In absentia by Robinka

---

In absentia

---

Everything you say to me
Takes me one step closer to the edge
And I'm about to break

(Linkin' Park, "One Step Closer")

And Maedhros stared at the fire.

Blazing, its warmth hit his face. The hissing flames, like long, pliable arms, danced around each other with a passion reserved only for the truest heat. Licking one another, they glowered back at him, reflecting in his hair the color of the fire itself. Around him, shadows were kept at a safe distance, save for those that his mind had taken into its possession a long time ago. Further into the chamber, darkness reigned, advancing in an instant from where the light of the fire backed away. Their struggle yet went unnoticed, and Maedhros stared at the fire in the stone hearth with a heart of stone instead of his own in his chest, drowning in the shadow and flames alike.

When Fingon entered the chamber, the stench of burned clothes, dust, and sweat was already diminishing, though the windows were neatly curtained. He walked over to one of them and shoved the curtain aside, knowing that no light would blind the convalescent. It was well past midnight.

The air invaded his nostrils when he leaned over the windowsill and inhaled, nearly choking on its freshness after breathing in the mustiness inside of the chamber. One might think, he could get drunk by simply breathing it in. Fingon stepped back and turned to Maedhros, who granted him no look, no evidence of interest, let alone a word of greeting.

"Nelyo," Fingon said in a low voice. Silence answered, disrupted by the hiss of flames creaking on sticks. Fingon narrowed his eyes, making his vision blur and the figure that sat on a rumpled pile of the bedcovers glow with an infernal flash.

But Maedhros stared at the fire, his ears seeming withered.

"Nelyo!" Fingon repeated more loudly.

His chest tightened at the sight of misery. The one who had once been the pride of his people was now but a wreck, hiding himself from the outside world and every helping hand offered to him. Pride... In the name of sacrifice, Fingon pondered, crossing his arms on his chest. Many a time, before Maedhros had stopped talking to anyone who had visited, Fingon had heard words of bitterness and accusation aimed straight at his heart, true and painful, spoken in anger and self-loathing. Pity was the least helpful thing he could offer, and yet he could not help feeling it toward his cousin. He would have not let anyone read it in his eyes, though, nor in a slightest quirk of his brows. To be entirely honest, he had long forgiven Maedhros his wrath and the pain that had stabbed him over and over when Fingon had retired to his own chambers, often just before dawn after a long night of nursing the injured. He had forgotten his tears of helplessness. Now, he had only stubbornness as his sole companion. His stubbornness versus Maedhros' stupor, into which his cousin was falling with a willingness and quickness that Fingon recalled from their happier times.

"Nelyo!" he called out. "Your brothers have come to see you."

Maedhros stared at the fire and a dribble leaked out of the corner of his mouth.

At first, Fingon wanted to kneel before him and wipe it away with his fingers, as he had often done before, but withheld the urge and remained unmoving, save for a light frown. Back in those days of happiness and mirth, adherent to youth and innocence, they both had ridden out on the pure-green plains of Valinor. They had often rested stretched out in the soft grass, and he had tickled the corner of Maedhros' mouth with a straw, receiving a playful punch in the ribs. Now, said mouth was twisted in a grimace resembling a smirk, feral and mocking, yet involuntary.

He sighed, shaking his head, and walked over to the nightstand, circling the bed with a feeling of being constantly observed. He even glanced over his shoulder briefly as he retrieved a cloth, but no one was watching him. Unless the shadows had eyes, he thought and shivered.

"Nelyo," Fingon uttered in a whisper as he knelt in front of his cousin and ran the cloth along his lips, "your brothers are here, waiting in the guest rooms, eager to see you. What should I tell them?"

Maedhros did not even blink.

One might say he was a statue carved in marble and adorned with fire, yet cold and unseeing. Dead, yet alive and breathing, Fingon inhaled with a swish, getting up.

"Should I tell them that you are but a shadow of whom you once were?" he asked himself bitterly and turned to the window, having cast the cloth to the floor. The inky night was lit with only a faint light of the stars that sparkled, unaware of Fingon's predicament, or maybe unwilling to notice it. A light flutter drew his attention, and he looked up to see a bat meandering in hasty circles. Its blurry silhouette darkened for a moment above Fingon's head, and then vanished in the chilly air. Fingon ran the back of his hand along his forehead; then, feeling lost and useless, he dropped his head, clenching his fingers on the edge of the windowsill. "How can I reach you, Cousin? Tell me, how? For I have run out of power and intuition."

His fist smashed the windowsill. Pain coursed through his forearm, and Fingon whirled to face Maedhros.

And Maedhros stared at the fire oblivious to everything, save for his own suffering.

"I am less than you are now. Can you not see?" Fingon muttered, looking away, and swallowing with effort when something peculiar caught his throat.

"No, you cannot," he answered his own question after a moment when no one replied.

When Fingon drew his both palms along his face, he saw a single tear flow from his cousin's eye. Without a second thought, he jumped forward and fell to his knees, grabbing Maedhros' hand in his.

"Nelyo, I bid you wake up! I am begging you. Do not succumb to..."

"...ve..." he heard.

"What did you say?" Hope burst out of Fingon with streams of tears running down his face.

"...ive..."

"I do not understand..." Fingon said, stunned.

The next moment was only a flash of bright red and yellow before Fingon tumbled onto the floor and hit his head against the hardwood. His hand immediately flung to the hilt of his dagger, but found nothing. Fingon gaped at Maedhros, who stood straightened with Fingon's weapon glimmering in his left hand.

"Give me peace, Cousin, and let me die alone!" Maedhros rasped. "Grant me death and save me your pity!"

Fingon slowly got up and held out both hands in silent request, drawing from Maedhros a hateful look. And then, when the metal wandered closer to his throat, Fingon brought his fingers to the ties of his shirt and tore them away.

"Finish me off!" he shouted, desperate. "For I cannot let you die like a coward!"

"Go away!"

"No!" he seethed. "First you will have to kill me, Nelyafinwë!"

Maedhros responded with a growl, and Fingon breathed heavily, still holding his cousin's steel-like gaze as freezing as the ice of the Helcaraxë itself. Maedhros' bony fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger.

"You vile creature!" Maedhros hissed. "You reduced me to filth and you think I can bear it?"

"What?" Fingon went breathless.

"In your vicious mind, you conspired how to bring me to my knees to lick the dirt from your boots, did you not, Findekáno?" Maedhros laughed evilly. "But your clever plan has been seen through! I may be marred, but I still possess the ability to see. And I have watched you! Valar! I have followed your every step!"

Fingon did not believe his ears.

"Now the time has come and you will no longer plague me with your detestable presence!" Maedhros went on. "Go now! I cannot stand your pleading eyes!"

Fingon's fist was faster than his thought. In a flash, it landed on Maedhros' chin, causing him to lose his balance and fall onto the bed. Fingon straddled him and kept his forearms in place, above the red-haired head of his cousin, who blinked rapidly as if having just awoken.

"One more word, you lunatic, and you will find yourself bellowing at Námo himself!" Fingon forced out through his gritted teeth. "I have taken more than I deserve, and now the game is over. Rot if you want to!"

"You are not a kinslayer, Findekáno," Maedhros answered calmly. "You would have never drawn your sword against me."

"Try me!" Fingon drawled, but tiredness overran him in that moment. He exhaled, rolling over, and put his forehead on the bedcovers beside Maedhros' head. Letting go of his cousin's arms, he trembled violently.

"Feed the fire," Maedhros uttered quietly and tossed Fingon's dagger on the floor. "You are cold." The stump of his right hand slid along the side of Fingon's face, sweeping the tear that Fingon had blinked away, before it could sink into the coverlet.

"Not anymore," Fingon replied, and moved up on one elbow bending over his cousin. "Not anymore," he repeated, planting a soft kiss on Maedhros' sweat-beaded forehead.

---

Chapter End Notes

In absentia [Latin]: in the absence.