For Mirien is a quadrabble about hatred between two cousins. And passion.
This story is set just before Fëanor's exile and is about the relationship that might have existed at this time between Maedhros and Fingon. It was written to have two meanings. If you take the first meaning, at face value, then it is simply a dark story about friendship turned to animosity.
If you choose to look at it from the second angle, then that "animosity" was spurred by a different sort of passion.
This is a slash story. If you do not like slash, do us both a favor and skip this one. It is not graphic, but it is dark and not for the faint of heart.
I hate him.
My eyes are drawn to him upon entering the clearing. It is the Winter Festival, and swaying lanterns are strung amid the trees and bonfires paint the people in a feral, throbbing light. There he is, hair the color and texture of flame; silver eyes bright in the darkness.
I hate him.
From across the clearing, his gaze is drawn to mine, and we stare for a long moment before he turns and moves away and lets the shadows swallow him. I see a lick of scarlet hair as he disappears. Amid the churning bodies and dancing flames and trees that bend with the rhythm of the drums, it is all that I can see.
Until the darkness claims him.
Yet we are destined to meet. We always have been. Coming together out of duty, then friendship. Now-
The eldest sons of the high princes cannot linger long on the periphery, and so it is inevitable. We are held tightly in the dark clutches of the crowd, moving to its center in slow jolting starts. I see him dancing with a maiden, long-fingered hands pale against the dark silk of her gown, pressing into her warm flesh beneath. He bumps me, and I seize that long fire-bright hair, defiant.
He strikes me in defense, an open hand across my cheek, a sound that falls between the relentless drumbeats. He wears a ring on that hand, and it cuts my face in a stuttering line. I am staring at his mouth, thin lips that I have not seen smile in a long, long time.
My fingers become a fist and meet that mouth, darkening his lips with his own blood.
Strong arms seize me from behind, just as he is seized by Macalaurë, and we are dragged apart. The cut on my face is throbbing in time with my heartbeat, matching the drums, then faster. Frantic. His blood is upon my knuckle, I see, when the crowd swallows him again and I can spare a glance for someone other than him.
Red blood on white skin.
Turukáno releases my arms with a disgusted admonishment before returning to the arms of his wife. The cut on my face throbs faster until it is just pain. Will it leave a scar? I hope that it will.
I lift my fist to my mouth and lick away his blood.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.