#goldribbon

[dalliansss]

“…He had a strong friendship with Fingon and grace to him, and he followed the Exiles under the host of Fingolfin.”

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A seriously underrated friendship. Aegnor and Fingon, by the lovely @asinoeiv

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Pls support ur artists! Reblog for love 🫶🏼.

[dalliansss]

Fingon and Aegnor, drawn for me by the spectacular @sauroff 🥹 Egg is exactly how I imagined him to be! 🥰

Look, @skaelds our babiessssss 😍

[dalliansss]

“Enough of my face,” Findekáno replies. “It is you we must talk about. Your face has  been doing nothing except sprout a fresh wave of freckles since the sun first arose in the sky. Soon you will be a walking freckle.”

Aikanár looks at him as if he had just insulted his mother. Gapes at him like a confused fish. Then Aikanár punches his shoulder, not with true strength, but enough for a mild sting. “Ai! Ai, ai! He insults me! He dares! Ah! Now I know I am not loved by the one I consider my best friend!”

Best friend.

The word hangs low and awkward between them, like a shameful secret pulled unto light. The awkwardness spreads quickly, and as their meager little light wavers, so do their smiles. Findekáno has the decency to look away first. Aikanár makes a show of crushing some lembas crumbs into the dirt. 

“Mah, Finno-finno. I hope you have some plan as to how we might locate Maitimo soon. We cannot be spending the rest of our days like monkeys up here. I want to be back on good, flat ground,” Aikanár says in a very bright tone, if only to dispel the dreadful silence. 

“I know,” Findekáno finally turns his gaze to look at him again. “But I feel in my heart of hearts we will locate him soon.”

Aikanár blinks – then laughs at his words. A breeze blows and musses his wild mass of flaxen blond curls. “Heart of hearts! He he he! I knew not my best friend is also a compass! Show me the true north, Finno-finno! Please? Can I tie you up on the mast of my ship, and perhaps you can tell me the direction that way! He he he!”

Ai! Findekáno flushes in embarrassment. He picks up one of the discarded wrapping leaves of their lembas and mooshes it over Aikanár’s face.

[gold noise / AO3]

[dalliansss]

Aikanáro saw his uncle Eärendur fall. From the deck of his Telerin swanship, valiantly giving a last ditch effort to defend the deck of his beloved ship from the encroaching Ñoldor. In the garish, roaring light of the Telerin homes set afire, Aikanáro saw his uncle fall from vicious slashes delivered from two swords held by hands he never imagined would wield blade against another elf.

Blood stained Findekáno’s hands and spattered against his face, as Eärendur fell. In the afterglow of the burning port, Aikanáro and Findekáno’s gazes meet, and lock in the briefest of seconds that felt like eternity.

Findekáno’s expression softened. Then he was gone.

=

The next they see each other is at the camp of the Ñoldor in Araman. Aikanáro enters Findekáno’s tent without so much a warning, and he finds his best friend removing each of his fourteen rings from his hand’s fingers, before he dips his hands into a bowl of rosewater. He scrubs between his fingers, and the water is clean, but Aikanáro thinks he sees the phantom shadow of blood.

“Why did you do it?” He demands. “My uncle, Finno!”

Findekáno straightens up briefly, before he leans some of his weight down his arms. He turns his face finally to Aikanáro.

“Because he stood in the way of the Ñoldor.”

There is a deeper reason here. Olwë, whom Finwë had counted as a friend; as a brother. Olwë, who’d failed Finwë in the last instance that mattered. Even if it was not for the Silmarils; then for Finwë, at least. Whose death the Valar would have remain unavenged.

“But he was my uncle!” Aikanáro cried accusingly. “He was—!”

“Yes, and the Teleri should have at the very least let us their ships, when they heard haru Finwë had died in the most grievous of deaths!” Findekáno snarls in return. “I care not for Fëanáro! But haru Finwë, whom Olwë always declared was his most dear friend? Fat lot of help that friendship got us!”

Aikanáro clenches his hands into fists. He backs out, one, two, three, four steps—. He exits the tent.

Tears run the length of his cheeks. But how could Findekáno break his heart like this?

=

An apology will not come until what seems to be an entirely new life later. They were in Hithlum, sharing a bottle of wine late in the night. Findekáno says it out of the blue, naught more than a whisper.

I am sorry for your uncle. I knew you loved him greatly.

“Not as much as I love you,” Aikanáro mutters as he swirls his wine. “I followed you and hanno all the way here to Endorë. I could have returned like my Atar, but I didn’t. So I love you and hanno more than I ever loved my uncle. Death notwithstanding.”

They both watch the fire dance in the hearth. Aikanáro reaches for Findekáno’s hand. Such finely-formed fingers, decorated with two rings each. There is no blood, and he can feel the calluses on Findekáno’s palm, the roughened skin on his knuckles. He tries to imagine it, Findekáno’s beautiful hand on that faithful night, dripping red with blood.

Findekáno watches him in silence.

Aikánaro kisses his fingertips and presses the hand against his own cheek.

Such is love, isn’t it?

Blooming despite the most atrocious of mistakes.

Blooming despite.

[dalliansss]

Like every parting, Maeglin feels as if his guts are twisting over and over that day. His horse is saddled, all the gifts from Hithlum packed up. Fingon cups his cheeks and kisses him on the forehead, and Maeglin wants to say that maybe he can stay for an entire year and keep his favorite uncle company, so Fingon isn’t too lonely.

But Maeglin knows this cannot be. Like his mother Aredhel, his freedom has a few simple conditions from Eol: letters telling him where they are, and that they return when they say they will return. Eol holds to these simple conditions as if they were living oaths. Breaking them will not bode well. Maeglin understands this deeply. For while his Ada can be kind in his quiet way, his temper and anger are another matter entirely.

Maeglin cannot help himself and he hugs Fingon tightly. Fingon returns the embrace and holds him close.

“Uncle, I will ask Ada if I can stay with you for a year next time,” Maeglin whispers. “I hope he will allow me to. Even if I will have to write him letters weekly.” A pause. “I might convince Emel to go with me too. She needs to visit you more often.”

“That is kind of you, Maeglin,” Fingon pulls back and tries to smile for him. Maeglin knows the smile is sincere and requires great effort from Fingon, but it doesn’t reach the Noldor king’s eyes. “If your father allows you such leave, you are always welcome in Hithlum.”

It is time to go home– for now.

Maeglin mounts his horse, and before he sets out onto his road, he casts a final glance at his most beloved Uncle, standing there and almost breaking under the weight of his golden crown and his sorrow.

[To be Loved / AO3]

[dalliansss]

Aegnor – Egg, wanders from Dorthonion to Dor-lómin and back without a warning, without fanfare. Such has always been his way even in Valinor, as a young elf, bouncing happily from his hanno’s house to Fingon’s. It has become such a commonplace thing that Egg has come to have a room always reserved for him at Fingon’s house – may it be in Aman, or here in Beleriand.

But today is special, because today it is the other way around – meaning, it is Fingon who visits him in Dorthonion, and they meet up by the shores of Lake Aeluin. When Egg gets there, Fingon is already there and by the looks of it, he has been there for some hours. His horse is wandering around, nibbling grass; a campfire burns merrily, a tent pitched, and Fingon himself is sitting by the lakeshore, breeches hiked up, and his bare feet dipped in the crystalline waters. His boots lay discarded near the campfire, as is his traveling cloak.

But the very best part: Fingon has freed his hair from its gold-twine braids, and currently his lush curls sway in the highland breeze, bringing a hint of his perfume– and Egg breathes deep.

“Finno!” He calls, already getting off his horse and letting the animal join Fingon’s. Egg jogs toward his great love.

“Egg,” Fingon greets, looking up just as Egg skids to a halt beside him. “Good morrow.”

Ah, ah! Look at those cheeks! That hair! Those dimples! Egg feels a warmth bubble in his chest and he leans close to kiss Fingon over his dimples, before kissing his forehead, and also on his nose. Fingon laughs softly under all the kisses. 

“Ai, Aikanár, I’m dusty from the road,” Fingon says.

“I care not!” Egg chirps. He promptly flops beside Fingon and claims the latter’s lap as pillow. He buries his face into Fingon’s middle, just as he feels the older elf card fingers through his flaxen blond hair.

A peaceful silence surrounds them, punctuated only by the chirping of birds and the little scratches of the insects. Somewhere, a dragonfly lands on Egg’s shoulder. 

“How have you been?” Fingon eventually ventures to ask after they enjoy the quiet.

“Well,” Egg answers. He rolls onto his back so he can look up at Fingon properly. “You?”

“Mhm,” Fingon shrugs, peeking down at him.

Egg grins. Pokes one of those dimples. “What does ‘mhm’ mean, Finno?”

Fingon catches his hand and rubs his thumb against the fragile skin of Egg’s wrist. “Mhm means I am well enough, but that the mind is swamped with matters of the kingdom, where I help Atar the most.”

“Nothing too burdensome I hope?”

“None. I can handle it. Just mulling my next steps, this is all.”

“Good!”

Again they lapse into quiet. Egg finds he minds not; he can talk for two, if needed – and between himself and Fingon, they do not need to keep talking all the time. This is more than enough for him– just to be close to Fingon like this. Fingon has never been talkative; the quiet observer in most instances, mulling his thoughts and choosing his words carefully.

Egg brushes his fingertips by Fingon’s jawline.

“Mmm?” Fingon hums, peering down at him again.

“You’re lovely,” Egg whispers, perpetually awed. “The loveliest Elf to ever exist.”

The words make Fingon laugh, his dimples showing. The faintest pink dusts his cheeks. He shakes his head, his curls dancing. “Oh you–. Truly you are Ingoldo’s son. Such a flatterer and charmer like he is. He taught you all his evil ways.”

Egg gives him a cocky grin. And a wink. Fingon laughs harder. Then he shoves Egg off his lap, sending the bigger elf rolling. Egg yelps in offense.

Fingon stands, pulls his arms up in a stretch. Then he begins stripping himself of clothes, until he is only in his breeches, and he runs and dunks himself into the waters of the Aeluin.

Egg scrambles back onto his feet. “Hey! Hey! Let’s have a contest! Swim to the other side of the lake! Loser cooks the midday meal!” And he too, gets out of his clothes until he’s completely naked, and whooping, also jumps into the cool, crystal waters, and he swims after Fingon, who already banked and aiming for the other shore. 

The sun shines serenely on Dorthonion. Egg and Fingon’s laughter and whoops echo amid the silent, peaceful trees, and the highland breeze seems to sigh.

[dalliansss]

“You have never known love!” Egg screams at him. All the screaming prompts Angrod to rush into the room with Edhellos, and in a panic, he looks from Finrod to Egg and back, unsure which brother to pacify first. But in the end he decides to run to Finrod and Edhellos runs to Egg, and they struggle to keep the two apart. “You who have only ever existed for yourself! What do you know of love when even now you pull Curufinwë into sin, when you spit at Amarië with every living second–!”

“I will not give you permission to wed!” Finrod roars back, rage in his eyes and demeanor. “I will never allow your betrothal and your wedding, for as long as you and I both live! Never! You hear me?! Never!”

“Get out of my land–!” Egg screams. “Get out of Dorthonion–!”

“Ha! You send me out? I am your King, your liege-lord! You hold Dorthonion only because I will it! I am the Head of your House, and no marriage will take place between you and this adaneth, ever! I swear it!”

Angrod manages to bodily pull him from the room in a feat of strength. Though his words are true – that his brothers are his vassals, it is Finrod who leaves Dorthonion that same day, opting to return to Nargothrond. He does not even remember making the journey. He is fueled by anger and fear, such terrible fear. 

If Egg forsakes the immortality of the Eldar in such a mindless, thoughtless decision, and he too suffers the same fate Balan did – growing old, sick, and weak, eventually forgetting anything, blind – Finrod knows he will most certainly die from grief very close afterward. He will not live through such a loss. Not Egg’s loss. Not the brother whom he raised as a son.

It was unfair of Egg to ask him this.

To accede to his wish to die?

And for what? For an adaneth he met in only one day, spent time with less than a month, whom he says he thinks he loves?

Egg hurt Finrod today more than all the sorrows the world has thrown against him so far ever did.

[withered / AO3]

@skaelds

[dalliansss]

Fingon thinks of his long life so far, and he wonders if he was loved.

He contemplates this as he surveys the golden circlet that had been Finwë’s, that had been Fëanor’s, that had been Fingolfin’s. And now, the golden circlet belongs to him, and his thoughts swirl around the how, the why, and the when. 

He remembers still, how he begged his father not to go challenge the greatest of the Valar in single combat. 

All dignity of a prince forgotten, clinging to Fingolfin’s left leg, being dragged on the dirt as he begged and pleaded, and tears created sooty paths on his cheek, but even then his tears had not been enough. The sight of his pain had not been enough, and his father had uttered the words anyway: I, Fingolfin of the Noldor, give the crown to you my son, Fingon, High Prince of the Noldor in Beleriand, for you to take up and reign after me, and may Light forever shine upon your face…

What light was to be had, in a world that still burned and where the fumes blotted out the sun?

[on AO3]