The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

B2MeM '13 - Friendship - Forgiveness

Oh look, I wrote something for the actual March 1 "Friendship" quote after all! Because I just can't leave Maedhros and Fingon alone.

There can be, Findekáno knows, no forgiveness and no reconciliation.

Findekáno pictured their reunion, every night before he fell asleep. "How could you?" he would ask, his voice hot and furious. "How could you abandon me? How could you not even try to tell me? Does our friendship mean nothing to you?" And, because even in his angriest moments his heart refused to believe that there could be a "yes" to that last question: "How could you let it happen?"

He pictured Russandol's reaction, too. Would his cousin apologise – shame-faced, weeping? Would he defend himself, petulant and unyielding? Would he try to explain his actions – or inactions – away, try to turn his treason into something he did for his cousin's own good?

And how would things continue, after that? Should Findekáno curse Russandol to his face, wish a cruel fate upon him? He certainly deserved it - how could he? Sometimes, Findekáno felt the rage inside him surge up so that he could not sleep for a long time: His heart would beat faster, his jaw would clench, and his fingers would twitch underneath the thin blanket (for he found it too warm in Hisilomë under the young sun, even at night), claw at the roughly-woven bedsheet, ball into tight, merciless fists that punched the reed-stuffed mattress, again and again. He would imagine that he might strike Russandol, bruise that flawless face, tear his beautiful hair out, push him to the ground, kick him – until Russandol would beg for mercy, crying and bleeding, invoking the friendship he had so foolishly neglected.

But no – Findekáno struggled to to suppress his violent urges – he would not dirty his hands. He wanted Russandol to plead, but only for forgiveness and for a renewal of the friendship they had once shared. And then Findekáno would give him a cold look, channelling all the terrors and hardships of the Helcaraxë in his eyes. Maybe he would be silent, and simply turn and walk away never to speak with Russandol again. Maybe he would deign to speak one final "No."
There could be, Findekáno knew, no forgiveness and no reconciliation. The thought saddened him a little, but he fell asleep grim and satisfied. It was, after all, only just.

But reality ruined his poetic plans. His dreams of revenge fell flat, and Findekáno's mind was no longer grimly satisfied. Instead, he slept the uneasy sleep of the guilty, as though by his fantasies he had somehow contributed to Russandol's cruel fate.

Thus, when they spoke again at last, it was Findekáno who begged for forgiveness; and it was Russandol who said, "No." He could hardly keep his eyes open, and his tongue was heavy with the spirits they had administered against the pain, and his lips were bruised and swollen; yet he struggled to articulate the word: "No." And so softly that it was barely audible, so slowly that Findekáno kept thinking that his cousin had fallen asleep in mid-sentence: "Truest of friends, it is I who must beg forgiveness."

And Findekáno kissed Russandol's feverish face, and looked at his frail and broken form with a warmth his heart had not felt in a long time, and he said, "There is nothing to forgive."