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The Gardens are a place of healing and tranquillity, a transition for the newly re-embodied between Death and Life. There is quiet, but not the lack of all sound that forces a fëa to fill it with thoughts of contemplation like in the Halls. It is the quiet of nature, where the breeze gently rustles the canopy of leaves, where the slow flowing stream trickles along the bend, where the bees buzz about the pastel petalled flowers. A quiet filled with life, a quiet that is peaceful. "So..." Finrod, a visitor to the Gardens, one re-embodied long ago and in no urgent need of healing, breaks the silence. "So..." Maedhros, newly released from the Halls and still reacquainting himself with his new hröa, rumbles back in answer. A short pause, where they allow a red robin to say his piece as he flitters by, and the two elves size each other up. Finrod is bright eyed, his golden hair shimmering in the scattered beams of sunlight filtering through the leaves. He is a riot of colours, of expensive fabrics and jewels, smiling comfortably and perfectly settled in his skin, a paragon of joviality, just as Maedhros remembers him from his youth. There is the silver outline of a large lupine bite mark across his exposed throat. Maedhros' eyes are no longer dark and haunted, though neither light with innocence like in his youth. His hair is neither sparkling copper wire, nor a fountain of red blood, but the in-between that turns out to be the fluffy orange coat of a fox. He is getting used to his soul being clothed in flesh again, the breeze lightly caressing his unmarred skin, the smooth stump of his still missing right hand absently running through the soft grass he sits on. "Sauron, right?" Maedhros dips his toes into the murky waters of what some would consider a fraught topic of conversation. Finrod raises a curious brow but grins nonetheless. "Sauron, indeed." Maedhros sagely nods, and in a grave tone he declares, "What a pompous ass." "Eru Ever-loving! I know right?!" Finrod throws his head back as he cries out. "He was such an insufferable peacock!" "Always strutting about the dingy dungeon corridors like he was on the latest Vanyar fashion exhibit," Maedhros complains. "Yes!" Finrod exclaims. "Like every time he came down to our prison cell, he was wearing something different. Flowing robes, black silk dresses, giant fur coats, a full set of armour..." "Jewel encrusted layered skirts, gold embroidered mantle with a ten feet train behind him, lace tunic that left so little to the imagination he might as well have walked around completely bare chested..." Maedhros lists off. Finrod leans in, an almost manic glint in his eye, and regardless of their perfectly secluded spot in the Gardens, he drops his voice to a whisper like all the old Tirion gossips do at dinner parties. "Once he passed the cell I shared with Beren twice in less than an hour, and he was wearing two entirely different outfits both times." "Nooo," the eldest son of Fëanor gasps in mock disbelief, barely containing the delighted toothy grin that wants to break out across his face. "Yes, he did!" Finrod cries. Then continues, "I will never forget the loud echoing sound of his clip-clopping steps as he marched down the stairs in his..." "...stupid twelve-inch high heeled steel boots," they both say at the same time before dissolving into tittering laughter like a pair of old mortal ladies. They gradually calm, sharing big smiles that is just a little too sharp at the edges. There is pain in the memory of their captivity, but it is nothing compared to the satisfaction of commiserating together of their torturer's ridiculousness. "Never met, before or after, a creature as full of himself as Sauron," Maedhros says. "It truly is an achievement of its own, especially since we Noldor think so. I mean look at how I dress," Finrod shows off his multicoloured airy shirt and a full rainbow of gems dangling from his ears and adorning his fingers. "I'm one to talk, and yet Sauron..." "And yet Sauron..." There is no need to finish that thought. They both know exactly what the other means. Maedhros' eyes gentle a fraction as he looks his golden cousin over once more. It feels nice to be able to laugh at such things, to not be so broken in body and spirit anymore. "You look well, Ingo," he compliments, his voice sincere. "Why thank you," Finrod says, making a complicated hand gesture with flourish in a continuation of their jokes, but the emotion behind his blue-green eyes, like the sea at calm, is genuine. "You look much better as well, since our last meeting alive." A butterfly settles onto the gold of Finrod's unbound strands, big wings of rose-pink opening and closing. Maedhros takes a lock of his own red between his fingers, and tucks it behind a pointed ear. "He once made me polish my own shackle from which I was hung from on the side of the mountain, because he couldn't check his reflection in it while he monologued at me." "Oh, those dreadful speeches!" Finrod buried his face in dismay at just remembering them. "He could go on and on about his own beauty, and how Morgoth desired him, and of his own superiority in every way." "I honestly preferred the torture over his narcissistic self-flattery. It was less painful than being forced to listen." "I heard all of two of his speeches but it was plenty enough. Poor Beren was completely checked out. I was glad to be mauled soon after, at least I knew my friend hadn't died of boredom when I heard him scream for my life. Would definitely take the werewolf over Sauron's posturing any time." The two cousins continued like this for at least another hour. While they complained and bickered and reminisced over the darkest time of their first lives, they did so with matching smiles. "We should do this again over tea next time," Finrod eventually suggests as his visit comes to a close. His cheeks are flushed from laughing so hard and his face feels stiff from all the grinning he's been doing. "I'd like that," Maedhros replies. He is equally out of breath, having last laughed with such vigour since before his stay in Angband, both his new hröa and healing fëa unused to the sensation. "We should invite Tyelpë to do this next time," he adds. "How grand!" Finrod lights up at that. "He should definitely join us." ~☆~ The next time comes several months later in a public park in the middle of Tirion. Maedhros is much more settled in his body and having had the opportunity to reunite with friends and family, and Fingon above all else of course, has done much good for his health. Maedhros sits now beneath the shade of a great oak tree that he often climbed as an elfling and it still stands tall after so many thousands of years. The picnic blanket is fuzzy under his fingers and he listens to Finrod regale him with the latest court gossip. Sandwiches and cakes are already set out on the blanket along with tea, and a bottle of elder flower and mint cordial is cooling in the basket Sang to keep the food and drink's temperature unchanged. Celebrimbor weaves through the park, dodging others who are also picnicking or are just out on a stroll. He carries a basket of his own and is followed by a shadow, a dark-haired elf a head shorter than him who is clutching his other hand and holds a blanket under his other arm. "Uncle, Cousin!" Celebrimbor calls out to them and Maedhros and Finrod fondly wave back in greeting. "I hope you don't mind that I brought Cousin Lómion along," he apologetically says and tilts his head towards his companion. Maeglin stands close beside Celebrimbor as they stop at the edge of their elder family member's blanket, sharp eyes carefully taking everything in and about as reserved as his uncle Turgon. "I heard you have spice cookies and are talking shit about Sauron," he explains his presence to them. Three wide toothy grins are the answer to Maeglin's statement. "Correct on both accounts," Finrod nods and welcomes them over to their picnic. "Come, nephews, and join us in our shit talking." The newcomers place their blanket beside the spread and Celebrimbor produces more snacks and drinks from his basket. "Yes, Lómion, tell us what annoyed you most about Morgoth's most dreadful lieutenant?" Maedhros asks and hands Maeglin a plate of spice cookies. Maeglin chews on a bite as he thinks and gives his answer once he has swallowed, "That he could not stand the thought of anyone else being just as brilliant as he was. The first time he took a glance at Anguirel he had a hissy fit over him not being the one to invent galvorn and that an elf got his hands on star-metal before him." "He was always incredibly jealous over other people's inventions," Celebrimbor murmured. "I don't think Annatar ever decided whether he found my intellect exciting or infuriating." "Why were you even friends in the first place?" Finrod questions, honestly baffled, as he pours everyone a cup of tea. "I think his vanity numbed my brain. I should've listened to Narvi when she said no amount of secrets of the Universe promised were worth exposing myself to his never-ending self-obsessed prattle." A series of sympathetic nods are his answer. "He really was an unbearably egotistical prick," Maedhros groans. "Did he still change his hair every few months in the Second Age like he used to?" He leans toward Finrod and further explains, "And I don't mean that he would braid his hair differently or wear a new accessory. He would actually change the colour and volume and texture of his hair." "Oh, yes! All the time!" Celebrimbor exclaims. "From redhead to blonde, from curly to straight. No one could get any work done until someone finally complimented his new look." "I had noticed that he suddenly seemed more golden blonde after my first meeting with him face to face," Finrod muses out loud. Then suddenly his eyes go wide and he places a scandalised hand to his chest as he gasps, realisation hitting him. He takes a strand of his own golden hair and examines it under his disbelieving gaze. "Was he copying my hair?!" "Bastard!" "Prick!" "Asshole!" The others readily jump in to insult the dead Maia. "I am also pretty sure he tried to one up me by turning his hair into literal flames," Maedhros comments. Maeglin self-consciously tugs at his own practical braid. "Do you think he was trying to make a similar point when one day he came to drag me to the forge and he had iridescent black hair?" "Oh, absolutely." " Yes." "Definitely." They contemplate what was said in silence, munching on cakes and sipping on tea as they do so. Then Finrod pipes up, "He must have been so mad when he couldn't take on a fair form after one too many deaths." Imagining Sauron's incandescent rage at his inability to preen himself in front of a mirror has all four of them bursting out in tearful laughter, drawing the attention of the many confused elves who have come to enjoy the day in the park.