In These Altered States, Rejoice by sallysavestheday

Chapter Two

Return breeds strange longings, Maedhros reflects.

Finrod, for instance, who clattered and shone, always crusted in gems and radiant in the stiffest, most embellished brocades, now walks the streets of Tirion in soft, simple gauze, unadorned but of the finest making. He favors white, like his Vanyarin kin, in long, loose drapes that hide or expose his many tattoos as he shifts and moves. The ink is new, first pricked at a reunion with the Ten, slowly spreading and sprawling in the manner of the Sindar and the Nandor and the Dwarves and the Edain to whom Finrod feels he has some claim. Each mark is a small masterpiece, more delicate than any jewel: an opening into lore. His body is its own tale, retold.

Then there is Maglor, once the life of every party, who now prizes silence: the stillness of mornings under the trees; the quiet of foggy mountain nights; the softness of breath before it tilts into song. He drifts into moments of absence, unbraids himself from the world to simply listen to what cannot quite be heard. Maglor often leaves his harp in Tirion, and in the woods behind Formenos strings elaborate chains of bells through the branches, letting the wind move them as the world makes its own music. He speaks infrequently, now, but when he does he is smiling. His eyes rarely close or dim, so eager is he to perceive, where for so long he simply endured.

And Fingon -- who had always vibrated, more lively than his own skin could hold -- now lounges, sprawls, takes his ease on Tirion’s grassy lawns, on the singing sands of the coast, in the wide, white bed he shares with Maedhros, swimming in cool silk sheets, stretching into the luxury of life without pain. He falls open at his shoulders, his hips, lets his spine lengthen and his chin lift as he sinks into relaxation, into rest.

For Maedhros’ own part, this new life has unleashed hunger.

For centuries he had prided himself on wanting almost nothing, fueled simply by bitterness and ire. But now, he craves. The old robes of black and scarlet wool (or undyed homespun linen, dull as the winter marshes around Sirion, grim as the smoky woods afterwards) give way to rainbow silks, in softest leafy green; palest yellow; an airy, gossamer pink that somehow complements his hair. He commissions coffers of Curufin’s sparkling gems, weaves them into his braids, wears them as chokers and pendants and bracelets and anklets (but never rings: his hands are bare, save for the fine band Fingon crafted during his long wait, his slow return from fury to fondness and faith in Maedhros’ capacity for love).

All of Maedhros’ senses are alive and wanting. The richest of foods cause him no discomfort, born anew – indeed, the old soldier’s rations cannot possibly satisfy. Where bread and fruit and a thin wine were once enough, now he luxuriates, feasts, indulges. He sings and plays where for so long he was silent; the joy of ease in movement propels him to dance, to swim, to climb. Two-handed again, he grasps at life with both: at books, at paintbrushes and needles, at thread to twist and hair to braid and the wild drums of the forest to capture his glee.

And always, always he reaches for Fingon: to stroke his heavy hair, his satiny skin; to shape the smooth, sweet turn of his muscles under Maedhros’ fingers; to relearn the softness and the firmness of him and feel the tangible evidence of fate undone, of devastation overcome, of love’s long reward, however little some may feel it is deserved.

Chapter End Notes

I like the fanon of Maedhros retaining only one hand after rebirth, but I needed him to have two for this one, to hold everything he wants, at last.