Spell of Winter by Sleepless_Malice

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Chapter 1

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Spell of Winter

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When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

William Shakespeare - Sonnet II: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow

*

 

With every day that passes the shadows across the land grow long and longer and soon the icy grip of winter will reign over the land and paralyze the world they live in; judging from the experience of the past years, trade soon will become nearly non-existent, messengers between the realms will be sparse and, the journey, if unavoidable, is known to be a dangerous one. All Fingon hopes for is that the supplies of food will be enough and sufficient for all the Ñoldor who are still alive. Over the years their number has been constantly diminished – by gruesome battles, by the hardship they found themselves in the alien lands where winter was so much harsher than it had ever been in the Blessed Realm. Here, in these lands where he resides for a few weeks, they aren’t his people, but for Fingon it matters not, it never has - still he cares for them and their well-being and, much to some of his family’s disapproval, he always has. However, his train of thoughts is soon interrupted as he opens the door to Maedhros’ private study which creaks slowly and audibly open and his gaze falls onto the motionless form standing in front of the massive window.

 

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Step after step he walks towards his friend who is apparently once more caught in realms unknown to himself, as far away from reality as anything can ever be – far away from him and even further away from what they once had shared, Fingon thinks with sadness. He doesn’t blame Maedhros for how it has become between them, he never does and never has done so in the past; still it saddens him, because the one who suffers most is Maedhros.

For moments Fingon halts, and lets his eyes travel over his friends’ back, over his uncovered neck where the scar the iron collar left behind glowers, unhealthy – always had he hated the Black Foe with all his heart, but after Maedhros’ captivity his hatred and anger grew and grew until it nearly consumed him. Often he wonders how his friend managed to keep alive throughout all the years. With reluctance, he forces the rising anger to the back of his mind.

This is not why he came, but now he doubts if it was a wise decision. He is not even certain if Maedhros didn’t hear him enter or if he simply ignores him, although he suspects the former, especially as Maedhros remains quiet after he has cleared his throat twice to announce his presence.

“It is the snow, isn’t it?” Fingon asks softly when he finally comes to stand behind Maedhros whose gaze is travelling far across the land and following the snowflakes which slowly fall down from the endless sea of grey above them. His words are nothing more than an attempt to instigate conversation.

Absently Maedhros nods in confirmation, his body tense as a bowstring, but he does not bother to turn around to face Fingon.

“Aye,” he says at last as if he is strangely detached from the world he stands in, “it always is. Unavoidably I find myself having to cope with the emotions which resurface once the snow falls from the darkest of skies, year after year.”

 

Maedhros had once said to Fingon that he both loved and hated the snow. After his return from Angband’s darkest caverns and highest peaks he was nearly unable to even look at the fluffy white petals that float so innocently through the wintry air, but over the years he had at least learned to live with the memories that always came with the first fall of snow.

They came this year.

The last year.

And all the years before.

The captivity is the dividing mark in Maedhros’ life, Fingon knows – before and after, with nothing in between, and no matter how much he wishes to ease his friend’s pain, to undo everything that happened in the gloomy twilight of Angband deep down beneath the earth, he knows he cannot; long have they accepted their fate and somewhat managed to keep their friend- and relationship alive — at least partly. More often than not it is Maedhros who struggles to cope with everything that happened before he was chained onto the towering peaks of Thangorodrim.

No matter how often Maedhros hears ‘I am glad that you are here,’ – and knows that Fingon actually means every word he says, everything that is not and most likely will never be between them again bothers him, saddens him to the core, all the more when the crystals of ice sail down from the endless sea of grey above them.

When Maedhros remains silent, Fingon places a reassuring hand upon his shoulder and a sigh which could be interpreted as either relief or sadness leaves Maedhros’ lips.

At the beginning, the first years after Maedhros’ return, he wouldn’t have dared to do this, to touch him before asking for allowance, but over time he had taught himself to read every subtle nuance of his friend’s body language, even if it is nearly invisible (which it actually is – to all, but him and Maglor) and much to Fingon’s surprise, Maedhros shifts his body ever so slightly and tilts his head, laying it down against the stretched-out arm, an apologetic smile playing upon his lips as if he wishes to say ‘I am sorry’ but finds him unable to say so aloud.

Beautiful he still is, Fingon involuntarily thinks when his gaze falls onto the face that is softly illuminated by the burning fire, the long lashes, the freckled cheeks; a different form of beauty maybe, but one which is not less appealing. Nothing can ever mar him – no scars, no burns nor his now shorter hair; true beauty is so much more than physical appearance.

For the first time since what seems to have become ages after his return, of his own will Maedhros speaks about what lies so heavily upon his heart when winter ascends.

“No words do I possess to tell you how much I would wish it could be as it was between us,” he begins, sadness accompanying every word as he stands like a statue made of stone, devoid of emotions it seems, at least to the common eye. However, the brief pause between the carefully chosen words give him away, the exhale of breath which is slightly louder than normal tells him just how much Maedhros fights against the maelstrom of emotions that tolls in his head.

“How it always has been, year after year, when the snow covered the land in a sea of white so blinding to the eye, when we enjoyed the folly of youth, discovered the strange sensations.”

 

Without further elaboration Fingon knows of what he speaks, and he feels the knot around his throat tighten as all-too vivid images of those blissful years in the Blessed Realm return to him. Memories of a time when both had been young and joyful, so carefree that they seemed to forget the world around them, and although it has been many years, he still feels his friend’s exploring fingertips and lips upon his skin, the warmth of the fire which was burning beside them as they lay amidst the cozy furs, limbs and arms entangled.

How much he wished to feel everything anew, to rekindle the sensations burnt so vividly into his mind, into his skin like invisible threads.

Fingon doesn’t dare to speak.

He never does in this regard, because every word that would slip past his lips would be unfair and inappropriate, every word would cut deeper than a swords’ blade ever could, evoke slumbering memories, and things that will never exist between them again.

“Do you remember?” asks Maedhros, and Fingon simply nods in response – of course he does, how should he ever forget? Despite the fact that the highest peaks of the Pélori were constantly covered with a blanket of ice, snow that reached down to the wide plains was rare in the Blessed Realm. But that year everything had been different; for many weeks winter had truly reigned and the blinding whiteness stretched to the horizon and beyond. O, so much Fingon wants to voice his own thoughts, but he remains silent as he often has the past years.

He had always been good at listening to others, to their sorrows and worries, their joy and laughter and truly. Now he has mastered this gift; he knows when it is best to wait until his friend speaks again, and this Maedhros does: “The lands were covered in a thick blanket of ice and snowflakes were swirling around us. Many senses I have lost during the long years but I can still feel the hot spiced wine on my tongue, can still feel it flow through my veins, tickle my tongue, and warm me from inside.”

Fingon had loved to watch him over the flames of the candles, over the rim of his cup as he drank, pretending he was not watching at all.

Upon the words, memory nearly threatens to overwhelm him, and he senses that Maedhros recalls exactly the same things behind closed eyes as he does: how the snow crystals had crunched beneath their heavy boots, the great and white vastness of the ice desert the lands had suddenly become, the small hill slopes transformed into glittering dunes of ice, their melodic laughter entwining and mingling as they raced towards the edge of the forest as they had done so often the past days. However, something had been different that day, the air between them sizzling and sparking with suppressed longing and mutual desire, the inability to act upon what they felt and yearned for, coerced by social restraints.

At last Fingon speaks, and at the same time he wishes to wrap his arms around Maedhros as he had done so often in the past: “How could I ever forget, Maitimo?” he asks softly, and actually he doesn’t expect an answer.. Memories are precious, and for many years Fingon had thought that nothing more than memories would be everything he could live on.

Memories of hot spiced wine, of snow shining like the brightest diamonds, sparkling and blinding, of breath which came in clouds due to the cold of winter; memories of summer and hidden meadows covered in billions of flowers, of lips stained with sweet summer wine, but during Maedhros’ absence his thoughts constantly returned towards the coldest season, and the day that changed everything.

That day, a day as good as any, tiny flakes of ice got themselves caught in their hair, in their eyebrows, melting the second they touched their glowing cheeks and at the end it was he, emboldened by the wine both had consumed throughout the day, who dared to raise his hand to brush one which remained off Maedhros’ cheek, right where scar tissue now graces his freckled skin.

And that was how it all began: with a chaste touch followed by a brush of frozen lips, how their friendship which had somewhat lost its innocence a while ago, finally evolved into a forbidden relationship.

A wooden hunting hut, long abandoned by Maedhros’ father, had served as shelter during winter, and once the snow had yielded to spring, clandestine meetings amidst the dense leaf canopy on meadows lush and green had followed, festivities to celebrate the peak of summer from which they had silently escaped into the night. Soon, however, the season again began to change and the cold embrace of winter had forced them back into the wooden cabin with its plush furs and crackling fire, and more often than not warm spiced wine had accompanied their meetings.

Memory fills Fingon’s heart and mind, and briefly he allows his eyes to fall shut, and although the wood they had burned all the millennia ago was unique in the Blessed Realm as no such trees grow where they reside now, the familiar smell of it tickles his nose, its smell – together with Maedhros’ unique scent – is etched indelibly into his mind.

At the end, it is his friend’s voice that stirs him out of his reverie.

“I do not know – forgive me,” responds Maedhros in a heart wrenching tone and immediately Fingon feels sorry for what he said, although it was most innocent and carefully phrased, “I should know better, so alike in mind and thought we are. Aye, those memories it is that still float through my head, often but when the snow falls more than ever – and so much do I wish that it would be as it was. For you, for both of us.”

A heavy sigh tumbles from Maedhros’ lips and for moments, Fingon is truly at a loss of what to say; nay, he cannot deny that he doesn’t wish that things could be as they once had been in the land they have turned their backs on, neither can he deny that he desires Maedhros still and possibly more than he had before, but most importantly he is glad that he is alive and he simply wishes to ease his friends’ pain, to erase the guilt Maedhros feels towards him.

“Nelyo,” Fingon says after long consideration, because the cruel words Maedhros once had said – ‘I wish you would force me’ - still echo in his mind, and many a night they have robbed him of his slumber, “we both know that nothing will ever be as it once was, but for me it doesn’t matter.”

And it is true, Fingon thinks as he pauses briefly, but it seems that Maedhros is reluctant to believe him.

So it is, so it has always been.

“You are aware of how glad I am that you are here – here with me, that you are still alive after all you went through. Please do not feel guilty for what you feel and what you do – or do not do. Although you often deem yourself unworthy of my affection, despite the fact that you call yourself ‘ugly’ and often worse, nothing more than lies these words are, and if you listen to the voice deep inside of you, you should know, you should see the truth! Who would I be – what friend would I be - to force you into something you do not feel able to give anymore? And please: do not say, ‘I do not deserve you’ – because you deserve me with your mere existence, no matter if you feel physical attraction for me – or not. So many years ago, when another quarrel had increased the rift between our families, you have said: ‘Nothing shall ever come between us.’ – and now I repeat these words, and know that I mean every one of them; no matter what you say you have become, what you are and how you feel, I admire you and I love you and always will!”

Upon the words visibly Maedhros fights against the tears which threatens to fall. Fingon notices and he is not entirely certain if he hasn’t gone too far with his confession. However, too many things have remained unsaid so often – on both sides.

Slowly then he lifts his hand to cup the cheek where Melkor’s gruesome deeds are so visibly manifested, and carefully he allows his fingertips to brush against the scar tissue just like he had brushed away the snowflake which had been reluctant to melt all those millennia ago.

“Go on,” Maedhros urges him, words which are barely audibly and upon which he nearly drops his fingertips in utmost surprise and without further elaboration he knows exactly what he expects him to do; no, this is certainly not what he had expected to hear and confusion apparently shines from his eyes as Maedhros almost begs: “Please?”

So many emotions – hope, despair, sorrow and longing among them - mingle in his eyes that Fingon finds himself unable to decipher them all.

“Are you certain?” he asks, and part of him wishes that the answer will be ‘no’, simply because he is afraid of tearing the slowly healing wounds open anew, to evoke a reaction, an outburst, which he is not sure he is able to cope with.

Persistent and convincing Maedhros is, and always has been, and little chance does he have to turn down his friend’s wish, because no matter what others say, he is charming and irresistibly so; he always has been.

“Yes,” Maedhros confirms and an indulgent smile tugs at his lips, although it is obvious from the tension of his body just how much strength it costs him to ask for it, but he forces word by word past his lips. “I cannot promise you anything, and - to be honest - I partly fear my own reaction towards anything which might come to pass between us. However: I never want to say to myself I have not tried, nor do I wish to condemn you to a life of abstinence, a life of pain and regret, of ‘what if’, of …”

A tiresome monologue this easily would become, Fingon knows it all too well, as they have had the same discussion several times, and he is not inclined to have the never-ending vicious circle of self-hatred and guilt all over again; not now, not when Maedhros is offering something he had not dared to even dream of to ever happen again.

With a shake of his head Fingon demands softly, “Be quiet, will you?”, before he leans in with a certain amount of hesitation to cover Maedhros’ lips with his own, a chaste and clumsy brush of lips against lips just like it was that very day in the Blessed Realm amidst the endless sea of white.

It nearly is as if he falls in love with the one he had loved his entire life all over again.

*