something he's holding back that is softer, more vulnerable … disbelief? A Fëanorion freely giving away his legacy instead of clinging to it and clawing at everyone who wants to take it away?

Maedhros sighs. “Good. Fine. Have it your way. How about this: hereby, as the High King of Noldor, I abolish the law of male primogeniture and pass the title of High King to you, Fingolfin, Son of Finwë, to do with as you please and establish any order of succession you like.” He makes a dismissive gesture and then lets his hand drop back into his lap. What does he care about kingships and struggles and kingdoms? As if there was nothing more important in the world than being able to carry a fancy title and strut around with a crown on your head.

Maedhros Nelyafinwë, High King of the Noldor, so what.

He climbs to his feet (more deftly, he's got practise by now doing it with one hand only) and gives Fingolfin a bow. “Take the title, Uncle. You are more fit to carry your brother's legacy than I am or than any of my brothers are. Let this be the recompense the line of Fëanor owes you for the insult that my father inflicted upon you by drawing his sword on you back in Aman.”

Now Maedhros is sure Curufin will try to murder him. Behind him he can hear the sounds of a violent shuffle and then a hand clapping down on someone's pauldroned shoulder and Maglor hissing, “No.”

Fingolfin inclines his head to one side. “Russandol,” he says and his voice is gentle. Maedhros cannot remember the last time his uncle has called him by the affectionate epessë.

“I and everyone else know that you are not well and may not have the leisure or will to think about this. We can postpone this decision until you feel better. I agree to serve as the prince-regent in the meantime, but—”

“No,” Maedhros interrupts and suddenly something blooms in his chest, something wild and mad and suddenly he is on a roll, words pouring out of him as if in a torrent. He is going to do something outrageous, something which will make some tempers boil, and it is exhilarating.

“Take it,” he says and a grin splits his face (as if someone had cleaved through it with an axe). “I cannot even wield a sword right now and as you say, I am not fit to rule now as High King. I do not think I'll ever be again.”

“Nelyo,” Caranthir growls and the diminutive has never sounded more like a threat.

“It's my decision and it is final,” Maedhros says and lays his only remaining hand on Fingolfin's shoulder, and his uncle almost flinches under his touch. “Just look at us, Uncle. Would you not agree that it is in the interest of everyone that a sane man has the crown, with sane sons he can pass it on to?” He smiles brightly, then he bows again. “All hail to you, High King.”

And then he rounds his uncle, throws the flap of the tent aside, and marches out.

Maedhros waits until he is sufficiently far from the camp, standing right at the edge of nowhere where the vast plains begin to stretch out all around him, and then he doubles over with wild, unrestrained laughter.

Six: Succumb

Maedhros has always thought the destruction of a family would be loud: a thing of screaming and arguments, of hurling things at each other and porcelain shattering against walls. He's been wrong. After having extricated himself so masterfully from the last bit of responsibility to the crown of the Noldor, and having done so in a way that left his brothers distrusting him entirely, Maedhros found himself pushed aside to the very brink of the war and left to his own devices.

Also, he was finding the destruction of a family to be quiet, gradual, and sad.

Maglor visited him once to ask whether he was all right, and Curufin came to deliver a stream of death threats.

After Maedhros had said yes to Maglor and laughed at Curufin, both had left and neither had returned. His other brothers stopped by more than once, but since Maedhros rarely listened to what they had to say and answered on even fewer occasions, his stream of visitors decreased to a trickle and after a while, even his brothers no longer came to see him. Elves and Men were busy fighting a war, and they had other things to do than to look after unwilling invalids. After Maedhros had acted the part of the indifferent mute for a week or so, not even messengers came to his tent any longer to wake him from the fitful sleep he sometimes (rarely, actually almost never) slipped into, in order to beg him to take part in council meetings, or ask his signature for something.

He spends most of his time sleeping these days. Sleeping is not exactly good—he dreams of Angband more often than not—but in his dreams, at least, he is fighting. He is back in chains, mangled and starved and whipped like an alley dog, but he is fighting, he is thrashing, he is defying Morgoth with everything he has, even if it takes him to the brink of what he can bear and oftentimes beyond. In his dreams, he is captured and beaten and there is blood between his teeth and a horrible red grin of his face, but he feels energetic and vengeful and so alive.

When he wakes it is as if someone has poured lead into his veins. Opening his lids to the sting of sunlight is like one of Morgoth's iron brands being pressed to his eyes. Moving, sitting up, and walking around fills him with the same sinking feeling that the prospect of climbing a wall of stone a thousand miles high with his bare hands might have given him once – one of impossible, painful, meaningless effort.

Meaningless like this war, meaningless like this army camped here, while its generals were holding meeting after meeting as if this war could be resolved if they only talked about it enough. He likes to ponder this thought. It makes him angry and anger chases the weariness out of his bones, sometimes enough for him to even get up and prowl the city of tents for a while, throwing glares left and right and thinking about the idiocy of all of this. At times during these walks, mad ideas flit in and out of his minds like shooting stars.

I could go back, he thinks. I could go back and let him take me again. And I'll destroy him from the inside.

He likes the idea, even if it will always remain a mad plan in his head never to be realised, because there is no way a fortress like Angband could fall from the inside unless Morgoth himself wanted it so.

And with that sinking realisation, when dull grey reality has settled back in, a reality where Maedhros realises anew every time how futile everything is and how few possibilities actually exist here – as opposed to his colourful dreams full of blood-red, nightmare-black, choking-ash-gray, torture-chamber-orange – the weariness creeps back into his bones. And if he happened to be wandering the seashore when this deep, dark, and infinite weariness descended, he would sit down on a boulder, hunched in on himself, and it would take hours until he could work up the strength to stand up and walk back to his tent again, all the time not knowing why he was making the effort in the first place.

It has become so hard to find the answers to the endless echo of Whys in his head. There doesn't seem to be a reason for anything that is happening around him and to him, and sometimes he wonders how he has gone about his days before his imprisonment in Angband. He tries to remember, but it does not feel like remembering himself so much as thinking of an entirely different man. He has no more access to the mind and memories of the charismatic, spirited leader he used to be than he had once had to the mind of his father. The first memories he has, the first time he has felt like he was feeling and living as himself now started with waking up in a tent whose ceiling he had mistaken for the featureless white sky of a winter day.

He remembers Maglor greeting him, “Back among the living?” and suddenly he's not sure he is. Living as he recalls it (recalling in a sense only as if someone he knew had told him about an experience he'd never made himself) is not what he is doing now.

He is existing.

He is breathing.

He is eating and sleeping.

And yet he's not sure that's all there is to what they call life. For a while he really wants to go on ruminating, the philosophical question glittering with the promise of fascination, but hooking his attention is hard nowadays and his will and concentration slip between his fingers like an eel.

A bit of colour drains out of the world around him. It may be the sunset of early winter, but then again it may just be him. And then he is left uncaring, staring at nothing in particular and feeling little, so very little, and not caring about it at all.

He thinks about Fingon and his invitation to stay for the night.

Seven: Far away

“What are we doing?” Fingon asks.

On his elbows and knees, Maedhros stills and stares at the rug below him, feeling the cold on his bare skin to his right where the tent's entrance lies, while the heat of the brazier warms his left side. He thinks about the question, wonders whether there is a double meaning to it, and then decides he has no time and leisure for cryptic questions and philosophical answers.

“We're fucking,” he says.

Fingon is still, then gives a snort that is almost derisive and Maedhros can almost see his cousin rolling his eyes behind him. He steadies his lower arm on Maedhros' back and leans onto him. “I did not mean it like that. I mean what are we doing here? You did not come here for company, you aren't even enjoying the act. You told me yourself and yet you are here. Why are we doing this? What are you trying to achieve?”

What indeed.

There is an awkward silence, both of them frozen in a position that compromising doesn't even begin to describe, and then something in the air shifts and Maedhros gingerly rights himself.

“Can you get off me?” he asks quietly.

His cousin obliges and lets go, sliding out and away from him.

Maedhros rolls over to lie on his back, listening to his body for a while, feeling out for hints of soreness, for pain, for anything at all, but there is nothing, nothing, nothing because somewhere a cruel god is sitting and laughing at him because he is chasing feeling like shadows only to be denied again and again and again.

Fingon throws a blanket over him and pulls on his breeches and a shirt before sitting down next to him. “Why, Maitimo?”

“Do not call me that,” he says and in the next moment regrets it because there was something, something, something, a stab of regret, a stab of anger, of wistfulness at the memory of his shorn hair that is slowly growing back in, his broken and battered body grown back together all crooked and wrong and weak, his missing teeth, the scars criss-crossing his skin—

“Maitimo,” he repeats slowly.

Fingon watches him, puzzled and quiet and sad. “Yes. Maitimo. Or maybe not. Sometimes I'm not sure whether you really lived when we carried you into the camp or whether you died when we weren't looking,” he says. “Sometimes I doubt whether I really found my cousin and brought him back here with me.”

“My brothers would be delighted if you had brought home someone else instead,” Maedhros says. “They despise you for having outdone their years of careful planning and sitting still, fretting about what to do. A failure on your part would reconcile them with their high opinion of themselves.”

Fingon reaches out and brushes an errant strand of hair out of Maedhros' eyes. “Your brothers worry about you and they would never trade their brother for a personal victory. They love you.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “And so do I.”

Maedhros looks up at the ceiling of Fingon's tent. He is so tired of tents. He feels a lump rising in his throat and out of sheer reflex tries to fight it down before remembering that this – feeling something, any emotion at all – is exactly what he wants and then he lets go and tries to let it out—Valar, it would be a relief to be able to cry. But no, the urge gets stuck somewhere in his throat and he coughs and retches trying to get it out, but his eyes stay dry and his voice stays calm and he isn't shivering, not even from the cold and after a while he just gives up.

“I was trying to feel something,” he says, aware that an eternity must have passed between the question and now, making his answer basically a non-sequitur.

“And it didn't work.” Fingon watches him and it is winter in his eyes as well. Grey, grey, grey, so much grey and so little colour. There is so much pain in Fingon's eyes and Maedhros wishes he could reach out and take it away from him, to have it and hold it and cherish it—anything but that emptiness in his head and chest, his everywhere.

“You're so far away these days, I often wonder whether I only whisked your body away and your spirit is still chained to the Thangorodrim,” Fingon says quietly. “Where are you when you close your eyes?”

Maedhros thinks about this. “I dream of Angband sometimes," he says at last. (This is a lie. He is there all the time, as soon as he closes his eyes.)

“Sometimes I wonder if it would not be better if I returned there.” He does not know where the words are coming from, but he does not try to stop them. “It was terrible, but in a way it was easier. All I had to do was fight back against everything and survive. But this? Now and here? Everything is difficult and nothing makes sense. I do not know how anything is supposed to work. It is as if all of you are speaking a language I do not understand. You worry so much and about things I cannot bring myself to care about. You all talk so much. You plan. But for what? I know that something is wrong with me, but still I cannot see what it is and how to fix it. I think I might be broken, Finno, like a sword shattered in the middle.” He raises his stump before his eyes and stares at it.

Fingon doesn't flinch. He's never been one to shirk away from unpleasantness and danger. But there is a hard line around his mouth and something in his face grows dark.

“Tell me where you are and how to free you,” Fingon says and leans over him, taking Maedhros' face in between his hands. “Tell me how to get you out of there.”

“I don't know,” Maedhros says and for once there is a tremor of emotion in his voice – quiet, feeble, helpless. How do you get someone out of their own head? How does one free a soul? “I don't know, Finno," he repeats. A cold gust whistles through the tent. It carries the promise of snow.

“You're fading away,” Fingon says, his grip almost painful now. “But I won't let you, do you hear me? I wont let you. I swear by my name—”

There is the pain, at last: a shock that jerks through him like lightning and he shoots up into a sitting position, slapping his left hand over Fingon's mouth, steadied by his stump, his eyes wide and his heart hammering.

“No oaths! No more! Not from you, not ever from you!” His arms are trembling; he is shaking all over. “Swear not to retrieve what cannot be saved. Make no oath to bring back what is forever lost. Don't bind your soul to a hopeless cause.”

Fingon still has his hands on both sides of Maedhros' face. He slides them down along Maedhros' neck, his shoulders, down his upper arms, his forearms until Fingon gently takes hold of his cousin's fingers and pulls away the hand covering his mouth.

“No hopeless cause. You're still here.” Fingon smiles. “There is hope.”

“No oaths. Fingon, I beg you.” Maedhros draws in breath after breath, but his lungs feel like they are about to shrivel up and leave him to suffocate.

“All right.” Fingon's warm fingers lace through Maedhros' cold ones and he leans forward to rest their foreheads together. “No oaths. A promise then.”

There is a breathless silence.

"You know this doesn't change anything," Fingon says. "And if I must hound your soul to the end of the world if that is what it takes to retrieve it, so be it. By now you must know that running away even into the darkest of places will not keep me from following."

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Three: Promise

Fingon makes good on his promise.

Of course he does. Maedhros should have known.

He should have known better than hoping against hope he would be left alone after Fingon had given him his word not to give up on him. He should have known better than to think that he'd get away with slouching off and spending days on end cooped up in his tent. He doesn't feel any more energetic than he used to and he sure as hell doesn't feel any more hopeful, but it has become impossible to lie down and sleep away the days in an indifferent haze like he used to do.

Fingon has taken it upon himself to take care of Maedhros and seeing how there is no getting through to a Son of Fëanor by gentle means, he has simply resorted to bullying Maedhros back into the semblance of a normal life (or at least what qualifies as normal in Fingon's eyes.) Day after day, Fingon chases him out of his tent, forces him into eating and drinking, as well as sparring sessions and running laps around the lake. According to this new mad version of his once-sane cousin the entire ordeal is all for Maedhros' own good - allegedly to get him back into in a reasonably robust physical condition. One could of course argue that Maedhros would not need the exercise if Fingon wasn't so dead-set on drilling him day in, day out in the first place. Somehow, though, Fingon goes deaf every time Maedhros mentions this and then pushes him even more mercilessly for remainder of the training session.

It's horrible. Maedhros doesn't know whether he would have been physically capable of jogging around Lake Mithrim in under seven hours even in his prime, but he sure as anything can't do it now. This is, however, not a good enough reason for Fingon not to make him keep trying. By the end of the day, Maedhros' feet are numb and frozen and his body aches in places he didn't know existed—and then Fingon wants them to go socialising.

“I don't want to play cards,” Maedhros says as he shuffles after Fingon, who is meeting up with a few of the Men around here who had expressed the desire to teach a Noldorin elf prince the proper way to play cards.

“I don't give a damn about all those things you don't want. You're going to enjoy yourself, you'll see.”

Who is he to say no to such an answer? Fingon is a mean cheater, Maedhros thinks, by making it more of an effort to lie down than go out and live his life again. Living and exercising and talking to people was exhausting, but not as exhausting as Fingon nagging at him and kicking him in the ribs (he's actually done that once, that bastard). Fingon simply keeps shouting at him to get up and getting on his nerves until Maedhros gives up and obliges. It looks like Maedhros prevailing against his cousin is simply not going to happen any time soon. Therefore he decides to save what little energy is left to him for a better purpose than resisting somebody who's about as inclined to be impressed by objections as a particularly hard piece of rock. So there's that.

And this is why Fingon is currently dragging him to a game of cards although Maedhros doesn't feel like having fun in the slightest, and this is also why Maedhros follows—not complacent, but surrendering in the face of obstinacy even greater than his own.

Fingon amuses himself greatly. He ends up losing every bit of gold he's brought to the table, to the great delight of his fellow players who conclude that Elves must be naturally untalented at gambling and offer him a revanche just in case Fingon wants to lose a bit more gold. Every single Son of Fëanor would have been at the men's throat for such words, but Fingon just grins and promises to take them up on it.

Maedhros' head is buzzing from the effects of the ale he's been drinking. The men are wary around him. They know him. They know who he is (or who they believe him to be, more like; Maedhros has no idea who or what he is supposed to be nowadays). But when Fingon offers that his cousin play the next hand for him, the men agree. Maedhros hasn't been listening to the rules and he doesn't have the slightest idea how to play, but by sheer dumb luck he manages to win the hand, and the hand after that – and the hand after that as well.

In the end he and Fingon have their five fat gold coins back and the men might just like them both a little less. They're no sore losers, though, and they offer the cousins another round of ale. The moon is already sinking and the quiet of after midnight has come down upon the camp when Fingon and Maedhros decide to get up and leave, taking off in the vague direction of their respective tents.

Maedhros wonders when his life has become so strange and where to go from here – although whether he's thinking, quite literally of the gambling tent or, more metaphorically, of this point in his life, he's not really sure.

They walk in silence, with Maedhros trying to sort through his drunken thoughts, until—

“I'm lost,” Maedhros suddenly says.

Fingon stops, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He appears to ask himself the same question Maedhros has asked himself before – whether to take it literally or metaphorically – then he seemingly reaches a decision and takes a small step closer to Maedhros. “You've been through a lot,” Fingon says slowly. “But you'll find your way, eventually, I'm sure you will—”

“No, I mean I am lost. As in, seriously, I have no idea where I am.” Maedhros turns around, gazing at the tents which all look the same to him. He turns back to Fingon. “Where am I?”

Fingon looks at him disbelievingly for a few moments, then he bursts out laughing. “You've got to be kidding me.” Then he grabs Maedhros' arm. “Ah well, too much ale never did agree with your head. Come, you're staying with me tonight.”

He doesn't protest and allows Fingon to pull him along. His head is still buzzing and the ground seems to be a bit unsteady. Fingon does not look at all affected by the drinking habits of Men and purposefully leads him to the tent Maedhros supposes must be his cousin's.

It must be the last dark hour before dawn when they finally crawl under the blankets on Fingon's cot. Since Maedhros barely spends any nights in his own tent anymore, Fingon has procured a second cot and placed it next to his own, and set aside a few pillows and blankets especially for Maedhros. The gesture is heartwarmingly considerate, but ultimately makes no sense, because each and every night they sooner or later end up under the same set of blankets anyway. Tonight is no different, except for how Maedhros' head is spinning and the fact that every object he looks at suddenly gains a ghostly twin swimming around the original. Maedhros groans and buries his face in Fingon's shoulder.

“I feel like shit. Your idea of having fun sucks.”

Fingon's hand comes up and cards through his hair. “Just close your eyes and sleep it off. You and your singularly foul mouth are going to feel better in the morning.”

His cousin sounds faintly amused, but Maedhros is too tired to call him out on it and anyway, it's the first reasonable thing he's heard Fingon say in weeks, so he decides to do as he is told. He burrows himself deeper under the blankets and with the feeling of Fingon's fingers running through his hair, he drifts off.

Maedhros is sure he only closed his eyes for all of three heartbeats, but all of a sudden there is grey light filtering through the tarpaulin, his head is bursting and he feels like throwing up and there's Fingon shaking him awake.

“Get up. We're going for a morning run,” Fingon orders and then whacks him over the head for good measure.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Maedhros rolls around, covering his eyes with his stump and blinking like an ill-tempered white bear woken from hibernation.

“Leave me alone,” he growls and throws himself onto his other side. This is a big mistake because in less than a blink of an eye, he knows he's going to be sick all over his bed and he barely makes it out to the front of the tent before he is retching his insides out. When he straightens up again, Fingon is standing next to him, nonchalantly leaning on a pole, the very picture of the early riser, chipper and dapper at the same time in his dark clothes, and giving Maedhros a smirk that makes him want to throw Fingon headfirst into the lake.

“Well, seeing how you are already awake and soaked in sweat, we could use the opportunity to go for a run, don't you agree?”

Maedhros gives him a baleful glare.

In the end, he goes along. Of course.

After the run they spend the afternoon sparring. At this point, Maedhros is fuming with frustration because he has to use his weak left hand to wield the sword. Even though Fingon has gone out of his way to find him a lighter sword he can wield with his untrained left arm, Maedhros' performance would not even scare off a novice and he knows it. The passers-by give him sympathetic glances and their surreptitious looks annoy him to no end. He does not want their sympathy and their pity makes him gag.

Fingon, on the other hand, apparently has about as much use for pretences of pity as for pulling his punches. The rest of the world may be handling Maedhros with kid gloves since he has returned from Angband, but his cousin has never taken off the proverbial gauntlets. He ducks out of the way of Maedhros' angry blow with the grace of a dancer, then dives right under his guard and shoves his shoulder into Maedhros' chest, sending him sprawling on the ground.

“Five points for effort, minus one hundred for style and execution. That was awful.” Fingon steps back, casually twirling the sword in his hand. “I'm beginning to suspect you actually like kissing the ground.”

“You were going for my weak right side all the time,” Maedhros growls as he climbs back to his feet.

“Oh, forgive me. I forgot your enemy will go for your good side if you ask nicely.” Fingon says, his voice dripping with irony.

Maedhros looks at him, teeth bared and chest heaving. He knows Fingon is right and he knows he sounds like a petulant child and he doesn't care, because there is anger, anger everywhere, frustration that runs like fire through his veins and boils his brain and he needs a vent, and he needs it now. “You are an insufferable arse, you know that?”

Fingon twirls his sword in circles. “I know. What are you going to do about it?” Again, that damned smirk, seemingly designed solely to raise his hackles.

Maedhros resists the urge to throw away his sword and tear at his hair. “If I could, I'd punch your ugly mug so hard your grandchildren would still feel it!” he yells over the distance between them.

“Resorting to threats? Pathetic. Come on and do it then.” Fingon's fingers snap shut around the hilt of his sword, and he points it at Maedhros, the tip not quavering in the slightest. He could just as well have been made of tempered steel for all the absolute control and complete mastery his unyielding stance spoke of.

“Shut up!” Maedhros looks at the sword, regarding the cramped, clumsy grip of his left hand, and in a fit of fury he throws it away. “It's no use and you know it!” he shouts. “My right hand was my strong hand and now it's gone! I cannot fight with my left hand!”

Fingon raises an eyebrow. “Just because you lost your strong hand doesn't mean you should never touch a weapon again.”

“I'm weak!”

“No, you—” Fingon hesitates, then lets out a deep breath before amending, “Yes. Maybe. You're worse than you used to be. It's a setback, yes. But it's not a surrender unless you make it one.” Fingon bends down to pick up the sword and then walks over to where Maedhros is standing. He holds it out to Maedhros and his gaze is like steel. “Giving up just because it's gotten a bit inconvenient to go on is not something the Maedhros I know would have done. You know what this Maedhros would have said? 'If Morgoth takes away your right hand, you learn to fight with your left. And if he takes your left hand, you kick him. And if he takes your legs, you learn to fight with your teeth'.” And with those words Fingon shoves the sword back in his hand, takes few swift steps back, and shifts into a defensive stance.

Maedhros watches him sourly.

“Come on,” Fingon goads him. “Come on! You can give up when you're dead! You won't take an excuse Morgoth gave you to give up. We won't let the shadow determine our lives. We live and die on our own terms, and until you're cold and dead in the ground, you're going to fight!”

And suddenly, there's anger. Undirected, suppressed for too long, wild, almost rabid. Maedhros' fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword until his knuckles are white, and he charges forward.

Two: Gauntlet

“A hand? What for?”

“For fighting. I need something I can strap a shield or a second sword to and the forearm doesn't work. I was thinking about using little hinges for the joints so I can adjust the fingers—”

“I thought you were done fighting. In fact, I thought you were done living.” With a contemptuous noise, Curufin sits in a folding chair next to his brazier. His gaze is cold.

“Fingon forces me to spar with him,” Maedhros says without much enthusiasm.

“Ah. So that's where all the bruises come from. Your little cousin is kicking your arse and getting too close for comfort. Strange, you never gave the impression you minded getting up close and personal with Fingon during your … sparring.”

Maedhros forces his expression to remain impassive. He wonders whether the choice of words was merely unfortunate or intentionally ambiguous, although he doesn't really dare to hope for the latter. He wonders how much Curufin knows and why. But there is no point in getting a fight over one scathing remark with Curufin of all people, because then they'd spend eternity arguing. Thus, he lets the insult slide and simply asks, “So?”

“I can't forge anything here. I'm missing a smithy, let alone the equipment needed to do something as complex as you want me to do.” Curufin shrugs. “I couldn't help you even if I wanted to, and you cannot order me to, especially seeing how you gave your power of command over us to our uncle.” Curufin pushes himself up and out of his chair and lifts a kettle from the brazier, pouring himself a mug full of hot, dark amber tea.

Maedhros just watches him. He doesn't feel provoked. By Curufin's standards this was almost a friendly rejection. Truth be told, he would have been surprised if there was any less acid in his brother's voice.

“You are still angry at me?” he asks.

Curufin's back stiffens, then he barks out a laugh and turns around, leaning against the central pole of his tent. “Angry?” He sneers. “Angry? No, Nelyo, we are not angry. You just gave away our High Kingship to our uncle, depriving us of our birthright and throwing the whole succession of the Eastern Noldor into disarray! Did you know that your infamous refusal has been everything the generals have been talking about in every council meeting ever since? Oh wait, excuse me – I forgot the tiresome discussions on how to handle the war to Fingolfin’s liking. Our dear Lord Uncle does not deem us efficient enough, so instead of waging war on Angband we are discussing minutiae. But that's nothing, brother dearest, because I'm sure Morgoth will wait until we have sorted ourselves out. It is nothing to lose your head over.” Curufin bares his teeth in a smile that is almost a snarl. “So no, we are not angry.”

Maedhros swallows the barbed words sitting at the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be hurled at Curufin with all vitriol and the fury the spitefulness of his younger brother conjures up in him. Instead he forces a smile. “Good. So speaking of the prosthetic, do you think you could—”

He doesn't get any further because in this very moment Curufin's arm that is holding the mug makes a lighting-fast, jerking motion and something dark and hot hits Maedhros in the face, scalding his skin so quickly and viciously, he can feel it blistering. He wipes his sleeve over his face and it comes away with dark amber stains. Luckily, his eyes are untouched, but his face feels red and raw as if the skin had been flayed away to reveal the flesh beneath, exposing it to the sting and burn of the air. He raises his gaze to Curufin who is slowly lowering the hand holding his now empty mug.

“The nerve,” Curufin hisses. “That you dare ask something of me after what you have done.”

Maedhros is so close to throwing himself at his brother, and he doesn't even care that Curufin could beat him blue and black before he would be able to land even one decent hit with his left hand. But then he suddenly remembers that despite everything that has happened, they are still brothers. He is still the eldest of six—no, he thinks with a surge of nausea—five brothers. It has always been his task to keep a level head and break his siblings up when they had been at each other's throats again. It has been his task as the eldest and the most prudent to make them see reason and restore the peace, instead of adding fuel to the fire.

“I'm sorry, Curvo,” he manages to get out.

The apology has the effect of a bucket of ice-cold water on his flaring temper. As soon as the words are out, he realises that there is so much more that he wants—needs to say. He wants to tell Curufin that he knows that he has made a mistake. He has made the right choice, but for all the wrong reasons; and in a despicable display of egoism, he has shut his brothers out from the decision on the succession of the High Kingship, although it would have been their birthright to have a say in the outcome. He knows that they would have demanded of him to at least try – and deep down he wonders if this is not what he should have done – even though he knows there was no way he could have shouldered the kingship when he could not even pull his own weight. He opens his mouth to speak, but Curufin cuts him off before he gets out one word.

“Get out,” his brother snarls. “Get out of my sight.”

Maedhros turns around and leaves.

***

Later, when he is sitting on a rock at the lakeside, it is Maglor who finds him unexpectedly.

“There you are,” Maglor greets him as he comes to a halt next to the boulder Maedhros is perched on. “You talked to Curufin,” he says and it is not a question.

Maedhros lifts his head, taking in his brother in his dark leather armour and burgundy brown cloak. “Yes, I did. How do you know?”

His brother gives Maedhros a faint smile, and in this moment the ghostly echo of a younger Maglor seems to look at Maedhros from the other side of the abyss of millennia. “If Curufin's terrifying mood and his subsequent tantrum had not informed me of your row in more detail than I ever cared to hear, the burn marks on your face would have told me everything I needed to know. He did, however, leave out what kind of impertinent request it was that got him so angry. What did you ask of him?”

“A mechanical hand,” Maedhros says tonelessly.

Maglor raises an eyebrow at that and he finds himself compelled to elaborate. “Fingon has taken it upon himself to teach me how to fight with my left hand, and he isn't doing it very gingerly. I need a contraption I can strap a shield to that gives me more freedom of movement than my lower arm does.”

“I guess Curufin was not amused that you wanted something of him.”

“You could say that.”

Maglor shakes his head with a small, fond smile.

Maedhros stares at him and his throat clenches briefly when he notices that this is what his brother Maglor is supposed to look like. He doesn't feel much these days, but just the realisation that Maglor is still the same is almost enough to have him burst into to tears right then and there. It's bad enough that Maedhros has lost himself in the eternal darkness under the Thangorodrim. He doesn't think he could bear to see his brothers come undone as well.

But – Maedhros can forget about Maglor's cool greeting when he first woke, as long as he can be sure that at heart, Maglor is still as calm, sensible, and soft-spoken as ever: less driven by the roaring fire that Fëanor had passed on to them, and more by the steady, reliable flame that was apparent in every gentle gesture and every loving word their mother had ever spoken to them.

The sudden wave of homesickness and the realisation that they are never going to see their mother again hits him like a punch to the gut.

He must have winced or otherwise made an involuntary movement, because Maglor looks like something has startled him out of a reverie and he turns to face Maedhros. “Forgive me, my mind was wandering. Where were we? – Ah, Curufin. Well, it's easier to ride a wild horse than giving good advice on how to deal with Curvo when he is angry, but I know for a fact that trying to appease him never achieves anything except confirming his opinion that he was right all along. Try to be less polite and more assertive the next time. Friendliness won't win you anything with a rabid dog.”

“Are you calling our brother a rabid dog?” Maedhros throws Maglor a side glance, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Heavens forbid. Celegorm would have my tongue for this insult against canines.”

Maedhros laughs quietly despite himself and Maglor joins in. Maedhros feels old fondness for his younger brother welling up inside of him and he remembers that Maglor used to be the one who was closest to himself, both in age and in manner of thinking.

“Is there room enough for two up there?” Maglor asks and Maedhros scoots over to make room for his brother.

The rock is big enough to provide plenty of space for both of them. Maglor sits down on Maedhros' left, wrapping his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and for a while they simply sit there, their feet dangling just above the water. A memory from before Angband resurfaces – suddenly Maedhros recalls they used to do this back home in Tirion. Whenever they had wanted to duck away from their teachers or their father, they would flee to the beach and there, with the endless ocean spread out before them, they would sit on the stones at the shore, or chase each other through the foaming breakers until their skin was wrinkled and crystallised salt was glittering in their hair and their lashes, and prickling on their tongues.

“Do you remember—,” Maedhros asks, but he doesn't get any further, before Maglor says, “Yes”, and throws him the briefest of smiles. For a while both brothers reminisce in companionable silence and watch the sun set behind the forest that stretches out west of Lake Mithrim.

“It's a strange world, isn't it?” Maglor says.

Maedhros looks up. “Hm?”

“Sometimes I think it is too raw and too brutal for our kind.” Maglor watches the reflection of the sun in the lake, a lonely white ball sinking between a pale sky and the forest, which is throwing shadows stretching out over nearly a mile at this hour. “We Elves were made for perfection and eternity, for paying court to gods and trailing in the wake of their glory, our path already cleared for us in a world where the shores are strewn with diamonds and the sun shines down on gold-green meadows in eternal gossamer. We weren’t made for loss, or death, and yet those are the only two things that this barren world seems to offer us in abundance.”

“And yet even Men have learned to live on these hither shores,” Maedhros says, his gaze losing itself in the blazing white of sparkling sun on the lake. He blinks and his eyes stray away from the blaze to where the reflections of the stars are appearing one by one in the soft violet reflection of the sky above. The stars seem so much further away here in Middle-earth than in Aman.

Maglor shrugs with a wistful smile. Today, he is more like the brother Maedhros remembers and less like the acidic warrior he met when he first woke. “Men are used to this. They live and die so quickly that their lives are just fleeting sparks in the great dark ocean of eternity. But their nature has steeled them in this respect: they are more used to this than we will ever be. It is their land, not ours. I often wonder whether we did right in coming here.”

Maedhros, who has been watching his dangling feet in turns obscuring and revealing the starry surface of the lake with the engrossed fascination of a small child, lifts his head to find his brother looking at him. He holds Maglor's gaze for several moments. “Then why go on with this?” he asks at last with a sweeping gesture that encompasses everything around them. It is a question that has grown inside of him like a tumour, one he simply cannot find the answer to no matter how desperately he seeks it.

Maglor is silent for a long while. At last, he speaks, “A wise chieftain of Men once told me that in life you need the spirit to fight for what you wish to keep, the strength of heart to let go of what is lost, and the wisdom to recognise the difference.” He looks up at Maedhros and all the sunlight in the world cannot fill the void that is in his eyes – and suddenly Maedhros knows exactly how he himself must appear to others. “None of your brothers would ever admit to it, but I have seen their faces. I know the thoughts going through their heads because their thoughts are the same as mine. Not a single one of us would stay here if we could do otherwise. But the road back is lost, the bridges are burnt, and the Oath demands fulfilment.” He reaches out, takes Maedhros' hand, and squeezes it briefly. “There is no way back. We go forward because it is the only way left to us.”

One: Full Circle

He is alone less often than he is used to these days. Fingon keeps him occupied, dragging him through the day by the ear and seeing to it that he does not have any time to lose himself in his thoughts. Sometimes, it still is too much. Quite often Maedhros has to fight down the urge to get up and leave to get the droning buzz of people talking out of his ears. In those moments he longs to retreat to his tent, pull his blanket over his head and see nothing, hear nothing; just silence and darkness, merciful, merciful nothing.

It is therefore a relief when he manages to escape Fingon for once, and he has one magnificent, silent day entirely to himself. It is late autumn now. The grass is brown and wilted, the soil almost perpetually damp with hoarfrost and rain, the lake dull and lifeless and the shadows of the mountains to the north seem to inch closer with every passing day. Heavy, dark clouds are hanging overhead, but today there are little tears in the darkness every now and then, and behind the clouds there is a yellow-whitish sky. The sun pours through the gaps in the clouds like splendid floodlight, sending shafts of gold lancing down through the black and grey to touch the earth in immeasurable distance, far, far away over the endless plains, painting patches of gold onto the dead brown grass.

Maedhros wanders the lake shore alone. Every now and then a flock of herons passes overhead, but his only constant company are the murders of ravens crouching in the naked branches of the trees lining the shore. They fall silent when he draws near, watching him with their beady black eyes, and start cawing again when he is at a safe distance.

He takes his time rounding the lake, strolling along the path that weaves between little clumps of trees and then runs almost in a perfect arc along the waterfront. He follows it at a leisurely pace for an hour or slightly more – he doesn't pay a lot of attention to the passing of the hours, preferring to enjoy the timeless silence of the ancient land around him. The wind is picking up again and the air is chilly and fresh as if it has never been breathed before; it still has the sharp edge of an unused knife, slicing along the inside of his windpipe, not dulled by any use.

Maedhros reaches the northern shore of the lake in the early afternoon, but it takes him a while to walk down the long straight part of the road that forms the northern waterfront until the path gently bends, turning southward again and heading back to the army camp. He stops for a while, curiously looking around in all directions and only stopping when he turns his gaze north across the wide empty plain. He suddenly realises how close he has gotten to Morgoth's domain. His presence here is stronger, like a sickness in the ground, a veil in front of the sun, like a poisonous vapour in the air. The lake is holding off most of it and now Maedhros knows why his brothers have joined Fingolfin's host on the southern shore. He pulls his cloak a bit tighter around his shoulders and walks on. His pace is swifter now and he is eager to continue his walk, following the south-west bend of the path along the lake shore.

When he reaches the point where path straightens at last, now running directly south, the sun is already sinking in the west over the offshoots of the great forest that looms close to the western shore of Lake Mithrim. The sky and the tips of the trees are aflame; the birds are singing their songs of autumn evenings, longing and lonely and wistful. The outermost trees of the forest cast long shadows. They are creeping across Maedhros' path, deep black over the red-tinted ground, the longest of them reaching out even over the water like dark fingers.

He suddenly notices that the birds have gone silent.

Maedhros feels a slight tingling down his spine and then something shifts in the trees to his right. He stops and puts his left hand on the hilt of his blade (he still reaches for the place at his left hip where he used to keep it all these years, but his hand is getting better at remembering that his scabbard is dangling from his right side now).

He tries to make out the space between the trees, but the darkness is impenetrable a few fathoms into the wood, even for the keen eyes of the Noldor. He is not afraid, not really, but his muscle memory and years of combat drills take over where his survival instinct fails to do so – and in the blink of an eye, he has assumed a defensive stance, with the tip of his sword pointed at the darkness between the grey trunks of the firs and pines. He is not afraid, but there is still a jolt of surprise that shoots through him when two yellow eyes suddenly light up not ten fathoms from where he is standing on the path. They are almost of a height with his shoulders and they are not reflecting any light (it's growing dark on the western shore, and fast): instead they burn as if with their own flame.

Maedhros waits.

The shadowy creature moves. It slinks closer. Faint twilight flows over its form like water and suggests the outlines of a great four-legged animal close in appearance to a wolf, but closer in size to a bear. Then it moves out from between the tree trunks and the shadows shift and flow and swirl, like light bending around the edges of a massive star, and Maedhros becomes aware that he has been deluded.

Forward steps a creature not unlike an elf: tall, slender, and clothed in greys and blacks. It carries no weapons, making it seem deceptively harmless – and yet Maedhros does not fall for the illusion; he knows this being is by no means unarmed. Indeed, there is the same strange dichotomy visible in every facet of this being: the wild fall of golden curls down past its shoulders is forming a stark juxtaposition to the immaculate neatness of its clothes, its measured footfalls betray the feral instinct of a predator, and its radiant appearance clashes fiercely with the sinister aura surrounding it like a dark halo.

Its shape is rippling and blurring around the seams until its form becomes clear and final and definite, shifting into focus at last. Only its eyes stay the same, smouldering with a barely subdued unholy fire.

Suddenly he is back in Angband, hundreds of leagues under the ground, in a chamber alight with hell-fire reflecting off wicked instruments of torture – their numbers innumerable and their cruel purposes unfathomable for a sane mind – with a thousand sharp tips and blades and serrated knives. He can't move, he can't talk, it's like those nightmares in which he is too weak to lift even a finger; when he wants nothing more than to scream, only to realise he has no voice. He tries to will himself to wake, but it is too real, only this chamber, this fire, this knife is real, and he knows what is about to come, he realises that this is no dream and that there won't be an awakening—

Fear rolls over him like a wave and for a few moments he is struggling to breathe, only just managing not throw his sword away and run, run like a rabbit with a wolf on its heels. The rational part of him knows that the creature is reaching inside him, closing its ghostly grip around his instincts and fears and nightmares, twisting, making him do it, DO IT DO IT, JUST DO IT—RUN!, but the terror is so great that for a moment he thinks he is going to lose the fight for his own will.

He stumbles back half a step—and he almost, almost caves and sends a prayer to Elbereth—but then the terror draws its tendrils back and he is able to breathe again. His knees are weak and jittery and he feels out of breath, as if Fingon had just chased him around the entire lake without a single break—except no, this is not true, he feels like he had felt back then when he had been bound to the stone table, the cracks clotted with blood that was only partially his own, and this unnatural cold, this unnatural sensation of air everywhere around his ribs, his lungs: places where air wasn't supposed to touch; and the dark figure standing over him, a knife in hand, asking, “Now do you not wonder what would happen if I severed this here—”

It is this breathlessness he is feeling now, every breath a fight against the terror that is squeezing his lungs to the size of a fist, feeling that he is suffocating even as he is gasping for air, because there is simply not enough of it for him to hold his breath through the pain that is coming—

Maedhros shakes his head, trying to get those thoughts out of his head. They were not his own and he would not fall prey to them. He would not.

“You,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?” (It should not be here, not this far south, not this far into their realm.)

The creature bares its teeth in a smile that is as white as mother-of-pearl and as sinister and sharp as a poisoned blade. “I was roaming the lands,” it says, “when our birds brought the tidings that you were still alive and well. I came to see you. You must understand my worry when I came to look for you on the mountain and you were no longer there. I had to come and see it for myself to convince myself of your escape, and afterwards I very much desired to find you.”

“Have you come to capture and torture me again?” Maedhros snarls, backing away from the shadow, lifting his blade a bit higher.

The creature raises an eyebrow. “Capture and torture? Valar forbid, such evil intentions. I merely came to talk to you.”

“I will not talk to the whip-dog of Morgoth!” Maedhros keeps his eyes on the creature, forcing himself not to blink. He slowly takes a few steps sideways and then backs away from the monster, keeping to the path.

“Fine. Then don't.” Sauron shrugs, ambling alongside the path, keeping abreast of Maedhros – but at the same time keeping to the dark side of the sharp divide between the shadows of the trees and the sunbathed strip of land along the shore where Maedhros is walking. Maedhros watches the monster and the monster watches him and Maedhros wonders why it has not attacked him yet. They play their game back and forth for a while, Maedhros backing away and Sauron keeping up without any visible effort. He does not attack. For now, he seems content to walk and watch Maedhros struggling to get away from him.

Maedhros is busy keeping his sword raised and his eyes on Sauron, while he is trying to walk without falling over backwards into the lake. Maedhros skirts the dark places on the ground, trying to keep away from the growing shadows of the trees, while Sauron neatly avoids stepping into the sunlight, staying far enough from the border so the light does not touch his head. Maedhros wonders whether this is just another trick of the dark lieutenant: pretending to be unable to leave the shadows so Maedhros might drop his guard.

He wonders what to do, whether he should lunge forward to gain at least the moment of surprise over his overwhelmingly powerful enemy. Then again, maybe it is a trick to lure him into entering the shadow – which might just seal his doom if the boundary between light and shadow did indeed present an obstacle for Sauron. Or maybe this is what the dark Maia wants him to think and Maedhros is only still alive because of a whim on Sauron's part, like a predator playing with its prey: letting it escape time and time again, until the hunter at last moves in for the kill.

Maedhros' works through all the scenarios in his head, but they yield no definite answer and the insecurity is driving him mad. His thoughts grow more and more frantic and the tension in his body rises to unbearable levels – until at last his patience snaps.

“Coward!” Maedhros shouts. “If you want to fight, then come forth and do it!”

Sauron merely smiles the smile of a chess player whose opponent has just manoeuvred himself into a checkmate trap by the very actions he had taken in the desperate attempt to avoid the snare.

Sauron has his hands clasped behind his back and takes a few languid, sauntering paces, which bring him within a distance of six feet with Maedhros who has the sinking feeling that he is being pulled at the strings, walking down a predetermined path and going through motions that have been decided for him beforehand.

“I already told you, I am not here to fight.” Again: Sauron's smile and the feeling of a noose slowly pulling tighter around Maedhros.

Why? Why? When does a predator forgo a fight?

Maedhros turns around, looking for a hint, anything that might tell him what is happening. He looks out over the sea, up and down the path that lies in sunlight before him and in shadow almost immediately behind him. When he figures it out the blood drains from his face.

The predator only stops when the trap has already been laid out and the prey is about to walk right in.

All this time, Sauron has done nothing – in order to give Maedhros more to puzzle about, in order to send him deeper and deeper into a downward spiral of guessing and second-guessing himself and Sauron's true intentions. While Maedhros has been occupied with keeping his guard up and keeping an eye on Morgoth's lieutenant, he has forgotten the first and most important rule of battle.

Always, always know where the real threat is.

While Maedhros has been distracted, the sun has sunk further. It is a huge red ball, hanging barely two hand-widths above the treetops and in its fading light, the shadow has crept up on Maedhros: silently, ominously, moving always in his blind angle. It is only mere inches from his heels.

Maedhros jerks his head up, his eyes wide.

Sauron raises both eyebrows at him, and it is impossible to tell whether he is impressed or dismayed. “Very good. Close, but still in time, if only barely.” He gives Maedhros an approving smile.

Maedhros tries to shake the realisation of how narrowly he has avoided his doom, and walks faster.

Sauron keeps up without effort and Maedhros sees the dark Maia looking at him. “You must be smarter than we gave you credit for in order to escape. I hope you are enjoying the amenities that are due to you after all that you have gone through. Pray tell, Maitimo, how are you enjoying your freedom?”

Maedhros only spares him him a brief look. His face feels cold and numb.

“Not so much? But why ever not?” Sauron smirks. “Should you not be content? Should you not be happy? But no, you are not, am I right? I can guess how you must feel: hollow, empty, unable to see sense in your existence any longer. Discontent. Angry. Torn.”

Against his better judgement, Maedhros stops. The choice of words and the intonation are too precise, too deliberate for it to have been a coincidence. But he must not ask. He must not take Sauron up on his game or he will lose. “You cannot torment me any longer,” Maedhros says sharply. “You might as well keep your forked tongue behind your teeth and save yourself the effort.”

Sauron still watches him, and Maedhros' sharp words do nothing to shake his eerily calm, deceptively amiable demeanour. “No, no, it is fine. I agree. I could hardly devise a method of torture any worse than what you are already doing to yourself.” Again, that slow smile.

Maedhros walks faster, careful to keep ahead of the creeping shadows. “If not for capture or torture, why are you here?” He grits his teeth.

Sauron shrugs. “I came here—oh, put that sword down, will you? I already said I have no intention of fighting you.”

Maedhros does not humour him. Of course not.

A low sigh and a roll of his eyes, as if Morgoth's lieutenant was dealing with an obstinate child. “Have it your way. I only wanted to see how you were doing. Not many succeed in escaping from Angband, so of course we prison-keepers have a keen interest in understanding how it could happen and how our famous escapee is faring now. For it is said to be the dearest wish of all who are imprisoned there to be able to walk free and without pain, to be back among their loved ones and no longer have to fear for limb and life. Thus, reason suggests that those who escape must be very happy, having reached all they ever wanted. And yet you are standing before me, Maitimo, and I cannot help but wonder why you look so utterly and completely miserable.”

Maedhros almost drops his sword then and there. Every word is a punch to the gut, hurting not because they are delivered with violence, but because they are true. How often has he been lying awake at night, wondering about exactly the same thing, asking himself why it had become impossible for him to be happy when by all means he should be jumping with joy for being alive? For a moment he is taken aback by so much unexpected understanding. How can anyone who is his enemy speak like he knows Maedhros' troubles as if they were his own? How is it possible that it is Sauron who understands him better than anyone else—dare he even say: completely?—and puts a name to all the questions plaguing him, speaking with such sympathy and kindness?

But this is Morgoth's lieutenant he is talking to, the Dark One's silver-tongued second-in-command who could twist a word to mean its opposite and devise a world of lies more splendid and real than the truth. Maedhros cannot allow himself to listen to a single thing he says, not even… no, especially not when Sauron speaks as if he has just looked right into his soul, and is now repeating his most secret concerns and most desperate wishes back to him. Maedhros wrenches his good sense back under his own control, repeating to himself, A friend can understand you well, but no one can understand you completely unless he has wormed his way into your soul, dissected your mind and eviscerated your every thought and desire.

“Don't try to spin your web of lies around me, Sauron, I am not listening.”

“Oh, but you are.” Sauron still ambles abreast with him, but he is closer now. The shadows are growing longer and deeper. “Because you have wondered this yourself.”

Maedhros passes the last offshoot of the forest and then the wide, sun-flooded plain is ahead of him. Sauron remains in the shadows. Bathed in sunlight, Maedhros looks back at the monster in the twilight. “You no longer have dominion over me. I am free. Free from your torture, and free from your words. I escaped.” And with that he turns his back on him at last and makes to walk away, but Sauron's voice catches up with him.

“But you left something behind, did you not?”

Maedhros whirls around. Sauron is standing at the very edge of the shadow of the woods and he is holding up something that makes the breath catch in Maedhros' throat.

Sauron has raised one hand and in it he is holding a leather strap. Dangling from this string, twitching and bloody and alive as it was in the moment Fingon's blade bit through his wrist, is a hand. His hand.

For a moment, time stops and the world tilts sideways. Without Maedhros’ conscious decision, his legs are carrying him back. He moves like a dreamer, until he stops in front of Sauron, standing right at the edge between light and shadow, staring at his own hand grasping feebly at the air as if it wanted to get away from Sauron and come back to him.

“That's mine.”

Sauron smiles. “It was yours. This was still hanging in the otherwise empty shackle on the abandoned mountain when I came to look for you. At first I was angry, which you will of course understand. I thought it worthless, a mockery left behind to aggravate your prison-keepers with how they could not keep you, because they underestimated your willingness to sacrifice a part of yourself for your freedom. But then I looked closer and I saw that you had sacrificed more than a hand at first glance. A sacrifice so great I doubt you even noticed you made it when you did.” Sauron's smile grows wider and it is a horrifying grin now, blood-red gums and teeth that are suddenly too pointy for anything walking on two legs.

Maedhros makes a feeble move to reach out with his stump, but his left hand clutches his right arm back and he stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the hand – his hand.

Sauron watches Maedhros struggle against himself with faint amusement, then his face abruptly turns serious again. “You were already coming apart before you were rescued.” It is not a question.

The hand is dangling before Maedhros' eyes, still twitching desperately. It is his hand. Those are his fingers with his blood clogged under his fingernails. Those are his crooked finger joints, broken and healed too often to count, without the bones ever being set properly again.

“You do see it now, do you not?” Sauron says gently. “You ran away, but you never truly left.” He lets the hand sink and Maedhros' eyes follow it, hypnotised. Sauron takes it in his own two hands and runs a long finger over the knuckles, like a lover's caress.

“For how much longer do you want to go on being half a person, Maitimo? How much longer will you be able to bear being in two places at once, living a half-life you aren't made for?” His thumb is drawing circles on the back of Maedhros' severed right hand.

“I could make you whole again,” Sauron says. “I have rebuilt towers from dust. I have remade life from scraps of pulp. It is of no difficulty to me to give you back your hand. Your soul. Your life. You just have to take it.” And then Sauron holds it out to him, offers to him his missing limb, the hand that made him the warrior he has been.

Maedhros looks him in the eye and he sees only sincerity there, concern, love even. He feels like he is walking through a surreal haze when he steps closer and Sauron carefully places it in the crook of his maimed arm, where Maedhros cradles it like an infant.

My hand. My hand. The hand that made me who I was.

Maedhros stares at his hand, entranced. The bloody thing is nestled against his chest, smearing red stains over his shirt where it is scrabbling for purchase like a kitten wanting to climb up to his shoulder.

It wants to come back to me. And I want to have it back, too.

An arm comes to rest around his shoulders; a gentle grip, but irresistible like iron. “All you have to do is to say yes.” Sauron's voice is close to his ear, gentle, coaxing, sweeping over his skin like a warm breeze. They are both standing in the shadow now. “What do you say?”

“I…” He doesn't finish the sentence although his voice is thick with want, betraying his desire where words fail him.

“Ah, Maitimo. Don't be afraid to accept what is given as a gift. Come, put your weapon away so we may shake hands on it.” Sauron holds out his left hand to Maedhros.

Maedhros looks at him and then slowly, lifts his left hand as well—

—and freezes when he sees the sword he is still holding. He is about to put it in its scabbard although he cannot remember having decided to do so. It is the light sword Fingon had given him to use with his weaker left arm. And then he remembers the echo of something Fingon had said during one of their sparring sessions, the words drifting to him as if coming from a great distance, as if his cousin was calling for him from beyond a veil or a great abyss.

You won't take an excuse Morgoth gave you to give up. We won't let the shadow determine our lives.

And Maglor. The only way left is forward.

Maedhros grips his sword a bit tighter. He notices the nails of Sauron's hand digging into his shoulder even through his thick cloak. He looks into his eyes and there is no more sympathy, but only greed and triumph.

“I don't need your alms,” Maedhros says. “We live and die on our own terms, Sauron.” And he yanks up his arm and sweeps his sword in front of him in a half-moon arc, slicing through Sauron's proffered palm and the front of the Maia's robes.

Sauron staggers back, clutching his hand to his chest. Sauron stares at his sliced palm, then raises his gaze to meet Maedhros' eyes. They look at each other for a few moments, neither of them quite able to believe what has just happened, then Sauron's surprise turns to fury and his eyes are wild, the amber of his retina blooming to fill his entire visible eye with a flaring orange, his pupils slitted and his teeth bared.

It is a sight Maedhros knows from Angband and in its familiarity it is almost comforting. Now at least he knows that Sauron is not going to play pretend any longer. Open confrontation is something he is familiar with, something he is good at. This he can handle.

Maedhros steps back out into the sunlight again. “It was a mistake to approach me like that, hoping that my want for my hand would blind me enough to agree to your terms. But once again you, as you so fittingly put it, underestimated what I am willing to sacrifice for my freedom.” His voice grows firmer with every word. “You thought you could hold my mind captured forever by baiting me with the impossible, so I would be unable to ever move on. I know your methods from years of experiencing them first-hand, but I see right through them now; your gifts are like double-edged swords and they always come with strings attached. What would it have cost me to get that hand back, I wonder? I won't even try to imagine the price, I only know it could never be worth it. I shall no longer be your thrall. I will let go of the past and I am going to break the hold you have over me. I can never be whole again, but I can be truly free.”

And with those words Maedhros throws the hand to the ground and plunges his sword right through its palm. Sauron starts forward, but he is too slow. The blade bites into the flesh and as it cuts through the hand, a fountain of darkness shoots out of it and Maedhros feels a link in his mind break. Black sludge and thick fog spills from the hand as the dark spell that has bound it to Maedhros comes undone.

When the fog lifts, Sauron has vanished and the glowing evening sun has redoubled its strength. The only reminder of what has happened is a rotten hand lying on a patch of scorched grass, its brown skin shrunken, shriveled, and desiccated, its fingers bent to claws in death.

Maedhros takes a last glance at it, then turns around and walks back to the camp.

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Zero: Soar

Fingon spent the evening in the High King's tent with his brothers since Father had wanted their counsel on whether or not to try to enlist the Avarin and Sindarin tribes into their armies. Until now, only the Noldor and Men of Beleriand had joined forces, but it would not be enough to withstand the armies of Angband for much longer.

Fëanor's sons had wisely not been invited to the meeting, since they had already balked at the idea of uniting their forces with the House of Hador, consequently treating them with so much impudence that the Men had nearly abandoned the pact before it could be realised. Fingolfin did not like to go behind his nephews' backs, but even Fingon agreed that it would have been folly to allow them to partake in this discussion.

“Defeating Morgoth is as much the business of Men and Avari as it is ours,” Turgon said. “There is no reason for them to stand back while our brothers are slain at the front lines.”

“And yet,” Fingolfin said ponderously, “it is not them who have quarrel with Morgoth.”

“Not them?” Turgon said. “They live in Beleriand just like us and Morgoth won't stay his hand to spare them if he decides to overrun Middle-earth. It is their home as well, and they should fight for it just as much as we do!”

Fingon watched the argument going back and forth for a while. He saw the reason in Turgon's arguments, but he understood the concern of his father just as well. The Noldor alone were too weak to withstand Angband much longer, but Middle-earth was not one united people. It was a vast land populated by different races and tribes – Casari, Atani, Quendi – which in turn were subdivided into numerous tribes, families, and houses, not all of which were friendly with each other. Bringing them together was as likely to weaken their forces as it was likely to strengthen their ranks.

They had a common cause, but they did not have one chief all those peoples could unite behind. Fingolfin was a good leader, but although he did his best to hide it he did not have the charisma and open mind he would have needed to approach the Dwarves, Men and Moriquendi and convince them to join the alliance—let alone persuade the Noldor to accept these various people as their allies afterwards. Fingolfin was too similar to Fëanor in that respect: relying too much on old traditions and prone to overt pride in his own kin. Although instead of deprecating kins he considered inferior with caustic remarks like the Fëanorions used to do, he was hiding his misgivings behind caution and hesitation.

 ***

The meeting finally ended at nightfall and now Fingon was on his way to his tent, weaving between the lamps lining the bigger paths cutting through the camp. He was looking forward to getting away from politics and discussions for the remainder of the evening. He idly rubbed his hands together and then cupped them in front of his mouth, blowing warm air on them. His breath was coming in little clouds. The nights were cuttingly cold by now; the air carried the promise of winter and it was only a matter of time when the first snow would fall. They would have to fall back further south then, he knew. Holding the border against Angband after the snows started was impossible. A retreat would lose them the lands beyond the Ered Wethrin and Eithel Sirion, but it was better than being snowed in or eaten alive by the great wolves that Angband sent forth come the long, dark winter nights.

His tent would surely be pathetically cold now and the prospect of having to wait for an hour or two before the brazier had heated the air only remotely enough for him to be able to take off his cloak was beyond unappealing. With this expectation in mind, Fingon was all the more surprised to find that his tent was glowing with a warm orange sheen from the inside, forming a small island of light in the dusk of evening. Fingon frowned, pulled the flap aside and ducked inside. Someone had fired up the brazier, the air inside was warm, and when he looked around the tent he found that he was not alone.

Maedhros was sitting in a folding chair near the fire. He had cast off his coat, left it rumpled on the ground and was now leafing through Fingon's books with his good hand. He looked up when Fingon entered, shut the book, and rose.

“Finno.” Maedhros' voice was wavering. In fact, everything about him seemed agitated, restless, and he was moving with slow deliberation as if he was balancing on the edge of a knife over an abyss and one hasty movement would upset the delicate equilibrium he had built up around himself.

Fingon quickly walked over to him and took him by the elbows. “Maitimo. What's—” He wanted to say wrong and stopped himself when he noticed that he was not asking the right question.

Maedhros did not look like anything was wrong. Quite the contrary. For the first time since his rescue he looked like he was all right—and not just that. His formerly dull eyes were bright, his usually pallid face was flushed from either the cold outside or the warmth within the tent, and the aura of his fëa was flaring out in every direction as if his body was a vessel too small to contain such a wild spirit. He was vibrating with the almost supernatural drive and energy and determination of a man who had already had the noose tied around his throat when the gibbet broke and he was set free.

“Is something the matter?” Fingon asked cautiously.

Maedhros shook his head. “No, everything is fine.” And he sounded like he meant it.

“You look well,” Fingon stated, looking Maedhros over from head to toe. In the past weeks, something dark had followed his cousin wherever he had gone, which had made it hard, almost painful, to stay close to him for a longer than a few hours. His cousin's gloom had been a contagious, almost physical thing and Fingon had felt it enveloping himself more than once when they were together for too long. Whatever that dark thing had been, it had dulled Fingon's joy and leeched his own strength of will, as well as riling both of them up and almost urging them to jump at each other's throats.

But now that oppressive presence was gone. Maedhros stood taller, straighter and easier, and he looked like the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

“I feel well. For the first time in a long while.” Maedhros gave him a faint smile, but somehow looked like he was barely holding in a grin that would split his face from ear to ear merely for the sake of propriety.

“That's good,” Fingon said and then stopped himself. War had a way of making you afraid of exulting, putting platitudes or cautious understatements in your mouth when you should have been jumping with joy – all for fear that the hammer would fall all the more brutally after every good turn of fate.

“That's wonderful,” he amended firmly, giving Maedhros' arm a light squeeze. “Still, I figured you'd be asleep by now after roaming about the entire day. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Maedhros looked down at where Fingon was still clasping his elbow and then back up again to give him a tentative smile.

Fingon returned it and let his arm fall back to his side. “Well, you're here. You're seeing me right now.”

Maedhros blew a strand of hair out of his eyes and shook his head, his smile growing into a wry grin. “Fine. So maybe not just to see you.” He reached up and with one surprisingly deft motion undid the clasp that was holding Fingon's cloak closed over his shoulders. The heavy fabric flowed off Fingon's shoulders and hit the ground with a muffled sound.

“Ah, so that's where this is going.” Fingon said amusedly.

“Do you mind?” Maedhros flicked the buttons on Fingon's vest open, one after the other, and Fingon wondered when his cousin had gotten so dexterous with his left hand.

He lifted his eyes from his vest to meet Maedhros' gaze once more and raised an eyebrow. “Other than that it's giving me the impression that you only seek me out for my physical qualities after trying to avoid me for the past few weeks? No, dear Maitimo, of course not.” He withdrew, stepping out of his cousin's reach and readjusting his vest with sharp, curt motions and a mock-wounded expression.

But Maedhros had stepped up to him almost as fast as Fingon had retreated. “You know that's not true.” He leaned in and brushed his lips over Fingon's cheek, along his jawline and started trailing little bites down the side of his neck. One of Maedhros' arms came around Fingon's chest and he pulled him close, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “I missed you.”

“Who are you and what have you done to my grumpy cousin?” Fingon threw his arms around Maedhros' shoulders and laughed. “Now I am really curious about what it was that was able to lift your spirits so immensely.”

Maedhros put his hand on his chest and pushed him backwards in the direction of Fingon's cot without loosening his embrace. “Later. And now help me with those buttons.”

“As charming as an Orc and as subtle as a battering ram. Who could ever say no to that?”

“Not you, apparently.” Fingon could feel Maedhros smiling against the skin of his throat as he spoke and then all of sudden his cousin slid his own foot behind Fingon's heel and tripped them both. They tumbled down; thankfully, they landed on Fingon's numerous blankets instead of the floor and Maedhros had the presence of mind not to drop like dead weight onto Fingon, but instead steady himself above him. They looked at each other for a heartbeat, before Maedhros dove down and Fingon rose to meet him in the middle.

Getting the clothes out of the way when they did not want to separate for longer than it took to draw breath was hard, but they managed it at last and Fingon lowered himself to lie back down on the blankets, Maedhros following suit — and then Maedhros was touching him with his lips, his remaining hand, his eyes, as if he was seeing Fingon for the very first time. Only then did Fingon truly understand how far his cousin had been gone.

But now Maedhros was here, in body and mind, as present as he had ever been. His every movement was marked by crystal-clear awareness, and every moment was cut into vibrant, brilliant diamond facets; Maedhros' every look spoke of an attempt to take in everything that there was to this moment, as if he could not bear to miss even the slightest detail in the way the flames painted shadows and light on their skin or the little ways in which their movements answered each other as flawlessly as if they were two halves of the same being.

Maedhros' eyes were clear and his fingers were restless, trying to map out everything that there was to Fingon: so thirsty, so hungry, starving for warmth, for life, the feeling of a beating heart under his fingers – grazing, clinging, seeking assurance as if he was still afraid that everything would turn out to be an illusion after all. He looked like was trying to absorb everything, soaking up this moment which was bursting with sensation to fill up the void Angband had hollowed out inside of him… and Fingon let him.

Let him take all he needs from me, he thought and then he realised that just letting was not enough if there was so much he could give. With this realization Fingon pulled him close, ran his fingers through Maedhros' short hair and answered his cousin in every way he could imagine, pouring himself out through his touches and his kisses with the same urgency with which Maedhros was taking in everything he gave.

It wasn't perfect. There were little hitches that arose unbidden, interrupting their focus and making it harder to get carried away, like when Fingon ran his hands down Maedhros' sides and noticed how even now he could still count Nelyo's ribs without difficulty with his roaming fingers alone, or when they had to stop and trade places because Maedhros could only support his own weight on one arm for so long, or when Fingon's tongue tripped over a gap in what used to be a flawless row of teeth before Morgoth's torturers got their hands on his cousin.

Fingon took note of every bruise, every broken bone, and every atrophied muscle. He silently added these wrongs to a list in his head where he kept all the slights and cruelties committed against the people he loved and the things he believed in, with a promise to himself to make Morgoth and his pawns pay for them three-fold.

But when Fingon's fingers traced a path down Maedhros' left side and happened upon a ridge of knotty skin, he looked down, and what he saw there gave even the seasoned warrior inside him pause. Down the entire length of Maedhros' left side ran a hideous, badly healed scar. It looked like someone had cut him up—no, as if someone had shredded his abdomen with a serrated knife – with the intention of gutting him like a pig.

Maedhros must have noticed Fingon's hesitation, because they both stilled and their eyes met briefly, before Maedhros dropped his gaze to where Fingon's fingers were resting feather-light on the angry-looking scar.

On any other day bringing Maedhros' maimed body to the centre of attention would most likely have spelled the end of their tryst, but it became clear that today it was not enough to drag his cousin's spirits down. He just gave Fingon a wry smile. “It must be soothing to know that while I'll always be remembered as the greater swordsman, you'll at least go down in history as the one who was more handsome in the end.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself.” Fingon made a playful feint to bite Maedhros' nose. “There is still time for me to surpass your reputation in swordsmanship as well. We are not dead yet and I at least plan to live for a very long time, during which I will snatch that title from you as well.”

Maedhros dug his fingers into the skin of his back so suddenly that Fingon flinched. “Woe is me! Would you take everything from me, you monster?”

“Obviously not. You can have the title of 'tragic hero' for all I care. I merely plan to commandeer all the good epithets.” Fingon rested his chin on his hands, which were folded on Maedhros' chest, and quirked up an eyebrow.

Maedhros actually laughed out loud. “You are truly horrible!”

“And you are talking too much.” Whatever Maedhros might have tried to say in response was cut off as Fingon launched himself up and forward to seal his cousin's lips shut with his own. Maedhros half-heartedly tried to fight him off and push him away, no doubt indignant about being silenced so nonchalantly, but Fingon would have none of that. He brought his weight forward, gently overpowering his cousin's resistance. Maedhros' weak protest was muffled by the ensuing kiss and soon faded to soft, low noises of approval. His hand was tangled in Fingon's hair, pulling him closer, while Fingon's own hands wandered lower with the firm intention to chase even the last coherent thought from his cousin's mind. Judging by Maedhros' stifled moans and the way he tensed beneath Fingon, he could not have been all that bad at it.

Considering just the crude physical aspect, it was just sex.

Considering the countless other little things that were passing between them (like when Fingon whispered Trust me. Close your eyes and just let yourself fall, and Maedhros did) and with the knowledge they were doing this despite everything which had happened, that no matter how brutally and meticulously Morgoth had tried to break his cousin over and over and failed, that he had not been able to break this—

It was victory.

It was vindication.

And it was homecoming.

 ***

Afterwards Fingon was lying on top, his weight supported on his arms, gazing down at Maedhros, who was lying on his back and looking back up at him. Sweat was beading on both of their temples, trickling down Maedhros' collarbone and down between Fingon's shoulder blades where his hair was sticking to his back in damp strands. Both of them were breathing hard.

They were both looking at each other for a few moments in silence, and at last Fingon asked, “What are we doing?”

Maedhros thought about it for a while, then he lifted his good hand and combed a handful of dark hair behind Fingon's ear. “We are celebrating. We love. We live. We do everything Morgoth does not want us to and I'll be damned if it doesn't feel good.”

It was an answer so utterly like Maedhros and yet completely foreign, because Fingon had not believed he would ever hear the pale, worn spectre he had rescued from the peak of the Thangorodrim speak with the voice of his brave, daring and defiant cousin again. And yet, here they were, still together, still alive – almost as if the massacre at Alqualondë, the long years of separation, the war against Morgoth and Maedhros' capture had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Fingon smiled slowly and shook his head. “Don't change ever again, Maitimo,” he said.

“I don't plan to.”

“Good.” Fingon climbed off him and walked over to a water basin, brought two pieces of washing cloth back with him and after they had cleaned themselves up, he lowered himself back down next to Maedhros. After a bit of shifting and good-natured shoving he succeeded in making a bit of room for himself on the narrow cot and pulling two blankets over them both.

While they had been locked in passion and the desperate desire to reach as much as of each other as possible – driven by the burning need to feel every inch of skin and to still get closer when closer was no longer possible – they had been burning with the friction between their bodies and the fire just beneath their skins. But now that fire was banked and what pleasant warmth remained evaporated quickly, considering both of them were damp with sweat and had not dried themselves off properly after washing.

Fingon fought with the blankets until the fabric covered their feet and then lay back down. He felt exhausted, but not unpleasantly so, and there was a contented hum in his limbs as his blood slowed its rushing course through his body.

“Do you care to tell me what you did today that caused the sudden lift of your spirits?” He turned his head.

Maedhros had obviously been about to drift off in his lazy, post-coital haze. He was lying on his side and had angled his left arm so he could rest his head on it. He opened one eye, then closed it again. “Nothing important,” he said, his words slurring a bit. “I took a walk around the lake and was waylaid by Sauron. He offered me my missing hand in exchange for who knows what, I didn't ask—”

“You what?” Fingon's heart lurched like it wanted to burst out from his chest and he sat bolt upright on his cot. His first instinct was to get his sword and run out into the dark in order to find that blasted hell-hound of Morgoth and—

“—turns out he used my chopped-off hand as a link to mess with my mind, but I got rid of it and told him to shove his dumb offers where the sun doesn't shine, so I should be fine now,” Maedhros finished without so much as taking notice of Fingon's outrage.

“You what?” Fingon repeated. He stared down at his cousin who refused to grace his report with any acknowledgment of importance.

“It's fine,” Maedhros said, and this time he opened both eyes. He saw Fingon sitting next to him and gave a brief grin. “Close your mouth, Finno, gaping doesn't suit you.”

“You—I—what—how? I left you alone for one afternoon! One! Can't you even go for a walk without running into one of Morgoth's lieutenants?” Fingon ran his right hand through his hair, exasperated.

Maedhros frowned. “Well, that is hardly my fault.”

Fingon let his hands fall down into his lap and shook his head. He sat in silence for a few moments before looking back down at Maedhros, who had rolled onto his back and was fiddling with the bandage of his stump, which had come lose during their passionate tussle. He seemed to be strangely unperturbed by the events of the afternoon. If anything, he appeared to be slightly miffed that telling his tale had robbed him of the opportunity to take a brief nap.

Fingon watched him wordlessly. He felt like there was something more he should say in the face of Sauron casually ambushing Noldor on their afternoon strolls, but in fact he had heard enough. The only thing he truly wanted to know was where Morgoth's hellhound was hiding, so he could tear him to shreds for daring to come near his cousin again. On the other hand, ten horses wouldn't be able to pull him away from Maedhros now.

“Are you well, Maitimo?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes, why wouldn't I be?” Maedhros replied without raising his gaze from the knot he was attempting to tie with his left hand.

“You were ambushed by Sauron. That should be reason enough.”

“Yes, maybe. But I'm fine,” Maedhros said.

“Are you sure? I was just thinking that – ” Fingon hesitated and the pause made Maedhros look up at him with a frown.

“What?” he asked, his tone clipped all of a sudden.

Fingon frowned. “Are you sure you are fine? He is known for his penchant for spells, curses…” He stopped himself before he could add “possession”, which was probably a good thing, considering the rapidly darkening look on his cousin's face.

“I am well aware of what he is capable of,” Maedhros said stiffly and the look in his eyes had turned guarded and cold. “As happy as I am to hear your unsolicited opinion on what Sauron can and cannot do, I did spend most of my nine years in Angband locked in a torture chamber with him, so let us assume that I know him and his methods a bit better than you do.”

Fingon blanched and his mouth went dry.

Maedhros rarely talked about his time in Angband. Every now and then, however, he'd offer bits and pieces of that ominous secret mosaic in passing; bits and pieces which Fingon used to piece together what Maedhros wasn't telling him about his time as Morgoth's prisoner. It was mostly guesswork and although Fingon had always suspected that Maedhros avoided mentioning the darker parts of his captivity, these small glimpses into his cousin's memories were enough to tell Fingon that he knew nothing about the nature and enormity of the darkness that had sunk its claws into Maedhros' mind and festered there. The thought alone made his skin crawl.

“I'm sorry. I did not mean it like that. I would not claim to know him like you do.” He reached out and put a hand on Maedhros' shoulder, which was tense under his grip. “I cannot even begin to imagine what you lived through, but if you need help, any help at all—”

“I said, I'm fine,” Maedhros snapped.

Fingon drew his hand back. Continuing the conversation in this fashion would not get him anywhere, and although it irked him that Maedhros would not give him a proper answer, he reluctantly decided not to probe any further. “I guess you are right. You must be fine if you can snap and snarl like a dog at people who only mean you well.”

At those words, a bit of colour drained out of Maedhros' face. Something changed in his expression and the steely façade he had thrown up around himself shattered. His anger had evaporated and left him looking distraught and drawn. “I—Fingon. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”

“No, you are not,” Fingon said, feeling not quite graceful enough to accept the first feeble apology thrown his way.

“Yes, I am.” Maedhros sat up and tentatively put his good hand on Fingon's clenched fist. “It's just… this is the very thing I wanted to put out of my mind when I came to see you.” He tried to lace their fingers together, but Fingon pulled his hand away, resolutely avoiding looking at his cousin.

“Finno...”

“Don't you 'Finno' me now,” Fingon said, staring straight ahead at the wall of the tent.

“Why not? It always seems to work so well with you,” Maedhros said, trying a more light-hearted, slightly mischievous tone, and shifted a bit closer to him.

Fingon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling involuntarily. Damn it. If there was one thing he was ridiculously bad at, it was holding a grudge for a longer than a few heartbeats, no matter how justified his ire might be.

“Finno, I'm sorry,” Maedhros repeated.

“You should be.” Fingon turned to look at him, stone-faced.

Maedhros' eyes narrowed. “Come now, you spent the past weeks making my days a living hell with a passion, surely you can forgive me losing my temper once.”

Fingon slowly raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Ever since you came back you spent your days trying to be as miserable as possible, but somehow it is me how made your days a living hell?”

Maedhros smiled lopsidedly. “You were dragging me around by the ear, making me lose nearly all of my gold in card games, forcing food down my throat, taunting me during our sparring and beating me blue and black afterwards. Should I go on?”

Fingon shrugged. He succeeded in keeping his face blank, but barely. “You Fëanorions don't respond well to sympathy. One act of understanding and kindness and you're drowning in self-pity and self-loathing. Some people can be pulled out from a dark place with a friendly tug, and others you just have to beat out of their wallowing with a stick.”

“I have to say, compared to you, Sauron was downright civilised today.” Maedhros snorted.

“I'd like to remind you that I have yet to ambush you in the woods.” Giving it up as a hopeless cause, Fingon dropped the pretence of being angry. He gave Maedhros a jab in the ribs with his elbow. “Will there ever be a day when I can let you walk these shores alone and in good conscience, I wonder?”

“Yes, and very soon. I plan to go back to Himring and I doubt you will get another eagle to fly me there. So unless you want to carry me I will go there by myself.”

“Back to Himring? So soon?”

Maedhros fastened the bandages again. “Winter is almost upon us. I wager the armies will not stay here at the lake shore for much longer in any case. I've heard the generals. The days are becoming shorter and we've dawdled for too long already.”

It was a very alien experience to hear his cousin, who had been so detached and withdrawn ever since his return, speak so matter-of-factly about strategic matters. Fingon had been under the impression that Maedhros, always a sullen, taciturn and blank-faced presence in a corner, had not been paying attention during the meetings Fingon had dragged him along to attend.

It looked like he had to admit to being at fault here.

“The matter of our alliances has kept us here beyond a time that wise counsel would suggest,” Fingon said slowly. “Our friends are few and far between and they are spread out too far to pose any meaningful threat to the North. We need more allies, but we have not yet found someone who is a sufficiently strong leader to unite all Free Peoples against Morgoth. We need someone who is respected enough by everyone, someone whose every word Men, Elves and Dwarves alike will heed – and not least of all someone who could maintain peace between the various races, otherwise they will tear each other to pieces before ever setting foot on a battlefield.”

Maedhros was frozen in mid-motion, his fingers about to tie a knot into the bandages. His eyes were looking at something beyond the tent and his expression was pensive.

“I see,” he said slowly. After a pause, he asked, “Finno?”

“Hm?” Fingon lifted his head, blinking at his cousin.

Maedhros was still looking straight ahead, as if there was something fascinating written at the juncture where the side wall of the tent met the tarpaulin that formed the roof. “Do you think you could get me an audience with your father tomorrow morning?”

Fingon blinked, surprised. “Certainly. May I ask why?”

“Of course you can ask,” Maedhros replied, “but my answer will have to wait until I have everything sorted out in my own head.” He sat up quickly. “Do you have ink and parchment here?”

“Yes.” Fingon knew better than to ask when he saw the look on Maedhros' face. He could almost see the gears turning in his cousin's head, and he could definitely see the glazed but utterly focused look in his eyes – as if he was holding onto an idea that would slip out of his grasp as readily as smoke if he did not pen it down immediately. Maedhros was almost trembling with the barely suppressed, urgent desire to act—as if he was afraid his hopeless apathy would take hold of him again and pull him back under if he sat still for too long.

Fingon fetched quill, ink and parchment and sat down next to him. As soon as he had settled down, Maedhros practically ripped the quill from his hands, then he smoothed the parchment out on the blanket draped over his knees and started to write down a list of names.

Fingon leaned closer, trying to read the almost illegible scrawl Maedhros was producing with his left hand. He narrowed his eyes in the attempt to decipher a particularly enigmatic jumble of Tengwar. “Who is Azaghâl?”

“A friend.”

He mouthed the syllables silently, trying to gauge their melody and their rhythm, so the music of the name might tell him its origin… He blinked. “You're friendly with a dwarf?”

“Yes.” A sly smile tugged at Maedhros' lips. “We Fëanorions do know how to be civil around others, it's just that we don't go through the effort very often.” He stopped, looked at the list and then held out the quill to Fingon. “Would you mind continuing for me? I have every intention of learning to write with my left hand, but I'm afraid that if I compose it this list today, not even I will be able to read it tomorrow.”

Fingon very much wanted to ask what they were doing, but one look at his cousin's face and he knew that he would get his answer either later or not at all. Therefore he resigned himself to wait until Maedhros deemed fit to tell him, and took the quill and parchment from his cousin instead. Maedhros sat still for a while, mouthing names without speaking them aloud, and then at last started to dictate them to Fingon.

Fingon wrote, the parchment propped up against his knees, penning down names, dates and other vague terms (aid, trade, kin, alliance, feud) in three columns.

Then at last, he understood. His eyes went wide and he looked at Maedhros, who was still sitting next to him, his remaining fingers tapping against his lower lip. Maedhros noticed Fingon's stare and gave him an almost imperceptible smile, nodding towards the parchment. “Go on.”

 ***

It took them almost all night to compose the list and when they finished, the first grey light of dawn was seeping in through walls of the tent. Both of them were cold and stiff after hunching over the parchment for hours on end, their blankets pooled in their laps and the cold winter air sneaking in through the thin walls.

“Done?” Fingon asked. His fingertips were blotched with ink stains, his right hand was cramping, and his eyes were burning from staring at his own increasingly untidy handwriting for too long in the dim light the brazier provided.

Maedhros leaned forward, his left arm resting on Fingon's shoulder. His eyes skimmed the parchment and when he reached the last name at the bottom, he nodded. “Done.”

“Thank the heavens for that.” Fingon rolled up the parchments, screwed the lid of the inkpot shut and set the stationery aside. “Enough of that for now,” he said, letting himself fall back on the pillows and pulling Maedhros down next to him. “There is no sense in bothering my father this early and I'd prefer to sleep for an hour or two before we do.”

“I thought your father was fond of handling his business in a timely manner?” Maedhros asked, one eyebrow raised.

“He is, but he prefers to do it at a decent hour – not before sunrise, at least.” Fingon rubbed his eyes. “Incidentally, so do I.”

Maedhros snorted. “The way the line of Fingolfin handles a war is truly curious. What will you do if the hordes of Angband are planning a nightly attack on you? Set up a few sign posts around your army camp, asking them not to start the fighting until you have finished breakfast?”

“A splendid suggestion. I shall put it forward immediately after you have finished outlining your own plan.” Fingon rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket higher. “But enough of your brilliant ideas for now. I spent the entire night writing down lists of names for you and I can't decide whether my hand or my head is hurting worse. I love you dearly, but I'll throw you out of my tent if you keep me awake any longer.”

“Fine.” Maedhros obviously tried to say it lightly, but there was a dissatisfied undertone in his voice that he was not quite able to hide. Nevertheless he obliged and lay down as well.

They stayed in bed for another two hours, pressed up against each other in the attempt to get warm, limbs intertwined and the blankets drawn up to their chins. Fingon drew lazy circles on Maedhros' shoulder with his fingers, and Maedhros' arm was wrapped around Fingon's chest, but his hand was still and his eyes were open. Maedhros was alert and tense, like a sprinter in a race awaiting the starting signal – in fact, he had been like that ever since his mysterious idea had come to him. It was eerie to see the sudden change in him; from slack to tense as a bowstring, from aimless back to a ruthless purposefulness, from defeated back to a fighting stance.

It takes a greater evil than Morgoth to destroy Fëanor's kin, Fingolfin had once said. Fingon supposed he should be glad for it; he only wished the saying would not have had to be put to the test in a way this brutal and devastating. He secretly wished to keep his cousin out of the real struggle for a bit longer, but he knew that he could just as well have tried to keep an eagle out of the sky. The time of respite was over. Maedhros had stumbled, but found his feet again. Now he was going to fight and he would neither appreciate nor thank Fingon if he delayed him or kept him back, no matter how good his intentions were.

Hence, instead of following his heart and asking Maedhros to wait a bit longer before plunging headfirst back into the fight, Fingon got up as soon as the first ray of sunlight cut through the grey pre-dawn light and walked over to his father's tent to ask for an audience in his cousin's stead.

 ***

Afterwards Fingon helped Maedhros don his armour. Both of them were warriors at heart, not diplomats; consequently they ascribed comparatively little importance to appearance and tended to focus more on the deeds a man had speaking for himself. And yet they knew that no madman could vouch for a mad plan. Neither Fingolfin nor his generals would follow an unkempt, deranged cripple who came to them in his nightgown and started spouting war tactics.
They would, however, listen to someone with poise, authority and confidence: a well-dressed knight, a prince not only in name but also in bearing, as calm and steadfast as a rock, and speaking in reasonable and quiet tones. Such a man might be able to convince the High-king of the Noldor to agree to a plan which was strange enough that no one else had considered it ever before.

And yet Fingon had an inkling that convincing his father was only one part of what Maedhros wanted to achieve. He suspected that the one who his cousin most desperately wanted to convince of his usefulness was himself.

Maedhros had not been wearing armour since his own had been taken from him by his captors and its loss still rankled with him. “It is most likely lost forever in the deep caverns where the Orcish hordes store everything they bring back from their plundering and pillaging,” he said mournfully. “It's a shame. It was a good set of armour; Father himself forged the breastplate. I can't bear the thought of an orc captain wearing it to battle.”

Thus Fingon helped him into an old set of medium-weight armour instead, which was assembled in equal parts from the stash of Celegorm and Caranthir, who were closest in height and build to their eldest brother. It was the first time in almost ten years that Maedhros was dressed in chainmail, boiled leather, heavy boots, and a cloak with the Fëanorian Star emblazoned on it. Everything still looked like it was a size too big for his haggard frame at first, but after every lace had been tied and every clasp had been fastened, no one would have been able to guess whether the body under those layers of boiled leather and chain-mail was battered or broken or whole.

When they were done Fingon accompanied Maedhros to his father's tent and bowed to their High-king alongside him. He then went to stand at his father's side while Maedhros told Fingolfin of the plan he had devised. When the king's brow knitted sceptically, Fingon brought forth the rolls of parchments with the lists they had written down, and spread them out on the table standing in the middle of the tent. He and his father listened in silence while Maedhros outlined the various names, their family trees, the tribes and how they stood in relation to each other, their values, their customs as far as he knew them and how they might be moved to join an alliance of unforeseen size and variety. The plan contained Elves, Dwarves, and Men working together not in selected units but without exception and united under one banner. The idea alone was bold enough to be considered audacious and almost outlandish in its outrageous design.

“I applaud your idea,” Fingolfin said, his eyes roving over the parchment, “but this undertaking seems quite impossible.”

“So seemed creating something like the Silmarils until my father did it,” Maedhros said and there it was—a smouldering fever, a banked fire flickering behind his grey eyes, just restrained enough not to be considered a challenge. “You are my liege and I owe you my service, but I won't be any good in the field for a few years to come,” he continued. “If I cannot be your soldier, then let me be your ambassador. Allow me to ask and offer help where we have never asked and offered before, instead of continuing to beg those who have refused us three times over already.”

Fingolfin looked his nephew up and down, his brows still furrowed and his face inscrutable. His gaze dropped back to the parchment. “I guess there is no harm in trying.”

Fingon had honestly intended to stay serious throughout the entire conversation as it befitted the heir to the High Kingship of the Noldor, Valar be his witness. But when Maedhros straightened up with a flash of triumph flitting over his worn face as he caught Fingon's eyes over Fingolfin's shoulder, Fingon could not help but return the slightest of grins. Maedhros' face stayed serious, but there was a glittering in his eyes that had not been there before.

“If you'd allow me to speak,” Fingon said all of a sudden, walking past his father to come to stand at his cousin's side, “I think it is a brilliant idea. I am in favour of trying it and I would of course offer to assist my cousin in this undertaking.”

The look on his father gave them both was undecipherable. He looked from his son to his nephew and back again. “Why am I even surprised?” he said at last, measuring both of them with his gaze. “After all these years I should have foreseen that I would always find one of you by the side of the other, even when the Valar themselves strive to separate you. Who am I to interfere where even the Highest have failed?”

Fingon and Maedhros shared a quick glance and this time both of them were fighting and failing to hide their smiles.

*** 

When Maedhros rounded up his younger brothers and offered them a place in his new alliance later that day, Fingon was at his side as well. The range of their facial expressions was almost comical and Fingon probably would have laughed at their bafflement, had it not been for Curufin.

“Give me one reason and one reason only why we should follow you,” he said, his voice dangerously low and deceptively soft. “You who forsook the crown without asking us, who bent the knee to our uncle, and who is so unstable that it is anyone's guess whether you'll be a captain or a suicide come next morning.”

“I can give you a reason,” Maedhros said calmly. “Or nine of them – if you prefer them listed in years.”

“You would not dare,” Curufin snarled. “Don't you dare to blame us for this.”

Maedhros cut him off with a sharp gesture of his left hand. “I know what you want to say. No, I do not hold it against you that you hesitated to march into Morgoth's lands when a rescue mission was almost certainly doomed to fail. That was not a failure; it was common sense.”

Curufin closed his mouth again, caught off-guard by how quickly Maedhros had turned the conversation around, but the eldest Fëanorion was far from finished.

“But there are other things I can and will hold against you, and the first is that you took your anger out on Findekáno when he rescued me for no other reason than that you resented him for succeeding where you failed. Findekáno was not bound by blood or oath to rescue me and yet he did; and all you had to spare for him after the fact was mockery. You ridiculed him that for all his bravado he had to leave behind my right hand and to this day you refuse to apologise.”

“Are you going to lecture us on our morals?” Caranthir asked. “If you have nothing else to say than accusing us of the very same vices you are prone to – ”

“I'm not finished,” Maedhros said sharply. His brothers' faces darkened at the harsh interruption, and the tension immediately ramped up so high that Fingon thought he could feel the very air crackle with barely restrained energy.

Maedhros stepped closer, like a general with his soldiers lined up before him. “Yes, I have made mistakes,” he said through gritted teeth, “all of which were worse than yours. And yet, they remain of a strikingly similar nature. I was foolish and proud enough to think I could ride to the Enemy's doorstep and demand the Silmarils from him. I accepted no help when I should have, and I would not have offered help to someone else either – for fear that they would steal my glory if they succeeded where I had not. I excluded you from my foolish venture into Angband because I did not want you to get involved, but more importantly because I knew you would try to hold me back. In hindsight, getting captured served me right.”

Fingon very nearly stepped forward at that, but one look from Maedhros stopped him on the spot.

His cousin turned back to look at his brothers, who looked equally surprised. “It also served me right when you turned your back on me after I gave away the crown. I was weak, careless and more than half-mad at the time, and if I did not deserve your scorn for how I allowed myself to be dragged down, I deserved it for how little I cared for your opinion at the time. I do not regret giving the crown to our uncle – he is a better king than any of us could ever be – but I should have done it differently. I should not have excluded you, just as I should not have excluded you when I rode to Angband. I got what I deserved for my arrogance in the end: nine years of imprisonment and the anger of my brothers,” Maedhros paused, before continuing, “But I have learned from the past. If our history has taught us anything it is that we have to stand by our mistakes – and stand by those we consider our friends.”

He searched his brothers' gazes, the look in his eyes intent. “We must not forget that it is Morgoth who is our enemy. Our fight is against him, not against each other. We must stand together as one and we cannot afford petty grudges and quarrels to get in our way, be it between races, cousins, or brothers. This war has lasted for too long and cost us too much already. If we cannot set our pride aside for the greater cause even now, Morgoth deserves to destroy us. I ask you to forgive me my past mistakes. I will do everything I can to rectify them, but I was not the only one who acted foolishly and I expect you make amends for your errors as well.”

“Judging from how you talk about us we must be truly terrible people,” Celegorm said, “but you have yet to tell us what you blame us for. I don't see where we failed you, except when Findekáno's reckless adventure allowed him to snatch you from under Morgoth's nose while we were still racking our brains how to get you out safely.”

“It is your absolute inability to set aside your pride and petty grudges that I accuse you of, not that our cousin got to the slopes of the Thangorodrim first,” Maedhros said. “I would never blame you for not taking the mad gamble to walk into Morgoth's realm when it was nearly impossible to get back out alive, but I will hold it against you if you refuse the Free Peoples of Beleriand your aid, even though you are aware of the stakes and it would be entirely possible for you to help them.”

Maedhros looked at them, one after another. “Are you aware that our uncle avoided inviting you to the council meetings discussing our new alliances for this very reason? I talked to him and his generals today and do you know what I saw in their faces when I stepped forward to speak? Distrust. Wariness. Incredulity. No one around here thinks us Fëanorions capable of honouring alliances any longer. They have lost their faith in us. Our name used to inspire awe and trust once. Now all it inspires is fear and resentment.”

“Why should we be bothered by what a few nameless knights think of us?” Caranthir drawled. Celegorm and Curufin gave a curt nod of agreement. Amras narrowed his eyes.

“Because it is a reflection of everything that is wrong and twisted in our bloodline,” Maedhros said. “Don't you see what we have become? Untrustworthy recluses, strangers among our own kin. But now is our chance to set this wrong right again. We can show them that there is more to us than a cursed oath and a famous name.” Maedhros paused briefly. “I should be ashamed to call you my brothers if it was not a point of pride for you to restore the honour of the line of Fëanor.”

The silence that followed was as heavily laden as the air on a sweltering summer night right before a thunderstorm was about to break loose. Fingon took a few surreptitious steps to the left so he could step in if one of the brothers decided to lunge at Maedhros – which was entirely within the realms of possibility with six angry Fëanorions staring each other down. But nobody moved.

It was Maglor who broke the silence. “Some would consider it bad form to strong-arm your brothers into something even before asking them politely,” he said slowly. There was no overt animosity in his tone; rather he seemed to be genuinely curious.

“Some might. Most, even. But I am one of you.” Maedhros smiled thinly. “I know that appeals to your sympathy and good character would win me nothing, whereas I also know that the Sons of Fëanor will always see to it that their oaths are kept and their reputation is neither tarnished nor diminished.”

“We are descended from the line of Finwë. We are the Sons of Fëanor. Our enemies tremble before this name and it strikes fear even into the hearts of gods. It is high time to remind both enemies and gods that our reputation is more than just an idle threat.” Maedhros gritted his teeth. “I am going to make Morgoth and his hounds pay for those nine years they took from me, and the lives of the countless Atani and Quendi who will never walk out from those dungeons again. I intend to work for this night and day, as long as I live. If that means that I have to fall on my knees before a chieftain of Men, I'll do it gladly if it means that one day we will strike Morgoth down into the dust. All I need to know is whether you are with me or not.”

A very uncomfortable silence stretched among the Fëanorions. A lesser man would have withered under the glares of the five brothers, but Maedhros did not so much as blink and Fingon marvelled once again at how quickly his cousin's despair had turned to determination stronger than steel.

Maedhros waited while his brothers exchanged brief glances. They reminded Fingon oddly of a pack of wolves as they did so, unsure about who to look to for orders and confused as how to react, with neither wanting to make the first move which might just be wrong.

Caranthir and Celegorm looked disgruntled, Curufin livid, and Amras watched everything with the aloof indifference that seemed to be his only remaining mood after the burning of the ships at Losgar. Maglor alone seemed to be hiding slight amusement at Maedhros' very apt assessment of the Fëanorions. Of all of his brothers, he had been the first one to let go of his resentment of Fingon – or he was by far the best at hiding it. Now it was him who spoke first.

“Come, brothers, our hesitation cost our brother one hand already. Do you want to tarry until he's gotten himself in trouble often enough to have no limbs left?” He laughed. “Nelyafinwe Ermeitë is a hero I could write a lay about, but Nelyafinwe Ilyatolvo would make an embarrassing protagonist of a song.”¹

“For pity's sake, no song-talk, Makalaurë,” Caranthir growled.

“I'll hold my tongue later if you hold yours now,” Maglor offered.

For a while, no one said anything.

“I guess 'lending you a hand' was a more literal request than the saying suggests,” Curufin said at last, meeting Maedhros' eyes. Apparently the remark was intended as a quip even though Curufin's tone was still cautious and wary. The mutinous expression was gone, though, and Fingon knew this was the closest thing to a peace offering his ill-tempered cousin could be expected to bring forth.

“I mean I do recall when you came crawling to me, begging me to make you a new hand,” Curufin added, not quite able to resist a last vicious jab after he had already admitted surrender. “I guess you would still want me to make you one.”

Maedhros stepped forward until he was eye to eye with his brother. “That depends,” he said, “can you?”

“Oh, I can – and I will make it an automaton that will punch out your remaining teeth if you ever blackmail me like that again,” Curufin replied evenly.

The two brothers sized each other up for a moment. Then they all of a sudden grasped arms and embraced.

Fingon raised both eyebrows and shared a look with Maglor who gave him a one-sided shrug and a wry smile. You'd think that after spending all those years at their side, I should have figured them out, Fingon thought. And yet, there were things he would apparently never understand about his cousins.

“It's good to have you back,” Curufin said when they let go of each other.

“It's good to be back,” Maedhros agreed.

***

Later, after several impromptu meetings and a lot of hasty organising, Maedhros and Fingon were able to escape the chaos and wander the lakeside alone. The sons of Fëanor would depart on the next day, and the sudden reveal of Maedhros' idea had thrown the entire general staff into disarray. Now that he had Fingolfin's backing, Maedhros did not want to wait an hour longer than he absolutely had to before setting his plan in motion, and as a result the day had been filled with a lot of running around, last-minute gatherings, route-planning and double-checking everything from weaponry to travel baggage and the horses they would be riding.

They left the camp and after a short walk they found themselves on the shore of the lake where Fingon came to stand next to his cousin for the third time this day. They were both looking out over the slate-coloured surface of the water, trying not to dwell on the fact that tomorrow they would truly be back at war once more. The past weeks had been a brief intermission, just enough time for Maedhros to regain his bearings. But now it was time to re-enter the fray, even though their next fights would take place on the precarious and slippery ground of diplomacy, rather than on the battlefield.

It fell to Fingon to break the silence. “Your brothers reacted far more kindly to your offer than I expected they would,” he said lightly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Maglor told me not so long ago that friendliness would not win me anything when facing a rabid dog.” Maedhros threw him a glance out of the corner of his eye and smirked. “I decided to take his advice at face value.”

“They did not seem rabid.” Fingon kicked a pebble and it hit the water three times before it sunk. “Your usual Fëanorian unfriendliness, yes, but not rabid. I am pleasantly surprised that they still make it a point to keep their promises.”

“It is a point of pride for us,” Maedhros replied evenly. “Do not mistake it for a virtue.”

Fingon snorted and shook his head. For a while they both watched the setting sun sinking below the western woods. “In any case you certainly sparked the enthusiasm of the rest of the host with your idea. What are you going to call it?” he asked at last. “Your alliance?”

Maedhros inclined his head to both sides. “I don't know. I haven't really given it any thought.”

“You are the instigator of this,” Fingon said, giving him a nudge in the ribs. “I saw your face when you got the idea last night. You were thinking about it. Surely you have at least a vague idea of what you are going to call it.”

Maedhros thought in silence for a while, then walked away.

Fingon perked up. “Ai! Are you just going to leave me here?”

Instead of answering Maedhros lifted his good hand and waved him off without turning around. Fingon grimaced and swiftly walked after him. “Are you not going to answer me?”

“No,” Maedhros said. “If this undertaking does indeed succeed, history will find a proper name for it without me. I am not fond of staging my life and scripting my achievements. If my idea is worth its salt, a name will come in time all by itself.”

Fingon wanted to press him on the matter, but then thought differently of it. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

“That I will.” Suddenly Maedhros threw an arm around Fingon's shoulders and pulled his head closer conspiratorially. “But when this war is over and we're sufficiently drunk on wine and victory … perhaps then we'll find a quiet moment and I can tell you.”

“I'll hold you to that.” Fingon grinned.

“What did I tell you about Fëanorions and their promises?” Maedhros shot back.

“That you make them hastily and never fulfil them?” Fingon laughed.

“You insufferable—” Maedhros interrupted himself and then joined the laughter. They looked at each other and slowly, Maedhros' smile faded. “I will miss you, you know,” he said. The fading evening light was painting stark shadows on one half of his face.

“Why?” Fingon stopped. “I thought we had already established that I would be joining you.”

Maedhros came to halt in front of him. “Don't be a fool. Your father needs you at his side.”

“I promised to help you.”

“And you will,” Maedhros interrupted him. “I will be roaming Beleriand for years to come as I try to recruit our allies, but somebody has to be here to receive them, to give them rank and order and assign them their place in the big plan. You are the only one I can trust with that. You have seen my brothers. If they were to provide the welcoming committee, we'd find ourselves without allies in no time at all.”

“This is not what we agreed on,” Fingon said.

“We did not agree on anything. I ask you to do this for me.” Maedhros' eyes searched Fingon's face and held his gaze. “Can you?”

“If this is your crude attempt to keep me out of the thick of things—” Fingon threatened.

“It's not,” Maedhros cut him off. “Although that is a nice side effect. I'll travel with more ease, knowing you are safe.”

Fingon laughed. “Wait, which out of the two of us was it again who got himself captured by Morgoth and chained to a mountain?”

“Very funny. So, what is your answer?” Maedhros' intent gaze rested on him, the grey of his eyes tinged to the colour of rust by the sinking sun.

“You already know it,” Fingon sighed, looking away. The lake looked like slate sprinkled with white diamonds as the oncoming night leeched the colour out of the world.

Maedhros sidled up closer to him and then their shoulders were resting against each other.

“Just don't get yourself killed,” Fingon said. “And write.”

“I will, cross my heart.”

“For a Fëanorion, you're awfully quick with your promises.”

“Promises don't tend to give us the trouble oaths do.” Maedhros shuffled his feet and smiled lightly.

“Fine. In this case, I expect a letter every three months at least.”

“Ah, really, are you placing orders already? What else do you want of me? A necklace of orc teeth? The sword of Elu Thingol? Or should I start right away with laying a Silmaril at your feet?”

“A sword would be fine. I dropped mine after I cut you free.” Fingon gave Maedhros a playful bump with his shoulder. “If you come across a good one, you can bring it back with you when you come to visit.”

“I'll ask Sauron if I ever run into him again. He is awfully talented in designing things that are intended to slice and maim and kill. He was hell-bent on gifting me something the day he ambushed me at the lake, so perhaps the offer still stands.” Maedhros snorted quietly.

Fingon grimaced. “No, no, I'd rather never hold another sword in my life than allow him to come near you again. Bring yourself back home, healthy and whole. That's all I want from you.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Maedhros said non-committally, which earned him a hard shove from Fingon and forced his breath out in a sharp gasp of pain. Maedhros rubbed his ribs and gave him an accusing look.

“Stay alive,” Fingon said, the stern tone betrayed by the ghost of a smile flitting through his eyes, as he very well knew. “And write. That is an order from your heir apparent to the High Kingship of the Noldor.”

“Don't make me regret giving the crown to your father.”

“No undoing what has been done, my friend,” Fingon teased.

Maedhros sighed. “I guess not. But even if I do write, you won't be able to read my handwriting.”

“Then it will be a great opportunity to practise your chicken scratch,” Fingon shot back. “Or are you implying that with thousands of years ahead of you, you're unable to learn to produce a legible letter with your left hand in your lifetime?”

“I sincerely hope this campaign won't last as long,” Maedhros said sourly. “But I am a man of my word, so as I already told you, I'll write.” His own faux-annoyed tone was laced with the barely concealed humour that had always marked their banter and teasing.

“Why, thank you,” Fingon said. “You'd think I was asking for your daughter's hand in marriage for all your reluctance to commit.”

“With the exception that if I ever had a daughter, I'd never give her away to a scoundrel like you.”

“Here's to hoping you never father a child then. You'd make an awful father—I bet you'd be lying in wait with a loaded crossbow for the first suitor to ever show up on your porch and chase him into the woods.” Fingon sniggered and resumed his walk along the shore.

“What—Fingon!” Maedhros hurried to follow, doubtlessly with an indignant stream of objections right at the tip of his tongue which had been effectively – and admittely quite rudely – stifled by Fingon walking out on him.

They wandered the shore a bit longer, exchanging barbs and banter as the light faded, conjuring up elaborate dreams of the future and embroidering them with ridiculous frills and loops: a future free of Morgoth, free of war, with brighter days and friendlier nights, a future where laughter and joy were commonplace instead of a passing rarity.

They both knew that it was a dream – and a dream it would remain for the time being. And yet the moment was easy and light-hearted, and it made them forget about their imminent parting for a while.

But when they returned to Fingon's tent and the lights of the torches around them dimmed – when the noises of the army and the chatter of the soldiers subsided and silence lowered itself upon the nightly camp – when they were lying next to each other with their breathing the only sound in the world – a dull, wrenching ache rose in Fingon's chest and he knew that Maedhros was feeling it too. Without either of them saying a word, they both turned and locked each other in a tight, hopeless embrace, knowing that however close they held each other now, it would not change anything about their parting tomorrow come sunrise. Neither moved, and yet they felt each other's pain, hovering like a living thing above them, weighing down on their chests and claiming the end of every thought they had this night.

“Come back,” Fingon said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I will.” Maedhros buried his face in his hair and gripped him a bit tighter.

 ***

Dawn rose pale and cold and when Fingon stepped out of the tent, his breath was coming in white clouds and the world around him was covered in a white, glistening blanket of snow.

He pulled on three layers of clothing before stepping out into the cold, and yet he felt frozen to the core even before he reached the spot at the edge of the camp where five out of the six sons of Fëanor were gathered. Maedhros was still missing and judging from the unhappy faces of his brothers they had been waiting for quite some time for him to appear so they could depart at last.

Next to them, tied to a hitching post, stood six destriers, tall and magnificent beasts, as fit to carry a fully armed warrior into battle as to cover a hundred miles in a day without breaking their stride. And indeed it seemed like the horses could barely wait to run free at last. They were pawing the ground impatiently and throwing back their regal heads, their breaths steaming from their nostrils.

Fingon found himself subjected to straying, but nevertheless unkind glances from all five brothers, which he felt were intentionally designed to make him feel unwelcome. Thankfully, they were distracted when Maedhros appeared, pale and haggard, but grim and determined, in his dark riding clothes and his fur-lined cloak.

“Finally,” Celegorm said. “Any longer and the horses would be frozen to the ground.”

“I apologise for my mistake. I should have waited until the cold had frozen your mouth shut as well,” Maedhros retorted, adjusting the saddle bags and then disappearing briefly to fetch himself a footstool. Tall as he was, he could not pull himself into the saddle with just one hand.

“Why, I now remember why I missed travelling with all of you,” Maglor said brightly. “It will be like old times, I daresay. I will sing, Celegorm will ride a mile ahead so as not to hear me, Amras will hang back a mile to be left alone, Caranthir will pull a face, Maedhros will mock him for it, we'll fight and in the end Curufin will try to throw one of us off his horse. Ah, memories!”

Had Maglor not spoken so off-handedly, Fingon would have sworn that the brothers must have rehearsed pulling independent, yet perfectly simultaneous grimaces on cue.

“So, are we ready to go?” Curufin asked. All of them looked at Maedhros.

Maedhros ignored the pointed glances and nodded. His eyes met Fingon's only briefly. They had said their farewells the night before; there was no need to do it again in front of anyone else.

Therefore Fingon confined himself to a brief, “Farewell, all of you. Watch out for yourselves”, while the brothers mounted their horses.

“We will. After all, we wouldn't want to inconvenience you by having to call you to come to our aid a second time, Findekáno,” Maglor said. There might have been a mocking undertone lacing the words, but when their eyes met the second eldest of Fëanor's sons only gave him a brief smile. While the good humour did not reach his eyes, it did not show visible condescension either.

Celegorm's stallion reared up with impatience and the grim hunter brought his weight forward to bring the beast down on all fours again.

Maglor watched his brother talking softly the horse in order to calm it, then turned back to Fingon. “Farewell to you, too, cousin.”

The other Fëanorions nodded briefly. Only Maedhros held his gaze, and his eyes told what no words or gestures could convey between them. Fingon nodded imperceptibly and smiled briefly.

Then they spurred on their horses and the six brothers, sons of the most famous and infamous of all Elvenkind, thundered down the road that cut through the camp. Their coats were flapping, the manes of their stallions were flying, and snow was trailing clouds of shining crystals at their heels as their steeds ran faster and faster until it seemed they must take flight any moment.

Fingon watched them until they were no more than small shadows in a field of blazing white.

“Just come home this time,” he said quietly. To anyone walking by he might have been talking about all of the Fëanorians, but his eyes and thoughts were fixed on the foremost rider – whose hair (he knew, even though he could not see him any longer) would be the colour of flame in the sunlight, his storm-grey eyes firmly fixed on the horizon ahead, and the black cloak with the eight-pointed star of Fëanor trailing in the wind behind him, while his stallion was flying over the wide plains stretched out before the brothers.

The riders rounded the foot of a hill and were out of sight.

A cloud passed in front of the sun. Fingon stood there a bit longer, the icy north wind biting and slashing at every bit of exposed skin, until the cold had crept up his legs through the soles of his boots and numbed his toes. Only then did he turn around, and he walked down the road back through the camp. Although his heart ached with the urge to follow the brothers, he knew that he was needed elsewhere.

He did not look back.

  1  Maglor is joking around with epithets here. Ermeitë is Quenya for “one-handed”, from er- “only” and -meitë “handed”. The second nickname Ilyatolvo is a compound noun, from quen. ille, ilya “all” and tolbo “stump”, meaning “All-stump” or “Lacklimb”.

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Findekáno,

I hope this letter reaches you safe and sound, and I trust that this time you won't have any reason to criticise my penmanship as scathingly as you did last time. Maglor had me practising for weeks, and while I try to remind him that I do not aim for calligraphy so much as a legible hand, he goes conveniently deaf every time I mention this. I think I might just give it up as a lost cause and assume that you're both in league to pester me as much as you can.

The plan is proceeding reasonably well, although predictably the Laiquendi of Ossiriand could not be convinced to join our cause against Morgoth. They still fear involvement in the war more than they fear the Fiend himself. The eyes of the Shadow have not yet taken note of them as a threat. If they have suffered at Morgoth's hand, it was not because he purposefully sought to destroy them. Their losses were merely collateral damage when Morgoth wanted to strike us. Morgoth's focus is elsewhere and he has not yet recognised them as a danger to himself. Thus, for the Laiquendi the benefits of keeping quiet still outweigh the risks of drawing attention to themselves - for now at least. Understandably, they do not see a reason why they should take up arms at this point, if this means to ally themselves with Morgoth's arch-enemies and put an end to their convenient state of momentary invisibility before Morgoth. I cannot deny I left Ossiriand with a feeling of harsh disappointment in my own kin, but I understand their reasons for not joining us, even if I do not endorse them.

In any case, I find myself putting my faith more in Men and less in Elves these days. Nearly all of the tribes and leaders of Men have heeded our call for aid and joined our ranks. For all their faults, they have strong convictions and even stronger wills. They will fight for what is dear to them and the best of them are headstrong enough to send the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains running.

That being said, both Belegost and Nogrod have also allied themselves with us. This happened in no small part due to Cousin Finrod and I cannot thank him enough for taking it upon himself to meet us at Belegost. My friendship with Azaghâl goes a long way, but they say in order to persuade a dwarf you have to be able to think like a dwarf, and in that Finrod is second to none of the Eldar. I'd go so far as to say he was predestined to lead this mission. Had I not known that he was born in Aman to Elven parents, I could easily believe that he has been a Dwarf in an earlier life. He arrived at Belegost and within the hour, he and Azaghâl were lost in a talk about masonry, stone-hewing, and architecture. I chose this opportunity to politely take my leave in order to allow them a discussion undisturbed by the bothersome questions of someone who understands little to nothing of the subject. By the time I rejoined them for dinner (which I am reasonably sure took place after midnight, but dwarves heed the course of the sun as little as our kind heeds seismic movements), you'd think they were two life-long friends from the way they were prattling on and on, although they were kind enough to change to less “dwarvish” topics once I sat down with them. Belegost assured us of their assistance that evening, and Nogrod followed two days later.

On another note – and at the risk of sounding like a gossip – my dear brother Curufin is getting married and he and his chosen lady are expecting a child. Or more correctly, they are getting married just in time for the child to be born. I know he would not wish me to tell you this for reasons that should be obvious, so please do not sent him a letter of congratulation first thing after you receive this message. I know you itch with every fibre to get back at him for the many times he taunted you. If you absolutely must taunt him back, wait for my sake until you both meet in person and I don't have to bear the repercussions of your cheek in your stead. In the meantime rest assured that my brothers and I have made sure to give Curvo more than his due share of teasing for his astounding (some might even go so far as to say improbable) ability to time his marriage and the birth of his child, since curiously enough both coincide so closely. Maglor even threatened to write a stanza about it and read it out loud at the party following the ceremony. If I know him at all, he has every intention to follow through with his plan. (I will tell you the details of how Curufin met his spouse in my next letter; for now you should only know that the announcement of a new family member reminded me of your insolent remark that I would make a horrible father. Being an uncle should give me plenty of time to practise and prove you wrong on that account.)

The wedding is set to be next spring and no matter how much we all deny it to our faces, I think it is the best thing that could have happened to us. We need some laughter, some dancing, some joy, even in these dark times—maybe especially in these dark times. Our new dwarven friends have promised us to do parts of the ceremonials according to their old rites, which is an unforeseen honour and token of friendship. Dwarves are not the most open and trusting of people, and they are very secretive about their history, their lore, and their craft. All the greater is the gesture, and I think even Curufin was at a loss for words for a moment.

Then again, I think he and the dwarves here are kindred spirits, not unlike Finrod and Azaghâl. I haven't seen my brother in such a frenzy to learn and work since we left Tirion for the shores of Beleriand. I think he must have missed his forges and the process of creating a great deal more than he let on, and it might be one reason why he has been ill-tempered ever since he came to Middle-earth. That is not to say that he is changed entirely—he is still sullen and withdrawn, but sometimes he comes over to me and starts talking to me about his latest project. I do not understand most parts of it, but from what I have gathered the dwarves here are incredibly well-versed in mechanics and creating devices to serve them in their every-day life. They have no wind and no tides to power their mills and bring fresh air to their homes under the mountain, so they have had to invent machines to pump water and ventilate their shafts and halls. They also have no way of telling the time by the position of the sun, and to make up for this they have created intricate clockwork devices which gives them a more reliable way of measuring the passage of hours than counting rings on a wax candle. I do not usually call myself interested in technology, but even I can't deny that the depth of dwarven knowledge and the use of their inventions are fascinating. I plan to visit those workshops one day if I am allowed, especially seeing as Curufin plans to use his newly acquired knowledge to build me a better hand than the one I am wearing now. He has gone on and on explaining the details to me and I have to say it is incredible what is going on in my little brother's head: pliable joints, artificial tendons, lockable in certain positions! If he ever manages to accomplish this, I'll never speak ill of him again (– ai, stop laughing, I know you are. This one is a promise I intend to keep – until he starts the next argument, that is.)

Curufin has assured me the hand will be done in time for the marriage, so we will have to wait and see. The ceremony is going to take place here under the mountain and I do not doubt that this will be a unique occasion, even though I would have preferred to hold the festivities under the open sky. But you must not think me ungrateful or unable to appreciate the hospitality of our friends in the Ered Luin. Their cities under the mountains are vast, sprawling, and magnificent. Their halls are tall and illuminated by golden lamps and they spread wider than most cities aboveground. And yet—a ceiling of stone is not the sky, an artificial aqueduct is not a river, a pillared hall never makes a forest, and no number of golden lamps could ever replace the distant magnificence of stars scattered on a sky-dome of midnight blue. Although I can never utter this aloud, I am counting the hours to our departure. We Quendi are not made to live away from the sun and the stars; I honestly cannot fathom how Curufin or Finrod can bear being away from the world for so long. They might be different from most Elves; but my heart at least aches for the open sky, for the sun above and the wind in my hair. Down here, time passes slowly and there is no remarkable difference between seasons. Aboveground, it will be spring soon and I cannot wait to step out into the blinding sun and spur my horse forward over the lush green plains of Ossiriand.

We will leave Belegost at the end of spring and from there we will follow the Gellion upstream. If the weather is kind I will reach Himring before the end of summer and then my part in this war will be over for the time being. Over — a strange thought, though I doubt that I will be able to sit still for long.

In your last letter you asked me how I was faring. Would you believe me if I told you that I spent a whole day just pondering how to answer this short question? Truth be told, I have not spent a lot of time thinking about myself. I hoped that travelling and trying to bring the alliance into being would be enough to keep my mind tied to matters at hand, and leave me tired enough in the evening that I would be unable to ponder myself and the past. From the time when the idea for the union first occured to me until now I forbade myself to think of the past at all. I made work, travel, negotiation and exhaustion my sanctuary, which would keep me from examining myself too closely. In fact, I am avoiding an answer right now, but I have learned that avoiding what you fear does not make it any less unpleasant, so you shall have your answer today.

I almost hesitate to write it down for fear of assuming too much, but – I am feeling well, Finno.

I will not lie to you, I am far from healed. My right arm pains me a great deal and my right shoulder will probably stay stiff until the day Arda breaks apart. And no matter Curufin's prowess, no prosthetic will ever be able to replace a healthy hand. I am a cripple and a cripple I will remain forever.

Neither are the nightmares becoming any gentler or fewer in number. There are still times when I wake and can barely breathe, then doubt the reality of the world around me and wonder whether I will wake up a second time, once more back in Angband's torture chambers. But then I get up, light a lamp and practise my writing or wander around the nightly city under the mountain, visiting the libraries or the markets (as a consequence of their independence from the sun cycle dwarven cities never sleep), before I either fall asleep again or the morning business sweeps me up once more.

There are still days when I can barely get out of bed, but on those days my brothers are there and they pull me out by my ears if they must. They are as tireless as they are ruthless in reminding me why I have to go on and what we are fighting for, so I doubt I will ever be able to forget it again. They might be cold and aloof towards others, but neither Morgoth nor any other Valar could make them abandon me, no matter how often they have threatened to do otherwise.

But strangely enough, all of this – the dreams, the exhaustion, the pain – is not so bad. There would have been times when these things would have been enough to pull me under, but those days are becoming fewer and fewer. I am learning to shake off the dreams and I try to see the upside of it all: sleeping less means that I get done more tasks in my waking hours. I am often tired, but it is a good kind of tired—not the sort where you tire of the world and of life, but the pleasant exhaustion and soreness after a day of hard work, with the knowledge of having accomplished something meaningful. You could compare it to how you feel after a day filled with training when you managed to learn a particularly trying series of strikes. (Speaking of fighting – I have been practising my sword-fighting diligently and while it is far from how I was able to fight with my right, I think it might be enough by now to give you a serious challenge once more.)

I know I will never be the same as before Morgoth took me, but I find that I miss my past less and less. A lot of lost things can be replaced (like teeth) and it is incredible what time can heal, not least of all broken bones. That being said, losing my sword hand was undoubtedly bad and if I could choose to have it back I would do so in a heartbeat. On the other side, the loss forced me to consider alternatives I might never have tried otherwise. I used to hold myself, my brothers, and our own kind in very high regard before. Then I saw Elves breaking under Morgoth's torture long, long before Men and Dwarves; I saw them caving in where some Men would not, I saw Second-born dying in the quarries when they took the whipping for a friend instead of standing aside to allow him to be killed. I saw that they were our equals in some ways and our betters in others. I would have considered them beneath my notice before, but fate has a way of humbling the haughty. However much evil Morgoth's imprisonment wrought, it must be true that evil carries within itself the seed of its own destruction, because it was Morgoth who opened my eyes to the Second-born and made me consider them as possible allies.

In a way, it was Morgoth who brought about what I am doing now—working toward his destruction by uniting the Free Peoples of Beleriand against him. In a way, it was Morgoth himself who created the strongest alliance against him the world has ever seen! I am laughing right now, Finno. Can you believe it? Can you imagine what the Fiend would say if I told him what I am telling you now?

It is all so strange. There are still times when I wake up and I am surprised that I am alive and free when by all rights I should be captured or dead. It has been five years since you rescued me and there are still days when I can barely believe it. My entire life ever since you showed up at the foot of the Thangorodrim has been a series of events, each more incredible than the last. I am a cripple playing at war with the gods; I should lose and yet I am winning and I feel like there is nothing I could not accomplish. Our list of allies is growing by the day, while Morgoth is steadily losing ground and unable to win it back.

I do not know whether it is wise to do so before our task is fulfilled, but I find myself dreaming of an “afterwards” again, Finno. Morgoth has been there for as long as we can remember and his Shadow seems tied to Middle-earth as the stars are bound to Varda. But in times like these I believe that we could win this war, that there could be an end to the darkness, and that we might live to see it. I can believe that there will be a day when the Shadow is banished forever and you and I will be able to roam a world where the darkness is without terror once more. So many unlikely things have already happened, why should we not succeed in bringing about the fall of the Enemy as well? And after all of this over and done, we can travel together and I can show you all the places, cities, and marvels I have seen on my journey and we will be able to properly appreciate it without haste and war councils disrupting our days. We will ride as fast or as slowly as we please, without swords on our belts and shields strapped to our backs, with only the wind and the rain and the stars as company.

It feels strange to say so in the middle of a war, but my life is good right now, Finno. I know that the fighting will not be over tomorrow or even next year, but I feel like we are getting closer to the light at the end of a very long tunnel and that is enough for now. I do not doubt that this letter would have ended on another note had I chosen to write to you on one of the worse days, but I chose to write it today, just as I chose to hope and fight and do so again every other morning, no matter how hard it might be. I like to think that our own determination and our decisions are more important than the odds we are presented with.

But enough of me for now, I refuse to believe I am interesting enough to warrant a second scroll of parchment on unprofessional introspection.

On to more important and delightful matters: I already mentioned my journey is nearing its end, and according to my brothers I have proven myself to be a – I quote – “passable” diplomat, which probably means I was useful enough on my own campaign to just about make up for the bread and water needed to feed me. While I have enjoyed my travels, I do look forward to returning to Mithrim, if only for a while, and doing nothing except practising sword fighting with my left hand. I won't have much else to do and it grieves me to say that I lack an appropriate opponent on the training grounds. Now, if you knew anyone who would be willing to take it upon himself to spar with a crippled grouch, I would be much obliged if you sent him my way. If this coincided, by chance, with meeting an old friend I have not seen in far too long, I would gladly welcome him here as well. My gates would be open to him on any day at every hour, and should he choose to stay over the winter, there will always be a place for him on Himring.

I will be awaiting you or your answer back on Himring, whichever arrives first. I did not think five years could ever be considered a long time for one of our kind, but I stand corrected. There is a great deal I wish to tell you and I am sure you have much to say in return. Letters are helpful, but a poor trade for an evening spent in armchairs in front of a lit fire, with two goblets of mulled wine in our hands. Let us hope time will fly quickly until this day arrives.

Also, give your siblings and His Highness your father my kindest regards. He is a far better king than I could ever have hoped to be, and your siblings' aid has been invaluable in the last few years. (But don't tell them I wrote that, they are smug enough as it is!)

(And don't tell them that last bit either! If I find out you did it regardless, I will no longer feel any obligations not to tell Curvo and Tyelko a few choice tidbits you dropped about them, so consider your options well.)

May the Song and the starlight guide your path until we meet again.

Yours always,

Russandol

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