Ache by Agelast

Ache

Read Ache

There was a pause in the middle going over their battle plans; again, Maedhros looked up to notice that the room was utterly in silence, except for his own voice. Around him sat tired-looking Elves, and exhausted-looking Men. He stopped speaking at once, but the lethargy continued on, unabated. Huor had fallen asleep, while his brother was only awake and listening through sheer force of will.

Even Fingon, standing beside him, drooped with fatigue, though he straightened up and smiled when he felt Maedhros’ eyes upon him.

“Shall we be merciful and break for the night?” Fingon asked him, though the lone, high window in the room showed clearly that dawn was breaking over the mountains. Though he was the king, and should ask no one for permission to act. But a lifetime’s habit was difficult to break.

“If you command, my king,” Maedhros said, unsmilingly. He felt his back was still too stiff to bow.

Fingon raised his eyebrows and said, “Very well.”

Then, louder, so his voice echoed throughout the room, he said, “Awake, ye fathers of Men! Shake from your Eru-forsaken torpor, ye Elves of Hithlum and Himring! It is time now get what rest is possible. To your beds!”

There were groans and grumbling from around the room, but everyone seemed to find their feet at last and began to file out of the room in various states of consciousness. Húrin swung his brother’s arm around his shoulders and half-carried him along, refusing any help.

He did stop to speak to Fingon for a while, and Maedhros left them to it.

Maedhros went to window and looked out into the early morning. Already the fortress began to stir with activity. The smell of baking bread rose up with wind from the kitchens, and he breathed in deeply. In moments like this, it was possible to imagine that his uncle was still alive, and they were not yet at very knife edge of survival…

Behind him, the door closed and the bolt slid into place. Fingon’s footsteps came towards him, and Fingon’s hand was on his shoulder. “Have I done something to upset you?” Fingon’s voice was saying, and Maedhros closed his eyes and pressed his face against the rough stone wall.

“Maitimo, look at me.”

Maedhros turned to oblige him. “You have done nothing. And I am…” Tired. I ache. I am so anxious that I could choke. “...well. But you should take your own advice and rest.”

Fingon tsked with disapproval. “You are as pale as milk.”

“Blame my coloring for that, if you must,” Maedhros said, attempting to smile. Fingon frowned and drew closer to him, to put a brief hand on Maedhros’ cheek. For a moment, Maedhros closed his eyes again, before he moved away with a small shake of his head.

“Come with me,” Fingon said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Maedhros raised his eyebrows now. Had he seriously thought Fingon could not command him? A foolish, arrogant thought for a foolish, arrogant Elf...

Fingon did not wait for his further musings on the subject. Instead, he went the other side of the room and depressed a panel that looked for all the world to be a part of the wall. A door swung open, and a stairway that led upwards, in the dark. He went quickly through the door, and Maedhros followed behind him, by instinct, if nothing less.

He thought he could follow with his eyes closed, never stumbling, with Fingon’s back, warm against him. A small hallway opened before them, and to the left was a small room where a fire still crackled in the fireplace. It was plainly-decorated, this room, with little in the way of furnishings. The bed sat on the corner, besides a window that looked up to the sky. A table dominated the room, covered with papers, spilled ink, bits of armor, flenching for arrows, coins, broken jewelry, shells.

It was Fingon’s room, of course, Maedhros knew without asking. With a rueful chuckle, Fingon admitted, “I cannot bring myself to sleep in my father’s room, however much my staff tells me that it is the High King’s room. I expect him every moment to come in and ask me why I am making extra work for chambermaid.”

Maedhros nodded, and closed the door, kept the lock in place. “So you sleep here instead?”

“When I do --”

“Which is not often.”

“Maitimo, tell me true. Do you think this will work?”

Somehow, Maedhros was not surprised by the abrupt change of topic. He looked at his cousin, who looked now to be, really, his young cousin Findekáno, looking for reassurance, and half-ashamed of doing so. And then, just as suddenly, he was Fingon again, the king and certainly equal to Maedhros himself. “Sometimes I think there can be no doubt about it. We have planned so much, have put so many eventualities to test. How can it fail, I ask myself? And if it failed, we would die and fear no more evil.”

“Maitimo!” Fingon said softly, and embraced him. When he pulled away, his eyes were still suspiciously bright. “You always know how to make me feel rotten for doubting you. I am --”

“You are --” Maedhros said, as he backed Fingon into the bed, and pushed him gently down -- “carrying too much weight.”

“Is that so? How can you tell, with the weight of Arda on your shoulders?” Fingon said, with an ironic twist in his mouth. He began to take off his armor slowly, as Maedhros looked on.

“Perhaps I recognize the signs better than most,” Maedhros said, reaching out and straightening out a twist of gold that had escaped from one of Fingon’s plaits.

Fingon captured his hand and kissed it, and then, looking steadily up at Maedhros’ face, he took a hold of the stump of Maedhros’ right hand and brought it to his mouth.

Maedhros swallowed harshly, all words expired in his brain. He kept the stump of his right hand unencumbered with either a sheath or any sort of weapon that could be forged for it. He did not share the reasons why to anyone, though perhaps his brother Curufin had guessed and thus never offered to make one for Maedhros -- after the first time.

His right hand was long gone, but the ghost of it was still there. Sometimes Maedhros could not sleep from the pain of it, and sometimes he simply felt it there, a dead weight at the end of his arm.

“Findekáno,” he whispered.

Fingon looked up and let go of Maedhros, his grey eyes steady. “Now you may tear me apart, beloved.”

They had not been lovers in Aman.

A brief touch there, a moment of intimacy here, a spark of something unnamed -- desire, Maedhros knew now, it had always been desire -- that was all that had been between them. But their friendship was all-encompassing, they were complete, and needed no more.

In Beleriand, the first time, still torn-up and bleeding, Maedhros woke to Fingon looking down at him. He was filthy, his hair still matted, and Fingon was thin as a reed and neither of them felt complete. It seemed natural and right, to take Fingon into his arms (wrecked, like the rest of him) and kiss the track of tears on his cousin’s face.

Of all the things they had done (that they would do, that he would do) Maedhros had thought, surely this was the least of their sins? But Fingon was bolder, and said with a familiar challenge in his eye, “How could love be wrong?”

How could it …

Now, it was as if they fought. Maedhros put all his weight on Fingon, daring him to get away. Fingon wriggled free, growled, “Take off your clothes, damn you. I want to see.” They were, both of them, at least partially clothed.

Maedhros did not want to surrender his position, nor did he wish for Fingon to move, and so they were at an impasse. When glaring and muttered threats failed to work, Maedhros finally fell back on to the mattress, and sighed. He let Fingon strip him of of his armor, his clothes and watched as Fingon threw off the last of his own clothing. “Who will pick all of that up, I wonder?” Maedhros asked, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“I will, of course,” Fingon said, “I’m not inexperienced with hiding my own laundry, you know.”

“Ah, that the High King of the Noldor should be reduced to this…” Maedhros said, before Fingon fell on him again.

“I see why you gave up the kingship up in the first place,” Fingon said, his breath warm against the crook of Maedhros’ neck.

“Because it was beneath me? Very true,” Maedhros said with a sigh. He pulled himself up, so that he was once again resting against Fingon’s chest. His hand traced slow lines into Fingon’s skin, and then he pinched a nipple when he though Fingon’s attention wandered.

Fingon jerked up and narrowed his eyes. “How happy I am that you have not lost your sense of humor in these long, grim years. Though I confess I never thought you had much time for jests in Aman.”

“It is true that I was a solemn young ass,” Maedhros said meditatively. Fingon chuckled quietly, but did not disagree. “But,” Maedhros went on, “I soon found that if I could not laugh, I would go mad. And even then… Is it true that they say this plan is madness?”

“Who says?”

“You know.”

“Perhaps that is what Thingol says, or Orodreth says, but they are wrong,” Fingon said slowly, pulling himself up, his eyes suddenly guarded. “But it is madness to wait, either one year or a hundred. We are right. Do you hear me, Maitimo? We are right to act now.”

“Yes, act now,” Maedhros said, and kissed him.

“Maitimo,” Fingon said, pulling away reluctantly, his voice warm. “I would like to have you. Will you let me?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said, with more than a little hint of impatience in his voice, “what took you so long to ask?”

It did take too long -- Fingon found that he had no oil in his rooms at all, and dressed to go look for some. Maedhros waited, feeling distressingly vulnerable. He was get ready to skulk away when Fingon returned, with a small bottle of oil in his hand. “It smells a little flowery, but it was the only thing I could find before my steward could catch me and ask awkward questions… Maitimo, where are you going?”

“It is nearly noon, Findekáno, I must --”

“It’s hardly a quarter to seven. Maitimo, stay where you are,” Fingon said.

Maedhros did exactly that, his long limbs hanging over the side of the bed, leggings still wrapped around his ankles. He sat up and pulled them off before Fingon came to him, expectantly. Maedhros put his arms around Fingon’s waist when he drew close enough.

They started off slowly, with long, slow kisses, and then it progressed to carasses that grew progressively more demanding. But Fingon was always sensitive to his desires, wary of hurting him, never quite believing Maedhros when he said that -- with Fingon, he did not mind if it hurt. Maedhros thought if it could have been different -- if they had been lovers sooner than later… but no matter. Fingon prepared him with elaborate care, and Maedhros now wrapped his legs around him, and closed his eyes for a moment.

But Fingon seemed content to tease him now, landing swift kisses on Maedhros’ chest, his shoulders. He seemed quite happy between Maedhros’ legs, only touching Maedhros’ cock seemingly by accident.

Maedhros hissed between his teeth, “Just do it, Findekáno, or else I will go mad.”

Fingon laughed softly and murmured, “Patience!” And grew more teasing still, until, all at once, he entered him, and Maedhros gasped in satisfaction. Their pace was slow at first, interrupted by many kisses, until Maedhros grew impatient again and growled, “Faster, damn you.”

Fingon smiled and did not listen. Instead, he began to stroke Maedhros’ cock, in the rhythm of his thrusts, until Maedhros came in his hands.

How could we fail?

“We will not fail,” Fingon said, as he finished, and came, leaning against Maedhros’ legs. He bent down to kiss Maedhros.

“No,” Maedhros said, through a haze of love and happiness so fragile that it could shatter in any moment. “I expect not.”