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Fingon stared out over the flooded lake, the shimmer of the stars blurry in its reflections. The sounds of their camp were merry and bright, with more joy for Fingon's quest to recover his cousin than was felt in his own heart. Fingon had not been able to put down his worry, nor his heartache, until he had seen Maedhros' fever break and know that his –
Fingon closed his eyes for a long moment, turning his head. Maedhros had clasped his hand in the healer's tents, had said that he bore Fingon no ill will for the strike that took Maedhros' right hand above the wrist. Fingon was not so kind to himself. If only he had been faster. If only they had found a quicker way across the ice. If only his uncle...
Fingon felt a muscle flex in his jaw. There was no reason to dwell. What was done was done. Maedhros lived and Fingon would have to find solace in that alone. His cousin had never seemed to share the same...feelings that Fingon did. Fingon would have to comfort his heart from afar and that was all.
He went to see Maedhros each day, early in the morning before his other cousins would arrive. There was still little love lost between their camps, despite Fingon's quest and Maedhros' own decision to pass the leadership of the Noldor to Fingon's father. Fingon had seen the dark looks Caranthir would send his way, and Fingon would have to be blind to miss the calculating gleam to Celegorm's gaze. Still they all made at least an attempt to be civil to each other, though Fingon did not know how long that would last.
Fingon did not know how much of anything would happen these days. The fight and the fury of their flight from Aman had sustained them through most of the cruel crossing of the Helcarax ë, but here in Arda, on these strange shores where they had to start from scratch once more...it was daunting. More daunting was the knowledge that their great enemy lay buried beneath a vast fortress, one Fingon did not know how to crack. What forces did Morgoth have? What strengths had he hid from them? There were many unanswered questions and none of them Fingon liked.
Each night ended the same, with Fingon staring out over the lake, the waters receding by inches as the storms of their arrival passed. He was curled up on a wide rock, not quite out of their camp's boundaries, for he was no fool and knew that there had to be Morgoth's spies about. He was out of sight of his people, though, for the most part, and that was what he wanted. His father was sure to be in the tents with advisors and others of note, pouring over what intelligence they did know of this old-new world. Fingon had no stomach for it, not tonight, not when his worry and his heartache were still so close to the surface.
The scrape of a boot – intentional, he was sure – alerted him to a visitor. Fingon turned, expecting a page, or perhaps a son of one of his father's men, but instead he was greeted with the one who had him out in the dark and the quiet in the first place.
“Fingon,” Maedhros said. His arm was in a sling and his hair was in a tangle down his back. “There you are.”
“What are you doing?” Fingon hissed at him, even as Maedhros made a face and stepped up onto the rock Fingon was sitting on. “No, don't sit down, you have to go back to the healer's tents! Your brothers are going to lose their minds – Maedhros!”
“Don't Maedhros me,” his cousin muttered. “I've had quite enough of it, thank you.”
“Maedhros.”
“I needed to speak to you,” his cousin continued, cutting Fingon off. “I need to...I wanted to say...”
Fingon felt his heart leap into his throat. He waited, watching Maedhros struggle, even as the quiet resettled about them.
“I...” Maedhros bowed his head, his left hand rubbing over his knee where he'd crossed his legs to sit beside Fingon. “Thank you,” he finally said and the hope that had lodged itself in Fingon's throat fell. “I just...thank you. For coming. For trying . For daring to bridge the hurt between our peoples when no other would.”
Fingon had to look away. “Of course,” he said, wincing at the way his voice cracked on the words. “I could no more leave you there than – I am glad you are alive. That I found alive. I just wish I had a way to bring you back without harm.”
“Fingon.”
He did not dare to look at Maedhros. “I was never angry, not because of the ships or – or anything else. I worried. I thought...I thought many horrible things, that you – that you all had suffered some great tragedy, or had succumbed to some evil I could not see. To find that you were alive when we arrived...I was glad. I burn, now, to think that we were so close to saving you, not knowing that you suffered so when we were so close. I am sorry for that.”
“I do not and could not blame you for not knowing I was there. You came when you did know. You, above all others, risked everything to find me. I know that and I am grateful for it.”
Grateful. Of course he was grateful. Fingon stared out over the waters, not knowing what else to say. He jumped when a warm hand took his. That was when Fingon turned to look at Maedhros, a pale shadow in the night, with the light of the stars reflected up at them from the clear glass of the motionless lake.
“My dear,” Maedhros said and Fingon's breath caught. He had never been addressed so, before. “I had much time to think, dangling from that mountain. Much time to lament. Much time to relive better days, sweeter days, when things were simpler. It was in those moments, in those strange dream-like trances, I thought...I hoped ...” Maedhros looked down, even as his fingers curled tight about Fingon's. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” Fingon whispered, barely able to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “You are not wrong.”
“You...love me.”
“More than anything,” Fingon confessed, his voice little more than a breath. “And – and you? Do you...”
“I love you, more than anything. Enough to rue the Oath my father asked of us, enough to curse myself for being a fool. I love you. I love you and I fear that I will hurt you for it, in the end.”
“Maedhros –”
“Hear me out, please.” Fingon snapped his mouth shut, even as Maedhros did not raise his head. “I can see the distrust already building between our peoples. My own words are not enough to bridge it. My brothers...they are turning strange and I do not know why. I fear the answer. I fear it started with our father and continued on with our own foolishness. I cannot seem to get them to understand,” he shook his head. “Caranthir has always been willful, even as a child. Celegorm was much the same, if wilder, more at home in the forest and on the hunt than in our home. Now it feels as though some dark spirit is taking them over. Caranthir has made many cry these last few days. Celegorm is starting not to speak at all. I do not know what to do, but what I do know is that should I speak of my feelings, should I put forth a union between our houses, there would be more anger and confrontation than celebration in the end.”
“You would – a union,” Fingon croaked out, unable to think past those words. “You would –,” he drew in a sharp breath. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” at that Maedhros looked up. There were wet tracks on his cheeks. “But you and I both know that there would be many arguments against it. Your father would not be pleased and my brothers...they would think it a calculation, a political move and not one done out of love.”
“Do they think so low of me?”
Maedhros shook his head, expression pained. “It is the curse, I think. Maglor is fighting it, as are the twins, but the others...many of us are struggling. There have been fights. Blood drawn. Curses thrown. It is ugly and I do not know how to fix it.”
“Then a union between us would be best, for together we can defeat anything.” Fingon laced their fingers together, heart lifting when Maedhros held on just as tight. “We will find a way to ease this curse. Morgoth's evils will not prevail.”
“We will still need a way to convince them all,” Maedhros laughed, but the despair in his eyes was lifting. “None will believe it, not at first.”
“Then we will convince them,” Fingon leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Maedhros', heart thundering at his forwardness.
“How? Hope is what we need at this juncture, hope and a way forward to heal the hurts between us. How do we do that?”
The sound of water made them both draw back and turn. Fingon let go of Maedhros long enough to find the hilt of his knife. Then, barely breathing, he let his grip fall, trembling next to Maedhros as a figure rose from the still lake.
Ulmo, Lord of Waters, stood before them, clad in blue regiment, the droplets of water falling from him glittering like stars.
“My lord,” they both said and knelt, heads bowed.
Heartbroken I was to hear of the flight of the Noldor , that vast voice said. It felt like thunder shaking through his bones. Fingon did not know how the whole camp was not spilling out to the beaches, to bow low before this lord, but none came. The words were just for them two alone. Full of sorrow and regret does this current path lead you. Well have you healed some of the hurt between your peoples, Fingon son of Fingolfin, but still a wound remains. Once, this new path would not have come for you both, a way out of the darkness that threatens you all. Once you both would have done as duty demands, despite the love you both have. But now...now you have chosen a different path. A new way.
Fingon trembled, feeling Maedhros take his hand and link their fingers together.
Rise, Fingon son of Fingolfin and Maedhros son of Fëanor. A gift I have for you both.
They stood, hand in hand together, looking up at that towering figure. The very light of the stars seemed to shine brighter in his presence. The waters at Ulmo's feet parted, bringing up a small basket covered in a blue blanket. The symbols of their Houses were stitched into the very fabric. Fingon trapped a cry behind his teeth, heart thundering at the sight. Only twice had such a gift been given to their peoples, and only in Aman. Once for Ingwë and his wife, a son delivered from the air and Manwë's regard and again for Finwë himself, for Fingon's own father, Fingolfin, had been such a gift given to them, from Varda, as a blessing to them all.
Together they knelt, taking that basket from the waters. Together they pulled back the blanket to find a small child nestled within. Together they took that small body into their arms and knew him as their son, blessed and given to them by the Valar themselves.
Listen well to his council, Ulmo's voice said as he faded from view. You have found a new way forward in this marred world, but much evil remains. Heed his warnings, heed his fears. He will help you find the way. Then Ulmo was gone, the waters returning to still glass that reflected the blaze of the stars above.
Fingon had no words to speak as he held their son his arms, even as Maedhros was wrapped tight about them both. He had no words as elves spilled onto the beach at last, eyes wide and wild at the sight. He had no words as they were brought together into his father's tents, as Maedhros' brothers were called for, as chaos descended upon them all. All he could do was stare into the face of his son, a perfect blend of himself and Maedhros, and know that he – that they – would do anything to keep him safe.
And it was in that Oath, in that pledge of protection and love, that a Curse was shattered for them all.