smile, for your lover comes by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

During the last months of his painful recovery, Maedhros would sometimes stay in bed and just listen to the sounds of his brothers and their people moving around the long, low building that comprised their main living quarters at Lake Mithrim.

That day, Maglor was tuning his harp when the string broke and he cursed, letting loose a reel of jangling, angry words that Maedhros turned his head to catch. In the next room, Caranthir paced, and occasionally the pacing would be interrupted by a slammed door. Celegorm was out of the house and so were the twins, hunting farther afield than before -- game had become more scarce in Mithrim after the arrival of Fingolfin’s people. Fingolfin -- Maedhros had laughed aloud when he had heard what his uncle’s chosen name would be in their new language. Finwë Nolofinwë, indeed! No one could accuse Fingolfin being unaware of the power of names.

Names, names, yes, Maedhros knew too well the use of them. He had woken up to a new name, a new identity. Maedhros was not as smooth on the tongue as Maitimo, nor as proud as Nelyafinwë. Indeed, it sounded harsh to him at first, but perhaps that was why it fit. A harsh name for a harsh new world.

Maedhros felt lazy, lounging in bed when the rest of world seemed to be frantically moving on, but he was under the strict orders by the healers not to strain himself, and for the first time in his life, he was inclined to listen. It seemed unbelievably strange that he should be there, in a clean and spacious bed, in a relatively safe house, in a relatively safe place, when he only had to close his eyes to return to Angband again.

***

Fingon came to him late in the year, when the leaves had begun to fall from the trees, an odd habit. Maedhros was out, rambling through the woods, lost in thought when he spied a familiar flash of gold. Fingon spotted him almost at the same time. He was dressed for the hunt, though from the looks of it, he had not yet caught anything. They greeted each other warily. For Maedhros, at least, it was because he did not quite know how to begin to thank Fingon for saving him in every way a person could be saved. He did not think such words existed.

It was also true that he had not seen much of his cousin since the rescue -- only glimpses here and there, and once, a long look when Maedhros had given the crown to Fingolfin. They had not spoken after, though the knowledge that Maedhros had changed Fingon’s life as entirely as he had his own had passed easily before them.

“Why don’t you come --” Maedhros interrupted himself, scowling at Fingon, who looked like he was going to say no, “come and have dinner with me.”

Fingon shifted in his boots. If he had not been so entirely, so demonstratively valiant, bold, and true, Maedhros would have suspected him of being nervous. But at last, Fingon seemed to pull himself together and gave a firm nod.

“If you'll have me, I shall go,” he said, with a small smile.

“Good,” Maedhros said, taking Fingon by the arm. He enjoyed, briefly, the flush of warm skin against his own before Fingon withdrew from his grasp with a murmured apology. Maedhros did not let his feelings show in his face and they made the two mile trek back to the south camp in virtual silence.

Maglor was the first to greet them, a thunderous look in his eye. “Look at this!” He thrust out a small harp to them from the folds of his cloak.

They examined in before Fingon ventured to say, “Is that a bite mark?”

“Indeed it is! Huan has been chewing on my things again and Tyelkormo never lifts a finger to stop him… Hello, Findekáno. It's been a long time. How are you?”

“I am well,” Fingon said. “I hope you forgive me for being so long away.”

Here, he looked at Maedhros, who nodded in acknowledgment.

“It is no matter,” Maedhros said, “we know, of course, that your duties must come first.”

“At last Maitimo’s old, gracious manners return! But he lies, you know, he was livid when you stayed away.” Maglor thumped his harp against his chest in frustration. “This was a very good harp.”

“Must you always undermine me, Makalaurë?”

Maglor flashed him a brilliant smile. “I do it out of love, you know. Love and concern.”

Maedhros frowned at him, but Maglor only waved him away.

Fingon began to laugh and the two brothers turned to look at him. “I cannot believe it, but it's true. The world has changed, but you two have not. You are still pecking at each like two hens fighting over spilled corn.”

“I suppose you never argue with Turukáno!” Maglor said in disbelief.

Fingon shook his head. “Never! We have the utmost respect for each other, and the utmost distance, too.”

“Then it is all right, cousin Findekáno, I will argue with you like a brother should,” Maglor said magnanimously, putting his arm around Fingon’s shoulder and leading him indoors. That left Maedhros to trail after them, still unsure as to what had just happened.

***

Dinner was merry -- even the harshest of the sons of Fëanor could not but welcome one such as Fingon in their midst -- and the singing afterward, loud but melodious. Maglor, who naturally had the run of the after-dinner entertainments, had commandeered Fingon to be his accompanist, for Fingon was an excellent musician, if not a sublime one (as Maglor helpfully pointed out). As the evening progressed into night, the songs changed as well, from bawdy smithing songs, to aching ones of lost love and missed chances.

Maedhros noticed, with some feeling of disquiet, that Maglor and Fingon seemed linger long on those love songs the most.

Soon, however, Maglor sprang up. Maedhros, who was seated, as was his custom, towards the back (for he had no desire to block anyone else’s view) recognized the look of mischief in his brother’s eye and mistrusted it.

He was right to, for Maglor turned and addressed Fingon in his storyteller’s voice, saying, “My dear cousin Findekáno, valiant rescuer of our kin! Will you not now sing for us the song that you sang in Thangorodrim, that roused Maitimo’s wits and allowed you to find him? Shall we hear the song that saved king of the House of Fëanor? What say you?”

The last thing he addressed to to audience, who shouted and clapped, calling Fingon to sing.

Fingon’s eyes sought Maedhros’ own, his hand covering the strings of his borrowed harp so as not to stir it. Maedhros nodded and Fingon smiled, briefly, and then began to play. The song was a deceptively simple one, written in Valinor, but recalling a story much more ancient. It was split in two, one thread about a lost child, wandering in the dark of Middle-earth, calling for her parents, and the other, of the frantic parents, trying to find their little one. Where are you, my beloved one? What path do you go down?

Fingon called out the child’s part, while Maglor and the crowd did the parents, and the call and response went on for some time, rising in pitch, in tempo, until was almost a scream. Then, silence descended upon them and Fingon began to sing softly. It was a sad, quiet song, mournful, about all the lost ones. If had been Maglor singing, the audience would have been weeping openly by then. But with Fingon, the mood was more muted, still and listening. Without realizing it, Maedhros had made his way to the front. Someone -- Maglor or Amrod, perhaps -- pushed him up on the stage.

Fingon had stopped singing and stared up at him, expectant.

Someone in the crowd shouted for a duet. Maedhros turned back toward the crowd, glaring at them. But the light was in his eyes and perhaps his gaze, which made Orcs flee from his face, did little to discourage a rowdy and drunken crowd of the Noldor.

“You don't have to sing,” Fingon told him, with a wry twist on his mouth.

“You should have sung the true song instead,” Maedhros said, his voice low.

“Not without your leave.”

Maedhros nodded, acknowledging Fingon’s words. Then he turned back to the crowd. “My good people -- you have supped and sung enough for tonight. The entertainment is over -- go home! Go to bed!”

He ignored the groans and rebellious mutters, and eventually the hall started to empty. Fingon stood beside him and said that he ought go home himself.

“Not you. It's too late,” Maedhros said firmly, stealing a look at him from the corner of his eyes before he stiffened and looked straight ahead. “I will send a message out to reassure your father.”

“I am sure my father will be completely reassured by your message,” Fingon said, taking Maedhros’ arm. The touch between them was full of unspoken things. It was as if they were alone in the world; everything seemed to fade into insignificance.

“Heed your own words, brother!” Maglor sang out from the dark of the hall. Fingon and Maedhros looked at each other and laughed, more in relief than true mirth.

“I have some wine from Valmar in my chamber,” Maedhros said, at last.

“Wine from Valmar? I can't think of the last time I had that.”

“All the more reason to stay,” Maedhros said, offering Fingon his hand. Fingon took it and held it for a moment. That was that.

***

They had drunk quite a lot by the time morning, dark and improbable (but a morning without light was always so), came upon them. Fingon suddenly rose from his chair, where he had been drowsily lounging and staggered a little to the door, muttering something about needing to go. Maedhros eyed him speculatively when Fingon paused and turned to him, asking rather pathetically, the direction to the privy. Maedhros, moved by this piteous sight, offered to show him where it was.

They wove cautiously down the hall and took a flight of stairs down. Celegorm, true to his name, saw them clinging to each other and heckled them. Without thinking, Maedhros hissed something back at him and he paled and skulked away.

Fingon blinked and said solemnly, when Celegorm was gone, “I think you spoke to him in Orcish.”

“No, that was thrall-speak,” Maedhros shrugged. “Still mutually intelligible, to a point.”

“Oh!” Fingon looked wretchedly sad, which irritated Maedhros to such an extent that he left Fingon there to sort himself out.

It was a long, exhausting climb back to Maedhros’ room and into Maedhros’ bed. Maedhros hardly cared about any of it. He was just happy to be back and to curl into its warmth and comfort. He stretched and was aware of a curious lack of space until his thigh brushed against another, and it made sense. Fingon had returned and now he yawned, loudly enough to crack his jaw and stretched out again, draping himself over Maedhros in quite his old manner.

Maedhros fell asleep again, with Fingon’s fingers tangled in his hair.

He was content. He did not dream.

***

Maedhros woke when there was already a bright stream of light pouring through his windows. He was alone in his bed, but not in his room, apparently. Fingon was dressed in his hunting clothes again and eating bits of Maedhros’ breakfast from a tray perched on a chair beside him.

Fingon said, “I am surprised to see you sleep so much.”

“Ordinarily, I don't.”

“Am I to blame, then?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said, longing to reach out and grab Fingon by the collar, drag him back where he could be of use.

Fingon stretched out, putting his hands behind his head. “In Tirion, you were always up and about, always had a plan, several different plans, actually, in case one or two didn’t work out. It was exhausting business, being your friend.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Maedhros rolled on his other side. “Perhaps it’s this -- I was gone for ages, years, and my brothers did well without me. It’s humbling to see that your world doesn’t fall apart without you.”

“You didn’t have to speak to Makalaurë when you were missing,” Fingon said, getting up. “He was -- he was distraught to be without you. Even at the height of my anger, I knew that he --”

“I did not know that you were so concerned about my brother. Should I be jealous?”

“Don’t,” Fingon said with a sigh.

Maedhros sat up and stretched. He noticed that sometime during the night, he had lost his shirt. Therefore, he stretched a bit more.

 

Fingon’s eyes never left him. After a long, lazy yawn, Maedhros rubbed himself and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“Alqualondë.”

Maedhros winced. “Ah.”

“You sound disappointed. Did you think I had forgotten? You underestimate me.” Fingon had moved up the bed and onto where Maedhros was lying still.

“On the contrary, I have never underestimated you. Why should you forget Alqualondë?” He sighed and pushed himself hard against Fingon, forcing his cousin to make room for him, under him.

Sadly, Maedhros muttered, “My own recollection are rather dim. I know I thought it was the worst thing that could have happened, though future events proved me wrong.”

“How can you speak of it so dispassionately? Maitimo, you killed. I killed -- for you.”

“What do you want from me?” Maedhros said almost with a snarl. “Should I beg for your forgiveness? Should I come to you on my knees, weeping that I should have pulled you into grievous sin of kinslaying? I did not want you there, Findekáno. If I had known you would come, I would have cut you down myself.”

A breath, then two, passed in silence. They were now facing each other, eye to eye. Fingon blinked, recovering first.

Wryly, he said, “Then it’s well that I sent no word beforehand. Kinslayer though I am, I still dearly love my life.”

“Do they call you that, your folk?”

“No, never. It is never mentioned among us.”

“Perhaps there is nothing to say,” Maedhros said, pulling Fingon down on top of him. Fingon rolled so he could be on Maedhros’ side. They were so close together that they had begun to speak in whispers to each other. Maedhros put his hand on Fingon’s face, carefully, as if he was afraid to be burnt. Fingon closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and staring directly at Maedhros.

“There is much to say,” Fingon said, “And I cannot stand the silence! I did wrong, and I did not turn back to face the judgment of the Valar. Yes, I went forward to seek new lands and new people, but --”

“Why do you tell me this? Do you think I can give you forgiveness?”

“Your forgiveness is the only one I do not seek,” Fingon said with a serious expression.

Maedhros shifted in his bed, using his right arm to leverage himself up. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Damned cold of you, I must say.”

Fingon smiled suddenly, brightly and leaned in and kissed Maedhros. It was a brief kiss, a brush of the lips and then nothing. Fingon pulled back when he saw that Maedhros had stayed perfectly still.

Flushing, Fingon said, “I am sorry, I thought…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought. Foolish of me.”

“I’m not --” Maedhros interrupted himself. “As your friend, I can’t advise it. I am -- flawed. Inside and out. Unlike yourself, I cannot wholly bring myself to regret Alqualondë, though I accept that what I did there has damned me. I cannot -- I will not give you what you need.”

“What, in fact, do I need?”

“I see that you don’t argue that I am flawed.”

Fingon snorted sharply.

Maedhros went on, heedless. “You need a good person, who is patient, loving, kind. Someone who is beautiful. Someone who will be able to give you what you need, someone who could rule beside you, and for you, if need be. Someone who will not have to struggle against neither an oath nor a Doom.”

“What if I have no use for such a paragon,” Fingon said. “Or, rather, they have no use for me.”

“Findekáno…”

“You are right,” Fingon said, getting out of Maedhros’ bed. His voice was brisk, but he did not look at Maedhros for a moment. But then he turned, a spark of challenge in his eye. “I wonder at our conversation turning from our dire deeds to our pathetic loves.”

“It was a strange turn. Will you go immediately home or will you stay? I want to show you my weapons practice if I can.”

“Try against me, you mean?” Fingon said, reaching across the bed to pull Maedhros toward him.

“Of course,” Maedhros said, letting himself be pulled. “I'll beat you, you know.”

“No doubt. But I must send word or else my father will be convinced that I have done something -- foolish.”

“Halfway to Angband already,” Maedhros said, feeling unexpectedly wretched. Despite that-- or possibly because of it --he smiled. “Stay?”

“Soon enough, I should think. There are so many meetings to be had, before you leave for the east.”

“Oh yes.” Maedhros laid back. “I had almost forgotten.”

***

The sun was shining above them, a suspiciously clear and pleasant day in Hithlum. There was not a scrap of cloud in the sky.

Maedhros eyed the clear expanse of sky with intense dislike.

When he had been hung by the wrist in Thangorodrim, he had hated these kind of cloudless days the most. His skin had burnt, his mouth dried up.

“Are you coming?” shouted Fingon, from farther up the field. Maglor waved for him, more enthusiastic than he had a right to be. Maglor had insisted on coming along, saying, rudely, that he couldn’t possibly be sure that the two of them were indeed going to spar unless he went along to see that they did. But as Maedhros approached, he saw that Maglor had spread a large blanket on the ground and had stretched on it, his head pillowed by his arms. He greeted Maedhros with a lazy grin.

Fingon, meanwhile, was industriously setting the scene. He offered Maedhros a choice of weapons. Maedhros took hold of a sword with his left (and only) hand and it felt -- wrong -- awkward -- heavy in his hand. He swung it experimentally, and gave it a few thrusts.

“You'll put an eye out!” shouted Maglor, and Maedhros rolled his eyes and looked to Fingon. Fingon was holding himself very still, seemingly deep in thought. When Maedhros asked if he was ready, he shook his head sharply for a moment before nodding. Then, on the count of three, they attacked each other.

In the corner of his eye, Maedhros noticed that Maglor had sat up and was observing their fight with an intensity that seemed to belie his mocking smile.

Maedhros was surprised by the ferocity of Fingon’s attacks. He had not expected that, though perhaps he had been foolish not to. It had been a long, long time since they had sparred together. Fingon had learned to fight well in the meantime.

Though Maedhros’ left arm was weakened with disuse, soon enough it seemed to grow stronger, held the sword more surely, though Fingon did his best to knock it from his hand. As he gained more confidence, Maedhros surged forward, forcing Fingon to give ground.

There were no teasing sallies from Maglor now, and both Maedhros and Fingon fought in grim, determined silence. The fight dragged on, with neither of them willing to concede to the other.

Maedhros saw his mistake almost before he did it. Fingon had made a particularly clever parry and the flash of steel against the sunlight hit Maedhros’ eyes at the exact wrong time. For a moment, he was not there, sparring with Fingon in a field besides Lake Mithrim, with his brother, merry but watchful, in sight. Instead, he was in Angband again, alone in the dizzying darkness, his father’s Silmarils the only light.

 

Maedhros stumbled.

From there, it was quick work for Fingon to disarm him and lay on him on the ground. Maedhros stayed down, breathing hard. He looked up to the sky and saw that sun was quickly being covered with clouds, already darkening with the promise of rain. The weather in Mithrim was like it -- all roads led back to rain -- the air itself smelled of it.

He smiled and closed his eyes.

After a few moments, he heard above him, a voice: “Er, Maitimo. Are you all right?”

And another -- “Open your eyes, brother. You're all that we have left.”

His cousin and his brother glared at each other before Maglor broke away to gather up the blanket, which lay on the ground, abandoned nearby. He threw the blanket over their heads -- the rain now fell down on them in gusts -- and they sprinted towards the house that overlooked the playing field. In the summer, it was usually filled with youths eager to expand their skills, but now, in the very edge of autumn, it was deserted.

Fingon stopped halfway and went back for the practice swords. By the time he returned, Maedhros had started a small fire in the hearth and was trying to dry himself. Maglor fussed with his hair but Maedhros pushed him away.

Maglor looked at him critically. “I know that look. You are planning something.”

“What do you mean?”

“This--” Maglor made a vague gesture around. “I am married, you know.”

“Your wife is in Alqualondë and you will not see her again.”

“You are cruel,” Maglor said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “But still, I don’t understand it. Wouldn’t I be unwelcome, in between you and Fingon? Or--” There was a glint of mischief in his eye. “Perhaps you are afraid of being alone with him.”

“I’m not.” But it was clear that this was not convincing. Maedhros tried again, saying, “I have seen -- even in Valinor, don’t deny it -- you have always had a peculiar softness for Findekáno. Don’t deny it.”

“Why would I? But I knew the rules. Findekáno was yours.”

“Well, there are no rules now, not for us,” Maedhros said impatiently, turning toward the door. Fingon was taking his time returning. If he was not entirely sure that Fingon’s valor would forbid it, he would have suspected his cousin of simply running away. But then he heard a familiar step and saw Fingon at the door. He seemed to have been there for some time.

Fingon walked up to the fireplace and warmed his hands. He bumped his hips against Maedhros’, and said, in a light tone, “Is this what you really want to do?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said, with a decisive nod. “If you are willing.”

“I am, if you are,” Maglor said quickly, reaching out to touch Fingon’s arm. Fingon flashed him a smile, so sweet and so challenging besides that Maedhros had to lean in and press a kiss on his check.

He realized then that Fingon’s clothes were far wetter than his own, and so it was only right that they would have to be taken off. He began to unbutton Fingon’s coat, but he fumbled with it for a moment. But when Fingon reached up to help him, Maedhros said, sharply, “I can do it.”

“This will take forever if we wait for you,” Maglor said -- rudely, Maedhros thought -- and began to undress quickly. He kicked his breeches aside and threw his his tunic over his head. Maglor had never attended to his clothes well.

Finally, however, Fingon was free of his clothes. He and Maglor turned their attention to Maedhros, who felt absurdly like blushing.

Working in tandem, they stripped off Maedhros’ clothes until he was naked before them. Then, all of them collapsed on the sleeping pallet that Maglor had pushed against the fireplace. It was hardly big enough for the the three of them, but it was better than the ground. Maedhros thought guiltily that he was commanding most of the room. But Fingon did not seem to mind it -- he leaned down, his hair tickling at Maedhros’ throat, and kissed him there.

“This is all for you, love,” Fingon said, his eyes bright. Maglor muttered something approving, and Maedhros saw that his brother had managed it so that Maedhros’ head was in his lap, and that he was even now running his strong fingers through his hair.

Fingon, for his part, ran his hand down Maedhros’ side, tracing the line of a particularly long and ugly scar. Maedhros watched him do it, the memory of how he received it -- it was one of his first in Angband -- retreating from his mind, overtaken by the sensation of Fingon’s hands on him.

He managed not to gasp aloud when Fingon’s hands reached his cock, although Maglor, above him, sighed a little when it happened. “What do you want him to do, brother?” Maglor’s voice was as smooth as silk, and as powerful as water on stone. “Would you like him to take you in his mouth? Bring you off that way?”

“Yes,” Maedhros whispered.

“Louder,” Maglor said.

“Yes, damn you!”

“Hush,” Fingon said, and his lips lingered on the tip of Maedhros’ cock for a moment before he took it, almost politely, into his mouth. Fingon sucked cock like a gentleman would, as Maedhros would expect him to do. But still it seemed to him that Fingon was rather cautious, and so Maedhros reached down and gently squeezed Fingon’s chin, to catch his attention. Fingon looked up at him, his eyes narrowed to slits of blue.

“That's it,” Maglor muttered, his fingernails digging into Maedhros’ scalp. “But not so much that he comes already, Findekáno.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Maedhros commanded, and to his credit, Fingon didn’t. Instead, he swallowed down even deeper, and sucked hard, his fingers massaging Maedhros’ balls just so. And soon -- too soon -- Maedhros groaned, and came in a rush.

Fingon pulled away and spat out the come on the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled up to them and Maedhros wrapped an arm around his waist and motioned Maglor to come closer. Maglor did, sliding out from Maedhros and wriggling until he was firmly wedged between Fingon and the wall.

Maedhros’ hips bucked lazily against Fingon, and Maglor trailed a line of kisses down his neck. They looked at each for a moment and Maedhros smiled. “I love you two the best of all,” he said quietly, almost too quietly for them to hear.

But of course, Maglor did hear it and he laughed, taking a hold of one of Maedhros’ nipples and twisting. His own smile was mostly teeth. “Pull the other one, I’ve heard that one before.”

“Not like this,” Fingon said, his voice a little muffled by hair -- his and Maedhros’ tangled together. He pushed it away with an impatient sigh and rubbed his cock against Maedhros’ thighs.

Maedhros grinned for moment, revelling in this perfect moment. He knew that he could smash it up so easily, but for now -- they were alive, both Fingon and Maglor, and he was alive, too, and they were together. He could not think of a better ending than that.