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“What has gone and made you look so peaceful?” asks Wachiwi, when she and Fingon set out towards the slender bridge for the evening watch.
She contrived to stand for the same watch as he did, though she will not tell him so. Fingon is a man, and men, no matter how goodhearted, should never be made aware of women’s efforts to be beside them.
“I have reconciled with Maitimo,” he says, in his open way, and in the gathering dark she can see that he is smiling. “I do not pretend that things shall be just as they were—I no longer think they should be. But now I believe that we can be…happy again. Friends once more.”
“Good,” Wachiwi says, smiling in return, and resisting the urge to take his strong hand in hers.
When they are positioned in the bushes on either side of the bridge, she regrets that decision. She would like to touch him again, and she thinks that he would like that too. The change that has come over him is like the stitching-shut of a wound he has been carrying with him everywhere. The wound that made him say, not yet.
If that wound is healed—
But watch is a time for careful eyes and ears, and as such, they do not talk for a while. Wachiwi listens to the wind on the water, to the returning birds who are still learning to make new nests for the night. Finally, when their time is nearly up, she asks a question more pressing than how he made things right with Maedhros.
“Who is Maeglin?”
She has been told in scraps, of course, who Maeglin is. But she wants the real story. No doubt this story will lead to Maedhros anyway.
“A boy from the Mountain,” Fingon says. “He was not as much a slave as the rest. More favored. So Maedhros’ brothers don’t trust him. But he’s only a child.” Half to himself, he adds, “We were only children, when it all went wrong.”
“Not as much a slave?” Wachiwi asks.
“Yes. But I can’t really say more. I’m sorry. Maitimo says that he won’t do any harm.”
“Watch him anyway,” Wachiwi says, suddenly wary. “Until the poison is gone from him.”
“The poison?”
“They all have it,” she says. “Who have been hurt.”
Fingon shifts, rustling the branches of the low shrubs around him. “Perhaps you’re right.”
She believes the truth of her words, but his ensuing silence makes her feel that she should not have said it. Is she asking him to fear the boy? Is she blaming a child for what men have done?
“You are very good, Fingon,” she murmurs at last, and means that with her whole heart.
More rustling. He is coming towards her, not very quietly, because Fingon has yet to master the art of moving silently.
“When I thanked you before,” he says—and now, for it is dark, he is only a shape of further darkness, but she can sense him very vividly, just as always—“It was for everything you do. You help, you warn, you guard. And I am always running off and leaving my head God knows where. Certainly not in the right place.”
“It is a busy head,” she says, laughing a little.
“Maybe.” He does not laugh. “But I am saying that I should remember to be grateful to you—grateful for you more often.”
In the darkness, there is, somehow, an invisible fire.
“Has there been time enough?” Wachiwi asks. She rarely sees a reason to shirk from being bold.
He clears his throat, taking her meaning. “Do you…you wish to revisit our earlier…”
“I want to kiss you again,” she says. “But only if you want.”
Silence again. Then he says. “I do.”
Up the hill, the bell chimes once, for the change of guards.
Wachiwi grins.
They are relieved by Finrod and Beren, but they do not return indoors immediately. Wachiwi does take Fingon’s hand, now, and feels the warmth of summer kindling in her chest as they walk together beyond Caranthir’s garden, down into the field.
“Sit,” she says, when they have reached clear, flat ground.
Fingon sits. She joins him, her legs crossed at the ankle, her left knee brushing against his right. Overhead, the stars burn blue-white. Fingon’s breathing beside her is a little quick, a little anxious.
“Do we kiss now?” he asks. “I am…unused to…”
“Look at the stars,” says Wachiwi, amused. “Look at the star that stands still.”
“The north star.”
“Your north star.”
“There is Orion,” he says, gaining confidence, “And the bear. Ursa major. The larger of the two. I can never find the smaller bear as easily.”
“I see the bear,” Wachiwi says. “What is Orion?”
“The hunter.” The excitement in his voice hearkens back to the boy he must have been—the boy he still is, when he is not grieving. “He has a belt…a dog, though that’s not quite clear tonight…”
“Ah,” she says. “The bison. What you call the belt is the bison’s spine.”
“It is my favorite,” he says softly. “I like knowing what it means to you.”
Wachiwi rolls a little on her left hip so that she can sling her arms around his neck.
He makes a little sound of surprise, as if, despite all their talk, he did not expect this. But his right arm slips behind her to support her and draw her close, and his surprise is swallowed up in her mouth.
She runs her thumbs over the smaller braids she began at his temples, and drags her fingertips behind the shells of his ears, as if she can know all of him at once that way, not just his mouth. Fingon kisses very gently at first, then less gently, which is enough to send a bit of star-fire flaming over Wachiwi’s skin—and then he stops, pulling back, stroking her cheek with his calloused fingers.
“What is it?” she asks, catching her breath.
“I must honor you,” he whispers. “Not take you greedily.”
“I am here,” she says. “I am not leaving you.”
“I know. And I am grateful.” He kisses her once more, close-lipped and tender, and then he stands, brushing off his trousers and offering her his hand. “Let us walk for a little while. Show me more stars.”
Wachiwi’s heart burns brightly on earth.