dark bones bursting into bloom by queerofthedagger

By the time they meet at the southern crossing, Maedhros has invented and discarded approximately a thousand excuses to get out of this.

None of them holds, of course; he cannot miss Fingolfin’s greatly anticipated feast. He cannot go alone. He cannot take any of his brothers but Maglor.

Still, when Maglor and his entourage come up, the sun washing him golden, Maedhros wonders if the diplomatic incident truly would have been that bad.

Maglor inclines his head, all respect. His eyes are hard. “Brother.”

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros replies, his voice blessedly level. “I am glad to see you well.”

Maglor’s expression tightens, something there and gone again. “Of course. I trust that so are you?”

It is not so much a question as it is a challenge. Maedhros is already growing tired of this.

“I am, thank you.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Maedhros echoes, and then sighs. “Come on, let us ride.”

Once more, Maglor inclines his head in deference. He lets his horse fall into step beside Maedhros, his men seamlessly filling the ranks of Maedhros’ own.

He holds himself differently, his brother, Maedhros thinks as they ride in strained silence. He had already thought so when being returned from Angband, but back then, the time as regent had sat on Maglor’s shoulders like Morgoth’s mountains themselves.

Now, under the clean air of their own lands, he seems taller, more settled. There is a keenness to his eyes and an ease to his commands that make Maedhros wonder.

“I trust all has been well in Himring?” Maglor asks, halfway through the day.

Maedhros inclines his head. “Of course. At the Gap as well?”

“A few Orc troops, but nothing serious.”

They speak as if they have not been sending messengers to keep each other informed of what was necessary. As if this—war, strategy, cold facts—is not all they have exchanged ever since Maedhros had removed them East.

He wonders if Maglor has forgiven him yet—for giving away the crown, for not asking him first, for coming back someone other than himself. He wonders if he has forgiven Maglor yet—for leaving him to Morgoth, for looking at him returned only with horror and guilt. For not forgiving him yet.

Maedhros can no longer tell. That is almost worse than the silence.

They make camp in the southern shadows of Doriath. Maedhros builds the fire, and Maglor sings it to life.

It is an old song, one from before the Great Journey. Their grandfather taught it to all of them, but it was Maglor who mastered it best.

The melody lingers in Maedhros’ mind even as they have dinner. As their men retire to their bedrolls and guard posts. Until it is only the two of them sitting by the low flames, the mild night air settling around them like an old friend.

Above them, the sky is star-struck. Maedhros feels something awaken within him that he had thought lost to Morgoth’s pits of misery.

He swallows. “Káno…”

He cannot go on. His brother turns to look at him, his expression drawn sharp with shadows and wariness.

Whatever he finds on Maedhros’ face makes him soften. They hover there, eyes locked.

Maglor exhales. “I know, Nelyo,” he says. “I know.”

There is no pity within it. It is all grief.

They reach the Pools of Ivrin during midday of the third day. The sharpest of the tension between them has eased, wariness settling into something a little more raw.

Maedhros is not sure that it is any better, but then, he will take whatever progress he can get.

Fingolfin greets them with Fingon and Aredhel, and for a moment, Maedhros forgets about the battlefield between himself and his brother.

It lasts until Fingolfin breaks their little reunion up with familiar exasperation. “Yes, yes, you are all terribly glad to see each other. You can do so over wine tonight; let Findekáno show you to your tent.”

Maedhros thinks he must have misheard. Then Fingon shows them to the single tent, and Maedhros reconsiders just how much he wants to avoid a diplomatic incident.

Of course, they assume that he and Maglor would be happy to share. Their family might fight and disagree, but at the end of the day, Fëanáro’s sons would never let anything come between them.

Maedhros cannot say if he wishes for that to be true; knows only that it is not, and that it is least so with the brother he was meant to love most.

He grimaces at the thought. Fingon raises a brow. “I hope it is all right that you stay together. We have so many guests—“

“Of course.” Maglor smiles. It is as beautiful and sharp as the stars in the depths of winter. “It is no problem.”

Fingon would have to be blind to miss the tension between them. Unfortunately, he is also used to the two of them making a mess of each other, so he leaves them to it with a roll of his eyes and a promise to catch up later.

The moment they are alone, Maglor’s shoulders slump. Suddenly, he only looks tired, as if he had aged aeons in the time they were apart.

“Káno,” Maedhros says, the second time in so many years. This time, he finds that he cannot stop himself from crossing the distance between them, from curling his remaining fingers around Maglor’s shoulder.

Maglor does not flinch; merely looks at him with dark eyes and finally says, “I am tired of fighting, Russandol. I no longer even know… Well, that is not true. But I tire of pretending that this does not cut me to the bone. How do you not—“

“I do,” Maedhros cuts in, finally giving in and pulling Maglor close. Maglor freezes briefly before he goes, and still touches Maedhros as if he expects to find a wild beast instead of his brother if he dares to blink.

Maedhros thinks of those early days after Angband when touch had been more unbearable than the absence of it. When he had screamed at Maglor’s attempts to help, to offer comfort—as if the touch of the brother he loved in all the wrong ways only confirmed what Morgoth had spent years trying to etch beneath Maedhros’ skin; that he was twisted. Tainted. Nothing but a mirror to all the vilest forms of desecration.

He should have apologised for that, he thinks, as Maglor keeps breathing carefully beneath Maedhros’ hand. He should have done a lot of things.

But then, perhaps it is best like this. Their indiscretions have ever been madness, and Maedhros, at least, should have known better. Perhaps they will be able to reconcile now; to build something better, something less reviled. To be brothers in a proper sense, without making a mockery of the very word.

“You still think it shameful,” Maglor finally says, stepping back. Maedhros is not surprised that Maglor picked up on some essence of his thoughts; a few years could not be enough to dim their bond like that, perversion of it or not.

“Because it is,” he says, and there is no bite in it. “You are my brother, and I love you; is wishing I could do so in a way that does not twist you to such darkness so wrong?”

Maglor turns his face away. His jaw works. “So you do still love me.”

This, too, is a challenge. Maedhros closes his eyes. “Yes,” he says, the words heavy like an oath. “I do not think I know how to be any other than that.”

It is an echo of words spoken long ago in the soft glow of Laurelin’s light. Back then, they had been drunk with reckless delight, drunk on each other, drunk on the thrill of what they were doing. They did not want to realise that they were throwing themselves across a brink that they could not come back from, curiosity and affection mingling into something that wiser elves would have known to resist.

Ever have the Valar warned them of temptation. Ever has it been their family’s calling to take that as a challenge. It is just unfortunate that the two of them chose each other rather than blazing revolutions or driving their cousins to fits of rage.

Maglor touches a finger to Maedhros’ jaw. The ice in him has thawed, and the expression on his face is somewhere between sadness and deviltry.

If Maedhros were a better man, he would see it for the warning that it is. As things stand, he merely turns his face into the touch and thanks whoever is still listening that his brother is not yet lost to him—in whatever way that is.

Maglor is, of course, part of the feast’s entertainment.

Maedhros tells himself that he is not grateful for the breathing room this gives him, but he has never been that good at lying to himself.

It is a relief of short-lived nature, anyway. Besides Maglor, an Elf Maedhros does not recognise takes the dais. He wears his long silver hair open and makes a startingly stunning contrast to Maglor.

The two exchange a few quiet words, and it is not quite possible to tell whether it is enthusiasm or competition that animates their gestures.

Maedhros is familiar with that particular mode of his brother. He clenches his jaw, breathes slowly. Only once he trusts his voice again does he lean towards Fingon beside him and asks, “Who is the other player?”

“Daeron of Doriath,” Fingon answers, and the look he slants at Maedhros is knowing. “Thingol’s chief minstrel, and one of the only two emissaries he sent.”

The implied warning here is clear, and Maedhros clenches his jaw harder to keep from saying something he will regret.

Diplomacy, he reminds himself. It used to come more easily.

“Have you spoken to him at all?” Fingon asks, when Maedhros does not answer.

“To Daeron of Doriath?”

“To your brother,” Fingon says, exasperation obvious. “Since you moved East.”

“Of course, I have. We would hardly be able to hold the Leaguer—“

“About things other than military strategy,” Fingon snaps, and then visibly reins himself in. “He blames himself, Nelyo. He—“

“He blames me for abdicating,” Maedhros cuts in, sharper than he means to. It may not be surprising that Fingon had picked up on the tension between them, but that does not make Maedhros any more eager to discuss the matter. “Which is well within his right. As much as it is in mine to have tired of the accusations; it is not my fault no one in this family has a strategic bone to speak of.”

“Because you are such a voice of reason. Come on, Maedhros, you know better than this. Maglor loves—“

“Findekáno,” Maedhros says, a warning. He forces himself to breathe. “I would prefer not to speak of this further. It is a familial issue; it will resolve itself eventually.”

He does not need to look at Fingon to know that the words hit their mark. It is a mercy he does not deserve that Fingon merely sighs, squeezes his shoulder, and then disappears into the crowd.

Maedhros leans back against the tent pole and does not look at where Maglor is playing alongside Thingol’s minstrel.

Maglor has ever made it an art form to be inescapable, nowhere more so than at the great feasts.

Once, Maedhros delighted in it, in seeing his brother shine, making an entire ballroom of people gravitate towards him like moths to open flame.

Of knowing that, at the end of the day, he was all Maedhros’. Of catching his eyes in between, catching the banked amusement, the waiting promises. Of knowing that, at the end of the night, it would be Maedhros that Maglor would come to—buzzing and sky-high, and yet wanting to be nowhere else.

It tastes much harsher without that certainty, no matter how often Maedhros tells himself that it is for the best. That he has given up any right to such desires years ago—that he should never have had them in the first place.

Still, he watches Maglor bask in the adoration; watches Daeron pull Maglor into a dance, and his brother following; watches as Maglor spins through the room, not once seeking Maedhros. No amount of potent wine can make him believe that this is what he wants.

Maedhros has always been a greedy creature, and never more so than when it comes to Makalaurë. He pushes away from the tent pole and does not think of condemnation.

“Will you not spare a dance for your brother?”

It is obvious from the minute widening of Maglor’s eyes that he did not expect this.

They hover for an uncomfortable moment—Daeron watching Maglor as if expecting him to protest, and Maedhros refusing to admit that he is doing the same.

Then Maglor catches himself. He smiles in a way that reveals he is calculating through countless variations of how this might go, and then offers Daeron a polite nod before stepping away from him.

“Of course, my Lord,” Maglor says, and the note of warning that only Maedhros will be able to hear sounds almost sweet. He adds, to Daeron, “I will find you later, I am sure.”

Maedhros answers that by taking Maglor’s hand and leading him to an open space on the floor. He pulls him close wordlessly and shuts his eyes, a brief indulgence, as they start to move.

After the first shock of familiar warmth, Maedhros cannot help but note the differences—the broader shoulders, the muscled back. Cannot help but think that this is the first time they have touched, touched like this, almost since they have set foot on these accursed shores.

Maglor exhales, and leans his head against Maedhros’, side by side. He does not speak.

“Findekáno says you blame yourself,” Maedhros says, never once able to leave well enough alone. They pull apart as the music quickens, keeping step easily.

Maglor meets his eyes. There is no denial there, no hostility. Just wariness.

“You did the right thing,” Maedhros says, pulling him close again. Maglor slips an arm around his waist, his entire body brimming with tension. “Coming after me would have been folly. It—“

“Spoken like a true king,” Maglor murmurs, voice sharp. “Do you think I do not know?”

“Maglor—“

Maglor shakes his head, but he pushes closer, fingers digging into the muscles of Maedhros’ back as if he cannot quite help himself.

“It does not matter.”

It takes all of Maedhros’ self-restraint not to reach for Maglor’s face. “It does. If it makes you avoid me for this long, if it makes you blame me for all this time, it very well matters.”

“You misunderstand me,” Maglor says, and he does step back then, puts space between them. His expression is carefully blank, but Maedhros can read the fury underneath. “It matters not, because it was for nothing. I stayed my hand, stayed at home, and for what? For you to give the crown to Fingolfin anyway, and—and the worst part is that I understand. That there is nothing I could have done differently, and yet it is Findekáno who brought you back, and yet it is our father’s brother who holds the throne.

“None of it mattered, Maitimo; all it has done is that you can no longer bring yourself to look at me either, and not out of your self-proclaimed shame alone. Say all you like about how I am the one avoiding you, but at the end of the day, we both know that it has nothing to do with my anger.”

Maedhros shakes his head, but it is no use; the words resonate like a blow.

“Káno—“ But Maglor is already stepping away, already turning to disappear into the crowd.

For a brief moment, Maedhros contemplates going after him, to catch his wrist, to play all of this out here and now.

The Noldor may have grown less concerned with propriety and the strict etiquette of Valinor, but Maedhros knows well enough how quickly he and Maglor could cause a scene.

He inhales, holds. Exhales, and lets the crowd swallow him up until he finds himself on the sidelines once more, a goblet of wine in hand and Finrod’s easy, comforting chatter for company.

When he makes it to their tent, he is not surprised to find Maglor pacing.

He looks like a caged animal in the cramped space, and Maedhros aches for him. He also knows that this—this breaking point, this cataclysm—may be what is needed, after all.

They can both hold a grudge for eternities if they must, but Maedhros misses his brother.

Something needs to give, one way or another.

Maglor stops when he enters. “Decades you have successfully avoided me, brother, and now you seem to be everywhere.”

Maglor, Maedhros reminds himself, has excelled like no other in getting a rise out of him. Mildly, he says, “I have not exactly seen you running down Himring’s gates either.”

“I needed time,” Maglor snaps, and then grimaces. He sighs. “I am sorry. If I needed time, I cannot imagine—“

“Don’t,” Maedhros says, too quickly. “I did; I do not want to talk about it.”

The long nights, the cold winters. The fact that there is no way of outrunning his ghosts. He built an entire fortress around himself, shut everyone out in the process, and still, the shadows trail him day in and day out.

Maglor’s face twists, miserable. Maedhros would apologise if he could get the words past his teeth.

A nod, as if Maglor understands. Something eases off his shoulders, and he crosses the space between them until he comes to stand in front of Maedhros. Heartbreakingly beautiful, his brother, ever more so when ruined like this—smudged coal around his eyes, hair in disarray, something lurking in the corners of his eyes that is both desperate hunger and bristling madness.

“What a mess we have made of everything,” Maglor says, touching his fingers to Maedhros’ jaw once more.

It is an old gesture; started long ago, devastatingly innocent by a young Maglor, testing ever whether he was yet tall enough to reach Maedhros’ face. Grew from there, slowly, slowly, and then all at once, into something considerably less innocent.

What a mess, indeed.

Maedhros catches his hand, holds it there. He swallows. “I thought you angry with me, for the crown.”

“I was.”

Maedhros turns his head and presses his mouth to Maglor’s fingertips. “I know. But for different reasons than I thought.”

“Our father must be rolling in his grave,” Maglor says, a thread of humour in his voice. It has been so long since Maedhros has heard anything but ice and glittering purpose in it that he wants to weep.

“Good,” he says instead.

“Maedhros.”

“It was—easier,” he admits, his fingers flexing around Maglor’s. “It was—I do not blame you, Makalaurë. I would stay on that cliff for another century if it meant that you never had to come close to Morgoth.”

It scares me, he does not say. Cannot. This, this and Maglor’s expression breaking open before him, is as much as he can bear.

“You are—“ Maglor starts and then curses, long-winded and foul, before he cuts himself off.

“I cannot believe you,” he says, and then he kisses Maedhros, one firm hand to his jaw but his mouth soft, a question.

One that Maedhros has never been able to leave unanswered, no matter all the reasons against it. He kisses his brother back, the sharp-edged, bittersweet truth of it, and feels himself come alive for the first time in half a century.

“I am still wroth with you,” Maglor murmurs against his mouth, not going far.

He is malleable beneath Maedhros’ hand now, though, leaning against him. Maedhros thinks that if he tried to speak now, it would have to come out wrecked.

But then, perhaps, it does not matter. He presses his mouth to Maglor’s forehead, his temple, pulls him close. “I am sure,” he says, and knows what expression he would find on Maglor’s face if he were to look. “I shall make it up to you; dress you in riches, perhaps? Commission you a crown of your own?”

“Maitimo—“

“I know,” he says, the exhale shaking through his chest like thunder. “I know.”

“You must know, surely, that it will be you and me until the end of things,” Maglor says, his voice turning fierce again. “Surely, you must know.”

Maedhros swallows. He wishes—he wishes that he could claim that he wished it were not so. That he was better than this, was good without Maglor, without this.

Morgoth may have made a great many things of him, but liar is not one of them—not in this, at least.

He bows his head, finds Maglor’s pulse; the beating, steady constant of it.

“I know,” he says, once more.

“Good,” Maglor says, and looks at him. His eyes are dark, full of promise. “Do not try to deny it again, then, and you shall be forgiven. You and me, until the bitter end.”

Long ago, they both had vowed to utter no more oaths. Maedhros kisses him, with all the honesty still left within him, and makes it a promise, all the same.

He will regret this, in the end, he knows. He knows.

Maglor kisses him back, like laughter after darkness, and Maedhros knows that he will keep his word. Until the bitter end.

Chapter End Notes

Morgoth: I barely damaged him at all!
Maglor: You fucked up a perfectly good Elf! Look at him, he has catholic guilt not even knowing what catholicism is!

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