Whatever You Say, Ace by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Four

The little rituals began while Maedhros was recovering. They were small at first, just a particular way of smiling or squeezing hands, that communicated a certain thing: I am here, I care, and I’m not going anywhere. As Maedhros regained his strength they grew into something a little more: a meal and news shared every mid-morning, and a walk once a week, just around the room at first, and then gradually as far as the lake.

When Maedhros joined his brothers across the lake, the rituals changed, but did not cease. There was the particular way Fingon would sign off each letter, and the tongue in cheek response Maedhros would begin his with, once he could manage a pen again. Each wrote the other every week, even if they could not be sent that frequently. When one occasioned to visit the other, they fell into a very predictable and rather affectionate pattern. The most noticeable sign of which was that Maedhros’s hair was always neatly and elaborately braided whenever Fingon stayed, which Maglor commented on one day.

“I wonder if I was wrong about you two. You once told me that you were not lovers. Do you remember? But it certainly looks like it now,” Maglor ran a careful finger along one of the twists in Maedhros’s hair, “Can’t you see it?”

“It’s no different to before Maglor, only we can be more openly affectionate now that our peoples are reconciled.”

“Well, our brothers are all reading into it, and it’s not friendship they are assuming. I hear them whispering about you two when they think we’re not listening, though I no longer think there is any mocking in their talk. If you are not lovers, then what is it?”

“I don’t know. Why do you feel the need to dissect it?”

“Perhaps so I can speak back to the rumours,” Maglor smiled teasingly.

Maedhros laughed, “Which you started, you horrible beast, and now look what you’ve done. You can’t stop them!” He thought for a moment, “it is as I said, a kind of meldë, without the desire for romance of any kind, or want for children. A close friendship with a peculiarly high dose of commitment.”

“Hmm, accurate enough, but I doubt it will satisfy the rest of your brothers. Though they may never be happy until you do in fact start going at it like a rabbit with someone. Fingon or otherwise.”

“Hypocrites. Four of them unmarried themselves, and yet they gossip about me.”

“Well, none of them carries on with anyone the way you do with Fingon, and if they did, they wouldn’t claim not to be lovers.”

When Maedhros built Himring he made a room for Fingon. Technically it was a guestroom, not actually Fingon’s alone, but it was designed with him in mind. Maedhros placed it in the warmest part of the fortress that still had a Westward facing window for views of the sunset. He arranged the furniture inside it in the pattern that Fingon’s had been placed in Tirion, though nothing here was near as fine. But the first time Fingon walked in he had said, “ah, I’m home!” and Maedhros had almost cried. Fingon had a similar room for Maedhros at Barad Eithel, but rather than carefully arranging the furniture, his strategy of choice was thoughtfully scattered books. They did not get to visit each other all that often, but when they did, both were glad.

Maedhros had been at Barad Eithel when Fingon first met Nutunto. She had approached them, bold as brass as they sat upon the grass in Ard Galen on a sunny spring day. Forgoing all of the tedious deference the two men usually attracted, she had struck up a conversation about the wildflowers they were both admiring.

“I can’t believe I’ve never met you before. Are you sure you crossed the ice with us?” Fingon asked her.

“Oh yes, how could one forget the ice? I remember seeing you there. You were often pre-occupied with more dangerous and important things than greeting the likes of me.”

“Still, I feel it is rude of me.”

“How many subjects does your father have? Isn’t it thousands? Do you truly expect yourself to remember each one?”

“Fingon is such a hospitable person he would probably try,” Maedhros piped up.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Nutunto had asked.

“No,” Fingon had corrected, “This is Lord Maedhros of Himring. We are cousins.”

“Oh good, because I rather like you, so I am glad to hear you are indeed not taken.”

Fingon and Maehdros looked at each other sideways. This elleth was very forward, and entirely unlike most other ellith they knew.

Nutunto read their expressions and laughed, “I’ve heard about you Lord Maedhros. I hear you are close to the prince. But if you declare him single, then I shall take your word for it.”

“I think I am going to like you,” Maedhros declared to Nutunto, and then turned to Fingon, “You should marry her immediately.”

Thus began their rather unique friendship. Fingon also liked her rather well and they were married barely a year later. Maedhros began to think of his main guestroom as Fingon and Nutunto’s. When Fingon visited Himring, more often than not she came too, and he was often blessed with stimulating conversation on all manner of scholarly topics for which Fingon had no taste. In his room in Barad Eithel, along with the books Maedhros now often found wildflowers, and a draft essay on some point of lore Nutunto wished for his opinion on.

Nutunto was never jealous of her husband’s closeness with Maedhros. She never seemed to read in it what wasn’t there. Maedhros was particularly fond of the way she very pointedly referred to him as “cousin Maedhros” and reserved sharp looks for anyone who insinuated their closeness was indecent. Particularly amusing were the times she occasioned to turn this upon Caranthir, who understood perfectly but could make no reply, and Finrod, who was perfectly oblivious. With her around, life was sweeter. As Morgoth cowered within his fortress and the glorious peace grew longer, life was very sweet indeed.