but the dawn is brief by queerofthedagger  

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but the dawn is brief

Written for slide #68 of Scribbles & Drabbles; you can find the art here!. Thank you to the artist for the wonderfully devastating inspiration, and to the mods for running this! <3

Countless outcomes Fingon expected when Maedhros had told him of his great idea for the first time; when they drew up plans together, calculated supplies, strength of men, forging of arms.

Countless things he had turned over and over, the weight of kingship not once leaving his shoulders.

Never would it have been this—his brother’s trumpets singing, shields and swords glinting in the morning light. The lurch his stomach gives, hope bright like Laurelin setting his bones alight.

His people rejoice. In the distance, Angband’s towers seem to shrink, the gloom easing.

It matters not, in that moment, that Maedhros has not yet been seen. That it has been years, years upon years upon years, since Fingon had word of his brother; since his sister has died and been buried where he cannot reach. Since his father has died and been buried where he cannot reach. That he has borne the burden of a crown.

But it matters not, now. It matters not. Fingon smiles when Turgon enters the tent, and it almost feels true.

It matters not; and yet, when after four hundred long years he sees his brother’s face for the first time, he finds himself made a liar anew.

And yet, and yet. Despite the ice in his chest, he steps forward and hugs Turgon, holds onto him with relief so strong, it would have brought him to his knees if Turgon had not returned the embrace. Turgon has been towering over Fingon for much longer than they have lived on these shores, and it feels so much like coming home to stand on his toes once more that Fingon wants to weep with it.

“I am so glad to see you,” he says, and means it. Means it with his full heart, means it in so many ways that he cannot possibly voice like this. Means it as a promise, and an accusation, and a plea for forgiveness.

“So am I,” Turgon says, stepping back. He looks lighter, Fingon’s brother; wherever he had disappeared to, all those years ago, it must be treating him well. “I could not possibly leave you to that harebrained plan of yours and Nelyafinwë yet again, could I?”

There is a beat, the span of a breath and yet long and terrible, where Fingon, in old days, would have said something. Something biting, something light, something unthinking. Now the moment lingers as he clenches his teeth; as he breathes, slow and careful, and thinks of the countless lessons his father used to try and instil in him—think before you speak, yonya; consider what outcome you want, and if the words burning on your tongue are detrimental to it? Swallow them.

His brother has returned for the first time in four hundred years, and Fingon does not want to start a fight. He is glad; he is. It has been so long since there was anyone he called family to lean on. It has been so long since he heard Turgon’s booming laughter, his haughty commentary from beneath his breath that he would deny uttering to anyone but his siblings. Since Fingon thought of his younger brother and felt anything that was simple and fond, rather than complicated, threaded through with resentment, and guilt, and anger that tastes a little too much like regret.

“Findekáno,” Turgon says, and this is the lesson their father never finished teaching—how to swallow the words, and how to keep them off his face, too.

His father would laugh, each time, and pull him close with easy affection. Fingon, now, feels not much like laughing.

“It has been four hundred and eight years, Turukáno,” he says at last. From somewhere, he can hear his father sigh, and wonders if Turgon can, too.

Some of the ease, of the lightness, slides off of Turgon’s bearing. “Do we need to talk about this now?”

“Will you disappear again, before we can?”

Turgon winces, and shakes his head. “You know why I did. Surely, you must know.”

There are many things Fingon could say, then. He could deny it, play the fool. He could cling to his anger, his disappointment, his hurt; could cast their siblings between them like a gauntlet, long-since claimed by Beleriand’s insatiable demand for bloodied recompense. Could cast their father between them, the grave that Fingon had never got to see, no matter that it had been him, all those years, by Fingolfin’s side.

None of it would be untrue. None of it would be honest, either, and it has been such a long time since Fingon carried his ignorance like a shield.

“I do,” he says, then, and sees the shock cascade across his brother’s beloved face. “It does not mean that I can forgive you for it just yet. That I do not wish to hear what you have to say about it; that I do not wish to know, still, where it is that you disappeared to. Not the location, that is secondary, if not for the proof of the spaces between us—but for what you built. What it is like. Why you decided to come now, of all times.”

Turgon stares at him. Swallows. Outside, the preparations for battle continue—the clang of metal, yelling and laughter, the breathing, bristling hive that is the calm before the storm. Fingon has grown familiar with it, a noise like home; he wonders, now, whether it feels the same for Turgon, or if, perhaps, it still stirs the same, restless anxiety beneath his skin that it once did for Fingon.

At last, Turgon bows his head, just a little. Says, “I will not apologise, Findekáno, but I shall explain. We shall talk, once victory is ours. I promise you.”

Fingon can no longer tell whether that is a promise, something planted firmly in belief, or a measure to win time. He has not known his brother well enough to tell in a long time.

Regardless, he smiles, inclines his head. Steps close and hugs Turgon once more, and thinks, if it is this—even if it is only this—in the end, Turgon had still come.

In the end, it still counts for something.

It does, because it must.

Despite the heat of battle, Turgon knows when Fingon falls. Turns, in fact, just to watch as his brother is rendered immobile; as he keeps struggling, on and on, regardless—ever indomitable in his will, even in death.

Despite the heat of battle, the numbness settles over Turgon like going under. Like ice closing above his head, like watching Elenwë sink, like—

His brother crumples. Once victory is ours. I promise you.

It had been a lie, except that that is not true. It had been a playing for time, centuries of convincing himself that he did not miss it, did not miss him, after everything—rendered a joke in the span of a moment.

Oh, how Turgon had missed him, his eldest brother, bane of his existence, cause of and light amidst all his sorrows. Oh, how Turgon had resented him, and now his banner vanishes, his shining presence dims, flickers out. And now Turgon will never get to say all the things he needs to say; will never hear all that he needs to hear.

King of your hidden city, your looming tower; how is anyone meant to ever reach you again?

He pushes Aredhel’s voice away; sinks his sword into the closest Orc, again, again.

He had been right, he thinks, vicious and desperate. He had been right, again, again, again. And again, Fingon would not have listened, if he had dared to say so.

It is an uncharitable thought, and Turgon flinches at the harshness of it.

They are losing, now; the Fëanorians scattered, Fingon dead, their people choking on Angband’s unconquerable malice.

Only Turgon left, now. Only Turgon, and Idril, and the mist-thin promises of a God who has long since renounced his care for them. Only Turgon, and his father’s grave, and his sister’s remains.

Nothing left of Fingon to bury. Nothing left of him to bring home.

When Húrin tells him to retreat, he does. When Húrin tells him not to look back, he does not.

He will come to regret that, too. It is, after all, Turgon’s best-honed skill.

*

But the dawn is brief, and the day full often belies its promise.

—The Silmarillion

Chapter End Notes

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