A Huntress Among Fools by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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Deny it for a time, but nature will out

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Fingon was spinning and feinting his way through a sword drill when Aredhel arrived at the practice field. That was not unusual. What was noteworthy, is that he did so shirtless. The early morning sun coaxed mist from chill grass under his feet, rising in silvery wisps around him. She rolled her eyes. Thank goodness there were no adoring womenfolk here to witness the spectacle. They might have swooned.

“Aren’t you cold?” Aredhel called out.

Fingon only shrugged, “after the grinding ice? Nothing else will feel cold again.”

“Care for a sparring partner?”

“Shouldn’t you be at the healing tents at this time of day?”

It was Aredhel’s turn to shrug, “they have run out of bandages for me to roll.”

Fingon chuckled as he tossed her a sword, “go on then.”

A series of lazy swings came her way, as her brother gave her the chance to warm up and get a feel for the weight of the blade. She met every blow with a determined smile. The steel in her hand, the bunching of her muscles and the flow of her body felt so, so good. This was what it was to feel truly alive.

After I dispatch my brother with the sword, I shall challenge him to an archery match and outshoot him too, Aredhel resolved. Her fingers itched for the feel of smooth wood, sleek feathers and the thrum of the string between them. Fingon picked up his pace. Aredhel doubled the force of her blows.

“You always were better at causing wounds than healing them,” Fingon teased affectionately, a joyous smile on his open, amiable face. There were no barbs behind his words, so it caught her off guard when the spitting cat inside her dug in its claws. Aredhel snarled and hissed. From the shocked look on Fingon’s face she would not have been surprised if her eyes flashed and she had grown whiskers and a tail to match. They sparred in earnest now, as Aredhel whirled in fury and Fingon took step after step backward.

“Á pusta, Aredhel! Stop!”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t want to. Now that the fury-cat had gotten loose she probably could not have halted its rampage even had she wished it. It demanded blood. It got it too.

A thin crimson line appeared, crossing Fingon’s ribs. Blood swept down his side in a thin sheet. Aredhel gasped. The hurt in Fingon’s eyes pierced her. The cat retracted its claws, and Aredhel froze in horror.

“Horro! What was that about?”

“That blade you gave me was sharp?” Aredhel asked, incredulous, “you idiot!”

“I… I didn’t realise. I didn’t think you would actually strike me with it.”

Fingon’s eyes were very wide. A beat passed before Aredhel had enough wits about her to find Fingon’s discarded shirt and staunch the wound.

“Don’t tell father,” she begged.

“I think,” Fingon said through gritted teeth, “whether or not he finds out is likely to depend on whether this requires stitches or not.”

“I’ll stitch it for you, just please don’t say anything.”

Her brother’s burst of terse laughter caught her by surprise. She fixed him with the most unimpressed look she could muster.

“You, suturing? Now that is a good joke. What is the matter, ráva nésenya?”

“I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“This encampment. These stuffy tents and lean-tos. There’s a whole world out there to discover, and father finds every excuse to keep me from discovering any of it.”

“He finds reasons to keep you near to him, after what happened to Argon,” Fingon corrected quietly, “He is holding more tightly to Turgon and I too, only in different ways.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you know how far away he was from Argon when the orcs sprang upon us at Lammoth?”

“No, I was too far back to see.”

“In father’s own words: Too far to stay his impetuous onslaught, yet close enough to see him fall.”

Aredhel pressed a hand to eyes that suddenly prickled with tears. Fingon’s solid, warm hand wrapped comfortingly over her shoulder.

“I miss him very much.”

“We all do. Which is why father finds excuses to call Turgon and I to his command tent twice as often as is really warranted. It is also why Turgon, for his part, spends twice as much time as is actually required planning out permanent fortifications we will soon build. And you, sister, if you had been even half as cut up over something back in Aman, would have been in the forest. You’d have gone with our cousins, tracking a deer, breathing the fecund air and reminding yourself that it is good to be alive.”

She fought the prickling tears. They leaked out all the same and Fingon wiped them away with a calloused thumb.

“I miss Celegorm,” she admitted, “and Amrod and Amras. I know I am supposed to be angry with them like Turgon is, because they left us behind and caused us to suffer over the ice. But I’m not. They’re so close, yet they may as well be half an ocean away while Maglor and father are at odds. I thought the feuding was done. It seems cruel that we should lose them again to it, though they still live.”

“I can’t say I miss Celegorm all that much…” Fingon paused for a beat and Aredhel knew he had said it just to make her smile, “but I understand. Better than you realise. I’ll speak to our father. But first…”

Fingon shifted her hand from his side and gingerly lifted the shirt-come-bandage, sucking air through his teeth against the sting as he did so.

“Has it stopped bleeding?” Aredhel craned her neck to try and get a look.

“No,” he admitted ruefully, “the cut is only shallow, but it’ll open again every time I bend or twist. How confident are you feeling with a needle? Think you can patch me up?”

Aredhel could feel the colour drain from her face. She guessed her expression must have been one of sheer terror, because the teasing laughter in Fingon’s eyes turned quickly to worry.

“Father is going to be so angry with me.”

“Perhaps father still need not find out,” he suggested, voiced tinged with compassion she didn’t think she deserved just then, “I think I can manage it myself if you help. Go pilfer a needle and some silk thread for us, will you?”

Aredhel paused, unconvinced. This seemed ridiculous, even by more-courage-than-sense Fingon standards.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you’ll make a mess of it, but thanks to Caranthir’s tutelage, I can at least keep my stitches in a straight line. I’d like a nice neat, heroic scar, not a lumpy ugly one, thank you very much.”

“Vain peacock of a man,” she muttered, “Fine, I’m going. Try to stay inconspicuous.”

Brothers! Insufferable, all.

“And Aredhel,” he called after her, “bring me a shirt and a tunic too, would you? I’m freezing.”

Aredhel smirked.

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Chapter End Notes

A note of the Elvish words used in this chapter:

• Á pusta = stop/cease!
• Horro = ouch!
  Ráva nésenya = my wild/untamed sister