with wax melted, meet the sea by queerofthedagger  

In truth, Fingon is not surprised when, by the time he leaves the infirmary, he finds Finrod waiting for him.

Darkness has long since fallen upon the camp on Mithrim’s shores, starlight just enough to catch in Finrod’s golden hair. All is quiet, and for long moments, they merely look at each other across the few feet between them; across the chasm, even wider now than it already was mere days ago.

An eternity away. Fingon is overly aware of the blood dried on his hands, in his braids, on his clothes. Of how his limbs tremble with exhaustion, and how he cannot have this fight now, no matter how well he knows the unfairness of such a refusal.

Very likely, Finrod sees this too, for he sighs, some tension seeping from his bearing. “Come, then.”

Fingon does. He does not ask to where, or why; it is not as if the two of them have rekindled upon the Ice, what all three of them had butchered at Alqualondë. What Fingon and Maedhros had butchered, in truth, and Fingon cannot think of this either, cannot think of the blood on his hands, the blood, the blood—

But survival made companions of necessity. Their bodies and minds were still familiar, even when all else was not. Most often, that had been worse.

Now, Finrod leads him to the Arafinwëan quarter of the settlement, and into the white-washed house that he inhabits. He lights the lamps with a hum as he goes, and Fingon only truly focuses on anything other than his voice again when they reach the washroom.

“What—“

“Sit,” Finrod says, gesturing to a chair beside the fire. “I will heat water.”

“Ingo—“ The old name, its endearment, still so easy to come forth when Fingon is not guarding his tongue. Every part of him aches.

Finrod stiffens, and then turns away to set the water to boil. “Do you remember the night after Elenwë fell? When we had to pull Idril from the Ice, and Turgon was—well. Do you remember?”

Closing his eyes, Fingon swallows. All he sees is red, and so he opens them, and stares at the light wood of the wall, the nicks and grooves in the grain, the spots where the paint is flaking already.

Everything fades faster, in this land. He wonders if it will be true for what he had brought back from the mountain too; for his brother; for whatever is left, of him, and Finrod, and—

“Fingon.”

“I remember.”

Appearing before him, Finrod looks at him, his sea foam eyes dark and unreadable. “Right now, you look worse. Please, sit down. Let me…”

He trails off, but Fingon remembers that night; remembers the exhaustion, the never-ending cold, the way his brother would not stop staring into space, as if frozen to death, too. How he would not move, even as Idril was screaming beside him, screaming and screaming and screaming, as they tried and failed to save her feet. Remembers the way people looked at him as Fingon set up camp, took care of food. How they pretended that they were not still remembering the red of his sword, the conviction of his words.

They used to be Turgon’s words, too, but that day, Turgon had atoned. Had paid his coin of recompense, and moved from damager to damaged. That day, they had all learnt that it was possible to atone, if only the price was high enough. If only you were willing to pay it.

He remembers Finrod finding him, that night, neither of them speaking, but borrowing comfort from versions of themselves that they had long since sunk beneath the treacherous sea.

How simple a calculation, Fingon thinks, and sits down on the chair Finrod had offered him. He thinks of Maedhros on that mountain, begging for death. He thinks of the unrecognisable wreck of him, of despair so sharp it lingered in the air like a storm before it breaks. He thinks of blood, of bone resisting, cracking, giving way—of the noise it made when it finally did, and of the noise Maedhros made, not unlike the laments of Alqualondë.

“I will get fresh clothes,” Finrod says, breaking the suffocating spell. “You should undress.”

He leaves the room. Fingon turns to look at the fire, and finally sighs, making to do as he was told. The fabric is stiff with grime and blood, and he fights with the laces, knots that have hardened until he digs his nails into them. His fingers shake, the dull pain of frost damage sharpening like needles sliding into muscle, whenever he becomes too impatient.

By the time Finrod returns, he is down to his small clothes, which is all that matters. They have seen each other in worse states of undress too often to flinch at it, even now, and so Fingon merely watches as Finrod puts down clothes and towels, and pours the boiling water into the large tub, mixing it with cold.

Fingon fully expects to be left alone now, but Finrod merely gestures. “Get in.”

He considers protesting, and then dismisses it. Any idea of comfort, no matter how wrought, is a welcome one; he has no more heroics left within himself. And so, divesting himself of that last bit of clothing, he gets into the tub, almost collapsing with relief at the warmth.

Behind him, Finrod kneels, and no matter the absurdity of today—of the horror, and the hope, and the strange, brittle stalemate-tenderness Finrod has allowed—Fingon still freezes when Finrod takes his braids in hand, and starts opening them.

“What are you doing?” His voice is quiet and heavy, and he is glad that he does not have to look at Finrod for this.

Finrod sighs, and places his palm between Fingon’s shoulders. “Lean forward, Findekáno.”

With a huff, Fingon does, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his forehead there. He lets Finrod do as he pleases because he is tired, so tired, and Finrod is as stubborn as the rest of them on the best of days, no matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise.

Slowly, carefully, Finrod undoes the braids. He takes a sponge and lets water run down Fingon’s back, over his head, his fingers meticulous as he works through strand after strand—washing out the blood and grime, combing out the tangles, working oil into it until the room smells of lavender and sandalwood. He hums as he works, a low, simple tune that keeps the water warm. That fills the room, and Fingon’s chest, and makes his muscles unwind even as a part of him wants to resist. Finally, then, Finrod starts a new braid, simple and quick. It is the same braid Fingon has been wearing to sleep for an eternity, the same braid that often enough, Finrod or Maedhros had tied for him, depending on whatever tangle they ended up in, at the end of Telperion’s bloom.

Fingon keeps his eyes closed. Does not look at the water that has turned dark around him, or at the shifting light in the room. He focuses on Finrod’s hands, on the feel of water and warmth, of time suspended if only for a moment. He does not think of the mountain, of bone snapping beneath his hands, of Maedhros against him, going lax. Of blood everywhere.

At last, Finrod stills. He does not touch Fingon, now that his work is done, but even after years of distance, Fingon can still sense his sudden hesitation—or perhaps, Finrod is letting him. It is becoming hard to tell.

“Speak, then,” Fingon says, without lifting his head. He feels heavy like a stone.

With a rustle of fabric, Finrod moves around the tub and touches his fingertips to the side of Fingon’s knee. “Your hands; come here.”

At last, Fingon moves. His body is wooden from having sat in this position for so long, but he obeys, and offers his hands. He had washed the worst of the blood off at order of the healers, but it still sits dark underneath his nails, flakes on his wrists. With the same agonising patience, Finrod cleans it, and Fingon does not think, he does not think—

“You will have to clean the rest yourself,” Finrod finally says, pressing the sponge into Fingon’s open hand. There is something comforting, Fingon thinks drily, to how even Finrod’s generosity has its bounds.

He doubts that they have reached the point of banter yet, though, and so he merely nods. He washes himself down methodically, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Finrod cleans up the room, extinguishes the fire, and puts the towels and clothes within Fingon’s reach.

Once he is done, Finrod leaves the room. Fingon does not allow himself to linger; dries off, instead, and gets dressed in the soft trousers and tunic, pours the water down the drain, and then follows.

The house is not large, as none of the houses here are, and so it is no hardship to find Finrod in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of his mattress, his own hair braided simply.

He looks up at Fingon’s approach, and his expression is still unreadable, but Fingon—Fingon knows him. Has known him for so long, the rift between them feels as impossible as it did to leave Maedhros to Morgoth’s torment. So, without a word, he sits down beside Finrod, just enough space left to avoid touching. “I cannot apologise. I know you are wroth with me, but I—“

Finrod makes a noise of such deep irritation that it stops Fingon short. “Do you think I am mad that you brought him back?”

“No! Well, I mean—“

“Why did you not tell me.” It comes out more accusation than question, frustration so deep ringing through the words, it turns right back to hurt. Still, Finrod does not look at him, staring ahead as if that will keep his mind from Fingon.

“Ingo,” he says, helpless. “You know why.”

“Do I? Did you think you were sparing me, leaving me behind, waiting for word of your demise? Do you think I would have been glad to know both my lovers dead, or worse, now both victims to the Moringotto’s torment?”

“We have not been lovers in a long time,” Fingon says, even though he knows that it will not help. “We are not—“

Finrod flinches. It is not due to the words themselves, Fingon knows; they are nothing if not true, are nothing that Finrod had not thrown at him himself before—in anger; as fact; with the cold, pragmatic detachment that the Ice had etched into all of them.

They are not lovers. The parts of them that were belong to another time, to other people, and Fingon thinks of Maedhros, of what is left of him, and how Fingon had been ready to kill him if only to end his torment.

He thinks of Turgon again. How high a price, not only for words but for blood on holy shores? For smoke on the horizon? For trust and love unyielding, tossed aside in the hours of one dark night? And what, then, the price for unearned forgiveness? For offering the other cheek, for offering to slay kin all over, again, again, again in his name?

A friend may have marched into Angband as well as any lover; neither friend nor lover, though, would have left their equal behind—ever has it been true since Findaráto had found them, the blood of his people staining their blades. What price, then, for a knife pressed lovingly into the same wound, over and over?

“Would you have come with me, if I had asked?” The truth is, Fingon is not sure of the answer. The truth is, he had asked himself, nights on end, what the answer to that question would be. Had asked himself where they had gone so wrong, that he no longer knew.

Beside him, Finrod exhales harshly through his nose. His anger evaporates as quickly as it appeared—ever has he been the worst at holding on to his grudges save his father only. It had only been upon the Ice that Fingon learnt that that is not an indomitable fact of life.

“Would you have asked, if you were sure of the answer?”

“Yes,” Fingon says—this, at least, easy. “But I was not—I did not blame you, for no longer being sure. After everything—“

“You cannot believe that I would wish torment on him, Findekáno; forgiveness, and this—they are such wildly different things; surely, you must see this?”

It is not so simple, Fingon wants to say. He swallows the words. “I am glad that I did not,” he says instead. “Be wroth with me all you like, but I am. He is back; I am back; the less we speak of how that happened, the better.”

Finrod sighs, the sound that says he is not ceding the argument, but merely agreeing to postpone it. He will be back with it, Fingon knows; nothing has ever been this simple, not even with the shining eldest of Arafinwë’s house. “Come, lie down with me.”

Fingon looks at him, raises a brow. “Not for years on the Ice—“

“Findekáno,” Finrod says, mirroring his expression. “You can leave, or we can keep arguing, or you can do as you are told. Pick one.”

Despite himself, Fingon laughs. I missed you, he wants to say. Thank you, he wants to say. Instead, he moves back on the bed and lies down, his heart as quick within his chest as when he began climbing Angband’s mountains.

Finrod follows, lying down beside him atop the covers. There is space between them, and the house is silent, as is the camp beyond.

At last, Finrod clears his throat. “Findekáno—how is he?”

It is a strange sensation, how relief and dread surge up within him. With whatever daring he has left at the end of this day, he finds Finrod’s hand and links their fingers. Squeezes, when Finrod goes still, and does not turn his head from staring at the ceiling. “Not well. The healers are not sure yet whether he will make it.”

Stillness, for a moment. Finrod settles into the touch with a second sigh. “I am surprised you left the room.”

“His brothers came.”

Finrod hums. Another pause. “What is the difference?”

He does not specify, and Fingon does not need him to. He shrugs. “I loved him. I love him, still. He went through thirty years of torture, which some might argue is enough punishment—otherwise, where does it end? He stood aside at Losgar, according to his brothers. I am tired of being angry; I feel with each day, it hollows me out more. He asked me to kill him, and I did not grant it to him. I almost did. Pick one.”

“Findekáno—“

“You should go and see him. Talk to me after.”

Finrod exhales in that slow and careful manner he has when he swallows his initial three responses. He runs his thumb over Fingon’s knuckles, once, twice. At last, he says, “Alright,” and nothing else.

Fingon keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling—white, white, white, against the crimson behind his eyelids—and lets the hope take root once more, Finrod steady beside him as sleep drags him under.

It takes several days until Finrod appears in the doorway of Maedhros’ sick room.

Fingon is horrifically glad that it is him here, rather than anyone else, for the expression shattering across Finrod’s face when his gaze falls onto Maedhros is not one anyone else should ever get to see.

Within a blink, Fingon is beside him. He does not touch; closes the door quietly, instead, and waits for the horror to turn cold and leaden, rather than sharp and reverberating.

He can tell when it does—the quiet exhale, the imperceptible shift that presses their shoulders together. They have not spoken since that first night, but it is there, now, in the space where their fingers brush, as Finrod pretends not to be crumpling, and Fingon pretends that he is not holding him up.

Upon the sick bed, Maedhros lies, unmoving. His hair has been shorn short, and he is more bandages than skin, more brittle skeleton and war-scarred map than the magnificent elf they used to love. He is still, nonetheless, unmistakably and painfully the same; the sharp furrow between his brows, even as he sleeps, the very same both of them have smoothed out countless times when he was working late. The steady rhythm of his breathing, a sound that has lulled them both to sleep many a night.

“Findekáno…” Finrod says, more breath than word. He does not go on.

“I know,” Fingon says, because he does. With some measure of courage, he takes Finrod’s hand and pulls him along. “Come, sit. We have a few hours before his brothers or the healers come.”

At this, at last, Finrod regains some of his composure. He settles into the chair beside the bed and watches as Fingon sits down on the mattress; takes in the room, the drawn curtains, the various instruments, bandages, and ointments on the table.

“I am surprised his brethren do not stick to his side,” Finrod says, and the unspoken question rings through the room.

Fingon shrugs, and keeps himself from reaching for Maedhros. “We worked out a schedule.”

“And they let you?”

“They left him to rot for thirty years; they shall be grateful that I am letting them.” It comes out sharper than he means it to, and Maedhros makes a low noise in his throat that chastises Fingon instantly. That makes Finrod look at him with an expression he knows well—like Fingon has revealed something, something larger than intended; like Finrod is deciding, still, where exactly to slot the new piece.

Fingon lets him. He knows better than to try and stop him—knows, in truth, better than to dread it. For all the grief between them, it has never been Finrod who has wilfully hurt him.

Eyes going back to Maedhros, Finrod’s gaze lingers there. His fists curl and uncurl in his lap. For the first time in a long time, Fingon wishes he knew what Finrod is thinking.

As if picking up on the thought, Finrod looks back at him. “Will you tell me?”

He does not specify; does not need to, the cold, leaden horror in Fingon’s stomach surging up, numbing his fingertips. The blood, the cracking bone, the screaming—Fingon is no longer a stranger to violence, and he has never been one to shy from that which needed to be done. And yet, something about knowing the sounds someone makes in the throes of mindless pleasure; of learning how close these are, to the sounds of mindless agony—

“Findekáno.”

He swallows. “May I show you, instead?”

In truth, he is not sure whether that will be simpler; is not sure if it is not merely an attempt at absolution, at sharing horror and as such lightening its weight. At an apology that he had failed to speak, the night Finrod had found him. In truth, he knows that it is an audacious request, asking for more in return than he is offering; they have not spoken such, since long before the Trees went dark; since before Formenos, and all their father’s fighting. Since inevitably, Morgoth’s shadow had made a mockery of them, too. Too intimate, then, to share something true; to not weigh every word precisely, to lay proof to all that treacherous, dangerous love yet ripe to be sharpened into a weapon at will.

In the end, they had done so regardless, and so perhaps, it is no surprise that Finrod looks at him, eyes dark and hard, and inclines his head in agreement. His conviction is enough that Fingon almost falters in the face of it—or he would have, if he were anyone else.

But he is not, and so he allows himself a moment, and only a moment, to steel himself; to wonder whether Finrod will feel different than he used to, storm-cast seas in early spring, the thrill of standing beneath a waterfall as it thunders down on you, wild and breathless and alive, alive, alive; the sharp sweetness of the first apples of the season, and the bright, bristling beauty of snow, back when such a thing had not yet been tangled with death, and sacrifice, and unbleachable sin. Prepares himself to be met with coldness, now, as they have come to know it; as they have come to keep between them, ever side-stepping their past carefully, like a fissure in the ice.

One moment, and then he meets Finrod’s eyes; one moment, and then sunlight deluges upon him—bright and golden, glaring and sharp, so much that for the first time in an age, Fingon feels warm down to the marrow of his bones.

I missed you, he thinks, before he can stop himself. Varda, Ingo, I miss you.

A sigh, fond and sad; a pause, past and present stretching until they collide on crimson shores; a dimming of light, and Fingon gathers himself, refocusing on the matter at hand. Ósanwë, even if one has a deep and stable bond, is a strange thing—no direct conversation the way language offers but impressions, images, more feeling than logic, more foundational truth than adorned construct.

It is easier to convey such horror like this. It is crueller, too, and Fingon senses the answering reaction that Finrod allows him to witness—the bile burning in his throat, at the way Maedhros’ muscles give way; the shiver of fear down his spine, at Angband’s grim and leering mountains; of nails burying into skin, when Fingon raises his bow, anguish in his heart but conviction true in his aim.

I should have been there, Finrod thinks, accusation and apology both. As their connection breaks, Fingon finds his wrist in Finrod’s tight grasp, bones shifting under the pressure of it.

“I missed you, too,” Finrod says, something wretched and hollow to his voice. “I wish—“

He does not finish. Fingon swallows, smiles. Says, “I know.” Says, “Me too,” and wonders if it will ever stop feeling like they are pieces of driftwood, crashing into that insurmountable wall between them.

They linger there, Finrod’s fingers pressed to Fingon’s pulse, his eyes fixed on Maedhros’ sleeping form. Finally, he clears his throat, without moving. “How is he?”

Fingon wants to believe that the bitterness has been flushed from his voice, now, but he does not trust himself to judge. Regardless, it matters not. “Unchanged,” he says, and swallows around the dread anew. “They say that Morgoth did something to him, to keep him from fading; now, rescued, that is obviously no longer true, but his body is too injured, and his mind too withdrawn, to make him understand that he is safe. They keep him asleep, so that—“

His voice breaks. Fingon has not cried since he watched Maedhros leave for Formenos, except for the once when he raised his bow to kill his former lover in an act of damning mercy. He is not going to repeat the experience so soon.

“So that he does not fade,” Finrod finishes for him, his voice laden. His thumb runs circles across the jut of Fingon’s wrist, and Fingon remembers that ever, Finrod had been strangely fond of the spot; of pressing his mouth to it, grazing his teeth over the sharp bone, of watching from beneath his lashes as Fingon’s mouth ran dry at the motion. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

And there it is, the question and the answer that Fingon has been waiting and dreading this whole time.

“They say song would help, to draw him back. To convince him of the safety of it.”

Finrod frowns, finally directing his gaze at Fingon. “So, Makalaurë—“

“He does not trust himself to.” And what a fight it had been, between the two of them; Fingon still cannot tell what the more unforgivable deed to him is—the following of Maedhros’ orders to leave him to the accursed mountain, or the refusal to tend him, even now.

Finrod’s frown deepens, lingers. “Has he used it to fight?”

It is, of course, the only possible answer. Songs of Power had been a popular field of study in Aman; from the Vanyar’s poetry to the chants of Oromë’s hunt, their presence and power had spanned a wide area of use, and with none more skilled at them than Fëanáro’s second son.

Often it had been theorised, in an almost tantalising, scandalised subset of study, that their power could be bent to evil, that it could corrupt its user; that Morgoth’s power proved it, long before the dark enemy had been named as such. Long it had been theorised that Makalaurë, if he ever set his mind to it, could level all of Tirion.

They had not been present, for those first battles under Beleriand’s star-struck sky, but the Sindar whisper of it, sometimes, when they think that Fingon and his people do not hear. There is a reason, after all, that Makalaurë—unlikeliest and most unwilling of kings—had kept rule over his people for all this time. Had ruled new people, too, kept Morgoth from rooting them out as he pleased. Had, perhaps most importantly, kept his brothers under control, and Fingon has witnessed Celegorm and Curufin these last few weeks, the righteous vitriol cast at their older brother, to know that it must have been no easy task.

It makes him no more inclined to consider Maglor with any such thing as understanding, but Fingon knows better than to underestimate him.

“He does not say,” Fingon says at last, and turns his hand until he can wrap his fingers around Finrod’s fine-boned wrist in return. “I trust he must have his reasons to leave his brother so, despite everything.”

Finrod hums, non-commital, and sets his eyes back on Maedhros. “I will do it, then.”

And Fingon—Fingon had hoped for this. Had hoped for it, in fact, even when he had asked Finrod to come see Maedhros for the first time. Yet, with the offer pragmatic and mild-mannered between them, he finds the tangle in his throat too sharp-thorned to be considered any such thing as relief.

“Ingo,” he says, and refuses to be deterred by the sharp brow Finrod raises at him. Ever has Finrod’s song been something—bright, for lack of a better word. Something joyful. Where Maglor rejoiced in honing his skill like a blade, Finrod cared nought for competition; where others in Tirion played musical entertainment like Maitimo and Fingon’s father played at court, Finrod, ever, refused to be dragged into the intricate power plays of it. Many a word had been lost about how, if only he set his mind to it, if only he had received a little more of the Finwëan ambition, he could rival Makalaurë himself.

Fools, the lot of them; it has never been the issue that Finrod lacked ambition. It is simply that said ambition never bothered itself with this particular skill of his.

Finrod, ever, had ignored the whispers, as he was wont to do. He sang for his family; he sang on Alqualondë’s shores, during Yavanna’s festivals, drunk on horseback as they raced through Oromë’s forests. He sang for them—low, lovely melodies that pushed the world a little more firmly out of the rooms they shared, that made the night feel like it lasted a little longer; that made it easier, even in those last few years, to forget for a few hours the weight that pressed down on all of them. To use it now, among the scattered pieces of them, sharp-edged marks of the knives they wielded so knowingly—to use it now, Fingon does not know how to ask for it.

“You are not asking,” Finrod says, his voice soft. Fingon had forgotten how easy it is for Finrod, once the connection is open, to linger. “And I have asked you before, Findekáno—do you think that I want to see him slain? Or hurt? Do you think, truly, that after everything I have learnt and that you have shown me, I cannot understand why you are still here?”

Fingon swallows. It is something he has tried hard not to prod at, the sore, rotting tooth of resentment.

“It is not about forgiveness,” Finrod says, the note creeping into his tone that, ever, precedes a lecture—one of the many, many things, Fingon thinks with an ache so deep it burns, that Finrod and Maedhros used to have in common. “If it is about punishment, then where does it end? You asked this; I answer; if it must end, it must end here. You and I both know that it is so.”

And he is right, Fingon knows. Both for their own sake, and for the sake of their people. Because the truth of it, too, is that for all that he had marched into Angband for love, he had also done it because it was the only way—the safest way—to guarantee peace between their people. Because he is tired of fighting, of treachery, of the way Finrod will look at him, and see someone to be wary of.

Because he is wary of the thought of Maedhros never looking at either of them again at all. As Finrod holds his gaze, his determination settling into the unflinching constant of Ulmo’s streams, he knows that Finrod understands. That, if they want to have a chance at fixing this, them, their odds in this strange and promising land, then they have to be the three of them.

He links their fingers, pulls Finrod to sit beside him on the bed, and looks down at Maedhros—the furrow between his brows, his mouth slack in sleep. Listens as Finrod starts humming, low and melodic, the room filling with careful, deliberate notes, and remembers, remembers, remembers—

Finrod sings; Maedhros, at last, relaxes; and Fingon—

Fingon leans against them both, and watches the future unspool ahead of them, burning bright like a promise.

*

Under his blessing I buckle.
Our heads against each other's

thighs roughened together.
A testament to the blood
we spread between us.

Clutching necks in a promise of
closer. Tell me something honest.
I saw God and he spared me.
—Alex Bortell

Chapter End Notes

This could have easily spiralled into approximately 20k more words of character and relationship study, but alas, the deadline. I might come back to this at some point and expand on it, but for now, thank you for reading! You can also find me on Tumblr <3

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