The Ice Between by Nibeneth

“Will you take me to bed?”

Fingon opened his mouth to respond and found that all of the responses he had ever thought up to that invitation were stuck in his throat. He blinked, closed his mouth, and looked up at Maedhros' face. There was fear there, but a hopeful kind of fear, the kind that made him look softer and younger and not quite as afraid as his usual guarded expression made him look. He was tense, but after another moment he smiled a little. He had said it, and it must have been a weight off his shoulders. Fingon wondered how long he had been working up the courage to ask.

“Right now?” was all that came out of Fingon's mouth, and instantly shame and horror flooded through him. “No! I mean, yes, I will, I just—” He withdrew his hands from Maedhros' waist and covered his eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Yes, I do want to.”

His words, tone, and hesitation stuck in his mind and he swiftly convinced himself that Maedhros heard reluctance instead of nerves. That he found his courage met with callousness instead of equal enthusiasm.

But Maedhros, rather than being offended as Fingon feared, chuckled softly. He slid his fingers under Fingon's and pulled one hand away from his face. “The fault is mine. I should not have asked you right as I’m about to ride away.”

The sounds of jingling tack and distant voices underlined their conversation. It was, in Fingon's opinion, an ideal day to stay in bed, with Maedhros or without him. The ground was soggy and looming clouds threatened more rain, but the appointed day had come for Maedhros and his retinue to return to their people on the other side of the lake. It wasn't that far. Fingon could make the trip in a day with a fast horse, but he had his own duties as well. In these days of expansion he was designing so many new buildings that he saw pencils and compasses in his dreams, and he knew that if he left, he would return to find his designs-in-progress ruined by engineers with no imagination, specifically his brother.

“Yes,” Fingon said again. He squeezed Maedhros' hand. “Are... are you ready?”

“Yes.” Maedhros kissed him then, and his smile was charmingly crooked. “Are you?”

Fingon had not considered that. All the times he had thought about what would happen when or if they ever had made love again, he had focused all his concern toward Maedhros. He dearly wanted to bring him pleasure. He was afraid of hurting or frightening him. He loved him, whether or not they were having sex, and he wanted him to know it. Next to that, his own readiness had not seemed relevant.

He figured he would be just fine. After all, he was not the one who had been tortured so cruelly that an accidental brush could send him into hours of panic.

“I think so.” Still holding Maedhros' hand, he wound his other arm around his waist again. Logically he knew that it would be easier to let him go if he didn't cling to him until the last possible moment, but he also did not care. “Three weeks. That isn't long at all.”

“It isn't. I will still miss you every day.” Maedhros released Fingon's hand to run his fingers through his braids instead, and Fingon leaned into his touch.

“Spend less time missing me and more time making sure your brothers aren't staging a coup. That should make the days go by faster.” He stood on his toes and claimed another kiss, this one soft and lingering to hold them both over until the King's next council.

Finally, it was time for Maedhros to go. They walked back to the others, keeping a respectable distance between them. Maedhros accepted the reins of his horse from Eliadis, his chief bodyguard, who was very aware of why they felt it necessary to say goodbye privately, and lifted himself into the saddle. He moved a little stiffly—Fingon knew the damp weather made him ache. Still, he held his head high and looked every bit like a lord of the Noldor as he smiled down at Fingon. “Three weeks,” he said quietly.

Three weeks was nothing, especially not to Fingon, who was now old enough that centuries seemed more like decades and decades seemed like a season or two, but the next three weeks seemed to last for two hundred years of the Trees. He agonized the entire time over what would happen when Maedhros returned and they were alone once again, trying to continue what had been abandoned, seemingly forever, in Valinor.

He wasn't sure how to even start. In the four years since the rescue he had not dared to bring up the topic first and Maedhros had not said anything until his invitation. It had always been easy, one of them initiating with a look or a touch or a lingering kiss, but in this they were strangers. He decided to make it a romantic occasion, and it turned out to be as good an idea as any. On the day of Maedhros' arrival, he lit new candles and burned sweet herbs and fitted his bed with soft, fresh sheets. For the first time in decades he agonized over how to dress, and finally settled on “comfortable and flattering” over anything else. He acquired wine, chewed mint leaves for his breath, rubbed his hands with fragrant salve, and finally looked everything over. With it all in front of him, it looked like too much. Contrived.

Maedhros arrived with Maglor and Caranthir and a larger retinue, but from the moment he laid eyes on Fingon, he hardly looked at anyone else. Fingon barely managed to keep from either grabbing him in public or wringing his hands with nerves as they sat through interminable meetings and audiences and the world's most tedious dinner. The Noldor had plans, and the fact that they were discussing them around the kitchen table in High King Fingolfin's modest home seemed to make them all the more long-winded and bombastic about their intent to recreate Tirion in these outer lands. There would be a grand capital in Hithlum from which the king would keep the fires of war burning, and the sons and daughters of the house of Finwë would carry its light into the far corners of Beleriand. There would be gold and marble and fine silks and bright steel and every craft they had honed to perfection in Aman. Maedhros also had his plans to take his people East. The reminder that their parting drew closer every day brought another layer of desperation to the stew of anxiety that had started bubbling within Fingon ever since Maedhros kissed his cheek for the first time after the rescue.

What are we now? Fingon wanted and feared to ask. Where do we go from here? When you leave, is it the end for us? What can I say if you ask me to come with you?

Perhaps Maedhros feared those questions as well, and perhaps that was why he had chosen now to ask Fingon to bed and reaffirm the relationship they had carried on for so long before everything went bad. Or perhaps that was Fingon overthinking everything again, as he did. Either way, he wanted him so much that time seemed to move backwards and the polite distance between them was sheer agony.

Finally, when the day’s tedium ended, Maedhros and Fingon all but dragged each other away to Fingon's room. They barely made it inside before Maedhros started kissing Fingon, tasting and devouring him bit by bit, his lips and teeth and tongue roaming over his mouth and along his jaw.

“Those were the longest three weeks of my life,” he whispered. His breath was hot and fast against the top of Fingon's head when Fingon wound his fingers into his hair and gently pulled back, exposing the freckled column of his neck. He leaned in and just pressed his face under his chin, breathing him in and trying to convince himself that this was happening. His hair was soft against Fingon's cheek, his pulse was fast and strong and alive, and he was holding him like Fingon had never hoped to be held again. It was happening.

“We can always stop if you want to,” Fingon reminded him.

“I don't want to stop. Come here.”

Fingon's fears about overpreparing were unfounded. Maedhros appreciated the special effort; he'd always enjoyed such things. Kissing was easy, first standing, and then sitting on the side of the bed. Fingon's heart hammered in his chest and he had to remind himself to let Maedhros make all the first moves. They undressed each other, gentle and considerate, murmuring words of desire and encouragement. Fingon couldn't speak when Maedhros, grinning, leaned back against the pillows and pulled Fingon into his lap.

“Touch me,” he whispered. His mouth was red and supple from kissing. Fingon touched him. His face, his hair, his stomach, his cock, and Maedhros touched him back. Joyfully. Wonderingly.

“I love you,” Fingon whispered back, his voice cracking a little. He stroked him and kissed him and could not stop himself from falling headfirst into sheer ravenous want. It was all so perfect in that moment, and then—

“Stop! I can't. Please forgive me,” Maedhros said in a rush. He pushed Fingon away to arm's length, his eyes wild with fear and regret, and Fingon felt his heart break a little more. He drew his hands away from Maedhros' body and sat back on his heels.

“Did I hurt you?”

Maedhros' pause, though lasting only an eyeblink, seemed to span a year. Finally he shook his head, and Fingon breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“I'm sorry,” Maedhros said again.

“Shh. You don't need to apologize.” Fingon reached out to touch his cheek, but he flinched away.

“I just—I need to not be touched right now.” His voice was small. Broken. He grabbed at the bedspread underneath him. “I need to not be naked. I... can't. I'm sorry.”

Fingon swiftly removed his weight from Maedhros and the bed and stood to one side, feeling a little helpless, as Maedhros rolled himself in the bedspread and curled into a ball. Just a tuft of his hair was visible out the top. He could think of nothing to say.

“I can... go, if you want me to,” he said, belatedly remembering that this was his room and abandoning Maedhros in it might be just as bad as sending him away. He reached for his discarded clothes.

But Maedhros uncurled a little and looked out of the blankets with an odd, vulnerable look on his face. “Please stay?” The hand that had pushed Fingon away now emerged and extended, uncertain, toward him. Fingon nodded and sat once again on the edge of the bed. He did not try to touch Maedhros again, though he wanted to take him in his arms and hold him and reassure him that the horror was over. The silence stretched between them for a long time until Maedhros spoke again.

“I feel so ugly,” he muttered.

“You are notugly. You are handsome and brave and loved, and nothingwill ever change that,” Fingon said. The force of his own words surprised him, and apparently surprised Maedhros as well, as a strange, clear spark entered his gray eyes and his lips parted a little as if he was about to say something. But he said nothing. Fingon looked down at a fold in the sheet under his leg. He rolled it gently between his thumb and forefinger, imagining that he was caressing Maedhros' ear instead. He always used to like that.

It used to be so easy.

Maedhros looked away again. “I didn't think I would react like that.”

“It's all right. We could always... try again later,” Fingon suggested when he was reasonably sure Maedhros would not react poorly. “If you wanted to.”

A small smile twitched at his lips. “I would like that very much.”

Present

“These are the Marches of my cousin. It won’t be long now!” Fingon called to his company. He turned forward again in his saddle, unable to keep a smile from his face, as he looked out at the hills rising before them. The last weeks of travel over roads and flat plains had been easy if tedious, and though the way became more difficult it would soon come to an end. The well-kept road became a dirt path, and the clear horizon became packed with trees as they passed into a wood. Sometimes the branches were so low that they had to duck out of the way as they rode, and the land grew steadily steeper until they reached the crest and could see out across the Marches’ rolling hills.

When Maedhros called Himring a "hill" in his letters, Fingon pictured a gentle, grassy slope like the rest of them, but he now saw that it was more of a butte, with steep sides to help repel attacks. The woods thinned as he and his guards rode up the best path, giving way to rocky ridges and short, tough bushes clinging to stones amid the yellow grass. The sky was clear, almost so brilliantly blue that it hurt to look at, and the autumn sun shone brightly upon their mail coats though a stiff wind picked up their cloaks and braids in the open air. The fortress of Himring was all hard lines with a bristle of sharpened stakes at its base. The flags flying from the towers made it marginally more festive, but they all bore the eight-pointed star in black and red, a stern warning for the unwelcome. He counted archers in the towers and guards on the inner and outer walls, and only one way to access the fortress by way of a series of steep switchbacks. It was not an especially inviting sight on its own, but to Fingon who had been traveling for weeks to meet someone he hadn't seen in years, it looked like the best ending to any journey.

They had to take the switchbacks slowly. Fingon made a mental note to offer alternatives. Later. He could worry about that later. Right now, he was at the gates, he was so close to seeing Maedhros again, and he could hardly think of anything else.

The great gates opened for them and they rode through with renewed spirits despite their fatigue. The bustling town that greeted Fingon’s senses immediately charmed him—the castle’s martial exterior hid paved streets, comfortably sturdy houses, good food smells, and smiling folk. He could hardly believe that this was the forlorn hill that Maedhros had picked for his keep and then described in a long series of dismal letters as he and his people labored to make it livable.

My dear Fingon, we only just put up enough wooden shelters before the rains came, began one wrinkled, smudged letter. It is still so very cold and damp. My fingers are hardly able to hold a quill, but I am determined…

…the rye and barley crops have both failed. I am beggaring my house in order to trade with the Avari and the Khazad when we can make contact with them. No one will go hungry, but I worry that Caranthir’s generosity runs thin…

…have heard strange noises in the night, and my people fear the worst no matter how much I try to rally them. The palisade offers some comfort, but we will all rest easier once we have stone between us and the darkness…

"Make way!" someone shouted. "Make way for the Crown Prince!" A crowd was gathering as Fingon and his retinue rode down the wide center street toward the keep, a guard ahead of them to lead the way, though there was only one way to go. He wanted to dig in his heels and ride ahead to find Maedhros as soon as he possibly could, but he restrained himself. He was the Crown Prince, and as long as all these eyes were on him, he had to play the part.

The keep rose up, tall and strong, in the center of the fort. Upon seeing it in person for the first time, Fingon had to pause: the design was his own work. He recognized every crenel and casement as if he had drawn them in stone instead of ink. His eyes followed the lines of the peaked roof and the stone walkways all around it all the way down to the main door, in front of which stood Maedhros, surrounded by his advisers. From that moment, he could see nothing else.

“Prince Fingon,” Maedhros said when Fingon brought his horse close and dismounted. He took a knee, kissed the back of Fingon’s hand, and then looked up with a wide, brilliant grin on his face. Literally brilliant, as it was so wide that Fingon could see each one of his gold teeth shining in the sun. “My dear friend. It is such a pleasure to welcome you to my home at last.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Fingon pulled him up and into a tight hug. He was warm and firm and smelled good, but they were still in public, so the hug was chaste and altogether too brief. It seemed an eternity before the requisite formal greetings were out of the way. Maedhros welcomed him as the crown prince and the king’s representative and Fingon thanked him for the hospitality. Grooms came for their horses and porters for the little cargo they’d distributed among the riders. Fingon wanted nothing more than to be alone with Maedhros at last, and soon enough, Maedhros brushed his hand, smiled, and inclined his head in the direction of the keep. Finally.

He led him through a hall, down two corridors, and up a flight of stairs, finally coming to a stop at a carved door. “I've had rooms prepared for you, of course,” Maedhros explained as he opened it and showed Fingon into his chambers. “In case you wish to be discreet.”

“I appreciate the consideration, but I would much rather be indiscreet,” Fingon laughed. He felt a little giddy—after so many months and such a long journey, he could hardly believe he was here at last and that Maedhros was right in front of him, and his words came out in a tumble. “Discreetly indiscreet. With you. If you will have me.”

“Have you? My dear Fingon, I would have you in any way and in any place you wanted. Come here, I want to kiss you.”

Fingon went straightaway into Maedhros' arms and squeezed him tight. He was so close all of a sudden, his soft hair tickling Fingon's cheek and his thick muscles shifting under his hands as he pulled Fingon in and kissed his mouth, warm and lingering. Fingon almost forgot to breathe, his head was so full of joy and the intoxicating pleasure of Maedhros' lips on his. They stayed like that for a long time, Fingon on his toes and Maedhros with his neck steeply bent and both of them with their arms around the other.

“I lost track of how long I've wanted to do that,” Fingon breathed against Maedhros' chin when they drew apart a little. He couldn't keep from laughing. “How long have you been watching for me, really? Have you been peering out from your highest tower since I said I was coming?”

“I did no less than my duty,” Maedhros replied. He leaned down to kiss him again. “Of course I watched. I missed you so much.”

Fingon cupped Maedhros' face in both hands and took a long look, trying to memorize him again after too long spent apart. His soft smile extended to the corners of his eyes, which were traced with lines that hadn't been there in Aman. His hair was bright and silky and interrupted by thick streaks of white where it grew in around scars on his scalp. Fingon stroked the largest one, starting at his temple and curling around the back of his head to the tie holding it out of his face.

“You look very well,” he said. The wildness of the East indeed looked good on him. Instead of court silks he wore wool and leather in muted reds, blues, and browns, cut for comfort and durability. A lovely plaid was wrapped around his neck and shoulders, both for warmth and to hide his painfully-sloped right shoulder. His only ornament was a twisted silver ring around his neck, just visible under the plaid.

“So do you,” Maedhros replied. “More than well. Magnificent.”

“I've been traveling for weeks!” Fingon laughed, plucking at the front of his dusty surcoat. He really was dusty from head to toe, and trail-worn, and in need of a nap, but Maedhros just stroked his braids—also in desperate need of a wash—and smiled. “You really do look well,” Fingon repeated. “Much better than I’ve seen you.”

“Thank you. I've been sleeping better.” That was something he had mentioned in his last few letters, which Fingon had read over and over again, stroking the edges of the pages absently until he could almost believe he was stroking Maedhros' hair. It is past midnight at the moment. I can see your worried face already, my dear, and I will not waste ink by trying to convince you not to worry, but I hope that by writing this my mind will be put at ease and I will not sit yet another all-night vigil. The truth is that I miss you. Just knowing that you are nearby brings me comfort, but you are so very far away... “I find if I completely exhaust myself during the day, I don't have any trouble.”

“Maybe I can help with that while I'm here,” Fingon teased. Maedhros grinned and twined his arms around his waist, pulling him in.

They started slow. A tender kiss, a whispered invitation, a word of consent. Just figuring out how to touch each other was a book written by two authors in a language that neither of them spoke fluently. Mostly figuring out how to touch Maedhros—Fingon had his own issues, but Maedhros had whole sections of his body that made him shut down in terror, and they seemed to change frequently and without warning.

So much progress though. Not always smooth or linear or easy like it had been in Aman when they were young and stupid, but it was progress, and it was worth it.

"You are wearing... a lot of clothes right now," Maedhros whispered against his forehead. His hand roamed down Fingon's chest, searching for buckles, and Fingon busied himself with Maedhros' plaid. It was pinned with a round brooch, and his fingers seemed to be tied in knots as he tried to unfasten it.

"Alas, the dangers of the road." Fingon let the plaid drop to the floor. "A moment, sorry." He took a step back, smiling at the way Maedhros pursed his lips, and began to work his mail shirt over his head. It was heavy, and his braids got caught in the links as he bent forward and let its weight do the work. With a final wriggle, it lay in a heap on the floor, and he started on the ties of his gambeson. He really was quite dusty and smelly, but Maedhros was not deterred. He started kissing him even as he continued to undress. "A moment, I said!" Fingon laughed.

"I cannot wait. I have missed you for so long..." There was a little desperation in his voice. Fingon let the sweaty gambeson drop behind him, and while Maedhros diligently stripped him of everything that could be unfastened with one hand, he resumed undressing him in turn. Fingon kissed him, pausing at his clothes for a moment to cup his face in both hands and take him in, from his bright eyes to the way both his upper and lower teeth showed when he smiled. He looked so happy, that was really the only word for it, and Fingon had not seen him truly happy in a long time. There was always a shadow, a lingering doubt or regret or fear, even when they were together. But now, even if it was temporary, he was happy.

"I have missed you too," Fingon said, and kissed him again. His mouth was so soft and warm, his arms so strong as they wrapped around his back.

The hint of impatience returned to Maedhros' face. "Shall we get on with it?" He tugged at Fingon's sleeve.

"Hmm." Fingon grinned and stripped off his shirt. This really was taking too long. The road was dangerous this far east, unsupervised as it was, and he was equipped to fight if necessary with cuisses and greaves under his mail. They were a bother to put on and take off, especially when he had a particular incentive to get naked. But he had had plenty of practice, and soon all lay in a pile next to him, and he loosened the buttons on his trousers while Maedhros bit his lip in anticipation.

“Come here.” Maedhros, now wearing only his braies, sat on the couch, pulled Fingon between his knees once he had taken off his trousers, and then ducked his head to tug at his loincloth with his teeth. Fingon laughed, but the sensation of Maedhros’ teeth and lips and breath on his skin made him even more desperately hard. He curled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair, being careful not to pull too hard. He bit his lip in anticipation when Maedhros managed to slide the cloth down one hip using just his teeth.

“Been wanting to do that for a while, have you?”

Maedhros just grinned up at him and slid the loincloth the rest of the way off with his fingers. But instead of immediately diving in, he placed his hand on the small of Fingon’s back and pressed gently—Fingon obliged him and settled into his lap, straddling his thighs. It brought their faces into a much more advantageous distance for kissing. Fingon, still caressing Maedhros’ hair, leaned in and nibbled his lower lip. Part of his mind was screaming at him to take it slow, and another part demanded that he take control and urge them on until they were both drained and gasping, and everything went blank when Maedhros’ fingers trailing up his spine made him break off with a groan.

“Too much?” Maedhros cupped the back of his head and drew him down for another kiss.

“Just right.”

They kissed and caressed and Fingon ground his hips down against Maedhros’ linen-clad cock. Maedhros sighed and arched his back and Fingon kissed his neck, suckling gently, not hard enough to leave a mark. His scent filled Fingon’s head like a fine wine.

“Wait. Stop.”

It came so abruptly that Fingon didn’t register it right away. He lifted his face from Maedhros’ neck to see his eyes shuttered and his skin pale—then he realized, and quickly lifted his hands from his body.

“I’m sorry. Was it something I—”

“No, no. Not you.” His tone stayed light, but instead of pulling Fingon close, he pushed him gently away. Fingon swiftly removed himself from Maedhros’ lap and started fumbling around for discarded clothes. “I just… it felt…” He trailed off, and a frustrated line appeared between his brows.

“You don’t need to have a reason to stop,” Fingon reminded him.

“I know. I just hoped that all this time apart and all the anticipation would make it work.” Maedhros had wrapped both arms around himself. He looked at a spot on the floor in front of Fingon’s feet.

“It’s all right. I promise.” Fingon pulled his shirt over his head. He was, mercifully, losing his erection.

Maedhros was silent for a moment. He unfurled slightly. “Well, damn,” he said with a rueful smile. “Still further than we usually get.” He finally looked up at Fingon. His eyes seemed to say I’m sorry I’m still like this.

Fingon smiled back. “Do you want to just sit together instead?”

“I’d like that.” Maedhros had a generous nature in and out of bed, and as far as Fingon could tell, that hadn’t changed. For his part Fingon was not a selfish man, but he did greatly enjoy receiving Maedhros’ attentions. They had always been compatible in what they liked, and were apparently still compatible, but much had happened. That was the easiest summation of what was wrong that Fingon could come up with. Much had happened, and much had come between them.

Identifying that was one thing, fixing it was another. Sometimes it seemed that they were making no progress at all since that first try in Hithlum years ago.

Fingon sat down next to him. He dragged a woven blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around his shoulders. Now that he looked around at the room, it pleased him greatly: toward the front there was the couch and two chairs in front of a broad fireplace, as well as a table with apples and cheese. A folding screen divided the room into two, with the bedroom toward the back. Tapestries with geometric designs lined the walls to keep the room warm, and the overall impression was of comfort and intimacy. Maedhros had always liked living simply according to the habits of his mother’s family. “We’ll try again later,” Fingon said with a reassuring smile—Maedhros still looked discouraged. “Tell me about Himring! It’s much more hospitable than I imagined from your letters.”

That brightened Maedhros’ eyes considerably. “Yes, it is, and we’ve worked hard to make it so. A fortified market town breeds greater morale than a cold castle. It breeds greater strength, too, considering we produce almost everything we need.”

“I would like to see more of it.”

“Then I will show you.” Maedhros took Fingon’s hand. “My home is your home.”

“I have not had news from your brothers. Either Himring has fewer people than it seems, or their settlements are very small.” Not many of Fingolfin’s followers had gone east with them.

“Both are true. Himring has a few thousand, and Maglor’s Gap has another few thousand, and the others have their households and a little else. I took those who were willing and able to fight, and Maglor took those who desired what peace there is to be had on the frontier. The arrangement works well for now and trade benefits us all.”

Fingon grinned. “Have Fëanor's wild sons finally decided to settle down? I’ll have to tell the king gently, the news might kill him.”

Maedhros chuckled and got up. “I’m not sure I would say that, exactly.” He began putting his clothes to rights, using his teeth where he needed a second hand. “I’ve had a feast planned for your arrival. We have that to look forward to this evening, so if you want to wash before then, I can show you the baths. They’re very nice—we discovered hot springs as soon as we arrived. We might also have time for a nap if you want to rest.”

Fingon could tell that Maedhros was going to be his tireless guide from now until he left in the spring. Which was not bad, but he only hoped it didn’t regress back into Maedhros trying to convince him to leave Hithlum for the frontier. He put on enough clothes to be respectable in public and agreed to see the baths.

Some years ago

In the early days, when Maedhros regained some of his strength after his rescue, Maedhros and Fingon hunted together often. The herds and flocks were not so large that the Exiles could stop relying on game for their meat, and Maedhros leaped at the opportunity to join the hunters as soon as he could hold a spear. That no one wanted him on their team did not deter him.

“It’s not a personal slight, Nelyo,” Celegorm had said, as he and Aredhel packed their saddles with enough arrows and knives to kill and butcher every deer in Hithlum. “We have a settlement to feed. Come with us when you are stronger! I will be glad to have your company.” Fingon did not think he sounded like he meant it. Celegorm believed that it was the right of the strong to rule over the weak, usually citing the “laws of the wild” as he termed them, and what Maedhros lacked in physical strength he made up for in the raw desire to fight. It was a wonder that they managed to speak civilly at all.

“We’ll go together,” Fingon said, giving Maedhros’ arm a friendly cuff.

Aredhel narrowed her eyes. “We need your bow.”

You didn’t seem to need it when I was volunteering it on the Ice, Fingon wanted to snap, but this was not the time to dredge that up, so he just bared his teeth in the friendliest smile he could muster and walked away, motioning for Maedhros to follow.

Over long hours and longer months tracing a web of paths through the woods, Fingon watched Maedhros’ strength begin to return to him. It was slow and painful at first as he forced his skinny legs to carry him further than they wanted to go and his thin left arm to hoist a short spear they used for killing boar. They came back empty-handed time and time again, and their families—Celegorm in particular—loudly criticized them for wasting time and resources. As far as Fingon was concerned, it was worth it. Maedhros’ army of healers prescribed rest and gentle exercise and avoiding anything too strenuous, and it only seemed to frustrate him. When they hunted, he came back hungry and exhausted and grinning broadly. He devoured his dinner and slept like a rock. His hair grew long, his eyes became sharp, and his lips quirked with a smile as they tracked boar through the underbrush. He began to pack on muscle.

Fingon felt his eyes lingering on Maedhros’ body and he knew he was in very deep trouble.

So many new questions came with the thought of having Maedhros as a lover again. Whether Maedhros wanted him in return was chief among them, and it kept Fingon up at night. Most of the time Maedhros resisted being touched for any reason, and he hated to be vulnerable at all. His discomfort with his body as it was now, coupled with the relentless pain in his shoulder, seemed to Fingon like enough to push sex out of one’s mind completely. There were also the intangible complications to consider: the Oath, the new politics, and Maedhros’ plans to go East to the frontier, to bring war to the Enemy on two fronts and to keep his brothers out of trouble. So Fingon tried to keep his hopes and his late-night fantasies in check, with mixed results.

But, as it turned out, Maedhros did want him back. What a relief it was to have his desires reciprocated, and to not feel revolted at his one-sided lust as he touched himself to the thought of Maedhros’ skin against his.

That did not make it easy. At first Fingon had to force himself not to think about changing bandages every time he removed Maedhros’ clothes, and he was sure Maedhros sensed that struggle. He also had to force himself not to be disappointed when, time after time, they failed. Fingon also stopped them, not as often as Maedhros did, but sometimes a rush of anxiety or a sudden apathy filled him and he couldn’t say why, only that it did not feel right to continue.

They kept trying.

Maedhros grew cold and distant.

Fingon, at first, was worried. Then, after his gentleness and consideration only seemed to push Maedhros further away, he became annoyed.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Fingon asked as they followed a narrow trail through the trees. They still hunted together, though in an increasingly stony silence. “If I have, please tell me so I can stop it immediately—”

Maedhros whirled around, stopping him in his tracks. “Do I look like an invalid to you?” he demanded.

“What? No! No, you don’t.”

“Then why do you continue to treat me like one?”

Fingon’s mouth dropped open. He looked up at Maedhros—the silvering map of scars on his face, the white streaks in his hair, his golden replacement teeth, the chunks torn from his ears where he used to wear several fine rings—and saw not the emaciated creature he had retrieved from Angband, but a grizzled survivor.

“I don’t,” Fingon protested.

“You coddle me,” Maedhros hissed. “Nelyo, did you eat enough? Nelyo, are you warm? Nelyo, is your shoulder hurting you? Should we not go hunting today? Nelyo, how are you sleeping? Do you have nightmares?”

Fingon’s eyes tightened. Yes, he was concerned, and yes, he always tried to make sure Maedhros was getting everything he needed, but everything he did, he did out of love. It stung to have that love mocked by the very person he dedicated it to. “I want you to be comfortable!”

“You are my island, my oasis, and my castle keep, but I do not need you to be my nurse!” His single fist clenched by his side. He hesitated a moment before speaking again. “You do it even when we’re in bed.”

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Fingon said. “Or hurt you. Not again.” A chill ran through him at those words, which he had never spoken before, but that fear permeated him every minute of every day, though he could usually ignore it. He could not begin to imagine what horrors Maedhros’ nightmares held, but his own usually revolved around hurting him in some way and being unable to stop. “That is my greatest fear, and my greatest regret.”

At that, Maedhros’ face became very grave. “Do not regret saving me,” he said roughly. Then he looked away, his hair falling over his face. They were both silent for a moment, and then he spoke again. “Do you truly want me? Or are you just humoring me?”

Fingon frowned. “What?”

“When we have sex. Or try to have sex,” he added with a roll of his eyes. “Do you care at all for your own pleasure? Or are you only doing it because I asked you first?”

“I don’t want to be selfish!”

“Be a little more selfish,” Maedhros said, exasperated. “It will be an improvement. I don’t like to be the only one getting anything out of it, you know that already.” Fingon felt a little scolded. He bit his tongue and nodded. Maedhros clasped his hand. His face was softer as he looked down at Fingon. “Do you still want me?” he asked.

Fingon looked him in the eye. “Yes.”

“If my twisted, crippled body is too repulsive to you—”

“Don’t say that,” Fingon pleaded. He lifted Maedhros’ hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I mean it, Fin.” Lines like cracks formed at the corners of his eyes. “You fell in love with someone who was beautiful and carefree and without guilt. I am not ignorant of the ways I have changed—of the ways I have been changed—”

“I am not the same person you fell in love with either,” Fingon cut him off quietly. Memories flooded back to him, uninvited, bringing a hot wave of shame with them.

Over centuries he had become known as an aesthete, waxing philosophical about beauty and perfection at every opportunity like the naive idiot he was. Everything he did, from the clothes he wore to the structures he designed to the company he kept, revolved around beauty. According to the whims of Tirion fashion he changed his shoes and embroidery and jewelry—rings in his ears, his nose, his lips, anywhere it was popular to stick a needle. It determined whether he painted his eyes this year, or whether a bare face had become more desirable. And his hair, oh, the countless hours he spent combing and oiling and braiding and decorating it, because it drew many envious eyes as he drifted through the feasts and salons of elite society. His vanity became an identity, but what mattered most was not his own beauty but Maitimo’s, who was beautiful in entirely different ways. He was effortlessly perfect and wore deliberate simplicity like a cloak. He made an art out of looking like he didn’t care. He too made that his identity, and Findekáno practically worshipped it. Even then they were perfectly matched in their foolishness.

“I love you,” Fingon said at last, after a long silence that told him they were thinking of the same thing. “I loved you then, and I love you now.”

“What is it that you love about me?” Maedhros snarled. Fingon couldn’t help but flinch at his tone. He did not answer. Maedhros was not deterred. “Well? Is it the memory of Maitimo the Beautiful?” he said his own name with such mocking scorn that it tore at Fingon’s heart. “He is dead, and no amount of doting over his remnant will bring him back.”

“You have always been more than your beauty,” Fingon began, but Maedhros cut him off again.

“Yes, what is there besides my beauty, which is no more? Dare I claim any particular intelligence or compassion or strength of will that shines brighter? If I did, it was before I swore an unbreakable oath, slew my kinsmen, dragged you into that mess, trusted my father not to abandon you, trusted Morgoth himself to honor the terms of his parley, and got my men killed and myself captured because of it!” He laughed a cracked, angry laugh, and drew his fingers through his hair in clear frustration. “Do I have any talents? Do you love me for my swordsmanship or my copperwork? That is gone too!” He held up the stump of his right wrist.

For a moment, his voice echoed through the quiet wood, and then all fell silent. Somewhere, a bird called out to another. Fingon struggled to breathe in deeply, and when he lifted his hands to touch Maedhros, they were trembling.

“Why do I need a reason to love you?” he said. His voice shook as much as his hands, which he placed on Maedhros’ waist. Tears started to prickle at his eyes, but he blinked them away. “After everything, I want to be with you. I want to see you happy. I want to be happy with you. I don’t need a reason.”

“So you have none.”

“I love everything you are.” As if defying all the pain he had ever felt on Maedhros’ account, Fingon smiled. “Enough to assault Angband alone on the slimmest chance I might see you again.”

At that, Maedhros said nothing for a long time. For a moment there was nothing but pain and confusion behind his eyes as he struggled to comprehend that yes, someone could love him as much as Fingon did. Then the anger and frustration he wore to hide the pain melted away, slowly, as he stared at Fingon and finally perceived nothing but the truth in his words. He seized him in a hot, desperate grip. He kissed him with teeth, hard and rough, and Fingon groaned into his mouth. Even with his bad arm, Maedhros was still strong enough to push and pull him wherever he wanted him to go, and Fingon loved it when he did.

“I still don’t understand you,” Maedhros said between kisses.

“Accept it,” Fingon breathed as Maedhros’ lips moved over his ear and down to his neck. “I love you and I’m not giving up on you.”

Their hunting gear lay abandoned. Belts and buttons came undone. Their hands roamed over one another’s bodies, caressing and squeezing and kindling sparks of pleasure to life. Fingon felt a tree at his back—he went up on his toes and balanced his weight on Maedhros’ leg, bent slightly and braced against the tree. Between the hand on his hip, the tree at his back, and the warm thigh between his legs, Fingon found himself completely in Maedhros’ control—the realization brought a flush to his face and he clutched at Maedhros’ hip and shoulder for support.

“Let me please you.” Maedhros breathed against Fingon’s throat.

“Yes.” He ground his hips forward against Maedhros’ thigh. “Yes.”

They fumbled for the laces at the front of Fingon’s trousers. He was hard already and panting and he groaned when Maedhros nipped at his lower lip. He couldn’t have stopped himself from rubbing against his leg and then his warm, generous hand for anything in the world, and Maedhros kept urging him on, kissing him and stroking him and whispering endearments against his skin.

They could have succeeded. Would have probably succeeded, if a spider had not picked the worst possible time to bite Fingon on the back of his leg.

“Is it gone!?” he said, hysterical, once he had dispensed with yelling and slapping at the spider. Already a painful welt had formed—Maedhros’ mouth drooped unhappily when he examined it.

“I think so. I’m sorry, Fingon.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Fingon shuddered, rubbed his hair vigorously, and pulled his pants up once he determined it wasn’t a dangerous bite. All thoughts of sex had been driven from his mind, but once he was convinced there were no more spiders anywhere on his person, he smiled a little and took Maedhros’ hand in both of his. “I think that was the furthest we’ve gotten so far.”

“I think so too.” Maedhros smiled in return. “If you are up to it, would you like to try again when we get back?”

“It was a spider, not a ballista,” Fingon laughed, and then kissed his cheek. “Yes. I would like that.”

They did try again, and it was Maedhros who ultimately stopped them. He rolled himself in a blanket again and Fingon held him and pressed his face into his hair. “We are going to be all right,” he said. Maedhros blinked and looked at Fingon through his pale eyelashes for a moment as if trying to read something else in his face, but closed his eyes and relaxed ever so slightly.

“We’ll figure it out soon.”

Present

 “Tonight we welcome Crown Prince Fingon, my very dear friend and kinsman and Himring's finest architect, into the halls of the King as he is represented in these lands. May you find them as comfortable as they are well-designed,” Maedhros said with a grin. He raised his glass and inclined his head to Fingon. “And may High King Fingolfin and the Noldor always prosper. To the High King, the Prince, and the Noldor!”

The assembled crowd echoed his toast, and when they had drunk to their health, Maedhros spoke again. “I don't wish to delay the feast, but would you care to share a few words, Prince Fingon?”

“Certainly.” Fingon stood and smiled at him before looking back out at the crowd. “I thank you for your warm welcome and look forward to interacting with you in the months to come. However, Lord Maedhros has been overgenerous: I am hardly the finest architect to work on Himring.” He briefly raised his glass to a cluster of elves who had caught his eye: engineers, masons, and fellow architects with whom he had worked both in person and through correspondence, including a few of his own former apprentices. “And even if I was, the real honor is due to those who bring it to life every day, the carpenters and builders who raised the walls, the weavers and tanners who make them comfortable, the cooks and brewers who make them merry, the smiths and warriors who keep them safe, the farmers and herders who keep them stocked, and all others who have come to this distant land, united in purpose. It is one thing to draw a picture of a house, but quite another to turn it into a home.” He smiled and raised his glass high. “To Himring and all of its people.”

The crowd echoed him heartily. When everyone had returned to their seats and the dishes began to be brought out, Maedhros turned to Fingon with a soft smile on his lips. “That was very nice,” he said, and Fingon knew that if they were not before a crowd, he would have kissed him.

“I meant it. I’m already impressed to see what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.” Drop five Noldor anywhere in the world, and a year later you will return to find a thriving city , was a common saying in Aman. The proverb was proven true in exile now.

The feast began with fruit and nuts, river fish, and caraway-scented cakes. Wine and conversation flowed freely, mostly shop talk and news of faraway skirmishes. Also at the high table were Maedhros’ close advisers, three of whom Fingon knew better than the few others. There was Eliadis, Maedhros’ small but fearsome bodyguard whom he had promoted to captain of the guard upon settling at Himring, Nothwen, an architect and engineer and Fingon’s onetime colleague before the Darkening, and Raemben of the house of Miriel, a very beautiful, androgynous elf who always spent a lot of time peering through telescopes. Their spouses, none of whom Fingon knew, sat with them, and like Maedhros they were all dressed finely according to the practicalities of Himring life. By contrast Fingon had packed according to Hithlum fashions, and he felt rather out-of-place: his shimmering, many-hued silks probably did not inspire confidence in him as a ruler of the dangerous East as well as the settled West. He would need to learn quickly, listen more than he spoke, and look the part.

“We might raise the best pork this side of the sea,” Maedhros said when they were presented with a platter of roasted, fork-tender meat. Mustard, vinegar, and honey tickled Fingon’s nose, and he happily dug in.

“Is it a local breed?”

“It’s a cross between a few local breeds and the descendents of the stock we brought from Aman. We feasted with the local Avarin lords many times while we negotiated the treaties—ahh.” He closed his eyes in an expression of almost religious bliss. “No one roasts a pig like the Avari do.”

On Maedhros’ other side, Raemben leaned over, looking a little pained. “It went well with that hideous fruit liquor they make,” they said. Maedhros winced.

“It was also delicious, but I must have felt it for the next four days,” he said to Fingon. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to experience it yourself.”

There it was again. Fingon gave him a mild smile. “The king would appreciate information on the eastern Avari, I’m sure.”

With that, he filled his mouth with the tender pork and its savory sauce and said nothing else.

That thread of conversation was thankfully cut short by the rest of the meal. The next course included firm cheeses, spiced and cured meats, and red grapes with skins so delicate that they were almost translucent. Maedhros knew which farms and fields everything came from and he explained everything as each successive course was placed before them: roast vegetables glazed in honey and wine, marinated and grilled game, rich custard, crisp greens, fruit pudding soaked in brandy. He was a good host, and Fingon loved to listen to his voice and the obvious pride in it. He had a lot to be proud of.

With food and wine in him, Fingon soon grew weary. His journey had been strenuous, and he looked forward to sleeping in a real bed again instead of on the ground with one ear open in case of an ambush. After the feast he spent a polite amount of time at the additional conversation, drinking, and music that followed, and then excused himself. He walked slowly back to Maedhros’ chamber, trailing his fingers along the stone wall as he went. He followed the lines of the stone blocks and the corners of the walls and ceiling with his eyes, still not sure he could believe he was here at last, and that the lines he had put down on paper had been brought to life in his absence.

His circlet went back into its case and his robe went back into the layers of paper that had protected it on the road. He wrapped his braids in a silk scarf, pulled on a nightshirt and a pair of thick wool socks—a necessity in any weather after the Ice—and went to bed, and it was only when he woke briefly to Maedhros’ hand on his waist as he settled in next to him that he realized he’d fallen asleep.

Fingon adapted easily to the pattern of life at Himring. As he had predicted, Maedhros was tireless in showing him what the fortress had to offer: they trained together daily, or whenever Maedhros’ shoulder wasn’t hurting him too badly, in the keep gymnasium and practice yard and bathed in the bathhouse, and the water was naturally sparkling and warm as Maedhros had promised. They met often with the advisers and also with ordinary folk. Maedhros liked people, and always made himself available to them. That came so easily to him where Fingon had always struggled to stay connected to people in general. It was easier when he had Maedhros, usually the center of every group he was in, to keep him from fading into the background. Still it was tiring, and Fingon slept like the dead at the end of every day. There was certainly something to Maedhros’ philosophy of earning a good night’s sleep.

As busy as they were, they still set aside time to be alone.

That almost made it worse. Fingon wanted him so badly, and touching him and kissing him and letting his taste and scent fill his head only made disappointment more acute when one of them inevitably ended it.

“I promise I want you,” Fingon said. He cupped Maedhros’ face in both hands as they sat on the carpet in front of the fire in Maedhros’ chamber, both partially undressed and fully frustrated with their lack of progress. “I promise. I want to keep trying as long as you do.”

“Do not just do this for me,” Maedhros warned him.

“I’m not.”

Maedhros just looked at him with weary eyes. Fingon knew there was still a part of him that believed that no one would desire him again, maimed as he was, and it was Fingon’s personal crusade to find that part and eradicate it.

So why did this have to be so difficult? Fingon had not been tortured and left for dead, what earthly reason could he have to suddenly become so anxious at Maedhros’ touch that he had to stop them? He loved him, he wanted him, and yet still they failed! He rubbed his eyes. He’d once tried to stop thinking of it as “failure,” hoping that would help, but what else could he call setting an objective and being unable to meet it?

“We can always try again.” He took Maedhros’ hand. It was their promise over thirteen years of trying to overcome the damage and distance of the past. “We will be all right.”

As determined as Maedhros was to show Fingon the hospitality of his new home on the frontier, his people were equally determined to win the favor of their new crown prince. Even those who knew him in Tirion turned out their best impressions; this was a different game entirely, and Fingon was no longer a carefree princeling of a house that did not want for heirs.

He found it exhausting and could only hope that he would always remain a backup plan that the Noldor would never need. Or that he would at least have enough time to grow into the shoes placed before him.

There were, however, certain perks. One stop on the grand tour of Himring was the bakeries at the end of the street they called Cooks' Row. The bakers, strong-armed women with their hair in braided knots, stuffed Fingon with bread and cake seemingly whenever he opened his mouth to speak, but he eventually managed to thank them for their hospitality and compliment them on their creations. Afterward, they visited the butchers, where men with scarred fingers offered Fingon so many different kinds of sausage that he could hardly tell them apart after the first few, but he did his duty to sample every last one. The best was made with venison and red wine, but his poor stomach was so full that he hardly enjoyed it.

“We don't have to continue this today,” Maedhros said, amused, as Fingon heaved himself up onto his horse.

“I am perfectly fine! Though I think I only have one more visit in me,” he said with a grimace.

“Very well. Shall we visit the brewers?”

Fingon agreed. The brewers greeted them as warmly as the bakers and butchers had, and the master brewer poured them glasses of a beautiful red-gold beer that made Fingon warm all over and, before long, very merry. It was also much stronger than he had expected, and mounting his horse again was a formidable struggle. He stayed upright as they rode back through the darkening streets to the keep, but as soon as they were back in Maedhros' room, he collapsed onto the bed and couldn't bring himself to move, not even to undress.

“I regret everything,” he mumbled into his pillow. Behind him, Maedhros chuckled and slid Fingon's boots off his feet.

“Isn't this the opposite of how it used to be? Whenever we went out I would always stuff myself and drink too much and you would have to drag me home and put me to bed,” he teased.

Groaning, Fingon rolled onto his back. He prodded his distended stomach a little. “Father says I lack moderation.”

“You do.”

“I know.” Fingon sighed.

“Well, I'm not any better, but I’m learning to control myself for Himring's sake, if not for my own.” Maedhros began to undress. When he turned to put his shirt over the back of a chair, Fingon caught a glimpse of the silver-pink mess of scars that covered his back. Yes, Maedhros knew the consequences of a decision made out of fear and grief and ignorance. They all did, one way or another.

“I am trying to be better too,” Fingon said. He raised his hand and let it drop. “Like you said. For the Noldor, if not for myself.” Tomorrow they would visit the rest of the shops on Cooks' Row, and he was determined to be responsible about it and not lose control the instant someone offered him a sweet.

Maedhros wrestled his way into a nightshirt that was just slightly too small for him. He joined Fingon in bed, but instead of lying down he knelt at his side and began to unbutton his outer tunic. He was clumsy with one hand, but Fingon only closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the sensation of Maedhros gently disrobing him.

“I am not up for anything tonight,” he said once all of his buttons were undone. “Sorry.”

Maedhros kissed his forehead. “That's all right. We have plenty of time, no need to rush,” he said, though he too had a note of regret in his voice. With that, Fingon gathered enough strength in his arms to help him. He stripped down to his loincloth and then gathered the blankets over them both. Maedhros' arms went around him and Fingon relaxed into the curve of his body. They lay quietly for a few minutes, just breathing.

“Come and live with me, Findekáno,” Maedhros whispered. He kissed the back of Fingon's neck.

Fingon opened his eyes. He clasped Maedhros' hand tighter under the covers. “I can't. You know I can't.”

Maedhros kissed him again. “You could.”

“No.” Fingon felt a pang deep in his chest at that terrible word. He wanted to, with all his heart, but he couldn't. “Maedhros, I have consumed my weight in cake, sausage, and beer. I can barely think right now. We'll talk about it later.”

Maedhros gave a soft hmm and pressed his face into Fingon's hair, but he said nothing else.

A few years ago

 The Noldor built their capital to rival anything they had built in Aman. As the years passed and they spread out across the land they grew rich on their crafts and trade and alliances with their new neighbors, and it seemed as if they had finally reached land in the ocean of their long uncertainty. Maedhros and his brothers went east to the frontier. Fingon wanted to weep, but his eyes were dry no matter how much he tried to shut himself away and cry it out. Instead a cold, dark hollow formed in his chest and it sucked away all of the emotions, both high and low, that used to reassure him that he was still alive.

Maedhros visited when he could, a warm, bright flame that brought light to Fingon’s emptiness. The happy days fled like smoke in his fingers and all of a sudden he was riding away again, leaving Fingon alone with everything he was afraid to feel.

To add additional frustration to the situation, they still had not managed what either of them considered a successful sexual encounter, not even a full decade after their first fumbling attempt.

It was nearly a week since Maedhros’ departure from his most recent visit and time dragged as Fingon had never known it to. It was so easy to lose track of time, whether it was in his workshop or in the wilds or in his beloved’s clear gray eyes, but when he was alone he was time’s prisoner, and he felt it drag at him as if he were mortal. He could not sleep, and none of his usual crafts or pastimes could hold his attention. Maedhros was gone, and Fingon’s heart ached to be away from him. His bed was cold without him, his rooms cavernous and ringing with silence.

It was a mild summer night. Fingon lay flat on his back, watching the fluttering leaves outside his open windows and the moonlight streaming in to paint silver panels on the floor. A slinking shadow crossed the garden—one of his cats. A sudden burst of restlessness shook him and he sat upright, frustrated. He could not lie here any longer, trapped in his own head. His hands and footsteps were uncontrolled and jerky as he stomped around his room to look for a shirt. Having found one, he threw it on and left the cursed bedroom to walk down the carpeted hallway.

He found himself leaving his residence. There were guards keeping their silent watches around the palace who nodded to Fingon as he passed, but otherwise he saw no one. The path he followed was as familiar as the back of his hand. He had envisioned and drawn it long before it was built in wood, stone, and glass, and it took him toward the center of the highest tier of Barad Eithel. The guard at the geometrically-carved double doors scrutinized him for a moment, probably for being out in public in the middle of the night in rumpled clothes and socks, but let him in without resistance.

The king was a night-owl, and Fingon knew he would still be awake. He did not expect to find him reclining on the couch in his study with his head resting on his hand, doing nothing. He was always doing something. He preferred to write his own journals. He was, in Fingon’s estimation, just as skilled in the forge as his half-brother, and could often be found working on personal projects when he had the night hours to himself. When not occupied with something else he trained extensively with sword and bow. But now, Fingon found him just sitting by the fire in a light robe with his long, locked hair falling free over his shoulders.

“Ah, Fingon.” His father smiled a little when he saw him. “Come and sit.”

Fingon crossed the room and perched awkwardly on a chair next to Fingolfin’s couch. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Fingon was starting to consider going back to his room and counting the minutes until the sun came up, and then his father spoke again.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Many things.” He couldn’t figure out how to start. Had had exhausted every piece of romantic poetry he could get his hands on, every philosophical treatise on love and pleasure, and every sex manual with illustrations that made his eyes water. Even anatomical texts and studies on the mind. No matter how much he read, he could never find anything that answered one simple question: what is wrong with us ? He truly would not have come here if anything else had worked, as he could think of very few things less appealing than going to his father to discuss the sex he was or was not having, and Fingolfin was equally content not hearing about it. But his father was wise and objective and Fingon did not believe he would dispense poor advice, so he swallowed his embarrassment, took in a breath, and asked.

“I need to ask your advice, but afterward you must forget I ever did,” he said.

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows. “My advice regarding…”

“It involves Maedhros. And it’s… embarrassing.”

With that, the look on Fingolfin’s face told Fingon that he realized it was going to be sex-related, and he stood. “Of course. You can ask me anything, and it will never leave this room.” He poured them drinks—not the golden wine he usually offered over light conversation, but a clear liquor that was so aromatic that Fingon felt as if the inside of his nose had been scrubbed clean—and they sat to talk. That he had given them his blessing centuries ago did not make it any easier for Fingon to begin talking, however, so he didn't say anything until half his drink was down. It made his mouth tingle and his eyes water.

“We are...” Fingon cleared his throat. “Having some... difficulties. Getting intimate.”

Fingolfin’s brow crinkled in confusion for a moment. “I had not suspected. Nothing seemed amiss between you when he was here.”

“No. It’s just…” He looked away. “We haven't been able to do... anything. At all. And not for lack of trying.”

Fingolfin gave him a long look over steepled fingers. His eyes, a lighter brown than Fingon's and flecked with green and gold, remained steady. The eyes of a just king in audience with a subject. “Is it what you both want?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken of it with him?”

“Yes! Father, we have spoken until we are hoarse, and still we haven't—” He cleared his throat again. “We still have trouble.” He dreaded the idea of having to explain the exact difficulties they had encountered: Maedhros' occasional episodes, arguments born of mutual frustration, their own physical reactions and the lack thereof. Clumsiness, doubt. The spiraling unreality that sometimes gripped Fingon when he looked at Maedhros and found himself unable to touch him. His hands wouldn't respond and he panicked, somehow convinced that touching Maedhros would only hurt him. Thankfully, he was not asked to elaborate.

“Not all… trees come into flower every spring,” Fingolfin said slowly. His cheeks were a little red, and Fingon wondered if he employed euphemism for his son’s sake or his own. “Our kind expects the blooming and withering of passion as a natural cycle of life.”

“Yes, I know, but that is not the problem,” Fingon said. “The problem is that we both want it, but we… freeze up, or flinch away, or just lose interest, or… I don’t know.” He ground his teeth and looked away. If it was only a natural waning of passion, that would have been better than this torment. Then they could sit together and talk and pursue their duties and simply share each other’s companionship and be comfortable—but no, Fingon could do all of those things with him already, but instead of only simple affection he felt his own demanding need every time he let his eyes follow the lines of Maedhros’ body, the hollow of his throat, his silky, tumbling hair, his eyes that gazed back with equal fire. He wanted to haul him away to the nearest private room and kiss and caress him until he was panting with want, and Maedhros, his beloved Maedhros, was so openly, tirelessly generous that it was hurting him to not be able to do the same. But whenever they tried anything it always ended with one or both of them ending it before they got anywhere.

“Oh, Fin, I don’t know.” Fingolfin sounded like he was trying not to let Fingon know how tired he was. Fingon could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way he rested his glass on his leg, and for a moment he regretted burdening his father with this conversation.

No, he needed answers, and he had run out of alternatives.

He lifted his heels onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees. He sighed. The two of them sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“I love him,” he said quietly.

“I know you do.” Absently, Fingolfin twisted a lock of hair around one finger. “But do you trust him?”

Fingon rubbed his ear. “What?”

His father looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “After everything, do you trust him?”

Fingon leaped to his feet before he could stop himself. “How could you say that? I love him with everything I have to give! I cut off his right hand, and you ask me if I trust him ?”

“You can love someone without trusting them. Sit down, I am not trying to put words in your mouth.” A touch of steel came into Fingolfin’s voice. “But our house suffered for years because of his house’s betrayal. That is not nothing.”

“ He did not betray us! I do not hold him to the actions of his father and brothers!” Fingon did not sit down. Fingolfin’s brow creased in obvious annoyance.

“No, he did not. But he swore their Oath. He spilled blood at Alqualondë. He holds to the Oath even now that he knows its fruits.”

“He has no choice.”

“I wonder if that is true. I wonder if the One would hold anyone to such an oath if he truly wished to repent of it.” After a pause, the king turned his eyes upward, and then sipped from his glass. “Ah, but there is no way to know, is there.”

“Even if he could repent of it, he would not abandon his brothers to their fate if they did not. Either way, he is not his father, and would never go to his father’s lengths. I know him better than anyone,” Fingon said, and voice took on an almost pleading tone that surprised even himself. He knew Maedhros.

“Whatever his intentions, he has made his allegiance clear. We stand as allies now, but if his quest should come to odds with the needs of the Noldor at large, he will stand against me, and he will stand against you.”

Blood rushed to Fingon’s face. “You—you’re trying to turn me against him!”

“I am not,” Fingolfin replied, still calm. “And I have not withdrawn my blessing, not that you need it in the first place. But you came to me for help, and I am trying to help you.”

“By telling me not to trust the man I love because he will eventually betray me?” His heart pounded in his ears. He wished he had never come here, he wished he had never thought that his father would be able to help him. No, this was folly, Fingolfin was trying to help him but in a way that Fingon had never wanted.

Fingolfin’s frown deepened a little. “Fingon, sit down , I am not saying that. I am asking you if you trust him. Because if you do not, that could worsen any other problems you might be having.”

“I don’t understand how you could mean anything else!”

“Then let me rephrase my question. Do you trust him as much as he trusts you?”

Fingon frowned. For a heartbeat, he could not say anything. “Explain.”

“Do you understand the kind of trust he places in you? He has suffered more cruelly than you or I can imagine, and yet he trusts you with his heart, his body, and his very life if necessary. I see it every time he looks at you—his face has never been especially hard to read.” His frown lifted slightly, and his lips twitched in amusement.

Fingon shook his head hard. “I know he trusts me. I try to be worthy of it.”

“And that is good. Never take that trust for granted, but you should also look to your own feelings.” He smiled a little sadly. “Remember what I said when you first brought him back and I had to force you to take care of yourself as well as him. If he loves you, he will not appreciate you sacrificing yourself for his sake.”

No, Maedhros did not appreciate that, as he had made abundantly clear in the forest years earlier. Be a little more selfish . Stars, Fingon had tried. He had tried so hard to remember what it had been like when they were young and everything was easy, when they could say to each other “touch me here” without worry. He had tried, and Maedhros had tried, and they both failed over and over again. Suddenly weary, Fingon sat back down on the couch. He scuffed his feet on the carpet as if he were a little boy again, and then rested his chin in his hands. King and prince sat in silence again for a few minutes.

“Oh, Findekáno,” his father said. There was a terrible weight in his voice, a terrible regret. He stared into his glass for a moment, and then ran his fingers pensively through his hair. “I have treated you with such injustice. And yet I see it fit to tell you to try to trust more. I apologize, I have no right.”

Fingon said nothing. He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. Even the allusion to the Ice reminded him of the terror of frostbite, watching his fingers peel like overripe fruit and wondering whether any of them could be saved. Screaming into a blizzard and not knowing whether anyone would come for him even if they heard. Slitting the belly of a seal and eating the meat raw, only vaguely remembering catching and killing the gentle creature in his state of near-starvation. His father, rather than looking away, was looking at him with a strange, unreadable expression. The corners of his mouth were tight and his brow was furrowed as if he were trying to read something that was too smudged to make out.

“You did what you had to do to keep everyone together,” Fingon said after a long silence. He had spent so long thinking about it, trying to puzzle out why his kind, just, perceptive father never seemed to notice the way the others singled him out. Of those who followed the Noldor across the Helcaraxë, Fingon was far from the only kinslayer, but he was the first to draw his sword after his uncle and cousins and their followers. As far as many were concerned, he started it, and it was his fault alone. That was only the first of the grievances they found to blame on him as they marched across the frozen desert. “A scapegoat was convenient. If everyone could lay their suffering on my account, they would not turn on each other, or on you.”

Fingolfin set his glass down and folded his arms. “I should have stopped it early. As soon as I noticed it. I should not have been made to see what I had done when you disappeared without a word.”

Yes, they all had their should haves and should have nots. Fingon should not have let love for Maedhros blind him to the poison of Fëanor's rhetoric. He should not have charged into the fray at Alqualondë. He should not have believed that Fëanor would not abandon his family in Araman. But he knew better now, and pointless ruminations on the way things should have gone only annoyed him. “Why did you need to bring this up at all? We both know what happened, and we both know that there’s no way to go back,” Fingon said. His voice felt rough in his throat.

Fingolfin looked away, unable to meet Fingon’s eyes for a moment. Neither of them spoke.

Fingon had to believe that his father let their host mistreat him out of necessity. To save the thousands, he had to let them blame their suffering on one. It was logical, a cold, hard, merciless logic that demanded practicality with no regard for shared blood. Fingon understood now, and he had to make himself believe that it made the difference between survival and extinction. He had to believe that it had not been for nothing. He had not told Maedhros about any of it: why he had so few friends now, why he and his brother barely spoke when they could help it, why he withdrew from company he used to enjoy. Why he flinched violently away the first time Maedhros tried to kiss his neck again. He couldn’t stand to be touched with such tenderness; he didn’t deserve it. Surely Maedhros would turn on him like everyone else had. “I truly am sorry, Fingon.” Another long pause, and Fingolfin turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Himring grows stronger by the day, and soon its construction will be complete. As long as Maedhros honors his oath of fealty to me, I will honor my obligations as his king. Therefore I will send a representative to assess Himring’s strengths and make note of its needs.”

“I will go,” Fingon said immediately, grateful for the change of subject.

Fingolfin’s lips twitched. “Of course you will. If I sent anyone else I suspect you would take up your harp and sing at all hours about how you will wither and pine if I order you to stay.”

Fingon did not protest this characterization.

“In any case, you’re the right person to send,” Fingolfin continued. “You worked on the designs and Maedhros will trust you with more information than he will give to anyone else.”

“I will not use our relationship to spy on him,” Fingon said flatly.

“I never said you should. But he might be more honest with you than he would be otherwise.” Fingon had to grudgingly agree. Maedhros was not good at lying outright, but he would withhold information that he didn’t have to give. Fingolfin set his glass on a side table. “It’s for his own benefit. We are not enemies, and as his king I am happy to lend my assistance where he needs it. If he will actually let me.”

Yes, getting Maedhros to accept help was no easy task, and no one knew that like Fingon did. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. “Thank you. When he sends word that construction is complete, we can make preparations. I’ll leave that up to your discretion.”

Despite his low mood, Fingon’s heart leapt. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps I should name you my official ambassador to Himring, you’ll probably be there often enough whether I send you or not.” Fingolfin smirked. “It will be some time yet, I think. Maybe the time apart will be good for you.”

Or make everything worse , Fingon thought, but he just shrugged. “Maybe.” The drink had helped to loosen the tension from his shoulders, and Fingolfin’s advice had at least given him something new to think about. Whether it would help remained to be seen, but Fingon had to admit to himself that it felt better now that he’d spoken to someone about it. Even if it didn’t fix everything right away, at least he felt better about going back to bed and facing whatever duties tomorrow would bring him. He stood. “I appreciate your wisdom, Father, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I needed to get it out of my head.”

“I am glad you felt comfortable enough to ask me.”

Fingon turned to leave. Outside the open windows, the moon was high in the black sky, and he remembered how beautiful it was the first time it appeared, glorious and full, to interrupt the long night of their suffering. After becoming used to such a long time in the dark, it burned his eyes, and he did not know whether he was weeping with joy or pain.

“Findekáno,” Fingolfin said, a strange, brittle force entering his voice. Fingon paused but did not turn around. “The Ice was not your fault.”

“I know.”

“You are worthy of trust. You have mine.”

Fingon did turn back a little at that. The nasty part of his mind wanted him to ask why his father needed him to believe it so badly now, when it seemed rather the opposite on the Ice. Under the hot summer sun and through balmy nights the chill lingered in his bones, shards of ice driven in deep over years on the march. Nothing could fully convince him that it had not all been his fault, not after hearing so many times that it was. On top of that his own guilt remained in his heart, clawing at him, squeezing at his insides, stalking him in the night. You will never be free , his mind told him. You should never be free .

Fingon hated that part of himself as much as it hated him. But in the dark hours he believed it, and resigned himself to unending shame that he, Fingon the Kinslayer, could never, ever escape.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to be bound to the Oath.

He just nodded once. Finding nothing else to say, he departed, hoping that this hadn’t been for nothing.

Present

The warmth that had seen Fingon through his journey from Hithlum did not last. The east had had an unusually long summer, but soon the mornings and evenings grew chillier until they could say without challenge that fall had arrived for good. The air was drier than it was in Hithlum, and Fingon’s skin threatened to crack. Worse, the growing cold began to wake the old frostbite pain in his extremities. He applied a warming salve to his dry skin and massaged it into his hands and feet and hoped he could stay far enough ahead of it that discomfort would not turn into agony. He hated the cold, he hated remembering the Ice, and he hated to think of any of this coming between him and Maedhros. They had enough to kick out of their bed as it was.

Maedhros seemed to sense his growing unease and continued to keep them busy. On a crisp day with strong sunshine he took Fingon to meet the craftsmen, and it was quite pleasant as they walked along the clear path down the middle of the smoke and noise and bitter smells produced by several large workshops. Maedhros went through the details as they walked, the numbers of master smiths and their specialties and how many swords Himring could produce in a week if called upon to do so. Beyond the forges were carpentry and masonry shops, weavers, tanners, scribes, seemingly every craft practiced by the Noldor adapted and compacted for life on the frontier. Himring was remote, yes, but its residents would want for nothing.

The craftsmen's row looped around itself, and finally they returned to where they had started, but Maedhros stopped just before the end, right in front of the only quiet shop on the row. He looked over at his shoulder at Fingon, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Fingon took a closer look at the shop and realized what he was looking at.

The whitewashed walls and red tile roof would not have been out of place at the workshops of Maedhros' grandfather Mahtan, which Fingon had only visited a few times but always with great excitement, for Mahtan's household laughed as hard as they worked. There was an eight-pointed star of polished copper pressed into the door.

Inside, the workshop was clean but rather sterile, lacking the wear of a shop in use, every scratch and stain and burn mark that told the story of the craft. Instead the smells of freshly-cut wood and new paint greeted Fingon's nose. Endless opportunities, new places to start and new paths with no clear end. His heart gave an almost-painful thump of excitement as memories flooded back of opening the door to his finally-finished new studio at Barad Eithel for the first time, drinking in the sight of dust motes in the light as the setting sun streamed in and illuminated his desk with its slanted top and blank walls waiting to have drawings pinned to them. He had drafted the plans for that entire wing of the palace and supervised its construction, but seeing it complete for the first time had been almost overwhelming.

“This is my shop,” Maedhros said with no small amount of pride.

It was clear and open, filled with natural light. The floor was flat gray stone and the ceiling was high and peaked, with several iron fittings for lampstones. There was a small forge at the front of the shop and an expansive workbench toward the back, which was equipped with an impressive vise. To one side was a desk and chair, and to the other, hooks upon which hung every kind of tool Fingon could recognize, and then some.

“You're going to pick up your craft again?” Fingon couldn't keep the smile from his face as he looked up at him and saw a light in his eyes that had become so rare in recent memory.

“I am a Noldo,” he replied simply. “It was actually Curvo's idea at first; he saw that I was becoming depressed and told me to find a chunk of copper and hit it with a hammer until I felt better.”

Fingon chuckled. That did sound like Curufin, on the rare occasions when he did express concern for anyone else's well-being. “Your brother is such an ass to everyone but you.”

“Funny, isn't it? Though I think he likes to have excuses to show off his own skill. He says he'll make me a new hand with so many copper-working attachments that I won't even miss the old one.” Maedhros smirked. The way the sun slanted in through the window, bathing him in light... Fingon could already see it, Maedhros in work clothes and a well-worn leather apron, his sleeves rolled over his elbows and his hair knotted at the back of his head and a pencil behind one ear.

It was an image from a past time, when young Fingon would sneak around his uncle's forge in search of his cousin, who always had an excuse to steal away with him. But Fingon could also picture him as he was now, different, and yet the same. Gleaming with sweat as he beat a copper rod into a torc, only with his left hand instead of his right. He would start from the basics, lacking dexterity but not knowledge, and he would work for countless hours until he was finally happy with the result. That was who he was.

The particular image with the sweat and the rolled sleeves and the knotted hair was the one Fingon found sticking in his mind now. The way he would bite his lower lip in concentration. The way he would roll his shoulders and wipe off his brow after long hours with the hammer. His shirt sticking to his chest and back, stray wisps of red hair clinging to his forehead and neck as the knot started to come undone.

Maedhros said his name softly. After, Fingon couldn't be sure whether he had said it in Sindarin or Quenya, only that it caressed his ears like an actual kiss. He turned his head toward that voice like a flower to the sun. Maedhros' hand slid around his waist and he pressed his lips against Fingon's, slightly open and warm and inviting and Fingon's head was so full of his taste and scent that he almost forgot to breathe.

He felt the workbench against his back. Heart pounding, he lifted himself up to sit on the surface, bringing their faces closer to the same height. It was as natural as breathing, the way he wrapped his arms around Maedhros' neck and pulled him in close, the way Maedhros' hand slid up his thigh, parting his legs so that he could fit between them. They'd done this so many times before, Maedhros lifting Fingon up onto his old workbench or onto Fingon's own desk, caressing him with forge-roughened hands amid a nest of sketches and half-finished figure studies.

That old heat still lived in his kisses, in his lips and teeth that roamed up Fingon's neck from his collarbones to his ear. The same warmth kindled deep in Fingon's belly, the fire of love and lust not extinguished by time and tragedy.

“In here's fine?” Maedhros breathed against his cheek. “The door locks and we can shutter the windows.”

“Mm—yes.” Fingon bit back a gasp when Maedhros' hand slid higher and began massaging him through his trousers. Careful teeth nipped at his throat just hard enough to make him breathe in sharply and push his hips forward against Maedhros' hand.

“One moment. Sorry.” Maedhros kissed him again. He turned to pull the shutters closed and latch the door, only a slight tremor at the lock betraying his shaking hand. With the windows closed, light still came in through the chimney over the forge and a skylight above the workbench, but it was weaker and bluer, speckled with dust, and washed everything in gray. On his way back he dragged over the chair and set it in front of the workbench. “Is this all right?” he asked as he sat down and scooted the chair close. He clearly planned to take his time.

“Stars, yes.” Fingon widened his knees in invitation. Maedhros was already working on unbuttoning his trousers, but it was slow going with one hand, so Fingon stilled him with a touch to his wrist and picked up the task himself.

Maedhros chuckled. “You always did wear clothes that are impossible to take off.” He pushed Fingon's tunic up to kiss his stomach, sending sparks through his already-aroused body.

“I'm just terrible at planning ahead.” He ran his hands through Maedhros' hair, over his ears and cheeks and nose, caressing every freckle, reveling in the sight of his flushed face and kiss-swollen lips.

With the inconvenient trousers out of the way, Maedhros dove in with his mouth and hand, massaging Fingon's heated flesh, kissing his hipbones, mouthing gently at the linen-covered bulge until Fingon couldn't hold back a deep hum of pleasure. Yes, he thought, tipping his head back. Yes, surely this is it. This has always been easy. His fingers curled in Maedhros' hair and he pulled just so—

“You could stay here with me,” Maedhros whispered. Fingon opened his mouth to respond, but found the words stolen right out of his throat by the sensation of a clever tongue at his inner thigh, warm fingers tugging his loincloth out of the way, “We could rule the East together, forever... Fingon...”

“You know I can't do that.” Fingon gulped. Maedhros' hand was on him, stroking, joined forthwith by his wet, hot tongue. He could barely breathe, just that simple touch was enough to drive him mad in his current sex-starved state.

“And why not?” Maedhros' breath was coming fast against his leg. Fingon suppressed a gasp when he squeezed a little. “We are in love, we are among the highest Lords of the Noldor, who is going to stop us?”

Fingon closed his eyes. “Do we really need to talk about this now?”

“I love you. I want to be with you...” Fingon's mind went blank then, just for a moment, when Maedhros' lips closed around him, engulfing him in warm wetness, his tongue and hand caressing him with all the love Fingon knew he carried for him.

But. They did need to talk about this, or it would only come up again, possibly in worse circumstances. Fingon always found himself demurring, following his simple “no” with a kiss to avoid explaining it, which was what Maedhros was doing now: repeating his invitation while picking Fingon apart at the seams so they didn't have to talk about it. Well, no more, Fingon was going to clear the air between them once and for all. Every one of his baser instincts protesting, he stilled Maedhros with a gentle but firm hand on his forehead. Gray eyes met his in the gray light. He looked perfectly debauched, and for a moment Fingon was tempted to just take him by the hair and return him to his previous activity.

“I need to have my pants on for this conversation,” Fingon said.

Maedhros glanced away. “Should have just put my mouth to work instead of talking.”

“No. We need to talk about this.” Tucking himself back into his loincloth and re-buttoning his pants felt completely absurd. Briefly, madly, Fingon considered putting it off again to some other time , but he knew that he needed to finish what he started, and soon. He lifted his feet from the arms of Maedhros’ chair and instead leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It was another heartbeat before he found his words again. “I want to. With all my heart I want to live with you. So do not mistake anything I say for reluctance.” Maedhros pursed his lips and said nothing. Fingon suddenly had to look away this time before he could continue. “When we were young there was always something in the way. Our siblings were too young. Our fathers wouldn’t give their blessing even if we asked for it. We were working and studying too much to consider it and then we had apprentices of our own. There was always another project. But ‘someday’ carries no sting when you know you will never run out of time to decide.”

“We were fools,” Maedhros muttered.

“I disagree. We were only innocent, and short-sighted because of it.” Fingon sighed. Thinking about the way it used to be, when they thought nothing would ever change, brought a rush of sweet, painful memories. Among his projects—commissions, experiments, personal interests—he kept a folio of plans for the house they would eventually share. He had not brought it with him, which was for the best as it would not have survived the Ice. Over centuries he added to it little by little, sometimes drawing whole pages of nothing but doors and window frames because none of them seemed to fit and he wanted everything to be perfect. There were round, open parlors for company and enclosed solars where they could be alone. Fingon would have his studio and Maedhros would have his shop and there would be plenty of room for apprentices to cause trouble without permanently destroying anything. There was an elegant hall for when they had to take up robes and circlets and become princes again, and when it was just the two of them they would retreat to a bedroom with a ceiling carved to look like a canopy of leaves. The plans were still unfinished, probably sitting on a dusty shelf in a room no one used anymore. But he remembered most of it, and sometimes he began to sketch the beginnings of a cottage when the uncertainty of the present became too much to bear.

“Whether we were fools or innocents, we know better now,” Maedhros said, suddenly earnest. “We know we can run out of time. Fingon, we could marry .”

Neither of them had used that word in a very long time. It used to bring apprehension but not outright fear, but now it was fear that filled Fingon’s body, and he shook his head vigorously to try to clear it out. “No. We cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Maedhros said nothing for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, a furrow appearing between his brows, and withdrew his hand from Fingon’s thigh. Fingon had almost forgotten it had been resting there. “Do you no longer wish to be with me?”

“Of course I want to be with you! I love you!”

“I am serious. If you don’t want to be with me, please don’t stay with me in unhappiness because of what I want. I will survive it.” His face was guarded, his voice low, and Fingon knew he was afraid and trying to hide it.

“How many times must I say it before you believe me? I want to be with you, as allies and friends and lovers.” He reached out and squeezed Maedhros’ hand. “That has not changed. It will not change. We just need to… adjust. Based on our new circumstances.”

Maedhros’ face took on something close to pain. “I am ugly and crippled and missing half my teeth. Believe me, I am aware of that. I swear by everything beautiful in this world, if you are only trying to humor me—”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Fingon stroked his knuckles. “We’ve been over this already. I promise you, that is not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Fingon knew what he had to say. He did not want to, but he had started this. And they needed to have this conversation sooner rather than later. His tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth, but he unstuck it and forced himself to continue. He had to do this, both for Maedhros and for his own self-respect.

“When you ask me to live with you, you are really asking me to take the Oath.”

Maedhros’ eyes went wide and the soft blush faded from his face. “No. I would never.”

“Perhaps not in as many words, but yes, that is what you are doing.” Fingon could feel Maedhros withdrawing from him, going back behind the walls that protected him from everyone else. Everyone but Fingon. Fingon took his hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. “Please understand me. I spent so many sleepless nights missing you, wanting you with me, wondering how I would spend my life if not by your side, but I knew what that would mean.” Maedhros’ face was still. He said nothing, but his eyes demanded an explanation. Fingon clamped down the churning in his stomach and stroked Maedhros’ hand to fortify himself. “All of the people who have followed you into the frontier have done so because they prefer the governance of the Oath to that of my father,” he continued. “Yes, it is true, and you know it,” he added when Maedhros began to protest. “They didn’t have to follow you after the reconciliation. Why they did it doesn’t matter, I’m sure you’d get a different answer from every person you asked. It remains that all the wonderful things you have shown me and all the brave folk I have met serve to make your revenge possible, and they know that.”

“Do you begrudge me my revenge?” Maedhros asked. The corners of his nose were beginning to wrinkle.

“I do not. I gladly fight to avenge Finwë, my grandfather as well as yours, and the marring of our homeland.” Truly, any elf of the Blessed Realm remembered the darkness, the weeping, the madness of grief that followed in the enemy’s wake. No, Fingon denied no one their revenge. “I remember thinking the world was ending, and I know I’m not alone in that. We all made… mistakes… without thinking about what would happen afterward.” He swallowed around a sudden clog in his throat. “We have all committed crimes that cannot be made right. I certainly have.”

Maedhros looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw—he, too, felt the burden of the Kinslaying. “I am not my father,” he said at last in a clipped voice. “I will not wage war on our own kind.”

“ You will not. But will the Oath? Will it give you a choice?”

“There is always a choice!”

“Is there really? I remember the words ‘darkness doom us if our deed faileth’ being spoken very seriously.” Fingon took a breath. “I will not, knowing that our fortunes may change in an instant, take part in the folly of your unbreakable Oath. Do you want me to be bound to it?” Fingon asked. Maedhros opened his mouth, but Fingon held up his hand. He was not finished. “You say you will not expect me to actually swear it as you have done, and I believe you. But will you expect me to take part in whatever terrible turns it takes? Will you still love me if I stay behind? Will you still love me if I have to leave ?”

A muscle twitched in Maedhros' jaw. He did not look at Fingon's face, but somewhere to the left of his neck. “That will not happen .”

Fingon gently tipped his chin up with one finger. “Can you make me a promise stronger than the terms of your Oath?”

Maedhros was silent.

“I spilled blood for you at Alqualondë,” Fingon said. “I will not do it again.” Maedhros flinched, but still Fingon continued. “Furthermore, I cannot and will not put my love for you before my father, and as his heir, before the Noldor.”

There was a long silence. Maedhros looked like he was trying to decide whether to say what was on his mind, and when he did, Fingon wished he hadn’t. “They already proved they would put each other before you,” he said.

A spark flared behind Fingon’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t? Fingon, I lived in your house. And maybe I was an invalid then but I certainly wasn’t deaf.” A glint of gold teeth showed at the corner of his mouth. “Something happened on the Ice. Otherwise your people wouldn’t be so much more distant than they used to be. Otherwise I wouldn’t have heard you panicking where you thought no one would notice you.”

“Many things happened ,” Fingon spat. “And if I panicked, it was over you, whom I love.”

“Really? Even the time you turned a corner into Turgon and locked yourself away for hours until you could breathe again?” The anger in Maedhros’ voice was fierce and righteous and not directed at Fingon. “Yes, I heard that, I was listening. Something happened .”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Where it concerns your happiness, it concerns me.” He paused. “They betrayed you on the Ice, didn’t they.”

“We all made sacrifices in order to survive.”

“Did they all? Or did they make a sacrifice of you ?”

“Stop it! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Fingon’s heard was pounding in his ears and throat now. “What happened before is behind us, and I do not need you to go digging it up again!”

“You are a hero to my people! You are a hero to me !” Maedhros grabbed at Fingon’s leg, and Fingon shook him off.

“I am not free to abandon my duties to my people, no matter what you may think of them!”

“What duties do you owe them?”

“Duties I clearly cannot expect you to understand, since you think I can just pack up and leave whenever I want.” That was perhaps too low, but in that moment, Fingon did not care.

Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “You can. You have that choice.”

“And I am choosing not to make it.”

“Why? Why would you choose not to be lord of a people who would give you the respect you deserve?”

They were shouting now. “I already told you!”

“And I already told you that that will never happen !”

“You cannot make that promise!”

“I can promise—”

“I will not do it!”

“Are you even capable of love anymore?”

The last echoes of Maedhros’ outburst rang through the rafters and then faded. A quivering chill began to fill Fingon’s body, taking over from the outside in, and he forced himself to unclench his jaw even though a thousand voices screamed at him to fight back, demand satisfaction, never let this insult go unanswered. He said nothing, only stared down at Maedhros through eyes beginning to cloud with fury.

All the color drained out of Maedhros’ face, the splotchy red of his anger giving way to bloodless shame and fear.

“Fingon,” he breathed. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to say that.”

Fingon again realized that he was clenching his jaw so hard it ached. “Clearly it was on your mind. I understand how you see me now.” The chill of the Helcaraxë was in his voice. He got down from the workbench and started toward the door.

Maedhros stood and held out an arm to try and slow him down. “Please, Fingon —”

“Don’t touch me,” Fingon said. His voice cracked and he pushed past him. His hands fumbled with the latch. He stepped into the cold, bright afternoon and let the door swing shut with a decisive thud behind him.

“Fingon!”

He did not look back. His breath came fast and shallow as he went back along the cobbled road, not sure where he was going, just that he had to get away .

Maedhros called to him once more. Fingon did not stop.

When Fingon was alone at last, he slammed the heavy door behind him and sank to the floor, knees drawn up to his chin. He couldn’t breathe. Each breath in seemed to stick in his chest, building on the last, trapping and suffocating him. He could still hear Maedhros calling his name.

Fingon. I am so sorry. I did not mean to say that.

Outrage flared to life in him again, but it could not cut through the fog of panic and helplessness that choked him, though it would have been a welcome relief.

How dare he. How dare he say any of that to me. He has no idea what he is talking about.

He rubbed his hands together. Even considering the walk back up to the keep and his pounding heart, he was cold all over. Detached. No, he couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t let himself retreat into the coffin of ice that had kept him safe for so long. He couldn’t go back. Not after what it had taken to break free. If he slipped under now, he didn’t know if he would ever taste fresh air again—

Stop it. Stop. Pull yourself together. Breathe. Breathe out.

Unable to stop shaking, he pressed his palms to his eyes and they came away damp.

You are a hero to my people! You are a hero to me!

The words reverberated in his mind, bringing not the warmth and pride that Maedhros’ voice usually instilled in him, but waves of shame. Fingon tried to make himself count his breaths, but he kept losing track and returning to the scene of the workshop, a pleasant tryst gone sour, Maedhros’ thoughtless words.

“Stop,” Fingon said aloud. His voice seemed to be coming from a far corner of the room. He registered unfamiliar furniture, a cold fireplace, light coming in the tall window at a strange angle.

I did not mean to say that .

He knew it would hurt. He knew Fingon feared it to be true.

“Stop it,” Fingon said again to himself. His voice shook. His whole body shook. He still had the Helcaraxë in him, in his blood and bones and heart, and the harder he tried to fight it, the tighter it gripped him with claws of broken sea ice. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Breathe.” Put it in a line. How did we get here. Don’t get stuck. Don’t get trapped under the ice.

Slowly, Fingon managed to wrestle his panic back down, and for a long moment he sat with his eyes closed, counting his heartbeats, going through it all over again until he had a sense of why it all came to a point now. The room was still. His breath was deep and even. The door behind his back was solid and helped to anchor him, but he still did not trust his body to do anything but sit and try to stay calm. Focusing on the room was helping. He could feel his limbs again, and no longer did he feel like an observer to the life of a stranger. He was here, everything was slowing down, and while it was all still fragile, he was in control again.

The sunlight coming in the window had shifted its angle. He decided he must have been here for a few hours. It took him a moment to register where he was: the chambers set aside for his use, though he had not used them and had only been here once to stow an extra change of clothes, in case some necessity forced him to stay here instead of with Maedhros. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

No. He wasn’t going to think about it just yet.

The room was comfortable and well-furnished, but it lacked the lived-in familiarity of Maedhros’ chamber. Still, at the moment it was everything he needed: a place to be alone. They were going to have to talk eventually, but the thought of that stirred coals of anxiety in his gut again and he shook his head hard.

“Not now,” he said aloud. He had just won back control of his own mind and body. He was not going to lose it again.

Methodically, he took stock of his physical state. His mouth was dry and his tongue was sticky, A little water helped to clear his head and also to wash the lingering taste of Maedhros’ kisses from his lips. It was late afternoon and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the thought of food made him a little queasy. Besides, hunger did not bother him like it used to, before he had been hungry enough to devour a raw, steaming seal’s kidney without hesitation.

“Stop thinking about the Ice,” he told himself sternly before it got out of control. He needed to eat something. That was not optional, and there were sweet and savory snacks in jars on the table. No excuses.

He was cold, now that he was thinking about it. The sun in the window brought a little warmth to the room, but not much, and the fire had not been lit since his arrival as no one had actually expected him to use this room. The need to be warm was what eventually got him off the floor. There was no need to call a servant; he could light a fire in any conditions using almost anything as fuel, and soon thin flames took hold of the pyramid of firewood he built on the hearth. He sat with his elbows on his knees, watching the fire strengthen and spread, willing it to hold off the ice that still threatened to seal away his heart.

You did this , something said, and Fingon’s mind showed him an image of a frail elf coated in frost, found frozen to their bedding after a bitter storm that whipped out of nowhere.

“No. Stop it, we’ve been over this.” He rubbed his face. Another cup of water and a handful of candied nuts provided a momentary distraction, but he couldn’t shake the creeping doubt that settled into his mind in the raw aftermath of the panic attack.

You did this.

A child went hungry, and her parents went hungrier. An elf wandered into the vast, unending darkness, never to return. Families huddled in crude ice shelters against the shrieking winds that whipped over the ice. Despair, suffering, hopelessness.

You did this.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Fingon said again. Enough people had spoken to him after the horror was over and warm homes and full bellies had become normal again, and they had tried to reverse the damage of decades of unending winter that had settled deep into Fingon’s spirit and, presumably, tried to ease their own guilty consciences.

I couldn’t trust the Valar any longer. You could not have forced me to set foot on the Helcaraxë otherwise.

I fought at Alqualondë like the fool I am, what choice did I have but to leave Aman?

It was Fëanor who betrayed us, not you. It was wrong, but you were close to his son, so… it seemed logical at the time. I apologize, it was unjust of me.

I didn’t think it would be that bad. None of us did. But we couldn’t just turn back, not after we already walked so far…

It had all come too late, however. The barrage of blame and neglect had solidified into Fingon’s deepest fears and regrets and nightmares and it would not be moved with a few words of apology. After hearing the same abuse over and over for so long, it was a part of him, and while he occupied a place of honor and privilege before the Noldor once again, underneath lay a wretchedness that he feared would never leave him.

You did this .

Elenwë’s still face, now blue-gray and rimed with ice where it was once laughing and pink. Her pale hair, tangled with seaweed and starting to freeze to the ice beneath her motionless body. Fingon remembered Turgon’s thin, ice-cold fingers closing around his throat. You did this! This is your fault! He struggled, but did not fight back. He knew it was true, for he had already been told enough times what his recklessness at Alqualondë had brought upon his kin. In the end it was Laurefindil who pried his brother off him, his own voice choked with tears for his sister— No, Turukáno, it is no one’s fault! Not even his! Do not make a kinslayer of yourself ! Once freed and gasping for air, Fingon only just managed to roll over before he threw up what little was in his stomach. He spoke with a rasp for some time after. The bruises on his neck lingered, but even when they were gone he rested with his knife in his hand and always with both eyes open.

He too fell into the sea. Unlike Elenwë, he got out before he got trapped under the ice. He was too cold to move, too cold to think, too cold even to shiver, trapped in the numb dream world between consciousness and darkness. This is it , his muddled mind told him. My hröa releases my fëa. It is better this way. I deserve this. I deserve to be left behind where I can hurt no one else . But he woke again to full consciousness, sleepy and still cold but alive, tended to by Finrod and Aegnor, and instead of relief, shame flooded through him. He should not have been saved by the kindest and least guilty of all his kin. He should be under the ice, tangled in seaweed where at least his corpse would nourish the fish his family needed to survive.

With time he grew strong again, as strong as it was possible to be in such conditions. He carried on. Though his hands and feet froze and his friends and family continued to isolate him, he still carried on.

Did he go searching for Maedhros for his own selfish reasons? If he was alive, he was all Fingon had left, as loathsome as that thought was at the time. Did he do it to feel loved again? To be a hero? To be missed, as he realized upon his return when his father squeezed him close and could not let go? Maedhros kept repeating his name and reaching for him in his troubled sleep, and Fingon hated himself for sort of liking it. He was selfish. He ignored Maedhros’ pleas for death, mutilated him, and brought him home to face an agonizing recovery because he was selfish. It didn’t matter if he was still capable of trusting, or capable of loving. He didn’t deserve to be loved or trusted in return.

The fire was mature and beginning to soak the corners of the room in warmth, but Fingon still sat motionless in front of the hearth with his arms wrapped around his body. It was late and he was weary, but he knew sleep would never come, especially not if he tried to get warm enough to sleep in that big, cold bed alone. Instead he lay down in front of the fire, fully clothed, and tried to focus only on the flames.

Through it all, one doubt overshadowed the others. This could be the end for them. Fingon envisioned them trying to make it work for another year, maybe two, and when the distance and their differing agendas soured what little time they had together, they would end it. Perhaps their love was meant for innocent times and the light of the Trees, and perhaps it was already over, but they just couldn’t admit it yet. They would be allies in the war, as long as their objectives were not in conflict, but barely friends, and certainly not lovers. Fingon pictured himself wandering his chambers alone or struggling to maintain forced friendships with people he could barely stand, just so he would have someone to talk to. He saw himself writing pathetic, desperate letters— I miss you. I wish we were still friends. Will you come and visit me ? Most of them ended up in the fireplace, but sometimes he sent one in a fit of loneliness, and sometimes Maedhros responded, and sometimes he visited, but Fingon knew as soon as they saw each other that whatever they used to have was gone.

“Stop,” he said aloud again. The fire popped, and a spark landed on the back of his hand. He rubbed it away. “That will not happen.”

Really? asked that small, nasty voice in his head. Is that not the false promise you would not accept from Maedhros?

“Stop!” He rubbed his face. Since Alqualondë he always dwelt on the worst possible outcomes for a situation, since not thinking at all was what got him into that disaster to begin with. And he might as well be the one to think about consequences, since no one else seemed to. He only wished he could tell which ones were worth considering and which ones were just anxiety.

Perhaps loneliness was the conclusion of denying Maedhros’ offer, just as the Oath was the consequence of accepting it.

For one single, mad instant, Fingon considered throwing his reservations aside, going back to Maedhros, and accepting his offer on the spot. What did he owe his father’s people, that he should choose them over his love who only wanted to be with him? So what if it meant following the governance of the Oath? He had indeed slain his kin at Alqualondë, he was already damned, was there any point in pretending that he was better than anyone else? If these were truly the only two choices…

No. Those were not the only two choices. He had to believe that there was another. The whole reason he had Maedhros back at all was because he had believed there was another option. He just needed the courage to act on it.

Fingon did not eat, sleep, or leave the room. He lay on the rug, wrapped in a blanket, until the sun came up and he could justify leaving the keep.

He shook out the rumpled clothes in his satchel—a golden-brown tunic and dark blue trousers with a blue-green over-robe that fell just below the knee—and got dressed. He splashed some water on his face, smoothed his braids and pulled them into a clasp at the back of his head, and resolved to spend a few hours not thinking about Maedhros, their fight, or memories of the Ice that had resurfaced to torment him. He first took his breakfast at the Red Swan coffeehouse, where he drank enough coffee to at least clear the cobwebs out of his head and spent an hour sketching alternate ways to climb up Himring Hill that might be better than the switchbacks. When he ran out of ideas for the moment, he set his folio aside and let himself be pulled into a conversation about pierced jewelry by two elves who complimented him on the gold rings he wore in his ears: three in one, five in the other, and a small jeweled stud in the very tip of each. The discussion attracted the proprietors, a pair of married men Fingon knew from his days performing in Alqualondë. They were both very fashionable, and referred him to an elf named Gulien when he asked who made their tunics. He still intended to have a few items made by Himring tailors, and he figured an afternoon spent indulging his old vanity would help to dull the prickle of anger and anxiety that still sparked inside him.

Fingon went to her shop for a consultation once he left the coffeehouse. It turned out to be an effective distraction. Talking about clothes was safe territory, and Gulien’s shop was lively but not overwhelming. She took his measurements and he ordered three wool tunics in dark blue, emerald green, and a brighter gold, each one adorned with embroidery in a contrasting color. With the weather growing colder, he had started to see people in warm-looking wraps of striped or plaid fabric over their clothes, and he found it a good look, so he also ordered one with a pattern of thin red and black stripes between broad white ones.

He left the shop feeling like he’d accomplished something. Logically he knew that all he had done was anesthetize himself for an afternoon instead of addressing anything, and the sense of accomplishment wore off the instant he returned to his chamber. The silence and the isolation and the agony of being alone with his own thoughts drove him to the guardhouse to join his guards and Himring’s at their mess.

The guards who had accompanied him from Hithlum at least were easy company. He had hand-picked each of them upon his father’s coronation; they had all fought at Alqualondë and had not been as bad as most on the Ice. Not exactly the most attractive credentials, but the pickings were slim enough already, and their uneasy bonds had at least grown stronger since then. Fingon chose to consider them his friends, and they chose to turn their shame at not defending him on the Ice into loyalty and valor now. The guards plied him with so much beer that he felt like singing again. As the day faded into night they ate, drank, and belted out songs mostly involving revenge for their suffering, and Fingon didn’t dare call it a night until his ears were ringing and he could barely tell which way was up.

He eventually managed to get back to his chamber at some unconscionable hour, exhausted and finally numb. He collapsed on top of the bed, where he got less than an hour of fitful rest before the cold room sent him to build up the fire again. He still did not sleep. He did not know what hour it was, only that it was dark and cold and that he was miserable.

I need to talk to him, was the thought that came into his beer-sodden mind first. I cannot keep doing this. We need to talk. Soon.

Still, the idea of showing up at Maedhros’ door sloppily drunk and on the verge of ugly tears kept him where he was.

I am his island, his oasis, and his castle keep. He told me. I cannot put my burden on him. I owe him better than that.

Even if he was no longer capable of trust and love, he was capable of taking on more to lessen the burden on others, as was only just. The Helcaraxë taught him that.

When he sobered up a little, Fingon decided to go to the baths. It was still dark and still cold and the fire wasn’t helping.

The hot bath smelled strongly of minerals and helped to clear Fingon's mind when he submerged himself in the deep end of the pool. With his braids floating in a wreath around his head, he let himself float, bobbing in the water with his toes just brushing the tiled floor. He was weightless, cut off from the echoes of the high bathhouse ceiling and the splashes and conversations of the other bathers, as few as there were at this hour.

He tipped his head back a little so just his face was above the water. Above him, the ordered tile ceiling swirled before his eyes as if it actually moved. It was an unmistakably Noldorin pattern of interconnecting geometric shapes, diamonds locking with hexagons and octagons in different colors of blue and green to form a pattern of eight-petaled flowers. Those damn eight-pointed stars were everywhere, whether they took the form of stars or flowers or sunbursts. He could not begrudge Maedhros his family sigils, of course, but it was a reminder of the Oath and the images of Alqualonde that always sprang, unwelcome, into Fingon’s mind: blood on the docks, blood on his hands, blood on his cousins’ surcoats with their eight-pointed stars. They were everywhere.

A small disturbance in the water made him look up. He had company: Maedhros’ advisers Eliadis, Nothwen, and Raemben, smiling at him and looking like they wanted to socialize. He tried not to let his annoyance show. Fingon considered himself a Noldo through and through, but he did prefer the Vanyarin approach to bathing: it was a time for quiet contemplation, not bothering each other with whatever thoughts sprang into one’s mind, but this was a Noldorin bath, so Fingon smiled politely back.

“Prince Fingon, may we join you?” Eliadis asked him.

“Isn’t it a bit late for a bath?” Fingon said, not caring that it was ridiculous to say so while he was in the bath.

“I keep late hours. Raemben was working on a long project and Nothwen was observing the moon.”

Fingon sighed. “You may.”

There was a pause. He looked at each one of them in turn, but said nothing. If they wanted to talk to him, they would have to supply the conversation, because he had nothing to say. It was easier when he had Maedhros to keep the words flowing while he listened and nodded, especially with people Fingon did not consider his friends.

He and Raemben never had much to do with one another. To identify with the House of Miriel was a political act, and one that by definition rejected Queen Indis and her progeny as unlawful. In fact, Fingon wasn’t sure Raemben recognized him at all, as their paths had only crossed a handful of times many centuries ago during his days on the stages of Alqualondë, where Fingon’s costume had been flamboyant enough to render him anonymous underneath it. It was interesting, the things people said when they didn’t know that a grandson of Queen Indis herself was listening. Now, knowing full well who he was, Raemben looked at him with undeniable respect.

Nothwen, in the uncomplicated past, was once his fellow student and colleague over many projects. They disagreed sometimes, as experts did, but never with contempt. It was only in the later years of Aman as they knew it that they drifted apart, with Nothwen becoming increasingly devoted to Fëanor's rhetoric. “This will be a hall of the Noldor, designed only by Noldor, according to Noldorin traditions unsullied by Vanyarin imitations,” she had said, flipping her sketchbook shut when Fingon leaned in to offer his opinion. He looked up, alarmed by this sudden and unexpected bigotry, and found her face cold and shuttered.

Not only did she now pretend that she had done no such thing, but she also sought his input on her projects as if she had not once told him that his Vanyarin blood made him an unfit architect. And, of course, she approached him in the bath as if their easy friendship had never changed. Perhaps she had forgotten. Perhaps she hoped that Fingon had forgotten. He hadn’t. Not that he was in any position to judge anyone else for behaving badly in those days, but he had to wonder. He looked between the three of them, trying not to feel resentful.

Of the three, Eliadis was the only one who had not insulted him or his family and suddenly wanted to be friends now that Fëanor was dead and Maedhros was back and the old controversies had fallen mostly into obscurity. Fingon remembered her, however. His memories of Alqualondë were a fragmented haze most of the time—when they weren’t all attacking him at once in crystal-sharp clarity—but he still remembered her crouched like a cat ready to strike behind Maedhros’ shield, using her small stature and a long spear to defend him even as he defended her. They made an excellent team in the slaughter, focused and deadly. Did she regret it, or did the Fëanorians hail each other as heroes on their voyage afterward? Did they hail each other as heroes to hide their regret?

Stop it, Fingon, this is pointless, he told himself. You cannot know another’s mind. And even if you could, it would not be yours to judge.

Very belatedly, he realized that the three interlopers were smiling expectantly at him and he wondered if he had missed a question or a comment he was meant to respond to. Bless them, they can’t tell I haven’t slept in two days. “I’m sorry,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. “The last few days have been… busy. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I just wondered whether you found Himring to your liking,” Eliadis said.

“Yes. It seems like a good home,” he replied.

All three of them nodded at that. “Part of that is due to your architecture, of course,” Nothwen said, and Fingon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. You told me I am an unsuitable architect because my grandmother is a Vanya, he wanted to say, but he just gave her a polite smile and inclined his head.

“All Noldor in Beleriand are united in exile,” he said instead. “Regardless of our ideological differences.”

She had the grace to look away.

There was a long pause. If they expected him to lead the conversation they were going to be disappointed, because he had barely enough energy to stay friendly. “We haven’t had a chance to thank you,” Eliadis said at length.

“Thank me for what?”

“I… well. The three of us have been close to Maedhros for a long time, and it’s good to see him happy. You make him happy,” she said, suddenly and openly earnest. “He hides it when he’s not, I think he doesn’t want it to affect anyone else. But it’s hard on him.”

“He is fortunate to have loyal friends who are concerned with his well-being.” Fingon was speaking in his Crown Prince voice, and he could not make himself stop. If he even wanted to stop. The ice that encased him also protected him. If he did not let anyone get too close, their eventual betrayal would not hurt so much.

Are you even capable of love anymore?

He bit the inside of his cheek. Don’t start down that road again. Not now .

There was another long pause. What did they want from him? You are a hero to my people , Maedhros had said. Surely that included these three, and rather than being comforted by the thought, Fingon was annoyed. He hadn’t done it for them. At no point did he consider the benefit to any of Maedhros’ followers as he traversed the ash and rocks and bitter air of Angband, wracked with hunger and thirst and fatigue, searching with no plan and no hope of success. Either he would find Maedhros, dead or alive, or he would search until his bleached bones littered the dead earth under the mountains’ shadow. Even if he found Maedhros, he did not expect to return. For most of the search, he had envisioned lying down next to his remains and following him into the darkness. After the Ice, there was nothing left for him, and surely that was the best either of them could hope for.

What other reason could they have to approach him like this? Had Maedhros put them up to try and convince him to stay? No, that was a ridiculous notion, out of all his brothers Maedhros was the only one who did not have a manipulative bone in his body. As he had said, he was not his father, and Fingon knew that to be true. He was kind and selfless and somehow still optimistic, and if anything, he was more likely to fall for the manipulations of others. Still, he might have told them about the fight, or that he had asked Fingon to live with him. Fingon was not confident that they would understand why he had declined.

“I had better go up to the tower,” Raemben said ruefully after the silence had run its course. “My colleagues will skin me if I don’t get back to work soon.” They swam toward the tiled steps and got out of the bath with exaggerated reluctance.

“Are you still watching for snow?” Nothwen said, nose wrinkled in sympathy.

Fingon shuddered at that.

“Yes, the atmosphere is doing all sorts of interesting things, and Maedhros expects the report as soon as I have an answer.” They draped their body theatrically in a towel and turned their eyes skyward. “Goodbye sleep, goodbye leisure, goodbye coffee drunk any warmer than room-temperature. I wonder if my husband even remembers what I look like.”

Eliadis splashed some water at them. “Go! Come and drink with us when you’re done!”

“Do you really expect snow soon?” Fingon asked in spite of his earlier refusal to engage with any of the three.

“Very soon, and lots of it,” said Raemben, squeezing the water from their silver-white hair.

“Is it not early to be prepared for a snowstorm?” He intimately knew what could happen if a storm hit without warning. Food stores, gone. Animals, gone. People separated from one another, only to be discovered later, frozen solid. Fires snuffed. Fuel destroyed. Shelters caved in. People crushed—

They shrugged. “No, not exactly, we are used to extreme weather out here. The harvest is already in, but a few late gardens might freeze. That’s all. There isn’t much that can be done but pick what’s ready.”

What would someone who had not crossed the Ice know about surviving the cold , said the nasty voice in Fingon’s head, a vestige of his old anger that had mostly given way to cold resignation. You made the Crossing on stolen ships. We survived decades of unending winter. How could you possibly tell me that you know what it means to be prepared?

Taking it out on Raemben would accomplish nothing, so Fingon squashed it down and made himself respond rationally. “You remember I crossed the Helcaraxë,” he said. “Storms killed people. Especially early storms. I only question whether your people take them seriously.”

“Of course we do. I can show you our weather plans, if you’d like.”

Fingon did not take them up on the offer. Instead he sank deeper into the pool until the water came up to his chin and resumed his silence.

Raemben departed the baths, and Eliadis and Nothwen followed when Fingon continued to resist conversation. He remained in the bath after they left, trying not to worry about the snow. When it snowed in Hithlum he usually barricaded himself in his bedroom, drew the curtains shut, built up the fire, and slept as much as he could, surrounded by his cats. Not even that could completely dull the screech of grinding sea ice or the howling of the arctic winds in his ears or the numbness and pain in his once-frozen hands and feet. You weren’t the only one who lived through it , his mind scolded him. Everyone else can function just fine, why can’t you?

He still could not answer that question.

The hot bath did help. And it wasn’t as if he had not anticipated a cold winter when he agreed to stay the whole season in the Marches. He was a grown elf, and the Ice was far behind him, and he knew that he needed to get control of himself, no matter the weather. He started by unraveling his braids and washing his hair in sections. When loose and combed, it fell to mid-thigh, and tending to it was usually an all-day event, but he enjoyed the effort and the sense of control over his body that it gave him.

As he finished, dawn began streaming through the clouded-glass windows set high in the walls, and more people began coming in to bathe. Fingon bundled his hair on top of his head and left the bath to sit in front of one of the long mirrors that lined the north wall. He set to work gently running a wide-toothed bronze comb through his tight curls, oiling and braiding as he went. Maedhros had sent him that comb. He was always sending him things, usually with little notes: I thought you would like this. This might look nice in your hair. I saw this and thought of your eyes. Didn’t you mention you wanted one of these? The dwarven craftsman said this is a symbol of true love. I’m sorry to hear that the old one broke, so here is a new, better one…

“Was he trying to slowly bribe me,” Fingon muttered at his reflection. He shook his head vigorously and went back to combing. No, that was ridiculous, he had always been that way, collecting things like a magpie for the sole purpose of giving them to Fingon.

Fatigue was making him paranoid. That was all.

He braided his hair into a forest of free-hanging plaits, threading narrow gold ribbons through each one and securing them with tiny gold clasps shaped like oak leaves. It took hours. Occasionally someone greeted him, but he only gave one-word answers and continued working, clearing his mind of everything but making sure the braids were straight and even. Afterward, he ran his hands through the finished braids and, finding them to his satisfaction, went to get dressed. He still had another whole day in front of him, and another night, and so forth, and he dreaded it. He dreaded trying to find ways to occupy himself, trying to sleep, trying to work up the gumption to find Maedhros and talk with him like adults. He could not keep doing this.

He worked with the architects for the rest of the day, moving and drawing and talking as if someone else controlled his body. He was too weary to put in much effort. When the sun went down, he returned to his room, built the fire, dressed for bed, and finally, finally drifted off to sleep.

Fingon dreamed of the Helcaraxë.

The stifling darkness, and then the relentless light that made the ice blaze like a white-hot forge, but it was so cold that his eyelashes froze together every time he blinked. His family and their followers were dark, vague shapes against the brightness, indistinguishable from other another in their bundled sealskins. Ribbons of blood shone bright on the dead white shore, flowing from the crushed skull of a seal. Dozens of seals hauled from the ocean, staining the ice rusty pink with blood and bits of gore. A hot meal for the first time in weeks. The wind whistled through towers and fortresses sculpted by the elements, whole cities and mountain ranges and forests devoid of any life, built as if by an unknowable civilization and then abandoned, unused. Flat stretches of nothingness as far as the eye could see. The ice was polished mirror-bright by the wind, which came in a relentless wall of force. Snow and ice bit into eyes and throats and flesh, stripping warmth and moisture, drowning out cries for help. He dug himself out of a cave-in, unsure whether he was panicking or truly running out of air as he clawed upward toward the light, only to find no one digging down to meet him when he finally tasted frigid, salty air. His breath froze in his throat and burned in his nostrils. Cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck like fingernails and he gasped—he could not let it out again, as if the nails had become fingers at his throat.

He was awake.

For a moment he could not move, anchored to his bedding by the chill outside, but the sheets were cold and his body was cold and he sat up, clawing the chilled linen away from his neck. Every breath he drew stuck in his throat—he groped for the bed curtains, and not finding the opening he pulled until the rings tore free and a corner of the curtain came down. Panicking, he fought his way out of the thick wool only to find that it was just as dark and cold outside. The fire had gone out, and no moon shone through the window. He cried out in shock when his feet sank into a thick layer of snow on the floor and the sudden cold sent splinters of pain through his toes, an echo of the agony of frostbite he carried with him across the Ice.

This can’t be happening, it’s over, I survived it, this is a dream, it has to be—

The window burst open and suddenly a blizzard of knives filled the room, a driving force of frigid, howling wind and snow that snatched the air right out of Fingon’s lungs. He could not draw breath to scream—he could barely stand upright in the snow and the wind cut straight through his thin nightshirt.

“Maedhros!” he cried, unable to stop himself. He waded toward the door. The cold iron of the handle burned his fingers, but still he managed to pull the door open and escape into the darkened corridor, letting it slam shut behind him.

He ran. His numb feet left a trail of icy puddles as he followed a familiar path to the only place he ever wanted to be, and only when the door slammed shut behind him did he stop.

“Maedhros,” he said again. The room was warm and filled with low golden light from the fire, but he couldn’t feel it. He stood with his back against the door, dripping and shivering and trying to breathe, not trusting his legs to hold him upright. An iron band seemed to be squeezing his chest in tighter with each attempted breath. The shrieking wind was in his ears and the ice was in his heart and all he could feel was the cold and desolation that had followed him across the Helcaraxë.

Maedhros was sitting on the couch in front of the fire, clad in a shirt and leggings. He looked up slowly, confusion plain on his freckled face. He rose halfway, hesitant. “Fingon?” he said. When Fingon did not move, he took a few steps toward him. “I was just going to see how you were, but I wasn’t sure you would want me to.”

Fingon’s teeth chattered so hard that he could not speak. Maedhros had come very close, and he lifted his hand to Fingon’s face, carefully, as if one wrong move would offend him.

“Why are you so cold? Why are you wet ?”

“I am—” Fingon swallowed. “An unfit architect. I failed. I am a hack.”

“You are not, what kind of talk is that?” He stroked Fingon’s cheek and, emboldened when he did not pull away, wrapped him in his arms. “Come closer to the fire and get warm. And then you can tell me what happened.”

Fingon could not resist. Did not want to resist. Their argument was still on his mind, as it had been these past days, but it made him weary, and he did not want to bring it up just now. He couldn’t. He let himself be led to the couch. Sensation was returning to his feet and he winced in pain with every step.

“Here, put this on.” Maedhros plucked a nightshirt off the back of one of the chairs next to the fire. Fingon stripped off his own damp garment without hesitation and replaced it with the one Maedhros offered him. It was warm and dry and Fingon let himself breathe in the scent of Maedhros’ body that clung to it as Maedhros gingerly draped a blanket around his shoulders and nudged him to sit down on the couch. “May I… may I warm your feet?” He looked nervous to ask. Fingon nodded once.

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and watched Maedhros fumble about for towels. Finally he knelt before Fingon, pulled off his freezing, wet socks, and smothered his feet in a clean towel. He cradled one foot somewhat awkwardly in the crook of his right arm and began to rub gently with his left hand, eyes scrunched in concentration. Fingon winced—his toes tingled sharply as blood began to flow again and feeling returned to his chilled flesh. As much as he tried not to think about it, images of the skin ballooning with blisters, oozing, and then peeling away from frostbite ulcers assaulted his memory, and he half-expected to see his feet frozen and blue-black when Maedhros pulled the cloth back. But all he saw was normal, healthy brown skin, a little tender and a little scarred, but healed.

Fingon flinched again, and Maedhros looked up sharply. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“ You didn’t. I just have trouble warming up.” Fingon gripped the arm of the couch when Maedhros moved on to his other foot. No matter how gentle he was, Fingon’s old frostbite damage didn’t care. “On the Ice we thought we were not subject to the elements like Ilúvatar’s lesser creations. We were swiftly proven wrong.”

“That seems to be a common experience.” Maedhros continued to give Fingon’s feet his most dedicated attention. “What were you saying about being a hack? I don’t believe it for an instant.”

“Snow came down my chimney and the window blew open just before I came back here. I designed the keep—or at least that specific window—poorly against driving winds. It should have stayed closed and the chimney should resist snow coming in downwards…” he angled his hand in front of him, visualizing the construction of the room. Thinking in terms of plans and drawings and diagrams helped to ground his thoughts. There were right and wrong answers in architecture. “The chimney was capped, I remember drawing it. It should not have done that, unless it was damaged somehow. I’ll need to take a closer look.”

“That can wait. It’s snowing a little.” Maedhros’ smile was crooked.

“Raemben said they were tracking a storm… this morning? Last night? Earlier.” Fingon rubbed his eyes. “What hour is it?”

“About midnight. Raemben did say they saw you in the bath. They said you looked unwell.” He let his hand rest on the top of Fingon’s towel-wrapped foot. He glanced upward briefly and then back down, shame clear in his face and in the set of his shoulders. “Fingon, again, I am sorry for what I said. I do not really believe it. I was just… frustrated…” he cast his eyes to one side, and Fingon let out the breath he had been holding. He said nothing for a few heartbeats. It must have felt an eternity to Maedhros—he could see him trying not to fidget.

“Look at me,” Fingon said quietly. Maedhros looked up with guarded eyes and a tightness around his mouth. Fingon thought for a moment before he spoke. “I am not always forthcoming about what happened on the Ice. I know that. You were right that my people made me their scapegoat, and that it made me colder than I was before.” Maedhros’ cheeks flushed and his eyebrows arched in poorly-concealed anger. Righteous anger on Fingon’s behalf, but it was unnecessary. “They survived because they were united,” he continued. “They blamed me for everything. The Kinslaying. The Doom. The Ice. Turgon blamed me for Elenwë's death. And my father let them do it, because he knew that they needed a tangible, common enemy. Otherwise they would turn on each other in their misery and perish without ever reaching Beleriand.”

“He could not have known that!” Maedhros’ fingertips pressed into Fingon’s leg. “How dare he—”

“I have chosen to accept this narrative,” Fingon cut him off. “And I have chosen to accept their apologies. That is my right. It is your right to know why I am the way I am, and to choose a different lover if my personality no longer pleases you. I will be the first person to admit that I’ve changed.”

Maedhros was quiet for a moment. He nodded once, his face softening. It took him a visible effort and a chorus of crackles in his joints as he straightened up and settled next to Fingon on the couch. “You say that as if Angband didn’t change me at all,” he said. “I will have no other lover.”

“Nor will I.” Fingon allowed himself a small smile, and he saw it reflected in Maedhros’ gentle lips.

“I cannot believe I was so cruel to you.”

“I will not remember it, as long as you do not say it again.”

Maedhros was nodding as they reached for one another. Fingon relaxed into the embrace, the warm strength surrounding and protecting him against anything that might threaten him. It was so very real, so very comforting, that he could have fallen asleep within the circle of his arms.

“You still have a warm heart,” Maedhros said against Fingon’s hair. “You still have passion and humor and valor. Be assured that your personality pleases me very much.”

“Sometimes I feel like a loveless husk,” Fingon muttered at Maedhros’ collarbone. It was the first time he had admitted it out loud, and it seemed that a weight lifted from him as he shared that fear with the one he loved instead of letting it poison his mind in the solitary hours. Can I feel love like I used to? Am I losing the very ability? He deserves better than me…

“You are not!” Maedhros pulled back slightly. He looked strangely young and vulnerable, more than he ever allowed himself to look, and the sight stung Fingon’s heart: his wide eyes, his creased brow, his slightly open lips. Fingon stroked his knuckles with his thumb and scooted in closer. “Your love saved me from a terrible torment and gave me the strength to recover. If anyone else thinks you loveless, well… they can answer to me.”

“I’ll have to tell myself that the next time I’m in a mood.” Fingon rested his hand on Maedhros’ side. “I believe we left our discussion unfinished.”

Maedhros nodded again. “I want to say that I understand and respect your answer, even though I don’t like it,” he said in one breath. “I won’t repeat my invitation. But know that there is always a home for you here if you want it.”

Fingon cupped Maedhros’ face and kissed him softly, forgoing words for the moment in favor of the warmth of his lips. “Likewise, my home is always open to you,” he said. “We should set aside time to be together.”

“Yes. Shall we say one month out of the year? At least? It’s a bit conservative but it will give us something to look forward to.”

“And more if we can manage it.” Yes, this was good, and it felt even better now that they had cleared the air. “We could switch off years between Hithlum and Himring.”

“And we could always meet halfway—we discussed building more outposts off the king’s road, we could put one right in the middle and meet there if we wanted to.”

Fingon chuckled. “Yes! And of course I will write you. I will tell you everything, so that it will feel like we never parted.”

“I will write you back. I need the practice,” Maedhros said, grinning.

“You are so stubborn. You have scribes who want more work,” Fingon teased him.

“My letters are for you alone. And if I am stubborn, it’s only because my father’s script deserves better than a child’s scrawl.” He stroked Fingon’s cheek. The fine work of writing elegantly did not come easily to his left hand, but his fingers were anything but clumsy on Fingon’s skin. He traced the delicate point of his ear and followed its outer curve down to the lobe with its gold rings. “And if my poor left hand fails me, I will just send you gifts.”

Fingon smiled and leaned into his touch. “I will treasure it all.”

They sat for a while, saying nothing. Fingon realized he had not noticed the sound of the blizzard outside Maedhros’ chamber, and now he realized that it did not bother him. He was in a warm, sturdy room with a blanket and the man he loved next to him on the couch. Their fight and his breakdown in its aftermath had faded in his mind like a healing bruise. Even his panicked waking seemed to have been a nightmare or something that happened long ago, the last tremors soothed away by Maedhros’ hand on his cheek. That gentle hand slid down his arm and clasped his hand in invitation.

“Come to bed?”

Fingon nodded and stood, pulling Maedhros up with him. The ache in his feet had subsided into subtle tingling, but Maedhros could not hide a grimace as he stood. Fingon held his arm to steady him. “Are you in pain today?”

“Some. I had a bit of cannabis bread but it hasn’t set in yet.” He went straight to the bed and arranged himself into a position that didn’t look especially comfortable while Fingon retrieved a dry pair of socks and put them on. When he settled next to him in the nest of blankets, Maedhros pulled him in and wrapped his arms tightly around him. “More than anything, I fear losing you,” he said, unprompted.

Fingon smiled and ran a hand through Maedhros’ hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Maedhros’ mouth curled up just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. They were all right.

Fingon was starting to relax enough to fall asleep, but he still had much he wanted to say before this moment ended and he retreated again behind his usual reserve. “I would marry you in an instant if I could,” he whispered. “I would live with you and rule with you and we would never be parted as long as the world lasts. You are my one and only love, and I am so, so sorry.”

“Shh.” Maedhros kissed his forehead. “You are much smarter than I am. Do not apologize for that.”

Fingon huffed. “I am not smarter than anyone.”

“Hush. You are brilliant. And anyway we are already married, if you ask anyone's Vanyarin great-aunt's opinion. Even if it has been a while...”

“Sex doesn't make a marriage, no matter how many Vanyarin great-aunts you ask. I would know, I have five of them.” Fingon traced Maedhros' cheekbone. “And its lack certainly doesn't nullify anything. Besides, I'm not certain that 'marriage' confers anything to a relationship that wasn't already there.”

“You are so wise,” Maedhros said. His eyes were shining.

“I am not.”

“Wiser than I am, at least.”

“Stop! Come here,” Fingon said. He squeezed Maedhros and wished he never had to let go. “I love you. I am so happy to be here with you.”

“I am happy to have you. I know it sounds strange, but…” Maedhros paused. Fingon stroked his chest. “This might be the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Fingon let out a short hah !

“I know! I know it’s mad, but I—” he grimaced, clenched his teeth, and then stretched his right shoulder with a hideous series of pops and cracks. “Sorry. That’s better. Even though my body is wrecked and I’m in almost constant pain and everything up here is a mess…” he gestured vaguely at his head. “I am… happy. Even with the Oath. Maybe I’m working hard enough on everything else that it doesn’t seem as immediate as it once did, and so I can almost put it out of my mind. Maybe because I know what it truly means to be miserable…” his face clouded over at that, and Fingon knew better than to ask what he was remembering.

“I am glad that you’re happy,” he said. He burrowed deeper into the blankets and rested his head on Maedhros’ good shoulder. That seemed to draw Maedhros back into the present, and his arm came up around Fingon’s waist.

They were silent for a long time. Fingon nearly drifted off to the sound of Maedhros’ breath and his steady heartbeat under his fingers, and then Maedhros spoke again.

“It feels like freedom. I have my home, and my people, and my work, and it almost feels as if anything is possible. Anything .” His eyes were bright when Fingon lifted his head. Bright and filled with a strange fire. Fingon still could not understand him. How could an Oathbound watch in the wilderness make him not just happy, but the happiest he had ever been? Happier even than he had been in Aman, before everything went bad? How could such a thing be possible? “Someday... the Oath will be fulfilled. I can promise you that, for I have no other choice.”

Fingon opened his mouth to tell him to stop making promises, but stopped himself. They had argued over this enough. Instead he buried his face in Maedhros' neck and breathed him in—the fresh scent of herbs and the warm linen of his shirt. This was all right. In this moment they could take comfort in that possibility, no matter how remote it was, and let it warm them when the alternative was so utterly cold and bleak. With Maedhros next to him the cold had melted out of his bones and been replaced with soft contentment. Eyes closed, he tried to hang on to every detail of this moment to carry with him through the long months of their eventual separation, but before he could even begin, he was asleep and so soundly out that he did not even notice Maedhros kissing his forehead.

Fingon was warm and rested when he woke again. He could still hear the wind howling outside, but the thick cover of blankets tucked around his ears helped to muffle it. There were more blankets than he had gone to sleep with, and he realized that Maedhros must have gotten up to get him more while he slept. He had the sound of Maedhros’ breath in his ears too, chasing away the chill. He was dozing next to him with wide, dreamy eyes and a small smile in the corner of his mouth. Fingon brushed his sleeve and he blinked.

“Fin? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Fingon slid his hand under Maedhros’ arm to caress his chest. He was delightfully warm and soft.

“You didn’t.” Maedhros rolled onto his side and gathered Fingon into his arms. Fingon, still sleepy, melted into the embrace and breathed in his rich, comforting scent. The skin of his throat was creamy and sprinkled with freckles, just like the rest of him. Fingon kissed it. A pleased hum rumbled through Maedhros’ chest—Fingon pulled him in closer.

“Are you sure you’re not cold?” Maedhros whispered. He was stroking the parts between Fingon’s braids.

“How could I be?” he laughed. “You must have swaddled me in every blanket in the castle.”

“Nearly,” Maedhros laughed in turn. Fingon found that especially funny for some reason and the two of them spent a few minutes just chuckling in each other’s arms. It was so easy, so peaceful, that Fingon could almost forget the raging blizzard outside.

“I am never cold with you.” He lifted his head to kiss his mouth. Maedhros was still for a moment. Fingon briefly worried that he had done something wrong, but Maedhros’ hand on the back of his head kept him from withdrawing too far.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Whether you are far or near, I will love you until the end of days. Nothing will ever change that.”

Fingon found his tongue too slow to meet the depth of emotion in Maedhros’ words. Instead of responding he kissed him again, his hands moving up Maedhros’ long, strong body to cup his face. Maedhros leaned in and opened his lips and held him close while he kissed him back. It was slow and sweet and perfect and Fingon’s eyes fell closed as he let himself be lost in the sensations of Maedhros’ warm breath and his long hair and the solid but gentle touch of his hand behind his head. Under the covers their legs twined together, and Fingon breathed in deep when Maedhros’ fingers slipped down to stroke the tender spot under his ear.

He opened his eyes. Maedhros’ lips were red from kissing and his eyes shone in the half-light. Fingon ran his thumb over his freckled cheekbone and grinned when a bright blush began to spread across his face. “You are so wonderful,” Fingon said, which only made him blush harder and grin so wide that his eyes crinkled at the corners. He dove in to kiss Fingon again, urgently. It was with soft touches and whispered words that they rolled into a more advantageous position, Maedhros half-sitting with pillows behind his back and Fingon straddling his lap. As soon as they were settled, Maedhros wrapped both arms around Fingon’s waist and Fingon melted into his body and their kissing took on a different quality. Fingon felt it deep in his heart and bones and in the growing bulge of Maedhros’ cock against his hips. His own nightshirt suddenly felt too restrictive, too hot even, with the fire and the blankets now only covering his feet and Maedhros as warm as a banked flame under him. He sat back on Maedhros’ thighs to pull the now sweat-damp linen over his head. Maedhros’ eyes lingered on his body—he licked his lips and smiled when he looked back up at Fingon’s face.

“Come here.” His hand slid up Fingon’s chest to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a hot, needy kiss. Fingon’s body responded to the rhythm, his hips grinding down and his breath coming in time with Maedhros’ and his cock growing harder as Maedhros nipped at his lower lip and ducked his head under Fingon’s chin to suckle at his neck. He fumbled for the hem of Maedhros’ shirt where it had gotten bunched up between their bodies.

“Do you want to take it off?”

“Just pull it up a little, and we’ll see how that feels.” Maedhros ran his tongue along Fingon’s collarbone. Fingon gasped and clutched at him but still managed to tug his shirt up to his waist. He slid his fingers under the waistband of his leggings and pulled them down his hips before Maedhros wriggled to get them the rest of the way off. Freed, his cock lay full and heavy against his belly, and Fingon grinned.

There was so much of him that Fingon wanted to kiss and touch all at once. He ran his hands up his chest and caressed his hair and lapped at his tongue. It was so good to feel him like this, the heat and friction of their cocks and Maedhros’ solid muscles bunching and smoothing under Fingon’s roaming hands. They moved with long centuries of practice, unflinching, unashamed. Fingon realized with a thrill that he was unafraid: if they failed now, as they had so many other times, he would not worry. They would try again, they would always try again. And if they decided this failure was the last and they never tried again, well, that would be all right. They always had each other, no matter what they did or didn’t do in bed, and for his part Fingon knew his love wasn’t based in sex.

But the sick rush of anxiety or the sudden disinterest or any of the other obstacles never came. Maedhros made a beautiful laughing gasp when Fingon set to kissing his throat in earnest. His hand did the work of two, stroking all of Fingon’s sensitive spots and gripping his hip tight to control the rhythm. They were all right.

“May I touch you,” Fingon whispered.

“Always.”

Fingon kissed him again. He stroked his hipbone and then took him in hand, and Maedhros’ short gasp went straight to his head—he nipped his neck and began to stroke him faster, still rolling his hips and whispering love against his skin.

“Fin, I’m—” he bucked up against Fingon’s body and his hand curled tight in his braids. “Ah! Sorry!”

For one dreadful moment, Fingon thought he was asking to him to stop. But he was not pushing him away, and when Fingon called his thoughts to order, he realized his hand was sticky. He lifted his head and saw that his face was pink with simple embarrassment, not the sick shame that had plagued him for so long. His eyes were very wide.

“Maedhros…?”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean… so soon after you started…”

Fingon wrapped his arms tight around his neck. His heart was beating so fast, or perhaps that was Maedhros’. “Do not apologize for that. I’ll take it as a compliment.” He couldn’t help but laugh. Love, amusement, and relief flooded his body and he spent several helpless moments giggling into Maedhros’ hair. Best of all, he was laughing back.

“It’s just… been such a long time!” That same rush of relief was more than obvious in Maedhros’ own voice. Fingon kissed his ear.

“I know. I know, dear one.”

They laughed and kissed and touched, still basking in the heady warmth of success at last. Maedhros hooked his left arm around Fingon’s waist and flipped him over like he weighed nothing—the yelp that escaped Fingon’s throat was surprised but not at all displeased. He always used to sweep him off his feet and into his arms with his hugs, and Fingon would never, ever tell him to stop.

“And now,” Maedhros said, leaning over Fingon, “I intend to finish what I started in my workshop. If you have no objections.”

“None.”

Maedhros just smiled. His hair was mussed and his shirt hung off one freckled shoulder and Fingon’s cock twitched at the sight. Maedhros kissed him with exquisite care, his lips, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his hips. At last he settled between Fingon’s legs and ran his fingers up the inside of his thigh, chased by his lips. Fingon bit his lip in anticipation, but Maedhros just drew back and laughed a little.

“Nice socks,” he teased gently.

“Huh?” Fingon lifted himself up on his elbows. His right leg was bent and Maedhros was holding the back of his thigh, but he was looking at his foot with an expression of exquisite amusement. “You sent those to me!” Fingon said, somewhat defensively. The socks were green and white with a pattern of leaping deer and were, in Fingon’s opinion, not unattractive.

“I know. You look adorable in them.”

“You were in the middle of something?” Fingon reminded him with a laugh. “We can discuss my socks later— ooh .” Without further delay, Maedhros took him in deep. Fingon fell back against the pillows and curled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair. Everything, his tongue, his hand, his lips, were dedicated to Fingon’s pleasure. He stroked him and sucked him and Fingon couldn’t have stopped himself from crying out for anything in the world. He knew how much Maedhros enjoyed this and that knowledge only made it better and his body more desperate, and as he felt his release beginning to build inside him, he arched his back and pulled tighter at Maedhros’ hair and tried to hold on just a little longer so he could have his fun.

“I—Maedhros, I’m going to—” He was pulling his hair so hard it had to hurt, but Maedhros just kept it up and hummed in encouragement. When Fingon finally broke, it was with a cry that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. Maedhros released him and swallowed once. He held him while he caught his breath and after a moment, he rested his head on Fingon’s stomach. Fingon had to take some time gather his mind back up. His body suddenly felt tired and heavy and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he got cold again, but in that moment he was too comfortable to move. He stroked Maedhros’ hair where he had been pulling it. “Was it as good as you remember?” he said at last.

“Better. Thank you.” Maedhros kissed his navel softly.

They lay in silence for a moment, breathing, touching each other, and Fingon’s mind was only just beginning to catch up.

We did it , he kept thinking. We did it. We didn’t have to stop. We came. He’s holding me, he’s smiling… Maedhros was smiling, soft and satisfied, and he pressed more tender kisses to Fingon’s body, following the contours of his bones and tracing his fingers over his hip. His bright hair spilled over his face and it was silky to the touch as Fingon kept stroking it. He could not have pulled his hand away for anything in the world.

We did it.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.” Maedhros was silent for another long moment. “Do you want some toast?”

“Huh?”

“Toast. Are you hungry?

Fingon laughed a little. “I suppose. I wasn’t really thinking about it.”

Maedhros leaned over him, kissed him thoroughly, and then got out of bed. He shed his shirt and walked naked over to the rack by the fire where his robe was hanging. Fingon laced his fingers behind his head and watched him, smiling and enjoying the view. Maedhros took after the house of Mahtan much more than the house of Finwë: instead of slender lines he was blessed with broad shoulders and thick legs, just perfectly proportioned with a little extra , and Fingon bit his lip at the sight of his back muscles rippling as he stretched and then shrugged on the robe. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he teased him. Maedhros turned back around and grinned as he tied the robe closed with his left hand and his teeth. He said nothing, which told Fingon that he was indeed doing it on purpose, and returned to the bed. He shuffled on his knees to lean over Fingon again.

“Come on. I draw the line at eating it in my bed.” His smile was gentle and easy as he extended his hand and drew Fingon out of his pile of blankets. He wrapped the two warmest ones around his body and followed Maedhros across the room, where coals glowed dimly in the hearth and the air was as pleasantly warm as it was in the bedchamber. “I know I have some bread around here somewhere.”

“On the sideboard.”

“Oh, of course, exactly where it’s supposed to be.” He gave a distracted-sounding laugh. “If you will slice it, I will poke the fire.”

The bread was a little stale from sitting out but fine for toast. Fingon cut them thick slices and set them to brown on the grate over the merrily-crackling coals. Fingon and Maedhros retired to the couch in front of the fireplace. Maedhros melted against Fingon’s body, resting his head on his bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped down. Fingon wrapped his arms around his back and pulled him in close. They held each other and listened to the wind and the fire and each other’s breath for a long time.

“You are so good to me,” Maedhros said, unprompted, against Fingon’s skin. “What have I ever done to deserve it?”

“Irrelevant. Love is not a transaction.” Fingon closed his eyes and commenced running his fingers through Maedhros’ hair. “I love everything that you are. Everything you choose to be—you are just and brave and strong and I would not change a single thing about you.”

“Not even the Oath?”

Fingon sighed. “That is something you did, not something you are.”

“Where is the boundary?”

“Sh. Stop that.” He kissed Maedhros’ brow. “Let me love you.”

Maedhros squeezed him tighter. His hand slid up the blankets and rested on Fingon’s chest. His fingers stroked the smooth, brown skin wonderingly as if he still wasn’t sure this was all happening. He was still for a moment, and then he grinned and flicked Fingon’s nipple. “Beautiful.”

“Play with it as much as you like,” Fingon laughed. He rolled a few strands of Maedhros’ hair between his thumb and forefinger. Touch, and the lingering memory of what it had felt like to pleasure each other at last, was as heady and rich as old wine. Maedhros ducked his head and replaced his fingers on Fingon’s nipple with his tongue. Fingon gasped and arched his back under the attention, and Maedhros bit down gently. “Ah! Yes!”

“It’s not too sensitive?”

“No. Keep doing that.”

Maedhros’ lips closed around his nipple again, sucking gently, his tongue circling it and flicking it as Fingon guided him by the hair. He found himself being laid back onto the couch by Maedhros’ steady hand behind his neck. He lifted his feet onto the couch, let his blanket fall away from his body, and gazed up at Maedhros’ rapt face. His robe had fallen further, exposing more of his shoulder and chest and stomach. His flushed chest was sprinkled with a little red-gold hair, and it was very soft when Fingon stroked it.

Maitimo , his heart said, but if there was any word that was sure to distress him and undo everything they had worked for, that was it.

“There are so many things I want to do with you,” Maedhros said in a low, rough voice. He held himself over Fingon with just his left arm, and the sight of his taut muscles under his robe made Fingon’s mouth water. His gray eyes shone and his lips were beautifully swollen. “You have kept me company on so many cold nights alone, and now that you’re here…”

Fingon smiled. “Tell me.”

“I want to worship your body with all I have to give—and it will still not be enough to express how much I love you.” His voice was so low that Fingon almost felt it rather than heard it. “I want to make you scream with pleasure. I want to suck your cock until my name is the only word you can say. I want to be inside you, my fingers, my tongue, my cock, anywhere and any way you want. If you want it hard or gentle, fast or slow, just say, and I will make it happen.”

Fingon’s face grew hot. He lifted his hands to his cheeks, but could not tear his eyes away from Maedhros’. “Oh, stars, you remember what I like,” he said.

“How could I forget?” Maedhros kissed his nose. Fingon had to laugh then, and he wrapped his arms around Maedhros’ neck and pulled him in for a proper kiss. They said nothing for a while, only kissed and held each other and, for once did not worry about anything else in the world.

“You make me so happy,” Fingon murmured at last against the corner of Maedhros’ lips. Maedhros hummed and smiled and kissed him on the collarbone, moving his weight from his arm to his knees so he could trails his fingers down Fingon’s chest and stomach, just a whisper of a touch that made Fingon close his eyes and sigh contentedly. Maedhros’ hand closed around Fingon’s soft cock—he grimaced a little and covered the questing hand with his own.

“Sorry. That is still a bit sensitive.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Shh. Let’s try something else.” With a smile, Fingon gently pushed Maedhros up into a sitting position. He slid off the couch and settled between his knees, grinning up at him. “Is this all right?” he asked, stroking Maedhros’ long, freckled thighs before moving up to open his robe.

“Mmm, yes. I want you,” he breathed. “Your mouth, your hands, anything. I just want you. I trust you.”

Fingon's heart squeezed almost painfully at that. He kissed Maedhros just under his navel before moving down again to his hips and thighs. “Let me know if you want me to do something different.”

“I will.”

He started slow. He teased with his lips and tongue and fingertips, keeping one ear open for any signs of discomfort from Maedhros, but none came. Encouraged, he took him in deeper, and Maedhros' insistent hand in his hair spurred him on, and he licked and sucked and stroked until his lover's pleasure echoed within the stone walls and Fingon's head and heart and he knew, he knew this would work.

Afterward, Fingon leaned his head against Maedhros' leg and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand while they both caught their breath. He didn’t know why this was working this time when they had failed so many times before, but he found that he didn’t care. Maybe he would think about it later, but not right now, not when the taste and scent of sex made him feel almost drunk and their proximity drove everything from his mind but love and sated lust and his desire to not ruin this moment with his worrying.

The smell of something burning made Fingon’s nose twitch.

“The toast!” they both exclaimed once they realized what it was, and leaped up to survey the damage. One of the slices had started to blacken and smoke, and the other looked like it was about to.

“It’s not so bad!” Fingon said, snatching for the burnt piece. “See, it’s only the edge, perfectly edible. This one will be mine.” Holding it between two fingers, he grabbed Maedhros’ off the grate as well. Having salvaged their toast, they spread each slice with soft cheese and settled back onto the couch to eat it. Fingon snuggled against the side of Maedhros’ body and tugged one of his fallen blankets around them both. Maedhros, sighing, rested his cheek on the top of his head.

They ate in easy silence. Fingon stroked Maedhros’ thigh under the blanket and, when he had eaten the last bit, asked what hour it was.

“I don’t know, only that people will talk when they see us finally emerge, and together,” Maedhros replied, amused.

“Weren’t they already talking?”

“Well, yes. You know we’re not exactly a secret.”

“I do,” Fingon laughed. They hadn’t been a secret for a long time, not since they were very young and trying to avoid getting their fathers in the same room for any reason, though they had kept a habit of discretion since then. They did eventually get up and prepare to rejoin society, but reluctantly. Fingon washed and dressed and coiled his braids into a large knot at the back of his head and turned to face Maedhros, who was still working on his shirt. Fingon immediately covered his mouth and looked up into Maedhros' eyes. “Oh!”

“What is it?”

Wordlessly, Fingon touched the side of Maedhros' neck, where several bold red marks were already forming on his freckled skin. They trailed over his left shoulder and down his chest, and he grinned when he realized what Fingon was looking at.

“I am so sorry, I didn't mean to be rough...” His forehead wrinkled as he stroked one of the love-bites with soft fingertips.

“You weren't being rough. It happens. Besides,” Maedhros said, and his face took on a lusty smirk, “you have a few of your own.”

“What? Where?”

“Here.” He kissed him under the ear. “And here.” Another kiss to his throat. “At least as far as I can see right now. Probably more. You just—” he kissed his cheek. “—taste so good.” Another kiss on the lips, and Fingon wrapped his arms around Maedhros' waist, pulling him in closer.

It was a long time before they managed to get back to the task at hand. Maedhros finished dressing and arranged his plaid mantle around his neck to hide the marks, and Fingon let his braids back down and hoped for the best. It was as if they had returned to a long-forgotten memory of sneaking back into their respective houses after a night out, trying not to wake whichever baby sibling was liable to cry and alert their parents, attempting to hide any evidence that they had been anywhere but in their own beds where they were supposed to be. Someday we’ll have our own house and we won’t need to bother with all of this , they always said.

It was a melancholy thought, but Fingon considered how lucky they were to be here at all, and that knowledge made him smile.

At last, they emerged.

Fingon couldn’t stop smiling. He was sure that everyone who looked at his face would notice and immediately think yes, that is the face of a man who just had sex , but he didn’t care, and the deep-buried wild youth in him wanted to stand at the top of the stairs and announce it himself for everyone to hear. He refrained, gave Maedhros’ hand one more squeeze, and the two of them descended toward the hall with their shared secret glowing between them. The sound of the wind was not dimmed in the hall, but the hearth held a merry fire and its golden light made everything seem closer and softer and warmer. There were a handful of people lounging about the hall, advisers and others who lived at the keep, and they stood when Maedhros and Fingon joined them. Maedhros waved at them to take their ease.

“Where is Raemben?” he asked.

“I am here, my lord,” said a lump behind one of the window curtains. They stuck their head out. “Observing the storm.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Not much, only that everyone is stuck where they are until it lets up. I dispatched a team to check in with the guardhouse.” They retreated behind the curtain again. “They are going to flash a light back to me once they’re safe. Any minute now.”

Maedhros shrugged, apparently satisfied with that answer, and turned toward Fingon. “All right?”

Fingon nodded. A smile came easily to his face—much more easily it usually did.

“Ah! There it is.” Raemben came out from behind the curtain. “I can relax now.”

Nothwen was there, sketching by the fire. Eliadis paced back and forth along the side of the hall, occasionally lifting a curtain and peering out into the dark, gray nothingness of the storm.

“When is it going to stop?” she demanded when Raemben passed her.

“I can’t say. Hours? Days? We might as well settle in.” They descended in a flutter of robes onto the bench next to their husband, a short, soft-faced elf named Alwendion, whose company Fingon had come to appreciate since his arrival. He was a healer, and Fingon liked his orderly, scientific outlook on the world. Eliadis let out a frustrated sigh and resumed pacing. Fingon could not blame her. He did not know what state he would be in if he didn’t have Maedhros with him.

The keep seemed much smaller now that they were confined to it. Most of its residents remained in their chambers catching up on work, according to their servants. Fingon rather suspected they were whiling away the storm with their spouses—at least that was the turn his own mind had taken, and the soft press of Maedhros’ hand on his lower back only made that thought more prominent. They ate a light lunch with the others and then spent a few hours at conversation and board games, but Fingon’s eyes kept sliding over to the line of Maedhros’ jaw and the purplish bruise just barely peeking over the edge of his plaid.

“Oh, Alwendion is running a pool for how many babies will be given to Himring a year from now,” Nothwen said over a game of tafl. Fingon blinked and looked away from Maedhros’ neck to find her smirking slightly. “Care to place your bets, my lords?”

Maedhros gave a bark of laughter and flipped a coin across the table at Alwendion, who caught it and placed it into a pouch at his elbow. “Four, and no fewer!”

Fingon did not have any coins on him at the moment, but Alwendion accepted one of his golden hair clasps when he offered it instead. “I will say… three. Two girls and a boy. Have there been any babies born at Himring since you settled here?”

“There was one the first year, and none since then. Two of the weavers are expecting one next summer,” Maedhros said. “Now that everything is stable I hope there will be more.”

“I should think there will be,” Alwendion replied with a smile. “My grandmother did always call snowstorms ‘baby-making weather.’”

At that, Fingon inhaled a gulp of coffee and had to excuse himself to avoid spraying it across the game board.

He kept playing after he returned. People came and went, brewing more coffee and providing additional games for common enjoyment. Maedhros and Raemben lost interest in their nine men’s morris marathon, and Raemben hoisted Alwendion over their shoulder and carried him, laughing, out of the hall. Maedhros rested his head in his hand and watched Fingon as he faced Eliadis in a game of qirkat. She started beating him with her first move, and he quickly modified his expectations of victory into a hope that he would at least lose with dignity. Alas, she destroyed him, and afterwards went back to pacing while Fingon nursed his pride.

“I haven’t sat across a game board from Eliadis in… oh, centuries,” Maedhros chuckled. “Or faced Raemben in a wrestling ring. Either way, it’s not worth the humiliation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fingon muttered. He put his chin in his hand, mirroring Maedhros, and watched his face for a moment. He was calm, but there was a pinch of something in the corners of his eyes that made Fingon frown a little. He nudged his knee under the table. “Is something bothering you?”

Maedhros’ mouth twitched. “I don’t know.”

Something was bothering him. Fingon raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

He stood and immediately moved to leave. “Come with me?”

Fingon got up from the disgrace of the game board in front of him and followed Maedhros out of the hall. He kept walking faster until Fingon had to jog to keep up with his long strides as they went back up the stairs and through the halls to Maedhros’ chamber.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Maedhros whirled around to face Fingon. His hand gripped Fingon’s shoulder. He was very close all of a sudden, his breath fast against Fingon’s cheek.

“What if that was it,” he said in a rush. “What if it was a fluke? What if that was all we can do? What if we have to struggle for thirteen more years if we want to—”

“It was not a fluke,” Fingon said, but Maedhros was still talking.

“What if it only works when we fight? I don’t want that to be us, Fingon, I hate fighting with you.” His voice was raw and a line had formed at the corner of his mouth. Fingon brushed it with his thumb. Now that he was up close and he could taste Maedhros’ breath, Fingon found himself falling headfirst into thoughts of his warmth and his flesh and the sounds he made when he was touching him. The softness of his hair and skin, the heat of his mouth.

“That isn’t us. We’re all right,” he said, softer. He stroked the corner of Maedhros’ mouth again, not looking away from his eyes, and then kissed him.

“How can you be sure,” Maedhros replied. His voice was more breath than sound. He could feel it too, the proximity of their beating hearts and Fingon’s love and care in his hands on Maedhros’ face. Despite his uncertainty his own arms came up under Fingon’s, pulling them closer, close enough that Fingon could feel the shift in Maedhros’ long legs as he leaned in and the hitch in his chest when he kissed him again.

“Beloved, the two of us are nothing if not stubborn in love.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “In the best possible way, of course.”

At that, Maedhros’ face finally relaxed into an easy smile. His hand slid up Fingon’s chest, lingering at his collarbone before moving up to caress his ear. Fingon sighed and leaned into it and closed his eyes when Maedhros kissed him back.

“You’re right, you know. We are stubborn.”

“Hmm.” Fingon opened his lips wider and curled one hand around the back of Maedhros’ neck. His hair was so beautifully soft and his mouth was so delicious—they had had enough words for now. Fingon lapped at his tongue and laughed a little breathlessly when Maedhros’ fingers came up further to tangle in his braids. Mussing his hair was his privilege alone.

They stayed like that for some time, kissing against the door, caressing one another. Gently Fingon nipped Maedhros’ neck, just under his jaw where he knew it was sensitive. Maedhros rewarded him with a lovely gasp and clasped his hand. Their eyes met—Fingon knew that look. It made him warm all over, warm and wanting, the very reflection of Maedhros’ red cheeks and his dilated pupils. Maedhros stepped back, tugging gently on Fingon’s hand. Fingon followed him. They went and sat on the edge of the bed, which was still unmade and strewn with their discarded nightshirts. Once settled they returned to kissing, more urgently this time, with more teeth and more roaming hands. Maedhros undid Fingon’s top button, but suddenly Fingon stood and stripped, impatient. His cock was straining against his loincloth and for the moment, relieving the pressure was his primary concern.

“Beautiful.” Maedhros bit his lip and curled his hand around his hip to pull him closer. Once Fingon was standing between his knees, he slid his hand under his loincloth, teasing the cloth off his hips and stroking the firm skin beneath. He looked up—there was a dimple in his cheek that Fingon hadn’t seen in a long time. He was happy, just as he had been when they embraced upon Fingon’s arrival, so happy that it swept the pain from his eyes and made him seem, for a moment, free. Fingon captured his lips in an open-mouthed kiss and stroked his hair and his face and his neck as he stepped out of his loincloth at last.

“What do you want to do,” Maedhros whispered.

“First I want to get you naked,” Fingon said, grinning. He unwound the plaid from Maedhros’ neck and tugged his shirt and tunic over his head, leaving everything in a small heap on the floor. Maedhros kicked off his own boots and then Fingon returned to undressing him. As he pulled his trousers down, he found himself staring. He ran his fingertips along the supple, freckled thighs before him. They were already mottled with red marks to match the ones on Maedhros’ neck. Fingon would be hard-put to name his favorite part of Maedhros, because he loved all of him, from his silky copper hair to the spring in his step. But oh, his legs, they were miles long and shaped as if in marble by Aulë’s own chisel. Fingon loved to touch them as much as Maedhros loved to have them touched. “Would you like it if I went between your legs?” He bent to kiss the soft skin inside his thigh.

“I would like that very much.”

It took some fumbling to find a comfortable position, but with soft words and a little laughter, they managed. Fingon knelt at Maedhros’ back and settled his knees on either side of Maedhros’. He ran his fingertips over Maedhros’ upper back and found himself wondering at how, even considering all the other things Maedhros trusted him with, that he trusted him with his back and the suffering written upon it. Whips and irons and who knew what else had left deep scores, and over that, rough abrasions from the cliff face. Only through unpleasant experience did Fingon know which spots were safe to touch.

He gave his mind a small shake. Not now .

“Fingon?” Maedhros’ hand rested on his knee, gently questioning. Are you still with me on this ?

Fingon kissed his shoulder blade. “I’m here. Only I brought some oil from Hithlum.”

Maedhros chuckled as Fingon slipped off the bed briefly to rummage for the bottle among his clean underclothes. “You came prepared. Did you think we’d be able to use it?”

“I hoped.” He always hoped. Bottle in hand, he returned to the bed and settled against Maedhros’ back once more. He warmed a few drops of the oil in his palms before giving himself a preparatory stroke. “Ready?”

Maedhros squeezed his knee. “Yes.”

Fingon bit his lip. With an indrawn breath and his hands on Maedhros’ hips, he slid between his thighs and held him there just for a moment, listening intently for any signs that he should stop. None came.

The smooth, tight grip, the ripple of muscle as they moved together—Fingon closed his eyes and let himself be lost in the pleasure building in his own body, and the sounds Maedhros started to make again as Fingon caressed him. He held him close, hands roaming over his chest and stomach and cock, stroking him into full hardness again, heeding his whispered requests— touch me, please, Fin, make me come, I love you, you are perfect . Fingon buried his face in Maedhros’ hair, kissing him and whispering to him as he thrust between his legs, knowing that Maedhros liked nothing for himself quite as much as he liked being the cause of Fingon ’s pleasure, so Fingon freed his voice and let him hear just how much he was enjoying this. Between the sounds and scents and the impossible softness of his skin, it wasn’t long before Fingon found himself on the edge again, urgency pressing from the inside out even as he could feel the strain building in Maedhros’ body. Gasping, he spilled between Maedhros’ thighs, and only then did he feel the rush of Maedhros’ release in his muscles and his hand suddenly clamping down on Fingon’s over his cock.

For a long moment, they sat and breathed, saying nothing. Fingon looped his arms around Maedhros’ waist and squeezed him gently, his face still buried in his hair, and Maedhros stroked Fingon’s thigh.

“We are all right,” Fingon whispered. He kissed Maedhros’ back softly.

Maedhros remained silent for another moment. “I believe you,” he said at last, sounding almost surprised with himself, and then he turned to face Fingon and pull him down into the nest of blankets beneath them.

On the Helcaraxë, somewhere in the midst of the desolate icy wastes that stretched from Araman to the gray beaches in the north of Beleriand, was an island.

The Noldor happened upon it during the summer, when the valley in the center of the island flowered into a carpet of white, pink, yellow, and green. Scrubby berry bushes seemed to produce the finest fruit any elf had ever eaten, and sorrel, dandelion, and coltsfoot swept away the malaise of deprivation almost overnight. Small reindeer and a riotous population of seabirds were a welcome relief from the uninterrupted diet of fish, seal, and tough sea plants that had kept them alive for so long already. Fresh water flowed in streams and they slept soundly in stone caves in the hills, for once truly protected from the elements. They rested and recovered and replenished their supplies, and many fell down and wept in praise of Yavanna’s bounty.

All too soon, it ended.

The warm currents that brought life to the oasis froze over, and the flowers faded in the cold and darkness. The birds flew south. The reindeer herds grew thin and wary of their hunters. The terrible truth that Beleriand still lay ahead returned to the lips of the Noldor, and they knew they could not stay.

The terror was not over.

Sometimes, when he found himself enjoying a good meal or fine silk against his skin, Fingon thought of that island. Throughout the brief respite, he had known it would not last, but even that could not keep him from madly hoping that it would never end. Now too he remembered it in Maedhros’ kisses and the hot weight of his body against Fingon’s, the taste of his sweat and the sounds of his pleasure echoing in Fingon’s ears.

The blizzard battered the walls over five days and nights. Maedhros and Fingon emerged daily to bathe, eat, and socialize a little, but otherwise they locked themselves in Maedhros’ chamber, relearning each other’s bodies as the wind howled around the battlements. Everywhere, from the couch to the floor and the bed to the desk, they made love, rested, sat and talked, and started all over again. Each success drove away a little more of the darkness in Fingon’s mind. He didn’t care if it was temporary. This moment was infinite, and he would carry it like a torch into the uncertain future.

“This would be much easier with two hands.”

Fingon lifted himself up on his elbows to peer at Maedhros where he knelt next to the side of the bed. His mussed hair was just visible. “Do you need help with that?”

“I’ve almost got it, I just…” There was a small pop of a cork being released from a bottle. “Shit, there it goes. Spilled a bit.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Fingon said. Right now his whole body was alight with the promise of being touched. Maedhros straightened his back and licked his lips as he surveyed Fingon’s flesh laid bare before him. His eyes flicked up to Fingon’s face and a small, devious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Lie back,” he instructed. “Pull your knees up. Don’t touch yourself.”

Fingon’s face grew hot and his cock grew even harder at the sound of Maedhros’ gentle commands. Now that it was on his mind, not touching himself suddenly became a conscious struggle as Maedhros began kissing him, suckling at the backs of his thighs and teasing him with just a hint of teeth. He gasped and jerked at the electric touch of Maedhros’ lips and tongue caressing downward—the flick of his tongue at his entrance drew a soft curse from him and he tangled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair. “More,” he said, earning a small chuckle from Maedhros as he gripped Fingon’s thigh with oiled fingers and burrowed his face between his buttocks. It had been so long and the sensation was almost maddening and Fingon couldn’t keep from gasping out loud again. He needed more and it took everything he had to keep his hands off his cock. It was even worse when Maedhros drew back slightly and his only touch on Fingon’s slicked, heated skin was the faint tickle of his breath.

“Why did you stop!” Fingon lifted his head. Maedhros’ eyes were at once focused and dark with arousal.

“Do you not want more?” He gave him a small smile, and heat rushed to Fingon’s face.

“No! Uh, I mean yes! Yes please !”

Maedhros laughed. He leaned in and swirled his tongue around the head of Fingon’s cock, earning another soft gasp, and then Fingon exclaimed in surprised pleasure when he began massaging his entrance with his fingers. “Relax,” he said, and his voice was a solid foundation that brought Fingon back down a little. “You’re too tense.” And then, softer, “I have you. Just relax.”

Fingon was torn between breathless need and the desire to put himself completely into Maedhros’ hands. He closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose, and consciously made himself relax.

“Good,” Maedhros said. He slid one finger in—sparks fired behind Fingon’s eyes and he moaned aloud in unabashed pleasure. “I bet I could make you come with just one finger.” Maedhros’ voice was steady, but when Fingon lifted his head again, he saw his cheeks flushed bright red and his eyes round and dark as he gazed at the expanse of Fingon’s body. He was enjoying this just as much as Fingon was.

“I said I wanted your cock, so you had better not,” Fingon retorted, but that just earned him a lofty chuckle.

“That is up to you, my dear.” Maedhros pressed the pad of his finger up firmly inside him and Fingon squirmed, panting. “Will you hold out or will you come before I decide to give you my cock?”

Oh, that was mean, but it made Fingon’s face even warmer than he thought it could get. “Do your worst.”

Maedhros grinned. His teeth flashed in the firelight and slowly he pushed in a second finger alongside the first. “Don’t come yet,” he insisted as he massaged and gently began to open him up. Fingon struggled against the pleasure pooling in his body—he had waited so long for this, and he was determined to last long enough to feel Maedhros thrust and spend inside him, directing him the whole way. Maedhros’ hand stilled, and Fingon growled a little at the interruption. “Do you need some more oil?”

Fingon nodded, privately grateful that Maedhros was paying attention, because he certainly wasn’t, and he did want to be able to sit comfortably afterward. Maedhros carefully withdrew his fingers. He ducked below the edge of the bed to coat his fingers in oil again, and then came back with his lips and tongue on and around and in Fingon’s hole. Fingon let out a rough breath and dragged his fingers though Maedhros’ hair where it tumbled over his belly, and Maedhros sucked a bruise right into the crease where Fingon’s thigh met his groin.

“Ahh!”

“I have you.” Maedhros’ breath was hot and wet and rapid against Fingon’s skin. Again he lifted his head to meet Fingon’s eyes. He bit his lip—slowly, carefully, he pushed his two fingers in, and teased with a third. “Do you want another?”

“Yes!”

When the third finger entered him, Fingon had to bite his cheek and dig his fingernails into his thighs to keep from coming right then. Maedhros, sensing his desperation, paused in his massaging and kissed the inside of his leg softly.

“All right?”

“I’m so close, I need—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I need a minute.”

Another soft kiss, and he pulled his fingers out again. They paused, breathing, and when Fingon looked into his eyes, Maedhros got to his feet. “Scoot back a bit?”

Fingon slid back from the edge of the bed, giving Maedhros enough room to settle on his knees between his legs. He was pink all over, from his face all the way down his chest and up his freckled thighs to his hard cock. Fingon licked his lips, and Maedhros grinned when he noticed the gesture. Fingon gazed at his body, at his scars and the ruin of his right arm and shoulder, without flinching. The damage was not beautiful to behold, but Fingon was neither disgusted nor afraid. Maedhros had nothing to hide from him, especially not now, when everything was laid bare and their determined love and trust for one another had finally come to fruition.

After a few more minutes spent catching their breath, Fingon reached for Maedhros’ hand, guiding it back down toward its previous occupation. He resumed massaging with three fingers, and Fingon tipped his head back with a groan. He relaxed with the knowledge of how much Maedhros loved doing this. There was no doubt and for once no anxiety, only love and genuine enjoyment. A glimmer of gold teeth showed at the corner of Maedhros’ mouth. Fingon’s body started to beg for release once more—he balled his hands in the coverlet and trusted that Maedhros was reading his every movement and sound as he worked. Maedhros’ hand stilled again when a twist of his fingers wrung a needy whimper from Fingon’s throat.

“You are such a beauty,” he said, and Fingon was surprised at the roughness in his voice which had held so much control up until now. “I just… look at you! Your hair, your beautiful skin, your amazing cock…”

Fingon reached for him. Maedhros leaned over him for a kiss, wet and lingering, and then he sat back on his knees.

“Please,” Fingon said, laughing in his desperation.

“Hmm, yes, I think I’ve denied you long enough.” With firm but gentle directions he lifted Fingon’s right leg over his left shoulder, ducking his head to lick the perspiration from the back of his knee. Fingon gasped and arched his back, but he was determined to last, and he focused on Maedhros’ solid form beneath his leg to keep himself steady. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready!” Fingon laughed. Maedhros pressed close. The head of his oiled cock nudged against Fingon’s entrance, and slowly, gently, he pushed himself inside, and Fingon let out a rough groan that made Maedhros’ hand close tight on his leg.

“How is it? Does it hurt?” Do you need—” his care and concern could not mask the crack in his voice or the instinctive roll of his hips as Fingon dragged his face down for a rough, sloppy kiss. His tongue slid between Maedhros’ teeth and he swallowed the breathy sound of want that escaped Maedhros’ throat as he thrust again, sending a wave of heat and pressure through Fingon’s body. Fingon couldn’t get close enough—Maedhros leaned in, and Fingon, with his leg over Maedhros’ shoulder, was bent almost double. His other leg was wrapped tightly around Maedhros’ waist. The position drew Maedhros in deep, but it still was not enough. Fingon wanted to feel him in his bones, as close to him as the blood in his veins.

“More!” he begged against Maedhros’ lips, and Maedhros obliged, pressing a line of hot, wet, sharp kisses down his jaw and neck, nuzzling and sucking as he fucked. Fingon curled his fingers in his hair and earned a soft groan when he combed his fingers through the tousled waves, pulling a little, but never causing pain. Maedhros’ body was like a coil of steel, and Fingon pressed up harder against him.

“Fin,” Maedhros said. “You feel… amazing.”

Fingon captured his mouth, biting his lower lip, and he groaned. The sound went straight to Fingon’s cock and he knew that all too soon, this would be over. Still he craved the steady build to the peak and the heart-stopping leap of orgasm, knowing at last that he did not fear failing before he reached the top. Maedhros needed his left hand to steady himself, but his fingers curled in the sheets as if he was holding on for dear life.

“Come in me,” Fingon whispered, and suddenly that was all Maedhros needed. He let out a desperate gasp. He sank his teeth into the crook of Fingon’s neck and shoulder, a pleasure just this side of painful, and then Fingon was coming with him, a bright rush of warmth that filled his whole body and left him dazed and fuzzy as he finally came back down to the bed where he lay with Maedhros, intertwined.

Afterward, Fingon panted up at the ceiling while Maedhros rose to wash up a bit. He couldn't speak, he could barely think, and all that came to his mind was how in love he was and how much he longed to have Maedhros with him always.

“My dear Findekáno, it seems I have worn you out,” Maedhros teased lightly. He made a great show of fluffing a pillow and gently placing Fingon's head on top of it.

Hands over his face, Fingon blasphemed softly.

Maedhros, chuckling, returned to the bed and pulled the covers over both of them. Fingon leaned into his body and the two of them lay satisfied and smiling.

“You are a feast,” Maedhros said at last. He kissed Fingon's neck tenderly, right over the still-stinging bite he had made. “And I cannot imagine ever having my fill of you.”

Fingon grinned. “Nor will I ever be fed up of you.”

Nestled under the blankets, with Maedhros’ arm around Fingon’s shoulders and his hand stroking his chest, they lay in silence. The wind, as always, formed a backdrop against their breath.

“Part of me is a little worried it’ll only work when we’re snowed in,” Fingon admitted.

“Unlikely. I look forward to defiling the high halls of Barad Eithel with you next year.” Maedhros kissed his braids, and Fingon laughed.

“As do I. And my trip is not over yet.”

“No indeed.” His voice was smiling. He tweaked Fingon’s nipple, earning a small yelp.

Fingon closed his eyes. He did not remember the last time he had felt so content and relaxed. His memories of the bliss of Valinor seemed to be veiled in fog—or ice. All the long days and nights he had spent with Maedhros, first as sneaking youths and then as men of Finwë’s court, had fallen into a different place in his mind, like a book that had been finished and placed back on the shelf. That it was over did not mean that it had never happened. Now, impossibly, he was lying in Maedhros’ embrace once again, and no matter how much had changed, there were some things that would always be the same.

He must have dozed off. Eventually, the sounds of a muffled thud and cheers roused him, and he tipped his head to look up at Maedhros.

“What’s going on?”

“Wrestling tournament.” Maedhros’ eyes remained closed. “Eliadis mentioned it.” Separated from the stimulation of the rest of Himring, those in the keep had turned their attention away from board games and polite conversation and toward loud arguments and increasingly reckless pastimes, a distressing number of which involved fire. A bored Noldo is a dangerous Noldo , more conventional wisdom said, and Fingon considered it absolutely true. He was not surprised that Eliadis, in her role as a defender of Himring’s people, would try to channel that into something with rules and defined objectives.

“Did you want to watch it?”

“Not especially. I already know that Raemben will beat all comers and after the first few rounds, it will just be boring to watch.” His lips curled up at the corners. “Besides, I like our way of wrestling much better.”

Fingon laughed and pressed close.