Love Like Winter, Hands Like Ice by Himring, Agelast

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Chapter 1

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I.

High-summer in Mithrim was cool and wet, with the fog rolling heavily across the water and threading into woods and fields. It wrapped around the houses like thick blanket in the hands of a far too attentive nurse. From his window, Maedhros could see elves emerging from the banks of fog, and then disappearing into it again. If I do not go out, he thought, I shall go mad. The fingers of his left hand tapped impatiently against the glass. I’ll go madder than I am already, he amended.

There were shouts from below, and he recognized his brothers’ voices in the tumult. It had been too long since he had an opportunity to listen to them speak, but now he could not stand to hear them. He was very quiet as he slipped out the door. His cloak wrapped around him, obscuring his face, if not his height. The fog swallowed him up before anyone could catch sight of a flash of red, like a cardinal's wing, disappearing into the forest.

The woods were deep and he walked a long way before he became tired. The ground sank a little under his weight, and the scent of rotting vegetation lingered in his nostrils. He stopped and listened to the drip of rain on leaves, the rustle of wind at the top of the trees. He was close to the road that cut through the woods, and the sound of a footsteps against the gravel came to him clearly enough.

Maedhros waited for what he sought, and he did not have to wait long.

“I think you could have chosen a more obscure spot,” said Fingon, as he stepped into the clearing, “this is not nearly gloomy enough for you.”

“And so close to the road,” said Maedhros, with a brief nod of greeting.

“And so close to the road,” echoed Fingon, “the next thing you know, I’ll be having dinner with you again, with a table and chairs and everything like.”

“You could...” The words died in his throat, but Maedhros was determined to have it out. “You could come. Yes, you will always be welcome, wherever I am.”

“Well,” Fingon cast his eyes down, examining the moss at Maedhros’ feet with interest, “I may yet.” It was then Maedhros noticed that Fingon was dressed as if it was still mid-winter, he wore his thick winter coat, and his hands were still heavily gloved.

Summer was only a passing fancy here, but still, Maedhros thought, he must be boiling.

“Why do you --” He reached out to touch Fingon’s hand, but Fingon flinched away, and Maedhros pulled back, almost in shock. Of course, he thought, he had reached out with his right arm, with his right hand, which was not there at all.

“Sorry,” they both said together, and catching each other’s eye, they dissolved into laughter, helpless for all that.

“I will come,” said Fingon at last, after they had lapsed into silence for a moment. “I promise.”

II.

It was winter when Fingon came to the other side of the lake. Fat flakes of snow drifted down from fleecy clouds, and the sun silvered the icicles on the eaves of the houses, as sharp as daggers. He pounded on the door of Maedhros’ house until the startled steward let him and ushered him into Maedhros’ sitting room, where indeed, Maedhros was sitting. The door closed quickly, so not to let the heat out, and Maedhros shifted lazily in his chair. “Come sit by the fire, there’s snowflakes in your hair.”

But by the fire Fingon would not go, and instead, smiling, he took his place near the window, peering through the glass for the view outside. His breath did not fog up the glass.

Eventually, Maedhros came to join him, and they spoke a little, a conversation of starts and stops, with nothing truly said in between. And though Maedhros had been warmly dressed, he could not help but shiver a little. It was intensely cold in the room now, and even the fire seemed to falter and shrink.

Eventually, and yes, quite deliberately, Maedhros brushed his hand up against Fingon’s shoulder, and then pulled it away again. “You’re still freezing,” he said. “Tell me why.”

Gravely, Fingon said, “I died out there, Maitimo. On the Helcaraxë, I mean. I went to sleep, and I froze.” And indeed, Fingon had an ice-carved look to him, his features sharp and cast in blues and whites, and there was no warmth in him at all.

But gamely, Maedhros tried for reason, though that had never truly served him well, in the past. “What you say is impossible, Findekáno. You’re pulling my leg.”

“As impossible as everything else that’s happened.” And with a sly grin, he said, “And I haven’t pulled anything of yours for a very long time.”

Maedhros leaned heavily against the window frame. In a low voice, he said, “More than most, I would say.” Then he straightened, and said reproachfully, "And really, Findekáno, jokes at a time like this.”

Fingon shrugged, smiling slightly. “I had to see you again, you know, I could not rest until I did. And --” Fingon looked strange for a moment, more strange than even confessed dead man ought to look, “it is a different sort of place, the Grinding Ice. It has an intelligence, a will of its own. I knew that well enough, even before...”

They lapsed into silence, and Maedhros went back to tend to the fire, while Fingon stayed where he was, looking out to the snow-covered world outside.

III.

After a while, Maedhros came to a decision, over by the fire.

He got up and put on: a furry cap, three knitted scarves, two jackets, a woollen one and a fur-lined one, one on top of the other, and a single mitten, which he pulled on with his teeth.

(For, of course, he had known all along: ever since the temperature in the room had plummeted when Fingon entered until it was colder inside than outside, ever since he had seen frost bloom under Fingon’s boots in midsummer, ever since the mere touch of Fingon’s fingers had been enough to cauterize the bleeding stump of his wrist.)

He walked over to Fingon, who had remained, unmoving, by the window. The moment he touched the back of Fingon’s neck, the fingers inside the mitten went numb.

Fingon said: “No, Maitimo.”

He paid no attention and wrapped his arms around Fingon. The cold was so intense it took his breath away.

“No, Maitimo,” Fingon repeated, but Maedhros refused to take any notice, and in any case his arms seemed to have instantly frozen into position around Fingon. In his labouring chest, his heart struggled to keep on beating, as the chill took hold. This must have been what it had felt like to be Elenwe, dying in the crushing embrace of the Ice.

That is how it should be, for you ought not to have been out there alone. At the very least, I should have been with you.

Only, in fact he was not being embraced. It was he who was measuring the length of his fur-clad body against Fingon’s as if he was trying to melt him with the last heat of his body.

(A bad plan, surely, for if he succeeded, what else was likely to happen except that Fingon would simply be dead in the ordinary way? Which assuredly he did not want to be the case.)

As his heart was beginning to give up the struggle and he began to be oblivious of the cold, he heard Fingon say again, close to his ear, very quietly and firmly:
“No.”

Fingon’s hands came up, and something colder than cold lanced through his shoulders.

Instantly he lost consciousness.

He woke up in bed, under a pile of blankets and furry garments so high that he could barely move. The fire had been stoked.

The frost had bitten deep where Fingon’s hands had touched him. But he wept, for he was warm, too warm, and Fingon was nowhere to be seen.