The Grate ~ Curse of Mandos AU 3
A/N: It's a good idea to check out the previous three works in this series to better understand what's going on, but it is not necessary!
A lot of you guys found it sad that the Ambarussar were contained separately in the Halls. So I fixed it :D. Sorta…(Besides, the twins do not get enough attention so here we are!)
This takes the version where Amrod dies at Losgar.
Rated for discussion of battle/death.
"~" indicates flashback.
oOoOoOo
Separating Amras from Amrod is the worst they have done to him.
The doors clang shut as they cut the family into many parts again, echoing through the hall like a cruel laugh. Amras falls to the floor, blinded by tears, by the scream building in the back of his throat. He pounds his fist into the bleak, undisturbed surface making up the small suffocating box they stuffed him in. Wisps of trembling light from his fëa blur around him when he moves too quickly.
All the long years since Losgar, all the long years of bloody battle, death in his eyes, a hole in his heart, destined to be left behind and brushed off as the 'little one', Amras had been alone. But he showed them. Oh, he showed them. The point of his spiral-fletched arrows and the edge of a tarnished sword spoke louder than he ever could.
"Do you not have a soul?" He screams into the ceiling. Is anyone listening? Does anyone care? The sound bounds back into his face, almost gently. You are alone.
Amras knows this.
"You bring him to me only to tear him away again! Do you realize I am only half without him? I beg you return my better half to me! Please!"
A gasp wrings out of his throat. It is the same gasp that choked in smoke and the reek of smoldering flesh as he watches the mocking firelight dance across the ripples under Maedhros' feet. Amras remembers that moment better than anything else.
~Amrod is in the elder brother's arms, head tipped back, legs trailing limply in the bloodied water. It is dark, but Amras sees there is nothing but tattered remains left of his hair. Maedhros' eyes are pools of molten silver—Maedhros never cries. Never.
Amras beats Fëanor to the body, fingers trembling as they examine it—now nothing but debris—lying on the pebbly shore at his knees. All of Amrod's skin is black but for the stark, clean white of his bones. The open rib cage slopes up and down in the gaps, like the rolling hills the twins would often hunt in as their pastime. It is sickening to think of now, the memories painted black by an even blacked anger.
"Telvo," says Maedhros. "He is not—he is—" Dead. Dead like Finwë.
Amras feels a rush of understanding and hate for Fëanor all at the same time.
The tears in Amras' eyes burn hotter than they should, lips twisted into a pained snarl.~
That was the moment Amras of Aman, the boy of Formenos, died. The remains of that boy rotted in Amras' chest, lashing out with cold glares and the near-silent twang of his bow.
Mad, they said of him. Mad like Fëanor.
Each one of them descended into a madness of their own, Amras supposes, simply in different ways.
He does not realize that he has fallen into heap on the floor, the illusion of his hand flickering dimly before his face. It is brighter than it should be.
Amras blinks. Moves his hand.
A small light shines in the wall, peeking through thin bars. Amras watches, mesmerized, as the light shifts and flickers like a ray of sunlight. Except… sunlight does not hum. Nor does it have the shape of a slender hand.
It is strange not to feel the drop of his heart in his chest, nor the tremble of his limbs, as they are not really there.
He recognizes the tune at once as being a rendition of a lullaby Nerdanel would often sing, embellished too many trills and harmonizations as if the singer had nothing better to improve upon for a long while.
It is not the song that tightens Amras' throat. It is not even the ray of solitary light slanting across his face. It is the voice. Amras knows that voice—though it is thick with tears—from anywhere.
He slides across the floor to press his face to the cold bars of the grate and is suddenly blinded, the hue of sunlight searing his eyes as if he had stepped outside into broad daylight after several days toiling in the gritty forge.
He moves his face away and instead pushes his fingers through the small gaps.
"What is this?" rings out a musical voice from the other side of the door.
Something softer than anything Amras could ever remember brushes his fingers. It is as if a bolt of lightning has shot directly through Amras, though it is so incomprehensibly warm and familiar and whole, he can hardly bear it.
"Pityo," the twin gasps, eyes burning with more than the shock of unexpected light that had suddenly illuminated his fëa.
A handful of breathless moments later, those slender fingers settle in top of his where they are curled tightly around the thin bars. The gap is hardly big enough for their hands to fit into, but it is this singular source that ignites his fëa like a match to a pile of dead tinder.
"You are here, brother!" the voice calls, so blatantly brimming with joy that Amras cannot help but feel that it is very strange after centuries of voices with veiled intentions.
"Stay with me." Amras' fingers twist to close over Amrod's, this small action flooded with the emotions bubbling out of Amras faster than he can stop them. Amrod must feel it, for he lightly squeezes his hand in return.
"I have never left," assures the lively voice.
"You did," Amras accuses without thinking. "You died, Pityo."
Amrod falls silent at this. Shame suddenly engulfs Amras for lashing out so, picturing the confused hurt on that almost childlike face over something he could not help.
"No," Amrod argues, "I did not leave. Did you not hear me? I talked to you. Every day."
The shame is replaced by sorrow. Truly, their madness shines through so differently. Perhaps for Amrod it is living somewhere other than reality.
"Pityo," says Amras, suddenly the older, chiding twin. "Fëar are cut apart in death. I could not hear you."
"You could not?" Amrod's voice inflects upwards. Doubtful. Fearful that his fantasy was shattering.
Amras can hear the frown marring that smooth face.
"But I did talk to you. Every day."
Amras sighed. "Then I did not hear you."
oOo
They remain that way all the while.
The grate between them grows larger like a living thing. This day the bars are far apart for them to properly clasp hands.
Though an elven fëa is not tangible, it cannot occupy a place already solid with physical matter. Otherwise Amras would have been on Amrod's side long ago.
It could be hours or it could be years that pass by as Amrod filters through Amras' mess of a fëa, tentatively probing his mind to untangle the vicious emotions knotted there. Amras does not know if Amrod can see all his memories this way, but he can certainly see the ones Amras replays the most judging by his occasional wince.
Amrod is toying with a particularly bloody memory.
"You were hurt," he says in sympathy.
"Many times." That did not make it any better. It is silly to Amrod for his brother to be mortified with such small matters. Even now a measure of sorrow tints Amrod's brightness as he considers this carefully.
"I believe this is why your fëa is darker than mine. The light… dwindles when I let go."
"You are better than I."
Amrod squeezes his hand in admonishment.
"No. You are hurt."
"So were you. You burned to death, by the stars. How do you th—"
"I did not mean like that." Amrod defends, then strokes his hand. "I will heal you."
"I do not think you can."
"But you can," Amrod returns earnestly as if it is obvious.
Amras opened his mouth to shoot back with a how? when a distant scream sounds from across the hall followed by a series of hoarse shouts.
Amrod stiffens, but Amras does not. He is used to such things.
"Elbereth—"
"Do not say that name."
"—Valar. Only Atar and our brothers are in this hall…" Who is that?
"Oh, that is only Maedhros."
"'Maedhros?'"
"Nelyo. It is only Nelyo."
Amrod is quiet for a while, the rays of his fëa shifting thoughtfully, occasionally clouding over. Ai, the boy is so transparent. He seems almost afraid to inquire.
"Nelyo does not yell," Amrod says instead.
"No."
A pause.
"Telvo."
"What?"
"Tell me."
"You do not want to know."
"He is my brother," Amrod insists.
Amras sighs. He cannot argue with that. "He was captured by Moringoþo after Fëanáro's death. He was never right in the head after that."
Though they are twins, Amras often has to remind himself of how soft and untried Amrod still is by his years in the Halls instead of being out in Arda Marred fighting battles. Such gruesome talk is not appropriate for such a tender mind.
He can feel Amrod trying to probe his memories for details, but Amras blocks him off. Amrod's scowl is communicated through the light squeeze on his hand.
Amras knows how much they both used to admire their eldest brother. It would be cruel to let Amrod know how gracelessly Maedhros had fallen off that pedestal.
Another scream erupts from down the hall. Amrod winces.
"How did Atar die?"
"Balrogs."
"What?"
"Valaraukar."
"Oh," Amrod says, his voice reminiscent of a small child's. "I have seen those before."
It is not until much later that Amras realizes it is not possible for Amrod to have seen a Balrog.
oOo
It feels like ages before the grate swelled to a height that Amras can see his twin's face.
It is smooth, unblemished with the hard lines around Amras' eyes and mouth. Soft curls tumble around his face.
As Amras noticed before, his fëa took on the persona of sunlight, radiating a warmth of its own into Amras' fëa, which was a dim red flame, the color of a dying star.
There is a different depth to his eyes that Amras does not understand. After all, they have been apart for millennia.
Amrod is smiling. He reaches forward and smooths the lines in Amras' face with his thumb. A small shock of light buzzes through Amras' fëa at the contact.
"Do not do that with your face. You will look old."
"I am old."
"We are the same age, Telvo!" Amrod laughs, the sound light and airy. His face only brightens when he smiles. Amras wishes he could embrace his twin for once.
"I am older by several minutes, you know," Amras replies in the same string of banter they often used. The corners of his mouth twitch.
"That is not much!" Amrod eggs on, searching his twin's hard face for something akin to amusement.
Amras relents and playfully shoves his brother by the shoulder, hiding a chuckle with his bowed chin.
Amrod pokes his chest. "You are getting better."
Amras would have asked him what he meant if he did not already know.
Another dim scream rings out. They both ignore it.
oOo
Amras is sitting against the bars, the warmth of Amrod's back pressed against the other side. He feels much like an injured eagle spread out on a hillside, soaking in the sun's rays to heal. Their fingers are still entangled.
He despondently watches the animated murals of the consequences of the Fëanorian's deeds on Arda flash across the walls before him.
"Do you see them, Amrod?"
"See what?"
"The pictures. They are like sluggish bolts of lightning, often showing the bloodshed we caused."
Amrod considers this. "No. Not here. But these images flashed in the Darkness."
Amras shifted uncomfortably, feeling naked without a full quiver on his back in the mention of such things. "The Darkness?"
"Yes, past the Door of Night." Amrod says this calmly, as if he recounting a stroll in Ammë's rose garden.
"The Void itself?" Amras chokes out, taking his twin's hand in earnest. The intense swirl of heat bristles out in thin curls of flame around his form which snaps and hisses in anger. Amrod mentally smooths over his ruffled feathers.
"I did not go in with-with Him." Moringoþo. The Black Foe. "The Valar only but opened the doors and I collapsed in the presence of its vast malice. I saw a Valarauka there, fading."
Amras feels a tremor in Amrod's hand. They did not turn to face each other, for it was a strange thing to look upon the others face when they had been nothing but disembodied voices for so long. But Amras can read so much from the subtle movements of his hand. Between this and osanwë, it is almost as if they have a sacred language of their own.
"It was—" Amrod's musical voice falters, like the bow of a musical instrument striking a discord.
Amras listens to Amrod's recount, breathless. (Angry.)
"It was more terrifying than even death, Telvo. I lay there before the gates… refusing to let them push me in. I was only a fëa, then, but I could feel my heart tremble as if it were about to burst. The Darkness seeped out from the doors like plumes of smoke… and it reached for me, for I was the weaker being amidst the Valar and it-it stole a piece of me. I knew that if I inched closer to it, it would devour me, and I would be Unmade. The Valar saw this and… instead they put me here despite the swearings of our Oath."
Amras' eyes round like twin moons. Their 'hearts' thump where their palms meet. Amrod's mind is closed to him.
It is several moments before Amras spoke.
"I… grieve for you. That this occurred." I thought the Valar were cruel… perhaps they are. But not as I—
"Lady Nienna snatched me up from the entrance. Her embrace pieced me back together." A pause. "In my time here I have realized something, Telvo." Amrod says, his voice reverting to the smooth singing of strings.
"Tell me."
"The Valar… they have done what they must. Never once have we deserved their confidence. Think of it, Telvo. What do they owe us?"
The answer hangs heavily between them. Nothing.
"They have invited us to their home, whisked those of us who were willing away from the haunt of Moringoþo in the ancient days of our grandfather Finwë. Some have sent aid though we were exiled from them, some have passed along prophecies that preserved entire cities. And now a deed to save kinslayers from the Doom they pledged themselves to!"
The making of Ëa. The Age of the Stars. An Eagle sent to rescue their brother. Tuor's warning for Gondolin. Keeping the Fëanorians from the Void.
"How do you know these things?" Amras demands. The Valar stole from us. They abandoned us. They—
A hand on his shoulder. Amrod has turned to face him, the lights in his eyes shifting, revealing his age.
"Why does it matter? They do not deserve your hate!"
"They are the cause of our plight! Of all the bloody wars we endured—which you do not know. The Valar are nearly all-powerful but yet they stood by and watched as Moringoþo picked away at our people like—"
"No, Telvo. That was not the Valar. That was the Oath—"
"Yes, perhaps also Fëanáro's fault. On this at least I can agree."
Pregnant silence sinks in the air like a heavy net bloated with fish squirming to break free. Anger crackles around Amras, and a cross disposition around Amrod.
"You do not call him 'Atar'." Amrod finally says, voice small as if this pains him. It does. Amras can feel it.
"He is not deserving of the title."
"What did Atar do that we did not?"
Again Amras is struck into silence. "He began the Oath! He is the cause of it! Then he died and left us to—" Amras' desperate tirade is cut off.
"I do not understand how you can forget that we all joined him of our own volition. Do you not recall? Why do you pin the blame on others when the fault of such things lies with you!"
Amras stiffens. "Are you accusing me—?"
"Valar, Telvo, listen to what I am saying!" Amrod shouts. "After what Ammë has done, we will be reembodied one day, returned to our home. So will the others. Will you live the rest of your days sundering yourself from Atar? Blaming him for things he cannot change? Things that not even the Valar can turn back and change? Do not make me laugh, Telvo! Why do you cling to these childish notions? Take your blame upon yourself and reconcile. I, for one, will not have the reunion with my father ruined with your resentment."
Amras stares harder at the images on the wall—Elenwë's foot slipping through the ice. Her mouth opening in a silent scream as she falls through. The water sealing above her head.
He glowers at Amrod, the red glow of his fëa burning so hotly that it obscures his vision.
"Why do you defend him?" Amras says, the words a stone wall between them.
"Did you not hear anything I have just said? Yes, I defend him! He is my father! And if that is not reason enough, I will even say that I understand him."
Amras is silent, so Amrod continues to explain. He is zealous, the childishness about him peeled away.
"You think that when I died, you were the only one left alone? No, Telvo. Being parted goes both ways. I too had to endure a-a terrible loss, for not only did I you, but I lost my entire family. Alone I endured the entrance of the Void, alone I faced the scorn of our kin. Just like Atar. Do you not see? Hidden behind his anger was grief for his own father. It is no small thing to bear the weight of the first death amongst the Firstborn. I am not justifying anything, but I have an understanding to that kind of grief, and so do you. I would have done similar things in Atar's stance. You too have acted just as he did."
The anger bleeds from Amras. Instead his aura stings with static, as if he had just been slapped across the face.
They sit in silence after that, Amras wondering. Wondering when his brother got so wise. Wondering how he can ever forgive Fëanáro.
oOo
The conversations following take some time to rid themselves of tension. Amras mulls over Amrod's words, and finds—begrudgingly—that he is right. That must be why Amrod is so bright and Amras was thrown in with his fëa more a pile of flickering embers than a steady flame.
He sighs. "Look. The grate has almost reached the ceiling. It must be enchanted to grow larger like this. There is a certain power about it that I recognize only faintly. Do you feel it also, Amrod?"
"I do not know why you insist on calling me that. I have plenty of other names to choose from: Pityo, Pityafinwë, Ambarussa… and yet—Amrod, Amrod, Amrod to you."
"It is the language of the Grey Elves, more common in Arda. Many of the Nandor in Ossiriand spoke this to me before I learned their language."
"Ah. I sometimes forget your experiences in Arda."
Amras hears the hidden plight between the words. You were there and I was not. I cannot relate to you as I once did.
'Alike in mood and face' is no longer true. Amrod is almost quiet, thoughtful. The depth in his eyes is not dark like Amras' is, who is harsher, abrupt, rough around the edges. They are different.
It is a bitter but mutual feeling. But not a permanent one.
Amras squeezes his twin's hand. "Now we only have more stories to tell."
Amrod's lips curve upward. "I suppose we do."
oOo
The grate has always been between them. A physical barrier that kept the two apart, enhanced the contrast of their differences. It has always been there. Until one day it is not.
It begins with Amras' gasp. "Amrod—"
"Call me Pityo."
"Pityo, do you feel it? The enchantment… the power that wrought this hole between us draws near…"
Amrod hears it. He stiffens, then gets to his feet to turn to his twin. His eyes are large, clouds passing over his radiance.
The footsteps near. There is a rattling at both of their doors. Tension coils in Amras' core. Amrod wrings his fingers. They glance at each other—and cry out.
The grate is no longer between them as if it had evaporated and a strangled sound escapes Amras' throat. Amrod extends a hand where the bars should have been, disbelieving.
Amras wastes no time with uncertainty and surges forward, crushing the smaller form to his chest.
"Brother," he breathes.
Amrod restrains his tears, a shockwave coursing through the both of them at this sudden meeting, like the sun's warm embrace melting the spring snows away.
Welcome back, says Amras via osanwë.
Amras' cell door cracks open and a luminescence unlike either of their fëar casts itself on them.
They both startle and turn. Amras edges his brother behind him, but there is no need.
A kindly face and slender figure leans in the door frame. Her eyes glow a lively violet, and there is a simple braid draped over her shoulder. He can tell by the power crackling in her aura that she is a Maia.
"You," Amras manages. "You're the one who put the enchantment on the wall. You wanted us together."
The Maia only smiles and steps away from the door, gesturing outside.
"Come. You are to be released."
A breath whooshes out of them simultaneously. They share a disbelieving glance before dashing outside—only to stop short.
Fëanor stands there, fëa frail but vigorous as it burns like a wildfire in his wide eyes.
He hesitates only a moment before rushing forward and enveloping the twins in his arms so tightly, they would not have been able to breathe were they embodied.
A wave surges over Amras. Powerful. Indescribable. Forgiveness.
"My sons," Fëanor says in an exhale.
"Atar," Amras breathes without hesitation. Amrod takes his hand. And smiles.
oOoOoOo
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts :).
There's two more stories to this series if everything goes as planned!
(Next up it looks like there will be some more Fëanor and Maedhros angst because there's never enough of that.)