It is winter when Fingon marches on Angband.
Boots crunch on frozen grass, slip over patches of ice.
Helcaraxë, everyone thinks. Helcaraxë.
No-one turns back.
It was autumn when what remained of Maitimo was rescued.
Fingon remembers the High King’s crown.
It looked strange against pale skin and red hair.
It was summer when they held hands on the streets of Tirion, and no-one jeered.
Instead, Fingon remembers, half the city stopped to congratulate Maitimo.
It was spring when they first kissed, and Fingon remembers Maitimo’s calloused hands on him, hot breath against his skin, and a fierce, fierce fire.