Erestor perched on the rooftop of the Cottage of Lost Play and looked out over the sparkling water of the sea to the East. The stars shined brightly down, and unlike Alqualonde or Tirion, there were no lamps in windows or on the streets to distract a viewer from the starlight above. The wind was not yet bitter, but the darkness and the breeze that carried up from the sea caused a chill. Erestor’s hands were wrapped around a mug of cider he had warmed before climbing the three stories up. It was rustic compared to stargazing in Tirion -- no dome of crystal to magnify the beauty of the light above or keep the cold at bay, but there was something to be said for ‘roughing it’, where the salty air and the scent of pine burning in wood stoves and cinnamon and mulled wine and hot apples and bread cooking for the next morning’s meal was more comforting than the comforts he had left.
He set the mug aside and leaned back, hands placed with the palms down behind him to keep him steady. Up into the heavens he looked, unsure of what he was seeking. A sign, perhaps, but he had a feeling he would have to make the decision on his own. A little help from friends, though, never hurt.
Artanis?
I am here.
Did I startle you?
No. I was expecting you.
Looking in your mirror again?
With you, I never need a mirror.
Never?
Almost never.
Their casual banter always made him wonder what it would have been like if they had only stayed together. It had not always been this way; it was in the beginning, and it was now, but so many years were lost to bitter jealousy and a harsh desire of wanting her to suffer. Erestor realized how much he had grown since then.
I am trying to make a decision.
Ah. The councilor needs a counselor.
The councilor needs a drink, a warm place to sleep where he is not fawned over by four of his friend’s daughters, and more hours in the day than their currently are.
Shall I ask Arien to slow down?
Why bother? Tilion never listens to anyone. It would throw the whole thing off.
Then I fear you are stuck with only twenty-four.
Pity. I much preferred the old way.
We all did.
Erestor sighed despite the fact no one was there to hear him. “Yes, we did,” he said to himself before continuing the discussion.
I have been given a unique opportunity.
Yes, you have.
No, not Sarati.
Oh?
Ah, so you did not use the mirror.
You did not believe me?
I.. well, if I had such a trick, I would use it all the time.
He could tell that she was laughing at that, and possibly took a moment to share what he had said with Celeborn. He was certain of this when she spoke again.
Celeborn said you can have it.
I thank him, but I do believe I shall stick with logic and reason.
There was another moment, and Erestor smiled. He could almost feel the presence of the two of them, Galadriel to his right and Celeborn the right of her, so that after her whispers to one, she would return to the other with the reply.
He wants to know why you would start with such nonsense as logic and reason now?
Now Erestor laughed into chill, and the puffs of air swirled off, visible on this cold night.
Something which was lost was discovered, but it shall become lost again if someone does not step in to claim it.
Oh?
Have you ever heard of the Cottage of Lost Play?
I have. Has our councilor decided it is playtime now?
Our councilor does not want to see an estate with a rich history and a great amount of potential go to ruin.
And our councilor is afraid that if he switches horses midstream, the first horse might be abandoned?
I always thought you had a way with words.
What does our councilor want?
He most certainly does not want other people to think he walked away from something he started to pursue something else. He does not want people to think he became bored.
What did he become? And why does he still worry about what other people think?
You have been speaking to your brother.
We just finished our nightly discussion before you called upon me.
You shall have to send him my regards tomorrow.
I shall. First, your dilemma. If both options were presented right now, which would you choose?
I think you know the answer.
If I did, I would not ask the question.
Whether it was true or not, Erestor ‘felt’ as if Celeborn had left the room, or fallen asleep, or some such thing. In any case, he felt like he was finally alone with Galadriel and at liberty to speak freely, and addressed another topic of unease.
I saw my parents today.
How did that come about?
I asked Cirdan if he knew where they were, and suddenly I was having dinner with them.
It went well?
They want to meet my husband. They actually-- my mother actually called him that.
I am very happy for you.
Artanis?
Yes?
What should I do?
Erestor held his breath while he awaited the answer. He prayed that she had not become distracted or fallen asleep when several minutes passed and he heard nothing. He even began to wonder if she was repaying him for his cruelty over the years, but finally, the answer came.
You lost your childhood not once, but twice. You slipped into madness, over me, and over the things that were done by friends and enemies alike. I think you need the cottage as much as it needs you. The school can wait, or it can be tended to by others; you need to reclaim what was taken from you.
***
Back at the estate where the Sarati School was quickly becoming Iaunlond, there were two not present for the evening meal with the others. Fingon and Finrod had left early that morning. All they would say was ‘unfinished business’, and only Glorfindel knew their true destination.
Fingon now paced the well-worn rug in his grandfather’s library as he waited for the door to open. In contrast, Finrod sat perfectly still behind the desk of the room, only occasionally turning a page of the ledger he was looking over. “Would you like to sit with me by the fire?” offered Finrod without looking up.
“No, no, I have all this nervous energy,” admitted Fingon. “Not quite sure why I thought I should do this.”
“Better to pace here and have answers than to pace at home and spend your life worrying about it?” suggested Finrod. “If this has been eating at you all these years, get your answers.”
Fingon walked to the desk and set his palms down on the surface. His height was such that the chair he hovered over was little barrier to him. “Do you know how this all plays out? You have been so quiet, like you always are when you know the outcome already, like when you would watch us play chess, and you just knew ahead of time whether I would win or lose against him.”
“This is no chess match,” answered Finrod. “I can guess the outcome; I can assume I know what my son will say.”
“I asked that Maedhros be brought alone,” answered Fingon as he looked down at the surface of the table. “I need him to speak his mind freely.”
Finrod nodded as the sound of the knob turning alerted them both and caused Fingon to stand up. “Perhaps I should not have come either.”
Maedhros entered the room and looked surprised for only a moment when he saw Fingon. He then took note of Finrod and narrowed his eyes. “I was led to believe that grandfather wished to speak to me.”
“He will speak with you after I have,” said Fingon as he walked to the fire and poked at the single log that burned within the glowing chamber. “He was good enough to allow for this arrangement.”
“I see. To think it has come to this, deception from my own grandfather.” Maedhros swept his gaze to Finrod. “Have you a part in this?”
Finrod raised a hand up, palm facing Maedhros. “I am but a bystander in all this,” he remarked. “An arbiter, if you will.”
“Arbiter?” Maedhros still had his hand on the knob of the door. “Do I detect a debate?”
“Not a debate,” corrected Fingon. “I wish an answer; I will not argue for a change in your answer.”
Maedhros took a step further into the room so that he could stand beside the inside surface of the door, hand on the other side of the door knob. “And you needed a chaperone to ask a question?”
Fingon set the poker aside and turned to Finrod. Finrod lifted a brow, and Fingon made a nod of his head toward the door. Finrod stood up and clasped Fingon’s shoulder as he passed, and then closed the door behind him. Maedhros took another step into the room, shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest, stance wide. “You said that you have a question.”
There was a brief nod, but no words came for a little while. When Fingon finally spoke, he said, “I have come because I need to put my mind at ease. I think I know the answer, but I want to hear it from you.” He took a deep breath, slowly moving in an indistinct path from the fire to the desk, to the window, and finally into the center of the room. His hands were at his sides, arms limp, he looked defenseless. He stared at a shelf of books, and then he looked to the floor.
Maedhros grew impatient. “Maybe Finrod should have stayed. At least I could have conversed with him while you chose your words.”
Fingon looked up, hurt, and he tried not to show it, but the look in his eyes let Maedhros know he was wounded. “I need to know if he means more than I did to you. Does Inglorion make you happier than I ever did? Do you love Inglorion more than you ever loved me?”
“You.. just asked me two questions,” stalled Maedhros. He relaxed his stance and walked closer. “It does not matter. My answer is the same to both of them.” Maedhros came to stand before Fingon and raised his right arm. His wrist moved towards Fingon cheek, and at the final moment before the smooth, scarred stump reached its destination, Fingon turned his head aside. “How can I love someone who cannot love me?”
Fingon’s neck snapped back around, eyes wide in anger. “It was love that brought me to you, and love that saved you that day. I still love you.”
“So that is what this is about, then. You say you look not to sway me, but you wish the answer you would have me say, not the answer I have for you,” accused Maedhros.
“I want the truth.”
“Then yes,” spat Maedhros. “Yes, and yes again! He means more than you ever did, more than you ever will, cousin. He is my anchor; my strength. He is my everything!”
“Then I mean nothing to you,” said Fingon quietly as he looked away.
“No,” replied Maedhros. “You meant nothing. You would have done well to have listened to your father, you stupid, stupid lovesick fool. You were so eager, fawning over me like you did.. and so willing.”
“Do not say you never wanted me,” warned Fingon. “You could not have lied to me for all those years.”
Maedhros reached out and grabbed hold of Fingon’s chin. When Fingon tried to jerk away, he tightened his grip. “It was a dumb mistake,” he stated slowly, repeating words he had told Fingon once before. “I was young, you were younger. You gave me everything I wanted.. but I did not want you. I did not need you. I did just fine after you were dead.”
Fingon shoved Maedhros away and walked to the fire, fists clenched to keep his fingers from trembling, but Maedhros did not stop. He advanced, his voice rising. “Inglorion is everything you are not. He does not worry whether or not his father is placated, nor does he constantly need time alone with his thoughts, or refuse to go somewhere because he does not like the company he shall be in. In fact, unlike you, Inglorion has never told me no.”
“Maybe I should have said no more often,” said Fingon as he found he could retreat no further and turned to face Maedhros. “Know this – he would not have fought your battles for you, nor would he have risked his life to come to save you as I did.”
“Few would,” answered Maedhros. “I would have been better off dead. I died anyhow, eventually. Perhaps I would not have had this to deal with,” he shouted, shoving the stump of his arm to Fingon’s chest, which caused Fingon to flinch. “You still fear it – look at it! Look at what you did to me!” Maedhros grabbed Fingon’s throat with his left hand as he pressed the stump of his right against the bridge of Fingon’s nose. “Look at it! You made a monster of me!”
“I saved you!” Fingon gripped Maedhros’ left wrist with both of his hands, but felt unable to move him. “You speak of death – I died that night! I still have nightmares about what I did. I never wanted to hurt you! I love you!” He coughed when Maedhros let go of his throat. “I loved you,” he amended.
“You should move on, cousin,” advised Maedhros. “You are living in the past; you have no future with me. Honestly, you never did,” he added as he began to walk away.
“I am,” spoke up Fingon as Maedhros reached the door. “I just had to make sure I was not making a mistake. I suppose you are right. It was a dumb mistake.” Fingon turned back to the fire. “I wonder if Inglorion will ever say that to you.”
Fingon heard Maedhros stomp back across the room, but he did not flinch, nor did he turn his head. When Maedhros grabbed his shoulder and spun him, back slammed suddenly against the nearest shelf of books, Fingon did little more than look up calmly. Maedhros let go, hand drawn around, and then his arm snapped back.
“No.” Fingon blocked with his left arm, and then reached up with his right hand to force Maedhros’ arm down. “I will not have you attack me as your father did mine,” he snarled, and it seemed for a moment that the air around them crackled with the energy of a storm. Fingon stepped forward, and it was Maedhros now who retreated. “I will exchange words with you, but not blows, cousin. If ever you are again in peril, know that my duty to my family will bring me to your side, but I am your puppet no more.” He had Maedhros backed into a corner near the door, and here he finally made his stand. “I am Findekano, heir of the heir apparent, rightful heir to the throne. You no longer rule me, nor my heart.”
“Lovely words, but I fear they mean nothing without action,” replied Maedhros.
Fingon took a step back and reached to his neck to pull up the gold chain that hung around it. At the end dangled a locket which he opened in order to remove the contents. For a moment, he looked down at the curl of red hair in his palm, then to Maedhros. He turned on his heel and walked briskly to the fire. Once there, he blew the hairs into the crackling flames, but he did not stop there.
From each of his long braids, two on either side, he unwound the golden threads. These, too, were fed to the flames. As he walked back to Maedhros, Fingon tugged hard on the locket, breaking the chain behind his neck. He threw the damaged piece of jewelry at Maedhros’ chest as he passed and spoke as the metal hit the floor. “Your blood is on my hands no longer, cousin. Half-cousin,” he amended as he left without looking at his ex-lover.
***
In the morning, Erestor went to see his parents again. Tatie greeted him at the door, where she hugged him, fussed over his weight (or lack thereof), insisted he come in for breakfast, and would not allow him to leave the breakfast table until he had finished three pancakes, two eggs, and a large portion of fried potatoes. Erestor was glad that she was not questioning him about his refusal to eat the sausages or ham she offered him, and his father talked cheerfully and asked questions all through the meal.
“Can I ask you something?” he queried when he finally had a chance to get a word in. Tata nodded. Erestor looked down at his hands and picked at the skin around his nails and at a bit of ink dried under one of the nails themselves. “After you found out what I was, why did you try so hard to fix me? Why not try to have another child who was not.. broken?”
Tatie stopped stirring the eggs and flour for dumplings she planned to make for lunch, and Tata’s shoulders relaxed, slumping, his mouth doing the same, a frown emerging where his grin had once been.
“I mean I.. I do not hate you for it,” added Erestor. “Not anymore, at least.”
“My boy, that was never our intention to make you feel that way,” answered Tata apologetically. “We thought--”
“I thought,” corrected Tatie. She did not yet turn around, but she made sure her son knew she was responsible for the decision. “I thought we were doing the right thing. I thought.. I thought Feanaro had somehow corrupted your mind. I thought he was using you. When we found out what was going on, I was not going to have you hypnotized into thinking whatever Feanaro wanted you to.”
“I always thought you were loyal to Feanaro,” replied Erestor.
“We were loyal to Finwe,” explained Tata. He paused, eyes shifted to look at his wife. Tatie set the fork she was mixing with aside and finally, slowly, quietly she turned around to face her husband. “He should know,” whispered Tata.
“Know what?” Erestor looked from one parent to the other.
“We decided on this already,” hissed Tatie. “It is better he not know.”
“I am right here,” spoke up Erestor. “If something happened to me, I think I have a right to know.”
Tata stared back at his wife and then calmly looked back at Erestor. He reached one hand out, and with slight hesitation, Erestor put a hand upon the table and reached across until it was close enough that his father could grasp it. In a low voice, Tata looked at his son and said, “You died.”
