Author's Note: Fingon and Maedhros converse on a slightly macabre subject. Kind of strange and pointless: ye be warned. I don't think the ending fits well, but I was stuck at that point; any suggestions to improve it would be taken with gratitude. And I think the title will change at some point at well: for now I just want to get it off my chest so I can concentrate on another piece that really wants to be written, and really ought to have been written months ago. One other note-- the formatting isn't precisely what I was aiming for; Fingon's lines should be indented rather than italicized, but I couldn't figure out how to do that. Apologies for that.

Disclaimer: Fingon, Maedhros, and Maedhros' hand do not belong to me. That makes me a little sad. But anyway, without further ado, I present:

Conversational, of Cousins

So,
The mountain has my hand. Well,
May it have better use of it
Than I did when still it was
Attached.

Besides,
What need have I of it? Better far
That it should stay and keep there
Than here with me, its previous
Holder.

But
That was the hand with the
Moon-shaped scar from the time
You helped me climb the apple-tree--
Remember?

True;
Although (to be quite honest) I had
Forgotten that day until just now. You were
Quite young then. It astonishes me that you recall
So clearly.

What,
Astonished? That is most unlike
The cousin I know. And I know you
Well, and not less well the hand which until now
You bore.

You know--
That hand held the sword which
Gave me my first defeat, and a
Sound one! Surely you have not forgotten
That.

Indeed,
I had not. As I recall, it was hardly fair--
You a child, I full-grown, twice your size--
But your determination was unmatched, then
As now.

However,
You speak folly. Do not suppose
That, having escaped unscathed but for this very
Hand (a trifling price, you'll agree)
I quiver to go back there and-- what?
Steal it?

Not steal,
No: reclaim what is yours. He should not
Have it who dishonored you so, a grim trophy.
The hands of Finwë's seed are precious, cousin,
And priceless--

Matchless;
No less than the deeds they do or the
Jewels they create,
If I may be blunt--

You may not.
I'll hear no more of this. Out, cousin-- please.
And I'll beg you, speak nothing to Ambarussa,
Of my brothers and you most like to embark
…Rashly.

I'll go,
But one thing I must say first:
That hand was one that my hand
(While still a child) loved most to
Hold--
Remember?

I do.

Think,
Then, that this hand, if not you in any way,
Should be less valued than any other
Of your parts?
I do not believe it.
But rest, if you please; later shall we have
More words, and of greater worth:
Farewell.