“Can you wait that long?” Findekáno asks.

“Yes,” snaps Maitimo , though in truth he is not so sure. His bladder is ridiculously full, swollen and aching, jostling around uncomfortably with every step he takes. It takes a concerted effort of will not to squirm around awkwardly or grab himself between the legs each time the urgency spikes. He glances at Findekáno. “Stop enjoying this so much.”

***

The Gardens of Lórien are one place in Aman Maitimo absolutely, unequivocally, cannot piss. He will have to find a creative solution to this predicament.

But Aredhel knew better than her mother; she was stronger, she was more willful, she was enlightened. She would not make the same mistakes Anairë had made. She would find a way to do it all differently.

***

Re-embodied in Aman, Aredhel struggles to come to terms with all that has changed, and all that has not.

Fingon understood that hope was a choice. It was careful and deliberate, and it was hard, and the times when having hope seemed the most impossible were the times one had to choose it over and over again, every second of every day. This was the fundamental truth at the core of Fingon’s beliefs, the centre around which he understood the world and his place in it.

Very seldom did he waver in this conviction more than he did in the months following the Dagor Bragollach.

***

Fingon inherits the crown. Maedhros comes to Barad Eithel in the hour of his grief. Together, they figure out a way to move forward.

On an evening of late summer, in the shining hour of the mingling, Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro strides into Taniquetil’s teeming festival halls with the new-wrought Silmarils blazing upon his brow. That night, fire consumes Findaráto’s dreams.

***

Finrod struggles under the weight of foresight.

But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.

***

Maedhros, Fingon, and their final night together before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

You see, I was so enamoured of this last thought as it seized me during the feast, and I could think of nothing only the Crown Prince and his Lord coming together at last in an urgent collision of desperate need for one another. Further, I had unquestionably overdone it on the wine, and so alas: a short story has been born. Entirely fictional of course; it came to me and I could not rest until I had written it down. Indeed I could not even sleep! Long was my labour as I bent over my desk until the early hours of the morning putting words to page. I have attached it to this correspondence for your enjoyment. Do let me know what you think.

Yours,

Ceirel

Armed only with pen, paper, and the delusional conviction that Lord Maedhros of Himring is in a secret relationship with the Crown Prince of the Noldor, the daughter of one of Maedhros' most trusted courtiers begins to explore the world of erotic fanfiction. Things quickly spiral out of control.

On the morning of the day Fingon was to die, the sun rose bright over a shining sea of metal.