faderift | THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

WHO: Any Inquisition members + all rifters
WHAT: A semi-involuntary tropical island vacation
WHEN: Kingsway 20 onward
WHERE: The sea and an island east of Rivain
NOTES: OOC post.

I. THE JOURNEY

Two ships depart from Kirkwall on the morning tide, sturdy vessels crewed by veteran sailors--but a mere skeleton crew, as it turns out, or so a few of them would have you believe. They're prone to assigning tasks to anyone who happens not to look busy, shoving ropes into hands without a care for station or experience, barking out instructions and expecting to be obeyed. With plenty of work to do the journey seems quick, and besides the unexpected chores it's otherwise smooth sailing through the Waking Sea. Some claim to've spotted the Windline Marcher one night, but it could just as easily have been clouds on the horizon, and that's it for excitement until the ships round the island of Brandel's Reach and out into open ocean, the ever-present coastline finally falling away behind.

The sky is bigger out there and the waves are too, especially when a storm strikes a few days out, dark clouds and driving rain sending any inexperienced sailors below decks to wait it out. The worst of it being the pitch of the ship rolling up and crashing down the massive waves, and the way the hold fills with the stench of people being sick. But the next morning dawns calm and clear and with no lasting damage done.

The group is bound for a desert island, drawn on maps with a big deep cove like a bite chomped out the side it, and a narrow channel through the surrounding reefs to reach it. That's the only moment of true tension on the voyage: as soundings are taken every few feet and the helmsmen adjust and readjust in response, carefully threading the needle to avoid running aground on ship-killing banks of sharp coral.

Both ships make it, and anchor offshore in the bay in the sheltering lee of a cliff, safe from future storms. The first party ashore reports back that Qunari are present in the area, but while they've displayed a palpable wariness, hostility does not seem their aim today, and they retreat back up to the hills above the beach as Inquisition forces arrive. Anyone able-bodied is tasked with assisting in unloading, and those less hale with helping the quartermaster's assistants track the process to make sure nothing goes astray between hold and shore.

Camp is to be a collection of tents: large ones beneath which makeshift facilities for cooking, eating, and working are set up, and many small ones designed to hold 2-4 Inquisition agents. They're still hammering stakes into the sand and tying off ropes to the sturdier palms when a shout goes up, though anyone present who possesses an anchor shard will not need to be told: a rift has opened nearby, a couple hundred yards out into the bay, a knot of shapes splashing about it. Better hope the rifters can swim.

II. ARRIVAL

Rifters

You were asleep--deeply or fitfully, for the last time or just resting your eyes for a moment-- and then you were not. And wherever you were was not, anymore, replaced by nothing but the sensation of falling, tumbling into endless, bottomless nothing. If this were still a dream, you would wake before you hit the ground. You can't die in a dream, they say. In some worlds.

In this world, when the afterimage left by a flare of too-bright, greenish light fades, you will find yourself at sea. Not metaphorically (though perhaps that too) but literally: dropped into what is unmistakably the ocean, from the salt in your mouth and the incessant slosh of waves into your face, the squawk of gulls circling overhead. You had better start treading water.

Thankfully, if you can keep your head above the waves long enough to make a quick inspection, it turns out that land is in sight, only a few hundred yards off. Unfortunately, between you and it is a strange slash of greenish light. It sticks up out of the water but seems to continue beneath as well, turning the otherwise-turquoise waters the same pale greenish shade of a man gone seasick. The cluster of demons emerging from the rift are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who flail about like stickbugs dropped in pond, but use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, their shrouds sodden and draped in seaweed. Others are mere wisps of greenish light that float easily over the surface. While you might get the impression they are as surprised as you to find themselves in the drink, any humor that might bring is probably outweighed by how angry it seems to make them.

If that were not enough to contend with, there is also the narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. But there is some good news: from the beach over yonder boats are launching. Perhaps they'll save you.

Rescue

As if rescuing rifters from drowning and demons weren't hard enough work, all the commotion in the water inevitably draws the attention of the local predators. But what arrives isn't the usual eel or ray or even a shark: it's something much bigger and much...redder?

Slinking through the water comes the flash of a fin and the glint of a scaly back, so quick and sinuous it's hard to say how many of the sea serpents there are. As wide around as the circle of a man's arms, with snapping jaws lined with an unnatural number of curving teeth, but what should be smooth snakey curves are instead jagged with the jut of brilliant red crystals that catch the light and make the sea seem to be already splattered with blood. They're studded all over its body, making any even glancing blow carry twice the danger: there's not just the stunning force of the strike to worry about or the possibility of being coiled in a crushing grip, but also being sliced and gored by red lyrium.

And the serpents aren't alone. While all eyes are on the churning water and the incredible sight of demons battling it out with sea monsters (because everything in that water is fair game to the beasts, not just the Inquisition), one sailor is suddenly plucked out his boat and carried screaming down into the depths by a great, crystal-encrusted tentacle. Cleansing runes are effective, but the monsters are canny enough to avoid capture, falling back into deeper water before attacking again. The arrival of a red lyrium-tainted kraken is just about the final straw for the ship's crew, and after seeing the monsters come dangerously close to cleverly flipping one of the longboats, they insist that the Inquisition row back for shore.

If flight is hard to stomach, consider it a tactical retreat: in shallower water the great bulks of the monsters become a liability, thrashing about among the rocks as they try to give chase. Escape back to the beach is possible, and surely the safer course, but it may be possible to lure one of the sea serpents into a tide pool or to beach itself up on the sands. The rest continue to prowl the bay, visible circling the ships at anchor and making any return impossible for the time being.

III. STRANDED

Once everyone is safely on land and out of the monsters' reach—after any wounds have been seen to, with particular attention given to any that may have been exposed to red lyrium—it's obvious that there's no way to leave for the time being. There isn't much to do but to try to make the most of things and try to accomplish what you came here for.

Some of the team will be tasked with continuing to set up camp. Now that the stay might be longer than a single night, it needs to be a little sturdier. The beach and cove are protected from harsh winds and exposure by a half-circle of rocky cliffs, and the Qunari communicate in grunts and one-word answers that large predators make sleeping in the jungle itself a bad idea. They've only been here a few days (that much can be gleaned despite their reticence), but some of the untamed jungle has been cut through to make clear paths to fresh water and fruit sources.

Penetrating the rest of the island is slow, difficult work—though magic may make it easier. The goal is near the top of the formerly volcanic peak in the island's center, but hacking through the growth to create a path may abruptly become a waste of time when it gives way to a steep drop-off or an equally steep incline and forces everyone to double back and try another route. If there was ever a clear road to the top, it's gone now, grown over during centuries of abandonment. But there are signs of past habitation: the lower portions of the island are spotted with crumbling ruins, chunks of moss-coated wall rising out of the forest floor, the occasional pillar looming up amongst the trees. Some have architecture and faded murals that are distinctly elven. Others, more recent, are clearly human, including a statue of Andraste in the center of a clearing. Others are harder to identify.

The predators the Qunari were trying to warn everyone about turn out to be real--they're large, jet-black cats about the size of a height of a mabari but longer, with short manes, near-scaley skin, and horns almost like the Qunari's. And before anyone gets any ideas about keeping one, they're fiercely territorial—always likely to try to eat your face, but doubly so if you come near their adorable kittens. Feeding them may buy a moment or two for escape, but nothing is going to win them over.

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Only if you are alive. He has felt dead since Fingon's death and the volcano merely finished the job. Once he corners his cousin, he cannot help but touch him and assure himself of his solidity.

Madness creates fleeting visions; not what he feels under his hands. Take comfort. Take comfort. Fingon's heart isn't the only one racing.

"I don't know. I fell...through fire...then I landed in water." his expression clouds, "I fought to the surface and found myself whole."

Is that what it is like to be Reborn?

"Finno..." a hand raises and touches his cousin's cheek, "Keep talking. I have missed your voice."

"Fire?" Fingon remembers the water well enough, and the green light that proceeded it; but there was no flame that he can remember. But if the fire was from when they were still on Arda...

Fingon's face darkens, and he reaches up to cradle Maedhros' face. "Dragons?" He growls, ready to pull his cousin close. "Or has the Enemy devised some new monstrosity for us to deal with?"

But whatever happened, Fingon realizes with a growing lump in his throat, it must have thrown Maedhros terribly for him to cling so. So he nods and kneels down in the dirt, pulling Maedhros to him in a tight embrace. "It doesn't matter, though. I have you now, Russandol, and there's nothing we cannot face together. It's all right. You'll see."

Edited 2017-09-21 05:00 (UTC)

The fire is in his eyes, the flames licking at the blue that used to contain some sanity. He is still falling in his mind, regretting every inch of the journey as his body bursts into white hot heat and agony. Fingon's assumption therefore confuses him, at first, and he leans into the hands, lips parted.

"There were no dragons." his expression crumbles tragically and he gives a quiet sob that he cannot contain, "...me."

He is the monstrosity that Morgoth unknowingly begot. He is battered and broken and his tears will not stop coming now that he is in beloved arms.

"Had to...face it without...you." and that is part of why everything became impossible. His arms lift shakily, slipping around Fingon and clinging fiercely. His mind and body feel the rapture of familiarity...of love...

He is not worthy of any of it.

Fingon looks in those eyes and his face darkens at the sight; there's an abyss behind that familiar gaze, and Fingon can't tell what's brought it forth. It's only clear that his cousin is hurt, more wounded than Fingon has ever seen, and he does not yet know how to ensure such a thing never happens again.

And Maedhros' response isn't terribly helpful. "You?" Fingon repeats in bewilderment. But as his old friend falls to pieces he pushes those concerns aside. It's more important to calm Maedhros, to stroke his hair and whisper comfort into his ears.

He will soon need to get this whole story out of Maedhros, Fingon knows, and it somehow seems unlikely that he will like what he hears. But as his cousin shakes in his arms, beautiful as the dawn but so strangely fragile, he decides that it can wait.

"But you have me now," he promises, kissing Maedhros on the forehead, "and I shall not leave you, my heart."

The sweet bewilderment, in better circumstances, would have made him laugh. Maedhros can feel a heavy wave of nausea bearing down on him. I'm hurting him again. I'm tainting him. Like I did to Kano. Like I did to...everyone. Maybe even Fëanor too. Maybe it has been his fault - his failure, his doing - all along. His tears are hot on his cheeks, burning like the sparks that pop off a burning log.

"I ruined...everyone. Kano...myself... The jewels rejected us." he tries to make himself deaf to the comfort, but his body trembles, aching for it, "Our hands couldn't hold them! We were unworthy after committing so many evil deeds."

Maedhros cannot think for a moment, his mind wiped blank by the kiss. He presses as close to Fingon as he can get, heart pounding.

"Finno, you must leave me. I will only hurt you and I won't be there when you most need me." his voice cracks, his throat dry, "That is who I am. I stand beside those I claim to love and then, when they need me most, I fail them. I abandon them."

Edited 2017-09-23 00:33 (UTC)

"No, love," Fingon tells his weeping cousin, even the dread of what he will hear sinks further into his bones. "Many have been your deeds, both for good and for ill; but to taint all around you? That is far beyond your power. This is despair speaking in my Maitimo's voice, not truth."

But what Maedhros has to say is more than alarming enough, and Fingon ignore the events Maedhros describes. The questions mount: what is this about Maglor? When did his cousins find the Silmarils?

Why does he have the feeling that the "evil deeds" Maedhros refers to are not simply Alqualonde?

As Maedhros speaks Fingon only grips him tighter, as if the embrace could keep him safe from all peril. "No," he states, low but clear and firm as a battle command. "No to leaving you, and no to such a vision of yourself. Whatever truth is there is so distorted it may as well be a lie. I see you better, and I know differently."

Edited 2017-09-23 05:29 (UTC)

"...please..." Maedhros does not know whether he begs Fingon to abide by his better sense and leave or to stay. His heart - his fëa - cries out for the latter and he is struck by his cousin's gentle warmth. He wishes he could curl up with him and sleep his nightmares away.

He never learns and he fears he never shall.

"I lost Himring and my brothers. I led a siege on Doriath and left it in ruin. All for one of the Silmarils, which eluded our grasp even after we ensured the kingdom was dead." his eyes are hollow; there is no pride behind these monstrous deeds, "A pair of precious twins was lost to us - King Díor's sons - though I searched the forest for them many a day. I know the predators must have found them and devoured them." his lips twist, "Then we learned that their sister had survived - the Silmaril in her grasp. We followed her to her kingdom - the Havens of Sirion - and began the slaughtering anew. She leapt into the sea with the jewel and we took her twin sons into our custody."

Elrond... Elros...

"It was remarkable, then, for a time. Kano and I raised the boys and we remembered..." his eyes overflow and he blinks to rid them of tears.

Fingon stills, his fingers digging into Maedhros' skin. "Maitimo, stop this. Please. You know I won't be moved if I do not wish to be, so all you can do with this request is hurt yourself."

If it hurts Fingon as well, that is secondary. He can withstand Maedhros' flailing attempts to help while hurting; whether his cousin can do the same at the moment is less certain.

So, apparently, is whether anyone else can withstand a Maedhros driven on by rage and fear and loss.

"Doriath?" Fingon exclaims, so loud that half the camp might have heard them. "Of all the places to besiege, Maitimo- why?"

There's little fondness for the Sindarin King who tried to suffocate Quenya in Hithlum, but there are hundreds of thousands of people within the kingdom's borders. All of them innocents.

And he knows the answer, of course. Neither law nor love nor league of swords Maedhros had sworn, and could not break it. They'd both known that somehow Thingol would have to be made to see reason on the subject of his ill-gotten gem, but Fingon had always hoped-

Does it matter now, what he had hoped? Obviously, none of it was coming to pass.

"What happened next?" He manages to choke out eventually.

"You will wish to be." he promises hollowly, idly running his fingers down one of Fingon's braids. His love for his cousin cannot be more obvious and he feels reckless. If this is the last time they will speak - if this is the last time Fingon will think some good of him...

Greedy murderer; lying thief; detestable manipulator! His hand freezes in its task, his breathing shallow.

"You know why." he makes no move to quiet his cousin. Let him cry it out to this world and Arda too. Everyone should know the horrible truth. Yet, though it disgusts him, the death of the people of Doriath is not the tragedy that makes him suffer the most.

You wandered both near and far, returning to me the instant I needed you. Except once. That time, Maedhros had been the one who sought Fingon. Only to find him...

He is not cruel enough to relate that tale. Not yet.

"We returned the Peredhels to their rightful kin and journeyed onward. Kano wished to be done with the Oath, but I... I forced him into abiding by it. After the War of Wrath, we snuck into the camp of the Host of the West, slew some guards and stole the jewels. Lord Eönwë, who had denied us the Silmarils, finding us too cruel, did not stop us then. I did not understand why until the jewels rejected us." he lifts his left hand, "They burned through our skin and would have taken our hands. I could not stand it. I lost all hope...all sanity... I consigned myself to yet more fire to end it."

"Let me be the judge of that," is Fingon's answer, his voice stern even as his heart breaks. Maedhros is no monster, Fingon knows that all too well- but he is dangerous, and Fingon has known that too. And the sorrow he feels at his cousin's state mixes with frustration and with rage. How could Maedhros, capable of so much more, stoop to such a level?

"I do." He lets out a sound too angry to be called a laugh. "It should not have mattered. I have never doubted your right to the jewels, cousin, but not even they are not worth they horror. What you have done- to those people, to yourselves- these are the deeds that make the Enemy rejoice."

And Maedhros knew that. Better than Fingon, even, perhaps better than any living.

He listens as Maedhros finishes the tale, pale and furious but refusing to let go all the same. By the end he feels ill, and it is a long time before he speaks.

"Oh, Maitimo. What am I to do with you?"

He cannot allow himself to hope Fingon's reaction will be anything other than utter disgust and rage. His gaze falls to Fingon's chest and the fabric that covers it. Just a few more moments, he prays, silent, begging. Then he must let his cousin go so that he remains untainted and beautiful. All things considered, jumping into the volcano had been easier.

"I have no defense." and he won't waste Fingon's time fabricating one. He is laying himself bare because that is how it should be. There is very little good left in him; he isn't the Elf who had once thought himself worthy of such fine company.

"I am covered in blood and the Enemy does rejoice I am sure." his voice is flat. He accepts Fingon's conclusion, taking the angry words as pure, undiluted fact. There is nothing his cousin can say that he hasn't tortured himself with already.

Gently, he dips forward and kisses the other Elf's forehead, covering Fingon's hands with his own.

"I will accept your judgment - whatever it may be. Only I ask you to remain a friend to Kano should he arrive. I was the one who forced him down roads he did not wish to take." he kneels, then, fighting his desire to keep looking at Fingon's face. He had lost him once and now through his horrendous, unforgivable actions, he is doomed to lose him again.

Edited 2017-09-29 02:24 (UTC)

"No," Fingon agrees, "You do not." Not Thingol's behavior, not Dior's (who exactly was Dior, anyway? Where was the old goat when this fiasco began?), not even Morgoth's could justify this. Not even the Oath, though Fingon believes that Maedhros would have tried to fight it's influence.

"Is judgement what I must give you? Perhaps it is. I am your king, after all, and thus responsible for you." Maedhros has refused to meet his gaze, but Fingon cannot have that; he removes a hand from his cousin's grasp, and firmly pulls his chin so that their eyes meet.

"Makalaure must live with the consequences of his decisions, as must you. As must we all." Not a yes, not a no; but Fingon lets it linger regardless, and in that moment the stern cast of his face brings to mind no one as much as his proud and kingly father.

One more moment's pause, and then he adds:

"After all, I am going to have my hands full keeping one of the Feanorionnath safe from himself; I am not so sure I can handle two on my own."

It hurts and he tells himself it should not. Fingon is saying what needs to be said; he has always done so with swift, clear honesty. Maedhros feels proud to call this one kin, but that emotion is mixed with the heavy weight of endless guilt. The chains of the Enemy were lighter and less binding. His guilt is with him always and no one can free him of it. No one should.

"My king... My heart..." he murmurs, forgetting to breathe when he is at last staring at the face he had thought he may never see again, "You have your freedom, Fingon. If you stay because you worry for me or... You worry what I might do, fear not. I have learned my lesson many times over and... The Oath holds me no more."

Not unless the Silmarils venture this far. He has made certain one cannot. The other two are also unlikely to follow - as one is a literal star and the other one is with Kano. He trusts his brother would have disposed of it.

His ears feel hot and he frowns. "Do not set yourself this duty if it is burdensome for you. I only...wish to see you...now and then."

That is all the encouragement he truly needs.

"But I do not," Fingon shakes his head. "You put a crown on my head, Maitimo, you and my father, and that means I have responsibilities. To you, as well as to others. And whether you have 'learned your lesson' or not is beside the point; you are not well. I could not leave you alone if I wished to."

A breath, and then he spells it out in case Maedhros hasn't gotten the picture yet. "Which I do not."

"Make no mistake, I am furious at what you have done. But you have done better, you can still do better, and if there is one thing I will demand of you it is that you must do better. You have chosen death, for others and for yourself-"

And at that he chokes again, and for a moment all the horror and grief that thought brings is visible on his face.

"But you were meant for life, and you live now. Try to live in hope, and live as to be worthy of it. I will be there to catch you if you stumble, but first you must try."

He wants to argue that Fingon needn't follow those responsibilities in a new world, but he closes his mouth, knowing that is precisely his cousin's nature. So honorable; so valiant. What can he do besides press a warm kiss to the beloved hand he refuses to relinquish?

"I have not been well for a long time." he admits, "I behaved more as my father than myself, but surely I too must be capable of atrocious deeds or else they would not have been done." his entirety trembles at the pronouncement.

Living is terrifying, but he has no choice. Even if Fingon hadn't made the demand, Maedhros would have done his best to succeed at it again. For him...and perhaps for others too.

"Stumbling does not frighten me. The madness, however..." he gives his bright head a sharp shake, rising back onto his feet, "I shall do my very best and put forth all of my power to live a sane, good life. It will not erase what has been done, but it will help me be a better Elf."

But he does. Wherever he is, whether he acknowledges it publicly or not, Findekano Nolofinwion is the Noldoran; his people are his first priority. And Maedhros Feanorion, once King in his own right, is one of his people.

And that is without the personal loyalties; those of kinship, friendship, and love. Fingon could not abandon Maedhros, no more than he could abandon his own fea. It would amont to the same thing.

"If you have done them, you are capable of them, " Fingon agrees quietly. "Of course, you are not the only one, are you?"

Maedhros, after all, was not the only kinslayer in this conversation.

"Whatever you have done...Maitimo, you know you can lean on me when you need it. If madness threatens you, I will help you beat it back."

"Yes." he brushes his fingers across the pointed tip of Fingon's ear, focusing instead on his cousin's dark hair. His failure - his monstrous deeds - are his shame. While some in this new world might not know what he has done - what he is capable of - Maedhros does not consider himself worthy of a second chance. So he chooses to be honest even if he must pay a price that he values much higher than his life: the loss of one he has loved for millennia.

"Does it matter?" he asks in reference to him not being the only one, "My crimes are my own, Finno. I will let my brothers accept their role if and when they are prepared to do so."

His eyes close sadly and he pulls Fingon into his arms, tucking his head against his shoulder.

"I... I will protect you. Ask anything of me and I will see it done."

"I think it does," Fingon tells him pointedly, "for, as you might recall, not all Kinslayers were born to the House of Feanaro. Even with your Oath...Maitimo, I must believe that one can be more than one's worst deeds. That I am, and that the men have who served me faithfully in Dor-lomin and Hithlum are, despite the blood on our hands. That their wives and children who chose Exile over obedience to the Valar are not monsters for that choice."

Fingon stifles a small smile into Maedhros' shoulder; of all the things to have never changed, Maedhros is still the world's worst mother hen. But it is comforting still, here in his arms, and so Fingon is happy to stay like that for now.

"Your deeds are apart of you; they will be forever. But now you live, and can choose your path. Choose again! Choose better than you did, and learn to live by that choice. That is what I ask of you, my dearest friend. That is what you must do."

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. What others do outside of his immediate circle has long been out of his hands. He hates all of it, but it's like shouting into a storm - there's no point.

"I have...much hope...for others." and that is how it should stand in his mind. He will help nurture the flame that will bring illumination to the future gladly, but the past must remain entrenched in Darkness. Except for the small, brilliant light currently in his arms, of course. Maedhros has a soft spot for him and that will always be so.

"I thought I could rely upon the Finno that lives in my memory, but he is a poor imitation to the genuine article." he exhales and rests against Fingon, exhaustion on every level clawing at him, "May I spend the night at your side?"

If you shout long enough, Fingon might remind him, sometimes it gets a response. They of all people should know that.

"...Will you let me hope for you, then? Until you can hope for yourself?" And the latter will happen, Fingon will see to that. It's necessary. Maedhros can lean on him, let him carry the burdens of his tortured fea, for now. But that is not a state that can last forever, not if any recovery is to be real.

"You should know the answer to that by now." He leans up slightly to kiss Maedhros again on the forehead. "You are always welcome where I am. Shall we go back to the fire for now, or do you wish to stay here?"

But the voice and the spirit tire. When what you fight to keep is taken from you again and again, your reason for trying - for living - becomes vague. Maedhros had lost the will to shout or even speak in those final days.

"I cannot stop you." but it doesn't set well with him. Fingon shouldn't believe in a monster - in a murderer and a kinslayer. He should reserve his hope for himself and those worthy of it.

"I make no assumptions, cousin." he bows his head to accept the kiss, his heart waking and aching because of it. His love for Fingon hasn't dimmed since their parting; if anything, it has grown by leaps and bounds.

"Fire..." his face pales of color and he looks at the light in the distance as if he is facing his demise, "I cannot go too close to it."

"Maitimo, do you truly doubt me that much? And even if you did, do you think I can let you wander off on your own, given the state you are in and what you have just told me?"

There it is, the two sides of this relationship, always together: the private and the public, the personal and the political. The romantic and the pragmatic, maybe. Fingon doesn't know. All these years, and balancing them always feels just out of reach.

Protecting Maedhros, letting him have rest and stability and a tie to life- that seems the best way forward for all concerned. But he can't forget, can't he, that Maedhros needs to be guarded against himself at times. Perhaps above all other things.

This new fear of flame is more proof of that than Fingon has ever expected to see. You burn brighter than your father, Son of Fire, and lovelier as well part of him thinks, I never wanted to see you afraid of it. But to Maedhros he only nods.

"Then we can stay here tonight. And for as long as you need."

"It's not you I doubt!" Maedhros feels his panic rise, chest clenching, air coming in short, shallow gasps, "I will never ever doubt you." his belief, currently, in Fingon is perhaps greater than his belief in the Valar.

Saying that aloud, of course, is treasonous and he has made enough oaths against them. But it is how he feels, whether it be right or wrong, and he looks to his cousin's Light for guidance and sanctuary.

How unfair for Findekano! To shoulder this weight... To bear you as a burden!

He covers his ears with less than steady hands, his eyes glassy.

"You are wet enough." he grumbles and nudges Fingon towards the fire, "I... I will cope." his steps are halting, yet determined, his gaze never leaving the flames.

"Then trust me. Have faith in my judgement, and that I know what I can handle." His breath catches in his throat at Maedhros' panic and at once begins soothing him, caring his fingers through his cousin's hair.

(That probably wouldn't surprise Fingon to hear, to be honest. He's never doubted the Valar's intentions, though of course he knows that some among the Exiles do. But their judgement can sometimes be another matter.)

The look in his eye makes Fingon uneasy, even as Maedhros agrees. "I've been wet before, and worse. That I can deal with; what I need is the truth. Will you sleep better it we stay here?"

His eyes lid and he breathes easier, his defenses falling. Each pass of Fingon's fingers in his hair are like the sweetest words of comfort. He wants to tuck himself close to his cousin - any damp clothing doesn't dissuade him - and rest like they had once done.

"I want to think of you first." he takes Fingon's hands in his own, "I will sleep better near you no matter where we lay."

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