#goldribbon

Aikanár looks at him as if he had just insulted his mother. Gapes at him like a confused fish. Then Aikanár punches his shoulder, not with true strength, but enough for a mild sting. “Ai! Ai, ai! He insults me! He dares! Ah! Now I know I am not loved by the one I consider my best friend!”

Best friend.

The word hangs low and awkward between them, like a shameful secret pulled unto light. The awkwardness spreads quickly, and as their meager little light wavers, so do their smiles. Findekáno has the decency to look away first. Aikanár makes a show of crushing some lembas crumbs into the dirt. 

“Mah, Finno-finno. I hope you have some plan as to how we might locate Maitimo soon. We cannot be spending the rest of our days like monkeys up here. I want to be back on good, flat ground,” Aikanár says in a very bright tone, if only to dispel the dreadful silence. 

“I know,” Findekáno finally turns his gaze to look at him again. “But I feel in my heart of hearts we will locate him soon.”

Aikanár blinks – then laughs at his words. A breeze blows and musses his wild mass of flaxen blond curls. “Heart of hearts! He he he! I knew not my best friend is also a compass! Show me the true north, Finno-finno! Please? Can I tie you up on the mast of my ship, and perhaps you can tell me the direction that way! He he he!”

Ai! Findekáno flushes in embarrassment. He picks up one of the discarded wrapping leaves of their lembas and mooshes it over Aikanár’s face.

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“I will not give you permission to wed!” Finrod roars back, rage in his eyes and demeanor. “I will never allow your betrothal and your wedding, for as long as you and I both live! Never! You hear me?! Never!”

“Get out of my land–!” Egg screams. “Get out of Dorthonion–!”

“Ha! You send me out? I am your King, your liege-lord! You hold Dorthonion only because I will it! I am the Head of your House, and no marriage will take place between you and this adaneth, ever! I swear it!”

Angrod manages to bodily pull him from the room in a feat of strength. Though his words are true – that his brothers are his vassals, it is Finrod who leaves Dorthonion that same day, opting to return to Nargothrond. He does not even remember making the journey. He is fueled by anger and fear, such terrible fear. 

If Egg forsakes the immortality of the Eldar in such a mindless, thoughtless decision, and he too suffers the same fate Balan did – growing old, sick, and weak, eventually forgetting anything, blind – Finrod knows he will most certainly die from grief very close afterward. He will not live through such a loss. Not Egg’s loss. Not the brother whom he raised as a son.

It was unfair of Egg to ask him this.

To accede to his wish to die?

And for what? For an adaneth he met in only one day, spent time with less than a month, whom he says he thinks he loves?

Egg hurt Finrod today more than all the sorrows the world has thrown against him so far ever did.

[withered / AO3]

International Childhood Cancer Day (ICCD) is observed annually on February 15th to raise awareness about childhood cancer and to express support for children and adolescents with cancer, survivors, and their families. This day serves as a reminder of the importance of early detection, diagnosis, and treatment of pediatric cancers, as well as the need for continued research, funding, and support for those affected.

Aikanar is looking at him from where he is kneeling on the edge of the window. He has one of his soft smiles over his lips, the rare ones. Usually, it is bright, it is loud, it is wild. (It is no less lovely.)

It is one of those smiles that make Fingon's heart flicker in his chest, as if butterflies bloomed there and decided to make it a nest. It is one of those smiles that makes him answer it in kind, the dimples crease over his cheeks, and the gaze they exchange to be coated in years and years of love and friendship.

More than friendship, now.

(He doesn't quite measure his luck, still. He thought, for the longest of times, that Egg would never look at him like this, would always overlook him and go see others: others that looked like him, but, never, never him.)

(It made him weep into his grandfather's hold once, after council. He had just wanted to ask Haru Finwë something and found himself sniffling, and then weeping, asking, why, why, why it was that himself was always pushed to the side, and another favoured. Why it was that Egg would look for him in each and every of his conquests, from the soft black hair to the dimples, but never look at him, who stood so close.)

But now, now... Fingon sighs, inhales. He runs his fingers into his hair, unbraided. He has to do them back, but he can not find in him the motivation. Perhaps it is that Egg is toying with the ribbons, and he is loath to take them out of his hands.

"I could do your hair, if you want," Aikanar softly says.

Fingon smiles. "Could you? I would wish to leave with my scalp still on my head."

A splutter, mixed with a laugh. "I can! I could! I'll let you know that I made hanno's hair many times! You remember that time with the shells? It was me who did it !"

"Prove it to me then," Fingon says. He is teasing only, a twinkle in his eyes.

Egg doesn't need to be told twice. He comes closer, his fingers dancing over Fingon's nape. He bends, and brushes his lips there, the faintest touch, and yet it runs the length of his whole body. Oh. How he loves him, he thinks.

Egg is chattering happily, some times to times stealing a kiss on that nape, then on the cheek, right over Fingon's dimples. He says words that Fingon does not hear, too busy biting his inner cheeks, electrified by those kisses.

A final touch, and Egg pulls back, pressing his lips over his cheeks one last time. "There," he murmurs.

Fingon looks at his braid. It is a lovely one - but a few strands are pulling out. He looks at Aikanar, whose bright smile could rivalise with Laurelin.

@dalliansss

Now

aegnor/fingon + 22 = in a rush of adrenaline

With wild eyes Aegnor scans the horizon, and sees nothing but the closing in of the orcs, the mad ululation of the numbers of Angband rising around him and Angrod like an unseen wall. He hefts his sword -- half of his face is sticky with blood -- and he hacks at the nearest orcs he can reach.

Angrod is still struggling beside him, spitting out blood. "Ai--kanár," his brother pants. "Just--go. Go--!"

"Be quiet, Anga!" Aegnor yells as he decapitates another orc. "I'm not leaving you here, I'm not--"

Around them, the world burned. His lungs hurt. Every breath-- the fire is closing in-- and he wonders: where are you, hanno? Where are you? Where is Turu? Where is Finno?

Scarce the thought left him that the trumpets of the riders of Fingon sounds, and Aegnor feels strength return to his arms. Silver shafts with the colors of Dor-lomin rain down upon the brutish orc horde, scattering them, and the cavalry follows, sweeping in with their war-cry, swords and blades and shields flashing.

"Anga, look, look, you ass, we're saved, we're saved, it's Finno--"

Aegnor feels the tears escape his eyes and create muddy trails down his soot-covered cheeks. There-- there, armored, his blue cape tainted with ash and blood, Fingon pulls his stallion to a halt, and already he's clambering down-- and Aegnor feels himself run, all care and caution and tact thrown to the wind.

If the world burns now, I care not.

Finno has barely removed his helmet. Aegnor crashes into him, hands grabbing his cheeks, and like this, he crushes their lips together. Fingon's lips have never tasted so sweet, and Aegnor feels as if he had arisen from the dead, newly returned from Mandos.

He hugs him next, and Aegnor lets more tears ago.