Chapter 6

[A/N : I'm such a greedy little brat, writing on this plotline. I tried not to do it. But I couldn't help it, the plotbunny was getting so frustrated with me it was becoming fey! I know in a previous chapter someone had Feanor's people change their names to their Sindarin forms but I assume they wouldn't be used to using it among eachother yet. Well, anyway, enjoy. ]

***

Turgon watched as the exiles mingled with the new host from Valinor, as they laughed and sang and shouted with a joy he could not share.

What said that foresight was wrong? Could not death still come in many forms? And could not Feanor yet be killed, yes killed, his blood washing Turgon's sword in payment for Elenwe's demise?

His father could not ask those who were reunited with love ones thought forever lost, those whose faces now sparkled with new hope and the new light of the sun, to renew the blood of the kinslaying. Yet it must be done. And so, this job was for him, for his kind. Who had lost too much already to be anything but cursed.

He cared not what Nerdanel's explanations were, she was wrong. There was a doom upon them, a doom that had found them, found screaming children and mothers and men, found Elenwe upon the ice. Because if the dooms of Mandos were nothing, what then of his justice? And Turgon had to believe in justice.

He would never again find happiness. And until Feanor was dead, he would never find peace. But at least, when the wave of his rage at last extinguished the Spirit of Fire, then he would have that peace, that lonely peace of satisfied justice.

He felt his brother and sister come before him, perhaps to speak. Had it been only Aredhel he might not have moved, for though she was slim comfort there was no one else to give him even that much, and it was easy enough just to stand beside her. But for Fingon he must needs erect his mask, he must pretend to an acceptance he did not feel, lest his perceptive older brother find him out and try to stop him.

Fingon asked, "When will you be leaving?"

Turgon turned to Aredhel. "Why did you - "

"I told him nothing that he did not already know. He saw your hatred and came to me, and demanded to know your plan."

Turgon turned back to his brother. "What is it you wish to tell me, Findekano? I know the reasons you will give, and I have let them torment me, but I will not let them stop me! Well, what is it you have to say? That my plan is foolishness, madness, that if I hold my peace for yet a little while everything will be all right? That if I die I may join Elenwe but I will abandon Idril? That if I slay my kin I am no better than the kinslayers?" Turgon stopped, aghast, realizing that his brother was one of those few survivors of the Helcaraxe who could also claim that burden. But Fingon took no offense, only smiled thinly.

"You mistake me, Turkano. I do not wish to stop you. I am coming with you."

Turgon gaped at the cold look in his brother's eyes. When he could think beyond his pain he hoped his brother was among the happy exiles, enjoying the company of Nerdanel's host, but why should his brother feel any less betrayed then Aredhel, who too was let in on his plan?

Still, the foreboding that his people had renounced hung heavily upon his brow. "Two will be noticed missing," he replied, scrambling for an excuse.

"After the ice, the smallest elfling will be missed if he's gone. Aredhel can lie for me as easily as she can for you, and I will not let you go alone."

"And why not?" Turgon said angrily. "This is not your fight!"

Fingon did not reply, merely gazed at him sorrowfully, and Turgon realized that to his wise elder brother his thoughts were clearer than to his young sister. This was not merely an assasination, it was a suicide mission - oh, Eru, how Turgon wanted to be pierced by the thousand angry swords of Feanor's guards! But he would be much more careful not to drag Fingon in, and change his plans to include a way of escape.

Turgon's smile of thanks was more like a grimace, and his words of acceptance were more out of admiration for his brother's manipulations than out of gladness for his coming.

A few days later, now easily marked by the rising and setting of the sun, they approached the outskirts of Feanor's hosts. They rode slowly and carefully lest they be spotted. Many arguments they had had along the way, Fingon reasoning for their return to safety when it was past the point that one could go alone. Also Fingon had produced a dagger and a bow. "Curse your stubborn pride, Turkano," he had said. "You don't know which one you'll need. You don't know how close you will get!"

But they were getting closer.

***

Blue and silver, the colors of water and ice. Undoubtably tired, yes, hurt and weary they still pushed on. What moved them? Vengeance?

Maedhros stared out at the western horizon as though in a trance. One hand shielded his eyes from the setting sun so he could look for the uncoming guard without squinting. He cared not for whatever beauty was in the great burning globe, his thoughts were in too much turmoil.

Beside him, Maglor let his gaze take in the whole scene, the many overlapping colors transferred from art and dream to the very sky, the shadows of gulls and vultures and lesser eagles fast across it, and the way that even as the night neared and chill overcame them they gleaned still some warmth from its rays.

Basking in that, Maglor said, "There should be a song about this."

Startled out of his broodings, although in truth the two had walked up to this tiny precipice together and he knew well who was by his side, Maedhros merely said, "Isn't there?" 'You have a song for everything, Cano' he remembered himself saying while they still played in Valinor.

Maglor laughed soflty, which was an odd sound on such a day. Even as their host neared Angband in a mad race of pride, even as Fingolfin's host followed ever closely without once sending elves out to parley, even as the air grew fouler and the hills more lifeless around them, he had yet retained his humor. Maedhros felt as though something vital had been taken from his brother, and he did not know how, or why, only knew that it made him speak darkly when times called for hope and and speak with laughter when times called for solemnity or fear.

"Why do you laugh?" he asked at length. "Why do you think these oncoming hosts are beautiful? These hosts of revenge, of guilt, of rapproachment?"

Maglor merely glanced at him sideways. "Don't you think them so?"

"What mean you?" Maedhros asked sharply. "Why should I think them beautiful?"

"I mean you were always the closest to Nolofinwe's house, Maitimo. Always closest to Nolofinwe's eldest. Do you not rejoice to see them coming? Are you not glad that they survived the ice?"

"I had thought them safe in Aman!" Maedhros replied, tearing his eyes from the view and regarding his brother with little caution. "Why should it make me happy that they have been dealt cold and bitterness by our hands? And why should Findekano be happy to see me? Perhaps if I had suffered as he had, it would make my betrayal less sharp - "

"I was there, Maitimo. I saw you stand aside, and wished I had the strength to join you."

"He will not know that. What chance has he to ever learn? And now we go racing off into darkness, into foul Angband..." he trailed off, picked up on the end of Maglor's statement. "What mean you, you had not the strength?"

"I will fight on father's orders, and sing at his command, but I - I simply do not care enough to do otherwise..." Maglor sighed. "That the hosts approaching carry only my enemies and not my wife from Valinor - it is but a little painful reminder."

"And yet you can call this vista beautiful?" Maedhros replied. "And yet you can make magic with your voice? Behind your listlessness you are stronger than you think."

"It does not take strength to be decorative," Maglor murmured.

"Nor strength to speak of treason," came a harsh voice from behind them. Feanor.

Maglor's face was ashen, Maedhros could only think - it's too soon for him to be up! Yet the anger on his father's face made him seem back to full health and stature, and that anger was directed at them.

Meanwhile, Fingon and Turgon had ridden as close as they could to the temporary camp and then tied their horses down, both hoping that whatever happened would be over tonight, so they did not have to leave the beautiful beasts alone in this dark place. Then they crept in hidden silence through the camp until they had spotted Feanor and his eldest sons arguing high upon a precipice.

Turgon had out his weapons, was muttering, "They will find us here soon, and I cannot reach him with a sword. But the sword, the sword is the way to fight! It is the man's way - and yet is Feanor a man? Perhaps it is better for him to be killed like an animal..." he turned and began to fit his bow.

But Fingon was hearing Feanor's words. "You, who defied me at Losgar, now do you try to turn your brother against me? And you, Maglor, you wished to be like him? You wish you could have betrayed your father for one of - " his lip curled in a sneer " - Fingolfin's sons?"

Those words were shouted louder than the rest, and with such contempt, that Turgon looked up from where he had been readying himself, his intense concentration shattered.

This, as well as rage, made his arms unsteady as he fitted the deadly arrow, and Fingon at last released from the shock of Feanor's words fumbled at his brother to stop him. He needed - he needed time to think this out - there was dissension among the highest ranks and Maedhros, oh Maedhros had -

Turgon pulled away and released his shot.

When the shaft was let fly, it sailed past Feanor as though the elf was charmed instead of cursed, and struck his unlucky son in the chest. Maedhros spun, stunned, and fell off the edge of the precipice.

Maglor grabbed at him but was too far away, and Feanor reached out with his severed hand, not remembering until too late that it was useless. In desperation he flung himself down on the cruel stones, and at last caught Maedhros' arm. His fingers were like clasps of iron - through pure strength of will he held on to his largest, heaviest son. But he was still weak from sickness and could not lift him, so Maedhros dangled, unconcious, blood flowing from the wound in his side down onto the rocks below.

Maglor kneeled beside his father and slowly helped him pull Maedhros up. Then Feanor turned to the copse where Fingon and Turgon were hidden and seemed to see through the very trees.

"Run!" Fingon hissed, taking the weapons from his brother and assuming command, trying not to think of what he had just seen. "Get out of here!"

"What about you?" Turgon whispered back.

"I'm staying here, I will distract them, pretend there was only one of us," Fingon replied, his voice steady but thin, as a great commander facing a route.

"No, I won't leave you! I'll be the one to stay, I want to be the one to stay."

"I think not. You can barely stand the thought of Feanor - to face him with your hands tied behind your back would be enough to break you. Besides," Fingon said, pushing him out, his frantic movements belying his reasonable tone, "if Maedhros lives he will not let them harm me badly."

And if he does not live, Fingon thought, watching his brother leave, then what further harm can they do me?

Alone, Fingon fought to contain the tears that had not even threatened to spill while he focused on saving his brother. Now, the sight of Maedhros, staggering, falling, flashed over in his mind, a double image set over the sight of the furious guards searching the clearing.

As Fingon waited in surrender for Feanor's guard to take him, he was too lost in the joy of knowing he had not been betrayed at Losgar and despair for the wounds of the one who had been so loyal, to feel any sort of fear for himself.

***

by Shauna