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Now, the story of how Fingon the Valiant rescued his great friend, Maedhros the Tall, is one that everyone knows. (Or should know -- though I have no great faith on what young people read nowadays.)
I freely confess that I have nothing new to add to the story at all.
Did Fingon have a premonition about needing for a harp, a instrument not usually called for when rescuing errant high kings from the clutches of notoriously evil Dark Lords? I do not know. Nor can I say why he chose to rest on a spot exactly below where the poor tortured son of Fëanor was hanging, and had been hanging for several years now. But he did chose that spot, and he did have that harp, and here our story begins.
Fingon, now, as well as being valiant, was a passable musician. He had been taught by the best musician of the Eldar, his cousin, Maglor. (Or, at least the second best -- though this story happened before anything could be said about it who was the best. For Daeron of Doriath was still trying to figure out how to describe the way moonlight shone on fair Lúthien’s midnight tresses. That doesn’t come into the story at all.)
Anyway, Fingon plucked at harp strings in a desultory fashion, finally choosing a favorite drinking song, composed by the same Maglor. It was a song that that Fingon and the two eldest sons of Fëanor would often sing, in drunker and happier days in fair Valinor.
I shan’t tell you the lyrics here, but I can tell you that it began with Tra la-la-la-lally tra lally lay!
No doubt, such a song was not meant to be heard in a place as dreadful as this. (Or possibly, anywhere else.) And so it was quite a shock for Fingon to hear the second verse of the song (tra la la la) being taken up -- very faintly! -- directly above his head. He craned his neck up and saw -- why-- who could believe it! ‘Twas an elf! Not only was it an elf, but it was Maedhros the Tall! He did not look at all well. And indeed, the only way Fingon could have identified this broken creature as his well-shaped cousin was that famous red hair, though even that was as bedraggled and dirty as the rest of him. He was bound by the wrist with a powerful clasp.
“Maedhros! Is there any way up?” Fingon cried out.
The tortured elf could say nothing at all. Fingon felt along the cliff face for a foothold, but could find no purchase at all. The sides of the cliff were as smooth as glass. Finally, Maedhros rasped out something, which Fingon could not hear.
“What was that? You need to speak up!” said Fingon, as he attempted to scale the walls, with no success.
“I said, you should kill me!” said the poor wretch.
“What! No! Do you think I’ve risked my life just so I could kill you now?” said Fingon, outraged at the very thought.
But Maedhros was persistent, saying, “There’s no hope for me! We would all be better off. Please kill me, it would be a kindness!”
“A kindness for you, perhaps, but...”
That went on for a while.
It’s a miracle that no orc or evil thing heard the shouts of the elves nor did any orc patrol happen to blunder past and take Fingon all unawares. But that was not to be, for surely the eye of Providence - that is to say, Eru Ilúvatar, was on these events, and that destiny waited on that moment, for this is what happened next...
Fingon, tired of his kinsman’s wretched entreaties at last, strung an arrow and aimed for the heart. And with a heavy heart and a teary eye (for surely this was as good a time as any to weep), he cried out, “Oh King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”
Now, besides being valiant and a passable musician, Fingon was also an excellent shot. So it was a surprise indeed when his arrow went wild and missed Maedhros’ chest by several feet. It was an even greater surprise when Fingon was snatched up in the claws of the biggest eagle he had ever seen -- for it was Thorondor, King of the Eagles, sent ‘specially by Manwë to help him. For the Chief of the Valar still had some pity for the exiles, and his eagles kept him apprised of all that went on in Middle-earth.
(Daeron was still have trouble with that rhyme...)
Thorondor bore Fingon up to the ledge where Maedhros languished. And languished he did, as Fingon tried to pry loose that hell-wroth bound upon his wrist. He did, however, see fit to rattle his chains in a spirited fashion, probably due to humor so black that it could have collapsed within itself and become a black hole. (I confess, I do not understand what was so funny, myself.)
For all of his tries, Fingon could do nothing to loose the bound on his cousin’s wrist. Finally, he collapsed in exhaustion next to Maedhros, sending a spray of pebbles down the cliff face.
Alas, those pebbles were in fact a calender of the days Maedhros had spent hanging on this precipice. Now we shall never know exactly how long it was, for Maedhros never could recall exactly, or at least refused to do so later.
Now, for years, Fingon had craved this moment exactly, where he would be alone with Maedhros, and could say to him whatever he liked. Be assured, that as he crossed the terrifying Helcaraxë, and later as he fought through bands of howling orcs, it was ever in his mind -- what he would say to Maedhros when he would see him next.
The thought itself helped sustain Fingon through all of his trials.
He had thought of insults more horrible than anything you could ever imagine -- especially aimed at Maedhros’ boneheaded father, laments more heartrending than one would thought possible, numerous complaints, a series of very long and very sad poems that he had composed himself, angry rants, ill-tempered quips, anguished sobs, and even a few loving words -- for it was true that Fingon still loved Maedhros most dearly.
All of his words disappeared as if they had never been. Fingon could think of nothing to say at all.
“Er.” he said, finally, to break the silence. Maedhros was very still and said nothing. Overhead, Thorondor sharply warned that he could not hover around here forever, you know. He said this in Eagle, which Fingon could not speak (though his other half-cousin Celegorm could), but the meaning was quite clear.
“Maedhros, your hand must come off.” said Fingon finally. Other stories will tell you -- in gruesome detail, about how Fingon cleverly -- with only a little prompting from Maedhros -- tore out the strings of his harp and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet for him. And there were the crunching of bones, and the blood spurting out and much gore and many screams -- for ‘tis quite dramatic stuff, worthy of a tale or two by itself. But let us move on from it. Suffice to say, Maedhros is now quite free and bleeding quite freely. It was clear that the thing to do now was to get the hell out of out there.
They left Maedhros’ right hand behind, due to the excitement of the moment, no doubt.
On the eagle-ride back to Lake Mithrim, Maedhros stirred and said, painfully and slowly, “At... Losgar. I did not wish to abandon you! I tried to stop them from burning the ships. I tried to stop my father.”
He paused and said dryly, “I failed, obviously.”
“Well, yes. You did. But at least you stood up to your father before he died!” said Fingon brightly. Maedhros may have laughed at that, but probably not.
It was difficult to tell, for the back of a giant eagle in flight is no place to have a conversation.
The eagle took them to Lake Mithrim, to the relief of some and the astonishment of all.
Maedhros recovered from his grievous wounds, though he was never quite free from torment. Fingon won great renown for his deeds, and quite right too. Of course, both Fingon and Maedhros went on to have more many adventures, of which other tales may speak. Some have said that Fingon did not do the right thing in not killing Maedhros when he was asked to do so, and if he had, many other people may have lived in consequence of that. But of course, Fingon was not responsible for Maedhros' actions, and anyway that's not the point. What was the point?
Oh, yes.
They did not live happily ever after.
But they did live, for a time. And they were happy for some of it.
And that’s as much I can say to you today.