The Ice Between by Nibeneth

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Chapter 3

Present

 

 “Tonight we welcome Crown Prince Fingon, my very dear friend and kinsman and Himring's finest architect, into the halls of the King as he is represented in these lands. May you find them as comfortable as they are well-designed,” Maedhros said with a grin. He raised his glass and inclined his head to Fingon. “And may High King Fingolfin and the Noldor always prosper. To the High King, the Prince, and the Noldor!”

The assembled crowd echoed his toast, and when they had drunk to their health, Maedhros spoke again. “I don't wish to delay the feast, but would you care to share a few words, Prince Fingon?”

“Certainly.” Fingon stood and smiled at him before looking back out at the crowd. “I thank you for your warm welcome and look forward to interacting with you in the months to come. However, Lord Maedhros has been overgenerous: I am hardly the finest architect to work on Himring.” He briefly raised his glass to a cluster of elves who had caught his eye: engineers, masons, and fellow architects with whom he had worked both in person and through correspondence, including a few of his own former apprentices. “And even if I was, the real honor is due to those who bring it to life every day, the carpenters and builders who raised the walls, the weavers and tanners who make them comfortable, the cooks and brewers who make them merry, the smiths and warriors who keep them safe, the farmers and herders who keep them stocked, and all others who have come to this distant land, united in purpose. It is one thing to draw a picture of a house, but quite another to turn it into a home.” He smiled and raised his glass high. “To Himring and all of its people.”

The crowd echoed him heartily. When everyone had returned to their seats and the dishes began to be brought out, Maedhros turned to Fingon with a soft smile on his lips. “That was very nice,” he said, and Fingon knew that if they were not before a crowd, he would have kissed him.

“I meant it. I’m already impressed to see what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.” Drop five Noldor anywhere in the world, and a year later you will return to find a thriving city , was a common saying in Aman. The proverb was proven true in exile now.

The feast began with fruit and nuts, river fish, and caraway-scented cakes. Wine and conversation flowed freely, mostly shop talk and news of faraway skirmishes. Also at the high table were Maedhros’ close advisers, three of whom Fingon knew better than the few others. There was Eliadis, Maedhros’ small but fearsome bodyguard whom he had promoted to captain of the guard upon settling at Himring, Nothwen, an architect and engineer and Fingon’s onetime colleague before the Darkening, and Raemben of the house of Miriel, a very beautiful, androgynous elf who always spent a lot of time peering through telescopes. Their spouses, none of whom Fingon knew, sat with them, and like Maedhros they were all dressed finely according to the practicalities of Himring life. By contrast Fingon had packed according to Hithlum fashions, and he felt rather out-of-place: his shimmering, many-hued silks probably did not inspire confidence in him as a ruler of the dangerous East as well as the settled West. He would need to learn quickly, listen more than he spoke, and look the part.

“We might raise the best pork this side of the sea,” Maedhros said when they were presented with a platter of roasted, fork-tender meat. Mustard, vinegar, and honey tickled Fingon’s nose, and he happily dug in.

“Is it a local breed?”

“It’s a cross between a few local breeds and the descendents of the stock we brought from Aman. We feasted with the local Avarin lords many times while we negotiated the treaties—ahh.” He closed his eyes in an expression of almost religious bliss. “No one roasts a pig like the Avari do.”

On Maedhros’ other side, Raemben leaned over, looking a little pained. “It went well with that hideous fruit liquor they make,” they said. Maedhros winced.

“It was also delicious, but I must have felt it for the next four days,” he said to Fingon. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to experience it yourself.”

There it was again. Fingon gave him a mild smile. “The king would appreciate information on the eastern Avari, I’m sure.”

With that, he filled his mouth with the tender pork and its savory sauce and said nothing else.

That thread of conversation was thankfully cut short by the rest of the meal. The next course included firm cheeses, spiced and cured meats, and red grapes with skins so delicate that they were almost translucent. Maedhros knew which farms and fields everything came from and he explained everything as each successive course was placed before them: roast vegetables glazed in honey and wine, marinated and grilled game, rich custard, crisp greens, fruit pudding soaked in brandy. He was a good host, and Fingon loved to listen to his voice and the obvious pride in it. He had a lot to be proud of.

With food and wine in him, Fingon soon grew weary. His journey had been strenuous, and he looked forward to sleeping in a real bed again instead of on the ground with one ear open in case of an ambush. After the feast he spent a polite amount of time at the additional conversation, drinking, and music that followed, and then excused himself. He walked slowly back to Maedhros’ chamber, trailing his fingers along the stone wall as he went. He followed the lines of the stone blocks and the corners of the walls and ceiling with his eyes, still not sure he could believe he was here at last, and that the lines he had put down on paper had been brought to life in his absence.

His circlet went back into its case and his robe went back into the layers of paper that had protected it on the road. He wrapped his braids in a silk scarf, pulled on a nightshirt and a pair of thick wool socks—a necessity in any weather after the Ice—and went to bed, and it was only when he woke briefly to Maedhros’ hand on his waist as he settled in next to him that he realized he’d fallen asleep.

 

Fingon adapted easily to the pattern of life at Himring. As he had predicted, Maedhros was tireless in showing him what the fortress had to offer: they trained together daily, or whenever Maedhros’ shoulder wasn’t hurting him too badly, in the keep gymnasium and practice yard and bathed in the bathhouse, and the water was naturally sparkling and warm as Maedhros had promised. They met often with the advisers and also with ordinary folk. Maedhros liked people, and always made himself available to them. That came so easily to him where Fingon had always struggled to stay connected to people in general. It was easier when he had Maedhros, usually the center of every group he was in, to keep him from fading into the background. Still it was tiring, and Fingon slept like the dead at the end of every day. There was certainly something to Maedhros’ philosophy of earning a good night’s sleep.

As busy as they were, they still set aside time to be alone.

That almost made it worse. Fingon wanted him so badly, and touching him and kissing him and letting his taste and scent fill his head only made disappointment more acute when one of them inevitably ended it.

“I promise I want you,” Fingon said. He cupped Maedhros’ face in both hands as they sat on the carpet in front of the fire in Maedhros’ chamber, both partially undressed and fully frustrated with their lack of progress. “I promise. I want to keep trying as long as you do.”

“Do not just do this for me,” Maedhros warned him.

“I’m not.”

Maedhros just looked at him with weary eyes. Fingon knew there was still a part of him that believed that no one would desire him again, maimed as he was, and it was Fingon’s personal crusade to find that part and eradicate it.

So why did this have to be so difficult? Fingon had not been tortured and left for dead, what earthly reason could he have to suddenly become so anxious at Maedhros’ touch that he had to stop them? He loved him, he wanted him, and yet still they failed! He rubbed his eyes. He’d once tried to stop thinking of it as “failure,” hoping that would help, but what else could he call setting an objective and being unable to meet it?

“We can always try again.” He took Maedhros’ hand. It was their promise over thirteen years of trying to overcome the damage and distance of the past. “We will be all right.”

 

As determined as Maedhros was to show Fingon the hospitality of his new home on the frontier, his people were equally determined to win the favor of their new crown prince. Even those who knew him in Tirion turned out their best impressions; this was a different game entirely, and Fingon was no longer a carefree princeling of a house that did not want for heirs.

He found it exhausting and could only hope that he would always remain a backup plan that the Noldor would never need. Or that he would at least have enough time to grow into the shoes placed before him.

There were, however, certain perks. One stop on the grand tour of Himring was the bakeries at the end of the street they called Cooks' Row. The bakers, strong-armed women with their hair in braided knots, stuffed Fingon with bread and cake seemingly whenever he opened his mouth to speak, but he eventually managed to thank them for their hospitality and compliment them on their creations. Afterward, they visited the butchers, where men with scarred fingers offered Fingon so many different kinds of sausage that he could hardly tell them apart after the first few, but he did his duty to sample every last one. The best was made with venison and red wine, but his poor stomach was so full that he hardly enjoyed it.

“We don't have to continue this today,” Maedhros said, amused, as Fingon heaved himself up onto his horse.

“I am perfectly fine! Though I think I only have one more visit in me,” he said with a grimace.

“Very well. Shall we visit the brewers?”

Fingon agreed. The brewers greeted them as warmly as the bakers and butchers had, and the master brewer poured them glasses of a beautiful red-gold beer that made Fingon warm all over and, before long, very merry. It was also much stronger than he had expected, and mounting his horse again was a formidable struggle. He stayed upright as they rode back through the darkening streets to the keep, but as soon as they were back in Maedhros' room, he collapsed onto the bed and couldn't bring himself to move, not even to undress.

“I regret everything,” he mumbled into his pillow. Behind him, Maedhros chuckled and slid Fingon's boots off his feet.

“Isn't this the opposite of how it used to be? Whenever we went out I would always stuff myself and drink too much and you would have to drag me home and put me to bed,” he teased.

Groaning, Fingon rolled onto his back. He prodded his distended stomach a little. “Father says I lack moderation.”

“You do.”

“I know.” Fingon sighed.

“Well, I'm not any better, but I’m learning to control myself for Himring's sake, if not for my own.” Maedhros began to undress. When he turned to put his shirt over the back of a chair, Fingon caught a glimpse of the silver-pink mess of scars that covered his back. Yes, Maedhros knew the consequences of a decision made out of fear and grief and ignorance. They all did, one way or another.

“I am trying to be better too,” Fingon said. He raised his hand and let it drop. “Like you said. For the Noldor, if not for myself.” Tomorrow they would visit the rest of the shops on Cooks' Row, and he was determined to be responsible about it and not lose control the instant someone offered him a sweet.

Maedhros wrestled his way into a nightshirt that was just slightly too small for him. He joined Fingon in bed, but instead of lying down he knelt at his side and began to unbutton his outer tunic. He was clumsy with one hand, but Fingon only closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the sensation of Maedhros gently disrobing him.

“I am not up for anything tonight,” he said once all of his buttons were undone. “Sorry.”

Maedhros kissed his forehead. “That's all right. We have plenty of time, no need to rush,” he said, though he too had a note of regret in his voice. With that, Fingon gathered enough strength in his arms to help him. He stripped down to his loincloth and then gathered the blankets over them both. Maedhros' arms went around him and Fingon relaxed into the curve of his body. They lay quietly for a few minutes, just breathing.

“Come and live with me, Findekáno,” Maedhros whispered. He kissed the back of Fingon's neck.

Fingon opened his eyes. He clasped Maedhros' hand tighter under the covers. “I can't. You know I can't.”

Maedhros kissed him again. “You could.”

“No.” Fingon felt a pang deep in his chest at that terrible word. He wanted to, with all his heart, but he couldn't. “Maedhros, I have consumed my weight in cake, sausage, and beer. I can barely think right now. We'll talk about it later.”

Maedhros gave a soft hmm and pressed his face into Fingon's hair, but he said nothing else.

 

A few years ago

 

 The Noldor built their capital to rival anything they had built in Aman. As the years passed and they spread out across the land they grew rich on their crafts and trade and alliances with their new neighbors, and it seemed as if they had finally reached land in the ocean of their long uncertainty. Maedhros and his brothers went east to the frontier. Fingon wanted to weep, but his eyes were dry no matter how much he tried to shut himself away and cry it out. Instead a cold, dark hollow formed in his chest and it sucked away all of the emotions, both high and low, that used to reassure him that he was still alive.

Maedhros visited when he could, a warm, bright flame that brought light to Fingon’s emptiness. The happy days fled like smoke in his fingers and all of a sudden he was riding away again, leaving Fingon alone with everything he was afraid to feel.

To add additional frustration to the situation, they still had not managed what either of them considered a successful sexual encounter, not even a full decade after their first fumbling attempt.

It was nearly a week since Maedhros’ departure from his most recent visit and time dragged as Fingon had never known it to. It was so easy to lose track of time, whether it was in his workshop or in the wilds or in his beloved’s clear gray eyes, but when he was alone he was time’s prisoner, and he felt it drag at him as if he were mortal. He could not sleep, and none of his usual crafts or pastimes could hold his attention. Maedhros was gone, and Fingon’s heart ached to be away from him. His bed was cold without him, his rooms cavernous and ringing with silence.

It was a mild summer night. Fingon lay flat on his back, watching the fluttering leaves outside his open windows and the moonlight streaming in to paint silver panels on the floor. A slinking shadow crossed the garden—one of his cats. A sudden burst of restlessness shook him and he sat upright, frustrated. He could not lie here any longer, trapped in his own head. His hands and footsteps were uncontrolled and jerky as he stomped around his room to look for a shirt. Having found one, he threw it on and left the cursed bedroom to walk down the carpeted hallway.

He found himself leaving his residence. There were guards keeping their silent watches around the palace who nodded to Fingon as he passed, but otherwise he saw no one. The path he followed was as familiar as the back of his hand. He had envisioned and drawn it long before it was built in wood, stone, and glass, and it took him toward the center of the highest tier of Barad Eithel. The guard at the geometrically-carved double doors scrutinized him for a moment, probably for being out in public in the middle of the night in rumpled clothes and socks, but let him in without resistance.

The king was a night-owl, and Fingon knew he would still be awake. He did not expect to find him reclining on the couch in his study with his head resting on his hand, doing nothing. He was always doing something. He preferred to write his own journals. He was, in Fingon’s estimation, just as skilled in the forge as his half-brother, and could often be found working on personal projects when he had the night hours to himself. When not occupied with something else he trained extensively with sword and bow. But now, Fingon found him just sitting by the fire in a light robe with his long, locked hair falling free over his shoulders.

“Ah, Fingon.” His father smiled a little when he saw him. “Come and sit.”

Fingon crossed the room and perched awkwardly on a chair next to Fingolfin’s couch. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Fingon was starting to consider going back to his room and counting the minutes until the sun came up, and then his father spoke again.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Many things.” He couldn’t figure out how to start. Had had exhausted every piece of romantic poetry he could get his hands on, every philosophical treatise on love and pleasure, and every sex manual with illustrations that made his eyes water. Even anatomical texts and studies on the mind. No matter how much he read, he could never find anything that answered one simple question: what is wrong with us ? He truly would not have come here if anything else had worked, as he could think of very few things less appealing than going to his father to discuss the sex he was or was not having, and Fingolfin was equally content not hearing about it. But his father was wise and objective and Fingon did not believe he would dispense poor advice, so he swallowed his embarrassment, took in a breath, and asked.

“I need to ask your advice, but afterward you must forget I ever did,” he said.

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows. “My advice regarding…”

“It involves Maedhros. And it’s… embarrassing.”

With that, the look on Fingolfin’s face told Fingon that he realized it was going to be sex-related, and he stood. “Of course. You can ask me anything, and it will never leave this room.” He poured them drinks—not the golden wine he usually offered over light conversation, but a clear liquor that was so aromatic that Fingon felt as if the inside of his nose had been scrubbed clean—and they sat to talk. That he had given them his blessing centuries ago did not make it any easier for Fingon to begin talking, however, so he didn't say anything until half his drink was down. It made his mouth tingle and his eyes water.

“We are...” Fingon cleared his throat. “Having some... difficulties. Getting intimate.”

Fingolfin’s brow crinkled in confusion for a moment. “I had not suspected. Nothing seemed amiss between you when he was here.”

“No. It’s just…” He looked away. “We haven't been able to do... anything. At all. And not for lack of trying.”

Fingolfin gave him a long look over steepled fingers. His eyes, a lighter brown than Fingon's and flecked with green and gold, remained steady. The eyes of a just king in audience with a subject. “Is it what you both want?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken of it with him?”

“Yes! Father, we have spoken until we are hoarse, and still we haven't—” He cleared his throat again. “We still have trouble.” He dreaded the idea of having to explain the exact difficulties they had encountered: Maedhros' occasional episodes, arguments born of mutual frustration, their own physical reactions and the lack thereof. Clumsiness, doubt. The spiraling unreality that sometimes gripped Fingon when he looked at Maedhros and found himself unable to touch him. His hands wouldn't respond and he panicked, somehow convinced that touching Maedhros would only hurt him. Thankfully, he was not asked to elaborate.

“Not all… trees come into flower every spring,” Fingolfin said slowly. His cheeks were a little red, and Fingon wondered if he employed euphemism for his son’s sake or his own. “Our kind expects the blooming and withering of passion as a natural cycle of life.”

“Yes, I know, but that is not the problem,” Fingon said. “The problem is that we both want it, but we… freeze up, or flinch away, or just lose interest, or… I don’t know.” He ground his teeth and looked away. If it was only a natural waning of passion, that would have been better than this torment. Then they could sit together and talk and pursue their duties and simply share each other’s companionship and be comfortable—but no, Fingon could do all of those things with him already, but instead of only simple affection he felt his own demanding need every time he let his eyes follow the lines of Maedhros’ body, the hollow of his throat, his silky, tumbling hair, his eyes that gazed back with equal fire. He wanted to haul him away to the nearest private room and kiss and caress him until he was panting with want, and Maedhros, his beloved Maedhros, was so openly, tirelessly generous that it was hurting him to not be able to do the same. But whenever they tried anything it always ended with one or both of them ending it before they got anywhere.

“Oh, Fin, I don’t know.” Fingolfin sounded like he was trying not to let Fingon know how tired he was. Fingon could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way he rested his glass on his leg, and for a moment he regretted burdening his father with this conversation.

No, he needed answers, and he had run out of alternatives.

He lifted his heels onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees. He sighed. The two of them sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“I love him,” he said quietly.

“I know you do.” Absently, Fingolfin twisted a lock of hair around one finger. “But do you trust him?”

Fingon rubbed his ear. “What?”

His father looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “After everything, do you trust him?”

Fingon leaped to his feet before he could stop himself. “How could you say that? I love him with everything I have to give! I cut off his right hand, and you ask me if I trust him ?”

“You can love someone without trusting them. Sit down, I am not trying to put words in your mouth.” A touch of steel came into Fingolfin’s voice. “But our house suffered for years because of his house’s betrayal. That is not nothing.”

“ He did not betray us! I do not hold him to the actions of his father and brothers!” Fingon did not sit down. Fingolfin’s brow creased in obvious annoyance.

“No, he did not. But he swore their Oath. He spilled blood at Alqualondë. He holds to the Oath even now that he knows its fruits.”

“He has no choice.”

“I wonder if that is true. I wonder if the One would hold anyone to such an oath if he truly wished to repent of it.” After a pause, the king turned his eyes upward, and then sipped from his glass. “Ah, but there is no way to know, is there.”

“Even if he could repent of it, he would not abandon his brothers to their fate if they did not. Either way, he is not his father, and would never go to his father’s lengths. I know him better than anyone,” Fingon said, and voice took on an almost pleading tone that surprised even himself. He knew Maedhros.

“Whatever his intentions, he has made his allegiance clear. We stand as allies now, but if his quest should come to odds with the needs of the Noldor at large, he will stand against me, and he will stand against you.”

Blood rushed to Fingon’s face. “You—you’re trying to turn me against him!”

“I am not,” Fingolfin replied, still calm. “And I have not withdrawn my blessing, not that you need it in the first place. But you came to me for help, and I am trying to help you.”

“By telling me not to trust the man I love because he will eventually betray me?” His heart pounded in his ears. He wished he had never come here, he wished he had never thought that his father would be able to help him. No, this was folly, Fingolfin was trying to help him but in a way that Fingon had never wanted.

Fingolfin’s frown deepened a little. “Fingon, sit down , I am not saying that. I am asking you if you trust him. Because if you do not, that could worsen any other problems you might be having.”

“I don’t understand how you could mean anything else!”

“Then let me rephrase my question. Do you trust him as much as he trusts you?”

Fingon frowned. For a heartbeat, he could not say anything. “Explain.”

“Do you understand the kind of trust he places in you? He has suffered more cruelly than you or I can imagine, and yet he trusts you with his heart, his body, and his very life if necessary. I see it every time he looks at you—his face has never been especially hard to read.” His frown lifted slightly, and his lips twitched in amusement.

Fingon shook his head hard. “I know he trusts me. I try to be worthy of it.”

“And that is good. Never take that trust for granted, but you should also look to your own feelings.” He smiled a little sadly. “Remember what I said when you first brought him back and I had to force you to take care of yourself as well as him. If he loves you, he will not appreciate you sacrificing yourself for his sake.”

No, Maedhros did not appreciate that, as he had made abundantly clear in the forest years earlier. Be a little more selfish . Stars, Fingon had tried. He had tried so hard to remember what it had been like when they were young and everything was easy, when they could say to each other “touch me here” without worry. He had tried, and Maedhros had tried, and they both failed over and over again. Suddenly weary, Fingon sat back down on the couch. He scuffed his feet on the carpet as if he were a little boy again, and then rested his chin in his hands. King and prince sat in silence again for a few minutes.

“Oh, Findekáno,” his father said. There was a terrible weight in his voice, a terrible regret. He stared into his glass for a moment, and then ran his fingers pensively through his hair. “I have treated you with such injustice. And yet I see it fit to tell you to try to trust more. I apologize, I have no right.”

Fingon said nothing. He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. Even the allusion to the Ice reminded him of the terror of frostbite, watching his fingers peel like overripe fruit and wondering whether any of them could be saved. Screaming into a blizzard and not knowing whether anyone would come for him even if they heard. Slitting the belly of a seal and eating the meat raw, only vaguely remembering catching and killing the gentle creature in his state of near-starvation. His father, rather than looking away, was looking at him with a strange, unreadable expression. The corners of his mouth were tight and his brow was furrowed as if he were trying to read something that was too smudged to make out.

“You did what you had to do to keep everyone together,” Fingon said after a long silence. He had spent so long thinking about it, trying to puzzle out why his kind, just, perceptive father never seemed to notice the way the others singled him out. Of those who followed the Noldor across the Helcaraxë, Fingon was far from the only kinslayer, but he was the first to draw his sword after his uncle and cousins and their followers. As far as many were concerned, he started it, and it was his fault alone. That was only the first of the grievances they found to blame on him as they marched across the frozen desert. “A scapegoat was convenient. If everyone could lay their suffering on my account, they would not turn on each other, or on you.”

Fingolfin set his glass down and folded his arms. “I should have stopped it early. As soon as I noticed it. I should not have been made to see what I had done when you disappeared without a word.”

Yes, they all had their should haves and should have nots. Fingon should not have let love for Maedhros blind him to the poison of Fëanor's rhetoric. He should not have charged into the fray at Alqualondë. He should not have believed that Fëanor would not abandon his family in Araman. But he knew better now, and pointless ruminations on the way things should have gone only annoyed him. “Why did you need to bring this up at all? We both know what happened, and we both know that there’s no way to go back,” Fingon said. His voice felt rough in his throat.

Fingolfin looked away, unable to meet Fingon’s eyes for a moment. Neither of them spoke.

Fingon had to believe that his father let their host mistreat him out of necessity. To save the thousands, he had to let them blame their suffering on one. It was logical, a cold, hard, merciless logic that demanded practicality with no regard for shared blood. Fingon understood now, and he had to make himself believe that it made the difference between survival and extinction. He had to believe that it had not been for nothing. He had not told Maedhros about any of it: why he had so few friends now, why he and his brother barely spoke when they could help it, why he withdrew from company he used to enjoy. Why he flinched violently away the first time Maedhros tried to kiss his neck again. He couldn’t stand to be touched with such tenderness; he didn’t deserve it. Surely Maedhros would turn on him like everyone else had. “I truly am sorry, Fingon.” Another long pause, and Fingolfin turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Himring grows stronger by the day, and soon its construction will be complete. As long as Maedhros honors his oath of fealty to me, I will honor my obligations as his king. Therefore I will send a representative to assess Himring’s strengths and make note of its needs.”

“I will go,” Fingon said immediately, grateful for the change of subject.

Fingolfin’s lips twitched. “Of course you will. If I sent anyone else I suspect you would take up your harp and sing at all hours about how you will wither and pine if I order you to stay.”

Fingon did not protest this characterization.

“In any case, you’re the right person to send,” Fingolfin continued. “You worked on the designs and Maedhros will trust you with more information than he will give to anyone else.”

“I will not use our relationship to spy on him,” Fingon said flatly.

“I never said you should. But he might be more honest with you than he would be otherwise.” Fingon had to grudgingly agree. Maedhros was not good at lying outright, but he would withhold information that he didn’t have to give. Fingolfin set his glass on a side table. “It’s for his own benefit. We are not enemies, and as his king I am happy to lend my assistance where he needs it. If he will actually let me.”

Yes, getting Maedhros to accept help was no easy task, and no one knew that like Fingon did. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. “Thank you. When he sends word that construction is complete, we can make preparations. I’ll leave that up to your discretion.”

Despite his low mood, Fingon’s heart leapt. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps I should name you my official ambassador to Himring, you’ll probably be there often enough whether I send you or not.” Fingolfin smirked. “It will be some time yet, I think. Maybe the time apart will be good for you.”

Or make everything worse , Fingon thought, but he just shrugged. “Maybe.” The drink had helped to loosen the tension from his shoulders, and Fingolfin’s advice had at least given him something new to think about. Whether it would help remained to be seen, but Fingon had to admit to himself that it felt better now that he’d spoken to someone about it. Even if it didn’t fix everything right away, at least he felt better about going back to bed and facing whatever duties tomorrow would bring him. He stood. “I appreciate your wisdom, Father, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I needed to get it out of my head.”

“I am glad you felt comfortable enough to ask me.”

Fingon turned to leave. Outside the open windows, the moon was high in the black sky, and he remembered how beautiful it was the first time it appeared, glorious and full, to interrupt the long night of their suffering. After becoming used to such a long time in the dark, it burned his eyes, and he did not know whether he was weeping with joy or pain.

“Findekáno,” Fingolfin said, a strange, brittle force entering his voice. Fingon paused but did not turn around. “The Ice was not your fault.”

“I know.”

“You are worthy of trust. You have mine.”

Fingon did turn back a little at that. The nasty part of his mind wanted him to ask why his father needed him to believe it so badly now, when it seemed rather the opposite on the Ice. Under the hot summer sun and through balmy nights the chill lingered in his bones, shards of ice driven in deep over years on the march. Nothing could fully convince him that it had not all been his fault, not after hearing so many times that it was. On top of that his own guilt remained in his heart, clawing at him, squeezing at his insides, stalking him in the night. You will never be free , his mind told him. You should never be free .

Fingon hated that part of himself as much as it hated him. But in the dark hours he believed it, and resigned himself to unending shame that he, Fingon the Kinslayer, could never, ever escape.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to be bound to the Oath.

He just nodded once. Finding nothing else to say, he departed, hoping that this hadn’t been for nothing.

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