Chapter Text
"We found him."
Aragon's hand instinctively tightens on the hilt of his sword. It feels as if he only sheathed it moments ago, as the final orcs were cut down or fled on the fields outside Minas Tirith, Rohirrim chasing them down with cries of victory. Eomer is out there somewhere, the new King marshalling his troops in bringing in the wounded. All around them people are working, beginning the exhausting process of finding the wounded and the dead. They are buoyed by the victory here, the one that arrived against seemingly all odds, but Aragorn knows too well the grief of walking the field even when the battle has been won.
And now Anduril may have to leave its sheath again. "Where?" he asks.
Elrohir's gaze is dark as he looks south, towards the carcasses of the oliphants strewn like hills across the plains. "He's trapped," he says, his voice uneasy. "His right arm is pinned beneath an oliphant. Elladan is waiting for us there."
"He hasn't killed him?" Aragorn asks.
Elrohir shakes his head. "He's not…he's different," he says quietly. "Elladan and I can feel it. We might not be able to." He glances across the field towards Minas Tirith. "I've sent word for Mithrandir. He'll know how to dispatch him."
Aragorn picks his way across the field, following his brother. When they get closer he can make out Legolas and Gimli there, and Pippin as well. It appears that they haven't found Merry yet, but Aragorn holds out hope. He'll be here. He might already be in the city with the Rohirrim streaming through the torn gates. They'll find him.
"Estel," Elladan says as they approach. He has a polearm in both hands, pointed down at a dark figure on the ground. Gimli's axe is held in stance, and Legolas has an arrow nocked and ready to fly. "What do we do with him?"
Aragorn looks down at the dark figure on the ground.
The first time he had seen him was on the banks of the river, Nazgul foundering in the rushing waves and the small figure of Frodo slumped over Asfaloth on the other side. Immensely tall and clad fully in dark spiked armour, a wicked black blade attached to his right arm, the figure had stared across the river towards Frodo even as the great black warhorse screamed as the water took them both. He had not flinched from the fire Aragorn and the hobbits had brought against them, even as the other Nazgul drew away. It had only been Glorfindel, light of the Trees in his eyes, that had driven the figure into the river.
Aragorn had gotten the strangest feeling that perhaps he had let them drive him away.
Aragon had seen him again, just a brief glimpse of a dark figure striding through the trees as he flew through the forest towards the desperate horn call ringing out and asking for aid. He had been gone when Aragorn and the others finally made it to the shore, Frodo and Sam long gone across the river, Merry and Pippin taken, and Boromir dead in their arms.
Aragorn had found two footprints on the shore, facing east near the tracks of a boat being pushed into the water. They had not stepped further than the very edge of the trees.
He thinks he might have seen them at Helm's Deep, a glimpse of a spiked helm above the heads of the Uruk-Hai staring back at him as he fought desperately on the walls, but by the time Gandalf arrived with the coming of the dawn, there was no sign of him.
Now, Aragorn looks down at him, and finds something like pity rising in his throat.
His right arm is trapped beneath the oliphant, almost up to his shoulder. The figure struggles as Aragorn approaches, trying to tug himself free, and then seems to realise it's a hopeless cause. He stills, and his dark helm turns to face all of them.
"Give me a reason why we do not slaughter you where you lie," Gimli says, brandishing his axe. "Can you even speak, spawn of Mordor?"
The figure flinches. Aragorn steps closer, Elladan shifting uneasily beside him. " Can you speak?" he asks him.
The figure just stares at him. Aragorn crouches down, studying him intently. His armour is dark and heavy and rent in places, the slit of his helm too small for him to even get a glimpse of his face. There is blood across some of the gashes in the metal. Aragorn cannot tell if it is his own or someone else's.
"Look at his neck," Pippin says quietly. "And his wrists."
Aragorn does. "Cuffs," he murmurs. He can see the black speech written on them, though from this distance he can't read them.
"He didn't harm us, when we were taken," Pippin says, stepping closer even as Gimli tries to pull him back. "He didn't even speak. He just…stood there."
"I can put an arrow through his eye," Legolas offers. "Aragorn, he led the Nazgul. We cannot let him live."
"Brothers?" Aragorn asks quietly.
Elrohir is staring intently at the figure. "There is something…familiar," he murmurs. "He has a fëa, Estel. It's quiet, so very quiet, but it's there. Our father might know what to do, if he were here. Elrond knows much more than we do on matters of the fëa."
The figure flinches again, this time violently. He presses further back into the carcass behind him, not seeming to even notice the crushing weight on his arm or the awkward way his shoulder is wrenched. There is a muffled noise from beneath the helm, and his free hand pulls up chunks of dirt as he grasps desperately at the ground beneath him.
"He's…he's scared," Pippin says quietly. "We're scaring him."
"We're about to kill him," Gimli says gruffly. "Of course he is."
At Gimli's words, the figure stops trying to hide. He turns towards Gimli, and then tilts his head up to expose his neck.
Aragorn can see a thin line of pale skin, exposed by the gap between the helm and armour.
"Take his helm off," he says, rising to his feet. "We will see who he is first, if we are to end his life."
Elladan shifts forwards. Quick as an adder he fits the tip of the polearm beneath the helm and flicks it up. The dark metal falls away forgotten to the ground, revealing a shock of bright red hair as the figure slumps to the ground and wheezes for breath. Something stirs in Aragorn's memory.
"He's Elda," Elrohir says quietly. "Look."
The one ear that is visible is heavily notched and scarred, but unmistakably pointed. Elladan spins the polearm in his hands, using the blunt end to push away the matted red hair obscuring his face and then nudging under his chin to lift his head up.
The first thing they all see are the scars. He must have once been beautiful, Aragorn thinks, but his face is covered in scars that pull at his skin, cut through his cheeks and disappear beneath vibrant red hair. The worst thing, though, the one that makes Pippin wretch and Legolas shudder, the arrow in his bow wavering in its aim, are the neat row of stitches through his top and bottom lips, pulling them tightly together. He wheezes, desperately pulling in a breath, and fresh blood spills from his mouth as the stitches tear through his skin.
"Ai, Elbereth Gilthoniel," Elladan whispers. "What has been done to him?"
The figure flinches. His eyes snap open, and a bright light, one not seen on this earth in Ages, one that once spilled from great trees far west of these plains, takes all their breath a second time.
"It cannot be," Legolas says breathlessly. "He is- no. It cannot be him."
Aragorn cannot look away from the figure. His eyes dart behind him to Legolas and Gimli, linger on Pippin for a long moment, and then move to Elladan and Elrohir.
He makes a noise. He might be trying to speak, but the stitches hold his mouth firmly shut even as he tries again and again, fresh blood spilling down his cheek as guttural noises are torn from his throat. He starts struggling again, desperately trying to say something, matted red hair spilled out across the ground as blood drips from his mouth in a steady stream to join it.
"Stop it, stop it!" Pippin cries, rushing forwards. "You're hurting yourself, stop it!"
He stills. Aragorn puts one hand out to hold Pippin back, his gaze not leaving the figure. "Legolas?" he asks. "Do you know him?"
Legolas takes a long moment to answer. "My father was in Doriath, when it was sacked, and then Sirion," he says quietly, his voice slowly filling with horror as he approaches. "He has told me stories. A great figure with flaming red hair, striding through the halls and the streets as they burned." He shakes his head. "But he- it can't be. He's dead . It can't be him."
Elladan and Elrohir are utterly silent. "Brothers," Aragorn says quietly. "He has been hunting us since the beginning. He has been grievously hurt, and whoever he was before, I don't know if any of that person remains. What do we do?"
"We help him," Pippin says, his voice fierce. Before anyone can stop him he darts forwards, pulling out his Westernesse dagger. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says as he crouches down beside the figure's head, ignoring Gimli's pleas for him to step back and Aragorn's own hiss of breath. One small hand reaches out and pushes matted red hair away from his face. "I'm going to cut these threads away from your lips," Pippin says. "Stay still."
The figure goes utterly still as Pippin fits the tip of his dagger beneath the first thread. He stays still even as Pippin pulls up and the thread goes taut, fresh blood spilling from the holes.
The first thread snaps. The figure is silent. "Right," Pippin says, bracing himself. "Onto the next one."
It takes agonising minutes for Pippin to cut through each thread. The figure stays utterly still until the last thread goes taut and then snaps, and then he throws out one hand, shoving Pippin away across the dirt. Aragorn's hand goes for Anduril, but the figure only turns and retches blood onto the ground, clawing at his mouth until every last piece of thread is pulled free and spat out into the bloody dirt.
He rolls back over, eyes finding Aragorn's. He wheezes something, voice rasping in his throat, and the words are entirely unintelligible.
"Here." Aragorn pulls out a waterskin, crouching down and uncorking it. "Slowly."
The figure sits up as much as he can, straining towards the thin stream of water that Aragorn lets trickle out of the skin. It spills down his skin and splashes across his armour, washing away grime and dirt until Aragorn can confirm without a doubt that it is a collar around his neck, the black speech etched into its surface.
He pulls the waterskin back. "Try again," he says quietly.
The figure slumps back to the ground, as if the effort of just drinking has exhausted him entirely. He rasps something deep in his throat, frowns, and then tries again.
"Elros."
Elladan gasps, the polearm going slack in his grip. Elrohir staggers back.
Aragorn stares at the elf. "My name is Aragorn," he says eventually. "This is Elladan and Elrohir. The Sindarin elf is Legolas, the Dwarf is Gimli, and the perian is called Pippin." He gestures at the figure. "What is your name?"
The elf shakes his head. "Kill me," he rasps. "Kill me, please, you have to kill me."
"We're not about to do anything permanent just yet," Aragorn says, trying to keep his voice as low and smooth as he can. The elf just keeps pleading, saying the same thing over and over again. He starts struggling, fresh blood spilling down his chin and tears down his cheeks.
"What's he saying?" Legolas asks. "What is he asking for?"
"Can't you understand him?" Gimli asks.
"He's speaking Quenya," Aragorn says over his shoulder, not looking away from the elf as he continues to plead, tripping over his words and slurring them together. "An old dialect as well. I'm not getting all of it. But he's asking us to…he is asking me to kill him."
"First Age Quenya," Elladan says quietly. He sets his polearm down. "Estel."
"I know," Aragorn says quietly. He holds up his hands. "We're not going to hurt you," he says firmly. "And we will not kill you. My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn and foster son to Elrond of Imladris."
At Elrond's name, the elf goes silent. "Elrond," he rasps eventually. "He is- he is safe? He is well?"
"He is," Elrohir says, crouching down beside Aragorn even as Elladan murmurs a warning. "We are his sons. He is far north, in the hidden valley of Imladris, and he is well."
"He has taught me never to turn someone away who is in need," Aragorn says quietly. "Will you let us help you?"
The elf shakes his head violently. "You must kill me," he pleads again. "You must. He is distracted and turned away from me for now, but it will not last. He will take me again. Please. Please, just let me-" He chokes on his words and starts coughing, chest heaving for breath.
Aragorn offers him more water. "I have done so much wrong," the elf gets out. His gaze flickers to Pippin, hovering next to Gimli, his dagger still bloody in his hand. "I hunted you. I had to. He made me, he- I couldn't stop. Please, let me stop."
"Have you had any choice?" Aragorn asks. "Why should I not treat you kindly?"
The elf stills. He rolls onto his side, staring up at Aragorn through strands of red hair. His left hand clenches and unclenches on the ground. "There were other things I did choose," he rasps. "Don't I deserve to suffer?"
"No!" Elladan says fiercely. He drops down beside his brother. "No," he says again, gentling his voice. "Nobody deserves this, least of all you."
The elf starts laughing, hoarse and dark. "You don't know of what I speak," he gets out, wheezing for breath. "You don't know what I've done ."
"Gandalf!"
Aragorn turns at Pippin's cry, and sighs with relief at the white-robed figure hurrying towards them. "It is good to see you," he says as Gandalf hurries over and drops to his knees beside Aragorn. "I don't- he's asking for death."
Gandalf takes in the trapped elf, and a deep sorrow fills his gaze. "Oh, Maedhros," he says quietly. "What have they done to you?"
Maedhros- and of course it is Maedhros, Aragorn can see it now even if the elf in front of him is so far away from that one portrait tucked away in Imladris, two elves standing side by side- tips his head back and laughs. It's a horrible sound.
"Olórin," he gets out eventually. "I wondered if you would ever come for me." The twisted grin suddenly drops from his face. "Please," he rasps. "End me now. He's distracted, his attention is away from me, but it won't last. Let me die."
"Nobody is dying here," Aragorn says firmly. "Not today, not tomorrow."
"What happened to him?" Gandalf asks.
Pippin is the one who steps forwards, dagger shaking in his hand. "They…his mouth was sewn shut," he gets out.
"I could still speak," Maedhros rasps. "He took my body from me and used it to his purpose, but I could still speak. So he took my voice from me as well."
Gandalf sighs. "The depths of his cruelty should not surprise me," he murmurs, "and yet."
Maedhros shakes his head. "Let me go," he says. "Before he takes me again. Let me die with the sun on my face, knowing my own mind. Please."
Pippin is openly sobbing behind him. Legolas' face is drawn and pale, his hand on Gimli's shoulder as they watch on. "Oh, Maedhros," Gandalf says softly.
"Do you know what it is, to be prisoner in your own body?" Maedhros snarls, trying fruitlessly to tug himself free from beneath the oliphant carcass again. "Do you know how long I have watched my hand in so many evil things? I would have killed you all," he spits at Pippin. "I would have killed your friends, I would have butchered them for my master, and nobody could have stopped me."
Pippin is openly crying, but he kneels down beside Maedhros' head and pushes his hair out of his face. "You could have, but you didn't," he says quietly. "You didn't kill Frodo and Sam when they took the boat and let. You didn't kill me and- and Merry, when the Uruk-Hai took us. You tried ."
Maedhros twists away from his touch. "Let me go!"
"We are going to defeat him," Aragorn says quietly. "And when we do, you will be free. I will send a messenger for Elrond, and he will come."
"No," Maedhros rasps. "No, no, don't let him come. Don't let him see me like this. Please."
"We get reports every year on sightings of anyone who could be Maglor," Elrohir says quietly. "He hasn't given up on either of you."
Maedhros doesn't seem to hear it. "Please," he just says again, gasping for breath between bloody lips. "Olórin. Let me go."
Gandalf's face is lined with sorrow. "Sleep now, Maedhros," he says, his voice low. "Sleep. All will be well." He extends one hand, and presses it to Maedhros' forehead.
Maedhros stills beneath his hand. His eyes flicker up to the sky, and the sun overhead. "Thank you," he breathes, and then his eyes slip shut.
" No ," Pippin sobs brokenly. "Gandalf! What did you do?"
"He's only sleeping," Gandalf says wearily, sitting back on his heels. "I put him deep under, and constructed some defences in his mind against Sauron's hold on him. Hopefully it will keep him asleep, and hopefully we can keep Sauron distracted enough that he doesn't wake until Sauron is defeated and he is freed."
"What do we do with him?" Legolas asks quietly. His face is still white, but he has put his arrow back in his quiver and holds his bow loosely. Knowing the stories Thranduil must have told him of the sacking of Doriath and Sirion, and of the crimes of Maedhros Fëanorion, Aragorn gives him a grateful smile.
"Move him within the city," he says, glancing at his brothers. "We'll set a guard on him, and chains to keep him restrained if he does wake, but we will treat him." He looks Maedhros over, studies the scars across his face. There must be so many more beneath the armour. "He needs healing more than most."
"Come then, brother," Elrohir says quietly. "Let us begin."
They strip him of his dark armour there on the field, the only way to pull him free of the oliphant carcass. It takes Gandalf to crack open the cuffs and collar, but when asked he says they are little more than placeholders for Sauron's power, and breaking them does not break his hold. He takes the pieces, wrapping them up in his cloak, and leaves the field to continue searching.
Aragorn waits until Elladan and Elrohir have borne Maedhros up between them and begun the slow journey back to Minas Tirith, and then turns back to the field. There is still so much more to be done.
0-o-0-o-0
There is a strange elf in the Houses of Healing.
At first, Eowyn doesn't pay much attention to him. She doesn't see much at all, beyond the grey fog of grief and the ache of her arm. But the ache begins to subside, and the fog begins to settle, and she realises that she has never seen him before. He was not in Lord Aragorn's party in Edoras, nor was he part of the group of Dunedain and Elrond's sons. She would have remembered the bright shock of his hair.
She would have remembered his scars. He is covered with them, one hand missing entirely and the arm just ending in a stump with the skin raised and mottled. As she takes to wandering around the House of Healing and through the gardens there, high up in this city of stone, she pauses often at his bed.
In all this time, he does not wake.
It takes her far too long to notice the guards at the door that watch him, and the chains that bind him to the bed at hand and foot. As soon as she notices, a fury rises up in her throat so fierce she feels like she might choke on it.
"Why is he chained?" she demands of the first healer she sees. "Release him immediately!"
"We cannot, my Lady," the healer replies. "Lord Aragorn has ordered it. His mind is poisoned, and until we are certain he is free of it, for his safety and everyone else's within this city, we must keep him restrained."
"Look at him!" Eowyn cries. "He has been sorely mistreated already, and we are to chain him up like a beast?" She starts for his bed. "Free him or I shall do so myself," she declares.
"I cannot let you do so, my Lady," the healer says firmly, stepping in front of her. "Please, my Lady. He is gravely wounded in his mind, and could be a danger to many if he wakes. And if his mind later heals, I do not think he would be able to live with himself if he learned he had harmed someone in this state." The healer gently grips her good arm. "Your kindness is commendable," she says, her voice softening. "As is your passion. But he must remain restrained until the danger has passed."
"And when will it pass?" Eowyn asks. "How can you heal such a wound?"
The healer glances to the east. "When he falls, he will be free."
Eowyn returns to her bed. But unlike before, she cannot stay in it for long. She lies there wondering how this elf came to be so grievously hurt, what manner of torment he has been through. She finds herself getting up out of bed after only a few short hours, looking in on the elf again. He sleeps deeply, breaths shallow. His chest is the only thing that moves.
Once she is out of bed, she doesn't want to return. Instead, she wanders out to the gardens. They grow herbs here, for the Houses of Healing, and Eowyn lets the leaves slip through her fingers as she breathes in the smells of earth and growing things.
It is there that she first meets Lord Faramir. His face is drawn and pale, but his smile is kind. Soon, they are walking through the gardens every morning and evening, arm in arm. He is kind, and looks past the anger and helplessness she has held onto for so long and sees who she thinks she could be beyond that.
They are standing together on the balcony one morning, looking east. Eowyn is warm beneath the cloak Faramir gifted her, a deep blue set with silver that belonged to his mother, and she lets herself lean into him as they watch the sun rise.
It is dark, so very dark, and then…
And then, there is light.
A great wind sweeps out of the east, snatching her hair away from her face. Eowyn braces against it, but a great rush of air fills her lungs and lifts something off her chest. Faramir sucks in a breath, and grips her tight.
There is a moment of blessed silence, and then the screaming starts.
Eowyn rushes back inside. The elf is writhing on the bed, thrashing against the chains and the two healers trying to hold him down. His mouth is agape as he screams, and Eowyn doesn't hesitate as she rushes to him, Faramir close behind.
"What's wrong?" she asks as the elf strains desperately against the chains, his voice hoarse as he yells and yells. His face is twisted in agony as he tries to curl in on himself, the chains tugging him back every time, and the screams do not stop.
"We don't know," one of the healers gasps as they try to hold him down. "He just- he just started screaming. We don't know what's wrong."
He looks in utter agony. Eowyn climbs on the bed by his head as he thrashes, cradling his head in her lap. Every muscle in his body is clenched, his teeth gritting together as his head tosses back and forth. "Shh," Eowyn says, pushing his bright red hair back from his sweat-slicked face. "Shh, now. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
The elf quietens just a little. He whimpers through gritted teeth, pressing his face into her gown. "What's his name?" Eowyn asks. She can't believe that she hasn't asked that before.
"Maedhros," one of the healers replies as they cautiously let go. Faramir makes a choked sound at the end of the bed, but shakes his head when Eowyn looks to him.
"Later," he just says. "Is he- is he okay?"
Eowyn keeps carding her fingers through Maedhros' hair. The screaming has stopped, and now he is just making choked whimpers into the fabrics of her skirts. "He's shaking," she says quietly. "I think he's cold."
One of the healers grasps his remaining hand. "My lord?" he asks. "Lord Maedhros?"
"Maedhros?" Eowyn asks softly. "You're safe. Can you hear me?"
Maedhros stills. His eyes flicker, for just a moment, and then fall shut. He whispers something, the same few words over and over, and then slowly trails off and falls lax in her lap. "Asleep," the healers says with a breath of relief. "Just asleep."
"What did he say?" Eowyn asks, looking up at them. She still doesn't stop carding her fingers through his hair. "Did anyone understand him?"
Faramir is wide-eyed at the end of the bed. "He was speaking Quenya," he says, his voice hushed. "Archaic Quenya, from the First Age."
"What did he say?" Eowyn asks again.
Faramir swallows. "He's gone," he echoes, his voice soft. "I'm free."