drop your knives (I want to drop mine) by queerofthedagger

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drop your knives (I want to drop mine)

Written for Day 5 of Russingon Week: Sparring & Battle, Horror in the Past!

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It is a miserable day, in a miserable week, in a miserable month.

Across from Fingon, Maedhros’ expression is a study of barely contained frustration.

The clearing they are in is muddy, the trees bare and grim in the sluggish grey of the evening. Rain is beating down on them, having long since made its way beneath armour and clothes.

It is better than the deceptive peace, the silent confinement of the camp, and so Fingon re-balances his blade and steps towards Maedhros for the umpteenth time today. “Again.”

They have been at this for hours, and before this, they have been at this for days. The sword is still clumsy in Maedhros’ left hand, none of the graceful ease that he possessed before Fingon cut him off of Thangorodrim to be found.

It is not only missing from his swordwork. Maedhros is a caricature of the beloved Elf Fingon had cursed through years on the Ice, and some days, Fingon hates him for the fact that he cannot hate someone who has already been brought so low.

It is not fair. It is not even entirely true; if Fingon had ever hated Maedhros, if he had managed it at least on the worst nights with Turgon’s choked-off sobs and Aredhel’s shaking filling the tent around him, he would have never gone after him.

Still, the lie of it is easier to tell himself than it is to watch Maedhros struggling to claw his way back to life, day after day after miserable day.

Maedhros falls into a defensive position, his eyes sharp and almost fey in the dim light as he follows Fingon’s movements.

Fingon had thought that the first few weeks would be the worst part, the ruin of Maedhros’ body healing slowly, reluctantly, beneath their healers’ hands.

He strikes; Maedhros blocks.

It had not been true. It was a helpless ordeal, but it was better, in some ways, than watching Maedhros fail at simple tasks. Taking care of his hair. Dressing himself. Holding a quill.

The blow Maedhros deals him in return is easy to catch, too little strength behind it, too easy to see coming.

They danced this dance before, long ago, in Tirion; learning to wield weapons had been a fun pastime at first, just another craft for them to measure and test their skills in. They had both taken to it readily, some of it familiar from hunting parties.

This, now, is a far cry from those days. Maedhros is desperate and impatient, not that Fingon can blame him. He would not want to listen to the healers’ insistence to take it slow for yet another turn of the moon either, and at this point, he sometimes thinks it does more harm than good.

He disarms Maedhros with a simple twist of his sword, and in the end, this is no better—to see Maedhros work himself to his bones through miserable days and short, terror-shaken nights, unable to stop him from pushing himself beyond endurance.

How do you reassure someone who has seen the worst already? How do you promise that things will be all right, that there is time? Fingon no longer believes it either, after all, even as the Ice’s legacy upon his body is less obvious.

Maedhros stares at him, panting and arms trembling. Fingon wants to take the blade from him, to pull him close; wants to hold him, lay them down in dry sheets so they can rest.

“Again,” Maedhros says, picking his sword back up, and Fingon complies.

He always does. Where Maedhros’ brothers have long since stopped keeping step, Fingon is still here, even as his own muscles shake, as his limbs cramp with the cold, as his body protests the days spent fighting, the nights haunted by his own nightmares. The nights spent in Maedhros’ tent, sitting in silence until dawn comes, no longer sure what to say to each other but unable to be apart, still.

This, them, is a caricature as well. Fingon unleashes another row of blows upon Maedhros and does not think about the way it feels like penance and revenge both. Does not think about how this is the only way he still knows to touch Maedhros without fear.

Their blades cross between them, Maedhros catching Fingon’s advance at the last moment. It is a shaky stalemate, Maedhros’ face pallid and drawn with exertion, and Fingon does not want to press his advantage of strength, does not want to add fuel to Maedhros’ burning pit of self-contempt.

Unfortunately, despite everything, Maedhros still knows him better than anyone.

Throwing his weight behind it, Fingon pushes, and twists his wrist at the same time; Maedhros stumbles back, his grip on the sword slipping, the blade falling.

He is left standing in front of Fingon with empty hands, his expression of steely determination cracking open, eyes closing.

For a moment, they hover there, the rain droning out the noise of the forest.

Then Maedhros blinks his eyes back open and stares at Fingon, his voice hollow when he says, “You should have shot me on that godforsaken mountain when you had the chance.”

The words slam into Fingon like the blow of a mace. With the next breath, fury burns through him and he bares his teeth, helpless against it all. “You know full well that self-pity does not become you.”

Maedhros scoffs. “It is no self-pity, and you know it, too. Look at me, Fingon—what good am I like this? I cannot fight. I cannot even take care of myself anymore.”

I will fight for you, Fingon wants to say. I will take care of you, if only you would let me.

He does not. He grits his teeth instead, and jerks his chin at the discarded weapon. “So pick your sword back up and keep going until you can.”

Maedhros’ nostrils flare, eyes flashing. He has never done well with being told what to do, and for a moment, Fingon almost believes that he will finally fight, will finally push back against Fingon and the sharp-edged, bitter way they treat each other.

More than anything, Fingon wants him to finally fight—properly, hotly, no longer side-stepping each and every one’s of Fingon’s provocations.

Maedhros lands the first blow this time, still not strong but precise. Fingon disengages, dodges the next one, and does not take the opening to unbalance Maedhros’ stance.

It draws him in close again and their blades cross once more. Up close, he can hear the breath rattling through Maedhros’ lungs, the way he is panting. Up close he can smell him, sweat and oils, something still agonisingly familiar even after all this time.

Up close, Fingon can see the despondency in the black of Maedhros’ eyes, and it makes him reckless, makes him terrifyingly honest.

“The next time you say something like this,” he presses out, his own voice wrecked, “I will march right back into Angband and bring the entire mountain down, if that is what it takes. If you need something to break yourself against, I am right here, am I not?”

Beneath Fingon’s blade, Maedhros stills. He swallows, eyes roaming across Fingon’s face, everything still shaking, shaking, shaking apart.

“Fingon—“

“Oh, for—“ Fingon curses, and drops his sword. Curling his freezing hands in the front of Maedhros’ tunic he pulls him close, presses their mouths together, all of it graceless and rash and so, so stupid.

Maedhros makes a noise, something punched-out and animal. He does not reach for Fingon but he does sway closer. Doesn’t use the sword he still holds, pressed against the soft parts of Fingon’s belly, to run him through right then and there.

The world filters back in in increments, Fingon’s actions, as so often, catching up with him belatedly.

It is barely a kiss, this open-mouthed, desperate thing; still, it is closer than they have been in ages and he is reluctant to pull away, to stop sharing the same air, stop holding Maedhros close if only like this.

When he finally does, Maedhros stares at him, a hint of colour in his cheeks.

“Fingon—“ he tries again and finally, carefully, sets his sword down.

“I am sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. Awkwardness threatens to settle over them, but he cannot bring himself to regret it. Not quite, not with Maedhros still looking at him with something other than grim resignation.

“Please, don’t be,” Maedhros says, a crease etching itself between his brows. “I’m—I am not.”

He sways closer once more, but it is with purpose this time, a question still evident in every line of his body. There is hope now too, golden and incandescent flaring in his eyes.

Fingon reaches out and touches him, a hand to the ruined face. Maedhros leans into it, presses his mouth to Fingon’s palm.

For the first time since he wielded the knife upon Maedhros’ body, it does not leave the taste of blood in his mouth.

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Chapter End Notes

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