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Chapter Text

Maedhros didn’t know why they had brought him off the cliff.

He suspected he had come close to fading. He could vaguely recall Fingon’s ghost singing to him and offering to fly him home.

He had been brought to a new place, one with more elves than he’d been allowed around in a long time. But Maedhros quickly began to doubt they were truly elves.

Whatever they were, they tormented him.

They filtered in and out of his vision, dressed in healers’ garbs or wearing the faces of his lost family. And every time they entered, they hurt him. They poked at him and tore open his wounds, they jostled his shoulder, they smeared burning ointments on his skin, forced him to drink concoctions that left him dizzy and nauseous for days. Their constant presence and inescapable touch was overwhelming. Like when Morgoth had forced him to lie in front of the blinding light of the silmarils, and rendered him unable to shut his eyes for days. He was certain the healing was meant to be its own kind of punishment.

The loneliness on the cliffside had felt unbearable, but now he wished he could go back to it, if only for the respite from the constant touch and inflicted pain.

But somehow they did seem to be truly healing him. In spite of all the pain he knew his wounds were closing.

He must have been near death if Mairon had decided to put so much effort into healing him.

The worst part about being away from the cliff was that Mairon started taking on the forms of his uncle’s abandoned people. Often they were kind and gentle as they hurt him, but sometimes they would turn cruel. They would berate him for abandoning them on to the ice, or ask him if he had become a thrall of the Moringotto.

Before Mairon had swung between tormenting him with stories of his uncle’s people being punished by the Valar, or dying in some outlandish plan to cross the Hercaraxle, but it appeared he had decided to involve himself more intimately and construct this… fabrication.

His illusions were better than before the cliff too. No longer did the edges quiver, no longer where the faces of his loved ones blurred, no longer did Mairon unveil his face at horrific moments. In fact, the only haziness Maedhros detected seemed to stem for his intoxication and poor health.

Right now, Mairon (Maedhros was almost certain it was Mairon, not some other maiar) had doned his cousin's form, and was using it to torment him.

“Swallow.” Mairon commanded, pressing a spoon to his lips, and seizing his chin in a tight grip when he tried to turn his head.

Maedhros tried to shake his head no, but Mairon gripped his chin with cruel fingers. Maedhros could fill anger radiating from his touch and began to tremble.

No matter how bad his hunger got, any food Mairon gave him had the potential to be much worse. Then again... Mairon could be so very creative when provoked…

Maedhros opened his mouth reluctantly and Mairon shoved the broth in.

Maedhros swallowed, hoping that mouthful would satisfy him. But Mairon jumped on the opening, pressing the laddld to his lips and griping his hair tight so he could not turn his head.

“If you’re going to keep my daughter and brother up all night with your screeching the least you can do is what you’re told.” He spat.

Maedhros shuddered at his anger and his reference to Fingon. Somehow, by some miracle, Mairon still did not know enough about that to single in on Fingon for use in his torture. Maedhros parted his lips obediently.

Marion tilted the laddle and broth flowed quickly into his mouth. Just the taste made Maedhros’ stomach roll. He struggled to swallow it all without spilling, which would surely have angered Mairon further. Mairon gave him little time to recover between mouthfulls, but even the fast pace proved too slow for him. He abandoned the spoon and lifted the whole bowl to Maedhros’ lips. Liquid rushed in and Maedhros felt like he was drowing trying to swallow it all.

Mairon pulled back when the bowl was empty, and Maedhros cringed back into his pillows.

The potion took effect almost immediately. Maedhros could feel nauseous rolling in his stomach, acid churning in his gut, then up into the back of his throat. He tried valiantly to keep it down. But all he did was prolong the inevitable. He managed to hold it in down just long enough for Mairon to move closer to check on him, before throwing up all over his robes.

Mairon recoiled with a noise of disgust.

 Maedhros slumped forward into the vomit, tremors wracking his frail body. He was too weak and too terrified to move. In all the times Mairon had given him the nauseous potion, he had never, ever screwed up this badly. He shut his eyes tight against the impending pain as his heart tried to beat out of his chest.

He heard Mairon’s footsteps, then the flap of the tent closing.

The nauseous swelled again in his stomach and he vomited twice more before Mairon came, now in fresh robes.

The maia grabbed his injured shoulder roughly and pushed him on too his side, away from the vomit. Pain laced through Maedhros’ back.

He heard Mairon shuffling behind him and his whole body went ridged with fear. He hated it when Mairon was out of his sight.

Mairon rolled him back onto the other side and Maedhros gave a breathless gasp. The vomit had been cleaned, but the weight of his upper body now pressed horribly against his injured shoulder. He sobbed and tried to shift his position.

“Stop fussing, you’re fine,” Mairon snapped.

Maedhros froze.

Mairon let out an irritated sigh and settled back into his chair. “Just…be quiet. At least until my shift is over.” He said to Maedhros, before opening a book and losing all interest in him. Maedhros froze on the bed, his shoulder screaming but too terrified about disobeying or irritating Mairon further to even think of moving.

Through his haze of pain and fear, Maedhros was confused.

There was something off about Mairon today. Before, he had always seemed fascinated, delighted even, by Maedhros terror. At the least he’d been clinically interested in his pain. But today, he only seemed annoyed by it.

This was also the first time Maedhros could recall him taking on Turgon’s form.

Chapter Text

His father and brother were inside tending to the kinslayer.

They had been completely absorbed with caring for him since Fingon brought him back from the Iron Hells. Since then, the whole camp had been running about like headless chickens trying to keep the the feanorian from passing. Even Aredhel, who had mourned bitterly at the passing of Elenwe, and shared his hatred of Feanor’s house across the ice, seemed to pity the ner.

To make things worse, the kinslayer was setting everyone on edge. Screams and moans came from the tent at all hours, sometimes followed by his weeping, sometimes followed by Fingon’s weeping.

Fingon barely left his side. Turgon had only seen his brother once since his return.

Idril had been having night terrors since her mother died. Being woken by screams worsened them three fold, and now Turgon could barley get her to sleep more than a few times a week.

“Turno!” His sister’s voice called from outside his tent. “Could you help me feed Maitimo? I can’t lift himcomfortably on my own.”

Turgon gritted his teeth.

Maedhros awoke to a horrible cramping in his shoulder, and Turgon and Aredhel’s forms over him.

The fake Aredhel poked his face softly.

“What’s this?” She asked.

“Oh,” Fake Turgon said, “He threw up some of his soup.”

“You told me he ate it all.”

“He kept most of it down.” Mairon placated.

Maedhros felt someone turn his head.

“There’s still a bunch on his cheek! Did you even wipe him off?”

“I must have missed some…”

A cool moist cloth was wiped over his cheek. It was soothing. Maedhros flinched from it.

Mairon often smeared ointments on his skin many times that felt soothing when first applied but turned torturous over time, and he still hadn’t been punished for ruining his robes.

He waited with apprehension, but the liquid remained cool.

Still, his shoulder burned. Unconsciousness had been a welcome respite from the pain but the time he had spent on his side had only worsened the discomfort. Maedhros was careful not to make a sound but he couldn’t keep tears from spilling out of his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo, wat’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“…No,” Mairon loved to poke at injuries under the guise of sympathy. “Am…am I allowed to move?”

“Of course you are.” Fake Aredhel’s voice was soft.

Maedhros’ muscles strained, and with great effort he managed to shift himself onto his back.

Moving helped somewhat, but not very much. His body was still making him pay from laying on his shoulder for so long. It felt like the ligaments and joints in his arm were pulling apart inside his skin. It was almost as painful as when he had been put on the rack. A few tears slip down his cheeks.

“Did he take his herbs?”

“I put them in his broth.” Turgon said.

So there was something in the food…

“I think he needs another dose…”

Maedhros heard more shuffling. A hand brushed his back, and he flinched.

“We’re going to hold you up for a moment so you can take some pain medication, okay” Fake Aredhel said.

Maedhros shut his eyes and hoped against hope the Maiar would go away. He really, really didn’t want whatever “medication” they would give to him.

“Turno, can you help me lift him?”

Two hands reached under his armpits and pulled him upwards. Maedhros couldn’t keep from letting out a shriek as his shoulder was jostled.

“Sorry.” Turgon said.

Maedhros didn’t think he sounded all that sorry.

A cup was pressed to his chapped lips. “Can you swallow, Maitimo?”

Maedhros did not shake his head, for he feared being insolent, but he kept his jaw locked tight.

“Just a little bit, it will help.” The nis pleaded.

“Please…” Maedhros whimpered, “please, I don’t want it…”

“You’ll have to force him to take it.” Turgon said.

“No!” Aredhel cried. “Are you sure,” She asked gently, “It will help with the pain?”

Maedhros said nothing.

The nis sighed and retreated.

Maedhros tried to see where she was going, but a deep tiredness overcame him, and the world around him faded.

When Maedhros next awoke, it was to Fingon’s face standing over him.

Fingon’s clothes looked more worn than in Valinor, the blue silk of his tunic faded to a dirty grey, his undershirt torn and mattered in places Maedhros had never seen. But his hands were still adorned with gems that Maedhros knew, and his hair glittered with the familiar gold.

Maedhros smiled. He treasured images such as this, and Mairon had been nicest when in this form of late.

This Fingon held up a bowl of broth, and for a moment Maedhros forgot his fears.

 Fingon fed him gently, one spoonful at a time, pausing periodically without him even having to ask.

The soup settled in his stomach, comfortable and warm, almost completely absent of nauseous.

He looked up to Mairon, who seemed to be in good spirits.

“My lord,” Maedhros mummered, “I was wondering…if…if you would permit me to know what my punishment will be for ruining your robes.”

A deep frown settled on Fingon’s face. “What are you talking about Melotorni?”

Maedhros tensed. He had overestimated Marion’s pleasantness today. Foolish! Foolish! He isn’t truly Findekano! “I am sorry my lord, it was not my place to ask.”

“Are you talking about when I brought you back on eagle back? Nelyo, I did not care one whit about those clothes, and even if I did you will never be punished here.”

Maedhros sighed. Mairon would not give him the answer.

“Russandol…” For whatever reason, Mairon had decided to pretend to be nervous now. “The healers want to change your bandages today.”

Stillness raced through Maedhros’ veins. That had happened a few times since they had brought him off the mountain.

Maedhros hated it every time.

It was the worst torment he had found here. Hands grabbing and poking at his body, holding him down when he failed to control himself and fought to escape. Movements and touch too quick and frequent for him to keep track of. Bursts of sharp pain out of nowhere while everyone mocked him with kind words as if they were trying to help him. Even Fingon’s visage could not disguise it as anything other than torment.

He had been too ill to speak before, but now he was well enough that he might cry out. Mairon loved to punish him for the insolence that escaped when pain loosened his tongue. Maedhros was never quite sure what words would escape his lips when facing terror, but he didn’t think he could keep from asking them to stop, and that would surely bring more punishment.

But Maedhros hadn’t seen Fingon in so long. And he missed him as dearly as his brothers and parents. Mairon hadn’t marred those features with hate and cruelty since before he was hung on the cliff. Maedhros would hate to see them twisted with anger or rage. And he hadn’t tried to refuse Mairon anything since he was brought down from the cliff. Maybe… maybe if I can just control my tongue…His face will keep looking like that…

“Okay.” He whispered.

Fingon’s face smiled at him again. Maedhros’ hand still shook.