Chapter Text
If they cover thirty miles a day, they will reach Ulmo’s Bridge before mid-July. Athair spends the last week before they depart lecturing them about the importance of reflexes and marksmanship and keeping an eye half-open even when they sleep.
“I doubt we shall be waylaid by outlaws on our first day,” Mother murmurs, and Maedhros hides his grin by stooping to gather a hoof-pick that has fallen to the floor of the stable.
The family moves like a distracted flock of sheep, shepherded by Athair’s frenetic preparation. Only Curufin is allowed to help Athair select the hammers, tongs, and pliers he will take, but they all sort through the contents of the stables and sheds and store-rooms together.
For his part, Maedhros has rarely been happier than in laying aside his waistcoats and silk shirts, (hopefully) never to be worn again. They might as well be prison-garb, for all the joy they brought him.
Maglor, who leaves friends and fellow musicians, as well as a girl he fancied with all his romantic heart, is far more lachrymose. His hair is rumpled in elegant distress, and the morning they leave, he sinks against his bedframe with a groan.
“What can I say to cheer you?” Maedhros asks. He folds his quilt—made by Mother, as all their quilts are—and drapes it over his arm.
“Nothing.”
“You will breathe fresh air, and sleep under a roof of sky tonight, and it will restore you,” Maedhros promises.
Maglor opens one eye and fixes it on him skeptically. “Have you become the poet now?”
Maedhros blushes. He is not used to—is this glee? He hasn’t felt so light on his feet since the days when he still let himself be carried away by foolish first love.
They breakfast quickly, on bread and butter and apples—all the food that is not already eaten or packed. Celegorm sits with his arm around Huan’s neck protectively, as if Athair will change his mind about letting him come.
(That is an argument Maedhros would be loath to relive. Athair believed that they could find another dog easily, after they acquired the wagons, and ordered that Huan should stay with the house. Celegorm pleaded and wept and broke things, none of which were particularly effective tactics with Athair, and it took many hours of Maedhros’s most carefully crafted arguments on his behalf to sway Athair’s judgment.
Maedhros is still not quite sure how he succeeded.)
The farmer-neighbors arrive, and Athair hands over the keys of the house with great ceremony. Celegorm and Caranthir tighten the pack horses’ loads, and then Mother checks them over. Maedhros lets his eyes rest on the kitchen roof—which no longer stoops when it snows, thanks to Athair’s reinforcements—the garden plots, the avenue of crabapple and maple trees. They have shut the doors on the old rooms—rooms where the floors are worn down by riotous ceilis, irreparably stained by childhood messes, familiar and smooth.
They have shut the doors.
Something aches between Maedhros’s ribs. But the sun is rising, and he smiles, and digs his heels against Alexander’s flanks. The wind lifts his hair, his breath, his hopes, and he does not look behind him.
Caranthir is the first to wonder—when a rainstorm finds them a week into the journey—why they did not travel by train. “This is the nineteenth century!”
“Quiet,” Maedhros orders, flicking a cautious glance towards Athair. His brothers are not all as attuned to the contours of Athair’s grudges, but Maedhros knows that such a remark would set him off like a spark to tinder. Athair hates the crass machinery of mass transportation, as much as he loves his own metal-working. He loves, too, the intricate tools of warfare, honest as they are in their appointed mission.
It is hypocrisy that he hates—hypocrisy and power.
They call it progress, he griped once to Maedhros, as they passed the hulking skeleton of a factory under construction, some few streets away from Valinor Park. Yet they build it out of blood as much as iron.
For this reason, Athair planned for them to travel as a small company on horseback. The trek, he assures them—though no one dared question him to his face—will harden their bodies for the longer road ahead.
Even when they are drenched from head to foot under muggy June thunder, Athair rides proudly at the head of the line, straying from his straight course only when stage-coaches rattle by, spraying mud beneath their wheels. Curufin is not as lucky—a clod of earth strikes him on the cheek and he curses.
“Curufin Atarinke!” Mother scolds, but Maedhros sees the set of her chin and knows she is ready for a rest, too. He has ground his molars together often enough to recognize the expression. He gives her an encouraging smile, trying not to mind the water dripping off the end of his nose.
“You’re right, my love,” Mother says, as if he spoke aloud. “That’s quite enough.” She spurs her russet mare ahead and draws level with Athair’s mount.
They confer in low voices at first. Then their voices rise—not quite a fight, but certainly a disagreement. Their sons lean forward in stiff anticipation, listening.
“Athair doesn’t want to stop too near Philadelphia,” Maglor observes, riding near to Maedhros. They can’t see anything through the rain and mist, but Maglor has been mapping the miles in an unusual alliance with Celegorm, and by his count, they’re close.
Sometimes Maedhros believes that Athair hates Philadelphia even more than New York. The reasons for this cannot be dissected without perilous inquiry, but to Maedhros’s understanding, it has much to do with the timing of Grandmother Miriel’s death, Grandfather Finwe’s remarriage, and the years of growing tension that followed. Maedhros loved to hear—out of Athair’s presence—Grandfather’s stories of his work in the second war, when his craft turned temporarily to repairing and reinforcing the hulls of ships, and his sturdy workshops became the headquarters for military meetings. He met the President, and charmed the President’s charming wife. Philadelphia was the nation’s hope, in those days, and Finwe was one who kept the fires of hope burning.
Many Irish—poorer than Finwe ever was—fought in that war. Many died. This, too, is a sore spot for Athair, though he was only five years old when the war began. Athair feels keenly the injustice of their countrymen’s treatment, this side of the grey sea.
At last, Athair draws up short and looks over his shoulder. There is water running down the straight line of his nose too, but he looks regal nonetheless. “We shall stay in an inn tonight,” he says, and the twins, who are snuffling into damp handkerchiefs, emit sighs of relief.
“Thank bleeding Christ,” Celegorm mutters, and Maglor reaches over and slaps him on the ear.
“Don’t blaspheme.”
“I’ve heard you say worse when you stub your toe, Macalaure! And I thanked him—”
“Quiet,” Maedhros says again, more sharply this time, though to different culprits. Athair will not abide infighting, and Maedhros does not want to see what innovative punishments he can come up with on the side of a mud-deep road.
Fortunately, neither Athair nor Mother overhear the squabble, and they pick up the pace more briskly (if still squelching) to draw near to the outskirts of the city.
The inn smells like wet dog, even before Huan tumbles into it. Athair commands them to stay close together, and Mother clamps her hands protectively on the twins’ shoulders. Athair has always moved uneasily in New York society, so it does not surprise Maedhros that he chooses a tradesman’s haunt rather than a grand hotel. Still, Maedhros dislikes the way the men squint through clouds of cigar smoke to stare at his mother and brothers.
“Two of you must stay in the stables tonight,” Athair announces, “And guard the horses.” He jabs a finger at Maglor and Maedhros. “Go out after you eat.”
Maglor’s mouth opens in protest, and Maedhros grips him by the wrist to silence him. He waits for Athair’s explanation. When it comes, it does not do much to comfort him.
“Ever since we entered the city,” Athair says, quiet and deadly below the din, “We’ve been followed.”
There is one empty stall, piled high with fresh hay, and Maedhros thinks it will be no less comfortable than camping on the ground. Maglor’s lips are pressed together tightly, showing his irritation.
“It is not so bad,” Maedhros urges, when they have spread blankets out and leaned against the boarded wall. His boots are still sodden, but he hangs his coat on a saddle-hook to dry.
Maglor declines to agree. “What are we waiting for? An ambush?”
Almost absently, Maedhros taps the gun at his hip with two fingers. “Maybe.”
“Because Bauglir is trailing us with spies.” Maglor’s voice snaps like a string drawn too tight, but it is the name that makes Maedhros wince more than anything else. How he hates that—hates that a childhood nightmare can send a chill down his spine, even now.
“Athair has his reasons.”
“There is still so much,” Maglor observes, snatching up a handful of hay only to toss it down again, “That he has not told us.”
How do you imagine it must feel to be our mother? Maedhros does not ask that, even of Maglor.
A whiff of wet hound drifts into the stall, and Maglor groans. “God damn you, Celegorm! Not now.”
“Athair gave me permission,” Celegorm argues, opening the stall’s gates and throwing himself onto Maedhros’s blankets. “And also, he could not bear Huan any longer.”
“Nor can we,” Maglor growls.
“Lower your voices,” Maedhros says. “We’re on watch.”
“We’ll whisper, then,” Celegorm says, yawning. He kicks off his boots—Maglor groans again, professing to prefer the scent of Huan—and nestles up against Maedhros as if he is closer to eight than eighteen.
“Tired?”
Celegorm shuts his eyes. “A bit. You’ve got the widest shoulder to lean on.”
Maedhros throws a fold of blanket over him and meets Maglor’s still-moody gaze. “Keep your ears sharp,” he says.
“This is how it will be all the way to western territory, won’t it?” Maglor sounds weary himself; Maedhros almost offers him his other shoulder. “Looking back at every step.”
“You’re looking back anyway,” Celegorm mumbles, without opening his eyes. “Left a bonnie lass behind?”
Maglor looks vicious, and Maedhros raises a hand to fend him off.
“Not fair,” he says warningly, and Celegorm subsides. “We’ve all left people behind,” Maedhros says, after a moment. It is quiet here—better peace than the day’s stormy ride, no matter what they wait for. “It is a sacrifice.”
“Not for you,” Celegorm says. He sits up. “Not for long. August will come around and then you’ll have Fingon for the rest of the journey, and the rest of us will have to put up with him, like it or not. Turgon is even worse.”
“Did you fight with Aredhel again?” Maglor shakes his head. “Is that where this bitterness comes from?”
Maedhros throws up a hand, and they fall into silence. Footsteps pace the length of the stable. Maedhros reaches for the Colt at his side.
Then—nothing.
“We had no incident,” Maedhros says, as sun splits through the windows. Maglor is taking his turn bathing—Mother insisted, saying that they all deserved to have an hour spent not smelling of horse and worse than horse. She did not look at Huan when she said it, but everyone knew what she was thinking.
Athair nods, shouldering his pack. “Nor we.” His smile does not reach his eyes.
What do you know? Maedhros wants to ask, if only he dared. What do you fear?
Philadelphia is a low string of lights in the distance. The rain has cleared away, and the sun shone down on them until it set. Now, night falls, but Athair does not bid them to stop and make camp. His face is white in the shadows; his hair whips dark against his forehead.
Maedhros knows that Athair spent two months, after Grandfather’s death, in a blur of grief so overwhelming he barely ate or drank. And then, when two months were gone, he left his rooms in the city and went to work at once, as though nothing had happened.
Maedhros thinks that that is no way to grieve.
Behind them, there are hoofbeats. Before them, there are hoofbeats.
“Weapons,” Athair calls, bullet-sharp, and every last one of them unholsters a gun.
(Even the twins have been training at marksmanship, since the time they could stand steady against the recoil, until the time they left Formenos.)
“Who goes there?”
The voice is harsh—bludgeoned around the edges by a southern-sounding accent. Athair loops the reins around his left arm so that his right is unencumbered for shooting. He keeps his gun close to his side, though, hidden from view. Maedhros follows his lead, making certain that his brothers do the same.
The man who walks his horse forward has a face and neck like a bull’s. Maedhros half-expects to see horns drooping from beneath his broad hat.
“You ride fast, Feanorian,” he says. “Quite fast, for having women and…children with you.”
“We’re not children,” protests Amrod, before Mother stifles him.
“High-voiced little birds,” the man muses. “Even your eldest is just as delicate as they say.”
Such a handsome child. Maedhros does not, will not wince.
“You speak bold and familiar words for a man who rides out with such a face and, I expect, such a purpose as would better have crawled under my boot,” Athair answers, his voice ringing out like a bell. “Who are you, and what business do you have with me?”
“Remiss of me, sir. Very remiss, I grant you. I’m the one they call the overseer.” He snaps his riding crop demonstratively.
“I care not what you oversee. Do you have a name?”
“Gothmog, if you care to know that.”
Maedhros scarcely breathes. He thinks that Athair already knows it. Indeed, he is certain that Athair already knows much about this man and why he follows them.
“We have no money,” Athair says next, which is a lie. He carries his and Uncle Fingolfin’s gold as payment for the Teleri wagon-builders.
And we are its only protectors, Maedhros realizes. Again, no breath seems capable of passing his lips.
“I’m not here for your money.” The man laughs deep in his throat, and all his men laugh with him. “We’d sooner take your brats.” There is another company, approaching them from behind, and Mother and Maglor turn their horses to face them, as if that will be enough defense.
“You will take naught but your ruined limbs from this place,” Athair says, frigid as ice, and he raises his gun. “Or your dead.”
But then Gothmog lifts something else, something that sparkles in the light of smoking lanterns.
A strangled cry escapes from Athair’s throat.
It is a diamond, Maedhros realizes.
A diamond, almost the size of a fist.
“Your father kept this hidden like a filthy secret,” Gothmog says. His voice, low and mocking, is too hoarse to be soft, even in cruelty. “Our master wishes to know—was it a gift from you? If you ask me, it doesn’t much matter. All the riches in the world can’t save a man from having his brains splattered on his front porch, can they?”
Athair fires a shot so quickly Maedhros doesn’t see him move—he only hears the blast. But Gothmog must have expected such swift retaliation, for he ducks flat against his saddle and the man behind him yelps and chokes on his own blood.
“Testy, aren’t we?” Gothmog chuckles again, even as the body slumps to the ground and the horses whicker in fear.
Maedhros glances at his gun-arm. He is sure it is shaking, but he finds that it is steady and still.
He does not know if that is better, even if it is for the best.
“I will kill you,” Athair says. He does not sound like Athair. He sounds like two months lost, a year gone away. He sounds like a man who would kill his own brother over a rumor—even though that man, thanks to a moment of mercy, does not exist. “I will kill him.”
Gothmog tilts the brim of his hat, a half-salute. “He ain’t ready to be killed.” He whistles, a sound like metal scraping metal, and drops the diamond back into the satchel at his side. Athair kicks his horse, lunging forward, but the men are already following their leader’s command and storming off into dust, dousing their lanterns as they go. At the edge of the shadows, Gothmog turns in his saddle.
Maedhros hears the shot. He doesn’t see.
He only sees Mother fall.
And if she hadn’t called Athair’s name—if she hadn’t always begged for Athair—would he have even noticed? Would he have chosen Mother, and will he always?
(These are questions Maedhros never lets himself fully ask.)
“I’m sorry,” Maedhros says. “I’m so sorry, Mother.”
“You need not apologize, my love,” she answers, though her face is very white. “Do you not see how tightly Maglor lets me hold his hand? And your stitches are very neat and even.”
“You should not look at them,” Caranthir mutters. He is stroking her hair. “Looking at them makes one sick.”
“But you forget, darling, that I birthed all of you. The sight of my own blood frightens me much less than would any of yours.”
Still, she gasps a little at each push of the needle. Maedhros grinds his teeth. He flung the bullet aside in disgust, but now he wonders if he should have kept it, examined it to make sure that it was whole.
“I am finished,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” Mother says. She reaches up with her right arm—the one that was not struck—and swipes her thumb beneath his eyes. “You should not cry, Maitimo. You are too beautiful for tears.”
He did not realize that any tears were falling.
“You should rest,” Maglor tells her, still holding her hand. “Near to the fire, the twins have made up your bedroll.”
She nods. Maglor and Caranthir lead her away—Celegorm and Curufin could not bring themselves to come too close, so great was their distress—and Maedhros sits staring down at his red-stained hands.
Mother’s wound, and his hands—these are the only signs left of Gothmog and his highwaymen.
They were otherwise like vengeful ghosts.
“They won’t come back, I think,” Maglor says, rejoining him. “They didn’t seem to want to—”
“I know.” Someone must answer him, someone must speak, and Athair sits, unseeing and unspeaking, with his hands resting uselessly on his knees.
Maedhros has never seen Athair’s hands be useless. But they did not help to tend Mother’s hurts. Since he first turned back to reach for her, since they carried her to this grove of birches, he has done nothing.
He chose her, over whatever hold that jewel had on him. Remember that.
He cannot carry all of this alone.
It is not sympathy; it is resolve.
Maedhros sits in silence for a long time.
“Athair.”
His father does not raise his head. He is pale in the firelight—the orange tongues of flame lick light over his cheeks, but the light does not remain.
Mother is sleeping. The twins sit close by her. The rest huddle together, as if they need warmth in June, by a fire that keeps them all sweating.
Maedhros has made his own choice. He imagines holding it in his hands like a weighty stone, like some magnificent thing.
Because here at last is something Maedhros can give, something absolute, something needed. He has stripped himself of all other purpose; he alone can be the weapon his father needs.
"I swear on my life, Athair," he says, and he kneels as he says it so that he can take one of his father's cold, useless hands in his. "I'll bring back what he stole. I'll stand in his path no matter where he makes it."
Then his breath all but freezes in his lungs, for Curufin kneels beside him.
"I, too," Curufin says, and because he is fifteen—a boy—his voice breaks. Though Maedhros wants to call it anger, his own heart breaks with it.
But Athair's eyes kindle like winter flame, and he smiles, seeming as if he wakes. There is movement all around; they are all kneeling down. Mother sleeps still and does not hear, as Maedhros must, each voice in turn.
From the golden tones of Maglor to the high, eager whispers of the twins—
I swear. I also swear.
Maedhros’s pulse pounds in his ears. His mouth fills with the rusty tang of blood.
He has bitten his tongue—too late.