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lignota's prompt, “Fingon/Maedhros, poem-based prompt
Format: Short Story
Genre: Slash, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Death
Characters: Fingon, Fingolfin, Maedhros
Pairings: Fingon/Maedhros
Creator’s Notes: Inspired by the poem, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem” by Bob Hicok, which is also woven into the story. The Poem is included at the end of the story. Sorry it strayed from Beleriand, though it is still connected to it.
Summary: Fingon is struggling being Reborn and angry he must pledge his loyalty to Arafinwë. Fingon refuses to sunder himself, body and mind, from the life he led in Exile.
Fingon washed his hands in the basin of the washroom of his parents’ home. He observed his new hands in the water, hands he had fought for, hands that had wrought much. His mind turned over the verses of an old poem he had written for Maedhros before he met his death: “My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time.” His words were prescient. Both Fingon and Maedhros understood that this poem, these lyrical words of love crafted carefully by Fingon’s hand carried power, though they could not understand the potential and finality of it. Such were the end of days.
Fingon had only just begun to allow himself to dive into memories of he and Maedhros. True, their love was not something that he could forget, the memories of their love was like the skin that now held Fingon together; yet Fingon had so many hurts, so many fears that needed tending that crowded out other parts of him so much so that aspects of who he had been were forgotten. Fingon stared at the palms of his hands. Each told a very different story: one was etched with the pain, the fears, and the doom of his previous life; the other was emptied, emptied of love, emptied of the hope he had born before dying. He had no memory of the wife who had born him a son. The verse drifted in his mind, “My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time.” And what of rebirth? What could Fingon expect now that he was Reborn?
Fingon returned his attention to the washbasin. He was presenting himself for the first time in front of his uncle, now the Noldóran, the High King of the Noldor. The High King, Fingon mused, the High King. At these thoughts, Fingon let out a snort. Though he held no ill will towards Arafinwë, he found the title of kingship an empty thing, still Fingon understood that like his father before him he would in public pledge his allegiance to Arafinwë. Turgon had done the same. Fingon examined the reflection in the mirror staring back. He was whole and hale. But he was remade different. His body was young, yet it was also marked by Endórë, imbued with strength and vitality. It was whispered that those Reborn were not made anew, not completely. The fëa was strong and in the remaking of the hröa many of the Noldor exiles exerted their will. They always would. This the Valar feared. Fingon wondered if Arafinwë feared this.
Fingon’s father, Fingolfin, had not spoken much to him of what his uncle thought, how this meeting would go. Fingolfin, like the rest of his family had not said much to Fingon, instead choosing to allow him his space to ask questions and find his voice. Indeed it had not been long since Fingon had been reborn, yet days after his return a missive was sent to his father’s home to have Fingon present himself to Arafinwë. Fingolfin had simply grunted when he looked over the contents of the letter. Turgon and Irissë burned the letter. Argon had watched them rage quietly as was his want, though his silent and constant presence at Fingon’s side was testament to his quiet determination. Arafinwë’s children upon rebirth had also not been spared time, though their allegiance to their father was fraught with different challenges. To keep the peace of Tirion those of great renown and notoriety were summoned soon after entering Elvenhome anew to pledge their fealty for the King. Of course Fingon understood the politics, the reasons for it. He cared not for it nevertheless. He had been king. His father before him. Turgon after his death. And Maedhros and Maglor before them, and Fëanor…
Fingon observed the frown that appeared on his face. That name, though it was shunned by many, was not one Fingon shied away from. Speaking to the reflection in the mirror, Fingon whispered, “I have faced ice and fire and now I go to supplicate before one who does not, cannot know my Doom.”
“Do not judge Arafinwë over harshly Findekáno,” Fingolfin’s voice materialized behind him. “Doom well reached him when he learned that all save Artanis were taken by Doom on the other side of the sundering seas.”
Fingon turned to face his father. “I try father. I try to bring peace to my mind, but for not.” Fingon swiftly walked passed his father, sitting himself on a bench in a hallway, trying to contain the thoughts that compelled him to move. Fingon soothed his tumbling thoughts with his hands, massaging his temple. It did him no good. Frustrated, he started drumming loudly with his index and middle fingers on his forehead. Fingolfin observed his son. Watched as the energy and power of his fëa rippled beneath the shell of his new body that struggled to contain the spirit within.
Fingon continued, his temper getting the better of him. “I cannot, will not allow my Doom and death to be but a history. I am that life!” Fingon cried out pointing towards the Outer Lands. “I will not forget.”
“I understand Findekáno,” Fingolfin approached, his voice soft, hoping he could soothe his son. Yet Fingon did not wholly remember. And maybe there was a small comfort in that for Fingon’s son was not yet reborn. But hope for Fingon had also been remade, in a way, but that was not for Fingolfin to reveal.
“No you do not!” Fingon retorted, swiftly rising and meeting his approaching father. Fingolfin paused sensing his son’s ire. It was better to allow Fingon to speak, to voice what had been bottled up since he had returned. “See this?” Fingon shoved his right palm in Fingolfin’s face, “see how it is empty?”
Fingolfin’s heart broke in that instant. He had not seen Fingon’s hand until that moment. Realization dawned on him. Fingon always kept this right hand motionless at his side since being reborn. Not curious as all Reborn had quirks they had to work out soon after being reborn. If only Fingolfin could reveal all that awaited Fingon to help him ease his hurts. Alas he could not. In some things, Fingolfin had no say.
Fingon continued, tears threatening to spill. “The Valar,” his voice dropped to a dangerous pitch, “they,” he repeated, “wanted to take this hand for saving Maedhros.” Fingon took a step back, letting his right hand fall limply to his side. “I prayed for mercy before I saved him, atto, I prayed and I believed Manwë heard my answer.” The verses of that old poem Fingon wrote before his death haunted him once more: “Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow kind, perhaps in the nook of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed anyone. Here I have two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back to rest my cheek against, your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.” The Valar wanted to take Fingon’s hand as his body materialized anew in recompense for Maedhros, but Fingon refused them and so they tried to wipe clean the slate of memory held in that hand.
Tears stained Fingon’s cheeks, and though Fingolfin had to fight the urge to take his son in his arms he stood still, knowing any movement from him would shut down Fingon’s emotional outpouring. Fingon needed to release this pain as best he could. If he didn’t, Fingon would go in front of Arafinwë with too fiery a heart. Fingon inspired men to war. He was inspired to war. This Fingon could not bring before the Noldóran in Tirion.
“I believed my prayers answered when the eagle came,” Fingon said despondently, conjuring those early days of exile. With his left hand Fingon ran his hands through his thick, loose hair, black as night. It ran between his fingers like the finest silk. No gold adorned it. The gold threads consecrated and gifted to him by his mother’s house were a part of his previous life. They were given to that man on that other side, but yet here Fingon stood. “And so what if those desperate prayers were answered?” Fingon continued, working out the tensions that clouded his mind. “Though I held my right hand to my heart in prayer ever after, it was all for not! Everything was taken from me, from us! Even the land itself, indeed innocents themselves were destroyed and cast into the sea! For what?” Fingon exclaimed. “Too late the wrath of the Valar and my uncle’s armies crossed the seas. Too late!” Fingon hissed. “But for a Doom?” Fingon laughed irreverently. “A Doom?” Fingon repeated, his voice dripping with irony. “I see that Doom on this side of my life and see it for what it was,” Fingon spoke observing the smoothness of his right palm. “The Valar want to write out the mistakes they made father. You know this,” Fingon offered, acknowledging his father.
“I do,” Fingolfin replied, breaking his silence, though Fingon did not yet know there was a small mercy in the emptying of that hand. Fingolfin held out his own hand towards Fingon. “Lend my your hand,” Fingolfin asked. Tentatively Fingon reached out his right hand, allowing his father to close hold it. The feel of another’s touch nearly undid Fingon, his knees buckling beneath him. Swiftly Fingolfin took his son in an embrace, holding him against him, not releasing Fingon’s hand. With the other Fingolfin wiped the tears from Fingon’s face. “My beautiful son, even in death you fought. My clever, bold son,” Fingolfin pronounced more firmly, his steel blue eyes willing strength into his son. “They could not take it. Behold your victory for it is not prideful to struggle so dearly for love.” Fingolfin held up Fingon’s right hand, his thumb tracing the smooth palm, bereft of lines. “This is a testament to your will Findekáno, to the lives we made in spite of what they would have of us!” And to the life of your son, Fingolfin silently concluded.
Fingon pressed his face into his father’s hand, seeking his warmth, his strength. Fingolfin forged on, knowing he could help Fingon win some peace, if only for a few moments, moments that for Fingolfin meant Fingon could know peace. “Yonya, my beloved, though we are reborn we are not made new, not how others would like to think of it. Yet here we are.” Fingolfin paused, his eyes now looking directly into Fingon’s bright blue eyes. “Can you go before Arafinwë? Can you pledge an allegiance to him?”
Fingon sighed. He was weary. Remade but weary. “I have no choice,” Fingon replied, his voice strained.
“Ay, no choice,” Fingolfin affirmed. “Arafinwë knows you cannot be unkinged. He understands this. Do you not think we have not had these discussions? He is my brother Fingon.”
Fingon observed the fire in his father’s eyes. Of course Fingon had not considered that this was something Arafinwë and Fingolfin had spoken or argued about.
Guessing Fingon’s mind, Fingolfin quieted his son’s unease. “You have only been reborn a few days of the sun, days in contrast to the span of ages of death, and before that a lifetime ago that spanned the history of our people that was your life. Be not hard on yourself for not working out the politics and the dynamics of our family, of political life in Tirion. Go before Arafinwë and be kind Findekáno. Your kindness has always been integral to you. Be that for now and know that I will be your silent wrath. Send to me your demons in that moment you kneel before your uncle.”
Father and son embraced for a time, each relishing the feel of the other. Fingolfin was tormented by Fingon’s presence. His son had only returned to him and a part of him feared that Fingon would be returned to death, taken from him. Fingolfin also carried guilt with him, guilt for abandoning his son in their previous Life. In this life, Fingolfin swore never to abandon Fingon, to do everything in his power to make sure such a thing never came to pass again. Only a few days of the sun have I had my son returned to me, Fingolfin pleaded silently to the gentle breezes that might carry his prayer to Manwë. Fingon has not yet even ventured out into Tirion, he pleaded. Allow him to find the small joy that awaits him here.
Fingolfin rued the hour the message had been delivered. Damned was the politics of Tirion that required too much, too soon of his sons and daughters. The only people who had seen Fingon were family. Finrod and Angrod had visited as had Orodreth, though not Arafinwë. Arafinwë could not make a social call until after Fingon’s public return. Fingolfin’s thoughts went to Aegnor who had chosen never to be Reborn for his love of a mortal woman. Arafinwë did not know the Doom as they had yet it took a mighty price from him. At least, Fingolfin mused, at least all his children had returned, all except for the one that Fingolfin never met and the one he had also abandoned that fateful day he rode to challenge Moringotto.
Fingolfin stood back, appraising his son. Indeed not many had seen or laid eyes on Fingon. He would be a sight for all to see. They’d remember Fingon, his beauty, but they would be awed by the way that Endórë cast herself into the remaking of his Hröa. The raw strength of the Reborn was potent and dangerous. Though the exiles tempered their tongues, their bodies spoke in the way they moved, the dance of muscles that refused to forget the toil of the hard life, of wars, of days on horseback, and the draw of the bow. Fingolfin remembered Fingon on his horse, leading the famed horse archers, the feats now sang in song, songs that traveled with those that returned and were remembered by those reborn.
Strengthened by his father’s heart, Fingon stood strong. “I am ready father.”
)()()()(
The crowd gathered in the Great Hall of the King’s court. Folks were standing on tiptoes stretching their necks to see if they could catch a glimpse of the former King on the other side of the sea. The sound of two doors opening caused the crowd to quiet. The anticipation was great.
Arafinwë sat on the dais. Fingolfin had moments earlier come to stand by him. No other elf stood with them. Fingolfin could hear his brother take a deep breath, readying himself for Fingon. In that moment, Fingolfin felt great sorrow for his brother. He was reminded that Arafinwë also carried a deep and sad burden.
A voice broke the silence, announcing. “Findekáno Astaldo, son of Nolofinwë and Anairë, Prince of the Noldor, Reborn!” A soft murmur of quietly excited voices filled the previous space of silence. Bodies pressed into one another as people leaned forward to see one of their princes returned.
Fingon walked through the path that split the heart of the crowd. As he walked the eyes of those he passed trailed him like starving dogs watching a meal elude them, so great and hungry was their curiosity. To witness one of the Royal family returned to them from death was momentous. Long had it been since one of Finwë’s family had been returned. Suddenly from out in the crowd a lone voice started singing,
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing-“
Others soon joined until a harmony of voices filled the Great Hall:
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords.*”
Fingon paused as the many voices rose to sing a lay proclaiming Fingon’s valour, and his place in the annals of Noldorin history. As the voices quieted, the song concluded, Fingon raised his right hand to his heart in salutation and reverence for those that came to claim him theirs, to claim him a King they had known and welcomed back to life once more. Some would thereafter whisper that it was a crude and disrespectful tribute by those reckless exiles now returned or reborn. Others would quietly speak of the pride they felt watching one of theirs who carried the burden of their Doom openly and did not hide from the enemy until his Doom found him: King Fingon the Valiant.
Fingon finally stood before Arafinwë, waiting for his uncle’s words.
“Speakest thou name for the Crown,” Arafinwë commanded, reciting the words reserved for the Reborn.
“I am Fingon,” he said simply, causing a stir in the crowd. After the ruckus died down, Fingon continued, “Before my exile I was Findekáno Astaldo, named so by my parents.” Fingon paused, trying to keep hold of his composure. “But now I am Fingon for that is who I became, how I died and how I chose to be remade.” Fingon held his right palm up in greeting to Arafinwë, dropping to one knee, acknowledging the Noldóran. Facing down, Fingon continued, “I pledge thee my loyalty.” And that was that. He said it simply, but his previous words spoke his heart.
Arafinwë had to stop himself from gasping, seeing the strange lack of markings on Fingon’s right palm. Arafinwë was no fool. He understood that whatever caused such unusual emptiness held great meaning. Arafinwë rose to formerly receive Fingon. “Stand Son of the Noldor,” he commanded.
Fingon rose.
“I receive thee Fingon,” Arafinwë replied, though he said Fingon’s name with love, and this was not lost on Fingon who remembered the look of warmth in his uncle’s eyes from ages now closed, remembered the love they had for one another. “Come,” Arafinwë spoke more softly.
Fingon climbed the stairs of the dais and into the embrace of the Noldóran. Arafinwë whispered so no other could here. “I hear you Fingon and I see you my Findekáno,” Arafinwë choked up.
Fingon was overwhelmed. This was his family. A simple man who had also lost much. Maybe Arafinwë did not understand the Doom as Fingon did, but he shared it nonetheless.
“Thank you uncle,” Fingon whispered.
After a moment Arafinwë stepped aside and held Fingon’s right hand up towards the people. “People of Tirion, welcome home your son. He is returned to you.” The crowd broke out in cheers, some more subdued than others, but there was cheer. Arafinwë motioned for Fingolfin to stand next to Fingon, adding for their ears only, “Welcome home. You are returned to us.”
)()()()(
Strangely enough, Fingon was left alone as he walked the Great Square. People would salute him and welcome him home, but he was left to his own thoughts. The exiles, both returned and reborn knew well enough to give space to one so newly remade, and many of those who had not left Tirion at the darkening of the Trees long ago either had no care to greet him or simply had no clue how to go about it. Fingolfin had explained as much to Fingon, giving him leeway to spend the next day or two as seemed fit to Fingon, in isolation and in contemplation.
This was the first time since he had been reborn that Fingon felt he had a semblance of solitude to ground him and without thinking Fingon hade made his way into Lower Tirion wandering paths well worn in his days of youth. Fingon found himself in front of a set of stairs that evoked an avalanche of memories. “Maitimo,” Fingon whispered, remembering that youth not yet Maedhros of Exile. There had been an innocence to them then, a bit of that original spark of whimsy much like was told about the elves that first awoke by the waters of Cuiviénen. Carefully, Fingon lowered himself to sit on the stairs as if to not disturb the memory of a first stolen kiss in the darkness of Lower Tirion where the silver light of Telperion was shadowed. Fingon had impetuously kissed Maedhros on these same steps. Fingon remembered that while at first Maedhros gave into the kiss, he pulled back, muttering a hasty apology and ran off. Fingon smiled, remembering the boy he had been, remembering that on that silvery night young Findekáno believed he had ventured upon the largest of heartbreaks he would ever know. Whispering into the night, Fingon spoke to that young boy: “I cherish thee, cherish thy innocence and youth. To be but a boy again, naïve to the hurts of the world.” His words drifted into the breeze of the quiet night.
Fingon allowed his hair to cascade over him to offer some privacy from the passerby who might wander by, though truly there were few out at this time of night. The moon shone high, perched above Fingon, on its path towards the other side. Fingon heard the quiet steps of another stop below him. “Oh, pardon me,” a familiar voice spoke, though faintly. Fingon flipped his hair back to reply, but also out of curiosity. Who would venture out this late in the streets of Tirion? After the Darkening, some elves found the night unnerving. But unexpected was the familiarity that washed over Fingon as he looked upon the hooded, shadowy figure below him.
“It cannot be!” Fingon uttered in disbelief, his face draining of color. There at the bottom of the stairs stood someone from memory, from that other life. Someone who should not be yet remade, or so Fingon believed. Fingon found himself unable to say more, his body shutting down, the energy dissipating within it. Likewise the figure, now stone still, was caught in the peculiar net of memory, remembrance, and uncertainty.
“Fingon?” the figure reached out tentatively with his voice.
Fingon was too dumbfounded to answer. Fingon’s mind seemed to collapse into itself. He could not command his voice to utter words or his body to move.
“Fingon!” the voice cried out more urgently, running up the stairs, “Is it really you?” the figure asked breathlessly, the stirring of his emotion like a thunderstorm.
Fingon managed to turn up and look at the figure towering over him. The moon shone like a crown on the figure. The figure threw his hood back revealing a shock of tumbling, wavy dark red hair that caught the light of the moon like the dying embers of fire. It could not be, it could not be, Fingon shouted, though no words could he speak.
The figure tentatively sat next to Fingon. “Fingon, it is I, Maedhros.”
Fingon felt drunk. The world began to spin and he found himself disoriented. He could not make out which way was up or down. Maedhros caught the collapsing Fingon. “Easy now,” he soothed. “You are so new I am afraid our meeting has caused a crack in your new parts.” Though Maedhros tried to make light of Fingon’s state and soothe away Fingon’s fears, the wild beating of his heart revealed otherwise.
Fingon managed to reach out to Maedhros with his right hand. Maedhros grasped Fingon’s hand with his left hand: their hands touching was like the explosion of stars, heat and light, a wash of energy that vibrated to their deepest cores. Fingon did the best he could and held onto Maedhros as if his life depended on it.
“I am here,” Maedhros spoke, his voice breaking with emotion. Tears now fell unchecked. “Fingon, you are here,” Maedhros sobbed, startled by the weight of Fingon against him, unbelieving that after all the ages had come and gone, Fingon was in his arms. Fingon too cried. It was all he could do.
Their emotions were heavy, a weight that could not be put into words, and so they held one another and cried. Above them, Tilion the guardian of the moon was so moved by the elves he spied beneath him--knowing the intimate details of their story-- that he called to the heavens in grief. The clouds gathered and together they cried a soft rain that blanketed Tirion. The rain chilled the night air, cooling Fingon’s skin. The rain nurtured him like a young sapling, giving him strength. Maedhros too filled Fingon with love, his own tears falling upon Fingon like the greatest and most fragile manifestation of love.
Slowly Fingon regained his composure, no thanks in part to the healing energy offered by Maedhros. Fingon raised his right hand towards Maedhros, revealing the palm empty of lines. Maedhros gasped at the sight. Taking Fingon’s hand in his own hands, Maedhros leaned his forehead against Fingon’s. Let me in, Maedhros thoughts begin to take shape in Fingon’s mind. Let me in, he repeated. The connection between them was not broken, but Fingon did not have control over it and so he unleashed his thoughts into Maedhros. Unleashed his fears. Unleashed his battle in death and how Fingon had refused to let his hand be taken.
“My love,” Maedhros soothed, “I am here.” Unusual, Maedhros thought to himself. Fingon had no memory of so many who remained in the realm of the dead. Fingon had no memory of Gil-Galad, of Lindirë, or Maeglin. Though Fëanor was present in Fingon’s mind only the living were bright in Fingon’s memory. The rest of Maedhros’ brothers were shadows. And yet not uncommon for one so newly reborn to have gaps in memory. It was a sad and violent birthing for the Reborn, to be thrust back into life with a consciousness of pain and loss.
Fingon held onto Maedhros’ right hand finding his voice. “Did they refuse to return your hand to you, the one I took in life from you?”
This last question from Fingon allowed Maedhros to step back from the torrent of Fingon’s emotions and the thoughts tumbling about in his own mind. Taking in deep breaths, composing himself, Maedhros spoke aloud, his deep voice soft but strong like steel: “I forced their hand. I forced them to make me anew.”
Fingon found hope and more of his voice. “How?”
Maedhros wished to share his thoughts with Fingon, yet he knew Fingon was not well enough in control of himself to manage the task. Instead, Maedhros breathed in, and began to tell his own story of Rebirth. Maedhros’ eyes had a faraway look to them as he shared his own tale of death and rebirth aloud: “They could not sunder your soul from mine when you died. Nor did the fiery chasm of my own death sunder you from me.” At the mention of his death Fingon tensed, but Maedhros forged on. “My spirit sought forgiveness, looked for the Oath itself to be able to dissipate in its words and into eternal darkness. But I could not, I would not,” Maedhros revealed. “For I had something that, after all, was more binding than any Oath. I had something more powerful keeping my spirit in light.”
Maedhros’ eyes refocused and he turned to lose himself in Fingon’s ice blue eyes, eyes that were home for Maedhros. The words now rushed out of Maedhros: “I had my love for you Fingon. My pledge to you. Our union was more than the everlasting darkness. Your love, our love is made of the flame imperishable. I do not know how, your love nurtured me, gave light to me again, I became something from the nothingness I was Doomed to fall into. And,” Maedhros breathed in, a clear light filling his eyes with hope, “I rediscovered my love for my family, for my dear father and mother, and for my brothers.”
Fingon stayed quiet. Of course their love was thus. He had felt Maedhros in death. Hoped as much for him.
“And when I felt you wage your war once more, I knew. I knew then that I would not be waylaid by trickery or deceit again.” Maedhros spoke, his eyes now growing with a fire, “This time I would be there to fight by your side.”
“How?” Fingon asked again. “I did not feel you when I was struggling with the remaking of my hröa?”
Maedhros laughed softly. “A strange thing indeed,” he answered. “I thought my duty was to help you in that fight but I realized that was not the mission I was meant to fight and so I fought to be remade, to be rehoused so I could be here for you.” Maedhros was once more overtaken with emotion. Fingon tentatively reached out to feel the tears that fell.
“And here you are,” Fingon murmured, “for me, for our family. Maedhros has done something that no one ever even dreamed possible.” Fingon understood that Maedhros was also driven by his love for his brothers. Fingon had been told Amras and Amrod had been Reborn and that theirs was a difficult journey. So, Fingon thought to himself, Maedhros fought to be remade to care for those he loved, for those he felt responsible for.
“I would not be vanquished,” Maedhros spoke steadily. “They had to give me this…not for me but for you Valiant son, for you.” Maedhros traced a soft kiss on Fingon’s lips.
“And for your brothers,” Fingon spoke, as Maedhros inhaled him in.
“And for my brothers,” Maedhros agreed, his eyes alight with a feral glow. Fingon would soon be ready to receive his full memories, now that he was by his side. Together they would confront the agonizing sorrow of remembering a son and loosing him again to death, remembering a wife taken in dark times and learning of her walk into a different realm of spirits that does not cross the sundering seas. He would know of the fate of Maeglin, of Aegnor, of Celegorm, of Curufin, of Caranthir, of so, so many. These too Fingon would come to know, in time.
Fingon smiled. “Now I understand that poem I wrote for you ere the end. Do you remember it Maedhros?”
“I do,” Maedhros replied.
Fingon whispered the verses: “Here, when I say I never want to be without you, somewhere else I am saying I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you in each of the places we meet, in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying and resurrected. When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever.”
“Each place and forever,” Maedhros repeated the last line like a prayer, his fingers ghosting new trails on Fingon’s palm. “And when I touch you in each of the places we meet, in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying and resurrected,” Maedhros intoned the verses once more, trailing kisses on Fingon’s palm.
“When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever,” Fingon continued, his words offered as prayer: a prayer to the imperishable flame that was their love, eternal.
The end
~*~*~*~*~
*Title taken form the prompt poem by Bob Hicok, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem”
* From The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian
The poem attributed to Fingon in this story is actually the poem offered as prompt by lignota, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem” by Bob Hicok.
“My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.”
lignota's prompt, “Fingon/Maedhros, poem-based promptFormat: Short Story
Genre: Slash, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Death
Characters: Fingon, Fingolfin, Maedhros
Pairings: Fingon/Maedhros
Creator’s Notes: Inspired by the poem, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem” by Bob Hicok, which is also woven into the story. The Poem is included at the end of the story. Sorry it strayed from Beleriand, though it is still connected to it.
Summary: Fingon is struggling being Reborn and angry he must pledge his loyalty to Arafinwë. Fingon refuses to sunder himself, body and mind, from the life he led in Exile.
Fingon washed his hands in the basin of the washroom of his parents’ home. He observed his new hands in the water, hands he had fought for, hands that had wrought much. His mind turned over the verses of an old poem he had written for Maedhros before he met his death: “My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time.” His words were prescient. Both Fingon and Maedhros understood that this poem, these lyrical words of love crafted carefully by Fingon’s hand carried power, though they could not understand the potential and finality of it. Such were the end of days.
Fingon had only just begun to allow himself to dive into memories of he and Maedhros. True, their love was not something that he could forget, the memories of their love was like the skin that now held Fingon together; yet Fingon had so many hurts, so many fears that needed tending that crowded out other parts of him so much so that aspects of who he had been were forgotten. Fingon stared at the palms of his hands. Each told a very different story: one was etched with the pain, the fears, and the doom of his previous life; the other was emptied, emptied of love, emptied of the hope he had born before dying. He had no memory of the wife who had born him a son. The verse drifted in his mind, “My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time.” And what of rebirth? What could Fingon expect now that he was Reborn?
Fingon returned his attention to the washbasin. He was presenting himself for the first time in front of his uncle, now the Noldóran, the High King of the Noldor. The High King, Fingon mused, the High King. At these thoughts, Fingon let out a snort. Though he held no ill will towards Arafinwë, he found the title of kingship an empty thing, still Fingon understood that like his father before him he would in public pledge his allegiance to Arafinwë. Turgon had done the same. Fingon examined the reflection in the mirror staring back. He was whole and hale. But he was remade different. His body was young, yet it was also marked by Endórë, imbued with strength and vitality. It was whispered that those Reborn were not made anew, not completely. The fëa was strong and in the remaking of the hröa many of the Noldor exiles exerted their will. They always would. This the Valar feared. Fingon wondered if Arafinwë feared this.
Fingon’s father, Fingolfin, had not spoken much to him of what his uncle thought, how this meeting would go. Fingolfin, like the rest of his family had not said much to Fingon, instead choosing to allow him his space to ask questions and find his voice. Indeed it had not been long since Fingon had been reborn, yet days after his return a missive was sent to his father’s home to have Fingon present himself to Arafinwë. Fingolfin had simply grunted when he looked over the contents of the letter. Turgon and Irissë burned the letter. Argon had watched them rage quietly as was his want, though his silent and constant presence at Fingon’s side was testament to his quiet determination. Arafinwë’s children upon rebirth had also not been spared time, though their allegiance to their father was fraught with different challenges. To keep the peace of Tirion those of great renown and notoriety were summoned soon after entering Elvenhome anew to pledge their fealty for the King. Of course Fingon understood the politics, the reasons for it. He cared not for it nevertheless. He had been king. His father before him. Turgon after his death. And Maedhros and Maglor before them, and Fëanor…
Fingon observed the frown that appeared on his face. That name, though it was shunned by many, was not one Fingon shied away from. Speaking to the reflection in the mirror, Fingon whispered, “I have faced ice and fire and now I go to supplicate before one who does not, cannot know my Doom.”
“Do not judge Arafinwë over harshly Findekáno,” Fingolfin’s voice materialized behind him. “Doom well reached him when he learned that all save Artanis were taken by Doom on the other side of the sundering seas.”
Fingon turned to face his father. “I try father. I try to bring peace to my mind, but for not.” Fingon swiftly walked passed his father, sitting himself on a bench in a hallway, trying to contain the thoughts that compelled him to move. Fingon soothed his tumbling thoughts with his hands, massaging his temple. It did him no good. Frustrated, he started drumming loudly with his index and middle fingers on his forehead. Fingolfin observed his son. Watched as the energy and power of his fëa rippled beneath the shell of his new body that struggled to contain the spirit within.
Fingon continued, his temper getting the better of him. “I cannot, will not allow my Doom and death to be but a history. I am that life!” Fingon cried out pointing towards the Outer Lands. “I will not forget.”
“I understand Findekáno,” Fingolfin approached, his voice soft, hoping he could soothe his son. Yet Fingon did not wholly remember. And maybe there was a small comfort in that for Fingon’s son was not yet reborn. But hope for Fingon had also been remade, in a way, but that was not for Fingolfin to reveal.
“No you do not!” Fingon retorted, swiftly rising and meeting his approaching father. Fingolfin paused sensing his son’s ire. It was better to allow Fingon to speak, to voice what had been bottled up since he had returned. “See this?” Fingon shoved his right palm in Fingolfin’s face, “see how it is empty?”
Fingolfin’s heart broke in that instant. He had not seen Fingon’s hand until that moment. Realization dawned on him. Fingon always kept this right hand motionless at his side since being reborn. Not curious as all Reborn had quirks they had to work out soon after being reborn. If only Fingolfin could reveal all that awaited Fingon to help him ease his hurts. Alas he could not. In some things, Fingolfin had no say.
Fingon continued, tears threatening to spill. “The Valar,” his voice dropped to a dangerous pitch, “they,” he repeated, “wanted to take this hand for saving Maedhros.” Fingon took a step back, letting his right hand fall limply to his side. “I prayed for mercy before I saved him, atto, I prayed and I believed Manwë heard my answer.” The verses of that old poem Fingon wrote before his death haunted him once more: “Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow kind, perhaps in the nook of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed anyone. Here I have two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back to rest my cheek against, your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.” The Valar wanted to take Fingon’s hand as his body materialized anew in recompense for Maedhros, but Fingon refused them and so they tried to wipe clean the slate of memory held in that hand.
Tears stained Fingon’s cheeks, and though Fingolfin had to fight the urge to take his son in his arms he stood still, knowing any movement from him would shut down Fingon’s emotional outpouring. Fingon needed to release this pain as best he could. If he didn’t, Fingon would go in front of Arafinwë with too fiery a heart. Fingon inspired men to war. He was inspired to war. This Fingon could not bring before the Noldóran in Tirion.
“I believed my prayers answered when the eagle came,” Fingon said despondently, conjuring those early days of exile. With his left hand Fingon ran his hands through his thick, loose hair, black as night. It ran between his fingers like the finest silk. No gold adorned it. The gold threads consecrated and gifted to him by his mother’s house were a part of his previous life. They were given to that man on that other side, but yet here Fingon stood. “And so what if those desperate prayers were answered?” Fingon continued, working out the tensions that clouded his mind. “Though I held my right hand to my heart in prayer ever after, it was all for not! Everything was taken from me, from us! Even the land itself, indeed innocents themselves were destroyed and cast into the sea! For what?” Fingon exclaimed. “Too late the wrath of the Valar and my uncle’s armies crossed the seas. Too late!” Fingon hissed. “But for a Doom?” Fingon laughed irreverently. “A Doom?” Fingon repeated, his voice dripping with irony. “I see that Doom on this side of my life and see it for what it was,” Fingon spoke observing the smoothness of his right palm. “The Valar want to write out the mistakes they made father. You know this,” Fingon offered, acknowledging his father.
“I do,” Fingolfin replied, breaking his silence, though Fingon did not yet know there was a small mercy in the emptying of that hand. Fingolfin held out his own hand towards Fingon. “Lend my your hand,” Fingolfin asked. Tentatively Fingon reached out his right hand, allowing his father to close hold it. The feel of another’s touch nearly undid Fingon, his knees buckling beneath him. Swiftly Fingolfin took his son in an embrace, holding him against him, not releasing Fingon’s hand. With the other Fingolfin wiped the tears from Fingon’s face. “My beautiful son, even in death you fought. My clever, bold son,” Fingolfin pronounced more firmly, his steel blue eyes willing strength into his son. “They could not take it. Behold your victory for it is not prideful to struggle so dearly for love.” Fingolfin held up Fingon’s right hand, his thumb tracing the smooth palm, bereft of lines. “This is a testament to your will Findekáno, to the lives we made in spite of what they would have of us!” And to the life of your son, Fingolfin silently concluded.
Fingon pressed his face into his father’s hand, seeking his warmth, his strength. Fingolfin forged on, knowing he could help Fingon win some peace, if only for a few moments, moments that for Fingolfin meant Fingon could know peace. “Yonya, my beloved, though we are reborn we are not made new, not how others would like to think of it. Yet here we are.” Fingolfin paused, his eyes now looking directly into Fingon’s bright blue eyes. “Can you go before Arafinwë? Can you pledge an allegiance to him?”
Fingon sighed. He was weary. Remade but weary. “I have no choice,” Fingon replied, his voice strained.
“Ay, no choice,” Fingolfin affirmed. “Arafinwë knows you cannot be unkinged. He understands this. Do you not think we have not had these discussions? He is my brother Fingon.”
Fingon observed the fire in his father’s eyes. Of course Fingon had not considered that this was something Arafinwë and Fingolfin had spoken or argued about.
Guessing Fingon’s mind, Fingolfin quieted his son’s unease. “You have only been reborn a few days of the sun, days in contrast to the span of ages of death, and before that a lifetime ago that spanned the history of our people that was your life. Be not hard on yourself for not working out the politics and the dynamics of our family, of political life in Tirion. Go before Arafinwë and be kind Findekáno. Your kindness has always been integral to you. Be that for now and know that I will be your silent wrath. Send to me your demons in that moment you kneel before your uncle.”
Father and son embraced for a time, each relishing the feel of the other. Fingolfin was tormented by Fingon’s presence. His son had only returned to him and a part of him feared that Fingon would be returned to death, taken from him. Fingolfin also carried guilt with him, guilt for abandoning his son in their previous Life. In this life, Fingolfin swore never to abandon Fingon, to do everything in his power to make sure such a thing never came to pass again. Only a few days of the sun have I had my son returned to me, Fingolfin pleaded silently to the gentle breezes that might carry his prayer to Manwë. Fingon has not yet even ventured out into Tirion, he pleaded. Allow him to find the small joy that awaits him here.
Fingolfin rued the hour the message had been delivered. Damned was the politics of Tirion that required too much, too soon of his sons and daughters. The only people who had seen Fingon were family. Finrod and Angrod had visited as had Orodreth, though not Arafinwë. Arafinwë could not make a social call until after Fingon’s public return. Fingolfin’s thoughts went to Aegnor who had chosen never to be Reborn for his love of a mortal woman. Arafinwë did not know the Doom as they had yet it took a mighty price from him. At least, Fingolfin mused, at least all his children had returned, all except for the one that Fingolfin never met and the one he had also abandoned that fateful day he rode to challenge Moringotto.
Fingolfin stood back, appraising his son. Indeed not many had seen or laid eyes on Fingon. He would be a sight for all to see. They’d remember Fingon, his beauty, but they would be awed by the way that Endórë cast herself into the remaking of his Hröa. The raw strength of the Reborn was potent and dangerous. Though the exiles tempered their tongues, their bodies spoke in the way they moved, the dance of muscles that refused to forget the toil of the hard life, of wars, of days on horseback, and the draw of the bow. Fingolfin remembered Fingon on his horse, leading the famed horse archers, the feats now sang in song, songs that traveled with those that returned and were remembered by those reborn.
Strengthened by his father’s heart, Fingon stood strong. “I am ready father.”
)()()()(
The crowd gathered in the Great Hall of the King’s court. Folks were standing on tiptoes stretching their necks to see if they could catch a glimpse of the former King on the other side of the sea. The sound of two doors opening caused the crowd to quiet. The anticipation was great.
Arafinwë sat on the dais. Fingolfin had moments earlier come to stand by him. No other elf stood with them. Fingolfin could hear his brother take a deep breath, readying himself for Fingon. In that moment, Fingolfin felt great sorrow for his brother. He was reminded that Arafinwë also carried a deep and sad burden.
A voice broke the silence, announcing. “Findekáno Astaldo, son of Nolofinwë and Anairë, Prince of the Noldor, Reborn!” A soft murmur of quietly excited voices filled the previous space of silence. Bodies pressed into one another as people leaned forward to see one of their princes returned.
Fingon walked through the path that split the heart of the crowd. As he walked the eyes of those he passed trailed him like starving dogs watching a meal elude them, so great and hungry was their curiosity. To witness one of the Royal family returned to them from death was momentous. Long had it been since one of Finwë’s family had been returned. Suddenly from out in the crowd a lone voice started singing,
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing-“
Others soon joined until a harmony of voices filled the Great Hall:
“The song of Fingon Elves yet sing
captain of armies, Gnomish king,
who fell at last in flame of swords
with his white banners and his lords.*”
Fingon paused as the many voices rose to sing a lay proclaiming Fingon’s valour, and his place in the annals of Noldorin history. As the voices quieted, the song concluded, Fingon raised his right hand to his heart in salutation and reverence for those that came to claim him theirs, to claim him a King they had known and welcomed back to life once more. Some would thereafter whisper that it was a crude and disrespectful tribute by those reckless exiles now returned or reborn. Others would quietly speak of the pride they felt watching one of theirs who carried the burden of their Doom openly and did not hide from the enemy until his Doom found him: King Fingon the Valiant.
Fingon finally stood before Arafinwë, waiting for his uncle’s words.
“Speakest thou name for the Crown,” Arafinwë commanded, reciting the words reserved for the Reborn.
“I am Fingon,” he said simply, causing a stir in the crowd. After the ruckus died down, Fingon continued, “Before my exile I was Findekáno Astaldo, named so by my parents.” Fingon paused, trying to keep hold of his composure. “But now I am Fingon for that is who I became, how I died and how I chose to be remade.” Fingon held his right palm up in greeting to Arafinwë, dropping to one knee, acknowledging the Noldóran. Facing down, Fingon continued, “I pledge thee my loyalty.” And that was that. He said it simply, but his previous words spoke his heart.
Arafinwë had to stop himself from gasping, seeing the strange lack of markings on Fingon’s right palm. Arafinwë was no fool. He understood that whatever caused such unusual emptiness held great meaning. Arafinwë rose to formerly receive Fingon. “Stand Son of the Noldor,” he commanded.
Fingon rose.
“I receive thee Fingon,” Arafinwë replied, though he said Fingon’s name with love, and this was not lost on Fingon who remembered the look of warmth in his uncle’s eyes from ages now closed, remembered the love they had for one another. “Come,” Arafinwë spoke more softly.
Fingon climbed the stairs of the dais and into the embrace of the Noldóran. Arafinwë whispered so no other could here. “I hear you Fingon and I see you my Findekáno,” Arafinwë choked up.
Fingon was overwhelmed. This was his family. A simple man who had also lost much. Maybe Arafinwë did not understand the Doom as Fingon did, but he shared it nonetheless.
“Thank you uncle,” Fingon whispered.
After a moment Arafinwë stepped aside and held Fingon’s right hand up towards the people. “People of Tirion, welcome home your son. He is returned to you.” The crowd broke out in cheers, some more subdued than others, but there was cheer. Arafinwë motioned for Fingolfin to stand next to Fingon, adding for their ears only, “Welcome home. You are returned to us.”
)()()()(
Strangely enough, Fingon was left alone as he walked the Great Square. People would salute him and welcome him home, but he was left to his own thoughts. The exiles, both returned and reborn knew well enough to give space to one so newly remade, and many of those who had not left Tirion at the darkening of the Trees long ago either had no care to greet him or simply had no clue how to go about it. Fingolfin had explained as much to Fingon, giving him leeway to spend the next day or two as seemed fit to Fingon, in isolation and in contemplation.
This was the first time since he had been reborn that Fingon felt he had a semblance of solitude to ground him and without thinking Fingon hade made his way into Lower Tirion wandering paths well worn in his days of youth. Fingon found himself in front of a set of stairs that evoked an avalanche of memories. “Maitimo,” Fingon whispered, remembering that youth not yet Maedhros of Exile. There had been an innocence to them then, a bit of that original spark of whimsy much like was told about the elves that first awoke by the waters of Cuiviénen. Carefully, Fingon lowered himself to sit on the stairs as if to not disturb the memory of a first stolen kiss in the darkness of Lower Tirion where the silver light of Telperion was shadowed. Fingon had impetuously kissed Maedhros on these same steps. Fingon remembered that while at first Maedhros gave into the kiss, he pulled back, muttering a hasty apology and ran off. Fingon smiled, remembering the boy he had been, remembering that on that silvery night young Findekáno believed he had ventured upon the largest of heartbreaks he would ever know. Whispering into the night, Fingon spoke to that young boy: “I cherish thee, cherish thy innocence and youth. To be but a boy again, naïve to the hurts of the world.” His words drifted into the breeze of the quiet night.
Fingon allowed his hair to cascade over him to offer some privacy from the passerby who might wander by, though truly there were few out at this time of night. The moon shone high, perched above Fingon, on its path towards the other side. Fingon heard the quiet steps of another stop below him. “Oh, pardon me,” a familiar voice spoke, though faintly. Fingon flipped his hair back to reply, but also out of curiosity. Who would venture out this late in the streets of Tirion? After the Darkening, some elves found the night unnerving. But unexpected was the familiarity that washed over Fingon as he looked upon the hooded, shadowy figure below him.
“It cannot be!” Fingon uttered in disbelief, his face draining of color. There at the bottom of the stairs stood someone from memory, from that other life. Someone who should not be yet remade, or so Fingon believed. Fingon found himself unable to say more, his body shutting down, the energy dissipating within it. Likewise the figure, now stone still, was caught in the peculiar net of memory, remembrance, and uncertainty.
“Fingon?” the figure reached out tentatively with his voice.
Fingon was too dumbfounded to answer. Fingon’s mind seemed to collapse into itself. He could not command his voice to utter words or his body to move.
“Fingon!” the voice cried out more urgently, running up the stairs, “Is it really you?” the figure asked breathlessly, the stirring of his emotion like a thunderstorm.
Fingon managed to turn up and look at the figure towering over him. The moon shone like a crown on the figure. The figure threw his hood back revealing a shock of tumbling, wavy dark red hair that caught the light of the moon like the dying embers of fire. It could not be, it could not be, Fingon shouted, though no words could he speak.
The figure tentatively sat next to Fingon. “Fingon, it is I, Maedhros.”
Fingon felt drunk. The world began to spin and he found himself disoriented. He could not make out which way was up or down. Maedhros caught the collapsing Fingon. “Easy now,” he soothed. “You are so new I am afraid our meeting has caused a crack in your new parts.” Though Maedhros tried to make light of Fingon’s state and soothe away Fingon’s fears, the wild beating of his heart revealed otherwise.
Fingon managed to reach out to Maedhros with his right hand. Maedhros grasped Fingon’s hand with his left hand: their hands touching was like the explosion of stars, heat and light, a wash of energy that vibrated to their deepest cores. Fingon did the best he could and held onto Maedhros as if his life depended on it.
“I am here,” Maedhros spoke, his voice breaking with emotion. Tears now fell unchecked. “Fingon, you are here,” Maedhros sobbed, startled by the weight of Fingon against him, unbelieving that after all the ages had come and gone, Fingon was in his arms. Fingon too cried. It was all he could do.
Their emotions were heavy, a weight that could not be put into words, and so they held one another and cried. Above them, Tilion the guardian of the moon was so moved by the elves he spied beneath him--knowing the intimate details of their story-- that he called to the heavens in grief. The clouds gathered and together they cried a soft rain that blanketed Tirion. The rain chilled the night air, cooling Fingon’s skin. The rain nurtured him like a young sapling, giving him strength. Maedhros too filled Fingon with love, his own tears falling upon Fingon like the greatest and most fragile manifestation of love.
Slowly Fingon regained his composure, no thanks in part to the healing energy offered by Maedhros. Fingon raised his right hand towards Maedhros, revealing the palm empty of lines. Maedhros gasped at the sight. Taking Fingon’s hand in his own hands, Maedhros leaned his forehead against Fingon’s. Let me in, Maedhros thoughts begin to take shape in Fingon’s mind. Let me in, he repeated. The connection between them was not broken, but Fingon did not have control over it and so he unleashed his thoughts into Maedhros. Unleashed his fears. Unleashed his battle in death and how Fingon had refused to let his hand be taken.
“My love,” Maedhros soothed, “I am here.” Unusual, Maedhros thought to himself. Fingon had no memory of so many who remained in the realm of the dead. Fingon had no memory of Gil-Galad, of Lindirë, or Maeglin. Though Fëanor was present in Fingon’s mind only the living were bright in Fingon’s memory. The rest of Maedhros’ brothers were shadows. And yet not uncommon for one so newly reborn to have gaps in memory. It was a sad and violent birthing for the Reborn, to be thrust back into life with a consciousness of pain and loss.
Fingon held onto Maedhros’ right hand finding his voice. “Did they refuse to return your hand to you, the one I took in life from you?”
This last question from Fingon allowed Maedhros to step back from the torrent of Fingon’s emotions and the thoughts tumbling about in his own mind. Taking in deep breaths, composing himself, Maedhros spoke aloud, his deep voice soft but strong like steel: “I forced their hand. I forced them to make me anew.”
Fingon found hope and more of his voice. “How?”
Maedhros wished to share his thoughts with Fingon, yet he knew Fingon was not well enough in control of himself to manage the task. Instead, Maedhros breathed in, and began to tell his own story of Rebirth. Maedhros’ eyes had a faraway look to them as he shared his own tale of death and rebirth aloud: “They could not sunder your soul from mine when you died. Nor did the fiery chasm of my own death sunder you from me.” At the mention of his death Fingon tensed, but Maedhros forged on. “My spirit sought forgiveness, looked for the Oath itself to be able to dissipate in its words and into eternal darkness. But I could not, I would not,” Maedhros revealed. “For I had something that, after all, was more binding than any Oath. I had something more powerful keeping my spirit in light.”
Maedhros’ eyes refocused and he turned to lose himself in Fingon’s ice blue eyes, eyes that were home for Maedhros. The words now rushed out of Maedhros: “I had my love for you Fingon. My pledge to you. Our union was more than the everlasting darkness. Your love, our love is made of the flame imperishable. I do not know how, your love nurtured me, gave light to me again, I became something from the nothingness I was Doomed to fall into. And,” Maedhros breathed in, a clear light filling his eyes with hope, “I rediscovered my love for my family, for my dear father and mother, and for my brothers.”
Fingon stayed quiet. Of course their love was thus. He had felt Maedhros in death. Hoped as much for him.
“And when I felt you wage your war once more, I knew. I knew then that I would not be waylaid by trickery or deceit again.” Maedhros spoke, his eyes now growing with a fire, “This time I would be there to fight by your side.”
“How?” Fingon asked again. “I did not feel you when I was struggling with the remaking of my hröa?”
Maedhros laughed softly. “A strange thing indeed,” he answered. “I thought my duty was to help you in that fight but I realized that was not the mission I was meant to fight and so I fought to be remade, to be rehoused so I could be here for you.” Maedhros was once more overtaken with emotion. Fingon tentatively reached out to feel the tears that fell.
“And here you are,” Fingon murmured, “for me, for our family. Maedhros has done something that no one ever even dreamed possible.” Fingon understood that Maedhros was also driven by his love for his brothers. Fingon had been told Amras and Amrod had been Reborn and that theirs was a difficult journey. So, Fingon thought to himself, Maedhros fought to be remade to care for those he loved, for those he felt responsible for.
“I would not be vanquished,” Maedhros spoke steadily. “They had to give me this…not for me but for you Valiant son, for you.” Maedhros traced a soft kiss on Fingon’s lips.
“And for your brothers,” Fingon spoke, as Maedhros inhaled him in.
“And for my brothers,” Maedhros agreed, his eyes alight with a feral glow. Fingon would soon be ready to receive his full memories, now that he was by his side. Together they would confront the agonizing sorrow of remembering a son and loosing him again to death, remembering a wife taken in dark times and learning of her walk into a different realm of spirits that does not cross the sundering seas. He would know of the fate of Maeglin, of Aegnor, of Celegorm, of Curufin, of Caranthir, of so, so many. These too Fingon would come to know, in time.
Fingon smiled. “Now I understand that poem I wrote for you ere the end. Do you remember it Maedhros?”
“I do,” Maedhros replied.
Fingon whispered the verses: “Here, when I say I never want to be without you, somewhere else I am saying I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you in each of the places we meet, in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying and resurrected. When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever.”
“Each place and forever,” Maedhros repeated the last line like a prayer, his fingers ghosting new trails on Fingon’s palm. “And when I touch you in each of the places we meet, in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying and resurrected,” Maedhros intoned the verses once more, trailing kisses on Fingon’s palm.
“When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever,” Fingon continued, his words offered as prayer: a prayer to the imperishable flame that was their love, eternal.
The end
~*~*~*~*~
*Title taken form the prompt poem by Bob Hicok, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem”
* From The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian
The poem attributed to Fingon in this story is actually the poem offered as prompt by lignota, “Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem” by Bob Hicok.
“My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.”
