Blood of Innocents
By Glorfindel's Girl
Day Four: Maedhros
How had he lost the trail again? Maedhros cursed himself as he followed the small tributary upstream, searching for any sign that the boys had been there. He'd had their trail, and he'd lost it. The children's soft footprints had faded beneath new-fallen snow, and he could find no hint as to where it may have led. It was almost as though someone did not want him to find the children. But no. He couldn't think of that. Just keep walking. That was all he could do.
Maedhros paused for a moment, and knelt down beside the stream, dipping his hand into the icy water, and bringing it to his lips. The liquid chilled him, but still it satisfied his thirst. He frowned, as he bent for another drink. If the boys had been able to find water, they would have been likely to stay near by it. He would continue to follow the stream, and hope.
He brought his hand to his lips again, and froze, deep grey eyes focused on his rippling reflection on the stream's surface.
There was someone standing behind him.
He leapt to his feet, and wheeled around, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. There was no one there. He heard a sudden snatch of laughter carried on the breeze. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught swift movement; a swirl of a grey cloak, long dark hair flowing in the chill air. Heart pounding in his chest, he turned to look to his left.
Nothing.
Or nothing that he could see. He could feel it. Whatever it was, out there, watching him, waiting. Sword still drawn, he walked slowly towards the dense thicket of trees where he had last seen movement.
There, upon the snowy ground, were three footprints.
Trembling, he dropped to his knees to examine the prints closer. They had cut completely through the snow to the ground below. Three perfect imprints of a woman's bare feet, revealing ground that was not dry and brown from winter, but earth that covered with fine green grass and miniscule flower buds. Even as he watched, the grass withered, turned brown, died, the flowers bloomed, faded, wilted. He reached out to touch one of the prints.
A sudden noise overhead caused him to look up. A nightingale was perched on an overhanging branch. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, the bird with a strange understanding in its soft brown eyes. Then, with a flurry of wings and feathers, it took flight and was gone. Maedhros looked down at the footprints again, only to find that they too were gone.
He sensed motion behind him, felt the presence at his back once more. But his time, he made no motion to look. At last, he understood. He bowed his head low to the ground.
"Let me pass," he whispered, tears coursing down his cheeks. "Oh Lady, I beg thee. Let me pass."
The only reply was the cold winter wind whipping through bare treetops. Maedhros rose from his low bow, but did not stand, though the snow was chill beneath his knees.
"Their place is not with you, Son of Fëanor." The reply caught him off-guard. He had not expected her to answer, not really. And oh! Her voice was like wind through the grass, like moonlight on water, like laughter, like birdsong, like flowers blooming in springtime, and everything that is alive and good in the world.
"Why?" Maedhros asked. "Will you let them die, then? Alone?"
"They are not alone," she replied gently.
And then she was gone. Maedhros rose slowly, turned round. There was no one there. She had left him utterly alone. And with no one to bear witness to his shame, he collapsed upon the forest floor and wept.
