Prologue
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Then the sons bore their father to return him to Mithrim, and they had thought his hour was come, for grievous were his wounds, and they feared the wrath and vengeance of the Valar. Yet they knew not that Morgoth Bauglir had ordered Feanor not slain, albeit weakened greatly, for he thought in his black heart, and laughed at the thought, that he would be more a curse to his people alive than dead.
Thus Feanor did not die; bright and strong burned the fire in him, and still he had not seen his vengeance, and was loath yet to leave Arda for its beauty and vast realms. Slowly his strength returned and his body mended; but he lay long broken and nigh onto death, and the Noldor saw the weakness of the greatest among them, and fear and dissent spread in their lines...
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"Cravens, bootlickers and fools, the whole lot of them," Caranthir snarled as he threw aside the flank of the tent and strode in, still in his full mail and wielding a long sword. Five brothers looked up at him with weary eyes, devoid of much caring, from their places scattered on the floor, and when they did not answer, he sighed and cast aside his weapon, dropping to join them. The large space was deathly silent, save for the clanking of metal and the quiet, constant but uneven sound of heavy breath. "You'd think Father would choose his allies with more care."
Curufin, who sat holding his knees to his chest and head in his hands, stirred and looked up. "Speak not ill of the dead," he muttered.
"The dead..." Caranthir answered in the way of mocking, but the other Elves froze. Five pairs of eyes, empty, desperate eyes, shifted across the tent in silence, as no words were needed between them. One corner they furnished with all manners of cloaks and furs and fabrics they had, and there, the High King of the Noldor, Curufinwe Feanaro, was quietly struggling to breathe.
"He does not seem very inclined towards dying," Maedhros commented dryly, and Maglor laughed.
"He would not die," he darkly whispered; his eyes held a strange burning, even upon his brothers. "There lives none in Arda that can slay him. Not only will he live, but he will fight on this hopeless war until he damns his own inextinguishable flame, and we would all damn it with him."
There was a long pause; a silence fell upon the six, as if all their words were lost with their father, a silence of those who must learn to speak on their own. Perhaps it would have been easier if they knew he would not wake, that they would bear their own mistakes and be prone to no judgement. Yet he would live -if he lived - how could they do ought else but wait?
Caranthir moved uncomfortably on the sandy floor, as if wanting to speak but daring not. His dark eyes nailed Maglor in the silence.
"You and your talks of damnation," he muttered bitterly.
Maglor nodded slowly. "And IÕm not the only one, am I?" He glanced at his fatherÕs unmoving form and shrugged. "Blood and darkness. Half our people would have him dead."
"They would not dare," Maedhros snarled. This time it was Caranthir's turn to laugh.
"You think they won't, brother mine? When have you last been outside? Or maybe you were wiser to remain here as guard." He shook his head and leaned back, perhaps in an attempt to relax, then added matter-a-factly, "we have received some honored guests."
Questioning looks passed between the brothers. "Such as?"
"The Black Foe sent some lapdogs to pretend to negotiate with us. They say they desire peace, would give a Jewel to have it. I would not trust them to clean my boots," he shrugged, "but most are rather persistently not with me on that. Damned if we do and all the rest."
"A Jewel," Curufin whispered reverently. Another round of hesitant glances went FeanorÕs way.
"Would you speak with them, Maitimo?"
It was not that Maedhros did not expect to be put in this position - if only for the time being. It did not prove any easier, nothing proved easy. Father, he thought to himself, detecting to hint of despair in the plea, please live, for I cannot do this...
"No," he said at last, painfully conscious of all their eyes upon him. Curufin and Amras looked shocked, Caranthir and Celegorm gave pleased smiles. Maglor alone did not react, did not seem to be aware of the discussion at all. "No, I will not. When Father wakes, he would decide. Until then, we simply wait."
"Wait!" Curufin snorted, but Maedhros paid him no mind at all. Darkness was slowly falling, and the brothers retreated to rest. Only he remained at their father's bedside, unable to even consider being anywhere else.
Had they really come to Middle Earth to find freedom?
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Thus it was that Maedhros son of Feanor did not converse with Morgoth. And perhaps good fortune was that, as later whispers came to Mithrim that but vile pretense was the offer of peace, a snare to capture and bear him away to torment in the darkness of Angband. Indeed the seven waited in idleness for their father to wake and live and give them guidance in the strange new land.
And Feanor lay long in dark fever dreams; and in dreams came to him the memories of Tirion that he loved, and those friends and kin left behind, and perhaps it was so that his heart was somehow changed by those...
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By:Ê Joan Milligan