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 to leave you as you fear. As Maedhros regained his strength, they grew into something more: a meal and news shared every mid-morning, and a weekly walk, just around the room at first, then gradually as far as Mithrim’s shore.

When Maedhros joined his brothers on the other side of 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 each of his with, once he could manage a pen again. Each wrote the other at least once per week, even if their correspondence 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 this was that Maedhros’s hair became mysteriously neat and elaborately braided whenever Fingon came to stay.

Maglor commented on this 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 that way now.” Maglor ran a careful finger along one of the twists in Maedhros’s hair. “Can’t you see it?”

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

“Well, our brothers are all reading into it, and its not friendship they are assuming. I hear them whispering about you two when they think you aren’t 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 may speak back to the rumours.” Maglor smiled teasingly.

This caused Maedhros to laugh. “Which you started, you horrible beast! Now look what you’ve done: you cannot stop them!” He thought for a moment. “It is as I have said before, a kind of meldë without the desire for romance, or a wish for children: a close friendship with a peculiarly high dose of commitment.”

“Hmm, accurate enough,” Maglor judged, “and good enough for me, but I doubt it will satisfy the rest of our brothers. 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 included a room just 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 boasted a Westward facing window with views of the sunset. He arranged the furniture inside in the pattern that Fingon’s had been placed in in Tirion, though nothing here was near as fine. The first time Fingon walked in he said, “ah, I’m home!” and Maedhros 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 were not able to visit each other very often, but when the occasion allowed, both were glad.

Maedhros had been visiting Barad Eithel when Fingon first met Nutunto. She had approached them, bold as brass, as they sat upon the grass of Ard Galen on a sunny spring day. Forgoing all of the tedious deference the two men usually attracted, she struck up a conversation about the wildflowers all three had been 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, however, you were often pre-occupied with more dangerous and important matters than greeting the likes of me.”

“Still, I feel it is rude of me.”

“How many subjects does your father have? They number in the thousands, do they not? And you truly expect yourself to remember each one?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros cut in, “is such a hospitable person he would probably try.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Nutunto had asked, hiking a thumb toward Maedhros.

“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. Begging your pardon, Lord Maedhros.”

Fingon and Maedhros 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 am told 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, turning to Fingon said, “you should marry her immediately.”

Thus began their rather unique friendship. As it turned out, Fingon also like Nutunto 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 Nutunto came too, and he was blessed with stimulating conversation on all manner of scholarly topics for which Fingon had little taste. In his room in Barad Eithel, along with the books Fingon selected for him, Maedhros now often found wildflowers, and a draft essay on some point of lore Nutunto wished for his opinion on.

She 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 that Nutunto 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 expression 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.