Summary: An angsty little oneshot concerning an encounter between Fingon and Turgon in the Helcaraxë shortly after the death of Elenwe. Please enjoy, and feel free to review!
Disclaimer: All this belongs to the certified genius J.R.R. Tolkien, one of the greatest "sub-creators" this world has ever seen.
Empty Words
Fingon drew a deep breath and hesitated slightly before pulling back the flap of the large tent. The High Prince of the Noldor stepped inside, glad to be out of the biting wind, despite the fact that even the thick tent canvas offered little shelter against the bone-chilling cold of the Helcaraxë. A lone figure facing the opposite direction stood in the center of the spacious tent, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
"Turgon?"
The figure didn't stir. Fingon took a few cautious steps forward.
"Brother?"
When there was still no response, Fingon reached out and laid a tentative hand on the unmoving Elf's shoulder. Turgon's eyes were closed, his face seemingly calm and relaxed, but underneath his hand, Fingon could feel his sibling's muscles tense in anxiety.
"He will pay."
"What?" Fingon started as his brother's low voice broke into the stillness.
Turgon at last opened his eyes and turned to face his brother.
"Fëanor will pay for this."
Fingon withdrew his hand and took an involuntary step backward. He had never seen his younger brother like this before. For his sibling's hushed voice was laced with a steely determination that spoke of vengeance, and in his eyes was a fierce bloodlust bordering even on insanity. And the one known as "The Valiant" was frightened.
"Turgon," he said slowly, swallowing hard as he meticulously chose his words, "I know you are suffering – I can see it in your eyes. But please be reasonable, brother. You cannot lay all blame for this disaster upon Fëanor. Morgoth is our true enemy here – he, and he alone, is at fault."
"Hmph. You sound so much like Father," Turgon snorted softly, turning his back on his brother. "You have always been like him. Why else would he have joined in this wretched quest if you had not gone first?"
"We all agreed to follow Fëanor. And we may have had our different motives in doing so, but nevertheless, we went." Fingon gave a weary sigh. "In that sense, I suppose we are as much to blame as anyone…"
"Perhaps," the younger Elf broke in. "But all the same, he left us behind. He persuaded us to join him with those eloquent speeches, and then at the first sign of trouble he left us. Left us to this frozen fate!" There was no mistaking the murderous intent in his eyes now.
Turgon continued, "I can promise you one thing, Fingon: if Father doesn't challenge Fëanor over this when we return, I will."
"Our Father will do what he must," Fingon immediately defended Fingolfin. But sensing that this discussion was close to becoming a heated debate, he took a deep breath to steady himself before proceeding. "He will do what he knows is best."
"Best?" Turgon echoed in bitter disgust. He turned away from his brother and began pacing back and forth restlessly around the tent. "Of course that is easy enough for you to say, Fingon. You have no children of your own – you aren't even married yet! My wife is dead, Fingon. I watched her die, watched her drown beneath the ice of this Valar-forsaken wasteland!"
The younger Elf's voice had finally risen to an angry shout, and he took a moment to visibly compose himself, his back once again towards his sibling.
"At least you still have Idril, a living gift and reminder of Elenwë, whom you have lost," Fingon said softly, offering what comfort he could.
But Turgon only sighed, and his shoulders slumped as he at last succumbed to grief. "My daughter will never truly know her mother," he replied at last, his voice hoarse. "She is too young for all of this. Far too young…" Tears welled up unseen in the Elven Prince's eyes, and he was silent.
Fingon stared at his brother's back for a moment, indecisive. But when Turgon offered no further word or gesture, he stepped forward and once again laid a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder, feeling it tremble slightly beneath his touch.
"I am sorry for your loss, my brother, and I do grieve with you. But please do not despair! This is no time for rash actions. When we at last reach Middle-earth, there will yet be hope for our future – for your future. You will see."
But Turgon only exhaled sharply in what sounded to Fingon like a bitter chuckle.
"Empty words, Fingon," he said, at last turning around to squarely meet his elder's gaze, his bright eyes strong yet sorrowful. "Empty words. Even now, there is a shadow of dread and grief upon my heart; and no victory, however great, shall ever fully dispel it. I thank you for your concerns, Brother, but it's no more than empty words."
With that, he moved away once more, and Fingon perceived that his time here was spent. There was nothing more he could do for Turgon now, other than to let him confront his grief alone. And so he turned to leave.
But, just as he had done before entering the tent, he hesitated, this time weighed down by an unwelcome aura of grim foreboding as he pondered his brother's words. Was Turgon right? Was everything he had just said, and all their plans for a victorious return, nothing more than empty words? His heart heavy, the High Prince of the Noldor sighed and walked slowly back into the frigid night.