6. Glass, Cut: V
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of Day.'
God came to Fingon in a white dream one night.
’Eru,’ he said devoutly
pleased and not a bit afraid.
He was blessed and gently promised joy.
’Would such-and-such honour You?’ the elf asked Him.
The dream grew lofty.
I am benevolent, and a just One,
not the judgement of your kin
that believes oneness to imply one law.
The Flame is not in such ways banked.
Of course it pleases Me, loved child.
Therefore bind yourself to him
with this My gift to all who will receive it.
He so said and vanished…
then reappeared briefly, brow clouded.
Look after him a bit, will you? He asked.
You will prevail, son of mine, but the world will hurt him.
No, Eru, please!
Hurt me instead, he begged in earnest.
God smiled indulgently.
It has not been sung, He said, and left again.
Next day. Perfect weather.
The most beautiful elf in Valinor holds court on the steps of Tirion’s council.
That is the right word. Beautiful, breathes Fingon the innocent,
gazing out through the golden leaves of the tree.
He does not know why, but it is the sweet womanliness
of his brother’s arrogance, and the curve of his long body
lazily draped over the marble,
at the feast of high ideas that the young and dazzled and over-serious like to raise
when he is in their midst.
Was there any ever like him?
Clever and kind and bored as hell,
He is waiting for something to happen, that one
paying half-attention to the talk, as befits the worthy son of a brilliant father.
A brilliant, narcissistic father, one might add
who knows the value of time spent thinking about oneself instead of others -
his eye falls on Fingon through the leaves.
Little cousin, yes?
Why is he looking at me like that?
No. He looks – happy.
Make that – expectant.
He’d put his arms around himself in a minute.
Mm. It does feel nice,
to be watched over so.
Did I just say that? ‘Watched over’?
My, Maitimo, wits about!
Oh, you there, young one,
I command you.
Young Fingon walks out ahead
under the beckoning glance, hot
quivering with god-given courage
And arriving before him, stands
and swallows in silence. Drinks
the fine scent in.
The crowd frays and dissolves around the rim of his vision.
Maedhros arches a russet brow. ‘Why are you here?’
Shining, gasping, he
is in that moment struck dumb.
Eyes squeeze shut and open. The world threateningly
edges back into view.
So he smiles, turns and flees, breath starry about him.
Thus began the watch of Fingon
Furtive and fearful, shy and grim
day after day.
In a hall. Watch, smile, turn, flee.
At the baths. Watch, smile, turn, flee.
Gardens, watch, turn, flee.
White street, watch, flee.
He kept his secret and his promise.
And Maedhros, made swan to a sweet, moody rook,
Watched the clouds passing over his pool
There is here a doubt: How do two imperfect halves make a whole?
Foolish question. Your art
monocles you into believing a circle perfect,
yet a pair of twins in a womb
asleep in upside-down whorls,
These too are perfect
and not a circle.
(Your round compass misses every point but one.)
Your geometry has beguiled you
into it’s curved eyepatch of reason.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.