Part 7

In the camp of the People of Fëanor, there had been neither bed nor tent for the eldest son of Nolofinwë. His feet hurt. His head hurt. His legs hurt. His wrists hurt most badly of all, and he couldn't be sure if they were not bleeding because of the overly tightened rope.

They had attached him to a post in the middle of the camp. It was early at night when they found him. They had first taken his weapons away, and then secured him to the post, in such a way that even his arms hurt from the uncomfortable position. Then they left him there. They would probably kill him the next morning, Fingon thought bitterly, depending on if Maedhros lived or not. And, he realised, even if Maedhros lived, he would be too weak from the blood loss to know what his father was doing to his former friend. So it really mattered not. He would be dead before noon.

Unless, of course, the twisted paths of Fëanor's mind found some other use for his life, as in keeping him as a hostage, which was really hardly better.

He had tried to keep composure at the beginning, when passing people could still see him. Out of pure, useless vanity and pride. No. They wouldn't have the pleasure to see the son of Fingolfin broken, pained, hurting because of them. He wouldn't have allowed that. So he stood straight, or tried to, as much as that bearing let the bounds cut into his flesh all the sharper.

It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

He would be dead before noon, and he wouldn't even know if Maedhros lived or not.

Darkness had fallen, and the people gone back to their tents for a night of rest, before the mad race of the morrow could begin again. Fingon bit his lower lip. He wondered if his father and brother would sleep tonight. Probably not. And Aredhel it was not really fair. Turgon and Aredhel were the ones to have devised the plan. They had wanted Fëanor dead. They had wanted the downfall of the House of the Kinslayers. Of course. Then they had to begin by him, their own brother, for was he not a Kinslayer also, who fought at Alqualondë, and drenched his sword in blood?

There was one guard sitting there a dozen of feet away from him. Lazily, his brain asked itself why Fëanor had deemed it useful to post anyone there. He had no weapon, and even if they had left him those, hardly any means to use them, bound that he was. And who, in that camp of enemies, would attempt to rescue him? Maedhros was lying on a bed, balanced between life and Death. Maedhros who had stood up for him at Losgar, who had been his best friend, his brother, who had not betrayed him even if it meant opposing his father, Maedhros who would live or die by his fault.

Turgon's shot would maybe not have devied if he, Fingon, had not tried to stop him from firing it. Which was better? Knowing Fëanor dead, and he and his brother both doomed to Death, and probably torture? Not knowing if Maedhros would die, and he, only he himself tied up here in the middle of their camp, waiting for Death, and submitted to a torture much harsher only by just not knowing whether his cousin lived?

He had abandoned the proud stance as soon as there was no one left to see him, and hung his head as low as the ropes would permit it. They tore at his flesh, but I really mattered not. Was Fëanor that intricate that he had known that nothing could torment him further than dying without knowing his best friend's fate?

He had closed his eyes, and tried to wander into sleep as far as the pain would permit it.

~

Something was happening.

He did not exactly notice what at the beginning. The guard had shifted his position, standing up.

A sound that maybe was not there reached his ears.

It was regular, as the sound of someone walking, but so light as to be hardly perceptible.

He opened his eyes into a slit, though not budging from his earlier position.

Someone was walking. The silhouette clad in the long, black cloak was barely seen in the darkness. It seemed like a black hood also covered its head.

Fingon could not see its face.

It walked up to the guard.

An exchange of whispers took place, though every word of it came clearly to Fingon's ears in the stillness of the night. It could hardly be called a conversation, so short it was.

"Everything alright?"

The guard stood straight.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good."

Then the hooded figure brandished a kind of weapon from under its dark cloak, and the guard slumped to the ground in a heap, whether dead or not Fingon could not tell.

He smiled.

Was he having hallucinations in his dreams or what?

Immediately, as fast as one could run without making a sound, the figure flew —it really seemed so, with the cloak floating around it- to the post where he was attached, and pulled him into a quick embrace.

"Did they hurt you badly?"

He felt the breath slightly tickling his ear. So it was not a dream. His smiled widened a little.

"No, I think I'm still in shape. Who are you?"

He could still not see the face, but the voice he held for too familiar not to be recognised. And yet he could not bring back the name from the depths of his memory. It should not be that hard

The figure bent to his knees, and proceeded to cut the ropes that bound his feet.

"Who are you, kind stranger?"

But no, he was not a stranger.

"The eldest sons of Fëanàro and Nolofinwë were best friends back in the Days." He muttered through clenched teeth. "They were half-cousins, but they were like brothers. Often I saw them laughing and playing together like children by the little stream that flows in that meadow in the woods."

Fingon's heart went twang. This man knew about their secret rendezvous place?

The figure was finished with his feet, and stood again to take care of his wrists, all the while continuing to whisper.

"Do not ask me to believe you came all the way from Nolofinwë's host just to kill your best friend. I don't know what you're doing here, and I don't want to know. Or rather, I have a very good guess. Hand wavered at the last moment, hey?"

Fingon found his hands were free, and caressed his wrists, finding that, indeed, the bounds had cut in them so deeply that the flesh there was not merely cut, but torn.

"Does Maitimo live?"

"We do not know yet."

There was hardly repressed reproach in the stranger's voice.

He was, on the other hand, getting more and more suspicious of the other elf's identity.

"Who are you?"

"Matters not. Go now. Try to be silent. There will be guards. Here, take this sword. It is not yours, but it was all I could find."

Fingon reached for the weapon, but never touched it.

He looked up, smiled, shook his head, and leant back on the wooden post.

The elf nearly jumped from frustration.

"Take it and go! What in Mandos are you waiting for?"

Fingon grinned resignedly, and held up a finger.

"I can see what you cannot. It's right behind you. It's walking up."

Dear Macalaurë, he nearly added. He realised it was not easy to go around incognito when you had a voice like Fëanor's second son's.

Maglor froze. Even if he could not see it, Fingon just felt the already pale face turn green.

Fëanor put a casual hand on his son's shoulder.

"Now, now. We were speaking about treason?" The anger, or whatever it was, made his voice tremble, though it didn't directly show.

The sword clattered to the ground.

"Pity it is you who will be my heir if Maitimo dies."

Fingon still smiled. It could only mean one thing. It would soon be over. Maybe in his wrath Fëanor would even let slip information about Maedhros' state.

Maglor reached up, and pulled his hood down with almost steady hands. His face was set.

Fëanor turned to him with a severe look.

"Go back to the tent. We will talk about this later."

Fingon morbidly marvelled at Fëanor's authoritative voice and Maglor's little nod of the head, before he retreated. Was the emprise the Spirit of Fire had over his family really that strong?

Maglor stepped back. Fëanor paid no attention to him anymore, but Fingon saw the blank look he shot him, and that he did not, in fact, go back to the tent.

"Findekàno son of Nolofinwë. Why did you not run after you shot your arrow?"

Fingon clenched his teeth, and tried to maintain level gaze with his half-uncle.

A silence passed.

He could not hold the question back anymore.

"Does Maitimo live?"

In the blink of an eye Fëanor was on him, shouting. "Do not dare speak his name!"

Fingon swallowed.

"Does he live?"

Another silence, and then Fingon was compelled to lower his eyes.

Fëanor smirked, and began nervously pacing in front of him.

"What exactly is your father trying to do?"

Fingon stared at him blankly.

"I think the same thing as you."

The Spirit of Fire threw his head back and issued a hollow laugh.

"Little brother So, after all these years, he still thinks he can beat me, huh?"

Fingon thought it wise not to answer. Behind Fëanor's back, Maglor was making frantic signs at him, but he could not understand.

"And pray how does he plan to best me on that ground?"

Fingon was bewildered. Fëanor was actually trying to extract information from him about his father's plans?

He stayed bewildered just a moment too long to think up an answer, and Fëanor was in front of him again, staring him in the eye.

"And how could it have suited him to have his own eldest son come to my camp and shot my eldest son? He wanted to get rid of my heir?"

The younger elf suddenly felt a wave of rage wash him from the inside.

"That was not in the plan." he spat.

"So you did that on your own accord?"

"Yes."

Fëanor's nose was getting uncomfortably close to his own, and he leant back as far as he could.

"You came to kill your best friend and cousin?" He shook his head in mock pity, though the fury still transpired through the thin layer of dignity. "How disappointing for a son of my noble, wise little brother"

That kind of thing should not be allowed! Fingon's mind screamed frantically at him. Keep control! Keep control!

But it was to no account.

"Look, here." He struggled to keep a straight face. "I did not want to kill him. The arrow was shot at you." It was probably not a wise thing to say. But at the moment, he found he could not care less whether he died or not. He would probably. Then the best way was still to make it all end quicker. "It was you I wanted to kill. And I did it on my own accord. My father knew nothing of my act. He would not have approved. I came alone, because I was young and stupid and I wanted you dead. My hand was not steady. The arrow went stray. I am sorry for my friend. I am sorry I did not succeed in taking you down."

Fëanor looked at him with surprise. Tentatively, Maglor took two steps forwards.

Aha, thought Fingon, that was not what you expected me to say

But Finwë's eldest son's answer was clear and, he had to admit, quite hard to contradict.

"Nolofinwë's eldest son was considered one of the best archers of Eldamar. Do not tell me his aim was untrue at such a close range."

Fingon breathed in deeply.

"Will he live?"

"It is not the matter at hand now."

Fëanor reached for his sword. With his left hand. With horror, Fingon realised for the first time that his half-uncle's right arm was severed above the wrist. The sleeve had however been managed in a way so that it would not show too much.

It also was not his sword he was reaching for. With a heavy-hearted feeling, Fingolfin's son saw that it was, in fact, his own.

Incidentally, it was the first sword Maedhros had made for him back in the not so blessed days. [1]

The sharp blade was pressed onto his neck.

"You think you still deserve to live, after what you did to my son?"

Fëanor swung the blade. It stood still for a fraction of a second, high in the air. Fingon's mind raced for one last time. Fëanor was right. He had deserved it for what he had done to his friend.

He should not live if Maitimo died.

His eyes shut as he accepted the coming blow.

"Father!"

He heard Fëanor roar in outrage, as Maglor's voice sounded high and clear in the silent night. His eyes flew open. He saw two hands desperately holding Fëanor's arm back, but yet too weak to do so for more than one mere moment. Instinctively, he ducked.

The top of the wooden post came down, neatly cut.

"Canafinwë!"

Fëanor did not attempt to swing the blade again. Instead, he stared at his second son with the expression of someone who had just had a vision of Manwë in a purple night-dress dancing a polka with Morgoth.

Maglor stared back, looking as equally horrified as his father by what he had just dared to do, his face grey and lips bloodless, eyes wide with terror. He stumbled backwards, and would have fallen if Fëanor had not dropped the sword he was still holding to catch his arm and steady him.

In the same time, the head of the eldest House shot Fingon a murderous glare that probably did not bide good. However, the latter was past the point of caring. He had almost accepted the fact that he was to die a moment ago. He had renounced life in the name of his sins towards his kin and friend. And now, he was still standing here, alive and well. It was something short of a miracle. He could only stare, still disbelieving, and wondering what exactly had happened to him.

Maglor inhaled deeply, recovering from his passing weakness, and looked up.

"I think maybe Maitimo would want to have his say in this." He glanced at Fingon pointedly. "If he lives. If he doesn't, than don't expect me to stand for you again."

~

1- Based on Deborah's A Very Fire story, where Maedhros forges Fingon's first sword.

This part by Le Chat Noir.