'Well, really', says Fingon
indignant
'the beast.
He might have used something softer.

Do you remember, I wonder,
our cords of velvet.?'

'Lover,' he calls, dangerously

'Lover, lover,
lover
brother
friend

I am attempting a death here. Will you
be so kind as to help me achieve it,
or leave me alone to it?'

Fingon, hovering anxious overhead,
looks at the eagle confusedly.

'A prayer is a prayer', Thorondor shakes his feathery head.
'You get what you ask for.

Fine print: Use what you get
or bust.
What do you think Manwë runs
aside of Arda, a carrier service?'

'Well, I asked to die!' bellows he
(or tries; his voice
that smooth dark winesip
is now cracked and dry -
a certain kind of elf princess
would definitely be attracted. Definitely.)
'Conflict of interest', says the big officious bird.

'Personally, I'd leave you hanging, no hard feelings
but boy Findekáno here has other plans, it seems.'

'Wouldn't he just?' groans he.
'Findekáno, beloved, you bloody fool,
curse your heroic heart.

Now go, please go.
Make your father King.
Tell the other nutters I said so.

And when you have a
son, bring him here when he is old enough

Past the rocks and the orcs and the breathing dust,
to tell him of my strength, my valour, my will.
And above all things, remember
to tell him of my beauty.'

'Quite,' snaps Fingon briskly
tears clogging his sinuses, 'Since we're
in a melting mood and all now. Let's have me a son. Oh, why not?

Bloody yourself.

Tell me, coppertop,
does it look like I developed
elf-eggs
along the Ice?
No! So shut up for a bit while
I cut you down -
look; with my silver knife,
genuine Telerin work,
double-edged.'

'Very nice,' says he calmly.
'But fuck you if you think I'm going
to let you touch me with that.'

The rock face is sheer,
silent and ominous. They are two
tired white dots on it,
not noticeable, but memory gleams,
even from afar,
a pinprick in Fingon's eyes, pointed as knives.
Sweetly and sharply and petulantly he speaks.

'All this way, Maitimo, all this way.
I could have lost a hundred limbs.
I could have died.
I could have forgotten.
But still my thighs are raw from slapping
And I live.
And I remember.
Filthy, disgusting proto-hippy you look now,
Your mouth foul too, so foul

But I
love you.
I love
you.
Therefore, choose: your hand, or me.'

He weeps. Throws his head back. Nods.
Fingon begins.

By way of conversation, he says
'You have a new name. Maedhros.
So no more Well-formed One. Of course' - meditatively -
'it would be ironic
given the circumstances. Do you like it, Maedhros?'

'Eru Eru Eru Eru Eru' calls Maedhros,
more fervent than any eagle-wish,
but Thangorodrim, alas, is a deaf land.

Later, it will prove to be not quite Valar-proof.
(things were never the same there after Lúthien.)
Today it is safe from God.

'Poor redhead', sighs He,
drawing a line through 'Maitimo'.
'such a talented cellist, too.'