Fanworks Tagged with Fingon+Maedhros

Trapped upon the bitter cliff, Maedhros dreams. Or hallucinates. Or endures the mental torments of the Dark Vala, Morgoth. Surely, one of those must be the case; for he cannot have been rescued from Thangorodrim's torturous peak. He cannot.

But then, why is Findekáno here?

Maedhros finds in many ways that those visions which do not end with his own blood and breaking are the worst of all: because they end instead in waking, and the inescapable knowledge that such things will never again be aught but dreams to him. That knowledge is a tighter shackle than the one that holds him to the cliff-face, and the pain of it around his heart is much sharper than that which throbs through his arm. An arm goes numb much faster than a heart, and there is a limit to how much pain a body can bear before the sensation of agony starts to crumble beneath the onslaught.

If there is a limit to how much pain a heart can hold, Maedhros has not yet found it.

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Modern AU with Russingon QPR.

I have a full background for everyone and everything, though I envision this as a series of one-shots, rather than a linear story. Russingon QPR will be the main focus, but other characters will make appearances and maybe steal the light. It's a bit lighter on the trauma in the sense that everyone (beside Finwë and Míriel) is alive, but they each have their own issues.

For practical reasons (aka I didn't want to have to deal with it in-universe), Fëanor is only Míriel's son and was adopted by Finwë at a young age, so Maedhros and Fingon are not biologically cousins, and don't really consider themselves as such, though they have known each other since they were kids.

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“I’m in love with you,” Fingon says one morning in September.

Maedhros is perched on the couch’s armrest, bent down, struggling to tie his laces. He looks up at Fingon as the words sink in. His unbound hair makes a curtain in front of his eyes, and he can only see parts of him, the hand on his shoulder bag, the golden beads in his perfectly braided hair, his hesitant, expectant smile.

His face falls the longer Maedhros takes to answer. They’re running late for the meeting, and there’s a lead weight in Maedhros’s gut that pulls painfully as words fail to form on his lips. I’m in love with you too, the words are right there, but it’s like someone has sucked all the sound out of him.

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Maedhros cuts his hair off for the first time after Losgar, and never quite shakes the habit.

Or: Five hundred years of haircuts, give or take.

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