Fight Me, You Thieving Bastard by Nibeneth

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Chapter 1

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 Maedhros was not entirely sure how long he had been a guest of the Enemy.

His brothers remembered the date he rode away to parley with Morgoth's envoy, and Fingon remembered the date of his rescue, but beyond that he had only an estimate. It had taken a few days to reach the agreed-upon place for the negotiations, and after the negotiations turned out to be an ambush it was a very long walk to Morgoth's throne in the heart of Angband. His scattered memories suggested weeks, first stumbling along with bound hands behind the misshapen creature who carried his tether, and then slung over the shoulder of the same creature when his legs would carry him no further. He was not sure whether he should count the day of his capture as the beginning or the day when the iron gates boomed shut behind him. In any case, both dates had been lost to the trauma that followed, so for convenience he referred to the date he departed his camp by the lake, fully believing that he would be able to negotiate a Silmaril out of the Enemy's hands.

It was twenty-eight years, three months, one week, and six days according to their new reckoning from that date until the date of his rescue. He liked having a number. He liked being able to get out of bed every morning, put on his slippers and robe, get a cup of coffee, look out his window toward the North, and promise Morgoth with every bit of spite he could muster that this is not over as long as I live another day free of your filthy hands.

Twenty-eight years, three months, one week, and six days after the day of his rescue found him in Hithlum, waking from a dream about trying to catch fish with his feet. Fingon was asleep in his arms, breathing into his ear and wearing nothing but socks. It was springtime, and the still-chilly mornings made Maedhros' joints ache worse than usual. He knew trying to get up would be painful, so he lay still but awake for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the blankets and Fingon's skin against his. There was dew on the window and the garden outside Fingon's bedchamber blushed green from an overnight shower. As usual for Hithlum, the morning sky was gray, but it was a quiet, gentle gray that invited a long morning in bed.

Fingon stirred. He took a breath in and nuzzled his face deep into the crook of Maedhros' neck. Under the covers, Maedhros stroked his smooth, warm back, and was rewarded with a smile against his shoulder and a small wriggle of delight.

“Morning,” he murmured, and kissed the side of Fingon's head.

After a moment, Fingon shifted a bit and rolled back to meet Maedhros' eyes. Relaxed and happy, with his brown eyes shining in the pale light, he was the most beautiful sight Maedhros could imagine waking up to in these, the days of his freedom. They lay in companionable silence, waking slowly to the sounds of birds beginning to sing with the rising sun.

Maedhros steeled himself and then carefully raised himself into a sitting position. Pain in his spine flared up first, sending jabs up to the base of his skull as he straightened up, and his shoulder immediately protested the strain of sitting once he was upright. He stifled a groan and pressed his fingers against a hot spot on the back of his neck.

Fingon's hands settled on his shoulders. “May I?”

“Please.”

Fingon began massaging in slow circles, softening the knots in Maedhros' back, neck, and shoulder with practiced care. He'd probably overdone it on the practice field yesterday, otherwise he wouldn't be waking up to cramped muscles as well as joints swollen stiff in the cool damp, but the sparring had been so good that he decided it was worth it.

The ache began to subside. Maedhros closed his eyes and leaned back into Fingon's touch, which became softer once the knots relaxed. After another moment, he spoke.

“Today is twenty-eight years, three months, one week, and six days since you delivered me from Angband.”

Fingon's hands stilled. “Somehow it doesn't seem that long,” he said. “But somehow it also seems that I've had you back for a lifetime. What is the significance?”

“Starting today, I have been free for longer than I was the Enemy's prisoner.”

Fingon said nothing. His hands rested on Maedhros' shoulders almost protectively, and then he settled against Maedhros' back and curled his arms around his waist instead. “I'm not sure what to say,” he confessed. “How do you feel?”

“Good. More than good.” Maedhros shook his head. “I don't know. I still can't quite believe how much time I lost.”

Everyone had become proficient in the language he had barely started to pick up, to the point that they conducted their daily business in Sindarin and even used Sindarin names. That at least brought him some personal relief as he jumped at the opportunity to replace the ill-fitting mockery that was his old mother-name. Maedhros was his name now, because he chose it, and because Morgoth had never used it against him, and because the sound of it did not make him shudder.

The changes went much further than just names and languages. The one that always came first to Maedhros' mind was the time very early in his recovery when Curufin of all people had lifted up a very cute, very wiggly, half-Sindarin toddler by the side of his bed. “I had a son,” he had said. “He was... a bit of a surprise.” Almost an apology, as if he thought Maedhros would think ill of him for daring to have a child while his brother suffered in captivity. On the contrary, little Celebrimbor was a delight to have around. But sometimes Maedhros couldn't help but feel like had had more in common with him, a literal baby, than the rest of his people who had effortlessly transitioned into a whole new culture without him.

Fingon was quiet for a while. He rested his chin on Maedhros' good shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

“What?”

“I can't say I know how you feel, but I can say that I'm here if you need anything.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know.” Fingon kissed his neck and then got out of bed to look for a robe. “If you wanted to commemorate it, or something.”

“I feel like I should.”

“But do you want to?”

Maedhros looked up. Fingon wore an odd expression that told him he was trying very hard not to say the wrong thing. He needn't have worried. Fingon was the only person he trusted to say the right thing and not just platitudes. Well, him and Celebrimbor, who usually said some variation of “Uncle! Look what I made!” which brightened Maedhros' mood without fail every time he heard it.

“I don't know.” He found himself smiling. “I guess I'll find out.”

A cup of willow tea and a hot bath dulled the remaining pain in his back and shoulder enough that he could push it out of his mind as he went about his day. He still had much to do before he returned to Himring in a few weeks: meetings with the king, meetings with the local Sindar, conferences on the current strength of the Noldor in Beleriand. And time with Fingon, as much of it as they both could get away with. They had too little time before they had to return to letters and daydreams and counting down the days until their next visit.

The morning's meetings were interminable, even more so now that he was thinking about how to commemorate today's milestone.

I cannot spend today in meetings, he decided. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today. Every day I grow stronger. Every day I grow freer. Today is a blow to the Enemy and his offenses toward me and my house.

It was not an anniversary that anyone else would find significant. The date of his rescue was earlier in the year and was a public feast day in Hithlum, where it was mostly celebrated in Fingon's honor. Fingon hated it, but he recognized that it wasn't for him so much as it was for the symbols of hope they desperately needed. The Iron Prison was not impenetrable. Courage and friendship would carry them through days of sorrow. And no matter what the enemy took from them, they would not stop until they got it back.

They observed the day in Himring as well, albeit more informally. Mostly people made a point to tell Maedhros that they were glad to have him back, and Maedhros made an extra special promise to the northern shadows that he was still here and still bent on revenge. But today was a spring day like any other, and if he asked any person on the streets of Barad Eithel what day it was, they would not know.

Today was his. He was going to enjoy being alive, free, and as whole as he could hope for.

Fingon rejoined him after a meeting about a proposed fort in Dorthonion. Maedhros clasped his hand and squeezed it a little.

“Fin. Do you want to go to the lake with me?”

Fingon smiled a little. “Of course. Should I prepare for anything in particular?”

Maedhros shrugged. “I'm still deciding on that. Drinking, a bonfire, roasting things on sticks...”

“Like when we were young.”

“Yes, I suppose. I just didn't want to spend today shut inside, talking about war.”

Fingon nodded, curled his arms around his waist, and kissed him. “I understand completely. Let's get out of here.”

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The day turned out to be unseasonably warm by the time Maedhros and Fingon found a secluded spot by the lake for their retreat. Intending to stay overnight and return to Barad Eithel in the morning, they packed a small tent and bedding, ample food and wine, and a balm to deter insects, and loaded everything onto a pony. They left the paved road that led into the city's main gates in favor of dirt roads and game paths until finally they arrived at a small, lush meadow and a pebbled beach cut off by a wide swath of evergreen trees. The water was bright silver and the sky a pure blue studded with white clouds. The air by the side of the lake tasted wild and fresh, unlike the perfumed air in the palace.

Fingon pitched the tent, with Maedhros offering a single steady hand where necessary. It was a standard army tent, rectangular with a peaked roof just tall enough to stand up in, and they built a nest of fronds on the ground inside it to keep the bedding off the damp ground. Maedhros shed his outer tunic and presented his shirtsleeves for Fingon to roll up before venturing into the trees to look for fallen branches. He could only carry them in his left arm—the right shoulder protested too much when he tried to use both—and so he had to take several trips to gather enough wood for a bonfire that was as large as he wanted. He finally stopped when he had a chest-high stack, and only then did he step back to let Fingon light it with flint and steel.

“You weren't joking when you said you wanted a bonfire,” Fingon said. He crouched next to the pile and cupped his hands around the sparks he had made until they began catching at dry twigs and needles and growing into a leaping flame.

“I don't know why. It seemed fun.”

The fire was growing rapidly, and Fingon stood, brushing off his hands. He had stripped to the waist to enjoy the sunshine. They saw little enough of it in Hithlum that no one wanted to waste a warm day. Maedhros enjoyed the view very much, and Fingon grinned at his open admiration of his body. Maedhros bit his lip. “Y' know what else seems fun...”

He did not have to say anything else. Fingon pulled him close and kissed him, insistent but gentle. His mouth was soft, his skin was softer, and Maedhros became pliant under his touch as Fingon's hands slid down to his waist and nudged him toward the tent.

“I'm glad I can enjoy this with you,” he said, later, thinking of little but the sensation of satisfied fingertips trailing over his bare skin. The air in the tent was warm and still despite the flaps thrown open to let in the breeze off the lake. Fingon reclined next to him, propped up on one elbow, smiling and touching him and occasionally kissing his head.

“As am I.” Fingon rolled onto his stomach and rested his head on his folded arms.

They dozed in the hazy afternoon, knees touching, until a shrill buzzing in Maedhros' ear made him flinch awake. “Mosquitoes,” he grumbled, and slapped at another one that had settled on his stomach. “Where is that... bug stuff we brought?”

“It's with the food.” Fingon sat up and brushed a mosquito from his arm. “Damn, I'm being eaten alive.” He left the tent, still naked, and Maedhros followed. The fire was burning merrily and it banished the shadows that were growing long over their camp as the sun sank closer to the horizon, lighting up the lake in pink and gold. Fingon retrieved the bag with the food from the shaded hollow where they had left it to stay cool. They took turns smearing the strong-smelling balm over each other until there was nowhere left for the mosquitoes to bite.

“What do you think, time to eat?” Fingon said as he capped the jar. Maedhros' stomach growled at the reminder, and he agreed.

The falling evening was still warm enough that Maedhros would have preferred to leave his clothes off, but Fingon pointed out that roasting things over an open fire while naked was not an especially good idea, so he put his shirt and braies back on and went to look for some strong twigs on which to skewer food. They had brought garlic sausages, bacon, unbaked bread dough, and a loaf cake soaked with honey glaze and studded with fruit. And wine, plenty of it. Fingon uncorked a bottle, took a gulp, and passed it to Maedhros when he returned with a handful of sticks and sat down next to him by the fire.

“Here's to your freedom,” he said.

Maedhros said nothing, but drank heartily to his words.

He could have died so many times: at Alqualondë, at Losgar, in the Battle under the Stars, when he rode to meet Morgoth's envoy, during his torment, during his captivity, during his rescue. Even after, when it seemed that he was finally getting better, and a sudden bout of pneumonia came so close to finishing him off at last. This cannot be the end, he thought through the haze of fever, struggling for breath. I cannot have survived so much only to perish like this, sick in bed.

He fought. He pulled through. He lived and was stronger than he had ever been before.

Fingon tore off a piece of bread dough, rolled it into a snake shape, twisted it with a strip of bacon, and wrapped it in a spiral around one of the sticks. He stuck the other end of the stick into the ground at an angle so the bread and bacon would roast over the flames. “Do you want one?” he asked, pausing to take another drink of wine.

“All right.”

Fingon made another bread-and-bacon twist for Maedhros. They sat and shared the wine, watching the fire and the sunset and listening to the chorus of frogs on the lake. They said nothing for a long time. This moment of peace and companionship required no words. The failing light brought on a more typical Lake Mithrim chill, however, and Fingon scooted closer to Maedhros to share the warmth of his body. For a moment, Maedhros could almost forget everything else: the Oath, the war, all of it.

He leaned forward to flip the bread-and-bacon twists to cook on the other side. On two other twigs they skewered sausages and cubes of cake and set them in the ground next to the others. The cake was done first, at once crispy and gooey, and Maedhros burned his tongue when he put a cube into his mouth fresh off the fire.

“Careful,” Fingon laughed as he swished wine in his mouth in an attempt to cool the burning.

“Almost worth it.” Maedhros grinned.

They ate and drank as night fell and the air grew cooler and more dewy. The wine was making Maedhros feel wild and loose, not sleepy but restless. Something was still missing. This was an amazing day, the best he had had in a while, but it was not just a day of peace and love: it was a day of revenge. Morgoth had sought to break him and keep him in thralldom for all time, and he had failed. No matter how many scars he put onto Maedhros' body and spirit, he had not done it. Fingon had cut him off the cliff face, and afterward, Maedhros fought for life and won.

He stood and went a few steps to the edge of the lake where wavelets lapped against the pebbled shore. Clean air was in his lungs, wine was in his belly, and the fire of life was in his heart, and Morgoth had not taken that from him. He cupped his hand next to his mouth.

“Listen to me, you miserable coward!” he roared. “I know you can hear me, so listen now! You could not keep me! You could not break me! I still live! And I will not rest until you answer for your crimes! I have sworn already, and I will not break my word!”

He paused for a moment, listening to the echoes of his own voice ringing back to him across the water. Morgoth was not, of course, listening personally, but if there was one crow or bat or formless maia in his service that was listening, he would hear about it. And if not, it felt good to yell anyway. When Maedhros looked at Fingon, he found him grinning, no small hint of mischief in his dimpled cheeks. He stood and joined Maedhros at the shore.

“Hear me as well!” He cupped his own hands at his mouth as Maedhros had done. “Your walls could not keep me out! Your cliffs could not keep me down! I will have my satisfaction from you, Morgoth, and you will have nowhere to hide!”

A thrill ran up Maedhros' spine at this glimpse of a side of Fingon that rarely emerged: immovable, unstoppable, implacable. Beneath the intellectual aesthete and his easy company lay a spirit of ice and steel, hardened in battle and suffering on the Helcaraxë. His eyes were cold, dark pools and his lips curled in a sharp smile. The Enemy would do well to fear him.

Maedhros bent to pick up a smooth stone. He ran his thumb over the surface, picked a spot on the horizon, and hurled the stone toward it. “Fuck you, Morgoth!”

A few seconds passed, and then he heard the faint splash of the stone hitting the lake.

“That was a good throw,” Fingon said, impressed. He also picked up a rock and threw it as far as he could. “Come and get it, you festering reject of a Vala!”

A small part of Maedhros' mind considered that it was not a very great idea to be trying to attract his attention, even in jest. But he could not bring himself to care. If Morgoth deigned to answer the challenge, he would find the two of them backed by the strength of the Noldor, and he would sorely regret it. He picked up another rock and launched it into the darkness. “That's for taking my name!” And another. “And thirty years with my family!” Another. “And the heirlooms of my house!” He took a moment to catch his breath and then bellowed into the night with everything he could muster. “Fight me, you thieving bastard!”

He could list everything the Enemy had taken from him. His father and grandfather. His brother, indirectly. His loyal warriors. His former good looks. The use of his whole right arm on most days. Restful sleep and peace of mind. The birth of his nephew. Half his teeth and enough blood to fill him twice over. The list went on.

There was nothing, nothing, that would stand between him and his revenge.

Fingon gripped his hand tight. His eyes shone like jet in the firelight and the gold ornaments in his hair were like sparks. “He will answer to me for everything he did to you,” he said, and there was a deadly certainty in his voice. “I love you. I'm with you. Stars, I'm happy to have you back.” With that the hardness in his countenance lifted a little, and he slung his arm around Maedhros' waist.

“I am happy to be back,” Maedhros replied. He kissed the top of Fingon's head. “And I hope he knows how happy I am.”

“Indeed, that would offend him more than anything. Do you hear that, you pilfering spider-bait? We are happy!”

Maedhros had to laugh. He was happy. Whatever would come to pass in a week or a year or a century, he was happy now, and he counted that as a victory.