my blood approves by Agelast

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Chapter 1

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my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom

I.

“How do you feel?” Maitimo asked him, his voice indulgent. Findekáno, who had been fidgeting with his braids throughout his grandfather’s address, stilled now, and seemed to think about it seriously. The feast, given on the occasion of Findekáno’s coming-of-age, was drawing to an end. The desserts had been served, along with fruits and nuts. Having stuffed themselves earlier with fried trout and roasted venison, neither of them had much appetite.

Findekáno dropped his braid and looked sideways at Maitimo. He had negotiated with his mother for weeks beforehand, to have Maitimo seated next to him. She had pointed out, not wrongly, that if it occurred, Findekáno would hardly speak to anyone else. But he had promised faithfully this would not be the case, and it hadn’t been. Maitimo’s question was of the few times they had spoken to each other that night.

“I’m not sure,” Findekáno said slowly. “One doesn’t turn fifty every year, of course. I want to know so many things, but…”

“You mustn’t be afraid of asking questions,” Maitimo said encouragingly. “You know grandfather and I -- and your parents, of course, would be happy to answer any questions you have.”

Findekáno gave him a withering glare. “I do know that. I’m not afraid of being an adult, Maitimo.”

“Are you afraid of anything, my dear Findekáno? And remember, yes, you will be fifty,” Maitimo said, with a wry smile. “No one will think you are an adult until you are far past that age.”

“Well, I will be able learn a trade, get married if I choose, father children -- that is adulthood, or should be.”

“But you are a prince, you hardly need to learn a trade.”

“How can you say that, as a son of Fëanáro! I heard him speaking the other day that just because we are royalty doesn’t mean that we ought to be useless. I think he meant that as an insult to my father, but my father works too hard to be useless. I believe.” Here, he looked to Maitimo, somewhat challengingly.

But Maitimo only nodded and seemed distracted. He poked at the things on his dessert plate -- a spun sugar web over a little pot of pudding. “I suppose you have your eye on some pretty maiden already? Our family does seem to marry young.”

“No, I have no one in mind,” Findekáno said, vaguely surprised to hear Maitimo say such a thing. Uncle Arafinwë was only a scant few years older than Maitimo himself, and while he and Eärwen seemed intent having a brood as large as Fëanáro’s, Maitimo himself had not seriously courted anyone for as long as Findekáno could remember.

He hadn’t the time for it, Findekáno supposed. All those brothers, and both parents so intent on their work -- why, it was a miracle that Maitimo had taken the time to befriend him! He was happy for it, of course; Maitimo’s friendship meant the world to him. And though he was so much older, he was never patronizing. Well, not usually patronizing…

Findekáno looked at Maitimo narrowly.

“What?” Maitimo said, breaking a pistachio nut with his fingers. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Findekáno said. “Only… in fact, I do have a question. Do you think my mark will appear now, or when I fall asleep? I’m very eager to see it.”

“Oh, Findekáno!” Maitimo shook his head sadly. “You know it -- that stuff hardly matters. It’s utter rot, actually. Do you think the Elves waking up on the shores of Cuiviénen had their soulmates’ names written on their wrists?”

“They hardly needed to, since their mates were sleeping next to them,” Findekáno said hiding a smile. He knew how to set Maitimo off. “And they had no writing system, either.”

“It’s fatuous nonsense,” Maitimo groused. “Our grandfather doesn’t have a mark, and you could hardly find anyone better …”

“But he's a bad example, wouldn’t you say?” Findekáno said, making no effort now to hide his amusement. “And I have seen my mother’s name on my father’s wrist, and his on hers. It is a touching sight.”

“And what about my poor brother, who cannot even read the name on his wrist, for whoever is his intended lives on the Other Shore? It is better if your wrist is blank, Findekáno, when you wake up tomorrow. Then you have both freedom and choice.”

“You have never let me see yours…”

“No.” Maitimo put his right hand under the table. His wrist was usually obscured by long sleeves or a bright-colored bangle or a plain black band. Today, it was a richly wrought bracelet, studded with opals that flashed with inner fire. One of Fëanaro’s creations, no doubt. It was not considered polite to look upon another person’s mark without invitation, but Findekáno could not help but look now, to the place where Maitimo’s right hand had been.

“But you do have one,” he persisted.

“It doesn’t matter,” Maitimo said, finishing with his dessert. He rose and bowed, stiffly, and congratulated Findekáno on his new maturity. Findekáno, at a loss, let him go. He did not see Maitimo again for the rest of the night.

Instead, he danced with several very pretty maidens, who all looked at him with considerable hope in their eyes. Findekáno found each of them more charming than the last, but at the end of the evening, he could not remember their names or what they had looked like.

After accepting his mother’s hugs and his father’s congratulations, Findekáno came up to the dais where his grandfather and grandmother waited for him. He bowed and went to his knee, and there, Finwe replaced Findekáno’s gold circlet, given to each of the grandchildren of Finwë, and received a silver one, as befitting a prince of the Noldor.

In short, it was a grand night, and at the end of it, Findekáno crawled into bed and dreamed. His dreams had to do with Maitimo, of course, a remainder of their not-quite-argument, but there was also another person there, in edges of his vision. Findekáno looked and looked, but she was elusive. Finally, Maitimo caught him by the shoulder, and was no doubt about to offer Findekáno some solid advice, when Findekáno woke up.

Over breakfast the next morning, Findekáno sadly displayed his blank wrist to his family, and only half-listened to his parents’ commiserations.

“I have heard said that more often than not people receive their marks long after their coming-of-age,” Nolofinwë said, eating a corner of toast. He reached out a hand toward Anairë, who took it. They exchanged a fond smile.

Anairë said, “Like me. I was done with my first book when mine appeared. Of course, you, my dear, weren’t born before then.”

Nolofinwë colored at the reminder of his relative youth, and turned his attention back to Findekáno. In a hearty voice, he said, “See, Findekáno? You have your mother’s example to guide you.”

Findekáno picked at his eggs. Privately, the idea that his true love had not yet even been born filled him with horror, but he could hardly say so in the presence of his parents. Turukáno, however, rescued him from saying anything, by upsetting a bowl of porridge and distracting everyone.

He did not see Maitimo again for some time, Fëanaro having whisked his family away to one of their sudden trips away.

Findekáno whiled away the time the best way he could. He did want to be useful, and had decided to become a companion of Tulkas. He would be away from Tirion for years then, and had hoped to see Maitimo before then…

A fortnight before he was due to leave, however, he heard news of Fëanaro’s return. Findekáno dropped everything -- he had been in the midst of packing -- and raced to the stable and picked his father’s swiftest horse. He was almost half-way there before he stopped to question his own haste. He had missed Maitimo, of course, but such extremes would surely seem odd to anyone. But Maitimo… Maitimo knew of Findekáno’s passions. He would understand.

Findekáno raced on.

When he arrived in the house of Fëanaro, he found it in a state of barely contained chaos. Curufinwë was in the main hall, with an itinerary almost as tall as he was. When Findekáno paused and exclaimed over his growth, Curufinwe gave him a pained look that would not look strange on Maitimo’s face.

“Yes,” he said patiently, “I know I have grown, Findekáno. Thank you for noticing it too. Yes, I will come to your house and play with Turukáno and Findaráto someday. My work here keeps me busy at times.”

“Atarinkë,” Findekáno said, a little aghast at his young cousin. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, romping in the woods like the young thing you are? Why are you -- what are you doing, anyway?”

“Organizing my father’s latest finds.”

“Where’s Maitimo? Doesn’t he usually do that?”

“Maitimo has gone fishing. And besides, Atar says he likes my way better.”

“Fishing, you say?” Findekáno said, already looking past Curufinwë, who bid him goodbye without lifting his eyes from the page.

There was a small fishing hole near the back of the house, fed with a small stream that came threading in from the mountains. Trees grew overhead, oaks and willows, mostly, and the air was still, except for the quiet murmur of water. He found Maitimo not fishing at all, but rather sleeping on the grass. He looked younger in repose than he did in life, and Findekáno realized with a jolt that Maitimo was really quite handsome. He knew, of course, that Maitimo was one of the handsomest Elves in Tirion -- and beyond, but he had grown so used to Maitimo as -- well, as Maitimo, his friend, that he had grown quite plain in Findekáno’s eyes.

But it was not so. Almost uneasy with his discovery, Findekáno bent down and put his hand over Maitimo’s eyes. Maitimo stirred and made a quiet sound of protest.

“Guess who,” Findekáno said.

But Maitimo laughed instead, and pulled him down. They tumbled for a moment, puppyish in their play, before either of them remembered their princely dignity. But that time, Findekáno was laughing too, his back against the grass. He looked up into the sky, golden-and-blue, and thought, this is happiness.

Maitimo stirred against him, muttering, “... You rogue, thinking that you get the better of me… Findekáno, don’t make that face -- what is it?”

“It didn’t happen,” Findekáno said, pulling up his sleeve before Maitimo had a chance to protest. They both looked down at the patch of white skin, where a name should be. Maitimo shrugged, after a minute.

“I’m not surprised. You’re like our grandfather in so many ways. Why not this one as well?”

“I still haven’t seen yours yet,” Findekáno said, meaningly.

“And you won’t,” Maitimo said. “What would Uncle Nolofinwë say if he heard you asking?”

“He would say I was unforgivably rude, and ought be ashamed. But Maitimo, really, am I not your friend? Your closest friend? If you will not show me the name of your beloved, then at least tell me something about them?”

Maitimo sat up and sighed. Findekáno did the same.

“Mine is … impossible,” Maitimo said. “There’s nothing to be said for it.”

“A foreign name then, like Makalaurë’s?” Findekáno thought hard. “Or -- are they married already?”

“Findekáno…”

“All right, I won’t ask anymore. Actually, I have some news. I’ve been invited to be a companion of Tulkas, and I think I should accept -- and Curufinwë -- should something be done for him? He's so young to be so ... old.”

Maitimo looked rueful at this. "Yes, poor Curufinwë! I tell you, I've done my best for him, but he is determined to live up to his name. It's quite maddening, actually. But enough of that -- tell me more of your plans."

The time slipped by thus, in talk and occasional attempts to fish.

 

II.

Findekáno hadn’t seen this particular patch of skin for many months, and so could not have guessed when it was that a name appeared on it. He had so much more to worry about now -- he had dedicated his body and his mind to defeat the Helcaraxë, to save as many as he could from its wrath. The reason he had unwrapped his gloves and sleeves was because his hand had felt stiff and unfeeling for several days now, and after being commanded by his father, told by his brother, shouted at by his sister, persuaded by his sister-in-law, he had finally let one of the healers take a look at it.

But now it seemed that the healer wouldn’t even look at the part in question. Findekáno felt a frisson of frustration against the healer. How in the world was she to treat frostbite when she wouldn’t look at it? He looked down at it himself, and realized, with a jolt, the reasons she had looked away. On the wrist of his right hand, where once had a blank patch of skin, was written a name.

Findekáno took back his hand, over the healer’s protests, and wrapped it back up, tightly. He did not look at it again for a long time. It was a name he knew, though the shape of it had changed and it was written in a way that was barely legible.

His mouth traced the name in the chill air, but he did not speak it aloud.

Instead, Findekáno squared his shoulders, and kept walking. On and on.

III.

Fingon had learned patience, somewhere along the line, and so waited patiently for Maedhros to awaken. Of his other qualities -- namely, his recklessness, his pigheaded disregard for everything sane and right, and his obstinacy -- had been amply explained to him by his sister, who then had curled against him in the bench next to Maedhros’ sickbed. They had watched together for a time, before Aredhel spoke.

“When you came back, the rumor was that you had brought back some Orc with you and that you -- you were mad.”

“But I’m not,” Fingon said, firmly. He looked at Aredhel, who stared back at him, her eyes wide. “Do you think I’m mad?”

“I think,” Aredhel said slowly, “you were almost as mad as Turukáno was, when Elenwë died.”

“Almost?”

“Almost, but not quite.”

Fingon nodded. There did not seem to be any more that he could say, except -- “This is Maedhros, he is our cousin, and soon he will be well enough to lead.”

“Is that what we want? He betrayed us! And you -- you don’t call him Maitimo anymore?”

Fingon shrugged. He liked their new Sindarin names, although he was aware this was not a popular opinion. They were rougher and more brutal than in Quenya, but Beleriand had quickly proved to be both of those things, too. He did not know, but he doubted that Maedhros would be comfortable with Maitimo ever again, and he had never addressed him by Nelyafinwë.

As for Aredhel’s other points -- her extremely valid, extremely pertinent points-- he had no answer for them. She was quiet for a time, before she relaxed, and they continued on, watching Maedhros until he woke.

*

 

Maglor had come to their camp, on-foot and unarmed. He submitted to the guard's searches without a murmur of protest, and kept his head bent down as he spoke to Fingolfin, asking to see his brother. The crowd around them pressed in. Fingon, at the edges of it, moved back even further. They want blood.

Finally, Fingolfin agreed to let Maglor see his brother. But -- "Let my son, Findekáno, guide you."

Maglor looked up for the first time and caught Fingon's eye. They gave each what was not quite a smile, but not quite a frown either. They did not speak, as Fingon led him to the healer's tent, and so Fingon was startled slightly when Maglor spoke.

"How did you know?" Maglor said, looking at him.

"How did I know what?"

"That Maitimo stood aside --?" Understanding dawned on his face. "You didn't know! But why would you risk your life to get Maitimo back?"

Fingon rocked on his toes and look up. "You may think of it as an act of stupid bravery or selfless love, but actually, Makalaurë, it was an act of political strategy so cynical that it would do your head in."

Maglor laughed, startling them both. "Fair enough. But Findekáno? As long as you know -- Maitimo wanted to come back for you. He stood aside when our father burned the ships."

"The ships still burned," Fingon said. He did not know what to think of this -- of faithless friends who had proved faithful after all.

"They did," Maglor said, looking stricken.

Not enough for Fingon to forgive him -- but -- what would be enough for for that? Something in him ached. Maglor had been his friend too, once upon a time.

*

“Are you sure about this?” Fingon asked for the hundredth time, or so it seemed. Maedhros pretended not to hear him, instead, he gave his attention to the mirror in front of him and frowned, adjusting his robe and then his crown -- Finwë’s crown, housed in Tirion during the Darkening, and brought over the sea.

“How do I look?” Maedhros said, his gaze resting on Fingon for a moment, before he looked away.

Fingon stepped closer, until he could see the top of his face over Maedhros’ shoulder -- forehead, eyes, nose, but no mouth. He stuck out his tongue away, ignoring Maedhros’ fearsome glare. “You look lovely, as you well know.”

Maedhros wrinkled his nose. “A sunset is lovely. A rose is lovely. I am a fright.”

“Is this a trick?” Fingon asked, struggling to keep his tone light. “Will you hurl me into a lightless dungeon if I agree?”

“Thankfully, my reign will be short, you wouldn’t be imprisoned long. However, given the changed circumstances, you might want to think about getting married -- you’ll need a heir.”

“Absolutely not!”

“We will discuss it later,” Maedhros said, and looked down. “Oh. A loosening thread. Finno, send the tailor back in here, will you?”

“Such fuss. As if you plan to be the King of the Noldor for longer than five minutes!” Fingon said scoffingly, as he wandered away to get Maglor to find the tailor. But he heard Maedhros say -- of course he heard Maedhros say, didn’t he know by now that his cousin loved having the last word on everything?

“It’s the style that counts.”

*

“I thought they would snatch the crown from your head,” Fingon said, afterwards. “At the end, even Makalaurë looked angry -- despite himself.” He wanted to gather Maedhros up in his arms, but Maedhros sat apart from him, taking off bits of jewelry, one by one. They would have to decide later which ring and what pendant belong to the office of the King of the Noldor, and what belonged to Maedhros Fëanorion, a discussion that Fingon had no real interest in.

He watched Maedhros, who watched him. They did this often now, since Maedhros had recovered enough to do anything. They had exchanged the voluminous language of their past into a much more narrow set of expressions -- a lift of eyebrows, a pursing of lips, a blink, a sigh.

Fingon reached out --and took Maedhros’ left hand. “Stay with me awhile.”

“Am I not with you now?” Maedhros’ voice was low, intimate. Something in Fingon thrummed -- his heart, perhaps. Or something else.

“You are often with me, more than it can be wise,” Fingon said. “Have I told you what happened to me in Helcaraxë?”

“You lost the tip of your third finger of your left hand and got that scar across your right temple almost as soon as you had landed in Beleriand. Have I missed something?"

"I acquired a mark."

Maedhros went still. "I see."

"Do you? Perhaps you can explain it to me, then." Fingon lifted his sleeve and unwrapped his wristband. Maedhros flinched away, but his eyes were glued to Fingon's wrist. He sighed when he saw his name there.

"Of course, I can't compare," he said, at last, lifting the stump of his right arm up to the right. Fingon caught it and held it with ill-hidden reverence.

"But it was my name that you had for so long, though you did everything in your power to hide it."

"As I said, so long ago, it was impossible. And you did not love me then."

"No," Fingon said, letting him go. "I loved Nelyafinwë Maitimo as my closest friend, but it is Maedhros who is my beloved."

Maedhros bent down his head, as he was impossibly tired. “So I see.”

Fingon went to him, and lifted Maedhros’ chin, and kissed his forehead.

 

IV.

Fingon was having the most pleasant dream when he was jolted awake by a voice above his head.

“I have here a list of young women -- both of the Noldor and the Sindar, who would be suitable to be your wife. Would you like to see?” Fingon looked up to see a piece of paper dangling before his eyes. Maedhros grinned down at him and wriggled the paper above.

"What?" Fingon sat up and stared at his cousin, who was still in his riding clothes. He had been expected to arrive from Himring to the Pools of Ivrin the next day, but then again, Maedhros delighted in defying expectations. "I was trying to get some sleep before the infernal racket starts," Fingon sniffed, resentfully.

"The music, you mean?"

"What else?"

"And you a harpist! Aren't you going to look at my list?"

"No. I will not be getting married, not to please my father nor to please my lover. Now, come here, you madman, and let me take a look at you. Hmm. I see. It seems that you are entirely too clothed for this time of morning."

"Findekáno," Maedhros said, a note of warning in his voice. He bent down, his red hair falling like a curtain below him. It almost obscured Fingon's vision. Fingon loved Maedhros' hair well, and that was no secret. He gathered a handful of it in his hands and twisted. Maedhros got down to his knees, without another word. Fingon's legs slotted quite comfortably around him. Fingon let go of Maedhros' hair.

Fingon said quietly, "Kiss me."

Maedhros' face was remote and still, almost severe. "Findekáno, you must listen to me."

"Maitimo, have pity. I have not seen you in years. I long to have your hands on me, your lips on my lips." Fingon leaned in, his mouth brushing against the point of Maedhros' ear. "You, inside of me. Or I, inside you. Do you not miss it?"

"I --" Maedhros swallowed loudly. "Look at the list, at least. Your father had agreed that you should consider it.

Fingon straightened. And frowned. "My father has long known that my love lies elsewhere."

"Consider your need for an heir."

"My father is alive and well. And besides, Turukáno is my heir."

"We know well enough by now that fathers die.”

Fingon glared at him, but Maedhros merely smiled patiently.

“And so do brothers."

"Then, Idril. Perhaps a High Queen will suit when a High King cannot."

"She has a destiny of her own. You need an heir, and I will not stop until you have one."

"You madman, you implacable beast," Fingon said, and Maedhros smiled -- or perhaps he only bared his teeth. "Come and make me change my mind."

“I can be very persuasive, you know,” Maedhros said, later. In a state of complete satisfaction, Fingon conceded that if fate should send him a wife, he would accept it.

“That’s all I ask,” Maedhros said, closing his eyes, a pious look on his face.

“For now,” Fingon said, and cruelly shook him awake. “Now get up. The morning grows late.”

V.

Fingon was riding through his new domain of Dor-lomin, some twenty-five years after the rise of the Sun, when he was suddenly hit in the head with an apple. He was not hurt, of course -- the Noldor were notorious for their hard heads -- but he reined his horse and dismounted, as soons as he could. He looked around in faint astonishment. He was in an orchard of some kind, but it seemed deserted. And Orcs were not known to throw anything as pleasant as apples.

“My lord!” cried a young Elf-woman, who fell rather than climbed down the nearest apple tree. “I am sorry -- I thought you were someone else.” She flushed and looked down at her feet. She was simply dressed and her light brown hair was braided into a crown on her head.

Fingon found himself smiling. “Who did you think I was?”

“Only my brother,” she said, looking up at him. She was not especially beautiful, but her expression, though outwardly grave, contained also a sparkle of amusement that made her seem very lovely indeed. “Although you should know better than to ride through an orchard yourself. My lord.”

“You are right,” Fingon said, and bowed. “I should not have been riding through the orchard. Indeed, I am surprised to see an orchard here. I thought such things were not heard of on this side of the shore.”

“Why not?” asked the young woman, taking a apple from her pocket and biting into it. “Do you not think we need food on these shores? Or that we eat only meat from the hunt?”

“No, of course you do, ” Fingon said, startled. In truth, he had never considered the matter. “In truth, I had never considered the matter. But it seemed to me that trees need light to grow.”

“And so they do,” said the young woman, taking his arm. “My family has taken care of this orchard for many years. Before the Sun rose, we would come and harvest the little white apples that grew on the trees ever so slowly -- but now we stay here the whole year through, and harvest apples in the fall. Would you like one?”

“Yes, thank you,” Fingon said, accepting a proffered apple. “This is the Kementári’s work, I wager.”

The young woman smiled. “Perhaps.”

Fingon ate his apple before asking, “May I know your name?”

“Gwendis,” said the young woman. “And I already know yours, so we are equal in that, at least.” She let go of Fingon’s arm and sallied forth, serenely ignoring the rest of Fingon’s questions -- such as where she lived, and who were her parents, and if she shouldn’t like go for a walk with him soon.

Fingon was thoughtful when he rode back to his home. After much reflection, he went to his writing desk and began to draft a letter to Maedhros, though he knew the last one he had sent had probably not arrived yet.

*

Fingon found himself coming to the orchard now and again, even after his father ordered him to move his household to Barad Eithel. In time, he met the other members of Gwendis’ family, including her brother Tharon. He helped harvest the apples, and brought home a bushel of apples for the winter months.

Maedhros did not write as often as he had done before, but Fingon knew his cousin was surely busy keeping the siege, and so in fact, was he. If Maedhros did not wish to be burdened with correspondence, then by all means, Fingon would not burden him!

But still, he could not help but write anyway, to tell Maedhros how it went, his hunt for a wife. After all, he reasoned, he was only following Maedhros’ own advice.

One his latest visit to the orchard, Fingon confessed to Gwendis that he had never actually liked apples, before.

“Oh dear, why do you come back then?” Gwendis said, passing him silver flask of hard cider as they lay on the grass, watching the clouds move across the sky. Fingon took it and drank from it, nearly emptying it -- Gwendis made a noise of protest.

 

“I wanted to ask if you would marry me,” Fingon said.

“Oh!” Gwendis was silent for some time. “You’re very direct. Why do you want to marry me?”

“I need an heir. And more than that -- I do like you, I think you’re lovely, and that my family would be delighted with you." He stopped, knowing he was doing badly. Still, he went on saying, "I like your -- hair. It's brown rather than black, very, uh, intriguing."

Gwendis closed her mouth, which had fell open during Fingon's speech. “Oh, I -- oh, this has got to be the worst proposal that anyone has ever given. I’m in shock.”

“Even in the winter, Barad Eithel gets at least three different kinds of fruit. So, if you’re even a little sick of apples yourself...”

“All right, that is tempting.” Gwendis turned toward him, putting her head on her hand. She looked thoughtful. “You might make a better case if you were honest. I thought your people usually married those who carried their marks? I do not think you have my name on your wrist, and I do not have yours.”

Fingon had the grace to look abashed. “I … do not. I do have a mark, but I cannot marry the person who carries my name. In fact, it was his suggestion that I go look for a wife. I did not want to hear him then, but in the years afterward, it occurs to me more and more how fragile life is on this shore. If I were to die without an heir, then my people would be ruled by my brother, living in a hidden city no one here has seen. I cannot help but think that is less than ideal."

"Your lover is a man, then? I don't know, here, one can go off into the woods with anyone and bond. That is not so with the Noldor?"

"The Laws and Customs do not mention it."

"Well," Gwendis said with a mischievous smile. "If there is no law to forbid it..."

Fingon smiled back. “Believe me, I have considered it. But if I bonded with Maitimo, then I would still need an heir."

"And so that leads back to me. But what if I do not wish for my children to make such a choice between their heart and their duty?"

"I swear that they would never need to choose."

"Do you not remember what trouble rash oaths can be?"

"Gwendis, we are friends -- or have been -- but now I know I ask for too much for too little..."

"But?"

"But I await your answer."

Gwendis was silent for some time, lost in thought.

Fingon sat up, preparing to go, before her voice stopped him.

"I would like to meet your Maitimo before I decide. Would that be all right with you?"

"Oh yes," said Fingon, surprised and grateful. "That would be for the best."

And then: "I am serious about your hair, you know."

 

*

Fingon never quite knew what Maedhros said to Gwendis to convince her. Maedhros claimed that he had done nothing at all, but Gwendis merely said that Maedhros was very persuasive.

"Persuasive in ways that I was not?" Fingon's tone was light, but he could not hide his hurt - at least, very well.

Gwendis gave him a peck on the cheek. “Well, I am not marrying him.”

 

VI.

“I am not afraid, you know,” Fingon said aloud, as he waited for a sign to enter the bridal suite. Maedhros, there only because Fingon had insisted, grunted his assent.

“Are you afraid of anything?”

Fingon gave him a sideways look. “You know perfectly well I am afraid of many things. But I don’t let them stop me.”

“You let nothing stop you, whether it be mere propriety or Angband itself. Findekáno, I should not be here.”

“Hush. This was your idea.”

“As always, you take things too far,” Maedhros muttered, moving closer to him. Fingon relaxed a fraction, before the door opened, and Gwendis looked out.

She looked at them both and raised her eyebrows. “Somehow, I am not surprised. Come in -- or are you waiting for an invitation?”

The bridal chamber was, in fact, part of Fingon’s own suite of rooms that had been filled with so many flowers and crystals and soft, silky things that he could hardly recognize it. Gwendis presented it with a flourish -- “Isn’t it ridiculous? I think I have met almost every artisan in Barad Eithel who wished to put something in here.”

“They do not have much a chance to celebrate a wedding, especially a royal one,” Fingon said, as he went to retrieve a bottle of wine from an elaborately decorated ice-bucket. Gwendis sat in the bed, a little careless with her finery. Maedhros stood by the door, ready to bolt.

“Maitimo,” Fingon said chiddingly.

Maedhros looked over to Gwendis and said softly, “My lady, I hope you do not mind my presence here. I only came at your husband’s insistence. I know it is highly irregular.”

“It is quite unusual,” Gwendis agreed cheerfully. “But I suspected this might be an unusual arrangement -- from the proposal on. Now come, lock the door and sit by me. We have much to discuss.”

“What about me? And where are the glasses?” Fingon said, wounded.

“They’re behind you,” Maedhros said.

“Hurry up,” Gwendis said.

*

The wine was light and heady, meant to loosen limbs as well as tongues. The three of them talked late into the night and on to morning, mostly about political philosophy, the reality of ruling, and building a more just world -- and at that point, Fingon fell asleep and woke to find himself wedged between both Maedhros and Gwendis, who were both quietly but intensely arguing over the finer points of agriculture in Beleriand.

“Let me see your marks,” Gwendis said suddenly taking Fingon’s hand. Maedhros waved her off with an apologetic smile. Gwendis read the name on Fingon’s wrist and looked at Maedhros. “Was his name on yours?”

“It used to be,” Maedhros said solemnly.

“But see…” Gwendis frowned and shook her head. “I haven’t a mark. And if you two are -- marked for each other, then what am I? A hanger-on?”

“No -- no, you are not that at all,” Fingon said firmly, leaning to kiss Gwendis’ cheek. “I love you no less than Maitimo.” He looked around and said, “Do you think a three-fold bond could work?”

“You’re forgetting family history again, Finno,” said Maedhros, in a voice more fond than exasperated. To Gwendis, he said, “Our grandfather married twice -- but the Valar declared that it could only happen if my grandmother would never come among the living.”

“I’ve heard the tale, and found it harsh beyond bearing. And I must say -- your family is often the subject of gossip,” Gwendis said drily.

“Our family now, my dear,” Fingon said with wide smile. “And I contend that if Finwë could have bonded with both Míriel and Indis, then it is possible for us to do so as well. Even if we are all alive at this moment in time.”

“I doubt very much that your theory holds muster,” Maedhros said.

“It is unlikely that the Valar will come thundering in here if we do it. Not even an echo, remember? Or a moan, or a whimper… ” Fingon said with an impudent grin.

Maedhros went on coolly, “And you forget to ask if we all wish to be bond in that way.”

“Well, don’t you?” Fingon looked to both Gwendis and Maedhros. He put on his most charming smile, the one he had put on a thousand times, for a thousand purposes. But none more important than this one.

Gwendis leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his lips. “I am madwoman to accept this,” she said. “But I do.”

Fingon grinned and kissed her back, more passionately than he thought possible. Then he turned to Maedhros, who looked back at him with a neutral expression on his face.

“Is this truly what you want? Finno? Gwendis?”

“Yes!” they said together, and shared a surprised glance at each other, which then resolved into a bout of laughter.

*

Later, Fingon woke, trapped between the tangle of his lovers’ arms. He waited for disaster to strike, but it didn’t. So he went back to sleep, content.