There's No Heat In This Winter Sun by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

The heating in the great fortress of Himring was superior to any other building on Middle-earth.

It couldn’t be helped, the Noldor who followed Fëanor into exile had the advantage of superior engineering on their side. And even most superior sort of Elves might find themselves huddled around a smoky fire and speaking wistfully about heated floors and walls. Or perhaps their thoughts turned to land that knew no winter at all.

But no. That was lost to them, for their own foolish actions. It was best not to speak of it, really.

The builder of Himring, Prince Maedhros, was both fierce and fearsome, but also quite clever, and knew well the advantages of keeping his people in comfort. For Himring was only a stone’s throw -- metaphorically speaking -- from the sheer walls of Angband itself. Close enough that if the Elves and Men on whose backs and on whose constant vigilance the security of the kingdom rested could always get an eyeful of the enemy, if they so wished.

Considering the view, any comfort Himring did have was very welcomed by its inhabitants.

But in truth, no matter how surprisingly warm it was in winter, Himring was still a bit gloomy, all year around.

And its master saw nothing wrong with this at all. For Prince Maedhros himself was more than a bit gloomy -- he was greatly, nobly, and utterly Doomed, with a capital D.

Prince Maedhros, although Doomed and Dispossessed, (and more often than not, depressed) did not feel especially gloomy that morning, though there was a smell of snow in the wind, which guaranteed that Himring would be cut off from the outside world for many months at least. And there was no thought in his head of how his great fortress was an elaborate mausoleum for his hopes, his dreams. Nor did his past mistakes rest too heavily on his shoulders, and his dread of the future was only a faint niggling in the back of his mind.

No, none of that.

In fact, Prince Maedhros would be exhibiting signs, that in anyone else, would indicate a certain level of happiness.

When passing through halls of the fortress, he smiled, albeit briefly. When on his daily inspection of the troops, he made a remark about the pleasant weather, which left his subordinates vaguely baffled, for the weather was foul and getting fouler. When getting ready for lunch, he whistled a light Valinorian tune that had not passed over his lips in many centuries.

The explanation for Maedhros’ lighter mood was simple.

Himring had a guest.

Well, guests.

Of course, in such places, guests were reason enough to lift anyone’s spirits. A fresh face added a certain spice to the blandness of castle life. There were new stories to tell, gossip to exchange, new fashions to copy. And though much later on, some wit would say that guests and fish started to stink after three days, but as the guests had arrived only a day ago, they had not yet overstayed their welcome.

Which was well, since they would be stuck there until the springtime at least.

The inhabitants of Himring eyed the guests eagerly, and there had already been fights -- very restrained ones, of course -- about who would get the duty of waiting on them and while such avarice was strictly discouraged, the guests themselves found their lot to be pleasant indeed.

Many a maid (and more than a few youths) favored them with a lascivious eye.

Of course, the chief among the guests, Crown Prince Fingon got no such undignified treatment. He was accorded all the privileges due to his rank and also his close kinship with the Princes Maedhros and Maglor.

Indeed, Maglor had made the trip from his Gap especially for this visit, though, to be truthful, the prince did not often need any excuse to leave the fennish swamp that was his home. If there was a place even gloomier than Himring, it was Maglor’s Gap. But no matter, what counted was that they were all here.

Winter in Himring had never seemed so bright.

While Maglor had his own regular quarters to go to, Fingon was housed in what might have been the warmest and certainly the most well-built bedroom in the royal chambers, where the temperature never fell below that of a pleasant summer day. He was so taken with the arrangements, he had lain abed for longer than anyone had expected him to. Indeed, it was just past noon and none had seen the prince for the entire day. And so it was that Maedhros himself made his way to Fingon’s chamber, out of a sense of concern for his cousin, and out of his duty as a host.

He dismissed his attendants, and knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Nothing. And then -- a muffled groan.

“Findekáno? Are you awake? If you stay in bed a moment longer, there will be a scandal on your hands.”

Another groan. “Fine. Come in.”

Maedhros opened the door cautiously. He was almost afraid of what he would see. An assassination attempt? A fire? A flood? Fingon, in flagrante? His stomach clenched. With whom?

But the room was as it had been the day before. Less scrupulously clean perhaps, with a shirt thrown to ground and leggings covering this tapestry, and boots that had scuffed the deep carpets. It looked like someone had carelessly undressed and dived into bed.

Maedhros cautiously approached the bed.

Fëanorians, as a rule could not comfortably swear. They’d been there, after all, and done that. So though Maedhros felt a strong temptation to do so, he overcame it.

“Ah,” he said instead. And then immediately fell silent.

Fingon, who was alone and also swaddled head to toe in blankets of all descriptions, said, “You needn’t worry. I am all right.”

“And I am all left? May I ask what you are doing?”

Fingon smiled up at him. “What a joke!”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I can explain.”

+

“...So, of course, having ridden through such frightful weather, and unfortunately imbibing a little too much of your excellent wine and put to bed in such delightful quarters -- I fell into the deepest sleep and woke not until my host was kind enough to fetch me.”

Fingon beamed at his audience, who laughed appreciatively.

How novel, to have such a lively lord!

Prince Maedhros, of course had no such faults. At that moment, he was sipping from a goblet of wine with a severely neutral expression on his face.

Prince Maglor, who sat beside him, of course, was an artist of the highest caliber, and could not be held in the same standards as normal people. He simply went beyond them. Now, Maglor was paying little attention to the conversation, being thoroughly occupied with a melody that had come to him the night before. In a fit of abstraction, he flicked his quill dangerously about, and a splotch of ink hit a courtier, who had sidled up too close, right on the cheek.

Fingon coughed. Maedhros sighed.

Maglor looked up and said, “Oh. Apologies.”

+

The next day was given over to many tours of inspection, both within the castle and without.

There was a moment of excitement when the eagle came.

A breathless page brought it to their attention. “It’s not a giant eagle, your highnesses-- but it is quite large, I think. As big as a dog! Or at least as big as a handcart, I think. And it’s biting everyone. It didn’t bite me, I didn’t get near it. But they said it won’t give up its message up to anyone but you two, they say it’s from the High King, sirs. It’s got a silver and blue ribbon tied to its leg and everything, your highnesses.”

Maedhros nodded, and Fingon asked, “What is your name, child?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Meneldir, sir!”

“You may come with us to see the eagle, but you must be very quiet, for such creatures startle, you know, at the slightest noise.”

Meneldir nodded excitedly and swore that he would keep silent.

The eagle was not a giant eagle, nor was it able to talk, but it recognized Fingon somehow and let him untie the roll of paper tied to its leg. When Fingon did so, the eagle nibbled playfully at his fingers. But when Maedhros approached, the eagle squawked loudly and then flew off in a huff.

They watched it disappear into the sky.

“Oh bother,” said Fingon. “I was supposed to give it some nibbles.”

+

“There’s a long greetings and salutations, a delicate enquiry about your present state of health -- Atar hopes you have not relapsed in anyway nor have your dreadful nightmares returned -- and of course, he hopes your brothers are also well. Here’s a long description of border troubles -- I’ll let you look at that later, it’s nothing you don’t know already -- and ah!

This next bit is aimed at me, he knows I always read your letters. My father decries my apparent neglect at lingering too long in the summer and fall in my travels and in my stay at Nargothrond -- which couldn’t be helped, as you know. It isn’t like I shall ever see Menegroth ever, shall I? So I must observe what I can... Elves in caves, it’s a novel concept, at least...

Oh and here, he is very disappointed that I must spend the winter here instead of in Hísilómë, which I agree is a great pity, for the mists are very murky and deep at this time of the year. It is very like being wrapped in wet cotton all the time. But -- you know, it is home, now.”

Maedhros was absolutely straight-faced when he said, “You are very kind in reading this out for me. I shall read the real letter later.”

Fingon nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t recommend it, my version is better. And you don’t regret it, having me here, do you?”

His cousin considered it. “After the first few months, I will, perhaps, but not now.”

“Ah, but you shall miss when I go.”

“I do not doubt it.”

+

Later, Maedhros asked, “Do you regret it?” He interrupted himself, “Yes. You do. You must.”

It was that agreeable time just after supper and before bed, when the fire was especially warm and inviting and conversation hushed. Maedhros’ words came as note of discord in the song of evening-time, of dinner, of bed. Fingon blinked, and saved himself (only just) from making some especially stupid remark.

“Eh?” he said, instead.

Maedhros, heavily discontent, got up from his seat and began to pace around the room. Fingon watched, his happy mood evaporating into nothing at all. He pressed his lips together into a thin line. And, in truth, now they looked very much alike. Cousins, indeed.

Fingon said, “Oh, there’s that dreadful guilt of yours again. What ever can you do to assuage it?”

Maedhros paused in front of the fire, and leaned on the mantel. “Finno, do not make fun, I am being serious.”

Fingon stirred, impatient. “But when are you not? But if you are planning attack the gates of Angband this evening, to regain your honor –“

Maedhros turned to give him a quelling look, but Fingon could not be easily quelled. He went on, saying, “And make good the Oath --”

Maedhros gave a quiet groan, and went to his chair and sat down, facing Fingon yet again.

“I am afraid I'm not quite prepared to help,” finished Fingon, with a yawn.

The fire crackled, and the silence between them grew ever-longer.

“I could go without you,” said Maedhros, at last.

“You would have to tie my legs together and push me down a deep well.”

With barely a smile, Maedhros shook his head.

Gravely, he said, “That would be a waste of rope.”

+

They exchanged memories, shuffling over one and then another.

Do you remember...?

Oh yes, how could I forget that …?

But do you remember…?

Yes, but you forget…

And so on.

Completely uninteresting for the rest of the world, of course.

+

“I’ve finished it,” Maglor said, one evening. And it was true, his eyes were bright and clear and he had managed to pull his wild hair into a serviceable braid. All good signs that he had, in fact, finished it his song.

Both Fingon and Maedhros took notice at once. Fingon, whose head had been resting on Maedhros’ lap, rose abruptly, and nearly lost his balance. Maedhros, with less haste and more grace, rose too.

Maedhros cleared his throat and said, “Will you play it for us, brother?”

Maglor shook his head. “No, no, a bigger audience is needed. I wish--” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “The Great Hall, tonight. Don’t be late. Findekáno, don’t distract him.”

He swept out of the room and the door closed behind him with a bang. Fingon said, in a low voice that nonetheless was meant to carry, “I do wonder if the whole of Maglor’s Gap had too small of an audience for him.”

“Have care, cousin,” Maedhros said coolly, “I will not have my brother insulted.”

“If anything, your brother has insulted me. What’s this about me distracting you? Have I not accompanied you to every military exercise, every rousing speech, every before-dawn roll-call, all without a word of complaint?”

“Oh, forgive me -- this is not a complaint?”

“No, of course not.”

Fingon closed the distance between them easily and said, eyes gleaming, “However, I can prove a distraction, if need be.”

Some breathless seconds later, Maedhros pulled away. “Findekáno, you lewd creature, stop that.”

“Maitimo, you ladder in the guise of an Elf, make me.”

“... A ladder?”

“Because you are so well-rung!”

Maedhros covered his face with his hand.

+

When Maglor chose to perform -- not a rare occurrence, but one that was greeted with intense pleasure and anticipation by almost everyone in the fortress. It was not enough that the hallways before any performance would be emptied, but often the guard-posts would be, too. Maedhros stalked up the icy steps to to the ramparts himself, to bark orders at the one guardsman who waited there.

“Ridiculous,” he growled, while Fingon, who trailed behind him, only laughed.

“If Morgoth chooses this night to attack,” Fingon said whimsically, “we might as well die with Maglor’s harping in our ears.”

“Don’t say such asinine things,” Maedhros said quietly.

“All right,” Fingon said, after a moment of silence.

Another guardsman, embarassed, scrambled past them, profuse in his apologies, back to his post.

+

By the time they reached the great hall, Maglor had already begun playing. The music soared above the audience’s head and then fell, curling around their ears. It tugged at their heart-strings and made some weep, before it picked up again and grew light, light enough that many feet began to tap their toes. Anticipating.

Maedhros sat at his customary spot, and Fingon was seated where Maglor usually sat.

Time flew by, as it usually did while Maglor played, until the music changed again, changing from the bewitching spell that held its listeners still, to something more vibrant, something to dance to. In the hall, there was the sound of many tapping -- shuffling -- feet, and suddenly, Maglor gave a shout, commanding them all to dance. He passed off his harp for for a fiddle, and began to play a lively tune.

Soon, the whole hall was filled with shouts and laughter, and dancing. Only Maedhros, with Fingon beside him, remained seated.

“Will you not dance, my lord?” asked a young page, one of Fingon’s people. He addressed the question to Maedhros, because he was as brave as his own lord.

“Yes, Maitimo, will you not dance?” Fingon said challengingly, before sending the little page off into the fray.

“I do not dance,” Maedhros repressively. “As you well know.”

“Not even at the request of your guest?”

“I haven’t danced,” Maedhros said, a faint flush on his cheeks, “since I left Tirion for Formenos.”

Fingon rose and held out his hand. “Maitimo…”

After a moment’s hesitation, Maedhros got up and took Fingon’s hand.

“Will your people mind?” Fingon said in a low voice.

Maedhros looked at him. “They are my people. Will yours?”

Fingon smiled. “We shall find out.”

---

Chapter End Notes

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