He arrived in the middle of something. Fingolfin spared a brief envious thought for the horses in the Feanorian camp before seeing a glimpse of something familiar in the play of shadows upon Maedhros's tent. But the light within flickered out, and the shadows melted into the dusky night.
It was too late, and those who were not asleep were needed at their posts. Nevertheless, Ambarussa greeted him cordially, and granted him and his followers food and beds into a proper house made of wood before setting off on their horses into the forests.
Warm, fed, and washed for the first time in a fortnight, Fingolfin found himself unable to sleep. Fingon should not know he was here. While the kingship of Middle Earth, should it really came to that, was an effect of the Noldor people, any negotiations of this supposedly non-negotiable thing must be kept strictly private, even if he would have to weather the scrutinizes of too many pairs of bright eyes- including his son's. Nevertheless, circumstances, the world in particular perhaps, had made it he would have to confront both Maedhros's distrust and Fingon injured pride and suspicions in the morning. The prospect tired.
A thought struck while an owl hooted outside. Though the thought was unworthy, Fingolfin thought, his sleep uneasy.
--
Alone, and looking quite harmless, the younger sons of Feanor greeted him cautiously as he walked past them. Fingolfin, for his part, returned the greetings in the reassuring manner they remembered from childhood. The Ambarussa looked a bit worn, but they cheered up at this.
But when he neared in front of Maedhros's counsel yurt, an abrupt brown mushroom in the middle of a green field, Fingolfin felt a fleeting anger so swift that he tasted only the aftermath of it. He frowned, feeling the annoying childish ache of wanting to chew the inside of his mouth.
He slowed his step because he could not hesitate: there were so many eyes watching. And here came Caranthir boldly striding. Fingolfin turned- anything for a distraction- and was surprised by the almost horrified look on the man's face. And before he spoke, Caranthir mumbled a vague greeting before hurrying, Fingolfin supposed that a brother did not need to make himself known, into Maedhros's yurt.
Now he did stop, and soon felt a tap on his shoulder. Ambarussa, freshly washed and changed, hair still wet, beamed at him.
"Would it be terribly improper for you to wait a moment here" Ambarussa asked with their eyes wide. "It would not take long, but our brother," Fingolfin ignored the vagueness and waved a hand at them. His head started to hurt. Ambarussa looked at each other and dashed off. He looked around, tried to smile politely and ignore the fact that he was possibly here waiting for an argument.
He had stopped thinking when the Ambarussa rushed past him joyfully, and Caranthir with a disconcerting vehemence behind them. He almost halted but as it was, merely pointed at the flapping cloth that served as a door before renewing his chase.
Fingolfin entered the site of kerfuffle and found Maedhros standing at his desk in the midst of a rude gesture. At least, thought Fingolfin ruefully, he's at ease here.
"Well, greetings." Said Fingolfin, and sat himself down on hard-backed chair. His hand drifted to the armrest and found it polished and slightly decorated. Well, I see Feanorian vanity intact at the least....
Maedhros gave him a look that would've been apologetic if not for the nonchalance, as if it was not him but someone else who offended their guest. But as Fingolfin felt himself offended far too much already, he did not mind the small addendum. Then Maedhros began to speak, and Fingolfin found himself replying as if everything was nothing.
No word left either's lips concerning his complicated presence here, nor of Maedhros's generosity, for a lack of better word. Notwithstanding, Fingolfin did not believe that the kingship was the issue. Finwe relinquished it with grace, and Feanor wanted it only because he considered it a sign of his father's affection. Only the Valar...here he paused, and heretically wondered whether the Valar damned them on purpose.
"I have weapons enough for any who would wield them to serve their lord." Maedhros said finally, and Fingolfin knew he was wrong. To wield a weapon of a certain make had taken a symbolic meaning in these times. Fingolfin was not blind to all the sudden flurry of honors and dishonors that came with a sword or a bow that could be named as if it was a child. Kingship, apparently, was no longer a ceremonial post in Maedhros's mind. He would have people under his banner.
"There are those of my house who desires less of war and more of anything else, it appears."
"The land is dangerous." Maedhros said.
"That is unfortunate." Fingolfin relented, just a little.
"People deserve to protect themselves, and the proper tutelage to do so until time sees that we're at peace again." Maedhros had a certain way of looking at things as if they're everything in the world. While others may find it endearing, Fingolfin found it annoying but he'll acknowledge it was very flattering.
"You find me in agreement," He replied with some difficulty, "However, we have lived quite well on our own. Not to mention, you'll find that your absence has done little to mitigate the people's feelings toward..."
"They'll find that man is dead," Maedhros said, a little softer, "You pounded at the Gates without gaining entry. It was a waste of time and resources and an excess in humiliation. And living well doesn't mean we can't all live better, even a little. Surely sundered kin wish to be reunited instead of having to cross mountains to see each other because of our foolish mistake. But that can be corrected easily with joint force and enough incenstive. We both know that the Noldor are ruled by nolstalgia now, and we're all a little proud of our travails as a people." He paused. "You have seen the crown."
"And neither of us is worthy of it. You would have me crown myself knowing I could not on my own or you would have me in support of you doing the same. It's foolish while your 'foolish mistake' was a deliberate evil." Maedhros flinched, just barely. Pleased, Fingolfin took a breath. "No one can be High King in Middle-earth proper with either of us crowned. People are not stupid, Maedhros. For this reason you're only High King in your own court here."
Maedhros's lips drew back from his teeth. Fingolfin winced, and suppressed a shudder. It was not a handsome smile.
"But you do want it."
"Of course."
Later, Fingolfin thought perhaps he shouldn't have been so honest.
--
"Good afternoon," Fingon said to Maedhros.
Maedhros threw him a peevish look and a piece of paper that fluttered uselessly to the ground. Fingon arched his brow.
"Go away." Maedhros muttered without looking at him.
"Very well."
He turned around and stepped out of the room when Maglor saw him and hastily shoved him in again. Fingon was going to protest but the hand on his chest was surprisingly insistent.
"Back already?" Maedhros voice again when he had one foot across the threshold. Fingon pointedly pushed Maglor down the steps before heading back in.
"If you don't mind." He said, and sauntered to Maedhros's desk until he was standing right in front of it, staring at Maedhros's copper head.
"You know, Findekano, sometimes I wonder whether I'm a fool, but I do mind. I mind very much."
"Then I'm back to be entertained." Maedhros snorted as Fingon crossed his arms over his chest and took note of what Maedhros was reading. On the desk was a large piece of paper filled with tiny writing. Findekano gestured. Maedhros shrugged, and sank further into his chair. Fingon picked up the paper and started reading.
Expressions changed from light amusement to disgust and then, interestingly, to guilt.
"Maglor's work, of course," Maedhros said, seeing the look on Fingon's face, "His treatise on irrigation given the unstable soil conditions. Don't feel guilty because you think it boring." He reached forward and snatched it away. Blinking somewhat owlishly, Fingon allowed his hand to hover in the air. "Never mind that, Findekano, I just wondered how we managed to build civilization from scratch without going mad."
"By being fools of course. And not exactly scratch. Your are sitting in front of a desk. We have concept about such things." Fingon said. Sunlight spilled from the windows behind him, reaching forward and barely touching the shadows on Maedhros's face when he looked up.
"Near enough to nothing. How long was I up there? Five, ten, fifty years? From the thicket of a battle to the fiddling of accounts and grain." Maedhros sighed. "Cano's an entfire civilization onto himself nowdays, he's actually teaching calligraphy now, luxuries of learning. Before he came into prominence, I hear, Tyelkormo and Ambarussa were in charge of food. And Curufinwe was in charge of the tools. Caranthir apparently took care of counting things, and he said that to me with a serious face while Cano kept everyone's spirits up. Before that, of course, father was a man full of useful ideas. I was helping I thought. Now, everything's hopelessly..domestic." Maedhros closed his eyes only to hear Fingon's laughter.
"You are rambling. Empire building as domestic. Both tedious and necessary and desired. Why not?"
"Perhaps because I lost time and have failed to see the tedium. Yet I am still faced with all the consequencs. The necessity, as you so aptly put it." Fingon sobered.
"You did." He tried to say it softly, gently, like it would still wound. It couldn't, of course, Maedhros was resilient to mere words, and perhaps other more subtle things, too. But their gazes caught and Fingon always answered to Maedhros. And Maedhros always asked of Fingon.
"Am I to have it back?"
"No."
"Nothing to do about it then, except to look to the future." Maedhros said lightly, something flashed in his eyes, "Plan and realize and be happy we're here to see it. Perhaps that should be the policy above all else. "
"That would be ingnoring diplomatic manners. Undermining the past..." Fingon trailed off as Maedhros got up behind the desk and placed his hand over his mouth. Lips still tingling from somewhat acidic taste of the writing salt, he turned a bit confusedly when Maedhros walked past him.
Maedhros pushed open the door and caught a glimpse of Fingolfin hovering direstly in the line of sight speaking to someone with that tight expression of his. Not so lacking in diplomatic niceties after all, Maedhros turned and smiled at Fingon. If the other thought it sad, he was polite and happy enough not to comment.
"You are leaving tomorrow," Maedhros reached into a cupboard, and took out a cordial specially made to ease his headaches, though he found it eased most of everything else as well. Turning around to face Fingon again, he waved the bottle and gestured at the cups on the table. "Stay here a bit now, let me ply you with wine and tales, and honor that past you're so concerned about."
--
Fingolfin did not see himself as a man neither kind nor cruel, cowardly nor courageous. But confound this, he knew his rights as a man. The quiescent morning and the not so quiesent conversation only made him consider that perhaps it would be wise, as Nerdanel once told him, to back off from a burning thought before it leads to anything worse. Snapping, Fingon had said, displaying the knowledge: "Our cousins does it all the time". Fingolfin snapped twice in his life. Once, it led to a certain bliss...the second time...well, he was here wasn't he?
He wondered whether there was a collusion between Fingon and his cousin aimed at him. A father should not distrust his son, especially when the son is Fingon the Valiant, tried and true. But Fingolfin suspected that Fingon, if he is would know it himself, he would deny it because he was tried and true. A true friend.
It frustrates and confounds. Fingolfin was never close to his brothers. They're scattered in three places now. And even his wife, she's not here. But he's an understanding person: it's one thing to have a friend, another to hold him so dear to the obliviousness of everything else. He thought about Finwe and Feanor, and quietly despaired.
The curtains were open. This troubled him, because Maedhros did it on purpose. Out of the corner of his eye, he knew Maedhros saw him, and Fingon did not, thankfully.
Excusing himself from the master of horses, he would've walked away had not he spared another glance into the window, and found Maedhros apparently asking Fingon to stay. The kiss then, was an affectionate one.
He stood outside, playing a still audience. He did not cut an imposing figure like the bright Feanor or the golden Finarfin, and it's not his place. No one would flock to him. Maedhros knew this and now made use of it. So Fingolfin was the lone spectator of the unfolding scene. Maedhros wanted this, wanted to see him and Fingon devoid of the appropriate borders that he trusted in. Unguarded expressions and touches of close confidence playing without inhibitions. Far, far more comfortable than Fingon was anywhere else.
Your stage, Fingolfin thought to himself, two principle players; therefore, blind. Folly in other court but this one. Lingering by the shadows, he saw Fingon leaving while he looked on at their farewell and felt a curious ache seeing the look on Maedhros's face.
He stared, embarrassingly entranced. Maedhros turned and looked at him with an amused smile.
"Cousin," He said in the doorway. The raise of the steps made his figures taller, but Fingolfin stood paces away.
"You would make a fool of me." Fingolfin said, looking at the other with a level gaze. Steady, he told himself. What is a man without dignity? But what is a man with too much of it?
Maedhros looked at him. He walked close and said: "I would you no less and no more than me." There was the urge to raise his fists and batter that infuriating face, Fingolfin suppressed it. It was not a thing he does. Maedhros walked away from him.
"Nelya!" He called, but Maedhros did not wait, so Fingolfin followed.
--
"We
thought you're healed."
Maedhros laughed drily and closed
his eyes against the bright glare of the afternoon. There was grass
beneath his feet and it was a windless day. It could be very easy to
ignore the quietly angry presence. He's had practice."Am
I giving you evidence to the contrary," He opened his eyes and
paused as his glance fell to the baldric slung across Fingolfin's
shoulders, the brilliant sun and the blue background,
"Cousin?"
Fingolfin walked deliberately away. There was an
old tree at the end of the sward, leafless and charred black by
lightening. Fingolfin remembered his first storm, and how he had
stood under it until Finwe found him and led him inside,
understanding and smiling, because "No, stars are not so violently
made, nor do the hurtle." His heart must have turned to stone, the
recollection brought him nothing no more than anger.
"I wish
you would leave Findekano." The words were wrong. Fingolfin
regretted them. It's too petty. It's about more than Findekano.
"It's unfortunate my father's not here to defend me."
Maedhros said. Fingolfin swirled around.
"He did not, but he would say the same to you, for me. Then you would fight, and Fingon and I would be on a hill somewhere, wondering whether we should fight as well." A wistful expression overcame Maedhros's face and Fingolfin felt guilty despite himself. And with guilt, came a hysterical sort of desperation, unreasonable. But he was an understanding man to the end.
"He has eyes only for you." He said, paused, considered, and grew tired of the wary silence between them. "His words are only for you. Must you share his every grief and every joy?"
Yes. Maedhros wanted to answer, but hardly thought Fingolfin could stand for it.
"He is old, and wise enough to choose his companion."
"But you are not."
"Ah." Maedhros closed his eyes, willing the bitterness to recede. The chief of these grievances was his wisdom in these matters, still. It pained him. After all, for all his copper hair, Maedhros was Feanor's son, first and favorite and only for the longest time. But he was not his father. "I love him." Maedhros said. Who was wise in love? Certainly not Nerdanel, called the Wise. Nor Nolofinwe, also wise, whose wife was across the sea. Nor the powerful Valar, who loved Morgoth enough to set him free among them.
Fingolfin mustered himself, never so cruel as to turn away an assurance, "Love him then, as well you can, but do not cleave him to you entirely. He is my son." And then he looked far away, casting his gaze away from Maedhros.
"You have another," said Maedhros coldly.
"But he cannot have a son."
Maedhros laughed then, loud and raucous, startling a flock of birds from their perch. Fingolfin looked at him in surprise. The presence of Maedhros was never an easy thing to contend with. He towered a full head above Fingolfin, himself of considerable height. So he took a step back when Maedhros touched his shoulder and could look at him evenly.
"Look at us, so preoccupied with our mortality." Maedhros smiled in his terrible way. He brought up his left hand, the palm was smooth and shiny and almost translucent with new skin.
Fingolfin quelled his flinch and burned with a strange shame. Everyday and everywhere, there was that mortality that every child knew to forgive. Even in Valinor, things died. And yet, Fingolfin could not forgive himself for thinking he would be the same, no different than a bird or a beast, taken with the same ephemeral existence. It's not natural, not supposed to happen. He should not be here. But he was, and he's i dealing /i with it.
"You have an evil confidence." He said to his dead brother's son, watching carefully. A shadow flitted past Maedhros face and was gone as soon as he saw it.
Maedhros thought of Fingon and for some reason, Celebrimbor. A flash of that young graceful body bloodied and raised tall as a terrible banner rose unbidding to his mind. He bit his lip and worried the flesh between his teeth. Inhaling deeply of the afternoon scent of gentle flowers, he was glad there was no wind. He had enough of those.
"No, cousin, rather that I have no confidence at all."
--
There was no truce between them, but nor was there new enmity. What was there before, remained, and simmered. Then a vision of a fish wriggling on the end of a line shot through his head.
Fingolfin turned stared at him, and said: "And yet he would have me as a baited fish."
His advisor shrugged, and smiled. He had more important matters to attend to, like how to conseal the tracks and trails. But Fingolfin must know. He laid his hand on the other's arm, only to have a disbelieving face looking at him in irritation.
"What else would you have him do?"
For every civilized interaction, there was bound to be a violent reaction afterwards. Nothing was exactly civil these days, after all. Somehow, he doubted that civility even existed, even once upon a time. Ever since he could remember, there was Feanor, and where Feanor was there was no peace.
"I'm being baited!" Fingolfin repeated the words and smacked his forehead with his hand, letting the arm go.
"It's hardly a crime."
"Everyone knows!"
"You are his father."
"He's a grown man for Eru's sake!"
"Who still lives in your house."
"Only symbolically. As if I can order him around. Do you consider the remotest possibility for me to offer the merest suggestion that perhaps it's a tad unseemly for him to fraternize with..."
"What? The enemy?"
Fingolfin snorted.
Fingon held his trust. Maedhros held Fingon's trust. And the folk of Feanor, they follow the Feanorion. Fingolfin shook his head, this is a mess. Short of disowning his son, problematic and unwanted, the folks of Feanor consider themselves on tolerable, if not amiable, terms with those who crossed the ice, which's far from the truth. But being that it was the perceived truth, anything other than expected would be betrayal mounting to civil war.
And then, leaders of the same side must appear united because certainly they're not enemies. Rivals, perhaps, but all the violence on the Hither shores are against them. The world, then, Fingolfin snickered mentally. The world is against us and so we cannot afford to be divided. It's a standstill that must end quickly. This was after all, hostile territory. His horse slowing to a canter, he drew his sword and nodded to his companions.
Two miles upwind: orcish raiders riding from the direction of the no man's land between Maedhros and Fingolfin's gates.
--