I Believe in Second Chances by NelyafinweFeanorion

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Chapter 1

Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2019

prompt: Maedhros and Fingon meet with Azaghâl

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Beleriand 

First Age

 

Fingon glared at the dragon helm, at where it still sat, on the table where he had placed it that very morning—soon after Maedhros had offered it to him as a gift.

The dragon resolutely glared back.

The artistry was unmatched which wasn’t helping with his unease.

It was a kingly gift. It had been when the Dwarf lord had presented it to Maedhros and it remained so, now that Maedhros had in turn gifted it to him.

But Fingon didn’t want it.

That whole episode with the dragon was one he would sooner forget. There had been many daunting episodes in his life, since he had reached his majority, but facing that blasted dragon in battle was perhaps one of the most humbling.

He had been completely stunned when it had appeared. An unexpected new and disconcerting foe created by the malice of Morgoth’s manipulations. A creature of scales and flame, hideous yet strangely mesmerizing. It was pure luck that Fingon’s chosen companions that day were his most skilled archers. Had the dragon been any larger or Fingon’s forces any fewer, the outcome would have been far different.

It was awkward to continuously accept accolades for his actions. I didn’t defeat you, Fingon thought to himself, as he eyed Glaurung’s unnerving metallic likeness. If I had actually killed you, that would be something to celebrate. All I managed was to scare you off, let you escape to crawl back into the depths of Angband, to trouble us more in the future, I dare say. 

Conversing with this masterwork of a helm wasn’t going to solve anything, he decided. He had refused to try it on initially. It looked far too massive for his head and he was not about to admit that to Maedhros. Not yet at least.

Not after Maedhros’ heartfelt plea for him to accept the helm, to wear it in battle, to allow him a vestige of comfort in knowing Fingon was protected by whatever purported magic the Dwarves had supposedly imbued into this monstrosity. 

Fingon had not met any Dwarves yet, but from Maedhros’ descriptions they were nearly half the Eldar’s height in stature, though stockier and sturdier, broad of shoulder, with large round heads, often heavily armored and universally bearded.

They must be sturdy indeed, if they routinely wore helms like this, Fingon thought, as he lifted the helm with both hands and stepped toward the looking glass at the far end of the room.

Glaurung looked no less alarming in the mirror.

He grimaced as he placed the helm on his head, keeping his hands on either side of it to hold it steady. No use letting go; his head was obviously the wrong shape and size for this headgear. The helm tilted to the left when Fingon did remove his hands. He looked even more ludicrous with it skewed lopsided on his head. One eye was obscured by the nose-piece now, but he scowled at his reflection with his remaining eye. 

I look like a child playing with his father’s gear, he thought. This wouldn’t do at all.

Fingon pulled it off his head, shifting its bulk until he could peer into the inner part of the helm itself. Leather chinstrap. Felt padding. Typical interior design, but nothing to adjust it to a smaller head circumference.

He doubted that even Curufin would be able to do much to alter it substantially enough to make it acceptable for battle. And he was quite certain that Curufin had studied this helm quite intently already.

It could be fatal if it slipped even a little bit in the midst of combat. That kind of distraction or unexpected visual disruption would be the difference between life and death.

Fingon shuddered. Maedhros would never forgive himself if this protective gift of his resulted in the opposite. No amount of spells or incantations for protection could ever hope to counter an ill-fit. 

Surely, Maedhros knew the fit would be off? He was so intimately familiar with Fingon’s body, he must realize this would be out of proportion for him, even if he hadn’t spent their times together contemplating the dimensions of Fingon’s cranium.

This helm would be too large for any of them.

Maedhros must have tried it on his own head at some point in time. I should ask, Fingon thought.

No, he wouldn’t say anything to Maedhros about it. He would take it home with him, to Hithlum. 

He would honor the intent of Maedhros’ gift. 

And he would get himself a new helm made by his own craftsmen, one that actually fit and would satisfy Maedhros’ stipulation that he always wear one during battle, no matter how much he hated having something confining his head. If it would give his dearest love a bit of comfort, then it was worth the temporary annoyance of it.

He would get used to it. He could get used to almost anything for Maedhros.

Fingon settled the helm back on the table, running a finger along the edging. Would Azaghâl be offended that his gift had been regifted? Would Curufin object to the item being withdrawn from his analytical orbit?

If anyone could figure out how the power was woven into this talisman, it would be Curufin.

He scowled at Glaurung again. Not that it did any good. Somewhere in the smouldering caverns of Angband that menace still lurked, waiting for a chance to harass them yet again, to rout the Noldor out of Beleriand once and for all. 

Not on Fingon’s watch.

He crossed his arms as he regarded Maedhros’ gift. If nothing else it would prove an amusement and a distraction for his father, who was still fostering the grief of his absent son and daughter, gone beyond the reach of mind and heart. 

A grief he shared. He may not have been as close to Turgon, at least not in these later years of the bitterness his brother still held against their kin. But Aredhel—his sister had always been his closest friend, staunchest ally, partner in all sorts of mischief for so very long. 

Until Maedhros had taken precedence in his heart. Or rather until he had allowed his affection for Maedhros to be more than a well-kept secret.

On these shores at least.

It’s not that he had ignored Aredhel or forsaken her company. It wasn’t that at all. 

It had been hard not to focus on Maedhros after his rescue. Hard not to put his effort and attention into Maedhros’ recovery. Into his private plans for the succession. His eventual move to distant Himring. 

It was agonizing to have Maedhros so far away, while Fingon kept up his patrols along the borders of Dor-lomin.  

They had been forced to only have the chance to encounter each other on diplomatic missions, rare encounters in the wild, the infrequent instances when Maedhros came to sit in council sessions in Hithlum.

Or the times when Fingon couldn’t stand the distance anymore and finagled a reason to visit the icy reaches of Himring.

Aredhel herself had chafed at the monotony of her life in Fingolfin’s court. She’d longed for the freedom to roam the lands at will, as she had in Aman. To hunt in the wild. To camp under the unfamiliar constellations of these stars, the gaze in wonder at the waning and waxing moon in the sky above her. To follow the uncharted trails along rivers and forests, to discover new vistas, landscapes, seascapes, without the stifling confines of an entire battalion of guards.

Instead she had found herself in the awkward role of surrogate mother to Idril, in the responsibility as the chatelaine of Fingolfin’s keep, as the sounding board for Turgon’s grief, bitterness and regret.

Her times of revel and refuge with Fingon had dwindled. As he sought out Maedhros in the rare instances of freedom from responsibilities, his sister sought out the wild unpredictability of Celegorm, despite the disapproval she faced from Turgon for fraternizing with any of the sons of Fëanor.

It had driven a wedge between them, Fingon thought. Between himself and Turgon, who could never forget, but also had no willingness in him to forgive or even tolerate the company of those he felt were responsible for the losses he still felt so keenly.

The idea of the Mereth Aderthad, the coming together of all the Elves of Beleriand, that his father found so essential to their united goal of defeating Morgoth, had found no traction with Turgon.

Fingon missed him. Missed the incisive intuition of his younger brother, the way he honed in on the conundrums that challenged them and used his precise logic to ferret out the answers that eluded others. He missed the sketches that would appear on any available writing surface, when Turgon would let his mind wander and put the visions in his head on paper—the soaring towers that had become reality in Hithlum. The fountains that had decked the courtyards of Vinyamar. The utilitarian but elegant structures that dotted the plains of Dor-lomin.

And the other drawings, the ones that Turgon guarded closely, but that Fingon had glimpsed on rare occasion. Soaring mountaintops with a valley enclosed, towers of white stone, fountains of dizzying shape and size, gates of imposing scope and grace—somehow both ethereal and impenetrable.

Was that what his brother had sought out? A place to bring those innermost dreams to life? A place where Idril could live an existence shaped by serenity and safety, as the long-ago days of their own youth in Tirion?

Fingon hoped that’s what Turgon had found. Hoped that his imagination and vision had given him a respite from the resentment and simmering fury that had plagued him since the Grinding Ice. 

And that Aredhel had found the autonomy and independence that she so craved since they had left their home across the sea.

Fingon shook his head. This scrutiny of the helm had taken his thoughts in an unexpected and melancholy direction. Enough.

He would ask Erestor to package this bulky headgear and stow it among the belongings he would take with him when he left for home.

Home. 

Nothing really felt like home anymore. Not the way returning to his family house had felt in Tirion.

The only thing that even came close was the circle of Maedhros’ arms.

 

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Surprisingly, Erestor was not amenable to packing the helm up.

“You can’t bundle it up and stash it away. You’ve not tried it on yet and there’s work to be done to make it fit.” Erestor crossed his arms and frowned at Fingon. “It needs a fair bit of adjusting.”

“I gathered that. It slipped sideways when I put it on a bit ago,” Fingon admitted. 

“It did that when Maedhros wore it too.”

“He actually wore it? When?” This was unexpected information. 

“Soon after he got it. Diplomatic mission to Belegost. He felt it would be discourteous not to wear the helm.” Erestor tilted his head. “He managed to come up with a temporary solution. Padding and chin straps and excessively good posture.” His lips quirked. “Good enough to get him in and out of Belegost wearing it but not good enough for a battle. That’s where Curvo will have to come in.” 

Fingon shook his head. “I don’t think even Curvo can make that monstrosity fit me.” 

Erestor laughed. “Not with that mass of braids you wear.”

Fingon bristled. “They keep my hair out of my face.” And Nelyo likes it this way, Fingon thought. He was the one who first put the gold ribbons in his hair, in those long-ago days of Tirion, when their love was something exhilarating and new, full of promise and joy.

It was still exhilarating and it brought Fingon a joy he could never have imagined in his youth. But the hardships they had overcome to be together had tinged their love with an urgency, an ache, a deep-seated understanding that loss was a risk they faced every day. An understanding that made every moment together mean so much more.

Erestor shrugged. “Curvo always appreciates a challenge.”

Curufin was most definitely his father’s son. Single-minded in intent and purpose. He arrived in the late afternoon, snowflakes clinging to his hair and deep red cloak, sweeping into the keep with a curt nod to Erestor and striding straight towards where Fingon and Maedhros were seated by the fire. 

“You’re finally going to let me get my hands on that helm?” Curufin shook his cloak out, draped it over the back of the heavy armchair on Maedhros’ other side, and sank into the cushions with a grumble. His booted legs stretched out towards the fire and he leveled a stern look at Fingon. “How do you manage to do it?”

“Do what?” 

“Make him behave sensibly?”

Fingon snorted. “I can’t claim that ability.” His eyes drifted to Maedhros, noting the neutral expression but exceedingly sharp gaze he was bestowing on his younger brother. “If anything, I’d say it’s the other way around.” 

Curufin snorted. “Haring off to Himring in the middle of winter isn’t being sensible.”

“Then why did you come?” Fingon asked.

“Himlad’s a fair bit closer than Hithlum.”

“Let’s just say I missed the snow.”

Curufin snorted again. “I think you missed a whole lot more than that.”  He leaned in, eyes focused on his older brother. “So where is it?”

Maedhros tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow up as he regarded him. “Not much for greetings, are you, Curvo?” 

Curufin snorted. “Not much for polite invitations, are you, Nelyo?” He shifted forward to meet Fingon’s gaze. “You need to be here within two days of receiving this. Bring whatever you will require to adjust the fit on a helm.” That’s it. In the middle of bloody winter, he expects me to gallop over on a whim.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Maedhros said, leaning back in his chair, a shadow of the crooked smile Fingon loved crossing his face.

“Of course, I’m here, you love-struck fool. You think I’d pass up the opportunity to work on that atrocity?” Curufin leaned even further forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming in the fire’s glow. He looks so like Fëanor, Fingon thought. “I’ve been itching to get my hands on that thing since the Dwarf gave it to you.”

“Azaghâl. His name is Azaghâl.” Maedhros gave his brother a sidelong look.

Curufin waved his hand. “Yes, yes, Azaghâl. Really though, the name you should be mentioning is Telchar; he’s the one that crafted the damn thing. He’s the one I want to meet. When are you going to Belegost again?”

Maedhros stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “No plans, at this point.” He grinned at Curufin. “Unless you’re bound and determined to go this spring?”

“I’ll go anytime. I came here, didn’t I? In snow and muck and freezing rain, just to adjust a helm to fit over Finno’s luxurious braids.”

“I don’t know why everyone keeps harping about my hair,” Fingon complained. “I’m not the only one trying to keep it out of my face when I’m fighting. It’s common sense. I’ve no idea how your brother manages, with that wild mane of his.”

Curufin shook his head. “Tyelko’s used to it. You must remember how Mother could barely get him to run a comb through it when he was young. I think he’s tamed it, just like all those pets he’s had through the years. It wouldn’t dare shift out of place on him.” 

“It might have more to do with how rarely he washes it,” Maedhros said drily. “It’s so clumped and twisted it can’t move.” 

“Matted or braided it still makes for unwelcome bulk under a helm,” Curufin pointed out. “If a helm’s going to stay in place and provide protection, you need a close fit, with no slipping or shifting. That’s why Father always put that adjustable ring in, just at the crown of the helm.” 

Fingon closed his eyes and let Curufin’s words wash over him—in that moment he could have been back at the house in Formenos: feet warmed by the fire, a fierce debate over metallurgy raging within earshot, the comforting presence of Maedhros a handbreadth away. 

It wasn’t Formenos. It never would be Formenos. 

Being with Maedhros was enough.

But it didn’t look like he’d be getting out of wearing that blasted helm. 

 

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

Title from the song Second Chances by Imagine Dragons