First Year of the First Age

Maedhros son of Fëanor sat on a rough bed in a crude cabin on the banks of the river Sirion.  Behind him, his cousin Fingon sat unspeaking.  They listened to the noise outside, filtering through inelegant walls, and heard shouts of command and confusion.  Further away, something was burning.  They could smell the smoke.

"It will heal in time," Fingon eventually said, "and you will fight well to be avenged for this injury."

But Maedhros sat, still running the edge of his thumb over the coarse bandages at his wrist where his hand had been.  Now there was only twisted linen and smears of drying blood.  It sickened him to look at it.  The terrible wave of heat and nausea would storm over him again and yet again, and he would remember too clearly the slice of the blade through his skin and bone.  It had been Fingon's sword.  The image was crystal in his mind, as it ever would be.  Fingon's sword had ripped him from one torment by means of another.  That had been only three days ago.

Fingon's hands, both of them, pressed into his left shoulder and gently rubbed over his tensed muscles to press warmth against his skin while carefully avoiding the injured right.  He leaned back a bit toward the small comfort.  Fingon's arms slid down and wrapped around his chest, gently pulling him nearer.  "Say something to me," Fingon whispered.

"You should have killed me when I asked."

"Then the victory would have gone to him," said Fingon.  "He wanted you dead."

"No," said Maedhros as he ran his hand up his broken right arm, hanging bandaged and useless at his side.  "He wanted me to suffer.  And I am suffering still.  You should have killed me."

Fingon pressed a kiss against his hair, then pulled him down so that they both lay side by side and half undressed.  Fingon's arms clutched him protectively close.  They were silent for a long while as the fire snapped and sparked on the stones and grew colder.

"I missed you," Fingon finally said.  "I thought of you all the time, you know, while you were at Formenos and I in Tirion.  I thought of going to you sometimes."

"My father never would have allowed it."

"I know.  And so I never went.  But I thought of you.  Every night I remembered you."

Maedhros drew Fingon's hand up to his mouth, letting the fingers rest over his lips and catch his breath.  "I always thought of you," Maedhros said.  "And sometimes I knew it was wrong, but other times I did not care, so I thought endlessly on you, my cousin..."

"Do not say that."

Maedhros half laughed, but bitterly, and kissed Fingon's hand.  "You do not wish to be reminded of our close kinship?  Is this so wrong that you would rather forget?"

"Yes," Fingon said.  "You are my lover, and that is enough.  I do not need to think of you as my cousin as well.  We are better than that, though we live on secrecy and pretence."

Then Maedhros smiled, perhaps as a smirk but more with sadness.  "Such is our poor lot in life," he whispered.

Slowly Fingon pulled himself up until he was almost sitting.  He leaned over Maedhros, and ran his hand over the length of his cousin's bare chest, and back, then down his side to rest at his hip.  He lowered his head for a soft kiss.  "I do not think that being with you could ever be the poor lot," he said.

Maedhros turned so that he lay on his back, looking up, and Fingon's hair fell and spread tickling across his skin.  He raised his hand to Fingon's cheek, then to his neck, then pulled him down until their lips met and Fingon's naked chest lightly touched his own.

"No," Maedhros said as Fingon's hot breath mingled with his own, "perhaps not."


        Year 32 of the First Age

When Finwë was very small he would sit with Atar by the fire for long hours while Amil slept, and Atar would tell him all the great histories of the Eldalië.  Long ago, Atar said, they had lived far in the east under the stars, not knowing the light of the Trees.  Atar had been there then, and Ingwë with him, and many others before the coming of Oromë,

Atar spoke of his first coming to Valinor, and of the long journey of the Eldar over the mountains as they came into the west.  He spoke proudly of the Noldor, lovingly of the Vanyar and Teleri, and sadly of the other kindreds who remained in the eastern lands.  He spoke most sadly of his friend Elwë who was lost in the dark forests and never found though his people searched long and tirelessly for him.

Finwë would listen to Atar's histories until he was lulled to sleep by the cracking of the fire and the warm scent of Atar's hair against his face.  Then Atar would carry Finwë to bed or, if Finwë awoke, start another tale until Finwë again slept with the folds of Atar's robes pressing patterns of lines into his cheek.

Finwë learned everything from Atar, and more.  He studied the history of the Valar and Maiar, and the Vanyar and Teleri, until he not only knew but also understood their places in the world.  His knowledge surpassed even Atar's, so that Atar called him Nolofinwë, Wise Finwë, just as he had given Nolofinwë's brother Fëanáro the name Curufinwë, Skilled Finwë.  Both sons and the third brother Arafinwë had been named after Finwë their Atar.

And now, though Atar was dead at Melkor's hand, he held still his name.  He was still Wise Finwë.  And he looked over at Fingon his son, seated before him, and prayed that this wisdom would guide his words.

"He is your cousin, Findekáno."

"Half-cousin," Fingon said.  He twisted one of his long plaits around his hand and looked at the tiles.

"The word 'half' is quite meaningless in your situation, I think."

"There is nothing meaningless about us two, Ta."

The mockery of the lilting carelessness in his son's voice made Fingolfin's eyes narrow and his lips twist into a scowl.  His fingers tightened into a fist and crushed each other, though they were hidden harmlessly within the sleeves of his robe.  He breathed deeply.  "You know what I mean," he hissed, "so do not try to joke or make light of the situation.  This ridiculous affair of yours has been going on for years now, and despite a few feeble attempts to keep it secret it would be foolish to hope that there is even one person left in this city who does not yet know!  And I would have it ended!"

Fingon though remained cold, calmly twisting his hair around his hand and wrist.  "It is unfortunate then," he said slowly, "that Russa has gone so far away to his own lands in the east, and does not plan to return for some time."  He looked to Fingolfin with an innocent smile.  "I'm sorry, Ta, but there is no way to tell him it is over."

"There are solutions to that," said Fingolfin.  Every other time, for every other misdeed, Fingon had managed to squirm and bend around him with serpentine logic so that it was always Fingon who was favoured by the outcome.  And Fingolfin, never able to stand firmly against his son, relented too easily.  He had neither the will nor the endurance to counter his Fingon's dutiful tenacity.

In this matter, however, he refused to play his comfortable role.  He handed Fingon a pen and a stick of ink from the table, which he had set out in anticipation of the inevitable worming.  "You will write a letter," he said.

"That is so impersonal," said Fingon.  "I will not."

"You will write a letter," Fingolfin continued, "and you will write it tonight, so that I may send a messenger at dawn tomorrow.  I do not care what you write, or how it is written, so long as it contains a clear message that whatever shameful familiarity you had shared is ended."

"Shameful?"  Fingon asked.  He fixed his eyes on Fingolfin's "And where is the shame?  In that I love him?  If so then I dare say that I would rather have my shame over your hypocrisy any day."

"This has naught to do with me, so do not speak as if it did!"  At his sides, Fingolfin's hands tightened further until the muscles cramped and his nails stung his palms.  Slowly, he willed his fingers to slacken, though they quickly twisted through folds of fabric and tightened again.  He willed his face to soften, though his jaw still clenched with every breath.  Then he closed his eyes and sat, nearer to Fingon than he had been standing, and he spoke in a tired voice.

"Please listen to me, and understand that I am not asking this out of hatred, or intolerance, or anything other than concern and love for you.  I long ago came to accept that you will never marry.  At one time this caused me terrible grief, but it is your own choosing, and I will live by that.  But I will not live by your current choice of lover.  It is strange and wrong to lie with such close kin.  If you were to choose another, any other, you know I would gladly look away and comment no further.  You know I would.  But first this incest has to end.  You must end it."

Fingon, refusing to meet Fingolfin's gaze, twirled the pen around his fingers.  "You speak as if you truly expect me to agree to this, Ta."

"I do not expect anything," Fingolfin said.  "I only hope that you come to your senses."

"And if I do not?" Fingon asked.  "What if I refuse?  Had you, in your supposedly unfailing wisdom, not considered that outcome?  I will not abandon the one I love simply because you request it!  How vain of you to think that I would!  You do not hold such great influence over me, my king!"

The words fell dark and hateful from Fingon's tongue and stuck in Fingolfin's chest like iron blades, twisting cruelly crooked in their malice.  And Fingolfin, both sickened and outraged, was certain he would have struck Fingon had his hands not been anchored impotently within the bonds of his robes.  Instead he stood again, this time in frightening wrath, and he threw his chair back so that it fell loudly to the floor.

"No," he said, "perhaps I do not!  But that is not my failing; it is a son's place to respect his father's counsel.  And though you do not see fit to heed me at other times, I would advise you to listen now, as what I will say might influence even your uncompromising arrogance!

"I have seen the future, dear son, in dreams and visions, and I have sensed it in the very life of my land and people.  There are many outcomes I have perceived, many possibilities, but regardless of which path we might choose to follow most of those eventualities are coloured by my death.  That I fear will almost certainly come to pass ere our war against the enemy is over.  So will I fall, and my reign with me.  And I would not be too saddened to see the crown of the High King passed not to my first son and true heir, but to Turukáno my second son who has never acted against me.

"So choose now, Findekáno!  Choose whether you will remain here and be a good son to me, or whether you will follow your misguided love for one of Fëanáro's house of the Dispossessed!  But I warn you that if you choose the latter, dispossessed you will be as well, for I will not suffer to keep you any longer by me!"

He paused to look more calmly at his son.  Fingon had paled, no longer smiling with defiance, only staring up at him.  Uncertainty and even fear now marred his once-brazen face.

"Ta..."

"I am giving you a choice," Fingolfin said slowly.  "You must choose whether you prefer to share the bed of some get of Fëanáro, or be my good son, for you cannot be both.  And you will choose now."

"Ta, please..."

"Choose, or I will choose for you."

Fingon slowly shook his head.  "I cannot," he whispered.  "Not so soon.  I must think on it.  Tonight I will think, and I will answer you in the morning."

"Tomorrow will be too late," Fingolfin said.  "I will have chosen for you by then."

"Then give me at least until sunset.  I will choose at sunset."

"You will choose now."

For a moment Fingon only sat, silent and still, staring up with such hopefulness that Fingolfin had to turn away from the pleading gaze.  He looked coldly at the walls and refused to relent, refused to even think of bending.

"You do not know what you are asking of me," Fingon quietly said.

"I know very well," Fingolfin said.  "I am asking no more than that you be a good son."

"You are asking me to sever a sacred bond!"

Fingolfin scoffed.  "It is neither sacred, nor a true bond.  Our laws do not recognise unnatural unions."

"Of course," Fingon murmured.  "And how convenient for you that such love is regarded as little more than a secret passtime to be neither spoken nor glorified in song as natural unions might be.  It is very fortunate, I would think, now that mother is not by us and you have nowhere else to turn for comfort on cold nights except-"

Fingon's words halted abruptly with the hiss of his father's fist through the air to strike him across the face with a ringing blow.  A heavy smack sounded, then only terrible silence filled the room for a long while.  Fingon slowly raised a hand to cover the burning red mark on his cheek.  Fingolfin wordlessly turned back to the wall and closed his eyes to quell the torrent of rage.

"Ta-"

"Be quiet.  I do not want to hear your voice any more.  You will write the letter now."

"But Ta, please, I cannot-"

"I said you will write," Fingolfin interrupted with a voice calm and cold, "and you will do as I say.  I am weary of your childish foolery."

It seemed for a moment as if Fingon would protest further, as he always did,   in one final grand effort to challenge Fingolfin's authority.  But slowly and silently, with a solemn subservience, he stood from his chair.  His eyes remained fixed on the table as Fingolfin half turned to regard the tentative victory.  Then Fingon gave the delicate stick of ink in his hand one last glance before smashing it down into its stone plate.

It snapped and shattered under his strength.  He used the largest piece remaining to grind the smaller shards into a coarse black powder, then spat on the powder and crushed it into thin paste.  A sheet of heavy bleached-white paper lay near the centre of the table, and Fingon grabbed it with such force that one of the edges tore, leaving a ragged inlet across the page.  He covered the pen with his crude ink and started to write, the movement of his hand scouring the paper in its fury.

Fingolfin stepped nearer to read the hideous scrawls of words scratched out by his son’s pen.  "You need not be unkind," he said softly.

"You told me to write, and I am writing!" Fingon hissed.  "Now you would dictate what I write as well?"

"No," said Fingolfin.  "But you make this far more difficult on the both of you by writing out of feeling rather than reason."

"There is no reason, Ta," Fingon said.  "You told me so yourself.  There is only shame and degeneration, and you would have it ended."  He tossed the pen onto the table. It rolled to the floor to land on the tiles with a small metallic sound.  Then he folded the paper roughly, four times, smudging the ink as he formed an angry misshapen square.  He handed it to Fingolfin.

"Well it is ended now," he said.  "Here is your letter.  You may send it at dawn, as you wished.  Unfortunately I will not be here to wave pitiful farewells to your messenger.  You asked me to choose whether I want to be Russa’s lover or your son, and I choose to be neither.  So you will send the letter, and I will leave, and my choice will be fulfilled."

Fingolfin hissed a slow breath, and in that moment his own reason failed and bowed to a more primitive force.  He thought in an instant of many things he might say, or do, but none seemed adequate.  His son would of course leave.  The desire clearly marked itself in Fingon’s eyes and in the tracing of his own hand still spoiling red across Fingon’s cheek.  And it terrified him.

Perhaps he had gone too far.  He could end it now and heal their rift.  He could tear the letter, burn it, and forgive Fingon's actions.  Then Fingon would stay.  There would be no further sorrowed partings in the House of Finwë.  He could be a true father and love his son without condition, as his own father had loved Fëanor despite Fëanor's countless failings.

Or perhaps Fingon should be a true son and accept his father's will.  He twisted his fingers in his robe again, this time to resist the terrible urge to grasp Fingon by the shoulders and pull him close.  What good would that do?  He had come this far by a hard and pitiless road that had damaged Fingon's love of him as surely as it had marred his own righteousness.  If he faltered, the reckless destruction would be for naught.  Better that he not turn back.  Kindness was equated with weakness now.  He would not relent.

"Where will you go?" he said at last.

"I will stay by Kalarindo and my cousins," Fingon replied.

"Not further?"

Fingon scowled.  "I do not wish to leave the city."

"I see," said Fingolfin.

"You do not care."

Fingolfin allowed one beat of silence, but only one, and nothing more than silence.  No thought, and no feeling came to him now.  They had been crushed by will.

"No," he said, and with no further words turned away.  He stood for a long time at one of the high vaulted windows, alone.

By evening, Fingon had left.


Continued in Part Two

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