Chapter Text
- Maedhros wakes from fiery death and anguish to Fëanor’s estate in Valinor with the light of Tyelperion at its height
- Oh, he thinks in hopeless anguish. Everlasting Darkness is having to do this all again
- He might be full of pain and self-loathing and despair, but loyalty and devotion don’t need you to feel good to work. He completed the Oath and was damned anyways, but at least he had saved his brothers and father
- He’ll do it better this time
- He can tell from his room roughly where he is in the sequence of events. Morgoth’s causing unrest, the Noldor have started arming themselves, and Fëanor’s created the Silmarils but hasn’t been exiled to Formenos yet
- There’s still time to save them – his father and brothers from the Oath, his grandfather from Morgoth, his mother from losing them all, Findekáno-
- He’ll certainly die horribly and presumably start this all over, but, well, then he’ll just do it again
- And again
- And again
- (He deserves it)
- Maedhros gets up, dresses like he’s going hunting (he has no armor to hand, else he would wear it), straps on a sword that’s never seen true use (it will in Alqualondë, and then in Beleriand, and then he’ll lose it when Morgoth takes him), grabs some other survival gear, goes downstairs, steals the Silmarils from their vault, gets on his horse, and rides hard out of Tirion northwards without anyone seeing him. He’s been at war for six hundred years, this is easy
- ‘To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well’ – he’s never been able to avoid killing for the Oath, never been able to keep the peace, never been able to win, he knows well what the Doom means for him. His only plan is ‘live and keep the Silmarils from Morgoth’. Maybe it won’t be enough to thwart the Doom, but it’s better than outright trying for ‘keep the Silmarils from my father and prevent any of it from ever happening’
- Where’s Nelyafinwë? Fëanáro asks at breakfast
- I haven’t seen him yet today, Nerdanel answers
- His hunting things were gone when I looked, Makaläure says, trying to cover for his elder brother, who’s obviously snuck out somewhere with Findekáno again. He must have decided to go with Tyelkormo
- That’s odd, but Nelyafinwë is a peacemaker and Tirion is tense at the moment. Their eldest isn’t usually one to seek a physical release from stress the way Tyelkormo or Ambarussat are, but it’s an unusual time. Or maybe he thought Tyelkormo needed supervision. Usually if he’s off hunting he won’t get himself into trouble but, well. Better safe than sorry
- No one worries. This is Aman. Nothing truly bad happens in Aman
- Fëanáro doesn’t realize the Silmarils are gone until he checks in on them late that afternoon, a bit before dinner
- Fingon wakes up suddenly after having spoken with Eru Ilúvatar with an awful foreboding and a relentless pressure to gogogo!
- He knows this room and he knows that light, this is Tirion in the Time of the Trees-
- Maedhros isn’t here. He probably woke up in his own room, which means he’s alone and still deeply unwell in fëa and almost certainly either doing something drastic and ill-advised or having a mental breakdown. Actually, probably both
- His father had known Fëanor and his followers were making weapons, of course. While he hadn’t forbidden his own faction to make and keep weapons, he’d not actively discouraged them, either. But that didn’t extend to his immediate House. He went unarmed, and so would his children
- So Fingon has no sword nor war-spear. That’s not the worst thing in the world, even if it is a bit inconvenient. Better to have more weapons than not, but he’s always been an archer first and foremost
- He’s always favored and been favored in turn by Manwë, too. Fingon speaks the language of birds, and loves the whipping wind and having height under his feet and the bite of standing outside in a thunderstorm. He’s an archer but no great hunter – instead of chasing down prey on his mare he gives her her head and they gallop into the teeth of the wind until his eyes water and still his arrows land true no matter where he sights
- Thangorodrim was not the last of the many mountains he’d climbed, but the shot he never took was the one he’d prayed the most fervently over. In a world slightly kinder to them, maybe one where Fëanor survived Gothmog, Maglor would have had the morning mists and echoing hills of Hithlum to sing to, and Fingon would have held the Gap, ranging the Cavalry of the March across Lothlann, able to look up at the cries of hunting hawks over the plains and see Himring, too
- He takes his bow and his hunting knife, but leaves the harp this time
- Ñolofinwë simply sighs when the only children present for breakfast are Turukáno and Arakáno. Anairë rolls her eyes at her husband’s theatrical mood and keeps up a conversation with Elenwë. Tyelkormo was off on a hunting trip so of course Írissë had met him past the gates before the Mingling of the Lights, and really, why did he bother about Findekáno, anyway? He was sure to turn up just after everyone else had settled into their days, completely unapologetic and lying outrageously about where he’d been when they all knew perfectly well that he’d snuck over to see Nelyafinwë while the rest of the city was asleep
- Findekáno doesn’t turn up for lunch. Turukáno frowns at his empty seat; Arakáno says he’ll take a walk towards Grandfather Finwë’s, maybe he got distracted
- The youngest of the House of Ñolofinwë is still out when Fëanáro bursts in, yelling about his missing Silmarils and his missing eldest. Ñolofinwë yells right back that he doesn’t care about what happened to his Silmarils and Írissë snuck out to go with Tyelkormo and Findekáno probably went with her so it’s no good blaming him for Nelyafinwë’s absence, it’s not like he gave his children permission to run off with their cousins-
- Maedhros is Doomed and Fëanáro was not quiet about the missing Silmarils and Melkor knows an opportunity when one presents itself
- Still, Maedhros makes it past Formenos before he’s caught
- You stink of fear and the Void, Melkor says. Whatever have you been doing, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion?
- Maedhros has both hands at the moment, but he still draws with his left. Melkor chuckles at him
- Lord of Angband, Maedhros calls him. So rude to bring up the forgiven past, Melkor chides him. Unrepentant, Maedhros names him
- They are under thick tree cover, and it is as dark here as Aman gets in this time without going underground. Melkor has no need to worry about Manwë’s eyes in this place
- But Fingon’s-
- It’s easy to track one horse going full speed and never stopping at any towns or villages when that sort of thing is notable but only a cause for mild interest, not concern. Fingon has been on Maedhros’s trail since five hours out of Tirion
- Once, Fingon braved Angband and scaled Thangorodrim. Once, his father dealt Morgoth seven blows before dying
- Fingon gets off one arrow that lodges under the collarbone before Melkor drags him from the trees
- Maedhros’s own sword is pinning his right wrist to the ground and Melkor has dragged claws across his body and mind but that is nothing to the heart-wrenching terror of seeing Findekáno is his grasp
- Kánya Kánya Kánya! the part of him that is always screaming has a name, in this moment, for his agony
- He is Doomed, and this is the Everlasting Darkness
- And what will you give, Maitimo? Melkor mocks him
- Maedhros has had practice, has kept many things for himself as of yet, and Melkor has not even had him yet for a full day besides- but it is too easy, faced with this presence, to lose his grip on pieces of fifty years in Angband. Maedhros thinks he has managed to imply that they are fears his own mind spun after hearing too many horror tales from Cuiviénen, and hidden from Melkor what he had done in another world so that he could not be inspired by his own future works and improve upon the horrors, nor learn any weakness of the Noldor that he does not already know
- If there is any mercy or kindness in the world he will have succeeded and is not grasping at false hope, that he has not made things worse in trying to fix them as he always-
- Still, Melkor knows enough to know what hurts
- I, Maedhros’s voice is thin with pain and he hates how clear it is, how like Maitimo he sounds, in this moment. He has not been breathing volcanic ash and fumes and freezing mountain air for thirty years in this body, nor forced to swallow embers and iron shards and worse in the twenty years before, to roughen and deepen his voice. Let him go and do not hurt him, and I will not escape-
- He can’t see his cousin. Melkor has leaned in too close for that, close enough that all he can see is his fair-foul visage and the cruel delight he is taking in this moment
- But Fingon can still hear him even if they can’t see each other, and yells in thick Noldorin Sindarin ‘So does the Lord of Himring prove that he is indeed but a thrall of the Shadow-!’
- Maedhros has ripped the sword from his wrist and plunged it into Melkor’s face without thought or consideration
- Melkor howls in surprise and pain and anger. There is a horrible crack of bones and the familiar stench of burning flesh and Findekáno is thrown to the ground before him, out of Maedhros’s reach. The fallen Vala picks up the bag holding the Silmarils and flees, favoring one leg. There is a great deep gash down his thigh. One of Findekáno’s arms is coated in black, hot blood, and his hunting knife is almost unrecognizable
- Fingon rolls himself over with a breathy gurgle of pain and coughs wetly before starting to determinedly crawl towards his cousin. His clothes are smoking, the skin beneath is charred, and he feels his death come again. But they have been parted too many times before for him to stop now
- Maedhros knows what someone drowning in their own blood sounds like
- No-
- He would say more, would tell his cousin, Findekáno, Kánya, stop, to stay still, I’ll come to you, but Melkor has had more time with him. Maedhros knows half his face has been torn off, and Melkor had made him watch as he’d delicately slit open his abdomen and unspooled his intestines, careful not to nick a thing and let any of it go septic
- He’s dying, too
- Findekáno is half-lying on him, just upright enough to be able to look him in the face, and Maedhros is weeping I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save you I’ve killed you again I-
- You idiot, Fingon hisses at him, rightly deducing that Eru returned his cousin without memories of the Void. Granted, his own are a bit... not-there, and he’s not ungrateful for that, and Maedhros had had a far worse time and probably would have instantly died again from the trauma and flung himself right back into the Void if he’d returned remembering being there, but they’ve already had this conversation and it was exasperating enough the first time around. Don’t you dare condemn yourself to Everlasting Darkness this time, you are going to Mandos-
- No, I-
- Am I or am I not your King? Findekáno demands, and Maedhros finally realizes that they’re speaking Sindarin and catches up to a couple minutes ago
- Kánya, he chokes out. I’m sorry, I can’t, I couldn’t, you shouldn’t-
- So help me Maedhros I will storm through the Void as many times as you fling yourself there to drag you out even if I have to do it until the world ends!
- Don’t, Maedhros begs
- Then stop doing it
- Do you not know what I-
- I was there to see the pouring in of the dead from Doriath and Sirion. I know what you’ve done
- You should not-
- Am I or am I not your King? Fingon demands again
- Maedhros once rode day and night across a continent still half on fire from Himring to Hithlum. He had strode into the Hall of the High King ready to lose the last tatters of his hope and joy and acknowledge whichever Ñolo- or Arafinwean had managed to hold West Beleriand together as High King only to find his most beloved seated on the throne and wearing the crown he had given his father on the shores of Lake Mithrim centuries ago. He had as much fallen as knelt before Fingon, and proclaimed his loyalty just short of swearing it
- Yes, my King, Maedhros whispers
- Then swear to me, Fingon orders, and Maedhros has seen another with fire in his eyes as he died demanding an oath but in this moment Findekáno is greater than Fëanor could have ever been
- Maedhros does not live long enough to finish swearing his oath to answer Námo’s call rather than cast himself into the Everlasting Darkness, but Fingon does not live long enough to hear him falter. His fëa grabs Maedhros’s the instant it leaves his hröa, and though Maedhros had no intention of forswearing this oath even if he left it incomplete, he lets Fingon march him to the Halls of Mandos rather than shake him off and walk himself
- Tyelkormo and Írissë have had an excellent time ranging in the game-rich northern forest. Írissë is joyfully shoving a laughing Tyelkormo when they stumble, inattentive, into a bloody clearing in the deep woods
- Írissë goes blank and silent and falls to her knees, fëa wavering
- Tyelkormo screams, and screams, and screams
- Huan’s howls exist partially in tones only Ainur can hear
- Oromë wheels his hunt sharply around, abandoning their quarry, and races northwest