August, Honey by Perching  

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One

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It was a dark and stormy night when Maglor reined in his horse outside the gate of his brother’s fortress and shouted, “Why in the depths of Udûn isn’t this thing open?”

He couldn’t see or hear much through the driving rain, but somewhere behind the bars, the cool light of a crystal lamp flared to reveal a guard wrapped in a cloak. Under their hood, they had a mouth, probably, and a pair of squinting eyes. “Who dares invoke dark Udûn, the Morgoth’s first and most terrible dwelling place, at the gate of his greatest enemy, Maedhros Fëanorion, lord of Himring?”

“His brother Maglor! And it’s called a figure of speech!”

The lamp wavered. “What? Who?”

With a curse, Maglor wrenched back his hood. “Maglor Fëanorion,” he cried, “lord of the Gap!”

Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. The guard fell on their face.

Also Maglor’s horse spooked, and instead of taking a moment to appreciate the clichéd but incredibly satisfying experience of having the world thunder at one’s words, Maglor was obliged to spend that time bringing her under control. When at last he was no longer in imminent danger of being dumped onto the stones, the gate stood open. He guided his horse through and stopped under the arch of the gatehouse, dizzied by the sudden calm. The wind shrieked but did not touch him.

Meanwhile the guard had recovered themself. “My deepest apologies, lord!” they exclaimed, raising the lamp towards Maglor as he wiped rain out of his eyes. “We weren’t expecting you!”

“Obviously not. But why not? I sent ahead a pigeon.”

The guard’s eyes flickered sideways towards the raging storm. Maglor grimaced. “I take your point. Tell Maedhros nothing is on fire. That would be impressive at the moment! Rather this concerns the… personal matter of which I wrote in my last letter.”

Perhaps it was pathetic to run to his older brother as he had as a youth whenever some object of his affections—and there were many—broke his heart. Probably it was. Certainly! But sitting in his quarters reliving the last brush of Tingil’s hand against his arm, the last sad glance over his shoulder, was hardly less so. At least this way, he could drink himself under the table without the risk of being discovered there the next morning, stale-mouthed and squinting, by a hapless subordinate.

While Maglor grimaced harder at that memory, the guard summoned two others out of the gatehouse. One dashed off into the rain towards the front doors. The other set a block near Maglor’s left foot. Maglor dismounted and gave his horse one last pat. They had met but a few hours before, and Maglor didn’t even know her name, but she had served him mostly well. She side-eyed him.

“Take it up with the Elder King,” Maglor told her and handed over the reins.

She was led away towards the stables. Maglor squinted after her and slowly lifted his hood over his head. The guard said, “Would you like to come in and sit down for a while, lord? While the storm passes.”

“Are you suggesting I cannot make it one hundred feet across the courtyard?”

“No! Of course not! I’m sure a prince of the West such as yourself will barely feel the storm! However… you are looking rather—”

Maglor gave the guard a friendly slap on the back. They squeaked. He sidled forwards until he was level with the inner wall of the gatehouse and experimentally stuck out an arm. The wind shrieked, drowning out the still spluttering guard. With a sigh, Maglor pressed onwards.

I barely feel the storm, he told himself as he walked. I am a prince of the West. I barely feel—

He shoved open the doors. Lightning flashed once more, throwing the great austere entrance hall into stark black and white. The doors closed on the thunder. In the quiet and the warm lamplight, Maglor swayed. Across the hall, Maedhros said, “Maglor! What under the stars are you doing here?”

“Maedhros,” Maglor said and no more.

Maedhros crossed the hall in the blink of an eye. He patted Maglor with his hand, first his arm, then his shoulder, then his hood, and with deft fingers he pulled back the hood to reveal Maglor’s face. “Nothing’s on fire. All right! But something’s wrong with you.” His mouth pinched. “I take it you and Tingil are not betrothed.”

Maglor slumped into Maedhros’s chest. Maedhros, stiffening, said, “You are sodden!” But he didn’t push Maglor away, so Maglor let his head drop onto Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros patted him between the shoulder blades. “There, there. Let it out.”

“I’m not crying.”

“There’s no shame in it.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You’re so wet you might as well be,” Maedhros said and put enough distance between them he could hand Maglor a handkerchief.

Maglor used it to dry his hands and his face. Already under Maedhros’s touch he felt better, warmer, less like his heart lay shattered in his chest, and that left more room for feeling pathetic. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I know I should’ve at least waited out the storm, but you know me. I was—”

Maedhros’s eyes flickered.

Maglor stilled. “What is it?”

“You’re not my only surprise visitor,” Maedhros said with another pat. This one felt apologetic. Lifting his voice so that it carried across the hall, he added, “Stop lurking!”

Around the same door from which Maedhros had come, a man appeared. He had familiar dark braids, a wide mouth, thickly lashed eyes, but Maglor knew him by the long callused fingers which he had watched draw music out of the harp hundreds if not thousands of times.

Fingon.

The floor gave way like cracking ice and dunked Maglor into the freezing water below. Was that metaphor offensive to Fingon? He didn’t care. “Fingon,” he croaked. “What under the stars are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Fingon said as he crossed the hall. “In fact, Maedhros did ask the same of you. What is this about a betrothal?”

He came to a halt at Maedhros’s side. The white dressing gown he wore swayed for a moment longer before it, too, stilled. It was trimmed with gold, and of course Fingon of all people pulled it off, managing to look more relaxed and proper in golden bed clothing than Maglor would have thought possible for anyone.

Maedhros was also dressed for bed in a long shirt and loose trousers. Maglor wondered what he had interrupted. Had they already been under the covers, tucked against each other as Maedhros caressed Fingon’s cheek or something equally sappy? Had they been curled in Maedhros’s loveseat by the fireplace? While Maglor battled his way up Himring, had they watched the storm from a window, laughing and trading kisses?

Maglor did shed a tear then. Maedhros pulled him close while he hid his face in the handkerchief, and Fingon made an awkward noise. “I’m sorry! You don’t have to explain anything. Maedhros and I were playing a war game. Would you like to join us?”

---

Maybe Fingon and Maedhros had been making out as Maglor climbed Himring, but if that was the case, in between they’d also genuinely played their war game. On the table in front of Maglor lay a map of northern Beleriand, and on top of that were placed wooden blocks in bright colors—blue, yellow, red—and also one in black. “I am the fire-drake,” Fingon said, resting two fingers on the black block. He’d slipped into their native tongue as soon as they were ensconced in Maedhros’s private rooms. “Russandol is the Noldor. Can he slay me? He hasn’t managed it yet.”

“Every time I think I have you,” Maedhros said as he came in with the warm spiced wine Maglor had requested, “you reveal some new trick.”

“Yes. Because every time we thought we had him, he revealed some new trick.” Fingon tossed Maglor a vexed look. “And in the end, we didn’t slay him. Could we have if he hadn’t fled? I don’t know.”

Maglor took the wine from Maedhros. When he looked at the map and the colorful blocks, he thought of endless headache-inducing meetings which he survived by daydreaming about galloping across Lothlann. He thought, also, of Mithrim and of his attempts to come up with a rescue plan that didn’t end in certain death. “You’re doing this for fun,” he said, flat.

Fingon shrugged. “For fun and profit.”

Maglor was glad Fingon and Maedhros had found each other. Really he was. With his free hand, he pushed the blocks off the map and began to roll it up.

Maedhros laughed. Fingon frowned, but before long he shooed Maglor away to do the rolling himself. He was deft at it, as Maglor wasn’t with one hand, and seconds later he was evening out the ends. Maedhros approached the table, still chuckling. “Don’t worry. I’ll make time to slay the dragon tomorrow.”

“I expect you will,” Fingon said. “The fate of the Elves depends on it.”

They smiled at each other, and Maglor backed away from the table until his knees hit the loveseat. He collapsed into it. He was happy for them, he reminded himself as he drained his glass.

Fingon turned towards him. “If the war game doesn’t—”

“Will you leave?” Maglor said.

Fingon’s mouth shut.

“Elentári,” Maglor said. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

Maedhros shifted forward, but Fingon held up a hand. “No forgiveness necessary. I know I’m not who you expected when you came to visit your brother! I’ll leave you to him.” He glanced at Maedhros. “Shall I move to the guest chamber down the hall?”

“No,” Maedhros said. “Macalaurë can take that one.”

“All right. Good night,” Fingon said and disappeared into a bedchamber. That one was, unlike the guest chamber down the hall, a part of Maedhros’s private rooms, meant for Maedhros’s hypothetical future spouse. It came complete with a door adjoining it to Maedhros’s bedchamber. Maglor knew this because it was his chamber when he visited. Except, apparently, when Fingon was visiting also.

Thunder rumbled. Maedhros sat on the loveseat. “Cáno,” he said.

“It isn’t him. It’s…”

But Maglor couldn’t say what it was. For all that Fingon and Maedhros’s relationship was obvious to everyone who had eyes, they had never admitted it to anyone. They fancied it a secret, though how Maglor didn’t know. They at least knew that he knew. After all, it was not respect for their secret that kept him quiet but knowledge that bringing it up would get him nowhere. The one time he had, Maedhros had laughed him off. So how could Maglor say that witnessing their happiness with each other made him want to drown himself?

“Cáno,” Maedhros said. “What happened?”

Maglor breathed out. “Yesterday I asked Tingil to marry me. He said he wasn’t going to marry someone who doesn’t love him.”

“Do you? Love him?”

Maglor reached for a pillow to throw at Maedhros’s face. There were none. What kind of loveseat didn’t have pillows? And more importantly, “What kind of question is that? I asked him to marry me!”

Maedhros raised his arms and said nothing. It was his idea of tact.

“I drank myself to sleep last night! I rode here through a storm, knowing naught else to do in my despair!”

Maedhros’s mouth pinched. He raised his arms higher.

Maglor stood, grabbed a pillow off the armchair, and couldn’t quite bring himself to lob it. He covered his eyes with it and said, “I want Findecáno back.”

A few moments later, Maedhros stood in front of him. Maglor knew this by the warmth of Maedhros’s body and by the hesitant hand that brushed his elbow. “He would probably be better at this than me,” Maedhros said. “If you say you love Tingil, then you love him. You have always loved differently than I do. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Maglor said, lowering the pillow. “I’m acting childish. See? I do love him. His refusal of me has reduced me to this.”

Maglor had loved Tingil the day they’d met when all Maglor had known of him was his long dark hair and his hands callused by the bow. Maglor had loved him more when he’d discovered how Tingil adored hounds and horses and most of all when he’d witnessed Tingil’s fiery bravery. It was not that Maglor did not love Tingil. It couldn’t be. It was only that Tingil hadn’t been able to admit that he didn’t love Maglor.

“Yes, of course,” Maedhros said.

“I need another drink.”

“Of course,” Maedhros said. “Of course.”

---

When Maglor stepped out of the guest chamber the next morning, Fingon stuck his head around the door to Maedhros’s rooms and crooked two fingers in Maglor’s direction. “Quick!” he said. “While Russandol is gone.”

He’d startled Maglor out of a vision of hot breakfast waiting in the main hall, so Maglor fixed him with a practiced expression of impatience he usually reserved for misbehaving subordinates and his brothers. “Quick what?”

“Come quick to my chamber. I want to ask you something.”

Your chamber, is it, Maglor thought, but he followed Fingon through Maedhros’s rooms. It wasn’t, exactly, that Fingon was wrong. The buttercup yellow bedspread was his doing, as was the harp in the corner which saw more use from Fingon than it ever did from Maglor, who had never favored string instruments. And then there was the crown jewel, the dragon scale on the mantel, which Fingon had gone so far as to frame. So even though Maglor had chosen the tapestries of rolling plains and left a jar of Orc fingernails beside the dragon scale, he could only say that the chamber was his and Fingon’s together, not Fingon’s alone. It could not be, and had never been, either of theirs alone.

Perhaps recognition of this was why they’d begun, some few dozen years ago, to leave each other notes.

Fingon had already extracted Maglor’s latest note from the bedframe. He picked it up off the bedside table, smoothed out the creases, and with a flourish presented it. Maglor looked at it, and Tingil looked back. His braided hair was pulled into a knot near the top of his head. Around his neck he wore a choker Maglor had gifted him. He was laughing.

Fingon said, “Why have you drawn me a portrait of my brother?”

“What?” Maglor said.

Fingon raised his eyebrows like he well knew Maglor had heard him the first time.

“That’s not your brother.”

“Obviously it is. It says Turgon right there.”

Fingon pointed to the word Maglor had scribbled under the sketch. Maglor said, “It says Tingil.”

“No, it doesn’t. There’s no—” Fingon blinked. “Stars above, Macalaurë. Your handwriting really is a tragedy.”

“When Russandol was learning to write again,” Maglor said slowly, “he once told me that his writing with his left hand had finally surpassed that of mine with my right. I congratulated him. He said that meant he still had a long way to go.”

Fingon laughed. Maglor took the paper out of Fingon’s hands and folded it, then reached over to stick it in a pocket of Fingon’s robes. Fingon made no protest, watching Maglor curiously. “All right,” he said at last, “but who’s Tingil?”

Maglor sighed.

“I see. So you proposed to a man who looks exactly like Turucáno?”

“Findecáno.”

“I’m sorry. Never mind.” When Maglor sat on the bed, Fingon joined him, crossing his legs in front of him. His knee came within an inch of brushing Maglor’s hip. He said, “Russandol is better at this than me. But I’m the one here. Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to shut up?”

Maglor put a hand on that knee. You are both atrocious at it, he might say, but instead he drew a circle around Fingon’s kneecap with his thumb. It was hard to speak of it, but Fingon ought to know, if only so that there was less chance he would put his foot in his mouth again.

“I met him on the plains two months ago.”

Fingon tilted his head. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Oh,” he said.

“A short time, I know. But the moment I saw him, I—”

Beyond their chamber and across the living room, the door opened. Maglor’s stomach sank. “Findo? Are you ready?” Maedhros called.

“No!” Fingon said. “You’re interrupting a heart to heart!”

Maedhros appeared on the threshold. “Cáno. You’re up,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised, which Maglor found offensive. He looked between them. “Do you need rescuing?” he added, and Maglor’s offense deepened.

“I’m just fine, thank you.” Maglor removed his hand from Fingon’s knee. “I thought you’d gone to breakfast.”

“I went to speak to the cooks about some last minute changes. Then I planned to drag you out of bed. But it seems I can skip that step.”

“We can have our heart to heart later, yeah?” Fingon said, flashing Maglor a smile. “It can wait till we’ve eaten.”

“Yes,” Maglor said stiffly. He sat still as Fingon’s attention slipped from him to Maedhros, as Fingon rose and, with two fingers poking at Maedhros’s chest, pushed Maedhros out the door. Maglor wished, fervently though not without guilt, that Maedhros had taken longer to talk to the cooks. Barring that, he wished he had it in him to take his horse and run.

He allowed himself exactly three moments to fantasize about that, then stood and followed Fingon and Maedhros out into the corridor and, eventually, to a breakfast of omelets stuffed with mushrooms, Maglor’s favorite. Not above enjoying the fruits of Maedhros’s last minute meddling in the kitchens, Maglor ate three.

As he was finishing off the last one, Maedhros said, “We ought to go somewhere.”

“I said so two days ago,” Fingon said, “and you said you were too busy.”

“I can make the time. I’ll wrap up a few matters today, and we can leave tomorrow.”

Fingon hummed, glancing at Maglor. It should’ve pleased Maglor that Maedhros wanted to do something for him that he would not do for Fingon, but oddly it set his teeth on edge. Fingon had come all this way. Maedhros ought to have made the time for him.

Maglor looked away towards the other breakfasters, Maedhros’s people, who had risen at their entrance but seemed not to notice them now. “Not the Gap.”

“Not Himlad, either,” Fingon said. “I am sorry, but I spent the night at the Pass on my way here, and I’ve had my fill.”

Maedhros said, “South, then. We’ll see what Amras is up to.”

If Maglor hadn’t been able to go to Himring, he would’ve gone to Thargelion where Caranthir would’ve regaled him with drink and song once he was done scoffing at Maglor’s sorrow. But in the company of Maedhros and Fingon, the south didn’t sound so bad. Fingon liked hounds and horses and hunting, and alongside the right people, Maglor did, too.

“It’s decided, then,” he said, looking back, and Fingon raised his glass.

---

Late in the afternoon, Fingon went out to check on the horses, and Maglor followed him. “Which one is yours?” Fingon asked, his eyes flickering around the stalls. “I don’t see Súllin.”

The mare Maglor had ridden through the storm stuck her head out over the stall door and tossed it, snorting. Maglor pointed. “Súllin is lame, so I had to take a different horse, but I didn’t catch her name. All I know is that she’s of Súllin’s line. Be careful! I do believe she hates me.”

“She might well if you didn’t even bother to learn her name! That was rude of you, Maglor. But why should that mean she hates me?”

Fingon approached the horse and raised his hand for her to sniff, but she only tossed her head again and turned away. That led to a lot of useless clucking and cooing, which went on until Fingon glanced at Maglor and saw his face.

Fingon stepped back and shrugged.

“See?” Maglor said. “Guilty by association.”

“I could win her over,” Fingon said. “You could, too, if you tried. You don’t know her name, so why don’t you give her one? She’s a beautiful dappled gray. How about Celebraen?”

Maglor joined Fingon at the stall door. “Fingon would have me flatter you until you were fooled into pledging your undying loyalty. I don’t think either of us are interested in that. I’m interested in a working partnership. If you agree to take me south, you’ll return to Lothlann with tales of adventures your friends couldn’t even imagine. How does that sound?”

The horse made no reply.

“Do you like honey cookies?” Maglor said.

The horse’s ears pricked. Maglor leaned against the stall door. “Fingon,” he said sweetly, and to the horse he said, “They’re a rare treat, aren’t they? I happen to know that Maedhros keeps a stock of them. There’s one for you right now if you agree, and more if you do well.”

The horse turned to face Maglor. When he held up his hand, she brought her nose close to him but didn’t quite touch him. Her dark eyes stared into his, and he thought she was saying she was waiting. Maglor held his other hand out behind him, palm up. A cookie dropped into it.

He grinned. “As promised,” he said as he presented it to her. She snatched it up and then, with a flick of her ears, seemed to agree.

Maglor’s triumph lasted one glorious second before Fingon tapped the stall door. The horse’s attention swung to him. He smiled at her, holding up two more cookies in his palm. As he fed her, he stroked her neck. “Good girl, Celebraen,” he said, and Celebraen bumped her nose against his hand and whinnied. Fingon looked at Maglor and winked.

Later, they stood on the walls outside the stable, looking down at the little village that marched down Himring’s southern slope. “So you won’t stoop to flattery,” Fingon said, “but bribery’s just fine.”

“I’ll stoop to flattery. Have you heard some of my work?” Maglor said, and Fingon snorted. “I do what works. I didn’t think flattery would work.”

“Should I be insulted? You’ve given me some high praise over the years.”

He was teasing Maglor, but Maglor said, “After what you did…”

“Yes,” Fingon said. “Trust me, I know! It’s all anyone remembers about me anymore, besides maybe the dragon, and that’s in part thanks to you. Maybe it’s true that I deserve the praise. But on a personal level, I doubt you like me that much.”

He glanced at Maglor with his lips quirked. His hair was dark enough Maglor usually thought of it as black, but in truth it was brown, and in the evening light this was revealed. The sun had gotten caught between the strands, lighting them gold like Laurelin had so often in Valinor, and a piece of straw was caught there, too. Maglor lifted a hand to it. Fingon’s face was cast in shadow, but Maglor could still pick out his features: his gray eyes looking out from under thick lashes, his quirked lips chapped by the wind.

He was laughing a little. “Maglor?” he said. But when Maglor’s hand lingered in his hair, he fell still. “Maglor.”

Maglor drew his hand away. “You had straw in your hair.”

“I see that,” Fingon said.

Maglor stepped out of reach. He had to be truthful with himself if with nobody else. It wasn’t just that Fingon and Maedhros were happy with each other while Maglor was alone. It was also Maglor’s old infatuation, the one that had begun across the Sea in Tirion and refused to die in all the long years since, the one that was hopeless.

It wasn’t unlike the disaster with Tingil, except in all the ways that it was. Maglor said, “I like you fine,” and looked away and out over the village. If Fingon thought Maglor’s behavior odd, let him put it down to heartbreak. It was true enough.