He heard crying, and a lullaby softly murmured through tears. He thought his mother had sung it once.
*
Maeglin opened his eyes. He was not dead, and he was not in Angband. Sun shone faintly through familiar stretched hides above him. The weight on his chest was Huan's head, and Maeglin suddenly wondered how long he’d been out and if the dog had moved at all. Celegorm was asleep beside him. No. He started to panic as memory returned. This can't be. I needed to die!
“Peace, little one,” spoke a deep, rumbling voice. A huge, gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. Maeglin tilted his head back and swallowed hard. He saw antlers, a mane of unruly hair, furs and a necklace of animal teeth, deep dark eyes that looked upon him kindly.
“Lord Oromë?” he whispered.
“That’s me. I need you to lie still and rest. Everything will be well.”
“How long…?”
“It's been a fortnight since we found you. Lady Estë herself came and tended your wounds, but your fëa, it seems, had a hard time deciding whether to stay or to go.”
“No. No, I...” His mouth was so dry he couldn’t focus. “Can I…have some water?” The words were hard to get out and brought with them visions of Angband, all the times Mai—Sauron had smiled sadly and shaken his head, leaving him in chains to whimper, trying not to cry and waste what moisture his body had left.
“I have something better. Just a moment.” Oromë stepped outside, and Maeglin’s heart raced, wondering if he'd be abandoned, but he returned with a cup of something that smelled delicious, and he propped Maeglin up in one arm and held the cup to his lips. Maeglin immediately reached for it, but dropped his right arm with a gasp at the sudden pain.
“Easy, there. Even with Estë's help, your body will need some time. That cut was deep.” Maeglin took the cup in his left hand and drank. It was the best broth he had ever tasted, warm and slightly salty and full of flavor, though Maeglin couldn't have said what it was made from.
Celegorm stirred, muttering something, then snapped awake, sitting up and taking in the scene at once. “Why didn't you wake me?!” he growled at Oromë.
“Love, you've hardly slept at all. You needed all you could get.”
Sighing, Celegorm turned to Maeglin. “Didn't know if you would make it. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” It came out raspy and weak, and Maeglin remembered unwillingly how he’d feared in his mother's last hours, as he watched by her sickbed, his dread deepening as the healers scrambled for antidotes too late. “I'm sorry. Didn't want to hurt you. I meant it to all be over.”
Celegorm clasped his fingers gently, careful not to disturb his arm. “That would've hurt too, you know.”
“Not too much,” Maeglin murmured softly. The world was feeling hazy. “I wasn’t here before, and no one missed me. I'd be…a little interlude. Short, here and then gone before you get tired of me. Like a song you hear once and never again…”
“Void damnit.” Celegorm's swearing was far away. Hands were pressed to his forehead, then a warm cloth. It felt nice.
*
He was too hot, sweating, and that was odd. Angband was cold, at least the parts where he was kept. Even on the nights he was permitted a blanket (it was so much worse when Mairon had to take it away again), it was never quite enough. He couldn't wrap his mind around where else he might be. It slowly came back to him. Free, but not free. A traitor to his people. Death stood over them all, and none of them knew it. He deserved to die.
Maybe he'd fallen asleep in the forges again. Sometimes Rog found him there, slumped beside his anvil, and moved him to a cot, wrapped a blanket around him. Rog's blankets always kept him warm. He rubbed his eyes and wondered why his other arm felt so stiff and achy. No. Rog died because of me. “Celegorm? Oromë?”
“I'm here.” Celegorm sounded immeasurably tired.
I'm sorry, Maeglin thought. I couldn’t even do this right. “It's so hot.”
“Yep. Tryin' to keep you alive. Can't stop you from going if you're bound and determined, but I can make it harder.”
“Well at this point, all you're doing is making me remember Mandos more fondly. At least it was cool there.”
“Was that a joke, Maeglin? I think it was. A grouchy joke, but a joke nonetheless.” He laid the back of his hand against Maeglin's forehead. “You do feel about right.” He opened up the tent to let in a breeze and removed several heated waterskins from around Maeglin's bed, then offered him some water.
Maeglin sipped it carefully. It was flavored with rosehips and honey. “I didn't think you could stop people from fading.”
“Often you can’t. Especially if it's slow. But if you can get them through the initial crisis, it's possible. I watched enough of my people die after they'd lost someone in battle. Figured some things out. Your body drops its temperature and tries to shut down. Keeping you warm and some kind of food in you can do wonders.”
“I wish you hadn’t.”
“Do you really? Or do you want whatever the problem is to be gone?”
“You can't fix everything,” Maeglin snapped, surprised and resentful at Celegorm's harsh tone.
“You know, if you wanted to be sure, that's not the way to do it. Although you did manage to hit an artery, which is more than the vast majority of the people I've known to try this.”
“So what should I have tried?”
“Talking to me?”
“I meant—”
“I know what you fucking meant.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which was far more disheveled than usual, and Maeglin felt another pang of guilt. “You could've really ruined your hand. Estë had to reattach tendons. Without her, you'd never use it again. I’m well aware of how much you can do one-handed, but I think smithcraft might be difficult.”
“I didn't expect to need it where I was going.”
“I thought you were doing better.”
“So did I.” Huan lay half atop him, and though he was hot too, Maeglin didn't have the heart to push him away. He stroked his head, digging his fingertips into his thick fur.
Celegorm reached over and checked his temperature again. He seemed relieved. “Can you tell me what was so awful it was worth dying for?”
Maeglin felt for his pocket, but his clothes had been changed. “Look in the pocket of the pants I had on.”
It took Celegorm a minute, but he found the scrap of cloth. “This?” He peered at it closely. “Oh. Eöl.”
“He knows where I am,” Maeglin whispered. “I didn't want to go with him, and I couldn't let him kill you.”
“Aww, kid.” Celegorm scooped him into an awkward hug. “I don't need you to die for me, okay? I promised I'd keep you safe, and I mean to do it.”
“But…he…he could be watching right now.”
“Nah. Didn't know what was up, so we moved you the moment it was safe. Unless he can track Oromë himself, he's back to nothing.”
“He'll find me again. He won't give up.” Maeglin slumped back against the pillow, staring bleakly at the shadows of branches above him. “Everyone's better off if I'm dead anyway. This was a bad idea. People always die around me. Everyone I ever cared about. I don't want to keep killing people.”
“Whoa. No one's getting killed here. And you sure as hell aren't responsible for your asshole dad. Look. Your mother wants you here. I want you here. I like having you around. You make my life better.”
“Not so much this last fortnight,” Maeglin murmured.
“It’s...been a few more days since then. I'd still rather have you here than not.”
“Why? Why do you even care?”
“You're my family.”
“Eöl is my family,” Maeglin said flatly.
“Is he, though? Family are the people who care about you. Who want you to be happy and don't do awful shit to force you into things. The people who are there for you.”
“That's bad logic. You can't say you care because you’re family and then you're family because you care. It's a circular argument. Basic fallacy.”
“You’d get on with Caranthir. I should introduce you.”
Maeglin snorted.
“There's things we can do,” Celegorm said more seriously. “Keep on the move. Go farther away. Stay in Oromë's hunting lodge, if you can take being around more people. He hasn't really…done anything yet, but Oromë will be watching, and the second he does, he'll be answering to the Valar. Okay? It isn't hopeless.”
“I…” Maeglin choked up and couldn't speak.
“I know it takes time to decide you can trust someone, but I really wish you'd just come to me first. Let me help you, okay? Maybe don't jump straight to a dramatic death as your first solution next time? I can't do anything if you don't tell me what's going on.”
Maeglin sighed.
“Maeglin. I need a 'yes, I understand, I won't do it again.’ Please.”
Maeglin looked at him and saw the deep concern in his eyes, in the weariness written on his features. He wondered again why Celegorm bothered to feel so much. He knew he wasn't worth it, but it warmed him inside. “I don't think I can promise that. But I'll try.”
Chapter End Notes
TW for attempted suicide and discussion of suicide
Pillows and Fur
Three days had passed since Maeglin woke, and he hadn’t been out of bed for more than five minutes at a time. The knot of dread in his chest was no longer all-consuming, but it wouldn't go away. Time slipped by without his notice; he'd be watching the play of morning light on the walls of the tent, then he'd roll over and realize the day was nearly done. Huan stayed beside him, lying snug against his back or resting his head on his chest. The weight was familiar and comforting. Sometimes he'd come in, tail wagging, with a bone or a stick and nudge Maeglin's hand, waiting expectantly, but when Maeglin made no move to take it, he'd drop it with a little huff and lay down again beside him.
Celegorm made him eat and stretch the fingers of his healing arm, but after Maeglin snapped at him a few times to stop bothering him, he mostly let him be. Maeglin wondered briefly if that was wise, but decided it was better if Celegorm didn't like him so much anyway. He'd let them get attached, and that was always a bad idea. Maybe if he lay here long enough, he would fade anyway, and this time it would be the slow wasting that Celegorm could do nothing about.
He was drawing circles in Huan's fur and imagining how happy Turgon would look at hearing the news of his second death. He would try not to show it, of course, in that kingly way of his, but Maeglin could see all the little tells that no one else would notice. Celegorm interrupted his daydreaming, looking far too cheery for him to stomach.
“Hey, Maeglin, how about a trip down to the creek to get you cleaned up?”
“Fuck off.” He turned away and pulled the furs over his head.
“You'll feel better. It's the kind of day you'll like. Cloudy and not too hot.”
“He'll find me. You didn't even know he was there before. Some woodcraft.”
“Oromë's put his own enchantments around our camp this time. We're well hidden.”
Maeglin didn't answer.
“Okay then. Would you let me wash your hair? And maybe braid it? No going outside required?”
Maeglin turned back and looked at him. Handling another's hair was for very close family or the most intimate of servants. Even the question felt a little invasive. But his hair was tangled and greasy and gross, and now that he'd thought of it, the feeling wasn’t going away. He knew he couldn't manage with his arm still hurting. “All right.” He hated how vulnerable it felt.
Soon Celegorm had everything ready—water heated, the bigger cooking pot dragged inside for a basin, furs and pillows arranged so that Maeglin could lean back effortlessly while he washed. The hot water and soap and Celegorm's fingers gently massaging his scalp felt better than they had any right to, and Maeglin slowly relaxed. Celegorm worked a sweetly fragrant oil into his hair and rinsed it again, and Maeglin braced himself, realizing he was about to comb out three weeks’ worth of tangles and knots.
“You’re…really good at this,” he said in surprise when the pain never came. “Almost everyone who's ever combed it pulls my hair, and when I tell them it hurts, they laugh and say they aren't pulling and I'm being too sensitive. I stopped letting anyone touch it as soon as I could.” Turgon hadn't laughed like Eöl; he'd been too grave and sad when he’d helped Maeglin dress for his mother's funeral, but he'd patted his shoulder and gone right on. It seemed like such a small and insignificant thing after the torments he’d suffered, but to the child he'd been it wasn't.
“Curufin was just like you as a kid.” Celegorm had gotten even gentler, if that was possible. “He'd cry whenever Atya or Ammë tried to comb his hair. It drove them nuts, especially Atya--he'd work so hard to do it carefully enough, and he just couldn't. Maedhros and I were the only ones he could tolerate.”
Maeglin allowed himself a moment of wistfulness, wishing he'd grown up surrounded like that by people who could look out for him and shield him. “I let Tyelpë braid it once. He was really gentle, too. But then he was gentle in a lot of ways.”
“That's Tyelpë for you.”
“Umm…how is he, now?” Maeglin knew he was alive; Celegorm had mentioned him a few times, but he also remembered some of the awful things he’d seen in Vairë's tapestries.
“He’s…getting by. Do I need to tell you how he died?”
“I saw enough. I don't expect Sauron’s grown any kinder over the years.”
Celegorm nodded. “It was a while before he could get back to smithwork, I understand. He has a quiet little place and found some of his old friends from the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. I think he'll always be a bit broken-hearted over the person he thought Sauron was. He deceived him into what he believed was love for a long time, and that's been hard to get over. But he's a lot better than when I first saw him again.”
“Did he…” Maeglin had heard the story of how Tyelpë had repudiated his own father at the gates of Nargothrond, but he’d also held him, comforting him while he cried over how much he missed him. “I mean…he's talking to you now, I guess.”
“And his father, too. We've all made our peace.”
“I'm glad.”
“I know he'd like to see you—”
“No.”
Celegorm didn't press. Maeglin tucked his knees to his chest and waited for his hair to finish drying while Celegorm emptied the soapy water and cleaned up. “Oromë's coming back this evening,” he said as he sat behind Maeglin and separated his hair into strands.
“Oh. So that's why you wanted me to look decent.”
