To See The Cherry Hung With Snow by Himring

Chapter 1

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

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.)