Fingon crossing the Helcaraxe with his siblings and cousins... This isn't happy (when are my stories ever?) but I couldn't help myself.

Anyway...

Warning: implied slash, some adultish themes (like killing and stuff, not smexing)

Disclaimer: They all belong to Tolkien *sniffle*

Findecáno is Fingon and Turucáno is Turgon, for those of you who don't know

Bitter cold was the entire world now. Before, Findecáno had never been bothered by the cold or snow; he was an elf, after all. Now, though, he felt chilled down to his very bones, like there would never be warmth in his body ever again. Sometimes he couldn't feel his fingers or toes and thought perhaps they might even fall off.

This was their new hell, their punishment for disobeying the Valar. They couldn't go back now, though. They had no choice but to march forward until they reached the end of this perilous journey. No matter how many lives were lost, no matter how little food they possessed, or how little water, they couldn't stop. They had no choice but to keep going, keep walking towards something hopefully brighter.

Considering the other end of this endless white hell led to the place where his traitorous uncle and cousins were, Findecáno rather doubted that.

A sharp coldness came into his mind when he thought about them now, especially about Maitimo. Maitimo who he had been enamored with as a child, who had taught him all sorts of interesting and useful things. Maitimo who kissed him so sweetly and claimed to love him. Maitimo who had betrayed him, who had not come back for him and his family, but sailed across the sea and left him to this.

Before Findecáno's eyes, there was only white.

His family and his uncle's family had never been close, but they had never hated one another. His father had never loved Fëanáro as a brother should, but the affection had not been returned and would never have been returned anyway.

But Findecáno had never heard Ñolofinwë speak of his younger brother with such hatred and bitterness, had never heard Turucáno curse his cousins so sincerely and viciously, had never heard Findaráto call them cowards with angry fire in his eyes.

They had every right to be angry, just as Findecáno had every right to be angry. They had been abandoned and betrayed, left to die in this Valar-forsaken wasteland of ice and snow. How many lives had been lost? How many families had been torn apart? And because of what, his uncle's lust for revenge? Was this really worth all the trouble they had gone through, worth painting their hands red with the blood of their kin?

It hadn't been, not by a long shot. Findecáno liked to think that if he could go back, he would have stopped himself, would have convinced his father not to follow Fëanáro, but to remain with Arafinwë in Valinor and let his uncle rush off into foolishness himself with his traitorous brats. He'd even heard Turucáno wish that they'd allowed all those who followed Fëanáro to be slaughtered at Alqualondë, and at the time he'd fervently agreed with his younger brother's potent malice.

Now…

Now he wasn't so sure anymore. He should have been, but he found that he wasn't.

Because no matter how many times he thought of Maitimo, of how he wanted to get a good grip on his cousin's beautiful copper hair and rip it out at the roots, of how he wanted to scream at him and pound him to a bloody pulp so he would suffer as much as Findecáno had suffered, of how many curses he would send ringing through his ungrateful, unfaithful lover's ears, no matter how much he thought of all of this… he still loved Maitimo with all his heart.

He couldn't bring himself to hate his lover.

And he desperately wanted to be near him again. He wanted to be held, wanted to hear that familiar, rich voice telling him that everything would be well. He wanted Maitimo to be here with him, suffering with him, helping him stay warm in the bitter, cold darkness and whispering sweet nothings into his ears.

He wished Maitimo was here with him, even though he shouldn't. He should hate the traitor, should despise him and wish him dead, should want to run him through with a sword a hundred times over, once for every soul that had perished on their journey across the Helcaraxë, every soul that still might.

You could have come back… Why didn't you come back? I thought you loved me.

"You look deep in thought, brother."

Findecáno was brought swiftly out of the safety of his thoughts. Suddenly the wind was twenty times colder and his body twenty times heavier. His eyes flashed towards the heavily cloaked, haggard-faced elf beside him. Turucáno.

"I suppose I was," he replied softly, looking at his younger sibling in concern. After the death of Elenwë… Turucáno just hadn't been the same. "Where is Itarillë?"

"With Artanis," his brother replied flatly. "You look tired, brother."

"I am… I suppose…" Findecáno didn't want to be around his brother, not when his thoughts strayed so dangerously close to the line of traitorous. After all, he was in love with—not only his cousin—but one of the elves who had sentenced them all to this place, this place where Turucáno's own wife had perished not long ago. The grief-stricken state was only just wearing off… wearing off into the most violent and bitter hatred Findecáno had ever witnessed in his life. At least now Turucáno didn't seem to feel like disparaging their good-for-nothing cousins and cursing them all to die at the Dark Lord's feet like the filthy dogs that they were.

You should, too. After all, are you not suffering?

Turucáno leaned close to him, sharing their warmth and taking some pale comfort in his elder brother's presence. "With the way you pine, you would almost think it was your wife who had perished," Turucáno grumbled, though his eyes glimmered strangely.

It was like a stab to Findecáno's chest. "Do not say such things!" he exclaimed roughly. "And do not be silly!"

But he was pining… wasn't he?

Turucáno sighed. "I miss her so much… I do not understand you at all Findecáno, but if you need to talk to me, I am here, just as you were for me. Sometimes having the company of my family helps make the wistfulness a bit… less." The smile his brother gave him—the first Findecáno had seen since Elenwë's death—was meant to be comforting, though it was also a bit sad. To Findecáno it might as well have been a snarl.

"I… I understand," he whispered, looking away. "Thank you, Turucáno." He didn't even see his brother leave him with once last concerned look in his eyes.

He was pining… for Maitimo.

Damn you, damn you, damn you… Findecáno felt his eyes sting, but refused to cry for that worthless traitor. I cannot believe it.

How could he? What right did he have?

How can I be missing a traitor and a murderer, the very one who left me to this hell on earth? How can I...?

Guilt burned through his gut as the realization hit. If Turucáno ever knew that he was thinking such thoughts… his brother would be right to murder him on the spot. He was pining away after one of the elves who was responsible for Elenwë's untimely death!

Maitimo…

Red hair, wide smile, silver eyes… the very thought of Maitimo brought him warmth and comfort, kept his feet from freezing in place, the thought that he would get to see Maitimo again when he got to the end of this journey, if only in order to beat the shit out of him and scream all manner of obscenities into his face, to call him a liar and a traitor. To ask him why.

Findecáno bowed his head, feeling spent. He knew in the end that he would never be able to hate Maitimo. He would never be able to hold his cousin accountable the way his brother and father and cousins did, the way he should, too.

More than anything, he just wanted to be in his lover's arms again, no matter what their owner had done to him.

I miss you so much… and for that, I truly wish I could bring myself to hate you.

Poor Fingon... I love tormenting you so (It makes me feel better, since I feel horrid today *sigh*)

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