Work Text:
The High King's private office is deadly silent. Although he is always told that he's welcome to enter any time, it is the first time for Maedhros to come in. He can tell from the air of the room decorated with silver and blue that the owner has been being lonely.
Maedhros recalls that Fingon used to complain that his room in Himring was too cold and shabby, making visitors feel depressed easily. However, it seems that after he's crowned to be king, he began to ground himself in the chamber as well.
Compare to what it was like before the previous High King's death, Beleriand has changed a lot, too. For the Elves, they are becoming more and more passive as their realms keep being taken. Meanwhile, there were also suprising events. For example, a human broke into Angband with the princess of Doriath and cut a Silmaril from the Iron Crown. Of course from the incident Thingol's arrogance was shown, but it also showed that the Enemy isn't invinsible.
Celegorm may claim that such a challenge a human could manage should be easy for them. But Maedhros is too busy to make assumptions. He needs as many men as possible to achieve what he wants. The shut door of Nargothrond, the hostility of Doriath and the silence of Gondolin have weakened the meaning of "union" in some way. So be it.
Today the last conference before the battle was held in the King's palace. Every army sent a representative to atten. They checked the map again and again and went through all the details and signals for the last time. Everything seemed to be in order. At the same time, everyone was wearing grave expressions. It won't be so easy, every plan against the Enemy can't be perfect. No one can ever see through his dark heart.
'After all," Fingon said at the end of the conference, as if joking,"Even if we failed, history would only record the failure of The Union of Maedhros."
The representatives around the table gave out a few symbolic laughters. Maedhros looked at Fingon's face with confusion. The High King was smiling, his eyes were mild but somber, as though suffering from sorrow.
Until Fingon asked him to stay and wait in his private chamber, Maedhros was thinking about that smile. Fingon didn't know there was someone observing him. The optimistic face he managed to put on for the whole conference simply failed after a joke.
***
Finally, the door is opened. Fingon walks in in his casual clothes. He no longer hides the tiredness on his face.
"Sorry for making you wait." he says quietly.
"You really want the Union to bear your name?" Maedhros asks.
"Of course not, Maitimo." Fingon shakes his head with a smile,"We agreed on that."
"You told a joke about failure. Don't you believe in our victory, my lord?"
"Don't tell me you have not seen failure, Lord of Himring." Half of that sentence is a joke, the other half the heavy truth. And that kind of weariness returns to his eyes. For a moment, Maedhros is almost scared.
"We are both familiar with it, my lord." he answers.
Fingon doesn't respond but looks into his eyes, as though checking if he's a reliable listener. Maedhros cannot help caressing his cheek.
"Findo," his mouth feels dry when he speaks again,"What's bothering you?"
Fingon grabbed his wrist. "Promise me you won't tell anyone else."
"I promise."
"Promise me not to stop me."
"I promise. What can I stop you from?" Fear begins to stir his heart. He thinks of how Fingon's father ended up.
"Promise me," Fingon pauses, "that you will play your role properly and fight bravely in five days."
"...I promise."
"If you really want to know--I know I can't hide it from you, these are my requests. I request you to do these as a friend."
"And I accept your request as a friend." In fact, Fingon has to tell him everything the moment he starts the conversation. Even if Maedhros doesn't promise. And Maedhros will certainly promise.
"Alright." Fingon lets go his hand, and leans back in the chair.They're sitting face to face in an almost casual position. Maedhros begins to feel cold.
"I dreamt of my father last night," says Fingon,"He was in his armour, with Ringil hanging to his side. Around him it was totally dark, only him seemed to glow."
"What did he say?" It's not right to rush to questions, but Maedhros just can't help.
Fingon shook his head and said, "He said nothing but merely nodded at me. I heard myself said, I know, Atar. When I woke up, what he meant to tell me just appeared in my heart. And I indeed knew it.
Maedhros wants to ask and confirm what he actually knew. But that's not someone who can always read his friend's eyes should do. Fingon's is telling him, what you fear is going to happen. So he nods, too, as if answering to some code.
He doesn't doubt if this is true. He knows how these presentiments work. He looks at Fingon in surprise and admiration. Fingon's eyes are clear as usual, now with more relief. And there's also something Maedhros didn't recognise in the first place: like how Nerdanel sighed when they left Tirion; like how Finrod talked about his future confidently; like how Galadriel always acts mysteriously. The High King of Noldor finally faces his fate directly, and he just nods at it.
Somehow, Maedhros thinks of how the revelation of fate will never come to him or his family. Fëanor had slammed the door on its face a long time ago. And he himself will not visit his sons' dreams.
"We will fail, then?" he asks tentatively.
"I don't know." answers Fingon, "And I don't think I will live to see how it ends. Maybe my life will be given in return of the victory of day."
"Don't say such thing." Thinking about Fingon's life may be used as some kind of chip, Maedhros feels nauseous. In those battles they've already lost to many people, but that never seemed like the deposit to buy hope.
"I'm not going to prepare for the things I cannot see in advance." Fingon says, almost relaxedly, "So I may leave a lot of trouble behind. I'm not sure if Turvo can handle everything in his kingdom." He gazes at the tapestry hanging on the other side of the room thoughtfully, on which there's the heraldry of the House of Fingolfin.
"Do you need me to do anything?" Maedhros asks, imagining not seeing Fingo after the battle. But without Fingon, either victory or failure doesn't feel real. He recalls the crowned prince whom everyone praised when Dagor Aglareb ended. And meeting the new High King for the first time after Dagor Bragollach: the King had the crown on his head, with cloak in dark blue fluttering on his back. The determination in his blue eyes was almost solid.
Fingon gives a smile. "No," he says, "it's already too much for you to know about this."
Maedhros inhales and exhales. "I think I can't bear knowing it ahead of time, nor hearing about it after it happens."
Fingon put his hand on his shoulder. "All you need to do is to be here."
"Will you allow me to cry?"
"Right now?" Fingon leans closer, looks into those grey eyes with his own. But Maedhros's eyes are dry by now. "Not on the battlefield. You'll definitely have many things to do."
"Even if I watch it happen? "
"You've already known it'll happen. You can also weep ahead of time, or wait till the battle ends." His hand on Maedhros's shoulder presses harder, like something just crossed his mind. "If you don't see it happen, don't be concerned about my life. You must fight, like you promised."
"If I don't see it happen...this is the last time we meet?"
"That's why I said I hoped you can be here. I want to share this moment with you. My time on my own no longer belongs to me. I check all the weapons and horses, I count my armies, I read the maps. All these moments are just steps that lead to my end."
Maedhros looks around, picturing there's a ruthless role in the room. He imagines how Fingon sits here alone and negotiates with it, and finishes his work under its stare.
Then he imagines if he was told that Fingon was gone after it happened. He would punch the air and threats to smash the fate. He would act like a madman, and the prophet he turned his back to would laugh at him.
"But I'm not sorry." Fingon continues, "I'm willing to prepare fo this ending. I'll die fighting--I devote everything into the fight, then I die. This is a bright ending."
His eyes are lit up again. People of the House of Fingolfin. Maedhros thinks. They love endings with bravery and glory.
"It is your reward. You are too good, Findekano." he said heartily, "In that case, I'm merely here to seeing you off."
"I cherish the days we shared together." Fingon says gravely, "I suppose I'll miss you. If a fëa in Mandos would know how to miss."
"Above all, I will miss you." Maedhros reponds. Fingon covers his wounded wrist with his palm. And Maedhros recalls the moment he put his life in Fingon's hands. "And this thought may stay with me at every minute, until the end of my life."
"By then we shall meet again."
"Before then I shall live in sorrow. I ought to tell you that."
"I'm sorry." For the first time in this day, Fingon seems perplexed. Just as Maedhros is about to comfort him, he begins to unravel his plait. He pulls one gold thread out. And Maedhros smiles.
"People say that the gold threads are Findékano himself. Among all the Noldor who's hair is dark, the one who has golden gleam in his hair is Findékano. And he alone, deserves that gleam."
"I'm glad that you agree with it." Fingon coiled the thread on his finger, and unravels Maedhros's hair. Before he even feels it, Fingon has rebraid the plait of red hair. Somewhere amid the hair must hide a gold thread, but he can't tell where.
"I put it on the inner side so that no one sees it from the outside. But for you, you know there it is. In this way, even when the day comes, you won't need to be concerned about my location o r life. I am right here."
Maedhros strokes his unbraided black hair, cannot help leaning closer. His lips touch the undecorated forehead of the High King. Fingon sits still, his only move is to throw his arm around Maedhros's neck, and touch his lips with his own. A gentle kiss. Maedhros tries to remember how it feels.
"You are crying after all." Fingon says as he lets go of Maedhros's neck. Through his blurry sight, Maedhros can tell that his face is peaceful. He winks and a heavy drop of tear goes down through his cheek.
It's a moment stolen from the fate. Back on Thangorodrim, that arrow that didn't fly is already its most generous gift. He no longer has the right to bargain with it now.
Neither does Fingon. They both know this well.
***
Among the dust and cries with fear, Maedhros recognises the huge outline of Glaurung. The dragon that has suffered the sharp arrows of the Eldar in its younger days appears in the middle of the battlefield, as if coming for revenge. The army is scattered by the dragon and other evil creatures. The design of assaulting Morgoth from both sides is merely children's illusion now.
In the rising dust, the sons of Ufang have driven upon the banner of the flame, declaring treachery almost proudly. The other Easterlings flee in fear and doubt. Watching Edain and Easterlings fighting against the treaters, and Maglor's knife cutting Udor's throat, Maedhros's heart becomes cold and depressed :the most dangerous weapon the Enemy can design is indeed unpredictable for them.
He summons the remaining people as he can and retreats towards the east. That is when he's certain that he is not going to meet Fingon again. Figures of enemies are all he sees on the other side of the battlefield. It seems that the host of Balrogs has gathered there.
He remembers his promise to the High King several days ago, and draws his eyes back from the west.
***
Maedhros is sitting in the tent, with his back towards the door curtain. Since they retreated from the battlefield and encamped, he has never left here. And except for the doctor who's came to treat his wounds, no one has entered. All his brothers have their own business to deal. He knows that Maglor has finished many things he's supposed to do for him, and feels guilty. However, he's certain that he can't manage them as well as Maglor does right now. It is probably also Maglor's credit that he can sit here without being disturbed. His oldest brother is trying to protect him. And Maedhros is grateful.
The failure of the Union of Maedhros. The phrase has become reality, definite and solid. When people talk about it in the future, they may also use another phrase: the unnumbered tears. This two combining together can possibly describe the situation better, or to describe Maedhros's heart.
He has the gold thread in his hand. It had been taken off when the doctor was cleaning the wound in his head. It was braid in the inside, avoided being stained by blood. Maedhros tries not to think about the fate of the rest of the threads. The soul of their owner is no longer on this land. And the only taken off one was left behind. Maedhros somehow thinks. Just like me.
All of Feanor's sons survived in the battle. Some say that they were saved by fate. It's not like that. Maedhros reputes in his heart. We are never the favoured. Fate just distains bargaining with us, and it never reveals any signs about the future. This time we were merely not its target.
The curtain opens. It is Maglor.
"Sorry to disturb you." he says. From his face Maedhros can tell what message he's brought.
"Go on, please." he gets to his feet.
Maglor glimpses at the thread in his hand. "Findékano was slain." he says, observing Maedhros's reaction
For the only time in his life, Maedhros has been told the secret of life and death ahead of time. He doesn't need to show shockedness.
"Okay." he whispers, "thank you."
"I'm sorry." his dark-haired brother says in the same volume, still looking at him in worryingly, "It is said that Turukano retreated to Gondolin with the remaining host. He's now the High King."
"How did it happen?"
"What?"
"Findekano, how did he died?" The question is meaningless but he cannot help asking.
He can see that Maglor's eyes are shadowed by grief. "He was valiant. He fought to the last minute but was surrounded by Balrogs.
"And?" he continues, hoping he's not making his brother even sadder. He just wants to know.
"He was hewed by the axe of Gothmog. Some said that a white flame sprang up from his helmet...then--that's it."
A white flame. Maedhros tries to imagine. He indeed had a glorious death.
"And--" Maglor hesitates, "After that, those Balrogs beat him into the dust and trod his banner--"His voice becomes soft, shaking with hatred. So pain falls back into Maedhros's heart. He feels himself suffocating.
"Can I stay here? Or it's fine if you want to be alone." Maglor, who probably notices his frowned eyebrows, asks.
"No, Kano. Please stay."
Tears fill up Maglor's eyes. Then, before he realizes, he's put his arms around Maglor's back. He can't be sure which of them is relying on the other's shoulder. All he knows is that he himself is weeping, too.
At least on this day he can cry as he wants. He's got the permission from the dead anyway. The gold thread is still in his hand, he'll bring it along with him at all times from now on. Life is not going to be the same. As usual, he won't be able to recognize the trap set by fate until the moment he stamp in it. But he will keep marching on defenselessly.
Till he comes to the house of Mandos, too. Till some day, he can meet Fingon again. Before that day, he will continue going, no matter how the world or his soul mars.