Maitimo turned toward his cousin. Never had he heard Findecáno so hesitant. "Finno! How goes the search?"
A darkness covered his normally bright cousin. Shadows covered Findecáno's blue eyes, and his mouth was twisted in a frown. It opened, then shut, then opened again, then shut again.
Now Maitimo felt concerned. "Finno?"
Findecáno's eyes watered. This uncharacteristic shift turned concern into alarm. "Findecáno!" Maitimo took his younger cousin by the shoulders. "What's wrong?"
"Maitimo! Ai, Maitimo! I wish I had better news!" Findecáno grabbed his taller cousin for support. "I found her, Nelyo. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"
Maitimo's blood froze in his veins. Suddenly, Findecáno was the one holding up Maitimo. "Where is she," Maitimo hissed.
"Where is Ringwendë, Findecáno?"
Findecáno sighed, but he complied. Maitimo nearly pushed him off his feet. Someone spoke, but the words dissolved into white noise.
Ringwendë was okay. She was okay. She was okay.
Nenmírë knelt near a pile of cloth, her forehead pressed against the sand, her arms wrapped around herself. Sobs wracked her body. Maitimo dropped to his future law-sister's side. "Veressë?"
"Maitimo!" Nenmírë wailed and threw herself against him. "She's gone! My baby sister!"
Quala. To die an undesirable or painful death.
The pile of cloth resembled a body.
Maitimo inhaled sharply. He looked to Findecáno. His expression was answer enough.
He clutched Nenmírë to his chest and let her hair hide his sorrow.
Maitimo didn't notice Macalaurë joined him for a time. The redhead sat holding his beloved's slightly swollen hand in both of his. It was so small in comparison, so cold despite the heat he supplied. Her typical lavender and vanilla scent was gone, replaced with salt and the musty smell of wet fibers.
Apparently, she'd ended up in the sea, shoved in by one of the Teleri. A ship bashed her head in. Aunt Írimë wasn't sure if the trauma or drowning did her in, but she was sure it was quick and painless. Maitimo found a small amount of comfort in that.
He did notice his brother eventually, though.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
"We were going to get married, Cáno. Nothing big. No fanfare - she hates that. She was so excited."
Macalaurë didn't try to say anything again. He squeezed Maitimo's shoulder in silent support.
Exhaling, Maitimo gently wiggled a ring from Ringwendë's finger. Crafted from fine silver and featuring a flawless néneärmírë, it was the most expensive thing she'd owned, and the most precious to her heart. Not due to the price, she'd assured him, but because he himself crafted it for her. He could've made a ring of brass and glass, she'd said, and she would love it just as much.
Ring in hand, he unhooked his thin chain necklace. He looped it around the band once, twice, and replaced it around his neck again. "What are you here for, Macalaurë?"
Macalaurë fidgeted. "Atar said we need to leave."
Maitimo blinked. "But we haven't buried our dead yet."
"We don't have time. Atar believes the Valar will change their mind and trap us here."
"Would they not be justified?" Maitimo grumbled. Louder, he added, "I'm not leaving Ringyë to the birds and crabs."
"You won't." Both men jumped at Nenmírë's sudden appearance. She shivered despite a thick cloak being wrapped around her. "I'll take her back to Tirion."
"I can't go, Maitimo. I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"
Maitimo rose and held a hand out to his fiancee's sister. She took it. He pulled her into a hug. "There's no need to apologize. You've done more than I could ask for. But will you be okay?"
Nenmírë wiped her eyes with a sleeve. "Yes. There are others who also wish to go back, and I already sent a message to Atar."
"I could escort you to the Calacirya?" Even as he spoke, Maitimo knew it was an empty offer. He couldn't take the time, and he knew she knew that, too.
"Just stay safe for us, Minyaranionya. That's all I ask."
He embraced her one last time. "I would have loved to have you as my sister," he murmured into her scalp. He released her and knelt next to the shrouded body - it may have belonged to Ringwendë once, but it wasn't hers anymore. He kissed her forehead; instead of smooth skin, rough cloth met his lips. "I promise I will see you again, lissya. Wait for me a little while longer."
"Rauronér! Get back here!"
Maitimo watched Ringwendë chase their son around the beach. He would've joined her had their daughter not been curled up in his arms. Little snores escaped the elfling's cute mouth. He gently brushed aside the fly-aways of auburn hair from her face, smiling down at her beautiful, sleep-dulled gray eyes.
A triumphant shout and a high-pitched shriek brought his attention back to his wife. Ringwendë had finally grabbed Rauronér beneath his armpits and scooped him up. She looped an arm behind his back and around his knees, freeing the other to tickle his stomach. "You little rascal! Oh, you're in trouble!"
"No, Amya!" Rauronér giggled. His little arms and legs flailed as he struggled to escape. "Atya! Help me!"
"You're doing great on your own," Maitimo called back. Little Tinwírë stirred, and he rocked her until she settled.
After a little longer of the tickle monster, Ringwendë set Rauronér back on the sand. "Don't run off again, winimo."
"Okay, Amya!" Rauronér proceeded to run off again, but he stayed close enough that neither adult felt there was cause for concern. His dark hair shone under the starlight well enough.
Ringwendë sat on the blanket with a sigh. "He's not as bad as I was as a child," she admitted, "but I also didn't have access to all of Valariandë."
"I have heard the stories."
"As have I heard of yours." She reached for Tinwírë. Maitimo passed their daughter over. Ringwendë set her on her lap.
"I was an angel," Maitimo argued. He couldn't keep a straight face for long. He only just stopped himself from laughing and waking Tinwírë.
They remained in silence for a time, holding each other's hand and watching their wayward son cover himself in coarse, rough, and irritating particles.
"You need to wake up right now." Maitomo tilted his head to look at his suddenly serious wife, his brows knit in confusion. "Please."
"Nothing here is real. Not this beach, or me, or our - our children." Her voice cracked and tears welled in her eyes. "You can't stay here. You don't get to die. Not here of all places."
Maitimo's mouth opened and shut like a fish. He didn't know what to say.
Ringwendë shifted Tinwírë, leaned over, and kissed him. "Hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer."
Green eyes opened to burning yellow light. Rolling hills of dead wasteland stretched ahead.
In the distance, he heard a familiar voice singing a familiar song.
Maedhros returned to his old hobby of drawing to help train his left hand. Everything ended up looking like a drunk spider drew it with all eight arms on the same pencil, but it still relaxed him the way it always had. He continued even after he'd built up his hand's strength and dexterity to what his right had been.
He drew everything he saw. From his brothers arguing to Uncle Fingolfin's coronation, from the construction of Himring to Maglor torturing his cavalry.
He drew his father after he'd burned his eyebrows off with some science experiment. He drew Hatalmo with ink on his face. He drew his mother the time she'd fallen asleep cooking breakfast from another all-nighter. He drew Curufin and Malwalpa with a very giggly Telperinquar.
Ringwendë in her parents' stationary shop. Ringwendë scribbling an interview in her notebook. Ringwendë damp and disheveled after she'd tripped and dragged them both into a river.
He held one of his sketches of Ringwendë, examining it with a critical eye. It was his best one, and he could admit it was his favorite as well.
It was a sketch of Ringwendë at their first Festival of Stars together. She'd worn a lovely dress. The blouse was blue with burgundy sleeves and trim, and the skirt had irregular circular patterns in white, black, purple, and dark green. She'd tied her hair in a high ponytail and woven opals into the strands, little stars in her night tresses.
He'd known then that he was going to marry her.
Maedhros squinted at the portrait. While it was his finest piece, black and white didn't do her justice. She deserved more than simple ink and paper.
(She deserved more than to drown in the dark, too.)
The twins were out exploring the land east of the Gelion. Perhaps they'd have luck with pigments.
Maedhros perfected his painting skills on a wedding gift for Fingon and his new Mithres wife. He experimented with Thindrim and Laegrim techniques until he developed a style he liked. Then he got to work.
Between running Himring and wrangling six feral brothers, he didn't have as much time to his art as he would've liked, but it didn't matter so much with the initial sketch; a few minutes a night was enough. Lines appeared and bent and merged until a figure took form. Before he knew it, sharp eyes stared at him from the small canvas.
The day to paint came sooner than he'd expected.
He hesitated for half an hour, paintbrush in hand, working up the nerve to set the tip to the surface. He exhaled and made the first move.
His muscles obeyed his commands to perfection. Slowly, the world he saw in his mind's eyes developed on the canvas. He was vaguely aware of the shrinking candles, but he couldn't pull himself out of his fugue to care.
He jerked out of his stupor at his manservant's voice. Gray dawn light peeked through the curtains. He'd painted all night.
For what it was worth, he'd finished most of it. Only the lighting remained.
He framed and hung the finished piece next to his bed.
Whenever the loneliness overwhelmed him, he turned and talked to her. He could almost hear her answers.
And when he, finally, had to abandon Himring after his failure of an alliance, he took her with him. She adapted well to her new home in his study at Amon Ereb.
Maedhros looked up from his desk at Elrond's question. The peredhel was focused on the painting of Ringwendë instead of his Tengwar.
Elrond clearly didn't believe him, but he didn't push it, which was all that mattered to Maedhros.
Eventually, they were forced from Amon Ereb, too. He wished he could offer her a better place than his pack, but it was what it was.
Maedhros stepped over the edge.
Maedhros was dead long before he reached the bottom.
A horn blared in the distance, but a far sweeter sound came from his right.
"Ai, Maitimo, what have you done to yourself?"
His eyes snapped open. Whiteness surrounded him, and despite the lack of a visible floor, he found himself laying flat on his back. Only a dark, shapeless blob in the corner of his eye interrupted the blankness.
A better look at the blob revealed a woman, dark brown hair studded with opals. Her silver eyes matched the silver chains of her jewelry, which contrasted nicely with her dark purple dress. Full lips pursed in a concerned pout. "Meldanya," she cooed, "can you hear me?"
"Charming as ever. But I am, yes."
"Unfortunately, also yes. But I waited."
He lifted his right hand - and he had a right hand! - to cradle her face. Her cheek fit perfectly in his palm. She gently held his wrist with both hands. It was as if they'd never been parted.
And yet they had. "I missed you."
"I missed you so much, lissya."
"I understand, but you need to get up. We can't stay here."
Maedhros groaned. He didn't hurt, per se, but it was as if he moved through tar. Every shift cost far more effort than it should've.
Ringwendë miraculously coaxed him to his feet. He squinted at the empty whiteness around them. "Where are we?"
The horn from earlier blew again. "We're going home, Maitimo."
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dailybridgerton
