snacky
in
snackbites
Silmarillion Fic: Fire Upon White Walls (Maedhros/Fingon, Maedhros/Glorfindel)
Title: Fire Upon White Walls (The Burn, Baby, Burn Remix)
Author: snacky
Fandom: The Silmarillion/Tolkien
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters, situations, settings, belong to Tolkien.
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death/assume spoilers for the book.
Summary: Maedhros is fascinated by the flames that lick the white walls.
Notes: Written for Remix Redux 9. Remixed from Fire Upon White Walls by rubynye. Thanks to unsuitenedt and rthstewart for the beta!
As a child, Maedhros works with his father at the forge, a stone behemoth that takes up the entire back wall of his father's workshop. He spends his days with Fëanor, training with him. He learns to feed the fire, fascinated by the flames that lick the white walls. He learns when to add more wood and when to damp it down, how to handle molten metals with great care, and how to craft dull stones into brilliant gems.
His heart's not truly in it, but his father wants him there, and he is the eldest son - he must be trained in his father's work, his trade, his passion. So he persists and he learns the skills. But the best parts of his days are when he's set free to be outside, to use the weapons his father creates. His true passion is the sword, and he spends many long hours practicing, first with a tutor, and then his brothers, sparring and training and honing his skill.
It's a happy day for him when he's finally set free from the forge. Curufin steps into his place as his father's natural heir - his brother who, it seems, was born to be Fëanor's favorite, his most skilled son, his true successor.
Still, despite the relief he feels upon being released from the work, there are parts that Maedhros enjoys. Having Fëanor's attention focused all on him, his praise when Maedhros succeeds in the task assigned to him, his careful explanations and demonstrations of how to do exactly this or form exactly that - and of course, working at the forge itself.
The white stone of the forge never turns black despite the near constant fire. How that is possible, he never understands - perhaps it's like the fire of his father's spirit, so hot and so bright that it burns clean, never a bit of smoke to stain the stone. There's ash, oh yes, mounds of ash that Maedhros shovels out every day, but the ash itself is as white as the walls.
The fire draws him in and he watches the flames dance against the white stone as he works at the forge. His father scolds him for dawdling, for not keeping his mind on the work, but Maedhros finds it near impossible to turn away from the brightly burning flames.
He is, after all, his father's son.
*************
Fire, he thinks, is the true legacy given to him by his father. Not Fëanor's skills, not his ability to lead the Noldor, but the very fire that burned in his soul. It is obvious in his hair, the color of flame, the one thing that he didn't inherit from his father, but which reflects Fëanor's fire nonetheless. Maedhros knows that it is this fire that burns in him, this fire that gave him a title he never wanted.
Kinslayer.
He remembers that fight at Alqualondë, the battle and the blood and the doom of Mandos. He doesn't even have to try to remember, he just closes his eyes and it's all there in front of him, as if happening that very moment, the cries and the clanging of steel, and his sword stained bright red with blood in his hand.
He remember his father's orders to burn the ships at Losgar, and how angry he was at Maedhros' refusal to take part. He thought for a moment that Fëanor might burn him as well, so fiery was gaze, as the madness burned in his mind. But his father's fire burned in him as well, and Fëanor left him to his choice; so Maedhros watched as the flames engulfed the ships, his heart heavy with the things he had done, and thought of leaving Fingon behind.
The ships were made of wood, not stone, but they were white, and Maedhros couldn't tear his eyes away as the fire consumed them.
*************
On Thangorodrim, the stone walls are not white. But Maedhros sees flames burning all the time, and he no longer knows if his eyes are opened or closed. As the years pass, he thinks the fire that burns in him is the only thing that is keeping him alive. But eventually, even that fire seems to die, and all Maedhros knows is cold and pain and torment, and a longing for the day that it will all end.
Then Fingon comes.
Maedhros hears his song and for a moment, he is back in Tirion, standing on a balcony in Finwë's palace at dusk, with Fingon beside him, playing his harp and singing. The light from the Trees mingles, and together they cast a red glow over the city. It looks to Maedhros like flames licking at every building, every step, every stone.
He joins in the song, but even to his own ears, his voice is faint and trembling, and he knows his memory deceives him, and this is not Valinor. When he looks down, he sees Fingon staring up at him, harp in hand.
Maedhros begs him for release, for an end to the suffering, and Fingon delivers him. But the severing of his right hand is just one more torment, so intense that Maedhros cannot bear it, and he drifts away in an icy cold haze of pain.
When Maedhros opens his eyes, Fingon is fashioning a hasty bandage around his wrist, and offering soft reassurances and a gentle smile. "You're free, Nelyo. You're safe; all will be well now."
A flame sparks again inside him and Maedhros feels warm for the first time in years.
*************
Maedhros wonders what the light of the sun looks like in Tirion these days, if the sunsets over the city are as brilliant as the waxing and waning of the Trees, or if the fire of the setting sun burns even brighter than the trees ever did.
He'll never know, of course, but it's one of the things he contemplates, as he stands alone on the walls of Gondolin, at the Western Gate. He watches as the Sun blazes red-gold behind the peak of the Western Mountain, and he hears Glorfindel approach.
"Russandol," Glorfindel calls, striding up, but Maedhros doesn't respond. That name belongs to his brothers now, and they are the only ones left who can name him so. He continues to stare out at the Western Mountain, keeping the East to his back. The East, where the Great Enemy dwells, where the Battle of Unnumbered Tears brought disaster and ruin to all the fair folk of Beleriand.
The East, where Fingon had died.
"Maitimo?" Glorfindel murmurs, standing beside him. Again, he offers no response, because that is another name that is no longer his. He just hopes that Glorfindel does not try the name that belongs to Fingon alone, and at the thought, his heart clenches.
"Maedhros?" Glorfindel whispers, laying his hand over Maedhros'.
Maedhros at last turns his glance to him. "Glorfindel."
"You walked abroad? Alone?"
"I wished to move," Maedhros replies, looking again out of the city and away from Glorfindel. "I have lain too long abed."
"And none marked you, with your hair and your height?" Maedhros can feel Glorfindel staring at him, and turns to face him again, taking in his narrowed eyes and frown. "If you are known---"
"If anyone knows me for Nelyafinwë, then I shall go to Turgon and treat with him as king with king."
"That would be splendid, and prideful, and foolish vastly far beyond all telling. The King was unafraid to cast Eöl brother of Elu Thingol himself from the walls. I did not bring you hence to healing to merely reserve you for such a fate."
He does not sigh, but Maedhros wonders at Glorfindel. Of course Turgon knows he is here - very little happens within the walls of Gondolin that escapes Turgon's notice, and Maehros knows his presence here in the city is not a secret to its King. Glorfindel brought him here after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, at Fingon's behest and despite the oath-sworn madness of his family. Perhaps it is that reason, his brother's wish, that causes Turgon to keep his eyes closed to Maedhros' presence, and not to cast him from the city. He doesn't know, but whatever the reason, he is grateful.
"Why did you save me, Glorfindel of the Golden Hair?" Maedhros once again asks the question that has troubled him these many days. "In the retreat of that foul battle, why did you bear up this one-handed, muddy haired, forlorn Elf, rather than allowing my blood to quench the fires set by my father's vow and my family's madness? Why did you take me from the ruin I wrought and the death I deserved, beside the one who was my dear friend?"
Glorfindel does not answer with his arms and his lips, as he has done during the long nights of Maedhros' healing, not here on the battlements before all the city. But he squeezes Maedhros' hand and repeats the answer he gives every night. "For love of a valiant prince."
Maedhros wonders at that too, at Glorfindel's devotion and love and care, and his own response to that love. But Fingon is gone, dead, taken from him, and Maedhros does not think that he would begrudge him seeking this comfort. His reply comes with a long sigh filled with pain and love. "Ah, Fingon, who wished me to live even with his dying breath."
"Fingon, mighty High King, best of our host and best beloved. But the prince I speak of is you."
Only one tear falls to Glorfindel's cheek, and it might be blamed upon the wind, but Maedhros knows better. He smiles at Glorfindel, feeling once again a slow flame kindling in his heart.
*************
Fire upon white walls again - this time a dream, one that haunts his nights. Not Tirion, but Gondolin. The city falls, and is destroyed, and Glorfindel falls with it, yet another death that Maedhros is unable to prevent, another love lost.
Maedhros sits up in his bed, shaking his head to clear it. He wasn't there for the Fall of Gondolin, but the tales of the city's destruction had come to him, tales of Maeglin's betrayal, and the attack of Morgoth's army, of the death of the King, and of Glorfindel's battle upon Cristhorn. Brave Glorfindel, who slew the Balrog, but was himself killed. Ever since, visions of the end had filled his dreams, along with all the other horrors he sees whenever he closed his eyes.
Maedhros had left Gondolin before any of that came to pass. "My brothers think me dead," he had said, "as do the hosts of the Enemy. This cannot be." But even so he was regretful, as he buckled his own sword round Glorfindel's hips, as he caught Glorfindel's hair in his hands. And their final kiss was like a draught of sweet fire.
Maedhros wonders sometimes, if he had stayed, would it have happened? Did his leaving the city somehow lead the armies of Morgoth to find Maeglin? And if he had stayed, perhaps he would have found peace there - perhaps he too would have his final rest, the fire in his heart finally quenched.
But no, he had joined his brothers in their own destruction, the attack on Doriath. Three of his brothers fallen, Dior dead, the children Eluréd and Elurín left to die, and for what? They were still without the Silmaril, and they were Kinslayers twice over.
And now the Silmaril is with Elwing in the Havens of Sirion, and Maedhros has foresworn his Oath, counselling his brothers against taking it by force. But his heart is restless, and his Oath haunts him, and the fire threatens to consume him again. He thinks he hears his father, urging him to retrieve what is theirs, and he thinks perhaps his brothers are haunted by this as well.
And Maedhros is certain, no matter how hard he struggles to resist it, that soon he will see the flames burning against white walls again.
*************
In the end, it will be the fire that consumes him, and Maedhros knows his cannot escape this fate. The gift from his father, the fire that burns in his heart, in his very essence, will eventually burn out of his control.
He has become his father - the fire has taken over his life. A Kinslayer for a third time, and the loss of his two youngest brothers in the Havens of Sirion had kindled the flame of bitterness that burned so deeply within. He has saved the sons of Elwing and Eärendil, for he will not let these two die, as Dior's sons before them.
But he cannot find a place in his fiery heart for these children. So Maedhros brings Elrond and Elros to Maglor's household, and gives them to the special charge of Erestor.
"Keep good care of them, for they are the chief treasures of the Havens at the Mouths of the Sirion, which are fallen." After the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, after Gondolin had fallen, neither Fingon nor Glorfindel remained to stay Maedhros' hand and once again, flames burned against the white walls. The Havens of Sirion, destroyed by the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros knows that his father's madness is his now, never again to be foresworn or shaken off.
Maedhros bends his head and kisses Erestor's mouth, one last taste of sweet fire, before he turns and leaves, never to see the children again.
*************
And now his end has come at last. The Silmarils are finally in the hands of the last sons of Fëanor, and they burn, like the fire that burned in Fëanor, the fire that burns still in Maedhros.
But this fire is all torment and suffering, and Maedhros knows he has brought it all on himself, with the evil deeds he has committed. He cannot bear it, any of it, one moment longer, and it is with a sense of relief that he throws himself and the Silmaril into the depths of a fiery chasm.
One last time, he feeds the fire, his final vision the flames that lick the white walls.
Author: snacky
Fandom: The Silmarillion/Tolkien
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters, situations, settings, belong to Tolkien.
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death/assume spoilers for the book.
Summary: Maedhros is fascinated by the flames that lick the white walls.
Notes: Written for Remix Redux 9. Remixed from Fire Upon White Walls by rubynye. Thanks to unsuitenedt and rthstewart for the beta!
As a child, Maedhros works with his father at the forge, a stone behemoth that takes up the entire back wall of his father's workshop. He spends his days with Fëanor, training with him. He learns to feed the fire, fascinated by the flames that lick the white walls. He learns when to add more wood and when to damp it down, how to handle molten metals with great care, and how to craft dull stones into brilliant gems.
His heart's not truly in it, but his father wants him there, and he is the eldest son - he must be trained in his father's work, his trade, his passion. So he persists and he learns the skills. But the best parts of his days are when he's set free to be outside, to use the weapons his father creates. His true passion is the sword, and he spends many long hours practicing, first with a tutor, and then his brothers, sparring and training and honing his skill.
It's a happy day for him when he's finally set free from the forge. Curufin steps into his place as his father's natural heir - his brother who, it seems, was born to be Fëanor's favorite, his most skilled son, his true successor.
Still, despite the relief he feels upon being released from the work, there are parts that Maedhros enjoys. Having Fëanor's attention focused all on him, his praise when Maedhros succeeds in the task assigned to him, his careful explanations and demonstrations of how to do exactly this or form exactly that - and of course, working at the forge itself.
The white stone of the forge never turns black despite the near constant fire. How that is possible, he never understands - perhaps it's like the fire of his father's spirit, so hot and so bright that it burns clean, never a bit of smoke to stain the stone. There's ash, oh yes, mounds of ash that Maedhros shovels out every day, but the ash itself is as white as the walls.
The fire draws him in and he watches the flames dance against the white stone as he works at the forge. His father scolds him for dawdling, for not keeping his mind on the work, but Maedhros finds it near impossible to turn away from the brightly burning flames.
He is, after all, his father's son.
*************
Fire, he thinks, is the true legacy given to him by his father. Not Fëanor's skills, not his ability to lead the Noldor, but the very fire that burned in his soul. It is obvious in his hair, the color of flame, the one thing that he didn't inherit from his father, but which reflects Fëanor's fire nonetheless. Maedhros knows that it is this fire that burns in him, this fire that gave him a title he never wanted.
Kinslayer.
He remembers that fight at Alqualondë, the battle and the blood and the doom of Mandos. He doesn't even have to try to remember, he just closes his eyes and it's all there in front of him, as if happening that very moment, the cries and the clanging of steel, and his sword stained bright red with blood in his hand.
He remember his father's orders to burn the ships at Losgar, and how angry he was at Maedhros' refusal to take part. He thought for a moment that Fëanor might burn him as well, so fiery was gaze, as the madness burned in his mind. But his father's fire burned in him as well, and Fëanor left him to his choice; so Maedhros watched as the flames engulfed the ships, his heart heavy with the things he had done, and thought of leaving Fingon behind.
The ships were made of wood, not stone, but they were white, and Maedhros couldn't tear his eyes away as the fire consumed them.
*************
On Thangorodrim, the stone walls are not white. But Maedhros sees flames burning all the time, and he no longer knows if his eyes are opened or closed. As the years pass, he thinks the fire that burns in him is the only thing that is keeping him alive. But eventually, even that fire seems to die, and all Maedhros knows is cold and pain and torment, and a longing for the day that it will all end.
Then Fingon comes.
Maedhros hears his song and for a moment, he is back in Tirion, standing on a balcony in Finwë's palace at dusk, with Fingon beside him, playing his harp and singing. The light from the Trees mingles, and together they cast a red glow over the city. It looks to Maedhros like flames licking at every building, every step, every stone.
He joins in the song, but even to his own ears, his voice is faint and trembling, and he knows his memory deceives him, and this is not Valinor. When he looks down, he sees Fingon staring up at him, harp in hand.
Maedhros begs him for release, for an end to the suffering, and Fingon delivers him. But the severing of his right hand is just one more torment, so intense that Maedhros cannot bear it, and he drifts away in an icy cold haze of pain.
When Maedhros opens his eyes, Fingon is fashioning a hasty bandage around his wrist, and offering soft reassurances and a gentle smile. "You're free, Nelyo. You're safe; all will be well now."
A flame sparks again inside him and Maedhros feels warm for the first time in years.
*************
Maedhros wonders what the light of the sun looks like in Tirion these days, if the sunsets over the city are as brilliant as the waxing and waning of the Trees, or if the fire of the setting sun burns even brighter than the trees ever did.
He'll never know, of course, but it's one of the things he contemplates, as he stands alone on the walls of Gondolin, at the Western Gate. He watches as the Sun blazes red-gold behind the peak of the Western Mountain, and he hears Glorfindel approach.
"Russandol," Glorfindel calls, striding up, but Maedhros doesn't respond. That name belongs to his brothers now, and they are the only ones left who can name him so. He continues to stare out at the Western Mountain, keeping the East to his back. The East, where the Great Enemy dwells, where the Battle of Unnumbered Tears brought disaster and ruin to all the fair folk of Beleriand.
The East, where Fingon had died.
"Maitimo?" Glorfindel murmurs, standing beside him. Again, he offers no response, because that is another name that is no longer his. He just hopes that Glorfindel does not try the name that belongs to Fingon alone, and at the thought, his heart clenches.
"Maedhros?" Glorfindel whispers, laying his hand over Maedhros'.
Maedhros at last turns his glance to him. "Glorfindel."
"You walked abroad? Alone?"
"I wished to move," Maedhros replies, looking again out of the city and away from Glorfindel. "I have lain too long abed."
"And none marked you, with your hair and your height?" Maedhros can feel Glorfindel staring at him, and turns to face him again, taking in his narrowed eyes and frown. "If you are known---"
"If anyone knows me for Nelyafinwë, then I shall go to Turgon and treat with him as king with king."
"That would be splendid, and prideful, and foolish vastly far beyond all telling. The King was unafraid to cast Eöl brother of Elu Thingol himself from the walls. I did not bring you hence to healing to merely reserve you for such a fate."
He does not sigh, but Maedhros wonders at Glorfindel. Of course Turgon knows he is here - very little happens within the walls of Gondolin that escapes Turgon's notice, and Maehros knows his presence here in the city is not a secret to its King. Glorfindel brought him here after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, at Fingon's behest and despite the oath-sworn madness of his family. Perhaps it is that reason, his brother's wish, that causes Turgon to keep his eyes closed to Maedhros' presence, and not to cast him from the city. He doesn't know, but whatever the reason, he is grateful.
"Why did you save me, Glorfindel of the Golden Hair?" Maedhros once again asks the question that has troubled him these many days. "In the retreat of that foul battle, why did you bear up this one-handed, muddy haired, forlorn Elf, rather than allowing my blood to quench the fires set by my father's vow and my family's madness? Why did you take me from the ruin I wrought and the death I deserved, beside the one who was my dear friend?"
Glorfindel does not answer with his arms and his lips, as he has done during the long nights of Maedhros' healing, not here on the battlements before all the city. But he squeezes Maedhros' hand and repeats the answer he gives every night. "For love of a valiant prince."
Maedhros wonders at that too, at Glorfindel's devotion and love and care, and his own response to that love. But Fingon is gone, dead, taken from him, and Maedhros does not think that he would begrudge him seeking this comfort. His reply comes with a long sigh filled with pain and love. "Ah, Fingon, who wished me to live even with his dying breath."
"Fingon, mighty High King, best of our host and best beloved. But the prince I speak of is you."
Only one tear falls to Glorfindel's cheek, and it might be blamed upon the wind, but Maedhros knows better. He smiles at Glorfindel, feeling once again a slow flame kindling in his heart.
*************
Fire upon white walls again - this time a dream, one that haunts his nights. Not Tirion, but Gondolin. The city falls, and is destroyed, and Glorfindel falls with it, yet another death that Maedhros is unable to prevent, another love lost.
Maedhros sits up in his bed, shaking his head to clear it. He wasn't there for the Fall of Gondolin, but the tales of the city's destruction had come to him, tales of Maeglin's betrayal, and the attack of Morgoth's army, of the death of the King, and of Glorfindel's battle upon Cristhorn. Brave Glorfindel, who slew the Balrog, but was himself killed. Ever since, visions of the end had filled his dreams, along with all the other horrors he sees whenever he closed his eyes.
Maedhros had left Gondolin before any of that came to pass. "My brothers think me dead," he had said, "as do the hosts of the Enemy. This cannot be." But even so he was regretful, as he buckled his own sword round Glorfindel's hips, as he caught Glorfindel's hair in his hands. And their final kiss was like a draught of sweet fire.
Maedhros wonders sometimes, if he had stayed, would it have happened? Did his leaving the city somehow lead the armies of Morgoth to find Maeglin? And if he had stayed, perhaps he would have found peace there - perhaps he too would have his final rest, the fire in his heart finally quenched.
But no, he had joined his brothers in their own destruction, the attack on Doriath. Three of his brothers fallen, Dior dead, the children Eluréd and Elurín left to die, and for what? They were still without the Silmaril, and they were Kinslayers twice over.
And now the Silmaril is with Elwing in the Havens of Sirion, and Maedhros has foresworn his Oath, counselling his brothers against taking it by force. But his heart is restless, and his Oath haunts him, and the fire threatens to consume him again. He thinks he hears his father, urging him to retrieve what is theirs, and he thinks perhaps his brothers are haunted by this as well.
And Maedhros is certain, no matter how hard he struggles to resist it, that soon he will see the flames burning against white walls again.
*************
In the end, it will be the fire that consumes him, and Maedhros knows his cannot escape this fate. The gift from his father, the fire that burns in his heart, in his very essence, will eventually burn out of his control.
He has become his father - the fire has taken over his life. A Kinslayer for a third time, and the loss of his two youngest brothers in the Havens of Sirion had kindled the flame of bitterness that burned so deeply within. He has saved the sons of Elwing and Eärendil, for he will not let these two die, as Dior's sons before them.
But he cannot find a place in his fiery heart for these children. So Maedhros brings Elrond and Elros to Maglor's household, and gives them to the special charge of Erestor.
"Keep good care of them, for they are the chief treasures of the Havens at the Mouths of the Sirion, which are fallen." After the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, after Gondolin had fallen, neither Fingon nor Glorfindel remained to stay Maedhros' hand and once again, flames burned against the white walls. The Havens of Sirion, destroyed by the sons of Fëanor. Maedhros knows that his father's madness is his now, never again to be foresworn or shaken off.
Maedhros bends his head and kisses Erestor's mouth, one last taste of sweet fire, before he turns and leaves, never to see the children again.
*************
And now his end has come at last. The Silmarils are finally in the hands of the last sons of Fëanor, and they burn, like the fire that burned in Fëanor, the fire that burns still in Maedhros.
But this fire is all torment and suffering, and Maedhros knows he has brought it all on himself, with the evil deeds he has committed. He cannot bear it, any of it, one moment longer, and it is with a sense of relief that he throws himself and the Silmaril into the depths of a fiery chasm.
One last time, he feeds the fire, his final vision the flames that lick the white walls.