Turned Backs Can't Dance by Elrond's Library  

“I have to go,” Makalaurë whispered as the celebrations on Taniquetil reached their height, Treelight reaching the Mingling. “I’m sorry! I owe you a dance, next time! I promise.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were falling into your uncle’s camp,” a low voice muttered in his ear, laughter right on the edges of the speaker’s lips. “Blue, Makalaurë?”

Makalaurë laughed quietly, watching the revelry that was this Mereth Aderthad in the shadow of his uncle’s grand pavilion. He wasn’t hiding, exactly. He just wanted to watch. There was a rumor that a musician with skill to rival his own would arrive soon.

“I think you’ll agree it matches my hair and complexion best. Besides, Mai–Maedhros is wearing the red tonight.”

Eönwë sighed into Makalaurë’s hair, sounding put upon. “I do agree.”

Makalaurë leaned into his once-lover’s body. He knew it was Eönwë, no one else would dare tease him so. Nor did anyone else smell quite the same, a mix of pine incense and feather must and divinity. Eönwë wrapped his arms around Makalaurë’s waist, taking his weight easily.

“Why are you here, Eönwë? Does your Lord know?” Makalaurë whispered.

“Manwë Lord-father does not need to know what will not hurt him so,” Eönwë muttered. “It has been so long since I’ve touched you. Nearly a century, with the way we’re counting time now.”

Makalaurë twisted his lips in a sneer of bitterness and contempt. “You could have come with us. You wouldn’t have had to wait then.”

“You know why I could not.”

Makalaurë turned to face Eönwë, searching his face for something, anything beyond the blank mask he had adopted. Eönwë took a step back, tracing his fingers down Makalaurë’s arm to tangle their fingers together.

“Come, Makalaurë. If you want to argue, best do it away from prying eyes and suspicious ears.”

Makalaurë shook his head – he wasn’t looking for a fight, he just didn’t know what he was looking for – but followed.

The further they got away from the sea of tents that had sprung up around the Pools of Irvin, the less like an Elda Eönwë began to look. He shed his drab robe for a set of armor, polished to a mirror finish. Feathers replaced hair. Wings sprouted from his back, two pairs of two – otherworldly gold set on a backdrop of ethereal white and blackest night.

They stopped in a clearing, hidden from the stars above and lit only by the shimmering glow of Eönwë’s ëala and Makalaurë’s Treelit eyes.

And still Eönwë held Makalaurë’s hand.

“I don’t want to argue,” Makalaurë murmured, gripping onto his once-lover’s hand with every bit of strength he could muster. “I want … I need to apologize. The way we parted last was … unkind. I should not have said what I did.”

Eönwë smiled softly, relaxing. “You meant what you said at the time. It was very stressful for you, for the both of us, after the Trees died. I also said things I regret, with time and hindsight.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eönwë bent, bowing to kiss the back of Makalaurë’s hand with tenderness. “I forgive you, Makalaurë. I forgave you a long time ago.”

They stared at each other for a long, insurmountable moment. Makalaurë broke the silence. “But you can’t stay.”

Eönwë shook his head. “The Doom still holds. You’ll receive little help from the Valar. We’ve already intervened more than we had planned to.”

Makalaurë shuddered. Findekáno’s heartfelt prayer that gave his brother back to him, that relieved him of the burden of a crown he never thought he’d bear, that reopened wounds of grief and guilt in new and terrifying ways … “Thank you.”

Eönwë smiled, genuine and large. “It was for you, meldanya.”

Makalaurë blinked away sudden tears. He launched himself into Eönwë’s arms, shuddering and sobbing into Eönwë’s chest. He felt Eönwë shift, feathers rustling as he sheltered Makalaurë under the canopy of his embrace. He never thought, did not dare to dream that Eönwë would call him beloved, claim him, even speak to him again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, when he could speak again. Eönwë kissed his hair and held him.

The wind picked up, a gentle caress carrying an echo of the great Music of the world.

“That’s my cue,” Eönwë muttered, “Manwë Lord-father grows impatient. But … You still owe me a dance, meldanya.”

Makalaurë shook his head. “When we win. You can claim your dance when I see you next, when my Oath is fulfilled and Morgoth has fallen.”

Eönwë watched the retreating back of his lover, holding the young peredhel back from following their erstwhile guardians. Makalaurë’s sword had dripped red, his eyes desperate and empty as he waited for Eönwë to pronounce his judgement.

Eönwë should have captured them, the last two Fëanorions, perhaps even slain them.

But he couldn’t do it.

Eönwë’s heart ached, seeing his lover so broken by the world. And Makalaurë still owed him a dance.

So he let them go, and damn the consequences.

Three Ages of the world passed before Makalaurë came back to Valinor. Eönwë did not meet him at the docks, as much as he wished to. He held himself back, until the High King threw a feast to celebrate Makalaurë and Galadriel’s return, the last of the scions of Finwë to return to Tirion – everyone else who had gone to Beleriand had been reembodied by then, even Fëanor.

Makalaurë slid into Eönwë’s side, his raven hair braided with blue beads and small shells. His eyes bore the marks of the years, but the Treelight was bright, and beautiful, and so achingly familiar.

“Welcome home,” Eönwë murmured. “Meldanya, welcome home at last.”

Makalaurë smiled. “I owed you a dance, and since you seemed disinclined to claim it on the beach, I had to come find you. I don’t break my promises.”

Eönwë snorted, then laughed, full-bellied and loud. “Let’s dance, then, meldanya. It’s been too long.”

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