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Chapter Text

Prologue

Later, when he would have time to reflect upon such things, once everything was said and done, and the madness of the first battles and their move across the continent, ever to the east, subsided, Maedhros would often think about those first few months after his rescue.

Yes, as the days grew long and light under the cold yet gentle summer in Himring, during those precious few years of fragile peace they had between all the madness, he would remember the good, the bad, and everything in between.

How despite the odds, he held on through the thick of it, clawed his way out of misery, despair and pain to pull himself together into someone functional again. How he had labored long and hard, and made some of the toughest choices of his life, but came out stronger for them. How those grueling months had forged him, rebuilt the broken elf that had returned from Thangorodrim into the figure he was now.

But he also remembered the softer moments. Shared wisdom and camaraderie between those that had reason to feel nothing but hate towards him in their hearts. Long talks into the small hours of the morning and understanding growing again where it had been uprooted. Tender moments of care and reconciliation, the shared intimacy of smiles given freely – beautiful as they were mundane.

He treasured those moments – for the hope they awarded him and for the way his shoulders did not feel quite as heavy when the burden of responsibility pressed down on him.

He also remembered the anger and the heartache; the strife that had arisen when he gave away the crown. Rage, piercing and painful, all sharp edges, and grief, spilling everywhere when it had nowhere else to go.

He remembered the exhaustion and the worry, the discontent and the things he could not mend.

But most of all he remembered the love – often difficult, too near to grief and expressed in anger, but irrevocably threaded through everything, even as it came out barbed and broken as they hurt each other.

It was both what haunted him, and what pulled him through the most difficult of times. And for each relationship that broke, each fight they did not manage to walk away from, each grief that added up as the days kept piling atop each other, still he recalled that time with bittersweet fondness for the strength it had given him.

And though perhaps many things had shattered, changed irrevocably as they remained broken, not all had been bad.

He remembered.

Caranthir

It was one of the first memories he had after his rescue, once he had regained his senses.

When Fingon had brought him back from Thangorodrim, he had been half-delirious and almost fully convinced he was dreaming. He had hardly had any capacity to recognize what was happening to him, had not paid attention when unknown people had guided him into a tent.

He had not noticed, nor cared, when faces he had never seen before had undressed him with unfamiliar hands, stripping him of the rags covering his body, and touched him, fingers nimble and assessing as they poked and prodded at his skin.

He had been so sure it had been a dream – one of those waking ones he had become prone to having. Reality had begun to bend the longer he had been on that cliff. Had warped until he could no longer tell where dreams began – or where they ended, the edges of the living world blurring with the shadows inside his mind, until everything had become one agonizing blend of half-truths and hallucinations.

So he had not questioned it, had not dared to give the happenings more than a cursory acknowledgement, lest his focus bring about the painful sense of realism that would lead only to more suffering. Better to keep his mind far away, where nothing could hurt him.

And so he let himself drift, hardly even remembered any of it. Even now, the most he could recall was the absence – absence of torture that his fractured mind and broken body had expected. In truth, for a long time he had not been convinced the memory was real at all.

Later though, through many conversations, he learned that during that first night where he had been brought back to the camp at Lake Mithrim, he had been given into the care of a group of Fingolfin’s healers, and they had tended to him. Worked into the small hours of the morning to stem the bleeding of his cut off hand and fixate his broken ribs and shattered leg.

He had, apparently, been awake through nearly all of it, only passing out near the end.

*          *          *

The second day had been harder, as awareness crept closer to the surface.

Early in the morning, while he still wiped the sleep from his eyes, half in shock, half in disbelief and more than two-thirds convinced he was still dreaming, his brothers had come to greet him.

There were many tears and hugs as well as apologies he numbly waved off as he struggled to process what was happening. But soon as they came, they had been driven out of the healing tent, and he had sunk back down into the blankets and stared up at the ceiling, wondering when he would wake up to the sound of Sauron’s laughter as the illusion ended.

The healers came in some time after that to check on his bandages and the stitches they had put on and around his newly formed stump.

But when they started to remove the gauze wrapped around his right wrist, suddenly and very unexpectedly a deep and terrible fear seized him in its great icy claws, squeezing like a vice around his chest. And despite knowing that he could trust the young healer who cradled his right arm so very gently as she, with delicate fingertips, unwound the gauze from his wrist, he just – locked up.

That was his first clear memory.

Suddenly, he could not move. His whole body froze, iron grip around his torso completely driving the air out of his lungs, immobilizing him. His skin tingled, thousands of tiny pinpricks of invisible needles digging into it. His wounds ached.

Panic, vicious, like a beast crawling out of his chest spread to every crevice of his body. Sweat pearled down his neck, icy cold yet searing into his skin like boiling water. He could feel himself shaking, trembling as though he was caught in an icy breeze.

He willed himself to stop, couldn’t stand the weakness.

He must not show weakness.

His body didn’t listen.

He vaguely recalled the healers trying to speak to him, far off voices distorted and indecipherable, as though spoken from under water. But he did not process any of their words.

When they could not get a reaction out of him, one of the healers – a tall woman with a slender frame and brown hair done up and held back by a cloth tied up behind her ears – put her hand on his shoulder to shake him slightly, hoping to get his attention.

That is where the memory abruptly cut off, dissolving into snippets, impressions.

He could not say for sure what happened next, or why. Did not remember this next part in more than flashes of brilliant color and the violent thumping of his heartbeat in his ears as everything whited out and blurred together.

He lost time.

When awareness returned to him, he was alone in the healing tent, and it was quiet. The silence rang in his ears like a terrible oppressive void all around him, noisy in its emptiness.

Maedhros put his head in his hand and wished he could cry. Didn’t know why he felt like crying, felt frustrated when he couldn’t. He felt exhausted to his very bones, wished he could sink into the fabric of the bed he was in and disappear.

His mind was wrung out, twisted until the last drops of energy had been squeezed out onto the dry, barren ground that was his existence and evaporated. He felt utterly spent. He sat, motionless, empty.

Time passed.  

Later – he could not say how much later, though it must have been a while – Caranthir strode into the healing tent he had been laid up in. He watched as his brother pushed the door flap aside brusquely, pace fast and face set in a determined scowl as he came to a stop at the foot of Maedhros’ bed.

“You bruised her cheekbone,” Caranthir stated, without context, without greeting.

“What?” Maedhros didn’t understand what his brother was talking about, was abruptly taken out of his reverie and forced to enter this conversation utterly wrong-footed. Could barely seem to remember what words he had last spoken to his brother earlier this morning – or if they had spoken at all, and now he was here – determined scowl on his face and speaking in riddles, completely ignoring everything else.

Maedhros shook his head, still not convinced he was not dreaming it all up.

“That’s why,” Caranthir continued, forging on heedless of Maedhros’ confused state, “I will be taking care of your wounds from now on.”

And, having pronounced that, he rounded the bedframe, aggressively sitting down on the covers in a no-nonsense manner and setting down what only then registered to Maedhros as a bag full of healing supplies.  

Before he could fully process what, to him, seemed to be two wildly unrelated statements, his brother began to work. Caranthir methodically set out the gauze he would use to replace the one on Maedhros’ wrist, torso and leg, then went on and crushed a number of herbs, many of which Maedhros distantly recognized as ones they had brought with their supplies from Valinor, into various mixtures before he stirred them into a salve and brought small swabs of it up to his face.

Maedhros stared uncomprehendingly. He could not follow what was happening around him. It felt like he was watching the scene play out in front of his eyes without control, without being part of it.

Slowly though, as his brother continued to swathe his face with salve with a surprisingly steady and gentle hand, gripping his chin with the other in a firm but non-painful hold, it began to register.

His brain finally put the shattered pieces together.

He must have punched the healer. He punched the healer, and it had been hard enough to do damage. You bruised her cheekbone, Caranthir had said. That’s why I will be taking care of you.

And as he comprehended the situation, guilt crashed over him together with revulsion and shame so overwhelming he couldn’t help turning his face out of his brother’s grasp as it swallowed him, shaking off the hand holding him steady.

Caranthir tutted, clearly annoyed, and tried to grasp his chin again, but he avoided his brother’s reaching hand, twisting and turning his face towards the walls of the tent to his left, staring fixedly at the yellow and coarse looking fabric.

“Quit being stubborn Nelyo, I’m almost done,” his brother groused, irritation clear in his voice.

Maedhros could not bring himself to turn around, needed a moment to catch up his brain to what had occurred and deal with all that had happened.

If his brother had not changed drastically since he last saw him, he knew Caranthir was not going to leave him alone until he finished treating his injuries. But it wasn’t necessary, the larger part of his mind screamed.

And it was, another voice inside of him interjected, also apparently dangerous to come too near to him. The last time someone touched him he had apparently injured them. He was not going to risk doing the same to his brother.

A third, smaller, yet no less traitorous voice spoke softly in his ear, warning him not to let anyone close enough to harm him, reminding him that soft hands spelled deceit.

He shook his head, trying to dispel all three.

“Leave it be, Moryo. I doubt these will heal anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

He expected his brother to be cranky. Expected him to let loose some of the caustic, biting words he was so known for. He was not prepared when instead Caranthir just grabbed his chin, pulling his face around to face him again without uttering a single word, before he aggressively continued applying more salve to his face – though his touch remained careful.

When Maedhros made to pull away again, he hissed, tightening his grip on Maedhros’ chin a little and looking right into his eyes.

“It matters and you will let me finish my work and if you punch me, I’ll punch you right back, injuries be damned. Now quit being stubborn and let me do this,” he ground out, voice brooking no argument.

He released Maedhros’ chin then, going back to putting more of the salve on his face, where it was cracked open in half-healed wounds. It stung a little, only accentuated by the slightly more than necessary force applied to each swipe – though the pressure never became truly painful.

Resigned, Maedhros decided to let his brother have his way in this, too tired to fight. The bigger part of him, he had to admit, didn’t see the sense in trying to heal wounds that were already doomed to permanently leave their marks. He was marred, and he knew it. What did it matter if more of his wounds scarred?

But since Caranthir would not let him escape the treatment, all he could do was endure it – and hope his brother was right in his assumption that Maedhros would not break out in another fit of violence unexpectedly.

He didn’t. Not even when Caranthir moved on to rewrapping his wrist, his leg, his chest. He remained calm and in the present all the way up until Caranthir repackaged his supplies and, after informing Maedhros again that he would be the one to care for his injuries, departed.  

Interlude I

He was removed from Fingolfin’s camp as soon as he was well enough to sit upon a horse. His brothers came to escort him, and he spent a wretched afternoon atop one of the mighty steeds they had ferried across the Belegaer, while pain shot through his body with every step the beast took. It was miserable. When they arrived at the Fëanorian camp, he was shown to a room at the top of a stone tower, fashioned after his tastes and with all his belongings already carefully arranged – the work of his brothers, most likely.

He was led to the bed at the center of the room with instructions to rest and recuperate while periodically one or the other of his brothers came to check on his status.

For the first three days he mostly slept, deeply exhausted and still more than slightly overwhelmed with everything as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Once he had slept off the worst of it, though, he started to grow restless. 

It was not a week past his rescue when he first ordered that reports and missives should be given to him.

Maglor, who had taken on the duties of prince regent in his absence and quietly continued as Maedhros recovered, protested when he noticed the decrease in his workload, coming to his room and begging him to wait until he was cleared by the healers. But Maedhros felt sick of lying around uselessly, plagued by nothing but his own thoughts for company.

And since the crown was his birthright, and not Maglor’s, there was little his little brother could do, despite his disagreement.

And so, he ordered reports of their scouts to be brought to his bedroom, listened to updates on their building efforts while he ate, and instructed all correspondence to be brought directly to his desk, which sat off to the right, near a window, in his private bedroom.

Within two weeks he had successfully rerouted most duties he could manage without leaving his room to be handled by him and not Maglor and spent much of the time he was not working on refamiliarizing himself with the political situation of the Noldor.

It was slow though – both his recovery and the pace at which his body allowed him to work. Much slower than Maedhros was comfortable with in any case. He needed help with getting out of bed – legs still unsteady from disuse and unable to support his weight, especially on his right, where the bones in his thigh had been shattered and still had to be held in place by a splint.

His left hand shook when he tried to write, unused to the motion, and quickly seizing up in painful cramps. The writing he did manage to do was uneven and smudged, as his wrist caught on the ink while it was still wet. Yet more quickly he grew exhausted from simple tasks and had to set down his quill after only a few letters.

Often times, when he sat at his desk – once he could sit – pouring over letters, maps, reports and all other kinds of correspondence that ultimately became his responsibility, his vision would start to blur and his head filled with an impenetrable static, paralyzing him.

Blinding headaches would haunt him until he had to return to his bed or risk his head splitting open, or so it felt.

He knew what he wanted to do, but his body would just not cooperate.

To make matters worse, his injuries would not heal quietly either, but insisted on bothering him on top of everything.

His ribs and shoulder ached, a dull throbbing soreness that waxed and waned throughout the day. His leg would randomly start to pulse with pain where it sat within its split. The stump where his hand used to be would itch and burn suddenly, as though his nerve endings were set afire by a sudden bursting of flames, swelling in intensity until he would scratch himself above the bandages in a desperate attempt to redirect the pain.

It was frustrating, maddening.

He struggled through it. Slowly, painfully slowly, things improved.

Maglor

It was early after he had relieved Maglor from his duties, taking the responsibility of leading the Noldor upon himself again, when his brother took to awkwardly hovering around him, coming to enter his rooms at odd times and with an almost overbearing willingness to aid him in his duties.

He knew his little brother had not been particularly fond of the tasks, had fulfilled his role more out of duty than enjoyment, crown ill-fitting on his head.

He also knew Maglor had continued to hold on to his position in hopes of aiding his recovery, and suspected his brother’s eagerness stemmed, in large parts, from some kind of misplaced attempt to act in his best interests.

It was infuriating. It made him feel utterly useless and frail.

Unfortunately, Maglor did not seem to understand.

And so, on this day too, Maedhros heard a knock at the door leading to his chambers.

Soft and a little hesitant it echoed through the wood. And as always, he knew who was on the other side before it even cracked open, Maglor’s steps falling silently, nervously as he passed into the room.

He held a number of scrolls tucked under his arms and clutched closely to his chest.

“Nelyo,” he started, before hesitation fell upon his features.

“Give them here, Káno,” Maedhros sighed, reaching out with his right arm before remembering there was no hand there anymore to grasp with. He let it fall onto the covers of his bed instead, where he sat under the blankets, propped up against the headboard with a pile of scrolls stacked to his left, and indicated an empty spot a little to the front and left. He hoped that Maglor had not noticed his slip, but was fairly convinced he failed.

Maglor didn’t move. Between his brows a small groove furrowed deep into his forehead, his mouth pressed into a thin line and curled slightly downward. There was tension around his eyes, an unhappy worry painted onto his face so tangibly it made Maedhros’ stomach turn. He wished everyone would stop looking at him like that. He wished Maglor would go away.

“I can help!”

It slipped out of Maglor’s mouth inelegantly and rushed, all in one big exhale as he shifted from one foot to the other.

There it was again. His brother’s insufferable need to take his duties out of his hands.

Maedhros could not stand it, could not stand being seen as so inept as to need help with dealing with but a few missives. Could not bear the thought that when others looked at him, they saw someone so broken as to need help with duties he had performed since he was but a few decades into his majority, when he first started volunteering at the court in Tirion.

It gnawed at him, ate at his patience. And today he felt himself threatening to boil over.

Suddenly, some strange emotion welled up inside of him, like a spring bursting forth from solid rock forcefully. Something undefinable between anger, shame and defiance coursed hot within his veins.

He wanted to hide; he wanted to claw his own face off. He wanted to rip off his bandages and show Maglor his scars and his wounds still bleeding underneath the gauze and tell him here, see, I have survived these. I am capable.

For a few seconds the urge was almost overwhelming, a tremendous energy caught in his ribcage. Then, he wrangled the impulse under control forcefully, locked those feelings away somewhere deep inside his mind, and did none of those things.

Instead, he reiterated his earlier request, voice dry and detached as he looked at his brother utterly dead-eyed.

“I said put them here, Káno.”

He watched as his brother’s ears turned downward just the slightest bit, deflating. Maglor shuffled over to the bed before dropping the scrolls next to Maedhros’ leg. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something more, but then he turned around, shoulders drooping before sullenly making his retreat – the same way this always ended.

Just before he pulled the door closed behind him, he halted, turning around to briefly meet Maedhros’ eyes again.

“Just…call for me if you need anything?”

It came out more like a question than the demand it was meant to be.

Maedhros really, really just wanted to be alone.

“Go, Káno. I will be fine.”

Maglor pulled the door close behind himself.

As the sound of footsteps receded down the hallway leading up to his room, Maedhros took a few deep breaths to calm himself, expelling the last one as a sigh that, admittedly, almost sounded like a groan. Thankfully, he was very certain Maglor was not around to hear it.

He shook his head slightly to clear the fog from his mind and picked up the topmost scroll of the new batch. These ones were sealed shut with a big wax seal, he noted as he tried to break open the one he had picked up to unroll it. But he could not both hold the paper and use his fingers to slip between the seal and paper at the same time. A knife would pose the same problem.

Frustration welled back up in his chest, sharp and sudden and entirely too close to anger, like an impatient beast clawing at the insides of his chest. He put down the scroll with a sharp motion, thumping it onto the bed before pinching the bridge of his nose, taking another set of deep breaths until he calmed down again. He couldn’t lose control now, stamped down on his feelings violently until he stopped trembling.

He was not going to call for Maglor now. Not after he had sent his brother away, shuffling out of the room looking like his own personal rain cloud had broken open over his head. Not when the very thought made Maedhros’ stomach twist itself in complicated knots of irritation and painful shame.   

With difficulty he reigned in his temper until the anger receded, returning to a low simmer.

He had noticed, if he was honest with himself, that his moods had been particularly rotten and uncontrollable as of late, as he struggled to regulate himself. He had yet to figure out a way to get them under control quickly, had been lucky so far that he had been able to avoid closer scrutiny by having most of them occur while he was alone. Unmerited luck, he thought, and yet luck he should not have to need. His moods were a failure on his part, he was sure.

He despised having a temper.

It reminded him too much of his father.

Maedhros breathed in and out a few times again, listening to the sounds the air made as it was sucked in and then pushed out of his lungs.

He could do this. He just had to – adapt.

On a whim, he picked up the scroll again and tore it open with his teeth. It ended up a little messy, but it was open.

He could work with that.

Interlude II

Other times yet, it was not his body that put obstacles in his path. He could not put a name to it, could not tell you when it had started if he tried to recall. But at some point during his stay in Angband something had formed at the center of his chest, a black bottomless pit. A cavernous opening, hungry and desperate.

Sometimes this darkness inside of him would swell, spread and swallow all his thoughts. His waking mind would be consumed by an apathetic despair that left his limbs feeling heavy and the world tinted in monochrome.

On those days he could not help but question all that he did.

If it was particularly bad, he simply rotted in bed, thoughts circling and circling as he tried to find the energy within himself to do something useful.

But even when he managed to crawl out of his bed, he would ultimately not do anything productive. All that he started, he felt, was doomed to fail.

He wrote replies to letters and threw them away, convinced they were not good enough. He would listen to the builders report on the progress they had made in fortifying their dwellings and would wonder what the point of their efforts was, when all they had would eventually be torn down and ruined.

It was Morgoth’s black hand heavy upon his heart, encircling it in an iron grip like the Silmaril-crested crown circled his head – tight and burning, blackening all it touched.

He could feel it, a dark, fire within his chest threatening to consume him from the inside out and burn, burn until nothing was left. And he let it, felt how he himself was paper thin, helpless at the mercy of the flames as they kindled his spirit in a terrible burning.

Too often he had caught himself eyeing his sword and mail still sitting in the corner of his room. There was a rage inside him, unquenchable and wild and threatening to burst forth any minute. But there was nowhere for it to go – his body still infuriatingly immobile and nothing breakable within his reach. And so, he had to sit and let it burn through his veins agonizingly.

After such episodes he often felt empty. Where before wildfires had burned themselves through his fëa, now there were deep ravines, full of scorched destitution.

On days it was particularly bad, he often felt he could not move at all, staring blankly at the ceiling while his thoughts devoured him.

It was difficult not to feel doomed. Not to feel like this new lease on life he had been given was nothing but a curse. To think that, perhaps he had not been freed at all. After all, he could still feel the chains and shackles in his heart, binding him and no matter how hard he tried, they would not release their hold on his mind. He was trapped, if no longer a slave of the Enemy, then a slave to his own broken thoughts forever tethered to his marring. He felt ruined.

It was difficult, so difficult, to think of his body as anything else than the manifestation of that prison.

And this was not the only chain he carried around with himself, he remembered cynically. Somewhere, in the hidden crevices of his mind, he could feel the Oath, snaking, coiling, twisting around his fëa like a beast biding its time.

It scared him.

Nights Are Not For Sleeping

Throughout his recovery, a deep sense of weariness remained, clinging to his frame like a heavy cloak. When at first staying awake felt like an uphill battle, once he had slept through the worst of it, he quickly started to dread the night instead.

More often than not he tossed and turned and tossed and turned, unable to shut his eyes and relax enough to release his grip on consciousness. If he slept at all, he slept fitfully, waking up feeling unrested. Most nights, though, he spent watching the walls, counting the hours until the sun came back up again.

During those wakeful nights, exhaustion made him sweat, though he felt chilled. His body felt heavy and sluggish, as though everything was pulling him down, begging him to give in and close his eyes. But his mind remained awake, a terrified anxiety keeping his thoughts whirling. He was scared, so scared that if he released his hold just a little, stopped clinging to wakefulness, stopped being vigilant, the next time he would open his eyes, he would be back on the cliff, hanging from his arm, barbed chains digging into the flesh of his wrist.

Sometimes the weariness became too great though, and he lost consciousness, dragged under relentlessly by the heavy weight of inescapable sleep, exhaustion hooking its claws deep into his flesh and pulling him down below the veil of awareness. On those nights, his dreams tormented him.

Sometimes he found himself back on Thangorodrim, hanging by his arm, a chain wound around his wrist so painfully tightly, he could still feel the echo of it in his waking hours, phantom sensation following him from his dreams. He would feel the cold iron of the chain, the sharp spikes digging into his skin, and the icy dread in his heart that threatened to overwhelm his mind long after he had gasped awake, heart beating frantically in his chest.

Then he would grip his stump, squeezing to dispel the ghosts still clinging to his senses until his heartbeat slowed back down and his breathing returned to a semblance of normal. Would dig his nails into the bandages covering the still sensitive and healing area tightly and take comfort in the pain, sharp and urgent and incredibly grounding as it shot up his arm, distracting him from the looming panic and breaking the illusions gripping his heart.

The following days Caranthir would tut over his ruined bandages, scolding him for his carelessness. Maedhros could not regret it.

Other nights his dreams would take him to the dungeons, where he was subjected to the whims of his torturers. He could hear the laughter of Morgoth’s cruel servants ringing in his ears as they inflicted torment after torment on him without pity, mocking him. Would remember the icy cold biting into his skin, the pangs of hunger as he went without food, and the parched feeling in his mouth, like sandpaper, as he tried to catch the water, dripping in little droplets down from the dank, stony ceiling, on his tongue out of desperation for anything to drink. 

His treatment had been cruel and arbitrary. Morgoth had soon given up on asking him any questions, had not cared to press – only to hurt for his own amusement’s sake. All that Maedhros had known was of no use to Morgoth once the first year of his capture had passed.

Sometimes his mind would take him to the throne room, Morgoth looming like a giant shadow, cast into a ghastly specter by the shine of the Silmarils tauntingly sitting on his brow. It burned in his chest to see them, their radiance a blazing light shining into his very fëa. The chains around his heart where the Oath sat tugged, barbs cutting into his spirit with cruelty.

Sometimes in his most vulnerable moments, he dreamed of time spent together with his family, back in their bliss as his mind took him back to Valinor, before the Darkening. Before everything had fallen apart. He dreamed of blissful afternoons spent on the veranda overlooking the palace gardens, the soft fragrance of flowers dancing through the air as Laurelin’s light painted the flowers and trees with a golden hue. It made his heart ache.

He hated those dreams the most. Knew he could never have back what he had lost since then. Knew he could only try to carve out a life in a reality in which he was doomed to fail. It was hard not to despair at the thought.

Interlude III

Then there was the physical recovery – another thing that was deeply, deeply frustrating and disconcerting for him.

The healers – accompanied by Caranthir; always his brother was with them, watching out both for him and for them – would come to put him through the exercises meant to restore his strength and mobility to him. And yet, when he followed their instructions, pushing, pulling and bending his limbs, the rate at which he grew exhausted would only blacken his mood further.

He could not manage to stand on his own two feet for longer than a few minutes. If he tried to lift his arm, his right shoulder would lock up in pain, arm hanging uselessly at the height of his chin instead of going over his head.

Had he not hung off the damn thing long enough for it to at least award him this much mobility?

Still, he struggled through the exercises in the vain hope he would regain what he had lost.

Afterwards, he would collapse into his bed, body aching and utterly miserable. Everything would pulse with pain, his nerves raw and agitated, and his bruised and beaten body rebelling until the pain spread to his head and he felt like someone was hammering away at his skull from the inside.

He was willing to grit his teeth and bear it, if only it meant he could actually see progress. But day after day he slogged through the same exercises, and if he managed to improve on one day, the next he would be reduced to such an aching mess he missed the better part of the day, lying in bed as unfinished duties piled up around him. It was discouraging.

More often than he cared to admit, he felt disheartened tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

Most of all though, he felt like he was failing himself.

As time passed and his health permitted him to do ever just a little more than lying in bed uselessly, he would push himself to his limits.

Many afternoons he spent forcing himself to hold his sword in his left hand without it trembling and giving in.

Or he attended meetings, accompanied by at least one of his brothers and a healer, like a sickly child, only to feel queasy and weak halfway through, as his focus bled out of him.

In his study, he wrote and rewrote correspondence after correspondence in his messy Tengwar, only for the pile of missives on his desk to grow instead of shrink as he just could not keep up with the pace at which they arrived.  

Too many times, he had to bite back the mounting despair, grind his teeth and soldier on, forcing himself to believe that if he just kept at it, he would start to master things. Would no longer feel like he was trying to scale an insurmountable mountain.

Day after day after day he did his best, skipping meals, working into the small hours of the morning until his eyes ached from lack of sleep and the exhaustion clinging to his still healing body would overpower his resolve to just keep going.

Too often it didn’t help. His body betrayed him, backsliding in its recovery or giving out underneath the pressure.

He could not focus, would pass out at his desk and wake up the next day, ink staining his cheek from where his head had been pillowed on a half-written letter, head pounding with a headache and neck stiff.

If Maedhros was a lesser elf he would have given up. On countless occasions he felt close to tears, close to banging his head against the nearest wall and begging to be released. But he kept at it, pushing and pushing and pushing, until his body learned to keep functioning with less sleep, less rest and less food; until his mind could stay on task longer and longer as he erected walls of solid stone around the things that haunted him.

Slowly, still slowly, he improved.

Chapter Text

Considering Politics

Maedhros knew, at the back of his mind, that he would have to approach the situation with Fingolfin’s host at some point. So far, it seemed like his uncle had extended him a period of grace to recover from his ordeal – a courtesy he was not sure what to do with, if he was honest. The silence that hung between them, frigid as the lake their people encircled with their two encampments, worried him as well.

It had been a few days into his recovery, after he had been brought back to his own people’s camp, but before he had been able to do anything but rot away in his own bed, when he had regained enough coherence to realize what should have been painfully obvious the moment he had understood that Fingon had not been a figment of his imagination.

Maedhros should have, at the very least, connected the dots when he had been brought and tended to in a camp full of Fingolfin’s followers. Or when he had been brought to the opposite shore of Lake Mithrim, still weak and struggling to stay awake, but nonetheless understanding that the Fëanorian settlement was not where it was before.

But he had been so focused on just handling being alive, on understanding that he was free that somehow, he had failed to process and understand the very simple facts that made this reality possible.

His uncle had crossed the Grinding Ice to the north. Had passed, through peril and hardship, into Beleriand in his absence.

The betrayal that he had thought to put behind himself – a regret, but one he had convinced himself there was nothing to be done about as it could not be addressed, nor could it be rectified, with the greater half of the Noldor beyond the sea – was now painfully relevant again.

The knowledge ate at him. There must be anger there, he was sure, and rightfully so. And beneath that anger, there would be loss. No one crossed the icy wastes and came through unscathed. No, had that path been easy, they would have taken it to begin with – at least had things been up to him. He was not so sure anyone could have reasoned with his father, even if that had been an option. So, he supposed, if things had been up to him, many things would have been different anyway.

But the fact remained that Fingolfin had tried, had dared where they had shied away and gone the route of treachery, and he had succeeded – no matter the cost.

And if their situation had been tense before, in Araman, after what must have been a harrowing journey, Maedhros was sure tempers would be even worse, and enmity between their people have only grown riper.

He was aware, painfully so, that their political situation was far from easy, but he did not know how to move past things. Did not know what his uncle was thinking, what demands he would make of his people when he ultimately broke his silence. Did not know how to prepare for this eventuality.

He knew he would have to make a display of his own power if there was to be any chance of making his Kingship accepted and yet, how could unity be won through such a thing? Would he not dig deeper into the furrows of resentment if he came, demanding obedience and reverence from those that had lost so much to his father’s recklessness? Would power truly unite the Noldor?

As the days went on, doubt began to grow within his mind.

Fingon

It was on a quiet afternoon only a few weeks after his rescue – five, perhaps six, he thought, though time was hard to tell apart – that the first piece of the puzzle came into place.

Maedhros had spent the last couple of days sullenly and silently working through the ever-increasing number of scrolls on his desk, determined to make a dent in them.

But his diligence had cost him more than he realized. And so, on this particular day, he could not stir himself out of bed for a long time, struggled to do anything productive even after he could manage to sit himself up and attempt to do more than just rot away. Guilt gnawed at him and yet it was absolutely no use.

He had tried – he put a number of the more urgent missives on his nightstand the day before, intending to work through them during his morning meal. But when a servant had come up to bring him his food he had – unlike usually – still lain in bed, staring up at the ceiling, eyes blank and head empty.

The night had been rough. He had slept, finally pushed to his limits and passed out from exhaustion. But although his dreams had deprived him of proper rest, keeping him from sinking into peaceful repose, as they often did, he had woken up with what he could only describe as a strange sluggish sleepiness still sticking to him, like he had come out of the darkness of unconsciousness only incompletely. It clung to him still – that velvety nothing, like a shroud falling over his mind, making everything slow and almost viscous.

Somehow, he felt an odd wall between himself and reality – like he was part of it, and yet he was also not, a strange gap between his mind and his body as he felt himself drift in the endless void of his thought.

He had eaten his breakfast without tasting it, the food seemingly crumbling to ash inside his mouth, and he had washed it down with water to be done with it as quickly as possible. But even after his meal the haze that had descended over his mind would not leave.

He could feel himself set aside the empty tray, see himself pick up a scroll with his left hand, observe how he unrolled it – it was one of the long letters; the one from the architects, seeking approval to build a new residential tower towards the east end of their encampment, that he had put aside before passing out the night before – but it felt like he was watching himself do these things without comprehending them as his own actions. Like watching a stranger from inside his own body.

Everything felt hollow, disconnected, disjointed, and he could feel any new information he tried to absorb fall through the cracks in his mind like sand shifting through his fingers.

As he tried to force himself to read, he could hardly remember one sentence by the time he moved on to the next, could hardly tell what the letter even said.

And he read it. He did. The content just would not stick.

He started where he had left off the day before, read page after page again and again and he retained none of it. His focus would zoom out, buzzing static taking over his brain. He would near the end of a passage before he realized he had stopped understanding the words on the page quite a while ago. And no matter how many times he forced himself to repeat them, forced himself to go back to the beginning and pay attention this time, soon he would find himself drifting off into the fog again.

And it remained the same, even as he picked up scroll after scroll, hoping that perhaps this one or that one would be easier to work on, trying to make any sort of headway.

He opened it. And then he stared at it.

And stared at it.

And he could not make sense of anything for longer than a few minutes.

After a while of this wasting of precious hours, he tried switching to a different duty – there were messily drawn maps and scribbled notes on his desk that had been brought in at some point, records and observations by some of the scouting parties he had to compare and compile. Before committing them to their public record, however, he had to check them against each other for inaccuracies.

He dragged himself up, unfolded the maps, took out the records available to them and set himself to cross-checking the content, but as soon as he tried, once again his head began to swim. The lines blurred before his eyes no matter how many times he rubbed them, and he felt like he was trying to focus through a thick layer of molasses while his consciousness remained drifting far, far away.

Soon he could feel the heavy drapes of that unwelcome sleep-like feeling come closing in again, threatening to consume him. No, not sleep, he thought. It was not sleep that nipped at his heels, though he had likened the feeling to it. It was a strange emptiness, a detachment, as though his mind temporarily abandoned his body to float in a suspended state of blankness he could not penetrate, a haze of absence, a void sucking in all that he meant to understand.

And when he managed to come back to himself, he had no memory of the words he had read, the drawings he had looked at, or how much time had passed.

In short, he did not get anything done. It was an utter nuisance.

By the time noon rolled around he was nearly driven to tears with frustration.

It was only a little while after, in the early afternoon, that he finally decided to capitulate, and he retreated back to his bed. He climbed under the covers, sitting down against the headboard and let his head thump against the wall behind. To add insult to injury, he had a headache, a dull throbbing slowly accumulated by trying to fight through the fog pulling at his thoughts all morning.

He closed his eyes and surrendered, let himself drift.

*          *          *

He was brought back to himself when an unfamiliar knock sounded at his door an uncertain amount of time later.

Over the last few weeks, he had become accustomed to telling apart which of his brothers stood on the other side of his door by listening to the sound of their knocking and the patting of their feet as they approached.

This was not one of them. Assuming, at first, that it was a servant coming on some errand, he did not bother to open his eyes yet as he called for them to enter. They would announce their business to him in due time, and he needed a moment to put himself together enough to at least appear competent. He heard the door creak open and fall closed not long after, but no further noises followed.

Slowly he peeled his eyes open, wondering at the hold up, when suddenly and entirely unexpectedly his gaze caught on something, and all other thoughts fled his brain.

There in the doorway was a figure clad in blue – and not just any figure.

Blue robes and black hair threaded with gold and a face that shone both with sorrow and with kindness and warmth.

Shock went through his system, a sudden buzz of anxious energy making him sit up in his bed. Suddenly, everything felt real again – too real, and painfully so. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, hear the blood rushing through his ears and his pulse thud in his veins anxiously.

“F..Findekáno,” he stuttered, his mouth catching on the first syllable.

Fingon hesitated, hovering near the doorway, shifting his weight, before seemingly steeling himself, nose scrunching up slightly as his eyes locked in on Maedhros. “Maitimo…”, he started.

Maedhros winced at the name, at the reminder of his lost shapeliness. It was disorienting to be called thus, the name feeling more and more like an ill-fitting shoe, like the unwitting princeling he had left behind in Valinor. He had started experimenting, putting together different linguistic roots to coin his Sindarin name and had recently settled on Maedhros, though he was still in the process of making this known. He mulled it over, trying to decide if he should inform Fingon when, after making a grimace as he visibly reconsidered, Fingon ventured forth with an alternative himself – albeit hesitantly. “…Russandol?”

It was bold – the use of his epessë implying a kinship he no longer was certain remained between them. Still, it set the tone, and Maedhros would not deny him. He inclined his head.

Expression now determined, Fingon strode forward, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed, before sitting down on the covers close to his waist, invading Maedhros’ space.

For a moment, Fingon simply studied him, gaze intent on his face, before slowly wandering over the rest of his body, scanning for what Maedhros could only guess, until his eyes snagged on his stump – remained there for a good five seconds as though frozen – then quickly drifted away, in a decidedly nervous flicker, daring seemingly abandoning him.

Fingon looked up, assessing the room instead, until his gaze settled with pensive interest on the neat pile of unread paper on his nightstand, and the messily thrown together maps and abandoned quill, still lying on his desk off to the right. Despite their restlessness, his eyes were keen, sharp as they observed the controlled chaos throughout the room, before slowly settling back on Maedhros’ form, though his gaze remained downcast.

A shallow crease had wormed its way onto his forehead, fingers drumming on his thigh in a quick pattern, while he chewed on his lip unconsciously in display of nervousness that was scarily open and forthright, Maedhros thought.

Fingon opened and closed his mouth several times, discarding the words he was about to speak only seconds before they could pass his lips, as he visibly struggled to get them out. It was strange to see him so nervous – he was not usually the type to hesitate. Though perhaps his very showing up was testament to his bravery, Maedhros mused.

“I see you have kept busy,” was what Fingon finally ended up saying, rubbing his hands on his thighs now in a self-soothing gesture meant to expel some of the excess energy inside his body, eyes darting around again, still studiously avoiding looking at Maedhros, before settling down on his own hands.

Maedhros gave a noncommittal hum.

“There’s been much to do.”

Another silence. Fingon did not look up from his hands, continuing to rub circles on his thighs.

“I have been meaning to come visit you. I’m sorry I did not come sooner.” The words came haltingly, tone low and hesitant as though each word was pried forth from molasses, but increasing in certainty as he spoke. When he was done, his cousin’s face turned towards him, now finally meeting his eyes.

He no longer looked nervous, was steady and determined instead, more like his usual self. It seemed like all he had needed was to get his initial words out. But Maedhros could not fathom why that had seemingly been so hard, what reason there was for such great reluctance on his cousin’s part that even Fingon had been cowered, when all he did was offer a needless apology for not waiting on him during his recovery.

What reason had Fingon had to do so anyway? But he did not try to comprehend what went through Fingon’s mind. He had never been very good at understanding Fingon, no matter how close they were.

Looking at his cousin now though, despite his regained vigor, he appeared to be bracing himself for something. Though what, Maedhros could not discern.

“It has only been a few weeks. And tensions between our people are still high,” Maedhros answered, voicing his confusion at his cousin’s words and actions. He didn’t understand what the other was worrying about, seemed to dread enough to be nervous around Maedhros. Of course it would not have been easy for Fingon to come. Not with the responsibilities he likely had now, and not with how relations between the two Noldorin hosts were bordering on hostile, quiet resentment simmering ever closer to the surface, threatening to boil over – oh he had noticed, had seen it in the barely courteous correspondence he received from some of Fingolfin’s people. He knew that too would have to be dealt with – could not be put off forever.

He had the sudden urge to get out of bed and work on the draft he kept rejecting that would form an agreement between their factions. He should never have let it lie this long.

“Russo…I’m not here for the politics, or despite them,” Fingon chided softly, his voice interrupting Maedhros’ train of thought, cutting through his fretting like a knife though butter. “And whatever issues still lie between us would not have stopped me from coming. I’m here for you, and I wish I had been sooner.” A note of steel seeped into his voice, benevolent yet undeniable and unbudging.

Maedhros swallowed, caught off-guard. That was…unexpected.

I am here for you. It echoed in his head. It didn’t make sense.

Something akin to shame twisted in Maedhros’ gut at the thought. His pulse throbbed, the thick murky fog in his head momentarily intensifying again to an oppressive haze, making his skull pulsate in time with his heartbeat. He reached up with his hand to rub at his forehead, trying to beat back the swampy mist lying like heavy drapes over his thoughts.

It was so very Fingon of him to think this way. To damn the political consequences and stubbornly follow what he wanted to. Maedhros just could not wrap his head around the fact that this was what Fingon wanted. What he cared about. He wished that his cousin would develop some sense before he kept following Maedhros into disaster after disaster and was met with betrayal after betrayal. 

Fingon had already shown his determination twice before, his unwavering devotion and loyalty costing him his innocence in Alqualondë and endangering his life on Thangorodrim. It was unwise, dangerous. It would only get him into trouble.

“You shouldn’t,” the words slipped out before he could stop them. Shouldn’t have saved me in the first place, he didn’t say, swallowing the words back down like bile.

He was grateful to be alive, though the debt sat ill with him, ever gnawing at his conscience. It was not fair that Fingon had risked so much, kept risking that much. Not when Maedhros had not proven himself worthy of such loyalty. Of being given access to the wellspring of love in Fingon’s heart that knew no bounds and did not falter at betrayal. He didn’t deserve such a friend.

He felt filthy, like a black, rotten thing hidden underneath a veneer of gold his cousin somehow could not see through.

He knew he could never say this though, could not convince Fingon of the truth if he tried.

“Be here. You shouldn’t be here. You have your people to think of. How will this look to them? It’s not worth risking your standing,” he finished somewhat lamely, guilt still choking him and hoping that, if he could not give voice to what was truly in his heart, he could at least shake some sense back into his cousin.

It appeared, however, that that was the wrong this to say.

Fingon’s eyes grew stormy at his words, affront kindling his passion to a blaze as he leaned forward into Maedhros’ space, jabbing a finger at him, his voice growing animated and almost cutting.

“I do not care what anyone thinks! You are a fool if you think you aren’t worth it.”

Maedhros could not contain a flinch, shrinking back from the sudden onslaught of almost violent emotion. He hated himself for it – for this weakness that crept out of the crevices of his mind when he least needed it.

This was Fingon, he berated himself. There was nothing at all to be afraid of. And yet here he was, jumping at shadows at the first sign of anger. It was pathetic.

But just as sudden as it had come, the storm left Fingon’s eyes, harshness melting from his gaze as he gentled his voice, something akin to regret coming over his features. He laid his hand on Maedhros’ leg atop the blankets, the pressure emphasizing each word as he continued, no less impassioned, but careful to restrain his feelings.

“This isn’t really about that though, is it?” he said, face solemn he stared straight into Maedhros’ eyes, gaze turning serious, yet terribly sad.

Maedhros felt his heart sink to the bottom of his chest, dread pooling in his stomach. Fingon was – brave, rash, bold and full of passion that he did not always know how to keep under control. This was well known. Fewer people knew that he was also uncannily perceptive if he wanted to be, that he could read your heart with just a look of those shining blue eyes of his if he let himself look.

Maedhros averted his eyes, could not bear the intensity, as Fingon continued.

“You say I should not be here, but what you really think is that you should not be here. I should never have scaled the cliffs of Angband’s gates to come for you. Let me tell you now and listen to me closely. Rescuing you was not too much, nor was it a mistake. Do you hear me? And I would do it all over again. No whisper of ill will or contempt or betrayal was going to stop me. Some things you do because they are right, not because of politics. They just make sense.”

I did it for you. I saved you for you.

He heard it, clear as though the words had been spoken straight into his head, even though Fingon did not say it – there was no need to; the meaning was clear.

He couldn’t – suddenly it was all too much. Panic began to rise in his chest where before he had been – bewildered, worried, perhaps a little anxious. But this, beyond anything else, tipped his brain over.

Silence, stark and terrible in the knowledge that it brought, settled over his thoughts like an ill-fitting blanket. He swallowed hard.

It was a mystery to Maedhros that Fingon could find any love for him in his heart after the Ice. That he would have compassion enough to save him after everything. Valor enough to come for him at such great peril to himself. He had not, still could not, process that. Could not align the facts in his mind in such a way that they made sense. Any time he tried, his knees buckled under the weight of the enormous debt he owed to his cousin. It was incomprehensible.

And now for Fingon to come and wave it all away like it was nothing, when Maedhros should fall to his knees before him and beg for forgiveness. He owed Fingon his life, he owed him his freedom. It did not make sense.

He hadn’t deserved saving, had only gotten the consequences of his actions by being hubristic enough to meet Morgoth’s parley.

He shifted, clutching the fabric of his tunic with his hand, searching for the right words. Finally, when none came, he hung his head in shame, unable to look up to meet Fingon’s gaze, still intent on his face.

He felt more than he heard Fingon falter as he stayed silent, paralyzed by his shame. What did one say to such a declaration? How could he ever make any of this right?

It was his own cowardice that forced his cousin to cross the Helcaraxë. Him. Maedhros, who had betrayed him. Maedhros, who had left him behind. Maedhros, who had not stopped the boats from burning, who had stood by motionless and watched as his father and brothers set fire to the greatest works of the Teleri’s hands.

If only he had argued longer, and harder. If only he had done something, instead of idly standing by. But he had not had the courage to defy his father outright, had feared the consequences were he to do so. Had feared and frozen and cowered where Fingon had acted.

He dearly wished he was not such a coward.

“I would not have done the same. I did not do the same.” The admission burned on his tongue, forced itself past his lips in a whisper.

Fingon was silent for a while, face grave and solemn. He did not dismiss Maedhros’ admission, but neither did he accept his offer of guilt. When he spoke, his tone was measured, though his words were few and carefully selected.

“I know. And still I chose as I did. And I will not back down from that choice now. Least of all for appearances.”

Something heavy seemed to fall from Fingon's shoulders at that, as though he had needed to hear this confirmation of his thought just as much as he had wished to impart it on Maedhros. He continued, lighter, though with no less baffling words.

“I’m sorry that I did not come before. I was worried you would not want to see me. I see I was both wrong and right – and both for entirely the wrong reasons. Nevertheless, it was stupid. And I am sorry that I delayed so long.”

Suddenly he understood Fingon’s earlier hesitance, his almost shy demeanor. What? – Maedhros boggled. It was utterly ridiculous. What an absolutely preposterous thought, when he had been the one to throw himself into needless danger, braving the Enemy’s foul land just to save him. He almost laughed – not out of mirth, but at the sheer absurdity of his cousin’s thought patterns.

“I don’t understand.” It slipped past his lips unbidden.

Fingon was sorry? Fingon had worried Maedhros would be angry at him? He could not think of a single thing his cousin could possibly need to apologize for.

And yet here he was, apologizing. Had been worried that Maedhros would send him away.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated uselessly, shaking his head. “I should be the one apologizing to you. I – I am sorry! Why would I send you away? You saved me when you did not have to. When no one would have judged you had you done nothing. When I have broken what trust there ever was between us long before. I just don’t…you have nothing to apologize for, nothing to fear. I’m in your debt.”

Fingon’s gaze was clear as he looked at Maedhros, eyes crystal blue pools of deep water carrying a sad solemnity, but also a deep conviction. And though he looked somewhat grieved, his smile carried real warmth.

“There is no debt. Not for your life. And – well, I suppose it was a little silly, in hindsight. I was worried over nothing. But I thought – well, I have…,” Fingon leaned forward and, with feather light touches, brought down his hand to gently brush against the bandages of his right arm. “I have robbed you of this.”

And so, finally understanding truly what was happening, his brain was pierced by painful clarity, like buckets of ice poured out over his conscience, flooding his mind with agonizing awareness. The knowledge settled painfully in his gut. Fingon felt guilty about his hand.

He had expected pity perhaps – was getting used to pity in the eyes of those that looked at him, forever seeing someone broken. Was used to the discreet glances his brothers threw his way when they thought he could not see it, looking at him as though he might break any minute. He didn’t deserve pity. He didn’t want pity. It made his gut turn.

This wasn’t pity though. It was guilt. And so it was his turn to dispel his cousin’s misconceptions. With more patience than he would have had for anyone else who asked after his hand, he explained.

“You saved me. I am alive because of you. You found love in your heart for someone who long ago stopped giving it to you. Finno…You have not robbed me of anything. You have given me the greatest gift I could have asked for. Freedom. Freedom and another chance at a life that should have been over. And I can never repay you the debt I owe you. Do not. Apologize to me for my hand. Ever. Again.”

At that, the remaining worry seemed to leave Fingon’s gaze, storm locked behind his eyes growing milder until it petered out almost entirely. And yet, a nagging doubt, a lingering uncertainty continued to disturb the waters of his mind, shining out of his eyes in well concealed glimpses.

“But it’s your right hand. The one you work with.”

Maedhros wanted to shake his head. The thought struck him – what a pair of idiots they made! And yet, he could not help feeling fond. He still felt indebted, still knew he could never make up for all the sins he had committed against his cousin. And yet he could breathe easier now that he knew there was no enmity between them, that Fingon – brave, loyal Fingon – spent his time worrying instead of cursing his name, that any avoidance was not part of political feuds or intrigue but just his cousin’s strange mind. He shot his cousin a crooked smile, feeling lighter than he had in days.

“Don’t worry, I’m figuring it out. But if you feel so strongly about this. Now that you are here might I ask you to help me with something? There is this letter I received from one of your builders I have been struggling to answer. Perhaps you can shed some light on the situation for me…”

And just like that the solemn atmosphere was broken, as Fingon let out a groan, lightly shoving Maedhros’ shoulder with his arm.

“You are impossible!” he groused, dramatically throwing his head back. “…give it here, if you must. Now this you owe me for!”

They spent much of the afternoon together after that, Fingon, grumbling good-naturedly while keeping up light chatter, with the occasional piece of advice while Maedhros finally, blessedly, managed to get some work done and escape the haze that seemed so intent on swallowing him whole.

He hardly noticed the afternoon hours creeping by, as it grew ever later, until they were interrupted by another knock at the door, revealing a servant bringing him his evening meal.

Fingon said his goodbyes then, promising to come again. As he left, Maedhros noticed he felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

He managed to eat the whole meal.

Interlude IV

Days continued similarly to how they had before. Maglor was still the one who came to his sickbed most often – fretful and anxious and looking at him with eyes so guilty Maedhros could not stand to look at him for too long.

But after his first visit, Fingon too became somewhat of a fixture, coming by once or twice a week to chatter away with him while he worked – or sometimes, though this was less common – simply to rest and reminisce. There were still many things left unsaid between them, but with each day they spent in each other’s presence, he felt a little less anxious about it and more assured that – no matter how the political situation developed, they at least would be alright.

He felt himself fall into this routine, augmented by his brothers’ daily visits, and slowly began to feel like he was gaining his footing back. The nights still troubled him, and his days did too, the darkness ever close to his mind, but he found it was not quite as unbearable now.

Chapter Text

Curufin

It was perhaps a week or two after Fingon had first started visiting. His stump had continued to heal well and most of his wounds had fully closed – though still he was plagued by aches and pains, some of which he knew would never fully fade.

Today was a good day – he could mostly ignore the pain, had drunk some of the tea one of the healers had left for him, and relished in how it dulled the worst of the pain and cleared his mind.

So, of course, it was this particular day that his brother chose. He was deeply absorbed in the composition of a letter when the door to his chambers swung open without warning, before banging close again shortly after. He startled, barely managing to suppress a flinch, before he carefully returned his quill to its resting place to the left of the letter, cautious to avoid spilling any ink onto the parchment. Then he twisted around in his seat to face the direction of the noise.

He turned just in time to notice Curufin – not quite who he had expected from that entrance – arms full, packed up to his chin with a multitude of things in various sizes, marching towards his bed before dropping a plethora of tools and documents onto his blankets.

Ah, he thought, that would explain the lack of finesse with the door. It did not, however, explain anything else.

“Curvo…?” He raised an eyebrow at his brother. It was not rare – or had not been rare, before the Darkening – for Curufin to become absorbed into a project to the point of losing sight of what was going on around him – though usually he would be holed up in his forge for such a thing, needing regular reminders to eat and drink water, and to be dragged to sleep if whatever he was working on proved difficult enough to need more than a couple days.

But it was uncharacteristic of him to be out and about while so deeply concentrated, singular focus etched onto his face and all hints of decorum gone – usually Curufin was careful to maintain an air of sophistication in public, and only let himself go once he knew no eyes he had not approved of could observe him. Banging doors and spilling tools everywhere was decidedly not his usual way to comport himself.  

Curufin muttered softly to himself as he put various pieces that lay strewn all-over Maedhros’ bed sheets into an order only he knew, intent and meticulous while completely dead to all that was happening around him.

Maedhros felt his heart constrict at the sight – the first in a long while he had seen of this particular habit. It was, unfortunately for Curufin, moments like these where he most resembled Fëanor. This laser focus especially, when he was knees deep into some project, his mind’s fires stoked to an intensity that could burn for days and weeks on end, was all him, was when he looked upon his brother and felt the specter of their father superimpose itself onto him as he puttered about, the images overlaying and blurring, when Fëanor’s ghost clung to Curufin’s outline, guided his hand as he diligently labored away, led his feet as he paced in circles with clipped steps, and kindled the glint behind his eyes that would smolder with an intensity bordering on madness. Curufin had inherited this trait from Fëanor, and though he expressed it a little differently the similarities were undeniable, even to those who knew how to tell them apart quite well. 

Like this though, Maedhros realized, it still managed to sneak up on him – this echo – and he caught himself seeing the smoke and mist of a father whose ashes had long gone cold, unbidden and accompanied by pain though the thought now was.

But then Curufin would move just slightly differently from how Fëanor would have, whisper in an ever so slightly harsher cadence, and the image would shatter. Gone were the flames of his father’s fire, warm and passionate and undoubtably feeling of home, illusion broken as quickly as it came on, and he was left with the quickly cooling embers of his memory, as he was forced to look upon his brother and see him again, a pale imitation.  

It was painful, he realized, to look at him like this. Almost, Maedhros thought with a pang, he could not bear it. It was a reminder of what – and who – they had lost. The jagged wound deep in his chest that his father left began to seep blood. That wound which he had not dared to poke at for fear of having to deal with all the tangled emotions of rage and grief, that broken bond where his father’s fëa should connect to his - it throbbed with the absence, now that he was aware of it, was forced to acknowledge it.

Maedhros tried his best not to let his turmoil show. Tried to hide his slip up by pulling a measured calm onto his face as he stared at his brother, desperately trying to suppress the tangled emotions of his grief and bitterness at his father opposing the painful longing and love he still felt. He wondered if Curufin noticed regardless, and if he did, how he felt about it all. He knew that Curufin both loved and despised the way in which he resembled Fëanor.

So he looked, recalling all the ways in which his little brother was different, was decidedly his own person, not just a mirror image, and laid them out within his mind.

His hair was just a tad lighter, statue shorter, and the sneer that tended to creep onto his face just a tad meaner somehow, just like his words were often barbed with calculated poison when he wished them to, like a snarling beast that hissed and clawed at everyone, desperate to make its own name known, even if it must be through cruelty.

Their father in contrast, for all his flaws, had been cruel if he so desired, but never was he able to conceal exactly what was in his heart, painfully genuine both in love as he was in hate and madness.

But his brother had always been perceptive as he had been crafty. He knew how to read people and their hearts. Knew how to twist his words in a way that led you exactly where he wanted you. Curufin knew how to obscure his true feelings. In fact, sometimes Maedhros thought he mastered the art so well he even obscured them from himself.

And Maedhros had noticed him become more cutting after Fëanor was gone. Had seen his eyes grow colder, more cunning, more ruthless, a desperate edge to them well hidden under a coat of barbed wire, hiding a bleeding core.

Had heard his words turn vicious and cruel more often than not. Had seen him avoid his brothers except for Celegorm, who had never much cared for their father in the first place. Oh, he loved him, as they all did, but their relationship had been contentious long before the Oath had been sworn.

Maedhros didn’t know the reason for this – could only guess why Curufin was acting this way, but it was decidedly and distinctly him, no matter how much his prickly behavior was shaping up to be a problem.

He shook his head, dispelling the images from his head and focusing on his brother – physically, as he was before him, now no longer overlayered by the ghost of his father. Still he was muttering and sorting through the things he had strewn across Maedhros’ bed.

Maedhros felt his guard rise. Through long experience, he knew that his brother’s mood, just like their father’s, could become perilous if he was interrupted unduly when he was like this. He hoped he could easily deal with this situation, give Curufin whatever he needed, and then return to his work.

Maedhros looked to see if he could make out what kind of project his brother had brought, could spy blueprints and what looked like measuring tools, as well as some hastily scribbled notes, before Curufin abruptly straightened, body high-strung with tension, all coiled muscles. He could almost see the pent-up energy roiling beneath the surface, as his brother turned towards him, obscuring the equipment with his body in the process.

“Nelyo,” he started forward now, suddenly and abruptly acknowledging Maedhros’ presence, crowding into his space with quick strides. Curufin’s eyes were intense, his sharp, cutting gaze zeroed in on Maedhros in this special way he would get when he was puzzling out a project.

“Yes?” Maedhros replied warily.

Curufin stopped a short distance away, face unreadable for a moment as he stared intently at him in renewed silence, before his eyes snapped into focus, darting down and honing in on Maedhros’ arm – or rather his stump, he noticed as he followed Curufin’s gaze.

Maedhros felt irritation flare up in his chest as he guessed at Curufin’s purpose, carefully hidden shame coloring the emotion. He almost withdrew his arm, desperately wanted to hide it against his chest or cover his stump under his left hand. Stubbornly, he refused to indulge the impulse, remaining in place. Mulish pride lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest, defiance kindling and spreading outward. He would not hide what his body looked like – least of all from his family. The scars he bore were proof he was alive, proof that he was still breathing. And he did not appreciate the look with which Curufin was studying him.

“Curvo…,” he scowled, a hint of anger seeping into his voice as he uttered his brother’s name like a warning. He felt bared, suddenly put on the defensive, though he could not say why, only that Curufin’s focus unsettled him.

If his brother had come to darken his mood, he was succeeding.

That seemed to snap his brother out of whatever almost trance like concentration he had fallen into enough to put a semblance of awareness into him – though he seemed to either be deaf to or have ignored the growl in Maedhros voice. Nevertheless, he broke his gaze, hastily walked back over to the bed and grabbed something from the supplies he had arranged thereon, leafing through a few pages of what looked like a sketchbook before picking up some kind of rope-like tool, of which Maedhros could make neither head nor tails, before coming back to hover close.

“Give me your hand – er. Well, what is left of it,” he corrected himself inelegantly.

“What?” He stared at Curufin in disbelief. Eru but his brother was being less tactful than an Orc.

“I’ll make you a new one. Hand that is. I just need to – here, give it here, I just need to measure your wrist,” Curufin rambled on distractedly, taking another step forward and closing the distance to Maedhros’ chair, simultaneously reaching for his right arm.

Maedhros very suddenly felt deeply alarmed, adrenaline spiking as his heart started to pump faster, rhythmic pulse thrumming in his ears. Drawing his arm away to avoid his brother’s grasping hand, he twisted his body out of the way, curling in on himself slightly.

He didn’t know what it was that irritated him this much, but he did not like the look Curufin leveled at him at all – as though he was a project to obsess over. It made his hackles rise, something within his gut churning uncomfortably at the thought of being seen as a problem, a case to be studied, picked apart and examined until solutions fell out and Curufin could craft him his perfect fix.

Too late he noticed the way his body had shrunken in on itself – weak and shameful and vulnerable. He scowled at himself. This could not be who he was, how he portrayed himself. It would not be. Everything inside him rebelled at the thought. He forced himself to straighten, twisted around in his chair until he faced his half-forgotten document again, arm tugged neatly under the table to keep it out of reach. In his mind, he counted to four, then slowly backwards down to one, resolutely putting both anger and fear inside a box, to be dealt with later. Somehow it was important to him that Curufin did not realize how much he had unsettled Maedhros with his request, found he could not bear the thought.

“Not now Curvo, I’m working,” he said instead, returning to his abandoned letter, picking up his quill again and dipping it into the ink to continue the correspondence where he left off, clearly and decisively dismissing Curufin.

His brother only scowled, a deep crease furrowing itself onto his brow. He could see his brother’s look grow flinty, annoyance sparking in his eyes. “It’ll only take a minute,” Curufin huffed, unrelenting. “You should take a break anyway…you do too much of that,” he added mulishly, still crowding into Maedhros’ space and making a sweeping gesture at the clutter on his desk. As far as convincing speeches went, this was barely an attempt. There was never a time when Maedhros was more thankful for the fact his brother tended to lose all his finesse when he was truly focused on a project.

Still, he could not stop his traitorous chest from feeling tight with an emotion caught somewhere between panic and anger, the quill in his had quivering as he wrote in slightly shaky Tengwar.

“I’m busy.” The words sounded more like a growl, ground out between clenched teeth.

He could hear his brother muttering in annoyance, could see him fiddle with the tool in his hand, putting it from his left to his right in agitation, before he abruptly set it down on the table, only to pick it up again. “You’d get more of this drivel done if you had a right hand to work with,” he griped, clearly displeased he was being roadblocked.

Something inside of Maedhros snapped – he didn’t know why; his brother was being little more than a temporary and mild annoyance. And yet somehow, he could not stand it. “I am doing fine,” he hissed. “And this drivel is what it means to be a King. If you valued your responsibilities to our people – your people too – at all, you would know that. Not all of us just run from their problems by locking themselves up in the forge and then come out to offer to make their older brother a pity project.”

Everything halted. For a moment all Maedhros could hear was his own harsh breathing. Curufin was silent, still like one of the marble figures in their mother’s garden, fire extinguished from his eyes while he still clutched at the tool in his hands uselessly.

Maedhros suddenly realized he could not lift his gaze, could not look up into his brother’s eyes and see the desperate hurt etching itself into his features. Could not take the words back either, when something inside of him still snarled at the thought of being treated like he – like he was broken, something to be fixed. Like he could be examined under a magnifying glass and, and – memories clawed at the edges of his awareness, threatening to crowd in. He shoved them away violently.

A rock sat heavy in his stomach; he felt nauseous.

“Just…leave it be Curvo. I have work to do.” The words here mumbled, an escape, excuse, façade.

Maedhros stubbornly did not move his eyes from his letter again until he could hear Curufin’s steps recede. Then he put away his quill and rested his head in his hand, feeling the guilt weigh heavy in his heart.

Interlude V

Curufin did not come to talk to him for several weeks. Would avoid him during meetings or when Maedhros would make the rounds, supported by Caranthir by his side. Once or twice, their eyes would catch, Curufin’s gaze quickly flickering away as he pretended to focus on something elsewhere.

On week five after the incident though, unexpectedly, there was a simple wooden hand delivered to his rooms he could fasten to his stump. It could not do much – he used it mainly to better hold documents in place – but there was care in the way the wood was carved.

Maedhros had not asked for it, still did not truly care to have it. Still felt anger somewhere deep inside of him at Curufin disregarding his wishes so thoroughly in what was undoubtedly an attempt to smooth things over between them – both an apology and an offering. It was infuriating. He hated it.

More yet though, he hated how it made him feel even more guilty for not having apologized to his brother himself, for having been so harsh with him when, in his own way, Curufin had meant to be helpful.

He fastened the hand to his stump for the next meeting he knew his brother would be part of.

Chapter Text

Fingolfin

It was after yet another while, after he had fallen into his routine properly, when things changed yet again, puzzle taking shape further.

He had gotten used to the ever-rotating number of brothers that came to hover, had learned to stomach Caranthir’s fussing, was slowly growing accustomed to Maglor’s fretting, tuning it out as best he could, and still mostly avoided Curufin as he was avoided in return – though their relationship had evened back out, silence no longer pregnant with unspoken feelings.

Of Celegorm and Amras, he saw little to begin with, as they were often abroad leading scouting or hunting parties, though when they were around, they would drop by at random hours, coming to sit with him and tell stories of what they had seen.

Increasingly, he settled into his changed body and mind. He started to be able to walk by himself for longer stretches of time, and his speed in handling letters increased, messy scrawl improving to something somewhat legible as he dutifully dedicated himself to his missives. He jumped less at shadows, and his moods less often overwhelmed him.

Fingon continued to come to visit him once or twice a week – an excessive amount, in Maedhros’ opinion. Not that he would express this – it was pleasant to have him there, yet he worried still about the implications.

Though he had accepted it and become accustomed to his presence, if he was honest, he still didn’t understand it – how Fingon could find forgiveness in his heart so easily. How he would come and sit at Maedhros’ bedside and regale him with stories of all he had been through. How he would not shy away from smiling, always so optimistic, despite the cold that still haunted his bones. Maedhros knew – Fingon had not kept it secret – that many of Fingolfin’s people still struggled with lasting ailments from the crossing of the Helcaraxë, including his cousin himself. And he would feel a horrible wrench of guilt whenever he saw Fingon absently rubbing his hands together or bury deeper into his robes, reminded of his part in this, his responsibility.

Often, he thought of the neatly rolled scroll bearing Fingolfin’s device that sat on his desk. It had arrived some days ago – delivered by a messenger who had only said it was from Fingolfin himself. Maedhros had stared at it, put it down on his desk, then stared at it some more.

He hadn’t opened it yet. Did not dare to. Each time he thought about it he felt dread creep up his spine, and he found himself delaying, prioritizing other things and justifying it to himself.

He knew he had to – negotiations could not be put off for much longer. The relationship between the divided Noldor needed to be addressed if they wanted to have any chance of presenting a united front against Morgoth. They needed to get this right.

But he feared what demands would be made of him. And yet more he feared his own people’s reaction to the concessions he knew would have to be made. Their betrayal could not go unpaid.

And so, Maedhros spent much of the time he could spare cataloguing their resources and running equations in his head. Had inquired with his builders and craftspeople, with the farmers and hunters and the healers and many others amongst his host whose craft or labor was of negotiable value. Was running expenses in his head and drafting letters of apology, only to dismiss them again. Tried to get in order what measure of compromise was necessary to satisfy the wronged, and despaired over how his own people would not suffer the indignity of the amount of groveling they would have to do.

It was a conundrum he had not yet found a solution to. And thus, the scroll continued to sit on his desk.

He knew the delay would cause offense. He knew he needed to find a solution. But it would not come to him no matter how many nights he refused sleep in favor of trying to puzzle it out.

Guilt gnawed at the empty walls of his stomach – eating continued to be difficult for him, and often he would forget to entirely. It was hard to remember to feed himself when he had gone so long without, when his body had gotten accustomed to surviving on almost nothing. It was fine though, he tried to convince himself. He kept himself in shape enough to work through it in any case. His body was not a concern – he had learned how to wrangle it into submission, pushing the pain, hunger and exhaustion aside long enough to focus on what truly mattered.

The problem, at its core, was this: How could he ever make up for what was unforgivable? How could he forgive himself if he did not? And how could he do so without angering his own followers? It was impossible to placate everyone – and yet it was the impossible he had to achieve.

And so, ever and ever, he continued to run himself ragged, the circle unbreaking, until one day, when he heard a now familiar knocking on his door.

He dragged his hand down his face, pushing himself up from his study on shaky legs to approach it. Now that he could walk, even if it still made him feel week at the knees, he preferred to let in his visitors instead of calling them in. It made him feel in control, giving him a small sense of safety, silly as he knew it was. But it was calming, made him feel like he would not cleave to his own weakness anymore.

Cracking the door open, he greeted the blue-robed figure standing in the entrance. Ah. It was Fingon then, like he thought. But he wasn’t prepared for what he saw when it fully swung open. Oh yes, there was his cousin. But behind Fingon, another figure stood, clad in pale blue, tall and silent.

Maedhros felt dread creep up his spine at the sight. Fear pooled in his stomach, making him feel just a tiny bit queasy. He steeled himself, forcing his body to remain steadfast and strong – he could not show weakness, could not allow himself any vulnerability.

Fingon beamed at him, all teeth. The traitor.

“Hey Russo! I’m sorry, I can’t stay today!” He gave his father a gentle shove forward, pushing Fingolfin past the doorframe. Then he beamed once more, before pulling the door shut.

Silence.

Maedhros felt rooted to the spot. The color drained from his face. He wasn’t ready – he wasn’t prepared. He didn’t know what to do. This was not how it was supposed to go.

He should have opened that scroll. How could he have let it lie so long? What an unprofessional mistake to make. And now Fingolfin was here, and he wasn’t ready, didn’t know what his uncle wanted, was horribly on the backfoot for this entire negotiation.

For Eru’s sake, he was wearing a casual tunic and loose-fitting trousers! He tried not to aggravate his healing injuries when he did not need to, and he had not planned to leave his rooms today. It could hardly have gone worse. He had been raised in the art of politicking by Fingolfin – he knew, both of them knew, how essential appearances were. And now his uncle had caught him unguarded, unprepared, and far from proper.

He hastily tried to school his features and straighten his posture, lifting his arm from where it was perched on the edge of the dresser, wedged into the space between the door and the corner, so he had somewhere to support himself while standing, as he tried to wipe the stray hairs out of his face, tucking the loose strands behind his ears in a desperate attempt to appear put together.

That was a mistake.

The second he lifted his hand, vertigo hit him, and he felt himself sway, unbalanced. His vision blurred for a second, colors dancing before his eyes. These fits had been happening ever since he tried his hand at walking again – any movement could set him off, could suddenly obscure his vision for a few moments and he would struggle for balance.

Involuntarily, he took a step forward, trying to regain his footing, but it didn’t work. He could feel his weight shift, pulling him forward mercilessly towards the ground and braced himself for an unpleasant encounter with the floor. But before he hit the ground, suddenly his fall was stopped.

Hands. There were hands on his arms, gripping him, propping him up.

Slowly his vision cleared, revealing a face before his, deep blue eyes fraught with what looked surprisingly like worry.

Still weak in the knees, he let himself be walked towards his bed, did not resist when the back of his legs hit the frame and he sat down. He could still do little more than stare once he was settled atop his blankets, back against the headboard, as his uncle went over to the pitcher of water on his nightstand, pouring a glass before handing it to him.

“Drink. You look terrible.” His voice was the same as it had always been; mild, melodious, reassuring and almost quiet, yet full of confidence that demanded to be followed, but promised to protect. 

Maedhros obeyed, taking slow sips while the blackness cleared from the edges of his vision. As soon as the water met his lips he realized he was quite thirsty. It must have been a while since he had drunk something.

With no small amount of annoyance, he realized that the headache that had started to brew behind his eyelids abated a little once he had emptied the cup. He felt, to his great chagrin, embarrassed, like an elfling caught doing something naughty. It was deeply disconcerting.

Maedhros took his time setting the water down, keeping it in his hand while taking a moment to gather and recenter himself, mentally preparing for what his uncle may want to discuss. If he could not appear with his dignity intact before Fingolfin, he would at least make sure he would not be caught failing his negotiations; was entering them with his mind sharp and focused. It was the important part anyway – or so he tried to tell himself.

Once he had gathered himself, rehearsed all the points he could recall in his head and shoved both guilt and fondness inside a box within his mind firmly, he set down the cup and met Fingolfin’s eyes, face carefully neutral. If his uncle thought his kindness would give him an angle, Maedhros would know how to counter it.

“What can I do for you, uncle?” he asked, voice even, tacking on the familial address without his father’s contemptuous half-, waiting for Fingolfin to set the expectations, but hoping to mellow him out. It was as much a strategic decision as it was genuine, was what he had always called Fingolfin in private.

Still, he did not expect it when Fingolfin only smiled at him kindly, still holding the pitcher full of water in his hands.

“Today? Nothing, Maitimo. I came to inquire how you are,” his uncle said, pouring new water into the empty glass on Maedhros’ nightstand before returning the carafe to its resting place and drawing himself a chair over from Maedhros' workspace.

The workspace where the letter with Fingolfin’s device still sat, incriminatingly unopened.

Maedhros winced. Well, there went any plausible deniability about that. He could only hope Fingolfin would not take it too ill. He did not know what game his uncle was playing, what tactic he was trying to employ, but surely he wanted something.

Maedhros delibered this. Decided to start with the easiert part. “My apologies for the delay in answering your missive.” It was a peace offering, an olive branch, and a sign that he was willing to welcome Fingolfin’s thoughts, with which he hoped to demonstrate his willingness to speak cordially. And he really had taken entirely too long to answer his uncle’s correspondence.

“I –,“ he tried to continue but found himself suddenly stuck. He licked his lips, wetting the dry skin and trying to do at least a little damage control.

But what could he say? ‘I was too scared to look at it?’ ‘I was afraid to see what you would have of me?’ That would make him sound weak. No, honesty would not serve him here, and yet any other excuse would only imply affront as well. Yes, a lie would make him sound like he did not prioritize the letter enough, like Fingolfin was beneath him. Oh Eru, he had barely opened his mouth and already he was backed into a corner.

“I had hoped to get to it today,” he finished without much finesse.

He should have read the stupid letter.

But Fingolfin, to his surprise, only made a dismissive gesture.

“I should have come in person anyway. It was cowardly of me to send a letter – as my son has been more than eager to remind me,” he said with a rueful smile crinkling the space around his eyes.

Maedhros felt ice pour down his veins, heedless of Fingolfin’s gentle demeanor, as his mind whirled.

Fingon had talked to Fingolfin about this? Had set this up? Had told his father to come make his demands of Maedhros in person? Maedhros had thought – but then again Fingon may have a soft spot for him in private, but he could not have forgiven the Helcaraxë. Of course he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. And he was still Fingolfin’s son, first and foremost, before he was Maedhros’ friend.

No – he interrupted himself. That was unkind to his friend. More likely, he had not thought of the political consequences at all, had simply meant to set them up to talk it out. And Fingolfin had played along.

How naïve and hopeful. How very much like him.

But this was reality.

Maedhros swallowed.

“What did you wish to talk about then? I would not have you postpone it for my…,” he made a sweeping gesture at himself, situated on his bed, trying again to encourage Fingolfin to just state what he wanted. It was direct perhaps, but his only way to engage Fingolfin in conversation politely and ask indirectly had fallen flat.

He would just have to make his calls as the situation developed, giving up any chance to steer the conversation himself. Still, he thought, he needed to know. Know what this was going to be about. He felt tired – tired of having to do this dance – it was exhausting and not what he enjoyed at all.

Maedhros observed his uncle’s reaction closely as he waited for an answer, saw how Fingofin’s brow creased, visibly dismayed, and his heart sank further.

How was he messing this up so badly? What was he missing? Was Fingolfin more angry than he thought? Had he changed so much from the man Maedhros used to know?

It was true he had not spoken to his uncle since before the Ice. Had not truly had a conversation with him since before the exile even. But before that they had had a cordial relationship. Long ago, when they had both volunteered at Finwë’s court; spent many afternoons and evenings poring over documents together, laboring away in amiable cooperation for long hours in the royal library to assemble a plan for the next petition they were going to present. They had not been friends exactly – had never been close enough in age or experience, nor had they had much opportunity to interact outside of their courtly functions – but there had been a certain kinship, a certain respect and understanding between them, despite the contentious situation between their houses.

Now though, there was nothing but long years of silence and betrayal between them. It made Maedhros feel tired. He wished he could just speak to his uncle, like Fingon wanted.

But then, Fingolfin surprised him again as he answered.

“My business, as I said, is that I came to see how you are doing – that is the inquiry I sent,” Fingolfin pointed at the letter, still innocuously sitting on Maedhros’ desk. “I apologize if I have given you reason to think otherwise. I did not wish to infringe upon your time.”

“What?” he reeled in shock. That could not be true. It simply could not be true. Surely his uncle was here for a purpose other than to inquire about Maedhros’ health. It was nonsensical for someone like Fingolfin, someone he owed such a massive debt to, to come to Maedhros’ sickbed without demand or motive; for his uncle, who had every reason to despise him, who he had become estranged with through bitter circumstances and worse deeds, to wish to talk to him for any reason but to discuss repayment. There was no justice to be found in a…a needless social visit, no retribution, no nothing.

Maedhros’ mind violently rejected the thought, could not entertain the possibility. Fingon was one thing, with his big-hearted trust and forgiveness – this was another matter entirely. He must have had an end, something he wanted out of this interaction. Some game he was playing.

Maedhros knew games. He knew – had learned bitterly and painfully - that mercy and grace were not real, that kindness was used as a knife to stab you in the back when you lowered your guard, that debts were leverage you never ever gave away, that the hand that reached out to help you was nothing but a lure, a trap to snap shut when you reached for it. Maedhros had learned that only the foolish trusted – the wise were prepared for the lie, for the poison behind sweet words.

He thought, desperately, trying to make sense of it. When the first solutions did not avail, he cast his mind further, trying to connect what he knew to be reality to the words he was hearing, the actions he was seeing.

Perhaps Fingolfin wanted to gauge his ability to handle his responsibilities. If so, Maedhros feared, he had already given away too much with his body still suffering this thrice-damned frailty he could not yet subjugate in full.

He forced himself to answer.

“It’s fine. I am well.” The words came out choked, hardly believable to himself.

Fingolfin merely raised an eyebrow, but did not call him out on his lie, though Maedhros was certain he had caught it. Instead, inexplicably, he only dragged his chair closer to Maedhros’ bed, before settling into it again, crossing his legs.

“I am glad to hear it,” he commented noncommittally, hands folded in his lap, tone conversational. He clearly did not believe a single word, but was too polite to say so. “It must be quite the challenge, to relearn things with your non-dominant hand. I know some of my own people are struggling to recover, after losing a limb to the cold.”

Fingolfin’s tone remained measured, his face polite, no indication of anger or resentment on the pale marble of his features, yet still Maedhros winced. This, he knew, was his fault. And perhaps so his uncle’s intentions could be revealed after all.

“I am sure we can come to an agreement regarding compensation,” his mind was already racing ahead, jumping to the calculations he had made. He tried to sit up straighter, thinking to reach for his quill, which lay abandoned on his desk, when he was abruptly pushed back down onto his bed by his uncle, hands closing around Maedhros’ upper arms, blue eyes serious as Fingolfin looked upon his face sternly.

“That is not what I meant. You would do well not to put words in my mouth,” he chided, pausing for a moment as though he was looking for the right words, weighing them on his tongue before letting them pass his lips, face stern though devoid of true anger, a little crease between his brows still showing that awful dismay Maedhros could not make sense of, had hoped to eliminate.

“I did not come here to press you, Nelyafinwë,” his uncle continued evenly yet firmly, switching to Maedhros’ father name, the one he rarely used for the insult it offered to his own existence. It added a layer of gravitas to what he said, showcasing his seriousness in a way the words alone could not.

“Such is not my purpose.” Fingolfin withdrew his hands, folding them in his lap again as he looked upon Maedhros still with piercing eyes, an emotion behind them that Maedhros found hard to define, could not fully comprehend. It was pity without the edge of condescension. Grace without absolution. He shuddered. Perhaps it was not forgiveness that Fingolfin came to offer him, and yet, there was warmth in his eyes, in his demeanor; a care unhindered by what lay between them.

Something about it, made him feel incredibly small and fragile. It burned. Maedhros had to close his eyes for a second to breathe through the emotions threatening to well up as he faced his uncle’s regard. It wasn’t the time for him to become overwhelmed, he told himself, but could not quiet the storm beginning to brew inside him. He swallowed thickly.

“Why are you here then? Truly. What would you have of me?” His voice shook just a little, despite his effort to steady it, and he found he could not hold his uncle’s gaze, had to drop his eyes and look at his hand instead. It shamed him.

Fingolfin’s gaze continued to burn through the cover of his hair falling over his face. Unmoving and steadfast he sat at Maedhros’ bedside, like a rock in a sea of waves, never wavering, never straying. Maedhros, despite his better judgement, felt himself drawn to that pillar of strength, felt his shell crack open until he was bare, trying to huddle in the warmth his uncle's presence offered.

After a while Fingolfin answered him.

“I have told you already, though you seem intent not to believe me,” he said, still no judgement in his voice, though one of his slim eyebrows rose up his forehead as his tone lightened somewhat. There was a patient sadness that shone out of his face despite the smile that danced on his lips.

“I wished to see how you are. No one should have had to endure what you did. It is a horrible fate. How then could I leave you to face the aftermath alone?” Fingolfin took the glass he had filled with water earlier, holding it between his hands as he spoke. “I came to express my solidarity and my sympathy. And I wanted to see you,” he passed the glass into Maedhros’ hand, decisively but gently, a solid comforting presence somehow emanating from him. Then he filled another glass with water – an empty one still sitting on the nightstand – this time for himself. “You are my nephew after all,” he said, taking a sip and indicating for Maedhros to do the same. “You should drink more; it will help.”

Maedhros felt shame threaten to overtake him as he could no longer deny that his uncle was likely speaking true, had to face the possibility that his uncle simply wanted to care for him, despite everything; no matter how much everything inside him screamed that trust was dangerous, to never accept the hand of another again.

Maedhros gripped the glass in his hand, clenching his fingers around it as it sat heavy in his palm. Guilt choked him, squeezing his throat shut. He swallowed, mouth dry. Shakily, he brought it to his lips, taking a small sip, forcing the water down through his constricting throat. Nausea lay thickly over his senses. He licked his lips again, wetting them with the residue of the water he had swallowed.

His mind felt heavy, fog creeping in at the edges, as the shame and regret sat in his stomach like a stone.

Here he had thinking about strategy, expecting his uncle to stab him in the back, to use the hour to press his advantage.

Here Fingolfin was, wanting to check on him, to make sure he was alright.

He wanted to cry. Wanted to thank Fingolfin. Wanted to fall to his knees and apologize. Hated the thought so much, he wanted to send his uncle away and never see him again.

What kind of Elf was he to come here offering care for one who had forsaken him? What kind of Elf was Maedhros to deny and suspect him? The vastness of the debt between them was overwhelming. Oppressively, it sat on Maedhros’ mind.

Was he truly turning this paranoid? Maedhros felt ill at the thought – he did not like the idea of so resembling his father, of accusing friends, allies, family of treason where naught but good intentions lay. It was deplorable. It was proof of the Doom working its way. He hated it.

It was simply unbearable.

He wished fiercely that he never would have had to face all his mistakes, that Fingolfin would not have come. Then he would not have had to realize the magnitude of his own folly.

Would that Fingon had killed him, he thought, unbidden.

“How…?” he whispered, voice trembling. “How can you stand to look at me?”

His grip on the glass was crushingly tight.

“Why would you care? I left you behind, I didn’t stop Atar from burning the boats. I – ,“ he trembled, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Eru but how he hated his own weakness. How could he let himself fall apart like this? How, when he knew such exposed vulnerability was dangerous, left your underbelly open for any to attack. When, moreover, his pride hissed and snarled at such a show of frailty.

Still, incomprehensivly, Fingolfin persisted in this strange mockery of kindness, in this misplaced display of familial affection.

“You stood aside, did you not? And even had you not, I would still be here. Because you are my nephew, and you went through something unimaginable. That is all the reason I need. The politics can wait for a little while,” he said, as though that was all it took, as though the strife between their houses was just a small disagreement that could be put aside temporarily.

“But can they?” he asked, shaking his head. He felt the thoughts that pressed heavily on his mind spill forth, was eager to indulge them for once, if only they changed the topic, desperate to take any distraction now, if only it meant he could escape this false absolution, could pretend it did not make his skin crawl, could tell himself it wasn’t what he wanted deep down, when he knew he did not deserve it.

And so all his plans and suspicions, his hesitation to share, his assumed distrust – it meant nothing as he opened his mind and found, instead of enemies on all sides, a willing ear to listen.

“The people are demanding actions,” he said, “There is so much to do – we have to be prepared. We have to – the Noldor need peace, unity, strength if we are to stand any chance against Morgoth. I – no, it cannot wait. How could you say such a thing. I have wasted so much time already!”

He was rambling, almost frantic and he knew it. Could not stop the words from spilling from his mouth anyway, some carefully erected dam breaking loose as the pressure on it got too great.

Fingolfin stayed steady as Maedhros spoke, calm assuredness spreading from his presence, as he let him unburden his mind, spill his worries at his feet, offering no resistance while he listened, compassion and understanding still reflecting in his eyes. After Maedhros had finished he took a deep breath, putting away his glass.

“I know, Maitimo. I, too, share the burden of leadership, of responsibility for our people. But we are working towards that peace you wish for, every day. Lasting peace and unity do not come from action taken in fear or to appease the people. We must walk a hard road, but we will be stronger for it. The Noldor will need a King who trusts himself, a strong ruler, and I do not mean strength of arms. You must first find your own peace again, and learn to trust your strength,” he paused, tilting his head and continuing in an odd tone, “and that of others. There are many hands that would help you. I do not think you are wasting time by healing, by giving yourself the space to recover. That is why you must continue to rest and heal. If you break yourself on your duty, the Noldor will fracture with you. And so, it can wait. We will speak of it in due time. For now, simply let me be here as someone who cares about you.”

Maedhros felt something tighten in his chest. He was suddenly and almost violently reminded of his youth again. Saw himself as a young elf, barely past his majority, following behind his uncle at Finwë’s court, as the other had mentored him, provided counsel and given advice when he was still young and impressionable, as well as terribly unsure and naïve when it came to the daily intrigue and intricacies of court. His uncle had seen him, lost among the courtiers who tried to gain his favor in exchange for some perceived influence, before he knew what was happening, and had extended his hand, had taught him and guided him, had impressed upon him what it meant to serve the Noldor.

Always there had been wisdom in his words.

But now, doubt ate at Maedhros’ thoughts. How could he rest when so much hinged on his success? There was simply no time. And so much to do. He just needed to be stronger. But Fingolfin was telling him to slow down, was putting his wellbeing over the political unrest that still brewed between the Noldor.  

Lowering the glass of water, he wiped his hand down his face, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. He knew there was merit to what Fingolfin was saying. But he didn’t know what he could do, felt overwhelmed at the thought.

“I…I will,” he said weakly, unsure how else to answer. It was bewildering as it was difficult for him to stomach, and yet to refuse would mean to scorn his uncle’s kindness, and he felt himself unwilling to entertain the thought anymore, could not help the tendril of trust that had wormed its way through the cracks in his defenses. “Thank you, for your visit – and everything. I…I’ll try to keep it in mind; rest more,” he mumbled, not fully convinced he could keep his word, would truly find rest, but taking it to heart regardless.

“That is good. Take care to recover well,” his uncle reached out to squeeze his shoulder, hand warm and steady, “We will have much to talk about once you are better.” Maedhros felt himself lean into the gesture, could not even truly dread the coming storm anymore.

Soon after, once they had spoken a little more about small, insignificant things, Fingolfin left again.

Maedhros watched his uncle go, feeling steadier than before. That evening he ate his dinner, and when it became too dark to read, he put out his lamp and went to sleep. He would continue his work tomorrow.

Interlude VI

It was after this that Fingolfin too, just like Fingon, started to become a somewhat regular fixture in Maedhros’ routine, though he came by less commonly than his son. Perhaps once a week – or less – making an appearance when he could find the time away from his own duties, busy as he was with taking care of his own people’s needs.

But each time he came, Maedhros felt surer that not all was lost between them. Though Fingolfin made clear that he did not intend to brush aside the wrongs that had been done to his people and to himself by Fëanor and his followers, he maintained a cordial tone and did not lay blame at Maedhros’ feet beyond the measure of his own deeds. Moreover, he continued to let Maedhros prioritize his recovery – in fact, most of the time, he barely talked of the political situation between them at all, simply sat with him and listened much while they spoke of simpler things.

After a while of this Maedhros began, almost involuntarily, to speak more openly of his own plans with his uncle. He was not sure how or why it started, thought that perhaps it was an outgrowth of their old cooperation slotting itself back into place against his will and better judgement.

It should, he thought, have been impossible. There had been so much trust lost between them, so many things lying between the shores of Araman and the cold waters of Lake Mithrim, that Maedhros had not thought it possible to speak to his uncle as though he could expect even an ounce of leniency and understanding – and yet he had been proven wrong about that the first time they talked, was proven more wrong each time they met.

Perhaps it was not so strange after all then that Fingolfin, almost automatically, started giving him advice as Maedhros posed some of the more difficult decisions he had to make about the Noldor to him, bouncing his ideas off of his uncle when he could not decide on the best way forward; much like they had used to work together back in Tirion, before everything. Often, he ended up incorporating some of Fingolfin’s suggestions into his thought, found merit in his uncle’s ideas, which he contributed without restraint.

Fingolfin’s advice was sound and insightful, bringing new impulses to things Maedhros had been stuck on. And while he could have made the decision himself – as he knew was expected of him by his followers, he began to understand again the value of having trusted allies, of being able to share some of the burden of leadership.

Yet this he valued the most; that Fingolfin did not withhold his counsel, offered it freely indeed whenever Maedhros spoke to him. No matter if the subject was close to his heart or not, he would consider it seriously, only speaking if he had something to say. Yet when the matter touched him near, he was transparent, would not seek to manipulate Maedhros’ decisions in his favor. Ever would he encourage Maedhros to take his fate – the fate of the Noldor – into his own hands, but restrained him when he threatened to break himself under the pressure, counseling him in patience as he did in wisdom.

Many times Fingolfin had gently coralled him into taking a break, had ordered refreshments to be brought to Maedhros’ room and not let him work until he had eaten and drank at least a little. Much to Maedhros’ chagrin, he often noticed his productivity increase whenever his uncle forced some bites into him.

In a way, as he had noted before, it really did feel a bit like he was back in Tirion, back when he was young and his uncle had taken him under his wings, teaching him what it meant to be a leader; what it meant to act in the best interest of the people, all the while looking out for him.

More than once though, his uncle’s behavior had earned him a cold shoulder from Maglor, who had taken it upon himself to be responsible for Maedhros. But unlike Fingolfin, who was both a father and a mentor, Maglor was Maedhros’ younger brother, and did not seem to know how to translate his care into actions other than to stick to his side incessantly.

Nevertheless, he improved further under the care and companionship he was given, as he regained not just his strength of body and mind, but his confidence and ability to trust, bit by precious bit.

A Decision

But despite this general improvement – with the injuries that would heal now almost entirely gone – sometimes he would still have bad days, and even on his good ones he was irrevocably changed.

There was a constant draft coming in through the cracks in the windows, air chilled by the cold air of the lakeshore, freezing his bones with its wet-cold embrace. Many days, despite the cold that plagued him, he would sit in his hard wooden chair, bent over and huddled within his blanket as he feverishly pored over his work even as the letters swam before his eyes.

His joints ached constantly. Sometimes it got so bad he would take the prosthetic Curufin had fashioned off entirely, his stump too sensitive to support it, even if he used it only sparingly. His leg – the one that had been broken when he returned – would act up, deep pulling pain shooting through him no matter what position he would take. His right shoulder would hunch downward, locking up as the cold settled into his bones and aggravated his injuries.

And always the dreadful fog filled his head, no thought sticking for long as a dull throbbing headache pulsed behind his lids, and trying to follow an idea to its conclusion was like wading through a swamp.

Sometimes he wondered if he would ever really be comfortable again.

It was hard to focus on such days – the bad ones especially, when he felt like all his progress was unraveling before his eyes. Only with great difficulty he could set aside the pains in his body, convice himself they were only temporary symptoms, and soldier on.

But ever more he began to understand that it was not only his body that stole his vigor. Inexplicably, despite his body’s healing, and without particular reason or anything specific to set him off, he would often find his mind stuck in quite dreadful moods. Found it remained glum even when the ache in his bones faded back to something manageable.

Dark were his thoughts then, dark like they were on Thangorodrim, and darker his moods and he could observe himself snapping and scowling at anyone who dared to pass his way. He tried to be patient, but patience felt like swimming up a river against a mighty current of wrath he would get swept away in. There was a wellstream of frustrated energy trapped unbearably within his body, coursing through his veins and pressing against the confines of his hröa. Anger was caught behind his teeth like a fire waiting to erupt. He felt like bursting. It was maddening.

Sometimes, on the darkest days, he wondered what the point of any of it even was. What good would come of any of his work when Doom had condemned them to fail?

They had come to Middle Earth to fight Morgoth and reclaim the Silmarils – as the dreadful Oath demanded of them. And deep down he knew the task would break them. He could feel it sometimes, the Oath, nestled inside his chest like a thorny vine squeezing around his fëa, slithering and curling around his being – pulling. He dreaded what hopeless deeds it would push him to commit. Knew that throwing himself blindly at the Enemy would end in nothing but despair. Knew, deep in his heart, that if that was the only road left to him, that he would be obliged to walk it no matter where the path may lead; come death and destruction – or worse.

And it was this knowledge that made him, with ever increasing clarity, understand that he would need to be free to fulfill the Oath to its bitter end no matter what, and, likely as not, spend his life in the attempt.

The more aware he became of this, the more he began to worry about another thing, began to realize the impossible situation he was in. How then, when he was obliged to walk in darkness, he thought, could he, with good conscience, lead the Noldor? His father would say that it was their duty to follow their King’s command, that they had chosen to come precisely for this. But Maedhros knew this to be untrue. Could not conscience the thought of leading his people towards death and ruin when they had come for their loyalty, yes, but also for the fulfillment of their dreams.

And then there were Fingolfin’s people. After all that had happened, they would be most unwilling to risk limb and life for the quest of a Fëanorion, be he their King or not. Too much had his father’s short-sightedness sown division between them. Too high had the price of his – his, not Fingolfin’s, as Fëanor had expected – betrayal been. And Maedhros was complicit in this. Though had he not been, still the outcome would remain unchanged.

What King could demand of his people to forgive such folly, without the assurance that it may not happen again, should the Oath command it, should Doom force their hand towards treason again? He did not know the answer. And more yet, he knew that any apology he offered would be insincere at its core, if he could not truly guarantee the change he promised. Their actions – his actions – were bound by the Oath, by the will of his father. And if his father demanded vengeance, he would need to deliver it, cause it betrayal or no. It was a blade raised and sharpened with a will of its own he held in his hand, and he, though he appeared the wielder, only followed where it led.

And so it was that deep within his heart he began to understand that his Oath put him at odds with his duties to the Noldor as a whole. A good King must put his people first, all his people, and see to their wellbeing. Yet the Oath demanded he prioritize the Silmarils at all costs. He could not act both in their best interest and according to what his own Oath demanded.

Yes, as King, two Oaths he would need to be beholden to. Yet two masters he could not serve.

That which would make him an exemplary son would make him a terrible King. His priorities would not allow him to do his birthright justice.

For long days and longer nights, he would go in circles on this, ever and ever again. And when his body was riddled with pain, and his mind stuck in the darkest corners of his thought he would feel most closely the effect of the Doom spoken upon them, and the inescapable burden his father had saddled them with.

But even on his better days, when he realized that his mind was playing tricks on him, would have him believe he had already failed when he had not yet tried, a niggling doubt began to creep into his thoughts.

While on those brighter days he could yet hope that perhaps in time the Oath could, if perhaps not fully achieved, be persued, he could not with a clean conscience take up the Kingship.

And so slowly, with time, an idea began to form in Maedhros’ head before it grew, took roots and finally unfolded into a plan, a path forward.

It was thus, with all this knowledge heavy in his heart, that he made a decision he knew would displease his brothers greatly.

He resolved to pass the crown to Fingolfin.

He told his brothers the following day.

Chapter Text

Caranthir

The reactions came fast as they came furious even if not quite as he had expected. It was barely a day after the news when the first of his brothers came storming in, angrily striding into his room.

"Are you fucking stupid?" Caranthir’s voice was shrill and accusing, as the door slammed shut behind him. He paused near the entrance, taking a deep breath, visibly distressed and failing to reign it in, before continuing his barrage, speaking animatedly and with sweeping – if abrupt – gestures.

"You can't be serious! Ñolofinwë? That half-breed has no right, and you know it, Nelyo. What lies has he told you?"

Caranthir aggressively stomped towards the bed Maedhros was resting in, while he idly went through the plans he had drafted as part of the transfer of power and public apology he was outlining in his head.

"No lies Moryo, you know this too," Maedhros answered. He did not look up from his documents, determined not to rise to his brother’s anger. It was best to let him get it out, let him spew his venom freely until he calmed down enough to have a conversation.

Nevertheless, he was in no mood to discuss his reasons, and so he hoped Caranthir would get it out quickly and explosively – as he tended to, and then be on his way.

He heard his brother pace, gait clipped, feet thudding onto the floor as he went in circles around the small space between the bed and the door. When he failed to evoke a reaction from Maedhros, he continued.

"You cannot possibly think this is the right course of action, Nelyo. You can't! Do you not realize what this will cost us? When the crown rests on our half-uncle's head, he will demand that we pay for that which they don't deserve. It was their own folly that brought them here – lesser people of a lesser line, that should rightfully have stayed behind in Aman - and you will give them the means to tyrannize us!"

The words rushed out of Caranthir’s mouth, harsh and angry as they were cruel, increasing in volume and pitch as he passionately waved around his hands, still continuing to pace.

But there was something more to them, to the manner of his delivery, which Maedhros had not noticed at first. It made him perk up and put down the report he was reading after all.

Though his brother was prone to violent outbursts of emotions and biting remarks, beneath the obvious irritation, Maedhros thought he sensed something almost desperate clinging to him as he spoke, angry words barbed with poison, reeking of some kind of hidden distress now that he looked, agitation clinging to his every movement.

Maedhros sighed, rolling up the document and putting it on his nightstand. If Caranthir saw what he had been looking at, it would only make the situation worse.

"The negotiations will be fair, Moryo. Uncle Ñolofinwë is not a cruel man," he said tiredly, trying to reassure his brother, though he already suspected it would be in vain. A few weeks ago, he would not have believed it either, after all.

Caranthir stopped abruptly, head swiveling around to face Maedhros. His eyes burned like coals, dark brown smoldering with intensity, an angry flush coloring his cheeks.

"Uncle Ñolofinwë!?” he screeched, “I cannot believe you. He shows up here and all he has to do is be nice to you once or twice and you throw your birthright at his feet!? Do you have no pride, brother? Why would you do this?" he spat, now truly angry, it seemed. His brother was trembling, balling his fists tightly at his side, blotchy red face set into a firm scowl he fixed Maedhros with.

This wasn’t quite what he had been prepared for. Maedhros had not expected his decision to be popular; was fully expecting to be yelled at more than once. But, if he was honest with himself, he had not quite thought that this brother would be the first to show up at his door, nor that he would express his displeasure quite like this. He knew Caranthir would be angry with him, expected no less from all of his brothers – but this rage went beyond his reckoning; seemed to be threaded through and fueled by some kind of fear that Maedhros could not pin down.

Something was unsettling Caranthir, Maedhros suspected. And it was more than just his decision about the Kingship over the Noldor. Discontent lay there, that much was true, and Caranthir was genuinely upset. But it simply did not feel like that was all there was to it. Not if you knew to look beyond what he was saying, not if you knew Caranthir in truth.

His brother may be harsh and judgmental, and never had he been overly fond of their cousins – especially not Finarfin’s children; though Fingolfin’s line he held in no particular regard either. Despite his bluster though, Maedhros knew that Caranthir, while by no means close to their uncle, had no particular dislike of him beyond that which was expected of him as one of Fëanor’s line. And he was not usually this uptight and judgmental in his disregard, preferred to turn his nose up and sneer at Indis’ line maybe once or twice when they would meet, before going back to ignoring their existence, as he did with most people he had no connection to.

But then, what could it be? It worried Maedhros, but calm reason would not draw forth what he was hoping to uncover. Perhaps though, he thought, though he felt a stab of guilt at it, if he could just string his brother along, he would reveal himself – and then he could deal with the situation accordingly.

And so, he smiled, raising an eyebrow while quirking his lips upward almost mockingly.

“Because, dear brother,” he drawled, making sure to observe Caranthir closely, “I would not make a very good King. Not as I am now.” What he said was true, was the conclusion he had come to on his own just days earlier – though the omission of his reasoning painted rather a different picture than what he meant by his words, making them more inflammatory than they need have been.

And he was rewarded for his little trick. Caranthir blanched momentarily, before the redness returned to his face in full force, gaze becoming frantic. "Nelyo...that’s not true,” he said emphatically, though his voice trembled a little as he spoke. Then he strode forward to the foot of the bed and slammed his arms onto the mattress, propping himself up, arms stiff, tightly coiled with pent up energy as he added, desperate intensity burning in his eyes: “You have done so much. It is not your fault that they are ungrateful. Let them! Command their obedience if you must. Don’t let that dimwit poison your thoughts!"

The scared edge shining in his eyes now came forward, no longer veiled by the blistering anger as it protruded, raw and terrified. It was easy, almost too easy now, to see what his brother was thinking – and had the terror not pierced Maedhros heart where he sat, he would have been angry himself, would take Caranthir by the collar of his tunic and shake him for this insult to his capabilities.

His brother may be afraid of the consequences of losing power, of being sworn to Fingolfin as King, but it was not truly the political position that worried him so, no, it was more personal. He seemed, somehow, afraid of Maedhros, or perhaps for him – to be more precise, the terrified glint in his eyes looking as though he thought his brother would crumble to ashes where he stood.

Maedhros felt it eat at his pride, felt the beast within himself growl and his mood threaten to sour. But this was Caranthir – his little brother who had held his hand and bandaged his wounds for weeks without complaining. He deserved Maedhros’ patience, no matter how difficultly it came to him these days. So he bit back on his annoyance and focused on trying to resolve his brother’s struggle.

Yet Maedhros could not figure out why Caranthir felt this way about his decision. Anger he understood. Though he knew it was the sensible thing to do, had come to realize the necessity, he didn’t expect his brothers to understand his motives. But concern? No, he had not thought it would cause Caranthir to look at him as though he was throwing away his own life instead of the crown, could not puzzle out the progression of thought that led Caranthir to make such a conclusion.

His only road forward was explaining then, no matter how little he liked this conversation, hoping that somehow, something would hit the nerve and he would be able to pacify his brother.

"Moryo. This... this is for the best. If you think about it, I am not what the people need. This is what is best for the Noldor. Whether we like it or not, Ñolofinwë and his people followed us across the northern wastes, crossed the Helcaraxë to come here and experienced unimaginable losses. How can I name myself their King without acknowledging the part we played in this? How will they follow us even if I do? Whether I pass the crown to Ñolofinwë or not, we will have to placate their anger somehow, or remain divided. And I cannot think of a way that it would end well for us, if I demand they swallow their anger to follow us. Would you have me do Morgoth’s work for him?”

He raised his chin at his brother, imploring him to understand, hoping to convey what he had thought to himself in the long nights he spent pondering this conundrum. He did not make his choice out of weakness or frailty, desperately needed his brother to stop looking at him like he could be blown away with the wind.

“I have tried – I am not making this decision lightly. But their numbers are great, and their resentment runs deep. What use is my birthright if the people cannot accept me in their hearts?”

He would not mention his concerns about the Oath – would hope, with all his might, that there was no need for it. Would keep his brothers from having to face the possibility for as long as he could, if he had any say in it. He wished, with his whole heart, that he could protect them, that they never had to face being driven by its hold on their hearts again. That they could rest easy without the worry – no, the knowledge of its inevitability – eating at their minds.

But somehow the desperate sheen to Caranthir’s eyes only increased as he spoke, something terrified and cornered slipping into his gaze as his expression grew stormy, angry flush concentrating on his cheeks even as his pallor grew wan. He fisted the blankets at the foot of the bed, scrunching his hands up tightly as he spoke.

"So you'll just give up? Throw it all away? Like it means nothing? Like we do not desperately need every advantage we can get?" His voice cracked as it shot up, increasing in pitch with every word, incredulous of what he was hearing. “We’ll have to make reparations. Our situation is precarious enough as it is, this will bring nothing but disaster – we’ll be beholden to whatever our precious uncle decides,” he sneered, derision lacing every word, even as he sounded almost hysterical, “Did we not come here to be free of such fetters? Why would you make us his thralls? His loyal dogs who will bow to his every whim!”

His brother breathed, angry gasps falling from his lips as he tried to rein in his temper and calm down. He pushed himself up from his position, looking at the ceiling as though it held the answers to his torment.

“What does Ñolofinwë know of it! It is our right. And Morgoth holds our treasure. Did we not come to Middle Earth for this? It doesn’t make sense to squander our advantage by taking our ability to command the Noldor away from us and leaving us bereft of resources on top!”

He raised his arms to his hair, messing up his braids before pulling both hands down his face, rubbing at his eyes, which only served to increase the redness already dominating his expression.

Then, he let his arms fall, staring at the floor, fire suddenly and abruptly extinguished.“I don’t understand,” his voice broke, frustrated tears shimmering in his eyes.

Maedhros felt torn, hurt pride warring with increasing concern as his brother became more and more visibly upset. He didn’t know what to do – could neither stand the thought that Caranthir thought him somehow weak, nor could he stand to see his brother threaten to fall apart like this.

"I am not asking you to understand,” he tried to placate Caranthir, while maintaining that he would not budge on his choice. “But you must respect my decision. I'm not throwing away anything. I am securing us a future,” he continued, hoping his brother would finally understand.

And though he was loath to bring it up, would avoid explaining it in detail, he saw no better way than to at least allude to what led him to this path in truth. He gentled his tone as much as he could, said the words in a low yet serious tone as he looked directly at his brother. “I cannot be King...not with the Oath leading our fate. Not like this...you know why. It has to be uncle. His life is not determined by what we swore.”

Caranthir swallowed, throat bobbing visibly, staring down at the sheets as the words sunk in. He closed his eyes, wiped his right hand across them to get rid of the moisture still sticking to the corners, before looking back at Maedhros.

He still looked displeased, lips pulled down in a worried pout that was at odds with his prickly behavior, but the fight had fully left him, a resignedness taking its place as the beginnings of understanding dawned upon him.

“You would make a better King,” he mumbled mulishly, though the words had lost their heat. Then, in an even smaller voice, he finally gave away his true care. “I don’t want to see you throwing everything away because you feel like you can’t do it.” He looked up, a crease graved deeply into his forehead as his face was drawn in pained worry. “You are my brother, my King, and I will follow whatever you command, wherever you will lead. But I don’t agree with this Nelyo. Are you truly sure this is the best course?”

Maedhros felt hot beneath his skin as the realization fell upon him that Caranthir thought he was making this choice out of his own infirmity, that he was handing his responsibility off to Fingolfin like a child would ask a parent to solve a task for them when they became too overwhelmed to do it themselves.

It soured his mood, resentment curdling in his stomach. He really did not want to deal with this right now; had no choice but to somehow try to reassure his brother he was neither scared of his own fate, nor was he too weak to make a clear-headed decision, or in any way making his choice out of despair. It wasn’t fair that he had to be the one to try to explain this.

And oh, he recognized it now so clearly that he wondered how he had not noticed it before – Caranthir was worried he had not thought this through, had simply sought to escape a burden that had become too great to bear. That was the truth of the matter, he could see it in the trembling of his brother’s hands, could hear it in the shaking of his voice, could even identify the cadence in which his caustic words had been spit. It stung more than he would like to admit.

“I’m not weak, Moryo,” Maedhros heard himself snap before he could hold back the instinctive reaction. He took a deep breath – in – out – before continuing. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

But Caranthir was not convinced – though no longer accusing, he still looked doubtful, concern now fully coming through as the last traces of anger departed.

“Do you? Nelyo, I am not blind. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. Your wounds still bother you. And you’re trying to work yourself into the ground, by the Valar, have you seen yourself? What if you regret it? What then? When all is said and done, and the circlet rests on Ñolofinwë’s head? And then you recover your strength, and you realize you’ve given everything away in a fit of stupidity, because you just couldn’t wait?” his voice was shaking, full body trembling as the words spilled from his lips like water running down a waterfall, sped forth by the emotions sitting heavy in his chest.

“I have thought about this enough – I am choosing this with my eyes wide open,” he started to answer, but before Maedhros could even think to rehash his explanation, could so much as decide whether he was more offended, annoyed, or worried, his brother continued, floodgates to his thoughts now open wide.

“It is the Oath then? Yes, I know what we have sworn, I get it. But Nelyo we –” he cut himself off, visibly hesitating on his next words as what he was saying caught up with him. Slowly, the tension he held himself with drained out of his shoulders until he deflated, resignation creeping back into his tone as he finished what he was going to say. “We cannot escape it by handing away the crown.”

“We cannot,” he confirmed darkly, sick of explaining, sick of feeling underestimated by none other than his own little brother. And Caranthir had his facts quite backwards, a dark corner of his brain chimed in.

He was not running from the Oath, was not cowering in the face of reality like a feeble, broken and beaten elf that shattered under his captivity. He knew what future may await them – that their Oath and their Doom may bring forth more death yet.

And he was not his father. He would not push his people to follow him into that fate.

“None of us shall escape Doom for long, dear brother. But if we are to attempt to thwart it, this is the only road that we can walk, if we are to preserve our honor. I will hear no more on this,” he fixed his brother with a look, declaring the conversation over.

Caranthir looked up from where his gaze had fallen onto his hands, dismay still written clearly on his face, though he made no more attempt to speak.  

Maedhros’ voice gentled again – despite the way his patience had been thoroughly tested, he could never stay angry at his brother for long, could not help the need to try to comfort him, even knowing his words might not be believed.

“I am making this choice because I believe it is what we need. I am not giving up.”

It was the best reassurance he was capable of now. Once upon a time he had been better at comforting his brothers, had been good at handling their moods and idiosyncrasies, had practically raised them for much of their – and his – childhood. He didn’t know how to access that part of himself now, tried to reach within himself for the calming and kind presence he used to carry himself with, could only find the smoldering remains of his past. He painted a smile on his face instead. Hoped his brother would accept the façade, that it would be enough.

“But you’re not eating…you’re not…it would be better to wait…” Caranthir mumbled miserably, stripped of further objections, not even truly arguing anymore as his tone became almost petulant. “Nelyo I just…,” he trailed off, biting his lip.  

Maedhros waved his arm dismissively, still keeping the smile on his face. It pulled on his scars, probably made him look more scary than reassuring, but he tried – with the last energy he had – to wave away Caranthir’s concern for good. “I eat enough. More than I have in years.”

Caranthir huffed a breath in disbelief, as he finally began to gather himself, shaking his head in resigned bafflement, his disconcertingly unguarded face slowly morphing into something more resemblant of his usual scowl. “That’s not comforting,” he added doubtfully, stubbornly, reprimand clearly audible, though the immediate worry faded from his eyes.

“It is to me.” And Maedhros meant it too. It did not matter if he forgot to eat, if he choked on his food half the time instead of being able to swallow. He was alive, and that was what mattered. It was so much better than what he experienced in Angband. And he had been getting better.

“I still think you’re being an idiot,” Caranthir groused, beaten and well aware of it as he addressed Maedhros, “but I see you won’t listen to reason. Just, please. Think it through. And actually take care of yourself, please.” He shook his head again, most likely already knowing his pleading would have no effect, then tapped his fingers on his forearm quickly in a self-soothing gesture, before sighing deeply and leaving the room, not waiting for Maedhros to speak further.  

The next time he came to change Maedhros’ bandages, he did not bring up the crown again. Instead, he left an apple he had stolen from the kitchens on the nightstand with a meaningful look.

Maedhros ate it gladly.

Chapter Text

Amras

Whereas Caranthir had come to confront him, Amras stopped talking to him. His youngest brother now would look the other way whenever he and Maedhros crossed paths, had started to pass his reports on what the hunters were doing on to Celegorm, making himself scarce from their gatherings and letting his older brother handle all contact with Maedhros. The change came abruptly and decisively, so that there was no doubt in Maedhros’ heart as to what had caused it.

Celegorm he still saw. Indeed, there was little change in their dynamic. At first this had surprised him, but once he thought about it, it started to make sense. Celegorm’s derision for Maedhros’ decision was no less than he had expected, but he had no need for avoidance or angry outbursts, wore his disregard openly and confidently, not in defiance or as a statement.

That was what he did – he did not challenge Maedhros, did not say a word about the upcoming passing of power between their houses. He would only look with that glint of discontent in his eyes that meant he disagreed, and it communicated enough. He had no need to confront Maedhros, not when he had already decided that he would not follow Fingolfin, would never acknowledge their uncle as King. He would mostly handle things as he wished, like he always did, and would bring that which he could not order as he pleased before Maedhros; if only grudgingly, pretending, by all means, that his brother remained the highest authority he had to answer to.

No, Maedhros knew his white-haired, stubborn brother well. He was proud, yes, but he was also practical. He knew nothing would change Maedhros’ heart and so he picked the path that suited him best out of the remaining choices. And if that meant Maedhros had to play the middleman between Fingolfin and him, then so be it. No words were needed between them.

Thus, it was not Celegorm he worried over – though perhaps, a part of his brain said, he should.

And so, after Amras had stayed away from the third meeting, still no word spoken between them, Maedhros found himself looking for his red-headed brother, slowly walking through the halls of the keep that had been erected hastily on this side of the lake, once they had made way for Fingolfin’s people and handed over their original camp.

His right leg – the one that had been broken – had healed enough now to bear his weight for longer periods of time, the exercises he did with the healers finally paying off, and if he wore the wooden prosthetic Curufin had fashioned, he could brace himself on a crutch to support his weight once he became tired and his leg threatened to give way underneath him. It made his stump ache, the space where it was encased still chafing on his fresh scar tissue, but he learned to bear the pain for longer and longer when he would wear it. When he had no use for the hand, he would let his stump rest, content without the additional limb, and glad to let it recover.   

After a while, Maedhros found who he was looking for in one of the hunters’ workshops, where they processed the game they caught.

Amras was skinning what Maedhros thought was a rabbit when he walked in, focused deeply on his work.

Maedhros knocked on the open door twice, alerting his brother to his presence so he would not startle when he came in. His brother glanced over at him, looking up briefly, eyes catching with Maedhros’ for a second before darting back to what he was doing silently.

Amras did not speak a word, did not acknowledge Maedhros’ presence at all after returning his focus to his rabbit. But that did not mean there was no change. His movements became choppy, aggressive. He gripped the knife he was using to break the skin tightly, something furious to the motion, eyes boring holes into his hands as he worked, a quiet but almost violent intensity emanating from his form. The air was charged, heavy with some unspoken divide between them that was much greater than Maedhros had expected.

Maedhros leaned on the open door as it creaked under his weight, shifting his balance onto his left leg, exhaustion from walking all the way across the compound catching up with him. His shoulder ached, pain radiating out into his chest, down his arm, but also up into his neck and face, making his head pulsate with the beginnings of yet another headache. He studiously ignored this, used to the way his head would rarely feel clear these days.

For a while he watched his brother work in silence, hoping to give him time to address him on his own terms. But Amras continued to ignore him as he shifted his hold on his knife to pull at the skin of the rabbit with his hands, the abrupt motion containing a sort of angry violence as he tore it from the animal methodically.

Maedhros cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself again. When his brother showed no sign of reacting, he gave up, realized he would have to be the one to initiate this if they were to talk at all. He walked into the room, taking care not to strain his knee as he descended the steps that led down into it, and dragged one of the low sitting stools across the floor, so it sat around the corner of the table to where Amras worked. He lowered himself onto it with careful motions, stretching his recovering leg out in front of him, and maneuvering himself so that he was seated directly facing his brother.

“Ambarussa,” he started, but the silence continued, his address going unanswered.

Maedhros observed his brother – the angry scowl, the strands of loose hair falling into his face, mouth turned downward and pressed into a fine line, hands bloody from his work. He saw how Amras’ grip on the fur increased, his knuckles white with how tight he held it. He continued to pull, not breaking his focus, still not acknowledging Maedhros’ presence.

“Pityo,” he tried again. Still nothing. Amras looked up briefly, eyes flinty and hard, before breaking his gaze and focusing on the rabbit again, no words passing his lips as he continued to display his anger silently. It oozed from him – if such a thing was possible, Maedhros would have said it wafted around him in thick black clouds, poisoning the very air with resentful aggression. But Maedhros would not be deterred.

“Pityo, talk to me.”

With a terrible jerk the fur came free, last tethers broken. Amras put it aside carelessly, dropping the poor dead animal into a basket before slamming his knife – which he had continued to clutch in his palm – blade first into the table he had been working at. Hands freed, though still smeared with blood, he balled them into fists, swiveling around until his eyes met Maedhros’ for the first time, unleashing the storm that he had been tightly locking away.

“What do you want?” he spat, words laced with bitter venom. “I’m busy. Go away.”

Fists balled painfully tight with rage, Amras breathed heavily, his piercing gaze full of fury trying to burn holes straight through Maedhros where he sat, as though his gaze alone could incinerate his brother on the spot. It wasn’t normal anger, no, this was beyond what he had ever seen from any of his family, save perhaps his father – at least directed towards him.

“Pityo…” Maedhros licked his lips, buying himself a second of time as he tried to talk past the boulder that sat suddenly and heavily in his stomach, “Talk to me. I can’t have you avoiding me forever.”

“I said, I’m busy!”Amras glowered, eyes burning like coals. He trembled with rage, something furious and feral threatening to spring loose.

He saw this was not going to work. So be it then. Maedhros shifted on his chair. Stretched his healthy leg out too, and crossed his arms. And though he felt troubled, he smoothed his face, taking on a calm tone. “I have some time.”

He didn’t. Not really. He still needed to finish the preparations for the ceremony he was designing. Needed to figure out the treaty before he informed his uncle. Had to write and rehearse the speech. There was a mountain of things to do. But this was his brother. He would take the time. He could skip sleep tonight to make up for it.

His brother sneered, something raw and dangerous in his eyes.

“Well, I’m not talking to you,” he snapped. It would have sounded childish if not for the real bite to the words, Amras’ face contorting as he spat them out like they burned. He wiped his bloodied hands on a rag lying on the table – roughly and hastily so that long streaks of blood still stained his skin – then the threw the rag down carelessly, continuing his outburst. “You can’t make me. I don’t have to do anything you say. Not anymore,” he said, spite coloring each word. “You can’t command me. You, after all, are not the King anymore.” Amras jabbed his finger into Maedhros face, hurt and hatred blazing from his eyes as he stared intensely at his brother, an uncontrolled vitriol spilling over.

It stabbed at Maedhros’ heart. Never in his life had he seen Amras this furious.

“Is this what this is about?” he asked, caught between stunned, hurt, concerned and confused. The emotions mingled as he swallowed, mixing together unpleasantly in a strange buzzing beneath his skin. He had known that Amras had avoided him because of his decision – there had been no doubt in that. But he hadn’t thought – hadn’t known to expect this, wasn’t quite sure he could handle what looked almost like real hatred – not the kind of temporary anger of a fight amongst family.

Amras did not answer, only continued to glower at Maedhros, face hard and cold.

Maedhros drew his legs in, leaned forward until he could put his elbows on the dirty table, unheeding of the stains it might put on his tunic as he put himself into Amras’ space. He took a breath quietly to steel himself, shoring up his defenses, before he caught his brother’s eyes. 

“I didn’t think it would bother you this much. Curvo or Tyelko I could understand. Moryo maybe. But you? I didn’t think the crown mattered to you much at all.”

Truthfully, he had thought his brother to be indifferent to it, or perhaps even feel resentment towards the Kingship as a whole. After all, Amras had, at least as far as Maedhros suspected, come close to hating Fëanor after their father had decided to burn the boats; had shown no outward regret for the life of Amrod, even as he had learned of his own son’s fate. Amras, he was pretty sure, hated their father as much as any of them dared to hate one of the people they loved most in the world, bitter resentment mingling with helpless love.

And the crown had been an extension of Fëanor – of all that he represented, including all his flaws. It had been for the crown – at least ostensibly – after all, that strife lay between their father and his brother, that Fëanor had been jealous and paranoid, as he was proud. And had the matter of the Kingship not been, had the crown not rested on their father’s head to be guarded as he could not guard the Silmarils, perhaps the boats would not have burned.

And Amrod would still live.

And so Maedhros was surprised that Amras would take it so ill that he had given it away. What was it to him but a useless reminder of a father that he did not know how to hate in truth, of a brother that he did not know how to live without?

He would think Amras would be the most likely of his brothers to rejoice in it passing from their line. Instead, his brother was a snarling beast, all of that resentment coiled on a spring aimed at him.

“What the fuck do you know?” Amras bared his teeth, the words a venomous hiss. “Since you were so content to throw it away like dirt and betray our father.”

Maedhros reeled back, swallowed bile, the words spearing him straight in the chest as they came as unlooked for as they were barbed.

Betray their father? Him?

It was true, Fëanor would not suffer the crown to sit on Fingolfin’s head, would be furious with him, had he been alive – though had he been, the decision would not be Maedhros’ to make in the first place. But he had not expected these words from Amras – not when he knew that his brother had wished, many times, that he had never left Aman, followed their Oath and their father only grudgingly and out of duty as he did out of necessity. Again, had not thought that Amras cared after everything it had taken from him.

Even more yet, he had not anticipated how much the words would sting, would scrape at something raw inside him. At the small but ever-present doubt that whispered that what Amras said was true.

“I’m not betraying him. Why do you even care?” he said defensively, crossing his arms before his chest.

Amras’ face, if possible, got even angrier, scrunched up in an ugly grimace, before the burning fury came to a peak, passed right over into hurt, rage transforming into desperation, as the storm clouds over his head threatened to burst open, unleashing their rain as tears that pricked his eyes.

Quickly, he averted his gaze, looking at his hands as his hair obscured his face. Amras unplucked his knife from the table, wiping it clean on his pants before strapping it to his side.

Through the veil of his hair Maedhros could see unshed tears burning his eyes. With a swipe of the back of his hand across his face, Amras wiped them away angrily.

“If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you. Shows how much you care. About the Oath, about us, about anything.” His voice came out bitter, anger doused though not gone, only temporarily hemmed by the anguish that had taken over. He stood, stepping back from the table to face Maedhros head on, pain clear on his face as he spoke. “You think we’re worthless. That’s why you throw our legacy at Ñolofinwë’s feet, why you give your power away like a cheap bargaining chip after everything,” he took a breath, voice trembling – though if it was with anger or with the threat of new tears, Maedhros could not tell, rather suspected it was a combination of both.

“Father valued the crown enough to strand our cousins for it, to burn all bridges between him and Ñolofinwë. He killed for it. And it means nothing to you,” he enunciated, tears now starting to fall, as his voice gained in volume. “This family means nothing to you. We mean nothing to you. You should have sent us to that stupid parley of yours as a gift to Morgoth – maybe he’d have given you a Silmaril then. You’d be happy then, wouldn’t you?”

Amras’ whole body was shaking as he finished, face wet and fists balled.

“The sacrifices we made mean nothing to you. You’re a coward and a traitor,” he spat, turning away and brushing past Maedhros to flee the room.

Maedhros felt stunned, could not move as the words echoed in his head. Felt frozen to the spot as he heard Amras quickly walk up the stone-cut stairs to the door, not stopping to close it before his footfalls receded down the hallway.

He stared at the spot his brother had vacated. The fur, still slightly bloody, lying abandoned on the table, carcass still in the bucket his brother had carelessly tossed it into. He should call someone to come and gut the thing, it shouldn’t lie around like that, his mind noted absently, still terribly numb. Still repeating those final words in his head.

For a while he just sat and stared, unable to move, head perfectly empty. He felt nothing. Only a terrifying void that settled over him like a heavy blanket.

He saw his hand clutching the leg of his pants tightly. Marveled at how white the skin over his knuckles was turning as it stretched over them, pulled gaunt by the pressure. It looked painful, the tightness, but he did not feel a thing, could hardly feel his body at all.

Still those words echoed in his mind.

You’re a coward and a traitor!

Suddenly, violently and completely without his control, he raised his fist and slammed it down onto the table hard. The wood thudded loudly, impact resounding off the stone walls, force bruising the outside of his hand and knuckles as it hit the table. Still clenched, he retracted his hand, pulling it against his chest, and stared at it, uncomprehending.

It throbbed dully, pain not registering against the fog that clouded his brain. Blood was rushing in his ears, loud and overwhelming. His own heartrate felt like it was closing in on him, cornering him. Breaths sounded in his ears, harsh and panting. It took him a while to realize they were his own.

He stood abruptly, inelegantly as his bad leg twinged and complained about having weight so suddenly placed on it. He had to lean on the low table for a second as it threatened to give way under his weight, hunching over with a grimace as he painfully stretched it out.

He punched the stupid thing again as he drew in a breath, coming out wretched and wet, stuttery as he struggled to fill his lungs with air.

Something panicky clawed at his mind, constricted his chest, buzzing and drowning out all else, until all he could hear on repeat were the words coward, traitor, coward, traitor.

He needed to go, needed the safety of his own space – needed somewhere where nobody could see. He felt exposed, world closing in horribly around him. He shuddered.

Without looking back, he left.

The echo followed him, all the way to his room. Followed him up the stairs, through the hallways, past the guards and the people bustling about, minding their own business. He did not notice any of them hailing him, had no memory of anyone stopping to speak to him. Saw not their faces growing pale and concerned as he stumbled through the open alleyways, past buildings half-finished and the improvised market. Felt not the pain of having left his crutch behind in the half underground workroom he had met Amras in. Heard not the hush that fell wherever he passed.

Had barely any memory of reaching his destination, door falling shut behind him before he crumbled.

He slid down the back of the door, folding in on himself until he was cowering, hunched on the ground in a heap of misery, hugging himself tightly as he shook.

Traitor, traitor, traitor.

It was ridiculous that he would react this way. It was far from the worst thing that had been said or done to him.

A coward and a traitor.

Why was he so weak? He swallowed, felt tears fill his eyes, start to roll down his face. He could not stop shaking, could not control his body.

He felt reality split, a fracture inside his mind, consciousness warring within himself. Could observe himself sit there, head clutched between his arms, forehead forced onto his knees. Could not stop the world from spinning all around him.

Why was this happening?

Still his brother’s last words continued to haunt him. He felt them course under his skin like liquid poison, unstoppable and insidious until they poured themselves into that well of memories he dared not touch, had blocked up as firmly as he could. Deep from within him they pressed now, threatening to burst forth. Maedhros shook, curled against the door.

You are a traitor, a voice in his head hissed, taunting him. It no longer sounded like his brother.

He desperately squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t matter; it wasn’t like that. This was different. But the specter looming in his mind would not be deterred.

You can never escape. You have betrayed them.

The voice taunted mockingly. He could taste ash on his tongue. Trembling, he clutched at his head. But he could not drive out the memories. He felt fire lick at his feet, his hands, his entire body. Flames coming up to sear into his skin. Heard the sneering words of his brother layer with the derisive laugh of his tormentor, morphing back and forth. Flames danced before his eyes, pin pricks of needles lighting his whole body as his mind oscillated back and forth between the past and present, reliving things unspeakable.

He felt disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he would fall apart at the mere mention of a few words; felt hatred, sharp and burning, that he could not control this, had dared to react to Amras’ words like this, no matter how angry his brother was.

What kind of brother was he? He felt both monstrous and terribly, terrifyingly frail.

He could not stop shaking.

And still he could hear those words resound within his skull.

Traitor. Coward.

He choked, gulping down air even as his throat constricted. Could not seem to get enough into his lungs as he grew lightheaded and dizzy. Felt himself shake, shake, shake apart, like the weak and pathetic thing that he was. Any objections he might have had, had tried to build up his confidence with, died on his lips, futile. He knew they were useless. They were right. He was a traitor. And he was a coward. As spineless as he was useless.

What was he thinking?

You can never escape. Coward. Traitor.

How could he have hoped to be his own person again? How could he have hoped to return, pretending to be unscathed, unmarked? He was broken. His mind barely felt like his own most days, his body an ill-fitting prison for a fëa he hardly recognized, so warped had it become. His grip on reality was tenuous, his actions led by forces he could not control, could not escape, could not hide from.

He should not have trusted himself. He was a danger. A walking liar, rotten on the inside.

His brother was right. How had he thought that he knew what he was doing?

Black spots danced before his eyes. There was no air in his lungs. His head felt like someone had submerged it in water.

He squeezed his eyes shut firmly, started rocking back and forth as he clutched at his hair. It did not help. He felt tears still trickle down his cheeks like the treacherous things they were, refusing to hide his shamefulness.

Fury ignited in his breast, terror now manifesting as anger, sharpened to a blade he pointed at himself. How pathetic. How useless. This display of weakness. But there was nothing he could do to change it, nowhere for the blade of contempt he held at his own chest to go but inward – and so he took it in, swallowed it all, stuffing the feelings deep, deep into himself as he simply cried, helpless, yet loathing the helplessness.

For a while, he could not tell how long, he did not move from where he sat, reality still fizzling at the edges. Simply stayed where he was as time ran by him unnoticed, until his tears dried up and the tremors wrecking his body subsided enough that the haze in front of his eyes cleared a little, and he began to feel his body again, numb though it still was. After a while, he could start to breathe normally.

The terror did not recede, not truly, but it slowly crept back into the dark crevices of his mind where he could pretend it did not exist.

Once he had calmed, he felt exhaustion crash upon him, suddenly wrung out with the exertion. Maedhros did not move, didn’t know if he could, completely depleted now.

Time passed in a blur.

Suddenly, cutting through the haze that had fallen over him, there was a knock at the door, dull thump sounding loudly in his ears, though in truth it was little more than a tap. Maedhros felt himself come back from where he had drifted, mind slowly returning to his body, but could not move fast enough to react when, shortly after, the door dug into his back, a pressure against his spine.

Someone was at the door, trying to open it.

Had he been in his right mind, he would have locked it. Would have commanded whoever it was to leave and sworn their silence. But, after his breakdown he was still feeling somewhat lethargic and disconnected, only half present and not thinking of anything so complicated as appearances. So he let himself be moved out of the way, scooting forward from the door listlessly, like a sack of potatoes being pushed around.

The door opened just far enough for someone to squeeze through, then closed.

Maedhros stared ahead, dead eyed and full of emptiness, not bothering to turn around. Until suddenly, incredibly gently, there was the ghost of a touch on his shoulder.

His breath hitched. He went very still.

“Maitimo?” That voice. That name. He knew who it was. He closed his eyes and hung his head, angling himself away, hoping against hope he looked less pathetic than he felt. The hand on his shoulder did not leave, quiet pressure waiting patiently.

Maedhros took a moment to collect himself, gather as many pieces of his mind as he could, and assemble them into something resembling a person. With energy he did not have, he turned his head around, looking at the person standing next to him.

It was his uncle’s concerned eyes he met, as he had already suspected. Incredibly blue and deep as the ocean, they looked at him intently, intense yet somehow gentle, almost hesitant. Maedhros could see it in the way he was careful not to crowd him, touch light as a feather, voice quiet and neither pitying nor commanding.

“Are you alright?” Fingolfin paused, something like worry in his gaze, before he tilted his head slightly, adding in an oddly tentative cadence: “Do you wish for me to leave?”

Somehow, he managed to make the question seem dignified, despite the unquiet lurking in his expression; the way he was bent slightly forward to touch Maedhros’ shoulder yet seemed to hold back, brow slightly creased. He seemed unsure, somehow unsettled, like he could not quite make up his mind if he should be there or not.  

No wonder, Maedhros thought to himself, he was a mess.

He shook his head. The damage had already been done – even if he sent Fingolfin away now. He felt pathetic at having been caught like this, felt entirely too small and stripped of the confidence he clung to. It was humbling.

He dearly wished it never happened – wished he had not broken down in the first place. But he could not have what he wished, and he could not make unseen what had already been observed.

And, to his shame, he did not want to send his uncle away. Perhaps it wasn’t precisely because it was Fingolfin that he felt that way, though his uncle’s presence had always been comforting to him, and more that he did – now that someone was there – no longer want to be alone. Could see someone he could lean on in his uncle, if only just for a little while.  

He felt even more pathetic at that.  

“Why are you here?” he mumbled into his knees, breaking eye contact. He felt young, too young for his age, for what he had experienced – felt the asynchrony of that sit weirdly in his stomach.

“I was already on my way when I saw you. In the courtyard,” Fingolfin answered, inflexion even, not giving away his thoughts, as he removed his hand, straightening. Still he hovered, not quite committed to staying should Maedhros tell him to go, yet unwilling to leave on his own, it seemed.

“Oh.” Maedhros could only moan pathetically. Belatedly he understood that he must have looked dreadful as he stalked the keep. So much for keeping his weakness to himself, he thought, renewed shame and self-recrimination bubbling up inside him. What a picture he made – how could he have allowed this? What would his people think of him now? He was doing nothing to cement their faith in him, was undoing months of progress singlehandedly because he could not keep himself together.

His hand still shook with little tremors, like it wanted to remind him of his failure. He let his head fall onto his knees again – it was quickly becoming his favorite spot, he noted to himself with dark amusement – too spent to hide his embarrassment.

“Maitimo…I am not here to judge you. I was concerned,” his uncle spoke, mistaking his reaction – though not by much. He was ashamed, as he was afraid of judgment, but no longer did he fear it from Fingolfin. Not truly. Still the words made his chest burn as emotions welled up and tangled inside him, the heavy shame and humiliation mixing with something almost like fondness.

He heard clothes rustle, felt the pressure on his shoulder return as an arm slid across his back, emboldened perhaps by his lack of rejection. Felt Fingolfin sit down beside him on the floor, legs brushing his, and an arm warm around his back. It was boldly familiar as it was incredibly comforting. Maedhros felt himself go limp as he leaned into his uncle’s side almost against his will, rested his head on Fingolfin’s shoulder as the tension drained out of his body.

He hadn’t asked for this. Fingolfin had not asked permission, did not mention Maedhros’ state once, or press him to reveal what had happened, as he sat silently beside him, a pillar, steadfast and firm. He simply held him, offering comfort without condemnation; nothing more, nothing less.

Maedhros felt something inside himself unspool as he was held. It was this, this quiet, natural and effortless lowering of such a proud man, someone who should be above sinking to the floor to give solace to a crying kinslayer and traitor, it was the natural way in which he received Maedhros, grace in his heart and only concern on his face, that broke him. That simultaneously put him back together again, as reality slotted back into place. It gave him back his quiet conviction, the surety in his heart that he had judged his uncle right, that he was a man of integrity.

His choice was right.

And if his choice was right, there was something left inside of him that knew right from wrong. And that meant he was not wholly broken yet, did not create wrong where he meant to do right with every step. The voices were wrong. He may be weak, may be a coward, but he was no traitor. Maedhros’ heart lifted, darkness finally releasing its hold on him as its chains fell off uselessly.

He still felt exhausted to the bone, the post-crying headache that had set in pounding in his head, body heavy like a lifeless corpse. But he could feel again the cold of the floor through his trousers, the rough texture of the robes against his hair, the warm, comforting pressure of a hand on his shoulder chasing away the icy numbness and returning life to his form.

How strangely relieving, to have his uncle here.

It didn’t make Amras’ words hurt any less. Oh they hurt. They still hurt. But now that the shadow clouding his thought was passing, he knew that, while his brother’s words had cut deeply, they were not as bad as his mind would have him belief. He only needed a little time to find himself again.

He lifted his head, closed his eyes as he let it fall back briefly, breathing in deeply a few times. Opening his eyes, he looked directly at his uncle as he removed himself from the half embrace he was still in, scooting back so they were an arm’s length apart instead.

This wasn’t how he had planned to do this. He had painstakingly drafted the agreements he planned to present his uncle with. Had agonized over the allocation of goods. Had meant to prepare gifts. A speech. Not this; him, on the floor, pathetically admitting his intent without so much as the preliminary treatise finalized. But the words now lay heavy on his tongue, begging to be set free, and he could no longer imagine keeping it to himself.

He took another breath, painted calm and seriousness on his face, which was still mussed up and tear-stained, though he ignored this, as he put every ounce of confidence he had into his next words.

“I am going to give up the crown. To you,” he said measuredly, never straying from Fingolfin’s face as he looked steadily into his uncle’s eyes, conveying the gravitas of the situation.  

Fingolfin froze, went still as a statue. Stunned surprise pierced his icy blue eyes as they opened wide, a shocked, shimmering sheen coming over them. For a long moment his uncle said nothing, only looked at Maedhros, body strangely rigid where he sat, face frozen, astonishment keeping him in stasis. It was clear he had not expected those words at all, was not prepared to react to them.

Something small in the back of Maedhros mind was glad at that – relieved at this confirmation of his uncle’s lack of plot, strangely happy that he had managed to genuinely surprise him. But he muted that back corner of his brain. It had no place here, as his uncle remained frozen, still looking at him as though the words were beyond comprehension.   

Then a single word forced itself from his lips, like a whisper carried by the wind.

“Why?” There were a thousand questions in that one word. Grief shone in Fingolfin’s eyes, old and terrible to behold, some unresolved hurt lurking within, deep behind the façade, peeking through. It mingled with a desperate longing – not for power, but for answers he knew he would not find, for things that would never be.

But Maedhros would not look away, holding on to his determination fiercely now. He had chosen this path, and he would see it through, even if he had to bare his thought again, raw as he was and still aching. He was done being a coward. He spoke the incriminating words, low, barely above a whisper, but strong and steady as he intoned them slowly.

“We wronged you. But even had that not been so, it still should be you. You are wise, uncle, and valiant. Steadfast. And the Noldor will be better off to unite under your banner.”

Then he smiled – a small, weak one, half kindness, half regret – as he continued.

“I meant to tell you soon. I’ve been working on the details.”

Fingolfin looked pained, creases forming around his eyes. He seemed torn, millions of conflicting thoughts flashing behind his eyes as their deep blue turned stormy grey, still whirling with unanswered – and unasked – questions.

But whatever they were, he did not say, though Maedhros, at least for some, had a good guess.

His next words, indeed, had little to do with the unexpected handover of power at all.

“That is…a surprise,” Fingolfin stated, regaining his composure and locking his feelings away, “but it is not why I find you like this, is it?” He gestured at Maedhros on the floor, face wretched and tear stained. Maedhros cringed at himself, reminded of his earlier fit. He was still embarrassed by his horrifying lack of control, by losing his composure at little more than petty, angry words by one of his brothers. He should be stronger than that.

He looked at his uncle chagrined, though he could not help also feeling almost amused at how Fingolfin so skillfully deflected the conversation away from that which he was not prepared for.

This was not, admittedly, how Maedhros had envisioned this going. For Fingolfin to brush aside the things they had to discuss, breezing past the politics to ask after an argument he had with his youngest brother. It was ridiculous. It was, perhaps, in its own way, the truest sign of care he could have received in that moment.

Maedhros felt terribly, vulnerably fond.

“No, it is not,” his lips pulled up, a humorless smile flitting across his face, “I spoke with Ambarussa of my decision. He was displeased,” he said honestly. Normally, he thought, he would not speak of such things to Fingolfin, would not dare to cross the lines between their families in such a way. And yet Fingolfin was here, had once again shown himself to be worthy of Maedhros’ trust, had come unasked for and comforted him unlooked for. And so Maedhros felt himself crack, reaching out beyond the divide, and confide in his uncle.

Fingolfin grimaced slightly at his words, shaking his head as a frown distorted his handsome features. “I imagine he is not the only one.”

Maedhros huffed a breath, thinking of all the conversations he did – and didn’t yet – have. It would be a tough sell; he was well aware. “No, he is not,” he confirmed, almost echoing his earlier statement.

Then Fingolfin grew cautious again, trepidation that had never fully left breaking through the veil he had obscured his thoughts behind momentarily. It seemed he had not put the matter of the crown as behind him as he had led Maedhros to believe. Slowly he spoke, as though against a great hesitation, like he truly did not know if he should speak or keep silent.

“Perhaps then…you should consider if this is the best course of action. I have not asked this of you, neither shall I demand it. I wish for no new grief to come between us, or to grow between you and your brothers.” Again that sadness he had banished peeked through the cracks in his composure, the words weighty beyond that which they conveyed. Rarely had he seen his uncle this unmoored.

Maedhros shook his head, trying to assuage his uncle’s concern. He had not thought that this, of all things, would be a conversation he needed to have. Was, in truth, wholly unprepared to handle the complicated knot of feelings that was tied up in the crown for Fingolfin. And though his words came from concern, his humility from compassion, Maedhros would not indulge his uncle’s weaker impulses.

“The people have already chosen you in their hearts.”

To his credit, Fingolfin did not contest this, though he continued to look troubled. But he did not pursue this line of questioning further, again locking away his own doubts behind iron gates as he inclined his head with grace, accepting Maedhros’ decision. Instead, Fingolfin changed his approach, returning the topic to his fight with Amras, now fully putting the matter of the crown aside.

“What then is the nature of your brother’s discontent?” he asked.

And though Maedhros had not noticed it until now, the pain still sat very near for him. It was no wonder, if he thought about it. His disagreement had barely happened an hour ago. And yet, with all that had occurred, it both felt close as it did far away.

He realized too late that speaking of it would bring up some unpleasant things between them too, touching on the very treachery they were trying, right now, not to talk about. But it did not matter, when Maedhros could not imagine going silent now.

“He is angry. I…,” he started, before he broke off, searching for the right words. Continued regardless, when he could not find them. “I’m not sure. I thought…he thinks I am betraying my family, he says. That I’m spitting in the face of the,” he grimaced, looking at his uncle who had crossed the Grinding Ice to join them after the boats had burned, “…the sacrifices we made, that Atar made in the name of the crown. He called me a traitor for it. I don’t…I don’t understand,” his voice broke, “Telvo, he died that day, did you know? Atar didn’t…he didn’t…”

Care. The word stuck in his throat. He could not bring himself to choke it out.

“I don’t understand why he is so angry at me,” he whispered almost angrily, voice hoarse, eyes filling with tears again as the pain welled back up, not as intense as it was before, but still heavy and oppressive.

Fingolfin did not immediately answer, was silent for a long moment indeed, as he visibly processed what Maedhros said. He offered no false condolences, no quick condemnation. Instead, he waited, considered. So they sat, a heavy silence between them, pregnant with thought. After a while his uncle spoke, careful and deliberate, sounding the words out as he said them: “It seems to me that perhaps…he grieves.”

Maedhros almost scoffed.

“We all grieve Atar.” He didn’t think that this was it. Maedhros had seen grief wreck them, had seen how they tried to fill the hole their father had left behind in those days after his death. 

But Fingolfin wasn’t done. “Not Fëanáro,” he corrected, voice soft as he spoke, a terrible kind of compassionate sadness on his face, “His brother. Fëanáro burned the ships that night for the strife between us, did he not? For his fear that I would take what is his.” Something pinched entered his face as he spoke thus, but he did not stop to give it space. “And in doing so, he lost what is most precious. And Ambarussa lost his brother.” Sorrow sat heavily on his uncle’s shoulders then, a grief deep as the cold dark depths of the ocean. A shared grief for the loss of a brother, and a father, and the lies and mistrust that had led to treachery.

“Oh.” Words of denial he had meant to speak died on Maedhros lips as understanding dawned on him, and he had to blink back tears for the third time that day. He brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes and dispel the horrible pressure behind them. He did not think he could cry again without his body taking its revenge, nose still clogged from his previous breakdown, head still pounding.

It made sense, a terrible kind of sense that made him understand an otherwise erratic picture.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to fix things if there was no fixing what was actually wrong. When he knew now, that his brother’s anger was just an expression of grief so strong it spilled everywhere. He felt tired, so so tired.

He wiped across his eyes one more time, before brushing his hair behind his ear, pulling the messy strands out of his face.

Fingolfin caught his hand as he lowered it, examining the blossoming bruises and small cuts his earlier spat with the table had left behind. Maedhros had almost forgotten about that.

Gently he pulled, until Maedhros stumbled to his feet and let himself be led until he sat on his bed while his uncle turned to the nightstand upon which Caranthir’s small bag of medical supplies sat. Maedhros let his uncle wash and clean the hand and put salve on it while he stared, utterly spent. Fingolfin wrapped a small bandage around it – before he released it, withdrawing his own hands.

“Take a moment to rest, Maitimo, then speak to your brother. We will speak of the crown tomorrow.” And with that, his uncle left.

Interlude VII

He didn’t talk to Amras. Didn’t end up having the energy for it at first, and when, late at night, he decided to look for his brother, he could not find him. In the end, he had to set it aside as he desperately needed to sleep before he met Fingolfin again the coming day.

The next day he did not get the chance to seek his brother out either, as he spent the time before his uncle arrived hastily finalizing his plans.

In fact, the following days were all filled with so much excitement and bustle for Maedhros, that his pending conversation with Amras ended up falling through the cracks, even as the fire between them cooled. So the situation remained unresolved, though guilt still gnawed at him.

The initial talks with his uncle, where he proclaimed his resolve officially, went well. Fingolfin was reserved, yet accepted Maedhros’ proposal with grace, having had time to prepare his reaction.

Maglor, to his surprise, came to assist him, despite his conspicuous absence after Maedhros had initially informed his brothers of his descion.

In fact, Maglor was the only one who showed up during these first talks with Fingolfin, a quiet yet supportive presence at his side, as Maedhros went through the logistics with his uncle, who, after his initial hesitance, became an active participant in the mapping out of the agreement they were forging between their hosts and houses.

All throughout the long hours that they talked, Maglor stayed, letting a hand rest on Maedhros’ shoulder as he spoke of a great many things; of reuniting the Noldor, of offering apologies for their betrayal, and of possible ways forward beyond the uneasy stalemate they yet sat in.

Maedhros presented his uncle with his plans for a public ceremony – they would have an official handover of power before the people, once they finished hashing out the finer details. Fingolfin easily spoke his assent, and they set the date for it to a few weeks into the future. The news would be spread ahead of time though, to hopefully weather the worst of the coming storm before it happened. Until then, the crown would remain with Maedhros officially, though already they were making plans for the transition of power and administrative duty to the line of Fingolfin.

At one point Maedhros removed the circlet, which he did not actually tend to wear, from its resting place, handing it to Fingolfin to observe. His uncle would have to make any changes he desired himself, refitting it to his own needs, but he would not keep Fingolfin from holding the crown to look at it ahead of time. It was not the same one that Fëanor and Finwë before him had worn, not the crown they had found their ends in, but a simpler one, though no less beautiful, which Maedhros had commissioned in the days before his capture. Like as not, Fingolfin would end up remaking it entirely to suit his own desires.

His uncle looked at the crown, held it in his hands thoughtfully for a while as Maedhros observed him, before carefully placing it on the desk to the side and engaging Maedhros in conversation again.

Chapter Text

Curufin

“You are making a mistake,” was the first thing out of Curufin’s mouth as he came into Maedhros’ chambers sometime after the evening meal, not bothering to announce himself.

Wearily, Maedhros wondered why most of these conversations kept happening while he was in his own room, or even in his bed – it did not help him feel at rest there, constantly harried by more sharp words and arguments thrown at his head.

Though, he supposed it was his own fault, as there was little way around it, since he had made his own space his main site for his work, and so could most commonly be found there. Still, he wished for a bit of a warning.

He sighed, looking at his brother unimpressed. “You are not the first to try to tell me so. Don’t you think it is a little late to bring it up now?”

Curufin’s lips twitched, an aborted facsimile of a smile pulling his cheeks upward for a second, before something sour passed over his face, like he had bitten into something unappetizing, as the smile threatened to transform into a sneer. He quickly tried to conceal it, pretend it had not been there, as his face evened back out into the tightly controlled mask he often wore, opting to brush past whatever emotion had dared to show itself there, as he segued straight into his tirade instead.

“I thought that perhaps you would remember your duty in time to end this foolery,” he sniffed, contempt etched onto his features, as he crossed his arms, chin raised haughtily. “I thought, you would rediscover your brain and realize that you are passing off what is your responsibility to uphold as Atar’s heir, Nelyafinwë,” Curufin continued, putting emphasis on Maedhros’ father name, likely in an attempt to remind Maedhros of its meaning, as his tone became derisive.

“Instead,” an eyebrow raised on his pristine face, nose turned up judgingly, “I have to come here myself.”

Curufin had not visited him in his quarters since his prosthetic had been completed. And even though the initial rough patch between them had mostly been worked through, a bit of a distance remained between them. His brother’s smiles were colder, and his eyes would not linger long on Maedhros. His words, when they did talk, were spoken more dismissively as barely concealed resentment visibly warred with some kind of guilt and regret.

They had tried each to move on, had, as far as they were concerned, put the situation to rest. But never had it been easy for one of the line of Fëanor to forgive, and so they struggled still to regain their equilibrium; all the while Beleriand and its cruelty continued to exert its harsh influence.

And so, it would take time, if indeed things between them would ever fully return to what they had been like in Aman, before death, fire and his capture and its aftermath had come between them.

Right now though, time was the last thing he had.

And especially not for this, for Curufin’s tricks, for his carefully crafted manipulations.

His brother had always been like this, baiting others with cruel words, until they went for the hook and could be reeled into his game, where he could mold them, trap them and then maneuver them as he pleased.

His brother was intelligent and observant, could spot the cracks in someone’s walls from afar and knew to worm his way into those little fissures. But Maedhros was no fool. And he had raised Curufin almost more than their parents had.

He could see through the calculation, through the insults and the vitriol, through the carefully placed words meant to incite his anger until he was blind to being pushed a certain way. And he would not let his brother goad and guide him as he wished. It was, in his opinion, insulting that he tried.

Honestly, he was tired. Tomorrow the crown would change hands officially, and he had labored long and hard to ensure there would be no fault to be found. The people had had their time to air their grievances, to be reassured. The worst of the political fallout had been mitigated behind the scenes already. And though his relationship to his brothers – those he spoke to at least – was suffering under the strain it put on them, they had found their accord, found ways to exist around his decision.

So of course, Curufin would pick this moment, when by all means it was too late to change anything, to air his feelings out. Maedhros wondered, a little cynically, if this whole thing was not designed only to make him hurt, as, quite apparently, it was fruitless to effect real change.

He tried to banish the thought; his brother was not so cruel yet. More likely, he had come for his own conscience. But still, it was exhausting. Maedhros felt a bone deep fatigue in his body, spreading everywhere. In truth, he had little patience to even hear what Curufin had to say. But he knew that if he sent his brother away without letting him speak his mind now, the gulf between them would only widen, and Curufin’s resentment, mingled with his very real discontent, would only grow to encompass this, until his spite would lead him to places Maedhros really wanted to avoid.

They all needed to cooperate. And so, despite his body’s and mind’s protests, he settled in to listen to whatever Curufin would throw at him. Better to lance the wound now, than to have to deal with his brother again later, when things would be much harder to resolve.

“Well, now that you are here, say your piece, if you will. I won’t change my mind,” he said, settling back into his bed.

Offence blazed in Curufin’s eyes as he took in Maedhros’ nonchalant answer. “That’s it? It does not even bother you? You would go against Atar like this and not even defend yourself?” Clearly he had thought that Maedhros would justify himself, had been aiming to attack his brother’s arguments and bait him into – what, a fight? Maedhros wasn’t sure, only knew that Curufin seemed frustrated, as his words pearled off of Maedhros without effect.

“Do you know no shame?” he hissed, confused anger and real offence mingling in his posture, as he tightened his grip on his forearms.

“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never once shied away from your responsibility. From your duty, and now – brother, I do not understand. Where is the nér that would lead us? You were father’s pride at court. You have been schooled and trained as his heir since before I was born. Why would you betray him like this?” Curufin’s voice rose. He looked genuinely baffled as well as upset as he talked animatedly, uncrossing his arms and accentuating his words with wide, sweeping gestures.   

Maedhros did not have the energy to refute this, though he knew his brother’s words to be false, again knew that if he argued, that Curufin would only twist what he had to say. He had asked his brother to speak his mind, and Curufin had complied, had spoken his allegations and his thoughts freely, meaning both to unburden himself, and to incite Maedhros’ rage, goad him into a reaction for Curufin to grasp onto. But Maedhros could not give him what he wanted. Would not give ground, refusing to be caught in his brother’s web. And neither had he anything to say that would placate his brother’s ire, had no way to make him understand that which he was not willing to acknowledge by himself.   

Maedhros knew his father would disapprove, could feel the fiery anger of his judgement follow him from the waking world into his nightmares, where he was plunged into the depths of his mind, and voices – many of the them familiar, all of them mocking – his father, his brothers, his tormentor, sometimes even his own; all of them so horribly disappointed, and disapproving – would whisper to him cruelly of all his mistakes.

But still he was convinced. Had to remain so when all was stacked against him. He knew what he was doing. His father had sent him off to serve at court, pronouncing him as heir, and told him to learn how to be a good ruler – for what, he did not know, as Fëanor himself had never bothered, and by all rights Finwë should have remained the only King they needed. But at court he had learned. By sitting in on council meetings with his grandfather. By taking on projects for the welfare of Tirion. By countless hours spent learning what it meant to care for the needs of the people. Yes, learn he did. And through this he knew that a King was but the highest servant of his people, must take that course of action that would safeguard their needs.

He could not just do what he wanted. His father never did understand that, had expected to be met with adoration and blind devotion simply for his title. Fëanor had been proud of his place as heir, had seen it as his right. And though he knew indeed that the people could not lead themselves, that royalty had obligations, his smooth tongue and fiery temper, paired with his charismatic charm that could inspire thousands to follow him even beyond the confines of the known world, meant that he never had to learn that a position of power came not only with privilege but also with a great requirement for humility, for putting your own wants and needs last. That the Kingship came with a demand for accountability in the face of disagreement and mistakes, and a brutally honest assessment of your own skills and suitability.

Political ambitions had naught to do with it, served only to twist that which the crown was meant to represent. Disappointing their father, who never would have been able to set aside his pride and petty squabbles, was thus a natural, though regrettable consequence; a necessary evil if Maedhros was to do what was right, what, indeed, the training he had undergone had led him towards.  

Curufin, however, was perhaps too much like his father in mood to see this, though when it came to it, Maedhros suspected, he was more callous even, more ruthless than what Fëanor would have been like. If Fëanor’s strife was personal, his failures of character, Curufin thought bigger, calculated, and made decisions in spite of his personal feelings, not because of them.

And moreso, he would not dare to go against their father’s wishes.

And so, doubly, it was futile to try to explain this to him, try to reason with him. It would lead nowhere. He had seen his brother both angry and utterly lost when Maedhros first decided to pass the crown to Fingolfin, action so at odds with his own understanding of politics, of their role in this tale they were writing for themselves, that he had not known how to digest it, could hardly comprehend it.

No, Curufin could not understand. To him things were simpler, his priorities clear, Maedhros thought. There was only power, to be guarded jealously, holding it a sign of your own prestige and status. There was gaining it, which was desirable, and losing it, which needed to be avoided at all costs.

And then there were the things that had to be done to achieve their goal, which could end only in success or in failure, and the latter was not permitted. All else, be it what it may, was a possible sacrifice to achieve the former, a tool waiting to be used. Increasingly, Maedhros feared his brother was ready to use any means necessary to consolidate power to their advantage, if only it meant their end would be more achievable.

And always, Maedhros suspected from what he knew about his brother, though he could not say for sure, there loomed Fëanor in his thoughts. If only his actions, nay, the results he could provide, would make Fëanor proud, he would stop at nothing to produce them, always clinging to his own arguments and justifications. Always desperate to be the dutiful son, dreadfully hoping to be enough, to live up to the legacy that had been put on him. He had to believe that it would all be worth it. That Fëanor, were he still here, would lay his hand on his shoulder, pride shining from his eyes, and tell him he did well.

Therefore, Maedhros was not surprised about his brother’s visit, was not surprised by his words or actions, not truly. Could see the fault lines in Curufin from a mile away.

His brother was an open book if you knew how to look. A broken book.

And Maedhros was so, so tired. Tired of playing this game, heartsick to see it. Helpless to stop it from happening. Had tried, he remembered, when he was younger, back in Aman, when Fëanor had still been alive and doted on them lovingly, but had done nothing to dispel his brother’s insecurities. Instead, he had fanned their flames, as he gave praise when his son did things to his liking, and Curufin had soaked it up, always eager to earn that pleased smile.

He could not hope to disentangle any of that now, when they were here, in Beleriand, alone and saddled with the burden of Fëanor’s dying will to fulfill his Oath. When their loyalty had been demanded, ripped from their fëar and tied to an unbreakable cause, whether they will or nil. Not when Fëanor had abandoned them and left behind nothing but his crown and his Oath as his legacy.

Things to tie themselves to, shackles around their ankles.

Was it so strange then, that his brother appeared to cling to the crown? When it was tied up so hopelessly in their father? When it was all they tangibly had left of him?

Perhaps not. Perhaps Curufin especially saw their father in it, though strange the thought seemed to Maedhros, as his brother was not usually one for emotional keepsakes. But they all grieved, and that grief would find a way to lead their hands and hearts, as he had learned. He only wished it would stop tearing them apart, felt his own heart ache as ever his father came between them, even from beyond the grave.

But knowing what he did, it made a terrible sense to Maedhros to hear Curufin speak as he had. Of course Maedhros openly going against these expectations would not make sense to him. Would seem like willful defiance and tactical nonsense, when he did not consider, did not value the same things that Maedhros did. It would feel like open scorn almost, an abandonment of one of the last connections to their father that they still had.

Yes, that conclusion did not seem so far-fetched to Maedhros now, observing his brother. The dismay on his features, the grasping fear in his eyes, the almost possessive anger and the devastated loss mingling in their depths as he looked to make his displeasure heard, to prove that not all sons of Fëanor were as Maedhros was, thought as Maedhros did.

And yet, Maedhros thought he could also see a tiny shimmer of guilt gnawing at him, hidden behind his sneer and his upturned nose, covered up with his malice and vitriol as he justified and re-justified his words and actions to himself, forced himself to belief that he was right.

It stung Maedhros’ heart, made him wish he knew how to reach Curufin and dispel these thoughts he sunk into. He sighed. Tried again to think of words that would soothe his brother. Failed. He had stayed silent for too long already, but still he knew there simply was nothing he could say honestly that would make this situation better.

Curufin was still looking at him with accusing eyes, expectant of his answer, though his gaze became almost guarded now, as Maedhros’ silence hung between them. The longer Maedhros took to speak, the more a hardness, cold like the steel he liked to work with, began to creep into his features. Finally, he seemed unable to outwait his brother any longer.

“Well? Do you have nothing to say for yourself? Did Ñolofinwë take your wits too?” he sniped, annoyance clear in his bearing as he put his hands on his hips, unimpressed.

Time was up; he had to say something. “No, Curvo,” his answer sounded, simple as it was useless.

Maedhros could hardly beat back the fatigue, feeling like it was all too much. He had not slept in days, had worried and agonized over perfecting every last part of the ceremony. Had picked out clothes, had tried to force himself to walk without a limp, biting through the pain as he made practice laps around his room. Yet there was always more to do.

And with every step he took, he felt like quarrel came. He wished again that he could go back to a time when nothing lay between them – between him and all his brothers. Wished, that he could return to when loving them was simpler, and no greater burden than simple fights between siblings came between them. Knew that not even should they be successful in their quest, that things would ever be the same. Felt too keenly the divide that pulled them all apart.

And it made him tired, more tired than sleepless nights ever could. He felt a horrible, terrible ache in his heart as a hopeless fatigue tried to pull him under, a great weariness pulling him down, down, down, as he wished for things that could not come true. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to just lie down and not get back up again. Felt something deep within himself pull in yearning at the thought.

Disturbed, he shook his head, trying to focus on the present. He needed to get this over with, needed to focus on anything but his brother and his anger. Still could find no good thing to say despite his earlier resolve. How foolish of him to think he could handle this smoothly.

In the end, all that was left to him was to end their conversation, to tell his brother in no uncertain terms that his decision was final and hope that, no matter what may fester between them because of it, at least having kept it civil while Curufin was given his chance to speak his mind would give them some closure, even as they each stuck to their own convictions.

“No, Curvo,” he repeated. “This is for the best. I have told you all before. There is no discussion here that I have not already had. If you are only here to pressure me about my decision, please don’t, not today. The crown will pass to Ñolofinwë tomorrow, and there is nothing you can say or do to change that.” His voice was even, resolute as he impressed his words upon his brother.

“So you really do just plan to go against Atar, no matter what.” Curufin’s shoulders sagged with the certainty of Maedhros’ mien. His mouth was pinched, a straight disapproving line, eyes shining with resigned resentment, as he realized there was nothing to be gained here, no further catharsis to be had, no change he could affect. That he had thrown himself against the wall of Maedhros spirit and it had not buckled, bent or broken, had not even given an inch. Disappointment emanated from his form.

“Do as you will then, I see there is no reasoning with you. I don’t know why I even tried. But let it be known that I have no part in this. It will not be me that shames us,” Curufin continued, judgement heavy in his voice, as he crossed his arms again, shaking his head in exasperation. He seemed frustrated, as he angrily blew a strand of hair that had loosened from his braids out of his face.

Maedhros knew he still did not understand. Knew his disagreement burned still within, waiting for an opportunity to be fueled into actions, a chance to remedy Maedhros’ break of loyalty. A chance to be the son Fëanor would have expected.

But for now Curufin had nothing left to say, no trick up his sleeve, no argument to convince him and he knew it. And so he let it rest, having spoken what he felt he needed to get off his chest to cleanse his own conscience, wash his hands of Maedhros’ choice.

Curufin did not linger. Indeed, with one last cold look at Maedhros, he left.

Maedhros sunk down into his bed, letting the weariness pull him under. He dreamed of nothingness.

Interlude VIII

Maedhros woke up again not long after. Judging from the still burning candle on his nightstand, he had not slept for more than a few hours.

'Careless!' he chastised himself, checking to see if any of the wax had spilled, shaking his head to dispel the sleep still clinging to the edges of his consciousness. Thankfully all was in order with his candle.

A yawn tore itself from his mouth. His talk with Curufin must have exhausted him more than he would like to admit, even to himself. And though he had meant to sleep, had wished to rest before the ceremony, now that he had awoken, he knew sleep would not return to him. There was too much nervous energy in his bones to rest now; he was too wrung out, ironically, to spend more time catching up on sleep.

So he dragged himself out of bed and before the mirror in his chambers, where he saw his disheveled reflection, clothes askew, hair a bird’s nest of tangles, and eyes sunken into his pale face, stark red scars crisscrossing his features still raised and angry, as they continued to heal.

He scooped some water from the wash basin into his hand, threw it into his face to dispel the last vestiges of tiredness. If he was up, there was indeed still much he could do before tomorrow. And, he thought glumly, he should look the part too, if he wanted to represent their house with any sort of honor, or what dredges of it remained.

And so he busied himself by wrangling his appearance into something presentable, washing himself and changing his clothes, then combing his hair free of the terrible knots and tangles in it, while he waited for morning to arrive and Maglor to come to braid the elaborate braids, modified for his shorter hair, he had requested.

When he still had time after all of that, he recited his planned speech to himself, then checked the preliminary agreement between him and Fingolfin they had designed for the probably millionth time.

After all that was done, morning was just about to creep beyond the horizon, Arien not yet risen but already stretching her rays over the edges of the world. He had some time yet, just a little more, before the day began for sure.

It was then that he decided to take a moment just to stand at his window, watching as light slowly illuminated the keep, and people began to appear, simply breathed as the gentle rays began to shine upon his face. It was calming, made something hopeful stir in his breast despite the lingering vestiges of exhaustion.

He was ready.

Chapter Text

Maglor

The ceremony itself breezed by more quickly than he ever thought it would. His careful planning paid off, as all went off without a hitch, proceedings as beautiful as they were painstakingly designed.

The crown was handed over to Fingolfin with much fanfare, as the people cheered – at least a great many of them. His brothers too behaved long enough to appear civilized, keeping silent and not disturbing the peace.

Maglor sang a song, delightful and festive, and gained much applause from both sides of the camp. Reparations were made, and the agreement between them was signed. The Noldor celebrated their reconciliation with a feast, vowing anew friendship and cooperation.

Once the main event was over, Maedhros stayed only long enough to excuse himself without appearing rude or damaging their reputation. Then, he left quietly, with only a few words to his uncle and his cousins.

To his surprise, Maglor appeared beside him just as he left, walking with him as they started their long return to the other side of Lake Mithrim and their own camp.

His brother hummed a tune as they walked, as often he would, never long able to endure true silence. It was a habit he had had since childhood, always humming when he was nervous to calm himself. For a while, it was the only sound between them, save for the waves that fell upon the shore and the crunch of rocks under their feet.

Maedhros let himself hang after his thoughts, still feeling the content buzzing under his skin of the well performed ceremony and successful transmission of power. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders and he could finally move forward, taking the first steps onto a new path. And so, even though he felt keenly the yet unspoken words between them, the tension that meant to fill the space that kept them walking two steps apart, it was softened, the worry inside him tempered in the aftermath of his success.

After a while, Maglor’s humming ceased, expectant quiet falling between them, before his brother broke his silence, thoughtfully turning his head.

“You know I support you, do you not?” he opened, words soft and somehow sad, a strange hesitance and regret coloring them. “I’ve always believed in you,” he continued, glancing sideways at Maedhros as he spoke, briefly looking at his brother, before taking up his tune again in a self-soothing gesture, humming softly as they continued on their path and betraying his nerves despite his attempt to conceal them.

Maedhros cocked his head, words slowly trickling through the strange, satisfied calm that had fallen over him. He needed a moment to process them truly, to bring his mind into the moment and focus.

“Mhhh…,” he hummed, giving himself a moment to think, lethargy falling away as the gears in his mind began to turn. He frowned as the meaning caught up with him, muted worry now seeping through the cracks, slowly coming to the surface. He had never doubted his brother, not Maglor.

He glanced briefly at his brother as he walked by his side, before pulling his eyes forward again as he thought. What cause did he have to disbelieve this? And what could he say, when he had never questioned where his brother stood?

As he took his time to reflect, picking his words, he noticed now that Maglor kept glancing at him nervously, and after a while, as he stayed silent, began running his hands though loose strands of his hair, as the melody he was humming pitched up slightly.

Maedhros felt love tinged with sympathy well up inside him, break through the surface and fill his thought. He breathed, slowing his step and focusing his attention on his brother, as he half turned towards him, eyes clear and full of forthright fondness. “I know, Káno,” he said, a soft, almost gentle – as much as he was capable of gentleness now – smile flitting over his face. “I know.” He hoped his brother would understand.

Maglor’s tune petered off again as he slowed to stay abreast of Maedhros, accepting his answer, though he continued to look troubled, eyes downcast and nervous energy still clinging to his form. He seemed to gather his courage for a moment, hands still fidgeting with his hair uneasily, before he raised his gaze from where it had fallen, meeting Maedhros eyes.

„Have I been…a bad brother?” he asked, biting his lip and looking terribly uncertain. “I tried my best, but,” he continued, pain entering his expression as it became pinched, worry creasing his brow, as the words started spilling from his lips. “I guess, I’m just sorry, I…,” he glanced downward again, dejected and suddenly deflating as his hair fell over his face.

Maedhros looked at him in astonishment for a brief moment, wondering where all this was coming from. He felt overwhelmed almost by the vastness of his brother’s emotion, showing itself so unexpectedly and through so little words. Looked at that feeling and deliberately, painstakingly set it aside as he thought, giving Maglor his whole attention.

He had, of course, noticed his brother behaving strangely. How he had become absent. Had seen the quiet way he had withdrawn after Maedhros had made his decision known.

And he recalled now that at the announcement he had seemed horrified somehow, in a way that was entirely unintuitive to Maedhros. Had looked like Maedhros had taken a knife and pushed it between his ribs. Something had ripped open in his eyes, a deeply frightened helplessness apparent in their depths for a moment, before he had looked down at his hands, folded tightly in front of him, face incredibly concerned and somehow scared, strange panic wafting from him in waves.

Yes, Maedhros could still see it in his memory. Maglor had visibly warred with himself to say something, had folded in on himself as his confidence failed him, guilt clinging to him like a gown thrown over his form, enveloping him entirely, weighing him down like too many layers of heavy fabric.

And then there was the way his eyes, even before, had swam with contrition and some other restrained emotion as he had hovered ever at Maedhros’ side. There had been a haunted look about him, dull grey eyes full of regret that Maedhros wished he could close his own to. It had stung. It had made him furious at times. It had made him feel small and dirty and guilty and he could not stand to see it.

He had been curt with his brother more than once, he admitted to himself now, although he knew Maglor had been doing his best to help him. 

But there was nothing to indicate he was a bad brother, not unless Maglor had drawn the conclusion all by himself. Maedhros felt a knot begin to form in his stomach, felt it twist unpleasantly, suddenly aware that he may have played a part in contributing to his brother’s misconception.

“No, I, of course not,” he stuttered out, trying to get his words in order, halting his step for good to turn himself to face his brother in full. “Of course not,” he repeated, more calmly, earnestly as he reached out with his hand to grasp his brother’s arm, imploring him to believe his words.

“But…,” Maglor looked at him unhappily, frown engraved on his face as his eyes shone grey like the northern sea. “I couldn’t help. And then I left, because – I just – I couldn’t bear to see it. And I know I shouldn’t have,” he admitted, traitorous words falling from his lips as the profound sadness in his gaze, deep and endless, bored into Maedhros’ where their eyes met.

“You did nothing to be ashamed of,” Maedhros tried to smile at his brother, willed him to take the reassurance, even as the words lay heavy on his heart. He had not known his brother felt that way, had struggled, at times, to accept Maglor’s worry. Had perhaps been too strict with him. Had not thought about how his refusal would impact his little brother, who always had been as compassionate, as he was fretful, had needed to feel that he could control things, needed somewhere to direct his emotions to master them.

Maedhros felt another stab of guilt at the reminder.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Káno. I’m quite alright,” he added. Today especially had given him perspective, had lifted a big part of the weight pulling him down, and so he did not lie, truly meant it, though he could only hope to portray his sincerity, colored with regret as it was at having realized his brother’s burden too late.

Maglor looked up at him through his lashes, dismayed frown still on his face, though the doubt that lay there receded just a little. A small smile passed over his lips, fleeting and weak, but he inclined his head in seeming acceptance as Maedhros squeezed his arm comfortingly.  

They continued to walk then, Maglor now closer to his side, as they made their way slowly along the shores of the lake.

Silence surrounded them as they each became lost in their own minds. The sound of the waves was a low rustle, the salt in the air clinging to his skin as a soft breeze stirred up the quiet surrounding them. Everything felt still, and yet full of movement, as the water curled and crinkled on the shore, white foam cresting the little eddies as they ebbed and flowed.

It was calming, peaceful, despite the biting cold, and Maedhros felt himself sink back into the strange equilibrium his mind had fallen into before.

For a long while Maglor did not speak again, and neither did he resume his humming. Only the sound of the wind as it blew disturbed the silence. It whisked through his hair as they walked, tousling strands and blowing his braids into his face. Occasionally he would reach up to brush them behind his ears, though soon the breeze made his work in vain.

Finally, as they crept closer to the camp on the far side of the lake, Maglor seemed to make up his mind as he spoke again.

“I still should not have left you alone. It was cowardly of me, and I am sorry.”

His words were little louder than a whisper, spoken into the wind as it whisked past their faces. His robes swayed in the gusts, fabric ruffled and blown askew.

His eyes were locked forward, unfocused and distant as he uttered his confession, baring his soul. Something sad clung to his brother, drooping his shoulders with a weight only he could see. He exhaled, expelling the air in a weary sigh as he continued: “I just…I wanted you to feel like you could turn to me. Like I was doing something right after all, if I could support you. Like I wasn’t a complete failure of a brother.”

The wind continued to blow past them gently, almost silently, even as its chill bit into Maedhros’ face. Yet still it almost swallowed the words his brother spoke, and he had to strain to hear them. Maglor looked down when he finished, worrying at his lip again, where, upon a closer look, his skin was chapped, a silent proof of long hours indulging in this habit.

Maedhros stilled once he understood, halting for the second time during their long walk and turning towards his brother. His heart ached in his chest, despite the calm that lay around them, and somehow the peace of the lake became tinged with a deep, deep sorrow, and he felt again a stark grief that enveloped everything, holding him gently, yet suffocatingly, as it spread its weave, enfolding him, and he had to exhale shakily to dispel the feeling.     

“Why would you think that?” he asked, brow crinkling, though he was careful to keep all judgement out of his voice.

Maglor raised his head from where it had fallen onto his breast, some emotion warring behind his features as he turned towards Maedhros. The words seemed to be stuck in his throat, a melody left unsung. The harsh light of the sun reflected in the grey of his irises, mingling with the shimmer of treelight still shining from behind his eyes. It illuminated his face, briefly making him seem more ancient – and sadder.

Maedhros felt struck – oddly reminded of some of the paintings he had seen, full of longing and quiet melancholy.

Then the image broke as his brother spoke, words heavy with a weight he seemed to carry with him everywhere. “I’ve made nothing but mistakes since coming here. I want to be useful for once, and not just sit by like a witless child, waiting for someone else to do what I am too weak to.”

A small smile, mirthless and full of chagrin, gone before it truly spread across Maglor’s face. His words were harsh, full of self-recrimination, and yet he did not raise his voice, spoke them resignedly and quietly, like he was only giving voice to what he already had accepted as inevitable truth.

“I think I…I just don’t want to let you down again.”

His eyes were wistful, grief and regret flooding his face like cold water poured out into the grey sea. “I just wish you would lean on me a little,” he admitted, something vulnerable showing its face in his voice. Once he finished, Maglor looked away, facing the lake and letting the wind blow into his face as he wrung his hands, a small shift in his weight and the drumming beat of his foot on the pebbled beach the only indications of his nerves, as he tried to obscure himself.

Maedhros felt heavy. Heavy with regret as he did with sorrow. He took a step, laying his hand on Maglor’s shoulder as he turned his brother around to face him. “Káno…,” Maedhros said softly, letting the words hang between them, “I don’t need you to be useful. You have nothing to make up for. Nothing to prove to me.”

Something in Maglor’s face crumpled then, tipping over an invisible edge, as tears began to leak out of his eyes. “But I let it happen. I just let it all happen, and I did nothing,” he said, voice broken. “How can you forgive me? I didn’t do anything. And now I’ve done everything wrong again,” he croaked, words coming out wet and miserable, as tears continued to roll down his cheeks.

Maedhros had to close his eyes as he finally, truly understood, had to fight against the pain that threatened to rise up, reminding him of what he did not wish to think about, what he kept locked in the darkest corners of his mind. What they had danced around for too long, his brother taking his guilt and his pain upon himself, blaming himself for things he had no fault in.

He breathed in slowly, through his nose, before exhaling through his mouth. Repeated this a few times while listening to nothing but the sound of the waves mixing with the rushing of blood in his ears before resting his eyes on Maglor, somber and serious.

And then he did what he would not normally do, opened doors within his mind that he wished to keep closed, wished to never look at the thoughts and feelings that lay behind ever again, even as he spoke. But for his brother, he would brave that part of himself, would break his silence – if only to relief his pain, to make sure he never again became lost in his own guilt, even as there was nothing to absolve him of, no wrong he had committed.

“None of that was in your control,” he intoned, speaking slowly and clearly. “I never expected you to save me, or carry my burdens for me. They are my own. That…,” he hesitated for a split second, before forging on. “That Findekáno has done as he did – I cannot explain it, I will be grateful forever, but I did not expect it, would never demand such a thing. Had I had the choice I would have told him not to go. I would have told you not to go, to leave me. That he succeeded is a miracle, a boon granted to him and him alone by whatever pity remains in the Valar’s heart. It was not up to you to save me. You did nothing wrong. And you never needed to make up for it.”

He continued to hold his brother’s gaze, quiet intensity burning within his eyes as he exposed his thought.

Maglor sniffed, drawing in a shaky breath as the tears dried on his cheeks. Still he looked burdened, his own guilt and self-doubt not willing to release him. Nevertheless, the bigger part of the shadow passed from behind his eyes, and the terrible weight on his shoulders finally lifted.

But Maedhros was not quite done yet, had one more thing to say before the vulnerability making his skin crawl would go beyond what he could bear. Carefully, evenly he continued: “The best way you can support me, Káno, is by believing in my choices. That is all that I want, all I need. And I have always felt that you have done so, even when we did not speak.”

His brother’s eyes widened, understanding banishing the last of his doubts. The sun reflected again in his eyes, bright and beautiful as the shine caught on the wetness still clinging to them, refracting like a prism. The trouble cleared from his face, dark clouds lifting as the storm lightened. He laughed, short and shocked in his relief, melodious sound rippling through the air.

“Ai, a fool I have been!” Maglor exclaimed, shoving him lightly in the shoulder, playful. His demeanor was cheered, spirits lifted, even as Maedhros could still make out the lingering tendrils of melancholy clinging to his edges, the shine of tears still evident in his eyes. And though his brother’s joy was not fully genuine yet, would take time to overwrite the grief that had wormed its way into his heart – if indeed it ever fully could – the sentiment was real and he felt himself smile in return, pushing at his brother until he stumbled, tripping on the uneven rocks.

They laughed as they went then, continuing to push at each other like they had done as children, as they made their way across the shore. Maedhros felt something inside of him untighten, a terrible knot beginning to unspool. The pain in his chest lessened and for a short while, as he listened to Maglor take up a tune they had sung together often in their youth, he felt like perhaps things would turn out alright for them in the future.

There were still many things to contend with. And this was only the beginning of their task – a task that, as he soon would remember, was likely to end in failure, death and terrible grief. But for now, he breathed easily, content, his brother at his side.

As they neared the Fëanorian settlement, Maglor addressed him once more, face terribly earnest and full of fondness.

“I won’t doubt you again. Even when I don’t understand. But Nelyo, I meant what I said – I’ll always support you. No matter what comes, we’ll do it together. I won’t leave you.”

Maedhros just reached across the distance between them, short as it now was, ruffling his brother’s already windswept hair.

For now, he would try to believe it.

They would be alright.