The Bed We Share by grey_gazania

The Bed We Share

Read The Bed We Share

“Still packing?”

 

Fingon looked up from the tunic he was folding and saw his wife standing in the doorway between their bedroom and the bathroom, leaning one hip against the door frame. Ianneth was dressed in a sleeveless nightgown, cut loose to accommodate her growing belly, and her long hair was pulled back in a single dark braid. She was looking at him fondly where he knelt beside his cedar clothes-chest.

 

“I’m almost finished,” he said, placing the tunic in the mostly full bag that sat beside him. Normally he would have been done by this time of night, but there had been some trouble with his horse earlier that day. Seeing to Pilin’s strained ligament had taken time, and then Fingon had had to decide which horse he would take to Himring in Pilin’s stead. All of that had put him behind schedule and so, though it was well past dark, he was still finishing his preparations.

 

Ianneth padded across the carpet to his side and began to help him with his last few garments. “We certainly wouldn’t want you stuck in the Eastern March without any clean clothes,” she teased, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. “What on earth would your cousin think of you?”

 

“That I’m hasty and sometimes ill-prepared,” Fingon said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But he’s known that since I was a child, so I doubt it would lower his opinion of me.” He tucked a few extra pairs of socks into the bag, buckled it closed, and then stood up straight, stretching his arms over his head. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “I just want to put this with the rest of the things for tomorrow.”

 

“All right.” Ianneth smiled at him, and as he left the room with the bag in his arms, he could see her climbing beneath the blue matelasse that covered their bed.

 

Once Fingon was alone in the empty corridor, out of Ianneth’s sight, he let all traces of humor fall from his face. He felt as he always felt before his visits to Himring -- half eager and half ashamed. He missed Maedhros desperately, but he hated deceiving his wife. He hated that he was forever torn in two.

 

Still, he told himself, the truth would only hurt Ianneth, and that was the last thing he wanted. Even if the unspoken lie made him feel sick -- sicker than ever, now that Ianneth was carrying their first child. It pained him to admit it, but deep in his heart, he knew that Ianneth and Maedhros each deserved a better man than him.

 

He set the bag down with the rest of luggage that would be loaded in the morning and then took a moment to wrestle his emotions back into order. It wouldn’t do to seem too glum when he returned -- moody, Ianneth called it, for she wasn’t oblivious to his sullenness when it came to his visits with Maedhros. She’d questioned him about it a time or two, gently, but had let the matter drop when he failed to answer. He knew that she put it down to some residual, unspoken friction left from his father and Fëanor’s long strife.

 

Enough of this, he told himself, squaring his shoulders. You can be as morose as you like tomorrow, but right now you will go back to bed and bid your wife goodnight like she deserves.

 

When he returned, he found her lying on her side beneath the blankets. She watched, smiling, as he changed into his pajamas and combed out his own hair, carefully setting aside the golden ornaments that had adorned his braids. When he finally slid into bed beside her, she raised herself up on one elbow and kissed him, slow and sweet.

 

He returned the kiss and pulled her into his arms, taking care to ensure that she was comfortable. She was warm and smelled of lavender, and her face bore a look of such tenderness that his heart ached.

 

“I’ll miss you,” she murmured, before claiming another kiss from him.

 

“And I you,” Fingon said, stroking the soft skin of her bare arm and resting his forehead against hers.

 

It was the truth. Just as he missed Maedhros, half a continent away in his cold fortress, he missed Ianneth when she was not by his side. She was a steadying presence in his life, level-headed and dependable, with a kind heart and a wisdom that belied her youth. 

 

He found himself thinking yet again that he did not deserve her.

 

She traced his jaw with her fingers, moving up the side of his face and stroking the rim of his ear. He shivered at her touch and bent his head down to press a kiss to the side of her neck.

 

“Lie with me,” she whispered.

 

“Yes,” he said, his lips brushing against her skin as he spoke.

 

They undressed, and once Ianneth had settled comfortably on the bed, he began to caress her, losing himself in her warmth and in the softness of her breasts and hips. He covered her with kisses, starting at her collarbone and working his way down, while his hands sought out her most sensitive places. Soon she was quivering beneath his touch, flushed in the breast and the face, saying his name over and over.

 

“Fingon,” she gasped, a note of neediness in her voice. “Oh, Fingon.”

 

He was as aroused as she was, now. Carefully, the pair of them maneuvered themselves until they were joined together, Ianneth on top to accommodate the babe growing in her womb.

 

“Ianneth,” Fingon said as they began to move, his voice breathless. “Ianneth, melissë, melissenya.” She was carding the fingers of one hand through his hair, and with the other she stroked his skin, her touch teasingly light as she trailed her fingers across his stomach and down towards his groin. The world narrowed, until all that it contained was him and his wife, this bed, and the pleasure that they shared. For a few precious minutes, he was able to forget his doubts and worries.

 

After, once they had cleaned themselves, they returned to the warmth of the bed. Ianneth took Fingon’s hand and brushed a kiss across his fingertips before settling herself back beneath the blankets. When Fingon rolled onto his side and draped one arm over her rounded waist, she nestled closer to him and closed her eyes.

 

He followed suit, tilting his head forward so that his nose was close to her thickly-braided hair. But the guilt and disquiet had returned, gnawing in the pit of his stomach, and he lay awake for a long time as Ianneth slept beside him.

 

***********

 

The weak, grey light that preceded dawn was just creeping its fingers past the edge of the curtains when Fingon woke. Ianneth was still asleep, and he took care to tuck the blankets back around her once he’d climbed from the bed. Then he bent down and brushed a kiss across her cheek. She stirred, but didn’t wake, and he left her to rest while he bathed and dressed.

 

He’d donned his traveling clothes and was sitting in front of the mirror, just preparing to work the usual braids into his hair, when she finally blinked her eyes open and sat up.

 

“Morning, my love,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep. Then, catching sight of what he was doing, she pulled on her dressing gown and came to stand behind him. “Let me,” she said, taking the comb from his hand.

 

“Of course,” he said, smiling at her reflection. He knew how much Ianneth loved his hair, and with her deft hands she could weave plaits that would stand up to long and heavy riding.

 

As she combed out sections for the first braid, he asked, “Is there anything you would like me to bring back for you?”

 

Always when he traveled, he returned with a gift for her -- rare herbs, or flower seeds, or a book containing some new healing lore, for he had found early on that Ianneth prized such things far more than jewels. Once, in a fit of impulsivity, he had brought her a badger hound puppy, a wriggly, sausage-shaped bundle of black and tan fur. The dog slept at the foot of their bed now, fully grown but no less energetic. Still, a more good-natured companion than Mellon would be difficult to find.

 

“Sweet briar hips, if you can get them,” Ianneth said, her fingers digging deeply into his hair as she worked. “I’ve run low.”

 

Ianneth swore that sweet briars made for the best rosehip tea, and though Fingon didn’t drink it himself, he was inclined to believe her; her knowledge of herb lore was extensive. But sweet briars didn’t grow well in Hithlum, which was too misty to give them the sun they needed, so for everyday use Ianneth relied on her own cultivars -- hardy roses that were better suited to Hithlum’s rain and chill fog, but unfortunately not so flavorful.

 

“Sweet briars it is, then,” he said, holding very still as Ianneth wove the gold ornaments back into his locks. Himring itself was too cold for them, but he knew that they were grown in the valleys between the surrounding lower hills. It wouldn’t be difficult to get some.

 

She tied off his last braid and then pressed her lips to the top of his head. “You should get going,” she said. “The sun will be up soon.”

 

Standing, he turned and kissed her. “You should go back to sleep. You need your rest,” he said, resting his palm against her belly. There was no movement beneath his hand, but he still thought he could sense the life, the potential, that the two of them had created and that Ianneth now carried. 

 

“You’ll be all right?” he asked. “Gurvadhor will--”

 

“--will see to all military matters in your absence,” Ianneth said. “I know. Don’t fret, Fingon. I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. You enjoy your trip, and give my good wishes to Maedhros.”

 

“Of course,” he said, taking care not to let his sudden pang of guilt show on his face.

 

He kissed her again and then saw her back to bed, fluffing up her pillow and tucking the blankets over her bare shoulders.

 

“You spoil me,” she said, smiling up at him. “Safe travels, my love.”

 

***********

 

His travels were safe -- the roads of the Noldor were well-protected -- but the trip was still a trial. It began to rain before his party had even reached the Ered Wethrin, and the storm followed them all the way to Eastern March, unrelenting, soaking them to the skin. By the time they arrived at Himring, Fingon felt more like a drowned rat than a man.

 

“You look miserable,” Maedhros said, as Fingon and his men shed their sodden cloaks. “Hot baths all around, I think.”

 

The suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm. Himring had a well-appointed bath house, thanks to its mineral-rich hot springs, and the prospect of being clean and warm was a welcome one after the ordeal of their dismal trip.

 

As for Fingon, he bathed in Maedhros’ private bathroom, relaxing in the steaming water and letting the heat sap the tension from his muscles. “Ah, bliss,” he said, smiling at Maedhros, who sat on a stool in the corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Mud is no fun when you don’t have a hot tub to look forward to.”

 

“I think mud stops being fun as soon as you grow too old to play in it,” Maedhros said. “So, you know, when you’re about thirty or so.”

 

Fingon’s smile widened into a grin. “Please, Russandol. As if you didn’t enjoy playing in the mud with all your brothers,” he said. “‘About thirty or so’, my left buttock.”

 

“Excuse me, but fishing Celegorm out of a ditch does not count as playing in the mud,” Maedhros protested.

 

Fingon snickered, enjoying the comfort of their familiar banter. Then he ducked his head beneath the water, soaking his hair in preparation for a good, thorough shampooing.

 

Like Ianneth, Maedhros had always loved Fingon’s hair. In Valinor he had often volunteered to wash it, to comb it, to braid it -- it was he who had given Fingon the first of the gold ornaments that the crown prince was known for wearing. Now, after the loss of his hand, Maedhros could no longer easily do those things. But he still enjoyed touching it, running his remaining fingers through the smooth, black strands.

 

So, after the bath, Fingon left his hair loose to dry as he sat by the fire, dressed in blessedly clean clothes and sharing a meal of lamb stew with his cousin. They were simple comforts, but well-appreciated after his long, wet slog to Himring.

 

“How go things in Hithlum?” Maedhros asked, stirring his stew with his spoon to help it cool. “Are you well?”

 

“Well enough,” Fingon said. He hesitated before continuing, but Maedhros would have to be told sooner or later. 

 

“Ianneth is with child,” he said. “The babe should arrive a few weeks after Midwinter.”

 

He’d expected Maedhros’ expression to close down, the way it usually did whenever Fingon spoke of his wife. But to his surprise, his cousin’s face softened in the firelight, and a smile tugged at his lips.

 

“What?” Fingon asked.

 

Maedhros shook his head, still smiling. “Just thinking about what a good father you’ll be,” he said. “I remember watching you with your brothers and sister. Children have always loved you.”

 

“I’m nervous,” Fingon confessed. “Up until these past few years, I’d never really considered fatherhood. And sometimes I can’t help wondering...is it fair? Things are peaceful enough now, but will they stay peaceful? Or will my child have to fight the same war I’m fighting?”

 

He understood that in many ways it was necessary that he have a child. The House of Fingolfin had dwindled, and the Noldor needed their king’s heir to have an heir. Hidden away in his secret city, Turgon was not a reliable choice. But he wondered what kind of world his child would grow up in. Would it be a world at peace, or a world at war?

 

Maedhros had set his spoon down, and he reached out now to rest his hand on Fingon’s arm. “We will win this war,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “It may take us time, but we will win. I won’t rest until Morgoth is defeated. We will bring him down, and your child will grow up in peace.”

 

Fingon knew well that stubbornness ran deep in the House of Finwë, for both good and ill. But it seemed to him that Maedhros in particular had a determination that was strong enough to bend iron.

 

“I hope you’re right,” was all the answer he gave. “Atto hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s hoping for a boy, just in case. And I understand why. But personally, I would be equally happy with a girl.”

 

“And what is Ianneth hoping for?” Maedhros asked.

 

“She says we’ll be blessed either way.”

 

“Very sensible,” Maedhros said with an approving nod.

 

“She is sensible,” Fingon agreed. “But-- look, let’s not talk about her. I came here to see you. I’ve missed you, Russandol.”

 

Maedhros had needed to know about the pregnancy. Now he knew. It was time to move on to a different topic. Most times, Fingon knew, speaking of Ianneth only pained Maedhros, because it reminded him that Fingon was no longer fully his. And it pained Fingon, too, because it made him dwell on his own divided heart.

 

He pushed his bowl aside, stood up, pulled Maedhros to his feet, and dragged him into a kiss, which Maedhros returned eagerly. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” Maedhros murmured, his lips brushing against Fingon’s as he spoke.

 

“I know,” Fingon whispered. “I wish–”

 

“Shh,” Maedhros said. “You don’t have to say it. Just come to bed.”

 

They stumbled to the bedroom as Fingon tried to force his turbulent thoughts from his mind.

 

***********

 

Two weeks later, on the final morning of his visit, as Fingon prepared – with a heart half heavy and half light – to depart Himring and return to Mithrim, Maedhros stopped him in the doorway of the guest room.

 

“Wait,” Maedhros said, and then held out a small packet wrapped in waxed cloth. “For Ianneth. Caranthir’s botanists have bred a new cultivar of goldthread, and he sent some seeds along to me. He says his healers have found it useful as an anti-inflammatory.” Pressing the packet into Fingon’s hands, he added, “And give her my congratulations, and my well-wishes for the child.”

 

Then, checking to make sure that they were alone, he stroked Fingon’s cheek and pressed a kiss to the tip of his ear.

 

“You’re blessed, Findekáno,” he said softly. “Cherish what you have, lest you lose it.”

 

The words chased each other round and round in Fingon’s head on the journey back home, and were still echoing in his mind when Ianneth greeted him in the courtyard.

 

“My love,” she said, embracing him with a gentle peck on the lips. “Welcome home.” Then, heedless of the men surrounding them, she took his hand and pressed it against her belly.

 

Beneath his palm, he felt movement – a swift, light kick, and then another. In his absence, the babe had quickened.

 

Someday soon, he would hold this child in his arms, teach them to walk and speak, teach them to ride a horse and play a harp and, in all likelihood, wield a weapon. This life, this small being that he had created with his wife, would come into his life, and he would face all the struggles and, more importantly, the joys of fatherhood.

 

Maedhros was right. Regardless of his turbulent heart, he was blessed.

---

Chapter End Notes

Melissë (Q.) - lover

Melissenya (Q.) - my lover

Findekáno - Quenya name of Fingon

 

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