Chaperone by grey_gazania

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Chaperone

FA 453

 

It was an unfortunate conjunction of events when Ianneth tripped on the stairs and broke her ankle two days before Maedhros was due to arrive in Hithlum, and at first Fingon thought it would put paid to his camping trip with Maedhros.

 

“Maedhros and I can stay here with you,” he said, helping his wife out of the bath. “I know we usually go camping together, but we can skip that this time. You need my help.”

 

Ianneth shook her head. “You see him so rarely,” she said. “I would hate to spoil his trip just so you can help me from the bath to a chair to the bed. Go camping with your cousin. The nursemaid can help me do things like bathe, in addition to helping look after Ereiniel.”

 

“Nonsense,” Fingon said. He knew he should insist on staying home with his injured wife, but the lure of seeing Maedhros alone was too strong. It had been nearly two years since he’d last seen his cousin, his dear friend, his lover. So instead he said, “How’s this: We’ll go, but we’ll take Ereiniel with us. It’ll be an adventure for her, and it will leave you free to focus on your own healing. The last thing you need is to have to corral our little scamp on a broken ankle.”

 

He watched Ianneth as she considered the proposal, and suspected he could follow the thread of her thoughts even in silence. There had been no attacks by Morgoth’s forces for some two hundred years. Hithlum was free of orcs and other foul things. Ereiniel had gone camping with her parents before. It would be easier for Ianneth if she could spend a week or so tending to herself without having to care for an energetic nine-year-old at the same time. Besides, Maedhros was fond of the girl and greatly experienced with children, and Fingon would never let any harm befall his daughter, whom he treasured above all else.

 

“If you’re sure…” Ianneth said.

 

Fingon cupped his hand against her cheek and leaned down to press his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. “I’m sure,” he said. “You need to rest and heal. I can take care of Ereiniel.”

 

*************

 

Maedhros was deeply understanding when he arrived, and made his own protests against leaving Ianneth on her own, but Ianneth was insistent that he and Fingon should enjoy themselves.

 

“Ereiniel can be our chaperone,” Fingon joked. “Two grandsons of Finwë out in the wild – who knows what sort of trouble we might get into on our own?”

 

That made Ianneth laugh, and they bade her farewell the next day, bundling Ereiniel onto Pilin, Fingon’s horse, to sit in front of her father as he and Maedhros rode off for the forest.

 

Maedhros seemed to have decided that the best way to keep his young cousin-once-removed entertained was to regale her with stories of her father’s exploits when he was young, and he soon had both Ereiniel and Fingon in fits of laughter.

 

“Stop, Russandol,” Fingon begged between chortles. “You’ll give her ideas!”

 

“Nuh-uh,” Ereiniel said, shaking her head. “You said I’m the chaperone. Nana says that means I need to be the responsible one and keep you out of trouble. Not get myself in trouble.”

 

“Very wise,” Maedhros said with a grin. “I can see that you have your mother’s good sense.”

 

At that, Ereiniel preened, and Fingon was hard pressed not to laugh again.

 

They rode at a leisurely pace, and by the time the evening fell, Fingon had taken down several braces of quail with his bow, so they set up camp in a clearing and lit a fire. Ereiniel gathered the kindling for it, which was her usual chore when camping with her parents, and helped her father pluck the birds before they were spitted and set to roast. 

 

The meal was good, the meat tender and juicy, and not long after they finished eating, Ereiniel began to yawn. Fingon held out his arms, and she clambered into his lap, where she soon fell asleep.

 

“Did we really need a chaperone?” Maedhros asked, his lips quirked in a half smile as he looked down at the sleeping girl.

 

“Yes,” Fingon said, switching to Quenya so that Ereiniel wouldn’t be able to understand the conversation if she woke up. As his grandmother had often said to his father, little pitchers had big ears. His own voice was more solemn as he continued, “We needed a chaperone because it’s been so long since last I saw you that, if my daughter weren’t here, I would’ve dragged you from your horse hours ago and taken you right on the forest floor. And that would be breaking all the rules.”

 

And there were rules. Fingon had laid them down shortly after his wedding. The foremost rule was this: Never in Hithlum. He and Maedhros could be lovers at Himring, but in Hithlum Fingon was a husband and, now, a father. In Hithlum, he and Maedhros would be cousins and dear friends, and that was all. To do otherwise would be to disrespect Ianneth in a way that Fingon would not be able to stomach.

 

There was a melancholy cast to Maedhros’ features in the flickering firelight, and when next he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Beloved,” he said, “have you never thought that perhaps we should stop?”

 

Fingon looked away, unwilling to see his own feelings mirrored in Maedhros’ face.

 

“I’ve thought that many times,” he admitted. “But I cannot bring myself to do it. I’ve loved you for five hundred years. I was yours long before I ever met Ianneth.” Still with his eyes fixed on the dancing flames, he said, “I’m not a good man, Russandol. I’ve known that for a long time.”

 

He felt Maedhros’ fingers under his chin as he tilted Fingon’s head up so that he could meet his eyes.

 

“Findekáno Nolofinwion,” Maedhros said, his voice solemn and steady, “you are the best of all the Noldor. You are brave, and kind, and noble, with a heart big enough to encompass all the free peoples of Endórë. I won’t sit here in silence as you insult yourself.”

 

Again, Fingon turned his head away. The sudden movement caused Ereiniel to stir in his arms with a wordless sound of discontent, and he waited to speak until her breathing had deepened back into the regular rhythm of slumber.

 

“You say I’m the best of all the Noldor. And yet I don’t have it in me to be faithful to my own wife.”

 

This time Maedhros didn’t try to make Fingon look at him. Instead he only said, “You married her to please your father. And then you fell in love with her. But you never fell out of love with me.”

 

The fire in front of him began to blur as Fingon blinked back sudden tears. “I do love her, Russandol,” he said softly. “That’s the trouble. I love her, and I love you, and I’m too weak of will to choose between you, so I’m forever torn in two. It hurts me, and it hurts you, and it would hurt Ianneth, too, if she knew.”

 

He thought he could be happy if the three of them could live together as a trio, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Ianneth wouldn’t understand, would view such a thing as a betrayal of Fingon’s wedding vows. And Maedhros, too, had never wanted to share his only love.

 

But now Maedhros reached out with his lone hand and wiped a tear from Fingon’s face. “It doesn’t hurt me anymore, beloved,” he said, his voice almost painfully gentle. “It did in the beginning; I won’t lie and deny that. But I don’t begrudge you your love for your wife. She makes you happy, and I want you to be happy.” Brushing his thumb across Fingon’s cheek, he said, “Findekáno, will you not look at me?”

 

Fingon couldn’t refuse Maedhros when he spoke in that tone, so he tore his gaze away from the flames and looked into Maedhros’ eyes, those slate-grey eyes that he loved so much.

 

“Káno,” Maedhros said, “when I came west for your daughter’s naming ceremony, that was the happiest I’d seen you since Valinor. You looked so light, so carefree, so joyful. You love being a father, and you love your child’s mother, just as you should. And if you’re weak of will for loving me at the same time, I’m equally weak of will for not letting you go as I should.”

 

“It terrifies me, how much I love Ereiniel,” Fingon whispered, looking down at his daughter curled asleep in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. “I never imagined I could love like this. And then she was born, and suddenly I knew.” Pausing, he swallowed and then turned back to Maedhros. “But I know she’s not enough, no matter how much I love her. I know I need a son. The Noldor would never accept a ruling queen – and even if they would, I couldn’t wish that on her. I see how the crown burdens my father, and I dread the day it may come to me. It comforts me to know that Ereiniel at least will be spared that responsibility.”

 

There was sadness in Maedhros’ eyes as he looked at Fingon, and he said, “Oh, beloved. I didn’t do right by you when I yielded the crown to your father, did I?”

 

“You did right by the Noldor,” Fingon said, trying to come across as stern and knowing that he was failing. “That was more important than doing right by me. Besides, if Turgon hadn’t vanished–”

 

He broke off, shaking his head. “My brother would make a better king than I would. But that’s irrelevant now. Wherever Turgon is, I don’t think he plans to come back.”

 

He was expecting sympathy from Maedhros, and thus was surprised when his words were met with a poorly disguised snort of laughter.

 

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

 

“Oh, Káno,” Maedhros said, trying and failing to hide a wry smile. “Whether Turgon would make a better king than you is irrelevant, but not only for the reasons you think. My brothers would never tolerate Turgon on the throne. I was hard pressed enough to get them to swear fealty to your father. I don’t think I would be able to strong-arm them into doing the same for your brother. You, though, they would follow without complaint – at least, not much complaint,” he amended, his smile broadening.

 

“All I would have to do,” he continued, “is remind them that without you, I would still be languishing on Thangorodrim. Some of them may resent how much they owe you for rescuing me, but they do still recognize that they owe you. Should something happen to your father – and the stars forbid that it does – you would be able to keep the Noldor united. I don’t think we can say the same of Turgon.”

 

Fingon had to concede that Maedhros had a point. Turgon hated the Sons of Fëanor for the suffering they had caused on the Helcaraxë, and most of Maedhros’ brothers – with perhaps the lone exception of Maglor, who had always been good at guilt – hated Turgon right back. If Turgon were still here, and Fingolfin were killed, and Fingon did abdicate in his brother’s favor, it might split the Noldor right in two, and that would be disastrous for the war against Morgoth.

 

“It’s just that I don’t think I’d be much of a king,” he said. “Not compared to my father.”

 

“The crown may never come to you,” Maedhros said. “We’ve kept Morgoth in check these past four hundred years, repelling him whenever he’s tried to move against us – thanks in no small part to you, Káno, which I shouldn’t have to remind you of. As long as we stay united, I think – I hope – that we can continue to besiege him, and keep him penned in at Angband.” He lifted his chin, his face set in lines of determination, and said, “We will defeat him, Káno. We’ll avenge our grandfather and my father, and reclaim the Silmarils, and your children will grow up in peace, free from the burdens of war or crowns.”

 

Fingon felt his own expression soften, and he said, “The way you say it, I can almost believe it.”

 

“Believe it. I will not rest until we’ve destroyed that monster.” Again, Maedhros reached out and brushed his warm, calloused fingers against Fingon’s cheek. “We should take her to bed,” he said, nodding towards the tent they’d set up in the clearing. “She’s young; she needs lots of rest. And tomorrow we’ll teach her how to skin a squirrel. She might as well learn something useful on this trip.”

 

At that, Fingon laughed. “Do you think I’ve taught her nothing, Russandol?” he said. “She already knows how to skin a squirrel. What we should teach her is how to trap a squirrel.”

 

“We’ll do that, then,” Maedhros agreed. “You know, she reminds me very much of you at that age. Bold, energetic, outgoing… If it weren’t for that nose of hers, I would almost think Ianneth played no part in making her, and that you’d merely copied yourself in female form.”

 

“She is an ada’s girl, it’s true,” Fingon said. “But she loves her mother, too, and Ianneth is already teaching her herblore and healing. Ereiniel seems to enjoy it. And you know it’s something I’ve never been drawn to.”

 

“I do recall your eyes glazing over when I took conversations deep into botany territory,” he said with a slight smirk. “And what is herblore if not a type of botany, after all.”

 

Fingon nodded, and lifted his hand to hide a yawn. But Maedhros wasn’t fooled.

 

“Bedtime,” he said, in the same tone he’d used when Fingon was a child. “I’ll come, too; just let me put out the fire.”

 

Scooping Ereiniel up in his arms, Fingon stood and walked to the tent, where he laid Ereiniel down in her small bedroll and then climbed into his own. A few minutes later, Maedhros entered and set himself up on the opposite side of the tent. With his daughter next to him and his cousin, his dear friend, his lover nearby, Fingon was content, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

 

Chapter End Notes

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