Remembrance Is All by Agelast

Shining Through

Fingon/Maedhros, Explicit. The morning after the night before.  For the kisses meme on tumblr (and lj), Fingon/Maedhros, shoulders, belly, abdomen, and nose. A veritable shopping of body-parts, truly.

Read Shining Through

A whisper of cold air touched his face and he woke with a stifled groan. The fire had gone out, long ago, and though he was still trapped under a pile of blankets and furs, the chill was enough to wake him, stirring up old memories of cracking ice. Little light strayed in from the windows, it was still mostly dark, though the eastern horizon was slowly turning pearl-grey, and lighter still.

Beside him, Maedhros sighed and turned over, still asleep -- and that was the astonishing thing. Fingon had to reach back deep into his memory for a time when he had seen Maedhros like this, unburdened for a moment, deep in sleep, apparently free of torments.

Giving into a childish impulse, he pulled away the blankets that covered Maedhros’ face. There it was, well-made features that had changed so much. They bordered now on harshness, even in sleep. (A nose very much like Fingon’s own, but that was family trait.) A line in between his brows that never lifted, and more fine ones on the corners of his eyes. A mouth turned ever downwards.

How Maedhros had changed.

Carefully, as not to wake him, Fingon touched Maedhros’ pale cheek, to see a faint flush creep up into it. His thumb lightly grazed Maedhros’ lips, which parted a little. It seemed to him that Maedhros’ breathing, which was once slow and regular, had quickened a little. There was a shift in the bed, a half-repressed sigh. Maedhros’ eyes opened and studied him, half-hid by a dark sweep of lashes.

“Hoping to admire my beauty, cousin?” Maedhros’ voice was a warm purr, more seductive for the roughness that came with it. “I fear you will be sorely disappointed.”

Fingon made a noise halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He tried to muffle himself -- without much success. Instead, he crowded in next to Maedhros, and his lover moved a little to give him a warmer place to lie. Fingon pressed his face into the red-gold mesh of Maedhros’ hair and the embroidery of the pillow, and breathed in. Maedhros freed his hair with no little difficulty.

Fingon valiantly ignored the fuss. Instead, he said earnestly, “I never am, not with you.”

Maedhros looked more relaxed now, awake and alert. It seemed to Fingon that he, by dint of some trick of expression and will, had neatly erased all signs of suffering from his face. He instead presented to the world a visage that as hard as it was handsome.

He shook his head and gave Fingon a sharp look. Perhaps he had discerned the run of Fingon’s thoughts already, and wished to dislodge them, physically, if need be.

He ran his hand through Fingon’s hair, tugging gently at the tangles.

“You were always the most outrageous liar.”

“Ai Maitimo, doubt me if you will, but --”

Fingon paused, wondering if he should proceed. Yes, you are not as beautiful as before, but I love you more now. You are beautiful in my eyes, and I cannot see you otherwise. You are beautiful because I love you.

All foolish thoughts, and he, the fool!

No one had ever accused Fingolfin’s eldest son of being too wise, a fact that Fingolfin’s eldest son knew all too well. But Fingon saw well enough what was now ahead of them. They had before them a long stretch of years -- alone -- except for those precious, few nights, and these fast-fading mornings. He shook his head, determined more than ever that they should not waste it, arguing over things that had mattered little before, and now mattered not at all.

So he turned his face towards Maedhros’ hand, which still lay tangled in his hair, and he kissed it, the scarred palm and slippery of locks of hair alike. Maedhros stilled, and looked down at him quizzically.

He said, “Not tired of this yet?”

“No, not yet.” Fingon shook himself free of Maedhros’ grasp, and then pinned him down against the bed. Maedhros made for an exceedingly bony cushion, but eventually Fingon found a comfortable position between Maedhros’ legs. They wrapped around him, long and lean.

“Káno, we will be late in getting up,” Maedhros said. Fingon was pleased to see a flush of warmth spread across Maedhros’ face, down to his neck, and then to his chest. Fingon bent forward, his mouth grazing Maedhros’ cheek. When Fingon kissed the end of his nose, Maedhros made a half-hearted noise of protest.

“We will have to hurry,” Fingon said, pulling back a little. He lowered his head and left a trail of kisses down Maedhros’ chest. Then he paused, waiting for Maedhros to protest further.

But Maedhros was content to watch and say nothing. Fingon’s tongue flicked over one scar, still angry and red, that slashed across Maedhros’ stomach with particular intensity.

He looked up and Maedhros looked down. They did not feel the need to speak. Fingon tangled his hand in the rough red curls of his sex, almost absently. He had only given Maedhros’ cock a few strokes before Maedhros rolled him over and climbed on to him. Fingon gasped -- for air, in shock, and arousal, like a quick, dizzying climb up some high tower, where the air was thin.

Maedhros was a heavy weight against Fingon’s chest. His long, red hair fell over them, and his face glowed, both beautiful and not a little cruel. Fingon stifled a gasp, and grabbed at anything that would bring them closer together -- an arm, a thigh, anything. He succeeded well enough -- his hands looped around Maedhros’ waist, and when Maedhros ground down, there was a delicious friction against their skin, against their cocks.

Minutes passed by, breathless minutes, fraught and fraying at the edges, too intense to last. They rearranged themselves once again, hands caressing, legs tangled together, and hair stuck against skin.

A thin thread of pre-come snaked down Fingon’s thigh, and he sighed, palming his cock absently as Maedhros sucked kisses across his chest. Maedhros’ tongue flicked against Fingon’s collarbone, and followed the curve of well-knit muscle of his shoulder.

Fingon found himself speaking, quietly, but intensely: Yes, oh, yes, yes. Look, how beautiful, oh Maitimo, how bright you are! How beautiful, how I love you. This is -- this is how I remember. You, only you.

Maedhros laughed. Or perhaps he only shook, his eyes wild.

Fingon moaned, forgetful of everything but the heat and lushness of Maedhros’ mouth against his skin, the scrape of teeth -- His cock arched upwards, and he longed for something more, something that would push him over the edge.

Maedhros’ hand stroked him -- briefly -- but that was enough, and Fingon squeezed his eyes shut and came all at once, like an inexperienced youth. His face burned red and hot, and he took little desperate gulps of air.

When Maedhros moved off him, after what seemed an age, or really, far too soon, Fingon caught a terribly smug look on his face. Oh! That look was familiar, though not on Maedhros’ face. His uncle Fëanor often wore that look when he would cut his father down with only a few well-chosen words. Fingon felt like he was wobbling, unable to pull himself together, as shattered as Fingolfin’s self-respect had once been.

He sighed. Maedhros was right. He did take things too far -- and often strayed into territories that were downright bizarre.

Fingon felt a cool cloth against his skin, cleaning him up, and he sighed. A warm hand pressed against his cheek, and Fingon smiled.

Eventually, Maedhros began to make rumblings about dressing, breakfast, of personal responsibility left by the wayside, and how Fingon’s own bed would clearly look unslept in that night, and what a terrible thing it was. He said this all half-heartedly, and lapsed into silence when Fingon sat up and stretched.

Fingon yawned, hugely and luxuriantly. “Dearest cousin,” he said, “if you think anyone is fooled by you rumpling my bedsheets, there is a bridge in Nargothrond that I would like to sell you.”

Maedhros looked as if he wanted to say that he would like to rumple Fingon’s sheets, but seeing Fingon’s broad grin, anticipating just such an answer... He settled for a stiff nod and marched out on his own business.

Fingon lay still for a few minutes more, watching as the sunlight played across the wall of Maedhros’ chamber, picking up on the sparkle in the stone, warm, if only for the eye. Motes of dust were suspended in the sunlight, gold dust.

Fuck With Dynamite

Finrod/Curufin. Explicit. Finrod takes a walk, Curufin works late, and nothing is ever the same again.

Read Fuck With Dynamite

He woke with his lost brothers’ names still burning on his tongue. Blindly, he stared at the ceiling, at the white gemstones that were meant to mimic the stars in the night sky. His body, his heart ached, victim to some phantom pain. With a sigh, he pushed aside the bedsheets and got up. His only thought was to leave behind his stifling bedchamber, though the echoing halls that replaced it gave him no great relief.

Finrod went down a broad flight of stairs, to the workshops below. Nargothrond slept on, and it was easy to pretend that he was the only living creature here still, as it had been in the first days there. The workshops were as quiet as the halls had been. The air hardly stirred as he passed, and still smelled of dust and paint, and sharp scent of metal.

No diligent apprentice had thought to spend his midnight hour here, and for that, Finrod was grateful. Here, he could work, alone, and beat back the old ghosts for a little while longer. With that in mind, he came to a table and picked up a chain that lay there. The chain was light and of an unremarkable alloy. It wrapped around his hands, for a moment, he wondered what it was meant for. Surely, given its plainness, for work, rather than decoration.

The jangle of links clinking together was interrupted by a distant clang of a hammer.

Finrod tilted his head, listening. Perhaps he was wrong about the diligence of some apprentices. Curious now to see, he turned the corner, and opened the door that separated the common workspaces from the private ones. He followed the sound down the hall, until he came to the workshops that had been claimed by the Fëanorions and their followers.

As he opened the door, he saw a figure bent down to retrieve something that had fallen to the floor, dark hair falling over his face.

Finrod knew, as a point of fact, that young Celebrimbor often worked here, late into the night and early into the morning, forgetful of meals and sleep, or the need for conversation. Celebrimbor was already was more dedicated, and say, more obsessed, than any other craftsmen in Nargothrond.

It had taken a great deal of concentrated friendliness on Finrod’s part to crack open Celebrimbor’s shy and cautious exterior, but the effort had been well worth it.

But a light greeting died in Finrod’s throat as the figure turned, to reveal not Celebrimbor at all, but his father, Curufin.

Curufin’s hair was unbraided, it fell on his shoulders and down his back; he had only just pulled it loose, the tie was still in his hand. Like Finrod, he was still attired for sleep, and wore a light cotton shirt, with fawn-colored breeches along with it. His face betrayed no surprise to find Finrod here.

Instead, he bowed, and greeted Finrod, with no trace of mocking in his voice.

“Atarinkë,” Finrod said, “what are you doing?”

It was the wrong thing to say, of course, for Curufin took a step back, as if to hide what was on the table behind him. Then, his hands, quick and clever, flew to his chest, palms up. He beckoned. “Come closer, I’ll show you.”

Finrod did, though in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was not a mistake. There were knives, laid out neatly in a row on Curufin’s worktable. The blades were missing their handles, and had not yet been given their final sharpening, but still they gleamed dangerously, sharper than the most unkind thought. Finrod had the most terrible urge to touch them, to test them. “You are trying to replicate Angrist?”

Curufin stood next to him, radiating cool satisfaction. “So I don’t have to explain, good. Yes, I am.”

“And your results?”

“So far inconclusive, you can see that they are not yet finished.”

Finrod nodded, and placed a finger gently on the edge of a blade. Curufin came close, bumping his shoulder against Finrod’s.

“Careful,” he said, his lips brushing against Finrod’s neck, a breath tickling a lock of his hair.

Inevitably, Finrod’s finger slipped, and a drop of blood, red as a ruby, bloomed on his forefinger. He hissed, more in surprise than pain and stuck the finger quickly into his mouth.

Curufin shook his head, apparently saddened by his cousin’s carelessness.

“Why are you carrying around that chain?” he asked, and Finrod noticed at last that he still held it in his hand.

“Perhaps I would like to tie you up,” he said, laughing with humor he did not feel, and instead of laughing along and letting the awkwardness pass, Curufin tilted his head, as if to consider it.
“What would you give me, if I let you do that?”

“What? Nothing,” Finrod said, a little astonished.

Curufin drew up his brows, and looked as if he wished to argue the point, but instead he said, “What you would have from me, dear cousin?”

“I require nothing, just now,” Finrod said, and suddenly in his mind’s eye, he saw himself and Turgon as boys, as they raced away from Curufin, a little younger and already pale from spending every waking hour side-by-side with his father at the forge. Now, Turgon was a memory more than a living person, and here stood Finrod and Curufin, confronted with their kinship, but not friendship, which, in fact, had never existed between them.

To his everlasting shame, Finrod had never tried to befriend Curufin as he now did with Celebrimbor.

Finrod shook his head, ruefully.

After a moment more of consideration, Curufin seemed to lose interest in him. Instead, he turned his attention back to his project. Carefully, he covered the blades with a soft cloth, and put them in a flat wooden box.

He said, his voice matter-of-fact, “I will give you one, when they are finished.”

“Ah -- thank you.” Finrod stood awkwardly by as Curufin arranged his workspace to his pleasing. He was at loss as to what to say. I am sorry we did not include you in our play. It was just that you looked so much like our uncle, and he terrified us, even then.

“I did not need to play,” Curufin said, and Finrod wondered if he had spoken aloud.

“But do you wish to do it now? To play?”

There was a strange light in Curufin’s eye, a promise of things that Finrod could only begin to guess at. “If we did anything now, it would no longer be for play.”

Finrod could only agree, and he bent down, almost without thinking, and kissed Curufin in the mouth. Curufin’s lips were thin, severe, he had all of Fëanor’s beauty, but pared down, eroded with time in ways that Fëanor could never be. He was rough, biting hard against the soft flesh of Finrod’s lower lip.

But Finrod did not cry out, he did not pull away. The last person he had kissed had been Amarië, and that had been gentle and regretful, full of longing for the time they no longer had.

This was nothing like it. They tottered together, hands clutched to each other’s sides, and Finrod had a brief fantasy of taking Curufin to the floor, among the dust and stray pieces of metal and stone, to change that mocking smile on his cousin’s face into something altogether different. But before he could do so, Curufin led him to a little chamber off of the main workshops, a place Finrod vaguely remembered looking into, when Nargothrond was being newly delved. A few narrow cots took up the west wall, intended for craftsmen who wished to rest briefly, before going back to work.

Finrod pushed two of them together, and shoved Curufin down. Curufin complied with a hiss of satisfaction, and his legs, muscular but lean, wrapped around Finrod.

Finrod was still content to touch, to explore, until a distant part of his mind called out -- but this is your cousin. This is your male cousin. This is your male cousin who, before now, you disliked as much as you allowed yourself to dislike anyone!

Ah, well...

The chain was too short to wrap around Curufin’s neck and still have a handle for Finrod to hold on to, to yank at. But still, the links pressed down against the pale flesh, made marks upon it. Curufin was breathing harshly, bared his throat to Finrod, and it proved too great a temptation. Finrod let the chain rattle down to the floor, and he covered Curufin’s body with his own, as he wrapped his hands around Curufin’s neck and sucked kisses down his throat, kisses that were edged with teeth.

He could feel Curufin’s moans, his whimpers, vibrate through to his mouth, and he reached down and pushed his hand under the waistband of Curufin’s breeches, and ran his fingers through the fine hair he found there. Curufin bucked against him when Finrod gave his cock a few hard strokes.

He stiffened and came with a muffled smith’s curse, as familiar as it was obscene.

With deliberate slowiness, Finrod pushed Curufin’s breeches down -- Curufin thrust his hips upward to make it easier -- and left them pooled around his ankles. Finrod’s own nightshirt was hiked up around his stomach. Curufin watched, avid, as Finrod rubbed his come against the inside of Curufin’s thighs.

“Ai, cousin, how did you become so knowledgeable,” said Curufin, breathless, mocking, and Finrod silenced him with his mouth against Curufin’s wicked, curving one.

Finrod was great observer of all sorts of human behavior, and he was not at all afraid to take the necessary leaps. He thrust in between Curufin’s thighs, and there was just enough of the push and pull, and heat, and friction, to send him over the edge quickly, making a mess of Curufin’s thighs.

He pulled away with a sigh, his brain happily fogged with sex and -- well, not love -- it wasn’t love surely? He turned back to his cousin to see how he fared, and Curufin was perfect still, or so it seemed to Finrod, his eyes closed; the only movement in his body was the rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, he spoke, his voice less smooth than it should have been. “We will never be friends.”

“No,” Finrod agreed, and it was less of a wrench than he expected. He pull a tentative hand on Curufin’s stomach, and slid it down until he reached his hip. “We are lovers, instead.”

Curufin turned to him and gave him a tilting smile that made Finrod’s stomach plunge to the bottom of his feet. There were secrets, and there were secrets, and Finrod wasn’t sure what this one was, and he knew, he could guess, that this would not end well, it could not end well, but --

He kissed Curufin on his mouth, again, and Curufin touched his cheek, more affectionate than not.

It was, at least, closer to the beginning than the end.

Afternoon Delight

Beleg Cúthalion/Haldir. Teen. Haldir meets a legend in Valinor, and the legend wants to go swimming. 

Written for the kisses meme on LJ, for Beleg/Haldir, back of the neck.

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The sun was hot overhead, and the lake looked inviting, its waters clear and sparkling. Without many words traded between them, both Haldir and Beleg began to strip off their clothes and then waded into the waist deep water, exclaiming at its warmth.

Haldir knew that he was staring, and that he should stop, but Beleg made no comment on it. He swam further, until his hair is a bright spot in the blue water.

Haldir felt his heart beat slowly in his chest, as he cut through the water slowly. He had much to think about, his head felt too small to hold it all in. When he had been young, it had been a great, venerable game to play the heroes of Doriath. He himself had fought most fiercely to play either Beleg or Mablung. (And Beleg more than Mablung, for his father’s bow was to be his own Belthronding.)

It was always a cause of great unhappiness if he was forced to be Beren, or, worse, Túrin.

He never liked Túrin.

But none of that had prepared him to actually meet Beleg, the hero of his childhood! And nothing had prepared him to find that Beleg was very much like himself, a simple elf, uneasy with the splendors of Aman, and more at home in the woods than anywhere else.

Time stretched out, golden, promising, and empty of all expectations. There was no enemy to fight, and no home to defend. If he had thought the life of a marchwarden a lonely one, life in paradise was doubly so. He missed his brothers, he missed his home.

Even the Lady had no more use for his services, he was cut free, floating like a leaf on the water.

He was floating … Oh, he was floating, the sand beneath his feet had dropped away. He began to swim forward, looking for Beleg, but could not find him -- until he felt a cool hand on the back of his neck, and a kiss that quickly followed it.

Haldir turned to find Beleg floating next to him and he flushed as much for the kiss as to be so easily caught out. Though, of course, there was no shame in it, not with Beleg.

There was a hundred things he wished to say, profound things, clever things, anything except --

Haldir coughed and said, “Ah, the hour grows late --” the sun was still high in the sky, and Beleg gave him an amused look -- but Haldir went on, “do you wish to -- rest?”

“Yes,” Beleg said, and truly, the gaze of the rehoused was difficult to endure! Or perhaps it was Haldir’s nervousness?

Together, they swam to shore, but afterwards, alas, got very little rest.

A Whisper on the Wind

Curufin + Amras. Gen. A lonely stretch of beach is all that remains. Vaguely horror-shaped.

Read A Whisper on the Wind

His brother was a ragged shadow, a suggestion of rust and smoke, charred bone and cold water.

Whatever clever words Curufin had crafted to to expel Amras’ spirit from this place died in his throat. Instead, he stalked up and down the beach, occasionally shooting glances over his shoulder. He was glad that he had sent his men away, so they could not see their lord seemingly so undone by plain stretch of sea and shore, all bathed in the weak, northern sunshine.

Unremarkable in every way.

Except for the ghost on it.

Amras took his brother’s distress with curious dispassion. His bare feet made no sound as he followed the crunch of Curufin’s boots on the pebbly shore.

After being followed for what seemed like an unbearable length of time, Curufin turned and said sharply, “It was your own fault! Am I to blame for your cowardice? For your disloyalty?”

His voice was loud, but still the roar of ocean drowned him out.

Ghosts didn’t laugh, and so what Amras did then wasn’t a laugh. It was only the wind that picked up, and whistled shrilly against Curufin’s ears.

Amras’ voice was a both light as a whisper and as deep as the bowels of the earth, every word was clear. “I only ever did what I was told. Is that what loyalty means to you?”

Curufin halted, and jerked up his chin, a gesture he had inherited from their father. He spat out, “What happened to you was not my fault.”

Gently now, Amras said, “Curvo, I forgive you.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness!” But then Curufin was alone, shouting to himself on a deserted beach.

Haunted

Fingon/Maedhros. Teen. Post-Nirnaeth. 

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He wakes to a familiar weight on his chest. It is not guilt, shame, or suffering. Well, it is not only those things. What he feels is a familiar angle of hips, and a brief touch of lips, forever lost. Sightless, he reaches to grab -- a braid, just a handful of it. Just this once.

Metal bites hard against the softer flesh of his palm. He pulls hard, waits for a muffled curse, a wry joke.

Anything.

A pair of white hands, with fingers bloodless and chill, trace the line of his jaw. They touch the place over his heart. Only the lightest of touches.

He lets out a shaky breath. Disbelief and longing entangling together. Desperate.

But the apparition recedes into the dark, and is gone.

His voice cracks, uncertain. “Káno?”

To The Immortal Memory of the Tea-cake

Fingon/Maedhros. Teen. For Oshun, who wanted Fingon/Maedhros, the boarding school AU. Let's make all the leaps necessary to make this possible. 

Read To The Immortal Memory of the Tea-cake

 

Fingon met a stranger on the steps to Maedhros’ room. His expression was black as a thundercloud and he growled as he passed. Fingon clutched the bannister and felt suddenly weak at his knees. He flew up the stairs and rushed into Maedhros’ room, not bothering to knock.

He expected... Well, he didn’t know what he expected, perhaps something hideous, unspeakable, but the room was exactly like it always did, with the table set for tea, and Maedhros at the window. He had his back to Fingon, craning his neck to the opened window, smoke trailing through his long fingers.

Fingon closed the door hurriedly, the slam echoing through the hallway. He knew there would be complaints, but he didn’t care. He locked it, and looked inquiringly at his friend. Maedhros turned, his face blank and his shoulders tensed. He relaxed when he saw that it was only Fingon, and stubbed his cigarette on the window ledge.

They both spoke at once.

“Who was that?”

“In trouble again, Nolofinwion? You’re not too old for a proper caning, you know.”

Maedhros tried to smile, but it didn’t quite make it his eyes. And before Fingon could answer, he said, abruptly, “Do you want tea?”

“Of course,” Fingon said, seating himself in the most comfortable chair. “Now, who was that … person?” Thinking back to his encounter on the stair, he could remember nothing of the man at all, except for the feeling one got when standing too close to a furnace -- a wave of overwhelming heat, and yourself, about to be set alight.

Fingon snatched up a tea-cake and crammed it into his mouth. He felt his heart rate slow down as the icing melted on his tongue.

Maedhros sat on the second-most comfortable chair, next to him, and slapped Fingon’s hand as he reached for a second tea-cake.

“Manners,” he said mildly, at Fingon’s wounded look.

“Maitimo,” Fingon said, exasperatedly, but allowed Maedhros to pour out the tea -- his cousin knew exactly how he took it -- and this afternoon, nothing was said about the dangerous amount of sugar and cream Fingon always wished to take with his tea. They drank quietly for a while -- with Fingon steadily, and rather nervously eating the tea-cakes -- until Maedhros spoke up.

“That was a colleague of my father’s. He wished to know why father declined to reply to his letters.”

Fingon narrowed his eyes and said thoughtfully, “Why go to you with your father’s business?”

“He thought I would be easily influenced,” Maedhros said, with a small sip of his tea.

“Ha! He doesn’t know you very well, does he?”

They shared a private sort of smile, and Maedhros asked what Fingon wished to speak to him about, if, in fact, he was not in trouble. Fingon put down his tea-cup on the table and stretched out, giving Maedhros a radiant smile. “Do I need a reason to visit my most favorite cousin in the world?”

Drily, Maedhros said, “If you want money, I’d advise you to write to your father.”

“But he says he won’t send more until the end of this month! It’s ridiculous, he gives Turvo and I the same stipend, as if I had the same expenses as a first-year! And you can’t say anything or else he’d launch into a long lecture about how in his day, he was quite content with school, with the regular beatings and the terrible food, the obnoxious instructors, all of it to build character and to learn to play the game. Horrifying. Anyway, I’ve written to mother for money instead, and besides, I did want to see you.”

Maedhros seemed a little stunned at this deluge of information, but he recovered admirably and said nothing. He finished his tea instead and gave Fingon a severe look, but that had no discernable effect.

Eventually, their talk, aimless now, turned to the subject of Maedhros’ soon leaving school. He planned to travel a while before taking his place at university, and his future seemed to stretch out before him, promising and bright. Fingon was at turns wistful and envious. “There’ll be no one for me to talk to when you are gone,” he exclaimed, getting up and beginning pace around the room. Maedhros rang for the tea-things to be taken away.

Fingon stopped in front of the window and looked out to the lush green courtyard below. Moodily, he ground down the cigarette stub he found there. He glanced back at Maedhros and said, “Filthy habit.”

“Mm, come here,” was Maedhros’ reply, and Fingon crossed the room and seated himself on the arm of Maedhros’ chair. One day, not very long ago, he had been absolutely smashed and kissed his cousin (his friend, his one-time idol) right on the mouth. To his ever-lasting surprise, Maedhros kissed him back.

Fingon pressed a hand against Maedhros’ cheek, which felt very hot. Maedhros’ face too, was quite red, which clashed sadly with his hair. They had only kissed a little, touched a little, but with more desperation than their usual wont. Fingon studied Maedhros’ face, tracing a finger down the bridge of Maedhros’ perfect nose.

Musingly, he said, “Do you remember what your little brother called you, last time I was in Formenos?”

Maedhros squirmed under him, and flushed even more. “Nothing!”

Fingon kissed his cheek, lingering next to Maedhros’ ear. “Ah, now I do remember. They called you strawberry-head!”

He laughed, and Maedhros wrapped an arm around him and said, gravely, “I am glad to see that you and Curufin share the same sense of humor. Never mind that he’s a child and you are...”

“I am yours,” Fingon said.

“Do I want you, I wonder?” Maedhros ran a hand through Fingon’s hair, and Fingon moved closer to him, if that was possible to do -- they were so close together already.

Fingon murmured into his ear. “What a stupid question. Of course you do, strawberry-head.”

He paused and looked up, suddenly feeling that he ought to bring up the subject of Maedhros’ strange visitor up again, but he quelled that urge. Here was an afternoon of perfect happiness before them -- Maedhros tugged at his hand, meaning to stand, Fingon let himself be led away -- he didn’t mean to waste it.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thank you, Elleth, for taking a look at this, and letting me use that silly nickname. ^^

Sphallolalia

Fingon. Originally posted on Tumblr for the prompt: sphallolalia - flirtatious talk that leads no where.

Read Sphallolalia

Findekáno had always been a hopeless flirt.

If anyone thought Irissë was bad with her toying with the heart of a certain fair-haired cousin of hers, it was nothing to what her eldest brother did. He was indiscriminate in his charm — he flirted with maidens and youths, proud lords and ladies — even the humble guard on watch was not safe from our valiant prince’s cheerful sallies.

He meant nothing by it; it was understood that his heart was pledged elsewhere. But perhaps the lady was already married or had unfortunate political leanings…

Alas, there was nothing for it, blame either the nature of love, or Arda itself, so sadly marred.

Why else would someone as eminently eligible as the eldest son of Nolofinwë go so long without being wed?

all the flesh inherits

This began life as a response to this poetry meme. Also hat tip to Tehta, who once suggested: The Wuthering-Heights-like one where Maedhros, denied his True Love, takes up with Gil-Galad Fingonion, in Ye Olde List of Fingon/Maedhros Ideas, but it didn't quiiiiite go that way.

Read all the flesh inherits

Young Gil-galad thinks often of his father, who some called the valiant. Was he good-humored? Was he kind? Yes, they tell him, his mother and Círdan, both of whom are worried about him. Gil-galad listens to their stories, but feels that there is something missing, something not said.

He did not mean to run away -- in his mind, he hasn’t, only taken a longer route to the Havens -- when he is overtaken by a ragged band of Elves, Noldorin-looking, who ask him many impertinent questions before he is taken to see their leader.

“We are kin,” Gil-galad tells the leader, who is sprawled on the floor of his tent, eyes half-shut with drink.

“Indeed,” said Maedhros, for who else could it be? The excessive height, the hair (red-as-blood, and chopped close to his skull -- his ears are clipped as any escaped thrall’s would be), and the stump, which he makes no effort to hide. He glares just like a dragon, but Gil-galad stands fast and is not afraid.

Maedhros drawls, bored and needling, “Which one are you again? Not Írissë’s brat, surely? No? Perhaps --” he directed his question over Gil-galad’s head, “did Angamaitë have a grand-child, after all?”

“None of those,” Gil-galad said proudly. He wonders that his father could have seen anything in this wretch to be worth saving. “My father was Fingon, and I am the scion of the House of Fingolfin.”

Maedhros looks far from drunk now. He sits up and hisses, “Little imposter, I don't believe you.”

“Believe what you like,” Gil-galad says, and he think it will come blows, when a strong pair of hands pulls him back, and a voice like a bell says into his ear, "Ignore my brother, he is overwrought. I see the resemblance."

Another Elf meets Gil-galad's startled gaze and grins. He is dark and he is handsome. He looks much like Gil-galad, but that is hardly worth mentioning -- most grey-eyed, dark haired Noldos do. He does not let go of Gil-galad's shoulders until Maedhros snorts, loudly, and says, "We cannot keep this one either, Makalaurë."

*

 

They are an odd pair, the two surviving sons of Fëanor. Then Gil-galad remembers, half in alarm, there is another one. Half-wild, half-ghost. He gives a surreptitious look to the dark woods beyond the encampment. He feels as if he is being watched, at all sides. And he is, and there is no helping it, so he looks forward and remembers his own princely dignity.

What of Maedhros and Maglor's princely dignity? They talk like they hate each other, but neither can bear to have the other out of their sight. Maedhros catches his eye and gives him a smile that is more like a snarl. Maglor has pulled a harp from nowhere and plucks at it diffidently, before he tells Gil-galad to try the roast.

Gil-galad declines the roast, but asks about his father. His question is greeted with a long silence, before Maglor begins to play, his eyes closed. Gil-galad is beginning to feel ignored when, before his eyes, he sees his father, exactly as he imagined him. Tall and strong, his dark hair bond by golden thread that Gil-galad's mother still keeps. Fingon lifts a bow, prepares to shoot. Gil-galad looks at the vision hungrily, his heart tight with love. This is his father, and the stories are true.

"Enough," Maedhros says sharply, and the vision wavers, disappears.

"No," Gil-galad says, blinking back tears, "bring him back. Please."

Maglor puts down his harp and looks sad. "I am sorry."

*

Because they are his kinsmen, he is free to go.

(He goes because they are his kinsmen.)

*

Many, many years later, Gil-galad looks upon another kinsman, Elrond, and wonders what he can say, how he can explain. "Forgive me," he says at last, "I did not come in time, and they would not accept the ransom I raised for you and your brother."

Elrond looks at him with clear grey eyes, so familiar. "There is nothing to forgive."

---

Chapter End Notes

Title from Dylan Thomas, All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave, which is Maedhros/Fingon-y to an absurd amount.