The Valiant [Tolkien]

Part Three

LAKE MITHRIM - THE YOUNGER HOUSES

As sunlight streamed in through the crack between the tent flaps, Maedhros marveled at the smile on Celegorm's face. His brother had ever been quick to anger, but it had been so long since his brother had been quick to laugh. Had Celegorm laughed since the Valar had freed Morgoth from his prison?

And yet here he lounged, stretched out against Huan on the hide-covered floors, cackling at a story Maglor told about their nephew Celebrimbor. His stomach churned between elation and despair. He had met Celebrimbor the day before, a beautiful boy who shared his mother's poise and father's eagerness to learn. He only wished it had not taken years to hug his own family.

He wished Celebrimbor had been allowed to see the Light of Valinor.

Maedhros turned back to the conversation with his brothers. Celegorm sipped at a glass of wine, barely recovered from his laughing fit.

"You really should get back on your feet, Maedhros. Someone needs to help his wife with Celebrimbor and I'm not going to do it," Celegorm said. "Curufin is enough work on his own."

Maedhros forced a smile, adjusting himself in bed to air straighter. "I took care of six brothers and a cousin." Memories of happy days flashed across his vision for a moment: chasing toddlers on verdant fields, dodging fists thrown by boys but waste high. "I will leave Celebrimbor in the capable hands of his mother."

"Not his father?" Maglor said. A wry smile graced his lips. "Your true colors come out now."

"Have you been sneaking wine, Maedhros?"

He let out a small laugh. "No. No wine, and not his father's hands. Curufin has enough on his plate in the forge. Celebrimbor should learn from his mother."

Celegorm nodded. "There we very much agree. He and his smiths have been hard at work perfecting weaponcraft. Aredhel has shown us some of what the younger houses have created and it pales in comparison. If they are to be useful against Morgoth, we will have to work even harder."

His brother's voice dropped with disdain at the mention of the houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin. Not all hurts could be mended so easily. His gaze drifted down to the bandages on his severed wrist.

Some moments, Maedhros could feel his hand. He felt the pain of tightened iron digging into his flesh. White hot agony filled his arm as he felt Fingon's blade slice through bone.

But then he would look down, reaching to grasp his own hand to his chest. Then he would remember what happened. He saw the weeping bandages from the slowly healing stump.

Fingon's wife assured him he would recover. She had faith in his strength. He had not survived for nothing. She helped as best she could, but sometimes Maedhros yearned for silence.

Fingon understood. As his wife had slept upon Fingon's awakening, they spent many hours in quiet conversation. Maedhros knew he could never apologize enough to make things right. Elenwë's drowning, Argon's death, their blood was on his hands.

His and his brothers'. Maedhros glanced up at Maglor and Celegorm. Conversation had drifted to war news. Celegorm's Hunters had found some pocket of orcs in the mountains that they managed to root out. Fury, arrogance, recklessness. These traits they all shared drove daggers into their hopes at unity.

No apologies could make up for the mistakes made by firelight. And he wasn't sure his brothers would make the gesture even if there were.

Perhaps Fingon's wife had been right. Perhaps he had survived for a reason. Hung from the side of a cliff like forgotten refuse, he would do what his unmaimed brothers would not.