Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

Everything was lost.

The assault had come upon them so suddenly— in one moment the night sky was ink-dark and moonless, in the next it was on fire. The chaos that followed was like nothing Fingon had known since the Darkening: panic, terror, confusion. They could not see. They could not comprehend.

On the burning fields of Ard-galen, the heat was so blinding it was impossible for Fingon to tell who was friend and who was foe until they were already upon him; who had been lost and who still fought by his side until the smoke thinned enough to see his men dead at his feet. His eyes stung with smoke and sweat, his lungs burned, flame licked close enough to sear his flesh through armour. The world burned, and there was nothing to do but fight to survive it.

On the fifth day of the assault, with his throat full of ash and his furious heart splitting open in his chest, Fingon looked at his father.

The High King of the Noldor stood at the window of a high tower of Barad Eithel, looking out over the devastation. Ard-galen was naught but ash. Fires still burned intermittently everywhere life remained to be burned, choking the orange skies with billows of dark smoke. Fingolfin’s face was tight. His jaw was set. In his eyes, behind the fury and the flickering of reflected flame, there was only pain, as vast and as deep as the outer seas.

There was no news out of the East. There was no reliable news out of anywhere.

Dorthonion was lost, that much they knew. Excepting the possibility of a miracle— something Fingon knew better than to hope for in these lands— Aegnor and Angrod had been lost with it, the hosts of Hithlum having been forced back before they could come to their aid. Sirion and Teiglin had saved the Talath Dirnen from the worst of the onslaught, but the Gap had ever been a vulnerability in the defense of the East. Had Maglor held?

Fingon’s heart foreboded that not even Maglor, with all the skill and might of his cavalry behind him, could have withstood the force of the Enemy for long. Not if the endless waves of Morgoth’s armies had been as relentless in the East as they were in the West, and Fingon saw no reason why they would not be. And if the Gap fell, Himland and Thargelion would fall behind it, as surely as the ground quake brought the mountain’s rockfall. And Himring—

Himring would stand. As long as Maedhros lived, Himring would stand. And if Maedhros fell…

Well. If Maedhros fell, then they had already lost.

The dark weeks of winter passed each in their turn and still the tide was relentless, still the sky burned, still the hosts of the Enemy beat against the rock of the Noldor as waves against an eroding cliffside.^[1]

Fingon moved through life as one dead. Each day was much the same, each breath lacked sufficient air to fill his lungs. Time and again he led troops out into the ceaseless onslaught, and each time he returned with far fewer men than he had left with. He sat at his father’s right side though countless war councils that all lasted well into the night, arguing and strategizing and watching, helplessly, as what little hope remained to his father crumbled away from him like rocks into the sea. He presided over the funerals of Hador and Gundor his son, and for all the love that Fingon’s heart held for their mortal vassals, these fierce and valiant men who had died in defense of the Crown, he watched as they both were lowered into the ground, and he did not feel anything at all.

With the coming of spring the onslaught began to lessen. War did not wholly cease, but as the worst of the smoke began to clear and there was time at last to count their dead, the casualty and damage reports began to roll in.

Fingon stood beside his father as they were read out. Each one was worse than the last. Trade routes annihilated, infrastructure razed to the ground, countless thousands dead and thousands more whose bones had been charred beyond recognition. There was still nothing out of the East, but what whispers had reached their farthest troops spoke of utter ruin and destruction. Slowly, quietly, the horror that had been settling in Fingon’s bones over the past months began to calcify.

Fingolfin, stone-faced, listened to each report as it was read out. When all was said and done, he stood wordlessly and swept from the room.

Fingon’s father was not a hopeless man. But unlike Fingon, who clung stubbornly and destructively to hope even when his fingers bled under the strength of his conviction, Fingolfin’s hope was a measured thing. It was not bottomless. And as spring slowly bled into a chill and grey summer, the sky still blanketed by a haze of smoke that blocked most sunlight from getting through, Fingon began to fear for his father.

It was a constant, ever-present sort of fear. Fear of the kind that had driven Fingon to wakefulness each night on the Helcaraxë, which had not let him sleep for more than two hours at a time without getting up to put a hand in front of his siblings’ faces to make sure they were still breathing.

He began to spend every available moment in his father’s company. He joined him in court, in councils he would normally have shirked, he took breakfast and supper with him despite the fact that Fingolfin’s appetite had become a rare and fickle thing. He sent out scouts to bring back news from the East, and when they failed to return, he sent more. After the third time this happened, his father forbade him from sending any more. Fingon was wont to go himself, then, and he might have done so were he not terrified of what his father might do in his absence. After all, an Elda may be slain by their own hand just as surely as by grief.

Hope, to Fingon, was not something innate. Only in its broadest sense was hope a quality that burned unlooked for in the heart of every Elda; if hope was not tended, if it was not cultivated, it was wont to wither in the very moment it was needed the most. Fingon understood that hope was a choice. It was careful and deliberate, and it was hard, and the times when having hope seemed the most impossible were the times one had to choose it over and over again, every second of every day. This was the fundamental truth at the core of Fingon’s beliefs, the centre around which he understood the world and his place in it.

Very seldom did he waver in this conviction more than he did in the months following the Dagor Bragollach.

There was just so much to rebuild. It felt impossible to know where to start. Some days it felt impossible to think clearly enough through the haze of grief and fear to face the present day, let alone the future.

“What future?” his father said once, bitterly. “We are defeated. The Enemy has won.”

“If even one of us still stands,” countered Fingon sharply, “then we are not defeated. You must not lose hope.”

“Hope,” said his father, and smiled an awful, cruel smile. “There is hope, and there is foolishness. The problem with you, Findekáno, is that you have never known the difference.”

That night, Fingon lay sleepless in his bed, staring out the eastern window into the murky horizon. As he had done every night of the past six months, he cast his thoughts out across the desecrated ruins of Ard-galen and reached far, as far as his mind could carry him, seeking out the familiar curl of one reaching back. As ever, he found only a cold, impassable wall.

It was on a night of late autumn rain that a rider bearing the Fëanorian banner reached Barad Eithel’s gates at a gallop. He would not stay, not even for a night’s rest in a dry bed, making immediately for Nargothrond the moment his message had been delivered into Fingon’s hands.

Fingon could not wait. At the bottom of the grand staircase in Barad Eithel’s foyer, he tore open the sealed scroll. At the sight of Maedhros' scrawling script his knees nearly buckled.

Himring stands. All else is lost.

  — M

Fingon was trembling so much it was all he could do to clutch the railing to keep himself upright, the parchment crushed under his palm.

When Fingon had ridden for Angband, sneaking away from the lakeside camp at Mithrim in the dead of night with the near-certainty that he was going to die, he had told no one of his going. Secrecy ensured that none could hinder him, but it also ensured that no one person could blame themselves for failing to stop him. His father, his siblings, Finrod and Angrod and Aegnor— at first they all would tell themselves they should have known, that perhaps if they had acted sooner he could have been talked into reason, but once the initial shock of grief faded they would come to accept that Fingon had acted alone. They could not possibly have known what he might do, and so there was no fault or blame to be found in their inaction.

Fingon’s father gave him no such gift. When Fingolfin rode for Angband, he came to say goodbye.

He was arrayed for war. He spoke to Fingon as one already dead in tones empty and monotonous. There was a madness of grief about him, something in the light of his eyes that was fell and fey and entirely beyond reason; never did he look more like the half-brother he had loathed and loved than he did on that day.

Fingon begged. Fingon shouted. Fingon hurled venoms and cruelties that he would later wish desperately he could take back, but his father was not swayed. His father couldn’t be swayed— he was already a walking corpse, all the living parts of him chipped away, leaving in their wake only fury and bitter despair and hubristic, suicidal desperation.

“Do not pretend,” Fingon hissed at last, his heart frantic in his chest, “that this is bravery when it is madness.”

His father cradled his face in warm, tender palms. His thumbs stroked the ridges of Fingon’s cheekbones. He leaned down, kissed Fingon’s brow, and turned and strode from the room.

“Please!” Fingon cried out after him, voice breaking. “You can't leave me!” But it was not enough; he was not enough.

From the gates of Barad Eithel, Fingon watched as his father mounted Rollachor and spurred him into the North without ever looking back. He did not weep. He stood in the winter chill until long after his father had disappeared from view; until the scorched sands of Anfauglith had been swallowed up by the black night.^[2]

The following day, Rollachor was espied on the horizon. For the briefest of moments, there was hope. That was before they saw that he was riderless; before he reached the fortress, exhausted and alone; before he collapsed in Fingon’s arms upon the cobbled stone of the courtyard, and died.

Chapter End Notes

^[1] The compressed nature of the Silmarillion makes everything read like it happens in very quick succession, but the Grey Annals (which was my primary source used for dates in this fic) places the beginning of the Bragollach in the winter at the beginning of 455, with Fingolfin's ride to challenge Morgoth not occurring until 456. I was really interested here in playing with the Dagor Bragollach as a long, drawn-out defeat, and how that would gradually beat down even the most resilient of spirits.

^[2] For the purposes of this fic, I've placed Fingolfin's death somewhere around mid-late winter in the year 456.

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Thorondor came the following day.

The King of Eagles landed beyond the fortress gates, the beating of his mighty wings blowing back Fingon’s hair where he stood. Fingon bowed low and then straightened, resolute under Thorondor’s piercing gaze.

“Where is he?”

He did not need to be told that his father was dead.

Thorondor spoke in a deep, booming voice that seemed to shake the ground underfoot. “The body of the High King has been brought to the domain of your brother, to there be laid to rest.”

“Turgon?” said Fingon, aghast, so taken aback that he forgot himself. “Where is he? And why should our father not be brought to rest here, in his home, at the seat of his power?”

The King of Eagles was silent. Fingon’s face burned.

“Valiant were the final deeds of the High King,” intoned Thorondor at last. “Long did he stand against the Enemy, and wounded him with seven wounds. Yet in the end, he could not stand against the might of the Black Foe.” After a beat, he added, “No Elda could.”

Fingon realized then that while knowing his father was dead had been one thing, hearing the truth of it spoken aloud was entirely another. Beneath his feet, the earth was crumbling away to dust. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you, Lord,” he heard himself say, “for bringing me this news.”

The King of Eagles extended one great claw. In it was held the golden crown of his father. Fingon took it as though it were made of glass.

Thorondor inclined his feathered head. “Hail, Fingon Nolofinwion, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea. Long may he reign.”

He turned and leapt into the air, soaring high with the beating of his wings and speeding north. Fingon stood alone upon the snow, his fingers numb, his father’s crown clutched in his hands.

The weeks that followed were the longest of Fingon’s life.

There was an endless procession of people, everywhere, all the time. Everybody wished to deliver their condolences, or needed his ear or his input or his signature, or else wanted to know whether he wished to have his books moved into the royal library or to his father’s study, which was apparently now his. Most of Fingolfin’s belongings were quickly moved into storage and Fingon’s were brought to the apartments of the High King; his father’s closet was now full of his clothing, his favoured bedlinens were on his father’s bed. Messengers were dispatched to bring the news to what kingdoms of Beleriand still remained.

Fingon stepped into his father’s schedule, his father’s routine, his father’s life, and did not allow himself to waver. One change he made, and one change only: he replaced his father’s esquire with his own. It felt cruel to remove his father’s esquire from a position he had held for centuries, but the man proved incapable of meeting Fingon’s eyes without tearing up, and Fingon could not stand it. His own esquire, Gwánthon, had been serving him since Dor-lómin. He understood Fingon and the way he liked things done. And Fingon was fond of him; with his father now gone, Gwánthon might have been the person who knew him best in all of Hithlum.

And so it was that Fingon fell into the work of kingship. He performed well his duties, he dragged himself through each day while his heart grew ever heavier. At night he collapsed into his father’s bed and watched the sky out the eastern window until it began to lighten with the first pale clouds of dawn, sleepless in spite of his exhaustion. He reached out with his thoughts to Maedhros; over and over again, he reached out. Each time he was met with only the wall Maedhros had thrown up between them that final night in Araman, cold and utterly impassable.

That did not stop Fingon from reaching. There was a hollow sort of comfort to be found in extending his hand into the darkness, even when he knew there was no one there to reach back.

The lack of a body did not preclude the possibility of a funeral. The Helcaraxë had not permitted that they waste their dead, and those who had endured its crossing had no shortage of rituals for mourning in the absence of remains.

At first, Fingon had argued against the building of a cairn. What sense was there in wasting stone needed elsewhere when no body would lie there? But in the end he was swayed— in part because a public gravesite might make mourners less likely to leave their tokens of grief at the fortress gates, but mostly because he could not muster the energy to fight about it any longer.

When Fingon presided over the dedication ceremony some weeks later he wore black funerary robes and a veil that shrouded his face. It was not the Noldorin way, but had his father not been half Vanya? Would not Fingolfin want Vanyarin customs honoured at a ceremony such as this?

In truth, Fingon did not know, but it was a relief to be covered so. This way he did not need to worry about making the muscles in his face cooperate as they should, or calling forth an appropriate tear to his eye at precisely the right moment. There was little Fingon wanted to do less than cry in front of his people, but perhaps the only thing worse would be to be witnessed feeling nothing at all.

Fingon wished he could cry. Crying was meant to be cathartic, was it not? But try as he might, tears evaded Fingon just as surely as sleep.

Everywhere he turned were looks of pity. Fingon endured it until he could endure it no longer, until he snapped at a young serving girl who had not been deserving of his wrath. Later, he sent Gwánthon to her quarters with sweets and apologies, but after that day all of the servants averted their eyes in his presence. Somehow, that was even worse.

The most unbearable part of all was the praise his father’s death inspired.

How brave his father had been, all the courtiers would say any time they could catch Fingon’s ear, each vying for his favour and hoping this would win it. How fiercely their king must have fought to have wounded the Enemy as he had— indeed, it was not a lie to call Fingolfin the strongest of the Noldor, valiant and fearless beyond measure. They constructed a hollow figurine of a hero, a selfless martyr, one devoid of flaws and fault. There was nothing Fingon could do except nod, and force a smile, and let them.

The last dregs of winter melted into the wet weeks of spring, and each day passed much the same. Some of his father’s advisors suggested that he take a break; things were dire, yes, but grief had a habit of making room for itself whether you allowed it to or not. But how could Fingon possibly rest now? Everything was urgent in the aftermath of the Bragollach.

Trade routes desperately needed to be rebuilt, a task that would require funds and time and resources that were already in short supply. Many of their trade partners had raised their fees to exorbitant heights, citing the dangers of the terrain and the threat of roaming Orc bands. The ones who had not raised their fees had ceased trade with Hithlum entirely, deeming the risk simply too great.

The Ered Wetherin might have saved Hithlum’s croplands from the worst of the flames, but nothing had been spared from the cloud of smoke and haze that had hung in the sky over Beleriand for well nigh a year. For months on end the sun had barely reached the ground, and this year’s crop yields were projected to be even worse than the last; far short of what was needed to feed a people.

People would go hungry. From hunger stemmed conflict, and from conflict stemmed unrest, and tensions in Hithlum were already higher than they had been in centuries. Yet it was not only Hithlum Fingon now had to worry about, and while no further news had come from Himring, what few reports had been received from Nargothrond spelled much the same story.

So Fingon put everything else aside, scrounged up what little strength was left to him, and dealt with it, for this was what it was to be King. Never mind that exhaustion and grief sat so heavily on his breast he could barely keep his head above water. Never mind that he was so lonely he could hardly stand it, aching constantly for touch and yet recoiling every time an advisor’s shoulder brushed his own or a body servant smoothed his robes. Never mind that he could not stop replaying in his head everything he had said to his father on their last meeting, everything he had not said, everything he wished he could say now; never mind that what he wanted more than anything else was for his father to be here with him now to tell him what to do.

But his father was dead; dead and gone. Fingon was alone. Surely even death was a better fate than that.

On a day like every other day that had come before it, Fingon was nursing a throbbing headache.

Court had dragged on for hours, and though it was still early enough in the evening for grey light to be slanting in through the high arched windows, by the time Fingon was letting himself into his father’s apartments he wished nothing more than to draw the curtains, collapse into bed, and hope in vain that sleep would come.

A body servant greeted him upon his return, ready to disrobe him of his complex court finery. She was a young, overeager thing, appropriately deferential and yet always a little bit too enthusiastic to talk at him if he should give her an opening for conversation. Perhaps it was cruel, but tonight Fingon could not cope.

“I need no aid tonight.” He busied himself filling a glass with water from the pitcher on the corner table so he had an excuse to keep his back turned. “You may go.”

His ears pricked at the sound of her shuffling feet as she hesitated. Fingon closed his eyes. He willed himself not to get cross with her.

“My King, are you certain?” she said anxiously. “The clasps on your robes are delicate, and I could—”

“No.” He turned and plastered on a tight-lipped smile. “I will manage.”

He felt a little guilty, then, for disappointment was writ clear across her face. But this time she took the dismissal in stride, colour creeping up her cheeks as she bowed and made her exit. Fingon followed her to the door, his smile dropping the second she was gone, and locked it after her.

Locking the door did very little to prevent access to these chambers. Several of the high-ranking staff had keys to the King’s apartments, and Gwánthon had one for the inner bedchamber. Still, the finality of the latch sliding into place brought Fingon such overwhelming relief he sagged against the door, his forehead pressed to the cool wood. Even breathing in and out felt like climbing the steepest heights of the Pelóri.

After several minutes he worked up the energy to straighten and begin the arduous process of getting undressed. He did not make it more than three steps towards the closet before a crisp knock came at the door.

Fingon had to resist the urge to break something. He stalked back to the door and put on something resembling a smile as he swung it open.

“My King.” The guard spoke quickly and without preamble, very slightly out of breath. “Your cousin has just arrived.”

Fingon’s heart tripped nearly to a stop.

“Which cousin?” he demanded, before pushing past the guard without waiting for an answer.

It had to be him. Fingon’s footsteps echoed off the stone as he strode briskly through the corridor with just enough presence of mind to walk and not run. It had to be him. Didn’t it? Who else could it be?

Finrod, supplied a voice from the rational part of his mind. And it would make more sense. Nargothrond was not so far, and of course Finrod would think to come to him in his hour of grief, dear friend that he was. Orodreth, too, was close by in Minas Tirith, but surely he would not leave the watchtower in the hands of another at a time like this.^[1]

One of Maedhros’ brothers, then? If it was as Maedhros’ letter had said and all besides Himring had fallen, perhaps they had come to seek refuge? But then why not go to Himring? Or even Nargothrond? Most of Fëanor’s brood hated Fingon, and they would hate him all the more now that the kingship had fallen to him. Could they have come to challenge his claim to the throne?

“Where is my cousin?” Fingon called out to the guards stationed on either side of the main doors, forcing himself to slow down as he descended the grand staircase.

“My King!” Gwánthon emerged suddenly from the great hall to the right, only to be nearly bowled over by Fingon in his haste. “Lord, if you wish to go to your hall I will bring him to you to be received—”

“No,” Fingon cut him off, and then to one of the guards, “Outside?”

“Yes, Lord,” came the hasty reply.

Fingon threw open the great elm doors and stepped out into the damp, grey evening. He shielded his eyes against the drizzling rain and squinted across the courtyard. There, waiting behind the slowly-raising gate, was a tall, cloaked figure on horseback.

The lump that had been forming at the back of Fingon’s throat for the past several minutes grew suddenly so sharp he could barely swallow around it.

It was him. It was— Fingon would know him anywhere, by shape alone.

The moment the gate was fully raised Maedhros urged his steed forward into the courtyard. Anaroch’s hooves clopped briskly across slick cobblestone, just a touch too hurried to be truly proper, and through the cloud of cold, grey mist, Maedhros came into view.

Something inside of Fingon wavered and threatened to crack.

How long now had he been enduring alone? How many weeks since his father’s death; how many months before it, during which he could do nothing but watch as his father slowly succumbed to grief and despair? And now Maedhros was here, tall and striking against a vast grey sky, wearing a face so dear and familiar and longed-for that the sight of him alone made Fingon’s heart ache like it was breaking open.

Fingon’s breathing grew shallow. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He grasped out desperately for the wavering edges of his being, the places where everything he had kept so carefully locked down was threatening to spill over, and held himself together through sheer strength of will. He refused to fall to pieces now.

Maedhros had come alone, without his guard. He held himself with strength and grace as he ever did, but exhaustion was plain to read in the darkness underneath his eyes, the painful set of his right shoulder. The cloak he wore was weather-stained, his boots muddied with the dirt of the road, and stray locks of hair had escaped his hood to hang about his face in limp, damp strands, copper and silver, a single source of fire-bright warmth against the gloom.

With a barely-perceptible grimace he dismounted Anaroch and handed off her reins to a groom. Fingon stood rooted to the spot, his curls dripping, rainwater snaking down his spine. His fine robes were growing slowly plastered to his skin.

Alone, alone, alone— for so long he had been enduring alone. All these terrible days of fear and grief. Since the Siege was broken Fingon had longed for Maedhros’ warmth even more than he did in thirty years upon the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë, and now Maedhros was here— wondrously, impossibly here. A horrible heat began to prickle behind Fingon’s eyes.

Maedhros ascended the short flight of steps and stood before him. He pulled back his hood and searched Fingon’s face, his tired mouth tugged down in a soft frown. Fingon blinked quickly and took a long, shallow breath. He would not cry; not here, not now.

He tried to speak but no sound would come. He forced himself to swallow around the jagged lump in his throat before trying again.

“My father is dead.”

It sounded like an accusation. Fingon hadn’t meant it that way, but it hung between them like one nonetheless.

“I know,” said Maedhros quietly. “I rode for Barad Eithel the moment I heard.”

Fingon nodded, once. When he grappled for something more to say he came up empty, his tenuous grasp on language fleeing entirely.

Maedhros seemed suddenly to remember that he should be kneeling. He sank gingerly to one knee upon the slick stone of the landing and took Fingon’s trembling hand in his own. He bowed his head and brushed a kiss over his knuckles.

Something load-bearing inside of Fingon shook loose, gave way, and crumbled to dust.

His breathing hitched. His next exhale was a drawn, shuddery thing. He blinked hard as his vision began to blur.

Not here. Please, not here.

Mercifully, Maedhros let go of his hand and rose. When he spoke again his words had taken on a new strength of surety.

“Come,” he said, and stepped back to guide Fingon inside. “Let us get out of the rain.”

Chapter End Notes

^[1] This is one place where I've diverged from the Grey Annals dates. I've gone instead with the version from The Later Annals of Beleriand, which places the fall of Tol Sirion in 457. This is the version that Christopher Tolkien preferred, and what he used when putting together the published Silm. I have taken some liberties in deciding that "For nigh on two years after the Dagor Bragollach" is allowed to mean the very tail end of 457, although that isn't really relevant until the end of the fic, and only in a very minor way.

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Fingon was barely aware of the movement of his own feet as he followed Maedhros up the staircase and through Barad Eithel’s network of corridors. His insides were a roiling mess of emotions, each one uglier than the last. His eyes burned with tears unshed. He did not notice they had reached a fork in the corridors until Maedhros’ voice cut through the fog.

“Which way?”

Of course Maedhros would not know the way. What need had he before to visit the apartments of the High King? Silently, Fingon turned left, and Maedhros fell in beside him.

The apartments were blessedly empty when at last they arrived— Gwánthon’s doing, surely, a foresight and a kindness that Fingon would later have to thank him for. Fingon let Maedhros inside and then turned to push the heavy door shut. He slid the latch into place.

He could not find it in himself to turn back around.

Everything was falling apart. It was as though Maedhros’ presence alone had thrown him entirely off-kilter; one look of keen, blue eyes and Maedhros had torn down the dam that had kept back this awful, writhing mess of feeling, and now there was no strength of will that could hold back the flood.

Fingon’s grip on the door handle trembled. He braced his other hand against the wood and tried to gather his strength, but there was a crushing weight sitting right on the centre of his chest, and he could not breathe around it. Fingon shut his eyes, and at last— at last— hot tears spilled down his cheeks. His breathing hitched wretchedly in his throat.

The quiet surety of footsteps, and then Maedhros set a gentle hand on his shoulder. The touch shook loose the very last vestiges of Fingon’s control.

An awful sob wracked his frame. He reached back, intending to push Maedhros away, but somehow what happened instead was he took Maedhros’ hand in his own and gripped it fiercely. And then Maedhros was there, pressing the length of his body against Fingon’s back and tucking his face into his dripping curls, as silent and steady as the foundations of a mountain.

Fingon folded inwards and collapsed in on himself like wet clay.

He did not know how long he cried for. Everything that he had kept buried for weeks, months, this entire unending year rushed to the surface, and once the flood started he could not hope to stop it any more than he could dam the wild rushing waters of Sirion. All the while, Maedhros held him fast and did not let him go. Not when Fingon was so wracked with great, heaving sobs it was all he could do to gasp for air between them, not when he dissolved into shallow, mortifying weeping, not even when he trembled and shivered so violently that collapse seemed inevitable. When that happened, Maedhros only turned him around and gathered him into himself, cradling Fingon to his chest as he would a terrified child. Fingon could only cling to him, his tears soaking Maedhros’ already-soiled cloak.

After a time, Maedhros managed to coax him onto the couch. There he held him, guiding Fingon to bury his face in the crook of his neck, stroking his hair and waiting for him to cry himself out. Eventually, of course, Fingon did; sobs tapered off into weeping, and from weeping into ragged, hiccuping breaths. Maedhros was solid and warm against him, his hand rubbing slow, even circles between Fingon’s shoulder blades. Fingon fought to match his breathing to Maedhros’: in, out, in again.

He felt like he had been picked up and wrung out like a wet washcloth. His headache had grown from throbbing to splitting. After a long time, Fingon gathered the strength to wipe his eyes and nose with his sleeve and tried to look less miserable than he felt when he pulled back to at last look Maedhros in the eye.

He should not have been so surprised to find Maedhros also tear-stained. Had Fingon not wept for the loss of Fëanáro? Had he never wept for Maedhros’ anguish as though it were his own? Fingon’s chin trembled anew at the thought, and he clenched his jaw to make it stop.

“Beloved,” Maedhros murmured, and wiped a tear from just below Fingon’s jaw. “I am sorry.”

Fingon could not bear the weight of pity. Not tonight, not from him.

“What are you sorry for?” he muttered. “You aren’t the one who took him from me, he did that himself. Don’t apologize to me.”

It came out so much sharper than he had intended. Fingon’s cheeks warmed with shame.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Maedhros.

“It isn’t!” This time Fingon was shouting, and he broke off with a curse and looked away, shaking his head. After a deep, fortifying breath, he said, “It isn’t. I should not have been sharp with you.”

“No,” agreed Maedhros after a beat, in that tone that made it clear that what he was saying was entirely for Fingon’s benefit, “you should not have been. Yet I do not blame you for it, and I take no offense.”

Fingon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and waited for the urge to snap at him to recede. Finally, he looked back at Maedhros and said, “I am glad that you are here.”

This, at least, was the truth. He was glad beyond measure to have Maedhros here with him, even if his gladness was marred by a sudden anger and hurt that he could not hope to understand.

“As am I,” said Maedhros softly. In the dim lamplight of the sitting room, his features appeared shadowed and drawn. The circles beneath his eyes were worryingly dark. Fingon wondered distractedly if he had lost weight, if he was eating enough. “I am only sorry I could not be here sooner. I loathe the thought of you alone for so long in your grief.”

Fingon did not want to talk about his grief. His grief was perhaps the last thing he wanted to talk about, on a very long list of things he did not want to talk about.

“I’ve been handling it well,” he said, falling back on humour, though the laugh he forced came out sounding so wretched and pathetic he instantly wished he hadn’t even tried. “Valar, I can’t remember the last time I cried like that.”

Maedhros, unsmiling, said, “I do.”

“What?” Fingon pulled back to fully meet his eyes. When the motion dislodged Maedhros’ hand from his back Maedhros simply moved it to rest on Fingon’s forearm instead, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth. “When?”

“In the sick tent. On the lakeshore, soon after you brought me back.”

Fingon remembered instantly. He swallowed around another rising swell of emotion.

“I think…” Maedhros was struggling to find the words. “You must have thought me unconscious. And I was, but there were times when I was aware of what was going on around me. Just glimpses, mostly— flashes of light, or snatches of conversation. And you…” Maedhros swallowed. His hand was tightening around Fingon’s forearm, and Fingon slid their fingers together. “You and your father were at my bedside. I know not why. You were crying, and— Eru, Finno. Never in my life had I heard someone cry like that. Not even Curvo in the wake of our father’s death.”

Indeed Fingon remembered that day well; how he had clung to his father’s shoulders and sobbed like a child scarcely weaned, frightened and exhausted, grief-stricken for all that Maedhros lay alive in the sickbed across from him, stubborn heart still beating weakly in his chest.

“I was terrified,” Fingon confessed. “I thought I was going to lose you again, when I had only just gotten you back.”

“I know.” Maedhros lifted Fingon’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “For a time I thought I had dreamt that, or hallucinated. But when your father—”

“My father?” Fingon interrupted him with a frown. “He told you?”

“No, no. Of course not. He would never speak to me of something so private. But he did come to see me, just before I was to head east.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me of this? What did he say?”

“Nothing outright,” said Maedhros hastily, as if to assuage Fingon’s fears of being caught; as if the prospect of their love being found out by his father mattered at all now. “He only told me that I had to take care of myself, not for my own sake, but for yours. He said to me, ‘If something happens to you, I know not what Findekáno will do. Do not let it come to that.’”

An errant tear slipped down Fingon’s salt-stained cheek. He and his father had never spoken aloud of what he had with Maedhros, but Fingolfin was clever, and more observant than most. Of course he had known. He had probably always known, ever since their love was a young and thrilling thing full of kisses stolen in empty corridors in Tirion’s court and hesitant touches beneath the hallowed light of the Trees. All these centuries, and he had never said anything of it to Fingon. Then again, Fingolfin had always had many ways of showing his love besides the obvious.

“He was right.” Fingon tried on a wry smile, but the stretch of it felt wrong on his face. “If I lose you as well, I will surely do something terribly drastic, so don’t even try it.”

If he was aiming for lighthearted he missed it quite catastrophically, for immediately his thoughts turned to the fundamental, inescapable truth that he could lose Maedhros, at any moment he was out of his sight.

Maedhros was not an easy man to kill. His fëa burned hot as an avenging fire, and his will was obstinate and fierce, and he was wont to cling to life like a weed pushing up through cobblestone. Yet suddenly the possibility of losing him felt nearer than it had since those horrible first days of agonizing uncertainty upon the shores of Lake Mithrim; like the icy fingers of death were lurking just outside the apartment door, waiting to steal him away. Maedhros would be gone. Just like his father, just like Argon, just like Aredhel and Turgon, hidden so well there was no hope of ever finding them.^[1] Maedhros would die, and Fingon would be left alone. It was an absurd, irrational thought after all that Maedhros had survived, but in his despair, Fingon believed it.

He brushed fresh tears hurriedly from his face, but Maedhros saw. His expression turned unbearably gentle.

“Findekáno…” he said softly. His palm cupped Fingon’s cheek.

If Fingon let Maedhros speak to him with such tenderness now the tears would never stop. To silence him, he leaned in and pushed their mouths together. It was an awful kiss; salty and damp, too hard, teeth digging in painfully. Maedhros’ lips under his were still.

Fingon furrowed his brow. He kissed him again in desperation, and then again. He twisted his fingers in his cloak.

“Please,” he whispered, his eyes shut, cheeks wet with tears. “Please.”

Maedhros’ thumb traced the ridge of his cheekbone. Fingon leaned into the touch, trying to push his thoughts into Maedhros’ head, a frantic chorus of please and I need it and I need you, but they bounced as ever off the wall up between them.

Still, Maedhros knew him without ever needing to try. His nose bumped Fingon’s. The warmth of his unsteady exhale brushed the corner of Fingon’s mouth. And then he gave in, fitting his mouth to Fingon’s.

It was a true kiss this time. Maedhros kissed him in the way he needed to be kissed: with a strength of will and an insistence of being that overwhelmed. He took in all of Fingon’s desperate ferocity and gave it back in equal measure, sliding his hand round to cradle the base of Fingon’s skull, nipping with sharp teeth at his lip until Fingon’s mouth parted around a gasp.

There was naught to do then but let Maedhros take as he would. His mouth was hot and searching, tongue sliding against Fingon’s, coaxing forth a hoarse sound from somewhere deep in Fingon’s chest and swallowing it greedily. In every kiss Fingon tasted Maedhros’ own urgency bleeding through, his lingering terror, his relief that Fingon was alive and in his arms.

Fingon needed to be so much closer.

Heedless of how it made his knee dig awkwardly into the arm of the couch, he slid into Maedhros’ lap. Maedhros, warm and so perfectly familiar underneath him, moved on centuries-old instinct and slid his right arm around Fingon’s lower back to steady him. Something in the quiet intimacy of the gesture soothed the flayed-raw mess in Fingon’s chest.

For almost as long as he could remember, he had been kissing Maedhros like this. Tangling together beneath a gilded sky when they both were young and full of innocence and still learning how delightful kissing could truly be; pulling him into a shadowed alcove just outside their grandfather’s court to kiss him stupid while courtiers argued loudly only metres away; stealing him between one council and the next during a diplomatic visit to Barad Eithel just to crowd him up against the door of a cramped closet and kiss him until they were both breathless, tease him until he was hard under his robes purely for the pleasure of watching him sit through their next meeting with his hand resting awkwardly over his lap and a lovely flush colouring his cheeks.

When they kissed like this, Maedhros was Maedhros and Fingon was Fingon, and together, they were still them. If they were still them, if they still fit together like this, that meant Fingon had not been torn asunder so completely as to be utterly unmade.

Fingon knelt up and slid his fingers through Maedhros’ rain-tangled hair. Warmth ignited in his belly when an incidental tug made Maedhros’ breath catch. Fingon pulled again, on purpose now, and Maedhros rewarded him with a half-choked groan.

Yes, thought Fingon, reaching blindly for the clasp of Maedhros’ cloak. Yes, this. This is what I need; this is proof that not everything has changed.

Maedhros stayed him with a gentle hand.

“Finno…” he murmured. “It isn’t a good idea.”

Instantly, the lump in Fingon’s throat was back. “Please,” he breathed. He pressed another kiss to Maedhros’ closed lips, and Maedhros returned it reluctantly. “I need…”

What? What did he need? To feel like himself again? To take, to be taken? To feel Maedhros everywhere, to be touched not as someone’s king but as himself; to be wanted and claimed like he was everything, like he was worth dropping everything and crossing half a continent for, like he was worth staying for?

“I just need it.” There was a pathetic quaver in his voice. “Please, Russo.”

Somberly, Maedhros searched his face. He stroked Fingon’s cheek, pushing back his hair. Fingon pressed into the touch like a cat seeking the warmth of a sunspot. He was certain he looked as wretched as he felt, but he made no effort to pull himself together. If Maedhros felt bad enough for him, his pity might outweigh his better judgment.

“All right, Finno,” Maedhros said at last. “Yes, all right.”

Fingon was already reaching for his clasp.

For a time, then, Maedhros let him do as he would. Fingon pushed his cloak off over his shoulders and got to work immediately on the ties of his gambeson. He was half-distracted all the while by Maedhros’ idle fingers stroking his thigh, the quiet kisses Maedhros was pressing to the side of his throat. Finally, bared of everything but his trousers, Maedhros kissed him hard and told Fingon to take him to bed.

Fingon had to try very hard not to think about this being his father’s bedchamber as he led Maedhros into the darkened room and locked the door. He let himself be backed against the sturdy bedpost, and tipped his face up for a kiss. A fire had been tended some hours ago, before Fingon returned from court, but in the time since it had burned very low. The air was chill, and in the dark there existed only the sound of their stolen kisses and the rustling of fabric as Fingon fought blindly with the clasps of his own robes.

“Damn it,” he muttered when his hands proved too shaky, breaking away to look down at what he was doing. In the dark he could see very little.

Maedhros hummed and covered Fingon’s hand with his. He ducked and set his mouth to his skin, trailing hot kisses down his neck, both soothing and distracting. Fingon bared his throat and let his head fall back against the bedpost. His hand flew to grasp Maedhros’ shoulder, and Maedhros winced. Recalling his pain of earlier, Fingon eased his grip.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and Maedhros accepted the apology with another quiet kiss.

With Fingon sufficiently distracted, Maedhros began to work at getting him out of his clothing. It was not a lie to say that Maedhros had become even more skilled and dexterous with his left hand than he had been with his right; he felt along the seams of Fingon’s robes blindly, opening clasps and uncinching laces as he went. At last the robes were loose enough to pull over Fingon’s head, and they were followed by his linen undershirt, his hose, his braies.

“You’re cold,” Maedhros frowned once Fingon was bare, and only then did Fingon realize he was shivering.

“Yes,” he admitted. His flesh prickled with goosebumps, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end.

“Get in bed, I will tend the fire.”

As Fingon settled back upon the soft bedlinens there was a crackle of firewood, and then the flickering orange glow strengthened and grew, chasing away the worst of the chill. Maedhros stripped himself of the rest of his clothing. When he joined Fingon on the bed he was perfectly naked, still hot from his proximity to the flame. He sat astride Fingon and dipped down to kiss him.

And oh, to feel Maedhros bare against him. Fingon touched him everywhere. Every inch of skin, every scar of his torment, each one as familiar to Fingon as the back of his own hand. After a moment, when it became clear that Maedhros intended to be gentle with him, Fingon gathered his strength and flipped them, using his weight to force Maedhros down into the sheets.

The point of this was to feel alive, and to feel Maedhros alive. The point was to not have to think. Tenderness tonight he would not have.

Fingon fisted a loose hand in Maedhros’ hair and pulled back to bare his throat. Maedhros’ red lips parted around a gasp. Fingon dragged his teeth over Maedhros’ fluttering pulse, feeling his hips buck mindlessly in search of friction, and in the next fumbling press of Fingon’s mouth to his Maedhros met him in his urgency.

It was not long until Maedhros was hard and leaking, dragging the evidence of his arousal across the planes of Fingon’s abdomen with every roll of his hips. Desire was trying valiantly to pool low in Fingon's stomach, and he tried to chase it, but he could not seem to get there.

Fingon swore and took himself in hand. Maedhros, now flushed and dark-eyed underneath him, slid his fingers between Fingon’s and took over, trying to work him to hardness. Fingon closed his eyes and focused on the sensation: the sure squeeze of Maedhros’ fingers, the drag of his palm, the sharpness of the pleasure that seared through him when Maedhros glided his thumb over his slit. Yet so drained was Fingon, and so distracted was his mind with the task of not thinking about every terrible thing that was pressing in at the edges of his consciousness, he could not manage to get himself more than halfway there.

Eventually he shook his head, his face burning, and said, “You will have to take me.”

The corner of Maedhros’ mouth turned up. “That is no great burden.”

Fingon managed a small laugh. He was pleased to hear that this time it did not sound as though it had been filtered through layers of broken glass. He was left alone as Maedhros went to dig out a pot of oil from a trunk across the room.

Not becoming consumed by his thoughts the moment Maedhros stepped away proved a formidable task. Fingon’s mind was a strange and tumultuous space; he had successfully cordoned off the worst of the grotesque, throbbing mass of pain, yet ever it grew and reached out its tendrils, threatening to contaminate the rest of his thoughts at any moment. Fingon dug his fingernails into his thighs and focused on the sensation of the sting. He breathed in and out, felt his lungs swell and deflate.

He startled to feel Maedhros give his knee a gentle squeeze.

“Good?” asked Maedhros, sitting back on the bed between Fingon’s legs as they parted for him instinctually.

Fingon nodded. He watched Maedhros warm the oil between his fingers at the same time as he pressed his stump to Fingon’s inner thigh, pushing gently to spread him a little wider. For all that he had been expecting it Fingon still choked on a gasp at the first caress of fingers over his entrance. Instinct moved him to rock down into the touch, the body taking over in the absence of the coherent mind. As the first finger sank slowly inside down to the first knuckle— careful, careful— Fingon suddenly remembered why he had so badly wanted to be the one to take Maedhros.

There was so much time to think like this. Laying back in the silence with naught to listen to but the crackle of the fire, the slick sounds of Maedhros’ finger working into him, shallow thrusts that brought him a little deeper each time. Fingon’s mind was slipping, careening towards the place he was trying so desperately to avoid. He swallowed hard.

“Stop treating me like I’m delicate.” He kept his eyes fixed on the canopy above. “I can take more.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maedhros glance at him. Fingon could not bear to look back; he knew beyond certainty that if he did he would not be able to keep himself from weeping. After a moment’s hesitation Maedhros acquiesced, soon giving him a second finger.

The stretch was good. Maedhros brushed over that spot that made Fingon’s toes curl, and tendrils of pleasure at last awakened in Fingon’s belly. Somehow it was still wrong, tainted by something Fingon could not name, but he tried to ignore that. He slid a loose fist around his cock, thinking that he might finally be able to get hard.

“Yes,” he breathed, bearing down into the stretch. “Yes, yes, more.”

Maedhros did as he was asked. Slowly, desire began to burn hotter in Fingon’s blood. Soon his skin was heated, slick with sweat.

“Come here,” he pleaded, and reached out, urging Maedhros down over him for a kiss. Fingon tilted up his hips and hooked a leg over Maedhros to allow his fingers to keep working, and yes, this— this Fingon knew. This Fingon had been doing since he had scarcely come of age; this made Fingon feel like Fingon, and nothing less or more than that.

“Inside me now,” he breathed, hot against Maedhros’ mouth.

Maedhros, who had always been too delicate with him at the times it least mattered, started to say something Fingon was sure he would find immensely irritating.

“Just do it,” he snapped.

When still Maedhros hesitated, Fingon took him in hand and stroked him roughly. He thumbed ungently over his slit and watched him shudder, a choked curse falling from his lips. He gave in.

It had been so very long. As Maedhros lined himself up and began, slowly, to sink inside, the stretch was utterly overwhelming. There existed only the fullness, the weight of Maedhros’ body over his. Maedhros was only halfway inside when Fingon, impatient and needing more, dug his heel into his backside and forced him in deep all at once.

They both gasped out in tandem. Fingon tossed an arm over his eyes and tried to breathe. The second the burn of it began to give way to something resembling pleasure, he gritted out, “Move.”

Maedhros did.

It was gentle; too gentle. The rhythm Maedhros found was slow and tender, fucking into Fingon steadily, groaning into the curve of his neck. Tears stung Fingon’s eyes. A reflex triggered by the stretch, to be certain, but tears were tears, and once they started they were wont to keep falling. Moisture rolled down Fingon’s temple and soaked into his hairline. The flayed-raw thing in his chest dug in its claws.

Fingon could not hide the hitch in his breathing. The rhythm of Maedhros’ thrusts faltered.

“I’m fine,” Fingon managed to force out. “I’m fine, keep going.”

“Finno—”

“I’m fine, just— I need it, please give it to me—” Fingon reached and pulled him down into a fumbling kiss. It was sloppy, uncertain, but after a beat Maedhros again began to move.

For a few blissful moments, all was well. Maedhros’ mouth was soft and familiar, and so was the ticklish brush of his hair, the panting heat of his breath. The world was right. This was exactly what Fingon had needed.

So why on earth was he still crying?

His breath caught around something like a sob. He covered his face with his hands. Maedhros stopped moving.

“Findekáno…”

“Stars above, Maedhros, I’m not going to break,” Fingon snapped, but his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, and hot tears spilled forth in earnest.

“No, Finno.” Maedhros pulled out of him and knelt between his legs. “That’s enough.”

Shame burned Fingon’s cheeks. Hurt, furious, he pushed himself up with a curse and clambered off the bed. Maedhros was looking at him with an infuriating combination of helplessness and concern as Fingon stalked past him and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Inside his father’s bathroom, alone once again, Fingon’s legs gave out and he slid to the floor with his back to the wood. He could do nothing but tuck his knees to his chest, bury his face in his hands, and let the tears come as they would.

Chapter End Notes

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^[1] At this point Aredhel has been dead for ~56 years, but given the complete lack of communication from Gondolin I don't believe Fingon would know that yet.

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Maedhros stared after Fingon with his heart in his throat. 

He should not have been cross with him. It wasn’t fair; Eru knew that Maedhros had not always been rational in the wake of his own father’s death. The weight of a crown, on top of a loss already so unbearable as losing a father, was almost too much to bear. Still, while it existed alongside pity and grief, Maedhros could not help his irritation.

He sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face. He was already going soft. 

Finding a quilt from where it lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, he wrapped it around himself and padded carefully over to the bathroom. Through the door there came the muffled sounds of hushed, ragged breathing. It was clear that Fingon was fighting to control it; it was also clear that he was having little success.

Maedhros leaned against the wood and let himself sink to the floor. Eru, but his body hurt everywhere. He pushed his hand against his shoulder and grimaced. Gingerly, he rubbed the joint and shifted it around in its socket, trying to work out a spasm. He had pushed hard to get to Barad Eithel as quickly as he had— two weeks through the shadows of Nan Dungortheb, scarcely stopping to rest or to eat— and he was going to spend the next several days paying for it.

A choked sob came from the other side of the door. There was a heavy lump forming in Maedhros’ throat, born of empathy and exhaustion alike.

The desire to take away the pain of a loved one was only natural. This Maedhros knew. He knew also that there was naught to be done with pain except to feel it. Still, he was overcome by the helplessness of knowing he could do nothing but be with Fingon in his pain and his grief; he could not take on its weight, he could not bear it for him. Maedhros tipped his head back against the door and closed his eyes.

Had he not loved Fingolfin also? A complicated love, certainty, but love nonetheless— love of kinship, love of fealty, love of guilt, love of respect. His uncle had not been so much older than he; as a child, Maedhros had watched Fingolfin grow out of his awkward adolescence and into his majority, watched him marry, watched him splinter ever further from Fëanor.^[1] It had been his years of observing Fingolfin in Finwë’s court that had taught Maedhros many of his skills in politics and oration. Indeed, Maedhros remembered thinking as an adolescent that had their circumstances not been so fraught, he and Fingolfin might have been friends.

Fingolfin had been a good man. He had been steadfast and valiant, and vicious when need drove him to be, and Maedhros had loved him. And in that moment, he could not help but hate him for what he had done.

An act of bravery it was being painted, and there was no doubt that it was. To face the might of one of the Powers alone and not fall upon one’s face in terror was a victory in itself. To wound Morgoth in battle not once but seven times was a great feat. But how valiant was it really for a king to ride to his death with his eyes wide open? How brave was it for a king to offer himself up like a lamb for the slaughter, when it meant having to leave behind his people at the time when they needed their king the most? Was that not, after everything, the easy way out?

Maedhros felt guilty for even thinking it. Yet guilt did nothing to change his mind, and though Maedhros did not doubt Fingolfin’s heart nor the despair he must have felt to make a move so desperate and hopeless, the truth was that Maedhros did not think Fingolfin had been brave. Fingolfin had been cowardly.

Challenging Morgoth? Alone? It was ludicrous, and heartbreaking, and it had left the Noldor even more lost than they already were. Worst of everything, it had left Fingon with the crown.

Fingon, who never wanted it. Fingon, who should never have had to bear it.

Maedhros drew the quilt tighter around himself. He could no longer hear Fingon crying, which he decided was a good sign.

How long had it been since Maedhros had truly slept? A real sleep in a bed, and not a quarter hour stolen here and there when he thought he could risk it, his eyes still open and his mind ever alert for danger?

Maedhros was not a stranger to going long stretches without sleep. One of the experiments the Enemy’s lieutenant had most delighted in had involved keeping Maedhros awake for days or weeks on end to observe how long it took for the hallucinations to set in, how long before the Elven body began to shut itself down. The two weeks it had taken Maedhros to reach Barad Eithel had not been enough to trigger the worst effects of sleep deprivation, but it had been bad enough, and Maedhros was utterly drained. His eyes were growing heavy.

There was nothing he could do for Fingon until Fingon let him, he reasoned. Surrendering to fatigue, Maedhros managed to free his hand from the quilt and pressed his palm to the floor. He slid the very tips of his fingers through the narrow gap beneath the door. Just as he was drifting off, he felt the touch of Fingon’s fingertips against his own.

Chapter End Notes

^[1] The date given in The Annals of Aman for Fingolfin's birth is Y.T. 1190. We don't have a date for Maedhros' birth, but the Annals of Aman place Fëanor's birth in Y.T. 1169. Fingolfin and Finarfin are both said to have had their first children at age 70, and considering that Fëanor is said in the published Silm to have wedded Nerdanel while still in his early youth, I'm working on the assumption that he might have begun having children a little bit earlier and placing Maedhros' birth around Y.T. 1230. This would make Fingolfin ~40 years old when Maedhros is born, and according to LaCE, elves typically reach physical maturity around age 50.

HOWEVER. We must also remember to take this with a very large grain of salt. Tolkien fucked around so much with both his timelines and his time scales (how long actually is a Year of the Trees? Who the fuck knows! Certainly not me!) that I don’t think it’s really possible to know these things with any degree of certainty. I just personally enjoy the version of events where Fingolfin is definitely older than Maedhros but not that much older. Also, in case you were curious, this would make Maedhros ~30 years older than Fingon.

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Fingon took a deep breath and plunged his face into the icy washbasin, scrubbing viciously at his skin. The coldness of the water was a shock, but a welcome one. He came up gasping and reached blindly for a towel.

Outside the window the sky was as dark as pitch, nearing the small hours of the morning, and Fingon was an utter wreck. In the mirror his eyes looked puffy and bloodshot, his skin splotchy and raw. His lip still bled a little where he had bitten down in an effort to stifle his cries. In the aftermath of the storm of emotion, with the worst of the misery drained out of him, Fingon was left feeling humiliated.

He was ashamed of his lack of self-control. He was ashamed of his own irrationality. He was also, he realized, furious with Maedhros for showing up and upsetting the delicate balance he had managed to strike that let him avoid all of this.

And then he became angry with himself, for that was even more irrational than his outburst. He did not want to be angry with Maedhros. He was relieved down to his bones that Maedhros was here, that he did not have to be alone. He had no right to be angry with Maedhros. Not about this.

Fingon took his time cleaning himself up, brushing out his hair, braiding it back for sleep. When he ran out of things he could delay with, he unlatched the door. Maedhros’ fingertips were still visible underneath it, and he tried to ease it open very gently.

Maedhros jolted away the second the door shifted behind him. He looked up at Fingon from the floor, startled and bleary-eyed. With a sickening twist of guilt, Fingon understood that Maedhros had fallen asleep.

Of course he had fallen asleep. He had to be exhausted from his travels. Suddenly Fingon felt awful twice over.

His cheeks burned with humiliation. 

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely as Maedhros got to his feet. “I should not have spoken to you like that, nor treated you as callously as I did.”

Maedhros gathered him in his arms and embraced him fiercely. He did not accept the apology, nor did he reject it; he only hugged Fingon close, wrapping his quilt around the both of them. He pressed a dry kiss to Fingon’s temple. Fingon was immeasurably grateful to have reached the point of being too exhausted to cry. He burrowed into Maedhros’ warm, bare chest, and felt suddenly in danger of falling asleep standing up.

“I need to wash before bed,” Maedhros finally said, his voice rough with sleep. “I will not be long. Go, I will join you in a moment.”

Fingon climbed into bed just as the bathroom door was shutting softly behind Maedhros. He expected to fall asleep almost instantly, so heavy were his eyes when he closed them, but sleep did not come to him until he felt the mattress dip behind him some time later. Maedhros, smelling strongly of Fingon’s soaps and his jasmine hair oil, fit himself up against Fingon’s back and tossed an arm over his waist. He tucked his face into the back of Fingon’s neck. With that, the heaviness of sleep came for Fingon and pulled him under.

Fingon woke to a knock on the bedchamber door.

He groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. Never in his life had he been so exhausted. He felt like a towel wrung dry and beaten flat.

“My King,” Gwánthon’s muffled voice came through the door. “Good morning. May I enter?”

Maedhros was already awake. He had probably woken the moment Gwánthon first touched the door handle to let himself into the apartments. They had drifted apart from one another in the night, but now Maedhros leaned over to lightly touch Fingon’s arm. Sleep-rumpled and gorgeous, he cast a questioning glance towards the door.

“It’s fine,” Fingon mumbled. “He knows.”

Gwánthon would never have risen to become the esquire of the Crown Prince— now High King— if he could not be trusted to have the utmost discretion. He had known the true nature of Maedhros and Fingon’s relationship for centuries. Maedhros, who had certainly identified Gwánthon already and knew they need not hide, rolled his eyes.

“Not that. Do you want me to send him away?”

The idea alone brought Fingon overwhelming relief. To sleep a while longer would be good. To avoid everyone he did not want to see and all the things he did not want to deal with would be even better.

“I’ve an appointment with my legal advisor over breakfast,” Fingon said reluctantly. It was probably the last thing in the entire world he wanted to do, followed closely by everything else on his calendar for the day.

“Is the matter urgent?”

Fingon hesitated. “No more than everything else.”

He needed to go to his appointment. He needed to fulfill his duties. He could not be seen to waver.

Maedhros took his admission for permission and apparently decided to take control. He climbed out of bed and began rifling around for something to wear.

It was a testament to the depths of Fingon’s exhaustion that he was not nearly as irritated with Maedhros for presuming to act on his behalf than he was relieved that the decision was being taken out of his hands. A little of the weight on Fingon’s chest lifted. He could allow Maedhros to do this for him. He could let Maedhros force him to rest, just for now. 

There came a rustle of clothing and Fingon peeked over to see Maedhros, now wearing his dressing gown— only barely long enough to cover him— cracking the door open just enough to slip through before shutting it quietly behind him. Fingon’s eyes were too heavy to stay open. He let them fall shut as muffled voices drifted in.

“My Lord Maedhros.” Gwánthon did not sound remotely surprised to see him. “Well met. I’ve had your trunk brought up, shall I send someone to unpack it?”

“No need,” came Maedhros’ reply, his voice low and still heavy with sleep. “I will handle it later myself.”

“Very well. Is the King awake? It is time for him to be roused and readied for the day.”

Maedhros, to both his credit and Fingon’s occasional discomfort, was an incredibly adept liar. It was nothing for him to slip on a tone of sincere apology when he said, “Unfortunately the King is not well this morning. He needs to rest. I’m afraid he won’t be able to make his appointments today.”

“How awful!” Gwánthon sounded legitimately stricken. “Should I fetch the healer?”

“No, no, it is nothing so serious as that,” Maedhros waved him off. Then, suddenly, his voice dropped so low it was no longer discernible.

Fingon strained his ears trying to pick up on what was being said. He could not make out anything but their hushed tones as they went back and forth for perhaps a minute. Finally, Gwánthon cleared his throat.

“Very well, Lord,” he said at full volume, “I shall have his calendar rearranged. Please give the King my best wishes. I will be near at hand should he have need of me.”

“Thank you, Gwánthon.”

Gwánthon’s footsteps receded as Maedhros stepped back inside. Fingon, now fully alert and sitting up, frowned at him.

“What was that?”

Maedhros shrugged the dressing gown off and tossed it over the back of a chair. He did not look at Fingon when he said, “I’ve asked Gwánthon to cancel your appointments for the coming week.”

“The week?” said Fingon incredulously. He pulled back when Maedhros, returning to bed, tried to kiss his cheek. “Why?”

“Because you are no use to anyone exhausted, meldo. You need to rest, and grieve. It is clear you have not been allowing yourself to do either.”

“Because you always know so well what I need,” said Fingon, with no small amount of bitterness.

“I know that you are not well,” Maedhros said, suddenly sharp. “And I would have you well— both as my King, and as one who is dear to me.”

Fingon scoffed. “You have always thought yourself to know the best in everything. I was managing alone before you showed up, you know. I am glad to have you here, but I don’t need you to rescue me from my duties, Maedhros. The weight is mine to bear. I am bearing it just fine.”

Maedhros closed his eyes for a brief moment, clearly trying to keep his temper. “Findekáno,” he said. “You are not fine, and you know it.”

“Well, what does that matter?” Fingon muttered. “The war never ceases, the needs of the people do not lessen. I am needed, whether I am fine or not.”

“You are needed, yes,” Maedhros granted, “but not alone. You have skilled and competent men at hand; you must trust them to perform their duties, which include supporting you. There is no immediate matter so pressing that it must be handled by you and you alone.”

A part of Fingon wanted to reach out and strike him. Who was Maedhros to lecture him about kingship— he who had abdicated the crown, he who had shirked its duties?

Yet even in his anger Fingon knew this to be unfair. More than that, he could not bear to fight about this now. His eyes were still heavy, and every part of him ached miserably. Though he could not quite bring himself to admit it even in the privacy of his mind, the thought of being forced into taking the break he so sorely needed— for the decision to be taken out of his hands, and the weight of it off his shoulders— was an incredible relief.

“You should have asked me first,” he finally said, because he could not bring himself to let Maedhros win.

“And what would you have said?” Maedhros countered, though his tone was tender. This time when he reached out, Fingon did not pull away. He let himself be gathered into Maedhros’ arms and pulled back down, buried beneath the bedlinens, his face tucked to Maedhros’ chest.

“Grief cannot be delayed indefinitely, meldanya.” Maedhros idly stroked the loose curls at Fingon’s temple where they had escaped his plait. “You have been running yourself so ragged. Your father’s lords should know better than to let you; you are still in mourning, and newcome to kingship besides. You cannot go on as you have been. A person does not break down the way you did without first being pushed to their utmost limits.”

Fingon made himself swallow around the lump in his throat. “The Enemy does not sleep simply because I have lost my father.”

“No,” Maedhros agreed. “The Enemy sleeps never; nowhere is this more clear than in the East. But you have your scouts and your watchmen, and Orodreth yet guards Minas Tirith. Never again will we let ourselves be taken by surprise— if the enemy moves, we will know it. For now, you allowing yourself a few days of rest will not kill anyone.”

It would have been easy to point out the hypocrisy of hearing this from Maedhros, who would undoubtedly have run himself into the ground centuries ago if he did not have Fingon and Maglor to hold him back. But he was right, and Fingon had not the energy to fight it.

“I’m still cross with you,” he mumbled, though his words were slurred and half-muffled against Maedhros’ skin.

“That’s all right,” Maedhros said softly. His fingers slid in a slow, steady rhythm over Fingon’s hair. “Sleep again, now.”

Fingon was powerless to disobey.

For three full days they did little but sleep. Meals were brought several times a day and left for them on the dining room table, and occasionally they were picked at, but mostly Maedhros and Fingon did not leave the bed, nor one another’s arms.

Fingon had never slept so much in his life. He hadn’t known it was possible to sleep so much and still wake tired and wanting nothing more than to turn back over and sleep again, or else bury his face in the pillows and weep. Maedhros, too, was incredibly weary from his journey. He slept just as much as Fingon, if not more, and when Fingon was overcome by grief, he held him as he wept.

It was as Maedhros had promised: no fires came, real or metaphorical. The might of Angband did not appear without warning at Barad Eithel’s gates, Gwánthon did not come frantically knocking to pull Fingon into a meeting or council that simply could not wait. Tasks were surely piling up, and there would be a headache-inducing pile of documents and proposals waiting for Fingon on the desk in his father’s study when he returned, but Maedhros had been right— his father’s staff were skilled and capable. They would not let Beleriand fall to pieces in his short absence.

Very gradually, the worst of the exhaustion began to ebb away. Soon Fingon found himself wont to sleep less and less, and he began to wake from each rest with enough energy to overpower the most crushing of the despair, at least for a time. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, he woke with the sun and realized he had no desire to go back to sleep.

Beside him, Maedhros slept still, and the golden light of dawn was in his face. His lips were slightly parted, his freckles shining warmly in the sun. The jagged scars across his skin were softened by the slackness of sleep. It was a rare gift, to see Maedhros so at peace. Fingon lay with him until he woke, committing the sight to memory.

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“How much of the East is truly lost?”

It was a question Fingon should have asked days ago. The full extent of the devastation in the lands beyond Dorthonion was critical intelligence that they were sorely lacking, and it would soon be needed to inform many of the decisions Fingon still had to make. Thus far, he had diligently avoided asking about it.

Maedhros, who had been staring distantly out the window, turned his head. His expression told Fingon all that he needed to know. “What tidings have you heard?” he asked, in lieu of an answer.

“Very little.” Fingon set his tea down on the dining table, hands curled around the warmth of the mug. His breakfast plate sat empty in front of him of all but crumbs— for the first time in weeks, he had been ravenous. “Where would tidings have come from? Wanderers no longer pass through our lands to bring us news. Our scouting parties do not go beyond the Fen of Serech. Thrice last year I sent men into the East to gather news, and thrice they failed to return. We have had nothing save your letter and some scant rumours shared by Finrod, with whom correspondence remains possible, though perilous.”

Maedhros picked idly at a piece of dark bread. He seemed more interested in having something to do with his hand than in actually eating anything. “It is as I said. Himring withstood the assault; everything else has been taken.”

It wasn’t as if Fingon had thought Maedhros had been untruthful before, but hearing it spoken aloud still made him feel like he had swallowed his heart.

“Where are your brothers?” he asked abruptly, feeling exceedingly selfish that he had been too preoccupied with himself to ask it until now. Surely if something had happened to them Maedhros would have said. “They aren’t—?”

“They live.” Maedhros offered him a wan smile. “As far as I know. Caranthir and the twins have gone south, though I know not where. Of Tyelko and Curvo I have had no word. Maglor has come to Himring.”

At the mention of Maglor, Fingon felt a tightness in his chest loosen. He was overcome with a sudden wash of relief, both for Maglor’s own safety, to be certain, but also for Maedhros, and for Fingon’s own peace of mind. Maglor was dearest to Maedhros of all his brothers, and the one on whom he most relied. To Maglor’s credit, he had earned his reputation well— for Maedhros he would kill without question, for Maedhros he would offer up his own life in a heartbeat if it meant he would serve him well. With Maglor at Himring, at least Fingon could be assured that Maedhros was not so alone, and that he would not be allowed to withdraw nor grow exceedingly reckless nor work himself down to his very bones, as was so often his wont.

“Thank Eru,” Fingon murmured. “Is he well?”

“Is anyone?” Maedhros asked, but there was no heat behind his words. “He was well enough to be trusted with Himring’s charge in my absence. Though I think he does not trust himself with it, yet.”

This gave Fingon pause. Maglor had always been exceedingly, irritatingly confident in anything concerning his own skill. It was concerning to hear that this confidence was shaken. “It must not have been easy for him,” Fingon offered. “Losing the Gap.”

“He blames himself,” Maedhros sighed. “If the Gap had not fallen, Thargelion would still stand, and with it much of the land south of Gelion.”

“The Gap has always been our greatest vulnerability in the East. Everybody knew it would be the first to fall if such an onslaught ever came.”

“I’ve told him that.” Maedhros tipped his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. It was clear this was an argument he had had many times over. “I’ve told him also that the responsibility for the ruin of Eastern Beleriand does not fall squarely on his shoulders; Aglon fell also, and like a domino Himlad fell with it. The Pass was fortified. It should never have fallen as quickly as it did. It should have been better defended.”

“You blame Celegorm and Curufin?”

“I blame the Enemy,” said Maedhros, which was not actually a denial. “And I blame us all, for our complacence.”

Anger, thick and guilt-laden, rose like bile in Fingon’s throat. “My father warned us years ago of our complacence,” he said quietly.

“Aye,” said Maedhros. “He did.”

“We should have listened.”

“There is much we should have done,” said Maedhros, considering him. “Yet the past cannot be undone, and Doom cannot be unwritten. There is no purpose in dwelling on ‘should.’”

“Must you always be so callous?” Fingon snapped. “How are you not sick with guilt? It was you and your brothers who argued most fiercely against an assault on Angband.”

Maedhros and his brothers— and Fingon.^[1]

It had been Fingon who had his father’s ear. Who had his father’s trust, his father’s heart. Centuries ago, it had been Fingon who convinced Fingolfin to lead their people into exile; Fingon who convinced Fingolfin to risk the perils of the Helcaraxë. And it had been Fingon, in the end, who convinced Fingolfin not to pursue an attack on Angband.

He thought the Siege would hold. He thought they were safe, and he had not wished to risk their hard-won peace. He thought he knew better.

Fingon blinked hard against the heat prickling behind his eyes. Valar, but he was so tired of crying.

“It was my father who saw the coming danger when no one else did,” he fought to keep his voice steady. “Aegnor and Angrod were the only ones who believed him. And now the three of them are dead, because the rest of us refused to act.”

“Do not,” said Maedhros softly, “mistake my pragmatism for callousness. Of course I feel guilt. The ocean of guilt that weighs on my heart would choke me if I let it. But that would serve nothing, and no one. If I…” Maedhros broke off, swallowed. “If I do not make myself push forward in spite of it, I would seize like a stuck gear without oil. And I fear that if I let that happen, I would never be able to bring myself to move again. I cannot allow myself to get lost to it, Finno. Do you see?”

Fingon did not see. Or perhaps he did, but he did not wish to agree and give Maedhros the out. Yet Fingon could feel the light heart he had woken with slipping ever further away from him, and he was desperate to hold onto it for as long as he might.

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I do not wish to discuss it any longer, because I will soon start crying again, and I’m so sick of crying I’m soon going to ask the healers to surgically remove my tear ducts.”

The attempt to lighten the mood worked; a crooked smile broke across Maedhros’ face. “Let us talk about something else, then. When are you to be crowned?”

Fingon barked a sharp laugh. “Because that’s a lighter topic!” he exclaimed, but Maedhros was smiling, and so was he.

“I ask only because I left Himring in such a hurry I neglected to pack my ceremonial garb,” Maedhros went on. “So if it is to be soon, I’m afraid you will have to postpone it until I've had time to get something tailored.”

It was not particularly funny, but Fingon was so appreciative of the attempt at levity that he could not help but shake with a strange laughter of relief.

“I would hope you would get something tailored regardless,” he said pointedly. “I swear, Russo, if you show up to my coronation in something old and ratty I shan’t allow you in. But luckily for you, it will likely not be until autumn of next year, so you have time to get something truly magnificent crafted.”

“I had assumed you might rush and forgo a proper ceremony,” Maedhros confessed. It warmed something in Fingon, to be so known.

“I wanted to,” he admitted. “In fact, I argued for it rather viciously. But my father’s advisors are very convincing, and in the end I was swayed— it is more valuable, I think, for the unity of the Noldor, to have a strong show of normalcy during a time of such tumult. To show that we are not so wholly weakened as to neglect a ceremony of such importance, and that we have the means still to execute it. I dread already to think of having to go through with it, but we cannot appear to be shaken.”

“Your father’s advisors must really be good, if they were able to sway even you.” There was a brightness in Maedhros’ eyes when he said this, and though Fingon could not see himself, he had no doubt that the same light was in him. He felt a fondness filling his chest, fondness of a kind that outshone every darkness lurking.

He reached across the table and took Maedhros’ hand, his fingers sliding automatically as they often did to the underside of Maedhros’ wrist to feel the proof of his heart still beating in his veins. It was a habit learned centuries ago, sitting at the side of his sickbed, and one that proved difficult to break. Fingon did not speak, but he did not need to; Maedhros squeezed his hand and leaned across the table to kiss him, just briefly.

“Eat your breakfast,” Fingon directed when Maedhros settled back into his seat. “And then I should like to have a wash, I think. My hair is ridiculous.”

The corner of Maedhros’ mouth turned up as he obediently stabbed a piece of meat pie with his fork. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Fingon groaned and sank deeper into the bathwater. It was so hot as to be nearly scalding, and it lapped against his skin like a cleansing fire, his muscles going lax and tingly. His eyes slipped closed. Maedhros, seated on a stool behind him, laughed a little.

“I’ve never known anyone to like their baths so hot,” he said with a shake of his head. “You would probably bathe in lava if it promised not to make your skin slough off your bones.”

“Spend thirty years on the Helcaraxë and then tell me how hot you like your baths,” Fingon murmured absently, but he tilted his head back and smiled to show he did not truly mean anything by it. Maedhros returned the smile, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Sit up,” he chastised as Fingon sank a little deeper— Fingolfin’s bathtub was enormous, made of hammered copper and easily big enough to fit at least four people if one had the inclination. “If you get your hair wet now I’ll never be able to get a brush through it.”

Groaning, Fingon sat up and allowed Maedhros to guide his head to rest against the lip of the tub. His tangled curls spilled like a waterfall over the edge. Fingon helped him section them, easing two thirds of his hair apart from the rest and gathering it into a knot at the top of his head, where he clipped it into place. Then he closed his eyes and let Maedhros get to work on detangling.

It was very slow work, though that was mostly because Maedhros was being so careful not to pull. He was bent in focus with his brow slightly furrowed, the sleeves of his linen tunic pushed up to his elbows, his own hair tied loosely back. When he caught Fingon looking he smiled a little and squeezed his shoulder, before asking him to let down the next section. Eventually the worst of the knots had been worked out, and Fingon’s curls had grown huge and frizzy in the humidity. Maedhros sat him up and wet them down with water from the pitcher. He worked in soap with slow, tender fingertips.

Words of comfort were not something that came easily to Maedhros. They had been easier, once, when he and Fingon were young and no strife had yet come between them, but since his torment at the Enemy’s hands he had grown blunter, less apt to know quite what to say to soothe the heart. There were times when this irked Fingon, but mostly it was a quality he appreciated. Fingon did not want words of comfort, and he did not want useless platitudes. In fact, he was fairly certain that he would pull a blade on the next person to tell him how sorry they were and how everything was going to be alright. Maedhros had other ways of showing his care and his devotion. It was plain to feel in the careful slide of fingers through Fingon’s hair, in his right arm resting upon Fingon’s shoulder, in how he hummed quietly when Fingon turned to kiss his stump and bent to press his lips to Fingon’s cheek.

Once his hair was finally clean, Fingon turned to ask, “Will you join me now?”

Maedhros dipped his hand into the water. Apparently satisfied with the temperature now that it had cooled a little, he stood and began to unlace his trousers.

When he settled into the bath opposite Fingon, the groan he let out brought warmth even to Fingon’s face. Maedhros’ pale skin flushed so easily. The heat of the water had instantly turned his skin pink, colour creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“You’re still stiff,” Fingon commented when Maedhros eased his head gingerly from side to side.

“My shoulder, mostly,” Maedhros admitted. “Though I don’t think it is the fault of the journey. It has been seizing more often since the Siege was broken.”

“Turn around,” said Fingon, “and come closer. It is your turn now. Don’t look at me like that, I don’t care what you say. Come and let me care for you in turn.”

Being cared for was good, and it had soothed some lingering jagged ache in Fingon’s chest, but it was through the act of caring in return that he at last began to feel more fully settled in his skin. Maedhros allowed himself to be turned around, and Fingon knelt in the tub to carefully— carefully— massage some of the tension from his shoulders and neck. He started with the left shoulder, thinking to ease him into it. While Maedhros occasionally grunted or tensed when Fingon touched a particularly tight knot, he was mostly allowed to do as he would, and gradually, some of Maedhros’ tension began to melt away. Fingon smiled when Maedhros sighed under his breath and leaned back into his hands with a quiet direction of, “A little lower.”

Maedhros’ bad shoulder, the one from which he hung for a decade, often throbbed and ached in the rain and was wont to occasionally slip from its socket if he moved it too recklessly. When Fingon reached it, he said, “Tell me if it hurts too much and I will stop.”

At Maedhros’ nod, he slid his fingers down over the shoulder blade. He felt the angle of the bones beneath the skin. Fingon grimaced. His skill in healing was field knowledge only, learned hastily at great need during the crossing of the Ice, and better healers than him had tried to fix this wound. Still, Fingon had been successful before in lessening the pain of the joint seizing, at least for a time.^[2]

He closed his eyes in concentration, and then opened his mouth and Sang, quietly. His fingers moved in a steady swirl around the focal point of Maedhros’ pain. He felt for the answering hum of bone, the muscles and tendons and ligaments holding them in place, and encouraged them to find their way back to the tension they were created to hold; just enough to keep the bones where they were meant to be, and no more. When his Song ceased, Maedhros’ breathing had slowed to a deep, guarded rhythm.

“Any better?” Fingon asked. He prodded very gently along Maedhros’ slick skin to feel for any signs of error.

“Much,” said Maedhros with an experimental roll of his shoulder. He relaxed back into Fingon, who shifted off his knees and spread open his legs to allow Maedhros to settle in between them. “How I wish you could teach that to Káno.”

“I’ve tried,” Fingon sighed, reaching for the soap. Maglor was probably the most skilled in the use of Song of any of the Noldor, but Songs of Healing were not something that came to him naturally. “Your brother is one of the worst students I have ever tried to teach anything to. He thinks he already knows everything, and that if he cannot pick up a skill on the first try then it must not be worth learning.”

Maedhros huffed a quiet laugh. “You should try again, when next you see him. I think he will be more receptive. He’s developed a renewed interest in Songs of Healing since the Gap was lost.”

“Tip your head back,” Fingon directed, filling the pitcher with water. And then, because he understood the desire to learn whatever skills might have aided in changing the tides of fate if only one had possessed them at need, he said, “And of course I will teach him again if he wishes. Though I’m sure Himring has healers better suited for the task than I.”

“They do,” said Maedhros with a smile in his voice. He made a soft sound when Fingon began working suds into his hair. “But he cannot bring himself to admit to anybody else that there is something he does not know.”

By the early afternoon Fingon was already going stir-crazy. He had gotten his rest, he had done the necessary grieving just as Maedhros had wanted. He was washed and clean and felt like a person again, and now he needed to do something. His skin was itching with how long he had been idle.

“Come on.” He stood away from the vanity, his hair freshly braided into two long plaits, golden ribbon woven through in the style he favoured.

Maedhros, who had been reading the spines of the books lining the sitting room shelves, raised his eyebrows. “Where are we going?”

Shrugging off his dressing gown in preparation for finding some real clothing, Fingon said, “I really need to kill something.”

Chapter End Notes

^[1] In the text, Fingon's position on whether or not the Noldor should mount an attack on Angband is kept relatively ambiguous. The published Silm tells us that "[a]mong the chieftains of the Noldor Angrod and Aegnor alone were of like mind with the King," which implies that Fingon disagreed with his father and didn't support an attack. At the same time, he isn't mentioned explicitly as being against an attack the way the Sons of Fëanor are, and I think there is an argument to be made that as the Crown Prince (who, at this point, was not ruling any lands of his own) Fingon could be implicitly assumed to support the position of the High King. Personally I think the former is more likely, and I also think it's SO crunchy to consider how having disagreed with his father and argued against an attack on Angband might later affect Fingon's perspective and his guilt following his father's death.

^[2] The idea of Fingon having learned some rudimentary skills in Songs of Healing while crossing the Helcaraxë is a headcanon that comes from this post on Tumblr, which I just think is so delightful.

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Feeling the wind on his face was like being born anew. As Fingon guided his mount southwards at a steady gallop, Maedhros at his side and a small company fallen in behind them, he breathed in deeply and let the cold sting his lungs. He nearly laughed aloud for joy.

This! The thrill of the hunt, his bow and his sword at either side, the clean rot of the ripening spring in the air. This was what Fingon loved. This was what made him feel alive. His heart sang and adrenaline grew heady in his veins as he led his company nearer to where the Orc-band had been spotted.

The timing had been fortunate. When Fingon had bounded down the stairs seeking the most recent reports on the enemy’s movements, one of his captains had already been preparing to lead his men out at that very hour. Now, a short time later, Fingon was at their helm, the shadowed peaks of the Erid Wetherin looming up on their right and the pale sun shining down. Dry grass crunched under Cýronwath’s hooves as Fingon spurred her on.

In time, they came near to where the encampment had been spotted only a day ago. Fingon raised a hand and bid his men slow. From then on they went carefully, hoping to maintain, if they might, an element of surprise. They soon came upon the camp. A fire had been hastily stamped out, ash kicked around and trod into the grass by heavy footsteps.

Maedhros urged his borrowed mount into the heart of the abandoned camp— Anaroch, he had deemed, was not yet recovered enough from her journey for further riding. He pulled up alongside the fire and reached down, his hand outstretched. “The heat still lingers.”

Fingon nodded. His heartbeat had slowed, beating steadily now that battle was near. Orcs were not known for their lightness of foot; the moment Fingon espied tracks he motioned his men forward, and together they followed them into an outcropping between the mountains in utter silence.

The fight, when it came, was glorious.

The Orc-company had been waiting for them not far into the mountains. They’d had notice of their coming, it seemed, having either been exceedingly fortunate to spot them from afar off or been tipped off by one of their bird-spies, whose flocks now darkened the skies above Barad Eithel all too often. But their attempt at an ambush was foiled; Maedhros had espied them from half a mile away.

Dispatching them was a greater challenge than Fingon had even dared to hope. When the first arrow whizzed by and struck the ground not far behind him danger sang through his blood, and a wide grin split his face.

There were only twenty of them altogether, but they fought viciously, which drove Fingon to greater viciousness in turn. Soon he was breathing hard, his muscles screaming out with the pain of exertion and delight to move again. He drove his sword home through a ribcage with a sickening crunch and leapt over the convulsing body as it fell, laughing as he blocked a reckless swing from above. A few yards away from him was Maedhros, tall and fey, fighting in a swirl of red hair and shining armour.

There was nothing in the world akin to Maedhros in the heat of battle. He fought the way rushing water flowed through a stream: like it was his natural state of being, every movement the physical manifestation of an instinct as deep as breathing. The expression writ across his face was of sharp focus. He thought of nothing but the task at hand, every step exacting, every swing and thrust of his sword precise.

Fingon wrenched his sword from another body and kicked it to the ground. He watched as Maedhros whirled on an Orc that had been running up behind him, the silver of his longsword glinting in the wan sun as he swung it in a sweeping arc that hewed neck from shoulders as though the creature was naught but wet clay. Its head toppled to the ground with a dull thud and rolled away. Breathing hard, Maedhros locked eyes with Fingon.

In that moment, Fingon thought that there had never been a person in all of time who loved another the way he loved Maedhros. The love of Manwë and Varda themselves paled in comparison to the way Fingon’s heart pounded in his chest, as though with every beat it was reaching out for Maedhros across the bodies lying in between. His blood rushed in his ears, singing a chorus of Maedhros, Maedhros, Maedhros.

That had been the last of them. Fingon heard his captain calling for the bodies to be searched and piled, and Fingon’s men began to mill about. Across Maedhros’ cheek there was smeared a thick streak of Orc blood, and Fingon watched, mouth dry, as he raised his hand to wipe it away. Fingon’s armour was uncomfortably tight between the legs.

“Make haste,” he heard himself call to his men. “For my part, I wish to be back before nightfall.”

When they reached Barad Eithel the sun was hanging low on the horizon, staining all the world gold. Fingon had pushed his men hard for speed, unnecessary though it was, and while no one said a thing he could feel the amusement rolling off of Maedhros as they rode.

Maedhros knew him well. He was intimately familiar with Fingon’s propensity for getting hot after a battle. There was a smirk gracing his lips as he dismounted his horse in the courtyard and handed off her reins, and it widened at Fingon’s obvious impatience as he led Maedhros up the staircase and down the corridor to his apartments.

“My King,” Gwánthon bowed from outside the door. “I heard the trumpets heralding your return. How good it is to see you up and about. Come, and I shall get you out of your armour—”

“Thank you, but I will manage.”

Gwánthon was taken aback. “Sire?”

“I will manage,” Fingon repeated, more sharply than intended. “Take the night off.”

He should not be so curt, but Maedhros was standing so close now Fingon could feel the heat of his body, and the proximity was doing terrible things to his ability to string coherent thoughts together.

Gwánthon’s eyes flickered briefly, but noticeably, to Maedhros. “Yes, Lord,” he said, his cheeks pinking. He bowed hastily to them each in turn. “My King. Lord Himring.”

His footsteps were still retreating down the corridor when Fingon took Maedhros by the elbow and pulled him gracelessly into the apartment, kissing him without hesitation. Maedhros made a filthy sound somewhere low in his throat. It was far too loud, but Fingon could not bring himself to care as he reached over and shut the door, blindly fumbling the lock into place even as Maedhros fought to pull him closer.

Fingon crowded him up against the adjacent wall. Their armour was bulky, and their difference in height made it difficult to kiss well this way, but in their shared desperation they managed it. “Russo,” Fingon breathed, hot against Maedhros’ mouth, but he knew not what else to say. He knew only that he needed— needed in a way he had seldom needed before.

Blood was hot in Fingon’s veins and his head was full of nothing but frantic, insistent desire, and it left him clutching ineffectually at Maedhros’ armoured waist, fingers struggling to find purchase. Maedhros nodded rapidly, already breathing harder. His head was dipped to meet Fingon’s heady kisses, lips slick and hot, as hot as the rest of him surely was beneath all of this stupid armour in the way.

“Damn it,” Fingon muttered as he struggled fruitlessly to find the buckles, embarrassed to hear the desperate whine behind his words. “Help me get you out of this.”

Maedhros’ armour had been designed so that it might be put on and taken off one-handed at need, but the craftsmen had failed to take into account the presence of a borrowed set of impatient, unpracticed hands that were too hot with desire to keep to themselves. It took far longer than it should have, but gradually each piece clattered to the floor until at last Fingon was wrestling him out of his hauberk and gambeson. Soon only his thin underlayers remained, his braies tented obscenely.

“Finno—” Maedhros groaned, hips pushing forward when Fingon dragged his palm up the hot, hard length of him through the fabric.

Fingon could not tear his eyes away from the red blur of Maedhros’ mouth. Before he even realized it he had slipped two fingers past Maedhros’ lips, straight into that cavernous heat. He pushed down on Maedhros’ tongue and felt its give, pushed in a little further and watched Maedhros adjust his jaw to take him more deeply. Maedhros held his gaze, his eyes dark.

“Suck them,” Fingon said, and Maedhros hummed, and did as he was told.

It was ridiculously obscene— the way he let his eyes flutter closed and hollowed his cheeks around the intrusion, tongue curling around Fingon’s fingers to suckle. Fingon let out an unsteady exhale. When eventually he withdrew his fingers Maedhros made a small, plaintive sound in the back of his throat, as though bereaved by the loss, and Fingon was so painfully hard he felt dizzy.

Maedhros let his head thunk back against the wall and looked at Fingon with a self-satisfied smirk. “Shall I suck your cock next?” he asked innocently, his voice pitched low. “Tell me: what is the wont of my King?”

That sent a frisson of desire through Fingon that felt strong enough to cleave him in two. He swallowed around a dry throat.

“I would take you.” He slid his palm up Maedhros’ erection, splitting his fingers apart and teasing with the heel of his palm at the tip where already Maedhros’ braies were damp. “I would have you so full of me you know nothing that is not the feel of my cock splitting you open, my hands on your skin, my name on your lips. I would have you forget everything that is not me.”

Maedhros wet his lips, hips pushing into the touch. “You’ll find it difficult in all that armour.”

“Help me out of it, then.”

Maedhros smiled a lopsided smile. “‘Help me out of it’ he says to the one with half as many hands as he,” he teased, and a bright laugh bubbled up and out of Fingon.

“I watched you fight,” Fingon pointed out as Maedhros set to work locating the buckles and straps that held his armour in place. “Do not pretend you aren’t more skilled with one hand than most others are with two.”

“Mm.” Maedhros set Fingon’s breastplate down on the low bench beside the entryway. “Tell me more about how skilled I am.”

“Absolutely not,” said Fingon. “If your head gets any bigger it shan’t fit through the door frame.”

Maedhros’ smile widened into a dimpled thing that filled Fingon’s chest with sunshine warmth.

This was good. It was good to have Maedhros here with him, good to feel him strong and full of life. Good to know that they could still find a way back to this ease they had known before; this familiar script, this back-and-forth, this gentle push-and-pull of love and desire that left Fingon craning his neck to steal a slow, indulgent kiss even as his hips canted into the incidental brush of Maedhros’ thigh.

Leisurely yet methodical, Maedhros stripped him of his armour. At last he rucked Fingon’s linen tunic up and let him pull it over his head, and, not to be undone, Fingon stripped him of his in turn. And at the sight of so much bare skin, scarred and freckled and healthily flushed, the fire simmering in Fingon’s veins flared high.

They reached for one another at the same time.

Maedhros’ mouth parted under his as the heat surged. And Fingon was kissing him, a proper kiss that demanded give yourself to me and begged take me in turn.

Fingon needed to be naked. He needed Maedhros naked, also, and for the two of them to be pressed together, skin to skin. Naked. Preferably now. He dragged Maedhros away from the wall and together they stumbled into the bedchamber.

When at last they collapsed together onto the silken sheets they were both gloriously bare, slick skin against slick skin. Fingon could not help but touch Maedhros everywhere, desperate to feel him— he straddled Maedhros’ thighs and let the weight of his body push Maedhros down into the mattress, he dipped to put his mouth to the throat Maedhros offered up to him oh so easily. Fingon’s lips travelled across neck and collarbone, heedless of where he was leaving marks. Normally he might be more careful, but underneath him Maedhros was panting and nodding and holding Fingon’s face to the arched curve of his throat, so Fingon nipped hard enough to make Maedhros wince and then soothed the sting with his tongue, sucking hard until he had left a reddening bruise that would surely purple by morning.

Maedhros tasted of salt and sweat and need, need pure and cleansing, need of the type that emanated from one dying of hunger. For the briefest moment Fingon considered taking his time with him; teasing with mouth and hands until Maedhros shook and begged, or else taking him into his mouth to make him spill before fucking him on his fingers while he was still lax and oversensitive, too lost in pleasure to hold back his moans.

“Findekáno,” Maedhros breathed then, and as Fingon traced the curve of his ear with his tongue, mouthing over the notch in his skin, he realized his blood was far too hot to even consider such leisure.

“How shall I take you?” he asked. He slid a hand down Maedhros’ body to settle over his cock.

And Fingon was teasing, to be certain, for Maedhros was already dark-eyed and breathing raggedly and it was a delight like no other to see him so wanting, but he was also checking in. Though Maedhros loved to be taken as much as Fingon loved to take him, since his torment in Angband there were days he could not bear to let Fingon inside, nor attempt to do so without triggering panic. But tonight Maedhros only looked up at him and gave a tiny shake of his head before craning his neck to steal a needy kiss from Fingon’s mouth. “However you will.”

It was clumsy at first. Fingon’s searching hands were too needful for grace as they fumbled around in the drawer for oil, and again as he settled back, sitting against the pillows, and pulled Maedhros down into his lap with such strength the impact nearly knocked the wind out of them both. But Fingon loved to have Maedhros like this; every part of him open and on display in front of him, naked and shameless and aware, for all the scars that marred his body and soul, that he was beautiful.

It was easy like this for Fingon to put his mouth to Maedhros’ nipples, and for Maedhros to hold him to his heaving chest right where he most liked him. Fingon sucked and swirled his tongue, closing his teeth just lightly over the hardened bud to tug, and he felt Maedhros’ breathing pick up. Maedhros had been struggling to unbraid Fingon’s hair, but at last he succeeded and tossed the golden ribbons onto the sheets before burying a loose hand in Fingon’s curls. Fingon slicked his fingers with sweet smelling oil and reached around to circle Maedhros’ entrance without preamble.

Maedhros was always impossibly tight, and he tightened even more at the first brush of Fingon’s slick fingers against his rim. His body was so used to holding on to tension, and all the more when there was one seeking entrance to it, but Maedhros loved this. He wanted it. And after all that had been taken from him, he had staunchly refused to allow this pleasure to be taken as well. Fingon peppered kisses over Maedhros’ chest and shoulders while he waited, until eventually Maedhros relaxed and said, “Do it.”

Fingon readied him slowly and methodically, for this was one part of their lovemaking that Maedhros did not like to be rough or quick. Still it was not long before he was as putty in Fingon’s hands; the bedchamber filled with his breathy sighs, the fraying cadence of his voice as he asked for a second, and then a third finger to fill him. When he began to cant his hips down into the stretch Fingon had to slip a hand around his own erection and squeeze just to stave off the worst of the ache.

“Good?” Fingon asked, pressing the words into Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros was curled over him, straddling his lap and clutching him fiercely. Every hitching breath and barely-stifled moan ghosted past Fingon’s ear and raised goosebumps over his flesh. Fingon thrust his fingers steadily into him, curling and stretching, stroking indulgently over his sweet spot.

“Yes,” came the answer, little more than a sigh. And then, “Yes.”

Maedhros was touching himself now, his stump pressing his cock against his stomach. It was suffocating, even just like this, with Maedhros’ body tight and clenching around the intrusion of his fingers. Fingon was so painfully hard he could barely think.

“Enough,” Maedhros said suddenly, breathless, and he reached fumblingly for the oil. The squeeze of his slender fingers around Fingon’s length was nearly enough to push Fingon over the edge. He hid his face in Maedhros’ shoulder and gasped, both hands gripping Maedhros’ hips, his brow furrowing as he did all he could not to spend as Maedhros readied him.

At last Maedhros let him go. It seemed he was too desperate now to allow Fingon to maneuver him into any other position, for he raised himself up on his knees and then— slowly, agonizingly slowly— drove himself home on his cock. 

They each gasped out in tandem. The sound of it was choked, the heat and the squeeze and the everything of being buried inside Maedhros after so long so overwhelming Fingon could hardly breathe. And then Maedhros was moving.

Tiny, abortive rolls of his hips at first. Each one rocked him down a little further onto Fingon’s length, spearing himself open, letting Fingon in, in, almost everywhere he could be. Fingon’s heart and his mind, raw and vulnerable as they yet were, reached for Maedhros’ own. But these were places he was not truly allowed, and Maedhros was not reaching back.

It should not have been as hurtful as it was. It had been nearly five centuries since Fingon was last granted access to Maedhros’ mind, and since Maedhros accepted the offer of his own in turn. Bitterness stung Fingon’s heart nonetheless.

Let me in! he wanted to shout. He wanted to shake Maedhros by the shoulders until he gave him what he wanted, but Fingon could never do such a thing, so he retreated into himself and focused on the sweaty warmth of Maedhros’ skin, the quickening rhythm of his panted breaths.

“Finno,” he heard, plaintive from Maedhros’ lips as Fingon kissed his collarbone, his neck, the underside of his jaw. Maedhros let his head fall back, his hair cascading down his back.

“Russo,” Fingon rasped, “Russo, Russo.” He tightened his grip on Maedhros’ hips, and the next time Maedhros sank down Fingon thrust up to meet him.

“Oh—” Maedhros faltered, red mouth falling open. He reached behind himself to find purchase on Fingon’s thigh. “Like that, Findekáno— oh, it has been so long.”

Again, the ugly head of anger reared. Again, Fingon wanted to shake him and demand, Why has it been so long? Why? Why, in our final years of peace, did you come to me only once? Why did you let me think you were dead for unending months, why will you not let me in? Why is this the one thing you refuse to give me? Is it punishment? Is it revenge? Is it some misplaced impulse of love, which you never have understood as you ought?

Instead Fingon twisted a hand in Maedhros’ soft hair and tugged his head back harshly enough to make him cry out and tighten beautifully. A rosy flush had crept from Maedhros’ face down his neck, his chest, nearly to his nipples. Sweat shone in the hollow of his throat.

“Again, harder,” came Maedhros’ breathy plea, so Fingon wrapped the strands around his fist and pulled again without mercy. “Yes.”

They were near-frantic in their pursuit of release. The fire in Fingon’s blood and the humid heat of the bedchamber were stifling. All too soon Fingon was alarmingly close to a tipping point.

“Wait,” he breathed, cupping the back of Maedhros’ neck and pulling him in, “Wait, come here—”

They met in a bruising, needful kiss. And this— with this the fire of lingering anger and resentment was banked as it was overtaken by a great and mournful need, as wide and as deep as the Western Sea.

Give yourself to me, Fingon thought, shoving the silent plea against the wall up between them. Why will you not give yourself to me? Why will you not show me that you need me just as I need you? Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.

It fell, as ever, on a closed mind.

Fingon pressed closer. He held Maedhros’ jaw in both hands to kiss him all the more deeply. He sucked on his tongue, chasing the heat of him, thinking desperately that at least this way he might leave so much of himself behind in Maedhros it would be impossible for Maedhros to deny that their very beings were inextricably bound.

“Are you close?” Maedhros breathed out, the words barely intelligible as Fingon swallowed them in another frenzied press of his mouth. From the pulsing tension in Maedhros’ core and the hitch in his breath it was clear that he was rapidly approaching the edge.

Fingon could only nod and slip a hand around Maedhros’ erection. He dragged his palm up and down his length, quick and graceless.

“Make sure you—” Maedhros broke off with a harsh curse and swallowed before trying again. “Make sure you don’t—”

“I know,” Fingon snapped, “I know, I won’t.”

Would that he could spill inside Maedhros the way he longed to. Would that he could fuck his release so deep inside of him the proof of his claim over Maedhros would be undeniable, even by Eru. But he could not, and he never could, for to do so would nearly certainly form a marriage bond, and that they could not have.

Why? thought Fingon desperately. Why not? Despite the fact that it was he who had last denied Maedhros; he who had slammed that door shut the very moment Maedhros tried to open it to him. For good reason, or so Fingon had thought at the time. But for the life of him, he could not now remember why. His fëa longed to do what all elven fëar did when joined at the moment of completion, trying desperately to reach out, to find where Maedhros was reaching back and cling. They could keep themselves in check when they coupled, so long as they did not let themselves go, and so long as they did not reach their peaks while joined so completely that they could not help but forget themselves.^[1]

So when Maedhros tightened like a vice around him and buried himself in the crook of Fingon’s neck with a hoarse cry, his seed spurting warm over Fingon’s stomach and fingers, Fingon gritted his teeth and held himself back from the precipice and fucked Maedhros through it. Once his release ebbed, his body still shaking through the aftershocks, Maedhros lifted himself off of Fingon’s cock and fell bonelessly back to sit astride his thighs with a pitiful whine.

Fingon, so hot he felt he could melt into Maedhros like candlewax, blinking sweat out of his eyes, reached for his own pulsing cock at the same moment as Maedhros, his fingers still slick with Maedhros’ seed. He buried his face in Maedhros' chest as together they stroked him once, twice, three times, before he spent himself over the both of them.

Chapter End Notes

The dehumanizing language used for Orcs in this chapter ("the creature(s)," it/its pronouns) is representative of the characters' views and not the author's. Everybody go read The Wretched of Middle-earth: An Orkish Manifesto by Charles W. Mills neowwwwwwwww.

^[1] I am taking some minor liberties with LaCE here. The core principle remains the same, elvish marriage bond being formed through bodily union etc., but we're overlooking the need for an exchange of blessings and the naming of Eru. In this fic, a marriage bond requires only that 1. the elves are having sex, and 2. they are both open and reaching out with their fëa to allow the two fëar to meet and form a bond. So it's possible for elves to have sex without getting married, but climaxing while joined/climaxing together is such an intense experience the elves will almost always lose themselves and forget to hold back, and will inadvertently allow the fëar to meet and bond in marriage. Basically... if you're gonna have premarital sex as an elf you have to have a REALLY good pull out game.

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Maedhros looked at Fingon, tangled in the bedsheets and flushed beautifully with the afterglow, and considered him.

It was not that Fingon was distant with him. It was not that Fingon was any more not-himself than Maedhros would expect of one who had just lost a father and inherited a crown in the same fell twist of fate. It was certainly not that Fingon was cruel, for in this very moment a light smile was gracing his lips and he was playing idly with Maedhros’ hair, twisting strands of silver and copper around his fingers as if in needless apology for how hard he had pulled. The kingship itself might have been to blame, but in truth, now that Fingon had rested some he seemed all the more ready to take it on, prepared to return to his work with a new and strengthened heart. But it had grown increasingly clear throughout the evening that something was plaguing Fingon, and Maedhros would know what.

He caught Fingon’s hand and kissed each of his fingertips in turn. Something in the blue of Fingon’s eyes warmed, even as the rest of him seemed to waver, the cracks in the veneer showing through.

“What troubles you?” Maedhros spoke softly. A silence, delicate as a rose petal, had settled over them, and for his part he would not see it disturbed.

“Nothing.” Fingon’s smile did not meet his eyes. “I am weary. The day was long.”

The sky outside the window had darkened in the hours since their return. Great clouds, heavy and swollen with coming rain, hung low and obscured the canopy of stars.

“You can talk to me,” said Maedhros, after a beat. “If there is something that troubles you. I shan’t make you speak about anything you do not wish to, but it can help. To get things off of your chest.”

“Can it?” A strange coldness came suddenly into Fingon’s voice. “Tell me more about how I should cope with the things that I feel. You are famously good at that.”

Maedhros froze. Baffled, and abruptly on the defensive, he said, “We aren’t talking about me.”

“Are we ever?” asked Fingon. “How can you expect me to share anything of how I feel with you when you refuse to let me in?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros pushed himself up to sit, “what are you talking about?”

“Do you know that I thought you were dead?” Fingon demanded, doing the same, the blankets pooling about his hips. “For months?”

He said it as though the words should hang between them like a struck gong, which only confused Maedhros all the more. “During the Bragollach?” he blinked. “I feared you dead too, Fingon. Do you think I was not terrified every minute of the day that Barad Eithel had fallen, and you with it? Himring could neither send nor receive word from anywhere—”

“Then you should have reached out for me!” Fingon’s voice raised to a shout. His eyes flashed, but their anger was muddied by sudden, shining tears. “Night, after night, after night, Maedhros. Every night. I opened my mind and reached out seeking yours, desperate for anything at all that would tell me you yet lived, but you gave me nothing.”

At first no words would come to Maedhros. He opened and then closed his mouth. “This is about ósanwe?” he finally said, dumbfounded.  “Finno, you know I cannot abide the risk. There are none I allow so close to my thoughts, not even Káno.”

“I am not your brother!”

Maedhros was hopelessly lost and growing increasingly furious. His aversion to thought-speech was not new, nor was it unfounded. On a time Maedhros had kept his mind open to all those he held dear, but since Angband— since his strength and his will had been so utterly beaten down he could no longer withstand the threats and entreaties of Morgoth nor the prying, icy fingers of his dread lieutenant, ready to sink inside his head the moment his guard faltered— Maedhros couldn’t. He couldn’t. The thought filled him now with panic, frigid and rising, an ancient dread that was wont to chill his spine and tighten like a serpent around his throat.

A dry sob bubbled up and out of Fingon, and he shook his head and looked away. “I was alone, Maedhros. We were utterly destroyed, and my father was as a ghost haunting our halls— a shell of a man, like an urchin picked clean. Ever more bitter and despairing and withdrawn he grew, and I…” Fingon turned back, stricken. “I was terrified, in every waking moment, that I would turn my back and when next I looked grief would have taken him, or if not grief, then his own hand.”

Awful silence stretched for a beat, two. Maedhros’ heart felt torn open by jagged glass.

For did he not understand this grief better than any? He, who had watched Fëanáro madden in his grief; he who had endured months of fear under the enveloping darkness of a Treeless Aman, convinced that if he let his attention slip for a moment too long he would look back and find his father crumpled dead upon the floor, just as he had found Finwë?^[1]

“Findekáno,” said Maedhros softly, and then, for a long while, he said nothing else. He wanted to say that he was sorry, for he was, but such platitudes were useless and trite, and Maedhros loathed to give them as much as Fingon would loathe to receive them. At last he settled on, “You should not have had to endure that alone.”

“No,” Fingon’s voice quavered. “I should not have.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “And yet I did. For my siblings are dead, or hidden so well they might as well be. And you could not bring yourself to let me know even once that I was not so utterly alone as I feared. You say you feared me dead just as I feared you, but not enough to reach for me.”

Maedhros did not want to be angry, but he could not help it.

Himring had been besieged. Every Elven kingdom was cut off from the next. The only focus for months on end had been staying alive, and keeping as many of his people alive as he could. Of course he had feared for Fingon’s life; and it was for fear for Fingon’s life that he could not allow his guard to waver.

“Do you think I did not want to?” He failed to keep the growing tightness of fury from his voice. “Do you truly think me so heartless?”

“How can I presume to know anything about you when you refuse to let me in?”

“How long have we known one another?” demanded Maedhros. “How long have we loved one another? Valar, Fingon, be rational—”

“Rational!” exclaimed Fingon with a cold, fey laugh. “Rich, coming from one so terrified of surrendering enough control to let himself be fully loved he must hide forever behind a spectre of danger that is no longer even there.”

The words struck Maedhros like a knife-twist between the ribs.

Suddenly he could not think, nor grasp onto any of the whirling emotions that rose in him like a tempest. Several times he tried to reach for a response, but each one dissolved the second he touched it like a drop of ink in an entire ocean. Maedhros forced himself to blink and willed his eyes to bring the world back into focus.

“Is that truly what you think?” he finally asked.

Fingon looked at him with cold, tearful eyes. “No. Or—” his chin trembled. “Maybe, yes. A little bit.”

Maedhros felt like his insides had been turned inside out and gone numb. Fingon came suddenly closer and put his hand on Maedhros’ forearm, fingers sliding over the twisted scar where his arm ended just above the wrist.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said urgently. “I know why you are fearful, I do. I cannot presume to know all that you have suffered, although—” he took a halting breath, “it is a burden I would gladly bear with you, if you let me. I know it cannot be easy. But Russandol, you know as well as I that the mind of an Elda is their own. Granting access to one does not grant access to another. Opening yourself to me would not grant the Enemy passage inside, if even he was looking for a way in.”^[2]

Maedhros shook his head. His skin was hot with anger, and with shame long-buried. “You do not know, so do not presume to. We are not talking about another Elda, Fingon. This isn’t Turukáno in childhood trying to eavesdrop on a private conversation between our minds. This is one of the Powers— the very first of the Valar wrought by Eru’s mind.” Maedhros was breathing faster, but he could not bring himself to stop speaking, fury and urgency rising together inside him like a great wave.

“Look!” He threw his hand towards the window, towards the scorched plains that stretched far away into the North and East. “Look at what he is capable of! Think of what he was able to do with the might of our people standing against him, and now imagine that might turned on you.” Maedhros’ skin was crawling.

After months on end, beaten-down and drugged and too weak and terrified to deny him any longer, Maedhros had endured Morgoth inside his head, sifting through his thoughts. With Sauron it had sometimes been weeks at a time, or so Maedhros had been told— in the deep dungeons of Angband, time did not exist in a way that mattered.

“Do not tell me,” he hissed, “that the Enemy would not exploit the smallest crack in my defense to get his claws back into me, if that was his wont. Do you think I am not exhausted? Do you think I enjoy suffering so? Do you think I do not wish every day that I could be as flippant as you?”

There was nothing at all remaining of Maedhros’ mind that was his alone. No secret that was still his, no fear or shame that had not been uncovered and inspected. The Enemy knew just how dearly he held Fingon; and he knew, therefore, that if there was any vulnerability that still existed in Maedhros’ defenses through which he might slip inside and turn him, or make him once again his thrall, or fill his head with lies and terrors until at last he maddened beyond repair, it was Fingon.

Maedhros swallowed hard around a dry throat. “I cannot risk it.”

I cannot risk you. Please, please understand.

“There was a time,” Fingon said, after a long and awful silence, “when you would have shared everything with me.”

The blow was aimed low, and it struck just as intended.

The memory, shame-clouded and grey with the blanketing fogs of Mithrim, rose to the surface and squeezed like a first around Maedhros’ ribs. The very eve before he was to ride east, he and Fingon entwined in his bed in the Fëanorian camp, his hand cupping Fingon’s warm, soft cheek. Maedhros’ heart yearning, yearning, yearning, fearful and frantic with how much it needed.

Maedhros would have bound his soul to Fingon’s for the rest of time that night, if only Fingon had said the word.

“And you denied me.”

Gradually, in a change so slow Maedhros had not seen it happening until the transformation was already complete, the anger on Fingon’s fair face had morphed into raw and aching grief.

Fingon said, “You denied me first.”

And Maedhros had. Beneath a silver sky on an eve in Tirion not unlike the eve on the lakeshore, just before he was to ride to Formenos.

Fingon had been naive then to think that wedding one another would fix everything. He had been full of starry-eyed visions of a future where love might conquer all, where the feud between their Houses mattered not, where the resentments they already held for one another were utterly inconsequential. Maedhros had been right to deny him. Just as decades later, Fingon had been right to deny him.

“Yes,” said Maedhros, softly, and he found that all the fight had drained out of him.

Perhaps this was their fate. To be forever out of step; to always be either yearning or yearned for, but never both at the same time.

No further words came to either of them. What more was there to say? The past could not be unwrought, the course of a darkened future could not be changed by love alone.

Finally, Fingon let out a long, drawn breath and let himself slump against Maedhros' side, his tired eyes downcast. Even now, the warm press of his skin worked to sooth the frantic, pulsating thing in the centre of Maedhros’ chest. Even now.

Fingon tipped his head onto Maedhros’ shoulder and let it rest there, heavy. In silent answer, Maedhros slipped his hand into Fingon’s and squeezed.

The following morning Maedhros woke to the mattress shifting.

“Sorry,” Fingon grimaced, sliding out of bed and reaching for his dressing gown. “Sorry, go back to sleep.”

“Where are you going?”

Fingon hesitated, then returned to sit on the edge of the bed beside Maedhros. “My father’s study. Or— my study, I suppose. Things have surely been piling up, and I am ready, I think, to face them.”

He reached down as if to touch Maedhros’ cheek, but at the last second he faltered. Maedhros took his hand and coaxed it in to close the rest of the distance. His eyes fell briefly closed at the warmth of Fingon’s touch.

“Mm,” he hummed, “I am glad to hear it.”

A small smile graced Fingon’s lips. “I am glad to feel it,” he confessed. “You were right— resting a while did me well.”

They had never been much good with apologies, either of them. This was as close to one as Maedhros would get. He took it for what it was and offered up one of his own in the form of a kiss to the centre of Fingon’s palm. Fingon’s smile widened a little.

“Sleep again, now,” he said, “it is still early. Come and see me once you wake.”

Another quiet hum, and Maedhros pushed himself up on his elbow and eased Fingon down into a kiss. It was only a brief, chaste thing, but when he heard Fingon sigh into it he felt a knot loosen behind his ribcage. Once the kiss broke Fingon embraced him tightly and buried his face in Maedhros’ hair. He stayed there a long while. When at last he pulled back, though the tension was not fully gone, some of their usual ease had returned.

Maedhros fell back against the sheets as Fingon padded off towards the bathroom. For a time he dozed in and out of consciousness, aware in the back of his mind of the sounds Fingon was making as he puttered about. Finally, there came the quiet snick of the outer door closing, and Maedhros allowed deeper sleep to claim him.

Daylight, grey and feeble, was coming in the window when Maedhros woke again to the sound of movement in the next room. The shock of suddenly waking always brought a split-second flash of fear, but when the fog of sleep receded a heartbeat later and he remembered where he was, the feeling ebbed. He listened to the weight and rhythm of the footsteps, his ears twitching. Gwánthon, he determined.

After a brief moment of consideration, Maedhros rose. He dressed quickly in his own trousers and a loose linen tunic he knew Gwánthon would recognize as Fingon’s. It was too short on Maedhros’ frame, but not terribly so. Maedhros stood in front of the mirror and smoothed down his hair, loosened the laces at the vee of the tunic, and adjusted it to reveal a little more skin.

When he opened the bedchamber door, Gwánthon was busy picking up and wiping clean with a dry cloth the assorted pieces of Maedhros’ armour from where they had been left in a heap just inside the entryway. Gwánthon, ever a professional, did not startle to see him, but Maedhros still took great pleasure in the way Gwánthon’s eyes snapped onto him before sliding quickly away, colour rising to his cheeks.

For a very long while Maedhros watched him work in silence. This, too, he took pleasure in; observing Fingon’s esquire growing increasingly uncomfortable beneath his relentless gaze. At last, when Gwánthon was nearing the end of his task and seemed wont to soon make a hasty exit, Maedhros said, without mocking or ire, “Findekáno is very fond of you.”

The blush on Gwánthon’s cheeks deepened. He was trying valiantly to hold Maedhros’ gaze, but his eyes kept drifting down to the exposed skin of his throat, and the impressive trail of bruises Fingon had left there.

“I have served him for centuries, Lord,” he replied steadily, “and I have been fortunate to do so.” It was a diplomatic answer, but one that was nonetheless revealing in precisely what it did not say.

“You love him beyond your station.”

Maedhros did not leverage this as an accusation; merely as fact, spoken without true cruelty. Gwánthon’s eyes grew wide and confused. His expression morphed rapidly between shock and confusion and finally, into fear.

“Lord,” he began, stammering.

“I care not,” Maedhros cut in before he could work himself into a state. “I, of anyone, understand how easily he attracts affections. I care not for the wont of your heart; let it do what it will. It does nothing to change the fact that I have held his heart for far longer than your memory can stretch, just as he has held mine.”

Gwánthon swallowed thickly. He wet his lips, seemingly struggling to find his voice. “Lord,” he managed after a moment, “you must believe me, never would I think to come between—”

Maedhros could not help but chuckle. “That does not concern me. I raise the point only because I must ask a favour of you, and it is prudent that we both be on the same page.”

“Yes, Lord,” Gwánthon nodded rapidly. “Anything.”

“You love your King,” Maedhros said again, “though understand that you can never hope to love him as I do. He is half of me and I am half of him; not if you tried until the breaking of the world could you hope to love him even half as much as I.”

Gwánthon’s lips pressed together. He nodded in silence.

“Yet because you have served him loyally, and because he cares for you and trusts you as he does, I am now trusting this to you: if ever you grow worried for your King, or you fear that he is not well in mind or in body; if you see that he is faltering, or struggling alone beneath the weight he bears, you must tell me. Write to me and send the letter under his seal, and bid your messenger come as quickly as they can. Your King is a valiant man, and he is not easily broken, but neither is he invincible. I would not have him here shattering alone.”

Rapidly, Gwánthon nodded. “Yes, my Lord. Of course I will do as you ask, without question.”

“Good,” Maedhros smiled tightly. “It comforts me to know there will be one watching out for him when I cannot.”

With that he turned, prepared to take his leave. Gwánthon spoke again in haste.

“Lord—” he began, before hesitating.

Maedhros turned back, his eyebrows raised.

Though Gwánthon’s face was bright red, he held himself straight and proud. “Please, do not tell the King of my… affections. They are mine to bear, and I would not want him to be troubled.”

With this, Maedhros softened. He went to Gwánthon and squeezed his shoulder. “Do you not think he already knows?” At the look on Gwánthon’s face, he said, “Do not blame yourself. After all the time you have spent in his service, it would surprise me more if you did not love him so. He will not speak of the matter to you unless you raise it yourself, which I expect you will not.”

“Yes,” Gwánthon whispered. “It is as I said; never would I presume to do such a thing.”

“Good.” Maedhros offered him a truer smile. Then he went into the bathroom to wash, leaving Gwánthon standing alone.

Chapter End Notes

^[1] In the version of The Darkening in Morgoth's Ring, it was Maedhros and his brothers who discovered Finwë's body after he had been slain by Morgoth. It was also said that after Finwë was killed, Fëanor was so anguished it was feared that he might slay himself. I love that version of the story, and I really wanted to parallel it here with what Fingon experienced in the months leading up to Fingolfin's death.

^[2] According to the Ósanwe-kenta, it's impossible to communicate with a closed mind via ósanwe. If an elf has closed their mind, not even Morgoth applying all of his power and will can overcome that barrier. However, I'm not entirely clear on how much precision is allowed to the elves here (i.e. whether it's possible to keep one's mind open to ósanwe with a specific person but closed to everybody else)— the Ósanwe-kenta says that affinity between two people can strengthen the communication, but I'm not aware of anything beyond that. For the purposes of this story, what Fingon is saying here is correct.

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The feeble weeks of spring rain gave way to the heat of early summer, and gradually, Fingon began to find some semblance of a routine.

What was left of Beleriand had not crumbled in his absence. His father’s men— his men— had held the line. Though Fingon’s heart remained heavy, when he returned to his post ready to work he felt as though a measure of his strength had returned to him, enough that he could hold his spine straight and his shoulders squared. He could do what needed to be done. He could be what his people needed.

Grief still pressed near to his heart in every waking moment. Indeed, there were times it felt like it might swallow him whole. For all that black cloth was now draped over every portrait of Fingolfin in the fortress, his spectre seemed to lurk around every corner. It waited for Fingon behind every door, and in every seat he occupied. Each night Fingon slept in his father’s bed, and each day he took counsel with his father’s lords on decisions that should have been his father’s to make. How could it ever be possible to forget his grief, even for a moment, if all day long he walked around wearing his father’s skin?

At least there was Maedhros, who lingered at Barad Eithel as long as he could. Maedhros knew the goings-on in the East as no other yet did, and Fingon was glad to have his counsel to draw on as they set to the arduous task of beginning to rebuild. More than that, the burden felt somehow lighter to bear, with Maedhros so near.

Neither of them had acknowledged their argument since it happened. Maedhros seemed intent on forgetting all that Fingon had said to him, and for Fingon’s part, he was trying hard to forget that he had gone about saying it in perhaps the most hurtful way he could have. The memory made shame churn in his stomach.

Yet he would not bring it up now only to ease his own guilt. The fragile peace they had won was good. There was comfort to be found in this age-long, unspoken truce they had been cultivating for nearly as long as they had loved one another. There was no guesswork in this— Fingon knew the steps to the dance, he knew just where to put his feet. The shadows of the hurts they had dealt one another darkened their hearts, and the lingering echos of the feud of their Houses clung to them like smoke, but there was love here— this, at least, Fingon knew beyond certainty. Surely that counted for something.

But Maedhros’ presence was borrowed, and in time there came a day when he could be borrowed no longer. On the eve before he was to set out, he came to Fingon in the throne room, just as Fingon’s final audience was ending.

Maedhros waited quietly at the end of the long room, leaning against the far wall. Fingon’s scribe hastily gathered his parchments before taking his leave alongside the chief advisor. When Fingon bid his guards leave also, the sturdy doors fell shut, and they were alone.

“Have you come to be received?” Fingon asked as Maedhros crossed the room in unhurried steps. He had been aiming to tease, but his tone lacked the levity the term implied.

“That depends.” Maedhros came to a stop at the foot of the dais. “Is my King willing to receive me?”

Always, Fingon wanted to say. I would receive all of you, or as much of you as you would give me, at any moment you would give it.

Instead what he said was, “There is nothing of you I would not take if it was offered,” which was perhaps no better than the first thing.

A small smile twisted Maedhros’ lips. “I am but your vassal, Lord.” He dragged his gaze slowly, intentionally, up Fingon’s body. “I serve at your pleasure.”

A sudden frisson of desire cut through Fingon. He glanced to the far doors, fearful that someone might enter, but these days Maedhros did not like to be spontaneous unless everything else was already irrevocable. If there was a chance of their being discovered, he would not be here like this, looking at Fingon the way he was.

Fingon allowed his legs to fall open with ease. His robes parted, and when he dared to drag his palm indulgently over the bulge between them he watched Maedhros’ eyes darken.

“If you have come to serve,” Fingon said, resting his hand on his inner thigh, “then serve.”

Maedhros climbed the short flight of steps, and sank to his knees.

This was good, Fingon decided, as his legs spread wider to accommodate Maedhros’ shoulders. This felt right— Maedhros knelt before his throne, forced for once to be the one looking up. Maedhros leaned in and set his mouth to the bulge in Fingon’s hose. He mouthed him hotly through the fabric, and a soft, punched-out sound left Fingon’s lips without his permission.

Maedhros took his time with him. He let his saliva dampen the fabric, coaxing Fingon to full hardness with only the teasing heat of his mouth. Fingon’s hand moved on instinct to card through his hair, locks of copper and silver slipping through his fingers. Finally, Maedhros freed him from the confines of his clothing and peppered quiet, indolent kisses up the length of his shaft. Fingon tried to let him do as he pleased, but eventually his desire grew too hot and he tugged gently on Maedhros’ hair to urge him on.

Maedhros acquiesced. He set himself to his task with single-minded focus: hollowing out his cheeks, sinking deep, pulling back to concentrate pleasure right where Fingon was most sensitive until he was gasping out and swearing, the sound of it loud and too revealing in the cavernous chamber. Fingon tipped his head back against the throne. Breathing faster, he tried not to let his thoughts turn to their coming parting.

“Most beloved of vassals,” he breathed out, and earned a low groan from Maedhros. “How well you serve your King.”

Maedhros’ eyes closed as he redoubled his efforts.

“Yes— you feel incredible, Russo,” Fingon sighed. “You’re always beautiful on your knees, taking me so perfectly.”

Maedhros gave a full body shudder and moaned. The vibration made Fingon’s toes curl and his fist closed harshly in Maedhros’ hair. A second later he eased his hold, an apology already on his lips, but Maedhros reached fumblingly for his hand and guided his grip to tighten again.

Maedhros was relentless in his pursuit of taking Fingon apart. Very soon Fingon could only gasp, and try not to squirm, and let Maedhros do as he would. It was as though Maedhros was intent on overwhelming him completely; on giving Fingon everything he could possibly give.

Which was exactly what he was doing, Fingon realized with a feeling of his heart swooping and then sinking in his chest.

“Russo,” he called, breathless. “Russandol, look at me.”

Maedhros looked up and met his gaze. His pink lips were stretched wide and his eyes were all too revealing, and Fingon knew it to be true.

“I am your King,” Fingon said. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you? You would carry any weight. You would give me anything I could ask for, so long as it was within your power to give.”

Maedhros drew back to breathe and trailed messy, open-mouthed kisses up Fingon’s shaft. His eyes were downcast when he answered, “Yes, anything. Anything.”

“Anything,” Fingon repeated in a whisper, his heart in his throat.

Like a child who never learned that the kettle was hot no matter how many times they burned their hand, Fingon reached out with his thoughts. Maedhros was not reaching back. Of course he wasn’t. The burn came, just as Fingon had known it would.

Maedhros took him back into the searing heat of his mouth. He sank low, low, all the way down. Fingon pushed the back of his wrist against his mouth to stifle a cry and every horrible thing he wished to say.

Liar, he thought; desperate, anguished. Tormentor. Look how much you love me. Look how much you desire me. How close you press, as though you cannot get enough of me inside you. Do you still not understand that you could have all of me if only you would take it? You could have me in the space of a single heartbeat, if only you would give yourself in turn.

When Fingon spent himself on Maedhros’ tongue it was with hoarse, too-loud cry. Maedhros swallowed all that Fingon gave him. As he pulled off and lay his head on Fingon’s thigh, panting, it was all that Fingon could do not to weep.

The following day, they stood together in the courtyard of Barad Eithel. The grey sky above was bright, Arien already nearing the middle of her journey, for all that the cover of clouds blocked her rays from reaching the ground.

Maedhros was checking the buckles on his pack for the fifth time. Waiting behind him, already on their mounts, was the small guard Fingon had insisted on sending with him. Maedhros had fought him hard on this point, but Fingon had refused to relent– it had been unspeakably reckless for Maedhros to have travelled alone in the first place, and Fingon would not see him do it again, not even though he would be taking the longer and safer route around Doriath.

They had said their true farewells that morning. Now, surrounded by watchful eyes, the masks had come back on. When eventually Maedhros ran out of excuses to tarry longer, Fingon stepped in to embrace him. It was a chaste thing, a far cry from how they had held one another an hour before, alone in his father’s apartments. Even so, Fingon could not help but let his face crumple for the briefest of moments when he buried himself in Maedhros’ chest and felt Maedhros’ arms envelop him. It was only a moment; soon Fingon schooled his expression and pulled back, letting Maedhros go.

“Be safe,” he said as Maedhros swung himself up upon Anaroch. It was only through centuries of practice in diplomacy that he was able to keep his voice from wavering. “Be careful.”

“I am always careful.” Maedhros was trying to lighten the mood, but at the look on Fingon’s face he softened. “I will. Next autumn, I will be here.”

“You had better be. It is a summons from your King.”

A smile graced Maedhros’ lips. “Then I swear upon my life that I shall be here to see you crowned.”

“That’s better.”

Fingon watched from the doorway of Barad Eithel as Maedhros led the borrowed company out of the courtyard and down the pathway that led into the South. Maedhros did not look back; not until he reached the bend in the road that would take him out of view. Only then, so far away Fingon could barely make out his features, did he turn and look back. A single moment’s hesitation. Then he turned away again and continued on into the East, disappearing from sight.

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The work of kingship in wartime was unceasing. The routine Fingon had found served him well, and it kept his mind busy enough to outrun the sorrow that nipped ever at his heels, but it was lonely work. There was no true peer to be found in Barad Eithel. Over time he developed a closeness with some of his father’s lords and advisors, but it was never truly as friends. How could it be? Gwánthon, too, served him well and faithfully as ever, and he made for good conversation when conversation was scarce, but he would never speak freely to his King. In truth, Fingon knew it was selfish to ask him to do so. He asked nonetheless.

The summer months after Maedhros left brought sun, though still tempered on most days by cloud and haze. On the days the skies were clearest, Fingon often rose early to watch Arien’s ascent out of the East from his father’s balcony, his face warming with her rays as the sky lightened from violet to orange to bright, brilliant gold.

It was not possible to espy Himring from Barad Eithel. The view was blocked by the Eastern vales of Dorthonion. Still, on a time, Fingon allowed himself to pretend that the easternmost peak of the Ered Gorgoroth that his eyes could descry was in fact the Hill of Himring, and indeed that he could almost see in his mind’s eye Maedhros waking and readying himself for the day, climbing to the ramparts of his great fortress, looking out into the West.

Gradually, Fingon stopped reaching out so often with his thoughts. Maedhros was never there; he would never be there. He had made that clear. It was only hurting Fingon to keep trying.

When the leaves had just begun to darken with the nearing of winter, the monument that had been built to Fingolfin was unveiled. Fingon stood for the modest ceremony and watched as the shroud was pulled back to reveal his father’s likeness carved from stone. His throat was suddenly dry. He reminded himself to smile for the benefit of the craftsmen, all of whom stood nearby watching anxiously for his reaction.

The Fingolfin that stared blankly past Fingon was stern and undeniably regal. The artists had done an admirable job of capturing his features. Still, as Fingon continued to take in the sight, he could not help but miss the singular talent of the hand of Nerdanel. Maedhros’ mother would have captured him better. She would have gotten the slightly crooked arch of his nose, and the warmth of his eyes.

With the turning of the year, preparations for the coronation ceremony began to ramp up. To organize a full-scale coronation when they were already so heavily weakened was neither easy nor cheap, but Fingon left the details to his staff. By the return of the summer, when everything was starting to come together, Fingon was at last fully convinced that he had been right to allow himself to be swayed by his advisors. Spirits in Hithlum had been rising steadily as the celebration drew nearer, and for all that a coronation signified change, there was a sense of normalcy that had not been felt in Barad Eithel since before the breaking of the Siege. The Noldor were weakened, yes, but they were not cowed.

Knowing that it was the right thing to do did very little to ease Fingon’s growing dread as the day of the ceremony neared.

He could do this. He would do it. But each and every reminder of what was to come was like picking a scab off a wound only just beginning to heal; every decision he approved and every update he received drew fresh blood.

At least he would have Maedhros again, for a time. Some days it felt like this promise alone was the only thing keeping him moving forward.

Finrod was the first to arrive.

This was not surprising; he had always enjoyed the attention of being fashionably early and having the ear of the host before anybody else. Fingon, who had been hoping dearly that this pattern would hold, met his cousin in the courtyard under the brittle warmth of the autumn sun with an embrace so fierce it nearly knocked the wind out of them both. Finrod laughed and hugged him all the harder.

When all had been said and done for the day, Finrod joined him in his apartments. Outside the night was dark, and Fingon had access to his father’s best wines now, and he could think of few occasions on which he might put them to better use.

Aside from Maedhros, for whom Fingon’s love had always been of a grander kind, Finrod was the cousin he held most dear. A fellow eldest son and heir, kindhearted and a lover of music, quick-witted and sharp-tongued at need, and ever close to Fingon’s heart. Their bond had been tried and strengthened during the crossing of the Helcaraxë, where peace was in short supply and the heat of another body was ever needed. Many a night they had warmed one another, sleeping curled together as outside the canvas tent the bitter winds howled. The comfort of touch was now second nature to them.

So it was that the stroke of midnight found them both on the floor of Fingon’s sitting room in front of the hearth, the furs soft underneath them, Finrod sitting with his back against the couch while Fingon lay with his head in his cousin’s lap. Finrod was stroking his hair and looking down at him with the barest hint of a melancholy smile.

“You have grown well into kingship,” he said after a time.

Fingon snorted. It might have seemed a more fitting compliment were he not currently very tipsy and sprawled out on the floor, his tunic haphazardly unbuttoned halfway down his chest from when he had grown too warm from the drink.

“You think so?”

“I do.” Finrod’s fingers slid easily through his curls, lightly scratching his scalp. “I think you are doing as well as anybody could, under the circumstances.”

“Dorthonion lost,” Fingon pointed out. He counted on his fingers. “The East all but overrun. Half our trade routes still impassable. Hundreds of refugees come to Hithlum with nowhere to house them and insufficient food to feed them. Hardly any reliable communications with Himring making it near impossible to coordinate our efforts—”

“You inherited a bad starting hand,” Finrod cut in. “You have done your best with what you were given.”

“There is still so much to rebuild,” Fingon muttered. He pushed himself up to sit and felt his head spin with the sudden change in orientation. “Half the time I haven’t the slightest idea whether the choices I’m making are the right ones.”

“Yet you make them anyway.” Finrod spoke gently, but firmly. “That is the work of kingship.”

Sudden heat stung Fingon’s eyes. He blinked rapidly and tried to look away before his cousin could see.

“Oh, Finno, no,” Finrod scrambled to sit up straighter and reached for him. “Forgive me. I should not have brought it up now.”

An unspoken agreement seemed to have been reached at the start of the evening to leave the heavier topics for the days after the coronation. At least a dozen councils had been scheduled before everyone was to return home, for it was a rare and precious thing to have so many lords of the Noldor in the same place at once, able to communicate in real time. Plenty of opportunities to discuss their troubles then.

“It’s not your fault,” Fingon pressed his sleeves to his eyes with a wet laugh. “I should know better than to drink when my sorrow is already so near.”

After a moment’s consideration, Finrod took Fingon’s empty glass from the nearby table and topped it up, filling it nearly to the brim before passing it over. Fingon could not help but laugh again. In spite of the tears, it felt good to smile.

“I am sorry about your brothers,” he offered. “That was a terrible way for them to be lost. They deserved more.”

Finrod raised his brows, then looked away with a disbelieving laugh. When he looked back, his eyes were shining. “Yes, they did,” he said. “And that was a low blow.”

“I shan’t be the only one weeping,” Fingon knocked their shoulders together. “And you started it.”

“Fine,” Finrod raised both hands, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass. “Fine. Let us not speak of our losses tonight. Tell me, how fares Maedhros? I can only assume that he has yet to arrive if he isn’t here glued to your hip.”

Fingon, in spite of wishing desperately to lighten the mood and turn his thoughts away from darkness, went quiet. Finrod softened.

“Forgive me. It seems I’m striking all kinds of nerves tonight.”

“No, it’s alright,” Fingon brushed Finrod’s hand from his shoulder, but a moment later he gave in and slumped against him. “He was well, when last I saw him. He came to me, after… when he heard the news.”

“I was badly hoping he would.” Finrod had slid an arm around Fingon, letting him lean as much of his weight against him as he would, and yet holding him only as tightly as he wished to be held. This was one of the things Fingon loved most about Finrod: his attunement to emotion, how easily he was able to slide between levity and seriousness at need. “I’m sorry, Finno. I would have come myself if there was any way I could be spared.”

“I know that,” said Fingon. “But you are right— he has yet to arrive, despite having been due yesterday.”

After a beat, Finrod offered, “I’m sure he’s only a little delayed. We saw stormclouds to the southeast a few days ago, he was probably hindered by the weather.”

“I don’t fear him dead,” Fingon assured him, though that wasn’t the whole truth. Ever there lurked a corner in the backmost part of Fingon’s mind that was convinced Maedhros was already lost. “The ceremony is in three days, and he is meant to be the one to crown me. Like he crowned my father, in token of the friendship of our Houses. My fear lies in the mess that will surely follow if he fails to arrive on time and is assumed to have shirked his duty.”

Finrod took a deep draught from his glass and reached to set it down on the table. “That isn’t what’s bothering you.”

Fingon groaned. “Don’t get all prophetic on me Ingo, you’ll make my headache worse.”

“I’m not being prophetic!” Finrod insisted. “Trust me, Findekáno, one does not need the gift of foresight to see that you are troubled. Tell me what plagues you, or I shall have to force it out of you.”

Fingon had had no one to talk openly to in over a year. And this was Finrod.

He sighed, sat up, and spilled everything.

He spoke of the wall Maedhros had thrown up between them and refused to take down. He spoke of the awful argument they had, Maedhros’ inability to let him in, his fears about what the Enemy might do to him should he open his mind. Fingon confessed just how bitterly he resented Maedhros, and how bitterly he resented himself for resenting Maedhros; he spoke of how they had both denied one another, and how they both denied one another still, and how he feared that this endless denial would be all they would ever have of one another for the rest of time.

Finrod listened all the while. Every so often he asked a question, but mostly he allowed Fingon to talk himself in circles. This was another skill of Finrod’s: leading people to uncover the answers to their problems without ever claiming outright to know what they were. He simply guided, and let Fingon find his way along the maze until he reached its natural conclusion.

“None of this even matters,” Fingon finally said, dropping his face into his hands with a groan. “Does it?”

Finrod chuckled and threw an arm over his shoulders. “Of course it matters, Finno. But does it change anything?”

Did it? All of the pain and the heartbreak and resentment, the wounds that festered between them. All of it— and Fingon loved him still. Fingon would continue to love him until the uttermost end of all things, and probably beyond even that. What other life was there for him but this one in which he loved Maedhros so fiercely he would take as much of him as he was allowed, at any moment Maedhros would allow it?

Fingon groaned again, louder. He felt Finrod shake with silent laughter, even as he tipped his head to rest against Fingon’s.

“I wish it was not my fate to love him as much as I do,” Fingon admitted quietly. He almost could not bear to hear the words spoken aloud.

“Fate is as fate wills, Findekáno.” Finrod kissed his hair. “Fighting it wins you nothing.”

The following days saw the fortress of Barad Eithel grow busier than it had been in years. Orodreth arrived the day after Finrod, and he was followed soon after Celegorm and Curufin, and later Caranthir, Amrod, and Amras from Amon Ereb.^[1] Círdan came then from the Falas, and Galdor from Dor-lómin, and it was not long before all who were expected had arrived. The final rehearsal for the ceremony came and went, and still Maedhros did not come.

Fingon’s anxiety crept up on him constantly, no matter how he tried to force it back. What if Himring had fallen at last? What if they were besieged? What if Maedhros lay dead in the fields of Himlad, or had been swept away crossing the waters of Celon, or had been burned in a pile with the bodies of his soldiers? What if there was nothing left of him but his charred bones, and Fingon had no way of knowing? Even worse— the possibility that struck such fear into Fingon’s heart he could hardly bring himself to worry about it, for that would mean having to think about it— what if Maedhros had been waylaid on the road and not killed, but captured? If Maedhros had been right about one thing, it was that the Enemy would love the opportunity to sink his claws back into him. What if Maedhros’ worst fears had come true, and he had been dragged back to Angband to relive his torment?

Fingon, his heart now permanently in his throat, tried desperately hard not to think about it. Maedhros would come. He had to come. He had sworn that he would.

In the end, Maedhros came. Fingon should not have doubted— Maedhros always came through, in the end. He always would.

Still, he was cutting it awfully close.

Late at night on the eve before the ceremony, Fingon woke from a fitful sleep to sharp knocking at his door. “My King?” came Gwánthon’s muffled voice.

Fingon was already out of bed and shrugging into his dressing gown. He threw open the door to find his esquire looking as though he too had only recently rolled out of bed.

“Forgive me, Lord, but you asked that I wake you if Lord Maedhros arrived.”

Fingon’s legs nearly buckled with the force of his relief. He steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe.

“Where is he?”

“The guest apartments. The servants have already gotten him settled.”

“And what’s the time?”

“About an hour past midnight.”

“Thank you,” Fingon squeezed Gwánthon’s shoulder as he slipped past him. “Please, go back to bed. You must catch a little rest at least before you come to wake me again.”

The Mannish guards patrolling the guest quarters bowed hastily to Fingon as he passed. They had not been quite fast enough to school their expressions of shock to see the High King striding hurriedly down the corridor in the middle of the night in his slippers and dressing gown, but Fingon did not care at all. He found Maedhros’ door and rapped hard upon the wood. He could only stand to wait for the space of a single second before he fumbled for the handle and let himself in.

Maedhros was already there, and he was already reaching for him.

They met in a crushing embrace. Fingon could not hide how his body shuddered with bone-deep relief. Maedhros’ arms were fiercely tight around him, and he was damp from the bath, dressed in loose sleep clothes.

“You are so late,” Fingon laughed wetly into his hair.

“I know,” Maedhros breathed. He splayed his hand across Fingon’s lower back and bent over him further, burying himself in Fingon, as though trying to cocoon his body with his own. “I know. Forgive me.”

“Were you waylaid on the road?”

Maedhros’ half-second of hesitation answered for him. Fingon pulled suddenly back.

“What happened?” He scanned Maedhros’ body rapidly. “Are you hurt?”

“Only a little,” said Maedhros hastily. He was drawn and pale, but Fingon saw no obvious signs of injury.

“Show me.”

“Finno—”

“Now, Russandol.”

Pursing his lips, Maedhros rolled up his right sleeve with a slight grimace. There was a nasty bruise spanning most of the length of his bicep, deep purple with red crescent-shaped indentations where a powerful blow had forced his hauberk into his skin.

“Ai. That’s what you call a little?” Fingon stepped close to examine it. The barest touch of his fingers made Maedhros wince. “You need better healers.”

“The one I brought is no good with bruises.”

Fingon’s eyes flickered up to his, unimpressed. It was an obvious lie. Maedhros did not like to be touched by even the hands of a healer save at utmost need, and he would not consider a bruise to fall into that category, even one as severe as this. Fingon decided to let him away with it.

“How lucky for you that I am.”

The healing of bruises was not so different from the healing of frostbite. Both involved the flow of blood. Unlike tendon and ligament, which were designed to move only as much as a joint needed, blood was wont to flow. It did not like to be stagnant. Fingon had had plenty of practice on the Ice with singing blood back into extremities touched by the cold before they could freeze and become necrotic; bruises were not so different.

Fingon held Maedhros’ arm steady. With his other hand he felt gently along the bruise, searching for the hum of Music that was in all things living, and found it easily. Even now, flooded underneath Maedhros’ skin with their vessels burst and traumatized, Maedhros’ blood was hot with the fire of life. It was nothing for Fingon to find their Song and join it.

The blood wanted to flow. It wanted to break down and allow itself to be reabsorbed into skin, and continue on the journey. It wanted to become new life.

When Fingon opened his eyes the bruise was… not healed, but it was far better than it had been. Its shades had morphed from purples so dark they were nearly black to lighter greens and yellows.

Fingon skimmed his hand down Maedhros’ bicep with a little pressure. “Does that hurt?”

Maedhros, who had been on the receiving end of Fingon’s mild proficiency in healing a dozen times over, was looking at him as if he had usurped the throne of Varda and hung each and every star in the firmament himself. “Not really.”

Fingon dug in two fingertips ungently. “That?”

“Ow.” Maedhros hissed and yanked his arm away, shaking his head at the smile spreading upon Fingon’s face. Fingon’s heart felt ready to burst out of his chest, overcome with relief and fondness and joy and love. Stubborn, ridiculous love.

He tipped his face up for a kiss. Maedhros granted it. Then he granted another, and another, and with each one Fingon’s heartbeat steadied, and he felt a little more at peace. Finally Maedhros pulled back, holding Fingon’s face between his palm and his stump. His eyes searched Fingon almost frantically, and Fingon was surprised to see terrible emotion welling there, and to hear Maedhros’ breathing shake as he exhaled.

Fingon laid his own hands over Maedhros’ hand and stump on each cheek. He felt Maedhros’ chest rise and fall. He felt the strength and the fire of him, solid and real and here.

Maedhros surged forward and wrapped him fiercely in another embrace. He was squeezing so hard Fingon could barely breathe but he didn’t care, it didn’t matter, not at all. He squeezed back.

“You are here,” Maedhros whispered.

“I am.” Fingon felt a dampness against his neck where Maedhros’ face was buried. “I am. You are—”

And then they were kissing again. Artless and salty with tears, frantic kisses that they were powerless to stop. Maedhros could not stop touching him, sliding his hand down Fingon’s neck, his back, his waist. Mapping out the shape of his body, like he was trying to convince himself that Fingon was real.

When finally they had to break for air, Maedhros rested his forehead against Fingon’s, breathing hard. “Come and lie with me a while.”

Fingon hesitated. “I cannot stay.” Gwánthon would be coming to his chambers to wake him at the five o’clock bell, and shortly thereafter his retinue would arrive. Fingon needed to sleep in his own bed tonight, alone.

“I know,” Maedhros said softly. “Just a little while. Let me hold you for a time.”

Fingon swallowed around the lump in his throat and let himself be guided to the soft bed. Barad Eithel’s guest apartments were impersonal, but they were generously furnished. Together they settled beneath the bedlinens, and Maedhros gathered Fingon into his arms and clung to him as though unable to bear the thought of letting go. Fingon rested his palm on Maedhros’ chest to feel the beating of his heart.

“Tell me about the journey,” he said, for he would hear Maedhros’ voice for a while.

Maedhros did, though in truth Fingon was not listening as much as he should have been. Mostly he revelled in the timbre of Maedhros’ voice, and watched his face as he spoke.

He traced his thumb over the scar that ran from Maedhros’ jaw up his cheek, and he thought of the sight of his beloved face yet young and unmarred, limned in silver under the glory of Telperion in bloom. He thought of Thangorodrim, and of the fire of fury and hurt and betrayal that had kept him warm for thirty years upon the Helcaraxë. He thought of the feeling that had gripped him when Maedhros at last came to in his sickbed, lucid for the first time in weeks; the sickening churn of relief and dread, love and anger. He stroked the corner of Maedhros’ mouth and thought about all that they had ever been to one another, all that they could have been, the endlessly contradictory nature of all that he felt for Maedhros. Love and desire and fury and fear and shame and pride all came together to create something new, something undefined and undefinable, something that existed wholly outside of everything else.

Maedhros had stopped talking. He was playing idly with Fingon’s fingers beneath the sheets, his breathing slow. He looked utterly exhausted.

“Sleep,” Fingon told him quietly.

Maedhros was so tired he could only nod in agreement. He squeezed Fingon’s hand and held it to his chest as he let his eyes close. He was gone in under a minute.

He looked more youthful like this, his features slack with sleep. It was his eyes that so often gave away all that he had been through. Now, if it weren’t for his scars and the streaks of silver in his hair, he would look just as he had in their youth, when first Fingon had loved him. Before strife came between them, before Fëanáro raised a sword to his own brother, before Fingon had begged Maedhros to marry him and run away with him and not look back.

Why had Fingon denied him in turn, when it was Maedhros who begged him? What had he been trying to prove? Why had he thought he could fight this?

I will have no one else, Fingon thought, then, and he knew it in his bones to be true. He is for me and I for him, whatever comes.

Eventually his eyes grew heavy, and he knew if he stayed any longer he would fall asleep. Carefully, he tried to extract himself from Maedhros’ arms. It was no use— there was never any use in trying not to wake Maedhros. He was ever alert even in sleep, startling awake at the drop of a pin.

Maedhros’ eyes flew open, but before he could properly startle Fingon hushed him.

“It’s only me.” He leaned over Maedhros and gently smoothed a hand over his eyes to close them again. “Sleep, my love.” Fingon kissed his temple. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

As quietly as he could, Fingon slipped from the apartment and returned to his own quarters. He climbed back into his own bed and did his best to catch a few hours of sleep before he had to get up and face the day ahead.

Chapter End Notes

^[1] As referenced in a previous footnote, I've used the date from The Later Annals of Beleriand for the fall of Tol Sirion to Sauron and Orodreth's flight from Minas Tirith to Nargothrond, where it is said to have occurred in the year 457. This is partially because that's the version Christopher Tolkien preferred and used in the published Silmarillion, and partially because it worked better for the story that way. I took some liberties in stretching "F.A. 457" to mean "right at the end of F.A. 457," so while in the fic we're currently in autumn of 457, Minas Tirith has not yet fallen and we can assume that it will be taken by Sauron in like, a month or two, right before the end of the year.

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Fingon forced himself to eat what was in front of him. He could barely taste what he was putting in his mouth, but Gwánthon had been right to encourage him to eat a meal. The food helped to quell his nausea, and he would need the strength for the day ahead.

They made no conversation. Fingon was far too tired to start one, and Gwánthon would never think to disturb his peace by speaking first. He was also clearly as exhausted as Fingon, pale and dark-eyed and perfectly content to just sit in companionable silence while the sky outside melted from pitch black into the grey-tinged violet of early dawn.

Once Fingon had eaten all that he could stomach, he pushed his plate away with a heavy sigh. “I suppose we should allow the others in.”

Gwánthon looked out the window and considered the lightening sky. “There is still some time, if you wish to delay a little longer.”

“I would delay until the world’s breaking, if I could.”

“Well.” Gwánthon cracked a small smile. “That might be pushing it a little.”

Fingon groaned. He folded his arms on the table and hid his face.

He did not want to do this.

He had to do this.

“Tell me I can get through this day.”

It was unfair to seek reassurance from Gwánthon. His esquire was not his friend, nor his peer. Fingon should know better than to blur these lines, especially when he was all too aware of how deeply Gwánthon’s true affections for him ran. Still, it was Gwánthon who was here with him now, and no other. Gwánthon had brought him breakfast unbidden, because he knew Fingon well enough to know that he would not have eaten otherwise.

“You can get through this day,” Gwánthon echoed dutifully. “It is the work of kingship that is hard, and even under dire circumstances you have performed admirably. Compared to that, today will be easy.”

Fingon raised his head and looked at him, a little pathetically. “Thank you, Gwánthon.” He reached across the table to squeeze his wrist. “You have always been very good to me.”

“Of course, my Lord.” The tips of Gwánthon’s ears were pink. He always blushed so terribly easily. “It is my duty and my privilege to serve.”

Fingon smiled, but it did not meet his eyes.

Valar, how had his father done this? How had he coped with this depth of loneliness, the constant reminders of how wide the gulf was between himself and everybody else?

Fingon wished Maedhros were here. He almost always wished Maedhros were here, because the longing for Maedhros came hand-in-hand with loneliness, and loneliness in these days dwelt ever near at hand. But today there were at least half a dozen people waiting in the corridor for Fingon’s word to come inside and begin preparing him for the ceremony, and Maedhros would only have been in the way. No, Fingon would have to get through this on his own.

This day was not for him, he reminded himself. It was for his people, and for the Enemy— to show them that the Noldor were not ruined, that they yet stood united. They had not crumbled in the face of despair.

The weight of all that responsibility would have crushed Fingon if he let it, so he gathered his resolve and spoke before he could change his mind. “Alright, let them in.”

Fingon had underestimated: there were actually a dozen people attending to him.

They worked as a single unit, like a 24-handed beast with all its limbs moving at once. A bath was run, and every square centimetre of Fingon’s body mercilessly scrubbed. His hair was washed, then washed again, then massaged with oils until it shone. Everywhere he turned there were more hands— guiding him out of the tub, drying him with a towel, wrapping him in his dressing gown, tying it at the waist. They sat him down on the stool in front of his vanity, and three sets of hands got to work combing out his curls.

For the most part it was a silent, somber affair. Scarcely a word was spoken among the retinue. Fingon, for his part, spoke only once: when someone uncorked a vial of fragrant hair oil and the scent of rosemary suddenly stung his nostrils.

“No!” Fingon scrambled hastily away from the stool before anyone could put that in his hair. He had to swallow twice before he could find his words. The smell was permeating the air all around him; his father’s favoured scent, and the one he had worn for most of Fingon’s life.

Where had that even come from? Some of these people had been attending to his father since before they left Aman; one of them must have brought it with them.

Fingon could make it through this day. He could. He could put on the mask, he could play the part. But he could not do it if he had to walk around all day smelling like his dead father.

“Here,” he said, forcing himself to be calm. He took up his own favoured jasmine hair oil from the vanity and passed it back. “Use this instead, please.” He sat back down and tried to slow his racing heart.

The remainder of the morning proceeded without incident. Once Fingon’s hair was mostly dry it was braided in the traditional style with two long plaits on either side of his face, adorned with golden clasps of varying thickness. His eyes were lined very lightly with black kohl, and his cheeks dusted with rouge. His own hands, perfectly capable of putting in earrings, lay idle as the selected pieces were inserted for him— mostly understated hoops, save a small pair of tear-drop shaped rubies which were very nearly the shade of red favoured by the First House, but just different enough to allow for plausible deniability. They had been a gift from Maedhros, centuries ago now; a reminder, for when they were apart.

With the appointed hour now near at hand, Fingon stood to be dressed. He was draped in layer after layer of clothing, all impeccably ironed, navy and gold items of silk and lace all intricately patterned. He looked kingly, he decided, as he stared down his blank-faced reflection in the mirror. He suddenly felt close to weeping.

Several hands procured handkerchiefs seemingly out of thin air, prepared to catch any tears that fell. Fingon managed to hold them back mostly out of spite.

When the time came, he followed the procession out the door and down the corridor. His heart was sick with grief.

He wanted his father by his side. He wanted his father’s soothing voice in his ear, his father’s hand on his shoulder, his father’s smile turned on him, always so very warm.

Alone, Fingon’s thoughts whispered as the procession’s brisk footsteps echoed off the stone walls. You must do it alone.

His siblings should have been there to see him crowned. Turgon and Aredhel and poor, dead Argon— they should have been there to share in his grief and his burden.

The thought of Turgon fanned hot fury in the pit of Fingon’s stomach. It was a welcome reprieve from the yawning chasm of grief, but Fingon could not allow himself to think about his brother now— his brother who had abandoned him, his brother who had left him to carry the weight of everything alone, his brother who dwelt now Eru knew where with the body of their father while Fingon was left to inherit the kingship— for if he did he would surely weep with anger, and Fingon could not afford to weep. And so his thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Maedhros.

Maedhros, the would-be king. Maedhros who had given up the crown, who had ceded his right to rule and all of the burden that came with it.

There had not been a choice. Fingon knew this. A king’s loyalties could not be split, and already Fëanor’s Oath weighed heavily on Maedhros’ spirit. Maedhros could not have been king; not if he sought to rule the Noldor as a whole, undivided. No— it had to be Fingolfin.

And Fingolfin had been a good king. He had been brave and fair, and noble of heart. He had fulfilled his duties with honour and with pride. It could not have been anyone else. It had to be him. And now, it had to be Fingon.

I can’t do this. 

A frantic, panicked thought, clawing its way to the front of Fingon’s mind.

It should not be me. It should be anyone else. I will fail him, I will fail them all. How could he have left this to me? Why must I do this alone? I cannot do it. I cannot. I cannot.

Fingon took a deep, shuddering breath and descended the grand staircase with a steadying hand on the railing.

I must do it.

In that moment, it was the only rebuttal he could summon.

I must. There is no other choice.

Fingon stood now before the looming doors of the great hall. He breathed in, breathed out. He clawed together all of his stubborn, ruinous pride, that which had driven him through hardships and perils many times over, and straightened his spine.

I must do this, he thought again. I must, and so I will.

The walk to the dais was the longest of Fingon’s life.

Alone, he strode down the centre aisle. Alone, he ascended the short flight of steps. Alone, he turned and faced the assembled crowd with his head held high. Every eye in the room was turned on him.

I must, he thought desperately. I will.

He had been coached on this extensively. He stood where he had been directed to stand, and he sat when he was to sit. He swore the sacred Oath before Eru, and each and every word he uttered came as an added weight upon his soul. When he was called on to speak he spoke, and his voice was steady.

The Noldor were not broken. They yet stood strong in the face of evil. They would continue on; they would fight until the very last of them took their dying breath.

Later, Fingon would look back on the ceremony and be pleased that they had managed to strike such an elegant balance between somberness and hope. In the moment, though, his only thoughts were for directing his body to cooperate and execute the steps it knew by heart, and for the words that now were echoing in his mind on constant, insistent repeat: I must, and so I will.

Soon the time came for Maedhros to step forward. He may have missed the rehearsal, but he knew what to do; he had done this once already. Together with Maglor, he ascended the steps to the dais.

He had indeed had new robes tailored for the occasion. They were of rich, dark brown with golden detailing on the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves, and upon his head he wore a simple circlet of gold. It was an understated combination, particularly when paired with little in the way of jewelry, but Maedhros had ever been cognizant of optics. He would not suffer whispers that the House of Fëanor had tried to outshine the King on his coronation day. Maglor, standing on Maedhros’ left, was also markedly underdressed compared to his usual magpie tendencies. A direction, then, from Maedhros to his brothers.

In Maglor’s hands was held a plush, velvet pillow. Upon it rested the crown.

Fingon’s, now, but on a time it had been Finwë’s, and Fëanor’s, and Maedhros’ for a short while, and then Fingolfin’s. Five kings now this crown had seen. Fingon’s heart foreboded that it would see at least one more. It was beautifully wrought, of shining gold and made in the style of Aman, inlaid with four gleaming, opalescent gems. These were of the hand and mind of Fëanor, wrought in the days before the making of the Silmarils: white as pearl, and yet in the light they shimmered with hues of violet and blue, like the sea aglitter with the glow of dusk.

Maedhros stood before Fingon where he was seated in his father’s throne— his throne. The great hall was utterly silent. Carefully, Maedhros lifted the crown from the pillow and held it between hand and stump. And as he moved to set it down upon Fingon’s head, Fingon thought, perhaps madly, that maybe the weight of this crown— bestowed upon him now by the eldest son of the senior bloodline, by he who had waived his claim to both the throne and its burden— was not a duty abandoned, but shared.

For was this not why Maedhros had abdicated, at least in part? Maedhros was neither stupid nor naive; he had been a shark in the political courts of Tirion, silver-tongued and quick-witted and ruthless at need. He had known abdication was the only path to ensuring the unity of the Noldor. Their people, greatly weakened on both sides, could not afford a civil war. If they turned on one another the Enemy would have quashed them like a gnat beneath his heel.

Fingon, knowing this to be true, had done half the work, rescuing Maedhros from the mountainside and bringing him home.^[1] Maedhros had known that the rest must fall to him: to abdicate, and to allow the right to the throne to pass to the Second House. To ensure the survival of the Noldor, even at his own loss.

Duty not abandoned, but shared.

The weight of the crown settled upon Fingon’s head. It was heavy, heavy, and for a moment he was almost cowed. He shut his eyes and willed himself not to tremble.

I must, and so I will. I must, and so I will.

When he forced himself to look again Maedhros was still standing before him, blocking him from view. He was looking down at Fingon with something between compassion and pain. Fingon allowed himself a single moment to compose himself, and then gave a short nod. Maedhros stepped away.

The booming voice of the Master of Ceremonies rang out across the great hall: “Thus do I crown you, Fingon Nolofinwion, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea.”

There was singing, then; a song of hope and of joy, threaded through with grief as were all songs of the Eldar in those days. Afterwards, the Master of Ceremonies asked each of the lords to rise in their turn and swear fealty to their King.

Maedhros, the eldest son of the First House, came forward first.

Fingon stood and extended his hand. Sinking to one knee, Maedhros took it in his own. For all that his eyes held an ocean of sorrow, his touch was sure.

“Here do I swear fealty to the Crown,” he began in a voice low and unwavering. “I swear to serve my King forevermore; in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or in dying. If by my life or my death I may be of service to my King then I shall do my duty, until my King release me or death take me, or until the world ends. So say I, Maedhros son of Fëanor, eldest of the First House of Finwë and Lord of Himring.”

He bowed his head and kissed the ring upon Fingon’s finger. Shining locks of copper and silver fell forward to shroud his face, and Fingon could feel the warmth of his exhale, the way his hold tightened for the barest of moments. Then Maedhros drew back, and raised his head.

“This do I hear,” Fingon heard himself say, “Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea. I shall not forget it, nor shall I fail to reward that which is given.”^[2]

Maedhros rose, and stepped away, and Maglor came forward to take his place.

There was an endless procession of lords and courtiers. Fingon’s arm soon grew tired of being outstretched, and he became bored of hearing the same words spoken over and over again in different voices, and of uttering the same response each and every time. Subtly, he cast his gaze about the room for Maedhros. He was nowhere to be seen.

That in itself was not concerning. The ceremony had been long, and already many others had stepped away to rest or prepare for the night’s revelry. What worried Fingon was that Maglor had not left. Maglor was ever joined at his brother’s hip— if Maedhros had left and he had stayed, it meant he had been directed not to follow.

Maglor was speaking quietly with his younger brothers, but it was not difficult to catch his eye. Something in the look he gave Fingon, the barely-perceptible downturn of his mouth, made Fingon’s heart sink.

After that, standing through the remainder of the procession was agonizing. When at last it was over Fingon was ushered out the back exit of the hall, whereupon his retinue met him to bring him back to his chambers to be readied for the feast.

Fingon had more important things to do.

“Excuse me a moment,” he brushed past them, “I won’t be long.”

There was an immediate ripple of alarm throughout the assembled group.

“Wait for me in my apartments,” Fingon called back, already striding briskly away, cutting off a woman who was opening her mouth to speak. “I shall be along shortly.”

He had a feeling he knew where Maedhros had gone. On the northeastern wall of the fortress, tucked away from Barad Eithel’s main thoroughfares and accessible only through a little-used corridor, there was a narrow tower. On a time Fingolfin had used it as a private space for his painting. More recently, during Maedhros’ previous sojourn at Barad Eithel, he had taken to visiting it most mornings at dawn— to watch the sunrise, he claimed, though he and Fingon both knew his gaze was only ever turned to the North.

Quietly, Fingon slipped down the corridor and ascended the winding staircase. It opened out into a small, circular room with windows facing to the North and the East. The space was dusty with disuse. Against some of the walls were propped his father’s finished paintings, and above them, shelves lined with paints and brushes. An easel stood near the centre of the room, and upon it was his father’s final unfinished piece: the Ard-galen in full autumnal bloom, captured two months before the coming of the flames.

Fingon’s instincts had not led him astray: on a stool beside the eastern window sat Maedhros, his back to the door, his gaze cast north. Afar off in the distance, the black reek of Angband was billowing from the peaks of Thangorodrim.

“I looked for you,” Fingon said from behind him. “I was worried.”

“Forgive me,” Maedhros whispered. “I could not…”

Fingon recognized the tight, controlled rhythm of his breathing as him trying not to lose control. Slowly, he moved to Maedhros’ side. At the light touch of Fingon’s hand to his forearm some of the tension in Maedhros’ shoulders eased. He looked as though he could cry, if only he would stop refusing to let himself.

At last hidden away from prying eyes, Fingon felt the day’s adrenaline begin to drain from him. Slowly, quietly, he stroked his thumb over Maedhros’ forearm.

After a long silence, Maedhros finally said, “He wants nothing more than to destroy you.”

“The Black Foe,” said Fingon carefully, “wants nothing more than to destroy us all.”

“You, Findekáno.” Maedhros’ voice took on an uncharacteristic urgency. “You more than any. You are High King. He came as close as may be to wiping the Noldor from existence, and he will be furious to have failed. You are the figurehead, you are the symbol. You represent us all.”

Fingon knew this. Fingon had been trying very hard not to think about this.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

“He will—” Maedhros took a shuddering breath. He closed his eyes, as if he could not bear to exist in the world while he uttered the confession. “Every moment you are out of my sight,” he said in a soft, wretched voice, “I feel like I cannot breathe. I feel like the second I turn my back he will…”

Maedhros shook his head and did not go on. Fingon, with his heart in his throat, waited for him to master himself again.

“He will not kill you, Finno,” Maedhros said at last. “He will take you, and he will keep you. And after what you did when you cut me from the mountainside, after what your father did— he will make my torment seem like child’s play. Nothing worse than one child tormenting another with sharpened sticks.”

“He will not get the chance.”

“He will,” said Maedhros miserably. “Our Doom nips now ever at our heels. I know you feel it too. He will have you, one way or another.”

“Stop.” Fingon surprised himself with the sudden strength of his conviction. “Look at me.” Maedhros turned. His face was twisted in anguish. “Take heart, and save your despair for the ears of someone else. You must have hope. I need you to have hope, Russandol. Do you understand?”

Please. You cannot lose hope now. I need you to hold the line in case I falter. I am faltering so much more than I ever have.

“I cannot lose you,” Maedhros whispered. “I mean it, Finno. I could not bear it.”

Fingon wanted to shake him. He wanted to crumple to the floor and sob. He was so tired of this.

He said, “Don’t lose me, then.”

Something in Maedhros faltered. The brief moment of confusion seemed to shake him out of his spiral.

“You have sworn an oath to me, have you not?” Fingon’s heart was beating faster. “If by your life or death you may be of service to your King, you will do your duty. Did you speak the truth?”

“Of course,” answered Maedhros unflinchingly. “I would give up my life for you in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t want you to give up your life for me, Maedhros!” Fingon cried. “I want you to live for me. I want you to let me in. I want you to give yourself over to me, your heart and soul and mind, and trust me with their keeping.”

Maedhros’ eyes filled with sorrow. He tried to look away, but Fingon caught his chin and forced him back.

“I am exhausted, Russandol.” Fingon felt himself trembling with the relief of at last— at last— speaking this aloud. So long biting his tongue, so long holding back, and for what? “I cannot keep doing this dance. So much has changed, and yet the will of my heart has remained the same. It has only ever been for you. Why are we still fighting this?”

“Because, Finno…” Maedhros broke off with a shake of his head. He looked like a cornered animal, his eyes wild and unsure.

“Do not lie to me, Russandol.” Fingon warned. “After everything, I deserve your honesty.”

“I have not lied to you. Not since Araman.”

“Then you have lied to yourself.”

Maedhros was stricken.

“It is not only you,” Fingon said quickly. “I do not blame you alone. I have held you at arm’s length, I have denied you. I have asked more of you than it was fair to ask, and for that I am sorry.”

Maedhros was not solely to blame for all that had soured between them. These wounds had existed even since the days of the Trees. Fingon had wanted Maedhros’ love for him to supersede all else. He had thought that love, if it was true and right and pure, should conquer all fear. Fingon may have become more pragmatic as the centuries had passed, but he had never truly grown out of the starry-eyed romanticism that had driven him to beg Maedhros to wed him on the eve of everything falling apart, mad with the naive hope that it would somehow fix everything.

The time since then had only seen the wounds between them fester. They had grown wider and deeper, broken open again and again by the thousand tiny hurts and betrayals they had dealt one another. But just as the hurt had burrowed deep, so too had the love. Love like the towering elm whose roots delved far and deep underground to tangle inextricably with every living thing around it; love like the weed growing up through cobblestone, stubborn and bitter and alive, so alive, the only colour in an endless sea of grey. Love that simply was, whether they willed it or not.

“I don’t want to do this alone, Russo,” Fingon said softly. He slid his hand around Maedhros’ jaw and felt the softness of his cheek, the shift in texture where the jagged scar reached across his skin. “I would have you, and all that that means.”

Maedhros’ brows drew together, as though the words themselves were a knife between his ribs. “Fingon…” he shook his head, irresolute. In the distance, the six o’clock bell began to ring out.

Damn it. Fingon glanced out the window, where already the golden light of dusk was deepening. His attendants were surely running around frantic by now.

“I need to go,” he said reluctantly. “Let us speak more about it tonight?”

“Yes,” Maedhros seemed to sag with relief. “Yes, alright. I will come to see you once the night is over.”

“Alright.” Fingon reached down to squeeze his wrist.

Maedhros looked more vulnerable and unmoored than Fingon had seen him in many long years. Still, when after a moment’s hesitation Maedhros leaned up and kissed him, his hand on Fingon’s cheek was steady. “I do love you, Findekáno,” he said. “Very much.”

For all that sorrow and uncertainty still weighed on Fingon’s heart, he felt the shimmering lightness of hope fluttering in his chest. “I know,” he gave Maedhros a small smile. “That, at least, I have never doubted.”

Chapter End Notes

At last we reach the scene from the artwork!! Is it not the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your life? 😍 I still can't get over just how stunning it is, Elanna_Elrondiel is such an incredible talent and I feel so lucky to have had the chance to work with her this summer and write for this piece. Please go and give both the artwork and Elanna some love, you can find her on tumblr and instagram!

^[1] The Grey Annals places the arrival of Fingolfin's host at Lake Mithrim in F.A. 2, while Maedhros' rescue from Thangorodrim doesn't occur until F.A. 5. This means that about 4 years passed between the time Fingon would have learned of Maedhros' capture and when he actually went to rescue him. We already know that there were great tensions between Fingolfin's and Fëanor's folk at this time— the text states explicitly that Fingon's reasons for attempting a rescue came of both a desire to heal the feud of the Noldor before Morgoth could be ready for war, and because of his friendship with Maedhros. The passage in the Grey Annals (which is very close to what's in the published Silm) reads: "Here Fingon the Valiant resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, ere their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the north-lands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth. Moreover the thought of his ancient friendship with Maiðros stung his heart with grief (though he knew not yet that Maidros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships)."

I love this, and I love how this timeline complicates things and points to Fingon's choice to attempt a rescue having been a rational, level-headed decision driven by both politics/pragmatism and love, rather than a rash choice made hastily for love of Maedhros. I really wanted to play into that here; yes, Maedhros and Fingon love one another, but that love can't be divorced from their situations nor the pressures of duty and politics, and there is so much potential to be found in letting that tension exist.

^[2] If this sounds familiar, it's because this oath of fealty (both Maedhros' oath and Fingon's response) have drawn heavy inspiration from Pippin's oath to Denethor in Return of The King. Thank you, Tolkien, for your service to the gay cousin incest cause.

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The revelry lasted long into the night.

In the end, it was not nearly so unbearable as Fingon had feared. There was good food and good music and, for the most part, good company. He endured many a tedious conversation, and forced a great deal of polite laughter, but as the hours lengthened and the drink flowed freely, true laughter began to come with ease. When the dancing began, Fingon let Finrod drag him out onto the floor.

He liked this, he soon remembered. He liked parties and people and dancing. In spite of the day’s exhaustion Fingon felt alive, and his blood was hot in his veins.

As the music grew more lively Fingon danced with countless partners, so many they all began to blur together, as many as he could possibly get his hands on, so that by the time he came upon Maedhros in conversation with his brother it was nothing at all to take him by the arm and whisk him away, leaving Curufin startled and suddenly alone.

Maedhros yelped, his hair whirling through the air as Fingon dragged him immediately into a spin. An exasperated smile split Maedhros’ face. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his hand coming up to clutch Fingon’s shoulder as he allowed Fingon to take the lead.

Fingon, who had been fully expecting Maedhros to slip his hold almost immediately, could have wept for delight. Maedhros was here. Maedhros was letting Fingon dance with him in front of everyone. Maedhros loved him, and they were going to talk as soon as the night was over, and all was going to be well.

“Yes, actually.” Fingon’s cheeks ached from smiling. “I rather am.”

With the coming of the early hours of the morning, the festivities began to wind down. It was around this time that Maedhros made a silent exit, but Fingon was trapped in a conversation with several of Finrod’s lords and did not manage to escape until nearly an hour later, shortly after the three o’clock bell. Upon trudging back to his apartments, he found Gwánthon awaiting him just outside his door.

“You’re still up!” Fingon exclaimed. “You must be exhausted.”

“Not nearly as exhausted as you must be, Lord,” said Gwánthon. “I wanted to see that you were well before I took my leave.”

“I am, yes,” Fingon assured him. He wanted nothing more than to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Is there anything that you require? Tea?”

“No,” Fingon answered too quickly, and then immediately felt a little bit guilty. He put a firm hand on his esquire’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Gwánthon, for your support today. It meant a great deal.”

“It was my pleasure, Lord,” Gwánthon smiled bashfully. “If there is nothing more that you need, then I shall allow you to retire.”

“Goodnight, Gwánthon.”

“Goodnight, my King.” Gwánthon only made it a few steps down the corridor before he turned back around to say, “Oh, and your cousin awaits you in your chambers.”

“Yes,” said Fingon, smiling. “I was expecting him. Now go and rest.”

With a soft chuckle Gwánthon did as he was bid, and his footsteps receded down the corridor. Finally, after one of the longer days of Fingon’s very long life, he let himself into his apartments.

Maedhros looked up at him from the couch. He was lying on his back with his legs outstretched, a book held open above him. He had not changed out of his formalwear, but his sleeves had been rolled up, and his collar loosened a little.

“Made yourself comfortable, I see.” Fingon slid the latch into place.

Maedhros raised his eyebrows. “Is it the will of my King that I be in discomfort?”

“It is the will of your King that you take your boots off my couch.”

Maedhros snorted and sat up. He laid his book down on the table. When he opened his arms, Fingon fell into them gratefully. He let Maedhros embrace him for a moment, but the position was awkward and uncomfortable, and it had knocked his crown askew. Fingon groaned and sat up. Just as Maedhros had set the crown upon his head hours earlier, he lifted its weight from him now and set it aside.

“You made it through,” he said, readjusting to give Fingon room to lean into him properly. Fingon did so without hesitation, resting his head on Maedhros' chest. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm,” Fingon hummed. “Tired.”

Maedhros’ low chuckle resonated underneath Fingon’s cheek. “Unsurprising. Anything besides tired?”

“Hopeful,” said Fingon after a moment. “Moreso than I was, at least.”

Quietly, Maedhros kissed his hair. “I am glad to hear it.”

“And you?”

“It was good to see you happy,” said Maedhros, after a long silence.

It was not the answer Fingon had been looking for. “Are your brothers well?” he asked, changing the subject. While Fingon had made a point of speaking publicly to all seven of Fëanor’s sons throughout the evening, in most cases it had only been for precisely as long as was necessary.

“They’re fine,” scoffed Maedhros. “They’re miserable company. This week has brought a lot of old arguments back to the surface, which is always pleasant.”

“They still blame you for abdicating.”

“Well, yes. Which means they blame you. Usurper of my heart and all that.”

“Usurper of your heart!” Fingon exclaimed, propping himself up to sit. “I haven’t heard that one.”

“Did you not know? You seduced and beguiled me into giving over both my heart and my crown.”

“Surely they don’t actually think that.”

“No,” Maedhros granted after a moment. “But it is easier to pretend they do than it is to accept that the decision I made was the right one, even if it would have made our father so furious he’d have struck me down on the spot for even suggesting it were he alive to do so.”

Fingon offered him a wry smile. “Then he should not have died and left the choice up to you.”

“You know, Káno said something very much like that to Curvo, once.”

“That must have gone over well.”

“Yes, he won himself a lovely black eye for his troubles.”

Maedhros was smiling, but there was a deep bitterness just below his surface. It could not have been easy, shouldering so much blame. Still, at least Maedhros’ siblings yet lived. At least he knew where they were.

It seemed Maedhros was having the same thought. “I am sorry that Turgon and Aredhel were not here.”

Resentment rose in Fingon’s throat like bile. “I care not,” he lied. “They have made their priorities clear enough; I don’t wish to dwell on it. What I truly wish…” He broke off with a hollow laugh. “It is a ridiculous thing to say. But all day long I have been wishing that my father were here.”

Maedhros smiled sadly. “I don’t think that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it not?” said Fingon. “If my father were here none of this would be happening. There would be no coronation. The crown would rest upon his head and not mine. It’s irrational.”

“Irrational is not the same thing as ridiculous,” Maedhros pointed out, which was an annoyingly rational point. “Grief is irrational, and yet it demands to be felt.”

“I suppose so,” said Fingon. And then, after a moment of gathering his resolve, “It is a lot like love in that way.”

Something in Maedhros both softened and grew wary. “Finno,” he began, in that tone that meant he knew best about everything and was about to tell Fingon exactly how wrong he was.

“No, I am speaking first.” Fingon left no room for discussion on the matter. When Maedhros pursed his lips but made no acknowledgment, Fingon said, “Yes?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Fingon swallowed. His stomach was suddenly in knots, twisted up with trepidation and anticipation and the thrill of daring to hope.

“Love,” he said, “is not rational. Yet like grief, it demands to be felt. I should not love you as I do. I know this. It is irrational, after all the ways we have hurt one another and everything that should have torn us apart, that I would love you still. Yet even when I have hated you, even when I have been so furious with you I could not imagine ever finding it in myself to forgive you, the pull of my heart has never once changed. It has only ever belonged to you, even against my better judgment. Do you feel the same?”

“Yes." It sounded like it pained Maedhros to admit it. “But that doesn’t mean anything, Finno. Not really.”

Stung, Fingon said, “How can it not mean anything?”

“I love you because I cannot bear not to.” Maedhros explained it like Fingon was a child, too young and bright-eyed yet to understand the truths of the world. “And because I am too selfish to deny myself your love for as long as it is given to me. But you are good, Findekáno— you are good in a way I can never hope to be. I am bound to my father’s Oath before anything else; before life, before love, before even you. That will not change. You have already stained your soul for my sake far more than I should have let you. To do as you ask would be to ruin you for anyone else for the rest of time, and that I will not do.”

For a moment, Fingon was so furious he could not speak. “I don’t want anyone else! Were you listening? Do not flatter yourself to think that all that I have ever done has been for your sake. I have made my choices, and I have lived with them. Any stains on my soul are my own doing.”

“Alqualondë—”

“You did not force me to draw my sword, nor did you force me to go into exile. You assume I followed you and you alone? My heart may be yours, Maedhros, but I am still a person in my own right. You would seek to deny me both my heart’s desire and my agency in the same breath.”

“And yet there was a time you would have stayed forever in Aman if only I said the word.” Maedhros’ eyes were full of barely-restrained anger. “You would have given up everything, you would have run from your family and had me run from mine.”

Fingon’s throat burned with shame, even now. “I was naive,” he granted. “I know now that it would not have changed anything.”

“So you admit that I was right to deny you.”

“No,” Fingon snapped, “that is not what I said. I was naive to believe that us marrying would have solved anything or changed what was to come. That does not mean I was wrong to want it, or that you were right to deny it.”

Maedhros scrubbed his hand down his face. “But there was no point, Findekáno. So much risked, and for what?”

“Why must there be a point? Would you have us tally up a score? I’m not going to sit here and litigate the costs and benefits of loving you, Russandol.”

“Is that not what you did when you denied me?”

Maedhros in the throes of fury was a terrifying sight to behold, but this was not that. One did not need access to Maedhros’ mind to feel the hurt radiating from him like heat from a woodfire. He stared Fingon down with his jaw set. 

“No,” said Fingon. “I denied you because I had the same thoughts that you have now: it would not have changed anything, you were to go East and I was to remain in the West, there existed already wounds between us so deep and vast they seemed insurmountable. And…” Fingon drew in a breath that was very nearly steady, and decided that now was the time for honesty, even if the truth was ugly. “You had hurt me, and I wanted to hurt you back.” His face burned with the admission, but Maedhros did not look surprised.

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes.” Fingon did not need to think about it. “But I do not like to look back on my past self with scorn. He acted as well as he could have under impossible circumstances, and I know the same is true for you. This is not about blame, Russandol. I am weary, and I am lonely, and I don’t want to do this any longer. Are we not allowed to just have one another for love’s own sake?”

“No.” The response was utterly resigned. “Not us. Not me.”

Heat prickled behind Fingon’s eyes. He blinked hard and ignored it. “You may believe yourself to be uniquely destined to suffer all you want,” he said, his voice terribly tight. “It isn’t true. It’s an excuse, and you know it. You are so terrified to let me in, you would rather hurt me a million times over than risk letting me see you fully, just in case I take one look at who you are underneath and decide that I no longer want you.”

It was harsh, but it was true, and from the look on Maedhros’ face they both knew it.

“I have seen you at your worst, Maedhros. You underestimate how bad it was." The things Maedhros had mumbled while delirious on the shores of Lake Mithrim, the nightmares he had woken screaming from, the frantic admissions in the dark of what had been done to him, what he had been made to do. “If that was not enough to turn me away forever, nothing will be.”

Cracks were beginning to form in Maedhros’ facade. He looked away and closed his eyes, but he could not manage to pull the mask back together once it had slipped. Fingon watched his chin tremble.

“I do not blame you for being frightened.” Fingon slid closer and reached for him. Maedhros let him cup his cheek and urge him back. “You have good reason to be. I do not doubt that the burdens that weigh on you are heavy; mine are as well.” Heavy, so heavy, ready to crush Fingon the moment he so much as gave them space in his mind to breathe. “We can share in their weight together.”

“Findekáno…” Maedhros’ blue eyes were an ocean of sorrow and grief and love— oh, so much love.

“If you would deny me,” said Fingon, fighting hard to keep the words steady, “then deny me. But do not pretend that it is for my sake and not yours. For my part, I would have you, Russandol. All of you, for as long as the world lasts.”

Let me in. Let me in. Give me all of yourself, and take all of me in turn.

Pained, Maedhros said, “You could have far better.”

“I don’t want better! We both know it would be a kindness for you to leave me free to take someone else. To claim me and allow me to bind myself to you would be cruel and selfish beyond measure. Good, I say. You are cruel. You are selfish.” Fingon kissed Maedhros’ still mouth. “Be selfish, Russo. There is no one else for me. Surely you must know it as well as I.”

A long, shaky exhale. “I know.”

“See?” Fingon breathed. He was clutching Maedhros’ face, he could not bring himself to stop. “Do not make me do this alone, Russandol. I can’t…”  No, can’t was not the right word. “I don't want to do it alone. Whatever comes, I would have you.”

“Finno…” said Maedhros, wretchedly, shaking his head. His hand came up to grasp Fingon’s sleeve.

“Stop thinking about what you think is best for me. Would you have me?” When Maedhros made no reply, Fingon said, “I know the answer already. I want to hear it.”

A long, agonized silence stretched between them. 

“Yes,” Maedhros confessed. “I would. Of course I would.”

“Then have me,” Fingon pleaded. “And give yourself to me in turn.” Maedhros’ fingers were trembling. “Give yourself to me,” Fingon said again, and kissed Maedhros’ mouth, hard.

Hesitantly, Maedhros kissed him back.

“Russandol,” Fingon whispered, stroking back his hair. “Maitimo. Give yourself to me. I want all of you, whatever comes.” Another frantic kiss. “Whatever comes.” Another. “Whatever—”

Like a cliff face breaking off and sliding into the sea, Maedhros shuddered and surged forward to crush their mouths together.

He said something that sounded like Fingon’s name, choked and pleading. Then he said it again, in the ragged breaths between each frenzied kiss; a litany of Findekáno, Findekáno, Findekáno, more fair than any music. Fingon’s heart felt ready to burst out of his chest.

“Yes?” he asked. He needed to be sure, he needed to hear Maedhros say it.

“Yes,” sighed Maedhros. “Yes.”

It was all tumbling from there.

They stumbled together into the bedchamber, bumping into the doorframe as they went, kissing too furiously to be graceful. Whenever Fingon had dreamt of this moment in his youth he had always imagined something slow and tender; making love to Maedhros among the wildflowers, the world around them aglow with the radiance of the Trees in their mingling. Never in his life had he imagined this urgency. Fingon’s fingers were shaking with it as he fought with the clasps of Maedhros’ robes and groaned as his back hit the bedpost.

Maedhros crowded in close and slotted a thigh between his legs. When he broke the kiss it was only to aid Fingon in his errand, looking down to see what he was doing, his heat-stained breaths rushing across Fingon’s lips. Inelegant though their efforts were, gradually their clothing fell away. A seam was ripped in their haste, a few buttons were sent flying, but Fingon barely noticed. At the first brush of Maedhros’ bare skin he felt cleaved through by lightning and there was nothing else in the world, nothing else but this.

Maedhros pushed him back onto the bed and let Fingon pull him down over him. His hot mouth found the side of Fingon’s throat as his hand reached blindly into the drawer. When sharp teeth grazed Fingon’s pulse the brightness in Fingon's blood flared; his palms found Maedhros’ face and pulled his mouth back up to his, meeting him in a kiss that was heady and demanding, mouths open right from the start.

There was no trepidation, not any longer. For centuries now they had been trying to fight this, trying to pretend that this was not where fate was always going to lead them. They would waste no further time. Maedhros reached down, and Fingon’s thighs parted for him with ease.

Maedhros opened him with hasty, uncareful thrusts of his fingers. Fingon moaned through the stretch and urged him on. Above him Maedhros was splendid beyond measure: all beautifully coiled tension and flushed cheeks, his eyes dark, brilliant hair curtaining his face. Fingon felt like he had swallowed the sun. Soon he was full of three of Maedhros’ fingers and canting his hips down into each thrust, unable to help himself, his cock straining against his stomach.

He was growing frantic with need. Maedhros felt it, and he kissed Fingon's face as Fingon babbled his name in an endless chorus, the sound of it breathless and undignified.

“Now,” Fingon breathed as Maedhros withdrew his fingers and reached for the oil. “Now, Russo, do it now.”

“I am, I am.” Maedhros slicked his cock and pushed Fingon’s knee to open him wider. “Be easy.”

“I am easy,” said Fingon, and then he gasped and cried out, and then he said nothing at all as Maedhros sank inside and filled him in one long thrust.

It was so much. Nothing had yet changed, this was just the same as it had always been, and yet it was so much sharper and brighter and more. Fingon was shimmering with anticipation. He was bursting with love. He relished the breathless little noise Maedhros let slip against the side of his neck, the scorching kiss he placed just there where Fingon’s pulse was leaping. It was all Fingon could do to pant with the fullness of him and clutch at his shoulders as he began to move.

There was no effort to draw things out. There was only the frenzied pursuit of release, the solid ache of Maedhros inside him, the lewd sounds of skin meeting as Fingon was rocked mercilessly against the pillows. Fingon pressed one hand between Maedhros’ shoulder blades and felt the muscles there bunching as they worked. His other hand tangled in Maedhros’ hair and pulled. Maedhros’ choked whine got lost in the sweat-slick curve of Fingon’s neck.

Fingon hitched his legs a little higher about Maedhros’ waist, tilting his hips up to take him more deeply, and shuddered helplessly when the change in angle made everything all the more overwhelming. He had yielded himself entirely over to Maedhros, and even as he did Maedhros yielded to him in turn; an endless cycle of giving and taking, receiving and being received. Fingon could feel him everywhere.

“Look at me,” Fingon forced out in between breaths.

Maedhros raised his head. He was flushed and wide-eyed, mouth red and slick from kissing, stunning and unbelievable and Fingon’s. When Fingon’s eyesight blurred, Maedhros kissed the tears from his lashes.

Already tension was pulling together low between Fingon’s hips. Already his hitching breaths were coming faster and faster. He caught a hand around his cock where it strained desperately against his stomach, and at the squeeze of his own fingers he moaned, dragging his palm up and down his shaft. He screwed his eyes shut when Maedhros adjusted the angle to grind himself against that spot that made Fingon’s nerve endings sing, and then forced them open again, loath to miss even a second of this.

Maedhros whispered his name, upturned in question at the end. Fingon nodded rapidly. He could not speak.

As together they drew near to the precipice, Fingon dug his heel into Maedhros’ backside in fear that habit might drive him to pull away before they could finish, but Maedhros did no such thing. There was only the sweaty slide of skin and the hot, blistering pleasure and Maedhros— Maedhros, everywhere. So close now he could taste it, Fingon’s spirit tried as ever to reach out for him. Instead of forcing it back, instead of slamming shut the door, Fingon let it reach.

And Maedhros was there to receive him.

There was no wall. There was nothing at all to hold Fingon back. There was just Maedhros’ spirit, golden-bright and thrumming and strong.

Fingon choked on a sob. Maedhros met him in a damp, salty kiss. And then Fingon was falling, falling, spilling hot over his fingers at the same moment Maedhros’ hips stuttered and he spent himself deep inside Fingon, claiming him fully for the first time in all the years they had loved one another. Oh, it was glorious. There was naught for them to do but let their fëar do as they longed to do and join together in shining, eternal embrace.

Fingon felt the echo of Maedhros’ pleasure ripple through the nascent bond. His spent cock twitched weakly. His heart soared.

As the haze of orgasm receded and Fingon began to return to himself, it was with the awareness that Maedhros was everywhere, everywhere. All around and within him, filling his heart and mind even as he filled his body, unfurling to find every hollow place there was inside of Fingon even down to the empty spaces between his cells and curling up there to make a home. Maedhros’ fëa in all its stubborn, vibrant splendour, bound inextricably with his.

“Oh,” Maedhros breathed.

Just as Maedhros was in Fingon, so too was Fingon in Maedhros, flowing like water to fill and surround him. Fingon could feel the warm curl of Maedhros’ thoughts; his overwhelm, the lingering echoes of fear, and oh— love. Love, everywhere. Even more than Fingon had known. It was more than ósanwe. Every part of them was intertwined, made whole.

“Russandol,” Fingon whispered. His hands found Maedhros’ face and cradled it between his palms. “Meldanya.” He felt through the bond how the endearment warmed Maedhros.

There had never been any other path for them than the one that led them here. This only proved what they had already known.

Maedhros turned his face and kissed the centre of Fingon’s palm.

Maedhros could not be spared long from the East. He lingered as long as he could, but all too soon it came time for him to depart.

So it was that on a day of rain not unlike the day Maedhros had come to Fingon in the wake of his father's death, they stood opposite one another in the courtyard of Barad Eithel. In spite of the rain's chill it was not so grey as it had been on that day; high above them in the heavens, Arien was fighting to break through the cover of clouds. There would be sun by midday, Fingon deemed.

Maedhros' spirit woven through Fingon's was bright and fierce and unyielding. His strength was lent to Fingon, and Fingon's to him, and though the burden of the crown upon Fingon’s head was heavy, he stood tall and was unbowed by its weight.

Maedhros bent to kiss Fingon's hand. Aloud, he said, “My King, it has been an honour.” In the privacy of their minds, he said I shall be counting the minutes until our next meeting. Fingon's heart fluttered and sang, feeling as though it could burst from all the love that it held. Maedhros, he knew, felt it too.

Fingon stood and watched as Maedhros led his company out the gates and down the path. Several times Maedhros turned and looked back. Each time, Fingon was there to receive him. Eventually Maedhros rounded the southern bend that took him out of sight. Even then, the golden bond between them thrummed like a harpstring plucked.

There were times Fingon still woke with terror in the night. Once he would have succumbed to fear, tossing and turning until the sun rose. Now, he only reached out with his spirit through the bond that tethered one to another and nudged quietly at Maedhros’ thoughts. Maedhros’ fëa— steadfast and unfaltering, ever attuned to his own— answered back with a soft tug of its own, safe and warm and alive, and Fingon’s heart knew peace, and he slept.

Chapter End Notes

They did it!! Whatever you do, don't think about how the Nirnaeth is only 15 years away :))

Thank you for reading!

This was my first stab at a proper multichapter fic with an actual narrative (before now I've been almost exclusively a one-shot person), and while it was challenging it was also extremely rewarding and I had an absolute blast with it. I would love to know what you thought!

I’m also on tumblr @gaydhros <3

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