Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 5

Fingon is forced to finally rest.

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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