And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Prackspoor  

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Part Three. Rise.

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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.

 

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  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”.