10I got a wonderful prompt on tumblr that went like this:
"I love your writing style! Do you take prompts? If so, and if you like my idea, could you write a fic about an elf escaping from Morgoth and, as it says in the Silm, being mistrusted and driven away by his people. So he instead goes to Himring and joins Maedhros. I headcanon that this is how Maedhros had such a loyal following up to as late as and after the third kinslaying. Although his later actions were evil, he had given these elves a home and the trust that they couldn't find elsewhere."
The first time time Mistoron sees an elven village, he weeps. His bare feet are bleeding and the rugs he wears no longer provide any shelter save for the sorry excuse of preserving of what is left of his dignity. He stumbles time after time and the fair, clean faces blur in his bleary eyes.
It takes a lot to come to the smithy. The noise makes his blood freeze and everything screams in him to run away, to run and hide before the lash falls on his back once again. But the shackle rubs against his ever raw wrist and the chain he has to carry is heavy; heavier now that he finally sees free elves around him. His other wrist is still swollen, though it has probably started to heal already; that he cannot tell. He pulled and pulled until he managed to pull his hand through the shackle. The damage was a small price to pay for freedom.
The smith is a sturdy elf. He speaks little and asks no questions, but he agrees to remove the shackle. Mistoron shivers and sinks down on a bench, suddenly too weary to move, but then anxiety strikes once again. He has no means to pay him and he utters as much, afraid that he will be send away, but the smith just shrugs.
"I will not see any elf suffer these," he answers simply and prepares his tools.
Mistoron does not remember the moment the chains fall on the floor. He's too petrified to look and awaits the pain that will surely follow, and the next thing he recalls is the smith helping him sit; he has fallen from the bench. Mistoron obeys blindly, still half expecting the pain to come, but none of this happens. Finally he looks down at his hands and sees only abused skin. No chains, no shackles. He's free. Really, truly free. He's weak and hurt, but that matters not; the ache will fade, he knows it will.
The smith (Mistoron never learns his name) feeds and cloths him, but then he is firm as he points at the door.
"You cannot stay here. I trust you not."
"Wha-," words die in his throat and Mistoron stares blankly, the warmth in his belly that the real meal provided suddenly turning into a sickening heaviness. He cannot bear the thought of going back alone into the wilderness, not when, not...
"I know not what evil will come after you or what calamity will fall upon as all because of you. Leave. Now." There is steel in his voice and Mistoron backs away until he feels a wall behind his back. He knows the tone too well.
The smith realises how terrified his unwanted guest is and he softens a bit. He leaves for a moment, and when he returns, there is a sack in his arms.
"Leave," he repeats and throws the pack to Mistoron. Petrified as he is, he fails to catch it and it falls on the floor. "It's just some food. You can take it," the smith explains and picks the package. He offers it again and this time Mistoron takes it with his shaking hands.
"Now leave."
Mistoron flees.
Every village he passes reacts in a similar manner. Those who take pity on him offer him some food, but more often than not he is just chased away. Even when he hides his wrists in his sleeves and cuts his matted hair short, they always recognise a prisoner and shut their doors. Mistoron goes on, wondering what kind of Morgoth's curse is following him, one that prevents him from finding rest and safety among his people. He wanted to go home; now he fears he will be treated the same way by people he knows and he doesn't think he can bear it.
"The only one crazy enough to take in someone like you is the Noldorin Prince Maedhros, if you've heard about him," someone calls after Mistoron when he turns to leave yet another village.
He has heard about him; of course he has. Those who dwelt in the Pits of Angband whispered stories of those like him; the Noldorin king who had been rescued and who lived high up North. Of those who managed to escape the misery and returned to the world of living. What they never spoke of was the fact that their own kin refused to know them once they were lucky enough to escape.
It s a long journey, but Mistoron has already learned that his own kin would not have him back, no matter where, so he turns north. He travels mostly at nights. After having spent so much time in the dungeons, his eyes cannot accustom to light easily. He was born under the sun and he loved the warm glow it provided, yet now too much of that light makes his eyes tear and hurt. It is slowly getting better as he carries on with his journey, but it is just one more pain to add to his misery.
There is one more reason he chooses to travel at night. The warm hours of the day and the sun that pains his eyes, provide also some illusion of safety, allow him to find a place to hide and rest before journeying on, if these moments of vigilant napping can even be called so. Mistoron knows the foul servants of Morgoth dread the sun, so he shuts his eyes, covers his head and sleeps in the brightest spots he can find.
Finally the fortress at the top of Himring hill appears before his eyes. It looks strong and mighty, if a bit grim. But it is not dark-grim Mistoron is used to. The fortress screams defiance and as he climbs up the hill, he wishes he was already within its strong walls.
He asks a guard by the gate to see Lord Maedhros and his heart warms in hope as the soldier nods instead of telling him off. He calls someone to take his place and leads Mistoron up without asking any questions. They reach the walls and head to the nearest post.
"My lord," the guard calls and the elf keeping watch turns around. He's incredibly tall, with long, copper braid falling down his back. The silver circlet on his forehead glimmers in the sun, as does the eight-pointed star with crimson jewel holding his cloak. His face wears echo of old scars; they are almost invisible, nevertheless for someone like Mistoron they are hard to miss. And his eyes... Mistoron almost looks away.
The elf casts one long look at him and nods slightly to the guard. "What is your name?" He asks, his voice is calm and inviting.
"Mistoron." It is the first time someone cares enough to ask him that question.
"I'm Maedhros Feanorion."The Lord needs not to introduce himself, yet he does. He looks at the guard and waves his hand dismissively. "Thank you, Tuilindondil. Leave us." The elf makes himself scarce and Maedhros points at the narrow platform running along the walls. "Walk with me, Mistoron."
So far no one wished to deal with him, alone nor in a group. Mistoron fights down the hope that has been rising in him with each step he took to climb those walls. It can still go wrong. He follows the Noldorin Prince along the walls. No one wished to leave him unguarded, yet Maedhros does not even turn around to see if his guest is following. Mistoron envies him. He cannot stand anyone behind his back.
"I know why you sought me," Maedhros says suddenly and he stops. He looks north and as Mistoron follows his gaze, he sees the cruel tops of mountains encircling Angband. "I want to hear your story."
At first he finds no words, but once he starts talking, he cannot stop. The tight knot in his chest seem to loosen with each word he spits out. The lord listens as Mistoron recalls the dread of captivity, then the escape and the bitter disappointment that awaited him among his kin. He leaves out a lot, but he feels like Maedhros can see right through his story and easily fill in the untold details.
"I was hoping you could find my service useful somehow, my lord," Mistoron utters finally and the knot tightens again. There. He has said it. Now it's all up to the Noldorin Prince.
Maedhros watches him for a long time and his weird, blazing eyes seem to see pierce him. Mistoron waits, his heart racing in his chest.
Finally, the lord speaks. "It is a hard post, Mistoron. It's cold in here and the Enemy is close. You're welcome to stay, though it may not be easy. But I can promise you one thing," his eyes suddenly glow with cold fury. "I will never allow any of you to return there." The blazing eyes turn north towards the grim walls of Thangorodrim. "The Enemy will never lay his hands again on any of us."
This 'us' is all Mistoron needs. He sinks on his knees and binds his fate to that strange Noldorin prince. And for the first time in what seems like eternity, he feels safe.
Lord Maedhros offers him a hand and helps him up. The smile he gives is astonishingly gentle for one so scarred and with such a reputation.
"Welcome home," he says softly. I'll show you the fortress and have someone explain you our customs, but this can wait. Now, I want you to go to the healers and ask for Alcarino*. Tell him I sent you. He will know how to help you."
Mistoron nods and bows. Here, at this secluded hill, he's finally home.
*Alcarino is my OC healer who took care of Maedhros after Thangorodrim and then remained as his personal healer.
