Beta: Anarithilien- thank you.

Thanks to the many reviewers and readers, and those writers of fanfic who write such inspirational stories that have Maedhros as central or an important character, Spiced Wine, Himring, Dawn Felagund, Lyra etc. There are many many more but I think those have influenced me the most. Hope I haven't nicked anything without asking!

For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight…"

Oscar Wilde.

Chapter 6: Finding his way by moonlight.

Moonlight shone on the once smooth and marble walls of the ruined tower, stole in through the cracks in the stone, and fell softly into the darkness. It crept amongst the shadows of the Oromardë, and touched the bronze and copper device that had lain unused for Ages past. Those levers and cogs had not rusted and were any hand to touch the mechanism, it would glide as smoothly as it did for their maker. The moonlight illuminated dust floating in the silence, settling on the obsidian surface of the mirror, shone on the surface of the glass and made a patch of twilight in the absolute Darkness on the other side.

Deep within that Darkness, a spark of light gleamed softly in the empty firmament, steel blue and cold, drifting.

Here in the Everlasting Dark, memory bled, leeched away by the emptiness so everything was forgotten. Memories, thoughts. Even words. But the blue steel spark clung to one memory like it was wreckage, for it made all that long existence trapped inside the Dark worth living.

It was a memory of those stark, winter days in Himring, as bleakly cold as his own heart. He remembered his hand clenched around the stump of the other because it always ached in the cold. The sky was steel grey and filled with louring cloud. Standing on the battlements staring out at Angband it was as ice-cold as his empty bed.

The boy, Närmófinion, breathless and red-faced with running, burst onto the battlements and shouted that there were riders approaching, that it was the High King, and he melted and fled up the icy stone steps of the highest tower, straining to catch the first glimpse of his liege lord, his cousin, Fingon the Valiant. Findékano the beloved. Leaning out over the wall he felt he could fly, as they had when unbelievably, Fingon had rescued him from an unending horror. If he had not loved Fingon before, he would have loved him then. In the far, far distance, Fingon's silver and blue banner whipped in the wind, and one horse streamed ahead of the other riders, hard pushed to keep up.

His own heart gave a great leap and he threw himself recklessly down the steps, blood thumping furiously through his veins and heart pounding. Shouting orders, he strode through his fortress, throwing a command here about rooms, food; another there about who else would be in the King's company, where they should be housed. And then he was almost running to the stable, throwing himself on his own fiery steed and clattering out of the fortress, shouting orders as he went.

The King. The High King. Cousin…Only when he was out and racing his own horse towards the silver-blue banner did he think, Fingon! Fingon is here!

When the riders appeared, Fingon was ahead, his black steed flattened out at a gallop, tail streamed out at the same angle as the rider's long, long black hair with its ridiculous gold braid.

His gaze cradled Fingon like he was glass. Gazing at him, hoarding every detail, every glance, every word, every breath. He barely listened to the words, so intent was he on watching Fingon's mouth, his eyes, his hair, those silly gold braids that Fingon had worn ever since he himself had suggested it one cool summer evening, long, long ago. In Tirion.

His mouth twisted in a pained smile that was somewhere between doting and despairing. It was but a day's rest on the journey to somewhere else, but Fingon smiled (oh so heartbreakingly lovely, dazzling and Maedhros' own heart leapt, choked him with love….fool!) and said he could not pass Himring by.

After the feast, the High King had gracefully suggested they retire to consult on the battle plans, for they were in the final stages now of the onslaught upon Angband. The final battle….that would become known as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

But that was still a while away. For now he had Fingon to himself for a whole day and a whole night, in Himring with those who loved them well. And so it became harder, in every sense, to resist the longer he was in Fingon's beloved company. He knew he was starving himself, dying of thirst and could never, ever get enough - and yet he would not touch Fingon. He would not yield to his cousin's onslaught. He knew Fingon despaired of his 'damned nobility' but his sweet and beloved cousin did not care as much as he about what it meant to be High King.The kingship had never mattered enough to Fingon, he thought fondly, heart in his mouth and bursting, and eyes full of his beloved.

But resist he would. And when finally, they were in private, and Fingon threw himself into his arms, pressed kisses on his mouth, groped senselessly at his thigh, Maedhros clamped his teeth down on his groan so Fingon spun back furiously.

'Damn your honour! Do I have to lose mine to another so you will yield to me? What is wrong with you, Nelyo! You act like some shy virgin and I know you are not!'

And Maedhros turned from him, regret twisting in his mercurial eyes. 'I am not Nelyo anymore. I am Maedhros. And you are the High King.' He made an obeisance as if to reinforce that.

'Man of steel? So hardhearted. I could be dead tomorrow!'

'Never say that!' There was nothing that could defeat him but that. 'Please. Never say that.'

But it took those words to bring him to Fingon, to bring his body and press up against Fingon's. It took the mere thought of Fingon's possible death to make him twist his arms around his king's neck, his waist, like he would never let go. It had him allowing his beloved rescuer, his faithful, valiant lover to shove him against the granite wall and press his mouth against his.

And when finally after only a day, he left, Maedhros clung to those stone battlements again, gaze fastened upon Fingon's tearing steed, galloping flat out along the paved road, his guard strung out behind him like streamers. He heard Närmófinion slip into the room behind him. 'Go after him, Närmó. Stay with him. Give him this.' He pulled a ring from his remaining ring finger with his teeth and pushed it into the boy's hand. He glanced down at the ruby that glowed against gold; Fëanor had made it for him. 'Tell him…tell him…'

He pressed his hand against his eyes. 'He knows what he is to me.'

It was the last time he ever saw Fingon. Beloved, beloved, beloved Fingon.

Over the Ages of the Dark, it was harder to hold on to the memory, to see the beloved face, hear his voice. So each time he did remember, it was more precious than any jewel, any jewel. He grasped it like it was a gift, though the pain of his loss crushed him deeper and deeper into despair, though all other memories had been burned away and only this one remained.

Ages past, forgotten. Dust and ash.

Now there was only the Dark, and he drifted again for a while, watching the twilight in the Glass. Curious and waiting for the shadows to appear.

Curious. Yes… that was the word, although he had forgotten what curious was until now, forgotten all the words… There had been nothing but that one memory, not for Ages past.

There had once been another shadow in the Glass. Long, long ago. He had a strange feeling fluttering in his breast at the memory and he reached for it like he would a…a snowflake?

Except he could not quite remember what a snowflake was. And the long ago shadow in the Glass…He clutched at a name: Tyelpo. Yes. That was it…but that too melted away as quickly as the thought…He drifted again. Close to the Glass where the light was familiar…like the light from something else, that was important. Something had been unutterably bright once. Long ago. But the thought of it brought a terrible crushing in his chest and reminded him that he was here somehow because of that.

He brushed against the coldness of the Glass, and at his touch, the Glass shimmered and moved. Something rippled through it, and his steel blue bright burning spirit reached for the warmth, the heat left imprinted on the Glass on the other side, by the shadow's hand. There was warmth and slowly memories loosened and fluttered like moths against the dim twilight of the Glass. Slowly he began to take on a dimly remembered form.

He reached out to find his fingers pressed against the cold glass and his fingers sank as if into snow.

He had forgotten snow until then. He had tried a smile but it felt strange, as though skin were too tight over teeth, over jaws that were unaccustomed to moving; it was like Angband again…Angband.

Angband forced itself upon him; the squalor of his body and his spirit…there, just a knife blade, lightly…and now there, just on the breastbone…do you see that point between the fingernail and beneath, just slide that in there…like that… Now let us see what you have here, encased in silk skin…it is flaccid now but look how it can be coaxed even against his will….Do you see how the metal heats? How hot it is now? Put that in there while you are stroking it…Do you see the pain that causes? Like nothing else. Heat that…Nail that in…Break those…

Eyes burned into him, black, crushing darkness. A precursor to this, the Everlasting Dark, the Void. For both of them had ended up here…A voice that set his teeth on edge, buried itself into his flesh, a dark mace that crushed him under its weight, pressure like gravity.

Succumb to me, or your Oath will never be fulfilled.

After he gave up screaming because his throat was lacerated, the voice was there again. In his head.

You will dream of me long after you are dead, see me burned onto your eyelids, think of me at every touch…even in the Halls of Waiting you will not forget…

It was true. He could not forget.

He could not forget because his was not the only spirit in the Dark. There were older, more powerful spirits. One that was darkness itself.

The cold belly of the Void was like an old fire with nothing but ash. Gold had glittered on the other side of the Glass.

An awareness settled upon the Glass. A Presence

He felt it watching, remembered its voice.

A roar was building in the belly of the Dark.

0o0o

tbc

Next chapter already written and ready to post next week.