To See The Cherry Hung With Snow by Himring

Chapter 1

(Quenya names: Maitimo=Maedhros; Findekano=Fingon)

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The pain stops so suddenly that he almost topples over, as if he had been bracing himself against a wall that had unexpectedly given way. Findekano’s arm about his shoulders steadies him.

‘Maitimo, what it is it?’

He cannot answer. Surprise has robbed him of the power of speech. The effort that it was taking him to lift his foot, inch it forward and set it on the ground again, shifting his weight onto it—body upright, head high and leaning on Findekano as little as possible—and not to whimper with pain or howl with rage… Tormented by the searing grip of Findekano’s fingers, but terrified his cousin would let him fall.  Now, suddenly, he can barely feel his body or the ground under his feet. Such lightness!

A flowering branch swims into his field of vision and he focusses on it dizzily, staring at it as if he had never seen such a thing before. (In fact, he hasn’t—nothing quite like this.) No leaves yet, but a froth of white blossom on each bare twig, like an eruption of sunlight sparkling in sunlight against clear blue sky. Amazing.

‘Maitimo, what is it?’

Findekano! This is the time—this is the chance finally to say the simple, inadequate, obvious things—long overdue—like ‘Thank you!’ and ‘Sorry!’ And he turns to his cousin to say them.

But oh, the shining avalanche! He had known he loved his cousin, of course, but he had not known he loved him like this. At once, he tries to un-know again, un-see, but there is no dodging it.

A small incautious panicky movement—and the pain is back as if it had never been away. Then Findekano, alarmed by these incomprehensible goings-on, tightens his grip and agony shoots down Maedhros’s arm. Maedhros grits his teeth to stop himself from crying out. He does not need such complications. But none of it is Findekano’s fault, none.

The simple, obvious, inadequate things go unsaid. Maedhros is well aware of it.

 

***

 

The pain stops so suddenly he would tumble to the ground if those long-missed arms did not hold him. Before his disoriented gaze, a flowering branch swims into focus. After all that has passed in Arda Marred, the cherry tree still blooms, naked and unashamed against a fading sky.

‘Maitimo, what is it?’

‘Sorry. Thank you,’ he answers.

‘For what—anything in particular?’, Findekano asks.

He is trying to sound calm and reassuring, but fear claws at him. They are only three steps outside the gate of Lorien. Maybe, after all, this was too easy? Maybe he’s made a mistake nobody warned him of and Maitimo is about to turn into a wisp of cloud and drift back into Mandos?

But Maitimo leans closer against him, feeling more substantial rather than less, and says simply: ‘I don’t know. It came out like that.’

---

Chapter End Notes

The title is from a poem by A.E. Housman.

(Full text of poem at the end of this post on LJ.)

Chapter 2

Beorning challenged me to write an addition to the earlier story in which "snow" had the literal meaning.  In this piece, "snow" has the literal meaning, only it's not exactly "a small addition" or part of the same story.

As the two pieces are nevertheless connected, I decided to post this one as a second chapter.

Characters: Maedhros, Ceredir (OMC)
Setting/Time: East Beleriand, Fell Winter

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It is the Fell Winter. Beleriand shudders under the onslaught from the North. The Pools of Ivrin freeze solid. In the East, the winter storms sweep through the Gap and down the Valley of Gelion, reaching far south. The wandering remnants of the House of Feanor are hard pressed.

Maedhros takes up his spear and goes hunting, together with Ceredir. They find no game anywhere, only at length half buried in the snow the frozen remains of a half-starved deer killed by wolves. They dig them out; the bones will still do to make broth with.

Wearily, they begin trudging the long way back to camp. About them, yet again, the wind rises, biting, howling, and the snowflakes begin their mocking dance. They pass through a clearing, the former site of an abandoned steading, it may be, and the icy bite of the wind intensifies.

Ceredir, who, being two-handed, is carrying the mutilated carcase of the deer, wades knee-deep through a snow drift, past a small cherry tree, out in the open by itself, groaning under the weight of the snow dragging its laden branches to the ground.  Suddenly, Maedhros’s body is no longer right behind him, lending him its meagre shelter from the wind. He turns and sees Maedhros, stopped beside the tree, brushing snow off with his gloved hand, carefully shaking branches free of their weight.

‘What are you doing?’ he mutters, sighing.

‘It seemed to be suffering’, answers Maedhros. ‘And, you know, it may yet bear fruit again.’