to die in two places at once by averytinylizard  

to die in two places at once

There is an intimacy to ósanwë with a loved one that is matched by little else, Maedhros has always thought. When he speaks to one of his men, there is little there, simply the trust that he means them no harm and that they will do his duty. Neither is there much when he receives a cry for aid. Urgency colors all then. But with a loved one, unneeded, used only for the joy it brings? Then his naked self and the other's are all there is.

There were the grounding thoughts of his mother, speaking to him as he modeled for her so he wouldn't be bored as he stood still, and the brilliance of his father, blinding, a thousand thoughts through his head overshadowing whatever he wanted Maitimo to know. Maglor has a rhythm to his thoughts, a patter, and a wordless poetry. Finrod had been light and airy, yet with the depth of an ocean. Fingolfin had a stony quality to him, not cold, but firm as the roots of the earth. Ambarto had never quite reached that mind-speech of his own, an amalgamation of mother and Maglor and father, all that beauty without the grounding age gave, but you could feel its lack in Amras. Celegorm and Curufin he has not spoken like that since they returned, and though he misses this one's wildness and the other's disarming charm, he thinks of the attempted rape, and his mind closes to the whole of the world.

No one, however, in the whole of the world compares to Fingon. He opens his mind to him and suddenly the air feels thin, as if he needed to breathe more deeply just to process him, for it is not the surface, or the message alone he receives. It is not even the underlying feeling. Maedhros feels Fingon and he feels the whole of him. The child eager to run and climb and sing and jump and dance and play. The youth, bored at all the stuffiness of Tirion, asking about the far-off places Maedhros visited. A prince, standing by his father, angry at his not-friend, not-lover for doing the same. The hero on an eagle's back, covered with a prisoner's sluggish blood. A politician, kissing him on the cheek and raising him from his knees, meaning I missed you . A king, now.

He feels Fingon draped over his mind. At first, the messages were simple. Come quickly, and we are overrun and why are you late? Then came, our dead, our dead, our dead. Now, only Fingon, no thought at all. He kills a man and the sticky blood is a hand sticky with juice, he hears a horn and it's Fingon's voice, he breathes the acrid air and it is the drunk kisses, his perfume, his sweat. He feels his mare between his legs and it is Fingon, his head on his lap. A thousand parties they spent like this, whispering gossip and nonsense over the noise of the crowd.  Now, the only whisper is Gothmog. Maedhros runs his fingers through his hair, delights in  his beauty in this hell. He curls over Fingon, not to whisper but to shield him, though he knows he can do nothing, feels the heartbeat, the warmth, the breath. He feels a burn, a crushing of Fingon’s limbs, and he knows he is beautiful will become he was beautiful . He feels his own bones break. He kisses him, every inch of him, he throws his arms around him, his head over Fingon and sees, feels an axe cleave through skull and brain. He feels the splat of blood, and he screams, and he hears no whisper or song in his mind.