#fell fire

[elentarial]

“'Speak of neither to me!’ said Andreth. 'I desire neither. I was young and I looked on his flame, and now I am old and lost. He was young and his flame leaped towards me, but he turned away, and he is young still. Do candles pity moths?”

“Adaneth, I tell thee, Aikanár, the Sharp-flame loved thee.”

[aellostomb]

Found some cheap colored pencils when I was cleaning so I colored some sketches

[elentarial]

29 Aegnor/Fingon? 🙏🙏

Thank you for the prompt @skaelds

The High Prince was in an absolute state; linens were scattered across the floor, and delicate porcelain tea cups were dashed upon the hearth. Fingon paced incessantly, kicking aside rugs when they stilled his anxious movement. Every quarter of an hour, he wound peer out the grand bay windows of his tower chambers, frown, sigh deeply, and resume his pacing. 

Aikanáro was five days past his presumed arrival, and with each passing hour, Fingon grew more despondent. It was so unlike his sharp flame to be tardy. What if something terrible had waylaid his lover?

Findekano lacked all of his father’s renowned patience. 

At the very moment that Fingon was sure that he would perish if not reunited with his love, there was a commotion below. A lone figure mounted on a white destrier rode into view of the keep, bearing the standard of Dorthonion: a golden fir tree in a midnight blue field. Fingon was bounding down the stairwell before the elf even dismounted. 

He careened into Aegnor’s side, managing to rock him backward despite his advantage in bulk from plate mail. 

“Oh ho,” Aegnor cried fondly. “I am pleased to see you too, cousin!”

“Where have you been?” Fingon seethed. “You are nearly a week past when you should have arrived, and I feared bandits had ambushed you…or worse!”

Aegnor handed the reins to his mare off to an attendant. The playful smile was gone from his face. “Can we not do this here? I have been where I have been, and is it not enough that I’m here now?”

“Where were you?” Fingon demanded again. His fingers anxiously unraveling his golden braids. 

“Nowhere.”

Aegnor was sullen, and Fingon was seething. 

“I demand that you tell me the truth!”

Moving with all the grace of someone accustomed to sudden attacks from the enemy, Fingon again overtook Aegnor. They grappled for a moment, Aegnor hissing for Fingon to compose himself. In the end, however, Fingon found what he had been searching for. Beneath the fine silk tunic, Aegnor wore an embroidered shirt, the collar decorated with wildflowers sewn in a hand far too crude to be elven. It was in the style of the Edain of Bëor’s house. Fingon’s fingers trembled over the stitching. 

“I told you not to do this here.” Aegnor neither offered an explanation nor an apology.

“Why?”

But Aegnor remained silent.