Chapter Text
The ash of Thangorodrim hangs heavy in the sky, turning the sun bloody red. At night the moon rises the color of a fresh bruise and each twilight is filled with an eerie green shine. Snow falls grey and clots into thick mud. Large dark rocks are heaped in Himring's courtyards and on its walls, chunks of lava that smashed down from the sky on the first night of the Dagor Bragollach. Himring is never free of the sounds of wailing grief or the singing of dirges.
Less than two months ago, Thangorodrim erupted. It was the deepest part of a winter night, when even the wariest let their guard down. The sound was deafening. A shockwave shook the earth so hard it hurled people off their feet. Burning ash blasted across the plains of Ard-Galen and Lothlann, leaving scoured plains of choking dust in their wake. The clouds broke against the foot of the hill on which Himring stands, but anyone caught in the blast died in an instant. The mountain spat out lava with the force to fling it leagues away, raining white-hot rock down onto Himring. A sea of ash and stone a foot deep covered the fortress as darkness settled over the world, so deep it seemed the Everlasting Darkness had come to claim them all.
Before the ash clouds even began to fade, Morgoth's armies burst forth. Glaurung surged out of the clouds into Maglor's Gap even as the cavalry mustered, horses screaming and burning as the golden dragon rampaged. Himring drowned in a sea of orcs, captained by a Balrog. Maedhros went forth to face it himself, and though he did not slay it he at least dismayed it enough to keep it from Himring. The sudden arrival of the remnant of Maglor's soldiers, retreating from the devastated Gap, scattered much of the rest of the army. Maglor's song broke the will of the Balrog entirely. It fled faced with sudden stronger resistance. So Himring, at least, survived.
That night, all the palantíri went silent, blocked by the will of Morgoth. Maedhros still can't reach anyone. It's only now that news has begun to trickle in of events across the rest of Beleriand. All of his brothers live. Himlad is in chaos, with Celegorm and Curufin in retreat. Caranthir is clinging to Thargelion. Maglor has taken what soldiers he can to ride to Caranthir's aid. Amrod and Amras are alive, but Maedhros doesn't know anything more. Angrod and Aegnor are dead, but Orodreth and Finrod live despite suffering terrible casualties among their people. Angrod's wife Edhellos has fled to Nargothrond, as have Orodreth's daughter and sons.
Hithlum still stands, but Maedhros is still uncertain if Fingon and Fingolfin themselves survived. Maedhros has no idea where Fingon's wife Alariel and son Ereinion are. He can only hope Turgon and his people survived, wherever they are. There's no chance of getting any real word to Nargothrond. Most of Dorthonion is conquered or burned. Despite the immense death toll, there are few bodies retrieved. They must have burned to cinders or been devoured by monsters. Many of the surviving Edain, both of Dorthonion and of the eastern marches, have come to Himring. The Gray-Elves mostly fled south. Maedhros can only hope that King Thingol let them pass into Doriath and did not leave them to die.
He's in his study late one night, writing a letter that will hopefully reach Finrod by carrier pigeon, when a page enters. The boy is a young Edain, visibly anxious. He holds his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. In spite of the late hour and his exhaustion, Maedhros does his best to be gentle.
"What is it?" he asks, turning away from the letter. "Speak plainly."
"There is…a visitor, Lord," the page says. He flounders for words. "Princess Lúthien is in the Great Hall."
Maedhros can't possibly have heard that right. "Who is here?"
"The princess Lúthien, daughter of Thingol," the page repeats. He looks as adrift as Maedhros suddenly feels, rocking faster on his heels. "From Doriath."
"From Doriath."
"Yes, Lord."
"Princess Lúthien."
"Yes, Lord."
This cannot possibly end well.
Maedhros' first thought on seeing Lúthien is that the Great Hall looks somehow more beautiful for her presence. It's as well-made as the rest of Himring—it was built by Noldor artisans, after all—but the fortress is home to an army, not to a court. Yet somehow the light within the hall is clearer with Lúthien there. The shadows are deeper, but softer. The granite walls shimmer like they're full of stars.
Sitting by the roaring fire with a cup of mulled wine cradled in her hands, a cloak wrapped around her, Lúthien looks half frozen. Her pale face looks white against her black hair. The wind-tangled mass of it falls all the way to the floor. Ice is melting off her clothes and hair. But, when she stands up, she gives no sign of distress.
She's a little taller than Maedhros, with broader shoulders than women usually have. He's surprised at first, but then remembers her father is famously taller than any other elf and her mother is a Maia. Of course she inherited their stature and strength.
"Princess," Maedhros says, just barely remembering to bow.
"Lord of Himring," Lúthien says. Her voice is resonant. A trained singer's voice, able to carry over battlefields or be heard through storms.
"You are welcome here, lady," Maedhros says, "but how did you come here? Himring is far from Menegroth."
Possibly the understatement of the Age. Menegroth is in the middle of the kingdom of Doriath. Himring is leagues north of the forest's edge. For a lone rider to get here, in the middle of winter, ash falling from the sky, with every step of land outside Melian's Girdle crawling with Morgoth's creatures? Impossible.
"Luck," Lúthien says. She pulls the cloak more closely around her shoulders. "Daeron and I were riding close to the edge of the forest. A blizzard came in suddenly. I lost him in the storm and must have crossed the Girdle without realizing it. By the time that the storm passed I was in a country of hills and did not know the way back."
"You reached Himlad," Maedhros says. She must have crossed the frozen River Aros in the storm. Lucky that she did not drift northwest to Nan Dungortheb! "Could you not find your way south by the sun?"
"The trees hide the sun in Doriath," Lúthien says quietly. Almost embarrassed, Maedhros thinks. "I did not learn to find my way by it as a child, for we retreated to the forest before the sun rose. At home, I would have found my way by the words of the trees and birds. In the hills I had no way of knowing the path, so I journeyed on. I might have tried to navigate by the stars, but the sky at night is…you know how it is, of course. I could not see enough to follow them. But I knew these were the lands of the Noldor and that I might seek aid with you."
Privately Maedhros thinks that she's extremely lucky she didn't run into Celegorm, wherever he’s fighting now in Himlad. He would not have harmed her. But neither, in this time of war, would he have been kind.
"How did you escape notice of Morgoth's creatures?"
"I sang a cloak of illusion." A faint shadow crosses Lúthien's face, some memory of terror. "It…was enough."
Maedhros does not ask what she remembers. He can guess. "You rode for Himring once you saw it."
"Yes. The news from the north speaks often of your stronghold." Lúthien smiles, the shadow passing. "It is even more beautiful than I had heard."
"You are one of few people who would call Himring beautiful, lady," Maedhros says. He grimaces. "Under the shadow of Thangorodrim's ash, it is even less comely."
"Even so, the sunset over Himring is deserving of song," Lúthien says.
Her gaze is keen. Maedhros feels himself under examination. What she sees, he cannot begin to imagine. Lúthien's wide-set grey eyes give nothing away.
"It would be worse than unwise to try to ride back to Doriath now," Maedhros says after a moment. "I cannot spare a regiment to defend you on the long ride. The weather will not improve and the roads are more dangerous than ever. I advise you to stay here for the winter, Princess. This is not a place suited to you, but—”
Lúthien touches his arm, bringing his thoughts to a halt. It's like a small bird landing suddenly on him. He stands still, so as not to startle her. "I will stay," she says. "Though, if the snows and orcs will not prevent it…we should send a message to Menegroth. My parents will be anxious."
"Of course," Maedhros says.
He doesn't particularly want to send off a message. Thingol will be furious. If Maedhros isn't careful with his words, he'll find himself fighting a war on two fronts if Thingol sends an army to fetch Lúthien home.