The Night

Disclaimers: Everything belongs to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate. I own nothing, intend no infringement of copyright, and am making no money by this.

Rating: PG.

Summary: Maedhros contemplates a very dark future. Inspired by 'Of the Beginning of Days' which concludes: "Yet of old the Valar declared to the Elves of Valinor that Men shall join in the Second Music of the Ainur; whereas Ilúvatar has not revealed what he purposes for Elves after the World's end, and Melkor has not discovered it." Also contains very mild hints of Maedhros/Fingon.

Feedback is very welcome.

Thanks to Lalaith for betaing this.

I am afraid, I confess.

I am afraid of my own death.

It is strange is not, that I should fear it, I who meted it out with such an uneven hand? That I who died once, should fear to die again, and be redeemed thereby?

The portents hang heavy in the heavens; the stars are dimmed by night, and the sun by day.

And I am fear for myself, that I may not have the courage to meet that last battle with the strength that I had once. Kinslayer; murderer, traitor, all these I have been: and yet I fear that at this last pass my heart has become a gangrel thing within me... What strange irony is this!

We arm for war by the day, and all my kin are arrayed about me, and all those I once counted enemies in thought and deed... those who fell beneath my sword, and those by whose blades fell Amrod and Amras, Curufin, and Caranthir, and Celegorm.

And yet I am further from them than ever I was when we stood together in foul discontent and fruitless murder.

The world outside seethes with the workings of Morgoth, the darkness creeping out of the deep places of the earth. The Balrogs stir in their ancient caverns, their primeval fire aroused to new fervour. The Walls of the World strain and buckle as he strives against them, and bitter is the lot of all who must see such days.

Makalaurë is not here. He walks, if he walks at all, beneath the skies of the Marred World, in that Middle-earth which our fathers forsook so long ago. I fear for him, amongst so alien a people. A people of whom I know nothing. And yet I am glad in this fear. Aye, 'tis a selfish joy, for I am glad that he does not see me brought thus low. And mayhap he fares better amongst those Strangers, than I amongst my kin, tall and fair and brave as they are, outshining the dim stars of dusk.

I can count ten times ten thousand years to my name, and have seen much of life, and of death. And yet now I am dying, and I am afraid. I cannot recall my brother's face as it was in times of peace, nor the songs of sweetness he wrought once. The lamplight lies but softly upon my mind, and I find I cannot even remember my cousin's face when he is gone from me for more than an hour's space. I wonder what it will be not to be, not to remember his fair face, the fall of hair at his brow, the creases at the corners of his eyes when he laughs or frowns. And yet I cannot imagine it; it is a thing beyond me, further beyond me yet than my own true death.

And yet, although I cannot imagine it, it may well be that it comes to pass, that Findekáno is to be no more, that Fingon the Valiant shall not walk the paths of Arda Remade beneath the shadowed boughs, and I shall not walk beside him, but be never more.

Never more to remember. Never more to love or hate with the ardour that is the mark and curse of the Noldor. Never more to shape, never more to see...

I cared but little for the Atani, reckoning them of small account, sickly and fleeting as their lives are, to exist, and then to be gone like the passing leaves of autumn on a swift breeze. But now I find I envy them, for is it not said that Men shall be joined in the Second Music of the Ainur, but the fate of the Elves is not known even unto the Powers of Arda? That we who thought their lives a shadow on the tossing waves should find that they might live when we are gone from this world, and forgotten, our deeds passed into legend, and our names into myth... That we should should find a hundred thousand lifetimes scarce enough to live, for all the woes and sorrows of Arda Sahta, and the fading of the things of our youth... Too little a time to atone for those deeds committed in rashness and in haste, and later repented with bitter grief. Too short a time by far to be forgiven, or to earn forgiveness from those we betrayed...

His hand is warm upon my brow, his words soothing, bidding me homewards. He lifts me up as if I were a child, and once more, as on that fateful day before Thangorodrim, I am glad simply to rest my head upon his shoulder and weep.

"You torment yourself when there is no need. Be at rest, Maitimo, while there is time."

Ai, Findekáno, you know me too well ... better by far, I fear, than I know you.

Mayhap you speak true, and we are not fated to pass from all existence. But for all your words, for all the songs you sing to me in the dark watches of the night, before the dawn comes, when the very beat of my heart seems to falter, my fear still dogs my days and haunts my nights. For I have not done enough to atone for that which I once did.

FINIS