A commotion and whispers spread through the hall as the steps accompanied by clanking armour approach: he is coming.
He.
Maedhros Fëanorion, Lord of Himring and the eastern March, with his copper crown and copper inlays in the armour, tall and proud.
On his high throne, Fingon conceals his relief, seeing with his very eyes the truth of the message: only Maedhros, no other Fëanorions in his retinue.
A path clears for Maedhros among the gathered lords, heads bow to him respectfully but the welcome is cold: his valour , his renown as a warrior undisputed, his own conduct spotless, yet the deeds of Celegorm and Curufin have cast a shadow over him. He did not repudiate the brothers who had betrayed a kinsman, only took yet another wrongdoing of House Fëanor on his broad shoulders and merely expressed regret on their behalf. It earned him respect from some, while others barely conceal their disapproval. All seem to agree that a display of humility would be in place, but that was never a feature of House Fëanor, and for all his other qualities, he is still Fëanor's son.
Fingon loves him, one way or the other, and is firmly decided to demonstrate that his court is not a place where such grudges might flourish.
He stands up to greet his guests as the custom demands, and when Maedhros kneels to him, he steps down from the dais to raise and embrace him. "Kinsman. Your presence is an unexpected joy in these dark days. Welcome to my court." His voice, warm and sonorous, carries the message across the great hall: my kinsman, my dearest friend. Nothing changed, nor ever will.
Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he does assess a change, albeit a pleasant one: Maedhros seems in high spirits, more of the olden days when they still could freely roam the lands. Fingon is glad for that and the mood is contagious when Maedhros speaks about his planned Union, about his allies among the Dwarves as well as his dealings with the new tribes of Men from the East. One of them, Borlach, son of Bór, even accompanies Maedhros on the long journey to Hithlum, and though his look, with dark eyes and hair and swarthy skin, seems foreign (and Orcish, as Húrin of Dor-lómin did not fail to note out of earshot), there is strength and pride in the young Man which hold promise for the future.
"Caranthir is currently dealing with yet another mighty chieftain, one Ulfang," Maedhros continues, "and with their help, we will finally have the numbers to make our lands safe again."
"And then?" Fingon asks, knowing all too well but not wishing to rob Maedhros of his finishing move.
A flicker of a smile. "That will depend on you, kinsman. Will you rally the West for me?"
"Must you even ask?" Fingon raises his cup in a toast. "The losses of Bragollach were grievous but it is time to settle the score and to avenge my father. But we must not make our preparations in haste and gather all the forces that we can." He pauses, but the topic cannot be avoided.
Maedhros's lips press into a thin line, his face darkens. "Can you write to Orodreth on my behalf? He never responded to any message that I sent."
As could have been expected. Orodreth did write to Fingon, though, in great detail, and bitterness. "I will try to sway him," he promises, "but I am not very hopeful. What about Doriath, though?"
Rather transparently, Maedhros takes a long draught from his cup. When he finally puts it down, the elation is all but gone. "No help from Thingol," he states. "My fault, I fear."
"Yours? How so? You did not compel Celegorm and Curufin to do what they did."
Fingon is taken aback, seeing a sudden gleam in Maedhros's eyes – is that anger at being reminded?
It is only a fleeting moment – the expression quickly becomes remorse, and anguish, and that dear proud head finally drops. "Forgive me," Maedhros mutters hoarsely. He covers his eyes with his remaining hand. "Oh, Findekáno, if only you knew..."
Moving his chair closer, Fingon puts a hand on his shoulder. "I will know if you tell me."
After a while, Maedhros covers the hand with his. "When they came to seek shelter at Himring, they would not tell all at first. They did not outright lie but were evasive, and I had received a highly worrying message from Doriath concerning Thingol's daughter, so I pressed them for the truth. When they finally told..." His hold on Fingon's hand tightens. "There were some very hard words. And not only words – I was wroth as I had never been before. I had hoped that we could put our crime behind us, once and for all, yet they, at the first opportunity... Finrod's blood is on their hands, and they did not even regret. I had never been violent towards my brothers, yet that day, I put a fist to Celegorm's mouth and held Curufin by the throat..."
Fingon is absolutely sure his face shows nothing, but a muscle on Maedhros's jaw still tightens. Doriath may be sealed to those outside, but news spread freely, as well as songs, and more than a few among those about the deeds of Beren and Lúthien. Curufin's throat seems to be an alluring target and Fingon quickly repels the thought that had Beren choked harder, Maedhros might have been spared the pain and shame.
He hates to do this to a friend so dear, but the High King cannot let the possibility slide. "Have you considered -"
"No!"
"It might appease Thingol..." And Orodreth.
"I said NO!" The shoulder under his hand is trembling.
One last hopeless attempt. "Celebrimbor did."
"Celebrimbor did not take the oath."
And that closes it. Silently, Fingon acknowledges the finality, and yet again, curses Fëanor for the ruin that he brought to his own flesh and blood.
Maedhros takes several deep breaths to calm down. "Besides, it is too late for such appeasing, and there is yet another matter – a fault solely of my own." A wry smile. "Perhaps I should have bidden a better time, but with a Silmaril suddenly so close... I demanded that it be given to us."
Demanded.
Not unlike House Fëanor, Thingol is not one known for humbleness, and his claim of authority over all Beleriand nettled not only the Fëanorions, that much Fingon remembers. How can he rebuke Maedhros, knowing all too well how loath himself would be to beg with Thingol?
His sigh is echoed by Maedhros. "I could have chosen my words more carefully," he admits. "I should have, though I may partially excuse myself by not knowing the full extent of my brother's..." again that bulge on the jaw, "endeavors."
Fingon remains silent. Maedhros's fist closes and his knuckles turn white. "'Endeavors'. I should not masquerade it with noble words. Curufin attempted to murder Lúthien. He failed to mention that to me, or the outcome. I cannot truly blame Thingol for his reply."
"How did you respond?"
"I did not. I had realized the need for the Union, and did not wish to undermine it any further." He sighs again and finishes the last draught of his wine. However, Fingon can feel that something remains untold and he waits patiently, trusting in his friend and kinsman. His patience is rewarded.
"Celegorm and Curufin swore to kill Thingol."
"Ah, Nelyo." Shock brings the old, abandoned name to his lips, and Maedhros startles at it.
Fingon's mind is racing over the repercussions of that statement: the High King of Noldor cannot possibly allow such a breach among the people of Beleriand. "Then something must be done about them," he states gravely. "Oath or no, if they have become like rabid dogs – "
Seeing Maedhros holding back tears, he falls silent, torn between friendship and duty. "Maedhros, kinsman, friend... "
The tears spill. "Oh, Findekáno, what shall I do? Their deeds horrify me but I still love them, and we are bound together by the oath, for good or bad. What can I even do?"
Fingon grabs both his shoulders, giving a harsh hake, and the friend and High King resound with one voice: "You must not let them speak about such things openly, at least not until after the war, and you must firmly reign them in, even if you should put them in bonds! You must not let them undermine that unity which you are seeking to achieve, or else we are all doomed!"
Maedhros wipes off the tears with his sleeve. "You misunderstand – that is already addressed. They bent to my will in the end, albeit grudgingly. What troubles me is, what has become of these brothers of mine. How can I hope to redeem them? How can I hope to redeem us from the Curse?"
Fingon can now see the naked horror behind the words. "You would never do what they did."
Maedhros barks a cheerless laughter. "But I already have, or did you forget?"
How could I ever? "And you repented – as did I." He stops the protest with a raised hand. "Do not tell me that I am innocent because I did not know what I was doing. As you have said yourself: we must put this behind us – not forget but take our lesson, to never allow such an evil again."
"But I am sworn – I am sworn, and if Thingol refuses - "
"We will deal with Thingol later. Morgoth is our foremost concern now. After that, we will find a way."
Maedhros nods heavily but anguish does not leave his expression. "I still do fear, Findekáno," he whispers.
"I trust in you." Fingon pulls him to an embrace, firmly setting his own fears aside. "You will not fall. I trust in you."
And he prays to the Valar to have mercy for the one who has suffered enough for his father's sins.
"What have you done?! What have you done?!"
Celegorm's split lip is bleeding as he sits on the ground, shaking his head in a haze. Curufin, spread against the wall where he had been tossed, is feeling his throat bearing dark marks of the fingers of Maedhros's remaining hand.
Gone is the patient, level-headed elder brother always calming the others' tempers; Maedhros is seething. "You usurped the kingdom of a kinsman who had taken you under his roof in your hour of need and sent him to his death! How could you!?"
Celegorm wipes the blood from his mouth, leaving a broad smear. With bared, bloodied teeth, he looks like a monster of Morgoth's. "The oath, brother. I hope you have not forgotten yet? Our dear cousin Finrod intended to steal a Silmaril! Our oath –"
"And what about our oath compelled you to abduct a maiden? Thingol's daughter! Do you wish every Sinda in Beleriand rising against us in revenge?!"
"You never saw her," Celegorm growls, his eyes gleaming like their father's when the Silmarils were lost.
"Is this your excuse then? Lust? Like an Orc in the rut?"
Celegorm's face turns an ugly red.
"If she wed Celegorm, the quest for the Silmaril would have become void, and we would have gained the support of Thingol's army," Curufin finally manages to croak, still feeling his throat as he gets up.
"That is what your famed clever mind concocted? The power it would bring you, no matter the cost?"
Seeing Curufin's eyes narrow into slits, Maedhros feels cold spreading from his heart, as his brother replies: "Yes, brother, power. Power to bring everyone into our fold, power to gain what is ours and fulfil our oath. It had to be done."
Maedhros's eyes burn with the fire of his spirit: no Orc who has seen the sheen has lived to tell the tale, yet Curufin remains uncowed, and unrepentant, responding with a dark fire of his own, and those two fires contest in a deadlock.
"Where are your people then, why did you come so lonely to my door? Pray, Curufin, where is your son? Where is Celebrimbor? Did you abandon him to his fate, as well, or did he also see your deeds for what they are – an abomination, and an utter disgrace to House Fëanor?!"
Curufin's darkness spills into his face, the same colour as Celegorm's, who now stands up to his defense. "Strange that you should invoke the name of our father, Nelyafinwë, you who have relinquished your father's name," he grits through the trickling blood, "but you cannot relinquish what we have sworn: 'we shall not suffer an Elf or Man to hold or take or keep a Silmaril from our possession'. Thingol claimed what is ours, and Finrod and that Man Beren would oblige him. Such insolence could not be tolerated!"
"What you could not tolerate was Beren and Finrod proving courage that you lacked – that is the reason why you could not allow the attempt, not the oath! Did it not occur to you that it would be easier to gain the Silmaril from Thingol than from Morgoth?"
"Gain how, with our swords?"
Heavy breathing is the only sound in the room after Curufin's words. His voice drops into a soft purring. "Stop lying to yourself, Nelyafinwë. It would always come to this, the oath cannot be outmaneuvered, and trying so is futile. A kinslayer once or a kinslayer twice, it matters not, we are stained already forever."
The cold spreads further, quenching Maedhros's flame, and horror follows in its wake. "I would gladly give my only hand to undo it, whereas you seem to embrace what you have become," he says bleakly, feeling the walls of the room closing in on him. "Do not approach me until I send for you – when I am able to bear the sight of you again."
In the dead silence, he heads for the door, and with each step, his frame stoops, until he finally rests his forehead against the wood. Without looking back, he says barely audibly: "After Thangorodrim, I could not imagine anything that might cause me greater pain. I commend you on proving me wrong."
He departs, never seeing the heads lowered too late.
Gloomy silence hovers over the camp.
His ribs tightly bandaged, Maedhros rests under a provisionary awning. His stump aches relentlessly, as a constant reminder.
Sleep would bring relief, albeit a temporary one, yet he denies it to himself: first, he must know. That small hope which he clings to must either spark into flame, or be quenched. He must know.
Maglor limps to his side to wait with him but Maedhros sends him away, to tend to the Ambarussa, to Caranthir, who hasn't spoken to anyone ever since and his silence is scarier than any fit of rage that he had ever thrown.
The Union was his, and so is the waiting.
Finally, Celegorm and Curufin return with the news. Approaching him, they lean onto each other, though their injuries are the lightest among the seven of them.
Against his better judgement, Maedhros pushes himself to sit up, supporting his weight with the remaining hand. His brothers kneel next to him.
He knows almost before they speak, or rather, their demeanor speaks for them.
"Utter defeat," Curufin states plainly. No amount of words can amend that.
His hand barely holds him. "Survivors?"
Celegorm, the wound on his cheek running down to his neck, slightly shakes his head. "The western army is all but annihilated."
Maedhros is feeling dizzy: this is even worse than his fears. Yet, he must know, he must ask, ask the name that his lips refuse to form because the truth is, he doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to hear what his heart and their eyes tell him already.
With a concerned look, Celegorm reaches a hand to him, stopping short of touching his shoulder. "Brother... I am sorry."
His face feels cold and he feels cold within, although his body shivers feverishly. "How?" he asks, not recognizing his own voice.
"With treachery, how else." Curufin, softly, his voice strained with emotion. "He fought Gothmog, and held his ground. Then another balrog approached from behind and threw a fiery thong around him..."
"His body could not be retrieved." Tears escape Celegorm's eyes and he does not wipe them, though they must be burning in the wound.
"The Orcs gathered all the slain and raised a hill from the bodies," Curufin finishes, his hands making a small, helpless gesture.
The glade swirls around him. It was his army that did not hold, his allies that betrayed, yet it is he who is still alive.
'I trust in you.'
Everything is swirling faster now, and in his head but a single thought,until it finally outs, tearing him apart: "It should have been I!"
He feels arms around him, and holds onto Celegorm and Curufin with hand and stump because they are his brothers, and his brothers and his guilt are all that remain.
He doesn't see the glance that the brothers exchange over his head: they need not swear any oaths that Maedhros must never learn of the desecration of Fingon's remains. They will gladly kill to ensure that.
A/N: I have established as headcanon that Maedhros no longer wished to be called by his father's name Nelyafinwë as he wanted to distance himself from Fëanor's actions as well as the oath. See the previous work, Of Lights and Darkness.