Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

---

Chapter 11

The High King is crowned. A door is cracked open.

---

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.