words unsaid 'till morning comes by queerofthedagger  

One:

It starts, ages back, in languid days of Valinórë. It starts light and sweet, as so many things between them did, before.

It is still new, that tenderness between them. Is still something they keep carefully concealed, stolen moments in hidden alcoves, stolen afternoons in Yavanna’s woods.

Even then, Maedhros is not fool enough to believe that they can stay separate from the world for long, but he is young, and in love, and so the future and its looming promises seem like something far-flung and elusive.

They believe they could do anything, anything they put their minds to. The brewing tension between their families, in Tirion—it’s all little more than a footnote.

Maedhros is so in love, and the best, the most wondrous fact is that so is Fingon.

They linger on the outskirts of the woods, Laurelin’s light fading quickly. Tirion’s turrets gleam golden through the trees.

Every time they part, it becomes harder, Fingon’s fingers lingering, Maedhros’s itching to tangle into fabric and not let go.

It feels silly, in some ways; theirs is a freedom that, even within the constraints of court and duty, allows them many opportunities to slip away. They have always been close, and no one wonders, even between their father’s increasing disputes, at their spending time together.

And yet, the secrecy wears on them.

“Would that I could wake up beside you like this every morning,” Fingon had confessed, mere days ago, up in a remote hunting lodge.

Maedhros had pulled him close, had not answered. After all, what was there to say? It was not only their parents that made this a contentious union; they were cousins, they were the eldest of their houses, they were both bedecked in expectations and demands.

And yet, and yet. Expected at home hours ago, Maedhros lets himself be pushed up against the nearest tree; lets Fingon kiss him, slow and thorough. Lets himself fall into it, scent of summer nights and lavender, sensation of flying, flying, flying.

It is Fingon who pulls back eventually, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He looks at Maedhros, a beat, two. Tilts his head, finally, and says with a voice so raw it does not sound like his own, “I do love you, Russandol. You know I do, do you not?”

For a long, drawn-out moment, Maedhros only stares. Something is taking root in his chest, something he knows, then, he will not be able to extricate again.

“I know,” he says, voice rough. “I—“

But Fingon stops him, pressing a hand to Maedhros’ mouth. “Don’t, not yet; tell me when we see each other next.”

Maedhros swallows, looks at Fingon’s face; the mischief in his eyes, the trusting certainty.

He kisses him once more, smiles against his open mouth. “Alright then. As you wish.”

He does, of course, tell him the next time they see each other.

“I love you so much that it scares me, some days,” he confesses, tucked away in an abandoned corridor of their grandfather’s palace.

No one searches for them until they do, raised voices echoing down the marble halls.

Fingon grins up at him, wide and bright and pleased.

“Good,” he says, slipping his hand into Maedhros’. “Now come, before they discover us.”

They return to familiar pandemonium, their siblings and cousins spilling around them. Maedhros gets pulled away by Maglor, and Finrod drags Fingon along with him into the opposite corner.

Through the night, they keep finding each other’s eyes across the room. The certainty of it resonates beneath Maedhros’ breastbone, heavy and sure.

Tell me when we see each other next. Love, love, love—like something so simple could be enough to change the very fabric of the world.

Two:

They do not say it often.

Not for lack of feeling, never that. It is just that the words do not seem to matter so much. Not in between the time they carve out for each other, how it feels to find Fingon’s eyes across a crowded space. Not with the way every touch seems to transcend whatever language they have, Maedhros unravelling beneath Fingon’s hands whenever they can steal away.

There is never any doubt in Maedhros’ mind that Fingon loves him. That Fingon knows the feeling returned. A million uncertainties may mark their lives, getting more numerous with each passing day, but this, them—it is never in doubt.

Then, the escalation of their father’s conflict. Then, Fëanor’s sword against Fingolfin’s breast. Then, exile.

It is the first time that Maedhros thinks, dread shivering down his spine, that the world may yet catch up to them, steel-fingered grip tearing them asunder.

“You will go with him,” Fingon states, in a narrow back alley of Tirion’s merchant district.

It is not a question. Maedhros cannot bring himself to pretend that he does not hear the derision in Fingon’s voice. Cannot bring himself to pretend that it does not make something hard and bristling come to life within his chest.

“Of course,” he says, tilting his chin up. “As much as you will stay with him.”

Fingon’s eyes flash. “Of course. Of course, I will.”

They linger, staring at each other. Distantly, Maedhros knows that this is horrid. That they have no part in their father’s quarrels, except for how that is not true. Except for how there is no way, clearly, to escape it.

He swallows. “Findekáno—“

“I know,” Fingon says, shoulders slumping. He steps closer, tangles his fingers into the front of Maedhros’ tunic. Pulls him close.

They hover, one last battle of wills. Then Fingon pushes himself to his tiptoes, brushes his lips against the corner of Maedhros’ mouth. “I love you. Do not forget it, in your cold and dreary exile.”

Maedhros sighs. Takes Fingon’s face between his hands, so familiar and dear. “I will not,” he vows. “I will prove it, when we see each other again.”

We will see each other again, he does not say. This, this between us, it will not have changed.

Fingon smiles, sharp and bittersweet, and leans into it when Maedhros kisses his forehead.

They see each other rarely, in those long, twelve years.

Maedhros makes sure to tell him every time, regardless. He writes letters in between, every once in a while, and listens to the tales that come out of Tirion.

Occasionally, he will go himself. Occasionally, Fingon will find him.

They no longer arrange meetings as they used to, but it does not matter. Fingon is harder these days, steel-glint to his eyes that Maedhros loves and dreads in equal measures.

The future is catching up with them. Still. Still, between the two of them, it does not matter.

I love you, I love you, I love you still, Maedhros vows, quiet into the sanctuary of Fingon’s neck.

Fingon smiles, every single time, his fingers gentling against Maedhros’ skin.

It is almost enough.

Three:

Tirion goes dark, their grandfather dead, and the last twelve years feel inconsequential in the wake of it all. Feel stupid, childish, at the reassurance of Fingon’s steady weight pressed against his shoulder.

Their parents have disappeared into the fray. There is a lingering, dreadful sense of concern for his own father that Maedhros shies away from. He focuses on what he can do, instead, gathering their family together, coordinating searches, consoling their people.

He feels outside of his own body, feels like he is watching from afar. The only thing real is Fingon next to him, never straying from Maedhros’ side.

It could have been enough. It could have been terrible, and then they could have moved on, could have rebuilt.

Except.

Fëanor reappears, holds his speech. If anyone ever held a sway greater over Maedhros than Fingon, it is his family.

This time is no different. Avenge their grandfather, reclaim what was stolen. Maedhros leaps to his father’s side and echoes an oath of vengeance with madness singing brilliantly within his blood.

When he comes to, Fingon is staring at him, wide eyes dark and terrible as Maedhros’ words.

“It does not change anything,” Maedhros vows; does not care for the eyes on them, as he touches Fingon’s cheek. “It does not change anything. I promise; this, too, I promise.”

More than anything, he wants to believe this true himself.

“I love you,” Fingon says, words like condemnation. “Remember it, on the other side of it, will you?”

Maedhros does.

Tells him so, their hands stained red, Fingon’s eyes hollow.

Tells him so, with Mandos’ doom reverberating between them. Fingon leans against him, weary head to Maedhros’ shoulder, and he does not unclench his fingers from Maedhros’ coat, but he does not reply, either.

Telling him so feels exactly as hopeless as standing on the hither shores does, later, flames leaping towards the stars. Feels exactly as much as betrayal as watching his father’s fell face, knowing an ocean and endless ice between them.

I love you, I love you, I love you, Maedhros thinks, desperate. For once, he wishes that he could be the one to get an answer.

Four:

Fingon tells him later, after, that Maedhros mutters it, over and over, when he is rescued from the accursed mountain.

Maedhros is glad he has little recollection of it. Less for the confessions and more for the indignity of everything else. Even the days, weeks, after are a haze.

Mostly, he remembers Fingon beside him. Remembers age-old guilt making a home within his bones all over, having been driven out by Morgoth’s single-minded terror together with everything else.

He remembers relearning everything, relearning them. Remembers Fingon smiling at him, no longer as bright and careless, but incandescent still, saying, Tell me when you’re better, Russandol.

He did. He does. It is one of the few things they carry to Beleriand, this strange, comforting habit of them. During Maedhros’ recovery—tell me once you hold a sword. Tell me once you laugh and mean it. Tell me once you make it to our camp on your own.

Maedhros passes the crown to Fingolfin and removes himself and his brothers East.

Fingon rages, then. Rages, rages, rages—about Maedhros not telling him about the crown, about leaving. About Alqualondë, about the Ice, about everything since gold-kissed days in Tirion came to an end.

And it’s—Maedhros is not who he used to be. Fingon’s temper has grown, and so, proportionally, has Maedhros’ coldness. He lets Fingon rage, lets him break himself against Maedhros’ new-forged edges, and does not jump at the provocations.

He means no harm, he does not. But what is there left to say? They are here now, in strange, hostile lands. They have wrought their doom, and Maedhros’ own is worse than Fingon’s, certainly, but they still made their choices, each.

In the end, they exhaust themselves, lying side by side on top of the covers in Maedhros’ tent.

“I will miss you, you know,” Fingon admits, voice soft and tired in the darkness. He slips his hand into Maedhros’ remaining one. “Do not become a stranger; I could not bear it again.”

The hot pressure behind his eyes catches Maedhros off guard. He rolls onto his side, presses his face to Fingon’s shoulder. Plans of a fortress take up his mind, defences and supply lines, manpower and strategies. How to keep his brothers in check.

Fingon, this close, makes it all go quiet. He sighs. “I will not. You are still—“

He cannot finish. Fingon turns to meet him, his mouth warm and bittersweet. “I know,” he says. “And I do love you, more than anything. Tell me when we see each other again.”

Always, always Maedhros does. The next time they see each other. After every battle, after every separation. Fingon tells him before every leaving, before every time they have to part. It is a ritual, by then, and Maedhros would do anything to keep it close.

I still love you, even after being reminded that we are no longer the same, you and I, Fingon vows, after every time they see each other, these days—in Himring, in Barad Eithel, in the wild woods between them. I still love you, even after so long apart I could have remembered the doom we are wreaking upon ourselves. What it is like, to live without you, how to take all my demons and lock them into the deepest dungeons Himring has to offer, Maedhros replies, again and again and again.

There is comfort in it, in the reassurance of it. Fingon will leave. Maedhros will come back. Like shore and tide, always changing but never sundered. Until.

Until.

Five:

It has been a long time since Maedhros felt hope like this—bright like summer days, clear like water from Ulmo’s springs.

“We should throw a feast,” he says on the eve of battle, words muffled by Fingon’s braids. “Announce it to all the world, after all. We won; we love each other; there is nothing, nothing in the world that may stop us. It will be splendid.”

“You are mad,” Fingon says, but he is laughing. Twists on the furs until he faces Maedhros, his beloved face soft and open, his eyes warm in the firelight.

For a long while, they lay like this, entangled like they may as well be a single entity. Maedhros has not been prone to hope in centuries, but tonight—tonight, he almost dares to believe that they may yet make it out of all this unscathed. That they may yet carry their price home; peace for their people, and a quiet place to lay down their weary heads.

Fingon presses the pad of his thumb to Maedhros’ bottom lip.

“I love you,” he says, fierce and unflinching. “More than this world, more than Varda’s stars. You better tell me—you better tell me, once all of this is done. I will hold you to it, Russandol.”

“I will,” Maedhros vows, and he feels so certain of it, the weight of it is almost the same inevitable fact as the oath.

It stings less; more comforting warmth, more brilliant sunlight, than biting savagery of winter.

“I will,” he repeats, and he means it. He means it.

He does not.

He returns to the battlefield later, wanders past fallen bodies, over ground soft and muddy with their failures.

There is nothing left of Fingon, Maedhros knows. He finds the place Fingon fell regardless, seared into his memory, playing over and over and over.

Maedhros has not slept in days. The words still burn on his tongue, acrid like Angband’s fumes. It is the only thing that is still real, the rest of the world an afterthought.

There is nothing left of Fingon. Maedhros sinks to his knees, fingers digging into mire, and tries to swallow around the words.

He never succeeds, the weight of them ever cutting short his breath, until fire swallows him whole.

Plus One:

When Maedhros is released from the Halls, Fingon is waiting.

Maedhros would be surprised, if Fingon looked anything other than miserable and furious.

For long moments, they stand in the quiet glade, looking at each other. There is a scar running over Fingon’s forehead, down the side of his face.

No words could possibly express all they have to say. Maedhros closes his eyes, bows his head. “I love you,” he says, words off his tongue like a cataclysm of relief and regret.

Fingon makes a noise, wounded and livid. “I know. I know, Russandol, but it is—I do not know if it can be enough. But I—“

“I know,” Maedhros cuts in, desperation surging up his throat in a way he has not felt in ages. “Tell me when you know if it can be, whether as farewell or a new beginning. Tell me then.”

Fingon blinks. Smiles, small and sad and brief. “Alright then,” he finally says, an echo of Maedhros’ own words ages past. “As you wish.”

It is more than Maedhros deserves, he knows. Were he a less selfish man, he would finally set Fingon free.

But he is not, and so he takes the promise, holds it close. He has not made a habit of hope in a long time now, but this—this, finally, is all he needs. 

Chapter End Notes

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