It seems so clearly
Bend the bow
Cause life in me is gone
And a cruel wind's blowing cold
And a cruel wind's blowing cold
In blame
~ Blood Tears, Blind Guardian
~ * ~
Prologue – Bitter Winter
"Again therefore in his pain Maedhros begged that he would slay him;
but Fingon cut off his hand above the wrist, and Thorondor bore them back
to Mithrim.”
The burden of Maedhros lay warm and heavy before him, clasped tightly between the arms of Fingon as the eagle’s wings hurried swiftly upon the strong currents. The sharp wind of their passage played havoc with Fingon’s long black hair, whipping the tresses playfully about; it also dried the stinging tears that at intervals made it past the barrier of his lashes and tracked down his face in long, mournful streaks. In silence he cried, partly because the gusting blow drowned out all noise but for the sound of itself, and partly because his pride would not allow him to break down before his wounded cousin.
The beat of wings that drove the strong body underneath him was a steady, calming movement, a surety in this time of doubt, when the survival of his cousin was not a certainty. Too long had they been apart – the longing of Fingon's heart for Maedhros' friendship and companionship had long ago overborne the hurt of betrayal that resided in it. Intermittently, intense convulsions overtook the other Elf before him, bringing Fingon's attention back to him sharply; Fingolfin's son tightened his grip again and again, yet the shock-induced shudders did not cease their hold on Maedhros’ body. Mindful ever of stump of his cousin’s wrist, wrapped tightly in cloth torn from Fingon’s own cloak, he found himself strangely attracted to the abruptly ending limb, a morbid fascination that centred his gaze on the thin film of bright red blood that seeped through the bindings.
Fleeting memories passed over his mind as he sat thus, staring: the rigid resistance of bone and flesh that his blade had made light work of, severing the hand above the silver fetters; the warmth of red that had escaped the wound to soak through his clothes to colour his own skin as he had lifted his cousin’s flaccid form over the edge of the cliff. Fëanor’s son had made no move except to utter pitiful cries of pain.
The warm smell of copper had turned Fingon’s stomach as he bound the wound, the blood seeping through the thick turns of cloth despite his best efforts to stop it. Near to tears, Maedhros’ cousin had lifted the Elf into his arms and walked back to Thorondor, the Lord of Eagles waiting patiently for his arrival. A fleeting moment of regret passed over the mind of Fingon at the thought of his harp, laying still where he had discarded it upon hearing Maedhros’ voice, but the relief of finding him still alive quickly overbore it.
And now, all these events seemed to have happened an Age ago. The dark of that dreadful cliff lay far behind and the way to the houses of healing lay freely open before them.
Maedhros uttered no word; the peaceful darkness of unconsciousness had laid claim to his mind soon after their departure. Fingon looked fearfully over his shoulder at the thought of his valiant if fearful rescue, as he had done a hundred times before – but still there was no sign of pursuit.
The red-haired Elf sat limply before him, the muscles of his back and arms that had been so strong and well-defined now reduced to weak, near-useless shadows of their former selves. And, of course, the final severed stub of his sword-wielding hand seeming a gaping absence of the experienced warrior’s limb that should have been there.
Fingon’s hasty bindings proved useless now, as the slow yet steady loss of blood from the severed artery in Maedhros’ wrist oozed through the once-white cloth, soaking it through. His cousin's wasted body slumped warmly in his arms, his spirit fleeing from it as death slowly claimed him.
To have both kinship and friendship in one so close, it seemed, was not to be a fortunate conclusion of fate – having so much to lose only meant in the end that one had so much harder to fall. Maedhros seemed peaceful. The wind whipped about his neglected red hair, now auburn brown and limp, and caused the torn, dirty tunic he bore to ride up to mid-thigh, exposing gaunt and thin limbs, weak from misuse.
Mithrim was close, speeded so forward on eagle's wings, straight over the land in a manner that brought haste and hope, but close did not seem enough. If time could be willed to pass more fleetingly, Fingon would have wished it so in the matter of an eye's blink. Alas, the unfortunate cruelness of laughing fate bade him wait the time by patiently, as only an Elf could.
Bitter memories of earlier times replayed their sweet visions in his mind; Valinor the Blessed with its golden cities and eternal spring seemed a long way from this hellish place. There they had been free to roam the countryside with little cares – not so here, in times of trouble and Morgoth's threat.
Yet, above all, the only thought that stayed its persistence in his mind was that of his cousin, and the overpowering hope that he would survive. Gladly would he cross another Grinding Ice to see Maedhros healed and well.
A heavy sigh escaped the lips of Fingon, though it went unheard in the roar of wind that swept all sound away carelessly. The permanent crease of worry that folded his forehead bore deeper into its place; his arms tightened a fraction around Maedhros’ body, and he laid his head upon his cousin’s back, swallowing back a lump of wretched tears in is throat.
“Keep hope, Maitimo,” he whispered into his cousin's coppery hair, though he could not even hear himself, “Keep hope,”
Closing his eyes, he wished the healing houses near with all his might.
To be continued in Reign of Ice