Hymn to the Moon

By kasura

Summary: Maedhros and Fingon in Himring, and the simplest things are not forgotten.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I can own Maedhros and Fingon.

Cold winds in Himring whipped his face like the lashes of divine retribution. He lived and walked on the ice, now he sought fire, fire that scorched his soul, and burned every inch of his body, marking him possessively. The formidable fortress loomed ahead of him. He rode his horse to the iron doors, which swung open hesitantly to invite him in after a guard hailed him.

He strode into the hall, his green cloak billowing. The steward stood regally to announce him. Decorum be damned! He longed to be with his fire, had yearned for the bright, burning flame for months. Cutting the elf's announcement in the middle, right before the 'Son of High King Fingolfin' part, he captured the lord of this land in his needy arms, relishing the heat of his body. The lord ravished his eager mouth fiercely, tongues swirled, and they found themselves in the lord's large bedroom soon, abandoning proprietary for wantonness.

They lovemaking was rough, hungry and demanding. The need to feel the bond between them stirred their loins. Quickly divesting their clothes off, they devoured each other. Hands grabbing, savoring every inch of the flushed skins, lips biting and licking the necks, the cheeks, the shoulder and the nipples, and eyes that drank every escaped moan.

He felt the raw power of the haughty lord thrust into him, filling him and splitting him the same. He embraced the lord tighter, and his legs wrapped around the lord's legs greedily. The lord rocked on top of him, the movement quickened until he gave a final piercing scream of the lord's name as the finale to their carnal act.

I counted day as year when you're not with me.

Sated, their limp bodies collapsed to the feather mattress. Exhausted smiles appeared on their sleepy faces. The last thing he saw before drifting to sleep was the lord's damp blood red hair nestled on his chest.

Lover.

Fingon woke up groggily. The crisp morning air breathed in and out of his nose in small air streams. He brushed his hair with Maedhro's ivory comb, letting it fall freely to his waist. He went pulled out a simple shirt from the closet to cloth his nakedness. He gave a lingeringly look at the warm bed and a tousled, sleeping Maedhros, and grudgingly trudged down the granite stairs to the kitchen. The servants already bustling, they had started a fire in the hearth, kettles whistling. Fingon shooed them out gently. One had protested loudly before Fingon firmly pushed her unyielding body out.

A skillet was placed on the stove. Discovering the servants had started the fire in stove, he dripped a scoop of oil into the skillet. Then he took eggs from the basket, cracked them open on the rim, and dropped the yolk and all to the sizzling pan. Soon the smell of cooked eggs filled the kitchen, tempting Fingon's grumbling belly. He let the yellow mass sizzled a bit more before scooping it out of the skillet to a large ceramic plate. When he turned around to grab some bread rolls he was greeted by a disheveled Maedhros in fading leggings. Without a word, they coordinated their actions from many practices. Maedhros set the modest table in the kitchen with two plates, two napkins and two forks while Fingon found the sweet sauce in one of the cupboards and brought the sauce, the eggs and the rolls to the table. Faint sunlight trickled into the room as they attacked their breakfast with vigor. Fingon was pleased when Maedhros polished every scrap off his plate.

The most beautiful thing about life is sampling each simple pleasure fully - He loved doing little things like mending Maedhros' old shirts and tickled him to oblivion when he lost to Maedhros in a mock sparring.

He went through the closet in Maedhros' bedroom, threw the buried old shirts into a basket, and carried it to a chair next to a window with the Star of Feanor etched on the its glass. Old threads unraveled, he pressed the now loose seams together and sewn the gap close serenely. Looking outside the window, he could see a herd of fat goose waddled around the premise like they own Himring. Some of them were hissing and hooting at the few youths that tried to cut through them to the maids that were beating the dirt out of the beddings furiously. One boy had ran screaming, pleading for help, as a patriarch goose decided he had tolerated the young elf bothering his offspring for too long, heading arrow straight to the elf's buttock, thus earning a few chuckled from the nearby guards. A guard eventually rescued him by throwing breadcrumbs to the geese, so the chasing goose switched his attention to the newfound snacks. Fingon chuckled too. His sewing pace stayed constant. When the mending was down, he folded them and piled them back to the basket. He returned them to the closet, making sure Maedhros can see the newly mended shirts and actually wear them.

Fingon found Maedhros in his study, writing. He was returning Finrod's missive. Fingon was invited to view the content, and add his opinions to the letter. There were only two or three inquiries from him so he opted to admire the beauty of Maedhros' flowing script. A branch of honeysuckle bloomed in a green vase on the bookcase. The sweet honey fragrance perfumed the study, lessen the stern austerity of its furnishing.

Their domestic bliss was disturbed by three of his brothers, a nephew and a hound barging through Himring's towering front door. Celegorm swept into the main hall like with much flair, blonde braids flying everywhere. His hound followed at his heel barking and wagging his bushy tail enthusiastically. Its mouth drooled in anticipation to give Maedhros a good licking. Trailing behind was the elegant Curufin and the astute Maglor lugging his famous harp. At the end of the procession was the wide eye Celebrimbor, who returned Maedhros' hug awkwardly, his smile apologetic. When Huan got his wish to tongue bath Maedhros thoroughly, the brothers finished their ritual of slapping each other's shoulder and bellowing out greetings. None of the brothers were willing to help Maedhros up from the floor, content to grin at their eldest brother's predicament, Fingon dourly lend his hand to lift the master of this menacing fortress up. The brothers now fixed their attention on him, an uneasy tension filled the air. He settled for a polite, in personal hug from each of them, acknowledging his cousins yet evading any embarrassment or cause for strife. Maedhros watched his brothers grimly with his blue eyes, his lips tightened. When they meekly exchanged formalities with Fingon, he visibly relaxed.

Feeling restless, Celegorm proposed a family picnic in the nearby forest. No one objected so supplies were readied, and they trotted to the forest with their hands full. Once Celebrimbor chosen a spot under the birch trees, Fingon unfurled the linen on the ground. They set down plates, cups, forks and wine pitcher, and then unloaded the food from the basket. Each heartily tasted the salads, cold meats, corn breads, cheese, honey cakes and fruits. When their bellies were full, they simply lay down to bask in the lukewarm sunlight.

Disgusted with the sluggishness of his body, Fingon got up to walk a small trail in the forest. Maehros followed his suit. When they were leaving, Fingon imagined a gleam twinkling in Huan's eyes. Unsuspecting, he and Maedhros found a lush, secluded place to enjoy the tranquility of the forest. Maedhros stretched his legs on the soft grasses and propped himself up to gaze at Fingon's braids; suddenly they were ambushed by a naughty, four-legged, oversize hound with a prize in mind.

He snuck a kiss when Maedhros was distracted by Huan running away with his shoe in his mouth, then he comforted Maedhros after a few bouts of laughing that walking with only one shoe back to his fortress is no way in the dire magnitude as losing one's right hand. Maedhros pouted prettily, which made Fingon wanted to kiss him again. He retaliated by a light punch to Fingon's shoulder, and imperiously bade Fingon to half carry him back since his apparent delight incriminated him as a willful participant of an elaborate conspiracy to plot the downfall of the mighty Lord of Himring. Fingon complained of Maedhros' weight all the way. He playfully sneered that Maedhros was becoming fat and lazy in his ridiculously large fortress, with an army of smitten minions carter to his every whim, including a poor Noldo sod named Fingon. Son of Fire, my foot, more like the son of a boulder. It's a miracle Thorondor didn't plummet straight to Mandos when he was giving us the ride. He raised his eyes to peer at his lover's darken face. He knew he might push too far in his effort to lighten Maedhros' mood. The slight twitch at the corner of Maedhros' mouth, the bright gleam in his fiery bright eyes, the edges of his eyes obviously rebelling to crinkle assured Fingon that his lover was not enraged, and then he wore his most roguish smile. Maedhros was not fooled.

Fingon was dragged to the Himring lord's bedroom, contrite. He sheepishly pleaded a lighter sentence before a stony faced, scowling Maedhros. The doors were slammed shut loudly. Several shrill squeals and moans later, Fingon tumbled out of the bedroom with a satisfying ache in his lower back region.

Most invigorating punishment, my Lord. He bowed respectfully to Maedhros. My compliments. Maedhros rolled his eyes. You're incorrigible.

They returned to the mall hall shortly.

"Since you kept alleging I am plotting your demise, I got tired of protesting my innocence. So here." Fingon grinned wickedly. His hand firmly placed on Maedhros' adorable, sculpted fanny and squeezed. He had the pleasure of viewing several guards with their mouths gaped so wide they were able to squeeze four larges fishes in before his shin was introduced to Maedhros' splendid foot. The most splendid foot to grace Arda – he was of course familiar with its noble arch, supple toes and elegant, firm sole, having messaged it with sage oil once a while when his heart was quickened with ardent fervor to worship its glorious shape. Now a mighty weapon to smite down the foulest craven foes, no doubt a bruise is spreading on his skin, but it's worth it. Whistling the infamous Sindarin drinking tune, tra-la-la-laly, tra-la-la-laly, he religiously searched for an ointment to rub on the bruise.

Beloved.

He flashed his charm shamelessly to weasel his way out of dire situations with his eldest cousin, taking liberty of Maedhros' affection. When Maedhros overheard him asking a puzzled Maglor of various wicked devices to enflame his love's ardor, the following thundering roar warned him of his predicament, but he perked an adorable smile, his eyes leaked fake innocence, which subsided the impending doom. Maedhros left in defeat. Fingon smirked and proceed to inquisition poor Maglor the myth of a mysterious, sordid Nandorin illustration book of carnal tricks.

For the heinous crime of coveting the Noldo lord's footwear, Huan was sentenced to watch the lords feasting on a slow roasted stuffed pheasant and other delicacies on the high table during supper. Two heavy wrought bronze candelabras were set on the table. The silverware sparkled brightly in the candlelight. Celebrimbor snuck a few strips of beef from his plate to a chastised Huan under the table. Huan licked the beef juices from his hands eagerly, causing Celebrimbor to twitch uncontrollably. Maedhros arched his eyebrow. My rule undermined by a barely adult elf and a hound. Tragic. Huan whimpered pitifully. His large brown eyes pleading the retraction of his sentence as he had practiced numerous times in Feanor's hall in Valinor. Maedhros caved. Huan jumped to Celegorm's lap, and eagerly licking his master's plate clean.

After the servants cleared the high table of food and silverware, they were contently to chat beside the great fireplace in the hall. Maglor proclaimed he has composed a new song upon hearing a local tale. He smiled wistfully at everyone's shock. My mind is not consumed by fire, gore and lamentation. I still compose whimsical music and love songs.

He explained his lyric is based on a tale told among the Green elves, of a river spirit falling for an elf lord under the starlight. She sang to the stars every night by her watery bower to implore her lover to remember her. Her love unrequited, her pallid face waned in the endless wait inside the darken forest for him to claim her. Crystal tears poured from her sisters' watery eyes when they listened to her plight; their slender white arms beckoned the lost sister to rejoin their wanton revelry beneath the cold water. At last the gallant elf lord returned to seek his beloved, his lips calling her name from the damp forest bed to the bubbling brooks. When he saw her fading figure dissolving into water bubbles in the unrelenting river, his anguished cry echoed through the silent trees. He rushed to the river to beg forgiveness, but was drawn to the dark, swirling water by the ghostly arms of his beloved. The river swallowed him into its infinite darkness, and no elf has seen him since.

"Starlight brought back too many painful memories for me, so I changed to her singing to the moonlights." Maglor said calmly. "The song is her singing to the moon for her lover to remember her. I titled it Hymn to the Moon."

Fingon hold Maedhro's left hand, he felt the tingly warmth in his palm as he listened to Maglor's story and words.

Maglor brought out his magnificent carved harp, his beautiful voice rose sonorously in the moonlights. Fingon hold Maedhros close, and they began a slow courtly dance, enchanted by Maglor's song. Maedhros lay his head on Fingon's shoulder, content to let Fingon led. His blood red locks cascading down to where Fingon's arms were encircling his waist. Curufin snorted quietly, afraid to contend the wrath of Maglor should he disrupted the song with his irritation at his eldest brother's display. Performing artists are overly sensitive.

Oh, moon high up in the deep, deep sky,

Your lights sees far away region,

You travel round the wide, wide, world

Peering into each dwelling.

Oh, moon stand for a while,

Tell me, ah, where is my lover!

Tell him, please, silvery moon in the sky,

That I'm hugging his firmly,

That he should for at least for a while,

Remember me in his dreams.

Light up his far away place,

Tell him, ah, tell him who is waiting here!

If he is dreaming about me,

May this remembrance awake him!

Oh Moon, don't disappear, don't disappear!

Their bodies melt into one as they swayed through the haunting melody. When the song died, and the river spirit finished her sorrowful pleadings, Celebrimbor had drooped to sleep on the couch. Celegorm offered to carry him to his room, he scooped the youth's sleeping body in his arms gently, careful not to wake him, and left the hall. Celegorm's exit prompted Maglor, Curufin, Fingon and Maedhros to seek their beds. The fireplace was extinguished.

His whispered Maitimo, Maitimo, Maitimo each time he caressed the silken skin, not caring the pronunciation is now forbidden. Maedhros is always Maitimo to him. Maedhros responded to his call. They entwined their bodies together, silk rustled beneath them. Fingon was filled with the warmth of Maedhros. Maedhros' hair fanning his body, forming a silk cocoon that trapped him, binding him, and he never wants to fly away. Fingon sighed.

He went to the edge of the fortress bare-chested carrying a set of gardening tools and some branches. When Maglor politely inquired his action, he explained he wants to plot roses because the color of their petals is the shade of Maedhros' shiny tresses. Silly and impractical, but he knew Maedhros does enjoy roses. Rosehips drank like tea can beautify his creamy complexion.

Maglor contemplated the lot, and then shook his head. The earth here is poisoned by Morgoth. It's soil poor and desolate. Nothing will grow.

Fear not, he replied confidently and then smirked conspiratorially, I had swiped Artanis' bag of special fertilizer.

If that fails, then he's fervid anticipating an all night fertility rite practiced by the elusive Avari. He quipped and winked, I hope Maedhros would traipse here howling, wearing only bearskin, hence making the ritual more potent. The Mighty Singer blushed and spluttered his excuse to leave Fingon alone in his task. Later Maedhros was invited to a grand tour of his new garden. Fingon pointed out each loose mound proudly and demanded a princely reward, preferably awarded in the bedroom privately. Maedhros pointedly turned deaf and walked on to chat with his captains. It's Fingon's turn to pout.

If his tutor asked him about his ambition now, he would reply it does not lie in the crown, in recapturing the Silmarils from Morgoth, but to live in a hut with Maedhros with a patch of garden. He would braid Maedhros' soft waves into plaits each morning. Then he would hoe the earth to plant vegetables: corns, potatoes, tomatoes and leeks. Maedhros probably would plunder the forest clean, carrying hefty loads of venison home each day. Together they watch the sun shedding her raiment of light and wait for the moon to bath them in his ethereal rays, transforming the shrubbery and the pots of flowers into silvery sculptures. And how could he forget about apples. An apple tree would be grown in the backyard, where he could suck on the succulent flesh of its fruits and spits out the seeds to annoy Maedhros.

No one had witnessed their ceremony under the moonlights, neither gifts given nor petals throwing in their names to bless the union. Maedhros went to a temporary forge secretly, melted a silver cloak pin, and then pounded the obstinate metal awkwardly with his stump holding the tongs down and his left hand gripping the hammer. It was not the most impressive silver ring; in fact it was downright ugly with its jagged edges, almost square in shape, and rough surface with one or two bubbles dangerously visible. Maedhros was very ashamed when he revealed the ring to Fingon in its deformed glory. Fingon loved it. He loved the uneven surface that displayed each hammer stroke. He loved the crooked angle, the imperfect roundness, as he loved Maedhros for his fierce independence, unwilling to be a lesser vessel even to his would be spouse. The ring spoke of Maedros' undying love for him. The eldest son of Feanor almost retrieved his ring back when Fingon inspected the betroth ring in silence, regretting that he should gift Fingon a poor work. He promised he shall the find the most glorious, perfect ring for his lover. Fingon threatened him if he took the ring, there shall be no ceremony. No other rings, even the Silmarils, can move him as this cragged silver band, this wreath of Maedhros' ardor around his finger.

Because he lacked the skill of the forge to make his own betroth ring, Fingon beseeched his cousin's friend to craft him a plain silver ring, exchanging his mother's prized brooch, his only memoir of her, for the ring. He was embarrassed when he presented the ring to Maedhros, for he had not made it with his own hands, pouring his love and affection for his lover during its making. Its luster dull and lifeless compares to Maedhros' bended one. But Maedhros had cherished it the moment he fastened his eyes on it, and Fingon was glad.

They evoke Eru's name as a witness to their bond and exchanged the rings. Their souls linked when they sealed their fates with a kiss, unbreakable beyond the existence of Arda. Under the waxing moon they explored new realms of the flesh, fumbling through the tantalizing pleasure of joining their bodies, exhilarating and divine, of the physical union between two elves espoused. Basking in the afterglow, they lay on moist grasses breathed as one, their souls shivered in content. They had to hide their rings the next day and the day after. Instead of a sumptuous celebratory feast befitting their status, they settled for a quiet meal of roasted venison, buttered corns and white lace cakes on a rose decorated table inside Maedhros' study. Fingon had never feel more fulfilled. He would take out his ring from the hidden pocket to feel a piece of Maedhros' fire when he was parted from his mate, relishing in the warmth spreading from the ring.

In his embrace, Maedhros dreamed of burning ships and the cruel darkness, he shuddered and clung to him. He rocked Maedhros gently, and sang the songs Maedhros had sung to him in childhood to speed the passing of the spell. Fingon's worried that Maedhros would suffer this nightmare everyday without him to hold him. He instructed the Himring servants to brew a sleep draught to aid Maedhros, a mixture of roots and leaves from the forest nearby the fortress. Fingon had cajoled the formula from a sour, lean Green elf that he suspected had eyed his chambermaid with romantic interest. Fingon dangled the chance of introducing the lovely dark hair maiden to him in exchange for the herb cure; the elf had jumped at it without hesitation.

He stroked the fine reddish mane, the soft, silky strands melted through his fingers. A sheen of sweat glistened at Maedhros' pale forehead, passion reflected in his luminous eyes, calling him, needing him. Fingon bent to kiss the heated lips tenderly, gliding his tongue on the smooth flesh teasingly. Maedhros moaned his name appreciatively when Fingon filled him with his own fire.

The brothers squabbled amongst themselves. He was fascinated by the heightened emotions in Curufin's face. The elf had a flair for dramatics like his father. His eyes flashed lightening. His mouth snarled and few moments later the brows threatened to bury themselves in the top of his face rather than staying at their proper place. His face flushed from whatever irks he passionately quarreled against. Fingon's ears twitched, he knew they argued about him. Maglor glanced at him furtively, and then dived back to the conversation. Celebrimbor stood aside to attend his father, but his mind wandered off to the new pattern he had drawn. Incapable of tolerating more flailing words, acrobatic hand dance and vicious verbal sparring, he took Celebrimbor out where he whittled a small flute out of a falling branch for him, the only craft he can do with a dagger. Celebrimbor brightened. He thank Fingon profusely, his postures regal as befitting the grandson of a king, though he knew he could craft a superior one encrusted with sapphires on gold. He received too few gifts now, and for that Fingon's genuinely regretful. By lunchtime the brothers had made up, and once again everything was under Maedhros' firm thumb.

Fingon poured boiling water from the iron kettle into two cups. He steeped tealeaves for three minutes and then took them to guard post on the impregnable wall. Maedhros was already there waiting. He put the steaming cups down to a stone slab. Gesturing to the fur cloak next to him, Maedhros told him to use that to ward off the chill, which he did. He huddled close to Maedhros, comfortably wrapped in the heavy cloak. They gazed at Thangorodrim under the moonlights. After a long, calm silence, he commented. "It seem a lifetime had passed from escaping there." He could feel Maedhros' breath on his face. They snuggled closer.

"Most lovers spent their romantic evenings sighing at the stars, whispering horrendous poetry, not gawking at the pinnacle of evil, and twisting one's brain to demolish it." Fingon added wryly.

"If you object to sinisterly devising the most excruciating torture for the Black Foe, then you can rub my foot." Maedhros threw his leg over Fingon's lap. Fingon began rubbing the stiff, well-formed foot, relieving it of soreness from a day of field tactics exercise. Tracing the pinkish toes, he giddily asked. "Have you trampled down any hapless sod recently with your awful foot, O Lord ?"

"Mocking my prowess, dear cousin?"

Fingon snorted. Amazed, his lover laughed. "Careful, you're becoming like Curufin." Maedhros warned goodheartedly.

"May the Valar spare me from that cruel fate." He muttered, his nimble fingers worked from the foot to the calf, kneading the muscle and caressing the skin sensually. Little by little he glided his hands to the slender thigh, his fingers danced across the white expanse of flesh, creating ripples of sensation. Maedhros withdrew his foot, and passionately embraced him; they left immediately, leaving the foul mountain to another night.

Unbelievable, a cicada here is the same as a cicada in the Blessed Realm. Fingon stretched languidly in the lazy summer afternoon, watching a spectacular show of black smokes bursting from the vile peak looming afar. The cicadas sang their ode to the warm air and bright sun. A plump child stopped to give him an apple from his basket before rationing them out to the guards by the parapets. A shadowy figure moved towards him. He squinted his eyes, and saw Curufin.

Curufin sniffed at him disapprovingly. His slightly slumped shoulder indicated that he had been at the forge busy churning out armors. His tone admonishing as Curufin spoke to him. "You are a sore sight for the eyes. Go hack an Orc, or something so you're at least productive." Fingon patiently explained to Curufin that the valiant, mighty Finweans had scourged the host of Morgoth's craven thralls to the point that one had to seek a month day and night for a whiff of an Orc shadow, beside charging into Angband's iron gate." Then he went for the kill, "My lord Curufin, do not lecture me on responsibility as you have tarry your stay here, thus depriving your people of your strength and leadership, and leaving Himlad defenseless should Morgoth's servants challenge your might." Curufin stomped away. Fingon went back to the lurid sun. The cicadas had sung louder after Curufin left, so he had a hard time dozing off after Thangorodrim spitted its last stream of baleful ash from its monstrous belly. Maedhros later droned for hours on battle plans and strategy. Fingon nodded absently. The drowsy afternoon air sapped his mind and strength. Maedhros frowned at his inattention. He reminded Fingon the importance of military astuteness. Fingon braced himself for another endless lecture.

He would write to Maedhros from Hithlum, from Nevrast or from Finrod's water dripping cavernous kingdom. Papers, quills and inkpot are his packing stable. Sometime he wrote after a sweaty skirmish outside a quaint village to annihilate a wandering orc war band, scribbling his thoughts down to the brown parchment. He shamelessly abused his princely privilege by ordering a herald to deliver his trivial correspondence to Himring frequently, for that he was grateful of his noble birth. If he thought of his love amidst the barking hounds, pages and eager hunters, he would steer out of the hunt and find a tree to sit down, to write to Maedhros. The candle cried its wax tears in the lamp on his desk as he read Maedhro's response in his study. Their missives to each had became shorter and shorter from:

"Dear Fearsome Lord of Glorious Mane,

In dire consternation, I must remind you not to conveniently forget to sample the first crop of berries and hearty bread, to save you from the embarrassment of fainting from hunger in combat.

Your loving conscious."

To

"Look outside your window and smell the blossoms. It's spring."

To

"Eat well, sleep well?"

Celebrimbor proudly displayed a new crafted leaf-thin dagger, furnished with gold hilt, emeralds and protective rune running on the body of the metal, to them. The exquisite but deadly dagger vouched for his skills of the forge. Maedhros accepted the gift gladly; pleased that Feanor's talent is evident in his grandson. His father had not one, but one heirs in his smith craft.

The steward interrupted them by announcing the arrival of Fingolfin's herald. An elf wearing brown cloak and green shirt bowed deeply to Maedhros, then to Fingon. He first relayed the High King's routine inquiry to the Lord of Himring, and then he turned to the High King's heir to deliver his father's message to him.

"My Lord, you father, the High King, requested your presence at court." The messenger fidgeted nervously, bewildered at the sight of Fingon's head on Maedhros' lap. He must be new then.

The herald halted to refresh himself a bit, declined an invitation to stay for the night, and scurried off to deliver his next message. After he left the hall, Fingon, Maedhros and Celebrimbor burst into laughters over that elf's shocked expression. They have set bets for how far away from Himring will the elf's mind recover from his shock. Fingon betted on until the elf returned to Hithlum.

He promised Maedhros he will come back next year, after he has done his duty to Fingolfin.

He left Himring when the morning was bleak, and the crows croaked furiously. No one had seen him off except Maedhros. Maglor, Curufin, Celegorm and Celebrimbor were buried comfortably in their warm beds. Maedhros embraced him for a long time, and then kissed his brow chastely. His red haired love fussed over his weapons and supplies. Maedhros then furtively slid the dagger he received from Celebrimbor into the saddlebag. Fingon pretended he didn't notice. His heart ached. He felt like the river spirit in Maglor's song, parted from her lover, had to hope he would remember her in his dream. Like her, he shall go out to his balcony at night, asking the moon to remind his love to dream of him. He wished the Fingon in his love's dream could ward off the consuming darkness for him.

After Fingon mounted the horse, Maedhros patted the horse's rump to send it off. Fingon turned his head, waved farewell to Maedhros forlornly. The horse trotted slowly, taken him away from Maedhros' eyesight until Maedhros was a blurry red dot in front of a stone dwelling. He head turned forward. He noticed the horse was trotting through a faint trail that zigzags through the forest, should take him to a hilltop beyond.

When he and his mount entered the forest, the birches and the beeches shed their raiment of leaves and their barren branches interlaced artfully, greeted him. A great gust swept through the trees' skeletal frames, the trees shivered, and he was assailed by the flight of dry, dying leaves in mottled browns and fading greens. They attacked his cloak, invaded his shirt, caressed his windblown cheeks, and then twirling their last wild dance in midair before cascading to the musty earth lifelessly, to be trampled by the uncaring feet of forest dwelling beasts.

Autumn was here.

He breathed in the crisp, chill air that has a faint woodsy scent once he stopped at the hilltop beyond the forest. To his right lies Hithlum. He imagined the trumpets bellowing their welcome at his return, his father embracing him warmly, and perhaps his brother Turgon and his golden hair daughter Idril were visiting, chatting by the hearth, drinking mulled spices tea. He's returning home. Then along at night, away from the court and prying eyes, he would write to Maedhros of his journey home in the moonlights.

A company of migratory geese flew over his head. Their wings flapped against the air current uniformly. The leader squawked loudly, followed by more squawking from his fellow geese. Soon they vanished from the horizon, flying to wherever their new home is. The hilltop was quieted for a second when they were gone, and then Fingon's ears picked up the light crackling of twigs that hinted a doe was silently watching him nearby, the flighty chirping of a bird and her mate, and the calming whisper of a running creek somewhere in the forest.

If he closed his eyes, he could feel the sun gently illuminating his serene body like the lost lights of Laurelin, his soul soaring to the cloudless azure sky, he could almost believed he live in Valinor again.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This fic was supposed to be part three of my Maedhros/Fingon arc. I was working on the first part, where Fingon declares his love to everyone's favorite red-haired elf; these naughty elves got impatient and claimed my keyboard to write this fic. Fingon was such a slave driving, needy elf! I couldn't do anything for a week except writing his love story out. He's very deft with his whip, wink, wink.

The title of this fic and its story was inspired by Antonin Dvorak's 'Hymn to the Moon', one of the most beautiful soprano arias in opera.

Maglor's story and lyric were taken out of Dvorak's opera, Rusalka, which is based on the tale of Undine. I have taken artistic license to tweak them to fit the story. The lyric was originally sung in Czechoslovakian, in Act 1 of Rusulka, when the water spirit sings to the Moon of her love for a human prince. Rusalka is a water spirit who loved a human Prince. She begged the forest witch to give her a potion so she can live in the human world. The prince took her out of the forest to be his bride, but he was tempted by a visiting princess and also frightened of Rusalka's strange powers. The prince finally chose the princess, and Rusalka returned to the forest heartbroken. When the prince recalled his love for Rusalka, he went back to the forest to seek her. A sad Rusalka then pulled him down to the river. Rusalka is a more realistic version of the Little Mermaid.

Amici Forever had done a rendition of 'Hymn to the Moon' in the Amici Forever CD. Sarah Brightman's La Luna song in her La Luna CD has a new lyric written to the melody of 'Hymn to the Moon'.