the marriage of true minds by averytinylizard  

They marry in a field. They do not elope, of course, aware that their marriage would be scandalous enough already, but they do marry away from the bustling of Tirion. They built a great firepit, enough to cook for their fifty guests, and asked everyone to bring blankets and whatever food and drink they wish, though of course they bring enough for everyone. There is no tent, for none is needed in Valinor's mild weather and the stars are too beautiful to hide, except one for the privacy of the newlyweds in the days after the wedding. There are few musicians, having the best singer of the Noldor as a guest, and great dances, each groom dancing with every guest before dancing with each other on aching feet.

It takes some struggling with tradition to plan it. The wedding being between two men needed already its own set of decisions, even without the fact that Maedhros needed to consider how each custom would make him feel. Would his mother giving a jewel to Fingon be too feminine? What if Anairë gave him a jewel also? Or maybe it should be Fingolfin giving him the jewel, but Maedhros’s father was in Mandos still. Who should speak their vows first? Who should break the bread, and who cut the meat?

But they plan, and arrange the date so all their guests can arrive, and one day, far too soon, they are standing at their table, Maedhros breaking the bread Fingon baked, and they are feasting, each wearing bands of gold and jewelry gifted by each other's mothers. Mere hours from now, they will leave this table, leave their guests behind until they find a secluded spot and marry. Maedhros knows that Fingon has the oil they need, that they have performed the act a hundred times before without saying the words, and yet his hand shakes as he eats. It is not fear, and not just excitement. It is a sensation akin to the one before one dives into the sea. Not just diving into the sea, he supposes, but diving for something more precious than pearls. There is a danger, he supposes, in tying himself to someone forever, even if it is someone as trusted and loved as Fingon. But he will not regret his asking this of Fingon, will not fly from him. He wants Fingon to belong to him, and to belong to him in turn.

Fingon notices the shaking of his hand and holds it, kisses the places where it once was scarred. “Fingon, I cannot eat if you hold my hand the whole while.”

“I’ll feed us both. That is part of the vows, right? I am starting now to keep this promise.” Fingon smiles as he always has, light, lopsided, and takes a little stuffed bread, taking a bite from it before offering it to Maedhros. Maedhros endures it for a few minutes, before Fingon realizes they cannot cut the meat with only one hand free between the two of them. Well, Maedhros could, having lived with only one hand for hundreds of years, but it is not his hand that is free.

“We should be leaving soon. We must marry before sunrise, and we will need to go quite far.” The sun always rises early in the Blessed Realm, which makes weddings under the starlight quite a hassle. Most halfway modern elves wish to marry without eyes on them, and yet tradition calls for both a feast followed by a blessing by the parents, and a wedding beneath the stars. It takes quite a bit of running.

“I'll pack the food, you go tell our parents and Mahtan.” Fingon stands, picked up their basket and started making the rounds and picking up their dessert and probable breakfast.

Maedhros, meanwhile, goes to the parents-and-Mahtan table. Had Fingon and Maedhros not been both men, they would have had the bride’s mother ask for Varda's blessing, and the groom's father for Manwë's. Since there is no bride, they will have both their mothers speak to Varda, and both their father’s speak to Manwë. Or at least they would bave done that if Fëanáro still lived.

Since he does not live, the matter of the blessings needed adjustments. Ideally, it would have been done by his paternal grandfather, but Finwë is also in Mandos, and said he would be there until the breaking of the world. His father's younger brother was the next option, but he is, unfortunately, the father of the other groom. They could have asked Finarfin, but he is more of Fingon’s uncle than his, which made things awkward. So, Mahtan. He had always been Maedhros’s favorite grandfather anyway.

“We will be leaving soon. Fingon and I wanted time to put some distance between us and the guests before the wedding,” he says. He speaks too quickly, feeling each second pass, and with them, the dawn hours away. He turns to a guest (a friend of Fingon named Rog) and says, “Could you prepare the horses for Fingon and I? The blessings are about to be spoken.” Rog salutes him before walking over to where his and Fingon’s horses stand.

Fingon arrives quickly, a basket full of food and a wineskin in hand. He set them on a table and stands next to Maedhros, holding his hand.

Finally, they are ready for the blessing. Their mothers speak first, Nerdanel's broad hand and Anairë's delicate one curled over Maitimo's and Fingon's. “Hear me, Varda, she who first guided us, who loved us first, and bless my son this night, for it is under your light that he shall join with his husband. Shine your light upon them and their love, so that they may learn to light the way for each other. I ask you, Star-kindler, to make their union joyful, tonight and all nights to come.” The words were traditional, unchanged in every way, and yet Nerdanel spoke them as she spoke all things, quietly and with firm voice. They did not sound recited, or like a prayer, but as a request to Varda that she really should listen to. Anairë, meanwhile, almost sung the words, a lilting melody in her voice even as she kept pace with Nerdanel's natural rhythm.

Mahtan and Fingolfin, then, say their part, Fingolfin's kingly voice soaring and Mahtan’s rumbling grounding him. “Witness, Manwë Sulimo, this greatest of nights in our children's lives. Take notice of their joys, and love them, and speak to the father of all in their favor, for they shall entreat him soon. Father of Birds, let our children be joined forevermore.”

As soon as they are finished, quickly enough to be rude, Mahtan rushes to him and hugs Maedhros, managing to lift him now that he is tall and strong as easily as when he was a babe. “My little Copper-top!” He cries, voice trembling, and Maedhros lets himself be held. It is, after all, his first time speaking the blessing for one of his children. Nerdanel and Fëanor had quite rudely eloped in one of their trips to the north, and informed their parents they had married and that she was pregnant the same night.

Once Mahtan sets him down, Maedhros turns to his mother, who makes him lean down so she can kiss his cheeks. “Enjoy yourselves, and remember that there is no shame if you return and are not married yet. This wedding is about you, not us.”

“Thank you, mother,” and he remembers the last oath he swore with family, Varda and Manwë as his witnesses, speaking to Ilúvatar in his Halls. That oath had torn him from his mother and her family, and it feels good to replace it forevermore.

Fingolfin and Anairë seem to be whispering with Fingon still, so he gives them space. He looks at the basket Fingon prepared, filled with fruit, bread, and a little cheese and what seems to be a little pot of honey. He plays with it, turning it in the light, until Fingon walks to him, picking up a lantern and they both head to their horses. They mount them quickly, ride west to a brook so that they may wash, say their prayers. Maedhros also needed to wash outside of any ritual purification, since they did just feast and it is polite to try and reduce mess.

They both strip quickly, not looking yet at each other. The only part of the stream deep enough to bathe is close enough to the feast they can still hear the music. It is in no way an appropriate place to marry. Maedhros mutters his prayers quickly, hoping to get the purification done quickly enough not to delay them much. Still, Fingon is drying as Maedhros is still washing himself, and Maedhros cannot help but stare at Fingon's half hard cock. Fingon looks with intent at him, and a part of Maedhros wants him to come into the water again, privacy be damned. But they both restrain themselves, and Maedhros is clean, and they head further west for at least a few hours before they find a little hill. The grass is long all around it, and it is tall and wide enough to hide them from any prying eyes at the party.

They had chosen it months ago, and still, Maedhros cannot believe he is standing there, with Fingon, about to be married. They each get off their horses, lay the little basket on the ground, cover the blanket so they are lit by starlight alone. They stand a few paces apart, not speaking, knowing that the next step will be into the end of what they know, and into something new. Fingon, of course, acts first, as he always has.

He walks up to Maedhros, kisses him sweetly, and starts to take off his clothing, first the long tunic, blue velvet with gold embroidery falling carelessly to the grass, and he stands before Maedhros in shirt and drawers and hose. Maedhros helps him, gets him unclothed completely before taking off a single garment, and holds his cock in his hand. He pushes Fingon to the ground, kissing him while still being clothed, and grinds against him.

“Maedhros,” Fingon gasps out between kisses, “we have to be naked for it to work.”

Maedhros knows this. Still, some part of him hesitates. It is a bit maddening for his body still to distress him, but it does. Most days, when they have sex, Maedhros keeps at least a shirt on, his hose, anything to cover himself. But to marry allows none of that. It demands complete intimacy, no barriers between them, and so Maedhros gets up and takes off his clothes in seconds. Better at least to get that over quickly.

And since he knows he needs to be relaxed for Fingon to enter him, he touches himself. Kneeling over Fingon, he spreads his lips and strokes himself to hardness, spreading what little wetness he produces. He likes his cunt as much as it is possible to like it, that is to say, he has to be in a specific mood to be touched there. Fingon has fucked him there a handful of times in their centuries together. But orgasm loosens his muscles, and he has not yet figured out the way to come untouched.

But he likes touching himself, likes feeling his cock grow erect, likes even pushing in a few fingers. He likes that it's a man's cunt, in essence, and he strokes himself kneeling over Fingon. He bends down to kiss him, catches himself with his right arm, feels Fingon’s arms at his waist. Fingon moans almost louder than Maedhros does, and that is another thing to like about his cunt. Maedhros has never known Fingon to love anyone who was not a man, has never known him to fuck anyone who was not a man. And yet, he sucks Maedhros’s cock as if it were long enough to ram down his throat, never asked him, pressured him to let him fuck him there, and yet has never looked at it without desire in his eyes.

One of Fingon’s hands moves to the side, to the basket where they keep the oil, and Maedhros has to put his hand on Fingon's shoulder so he does not buck him off, laughing. “Keep going, keep going, I'll  find it any minute,” Fingon mutters, turning almost to his side.

“I'll fall! Fingon, I can withstand the tease of not touching myself for a minute.”

“I cannot, keep going.” Maedhros indulges him, moves back to kneeling with his back straight, circles his cock. Fingon, it seems, gets distracted, for he stops looking for the oil to stare up at him.

“Fingon,” he says, scooting back so Fingon’s cock is almost rubbing between his cheeks, “what happened to finding the oil any minute?”

Fingon’s hips are thrusting up, and Maedhros moans, liking that he has made Fingon forget they are here for a specific purpose. “You're horrible. You make me forget and then tease me for it.”

“Really? I thought I was reminding you.”

“Horrible,” says Fingon and turns them over. Finally, it seems he finds the oil, and slicks a finger with it.

Maedhros spreads his legs, raises his hips and Fingon pulls him in, lets him use his knees as a pillow for hips. Fingon stares openly at him touching himself, and he opens the little jar of oil without looking at it. He slicks a finger with it, and begins to massage his entrance. Light rubbing, to get him relaxed. Maedhros feels his muscles clench, chasing the peak, and he stops touching his cock for a second.

Fingon finally slips the tip in, and Maedhros breathes deeply, lets him further in. He starts stroking his cock again, feels Fingon curl his finger in a rhythm matching his. He's close, so close, rubs his thumb over the tip and tries to curl up to kiss Fingon but collapses before he's halfway there.

“I can see you fluttering. I can feel it.” Fingon says this in wonder, as if he has not seen Maedhros come a thousand times before, and leans down to kiss him. Maedhros raises his hand, dirty with his fluids, and threads it through Fingon’s plaited hair. He dirties his dark locks, his golden ribbons, but he can't think, can't care over the feeling of Fingon’s finger in him.

Another finger enters him, on the edge of too much so soon after his peak, but Maedhros has never asked Fingon to treat him with delicate hands, and he is not going to start now. They spread, they curl as if he had a prostate to rub, and Maedhros loves him. He spreads his legs further, gives Fingon as much of a sight of him as he could want. Another, and Maedhros whines, too full and yet unwilling to let Fingon pull them out.

Fingon does pull them out, however, leaves Maedhros reeling with emptiness, and starts to stroke his cock, spreading oil over it. As Maedhros looks up at him, his earrings, his hair braided with gold, the thought hits him, we are supposed to be naked. He sits up, stumbling, starts to unbraid Fingon’s hair, his hand clumsy still. He has never been more thankful for his habit of wearing his hair braided simply and with only a circlet. Fingon's elaborate braids are a nightmare.

“Oh, shit.” Fingon seems to realize their mistake too, helping Maedhros, not caring about the oil. They work quickly enough, ribbons of gold and a pair of earnings strewn over Fingon's clothes. The only jewelry each of them wear is the jewels their mothers gave them, and the golden rings.

Finally, they have all they need to marry, and Maedhros holds himself over Fingon's cock. The breach of him is on the edge of too much, as it always has been, and Maedhros would not have him any other way. He settles on Fingon’s lap for a little while, enjoying Fingon’s reverent kisses down his throat, his hands moving up and down his waist before moving again. He pushes himself up, then lets himself fall down, again and again, and Fingon’s hands still, grasping at his thighs, digging into the soft flesh there. His face, meanwhile, has settled into Maedhros chest, kissing it and biting when he wants to stay quiet. Maedhros clenches around him, feels Fingon struggle not to thrust up.

As he stops his rising and falling in favor of small rolls of his hips, he thinks about their first time. They were young and foolish, and Maedhros had been struggling to feel like a man when everyone but his mother knew him as a girl, and Fingon was alternating between fucking men and trying to find a woman to fall in love with. They used each other, neither especially talented at this, but Maedhros remembers that day as a good one. Sweaty and filthy, Fingon mounting him from behind and fucking him like he would a man, as Maedhros had asked. His body had been going through those second changes then, his clit growing and now capable of erections like a cock, his shoulders growing broader and more muscular, the deepening of his voice. A thousand changes he had been putting himself through while still hiding them, hiding himself from the whole world, and Fingon, understanding none of them, was the first to see them in full. He remembers that he had groaned once, low, clearly masculine, and had to be conscious the whole while of pitching his voice up into a girly register. It had been messy, for both of them, not especially good physically, but Maedhros had first felt fully like a man then, and so he had affection for that day.

But the sex did absolutely get better from there. And now, as Maedhros rolls hips, feels the girth of Fingon in him, Fingon knows to hold him up and thrust with him. Maedhros lays his right arm across Fingon’s shoulders, trusts Fingon to keep him from falling as he strokes his own cock. He looks up, half in pleasure and half because he feels one should look up as they pray, and starts. “Hear me, Ilúvatar, for I mean to take this man as my husband.”

Fingon seems to like hearing that, because he bucks up into Maedhros, who can only laugh even as it punches up a moan from his throat.

“Let me make my home his home, and his bed my bed. Let—” And Fingon thrusts up just as Maedhros is stroking himself a little roughly and he loses his words. He has to concentrate during the next sentence. “Let me eat his bread and drink his wine, as he eats and drinks what is mine. Let me never part from him,” and Fingon grips him tight as he says these words, “for I mean to go where he goes and live where he lives. Let his people be my people, his loves, mine, and whatever ill befalls him, let it fall upon me also.” He is close, so close to finishing both the act and the speech as is proper. The words fly from his mind. He stops moving, trying to remember what comes next.

“ And may I be damned , Maedhros.” Fingon reminds him gently, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“Yes! And may I be damned if I fail him, father, for I will have strayed from my love of him.” His voice breaks on the him , not having just reached the peak with his body but feeling suddenly an opening in his soul. Oh. So this is the Union . He cannot move, is suddenly incapable of even lifting a finger. It is not that feels un- bodily, the pleasure in his body too intense to describe, but he does feel as if that great sensation is irrelevant when his mind is spilling from him like wine from a cup.

He thinks he hears somebody speaking his name, feels someone lifting him and then laying him on the ground. It's soft. He stares at Fingon, his vision hazy, and at the purpling sky. They are minutes from dawn. Dawn. Why was dawn important? He asks Fingon, though he can feel himself slurring the words.

“Oh, shit. I haven't spoken the words, and it's almost dawn.” Fingon holds his hand between his. “Can I enter you again?”

Maedhros can only say please, and Fingon does. He fucks him hurriedly, trying both to reach the peak and speak all the words correctly at the same time, but Maedhros can barely register any of it. He can only try to hold Fingon, and enjoy the way he is filled by him. Until finally, Fingon says the words and spills, and Maedhros is a person again. His mind stops spilling and is suddenly full with both himself and something, someone, Fingon  He feels a little sore, and he kisses Fingon, holds his face even as he pulls out.

Fingon looks a bit in shock, though not as much as Maedhros felt. There were a few minutes when Maedhros was married to Fingon, but Fingon was not married to him, technically. Still, Fingon probably needs some help. Maedhros lets him rest on his chest, guides their breathing until Fingon almost looks asleep. Fingon mumbles, the sound caught in Maedhros's chest, “Your hair looks pretty.”

Maedhros can feel blades of grass caught in it, but even as he doubts it actually is as pretty as Fingon says it looks, he finds himself unable to argue.

“It looks redder in the grass. And the sunlight turns it redder, too.”

“Thank you. You also look nice.” He did, sweaty, stained a bit with mud, his skin flushed and his hair a mess. Fingon was always pretty , but extertion turned him just rough enough around the edges to be handsome. Maedhros spreads his legs again, holds him even closer than before.

Fingon is still hard, and Maedhros can feel in his own mind the desire to touch himself, to rub himself raw against any surface until it softens. He can feel the tip of it against the inside of his thigh and he can feel its hardness, its length resting against his stomach, the blood pulsing through it. He can feel a heartbeat pulsing through that hardness, not matching his own, but when he holds Fingon’s wrist it does match that.

He wants to test the limits of this blurring of me-and-you. “You can take care of that, if you want.”

Fingon looks at him, the hand playing with the hair on Maedhros’s chest stilling. Smiles and takes himself in hand. Fingon sighs, Maedhros gasps. He can feel it as if it were his own cock touched, as if it were as thick and long as Fingon's. He sneaks his own between his legs, starts stroking his own cock, and Fingon’s hand tightens, trying to stave off his orgasam

"Maedhros, can you push a finger in, please? I—”

“You want to know how it feels?”

Maedhros likes the physical sensation of fingering his cunt, even penetration. Likes stroking his cock from the inside and the outside. But the limit is someone else touching him, even Fingon. To be penetrated is to be too close to womanhood, at least for him. But the idea of making Fingon feel as if he has a cunt, as if his body were like Maedhros? Oh, he likes that.

He caresses his lips, gentler than he usually is when he masturbates, teases himself, teases Fingon , whose hand has gone still and is staring at him with his mouth open. Maedhros rests his fingertip barely in, strokes his opening until Fingon can only gasp out please . He pushes in, curls his finger up, just a bit, looks at Fingon as he licks his lips, humps Maedhros’s thigh. Maedhros stills him with his wrist at Fingon’s waist. He wants to see if Fingon can come from this alone.

He strokes his cock with his thumb, focusing on the head, as his finger touches it from the other side. “Another, please?”, Fingon asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Maedhros pulls out, pushes two fingers in, and feels Fingon coming on his thigh, and feels as if it were his own cock spilling and softening. As he comes, undone by a familiar sensation from an unfamiliar perspective, he understands the warnings about the joys of the flesh being enough to drain married couples of all they have.

He takes some fruit from the basket, a peach, and puts it to Fingon’s lips. He bites, obedient, and Maedhros feels the sweetness, the texture in his mouth, the juice running down his chin. He feels an echo, too, of the juice that runs down his own wrist, a double stickiness.

He wants to cling to Fingon forever, complete this melting together, until they are the same being. How can anyone bear to be parted from this?

As he kisses Fingon, he keeps his eyes closed and tries not to think, so he cannot tell whose lips are being bit and who is gasping into whose mouth and whose tongue tastes sweet.

Chapter End Notes

the vows were inspired by what ruth says to naomi and by the oath of feanor!

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