Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 10

A year passes, and the day of Fingon's coronation draws near. Finrod arrives to the festivities fashionably early. Maedhros is very, very late.

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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