Title: Of Two Kings Chapter 1: My Brother’s Keeper Author : Conlai Author E-mail: connerhoskins@gmail.com Pairings: Fingon/Maedhros, Maedhros/Sauron Rating: R Warnings: Slash, Incest, Torture Summary: Fingon makes a desperate attempt to heal the Noldor, and to heal a love which has been sundered by the ill-conceived oath of Fëanor. A/N: I've been doing this for three years and I still seem to be the only man writing slash. I wish Ian McKellen would notice and I hope he like twenty year old college boys...sorry! Special thanks to my cousin, Sara Hoskins Doom Unlooked For: My Brother’s Keeper Maedhros woke slowly at first, and then rose with a jolt, thinking himself to have fallen unconscious during battle and expecting that the fighting raged still. But, when he saw that all around him was quiet, his dread grew immeasurably. About his wrists and ankles were harsh iron manacles, and he could not move far from the corner of the cell in which he was contained. His clothes were damp and torn, and all his weapons were gone. Sharp, Elven ears caught the sound of a ravaged scream as it echoed through the cavernous dungeon, and his breathing sped and he strained futilely against the chains, though his untended wounds protested violently. Just as he mastered himself, he heard footsteps drawing near. Some were stumbling and inconstant, and yet one was barely heard against the stone floor, taking longer strides than the rest. Torchlight illuminated the bruised face of Fëanor’s son as an Orc leaned in close to remove the manacles from the wall. Maedhros stood as the Orc hauled him up, and found his knees weakening with fear as a young lieutenant approached. Despite this, he stood tall, knowing this man for Sauron, a feared Maia and a faithful and deadly servant of Morgoth. A black gloved hand lifted his chin roughly, and cold, fiery eyes surveyed him critically. A chill passed through Maedhros’s body at the touch, aching like ice amid the intense heat of the dungeons. “A son of Fëanor, doubtless,” Sauron smiled, his face seeming fair. “What a bright flame you bear, child.” He motioned to the Orcs, and the withdrew there blades and prodded Maedhros forward, toward a twisted flight of stairs at the end of the narrow hallway which bore his cell. It seemed that they walked for miles, until, at last, he came before Morgoth, who flaunted the Silmarils before him, and awoke in him the anger of his father. In the following months, Maedhros was a formidable adversary to all who came near him. Soon though, burdened by unbearable physical torture and being in an evil place without light or hope, the spirit of Maedhros began to weaken at last. Tension ran high in Hithlum. The Noldor debated heatedly in the absence of their High King, until Maglor, Fëanor’s second son, took up the provisional duties; and all slowly began to accept that Maedhros was lost to them. However, fate was, as ever, unkind, and the son’s of Fëanor were put again at unrest. An emissary from Angband reported that Maedhros’s life and liberty would be willingly spared, should the Noldor forsake Beleriand and the sons of Fëanor their oath. Maglor was put at odds with most of his brothers, wishing not to forsake Maedhros to torture and imprisonment. With Morgoth’s fair-seeming offer in mind, they retreated to private council. “To venture into Morgoth’s stronghold is naught but folly!” Caranthir spat, unwilling to have done so much as hear the ambassadors of the Enemy. “I must side with Caranthir,” said Curufin. “Maedhros would never have risked the lives of many for any one of us. Why should we do so for him? I shall lead no host of mine into Angband’s halls for one Elf, though he be the Lord of all the Noldor!” “And I say to hell with the Noldor’s King, for this is our brother!” Maglor cried, and though his words were passionate, his tone remained gentle and lyrical. “Morgoth demands reply on the morrow, and dawn is nigh at hand. We have debated this before, brothers, when he was first lost to us. Why must we be always divided? I beseech you all; if you will not think of our brother, then think of Fëanor! Would we not have done the same for our father, and he for any of us?” “Our father would have been mindful of his oath!” spoke Celegorm. “Let us not forget that he died true to the doom that he made for himself, and any of his sons should be as willing to do so. Did our brother not share in this oath, of his own will? My eyes, at least, saw his sword raised with ours that day, and the eyes of all the Valar saw as well, I deem.” “Is that what we shall do, then? Shall we all lie hear in wait, and make war upon all until we are all without our lives? Shall we forsake our loved ones for our father’s treasures? The theft of earthly treasure should not warrant war, but the life of a brother might well be of more value!” Caranthir spoke again, and he raised his voice above Maglor’s in anger. “We shall not make war upon Morgoth...not for even our brother’s life.” he hissed vehemently. “The war is already made!” Amras shouted suddenly, standing from his seat in outrage and turned upon Caranthir. “Curb your tongue and learn love for your kin, Caranthir! What opposition have you ever made to battle? Were I you, I would not worry for dirtying your hands with Orc-blood, but instead staining them with the blood of yet another of our kin!” As Amras’s voice rose to a greater volume and passion Caranthir started violently for him, and Amras did not withhold his wrath, either. Amrod and Maglor stepped between their brothers protectively, holding them away from each other’s throats. “Peace, brothers! Peace!” cried Amrod, gaining the upper hand against his rage-stricken twin and forcing him back into his chair. Caranthir continued, his voice quieter as Amrod, worn thin, stepped aside to take a few rather large sips of wine. “I wish not to damn Maedhros, for I love him and am bound to him by blood. Bless him, wherever he may be; but Morgoth asks that we forsake our quarrels with him and forsake also our lands in Beleriand for his life. That I might well do for love of my brother, but it is without hope! Morgoth shall betray us as ever he has and torture and slay Maedhros despite our compliance, and you all know this, for you have seen it with your own eyes. Trust that Maedhros knows this as well! We, the sons of Fëanor, would do well also to remember our oath. For no cause, not even this one, shall we forsake our war against he who holds the Silmarils!” Maglor spoke, his voice quavering. “Then we leave him to his fate. He is strong of will and body, and my heart foretells that he shall walk free from Angband, someday, though he shall pass through much anguish before that day comes. On the morrow, I shall deliver this reply to Morgoth’s emissaries.” Maedhros woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of harsh laughter. He sat up, hindered by the weight of the chains, and drew his knees up to his chest, for they had removed his clothing to destroy the last of his pride. Seeing him rise, a captain turned to him and smiled crookedly. He approached and crouched beside Maedhros, who did not look at him. “How do like that, little Elf? Your friends won’t do nothing’ to set you free. They’ve forgotten you.” Breathing laboured, Maedhros raised his eyes to meet those of the captain, who seemed to flinch noticeably beneath his still-bright gaze. “They are wise, then. Morgoth is a fool to dangle me as bait.” Regaining his composure, the captain spat in Maedhros’s face and struck him violently, drawing blood just below the Elf’s eye. Maedhros spat back, cursing him in the tongue of the Eldar, his bloodshot eyes shining insanely, and his full lips cracked and sticky with blood. The captain rose, sneering, and as Maedhros persisted, he raised his iron boot and landed a cruel kick in the Elf’s crotch. Maedhros doubled over and was overcome by a spasm of pain, but his curse turned only stonger, and he spoke it louder, so that it disquieted all the servants of Morgoth who heard it, for it was evil to their ears. He stormed away, and said to the guards in the doorway as he retreated, “Quiet him down. I don’t care what you do, so long as you don’t kill him. Whip him, burn him, beat him, fuck the pretty bastard for all I care. Have your fun, boys.” Fingon woke in the early hours of the morning, sensing something amiss. His father Fingolfin, lay near him, seeming to sleep deeply, wearied by all that had come to pass. That day, they had successfully driven back the forces of Angband, but, tired as they were from the crossing of Helcaraxë and the long march afterward, Fingolfin had ordered that they retreat into the shelter of the Mountains of Shadow, into Hithlum. Sitting up quietly, Fingon ran his fingers through his long, tangled tresses, anxiously working little knots free from it, until, after a few minutes, he sighed deeply and dropped his hands into his lap. They were scarred and chapped from the cold and toil they had endured. Fingon shivered at the memory of the ice. Wrapping a tunic about himself, Fingon strode across their camp to a small pavilion, for he sensed that something was amiss with Maglor, his kinsman. Upon entering the camp at Hithlum, he had slept straightaway, exhausted, and left his father to vent his wrath upon the sons of Fëanor in private. He had hoped secretly that Maedhros had not taken much part in the decision to abandon his father’s people to cross Helcaraxë, and that all the sons of Fëanor had repented of the deed, for he would certainly forgive them, as would his father, in time. Looking silently into the pavilion, he beheld a woeful sight. Maglor, head bowed and shoulders quivering with grief, leaned heavily on one of the pavilion’s supports. “My Lord?” he said softly. “Maglor?” Maglor looked up, and, seeing Fingon in the doorway his face turned from sorrow to shame. He stood, and, much to the surprise of Fingolfin’s son he bowed low, and approached him, eyes downcast. “I repent of my deeds, kinsman. The sons of Fëanor have wronged you indeed. I will not say that I simply followed my father, for I took part willingly in all the evils wrought by our oath, which I now deem ill-conceived; yet to it I remain bound. Maedhros repented also, though his spirit burnt as his father‘s did.” A dark fear settled in the pit of Fingon’s stomach as he realized that he had not seen the tall form of Maedhros among the company. Certainly, though their was dissension of late their ancient friendship would compel Maedhros to greet him at the least? And where was Fëanor? “What has happened, Maglor?” said Fingon, his voice near breaking. “Fëanor, my father...was slain. Morgoth took Maedhros shortly after.” Maglor turned his face from Fingon to hide his tears. “But he lives?” Fingon asked hopefully. “We know not,” said Maglor. “He is still alive, and he has not forsaken hope,” said Fingon firmly as Maglor rose. My heart would feel far more empty than it does were he lost. In Aman I loved him, and I returned by love, and few oaths can sunder such a thing.” “Fingon, they have held him there for days unnumbered!” cried Maglor, finally in a state of abandon. “They have held him nearly since the death of his father, perhaps before your host had found Middle-earth. None here can conceive the tortures which Morgoth and his servants have devised. Morgoth offered his life for our removal from Beleriand and even Middle-earth, leaving with him the Silmarils. Now though, since I have no word over the will of my brothers, there he shall remain, though I loathe to think it.” He stopped for a moment, forcefully holding back the tears which threatened to spill forth from his eyes. “They do what they think to be right.” “The spirit of Maedhros burns yet, Maglor. I know it,” Fingon said, without feeling the words to be as hopeful as he made them sound. Maglor went slowly from the pavilion, turning quickly away from Fingon, but he stopped before leaving, and nodded his heavy head. “And I hope it always shall. But the fate of Fëanor’s sons, and all those who will stand with them is now marred. This you know, son of Fingolfin. And this I know, as well.” Only hours later, Fingon began a deed of which many songs would tell in later years. He gathered together only such supplies as he would need, and set forth in secret to seek his kinsmen, even though he would come at length into the darkness of Angband. He would not leave Maedhros to suffer as Maedhros had left him.