After the Dragon by Lferion

After the Dragon

Brave was not the same as valiant. Fingon had known that for a very long time. He liked to think he was brave, and not merely foolhardy. Valiant he left for other people's assessment.

(One of his people was even now composing a song about the fight with the dragon. Of course they were. Maybe he should make one of his own, warn people not to let the wretched thing breathe on one. His chest still ached from that fume.)

Heroes in tales were invariably brave, true, valiant, fearless. Never cowards, timorous, hesitant, fearful. They could be afraid for someone, worried their endeavor might fail, but not afraid of something, or for themselves. Heroes did not quail before the foe, shrink from battle, refuse the difficult because it was difficult, dangerous, terrifying.

But tales were not actually life, and things in the present, obdurate world, life as must be lived, were nothing but complicated. Ambiguous. Had consequences no song or story mentioned, but must be dealt with, anticipated, bourn. Cowardice and heroism were not qualities immiscible: one could hold both.

He would be cast as the hero in Gilwarin's song, never mind that his spear would have done little good without the efforts of his riders with their sharp eyes and bows in steady hands. On the other hand (the one currently petting the soft place between the Girabbit's ridiculous ears) there would undoubtably be those who cried cowardice at letting the wyrm escape, rather than chasing it even to Angband's gates and thence destroying it. But the people who would accuse him and his people of that would have found something to decry them for no matter the outcome.

The expected rain tapped lightly at the canvas overhead, a pleasantly damp breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. The Girabbit shifted to tuck it's nose under Fingon's ear. He breathed in rain-scented air and felt the ache finally ease and retreat.

Brave, foolhardy, brash, or valiant, the self-named dragon had been faced, and they had learned something for good or ill. Some people, however strange, had been rescued from the foe, and an outpost destroyed. No one had been killed. His was the worst injury, and that was passing. His and Celegorm's people had things well under control. He could rest now.

When Celegorm looked in later, Fingon was soundly asleep, the girabbit snoring gently under his chin.