Chapter Text
Lake Mithrim, Hithlum:
Maitimo was not dead.
Fingon had asked Maglor to repeat the fact at least a dozen times and still could not grasp what that even meant. Maitimo had to be dead. Fingon had felt his spirit diminishing as he was crossing the Ice. The pull to him faded in his chest until he felt half his heart was hollow.
And Fingon had mourned him. He had already forgiven, for anger could not possibly reach the Everlasting Darkness. Not anger and certainly not love. So he mourned to survive.
'Does he live then?' Fingon asked and knew how ridiculous that question must be the moment he closed his mouth. Was life not the opposite of death? What could possibly exist in between?
'How can anyone truly be alive in there Findekáno… Fingon.' Maglor corrected himself in what sounded more like a statement than a question.
Fingon knew the stability of Maglor's voice was practiced, rehearsed a hundred times over. In Valinor, Makalaurë the Minstrel, rehearsed to hide his stage fright. In these new lands, Maglor the Regent King of the Noldor, practiced hiding his grief.
'You should know that at Losgar Nelyo did not… He and father-'
Not this again, it was too much. 'No, Maglor, please. It matters not.'
'I suppose not. Rarely anything matters now.' Maglor sighed, the pain now transparent on his features. 'There is one last thing I must tell you. Nelyo kept saying that you will come. That you will not stop searching for him. No one paid him much mind, we were all at the end of reason after Losgar, after father… In any case, before he left to meet Morgoth's embassy, he asked me to sing you a song if he was not to return.'
'A song?' Fingon asked with sudden frustration.
The Noldor were on the verge of civil war, Maitimo was worse than dead, and here was Maglor, talking about songs. All Fëanorians truly were insane. That had not changed. Maglor kept staring at him patiently.
'Very well then, sing it,' Fingon commanded.
'Now?'
'Why not?' He responded with a challenge. It was all so absurd.
Resigned, Maglor stood and returned with a small harp that Fingon remembered from Valinor. It was one of the first instruments Maglor had taught him how to play in Fëanáro's house. It was just a simple, modestly adorned practice harp. But here in these new lands, it seemed a small treasure.
Maglor let his eyes fall shut and it took but a few plucks of the strings for Fingon to recognize the Song.
He listened as the Regent King sang for him, the spell in his voice now tainted with grief but no less powerful. Fingon refused to acknowledge the emotions that rushed to his chest. Instead, he focused on the clear melody despite the tears trickling down Maglor's beautiful face. The mask of a King now crumbled, Fingon saw raw agony, helplessness, and utter regret.
His cousin looked young and vulnerable, yet his pain seemed aged. Fingon remembered the night when he had first heard his beloved cousin sing this Song, long before their family had fallen apart. A night that seemed to belong to another lifetime altogether.
By the time the Song faded, Fingon made up his mind.
'Thank you, Makalaurë,' he whispered as he pulled his cousin into a tight embrace.
Maglor's body tensed, but he quickly let his head relax against Fingon's shoulder. How long had it been since someone held him lovingly? Fingon pushed the thought away and mustered as much serenity as he could before asking, 'May I borrow this harp?'
'Of course, anything at all. Are you leaving already? Findekáno?'
But Fingon had no time to answer questions. There was much preparation to do, and too much time had passed already.
The new Moon and Sun must have completed their dance for the thirtieth time since he left the camps at Mithrim. Or perhaps more, Fingon knew no longer. The poisonous mist between the bare rocks on Thangorodrim barely let any light through, and time felt trapped.
Fingon could not determine if he was thinking consciously or found himself warped in a subtle nightmare. Some terrible dark magic twisted his mind and crept under his skin, consuming him slowly. He had to ration every last bit of the scarce supplies he had left. His body was bruised and scraped all over from the numerous falls on the slippery rocks and he could not remember when he had last slept. One could hardly call sleep the instances of unconsciousness in the shadows.
Fingon walked and climbed, on and on, and the hollows all looked the same. He was desperate.
When he next stopped on a high cliff, the wind had picked up and cleared some of the mist. Fingon briefly spotted a trace of the blue sky above him and his nose caught the faint scent of wildflowers. It passed much too soon, but it was enough to let him regain his senses slightly. He was lost and could barely remember why he had come. To find Maitimo, right. If a piece of Maitimo could survive in this desolation. Maybe find a thrall in the body of his cousin, as Maglor had feared. Better thrall than find nothing at all, he reasoned.
Mayhap the utter truth was that he had come here to die. Let the orcs consume whatever spare flesh was left on him after the Helcaraxë. Or better yet, allow the Dark Vala to capture him and join Maitimo in his cruel destiny even here, in this new life of doom.
'This life… every life… all of my lives…' Fingon began hallucinating out loud. He laughed uncontrollably, sure now that he had lost his mind entirely.
'Now and in all of my lives, Maitimo!' He yelled, and the mournful hollows echoed his words …lives …Maitimo… itimo… Like the songs of old. Like the forsaken song, their Song, he recalled.
He remembered the harp he had taken from Maglor. Yes, he would sing and the rocks were to be his choir. Let darkness take him at last. He was insane already. What was there to lose here, at the end of all things? So he took his harp and sang a Song of Valinor that the Noldor made of old:*
Under the shimmering stars of dark Cuiviénen…
to the blessed light of Valinórë…
till the end of Eru's Song so bright…
now and in all of my lives…
in the darkness and the light…
your hand I will hold…
my spirit in yours will delight…
Fingon's Song reached into the deep currents of life, for even Thangorodrim was part of Arda, part of Eru's music. Moringotto's dark spell could twist life into a terrible form, but it could never diminish it fully. Fingon's voice grew stronger and he felt the heartbeat of Endórë. It filled him with a strength he did not know lived in him.
He sang and sang, again and again, until in the midst of his insanity, he believed that a voice answered his Song. With the hope of those mad, he looked up and found the source of the answer. It sounded far and faint and barely recognizable, but he knew that voice. And he knew the body, despite the terrible evidence of torment. He knew it now, and he would know it in all of his lives.
The Song must continue one way or another, Fingon decided, as tears clouded his sight.