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Autumns were usually cold in Himring, but it was an exceptionally sunny day, so Maedhros had opened the windows to let the sun in and had fetched a blanket for Fingon, taking another for himself. They were sitting at the table, which burst with all the delicacies Himring had to offer. Fingon never stopped smiling, listening to Maedhros talk about his fortress while gesturing animatedly. He told the detailed story of preparation for every dish. Fingon nodded and tried them one after another, offering his opinion on each.
Hidden behind the breadbasket, there was a plate full of dull green herbs, with numerous fine leaves and whitish, fleshy stalks.
“What is this?” Fingon asked, pointing at the plate.
“This?” Maedhros grinned. “The Sindar call it saerlais. It grew in Aman too but I never knew its name.”
“Oh, right! But I thought it was a healing herb.”
“The Sindar pickle it. I quite like the taste.”
He demonstrated his point by shoving one entirely, leaves and stalk, into his mouth.
“Is it good?” Fingon asked suspiciously.
“Very, though it is a little bitter.”
Fingon carefully bit some of the leaves and almost immediately spit them out.
“What was this?” he demanded loudly from Maedhros, who was watching him with no change in expression, except a sparkle in his eye. “Ugh, it was disgusting, how do you eat it?”
“With great pleasure,” Maedhros answered seriously.
Fingon glared at him. “Really? Or were you so dedicated to tricking me into forgetting my table manners that you kept guzzling it no matter the taste?”
“I never tricked you! I told you it was bitter.”
“But you knew I would hate it!”
“Well, yes,” said Maedhros, laughing. “But never worry about your table manners. You were quite restrained compared to Curvo.”
“Small comfort,” Fingon said. “Do you offer this atrocity to all your guests?”
“Only to the most esteemed ones.”
Fingon rolled his eyes. “I bet Tyelkormo loved it,” he muttered.
“Of course he did, though I would hesitate to call him an esteemed guest. The brute ate the entire plate all alone and demanded more. I failed to trick Makalaurë, unfortunately. He categorically refused to eat it. I suspect he already knew the taste because he saw the plate and yelled at me to take it away. Carnistir ate some, said he didn’t care for it particularly, and that was it. Bore! Curvo’s reaction was the most entertaining. He spat, jumped out of his chair and cursed for at least half an hour. Months later, I receive a jar of saerlais from him with a letter decrying the production method of my saerlais and giving detailed instructions on how to pickle it properly. He vehemently claimed that he had reacted the way he had only because my pickling methods were wrong. So I try some from his jug and can find absolutely no difference, so sometime later I send him a jug from my preserves and write that it was pickled strictly following his instructions. He wrote back that it was much better.”
Fingon laughed, forgetting to pretend that he was offended. “What about the twins?” he asked.
“I will find out when they visit me come spring.”
“If they have any taste, they will find even the idea of eating this outrageous.”
“You are too harsh, Findekáno, it is an acquired taste.”
Fingon snorted.
“The stalk isn’t even too bitter,” Maedhros insisted. “Try it, cut the leaves for me and have the stalk.”
“No, thank you.”
Maedhros shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Oh, all right, I will try.”
He cut the stalk and gave the leaves to Maedhros, who chewed them with enthusiasm. Fingon didn’t spit out the stalk but made a face when he swallowed it.
“Less disgusting but still disgusting,” he declared.
“More for me,” Maedhros said, taking the plate and pushing the honeyed bread to Fingon.
“Do you think the Doriathrim eat it too?” Fingon asked, taking a hefty bite from the bread.
“Why?” Maedhros asked, though from his wry smile Fingon guessed that he knew what was on Fingon’s mind.
“We could send a jar to Thingol as a sign of goodwill.”
Maedhros grinned. “I am not sure, but I believe they might be privy to the secret of pickling it,” he said. “So you have to think of another way for making Thingol declare Sindarin a Sindar-exclusive language and ban the Noldor from speaking entirely.”
“My father would kill me if you didn’t do it first.”
“Don’t be foolish, I would only cut off a hand.” He smiled at Fingon, unperturbed by his reproachful look. “Oh, come on, it deserved at least a chuckle.”
“All right.” Fingon chuckled. “But only because I feel bad for you for eating that unpalatable thing all by yourself.”
“Thank you, it was truly a deed worth a song,” Maedhros said, popping the last piece of saerlais into his mouth.
---
Fingon tapped his fingers on the table as fast as he could until the sound annoyed him. Maedhros was late. Fingon suspected that he had been held up by Fingolfin, discussing something that could absolutely wait until the next day. The King had even offered to hold a feast, but, fortunately, Fingon had convinced him to leave it for another day and had ordered a small table set for two.
Finally, the door opened briskly, and Maedhros walked in, beaming when he saw Fingon. Or maybe he beamed at the table, Fingon thought, he was probably starving.
“My apologies,” Maedhros said. “I was in conversation with your father.”
Fingon sighed. “I thought so. You are so lucky I did not start without you.”
“I know I am,” Maedhros said.
He poured himself some ale and took generous portions from the dishes, eating quickly and telling Fingon what he and Fingolfin had talked about. He reached for the butter and laughed when he noticed the plate with saerlais next to it.
“What is this atrocity doing on the table of the crown prince?” he exclaimed.
Fingon kicked him under the table. “It is for you, you ungrateful oaf.”
“I am eternally in your debt.”
Fingon narrowed his eyes at him, but Maedhros’s smile was sincere and affectionate, so Fingon didn’t kick him again.
“Did you trick your youngest brothers too as you had tricked me?” he asked.
“I did! With quite interesting results. You know how they almost always like and dislike the same things? Well, this time it was not the case. Ambarato spat it out of the window, while Ambarussa loved it.”
“That plant is evil! Sowing discord among brothers.”
“Yes, the Black Foe himself planted it,” Maedhros said with a serious face. “Maybe we should send it to Thingol. It might make him open the Girdle.”
“I shared the idea with Father when I came back,” Fingon said. “He threatened to strangle me with his own hands, or worse, send me to Thingol to make amends. I told him I would flee to Himring because you would only take a hand.”
Maedhros snorted into his ale. “For shame, Findekáno!” he said. “You should not mock your poor father so. What did he say?”
“Curiously enough, he said the same thing you did. ‘For shame, Findekáno! You should not mock your poor cousin so.’ I told him you had made that joke yourself, but he frowned and shook his head with the way he has that makes me feel I am a toddler.”
“This devious herb is sundering father and son! You should have never allowed it into your home.”
“Too late,” Fingon said. “I asked around when I returned from Himring, found someone who could pickle it. I wanted to keep a jar or two for when you visit, but Father and Aunt Lalwen tried it and went mad, so now we have jars upon jars, enough to supply the entire Hithlum.”
“Oh, no. You cannot stand for it!”
“Shut up. Anyway, you were right, the stalks are not too bad. I have them every now and then.”
Maedhros looked triumphant, which was no small feat, considering that his mouth was full of bread with butter. Fingon was suddenly reminded of the times when his cousin couldn’t even keep down water. He shut his eyes, banishing the thoughts, then looked at Maedhros, and his heart grew bigger and warmer inside his chest.
“What is it?” Maedhros asked smiling.
“I am glad you are here.”
“So am I.” He pushed the plate to Fingon. “Cut the leaves for me?” he asked. “Keep the stalks for yourself.”
Together, they left nothing on the plate.
---
Maedhros didn’t turn to look when Fingon opened the door, though Fingon had been careful to be loud enough to make his presence known, but not loud enough to overwhelm Maedhros. Fingon remembered how he had suffered, freshly out of the Halls: everything too bright and too loud, feeling like a stranger in his own body, disoriented and confused, unable to put thoughts into words. He at least had spent the first weeks in Lórien, coddled by Estë’s Maiar. Maedhros had refused the opportunity.
Fingon had been visiting him every day since receiving Nerdanel’s letter five days ago. I thought you would like to know, she had written, and I could use your help. Fingon had never been one to deny help to those who needed it, though he didn’t think Nerdanel couldn’t deal alone. Maedhros wasn’t her first re-embodied son. He suspected she had requested help because she feared Fingon would refuse to see Maedhros otherwise. As if he ever could.
“He speaks very little and at times looks like he has no idea where he is or what is happening,” Nerdanel had said on the first day. “Ambarussa talked without end, even if sometimes said things that seemed senseless to me. Carnistir, though, was taciturn as well, but he seemed aware at all times.”
Fingon sympathized with that. He had also been much disoriented after waking up, simultaneously feeling like it had been just one moment and thousands of years since his death. He still remembered nothing from the Halls.
“The first thing he told me was that he would leave as soon as he could,” Nerdanel had continued. “Does he think he is a burden on me?”
Fingon hadn’t known how to answer her question. He had simply squeezed her hand and asked her to show him where Maedhros was.
On the first day, Maedhros stared at him without blinking or saying a word. On the second day, he often touched Fingon’s sleeve, amazed. On the third, he smiled. On the fourth, he started talking to him sporadically. None of them mentioned the past.
Now Fingon was looking at Maedhros, who was sitting near the fireplace, his back to the door. The fire was high despite the mild weather.
“Your mother and I have set the table in the garden,” Fingon said. “Are you coming?”
Maedhros slowly turned to him. He looked like he was about to decline, but instead, he nodded, pulled on a hooded cloak and followed Fingon outside.
Nerdanel had left them alone, as she usually did, claiming she had to work. The small table was set under an arch, bright green with early summer grapevines. The street was nearly invisible behind the trees and the flowering hedge, but Maedhros was still buried in his heavy cloak. He looked ridiculous, and Fingon barely held back his laughter.
“You know you look more suspicious dining with a hood on than without one,” he said casually.
“At least I am not instantly recognizable,” Maedhros said in a low voice, hoarse with disuse.
Fingon didn’t argue. He dug in, suddenly ravenous. The food was delicious, and Fingon felt proud because he had assisted Nerdanel in its preparation. Maybe she was serious about needing help. The house was big, and she had temporarily banished the helpers and apprentices, so all cleaning and cooking fell to her and Fingon, though her parents also helped from time to time. Maedhros’s re-embodied brothers were in different corners of Aman. Nerdanel had sent word of Maedhros’s return, but they would not be back for at least a couple of weeks.
Maedhros ate very little, but Fingon didn’t pressure him. He remembered that food had felt a foreign concept after re-embodiment. He rambled nonsense with his mouth full to make Maedhros smile. Sometimes he even succeeded.
When he was sated, he grinned at Maedhros. “I have brought something for you,” he said.
Leaning down, he retrieved a small jar from under the table and emptied it on a plate. The distinct smell of saerlais hit his nose.
Maedhros looked at him with eyes that were warm and very bright. His lips moved soundlessly.
“I do everything myself,” Fingon started blabbering before Maedhros could say something that would make him weep. “I go to the mountains, gather all I can find, select the best ones and pickle them. All by myself. I have been doing it for centuries, I have perfected the art, it is so good, just look at it. See the color of the stalks? Look at the leaves! It is very good, you have to try it. It is—”
He stopped abruptly, embarrassed, his heart beating fast for a reason he could not find.
“I am not sure I can stomach it yet,” Maedhros said haltingly after a pause.
“The stalks will surely be fine," Fingon said. "They are very soft and not too bitter. You can have them all, I will take the leaves. Do you want me to cut them for you?”
Maedhros didn’t respond at first. He was looking at Fingon, his unbearably tender gaze enveloping Fingon like the smoothest silk and burning, setting his skin ablaze with gentleness. Fingon jerked, almost in pain, and Maedhros shook his head.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Please, cut them for me.”
