For Zhie (Fingon/Maedhros, PG)
Recipient: zhie
Author: adlanth
Pairing: Fingon/Maedhros
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They're Tolkien's, not mine!
Prompt: “Something with Findekano (Fingon) (...) I'm not particularly set on anything. I write him as a gymnast & dancer in his younger days, and of course he's the warrior-king when he gets to Middle-earth... I'm pretty much up for anything, but bonus points for him going horseback riding at some
point.”
SPRING
The boy made his way through the wood. It was the end of a fine day: Laurelin was fading, her soft, steady rays slipping aslant through young, slim tree-trunks. It was quiet too, a far cry from the tumult of Tirion: a bird singing in the distance, briefly, then nothing but the sound of the boy's feet on the grass, a twig, now and then, breaking under his weight.
He was young -twenty perhaps, not even half-way to his majority, small, but not frail. His face had retained most of the roundness and softness of his youth, though his features were set, determined. His grey-blue eyes stared steadily ahead as he picked his way through the trees.
Finally he stopped in a clearing. He looked around: it was almost perfectly circular and the ground was level, thick with soft, yielding moss.
Divesting himself of his embroidered tunic, he ran. Then he spun, and ran again, and then, stopping, began to kick the air, and punch...At first he was without grace and then, little by little, peace seemed to come upon him, and his movements slowed and grew more deliberate and precise, and then sped up again and in their fluid quickness became beautiful...
Then he caught sight of a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, started violently and tumbled haphazardly into the moss. As he raised a dirt-smudged face from the grass, he found that the other man was crouching beside him.
'Are you well? I did not mean to frighten you.'
'I'm fine,' he answered.
The stranger stood up. He was a tall, fair man clad in simple travelling clothes, the boy found, with fine, clear-cut features and a braid of long brown hair that glistened like copper in the sun -such an intriguing colour, that he had never seen before, and yet which seemed so familiar...
The stranger, too, staring down at him with a slight frown, seemed to be trying to remember something. At last he smiled, and his grey eyes crinkled.
'I know you,' he said. 'You are Findekano -but you have grown so much since we last met! No wonder I almost failed to recognise you.' He gave a brief, rueful laugh. 'I suppose you don't remember me. But we are kin.'
'Are we?' Findekano asked, doubtfully.
'I am your uncle Fëanaro's son, Nelya -no,' this time the shadow of a frown flitted across his face, 'you must call me Maitimo.'
'Fëanaro?'
It was the first time he had heard the name spoken so matter-of-factly: not with the weary tones of his mother, or the mild exasperation of uncle Arafinwë, or the bewildered, aching anger of his father.
'Are you my cousin?' Findekano asked, scrunching his brow. 'Like Findarato?'
Maitimo smiled.
'Yes.'
Findekano sat, considering this. 'I think I remember you. Maybe.' For a long moment they were both silent.
'Were you dancing?' Maitimo asked. Findekano glanced up and frowned.
'No. I don't know. Maybe.' He had never spoken of this before, had never been caught, but for some reason it was strangely easy, with this familiar stranger, to speak of it -daily angers that ill suited the quiet, orderly hallways of the house of Wise Finwë. 'I can't be kind all the time,' he said, 'like Findarato or Turukano even.' In his own halting words he spoke of his mock-fights, refined into something gentler, motion free of anger, and all the while Maitimo watched with an intense, smiling curiosity.
'It was beautiful, in its way. Certainly unlike any dance I've seen.' He thought for a moment. 'You're an odd child, perhaps' he said. 'But a valiant one, I suppose. Findekano the Valiant.'
Again they were silent. But for some reason Findekano did not feel uncomfortable. He gazed up at his newly-discovered cousin, and his cousin gazed down at him, and they were both at peace. In fact, Findekano felt strangely joyful, as he had not for days.
'I am glad I met you.' Maitimo said at last.
'I am glad I met you, too.'
His cousin reached down, and helped him up. The touch of his hand brought a strange elation to Findekano, and glancing up, he thought he saw some vivid feeling flash across Maitimo's face. Together, they walked to Nolofinwë's house.
SUMMER
Findekano ran, heart thumping, chest heaving, ran and ran. The light of Laurelin at its hottest burned at his back. Dust rose under his feet. A rock under his foot, digging into flesh protected only by a light leather shoe -his ankle twisted, he almost stumbled, balanced himself gracefully, sped up again...
...and slowed, having crossed the finish line. About him athletes ran or sat, stretched long limbs heated by effort: most wore badges on their chest, embroidered after the emblem of their house; but in addition, he noted with some disquiet, many wore the emblem of either Fëanaro or his own father; and it seemed that the two did not mingle. He was walking about, trying to slow down his breathing, when in the distance he caught sight of Fëanaro and his family: Fëanaro himself, standing tall and, in spite of his current of indifference, imperious; Carnistir, flushed looking eagerly around; the young twins; and -Findekano's heart leapt almost against his will- Maitimo.
He was about to call to his cousin when Maitimo turned and, whispering something to his father, strode towards him. Findekano caught a glimpse of Fëanaro turning curiously towards him before some other lord came to him, bowing deferentially, and then -then Maitimo was there, and Findekano, with a rush of pleasure, grasped his cousin's forearm.
'You were able to come.'
'Yes,' Maitimo smiled, a grin that quickly turned wry. 'As you saw, Atar insisted on accompanying me. I think he means to speak with your father.'
That was no good omen. But Findekano did not care, not now. Taking Maitimo's shoulder, he led him away and they made their way through the throng of athletes and onlookers. Together they went to sit side by side on a grassy bank overlooking the stadium. They were some way from Tirion, close to the Calacirya; here Laurelin, at its peak, burned hotly; but Findekano relished the warmth on his already heated flesh. Beside him Maitimo stretched lazily.
'I heard about your...gymnastic exploits,' he said. 'Congratulations.'
Findekano grinned and held up a scratched hand.
'Thank you. I paid for my victory in blood, as you can see.'
'You fell while training, didn't you?'
Maitimo caught his hand playfully, examined the cut.
'Yes. But I did win the contest.'
Maitimo's fine finger traced the fresh, shallow scar that crossed his palm. A low, deep thrum seemed to course through his body. He did not move his hand. Maitimo's fingers remained clasped loosely about his. They did not look at each other.
'I heard you lost a race,' Maitimo said at length.
Findekano's face darkened.
'To Artanis.'
He nodded sombrely. But then Maitimo laughed and squeezed his hand and he found that he could not remain serious.
'I was very tired! and I almost fell again -uneven terrain- it was terribly unfair. Besides, I had my revenge, in a way.'
'Did you?'
'A couple of ladies took it upon themselves to compliment Nerwen on her exploits, which pleased her immensely, of course.'
'It would.'
'Then one of them decided to go further and praise her more...saying that Nerwen was wise to enjoy her games now that she was young and her body equal to that of a man, for surely such a lovely maid as she could not remain unmarried long and surely she would soon be with child.'
'Oh.'
'Nerwen was not pleased, as you may imagine.'
Maitimo gave a low, long laugh. Then his grip on Findekano's hand tightened slightly and he ran a thumb along the fine, sensitive skin at Findekano's wrist.
'Do you ever think of marrying, Findekano?'
He had almost forgotten to breathe, let alone answer.
'No,' he said. 'Do you?'
Maitimo gave his hand one last, possessive squeeze. 'No.'
Later, once the day's contests were over, they rode away. Findekano had taken part in a few more contests -gymnastics, wrestling... His body ached as he rode, but the joy of his cousin's presence seemed to overshadow the ache. Almost by accident, they found the clearing, they dismounted, tying their horses to a tree. Though they had hardly spent themselves, Findekano found that his pulse was racing; the nearness of his cousin, their isolation, thrilled him somehow. The woods were darker now, the rays of Laurelin dimmed, mingling with Telperion's shifting, dappled light.
Maitimo cast himself down in the grass, stretching his long limbs. He looked up, his face oddly wild.
'Do you still dance?' he asked.
Findekano nodded mutely.
'Then please dance.' Under his breath: for me. And Findekano did.
Now his dance, that was so unlike the careful, calculated dances of Tirion, still had something of a fight about it: long repressed energies, finding sudden release; anger, yes, frustrations...and something more beside. When did the dance change, he wondered? Into something more suggestive, full awareness of his body and of Maitimo's gaze trained on him, burning? He leapt, and spun, always aware of Maitimo, a sheen of sweat on his brow, heat in his limbs, his core.
This time, as before, he fell into the grass. But now the fall was deliberate; and when Maitimo leapt to his side, he caught him -Maitimo's shoulders under his hands, startled, eager grey eyes meeting his.
AUTUMN
The thing he had brought back, Fingon had decided, was not his cousin. Perhaps it was not even Elven. It was a white, bony, twisted thing; it had matted hair that fell away in clumps at the slightest touch and had to be shorn, and wild, red-rimmed eyes that rolled and stared. It lay unmoving for days, and sometimes it writhed and twisted, mouthing odd sounds that were not words; skull visible under stretched skin. A hand like a great spider that opened and clenched and went for him; on the other arm -nothing. Little by little, it became elven again. It grew fuller: its limbs, its cheeks lost some of their gauntness, its skin less transparent. Its hair grew back, thin but dense, feathery copper covering the harsh curves of its skull. It learned to speak again. Eventually Maitimo lay before him. He was still pale, thin, maimed; but his grey eyes were not so fey now: they settled on Fingon and watched him with a wondering tenderness. He took Fingon's hand in his and allowed himself to be pulled gently to his feet; swaying, he leant into Fingon's embrace, as breakable as a bird, legs shaking. Together they took a few steps.
They went walking. People stared at them, mistrustfully, wonderingly, hatefully: Fingon dark, eyes shuttered, and the creature that leant on his arm, tall and gaunt, which they barely recognised as their former prince.
Summer had been grey and sad (or had Fingon only perceived it that way, shut in the disease-stinking chambers of his cousin?); but this was a fine, warm autumn. Still, he helped his cousin into long, thick robes, tied a cloak about him to make up from his frailness, though it sometimes seemed to him that those heavy robes crushed him. Maedhros said little, did not complain; after so much pain, his eyes now held a bright, fragile wonder at the kindness of the world.
They walked about the shores of Mithrim; Maedhros sank weary feet into its waters, gasping a little at their sharp coldness, wagged his toes; but walking on the loose sand about the lake tired him. They sat looking across the waters at the Fëanorians' distant camp: houses huddled by the shore, smoke wafting dark and grey into the sky. (Soon, said Fingolfin back in their own encampment, they must send messengers, since their situation had changed...and with this he glanced meaningfully at Maedhros; Finrod, kind and bright-eyed, agreed eagerly; Turgon paced the room, shaking his head, hands clenching and unclenching in wordless rage; and Fingon watched his cousin -guest? hostage?- sitting close to the fire, gaunt face aglow but distant, drifting in some dream of his own, a heedless pawn.)
To avoid curious eyes they later went into woods north of the lake, which were thick with trees they did not recognise, tall species that seemed to have reached all their years for the faint starlight, and had now grown dense and full. It was quiet there (although once or twice Fingon wondered if he did not catch a glimpse of some fleeting silhouette -some wandering native of Beleriand?) and dark; though sinister it also seemed peaceful.
Maedhros, tripping on a branch, fell against him. Fingon caught him -so light- and for a moment felt the full imprint of his lean body against his: chest to chest, hip to hip, even a long thigh against his. He wrapped his arms around Maedhros's shoulders and held him close, dipped his head, his cheek against his kinsman's neck, breathing in the smell of his hair, his skin. In his own hair Maedhros's hand slipped, tentative and caressing.
'Fingon,' he whispered. 'Do you still dance?'
He laughed without making a sound, the quaking of his body alone echoing into Maedhros's. Maedhros laughed quietly in answer, thinking perhaps of his own dancing on the cliff, bleeding feet scrabbling against stone.
'No,' he said at last, 'there hasn't been much time for dancing.'
Carefully he disentangled himself from their embrace and held Maedhros at arm's length. His cousin stood before him, still and earnest, bright-eyed; haunted by the memory of pain and amazed by its current absence; this fragile happiness of his, Fingon suspected, a symptom of brokenness.
'I'll teach you again,' he said, stepping sideways. Maedhros followed. He stepped back, and Maedhros stepped back. Three yards apart, they walked and jumped in symmetry, a parody, in that dark, wild forest, of the courtly, careful dances of Tirion.
WINTER
Fingon inched the shutter open and looked out. At his back he could feel the distant warmth of a roaring fire, but this corner of the room was chilly. Below Barad Eithel and far in the distance, the land lay covered in a thick cloak of snow, reflecting a bleak, white-grey sky. Even as he watched a gust of wind blew some snow off a rooftop below. Behind him Maedhros, seated before a large map, was speaking, laying out some battle plans...
Pushing the shutter shut, he turned.
'Two lovers...and now this.'
Maedhros looked up, startled. For a moment Fingon saw him stripped of his enthusiasm, inarticulate dread revealed -what do you fear? That if you cannot attack Morgoth then you must go to Doriath, and then...
'What?' Maedhros said.
'Lúthien and Beren Barahirion. A sheltered maiden and a mortal in love and...' And then -glorious theft, victories already sung into legend... and in their wake, Finrod, dragged to a terrible death. The thought of his loss (so soon after Angrod, Aegnor -Fingolfin) was unbearable. 'And you want us to marshal the might of all Elves and Men.'
'Yes,' was the taut answer. Then Maedhros looked down at his map again. 'Whoever will join us.'
Fingon gave a brief laugh.
'Will you join me in Himring in the spring?' Maedhros continued after a while.
'Will your brothers be here? Celegorm. Curufin.'
'I can send them to Thargelion.'
'I don't want to see them again. Never,' Fingon spat.
His disgust must have been audible; Maedhros raised wary eyes. What if I had sworn to help Barahir's kin, Fingon wondered. What if I had come to you?
He turned to the window again. It was snowing now and as he watched it fall he too felt that he was sinking, had been sinking ever since he had set foot on Middle-earth... 'Two lovers, dancing away in a forest,' he heard himself say. 'Never again.'
SPRING
Alone, he leapt and spun. Though his body bore no scars, his dance now held echoes of sword fights, battles and grief; but an innocent eye, perhaps, would not have noted it, seeing only its grace.
At last he lay down in the grass. The dance brought back memories, some vague, some as poignant, and fleeting, as dreams, and for a while he let himself sink into them, the bitter and the sweet.
'Findekano,' a voice said. He opened his eyes.
'Cousin.'
A tall silhouette -crowned with gold, not copper. He turned to lie on his side and his cousin sat down beside him.
'Findarato,' he said. 'Do you think our kinsmen may be brought back to us, one day?'
'I think, so, yes,' Findarato answered after a while. 'I hope.'
Findekano, too, hoped.
Author: adlanth
Pairing: Fingon/Maedhros
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They're Tolkien's, not mine!
Prompt: “Something with Findekano (Fingon) (...) I'm not particularly set on anything. I write him as a gymnast & dancer in his younger days, and of course he's the warrior-king when he gets to Middle-earth... I'm pretty much up for anything, but bonus points for him going horseback riding at some
point.”
SPRING
The boy made his way through the wood. It was the end of a fine day: Laurelin was fading, her soft, steady rays slipping aslant through young, slim tree-trunks. It was quiet too, a far cry from the tumult of Tirion: a bird singing in the distance, briefly, then nothing but the sound of the boy's feet on the grass, a twig, now and then, breaking under his weight.
He was young -twenty perhaps, not even half-way to his majority, small, but not frail. His face had retained most of the roundness and softness of his youth, though his features were set, determined. His grey-blue eyes stared steadily ahead as he picked his way through the trees.
Finally he stopped in a clearing. He looked around: it was almost perfectly circular and the ground was level, thick with soft, yielding moss.
Divesting himself of his embroidered tunic, he ran. Then he spun, and ran again, and then, stopping, began to kick the air, and punch...At first he was without grace and then, little by little, peace seemed to come upon him, and his movements slowed and grew more deliberate and precise, and then sped up again and in their fluid quickness became beautiful...
Then he caught sight of a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, started violently and tumbled haphazardly into the moss. As he raised a dirt-smudged face from the grass, he found that the other man was crouching beside him.
'Are you well? I did not mean to frighten you.'
'I'm fine,' he answered.
The stranger stood up. He was a tall, fair man clad in simple travelling clothes, the boy found, with fine, clear-cut features and a braid of long brown hair that glistened like copper in the sun -such an intriguing colour, that he had never seen before, and yet which seemed so familiar...
The stranger, too, staring down at him with a slight frown, seemed to be trying to remember something. At last he smiled, and his grey eyes crinkled.
'I know you,' he said. 'You are Findekano -but you have grown so much since we last met! No wonder I almost failed to recognise you.' He gave a brief, rueful laugh. 'I suppose you don't remember me. But we are kin.'
'Are we?' Findekano asked, doubtfully.
'I am your uncle Fëanaro's son, Nelya -no,' this time the shadow of a frown flitted across his face, 'you must call me Maitimo.'
'Fëanaro?'
It was the first time he had heard the name spoken so matter-of-factly: not with the weary tones of his mother, or the mild exasperation of uncle Arafinwë, or the bewildered, aching anger of his father.
'Are you my cousin?' Findekano asked, scrunching his brow. 'Like Findarato?'
Maitimo smiled.
'Yes.'
Findekano sat, considering this. 'I think I remember you. Maybe.' For a long moment they were both silent.
'Were you dancing?' Maitimo asked. Findekano glanced up and frowned.
'No. I don't know. Maybe.' He had never spoken of this before, had never been caught, but for some reason it was strangely easy, with this familiar stranger, to speak of it -daily angers that ill suited the quiet, orderly hallways of the house of Wise Finwë. 'I can't be kind all the time,' he said, 'like Findarato or Turukano even.' In his own halting words he spoke of his mock-fights, refined into something gentler, motion free of anger, and all the while Maitimo watched with an intense, smiling curiosity.
'It was beautiful, in its way. Certainly unlike any dance I've seen.' He thought for a moment. 'You're an odd child, perhaps' he said. 'But a valiant one, I suppose. Findekano the Valiant.'
Again they were silent. But for some reason Findekano did not feel uncomfortable. He gazed up at his newly-discovered cousin, and his cousin gazed down at him, and they were both at peace. In fact, Findekano felt strangely joyful, as he had not for days.
'I am glad I met you.' Maitimo said at last.
'I am glad I met you, too.'
His cousin reached down, and helped him up. The touch of his hand brought a strange elation to Findekano, and glancing up, he thought he saw some vivid feeling flash across Maitimo's face. Together, they walked to Nolofinwë's house.
SUMMER
Findekano ran, heart thumping, chest heaving, ran and ran. The light of Laurelin at its hottest burned at his back. Dust rose under his feet. A rock under his foot, digging into flesh protected only by a light leather shoe -his ankle twisted, he almost stumbled, balanced himself gracefully, sped up again...
...and slowed, having crossed the finish line. About him athletes ran or sat, stretched long limbs heated by effort: most wore badges on their chest, embroidered after the emblem of their house; but in addition, he noted with some disquiet, many wore the emblem of either Fëanaro or his own father; and it seemed that the two did not mingle. He was walking about, trying to slow down his breathing, when in the distance he caught sight of Fëanaro and his family: Fëanaro himself, standing tall and, in spite of his current of indifference, imperious; Carnistir, flushed looking eagerly around; the young twins; and -Findekano's heart leapt almost against his will- Maitimo.
He was about to call to his cousin when Maitimo turned and, whispering something to his father, strode towards him. Findekano caught a glimpse of Fëanaro turning curiously towards him before some other lord came to him, bowing deferentially, and then -then Maitimo was there, and Findekano, with a rush of pleasure, grasped his cousin's forearm.
'You were able to come.'
'Yes,' Maitimo smiled, a grin that quickly turned wry. 'As you saw, Atar insisted on accompanying me. I think he means to speak with your father.'
That was no good omen. But Findekano did not care, not now. Taking Maitimo's shoulder, he led him away and they made their way through the throng of athletes and onlookers. Together they went to sit side by side on a grassy bank overlooking the stadium. They were some way from Tirion, close to the Calacirya; here Laurelin, at its peak, burned hotly; but Findekano relished the warmth on his already heated flesh. Beside him Maitimo stretched lazily.
'I heard about your...gymnastic exploits,' he said. 'Congratulations.'
Findekano grinned and held up a scratched hand.
'Thank you. I paid for my victory in blood, as you can see.'
'You fell while training, didn't you?'
Maitimo caught his hand playfully, examined the cut.
'Yes. But I did win the contest.'
Maitimo's fine finger traced the fresh, shallow scar that crossed his palm. A low, deep thrum seemed to course through his body. He did not move his hand. Maitimo's fingers remained clasped loosely about his. They did not look at each other.
'I heard you lost a race,' Maitimo said at length.
Findekano's face darkened.
'To Artanis.'
He nodded sombrely. But then Maitimo laughed and squeezed his hand and he found that he could not remain serious.
'I was very tired! and I almost fell again -uneven terrain- it was terribly unfair. Besides, I had my revenge, in a way.'
'Did you?'
'A couple of ladies took it upon themselves to compliment Nerwen on her exploits, which pleased her immensely, of course.'
'It would.'
'Then one of them decided to go further and praise her more...saying that Nerwen was wise to enjoy her games now that she was young and her body equal to that of a man, for surely such a lovely maid as she could not remain unmarried long and surely she would soon be with child.'
'Oh.'
'Nerwen was not pleased, as you may imagine.'
Maitimo gave a low, long laugh. Then his grip on Findekano's hand tightened slightly and he ran a thumb along the fine, sensitive skin at Findekano's wrist.
'Do you ever think of marrying, Findekano?'
He had almost forgotten to breathe, let alone answer.
'No,' he said. 'Do you?'
Maitimo gave his hand one last, possessive squeeze. 'No.'
Later, once the day's contests were over, they rode away. Findekano had taken part in a few more contests -gymnastics, wrestling... His body ached as he rode, but the joy of his cousin's presence seemed to overshadow the ache. Almost by accident, they found the clearing, they dismounted, tying their horses to a tree. Though they had hardly spent themselves, Findekano found that his pulse was racing; the nearness of his cousin, their isolation, thrilled him somehow. The woods were darker now, the rays of Laurelin dimmed, mingling with Telperion's shifting, dappled light.
Maitimo cast himself down in the grass, stretching his long limbs. He looked up, his face oddly wild.
'Do you still dance?' he asked.
Findekano nodded mutely.
'Then please dance.' Under his breath: for me. And Findekano did.
Now his dance, that was so unlike the careful, calculated dances of Tirion, still had something of a fight about it: long repressed energies, finding sudden release; anger, yes, frustrations...and something more beside. When did the dance change, he wondered? Into something more suggestive, full awareness of his body and of Maitimo's gaze trained on him, burning? He leapt, and spun, always aware of Maitimo, a sheen of sweat on his brow, heat in his limbs, his core.
This time, as before, he fell into the grass. But now the fall was deliberate; and when Maitimo leapt to his side, he caught him -Maitimo's shoulders under his hands, startled, eager grey eyes meeting his.
AUTUMN
The thing he had brought back, Fingon had decided, was not his cousin. Perhaps it was not even Elven. It was a white, bony, twisted thing; it had matted hair that fell away in clumps at the slightest touch and had to be shorn, and wild, red-rimmed eyes that rolled and stared. It lay unmoving for days, and sometimes it writhed and twisted, mouthing odd sounds that were not words; skull visible under stretched skin. A hand like a great spider that opened and clenched and went for him; on the other arm -nothing. Little by little, it became elven again. It grew fuller: its limbs, its cheeks lost some of their gauntness, its skin less transparent. Its hair grew back, thin but dense, feathery copper covering the harsh curves of its skull. It learned to speak again. Eventually Maitimo lay before him. He was still pale, thin, maimed; but his grey eyes were not so fey now: they settled on Fingon and watched him with a wondering tenderness. He took Fingon's hand in his and allowed himself to be pulled gently to his feet; swaying, he leant into Fingon's embrace, as breakable as a bird, legs shaking. Together they took a few steps.
They went walking. People stared at them, mistrustfully, wonderingly, hatefully: Fingon dark, eyes shuttered, and the creature that leant on his arm, tall and gaunt, which they barely recognised as their former prince.
Summer had been grey and sad (or had Fingon only perceived it that way, shut in the disease-stinking chambers of his cousin?); but this was a fine, warm autumn. Still, he helped his cousin into long, thick robes, tied a cloak about him to make up from his frailness, though it sometimes seemed to him that those heavy robes crushed him. Maedhros said little, did not complain; after so much pain, his eyes now held a bright, fragile wonder at the kindness of the world.
They walked about the shores of Mithrim; Maedhros sank weary feet into its waters, gasping a little at their sharp coldness, wagged his toes; but walking on the loose sand about the lake tired him. They sat looking across the waters at the Fëanorians' distant camp: houses huddled by the shore, smoke wafting dark and grey into the sky. (Soon, said Fingolfin back in their own encampment, they must send messengers, since their situation had changed...and with this he glanced meaningfully at Maedhros; Finrod, kind and bright-eyed, agreed eagerly; Turgon paced the room, shaking his head, hands clenching and unclenching in wordless rage; and Fingon watched his cousin -guest? hostage?- sitting close to the fire, gaunt face aglow but distant, drifting in some dream of his own, a heedless pawn.)
To avoid curious eyes they later went into woods north of the lake, which were thick with trees they did not recognise, tall species that seemed to have reached all their years for the faint starlight, and had now grown dense and full. It was quiet there (although once or twice Fingon wondered if he did not catch a glimpse of some fleeting silhouette -some wandering native of Beleriand?) and dark; though sinister it also seemed peaceful.
Maedhros, tripping on a branch, fell against him. Fingon caught him -so light- and for a moment felt the full imprint of his lean body against his: chest to chest, hip to hip, even a long thigh against his. He wrapped his arms around Maedhros's shoulders and held him close, dipped his head, his cheek against his kinsman's neck, breathing in the smell of his hair, his skin. In his own hair Maedhros's hand slipped, tentative and caressing.
'Fingon,' he whispered. 'Do you still dance?'
He laughed without making a sound, the quaking of his body alone echoing into Maedhros's. Maedhros laughed quietly in answer, thinking perhaps of his own dancing on the cliff, bleeding feet scrabbling against stone.
'No,' he said at last, 'there hasn't been much time for dancing.'
Carefully he disentangled himself from their embrace and held Maedhros at arm's length. His cousin stood before him, still and earnest, bright-eyed; haunted by the memory of pain and amazed by its current absence; this fragile happiness of his, Fingon suspected, a symptom of brokenness.
'I'll teach you again,' he said, stepping sideways. Maedhros followed. He stepped back, and Maedhros stepped back. Three yards apart, they walked and jumped in symmetry, a parody, in that dark, wild forest, of the courtly, careful dances of Tirion.
WINTER
Fingon inched the shutter open and looked out. At his back he could feel the distant warmth of a roaring fire, but this corner of the room was chilly. Below Barad Eithel and far in the distance, the land lay covered in a thick cloak of snow, reflecting a bleak, white-grey sky. Even as he watched a gust of wind blew some snow off a rooftop below. Behind him Maedhros, seated before a large map, was speaking, laying out some battle plans...
Pushing the shutter shut, he turned.
'Two lovers...and now this.'
Maedhros looked up, startled. For a moment Fingon saw him stripped of his enthusiasm, inarticulate dread revealed -what do you fear? That if you cannot attack Morgoth then you must go to Doriath, and then...
'What?' Maedhros said.
'Lúthien and Beren Barahirion. A sheltered maiden and a mortal in love and...' And then -glorious theft, victories already sung into legend... and in their wake, Finrod, dragged to a terrible death. The thought of his loss (so soon after Angrod, Aegnor -Fingolfin) was unbearable. 'And you want us to marshal the might of all Elves and Men.'
'Yes,' was the taut answer. Then Maedhros looked down at his map again. 'Whoever will join us.'
Fingon gave a brief laugh.
'Will you join me in Himring in the spring?' Maedhros continued after a while.
'Will your brothers be here? Celegorm. Curufin.'
'I can send them to Thargelion.'
'I don't want to see them again. Never,' Fingon spat.
His disgust must have been audible; Maedhros raised wary eyes. What if I had sworn to help Barahir's kin, Fingon wondered. What if I had come to you?
He turned to the window again. It was snowing now and as he watched it fall he too felt that he was sinking, had been sinking ever since he had set foot on Middle-earth... 'Two lovers, dancing away in a forest,' he heard himself say. 'Never again.'
SPRING
Alone, he leapt and spun. Though his body bore no scars, his dance now held echoes of sword fights, battles and grief; but an innocent eye, perhaps, would not have noted it, seeing only its grace.
At last he lay down in the grass. The dance brought back memories, some vague, some as poignant, and fleeting, as dreams, and for a while he let himself sink into them, the bitter and the sweet.
'Findekano,' a voice said. He opened his eyes.
'Cousin.'
A tall silhouette -crowned with gold, not copper. He turned to lie on his side and his cousin sat down beside him.
'Findarato,' he said. 'Do you think our kinsmen may be brought back to us, one day?'
'I think, so, yes,' Findarato answered after a while. 'I hope.'
Findekano, too, hoped.