A Current Full of Song by queerofthedagger

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A Current Full of Song

Written for Day 2 of Russingon Week: Grief + bereavement, Despair & Hope, Angry/hate sex. Yes, this got the tiniest bit away from me, shhh.

There is an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How

eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in.
—Carl Phillips

If asked later, Fingon could not say why he made the decision. In truth, he is not sure it is a conscious decision at all.

Turgon’s messenger arrives in the late hours of evening, and it is not as if Fingon had not already suspected the worst. His father has been gone for days, and even before then, Fingolfin had seemed bowed beneath his crown like never before.

This, though—

“The King is dead; the Eagles bore his body to Gondolin. Lord Turgon—“

“Have you leave to reveal Gondolin’s location to me, then?” It is the only thing Fingon can think to ask, his mind curiously blank.

They never spoke of it, his father and him, but the day that Turgon took Aredhel, a third of their people, and disappeared without a word, remained an open wound.

The messenger winces. Before he can stammer his apologies, Fingon rises—from the Prince’s throne, right to the King’s empty one.

If he does not get out of here, he will say something to be regretted.

“Your Highness, I am sure—“

“Tell my brother that I wish him well,” he says, the words grating against his throat. It is not remotely what he wants to tell Turgon, but then, he could fill endless scrolls of parchment with the things he does want to say, and what is the point?

His father is dead, and Fingon is left to don the crown. To sit upon the throne, and pretend that he does not want to climb Thangorodrim once more to tear the accursed mountain apart piece by piece.

He needs to get out of here. Perhaps, that is a decision, after all.

He reaches Himring within three days and with more luck than reason or skill.

The fortress stands unshakeable, and it is not relief, not exactly, but Fingon does breathe a little easier at its sight.

The early spring is still biting cold here, the wind unrelenting as he nears the peak. It is a twisted sense of grounding that it gives him, something real and familiar where everything else feels hollowed out.

He is stopped at the iron-wrought gate, which is a first, he thinks. The guards look suspicious and grim-faced until Fingon casts back his hood, and their expressions change to shock.

“Your Highness,” the captain says, sketching a short bow. Fingon does not bother correcting him; he supposes it makes sense that the news has not reached them yet. “Were we expecting you?”

“You were not,” he says, forcing a smile. “Is Lord Maedhros in?”

The captain gives a signal to open the gate and keeps step with Fingon’s horse as he rides into the courtyard. “No, your Highness, but the Lord—“

“Cousin!”

“—Maglor is.”

Truth be told, Fingon had somewhat forgotten that Maglor moved here in the wake of the dragon. No matter.

“Maglor,” he says, his voice rough even to his own ears. He dismounts and manages a nod when someone takes his horse.

“Did we expect—“

“No,” he cuts in, before the question can be posed again. Maglor frowns, a thread of concern winding through his cheerful surprise.

Fingon knows he should explain. Should say, the King is dead, and I do not know what to do, and maybe even, you were in the same position once, before your brother made it my problem.

Even beyond the gargantuan weight now pressing down on Fingon’s spine—his father dead, his father dead, his father dead and only him left behind—Maglor and Maedhros need to know.

Everyone does. Fingon’s tongue feels poisonous inside his mouth, and the words won’t come; as if he was still a small child, as if speaking it out loud, here in the freezing courtyard of Himring, would make it more real.

“Where is Maedhros?” he asks instead. “His captain said—“

“Hunting Orcs. They have been daring to come close again and he wanted to take care of it himself. You know how he is.”

Doesn’t Fingon ever. For the first time since he rushed out of Barad Eithel, he thinks that it may not have been the wisest choice to come here.

Then again, where else is there left to go?

“No matter,” he says, forcing another smile. “I will wait for him.”

Maglor frowns then, and he has always been too perceptive for his own good. “Are you certain that everything is all right, cousin? It is unlike you to turn up here unannounced.”

He is, at least, kind enough not to elaborate on that, but Fingon feels the sting of it.

He had not come here with the intention of hiding the reason—does not think that he can, for long. The death of a king is news that will spread, no matter his own input on the matter, and whatever the state of him and Maedhros nowadays, this is not something he will be able to pretend over anyway.

And yet. Yet, the words will not come, his heart will not break, and all he can do is shake his head. “It is fine, Makalaurë, thank you,” he says, and knows that he does not fool Maglor for a moment.

Maglor may have always been perceptive, but unlike most of his brothers, he also always knew how to pick his battles. He clearly decides to drop it and gestures toward the main entrance of the fortress. “Come, then, I know you said you would wait in Nelyo’s chambers, but let’s find you some food, and have rooms arranged for you. I am sure he will find you as soon as he returns.”

He is kind enough, too, not to outright tell Fingon that he has no longer leave to enter Maedhros’ chambers unannounced and on his own.

Fingon hears it all the same, and suddenly, fiercely, wishes that he had any other place left to run to.

But then, that is not true. Then, it is not another place so much as it is another time, one before they had become—well. Whatever they are, these days. Not quite nothing yet. Not quite something anymore.

The food Maglor puts in front of him tastes ashen, and the wine immediately goes to Fingon’s head. Eventually, Maglor shows him to his rooms and excuses himself to return to—whatever it is that he is doing. Fingon had not listened, truth be told.

He makes it through another pitcher of wine before the walls start closing in on him.

Beyond the windows of his silent chambers, darkness blankets the sprawling lands. He thinks of his father, riding to the gates of Angband alone. He thinks of Maedhros, hunting down Orcs because he, too, can never allow himself to rest.

Fingon refills his goblet once more and leaves his chambers. The corridors are quiet, and it must be later than he thought; Himring has always been a busy fortress, and even with the recent losses, Maglor’s people should make up for it.

Still, even the occasional servants and guards are better than the silence of Fingon’s rooms, even if not nearly the distraction he craves.

He does not know how long he wanders until he finds himself in front of the familiar doors. There are no guards stationed here, which can only mean that Maedhros has not returned yet.

He stares at the unadorned door. The door stares back.

Maglor had, of course, not said outright that Fingon should not enter. He is way too diplomatic for that.

Luckily for Fingon, he is rather tired of diplomacy. Of carefulness, of taking his lot, of letting his brother and his sister disappear from the face of the earth. Of letting his sister die and receiving news only weeks later, with some excuse of protection. Of letting his father ride to his death without a word, with some excuse of despair. To let Maedhros push him away with—

Well, who knows, at this point. Fingon does not think that he can bear thinking about it tonight, that it will not be what unmoors him for good.

With clenched teeth, he tries the door handle, surprised when it opens. A fire is burning low in the hearth and a few candles are lit; at least the servants seem to expect Maedhros back tonight as well.

It should not be such a relief, but it is. It makes Fingon bury his nails in his palms and then laugh at himself—as if he had not come here hoping for comfort, even if comfort is perhaps the wrong word for what he will find.

He breathes in, breathes out, and lets his gaze trail through the room. It is tidy as Maedhros’ rooms have always been, and there are few decorations; a few tapestries in red and gold, a weapon table with sharp blades gleaming in the dim light.

The bed looks unused. Fingon wonders if Maedhros sleeps better nowadays, or if he is still like a ghost, haunting his own fortress on most nights.

He bites his tongue and banishes the thought; tonight, his anger is the only shield he has left, brittle as it is made by the fact that he is here in the first place. He does not need the age-old love that refuses to die to make him easier yet to shatter.

Passing by the fireplace, Fingon steps towards the desk. It is the only untidy thing in the room, parchment and writing quills scattered across it together with maps and titbits.

He doesn’t read any of it, of course, but frowns when he sees several letters with Finrod’s seal. Whatever correspondence he receives from Maedhros nowadays is mostly brief, in code, and pertaining to the war. Why would Finrod—

Shaking himself, he turns away. He has never been prone to jealousy, and he is not going to start now.

With a sigh, he trails over to the weapon table, letting his fingers trace the edge of it, only to stop cold at one of the ornate boxes standing toward the back. It is unmistakably well-kept, and Fingon was not at all prepared to find it here.

His fingers do not tremble when he flips it open, but it is a close thing. The dagger inside is a beautiful thing, the curved blade sleek and the dark-bronze hilt adorned with gems in the colours of both their houses—blue and silver, red and gold.

He had given it to Maedhros back in Hithlum, during those early days when he was finally able to hold a sword again. It was one of the few things that Fingon had brought from Tirion, that had survived the Ice.

He had forged it himself. Before the Darkening and the Oath. Before Formenos. When those colours together still carried some bright, ineradicable hope, and it had felt just as hopeful, the day he had finally given it to Maedhros, after everything that had tried to come between them and failed.

Perhaps it had always been on Fingon to play the fool. To Maedhros, to his siblings—

The door opens, and Fingon jumps. His finger slips against the blade, and he curses at the sting, the blood that immediately wells to the surface. It is still as sharp as all those years ago, then.

When he turns, Maedhros is staring at him as if he is seeing a ghost. He looks beyond exhausted. His armour is dull with mud and blood, his hair is a mess, and his scars stand out more starkly than usual against his pale skin.

The space lying between them feels like a chasm, and it is this, then, that finally unravels the numb knot of shock inside Fingon’s chest. After four days of wandering as if through a dream, the gossamer threads finally snap, his heart a crumbling thing until his eyes burn with it.

“Russo,” he gets out, years upon years of fury and longing tangling into one well-worn, beloved name. The shock washing across Maedhros’ face only makes it worse, a testament to all the distance that the years, their choices, and their stubbornness have wrought between them.

The wine sits heavy in Fingon’s limbs and his father’s absence like a thorn in his throat. He knows, deep down, that it is a terrible idea, but he crosses the chambers in three quick strides until he is right up in Maedhros’ space—not touching, not quite yet, but the intent must be obvious in every line of his shaking body.

Maedhros frowns at him, one hand hovering over Fingon’s shoulder before he lets it settle. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

Distantly, Fingon wants to laugh, or maybe finally start crying. At one point in their life, Maedhros would have never questioned a surprise visit, and look at them now.

“No,” he says, too honest. “But I do not want to talk about it.”

“You are bleeding,” Maedhros says with some alarm, his eyes sweeping over Fingon. He has to let go of the shoulder to reach for Fingon’s hand, and Fingon can’t do this.

Not the care, not the concern in Maedhros’ eyes, not the sudden shock of tenderness.

“I am fine,” he says, and when it comes out as the lie that it is, “I did not know that you kept the dagger.”

Maedhros goes still, his eyes snapping from Fingon to the weapon table.

“Finno…” he starts, and sighs. Looks back at Fingon with that same resigned exhaustion that Fingon hates more than half of Morgoth’s armies, and asks, “What happened? Why are you here?”

For a split-second, Fingon considers telling him. Considers laying it all out—his father, his siblings, his bloody, pulpy mess of a heart. How, despite everything, Maedhros is still the first place he runs to, apparently, when things are falling apart.

“You know why,” he says instead and pushes closer, the nearness of Maedhros alone almost enough to undo him.

“Finno,” Maedhros says again, his fingers tightening around Fingon’s wrist, a warning.

Fingon has never been good at heeding warnings; he would not be in this mess, otherwise.

He slings one arm around Maedhros’ neck and smiles, not caring about the mess of Maedhros’ armour. He pulls his other hand out of Maedhros’ grip and tugs on a buckle of the breastplate.

“Come on, aren’t you at least a little happy to see me?” he asks, aiming for teasing and landing on too honest.

Maedhros’ expression goes helpless, and he sways closer the way he always had, no matter the calamities they made of each other.

Fingon exhales in relief.

“Fingon,” Maedhros tries for the third time. “Are you—“

“Please, just—I do not want to think, all right? Just make me stop thinking for a night, and I promise, I will be out of your hair tomorrow.”

It is a lie, of course, but then, what between them isn’t these days.

Maedhros looks like he wants to say something else. His brows furrow in a way that makes him look younger, makes him look like they are still in Valinor, and he is pouring over some books in the library late into the night, having found some matter or other to disagree with.

Fingon shakes himself, cannot go there—not tonight, not ever. Cannot bring himself to hear what else Maedhros would have to say, and so he pushes himself to his tiptoes and kisses him, all open-mouthed hunger.

When Maedhros does not pull back or push him away, when he just exhales into it as if with relief, Fingon could weep. Finally, he lets himself go, pushing his fingers into Maedhros’ hair and biting his mouth.

Finally, Maedhros seems to understand. With one swift motion, he turns them around until he has Fingon pressed up against the door, his hand turning bruising on Fingon’s hip.

Maedhros kisses him with single-minded focus, kisses him as if this is another battle to be won—deliberate and devastating, exploiting all of Fingon’s weak spots. He knows them better than anyone, after all, and Fingon can’t help but let him.

It makes him feel like he can breathe again. It is not enough, not yet, but he exhales ‘Russo, please,’ into Maedhros’ ruthless mouth once more, and can feel when Maedhros understands what he is asking of him.

He pushes his hand beneath Fingon’s tunic, his nails leaving lines of fire in their wake. Fingon arches into the touch and returns to getting rid of Maedhros’ armour. The breastplate clatters to the ground and he pushes Maedhros away just far enough to drag the heavy hauberk off of him. His fingers shake as he unlaces the gambeson, not least because Maedhros has moved on to biting wordless reassurances into the line of Fingon’s neck.

“Come on then,” Maedhros murmurs, his voice rougher than usual, once Fingon has finally stripped him of everything but his tunic and breeches. He kisses him again, all teeth and tongue and fingers curled loosely around Fingon’s throat, before he lifts Fingon almost effortlessly.

It punches a laugh out of him, and he can feel Maedhros hide a smile in his hair before dropping Fingon onto the bed. “Strip,” he says, moving to rummage through the bedside table.

Fingon does as he is told, anticipation building in his gut as he drops his tunic and leggings to the floor. He is half hard already, even as at the back of his mind everything feels cracked open and raw.

He does not think about it. Simply watches as Maedhros steps back to the foot of the bed and looks at him, a vial of oil in his hand and his eyes bright.

“If you ask me one more time if I am all right, I am tying myself to this bed and start begging,” Fingon says sweetly, before Maedhros can open his mouth. “I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name; do you think you’ll manage, or shall I go find your brother and ask him instead?”

It gets the desired result; Maedhros makes a noise deep in his throat and grabs Fingon’s leg to pull him to the edge of the bed. He sinks to his knees there in one graceful move, spreading Fingon wide.

Fingon lets his head drop back and curses when Maedhros sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his thighs, moving slowly upward. He runs his hand over Fingon’s stomach, his flanks, and uses his other arm across Fingon’s stomach to hold his hips down.

“Come on,” he gets out, breath coming harshly now. Maedhros has always had terrific skill at taking him apart, but it isn’t enough tonight, not yet. He needs—

“One day someone should teach you some patience,” Maedhros says, remarks it mildly as if he is not currently painting a map of bruises into Fingon’s skin.

Before Fingon can come up with a smart answer to that Maedhros swallows him down in one smooth move and Fingon’s hips buck. He curses again, but Maedhros simply hums and holds him down.

He buries a hand in Maedhros’ hair and urges him on, rewarded when Maedhros lets his hand move further back, pressing one spit-slick finger against Fingon’s entrance.

He lets himself fall into it; the slight burn of the first stretch, Maedhros’ clever tongue, the way he still knows exactly what Fingon wants, needs.

Maedhros’ second finger adds discomfort and Fingon bites his lips to keep from making a noise. It’s good, but it isn’t enough, and he uses what little leverage he has to bear down on Maedhros’ hand, to chase the sparkling high of pain-and-pleasure that promises to wipe his mind blank.

“Come on,” he repeats, his voice wrecked, when Maedhros pulls off his cock. He can feel it, the hesitation in Maedhros as he looks up at Fingon.

Fingon does not meet his eyes, cannot bring himself to. The care should be reassuring, should be a small relief on the open bruise of their shattered pieces; tonight, it only makes Fingon more desperate to forget.

He presses his fingers to Maedhros’ jaw, traces the scar that curls from there up to his temple and into his hair. “If I had wanted tender lovemaking, I would have found some maid; can you please get the fuck on with it now?”

Maedhros’ fingers dig harshly into Fingon’s thigh once more, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. Removing his hand altogether he rises and grabs the oil.

“Turn around,” he says. “On your stomach; do not come until I tell you to.”

That is more like it, and Fingon scrambles to comply. The air in the chambers is cool against his skin and he presses his face into the pillows, counting breaths; counting moments as he hears the vial getting uncorked, feels Maedhros move between his legs once more.

It has been so long since they have done this, and Fingon shivers with anticipation. Part of him wishes it did not have to be like this, but he silences that, too, groaning when Maedhros sinks two oiled fingers back into him without warning.

“Yes,” he hisses, pushing back. Maedhros uses his right arm across the small of Fingon’s back to keep him still, scissors his fingers. “It’s fine; for the love of everything will you just—“

He is cut off when Maedhros, unerringly, finds the spot inside of him that makes him see stars. He keeps his fingers there, just enough pressure to make Fingon tremble, and then he withdraws all at once.

“You are too impatient, truly,” he murmurs, except that it is more of a threat. He follows it up by shoving a piece of fabric into Fingon’s mouth and dropping a deceptively tender kiss to his temple.

This, finally, finally—

When Maedhros pushes into him, every inch is too slow and too much, the stretch just on the edge of too painful. It is exactly what he wants, and he pushes back, revelling in the hiss it draws from Maedhros.

They both shake by the time Maedhros is fully seated, and it takes all of Fingon’s self-restraint not to push himself to his knees, to stay as still as he can. To bite down on the soaked fabric and yield to whatever Maedhros will allow him.

As if reading his mind, Maedhros’ hand finds his neck and pushes down, pushes his face further into the pillows until Fingon has to keep his breathing even to make sure he gets any air into his lungs at all. His heart is hammering in his chest and Maedhros starts moving, slow, rolling thrusts that hit their mark unfailingly.

He is everywhere, inside and out, the edges of them blurring until all of Fingon’s thoughts turn to this, at last.

He makes a high keening noise and his eyes water when Maedhros picks up his pace, his breathing turning ragged. The sounds they make are the only ones in the chambers and it almost hurts too much.

Fingon feels scraped raw and left bleeding, and he doesn’t bother keeping back the tears now, no longer bothers pretending that the grief of every time they do this now is not exactly what he had wanted from it.

Maedhros sinks his teeth into Fingon’s shoulder, stifling whatever noises he would make otherwise. It shifts the angle, drives him deeper, and Fingon can tell that neither of them is going to last long.

“Come on,” Maedhros murmurs, breath ghosting hot over Fingon’s ear. He pulls Fingon upright until they are back to chest, and the change in position makes Fingon cry out.

Mercilessly, Maedhros grabs his waist and pushes him down on his cock, thrusting up to meet him. “Keep doing that,” he says before wrapping a hand around Fingon’s cock.

The sudden touch makes him see stars, but he does as he is told, his thighs straining. He lets his head drop to Maedhros’ shoulder, bares his throat; presses his fingers into Maedhros’ legs, and pretends that he doesn’t notice the way Maedhros buries his nose in Fingon’s hair.

“Please,” he gets out, so close now that it’s becoming difficult to hold back.

“Not yet,” Maedhros rasps, squeezing the base of Fingon’s cock. “I want you to come from fucking yourself on my cock alone; go on.”

Fingon moans, his rhythm faltering before he picks it back up. Maedhros fingers are purposefully light on his skin until he finds a nipple and pinches it, the pain like lightning.

Fingon is close, so close—

Maedhros’ fingers curl around his throat once more. “Come on love,” he murmurs, low and sweet into Fingon’s ear. “You can do it.”

Fingon sobs and comes all over his stomach. If he let himself, he could grow to hate Maedhros for the fact that this is what does it.

Maedhros keeps fucking him through it, blissfully silent once more, and tips over the edge just as it is threatening to become too much.

They stay like this, kneeling on the bed pressed together, heads to shoulders as their breathing calms. Eventually, Fingon moves away lest he deludes himself into things that no longer are, wincing when it makes Maedhros pull out of him.

“Do you want me to—“

“Stay,” Maedhros says, before Fingon can finish the question he does not want the answer to. “Lie down.”

He gets off the bed, moving through his chambers naked despite the chill, and Fingon is helpless to watch him. His heartbeat is calming back down but with it, the silence of his mind is receding, too; it is easier to focus on Maedhros than everything else, which is saying something, truly.

Maedhros returns with two goblets of wine, a wet cloth, and a small leather pouch. He hands the goblet to Fingon and then sits between his legs and starts wiping down his skin.

There are bruises blooming already on his thighs and his hips, and Maedhros brushes a thumb across them before pulling back.

It is achingly tender, and Fingon downs half his goblet to keep himself from starting to cry in earnest.

“Show me your hand,” Maedhros says, once he seems satisfied. At Fingon’s frown, he rolls his eyes. “Your finger; you cut yourself before I got here.”

It hits Fingon like a punch. He had forgotten, the pain fading into the background, and now here Maedhros sits, alcohol and gauze in his naked lap because Fingon had cut himself on what was once, long ago, meant to be a betrothal gift.

He is sure that somewhere, some Vala is laughing at him.

Not trusting his voice, he simply gives Maedhros his hand. It truly was a small cut, the blood already dried, but Maedhros cleans it with the same care he would afford a battle wound.

In a way, perhaps it is.

When he is done, his fingers curl around Fingon’s, pressing warmly into his palm. “Fingon—“

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not,” Maedhros scoffs, but there is concern written all over his face. “Will you tell me tomorrow, at least?”

His fingers are still warm against Fingon’s palm, and he looks—

Fingon closes his eyes and ignores the way his stupid, treacherous heart is kicking against his ribs.

“Yes,” he lies, and pretends that Maedhros cannot see right through him.

Maedhros only hums, empties his wine, and slips into bed beside him.

It feels almost simple when he slings an arm around Fingon’s waist, pulling him close. When he presses his forehead to Fingon’s shoulders and exhales shakily; when he murmurs, “Stay, then,” and Fingon finally takes his hand, linking their fingers, letting himself lean against him as if that was still a safe thing to do.

Almost.

To Fingon’s surprise, Maedhros is still there the next morning, sitting at his desk in a loose tunic and leggings.

Fingon’s sleep had been restless, and he allows himself to simply look. To take in the long line of Maedhros’ back, the simple knot at the base of his neck that he wears his hair in nowadays, the notched ear adorned with silver loops. The way he still holds himself the same, straight-backed but relaxed, as he had all those centuries ago in Fingon’s room, washed in the early light of Laurelin.

Fingon has never been an early riser, and Maedhros always found something to spend his time on. Fingon had almost forgotten—had almost, almost, almost succeeded in making himself forget.

Of course, it no longer takes Maedhros long to realise that he is being watched. When he turns, Fingon winces at how tired he still looks.

“Feeling better?” Maedhros asks, his voice mild despite the roughness.

Fingon feels like his stomach drops to his feet all over. He does not say anything, but Maedhros nods as if he had. As if it made perfect sense.

“Come on then, let’s get some breakfast. I have been told that food is supposedly important, even when—well, whatever it is, yeah?”

It is a not-so-subtle question, but there is no pressure behind it. Fingon—well, Fingon does not quite know what to do with Maedhros like this. Warm. Gentle.

Sighing, he heaves himself out of bed and pretends that he does not feel Maedhros’ eyes following him as he dresses.

The dining hall is bustling with activity, but most people only offer them nods of acknowledgement as they pass. Fires burn in the hearths along the walls, and it smells of fresh bread and coffee.

“Sit,” Maedhros says once they reach the high table. “I will only be a moment.”

Following his line of sight, Fingon finds Maedhros’ captain watching them. He sits down next to Maglor and gratefully takes the offered coffee.

Maglor does not ask if he feels better, but he does heap food on Fingon’s plate with an astounding lack of subtlety. Fingon is almost willing to think that today might turn out a little better when Maedhros finally returns.

His face is carefully blank and his shoulders a brimming line of tension. His voice gives nothing away when he says, “A word, your Highness?”

His hand on Fingon's shoulder says that it is not really a question, and Fingon cannot tell if his title was meant to sound that pointed.

He considers resisting but dismisses the idea; he has no interest in causing a scene, and he wants to know what caused the sudden shift in Maedhros’ mood.

Still, he does shake the hand off when he rises, and gestures for Maedhros to go on. “After you.”

Maedhros clenches his jaw, but nothing else is said as he leads them out of the hall, down a corridor and then another, and finally into a tidy study.

As soon as the door closes behind Fingon, Maedhros’ expression changes. It is not actually anger, Fingon realises. He has exactly the span of a breath before Maedhros says, “Why, by all the Valar, would you not tell me that your father is dead?”

Fingon flinches, the words like a blow.

He does not want to touch it. He does not want to think about it. He does not want Maedhros to look at him with pity, of all things.

“Look, I know it is important and I should have said something last night so that you could prepare—“

“Fingon,” Maedhros interrupts, the frown between his brows deepening. He steps closer and touches Fingon’s face lightly. “Yes, it would have been good to know, but who cares. Your father died. Should I not have done something other than, what, fucking you into the mattress and then going to sleep?”

“Why, because you have cared so much about my well-being these last couple of years?”

He regrets it as soon as the words meet the air, Maedhros’ face draining of all colour.

“Right,” Maedhros says, stepping away. “Come on, I cannot talk to you when you are like this.”

Fingon wants to punch him, but he catches the glint in Maedhros’ eyes. He grits his teeth until his jaw cracks. “I know what you are doing.”

“And, is it working? Or do you not want to hit me yet?”

“Sometimes,” Fingon says, purposefully relaxing his muscles, “I hate you more than words can say.”

Maedhros is still smiling, and it would be convincing if Fingon did not know him so well, down to the marrow of his bones.

“I know,” Maedhros says, voice mild. “So let’s have a sparring match, unless you prefer to stay here arguing all day?”

Fingon knows it for the bait that it is. Unfortunately, Maedhros does know him too—down to the marrow of his bones.

Whirling on his heel, he pushes the door open with enough force that it slams against the wall. “Not a word,” he snaps, and while Maedhros complies, that makes it not the least bit better.

The training grounds are situated in a large hall across the courtyard and empty when they get there.

The brief brush of morning air has banked some of Fingon’s anger, and he knows that none of it is Maedhros’ fault. That Fingon barely feels like himself, feels like someone had cut him loose and set adrift, some current of chaos that he can barely keep afloat in.

But then he looks at Maedhros and the meticulous, stubborn way he puts his armour on one-handed, all of it designed by his brother to make it possible. Watches as he, one-handed, twists his hair into a knot at the base of his neck. Watches as it once again becomes so painfully obvious that Maedhros simply decided, at some point and without consulting Fingon on the matter, that he no longer needed Fingon.

Meanwhile, here Fingon is, first thing after his father died.

It is enough to grab one of the practice swords in a white-knuckled grip and wish that he could use his fists instead.

They fight the first round in silence, except for the clang of metal against metal, and the pounding of Fingon’s heart in his ears. Maedhros lets him come close once, twice, and then he starts making use of his range, catching most of Fingon’s blows easily.

He presses forward in response, dancing circles around Maedhros until he slips past his guard, and lands a blow on his unguarded right.

Maedhros doesn’t miss a beat, tossing his head in proud acknowledgement. “Again.”

They fight another round like this, this one going to Maedhros when he uses a split-second of inattention to push in close, tower over Fingon with all his advantage of height, and press the edge of his blade beneath where the last of Fingon’s ribs sits.

“Careless,” Maedhros says quietly, the corner of his mouth quirking. “You still need to guard your flank better.”

Fingon hisses through his teeth and twists out of range. “Yes well, not all of us can boast of an ambidextrous fighting style, dear cousin.”

It earns him a laugh, and the next moment Fingon finally gets close enough to kick one of Maedhros’ legs out from underneath him, sending him sprawling. He sets the tip of his blade to the white throat and allows himself one moment of triumph before the incandescent fury slams back into him.

Another round, and they are both panting, less dance and more bare-boned fight. Maedhros still is a sight like this, fiery hair and colour high in his cheeks, his eyes flashing. It is distracting enough that Fingon loses another round. His muscles ache. His heart hurts.

They find themselves in a draw next, blades crossed, their strength too evenly matched. Maedhros looks at him and asks, “So, why did you not tell me?”

Fingon still wants to punch him. Instead, he pushes them apart and takes two steps back, re-balancing his sword.

“Why would you care?” he says, the words refusing to stay locked behind his teeth. “You—you, and my father, and my siblings—you all always think you know so much better, don’t you?”

Their blades clash, the force of it reverberating up Fingon’s arms. Maedhros says nothing.

“And now my father is dead and so is my sister, my brother might as well be, and you don’t give enough of a fuck unless I come here.”

“Finno—“

“Shut up, or Eru help me.” His ears are ringing, everything inside of him on the brink of shaking apart. “Just—shut up, okay? I want—“

He does not finish, does not trust his voice. He uses their proximity to curl one hand into the front of Maedhros’ clothes and drag him close; to push himself up and kiss him, all teeth and desperation.

Maedhros freezes. Fingon braces himself for the rejection, the inevitable collapse of what brittle remains he has been trying to cling to.

Maedhros does pull back, not far but enough to frown down at him. “Finno—Fingon.”

Fingon sighs, the sound of it rattling through his chest. “I am sorry,” he says, and means it. “Just—I do not want to think about it, yeah?”

They hover there, blades crossed between them, and if Fingon thinks too much about that, he might yet start to cry.

Then Maedhros drops his blade, carefully takes Fingon’s sword from him, too; leans down and kisses him, brief and gentle. There is resigned hurt shining through the cracks of his facade, but he still says, “Come on then,” and so Fingon will deal with the consequences of his furious tongue at some later time.

They make it to Maedhros’ chambers before Maedhros drops to the settee, pulling Fingon on top of him.

“You made me do all the work last night, so you can fuck yourself on my cock if you want it so badly,” he says against Fingon’s mouth, a hint of teasing in his voice. It sends all of Fingon’s blood straight to his cock.

He strips them both quickly and gracelessly, need burning beneath his skin.

Maedhros watches him as he fingers himself open, his face impassive but his hand light and warm as he runs it over Fingon’s thighs, his stomach and chest. He wraps strands of hair around his fingers and tugs lightly, raking his nails down Fingon’s sides.

It is almost too gentle, but Fingon closes his eyes, focuses on the stretch and burn, and does not wait nearly as long as he should before he sinks down on Maedhros’ cock, everything going blissfully blank.

Maedhros does make him work for it, letting Fingon take his pleasure with one arm behind his head, the other hand resting on Fingon’s thigh, only the minute twitching of his fingers giving away that this is affecting him at all. When Fingon finally spills over his own hand, his thighs are trembling.

Fingers digging into Fingon’s thigh, Maedhros smiles up at him sweetly. “Come on, one more love,” he says and thrusts upward, punching a moan out of Fingon.

He tries to pull away, but Maedhros flips them over and does not allow Fingon time to recover. He leans over Fingon and kisses him deep and thorough, pushing back into him. Fingon can do little but hold on, bury his face in Maedhros’ neck, and let his mind go hazy as Maedhros picks the pace back up.

It is almost too much, everything over-sensitive and tender, and Maedhros’ hand is still gentle on his skin, his jaw, in his hair. Fingon can no longer bring himself to mind, can no longer pretend that falling into it does not feel like coming home.

When he comes a second time it could be moments or hours later, nothing left of the world but Maedhros’ taste on his tongue, his scent in Fingon’s nose, all of reality narrowed down to the familiar body melded to his. Maedhros follows after him and Fingon laughs against the beloved mouth, flying, flying, flying.

Maedhros smiles back and collapses on top of him, pressing his nose into Fingon’s neck.

He closes his eyes and breathes, one hand cupped loosely over the back of Maedhros’ head.

They do not speak in the aftermath even as they disentangle from each other. Fingon feels scraped raw and less solid than he did this morning, and Maedhros seems to sense it.

He does not stray far except to build the fire back up, once again find a soft cloth to clean them up and produce a pitcher of wine and blankets from somewhere.

Once he is done, he sits back down next to Fingon and pulls him close, carefully, as if expecting protest. Fingon does not have it in himself anymore.

Maedhros is warm and solid, the fire is chasing the chill from the chambers, and thanks to his halfway-through abandoned breakfast, he can feel the first tendrils of heaviness from the wine not too long after he drains the first goblet.

It is by the third one that he squints up at Maedhros. “You know, if you are doing this out of pity—“

Maedhros sighs. “No, Fingon. I am not having sex with you out of pity. Hard as that may be to believe.”

Fingon winces and pulls away, the heavy blanket pooling in his lap. He refills his goblet and drains half of it, the bitter sweetness of the wine grounding.

“I am sorry,” he says, the words feeling hollow for how often he seems to be repeating them, these days. “For what I said earlier, too. It was… well, it wasn’t exactly untrue, but it wasn’t fair either.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Maedhros says, but he sounds tired. “You do know that I care about you though, right?”

“Right. You just pushed me further and further away as a sign of our love.”

Maedhros makes a frustrated noise, running his hand through his hair. “I haven’t—“

“If you are about to tell me that that is not what you have been doing, I am going to hit you.”

“Fingon—“

“No, you all—I know I just apologised, but you all always pretend like you know better. You, disappearing into your godforsaken fortress and stopping answering letters, sending ambassadors instead of visiting yourself. My brother, disappearing off the face of the earth. My father—“ He chokes, and realises that his hands are shaking. “Everyone always fucking leaves, Nelyo, no matter what I do. So why don’t you for a change tell me what the damn reason is?”

Maedhros’ expression crumbles, leaving something helpless and so wildly hurt behind that Fingon wants to turn away from it. Before he can, Maedhros pulls him close, ignoring his token noise of protest. “It’s not your fault.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No, I know. But I don’t think you want to hear it right now. I will tell you, I promise, just—not now, Finno, yeah?”

“You are doing it again.”

Maedhros nudges his chin up, makes Fingon look at him. There is weariness pressed into the corners of his eyes, but he says, voice steady, “I love you. I have loved you all this time, and I will not stop doing so tomorrow, next year, a hundred years from now. Can that be enough for now?”

“You—“ Fingon tries, voice breaking. “I cannot stand you.”

“I know.”

Fingon lets his head drop back to Maedhros’ shoulder and breathes against the threat of tears. It is no answer, is no explanation for Maedhros’ disappearance, but he is right, loath as Fingon is to admit it. Fingon does not want to have this conversation right now.

“Do you think,” he says, into the scarred skin of Maedhros’ shoulder, “is there any chance that he isn’t dead? That Morgoth captured him, that he’s…”

He knows it is stupid even as he says it. To his credit, Maedhros does not point it out. He simply kisses the top of Fingon’s head and says, voice kind, “No, I don’t think so, love. Not if what Turgon’s messenger said is true, and I don’t see why it would not be.”

“I hate when you have to make sense,” Fingon gets out. Then, “I cannot even visit his grave. My own brother does not trust me enough to know where his shiny city is, and in turn, I cannot visit my father’s final resting place.”

Maedhros kisses the top of his head again and does not pull away. “I’m sure that I could find Gondolin, with some determination. I would find that damned city for you.”

Fingon sobs once, before succeeding in swallowing the tears back down. He kisses Maedhros, softly this time and without urgency, and says, “You know, this more than anything makes me believe you.”

It is meant to come out light-hearted and lands on too honest. Maedhros hums though, takes it for what it is, and Fingon stays there, wrapped in the treacherous safety of Maedhros’ arms.

He wakes alone, the fire burnt low in the hearth.

If he is honest, it is a bit of a relief. His insides feel like Ossë himself had tossed him across the sea for days, and his head pounds faintly.

Sitting up, he finds a note on the table, which is more than he expected. He is too weary to let it get his hopes up, but the scrawled ‘I have a meeting with my councillors that I cannot postpone. Do get some food once you wake, or at least call for a servant, will you?’ does make him feel stupidly relieved.

His limbs feel heavy and the hours of sleep—for it must have been hours, daylight having bled from the room—seem to have done little for his exhaustion.

Still, his stomach reminds him of the lack of food, so he does eventually drag himself out of the nest of blankets and finds his clothes, noting the various aches and bruises that Maedhros had left on him between the fighting and the fucking.

It should not be as satisfying, to find Maedhros’ marks on his skin again, but Fingon cannot bring himself to pretend otherwise.

He does make sure that none of them is visible, and it is a good thing he does; despite the late hour, the corridors are bustling with activity, guards and servants moving with the purpose of a fortress in preparation.

The dining hall is thankfully less busy and Fingon finds a quiet spot to eat in peace. It lasts until he leaves, fully planning to go back to sleep and worry about what turned Himring into a beehive tomorrow.

Then Maglor appears out of nowhere and links his arm through Fingon’s as if they were in the habit of gossiping together over tea and biscuits, and what little peace Fingon had found dissolves.

“I think kidnapping the Crown Prince is, as a general rule, considered treason,” Fingon says, carefully keeping the irritation out of his voice.

Maglor hums, steering them down a less busy corridor and up a flight of stairs. “I think it is considered an even worse offence to kidnap the High King, and yet, I somehow doubt that you will prosecute me once we are done.”

“You are not making a strong case for yourself so far,” Fingon says, voice tight. He did not need the reminder.

To his credit, Maglor grimaces like he realises his blunder, but he doesn’t answer, pulling Fingon down another corridor.

He contemplates and dismisses the idea of protesting the manhandling. Maglor may have a reputation as the level-headed one, but it really only seems that way because anyone looks level-headed between Celegorm and Curufin.

They eventually reach a door that opens onto the battlements. Fingon has been up here before, but the view still makes him stop for a moment.

Beneath Rána’s light, the cliff that holds Himring falls away sharply and then levels out into endless plains. Stars litter the sky in constellations that are both familiar and bittersweet, and in the darkness, the smoke and reek of the North can almost be ignored.

“Leave us,” Maglor says quietly, dismissing two guards. “Take a break for a candle mark or two.”

The young-looking Elves incline their heads, their eyes lingering on Fingon before they disappear inside.

“Do they know already?” he asks, once the door closes behind them. He does not look at Maglor, leaning against the parapets; he should apologise, probably, for not telling him. It had been foolish at best, and Fingon wasn’t the only one who had lost too much this last year.

“Yes,” Maglor says, unapologetic but easy. “We have been reinforcing defences and patrols since this morning.”

It hits Fingon what he isn’t saying—while Maedhros had stayed with him, let him fight him and snarl and spit and curse at him, his brother had gone and taken care of the things that needed to be done.

“I am sorry,” he says, after all, glad for the darkness. “I shouldn’t—“

“You know, when Morgoth captured Nelyo, I almost abdicated to Tyelko. The only thing that stopped me was that he would have taken all our people to storm Thangorodrim the next morning. But I did not think I could do it, so I think taking a day or two is not the end of the world. You will do just fine.”

Fingon’s throat feels too tight, and there is fury licking up his spine that is quickly becoming familiar. There are a lot of things he could say—about Maglor’s brief stint as King, about Celegorm’s urge to go rescue his brother. About how none of them had.

He says none of them and can’t quite tell if it is his better senses finally making a return, or the bone-rattling exhaustion that is still clinging to him.

Still, when he says, “Lucky for us, then, that Maedhros always comes through in the end, is it not?” he fails to keep it free of the bitterness that he just cannot seem to shake.

Maglor sighs, his fingers drumming an inaudible rhythm against the balustrade. After a long pause, he says, “You know, he did this with all of us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This whole, pushing us all away, thinking he has to isolate himself up here in his freezing fortress. Coming up with excuses why he can’t visit, or why we shouldn’t, convincing himself that it was somehow for the best.”

Fingon stares at him, the pause dragging. In the end, the words make it past his teeth regardless, impossible to bite back.

“Yes, well, one could understand that after his brothers let him hang off a mountain for thirty years. Unlike the rest of you, I did not, though, so excuse me if that is not as comforting as you seem to think.”

Fingon does not wait for the regret, for Maglor’s own temper or for his guilt to rear its head. Turning on his heel he walks back inside, impossibly even more miserable than before.

Maedhros’ chambers are still empty, and Fingon can’t tell if he is disappointed or not. Mostly he is still all anger, all boiling guilt, and crushing exhaustion.

He pours himself a goblet of wine and wanders through the room; opens a window and stares into the dark North, thinking of Thangorodrim. Thinks of Maglor’s words, how it does not help, and how it does.

Of course, Maedhros would lock himself away. No matter what Fingon spat at Maglor, he knows that it has nothing to do with how his brothers abandoned him.

Usually, Fingon does not feel as bitter about it. Usually, he does not feel like his insides have been replaced by the Helcaraxë itself.

With some effort, he pulls himself away from the window, gravitating back towards the weapon table.

It is no surprise, what Maglor had told him, at the end of the day. It had always been the most likely reason, regardless of how many times Fingon tried to find an answer to why Maedhros would push him away.

He also knows better than to listen to Maedhros’ brothers, but the fact of the matter, he thinks as he lets a hand run over the adorned box that holds the dagger, is that regardless of the answer—

Well, regardless of the answer, he still had left Fingon behind. Everyone always has grand and noble reasons; none of them ever smooth the serrated edges of heartbreak that he is left to deal with.

By the time Maedhros returns, the pitcher of wine is empty, and Fingon has half drifted off to sleep.

“Hey,” Maedhros says, almost soft, settling on the edge of the bed. His hand hovers, hesitant, before he lets it drop into his lap. “Are you all right?”

Fingon tells himself that he does not mourn the loss of that touch. “You are such an idiot.”

Maedhros sighs. “I heard that Maglor talked to you.”

Scoffing, Fingon turns onto his back and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. “If that is what he wants to call it.”

There is silence, teetering just on the edge of uncomfortable, until Maedhros says, “You should sleep. I will join you in a moment, if that is all right with you.”

“So, we are still not talking about it?”

“Do you want to talk about it, half-asleep and drunk on however much wine you have had today, after you snapped at my brother and—“ He gestures, as if encompassing Fingon’s general state.

Beneath his kindness there is finally a hint of steel; Maedhros had always been overly protective of his siblings, not that Fingon doesn’t understand the urge.

Or used to, anyway. He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his hands against them until he sees stars.

“No,” he admits. “No, I really do not.”

Maedhros kisses his forehead, a chaste brush of his mouth that makes Fingon want to cry, and his weight disappears from the mattress.

Fingon does not want to sleep, wants to measure out the time it takes Maedhros to get to bed, see which side of his careful self-restraint and helpless care he falls on tonight. He watches Maedhros, the familiar routine with which he undresses, the well-worn, beloved edges of him.

Fingon is asleep before the candles in the room are extinguished.

He feels no better when he wakes.

In fact, when he blinks his eyes open to grey-tinged morning light and Maedhros’ arm warm around his waist, he has to swallow carefully to once again keep himself from crying.

“Morning,” Maedhros murmurs into his neck. “Sleep all right?”

Fingon can’t answer. He is so very tired.

“Hey,” Maedhros says, more alert now. He pushes himself up on an elbow and turns Fingon onto his back with a gentle hand. It is what does it, finally, the tears coming before Fingon gets another chance to stop them.

Maedhros does not say anything; just pulls him close, presses his mouth to the top of Fingon’s head, and lets him cry.

In a way, that makes it worse, but Fingon cannot find it in himself anymore to regret it.

“I do not know how to do any of this, Nelyo,” he finally says, confessing it to the place that cages Maedhros’ heart. “I am so tired. I do not know how to do this on my own.”

Maedhros runs his fingers through Fingon’s hair, slow and methodical; undoing the braids he hasn’t been taking care of, extracting the gold, combing it out. He used to do this often, back in Valinor. Fingon wants to cry again, maybe never stop.

He is being melodramatic. He reaches for the anger of the past days and only finds an even deeper well of weariness.

“I would tell you that you are not going to be alone, but you would not believe me,” Maedhros says. “Not that I can blame you.”

“That is not comforting.”

“What can I do?” Maedhros asks, and by all the Valar, Fingon had missed him.

A terrible thought.

“I just want to go back to sleep, I think,” he says, and pretends that he does not feel Maedhros’ guilt like a tangible thing between them.

When he wakes next, Maedhros sits in bed with parchment scattered all around him.

“Hey,” he says, when Fingon moves. “I brought breakfast.”

With a groan, Fingon pushes himself up. “I feel like I have gotten underfoot a warhorse; I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You are too hard on yourself. I would be more concerned if you were perfectly fine.”

“Yes, well. Doesn’t mean you are the person I should have run off to, is it,” Fingon snaps, and then drops his face into his hands. “Elbereth, I cannot stand myself right now.”

Maedhros sighs and gets up from the bed. He throws a tunic at Fingon, and a comb next. “Then let’s do something about it. Burying yourself in bed will not make it better, and me telling you to have some patience with yourself clearly does not, either.”

“Maedhros—“ Fingon starts, knowing he should apologise. Maedhros has been trying, ever since Fingon got here; it is not his fault that it only seems to make things worse, the hurt of their shattered pieces amplifying and reflecting all the fresh pain.

“I know,” Maedhros says, stopping to smile at him, even as it is sad around the edges. “It’s all right. We will figure it out. First, we are going hunting, though; Maglor can handle things for three days.”

The mere idea of getting up makes Fingon want to cry some more, but he is growing tired of his own misery. Pushing himself out of bed, he hesitates, and then catches Maedhros by the seam of his tunic to pull him close. Brushes a kiss to his cheek and stays there, temple to Maedhros’ jaw.

“I am sorry for making this so hard. I just—thank you. For bearing with me.”

Maedhros wraps an arm around him and sighs. “You are here despite me making it hard for years. You have nothing to thank me for; I am just sorry you feel like you do.”

There are so many things Fingon should say, but between the cotton inside his head and the sharpness of his tongue, he does not trust himself to speak.

“We will figure it out,” Maedhros repeats, as if understanding that, too. “That said—go get dressed. You need to get some fresh air.”

It is midday by the time they ride out of the courtyard, the late March day crisp but fair.

They have a small guard with them that keeps its distance, and the fresh air and open sky already settle some of the sharp-edged agitation beneath Fingon’s skin.

“So, what is the plan then?” he finally asks, once they have made it down from the mountain. “Did not most of the land here fall to Morgoth’s forces, too?”

Maedhros glances at him, his hand relaxed on the reins as his horse finds its way.

He has always been a good rider, and like with almost everything else, he had made sure to not only regain but hone the skill to flawless perfection in the aftermath of Thangorodrim.

“It was, yes, but we regained the Pass of Aglon a few weeks ago. My brothers stayed in Nargothrond, but Tyelko always had hunting lodges up there. Whether we will be hunting game or Orcs I cannot tell you yet, but then, I have an inkling that you might not exactly mind slaughtering some Orcs.”

Fingon grins, helpless against the surge of affection. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

Maedhros grins back. “I don’t know. Is it working?”

“Haven’t decided yet; might be a start, though.”

He is lying, of course—they are way past the start. He watches Maedhros, tall on his horse and armour gleaming in the early light of the year; watches him and thinks of the way he has been yielding to Fingon these last few days, a bastion within Fingon’s storm; watches him, the easy way he talks of his lands and the future, and is reminded of something he has learnt a very long time ago.

There is nothing he would not forgive Maedhros. It stopped scaring him just about as long ago.

They reach the small hunting lodge just as the light begins to fade from the sky, the first stars blinking into existence.

It consists of three wooden huts in a sheltered clearing, encircled by thick oak and sycamore trees. A river runs past it, swelled with the melting snow and making the air smell of fresh growth and second chances.

With a few words, Maedhros sets a watch for the night and sends his remaining men to rest in one of the smaller houses.

The two of them take care of their horses in companionable silence, before Maedhros leads them to the main house. “Let’s hope my brother has left this in a usable state.”

To Celegorm’s credit, loath as Fingon is to admit it, the cabin is impeccable. It is sparsely equipped but comfortable—a main room with a fireplace and furs in front of it, a large table, a few hunting trophies adorning the walls.

Further in there are two bedrooms, a washroom, and a well-stocked pantry.

“I am surprised that this was not ransacked when Morgoth’s forces came,” Fingon says, looking at an entire shelf of dried meat.

Maedhros shrugs. “You know Tyelko, he probably had half the local wildlife protecting it. There is a reason we managed to reclose the pass, and not anything else.”

“Aren’t we lucky, then,” Fingon says drily, grabbing two skins of wine and ignoring Maedhros’ raised brow.

They make dinner, toasted bread with butter and dried meat, sweet wine to warm them. They share the cleaning up, and Fingon can’t help but watch Maedhros, still, drying plates in his loose tunic, his hair open and gleaming in the lowlight.

It is so domestic that it aches, and Fingon knows they need to talk, but—

But. He steps into Maedhros’ space and takes the last plate out of his hand. He wraps his arms around Maedhros’ waist, pulling him close; kisses him, soft and sweet, and finally says what has been pushing against the back of his teeth for days. “Varda, but I missed you.”

Maedhros laughs, a choked, shocked kind of sound that cracks his face open. “Yeah, I missed you too, Finno; you have no idea how much,” he says, letting his head drop to Fingon’s shoulder. As if the admission has taken both all the strength out of, and all the weight off of him.

They stay there for a long while, wrapped around each other in the silent cottage, as if the world beyond does not matter, for once.

Eventually, Fingon takes Maedhros’ face between his hands and brings it back up to kiss him. The room is warm and Maedhros is solid against him, and this does not fix everything, but perhaps, it can be a start.

More than anything, Fingon wants it to be a start.

He deepens the kiss, lets himself fall into it; lets his hands run over Maedhros’ arms and his chest until he can slip a hand beneath his tunic, and take his time to trace the map of scars anew.

Maedhros exhales shakily and pulls him towards the fireplace, where they fall in a graceless heap of limbs onto the furs.

“Do you—is this all right?” Maedhros asks, his hand gentle where it’s running through Fingon’s hair.

Fingon understands what he is asking, and he has to close his eyes against the regret that wants to rise in his throat. They have had many rushed, rough, desperate encounters these last few years, Maedhros never quite able to push Fingon away for good, and Fingon never quite able to let him.

He wishes that this, this cautious hopefulness of putting their pieces back together, had started differently. But then, perhaps it only ever could have started like this.

“Yeah,” he says, lying down and pulling Maedhros on top of him. His weight is familiar and grounding, and Fingon traces his thumb along the scar that curls up from the corner of his mouth, across his temple, into his hair. Kisses him again, and relishes in the way Maedhros is letting himself be kissed.

They rid themselves of their clothes slowly this time, hands and mouths following every strip of revealed skin. The firelight washes Maedhros skin golden, his scars like arteries of silver crossing through it, and Fingon could spend lifetimes making this his homeland.

“You are thinking too much,” Maedhros says, his smile pressed to Fingon’s mouth. He rolls his hips, his cock already hard, and Fingon arches into him, instinctive. Maedhros’ smile widens. “Turn on your side.”

The furs are soft against their naked skin and the fire warm, and Fingon does as he’s told, leaning back against Maedhros’ chest.

He hears oil getting uncorked, and Maedhros pulls him closer with his right arm. His mouth finds the spot behind Fingon’s ear as he first slicks himself up, and then wraps his oiled hand around Fingon’s cock. He moans, even more so when Maedhros pushes himself between Fingon’s thighs, his breath stuttering.

Reaching back, Fingon pulls him closer until they are pressed together head to toe. Maedhros moves without rush, languid and deliberate, even as their breathing grows louder in the quiet room.

They balance on the edge until Fingon loses track of time, until he cannot help but twist so that he can catch Maedhros’ mouth again with his, no matter that the angle is off. It is a low, steadily building burn in his gut that spreads through his entire body until he is trembling, and the only thing that is keeping him from shaking apart is Maedhros all around him. Is Maedhros shivering just as badly, his voice wrecked as he keeps saying, over and over, Fingon, Fingon, Fingon.

He comes first, too, spilling between Fingon’s legs with a full-body shudder. His hand stutters on Fingon’s cock and his teeth sink into Fingon’s shoulder, and Fingon wants to freeze this moment, keep them here. He wraps his own hand around Maedhros’, flying too high to stop, and leads him back into a rhythm. It does not take him long from there to follow, the liquid burn finally spilling over, pulling him under.

For a while, neither of them moves. Fingon could easily fall asleep like this.

They would regret it in the morning, though, so eventually he turns and kisses Maedhros lightly. “You know,” he says, pretending that it does not take more courage than facing the dragon, “I love you, too—always have, always will. If you try to push me away again, though, I am going to run down your fortress. As King now, I think I have that right.”

Maedhros snorts and kisses his forehead. Still, when he says, “I wouldn’t dream of it, your Majesty. I promise,” he sounds so genuine that it hurts.

The day of the hunt dawns with grey skies and sharp winds.

They ready their horses, pack gear and provisions, and then make their way deeper into the forest.

They pick up the tracks of a herd of deer and follow it for a few hours, before losing it again around midday. It is as frustrating as it is normal, and they take a short break to refill their waterskins.

When they ready their horses once more, Fingon notices that Maedhros is moving more carefully than usual. Making sure they are out of earshot of their guard, he nods at it. “Shoulder?”

Maedhros waves a dismissive hand. “Just lay on it weird last night, I think.”

The furs, of course. Fingon should have thought of it. He knows better than to say it though, and with how their luck is going, he doubts that Maedhros will have to put much more strain on it today.

Which is, of course, exactly why they run into a company of Orcs not an hour later.

Between their two groups, it is difficult to say who is more surprised by the encounter. Maedhros catches himself quickest, but the first thing he does is still to find Fingon’s eyes, a bare breath before he pulls his sword.

Fingon follows suit and falls into position to Maedhros’ right.

With a shout, Maedhros lets his horse jump forward and cuts the chieftain’s head off. It makes the Orcs roar, and from there it is all the old-familiar dance of battle.

They fall back into it easily, Fingon guarding Maedhros’ right, and Maedhros burning so brightly that even the cruellest Orcs seem to quail before him.

He is glorious like this, always has been. He had also been right about the fact that killing some Orcs would make Fingon feel infinitely better.

It still almost goes wrong.

It becomes clear quickly that the Orcs stand no chance, and it makes them desperate. Just as Maedhros pulls his sword free of one, another barrels into his side and doesn’t let go; the sudden impact is enough to throw off Maedhros’ balance. He goes down, his horse tossing its head and dancing away nervously.

Fingon—Fingon doesn’t know what happens. One moment, Maedhros falls, the mere idea of it incomprehensible. The next, Fingon has thrown himself off his horse and his sword has cleaved the Orc looming over Maedhros from head to chest, blood and entrails everywhere.

Over the split head, Maedhros stares at him, face bloodied and still, somehow, managing to look disgusted.

With his stump, he gestures at the Orc, where a dagger still protrudes from the side of its neck. The blade is broken, having fallen victim to Fingon’s rage.

“I had it, Finno, but thank you. Help me up?”

Fingon stares, his blood still rushing in his ears and his heart a wild beast inside his chest. Around them, the guard is disposing of the last few Orcs, and he desperately tries to remember how to breathe.

Finally, he pulls his sword free and kicks the very dead Orc aside.

“If you ever do something like this again,” he says, offering Maedhros his hand, “I will hunt you down all the way to Mandos and kill you myself. Just so we’re clear.”

Getting to his feet, Maedhros grins, bright and alive, alive, alive. Drops a kiss to Fingon’s mouth, disgusting as he is, and says, “Duly noted, love.”

Fingon would be sorely tempted to punch him if he didn’t follow it up with a grimace of pain, moving his shoulder tentatively.

“Right, let’s go home,” Fingon says, counting their guards and breathing a sigh of relief at finding them all upright. “Anyone injured?”

Beyond a few scrapes and bruises, they are all miraculously fine. For now, Fingon ignores Maedhros’ poorly bitten-down wince when he gets back on his horse.

It takes them an hour to make it back to the lodge, and by then, a faint drizzle has started, trickling beneath their armour and soaking their clothes.

The moment they are alone, Fingon leans against the door of the lodge and groans. “Varda, this was miserable.”

Maedhros makes a noise somewhere close to agreement, already pulling at the buckle of his breastplate.

“Let me?” Fingon asks, stepping closer. It is a testament to the pain that he must be in that Maedhros merely sighs, and gestures for Fingon to go on.

He removes the breastplate, vambraces, and gauntlets, while Maedhros watches him. It has been many years since he let Fingon do this—back then, still at the shores of Lake Mithrim. It had been Fingon who trained with him, day in and day out, trying to find some balance between satisfying Maedhros’ need to regain mastery of his weapons, and stopping him from working himself into the ground.

It is easy, easier than he thought, to fall back into the pattern of it. To say, “Come on, mail next,” and let Maedhros bow in compliance. To remove the heavy hauberk without getting it tangled in his hair, and with as little strain to his shoulder as possible.

He unlaces the gambeson next, pulling the strings free and pushing it off—left shoulder first, stepping close, then the other side.

Maedhros is still watching him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“Sit down,” Fingon says, nodding towards the fire. “And get out of your shirt.”

Maedhros opens his mouth, and Fingon shakes his head. “Just—let me take care of you for once, will you?”

“All right,” Maedhros says, swallowing. He looks like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he simply brushes a kiss to Fingon’s temple and then drags the chair in front of the fire.

Fingon hurries to get out of his own armour and damp clothes, shrugging on a fresh tunic before grabbing the oil from between the furs.

He drops it into his pocket and builds the fire back up. He stays on the ground, and gets Maedhros out of his boots, then grabs them two goblets of wine, as well as water and a soft rug.

“Drink,” he instructs, and wets the rag. “Look at me.”

Moving to stand between Maedhros’ legs, he starts cleaning the blood and grime off his face. The water runs reddish-brown soon, and he goes to change it, before moving on to his hair.

“You don’t have to—“

“Hush.”

Maedhros complies. Once his hair is clean, Fingon finds a comb and brushes it out until it falls in soft waves. “Braids or just a knot in your neck?”

From behind him, Fingon can see Maedhros swallowing once more. Hesitating. “You don’t have to—“

“I know. But I am asking; I want to, Nelyo.”

Maedhros exhales in a rush, his shoulders slumping a little. “A braid, then. A simple one.”

Fingon hums in agreement, taking it as the concession that it is. This, too, used to be familiar once. Long before Maedhros lost his hand to Fingon’s blade, he already lacked the patience for the elaborate hairstyles of Valinor.

Back then, he had no qualms about letting Fingon do it for him, through long, lazy afternoons they spent in their own world.

Once Fingon has finished the simple braid, he lays it across Maedhros’ left shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of his head. “How bad is the shoulder?”

“It is—“

“And do not lie.”

Maedhros makes a noise somewhere between irritation and amusement. “It hurts, but not so much that you cannot touch it. Go ahead.”

“Such self-sacrifice, oh noble Maitimo,” Fingon says, but he smiles to himself, and fishes the oil out of his pocket.

He warms it a little, and then lightly settles his hands on Maedhros’ shoulder and neck.

Even this, even hundreds of years later, is still familiar. Maedhros relaxes in increments, but his skin turns warm beneath Fingon’s hands as he recommits the way it feels to memory—the array of freckles and scars, and how Maedhros leans back until his head rests right over Fingon’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Fingon says into the silence, his hands stilling. “For today. For the last couple of days in general. I feel… I don’t know, like I’ve just not been myself, but—“

Maedhros reaches up and catches his wrist in a loose grip, tipping his head back to look up at him. “Stop apologising so much; when my father died, I tried to face Morgoth on my own, so I think you are doing just fine, actually.”

He says it lightly, and it may have worked as far as comfort goes if it did not hit Fingon like a punch. Amidst all his anger and grief, he had somehow forgotten that he was not the only one who had lost his father to this war.

“Nelyo—“

“No, stop, you are doing it again. Self-deprecation does not suit you,” Maedhros says, his grip tightening on Fingon’s wrist. “If I did not want to do these things for you, I would not; I think if anything, I have proven that to you these last few years, have I not?”

Fingon flinches. “Well, apparently all it would have taken was breaking down your door. Instead, I just let you push me away, took whatever you gave me, and grew angrier and angrier with every year.”

With a sigh, Maedhros pushes himself out of the chair and comes to stand in front of Fingon, tugging him a little closer. “I do not think it would have been that easy. Even Maglor had to lose his home first, and then it was easier, with him. My brothers are as much stuck with me as I am with them; you, above everyone else, always deserved better than me.”

It rekindles Fingon’s anger like dragon fire. “Deserve what,” he snaps, putting two, three steps of space between them. “Deserve who, exactly? Who is left that I could possibly deserve more, even if I wanted that? I made my choice when the trees went dark, and since then, I kept choosing you. All you had to do was do the same.”

He does not know how this went wrong so fast, the cottage turning from warm and comfortable to cramped in moments. Maedhros’ expression is carefully blank, and Fingon wants to shake him, kiss him, shout at him until his voice goes hoarse.

“It is not about choice,” Maedhros says, but despite the way he holds himself, his voice betrays him. It always had. “One day, sooner or later, I am not going to have a choice. My brothers, the Oath, the way I am—“ He gestures at himself, as if that explains anything. “You deserve better than—“

“I love you,” Fingon says, forcefully calm. He says it like a challenge, like a gauntlet thrown between them. He says it like an oath. “Don’t you think that means I want to share whatever happens to you, too? If I wanted someone always happy, I would have gone for Finarfin’s line.”

Maedhros chokes on a laugh, even as misery mingles with desperate hope in his eyes. Fingon loves him so much, he would let it ruin them both.

“It is not that easy,” Maedhros says, but conviction is bleeding from his words. “Love alone doesn’t… It won’t…”

“And how has that worked out for you? Do you love me less, for all those years we have rarely seen each other? Do you feel better? If it is all for my sake, do I seem better off for it, to you?” Fingon asks, and alongside Maedhros’ conviction, his anger has evaporated as quickly as it flared.

Maedhros makes a noise like an animal shot, looking away from Fingon. He crosses his arms over his chest, still naked from the waist up, and oh what a mess they have made of everything.

Fingon steps closer, watches Maedhros for a sign that he is unwelcome. Instead, Maedhros sways towards him as if all his ironclad self-restraint is finally used up.

Curling a hand around his hip, Fingon uses the other to pull him down until their foreheads rest together. “We can all die—tonight, tomorrow, a year from now. Do you think either of us will be happier for it if you keep doing this?”

“Finno—“

“If you think that I am letting you go on like this, you do not know me at all,” he says, smiling when Maedhros huffs a wet laugh. He sobers though, tracing the scar that covers half of Maedhros’ left side. “I could not have stopped my father or my siblings, as much as I want to believe otherwise. I can try for this, though. I will. Will you keep trying to stop me?”

Maedhros does not smile this time, but he finally touches Fingon—slowly, carefully, wrapping one of Fingon’s fraying braids around his fingers over and over. After some silence, he pulls away far enough to properly look at Fingon, and there is the steely resolve in his grey eyes now that always preludes a decision. Fingon can only hope beyond reason that he will not have to camp out in Himring’s courtyard for the next few turns of the moon.

“I still think you deserve better,” Maedhros says, catching Fingon’s hand before he can pull away. He smiles, crooked and fond and devastating. “But I am tired of doing it. I am tired of hurting you, and of the self-restraint it takes. You are impossible to stay away from, in case that makes you feel any better.”

“Well, it’s a start,” Fingon says, helpless against the grin that is threatening to split his face.

“I will make it up to you,” Maedhros says, frowning with such seriousness that Fingon can’t help but kiss him. “I mean it, Finno—“

“I know,” Fingon says, kissing him again. “You can start by taking me to bed before the chill in here undoes all the good I have done your poor shoulder.”

Maedhros snorts but he pushes his hand into Fingon’s hair to pull him close, kiss him properly. Fingon lets himself fall into it, hands roaming over Maedhros’ skin, the long line of his back, wrapping the braid—his braid—around his hand and tugging lightly until Maedhros exhales shakily against his mouth.

“Come on,” he says, dragging Fingon in the direction of the bedroom. “Do you have the oil? I want…”

It takes a moment until Fingon gets what he isn’t saying. He stops, pulling away to look up at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Maedhros says, certain. He kisses Fingon again. “If that is all right with you?”

“Yeah,” Fingon laughs, happy and warm. “Yeah, of course.”

They stumble their way into the bedroom, shedding clothes as they go. Maedhros pulls Fingon on top of him the moment they reach the bed and Fingon keeps kissing him, keeps finding skin to run his fingers over, recommitting every sound that Maedhros makes to memory.

Once, sex had been something that came easily to them, their fingers and bodies learning each other amidst laughter and teasing. In the aftermath of Thangorodrim and the Ice, it had taken time and patience and more than one failed attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy, not helped by the ever-growing distance.

In some ways, Maedhros had a harder time at it, especially when it came to giving up control. Fingon didn’t mind—he liked Maedhros taking charge, always had.

There is something sacrosanct about him allowing Fingon this now though, about letting Fingon take care of him.

He takes his time, kissing and kissing and kissing Maedhros until their lips are bruised and there is a flush high in the beautiful face beneath him. They are both hard by then, moving languidly against each other, and Fingon finally makes his way down Maedhros body; follows the path of scars with his tongue and fingertips, bites lightly into the sensitive spots he remembers—waist and thighs, the inside of Maedhros’ wrist.

Maedhros watches him out of half-lidded eyes, his mouth wet and breathing ragged already.

Finally, Fingon settles between Maedhros legs, stroking himself a few times as he takes him in. He knows Maedhros considers himself far from his famed beauty of Valinor, but to Fingon he is still easily the most beautiful thing across both realms. Now that he is allowed again, he has every intention of reminding him any chance he gets.

When Maedhros makes an impatient noise, nudging him with a knee, Fingon gives in, though. They have all the time now, after all.

Pouring oil over his fingers and warming it lightly, he kisses the inside of Maedhros’ knee and finds his gaze. “All right?”

“Yes,” Maedhros says, his voice clipped.

Fingon frowns. “If you—“

“Fingon, please,” Maedhros presses out, eyes closed. His cock jumps, and it’s—he wants this, Fingon realises, wants this so much that he hates to ask for it.

Fingon very generously does not tease him about it. He merely hums and wraps a hand around Maedhros’ cock, letting the other move back until he can circle his entrance. He presses his smile into Maedhros’ thigh at the moan Maedhros fails to bite down on.

He still takes his time, going slow; one finger first, and only when Maedhros starts to look ready to beg, a second. When he adds a third, Maedhros is flushed all the way down his chest and writhing on the sheets, and Fingon is so turned on that his mind is going fuzzy at the edges.

“Please,” Maedhros says, finally, his voice even rougher than usual. “Finno, it’s fine, please just—“

“All right,” he says, his own throat suddenly dry. Carefully, he removes his fingers and uses the rest of the oil to slick himself up. “Do you want to turn around?”

Maedhros shakes his head and reaches for him. His kiss is wet and frantic, his fingers trembling on Fingon’s jaw. “I want to see you,” he says, painfully honest. “If you ever do get on with it, that is.”

“Impatient.”

“Mhm,” Maedhros says, pressing his head back into the pillow as Fingon lines himself up, carefully pushing into him.

Maedhros blinks up at him with bright, dazed eyes. “Missed you,” he says, reaching up to press a kiss to the corner of Fingon’s mouth. “I missed you.”

It would be just like Maedhros to make him cry while they are fucking. Fingon presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation of it—Maedhros’ legs around his hips, Maedhros’ hand in his hair, the scent of oil and sweat and sex in the room. The way Maedhros feels, as if he was made for Fingon to lose himself in.

“Go on,” Maedhros says, soft and easy, once Fingon is fully seated.

He is trembling with the effort of holding himself still, but he starts slow, ignoring Maedhros’ impatience. He makes it up to him by licking into his mouth, kissing him until they need to break for air; linking their hands, burying the other in Maedhros’ hair, and watching the way Maedhros leans into every touch.

They keep a slow rhythm even when Fingon finally starts to move, the burn of it building slow and sweet. He loses himself in the movement, the world narrowing down to this room, this bed, Maedhros and him and the air they share between them.

Maedhros clings to him, keeps meeting his thrust, keeps biting promises and confessions into Fingon’s mouth until Fingon’s head swims with it. When he finally comes undone, he presses his face into Maedhros’ neck and lets it wash over him, all hope and love and the sharp edges of want unravelling.

He comes to with Maedhros tracing lazy circles into his back, and his cock still pressing hard into Fingon’s hip.

With some effort, he lifts himself on his elbows to look down at Maedhros. His face is flushed and his pupils blown wide with want, lips bruised and his hair a mess. Fingon could see him like this every single day for centuries and never tire of it.

He tells him so, and Maedhros laughs. “I would let you,” he says, and Fingon would fight the Valar themselves for this.

He doesn’t tell him that, though. Instead, he pulls out carefully and kisses Maedhros’ throat, his chest, down his stomach until he can swallow him down in one smooth move that has Maedhros arching off the bed.

Fingon holds him down with one hand and pushes two fingers back into him with the other. Maedhros shakes and curses, his legs trembling, and it doesn’t take long from there for him to spill down Fingon’s throat.

Swallowing, Fingon pulls off and lies his head on Maedhros’ hip, looking up at him.

“You look a mess,” he says, grinning.

Maedhros rolls his eyes, but he is laughing, too. “You should see yourself, love.”

Still, with that nickname. Fingon presses another kiss to the inside of his knee and stays there, head in Maedhros’ lap until his heart finally settles.

Returning to Himring is like falling through the Ice, reality crashing back into Fingon without mercy.

Maedhros gets whisked away by his advisors the moment they dismount, just about managing an apologetic glance in Fingon’s direction.

He brings their gear up to Maedhros’ chambers and changes out of his armour. The room is as they left it, his haphazardly packed pack from Barad Eithel still leaning against the bed.

He had not even unpacked, mostly wearing Maedhros’ clothes, uncaring of such details.

Now, though, with the storm slowly settling, Fingon knows that he cannot keep running.

His father is dead, and Fingon’s world still feels on the brink of breaking apart. Fingon’s father is dead, his father who had always put duty and what he considered right above everything else. Who had, in the end, not had the hope left to lean himself up against the ever-looming despair.

Fingon’s father is dead, and the last thing he would want for Fingon is to let that despair take him, too.

There is very little that Fingon wants to do less than return to his empty fortress, don a crown, and pretend that things are fine. But his father had taught him well—about duty and responsibility. About love.

With a sigh, he ceases his pacing and makes sure that he looks presentable; it would probably go a long way to appear at least somewhat put together to Himring’s people while he has the chance.

His father and Maedhros may have spent years carefully building the impression of a firm alliance, but the Ñoldorian factions are not, exactly, what one would call united and trusting of each other.

Once he leaves the room though, he does not actually get far. Two corridors down, he sees Maglor in conversation with one of the Head Guards, and guilt rears up his throat.

With an inward grimace, he waits, listening to the orders for adjusted schedules and number of guards.

Once Maglor dismisses the Elf, Fingon falls into step beside him. “Are you expecting trouble?”

Maglor spares him a glance but shakes his head. “Maedhros gave the order just now. He has not explained it yet.”

He does not elaborate, and he isn’t ignoring Fingon, exactly, but he also shows none of the good cheer and warmth he tried to inflict on Fingon mere days ago.

With a sigh, Fingon pulls them into the same study that Maedhros had dragged him into after finding out about Fingolfin’s death.

Unlike Fingon, Maglor lets himself be steered without protest. Once the door closes, he leans against the empty desk in the middle of the room and raises a brow at Fingon. “How can I help?”

With a deep breath, Fingon steels himself. “I am sorry for what I said to you. I know it is unfair, when you just did what you had to.”

“You do believe it, though,” Maglor says, his tone neutral.

Fingon clenches his jaw, but the blank acceptance of Maglor is like sandpaper across his skin.

“I understand why you did not go after him, rationally. But I am not as forgiving as Maedhros is, and if it were me—I don’t understand how he can not hold it against you,” he says, and he knows full well that he shouldn’t. That, at the end of the day, it is for Maedhros and his brothers to sort out, but—

But. He thinks of his own siblings, the bitterness deep inside his chest even though their sole crime had been to seek safety, and not trusting him with it. Had been dying and burying their dead, and not letting Fingon mourn alongside them.

Maglor, though, simply nods. “For what it’s worth, I do not understand it either. Neither do the rest of our brothers.”

He says it matter of fact, like something aprioristic and unshakeable, despite the heavy weight of it. Fingon refuses to feel bad about this, of all things, but he does swallow his pride. “I guess it only matters that he does forgive you. That the fact of it means that somehow, you were the one who convinced him that shutting himself away is no help to anyone, not even those he wants to protect. So—“

“Do not thank me, Findekáno,” Maglor says, and finally his voice turns sharp. “You owe me nothing, and you never will. You may think what you want of me, and on many of those things, I will probably agree. But you brought my brother back to me, and then you put him back together, too. Whatever happened these last few days, you only have yourself to thank. And perhaps the fact that Nelyo loves you more than all of us combined”

Fingon blinks. “He does not—“

“He does,” Maglor says, face blank. “It only speaks in your favour that you never test it, but he does. If you had turned up here at any point these last few years and asked him to give it all up, he would have.”

At whatever Fingon’s expression is doing, Maglor rolls his eyes. “It is no accusation. I know that you would never ask that of him, and the fact that you do not is the reason why he loves you so. As well as why me and my brothers leave you alone despite it.”

Fingon makes a noise between laughter and disbelief. “How has this turned to you threatening me?”

“I am not threatening you,” Maglor scoffs, pushing away from the table. “This is as close to a familial blessing as you are ever going to get, and I know that probably means little to you, but do take it, will you?”

Turning his eyes toward the ceiling, Fingon breathes and counts to ten. Finally, he looks back at Maglor and says, “I really cannot stand any of you but Russo.”

Maglor laughs, all teeth, and claps Fingon on the shoulder as he makes to leave the room.

He stops in the open doorway, levelling Fingon with a look that reminds him that Maglor had, in fact, ruled his own lands for many centuries.

“If you make him brood like he has the last couple of years again, I will drag you back here myself. I do not care if it was your fault, or that you are High King now, or that Nelyo will kill me; keep him happy, Fingon. That was a threat.”

With that, he is gone, disappearing down the corridor and leaving Fingon to stare at the wall across from him, not sure if he should be laughing or feeling insulted.

It is a common experience with the Fëanorians; he should have remembered.

He wanders the fortress in search of Maedhros, somewhat lost in his thoughts, until a servant tells him that Maedhros had ordered dinner to his chambers and retired for the night.

Fingon thanks them and trails back to the North Tower.

Maedhros has changed down to loose breeches and a tunic by the time Fingon gets there, and there is dinner laid out on the table—fresh bread and cheese, fruit and cream, wine and water.

“I was looking for you,” Fingon says, settling down next to him and leaning into his side. “I found your brother instead.”

Maedhros grimaces and pours them two goblets of wine. “And how did that go?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I apologised.”

It earns him a raised brow and no comment. They had learnt long ago to treat the topic of their families with a specific mixture of carefulness, honesty, and avoidance. It worked, for the most part.

“What did your council want?” Fingon asks, changing the topic and taking a piece of white bread, coating it with butter.

Maedhros hesitates just a moment too long, suddenly very interested in his wine.

“Nelyo—“

“The news has somewhat spread that the King is dead, as well as regarding your presence here. Depending on who you ask…”

Fingon groans. “What are the rumours, then?”

Maedhros grimaces and downs half of his goblet. “Again, depends on who you ask. But some think that I am planning to take back the kingship.”

Fingon stares at him, waiting for him to laugh, crack the joke. When he does not, he drops his face into his hands. “You got to be joking. I’m so sorry, I know—“

“It is not an unreasonable assumption,” Maedhros says mildly, and when Fingon looks back up at him in disbelief, he shrugs. “If abdicating to your father had been a merely strategic move to redeem our house, using your father’s reckless death to take it back, especially after holding the East in the wake of Morgoth breaking the siege, would be strategically sound. Morally bankrupt, of course, but most people do not expect anything less from us. Hence—reasonable assumption to make.”

“Well, most people are idiots,” Fingon says, rubbing a hand across his face before turning back to his food. “What, do they think you have abducted me?”

“I did not ask for the details,” Maedhros says drily. “But some of them, probably.”

“So, what you are saying is that I need to return to Barad Eithel.” Despite having known this to be true for hours—from the start, really—it settles heavily on Fingon’s shoulders.

Wrapping an arm around him, Maedhros pulls him close. “I’m sure we could arrange a few more days, but I am afraid that eventually, you will have to, yes.”

“You settled me with this, you know,” Fingon says, joking. “You were all noble and righteous, giving the crown to my father, and suddenly I have to lead the Ñoldor, half of which—my people, no doubt, I saw the horses of the messengers—apparently still believe I would let you abduct me.”

“Well, you would.”

“I do not think it counts as abduction if I let you do it,” Fingon says, snorting despite himself. He sobers after a moment, though. “I am not—I don’t know what to do, Nelyo. My father was… He was bigger than life, and he buckled underneath it all. How am I supposed to take all that up, and then not fail spectacularly?”

The thing he loves most about Maedhros, always has, is that he never offers empty platitudes. There is no, you will be fine, no I have trust in you, no I believe that you will do great.

He knows that Fingon already knows him to think all these things, and so he hums and leans back, taking another sip of wine.

“I think we will need to change our strategy. Your father was right, years ago, when he said that we were growing complacent in the face of holding the siege. But he was right, too, when he said that we had grown stronger. The Bragollach went as terribly as it did because we were unprepared; the fact that both Himring and Barad Eithel still stand is proof that Morgoth has not grown stronger than us. Nargothrond still stands. Gondolin does, clearly, even if that is somewhat useless to us, but still, it matters.”

Fingon frowns, watching the firelight dance across Maedhros’ features. “What are you saying?”

“You cannot be the King that your father was. Of course, for one, because you are not your father, but also because times have changed. Accordingly, we will have to change. I have been in contact with Finrod since my brothers fled to Nargothrond, and Maglor’s forces are diminished but all here. Your forces are still strong, and while Thingol will be useless as usual and—forgive me—I am not counting on Turgon either, I do think we can build stronger alliances. We can return to working together more closely. We will have to if we want to stand a chance against Morgoth; in turn, the weight of leadership will be spread out more. Less on your shoulders alone, more on all of ours.”

“You have been thinking about this,” he accuses, voice choked and heart so full of love that it aches.

Maedhros presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Of course, I have. Did you think I was going to let you deal with it on your own?” Then, “Do not answer that. I am sorry. But I won’t; I promise.”

Fingon rests his forehead against Maedhros’ temple. “Thank you,” he says, staying there. “I do have to go home soon though; I should not have disappeared in the first place—if I hadn’t, we probably could have avoided the worst of the rumours.”

“I told you already; I think considering, you are doing just fine.”

Fingon nods, not trusting his voice, and Maedhros pushes his fingers into Fingon’s hair, running them along the braids. “You know…”

It is unlike him not to speak his mind. Pulling back, Fingon raises a brow at him.

Maedhros smiles, a little loop-sided, a little uncertain. “I could come with you, for a while. Maglor can handle Himring on his own just fine—frankly, I think it would keep him from going stir-crazy, and it would help with the rumours. Being present for your coronation, swearing allegiance, and all that. But even all that aside, I want to.”

It takes much longer than it should, for the words to arrange themselves into something that makes sense. When they finally do, Fingon loses his battle against the tears after all, although for once they are not of despair.

“Yes,” he says, taking Maedhros’ face between his hands. Then, again, more firmly, “Yes; in fact, I insist. Please come back with me?”

Maedhros laughs and kisses him, light and easy. “As you wish, my liege,” he murmurs against Fingon’s mouth, and the happiness of it all is so bright, Fingon feels like he could touch it if he tried, sink it into jewels, doom them all over even as it shines.

They are going to be all right; perhaps, against all odds, things are going to turn out all right.

When they ride out of Himring’s courtyard two days later, their guard is considerably larger, and the air of official state business sits heavy on Fingon’s shoulders.

Maedhros rides beside him, though, proud and golden in the light of dawn. At his hip, Fingon’s dagger catches the sun, and Fingon lets their knees brush.

Maedhros smiles, small and private, and returns the gesture. For the first time since Turgon’s messenger, hope rekindles in Fingon’s heart, the future unspooling ahead of them like a promise.

Chapter End Notes

Fingon, bulldozing his way back into being allowed to take care of others: is this a coping mechanism?

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A Current Full of Song by queerofthedagger

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Chapter End Notes