Maedhros, my oldest love
I have ~1/3 of a Maedhros fic written, and I think the pacing is wrong. Anyone want to take a look and comment?
Maedhros stands at the end of the farthest pier of Alqualondë, looking out to sea. He is covered with blood. None of it is his own.
The ocean crests below him, breaks. It is beautiful. The stars above it are beautiful, high and clear. Maedhros wonders how anything can be that beautiful now. How anything can be beautiful, ever again.
He hears footsteps behind him, does not turn. Does not need to.
“Maitimo,” Fingon asks, the steady drip drip drip of blood from his sword a sickening counterpoint to the swell of the surf. “Maitimo, what have we done?”
Maedhros has no answer.
***
The edge of one sail catches, then another, then another. The spars and then the masts begin to burn, merrily crackling, and in almost no time at all the flame is billowing out of the port holes, the great timber beams of the hulls blackening and splitting. Ash coats the proud white swans of the prows.
“Father,” Maedhros says. “Father, you cannot do this.”
Fëanor turns to him and Maedhros cannot help but to step back. The man in front of him, the man he has known and loved all his life as his father, is unrecognizable, his eyes gleaming and mad. “There is nothing I cannot do,” Fëanor says. “Let them burn.”
***
Fëanor’s eyes are unclouded, for the first time in a long time, no longer the fever-mad brightness that drove them out of Valinor, but clear and sane. He struggles to prop himself on one arm, looking towards Thangorodrim in the distance. “Melkor!” he cries, his voice the Fëanor of old. “Melkor, I defy you!”
And then his breath goes out in one last shuddering gasp, and the high wind of his passing leaves nothing behind but ash.
***
Melkor’s eyes are flames. Maedhros does not look at them. He looks, instead, at the Silmarils in their iron crown, and remembers Valinor. Remembers riding through the woods of Oromë with Fingon, remembers the stunned silence that followed Maglor’s first recital, remembers his mother placing the twins in his arms for the first time, tiny and precious. Remembers the two Trees at the height of their glory, and the quiet time when the lights mingled.
“You will bow to me,” Melkor says.
Now Maedhros does look in his eyes, and it is Melkor who steps back. “I will not,” Maedhros says.
The pits of Angband have terrors unimaginable, and all of them break on one who saw the Trees in flower.
***
Sometimes, Maedhros dreams of ice. He does not sleep, not up here, hanging naked from one wrist and exposed to every element, but sometimes he dreams. Usually, he dreams of Valinor, of the days before darkness came between the sons of Finwë, but sometimes he dreams of ice, and bitterest cold, and despair. This is not so different from his waking existence that usually he does not think they are dreams, or if they are, he thinks that they mean nothing. But sometimes he remembers the Helcaraxë, and burning ships, and what desperate men may do.
Findekáno, he whispers in his mind, no longer strong enough to shout even his thoughts. Findekáno, forgive me.
***
Maedhros takes one last look at the new sun, at the light of Laurelin-that-was, and closes his eyes. “Finish it,” he says.
Below him, Fingon draws his bow, trying to see through his tears. “I love you,” he says. “I love you I love you I love you.”
His arrow breaks apart mid-flight.
***
“Manwë has mercy for you, even now,” Thorondor says. “The Valar do not forget you. Do not forget them, or what they have taught you.”
***
Maglor feels the hand he holds clench around his fingers; he looks with wild eyes to the face of his brother. Maedhros’s voice is soft, only an echo of its former strength, but the words are clear enough.
“I forgive you,” he says.
Maglor weeps.
Maedhros stands at the end of the farthest pier of Alqualondë, looking out to sea. He is covered with blood. None of it is his own.
The ocean crests below him, breaks. It is beautiful. The stars above it are beautiful, high and clear. Maedhros wonders how anything can be that beautiful now. How anything can be beautiful, ever again.
He hears footsteps behind him, does not turn. Does not need to.
“Maitimo,” Fingon asks, the steady drip drip drip of blood from his sword a sickening counterpoint to the swell of the surf. “Maitimo, what have we done?”
Maedhros has no answer.
***
The edge of one sail catches, then another, then another. The spars and then the masts begin to burn, merrily crackling, and in almost no time at all the flame is billowing out of the port holes, the great timber beams of the hulls blackening and splitting. Ash coats the proud white swans of the prows.
“Father,” Maedhros says. “Father, you cannot do this.”
Fëanor turns to him and Maedhros cannot help but to step back. The man in front of him, the man he has known and loved all his life as his father, is unrecognizable, his eyes gleaming and mad. “There is nothing I cannot do,” Fëanor says. “Let them burn.”
***
Fëanor’s eyes are unclouded, for the first time in a long time, no longer the fever-mad brightness that drove them out of Valinor, but clear and sane. He struggles to prop himself on one arm, looking towards Thangorodrim in the distance. “Melkor!” he cries, his voice the Fëanor of old. “Melkor, I defy you!”
And then his breath goes out in one last shuddering gasp, and the high wind of his passing leaves nothing behind but ash.
***
Melkor’s eyes are flames. Maedhros does not look at them. He looks, instead, at the Silmarils in their iron crown, and remembers Valinor. Remembers riding through the woods of Oromë with Fingon, remembers the stunned silence that followed Maglor’s first recital, remembers his mother placing the twins in his arms for the first time, tiny and precious. Remembers the two Trees at the height of their glory, and the quiet time when the lights mingled.
“You will bow to me,” Melkor says.
Now Maedhros does look in his eyes, and it is Melkor who steps back. “I will not,” Maedhros says.
The pits of Angband have terrors unimaginable, and all of them break on one who saw the Trees in flower.
***
Sometimes, Maedhros dreams of ice. He does not sleep, not up here, hanging naked from one wrist and exposed to every element, but sometimes he dreams. Usually, he dreams of Valinor, of the days before darkness came between the sons of Finwë, but sometimes he dreams of ice, and bitterest cold, and despair. This is not so different from his waking existence that usually he does not think they are dreams, or if they are, he thinks that they mean nothing. But sometimes he remembers the Helcaraxë, and burning ships, and what desperate men may do.
Findekáno, he whispers in his mind, no longer strong enough to shout even his thoughts. Findekáno, forgive me.
***
Maedhros takes one last look at the new sun, at the light of Laurelin-that-was, and closes his eyes. “Finish it,” he says.
Below him, Fingon draws his bow, trying to see through his tears. “I love you,” he says. “I love you I love you I love you.”
His arrow breaks apart mid-flight.
***
“Manwë has mercy for you, even now,” Thorondor says. “The Valar do not forget you. Do not forget them, or what they have taught you.”
***
Maglor feels the hand he holds clench around his fingers; he looks with wild eyes to the face of his brother. Maedhros’s voice is soft, only an echo of its former strength, but the words are clear enough.
“I forgive you,” he says.
Maglor weeps.