Date: 12/8/04
Word Count: 500
Summary: A vignette set in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, focusing on the reactions of Maedhros to the losses, one in particular, of that disastrous battle. 500 words.
Disclaimer: The Silmarillion and all associated characters, places, etc. belong to the Tolkein estate. I'm not making any money off of this, so don't sue me.
Notes: I was very tempted to use the Quenya names Maitimo and Findekano instead of Maedhros and Fingon, but I figured this version flows better.
This fic was actually something I wrote up for a class assignment, at some unholy hour of the morning after an all-nighter. As such, there's probably quite a bit of purple prose, raining cheese logs, etc, riddled in this short story. Please excuse the incoherencies. I'd refer you to my brothers Feanorion centered fic, "The Bitter Rain", which is much better written, IMO. Also, I've got a piece of fanart to go with the fic, which can be found at webdisk(dot)berkeley(dot)edu(slash)Tanith(slash)fanart3(dot)jpg
Black fog blinded his eyes and dust scraped his tongue. Where was he? A thrall chained high above the highest mountain, chained by darkness, frozen by despair. The fire that birthed him had long departed and he was nothing – a nameless thrall who had forgotten all but the mindless despair and the name of exile.
"Brother?"
Where was his savior now? Where was the song that washed away the horror and brought the wings of heaven to his side? Where was the singer who bore him away from pain back into the light?
"Brother!"
What was this pain – this sharp lancing pain that cut through his heart more painful than any torture inflicted by Morgoth? A loss more empty than his brothers dead and buried, a betrayal more keen than the swarthy men who had lost them the battle today...
"Brother, you must rise. We cannot tarry here!"
Rise? Had he fallen? No, no, it was another star who had fallen, gone to the Halls of Waiting and perhaps never met again. What curse was his that he had unthinkingly caused this fall and betrayed the one who had saved him, and still felt the bitterness of betrayal because the other had left him, a marred soul bound to a marred world.
"Maedhros! What has come over you?!"
Slowly, the auburn locks parted as the anguished face raised to meet the eyes of his frantic brother. Maedhros seemed unaware of the carnage of unordered retreat around them and the closing din of pursuit.
"Ah, Maglor, he is dead!"
Maglor stopped shaking his dazed brother, momentarily stymied by the cryptic words. Seeing the half-crazed look in Maedhros' eyes, he chose his words carefully.
"Many lie dead today, brother. There will be much grieving for all who survive..."
But Maedhros dismissed the words as if he had not heard them, his eyes still far away.
"Fingon is dead, Maglor! I feel his death as if my own. Ai, would that I had never conceived of this foolish plan that betrayed us all."
Unable to stop himself, Maglor turned and quickly scanned what he could see of the smoke-choked battlefield far behind them, knowing even as he did so that there would be no miraculous reappearance of the familiar flash of silver and blue of the king's standard. Not coincidentally, his averted face was spared the sight of brother's silent tears.
"What fate is this that one so worthy and bright as Fingon should die, while those mired in darkness should flee to spread their sorrows anew?" muttered Maedhros quietly as he sank back into his daze. Fortunately, at least this time he did not stop moving with the army's retreat.
The doom that we willingly and foolishly cursed upon ourselves, all those of us Exiles, Fingon included.
Maglor thinned his lips, almost biting his tongue in order to hold in the words that immediately sprang to mind. Some answers were not truly sought. Some truths could wound as painfully as any blade.