Maglor Challenge: You Will Stay
I thought I had posted this to the community LJ, not my own - oops!
*sigh* I was not intending to bite on this one, but two Fêanorians had
other ideas. This is my response to the question, it's a bit rough,
but I'm posting it before I change my mind!
Maglor: Why didn't you rescue Maedhros; why did the poor chap have
to wait for cousin Fingon to go get him?
Title: You Will Stay
Author: Mirien
Rating: General
Warnings: Reference to Maedhros/Fingon relationship.
Summary: Maedhros decides he will feign treating with Morgoth, Maglor
has misgivings.
"Káno."
I turn my head to where you sit in the shadows of the tent. The dull
flame of your hair catches the fading light of sunset filtering
through the narrow opening I sit beside. You have not moved or spoken
for hours and I have kept your vigil, sharing the silence while the
camp awaits your decision, obedient as always.
"When will you leave?" I do not need to ask if you will go, there is
no need for that between us.
"A few days, once we have spoken with the others."
I nod, waiting for the emotion, listening to the new note in the song
that has come with your decision. It is discordant and I feel the
chill it brings. Musing, distracted, I pick up the blade I had set
aside for cleaning, resting it across my knees. I find the cloth I
need and apply oil to the dull surface, irritated it will not come clean.
"Káno" I look up again, you are frowning, staring at the blade. The
dying sun sheens its edge in red, and I turn it from the light. Your
frown fades. I sigh, frustrated.
"You are not usually so obvious, Maitimo." I loathe the obvious in
symbolism, it seems a way to cheat the imagination. It is the light of
a sunset, nothing more, whatever its colour. Blood is a deeper red;
burning sails, brighter. Neither are so clean a colour. This is how a
poet deals with betrayal.
You snort, amused by my annoyance and we both let it drop, better not
to dwell on it, humour is easier, no matter how dark. I begin to clean
the blade as you sit up fully, unfolding yourself to pour us both a
rare glass of wine, handing me one and walking to stare out of the
tent flap, idly watching the Ambarussa argue with Moryo by the fire.
You are undisturbed by your decision, confident in it. The concern you
leave to me as you have always done. I wait, studying the blade across
my knees, you are not yet finished telling me why.
"I taught you how to use that, do you remember the first time?" Your
head is tilted, voice musing, watching me now as you sip your wine. We
could be in Formenos, waiting for the call to dinner.
Again, I nod, "I did not want to learn, but you told me you would not
tell me any more stories before bed if I did not first learn to use a
sword."
"You were stubborn."
I smile, looking up and catching the flicker of shared memory in your
eyes, this time your amusement is real. "As were you. But, I had a
good teacher, and you finished the story."
"You were vulnerable, I could not allow that." Nor will you allow it
now. But I am a child no longer, and this is your way of telling me I
will not be with you on this journey.
"I am no longer vulnerable, Maitimo." I want to come, it is my place,
my right.
Your eyes flick to the harp by my feet, nestling into my legs. One of
the strings is loose and you murmur,"No, no longer." No, you must stay,
do not gainsay me, Makalaurë.
"Once you would have tended to her first, you should have now." There
is the slightest change in your tone, so subtle only Findekáno or I
would have noticed; he for love, I for the bard's ear that finds the
pitch of a scream upsets the balance of the song I hear constantly. I
wonder what it would be like not to be able to hear someone dying or
you, denying me my right.
"Yes." Do not, Maitimo, it is too late for that and we have not the
luxury of it. You are a fool, my brother, most temperate, unyielding
Nelyafinwë. I soften, "She will wait, and the blade will rust if I do
not tend it. That too, you taught me."
Your eyes are far away, your voice a murmur, "I remember." I can hear
you thinking, We have not time for music now, not even you, little
bird and, that I regret most of all..
I set the blade aside, move to join you at the tent flap. Our brothers
have moved away, the camp is still waiting. Let it wait. Your hand has
dropped to the knife at your belt, your fingers unconsciously toying
with the hilt, a gift from our father. I drop my eyes, and give in
first, because you need me to. But I am not without my own weapons, my
brother, never forget that.
"I will remain, my king...whatever the outcome."
You turn, your eyes shocked, furious at the blow I have just dealt
you, but you check your first reaction, match my spite with your own;
our father would have been proud of us. "Then I will not have to
demand it of you, Makalaurë."
We stare at each other, like cats with claws unsheathed, challenging
each other. Those who know us would not expect this clash, this
merciless confrontation. Maedhros is the fiery one, the
uncompromising, the one who feels little. I am Maglor, the
golden-voiced, the poet, expected to be kinder. Both assessments are
wrong. But then, none know us as well as we know each other, not even
Findekáno. He would see the fury and seek to ease it, I know you need
this pain, even as I do.
The tension drains from you and you speak softly, leaning your
forehead against mine, "I will come back, little bird."
I flinch, your use of that childhood name is unfair and you know
it, but you are trying to make amends. I nod, watching your clenched
fists slowly uncurl at your sides. "I know. You always have, and you
have never lied to me. Mind yourself, Maitimo, for my sake, and for
his." I do not mention our people, they do not matter at this moment.
I resent them too much for this, for your going. This is not about
them, not for these few moments.
It is the only plea I will make. You hear it and pull me into a rough
embrace that reminds me of our father, but with your kindness, however ungentle,
and so not like Fëanor at all.
"You are the only one of all of them I trust, the only one who knows,
and for that, you will stay, no matter what befalls." You are
insistent and I will give you this at least, though the words are like
ash in my mouth.
"Yes. I will stay." I have said it twice, do not ask me again,
Maitimo. You frame my face in your hands and kiss my brow, hesitating,
"And if I should fail and he should come…"
The unspeakable is out. "I will tell him, but you will not fail."
"No."
We turn and watch the sun set over distant peaks. A song drifts over
the camp to us, as we stand, silent.
*sigh* I was not intending to bite on this one, but two Fêanorians had
other ideas. This is my response to the question, it's a bit rough,
but I'm posting it before I change my mind!
Maglor: Why didn't you rescue Maedhros; why did the poor chap have
to wait for cousin Fingon to go get him?
Title: You Will Stay
Author: Mirien
Rating: General
Warnings: Reference to Maedhros/Fingon relationship.
Summary: Maedhros decides he will feign treating with Morgoth, Maglor
has misgivings.
"Káno."
I turn my head to where you sit in the shadows of the tent. The dull
flame of your hair catches the fading light of sunset filtering
through the narrow opening I sit beside. You have not moved or spoken
for hours and I have kept your vigil, sharing the silence while the
camp awaits your decision, obedient as always.
"When will you leave?" I do not need to ask if you will go, there is
no need for that between us.
"A few days, once we have spoken with the others."
I nod, waiting for the emotion, listening to the new note in the song
that has come with your decision. It is discordant and I feel the
chill it brings. Musing, distracted, I pick up the blade I had set
aside for cleaning, resting it across my knees. I find the cloth I
need and apply oil to the dull surface, irritated it will not come clean.
"Káno" I look up again, you are frowning, staring at the blade. The
dying sun sheens its edge in red, and I turn it from the light. Your
frown fades. I sigh, frustrated.
"You are not usually so obvious, Maitimo." I loathe the obvious in
symbolism, it seems a way to cheat the imagination. It is the light of
a sunset, nothing more, whatever its colour. Blood is a deeper red;
burning sails, brighter. Neither are so clean a colour. This is how a
poet deals with betrayal.
You snort, amused by my annoyance and we both let it drop, better not
to dwell on it, humour is easier, no matter how dark. I begin to clean
the blade as you sit up fully, unfolding yourself to pour us both a
rare glass of wine, handing me one and walking to stare out of the
tent flap, idly watching the Ambarussa argue with Moryo by the fire.
You are undisturbed by your decision, confident in it. The concern you
leave to me as you have always done. I wait, studying the blade across
my knees, you are not yet finished telling me why.
"I taught you how to use that, do you remember the first time?" Your
head is tilted, voice musing, watching me now as you sip your wine. We
could be in Formenos, waiting for the call to dinner.
Again, I nod, "I did not want to learn, but you told me you would not
tell me any more stories before bed if I did not first learn to use a
sword."
"You were stubborn."
I smile, looking up and catching the flicker of shared memory in your
eyes, this time your amusement is real. "As were you. But, I had a
good teacher, and you finished the story."
"You were vulnerable, I could not allow that." Nor will you allow it
now. But I am a child no longer, and this is your way of telling me I
will not be with you on this journey.
"I am no longer vulnerable, Maitimo." I want to come, it is my place,
my right.
Your eyes flick to the harp by my feet, nestling into my legs. One of
the strings is loose and you murmur,"No, no longer." No, you must stay,
do not gainsay me, Makalaurë.
"Once you would have tended to her first, you should have now." There
is the slightest change in your tone, so subtle only Findekáno or I
would have noticed; he for love, I for the bard's ear that finds the
pitch of a scream upsets the balance of the song I hear constantly. I
wonder what it would be like not to be able to hear someone dying or
you, denying me my right.
"Yes." Do not, Maitimo, it is too late for that and we have not the
luxury of it. You are a fool, my brother, most temperate, unyielding
Nelyafinwë. I soften, "She will wait, and the blade will rust if I do
not tend it. That too, you taught me."
Your eyes are far away, your voice a murmur, "I remember." I can hear
you thinking, We have not time for music now, not even you, little
bird and, that I regret most of all..
I set the blade aside, move to join you at the tent flap. Our brothers
have moved away, the camp is still waiting. Let it wait. Your hand has
dropped to the knife at your belt, your fingers unconsciously toying
with the hilt, a gift from our father. I drop my eyes, and give in
first, because you need me to. But I am not without my own weapons, my
brother, never forget that.
"I will remain, my king...whatever the outcome."
You turn, your eyes shocked, furious at the blow I have just dealt
you, but you check your first reaction, match my spite with your own;
our father would have been proud of us. "Then I will not have to
demand it of you, Makalaurë."
We stare at each other, like cats with claws unsheathed, challenging
each other. Those who know us would not expect this clash, this
merciless confrontation. Maedhros is the fiery one, the
uncompromising, the one who feels little. I am Maglor, the
golden-voiced, the poet, expected to be kinder. Both assessments are
wrong. But then, none know us as well as we know each other, not even
Findekáno. He would see the fury and seek to ease it, I know you need
this pain, even as I do.
The tension drains from you and you speak softly, leaning your
forehead against mine, "I will come back, little bird."
I flinch, your use of that childhood name is unfair and you know
it, but you are trying to make amends. I nod, watching your clenched
fists slowly uncurl at your sides. "I know. You always have, and you
have never lied to me. Mind yourself, Maitimo, for my sake, and for
his." I do not mention our people, they do not matter at this moment.
I resent them too much for this, for your going. This is not about
them, not for these few moments.
It is the only plea I will make. You hear it and pull me into a rough
embrace that reminds me of our father, but with your kindness, however ungentle,
and so not like Fëanor at all.
"You are the only one of all of them I trust, the only one who knows,
and for that, you will stay, no matter what befalls." You are
insistent and I will give you this at least, though the words are like
ash in my mouth.
"Yes. I will stay." I have said it twice, do not ask me again,
Maitimo. You frame my face in your hands and kiss my brow, hesitating,
"And if I should fail and he should come…"
The unspeakable is out. "I will tell him, but you will not fail."
"No."
We turn and watch the sun set over distant peaks. A song drifts over
the camp to us, as we stand, silent.