we could be kings by queerofthedagger

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we could be kings

Written for Russingon Week Day 1: Valinor/Princes and Exiles, thank you to the mods for running this! <3

The ceremony is splendid.

Findekáno would have expected nothing less, of course; it is a feast of Finwë, for one. For the other, it is Fëanáro’s moment of triumph.

Findekáno does not begrudge it as much as perhaps he should. Maitimo outshines even the gems and lights, the crowd of beautiful Ñoldor, all the magnificence of a coronation little more than a backdrop to him.

His white robes are simple, beset with silver thread and pearls. They shimmer in the light, are mirrored in the long waves of his hair, and stand out against the dark-threaded embroidery that adorns the sleeves and collar.

There is a thin thread of gold, woven in his hair, almost invisible. Findekáno knows it is there, though—after all, he had braided it in himself this morning, in the early hours of dawn.

Maitimo had allowed it, his eyes dark and knowing, even as it was a gamble. There is only one person who is known to wear gold in their hair like this; there is only one thing that wearing someone’s token means.

Much the same way that a crown signifies allegiance, Findekáno thinks, as Maitimo kneels in front of their grandfather’s throne.

Knowing his own mark to be there soothes the sting a little, if only for Findekáno. Beside him, his father’s face is impassive. Turukáno is less successful in hiding his indignation, as is, unsurprisingly, Artanis.

After all, this is nothing but a blatant show of power, of influence. King Finwë already has an heir, a crown prince. To crown Fëanáro’s eldest son as such as well, when there are two more sons in line, is little but sharp-edged provocation.

At least it is from Fëanáro. As always, it is impossible to tell how aware Finwë is of the implied insult, the sign it sends. As always, Maitimo is caught in the crossfire.

Findekáno shakes himself; it does not do to think of these things now, here. It is not, after all, as if matters of succession matter greatly beyond the symbolism.

The copper circlet that Finwë sets on Maitimo’s brow reflects the light and nestles into place as if it belongs there.

When Maitimo rises, turns, and meets Findekáno’s eye, he still cannot quite find it within himself to be as annoyed by it all as he ought to be.

He makes sure to enjoy his fill of the food and wine, to stay long enough for it not to be perceived as an insult but not so long that it could be read as endorsement, and, last but not least, to let his father see him make his way home.

Once he is out of sight, he takes the familiar paths through back streets and narrow alleys towards the Fëanorian residence. Telperion washes the city in glazed silver, the shadows long and a friend to those who want to avoid being seen.

Findekáno has long practice in such avoidance, and once he slips into the gardens of his destination, he climbs the steel grid that supports the clematis running wild along the white-washed wall of the house, red and violet like gems.

The window is ajar, even as the room is still empty. Findekáno takes a moment to listen to the silence of the house. When nothing stirs, he lights the lamp on the desk and finds a book to occupy himself with while he waits.

It is only another hour until he catches the familiar footsteps up the stairs. There are no voices, but he moves behind the door just in case; as a general rule, their parents seem to—grudgingly—accept their closeness, but today is not the day to test their luck.

It is only Maitimo who enters, though. It speaks to his exhaustion, the amount of wine he had, or both, that he does not immediately notice Findekáno.

Findekáno grins. “Hello, lover.”

He has all of one moment to be gratified by the way Maitimo jumps before he is tackled to the bed, his own shout utterly undignified.

“Is that a way to greet me,” he complains, once Maitimo has both his hands pressed into the sheets above Findekáno’s head and is grinning down at him with evident self-satisfaction. “I could have been a burglar.”

“A burglar who waited for me to arrive home and greet me as his lover?”

“One with bad intentions, then?”

“Hence the bodily attack. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Findekáno echoes, and all the day’s tension is already melting out of him, Maitimo’s weight familiar and grounding. “Do you invite all burglars to your bed, then?”

“Only the ones I find particularly pleasing,” Maitimo says. Before Findekáno can come up with a smart retort, Maitimo kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry.

Findekáno does not mind the distraction; Maitimo kisses as he does most things—deliberate and thorough, its devastation fuelled by the fire just beneath. He licks into Findekáno’s mouth, bites his bottom lip; draws back again, his eyes dark and untangling their hands so that he can touch Findekáno’s jaw.

“It suits you, you know,” Findekáno says, when the silence drags. It is not uncomfortable, rarely ever is, but this—this day, this coronation, this circlet—has been hollowing a space between them for a while, and this, at least, is true.

Winding his fingers through Maitimo’s hair, he tugs lightly. Finds his own ribbon and smiles, before tapping the circlet, and then pressing a kiss to Maitimo’s forehead. “Just do not tell anyone that I said so; we will cause a diplomatic incident to rival our fathers.”

It is never an easy topic. For the most part, they try to avoid it, keep it out of those pockets of time that they carve out for themselves.

Tonight, though, Maitimo laughs. He is loose-limbed and easy, as if some weight has been lifted from him, rather than added. It is as good to see as it is a little unsettling.

Flipping them over, Fingon hovers over him; presses another kiss to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his jaw. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

Maitimo hums, watching him. “You like it?”

“Would I tell you so if I did not?”

Slowly, carefully, Maitimo lifts the circlet from his head, turning it between his fingers. “So pretty and so useless, and yet causing so much strife.”

Then he looks up, considering Findekáno through long lashes. Mischief sparks in his eyes—the quiet kind, too often carefully banked. Too often only there for Findekáno to see, and he should mind it—does. Too often, he also revels in being the only one allowed to see it, to share in the small escapes that Maitimo allows himself.

The copper circlet up close is an unmistakable work of art. From any other than Fëanáro, it might have been a lifework. Countless, hair-thin strands of gleaming copper are braided together, braids winding around each other, dipping low in the centre. Minuscule stones of dark red and banked orange sit in between the gossamer wires.

Maitimo is still looking at him, as if considering one of those theorems he likes to sit over for hours.

“What?” Findekáno finally asks, lifting a brow. He crosses his arms over Maitimo’s chest, settling his chin on them. “You look like the time you decided that Tirion needed a Masquerade Ball, just so that we could go out together in public with none the wiser.”

“And everyone loved it,” Maitimo says, mouth quirking at the corners. Then he lifts the circlet and sets it on top of Findekáno’s head. He rights it with care, tugs lightly at strands of hair until he is satisfied.

Findekáno stopped breathing the moment he realised what Maitimo was about to do.

“It suits you,” Maitimo says, eyes fond and sparkling. As if he had not just set the Crown Prince’s crown on Findekáno’s head, Fëanáro’s work in so many ways beyond the mere forging of it. “Perhaps they should crown you next, all of Finwë’s princes adorned in copper and gems.”

“Maitimo—“ His voice comes out unsteady.

“I know,” he says, and he does—he always does, is the thing, and Findekáno loves him so much that it aches.

Maitimo kisses him again, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him close. He is mindful of the circlet, of the way Findekáno’s heart is still hammering in his chest, of all the things he is not saying. That neither of them can say, beyond ribbons woven into hidden braids, and circlets bestowed in the sanctuary of twilit rooms.

“I would crown you in all the jewels of Valinor, lover,” Maitimo finally says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Findekáno’s mouth.

“I know,” Findekáno echoes, and kisses him again. It is easier than rehearsing all the reasons why it can never be.

Fingon thinks of that night, its edges hazy in memory, when he kneels before what was not long ago his father’s throne. When the silver coronet is set atop his head by one of his father’s councillors, its weight oppressive where the copper had been light. When he rises, despite the grief dragging at his limbs, and faces his people.

He thinks of it, too, when that same night Maedhros slips into his room, hugs him close. Kisses his brow, his voice rough and sad and still, still, still so full of affection, and says, “I did always say that it would suit you better, did I not?”

Fingon leans into him, and wishes, just for one moment, that their world was still polished copper and dark-red clematis gleaming in the glittering light of Telperion.

Chapter End Notes

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