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ghaik · 5 months

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in the hands of fate

no one asked for withers smut except for me but i wanted it really really bad

withers/dark urge, afab, 18+, ~3k also on ao3 tags: fingering, restraints, pov 2nd person, durge being durge

By all accounts, it should be a good night. The tieflings, now safe from the goblin threat, have joined your camp for the evening. Spirits high and gratitude running deep, they insisted upon throwing a celebration in your honor. It was you and your companions, after all, who had come to their aid and ensured their safe passage from the grove. They fill every inch of your small campsite, passing around bottles of cheap liquor and plates upon plates of food. The party is meant as a reprieve; tomorrow, you set out for Moonrise Towers. It should be a good night.

But it isn’t.

You sit far from the festivities, having drug your bedroll and bag across the river, sequestering yourself from the rest of camp. You want to indulge, to enjoy this break—Gods, how you need a break—but you don’t. You can’t.

So many warm bodies—

You squeeze your hands where they rest on your knees, nails digging into your skin. Who knew you’d have a fear of crowds? It wasn’t this bad in the grove—but then again, they had so much more space, and it was far less likely you’d bump into someone, feel that intoxicating touch of skin against skin and think, yes, this one, yes—

Something foul and sickening rests within you. The thought that your wicked hands might brutalize another body is enough to send you in voluntary solitude.

Sure, you tried. You made the effort in the beginning of the evening to participate—to sit around the fire with the others, to pick at the meal, to speak with Zelvor—but all too soon someone brought up Kanon, insisting upon paying respects, and then Lakrissa brought up Alfira’s sudden and suspicious disappearance and—well. Guilt made you so nauseous that you had to excuse yourself, afraid it all might come spilling out.

The tieflings have endured enough horror even without your help. This self-imposed isolation is your last effort against acting on your vile impulses. If you do sleep-kill again, you hope that you’ll make enough noise splashing over to the other side that someone will awaken and stop you before you cause too much carnage.

The sounds of the camp ricochet in your ears and interrupt your meditations, your futile attempts to calm your racing heart. Laughter and drunken singing. The sound of a flute, poorly played. Noises of passion, of crinkling leaves and bushes. Bodies.

Bodies, you think. Soft, warm, fleshy. So many bodies. It’d be absurdly easy to slip something into the alcohol, to sneak in while everyone is full and buzzed, and sate your longing for blood. A gory vision pops into your head, unbidden: you, standing over a pile of dead tieflings, their skin torn and sliced to pieces; their blood, pooled so deep around you that you could bottle it. Their organs fresh and ripe, ready for the fire—

You jump up abruptly and rub your eyes, as if that alone can make the images unreal. You will not give in. You can’t.

Nervous energy just shy of adrenaline bubbles within you, emanating deep from your marrow. The sensation has lingered since you found that mangled fisherman on the shore and has only abated once—the morning after you buried Alfira. Nothing you’ve done on your own has been enough to silence it. No amount of meditation or exercise or sleepless nights has helped, not even a little. It’s why you tremble at the mere hint of combat, why the sight of fresh wounds makes your heart skip a beat. You’ve abstained from anything that can make your precarious grasp on your control slip, be it alcohol or tobacco or the mere act of touching another person.

Gods, it’s so unfair. You’re tired of being in control, tired of letting this urge steer your every move. Give in or restrain yourself, you’re punished either way. You’re exhausted. A frustrated yell simmers low in your throat but you swallow it down, shove it away. It won’t do to wake half the camp trying to let off some steam.

In the distance, someone else screams. Your ears perk up as it devolves into a pleasured shriek, and, your woes momentarily forgotten, you shut your eyes. If you concentrate, you can almost make out the rest of their sounds before they’re lost to the wind: high-pitched peals of laughter, faint grunts and moans that border on bestial. Your mind quickly fills in the visuals: some lucky couple nude on the forest floor, drunkenly grinding against each other. Or, perhaps using a tree as leverage, legs spread, caught up in the euphoria of relief and the promise of safety.

You have no memory of when your last lay was, or if you had ever been with someone at all, but your body is no stranger to these thoughts. Sex and violence excite you in equal measure, and your core pools with a familiar heat.

The itch under your skin seems to guide your hand between your legs. Head back against the rock wall that serves to hide you, your thoughts roam to the couple as you rub yourself through the thin linen of your pants.

Your mind conjures mere glimpses into their intimacy. Sweaty, heaving flesh; hungry tongues and saliva dribbling down chins; gnashing teeth, the sweet crescent of a new bite. Blood, your corrupted soul whispers, and the scene shifts.

Those screams of pleasure warp into yelps of pain and fear. No longer do you play the role of silent observer, but of perpetrator. Your hands wrap around a vulnerable neck, pulse thrumming against your palm, and you squeeze. The body beneath you thrashes. Phantom fingernails claw their way down your arms and your body reacts as if it were real. Pleasure shoots down your spine, all lightning and—

“Thou art alone?”

You jerk. Your thighs snap shut, trapping your hand between them. “Withers!” you hiss-shout, too surprised to fully control your voice. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Thy companions celebrate a mere breadth away, and yet thou art alone. Why?”

Embarrassment floods your cheeks, and you try to inconspicuously move your hand from your crotch. It isn’t like you’re naked, or were being vocal about it, but the images behind your eyelids bring guilt as well as shame. “Nevermind that, Withers. Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“I believe I asked thee first.”

Embarrassment gives way to irritation, but it quickly fades. Your shoulders droop. “I’m sure you can guess.”

Out of everyone in the camp, he’s the only one that knows about your Urge. It isn’t like you wanted to tell him (or anybody, for that measure), but he was the first one you came to after…after you’d lost control. You’d begged on your knees, teary-eyed, for him to undo your mistake even before her body had started to cool. He, more than anyone else, would understand your precautions, your unwillingness to mingle.

“Thou art afraid.”

“Afraid? I’m…worried, is all. Not afraid. It’s just some tieflings.”

“Is fear not the root of worry? Thou canst not trust thyself even to attend a party in fear of what thou might wrought. It is not the tieflings that thee must worry about.”

“The point, please?”

“And thus we return to thy question. I am here because I wish to offer thee a service.”

“A service? Withers, you already know what I want”— Alfira’s mangled corpse flashes in your mind —“and last time I asked, the answer was a pretty clear no.”

“Thou speak of the bard, nay? Indeed, her name is writ, the matter resolved to fate. I speak of something else that thou hast need of.”

“Unless someone died from too much drink, I don’t need—“

He holds up a hand. “Thou walk in the day as if thou wert asleep, and thou spend thine evenings on vigilant watch. Thy compatriots look to thee for guidance, and yet thou spurn their attentions. It is not thine Urges that consume thee. It is thine own fear that strangles thee so.” He shakes his head. “Thou wilt not succeed against the Absolute in this way.”

“I don’t get it,” you say. “Are you…are you warning me? Telling me I’m about to burst?” Your head falls back against the rock wall, the sharp edges digging into the base of your skull. “I thought you weren’t allowed to meddle in that.”

“If thou wilt listen, thou wilt understand.”

“Then speak plainly, Withers!”

His lips fold into a frown. “As thou wish. Thou need release, but art too fearful of losing control. I offer thee the chance to clear thy mind, so that thou might succeed.”

“I don’t—“

“And thou do need release, nay? Did mine eyes not see thine own hand betwixt thy legs?”

Your mouth runs dry, a hot flush returning to your cheeks. “I don’t—I mean, how would this even…”

“Merely provide an affirmation, and I shall take care of the rest.”

His weathered face betrays nothing. As far as you can tell, his offer is genuine. Your heart quickens.

“This doesn’t like, violate anything? You’re allowed to do this?”

“It is a service, nothing more. I offer it this once and only this once. I ask thee again: what say thee?”

Withers is the closest thing you have to a friend in this damned world, and the only one who you trust completely. Skeletal weirdo or no, he knows more about you than you seem to know of yourself. He’s right, too—you aren’t sure just how many days of being wound-tight you have left before you lose control completely.

“Please,”you say, the desperation clear in your voice. “Yes, please.”

He nods once, as if pleased. “Thou should’st remove thy clothing.”

It hits you that you’re really going to do this. Something stirs within you, something not unlike the first itch of the Urge. You stand and look past the river, toward the camp, where the fire has started to burn low. Only silhouettes move in the darkness, unaware of anything beyond the rock wall.

“Thou has picked well,” he says, his words just shy of comforting. “Thou wilt not be seen.”

His confirmation only spurs you along, and you shuck off your top and bottoms, fingers fumbling with the laces in your nervous haste. Or is it excitement? You can’t tell, the sensations blurring together. It isn’t like you’re new to being undressed in front of others—your campmates have seen you nude multiple times, after all—but Withers is another story entirely. Did he watch when you changed in the morning? Did he see when you wandered out ashore to bathe?

To his credit, his face remains entirely impassive as you peel off your undergarments. If he’s impressed or disgusted by what he sees, he doesn’t show it.

“Kneel.”

Your lips part in shock at the dominant edge to his tone. His gaze burns through you.

“Art thou having second thoughts?”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“Then kneel.”

At his orders, you sink to your knees. The earth is pleasantly soft beneath you, the bed of grass acting as a cushion. Your bedroll is mere inches away, resting against the rock wall to your side.

Like this, Withers towers over you. It’s strange, but it suddenly seems as if he’s always been taller, as if he’s always stood straight. Power radiates off of him, lurking within his otherwise frail frame. He raises his hand, palm facing you, and your breath catches in your throat as it begins to glow.

“Thou fear thyself a beast, and thus a beast thou shalt be.”

Magic surges from his palm and around your wrists. For one brief moment, your arms are not their own as they lock behind your back, your wrists bound together. This magic is unlike anything you’ve ever seen, and, as you strain against it, incredibly strong. Some unknowable thing deep inside you tightens, then relaxes. Yes, you think, flexing uselessly. There’s freedom in being bound.

“Thou hast one last chance to speak thy mind. Art thou ready?”

The idea of asking to stop now is absurd. You’ve made it this far, and it's both curiosity and need that drives you to seek it to the end.

“Yes. Please.”

“Very well. Open thy mouth.”

You obey, even though his request strikes you as odd. A mere moment later, Withers stuffs a strip of white cloth in your mouth and ties it behind your head, effectively gagging you. It isn’t too thick—a bandage, you think—but it in conjunction with the magic restraints, it renders you harmless. Helpless.

If it were anyone else—if it were Gale, or Lae’zel, or even Wyll—you’d feel caged. Vulnerable. You’d never allow this.

But it isn’t. It’s Withers, and so you submit.

Bound and gagged, you look up at him, a silent question brimming in your eyes. The ache from earlier hasn’t subsided, but he’s taken away your capability to handle it yourself, and he’s made no move to step any closer.

What now?

“I believe I mentioned that I would prevent thee from losing control. The rest is in thy hands.”

You let out a frustrated noise from behind the cloth. Of course he’d say something like that.

As if taking pity on you, he inclines his head to your side. “Thou hast all thou need.”

You follow his eyes. The only thing nearby is your bedroll.

Oh.

With difficulty, you nudge your pillow free and maneuver it into the open space. Not having use of your arms and hands makes it a graceless effort. It’s humbling. You’re sure you look a fool, but Withers’ expression remains impassive.

As you straddle it, thighs on either side, you expect to feel nervousness, to acknowledge the inherent awkwardness of getting yourself off in front of another person.

Instead, your veins thrum with anticipation. With need. His magic bonds tighten around you just shy of painful, as if a reminder. He holds the reins. You cannot break free.

The first jerk of your hips is tentative, unpracticed. You aren’t even sure this will be enough to get you off—until your clit catches on the rolled edge of the pillow, and you gasp. You repeat the motion, dragging your hips back against the pillow, then forward, chasing that initial jolt.

This will work, you think, and you roll your hips in earnest.

You chance a look at Withers. His expression remains as unreadable as ever as he merely watches. His unwavering gaze should make you shy. Hells, Withers or no, having anyone watch you should make you curl inward and try to hide your debased movements. Instead, though—

Instead—

Your head falls back, nose tipped to the stars. It’s exhilarating. You didn’t think yourself an exhibitionist, but there’s no denying the surge of arousal that stems from having an audience, from knowing that he sees you. All of you.

Something like a growl forms low in your throat. Your wrists flex against your bindings, the magic tightening in response, and the growl becomes a needful whine.

You’re losing yourself to the pleasure, and quickly. Whatever measured movements you had before are gone, replaced as you rut—for there’s no better word to describe your animalistic motions—against your pillow. The only thing that stops your tongue from hanging out in your lust-filled haze is the gag, but saliva still pools in your mouth and dribbles down your chin.

It feels so good to finally have an outlet after weeks upon weeks of built-up frustration, but there’s something missing, an itch you can’t satisfy. You want to feel flesh, to marry this act of hedonism with something gruesome, but it’s impossible. You garble out something unintelligible even to you, something halfway between a plea and a scream.

Your thighs ache, unused to the motion, but you can’t give yourself a break. You’re so close, just on the precipice of tumbling over, but you can’t quite make it. You position your cunt right over the seam and roll your hips, trying to focus that specific sensation, but even still it isn’t quite enough.

You pitch forward, body unbalanced, and the only thing that saves you from face-planting into the soil is Withers’ not-quite-warm palm on your shoulder.

“Wouldst thou like assistance?”

You look up at him through hazy, half-lidded eyes, your body stilling. His touch is like lightning, sending goosebumps rising all over your skin. If only I weren’t bound, you think. You want to push him into the ground, to sink your teeth into what little flesh remains—

His magic surges, tightening around your wrists with such force you think you might bruise. “Art thou listening?”

A pitiful whine escapes you, and you nod. If you weren’t gagged, you’d start begging.

“Again: wouldst thou like assistance?”

Another nod, this time twice as frantic, twice as fierce. You hope it communicates even half of your desperation.

“Very well.”

He kneels. One hand remains on your shoulder to stabilize you, and his other travels between your (embarrassingly slick) thighs. He runs two fingers along your slit, coating them in your arousal, and presses them into your entrance. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, but any discomfort quickly fades to pleasure. You’re so wet it hardly matters; part of you thinks it still won’t be enough.

He’s infuriatingly efficient. He spends no time teasing you or drawing out this already-agonizing moment. Instead, he merely crooks those bony fingers of his into a spot that makes you see stars.

You babble behind your gag, nonsense words and noises that serve no purpose than to be an outlet. Close, you want to say, please, please—but you can only moan. You have no basis to judge whether or not he’s skilled, but it doesn’t matter. It feels so good that you think you might pass out, chest heaving as he brings you to your peak.

It’s with a strangled cry that you finally come, forehead bowed into the sharp and jutting bone of his shoulder. Your thighs snap closed around his hand as you ride out your orgasm, and then you really do pass out.

“Thou mayst not yet sleep. Come.”

The world flickers back for just a moment, but it’s long enough for your magic bindings to disappear. Your head still rests on his shoulder; he smells like dust and old parchment. It’s strangely comforting.

Sluggishly, you lift your head and blink. His careful hands pull the spit-soaked gag from your mouth, saliva spilling down your lips and chin, and you swallow.

“Thou art satisfied?”

Yes, you try to say, thank you, but you can’t make the words come. The satisfaction, the relief, runs bone-deep, the kind you haven’t felt in days. It isn’t quite the same as when you awoke the morning after murdering Alfira, but it settles the roar in your ears, softens the desire in your blood.

You manage some sort of affirmation, nodding sleepily. Whatever energy that kept you up has dissipated, replaced with a pleasant tiredness.

“Very well,” Withers says, and stands. “I shall leave thee to thy rest.”

You sink to your knees and rub at your wrists. Despite the pressure you felt, there are no visible bruises from your bindings, and your fingers are neither numb or stiff. You look at your discarded clothes, at your dirtied pillow. You need to dress in case you wake to an emergency, but the pull of sleep is undeniable. Maybe, if you asked nicely, he’d magic your clothes onto you…

“Hey—” you start, looking up, then fall silent immediately. Withers has disappeared. He made no sound, left no tracks beside you. It looks as if he had never been here at all.

#.txt #bg3 #reader #withers bg3 #withers x tav #withers x the dark urge #withers x reader #bg3 spoilers #like miiiinor act 1 spoilers and also act 1 durge spoilers #also mild gore warning but in durge fantasies. so like the game #cant even tag this as crack treated seriously bc it isnt crack. to me.#this has been sitting in my drafts since AUGUST #but the epilogue restored my love and also this idea

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 1 year

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Where the Shadows Are

I just wanted to write a cracky Gil-galad origin story, but it turned into angst and drama.

M, 8158 words, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: Character death (obvious from the first line), referenced character death, very complicated relationships, PTSD

On Ao3

Ereinion Gil-galad burns.

His limbs wither, his bones crackle, his skin smokes.

Ash twirls in the air.

---

They left their companions on the bank of the Esgalduin, not too far from the derelict Iant Iaur. There were only three of them – Fingon's closest and most trustworthy friends. Maedhros had come alone.

The horses refused to go farther than the bridge, so they dismounted and continued on foot into Nan Dungortheb.

Maedhros had chosen to wear full armor and had armored his mind too against any intrusion. Fingon could discern only his eyes, which kept darting from side to side, and his long braid, which fell heavily from under his helmet. But he didn't need to see Maedhros's face or to share his mind to know what he was thinking. He had made himself clear enough.

Still, Fingon's hand itched with the childish urge to tug at Maedhros's braid just so he would say something, would look at Fingon at the very least instead of walking in solemn silence as one resigned to his doom.

Fingon had opted for agility when choosing armor, which had earned him Maedhros's acerbic reprimand. Fingon had ignored it. He knew what they were doing was right, and he was convinced no ill would befall them until it was done.

They kept near the edge of Neldoreth – the northern border of Doriath – careful not to step too close to the forest lest they be ensnared and lost forever. It would be easy to stray from the path and wander into the ever-shifting mists if not for the strong feeling that they were unwelcome. The beeches stood tall, guarding the Hidden Kingdom, towering over the travelers menacingly. The air crackled with power that did not feel evil but rather all-encompassing, too great to be concerned if two Eldar passing by lived or died.

Yet, it was infinitely preferable to the northern scenery. Fingon exercised all his strength of will to keep himself from turning away from the gnarled, whispering trees, from the barren land where few things grew, from the shapeless shadows that kept stretching towards them with their dark claws, filling Fingon's heart with unspeakable dread and despair. He couldn't imagine how Maedhros felt in this crossroad of power of a mighty Ainu, servants of Morgoth and otherworldly evils. Once again, Fingon's insides twisted with guilt, but he didn't let it deter him from his path. He would do what he had come here to do, and Maedhros would understand.

Ahead, the road curled slightly, leading them deeper into the shadowland. Fingon's right hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, and the left felt the arrows in his quiver. They walked for a few more hours, aware how their footsteps, even their breath, echoed in the silence, tensing at every strange whisper and rustle, yet stubbornly pressing forward.

"Here," Maedhros said, stopping abruptly.

It was the first word he had spoken since they had left their companions, the first word he had spoken to Fingon since Himlad.

He took off his helmet, and for a moment, Fingon was overcome with a longing to reach out and touch his beautiful face. But he knew his touch would not be welcome at the moment. The guilt rose again, but soon enough, the excitement over what was going to happen made him forget about everything else. With his heart hammering in his chest, he waited for Maedhros's instructions.

"No," he said the second time.

---

"No," Maedhros said the first time Fingon asked him.

"No," he said the third time and many times after that.

Fingon never argued, never got angry, never despaired. He only kept asking and asking.

No matter how mighty the mountain, the steady trickle will wear it down. They both knew it. It was only a matter of time.

"It is all right, lie down."

---

Círdan's face was the first thing that came into Ereinion's view. He blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, the sun had moved close to the horizon, and Círdan had disappeared. Suddenly panicking, he tried to rise, to find him, but he was unable to move.

Círdan's hand on his forearm was as gentle as it could be, but it still hurt. Nevertheless, Ereinion was comforted by his presence.

"What happened?" he asked.

It came out weak and hoarse.

"There was a storm," Círdan said.

He sounded calm, but by now, Ereinion knew him well enough to notice the undercurrent of tension in his voice. He waited for Círdan to continue.

"Something must have truly enraged Ossë. I have no recollection of such mighty storms on Balar. We found you on the shore this morning."

Disconnected bits of memory started returning to Ereinion. He remembered the horror in front of the giant wave that rose before him, remembered how the sky had darkened, remembered the voices yelling at him to run.

"There were others," he said. "On the shore."

Círdan cast his gaze down. "You should rest," he said.

Ereinion's eyelids burned. He was thankful Círdan didn't mention the tears that slipped down the corners of his eyes.

"How did I survive?" he whispered.

"That is a question that I wished to ask you," Círdan said.

Ereinion had no idea how to respond, how to explain to Círdan what had happened when he didn't understand it himself. He could not explain how he felt like he had grown into the ground – firm and strong, how when the wave had come, he had bent backward at an angle that should have broken his back, how he had not felt the need to breathe underwater.

"I was lucky," he said.

There was finally a smile on Círdan's face.

"I am glad you were."

Ereinion fell asleep, and when he woke up again, Círdan was still there, holding his hand.

One particularly cold winter – especially freezing in Himring – Ereinion sat shivering in Maedhros's hall. His father and their host, the only two people remaining in the hall except for Ereinion, were speaking in low voices with no intention to retire for the night.

---

Ereinion grew up thinking the Lord of Himring loathed him. Even as a young child, he could feel that Lord Maedhros avoided him at every turn, answered him curtly and rarely even looked at him. Ereinion would be happy to stay away from Maedhros whenever he appeared in Hithlum and never visit the frosty Himring Hill again, but his father seemed determined to make them get along.

Ereinion pulled his woolen cloak closer around him and walked to the fire roaring in the fireplace. His fingertips felt like icicles were hanging from them. He stretched his hands to the fire.

"Get back!"

He didn't even have time to think about obeying the raspy order when a hand fell on his shoulder and yanked him away from the fireplace. He found himself inches away from Maedhros's furious face.

"Never get close to fire," Maedhros said.

His voice was nothing but a snarl. The light in his eyes was blinding. His teeth were bared and seemed sharp in the shadows of the hall. His grip on Ereinion's shoulder was getting more painful every moment. It was the first time Ereinion remembered Maedhros touching him.

"Do you understand?" Maedhros snarled again, shaking him.

At that moment, he was more terrifying than any creature of Angband could ever be. To his utter shame, Ereinion's eyes filled with tears, but before he would completely embarrass himself by starting to weep, he was snatched into the safe embrace of his father.

"What are you doing?" his father spat out.

He was speaking in that low tone that meant he was truly livid. Ereinion whimpered.

"No need for tears, yonya, Lord Maedhros is sorry for frightening you, isn't he," his father said ominously.

Maedhros ignored him, still looking into Ereinion's eyes.

"Do you understand?" he repeated.

Ereinion nodded quickly. Satisfied, Maedhros straightened up.

"I apologize if I scared you," he said, his features once again schooled into the usual mix of distaste and indifference he must have reserved solely for Ereinion.

With one last glance at him and his father, Maedhros left the hall.

It took centuries for Ereinion to realize that the look in Maedhros's eyes whenever his gaze fell upon Ereinion wasn't hatred.

It was fear.

He felt dispirited not only because they had been on the way to the Falas for nearly a month, or because they had fought off Orcs more times than he could count, or because his father had sent him away when he was planning a great battle, or because he did not know yet but felt that he would never see his father again. In addition to all of it, he was also worried about how Lord Círdan and the Falathrim would receive him.

---

The day Ereinion approached the high walls of Eglarest was a bright, sunny one. He expected it to be dreary in accordance with his mood, but it seemed like spoiling the weather was not one of his curses.

He was worried not only because he didn't know Lord Círdan, or because he was going to be a lonely Noldo among the Falathrim, or because his father had slain Círdan's kin on the faraway shores of Valinor. Ereinion was under no illusion that he was an ordinary Elda despite his father's best efforts to convince him otherwise. Lord Maedhros wasn't the only one who kept his distance from him. Others did too, even his father's closest friends, though it took Ereinion a while to understand. Their dislike wasn't as noticeable as Maedhros's, who would not or could not hide his. Surely, Círdan, who was wise and older than Ereinion's grandfather, would immediately see that Ereinion was cursed.

Ereinion had met Lord Círdan only once a few years ago when the troops of the Falas had come to the aid of his father during Morgoth's attack on Hithlum. However, the meeting was brief, and Ereinion was young and still unaware of his curse. Most likely, Lord Círdan had not had time to notice the strangeness of the King's son.

Círdan welcomed Ereinion and his companions warmly. There was a feast, games, songs and renowned Falathrim wave dances. But the entire time there was only one thing in Ereinion's mind. He knows what I am. What exactly he was, Ereinion himself had no idea. He doubted many knew. His father did, of course. Lord Maedhros certainly did and hated him for it. Others perhaps didn't know the details but knew or suspected that there was something wrong with him.

A week later, when Ereinion's companions departed for Hithlum, Lord Círdan summoned him. On his way, Ereinion tried to appear bold and self-assured like his father, but it was hard when all he could think about was if Círdan would exile him from Eglarest. Of course, if he was going to do it, he could have just sent him back with his companions, but perhaps he found Ereinion dangerous enough to cast him out into the wilderness all alone. Sometimes Ereinion suspected that if not for his father, it would have been his fate. He wondered if he could find his way back to Hithlum or if he would be better off trying to reach Nargothrond.

Círdan's kindly smile did nothing to reassure him. Most people smiled to his face. But unlike them, Círdan didn't avoid his look.

"How do you find Eglarest?" he asked after offering Ereinion a seat and pouring him tea. "Have you settled in?"

"I have, thank you," Ereinion said.

He meant to sound polite instead of wary, but he wasn't successful. Fortunately, Círdan didn't seem to take offense.

"If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me," Círdan said.

Ereinion nodded slowly. The conversation wasn't going in the direction he had expected.

"Have you ever gone fishing?" Círdan asked.

It took Ereinion a moment to comprehend the question.

"A few times with my grandfather," he said, "when I was very young."

"Have you ever fished in the sea?"

"I have not," Ereinion answered seriously.

Círdan seemed amused by his answers. Ereinion fidgeted in his seat, unsure what it meant.

"Have you ever sailed?" Círdan asked.

"No, Lord Círdan."

"Well, that is unacceptable," Círdan said. "I invite you to go fishing with me the day after tomorrow. Do you accept?"

Confused, Ereinion nodded.

"Very well. Now how about a game of checkers? Unless you had something else to do."

"I could play checkers," Ereinion said. "But I am not very good at it."

"I will tell you a secret," Círdan whispered, leaning over him. "Neither am I."

Half-asleep, Maedhros thought he had misheard him.

---

"We should have a child," Fingon said.

"Hmm?" he said, snuggling closer to Fingon and pressing his lips to his bare shoulder.

Fingon turned in his arms and looked into his eyes.

"I want us to have a child," he said.

Maedhros snorted. "And I want a jar of Vanyarin strawberry preserves."

He frowned when Fingon's expression didn't change.

"I would give you a child if I could," he said, fully awake now. "But none of us is equipped to bear one, as I am sure you know."

Fingon was still staring intently at something, his eyes narrowed as if he was doing complicated mental calculations. Maedhros's heart tumbled unpleasantly in his chest.

"Perhaps you wish…" He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Do you wish to be with someone who could give you children? If so, I will not stand in—"

"What? No!" Fingon laughed, finally roused from his thoughts. "I want to have a child with you."

It didn't comfort Maedhros, which he was sure was plainly visible on his face. Fingon rolled his eyes and put little kisses on Maedhros's mouth until he got a smile.

"Never worry," he said. "I want no one else but you."

Maedhros thought that was it. It was not.

"Artanáro is looking forward to riding out with us tomorrow," Fingon said, oblivious to the tension or determined to ignore it.

---

The dinner with just the three of them was supposed to be intimate, but instead, it was tense. Ereinion's father was the only one talking. Lord Maedhros answered only in grunts or monosyllables. Ereinion felt too awkward even to eat, but no one noticed it.

Both Ereinion and Maedhros grimaced. It seemed like disliking Ereinion's Quenya name was the only thing they had in common.

"No," Maedhros said.

It didn't surprise Ereinion. It didn't disappoint him either. Contrary to what his father had said, he was not looking forward to riding alongside Maedhros. But the blunt refusal still hurt his pride.

"I have promised him," Fingon said in an urgent whisper.

Maedhros shrugged with one shoulder. "I have not."

Fingon put his cup down with a clang. "I would like to speak with you alone," he said and stood.

Maedhros followed him to the adjacent room. Before entering, Fingon turned to Ereinion.

"Finish your dinner and call the nurse to take you to your room, yonya," he said.

Ereinion nodded, but as soon as the lock clicked, he slipped out of his seat and tiptoed to the door, pressing his ear to the wood.

"Would it kill you to be nice to him for once?" he heard his father's exasperated voice. "He is a child!"

"A child you keep shoving to my face despite knowing what I think of it!" Maedhros spat back.

They were talking in Quenya. Ereinion spoke it well enough, but he still had to strain to understand them, especially Maedhros.

"If you only gave him a chance," Fingon said, "you would see—"

"No, Findekáno!"

The anger in his voice alarmed Ereinion. He had never heard Lord Maedhros speak to his father that way. He had not heard anyone speak to his father that way.

"No," Maedhros continued. "You broke your promise. My only condition was that I would have nothing to do with him. You promised me that! And it was not the only promise you broke."

"What are you talking about?" Fingon asked quietly.

"Do not pretend you cannot understand. You know what I mean. When you brought me back from there, and I was not in my right mind yet, you promised me that I would never be forced to do the things I had done again. You swore it over and over until I believed you. And then you forced me to do it yourself! I trusted you with my darkest secrets, and you broke my trust."

"How can you accuse me of such a heinous thing?" Fingon cried. "You agreed to it!"

"I agreed because you would not stop asking!"

"Exactly! I was asking. I never forced you!"

"You knew well what you were doing. You knew if you kept pressuring me, I would eventually give in. You knew I felt indebted to you. You knew I would do anything to repay you. You knew I loved you more than anything. You exploited it. You got what you wanted. The least you could do was to keep your word. But then you name the boy Artanáro and you force me to relive everything every time you push him to me."

"I never knew you felt that way."

Ereinion almost kicked open the door and ran inside because his father sounded so crestfallen, so defeated. What right did Lord Maedhros have to make him so unhappy?

"You knew," Maedhros said. "You just chose to believe it wasn't true."

There was a moment of silence, then Ereinion's father continued in the same desolate voice.

"Even so, whatever real or imagined slights you believe I am guilty of, it is not his fault. I am to blame for all of it. He is only a young child, and he has something of you in him, in his fëa. It burns so brightly."

"He has nothing of me!" Maedhros shouted. "I did everything I could to make sure of it, and if you know what is good for you and for him, you will pray that I succeeded!" In a lower voice, he added: "I am not even sure that he has a fëa."

Ereinion had to close his mouth with his palm, so they wouldn't hear his muffled sobs. He didn't know why he would have anything from Maedhros, and he wanted nothing from him, but the entire conversation was unsettling, and his claim that Ereinion might not have a fëa was too much. He could not stop the tears. How could it be possible? All Quendi had fëar, and despite his title, he was a simple Elda, born from a mother.

His father must have been as shocked as he was because it took him a while to answer.

"Never say that again," he said, deceptively calm. "Never. He has a fëa. I know it. I feel it. And you would too if you gave him a chance!"

"Have you heard a word I said, Findekáno? No. I wish no part in raising him! I am not his father! You are! Though it is beyond me why you would want a child at a time of war."

"Because I am alone!" Fingon cried. "I am alone! You have all of your siblings. I have no idea where mine are, if they are still alive! And now, with Father gone and Lalwendë and our cousins too, I would be more alone than ever if not for my son. I wanted a family, Russandol. Why is it so hard to understand?"

"You have me," Maedhros said.

"Do I? The moment I come between you and your oath, you will not hesitate to slay me."

"Why would you ever come between us and our father's oath?"

"You cannot even bother denying it," Fingon said bitterly.

"It is such a foolish idea that denying it has no meaning," Maedhros answered. "I would never hurt you."

"Can you not see that you are hurting me right now?" Fingon asked. "Please, Russandol. I want us to be a family. If only you knew him. He is such a sweet child and so clever! You would love him if—"

"Stop it!" Maedhros spat. "Enough! It will never happen! He is not a child. He is born of darkness. He is nothing but a—"

Ereinion didn't understand the Quenya word that Maedhros called him, but he knew it was nothing good from his tone and from the way his father's voice sounded when he roared: "Don't you dare call my son that!"

Ereinion heard a loud thud, and the door he was leaning against shook with the force of Maedhros's back hitting it.

"Do you hear me? If you ever call him—"

Fingon suddenly fell silent, and when he spoke again, there was no trace of anger left in his voice.

"Russandol, can you hear me?" he whispered. "Are you with me?"

Ereinion frowned. What a strange question! Where else would Lord Maedhros be? He hadn't left the room unless he had jumped out of the window, which was unlikely. But when Maedhros spoke, Ereinion understood what his father meant. There was no other word to describe Maedhros's voice but absent.

"Let go of me."

"Yes. Sorry. I did not mean to. I only…"

Ereinion heard Maedhros slump down on the floor. His father sat down too.

"May I touch you?" he asked quietly after a while.

"Don't."

"Yes. Of course. I am sorry."

The door was shaking on its hinges. Ereinion heard nothing but the strange, harsh way Maedhros was breathing. Ereinion himself did not dare breathe for fear of being discovered. He wanted nothing more than to run away, hide under his covers and pretend this was all a dream, but he was afraid to move.

"Hold my hand," Maedhros said after a while.

Ereinion heard his father shuffle closer to Maedhros. Gradually, the door stopped moving, and the terrible sounds quieted down. Ereinion let out a breath.

"Let's forget everything we said and did today," Maedhros said in a muffled voice. "Let's never speak of it again."

Ereinion could feel his father's hesitation in the way he sighed.

"Are you sure it is a good idea? I believe we should discuss—"

"Please."

"All right."

They began talking in quiet murmurs, too low for Ereinion to hear. He felt like an intruder. Carefully, he crawled away from the door and slipped out of the chamber as fast as possible.

They did not go riding the next day.

He heard the familiar warm laughter and peeked out from under the covers.

---

"No, stay," Ereinion mumbled when he felt his father sit up on the bed.

"What is it, yonya?" his father asked, smiling and laying back down. "I thought you were already fast asleep."

Ereinion shook his head. "Tell me more stories," he asked, then added after a pause: "Tell me about my mother."

The smile disappeared from his father's face. "I have told you about her," he said.

"Tell me again. Please."

He was tucked safely under his father's chin. Ereinion loved his nighttime stories. When he talked, it seemed like everything was all right, there was no war outside their window, his grandfather wasn't gone, and they weren't in mortal danger.

"She was kind and smart and beautiful," his father started. "She loved you very, very much."

"What did she look like?" Ereinion asked.

"She had dark hair and grey eyes," his father answered.

"Do I look like her?"

"…A little, yes."

"I wish I had a portrait of her or a keepsake to remember her by."

"She saw little point in portraits. She was not a sentimental person. She was… a woman of action. She did not even make things for herself."

"She was a jewel-smith, right?"

Ereinion had heard bits and pieces from his mother's life before, but it was always so difficult to get his father to open up.

"Oh. Right, yes. From a family of smiths."

"I wish they had left Valinor with you. I would love to have a big family."

"You can always make your own family, yonya," his father said.

"Did Mother do so?"

"She did."

"Did she have many friends?"

"Of course. So many. Everyone loved her."

"Even Lord Maedhros?"

His father cleared his throat. "Yes. They were great friends."

Ereinion didn't ask why Maedhros hated him if he loved his parents so much. He knew from experience the question upset his father.

"I would like to talk to her friends, Father. Can I?" he asked instead.

"Her closest friends died in that clash with Orcs that took her life too," his father said quickly.

"Oh." Ereinion wiped away a tear. "Father, when will I be allowed to visit her tomb?"

"You are still too young for it. She was buried in the place she fell to commemorate her valorous deeds. It is now too close to the territory claimed by the Enemy. Maybe when you grow up a little, and we take back our land, you can visit her. All right?"

Ereinion nodded, unable to speak. He buried his face in his father's chest, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as he could. He felt hollow and raw. He pressed closer to his father, trying to find comfort in his warmth.

"Oh, Ereinion," his father said, his voice breaking. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

He stroked Ereinion's hair until his sobs died down.

"I am sorry," he repeated.

"Please stay with me until I fall asleep," Ereinion asked.

"Of course."

"Tell me a happy story. One from your childhood."

"Gladly."

Ereinion untangled himself from his father and got comfortable under the covers, letting the even voice of his father carry him to sleep.

Círdan sat next to him on the low cliff overlooking the Sea. He said nothing for a few moments, just watching with Ereinion how the waves crashed against the rocks.

---

If it were anyone else approaching, Ereinion would have hidden, but by now, he had learned to recognize Círdan's footsteps, and he wouldn't hide from him.

"We miss you," he said then.

"I apologize for my absence," Ereinion said.

"No one blames you. You may take all the time that you need."

"I cannot afford it anymore. Now that…"

"That you are king?" Círdan offered when Ereinion trailed off.

Ereinion scoffed. "What king am I? My people are scattered, slaughtered or enslaved. My lands are overrun with the Enemy's troops. My uncle is the High King now. He, at least, has a kingdom to rule." He turned away from Círdan. "I should have been on the battlefield."

"You could not have helped," Círdan said gently. "Your father sent you here to keep you safe. You are too young to fight. Incidentally, that is what I need to talk to you about."

Ereinion's shoulders tensed. Círdan had been nothing but kind to him, but lately, everything in his life had turned upside down, why not this?

"I am listening," he said.

"The Enemy's forces are advancing, Ereinion," Círdan said gravely. "Soon, they will reach our walls. The Falas will not stand. You are not safe here anymore. I believe you should leave Eglarest before too long."

Ereinion did not move. Was it as he had feared? Had Círdan gotten tired of housing someone like him? Now that his father was dead, Círdan had no obligation to keep him anymore.

"Where would I go?" he asked quietly.

"That is a hard question," Círdan said. "There are no safe places left in Beleriand anymore. Doriath would be the best option, but unfortunately, it is out of the question. I would send you to Nargothrond if I had any hope that it would stand. With Felagund gone, its fall is only a matter of time. I was thinking… We have received news that your Fëanorian cousins survived the battle."

"Of course they did."

"Himring is lost, but they have a fort farther south, on Amon Ereb. It might stand for longer against Morgoth. You will be safer there. Lord Maedhros was a dear friend of your father. I am sure he will welcome you with open arms."

Ereinion's laughter was hollow.

"Lord Maedhros would sooner personally hand me over to Morgoth."

"That cannot be true."

"I will not go to him, Círdan," Ereinion said. "I will set out to look for Gondolin. Perhaps the Lord of Eagles will take pity on me and send his eagles to carry me to my uncle's kingdom as he did with Húrin Thalion and his brother Huor."

"I cannot let you risk it," Círdan said.

Ereinion raised his head and tried to give Círdan a reassuring smile. He wanted to part with him on good terms no matter what.

"I know you promised my father to keep me safe," he said, "but he is dead, and I release you from your promise."

"I care not for my promise," Círdan said. "I care for you."

Ereinion was silent for a moment.

"Truly?" he whispered then.

"Yes, Ereinion," Círdan said with a smile. "You will always have my support."

"Then I would stay with you if I may," Ereinion said.

His voice broke on the last word. He slumped down and didn't resist when Círdan pulled him close.

"Of course," Círdan said, caressing Ereinion's shaking shoulders. "Wherever I go, you will be welcome."

It was so boring in Himring! Ereinion could not even explore it the way he wanted to. There were locked doors and guards at every corner. Ereinion wondered if it was how the fortress always ran or if Lord Maedhros had prepared for his visit.

---

Having successfully evaded all the guards and nurses that his father had left to keep him company, Ereinion turned another corner in the maze that was the fortress of Himring. His father had gone with Lord Maedhros to visit some waterfall or a cave or an old tree or something. Ereinion couldn't care less. What he cared about was that he was supposed to be with them. His father had promised him! But then the plan changed. Ereinion knew why. It was so unfair that he was ready to tolerate Lord Maedhros just to be with his father, but Maedhros would not do the same for him.

Bypassing the stables, which was the first place where his father's guards would look for him, Ereinion came across the dovecot. To his surprise, the door was unlocked, so he pushed it open with some difficulty, then closed it behind him.

He grinned, looking at the pigeons nesting around him and high above. He had always wanted to visit a dovecot but was not allowed to visit the one at home. He approached a pigeon and brought his hand to pet it, but the bird hissed and spread his wings, flying away. Ereinion frowned and approached another one. This one did the same and even took a few more pigeons with it. Ereinion rolled his eyes. Of course, Lord Maedhros's birds hated him. He decided to try for the third time and leave if he failed.

"Hello, birdie," he whispered, carefully raising his hand. "I only want to pet you. I will not hurt you, I promise. Will you let me?"

The bird didn't move, so Ereinion slowly lowered his hand and touched its soft feathers. The bird pressed its wings to its body at first and then hissed and suddenly bit Ereinion's hand.

Ereinion cried out and snatched his hand away. Blood trickled down his palm and stained his cuff. Tears sprang to his eyes. The wound was certainly painful, but the rejection hurt more. Rubbing his eyes with his uninjured hand, he stormed to the door and yanked at it. It did not open. Ereinion tried again and again, pulling it with all his might, but the door didn't budge.

Ereinion let out a scream of frustration and kicked at the door. The pigeons cooed and flew in distressed patterns above him.

"Is anyone there?" Ereinion cried, desperate. "I am locked here! Help me, please!"

He called and kicked and beat at the door until he was exhausted, but no one came. Defeated, he found a relatively clean spot and sat down. It was getting colder. The stories of his people's ordeal over the Grinding Ice came to his mind. He hoped he would be found before he froze to death. Trembling, he curled into a ball and waited.

He woke up to urgent whispers. He blinked blearily, and the concerned face of his father appeared above him.

"Ereinion!" his father cried. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Ereinion's teeth were chattering too badly to speak. He raised his arms, and his father picked him up and wrapped his cloak around him. Ereinion sighed as the warmth surrounded him. He looked over his father's shoulder and only then noticed Lord Maedhros.

He looked stricken, his face pale and his eyes wide. In his hand, he was holding a dead pigeon. Ereinion looked around and gasped. The dovecot floor was covered in pigeon bodies. Every single bird was dead.

Ereinion knew then that he had done it. He didn't know how but he had. He knew that Lord Maedhros knew it too.

He averted his gaze and buried his face in his father's neck.

"Take me away from here," he whispered.

His father hugged him tighter and walked out of the dovecot, leaving Maedhros standing amid his fallen birds.

"I believe it might be the power of my foremother Melian that awakens in me when I am next to you," Elrond said.

---

Another successful battle and another night Ereinion and Elrond spent sitting before a fire, once again discussing the mystery that had puzzled them both since their meeting. Ereinion could find no explanation for the way Elrond's song became stronger or for the way power thrummed in his veins when they fought side by side. He didn't know why he could break armor and ribs with just a fist, didn't know why at the moment of the blow, it felt like his arm shot up from his shoulder, stretching longer than it was possible. He could not fathom how sometimes the enemies fell dead before he would touch them or why at times they hesitated to strike him even when they had the chance. He had always believed he was cursed, but recently his curse had turned into a gift.

The shadows dancing around him gave him an otherworldly appearance that made it easy to believe his claim.

"It does not explain the surge of power in me, however," Ereinion said.

"Perhaps you have a connection to Melian?" Elrond suggested. "Or another Maia? I have not heard of other unions similar to Melian and Thingol's, but I do not possess all the knowledge of Arda. Do you think you might have Maiarin blood?"

"Certainly not on my father's side," Ereinion said.

"What about your mother?"

For a moment, everything around Ereinion – Elrond, the fire, the woods – disappeared and was replaced by his chamber in Barad Eithel and his father's low, comforting voice telling him stories.

"I do not believe she existed," he said.

It was the first time he said it aloud, the first time he allowed himself to think about it, but the moment the words left his lips, he knew them to be true.

Elrond said nothing. He didn't even look shocked. Only his tilted head and his slightly furrowed brows betrayed his curiosity. Ereinion loved that about him – his patience and his compassion – was thankful that Elrond gave him time and space to think and to elaborate if he so chose.

"My father told me stories about her," Ereinion went on, "but he was the only one. As a child, I was angry that everyone seemed to have forgotten her, that there was nothing left of her, no proof that she had lived. Now I know why."

"I always wondered about it," Elrond said carefully. "I am not sure if you know, but your father and Maedhros—"

"It was hard to miss."

Ereinion grimaced at his harsh tone and sent an apologetic look to Elrond.

"My father kept pushing us together," he continued, suddenly compelled to spill out everything he had refused to think about. "Maedhros did not want it, did not want me, and did not hesitate to show it. Every time, he refused me, and every time, my father gave way and tried to appease him. Every time, my father chose him over me. And yet, he never stopped trying to involve him in my life. I think he believed Maedhros was my father too. Maedhros vehemently disagreed."

Elrond's frown deepened.

"Was your father someone who could bear children?" he asked.

"I do not believe so."

"Neither was Maedhros." Elrond tugged lightly at a braid, which meant he was deep in thought. "Perhaps they had the help of someone else."

"No," Ereinion said. His mind was reeling with childhood memories he had worked hard to suppress. "It was something that had occurred between them only. Whatever the secret of my birth is, it made Maedhros resent my father and hate me."

Ereinion was grateful Elrond didn't insist Maedhros had not hated him, even though he knew he wanted to. They rarely talked about the Fëanorions, but Ereinion knew his and Elrond's impressions of Maedhros differed somewhat. He could not imagine Maedhros being kind to a child, let alone to a child whose home he had destroyed. He had not even been kind to Fingon, and he had supposedly loved him. Ereinion hated the anger that rose in him when he thought that Maedhros had cared more for his hostage than for his closest friend's son.

But it was not what troubled him now. Neither was it the mystery of his conception.

"My father lied to me," he said. "My entire life."

"You cannot be sure of it."

"I am." The certainty he felt surprised even Ereinion himself. "I worshipped him," he said. "Despite everything, I thought he was the perfect father. How do I reconcile this image I have of him with the revelation that he was a liar?"

"I am sure your father loved you very much," Elrond said.

"Yet it did not stop him from making up a dead mother I mourned for."

He was startled when he felt Elrond's hand over his. When had he come so close? Still, its warmth comforted him.

"Sooner or later, we have to admit that no one is perfect," Elrond said. "Even First Age heroes, even our parents."

The smile he gave Ereinion would seem pitying had it come from anyone else. Coming from Elrond, it made Ereinion smile too.

"Says someone who is nothing short of perfect," he muttered.

"Well, I am neither a First Age hero, nor a parent," Elrond laughed.

Ereinion laughed with him. Anger released him from its grip. His father's lies were far behind him and mattered little now.

"I care not how I came to be," he decided, "or what it is that makes us work together so well. Let loremasters debate it. I only care that it does."

"I will not argue," Elrond said.

He shuffled even closer to Ereinion. They sat together until dawn.

"It will do," he declared then.

---

Fingon crouched down and watched Maedhros examine the yew sapling they had stopped by. Maedhros didn't touch it but looked at it for a long time in silence.

Fingon's breath picked up. "Are you sure?"

"It is young. Hopefully, it has not been completely corrupted yet. It is close enough to Melian's power, yet grows in the heart of the shadow. We will find nothing better in this land."

It wasn't quite reassuring, but Fingon decided to trust Maedhros.

"What now?" he asked, impatient.

Maedhros sat down slowly in his heavy armor. He unsheathed his dagger and took one of Fingon's braids between his fingers.

"Cut it off," he said.

Fingon complied.

"Now your hand," Maedhros said. "Not too shallow."

Fingon made a painful cut on his palm. The blood rained over the braid coiled before him. Maedhros brought his hand to him, palm up.

"Now mine," he said.

Fingon's hand twitched once when he brought the blade to Maedhros's skin, but he took a breath and made the cut. Maedhros's blood dripped from his closed fist and mixed with Fingon's own.

"Make a few cuts on the leaves and the stalk," Maedhros said. "But do not touch it."

Fingon nodded and quickly carried out his task. Maedhros squeezed his fist, and a few drops of blood fell over the cuts. Fingon did the same. Maedhros took the braid and wrapped it around the sapling.

"Focus on what you want," Maedhros said. "Imagine the child you wish for with as many details as possible."

Fingon closed his eyes and opened his mind. He could feel Maedhros's too, could feel his fëa. He showed Maedhros their son, showed him his smile, his tiny hands, the tuft of red hair—

"No," Maedhros said, pulling back immediately. "I will stop this, Findekáno. I promise I will stop this instant if you do not hold up your end."

His voice was trembling. Fingon shook his head and grasped at Maedhros's arm.

"No, please," he said. "I am sorry. Please, go on."

Maedhros took a deep breath and nodded. Fingon showed him a different picture this time. He gave their son his father's eyes, his mother's brows, his sister's smile, his brother's nose and his own dark hair. He wished for a bright, burning fëa for their son, wished for him to be strong, kind and just.

Maedhros started chanting in a harsh language that made Fingon's ears bleed. Hearing the unbearable agony in his voice, Fingon came the closest to putting a stop to it, forgetting everything and going home with Maedhros. But they had come too far. He could see their son and he loved him already.

A few strands of his fëa reached out to Maedhros, who retreated as far as he could. Fingon felt incorporeal, more fëa than hröa, but it did not disturb him. A part of him split from his fëa, but it did not make him less. That part soared, went where it was supposed to go, guided by Maedhros's fëa, and Fingon tried to clutch to him, to the traces he was allowed to keep.

And then an overwhelming power crashed against his naked fëa. Fingon cried out. It was so mighty that he thought it would tear his fëa apart and pulverize his body. Yet, it was not evil. Its purpose was to grow and protect. Fingon knew then that it was the magic of the Queen of Doriath that Maedhros stole and bound.

Evil came later. It came suddenly and painfully. It came from everywhere – from the ground, from the trees, from the air itself. Fingon could do nothing but curl in on himself and keen as waves of pain contorted his body.

But when it was over, he heard a child's cry.

Fingon opened his eyes and beheld a baby boy where the yew sapling had been. All the pain, doubts and guilt immediately vanished, replaced by pure, overpowering love. Fingon quickly blinked the tears away because he could not live even a moment without seeing his son's face. Carefully, he took the baby in his arms and brushed a finger over his brow. He could feel the warmth of his young fëa. <i>Artanáro</i>, he named him in his mind.

"He is beautiful," he whispered and only then remembered that he wasn't alone.

Maedhros had fallen in a heap under a dead tree, shaking violently and dry-heaving.

"Russandol?" Fingon called.

"I am fine," Maedhros rasped. "Tend to the child."

Fingon still made to run to him, but his son started wailing, and he hurried to soothe him. He swaddled the infant and fed him the flask of milk he had put close to his skin to keep it warm. Out of the corner of an eye, he watched how Maedhros turned on his back with effort, breathing heavily, then somehow crawled up and sat, leaning against the tree. There was blood all over his face. His gaze was unfocused, wandering. Fingon put Artanáro in a makeshift sling and approached Maedhros.

"Let me see your hand," he said.

Maedhros didn't move. Fingon sat by him, took his hand, cleaned the wound and bandaged it.

"You did something wonderful today," he whispered, gently wiping the blood from Maedhros's face with a damp cloth. "You created something wonderful."

Maedhros's lips moved soundlessly.

"What is it?" Fingon asked.

"A perversion," Maedhros said almost inaudibly. "He is a perversion made of darkness."

Fingon was overcome with a fury so intense, so blinding that he had to turn away quickly and take a few deep breaths to be able to get his anger under control. He is not in his right mind, he told himself, I should not take his words close to heart.

He turned to Maedhros with a forced smile.

"Rest a little, then we will leave," he said, trying not to betray his anger.

"I thought," Maedhros said faintly, "I thought you would chain me from a tree by my wrist and leave me here." He laughed at Fingon's horrified face. "It is only the natural conclusion of all you have done to reach this point."

"I have asked you not to make such jokes."

"You have, yes."

Fingon leaned his forehead against Maedhros's.

"I know how exhausted you are," he whispered. "I am grateful beyond measure for what you did for me. For what you did for us."

"Is my debt repaid?"

Fingon sat back with a sigh.

"You were never indebted to me, Russandol."

"If you say so."

Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. Fingon watched how clarity returned to them almost forcefully as if Maedhros caught the fragmented pieces of himself and pushed them back together.

"We should leave," Maedhros said. "It is not safe here."

Fingon nodded and glanced down. Artanáro was sleeping peacefully by his chest.

"Look at him," he whispered. "He is a miracle."

Maedhros made no answer. Fingon's heart sank. Maedhros had said he would not be a father to their son, and Fingon had promised he would not have to be. But secretly, he had hoped seeing the child would change his mind.

"Will you not hold him?" he asked.

Maedhros's face was stony.

"Your idea. Your decision. Your son."

He stood, leaning on his sword, and put his helmet on.

"Come," he said. "We must hurry."

They walked back the way they had arrived, but this time Fingon wasn't as calm. His neck was prickling. He felt eyes on him and kept an arm around his sleeping son, trying to move as quietly as possible.

He stopped when he heard ominous rustling close to them. Maedhros had also stopped, his sword half-drawn.

"Down!" he cried then.

Fingon ducked, curling around Artanáro. Something – a hideous shape of legs, eyes and teeth – jumped over him. Another one clashed against Maedhros, who staggered but did not fall.

Fingon drew his sword and plunged it into the creature that had dropped before him. Maedhros was in a violent battle against two of them. Fingon sent two arrows into what he hoped was the heart of one of the creatures. It collapsed, and Maedhros cut down the other one.

"Run!" He yelled. "Quick!"

Holding his bawling son tightly, Fingon did, but he was intercepted by another creature. It lunged for him, but before it could dig its claws into his flesh, Maedhros pounced on it and rolled with it down the slope. Fingon had no time to go after him. He was surrounded by three more. Never in his life had he drawn arrows so fast. He felled the last creature a moment before it would impale Artanáro and him on its sharp sting. The rest of the creatures scurried away.

"Russandol!" Fingon called after he had made sure his son was not harmed.

Maedhros suddenly appeared before him and cupped his face with a shaking hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Fingon nodded.

"The boy! Is he hurt?"

"No," Fingon said. "Look."

Artanáro had stopped crying and was now sniffling softly. Maedhros inclined his head. Fingon could not see his face behind the helmet, but he heard his shuddering breath of relief. Fingon took his hand and brought it down to Artanáro's face. He didn't have to guide Maedhros as he brushed a finger against their son's cheek. Artanáro smiled, and Fingon clearly heard Maedhros's gasp of wonder.

He quickly pulled his hand back and walked away without another word, but now Fingon followed him with a lighter heart. No matter what Maedhros said, Fingon knew they could be a true family.

His roots wither, his branches crackle, his leaves smoke.

---

Ereinion Gil-galad burns.

Ash twirls in the air.

#silmarillion #gil-galad #fingon #maedhros #cirdan #russingon #elrond also gets a scene #silm fic #ask to tag #this was supposed to be a crack treated seriously story at most #but now it doesn't even warrant the tag #zwc fic

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