Work Text:
The rolling green and grey of Beleriand are beautiful in a way that Valinore could never be. The wildflowers, all different shapes and colors, grow unattended in strange patterns of chance. One might walk through the crabgrass and squash it beneath one's foot without realizing it. All the world is a garden in this new, fair land, filled with animals prowling the wood as they have for centuries, peering down from their nests and attending these interlopers with suspicious eyes.
In Valinore, days could pass without one realizing it, as every day was bright and beautiful, the light of the trees encouraging the world to grow tall and strong; yet, everything was orderly there. Trees would line up beside each other, and animals would come to greet a hunter without fear. One could go their entire lives without encountering hunger or pain.
Not so in Beleriand. Thirty years later, and Fingon has gone hungry for days, skin stretching tight over his spare frame. He has already dealt pain. He has severed the hand of his best friend. He has nearly slain his cousin.
In the camp of Fingolfin, new houses are being built, meat roasting and being cured over the fire, a bit of color showing anew in the people of the ice. For the first time in a long time, Fingon senses hope.
He crosses the camp with a curl to his lips, greeting his people with gaiety he has not shown, nor felt since Valinore. He wishes he could attribute this sentiment to the prosperity of his camp, but in truth, it is because the healers alerted Fingon that Maitimo will finally see him.
At the foot of Thangorodrim, Maitimo had been a long reed of white, the bones of his beautiful body painfully sharp and twisted. His lovely red hair had been black with dirt and oil, and his voice had been the call of a crow. Atop the eagle, Fingon could only see a scarred mouth as his dear friend begged him for death. Since then, Maitimo has been under the care of the healers who had urged Fingon to leave them to their work. Once Maitimo was awake, he refused Fingon’s desire to visit him. Even as each of his brothers crossed the lake to see him, he had refused each of them, one by one.
All but, shockingly, Curufin.
But, finally, after so long, Fingon has been asked to come. Maitimo had said in his note that Fingon should join him for dinner, but, impetuous as ever, Fingon cannot fathom waiting so long. Under the midday sun, he rushes across the camp to see his friend, and the one he has loved in secret for so long.
The house of healing is a long, cloth tent that had been hastily set up when Maitimo had been brought to their camp, a bleeding pile of bones, insensible to the world. The pervasive scent of lavender and strong alcohol floats through the bound flaps of the tent, stinging Fingon’s nose.
He opens the flaps and pushes through, hands shaking with eagerness.
“Maitimo?”
There is a crash and a curse as out of the corner of Fingon’s eyes he sees a streak of red rush from he bed and hide behind the privacy curtain blocking the room from the bath.
Beyond the bed and desk there is a table filled with ointments, and medicines, bundles of herbs hanging from the tentpoles.
“Fingon,” comes Maitimo’s voice, curiously muffled as if spoken through the fingers of his hands.
Hand.
“You weren’t meant to come until tonight,” Maitimo continues, admonishing.
“I came early,” Fingon says awkwardly. “I wanted to see you.”
Now he wishes he had not come. For Maitimo certainly does not want to see him.
Fingon had forgiven Maitimo over his long journey to the dread mountain. He had been unable to think of anything but reuniting with his glorious cousin. As a child, Fingon had first admired Maitimo for his brilliance and grace, an infatuation that soon grew into mutual respect, before Fingon had realized that his fair friend had insinuated himself into Fingon’s most shameful fantasies.
He had known for a long time that Maitimo likely could not return his feelings, but he had cherished their friendship, and he had been heartbroken by their separation.
But perhaps Maitimo no longer wished for their companionship.
“I can leave,” Fingon mutters, already turning toward the door.
“No!” Maitimo says, voice coming more clearly now. Rather than the rough choke of his voice from the mountain, he now sounds just as he did in Valinore. Low, rich, and musical.
Maitimo emerges from behind the curtains, smiling sheepishly. “No, forgive me. You caught me unawares, as you often do. But I did wish to see you.”
Fingon cannot help but stare. When he had rescued his cousin from Thangorodrim, he had done his best not to study his Maitimo’s broken body too closely, as a gesture of respect for one who had been grievously harmed. But what he had seen had been terrible, long jagged scars and welts, burns across his cheek and torso, scars from years of whippings.
The Maitimo before his shows no sign of any of this. His fair, freckled skin is smooth and flawless, not a scratch, not a nick in sight. His nose is long and straight, a trait of Finwe. His mouth is full, beautiful, and when he smiles, his teeth are straight and white. His hair falls to his waist in perfect, copper curls. His body is as tall and strong as ever, but for the missing hand.
Maitimo grins. “Anyone else I would chastise for staring, but as you are the reason I am here at all, I suppose you deserve to see what you saved.”
Fingon shakes himself out of his revery. “You look… You look well. You look very well.”
“Your healers are excellent.”
Fingon comes closer to Maitimo, looks up until his beloved face, and tries to bring his hands to cup his cheeks when Maitimo backs away. Fingon drops his hands, cheeks reddening.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve just… just missed you.”
Maitimo shakes his head, but remains backed against the wall. “It’s fine, it’s just… hard. You understand.”
Fingon nods, wringing his hands. “Of course. Since the ice, I can never seem to get warm. It takes time, do understand what has happened to us. That we are safe now. To leave it all behind. And you have already recovered so well…”
“Yes, time.” Maitimo crosses his arms tightly over his chest, eyes flickering from Fingon to the door, and back. “It takes time. I am simply eager to pretend it never happened. But that is not possible, is it?”
They continue to stand like that, a foot of space between them, silence falling heavily between them. He feels farther away from his friend than when he had stood in Araman and watched the ships burn.
“So… Why did you ask me to come?”
Maitimo continues to look away, seemingly studying a point just past Fingon’s face. “I missed you. I thought about you much during those years. I never thought to see you again.”
Fingon can’t help but smile at Maitimo’s words. His hands twitch to reach out and touch him, but Fingon forces himself to stay back.
“I thought of you as well. Though it is not home, and though we cannot turn back, I am happy to be here. With you.”
Strangely, his words seem to bring a look of profound sadness to Maitimo’s face. Fingon opens his mouth to take it back, to say anything to undo the abundance of sentiment in his words, but Matiimo reaches out and takes Fingon’s hand in his.
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”
Fingon squeezes Maitimo’s fingers, a rough laugh escaping from him. Maitimo joins in his laughter, his smile bright like the new sun lighting the sky. He is filled with warmth at the sound of Maitimo’s joy, unable to fathom being here, being able to hold him again, being in the same place, seeing Maitimo stand straight and tall.
Without thinking, Fingon leans forward and presses his lips to the corner of Maitimo’s mouth, his tongue licking at the seam of his lips. For a moment, he knows nothing but bliss, feeling Maitimo warm beneath him, solid and alive for Fingon to kiss and to hold.
He is suddenly shoved away, so hard that he falls backward onto the black and pink rug covering the floor, one of the few things to survive the ice.
Maitimo backs away, shocked by his own actions, hand pressed to his mouth. “Sorry,” he bites out. “I’m sorry. You should go.”
But it is Maitimo who rushes away, back behind the curtain, out of reach. Fingon slowly picks himself off the floor, legs unsteady beneath him, and leaves the tent.
On the way back to the rooms, he focuses on the feeling of Maitimo’s mouth beneath his. He stops in his tracks when he realizes.
When he had pressed his lips to Maitimo’s whole, perfect mouth, he had felt the thick, hard ridge of what could only be scar tissue.
—————————————————————————————————-
In Aman, there had been no ugliness. They had been shielded by the Valar to live in a paradise of youth and beauty all the days of their lives. All Elven children came out perfect, exactly how they were meant to be. Even among the perfection of Aman, there was one who all agreed was the most beautiful of all.
Each of the sons of Feanor was unique and gifted in their fashion. All of Tirion clamored to see Macalaure play his music. There was no one outside of the Arafinwions who practiced Osanwe with as much skill as Carnistir. Turkafinwe was beloved by the Valar, and Curufin was as brilliant as his father. The twins had become skilled outdoorsmen by their majority.
Maitimo had been brilliant, charming, skilled with word and blade. But that was not what he had been known for. No, in Blessed Aman, Maitimo, well-formed and copper crowned, had been known for his beauty. When Fingon had been young, only a child under the wing of his splendid older cousin, he had tasted Maitimo’s name on his tongue, like the rarest, fullest wine, and smiled.
Yes, of course Maitimo should be known for his beauty, for isn’t he flawless? He of the endless legs and marble skin? He of the hair of flame, falling like water down his back? He of those sharp, laughing grey eyes that forever promise that Nelyafinwe was ten steps ahead of you and would never let you know his secrets?
Fingon had been fine with that. With Maitimo’s unknowableness for Maitimo was beautiful, and beauty was ever held close with goodness. No one so perfect would turn around and stab his kin in the chest, perfect face splattered with blood and viscera.
It had been a shame, as it turned out, that Maitimo was known for his beauty. For no matter Fingon’s anger at his cousin’s betrayal, no matter his distance, his coolness, or his now legendary wrath, each time that Fingon saw his cousin’s beauty, he could not find it in himself to stay angry.
————————————————————————————————-
Maitimo never allows Fingon to be alone again with him after that strange day. The next thing Fingon knows, Maitimo has surrendered the crown and exiled himself and his brothers to the frigid east. It feels as if Fingon is watching the flames leap at the polished white of the swan ships from across the sea. He has been left again.
Maitimo has healed beyond all expectations. But for his lost right hand, he has nary a scar across his flawless white skin. He stands tall and strong once more, his copper crown of hair brilliant under the newfound sun.
His father’s men discuss his recovery in hushed tones. There is suspicion in such a seeming lack of lingering trauma from his long captivity. The word thrall is bandied about with tones of distrust. One elf who had lost a wife and child to the ice says that it does not matter one way or another if the eldest son of Feanor is a thrall. A Feanorian is not to be trusted, regardless.
But Fingon, for all his resentment at being left behind time and time again, is terribly lonely. Ever has Maitimo been at his side since he was a small child. Before Fingon had loved him, Maitimo had been his dearest friend. He might as well have lost his own right hand upon the mountain for all that he feels suddenly unbalanced.
When the guests of the feast of reuniting begin sending in their letters of attendance, Fingon searches for Maitimo in every carefully penned parchment.
When he sees Maitimo’s note signed with his new Sindarin name, Fingon makes a vow to himself. He will not allow Maitimo, now Maedhros, to avoid him any longer. He will make his cousin speak to him.
Fingon dresses carefully for the Mereth Aderthad, braiding and rebranding his hair until it rests neatly over his shoulders, tying it with gold thread and beads, and bells. He paints his eyes with turquoise and lines them with azure, and selects a fine silk robe embroidered with white stars.
The feast is beautiful. The trees are hung with Feanorian lanterns, and the lake glitters beneath Tillion as elves embrace and laugh, overjoyed to be here, together, in this fair land. Elves come to congratulate him on the success of the feast, but Fingon only has eyes for one.
There, standing far back among the trees, taller than anyone else, is Maedhros, with his long, thick hair braided in layers, a copper circlet his only adornment. His robes are black with silver embroidery on the sleeves and collar. He wears no makeup for he does not need it. Fingon is struck by how familiar he looks, and yet how alien.
Elves turn their eyes to him, ogling him openly, but he seemingly finds no joy in the admiration. He stares down at his drink as if he wished to disappear back to his tower in Himring.
When Maglor takes the stage with Daeron, Fingon pushes through he distracted crowd, toward his cousin.
Maedhros’s face does something complicated when he sees Fingon coming toward him. First, his eyes seem to alight in joy, mixed with a yearning that Fingon finds strange, seeing as he is right here before him. Then Maedhros stiffens, face falling into something nearly like fear, before he backs away as much as he can against the tree.
Fingon allows a foot of space between them, though he can feel his cousin’s warmth against his skin like a furnace.
“Well met, cousin,” Fingon says softly.
“Well met,” Maedhros agrees. “The feast is a success. I have told your father so.”
Fingon nods. Their speech has never been so awkward. “Indeed, it has been long since I have seen our people so happy together. I missed this.”
I missed you.
Maedhros nods, still clutching his drink in his remaining hand. He looks as if he wishes to throw it. “It is very different from Aman.”
“Yes. But it is beautiful all the same.”
Maedhros smiles thinly, though he finally looks up, eyes trailing over the gold in Fingon’s hair. “You look well.”
Fingon colors. “As do you. You have healed better than I could have hoped.”
For some reason, this makes Maedhros’s face fall yet again. He clears his throat, taking a sip of wine. “I should go…” He moves to leave, eyes distant, and it is more than Fingon can stand.
“Wait, Maedhros!”
Maedhros stops but does not look back at Fingon.
“Have I done something to offend you?” Fingon asks, plaintively.
“No. No, Fingon, you have done nothing.”
“Then why? Why have you been avoiding me?”
Maedhros shakes his head, face still turned away. “Please, Fingon, just drop this.”
“No! I am worried about you. You look so well, but the way you are acting…”
Maedhros does not respond. Frustrated, Fingon reaches forward and takes Maedhros by the shoulder.
With a shocked cry of pain, Maedhros throws himself forward, away from Fingon, stumbling and falling forward with a crack of his head against the dirt ground.
Fingon gasps, leaning down to help him stand, muttering over and over, “I am so sorry! Russandol, I am sorry.”
But when Fingon tries to pull him to his feet, Maedhros cries out like a wounded beast, shouting, “Don’t touch me! Stay back!”
Fingon stops in his tracks, watching as Maedhros presses his hands to his face as if trying to hold something in place. He pulls one hand away, curling his fist around what looks like a shard of plaster.
“Maedhros?”
“Fingon, leave! Please.” Maedhros’s voice sounds low and rough, unlike the musical, light voice of a courtier. He stands with his hands still pressed to his face, back hunched over, gait unsteady. “Please, if our friendship still stands, then you will leave me.”
Maedhros limps away from the trees, disappearing into the darkness, far away from the lights hemming the tree branches.
Fingon kneels down and picks up the piece of plaster, still gleaming white under the light of Tillion.
The plaster on Fingon’s palm is in the shape of a pair of sensuous, beautiful lips.
————————————————————————————————-
Fingon had not been considered valiant in Valinore - there was no cause for courage where there was no pain. Oh, he had been bold and brash and tempestuous in his emotions, and perhaps in the political turmoil of his family, that could be courage, but nothing of his temerity influenced his being once he emerged from the amphitheater of ice into the wide, wild world of Beleriand. No, that lively, hard-headed child could not have lasted in the steps of Thangorodrim had that been all he was.
But Fingon’s childhood boldness had a purpose, a target - the tall, beautiful cousin who would rather wallow in the ashes of his father’s madness than strike out on his own against Feanor’s wishes. Fingon had been Maitimo’s mouth before Fingon had touched his lips, his voice before Fingon had heard it sing from high up on a cruel mountain.
In Beleriand, Fingon had become a sword, cutting his beloved in two, the blood of monsters and elves alike coating the blade, leading his people to victories worthy of song.
But all of it he had done for love. The love of the land, of its people, of his family. Well, one part of his family in particular.
Ever has Fingon’s name been twined with bravery, but Fingon has always known that his true strength lay in his heart.
————————————————————————————————
Fingolfin calls the lords of the surrounding lands to a meeting in Hithlum decades into the Long Peace. When the guests arrive, there is an air of pleasant light-heartedness all about. Fingon kisses Aegnor and Angrod on each of their foreheads, thrilled to greet the friends he has not seen in such a long while. Maglor arrives with a song in his heart as always, settling an aura of peace throughout the meeting room, and Finrod glitters just as merrily as ever.
The room is lit in violet and pink by Feanorian gems across the walls, illuminating the motif of soaring eagles painted on the hardwood, their silver feathers falling over the walnut surface. In the center of the room is a long table piled heavy with dark, red wine, thick yeasty bread, fresh butter, a bowl of hard fruit, red and white apples, and yellow pears. Light shines through the windows, and for a moment, Fingon might have believed them back in Valinore, during those scant years when Feanor did not wholly hate Fingolfin, when family gatherings such as these were not out of the ordinary.
But Turgon is not here, and neither is Aredhel nor Idril, and Fingon has to swallow down the sadness, to keep the face of the crown prince.
Moments before the meeting is to begin, Maedhros finally enters. He is poised as always, bowing to Fingolfiin, and nodding toward Maglor and Finrod, but Fingon thinks of the piece of plaster, now hidden in the jewelry box in his room. There is nothing overtly odd about Maedhros’s appearance; his cheeks are pink with health, eyes bright, and hair silky. But Fingon notices the way he shoves his chair away from the table to keep his distance from the others and the slow, delicate way he picks up his fork and yet fails to eat.
Before his father lifts his glass and begins speaking, Fingon has formed his plan.
“It brings me much joy to see you all here together,” Fingolfin says, smiling warmly around the table. Only Maedhros and Maglor of the Feanorians have shown, and so at this gathering, the feeling is mutual.
“We have won ourselves this happiness, with strength, persistence, and with valor,” Fingolfin continues. “When we traveled to Beleriand, I was not sure that we could remake the beauty and peace of Valinore. And certainly that may not be wholly possible. And yet, I believe we have found a different sort of beauty in this fair land.”
Fingon smiles, and looking around the table, he sees many of his cousins nodding and sipping their wine with fondness. Maedhros sits frozen in his chair, eyes downcast.
“But,” Fingolfin says, taking on the grave, solemn expression of the King. “We all know the waiting darkness of our foe and the unyielding machinations of his fortress. I say it is time to put an end to this evil once and for all.”
Fingolfin raises his glass yet higher, meeting the eyes of each at the table, even Maedhros, who has looked up, silver eyes wide and pale in his face.
“One last push against the Morgoth. One last stand to end this war for good and enjoy the fruits of our long fight.”
There is a sudden uproar of speech as this proposal is discussed, surprise plain on the faces of the lords.
The conversation is ended as Maedhros stands from the table.
“I am sorry, uncle,” Maedhros says, voice low and firm. “But I cannot agree with this plan.”
Fingolfin looks to him, shocked. “Nephew?”
Maedhros shakes his head, expression distant. “You have seen but a fraction of his power, his violence. His orcs are only a small fraction of it. He has great demons of fire standing a hundred feet tall, dark creatures of wing and fang that come upon you in your rest and suck you dry. His Maiar are creatures of cruel brilliance who will dip into you with a serrated spoon and scoop out your eyes just to figure out how it works. He has machines of iron and flame that move like serpents and spit fire like a forge, and he himself is above all! You cannot imagine his power.”
Even as Maedhros’s voice rises and his hand clenches on the table, Maedhros’s face does not twist into the expression of fear that Fingon would expect of his words. It is unhappy, certainly, but it does not snarl or crumble; it is smooth, lovely, inviting.
Perhaps that is why he is not taken seriously.
“Nephew, I understand why you would be frightened-“ Fingolfin starts, smiling in sympathy. “But we have grown strong over our years of prosperity. This is no impulsive attack by a group of newcomers; we know this land and its monsters. We have a chance if we take him while he is unaware.”
Maedhros shakes his head, frustrated. “No, you do not understand! He is never unaware. Always he is planning, plotting.”
“We can use this, Maedhros,” Aegnor says, leaning across the table, his yellow hair woven gold by the sunlight. “Tell us all you know so that we are prepared. From the perspective of a prisoner, of course, freedom looks impossible, but you are no longer in that cage. Show him your strength!”
Maedhros stares at Aegnor, apparently horrified. “My prison cell, my torture chamber, and my mountain chains? You think that will help in this foolish attack?”
“It is quite strange to me,” Angrod starts, arms crossed tight over his chest. “That you would be so against this plan. Was it not your father who swore vengeance against the one who murdered Finwe? Is it not your oath to take back the jewels? I wonder, Maedhros, how it is that you were rescued from Thangorodrim and lost nothing but a hand. Obtained not a single scar! Almost as if Morgoth intended you to be taken from that peak.”
Maedhros goes very still, and then slowly, with the coiling grace of a snake, he presses his hand to the table and leans so close that he is nose to nose with Angrod. “You know nothing of what was taken from me.”
Fingon stands, chair shoving back with a painful streak across the floor. “Peace! Peace, please. Angrod, Maedhros has already told us of what he experienced in Angband; there is no use interrogating him as if he were the enemy. And he is not! We would not have the long peace were it not for his valor in battle. It was no simple thing to rescue him from that mountain, and believe me when I tell you that at the time… at the time that I found him there, he was near death. It is no small miracle that he is standing before us alive today.”
Angrod’s gaze is contemptuous, but he settles back in his chair all the same.
Briefly, Fingon meets Maedhros’s eyes. Maedhros mouths to him, very faintly, Thank you.
“And.” Fingon chokes out the world, clears his throat, and forces himself to meet Fingolfin’s eyes. “Father, would not Maedhros know best when it comes to our possibility of victory against the Morgoth. We have maintained this stalemate for long enough; might we enjoy it while it lasts?”
“I agree,” Finrod cuts in, shooting Fingon a smile. His braids are so heavy with jewels, emerald, amethyst, and sapphire, that Fingon is surprised he can hold up his head. “I wish for more time to build up our Kingdom, to take advantage of the land here! We came to Beleriand for more than war, did we not?”
Fingolfin tightens his jaw but remains composed as he replies, “We shall put it to a vote then. All in favor of pursuing this attack?”
Only Aegnor and Angrod raise their hands.
“In opposition.”
The remainder of the table casts their vote.
Fingolfin looks down at Fingon with a profoundly sad smile. “That, I suppose, is that then. I am nothing if not a servant of my people.”
——————————————————————————————-
Rooms have been appointed within the castle for the lords to stay and feast. The ballrooms in Hithlum are decorated with fresh and dried bog rosemary and holiday lilies, twining over the pillars, the petals sprinkling the blue limestone floors. The windows have been painted goldenrod and citrus green with images of the journey over the ice, their victory, and their loss.
The walls are painted with the same; there is Fingolfin on Rochallor, valiant in battle, Aredhel dressed in white, dancing in the greenery.
And there is Fingon, harp in hand, braving the mountains Thangorodrim, a look of bold cunning in his eyes.
He had been dreadfully lonely and afraid at the time.
Fingon eats a bit of orange-glazed ham and drinks a lot of pink wine and chats briefly with each of the lords, but his mind is distracted, and his plan is yet to be fulfilled.
He watches his father, chatting with another elf across the room, the twisted silver wire of his crown tangled in his thick black hair. Fingon downs the rest of his wine and walks toward the corner where his father laughs kindly at a joke the elf has just told, though his eyes remain distracted.
As he walks through the ballroom, he hears snatches of conversation between the lords and their retinue. His own name reaches his ears, his father’s, but most of the conversation centers around another.
“ - quite mad after his rescue -“
“-allows none to see him but for strictly scheduled meetings and dinners. He keeps no body man, will allow none to see his body. What could-“
“- his beauty frightened me even in Valinore. Always, we knew the Feanorians hid something dark beneath their fair faces, and Nelyafinwe was the worst-“
“-unnatural! What dark deals must he have made to retain that face? One can only imagine…”
Fingon reaches his father, nodding politely at his companion, accepting his obeisance. “Father, might I have a word with you?”
Fingolfin smiles, though distantly, still with the bearing of a King. He excuses himself from the lord, ushering Fingon into a quiet corner.
All at once, Fingolfin drops the proud expression of the King of Beleriand, face creasing into something kind, if somewhat perplexed. The expression he had known as his father’s since he was a child. Suddenly, he is ill with a homesickness he has not felt since Thangorodrim.
“Findekano,” his father coaxes. Fingon startles at hearing his Quenya name. “My son, what is wrong?”
Fingon untangles himself from the threads of the past. “I just wanted to apologize for the meeting. I should have stood by you. I don’t know what-“
“Peace, Findekano,” Fingolfin says, placing a hand on Fingon’s shoulder. “Peace. Did you speak lies in that room?”
Fingon shakes his head. “No. No, I did not, but I was disloyal. I abandoned you!”
“You spoke your mind. That is the purpose of such a gathering: to hear the views of each corner of Beleriand. I would not have you censor yourself for me. I value your opinion. Do not think otherwise.”
Fingon swallows down the sudden tightness in his throat. “Alright, Atar. Thank you for saying so.”
Fingolfin smiles, pats Fingon’s shoulder, and catches the eyes of another lord across the hall.
As he turns to leave, Fingon stops him, “Wait, Atar?”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen Maedhros?”
Fingolfin shakes his head. “I believe he said something about leaving.”
Then Fingon has little time to execute his plan. He must work quickly. It is not a complicated plan, but it does not need to be for his purposes.
He climbs the stairs up to the guest wing where the light of the setting sun streams through the hall, setting dust motes into the air. There is an elf standing guard, but Fingon dismisses him. He goes easily, unquestioning.
The Feanorians have a room at the very back of the hall, far from the others who might still hold bitterness from their once betrayal. Fingon steps quietly, with the silence and grace of a hunter, as he approaches the door.
Voices echo from the room, reaching Fingon as he shamefully presses his ear to the door.
“I can’t do it anymore, Macalaure, I won’t. I will destroy it myself if I have to, but I have had enough. I shall tell Curufinwe once we return. This stops now.”
“I am simply urging you to think this through. I am not certain that you can stop, Maitimo-“
“Do not call me that!”
“Nelyo. Think about it - what will people say when they notice, which they will, count on it. What will you tell them? That you have been lying to their faces for the past years? Any trust we have built in our people will disappear in an instant!”
“Then what do you want me to do? Wear it until I am dead? Will you have me keep it even in the void, Maglor? You do not know what it is like! It isn’t just visual, it is… I can feel it changing me. It will not allow me to be angry, or mournful, or unhappy. Always only pleasant, pleasant, pleasant! Can you even imagine?”
Maglor sighs. “No, Nelyo. No, I cannot. And I am sorry you have had to endure it. But was this not the point in the first place? To be more agreeable? To distract our people from our hideous deeds? It is working just as you hoped.”
Fingon startles, nearly yelping when he hears Maedhros let out a loud, painful shout. He can hear something being knocked over in their room.
“When will it end? Will there ever be an end? Must I carry my own ghost for the rest of eternity, never allowed to move forward? Maglor, I no longer care about these scars. I just want to be free.
Will I never be free?”
Fingon stands, entranced by the conversation, struggling to extrapolate what their topic might be. His first thought is the Silmarils. Had they managed to capture one? Perhaps Maedhros, when he was in Angband? But no, that makes no sense. He would have known. Fingon jumps when he hears Maedhros’s voice again.
“Are you almost packed?”
Maglor hums. “Nearly. Few minutes more.”
A beat. “Good. I will ready the horses. Meet me down when you’re finished.”
Fingon quickly backs away from the door, waiting while he hears Maedhros fiddle with the lock.
Once the door has swung open and Maedhros emerges, Fingon barrels toward him, closing his eyes halfway, giving an impression of distraction. Maedhros, too, is distracted and slams into Fingon with a curse. Fingon’s forehead hits Maedhros’s sharp chin, sending sparks behind his eyelids.
They rear back from each other, blinking rapidly and rubbing their faces.
“Fingon? Are you alright?”
Maedhros pulls his hand away from his face, and Fingon can only stare. From chin to jaw, crawling up the underside of his cheekbone is a spiderweb of cracks, as if on old porcelain, moving with him and spreading as he speaks.
Dazed, Fingon taps his own jaw. “You have a little…”
Maedhros’s eyes widen, and he brings his hand to his jaw, flushing as he covers it. He opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it. “Thank you,” he says, before he rushes down the hallways, disappearing into the stairwell.
Fingon stands still, staring out into nothing. He barely reacts when Maglor enters the hallway.
Maglor looks around, peering behind Fingon as if Maedhros, eight feet tall and counting, might be hiding behind him. “Was Maedhros just here?”
Fingon nods vaguely. He imagines a face shattering into pieces, revealing the pale skull beneath.
“Let him destroy it,” Fingon says, voice barely a whisper.
“What?”
“Whatever it is. Let him destroy it. He deserves his freedom.”
Fingon does not wait to hear Maglor’s response to that.
——————————————————————————————-
It was not as if the people of Tirion did not see Feanor’s madness. It was as clear as the fruits of Laurelin and Feanor seemingly held no shame for it.
Fingolfin had always been reserved, saving his expressions for a subtle twitch of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. Fingolfin never raised his voice; he never caused a scene.
Feanor, though, would rant and rage, hands waving, eyes wide, cheeks a fevered red. He would weep on the steps of the palace, throwing off Fine’s offered hand only to sink into his arms a moment later. Fingon had watched Maedhros hold his father’s face to his chest, rubbing his back as if Maedhros were the father and Feanor were his barely of age son.
During the few years when Feanor and Fingolfin were civil with each other, Fingon would see Feanor wrap Fingolfin in his arms, bury his nose in Fingon’s father’s hair, and shudder as if about to weep.
Later, he would hold a sword to Fingolfin’s throat, all vulnerable earnestness erased.
“What is wrong with him?” Fingon asked Maedhros after the fact. They sat beside each other under a canopy of catalpa trees, deep into the woods outside of Tirion. Laurelin was still in bloom, and they had built no fire, shared only a bottle of wine and a bushel of pale green grapes.
To Fingon’s surprise, Maedhros considered the question. They had been fighting lately, horrible, venomous words spat at each other that neither of them meant nor believed. Each of them was proud in the clannish way that their fathers vaguely encouraged. Each of them in the throes of a first love that they had yet to speak of.
“I don’t exactly know myself what goes on in father’s head,” Maedhros, then Nelyo to his family, Maitimo to his friends, and Russandol when he was a little drunk, a little mischievous, had said. “It has something to do with Grandmother Miriel. He never got over it, never moved on, not the way Grandfather Finwe has. It sickens him, Fingon, makes him sensitive, hurt!”
“So he has to murder my father about it?” Fingon had emptied himself of sympathy for Curufinwe Feanaro before he had been out of dresses. “How much is father meant to forgive him for? Is this to end with father’s death?”
“He wasn’t serious,” Maedhros had said, though by the downward tilt of his lips, it was clear that even he was uncertain. “His feelings are so strong, he cannot control them! He acts before he thinks. It is why he is such a gifted craftsman, all thought must be translated by his hands in the thinking of them.”
“You make it sound like a good thing!”
“That is not what I mean!”
Fingon had stood to leave, tilting to the side a bit in his drunkenness. “There are some things I cannot forgive even you for, Maitimo. Some things love cannot soften.”
It was not easy to be angry at a Feanorian, not back then. They were too fair, too graceful, too clever. Sick slights could be undone by a cheeky grin, a flattering word. There was so much beauty in Fingon’s childhood that even when there were hints of darkness, they were so small that the light of Laurelin erased them in but a moment!
There is much that beauty can be forgiven for. Especially when it kisses you, especially when it loves you.
The beauty of Feanor’s regard was so great that it pushed his younger brother over an ocean of ice.
————————————————————————————————
Maedhros did not come to Fingon’s coronation. That was not surprising, nor insulting. Finrod had not come either, nor had his own brother, or his sister, or his father-
Well, but that was the point, wasn’t it?
The Angauglith was too dangerous to be crossed, and Nargothrond was not secure enough for Finrod to leave. Wherever Turgon and Aredhel were, they might have had no idea that Fingolfin was dead.
The King was dead. Fingolfin was dead. Nolofinwe was dead. Fingon’s father had committed suicide beneath Morgoth’s monstrous boot. Long live the King.
Maedhros had sent a letter, short and impersonal, deepest condolences, hope your long reign, loyalty and fealty and what not.
Fingon had heard that the orcs fled before Maedhros’s face. What face it was that the orcs could not bear, Fingon could not be certain.
Finrod dies, a Silmaril is retrieved, not by a Feanorian, but by a grey elf maid and a man. Maedhros sends a letter. This one is quite different.
My dearest cousin, the King of the Noldor, long may he reign,
Allow me first, to apologize yet again for not being there for your coronation. For your father’s funeral.
I know the pain of losing a father. Yours went bravely and with honor, managing to wound our greatest foe. I believe that he even opened the way for Beren and Luthien’s victory. Though of course, were the choice between the victory of a man and a Sinda maiden, I would have chosen that Nolofinwe lived…
It is that very man and that very Sinda that I write to you of now.
Your father showed that the Morgoth is not invulnerable. The man and the maid showed that a victory is not impossible. If a mortal and a sheltered maiden could infiltrate Angband and steal and Silmaril, can you imagine what might be possible for our people?
I have written our Dwarves neighbors and they have sworn their aid. My brother speaks with the Easterlings.
Cousin, I know I have not been a good friend to you. Not in many years. And I do not deserve your aid, but if you will meet with me to speak of this, it would do my heart good.
Not just to speak of this, but to see you, to renew our friendship.
A word. Send but a single word, and I shall ride to you.
Your friend,
Maedhros Feanorian, Lord of the Himring
Fingon receives the letter, sends the servants away from the room, downs a glass of clear, strong, Mannish liquor, and reads it. Then he dresses in armor, takes his sword, and goes hunting, finds a group of orcs in the surrounding assiduous forest, kills them brutally and recklessly, returns without washing the blood, and reads the letter again.
He sends back two words, double the amount that Maedhros requested. He always reveled in exceeding Maedhros’s expectations.
I’m Coming.
————————————————————————————————-
He arrives in Himring with frost on his eyelashes and ice in his braids. He no longer fears cold the way he did once, but it slows him, makes him irritable. All of Himring is cast in white by the incoming storm, a bright, clean light that reminds him of home, though Valinore was never all one color. The sharp, cruel-looking parapets of Himring disappear into the overcast sky, and the grass beneath Fingon’s horse’s hoofs is dead and yellow.
Maedhros is there to meet him at the gates, bundled in heavy red bear fur that makes him look enormous. He slips to one knee, a gesture to symbolize the willingness of his fealty, not the two-legged flattening of a thrall to the ground beneath his master. Maedhros had learned the difference through harsh treatment.
“My King,” Maedhros says softly, eyes averted. Fingon looks at his jaw first. The cracks have been mended, of course. Fingon wonders how difficult the task was.
“Rise,” Fingon commands, equally soft. He nods to dismiss his soldiers, and when Maedhros has stood to his feet, Fingon says, “Take me to your chambers.”
Maedhros blinks, surprised, but smoothly nods and ushers him through the tall, iron gates of his keep. They walk together, shoulder to shoulder, a hair of space between them. Maedhros, like all Feanorians, radiates warmth like a forge fire. His entire family can handle molten metal bare-handed without receiving even a single burn.
Maedhros maintains a casual conversation about the construction of the keep, the impenetrable walls that have kept Himring free throughout the Bragolach, the walls that face North, manned day and night by the watchmen, the soldiers always ready to be dispersed at a moment’s notice. There is a beautiful sort of sparsity to the structure of the keep, the tall, hard lines of stone steps running maze-like curving patterns throughout the building, making it difficult for an intruder to find their way through.
They reach Maedhros’s chambers at the very top of a high tower, colder even than the chill of the entry gates. Maedhros swings the door open and steps aside, bowing his head to allow Fingon through.
The asceticism of the room would be funny if it weren’t so sad. The hearth is unlit, a sheen of dust telling Fingon that it has been abandoned for some time. There is a shelf, overstuffed with parchment, letters, and journals, filled with Maedhros's impeccable penmanship. A desk sits beside the bed, a stack of papers held down by a heavy black paperweight. The pen and inkwell are set at the corner. A glass and a bottle of wine sit half-drunk, their red contents shining beneath the light from the north-facing window. The bed itself is a thin thing, piled high with blankets, furs, and mismatched sheets, a veritable nest left rolled into a ball, abandoned by a restless sleeper.
“Would you like a drink?” Maedhros asks, before pulling a second goblet from his desk drawer and pouring one for each of them without waiting for an answer. “You must be hungry from your journey. Would you like to have something brought from the kitchens? We felled a boar on the morning’s hunt; the meat will be fresh.”
“No,” Fingon says, removing the circlet from his temple and setting it on the desk beside the paperweight. “We have matters of importance to discuss.” He pulls the second chair out from the corner of the room and sits. He debates taking off his robes, but the cold is biting, and he decides against it. Maedhros sits nervously across from him, taking a long pull of his wine, waiting for Fingon to speak.
“I know you have been keeping something from me. From all of us, except perhaps your brothers. Maglor. Curufin too, I suppose. Am I correct?”
Maedhros does not go pale, but he looks like he wants to. His jaw is stiff, and his silver eyes are very wide. He looks beautiful. He looks unreal.
He is a porcelain icon set behind a gate in a museum. A sculpture of someone who once laughed and touched and lived.
Maedhros lets out a shuddering breath and nods, once. “Yes, you are correct, my friend.”
Fingon reaches for his own glass of wine but does not drink. He had rehearsed what he would say on the ride over. Many different words strung together many different ways. In the end, they fail him. He was never the politico, the eloquent one. He is a man of action, and in the end, honesty can be wielded better than a sword when the battlefield is friendship and broken hearts. “Maedhros. I want to see your face.”
Maedhros’s hand goes tight along the rim of his goblet, lips trembling like he might weep or scream. Truthfully, Fingon had not been certain until now what it was that Maedhros was hiding. Now, seeing his old friend’s reaction, he knows he was right, and he fears it.
In the end, Maedhros stands from his chair, setting his empty goblet down on the table and walks to the windows. His back is turned, his tall figure highlighted by the white light streaming through the glass. He tilts his head down, hand going to his face, and then he yanks. There is a guttural cry as someone grievously injured as she shudders and twists, the tendons of his single hand standing out painfully. Fingon only just manages to stay still in his seat, though everything in him screams to aid his friend. He waits, he watches.
At length, Maedhros doubles over, gasping, something held loosely in his hand, before he straightens again, back still turned. He sets the object down on the windowsill. Finally, Fingon stands, downing his entire glass of wine. He walks to the sill and lifts the object. In his hands is a face, Maedhros’s face, beautiful and young as the Prince of Tirion that Fingon had known of old. He brushes a finger down the straight, slim nose, the high, sharp cheekbones, the brow. Once he had touched Maedhros like this. It has been a very long time.
“Only Curufin and Maglor know.”
Fingon looks up to see Maedhros leaning over, facing him, eyes downturned, in shame or embarrassment, Fingon doesn’t know.
His long red hair is streaked with white at the temples. There is a long livid scar stretching his mouth into the mockery of a smile. A shiny, red burn forces his right eye closed, and when he grimaces, Fingon can see that his incisors have been replaced with gold. He stands half stopped, his shoulders an uneven line. His nose is crooked, the bridge broken one too many times. He is scarred, and haggard and tempered like a blade.
Unaccountably, Fingon finds himself hot with desire. He shales himself to force focus, to forget the longing that he had thought emptied out of himself on the Helcaraxe.
“It is possible that Celegorm knows,” Maedhros continues, his scar twisting as he speaks. “Though I do not believe Curufin would have told him. He takes pride in being held in close confidence. I doubt he would even tell Tyelpe. Believe it or not, Curufin is quite protective of his son’s innocence. So. You, Maglor, Curufin. You are the only ones.”
Fingon has not seen Maedhros so terrified since Alqualonde when he had laughed, fae and fearful, blood dripping from his nose. It occurs to Maedhros how lonely he must have felt all this time, unable to touch, to be seen, to be true. As if he had never really been rescued, forced to lick his wounds alone, cut off from his family and friends.
“How did this happen? When did you… Did you? Did you ask for this?”
Or was it forced on you?
Maedhros still refuses to look at him. He is staring at the mask, the beautiful twin, the good, pure face of one who never killed, who never swore himself to the darkness. “I awoke tied to the bed, in a strange, unfamiliar room. Apparently, I had awoken once already. They said I stood up from the bed, nude, slashed to bits, half out of my mind, and when one of the guards tried to stop me from walking all the way back to Thangorodrim, I bit his hand. After that, they tied me to the bed. For my own safety, supposedly. So I awoke, and I thought that I was still there. I remembered you and the eagle. But I remembered being rescued by you before. It had happened that you would unlock my cell and lead me back into the starlight, and then you would turn to me and tell me that you could not forgive me, and I would be locked up in the dark once more. Some days I would wake up in a new room, with a bed, a warm fire, food, and a bath. Then Morgoth’s Lieutenant would come. And he would-would wash me. And I liked it. I liked it when he was tender to me. It meant more than I can say to be treated kindly after so long.”
Maedhros shakes his head, quick and vicious, a snarl pulling at the corner of his mouth. It is an ugly expression, but not an unwelcome one. How long had it been since Fingon had seen distress, fear, rage twist Maedhros’s lovely face into something fierce? How strange it had been to speak to Maedhros and see nothing, as if staring through a clouded window, to witness Maedhros bow and bend as he had not even in Aman when Feanaro’s wrath was heavy as a stone upon his sons’ backs.
Fingon realizes how grateful he is to see Maedhros’s face moving, revealing the contents of his mind, a face of flesh and blood, not stone.
“But, I ramble. You asked about…” He trails off, gesturing to the mask, set between them like a condemnation. “Eventually, my mind returned to me. It was more painful to be aware than to be lost to dreams and memories. I knew what had been done to me. There is no word in Quenya for torture, though there is in Sindarin, but still, I knew. Pain unending, the torment of immortality. To not die in Arda. There was a warg whose claws broke through my face, an orc’s club to my nose, flame held against my eye. Things that burrowed into my skin and made me scream. Even in the safety of a soft bed, surrounded by those who wished me well, there was pain, the memory of pain, a pain that I knew would never leave me.”
Maedhros dips his head down, long strands of hair flashing gold, brown, oxblood, and the silver of starlight in the hard white light of the North, shining through the window.
“I knew then what it was to be an orc. The difference between an orc and an elf is that the latter believes there to always be a cure for pain, while the former knows that true pain is endless.”
Fingon had told himself that he would be silent, would listen to Maedhros with impartiality. But hearing this, Fingon cannot help it. He reaches forward, grasping Maedhros’s scarred hand in his own. He notices that Maedhros’s pointer and ring fingers are missing nails. “You are not an orc!” It comes out angrier than Fingon wanted. He had meant to be comforting, soothing. But it comes out as a snarl, as a how dare you think so!
Maedhros only shakes his head. “I know I am not. But only because they did not wish it. A little longer, a little more, and I think I would have been.” He breathes in deep, the air stuttering as it flows down his throat. Even his voice sounds different - rough and strained, no more the buttery tones of the Valinorean Prince. “The healers came, and I told them not to alert anyone that I had woken. They tried to examine my wounds, but I told them no. I needed to see them for myself at first.”
Maedhros lifts the mask lightly between two fingers, twisting it this way and that, peering at it thoughtfully as if examining a rare language. “Exquisite craftsmanship. Maitimo, I have been calling it. It deserves the name more than I do.”
“And I suppose I should name my knife Astaldo,” Fingon says dryly, “For was it not the knife that saved you, and not me?”
Maedhros laughs, the guttural growl as rocks rubbing together. FIngon finds he likes it, this new laugh. He likes the silver in Maedhros’s hair, the new crookedness of his nose bridge.
Perhaps it is only that he loves Maedhros, and so anything that could be said to be a part of him is beloved as well. But Fingon is not ready to think so, not yet. Not with hope so tenuous between them
“I looked down at my thighs, my waist, my chest, my own cock,” Maedhros says casually, as if discussing his examination of the lines of a map. “And I recognized none of it. It could have been the corpse of a stranger. Burns, welts, contusions, scars, all of it strange, so strange. And my face the worst of it. I thought - were a King to demand my loyalty, after he had abandoned me and mine to the ice, had gotten himself captured like a babe with a stick sword and then turned to me, hideous and asked me to kneel, what would I say? It would be monstrous.”
Fingon swallows his sickness at this speech, the fae, dazed way that Maedhros recounts it, and takes the mask from Maedhros's fingers. It is well made, light and cool, the details of the face unmistakably Maitimo of Tirion, the straight nose and high cheekbones. A pretty prince that lays now in Fingon’s hands, and he wants it not.
“But you abdicated anyway,” Fingon says.
Maedhros smiles. “Yes. I called for Curufin and asked him to make this for me, and he, a craftsman and a greedy wretch, was all too eager. And I did not do it for vanity - well… no, I did, didn’t I, of course I did, but it was for politics too. I was afraid. Afraid that I could not lead anyone, not even my brothers, if I were so monstrously unrecognizable. Curufin agreed. But as soon as I put on the mask and met with my brothers, I realized this secret would be near impossible for a King to keep. Too many eyes on me at all times. But your father also is a better King in hand and heart than I, so it was not a difficult decision for me to give up the Kingship. Not as difficult as it was for my brothers to accept it.”
Maedhros points to the small indent of a dimple beneath he cheek of the mask. “Look at that. I do not have that anymore, the scars, you see.”
Fingon shakes his head. “It looked painful. To take off.”
Maedhros nods, still staring at the mask. Throughout the conversation, his eyes have barely lifted from it. “It wasn’t at first. The first time I put it on, it felt just the same as a mask, but when I looked in the mirror… it felt like time had rewound. I looked around me for father and mother, expecting them to be right beside me. The twins playing on the ground as babes, Macalaure as merry and lighthearted as ever! There was pain no longer, nor grief. It was as if what I knew to have happened were but a dream. I felt joy as I had not felt since childhood - in fact, I felt as young as if I were a boy barely of age. For a moment, this felt like the cure for all that ailed me.”
Fingon is fiddling with the mask, spinning it between his fingers, strangely reminded of when he was a child and used to braid Maitimo’s hair, tangling it so terribly that it would take hours to brush it out again.
Maedhros’s hair is still long, still slightly wavy, and soft-looking. He is well-formed still, if having taken a different form in Beleriand.
“I must not measure up to my reputation of eruditeness,” Maedhros says sheepishly. “Because it didn’t occur to me until later that if someone were to touch me, they could still feel the scars. I took off the mask alone in Himring to bathe. I suppose I wanted to see myself, at least in private, scars or not. It was fine, I put the mask back on, and all was well.
“But, then there was that moment, at the Mereth Aderthad, when you knocked into me and broke it. I tried to take it off in my room, but this time it was difficult. The mask stuck; it pulled at my skin. It took all the strength of my single hand to detach it. And when I asked Curufin, he could not explain it. ‘Perhaps you were tired,’ he says. ‘There is no reason why it should stick.’ I began to wonder if he was lying to me, deceiving me. But why? It would not aid him for me to be trapped beneath a beautiful face. Rather, he should have made it so the mask would not stay on at all! I thought, well, perhaps he is right and I am merely tired. My left hand is weak. It was but a dream. Perhaps.”
Maedhros pauses, watching the mask in Fingon’s hand.
“Might I-“ Fingon hesitates, but presses on. “Might I try it on?”
Maedhros looks up, startled. “Why?”
Fingon colors, regretting his question entirely, but looking down at the youthful version of his friend’s beloved face, he says, “Because I’m curious.”
Maedhros opens his mouth, closes it, and, eyes widening, his hand twitches toward the mask. “What if you can’t get it off? What will we do if you can’t get it off?”
Unsteadied by the terror in Maedhros’s tone, Fingon forces a smile. “Guess I’ll just have to be you, then. Maybe Curufin can make a mask of my face for you. It was always you who was meant to be King anyway.”
Maedhros shakes his head, “Untrue.”
Fingon lifts the mask, swallowing. A shiver of fear racks through him as he brings the mask to his face, that trepidation reflected in Maedhros’s eyes. Slowly and purposefully, he presses the mask fully to his face.
And nothing happens.
After a long pause, Fingon prompts, “Is it working?”
“Uh… no. I think you need to let go of it?”
Fingon does and gasps as the mask falls to the ground, shattering into pieces, the perfect face of the Prince of Aman broken into shards that could never have been expected to create a face.
“Oh!” Fingon exclaims. “Oh, I am so sorry!”
But, Maedhros is laughing. He hoots and hollers, standing from his chair and lifting one of the pieces only to toss it to the floor again. Fingon watches for a long moment, startled by the glee overtaking Maedhros’s face before he joins him, throwing alabaster shards at the walls, at the floor, at the bookshelves. The two of them dance and laugh with joy in their bedlam before they are interrupted by a knock at the door.
Maedhros startles, looking at the pieces of his destroyed mask and then back to Fingon. “Yes?” He calls.
“My Lord,” comes the voice of his guard behind the door. “Are you well? We heard a great crash.”
“Yes, all is well, just dropped a bottle of wine. No mind! As you were.”
After a moment, Fingon hears the sound of the guard’s footsteps walking from the door. The two of them sigh in relief.
Maedhros smiles at him sheepishly, a bit of pink coloring his cheeks, making him look very well indeed, as he bends down and begins to pick up the shards, placing them on the table. Fingon joins him until they have collected all the pieces into a pile, taking their seats once more.
Maedhros clears his throat and takes another pull of wine. “It has been some time since I have laughed like that.”
“Indeed,” Fingon agrees. He thinks to throw something else, shatter a cup or a bottle to bring forth that laughter once more.
“It is only that I have wanted to break that thing for a long time,” Maedhros continues. “But have been unable to.”
Fingon hums. “I wonder why it did not work on me.”
Maedhros shrugs. “Perhaps Curufin made it specifically for me. I do not know. As I said, after a while, it became nearly impossible to take off. And I wanted to, I wanted it gone, but after so long, it would have been foolish to reveal such a lie. And indeed, I was afraid. I was afraid of being ugly, of being broken. I was afraid of you seeing me so.”
Fingon stares at him until Maedhros looks up, feeling the weight of Fingon’s eyes on him. They watch each other, saying nothing, and yet saying much between the locked gaze of their eyes.
“I love you very dearly,” Fingon says. “You know that, don’t you?”
Maedhros swallows, looking away, the pink returning to his cheeks. “You have made a few gestures, I suppose.”
“Then, if you know it, how could you believe that I would ever see anything about you to be ugly or broken? Indeed, I think it was I who broke off the first piece of you. And then I broke your mask.”
“And I thank you for both of those things.” Maedhros smiles, small but true. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to get used to myself. I have been transformed both inside and out. But Morgoth, by Gorthaur. By my father.”
“As have I,” Fingon replies. “Perhaps not to the degree that you have, that is true. But I feel that I have been transformed many a time, in many ways, by many people. You, not least of all.”
The smile drops from Maedhros’s face, and he takes on a wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of a prisoner, walking from his cell, beholding the sunlight for the first time.
“I love you as well,” Maedhros says, the words ripping free of him. “I am sorry I have not said it before, but it is true. I love you, and I promise, I will not stray far from you ever again. No matter what barrier stands before me.”
Fingon smiles back and sheds his cloak, feeling very warm indeed.
“Now,” Fingon says. “Tell me more of this plan you have concocted. I suppose that you are Beren in this scenario? He lost a hand, I have heard.”
Maedhros laughs, and Fingon’s breath quickens at the sound. “And you might Luthien, black of hair and fair of voice and face. If you will gather your people, then we might join together and have this war ended once and for all.”
Fingon nods. “Battle formations?”
Maedhros stands to his shelf, pulling out a rolled-up map and spreading it across the table.
They talk long into the night, drawing up their plans, writing the list of their followers, opening another bottle of wine, thoughts caught by the future. They talk until the sun burns red and orange, burning through the glass of the window, announcing that day has come again.
“I want them all to see you.” Finger says, taking a sip of wine, eyes trailing the brightness of the sun. “Your face, I mean, shining in victory, unclouded by the oath. I want them to see your beauty, your strength, you in truth.”
Maedhros sighs, weaving his hand gently through Fingon’s braids. “I’m not sure whether I care about what they see in my face any longer.”
Fingon smiles, leaning into Maedhros’s touch. “No?”
“No. Because I have you to look at me.” Maedhros moves his hand to the back of Fingon’s head and presses their foreheads together. “And you love me.”
They kiss as the sun reaches its peak in the Northern sky, blocking out the ever-present fumes of Thangorodrim so that for a moment the beauty of the world is all that there is.
There will always be war, but today, there is only the fair and wild mountains, the lone sunny day of Wintertime, and two lovers, two friends long separated, brought together once more.