Of Candles and Moths by cuarthol

Of Candles and Moths

Read Of Candles and Moths

Finrod stood at Aegnor’s door, bracing himself for what state his brother would be in. He had been dispirited on their return from Ladros, growing even more morose in the weeks since until he had withdrawn almost completely.

Shifting the tray to his left hand, Finrod cracked the door open. “Aiko?”

He could hear movement within and after another moment of hesitation pushed into the room. Aegnor looked ragged beyond the weariness of battle, worn beyond merely a need to sleep. Finrod eased the door closed and watched as Aegnor busied himself with a task he was certain was far less important than it was being made into.

“I felt thine absence at supper.” Finrod lifted the tray as though it were a peace offering. “I did not wish thee to go hungry.”

Aegnor hesitated, then gave a single nod. He mumbled out something about having been busy, punctuated with a half-hearted expression of gratitude. Finrod heard little beyond the emptiness of his brother’s voice, an emptiness which reached his eyes and hollowed out his soul.

Setting the tray down, Finrod’s hands felt far too empty. He wanted to pull Aegnor into an embrace, hold him as he had when they were young. Instead he clasped his hands to prevent himself from fidgeting. “Wilt thou not share thy thoughts? Whatever thy burden, it need not be borne in silence, alone.”

Aegnor did not answer, his focus unturned from sharpening his already unblemished blade.

Finrod wanted to take his face in his hands, draw his eyes to his own. He sat at Aegnor’s side with a gentle sigh. “Brother - for thus am I still, even before king - canst thou not confide in me? What hath so shadowed thy spirit? What is this wound thou bearest which I can neither bind nor soothe?”

Aegnor’s movements stilled, his hand tightening around the whetstone as if he might crush it to dust.

“The cruelest wound,” he muttered at last. “From which I shall never heal, for I have cut out my heart and forsaken love and joy, forever.”

“Forever is a heavy word,” Finrod said. “Surely-”

“Our fates divide us,” Aegnor cut in. “Even unto the breaking of the world. And so it is the only word there is for it. We are both of us left bereft.”

Understanding hit Finrod like a crashing wave, beating the breath out of him. He managed a weak, “Oh,” mind racing with this new detail as so many observations settled into this new context. He did not even have to ask who he meant. “Oh, Aiko…”

Aegnor stood abruptly, sheathing his sword and setting it upon the table. He remained bent there, staring into the hollow eyes of his helm, seeing rather the many battles fought, many more still ahead.

“Perhaps-” Finrod grasped for some thread of hope he might offer. “The siege will be long, but perhaps there can be a chance-”

“We are at war,” Aegnor said. “Now is not a time for marriage; children.”

“Those are Angrod’s words,” Finrod murmured. “Not thine.”

“He is not wrong.” Aegnor exhaled, rubbing his hand over his face. Finrod could not help but think his brother looked… aged. Bent under such a heavy burden.

“He is not wrong for himself,” Finrod ventured. “He and Edhellos have had a child, ‘tis easier for them to delay having more, for a time.” What he did not add was they had the time to wait, unhindered by the bounds of a mortal life.

“And I cannot put aside this battle for mine own selfish desires,” Aegnor snapped. “How can I think to pursue love when our enemy lies within my sight? Not the enemy of we Eldar only but of the Atani, who by his evil have already been marred beyond redress.”

A sudden blossoming of rage overtook him and he snatched the helm, hurling it with all his might against the far wall. It clattered to the floor amidst a brief shower plaster, leaving a deep scar in the finished surface. He passed a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away his wrath. “Our fight is far from over.”

Finrod stood, wanting so much to be of comfort but not knowing how. As if trying to calm an injured animal, he carefully settled a hand on Aegnor’s shoulder. “So it has been since we arrived, yet thou canst not claim no Elda hath married or born children in all this time. Hath not Orodreth done both? Even Artanis-”

“She dwells in Doriath, safe behind the girdle!” Aegnor’s eyes were frightening in their pain and fury, and Finrod ached for him. “I have no such benefit!”

“Is there no place here to keep a wife?”

“It is not here I would wish to keep her!” he cried, turning on his brother with renewed anger. “What life can we have here, brief as it is already doomed to be? No, I would take her and flee south, live untroubled by battle and blood. Would that I could know naught but quiet evenings and bright mornings with her by my side, to revel in the beauty of the world and dance upon green hills without fear of Orc or arrow!”

“Then go,” Finrod said, and he meant it. “Bitter as the truth is, I know it is well known to thee: her life will be short and its ending bitter, and little hope that the siege will end ‘ere her life is spent. Go, therefore, while thou might salvage some scrap of it.”

Aegnor was stunned silent, his eyes wide as he struggled for words.

“How can I?” he said at last, losing the battle against his grief as tears welled. “This is not the life I would want for us! Not the life she deserves. But I cannot abandon my duty to Angrod. To you.”

“Does he know what thou hast renounced?” Finrod asked softly. “Thou hast taken his words as counsel when they were meant only for himself. Hast thou told him of thy heart?”

“I told thee,” Aegnor said, turning away. “I have no heart left.”

“So thou wouldst choose eternal grief over brief joy?”

“Speak not to me of grief,” Aegnor spat. “Thy love awaits thee still, unmarred.”

Finrod could not help but recoil from the barb, taking a step back. “I know thy aim be not to wound me in thine own anguish,” he murmured, unable to look at him. “I know our separation is not - cannot - be the same as thine. But say not that I suffer no grief for it.”

Aegnor stilled abruptly and hung his head, a wash of shame reddening his face. “Forgive me, brother,” he whispered. “I did not mean-”

He was cut off by Finrod pulling him into a fierce embrace, holding him against the pain they both felt. His resistance gave out quickly and he melted into his brother’s arms, weeping. For all he held firm to his decision, he could not deny that he suffered for it, and moreso for knowing she did as well.

“Why are our fates so disparate?” Even knowing his brother had no answer for him, he wanted to shake the reason out of him, force him to answer for what lay beyond all knowledge within Arda. Even the Valar’s sight was shortened with regard to the Edain.

“I know not,” Finrod confessed, a soothing hand stroking Aegnor’s hair.

“Surely such grief could not have been Eru’s design, or ‘twas ill done, I deem. Our kindreds sundered ere the younger awoke. But were we not meant to dwell together? Were we not meant to…” His words failed him then, and he clung tighter to Finrod as if his elder brother was all that held him up.

Finrod had no answer, and could make only a futile attempt to comfort him. “I cannot see how our peoples, in such close friendships, could but form even deeper bonds. Is it what was intended? I can give no answer to such a question. I think not, if I be truthful. We suffer for our sundering, in many ways.”

“Cruelty unmeasured,” Aegnor agreed. “The very enemy who drew us to these lands, whose darkness drove our kindreds together, only to snatch her from my grasp?”

There was more behind Aegnor’s words than Finrod understood, but now was not the time to press him. He felt the grief of his brother bleeding out, mingling with his own sense of helplessness in the face of it.

Finrod was not certain if knowing his brother’s pain was easier than his ignorance had been. At least before he might convince himself there was some remedy, some spark of knowledge that might serve to aid. But there was no wisdom, no insight he could offer here. He closed his eyes and held tight. He could not remember feeling so impotent since the Ice.