4. The Grief Of Love
"It is of no use!" Fingon cried in frustration. "The bolt will not come free of the rock face, and my sword cannot cut through the chain or the cuff. I cannot see a way to free your hand from this bond."
"Then perhaps you must kill me after all, " Maedhros croaked. "Do not grieve. Since I ask death of my own free will, it will not be a crime to give it to me. I am glad to have seen you once more. I think I will not mind death so much if I might look upon your face as I die."
"I cannot kill you," Fingon said. "Not now. Not while we are together on this ledge and Manwë has seen fit to send Thorondor to aid us. He has sent us a chance, and I cannot bear to waste it."
"What more can you do?"
Enraged at the resignation in Maedhros's ruined voice, Fingon rose to his knees and hacked again at the iron cuff. He raised a furious shower of sparks and chipped another notch in his sword, but the iron remained smooth and black and unharmed. After a while, Fingon stopped, moaning in despair. He caressed the abused fingers of Maedhros's right hand, grown waxy and cold for lack of blood. Maedhros looked at him with bloodshot eyes and coughed.
"Hold my other hand," he said. "That one is dead and does not feel."
Fingon paused and stared at the dead hand, struck by a new idea. He shuddered at the horror of it and tried to push it from his mind, but it was too late. Maedhros had seen the light in his eyes.
"What is it?" he asked. "You have thought of something. Tell me."
"No. It is too awful. I do not wish to think about it any more."
Maedhros coughed again, and a little of the old fire flared back into his eyes. "Is it more awful than the time I have spent hanging on this accursed mountain?" he gasped. "Tell me."
Fingon gulped. "I have thought of a way to remove you from the mountainside," he said. "But it would not be easy nor painless, nor am I certain that you would survive. I thought that, since I cannot free your hand from this cuff, I could free you from your hand." The terrible idea hung in the air between them. Maedhros closed his eyes and turned his face to the side. At first, Fingon thought his cousin had fainted.
After a moment, Maedhros opened his eyes and gazed up at his lifeless white hand. "It is dead anyway," he said at last. "Even if you could free it from the cuff, I doubt that I would have use of it again."
"Are you willing, then?" Fingon asked. Maedhros bit his lip and nodded. Fingon took a deep breath and tried to steel himself. "It will hurt," he said.
"It already hurts. Do it."
Methodically, before he could reflect on what he was doing, Fingon began to prepare. He removed his cloak and laid it out on the ledge ready to wrap Maedhros warmly afterwards. He untied one of the leather thongs from his hair and laid it on the cloak to have to hand as a tourniquet. He drew his knife and sliced strips from the bottom of his shirt to serve as bandages. Finally, he took the tooled leather sheath and placed it in Maedhros's mouth. "Are you ready?" he asked. Maedhros nodded. Fingon swallowed back tears and tapped the sheath. "Bite," he said.
There was no going back now. Fingon picked up a large rock and smashed it into his cousin's arm with all his might. He heard a soft crunch as one of the bones in the arm broke. There was a strangled gasp, and Fingon looked down.
All the color had drained out of Maedhros's face. Sweat beaded across his pale brow, and he was panting as if he had just run himself into exhaustion. Fingon shivered and stroked his fingers through the remains of Maedhros's hair.
"I am so sorry," he said. "Forgive me. I cannot stand to be the one to cause you such pain, but it must be done. Everything will be well. We will have a little rest before the next bone." He stroked Maedhros's patchy hair and whispered soothingly until Maedhros's breathing calmed. Then he took a deep breath, seized the rock again and swung.
This bone seemed to be stronger than the other, and Fingon had to swing the rock several times. At last, the bone shattered. Fingon heard a loud cry of anguish and looked down to see that Maedhros had passed out from the pain. Fingon noticed that his throat was sore and realized that he himself had cried out when the bone broke.
At least Maedhros was unconscious and would not feel any more pain from the procedure. Fingon took up the leather thong and tied it as tightly as he could around his cousin's arm. He checked one last time to see that the bandages were ready, then took up his knife. The blade was keen, but the sinews of Maedhros's arm were tough. Fingon found that the actual amputation took far more effort than he had anticipated. Several times, he reached for his notched sword and used it as a saw against the tendons.
At last, the bloody job was done. Fingon pulled the leather thong even tighter and swathed the stump in bandages. Gently, he laid Maedhros's limp body on the cloak and wrapped his cousin well. Only then did he look up at the white, forlorn hand still held fast in the iron cuff, slowly oozing blood down the mountainside. Fingon's stomach turned at the sight, and he leaned over the ledge to vomit. When he had finished, he whistled the signal that he had agreed upon with Thorondor. The great eagle soared down to the ledge, and Fingon clambered onto his back, clutching the bloody bundle that was Maedhros. With a mighty shove of wings, Thorondor launched himself into the open air.
It was only after they had reached Hithlum, and Fingon had lowered Maedhros into the waiting arms of his brothers, that he began to shake. He slid from Thorondor's back, barely retaining the presence of mind to thank the great eagle before he flew away. As Fingon watched the healers examine Maedhros and prepare him for further care, a gray mist seemed to fill his mind, and he stood still on wobbly legs, not knowing what to do. Dimly, he felt an arm slide around his shoulders, and he was aware of his father's comforting presence.
"Come, child," Fingolfin said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. "Let us get you home. Your part in this is over now." Fingolfin gently steered Fingon to where his great war horse waited, and helped him mount. Swinging up behind him, he allowed Fingon to lean back against his strong chest and wrapped warm arms around him.
"Foolish child," he murmured, as they headed for home. "Where did you learn to be so brave? To risk so much, all for one of Fëanor's brats . . . It was a great deed, child, great and mighty, and the minstrels will sing about it. I will make sure of that if Maglor does not." Fingon's breath hitched, and Fingolfin tightened his embrace. "You did well," he said. "The strength of your friendship is matched only by your courage. I am proud of you."
Fingon did not speak during the ride home. Tears flowed down his face, and sometimes he gave a great sob. When they arrived home, Fingon allowed his father to lift him down from the horse and lead him into the house. He sat passively as Fingolfin stripped him of his filthy clothing, washed Maedhros's blood from his face and hands with a warm, damp rag, and pulled a clean sleep tunic over his head.
"I know it is the middle of the afternoon," Fingolfin said, "but you have clearly had a great shock, and the place for you is your bed." He laid Fingon down and tenderly drew the blankets over him before sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "I used to do this when you and Turgon and Aredhel were little," he said with a gentle smile, rhythmically stroking Fingon's hair. "Try to sleep. Turgon will deal with business today, and I will stay with you."
Gradually, Fingon's trembling eased, and his muscles began to relax. Fingolfin hummed a soft lullaby, and Fingon allowed himself to slip away into dreams.
He did not know how long he lay there. His dreams were dark, filled with choking dust, the sound of flesh and bone being ripped asunder, the coppery stench of blood, and a powerful wind. Sometimes he was asleep, but sometimes he would be aware of the sound of his own weeping. Then his father would stroke his hair and sing to him. Once, he was given cool water to drink. Fingolfin never left his side.
He blinked his eyes. The room was dim, and he could just see the last rays of sunset through the window. Fingolfin was still in his chair, his face illuminated by a single candle set on the night table. Fingon winced. His head spun, and all of his muscles ached.
"Hello," Fingolfin said gently.
Fingon's nose stung, but no tears came. "So you are awake," Fingolfin went on, brushing his hand lightly across his son's cheek. "I am glad. It tore at my heart to watch you dream. I think you must have wept all the tears in your body." Fingon's face crumpled, and he clutched at his father's hand.
"You are safe here," Fingolfin assured him. "What happened on the mountain is past. We will put the pieces together when you have recovered somewhat. I am not going anywhere today." The sound of his father's steady voice made Fingon feel a little calmer. He relaxed, but did not let go of Fingolfin's hand. In silence, they watched the last rays of the sun vanish through the window.
There was a faint tap at the door. Fingon watched as it opened just enough to show Idril standing in the doorway, in her nightgown, a worried look on her face.
"Father says that I may not come in," she said, "but I was frightened. I wanted to make sure Uncle Fingon was safe."
Fingolfin smiled at his granddaughter. "Fingon will be safe, my dear. I think he will need much love and gentle handling, but he is safe." Idril straightened, visibly cheered by her grandfather's words.
Fingon made an effort to speak, for he had something important to tell Idril. "I am sorry," he croaked. "I left your harp behind on the mountain. I did not mean to leave it, but I could not carry it away with me."
"That is all right," Idril said. "Father says that Maglor will make me a new one. Even if he has to lock Maglor in a workshop, Father says."
Fingolfin chuckled. "Your father said that? Good. That is as it should be."
Fingon managed a half-smile. "Maglor makes good harps," he said. "Your new one will be even better than the old one was. Thank you for your harp, Idril. It helped to save a life."
"Good. Then I will not miss it so much."
"You should go to bed," Fingolfin told her. "Your Uncle Fingon is safe, and he will be here in the morning."
Idril sighed. "Good night, Grandfather. Good night, Uncle Fingon. I hope you feel better tomorrow." She closed the door silently. Fingon raised his eyes to meet his father's.
"I know it is evening," he said sadly, "but I feel as though I ought to get up. I should do something useful."
Fingolfin gave his hand a squeeze. "You feel that you ought to get up? Is that what you really want?"
Fingon sighed. "No," he admitted. "I am comfortable here. If I get up, I will have to face what . . . what I did." He shivered, though the room was warm.
"Then rest a while longer," Fingolfin said. "Your deeds are done for now, and the only thing required of you is that you rest and recover from them. I think you may delay facing them for a while longer. You slept lightly, and that for only a few hours."
"Father, I did a terrible thing."
"Hush." Fingolfin pulled the blankets higher over Fingon's shoulders. "Eventually, I will ask you to tell me about it, for I wish to hear of these events in full from you. But this is not the proper time. I believe that I can guess much of what took place in the mountains, and I do not think that it was so terrible that your father could not forgive it. But we will speak of this later. Rest now, and try to sleep without dreams. I will stay here."
"But will you not need your own rest?"
"I will be well enough," Fingolfin said. "I cannot leave you, my firstborn, when you are still in such distress. Compared to that, my physical comfort is of little importance. I will not leave you unless you wish it. Do you wish me to leave?"
"No," Fingon said.
"Then I will stay with you." Fingolfin leaned over and kissed Fingon's temple. "This was always the sweetest kiss. Sleep, child, and be comforted." He sat back in the chair and held Fingon's hand until the grip slackened, and Fingon slept.
When he woke, it was morning. He could hear birds chirping contentedly, and muted light filled his chamber. In the chair beside the bed, Fingolfin stretched.
"Good morning," he said. "I had never realized how pleasant your chamber is in the mornings. You were clever to claim it for your own when we built the house. Do you think that you are able to eat breakfast with the others?"
Slowly, Fingon sat up, his muscles screaming in protest. He could smell freshly baked bread, and he realized that he was hungry. "I hurt all over," he said. "But I think that I can move, if only to get that bread."
Fingolfin laughed. "If there is one thing to draw a body from a comfortable nest, it is the scent of your sister's bread. I will leave you alone while you wash and dress, and when you have eaten, I will ask Aredhel if she has any of the salve she uses for sore muscles." He embraced Fingon briefly and left.
Fingon carefully rose from his bed and stripped off his sleep tunic. At once, he realized why he was sore. Enormous dark bruises covered his body in irregular patterns. For a moment, he wondered how he had acquired them, and then he remembered how he had fallen while trying to climb to where Maedhros hung. He walked stiffly to the washbasin and cleaned himself as best he could. Some dust still clung to his hair, and he feared that he would need help to wash it out completely. He pulled on loose trousers and a shirt, decided that boots required too much effort, and took a deep breath before venturing out barefoot into the main room.
His family was sitting at the table waiting for him. Turgon gave a broad, relieved smile, and Aredhel ran and embraced him gently, making sure not to aggravate his bruises. "We were worried about you," she said. "Come and eat. You must be famished." She seated him at the table and put a plate with three slices of fresh bread on it before him. Idril passed him the crocks of honey and jam, and Turgon poured out a cup of tea.
Fingon thought that nothing had ever tasted so good as that bread smeared with sweet jam and washed down with warm tea. He tried to remember when he had last eaten, and decided that it must have been the roll of bread on the mountain ridge the previous dawn.
"You spooked us all, Fingon," Turgon said. "We searched the house and the yard for you, and then we heard that you had gone off alone. It has been a long time since I saw Father as upset as he was when he rode off around the lake. And then just past noon, your horse returned home without you. I was sure that you had met with some ill fortune and were winging your way to Mandos at that very moment." Turgon's voice shook, and Fingon could see the glitter of unshed tears in his younger brother's eyes.
"But I did come back," he said. "I am not with Mandos. I am here with you." Then he thought back over what Turgon had just said. "Father, did you really ride around the lake? You did not go to the cousins?"
"I did," Fingolfin said. "Finish your meal and let Aredhel see to your hurts. Then I think we must all talk to each other and thoroughly discuss the events of yesterday."
After they had eaten, Turgon washed the dishes and gave them to Idril to wipe while Fingon followed Aredhel into her chamber. She removed his shirt as gently as she could, though Fingon winced when she pulled it over his head. Aredhel gasped when she saw Fingon's back. "This looks dreadful," she said. "Father said you were hurt, but I did not expect this."
She opened a pot of salve, and Fingon smelled its pungent scent as she smeared some on her hands and began to massage it into his back and shoulders. Her hands were gentle, and the ache began to fade just a little. Idly, Fingon wondered if someone was caring for Maedhros with as much love as he was being shown. The salve felt warm on his back, and Fingon leaned into Aredhel's touch. Far too soon, she stopped and wiped her hands on her apron.
"That should ease some of your pain," she said, handing him his shirt. "All the same, perhaps you should not undertake heavy chores today. Turgon and I can trade light work with you."
"Thank you," he said. "It is a generous offer, but I wonder how much work any of us will do today."
"We will see. Come. We are going to talk now."
Fingon and Aredhel joined the rest of the family in the main room. Fingolfin sat in his comfortable chair by the window. Turgon had dragged a bench from the table across the room, and he sat with Idril at his side. The child looked nervous, and Fingon did not blame her in the least. Aredhel sat on the bench beside Idril.
"Sit," Fingolfin said, indicating the other comfortable chair, the one they kept for guests. "We have much to discuss." Slowly, Fingon eased himself into the chair and forced himself to meet his father's eyes. "Where to begin?" Fingolfin asked. "We have seen not a few strange happenings these past two days."
Suddenly, Idril squirmed on her bench. "I will start!" she cried. Everyone looked at her in surprise, and she turned bright red. "I told Father about how I saw you go away, Uncle Fingon," she said in a small voice. "You said that I was not to tell, and I did not mean to tell, but Grandfather asked, and Father said that this was a time that I should tell a secret, but I felt as if I had told a lie, and I did not like it. I am sorry I told your secret, Uncle Fingon."
Fingon chuckled, and felt some of his nervousness flow away. "I forgive you, Idril," he said. "In truth, I think now that I am glad that you told it, for I do not know how I would have come home if your grandfather had not come looking for me."
"Then you are not mad?"
"I am not mad." Fingon smiled at Idril, but then he sobered. "Idril, are you sure you want to hear the tale I have to tell? There are parts of it that are very bloody, and I do not wish to frighten you."
"Yes. But if it is too bloody, then I will put my fingers in my ears."
"Very well." Fingon sat back and took a deep breath. Slowly, he told the entire tale, beginning with his conversations with Fingolfin and Aredhel the night before his adventure. He told about his decision to rescue Maedhros and of his long journey to the cliffs of Angband. He recounted how he had used Idril's harp to locate Maedhros, and what had become of Fëanor's eldest in captivity. As he described his efforts to reach Maedhros, his heart began to pound. He looked at Fingolfin and drew strength from his father's impassive gaze. He forced his voice to remain steady as he told of Thorondor's arrival and his ultimate solution to Maedhros's imprisonment. Idril huddled against Turgon, but did not put her fingers in her ears.
"I asked Thorondor to bear us directly to Maedhros's family. I do not know how long we flew, but we arrived. I tried to tell myself that Maedhros was safe. I do not remember much after that." Now that the awful truth was told, Fingon felt drained. He clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking and looked at Fingolfin, steeling himself for punishment.
Fingolfin sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Fingon," he said. "I must confess, I am completely at a loss. I am sorry that things ever came to such a pass. You are an adult, and you are certainly old enough to make your own choices. But Fingon, why did you not tell me what you planned to do?"
"You would not have listened," Fingon said miserably. "You wanted nothing to do with the cousins. If you had tried to stop me from going to find Maedhros --"
"I have never been able to prevent you from following your heart's desire, Fingon. You would have found a way. Perhaps I might even have aided you in such a task. But to run off alone into Morgoth's own stronghold was a foolish thing to do. It was running off alone that cost my brother Fëanor his life. You are lucky that you and Maedhros both returned alive. If you had not . . . if you had been killed on that mountain . . . dear Varda, have you any idea how you would have hurt us?"
Fingon shuddered at the terror in his father's voice. "I am sorry, Father," he said. "I will not undertake such a task without counsel again. Am I to be punished?"
"Of course," Fingolfin said. "I am confining you to our land, where you may be watched. For one turn of the moon, you are not to venture beyond the stable yard unless I am with you."
Fingon relaxed. To be confined for a month was a difficult punishment, but he knew that it was far more lenient than he deserved. "Unless you are with me?" he asked. "Are you planning to take me somewhere?"
"Yes." Fingolfin rolled his eyes. "I do not see that I have a choice. It appears that your hope was correct; now that your deed is done, I must speak with the sons of Fëanor, whether I will or no. We will go as soon as you are able. I will speak with Maglor, and you may inquire after Maedhros, for I know that you long to do that."
Fingon smiled. "Thank you, Father." Fingolfin snorted and tried to sound gruff.
"It is only fair. No matter what I think of your methods, you did rescue him. It was a great deed, and you paid dearly for it. You should have joy of it as well." Fingolfin rose and kissed Fingon's brow. "I am glad to have you home safely," he said. "And now, I believe that there are still chores to be done here."