Arta : Noble

Written because of feels. I had a sudden inspirational headcannon for Maedhros and horses. Also doesn't help that the it's the third day after the summer solstice and tomorrow is when the Russingon inspired sads get really intense. Read it and it'll make sense.

Fingon never thought there would be a day when he was jealous of a horse.

They had set their camp for the night, the sounds of evening industry filtering above the persistent bubbling of a nearby creek that meandered just beyond the furthest tents, providing them with both fresh water and the ever present calls of high pitched crickets and low rumbling frogs. By the light of the full moon Fingon could make out a tall avian shape set on long thin legs that stood without movement or sound, partially obscured by tall rushes. The crane did not even acknowledge his presence. Fireflies flickered in bursts like the twinkling of golden-green stars amid the cool humidity of the darkened tree-line and he watched them for a moment before continuing on.

He passed along a row of tents leading up a short slope to a small rise just at the edge of the forest clearing, each one in various states of completeness. Here and there a lantern set the makeshift homes aglow with gentle golden luminescence that exuded warmth and modest comfort.

But as he approached the largest tent for their evening meeting he noted the parties horses that were tied up nearby.

Ears swiveled to and fro. Some nibbled contentedly at the grass while others simple stared into the night or dozed lightly where they stood. As he passed the row by one or two stuck their nose out, taking a quick whiff and then pulling away, satisfied. They were all much the same, more or less. Crests and seals were emblazoned upon bridles bedecked with tassels, cords, ribbons, and embosses with precious stones and embroidered in cotton or silk. The myriad colors of the various houses of the Edain and Elves could be seen peeking out from beneath ornate saddles embossed with the glyphs and sigils of those they belonged to. The horses themselves were impeccable. Glossy coated with manes trimmed or braided or allowed to fall freely about them. They stood the picture of bored perfection and Fingon smiled. The meeting wouldn't be more than a half-hour long, they'd be headed home soon enough.

Though as his eyes passed over a few of the edains mounts he winced slightly at the marks on their toned flanks - the elves themselves had never taken to branding their horses and for the life of him even though Fingon understood why men chose to set a mark in their skins he couldn't help feeling it was an act more worthy of the enemy than of free peoples.

But as he continued up the line he finally caught sight of a very familiar stallion. Arta would have stood out among the others regardless any regalia. This horse was larger than the others with a strong, powerful body held regally with all the nobility for a mount of kings. In the moonlight his coat gleamed midnight blue amid the black of night and if he had stood perfectly still one might not have seen him, if not for the glow of nearby torches. Long hair cascaded across his muscular neck, tossed now and then as the stallion shook his head. The well feathered limbs moved lazily as the horse shifted, but in bright torchlight a hint of the whitish gleam of old scars could be seen just above the knees. From a distance the horse appeared to be a solid wall of black, but standing just a few feet away Fingon could clearly see the thin crossing white lines on neck and flank alike.

Arta regarded him passively, his tail flicking a moment at some airborne irritant before falling still again. His head was held high with ears pricked in Fingons direction in hopeful anticipation. Fingon smiled at the horse, his eyes drawn to the only adornment it wore - a beautifully embroidered and embossed leather band in shades of red, and orange and decorated with gold and ruby squares that draped loosely around its neck, set with a central pendant bearing an emblazoned crest of Maedhros with the star of Fëanor at it's center. No bridle or saddle, no tether to hold him in place. Whereas the other horses were fully tacked with gear Arta looked positively bare, wearing only a 'necklace' to cover himself.

Fingon felt the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth as he approached.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Take it off."

The first time they had needed to travel after Maedhros' rescue from the Thangorodrim when he was actually strong enough to ride alone they had brought him a horse and those had been his first words. He'd absolutely refused to mount until a horse willing and able to take a rider without tack was found and not once since the day of his return had Fingon ever seen him use more than a loose band and kind words. Almost everyone had thought him absolutely crazy and it was true he'd had no shortage of misadventures - some more harrowing than others - while riding bridle-less and bareback all over Beleriand.

That had come to an end with Arta.

Fingon patted the horse's neck affectionately. "I hope you're taking good care of him. I'll know it if you don't and you'll never hear the end of it!"

The horse snuffled at his hair, teasing at the gold-threaded braids.

He had also been an escapee.

A wide patrol had found him among a group of orcs driving horses to the dark fortress. The main group had pulled far ahead with all haste; but a second group lagged behind, drawing the attention of the elves who hunted them. They'd slaughtered the servants of Morgoth and amid the carnage they had found silver, gold, jewels set into coronets and bracelets of dwarvish beauty. And elvish silks with stitching finer than any hand of men could make. And they found a stallion; fettered so tightly he could go no faster than a walk, his head and neck reigned back with cutting brutality - all the better to keep him from resisting. A tribute to a dark lord stolen from the prized herds of those who opposed him. As he stroked the stallions neck - subtly passing him a bribe of sugar for the privilege - his fingers traced over the scars left behind by that hellish ordeal.

Unworkable, indomitable, and even near delirium and death he fought like a demon the moment those fetters were broken. It was all the party could do to keep him in a pen; hoping one day the fire inside of him would grow chill. But kicks, snorts, screams of fury and the threat of flying hooves and snapping teeth were all they received.

Only Maedhros alone got through to him, the only one who understood.

After that Fingon would watch, rider and horse - one force to be reckoned with. For Arta answered only to Maedhros and Maedhros would suffer no one, with the exception of Fingon, to even approach the black stallion. Those who did were met with sharp rebuff of well aimed hooves and mocking laughter. It seemed that there was a special bond between them, one deeper than words. A sense of comfort, of relieve, of mutual understanding and most importantly trust. They trusted one another.

As Fingon idly braided a few strands of the stallions dark mane he tried to relinquish his own bitterness. Maedhros had trusted him. And he had understood Maedhros. But now...

He knew they couldn't go back. They could only go forward - and the path that lay ahead now was nothing like the one that had been taken from them. They could have been happy, secure, together. With a heavy sigh Fingon finished the braid and after a moment of thought removed a small golden clasp from his hair and secured it.

"You take care of him okay?"

As he patted the horses neck one last time Arta turned his head to look back and he thought he saw understanding in those deep black eyes. Stepping heavily back onto the trail Fingon at last lifted the coarse roughspun fabric of the tent and looked over those assembled. There was a sudden clamor from elves and men as the group all hastily began to rise but with a wave of his hand Fingon halted them.

"Forgo the formalities - business is far more important now." The King of the Noldor smiled softly.

"You're late." A cheekily familiar voice teased him, it's owner sitting directly across from him on a plush cushion. Maedhros absently brushed a fallen strand of copper hair back from his face and the slightest of smiles passed over his lips. But his eyes seemed distant and his face devoid of any deep emotion.

"Sorry." Fingon whispered, taking his appointed seat next to him even as a steward approached with wine.

"So," Maedhros continued, his voice soft but strong as he spoke to those assembled with the cadence of a well rehearsed speech as he laid forth his plan. "Midsummer will be the day. I'll start by drawing Morgoths forces into the Anfauglith -"