The Ice Between by Nibeneth

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Chapter 4

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Present

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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.