Chapter Text
To Maedhros Fëanorion, King beside the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand, and Lord of the House of Fëanor
From Queen Melian, Lady of Doriath
I believe you.
There would have been many easier ways to sell me a lie, Lord Maedhros, many that I know you could have woven far more skillfully. That your story was so improbable makes the truth in it ring clear, and besides that, I know you are telling the truth. I can hear the changing of threads in the song of this world, changes that will be far beyond your ear.
If you ever do find out how this happened, or who was behind it, I would be much obliged if you inform me at your convenience of the answer.
Even though you did not ask for this, I will keep this information to myself. Undoubtedly it would not be believed by most, and the few who perhaps do entertain your tale as true would only ask why you, a Kinslayer, is given such a reprieve.
I will not apologise for the title I just bestowed upon you, to add to your many. It is true. I heard the story from Finrod Ingoldo himself, and his sister Galadriel when she finally spoke of it. She spent many decades under my tutelage, and I saw the depths of the pain she bore for her kin at Alqualondë and the ones lost on the Ice to your own kin’s pride and hubris. My husband’s grievances are, for the most part, my grievances. I am sure that you understand this.
I am also certain that, if I looked upon you, I would see similar regrets, and it is that which stays my hand from writing worse. You earned your reprieve from somewhere, Maedhros Fëanorion, and for some reason, you must have been worthy of it. I know this to be true, just as I know the love for my husband and the strength of the protection I have put on these woods that I now call home. It is that love that keeps my hand writing, even as I question the every stroke of my quill. For question it I do. Each line of ink feels like a betrayal to my husband, and I am certain that if he knew of this, he would see it as such. But I can also see beyond him, if not all too clearly at times. I am afraid of the path he is on, Maedhros Fëanorion. It terrifies me.
See, now we have both been honest with each other. And thus you will know that my answers to your questions are also honest, and not an attempt to engage you in false pretences. I know well your reputation, General, and I know that you would see through lies quickly enough, if not in these letters, then in the next time my two marchwardens visit your northern lands.
I would ask that you refrain from making Beleg and Mablung of Doriath your spies. They are soldiers, and not cut out for the intricacies of such politics. I will not stop them from leaving to visit your lands or the people they fought beside and have friendship with, for although I do not fully understand the bonds forged between people who fight a desperate battle together, I do see them for the allegiance that they are. But do not ask them to break their loyalties to this realm. They love her fiercely, and I would not see that fall to ruin.
I have delayed long enough in this letter, and I will answer your questions that you put to me.
The first, on the matter of Sauron, is both simple and not. He is a Maia, and he cannot be killed as an Elda can. His fëa is a part of this world far more keenly than that of an Elda, and there is no Hall awaiting him. His form lies somewhere, slowly gathering itself back together from the thousand pieces it shattered into when you took his head from his shoulders. You are clever, and I know as such that you will have burned his remains, and so he has no anchor on which to return to. He is not dead, not truly, but he will remain as if dead for a millenium at least.
I assume that I do not need to tell you to remain vigilant. He may have been the greatest threat to you bar Morgoth, but he is not the only creature that served him. You will well know this. Beleg and Mablung have spoken very little of the brief time they stepped inside Angband, but I can see the shadow of the horror in their eyes. I cannot imagine what it is you have seen in there, and the strength of will it must have taken just to survive.
Do not mistake this for flattery. I am merely stating the facts as I see them. Your time spent in Angband makes you dangerous, Maedhros Fëanorion. Your strength of will is formidable because of it. Do not make the mistake of assuming that because nobody else has seen what you have, that nobody else understands like you do, that they do not have the same strength to match yours.
Your request to mediate between your kin and mine is more difficult. My daughter and her husband have eschewed much of Doriath in favour of their own lives, and after the events that led to their happiness, I cannot and will not endanger the peace my daughter fought so hard and so bravely for, not to merely assuage your conscience. I cannot see how reparations paid to Luthien and Beren will do much to improve your standing with my husband, or the people of this realm, not so soon after such an upheaval.
I agree that your brothers’ lives are not the answer, though some may call for them, and indeed act if they get the chance.
As you said, this is not a threat but a warning. I am also weary of the bloodshed, Maedhros Fëanorion. Though I have seen little of it myself, I can feel it within the song. Some days, the threads of this world bow heavy under the weight indeed.
If you find alternative methods for contacting my daughter, I will not stand in your way, but I will not disturb their small haven for your sake.
As for my husband, I suspect you may already know the answer I am about to write.
I love him dearly. I know that you understand this, because I felt the same love in your words to me, and I felt it in the shard of Morgoth’s crown that you gifted to us, stained with Fingon’s blood. The guard and ward that his blood still holds against that darkness is powerful. A sacrifice freely given out of his love for you.
From your account, it is a sacrifice you yourself have paid many times. It is a sacrifice I am not unfamiliar with, if in very different circumstances.
I am not Elda, after all. I have sacrificed much for my husband, in my own way.
You were honest with me, in your entirety, and so I will be honest with you. You warned me, in your letter, of the sway that the Silmaril may hold over my husband, and I do recognise it for the warning that you intended it to be. I also recognise the truth of it. The Silmaril is foreign to me, made by Eldar hands in a way that I do not understand. I can feel the thrall of it, but it passes me by and holds firm sway on my husband instead. I cannot wrest it from him, and I do not want to. To do so would be to bring him more damage than my heart could ever bear. But I can see the road that you also see. It terrifies me. For a while, I admit, I wished to ignore it, to close my eyes to where he was walking, but that will not stop him.
I can try and temper his pride, as best as I am able, but I am beginning to fear what you must also fear. He has little thought for anything but the Silmaril he holds, and the thrall it has over him is not something I can understand or sway. I have already tried. Perhaps I was too late, and I could have intervened if only I saw the danger sooner. If that is true, and if your warnings come true, I shall live with the grief of my mistakes, as I am sure that you live with yours.
Maedhros Fëanorion, son to your father, I think you well understand the fear of being too late. Even now I cannot tell how much of this is the desire to remain ignorant and unseeing, to foolishly believe that what we both now fear will not come to pass because to think otherwise is so hard to admit. But I do see, if not yet clearly, and I do remember your words, what you would do if your own beloved was to stray down a path leading only into darkness.
I do not ride into battle, General. I do not wield a blade, I cannot fight my love’s enemies for him. I can only protect the people that follow him, and guide him where I can. I can only love him, and hope that it is enough.
I fear that it may not be enough.
But I can only bare my heart for so long on this page. As you had your questions for me, so too do I have questions for you. I understand from my marchwardens that you are rescuing captives from within Angband. Furthermore, I understand that a few are our kin, from within our realm.
Tell me of the horrors they might have faced. Tell me if it is true that all captives retain a shred of the darkness within that place. Tell me if, by letting them return, we will put our people in a grave danger they already believe to be within these people.
My husband cares little for the affairs of the realm now, beyond the defences at our borders to repel the armies he is so sure will descend on him. But I taught myself to love my husband’s people, and my heart grieves for those who have been harmed, far away from their home trees and hearths.
If I might serve them by continuing this dialogue with you, our northern neighbours, then I will do so. But I make no promises to you.
Regards,
Queen Melian, Lady of Doriath
Maedhros sets the parchment down on his desk. Free from his hand, it curls back up on itself, obscuring the neat hand across the pages. The wax seal splinters a little, and flakes of deep green fall off to the wood of his desk.
“That’s interesting.”
Fingon hums from where he was reading over his shoulder, one hand resting on the nape of Maedhros’ neck. “A long time, for her to only write those few pages.” He leans over and holds the parchment open again, scanning through some of the lines. “But she sounds genuine.”
Maedhros leans back into the warmth of Fingon’s body behind him, his head resting against Fingon’s stomach. “I’m not surprised. I cannot imagine what it would be like to write something like this behind your back, to someone you despised, even if I thought it to be the best choice.”
Fingon hums again, hand coming up to run through Maedhros’ hair. “You would have done it far sooner, dearheart, but not everybody has your courage.”
Maedhros snorts at that. “This was sealed, which means Beleg likely hasn’t read it. But if he is being trusted by Melian to act as courier, then this is a good sign. I was worried that he and Mablung would quickly become outcasts within the court, but if they have her backing they’re in a much more secure position.”
“Do be careful, dearheart,” Fingon warns. “Beleg and Mablung are our friends, and I am hesitant to try and utilise that friendship to our own ends.” He smooths his hand through Maedhros’ hair again before he can speak. “I know, I know, we need a dialogue with Doriath. I do know that. But I don’t want them to think that we are abusing their trust.”
Maedhros tilts his head back so he can look up at Fingon. “They can make their own decisions,” he replies steadily. “And I can only guess at what is going on within the Girdle, but if I have guessed at their characters correctly, and if Caranthir’s information is correct on the rumours leaving Menegroth, their loyalties will be divided with or without our help.” He pauses. “Well, in a way. I do not doubt their loyalty to their realm and their people. But they may be realising that such loyalty is not the same as to their King.”
Fingon presses a kiss to the top of his brow, his long braids falling over Maedhros’ face as he stoops over him. “I know, dearheart,” he says quietly. “But we have time, and this is a good start. Leave it for now. Come to bed with me.”
Maedhros lets himself be pulled away from his desk and his ever-shifting board of people and pieces and all that he must still accomplish, and lets Fingon thoroughly distract him for a while.