Another Bite at the Apple by Himring

Chapter 1

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Apples in Mithrim were crab-apples: small, hard and sour, quite likely to cause indigestion if not baked or stewed. To those who had crossed the Ice to get there, they seemed a great boon nevertheless.

But these were eating apples such as they had eaten in Aman, although not of the same strain—Angrod had brought them back with him from his foray south into the unknown, a neatly packed basketful he had carried carefully over many miles. He had shared them out among his siblings and Fingolfin's family as great prizes.

They were large, smooth, rosy-skinned—a mouth-watering sight.

Fingon had kept the one that fell to his share for Maedhros. He had perceived with disquiet the look of disbelief with which his cousin regarded the green and growing things of Mithrim, in his less guarded moments, as if he doubted the very possibility of their existence. Fingon would cut up his apple neatly into tiny slices and feed them one by one to his cousin as solid proof of the delights yet to be had in Middle-earth. That was the plan.

Meanwhile, in Fingon’s lodgings, the apple lay, in pride of place, in plain view on the table.

His niece Idril wandered in, as she occasionally did, and caught sight of it.

'Oh, you haven't eaten yours yet!' she exclaimed.

She hovered by the table, just looking—too well-brought up to hint at a request—but her whole posture seemed to radiate such palpable longing for another bite... For a moment, Fingon was torn between the rival claims of his sick cousin and his motherless niece. Then he succumbed.

'Let's share it, shall we?' he suggested and picked up the apple.

He took a small bite himself, for form's sake, passing it to Idril to finish the rest.

He was instantly rewarded by seeing the sheer bliss on her face as she chewed. The thought remained, with its sting, that Maedhros's face would have shown no such bliss, not even, Fingon feared, any pleasure.

Between his teeth, his own piece was crisp—tart and sweet on the tongue.

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Chapter End Notes

This first part is 3 x 100 + 1 x 50 words (according to MS Word)

It was written for Tolkien Weekly for the prompt "apples". This same challenge spawned the  drabbles posted together as "A Morsel of Food or Two" (non-Silm), but I had already decided to keep this one separate--and then I ended up writing the second part.

Chapter 2

And what happened after...

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'Findekano shared his apple with you?' asked Turgon and frowned.

'Actually, Uncle let me have almost all of it,' Idril admitted.

'Itarille! Did you not realize that your uncle was keeping that apple for a purpose?'

Never mind that Turgon could guess what that purpose was and disapproved of it--it was the principle of the thing!

'But...' began Idril, in honest confusion--and subsided. Her face visibly fell.

'Never mind,' said her father, patting her shoulder and squeezing it a bit, 'nothing to be done about it now.'

And he sighed deeply, his mind on other things again, as they so often were.

 

Idril thought long and hard.

Her father's hints and suspicions about Fingon's purpose for the apple had gone right over her head. What she had taken away from his words was that Uncle Findekano, against all appearances, had really wanted that wonderful apple after all.

Something had to be done about that. If she just waited until the next time there was a comparable treat and gave him her share--no, that would take far too long. Who knew, even, whether there were going to be other treats like that, ever? Something had to be done now--or at least soon.

She reviewed her small stock of treasures--but none of these would do as a substitute; her uncle, being a grown-up, could have no use for a doll or her hair ribbon. Although Fingon might perhaps pretend interest in such a gift out of politeness, she would be able to tell the difference.

In the end, she took counsel with Aunt Irisse--and the two of them headed out into the forest of Mithrim together to hunt for crab-apples.

 

'Now, this little pot of stewed apple is rather special,' said Fingon to Maedhros, 'it was prepared for me by our own Itarille'.

At that, Maedhros, who had been chewing and swallowing in grim silence, as if it was an arduous chore, turned his head and Fingon saw, within his deep-sunk eyes, a flicker of interest.

It wasn't appetite or pleasure, but it was something. Fingon would happily settle for it, for now.

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Chapter End Notes

The original piece had been meant to be a stand-alone, but I ended up writing a short sequel as a comment fic for laSamtyr on AO3, which I revised to become Chapter 2.

Obviously, this piece, unlike the original one, isn't fixed-length.

 

Also: help with Quenya names in this section: Findekano=Fingon, Itarille=Idril, Irisse=Aredhel