The pale glimmer of Telperion's light filtered through the window, illuminating the interior of Fingon's room in pallid silver. Crammed bookshelves spilling over with scrolls and leather-bound scripts occupied two full walls, looming over a large mahogany desk squashed into the corner nearby, just beside the window left slightly ajar. The desk was cluttered with old notes and inkpots, quills strewn over pages of writing, drooling ink blotches over the neat Tengwar lines flowing over the paper. Books on history lay flung open, slotted through with parchment notes; scrolls with detailed anatomical studies lay unrolled, annotations scrawled frantically around their edges in spiderlike handwriting. Aside from the messiness of the desk, the rest of the room was austere, a modest wardrobe standing next to the wooden door, a nightstand adorned with a blown-out candle, and large double-bed beside it, pushed up against the cream walls. And within the bed, curled up on his side with the blue silk sheets tangled between his legs, lay Fingon, fast asleep.

His black hair lay unbound, a midnight waterfall splashed across his pillow. Light glistened across his bare back, a thin sheen of sweat softly shining in the blood-warm air, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of his ribs, the shift of his vertebrae under his skin as he stirred slightly in his sleep, the tremors of a dream reaching through into the waking world. The papers on his desk fluttered as a breeze floated through his window, though it brought no respite from the heat. The humid air clotted in the room, borne on a fell wind from the furthest east beyond the great Pelóri, where mountains spewed their boiling entrails into the air, and the scorched plains blew desolate and arid below. Something rattled lightly against his windowpane, causing Fingon to twitch slightly, some reflex reacting even from the depths of sleep, but then everything was still, and he relaxed once more, his breathing even and rhythmic through parted lips.

Crack!

Something hit against the window, hard, and with a start he jolted awake, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. For a moment he froze, lying stiffly in the bed, his ears strained for any further noise, any signs of alarm. Hearing none, he frowned, weariness calling him back to sleep, but some instinct blared within him, screaming at him to get up, to move…

Crack!

He saw it, a pebble smacked against the glass with nearly enough force to shatter it. And a second later, a whisper from outside, taught and urgent:

"Fingon! Fingon, are you there?"

Confused, he quickly untangled himself from the sheets, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he noticed how sweaty they were, for the first time feeling the humidity hanging in the room. He stood, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, then crossed over to the window, unconsciously pulling his undergarments further up over his hips from where they had slithered lower in his sleep, adjusting the thin cotton sticking to his thighs. Warily he inched the window open further, sticking his head out and peering blearily about.

"Fingon!"

The voice came from below, oddly familiar, though the note of tension in it was strange, jarring weirdly in his head. And as he twisted, squinting downwards into the courtyard, in a shadow by an ornamental hedge he caught the briefest flare of red hair spilling down a pale arm. With a sudden rush of relief he sighed, knowing instantly who it was, although the purpose and manner of his unannounced visit left him utterly bewildered.

"Maedhros," he called softly, not wanting to awaken the rest of his household, "I'm here. What…"

But before he could even complete the sentence, Meadhros moved, slipping silently from where he crouched, crossing the distance between the hedge and the walls of Fingolfin's house in three bounded strides. His boots hardly made a sound on the flagstones, and just as Fingon was wondering what on earth Maedhros was intending, what he was even doing here, Maedhros ran, and jumped, his fingers latching firmly onto the windowsill inches below Fingon's bare chest, where he looked down at his cousin's suddenly much closer face with blank astonishment.

For one terrible moment Maedhros dangled there, Fingon paralyzed with shock just above him, until Maedhros hissed,

"Fingon, let me in! Now!"

The terrible urgency in his voice startled Fingon, and swiftly he ducked back inside his room, shoving the window open fully, and grasping Maedhros' wrist and arm hauled him upwards, suddenly grateful for his years of sportsmanship and hunting, as he bore his cousin's weight easily, pulling him efficiently, if a little roughly through the window. As Maedhros wriggled his legs through, narrowly missing kicking over a chair cluttered with geological diagrams and a leather riding jerkin flung over its back, Fingon let him drop, whirling to slam the window shut behind him.

Glancing nervously through the pane, he could see no signs of discovery, no guardsmen or errant family members wandering through the grounds, as his sister was strangely wont to do during the silver hours. As he turned back around, Maedhros clambered to his feet, straightening his tunic where it had crumpled awkwardly around his chest as he fell.

"Maedhros, what are you doing here? What…what time is it?"

"I don't know. Late. It doesn't matter."

Fingon watched him warily, dusting off the edge of his pine-green tunic, then shaking out his arm, that was crushed uncomfortably beneath him with his none-too-gentle trip through the window. His cousin looked exhausted, dark circles smudged beneath his hazel eyes, their whites dull and bloodshot. His fiery hair was a tangled mess, its usually smooth waves frizzed and knotted, as with a sigh he brushed it back over his shoulder, turning away from Fingon to stride towards the door, sliding its lock shut with a thump that echoed around the room. Slowly Maedhros turned back to face him, not meeting his eyes, his jaw working with some repressed emotion that Fingon could only guess at.

"What is the matter with you? Maedhros, you look terrible. Here, sit down." Fingon swept a pile of papers off of the chair, dumping them on top of his desk where they slithered uneasily. Flinging his jerkin onto the bed, he twisted the chair around, looking at Maedhros beseechingly. But Maedhros ignored the proffered chair, leaning half-curled against the door, his fingertips white and bloodless where they pressed against the wood. His head bowed, a few locks of his hair dripped across his cheeks in burning rivulets, as Fingon looked on in increasing worry. Like a wounded animal, he thought suddenly, his throat clenching. Like a fox caught in a snare.

"Maedhros…" he started, his voice carefully kept low and even, but before he could continue, Maedhros' head snapped upwards, his wide hazel eyes staring like knives into Fingon's, yet in a curiously pained tone he said,

"Don't go to court tomorrow."

The words hung in the air between them, as if trapped in the viscous humidity, locked within the pallid light. Fingon stared at him, his brow crinkling in confusion, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

This is what he wanted to tell me?

He regarded Maedhros for a brief second, half-formed thoughts and fantasies and guesses as to his meaning raced through his mind, before he sighed, shaking his head slightly in tiredness and irritated confusion.

"What?" he asked sharply. "Maedhros, what are you talking about?"

"Please!" There was an urgency in his cousin's voice that gave him pause, some dreadful note of pleading that pierced through his annoyance, and he looked at Maedhros once more, his face softening as his cousin spoke. "Please…just don't. Do this for me. Just don't go."

Maedhros straightened, with a wavering breath sliding upright against the door, still staring at Fingon with an inscrutable, dark expression.

"Why? Why would I not go? I have every right to be there."

And Maedhros looked away, his eyes flickering towards the worn floorboards, a spasm of pain flitting over his face before he could stop it, a tight quirk of his lips, the slightest knot of his eyebrows. But Fingon caught his expression, a cold feeling of doubt suddenly blooming inside him.

"Maedhros, what is it? What is wrong?"

But he pushed down his doubt, stepping towards Maedhros where he still leaned against the door, with his right hand reaching out to touch him; to smooth down his hair, to stroke the side of his face, his fingertips wandering his freckled cheekbones, sliding across his jaw, such reassuring little touches that he had made so many times before…

"Don't! Don't touch me!"

Maedhros recoiled, violently, knocking his hand aside, curling away from him to hover beside the bed as Fingon stared at him, aghast. Maedhros' back was turned, and he could see the shake of his shoulders, the slight trembling of his hand as he reached up to push his hair back from where it had fallen, like torrents of molten steel frozen in ice, limned in the pallid light. Fingon paused, hurt and confusion swirling within him, a whirl of doubt and dismay flecked with little droplets of fear, eating away at him like acid through skin. Warily he stepped forward, and steeling himself he asked, his voice taught and hesitant but he had to ask, he had to know,

"…Maedhros, why…why are you saying this?"

And suddenly Maedhros sat, perching on the edge of the bed as if his legs had collapsed from underneath him. His hands curled into fists around the edge of the mattress, the sheets balled up between his rigid fingers. He closed his eyes, and sighed, his words sounding like they were forced from somewhere deep down inside him, burning their way up his throat.

"I can't…I shouldn't be here. My father, he…he knows. About you. And me. About us. He has forbidden me to be anywhere near you. To put an end to these "disgusting rumours" as he called them. I…I'm sorry, Fingon. I'm sorry, and I shouldn't have come, but you had to know, I had to tell you…"

Abruptly his head jerked upwards, the sheer desperation in his eyes making Fingon flinch with its intensity.

"So please listen, please! Do not go to court tomorrow. Tell your father you are taken ill, or that you are called away, or anything, but do not go."

And Fingon stood over him, his lip curling in exasperation.

"Tell me why."

His whisper echoed through the still air, its jarring sibilance seemingly amplified, ringing harshly into the brittle silence that fell. Then Maedhros sighed, passing one hand across his face in weariness, his words falling simple and pure from his lips.

"I cannot. To be honest, I do not even know myself. But my father, he…" Maedhros paused, looking up at Fingon, pain welling in his eyes. "Well, you know his opinion of my uncles, and he was saying such wild, dangerous things…I do not know what he intends. I do not think he knows himself. "

With that, Maedhros stood, walking over to the window, and inched it open once more. He paused, his hand resting against the sill, a faint breeze stirring the ends of his russet hair, setting them dancing like little tongues of flame against his dark tunic. Turning back to Fingon, he tried to smile, an awful, broken grin twisting across his lips, his cheeks quivering with effort of it.

"For the sake of our…friendship, Fingon, for our family, I would not have you stand between us. I would not have you in danger."

Then Fingon's expression softened, some part of him understanding; the truth, the sorrow in his cousin's voice reverberating in him on some visceral level. The sad ghost of a smile touched his lips, as he regarded Maedhros standing so forlornly by the window, his usual exuberance quenched, staring back at him with hollow eyes.

"I will do what I can."

And for an instant he saw relief flare in Maedhros' eyes, watched him exhale a breath he didn't know he had held, the tension visibly shuddering through his shoulders.

"Thank you, Maedhros. I know what you risk by coming here tonight. Thank you."

"I have to go," came the quiet reply, as Maedhros shifted slightly, readying himself to jump to the courtyard some feet below. And Fingon turned, not wanting to watch him go, not wanting him to see the tears that jumped unbidden into his eyes, the terrible wobble of his jaw as furiously he bit down to still it. And he waited, to hear the shift of fabric against wood, the soft crunch of his boots hitting the stones below, but instead Maedhros' low, aching voice trickled through the silence, making him start, each word puissant and crushing and filled with sorrow.

"...Fingon, whatever happens tomorrow, know that I had no part in its making. Please, remember that. I…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

And the agony in his voice seemed to break in Fingon's ribcage, it felt like his heart was trying to smash its way out of his chest, and he whirled, viciously fighting down the scream that clawed its way up his throat, that clotted in his lungs, and crossing the distance between them in two explosive strides he grabbed Maedhros where he half-sat on the windowsill, and kissed him. One hand twined through his hair, the other curled up around his back, as desperately, passionately he kissed him, their tongues sliding against each other as if they could meld into one, take each other's pain and rip it out all broken and bleeding, crumple it up and just throw it away, until they could be together, be healed. An eternity crashed into seconds, fuelled by anger and lust and fear; a slick, giddying crush of emotion that roared as Fingon kissed him, his nails digging into the skin beneath Maedhros' shirt, hot tears slide from beneath Fingon's lashes, carving silver and silent down his flushed cheeks. And after what could have been heartbeats, could have been centuries, locked together in such aching, urgent passion, he felt Maedhros push backwards against his hand, his lips slipping away, and reluctantly Fingon released him, his fingertips caressing his freckle-dusted cheekbone, sliding tenderly down his back. They parted, a sad smile lingering on Maedhros' lips, distant and yet peaceful, as he stared out of the window, the pale light silhouetting him in a corona of silver, muted and ephemeral and so achingly beautiful.

"I have to go," he breathed, reaching out to softly stroke Fingon's jaw, with his thumb brushing the tears from Fingon's cheek, before leaning in to kiss him once more, just a light, melancholy press of their lips together, so softly parted, so agonizingly final.

Then slowly Maedhros withdrew, turning fully upon the windowsill, swiftly glancing around the courtyard, and at the cobblestones below. And without another word he was gone, the sudden void of air where he was making Fingon blink in surprise. He jumped over to the window, leaning out to catch one last glimpse of him, and was rewarded only with the briefest flash of red, the ends of Maedhros' hair flicking out as he darted behind a hedge, slipping like a shadow through the dim twilight, back into his father's dominion.

Fingon stared out over the silent courtyard for a while, revelling in the cool breeze flowing over his bare chest, flushed with the sticky humidity and the lingering heat of Maedhros' body pressed up against him. The nearby trees shifted, their leaves rustling softly, a quiet sibilance rippling through the air.

"How?" he whispered, to the streams of silver light shimmering through the empty court. "How could they know? We were always so careful, we kept everything so secret…" Sadly he looked up, at the countless stars twinkling far above him, as if they would tell him, as if they knew; but the stars told him nothing, and the light held its silence. Morosely he sighed, seating himself horizontally upon the window's ledge, all thoughts of sleep banished from his mind despite his weariness. One bare foot dangled against the warm wall outside, the other leg he curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around it, his chin resting on his knee in a curiously childlike pose. Dappled in the light, distantly he gazed at the stars, pinpricks of radiance like phosphorescent candles set amid the silver pallor. And desperately he wished he could walk up there with them, high above the world and he would look down and he would know, with the certainty of the One he would know what to do. But forlorn he sat, gazing up at them so cold and terrible and distant, doubt tugging at him, and a hollow pit of worry thumping with each beat of his heart.

First Maedhros, and now this, he thought sadly, I have heard the whispers too, but my uncle…Surely he knows my father bears him no ill will. And what offence have I given? These rumours spring out of the walls, warped and twisted out of the ground, and their true source I cannot find. Wheels turn within wheels, something blocks our sight, ever slithering through the darkness where we are blind…

But does my uncle not know? We are not deaf, we are not blind either. For long months the courtiers have brought rumour to my father. "Beware the proud son of Míriel, firstborn heir of your people. Small love does he have for his brothers and their sons, and now he has become great! He holds his father in his hand! It will not be long before he drives you from the city!"

…Would he really? Does he hate us so much? That of his own kin he would make exiles without just cause?

And Maedhros says to stay away, to leave. But how can I? I must stand by my father, support his innocence in whatever deluded lies my uncle throws at his feet. It is my duty, no matter the danger that Maedhros hints at. I know my uncle's will is strong, but to draw blade against his own blood? Even he is not so foolish. He would not risk the punishment.

I will go. I must go. I will not bow down silently before one who would condemn me merely for being born.

I'm sorry, Maedhros…but I will be at court. And I pray that you are wrong. I pray that your visit tonight was unnecessary. Please, do not force me to choose between you: my father and my…cousin.

Please don't make me have to make that choice.

For truly, I do not know where my heart would land.