A Night In the Forest by Agelast

A Night In the Forest

Read A Night In the Forest

It was a glorious night to end what had been a glorious day, the moonlight just as lovely as the sunlight. Fingolfin could hear the songs winding down as the smell of cooking fires increased. He had begged leave from the group of emissaries from Ossiriand to take a ramble through the woods.

For the first time in a long while, Fingolfin felt both happy and content. It was a strange emotion, one he was eager to keep. The hurts of the past had retreated, for a time, and really it was a beautiful night.

He took a small forest path to a little clearing and paused -- then, startlingly, he heard a distinct rustle of clothing and a faint giggle and moan. Fingolfin veered off quickly to the right and continued on. The trees were not so thick here as to make his passage at all difficult.

The only fly the ointment -- a large one -- was Elwë. Fingolfin was well-versed in the art of receiving a snub, and however courteous both Mablung and Daeron might be, a snub was what they were. He tried to remember what -- if anything -- Finwë had told him about his old friend, Elwë. That he was stubborn was obvious.

And proud…

Another clearing opened before him, and that was when Fingolfin came upon another whom he could describe as both stubborn and proud. His eldest nephew Maedhros was leaning against a tree, his eyes half-closed, with an extraordinary expression on his face.

He was quite alone, and in the half-dark, half-moonlight, so still that he did not seem to breathe. It was this that made Fingolfin speak aloud, breaking the silence. “Russandol! Are you all right?”

For a moment, Maedhros looked bewildered to see him; it was as if Fingolfin did not exist in his world. Fingolfin came closer and -- tentatively -- touched his nephew’s shoulder. Maedhros pulled himself together quickly, flashing him a smile as practiced as Fingolfin’s own.

“I am quite all right, Uncle. I hope I didn’t worry you? I only needed some time away from the festivities…” He paused, looking vaguely concerned. “Not that the festivities are at all wearying, they are quite invigorating…”

“Come off it, Maitimo. Why do you think I am here? But tell me -- have you eaten?”

Maedhros smiled faintly, as if he wouldn’t hazard to guess at the reasons Fingolfin should be prowling the woods at such a late hour. Instead he answered the latter question, saying that he had, and quite recently too.

Despite his words, Maedhros seemed to be still very wan, though his time at Angband had been years ago now, and Fingolfin himself had received frankly fearsome reports about Maedhros’ prowess on the battlefield. But none of that said anything of how Maedhros actually was...

Fingolfin’s conscious smote him. Was Maedhros not just as much his nephew as Finrod? Had he not sworn -- Full brother in heart I will be! -- A shadow fell upon him, thinking of Fëanor. Seeing his son, it was inevitable…

“You are thinking of my father?” Maedhros’ voice was low, but cut sharply against the fog of Fingolfin’s reminiscences.

“Yes. I often think of him,” Fingolfin said, catching the little flinch that Maedhros could not quite hide. More gently, he said, “Not all of the memories are bad ones, you know.” Without quite knowing that he was doing it, he began to shepherd Maedhros out of the clearing.

“No?” Maedhros said, allowing himself to be led.

“No,” Fingolfin said, and they did not speak again until they were within sight of Fingolfin’s tent.

One of the perks of organizing an event like this was that, of course, one could get the best spot. And, Fingolfin noted with considerable satisfaction, it was rather glorious. Close enough to the water for the light to throw interesting shadows on the walls, and remote enough so that the raucousness of some of the celebrants was muffled and mixed with the constant murmur of water. Even the tent itself was spacious and lofty -- Maedhros’ tall force cleared the door without any trouble at all -- and a servant had already gotten the brazier going, and so the space was quite warm, as well as bathed in a soft golden glow.

There were certain rituals to be performed: Maedhros was seated in the most comfortable chair, he was offered wine, twice, and the first time he refused, and then he accepted. It was Maglor who had the sweet tooth, Fingolfin remembered, but still he laid out a platter of candied figs and was pleased by a small gleam of interest in Maedhros’ eyes.

“I remember when you were just a baby -- and I visited your home -- at Nerdanel’s invitation.” Fingolfin smiled at that, remembering how much Nerdanel had insisted, her face and hands still white with marble, and how reluctant he had been to accept.

Unexpectedly, Maedhros smiled, looking more like Maitimo of old than he had done in years. “I remember it well. Or perhaps I remember the stories my mother told of the visit later.”

“You were a very charming baby,” Fingolfin said, returning the smile. “And I was quite young myself -- I had not yet brought myself to propose to Anairë. And being too embarrassed to speak to my parents, I thought I could ask Fëanáro for some advice.”

“Then Findekáno gets his valor from you, I see.” Maedhros straightened a little as he said Fingon’s name, a small movement that Fingolfin did not miss.

“You have not had the experience of getting into an argument with Anairë, I think. She was a formidable woman, and thus, I think I needed some help…”

“And what advice did my father give you?” Maedhros’ voice was rich with amusement.

“None that I can remember; we drank very heavily that night. At first, I think, it was an attempt to get rid of me, but in the end, it was not.” Fingolfin could not help but sound wistful as he said, “We were true brothers that night.”

Maedhros did not try to hide his smile.

“And of course, when I was younger, I worshipped him,” Fingolfin went on, wondering idly what made him continue to speak. “But that came to naught. But that was why I was grateful when Findekáno was that age and showed signs that he thought so highly of you… that you did not reject him as Fëanáro had done me.”

There was a long silence, within which Fingolfin went up to poke at the brazier and add more coals to it. When he returned, he found Maedhros looking unexpectedly wretched. His red hair had escaped its customary braid and spilled across his face. He cradled his right arm on his lap and was quite still.

Fingolfin, worried, said, “Maitimo, are you all right?”

“Yes -- no,” Maedhros said, his voice muffled. He looked up, an odd gleam in his eye. “Perhaps it is a shameful thing to admit, because I was so much older than he was, but Findekáno was without a doubt my first true friend.”

“And you love him well.”

Maedhros looked startled, and even more so when Fingolfin bent down to embrace him. It was awkward -- for both of them -- Maedhros was so much taller than he, and Fingolfin felt his leg begin to cramp. Finally, he let go and stood.

“Maitimo,” he began affectionately, “you know that you are loved by more people than just your brothers and Findekáno? I know we were not … close, in the last years in Tirion, but I am --”

He spread his hands helplessly. “I know I cannot guide you like a father could -- nor,” he said carefully, “would I want to, but I hope that given time, and in this new place, we can be as we should have been all this time.”

Fingolfin inwardly winced at the blind inarticulateness of his words, but Maedhros seemed to understand what he meant well enough. He nodded and said, “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Oh, how ridiculous!” Fingon threw open the flap of the tent and stumbled in. His cheeks were flushed and there was a crown of flowers that hung crooked over his eyes. He gave both of them a disapproving look. “I’ve been searching for you two everywhere, and of course you are in the first place I looked! Maitimo, come on, there’s more dancing and it is essential that you make an appearance.”

“Findekáno, you know that I do not dance,” Maedhros said, and Fingolfin could hardly help but notice the immediate and visible lifting of Maedhros’ spirits with Fingon’s very entrance.

“Oh, I know it well! You needn’t do it, all you have to do is stand and look impressive -- the pride of Noldor!” Fingon tugged at Maedhros’ hand, urging him to stand.

“Findekáno, how much have you had to drink?” Fingolfin asked mildly.

Fingon tried to pull his face into a serious expression, but in this, he failed utterly. He settled for sheepish, instead. “Only a little. Though whatever those Green Elves brew in their woods is surprisingly strong.”

“You needn’t worry, Uncle,” Maedhros said, getting up smoothly. “I will see that Findekáno comes to no harm.”

“Or becomes the shame of the Noldor? Thank you, Russandol.” Fingolfin turned aside and eyed his bed, which looked more and more appealing by the second.

*

“Imagine, Atar making a joke! I hope I wasn’t interrupting some secret meeting -- I wouldn’t want our entire Northern defense crumbling on my account,” Fingon said as he and Maedhros made their way down to the large clearing where the dancing was still taking place. The way was lit by torches which guttered and flickered as the wind picked up.

“What bizarre ideas you get, Findekáno,” Maedhros said comfortably, pausing for a moment to let Fingon catch up to his longer strides. “No, we were not talking about strategy.”

“What were you talking about?” Fingon asked, his brow wrinkled slightly.

Maedhros reached up and adjusted his crown of flowers. “The importance of family.”

Fingon smiled. “That is a good thing to talk about.”

“And a good thing to believe in.”