Like a White Fire Within by fingonsradharp

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Chapter 3

brief and mild nudity, references to Maedhros's torture in Angband

otararánu - "co-high kings," from o- "together" + tararan "high king" + -u dual suffix

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Russandol looked at him blankly. “Finno, we are already married.”

Findekáno laughed. “Yes, but no one knows that. All we must do is have a ceremony, renew our vows, and our succession crisis is over!”

Russandol’s brows were still furrowed. “You suggest that we should both rule? As… otararánu?”

“Indeed. Who should object? Our fathers? They are both dead.” Findekáno managed to keep the grief out of his voice, though he was sure Russandol could feel it over their bond.

“My brothers—Makalaure knows about us, but the rest—”

“Your brothers, arimelda, will do whatever you ask of them. I would be more worried about Turukáno, should he ever reappear.”

Russandol pressed his lips together into a thin line. “It cannot be sudden. We must have a proper period of engagement. If you return to Hiþilóme married to me of all people, many will think I forced you into it.”

Findekáno snorted. “No one will think that. My feelings for you are well known. But I agree that an engagement period would be best.”

“It will lessen the scandal, at least. But there will still be one.”

He smiled. “To think that we were wed in secret in Valinóre because we feared such a thing. We did not know the meaning of fear, then.”

Russandol’s face darkened. “No, we did not.”

Findekáno ghosted a hand up his husband’s back until it rested on the nape of his neck. There was so much tension held there. He pressed down, trying to get it to release, and Russandol went nearly boneless. 

After a few minutes, Findekáno could feel Russandol struggling not to make a sound. The pain, at least, had lessened, so he stopped his ministrations. “If we bathe, I can work on your shoulder as well.”

“Later,” said Russandol. He caught Findekáno’s gaze, and warmth flooded through their bond. “Thank you.”

Findekáno kissed him. It was soft and sweet, born of love that had begun when they were young, when the Trees still bloomed before darkness took the world.

“I love you,” he said in a low voice. Russandol nudged his nose along Findekáno’s and slotted their lips together once more.

“And I you,” he breathed into Findekáno’s mouth. His eyelids fluttered, caught between the desire to close in bliss and the need to keep looking at his husband’s face.

A knock sounded on the door, pulling him out of his thoughts, and a brusque voice followed it. “Lords Turkafinwe, Pityafinwe, and Telufinwe have returned, my lord.”

The permanent crease between Russandol’s brows lessened slightly. He stood slowly and adjusted the collar on his robe so that it lay flat. “Thank you, Hendunáro,” he said. “Inform my brothers that we will hold council in two hours.”

When the footsteps retreated, he turned to Findekáno, lips quirked in a tiny smile. “About that bath.”

“Valar, please,” Findekáno said. He stood eagerly. “I have dirt in every conceivable crevice, and a few inconceivable ones.”

Russandol raised a scarred eyebrow. “Is that so?” His eyes lighted in a way that, even amidst his exhaustion, sent heat down Findekáno’s spine.

“How improper, Lord Nelyafinwe,” he said, managing to keep his voice cool and regal despite the warmth in his face. “Attempting to seduce me into consummating our marriage before the ceremony.”

He could almost see the eye-roll Russandol held back. He stepped closer, forcing Findekáno to lift his chin to maintain eye contact. His hand caught Findekáno’s own, his right arm caressing his side. He pressed his lips to Findekáno’s knuckles, eyes blazing with want.

“My apologies, my king,” Russandol murmured.

Findekáno’s breath hitched. It took several moments for him to find his voice again. “Extremely rude of you, to do that to me when we are both too tired to do anything about it.”

Russandol hummed and stooped to kiss him. “Tomorrow, if you wish, I will spend hours taking you apart. But for now, allow me to wash your hair?”

Findekáno grinned. “You are bribing me!”

Russandol smiled slightly. “Nay, veru, though I confess my motivations are purely selfish.” He kissed Findekáno again, and together they exited his bedchamber and went into the bathing room. I have missed you terribly these last years, he finished in thought.

As I have missed you.  

Russandol turned a lever above the tub, and steaming water came out of the spigot. Beneath Himbaringe there were hot springs, but Russandol would not bare himself around anyone but Findekáno, and Findekáno himself had found that after the Helcaraxe he could no longer stand the heat.

“I too have been caught up in the aftermath of the battle,” he said. “It was not until settling the refugees of Dorthonion in Brethil that I was able to take leave to search for you.”

“What of Artaresto and the folk from Minasse Tirista?”

“They fled to Nargothrond, aided by Angaráto and Aikanáro. Artaresto, Meril, and Findelótelas are all safe there.”

Russandol nodded. “Good. I worry the messengers I sent to you may have been intercepted by Þauron, but short of sending more straight to him I know not how to confirm that.”

“What are the chances they still live, if they were?”

He grimaced. “High. Þauron will want information from them, on me. And he is… skilled, at getting what he wants from those who do not wish to give it to him.”

From Russandol’s side of the bond, Findekáno felt cold shame, quickly replaced by his own anger. “I have thought to take back the isle,” he said. “Many times I discussed it with Angaráto. But we do not have the strength.”

“Nor do we,” said Russandol. “I doubt even together we would be able to defeat him, not for many years.”

“The siege of Angamando took four centuries.”

“And it depleted our forces to near nothing.” Russandol was silent for a moment, jaw clenched. “My brothers have returned from a scouting mission. They may be able to tell us more about lands we can retake.”

The tub was full, so Russandol shut off the water. Findekáno disrobed and slid into it, breathing a sigh of relief as the warmth penetrated his aching muscles. He admired his husband as he stepped in as well, letting his eyes feast on the hard planes of his body, knotted with scars.

Findekáno couldn’t help himself. He needed to touch, to run his hands over every bit of skin he could. He placed open-mouthed kisses across Russandol’s collarbone, up to his throat where the skin had been discoloured from a chafing iron band, down to his chest where he could gently tug on a nipple and hear his husband’s breath hitch.

“You know we don’t have time,” Russandol rasped in his ear. He shivered, his body reacting despite his exhaustion.

Findekáno wanted to pout. He was sure if he looked desperate enough Russandol would relent. But kings did not pout to get their way, and they were not late to council meetings because they wanted to make love to their husband.

Before he could decide what to say, Russandol’s fingers were in his hair, massaging soap and herbs into his scalp. It sent a tingling sensation down his entire body, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep there.

He tilted his head back at Russandol’s command, and the soap was rinsed out. Russandol opened a vial of hair oil with his teeth, and Findekáno wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

He spread a small bit of oil on each of Findekáno’s braids, and fixed the ones that had started to come out to the best of his ability.

“I miss braiding your hair,” Russandol murmured, so quietly Findekáno almost didn't hear it. His eyes prickled with tears. He’d been doing his own braids ever since the battle, everyone in his immediate family either dead or lost. It was just another reminder of how alone he had been.

Russandol had been good at braiding his hair, despite the vast difference in their hair textures. But he could not braid with only one hand, and even the various prostheses that Curufinwe had made for him did not offer enough control to handle the tiny strands of hair.

Findekáno would be lying if he said he did not miss it as well. But more than anything he had missed Russandol, and as long as they were together he was sure they could handle anything.

“I could braid yours,” he said. Russandol had kept his hair short ever since Angamando, and it barely reached past his shoulders. It was in simple braids now, the front pieces woven to keep them out of his eyes and tied back in a tail. 

Russandol kissed his forehead. “I would like that.”

“First, your shoulder.” He bade his husband to turn, and kneaded the muscle there. “Has it been bothering you recently?”

“No more than usual,” Russandol said. His voice did not betray any pain, but Findekáno could feel it bleeding through their bond even as he could feel Russandol trying to contain it.

“You have not been wearing your brace.”

“You know I cannot stand that thing.”

“I also know you are in less pain when you wear it than when you do not.”

Russandol groaned as Findekáno pressed on a particularly sensitive spot, and the tips of his ears turned red. Findekáno just kissed the nape of his neck and kept going until the tension released.

“Thank you,” Russandol said. Around them, the water had become cloudy with dust and dirt accumulated from Findekáno’s travel. They stepped out and dressed again in clean clothes. 

Findekáno helped his husband lace up the neckline on his tunic, and brushed his fingers over the brand on his chest. Three spikes, like the peaks of the Sangoronti or the Iron Crown. It burned with the Enemy’s malice, his hatred for the line of Finwe and Feanáro in particular concentrated into Russandol’s flesh.

“Is it better, now that he is dead?” Findekáno asked. 

“Somewhat,” his husband replied. “He put so much of himself in the very earth. It is likely why your father was able to destroy him, but it also ensured that his power and influence would persist after his death.”

Findekáno tied the tunic’s laces, the brand disappearing beneath black fabric. Over it he laid Russandol’s pendant, crafted by Curufinwe and enchanted to keep away nightmares and memories that were better off forgotten. It gleamed silver, the symbol of their house encrusted with tiny jewels.

“Russo, forgive me for bringing this up, but…” He paused and wet his lips. “What of the Silmarilli? What of your Oath?”

“Fulfilled,” Russandol said. “But the jewels themselves are hidden. Curufinwe managed to separate them from the iron crown, but I have no wish to see them. I… do not yet know what should be done with them. For now I am merely glad to be rid of that particular chain.”

When they finished dressing, Findekáno wished for a mirror so that he could admire them both. They looked lordly, red and black beside blue and gold. Even without the gold in his braids, Findekáno felt like himself again.

“Would you like to announce our… betrothal tonight?” Russandol asked him. There was a slight curve to his lips. “Better they hear the news in private, so that their reactions do not provoke further scandal.”

“That would be best, yes,” Findekáno agreed. Tyelkormo, in particular, could be unpredictable, and despite his former friendship with Írisse, Findekáno had no idea how he would react. Loudly, he suspected. 

He redid Russandol’s braids quickly. If they had more time, he would make them as elaborate as his husband’s short hair would allow, braids fit for a king of the Ñoldor. But for now he only kept it out of Russandol’s eyes and secured it with an intricately-wrought clasp, leaving the rest to flow down his back. 

They left Russandol’s chambers and made their way toward the great hall once more. The keep was near-silent at this time of night, the corridors illuminated only by torches and the elves’ own glow. 

“Ready?” Russandol asked, letting go of Findekáno’s hand so that he could open the doors.

“To finally be able to show how much I adore you? Of course.” He grinned as his husband flushed.

Inside, the head table was filled with Feanárions. To Findekáno’s surprise, the seat to Russandol’s right, usually occupied by Makalaure, was vacant. The musician himself instead sat to the left of the head chair, and smiled at Findekáno when they came in.

Well, Findekáno supposed that he was High King now, and therefore outranked all of them. But as this was still Russandol’s keep, and not his own, he took the second chair. Covering Russandol’s right side, just as he would in battle. 

This sat him next to Tyelkormo, who nodded at him in acknowledgement. He looked exhausted, his normally white hair streaked with dirt and blood. There was a new gash across his cheek; it looked like stitches had been recently taken out.

I’ll hear what they have to report first, Russandol said in Findekáno’s mind. And they will want to hear word from West Valariande as well.

Findekáno sent a wordless agreement. It would be better to get all of that out of the way before whatever argument was inevitably coming.