A Huntress Among Fools by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Some small victories, are hollow indeed

A day later Fingon disappeared. No word had he spoken to another soul. None seemed to know where he had gone. Aredhel’s tenuous hope that her brother was quietly fulfilling a sensitive task for father was dashed when Fingolfin frantically demanded of her to know where he was.

“I am not my brother’s keeper,” she began obstinately. Her tone softened when she realised how genuinely scared her father was, “I do not know. He has said nothing to me.”

Unfortunately, Aredhel thought she might have some inkling of Fingon’s intentions. She was quite certain that their mishap at swordplay and clandestine foray into the healing arts had inspired in him some deeper thought. If she knew her brother at all, and he was nothing if not predictable, he would have linked a few pertinent, situational facts. The first: Maedhros languished in captivity. The second: their cousins’ disheveled and angry attempts at leadership betrayed how sorely they grieved his absence. Thirdly: Morgoth cowered underground for fear of the new sun’s light. Fourth, and most crucial: tension in relations between the two Noldorin factions grew steadily and was close to rupture. Even the vast barrier of Lake Mithrim was not enough distance between them it seemed. Lastly, the final straw: his sister had cried. Ever since they were children, Fingon could never stand her tears. He’d always sought to amend them, a desire made even more potent for the rarity with which she wept these days.

No doubt he had added up these things and come to his own courageous yet singularly stupid conclusion: I could do something surpassingly brave and maybe that would fix all the problems. She could think of only two options he would have considered. A stroll over to the Fëanorian camp to cajole and threaten Maglor into making nice was not the move she thought he’d make. Which left only one destination: Angband.

Please come home in one piece, brother, she prayed.

The next few weeks were fraught. Everyone handled Fingolfin as if he was made of glass. It galled him no end. Turgon, seeing this, resolved to relieve him of some of the fraught interactions. He quietly took upon himself more responsibility than anyone had a right to expect from a bereaved, single father, and he fulfilled it exceedingly well.

“Who among us is not grieving?” he had reasoned when Aredhel had gone to him with her concern that he stretched himself too far.

Her father, who passed the additional time fretting over his idiotically brave eldest son, neglected entirely to find more mind-numbingly mundane duties for Aredhel to fulfil. It was not the satisfying victory that she had imagined it would be. She’d have traded it in an instant to have Fingon appear before them, safe and whole.

If only he were as much of a shrewd, priggish, dickhead as Turgon, we wouldn’t be in this mess, Aredhel thought, wishing for the hundredth time she could go back and not inspire her brother into an almost certainly suicidal endeavour. Turgon would not have gambled so much to mend things with a people who had betrayed them. He would have calculated the risks and realised the odds were not in his favour. Aredhel watched her remaining brother cradle his golden-haired daughter on his lap, too big to be held in this fashion comfortably by now, but still young enough to need the comfort. Pressing in closer, she nestled her head on his breast next to Idril’s and was rewarded with a rare smile.

You really think I’m a dickhead? his mind-picture seemed to ask her, amused, as his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Her thoughts had been louder than she had realised.

No, but I’m angry with Fingon and I can’t very well take it out on him right now, she tried to explain.

You’re scared for him, not angry, he showed her. Images of her own expressions and bearing clothed in the meaning Turgon gave to them flashed into her mind. The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. Turgon gave her a squeeze.