Swan Song

That day, that night, they were invincible. No curse, no fear, no darkness scarred them, victorious dreams and vengeful desire warmed their hearts. The blood of the Teleri had not yet dried on their ships, their tears have not yet stopped, when the glorious Noldor already set foot on the hither shores. Aman was already far away, and Maedhros missed nothing of it, save his friend.
How he hoped for Fingon, how he wished they were together already, sharing in the great deeds, he was sure would come. Oh, ever he was right about his premonitions...

The night was cold and despite his fiery enthusiasm, he shivered constantly. It took all his will to master himself in front of his father, but master himself he did, for he was sure he would be laughed at, or even sent back, had he dared to display even a shadow of weakness.
He remembered how full with childish hope he was, as he went to talk to Father.
And he remembered the moment when Feanor looked at him, gazed at him with those powerful eyes, and although he always thought of his father as a beacon of hopeful, unstoppable fire, all of a sudden his heart chilled, his soul grew cold.

He remembered the beautiful white ships, sparkling in the darkness. He remembered the heat they provided, burning loudly and infinitely. Oh, it was no help, no good, he was cold to his very soul, not only shivering now, but shaking uncontrollably and unstoppably despite the warmth. He stood alone, turning away from the rest, away from his brothers, his father, away from the ships, staring into the unknown darkness. What was to become of him without Fingon? His valiant cousin was all the things he wished to be, his better part, his one true friend.

The air was thick now with smoke, but he felt something else, a distinctive smell he did not know before. The smell of death. The foul scent of beautiful, free, white swans, rotting in decay.
He splashed a handful of cold, dark water on his face to clear his head, then watched as the water quieted and mirrored him, despite the dark. At first, his face looked like he would look. But suddenly another ship was set on fire, another heat-wave boiled the black water, and his face was broken, contorted into a dreadful mask, into a million ripples.

"Maitimo, where are you now? Maitimo? I think not. Not anymore."
Somehow he refused to answer that call, that hateful voice. Even if a part of him was aware of the icy taunting, he did not wake up, rather stayed deep underwater, swimming in his black well of unconscious dreams. There was more to be seen, more to be remembered of that night.

He could not despair yet, for then, they were invincible. But he was in pain. Whether the killing he did and regretted, or the desolation of something crafted so beautifully and with such care, or the loss of dear Fingon saddened him more, he could not tell.
He could see his brothers, busying themselves with the task ahead, carrying out Father's orders, murdering for him, like they did before.
He walked away from them, far away, into the wilderness, until he found a tall and lonely cliff, and he suddenly felt an urge to climb it, to rise above the suffocating darkness of the forest. He fell back several times before reaching the top. But when he finally did, he lay there for a while on his back, panting, staring up into the cold and distant stars. His hands and knees were bloody and cut, but he did not feel any pain at all, only a curious, new sensation. He felt as if he were spinning and falling upwards, into the sky.

Here, from the top, he could see them all. Small figures, running restlessly along the shores.
A graceful ship, the last one standing; a blazing, white swan, glistening against the sea of black water, a star against the sky, doomed to drown in the ocean of flames.
One tall figure watching over the destruction. And for once, he cursed the keen sight he was given, for he could see, even from up here that the figure smiled at the flames. A beautiful, burning, haunting, dazzling smile. A frightening, cruel smile, a mad smile. The smile of his father.

And as the last swan was set on fire, he burst into a song. He mourned the ships and mourned their destruction. He sang of all the pain he felt, for all the wrong he had done. He mourned the passing of his grandfather and he sang of Fingon and all the rest they left behind; golden Galadriel and lovely, swift Aredhel... And he sang of a love lost forever; a song of shame and disappointment, a song of cruel, unchangeable fate.

Strong, cold, eastern wind blew that night upon the shores of Aman. But those of the Teleri who stood still awake, crying their losses into the unforgiving night air, suddenly felt comforted by that wind, for it had brought them a melody of sorrow, pain and regret, a tune for their own hearts. But when the wind died, their suffering renewed, and never again were they comforted by the Eastern Wind, never again could it bring them such peace.

Cold was the night upon the endless, cruel Helcaraxe, and frozen were the hearts of the Noldor who walked upon its ice. The image of ships on fire burned into the minds of those who were left behind.
A sense of utter betrayal washed over Fingon once more, and his fingers curled into an angry fist. Feanor would regret this; he would pay for this, and all those traitorous sons of his would burn with him, burn in fire, in exchange for this frozen world they forced them into.
But as he was about to curse them, as he raised his head, suddenly he felt the caress of the Eastern Wind on his face, and it was warm and salty as if the wind itself had cried hot tears. And in it, he heard the voice of his dear friend, lost and lonely, bound by blood and oath, already burning with shame, already suffering from the pain he wished upon him.
And Fingon uncurled his fingers with force and released a sigh. He would not curse his friend. That was not his way...

Upon the western shores of Arda, upon a desolated, weather-beaten cliff, Maedhros, son of Feanor ended his song then, the first and the last he ever sang... And it seemed that the whole world quieted afterwards.

"Russandol!"
He moaned. Such odd numbness was upon him. He could not feel. "Leave me be!"
"Are you not cold so high up here, Russandol? A tiny, lonely flame, up in the cold air, lost and abandoned... Such a sad, sad sight."
Oh, how the truth of those words hurt him. Lonely, little flame, he was indeed. So very lost, so utterly alone. But as he remembered his dreams, heat rose to his cheeks.
"I am not cold."
"Not yet, then. But shame is your only fuel now, and I am afraid it will not keep you warm for long! Until then, Son of Fire!"

And Maedhros hung alone now in the nothingness, with not even Darkness to keep him company.

AN: Maitimo is another name for Maedhros, given to him by his mother. It means "well-shaped one". Russandol is an epesse given to Maedhros, which supposedly refers to his hair ("copper-top"). Both of these names are used here by Morgoth, who deliberately mocks Maedhros with their meanings.

And special thanks for Certh for the corrections! :)