A madness most discreet by Agelast

---

Maitimo

A weird little coda for A Madness Most Discreet. From Maedhros’, er, unique point of view.

---

 

“I have often wondered if my father hired him for his extreme quietude, if that is the right word to use,” he said, as the footsteps of the butler retreated into the darkness.

I got up, to stretch. “You know it isn’t. You just said it to annoy me.”

He hissed in mock-frustration, “Not everything I do is to garner your attention, you know.”

I laughed and he did too, because we both knew that this was not quite true. The whole night had a performance, put on by Findekáno for my especial benefit. What would he do now, I wondered. Confess his undying love for me? He wouldn’t -- surely not, such naked emotion would surely make him squirm in perfect discomfort!

And I couldn’t have that, could I?

So, of course, I was forced to go over to him, and pull him into bed and start to ply him with wine. It was only fair, after all.

I knew that if earnest talk came about, I would have to patiently listen to him and then do The Noble Thing, which would be to discourage all unnaturalness that was between us, as was right. Oh, but The Noble Thing was also the dullest thing to do, and so I pulled Findekáno close.

To me, to me, oh come to me!

His eyes were very bright. Oh my poor cousin, is this what you hoped for so long? If you had only said something before! I tugged at his nightshirt – a ridiculous garment, I told him so, in a quiet whisper, he ought to do what we did, and sleep with no clothes at all. What rebels you are, your family, he said, his hands quickly making short work of my robes. “No smallclothes?” he said, a smile playing on his lips.  “None and none,” I answered.

All this I must remember – the angle of his hips, the curve of his arms, the slope of his shoulders. The weight of his body against mine. The sweetness of his lips against mine.

I should not have been surprised that Findekáno should lapse into poetry at a crucial moment, as his hair lapped up on my chest. A breath, a sigh, and then:  “I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I did, till we loved? Were we not wean'd till then?” There was a catch in his voice as he continued, “But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?” And there was a silence as his words reverberated though the chamber, the soft hiss of the s, the hard k digging into my thigh.

I had to stifle a groan, and said quietly that he ought be more careful with how he used such words or he would make me lose my head entirely.

He raised his head and gave me a level, thoughtful gaze. “I was right, then, about your extreme vanity,” he said, head cocked just so.

I blinked, less than pleased. “What do you mean?”

“Here you are, dreaming away about me – a Findekáno-shaped figment of your imagination, when I – that is to say, he is out there, struggling to catch your attention.” 

 

It was true, of course. The Findekáno-shaped figment was almost worthy of the real thing. I opened my eyes, and accepted the glass of wine Findekáno offered me. I settled in, and listened to what he had to say.

* * *

The door closed behind me, firmly shutting out me out from Findekáno. I sighed, mingling intense relief and frightful dismay.

What a night! 

I should not be suprised that Findekáno should suprise me so.  I close my eyes now. I can remember the first time I had ever met my cousin, in the gardens of my grandfather's palace. I was a sullen adolescent then, very eager to leave behind all these wretched children, yelling, biting, and always, always needing my attention. I sought some peace in some deserted corner... And of course, I nearly tripped over a child, almost immediately.

“No! Stop!” a young voice cried out, as a small boy glared up at me.

 

With a sigh, I dropped on the soft grass, defeated.

“May I ask what you are doing?” I asked, not unreasonably, I thought.

“You may well ask, but I don't have to tell you,” he said shortly.

It was then I saw then that he was watching two stag-beetles battling it out, a fight to the death. I glanced down at him, this small dark boy, and said, “You must be Findekáno, Uncle Nolofinwë’s boy.” 

A reluctant nod.

After a short silence as we observed the battle, he turned to me and asked “Which one do you think will win?”

“The bigger one, of course,” I said.

He shook his head. “The smaller one is more determined.”

And sure enough, the smaller one lunged and flipped its rival over. Unnerved by this, I took the flailing beetle aside and put it on the ground. We watched as it scrabbled away. 

"You shouldn't have done that," I said in an unsteady voice.

“Why?” he asked, half-scornfully. “They would have fought anyway. I was only the audience."

But that was only the last time Findekáno had used his cleverness against me. As we grew up and as we grew closer to each other, I confess now that I had often wished that he would use that cleverness against me in an entirely different way. Against me. Over me. Under me. Surrounding me. Overwhelming me.

 

Oh, I was embarrassing myself now. It's good thing that no one is listening.

 

No matter. I have made a thorough mess of The Noble Thing, which made me believe that perhaps it was not the right thing to do after all. Instead of delivering up a firm repudiation of what he proposed – we were too closely related, and after all we were both men... I have failed to make these arguments at all.

 

Instead giving him gentle guidance on how to correct his moral errors, I have led myself astray. After all, could we ever be normal elves? Can anyone in our family be truly normal? Passions run too hot within us, I think. (Perhaps my youngest uncle is the exception to this...) 

Would anything stop my relentless pursuit of anyone who wasn't Findekáno, and to stop his relentless pursuit of me and no one else? It was so manifestly wrong, I couldn't do it. Not to him. So instead, I hedged my bets, retreated into vagueness and doubt.

I lied, outright.

I peppered my response with I don't knows, I'm sorrys, and most appallingly, with maybes. With the latter, of course, for me, there was a real possibility that in the future, I would relent. No, not just relent.

I would capitulate, with joy. 

I turned and pressed my hand on the heavy polished wood of Findekáno's door. My hand found the knob.

A turn, a turn and then... Well, I could throw the door open, and declare that everything I had said had been only guilt-ridden rubbish, and crush my mouth against his and make him my own.

 

The Valar and our fathers be damned.

 

What did it matter, what did they matter? I knew that in my heart of hearts that only he and I mattered, truly, deeply, and we always would.

 

 

My book.

He still had my book.

He hadn’t finished.

I hadn’t either. 

 

I let go.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The poem Fingon impossibly quotes from is John Donne’s The Good Morrow. It is a great poem to quote when giving a blowjob. If you can get your mouth around it, that is. (Sorry.)