Author's Note: There is no fixed length to this one. Just Fingon and Maedhros angst. :)

"A Stone Upon Stones"

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Architect

As with every building, there was a first stone laid. One, and then the next.

"You know the sword," Findekáno said one afternoon. It was not a question, but rather an observation spoken as quiet fact. His cousin was a quiet child as a whole, his wide eyes taking in everything around him in silence before speaking with soft certainty. What had at first been an oddity when compared to his family of live flames was now a comfort to Maitimo. Bemused, he looked at the younger boy, a red brow raised in a question of his own.

"There is no need to learn such a skill in blissful Aman," he replied neutrally. At his answer, Findekáno played absently with the quill in his hands. His letters were already neat and precise across the parchment, and sooner than he would like, Maitimo knew that he would have nothing more he could teach him.

"But your father teaches you regardless?" Findekáno pressed.

"Some are not as content with the stillness of these lands as others," Maitimo replied evenly. Even though not expressly forbidden, many looked on the art of steel with critical eyes. But his answer was only half where the other trusted the whole from him. He found that he did not care for the not-truth on his lips. "Yes," he answered frankly. "My father has taught me the sword."

"My Atar," Findekáno was wont to speak even more softly when his words were about his family. Maitimo looked, and wondered how the fire of Finwë can be as smoke in the eyes of the child before him. "My Atar says that such skills are needless. That they are an insult to the peace that the Valar provide."

"And what do you think?" Maitimo asked carefully. Findekáno pressed the tip of his quill to his mouth as he considered his reply.

"I think that my father keeps one of grandfather's swords above his desk; one from the Great Journey, stained with the blood of Dark Lord's creatures in the earliest days. I think that he keeps it there to remember. I know too, that he practices when none can see. And I . . ."

Maitimo waited, expectant. He knew what the child would ask next, and for some reason, the request made him uneasy. Three brothers already, and his parent's intent on another, and he had helped them all wrap small hands around sword hilts. And yet . . .

"Will you teach me?" Findekáno finally asked. His words were frank and abrupt, the hesitation gone from his voice once his decision was made. He stared, and looked the older boy squarely in the eye as he put his longing out, stark and whole between them. Maitimo looked, and imagined that he could see, there . . .

Finwë's fire, he thought, even as he nodded. "Yes, Káno," his reply was softer than he would have wished it to be. "I will teach you."

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Findekáno bruised. It is the way of the sword - of life, in truth - and yet Maitimo watched the child pull himself up from the dust each and every time he was knocked down with pride in the marrow of his bones. With affection in the soft places about his heart.

Later, when the battle-fever had worn down to nothing, and each pain was felt for what it truly was, he sought the boy out to make sure that none of his wounds had settled too deeply.

"It will heal," he gave his diagnosis as the boy picked at the new calluses he was developing on the palms of his hands. "For now, each mark will show you where a lesson was learned. A stone here," he touched a scrape on Findekáno's cheek, "and a stone here," next he touched a bruise on his arm, purple and angry. "And you shall have a tower before you in no time at all."

"For now," Findekáno said, biting his tongue, "It just hurts."

Maitimo could not help himself. He smiled. "Aye, for now it hurts." He pressed playfully at the bruise, and the child made a face before swatting his hand away. "But that too will build a wall of its own."

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He felt like a strong tower torn asunder in those first few months after being proclaimed strong enough to move from bed. He was as a ruin of a fortress, with once strong stones turned to dust and its mortar to ash on the wind. The foundation was still there – his body remembered how to move, how to fight, but it was missing a piece now. It was no longer whole.

He had to remember to fight with his left hand rather than his right hand now. He could not block and give a blow at once now; it is one and then the other. He could not use two hands to lend weight to his thrusts. His strength had to come from his arm and shoulder now, and the difference was almost too much. His body was a shell of his former strength, the loss of his hand aside. He had gone too long without food and water and movement during his imprisonment. White lines criss-crossed his skin, telling tales of Morgoth's torments – each one more and more creative than the last when he refused to give the Dark One the reaction he sought. His body was a map of pain and ruin, and there were times when he did not care to bring it into the light of day.

Sometimes, he could only think that it would have been easier if Fingon had put his sword through his heart, rather than through the skin and bone of his hand. Sometimes, he thought . . .

But Maedhros had no time to think now, because Fingon was attacking again, stepping to the left but striking from the right - and like a fool he fell for it. Instead of cutting with the blade, Fingon slapped his shoulder with the flat of his sword. He did not pull his strength, and Maedhros stumbled before taking a knee on the ground, his balance lost.

"Even Idril could have blocked that – and that is an insult to the Lady," Fingon raised a dark brow in disapproval. He circled his cousin's spot on the ground, casting shadows as he went. "Turgon's daughter is a terribly fast little thing, and she delights in reminding all of it."

"I taught you that same feint those long years ago," Maedhros muttered darkly. "My body remembers, but it is slow to answer as I bid." His breath worked too quickly to give air to his lungs. His blood pounded not from the fight, but from fatigue. Maedhros felt his top lip draw back from his teeth, disgusted as he was with himself.

Finwë's fire as he was, and all that flame had done was to keep him just barely amongst the living. He had survived, and yet, what right did he even have to that? What right did he have to endure when so many others had . . .

. . . but no. He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing his heart to calm. The troublesome organ raced in his chest, and its pulse was wearying.

A shadow fell before him as Fingon came to a stop. The sunlight glittered off the lake behind them; Maedhros could see the light as bright splashes of colour behind the dark of his eyes. For a moment, Fingon blocked the sun, and Maedhros opened his eyes to see that the other had knelt in front of him. There was concern in his eyes – his pale grey eyes, the same as his own – and Maedhros looked away. As his eyes moved down, he caught glimpse of the gold braided into his hair. Fingon had not worn it as such when he had rescued him from Thangorodrim, that much Maedhros remembered. But now . . .

He swallowed, and his throat ached. He did not deserve such a token, he thought distantly. Such a . . .

"A stone here," Fingon whispered, and then Maedhros felt his cousin's callused fingertips as they traced the hollow line of his cheek, much too thin as it was. "And then a stone here," Fingon's sword hand trailed a gentle caress around the ruined stump of his right arm. It was the first time anyone beyond a healer had touched him so – even Maedhros ignored that new part of his body with a childish determination, as if by pretending that it did not exist, he could make it so. The newly grown nerve endings trembled, unused to the sensation of touch. "And soon," Fingon let his hand fall away, "a tower shall be built."

A moment passed. Maedhros swallowed, looking between the light on the lake and the gold twinkling teasingly in the black braids before him. He looked anywhere but Fingon's eyes.

"Valiant, they call you," Maedhros finally said. His words were soft, given beneath his breath. "Better had you taken the title of Wise instead."

"There are others better suited to the sprouting of inspired phrases," Fingon gave. Maedhros could hear the smile in his voice as he rose gracefully to his feet. "Better am I with repeating things once heard."

Slowly, Maedhros followed Fingon's lead. He picked up his sword once more, the muscles in his arm weak as he made a fist of his fingers about the hilt. But they were strengthening. The bones there ached, but it was an ache that healed. It was an ache that promised growth, if he let it.

"Now then, Russandol," Fingon saluted him, a playful ease to his movements as his steel caught the sun. "About that tower . . ."

Handy Dandy Tolkien Terms:

Findekáno: Fingon
Maitimo: Maedhros
Russandol: An endearment meaning 'copper-top'. Another name for Maedhros.