their fathers' sons by averytinylizard  

Findekáno steps off the ship, breathes the air of Middle-earth. It's not as sweet as Valinor's, even without the salt of the sea, but Findekáno likes it better, this sharp smell for this sharp people. He could have a kingdom here, besides his father and Maitimo.

Fëanáro orders everyone to unload the ships, prepare makeshift camps before they move inland, and Findekáno stares at his father. He looks glorious, even deprived of his Silmarils, and like he belongs here, waging war on those the Valar are too cowardly to actually confront. Still, Findekáno is alarmed at the order to unload the ships of all provisions. The crossing was almost a week, and no crew could travel in this dark underfed and thirsty with no lantern to light their knots.

“Father, what of the crossing?” He asks, because he has never been the type to keep his mouth shut.

“Crossing? Findekáno, you cannot mean to turn back now. Not you, my valiant child.” Fëanáro sounded as he often did, affectionate, but willing to take that away.

Findekáno loves his father, has always admired his passion, his strength. He would not have sworn with him otherwise. He is not, however, the kind to back down from an argument. “For the others. We are going for them, aren't we?”

“For Nolofinwë? Never. Let him stay in the cages of the Valar.” Fëanáro has always had his children as extensions of him. Curufinwë with him in the forge, Findekáno in the yard and the central square, everywhere he went he had one of his sons by his side and at his back. He sees all families like that. A head and a set of limbs, and no one asks whether a hand can come when the head cannot.

Findekáno is not anyone but himself. “What of Maitimo? I loved him well, once.”

Fëanáro looks now properly angry, though Findekáno does not know if at the mention of Maitimo, of Findekáno's love for him, or at Findekáno's insistence. “Well, it is good that you loved him once and do not love him still. An unworthy fruit from an unworthy tree, and one I cannot believe I once let into my home. At least Nolofinwë when he apologized had the decency to look sorry. Maitimo glared as if he wanted me dead. No, I will not have him here.” 

He tries not to yell. He thinks he fails, judging by the people staring “If he wanted us dead he would not have joined in the slaughter at Alqualondë.” It does not matter that each time Findekáno talked to Maitimo in the last few years they argued. This place is a chance to start anew and he will not let his father take it from him.

“One of his plots, his and his father's. You cannot trust those people, Findekáno.” Fëanáro comes close, ready to comfort him. “He was going to turn his back on us eventually. It is better for us to not give him the chance.”

Findekáno does not often back from fights, and he has had many people try to teach him not to escalate. Still, he punches his father in the jaw, and, in those seconds of shock, he says, “I want him here.”

As he sees the glint, hears the drag of steel against scabbard and feels the point of his father's sword inches from his throat, he thinks he understands how Nolofinwë must have felt. It is paralyzing. A move, and his head ends up falling against the white sand. He cannot even bring himself to speak as his father orders the ships to burn.

As Maedon stands before Fingon’s cot, he feels himself moved slightly to pity. He has to try to harden himself, remind himself of the dead littering the Helcaraxë. Thirty years of Fëanorian leadership has accomplished less than nothing. His father guided them through a field of ice and death, and most of them lived. Fingolfin has passed every test that you could put a king through, and Maedon knows him too well. His father would never push his bed-ridden nephew to abdicate, as he couldn't push half-grieving, half-hoping Makalaurë.

Maedon is not his father. “I know you wished for a kingdom, but we will not be ruled by you.” Fingon looks unbearably small, his eyes looking large in his sunken face. “I ask for one repayment for what I did for you.”

“You want the crown.” However small he looks, his cousin still has some bite. “You are exactly the snake my father warned me you were.”

Fingon makes it easier to be heartless when he speaks of his father. “Was that before he burned the ships?”

“Just before.”

“Then he knew not of what he spoke, for I had no reason to be a snake then.” And he explains, because he loved Fingon once. “I have no wish for a crown, only for our king to be a man worthy of the title. Neither you or your brothers, or your father for that matter, have proven themselves, and my father has.”

Fingon defends himself, still not understanding. He is still Fingon, after all, endearingly foolish as he often is. “I did not burn those ships. My father threatened my life when I asked to go back for you!”

For me, for me, his heart beats for a second. “If you did not betray us,” for this is not about Fingon and Maedon, it’s about kingship, “then you disappointed us. Please, Fingon.”

“Fine. Fine! I hope you and your father enjoy it, and whoever else you plotted with.” Fingon looks angry, and still, for me, for me. 

He learnt quickly to keep his voice affectless, as soon as his father warned him how Fëanáro would see anything they did as a threat. Better to seem dull and passive than dangerous. Fingon was always the exception, too bright to keep his love quiet and subtle, then too loyal to his father not to argue with. It is difficult, still, to convey sincerity when he says, “I hope you heal quickly. I know the journey  here was not easy.” He pauses. “And you know I am not Turgon, or Finrod, or your mother, but I can see whatever kingdom you build will be a place of beauty. You could never make anything else.”

“You sound awfully nice for someone who just deposed me. Though you were also very cruel for someone who just rescued me from hell, so I suppose I should stop expecting your actions and your tone to match.” Fingon smiles, and Maedon smiles with him.

“If you find me contradictory now, then my next request will shock you even more.”

“Are you going to ask me to fall on my sword or to marry you? Those are the only things that could shock me still.” Fingon sighs. “The wedding sounds worse, frankly, to have your fair face kissing the ruins of mine.”

“Nothing as extreme as that! I would have us be friends again, if you would allow it.”

“Allow it? By the Valar, Maedon, you can practically threaten me into giving up my father's crown and then meekly ask if we can be friends? Yes, damn you. There is no betrayal I could not forgive you for. You could stab me through the chest and I would strive to understand why before thinking of fighting back.” Fingon sounds winded, his lungs still not recovered from the smoke over Thangorodrim.

“Then we shall count our friendship clear of all lies and betrayals, and strive not to let any fall between us again.” Maedon kisses him in the forehead, first in love and then as a seal to their promise. “Rest now, and tell me of your kingdoms tomorrow.”

Leave a Comment