Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none (Fingon x OFCs mentioned)
Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, random elf women and barkeep (mentions Eru, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Finwë and Anairë)
Warning: possible AU, intoxication, premarital sex implied, one night stands, depression, dysfunctional families, family feuds, unintentional verbal abuse
Song: Last Song
Words: 1,940
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enjoy (verb): to have a good time; to take pleasure or satisfaction in
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/enjoy
Once again, Findekáno had managed to "mysteriously disappear" from his father's estate.
And once again, it was Maitimo who was tasked with tracking down his wayward young half-cousin.
It was a fairly usual occurrence, and it happened so often that the servants did not even consult the master of the house, instead sending a missive immediately to the doorstep of the second in line to the throne. Everyone knew that Maitimo was the only one who could track down the young prince when he was in one of his "moods". It was a (very badly kept) secret that--despite the discord and borderline hatred between their fathers--they were best friends and most days could be found napping or roughhousing together somewhere on the estate.
The days that they weren't together were the days that worried Maitimo the most.
People looked at him and his cheery, bright-eyed half-cousin and cooed at how supportive and sweet Findekáno was, the younger cousin clinging to the figurative skirts of his older cousin, somehow always managing to bring a smile to the heir's dour features no matter how bad Maitimo's day had gone or how temperamental his father was that morning. Truly, Findekáno's smile and laughter were godsend--blessings that Maitimo thanked Ilúvatar for every day.
But those same people did not know the entirety of the matter--of their friendship. They looked at the cousins and saw the goofball joking and laughing with his arm cast over his frowning cousin's broad shoulders, a brilliant light that never failed to dim shining down on a fading spark.
They knew nothing about Findekáno. Not like Maitimo did.
After all, it was their similarities that had brought them together.
The oldest children--the heirs--of two feuding fathers. Supposedly the best of the best of the best. They were required to perform to the very peak of excellence at the academy and become scholars of note as well as politicians and craftsmen of renown. It was expected of the most prominent and anticipated grandchildren of Finwë. The problem was, of course, that neither of them were the perfect poster child their fathers wanted.
Maitimo was not a prodigy He was hardworking and intelligent, but his skills lay in rhetoric and cooking, not in metallurgy or invention or scholarly endeavors. And even if they did, would it ever be enough? The son could never surpass his sire, whose reputation a genius grew taller and broader by the hour, plated in gold and riddled in diamond.
But people forgot so often that sweet Findekáno was the son of a prince as well--a prince who was the firstborn son of Finwë and his second (and current) queen. A prince who was battling tooth and nail, pulling hair and clawing eyes, for a chance at the throne.
And Findekáno was no politician. He wasn't even a scholar or an author. He was cheerful but flighty, loved pulling pranks and could lift anyone out of a funk, but could not arrange an afternoon tea party to save his life. The first son of Nolofinwë simply did not have the pure brainpower, responsibility or common sense necessary with which to mold an iron-fisted, decisive ruler. And no amount of veiled verbal abuse would ever change that.
Not that it stopped Nolofinwë from trying. Maitimo knew his uncle meant well, but...
He understood Findekáno's perspective, too.
And, had others understood as well, they would have known better where to look for the prince when he vanished in the night after a day spent in the company of his overbearing, stern father. They would have known not to search high-end inns with silk sheets or at the homes of "close friends" from court for the stubborn and willful young creature.
They would never have looked for him in a tavern.
But that was where Maitimo found him--in a seedy and rather disreputable place with dirty counters and rickety barstools. Findekáno was sloshed, his hair in disarray and his voice booming without inhibition through the room. Already, he was halfway through another mug of bitter ale with a swaying, drunken woman giggling on each arm. Maitimo winced as he beheld their fluttering lashes, painted faces and particularly low-cut bodices.
It could have been worse. At least they weren't upstairs in bed yet. Like last time.
Sighing, Maitimo wondered what on earth Ilúvatar had been thinking when he had created this brave, kind-hearted, reckless little boy and plopped him down at the center of vicious, bloodthirsty political intrigue. It was like throwing an infant into the ocean and expecting it to know how to swim.
"Excuse me, ladies," he interrupted. "Might I retrieve my cousin from your grasp?"
The two women--hardly more than girls--gave him confused looks. But they recognized him immediately, if the pallor that washed over their porcelain faces beneath layers of powder and rouge was any indicator. Immediately, they stepped back, thankfully still enough in their right minds not to attempt a molestation of his person. It had certainly happened to Maitimo before in places like this one, and though he never overreacted at the wicked touching and slurred flirting, it was still very discomfiting. Disturbing.
At the sound of his voice, Findekáno spun around and very nearly took a dive off his barstool. "R-Ru-- Russandol!" he stuttered, grinning as though seeing his redheaded, stoic-faced cousin standing with hands upon his hips and narrowed eyes was the most joyous occasion in the world. "Come an... an' sit wif me!"
Definitely sloshed.
"I think not." His calculating, silvered gaze was enough to keep the barkeep well on the other end of the long counter. The man looked a smidge guilty as he glanced in their direction--the older cousin was sure he had dragged Findekáno out of this dump before--but Maitimo knew these types well. They were here to make money, and it wasn't their problem if some overeager whelp went and had too much as long as he paid in coin for every ounce.
Maitimo found he disliked such people. Especially when they took advantage of his drunken cousin.
"Aw, c'mon... 't'll be f-fun!"
"I think you've had quite enough of that." The mug clicked on the counter as Maitimo set it down and smacked away the greedy, grabby hands that tried to pick it right back up. Instead, he took the fingers tightly in his own and dragged Findekáno to his feet. Of course, the younger elf staggered dangerously, and it was only Maitimo's grasp around his waist that kept him from taking a tumble right down onto the dusty, chipped wooden floorboards. "Let's get you home."
"Don' wanna. Russa..." Findekáno whined and pouted the entire way across the room and out the door, his lack of coordination and balance making it particularly difficult for the older of the pair to actually get the door far enough open to shove his charge out.
The streets were cloaked in a silver haze, buildings cutting shadows across the streets. Wrapping Findekáno's limp arm around his shoulders, Maitimo heaved his young (and surprisingly heavy) cousin's weight onto his left side, hips and torso bent as an awkward and slightly painful angle trying to recover his balance without toppling them both over as a tower of twigs and reeds.
As usual, by the time they reached home, Findekáno was in tears.
And Maitimo hated when his cousin cried.
He hated that, as he pushed his cousin--his self-proclaimed younger brother--into bed, Findekáno spilled out all the words whispering in his ears, the venomous little prods and pokes and nails prying at the edges of his sanity. Told him that Nolofinwë was disappointed about this or that and how Turukáno was so much more suited to be the heir and why oh why had Ilúvatar created him first when it was his younger brother that his parents needed and wanted?
And Maitimo never quite knew what to say or do, other than whisper meaningless promises and reassurances against soft skin and raven hair until the sobs dispersed into hiccups, until Findekáno's shaking had ceased and the earthquake of bottled emotions being freed had ended.
He was never quite sure how to clean up the rubble and debris left in the wake of disaster.
But he stayed. All night, watching Findekáno sleep off the liquid poison, making sure that the younger prince did not vomit whilst unconscious and choke. Stayed well into the next day, fixing up a cure for the nauseating hangover the followed. He knew to keep the curtains drawn so Laurelin's golden glow could not punch into the dark sanctuary. He knew to lock out the loud, inconsiderate house staff who felt the need to bang incessantly on the door at hideously early hours of the morning and announce themselves in disgustingly happy voices as they barged straight in.
And as his cousin--his little brother in all but blood--nursed his medicinal tea, Maitimo swallowed thickly and worked up the nerve to ask a question that had been on his mind since the beginning of these nighttime escapades. "Why do you keep doing this, Káno?" When all it ever seems to do is make things worse?
Bloodshot eyes blinked open and looked up at him. But instead of the simmering anger or petulant offense he expected, there was only downcast depression. "You know how it is at home when... when you aren't around." The tea swirled in its cup, just a little spilling over the edges onto Findekáno's sheets, but the prince didn't seem to even notice as he watched the liquid spinning and lapping at the china lips. "I just... I just want to have fun. To enjoy myself. Just for a little while."
It was as Maitimo had expected. And that, perhaps, made the confession all the more painful. What am I to do with you, Káno?
What could he do, as the son of the crown prince, as the second in line to the throne Findekáno's father yearned for and coveted? He shouldn't even be here, just in case Nolofinwë decided to greet his scion in the morn and came upon them sitting together on the bed. He certainly couldn't talk to his half-uncle (what did the oldest brother of seven know about parenting after all?), so what could he do--?
But bring Findekáno home each rough night and fix him tea the following morning.
"I understand."
And he did. More, perhaps, than anyone would ever realize, even Findekáno.
After all, no one had been there to drag him home on rough nights.
And, truly, he didn't have the heart to tell Findekáno to stop, to get over his weak resolve and flimsy responsibility and work on his studies instead of getting intoxicated and having affairs with random, nameless women in desolate, downtrodden taverns all across Tirion. Because that would have made him a hypocrite.
And, without this catharsis, he was worried what might become of his young cousin under all the pressure and fury and scorn--what would become of the smiles that were his saving grace and the laughter that drained away the blackened, foul smoke that cast itself as a shadow over his life. This madness was enough to make senile even the sanest of men.
Findekáno needed to enjoy life. Even if it was only a life in the shadows. Even if that enjoyment was false. Even if it was a cracked, cheap imitation of true happiness. Even if it was empty.
It had to be enough.
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Mission to make the prompt enjoy into angst: completed. I couldn't stand the idea of doing something about someone enjoying something for real. Felt empty, if you get my meaning. The only other idea I had was of Sauron getting his rocks off to the Fall of Númenor or something, and I wrote about him yesterday. That's enough psycho-analyzing psychopaths for one week, ne? Besides, his sadism is already heavily emphasized in my other pieces.
In any case, sorry if you hate my Fingon. I'm a firm believer that just because someone acts happy doesn't mean they are happy. I mean, they could be, but I know plenty of people who hide things and no one could tell anything was wrong unless they said. Besides, I feel like a "ray of sunshine" Fingon would be a horrid stereotype. At least here he's a person with layers. I like layers. Three-dimensionality. You know.
But moving on, the song has little to do with the story. It was more of the general "feel" of the music than about the lyrics (which are in Japanese). I mean, I looked up the translation (because I'm too lazy to translate myself) and it's an angsty love-ballad, but these two characters I wrote about are not in love with one another. They just care about each other a lot and understand each other. So I figured it was fine to use it anyway. Too late to change my mind now! :3 But it is a lovely song: Last Song by Gackt.
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