Red Crow by Lferion

Allowed Exchange

Fingon and Maedhros write to each other, including in poetry. Prose triple drabble, 10-part Renga.

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Prompts - L:B4 Epistolary, A:O2 Walk Like an Egyptian, P:I3 Renga, F:I3 Wangst

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You are cruel, Lady
In your tower of white ice
Gulls, eagles witness

See where the cold sea crashes
Foam flies up from unyielding rock

Yet red lichen clings fast
Salt wet, sun burnt, moon and star
Shine on stubborn life

Are we waves, leaping, rolling
Washing ever-endless shores unceasing?

Lightning glass from sand
Blossoms after storms of Ulmo's wrath
Meet Manwë's whirling winds

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Fingon capped his brush-pen, and gently sanded the dense, angular calligraphy. Maedhros liked solving textual puzzles. Fingon enjoyed making them. Letters were one of the few things they could do. Read, of course, by many eyes, searched for any sign of -- what? Rebellion? Discontent? Suspicious happiness? Fingon had no idea what they thought they were looking for in the formal, archaic shapes, the verses shaped by rules suggested long before the sun. There were no secret messages: Fingon's heart had always been transparent. Beginning a new poem, continuing an old --it was the exchange that mattered, the connection, however attenuated.

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They delivered the letters punctiliously. To do less would be beneath them. If Kinslayers chose to write to one another, their letters would be treated the same as those of lawful, decent folk. For the letter's sake, and the proper duty of one entrusted with the post. Maedhros had been given that statement once, in answer to a quirk of his eyebrows, so far as he could tell, since he had not actually said anything to the youth handing him the lettercase. It was very nearly funny in a way. Fingon felt the strictures and restraints more keenly, being required to interact with people being oh so perfectly, impenetrably polite three quarters of the year.

One season, every other year, they had together. Between times, they had letters. Letters of commonplaces, elaborate handwriting, and a long-running series of back and forth poetry. It was an improvement on Beleriand, a more regular exchange than anyone had managed between Himring and Barad Eithel or Dor Lomin. It was much, much better than the Void.

No letters in the Void. He took the newest letter to the desk, the writing set Fingon had made him in pride of place, to peruse it properly.

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Summer breezes cool the flush of need
To seek the sun in upward thrust

In shade repose neath leaves
Edged in gold, filled with living green
A bower, unremarkable

Bower birds might nest among stout trees
Raise chicks to fly away, mayhap return

Roots and rocks reach out
The river path awaits beloved feet
In shifting, dappled moonlight

Stars observe the daisies, set in green
Roots entwined together, soft petals touch

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