Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 6

A conversation, and a bath.

“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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