Crowned by Nibeneth

---

Chapter 1

---

At the scene before his eyes, Maedhros found himself speechless. He closed his mouth, opened it again, and finally choked out, “what are you doing?”

Fingon's face was puffy, his eyes red and shadowed from weeping. He looked up at Maedhros. They stared at one another for a heartbeat, and then Fingon held up a pair of shears. They trembled in his hand as if he, the strongest person Maedhros knew, was too frail to hold them.

“Please help me,” he whispered. He sat on the floor, surrounded by the splendor of the High King's chambers, with tufts of tightly-curled black hair falling in a ring around his hunched form. One long, thick braid lay by his right side. Another lay in front of him. The rest were still attached to his head—where they should be, Maedhros thought in horror—but he had torn out all the ornaments and thrown them down to mingle with the hair clippings on the carpet. He was still wearing the gold-embroidered robe he had been crowned in. The crown itself had escaped the violence he had inflicted on everything else on his head and was sitting on a nearby wine table.

Maedhros' mouth was hanging open again. He closed it, swallowed, and carefully crouched down before his liege lord. “Fingon,” he said. All other words failed him.

Fingon's face twisted, whether in anger or grief or something else, Maedhros could not tell. He took Maedhros' hand, placed the shears into it, and folded his fingers around them. “Please. I can't do it on my own. My hands are shaking too badly.”

“Why are you cutting off your hair in the first place!” It came out louder than he intended and they both flinched. Maedhros dropped the shears as if they burned his fingers and took Fingon's hands in both of his, flesh and prosthetic. “My dear, why—”

“Do it!” Fingon, too, seemed startled by his outburst, but that swiftly collapsed into deep, convulsive sobs. He wrapped his arms around his body as if trying to keep himself from falling apart. “Please, Maitimo...”

Maedhros winced at the sound of that name and winced harder when Fingon's forehead collided with his right shoulder. It was sore on the best of days. Hefting a shield with it and his false hand over the past months had certainly not done it any good. He took a deep breath through his nose and gently lifted Fingon's head from his shoulder. “I will help you with anything you ask of me,” he said, though it made him shiver a little. “But why your hair?”

The king only shook his head and put the shears back in Maedhros' hand. “Please just do it.”

Maedhros hesitated. Finally, he nodded once and settled on his knees behind Fingon to survey the damage.

Though it changed with fashion, Fingon usually wore his hair in thick, braided rows against his scalp, which he gathered into a bunch at the base of his head with a golden clasp shaped like a coiled serpent. Each braid trailed down to the middle of his back, where he secured them with golden finials. With gold thread woven throughout, he truly sparkled. Now thread, finials, clasp, and hair alike littered the floor. On the right side of his head jagged cuts showed stark against the fluffy texture of his hair where he had sheared off the braids without bothering to unravel them first. It was longer in some areas and shorter in others. The hair near the nape of his neck was sticky and matted—Maedhros' fingers came back bloody.

“Fingon!”

“I said I needed help.” Fingon hunched his shoulders when Maedhros pressed a handkerchief to the wound.

“Yes! Yes, you do! How long has it been since you've eaten anything? Or slept?” He was... not angry, he could never be truly angry at Fingon for anything, but seeing him like this scared him more than he could admit. Channeling it into anger was easier. Fingon did not respond. Maedhros gritted his teeth. “This is not healthy. I will not let you continue like this!”

At last, Fingon whirled around, his brown eyes glittering with frustration. “Is it not enough to ask you as a lover? Must I command you as a king?”

“You don't need to command me in anything! I will beg you if I have to—”

“Cut my hair!”

Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut. Fingon meant it. He meant it so much that he had cut off two braids and gouged his scalp before asking for help. And after that, he still wanted it cut. Maedhros nodded and picked up the shears. It would be easier to cut the braids off and then trim the rest of his hair short, he decided, and loosely clasped the next braid in his prosthetic, which gripped passably well with the help of hidden springs. With the braid in his right hand and the shears in his left, he hesitated one last time. He could see a corner of Fingon's face in one of the polished cuisses of his armor on its stand. His expression was blank. Ready. More ready than Maedhros was.

Do it quickly, came a voice in his head, but it was his, not Fingon's. Get it over with.

He snipped through the braid. It fell through his gloved metal fingers and dropped to the ground. Dead.

The next one was not easier, nor the next. The thicker braids at the top of his head were like cutting through rope. One by one they slipped through his hand and fell into a growing pile. Many years ago, Fingon had given Maedhros a small tress, which he always wore in a pouch close to his heart—that one was cut in trust and given in love without mourning. Not like this.

The last braid fell. Maedhros set the shears down for a moment so he could loosen the braids along his scalp. If he let his touch linger in the soft, cloudy hair, Fingon said nothing. But after a moment he sighed and picked up the shears again, because his beloved lord asked it of him. It went slowly. He had to cut it to be even with the shortest length that Fingon had cut earlier, and his prosthetic, which was good enough for unsophisticated tasks, did not help much. It took what felt like hours to clip a little here, a little there, smoothing everything out until Fingon's head was covered in a short cap of tight, uniform curls.

“How does that feel?” He tried to sound casual, but the task had worn him out. The best he could manage was a tired sort of softness.

Fingon brought both hands up and laid them on his newly-shorn head. He was very still. “Better. Thank you.”

The tears had left his voice. Maedhros, who was very familiar with crying until he was too tired to cry, did not take that to mean he was feeling better. Instead he stood, brushed some stray curls from the front of his tunic, and walked back around to face Fingon. He looked at once older and younger in the manner of mortals with his hair gone: his eyes were wider and his ears stuck out a little, but his face also seemed more hollow around the cheeks without soft, shining braids to frame them. Still familiar. Still beautiful, even with his brow furrowed and his eyes bloodshot.

“This doesn't look comfortable,” Maedhros said at length. He dropped to one knee and touched the high, brocaded collar of Fingon's robe.

“I don't mind it.”

Maedhros ignored him and loosened the pearl buttons holding the robe closed. Again, it was slower than it should have been with two whole hands, but Fingon did not resist. Once he was sitting in just his shirt and leggings, Maedhros took off his own warm plaid mantle and wrapped him in it. “I meant it,” he said. “How long has it been since you ate something?”

Fingon shrugged one shoulder. “A while.”

“Go to bed. I'll find you something.”

“I'm not hungry,” he protested, but Maedhros shook his head.

“You made me eat when I wouldn't. You made me sleep when I wouldn't. Let me look after you for once.”

Fingon still had not moved when Maedhros returned to the residence with grilled fish and flatbread. He was still wrapped in the mantle with a crescent of braids and hair clippings around him. He did look up when Maedhros entered, and his nose twitched a little at the scent of food, which made Maedhros smile a little. He sat cross-legged in front of Fingon and presented the plate.

“Eat. Consider it payment for making me cut your hair.”

Fingon ignored the fork Maedhros offered him and just wrapped the fish in the flatbread. He managed half of it before pushing the plate aside. “I needed that,” he said, though he still looked drained. He withdrew his hands into the mantle and, saying nothing, leaned against Maedhros' shoulder. The left one this time.

Maedhros wrapped both arms around him and pressed his nose against his head. “You can do this,” he murmured, and kissed the tip of his ear.

“I must.”