#mereth aderthad

It feels out of place to see his cousin so, resistant to the rhythms that make the very ground shake, for in Valinor, Maitimo had been a marvel on the dancefloors of Tirion. His dancing was ever mesmerizing – each step its own artform, every movement fluid and precise, his feet light as a deer despite the height of him. Fingon recalls the uncountable times he has watched his cousin twirl, awed in his younger years, peeking from behind the pillars of Finwë’s halls, and later, joining Maitimo and matching him step for step. They had ever moved well together, their dance as effortless as their friendship. But Maitimo is only a faint echo in the person who now converses with Beleg; gone are the ornate gowns, intricate braids, and carefully chosen jewellery that used to flash in the Treelight; gone is the dancing. The lord of Himring is a pragmatic creature, attired formally but plainly, his hair bound in a simple braid behind his head. Not once has Fingon seen him dance in these new lands, and if Maedhros’ feet remember the old patterns, it is only when battle finds them, the sword his only partner in this new choreography. 

Despite knowing this, arriving at the feast, a small part of Fingon had still hoped to meet Maitimo of old, even if for a little while, even for one dance. How he has longed to take his cousin’s hand once again, wrap his arm around the strong shoulders and let his feet follow where his partner leads. But the livelier the music gets, the further Maedhros seems to be from the dancing circle, trapped into yet another negotiation with yet another envoy of a neighboring land. Each time a familiar song comes up, Fingon seeks his cousin’s gaze, and each time their eyes meet, he is greeted by his cousin’s warm smile, a hint of Maitimo, of longing, before he looks away and composes his face in the mask that is Maedhros.

The drumbeat grows fiercer, strengthened by the voices of the singers, and Fingon is restless. He considers joining the intricate chain of elves holding hands, their stomping enriching the beat of the drummers. Several of the dancers smile at him in invitation, each wishing for the Prince of the Noldor to choose a place beside them, but Fingon has no wish to dance with any other. Quieting his heart, he turns and makes for the woods, passing unnoticed as a cat between the circles of tents and the glades where games of all sorts unfold, until he is so far away that even the deep notes of the drummers fade behind him.

If Maedhros won’t join, Fingon shall dance on his own — nay, not alone, he shall dance with Endórë, who knows every rhythm his heart may conjure. For Beleriand has her own voice, her own Music, for those willing to listen, and Fingon finds that he can hear it best here where Ulmo’s waters flow the swiftest. He needs no other music than the birdsong of night, the rustling of the wind as it weaves through leaf and grass, the strength of the waterfalls as they crash against rock. He opens his heart and fills himself with it all, breathing in the land, inhaling and exhaling with the tempo she dictates – like a thunderstorm, it shocks his body into movement, pulsing beneath his skin and Fingon begins dancing. 

With each twirl, Fingon rids himself of anything that may constrict his movement, boots chucked each to their own side, long robes abandoned on a branch, hair ties and jewels strewn between the bushes. His bare feet glide back and forth on the damp ground, gently, lightly, with just enough strength to jump higher but not enough to where the plants shall be trampled. Move as one with the wind, he recalls Indis’ teachings, stir the blooms of flowers, shake the branches of trees, ruffle the blades of grass, and all will grow beneath your feet. Fingon spins and spins, caressing the greenery about him, kissing the breeze, letting himself be enchanted by Endórë, his dancing partner for the night.

“I am rather jealous.” A voice comes behind him, stilling Fingon’s feet. 

Maedhros’ crimson robes stand out starkly in the night, a single blooming rose, carefully trimmed, between the wilderness of the untended greenery. For all he professes his jealousy, his eyes twinkle with mirth, the scars on his face softened by gladness. 

“My companion is generous,” Fingon whispers, weaving an enchantment of his own. “Come and join us.” 

A moment of hesitation, two, but then Fingon holds out his hand, all of him pulsing with the rhythm of the wilds, and the resistance shatters. Maedhros swiftly crosses the path between the blooming bushes, shedding his robes as he goes, and sets his fingers into Fingon’s waiting palm. Fingon draws him in, snaking his hand up the strong chest until it settles at the nape of his cousin’s neck, Maedhros in turn folds his height around him, and then they are off. None between them leads, yet they both follow; the pattern entirely new, nothing they have ever been taught and somehow still well-known, deeply familiar. Their wrists turn in sync, their fingers brush, their breathless laughter mingles; Maedhros steps where Fingon’s foot has been, Fingon spins where Maedhros’ arms have swung. 

When they finally encountered each other at the Mereth Aderthad, he eyed Daeron warily and found the Sinda cautiously eyeing him back. Daeron, he thought, might not have been hearing about him as long as he had been hearing about Daeron, but he clearly had been getting more than an earful recently. Maglor inclined his head. Daeron politely inclined his; then he stepped back beside his Sinda companion, the visibly sturdier and more warlike Mablung.

After that, it all became very embarrassing very quickly indeed. Eventually he and Daeron had caught each other loitering at the fringes of each other’s audience one too many times--unconvincingly pretending a merely casual interest as if they had just happened to be passing by--and they both decided to give up their ridiculous game of hide-and-seek. When they next ran across each other again among the crowds of festival-goers, they grabbed each other simultaneously like over-eager lovers and unceremoniously dragged each other into the shelter of the next storage tent.

A while later, Fingon came rushing in, apparently bent on making sure they were not strangling each other, but stopped in his tracks at once and retreated outside again on tiptoe.

‘It’s all right’, he was heard reassuring concerned bystanders on the other side of the tent wall. ‘Really, it’s all right! Artists being artists, you know. Just ignore the shouting and swearing…’

‘Being artists?’ Mablung’s voice asked, sounding a bit sceptical.

‘Music’, replied Fingon, tersely, ‘some minor differences in the fingering of certain chords between the Iathrim and the northern Sindar which I confess had completely escaped my notice until now. But I’m afraid my cousin is rather prone to get excitable about such things…’

Sometime later, Maedhros touched Maglor’s elbow and drew his attention to the basket containing a jug of water, a bottle of wine and a packet of flat-bread cut into handy bite-sized pieces, which he had just deposited next to him. When he was certain that the content of the basket had properly registered with his brother, he nodded, smiled and quietly withdrew.

But Maglor and Daeron went right on exchanging tunes, lyrics and techniques, taking turns, with hardly a break even for a sip and a bite, until they were hoarse as crows, their fingertips were bleeding, and their arms felt as if they were about to fall off. They stumbled out of the tent into the dusk of the following day, blinking and weaving like drunks on their way to their respective beds. But after they had slept off their musical hangover, they performed together every evening for the remaining duration of the Mereth Aderthad and to resounding success.