Dull My Blades by grey_gazania

Dull My Blades

Read Dull My Blades

“My love, take these walls, these wars. Dull my blades. I am tired of the hunt.”

– Jeanann Verlee, “Your Mouth Is A Church, I Forgot How To Pray”

 

 

 

FA 462

 

“Is she asleep?” Ianneth asked, as Fingon exited their daughter's room, candle in hand.

 

Fingon nodded. “Out like a light,” he said. “We didn’t even finish our story.”

 

He sat down on the edge of his wife’s bed, set the candle on the side table, and let out a long, tired sigh. His visits to Eglarest to see his wife and daughter were not as frequent as he would have liked – and had, in fact, become less frequent as the years had gone on, due to the constant battles waged by Morgoth. Nor were the visits themselves always peaceful. Though Ereiniel was always overjoyed to see him, he often found himself at odds with Ianneth. They had reached a fragile truce in the years since she had learned of his love for Maedhros, but Fingon knew that the revelation had hurt her terribly.

 

Tonight, though, Ianneth didn’t seem inclined to be cold or distant. Instead, she poured two glasses of wine and then joined him on the bed, looking at him with sympathy in her steady green gaze.

 

“Do things still go badly back home?” she asked. “Your last letter was…not optimistic.”

 

“The only reason we succeeded in driving off this last attack is because of Círdan’s ships and his men,” Fingon admitted. “Without him, our defenses would have been overrun.” He took a sip of his wine and said, “I thank the One every day that my father thought it worthwhile to form this alliance, and that Círdan was willing to maintain it when the crown passed to me. It means that you and Ereiniel are safe here with him, and his military support has been invaluable.” With a sigh, he added, “I only wish Thingol in Doriath would see reason and ally with us as well, but…”

 

His voice trailed off. He didn’t need to tell Ianneth why Thingol refused to deal with the Noldor. She already knew. She’d known the story of what had happened at the Swanhaven since before they had wed. Fingon had confessed his crime to her the day before he’d asked her for her hand, and Ianneth had not turned away from him.

 

You’re an honest man, Fingon, she’d told him. It’s not my place to give or withhold forgiveness, but know that I don’t condemn you. You thought you were defending your kin.

 

Truly, he did not deserve her.

 

Now, she set her own glass down, reached out, and pushed a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wish I had some way to make this better. Some way to lighten your burden.”

 

Leaning into her touch, Fingon said, “I’m tired, Ianneth. I’m so tired of this war. I’m trying to protect my people, but I feel as if I’m failing at every turn. Not a week goes by without someone being killed.”

 

He stared down into his glass, feeling his eyes sting with unshed tears. “I wish my father were still here,” he confessed. “He was always so strong – solid, like a granite. Our people trusted him. We followed him across the Grinding Ice, all of us. Now that he’s gone, I feel like I’m standing over a sinkhole, knowing that the ground under me could give way at any moment.”

 

Ianneth rested a gentle hand on his forearm, her fingers warm against his skin. “I know you miss him,” she said.

 

“I do miss him. I miss him, I miss my aunt, I miss my brothers and sister… And I miss you,” Fingon told her. “Everything is bleaker without you by my side. But I know you can’t return with me. Ereiniel would be left here alone, and you would be in terrible danger.”

 

Sometimes, at his lowest, Fingon half hoped that Ianneth would come back to Hithlum with him, to lend him her support and her steadying presence. But he knew that she wouldn’t, and the better part of him knew, too, that she couldn’t. As upright and trustworthy as Círdan was, neither Fingon nor Ianneth could bear the thought of leaving their daughter alone in Eglarest. And, even more than that, Fingon knew that if Ianneth did return to Hithlum, and she was taken captive or killed, he would never, never forgive himself.

 

Bad enough that he couldn’t be here at Ereiniel’s side. How could he ever risk depriving his child of her mother?

 

He took another sip of his wine and then set the glass, still half full, down on the table beside the candle.

 

“I’m so tired,” he said again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I would give anything to be able to lay down my arms, even for a little while.”

 

“Anything?” Ianneth asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

He shook my head. “No, not anything,” he said softly. “Not Ereiniel. Not you.”

 

Ianneth pulled him into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder and stroking his hair, and he relaxed into her gentle touch.

 

“You have to remember why you fight,” she said. “Your people need you to lead them. Your daughter needs you to keep her safe, to make a better world for her. And every time you stand between Morgoth and the rest of Beleriand, you bring people hope. I know it’s a great weight to carry, but if you laid down your arms and stepped away, you wouldn’t be the man I married.” She paused, and then, softly, added, “You wouldn’t be the man I love.”

 

“Oh, Ianneth,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” With a choked laugh that held no amusement whatsoever, he said, “I don't even know why you still love me.”

 

Her hand stilled in its passage through his hair. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” she said, her voice soft. “But I do. I think I always will.”

 

She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and said, “Stay with me tonight. You need me with you. I won’t turn you away.”

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Chapter End Notes

Is there a word for a ficlet that's exactly 1000 words? I don't know, but that's what this is.