From The Wrack And Ruin by Elwin Fortuna

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Year 445 of the First Age

"My lord, Orcs were spotted heading across the plains toward the northwest," the young guard said, breathless and bent double from running all the way up the hill. "There is a village not far from their path."

Morgoth delighted in waging war by fear and intimidation just as much as by arms at this time, and would at times send out Orcs on essentially suicide missions to wreak what havoc they could and distract the eyes of the King's army. Orc-raids could occur suddenly and swiftly, and as the Prince, Fingon considered it his duty to protect as many of their people as possible.

"Say no more!" Fingon was already pulling his famous bow down from where it hung on the wall, along with his quiver. "How many have we with us?"

"Only eight, my lord," the guard said, straightening up. "There were twenty-five at least of the Orcs."

"It will suffice," Fingon said. "They were on foot?"

"They were," the guard answered. Fingon was already leading the way to the stables, and before another few minutes had passed, he and the guard had sufficient horses, and were collecting the rest of their small war-band. Scarce ten minutes since the guard told Fingon the news had gone by, when Fingon and his band poured out the gates of Barad Eithel, flying as fast as they could on their fleetest horses.

But an Orc-band is ruthless and fearless, and they had this village in their sights. Before Fingon could catch up with them, the whole place was on fire, and Orcs were recklessly slaughtering everyone in their way as they moved through the tiny hamlet like a tidal wave of destruction.

Less than a mile beyond the village, Fingon's company caught them. Ten mounted archers in total, they made short work of most of the Orcs, flying in with their short swords at the end to finish off the rest, fully as ruthless, fully as merciless in their wrath as their enemies.

Once all the Orcs were dead, Fingon and his band made their way back to the village, finding it a smouldering ruin. They dismounted and fanned out, looking for survivors.

Near the centre of the village, Fingon heard a weak cry, a female voice calling out to him. He rushed over, falling to his knees beside her. The nis lay against a wall, facing the stone. She had been stabbed in the back and was dying, but she was clearly shielding something in her arms, something that the Orcs had missed.

"My lord," the young nis gasped. "Prince Fingon, I beg of you..." Her voice was fading. She was very near to death, but opened her arms, and there against her breast, a baby stirred, making a soft cry.

"My husband was cut down protecting us," she said, voice shaking, growing fainter, and she looked back across the village centre to a body that lay some distance away, near the fountain. "Please, my lord, save our son. We have no family, we were wed against their wishes and they do not recognise us or our child."

Fingon carefully lifted the child from her arms. "I shall care for him as if he were my own," he said, stroking the black hair that already grew thickly on the child's scalp. He could not have been more than a few months old.

The nis smiled softly, reaching out and clinging to the tiny baby hand. "Then I may go in peace. Farewell, my radiant star," she whispered. A long sigh escaped her, and the hand holding the baby's suddenly went limp.

"I do not even know your name, little one," Fingon said to the baby, who opened his eyes just then, and looked up at the face above him. His eyes were an unusual blue-grey, not dissimilar to Fingon's own, and the colour and texture of his hair was also similar to Fingon's. He traced the child's features with his free hand, mesmerised, adoring. "I shall have to name you myself."

He was still kneeling with the child in his arms when one of the guards came to find him, reporting that no one else in the village was left alive.

-----

"And you found out nothing about the child's family, who will undoubtedly wish for him to be among them?" The High King had been baffled when Fingon sent for him late that afternoon, but the mystery had quickly been cleared up by the sight of his son, always the warrior, impulsive, impatient, tenderly and calmly feeding a four-month old baby with milk from a bottle.

"Nothing whatsoever save that the mother was quite insistent that her family did not recognise her marriage or her child. I did not find out her name or the father's name." Fingon lay the bottle down as the child began to fuss, and gently rocked him. "As far as I am concerned, the child is mine, as I promised." He looked up at Fingolfin, the look in his eyes amused but filled with love. "You never once said that I should marry and have heirs, but I know you thought it often, and regretted what could not be. Now it seems that through great sorrow I have found what I thought would be impossible."

"He even looks like you somewhat," Fingolfin said, coming over to more closely inspect the child. "He is clearly Noldorin, and may even be a distant relation."

"Perhaps," Fingon said, leaning back in the chair he was sitting in. "We were all cousins at Cuivenen," he added, quoting a popular saying.

Fingolfin smiled. "My heart is glad to see thy heir and my grandson," he said, his voice taking on a formal tone. He leaned over and kissed the child's forehead, and then paused, looking back up. "I don't suppose he has a name?"

-------

Dearest Maitimo

You won't believe my news - I have managed to find myself an heir at last. Never fear, I haven't married anyone nor would I - you are my love and always will be. The child is a foundling entrusted to my care; his parents dead in an Orc raid which I was too late to prevent.

He even looks like me, strange to say, and we are putting the story about, informally, that he is my child, leaving his mother's name obscure. People are already coming up with the wildest rumours about his parentage, but thankfully few seem to have guessed the truth as yet. It cannot be hidden forever of course.

Father is very understanding about the whole thing; I think he's just pleased I have an heir at all, no matter what went into the making of him.

As for me, I am helplessly in love twice over now, between you and little Ereinion Gil-galad, for so have I named him. His mother called him her 'radiant star' with her dying words, and I found it fitting that he should be called so. His name Ereinion may help establish his position as my heir, if the rumour mills don't hit on the truth too soon.

I look forward to your visit in two months' time; I fear that you may find me somewhat preoccupied, but believe me, I will always be your Findekano.

------

Beloved Findekano

If it isn't just like you to provide yourself an heir in such an unconventional and impulsive way! I truly would not have objected had you chosen to marry for the sake of an heir, but I confess myself relieved that you will not have to.

Considering your situation, I am concerned that Ereinion may not be the most suitable name. If the loremasters get wind of the truth, forever after you will have his name followed by a footnote saying "not actually the scion of kings" in the history books.

Subtlety is not your strong suit, my beloved prince. While that plays in your favour in certain situations - I here recall a time long ago when on impulse you kissed one who had loved you quietly since you were little more than a child, and all the delight such an action led to - I am concerned that if you draw attention to the child's parentage in such an obvious way, you will lead people to consider it more deeply than they otherwise would.

What about the name Artanaro? 'Noble fire' connects the child with the House of Finwe subtly, but nevertheless directly, and makes the point about the child being royalty without bashing people over the head with it. Perhaps worth considering, love.

Your letter was sadly delayed on the road, but if I can help it I will not be, and expect to see you and meet the little one in six weeks' time. Please pass on my greetings to the happy grandfather.

As ever, I am always your Maitimo.

------

Maedhros made his way up the stairs to the prince's private rooms. The guard at the door recognised him, and stood aside, allowing him to enter.

Inside, Fingon turned where he stood beside a cradle, and laid his finger to his lips, signalling to Maedhros to come over. Maedhros shut and locked the door as softly as possible, and obliged.

"He's just gone to sleep," Fingon whispered. Maedhros looked down into the cradle to see the small face, eyes closed in sleep, long dark eyelashes and hair contrasting with well-formed features.

"Fate handed you the prettiest child," Maedhros whispered back, and smiled fondly. "He does look like you."

"Oh, hush," Fingon said, but not without a proud grin, and leaned over, putting an arm around Maedhros' waist and laying his head on Maedhros' shoulder. Maedhros bent and kissed his forehead tenderly.

"Take me to bed, Maitimo," Fingon said after a moment more. "I think he really has gone to sleep."

They tiptoed into the next room, closing the door between nearly all the way. Fingon was stripping Maedhros' clothes off almost before they were out of sight. "Valar, but I'm desperate for you," he said, very low. "It feels like it's been an age or more."

"Far too long," Maedhros agreed, and kissed Fingon deeply. Fingon hummed with pleasure and contentment, and together they tumbled into bed, pulling the last of their clothes away as they fell amongst the blankets and furs. Fingon reached out as they fell, taking a small bottle of oil from the bedside table. Maedhros pushed him down into the furs, his legs astride Fingon's, and they kissed for an endless moment, pressing their erections together.

"Ah, but I need to be inside you, my heart," Fingon said softly after a moment, eyes alight, fingers slick with oil already reaching down between Maedhros' legs.

"Yes, love - ah!" Maedhros said, a little louder than he intended as Fingon's fingers breached him, and then clapped his hand over his mouth, blushing scarlet. Fingon laughed, pausing to watch Maedhros recover his composure.

"Come down here and kiss me," Fingon said, "and then you will not have to worry about making noises." He withdrew his hand, but guided himself into Maedhros, who closed his eyes in bliss for a moment at the feel of him.

Maedhros bent down then, taking Fingon's mouth slowly and warmly. Fingon thrust up into him, arching nearly off the bed. They moved together, Fingon controlling it from below, Maedhros riding him, letting him set the pace.

Fingon inserted a hand between their bodies to take Maedhros' prick and stroke it roughly in the way he knew Maedhros most enjoyed. It wasn't long before they were swallowing each other's moans in their mouths, Maedhros, almost undone, keening softly against Fingon's lips.

The need for breath won out and Maedhros tore his mouth away from Fingon's but instead bent down to the tender skin of Fingon's neck and bit down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough so that Fingon gasped with the sensation, and then pressed his lips together hard in an effort to stay quiet.

They came at almost the same time, Fingon first, his hips driving into Maedhros hard and deep. "Maitimo," he whispered, voice broken and shaking. Maedhros fell apart at that sound, muffling his own cry against Fingon's neck and the bruised skin there.

They parted, panting, and Fingon immediately moved back into Maedhros' arms, curling up against him. For a while they drifted together, vaguely petting one another, murmuring fond endearments lazily.

"I'm so happy, Maitimo," Fingon said at last, twining a length of Maedhros' hair around his fingers. "It feels so fragile and ephemeral, but I really am very happy. Ereinion is such a joy that I think my heart will break with it, sometimes."

Maedhros pressed his mouth against Fingon's brow. "It pleases me to see you like this," he whispered. "You love children so, it grieved me that we could never have any of our own. You have been missing a piece of your heart for time out of mind, and I thought it might be good to advise you to marry, but could never bring myself to it."

"Nor would I ever have done so," Fingon said. "I cannot marry where I do not love, and my love is given, all of it."

Maedhros bent to kiss him again, but they both turned as the sound of a soft cry reached their ears. Fingon sat up, reaching for a robe that lay across a nearby chair.

He padded out into the dim sitting room that held the baby's cradle, leaving the door to the bedroom open. Ereinion was sitting up, and the cradle rocked gently back and forth. He was fussing idly but stopped when he saw Fingon. "Ada," he said, taking his fingers out of his mouth. "Adadada." He raised his arms. "Ada, up!" he said.

"In a minute, little one," Fingon said, reassured that there was nothing wrong. He made his way over to a table in the corner where a pitcher of water sat along with a basin, soap, and towels, and washed his hands very throughly. "You're just bored, aren't you?" he said over his shoulder to Ereinion.

"Adadada," Ereinion responded. Hands dried, Fingon reached out and gathered Ereinion up, looking up to see Maedhros coming out of the bedroom, wearing only his long tunic. He smiled over at Fingon.

"That's Maitimo," Fingon said to Ereinion. "Can you say Maitimo?"

Ereinion clapped his hands and waved them. "Ma'mo!" he said with some effort, and Maedhros could not resist another smile at the pair of them. He took a seat, stretched out, on the long couch nearby, back against the sturdy arm, and Fingon made his way over, settling down with his back to Maedhros' chest, between his legs. Maedhros's arms came around him and he smiled over Fingon's shoulder at the baby.

"Greetings, Ereinion Gil-galad Artanaro, heir to the High Kingship of the Noldor," he said formally, to be answered with a sleepy smile and a yawn from the erstwhile little prince. Fingon lay his head back against Maedhros' shoulder as Ereinion put his own down against Fingon's chest and drifted off.

"He just likes to be held, sometimes," Fingon whispered. He yawned himself. "As do I, this is nice," he added.

Maedhros petted Fingon's hair gently. "Go to sleep, if you wish, dear one," and Fingon sighed happily, snuggling close, sandwiched between the two beings he loved most in all of Arda.

Long years later, Maedhros would remember this moment, suspended as if frozen in time, but now he only watched them sleep, the light of the fire playing across their faces, feeling himself that sense of foreboding that Fingon had spoken of. It was such a fragile moment in time, saved from the wrack and ruin of their lives, the one snatched moment when they were nothing more, and nothing less, than a family, whole and together.