Fanworks Tagged with Fingon/Maedhros

Drabbles created (and now polished) from February 15, 2025 Maedhros & Maglor week-themed Instadrabbling session)

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Maedhros closes the shutters, one by one. "You're late," he says, voice low but not unkind.

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Maedhros comes to Barad Eithel after the Dagor Bragollach and the fall of Fingolfin.

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Some drabbles from the 1/19/2025 instabrabbling event 

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The mountain has always been a place of growth and safety and memory. It will stand in the face of war and water, fated to last until the end of Arda. The spirit of Himring will watch, and remember.
Or - the history of Arda through the eyes of Himring personified.

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Maedhros' rescue from Thangorodrim left him deeply scarred. But how did it impact Fingon as his rescuer? A drabble sequence from Thangorodrim to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

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These are the first fanfics I ever read, and they are all truly fabulous and absolutely timeless and 100% recommended!

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It is not, Maedhros thinks, that Fingon is no longer angry. It is just that Fingon has never let anything as clean-cut as betrayal stop him from loving Maedhros in despite.

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After everything, they are just a little insane about each other.

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Fingon returns to Barad Eithel after a late-autumn hunt, finding someone unexpected with his wife. The night takes an even more unexpected turn for all three of them.

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“A pity,” Fingon says, and his grin looks only a little forced. “Will you dance with me regardless?”

Maedhros first instinct is to say no. Elbereth, he should say no. But he looks at Fingon with his flushed cheeks, the braids coming loose, the banked hope in his eyes. The way the slant of his mouth reveals that he expects a rejection, and how he asks regardless.

Maedhros has always been terrible at denying him anything. It is why he had put half a continent between them, why he knew that coming here was a mistake before he so much as left Himring’s walls.

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Maedhros believes that Fingon deserves something better. Fingon disagrees.

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It is too much to ask, Findekáno knows. If there is one thing he understands it is loyalty, the way it sits on your shoulders, the crushing weight and comforting form of it. Maitimo can no more turn his back on his family than Findekáno can, and that, more than anything, has always been their most wretched similarity.

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One last meeting on the Eve of the Fëanorians' exile.

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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.

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After Thangorodrim, Maedhros needs to re-learn how to fight. It goes about as well as can be expected.

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In that time before he had taken himself and his brothers East, taking Fingon back to his bed had been the last thing on his mind. After, in his cold fortress and alone with his thoughts, he had almost been grateful for it, for never having asked. As if this was something Fingon would still want—the ruined body, the betrayals like landmarks etched into it.

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A sweltering summer day during the Long Peace, a cool lake, and a revelation; it is enough to bring back together what Maedhros thought lost.

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“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.

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In the wake of Fingolfin's death, Fingon's first instinct is to run East. It has been long years since Maedhros' arms meant comfort, and yet, at the end of it all, it may have been one of his better impulses.

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

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

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The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow.

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Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

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In the aftermath of Thangorodrim, not everything falls back into place easily. But Fingon is nothing if not patient, and if giving Maedhros what he needs means silencing his own demons, well—there is no one that Fingon would rather do it for.

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It begins as a game, in their Tree-lit, happy youth: Touch my mind, and draw what I am thinking. Is it an apple, or a pear?

Fingon and Maedhros, thinking for and of each other.

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Maedhros and Fingon meet in the mists, again and again. Until they don't.

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“This is not the way of the Eldar.”

“It’s mine. Am I not one of the Eldar too?”

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A visit to Himring, castle in the snow.

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Findekáno’s coronation should have been a grand affair. Moringotto was dead, and the Ñoldor could begin to rebuild and slowly retake the lands the Enemy had destroyed in the battle that they had all thought was the beginning of the end.

But Findekáno’s father had fallen even as he slew the Black Foe. Over four hundred years he had ruled, and Findekáno knew this was quite possibly the worst time for a change in leadership.

He still didn’t know where Turukáno and Írissem were.

He still had not heard from Russandol.

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Fingon and Maedhros go camping, taking Fingon's young daughter along with them. Once she falls asleep, they discuss their complicated feelings.

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Love. He must love enough, and Maedhros will be granted to him. Fingon can do that easily enough, he thinks to himself. He had returned Maedhros from the dead before, had he not?
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The world is aging, and Fingon entreats for Maedhros in the Halls of Mandos. It is simpler than he believed, but somehow it makes nothing easier.

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The Havens of Sirion burn, and it is not the Sons of Fëanor’s doing.

Maedhros, Maglor and Fingon, in the years between the fall of the Havens and the arrival of the Host of the Valar.

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Fingon records a selection of details about his life from the Fourth Age onwards.

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