Lying awake and staring at the ceiling. For most people, sleeping or at the very least light rest would take up most of the hours when the moon was high in the sky. Not here, in the back nook of the top floor, where rows and rows of costumes, pieces of scenery, and shelves of props which looked random but were actually organized and mentally cataloged lived. In the back, on one of the beds that was sometimes lifted down to be used on the one viable stage, he was still awake, staring at the ceiling.
There were at least four or five cats sprawled over his limp limbs. One of them was kneading the blanket draped over his thigh, tiny pricks of pain failing to register after a moment.
Maybe, just maybe, if he had been raised differently, he might have cried himself to sleep. His father had always warned him never to show that weakness, never to shed a single tear, lest his cousins—or yet worse in his father’s mind, his uncle—see his emotions. A skinned knee from being tripped on the road by Celegorm only made him hold his chin higher; Curufin’s teasing and taunts were merely met with a roll of the eyes. Eventually he managed to push down that uncertain trembling in his stomach that would have brought forth sobs so well that his coaches displayed him as a model to the other competitors. He was seven, maybe eight, the last time he cried.
The closest he had come was finding Maedhros trapped, ensnared by the cruel manacle bound at his wrist, but even that had not moved him to tears. And now, so long after, so long since he had set foot in Middle-earth, so long since he had called Maedhros his, since he had even seen him, Fingon stared at the ceiling.
If there was no one to cry for him, why should he cry for himself? So he sighed in the half-light of that long, cold northern winter night and closed his eyes, listening to the faint sound of the foxes nearby, fighting amongst each other for food, shelter, and warmth.
When he could stand the loneliness no longer, he tore back the blanket and pushed himself up out of the bed, feet finding their way past the shelves and the cats that pranced about, butted his legs, or peered down at him from their perches. In minutes, he was dressed and presentable enough to walk to the heart of the town, where even this late there was activity to be found.
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Fingon looked at no one when he entered the tavern. The room was clean, bright – he was quite discriminating in his tastes when it came to pubs. This particular one was known more as a place for slow lunches, family suppers, and games of darts and billiards later in the evening. The glasses were spotlessly clean, the crystal shining and catching the light in many facets from where they were perfectly lined on their shelves. He nodded to his usual selection, exchanging no pleasantries and expecting none as he placed payment and a tip onto the counter before the drink was even set before him.
He carried it away from the bar to a far corner. There he stood with his back to the wall, observing everyone else with curious eyes, from the timid tender of the bar who seemed just as relieved that they would not need to speak to each other to the minstrel by the fire, lost in his own thoughts as his fingers gently caressed the strings of his harp while two other Elves looked on across from him, sharing a bottle of blackberry ale with each other. There was a gentlemen boisterously chattering at one of the billiard tables with anyone who would engage in conversation with him, and a fair-haired lady serving as hostess as she milled about and mingled, winked and refilled glasses and retrieved the empties.
Amid the pairs and trios, Fingon found another person in the room sitting alone. He noticed him over the rim of the crystal as he drank his liquor, ignoring the burn in his throat as he examined the other Elf. Reddish-brown hair, a sturdy build and clothed as a woodsman, and most interesting about him, a neatly trimmed beard.
Fingon almost thought he had seen him before. It was a distant flash in his mind, and then gone again as he was distracted by the sound of excitement as a small group entered the tavern and one of the ladies in the group recognized him. “Oh my Eru! Look! Oh, someone find some parchment, I need an autograph!”
There was another reason Fingon chose this particular pub over all others. As soon as it appeared that the lady was seriously about to find something to approach him with, Fingon felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see the hostess, who handed him a bottle of his preferred drink, and the boisterous gentleman, who tilted his head toward the back door, which was well-known to Fingon. He slipped away as the bartender blocked the path with his broad shoulders and a tray of full glasses of blackberry wine.
Once outside and in the safety of the shadows, Fingon wandered down and alley and out to one of the main streets. The torches that lit the street helped to illuminate the windows of the shops as Fingon passed by. He stopped to admire the cloaks displayed in the tailor’s shop, and smiled at the brightly wrapped candy in the window of the confectionary. His feet took him to the end of the lane, where there was a park, then the woods which would lead him home.
He strolled is way through the park, winding down different paths. Fingon walked the streets at night more often than he did during the day, so even in the darkness he knew where things were. Entering the woods, the path was darker, the trees closing in over him as he made it in deeper, but he liked it better this way. The solitude was more noticeable now, and he sighed and breathed in the crisp night air.
As Fingon slowly walked down the pathway home, keeping the neck of the bottle in his hand, swinging it to and fro as he went, he suddenly stopped and turned. There was a rustle, perhaps a whisper… something behind him. It seemed he was being followed, but he was not certain. He took a few steps back, looking around in the shadows of the oaks and the pines. He saw nothing, but instinct told him otherwise.
With a shake of his head, he began the journey home again. A pair of foxes ran past him, crossing the dirt road. Culprits of the unknown noise, he assumed, and continued with more confidence as the moon came into view on his way up the stone pathway to the theatre. He pushed the door open, stooping to scratch one of the cats behind the ears before leaving the door ajar and wandering down the hallway.
It was once majestic, a full theatre on either side. He remembered well when his father had posed the question to each of his children, asking what would make them at peace in Valinor. Turgon had detailed a miniature version of his Gondolin tower, while Aredhel envisioned a hidden woods, private and surrounded by three gilded gates. Not to be outdone, Fingon dreamed up the theatre, with the grand parlor he now stood in. Of course, when he had first posed the idea, he expected that he would be entertaining the actors and musicians here under the unlit chandeliers at this hour of the night, instead of herding the cats away from the door that would take him into the intact theatre.
To the left, there was ruin. He still refused to speak of what happened, except that it involved Maedhros and their break-up. The theatre to the left was shredded, as if someone had clawed the rich red velvet seat cushions and pulled from them the goose down and strewn it across the aisles. The wood was slashed by sword, hacked by axe, and burned with fire. A hole in the roof could only have been caused by lightning, though to this day no one had ever been found who had seen a strike upon the theatre, and it seemed almost too well targeted at the stage for that.
To the right, his sanctuary, his livelihood. He used the working stage now as a means of income, renting it for recitals and the occasional play or musical. For the most part, it was his place to perform. He would dance and dance until he dropped, some nights falling asleep on the polished black floor, staring up at the scalloped velvet curtain hanging over him.
He lived alone, hermitted away with his cats for over an age. None of the felines dared enter behind him, and he shut the door as he came into the dark theatre, a single candle at the doorway lit for his use as he walked down the side aisle, lighting the bowls of oil along the wall to illuminate his haven.
Up the steps to the stage he climbed. The removable steps were left at one side when the theatre was not being used for public performance, even though he preferred most of the time to vault up onto the stage, still clinging to his gymnastic abilities. He spent several minutes stretching and warming his muscles before crossing the stage to the various musical instruments left along one side.
There was a collection of music boxes sitting on the top of the clavicytherium, and he selected one of them now, winding the key, twisting it over and over again, before setting it down when it was wound so tight that he knew one more rotation would cause it to snap and be broken. As the song played through to the end, he positioned himself at the center of the stage, lifting up his leg, waiting for the song to begin again.
As soon as it did, he began a practiced routine. He usually only needed to wind the music box once; after he became used to the tune, after it ran through three or four times and slowed to a stop in the midst of the fifth or sixth time through, he kept going. The music would continue to play in his head, a version fleshed out with strings and horns and everything that the music box could not offer to him, everything he wanted to hear, but never would. He rarely left now, and talked rarely as well. Sometimes he wondered if he would wake up and have forgotten to talk. He did forget words at times when family members came to visit, standing awkwardly on the other side of the door, kept open only wide enough for them to converse and see part of each other’s face, his foot set on the inside of the door to keep anyone from pushing it forcefully to enter—not that anyone had. Sometimes he moved his foot away, just in case, maybe hoping that they would.
The music was beginning the fourth repetition, and Fingon closed his eyes, slowing as the music slowed. His eyes snapped open as the music box stopped, the tin taps of notes replaced by the warm sound of the clavicytherium. He looked up to see the stranger from the tavern standing at the instrument, hands steady as he repeated the music from the box, adding in the harmonies that could not be replicated by the toy that he was forced to use in keeping up with his cloistered lifestyle.
Fingon raised a leg up, toes pointed to the ground, then slowly extended it out to the side. He had not danced for anyone in years. Decades. Centuries. Millennia. Not since… him.
The light flickered off the hair of the man before him, looking down at the clavicytherium, giving him privacy despite having invaded his space. For a moment, if Fingon squinted, it would have been as if Maedhros had been there. But he did not want Maedhros there, did not want to think of Maedhros, did not want to remember him. He spun around the stage, his movements becoming large and violent despite the music. His landings from his leaps were without caution; his breathing came in gasps as he danced his frustration out, spinning around and around and focusing his energy a little more on recapturing the emotions that the music should be bringing. He almost stopped, a pivot, a few steps, a glide, and he was standing in front of the clavicytherium.
Fingon stood for a moment, rising up on the tips of his toes, bringing one leg behind him with such discipline and grace. He reached out, keeping his balance, and used his hand to tilt the unexpected musician’s head up. Their eyes met, and the music continued on. Fingon slid his hand away, and turned on his toes before a transition into another step and a leap across the stage. The stranger now watched him, his eyes ever upon Fingon as he played less timidly, confidence building as he was allowed the privilege of the display before him.
While Fingon was watched, he looked back. No longer concerned with keeping strictly in position or executing precise moves, his movements flowed with more emotion and less clinical certainty. He weaved around props left discarded after the last performance, feet brushing within a breath of the curtain, and then he came closer. Like a wild animal deciding to trust the hunter, his feet brought him just a spin away from the clavicytherium, and he studied the ellon before him. A woodsman, yes, he could tell that much from his appearance, but refined. Courtly, from his playing of the clavicytherium and the way he stood, and the tidiness he kept despite feeling at home in the woods.
There was a bow set aside, leaning against the clavicytherium, and Fingon extended his right leg back, then straight up, tilting his upper body down to examine the inlay. Very finely carved cirth, filled with onyx, read ‘For my dearest brother Beleg, a bow worthy your grace and might, Nellas’. As he lowered his leg and stood still now to look at the stranger, he realized upclose that this was no stranger at all.
As Fingon looked into Beleg’s eyes, he saw something he rarely saw in this age. Loyalty. He wondered if either Beleg or Mablung had ever informed Elu Thingol of what they had done when they came to Ered Wethrin looking for war and glory that unpredictable summer. With no army to fight with, they had been given leave to join whatever army they chose, so long as they did not choose to fight under the banner of one of Feanor’s sons. There was an incident just as they arrived; a young soldier of Celegorm’s contingent had tried to sneak away—not to warn the enemy, but from shear fear alone.
When the warriors from Doriath dismounted, the young man was being forceably dragged out into a courtyard to be chained and flogged, but Fingon himself raced forth with a whip of his own. As Celegorm himself drew back the lash, Fingon sprinted and flicked forward his own, tangling the ends together. The king then drew back his arm with such power that the whip that Celegorm had held was drawn from his hand and skidded away in the dust.
The two exchanged murderous looks, certainly not appearing as two lords on the same side of a battle. Fingon unchained the shuddering, sobbing youth, had water brought to him, clothed him, and called for one of the precious horses. He handed the reins to the young man, said a few whispered words and turned away to walk back to his watchtower. Celegorm sneered as Curufin looked on with narrowed eyes, growling as the youth dropped hold of the reins and ran past them, throwing himself down at Fingon’s feet, kissing his boots, clinging to his legs. Fingon patted his head twice, then helped him up and said a few words more. He motioned for one of his own soldiers to join them, and sent the youth with them.
The horse, as it turned out, was the king’s own. He had granted the man his freedom, allowing him to leave without penalty. Whatever else he said was never made public, but the next day the young man was seen in the king’s own army.
Beleg and Mablung exchanged a few words with each other, and approached the king. They bowed, presented themselves, and then each took to a knee. That they knew spoke of to Elu Thingol, that they had pledged themselves to the Noldorin king, until his death.
It was a short service, but as Fingon remained still, he remembered all of this. It seemed that Beleg remembered it as well.
The look changed. No longer was it loyalty to a king he had served for but a moment of his life. It was… longing.
“Come closer.”
Fingon flinched. He took a step away, pretending not to have heard. His arms and legs took to movement again, and they spoke what he could not with his lips. I am weak, he said with his dance. Battered. Unloved. Broken. And Beleg heard him, clearer than anyone ever had before.
“If you will be weak, then I will be strong.” Beleg began to play a different song, more understanding, more telling of his own feelings, but full of promise, warm and healing. Fingon could hear him, hear what he wanted to say with words in those notes, in this song that drew him closer, begged him to trust in this man who had silently loved him his whole second life.
And he finally came closer; closer to where he belonged.
Author's Chapter Notes:
IDoS 2012. Bunniverse. Inspired by the songs: Armistice by Patrick Wolf, Save the Hero by Beyoncé, and E-Dream composed by Ryann.