The oak tree. Two hours past Telperion's waxing. Urgent.
-M
Fingon crumpled up the scrap of parchment in his hand, smearing his cousin's hastily written words together in a blur of ink. He strode through the forest, following the winding game-trail through the shadowy trees, silver ribbons of light filtering slowly through the dense canopy far above him. The quiet felt strange in his ears, the peaceful hush of the sleeping woodlands somehow taught, strained; the susurrus of the wind through the leaves twisted to menacing whispers, shadows curled like wisps of clotted darkness against the tree-trunks. He walked uneasily, those grounds so familiar now fractured and weird, almost suffocating, like wading through the dread viscosity of a nightmare. He fingered the hilt of his knife, its sheath shifting against his left hip with every step, its warm leather-bound grip some small reassurance as he pressed uncomfortably onwards.
A twig snapped behind him and violently he whirled around, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He crouched, soundlessly slipping his knife halfway from its sheath, watching with a hunter's focus the dark trail behind him, his eyes narrowed to catch the slightest glimpse of movement, the faintest signs of pursuit. Without warning, something leapt onto the path, a great shadowy form and he jumped in surprise, half-risen to pounce upon it, a fighter's instinct fuelled by pure, racing adrenaline. But the figure turned from him unconcernedly, and as it did a stream of light fell upon it, and he saw the brown run of fur, the slender twig-like legs, and the curious eyes of a doe peering back at him. He stared at it in surprise, as it cocked its head placidly at him, before moving off into the bushes once more. He watched it go, shoving his knife back into its sheath before rising, shaking loose his shoulders to relieve the tension that had knotted there.
A deer, he chided himself, a little doe had you jumping out of your skin like a child.
Angrily he shook his head, before stalking once more down the path, little shreds of embarrassment mingling with the last rills of shock, sliding down his throat to coil in his chest. As they settled there they wakened something else, and he remembers why he had come, sneaking about like a thief in the shadows at the mere beck of his cousin. The first sparks of frustration stirred in him, spurred on by what it meant if he were to be discovered in this illicit venture. His father had impressed upon him the delicacy of the matter, and reminded him in no uncertain terms what his uncle's retribution would bring if further events were exposed; ruin for not only himself, but a vengeance that would fall doubly hard upon Maedhros. But the situation had changed after what Fëanor did, drawing his sword upon his father while everybody just stood there, everyone just let it happen, and to his disgust he just let it happen, standing there paralyzed as his father bled before him. So he had to know, if this was to be a confession or an apology or just awkward silence between him and his cousin, he had to know, no matter the consequences.
And so he had come, stumbling through the forest like a lovesick puppy looking for its master. The thought soured in his mouth, little shards of bitterness seemed to flick out from his heart as before him the dense woods fell away to a small clearing. The grass sighed in the cool breeze, wafting in soft luminescence to the base of a great oak tree stood in the center of the clearing; its ancient roots sunk deep into the earth, narrowing to a gnarled trunk, a spray of brilliant leaves limbed in argent light rustling up above.
Warily he glanced around, and catching no immediate sign of his cousin he stepped out into the clearing. His footsteps were nearly silent among the grass as he crossed over to the tree, and for a moment he rests his hand against its knotted trunk, his eyes closed. He smiled faintly as he felt the warmth of its wood, its intricate whorls spiralling out beneath his fingertips and there he remained for a few moments, trying to calm the confusing rush of emotions within him. He would approach his cousin neutrally, he decided, pushing down all of the frustration that squirmed inside of him; he would try to broach whatever it was that Maedhros wanted rationally, detachedly.
After a minute or so Fingon realized that he was not alone, every instinct set suddenly blaring, and he opened his eyes to find his cousin standing beside him, staring at him with a startling intensity in his hazel eyes. His hair poured like a torrent of flame down his back, curling softly in the breeze, and in a strange moment of clarity he watched Maedhros' hair shift, its fiery glint at worrying odds with the pallor of his cheeks, the shadows smudged like bruises beneath his eyes. And with a sickening lurch something twisted inside of Fingon, every little fragment of anger and betrayal and worry smashed together inside of him at the mere infuriating presence of his cousin, and he glared viciously up at Maedhros, the emotions like a boiling spear punching out of his chest before he could stop them, and in one breathless instant he saw the alarm flare in Maedhros' eyes. But before he could move, before either of them really knew what he intended Fingon swung his arm around, an ugly snarl twisted across his face as he slapped Maedhros hard across the left cheek.
Maedhros recoiled in surprise, his hand flying to the smarting welt blossoming across his cheek, and Fingon stared at him in horror, the echoes of pain rippling up from his palm left pink from the blow. Like a candle left to splutter amid a pool of melted wax that burning rage dissipated, sinking instead to an uneasy, bitter smoulder, and Fingon moved uncertainly forward, to where Maedhros leant against the tree-trunk, his hand still clasped to his cheek.
"What was that for?" Maedhros asked plaintively, looking up at Fingon in confusion, desperately blinking back tears from his eyes left watering by the sting of his slap.
"I think you know what, Maedhros!" he replied, his sharpness surprising even himself.
Maedhros looked at him despairingly for a second, before pushing himself away from the tree, turning away from Fingon, the muscles in his jaw working. He was silent for a moment, his head bowed, before softly he replied:
"Fingon, that is unfair."
"And how so?" Fingon shot back, glaring at him. "Your father assaults mine in the streets of Tirion, draws blood before the halls of our king and…"
"You think that was my fault?" Maedhros broke in, turning quickly back to face Fingon, his arms crossed over his chest. In the silver light, the mark on his cheek was livid. "I told you, I will promise you again, here and now, that I had nothing to do with that. My father's actions were not mine. They are not mine."
Fingon snorted derisively, subsiding into a sulky silence, his lip curled in distaste. Both cousins glared at each other, the air frozen and brittle between them. Then with a sigh, Maedhros softened, breaking away from Fingon's accusatory eyes to look sadly down at his boots.
"Please, Fingon," he said quietly, "I did not know. How many times must I say it?"
Fingon did not reply, instead shrugging non-committally, a look of annoyance still carved across his features. He made as if to move away, but suddenly Maedhros' hand grasped his upper arm, holding him in place, his cousin's fingertips pressing uncomfortably hard into his bicep.
"Fingon, I did not know of my father's intent."
Fingon brushed his hand away, staring sullenly up at him.
"But you should have done something, Maedhros. You should have stopped him!"
"Do you think I did not try? I begged him, with Maglor beside me, we begged him to stop, to reconsider, but do you think he would listen to us?" Maedhros sighed exasperatedly, brushing a few stray curls of hair behind his ear. "You know him, you know full well what my father is like. The Valar themselves could not stop him if he sets himself to a path…"
Maedhros broke off distractedly, before a new thought occurred to him, and he raised his head, staring sharply at Fingon.
"But why were you there? You promised me that you would stay away from all of this. Why were you there?"
"What was I supposed to do, Maedhros?" Fingon snapped back, but the anger in his voice wavered, replaced instead by uncertainty, as he shifted awkwardly under his cousin's piercing gaze. "I couldn't not go. And I know that I broke my promise, and I'm sorry, but my father…I…I had to be there. I had to know."
"That's it? That's all you can say? After all that I risked by coming to see you, to warn you…"
"Maedhros, I…I'm sorry…"
"I could have kept you safe!"
Maedhros' shout rang in shock clarity around the clearing, the echoes of his voice seeming to linger in the rustling of the leaves above them. Fingon stared at him in horror, cold threads of worry knotting in the pit of his stomach.
"What?" he asked tentatively, dreading his cousin's reply. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing," Maedhros muttered, turning to lean against the bole of the tree, the splintery wood pricking into his back as he slumped dejectedly against it. He would not look up at Fingon, murmuring instead to the soil beneath his boots, "It's nothing…just forget it."
For a moment Fingon stared at him: the stark whiteness of his fingertips where they pressed against the bark, his face half-hidden in shadow from the tumble of his hair. The silence stretched unbearably between them, each lost in his own troubled thoughts, until finally Fingon could stand it no more, and softly he asked:
"Do you know what will happen now?"
Maedhros shifted against the tree, a brief spasm passing over his face, as if he was in pain.
"No", he replied hoarsely, "I…I don't want to think about it."
"You cannot ignore it," Fingon pressed, looking pointedly at his cousin.
"Please, Fingon," Maedhros whispered, still not meeting his eye. "Please don't…"
"Maedhros, this isn't something that will just go away, you have to…"
But even as he speaks Maedhros swung wildly around, something dangerously close to madness in his eyes, and he pushed Fingon roughly against the tree-trunk, his shoulder blades crunching painfully against the wood. Maedhros' hand forced his chin up, and an instant later his cousin's lips pressed hard against his own. Fingon's head snapped backwards with the force of it, knocking into the tree-trunk with a solid thump as Maedhros shoved into him, and he winced despite Maedhros' lips on his: shock and confusion warring with the sudden rush of unwanted passion that swirled up within him. But something in Maedhros' kiss was wrong, where tenderness should have lain there was only desperation; as he tried to make him stop talking, stop those painful truths from pouring over his lips, and Fingon could feel the awful tremor of his cousin's jaw as he pushed up against him.
Where desire ran, anger did also, and perhaps it ran the greater, as with a sudden wrench Fingon slammed his hands against Maedhros' chest, shoving him forcefully away. Bitterly they broke apart, Maedhros stumbling backwards a few paces as both of them snatched a moment of recovery, each attempting to order his scattered thoughts. Fingon was the quicker to master himself, what desire had flared so traitorously within him quickly stamped out by cold fury, and he watched his cousin carefully, unsure of how to react. But Maedhros barely seemed to register him at all, as he stared pitifully at the ground, a haunted glimmer in his eyes. Fingon could hear the gulps of air sliding erratically into his lungs, could see the beginnings of a bruise rising across his cheekbone, the mark bloody on his pallid skin. For a moment Fingon didn't know what to do; anger at his cousin's cheap trick to silence him still burning in his stomach, anger at his ridiculous inability to acknowledge the consequences of his actions, his father's actions, and the ruin that they had wrought. But beneath it all, pity bled, as he watched his cousin standing there so miserably, looking so lost, his slender form limned in the faltering, ephemeral silver of Telperion.
With a rush of guilt Fingon opened his mouth to speak, to apologize even, but before he could utter so much as a syllable Maedhros shifted, almost imperceptibly. To the casual observer it would have been little more than the subtle change in stance when one tires, but Fingon knew his cousin better than that. And to Maedhros it felt like the world was collapsing, the graven pillars that held up everything he knew and loved, everything that was normal smashed away in one brutal hammer-fall, leaving nothing but a dull, empty ache spreading its chill tendrils through his chest. And he wished that he could just stop feeling, fade everything out into numbness and it would all just go away, he would wake up clawing at his sheets as the cloying tendrils of nightmare withdrew. But he couldn't, he couldn't make himself wake up; and it wasn't fair or right or just, he couldn't do anything but just stand there and hurt, the victim of actions far beyond his making, of events he wanted nothing to do with, but their blades sliced through him anyway.
Fingon stared at his cousin in dismay, not daring to move and scarcely managing to breathe, watching the awful, damned expression transfix across Maedhros' face. But life was shocked back into his limbs as he saw his cousin's jaw wobble, spied the tiniest slump of his shoulders before his knees began to buckle beneath him, and he lunged forward before Maedhros could fall, his arms wrapped around his torso as gently they sink to the ground. Fingon manoeuvres them into a sitting position, half-dragging Maedhros a few inches across the grass to rest against his right side; himself propped up with his back against the tree, Maedhros' head leaning on his collarbone. His arm curls protectively around Maedhros' shoulders, to no response, his cousin staring blankly off at some indeterminate point among the gently stirring grass, his fiery hair half-fallen over his face. Softly, Fingon reached across, stroking Maedhros' hair back from his face, and he feels him flinch as his fingers accidentally brush over the bruise on his cheekbone.
"I'm sorry, Maedhros," Fingon muttered, tightening his arm around him as he continued to smooth down his hair, fussing over him as if comforting a lonely child. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry that all of this has happened…"
As Fingon spoke, every soothing word he could think of dredged up from deep inside him, he felt Maedhros shudder, the tiny reflexive movements rippling through him, and he just kept speaking, unsure of what else to do. He spoke of every calming thing he could think of, not just for Maedhros, but for him as well, lapsing into fond memories of times long past: Aredhel's first trip to visit their mother's kin by the sea, her chubby little legs splashing amongst the waves as he held her hand; the day that Celegorm received Huan, his big cousin so proud and eager to show him off that he even let Fingon hold him, Huan's fuzzy tail wagging happily in his arms as his wet nose nuzzled against his face, and he had laughed at the funny feeling; feeding his uncle's great swans scraps of bread, and so excitedly he had leaned forward to watch their nibbling beaks that he almost fell in the pond, his father and uncle grabbing his arms at the last second, and he giggled as he swung in between their arms, kicking his booted feet in the air…
Suddenly Maedhros curled into him, interrupting his speech, his face crushed into Fingon's chest, a wave of russet hair obscuring the silent tears that trickled down his face. Fingon hugged him even closer, his arms encircling his cousin as he sobbed against his chest, the weight of all that had come to pass reached its tipping point, and in one horrible strangling moment simply too much for him to bear. And Fingon just held him, cradling Maedhros to his chest as great heaving shudders racked through his shoulders, and he whispers every condolence, every assurance that he can possibly think of, but even as he said them they felt like a lie: he was no more in position to change their situation than Maedhros, both of them subject to the whims of their fathers, both of them equally helpless. Something inside him dimmed at the thought, a little sliver of hope withering into barren disappointment but quickly he stops himself, every ounce of determination he has within him brought to bear. Because even though he wanted to break he simply couldn't, and he wouldn't: if Maedhros was going to founder under this storm then he had to be the strong one, he had to help him weather it, and in grim determination he steeled himself, clutching Maedhros all the tighter to him.
Resolutely Fingon swallowed down the awful lump that stuck in his throat and contented himself to wait, his thumb stroking reassuringly over Maedhros' arm as after a time his cousin's sobs subside, fading slowly away to numb stillness as Maedhros clings to him, his breathing gradually steadying as he curls further up into Fingon's side. With a sigh, Fingon rested his chin gently on his cousin's head, waves of sudden tiredness washing through him as he closed his eyes, sinking at last down into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
The first glimmers of gold shone amid the wash of silver, the leaves of the oak tree stretched above them seeming to shiver as they sensed the light. One falls from its branch in the excitement, drifting in lazy loops downwards, and to its surprise it lands upon the head of a sleeping elf beneath its tree, with another held slumbering in his arms. Strange, it thinks, in its fleeting little leaf-thoughts, but it pays them little mind, perched daintily atop one's dark hair, like a tiny guardian set to watch over them as slowly the woods awoke around their sleeping forms, at the coming of golden Laurelin and the herald of the new day.