March 2020 instadrabbles! by RaisingCaiin

Watching Findekáno work, knelt in the dirt pulling weeds like the farmhand or gardener that he has certainly never been before, Maedhros is struck with a nonsensical thought.

It is over.

He can hardly even articulate what "it" might be. The wars in Beleriand that had killed them both? The anguish, the fear, that Findekáno would turn away from him when he learned that Maedhros had chosen the fire he had perished by? The turmoil over who should hold the kingship of the Noldor now returned to Aman?

He is brought back to himself with a start when Findekáno makes a noise of triumph as he manages to uproot a particularly stubborn shoot, brandishing the frilly leaf with a shout and a grin. The sight of him like this, well and content once more, causes a pleasant ache in Maedhros's chest.

And perhaps it is true that all of these trials are over, but – their arrival here is still something he will cherish, fiercely and fully, for many years to come.

They live together in a house that they have built, coaxing their food from the lands and the forests around them, and neither of them ever need lead a charge or kill an enemy ever again.

It is over, and they have come home.

Taking advantage of the rare winter sunlight, Artaresto leads the guard beyond Nargothrond for drills. Silver bow and slim quiver gleam in the weak light, but their glare is not so strong that Findaráto cannot pick out one archer in particular.

 Edrahil stands tall and proud amongst his peers, all of them except him Noldor and Sindar. Even from this distance, his stalwart form and intense expression are enough to bowl Findaráto over with some nameless feeling

Slightly stunned, his mind runs through the best descriptions he can think of. Luscious? Too sensual. Pleasing? Too selfish.

Striking?

Yes, Findaráto decides somewhat hastily, that description will do rather nicely. He leans forward again to watch the show.

New quarters are built for Elwing in a tower by the harbor. It was meant to be a lighthouse, perhaps, before the builders had realized that, actually no, the ships should already know their way home; any vessel that required guidance toward Aman should not be there at all.

Many days she spends wandering beneath the great panes of glass. Many more she spends wandering the shore, with or without the wings that Ulmo has not seen fit to take from her body's memories.

Perhaps they expect her to watch the dark night skies for a certain star, but Elwing finds that she would rather seek out the dark waters below instead. The quiet sounds and rhythmic motion of the waves are soothing, and she would rather not be sleeping: she does not much care for her dreams these days.

A shiver races along his throat, darting across his chest and down his belly before it is lost in the thicket lower still, and Tyelpe cannot contain a yelp as Annatar trails the trembling movement with interested fingers that raise the skin still further in their wake.

Unable to continue watching his golden lover toying with him, Tyelpe drapes his arms over his eyes. Annatar brings the same dedication to bed that he does to the forge, the lecture hall, the workshop, but here, his intensity is not spread out among a number of tools or students or ideas. Here, it is all focused on Tyelpe, and Tyelpe wonders with a dreamlike curiosity what will become of them in the wake of it all.

Annatar's hot mouth and clever fingers feel as though they will pull him apart, and Tyelpe cannot even bring himself to mind. Besides. He trusts that if he does, then Annatar will reassemble him into something strong, better, more beautiful, than before.