To Build a House from the Ground Up by Nibeneth

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Chapter 1

The sun began its descent as Maedhros and Fingon sat on a cut log and ate the last of the waybread their mothers had baked for their journey. All around them lay the products of the last days' labor: wood chips, tree stumps, trimmed branches, logs. The horses Tulcarocco and Turcanna were picketed by the wagon, grazing in the dappled light, and a little further back stood the cabin, strong and sturdy but only partially-built.

The days were shorter than they had been when they first started out, and their map much more wrinkled and annotated. They had the map spread out on the log between them, along with another parchment displaying several sketches, diagrams, and calculations.

“We're at a standstill,” Fingon said, holding his bread close to his mouth as if he had forgotten he was going to take a bite. He traced a winding road on the map from the cabin to the nearest village. “We'll need to go into town to have the axe fixed before we can continue building.” Anxiety curled in Maedhros' stomach at those words. He met Fingon's eyes and just caught the slight twitch of his lips. “I know you miss people,” Fingon said, softer. “I promise it won't be that bad.”

“It's still soon.”

Fingon sighed. He reached out and rolled a lock of Maedhros' hair between his fingers and paused before he spoke again. “I know. I'll go into town if you start cutting shingles.”

“I can do that.”

“Thank you.” His hand lingered at Maedhros' chin. “It's a few hours' ride. I should leave in the morning and get back while it's still light.”

“That's sensible. And there's more we can do here today even without the axe.” Maedhros stood. “I want to see if I can find more of those giant tubers.” Just yesterday he had excavated one the size of his head. The forest was generous this time of year, and if they were crafty, they could make its produce last through the winter. He could reach nuts and fruit in the trees and Fingon had a bow for hunting. Anairë had also sent some dried provisions with them, but neither of them wanted to break into the sealed packages without dire need. Nerdanel had provided seeds, most of which needed to wait until springtime, but a few varieties of lettuce and radishes could be sown now.

“I wonder if those would be good pickled,” Fingon said.

“It's worth a try.”

“So we'll gather food for the rest of the day, and I'll go to town tomorrow.” Fingon stood as well, brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, and folded up the map and the house plans. “I still think you should come. Have you regretted meeting anyone so far?”

“No, but so far I haven't met anyone I dreaded meeting.” Maedhros ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit. “And I'd rather keep it that way for now.”

Fingon looked like he was about to try and persuade him again, but he just sighed, closed his mouth, and smiled. It was still easy to forget that they had as much time as they needed.

When the two of them emerged from the long dark of Mandos, it was not immediately obvious how long it had been. A long time, certainly, even by the reckoning of elves. The sun and moon and stars had shifted in the sky. The climate was different, cooler and wetter than the Aman of their youth but not as cool and wet as Beleriand had been. The language of their people had also changed, so much that it was sometimes hard to communicate. Even their mothers had picked up the new sounds and idioms and it took some time to learn to understand one another again. It was so strange, but Maedhros could not help but think he had been here before, waking on the shores of Lake Mithrim after days of delirium, surrounded by friends and family smiling and weeping and telling him they had not seen him in thirty years.

Now, as it had been in those days, it was impossible to go back and pick up a life that could never be the same. Trying to fit back into Tirion life, including the politics, was not an option. They came up with the idea at about the same time: they would leave, find a suitably remote plot of land, and settle there.

Anairë and Nerdanel were understanding despite their sorrow and sent them off with enough to get started: a sturdy wagon and horses, tools, provisions, money. Perhaps not a traditional wedding gift, but one that had love in every nail and stitch.

The afternoon's foraging yielded a basket each of fruit and nuts to save for later and one massive, frilly, orange mushroom that was most succulent when cut into strips and fried. Soon the sun sank beneath the trees, painting the sky in reds and purples that faded into deep, velvety blue-black, and the day's work was done. Shadows loomed, and their world shrank to the golden-orange circle of firelight.

Fingon leaned against the side of Maedhros' body, and Maedhros pulled him close and rested a hand on the top of his head. They sat together, saying nothing, only listening.

It was not silent. Mandos was silent, the kind of screaming, deafening silence that had forced Maedhros to look inward for relief, only to encounter the tangled mass of knots his spirit had become, one that seemingly had no beginning and no end. No way to straighten it all out.

Silence was terror, helplessness. The sounds that surrounded him now were gentle: flowing water, rustling leaves, crickets. The sound of Fingon's breath.

“Mm, I'm falling asleep.” Fingon sat up and stretched before standing. “Bed?”

“All right.” Maedhros let Fingon pull him to his feet.

He rolled his shoulders and let out a long sigh. Digging, chopping, carrying, and bending as he worked constantly reminded him what a luxury it was to not be in pain. Even having one hand didn't impede him as much as the physical weight of the agony he used to carry around in his shoulder, arm, back, and neck, and the hundred smaller aches that dragged at his feet and clouded his head. Most days he could bear it, and some days the scraping pain kept him confined to his bed. His healers supplied him with cakes made of cannabis and poppy that at least kept him standing upright when he had no other option, but he hated how sick and slow they made him feel.

He emerged from Mandos whole, healed, and free of pain. His eyes were lined and his hair was streaked with silver—his fëa was weary, and he bore the evidence of it in his hröa—but the Enemy's tortures had no power over his new body.

Sensation was still strange. Time meant little in death, but after so long as a solitary, bodiless spirit, Maedhros was sometimes overwhelmed by the power and the vulnerability of existing in flesh once again. Sometimes he looked down at his hands—both of them—and lost hours flexing his fingers one by one, watching the veins and tendons shift as he did so. He counted each new freckle that appeared as he and Fingon traveled another day under the sun and suffered acutely from sunburn when he forgot to wear his hat. Hunger was frustrating, as was fatigue, but the delight of eating a craggy piece of warm sourdough bread with yellow butter or sinking into a soft bed with clean sheets balanced it out. Sexual desire, too, was immediate and demanding and Fingon's hot kisses and supple skin under his hands made him near drunk with pleasure.

Today, however, work had tired them out, leaving a fuzzy quiet in its wake. They unfolded their bedding from its crate and arranged it in the back of the wagon, and when they had washed their hands, feet, and faces, they settled into their makeshift bed. It creaked and rocked a little, and it was no feather mattress, but at the end of a long day it was a welcome sight.

Fingon tucked his head under Maedhros' chin. His eyelashes tickled a little as he blinked and then closed his eyes. Maedhros wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in close. A sliver of moon glazed him in just a touch of silver, and for a moment, Maedhros had to consciously remind himself that this was not a dream or a wishful fantasy. They were together again, whether it was in Tirion or in the back of a wagon in the forest.

“G'night,” he murmured against Fingon's braids.

“Night. Love you.” Fingon squeezed him gently.

Maedhros was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

 

 

Fingon woke with the dawn and the sounds of birds singing high in the trees. Maedhros was in his arms, warm and heavy, and the branches above the wagon painted patterns in shadow on its canvas cover. He blinked sleepily and lifted a hand to brush Maedhros' hair away from his face.

“This is your last chance to decide to come to town with me.”

Maedhros' brow furrowed and he opened his eyes a crack. “Are you really going so damned early?”

“The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be back.” Fingon cupped his cheek and kissed him softly. With that he rose, dressed, packed a little food and money, and saddled Turcanna. Maedhros was up—albeit bleary-eyed and wrapped in a blanket—and brewing coffee by the time he was about to leave. Fingon smiled at him. “Are you sure you want to stay here? I'll wait for you if you've changed your mind.”

“Go! I have shingles to cut!” Maedhros gave an exasperated laugh and poured a cup of coffee. Fingon shrugged, lifted himself into the saddle, and rode out.

The first day, they dug the foundation and stacked stones to support the walls and floor. On the second day they felled trees and cut them to size. On the third they cut notches in the ends so they would lock and began stacking them. The fourth and fifth days were spent finishing the walls, and on the sixth day they began raising the rafters.

It was heavy work. They ate whatever promised the most nourishment for the least effort and at night they slept in the wagon, too tired to be bothered by aching muscles and blistered hands.

The cities of the Noldor in Beleriand had sprung up from nothing, a concentrated effort to establish strongholds against the Enemy as soon and as well as possible. All their arts went into the strongest, grandest, and most beautiful cities the world would ever see outside of Aman, and which now lay in ruins deep beneath the ocean. Now two of their highest lords, who had seen the rise and the fall, withdrew to the woods in a far-flung corner of their homeland to build a humble cabin for no purpose but their own.

The ride into town was long but pleasant. Fingon sang to himself as he went, listening for the answering calls of the birds, and pulled Turcanna to a stop when he reached the peaked arch formed out of living trees that marked the entrance to the village. He first noticed that it was unfortified—of course it was unfortified, this was Aman, not Beleriand. Still, he wondered if a stranger would be welcome to do business here, or if he should introduce himself first. And there was no telling what social customs might have changed in the last millennia, which would have been irrelevant in his mother's house.

After another moment of internal debate, he rode onward.

There were houses and shops, gardens and animal pens, and a coffeehouse according to the traditions of the Noldor. It was all less grand than it would have been in Tirion, but Fingon was tired of grand, and he liked it very much. Tall trees shaded the buildings and the cobbled streets and beyond the village borders, fields and pastures opened up in sweeps of green and gold. People were going about their business, though heads turned as he rode in. He had to remind himself that it was probably because he was a stranger. Though tales of his past deeds remained familiar, there were few who could still recognize him on sight.

A young man with a herd of goats pointed out the blacksmith's shop readily enough, though he looked confused, as if he couldn't quite understand Fingon's words. The blacksmith, an olive-skinned woman covered in black tattoos, took one look at Fingon's axe and whistled. The axehead was split right down the middle, and a chunk of the blade had snapped right off.

“How did you manage to do that?” She took the axe and the missing chunk from him and began to examine it further.

“I'm not sure exactly,” Fingon said. “I felt the impact all the way up my arms when I swung it at the tree, and when I pulled the axe out, it was broken. We'd been cutting trees all day without a problem.”

“Hm. It must have been an especially stubborn knot. Yes, I can fix it, but it will cost you more than just buying a new axehead. I have some ready-made, so if you want to trade the broken one in I can give you a deal.”

“Done.” They shook on it.

The blacksmith went to look for an appropriately-sized axehead among her ready-made stock. “This shouldn't take long,” she said. “You can sit if you like, and there's coffee in that pot. You look like you've been on the road for a bit.”

“Since just after dawn,” Fingon confessed. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it gratefully. “And several months before that. We set down stakes in the common forest a few days ago.”

“I'm having trouble placing your accent. Where are you from?”

“Tirion.” Fingon tilted his head. “By way of Beleriand, by way of the Halls of Mandos.”

“In that case, welcome back.” The smith, having found a good axehead, began fitting it to the handle. They shared silence for a while, Fingon drinking his coffee while she worked, and then she spoke again. “What's your name?”

“Mindocarmë.” The only person who had ever used his mother-name was indeed his mother, and now he used it for Maedhros' sake. Not to hide him, but to give him the chance to be known for himself. And Fingon too found this easy anonymity refreshing—perhaps he was a king of the Noldor in his old life, but here and now he could just be Mindocarmë, who lived in the forest and needed his axe fixed. Let his uncle rule in Tirion, surrounded by those who wished to return to that life. Fingon did not. Could not.

“Mindocarmë. That does sound very ancient. Aicanga is my name and my craft.” With that she took the newly-fitted axe to the wheel to be sharpened. Afterward, when the axe was sheathed and strapped to Fingon's back and his coins were in Aicanga's hand, she pointed out a small farm a short distance away. “I don't know what you still need, but Rehtaro in that house is looking to sell a milk goat. You can tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you. A little milk wouldn't be unwelcome."

 

 

They named the goat Tówë and built a little shed for her out of bark and pine boughs. She looked dainty but produced such a tremendous amount of milk that they couldn't drink it fast enough, even considering the hard labor of building their new home, so Maedhros went down to the river in search of clay for pots in which to store butter and soft cheese. He sat down on the riverbank in the early morning, listening to the birds singing to each other across the river and forming dozens of little awkward pots and lids out of the soft brown clay and setting them out on a flat rock to dry in the sun. This was not his preferred craft, and he worried that Fingon—ever the aesthete—wouldn't like them, but Fingon in fact found their “uniqueness” charming and helped Maedhros dig a pit to fire them in.

They finished the house. With log walls, a layered shingle roof, and a stone hearth and chimney, it was built to withstand the weather, and with a smooth plank floor and a well-fitted door and window shutters, it was tidy and comfortable. Food began to pile up in the loft, and pots of butter and cheese were the first items on the shelves of the cellar they dug next to the house. They built a sturdy kitchen table and two chairs, followed by a bedstead carved with geometric patterns. Using dried moss, feathers from the birds Fingon trapped, and some of the wool cloth Anairë had sent with them, they stitched and stuffed a mattress for their bed.

When it was finished and dressed with linen sheets, wool blankets, and soft pelts, Fingon put his hands on his hips and grinned up at Maedhros. “Excellent. Now let's break it in.” He hooked two fingers under Maedhros' waistband and pulled him down onto the bed.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, legs entwined and fingers running through hair and over skin. The afternoon sun streaming in through the open shutters illuminated Fingon's deep, dark brown eyes, chasing the ages and sorrow in them with joy. Maedhros trailed his fingers over his neck and shoulder—he smiled and a dimple appeared in his cheek.

Maedhros found himself suddenly overwhelmed. He rolled onto his back and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, not sure whether to laugh or weep. “I love you,” he said. “I love being alive!”

Fingon rolled closer to close the gap and gathered him into his arms. “I told you it would be worth it!” he said, laughing and half-teasing but sincere all the way through.

When the house was finished and furnished, they got to work on a sturdy barn for Tówë and the horses, with space for more animals to join them. A proper outhouse and bathhouse followed, both matching the cabin in style and quality. As the days grew shorter and colder their steading began to look more like a home and less like a two-man logging camp, and the long days of work slowed down into an easier pattern of work, rest, and leisure.

The late garden yielded small cucumbers, greens, radishes, and a few peas. Maedhros pickled most of them in his ugly crockery and they joined the cheese and butter in the cellar. They dried fruit from the forest and cooked berries down into jam and ground nuts and seeds into flour. Maedhros made more ugly pots and Fingon made trips into town to get what provisions they couldn't yet produce for themselves: salt, nails, cloth, coffee. He always came back with stories of the outside world and renewed insistence that Maedhros join him on his next trip, but Maedhros could not yet bring himself to agree.

Fingon shot a deer when the first frost hardened the ground. He butchered the meat while Maedhros built a small smokehouse out of ugly clay bricks he had made, and in the cold afternoon they stuffed sausages with herbs and wild garlic until their fingers burned. They ate the liver with greens for dinner and smoked the rest, and afterward hung the sausages and joints of venison in the cellar. Salmon filled the smokehouse when they swam upriver to spawn, followed by more fish, small game, and finally a boar.

All Noldor enjoyed work. There was no craft and no expertise without labor, and the more difficult the work, the more precious the end product. Building, tending, producing, preserving, these were sweet labors, and sweeter now that they had endured the bitter. Sometimes they sang as they worked, though Maedhros usually listened. His voice was not as true as Fingon's, and he had always been better with a lute, at least he was in a world that no longer existed.

He dreamed of that world sometimes, and the one that came after.

Leave me.

Do you want me to leave?

You do not deserve this. You miss the trees, the warm sun, your family—there is nothing here for you.

You are here. You are not nothing.

Don't. Please go.

Not without you.

Námo released you long ago. I must remain.

Then I will remain with you. Do not try to convince me otherwise. You know I cannot be made to do what I do not want to do.

Stupid, selfish, foolish martyr! Leave me! Be with your family and forget you ever loved me! I am not worthy of it, and you are wasting your time! Leave!

I have all the time I need.

And if I never leave these halls? What then?

Then I will wait for the breaking of the world with you. But I do not think that will be our fate.

Why are you doing this?

Because I love you.

Why?

Hush. Rest, and heal. I am here, and I will never leave you. Námo has released me but no one can force me to return to life if I do not wish to. Not even you.

What if I said that I do not wish to have you with me.

Then I would know you were lying. I knew your fëa long before it was laid bare in the halls of the dead.

There is nothing that will convince you, then.

Absolutely nothing.

Not even your family?

I will see them. They have waited this long already, and they would not want to see me alive if I lived alone in sorrow.

I cannot offer you happiness, for I have none to give.

Shh. I ask nothing of you. Just rest. I will be here. I never gave up on you, and I'm not about to start.

Maedhros opened his eyes to the sound of the wind swirling about the cabin. Inside everything was calm and still and warm, dimly lit by glowing coals on the hearth. Fingon lay next to him, nestled into the curve of his body, sleeping soundly. Their legs were entwined under the covers and Maedhros' nose was pressed against the back of Fingon's neck. His arms curled around Fingon's waist and their fingers knitted loosely on the pelt beneath them.

When he took his first breath of air and opened his stinging eyes after so long in the soft darkness of death, the unrelenting reality of it all was immediately overwhelming. He was holding Fingon's hand tightly, anchoring himself, and Fingon squeezed back. Against all odds they had made it. At some point Maedhros felt the pull of Fingon's yearning for life and realized, yes, he wanted to live again, and he would do whatever was required to make it happen.

I will never deserve you, Maedhros thought. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Fingon's hair. I will never deserve you or this life or the second chance I've been given.

Fingon stirred. “I can hear you thinking,” came his smiling voice, thick with sleep. Six thousand years stripped of flesh, more exposed than it was possible to be in life, made the barriers between their two fëar very thin. Images and feelings and thoughts and sensations flowed between them, at times more strongly than at others, and Maedhros did not doubt that Fingon could hear him thinking.

“Very well. I have nothing to hide from you.”

Fingon rolled over to face him. The light of the dying fire shone like copper leaf on his dark skin, and Maedhros lifted a hand to stroke his cheekbone. He smiled and blinked sleepily at the touch. “Regardless of whether you think you deserve it or not, I am glad to have you here with me,” he said, and caressed Maedhros' jaw. “It really is more than I could have hoped for.”

“Considering the condition I was in when I... when I first entered the halls, I didn't think it was possible either.” Too broken for any hope of forgiveness or redemption. Too angry and worn down to ever desire to return to life. Too much blood spilled with his own sword by his own hand, all for the sake of an Oath that would never be fulfilled. He could not bring himself to accept the unconditional love Fingon offered him even in death.

“And yet here we are.” Fingon, with affection tucked into the corners of his mouth, snuggled closer. With his head under Maedhros' chin and his arms around him, he relaxed, and Maedhros felt his breathing slow as he drifted off to sleep once more.

Maedhros kissed his temple. Yes, it was more than they could have hoped for, and yet somehow, here they were.

 

 

The air was cold but bright and fresh as Fingon rode down toward the village. The firs and pines that lined the road sparkled with frost. Maedhros had fussed over him and bundled him up and made him a flask of hot tea for the road, but the truth was that the cold didn't bother Fingon as much as it used to. Maybe it was because his new body did not bear the deep damage of cold injuries that his first one did. Maybe it was because the cold in Aman was simply sweeter than it was in the outer lands, or perhaps the knowledge that Maedhros was waiting for him to return kept him warm from the inside out.

Still, by the time he tied Tulcarocco outside the coffeehouse and ducked inside, he could barely feel his face and his eyes were prickling with tears that threatened to freeze to his cheeks as they fell.

“Mindocarmë, come in! Close that door quick and come over by the fire before you freeze!”

“It's not so bad,” Fingon laughed, but he sat down near the fire while the proprietor poured a steaming cup of coffee. Warmth radiated through his hands when he wrapped his fingers around the heavy mug and he sipped while Thanyandil went through the latest goings-on and gossip. He was sweeping coffee grounds off the counter and talking about the cask of last century's ice wine that Piryawen had opened for her son's wedding when his daughter Líssië came up from the cellar with a sack of flour over her shoulder.

“Hello Mindocarmë,” she said with a cheerful smile, heaving the sack onto the counter. “Are you staying warm all the way out in the woods?”

“I am, thank you. Actually, you're just the person I wanted to see.” Fingon set his cup down on the small table in front of him. “Are you still selling your honey?”

“Is she!” Thanyandil laughed. “The whole village is stuffed full of it. You could eat it straight off the spoon every day and we still wouldn't run out.”

Líssië flushed slightly. “I sing to the bees, is all. I didn't think it would make a difference.”

At that, Fingon had to smile. “Singing makes all the difference. Either way, I'd like to buy some. We're out and my husband is getting grumpy.”

“Oh! Of course. I didn't realize you were married,” she said as she went back down into the cellar. Fingon retrieved his cup and took another sip. He would have come down to the village for coffee alone. Líssië came up again with two glazed clay jars sealed with beeswax.

“I am, and he's a bit of a recluse, otherwise I would have brought him down here already. A recluse with a sweet tooth.”

Líssië arched her dark eyebrows at that. “So he sent you out in this cold for honey?”

“Ha! Hardly. I got tired of him staring into the empty honey jar, sighing, and then doing the same thing an hour later,” Fingon said. He reached into his coat for his coin pouch and counted out enough for both the honey and the coffee. “No, when I said I was going into town, he tried to convince me that I should stay home where it's warm and that dried blueberries would hold him over until spring, but I've known him for long enough.”

“How long?”

Fingon thought for a moment, and realized he was struggling to remember his own birth year. It was... six, six and a half years of the Trees before he met Maedhros, and converting everything prior to the Darkening into years of the Sun made it... “More than eight, maybe closer to nine thousand years,” he said slowly. It was strange, how the First Age seemed longer than the rest of it put together. “Of course, we spent six thousand of those years in Mandos where time has no meaning, but I'm told that life continued as usual on the outside. Unless they started counting years differently again and no one told me.”

Líssië's eyes went wide. She was barely fifty—the youngest person in the village, and had never known the world outside of Aman. She could not yet comprehend the vast stretch of ages that had died away and would still come to pass. “No, years are the same,” she said after a moment spent visibly struggling to understand.

“Good.” He fell quiet for a few minutes. Five hundred years in Beleriand and six thousand in Mandos—more than twice as long as he had lived the first time. It was unbelievable that any part of his old home remained recognizable.

Líssië went back behind the counter to attend a small chore at Thanyandil's request while he monitored a tray of roasting coffee beans. The rich smell tickled Fingon's nose. A thought occurred to him, and he turned around slightly toward the counter. “Líssië, would you consider selling one of your beehives?”

“That depends. Are you experienced in keeping bees? There's more to it than most people think.”

“Yes, but it's been a very long time,” Fingon confessed. Grandmother Indis loved bees, and as a boy he would often help her take care of them and collect honey at the end of the season. They'd kept bees in Beleriand as well, but the business of waging an endless war against the Enemy had mostly kept him from doing it himself.

Líssië tilted her head, thinking. “I'll sell you two hives, not one. That way if one is struggling you can transfer some comb from the stronger hive to help them out. And I won't sell them to you until it warms up a bit.”

“Very well, we are in no hurry.”

Fingon sighed and stretched out his legs in front of the fire, and the sounds of crackling wood, boiling water, and soft conversation fell into the back of his mind. Sitting next to a fire he didn't have to chop the firewood for was a small luxury, and he planned to enjoy it as long as was polite. He hadn't felt the pull to draw anything for a long time; designing and building the house and its outbuildings and maintaining everything had satisfied his creative urges for the past several months. Bringing pencils and paper to this fireside and drawing in the warmth was an attractive concept however, and it gave him something to look forward to on his next visit.

If only he could get Maedhros to come with him. He needed to be around people, as much as he insisted he didn't.

Adjustment. There would still be plenty of it, for both of them.

The door opened again, interrupting Fingon's thoughts with a swirl of cold air. Aicanga and her wife, bundled against the cold, came in and shut the door tight behind them.

“Mindocarmë! How is the axe holding up?” Aicanga unwound a long scarf from her face and neck. Thanyandil had already gotten out two new mugs for them.

“Very well. We finished the house and built three other buildings and it's only needed a little sharpening.” They would have to think about getting a second axe, however. He didn't relish the idea of cutting firewood with a tiny hatchet if they happened to get snowed in with a broken axe.

There was so much to it that he never would have thought about in his youth. When he was a young man, it became fashionable for the nobility in Tirion to try to “return to the earth” and live like their ancestors in Cuiviénen. They would plant gardens and build cabins, not thinking that there were plenty of people who lived like that ordinarily, and call it a purer way to live. It was all very naïve and self-congratulatory, but that was they used to be. Fëanor started cultivating his little plot, and Fingolfin had to prove that he could do everything just as well or better, so before long their two families were locked in a ridiculous competition to see who could build a better hobby farm. Soon they had very sophisticated working farms, and realized that they had defeated the purpose of “returning to the earth” altogether. At least Maedhros and Fingon learned much that they used now on their own homestead.

That was the start of it, at least. Fingon and his family had learned much more by stretching the definition of “edible” on the Ice, and then trying to survive their first few years in Beleriand. To think they had once considered providing food and shelter for themselves a hobby.

It was still a choice now, but not a hobby. When he had finished up at the coffeehouse, Fingon completed the rest of the errands he had come into town to do, and at last started back on the long, cold road home.

 

 

“Come with me.”

Maedhros blinked up at Fingon, who was naked and straddling his shoulders, and frowned a little in confusion. “Uh... I just did.”

A bright grin flashed across Fingon's face. He ran soft fingers over Maedhros' swollen lips and leaned down to kiss him, hot and satisfied, his tongue sharing the taste of his own pleasure in Maedhros' mouth. Maedhros was light-headed and felt pleasantly lazy, and he stroked Fingon's thighs where they framed his head.

“I know you did,” Fingon whispered, grinning against Maedhros' forehead. He dismounted and instead stretched out next to him on the bed with his head propped up on his hand. “I meant, come with me down to the village.”

“Could you have picked a worse time to talk about this?”

“Probably.” Fingon brushed a stray tendril of hair out of Maedhros' face. His expression was so soft and tender that Maedhros felt his heart squeeze. Oh, how he loved him, but he still did not want to go anywhere near the village.

He sighed. “I'm not ready. I don't know what I'm waiting for, but...”

“It will be worth it. I promise. And the sooner you do it, the easier it will be. And the easier it will be to go to all the other places and see all the other people you need to speak with.”

That was easy for him to say. It wasn't merely going there that Maedhros feared, it was potentially meeting someone from Alqualondë, or Menegroth, or Sirion, or one of his doomed followers. Never mind that those were the terms of his release. Face those you have wronged, one by one, expecting no forgiveness but offering every restitution, until you have accounted for every drop of blood that rolled from your blade into the dust...

He would do it. Not only had he promised to do it, he wanted to do it. Even if not a single person besides his mother and Fingon wanted anything to do with him or his apologies, he wanted to do it.

That didn't make it easy.

Fingon's smile faded a little. His hand rested on Maedhros' chest, stroking absently. “You're not the only one of us who left Mandos with a task to perform.”

Maedhros winced. “I know, I'm sorry. It's just...”

“Shh. I know.” Fingon leaned over for another kiss. “I don't want you to feel that I'm pestering you. The truth is that the village is lovely, and I think you would enjoy it. There's a proper coffeehouse and stone baths—”

“I built you a bathhouse! And a sauna!”

“We both built them,” Fingon said, rolling his eyes. “More to the point, the people are lovely. They welcomed me as one of their own from the first time I went down to get the axe fixed. They'll talk your ear off about what the fruit trees are doing, or which cat had kittens and how cute they are, or when the next village festival will be and who's grilling the meat. I just don't want you to be lonely. You've always liked people.”

“I'm not lonely,” Maedhros said truthfully. He rolled onto his side and clasped Fingon's hand. “Not with you.”

“We've only been here a few months.” Fingon's voice was gentle. “I know it's hard to adjust, but... the village is nice, and I want you to enjoy it as much as I do.”

Maedhros, suddenly restless, rolled away and off the bed. He went over to the hearth where dinner was cooking—a creamy soup of goat's milk, herbs, and smoked trout—and gave the simmering pot a stir. “This is done. Let's eat.” A plate of flatbread was already finished and staying warm next to the fire, and he got down a pot of berry jam and another of pickled kale. Behind him, Fingon sighed, got up, and retrieved his shirt from where he'd flung it. He came up behind Maedhros, wrapped his arms around his waist, and kissed him between the shoulder blades.

They both said nothing as they set everything out on the table. Dimly, Maedhros decided it would be proper to wear trousers while they ate, so he found his and pulled them on while Fingon dished up the food. “Restitution is one thing, inviting myself into their lives is another thing entirely,” he said after several minutes of eating in silence. “They didn't ask for me to join them and they certainly didn't do anything to deserve to be punished with my presence.”

Fingon placed a kind but firm hand on his arm. “Don't.”

He was right, that was not a good road to start down—not again. He had spent too long recovering from the idea that his mere presence was a punishment. The rest, however, was true. “I cannot return to normal society. I told you that when... a long time ago.” He took Fingon's hand, kissed it, and then reached for the water jug to fill their cups.

“Neither can I, really,” Fingon said. The world they used to live in had passed into legend while they were in Mandos, even for those who had seen it through. “But I see nothing wrong with interacting as a visitor.”

That was a possibility. Maedhros shrugged one shoulder and continued eating.

Fingon had been at Alqualondë, and like everyone who had spilled blood there, he carried its weight on his spirit through the long ages and beyond death. Like Maedhros he came back to life promising to make amends, but even considering that, and even considering he had been his spirit's constant companion as he struggled and suffered with his rehabilitation, he could not truly understand what it was like to be under the Oath and to bear what it had done to him. What he had done to himself and to others in its name.

His body was free of the scars of his torment and those he received in battle against the Enemy. Still, he had not emerged from Mandos unmarked.

At Alqualondë he took an arrow to the outside of his thigh. In the heat of confusion, terror, and exhilaration he hadn't noticed at first—it wasn't serious, and had been mostly stopped by his leather cuisse, but the ceremonial arrowhead with its stylized wings had dug in nastily anyway, and he still bore the small, gnarled scar.

The Sindar of Doriath, unlike their cousins across the sea, wielded bows crafted for war. Their light wooden javelins and long bone knives were still toys compared to Noldorin steel, but when they hit their mark, they hit true. Maedhros took a dagger under the right arm just before the Doriathrim broke and their remnants fled. It should have killed him if there was any justice left in the world, but his shoulder brace kept the blade from slicing through the artery and maintained pressure on the wound before a healer could see to it. It still bled horribly enough that he fainted when the brace was loosened and he started bleeding afresh. He didn't know how long he was out, perhaps a few hours, but by the time he woke, Celegorm had succumbed to his wounds and his captain had taken Dior's sons into the woods.

He searched and searched until his legs gave out and he collapsed into the leaf litter, panting and trembling and begging his drained body and mutilated spirit to just let me die.

But he lived. His sword slipped out from under him and he lived. The rope around his neck snapped and he lived. He threw up the poisons he swallowed and still he lived.

That extensive collection of scars had been lifted from him. Inspecting his new skin and seeing that they had healed with his spirit was a relief, but the cut from the Sindarin dagger remained, curling under his arm, around the front, and up to the point of his shoulder. It stung in the cold and damp. All the better.

At Sirion Maedhros fought like a cornered bear, wild and roaring, hoping that someone would put him down like the sick animal he had become. He took arrows, spears, swords, some from Sirion's defenders and some from his own men who turned on him in his madness. If any of them still lived or returned to life, and indeed if they wanted anything to do with him, he wanted to find them first and beg for forgiveness that he would never deserve. They had not betrayed him, he had betrayed them, and he could never ask for their trust again.

Afterward, he fought his healers, those eternal demons who kept denying him death, until finally they managed to hold him down and drug him. For days they kept him sedated and he drifted in and out of consciousness, haunted by sounds and dreams and memories. The twins were there, silver-haired in the forest and dark-haired by the sea, sometimes both, sometimes real and sometimes mere hallucinations, and he could rarely tell the difference.

He still bore the scars from that day, along with the one from Alqualondë and the one from Doriath. He suspected that he would bear them until the end of the world. No forgiveness or restitution could truly erase what he had done, and no healing could erase the wounds from his fëa or hröa.

Fingon reached across the table and took his hand. His eyes were gentle and his mouth soft. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up... everything.”

“I know you didn't.” Maedhros kissed his fingers. “It's still there, whether you bring it up or not, and it's not going away.” That was his burden to bear.

 

When the snow melted and tender green shoots popped up from the black earth, and when it was consistently warm enough, Maedhros and Fingon began work on the garden.

The small plot from the previous summer was not big enough, so they started a new plot on the opposite side of the house where there was more flat space. They tilled the earth and planted row upon rows of vegetables and herbs from the precious seeds Nerdanel had gathered and sewn into pouches on a length of cloth, which they kept rolled-up and safe through their journey and the winter months. They kept a few seeds in reserve and transplanted some berry bushes from the forest. Mushrooms sprouted in the moist earth and on tree trunks, and they gathered basket after basket and feasted on mushrooms rolled in nut flour and fried in butter.

Soon, the garden bloomed with the warming sun and the deer and birds grew nosy. Maedhros could scare them off, but Fingon sat on a stump and sang so sweetly that the animals happily went along to find some other food, no yelling or flailing necessary.

Their next building was a forge. Their hands itched for the craft, and besides it would be well to make what metal goods they needed instead of trekking down to the village for them. Fingon, of course, liked any excuse to go to the village, but he would just come up with new ones.

“I'm going to write to my mother and post it the next time I'm in town,” Fingon said as they rested and ate between digging the foundation and starting on the walls. “She said she doesn't mind me running after you again, as long as I don't go five hundred years and then die without so much as sending her a word.” He cast his eyes to the side—Maedhros knew he regretted that dearly.

Nerdanel had grasped Maedhros by the chin and told him the same thing. I know what you did, she had said. I never stopped loving you. I will always be your mother. Do not let shame keep you from being my son.

“Let me know when, and I'll write to mine as well,” he said.

“We could always go together.”

“You're not giving up on that, are you.”

“Certainly not.” Fingon grinned. “Líssië—the girl who sold me the honey—has beehives to sell if we still want one now that it's warm enough to move them. We'll need both of us for that.”

Maedhros sighed and turned his face to the sky. “Just give me some time to work up to it.”

Fingon's grin widened. “Is that a yes?”

“Tentatively.”

Thankfully, Fingon did not push harder. Instead he hooked an arm around Maedhros' neck and kissed him. He smelled beautiful: turned earth, fresh sweat, cut wood. A corner of Maedhros' mind would never believe that this was real, that he was permitted to be this happy, but Fingon's strong arms and soft lips did much to convince him that this was no illusion.

After the day's work was done, they heated water in the bathhouse and supped while they waited for it to be ready. Last season's pickles had all but run out, but they had fresh, tender greens, a relief from the salted and smoked fare that had seen them through the winter. Fresh green grass made Tówë's milk rich and sweet. Fingon attempted a custard out of milk, honey, and dried cherries, and he kept complaining that it didn't turn out how he intended it to, at least until Maedhros threatened to eat his share if he really found it so offensive.

Clean and fed, they started on their letters. Maedhros only managed a few words. He sighed and put it away for now, silently promising himself that he would work on it more later.

 

 

The fruit trees grew heavy with blossoms and the forge was finished before he finished his letter. There was so much to be said, thousands of years and thousands of miles to bridge, so Fingon couldn't fault him for not knowing where to start.

Amrod had been the first of the seven to wake again, and he had disappeared from Nerdanel's house not long after. They knew only that he was in the woods of Oromë and was presumably happy there. Caranthir had come next and had lingered a little longer, rebuilding bridges with his wife after a very frosty reunion. After a time they withdrew together to their own house and largely kept to themselves. Centuries flowered and withered, and when Maedhros was finally ready to take up the burden of life again, his brothers returned briefly to Nerdanel's house. Fingon knew that they needed to have conversations that he did not need to be present for, so he went home.

It was a joyful reunion. His brothers and sisters had already returned and they laughed and sang and feasted and wept together in Anairë's house, trying to make up for as much of their lost time as they could. Fingolfin's absence cast a shadow over their celebrations. He remained in Mandos, and they suspected and feared that he had once again followed his elder brother into long ages of darkness.

There really were not enough words to fill the emptiness. But Maedhros was stubborn about the things that mattered to him, so he persevered, and when his letter was finished he sealed it and placed it on the kitchen table with Fingon's. It was late and Fingon was already in bed, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He smiled and rolled close when Maedhros finally settled into the circle of Fingon's arms, looking tired but content.

“I wrote about Himring,” he said. “It wasn't much compared to Gondolin or Nargothrond or Menegroth, but it was my home.”

“It was a good home.”

Maedhros' smile was soft with memory. “It was best when you were there.”

Fingon, grinning, kissed him. They nestled down to sleep, anticipating the long ride into town on the morrow.

 

Maedhros' nerves returned in the morning. He scrubbed his face until it was very pink, braided and unbraided his hair, tried on three different pairs of trousers, and finally tackled Fingon back into bed and started kissing him senseless—presumably a last-ditch effort to convince him to just stay in and make love all day. Which was a fine idea, but one that could wait.

They had all the time in the world. Fingon wasn't always certain that he wouldn't wake up in a tent on a battlefield somewhere in Beleriand, but this was real, it was not just an especially pleasant dream, and their Enemy had been cast into the void where he could torment no one but himself.

“Stop it,” he laughed as Maedhros began nibbling his ears. “Procrastinating won't make this any easier!”

Maedhros propped himself up on his hands. He didn't even try to pretend that he had motives other than procrastination at this moment, but the front of his shirt was hanging open in a very attractive way, and Fingon admired his chest in spite of himself.

“What if they hate you because of how much they hate me?” Maedhros demanded.

“I am not afraid.”

“Really? Am I really worth the possibility that you'll lose everything you had with the coffeehouse people, and the blacksmith, and the bee girl, and everyone else, simply because of me?”

“You are, and they won't. Let's go.” Fingon wriggled out from under him.

At long last, they made it into the wagon and started down the dirt road into town. Fingon drove while Maedhros sat next to him in silence—Fingon was almost temped to call it sulking, but he knew better, he knew that there was much more behind Maedhros' reluctance than anyone would guess. He understood. His task was neither simple nor easy, but he had to start somewhere.

“So, Mindocarmë,” Maedhros said at length, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “what name would you have me use? Whatever I went by in the past, I think of myself as Maedhros now. Or shall I invent a new identity for myself?”

“Whatever seems right. I will happily call you whatever you want to be called.”

“Mindocarmë, though. There's a reason no one ever called you that.”

Indeed, Findekáno Mindocarmë was a tedious mouthful even for Fingon, who in his youth had thrived on excess and ornamentation. He shrugged. “Going by one name at one time doesn't mean you can't have a new one in different company, or when the old one no longer fits. I agree with you though, 'Fingon' has stuck the hardest.” He pulled the horses to a firm stop. “Whoa there! Will you move that fallen branch out of the way?”

Maedhros did and returned to the wagon, brushing off his hands. He retrieved the lunch basket from the compartment under the driver's seat and broke off pieces of smoked sausage and goat cheese fritters to put into Fingon's mouth while they drove onward. He barely picked at his own share and didn't join in when Fingon sang an old marching song from the wars, and when they finally turned onto the wider, paved road that would take them to town, he only pressed his mouth into a thin line.

Farmers with carts full of produce and herders leading animals went in a steady line toward the village, while others walked or rode. Fingon usually passed one or two others on this road, but never this many. When he realized what he was seeing, his heart sank within his chest and splashed down somewhere in his gut. Gently, he pulled the horses to a stop again in the middle of the road, and looked up at Maedhros.

Maedhros' face pinched with worry at his expression. “What is it?”

“It's market day,” Fingon said. His voice felt odd. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would be today.”

A long silence stretched between them. Maedhros' face was the color of whey, and Fingon couldn't think of anything to say that would make this better. “I'm so sorry,” he said again. “I didn't think. I promise I didn't intend to bring you down here on market day when you didn't agree to it. I know it's more than you prepared for—we can turn around and go home right now, I do not mind doing it.”

Maedhros raised a hand to Fingon's lips. “Shh.”

Fingon said nothing else. Maedhros was quiet for a few long moments, and then he clenched both of his hands in his hair, turned his face up to the sky, and let out a long, shaking breath. “Drive on,” he said at last.

“Home?”

“No. We're already here, let's keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

Maedhros turned and held Fingon's face in both hands. “Do you even realize how much I trust you?”

It was a somewhat silly question. Fingon did know how much Maedhros trusted him—enough to bring him out of Angband and out of Mandos and convince him that even in the worst moments, life was still worth living. And he trusted him enough now to bring him to the market, though his voice trembled and his face was pale. Fingon's heart swelled with the reminder, and he let Maedhros pull him in for a rough, nervous kiss.

“I trust you too, you know,” he whispered against Maedhros' lips. “And I believe in your strength.”

“We probably won't meet... anyone. But I'm ready. I'm ready to start.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, but whether he was ready or not, he did not tell Fingon to turn the wagon around. He did kiss him again, softer this time.

“Hey! You're blocking the road!”

They broke apart, shamefaced, as an irritated farmer with a wagon full of beets trundled past them. Fingon suppressed a giggle and flapped the reins to get the horses going again once there was enough space between them and the beet farmer. He looked over at Maedhros and saw that he too was smiling.

The road became even more crowded as they came closer to the village. With patience and some careful maneuvering, Fingon managed to park the wagon and hitch the horses just outside the village's border of trees. Maedhros took a deep breath and got down from the wagon. He nervously fluffed his hair, straightened his tunic, and then took Fingon by the hand. His skin was a little moist. They joined the crowd milling around stalls and booths and carts of produce, dodging people and animals carrying loads, and catching up with one another. Fingon privately admitted that it was a little overwhelming and regretted that he hadn't thought to consider when market day was before bringing Maedhros down with him.

He spotted Líssië behind a little booth near the coffeehouse, surrounded by jars of honey and a small cloud of friendly bees, which seemed to be very interested in the wreath of blossoms on her head. She grinned and waved when she saw them approach.

“Mindocarmë! You brought him!”

Maedhros let out a soft hah! Fingon smiled and squeezed his hand. “I think the idea of endless honey was enough to bring him out of hiding,” he teased gently. “That, and we have letters to send. Could you tell us where to find the post house?”

“It's more of a post desk, and it's across town in the Rose and Sheaf.” She pointed out the direction, holding her trailing sleeve out of the way of a dish of honey she had set out for sampling. “Hyalindis handles the mail. If you come back this evening, I'll help you with the beehives. It will be easier to move them then and my mother will be watching the booth. What's your name?”

Maedhros started when he realized Líssië was talking to him. “It's, uh, Maedhros.”

Fingon wondered when he had last been asked his name. Since returning he had only associated with people who knew him, and in his old life, his reputation usually preceded him.

“Maedhros. That is very unusual.”

“It's Sindarin.”

“Oh, are you a Sinda?”

“We are both Noldor, but many of us went by Sindarin names in Beleriand,” Fingon explained when Maedhros looked at him, helpless. He could feel him growing more and more tense, so he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the market, searching for an escape route. “We'll come by later, then?”

“Yes. Late afternoon is perfect.”

With that, they left to explore the rest of the market. Maedhros kept a white-knuckled grip on Fingon's hand.

“So many questions,” he muttered once they were out of Líssië's hearing. He didn't sound angry, just anxious, and Fingon leaned against his arm.

“She's very young. And people are always curious about newcomers. Oh look, the Copper Hand is here.”

Maedhros looked up sharply. His eyes landed on a larger stall draped in white banners blazoned with orange-red hand prints: the Copper Hand, an ancient society of copper workers of which he, following the example of his grandfather, had once been a member. They had tools, ingots, and finished goods out for sale, as well as an anvil for small custom work and repairs. The Tirion chapter had concerned itself with high art and innovation in the old days, whereas these smiths seemed to showcase tradition and practicality. Still it was the same organization, and Fingon could feel a very small, very old part of Maedhros' spirit flutter.

Every Noldo had his craft. Maedhros was no different.

“This whole day is ridiculous,” Maedhros muttered, but he laughed a little. Fingon reached up and tucked a stray lock of copper-red hair behind his ear, lingering to stroke the silver streak at his temple.

“We can go back home if you want to. I promise.”

“No. No, we can't. That sets a precedent I don't want to have.” His mouth was set, his gray eyes clear and sharp. “I can't keep running home to avoid my task. I do not have that privilege.”

Fingon's heart burned with love for him at that. He was scared, of course he was, but he had chosen this path. Because he wanted to live again, and because he knew it was right. Because he wanted to be healed. This was the Maedhros that Fingon had known and loved since before the first rising of the sun.

“I'm right here.” Fingon kissed his hand. “I'll always be right here.”

“I know. Thank you.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “What's a forge without metal. I will see what they brought.”

“I can go with you.”

“If you want to, but I can handle it.”

Fingon still couldn't bring himself to stray too far, so he cooed over baskets of chicks and ducklings at a nearby stall while keeping an ear open for Maedhros as he talked with one of the Copper Hand smiths, an epicene elf with short, curly hair.

“Are you a new hobbyist?”

“No. I'm picking up the craft again after, uh, being dead.” His voice seemed a little stronger. Fingon, even for all he knew about him, couldn't tell whether it was because this was something he knew well, or because he was putting everything into hiding his fear.

“Welcome back.” The smith paused. “Were you at Dagorlad?”

Maedhros said nothing for a few heartbeats, probably struggling to find a tactful way to say that he didn't know what Dagorlad was. “...That must have been after my time,” he said at last. “No, it was at the end of the War of Wrath. Just before Beleriand was destroyed. It has only been a year and some months since I came back.”

The smith whistled. “Again, welcome back. You've been away a very long time. I was at Dagorlad, and a few centuries in the dark was more than long enough to make it difficult once I came back.”

“It's an... adjustment,” Maedhros confessed.

“I can imagine. I knew little besides the Greenwood, and now I'm swinging hammers with the Noldor, and even that's not as different as the world was six millennia ago.” They kept their tone light, but still with a determined layer of compassion to ground it.

“You're a Sinda.” Maedhros tried to keep the regret out of his voice, but Fingon could still hear it. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I am a Sinda, isn't that funny? Still, I've come out of Mandos as you have. Not everyone can say that they know what it's like.”

“Indeed.” Maedhros fell silent, inspecting the ingots on display. The Sindarin smith folded their arms and leaned against the table.

“Are you a Copper Hand?”

“I was. A long time ago.”

“Then you still are, as far as I'm concerned. No matter what... uniquely Noldorin nonsense... you may have gotten up to back in the First Age.” They smiled. Maedhros stared at them, and neither of them said anything else to that.

Fingon looked back down when the chicks he was holding in his cupped hands started pecking in search of food. He bought six chicks and six ducklings and placed them gently in the empty lunch basket while Maedhros finished shopping. Soon, Maedhros rejoined him with an ingot of copper in one hand and a weary, confused expression on his face. Fingon's heart stung a little, and he reached out to him when he came close.

“All right?” he asked softly.

“Yes. I'm all right.” Maedhros sighed. He looked down at Fingon's basket. “What have you got there?”

Wordlessly, Fingon grinned and lifted the lid to reveal his newest fuzzy acquisitions. Maedhros pressed a hand to his face. “Oh, for the love of—”

“Look at how cute they are! Also, I've missed having eggs.”

“Fair. That's fair. I was just thinking we should look at some steel for a second axe.”

“I don't think we brought enough money for that and the beehives to begin with. If I'd remembered that today was market day, we could have brought extra.” The ducklings were trying to escape, so Fingon closed the basket again. “What about you? Do you need anything? Food, coffee...”

“Coffee will just make this worse.” Maedhros gestured vaguely at his head, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Time was, I would have asked for liquor instead, but it never did me any good either.”

“Perhaps a kiss, then.” Fingon stood on his toes and pecked Maedhros on the cheek. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

 

When they had posted their letters, they spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon visiting with various farmers and craftspeople and making note of what to get the next time they visited the market. The ease with which Maedhros said “next time” was not lost on Fingon.

As the day began to fade, they returned to Líssië's booth. After exchanging greetings with her and her mother, Maedhros went to get the wagon while Fingon and Líssië went to the garden behind the coffeehouse to prepare the hives. She had several rows of longhouse-shaped hive boxes on folding stands to keep them off the ground. Each was painted clean white, and the humming that reached Fingon's ears was sweet and industrious.

“They're beautiful,” Fingon said. Líssië ducked her head. “May I take a look?”

“Of course. You can pick any ones you like.”

“Will you teach me your bee song, or is it a trade secret?”

She went a little pink. “Uh, no, it's not a secret. It's just a silly little song I made up.”

“No song is ever 'just' anything.” Fingon grinned. She began singing. It was a simple melody with simple words that looped to make the song as long as she needed it to be. Fingon listened quietly for a bit, making note of the new pronunciations and unfamiliar vocabulary she used, and then joined in.

The tune melded and harmonized with the bees' buzzing. The insects still out bobbed close around their heads, gentle and curious, and none of the bees in the hives tried to sting as Fingon opened the lid on the nearest one to carefully inspect the combs. They were strong and healthy and bright, and after inspecting several hives and finding nothing wrong with any of them, Fingon decided on two at random. He was still singing when Maedhros drove up with the wagon. Maedhros, seeing him singing and surrounded by bees, smiled at him with so much love that Fingon could feel it spilling off him like honey from a cut piece of comb.

Líssië carefully closed up the hives. One after the other, Maedhros and Fingon lifted them into the back of the wagon, where they strapped them down with ropes to keep them steady and bales of straw to keep them from being jostled too badly.

“You have to remember to sing to them,” Líssië said. Her mouth was stubborn.

“I will. We will.” Fingon smiled up at Maedhros, who was already in the driver's seat and poised to leave.

“Come on, we're going to lose the light,” he said. Fingon crossed his arms at him, and he rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Líssië. We'll take good care of them.”

“If you have any questions, please ask me.” She fiddled with her sleeve and then clasped her hands when she realized she was fidgeting.

“We will,” Fingon assured her. “I'll let you know hew they're doing when I'm in town next.”

“Thank you.”

 

The road home was long and quiet. The sun began to sink, and Fingon lit a lantern while Maedhros drove. He kept his basket of birds in his lap, checking on them occasionally, but they were just sleeping in a downy yellow cluster. The bees sounded calm but a little nervous. Fingon hummed a few bars of the bee song to reassure them.

The sky faded from red-purple to blue-black by the time they returned home. They unloaded the bees by the light of the lantern, set the hives back on their stands in a clear spot in the middle of the garden, and reopened the entrances. A single bee crawled out and onto the back of Fingon's hand, inspecting him. He hummed at her, and she went happily back inside.

Maedhros remained quiet as they groomed and stabled the horses and checked on Tówë. Fingon's birds went into the house with them to get a little bigger before joining the rest of the animals in the barn, and he set them up in two crates padded with wood shavings, one for the ducklings and one for the chicks.

“There you go,” he cooed, providing them with scraps from the bucket next to the fireplace. “Tasty!”

Peeping excitedly, they fell upon the scraps, and Fingon straightened up. Maedhros hadn't said a word since they came inside, and he quickly discovered the reason: he had collapsed diagonally across the bed with his hair hanging over one side and his still-booted feet over the other. He'd actually fallen asleep, and so deeply that Fingon couldn't rouse him by stroking his shoulder. Instead he chuckled, slid Maedhros' boots off, and rinsed the trail dust from his own skin before undressing and joining him. He had to roll him slightly to make room, and he still didn't wake up.

Maedhros been a light sleeper in Beleriand, usually with a knife under his pillow. Fingon liked this much better.

For his part he lay awake for some time, listening to his birds finish their dinner and settle back down for the night. There was weeding to be done in the morning before it became too warm, and he was sure Maedhros wanted to tinker with his copper in the forge, and a hundred other things that again he had to remind himself to take slowly. They had time. They had as much time as they needed to build their home, to rejoin the world, to make amends. They did not need to schedule it all for one day or year or century.

He propped himself up on one elbow. Maedhros' breath was deep and slow, calm and content. Exhausted. Perfectly understandable, after the anticipation and the unexpected additional stresses of the day.

“I'm proud of you,” he whispered. He stroked his hair, then kissed the back of his neck. Maedhros' fingers twitched but he still did not wake.

He needed the rest. Fingon watched him sleep for another moment, settled back down with a fond smile, and let his warmth and presence lull him to sleep.

 

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Sarah for the beta! <3

I'm on tumblr here! ~follow for more soft gay homesteading~

This is the product of too much research and also personal experience with gardening, animal husbandry, food preservation, and various other DIY endeavors, but I am still by no means an expert. I just read the Little House books a lot when I was a kid.

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