Work Text:
Fingolfin stared across the wasted battlefield, at the bodies strewn where they had died. Find the wounded, he had ordered, worry not about the dead. Behind him his second eldest sat with his daughter, Idril rested her head on her father's shoulder, but neither said a word. Fingon, he knew, was searching the field, possessed, as he had been since Aqualonde, by single minded determination. Aredhel was with the healers, her dislocated arm being healed. But where is Arakano? The king frowned. Where is my son?
He was unable to search for him however, because all too soon there was a report being brought before him and there was no time to fret over Argon. He is strong, he can care for himself.
Fingolfin was meeting with his lieutenant when the tent flap burst open and Fingon flew in. Behind in, in the opening, stood Turgon, his face grim. Fingon was frantic, rambling. “I cannot understand you,” Fingolfin said. “Slow down.”
“He found Arakano,” Turgon supplied stiffly.
"Which is excellent news,” Fingolfin said with a smile. His sons said nothing, just looked at him with blank, frightened faces. “Is it not?” he asked.
“He's hurt,” Fingon whispered. “Ada, I think he's going to die.” And with that he broke down, clinging to his father and crying. Fingolfin stood still in shock. In the end it was Turgon who stepped forward and grabbed his elder brother, and pulled him off their father.
Fingolfin said nothing, sliding from the tent without a word. The healers were only a few feet away from his tent, and he was there in no time. The Noldor had not spent time on their camp, only Fingolfin, the healers, and a few of their higher ranking officers had tents, the rest had merely laid down and rested in the grass. The healers tents were little more than lean-tos for the worst of the wounded, the rest were lying on the ground nearby. He entered the main tent and it fell silent.
Aredhel stood, meeting her father's eyes. “This way.”
He was taken to the back of the tent, to a cot which held an elf he could not recognize. Argon’s face was swollen, a mottled bruise covering an entire side and stretching down his neck. His eyes were closed breathing ragged. Someone had removed his armor, wrapping him in a lose cotton robe, which was thin enough that the dark bruises beneath were easy to see. Fingolfin bowed his head kneeling beside his son. “Arakano?”
“He hasn't woken,” Aredhel whispered.
Fingolfin ignored her. He will speak to me, I am his father, he will hear me. But Argon remained still. Fingolfin rested his hand on his shoulder, stroking it softly and murmuring softly. "There, there," he whispered. "Just rest." It was madness to be speaking to him, Argon clearly had no concept of his being there, but at least he was doing something.
At that moment, a healer entered the room, and Fingolfin looked up at him curiously. "My Lord," he said, bowing his head.
"How is he?" Fingolfin swallowed painfully before asking, "Be honest."
The healer looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Not well. The internal damage is great, and he's lost a great deal of blood. There was damage to his spinal column as well, and three shattered ribs, which punctured organs and contributed to the internal damage." He spoke quickly, and all in a rush, as though he were afraid of being interrupted or otherwise unable to finish.
Fingolfin nodded slowly, pretending to be together. "What can be done for him?" he asked.
When the healer didn't immediately reply Fingolfin held up his hand. "I understand. Keep-" he choked. "Keep him comfortable."
He couldn't stay in the tent any longer, feeling compressed and completely helpless, though there were only the three of them in the room. Fingolfin stood and turned, swallowing and walking away, pushing open the door to the tent and sucking in a deep, dry breath. It couldn't be. His children were waiting for him, along with several of their cousins. When he stepped outside, Fingon stood and started toward him, then caught sight of his face and drew back, thinking better of it.
Fingolfin nodded to them, and tightly said, "Arakano is.... not well." With those words he turned his back, leaving them to whisper amongst themselves. He knew he ought to stay with them and comfort them, but at that moment he could not bear to do that. They would have to carry on by themselves, without his help. He was not stable enough to be of assistance.
Fingolfin walked across camp, and sat down on a log beside one of the large cooking fires that had been set up. Almost immediately there were elves gathering around him, wanting to ask his opinion of different manners. Before he could wave them away Fingon was at his side, talking to them and directing them in his stead.
He felt vulnerable, in a way he had not anticipated. They had lost many men, many good men, on the ice, but not his children nor family. Elenwë's death had not even come close, except for Turgon who had walled himself up. Idril was too young to truly understand any of what had happened, but this – Argon's fate – they would all remember. Fingolfin stood, nodding to Fingon, silent permission to continue doing what he was doing, and returned to Argon's tent.
"Any change?" he asked the healer, who shook their head. Nothing. "I will sit with him," he said, "you have earned a rest."
The very fact that the healer went willingly from Argon's bedside told Fingolfin everything he needed to know about his son's condition. He brought Argon's hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the clammy skin, then pulled his head into his lap, stroking his hair absently. It felt selfish to want Argon to live. How could he justify wanting his son to suffer the pains of his injuries for his own gain? Even if he miraculously survived there would be no end to his suffering, he would never be himself again, never be as strong as he had been, never spar with his brothers.
Fingolfin was sitting, still stroking Argon's hair when the flap was pressed aside and Fingon stepped in. "How is he?" he whispered, his pale face reminding his father that he had been the one to find Argon on the battlefield. Fingolfin motioned for his eldest to come closer, Fingon moved to kneel beside the cot. "Ada?"
"I'm afraid he won't survive the night." The words came so easily, though no healer had ever said them, Fingolfin knew it to be true.
Fingon let out a soft sob, biting his sleeve and nodding as he struggled to hold back tears. "He won't suffer too long then," he whispered, his voice breaking.
It was the same mantra that Fingolfin kept repeating to himself, hearing it from Fingon only served to strengthen his resolve. "Fetch your brother and sister, should they like to see him."
Fingon stood, nodding and accepting his duty as he always did. "Of course, Ada," he said, managing a watery smile before leaving the tent.
The elven lord stared down at the pale face in his lap, remembering the first time he had seen it, so ugly and wrinkled from childbirth as Anarie clutched him and sobbed for joy. "I love you," he said. "Oh so much more than you could understand. Everyone told me how fortunate I was to have you – so carefree and impetuous as you seemed. They didn't know you, not truly." His tears ran freely now, dripping onto the sheets. "So few of them saw your rough times, the times when you felt so lost. You gave every ounce of happiness you ever had to someone else, and now you've-" He shuttered, drawing a deep breath and sniffling. "You've given the last and greatest gift you ever could."
Fingolfin leaned over Argon and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I've another gift for you, my son," he whispered. Inside the tent there was no noise other than his own ragged breathing, even Argon's breathing was quieter than his own, as though he had relaxed and accepted his fate. Soon the tent flap moved again, and Fingolfin looked up to see his elder children standing there, more somber than he could ever remember seeing them.
"He can't die." Though Aredhel spoke with utter surety, it was her eyes that betrayed her. She wasn't certain of his fate, she wasn't certain of her own fate nor anyone else's. Once they had all been sure, now not even she was. She hung by the door of the tent, staring and not knowing what to do.
"Everyone can die, Irisse," Turgon whispered, looking at Argon's limp form and wincing. "I should check on Idril," he said suddenly, and fled the tent.
Fingolfin could not blame him, he had already been through more loss than the rest of them, and he had from a young age been deeply emotional.
Fingon looked between his brother and his father, visibly frightened and confused. Elves were not meant to die, certainly not in this way. Fingolfin saw a glimmer in his eldest son's eyes, and knew he needed to be on the look out for him to do something very brave and at the same time very stupid.
"You may leave," Fingolfin said to his remaining children. "Neither of us could fault you for it."
"Father, we can't leave you," Fingon said, squaring his shoulders.
"Go," he urged, smiling. "There is nothing you can do. Argon would not want you to sit and wait for him to die." It was the simplicity of his words, the outline of what little there was left for Arakano, that led Fingon to nodd and turn to leave.
However, before he could Aredhel caught him arm and pulled him across the tent with her. She knelt beside her dying brother and kissed his forehead. "I love you," she whispered before fleeing.
Fingon, not to be bested, squeezed his brother's hand, kissed his cheek, and then his father's brow. "I love you," he whispered following his sister in a less speedy exit.
When they had left, Fingolfin suddenly could not imagine being alone while faced with the task he had chosen for himself, but he knew his only other option was to involve his children, and he could not – would not – hurt them in that way. Before he could lose his resolve, he reached over and grabbed a handful of the herbs that had been used to treat Argon. In a small dose it was a wonderful pain killer, in large doses, potentially fatal. He took a glass of warm water, meant for a small dose, and added the entire bag.
The liquid turned a peaceful shade of green, and in a moment of madness he wondered what might happen if he shared the drink with Argon. It would not be fair to his children, certainly, or his people. He would not leave any of them to that fate, leaderless and forced to fill his shoes. So instead of bringing the cup to his own lips, he carefully and lovingly pressed it to Argon's.
A bit of coaxing was all it took to get the liquid down his throat, and soon Argon relaxed in his arms, growing steadily more limp. Fingolfin rocked him as he relaxed, humming and then beginning to sing, "Thilio, thilio dinu nîn, iston man i eneth lîn? Am-dhorthol or amar mîn."
Fingolfin was sobbing now, his hands shaking as he stroked Argon's hair. "Ech, menel-vir, síloch dîn. Thilio, thilio dinu nîn, iston man i eneth lîn?" His voice cracked but he continued singing, his hands twisting in Argon's hair.
The younger elf's breathing evened out, and he relaxed. Fingolfin had not noticed how tense he was, tightened against the pain that was no doubt at the very edge of his consciousness. A few drops of the drink remained in the cup, and Fingolfin slowly tipped it into Argon's mouth. There was no turning back now, the cup certainly was enough to push Argon beyond the safe level of the herbs, which had been found at the edge of their camp, and were fresh and potent, not the dried ones they had carried across the ice.
"I love you," he whispered as his son's chest stopped moving. "Forgive me."
It was Fingon who came to check on him, and found his father still stroking Argon's peaceful face. He understood immediately that his brother was gone, but so long as Fingolfin lived, he told no one of those last moments in the tent, and when he went to face Morgoth, the secret died with him.