Chapter Text
"Enough,” says Maedhros, and they all fall silent. He rises to his feet. Sketches a bow towards Nolofinwe and his contingent- most of whom look a little shell-shocked at the speed with which Maedhros’ infuriating brothers have escalated the conversation to full-throated shouting- and grates out, “You will excuse us, Your Majesty.”
It’s advice, really, more than anything else; his illustrious uncle surely doesn’t want to deal with this fall-out himself. But it comes out as more of a command.
Maedhros makes a note to himself to curtail his voice better. The raspiness is a product of Angband, but it leaves him sounding displeased ridiculously quickly, and there are far too many of his people- including his infuriating brothers- who take every lapse in propriety on Maedhros’ part to mean he regrets giving that crown up.
Which: Maedhros doesn’t.
He’s got his brothers to handle, and Maedhros knows well the saying that ran through Tirion whenever the seven of them descended upon the palace: Two of them would be worth an army, and three a kingdom- but four would be a war brewed and bursting on the king’s doorstep. Dealing with them is enough of a task for any elf. Dealing with them while they’re ridden with guilt and grief is less like herding cats and more like trying to herd feral lions in a rainstorm, with nothing more than one’s wits, while the lions are both smarter and more bloodthirsty than you.
Dealing with them while they’re actively furious at him, still mourning their father, and doing their level best to sabotage these talks is, perhaps, the kind of task that only another Feanorian would ever accept.
“Yes,” says Nolofinwe faintly. “I believe this meeting has been rather- productive.” He nods once, to Maglor, and then he rises to his feet.
Maedhros lets his gaze scrape over his brothers as their uncle- and their uncle’s truly enormous coterie of advisors- leaves. Maglor is turning a flute over in his hands. Celegorm is muttering to Caranthir, long and low and fluently, and Curufin is staring fixedly at the map pinned to the wall, jaw clenched, and Amras is paring his own nails with a wickedly-sharp knife.
But Amrod is staring back at Maedhros, a challenge in his eyes like a war-cry.
And Maedhros knows that to retreat from that challenge will be akin to surrender before even calling his banners to war. Maedhros is many things, but afraid of his brother is not one of them. He doesn’t wait for the last stragglers of the Nolofinwean camp to leave. Just seizes Amrod by the wrist- right wrist, fingers pressing into where Fingon’s knife had gnawed at a particularly tough nerve- and then propels him out of the tent.
…
Amrod doesn’t let Maedhros take him into a proper tent- he stops, feet planted, near a small alley. There’s nobody around, but it isn’t half as much privacy as Maedhros would like for a proper confrontation with his brother.
Then he takes a look at Amrod’s face, and decides- screw it. Really, the camp already knows how mad he and his brothers all are. A little more shouting won’t make anything worse.
“Really,” says Maedhros flatly.
“Really what?”
“The Gap.”
“What about the Gap?”
“Pityo,” says Maedhros shortly, barely keeping the snarl out of his voice.
Amrod draws himself up, puffing like a porcupine. “We want it. It isn’t too much to ask for.”
“Isn’t it?” Maedhros is still holding onto Amrod with his left hand. He rather wants to punch Amrod, actually, because it’d taken weeks of persuasion and wheedling to even get their uncle’s followers to come to the negotiations and this idiot has derailed all of it in the space of- “These aren’t fucking bedrooms to choose in a house. They aren’t pups to pick from a litter. What you want doesn’t matter here: it’s a battle plan-”
“A battle plan for a war that I never chose,” says Amrod lowly.
“You swore the Oath,” says Maedhros, just as low.
“I’m the only one that tried to rescind it.”
“And I’m the only one that didn’t burn you.”
“You stood by while they did it, though,” says Amrod, and jerks his hand away. The grey cast of rainclouds at twilight plays across his face: the ropy scars that twist over his cheeks and nose, the places where his skin has gone smooth and flat as metal. Anger sits on his face much better now than joy or triumph. He stalks away, then pauses to turn back, eyes molten-hot. “D’you think that redeems you, that you didn’t put your torch to the rigging? You were a coward then and now you’re a traitor. And I don’t need you to tell me what I should be grateful for.”
“Well,” says Maedhros freezingly, “if it’s redemption I should look for, I certainly won’t find it by bribing you.”
Amrod laughs, and it isn’t deranged, though Maedhros thinks it deserves to be. “I wish you luck,” he says, and bows courteously: full-court manners.
It should look ridiculous in this cold alley, mud-splashed and grey and worn as it is. But it just reminds Maedhros of the one- and only- time that his kin bowed to him like this: right after their father had died, during his coronation.
“Pityo,” says Maedhros. But there’s nothing to say. His mind is scoured empty. He swallows, then waves a hand. Blinks. “No, nothing. Just- go. We’ll talk about this later.”
…
Maedhros stares at Amrod’s retreating back, and then stalks back towards his own tent. It’s raining, he realizes distantly; spattering drops over his scalp and shoulders. Valinor’s rain had been gentle and warm. This is… not that.
Inside the tent, Maglor is seated on the bed. The flute in his hands is not his own, Maedhros realizes: it’s one that Curufin had made for himself before he understood that his talents lay somewhere other than music.
Of course it would, croons Thauron into his ears, a melody that’s as bone-chilling as it is gentle. You and yours were born for war, little Feanorian, not for crafting.
Maedhros clenches one hand, rubs the bones of the other wrist into his elbow, and grits his teeth. He’s left Angband behind, and won’t do Thauron’s torturing for him. Maedhros has at least that much sense left to himself.
“Play for me?” asks Maedhros. He drops onto the one chair and lays an arm over his eyes: blissful darkness. “It’s been too long since I heard your song, Kano.”
“Not so long,” says Maglor, and his voice sounds strange, but Maedhros doesn’t lift his arm. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have chewed off Luhta’s head before she could sedate you.”
“Why were you trying to sedate me at all?”
“Because we had to cauterize your hand.”
“I was an emaciated corpse with more bone than skin,” says Maedhros dryly. “I find it difficult to imagine I could’ve put up that much of a fight.”
“If I wanted to kill you, it wouldn’t have taken much,” agrees Maglor. “But I decided to go against your orders for once, on the assumption that the blood loss had turned you raving mad.”
“Hah,” says Maedhros, and waves his hand impatiently.
Maglor plays the flute. He plays it well- he plays it surpassingly well- but the problem with the flute is that it uses breath, and Maglor’s true weapon is his voice, not his lung-capacity.
Maedhros waits until Maglor finishes the song, and then he says, “You sound better with a harp.”
There is silence for a long moment. Maedhros lifts his arm to look at Maglor, who has gotten off the bed and is standing, back turned to Maedhros, near the tent entrance. He’s backlit by flashes of lightning.
“We are not as you remember,” says Maglor quietly.
Maedhros frowns. “Kano-”
“This will end in tears. You know that, don’t you?”
“Kano-”
He turns around. Maedhros has never seen that expression on his face before. “Don’t you?”
“It’s quite the possibility.” It’s more than a possibility. If all it ends in is tears, then Maedhros will be content: his nightmares scream of blood and death. “Of course I know it.”
“I’ve shed enough tears for you,” says Maglor, and his voice is as flat and as chilling as their father’s swords forged under Morgoth. “Sing your own damn songs.”
…
The flute remains on Maedhros’ bed, silver as Angrod’s hair, deathful as the lightning flashing through the sky. Maedhros doesn’t touch it for a week, and then he shoves it into the deepest part of his trunk to forget about it.
…
By dawn, the storm’s mostly spent itself. The Feanorian settlement is a mess of muddy paths, and every time Maedhros ducks inside a tent he has to be careful the flap doesn’t hit him in the head with a wet smack. But the clouds have scuttled to distant puffs of white, and the sun gleams harshly off the puddles of water left behind.
We need to invest in paving, Maedhros notes to himself, picking his way through without splashing himself and everyone in a three-foot radius with mud. He laughs to himself; thirty years he’s been gone, and Maglor’s not managed even this much. Shedding too many tears to do any governing, more like. I’m sure his songwriting never suffered.
The rain has left a chill in the air, though. The forges are the one place in the camp not cold and clammy, the heat from the furnaces blasting out in all directions. Maedhros fancies he can see steam rising off his clothes as he enters. The low red glow of the room puts Maedhros on edge- it has done since Fingon brought him back; Celegorm had the brilliant idea that the warmth might help, but Maedhros had simply screamed himself out of consciousness every time he gained enough awareness to smell anything until they finally moved him out to somewhere damper and windier. Even now, he needs to reminds himself that the scent in the air is honest iron, not blood. The shadows that lurk and shift on the walls are merely tricks of the light.
“Uncle Maedhros, I didn’t expect to see you here!”
The unexpected voice startles Maedhros, and he reaches for his belt knife reflexively. Thankfully it’s his right hand; if it’d been his left, Celebrimbor likely would’ve been left with more of a souvenir for his troubles and Maedhros with a bigger mess in front of him. As it is, all he does is force his breathing back under control and a smile on his lips.
“Tyelpe,” he says warmly, and pats his nephew on the shoulder. “I cannot say the same. Curvo tells me that you spend more time in the forge now than even he ever did.”
“Atya likes to make comparisons.”
“But you don’t?” asks Maedhros, amused.
Celebrimbor lifts a shoulder. “I don’t… see how they matter?”
“Then you take after my mother, and less my father.” Maedhros arches a brow at Celebrimbor’s sudden, frozen startlement. “Yes. Your grandfather loved competitions and comparisons. Loved being the best. But your grandmother did what she did for love of the craft, and any accolades that came were a very distant and secondary concern for her.”
“Well,” says Celebrimbor. “I’m not- averse- to competition, either.”
“And that sentence is why you are a better diplomat than any of your uncles,” says Maedhros, and snorts when Celebrimbor does an impressively subtle doubletake. If Curufin’s been so stingy with his compliments that these throwaway comments are surprising Celebrimbor, there’s been more wrong in the past thirty years than Maedhros ever suspected. “Nevermind. Tell me what you’re working on. Has Curufin started you on swords yet?”
Celebrimbor’s eyes light up as he talks about his work. Maedhros does his best to pay attention, and mostly holds up his end of the conversation. But the bangs of the other smiths’ hammers are loud and sharp, and Maedhros is hard-pressed to keep from flinching.
Curufin’s sudden presence- everyone quiets down when he suddenly shows up, wary of drawing his sharp tongue- is more of a balm than Maedhros will ever let him know.
“He’s been working on armor, not swords,” says Curufin. “With a focus on developing multiple-use armor. Even if someone falls with the armor, if we bring them back and can use that armor again… it’ll limit the drain on our resources to make personalized armor.”
Maedhros lifts his brows. “Still a gruesome method to limit it. Have things gotten so bad?”
“You’ve seen the resource sheets the same as I have. What do you think?”
I think you’re paranoid and I can’t blame you for it.
“I think it’s a project worthy of a Mastery,” says Maedhros neutrally. “And one that can change the landscape of this war, if done well.”
Celebrimbor flushes a dull red and doesn’t speak.
Curufin’s lips go thin and white, but he sounds tired, not angry when he says, “What do you want, Nelyo?”
“Peace in our times,” says Maedhros. “Or triumph, if peace is too radical an idea for you.”
“Peace,” says Curufin slowly, pronouncing the word slowly, spitting out the syllable through his teeth. “We went to war with our grandfather’s blood warm on our hands and our father’s ashes stinging our eyes. Yes. Peace is not something to hope for now. We have come too far for this.”
“The seven of us are the only ones left who have come this far,” Maedhros points out.
“Say what you wish to say.”
“We have obligations beyond our Oath.”
“Maedhros,” says Curufin. “Say what you fucking mean.”
Maedhros sighs. “Himring isn’t any place to raise a child.”
Curufin is pale with anger, but he doesn’t rise to the bait- a good thing, because Maedhros hadn’t been baiting him.
“So- what?” he asks, voice tight. “You take Himring with Turko and I’ll take the southern plains? Or would you have me sent off to the far east to do your trading for you?”
“Better you than Kano at this rate,” says Maedhros dryly. “He’s the only one that’s wanted the east so far. No. You asked what I wanted, and the answer is very simple: your patience. And your skill at diplomacy.”
“Turko won’t accept being away from the front.”
“He’ll accept being put in charge of diplomacy with Thingol’s kingdom and the dwarves.”
“You don’t understand,” says Curufin, and his voice drops low, so that no one else can hear. “He’s spent a lifetime in love with one of the Valar, and now he’s fighting against another. It’s a matter of pride. And- bloody-minded stupidity. He isn’t going to take this well.”
“Let me handle Tyelko,” says Maedhros quietly. “What I need is for you to not fight this. Curvo. Plains waiting to be set afire are not the place for children.”
“I’ll take Himlad if Turko accepts,” says Curufin.
His lips pursed like he’s tasting bile, but it’s acceptance in his gaze, not anger. Maedhros decides to cut his losses, and makes his way out of the forges with relief.
…
He doesn’t get much respite after that. There are meetings to be had with his uncle’s people, and then Maedhros takes lunch with Luhta, who goes over the list of restricted movements with him. His shoulder muscles and bones are still readjusting to not being hung off of stone, and obeying her will make them stronger and more flexible all the quicker.
Maedhros acquiesces- he certainly plans to follow her plan- but there are burgeoning confrontations through the camp- through his family- that will only be resolved after Maedhros bashes some heads into stone. If the price for proving himself a worthy leader to his brothers is a few torn muscles…
Well, Maedhros has dealt with worse in his time.
The mud squelches beneath his boots unpleasantly as he leaves Luhta to her medicines and heads over to the stables. Their horses are one of the few leveraging points Maedhros has against his uncle’s counsellors, and everyone knows it. Amras’ report had mentioned some Beleriand malady, more as an afterthought than anything else, but they can’t afford to lose any stock to misfortune. Certainly not now.
“Well, you’re still walking,” says Amras, when he sees Maedhros.
“Is that how you greet people nowadays?”
“You’re better off than poor little Calasse over there. There’s some fungus in her foot, she hasn’t walked in weeks.”
“I didn’t walk for decades,” says Maedhros crisply, and ignores the sudden urge to smash an elbow in Amras’ face and get the whole fucking farce over with. A couple good wrestles- some spilled blood- might well soothe tempers over better than the seething tension of the past weeks. But then, it might also fracture things apart. Better to keep himself calm, no matter how Amras deserves a punch. “No matter. Do you think you’ll need other stables? That illness unique to Thingol’s horses…”
“Ah.” Amras frowns. “We don’t have any resistance to it, that’s true enough. Sending them out into battle against the Sindar will probably lead to illness even if their archers don’t aim for the necks- I’ve been telling Curvo that we need armor there, but-”
“Telvo,” says Maedhros. “We are not going to war against the Sindar.”
He rolls his eyes. “We’re not saying we’re going to war against them, but it’s my job to be prepared for any eventuality.”
He sounds so much like their father. The Palantiri are necessary. What if we ever leave Aman? The Silmarils are necessary. What if the Trees ever go out? The swords are necessary. What if Elwe refuses us the boats? Feanor had imagined the worst possible scenario, prepared for it, and in so doing, he’d ensured it happened. Maedhros has seen his ash litter the cold grass of Beleriand. He’s seen what happens to fanatics.
He won’t let it happen again, not if he has to use the strings of his muscles to bind them all together.
“It’s your job to keep our horses alive,” says Maedhros coldly. “Leave the politicking to-”
“-my betters?” Amras asks sweetly.
“Burning the world down isn’t politics, it’s madness.”
“As if you’d know.”
“I do.”
Fire and fear and fury. Morgoth and Thauron and a dozen balrogs, snapping at him, burning one strand of hair a day just to see him wince from the pain. Maedhros might have lost a hand, his strength and his dignity in Angband, but not his sanity, and he won’t let anyone say otherwise, not while he can stop them.
Amras flinches. His eyes flicker, and Maedhros- senses already fine-tuned to betrayal- sees the flash of movement in the corner. It’s only the hue of the blur that keeps him from throwing his belt-knife.
“Come out, Amrod,” he says tiredly.
Amrod does, chin up and shamelessly belligerent as ever. Maedhros sighs. Settles against the wall, one foot propped on it, and waits for them to start speaking.
“Fine. We’ll stay out of your politics,” says Amras, and Maedhros lifts his eyebrows. “But-” And there’s the catch, he thinks wryly, “-if we’re the horse experts, you should want us in the Gap. As I said.”
“You want me to put you at the least defensible position in all of Beleriand,” repeats Maedhros. When Amrod nods, he shakes his head. Thinks, for the briefest moment, about what his mother would say to him if she ever found out that Maedhros let the twins rule the most dangerous part of Beleriand. “I’m not doing that.”
“Is this a sentimental decision?” asks Amrod.
“It’s a meaningful one,” snaps Maedhros. “Both of you are the least experienced commanders we have, and I’m not letting you walk into this blindly!”
Something like hurt flashes across Amrod’s face, but it’s gone before Maedhros can better analyze it. “We’ve got more experience than you know.”
“They do,” says- Celegorm, at the door.
Maedhros glances over his shoulder. Lets some measure of tension bleed out of his body: Celegorm, if nothing else, is one of the elder brothers. He doesn’t always act like it, but he’s a fair bit better person to show up than Caranthir.
“Well, they want the Gap,” says Maedhros. “I’m telling them that they can keep living in Lorien, but it won’t make it reality.”
Both he and Celegorm ignore the indignant squawk from one of the twins.
“You know you won’t get the Gap,” Celegorm tells Amras. “Oh, come on, Pityo. Nelyo and Kano are still considering whether you can handle your own lands- there’s no way you’ll get the Gap to start out with.”
Amrod’s eyes narrow. “You said we have experience.”
“Which is why I’m telling Nelyo not to pack you off with Moryo.”
Oh, you’re always the hero of the story, aren’t you, Turko?
“You wouldn’t,” breathes Amras.
“It’s in consideration,” says Maedhros slowly. “Which is why asking for the Gap isn’t really something you should be hoping for.” Amrod opens his mouth, eyes blazing, and Maedhros grips Celegorm’s shoulder, speaking rapidly enough that Amrod can’t speak over him. “We’ll talk about it more later. For now, Turko and I are going to ride out.”
“Ride out?” he asks blankly.
“Yes,” says Maedhros. “I need some fresh air.”
It isn’t a lie. He’s been cooped inside of the Feanorian camp since Fingon landed from that eagle, either bedridden or ensconced with advisors. It’s been grating on him for weeks now, and he won’t get a better chance to let loose, not with Fingolfin’s people due back in a fortnigh t and his brothers being their regular uncooperative selves and no solution in sight that doesn’t leave Maedhros ruling half the east by himself.
“Are you certain you can-”
“Yes,” says Maedhros impatiently. “I can handle myself. Are you following me?”
Celegorm arches his brows, but only nods. Of the twins, Amrod’s disappeared to wherever he goes to sulk; Amras still looks like he’s trying to reconcile Celegorm’s words with his own ambitions, and miserably failing at it. Maedhros makes sure they leave before he succeeds in getting angry, taking the first horse he feels comfortable with, barely waiting for Celegorm to join him.
…
Outside, he feels- calmer.
Or, not precisely; he feels less wild. Less like he’ll shatter apart the moment things get bad. The wind is warm and muggy at this time of year. It’ll rain in the evening. Maedhros keeps going, eyes closed and trusting in the horse’s sure footing, until a branch whips him across the face. He opens his eyes and sees that the branches are drawing closer to the ground and thinning out: there’s a river nearby.
When he finally draws the horse to a halt, Celegorm is behind him: color high in his cheeks, concern shading his face. He’s always been the least capable at masking emotion of their brothers. But the river’s roar is sweet and high behind them. And Maedhros hasn’t been impulsive in- decades.
“Turko,” says Maedhros, and laughs, voice high enough to scrape in his throat. He dismounts, and turns to touch one of the trees. “Catch me if you can!”
He leaps into the water, fully-clothed, hair braided. Celegorm shouts something, but Maedhros doesn’t care.
The water is cold, cold enough to hurt, but a clean kind of hurt: this is what glacier runoff does, without malice and without caring for any elves leaping into it. Unlike Angband. Unlike balrogs. Unlike- fucking- Morgoth.
Maedhros lets himself revel in it for long moments before finally returning to shore. The sand sticks to his damp skin. His braids are soaked through and will be awful to untangle. His clothes are so waterlogged it feels like he’s carrying half a cow on his shoulders. But still, when Celegorm finally drags himself out of the water looking like a half-drowned, unsheared sheep, Maedhros can only laugh.
“I hate you,” he growls.
“When’s the last time you bathed?” returns Maedhros, flat on his back, eyes sparking as he stares into the sun. “Surely you needed one.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t do it here. It’s fucking freezing.”
“It was colder on Thangorodrim.”
“Must you keep bringing that up?”
Maedhros scoffs. “It happened to me. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.”
“You-” Celegorm seems to be lost for words, which is not uncommon. Maedhros waits him out, more or less patiently. “You- you’re a bastard, you know that?”
“Sometimes I wish I were.” He reaches out and grabs the first thing he finds, blindly: a hank of Celegorm’s hair, fine as ever. “It would make my life easier, certainly, not having to deal with all of you. What was it Moryo called us the other day?”
“A sword with no hilt.”
“That was Kano, I think. Certainly not Moryo. Too poetic for him.”
“Gah,” says Celegorm, but he gives in to Maedhros and settles next to him, head knocking against Maedhros’ skull. “Fine. It was- lemmings. Jumping off a cliff, and screaming about it the whole way down.”
“Much more like him,” says Maedhros wryly.
They fall into silence. Maedhros admires the way the wind blows over his still-damp clothes. The clouds are slowly growing in intensity, darkening into something slate-dark.
“I need you to promise me something,” he says, and doesn’t look over at Celegorm, not even as his brother stops idly plaiting his hair to go all hunter-still.
“Mmm. What is it?”
“Watch over Curvo.”
“I’d do that even without you telling me.”
“No,” says Maedhros, and turns, and faces Celegorm face-first. “Listen to me. He needs- help. I keep remembering- he said in the forge- it doesn’t matter, but he’s scared, Turko, he’s scared to death of what’s happening to us. I need you to watch him, and I need you to keep him brave. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he says slowly.
Maedhros nods, and rolls to his feet. “Good. We should head back- it’ll rain soon.”
Celegorm rolls his eyes but gets up gamely enough. They mount their horses once more, and return sedately to camp.
Just before they enter the gates, Maedhros pauses. “Come to my tent tomorrow,” he says. “For lunch. I’d like to talk to you.”
“This wasn’t enough talking?”
“If you run off,” Maedhros tells him pleasantly, “I’ll hobble all your horses.”
Celegorm’s eyes narrow. “You need those horses for negotiating.”
“And you know I’m not in the habit of making empty threats.”
“This means that much to you?”
“Apparently,” says Maedhros, and clicks his tongue, and rides in.