#when will i draw them with happy feels? i dunno loll but hopefully someday XDD

[arlenianchronicles]

Years of preparation have finally culminated on this day. Turgon stands in what used to be his room, in the palace of Vinyamar. Early morning sunlight streams through the window and creeps across the far wall.

In the back of his mind, Ulmo calls to him. It is faint, not yet urgent. Turgon has planned his people’s departure and is certain that they shall reach the appointed spot on time. From there, Ulmo shall protect them on their way to Tumladen.

Everything is ready. Yet he hesitates, gazing unseeingly about the room. He sent letters to his father and brother in Mithrim. Admittedly, he did not give them enough time to send him their replies, if they did choose to write back at all. If he were to receive any letters from them now, it would only delay him further from departure. He cannot afford to delay any longer. He must do this.

As much as it pains him to go without proper farewells, it is his duty.

Footsteps reach his ears, furiously hurrying up the stairs beyond his room. There are many voices clamouring, getting louder, pleading, shouting. The door to his room bursts open.

Turgon turns. Standing in the doorway is Fingon. The sight of him is like a dose of ice water, and yet -- Turgon ought to have expected this. Part of him cannot help but feel relieved, glad even, to see his eldest brother one last time before leaving.

Fingon’s face is flushed from the flight up the stairs, perhaps from the entire journey here from Mithrim. At least, that is what Turgon assumes. It could very well be the heat of anger instead.

Standing behind him in the corridor are Turgon’s guards. Turgon waves his hand; it does not tremble, thank the Valar, and the guards retreat, albeit hesitantly. Fingon glances back at them to make sure they have left, then slams the door closed and turns on Turgon.

“So, this was your intention all along?” Fingon says. His voice quivers, though from wrath or from grief, Turgon cannot say. “You left us for Vinyamar. Now you are leaving us again for a city that does not exist!”

Turgon looks away. If he meets Fingon’s glistening eyes, the shield around his heart will break. “Who told you?”

“I questioned the messenger after receiving your letter. He would not tell me where this city is, only that you are departing very soon. I rode here as fast as I could.”

“We are leaving in a couple hours. Our travel must be kept secret; I trust you will not divulge it beyond Father’s confidence --”

“Oh, blast it all, Turgon!” Fingon cries.

Turgon falls silent. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, beating like the paws of a rabbit running from wolves. After a moment, Fingon speaks. “How did you find this city?”

“I had it built in secret.”

“Where?”

“I cannot tell you. Unless you wish to join me and remain within its walls forever.”

He hears Fingon take a step into the room. “You have not even told Father. And what of Aredhel? Do you think she will take this lightly?”

“Aredhel knows. She has decided to join me there.”

Fingon sucks in a sharp breath. "So you -- you plan to stay there till the end of Arda, never to see us again? You cannot mean anything else by ‘remaining within its walls forever.’”

“The city’s location allows for it to remain guarded and secret, so long as none give it away,” Turgon explains. “If I am to ensure that there is no opportunity for that, then all who know its location must stay inside the city.” He swallows. “That includes myself. If I were caught by Morgoth outside my city --”

“You do not trust yourself to keep it a secret if you were caught?”

“Is that such a surprise?”

“You are too strong to submit to Morgoth.”

It is Turgon’s turn to be surprised, enough so that he looks at Fingon to find his brother gazing back at him determinedly. Fingon saw him almost fall to pieces after Elenwë was lost. After that, Turgon drew himself so tightly together that his face became as stone, unmoving and unbending. Locked away behind his inner defenses, he kept his anger and grief, doubt and despair. He is to become the king of Gondolin. He cannot afford to fall apart when his people need him most.

But it is still a possibility. As much as he can appear tall and stalwart in the face of Darkness, he is still just himself. He can still be broken into a thousand pieces.

“You do not believe me,” Fingon says, a note of bitterness in his voice. The sunlight catches in his golden ribbons, turning them to molten fire in his dark braids. “But I know it. You would never betray your people, or Father, or myself. You need not stay hidden in your city for all time.”

“What laws I give to my people, I must also follow. It is only just.”

“So I am to never hear from you again?” Fingon demands. “This is to be our final meeting together?”

“I will think of you and Father always.”

“That is not good enough! What if you need my help, but I cannot find your hidden city? What if Morgoth finds out and descends upon you one night, and I am not there to help you and Aredhel, and little Idril?” Tears slip down his cheeks, gleaming like crystal drops in the sun. “Mother is gone. Elenwë is gone. Argon is gone, and now -- now you might as well be! What am I to do about that?” His voice cracks and his breath hitches, chest heaving with sobs not yet released.

Turgon does not have the words. It is for my people’s safety. As a prince, Fingon would understand, but it will do nothing to heal this wound to his heart.

So he reaches out and cradles Fingon’s face, bringing their foreheads together. Fingon grips Turgon’s wrists, and eventually, his breathing steadies.

“I know you feel it is your duty as the eldest,” Turgon murmurs. “But you are no longer responsible for me, Finno. I am a leader of my own people now, and I must do what I feel is best for them. Just as you do for yours.” He gently kisses Fingon’s cheek. “I will be alright on the journey there. I think I can safely assure you of that. Ulmo has promised us his protection.”

Fingon swallows hard. “I -- that is good to know,” he says hoarsely.

“Indeed,” Turgon smiles, but the grief finally cracks through his shield, and his next words are shaky. “So you see, you need not worry too much. Alright?”

Fingon nods, unable to speak. Turgon knows not how it happens, but in the next second they are holding each other close, a final embrace. Fingon has to stand on his toes in order to properly wrap an arm around Turgon’s shoulders; he tugs insistently, so Turgon must bend down a little. Distantly, he remembers that it was slightly more awkward with Argon, but that never stopped Fingon before.

Turgon listens to his brother’s whimpering and weeping, muffled against his shoulder, and hugs him tighter. On the far wall, the sunlight lengthens, and Ulmo’s call grows clearer in the back of his mind. But that time is not yet here. For now, Turgon stands with Fingon, and lets his tears fall into his brother’s hair, unnoticed.

_____

I wasn’t expecting to write an entire one-shot for this; originally, it was just going to be a small snippet of dialogue, but the scene kept playing out in my head and getting longer, so I decided to write the whole thing!

If I were to make this a full-fledged fic, this scene would likely be longer with more exploration of their feelings, but as it is, I think it works well enough for an art post! Plus you get a closeup of Fingon’s anguished face! Man, I just love Fingon+Turgon angst loll