Loving Maitimo meant almost becoming part of his family
Findekáno never noticed how he was growing distant from his own.
Featuring: tragic queerplatonic Russingon and Turukáno (aka #1 Russingon hater).
Of course, in the middle of that frozen wasteland, Turukáno is not angry with Findekáno. Why would he be? Can Findekáno be blamed for what Fëanáro and his accursed sons have done? Does Findekáno not freeze alongside them? And does Findekáno not suffer more than the others?
Of course, in the middle of that frozen wasteland, does not Findekáno feel guilty. Could he have prevented the burning of the ships? Had Maitimo said a single word to him about what his father intended? Was Findekáno not just as sickened, just as filthy, just as cold?
It is brotherly concern, of course, not remorse — not a desire to appease Turukáno’s anger — that makes Findekáno share his ration with his younger brother and wrap him in his own clothes. Try to, at least. Logically, he seeks to convince his brother: I know you gave half of your portion to Idril. Turno, you need more food, more warmth than I do. You’re so much bigger than me.
Turukáno agrees, but whatever strength he draws seems to come not from the meagre portion itself, but from sheer resentment, from the humiliation of having to accept Findekáno’s help.
Ah, yes. Of course he has always thought Findekáno beneath him.
Turno has always held his head so high. Calm, reasonable, dignified, wise — so much like their father. He despised Findekáno’s carefree, irresponsible antics, precisely when he himself had reached the best age for them. Always, he was buried in his books, always looking at Findekáno with that faintly disapproving expression.
Or perhaps it was Findekáno who had always been so restless that he could not spend even five minutes in the nursery — back when Turukáno might have grown attached to him. Perhaps Findekáno had never had the patience to fuss over children — back when he might have been needed by Turukáno.
The truth is, he is not Maitimo. Findekáno was jealous, but never of the fact that he was not so close to his own family. “I love you like my brothers,” Russandol would say. “Get in line,” Findekáno would hear.
It is an unfair game anyway, because Findekáno has been there for so long, while Maitimo’s brothers kept coming along, each new infant — each stranger — stepping ahead of Findekáno in that line.
Make no mistake: Maitimo was gentle and loving — with all of his brothers. So warm, so sincere that it almost did not hurt to know that brotherly love was the only love Maitimo could give him.
Findekáno thought: how intoxicating, to be his brother. He forgot that he would never been even that. Standing last in line, it was hardly surprising to end up left behind.
And Turukáno is right to be angry. He looks at his elder brother with eyes full of storm, as though to say: Don’t you dare pity yourself. Don’t you dare miss him.
Turno is his remorse. Turno is his rage — at Maitimo’s sweet, heart-tugging, utterly deceitful smiles. Turno can scour from him that miserable, bleating inner voice: But perhaps Maitimo did not know—
When Findekáno tries to embrace his grief-stricken brother, he gets punched in the teeth. He can already feel the icy wind that will bite at his battered lips the moment they continue their journey. He accepts it as a reprieve.
They do not move now, except that Findekáno sinks onto the floor of the tent beneath his brother’s weight, for just a moment thinking that he missed the moment when Turno became taller than Maitimo. Findekáno thinks he tastes ash in his mouth.
Turukáno cries against his chest. Eru, when has this ever happened? Turukáno never cried when he was little. And the ugly little voice in Findekáno’s head whispers: How would you know?
Turukáno is so big now, and yet he still fits against his chest. And maybe there is something Findekáno can still fix.
(I swear, if nobody hates Russingon, Turgon is dead)
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