(Dis)Possession
A belated entry for Day 3 of @russingon-week (lies and deceit, hidden things, Maedhros’ captivity, the Helcaraxë) as well as a fill for @silmkinkmeme.
4259 words, T, Maedhros/Fingon
Warnings: implied/referenced torture
On Ao3
Hands all over him. He didn’t struggle. He could not since his body did not obey him, but he wouldn’t even if he could. There was no point. He had learned fast that he could not achieve anything by struggling except protecting the pride he could no longer afford.
His limbs were shaking. He had no control over it. He could not open his eyes. Something had happened. He had been dying. He had died. But there was no escape from the Enemy’s hold even in death. They could always bring him back, bind him to his bleeding, crumbling body. They always did.
---
He was immobilized. He was suffocating under something heavy. Something warm. Not a body. He took a breath. It was easier than expected. He moved under the weight and realized he wasn’t bound. He opened his eyes and saw only gray.
It was quiet. Something was wrong. It was never so quiet at the Iron Fortress. There were always hundreds of mouths screaming, hundreds of whips cracking, hundreds of eyes weeping. There was always the background grating hum of evil. It was too quiet here.
Maitimo tried to turn to his side and succeeded. The warmth around him came from strange pelts. Behind the crack in the gray wall, he saw only white.
Then—footsteps. Maitimo squeezed his eyes shut but immediately opened them again. Something unusual was happening, which was never good news. He had to be alert, so he would have a fraction of a second to prepare for what was coming for him.
The crack in the wall darkened for a moment, then widened so that Maitimo’s tormentor could walk in. Oh, but that was no wall at all. It was made of fabric. It was a tent, and the one who came in was not a servant of the Enemy. It was no other than Nolofinwë, son of Finwë.
Maitimo blinked, but the image did not disappear. Maitimo opened his mouth to say uncle, but his throat was raw, and no word came out. He tried to sit up and, to his surprise, did it too, though he started shivering when the pelts fell off him. Nolofinwë sat before him, covered him again, and pulled him into an embrace. Maitimo stiffened, but the expected pain did not come. His body still hurt, but it hurt in the wrong places and in the wrong way. The tent around him spun for a moment. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cold air, felt his uncle’s gentle hand against his back. The world righted itself again.
Finally, Nolofinwë drew back, though he kept his hands on Maitimo’s shoulders. Maitimo tried to speak again, to ask him what was going on, what Nolofinwë was doing here, and where here was. But words were still stuck in his throat and refused to move.
Nolofinwë smiled at him through tears.
“Son,” he said, “I feared I had lost you.”
An impossible thought struck Maitimo. Raising his gloved hands, he felt his cheeks and his nose, his brow and his lips, and found a familiar face that was not his. He reached for his hair, but instead of its tattered remains, he found many tight braids. He turned his wide gaze to Nolofinwë then and, in his eyes, saw the reflection of Findekáno’s horrified face.
---
What Maitimo pieced together while he recovered was this: Nolofinwë had been brave or foolish enough to lead his followers across the Grinding Ice; they had lost many people to cold and starvation, including Turukáno’s wife Elenwë; they had almost lost Findekáno too when he had fallen in the icewater, but he had been saved. And crucially, Findekáno’s accident had happened at the same time Maitimo had died in captivity. It must have, otherwise, how to explain this occurrence?
Maitimo did not remember much from his last moments. He remembered only the inescapability of pain, the helplessness that came with it, remembered longing for death and wishing he could have seen Findekáno one more time before it. It was not too presumptuous to surmise that Findekáno might have wished for the same while drowning in icy depths, and so their two fëar were drawn to each other’s bodies.
It was a sound theory, though Maitimo wasn’t sure about the veracity of the last part.
If Maitimo had found himself in Findekáno’s body, it stood to reason that Findekáno’s fëa had flown to Maitimo’s hröa. But how could Maitimo know it for certain? Perhaps they had not exactly exchanged places. Perhaps it was only Maitimo who had possessed his lover’s body, and Findekáno was dead, his fëa having long since found refuge in the Halls of Mandos. It could be true, couldn’t it? It would be the kinder fate.
Maitimo debated it while living Findekáno’s life. It wasn’t hard for him to play the role. No one used osanwë, as it sapped too much strength; they even avoided speaking when they could, so Maitimo did not have to fear discovery. The ordeal over the Ice would surely have changed Findekáno, but Maitimo trusted that he was strong enough to remain fundamentally himself. And Maitimo knew Findekáno’s heart as well as he knew his own.
Being in someone else’s body wasn’t too jarring. Maitimo had long stopped perceiving his body as something that belonged to him, stopped seeing it as anything other than a source of suffering. Perhaps that was the reason his fëa so readily jumped to another hröa and took it over as if it had always been his.
In a sense, it had been. Maitimo was no stranger to being inside Findekáno, after all. His cousin had never shied away from sharing his hröa or fëa with Maitimo. He would have been glad to do it again, even in this unconventional way, Maitimo was sure of it.
Findekáno’s body had changed, had grown thinner; his face was gaunter than Maitimo remembered; his hips stuck out prominently even under all the layers; his skin bore a few marks that had not been there before. Yet, there was still strength in his sinewy limbs, his back was still straight, and his legs were still capable of the confident gait that Maitimo successfully imitated.
He loved putting Findekáno’s body to use. There was little more enjoyable than flexing Findekáno’s fingers, turning his head however he wished, or bending his limbs the way he liked freely, without anything to stop him. Little more pleasant than the muscle-ache that came from the exertion of the day instead of what others put his body through. Whenever the march across the Ice halted, Maitimo would even risk taking off the gloves and pressing the frozen, trembling fingers to Findekáno’s lips, caressing Findekáno’s long braids, coiled tightly around his head. He felt more at home in Findekáno’s body than he had felt in his own.
“You have changed after almost drowning,” Findekáno’s father mentioned once. “You seem livelier, more determined.”
“I am loath to waste the chance I was given,” Maitimo answered easily. “Do the changes displease you, Father?”
“Of course not,” Nolofinwë smiled. “It is as if you are back to who you were before the bloodshed, the betrayal, and this wretched journey.”
Maitimo continued his act with newfound inspiration and confidence. But nothing could make him stop wondering about Findekáno’s fate, make him stop searching for him, reaching out to him, even though he did not expect an answer and did not receive one. He did not even know if he hoped for it. It would be kinder if Findekáno were dead, he kept telling himself, but he was too selfish to truly wish it.
He dreamed sometimes of being back in his shackles, dreamed of flinging himself against the walls of his cage like a trapped, terrified animal, dreamed of scratching the unforgiving stone of his cell as gleeful, ravenous darkness closed on him from all sides. He remembered no details when he woke, but he knew those were not memories, even though he was familiar with them. It was something else.
The dreams stayed with him, an ache he could relegate to the background, an itch he could ignore if he tried. He walked and worked despite the harsh journey, despite the cold and hunger, with eagerness and fervor few amid the despairing Noldor still possessed. It was the least he could do for these people, for his people. He had not stopped the burning of the ships, so even if he did not feel brave, even if he kept deceiving them, he had to lead by example, to infect the rest of them with his hope and courage. Just like Findekáno would have.
The dreams returned with increasing frequency. Even awake, Maitimo would sometimes catch a glimpse of what should not have been there: blood dripping onto his feet; a collar tightening for a split second around his neck; hands, hands, hands in his hair that were gone as soon as he shook his head. Maitimo knew then he could no longer avoid the truth. Findekáno lived, if what he was going through could be defined as life, and the dreams and visions were the result of their frayed bond coming alive at the moments when Findekáno’s agony and fear were at their height. The bond must have been reestablished with the exchange of their fëar.
With time, he would even pick up the echoes of Findekáno’s pain, would taste his despair and fear. He tried to reach him, though he doubted Findekáno could feel him. Osanwë was near impossible in the Enemy’s stronghold; even simply thinking was hard, so Findekáno was all alone there, abandoned, unprepared for the ordeal. Maitimo wondered whether they had found out that it was Findekáno there in his place, and whether it would have been better or worse for Findekáno if they knew.
This was terribly wrong. Maitimo realized it. He had to bring Findekáno back. It was the right thing to do. Findekáno didn’t deserve to be suffering in Maitimo’s place. Maitimo had to find a way to save him.
He considered carefully all available options.
He could try to die again. It wouldn’t be too hard in a place where death was a likelier outcome than survival. But what guarantee did he have that Findekáno would find his way back to his own body? It was reasonable to assume that at any given moment, Findekáno was close to death in the Iron Fortress. But the risk was too high. Their bond wasn’t strong enough to determine with certainty that Findekáno’s fëa was ready to depart from Maitimo’s hröa, so he could coordinate their near-deaths. Even if he could, what if Maitimo’s attempt to slay himself damaged Findekáno’s body permanently, preventing him from returning to it? Findekáno’s death, especially by his own hand, would be too hard a blow for everyone, above all for his father. It would break Nolofinwë, and it was something the people he led could not afford. Maitimo would not be responsible for the demise of more Eldar.
He could enlist the help of others. Never before had he heard of such a complete exchange of fëar, but if anyone knew about it, it would be Artanis, who had studied under many Valar. She would be privy to the secrets of the Song. But this option wasn’t without risks either. There was a high chance Artanis wouldn’t know how to help, but she surely wouldn’t keep Maitimo’s secret to herself. Knowing Findekáno was suffering far away, and they were helpless to save him, would have been even more cruel than knowing he was dead. Maitimo could not do it to Findekáno’s family. What would they do if they found out Findekáno was beyond their reach? What would they do with Maitimo when they realized that a traitor walked in their midst, wearing the face of someone they loved? It was likely that they would be sensible enough not to damage Findekáno’s body, but there was always a chance their fury and pain would blind them to everything else.
Maitimo had had many chances to ascertain that Nolofinwë’s people considered all of them traitors. Did Findekáno believe so, too? Why wouldn’t he? What else could he have believed?
Once, when they had stopped for a short rest, and the conversation had turned to Maitimo and his brothers, Maitimo made his first and last attempt to defend himself.
“Is it not possible that some of them thought Fëanáro would have sent the ships back for us?” he dared to question.
Turukáno rose to his feet and marched away, Irissë following him.
“Findekáno,” Nolofinwë said with such pity that it would have infuriated the real Findekáno.
Maitimo kept silent on the subject after that and began working instead on repairing Findekáno’s relationship with his siblings. Stealing Findekáno’s body was enough damage; he was not going to deprive him of his family, too.
He found Turukáno alone one day—a rare occasion as he scarcely left his daughter’s side—sat next to him, and waited until Findekáno’s brother looked at him.
“I have come to apologize,” he said.
Turukáno’s sideways glance was strange.
“That would be the first time,” he said.
Maitimo was well familiar with Findekáno’s famed obstinance, a trait that he shared. So many of their arguments could have been resolved had he not. But it was easier to be reasonable while playing someone else’s role. Maitimo had a unique opportunity to look at Findekáno’s life from the side and to alter it for the better. He nodded at Turukáno and did his best to look contrite. He had seen the expression on Findekáno’s face a few times. Hopefully, so had his brother.
“I know Elenwë’s loss still pains you—”
“You understand nothing of it.”
“No,” Maitimo agreed, “but surely, I can try. The burden you bear is too heavy for one to carry.”
“No one else can carry it for me. There is nothing that can be done. My daughter is motherless now, and you cannot make it better.”
“It must be harrowing to look ahead and try to envision a future without her,” Maitimo said. “Without someone you believed would always be there, someone you could always rely on. Now you must do all of it alone, and you cannot be certain if you will have enough strength, enough willpower. You are not certain if you are enough. This is not the dream, this is not what was promised, not what you imagined. This is not what was supposed to happen. She was not supposed to leave you alone. It makes you angry, and you tell yourself you should not be; it is unfair, it is no use to be furious with someone who is dead. You turn that fury inwards, and it makes you cold, makes you lonely, makes you distance yourself from those you love. You fear losing them, but you do not know how to help them, how to help yourself. And then it is too late, and they are gone, or you are gone, or you have grown apart irrevocably, so you cannot do anything to change it. You would not know where to begin. You cannot make it right.”
Turukáno had turned away from him. His tears hailed on the snow. Maitimo swallowed the ash in his mouth. In the back of his mind, Findekáno wept. He buried it deep in his fëa.
“It hurts and always will,” he said. “You may never make peace with it, may always struggle with the unfairness of it, but you must learn to live with that pain. Speak to your daughter. She is the one who will understand you best of all. I know she needs it too. Do it for her if not for yourself. It is not too late for you, Turvo.”
Turukáno was silent for a while.
“You had not called me Turvo for quite a long time,” he said finally.
“I was not sure you would appreciate it,” Maitimo answered with a smile.
Turukáno did not smile back, but he leaned against his brother and took his hand.
---
After the conversation, Turukáno’s shoulders no longer tensed whenever Maitimo approached him, and he began smiling more easily. Maitimo thought it would be enough to make peace with Irissë, too. Findekáno had always said that she would follow Turukáno’s lead in everything. But Findekáno’s sister proved more willful. She was short and cold with Maitimo and spent most of her time either hunting, often fruitlessly, or trying to entertain Itarillë. Maitimo began joining her hunts (not suspicious, Findekáno would have done it too) and made it a habit to walk with Itarillë whenever he could (possibly suspicious, he did not remember Findekáno mentioning his niece that often, but by the end, he and Findekáno weren’t quite on speaking terms, so perhaps he had been close to Itarillë, and Maitimo simply didn’t know).
Irissë’s heart could not be won through painful conversations, but Maitimo didn’t give up hope. The idea of being estranged from his siblings was not acceptable.
They had stopped to rest their weary limbs for a while and to replenish their food supplies. Snow fell in big, soft flakes, gentle now that there was no biting wind. Itarillë closed her eyes and turned her chin up, letting the snowflakes gather on her golden eyelashes. Irissë was standing a little away, peering into the snow, perhaps trying to decide if a hunting trip was feasible. Maitimo had woken from a terrible nightmare and was determined to erase it from his mind by focusing on an important task.
“Itarillë,” he whispered.
The girl opened her eyes and turned to him.
“Watch,” Maitimo said.
He threw the snowball he had made, hitting his mark, the back of Irissë’s head, with ease. Irissë turned on her heels, her face twisted in anger, but the words froze on her lips when she saw Itarillë giggling, her hand on her mouth, her eyes narrowed to two mirthful slits. Maitimo had not heard her laugh even once since he found himself in Findekáno’s body.
“I see,” Irissë said, bending down to gather snow. “You and your uncle have made a grave mistake. He may boast of his precise aim, but we both know I am the better shooter.”
She proved it by aiming the snowball at Maitimo’s face. He didn’t have the time to turn away, only to raise his arm to cover his eyes. Within minutes, a dozen children had joined the battle. Young Eldar, who had spent most or all of their lives on the Ice, who had seen so little joy and too much grief, shrieked with laughter and danced on the snow. Irissë’s clever strategy had them all turn on Maitimo in the end. They surrounded him, pelting him with snowballs with no mercy. Besieged, Maitimo fell on the snow, unable to stop laughing, even to offer his surrender. It was the first time in decades he had laughed. How he had missed Findekáno’s laughter. How he had missed laughing.
Irissë lay down next to him, breathing heavily, covered in snow from head to toe, just like her brother, glanced at Itarillë, who was still playing with the other children, glanced at Maitimo, and hit him in the face with a snowball.
---
The desperate journey over the Ice went on. Many of the Noldor were close to despair, doubting now that there would ever be an end to their ordeal, doubting even that they were going in the right direction. But Maitimo knew they were. Even if the stars deceived them, he would be certain of it because his bond with Findekáno grew stronger the longer they walked. It wasn’t as easy now to forget the dreams, to push away the visions, to ignore Findekáno keening like a wounded dog in a remote part of Maitimo’s soul. Maitimo stumbled often, slept little, and jumped whenever someone brushed by him.
Five separate people spoke to him, inquiring about his well-being, offering their help. What was Maitimo supposed to tell them? How could he reveal the truth after all this time? What would be the point? He could only smile and attribute his ailment to weariness and cold. He could only reassure them that he would be fine.
He kept reaching out to Findekáno. He couldn’t help it. It was unlikely he could bring Findekáno back or change anything for him, but he still tried. Back there, he would have given anything to feel the presence of someone who loved him or, at the very least, someone who didn’t wish to hurt him. He was sure Findekáno wanted the same.
He received no answer, no matter how hard he tried. He received no answer until, one day, he did.
It happened with no warning. The frozen vastness around him vanished, replaced with darkness so intense Maitimo could feel it on his skin, taste it on his tongue. Immediately, he was aware of Findekáno and of his recognition, his sudden hope, and the spike of fear that accompanied every little change in that place.
Russandol? He felt Findekáno think.
Maitimo’s fëa twisted in Findekáno’s body, fluttering like a captured bird, straining to flee to its rightful place through the weak bond. Thousands of sharp knives were carving Maitimo from the inside. He felt all the new wounds on his old body. It was trembling in chains, oozing blood and pus, its limbs bent in impossible angles. Maitimo could not move it, had no control over it. No, this was wrong! Something had gone wrong. It must have. He could not be back. He had escaped; he was free. He had left this place behind, had found his family, had made a life for himself. He did not want to be back. He did not want to be himself again. He could not.
His panic was exacerbated by someone else’s terror, by someone else clashing against his mind, clinging to his fëa, pleading for something Maitimo could not understand. With great effort, he tore himself away from the second presence, tried to flee once again from the ruins of his old body, and wept with joy when he felt his cheek freezing. Ice, it was ice. He became distantly aware that he was sprawled on snow. He was making a sound no throat should have been capable of. There were people around him, speaking to him in urgent words he could not comprehend. But now he could again recognize that it was Findekáno on the other side of the bond. It was Findekáno screaming, calling for him. Russandol, help me, he was saying, please, help me. How could Maitimo have left him there? How could he not have realized it was him? How could he have pushed him away? How could he help him now?
Maitimo resurfaced from the freezing sea of guilt and grief, struggling against the current that threatened to swallow him again, and tried to form coherent thoughts. It was clear that if this debilitating bond came to life once, it would do so again. It would happen more and more often as they approached Endórë. Maitimo could not afford to be paralyzed like this every time. Even the visions had become too much. Maitimo could not become a liability, could not endanger these people, could not hurt his family. It would help neither Findekáno nor the Noldor. There was only one thing he could do. He had to find the strength for it. For the sake of his people. For the sake of his family.
He reached for Findekáno again, hoping to offer him a little comfort, trying to impress upon him all his love, the urgency of the situation, the impossible choice before him. The response from the other side was only horror and confusion. Findekáno did not understand. He could not. Maitimo would not have understood either in his place. Findekáno’s fëa kept struggling to escape its prison, to return home. Maitimo could no longer bear it.
I will find you, he promised Findekáno, reached for the unsteady bond between them and ripped it away.
The pain was blinding but brief. It dissolved into slow ripples, echoes that disappeared, leaving only emptiness behind.
“You would have done the same,” Maitimo told the emptiness. “You would have.”
He had to. He had no other choice. The bond was not strong enough to exchange the fëar. He did not know if it was even possible. He could not risk it. He had to do it.
He would keep his promise. He would find Findekáno. Now that the bond was gone, he would have no distractions. He could be more helpful, could spur his people forward, so they would reach Endórë and Findekáno as swiftly as they could. He would protect Findekáno’s people, Findekáno’s family. He would make them stronger, more united than before. He would take care of Findekáno’s body. He would bring it back to Findekáno in a better state than he had received it. He would. He would.
The whispers around him were more distinct now. He could understand them. He raised his head. The small crowd gathered around him parted, opening a passage for Nolofinwë, who approached with hurried steps.
“Findekáno!” he exclaimed, leaning over Maitimo. “What happened? Are you well?”
“I am now,” Maitimo said.
His voice was raw, vacant. He tried to smile to reassure his father, but Nolofinwë’s frown only deepened.
“I will be,” Maitimo promised, took Nolofinwë’s hand, and rose to his feet.
