A Bond That Shines And Burns by sallysavestheday

A Bond That Shines And Burns

It was Fingon who held Turgon first, while their mother rested. He was so slight and warm: rooting and mewling and waving impossibly tiny fists. The faint brushes of his brows were knitted, his small shoulders rigid, his eyes screwed shut against too much sensation, resisting the tender touch of light. Fingon could only rock him and whisper silliness, drawing careful fingers over his fluff of midnight hair. The invisible thread that bound them tugged on his heart as Turgon cried.

Those who pestered Turgon as a youth quickly discovered that his preference for books and stones did not mean cowardice. That frowning mien was no guarantee of a retreat; rather, a signal of imminent eruption into a storm of fists and feet. It was Fingon who steadied him, taught him the tricks of speed and balance that made his blows effective, made his pride a weapon rather than a weight. Sparring in the courtyard, they forged their own brotherly peace: both volatile, yet fond, dancing together in the silvery light.

As a lover, Turgon softened, shed his edges, bloomed. Elenwë’s warmth brought out the best in him: his hidden tenderness, the deep wells of his delight, a new ability to laugh, even at himself. Fingon watched from under lowered lashes, glad of his brother’s joy yet envious of the ease of Turgon’s courtship; sore inside with his own heart’s wounds. Turgon frowned, troubled, every time Maedhros emerged from Fingon’s rooms.

That frown wound tighter and tighter as Fëanor’s madness grew. Turgon had no words to comfort his brother when Maedhros withdrew to Formenos – he counted it a blessing, hoped it would be the blade that sliced that ill-thought love in two. But it was not; it was only a deep bruise that Fingon pressed down into, daily, with his wishing and his rage. After the Darkening, Exile offered a way to escape that cage.

Turgon salved Fingon’s battered knuckles in Alqualondë, biting his own tongue, his brother’s fingers sparking and sizzling under his touch. Neither would turn in Araman, the choice too bitter, the pain too much. As the ships burned in the distance, they found each other’s hands. They gripped and clung, hot with determination: for the Ice, and freedom, and revenge.

But the crossing chilled them. Turgon’s rage for lost Elenwë pointed squarely at the House of Fëanor, and at Maedhros -- eldest -- most of all. He could not bear knowing that Fingon still grasped for hope and love, his blood thick with fury, demanding accounting before touch. It was not Turgon who discovered Fingon’s absence from the lakeside camp, nor Turgon who sang his brother’s praises at the celebratory feast. In grieving, their orbits had diverged.

How do you love the lover of your own lover’s murderer? After the rescue and the reconciliation, Vinyamar was an answer to what Turgon could not say. Ulmo’s dream of Gondolin eased their separation further. Withdrawal behind the circling peaks reshaped his disappointment into mystery and grace.

Still, four hundred years of silence wears even stone to smoothness. The call to Union found its way to Gondolin on eagles’ wings: a plea for a last great trial of their strength, a hopeful end, a peace. Unlooked for but not unloved, Turgon cut through to Fingon in the old dance, remembering those long-ago nights when they sang and spun and clashed their practice blades in rhythm like shimmering instruments, fierce and proud.

The bright wire that bound them flared again as they embraced. That last touch held the ending of their long night; it softened the pale tendrils of the coming day.