#ingwion

Finwë. Man's got a spikey crown. Gold, diamonds, pizazz.

Fëanor. Red was a must. Less flamboyant, but still screams power.

Ingwë. Tall, gold, stunning. He deserves it. Someone better get why the bells are there.

Ingwion. More delicate, but still shiny. Fun fact: Ingwion led the Vanyar in the War of Wrath.

Olwë. Pearls were a must. The lack of straight lines is giving water.

Ëarwen. Pearls and simplicity. She totally pushed Finarfin off the pier within minutes of first meeting him.

Alas, I did Ëarwen. I originally made it for an OC from a fic I really like, but I switched it to Ëarwen and now the theme's kinda the kings + their eldest children.

*

Ever since that day they both sat beneath the maple tree, lips stained from ripe mulberries, Findekáno has had no peace. 

He and Maitimo have been constructing this dance for some time now, carefully moving one step at a time, closer and closer. At least that was what Findekáno believed, until that day they sat together, bodies so close he could feel the beat of his cousin’s heart — and Maitimo jested freely and looked at him with such delight that Findekáno’s laughter burst from him, all his affection spilling with it — only for his friend to fall silent moments later, a dreadful silence that has robbed him of all joy ever since.

Findekáno has driven himself to madness with the questions, if it was his hand on Maitimo’s arm, or simply enough, his cousin finally seeing the truth of his heart — that Findekáno desires only their friendship no longer — and casting that truth aside. He has betrayed Maitimo's trust.

He holds the letter in his hands now, the summons to Valimar to study side by side with Manwë’s Maiar, and knows that there is little to keep him in Tirion. He takes up his quill and begins drafting his acceptance.

*

Tirion feels desolate without Findekáno. The gardens where they often walked together seem dull, the tea houses where they have spoken afternoons on end, entirely too loud.

Maitimo keeps his hands busy so his mind has no chance to murmur: he remodels his kitchens, takes up the task of translating the early laws of the Quendi for Finwë, and offers to lend a hand in his mother’s studio.

He is smoothing down a block of marble for Nerdanel, idly listening to his mother converse with Indis behind him. It is soothing to sit in the presence of their easy companionship.

“Oh, Findekáno has already charmed half of Valimar, not that it is any surprise,” the queen tells Nerdanel, all pride and delight. “Ingwion has taken quite a liking to him, for which I am glad, for he will find a good mentor in him.”

The steady tempo of Maitimo’s chiseling halts. He knows Ingwion, the Crown Prince of the Vanyar, quite well: tall, golden, all laughter and song, a fruit of Laurelin grown into an elven body.

He is happy for Findekáno, of course.

When Indis and Nerdanel depart, Maitimo remains. His chisel doesn’t rest until his arms are trembling.

*

The air of Valimar is as a meadow of wildflowers in the warmth, bursting in sweetness, a city as golden as freshly drawn honey. And when the bells of the towers ring out, it is music that resonates not in the ears only, but deeply within the heart.

It is not that Findekáno is blind to this splendor, to the loveliness of his grandmother’s people, and yet…

“A heavy heart is an ill companion for such a light spirit, my friend,” Ingwion says when they take a rest from their hike in the woods beneath the Pelóri.

Findekáno has taken solace in Ingwion’s friendship, for the prince’s song unravels in low and even notes, a balm for the burning ache left by Maitimo’s fire.

“Am I so easy to read?” Findekáno finds it in himself to jest.

His friend smiles, and offers what comfort he can: “The Valar are generous, let this beauty they have wrought soothe thy ache.”

It is as good a wisdom as any. Findekáno inhales deeply, steading himself, but as he looks up to where the crowns of the maples have ripened into deep, rich copper, all he can see is a reminder of beloved tresses.

*

I have been granted the honors to lead a hymn in Manwë’s honor at the Longest Mingling, but this joy is dimmed by the lack of you, dearest cousin. How I have missed you.

So Findekáno had written in his last letter. Maitimo has read it time and again, held the letter so long that the tengwar upon the edges has begun fading.

How I have missed you. Oh, Ilúvatar above, if those are not the same words that Maitimo has written in his own letters, only to shred his drafts to pieces.

How I have missed you. It was all it took, and Maitimo finds himself in Valimar, eyes searching desperately between the lines of elves and Maiar, shining in silver and gold as if Varda has lowered her stars from the sky.

When Findekáno walks across the stage, Maitimo turns blind to all else. The light of the trees exists in Arda to shine upon his cousin’s smile, and naught else, he is certain.

The moment Findekáno sings out, Manwë's winds carrying his clear voice down the hills, Maitimo understands at last: he loves Findekáno, and no matter the pain, he would do nothing to change that truth.

*

The crowd erupts in cheers and praise, hands land upon his shoulders in congratulations, but what should be a fruit of delight is soured by Maitimo’s absence. Findekáno had gathered all his courage to write, to invite Maitimo here, only to be wounded again by the same blow, that silence resting heavier than the snow that blankets the peaks of Taniquetil.

“Findekáno.” The voice comes softly behind him, only a note above a whisper, but he knows that voice. 

“Maitimo.” Findekáno turns, all hope and trepidation. 

“Your voice is a marvel, dear cousin,” Maitimo says, his smile gentle and contained but his eyes dancing restlessly as a critter trapped without escape. “What a gift to hear it on such a holy day.”

His copper hair flowing freely down his shoulders, attired in that deep blue that Findekáno loves – Maitimo is so beautiful that it hurts. Findekáno’s heart is a moth trapped within glass. “Your coming here is the greatest gift of all.”

He is rewarded by Maitimo’s smile, and when his cousin speaks next, it is with renewed strength. “I read your letters,” his cousin begins as he takes a step closer. “There were some things I wished to say before you left, and I thought, well, I’ve been thinking aplenty since you’ve been gone.”

Maitimo’s words falter, and if he keeps his gaze fixed on Findekáno’s face, it is clearly with every last bit of courage that dwells within him. 

“You can tell me anything, dearest Maitimo.” Findekáno cannot help it, he reaches for his cousin’s hand. “Anything at all, and it shall change my heart not at all.” 

“Always the valiant,” his cousin smiles a bit and squeezes his fingers with his own. He inhales deeply. “You mean to me more than you know, Findekáno. More than a brother, more than a friend. And you see, I was a fool to believe that if I said as much to you, it would lead you to abandon our friendship. That we would not find a way to overcome that burden, even if you don’t feel the same as I.”

Oh, the joy of a prayer answered, at last! Findekáno opens his mouth and his voice is laughter, the moth of his heart taking flight at once. “Ay, beloved Maitimo, a fool indeed! Ever since I was a child I have dreamt of this, of standing in song upon Manwë’s very feet, of seeing the Longest Mingling in all its glory. And now that I am here, all that delight seems a twinkle beside the brightness that is you here, beside me. You are more precious to me than the treelight itself, can’t you see?”

With each word, they have fitted their bodies closer, hands entwined, knees touching, eyes all for each other. Maitimo lets go to cup his face between his hands.

“May I?” 

“Please.”

W/o names and the reference: