Characters/Pairing: Maedhros, Feanor, Nerdanel
Warnings/Note: none; three connected drabbles
Book/Source: the Silmarillion
Disclaimer: unpaid, unprofessional, unlikely
The very last time they were all together, staying in his grandfather Mahtan’s house, Maedhros filled his lungs with breathlessness, revelling in the sweet grass and sweeter water. But his father worked with metal, twisting different metals into different shapes like the skeletons of birds. Crisp new parchment, the finest muslin and the high winds, those were his materials, too.
Maedhros was content to sleep under the tall trees, but the eyes of Feanor followed the flight of birds big and small.
Sometimes Maedhros watched him trying to measure and map the sweeping wings of Manwe’s eagles as they passed.
One day he asked his mother what Father was working on, because Feanor had retreated into solitude again. Nerdanel tousled his hair, a gesture that had long ago become a habit.
‘Your father, Maitimo,’ said she, ‘Is trying to build an object that will fly.’
He was bemused. But didn’t birds fly? Well. Of course they did. This, however, was different.
When she explained, Maedhros was troubled. He was not sure he wanted to fly. He loved his feet, loved the sensation of blood pounding in his legs when he ran and jumped and swam.
Nerdanel’s lips curled slightly upward.
He had carried it back from Formenos, not entirely knowing why. A flimsy contraption of copper and cloth. You’d hold it just so, and throw it, just so. It’d spin up, shooting forwards into the air. It was the only surviving fruit of his father’s efforts with the flying machine.
Maedhros wet his lips feebly, suddenly aware of a sensation he could not recall in all his life. Someone was holding him very tightly, and there was the oddest throb in his right wrist, but that was not it.
‘We’re flying,’ he almost breathed. He did not open his eyes.