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Chapter Text

They’d lost.

Fingon stopped and let his sword fall. There was no position left to hold, no higher ground to find, no sense in running. The battle was lost. The army he'd arrived with was broken; most of them were dead. His mouth was bloody -- most of him was bloody -- and it was getting harder to breathe as the air grew thick with flames and smoke around him. He would be dead soon, too.

It had been a good plan. It had been Maedhros' plan. Maedhros, who had overcome impossible odds before, every time before -- Maedhros, who had endured everything and held fast. His husband, bulwark of the north, their general.

Maedhros hadn’t arrived. 

He didn’t fully believe it, even now. Maedhros will come, his heart insisted. Have faith. But when he looked at the bodies that had been his soldiers -- at Morgoth’s captain approaching through the flames -- his spirit failed him.

“Get out of here,” he commanded to the herald at his side. He pulled off his helm and dropped it to the ground. She stared at him, cradling her shattered right arm to her chest and weeping silently. Her tears ran red down her bloody cheeks. “Go!” he snapped, when she made no move to turn.

“My lord --”

“That is an order, captain.” 

She shuddered and nodded once before turning and fleeing. Fingon didn’t watch her go. Ahead of him, approaching through the storm of the battle, was a pillar of flame and darkness, thirty feet tall and crackling like an electric storm. Gothmog was drawing closer, his army was dead, and Maedhros hadn’t come. 

I’m coming, Maedhros said fiercely, defiant against the growing despair in Fingon’s mind. Fall back and hold the line for as long as you can. I’ll find you. 

It’s over, Fingon thought. We failed. 

I’ll find you! Maedhros insisted. But Maedhros was in the heart of his own battle -- Fingon could see it raging in the distance, storm clouds made of dragons and battle lines of smoke and fire. Maedhros had done many impossible things these past five hundred years. Fingon believed in him like he believed that the sun would rise each day. But Maedhros was too far away. Have faith, his foolish heart insisted.

What could faith do against a balrog?

I love you, Fingon thought, because he could not bring himself to say goodbye just yet. He heard Maedhros’ scream in his mind -- RUN, DAMN YOU! -- but Fingon ignored him. He took his sword in hand again and steadied himself, setting his feet and drawing in one deep breath, then another, as he watched Gothmog approach.

The earth shook with each step the balrog captain took. The spread of his wings filled the entire horizon. Fingon held his ground and raised his sword. “These lands belong to the free people of Middle Earth,” he said. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and weak from exhaustion. It cracked as he spoke. The air shimmered with heat. “Your master will not hold this field."

When Gothmog smiled, open flames licked out of his mouth. His sword was twice as long again as Fingon was tall. “Little elf-king,” he said, in a voice like the grinding of stone beneath the earth. “You are my prize today.”

“I am King of the Noldor on Middle Earth,” Fingon answered. His sword felt like lead in his arms. His voice sounded impossibly small. “Son of Fingolfin the King, grandson of Finwë the High King. Husband of Maedhros Unbowed.” He forced his lips into a snarl. “You win nothing today. My family has defied you since this age began, and we defy you now."

Gothmog laughed and raised his sword. Fingon gritted his teeth and threw himself forward. 

He fought like a wild animal in a snare, beyond exhaustion or pain or reason. Duck, parry, twist out of the way before Gothmog's blow could land. Stagger up, swing, duck again. Every muscle in his body trembled. His sword was singing like a live thing in his hands, but it wasn't enough. Gothmog's reach was too long; the air around him was too dense with smoke and fire. Fingon fought until he couldn't and then gave ground until he fell. He was panting -- every breath he drew in was fire in his lungs -- and as he collapsed to the ground his fingers, spasming, lost their grip on his sword. It dropped into the mud.

Gothmog drew closer, and laid the tip of his blade against Fingon's throat.

"I will bring my lord your head on a spear," the balrog said. The air trembled when he spoke. Fingon, unable to see through the blood and the sweat and the smoke, closed his eyes. He heard Gothmog hiss. "Look at me, little king."

But Fingon's spirit was already far away. In his mind he was standing on a hill of sweet-smelling summer grass, watching with a soaring heart as Maedhros rode towards him, his long red hair flying back in the wind. Maedhros drew closer -- there was the flash of his smile -- and then the vision shifted and changed. They were in a cabin by the lake at midnight; from all around them came the sound of whirring crickets and night birds. Maedhros was reaching for him, his smile shy and his bare skin fair and gleaming in the moonlight. "Look at me!" Gothmog commanded again. Though Fingon's body recoiled from the heat of Gothmog's sword against his throat, in his spirit he was reaching back for his husband. Goodbye, sweetheart. 

And then, loud as a peal of thunder, Gothmog screamed. 

Fingon's eyes shot open, the vision breaking and his fëa crashing back into his body. Gothmog had raised his sword and staggered back -- and there, standing behind him, was Fingon's young herald, a bloody pike in her left hand. As Gothmog roared she let the pike drop  -- it dripped black ichor that burned when it hit the ground -- and took a few stumbling steps back. Fingon saw her eyes dart to him, wide and terrified. The next moment Gothmog's sword came down, heavy as an axe, and in a single stroke he cleaved her head from her body. 

Gothmog spat something in the black tongue and trod her corpse into the mud. Fingon cursed and scrambled backwards. He clawed for his sword, though his hands were too numb and his arms too weak to lift it.

I'm sorry, he thought -- to his herald or to Maedhros or to their army that he'd led to the slaughter, he didn't know. Any of them, all of them.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

Gothmog had left her body broken and bloody on the ground and was stalking closer again, limping as he approached. Fingon tried again to close his hands around the hilt of his sword and screamed when his fingers wouldn't obey. He could feel his bones grinding together under his skin.

Fin. Maedhros' voice was like a cool rain in his mind -- Fingon clung to him desperately, dragging Maedhros' fëa as tightly to him as he could. I'm here. Try again. 

Fingon sobbed. Blood dripped into his eyes and mixed with his tears, coloring everything red. He was going to die. Maedhros wasn’t coming and he was going to die like a dog in the mud, too weak even to get to his feet or hold his blade. I can’t. Russo, I can't.  

You can. Maedhros’ voice was adamant. Pick up your sword, Fin. Helpless to obey Maedhros, helpless to do otherwise, Fingon reached out again. This time his fingers curled when they met the hilt of the sword. He drew it clumsily towards himself, panting from the pain. Beloved, Maedhros said, and he wrapped his soul around Fingon like armor as Fingon struggled to his knees.

Above him, Gothmog laughed. 

From the darkness a tongue of flame lashed out, as thick as Fingon’s arm and dripping with fire. It coiled twice around his forearms and wrists, hot enough to strip the muscle from his skin, hot enough his flesh bubbled and melted beneath his ruined armor. 

Fingon screamed. 

He screamed and screamed and screamed as his bones and skin burned. He collapsed on his side on the ground when the whip released him, choking on his own breath as he stared at the bloody, smoking ruin of his arms. The ground trembled as Gothmog approached. 

Underneath the pain Maedhros was still there, battering his way through to curl himself around Fingon’s spirit and shield him as best he could. I love you, Maedhros said, cradling him. I love you, I love you. Fingon closed his eyes as Gothmog drew to a stop in front of him. He was dying. Maedhros, together with him in his heart, would feel Gothmog’s blow land.

I love-- Maedhros began again. With the last of his strength Fingon pushed him out; when Fingon died he was alone, his body cloven from neck to hip where it lay, crushed and broken, on the ground.

Chapter Text

Everything, everywhere, was darkness. He was suspended like the fog over the sea, with an abyss in every direction. He wanted to fight -- he wanted to weep. He had been in so much pain. He hadn’t been alone but he was alone now. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't, and when he tried to raise his arms he found he couldn't do that either. The last he remembered his arms had been bloody and raw, like an animal without its skin. He remembered screaming and the way the sword had felt when it had torn through his chest. Someone had held him, and loved him, in the moments before that --

But they were gone, now -- and with them were gone his body, and the pain. He had nothing, he was nothing. Rest now, child, said a voice in the dark. Do not be troubled. Sleep. 

And so he did, for a time. He slept like a seed under the winter snow. 

Like a sword in its sheath.

Like the dead. 

And the next time he woke, he knew where he was. 

His path had brought him to the wall again. It rose up once more before him, ghostly to his eyes but as solid and cold as ice when he pressed his palms against it. 

Everything had been dark before, but now it was as gray and insubstantial as air. There was a smoky fog as far as he could see in every direction. He had a body again, or something like a body, but the fog clung to his bare feet and his gray robes and crawled inside his throat until he felt like he was a part of the nothingness too. He pressed against the wall again. It was the only solid thing in the world, but it was smooth and unyielding beneath his hands. 

You should rest, said Mandos again. 

“I’m not tired,” Fingon answered, as he had before. He squinted up, but he couldn't see where the wall ended. “Is this a trick? I’ve walked in every direction, but every path leads me back here.” 

The door will open when you are ready, Mandos said. They'd had this conversation ten times before. Fingon wondered if the thread of impatience he heard was real or only in his own mind. You will not be ready until you heal. You will not heal if you do not sleep. 

Fingon hummed. “I’m not tired,” he said again. He pushed experimentally. Nothing happened, except that the fog rolling past his feet seemed to whirl and grow agitated. 

None leave my halls until they are ready, said Mandos. The time for action is over. You fought bravely, but the battle has ended. Lay down your spirit, child. Rest. 

Fingon put his shoulder against the wall. “No,” he said, and shoved. 

Every inch of the ride back to their camp was torture, though Maitimo held him as gently as he could. Findekáno gritted his teeth, pressed his face against Maitimo’s chest, and bore it as best he could. He could feel Maitimo’s worry, as though his fëa was so overfull with it that it splashed over and into Findekáno. Any other time he would have delighted at being the center of all that concern and attention. Now, he hid his tears and his flushed face against Maitimo’s shirt and felt shame roil his gut. 

They reached the camp an hour later, just as the light of Laurelin was waning and Telperion was blooming. Maitimo dismounted carefully, trying not to jostle Findekáno, but when he took Findekáno’s full weight Findekáno’s shattered leg screamed with pain and he let out a short sob, scrabbling at Maitimo’s chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he panted, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Maitimo shushed him. “Stop moving, Fin. I’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

Maitimo must know that he had been crying -- his pale shirt was soaked through with tears -- but he didn’t say anything about it, just gently carried Findekáno around the ashes of their campfire and lowered him onto the bedrolls they had left behind, messy and rumpled, just that morning. 

“I’m going to get water,” he told Findekáno, as gently as though Findekáno was a child. “I’ll be back soon. Yell if you need me.” 

Findekáno, flushed dark with shame, nodded. Maitimo leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Findekáno squeezed his eyes shut in case he started crying again and listened as Maitimo moved off. 

The stream was a quarter of a mile from their camp. By the time Maitimo returned Findekáno had gotten his breathing and the crying under control, although his broken leg was pounding badly enough that it was all he could think of. He didn't notice Maitimo’s approach until Maitimo knelt down and touched his shoulder. 

“It’s me,” said Maitimo, pressing down on Findekáno’s shoulder and holding him in place when Findekáno startled. “I’m going to heat up the water and make you a poultice. It might take awhile, I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Findekáno tried to smile at Maitimo and almost managed it. “I was the one stupid enough to chase that stag off a cliff and ruin our hunt.” 

Maitimo’s face twisted. He carefully touched the diagonal cut that ran down from Findekáno’s temple to his lip. It burned hotly, although it was the least of his injuries -- a slice from a tree branch, no more. Maitimo’s fingers were wonderfully cool and damp still from the stream. Findekáno couldn’t help turning into his touch, just a little. Maitimo sighed. 

“Findekáno Astaldo,” he said. He was trying to tease, although the worry still shadowing his voice made it fall flat. “You didn’t ruin anything. Just -- be more careful next time, alright?” 

“I don’t mean to do stupid things,” Findekáno said. Even as he said it, though, his voice shook. “I just can’t help it, sometimes.” 

“Can’t help it?” Maitimo repeated. He touched the back of his fingers to Findekáno’s forehead. Findekáno nodded and let his eyes flutter closed. Maitimo’s fingers were wonderfully gentle and cool.

“When I see a fight, I throw myself into it,” he said, unable to help the bitterness that crept into his voice. Maitimo didn't answer. “When I see an open plain, I wonder how fast I can cross it. There’s something wrong with me. I can't help it. I knew the cliff was there. I did. But I saw the stag and I thought I could make it." He paused. Maitimo was still silent. "I'm sorry," he added softly. Maitimo brushed his fingers against Findekáno’s face again.

“You like dangerous things,” Maitimo agreed, though the worry in his voice was deeper than before. Findekáno blinked his eyes open, and looked at him.

Maitimo was beautiful -- everyone in Tirion knew that -- but no one knew it as well as Findekáno, who had spent hours at a time tracing the line of Maitimo’s lower lip and the soft curve of his cheek with his eyes. Findekáno's heart ached for him in the same way that he ached for all wild and impossible things. The Noldor did not love that way: maid to maid, man to man. The Noldor did not court their cousins. But Findekáno could not help it. He loved him.

He loved him.

He loved him, and he would have to carry the secret of it for all the long years of his life. But Maitimo was worth even that -- worth even more, worth anything, everything. Findekáno  managed a smile, and gently pushed his hand away. 

"I'll be more careful," he promised. "Now go on. You make the fire, and I'll tell a story and try to make up for cutting our trip short."

Maitimo ran his fingers through Findekáno's hair. "You don’t have anything to make up for," Maitimo answered softly. "I like that you like dangerous things. But not without me, next time."

Findekáno laughed, as lightly as he could with his heart in his throat. "You'll get a bad reputation, asking for a promise like that." Maitimo frowned.

"I don't care," he said. "I mean it, Fin. Next time you want to do something wild or reckless, you wait for me first. Alright?"

"And you'll jump off the cliff with me?" Findekáno asked, meaning to tease. Maitimo reached out and smoothed his hair back again. 

"Yes," he answered seriously. He tweaked Findekáno's ear. "I love your fearlessness, Finno. Astaldo. I'm not asking you to stop. Just slow down, a little. Don't go on ahead where I can't follow."

You are not ready to leave.

“I’m ready.”

The world you left is gone. Here there is no loss, no grief, no pain, no separation of hröa from fëa. The fate of the Eldar is to remain a part of the earth until Arda Remade. But this time of rest is Illuvatar’s gift to you, to reflect and to heal. When you are ready, the door will appear. 

“I can’t stay here any longer. I need to go.” 

There is nowhere you are needed. The world you left is gone. He could hear Mandos’ displeasure. 

Fingon refused to believe it. “Whatever world is left, I will return to it.”

You will not recognize the one you seek. In his grief he has lost himself, and he is lost to you.

Fingon thought of Maedhros’ hand, cool and gentle on his brow in the woods outside of Tirion, back in the beginning when his love for Maedhros was still a secret, shameful thing. “I don’t care,” he said. He began walking again, trailing his hand against the wall and feeling for a crack. “Wherever he is, as long as he lives, I will find him.” 

“Fin?” 

He thought he'd imagined the voice at first. There was little enough light left anymore, with the Trees dead and his grandfather’s murder a pall over the city; but he had grouped a trio of lanterns around himself on the window, and by their light and the faint glow of the stars he was sharpening his sword. He had been alone for hours now, with only the cries and laments from the city below for company; so when the voice came, he thought it was only in his own mind, and he ignored it. The next moment the door creaked open, proving him wrong -- but Fingon only paused a beat before returning to his sharpening stone again.

The door closed; feet padded across the stone floor. “Fin,” Maitimo said again, from Findekáno's shoulder this time. His right hand closed on the sharpening stone in Findekáno’s hand just as Findekáno drew the stone down. Findekáno swore and jerked his hand away, but not before he’d scored a line of blood on Maitimo’s palm.

Maitimo yanked his hand back with a hiss. Findekáno stared at the mark of Maitimo’s blood on the stone, black in the dim light.

“That was your fault,” he said. 

“Never mind the blood,” Maitimo answered impatiently. Findekáno could hear him move away and rustle through the mess of clothes on the dressing table. Findekáno didn’t look up. When Maitimo came back he was wrapping his hand in a silken crimson scarf.

“That color looks terrible on you,” Findekáno said. It wasn’t true -- Maitimo was beautiful; everything looked well on him. But Findekáno felt perverse and very, very angry. “Your hair. It clashes.”

“You can have it back,” Maitimo said. He sat down on the window seat next to Findekáno, so close that his weight pressed down on Findekáno’s toes. Findekáno wriggled them, but Maitimo didn’t get the hint. 

Findekáno wondered which of his terrible, useless siblings had let their estranged cousin in through the front door. Probably Irissë, he thought. Damn her. 

“What do you want?” he asked at last. 

Maitimo hesitated, which was unusual. On top of being unfairly handsome and proud and too much his father’s son, Maitimo was the bravest person Findekáno knew. It wasn’t like him to leave a question unanswered. Findekáno looked up. “What do you want?” he asked again, and this time watched Maitimo flinch.  

"I know you must hate me," Maitimo began at last. Findekáno nodded. Maitimo’s face fell, but he pressed on gamely. "Well. I still care for you. Very much, Fin. So please don't take this the wrong way." He reached out and grabbed Findekáno's hand. "I've come to tell you to stay."

Findekáno stared at him. Then, when Maitimo let the silence drag on, he laughed.

Maitimo, who had evidently been gearing himself for a fight, frowned. "I'm serious."

"Don't I know it," Findekáno answered bitterly. He tugged his hand free. "Get out of here, Maitimo."

“That’s it?” Maitimo gazed at him. His face was sweet and earnest. Findekáno had notebooks full of sonnets to Maitimo’s eyes stashed in a box under his bed. How embarrassing, now, to think of it. “You have to hear me out, Fin. I think you owe me that, at least."

“There’s nothing I owe you,” Findekáno snapped. That, finally, seemed to do the trick. Maitimo drew back and stood up, looking hurt. 

“You think I wanted any of this?” he asked. He ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up and leaving it a wild halo around his face. Findekáno sat in the window, said nothing, and watched him pace. “I like your father! I love you! I didn’t want this. Formenos was horrible. Cold, and drafty, and on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Twelve years of stewing in Father’s jealousy and paranoia. It was horrible. I missed you. I didn’t want to go. What choice do you think I had? What choice do you think I have now?” He whirled on Findekáno. Findekáno stared at him. It was, he thought, really very unfair how beautiful he was. 

“Your father put a sword to my father’s throat,” Findekáno said, after a pause. “Lest we get too carried away with self-pity here. You were stuck kicking your heels in Formenos for a few years because your father lost his mind and tried to kill my father. You want me to feel sorry for you? I don't. He deserved it, and so did you for defending him."

“I’m not --” Maitimo visibly reined himself in. “That’s not what I’m saying,” he tried again, softer this time. “Listen, Fin. My father doesn't care for anything except for his pride and the silmarils. He’s going to get us all killed. I don’t have a choice, but you do. You don’t need to be a part of this. Fin. You should stay.” 

“It would be easier for you,” Findekáno agreed. He held up his sword and tilted it so that it pointed at Maitimo’s throat, an echo of Fëanor’s sword at Ñolofinwë’s throat a dozen years before. Maitimo narrowed his eyes. Findekáno quirked his lips. When Maitimo said nothing, he shrugged and let the blade drop. "I don't care about your guilt," he continued. He stood and sheathed his sword. "This is the best chance I’ve ever had of getting out of this place, and I’m going to take it. I don’t care how you feel about it.” 

“You’ll never be able to come back,” Maitimo said, as though that wasn’t the entire point. Findekáno looked at him, at his bird’s nest hair and his twelve-year-out-of-fashion clothes, and thought, t o hell with it.

“I hate Tirion,” Findekáno said. When Maitimo moved closer he let him. “I’m bored. I’m bored out of my mind all the time. The only good thing here was you, and then you went and followed your awful father halfway to the other side of the world and left me here all alone."

"I didn't want to leave you," Maitimo said. Findekáno laughed.

"But now that 'leaving' means 'leaving forever,' you do?" he asked. When Maitimo didn't answer, he smiled humorlessly, and shook his head. 

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I'm not asking you. I'm coming, no matter what you think about it."

“Fin --”

“Shut up. You always think you know better than everyone else and you’re always wrong. You listen to me this time.” Findekáno felt anger flaring in him, hot and furious. “There’s nowhere for me here, not without you. But there's an entire world on the other side of the Sea. Do you understand? I’m not like you. There’s something wrong with me. I wish I could be happy with this -- all of this -- but I’m not. Can you understand that? I hate it here. I hate it. I have to go. So don't you dare try to spoil this for me, or pretend that you know better, or -- ”

Maitimo caught his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said earnestly, trying and failing to meet Findekáno’s eyes. Findekáno growled and shoved him back. 

“Get out, Maitimo.” 

“You’re my best friend,” Maitimo said. He sounded younger than Findekáno for once, and very, very lost. “I don’t understand. Can’t you tell me what you want, Fin?"

And Findekáno -- tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of Maitimo's awful family and Tirion and this whole horrible, hateful place -- thought, Astaldo, and came to a decision. 

“Don’t you dare hate me,” he warned. And before Maitimo could answer, Findekáno grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him down for a kiss. 

Findekáno had imagined kissing Maitimo before. He knew Maitimo’s lips as well as if they had already done this a hundred times, as if Maitimo was already his. How often had he traced those lips with his eyes? He knew the blush on Maitimo’s cheek, the strength in those pretty long-fingered hands, the pattern of the freckles on his nose. When he imagined kissing him, he  imagined a soft, warm heat, melting into each other, whispers of love murmured between brushes of their lips. When they touched, in his dreams, it was always a thing of beauty.

This kiss was nothing like that. Maitimo started to kiss Findekáno back, then panicked and caught himself, rearing back. What Findekáno got instead of sweet affection was Maitimo's tongue shoved into his mouth, the clash of their teeth, and a bloody lip.

Findekáno drew back, too, and opened his eyes. Maitimo was already staring at him: those gray eyes that Findekáno loved so well were wide with fear. Findekáno smoothed out Maitimo’s collar and licked the blood off his lips. “Not bad,” he said, lying because he loved him. Maitimo made a low, pained sound in the back of his throat. Findekáno uttered a silent, fervent prayer, and then added, as bravely as he could, “Can we try again?” 

Maitimo blushed scarlet, but he was no coward. “Yes,” he breathed, and pulled Findekáno back into his arms. 

Findekáno took charge this time, gentling the kiss and running his hands down the planes of Maitimo’s chest as though he was soothing an anxious horse. Maitimo’s heart was racing. When Findekáno felt it he kept his hand pressed there. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s how I feel too.” He deepened their kiss and felt Maitimo’s low groan down to his bones. 

They were both grinning like fools when they broke apart. “That’s what I mean when I say I love you,” Findekáno said, the words tumbling out before he could help it. He laughed a little -- in disbelief, in joy. All these years hiding it, and Maitimo had kissed him back. “You’re my best friend too -- I mean that too. But every time I see you I want to kiss you. I’ve written poems about it. They’re terrible, but you can read them. You can have anything you want. I love you.” He stroked Maitimo’s chest again, wonderingly. “I’ve loved you this whole time. That’s the secret. I thought you would hate me if I told you -- but you kissed me instead.” He laughed again. 

"I feel the same," Maitimo whispered. He was blushing, bright red and still somehow the loveliest person Findekáno had ever seen. "I’ve felt the same. I love you too, like that. As long as we're, um. Confessing things." He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, settling them first on Findekáno’s hips, then his shoulders. He looked frightened, but that was alright. Findekáno could be brave enough for both of them.

"You shouldn't tell me to stay behind if you love me," he said. Maitimo blushed harder. Findekáno reached up to cup his cheek with one hand, although he kept his other hand pressed over Maitimo’s heart. "Take it back."

"I want you to be safe," Maitimo answered helplessly. Findekáno stroked his cheek.

"Who am I supposed to kiss, if you go and I stay behind?" he teased. When Maitimo just looked stricken and didn’t answer, Findekáno stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.

"Let me watch over you, because I love you," he murmured against Maitimo's lips. Maitimo was trembling. Findekáno stroked his cheek again. "And you can watch over me and keep me safe. Because you love me." Maitimo shook his head. Findekáno kissed him. 

"It's a good deal. You should take it." 

"Promise you won't leave me," answered Maitimo at last. His voice cracked. Findekáno wrapped his arms around Maitimo's neck and held him. 

“I promise," he said, the easiest promise he’d ever made. 

All who die leave love behind them, said Mandos. All joy ends in sorrow. It does not matter. The doors are closed until you are ready. 

“I promised him,” Fingon said.

You made a promise you could not keep.

“I will keep it.” 

He sighed heavily, not bothering to wait for the last of his retainers to bow their way out of the tent before he kicked his feet up onto the chair across from him and began to toe off his boots. “Well, that’s done.” Maedhros, leaning against one of the posts of the tent and cradling a mostly untouched glass of red wine in his hand, gave him a look. 

“You know that when the battle starts, everything will depend on your timing,” he began. Fingon made a face. 

“You think I don’t know that? You’ve been saying as much to me every day, twice a day, for years now.” He managed to get one boot off with a satisfied “hah!” He turned his attention to the second, but not before holding out his hand and beckoning Maedhros closer. Maedhros gave him a fond look and obediently stepped forward, passing his wine glass to Fingon. Fingon drained it and set it aside. “I could give you the entire battle and all five contingency plans, with the movement of every single company, in my sleep. Now stop hectoring me and come here.” 

He reached out again. This time Maedhros stepped close enough for Fingon to reel him in and press a kiss to his hip. “Always all this damn armor,” Fingon groused, though he nuzzled into Maedhros’ side all the same. Maedhros carded his fingers through Fingon’s hair, loosening his braids. “It’s the night before we are to part, for weeks at least -- perhaps for months! Years! -- and you make me contend with chainmail and leather. If I'm too tired to fuck by the time we get all of this off of you, you only have yourself to blame.” 

“How I make you suffer,” Maedhros answered dryly. He tugged another braid loose and wound his finger around one of Fingon's ribbons. “You, meanwhile, are garish enough for the both of us. Silk and gold? On a battlefield?” He tsked. Fingon grinned up at him. 

“Treasonous to talk about your king like that." He reached up to tug Maedhros down for a kiss. “Impertinent.”

“Oh? Going to punish me, are you?”

Fingon smiled into the kiss and nipped Maedhros’ lower lip for good measure. “Get that armor off and we’ll find out,” he murmured against Maedhros’ lips. Maedhros hummed appreciatively and pressed forward again. 

Later, when Fingon was sprawled out half-asleep and entirely happy in bed and Maedhros was sitting up next to him with a jumble of maps on his lap, Maedhros cleared his throat.

“Have you thought about how this ends?” Maedhros asked. "What will come next, if we win?" Fingon, blissful and pleasantly sore, trailed his fingers over the jut of Maedhros’ hipbone. 

“Hmm?”

Maedhros repeated his question. Fingon yawned. 

"Mmhm. Many times.” 

“I have, too.” Maedhros tapped his fingers against the nearest map. Nervous, Fingon thought. He blinked and turned to look at Maedhros more fully. “I could visit Barad Eithel more often. Maglor could manage Himring without me.”

“More often?” Fingon repeated. Maedhros flushed. 

“If you want.”

“If I -- you are moving to Barad Eithel once this war is over, Russo.” Fingon reached up for Maedhros’ right arm and tugged until Maedhros fell back down onto the bed next to him. The maps slid off his lap and onto the floor; Maedhros grimaced and went to reach for them, but Fingon grabbed his arm before he could. 

“What’s wrong with Barad Eithel?” he demanded. “Too many fountains? Is the climate too mild? You will simply have to bear it.” 

“You think I like living on top of a mountain?”

“It's been hard enough to drag you away from it all these years.” 

“Fin.” 

“Then what is this? You're asking for permission to visit me? Do you -- do you not want to live with me?” A new thought occurred to Fingon then. They had married at the outset of the war; after this battle, if all went as it should, Morgoth would be overthrown, the silmarils recaptured, and the war would be over. Maedhros’ generalship would end, but Fingon would still be king.

“Do you want me to give up the kingship?” Fingon asked. At that, Maedhros looked stricken. 

“Of course not,” he answered, using Fingon’s grip on his wrist to pull him closer and pressing a kiss to his forearm. When Fingon only stared at him and didn’t answer, he pressed another to his skin, and another, a line of kisses from his wrist to his elbow. “You are our king. My king.” You were meant to hold the throne, he added across their bond, so earnestly that Fingon finally relented.

“Then explain it to me,” he said. He stroked his fingers through Maedhros' hair. "Why don’t you want to live with me?”

Maedhros’ mouth tightened; but he had never been one to shy away from a fight. “You know our people as well as I do," he said at last. "Better. It's one thing in camp, when we are at war and those around us are our own soldiers. But what would your court say if we came home and took up rooms together? They would think I had bewitched you. They would call it a perversion of Morgoth’s.” He paused, but Fingon only glowered at him and didn’t answer. “I know the trouble I cause for you," Maedhros added, his voice gentling. "My name has already cost you Nargothrond and Doriath. I don't want to be a burden even after the war is over, too."

“If any of my advisors feel it is their business to speak about me sharing a bed with my husband,” Fingon said at last, low and outraged, “Then they can damn well say so to my face.” Maedhros reached up and thumbed his cheek. 

“They don’t know we're married,” he reminded him. Fingon’s eyes narrowed.

“Then we’ll marry again.” He pushed himself up and shifted over to straddle Maedhros, slotting their hips together and cupping Maedhros’ face in his hands. Maedhros gave him a skeptical look. 

“They'll say cousins should not marry,” he said. “Nor two néri, come to that.” Fingon scoffed. 

“Am I not king?” he countered. “We’ll have a ceremony this time, a proper one. A celebration to commemorate our love for each other and our victory over Morgoth.”

Maedhros looked thoughtful. Fingon, warming to his theme, ground down against him, his grin widening when Maedhros' breath caught.

“First we defeat Morgoth,” he murmured, bending down to capture Maedhros’ lips. Maedhros kissed him back just as deeply. He was beginning to rise up to meet Fingon again, their skin sliding together. “Then I bring you home and wed you. Again. We'll be happy and we'll be together. What do you think?"

Maedhros hummed. Fingon could feel his smile against his lips. "That's your plan?" he asked. 

Fingon slid his mouth lower, nuzzling against the soft skin between Maedhros' neck and his jaw. “Yes,” he whispered. When Maedhros shivered at the feel of Fingon's hot breath against his ear, Fingon smiled. “Do you have a better one?” Maedhros shook his head. 

My King’s will is my command, he answered breathlessly, and  pulled Fingon back up to kiss him again. 

He tipped his forehead forward to rest against the wall and closed his eyes. “I promised him,” Fingon whispered. His breath fogged on the smooth face of the wall. “Please. Show me the way back.”

A cool breeze brushed past his forehead like fingers stroking through his hair. Do you not also deserve to heal?  asked a new voice, a woman’s voice. I know the measure of your deeds, Findekáno Ñolofinwion. Your trials have been many. Your spirit is tired. Do you not deserve to rest? 

Fingon thought of falling asleep in Maedhros’ arms for the last time. “I cannot rest without him,” he said. His voice cracked. The woman’s voice was silent. “I cannot heal while our spirits are apart.”

I think it is a mistake, she said at last. Beneath his forehead he felt the wall shift. Blood and desolation run through the thread of his life. They have consumed him. They would consume you. 

“He has endured every ordeal the Valar have sent,” Fingon answered hoarsely. He clenched his hands into fists. “He has endured everything and stayed true, and loyal, and good. If he breaks now it is at your hands. If you will not aid him now, if you forsake him, his doom is your work.” His eyes burned. “Let me return,” he whispered. “Please.” 

Silence stretched between them, as tense and sharp as a knife. A minute or a century, he didn't know.

And then -- 

We have never forsaken you, child, she said. Go, with Vairë’s blessing. May you find what you seek. He felt the breeze again, like a kiss against his brow. 

Beneath his hands the wall shuddered, and opened.

Chapter Text

The woman waiting for him at the end of the dock was dressed in simple homespun gray cloth. The hood of her cloak was drawn up; beneath it her face, though young, was pale and stern. She stood silently and watched as he drew close enough to throw a rope around the nearest post and lash his boat to the pier. All around them, the air was heavy and flecked with rain. 

The hull of the little boat ducked and bobbed like an uneasy horse as Fingon struggled to draw down the sail and the slender mast. It was late afternoon, sometime in autumn; storm clouds scudded across the sky, while the cold breeze that blew from across the sea cut the slate-gray water and tossed salt and seafoam into the air. He was shivering and wet by the time he pulled himself up onto the dock. The woman had watched him the whole time without moving or speaking; if she was cold, she gave no sign.

“My lady,” Fingon managed at last, dropping down to kneel on the weathered boards. On the shore the reeds rustled uneasily in the heavy air, while in the harbor the waves slapped against the rocks and his boat thumped against the worn pillars of the pier. The woman regarded him. 

“My husband is the lord of these lands,” she said at last. Her voice, though low and musical, was tinged with weariness. “I am Lady Elwing. Where are you from, traveler? Your boat is not from Balar.”

“It is a Teleri fishing vessel,” Fingon said. He stood again but kept his eyes lowered. “From the shores of Tol Eressëa.”

“Tol Eressëa,” she repeated slowly. He watched her hand drift to the knife at her side. She was staring at him openly now, frank curiousity mingling with mistrust on her face. When Fingon nodded, her eyes narrowed. “Long have we looked for help from across the Sea," she said, just as slowly. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the knife. Fingon watched her without moving, though his body was tense. "Long have we sought the Valar to ask for their aid.” She paused. He saw her grip tighten. “But you are not Teleri.”

“No. I am --"

“I know what you are,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was cold. Fingon straightened his shoulders, resisting the urge to drop his hand to the stolen sword at his side as the curiosity on her face drained away and open animosity took its place. “You are a kinslayer. You and your kind brought doom and sorrow to these lands." She paused again, her lip curling. "Your name is a curse here.”

“I am a kinslayer,” Fingon agreed heavily, after a moment. "One of the Noldor, though Tirion has not been my home for a long time." He spread his hands, lifting them away from his sword. When she didn’t release her grip on her dagger, he risked a glance at her face. Her eyes were fixed on the livid scars on his hands and forearms, an ugly red against the brown of his skin. “My name is Fingon,” he said, and waited -- but if she recognized his name, she gave no sign. “I don’t know how many years have passed here on Middle Earth, but my father was once high king of these lands, and I the high king after him. I left Mandos’ Halls many weeks ago now. I stole this ship and left the Undying Lands to sail home.” She stared at him, her expression as blank and beautiful as though she was a statue carved from stone.

“The Valar haven't sent me,” Fingon continued, after a beat of silence. “But if I can help you, I will.” He moved forward in a few quick steps and knelt again, reaching for Lady Elwing’s hand before she could draw her knife. Her fingers were icy. He pressed her hand to his forehead in supplication and ignored the quiet, startled sound she made in response. “If I can help you, I will,” he repeated. He licked his lips and drew in an unsteady breath. “Only first -- please tell me -- does Maedhros Fëanorion still live?” 

The room they brought him to was sparse and cheerless, empty except for a low bed, a single, well-worn rug, and a rickety table near the door. Three of the walls were bare stone, but there was an enormous window on the fourth wall, with glass panes that reached nearly to the ceiling. It had been elegant once, but now it was cobwebbed and filthy; the light that filtered through was gray. The fireplace was bare, and the damp chill of the room seemed to sink into everything -- the walls, the rug, his bones.

The guards shoved him into the center of the room and locked the door behind them. For several long minutes Fingon stood stock still where they'd left him, staring into the fireplace unseeingly and wrapping his arms around his chest without realizing that he was shaking. At last, coming to himself enough to feel the cold, he picked up the room’s single threadbare blanket, drew it around his shoulders, and crossed the room to the window. He sank down to the ground and scrubbed at the nearest pane with his sleeve.

His room looked east, out across the little town square to the marshes that ringed the village on three sides. There was a narrow wooden bridge that wound through reeds as high as his shoulders, just wide enough for a cart and two horses walking abreast. The bridge and the square were both empty now; it felt like a town of ghosts. Fingon closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the glass.

Maedhros, he tried again. He paused. Sweetheart. 

Speaking mind to mind with Maedhros had been easy ever since they were wed. He had known Maedhros his whole life; he knew him as well as he knew himself. Waking up the morning after their marriage, feeling Maedhros' mind opening to his for the first time, had felt like coming home after a long journey -- bright warmth, a joyful welcome, here you are at last, love; I’ve been expecting you. 

But when he tried, now, to reach for him, there was nothing there but darkness and pain. It was like a crater after an explosion, still burning and raw -- or the pit left behind when a tree was torn up by the roots. He could see the shape of what had once been there; but if he lingered too long, horror and despair welled up inside him, seizing in his chest and flooding his body with ice. He stood in the ruin of their bond anyway for as long as he could bear, calling for his husband into the darkness until his throat felt bloody and his mind screamed from the pain. Maedhros! 

By the time he came back to himself his whole body was shaking. He tried to swallow down the nausea; when that didn’t work, he scrambled gracelessly away from the window and reached for the chamberpot. He threw up until his stomach was empty and the taste of bile and blood burned his tongue. He was still shaking when he finally slumped back and pressed his forehead against the cold gray stone. 

Maedhros was alive. Elwing’s guards had told him that, even as they’d wished Maedhros dead in their next breath. Maedhros' Union had ended in a rout, Barad Eithel and Himring had both fallen, but Maedhros had escaped. Morgoth’s forces roamed freely, plunging every corner of Beleriand into darkness and ruin. More than six decades had passed since the battle they now called the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Maedhros lived.

He lived -- but in the sixty-five years since Fingon’s death, Maedhros had done terrible, unspeakable things. 

Fingon drew in a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.

He was Findekáno, called Astaldo, High King of the Noldor in Middle Earth, blessed by Vairë and beloved by Maedhros. Whatever it took, he would find him.

He closed his eyes, and turned to their bond once more.

Fingon didn’t notice the hours passing. His room first grew black, and then as night became morning it turned to a dim, sullen yellow. He didn't sleep. When they came for him an hour past dawn his hair was loose around his shoulders and his face was ashen and streaked with sweat. There was blood on his lips. He felt feverish and light-headed; he didn’t notice when they pulled him to his feet until the floor lurched and swayed dizzyingly under him. 

“Come,” said one of the guards, implacable as iron. “Her ladyship wishes to see you.”

The guards on either side of Fingon were silent until they approached the door. Then one of them said roughly, “You are to answer any question her ladyship asks." He shook Fingon for emphasis. “Speak honestly and hide nothing.” Fingon, his head aching and his stomach roiling, didn’t answer. The guard shook him again. When he still said nothing, the guard muttered something darkly to his companion before shoving the door open.

Inside, Elwing was alone, sitting at an elegant wooden desk with her back to them as they entered. She was writing busily, but when the door opened she raised her left hand and gestured. The guards shoved Fingon forward. He stumbled and fell to his knees -- his hands were bound behind him -- but still, she didn’t look up.

“Leave us,” she ordered. 

The guards hesitated. “My lady,” one of them began; at another gesture from Elwing, he fell silent. 

“Leave us,” she said again. This time the guards bowed. 

“We will be outside, my lady,” said the oldest of the guards, a grizzled man with sharp eyes and several fingers missing on his hand. “If he gives you any trouble, just call for us and we’ll come.” Elwing didn’t answer. The younger guard kicked Fingon as he passed. 

The door closed behind them. Fingon crouched on the floor, panting for breath. Elwing didn't turn; over the pounding of his heart, Fingon could hear the busy scratch of her pen on paper. 

“Do you treat all of your guests this courteously?” Fingon rasped at last. There was a fire blazing across the room, but even so the floor felt like ice beneath his knees. He focused on the chill of the flagstones and tried to ground himself. Every time he blinked the room swam in front of his eyes. Elwing’s pen finally fell still. 

“They say that you and Fëanorion Kinslayer were close,” she said at last. She turned to look at Fingon then, and despite himself he met her eyes. They were beautiful, so dark brown that they were almost black. There was something compelling and otherworldly in her gaze, though the rest of her face was cold.

“He is my cousin,” Fingon answered haltingly. She stared at him implacably and said nothing. Against his will, he found his tongue loosening. “He is a skilled general and swordsman. I saved his life once; the tale is well-known, or it used to be. He held Himring during the Dagor Bragollach and led one half of our armies during the Fifth Battle, the one you call the Nirnaeth now.” 

She watched him. Over her shoulder the morning sky was dark and growing darker, flashes of white seabirds skating like spindrift on the growing storm clouds. Fingon shivered involuntarily. “That's all, my Lady.” 

“The rumor from Barad Eithel is that you fucked him,” she said. 

Fingon’s mouth snapped shut. With a contemptous look, Elwing stood. Her bearing was elegant and composed; but when she looked at him, she didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “Is it true?” she asked. When he clenched his jaw and didn’t answer, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me,” she commanded.

“I love him,” Fingon answered hoarsely. The words forced themselves from his tongue. He saw her lips curl with disdain, but it was as though she had laid a spell on him; he couldn’t stop speaking. “We belong to each other. He is the other half of my soul.”

She spat.

“Kinslayers, kinfuckers,” she said. “It seems there is no depravity the Noldor are not capable of.” 

“Maedhros' bravery and sacrifice kept these lands and your people safe for centuries,” snapped Fingon. She gazed back at him bitterly. Now that she had wrested his secret from him, the compulsion to speak lifted; he snapped his jaw shut and let silence fall between them.

“Gil-galad is king of whatever scraps of the Noldor remain in Middle Earth,” Elwing said at last. “You are not needed here, Findekáno.” She said his Quenyan name as though it dripped poison. “Have you come to play the hero? Or are you planning on betraying us to your Fëanorion?” 

“I will not betray you or your people,” answered Fingon tightly. Her face twisted. 

“Any affection for the butcher of Menegroth is a betrayal of my people,” she snarled. She whirled away from Fingon and moved to the window. When she gripped the frame her knuckles turned white, as though she could break the stone itself with the force of her anger and grief.  

“Did you watch the slaughter from the Halls of the Dead?” she asked. She bit out the words and didn’t turn to look at Fingon as she spoke. “Have any here told you of it?” Many of the guards had. He didn’t answer.

“I was very young,” Elwing said eventually. Her voice dropped low, as though she was speaking to her reflection in the glass instead of to Fingon. “It was winter. I remember that it had snowed that evening. We were going to gather holly branches in the morning.” 

She moved at last away from the window and turned to her desk. Amidst the papers and piles of books there was a handsome glass goblet, still half-filled with burgundy wine. She drained it and poured herself another glass. Her lovely face was rigid with grief. 

“The Fëanorions came at midnight,” she said. “There weren't many of them. We thought they were an envoy. On my mother’s orders the guards at the gate let them cross the Esgalduin and enter, though they were dressed for war. This is what I was told afterwards. I was a child, and asleep in my nursery.” She looked up at him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. 

“My lady --”

“When they finished crossing the river, they killed the guards behind them and barred the gates so that none could escape,” she went on, ignoring him. Her voice was ruthless, even as it shook. “They came with torches and brimstone and set fire to the stables and the barracks inside the walls. We could hear the screams of the horses and the soldiers from the inner keep. We could smell the smoke and the bodies burning. My nursemaids snatched me from my bed and ran with me for miles through the deepest, darkest caves of the city, following the river. It was thick and red with blood; I still remember the smell. Any who were not fast enough, or who fell, we left behind; they were killed by the smoke and the flames. But we were the lucky ones. Do you know what happened to my brothers?”

She waited. Fingon couldn’t bring himself to answer. He groped for the bond with Maedhros like a drowning man reaching for air, but there was nothing there except for the ruin where it once had been. “Do you know what happened to my brothers?” Elwing demanded. Fingon’s stomach turned. He shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. 

“The Fëanorions tore Eluréd and Elurín from my mother’s arms as she lay dying,” Elwing said. She was crying, though her voice was still vicious. “They carried them deep into the woods, away from the protection of Menegroth, and left them. There are monsters in the woods around Doriath. Wolves. Spiders. Nightmares made flesh. My brothers were six.” She stopped. Fingon could feel tears on his cheeks, and realized for the first time that he was crying, too. “Will you look at me, King Fingon? Or are you too ashamed?”

He opened his eyes and raised his head. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and her dark eyes were wild with grief. “I was too young to know what we had done to deserve such fury,” she said. “But eventually I learned. Your Fëanorion had grown weary of trying to win the Silmarils from Morgoth; he thought Menegroth an easier prize. He slaughtered thousands for the sake of this.”

There was a chain around her throat; she scrabbled for it, yanking it at last from beneath the neckline of her dress.  Dozens upon dozens of jewels glittered upon it -- and in their center the Silmaril shone, clear and beautiful as starlight in her hand.

“That is who you love,” Elwing said rawly. “That is the monster you have bound your heart to. Do not speak to me of his ‘bravery’ and ‘sacrifice’ again, lest I rip your tongue from your throat.”

She collapsed in her chair and hid her face in her hand. Her shoulders were shaking. Fingon, kneeling on the floor as though frozen, made no move to wipe away his tears. 

“I am not bound by their oath,” Fingon said in a whisper, after several long minutes had passed between them in silence. “The Silmaril means nothing to me. I will not betray you or your people.” 

At that Elwing let out a rough laugh and let her hand fall. As Fingon watched she reached across the table, pouring herself another glass of wine while, outside the windows, it began to rain. “You will not,” she agreed. Her hand drifted to the pile of papers on her desk and settled on the letter she’d been writing when he was brought in. “I've written to Maedhros Fëanorion. You will remain in Sirion, under my protection, so long as he stays away. If he comes within fifty leagues of the Havens, I will kill you.” She smiled thinly, though her face was still ugly with grief. “You may go when Maedhros is dead. Until then, you are my ransom.”

Chapter Text

Maedhros’ answer arrived eight weeks later. 

It was early evening, just as the sun was beginning to set in the west. Although the day was clear, the wind cutting across the Sea was cold and growing colder. Earlier in the day Fingon had bound his hair in a single loose braid, wrapped himself in a borrowed fisherman’s coat, and seated himself on the steps leading up to the tower, a book of poetry in hand and his mind far away. He had spent hours there, lost in thought. When the horseman cantered across the bridge and drew to a stop in front of him, he didn’t realize at first what he was seeing; though all around him, the villagers were stopping in their work to gawk and whisper. 

“My lord,” said a clear, troubled voice. Fingon started, blinked, and looked up. 

There was a young, handsome elf standing in front of him, his dark hair elegantly braided and his cloak fastened with Fëanor’s seal. Fingon recognized him, though his anxious expression and the milky cloudiness in his left eye were new -- Erestor, one of Maedhros’ pages. Heart suddenly pounding, Fingon made to stand; before he could Erestor hurriedly knelt, his red cloak spreading around him in a pool on the ground. 

“My lord,” said Erestor again. His voice was choked with emotion. “We never thought -- is it truly --”

“Stop stammering,” Fingon said in an undertone. He could hardly breathe. He snapped his book shut and stood, suddenly aware of the villagers surrounding them and the trio of guards keeping watch from the top step. “It’s me. Do you have news from Maedhros? Never mind -- don’t tell me here. Come to my room.” He grabbed Erestor’s arm and pulled until Erestor stumbled to his feet. “You must tell me where to find him. You must tell me --”

“Fëanorian.”

Lady Elwing was striding down the steps towards them. She was dressed in a blue silk gown that glittered with jewels, but despite her fine clothes her face was cold in the evening light. Erestor bowed when she reached them. Fingon straightened and dropped his hand from Erestor’s arm.

“My lady.”

“What was your lord’s answer?” Elwing demanded, looking directly at Erestor and ignoring Fingon. Erestor flushed. 

“Perhaps we could speak in private, my lady?”

“What was his answer?” repeated Elwing sharply. More villagers were gathering around them, men and elves alike, all of them with their eyes fixed on the scene playing out on the steps. Erestor cast Fingon a brief, unhappy look. 

“Lord Maedhros agrees to your terms,” he said at last, reluctantly. “He will stay away, along with his brothers, in exchange for Lord Fingon’s continued safety in your halls. He -- he asks that you treat Lord Fingon kindly.” Erestor looked at Fingon again. “Those were his only words, my lady.”

“Did he have anything to say to me?” Fingon asked urgently, before Elwing could answer. He moved to grasp Erestor again; before he could Elwing gestured with her hand. Two guards moved out of the crowd and seized him by the arms. “Did he have a message for me?”

Erestor looked helplessly between Elwing and Fingon. She said nothing. Fingon strained against the guards. “Tell me!” he snapped. 

“No,” said Erestor at last, reluctantly. “Those were his only words.”

Fingon felt it like a blow to his heart. He sank to the ground, hardly realizing when Erestor bowed again and remounted his horse, or when the guards at last retreated back up the steps. The crowd finally melted away, talking loudly. Elwing lingered the longest, watching Fingon even as the sun finished setting and the stars sprang to life overhead; but at last she too left. Fingon stayed there for hours, alone on the steps, lost in his grief. 

Another month passed. Winter came, a harsh winter that blew icy winds through the reeds and froze the low water in the fens. Darkness fell early and snow flurries spun through the abandoned streets and the little market square. The people in the village stayed shut in their homes, except for grim-faced hunters and the exhausted healers who hurried endlessly from house to house.

Lady Elwing rarely left her tower, but as the weeks passed the guard she had set upon Fingon slowly relaxed. With nothing else to do, desolate and barely able to touch the ruin of his bond with Maedhros for the pain, Fingon found himself, more and more often, in company with Elwing's two young sons.

They were small, underfed things, with pinched bellies and cold-nipped noses. They had few playmates in the tower, which they roamed through with the ease of princes and the manners of two wolf cubs. Elros, the elder by a half hour, had a particular knack for finding Fingon out. Fingon could retreat to the armory, the storeroom, the kitchens -- wherever he went Elros' dark head and sharp brown eyes would appear soon enough, Elrond only a few steps behind. 

Fingon tried avoiding them at first. He had never been particularly fond of children, and he was in no mood for them now; he had snapped at them the first few times they’d dogged his steps, until one morning when he'd opened his door to find Elrond standing there, a solemn look on his little face and a gangly necklace made of strung together seashells in his hands as a gift. Pity had briefly overcome Fingon’s heartsickness and ill-temper, and he had let them into his room for five minutes. Ever since they had allowed themselves free rein of it, although they generally presented Fingon with a gift of some kind before they trooped inside.

The room was slowly filling up thanks to their trinkets: a half dozen precious books, a musty bearskin rug rescued from the cellars, a pearl-handled comb. On the dressing table there was a handful of shell fragments, each of them carefully pierced through with a needle. Elrond and Elros had collected them for him back before the weather grew too cold for expeditions in the surf -- "For your hair," Elros had said, looking disapprovingly at Fingon’s single, unadorned braid. On the walls were a half dozen drawings they had made for him and insisted he paste up, scenes from battles and heroic deeds well before they were born. In one of them, an incongruously beaming Fingon rescued a wall-eyed Maedhros as he dangled by one hand from a cliff. Fingon hung that one by his bed, and looked at it when his loneliness grew too much to bear. 

The twins found Fingon one day in the library. Outside it was snowing heavily; even the blazing fires at either end of the long, arched hall weren’t enough to keep the chill from the room. Fingon, a roughly-knit brown sweater scratching against his skin and his hair tied back into a loose knot, was alone at a table in the corner of the hall, near to the windows and out of sight behind a pair of bookcases. There were books and rolls of maps piled all around him and a glass of red wine at his elbow. He was poring over a large map that took up nearly the entire width of the table, leaning so closely over it that the strands of hair that had slipped loose from their knot brushed against the parchment. He had marked the map with droplets of wine, anywhere he thought Maedhros was likely to be. He reached for his glass again, ready to mark another spot, when a curious voice at his side asked, “What’s that, Fingon?”

Fingon yelped and jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting the wine as he spun around. Elrond and Elros were standing beside him. Elrond was peering at the map interestedly; Elros was shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Both of their noses were pink from the cold. 

“What are you doing here?” demanded Fingon, when he had recovered his breath. 

“We can go anywhere in the tower we like,” Elros said loftily. “You’re not supposed to be here, though. Nana said.” 

“We won’t tell,” Elrond hastened to add, ignoring Elros’ huff and rolled eyes. He hopped onto the bench next to Fingon. “This is a map of West Beleriand. Look, El! That’s us.” He jabbed his finger at the Havens. Elros leaned over to look at the map too. 

“Why are you looking at a map?” he asked suspiciously. 

“The kingdoms of Beleriand have changed since I was last here,” Fingon lied. “I wished to see the differences for myself.” He nudged the twins away and began to roll up the map. Before he could Elrond planted his palm on it to hold it in place. 

“Can you show us where Barad Eithel is, Fingon?” he asked earnestly. “Did you used to have a throne and wear a crown when you lived there?”

“You’ve spilled wine on it,” Elros observed, joining Elrond on the bench and leaning over. “Here and here.” He pointed to the marks Fingon had made on the map. Fingon flushed. “You shouldn’t be so clumsy in a library, Fingon.” 

“You're right,” Fingon said. "We'd better clean it up before anything else spills." He leaned over and tried to roll it up again. Elrond was frowning at the map, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“That one looks like an X,” he said slowly, tracing a mark Fingon had made near Nan-Tathren with his finger. “And that one too,” he added, tracing another mark at Arvernien. He looked up at Fingon, his eyes troubled. “Did you do that on purpose, Fingon?” Elros grinned and leaned over to take a closer look.

“You did!” he said delightedly. “Here, and here, and here. What do the Xs mean, Fingon? You have to tell us. We won’t tell anyone else, I promise. Is it a treasure map?”

“What? No.” 

“It is. What’s the treasure, Fingon? Is it the other Silmarils?”

“Don’t be stupid, El,” chastised Elrond. “Morgoth has the other Silmarils.”

“Well, it’s something,” said Elros, undeterred. Fingon sighed and swiped his glass of wine from the table before either of the twins could knock it over. 

“There’s no treasure,” he said again. “Don’t you two have lessons you’re supposed to be at right now? With Faurin?” Faurin was the twins’ sweet-tempered, much put-upon nursemaid. As though on cue, both of them made a face. 

“Faurin is sick,” said Elrond unconvincingly. Elros elbowed him. “Very sick,” he added. Fingon snorted. 

“If you don’t tell Faurin we’re here, we won’t tell anyone you’re writing on Nana’s maps,” said Elros swiftly. “Go on, Fingon. What do the Xs mean?” 

“Are they battles?” asked Elrond, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is this where Nana’s guards keep watch?” 

“Is this where your soldiers camped, Fingon? During the last battle?” 

“Or Maedhros? Is this where Maedhros’ soldiers camped?” Fingon flinched. As one, the twins’ eyes narrowed. 

“What are the Xs, Fingon?” asked Elros again.

Fingon looked back and forth between them, from Elrond’s earnest face to Elros’ mischievous grin. “You mustn’t tell anyone,” he began. They both leaned closer. 

“Is it Maedhros?” asked Elrond in a hushed voice. “Is this where you think Maedhros is, Fingon?” Fingon hesitated. In unison, the twins gasped.

“Fingon!”

“I don’t know where Maedhros is,” Fingon hastened to add. “He could be anywhere. He’s probably in Ossiriand.”

“He’s probably not,” said Elros emphatically. “He’s probably trying to find you.” 

Fingon huffed and took a long drink of wine. “I don’t think so,” he said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. Elros looked unconvinced. Elrond looked confused. 

“You were friends, weren’t you? All of the stories say that you led the armies together during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” 

Elros made a face. “He’s horrible, Fingon. Were you really friends with him?”

“It’s not Fingon’s fault,” said Elrond defensively, before Fingon could answer. “He didn’t know any better. Did you, Fingon?”

“I think that you two ought to go back to your lessons,” said Fingon firmly. He finally succeeded at tugging the map out from under Elrond’s hand and rolling it up. “Go on.” 

Elrond hopped off the bench. After a moment Elros followed suit, although he gave Fingon an appraising look as he did so. “Are you trying to run away, Fingon? Are you trying to run away to Maedhros?”

Fingon sighed internally. “No,” he said shortly, “But if you don’t tell your mother about the map, I promise I’ll…” He paused, scrambling for something to appease them. They both looked up at him expectantly. “I promise I’ll go ice fishing with you tomorrow,” he finished at last. He tucked the map under his arm. Elros clapped his hands, and even Elrond looked pleased. 

“Six o’clock, Fingon!” Elros said, tugging on Elrond’s arm until Elrond followed him away from Fingon’s table. “We’ll wake you up! Bring a coat!” 

As quickly as they had come they disappeared. Fingon sank back onto the bench. After a moment he let the map drop to the floor, kicked it away, and buried his head in his arms. 

Six more months went by without any word or sign from Maedhros. As the seasons passed the guard around Fingon continued to relax, until by spring he could go anywhere he liked in the Havens without more than a single bored-looking soldier trailing after him. It would have been easy enough to leave, but he didn’t know where to go. Aredhel was dead; Turgon was dead. Barad Eithel and Himring were both lost. Maedhros wasn’t coming. 

A late spring turned into a warm and beautiful summer. Warbling birdsong and the splashing of fish and toads rose from every corner of the marsh. The boats set out each morning and came back laden with fish each night. At first Fingon joined the villagers for their feasts and storytelling around the bonfires in the market square; but too often their stories turned to Doriath or Gondolin, and eventually Fingon retreated to his room instead, curling up for hours against the window and watching the play of the moonlight on the water. 

Midsummer found Fingon and the twins in the garden, a small square of lawn behind the tower that was filled with trellises of peas, rows of cabbages, and beds of carrots. Fingon didn’t particularly care for gardening; but, heartsick and with little else to do, he allowed the tower’s elderly gardener to bully him into taking charge of the little vegetable plot. He enlisted the twins, and together they spent hours weeding, pruning, and tending the young plants. The days grew longer; the twins trotted in to dinner each night with muddy faces and baskets full of vegetables and greens. Gradually, Fingon’s anger and grief began to loosen their vise-like grip on his heart. 

"Gardening is boring," announced Elros late one morning, sitting back on his heels and letting his little trowel drop to the ground. A few feet away Elrond was busily peeling fruit worms off of a young tomato plant. Fingon, though he privately agreed, swallowed down a sigh and didn’t answer. "Fingon, I'm bored. "

"Me too!" chirped Elrond on cue. As one they turned two hopeful dark heads towards him. 

"Fingon, let's go sailing!" said Elros. 

"Or we can hunt for bird eggs!"

"We could swim!"

"Let's have a picnic!"

"You two can do as you please," answered Fingon, tugging at a particularly tenacious weed. "I'm staying here." They groaned in unison. 

"We will probably drown if you don't come with us," warned Elros. Fingon waved his fingers at him without looking up from the garden bed.

"Take swimming off your list, then," he said. 

"We'll have to bring Faurin if you don't come," said Elrond, a craftier negotiator than his twin. “She’ll have to look after us, all on her own.”

Fingon swallowed down another sigh. 

"If you do start to drown I won't rescue you," he warned, as he pushed himself to his feet. As one, the twins cheered and raced for the tower.

Fingon left them to it to collect the things for a picnic, and so by the time they dodged Fingon’s guards and set off a half hour later they had a motley assortment -- a checked wool blanket that Elros wore over his shoulders like a cape, a heavy, oversized basket stuffed full of sausage, dark bread, two raw onions and a head of cabbage that Elrond was gamely struggling with, and in Elros' arms, heaps of fresh wildflowers that he was carting along to weave into their hair. Fingon, to the twins' delight, brought a sword.

"Tell us a story, Fingon," said Elrond, as they set off into the reeds. 

"A war story," added Elros, with a gleam in his eye.

"Or a love story."

"With lots of blood."

"And a happy ending."

"Not Lúthien and Beren!" they chimed together. Elrond, in the rear of their little party, jogged to catch up with Fingon. "It's a good story," he said fairly, "But we hear it all the time. Tell us something new!"

"You won't like my stories," Fingon said.

"We haven't heard any of your stories," complained Elros. 

"Tell us a story and we'll tell you if we like it," bargained Elrond. He was half-walking, half-skipping to keep up with Fingon. At every step the basket swung wildly and threatened to tip over. "Tell us about when you cut off Wicked Maedhros' hand!"

"Wicked Maedhros" was close enough to his own feelings about Maedhros these days that Fingon couldn't help it -- he barked out a laugh. The twins, not catching the bitterness in his voice and thinking they'd won, both brightened. 

"Yes!" agreed Elros. "Tell us about Maedhros and the Eagle."

"Were you afraid?" asked Elrond. 

"Did you really try to shoot Maedhros with an arrow?" Elros was openly intrigued, while -- "Was it hard flying on the eagle? Did you think you would fall off? What would you have done if you had fallen off, Fingon?" -- Elrond was just as openly concerned.

"I don't like to speak of it," Fingon said. Both twins gave him a reproving look. 

"You must like telling the story," said Elrond, too insightful by half, "Because everyone knows it, and you were the only one there."

Fingon resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Just the one story," he warned. The twins cheered. Fingon took the picnic basket from Elrond before he could overbalance and topple into the marsh. "We stood on the ice and saw smoke rising in the distance," Fingon began. "And we knew then that they had betrayed us."

"-- and when I stopped playing I heard a voice still singing the words. Badly out of tune, and with a sound as rough as sandstone. I looked all around, and then I looked up, and that's when I saw Maedhros Fëanorion, dangling one-handed from the top of the cliff and looking more like a corpse than an elf. 'Russo!' I called. 'Well-met!' But he only looked down; and when he regarded me, I saw that there were tears in his gray eyes."

"'Fingon the Valiant,' he answered, 'Is that truly you?' And when I said that his eyes deceived him not, and that it was I, he let out a wretched moan, piteous to hear. 'Then slay me with an arrow and have done with it,' he said, 'For my life has grown too much for me to bear, and I am weary of dangling here like a damned scarecrow in the wind.'"

"And that's when you tried to shoot him?" Elros asked, fascinated. They had found a grassy patch about two miles from the Havens, surrounded on three sides by water and on the fourth by a copse of young poplar trees. Elros and Elrond were both sprawled on their stomachs on the blanket, wildflowers twined in their hair and their eyes raptly following Fingon's every move. 

Fingon paused to take a drink of water. He was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the blanket across from them, his sword at his side and the remnants of his lunch in the grass beside him. An intrepid squirrel was nosing at the bread. Fingon shooed it away with his hand.

"I notched an arrow to my bow," he said, "And with a grieving heart I called on Lord Manwë Súlimo to take pity on my cousin, for I loved him very much.” Elrond wrinkled his nose, as though questioning Fingon’s judgment, but was kind enough not to say anything. “'Farewell, dear Maedhros!' I called, and loosed the arrow."

"And that's when Thorondor came!”

"Yes."

"Were you frightened?"

"Fingon isn't frightened of anything," Elros said staunchly, before Fingon could answer. "Did Thorondor really snatch the arrow out of midair, Fingon?"

"He knocked it away," Fingon confirmed. "And then he landed next to me, and with a voice like thunder he said, 'It looks like you could use some help, my dear Fingon.'"

"Was it your idea to fly on his back?" asked Elrond, intrigued.

"Thorondor himself offered to fly me."

"Was it like riding a horse?"

"Did you have to hold onto his feathers?"

“I climbed on his back and we swiftly ascended the cliff,” said Fingon, continuing the story. “And though the mountain was sheer, Thoronodor made himself a perch on the bare rock, mere feet away from Maedhros. When I stood on Thorondor's back, my head was level with my cousin’s.” 

He paused, as he always did each time he reached this part of the story. The memory of that meeting -- his panic and joy at finding Maedhros, the horror he had felt at the bruises and welts that covered every inch of Maedhros’ body, the fierce relief that had flooded him when those gray eyes he’d loved so long and so well had finally looked up and met his own -- all of it rose in him again, as clear and sharp as if it was not a memory at all, but real and present before him. His beloved once again returned to him, against all odds, on the other side of the Sea. 

“Fingon?” asked Elrond at last, when the silence had stretched on. Elros, less polite, poked Fingon’s knee. 

“Maedhros was glad to see me,” Fingon said at last. Maedhros, near to breaking, had wept. “And I was glad to see him.” Fingon had wept, too. 

Fingon blinked himself back to the present, touched the wetness under his eyes, and grimaced. He took another drink of water and spared a moment to wish that it was something stronger. “He swung by one hand from the cliff,” he said finally, continuing the story. “But when I tried to cut his shackle with my knife, the blade broke upon it. The danger was very great and time ran short. So I comforted him as best I could, and took what remained of the blade to his wrist.”

He paused for effect. Elros and Elrond both clapped their hands to their mouths in anticipation. 

But, just as he was drawing breath to continue, a merry voice called out, “And then he chopped it straight off -- and as Maedhros fell, he caught him in his arms! It was a fearsome deed, bravely done.”

Fingon stumbled to his feet and turned, his sword already in hand. Behind him he heard the twins scramble to their feet too. But he didn’t turn to look back at them -- for there, walking towards them through the reeds, was a bright-eyed Maglor Fëanorion, dressed for war.

Chapter Text

Fingon stared. Maglor, with the ease of long practice, crossed the rest of the swampy ground between them and swung himself onto their grassy little lawn, careful not to step on their checked blanket with his muddy boots. “Well met, coz,” he said, unabashed pleasure but no surprise in his voice. He turned to look at Elros and Elrond; his smile softened and grew wider. “Princes. This is a fine spot for a picnic.” 

“Káno?” managed Fingon at last. Maglor turned back to him.

His face was gaunter than Fingon remembered; his once-rich dark hair had grown stringy and limp in its practical single braid, and his clothes were heavily stained from travel. The last time Fingon had seen him was the morning their armies had parted; fresh from a night in Maedhros’ arms and with half-teasing, half-serious plans still passing back and forth between them about the renewal of their vows, Fingon had had no eyes for the slim, dark-haired warrior riding at Maedhros’ side. 

Now he couldn’t look away. Though there was little enough left of the richly-jeweled captain Maglor had been in the days of their armies' strength, Maglor’s eyes still held the same sharp, inquisitive brightness they'd always had as he surveyed Fingon. He glanced over Fingon’s sword without pausing, although his eyes lingered on the ropey scars that wrapped around both of Fingon’s wrists and up his arms. When his gaze settled on the pink and white wildflowers braided into Fingon’s hair, he smiled. 

“You look well!" he said approvingly. At that Fingon made an outraged noise, dropped his sword, and crossed the blanket in two strides.

“You bastard,” he choked, and dragged Maglor into his arms. 

Maglor smelled like dirt and sweat, campfire smoke and saltwater. He was solid and real under Fingon’s arms, his skin sun-kissed and warm. Fingon clung to his leather armor and buried his face in Maglor’s shoulder. Maglor held him back just as tightly, reaching up to card his fingers through Fingon’s hair. He hummed soothingly. His fingers gently scratched against Fingon's scalp, mindful of the flowers. “Káno,” Fingon said again. His voice, though muffled against Maglor’s armor, was shaking. “You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” returned Maglor, pulling back enough to look Fingon over again. “You died -- and now here you are, back on your feet in Middle Earth, as handsome as ever." He squeezed Fingon's shoulder and beamed at him. "I can't wait to hear the tale.” 

“He came on a boat,” chirped Elros. “And now he lives with us.”

Fingon blinked and looked down. The twins, sensing that they'd been forgotten for the moment, had wasted no time in edging around the blanket to get a better look at Maglor. Elros, with his usual disregard for his own safety, was running his hand along the handsome scabbard that hung at Maglor’s waist, a look of open delight on his face. Elrond was gazing earnestly up at Maglor’s sunken cheekbones as though wondering whether it would be good manners to offer their mysterious guest something to eat. 

“You are both a menace,” Fingon told them, and pulled them closer to his side.

“It’s not wise to offer hospitality to strangers these days,” agreed Maglor. He took another step back from Fingon and dropped down to a crouch. “You're Lady Elwing and Lord Eärendil’s sons, aren't you? It’s an honor to finally meet you.” He brought first Elros’, then Elrond’s hands to his lips, in the manner of the court at Tirion. The twins’ eyes shone. “My brothers and I have kept watch upon your borders these past months, ever since we received an interesting letter from your mother the queen.” He looked up at Fingon then, his dark eyes growing more serious. “There's much that I have to say to our Fingon here, little princes.” 

“Your brothers?” Fingon repeated slowly. He licked his lips. “Maedhros is near?” 

Maglor’s face tightened. “Yes,” he said. He rose to his feet briskly. “Can we go somewhere to talk?"

“Not without us!” interrupted Elros, before Fingon could say anything. “Fingon's in charge of minding us.” As though to demonstrate what mischief they were capable of getting up to if left on their own, Elros bent down and tried to pick up Fingon’s dropped sword. “Take us with, or we’ll tell Nana that you’re here.” 

Fingon flushed. Maglor smiled amusedly at Elros, and reached down to ruffle his hair. 

“A clever negotiator,” he said. “Of course you may come, little magpie.” He gently took the sword from Elros and passed it back to Fingon. “My horse is nearby. You and your brother can tell her what a pretty steed she is, and feed her apples while Fingon and I talk.” 

“They look just like Turgon,” said Maglor. His usual bright-eyed, laughing expression was gone, replaced with a look of unabashed longing as he gazed at the twins. They had run out of apples and were now happily plaiting Maglor’s horse’s mane some thirty feet away. “He used to look exactly the same, running around Tirion and always underfoot. Do you remember?”

Though he had never delighted in children the way that the Fëanorions had, Fingon felt his own heart twist. Maedhros had spoken wistfully about children, once upon a time. And then had come the Dagor Bragollach and dragonfire, the end of the long peace and the beginning of the end of everything. Fingon wondered what Maedhros would think to see him now.

“In Sirion they say that they're the picture of their uncles,” said Fingon, and watched as Maglor’s face drew shut. 

“I'm sure of it,” Maglor agreed, after a long moment. He turned away from them then and, finally, looked squarely at Fingon. They were sitting on an overturned log; Fingon with his sword unsheathed across his knees, Maglor with a dagger in his right hand. Maglor tapped the blade restlessly against the wood. “I'm glad I found you today, Finno -- and not just for the pleasure of seeing your face again." He quirked a smile at Fingon, recovering himself a little. Fingon didn't return it. "I have a warning to deliver to Lady Elwing.”

Fingon gave him a disbelieving look. “She'll kill you if she sees you,” he said. Maglor grimaced.

“I know. I would have risked it anyway, if our paths hadn't crossed." He rapped the dagger against the log a few more times; then, recollecting himself, he shook his head. "But here you are! The Valar must favor us after all, to have led me to you today. My favorite cousin and a messenger to carry my warning, all in one." He knocked Fingon’s shoulder lightly. Fingon ran his thumb carefully along the blade of his sword, and didn’t answer.

“Tell me your warning,” he said at last. “Then tell me about Maedhros.” 

Maglor’s grin faltered a little, but he wasted no time. “Sirion is in danger,” he began. Fingon snorted.

“That isn't news these days.”

“Maybe not,” Maglor admitted, after a moment's pause. He seemed thrown by Fingon's bitterness, though he was trying hard not to show it. “But the danger is greater, and closer, than Lady Elwing realizes.” He leaned in closer to Fingon, near enough that their shoulders brushed, and lowered his voice. “Morgoth knows that Elwing’s husband has gone to seek the Valar. He's heard rumors of your return. He thinks that they are linked, and that you are the Valar’s answer to Lord Eärendil’s entreaties. Morgoth is sending an army to the Havens, cousin, and he will not rest until he razes it to the ground.” 

Maglor paused again. Fingon looked up and met his eyes. “I don’t know how you've returned to us,” Maglor said seriously. He let go of the dagger and reached up to clasp Fingon’s neck. Fingon stiffened. “Though I've known all these months, it still seems like a miracle to me. And I'm not the only one -- many here take it for a sign, or would if they knew of it. Our king has returned to us in Beleriand's darkest hour, beyond all hope, beyond death. What else can it mean, except that the Valar love and protect us still?”

“I'm not --”

“True or not, that's what the people here in Sirion are saying,” Maglor said, talking over him. “Morgoth has already heard the rumors, and he knows that they will spread farther. He aims to destroy you before that can happen, Finno. He will tear the Havens to the ground and kill you -- or capture you to bend you to his will. His orcs are gathering further north along the Sirion. An army. You have three months, maybe, until they march.”

Fingon’s throat was dry. “I'm not the king,” he said. “Not anymore.” He stood, unable to stay seated any longer. Without meaning to, his eyes strayed to the twins. “I'm not the Valar’s emissary, either. I came back for Russo, that's all. Whatever else you think -- whatever hope you want me to bring -- it's a lie.” 

Fingon could tell, from Maglor's silence, that he didn’t believe him; but after a minute or two, Maglor smiled. “Well. Sent by the Valar or not, your return gives us great joy.” Maglor stood up too. Before Maglor could say anything more, though, Fingon shook his head.

“I heard about what you and your brothers did, the moment I set foot on these shores again," he said, in a low voice. Maglor flinched. Fingon felt anger rising in him, hard and sharp as steel. "They told me about the innocents that you massacred. The Second Kinslaying, they called it.” He stabbed his sword into a hummock on the ground. Maglor watched him warily and moved no closer. “As if the first was not horrific enough. As if we do not, all of us, already have enough blood on our hands."

“Finno.” 

Fingon whirled on him. “Don't you dare offer me excuses,” he warned. Maglor held up his hands. 

“No,” he agreed heavily. “No. I won’t.” Fingon stared at him, his face flushed and his heart racing. Maglor met his gaze. His eyes were sorrowful; every trace of laughter or a smile was gone from his face now. He looked exhausted, and old. “I have no excuse,” he said eventually. “They are dead by my sword. But what atonement I can make now, by guarding these lands and protecting these people, I am making.” 

“You and Maedhros guard Sirion,” said Fingon. Maglor nodded.

“With Ambarussa,” he answered. “Yes.” 

“Where is Maedhros?” demanded Fingon. He let his sword drop and strode back to Maglor. Maglor let him draw close without moving. “Tell me.”

“No,” said Maglor. Fingon’s face grew thunderous.

“He is my husband.”

“He is my brother,” Maglor countered. He grasped Fingon’s shoulder with one hand and cupped Fingon’s jaw with the other. When Fingon tried to pull away, Maglor’s grip tightened, holding him in place. “Listen to me, Finno,” he said, his voice dropping low and growing more urgent. “What would you do if I told you where he is? Would you run to him? Morgoth’s army is coming, and soon. Would you leave these people behind to their fate? Let those children be killed by orcs for sport?” He jerked his head to the side, to where Elros and Elrond were digging through his saddlebags looking for more apples. His voice turned stern as he shook Fingon’s shoulder roughly. “Maedhros is staying away from you because he's ashamed; let him. Your anger and Maedhros’ guilt can wait a while longer, until we have seen this campaign through, and brought these people to safety.”

“And what next, once they're safe from Morgoth’s army?” snapped Fingon. “Will you and Maedhros come for the Silmaril then?" He spat. "Who will keep them safe from you?” 

Maglor recoiled. Fingon’s own eyes stung. “Well?" he demanded, when Maglor didn't answer.

"We're trying to do better, Finno,” said Maglor at last. “We've known the Silmaril is here for decades now, and we've let it be. You must trust us.” Fingon shoved him back.

“The bond is gone,” said Fingon. His throat ached; his voice was raw and shaking. “Maedhros has sent no letter, no word. I asked for my husband when I first arrived, and they told me that he has become the monster that stalks Beleriand and devours small children in the night. And you tell me to wait? To trust you? Hah!”

“It was despair that drove Maedhros to Menegroth’s door,” Maglor said. His voice was pained but steady. He didn’t let go of his grip on Fingon's shoulder. “All I'm asking, Finno, is that you do better than him, and remember that these people’s lives are more important than your grief.” Fingon shook his head and closed his eyes. Before he could move back, Maglor leaned up and pressed a swift, chaste kiss to his cheek. “You've always been the best of us,” he said, as he pulled back. “I don’t ask for more than you can give. Please, Finno. I know I have no right to ask it -- but we need you. You must trust us.”

Maglor fell silent. Fingon’s eyes were burning by the time he opened them again. "And what happens if I am your envoy?” he asked at last, bitterly. “Do you want me to warn Elwing? Evacuate the Havens myself? Elwing has little love for me, thanks to you and your brothers. She won't listen.”

“Then you'll have to persuade her,” Maglor countered. “Or take command yourself. Do what you must, Finno. You can trust that we'll continue to guard these borders, and buy you as much time as we can.” He waited; at last Fingon gave a slow, unhappy nod. Maglor squeezed Fingon’s shoulder one last time before he turned, and began to make his way across the clearing. 

“Princes!” he called merrily, his somber tone vanishing as he neared the twins. “You're spoiling my horse rotten. If you're not careful she'll follow you home instead of me.” 

Fingon wrapped his arms tightly across his chest and watched as Maglor scooped up first one twin, then the other, and spun them around. They shrieked with laughter, arms and legs flailing, wildflowers falling out of their hair and landing like snow upon the ground. Fingon’s heart ached. He pulled his arms tighter, holding himself together, as Maglor swung the twins around one final time before setting them on the ground. All three of them were beaming. “Good bye, little princes. Be good. Take care of Fingon, and make sure he does not grow too sad. And if dark things draw near, then you must stay close to him, and keep a good hold of these.”

From out of his belt Maglor drew two identical, beautiful knives, their scabbards wrapped in swirling lines of silver, a single, blood red ruby set in each hilt. The twins gasped when they saw them -- Elros snatched his greedily, while Elrond took his with a look of reverence on his face. “My brother made these blades long ago, when we were newcomers to these shores,” Maglor said. “They glow blue when orcs are nearby; and if you wield them with a brave hand, they will not miss their mark. You are to use them only when you have need, little ones.” He stooped down and pressed a solemn kiss to each of their brows. 

The twins, though they had heard enough of Elwing’s stories to know better than to trust a Fëanorion, were glowing with happiness by the time that Maglor straightened again. He smiled and turned to Fingon. “And this is for you, coz.”

Before Fingon could react, Maglor reached out and clasped his hand. There was something hard in his palm; as Maglor pulled his hand back Fingon’s fingers curled around it instinctively. “Nelyo sent me with this,” Maglor said softly. “I was to give it to you if our paths crossed.” Fingon frowned at him, then looked down. His breath caught. 

The brooch in his palm was simple but elegant -- an eight-pointed star, with a thin line of bright silver down the center of each ray and a tiny sapphire glittering on each point. There was a larger sapphire in the middle; it sparkled in the midday sun. Fingon traced it with one trembling finger. 

“Russo gave this to me,” he said, speaking without meaning to. Maglor watched him. The twins had drawn closer and were listening too. Fingon’s throat was dry. “It was a gift. He gave it to me the morning after we married."

“We made it to Barad Eithel before it fell,” Maglor said quietly. “We saved what we could.” Fingon’s eyes stung. 

Fingon started speaking twice, but each time he cut himself off. Finally he said, hoarsely, “I'll do what you've asked me. But promise me that when you see Maedhros, you'll tell him -- tell him that I love him. That I'll see him soon.” Maglor nodded once before leaning down to press a swift kiss to Fingon’s forehead. 

“Mind what I said,” he reminded Fingon, as he withdrew. “Three months.” 

And with that he threw the twins a final wink, mounted his horse, and was gone.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you’re married,” Elros said, for at least the twelfth time that evening. “Eugh! Fingon. And to Maedhros!”

“I think it’s very romantic,” said Elrond. He swung his legs on the bench and looked dreamily into the mirror. “Were you married when you saved him from Thangorodrim, Fingon?”

“No.” 

“Oh,” said Elrond, deflating a little. A moment later he rallied: “Did you know you loved him when you saved him?” Elros made a face. 

“You’re ruining the story, El.” 

“He’s not ruining the story, because I'm not answering any more questions,” said Fingon firmly. He was sitting next to Elrond on the bench in front of the dressing table in his room. Elros had spent the past thirty minutes bouncing from the floor to Fingon’s bed and back again behind them, but now he was sprawled on the bed and occupying himself by flopping back and making faces at the ceiling. “Anyway, you asked for a love story this afternoon.” 

“Elrond asked for a love story,” corrected Elros disgustedly. “Which was obviously a mistake. You and Maedhros! Wasn’t there anyone else you could have married, Fingon?”  

Fingon’s lips quirked in a smile. “That’s what my father said too, when he found out,” he said. He finished tying a chipped emerald bauble into his hair -- one of the twins’ many gifts -- and held out his hand. Elrond promptly handed him another. “Maedhros used to be well-loved, you know. And very handsome.” Elros made a distressed noise and pulled a pillow over his face.

“Maybe, until you chopped his hand off,” he said, his voice muffled. After a moment he sat up, the pillow falling to the side, and gave Fingon a dubious look. “How did you convince him to marry you after that?”

“He loved me.”

“Eugh.” Elros flopped back down again.

“When will we see Maglor again?” asked Elrond, tactfully changing the subject. “Are you going tomorrow, Fingon? Can we come with you?”

“No, and no,” answered Fingon. His fingers worked deftly on his braids. “The Fëanorions aren't allowed near the Havens. You will be in very big trouble with your mother if you sneak out to try and find him again, and so will I.”

“We won’t tell Nana,” promised Elrond. 

“Even so.”

“We keep lots of secrets from Nana,” Elros said, not liking to be left out of the conversation for too long. He rolled over onto his stomach and propped his chin on his hands to look at Fingon. “We kept a pet cat for five months, and Nana didn’t find out until El brought it to breakfast one morning.”

“We borrowed a boat once and spent the whole day sailing, and she never knew,” added Elrond.

“El broke the window in the kitchens, and she believed us when we said it was Faurin.”

“The cook believed it too!” 

“Yes, you’re very devious, I’m aware.” Fingon finished tying the ornament Elrond had handed him into his hair; Elrond, whose taste in jewelry evidently ran along Noldorin lines, bit his lip and carefully selected another. “But I'm not going to try hunting down Maglor again; and even if I was, I wouldn’t bring you two along. It’s dangerous.”

“We have knives now,” said Elros immediately. The knife Maglor had given him was tucked into his side, hidden underneath his shirt. He hadn’t been without it for a moment since Maglor had left them in the marsh. He got to his feet and clambered upright on the bed, bouncing up and down. “We can protect you if we come with!” 

“Fingon doesn’t need protection,” said Elrond loyally. “He killed a dragon once.” Touched, Fingon reached over and ruffled his hair.

“Maglor could kill a dragon too,” said Elros confidently, not to be outdone. “He’d hit it with his sword, just like this -- wham!  -- right in its eyes --” He waved around an imaginary sword and leapt about on the bed. Fingon eyed the distance between the mattress and the floor, judged that Elros would probably be fine if he tumbled off, and turned his attention back to the mirror. 

“Maglor is a very fierce warrior,” he agreed. “But he also killed your grandparents, your uncles, and a few hundred others at Menegroth. You aren’t going to see him again.” Fingon had finished his hair, but Maedhros’ brooch was still lying on the table; Fingon hesitated a moment, then slipped it quickly on a silver chain and around his neck, tucking it underneath the collar of his shirt.

Elrond looked troubled as he watched Fingon. “Maglor didn’t seem as mean as Nana says,” he said doubtfully. Elros, growing tired of his imaginary sword fight, hopped off the bed to join them in front of the small dressing table and mirror. 

“I like him, even if he is a murderer!” he declared. He plucked one of the hair ornaments from the table and held it up to his own head; Fingon bit back a sigh and obediently took it from him, reworking Elros’ braids to weave it in. “He was nice to us. He likes you, Fingon.” 

“Everyone likes Fingon!” said Elrond staunchly. Fingon paused in his braiding to tweak Elrond’s ear. “Anyway, he won’t murder us. He was trying to warn us so we won’t get murdered.” 

“You were listening to that, hmm?” 

“Is it true, Fingon?” Suddenly worried, Elros swiveled to look at him. Fingon tsked and gently straightened his head again to finish his braids. “Do you really think an army of orcs is going to come in three months and kill all of us?”

Fingon sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Are you going to tell Nana?”

“Yes.” 

“What do you think she’ll say?”

Fingon finished Elros’ braids and tugged on them gently. “I think that she will remember her duties as queen and act on them admirably,” he said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. Elrond and Elros were both listening to him attentively, watching him through the cracked, age-stained mirror. Fingon managed a smile for them. “I know that she will place her love for her people and her love for you first, always. We will wait and we will watch; and I trust that when it comes time to run to Balar, she will lead us there bravely.” 

“-- He warned that they were likely to be ready in three months. We should take advantage of this time, now, and prepare an evacuation. In three months we could safely move your people from the Havens to Balar, where they would be under Lord Círdan and King Gil-galad’s protection.” 

Fingon paused and drew in a breath. He had told Lady Elwing the whole story, leaving out only that the twins had been with him. She had listened without interruption to the end; now she stood behind him, so silent that he had to force himself not to turn to look at her.

“I know you have no reason to trust them,” Fingon added at last, when the silence had stretched on for more than a minute. “But Maglor has always been the most cautious of Lord Fëanor’s sons. If he says the Havens -- and your family -- are in danger, then I believe him.” 

“You escaped my guards and left my keep to converse with the Fëanorions,” Lady Elwing said at last. Her voice was cold. Fingon unconsciously straightened his shoulders. “You plotted with them to drive my family from our home. You learned that they are within a half day’s ride of our borders, and have been these past seven months. And you ask me to trust you?" She paused. Fingon said nothing. "Is there anything that I've missed, Lord Fingon?”

“They protect your borders, my lady," Fingon answered eventually. "It is thanks to their vigilance that your lands have been peaceful these past months.”

“There is nothing I owe to those murderers and thieves,” she spat. She paced around to regard Fingon from the front. Her face and her bearing were as regal as ever, but her voice shook with anger. “I should kill you for consorting with them.” 

“I did not leave with Maglor,” Fingon countered. He fought to keep his voice level, even as her eyes flashed. “I returned to warn you and to offer my aid. It will take time to equip your ships and ferry your people to Balar. I was king for seventeen years, and crown prince for many more; I've led dozens of campaigns. I can help with victualling and readying the ships. I can help with the evacuation.” 

She scoffed. “You offer your aid in the same breath that you tell me the butchers of Doriath order my people to go.”

“They order nothing,” Fingon insisted. His voice was growing heated despite himself. “You are the queen, and it is your word that your people will follow. Lord Maglor and his brothers wish only to help you.”

“Help me?” she repeated. Her voice was caught between disbelief and outrage. “Will they give me my father and my mother back?” She rounded on Fingon; he drew back involuntarily. “Will they give me my brothers? My home? They massacred my people. Have you brought the victims of Doriath back with you from Mandos’ Halls?” Her eyes glittered; her voice rang with pain. When Fingon didn’t answer, she laughed bitterly. “I thought not.” There was a bottle of wine on her desk; she snatched it and held it to her lips, drinking deeply before letting it drop to her side. 

“It's pathetic that you obey them still,” she said. “After all the misery they have caused you, you still come groveling back to them like a dog.” 

Fingon drew in a deep breath. “I am not apologizing for them,” he began. She laughed at him again and took another swig of wine. 

“Their father cursed your people and drove you from the Undying Lands,” she said. “They led the slaughter of the shipwrights of Alqualondë, then abandoned their own kin to death and torment on a frozen wasteland. And in this ‘Union of Maedhros,’ they killed you, broke your armies, and unleashed Morgoth once more upon Middle Earth before running to ground like rabbits to their warren. Did you know that all of your Fëanorion’s brothers survived the Nirnaeth? The only one he abandoned to their death was you.” 

Fingon’s eyes burned. “I will not debate with you what Maedhros and I mean to each other,” he said unsteadily. Her lip curled. “Nor do I deny his crimes against you. But you are the queen, with a duty to your people. Set aside your grievances. They will not bring your family back, nor protect your people from Morgoth’s fury now.” 

“And you believe your Fëanorions will.”

“I trust them.” 

“You are a fool.” 

“This isn't a trick!” Fingon insisted, raising his voice. Elwing gazed at him, her cheeks flushed red and her eyes glittering. Fingon swallowed and tried to force his voice to steady. “This isn't a trick,” he repeated. “They guard your borders. They've seen Morgoth’s army amassing up the river. You can heed their warning without granting them forgiveness.”

“They care only for the Silmaril,” she said. She fumbled at her neck and drew it out. Fingon set his jaw; but he could not keep his eyes from turning to the white jewel, shining as brightly as a star in her hand. “You think they care for you,” she said, watching his face closely. “You think they lurk within our borders because they want to be near you, to protect you. You swallow their lies and believe that they love you. But this is what they care for, only this.”

“No.”

“You are blind because you love them. You don't see how their curse has warped them. But all the other lands of Middle Earth know it, to our sorrow.” She shoved the jewel back inside her dress, then raised the bottle of wine to her lips one final time and drained it. When it was gone, she turned back to Fingon and approached him. Her eyes were bright. 

“Of course it is a trick,” she said hoarsely. “They want the Silmaril, nothing else, and they will tell you whatever lies they must to get it. They would summon Morgoth himself here if they thought his ruin would end with the Silmaril in their hands.” Fingon shook his head. Her lips curled in disgust. “Do not lecture me about my governance or my duty, Lord Fingon. You know nothing.” 

“They are not lying,” Fingon insisted. "I know what the Enemy is capable of." He stood still as she drew closer, the wine bottle still clutched in her hand. “I've abided by your terms for all these months. I've lived in peace with your people and cared for your sons. If you don't trust my cousins, then trust me. We can work together to keep your people safe. Three months is enough time to retreat to Balar -- it's enough time to shelter and provision your people. Your children. Please, my lady.” 

“You live, and they stay away,” she answered, taking another step forward so that they stood face to face. Her voice was cold. “That is the only help I need from you.” 

In one swift motion she raised her arm and swung. Fingon, caught off guard, barely managed to lift his arm in time to block the glass bottle from hitting his face; it smashed into his arm instead, breaking apart and scoring a deep, bloody cut the length of his forearm. With an ugly shout Elwing snatched the largest glass shard from the floor and darted towards him again; before she could strike him he seized her wrist, pressing hard until her fingers opened and the glass dropped to the ground. The next moment he had her trapped against his body, her back to his chest, his bloody arm locked around her neck and his other hand a vise around both of her wrists.

For a moment they both froze. Fingon was breathing heavily. Elwing's breaths came fast and quick. 

“Fingon the Valiant,” she said at last. His arm was too tight around her throat for her to do more than whisper, but she managed a hoarse laugh. “Is this your plan? Are you going to ‘save’ my people by killing me?”

Fingon didn't answer. He couldn’t seem to move. Her heartbeat fluttered, quick and fragile as a bird’s, under his hand. 

“You are worse than them,” she spat. She tried to pull away from him; without thinking he tightened his hold. “They are driven mad by their Oath. But you -- no curse compels you, and yet you follow them anyway. Your ‘love’ for Fëanorion is a poison.” Her voice was thick with hatred. Fingon’s heart stuttered in his chest. 

“Please, my lady,” he begged, speaking at last. “People will die.”

“I would sooner be dead,” she answered, each word slow and deliberate, “And see the Havens and the Silmaril both at the bottom of the Sea, than trust my people to the mercy of Maedhros Fëanorion.” 

She fell silent, though her body was still tense as she struggled against him. Fingon stood as though paralyzed. The cut on his arm was deep; even as he watched he could see his blood drip down to stain her white dress, spreading from her neckline down towards her waist. His stomach turned.

Unbidden, Maglor's words echoed in his mind: “Do what you must."

"Are you going to kill me?" she had asked. He could do it -- it would end this. He could twist her neck; it would be quick. She wouldn't suffer. Once she was dead -- one life, to save hundreds -- he could take charge of the soldiers in the keep, seize the ships in the harbor, and begin the evacuation. Most of the soldiers here had been farmers or tradesmen before they reached the Havens; they were not battle-hardened warriors. It would be easy enough to turn them to his command. One mad, ruined life, for the sake of everyone else. If she was dead he could send her people to Balar, and then he would be free. He could go. 

His arm tightened involuntarily. Elwing twisted against him, and as her shoulders shifted he felt the press of Maedhros’ brooch against his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“You’re wrong,” he whispered at last. “The Valar themselves gave Maedhros to me. His love is a gift.” He released her and stumbled back. She doubled over, her hand flying to her throat as she fell forward and panted for breath. The front of her dress was soaked red with his blood. He watched her, feeling sick. 

“You are a fool,” she choked at last. Before he could react, she raised her voice and shouted, “Guards!” 

The door slammed open; the guards, taking one look at the broken glass on the floor and the blood on Elwing’s dress, seized Fingon by the arms and drew their swords. “Lord Fingon has conspired with the Fëanorions to make an attempt on the life of the queen,” Elwing said. Her voice was wrecked. She sagged against her desk, her breath still coming in fast, painful gasps. Her eyes were dark with hate. “Bind him and take him to the dungeons.” 

“This is madness,” Fingon tried again, raising his voice desperately. “Morgoth’s army is coming. My lady! People will die -- your sons --” 

He felt the bite of ropes around his wrists. More people were gathering outside Elwing’s open door, stone-faced guards and servants who let out soft cries at the blood on the floor. Fingon struggled as the guards finished binding his hands and his feet and began to drag him from the room. “There is an army coming!” he said, raising his voice to a shout. The people scattered back as the guards shoved him through the doorway. Fingon could see Faurin standing there, her hands clasped to her mouth. Elros and Elrond’s small faces were peering out from behind her legs, their eyes wide and frightened. Fingon thrashed against the guards’ grip, panic rising in his chest. “Morgoth is sending an army! They will be here in three months, you must go, you must flee to Balar, there is no --”

One of the guards punched him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind from him and make him double over, gasping. Another kicked his legs out from under him and sent him crashing to the floor. Someone screamed. Fingon’s vision swam; he tasted blood in his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a mouthful of blood to the floor. “Orcs are gathering on the Sirion --” A boot slammed into his ribs; another struck his temple, followed by a fist. Fingon curled his arms around his head. “They’re coming,” he tried, one last time, before a punch collided with his jaw.

When he lost consciousness it was to the sensation of someone small flinging themselves on top of him, and the sound of the twins’ voices frantically screaming his name. 

Chapter Text

He climbed in through the window and breathed a silent ‘thank you’ to whichever healer had left it open to let in the nighttime breeze. It was late and the fire in Maedhros’ room was burning low. Fingon padded across the wooden floor on bare feet and slipped under the white covers without pausing. 

“It’s me,” he whispered against the back of Maedhros’ neck. He wrapped his arms and legs both around him and nuzzled the skin where Maedhros’ neck met his shoulder. “Don’t yell, they’ll kick me out.” 

Maedhros, who rarely slept these days, had stiffened when Fingon first lifted the covers, but at Fingon’s words he relaxed. “I don’t like you to see me like this,” he murmured in answer. Fingon scoffed and pressed a kiss to Maedhros’ bare skin. 

“What’s to see? It’s dark out.” He reached up and ran his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, cropped short as a newborn child’s now so that the healers could stitch the wounds in his scalp. It was true that Maedhros, in the daytime, was a piteous sight, every inch of his once-handsome skin marred with welts or cuts or swaths of bandages. His gray eyes were two dark bruises in his face; there were teeth missing from his pretty smile. The loss of all that beautiful hair was shocking. Fingon scrubbed his fingers through it anyway, because he could. 

After thirty years on the ice and two years desperately hunting through the wildest and darkest reaches of Middle Earth, Fingon could have done nothing but stare at Maedhros for days -- weeks -- and still not had his fill. But Maedhros didn’t like it, and the official Ñolofinwion position was still that the Fëanorions were lying, double-crossing bastards, so Fingon stayed away during the daylight and made do with as many nighttime visits as he could. He kissed Maedhros’ neck again. 

“Which story shall I tell you tonight?” he asked. “Turgon and the ice bear, or the yelling match I had with your Celegorm today?” Maedhros made a low, pained sound. Fingon hid a smile against his skin. “Kidding. Well, we did yell. But he apologized with half a roast boar after. All is forgiven.” 

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said. His voice was wrecked. Fingon frowned when he heard it and unwound himself from around Maedhros long enough to swing to his feet and pad across the room for the pitcher of water and a cup. He tried to help Maedhros sit up and drink when he returned, but Maedhros only shook his head and pushed the cup away with his right arm. “I’m not thirsty.”

“You sound terrible, love,” Fingon answered gently. At the endearment Maedhros’ face twisted. 

“You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” 

“You shouldn’t call me love.” 

Fingon exhaled and set the glass of water down. They’d had this fight before. Maedhros didn’t always remember, but Fingon knew the pattern of it well. “I call you ‘love’ because I love you,” he said patiently. “You love me and I love you. Remember? We’ve told each other so, many times.” Maedhros was already shaking his head. 

“I did terrible things,” he whispered. Very gently, mindful of his bruises, Fingon reached out and thumbed the tears away from the corners of Maedhros’ eyes. Maedhros let him, too weak to turn aside even that small comfort. “You don’t know -- I haven’t told you -- the things they did to me in Angband. The things I did. Fin. You should hate me. You should --”

“Hush,” interrupted Fingon. He let his hand drop down to press against the corner of Maedhros’ mouth. “You can tell me about it later, if you want to,” he amended, after a moment. “When you’re ready. But don’t tell me to hate you. How could I hate you? I love you.” Maedhros said nothing. Fingon sighed. “Look, if we’re going to have this fight again, at least let me into bed first. I’m cold.” When Maedhros didn’t move Fingon nudged him and pushed him onto his side. He slid back into his place in bed beside him and immediately pressed his cold toes to the back of Maedhros’ calves. “See? Your nurses ought to do a better job of building up the fire before they leave.” 

“Fin --"

“Hush,” Fingon said again, but gently this time. He wrapped his arms back around Maedhros’ middle, slid his leg back between Maedhros’ thighs, and pressed himself against Maedhros’ back. Maedhros was warm and solid and alive against him. Fingon gave himself a moment to soak in the rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart. 

“You feel that?” Fingon murmured into Maedhros’ shoulder as he slid his hand up the scarred plane of Maedhros’ chest. “Your heart is still beating; my heart is still beating. We’re both alive. What does the rest of it matter?” Under him Maedhros shuddered. Fingon pressed a kiss to his skin. “Of course I love you. Sweetheart. Dearheart. Melindo. Beloved. I'll call you every nickname I please, and you will simply have to bear it. I won’t stop loving you, and I won’t hate you.” He pressed another kiss to Maedhros’ shoulder for good measure. “Are you ready for a story now?" 

Maedhros didn't answer. Fingon settled himself more comfortably against his back anyway and closed his eyes. "When Turgon first saw the ice bear cub he thought that he could tame it, and teach it to hunt…”

Fingon crashed into wakefulness. A moment before he had felt the steady beating of Maedhros’ heart all around him, as though they were in Lake Mithrim again and he still held Maedhros in his arms; but as he woke that heartbeat turned into a pounding headache so intense that he cried out. He tried to clutch his head only to find that his hands were bound behind him. Every part of him ached -- his ribs, his jaw, his right arm, which burned as though it had been scored by fire. Fingon sobbed, trying to breathe through it but unable to. His mouth tasted of coppery blood and bile. The room spun when he tried to open his eyes. 

Long minutes passed: twenty, then thirty. He got his breathing under control gradually, though he couldn’t help the shivers that wracked his body and made his throat spasm. As the first wave of pain receded, other sensations took its place: the feel of a thin pad underneath him and a thinner blanket thrown over his shoulders. The damp chilliness of the room. The cut on his arm was still bleeding -- he could feel the blood, slick and warm, dripping down his wrists. When he tried to push himself upright the room began to spin again. He breathed a curse, squeezed his eyes shut again, and forced himself the rest of the way up. The vertigo was bad enough he felt that he was going to be sick: he clenched his jaw until eventually it ebbed, and then passed. 

Still breathing heavily, he cracked his eyes open. 

He was on a narrow cot in a dark, low-ceilinged room; there was a bare stone wall at his back and on either side of him, a stone floor underneath, and a wall of solid iron bars across from him, broken only by the door. There was no window -- the only light came from a flickering, smoky torch on the other side of the bars -- and the air was thick and foul-smelling, a sour animal smell that seemed to cling to the stones. 

Fingon shoved the pain and the nausea to the back of his mind and took stock of his injuries. Bruises, mostly, but at least two of his ribs were cracked or broken. He could move all of his fingers, even on the arm that Elwing had sliced open with the glass bottle. The blood in his mouth was old; no teeth were missing. The hair ornaments the twins had given him were all gone; but Maedhros’ brooch was still there on its chain, overlooked or left out of kindness by one of the guards. 

He was alive. He could move. He could breathe. 

He steeled himself. 

“Hello?” he called. His voice came out thin and rasping, barely louder than a whisper. He cursed inwardly and squeezed his eyes shut again. He took several deep breaths this time, ignoring the roiling in his stomach and the throbbing pain from his ribs. “Hello?” he tried again, louder. 

There was no answer. 

He had visited the dungeons once before, when Elros and Elrond had wanted to show him a bat they’d found. That had been months ago, but he remembered the layout of it -- a half-dozen cells in a row, all of them empty, with a winding stairway at one end and a guardroom at the other. The torch opposite him meant that he was in the first of the cells -- the closest to the stairs and the furthest from the guard. He would have to move closer. 

“Get up, Fin,” he whispered. He curled his hands into fists behind him and tried to imagine that it was Maedhros’ steady voice speaking to him. “Get up, get up, get up…” 

He lunged up and immediately staggered to the right, off-balance and unable to see for the pain behind his eyes. His shoulder crashed into the stone wall -- he kept his feet, but barely -- and when he staggered again the crusts of salt and limestone on the rock scraped against his thin shirt and bruised arm. He leaned all of his weight against the wall anyway, panting for breath and fighting down the urge to vomit. He missed the comfort of Maedhros’ voice in his mind so badly he could have cried. 

He gave himself a moment; and then he began to creep forward, letting the stone wall take all of his weight even as it scraped new cuts and bruises onto his arm. It was only fifteen feet from the cot to the bars, but it took him nearly five minutes to cross it. When he finally stumbled into the iron bars he collapsed against them.

He let his head fall forward against the metal and sat there for several long minutes, just catching his breath. Eventually, when his heartbeat and the nausea had steadied, he tilted his head to the left. Except for his own ragged breathing and the sputtering of the torch opposite him, the dungeons were silent; but there was a dim orange light shining from beneath the guard’s door. 

He had been dreaming of Maedhros before he woke up: Maedhros, who was counting on him, who was waiting for him. Fingon steeled himself and shouted, in a loud, desperate voice, “I must speak to the queen!”

There was silence from the end of the hall. Fingon squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head against the metal bars, panting and shaking. “Fuck. Fuck.” He waited, but there was still no answer. He gathered himself again. “Morgoth is coming, he’s coming. You have to listen to me, I must speak to Lady Elwing, I must…I must…”  

He cut himself off, his heart pounding. From the end of the hall came the sound of wood scraping against stone -- he could hear it even over his own gasps for breath. He cracked his eyes open in time to see a shadow cross in front of the firelight under the door. “Please,” he whispered. 

The door scraped open, and a single guard walked out.

Fingon recognized him. Alfirin had been one of King Dior’s soldiers, and occasionally served Lady Elwing in the great hall now. He had lost much of the left side of his face to the fire when Menegroth burned. Fingon watched as he approached. Alfirin drew to a stop in front of him and fingered the long knife at his side. 

Fingon managed to push himself up and away from the bars, although he shook with the effort. “An army of orcs is gathering in north Sirion,” Fingon said. His breath was coming in short, fast gasps. Alfirin looked at him woodenly and didn’t answer. “They'll be here in three months. You must tell the others, you must --”

“I always thought keeping you here was a mistake,” interrupted Alfirin gruffly. “Everywhere you fucking Noldor go, you bring trouble.” 

Fingon swallowed. “Please,” he begged. “Please. You must listen.”

“No more lies from you.” Quick as a snake, Alfirin reached through the bars and seized Fingon’s neck; with his other hand he slung a gag around Fingon’s mouth, tightening it as Fingon struggled and thrashed against him. When the fabric was firmly wedged into Fingon’s mouth, he shoved Fingon back hard enough that he fell to the ground, striking his head against the stone. 

“That’s more mercy than your beloved Fëanorions ever showed anyone,” Alfirin said grimly. Fingon, stunned from the blow to his head, lay without moving. The gag tasted like ash and blood in his mouth. “Whatever you’re planning with Maedhros Kinslayer, attacking the queen and corrupting the princes, it won’t work.” 

Unable to speak, barely able to breathe from the pain and the dizzying way the room was spinning around him, Fingon could only lay there as Alfirin’s footsteps rang against the stone of the floor. The footsteps drew further away -- the door to the room at the end of the hall opened and then slammed shut. Fingon was alone.

A week became a month. Fingon could feel his wounds beginning to heal, though slowly. His wrists were perpetually scabbed and bloody from their rough rope bindings; but his cracked ribs were knitting together, and each day it grew easier to breathe. The cut on his arm closed and then scarred. His bruises faded, even as his hair grew tangled and greasy and his dirty, stained clothes began to hang loosely on his frame. 

At first Alfirin came twice a day to remove the gag and give Fingon a rough meal of bread and dried meat to eat. But as soon as Fingon was well enough he tried to beg, demand, and eventually threaten Alfirin each time the gag was loosened. Finally Alfirin began to come only once a day, and to kick Fingon or spit curses whenever Fingon opened his mouth for anything other than eating.

The days passed, one after another, with no way to mark them except for the dripping torchlight and Alfirin’s short visits to bring food. Though outside it was late summer, inside the dungeons it was perpetually dark and cold. Elwing never came, and gradually Fingon gave up on speaking to Alfirin. He devoured his meals, spent the rest of his hours curled on the cot in the dark, and tried not to think about what was coming. 

One month became two. 

Fingon lay on his side on the cot facing the stone wall, his eyes closed and his mind faraway, half-dreaming and half-remembering. The patter of footsteps, when it came, was so soft he didn’t hear it. 

There was a giggle, quickly stifled, and then the rattle of hands around iron bars. “Hello, Fingon!” whispered a familiar voice. Fingon’s eyes flew open, and he turned so fast he nearly fell from the cot. 

Elros and Elrond were crouched outside the bars of the cell, beaming at him in the flickering circle of torchlight. Fingon stared. Elrond waved. 

“Hi, Fingon! It’s us!” 

The next moment Fingon was on his feet, stumbling across the cell and collapsing to his knees next to the bars. He stared at the twins in open wonder. Elros, noticing the gag, frowned and reached through the bars to poke at the dirty fabric. His face wrinkled in disgust. 

“Ugh. Are they making you wear this, Fingon?” 

Fingon nodded and tried to grimace, though the fabric pulled against the corners of his mouth. Elrond looked horrified. Elros’ eyes narrowed.

“If you turn around, I can take it off!” he said confidently. When Fingon made no move to turn, Elros gave him an impatient look and poked him again. “Come on, Fingon! Hurry up!” 

Fingon gave him a look, but after a moment he obediently shuffled around on his knees until his back was pressed up against the bars. He felt Elros’ small fingers plucking at the fabric. It pulled tighter against his mouth, making him wince; but then it loosened, and a moment later it was gone. Fingon heard a triumphant, “Hah!” and turned back in time to match Elros’ grin. 

“You sneaky little things,” Fingon said delightedly. His voice was hoarse from disuse. The twins, not seeming to mind, were beaming again. “You need to be careful. If the guard…” But Elrond was already shaking his head. 

“You don’t need to worry about Alfirin,” he said reassuringly. “We distracted him.” He reached through the bars and patted Fingon’s shoulder. “We missed you, Fingon!”

Fingon’s eyes stung. “I missed you too,” he said, startling even himself with how deeply he meant it. He swallowed and managed another smile. “How are you?” 

“Nana’s really mad at you,” said Elrond seriously, instead of answering. He let go of Fingon’s shoulder and began to root around in a leather bag at his side. Elros scootched as close to Fingon as he could with the bars in the way. 

“Really mad,” he confirmed. “She thinks you’re a traitor. Elrond and I tried to tell her no, but she didn’t listen.” 

“She won’t leave Sirion, either.” 

“She thinks Maglor lied about the orcs. She thinks he just wants the Silmaril.” Elrond looked up from his bag. Both twins regarded Fingon anxiously. “Do you think he lied, Fingon?”

No, Fingon thought, but out loud he said, “Maybe he was mistaken. I hope so. Do you still have the daggers he gave you?” They both nodded. 

“This is for you,” said Elrond, finally pulling something out of his bag. It was a crust of cheese and a stale piece of bread, carefully wrapped in a linen napkin. Elrond pushed it to Fingon through the bars with a worried look on his face. “It’s all we could find. There’s not much food anymore. Faurin says it’s not safe to farm too far from the village.” 

“That’s alright,” said Fingon, managing a small smile. "Thank you." Elrond’s face fell as he noticed that Fingon’s hands were bound behind his back, but he set the napkin gently down on the ground next to Fingon anyway. Fingon nudged his arm in thanks as he drew back. “It was kind of you to come visit.”

“It’s not fair,” burst out Elros. “You didn’t do anything except try to protect us and introduce us to Maglor, who’s amazing. And now you’re locked up down here in this horrible smelly room and we never get to see you anymore.” His eyes were bright and his face was furious. Elrond was nodding along too.

“We tried to find Maglor, to tell him,” Elrond told Fingon confidingly. “But Nana’s guards found us and brought us back home. We lied and said we were hunting for frogs, but she still grounded us for six weeks. That’s why it took us so long to come and visit.”

Fingon pressed his head and shoulder closer against the bars, as near to the twins as he could get. “That was a brave thought,” he said gently. “Thank you.” Elros leaned against the bars on the other side, so that his temple rested against Fingon’s shoulder. He reached through the bars to curl his hand in the fabric of Fingon’s shirt. 

“It’s not fair,” he repeated stubbornly. Elrond looked back and forth between Elros and Fingon. A moment later he leaned against the bars next to Fingon, too. 

“Are you mad?” Elrond asked hesitantly, as though afraid of what Fingon might say. Fingon shook his head. 

“At you? Of course not.”

“At Nana?”

“No,” Fingon answered. Elros snorted his disbelief. “She's doing what she thinks she must to keep her family safe,” Fingon said. “I think she’s wrong, but I’m not mad.” He could tell, from Elros’ silence, that Elros didn’t believe him.

“This place is awful, Fingon,” said Elrond. 

Fingon sighed and jostled his shoulder. “I’m fine. Truly. I’m just sorry that you two had to see it when they brought me here.” 

“We’re going to break you out,” Elros promised. “Nana shouldn’t keep you locked up in here, even if she is mad at you. We’ll find the keys and let you out, and then we can all go and find Maglor again.”

For the first time in two months, Fingon felt hope stir in his chest.

“Don’t do anything dangerous,” he warned. Elros and Elrond both looked up at him. There was a familiar gleam in Elros’ eyes. “I mean it.” 

“Don’t worry, Fingon!” Elros said. He squeezed Fingon's arm once before jumping to his feet. “We’ll help you. We’ll visit again soon.” 

“Only if it’s safe,” Fingon insisted. Elros rolled his eyes. 

“Fingon.” 

“We’ll be careful,” Elrond promised. He clambered to his feet. “Is there anything you need, Fingon?” Both of their faces were shining. Fingon’s heart twisted to look at them. He pushed himself to his feet, too.

“A knife, if you can manage it,” he answered at last. “The sharpest one you can find. And for you to keep a watchful eye out. Stay safe, and keep your daggers and each other close.”

He stood beside his father in the cold, his furs pulled up close around his throat and the autumn wind lashing his gold-plaited hair out behind him. He was stone-faced and silent as his father’s speech drew to a close. Across the field from them the Fëanorions sat arrayed on six warhorses, equally silent while the horses’ breath steamed and their feet stamped in the gray morning air. Their followers were a hazy wall in the mist behind them. 

Fingon’s eyes were dry and his face was like a mask as he stared across the field at where Maedhros sat in the center of his brothers’ line. Maedhros, though he fought to keep his face equally impassive, couldn’t seem to help his eyes flicking from Fingolfin’s face to Fingon’s. 

“We wish you all speed and fair hunting,” concluded Fingolfin. For a moment they all let the words settle in the space between them, filling the open field and the fog with the gravity of their parting.

Maedhros broke the silence first. “Thank you, my king,” he said. His voice was hoarser than it used to be, and the still-healing scars on his face gave him a terrible, stern look. His hair, though as rich and flame-red as it had always been, came only to his shoulders now. As angry as he was, Fingon couldn’t help the fierce pride that curled in his gut to see him seated there on his charger, back erect and reins loose in his left hand. “We will do our duty and keep the Watch in the East. If Moringotto stirs out of his warren, you will hear of it.” He paused. His eyes darted to Fingon again. “We will not fail you,” he finished softly. 

Go on then, Fingon thought, when Maedhros lingered for a moment longer. They had had this fight already, many times over the past few months, and each time Fingon had lost. Maedhros would leave and travel east, bearing his brothers away to where they could do no harm to Fingolfin’s nascent kingship. 

He would go east, and leave Fingon behind. 

“I’ll come back,” Maedhros had promised, the night before they were to part. Fingon had combed his fingers through Maedhros’ hair and held him without answering. If he had spoken, he might have said, “I don’t believe you.” He might have said, “You're always leaving me behind.” 

He had kept his silence. Maedhros had kept his word. And here they were.  

At last Maedhros bowed. As one his brothers followed suit. And then, with his eyes on Fingon to the last, Maedhros turned his horse’s head and began the long ride that would bring him at last to Himring, and Morgoth’s door.

“A knife!” crowed Elros. His face was shining. Fingon hissed his approval as Elros finished shoving the bag the rest of the way through the bars of the cell. “And that’s not all!”

“There’s food,” said Elrond, ticking their prizes off on his fingers. “Jerky, and bread, and those cookies you like. They’re a little squashed because El sat on them, but we think they’re still good.” 

“And a waterskin,” interrupted Elros gleefully, “And coins, and soap, and a drawing we made for you. It's a picture of the three of us, and Maglor, and Maglor’s horse!" 

“A treasure trove of gifts,” Fingon declared. He leaned his forehead against the bars; first Elros, then Elrond gently knocked their foreheads against his, grinning broadly. “Thank you. You astound me.”

“What will you do when you get out, Fingon?” asked Elros. He was bouncing with energy, hardly able to keep himself still. “Will you try to convince Nana again? Will you fight the orcs yourself if she doesn’t listen?” Can I fight the orcs with you? he was plainly thinking, though he didn’t say it out loud. 

Fingon drew back and looked at them. Their faces were trusting and unafraid. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promised. “But if the orcs come and I’m not there, you two are to hide. Do you understand? No fighting, and no running unless you must. Hide, and I’ll come for you.”  

He waited. “Do you understand?” he repeated, more sharply this time, when Elros only looked at him sulkily. At last Elros huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, Fingon,” he intoned. Elrond, as though he’d been waiting to see what his brother would say, hastened to add, “Yes, Fingon!” too.

Fingon exhaled slowly and sat back on his heels. 

“Good,” he said. “Now the last thing we need are the keys. I think they’re in the main guardroom, near the front door in the main hall. Here’s what I need you two to do…”

He was on watch for Círdan’s party from the Falas; so when the small group of horsemen rode over the crest of the hill, their jewel-colored cloaks flying in the wind, he didn’t realize at first what he was seeing. 

“Are you sure those are Sindar?” asked Finrod doubtfully, shading his eyes against the sun and allowing his mare to prance closer to Fingon’s. “That tall one in the front looks more like --”

“Russo,” breathed Fingon. He didn’t wait for Finrod’s answer before he kicked his own horse into a gallop. 

It was Maedhros, of course it was -- he would know that red hair anywhere. His horse was fast closing the distance between them; as he neared Maedhros’ horse pulled away too, racing ahead of his companions and flying down the tall grass of the hill. As Maedhros reached him without slowing, Fingon’s mare reared, turned, and thundered alongside him, racing together across the grass. It wasn’t until they were a dozen yards from Finrod that Maedhros finally slowed his horse to a trot, and then to a walk. Fingon followed suit; when he looked over, chest heaving and face flushed, Maedhros was smiling at him. 

Fingon’s breath caught in his chest.

Thirteen years they had been apart. Fingon had imagined this reunion often, and every time in his mind it began with harsh words. It had been Maedhros’ idea to leave him, after all. But seeing him now -- his gray eyes alight,  his long red hair braided and draped in ribbons, his smile the loveliest thing in the world -- all Fingon could do was stare. 

“I’ve missed you,” Maedhros said, regret and love and longing all tangled together in his voice, and he urged his horse closer so that he and Fingon were as near abreast as they could be. He tucked the reins into a hook on his right wrist and reached out with his left hand, palm open, for Fingon. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Fingon warned, even as he reached out his own hand and twined their fingers tightly together. Maedhros’ hand was warm. Fingon couldn’t seem to stop looking at him. Maedhros couldn’t seem to stop smiling. 

“Nelyo!” called Finrod merrily, as they approached. He was already decked for the feast; a thousand little bells chimed and sang as he urged his horse forward to meet them. “We weren’t sure you would come!” He fell into place on Fingon's other side. If he noticed anything unusual in the fact that Fingon and Maedhros were holding hands, he didn't mention it. "Uncle will be pleased with this outfit you’ve chosen. Is it a peace offering?”

At that Maedhros' smile turned shy. Fingon, distracted, managed to pull his eyes away from Maedhros' face long enough to gawk at what he was wearing.

His rich red hair, as long as it had ever been, was tied in intricate braids woven through with silver and white ribbons; Fingon recognized Maglor’s work in their clever turns and elegant knots. Maedhros’ boots and clothes were finely-made, though plain for travel. But the cloak upon his shoulders was striking enough to make up for the rest of it. The fabric was as rich as anything they’d worn in Tirion, deep wells of color in the folds and shimmering brightly where it caught the sunlight. It was embroidered through with stars -- Fingon saw Fëanor's eight-pointed star among them, though there were constellations too, and the Sun, and the Moon in all its phases. And all of it against a fabric that was a vivid, unmistakable -- 

“Ñolofinwion blue!” said Finrod, sounding delighted. “That is a handsome gesture. I shudder to think what Tyelko and Curu had to say about it.”

“They were not invited to comment,” answered Maedhros dryly. He paused, then added, “Nor to come, for that matter. Celegorm guards Himring in my absence, and Curufin is with him.” 

“Nelyo has given up his peace of mind and the discipline of his soldiers for you lot,” called Maglor. He had drawn close to them as well, his raiment a more proper Fëanorion red but his face equally wreathed in smiles. Their handful of companions fell back in line behind them as Maglor rode up and took his place beside Maedhros. “I hope you appreciate the sacrifice he’s making to attend your fancy party.” 

“It was no sacrifice,” insisted Maedhros, with a quick glance at Fingon. Finrod and Maglor laughed at him. Fingon squeezed his hand once before, reluctantly, letting go. 

“Blue looks well on you,” he said, the only comment he would allow himself on that subject until he and Maedhros were alone. He tore his eyes away from Maedhros long enough to cast a withering look at Maglor. "And it's a war council, cousin, not a 'fancy party.'"

The jingling of the bells on Finrod's pretty little mare undercut his reproof. Maglor, kindly, didn't tease him.

"In any case, it will certainly be better with you two here," said Finrod, unperturbed. "Even if you have cruelly left my two favorite Fëanorions behind. And you will finally take Fingon off my hands! He's done nothing but mope and make himself disagreeable ever since you left." 

Fingon flushed. He could sense Maedhros looking at him again, and he urged his mare ahead. "Come on," he said. "The feast starts this evening, and my father will want to see you before then."

He lingered in the dream that night, playing out the memory to the end. It was a good memory -- their wedding night -- and it was easy enough to let everything else sink away and to simply be there with Maedhros again, holding him in his arms, whispering promises into his skin. The memory was familiar, well-loved and well-worn after all this time: bitter words, long dwelt on but quickly soothed with a kiss; the feast they had sat through together side-by-side; the wine that had stained Maedhros’ lips. 

Fingon could feel Maedhros’ brooch pressing against his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. It was late; Alfirin had left him his food hours before, and the torch outside his cell had burned down to embers. There was a sound drifting through the walls of the cell, like the pounding of surf. He floated in the dream, half-awake and half-asleep, and paid it no mind. 

Fingon had been the one to drag them away from the feast at last, away from the music and the singing and out towards the stillness of the lake. They had spent the whole night together; and when dawn rose he had woken up married, with Maedhros’ hröa in his arms and Maedhros’ fëa in his mind. 

The sound continued, growing louder. Fingon tried to ignore it, to slip back to sleep, but it was as though the dream was melting around him. He snatched at it, but it was no use -- it vanished, and from all around him, growing steadily louder, there came the same rhythmic, pounding sound. Not waves, he realized. It was the beating of drums. 

His mind finally caught up to his body and he sat up, suddenly wide awake. Even in the dungeon he could smell the first whiffs of smoke in the air. 

Yrch. 

They were here.

Chapter Text

He was on his knees beside the bed the next moment, spitting the loosened gag free. The twins’ knapsack was hidden in the shadows under the cot; he kicked it out and towards him, reaching for it and fumbling with the string with his bound hands. He cursed, his heart in his mouth; but the next moment he had pulled it open, and a moment after that the hilt of the knife was in his grip. He yanked it free and flipped the blade up, jamming it between his bound wrists. In a few quick, savage cuts, he was free. 

He threw himself at the bars the moment the ropes were loose. “Yrch!” he screamed, slamming the hilt of the knife against the iron until it rang. "They’re here!” 

There was no light under the door in the guardroom. Fingon swore and slammed the knife against the bars again. The torch in the bracket across from him gleamed a dull, angry red. All around him the smell of smoke was growing stronger. “Fuck! Wake up! They’re here!” There was no answer. 

He swore again and dropped to his knees, reaching through the bars of the cell to scrabble at the lock with the blade of the knife. The drums were beating louder. When the lock wouldn’t open he snarled, dropped the knife, and threw his shoulder against the metal bars of the door. “I can fight! Let me out -- I can fight!” 

In the tower above him, someone screamed. 

He staggered back, panting for breath. His nails were scratched and bleeding, his side bruised from his shoulder to his hip. His voice had gone hoarse from shouting. He could hear the assault above -- metal clashing, yells and cries for mercy, the pounding of drums that seemed to be growing louder with each passing minute. 

The twins were up there somewhere -- barricaded with Elwing in her rooms, or hiding with Faurin, or making a desperate push for the boats, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter; Morgoth’s army was here. They were trapped. They were trapped while he paced like an animal in a cage, screaming himself raw and doing nothing. 

He yelled and threw himself at the door again. It shuddered under his weight, but the bars held. “Let me out!”

Fingon caught himself on the wall with hands scraped bloody from the stone. An hour, at least, since the battle had started, and above him the sound of screaming had grown less while the cries of the orcs had grown louder. The dungeons were hot and filled with smoke. The iron bars were solid in front of him; his knife hung uselessly in his hands. 

He bared his teeth and launched himself at the bars again. 

On the floor above him he heard a thump, as if a heavy body had fallen, followed by the scrabbling of claws on stone. “Ghâsh-a-alba,” hissed a voice, before it broke off with a piercing scream. There was the sound of another body falling, and the wet rasp of steel sliding loose from flesh. 

Fingon’s heart leapt to his throat. He knew that curse -- he had heard those words wrung from orc tongues on the battlefield before, a lifetime ago. 

Maedhros was here. 

“Maedhros!” Fingon seized the bars in both hands and shook them, spitting an oath when the tumult of the battle above drowned their rattling. Maedhros was here. Maedhros had come. “Russo!” 

He plunged into their bond without thinking, scrambling and stretching to reach Maedhros’ mind across the chasm between them. The darkness where their bond had been was as absolute as it had been all these months, the pain violent enough that he fell against the bars and slid to the floor. His head felt as though it would split apart. He curled in on himself, struggling to breathe, feeling the wound where the bond used to be pushing him back.

Elros and Elrond were up there somewhere, hiding -- they would hide, he had told them to, they would listen -- under the bed in their nursery, or in the storerooms of the kitchens, or with Elwing. He had told them he would come. They were up there, waiting for him. 

Fingon threw himself deeper into the bond and screamed MAEDHROS! into the emptiness. He felt something stir -- real or imagined, he didn’t know -- and then, like a riptide, the pain became too much and it thrust him back into himself, collapsed on the floor, panting and shuddering as he fell back into his body again. 

By the time he managed to push himself to his knees the footsteps above him had moved on. Overhead and on every side, the battle raged on.

Close to weeping with frustration, Fingon reached blindly for his knife, and stumbled to his feet again.

He was kneeling on the ground, trying to twist the blade of the knife into the lock again, when he heard it -- the door at the top of the stairs slamming open, and footsteps, faster and lighter than an orc’s, racing down the stone steps. His heart pounding, Fingon tightened his grip on the knife and stood. Ahead of him, there was a glow in the darkness. 

“Astaldo?” called a familiar voice, sharp and desperate. “Finno? Are you here?” 

Maglor came into view at the turn in the stairs. His face was pale and streaked with blood; his eyes glowed in the light of the flickering torch he held in his hand. When he saw the dungeons at the foot of the stairs, he stumbled and had to catch himself on the wall. "Káno," breathed Fingon -- and then, louder, dropping the knife and seizing the bars, "Káno!" 

Maglor swore and sprinted down the rest of the steps, dropping the torch to the ground and throwing himself at the cell. He stretched through the bars and fumbled for Fingon’s hands. Fingon grasped them in both of his. 

“We couldn’t find you,” Maglor said, low and urgent. He squeezed Fingon’s hands once before reaching up to cup his face. His hands were coated in blood. “We thought we’d lost you again.” Fingon reached up and clasped Maglor’s hand to his cheek.

“Is Russo --”

“Nelyo’s here. He’s alive. He and Ambarussa are fighting.” Fingon squeezed his eyes shut, not quite managing to choke down the relieved sob that rose in his throat. Maglor stroked his cheek. His hand left streaks of blood behind. “I told you the orcs were coming, Finno. I told you. An army. Why didn’t you go?”

“I told her to run,” Fingon said. “She didn’t believe me. I’m sorry, Káno.” He was shaking. Maglor made a low noise in the back of his throat and tried to pull his hand back -- before he could Fingon tightened his own grip, holding him still. “Have you seen the twins?” he asked desperately. “Elrond and Elros?” 

Maglor’s face fell. Fingon’s heart stopped. 

“They’re alive,” Fingon said. Maglor shook his head. Panic was rising in Fingon’s chest like a tide. He barely felt it when Maglor squeezed his hand. 

“Finno --”

“I told them to hide,” Fingon interrupted. He could hear his voice rising. “They’re clever, you don’t know them. They’ve hidden somewhere in the, in the nursery -- or with their mother. But they’re alive.” 

“I don’t know,” Maglor said at last. He finally pulled away from Fingon’s grip. “I don’t know. Maybe. But the tower and the town are both overrun, Finno. Most of Elwing's people are dead.” Fingon was already shaking his head again. 

“You have to get me out,” he said. He dropped down and seized his knife and the twin’s knapsack. Maglor was watching him, his face bleak. Fingon stood again and slammed his knife against the bars. “Now, Káno!” he snapped. “Get me out!” 

As though waking from a trance, Maglor nodded and dropped to a crouch in front of the cell door. He whispered something, soft and lilting, to the lock -- badly scratched and dented as it was from Fingon’s knife, at Maglor’s song the metal of the lock hummed and, slow as the gears of a clock turning, clicked into place. 

Fingon had the door shoved open before Maglor could finish rising to his feet, the twins’ knapsack already thrown over his shoulder and the knife naked and gleaming in his hand. By the time Maglor stumbled up Fingon was nearly halfway up the stairs. “Finno!” Fingon didn’t answer. Behind him, he heard Maglor curse. 

He had nearly reached the landing when Maglor caught up to him. Before he could pull away Maglor gripped his shoulder and was dragging him back. Fingon swore, trying to wrench his shoulder free; but after two months of wasting away in the dungeons, Maglor was the stronger of them. He wrestled Fingon back, hissing but not loosening his grip when Fingon elbowed him, hard, in the chest. 

“Let me go!” Fingon demanded. Maglor shoved him back against the wall and slung an arm across his chest. Fingon snarled. “Let me --”

“Damn it, Finno -- stop fighting me,” Maglor snapped. Fingon spat. Maglor growled back and leaned his full weight against him, pinning him to the wall. “Stop it! I’m trying to help you!” 

They stared at each other, both panting. Slowly, Fingon relaxed his shoulders. Maglor gave him a long, searching look, then nodded brusquely. He pulled back from Fingon and drew his sword. “I’m not letting you run off to fight orcs with a fucking kitchen knife,” he said darkly, thrusting his sword at Fingon. He pressed the blade into Fingon's hand until, numbly, Fingon wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Maglor gave him another grim nod before shoving him back towards the stairs. “You lead. I’ll cover us.” 

The first two floors above the dungeon were storerooms, and both were filled with the dead.

Fingon walked through them slowly, stepping carefully around the piles of bodies. There were some dead orcs, but most of the bodies were men and elves -- servants from the tower, or farmers and fishermen from the village, who had run to the tower for safety and been cornered here at last. The floor was awash in their blood, so deep in some places that it pooled and reached nearly to his ankles. Fingon heard Maglor, following close behind him with a scavenged sword in hand, murmur a soft prayer. Fingon said nothing. Despite the sound of the battle still raging above, the storerooms were filled with an awful, charnel house stillness. 

“We held the orcs off as long as we could,” Maglor said. There was a child’s body on the ground; Fingon dropped to a crouch and turned it gently. It was a girl; the twins’ age, but human. He didn’t recognize her. He heard Maglor’s breath hitch behind him. “When they overpowered us, we fell back here and tried to buy these people time. We tried, Fingon.” 

“I know you did,” Fingon answered. He rose to his feet again and kept walking. “Come on.” 

There were several more children between the two rooms. Fingon stopped at each one and bent down to check; but none of them were Elros or Elrond. Half relieved and half ashamed of his relief, Fingon began to whisper his own prayers as well before he stood and walked on. By the time they reached the next set of stairs, his arms were as bloody as Maglor’s.

They were drawing closer to the main hall now. As they neared it, the sounds of the battle outside grew louder, and the smell of fire grew stronger. Maglor touched Fingon’s wrist lightly when they reached the top of the stairs; Fingon stopped obediently, bringing up his sword and turning to guard their back while Maglor, light as a bird, darted ahead. 

One minute passed, then two. And then Maglor was back, touching Fingon’s shoulder and nodding for him to follow.

They slipped through the side door into the main hall together, both of them keeping to the shadows. There were orcs in the main hall, their armor bloody and their faces foul in the torchlight; but the main battle seemed to be raging outside. The massive front doors that had guarded the tower, twice as high as Fingon was tall and crafted from ancient wood as heavy as stone, had been wrenched apart. Through the gap between them Fingon could see orange and red flames licking the night sky. 

Under the screams and the beating of the drums, Maglor leaned over and whispered in Fingon’s ear, “Where to?” Fingon nodded down the hall, to a door midway between where they stood and the main staircase. 

“That passage leads to the nursery,” Fingon answered, just as softly. 

Maglor nodded. He squeezed Fingon’s shoulder briefly before sliding past him, darting through the shadows in the ruin of the hall as he stole towards the door. Fingon spared a moment to watch a party of orcs tearing armor from the body of a guard, hatred and bitter fear stirring in his heart -- but then he dropped his gaze and followed after Maglor, racing down the hall and slipping through the doorway without a sound.  

The first thing he saw when he shouldered the nursery door open was Faurin’s body spreadeagled on the ground. She was sprawled in the center of the room in her nightclothes, her brown eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Her head had been nearly severed from her neck with what looked like a single blow from an axe. Fingon drew to a halt when he saw her, his breath freezing in his chest. Maglor, half a step behind him, saw the orc blade before he did. 

“Yrch,” he snarled, shoving Fingon out of the way and catching the blade meant for Fingon’s chest with his sword. Fingon stumbled forward, sidestepping Faurin’s body as he brought his own sword up and spun around. 

The room had been torn apart; blood and splintered wood lay everywhere. The curtains on the two little beds in the corner were smoldering. There were two dead orcs at Faurin’s feet and two dead elvish guards, bloodied and nearly unrecognizable, crumpled near the window. Three orcs pinned Maglor against the doorway; half a dozen more, their blades raised, were eyeing Fingon hungrily from the far side of the room. 

“You’re the one,” the nearest of them said, its face twisting in a yellow-toothed leer. It crept closer, raising an ugly, jagged blade. Its armor was drenched in blood. “You’re the princeling He's after.” 

Fingon could feel rage rising in him, hot as molten fire. He bared his teeth. “Yes,” he agreed; and with his left hand, he drew the twins’ knife from his belt.

Before the orc could answer Fingon lunged forward, slamming its blade out of the way with his sword and slicing it across the neck with the knife. The orc crumpled, dead before it hit the ground. The other orcs began to cry out, but Fingon was already upon them.

He cut another orc across the neck, vicious and fast, then ducked under the blade of a third and buried the knife in its back as it moved past him. The orc screamed. Fingon left the knife there and shoved the orc away before turning and bringing his sword up in time to block a swing from an axe. 

After so long in the dungeons, the sword sang in his hands. He let the blade drop lower and stepped out of the way of the falling axe, bringing the sword up in time to tear across the orc’s throat as it turned. There were two orcs left, their swords and armor bloody but their eyes wary as they circled Fingon. Fingon brought both hands to his sword and swung it hard enough to cleave the head from the shoulders of the nearest one, not bothering to move out of the way of the spray of blood. The final orc tried to scramble away; Fingon bared his teeth and knocked it to the ground with the pommel of his sword, dropping down next to it and holding the blade to its throat while it lay dazed on the ground. 

He was panting for breath -- his blood sang through his veins. He could hear Maglor, his own battle ended, walking towards him. Underneath Fingon’s blade the orc snarled, its mouth bloody. Fingon snarled back. 

“Where are the children?” he demanded. When the orc sneered but didn’t answer, Fingon pressed his blade tighter against its throat, scoring a line of dark blood. The orc hissed. “Where are they?” Fingon demanded again. He could feel Maglor at his back. 

“We killed everyone,” the orc spat at last. “The woman and the soldiers.” 

“There were two children,” Fingon hissed. Maglor’s hand was on his shoulder; he shook him off roughly. “What did you do with them?” The orc’s lips curled in a bloody grin.

“We killed everyone,” it said again, and started to laugh. 

Fingon stared at the orc, his mind blank, his ears ringing. And then his face twisted. With a yell he brought his sword down, hard enough that he cut through the orc’s throat and caught his blade on its spine. “You lie,” he spat, leaning into the orc’s face and shoving his blade in deeper. Maglor seized him under the arms and grappled him back; Fingon struggled against him, snarling. “Yrch! Saura! You lie!” 

“Finno, stop. Stop.” 

“He’s lying, he’s --”

“He’s dead,” said Maglor bluntly. “Fingon. Enough.” 

Fingon broke off, his chest heaving. Orcish blood was pooling on the floor. He was drenched in it; it dripped into his eyes and burned his mouth. Outside the village burned, hot enough the lead in the windows was beginning to melt. The twins’ beds were burning behind them too, the smoldering fire fast turning into flames.

“They’re not dead,” Fingon said hoarsely. 

“They’re not here,” Maglor answered. He pushed Fingon back, away from the bodies and towards the door. His face was streaked with ash now as well as blood. “I looked, Finno. If they were here, they’re gone.” Fingon looked at him, hardly daring to breathe. Maglor reached out with his sleeve and carefully wiped the blood away from Fingon’s eyes. “Where else could they be?” 

Maglor fell to his knees in front of the lock the moment they reached it. 

The door to Elwing’s study was a ruin of splinters and shards of metal, but the lock was still intact. Fingon stood just behind Maglor, his sword raised as he watched Maglor whisper something, half-request, half-melody to the door. His fingers danced across the metal. They waited a beat, then two; but nothing happened. Maglor swore and slammed his palm against the wood. He raised his voice and tried again, his song harsher this time. “Open, damn you!” he finished with a hiss, and struck the door again.

This time there was a click. Maglor’s face broke apart in relief; before he could rise to his feet Fingon was already moving past him, shoving the door open with his shoulder.

Inside, Lady Elwing’s study was empty. The fire still burned cheerfully in the hearth; the windows were closed, making the screams from down below sound muffled and distant. Her desk was bare. “My lady?” Fingon called. He moved further into the room. Behind him he heard Maglor do the same. “Elros? Elrond?”

Only silence greeted him.

That meant nothing: they were hiding, he had told them to hide. He dropped his sword and reached for the drapes, tearing them away from the windows. There was nothing behind them but glass; he swore and spun around, his eyes desperate. There was a handsome glass cabinet behind Elwing’s desk, filled with bottles of ink and neat reams of paper. He tore the doors open hard enough the glass shattered, dug through the papers and smashed his fist through the back of the cabinet. Nothing. “Elros!” he shouted. Behind him he could hear Maglor pacing the far side of the room, pressing against the stones to see if any gave. “Elrond!” 

The fire burned. Except for them, the room was empty. 

“They’re not here,” Maglor said at last. He fell back away from the wall and turned to Fingon. His voice was clipped and urgent. “Where else could they be?” Fingon didn’t answer. Maglor’s voice sharpened. “Finno! Where else could they be?” 

Fingon shook his head mutely. He was near the window; he turned and staggered closer to it, pressing his bloody hand to the glass and looking down. He could barely breathe. Everything beneath them was in flames, a wall of fire from the foot of the tower all the way to the black curve of the sea. Through the smoke and the blaze orcs were darting, as small as ants from this high up. Red light flickered off the metal of their swords. Every house, every ship in the harbor, was alight.

“This is my fault,” Fingon whispered. 

Maglor crossed the room and moved to stand at the window next to him. “This is Morgoth’s fault,” he answered darkly, following Fingon’s gaze down to the ruins of the Havens below them. “We did what we could.” Fingon couldn’t help the hollow laugh that escaped his throat.

“‘What we could?’ Are you mocking me?”

Maglor exhaled. “Fingon,” he began. Before he could go on, Fingon shoved him away. 

“We did nothing,” Fingon snapped. His voice shook with anger: at Elwing, at Maglor, at himself. “We knew what was coming and did nothing. I spent two and a half months locked in a prison cell. You and your brothers turned yourselves into the greatest monsters in Beleriand, and made sure that no one would ever heed a warning from you again.” Fingon turned back and slammed his hand against the glass. It shivered under him. His shoulders were shaking. “She told me she would rather die than accept help from you,” he said. “The Butchers of Doriath. You should have done everything differently, you fool.” 

He closed his eyes. He felt the twins’ knapsack against his back, their knife at his belt. They had hidden, and waited for him, and he hadn’t come. They had --

“Fingon,” said Maglor again, sharper this time. He grabbed Fingon’s shoulder and spun him around. Fingon cursed, twisting out of his grip and trying to throw him off. 

“Get off of me!” 

“Fingon, look.” Maglor dropped his sword to grab Fingon’s other shoulder and forcibly turn him. “You see?” he said, after a pause. His voice was tight, but Fingon could feel his hands trembling.

There was a door in the back corner of the room, almost hidden among the shadows -- and from underneath it, a sliver of white light.  

Fingon pushed the door open slowly. “My lady?” he called. Behind him he heard the outer door snick shut behind Maglor. He swallowed and took a step forward, keeping one hand on his sword as he tried to will his racing heart to calm. “Elwing?”

Elwing’s bedroom was small and spare. A handsome sword hung on the wall; the metal was dim and foggy from neglect. The rest of the walls were bare except for a single window, large enough that it stretched from the floor nearly to the ceiling. While the windows in the study had been fastened shut, this window stood open. The air that rose from the foot of the tower filled the room with heat and the noise of the massacre below. 

Elwing stood in front of the window, dressed all in white. Her black hair was loose and unbound down her back; her bare feet curled over the edge of the stone sill. She was staring out directly in front of her at the dark line of the sea. She didn’t turn when Fingon entered. Even with her back to him, Fingon could see the brilliant white glow of the Silmaril upon her chest. 

Fingon exhaled slowly, and took a step forward. 

“My lady,” he said. She didn’t answer. He continued to walk slowly forward, drawing to a stop at last at the end of the bed. Elwing didn’t move or seem to hear him. “Sirion is lost,” Fingon said. “We need to leave now.” Still, Elwing said nothing. Fingon drew in a deep breath, willing his frantic heart to steady. “My lady. Where are your sons?” 

Elwing stood as though carved from stone, only her hair and her dress fluttering in the eddies of burning air rising from below. Upon her chest the Silmaril gleamed, brighter than a star. The night sky beyond her was obscured through the smoke. “They are in danger, my lady,” Fingon said. His voice cracked. “Where are they?” 

“Are you here to gloat?” Elwing asked at last. 

Fingon took another step towards her, although he stopped abruptly when she seemed to sway forwards. “No,” he said. “No. I’m trying to help you.” 

“You and your Fëanorions?” she asked. When Fingon didn’t answer, she laughed. “I thought so.”

“I'll protect you,” Fingon promised. She said nothing. His voice grew sharp with desperation. “You have my word -- I will protect you. I know what they've done. I grieve for the evil they brought to you and your people; truly, I do. But they love me. I swear to you, on my life, that I will let no harm come to you or your sons through Maedhros and his brothers.” 

“I have told you it is a mistake to think that they care more for you than for a Silmaril,” Elwing said. Her voice was eerily calm. Beneath her, the Havens burned. 

Fingon drew in a deep breath. Without consciously thinking, he reached up to his chest to fumble for Maedhros’ brooch. His hand tightened around it. “Where are Elros and Elrond?” he asked raggedly. At that, at last, Elwing turned fully to look at him. 

The light of the Silmaril was as bright as Telperion upon her chest, beautiful and terrible to see. It cut through the smoke and the heat like ice. Beneath its light, Elwing’s face was a mask of despair. 

“It’s over,” she said. “Middle Earth is lost.” Fingon didn’t answer. She gazed at him as though truly seeing him for the first time. “You should have stayed in Mandos’ Halls, King Fingon,” she said at last. “You have returned only to see the world turn to ash and ruin around you.” Fingon was already shaking his head.

“No, my lady,” he answered. He took another step forward; she watched him without moving. “You are Elwing -- daughter of Dior, granddaughter of Lúthien the Fair. You have endured much. I believe that you will survive this, too.” 

He stretched out his hand. She looked at him. Her eyes, beautiful and hopeless, were bright, and her cheeks were wet with tears. “It's kind of you to think so,” she said. She dropped her gaze to his hand, though she made no move to take it. “Forgive me,” she said at last. “For my doubt and my anger. I did what I thought was best for my people. But I have been alone for a very long time. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Fingon’s throat was dry. “Your sons, Lady Elwing,” he said. 

She shook her head and looked up at him again. “I'm going to find my family now,” she answered. She raised her hand to the Silmaril. “Goodbye, King Fingon. Death will find you soon. May it be kinder to you, this time.” With that, she turned and stepped through the open window in one smooth motion, her dress billowing white as a sea wave around her.

Fingon yelled and threw himself after her -- but even as he reached the window, there was a blinding flash of white light, as brilliant and electric as a lightning strike. He cried out and fell to his knees, throwing his hands up to shield his eyes. Then his knees gave out beneath him too and he crumpled to the floor; and still the light went on and on, so intense that he could see it through his hands and closed eyes. It felt like a living thing, pulsing through him and around him. His ears rang. He felt a trickle of blood begin to drip from his nose.

The light began to ebb gradually, and then all at once it went out. Fingon stayed curled on the floor, struggling to breathe through the electric charge still humming in the air. As though from a great distance he heard Maglor’s voice calling to him. And then Maglor himself was there beside him, his hand tight around Fingon’s arm. 

“Get up,” Maglor said. It was as though he was talking underwater, the words distorted and oddly heavy. Fingon shook his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. Maglor pulled on his arm again. “Now, Finno. We have to go.” 

There was a clatter of steel on stone; and then Maglor had both hands on Fingon’s arms and was hauling him to his feet. Fingon finally blinked his eyes open and stared at him wildly. Maglor’s face was pale beneath the streaks of black and red blood. “We have to go,” Maglor repeated, shaking him. Fingon blinked again. The world was slowly falling back into place, the smoke and the screams and Maglor’s bloody hands on his arms. 

“We have to find them,” Fingon said dazedly. “Elros and Elrond.” Maglor shook his head but wouldn’t meet Fingon’s eyes. Finally judging that Fingon could stand on his own, he let go of him and bent down to retrieve his sword. 

“If they live, we will find them,” Maglor said at last. He straightened and reached out to cup Fingon’s cheek in his palm. His voice was rough. Fingon stared at him uncomprehendingly. “And if they are dead, then we will avenge them. I promise you, Astaldo. But we have to go now. We do them no good by lingering here.” 

Fingon’s tongue was heavy in his mouth -- in his mind he saw Elwing stepping forward into the flames, over and over again. He said nothing; but he made no move to resist when Maglor muscled him from the room, leading them back through the empty study to the staircase and the battle that waited beyond. 

They had been running for hours, long enough that they had finally left the flames and the smell and sound of death behind. Around them the reeds whispered and nightbirds trilled; the first yellow streaks of light were rising in the east. With every step Fingon could feel the thump of the twins’ leather knapsack on his back and the brush of their knife against his thigh. The blood on his face and his hands had long since crusted and dried. He ran without thinking, following behind Maglor as he wove a path through the reeds, slim and quick as a shadow in the moonlight. 

“We’re getting close,” Maglor called back, his voice barely louder than the brush of the wind. “Ambarussa and Nelyo will be waiting for us. We can rest and regroup.” 

Fingon didn’t want to rest. Even now he could feel grief and rage simmering in his heart: if he had tried harder. If he had convinced Elwing. If he had ignored Maglor and taken the twins and run to Maedhros while there had still been time.

He said nothing and ran on.

Maglor finally drew to a stop as dawn rose, chilly but beautiful. Maglor’s face was pale -- there were gashes on his face and arms that were still bleeding sluggishly, and a massive bruise had nearly closed his left eye -- but his hand was steady when he grasped Fingon’s upper arm and drew him to a halt. 

Maglor whistled twice, beautiful and silvery in the crisp morning air. Fingon stood beside him, shivering slightly and leaning into Maglor’s grip. Maglor rubbed his thumb reassuringly over Fingon’s arm and whistled again. For a moment, there was silence.

Maglor opened his mouth to whistle a third time, then stopped. 

From the east came the muffled sound of hooves on turf, faint but coming closer. Maglor drew them back behind a clump of reeds and laid a finger to Fingon’s lips. Fingon nodded. They watched and waited silently. Overhead, a crow cawed.

Through the mist came the shape of three massive warhorses, sturdy and sure-footed in the marsh. Two were riderless. They drew closer, and as the mist cleared Fingon could see a flash of red hair on the rider of the third. 

Beside him, he felt Maglor stiffen.

Maedhros, bloody as a monster and pale as a shade, was riding through the mist towards them. He looked older than Fingon remembered him, his shoulders bowed and his gray eyes filled with an unfamiliar, soul-deep despair. Without thinking Fingon stepped out of the reeds towards him; Maedhros drew his horse up and gazed at him with such grief that Fingon felt his own eyes burn. 

“Russo,” Fingon said. Maedhros flinched at the sound of his voice. Fingon took another step forward and caught the horse’s bridle. His heart hammered in his chest. He could barely breathe. "Sweetheart.”

Maedhros stared at him as though he was looking at a ghost. He didn’t answer. Fingon swallowed and managed a smile that Maedhros didn’t return. Fingon drank him in anyway, cataloging every new scar, every change in expression. He let his gaze drop lower, and for the first time he noticed the two small bundles in front of Maedhros on the horse, carefully encircled by his arms. 

Elrond and Elros were asleep, their faces sallow and their eyelashes stark against their cheeks. Although their curls were matted and dirty, their faces had been carefully washed clean. They were each bundled in a thick cloak many sizes too large for them. 

Fingon reached out with a trembling hand, and carefully brushed his knuckles against Elros’ knee. 

“You found them,” he whispered. 

“Ambarussa is dead,” Maedhros said hoarsely, instead of answering. Fingon heard Maglor give a low, keening cry behind him. “We can’t stay here.” Fingon saw his arms tighten protectively around the twins; they stirred but didn’t wake. Fingon let his hand fall away.

“Maedhros,” Fingon began again. He looked up in time to see Maedhros’ face tighten, as though in pain; but the next moment Maedhros kicked his horse’s sides and spurred her on, not waiting for Fingon or Maglor as he rode ahead and vanished back into the mist again.

Chapter Text

“Do you want to bathe in the river?” Fingon asked gently. He brushed Elros’ hair away from his eyes. “They say that Lord Ulmo blesses the waters, and that when you bathe in Nan-Tathren his power heals all hurts.” Elros shook his head and burrowed deeper into Fingon’s chest without saying anything. Fingon wrapped his arms around him. Over the top of Elros’ head he watched as Maglor and Elrond walked side by side gathering wood for a fire. Elrond looked frail in the evening light, as though a gust of wind would be enough to blow him away. His cloak had been a spare one of Amras’ -- though they’d cut it, it was too long still and dragged against the ground at every step. Maglor walked slowly so that Elrond could keep pace, and Elrond stuck like a burr to his side. 

Fingon sighed, and tightened his arms around Elros.

He heard footsteps behind him, and a moment later Maedhros sat down beside them. It had been three days since their escape from Sirion; as he’d done every time since then, Maedhros kept a careful arm's length between them. Fingon looked at him. Maedhros avoided his gaze. 

“No sign of orcs,” Maedhros said. His voice was rough. “We should be safe here for tonight, at least.” Elros shuddered. Fingon bundled him closer in his arms. 

“No orcs,” Fingon repeated softly. “You’re safe.” 

“I want Faurin,” Elros said. It came out muffled against Fingon’s chest, but even so Fingon could hear the tears in his voice. He was shaking. Fingon rubbed his back.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” 

“I want to go home.” Elros’ breathing was growing faster. When Fingon tried to rub his back again to soothe him, Elros flinched away. Fingon let his hand fall.

“I know you do,” he said. “We can’t. It’s not safe.” He could feel Maedhros’ gaze on them. 

“I want to go home!” said Elros again, louder this time. His voice cracked halfway through. He was crying -- Fingon could feel the hot tears through his shirt. “I want to go back!”

“We can’t go back, Elros. I’m sorry.” 

Elros struggled weakly in Fingon’s arms. His breath was hitching and his tears were coming faster. “You could have saved her!” he accused. It was the most he’d spoken in three days. With each word his voice rose higher and higher. Fingon, unsure what to do, loosened his grip, and Elros pulled back enough to pound weakly against Fingon’s chest. His face was wet with tears and snot and scrunched in misery. “You could have saved her and you didn’t! You hated them, you hated them and you let Nana die and Faurin die, it’s all your fault, it’s your fault, I hate you, I hate --”

And then Maedhros was there, bending over Fingon and pulling a sobbing Elros from his lap. “Come now, brave one,” Maedhros said gruffly, standing easily with Elros in his arms. He cupped the back of Elros’ head gently in his left hand while Elros sobbed. Elros swung his fists at Maedhros -- when Maedhros didn't pull away, Elros screamed. 

"Let me go, let me go!"

Fingon rose too, but Maedhros shook his head at him and turned away. “Go ahead and cry,” Maedhros said. “It’s alright.” Elros screamed again. Maedhros rocked him gently and ignored his fists and thrashing legs. “You’ve been very brave,” Maedhros murmured. One of Elros’ fists caught him in the temple; he winced but didn’t pull away. “You must be so tired. It’s alright. Cry as much as you need to.” Elros was sobbing again, huge wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. One moment he was struggling in Maedhros’ arms -- the next he was clinging to him, pulling on Maedhros’ cloak, his shirt, his hair, anything he could reach, like he was trying to climb out of his own skin and into Maedhros’. Fingon watched, helpless, as he collapsed in misery in Maedhros' arms.

Maedhros held him, as steady as the earth itself, until his sobs quieted and he fell, at last, into an exhausted sleep.

They reached Amon Ereb after three weeks of hard travel. It was nighttime when they arrived at the fortress; the weather had grown steadily colder as they’d ridden east and north, and by the time they reached the plains of East Beleriand the first hints of winter were beginning to set in. It was snowing when they rode at last past the gates and into the courtyard.

“Come on, little one,” said Fingon, dismounting and hiding his tiredness behind a smile. Elrond stared at him blankly, more than half asleep and shivering from the cold. Fingon held up his arms; after a moment Elrond allowed himself to be lifted and carefully lowered to the ground. “We’re here.” 

There were lights on inside the keep. As Maglor rode up, and Maedhros with Elros asleep in front of him, the wooden doors opened and Erestor rushed out. “My lords!” he called. He took the horses as Maglor and Maedhros dismounted. “Rúnisse saw you on the road and sent word that you were coming. Your bedrooms are ready, and a room for the children.” 

Maglor was helping Maedhros lift a sleeping Elros off of the horse, but he cast Erestor a grateful look over his shoulder. “Thank you, Erestor.” Maedhros took Elros into his arms and Maglor turned fully around. His face was drawn with weariness. “We could use something to eat too, if it’s not too much trouble.” Erestor nodded.

“Of course, my lord,” he said. He cast a look between Maedhros, Maglor, and Fingon, his gaze resting on Fingon the longest. At last, summoning his courage, he blurted out, “And Lord Amras? Where is he?”

Maglor froze. Fingon, with a quick glance sideways at him, opened his mouth to answer, but Maedhros beat him to it. 

“He’s dead,” Maedhros said bluntly. “Killed by orcs as he defended Sirion.” Erestor’s face fell apart in shock and loss; Maedhros said nothing else, just nudged Maglor until Maglor swallowed his grief and began following after Maedhros towards the keep.

“No more questions tonight,” he said hoarsely, as he passed Erestor. “You can bring the food to our rooms.” 

“Of course, my lord,” answered Erestor, as though in a daze. “I’m sorry, my lord.” He stepped away, leading the horses with him towards the stable; Fingon nodded to him once, then took Elrond’s hand and gently led him towards the hall. 

The keep was small -- Amon Ereb was an outpost in the wilderness, no more -- but it was comely and clean, and the rooms were warmly lit with cheerful fires that crackled and smelled pleasantly of pine. The twins’ bedroom was tucked in between Maglor and Maedhros’ rooms: two small beds neatly dressed in white linen, with a little camp table in between them piled with books and a sturdy earthenware pitcher of water. There was a single, well-worn stuffed bear carefully placed on the bed nearest the door. 

Maedhros laid Elros down gently on the closest bed; Elrond released Fingon’s hand and padded around them to sink onto the other. After weeks on the road and on the run, the mattress and goose-feather pillow probably felt like unspeakable luxury; Elrond managed to get his shoes and his cloak off, but after that he curled up on the bed with his back towards them, not bothering to change his clothes or wash his face.

Fingon let him be -- there would be plenty of time to change the linens tomorrow -- and turned to help Maedhros with unlacing Elros’ boots. Maedhros left him to it and moved to the table to pour each of the twins a cup of water. By the time they were done Maglor was standing in the doorway as well, looking tired. 

“I’ve ordered baths to your rooms,” he said. “You two go. I’ll stay with the little ones.” 

Fingon briefly considered objecting -- Maglor, who bore his grief for Amras like an open wound, looked the most exhausted and travel-weary out of all of them -- but the prospect of a proper bath with hot water was too much for him to resist. He brushed his fingers through Elros’ curls, nodded his thanks to Maglor, and stepped past him through the door.

Amras’ room was next to Maglor’s -- Fingon walked past it quickly -- and then past that was another room, the door already open and waiting for him and a cheerful fire burning inside. The room was larger than the twins', but it was as simply appointed: a desk and some bookshelves, the bed, and a pair of chairs on the bearskin rug in front of the fire. 

Fingon tossed his cloak on the desk, set his knife and sword down beside it, and toed off his boots with a sigh. He sank onto the end of the bed and sat with his hands between his knees, staring unseeingly into the pretty stone fireplace on the other end of the room. He had hardly said more than two dozen words to Maedhros on their entire journey here. There had been the twins, and the danger of the road, and the emptiness where their bond had been. There had been Maedhros’ guilt, solid as a wall between them. 

There had been Menegroth.

He shuddered and closed his eyes. He wasn’t alone with his thoughts for long: after a few minutes the door opened again and two servants came in, carrying a large tub between them, and after them a procession of a half dozen other servants with buckets of steaming water. 

“My thanks,” said Fingon softly. Most of the servants avoided his eyes. Two gave him a frightened look; one, a young human girl who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, stared at him with open curiosity. Fingon returned her look with a tired smile; she blushed, dropped her gaze, and dumped her bucket into the tub before dashing after the others into the hall. 

The tub was full after three more trips. One of the servants brought soap and clean robes; another brought food. Fingon dragged the bedside table over and set it up next to the tub, then piled it with the soap, the robe, and a glass of wine. He left the food to cool beside his sword on the desk and began to strip out of his clothes, tossing them onto the desk as well. 

They’d had little enough opportunity to bathe on their mad flight to Amon Ereb, and it had been months since Fingon had had a proper bath before then. He climbed into the tub and sank into the water with a grateful sigh, feeling his body start to loosen for what felt like the first time in ages as the water, just shy of too-hot, soaked through his skin. He let his head fall back against the rim of the tub. Someone had added salts to the water, making it smell faintly of roses and lavender. Fingon breathed in deeply and closed his eyes.

He lay there for what felt like hours, until the water grew tepid and then cold around him. He didn’t open his eyes when the door opened and the servants came in to rebuild the fire, or when, a little while later, someone came and silently refilled his glass of wine. The third time the door opened, the person paused in the doorway and made no move to enter the room. Fingon cracked an eye open, then immediately sat up.

Maedhros was standing in the doorway. He had unbraided his hair -- it tumbled loose and messy over his shoulders -- but he was still dressed in his traveling clothes, stained and ripped from their weeks on horseback. He looked frozen where he stood, his eyes flicking between Fingon’s face and the vivid red scars on his bare arms. Fingon returned his look for a long, lingering moment; then he stood, stepped out of the tub, and pulled the white robe up off of the table and over his shoulders. 

“Come here, Russo,” he said softly. 

Maedhros didn’t answer. Fingon waited; but though Maedhros was staring at him, his gray eyes haunted, he made no move to come closer. At last, as warily as if Maedhros was a wounded animal ready to bolt, Fingon walked towards him. He saw Maedhros tense as he drew closer. Fingon stopped in front of him and reached up with one gentle hand to cup Maedhros’ cheek; Maedhros made a low, pained sound and turned into his touch. Fingon stroked his jaw. Maedhros was trembling underneath him. 

“I know we need to talk,” Fingon said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Alright, sweetheart?” 

Maedhros had squeezed his eyes shut. At Fingon’s words he nodded jerkily; heart aching, Fingon let his hand fall from Maedhros’ cheek and reached out to take his hand. He drew Maedhros in front of the fireplace, stopping him in front of the tub. “Is this alright?” he asked. Maedhros didn’t say anything. Carefully, telegraphing every move, Fingon stripped him out of his clothes. Maedhros hadn’t bathed either on the road to Amon Ereb, and his clothing stank of horse and mud and smoke. He was trembling harder by the time Fingon finished and laid his dirty clothes aside. 

The water in the tub was cold, but Fingon dipped a towel into it and gently scrubbed the dirt and dried blood from Maedhros’ body. He took his time: cleaning Maedhros' limbs, the back of his neck, the grime from around his fingernails and the dried blood from an ugly cut at his waist. He kept up a low murmur of talk as he worked; every now and then he paused to press a kiss to Maedhros’ bare skin. Maedhros didn’t say anything. Sometimes when Fingon looked up he caught Maedhros’ gaze on him, desperate and yearning; but mostly Maedhros kept his eyes screwed shut. 

The servants had only brought the one robe, so when he finished bathing Maedhros Fingon reached down for his hand and pressed a kiss to his wrist. “I’m going to your room,” he said. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Don’t leave.” Maedhros nodded. When Fingon returned a minute later, Maedhros’ robe in hand, he found Maedhros standing exactly where he’d left him. He was far enough away from the fire that his trembling was turning into shivering. 

“It’s alright,” Fingon said. He pulled Maedhros’ robe on, smoothing the thick, soft fabric over Maedhros’ shoulders and belting it tightly around Maedhros’ too-skinny waist. “Love. It’s alright.” Maedhros was looking at him again. Fingon raised his hand carefully and brushed underneath Maedhros’ eyes; his fingers came away wet. Before he could drop his hand, Maedhros reached up and seized it. Fingon waited, his own eyes stinging, while Maedhros ran feather-light, shaking fingers over the thick scars that wrapped around Fingon’s wrist and forearm. 

“From Gothmog’s whip,” Fingon said. He saw Maedhros swallow. “They don’t hurt.” 

“Fin,” said Maedhros raggedly; it was the first word he’d spoken since he came in. Fingon’s heart ached. 

“Really,” he said. He shifted his arm a little under Maedhros’ grip so that he could stroke his hand along the side of Maedhros’ face. He managed a small smile. “Look,” he teased, his fingers lingering along Maedhros’ scars. “We match now.” 

At that, Maedhros broke.

He fell forward into Fingon’s arms, his breath coming in great, panting sobs as he crushed Fingon to him, touching every inch of him that he could. He pressed his mouth blindly to Fingon’s face, his neck, his shoulders. He was crying so hard he almost couldn’t speak. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, “I’m so sorry, Fingon, I’m sorry --” He clung to Fingon as though terrified that Fingon would disappear if he let go. His mouth was like a brand against Fingon's skin. 

Fingon held him back just as fiercely, wrapping his arms around Maedhros’ back and cradling him close. “Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, turning his head to kiss Maedhros’ temple. Maedhros cried harder. Fingon closed his eyes and held him. “I know. I’m sorry, too.” 

Somehow Fingon managed to wrangle them both onto the bed. He slipped under the covers and pulled Maedhros in after him, holding Maedhros with both arms while Maedhros folded himself around him and continued to weep. Fingon brushed Maedhros’ hair away from his face and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m here,” he said. “I love you. It will be alright, Russo. You'll see."

Maedhros didn’t say anything. By the time he cried himself at last into an exhausted sleep, he was curled half on top of Fingon, his ear pressed to Fingon’s heart. Fingon stayed awake long after, carding his fingers steadily through Maedhros’ hair, until at last the gentle rise and fall of Maedhros’ breath lulled him too into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Maedhros was already out of bed by the time Fingon woke up. It was early -- Fingon could hear birds beginning to sing, though the sky outside the windows was still dark -- but Maedhros had built up the fire and was already fully dressed. His dirty clothes from the day before had vanished; the clothes he wore now were clean, although they fit loosely around his spare frame. He was sitting hunched over and gazing into the fire, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He hadn’t seemed to notice yet that Fingon was awake. Fingon pushed himself up slowly, and gave himself a moment just to drink Maedhros in. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Fingon said at last, breaking the silence. Maedhros startled and whipped around to look at him. Fingon smiled at him and pushed himself the rest of the way out of bed. 

“I know it’s early,” he said, fixing his robe before making his way to where the tub and the bedside table still sat in the center of the room. “But I could use a drink.” The bottle of wine was still half-full. Fingon poured himself a glass, glanced at Maedhros, and then made his way over to the bookshelves. He set his own glass on a shelf before digging through the cabinets below, giving a quiet “hah!” when he found another cup, dusty but serviceable. He wiped it on his sleeve and poured a glass for Maedhros, too.

“Here,” he said, walking it over to Maedhros and pressing it into his hand. Maedhros took it, although he wouldn’t meet Fingon’s eyes. Fingon sank into the chair opposite him, took a long sip of wine, and let his head fall back. 

“We need to talk,” he said, “About Menegroth.” 

He felt Maedhros’ eyes fix on him. Fingon waited for Maedhros to start, his heart pounding loudly enough in his ears that he was sure that Maedhros could hear it too -- but Maedhros, whether from shame or weariness, stayed silent. Fingon gave him time; but one minute stretched into five, and still he said nothing.

At last Fingon drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and sat up.

“I don’t know what explanation you can give,” he said, meeting Maedhros’ eyes. He took another long sip of wine before setting his glass to the side. “But whatever it is, I’m willing to listen.” 

Maedhros’ hand clenched around his own cup of wine. He was looking at Fingon now, at least, though his eyes were dark with pain. “I don’t have an explanation,” he said at last. His voice was hoarse. The words, as they came out, were troubled and broken, with strange, lengthy pauses between them. Fingon sat silently and let him continue. “After the Nirnaeth -- after you -- when you were gone, I could not bear it. I couldn’t control the Oath any longer.” He fell silent. Fingon waited. “It didn't seem worth fighting it anymore,” Maedhros said at last. “Nothing seemed worth it. You were gone. The Oath called us to Menegroth, so we went.” 

“You killed thousands,” Fingon said. Maedhros flinched. Despite himself, Fingon’s voice shook. “Not just Dior and his family, but everyone who was in the city when you burned it, or who you drove out defenseless into the wild. Children, Maedhros.” 

“It was --”

“Don't tell me it was the Oath. I know the Oath. I was there when you swore it, and I lived alongside it in your mind for centuries. You always held it in check.”

“I couldn't anymore.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I couldn't.”

“It never ruled you,” Fingon insisted. “You knew that the Silmaril was in Doriath before the Union, and you let it be. Why not leave it again? Why --”

“You died, Fin!”

Maedhros was on his feet. As he stood his hand slipped and the cup dropped to the ground, smashing against the stone floor and spilling shards of pottery and wine everywhere. Maedhros’ face was wild with grief. 

“You died,” he said again. His voice was like an open wound, ragged and bleeding. “I failed you. Controlling the Oath didn’t matter after that. Nothing mattered after that.” 

Fingon -- who loved Maedhros, who never could bear to see him hurt -- clenched his jaw. “Their lives mattered, Russo,” he said, forcing the words from his tongue. “Defeating Morgoth mattered. He was still out there, still our enemy. That didn't change after the Nirnaeth.” Maedhros was already shaking his head.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “Everything changed. It was over after the Nirnaeth.” Fingon began to answer; before he could Maedhros cut him off. “We lost. We lost, Fin. There was no more alliance, no more kingdoms. The siege was broken. Your father saw it, after the Dagor Bragollach. He knew what was coming. He knew it was over. There is nothing holding Morgoth back, nothing he will not consume. What does it matter if we go to Mandos’ Halls sooner rather than later? What does it matter when we die, or how?”

Maedhros was pacing in front of the fire, ignoring the broken pottery and the pool of red wine at his feet. Fingon watched him and felt sick. “What does it matter whether our kin die at your hand or an orc’s, is that it?” he asked bitterly. Maedhros flinched and stopped moving. “Do you truly believe that? That there is no difference between Morgoth’s sword and yours?” 

“I believe that we failed,” said Maedhros at last. He collapsed into his chair again and buried his face in his hand. “There’s no point to any of this anymore. We can’t defeat Morgoth. He’s already won.”

Fingon could see that Maedhros wept; his shoulders were shaking, and his breath came in great, hitching sobs. Fingon watched him, anger and grief warring inside his heart. Eventually he stood and crossed the rug to kneel at Maedhros’ feet. 

“Look at me, Russo,” he said. He reached out and gently pulled Maedhros’ hand away from his face. With his other hand, he carefully circled Maedhros’ right wrist. Maedhros stared at him helplessly. His eyes were red and wet with tears. Fingon steeled his heart. 

“If there is no point to any of it -- if nothing matters, and we’ve already lost -- then why let the Oath drive you to Menegroth?” he asked. “Why not just let it go?” 

Maedhros shook his head. Fingon squeezed his hand. 

“I can still feel it,” Maedhros whispered. His voice sounded as though it had been scraped over stone. “The moment before you pushed me away. Before you died. I can still feel the whips around your arms and your voice screaming in my heart.” He turned his hand to trace over the scars on Fingon’s wrist with trembling fingers. “I tore out the bond to try to make it stop. I ripped it out, but it didn’t work. I feel it like I’m still there, Fin. Like I never left the Nirnaeth.”

Fingon thought of the void in his own heart, the wound where their bond had been. He wanted to cry. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to Maedhros’ left hand instead. 

“Why did you kill all those people, Maedhros?” Fingon asked again, his breath ghosting over Maedhros' skin. Maedhros shuddered. His hand convulsed in Fingon’s grip. Fingon waited for him. 

“I can’t --”

“Maedhros.”

Several long minutes passed. Maedhros shook. Fingon held him. At last, haltingly, Maedhros spoke. 

“To the everlasting darkness doom us if our deed faileth,” he said. Fingon fought hard not to recoil. The words of the Oath were terrible, even after all this time. “I thought, if we failed -- and I died -- I would be cast into the Void forever. And you -- I would never see you again -- unless --”

Fingon felt cold grip his heart. “Unless you regained the Silmarils,” he finished slowly. Maedhros didn’t answer. Fingon pulled back from him and sat up on his heels, understanding at last. “I was dead. You would never see me again unless you regained the Silmarils and fulfilled your Oath.” Maedhros gave another wrenching sob. Fingon felt as though he was going to be sick. “You did it for me,” he said. “You stopped fighting Morgoth -- you stormed Menegroth instead -- killed all those people -- for me.”

“I had to,” Maedhros whispered. “Fin, I had to. I needed the Silmaril. You don’t understand -- I couldn’t bear it -- I would never see you again. Even if it was just one Silmaril, I thought…” Fingon let Maedhros’ hand drop and stood up abruptly.

“Would you do it again?” Fingon demanded. He took a few stumbling steps away, until the back of his legs collided with the desk. On the chair in front of him Maedhros was watching him, his face tight with misery. “If I wasn’t here -- if I hadn’t come back -- would you have stormed Sirion too?” He could feel bile rising in his throat. “How many innocents would you have killed for me?” he asked. Maedhros shook his head. Fingon’s voice rose. “How many until you said ‘enough,’ Maedhros?” 

“I would have done anything,” Maedhros whispered. “Anything to see you again.” 

Fingon scrubbed his hand across his face. He was crying, too. “Get out, Maedhros,” he said. He couldn’t conceal the horror in his voice. Maedhros shook his head and looked up at him pleadingly. “Get out.”

“Fin…”

“Get out, damn you!” 

His hand, scrabbling on the desktop, found something hard; he seized it and threw it, as hard as he could, at Maedhros. He heard it miss and smash onto the floor instead. He seized everything on the desk -- his cloak, his sword, the tray of food -- and threw it all to the ground. He heard Maedhros stumble to his feet behind him, and he turned in time to see the door slam shut.

Fingon could barely breathe, could barely see. In front of him the firelight gleamed like balrog fire and the spilled wine pooled like blood. Maedhros’ brooch, the points of the star bent and twisted, lay like an accusation on the ground. 

Fingon collapsed to the floor, and wept.

Chapter Text

“Hush, Fin. Someone will hear.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” The next moment Maedhros’ teeth scraped Fingon’s neck, undercutting his words and making Fingon gasp. “You are -- mm -- the prince, and I --”

“Think too much,” said Fingon breathily, finishing his sentence for him. But even as he spoke, Fingon pulled back obediently; cupping Maedhros’ face in his hands, drinking him in with his eyes. Maedhros, familiar and beloved, dearer to him than anyone, smiled. Fingon’s breath caught. “I missed you.”

“I had to go,” Maedhros said seriously. He turned his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to Fingon’s palm. “My brothers would have caused trouble for your father if we’d stayed. As long as our people are divided, I --”

“Stop explaining,” Fingon interrupted. He couldn’t keep his laughter from his voice. “Just say you missed me, too.” Maedhros made a low noise and surged forward. 

Their kiss this time was deep and messy. Fingon buried his fingers in Maedhros’ hair, pulling on it and making Maedhros whimper. Maedhros’ tongue licked into his mouth; Fingon’s teeth scraped against Maedhros’ bottom lip. He dragged Maedhros closer to him, nearly stumbling back against the wall of the tent as Maedhros swayed forward. They were both flushed and panting by the time they broke apart. Unwilling to leave even that much space between them, Fingon leaned in and buried his face against Maedhros’ neck. Nearby, someone was strumming a harp; there was a burst of merry laughter, and the first snatches of a drinking song. Fingon could feel Maedhros’ pulse racing under his lips. 

“I missed you,” Maedhros whispered. His voice was ragged. “Of course I missed you. I’ve done nothing but miss you, all this time. Fin --”

“Come with me,” Fingon said. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to Maedhros’ neck before pulling away, ignoring Maedhros’ murmured protest as he let his hands slide down Maedhros’ arms. His hand tangled in Maedhros’. “There’s somewhere I want to show you.”

The little cabin sat on the edge of the water, so close to the bank that waves lapped up and over the dip in the front steps. There were reeds growing through the slats in the porch and moss covering the slender, fluting pillars that held up the roof. It was surrounded by a grove of willow trees that had grown up around it and sighed a lullaby in the warm night air. They could still hear the sound of the feast in the distance, but here everything was quiet. When they stepped onto the low stairs, the wooden boards creaked and groaned beneath them.

“We think it was built by green elves who used to live here,” Fingon said softly, in answer to Maedhros’ questioning look. “Aredhel and I found it when we were hunting for the feast. It’s abandoned now.” 

“I can see that,” Maedhros said dryly. Fingon elbowed him before dragging him forward. 

There was no door hanging in the doorway anymore; the windows, though large, opened directly into the summer night, with no glass between them and the lake and the stars. They walked inside -- Maedhros had to duck -- and into the center of the cabin’s single room. Fingon squeezed Maedhros’ hand to draw him to a halt. When Maedhros looked down at him, Fingon reached up and began to undo the brooch at Maedhros’ neck with fumbling hands. 

Maedhros was quiet while Fingon worked; although standing this close to him, Fingon could feel how his heart raced. Fingon finished tugging the brooch loose and let it drop to the ground. He slid Maedhros’ cloak off his shoulders and let that drop, too. 

“Come on,” he murmured, leaning up to nip at Maedhros’ ear. Maedhros shivered against him. “Lay down with me.” 

Maedhros followed as Fingon pulled him down onto the cloak, spread like a blanket on the floor. Fingon pushed Maedhros onto his back and leaned over him to kiss him. 

They kissed for what felt like hours, whispering endearments and promises against each other’s lips. Fingon tangled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair and slid his other hand under the hem of Maedhros’ shirt, stroking the warm skin of his stomach and feeling Maedhros shiver beneath him. Maedhros tugged at Fingon’s own shirt until Fingon obediently sat up and pulled it off. When he finished Maedhros made a desperate, needy sound and pulled him back down, running his hand down the muscle of Fingon’s back and making Fingon shudder against him. Breathless, Fingon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the scars on Maedhros’ right wrist. He wanted to kiss all of him, every inch, brand himself on Maedhros’ skin, fold himself inside Maedhros’ heart and never leave.

“I'm going to run away to Himring with you,” Fingon murmured, when they eventually broke apart. He brought both hands up to Maedhros’ face, smoothing the lines of his cheekbones and his jaw. “Or trap you here, with me, and never let you out of my bed.” Maedhros smiled, though there was an edge of sadness to it. He reached up and touched Fingon’s lips with his fingers; Fingon kissed them. 

“I would never want to leave,” Maedhros said honestly. He slid his hand farther up to wrap his fingers around one of the golden ribbons in Fingon’s hair, tugging gently. “Your father might have something to say about it, though,” he added, after a moment. Fingon laughed. “My father might come back from the Void just to yell about it.” 

“I’m not afraid of my father -- or yours, for that matter.” Maedhros hummed.

“I know. You’re not afraid of anything.”

“Not of this,” Fingon agreed. His laughter faded, although the tenderness in his voice remained. He pulled Maedhros’ hand back and nuzzled his palm. “Not when it comes to you. I know what you mean to me.” 

Before he’d finished speaking, Maedhros was already dragging him back into another heady kiss. They grappled for a moment, both of them breathless; and then Maedhros wrestled Fingon over and pinned him down, his legs bracketing Fingon’s hips as he kissed him hungrily. All that heavy weight and warm skin was maddening. Fingon pulled Maedhros to him and rocked against him, feeling Maedhros’ own arousal against his thigh. Maedhros cursed brokenly and dropped his head into the crook of Fingon’s neck, panting. Fingon carded his fingers through Maedhros’ hair. 

“Is this why you brought me here tonight?” Maedhros asked at last, without lifting his head. He was trying to tease, but his voice came out hoarse and wrecked instead. Fingon, helpless to do otherwise, smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yes.”

“To seduce me?” Maedhros rocked against Fingon. Fingon’s breath hitched, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said, when he could trust his voice again; but after a moment, he amended, “Yes. That too.”

“‘That too?’” Maedhros echoed. He raised his head at last and looked down at Fingon. He was beautiful in the moonlight. “What else did you bring me here for?” He ground his hips against Fingon’s, making Fingon gasp and arch up underneath him. When Fingon didn’t answer, Maedhros leaned down and kissed him deeply. “What else, Fin?” he repeated in a murmur, as he pulled back. Fingon blinked his eyes open dazedly, and reached up with one hand to cup Maedhros’ cheek.

“To marry you,” he said. 

Maedhros stopped moving abruptly and stared down at him. Fingon smiled at him again, and when Maedhros still didn’t move, he pressed his hand to the back of Maedhros’ neck and gently pulled his head down. He kissed Maedhros’ eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips last of all. Then he dragged Maedhros down farther, turning them both so that they were laying on the ground side by side. Fingon let his hand drop away from Maedhros’ neck and slid it down Maedhros’ side instead, stroking from his chest to his hip.

“We’re two néri, Fin,” Maedhros said hoarsely. His hand was in Fingon’s hair, clutching at the back of Fingon’s head. Fingon hummed. “It’s not allowed. It's not --”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fingon interrupted. He burrowed against Maedhros’ neck and kissed his jaw. “I’ll know. You’ll know. I don’t care what anyone else thinks, whether they call it scandalous -- or if they say it isn't real. They’re wrong. We don’t even have to tell them.” 

“Maglor knows about us,” Maedhros confessed. Fingon snorted. 

“Of course he does.”

“I had to tell him, he --”

“I’m not talking about Maglor while I’m in bed with you, sweetheart, come on.” But Fingon was laughing, and he softened the words with a kiss to the corner of Maedhros’ lips. 

“I know what you mean to me,” he said again, more seriously this time. He pulled back from Maedhros just a little, bringing his hand up again to stroke Maedhros’ jaw. Maedhros’ face was open and vulnerable in front of him. Fingon loved him so much he felt like he could die of it.  "I think that Ilúvatar will bless us and bind us together in every way. But even if he doesn't -- if what they say is true, and this isn't allowed between two néri -- it won't matter to me. Bond or no bond, I’ll know that you’re mine." With that he smiled and slid his hand down again, lower this time, to where their bodies were pressed hot and flushed together. He leaned forward in time to catch Maedhros’ moan and whispered, fervent, “Yes," against his lips. 

Later, when they were curled up together and Maedhros, warm and sated, was beginning to drift asleep in Fingon’s arms, Fingon leaned forward and nuzzled him gently. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” he murmured. 

“I’m not,” Maedhros mumbled in answer. His eyes were closed. When Fingon made a skeptical noise, Maedhros tightened his arm around him, drawing him closer. Fingon kissed him and gently nipped at the skin of his neck until Maedhros cracked an eye open and yawned. “Hmm?”

“There’s one more thing,” Fingon said. Once he was sure that Maedhros was awake, he let his head drop down and nestled back against Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros’ heartbeat was strong and steady underneath him. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Maedhros’ hand was stroking his back. Fingon felt that if he could only lie here forever like this, he would be content for the rest of his days. He closed his eyes.

"I call on Eru Ilúvatar to witness my love for thee, Maedhros Fëanorion, beloved above all others," he murmured. Maedhros’ hand went still for a moment; then he began petting Fingon again, though this time his hand was trembling. "I take thee as my husband, never to be parted from me; and in return I pledge to thee my faith and my devotion, from now until Arda Remade. May Eru Ilúvatar bless our union and bind us together in spirit, as we are already bound in love.” 

He smiled as he finished and looked up. Maedhros' eyes were fixed on his. "Your turn now, sweetheart,” Fingon murmured. He kissed Maedhros again, slowly and sweetly. “Husband,” he added, and smiled again when he felt Maedhros’ arm tighten around him.

Maedhros’ eyes were wet. There was a fierce, bright joy in his voice when he spoke the words of the marriage vow; and though he was crying, he was smiling too when he finished, “As we are already bound in love,” and leaned forward to seal the words with a kiss.

He drifted, warmth all around him and warmth inside him. His body felt suspended in a sea of gold. He stretched languorously and felt it stir and ripple around him. Memories began to drift back; Maedhros’ bare skin in the moonlight, Maedhros coming undone in his arms. He smiled and felt an answering smile brush against his mind. 

Fin? said a familiar voice. 

Fingon jerked awake, and opened his eyes with a gasp. 

He and Maedhros were lying tangled around each other on the floor of the cabin. They were both naked, their clothes in a pile nearby and Maedhros’ cloak bunched underneath them, hopelessly wrinkled and stained. Maedhros slept still, his eyelids fluttering slightly and his right arm heavy over Fingon’s side, holding him close. Outside the sun was beginning to rise, reflecting off of the mist that rose from the lake. 

Fingon reached out and trailed his fingers through Maedhros’ hair. Russo? he thought tentatively. 

For a moment, there was nothing. 

And then all at once gold exploded across his mind, a heady rush of love-trust-beauty-light that stretched like a bridge from his mind to Maedhros'. It was everywhere, all-encompassing, overwhelming -- so much joy and light that it tore his breath away. Fingon fell back and stared at Maedhros in wonder. Across from him, Maedhros’ eyes fluttered open. He yawned, saw Fingon, and smiled. 

“Good morning,” he began. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes growing wide. 

For a long moment, they stared at each other. And then, slowly, Fingon began to grin, and then laugh. 

“I can feel you,” he said wonderingly. He leaned forward and pressed his hand to Maedhros’ face. “Russo. I can feel you.” Listen, he added, and watched as Maedhros’ eyes grew impossibly wider. 

Fin? said Maedhros again, hesitantly this time. Can you hear me? 

Fingon nodded, tracing his fingers over Maedhros’ face.

Are we --?

I married you, Fingon said. He felt so full he could sing. Everything between them was gold and light. You married me.  

Maedhros, romantic that he was, had started to cry. Fingon bundled him into his arms and let Maedhros cling to him. He breathed in the scent of Maedhros’ hair, the freshness of his skin. His nose wrinkled at the smell of their lovemaking from the night before. We ruined your pretty cloak, Fingon said, not sorry at all. It doesn’t matter; I’ll get you a new one. He could say anything he wanted to Maedhros across the bond, anything at all. I love you, he said, what he should have said from the first. Maedhros cried harder. Fingon held him, in his arms and in his heart. 

I want to show you something, Fingon said eventually, once Maedhros' tears had begun to dry. He waited for Maedhros’ nod before he opened his mind. 

He showed Maedhros all of it, right from the beginning. How he had longed for his handsome, kind cousin in secret, the poetry he had scribbled under his covers in the dark, how he had hated himself for it for such a long time. He held Maedhros’ hand and dragged him from memory to memory as though through a picture gallery: the first time Maedhros had made eyes at a pretty maiden and broken Fingon’s heart. The dinner party they’d escaped from together to share a bottle of wine on the roof, and how it had felt when Maedhros had wrapped his arm over Fingon’s shoulders. The press of Maedhros’ embrace when Maedhros had promised to return for him, before boarding the swan ships and leaving Fingon waiting on the ice. 

He could feel everything Maedhros felt, his laughter and his shame. It was as though they shared one spirit. Don’t be sad, Fingon told him, as they stood side-by-side in Fingon’s memories, watching the white ships sailing away.

I left you, Maedhros said. 

It doesn’t matter, Fingon said. I found you again. He pulled Maedhros to another memory, a happier one; a summer morning swimming with Celegorm, Aredhel, and Huan in Lake Mithrim, a year after Thangorodrim. Maedhros’ skin had turned pink from the sun after being so long inside. Fingon had spent all that day finding any excuse to touch him, and that night they had fallen asleep tangled together in Maedhros’ bed. 

Your mind is beautiful, Maedhros said. Fingon could hear the aching sadness in his voice; though it was like a shadow against his joy, making his happiness all the brighter. Fingon touched Maedhros’ mind questioningly. 

Can I…? He waited, and after a moment he felt Maedhros’ nod against his chest.

Maedhros’ mind, when he opened it to Fingon, was breathtaking. Sharp, lofty heights, the cool steel of his tactician’s thoughts, his courage solid and unyielding as stone. Fingon looked out and saw Maedhros’ devotion rolling forth like a plain, endless and beautiful. And in everything, everywhere he looked, he could see himself reflected. The gold of the sunlight in Maedhros’ mind was the gold of the ribbons in his hair. Fingon heard his own laughter like a breath of spring wind brushing past them. His eyes stung. Behind him he felt Maedhros approach. A moment later, Maedhros’ spirit wrapped around him in an embrace. 

It’s always been like this, Maedhros said, following Fingon's gaze. Since we were boys. Before I understood what you meant to me. 

Fingon said nothing and just looked, seeing Maedhros’ love for him written in every mountain and valley of his soul. The Oath was there too, he could feel it at his feet -- a terrible, monstrous thing, grasping and howling. But Maedhros had locked it behind bars of adamant; and when he saw Fingon looking at it, he gently turned him aside. You don’t need to see that.

I’m not afraid of it, Fingon said. I’m not afraid of any part of you. He felt Maedhros’ sorrow as though it was his own. Wordlessly, he pressed his spirit closer to Maedhros and turned to look again at the field of Maedhros’ love, evergreen and beautiful.

Maedhros was the first to draw back from the bond, many long minutes later; Fingon followed after him, drawing back too and opening his eyes. Maedhros was already looking at him. His eyes were still wet, but he was smiling at Fingon. “We’re married,” he said reverently. Fingon grinned back at him and shoved at his shoulder. 

“We’re married!” he agreed delightedly. “No getting rid of me now!” 

“Never,” said Maedhros solemnly. He shouldered Fingon out of the way -- they wrestled for a moment, giggling like boys -- but then Maedhros managed to push Fingon off the cloak. Maedhros stood and picked it up. Fingon made a face. 

“I don’t think anyone would notice if we burned it.” 

“Hush.” Maedhros had draped the cloak over his right arm and was digging through the pockets. “I brought you something.” Fingon perked up. 

“A present?”

“Jewelry.” Maedhros flashed him a smile. I know how vain you are. Fingon stuck out his tongue; Maedhros winked at him, then went back to looking. Finally he let out a victorious “hah!” and pulled something small out of the inside of the cloak, letting the bedraggled fabric fall carelessly to the ground after. “Hold out your hand.” 

Fingon held out his hand and closed his eyes too, for good measure. He felt Maedhros’ fond amusement over the bond. Then Maedhros’ hand closed over his, and something cool pressed into his palm. Go on and look, then, Maedhros said. Fingon opened his eyes.

In the center of his palm was a delicate brooch in the shape of an eight-pointed star. The brooch itself was made of a white metal; but there were graceful lines of silver down the center of each ray, and upon each point there was a tiny, brilliantly cut sapphire, the same rich blue as Maedhros’ cloak and Fingolfin’s house. A larger square sapphire shone in the middle, reflecting the rays of golden morning sunlight. 

Fingon’s eyes stung. He looked up at Maedhros. Maedhros was watching him intently. I belong to you, Maedhros said, when Fingon was silent. And you belong to me. 

I do, Fingon agreed, and he set the brooch carefully on the ground before leaping up and into Maedhros’ arms.

Chapter Text

Fingon woke with a gasp, his hand flying beneath his pillow to seize the knife underneath. He had half-drawn it before his mind caught up with his body and made him freeze.

It was late, and the room was dark except for the pool of silvery moonlight on the floor. Elrond was standing next to the bed, shivering slightly under his thin nightshirt as he shifted his weight and looked at Fingon half-warily, half-imploringly. His light touch on Fingon’s wrist had woken Fingon; his hand still rested there, above Fingon’s racing pulse. 

“What is it, Elrond?” asked Fingon at last, when he could trust his voice. He pushed himself up onto his elbow. Elrond’s eyes were wide; in the moonlight they reminded Fingon of Elwing’s eyes, otherworldly and filled with sadness. Without meaning to Fingon shivered. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Elrond shook his head. “It’s Elros,” he said. Fingon’s heart sank. “Can you help him?”

Elros was awake by the time that Fingon made it to the twins’ room. Their fire had burned down to ashes; the curtains were drawn, and the room was darker and colder even than Fingon’s. Elros was a puddle of misery in the center of his bed, his sobs wrenching enough that Fingon’s first thought, when he entered the room, was that he was going to make himself sick. Fingon crossed the room in a few quick strides and sank down onto his bed. He touched Elros' shoulder gently. Elros recoiled from Fingon’s touch, his sobs growing louder. He was crying heavily enough he couldn’t seem to speak. 

“He was screaming again,” Elrond said. He was standing in the doorway still, watching with solemn eyes as Fingon’s hand hovered over Elros’ shoulder. “He hit me when I tried to wake him up.” Fingon looked over sharply, and for the first time noticed the darkening bruise on Elrond’s jaw. “He didn’t mean to do it,” Elrond hastened to add. “He’s just scared.”

“I know. But come and get me first next time, alright? Don’t try to wake him yourself.” Elrond nodded unhappily. Fingon sighed and turned his gaze back to Elros. 

Although it was deep into winter and the room was freezing, Elros’ sheets and blankets were soaked in sweat and something that smelled sourly like piss. He had pulled the blankets up so that they covered almost his entire body; beneath them he was curled up into a tight ball, his forehead and his dark hair the only things visible. His chest was heaving with sobs. When Fingon, reluctant to touch his shoulder again but unsure what else to do, finally settled his hand on Elros’ ankle, he screamed and jerked away. 

“It’s me,” Fingon hastened to soothe, drawing his hand back and sliding off of the bed to drop to his knees beside it. “Elros. It’s Fingon. You’re in Amon Ereb. I’m here; Elrond is here. You’re safe.” Fingon rested his hand on the mattress next to Elros’ face without touching him. Elros was gasping for breath. Even with the blankets pulled up over his face, Fingon could see that his little body was tight with fear. 

“Elrond,” called Fingon, raising his voice without turning away from Elros, “Maglor is on watch at the gate tonight. I need you to go and get him. Can you do that?” When Elrond didn’t answer, Fingon looked at him over his shoulder. Elrond’s eyes were wide and frightened. He was gazing at Fingon pleadingly; Fingon gave him his best reassuring smile. “There are candles in my room. Put on a cloak and shoes and run. It isn’t far.” 

Elrond nodded slowly, then turned all at once and dashed from the room. Fingon turned his eyes back to Elros. His hand clenched uselessly on the mattress. 

“You’re in Amon Ereb,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. “You’re safe. Elrond will be right back. Elros, sweetheart, you have to breathe. You’re going to make yourself sick.” 

Elros didn’t seem to hear him, except to shy away from his touch. Fingon knelt there on the ground, leaving only briefly to stir and rebuild the fire before returning and watching helplessly while Elros shook and sobbed in misery on the bed. 

It felt like an age before he heard the quick striding of feet in the hallway outside. He rose to his feet just as Elrond pushed open the door, Maglor following a half step behind. Maglor’s cheeks were red from the cold; his hair was dusted with snow. He followed Elrond into the room, although he slowed as he approached the bed. “Finno? What’s wrong?”

“El had another nightmare,” Elrond answered, before Fingon could say anything. “He was screaming.” 

Fingon stepped aside so that Maglor could take his place at the bed. “I thought you could sing to him,” Fingon said uncertainly. He rested his hand on Maglor’s arm to pause him. “He won’t let us touch him. I thought --”

“I’ll try,” Maglor promised. He reached up and squeezed Fingon’s hand. “Don’t look so wretched -- it’s only a nightmare. He’ll be alright.” He raised his voice and looked over to give Elrond a reassuring smile. “Why don’t you two go and make us some tea?”

Elrond had a mulish look on his face and seemed inclined to argue; before he could say anything, Fingon pressed a hand to his shoulder and guided him from the room. “Come on, little one. We’ll be back soon.” 

“We shouldn’t leave El alone,” Elrond said immediately, as soon as the door closed behind them. Though his face was set in unhappiness, he allowed Fingon to steer him down the hall and towards the stairway that led to the kitchens. “His nightmares are really bad, Fingon. We shouldn’t leave him.”

“He’s not alone; Maglor is there. We’re just going to make some tea, and then we’ll go back.”

“But still --”

“He might not want all of us crowding around and seeing him like that, Elrond,” said Fingon, as gently as he could. Even so, he could feel Elrond’s guilt and unhappiness radiating from him. “We’ll let Maglor help him calm down and clean his pajamas and the sheets, and then we’ll go back. We won’t be long, I promise.”

Elrond didn’t answer; but he trudged obediently down the stairs ahead of Fingon, and when they reached the kitchen he immediately ducked into the storeroom and pulled out the sack of tea. 

They worked around each other in silence, Fingon stoking the fire while Elrond used both hands to fill the metal kettle from the spigot in the wall. Although it had been cold when they entered, the kitchen gradually warmed around them. Before long Elrond shed his cloak and Fingon rolled up his sleeves. When the kettle was on the newly lit fire and the rest of the kitchen was tidied away, Fingon slumped down at the massive, scarred wooden table with a sigh. 

“Well, that’s that.” He glanced sideways as Elrond tentatively sat down next to him on the bench. The bruise on Elrond’s jaw where Elros had hit him was growing steadily darker. Fingon made a sympathetic noise and turned Elrond’s chin to him with gentle hands. “Does that hurt?” Elrond shook his head. His dark eyes looked troubled and were fixed on the fire. 

“It’s fine, Ada,” he said, and immediately froze. 

For a moment Fingon froze too, his hand on Elrond’s chin and his heart hammering in his chest. As a slow blush gradually spread across Elrond’s face, Fingon abruptly pulled his hand back. 

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said. He still sat as though frozen, although his blush was deepening. “I’m really tired. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s just -- Elros and I call you and Maglor that sometimes, when it’s just us. I’m sorry. We can stop if you don’t like it.” Elrond looked up at him anxiously. Fingon managed a smile and ruffled his hair. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” Fingon answered. “It’s very sweet of you. You just surprised me, that’s all.” 

“We think Maedhros is nice too,” Elrond hastened to add. “He’s not like Nana said at all. It’s just -- he’s always away, we’ve only seen him twice since we arrived. And you and Maglor are always here. You tell us stories and make us dinner and -- and help us feel better when we have nightmares, so we -- that’s just what we call you.” He paused, then added in a rush, “Please don’t be mad.”

Fingon wrapped his arm around Elrond and allowed him to wriggle onto his lap. He rested his chin on Elrond’s hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m honored,” he said softly. “Thank you, pityo.” At that Elrond hid his face in Fingon’s chest. Fingon adjusted his grip on him, and began to hum quietly while they waited for the water to boil. 

Elros was sitting up, shame-faced but clean and tucked in under fresh blankets, when they got back to the room. Elrond’s face immediately brightened when he saw him. He bounded across the room to leap onto the bed next to him, nearly upsetting the tray in Fingon’s hands as he dashed past. “Elros! Are you feeling better?”

“Hi, El,” muttered Elros. He edged over to make room for his brother, although he avoided looking at his face or the dark bruise painted across his jaw. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Elrond peered into Elros’ face anxiously. “We made tea,” he said. “And I found some of those cookies you like.” At that Elros perked up a little. 

“The apple ones?” 

“Yes.” 

“We’ll leave you to it,” said Maglor, with a smile and a yawn. He was sitting on the end of Elros’ bed; he waited until Fingon set the tray down on the twins’ bedside table, then stood and grabbed two of the four mugs. “Get some rest. If either of you little songbirds need anything, we’ll be next door.” He nodded meaningfully at Fingon, pushing a mug of tea into his chest and stepping past him. Fingon lingered for a moment longer, watching the twins with troubled eyes and a strange, heavy feeling in his heart, before he followed Maglor out of the room and into the hall. 

Maglor was standing in the doorway to his own bedroom, holding the door open and clearly waiting for Fingon. “I sang him one of Finrod’s old lullabies,” he said, as Fingon stepped past him and into the room. “That seemed to help. He was having a nightmare about Sirion again.” 

“Of course he was.” Fingon sank down into one of the room’s two chairs with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him and cradling his cup of tea close to his chest. “They watched their nurse die in front of them and saw the only home they’d ever known go up in flames. I’m surprised Elrond doesn’t wake up screaming every night, too.”

Maglor knelt in front of the fireplace and began to toss in logs. “I can start sitting with them before bed,” he offered. “If I sing them to sleep, maybe we can cut off the nightmares before they start.” Fingon hummed, watching through tired eyes as Maglor finished building the fire and sat up with a sigh. He was still wearing his leather armor and thick wool cloak from standing guard at the gate. Though the snowflakes had long since melted from his hair, his pale skin was still flushed pink. 

“I’m sorry I called you away from your watch,” Fingon said. “I didn’t know what else to do.” Maglor waved a dismissive hand. 

“Don’t apologize. It’s cold enough that nothing’s coming near us tonight anyway. As long as Nelyo doesn’t ride up and find the gates unguarded, we’ll be fine.” Fingon said nothing, just watched through half-lidded eyes as Maglor got to his feet with a groan, stretched, and began to unbuckle his armor. 

“Elrond called me Ada,” he said at last, when Maglor’s armor was in a pile on the floor and Maglor himself was curled up sideways like a cat in his chair. Startled, Maglor looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “When we were in the kitchen making tea. He said that he and Elros call both of us that, between themselves.” Maglor exhaled slowly. 

“That’s sweet of them,” he said. “Though I shudder to think what their mother would have to say about it.” Fingon shook his head.

“I told him it was fine.”

“Of course it’s fine.” Maglor looked at Fingon from across the fire. Whatever he saw on Fingon’s face made his eyes narrow. “It bothers you,” he said.

“Why would it bother me?” 

“I don’t know, but it does.” Maglor was watching him as intently as if Fingon was a puzzle he was trying to unravel. Annoyed, Fingon made a face at him and took another sip of tea.

“Stop that.” 

“Is it because you feel guilty?” Maglor guessed. Fingon wasn’t quick enough to hide his wince. Maglor’s voice softened. “Sirion wasn’t your fault, Finno.” 

“I know it wasn’t.”

“Do you?” 

“I said to drop it, Káno.”

“What happened to Elwing wasn’t your fault, either.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” 

“I know that you didn’t kill her,” Maglor said. Fingon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

“I nearly did,” he said. Maglor blinked, startled into silence. “The night after you gave me the warning. I almost broke her neck. I thought, if she was gone, maybe I could evacuate the Havens myself.” Maglor said nothing. Fingon swallowed again. “And then she died anyway. Everyone died. Maybe it would have been better if I had done it.” 

“It wouldn’t have been better,” Maglor said at last. Fingon barked a disbelieving laugh. 

“No? Isn’t solving problems with murder what you and your brother do?” He could feel Maglor’s hurt from across the room. Unable to sit still any longer, Fingon set his mug down and stood, wrapping his arms around himself. “Her sons shouldn’t call either of us father,” he said. He moved restlessly closer to the fire. He could feel Maglor’s eyes following him, although Maglor stayed silent and didn’t move from his seat. “I nearly murdered their mother; and when I had the chance to save her, I failed. Their home is gone and everyone they loved is dead because of me. And you -- you know what you did.” 

“This is about Maedhros too,” Maglor guessed. Fingon stopped in front of the fire. He didn’t turn. “They shouldn’t love you, because your husband is the monster who killed their grandparents.”

“I’m not talking about Maedhros with you,” Fingon warned in a low voice. 

“But this is about him, isn’t it?” Maglor insisted, ignoring him. “How can Elrond and Elros possibly love you, when you still love him.” 

Fingon braced himself on the mantelpiece and let his head fall forward to rest against his forearm. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with misery. “He betrayed me," he said. Behind him, he heard Maglor stand and walk towards him quietly. “He betrayed who he was and what we meant to each other. I'm glad he's staying away. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to be near him. I came back for him; I loved him, I trusted him, and he -- the things he did --”

Very gently, Maglor rested his hand on Fingon’s shoulder; when Fingon didn’t try to shake him off, his grip tightened. “You know that he’s always thought you were the best of us, ever since we were little in Valinor,” Maglor said. Fingon squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. “When he was in doubt or a decision weighed heavily on him, he would always ask himself what you would do.”

“And then he dragged you all to Menegroth,” Fingon said bitterly.

“And then you died,” Maglor corrected. He squeezed Fingon’s shoulder again when Fingon didn’t answer. “After that he was like a compass that could no longer find north. He’d built his whole life around you, and suddenly you were gone.”

“And so he lost his mind?” snapped Fingon. He shook off Maglor’s hand and spun around to look at him. Maglor was watching him compassionately. Fingon’s voice shook. “He told me he did it for me,” he said. “For me. All those people dead for a chance that we could be together again. And he thought that’s what I would have wanted?” His voice cracked at the end. 

“He was wrong,” Maglor said. “We all were. But I think that you would have been as desperate if he had died and you had lived.” 

“I wouldn’t --”

“Think about Alqualondë,” Maglor interrupted. Fingon fell silent. Maglor reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. His face was kind, but his voice was blunt. “In the confusion and the darkness -- weren’t you ready to kill anyone who tried to keep Maedhros from you?”

There was a long pause. “It’s not the same,” Fingon said at last, hoarsely. Maglor nodded. 

“Not exactly,” he agreed. “But you were willing to damn yourself to save Maedhros once. Are you really surprised that he tried to do the same?” 

They both fell silent then. Beside them the fire crackled; behind them, the snowstorm was fast turning into a blizzard. Maedhros was out there, somewhere in the dark, hunting orcs and spiders and keeping as far away from Amon Ereb -- from Fingon -- as he could. Fingon felt like crying. He pushed himself at last away from the mantel and wiped his eyes angrily.

“So I should forgive him?” he asked roughly. “We’re all Kinslayers, what difference does it make?” This time Maglor shook his head. 

“I think you should talk to him,” he said gently, “And give him your sympathy, if you cannot give him forgiveness.” Fingon shook his head. Maglor sighed and reached up to cup Fingon’s face in his palm. “Then in the meantime,” he said, “I think that you shouldn’t let your guilt about Maedhros -- or Elwing, or Sirion -- eat you up and tear you away from the family who loves you. Ada,” he added, teasingly. When Fingon only gazed at him unhappily and said nothing, Maglor tugged him away from the fireplace and into a hug.

“Poor Finno,” Maglor murmured. His lips were warm against Fingon’s forehead. Fingon shuddered in his arms. “The best of us all.” 

“I’m so mad at him,” Fingon whispered. He felt Maglor’s sigh against his chest.

“I know, brother. Come on. Let’s put you to bed.” 

Fingon let Maglor steer him from the room and back to his own bedroom, let Maglor settle on top of the covers next to him on the bed with his long legs stretched out and his fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against the blankets. He fell asleep to Maglor singing a lilting, wistful melody, the same lullaby he’d sung Elros earlier. The words of the song chased Fingon’s dreams away, and cradled him at last into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Chapter Text

The twins had been cooped up inside Amon Ereb for a week now, while day after day of rain and thunderstorms flooded the yard outside the keep and caused the tempers inside to fray and snap. Fingon had tried to keep them busy in the library, the kitchen, and the stables, all to no avail; and so when the rain finally wore itself out sometime after midnight on the eighth day, he wasn’t surprised when the twins woke him an hour before dawn by jumping on his bed and loudly begging for a day in the forest. 

Although it was gray outside the windows and the sun hadn’t yet risen, Elrond and Elros were already dressed in matching homespun clothes and sturdy little cloaks. Elrond tumbled off the bed as soon as he saw that Fingon was awake; but Elros stayed where he was, half on the mattress and half on Fingon’s knees, while Fingon pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked muzzily at them. “We’re going to pretend we’re Beren and Carcharoth today,” Elros informed Fingon, an exaggerated whisper his only concession to the early hour. Fingon stared at him blearily. Although birds were beginning to sing outside, the room was still dark. “You can be Thingol.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be Beren,” Elros continued, his eyes gleaming, “And El is going to be Beleg.” 

Fingon didn’t bother hiding his yawn as he shooed Elros off the bed and sat up all the way. Elros jumped to the floor next to his brother, both of them looking far too awake and happy for the early hour. Fingon swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Elrond, helpfully, tossed him a shirt. “Get up!” he said brightly. “It's time to go hunt the wolf!”

In between yawns and a hasty cup of day-old coffee, Fingon managed to scribble Maglor a note while the twins enthusiastically and messily made sandwiches. The sun had started to rise by the time they set out, enough to kiss the edge of the horizon pink and yellow. After all the rain the grass was wet and springy underfoot as they walked, Fingon still half asleep while the twins bounded around him and debated various methods of defeating a werewolf. 

“We could dig a big hole,” Elros said, skipping off to the side to splash through a particularly large puddle, “And if we shout and make a lot of noise, we’ll distract him and he’ll fall in.” 

“But he’ll probably be really mad if he notices we’re trying to trick him,” Elrond pointed out. He was holding Fingon’s hand and swinging their arms back and forth as they walked. Fingon hid another yawn in his shoulder. “What if we chase him into the pond? Werewolves don’t know how to swim.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone!”

“I don’t believe you. Why would they be scared of water? Wolves aren’t scared of water.”

“It’s true! Ada, isn’t it true?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Werewolves don’t know how to swim,” Elrond repeated patiently, while Elros scoffed. Fingon, who had written to Maglor that they’d be picnicking next to the pond later, nodded as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he answered vaguely.

“There!” said Elrond triumphantly, turning to face a still-skeptical Elros. “You see?”

“What we really need,” said Elros contemplatively, ignoring Elrond and jumping back onto the dirt path in time to wade through a large swath of mud, “Is a dog. A big dog, like Huan. Not a talking dog,” he hastened to add, in answer to Elrond’s raised eyebrows. “Just an ordinary dog. But big enough to tackle a werewolf!” 

With that the twins were off again, bickering amicably about the merits of various dogs they had known. While they talked Fingon gently disentangled his hand from Elrond’s long enough to tug off his cloak. The sun was rising higher; golden light limned every leaf and blade of grass, and the late spring air was growing warmer as they walked. Elros, growing tired at last of their conversation, skipped ahead down the path and began to sing off-key, something bright and cheerful and a little crass that he had probably learned from Rúnisse or Erestor. After a moment Elrond chimed in, reaching for Fingon’s hand again and tugging him from one side of the path to the other as he dallied along the way to pluck the delicate blue violets growing among the trees.

It was a half mile from Amon Ereb to the pond; by the time they finally cleared the last stand of trees and found the pond up ahead waiting for them, the sun had fully risen and the mist over the water was fast dissipating. It was beautiful -- the water was clear and silvery, surrounded on every side by soft, dewy woodlands -- and all of the rain had swelled the pond so that it rose well past its banks and lapped among the grasses and pretty sprays of wildflowers. All three of them stopped as one when they reached it, and Elrond clapped his hands.

Elros, as usual, was the first to break the silence. “Quick, Beleg!” he cried, pulling off his cloak and making quick work of his boots. “Into the water before the wicked wolf eats us!” Before Elrond or Fingon had a chance to react he’d already dashed ahead, launching himself into the water with an almighty splash and a shout of delight. 

“Not without me, Beren!” Elrond said loyally; although he took his time pulling off his boots and rolling up his trousers, wading into the water slowly and making a face at the mud oozing between his bare toes. 

They were both expert swimmers, so Fingon paused only long enough to scoop up their discarded boots and cloaks before he left them to it and struck out for the southern edge of the pond. The land all around Amon Ereb was rocky, full of gullies and tumbles of stone; along the edge of the pond there was a gentle incline of rock that rose up to about four feet above the water and ended in a little shelf, narrow but long enough for three people to sit side-by-side. Fingon left his own boots and the twins’ things at the bottom once he reached it, then pulled himself up and settled down on the edge of the rock with his legs over the side. With the pond this high, his bare feet brushed the cool water. He breathed the sweet-smelling spring air in deeply, and closed his eyes.

By the time he looked down again, Elrond was already paddling out to the middle of the pond, where the water was about eight feet deep and clear enough to see the weeds at the bottom and the occasional fish swimming past. Fingon braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward to give him a serious look. “Have you killed Carcharoth yet?” he called.

“Not yet,” Elrond answered, shaking his head regretfully. He stopped a few yards away from Fingon, treading water. “Beren is wrestling him now, but it doesn’t look good.” As if on cue there was a loud cackle and a splash as Elros leapt up and threw himself back into the water. Fingon shaded his eyes and squinted over at him, then clicked his tongue.

“Mm. I see what you mean.” 

“Will you help him, King Thingol?” asked Elrond. He was trying very hard to stay in character, but he couldn’t quite manage to tamp down his giggles or his grin. He had lost one of his front teeth the week before, and the gap in his smile made him look particularly young. Fingon, looking across at him, felt his heart twist. “He'll probably be eaten any moment now if you don’t do something.”

“Do you have any ideas, mighty Beleg?” Fingon asked seriously. Elrond crinkled his nose, thinking hard.

“Maybe a song, like Finrod?” he said at last, doubtfully. “Did King Thingol like to sing?” Fingon hummed.

“I really couldn’t say.” 

“Quick!” shouted Elros. He waved his arms as though in distress. A mother duck and her family, out for a morning paddle across the pond, quacked disapprovingly and veered away from him and back into the reeds. 

“Perhaps if we let Carcharoth swim around the pond for a bit and tire himself out?” Fingon suggested, looking back down at Elrond as he spoke, but raising his voice so that Elros could hear too. “And meanwhile, we can eat some sandwiches to regain our strength and plan our next attack?”

“Yes!” said Elrond immediately. “El, sandwiches!” 

Elros stopped splashing and stood. “What, now?” But he waited for Elrond patiently enough, and when Elrond reached the shallows he trudged out of the water after him.

Both twins were sopping wet from head to toe, their clothes hopelessly muddied and strands of algae and weeds caught in their hair. They had identical grins on their faces by the time they finished clambering up the rocks and dropped down on either side of Fingon. Although the air was warm and the sun was out, they were both shivering; Fingon, noticing, tsked and patted at their hair, ignoring Elros’ rolled eyes and Elrond’s plaintive, “Ada!” 

“You’ll be back inside for another week if you catch a cold,” Fingon pointed out. When they gave him identical baleful looks and continued to shiver, he sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Come on. We’ll make a fire and dry you off first, and then we’ll have sandwiches after.” Both twins immediately and loudly protested that they weren’t cold; but when Fingon ignored them and headed off towards the little grassy meadow nearby, they stood too and trotted after him, grumbling through chattering teeth as they went. 

Nearly all of the loose wood around them was damp from the week of rain; it took Fingon and the twins working together a good twenty minutes before they had enough dry branches and bracken gathered for a fire, and it was another ten minutes after that before Fingon could coax a spark to catch. By the time he leaned back, satisfied, the twins had both stopped shivering, although they were still wet and coated in mud. 

Once they’d started the red flames caught quickly and crackled cheerily in the morning air. Amid another round of grumblings and eye rolls, Fingon pulled the twins’ cloaks back over their shoulders and bundled them closer to the fire; finally satisfied that they weren’t going to catch a cold on his watch, he pulled out their packet of sandwiches -- half-forgotten on the walk over, and a little squashed now -- and passed one to each of them. The moment Fingon sat down as well, Elrond clambered up into his lap. 

“When is Atya coming?” Elrond asked, around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Fingon began to card his fingers through Elrond's hair, pulling out the ribbons of weeds and clumps of mud and algae. “We need someone to be Mablung.” 

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Once Elrond’s hair was as clean as he could make it short of a bath, Fingon pulled it up and began to twist it back into a little knot. Elros sat cross-legged on Fingon’s right, munching his sandwich and gazing into the fire. “I left him a note; he knows where to find us.”

As it turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. They heard Maglor before they saw him, his voice drifting towards them on the breeze as he sang a lusty hunting song. Both twins looked up at the sound of his voice. Elrond, comfortably ensconced on Fingon’s lap, didn’t move, but Elros jumped to his feet. 

“Atya!” he called excitedly, and took off barefooted across the grass. 

By the time that Maglor walked into view, he had a laughing, wriggling Elros slung over his shoulder. He smiled brightly and waved to Fingon and Elrond. “Hello, loves!” he called cheerily, carefully swinging Elros down to the ground before leaning over and pressing a smacking kiss to Elrond’s forehead. Elrond giggled and brushed it away; Maglor winked at him, then leaned up and kissed Fingon’s forehead too, for good measure. Fingon rolled his eyes, making Elrond giggle harder. “This is a beautiful day for an adventure!” 

“We’re playing the hunt for Carcharoth,” Elrond informed him. Maglor dropped down to the ground next to Elros and draped his arm over Elros’ shoulders in a half-hug.

“Well! That’s an adventure indeed.” 

“You get to be Mablung,” Elros said, leaning against Maglor’s side and still breathless from giggling. “I’m Beren, and El is Beleg, and Ada is Thingol.” 

Maglor glanced over, his eyes dancing as he raised his eyebrows at Fingon. “Is that right?” 

“Yes, so mind yourself,” Fingon said mildly. He poked the fire, making it spark. “You’re in the presence of the king.” 

“My favorite high king of them all,” Maglor promised him, with a smile and a wink. He tugged Elros closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead, too. “Have you slain the terrible beast yet, my heroes?”

“We trapped him in the pond before lunch,” Elros said gravely, “But he escaped while we were eating. He’s probably in the forest somewhere, and now we have to find him.” 

“I see! Well, whenever you’re ready, brave Beren and Beleg Cúthalion, let’s resume the hunt.”

A half hour later, Maglor and the twins were off, dashing in and out of the forest while Fingon stayed behind with the fire and took his time finishing his own sandwich. Every now and then one of the twins would traipse back to join him, holding out flowers or a handful of wild mushrooms or a butterfly for his hearty admiration. After an hour or so, tiring at last of their game, Elrond settled back down at Fingon’s side. He had gathered a whole pile of daisies, and as he chattered happily with Fingon he began to weave them together into a crown. 

It was late morning, edging towards noon; the sky was a clear, perfect blue, the sun warm but the breeze carrying the faintest hint of coolness from the pond and the rain. Elrond had finished flower crowns for himself and Fingon -- Fingon’s, a little too big, kept slipping down over one ear -- and had started on one for Maglor when they heard an excited shout in the distance. Fingon broke off his story; Elrond, recognizing his brother’s voice, let Maglor’s crown drop from his hands and clambered to his feet. 

A few minutes later Elros burst through the trees, covered in dirt and leaves and with a bright grin on his face. “Ada! El! Look who I found!” he called, as he bounded across the clearing. He stopped at the edge of the fire, practically bouncing up and down in excitement. “Look!” Fingon followed to where Elros was pointing, shading his eyes with his hand against the bright sunlight. A moment later, his breath caught. 

Maedhros was stepping out of the copse of trees on the other side of the clearing. He was dressed like a ranger, his sword at his side and his leather armor scratched and roughed up from a month of camping in the wilderness. Fingon had known that he was coming back soon; but for the past six months he had avoided Amon Ereb during Maedhros’ infrequent visits, ensconcing himself in the library or riding out into the forest for the two or three days that were all Maedhros would allow himself before he set out again.

Seeing him here now, unexpectedly, was enough to steal Fingon’s breath from his chest. Maedhros looked exhausted; he favored his right leg slightly as he walked, and his left hand was tense around the hilt of his sword as he moved into the clearing. Despite his tiredness, there was a smile on his face as he walked forward; but the moment he saw Fingon, his smile dropped, and he stopped dead. 

Fingon stared back at him. There were dark circles under Maedhros’ eyes, and his long red hair was greasy and hastily knotted at the back of his neck. He wore a single golden ribbon around his right wrist; when he saw Fingon’s eyes drift down to it, he flushed and let go of his sword long enough to tug on it self-consciously. 

“I found Maedhros!” Elros said brightly, too pleased with himself to notice the tension in the clearing as he looked back and forth between Fingon and Maedhros. “He was walking back to Amon Ereb -- but I told him that Atya was here, and so he came back with me instead!”

“I didn’t know,” Maedhros hastened to add. His voice was raspy. He took one step forward, then apparently thought better of it and stopped dead again. Fingon continued to stare at him, barely breathing. As angry as he was at Maedhros -- and he was still angry, so angry that he felt incandescent with it sometimes, as though his grief and bitterness would burn him up from the inside out -- Fingon couldn’t help but look at him hungrily, like a starving man confronted with a feast. “I didn’t know you were here, Fin. I’m sorry.” Maedhros hesitated, then added in a rush, “I can go. I should --”

“No,” Fingon interrupted quickly, surprising even himself. He swallowed. Maedhros, in the middle of taking a hasty step back, froze. “No. It’s alright.” 

Elrond was staring at him curiously -- Fingon could feel his eyes on him, although he was still gazing at Maedhros -- and at last Fingon swallowed again and managed a brittle smile. “We’ve missed you this past month,” he said. Across the fire, Elros nodded enthusiastically. Elrond said nothing. Maedhros stood still, tense and ready to bolt. “You should stay.” 

“We were playing Beren and the wolf,” Elros chimed in, turning to beam at Maedhros. “But now we’re looking for strawberries. Do you want to help?” 

Maedhros did; Fingon knew it with as much certainty as if Maedhros had leaned over and whispered the words in his ear. Maedhros, who had always loved children, who had always wanted a large family of his own, until he had tied his heart to Fingon and given up that dream in exchange. 

Fingon hated him, and loved him, and could not bear to look at him for a moment longer -- and still Maedhros stood there, the twins waited, and he could not drop his gaze. He would have given anything, in that moment, for the past eighty-four years never to have happened, and to simply be Prince Fingon again. How easy it used to be, to call Maedhros his own. How easy, to love him. 

Fingon managed a strained smile and nudged Elrond’s foot. 

“Why don’t you show Maedhros where the best strawberry patch is?” he said. “The one by the waterfall.” Still Elrond lingered, looking at Fingon with troubled eyes. Fingon broke his gaze away from Maedhros long enough to look more fully at Elrond, and finally managed a truer smile. “And when you get back, we can go fishing and cook what we catch over the fire.” 

The prospect of grilled fish was, finally, enough to do away with Elrond’s reservations -- he beamed down at Fingon before dashing barefooted across the grass to join Maedhros, Elros laughing and close on his heels. As Fingon watched, Elrond reached up and tugged on Maedhros’ right sleeve, already smiling up at him and saying something brightly. 

The tentative, aching happiness on Maedhros’ face was too much, suddenly, for Fingon to bear. He managed to hold himself still long enough for the twins to lead Maedhros back into the forest; and then he banked the fire, stood, and left. 

Maglor found him, in the end. 

Fingon was curled up in the crook of an old oak tree, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and his knees drawn up to his chest; he had leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and was watching the green leaves dancing against the cloudless blue sky, his thoughts unhappy and the bond a familiar, aching emptiness in his mind. Maglor, unusually quiet, managed to make it most of the way up the tree before Fingon noticed him -- by the time that Fingon tilted his head forward, Maglor was already carefully lowering himself down onto the branch in front of him. His face was sympathetic and his dark eyes were soft. For a long moment, there was silence as they looked at each other.

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Maglor said at last. “I’m sorry.” 

Fingon shrugged with one shoulder. “What are you sorry for? He lives here. He’s your brother.” 

“You’re my family, and he hurt you,” Maglor countered. He started to reach out, then thought better of it and drew back. “Do you want to go back to the keep? I can look after Elrond and Elros.” Fingon frowned. 

“No,” he said. His voice sounded oddly distant, even in his own ears. “Of course not. I’m fine, Káno.” 

Maglor, because he loved him, didn’t dispute it. He only nodded and settled himself more comfortably on the branch; after a moment, he asked gently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

Maglor nodded again. He waited another long moment; and then he leaned forward, and gently lifted the crooked flower crown from Fingon’s head. “I remember being as young as Elrond and Elros, once,” he said, not looking at Fingon as he carefully turned the crown over in his lap. “We were roaming through the woods outside Tirion together -- do you remember? You, and me and Nelyo, and Tyelko and Aredhel. It was late, and we knew they would be waiting for us at home.”

It could have been any of a hundred days in Valinor. Fingon rested his chin on his knees, watching as Maglor’s deft fingers rewove and fixed the drooping flowers, and said nothing. 

“There was a river,” Maglor continued. His voice had fallen into his easy, storytelling cadence; despite himself, Fingon felt himself falling under its trance. “It had rained -- the water was high and the current was fast. Tyelko and I crossed, and then Nelyo. Aredhel was very young. You told her to wait for you, but she didn’t listen.” 

“She rarely did,” Fingon muttered. Maglor smiled.

“She leapt in,” he continued, “And lost her footing. Before we knew it, the river began to sweep her away.” 

Fingon remembered now -- Aredhel’s terrified little face in the swirling waters, before the current had pulled her down and she’d disappeared. “I jumped in after her,” he said. “And then Maedhros waded in and had to fish us both out.” Maglor hummed. 

“You know, I never did find out where your epessë came from,” he mused. There was one final, lopsided flower in the crown; he finished fixing it before glancing up at Fingon again. “Fingon the Valiant. But that’s always the story that I think of, when I hear it.” Fingon huffed a reluctant laugh.

“A gaggle of children splashing around in a river?” 

“My brave cousin,” Maglor corrected, leaning forward as he spoke and settling the crown once more on Fingon’s head. “Always the first to leap into danger.”

Fingon’s throat was dry. “What's your point, Káno?” he asked roughly. Maglor finished adjusting the crown and sat back at last. He smiled at Fingon.

“Only to remind you," he said gently, "That you have always been very courageous when it comes to taking care of the people that you love." Fingon shook his head and covered his eyes with his hand.

“You want me to talk to him,” he guessed tiredly.  

“Worse, I’m afraid,” Maglor said. He did reach out, then, and pulled Fingon’s hand away from his face, weaving their fingers together and squeezing gently. “If you can bear it -- and I know you, so I believe that you can -- I think that you should set aside your pain and your anger for now. Let yourself enjoy this day with Maedhros and our sons.” 

Fingon blinked hastily, his eyes stinging and his throat suddenly tight. He couldn’t speak, but Maglor seemed to understand anyway; he squeezed Fingon’s hand again, and gave him one last small smile. And then with that he slipped from the branch, barely stirring the leaves as he dropped down and jumped to the ground. Within moments, he was gone. 

Fingon lasted barely five more minutes; and then, wiping his eyes and cursing Maglor under his breath, he dropped down too, and followed after him. 

It was late evening when they finally made it back to Amon Ereb. The twins were both drowsy and burnt from the sun; Maglor stepped aside when they walked back into the keep and had a quiet word with Erestor, and by the time they made it up to the twins’ bedroom there were two tubs of cool, lightly scented water already waiting for them. 

Bath time was a teary affair -- both twins were exhausted and filthy -- but Maedhros and Fingon worked around each other, consoling and scrubbing briskly until the tears stopped and Elros and Elrond were both clean. By the time that Maglor reappeared with a plate of apple slices and a fresh jug of water, the twins were clean and dried and tucked into bed. “Shall I sing you a song tonight?” Maglor asked, sitting on the edge of Elrond’s bed and gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Across from them Elros was already asleep, his mouth half open and his stuffed bear clutched in his arms. “Or do you want to go straight to bed?” 

“A song,” Elrond requested sleepily. He curled into Maglor’s side and closed his eyes. Maglor began to hum, something low and soothing. At the other end of the room, Maedhros was drawing the windows open to let in a cool night breeze. Fingon watched from the doorway, leaning against the stone frame and fighting back the urge to let his own eyes slip shut as Maglor began to sing. 

Maedhros turned, saw Fingon falling asleep where he stood, and quietly crossed the room to join him. “Come on, Fin,” he murmured, leaning close enough to whisper. Fingon blinked at him. Maedhros hesitated; then he took Fingon’s arm, and gently pulled him from the room. 

Away from Maglor’s song and the soft light of the candles, Fingon felt more awake; he stopped in the hallway and looked at Maedhros, and after a moment Maedhros flushed and let his hand drop. But Maedhros made no move to step away; so for a long moment they simply stood there, watching each other in the dark. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Maedhros said at last. “For letting me spend the day with them.” 

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Fingon answered slowly. His voice was carefully neutral. Even so, Maedhros flinched. “They’re your family, too.”

“I know I have no right to love them,” Maedhros began in a low voice. “Not after Doriath.” He trailed off. Fingon nodded. 

“You don’t,” he agreed. “But they love you anyway. If -- if my feelings have kept you away from us -- away from them -- then I’m sorry.” At that, Maedhros grimaced.

“There's nothing you need to apologize to me for.”

“I want to apologize for this.” Fingon waited until Maedhros met his eyes; and then, very carefully, he reached up and touched Maedhros’ cheek with his fingertips. “They're our children,” Fingon said, while Maedhros watched him helplessly. “They love you, and you love them. They've had enough hardship in their lives, without my anger building a wall and keeping them apart from someone who cares for them. I’m sorry.” 

Maedhros flushed. “I do love them,” he said hoarsely. Fingon’s eyes stung. After a moment, unable to help himself, he pressed his palm to Maedhros’ jaw, cupping his cheek in his hand. Maedhros turned into his touch. This close, Fingon could feel Maedhros’ breath against his skin. 

“I know you do, Russo,” he whispered.

He knew what was coming next -- I’m sorry, I love you, forgive me. Unable to hear it -- or unsure, maybe, how he would answer with Maedhros in front of him like this, vulnerable and lost -- Fingon brushed his thumb, once, across Maedhros’ cheek. “Good night,” he said. He didn’t wait for Maedhros’ answer before he let his hand drop and turned away.

Fingon stayed awake until late into the night, curled up in the windowsill and turning Maedhros’ brooch -- several of the points blunted now, and one of them missing -- over and over in his hands like a prayer. It was nearly dawn by the time he fell at last into an exhausted and uneasy sleep. When he woke in the morning the sun was shining, the twins’ bright voices were drifting through the open window, and Maedhros was gone.

Chapter Text

He arrived back at Amon Ereb well after midnight, drenched from head to toe and covered in mud. Whoever was on guard duty had fallen asleep, or else was sheltering somewhere out of the rain; at any rate the gates were unbarred, and no one called down to him as he pushed them open and walked in. It was lax -- he'd have to speak to whoever was on duty in the morning -- but for now, grateful to get inside all the faster, he just barred the gates behind him and ran the rest of the way across the yard and up the slick stone steps into the keep. 

Inside it was warm and dry; a few torches still burned in their brackets, although the hallway was quiet and empty. He shucked his boots and his cloak as soon as he was inside the doors; by the time he made it to the kitchen most of his wet clothes were bundled into his arms and his feet were bare. He let the brace of rabbits slide off his shoulder and thump onto the table, dropped his heap of clothes next to them, and fell onto the bench nearest the low-burning fire with a sigh.

He had been away hunting for three days. It had rained the entire time, a cold, heavy rain that had soaked him to the bone and left him torn now between lingering in front of the warmth of the fire and seeking out the comfort of his bed two floors away. That he only had a couple of rabbits to show for it gnawed at him with a familiar, biting worry.

“Ada?” 

Startled out of his brooding, Fingon jerked up and looked around. Elros was standing in the doorway to the kitchens, dressed in his pajamas and with his hair mussed from sleep. The moment Fingon turned, Elros' face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “Ada!”

Without a thought for Fingon’s wet hair or muddy clothes, Elros flew across the room and launched himself into Fingon’s arms. Fingon caught him, smiling and hiding his wince when one of Elros’ pointy knees jabbed him under the ribs. Elros threw his arms around Fingon’s neck and hugged him tightly.

“I knew you’d be back tonight!” he said, delighted to see Fingon and delighted at his own foresight. He leaned back just enough to look Fingon in the eye. “I told El you wouldn’t miss our begetting day, and I was right.” 

“You’ve always been the cleverest one in this household,” Fingon agreed. He wrapped his arms back around Elros in a tight bear hug, while Elros giggled and made a show of trying to twist away. Fingon pressed a final kiss to Elros’ forehead before letting his arms drop. “What are you doing up this late, pityo?” 

“Waiting for you,” Elros said innocently. Fingon raised an eyebrow. “Really!”

“Was it a nightmare?” Fingon asked gently. Elros huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“No, Ada,” he said. He wriggled, making himself more comfortable on Fingon’s lap. “I just missed you.” There was a beat. Fingon waited. Finally Elros huffed again and relented. “And I was hungry,” he admitted. “But that’s all, really!” 

“You’re sure?” Fingon asked. When Elros made a face, Fingon reached down and ruffled his hair. “Alright -- I won’t ask again. But you need to go back to bed, little one. It’s past midnight.” 

“I’m not tired!”

“I am.” 

“I can stay down here on my own. I promise I’ll be quiet.” 

Fingon hid a yawn behind his hand and shuffled Elros off of his lap so that he could stand. “We’ll bring some food to my room, and I can keep you company while you eat,” he offered as a compromise. Elros’ face immediately brightened. “And then straight to bed afterwards.” 

“Thank you, Ada!”

“You need to be quiet when we walk up,” Fingon warned, watching as Elros bounced to his feet. “No waking up your brother.” At that, Elros looked offended. 

“I’m always quiet,” he said. Fingon, unable to help himself, snorted a laugh. “Ada!”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Go on then, get your snack.” Fingon shooed Elros off towards the storerooms. Elros cast him a final, peeved look; but after a moment he turned and obediently trotted away, disappearing around the corner. 

They set off up the stairs ten minutes later. Fingon carried a tray loaded with tea, a bowl of fruit, and a jar of honey; Elros tiptoed with exaggerated care next to him. They made it up both flights of stairs quietly. All of the rooms in the bedroom hallway were dark, and most of the doors were closed; Elros ran ahead of Fingon all the way down the hall to Fingon’s room, and carefully pushed the door open. 

Inside, Fingon’s room was dark and cold, smelling faintly of must from the rain. Elros wrinkled his nose. “Did you leave the window open?” he asked, watching as Fingon deftly maneuvered around the chairs and the rug and set the tray down on the desk. 

“There's a draft from the fireplace. It’ll warm up and clear out once I build up the fire.”

Elros looked skeptical. Though the curtains were pulled back, the window didn't let in any moonlight -- the night sky was dark with clouds, the rain falling heavier than ever. The only light in the room came from a pair of candles Fingon had brought up on the tray. Elros helped himself to a handful of strawberries and climbed up onto the bed to watch as Fingon dropped down in front of the fire, pulled out the damp logs, and began to rebuild it.

The pine logs in the bin next to the fireplace were dry and sweet-smelling; the fire caught quickly, filling the room at once with a cozy, orangish glow. Fingon sat back on his heels, a quietly satisfied look on his face as the logs settled and the flames began to grow. He turned to look at Elros over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go and get Medli -- quietly -- while I change?” 

Elros licked his fingers and hopped off of the bed. “Yes, Ada!” he chirped. After he'd dashed off Fingon quickly stripped out of the rest of his clothes, dropping them to the floor near the fire. He toweled off his hair and wound it into a loose knot at the back of his head, then rooted through the cabinets for his nightclothes. The first pair he found were scratchy but warm; he pulled them on, and by the time Elros ducked back into the room, stuffed bear in hand, Fingon was sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, spreading honey on a slice of apple. 

“It’s not my fault,” Elros said defensively, the minute he slipped back into the room. Fingon looked up and raised an eyebrow. A moment later he sighed. Elrond was following behind Elros into the room, a soft knitted blanket over his shoulders and his eyes crusty from sleep. He blinked, looking around blearily; the moment his eyes settled on Fingon, he beamed. 

“Ada!” 

“Hi, pityo.” Fingon set the apple aside and opened his arms. Elrond immediately shuffled over to him and let himself be pulled into a hug. “Did your noisy brother wake you up?” He gave Elros a look over Elrond’s shoulder. Elros rolled his eyes. 

“He tripped on the rug,” Elrond confirmed. “And I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was having a snack with you, so I wanted to come. I missed you, Ada.” 

“I missed you too, sweetheart. Are you hungry? Do you want some tea?” Elrond shook his head and crawled into Fingon’s lap. He was warm from sleep; already his eyes were beginning to drift closed again. Elros padded over too and sank down onto the rug next to Fingon, tucking himself into Fingon’s side and reaching for his mug of tea. 

“I couldn’t’ve lied,” he said philosophically, nestling against Fingon and pulling Fingon’s arm over his shoulder. “He wanted to see you, too.” 

“You two need to get your sleep. You know Erestor is planning a party for you tomorrow; you don’t want to be too sleepy to go.” As though to prove his point, Elrond yawned. Elros made a face and reached over to poke him. 

“We’ll go back to sleep,” Elrond assured Fingon drowsily, batting away his brother’s hand. “Will you tell us a story, Ada?” 

“I don’t want to keep you up.” 

“We sleep better when you and Atya tell us stories,” Elros countered. That was true enough; so Fingon sighed, settled Elrond more comfortably on his lap, and reached for his own mug of tea. 

“Which story would you like?”

“Tell us about growing up in Valinor,” Elrond said. Fingon could feel Elros nod his agreement against his side. Fingon rested his chin on top of Elrond’s head and gazed into the fire. 

“I’ll tell you about the first time I met Atya and Uncle Maedhros, how about that?” he said at last. Across from them the fire crackled; behind them the rain clattered against the windows. Elros hugged his stuffed bear more tightly and leaned into Fingon’s side; Elrond was warm and solid on Fingon’s lap, already drifting to sleep again. “Their father used to travel all across Aman with them, to the wild and dark places few others ventured to. But one day, when I was very young, Uncle Fëanáro brought his family to Tirion, to the court of our grandfather the King.”

Elrond fell sound asleep about five minutes into the story, and even Elros was yawning by the time Fingon finished. Fingon brushed his fingers through Elros’ curls. “Time for bed now, sweetheart.” Elros cuddled his bear into his chest and nodded. He clambered to his feet and watched through sleepy eyes as Fingon slid his arms under Elrond’s legs and shoulders and rose.

“Is that when you decided to marry Uncle Maedhros, Ada?” Elros asked. Fingon, his arms full with Elrond, nudged him with his hip. Elros obediently began moving towards the door. “When you were little, like me and El?” Fingon huffed a laugh.

“Not quite then. But I loved him from the first time I knew him.”

“Not anymore, though?” Elros asked matter-of-factly. Fingon kept his face carefully still, and didn’t let the pain the question brought him show.

“I’m mad at him for the things he did while I was gone,” he answered at last. He started walking towards the door, Elros shuffling after him with his stuffed bear still clutched in his arms. “So it’s different, now, than it used to be. But we are still family, pityo. We both love you and your brother very dearly.”

Elros nodded and yawned, and didn’t say anything more as Fingon steered them out of the door and down the hall, Elrond’s head lolling against his shoulder as he walked. 

There was still a low fire burning in the twins’ room. Fingon laid Elrond down carefully; Elrond mumbled something in his sleep, but when Fingon pulled the blankets over him he sighed and settled back down. By the time Fingon turned Elros was in bed too, his eyes half-closed as he watched Fingon from across the room.

“I’m glad you’re back, Ada,” he mumbled. Fingon smiled and crossed the room to lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Me too. Sweet dreams, pityo.”

By the time he made it to breakfast the next morning both Elrond and Elros were awake and chattering happily with Maglor at the kitchen table. Maglor saw Fingon first and greeted him with a raised mug and a smile -- after a moment the twins looked up and saw Fingon too, and their faces broke into identical broad grins. 

“Ada!” 

Fingon finished crossing the room and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads. “Good morning, loves. Happy begetting day.” 

“Good morning,” said Elros brightly, while Elrond wrapped his arms around Fingon in a tight hug. “Will you come riding with us today, Ada?”

“He’s done nothing but run around and camp outside for the last three days, let him be.” Maglor filled a chipped mug with coffee from the metal pot at his elbow and slid it across the table. Fingon gave Elrond one last squeeze before sinking to the bench and drawing the mug the rest of the way over gratefully. “Besides, it’s still raining.” 

“Uncle Maedhros says it’s important for a warrior to be ready to travel in any conditions,” said Elros promptly, repeating the words with all the fervor of his long-standing hero worship of Maedhros. Elrond, less dedicated than his brother, wrinkled his nose. 

“Uncle Maedhros is welcome to take you out,” said Fingon lightly. He reached over and ruffled Elros’ hair. “I’ve had enough rain to last me a month.”

“Uncle Maedhros isn’t here,” said Elros glumly, batting Fingon's hand away. “He said he’d be back for our begetting day, but Erestor and Rúnisse still haven’t seen him.” 

“He’ll be back as soon as he can,” said Maglor bracingly. At Fingon’s questioning look, he added in an undertone, “He’s still clearing orcs from the south forest.”

Fingon raised his eyebrows. “I thought we expected him back two days ago,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. 

“Mm.”

“He’ll be back,” said Elrond confidently. He reached over and stole a scone from his brother’s plate. “He wouldn’t miss our begetting day.” 

Fingon frowned, but Maglor only said cheerily, “Quite right!” and reached over to squeeze Elros' shoulder. “Speaking of which, what would you two like to do today? We need to clear out of the kitchen soon, Erestor is going to try his hand at baking a cake.” 

“I want to go riding,” said Elros immediately, at the same time that Elrond said hopefully, “We could build a fort and read stories in the library?” Each of the twins made a face.

“Sitting in the library all day is boring.” 

“It’s too wet, El!”

As if to emphasize Elrond’s point, there was a flash of lightning outside, followed by a long, rumbling boom of thunder. Elros cast a glowering look at the windows, where rain lashed and ran in streams down the glass. 

“Uncle Maedhros says --” he began again.

“We’ll teach you a game,” interrupted Fingon. He scooped up his coffee and the last of the basket of scones and rose to his feet. “One of the games Atya and I used to play when we were in Valinor.” At that the twins perked up. 

“What game?” asked Elrond. 

“What do we get if we win?” added Elros cannily. 

“A card game,” answered Fingon. He started moving towards the door, the twins scrambling up after him. “We used to play for jewels in Tirion.” The twins looked intrigued. Maglor clucked his tongue.

“Gambling? At nine? What would your father think, Finno.” He stood up too and deftly cleared the rest of the plates off the table, dumping them into a bucket near the fire. “Come on, then. We can play in my room.” 

Elrond squinted and turned his cards sideways. Elros leaned over his shoulder to look, ignoring Elrond when Elrond flapped his hand to try to wave him away. “El, you’re cheating.”

“I’m helping,” corrected Elros. He leaned farther over Elrond’s shoulder and tapped the middle two cards in his hand. “Play those.” 

Elrond frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Some might consider it unfair play,” said Maglor mildly, sitting cross-legged across from them, “To give your brother advice immediately after looking at my hand and Ada’s.” Fingon snorted and raised his glass in agreement. Elros smiled cheekily at them both and tapped Elrond’s cards again. 

“Those two, go on,” he urged. 

Elrond laid down the cards. Maglor groaned and fell dramatically backwards, pressing his cards to his chest. Fingon swore and dropped his own cards. Elrond grinned happily, while Elros let out a cackle and leapt across the circle and onto Maglor’s stomach. 

“Oof!”

“We won!” Elros crowed. He barked with laughter when Maglor grappled with him and pretended to throw him off. “No tackling the winner, Atya! You have to give us a prize!”

“I won,” said Elrond, dropping the rest of his cards and sitting back with a pleased look on his face, “So I get the prize.” Elros sat up, looking betrayed.

“No fair, El! You wouldn’t have won if I hadn’t helped!”

“If you hadn’t cheated,” corrected Fingon. He swept all of their cards up and began to shuffle again. “No prizes for cheating.” Elros let out an indignant squawk. Fingon began to deal. “Káno, sit up and pass him the box. Go on, Elrond.”

They were sitting in a rough circle on the rug in front of the fire in Maglor’s room. They had been playing for hours, long enough that the mulled wine in Fingon and Maglor’s cups had gone cold and all that was left of the basket of scones was a handful of crumbs. At the start of the game, Fingon and Maglor had dropped all of their jewelry into a handsome wooden box -- Maglor, blithely ignoring Fingon’s hissed, “Káno! Stop!”, had added Maedhros’ jewelry, too -- and as the game wound on through the morning and into the late afternoon, the contents of the box had steadily dwindled, while the four of them grew steadily more bedecked and bejeweled. 

Maglor hefted Elros to the side and sat up. “Is it really winning when the ‘victor’ accepts help from a trickster like this one?” he asked, making a face and tickling Elros. Elros giggled and pushed him away. Fingon hummed. 

“We’ll make an exception for special occasions.” 

Maglor heaved a sigh, but he slid the box of jewelry across their circle to Elrond. “Well. Just this once.”

Elrond was already draped in three necklaces, two circlets, and a half dozen bangles that were too big for him and kept slipping off his wrists. He smiled brightly and dove back into the box, emerging a moment later with a handsome jade hairclasp, the stone twined round with gold filigree meant to look like leaves. Maglor made a pleased noise. 

“Ada gave that to your Uncle Maedhros when he came of age,” he said, making room for Elros to clamber into his lap. “Maedhros carried it with him all the way from Tirion and across the Sea.” Fingon flushed.

“We all gave each other presents,” he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. Maglor hid his smile behind his glass of wine. Elrond turned to Fingon, his eyes shining. 

“Help me put it on, Ada?”

“Are you sure that’s the one you want, sweetheart?” Fingon asked. He brushed Elrond’s hair away from his eyes and adjusted a circlet that had slipped over one ear. Elrond nodded eagerly. Fingon bit his lip and managed a strained smile. “Alright then. Turn around.” 

Elrond scooted around to sit cross-legged in front of Fingon. “You two look like proper princes of the house of Fëanor,” said Fingon, as he deftly separated Elrond’s hair into strands and began to braid. “We used to tease that we knew one of the Fëanorions was coming by the jangling of their jewelry as they approached.”

Maglor made a faux outraged noise. Elrond and Elros both giggled. Fingon paused in his braiding to tweak Elrond’s ear. 

“Ada.”

“It’s true!" Fingon insisted. “They were well-known for their bad taste. So many jewels that they were at risk of blinding you when they walked in the room.”

“Says the cousin who used to wear gold ribbons in his hair,” said Maglor. Fingon’s smile grew wider.

“If you pushed a Fëanorion into a pond, they would immediately sink. All that gold and silver dragged them straight down.”

“Ignore Ada, pityaquendë,” said Maglor. He wrapped his arms around Elros and propped his chin on top of Elros’ head, pulling a face and making Elrond giggle. “It’s jealousy speaking. There were no master smiths in the house of Fingolfin, so they had to make do with baubles.” 

“Maedhros liked this one well enough,” Fingon quipped. He blinked -- the words had slipped from his mouth unbidden -- and studiously ignored Maglor’s thoughtful look as he finished tying the jewel into Elrond’s hair. “There you are, love.”

Elrond reached back and touched it with careful fingers. “Thank you, Ada!”

“What’s all this?”

Fingon’s back stiffened. Across from him, Elros’ face broke into a delighted grin; Elrond spun around, an equally wide grin spreading across his face. “Uncle Maedhros!”

As one both twins launched themselves across the room and towards the door. Maglor rose to his feet. Fingon gave himself a moment, then he turned around too. 

Maedhros was standing in the doorway to Maglor’s rooms. Despite his sopping wet leather armor and the streaks of mud on his cheeks, he had scooped both twins into his arms and was balancing them on his hips, pressing a kiss first to one shining face, then the other. Elrond, in Maedhros’ right arm, had his own arms wrapped around Maedhros’ neck. “Hello, little ones,” said Maedhros. Fingon could hear the tiredness beneath the usual rasp of his voice. “Happy begetting day.” 

“We’ve been playing a game with Ada and Atya,” Elrond informed him. He turned his head so that Maedhros could admire the jade clasp. “We get new jewelry every time we win. Do you like it?”

“Very handsome,” Maedhros agreed. His eyes lingered on the clasp before darting, almost unwillingly, to Fingon. Fingon smiled neutrally and rose to his feet as well. 

“I’ll find Erestor and see about drawing up a bath.” 

“No need!” interjected Maglor, before Fingon could take a step forward. “I’ll do it.” He edged around Fingon, smiling blithely in response to Fingon’s narrowed look. “Welcome back, brother. Elros, Elrond, let’s leave your Uncle Maedhros to get cleaned up in peace.”

The twins obediently wriggled down from Maedhros’ arms; he let them go and stepped to the side. In a moment the two of them and Maglor had vanished through the doorway, the twins’ excited chatter drifting down the hall before fading at last. Fingon and Maedhros were alone in the room. 

Fingon bent down and began tidying up the game. “What news from the south, then?” he asked, purposefully avoiding looking at Maedhros. He heard Maedhros cross the room and sink into the chair closest to the fire with a sigh. 

“They’re breeding wargs now; that’s why game has been so scarce. I ambushed a small scouting party and killed most of them, but two got away.” Fingon could hear the chagrin in his voice. “I know they have a larger camp somewhere in the forest, but I haven’t been able to find it yet.” 

“You will.” Fingon finished dropping his jewelry back into the box and scooped up their drinks. When he looked up, Maedhros was hunched over in the chair, his left hand held out in front of him. As Fingon watched, he stretched his fingers with a wince. 

Fingon paused in cleaning up and frowned. “Are you hurt?”

Maedhros shook his head. When Fingon still didn’t move, he waved his right arm dismissively. “A scratch from an arrow. It’s nothing. I’ll clean it once Maglor sends a bath.” 

“Let me see.” Fingon set the dishes back down and moved over to kneel next to him. Maedhros drew back as he approached; Fingon ignored him and reached out to pull Maedhros’ hand towards him. He gently unfolded his fingers. When he saw Maedhros’ palm, he hissed. 

There was an ugly cut running through the center of his palm, the sides jagged and black with dirt and dried blood. The skin around the cut was red and inflamed, hot to the touch when Fingon brushed it with his fingers. One part of the cut had crusted over, but the other side wept blood and pus. Fingon looked up at Maedhros sharply. 

“This is infected, Maedhros.” 

Maedhros tried to pull his hand back; Fingon held it tightly. “Stay here,” he ordered, keeping his grip on Maedhros’ hand until Maedhros reluctantly nodded. “We need to clean this.” 

“I’ll be fine.”

“Shut up and don’t move.” 

Fingon let Maedhros’ hand drop and quickly moved to the cabinets underneath Maglor’s window. Maglor handled most of the twins’ scrapes and bruises, and the drawers were stuffed with an untidy mess of bandages, bags of herbs, and jars of salves. Fingon pulled them all out and dropped to his knees to hunt for a bowl and a bar of soap. “How long ago did you get that?” he called over his shoulder. He heard Maedhros sigh.

“A day and a half ago. Really, Fin, it’ll be fine.” 

“It will be,” said Fingon, not bothering to keep his irritation out of his voice, “Because I’m going to clean it.” He finally found a clean bowl and pulled it out. “Was the arrow poisoned?”

“I washed it out in a stream.” 

“Was it poisoned, Maedhros?” 

There was a beat or two of silence. Then Maedhros said, reluctantly, “I don’t know.” 

Fingon bit his tongue to keep back a sharp response and returned to where Maedhros was still obediently seated in front of the fire. He dumped his supplies on the ground and jerked Maedhros’ hand back towards him again. “You shouldn’t be so reckless with yourself,” he said, when he could trust his voice again. “Whatever point you’re trying to prove with all of this, it isn’t working.”

“I’m not trying to prove a point,” said Maedhros. He hissed as Fingon splashed a vial of spirits on the cut. Fingon tightened his grip on Maedhros’ hand when Maedhros tried to pull back.

“You’re always trying to prove a point,” Fingon snapped, without meeting Maedhros’ eyes. He daubed at the cut as it began to sluggishly bleed again. “You think I don’t know what this is? Two years now you’ve been doing this, two years of single-handedly trying to chase down and kill every orc in East Beleriand.”

“I’m not --”

“It’s the same thing you did after the Darkening and the same thing you did after Angband. It’s what kept you cooped up in Himring for all those years.” He wiped the blood from Maedhros’ hand, pressing harder than he meant to and making Maedhros wince. “You think you deserve to be miserable, so you run away and pretend that you’re doing the people who care for you a favor by leaving them behind.”

“It’s not that,” Maedhros said. Fingon looked up at him. Maedhros’ gray eyes were resting on where their hands were pressed together, Fingon’s scarred brown against Maedhros’ pale white. His face was exhausted. “I know it pains you to be near me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have. That’s all.”

Fingon’s eyes stung. “You could not possibly hurt me any more than you already have,” he said brusquely. Maedhros flinched. Fingon ignored him and began spreading a salve over the cut on his palm with rough fingers. “I’ve told you before that Elrond and Elros need you. I’ve told you how they miss you -- but still you keep doing this. I’m tired of you being selfish and pretending it’s for me, Maedhros.”

Maedhros didn’t answer, but Fingon didn’t expect him to. He finished rubbing the salve into Maedhros’ palm and pressed a square of cotton over the cut. He held Maedhros' wrist in his left hand as he wound a bandage around his palm to hold the cotton in place. Under his fingers Maedhros' pulse beat, steady and familiar.

Fingon finished wrapping the cut and tied the bandage off in a knot. Even after he’d finished he kept his hands loosely clasped around Maedhros’. “I want you to stay,” he said at last. He looked up and finally met Maedhros’ eyes. “I want you here, with us. No more running away.” 

Maedhros swallowed. And then, slowly, he nodded. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

“Widen your stance. No, back foot. Here. Very good. A warrior never rushes into battle. Bide your time, let your enemy come to you. Again!”

“Elrond’s footwork is getting to be very good,” observed Fingon. “He’s still holding the sword too high, though.” Elros, sitting next to him on the ground and taking a swig of water from his waterskin, started to answer and promptly choked. Fingon thumped him on the back. “Careful, pityo.”

“I’m fine, Ada,” said Elros, when he had recovered his breath. Fingon ruffled his hair. After a moment, Elros added loyally, “I think he’s doing a good job.”

“He is,” Fingon agreed. “Get ready, it’ll be your turn soon.” Elros made a face. He was dripping with sweat, his left shin scabbed still from a bad fall that morning and his forearms bruised by whacks from Elrond’s wooden sword during their sparring match earlier.

Maedhros was demonstrating a disarming technique now, showing it to Elrond step by step while Fingon and Elros looked on. Elrond, as sweaty and tired as his brother, was following along the best he could, moving where Maedhros positioned him and listening to his explanation with an attentive face. “We’re going to do it faster now; watch my wrist. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Atto.” Elrond dropped back into his starting position and raised his sword. Elros cheered. Fingon could see Elrond blush, and he suppressed a smile of his own. 

“Begin!”

Maedhros’ practice with Elrond went on for about twenty minutes more before it was Elros’ turn again. Despite his earlier complaints, he jumped to his feet readily enough when Maedhros called him; Fingon, lounging on the side under the shade, shouted out occasional suggestions and encouragement, and earned himself rolled eyes and a hissed, “Ada! Stop!” for his efforts. 

By the time Maedhros called an end to their practice, the light was fading and both twins were dripping with sweat. “That’s enough for today,” Maedhros said, his voice brusque but kind as he pulled Elrond to his feet. “Go wash off in the pond. Someone will come and get you when it's time for dinner.” At the thought of splashing around in the water, both of their faces brightened. Elros took the lead and broke into a run, Elrond jogging after him and shouting at him to wait.

Fingon rose to his feet and gazed after them fondly. After a moment Maedhros walked over to join him. “They’re very good,” Maedhros observed, following Fingon’s gaze to where Elrond was disappearing behind the lip of the garden wall. “Elros will be ready for a metal sword soon, and Elrond isn’t far behind.” Fingon hummed. 

“Elrond’s footwork is better. But he hesitates.”

“He doesn’t want to get hurt.” 

“He doesn’t want to hurt you,” corrected Fingon. He wrapped his arms around himself, though the night air was warm. He could feel Maedhros’ eyes on him. “They both worship the ground you walk on. Elros will throw himself into an unwinnable fight to impress you, and Elrond holds himself back because he’s afraid to hurt you.” He glanced sideways. Maedhros looked troubled, the scars on his face giving him an especially grave look in the twilight. “They’re young,” Fingon said. “They both have more to learn. Don’t rush them.” 

It was late summer, and the woods were rich with the sound of insects and the rush of sap in the trees. Behind them, nighttime creatures were beginning to stir as the sun fell lower -- ahead of them the windows of the keep were glowing orange and yellow with firelight, the sound of a dozen voices trickling out through the open windows and doors. "No metal swords yet, then,” Maedhros said at last.

Fingon continued to gaze at him. Once upon a time, he could have stepped into Maedhros’ side and Maedhros would have settled his arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. Once upon a time, Maedhros would have kissed him. He waited for the usual rush of anger and guilt and pain. It came; but time or use or both had blunted it, and it ebbed quickly enough under the crickets singing and the brightness of the stars. Maedhros was a welcome, familiar warmth at his side. Fingon shook his head.

“No metal swords,” he agreed. He began walking towards the keep, Maedhros a half-step behind. “But you should practice their shield work with them. Did you see how Elros dropped his guard every time he shifted his weight left?”

Midsummer turned into late summer, and then into fall -- the weather grew colder, ice began to frost the windows in the mornings, and more and more often they traded the formality of the dining room for the coziness of dinner around the old kitchen table. One of the stable cats had kittens; Elrond and Elros took in the sickliest one under Maglor’s careful eye. She was a little cream and ginger colored thing, golden-eyed and fretful -- they spent a month nursing her back to health, until soon enough she began to trot after them everywhere. Much to Maedhros’ chagrin, the nickname “Russa” that Maglor had teasingly taken to calling her stuck. The twins quickly and emphatically rejected any suggestion of returning her to the stables, and in the end she spent her days lounging in front of the windows or curled up in a little basket in front of the fireplace in the twins’ room.

Elros and Elrond turned another year older; the fifth anniversary of Sirion came and went. The twins doggedly continued practicing swordfighting in the training yard with Maedhros in the mornings, even as the weather turned colder; but after weeks of begging, cajoling, and eventually frankly bribing him for lessons in strategy, Maedhros gave in and their afternoons were given over to practice in tactics. Fingon, who traded off with Maglor in giving them lessons on history and language and who knew firsthand what terrors they could be when made to study for any length of time, expected it to end in tears within a week. But, to his pleasant surprise and Maedhros’ contained but obvious delight, they took to it immediately. The three of them squirreled away together for hours at a time -- Elros and Elrond bundling up and joining Maedhros on watch at the gate, or all of them taking over the kitchen table and causing Erestor no end of consternation as he tried to cook around them. Maedhros had somehow mocked up an elaborate board, the twins had devised an equally elaborate color system for their little army of block pieces, and together they reenacted battle after battle, or invented new fights and maneuvers of their own. 

Fingon joined them occasionally at first, and then more and more often as autumn wore on and the days grew shorter and colder. He stayed out of the lessons themselves, for the most part -- Maedhros was a far better general and tactician than he was, and endlessly patient with the twins -- but he sat off to the side, usually with a book, sometimes reading but more often simply watching them with soft eyes.

“I don’t understand,” said Elros. He was frowning thoughtfully, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. He nudged one of the wooden blocks, dyed red to represent the cavalry, down a painted hill into the valley beneath. “Horses are faster and better than warg riders. Wouldn’t this cut off their retreat?” 

“If you were dealing with wargs alone, maybe.” Maedhros leaned over the board and tapped the ridge of mountains on the map. “But this is a battle, not a skirmish in the wilderness. There are going to be reinforcements.”

“More wargs?”

“On a mountainside like this? Unlikely.”

“Something that can fly, maybe,” said Elrond, looking intently at the painted mountains underneath Maedhros’ hand. Maedhros smiled at him. “Bats -- or vampires. Or dragons!”

“Dragons!” said Maedhros with a laugh. Elros rolled his eyes. "Well, since Ada is with us tonight --" Maedhros paused to look over his shoulder at Fingon and smile; Fingon grinned and mimed shooting an arrow, "-- Let's say there is a dragon. On this high, flat ground, your cavalry would at least have a chance of outrunning it. But down here? You’d be trapped.” 

They were in Maedhros’ room; it was late in the evening, and the glass windows reflected the cheery firelight and the candles against a backdrop of deep black. It was bitterly cold outside, so they were all crowded around the fire; Maedhros and Elrond cross-legged on the rug, Elros sprawled out on his stomach next to them, and Fingon curled up sideways on the long, low couch directly behind Maedhros, with a book of poetry sitting open but unread on his lap. Russa was sound asleep and purring contentedly in Elrond’s lap. 

The sap in the firewood snapped and crackled satisfyingly; the fire cast a warm orange glow over everything. Finally giving up on his book, Fingon pushed it to the side and swung his legs to the ground. He leaned forward over Maedhros’ shoulder and gestured towards the board with his glass of wine. “You’re right, though, to want to cut the wargs off before they can join the main army," he said. "You’d lose your cavalry to a dragon. What else could you try?” Both twins stared at the board.

“Archers, maybe?” said Elrond at last, hesitantly. Maedhros leaned back to make room for him. This close, his shoulders brushed against Fingon’s knees. “If you positioned them here and here,” Elrond continued, tapping the board, “They could hide in the rocks and shoot down on the warg riders from above.” Maedhros tilted his head. Fingon’s eyes drifted down to the slender curve of his neck and his dark red hair, pulled back for the night in a loose braid. 

“You would still lose some of them to a dragon,” Maedhros said consideringly, after a moment. “But likely not all of them, if you spaced them far enough apart.” It was as good as praise; but still Elrond’s face fell at the thought of sacrificing any of his troops to dragonfire, and he pulled his archers off the board from where he’d placed them. His face was intent as he stared at the board and tried to figure out another plan; Maedhros, apparently content to wait him out, leaned back farther, and too late seemed to realize that he was leaning back against Fingon’s legs. 

He flushed and started to pull away, but before he could Fingon stilled him with a light touch to his shoulder. “Don’t be silly,” he murmured. Maedhros, if anything, flushed darker; but he stayed where he was, his back a warm weight against Fingon’s shins. Fingon held his wineglass out to him, and after a beat Maedhros accepted it and took a long sip for himself.  

“We could use the mountain against them,” Elrond said at last. Elros, who’d occupied himself while his brother was thinking by coaxing the cat off of Elrond’s lap and into his arms, paused and looked up interestedly. Elrond ran his fingers along the curve of the mountain. “If you caused a rockfall here, where the valley is narrowest and the road bends, you could trap them -- and maybe kill them -- down below, and still keep the high ground.” He looked up then, his face shining. “You wouldn’t have to sacrifice anyone.”

Fingon braced his elbow on Maedhros’ shoulder and leaned forward. “Talk us through it,” he said.

The snow fell hard and early that year; by the time that winter itself arrived they were, for all intents and purposes, snowed in. Moody and pent up inside with too little to do, the twins began to bicker, and then to fight. It came to a head about a month into winter, when an argument that began -- as far as Fingon could gather -- over a lost pair of boots quickly escalated in the space of an afternoon into insults, yelling, a half-hearted punch, and tears. The next morning at breakfast, Elros loudly announced that he and his brother were grown up enough to have their own bedrooms. 

“We’re twelve now, Ada,” he said earnestly, turning to Fingon for support. Across from him, Elrond sullenly poked at his eggs and said nothing. “The room is too small. We could…” Elros paused, clearly casting around for something that Fingon would feel compelled to support. “We could study better if we had our own rooms,” he finished at last. “It would be good for our independence.” Elrond snorted. Elros cast him a glowering look. 

“I think it’s a good idea,” Maglor said mildly, neatly cutting Elros off before he could snap at his brother. As one Elros, Elrond, and Fingon all swiveled around to look at him, various degrees of surprise and betrayal on their faces. Maglor sipped his coffee and looked back at them calmly. “Elros is right,” he continued, after a moment. “You’re getting older; you should have your own space, if that’s what you both want.”

“Yes,” said Elros swiftly, before Elrond could say anything. “That’s what I want.” 

“I don’t want to leave my room,” Elrond said moodily. He stabbed at a sausage. "You can pack your things and go for all I care, but I’m not leaving.” 

“Any room without you in it works for me.”

“You won’t need to worry about that, because I’m never visiting you.”

“Fine!” 

“Good!”

“And I’m packing all of my things, including Russa’s bed.”

“She’s not --”

“I think,” interjected Maglor blandly, leaning across the table for the little pitcher of cream and not-so-subtly positioning himself in between Elros and Elrond, “That we should clear out Amras’ room for Elros, and that way you’ll both still be close enough that Russa can walk back and forth as she pleases. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” said Elros darkly, after a long pause. Elrond nodded jerkily. Maglor smiled pleasantly at them both and sat back. 

“Excellent. Ada and I will start cleaning it up this afternoon.” 

“He and Atyarussa took after Tyelko, I’m afraid,” Maglor said ruefully, standing in the center of Amras’ room and looking around at the untidy jumble of hunting ornaments, piles of maps and drawings, and stashes of knives. It was clear that nothing had been moved since Amras had last stepped foot in here, although the servants had kept it carefully dusted and cleaned. “I don’t even know where to start.” 

“I still think there’s nothing wrong with their room right now,” Fingon said in answer, not bothering to keep the irritation from his voice. He was pointedly examining a handsome elk skin that was stretched along one wall while, across the room from him, Maglor began to make a few fruitless attempts at tidying. “Their argument will blow over.”

“They’re old enough to have a bit of space from each other. In another ten years they’ll be adults, by human reckoning. Can you imagine still bunking with Turgon at that age?”

“They’re not human,” Fingon said. Maglor hummed.

“No,” he agreed. “But they’re not fully elvish either, are they?” Fingon’s hand stilled on the elk fur -- Maglor, turning and apparently catching sight of the stricken look on Fingon’s face, softened his voice. “They’re growing up fast, is all I mean,” he amended. “A little space won’t do them any harm.” 

He was right, and Fingon knew that he was right; but he was still unhappy about it, and the thought of Elrond and Elros so quickly leaving childhood behind them brought a sharp pain to his heart. He said nothing; but he turned his back to Maglor and strayed to the other side of the room. 

There was a handsome oak bookcase tucked in between the fireplace and the corner of the room, the shelves heaped with stacks of books and loose manuscripts. Fingon pulled out a volume at random and flipped it open. Inside was a treatise on the best treatments for frostbite, annotated with notes and illustrations in Amras’ sharp, angular hand. Fingon flipped through a few more pages and was soon absorbed in a lengthy passage on various poisons and the merits of different antidotes.

“I didn’t know that Ambarussa was a healer,” he said eventually, not looking up from the book as he sank down onto the bench at the end of the bed. “Or an artist," he added, flipping to the back. "Did you ever see this? It’s a map of where to find different healing herbs around Amon Ereb. This would have been useful that time Elros was bitten by a snake.” Maglor didn’t answer. Fingon glanced up. “Káno?” 

Maglor was standing in front of Amras' desk on the other side of the room. His back was to Fingon; his shoulders were tense and stiff. He stood perfectly still, staring down at something on the desk. “Káno?” Fingon asked again; when Maglor still didn’t answer,  Fingon stood and crossed the room to join him. 

Maglor was staring at a piece of parchment that was half-hidden beneath a pile of books and a yellowed deer antler. His fingertips lightly brushed the parchment, but the rest of his body was frozen. “What is it?” Fingon asked, gently touching his elbow. Maglor didn’t answer. Fingon gave him a long, worried look, then followed his gaze down. 

The parchment Maglor was looking at was nothing, at first glance; a scribbled list of supplies, stained with soot and a ring of water. But in the corner nearest to Maglor there was a sketch -- really more of a doodle, as though Amras had drawn it absentmindedly one day and had never come back to finish it. It was all seven brothers -- Maedhros, tall and lanky, standing in the back with crossed arms and an exasperated look; Maglor, warbling a song; Caranthir and Curufin evidently locked in some kind of shouting match; Celegorm playing fetch with Huan. And there in front were Amras and Amrod, their arms around each others’ shoulders. In the drawing Amrod was smiling, bright and happy. Amras' face was in profile as he gazed at his brother.

Fingon’s eyes stung as he looked at it. Maglor stood as though he’d been turned to stone.

“They were lucky to have you and Russo as brothers,” Fingon said at last. He leaned into Maglor, knocking their shoulders together. “They adored you, Káno.”

“They’re all dead now,” Maglor said. He traced his fingers gently over Amras and Amrod’s faces. “Every one of them.” 

“Not all of them,” Fingon said. Maglor swallowed.

“Not Maedhros,” he agreed. “Not you. Everyone else.” He turned to look at Fingon then. His eyes were wide and lost. He looked, suddenly, very young. “They were my responsibility,” he said hollowly. “Mine and Nelyo’s. We failed them.”

“Their Oath failed them,” Fingon answered. He reached down and carefully touched the drawing of Maedhros. “The Valar failed them. Your father even failed them, if you like. But you never did, Káno.” Maglor squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Sometimes I think that death wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Maglor confessed. His hand was beginning to tremble on the parchment. Fingon reached over and gently folded it in his own. “I think, sometimes, that it’s worse like this; to keep living when all of them, everyone I love, is dead.” His voice was shaking now, too. Fingon tugged him around and pulled him away from the desk. Maglor followed, unresisting. “If you or Nelyo died -- or the twins -- if it was just me, alone -- Finno --”

“No one is dying,” Fingon said firmly, cutting him off. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Maglor’s temple. “No one is leaving you, háno. You have me and Russo -- you have Elrond and Elros. We look after each other, don't we? We stay together. I promise you, a lonely death won't be your fate."

“I miss being their big brother,” Maglor choked. His voice was starting to break. Fingon wrapped his arms around him. Maglor curled into his embrace and began to cry. “I miss everything the Oath took from us -- I miss --”

“I know,” Fingon murmured, holding him while Maglor, surrounded by the memory of his dead brother, wept. “Oh, Káno. Brother. I know.” 

It took Fingon three days to finish clearing out the room on his own. Elros was pointedly cheerful the day they moved him in; Elrond, true to his word, held Russa, glowered as he watched, and outright refused to help. Maglor, subdued, said little. Maedhros was the biggest help, in the end; he shifted the furniture, worked out a compromise for who would sleep with Russa each night, and managed to wear the twins out and broker a tentative truce between them after some makeshift sparring practice in the hallway.

The first two nights passed uneventfully; the twins were polite over breakfast, the cat exchange went off smoothly, and Elros was enthusiastic about all of his newfound space. Even Elrond, unprompted, offhandedly remarked that it was nice to stay up reading as late as he pleased for a change.

On the third night, Fingon woke to screams. 

He was out of his bed and in the hall before he’d even fully woken up. Maglor’s door swung open too, and Maglor made it into the hallway a half step behind Fingon. Fingon was in his nightclothes, but Maglor was still fully dressed; over his shoulder Fingon could see Maedhros behind him, stepping out of the doorway of Maglor's room with a worried look on his face. Fingon shook his head at them both and managed a strained smile. “I’ll go,” he said. “He won’t want too many of us.” 

Maglor was clearly exhausted, but even so he looked on the verge of arguing with Fingon; Fingon looked past him to Maedhros. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ve got it.” Maedhros gave him a long look; and then he nodded, and murmured something low and earnest to Maglor. Fingon turned away from them and pushed open Elros’ door. 

Elros was awake and sitting up in bed, gasping for breath with his hands clenched in the sheets. His face was tearstained; when the door opened he looked up fearfully. The moment he realized that it was Fingon, his face crumpled. “Ada,” he choked, and burst into tears again.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Fingon murmured. He dropped onto the bed and immediately pulled Elros into his arms, hugging him close. “Love. I’ve got you.”

“She’s dead,” Elros sobbed. Fingon bundled him closer, rubbing his back soothingly. “I can’t, I can’t remember her face anymore, I just see -- all that blood -- Ada --” His crying grew harder, so hard that he couldn’t speak. Fingon rocked him gently as Elros let out a wail. 

“My brave one,” Fingon murmured. The firelight cast a warm glow over them both; but the room was unfamiliar, full of shadows and strange shapes. Fingon tucked Elros’ head in against his collarbone. With his left hand he reached up and gently stroked his hair. “Sweetheart. It’s alright.”

“It’s not, it’s not, she’s --”

“You’re safe.”

“Ada --”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You're safe. It will be alright.” 

Fingon held him and rocked him comfortingly for what felt like hours. Gradually Elros’ sobs began to quieten; eventually they stilled. By the time Elros finally pulled back from Fingon’s arms, the fire was beginning to die and the room was growing cold. Elros’ face was flushed and miserable; there were deep circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were still wet with tears. Fingon pulled his sleeve over his hand and gently reached down to wipe them away. “I’m going to rebuild the fire, pityo,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.” Elros nodded but said nothing. Fingon pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before swiftly moving from the bed to the other side of the room. 

He worked quickly, but even so by the time he sat down on the mattress again Elros had had enough time to collect himself. His cheeks were drier; though he was picking at a hole in the coverlet and refused to meet Fingon’s eyes, his breathing at least seemed to be under control. 

“I’m sorry,” Elros whispered hoarsely. When Fingon held his arms open Elros allowed himself to crawl back into a hug, though he still wouldn't look at Fingon. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s alright.” 

“I was dreaming of Faurin.” 

“I know.” 

“I thought the nightmares were over.” Elros’ voice was frustrated and tearful. His shoulders were stiff under Fingon’s arms, although he made no move to pull away. “I thought I was better.”

“I get nightmares too, sweetheart,” Fingon said gently. He pulled his legs up onto the bed, settling in and moving back so that Elros could make himself more comfortable too. “So do Atya and Atto. You lived through a terrible thing. It leaves its scars on us, sometimes. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It’s not fair.” 

“No,” agreed Fingon heavily. “No. It’s not.” He kissed the top of Elros’ head. Elros shuddered against him. Fingon ran his hand down his back soothingly. 

“I keep seeing her dying,” Elros whispered. “The orcs, and the moment they struck her neck -- all of the blood everywhere.” His voice trembled. “I keep thinking how scared she must have been when she died. How much it must have hurt.” He paused; then, before he could think better of it, he blurted out, “Did it hurt when you died, Ada?”

It was a conversation Fingon had spent more than six years avoiding. He took his time answering; at first he simply continued to run his hand up and down Elros’ back, while Elros gradually relaxed against him. Across from them the fire was burning brightly, banishing the shadows and the cold back into the corners of the room. “It hurt at first,” Fingon said eventually. “Atto was with me for most of it, until the end. But even so.” 

“That’s where your scars come from,” Elros said, touching them carefully. “The ones on your arms.” Fingon nodded.

“Yes.”

“What happened when it was over? Did it still hurt?” 

“No.” Elros was listening intently, one hand on Fingon’s arm and the other wrapped in the fabric of his nightshirt. His head rested against Fingon’s shoulder. Fingon stroked Elros' hair, and ignored the memory of silvery fog whispering in the back of his mind. “Nothing hurt anymore. It was like being asleep. I just lay there, and rested, for a long time.” 

“Do you think that’s what Nana and Faurin are doing now?” Elros asked in a low voice. Fingon hummed. 

“I think so, pityo. It was very peaceful.” Fingon leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of Elros’ head. “Like being cradled in someone’s arms.” 

“You didn’t stay there, though.”

“No.” Fingon tugged Elros closer and smiled down at him. “Lady Vairë sent me back. To find Atto -- and, I think, to take care of you.” 

Elros half-heartedly made a face; but he nestled nearer to Fingon, all the same. 

“Do you think I’ll ever see them again?” he whispered, after several minutes had passed. “Nana and Faurin?”

Fingon took his time answering. “When I woke up in Mandos’ Halls,” he said at last, “There were no other spirits. I was alone with Lord Mandos and my memories.” He felt Elros swallow. He reached down and gently combed his fingers through Elros’ hair. “They were memories of my family,” he said. “It wasn’t lonely, because I was there with the people I loved. Your Nana and Faurin are there now, with their memories of you. I know that we live in dark times, and sometimes it feels like there’s no hope left. But you have a long life ahead of you, sweetheart. And, one day, I have no doubt that you’ll see your Nana and Faurin again, and your Atar Eärendil too.” 

Elros nodded but didn’t say anything else. They sat there together, curled up on the bed, until the logs began to turn to embers and ash. Eventually Elros swallowed. “Do you think El will be mad if I ask to move back?” he asked in a small voice. Fingon shook his head and hid his smile.

“No, sweetheart. I think he’ll be happy to have you back.” 

At that Elros nodded. “I want to sleep there tonight, I think,” he said. He pushed himself out of Fingon’s arms and visibly steeled himself. Fingon watched him, pain and pride mingling together and making his heart feel strangely heavy. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asked. Elros shook his head. 

“I’ll tell him I’m sorry. I think he’ll understand.”

“I'm sure he will,” Fingon agreed. He reached over and brushed his fingers along Elros’ cheek, smiling at him. Elros managed a tremulous smile back, and turned for the door. 

By the time Fingon followed after him into the hallway, he could hear the murmur of the twins' voices, subdued but earnest, blending together and filtering through their thick wooden door. Maglor was likely still awake too -- firelight gleamed and flickered brightly beneath his door -- but his room was silent. At the end of the hallway Maedhros’ door was cracked open, spilling a narrow band of gold and red across the stone floor.

Fingon wrapped his arms around himself, and drew in a deep breath.

He only managed to knock once before Maedhros was there, pulling the door the rest of the way open as though he’d been standing just inside, waiting for Fingon. Fingon looked up at him and saw that Maedhros' gray eyes were dark with worry. “Russo,” he managed; and then, with a small, hitched sob, he stumbled forward and fell into Maedhros’ arms. 

Maedhros bore his weight easily, murmuring soothing nonsense into Fingon’s ear while Fingon cried. Maedhros half carried, half guided him into the room, drawing Fingon down with him onto the couch and pulling him close. Fingon burrowed against his chest. 

“I heard all of it,” Maedhros confessed. His voice was rough but his arms were gentle around Fingon’s back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was in Káno’s room -- it’s a shared wall between the two fireplaces, and I --” But Fingon was already shaking his head. He could feel the cold and the fog from Mandos’ Halls chasing at his heels, trying to drag him back; as though Maedhros’ warmth was all that stood between him and the darkness. He listened to Maedhros’ heart beating underneath him. He closed his eyes and felt the rising and falling of Maedhros’ chest. 

“It was all true,” Fingon rasped. "It hurt when I died.” 

He could feel Maedhros shudder beneath him; but all Maedhros said, quietly, was, “I remember.”

“But it was peaceful, afterwards.” 

He felt the gust of Maedhros’ breath against his skin as Maedhros laughed wetly. “You must have hated that,” he said. Fingon, startled, barked out a laugh. It came out closer to a sob. 

“I did,” he choked, burying his head in the crook of Maedhros’ shoulder and shaking. Maedhros was steady and warm and alive in Fingon’s arms. Maedhros stroked his hair, tugging gently. “Valar help me.”

He felt Maedhros press a chaste kiss to his head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still dead,” Fingon whispered. “Like I never made it out of Mandos’ Halls. I feel like any moment now I’m going to wake up and I’ll still be there, pounding at the wall, forever trying to get back to you.” 

He felt the hitch in Maedhros’ breath; a moment later Maedhros’ hand tightened protectively around the back of his neck. But Maedhros said nothing, and after that Fingon fell silent too. 

The fire was warm across from them; Maedhros was warm against him. Slowly, the memories and the fog began to recede. Fingon turned his head and rested his temple against Maedhros' collarbone, where the edge of his shirt slipped down and his skin shone golden in the firelight.

"Will you tell me something?" he asked at last. He tilted his head up and looked at Maedhros. Maedhros was already gazing down at him; when he met Fingon’s eyes he nodded, brushing his thumb tenderly over Fingon’s cheek.

“Anything,” he promised. Fingon caught his hand and held it in place.

“You told me, when we first arrived here, that you tore out the bond,” Fingon said. Maedhros said nothing. Fingon laced their fingers together. "Will you tell me about it?"

For a long time Maedhros was silent. Fingon waited, curled against him. 

“When you died,” Maedhros began at last, slowly, “It was as though -- as though I became locked in that moment. I was with you and we were dying together on the battlefield, over and over again. I couldn’t stop it. It wouldn’t let me go. For months -- for years. And I thought, maybe, because you’d -- you’d died --” Maedhros’ hand convulsed in Fingon’s grip, “Maybe there was something wrong with the bond. Maybe -- maybe it wasn't supposed to have stayed, and I had done something wrong. Held it too tightly, or refused to let you go. It used to be beautiful -- you remember. But I had broken it, somehow.”

He paused. Fingon brought their joined hands down to his lips and pressed a kiss to Maedhros’ palm. “I thought -- if I could just let the bond go, then maybe that would fix it, and Nirnaeth would let me go, too,” Maedhros continued at last. His voice was breaking. “I missed you so badly, Fin. I couldn’t bear living without you. But every time I thought of you, the end was all that I could remember -- your poor arms burning, and your mind in agony. I couldn’t remember the first time we kissed. I couldn’t -- I couldn’t remember when we married. Only you dying, over and over.” He shook his head. He was crying. “I just wanted it to stop. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry."

“Did it work?” asked Fingon softly. Maedhros shook his head again. He pulled his hand free from Fingon’s grip and covered his eyes.

“No,” he whispered. “It never went away.”

Fingon didn’t try to take Maedhros’ hand again; but he wrapped his arms around Maedhros and cradled him close. “I missed you too,” he said. “When I died, and every moment since.” 

Maedhros nodded, his hand pressed to his face and his shoulders shaking. Neither of them said another word; but they held each other, and Fingon listened to the sound of Maedhros’ heart beating until the fire died and the night turned old, and the stars and the moon both began to fade from the sky.

Chapter Text

The cold and snow lingered late into the season; spring, when it finally came, was grim and heavy with storm clouds. Dark creatures, driven by hunger or malice, roamed nearer to Amon Ereb’s walls as their numbers began to grow. Maedhros doubled their patrols and started riding out himself again for weeks at a time. They saw him infrequently -- a few minutes over breakfast, or late at night in between the time it took for him to stable his horse and collapse into bed. When he was back for longer than a day he drove Elrond and Elros harder than ever at their sword practice, and he took to badgering Fingon so often about teaching them archery that Fingon, fed up one night, snapped. 

“They are thirteen,” he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. “They are children, Maedhros, not soldiers. We are teaching them to defend themselves, not to charge into the wilderness and slaughter orcs with you.” 

He was pacing in front of the fire in his room; Maedhros, stone-faced, sat in a chair and watched him, while Maglor stood behind Maedhros and silently cleaned and bound an ugly gash that ran from Maedhros' temple to behind his ear. It was late, and the twins were already in bed asleep. Fingon, his arms tight around his chest, glowered into the fire. Maedhros watched him, his face made paler by the bandages Maglor was wrapping around his temple but his gray eyes stern.

“You’re being sentimental,” he said curtly, his voice unflinching despite his injury. “It’s clouding your judgment.” Fingon spun to face him, outraged.

“I’m being --”

“What is the good of safeguarding their childhood, if it ends with them being butchered by orcs?” Maedhros interrupted brutally. Fingon’s jaw clenched. “Their innocence doesn’t matter more than their lives, Fingon.” 

“They already spend three hours a day in the training yard,” Fingon snapped. “How many more hours until you’re satisfied? Five? Ten? You cannot simply will them into being warriors, Maedhros. That they are children -- children -- is not a flaw you can knock out of them with a wooden sword or a training bow.”

Maedhros drew in a deep breath. Fingon could see that he was fighting for patience. “One more hour a day,” he said at last, his voice forcibly calm. “That’s all I ask. Just to teach them --”

“No.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Fingon!” Maedhros, his eyes snapping with frustration, began to rise from his seat; before he could finish standing, Maglor reached for his shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him back down again. 

“Should we take away their hour of tending the horses with Rúnisse?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. “Or their hour of eating dinner with us? Perhaps if they only slept less? Or we could barricade the library, and forbid them from reading until they are able to shoot an orc dead from fifty yards.” When Maedhros didn’t answer, Maglor hummed. “You are asking for more than a little extra archery practice, brother.” 

“This is not Himring or Barad Eithel,” growled Maedhros. He wrenched his shoulders away from Maglor, although he didn’t try to rise from his seat again. “Amon Ereb is a hunting camp in the woods, not a fortress. These walls will not keep them safe if Morgoth attacks. We have no army here to protect them. They have to know how to fight. They have to. What is the use of any of the rest of it if they’re dead?” 

Fingon stopped in front of the fire and pressed his hand to his eyes. He could feel Maedhros’ gaze on him, bewildered and hurt and angry. Maedhros didn’t understand, Fingon knew. He didn’t even know that he could explain himself if Maedhros truly pressed him -- except to tell him that the thought of sacrificing Elrond and Elros’ childhoods entirely to war broke his heart. 

“Every other day,” Fingon said at last, dropping his hand but still refusing to look at Maedhros. “For an hour, no more. And you will do everything in your power to ensure that they never have to put those skills to the test. Do you understand?” He heard Maedhros’ slow exhale and the slump of his shoulders as he fell back in his seat. 

“Every other day,” Maedhros agreed. He sounded as exhausted as Fingon felt. “Thank you, Fin.” 

Fingon didn’t answer. When Maglor approached him and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder, he shrugged him off; Maedhros knew better than to touch him, and Fingon didn’t turn to watch as he walked out. When the door finally closed behind them, Fingon sank to the ground. He clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it to his mouth, staring unhappily into the fire and fighting the fear and nausea curling in his stomach until, finally, the night ticked over into dawn.

The twins accepted their extra time in the training yard each week graciously enough; although Elrond was at best only an indifferent archer, and Elros, though better than his brother, preferred the sword. Unwilling to shake loose Elros’ nightmares any more than necessary, Fingon made no mention of orcs. He told them simply that they were practicing for hunting; whether or not they believed him, both Elrond and Elros were at least kind enough to let the pretense stand.

As midsummer approached the urgency grew less. The weather finally warmed; though the skies stayed moody and dark, the woods around Amon Ereb grew green again. The monsters that had strayed to within a few miles of their home during the winter and spring vanished back into the wilderness. Maedhros gradually began to spend more nights at home than he did on horseback; Fingon unbent enough to speak with him at dinner again; and Maglor, emboldened one night by their truce and perhaps a glass too many of wine, ventured to suggest a family outing to restock their supplies of herbs and bark.

Elros and Elrond, who had been kept within the grounds of the keep for months, leapt at the idea. Before long it had morphed into a two-day outing, with time to go fishing and explore the waterfalls on the eastern edge of the forest. Maedhros, who knew better than any of them the dangers surrounding the keep, insisted that it be kept to within three miles of Amon Ereb, but otherwise he seemed content to let the twins have their way. As one hour of enthusiastic planning stretched into two, Fingon yawned, gave the twins a last, affectionate look, and plucked his glass of wine from the table before stealing away.

He had meant to go straight to bed; but the night sky was clear for once, the ill-tempered and restless clouds finally opening enough to let the stars shine through, and on an impulse he turned left when he reached the bedroom hallway and kept climbing up towards the battlements. 

Though the days were warmer now, the night air was still cool; Fingon shivered slightly as he walked out onto the stone wall, taking a sip of wine before wrapping his arms around himself and leaning forward against the low stone parapet. 

From this high up the keep rose well above the line of the trees. They spread around him as far as he could see to the south, although the line between the plains and the forest was just visible to the north. A breeze stirred the leaves, making them sigh and rustle like the murmur of waves on the sea. There was a strange, golden light on the western horizon -- a fire in the far distance, maybe -- and Fingon was squinting at it thoughtfully when he felt the warm weight of a blanket settle over his shoulders. 

He blinked, then turned to his right and smiled. “Has it become a week-long pleasure excursion yet?” he asked, as Maedhros settled against the wall next to him. 

“Three days,” Maedhros confirmed, matching his smile. “Though it may be more by now. I left when they started begging Káno to let their silly cat come along too.” Fingon laughed softly as he turned to look out at the forest again. 

“I used to beg my father to let me go on long hunting trips with you,” he said after a while, his eyes on the moon but his mind faraway. Without thinking he held his wine glass out to Maedhros. Maedhros was near enough that their shoulders brushed when he took it and raised it to his lips. “That was before I realized that it was easier just to sneak out, spend as much time with you as I liked, and ask for forgiveness later.” 

“I used to steal away to go see you, too,” Maedhros confessed. Fingon turned and raised his eyebrows; Maedhros smiled back at him sheepishly and took another sip of wine. “If I’d asked, Atar would have said no. So.”

“Maitimo Fëanorion,” said Fingon teasingly. “Lying to your father! You astonish me.” 

“He didn’t like you very much. He thought you were a bad influence.”

“Mm, I remember. My father thought the same about your family.” Maedhros frowned.

“Uncle Nolo always liked me.” 

“You, yes,” Fingon conceded. “The other seven of you -- I include Uncle Fëanáro -- no. Which was a mistake on his part, because you were the worst influence of all.” 

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.” Warming to his subject, Fingon took his wine back from Maedhros and finished it off. He set the empty glass down on the wall and leaned into Maedhros’ side; after a moment Maedhros wrapped his arm around Fingon’s shoulders, tucking him closer. “If it weren’t for you I would’ve spent these past five hundred years still in Tirion, writing bad poetry and drinking too much at family parties.”

“Sleeping in shamefully late every day,” Maedhros added, after a pause. Fingon grinned up at him. 

“Dressing in the latest fashions,” he agreed. “Losing at harp playing contests to your brother.”

“I like your harp playing.” 

“I know you do. You’re sentimental.” 

Maedhros graciously accepted the reproof -- so lately thrown by him at Fingon, in a harsher and unkinder tongue -- and after a moment he even pressed a silent kiss to Fingon’s head in apology. Fingon, accepting it, leaned back against Maedhros’ side and looked out again at the forest. “It would have been awful,” he said at last. “If I had let you go on and leave without me, I would have spent every minute of those five hundred years regretting it.” 

“You belong in Beleriand,” Maedhros agreed quietly, following Fingon’s gaze out across the wilderness beneath them. His arm tightened around Fingon’s shoulders. “I remember how trapped you felt in Tirion. You were meant for this: adventure and great deeds.”

“I’ve been happy here,” Fingon said, the teasing edge slipping from his voice and rough honesty taking its place. “In Middle Earth, with you.” 

He felt Maedhros swallow. "Fin…"

Fingon shook his head, cutting him off. "After this trip," he said. He looked up at Maedhros. When he saw that Maedhros was already looking down at him, he reached up and gently touched his fingertips to Maedhros' lips. "Three days, you said? We'll go on this trip, all five of us, and then you and I will talk again when we get back." He paused. Maedhros said nothing; Fingon let his hand drift higher. He tenderly stroked Maedhros' cheek. "I think it's time, sweetheart."

Maedhros was barely breathing. Numbly, he nodded; and Fingon, feeling strangely full and light at the same time, pressed himself closer to him, wrapped his own arm around Maedhros' waist, and felt hope take root like a seed in his heart. 

The next morning, tragedy struck: Elrond, standing on a chair and trying to coax Russa down from the top of a bookshelf, leaned over too far, fell, and twisted his ankle. 

Maglor, who was walking past when it happened and heard him cry out, had it bound and elevated within minutes, but it was no good; though Elrond gritted his teeth and did his best, he couldn't manage to put any weight on it the next morning. By the following evening, though he was red-faced and teary, he said nothing when Fingon gently broke the news that their foraging trip would have to be postponed. 

"It's not fair!" Elros burst out. He jumped to his feet, pacing angrily to the window and staring out at the forest as he blinked back tears. "We've been stuck in here for months! El can ride a horse, can't he? Or wait in camp, while we --"

"We'll find another time," Fingon consoled. He rose to his feet and moved to join Elros at the window; when he laid a gentle hand on Elros' shoulder, Elros pushed him away. Fingon let his hand fall. "It's not safe for Elrond to be out there if he can't move, sweetheart," Fingon said. "I'm sorry. We’ll go another time, I promise."

Elros drew in an unsteady, ragged breath. "It's not --"

"I can stay here," Elrond said, interrupting him. Fingon and Elros both turned to look at him. Elrond was pushing himself up on the bed, a tearful but stubborn look on his face. "Atya can stay with me," he said. "Or you, Ada. And Atto and Elros can go."

Elros looked torn between guilt and longing. "I didn't mean for you to get left behind, El," he began; but before he could finish Elrond shook his head once, decisively. 

"I want you to go," he said. "Really, El. You shouldn't have to miss it just because I was clumsy and fell." 

They gazed at each other for a long moment; and then Elros nodded slowly, and turned tremulous, hopeful eyes towards Fingon.

"Please, Ada?" Elrond asked, before Elros could say anything. Fingon raised his hands. 

"I’ll need to talk to Atto and Atya first," he began. He didn’t manage to get any farther -- Elros let out a wild, delighted yell, leaping across the room and onto Elrond’s bed as he tackled his brother in a hug. 

"Thank you El, thank you, thank you --"

"Only if Atto and Atya say yes," Fingon warned again; but already Elros' eyes were shining, and even Elrond had a small but real smile on his face as Elros sat back and began to babble excitedly about all of the treasures he would be sure to bring back for Elrond when they returned.

They decided, in the end, that Maedhros and Fingon would go with Elros for a single day and night: leaving in the morning, camping overnight, and returning with the dawn. Elrond and Maglor would stay behind -- "And have a camp-out of our own in the yard," Maglor said cheerily, "Bonfire and ghost stories and all,” -- and, with that compromise and the twins’ eager agreement, they shelved their full, three day expedition for later in the summer. 

Elrond was in good enough spirits the next morning, waving goodbye to them from a chair on the front steps as they set out. “Don’t forget the bloodroot!” he called out to his brother as they reached the gate. Elros waved his hand in acknowledgement and spun around on his horse to shout back to Elrond, “Take care of Atya until we get back!” Maglor, standing next to Elrond, clapped his hands to his heart; Elros gave him a cheeky grin and a final wave. As he spun back around to face forward again, he broke into song. 

The sky was a clear, easy blue when they set out, a few fleecy clouds in the sky and the breeze kissed with pollen and sunlight as it wafted past them. Elros’ horse was a ten year old mare, mild-mannered and dependable; she followed quietly along behind Maedhros’ charger, stopping every now and then to nibble on the grass at the side of the path, but always turning back again at a word from Elros. 

The campsite they were making for was a little grassy clearing three miles from the keep, at the bottom of a gorge that was surrounded on two sides by rocky cliffs and on the other side by dark groves of pine trees. They reached it soon enough, even despite stopping along the way to collect bundles of herbs from a long list that Maglor had pressed into Fingon’s hands that morning. By the time they settled their horses, pitched their small tent, and gathered enough wood for a fire, it was already edging towards noon. Elros sat still long enough to devour two of the cold sandwiches that Fingon had packed; but after that he was off, climbing the cliff face to peer into an abandoned bird’s nest before scrambling the rest of the way to the top and shouting down to Fingon, “There’s an old apple tree up here, Ada, come look!”

Fingon sat back on his heels and gave the top of the cliff a rueful look. “In a minute!” he called. Maedhros, sitting next to him outside of the tent and sharpening his sword, smiled and gave him a gentle nudge. Fingon turned to him with a soft grin. 

They had drawn closer and closer over these last few days, the promise of the coming conversation pulling them towards each other as inevitably as a compass turning north. Fingon lingered longer at Maedhros’ side; Maedhros touched him as often as he could. It was as though they were youths again, just learning how to love each other; every stray look and accidental touch felt loaded with meaning, every moment together boundless and too short all at once. Fingon smiled at Maedhros and forgot where he was meant to be going until Elros called down again, louder this time, “Ada!”

“Go on then,” Maedhros said, with a smile of his own. “Your son is waiting.” 

“Our son,” Fingon corrected. He brushed his knuckles against Maehdros’ wrist, the nearest part of him he could reach. Maedhros’ eyes softened. 

“Our son,” he agreed, turning his arm so that Fingon's hand rested above his pulse.

By the time night fell Elros, with Fingon in tow, had tramped through every corner of the nearby woods, scaled every cliff, and splashed through every stream and rill that he could find. Their leather knapsacks were stuffed full of herbs for Maglor. Maedhros had caught a pair of trout while he waited for them, and they smoked them over the fire until the skin sizzled and the juice dripped into the flames. By the time they had finished the last of it and licked their fingers clean, the stars were out and the crescent moon was beginning to peek over the tops of the trees. Elros fell back against the bed of grass and pine needles, hands clasped over his stomach, and loudly declared that he could not possibly eat another bite. 

“Time for bed, then?” Fingon suggested. Still flat on his back, Elros turned his head and gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Time for telling stories,” he corrected. “You go first: I’m too full to talk.”

“Are you? That's a first.” Elros made a face; Fingon winked at him and reached over to ruffle his hair. “How about a story from the crossing of the Helcaraxë?” he said eventually. “I don’t think you’ve heard many of those before.”

“Fine,” decided Elros after a long moment. He rolled over onto his stomach, then shuffled around so that he was facing the fire again. Fingon waited for him to settle, his eyes soft as he watched. He could hear Maedhros behind them, his footsteps and the brush of his cloak a whisper against the ground as he walked the perimeter of their camp and kept a sharp eye on the darkness. “But nothing too sad.”

“Nothing too sad,” Fingon agreed. He prodded at the fire and took his time thinking. Despite himself, Elros’ eyes were beginning to drift shut. “This is a story about your great-grandfather,” Fingon said at last. “My brother. One day, when he was out hunting, he found himself straying ahead of everyone else on the ice. Before he realized what was happening, the ice beneath him began to shift and break. He was trapped, with the sea rushing beneath him, alone in the darkness."

“No orcs,” said Maedhros quietly, settling down next to Fingon beside the fire at last. It was late and the air was chilly; Fingon shifted closer to Maedhros and silently unfastened the brooch from around his cloak, loosening it to pull it around both of their shoulders. “But there’s a strange light in the west that I don’t like.” Fingon hummed and finished settling the cloak snugly around them.

“I saw it too, a few days ago. A forest fire, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Maedhros answered doubtfully. Fingon, hearing the wariness in his voice, leaned into his side. “Or some new devilry of Morgoth’s. Whatever it is, it’s getting brighter.” 

“We’ll look into it with Káno tomorrow,” Fingon promised. When he felt Maedhros’ frustrated huff against the top of his head, he reached over to wind their hands together. He squeezed Maedhros’ hand gently and felt Maedhros’ fingers press his in return. “Do you remember,” Fingon asked at last, his voice slipping lower, “That time that Káno and I were picnicking with the twins at the pond,  and you stumbled upon us? They were little -- seven, maybe? It was the first time we’d seen you in months.”

“I remember,” Maedhros said, his voice as low as Fingon’s. In the tent behind them Elros was already asleep; their horses whickered and moved softly in the darkness nearby, while the fire crackled in front of them. Fingon tilted his head back and smiled up at Maedhros. 

“Káno had to come and fetch me after I ran away from you,” he said. He thumbed away the guilty frown on Maedhros’ face before it had time to settle. “He told me that I should relax and enjoy the time I had with my family.” 

“That sounds like him.”

“I think you should relax,” Fingon said softly, letting his hand slip around to the back of Maedhros’ neck, “And enjoy this time we have together.” And with that he pulled Maedhros the rest of the way towards him, and met him in a kiss. 

Though it had been seventy-three years since the last time they’d kissed, Fingon knew this part by heart -- the softness of Maedhros’ lips, the way Maedhros’ mouth opened beneath him, the helpless noise Maedhros made when Fingon’s tongue brushed against his. Even as he pulled Maedhros towards him Maedhros reached for him too, dragging him closer and deepening the kiss. By the time they broke apart both of their hearts were racing. Fingon turned to nuzzle against Maedhros’ cheek and hide his smile. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, nosing against Maedhros’ skin and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I know we should talk first.”

“We should,” agreed Maedhros hoarsely. His fingers curled around the back of Fingon’s neck and kept him close.

“I said we would.” 

“You did.” Maedhros turned his head to mouth at the soft skin underneath Fingon’s ear. Fingon drew in a quick breath and pulled him closer.

“I just wanted to kiss you,” he confessed, when he could speak again. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I always want to kiss you,” Maedhros whispered. Fingon laughed and nuzzled against him, kissing Maedhros’ jaw again. His heart was singing.

“I know,” he said. “You’re not very good at hiding it.”

“Fin…”

“Tomorrow,” Fingon promised. He turned his head to press another long, lingering kiss to Maedhros’ lips. Even when the kiss ended he stayed there for a long moment, breathing together with Maedhros, unwilling to pull away. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he murmured against Maedhros’ lips. Maedhros nodded. Fingon felt him shiver. 

“Tomorrow,” Maedhros agreed, the words like a prayer against Fingon’s skin. Fingon pressed one last, swift kiss to his lips before he drew back, bringing both of his hands up to cup Maedhros’ face. 

“I’ll let you finish your watch,” he said, smiling at Maedhros. Maedhros, his eyes bright, smiled helplessly back. “Good night, love.” 

Fingon fell asleep to the memory of Maedhros’ lips warm against his; but when he dreamed that night he dreamed of mountains and plains of snow, cold so deep it froze his bones and the crack of ice breaking on an uncertain, treacherous sea. It felt as real and vivid as though he was really back on the edge of the Helcaraxë again, the ice shattering and moving beneath his feet and the darkness surging as the waves rose up to swallow him whole. He could feel it still as he woke, and it took him several long seconds -- too long -- to realize that he was no longer dreaming.

The ground was trembling and bucking beneath him, and the sound he heard was not the memory of splitting ice, but the shattering and crumbling of stone. 

By the time he pushed himself up Maedhros was already there inside of the tent, shaking Elros awake. “Orcs,” he said harshly, in answer to Fingon’s wild look. “They're coming from tunnels in the ground.” Fingon gaped at him. 

“They’re --”

“There’s no time!” Maedhros snapped. He dragged Fingon up and shoved his sword and his cloak at him. “They’re already here, Fin. We have to go.” 

Even as he spoke the ground convulsed beneath them; Maedhros kept his balance, but Fingon, still half-asleep, stumbled and nearly fell. Maedhros hissed and pulled him up, shoving him forward towards the front of the tent before he reached back to grapple Elros up too. Fingon lurched through the door of the tent and froze in his tracks.

The air was thick with smoke and red with flames. At his feet the ground was splintering, and from the darkness beneath Fingon could hear the clash of metal and the shrill, ringing sound of orcish laughter. Some kind of molten fire gleamed through the cracks in the earth, sickly and red; by its light Fingon could see one pair of yellow eyes flash, and then another -- orcs crawling from below the earth like ants from a hill.  

And then Maedhros was there at his shoulder, Elros bundled in front of him with his knife clutched in his hand and his face frozen in terror. “Up the cliff,” Maedhros said tightly, pushing them forward as the ground bucked again and another fissure splintered open, steam erupting from it as though the ground itself burned beneath them. “Go!” 

Fingon shook his head, struggling to clear it. He could see the flash of metal through the trees -- orc blades and orc armor, approaching through the forest. “Your hand,” he said, reaching back for Maedhros. “Russo, you can’t climb with --”

“I’ll manage,” Maedhros interrupted, shoving Elros forward and into Fingon’s arms. Elros stumbled into Fingon; he was shaking with fear. “Take Elros and go.” With that Maedhros turned, reaching for his sword as the tramp of feet and the clash of arms grew closer. His teeth were bared in a snarl. Fingon gave him one last desperate, helpless look -- and then he turned too, pushing Elros ahead of him towards the cliff. 

“Climb as fast as you can,” he said, leaning forward to whisper in Elros’ ear over the shrieks and howls of the orcs approaching behind them. “I’m right behind you, sweetheart. Don’t look back.” 

“A-ada--”

Elros was crying. The first orcs were swarming into the clearing now; Fingon could hear them screech as they caught sight of them, and he heard Maedhros yell as he threw himself forward to buy them time. Fingon’s own eyes stung; but he only pressed a kiss to Elros’ head and urged him forward. 

“You can do this, brave heart,” Fingon murmured. “Come on.” 

Elros began to climb, shakily and achingly slowly; but the darkness and their cloaks and the whirl of Maedhros’ blade seemed enough to hide them. Though a few arrows clattered around them, none struck. The smoke grew thicker as they climbed higher; by the top they were both gasping for breath. Elros reached the top first; Fingon followed after him, his hands cut and bloody from the rocks. The moment Fingon pulled himself up, Elros threw himself at him, sobbing and clinging to him desperately. Fingon wrapped him in his arms, shushing him and trying to breathe as, below them, the ground continued to heave and the glow of red firelight grew and spread. It was almost impossible to see through the smoke, but Fingon could hear them -- Morgoth’s army emerging from the trees and from the bowels of the earth, dressed for war. 

“I have you,” Fingon murmured, wrapping Elros in his arms and pulling his cloak around both of them. “I won’t leave you.” 

“Ada --”

“Shh. I’m here.” 

He couldn’t hear the sound of Maedhros’ sword anymore; praying desperately and silently to whichever of the Valar were listening, Fingon swallowed down the panic rising in his throat and pulled Elros back with him, squeezing them both into a narrow crevasse between a massive boulder and a dark, thick tangle of thorn bushes. They were tucked deep into the shadows; ahead of them, the gorge glowed and burned as though the pits of Angband itself had opened beneath them. Fingon held Elros and prayed. 

Gradually, the ground stopped shaking and the earth began to steady again, even as the tramp of feet and the clash of metal armor and swords grew louder. Fingon’s eyes burned from the smoke, but still he kept his gaze fixed on the edge of the cliff. Elros shook at his side. Fingon murmured soothingly to him and kept him bundled close. When Elros began to cry again, Fingon wrapped him in his arms and tucked his face against his chest to hide the sound. His eyes ached and his head throbbed. He didn’t look away once from where they’d left Maedhros. 

Ten minutes passed, and then twenty, agonizingly slowly -- but then, impossibly, Maedhros was there.

He was staggering forward towards them from out of the trees, his sword still in hand as he looked around wildly. All of the breath left Fingon’s lungs at once, and without pausing to think he rose to his feet, pulling Elros up with him. “Russo!”

Fingon saw the moment that Maedhros caught sight of them; Maedhros stumbled, his shoulders slumping as he half-fell, half-ran the dozen yards between them to pull Fingon and Elros both into a fierce, crushing embrace. 

“You’re alright,” he said hoarsely, pulling back only far enough to run his hand and his wrist up and down Fingon’s arms before seizing Elros’ chin and turning his head to look for injuries. When he saw none, he looked close to sobbing with relief. “You’re not hurt.”

Fingon shook his head. Maedhros was covered in blood. Fingon could feel it, sticky and hot, under his hands, though he couldn’t tell in the darkness whether it belonged to Maedhros or the orcs he’d killed. “We’re not hurt,” Fingon rasped. “Russo, what is this?”

“I don’t know.” Convinced at last that Elros was unharmed, Maedhros reached for Fingon again; Fingon let himself be pulled into another hug, wrapping his free arm around Maedhros and holding him back just as tightly. “I don't know. Something’s summoned them. This is an army, Fin."

Fingon, pressed against Maedhros’ chest, shook his head and pulled Elros closer. He felt Maedhros' lips against his forehead; and then Maedhros was pulling back, his right arm resting on Fingon’s shoulder and his left hand on Elros’ as he looked at them both. 

“They’re moving northwest,” he said. “Towards Amon Ereb.”

Fingon’s breath caught. Next to him Elros let out a wail, quickly stifled when Maedhros dragged him into his side. Maedhros stroked his fingers through Elros’ hair, but he didn’t turn his eyes away from Fingon’s face. 

“Russo,” Fingon said. Maedhros shook his head.

“Elrond and Káno are there," he said, his voice quick and urgent. "Elrond’s injured. I have to go.” 

Fingon didn’t know when he’d started crying, but the next moment Maedhros was reaching up and gently brushing the tears from beneath his eyes. His hand left bloody streaks on Fingon’s cheeks. “I’ll get them out,” he said. “I promise, Fin.” 

Fingon shook his head. “There are hundreds of them,” he whispered. “An army, you said.”

“We’ll find you,” Maedhros said. Fingon was crying in earnest now; Maedhros cupped his cheek. “You wait for us -- or you run and hide, if you have to. But I promise I’ll find you.” Fingon reached up and seized Maedhros’ hand, careless of the blood on his palm as he pressed a fervent kiss into his skin. 

“You bring them back to us,” he whispered fiercely, half-choking on the words. “You bring them back; and you come back safe too, Russo, or I swear, I’ll --” 

Before he could finish Maedhros leaned forward and cut him off with a swift, fierce kiss. Fingon sobbed and dragged Maedhros to him, clinging to him and tasting the blood in Maedhros’ mouth. Fingon pulled him closer and closer still, until finally Maedhros pulled away. “I love you,” Maedhros said, cupping Fingon’s cheek in his palm. “Fin. Beloved. It will be alright. You keep Elros safe. I'll see you soon.” Fingon shook his head. 

“I can’t --”

“I’ll get them out,” Maedhros promised again. “I’ll get them out, and then I’ll come back for you.” He leaned in and pressed one last, hasty kiss to Fingon’s lips before dropping down and pressing a kiss to Elros’ forehead, too. And then with that he was gone, vanishing into the darkness and racing against the sea of enemies below.

Night turned to dawn turned to day; but the darkness and the fire and the smoke continued, as though Morgoth’s evil had risen high enough to consume the sun too. Fingon kept Elros tucked close to him, huddled in the crevasse between the boulder and the copse of bushes as the army continued to flow past beneath them. There was a little stream of acrid-tasting water dripping down the side of the boulder; they drank from it when their thirst grew too much to bear, ignored their hunger, and watched through smoke-reddened eyes as the forest and the land beneath them burned. The hours drew on -- as night began to fall the sound of the army marching grew less, and by dawn the next day it vanished altogether. All that was left to show of their passing was the burnt carcass of the forest and the steam still rising from the fissures and wounds in the ground. Fingon waited one more day and night, just in case. And then he and Elros stole, as quietly as ghosts, through the trees and across the three miles that separated them from the keep. 

All that remained of their home, when they reached it, was a ruin of stones, shattered glass, and still smoldering fire. The ground around them was soaked in blood. Amon Ereb was gone -- and though they dug through the rubble and called out for hours, Elrond, Maglor, and Maedhros were gone, too.

Chapter Text

The door of the tavern fell open, and two men -- drunk and squabbling loudly -- stumbled out from the firelight and the tumult of voices into the night air. Fingon stayed in the shadows as they passed, ignoring them but watching the glimpse of the tavern through the doorway until the door swung shut again. He didn’t want to go inside -- it was late, and he had just spent the past week on horseback -- but he had looked everywhere else, and Elros was nowhere to be found. 

He sighed, let his hand drop to his sword, and quickly walked the last few steps to shoulder the door open.

Almost at once the smell was enough to knock him back on his feet: spilled beer, unwashed bodies, dense, foul-smelling smoke from the fireplace at the back of the room. The tavern was crowded with men -- rangers and mercenaries for the most part, some of them thieves, all of them dispossessed and desperate. Every one of them, to the last man, had a lean, wolfish look; their hands were calloused and their shoulders broad, their faces reddened with drink and hard-living in the wild. Fingon recognized some of them, though most were strangers. Through the crowd he caught a glimpse of a handful of dwarves, as rough-looking as the men; and though he earned a dark look or two as he walked in, no one seemed surprised to see an elf here, either. 

Most of the crowd was thronged around the bar. Fingon pushed past them, scanning the room and ignoring the elbows and sullen oaths thrown his way. It was difficult to see through the smoke and the tight pack of bodies, and when he couldn’t find Elros at first his heart fell. But then a massive, burly man stood with a belch and began to move towards the bar; and there, seated behind him, Fingon caught a glimpse of brown skin and dark hair. 

Elros was sitting at a round table in the back corner of the room. His profile was to Fingon, but through the clamor of drunken laughter and coarse, shouted conversation, he didn’t seem to notice Fingon’s approach. There were three men at the table with him -- all of them were much older than Elros, and strangers to Fingon. Two of them had the hard, rough look of soldiers for hire; the third man was smaller and sharper, with lank blonde hair and distrustful, too-knowing blue eyes. Fingon saw, with a sinking heart, that the four of them were playing cards; even as Fingon watched, Elros dropped his cards to the table with a flourish and took a long swig from the flagon of beer at his elbow. Over a half-dozen other tankards -- some still full, most empty -- cluttered the top of the scarred wooden table and the floor. 

“That’s my hand again,” Elros said, setting his flagon back down at last and grinning as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The two soldiers swore loudly, watching angrily as Elros leaned across the table and drew the small pile of silver towards himself; the smaller man just looked at him closely and said nothing. “What do you say to another hand? Double or nothing?” Elros’ voice was cheery and slurred by drink. As Fingon watched, he finished pulling the silver over and then lounged back in his chair, picking up his cards again and shuffling them idly. “Go on -- one more game, and the next round of drinks on me.” 

One of the soldiers threw a handful of silver onto the table with a dark look. The other buried his face in his drink. The blue-eyed man leaned forward. 

“You’re a cheat,” the man said, his thin mouth curling in a scowl. Elros laughed, but the other two men sat up straighter. Fingon, still pushing his way towards them from halfway across the room, swore under his breath and quickened his pace. 

“I’ve been watching you,” the man accused, his voice growing louder. “You’re palming cards. You’re a filthy cheat, and you’ve been stealing our money.” He drew his knife. Elros, seemingly unconcerned, picked up a coin and spun it in his fingers. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “No one's cheating. You’re just shit at cards.” 

The man spat across the table; his spittle landed on the pile of silver, inches from Elros’ hand. Fingon saw Elros’ eyes narrow. “You’re a cheat,” the man said again, leaning across the table and brandishing his knife under Elros’ nose. “All of you fucking elves are -- I bet your father’s a treacherous, swindling bastard too, just like --”

Fingon broke into a run, but he was already too late -- quick as a snake Elros seized the man’s wrist and jerked it sharply back, not letting go until the bones snapped. When the man cried out Elros dropped his wrist and leaped over the table to punch him squarely in the face. 

The man howled. Despite his broken wrist and the blood gushing from his nose, he swung wildly at Elros with his left hand -- blinded by pain and alcohol, he missed Elros but knocked all of the drinks and the coins onto the floor. The other two men yelled and fell back -- one drew a knife from his belt, while the other lost his balance and staggered into the men behind him, knocking their drinks from their hands too. With a roar the men fell upon him; and within a minute it was a full-fledged brawl, fists flying and glass shattering as half the room fell upon each other and the other half scrambled to get out of the way. 

Fingon, caught in the middle of it, swore loudly and sidestepped a punch aimed for his head. Another man fell into him; he caught him by the shoulders and shoved him away before surging forward again, trying to push his way through. He could still see Elros through the melee, a vicious look on his face as he ducked under the dagger the blonde man was swinging wildly in his left hand. Elros rammed into him, knocking him back and punching him in the face again when he had him pinned against the table. “You have a fucking thing to say about my family?” Elros growled. He punched the man a third time; there was a spray of blood as the man’s lip split. Elros’ knuckles were bloody too. “Go ahead and say it again, you piece of shit, you --”

And then, finally, Fingon was there, shoving his way through the crowd and seizing Elros’ arm before he could throw another punch. Elros snarled and tried to pull free; Fingon dragged him back, grabbing Elros’ other arm too before Elros could swing at him. “It’s me,” he said sharply into Elros’ ear. “Elros, enough.” 

Elros’ chest was heaving. Fingon could feel him straining forward, his body still tense and ready to fight. “I don’t think this piece of shit has learned his lesson yet,” Elros answered darkly, watching as the man wiped his bloody face with the back of his hand. The man spat a mouthful of blood at him; Elros grinned viciously, pulling against Fingon’s grip. “You want another round, asshole?” 

“Enough,” Fingon snapped. He ignored the man’s sneers and Elros’ renewed struggles to break free as he dragged Elros’ back, through the yells and the fighting and towards the door of the tavern. 

“Is daddy coming to save you?” the man taunted, raising his voice to a yell as Fingon and Elros drew away. Fingon grimly tightened his grip and continued to pull Elros back, even as Elros snarled and tried to leap back into the fight. “You’re all cowards and thieves, just like I said. Fucking bastard.”

Fingon managed to shoulder Elros out of the tavern before Elros could do more than give a wordless shout in response. Fingon shoved him through the door hard enough that Elros, already unsteady on his feet from drink and adrenaline, tripped and fell into the snow. Fingon stood on the path and looked down at him, his chest heaving. They could still hear the bar fight raging through the closed door. 

After a long moment Elros pushed himself unsteadily up onto his elbows. There was an ugly cut across his forehead; as Fingon watched, Elros turned his head and spat a mouthful of blood into the snow. 

“Hi, Ada,” he said at last, finally looking up at Fingon and managing a crooked grin. Fingon glowered at him. Elros’ grin didn’t break, but he dropped his eyes as he pulled himself gingerly to his feet. “Welcome back.” 

“Home,” Fingon said, his voice cold. “Now.”

“Home” was a single, windowless room at the back of the blacksmith’s shop. There was no fireplace, and so at this time of year the room was perpetually damp and cold. It was barely wide enough for their two narrow cots and their small jumble of belongings -- two leather knapsacks, their swords, and Fingon’s bow -- but the blacksmith and her wife lived in the rooms above the front of the shop, so it was at least private as Fingon dragged Elros through the dark workshop to the back. 

“Sit,” he snapped, shoving Elros down onto the nearer of the two cots and turning away from him to light the room’s single lantern. Elros fell onto the mattress, his hands gripping the edge of the cot and a mulish expression on his face. He hadn’t said a word since Fingon had dragged him from the tavern. Even after he managed to light the lantern, Fingon stayed standing with his back to Elros, fighting to get a handle on his anger. 

“If this is what you think your fathers and Elrond would have wanted for you,” he bit out at last, tucking his hands under his arms to hide their shaking, “You’re wrong.” He turned then, at last, and looked at Elros.

Elros was a mess; there were smears of blood across his face and his hands, and his hair -- pulled back in a single braid before the fight, now loose and messy around his face -- was wet with spilled beer and snow. One eye was purpling; the cut on his face was still sluggishly bleeding. He looked sullenly up at Fingon, but didn’t say anything.

“That man was right,” Fingon said. “You were cheating.” 

Elros half-shrugged. “Does it matter?” he asked. “He didn’t really catch me. It was a lucky guess.” 

“You can’t keep doing this.” 

Elros scoffed. “Because it’s wrong?”

"Because it’s dangerous.” Fingon stepped back towards him and dropped down to his knees. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and reached up to wipe roughly at Elros’ face. His voice was still tight with anger. “You’ve been drinking. Your reflexes are slow. He could have seriously hurt you.”

“I’ve had three drinks, I’m not --”

“No more gambling,” Fingon snapped. He reached down for his knapsack and fumbled it open. In front of him Elros made an outraged noise. “No more going to the tavern on your own.” 

“Where do you think the money for this room comes from?” Elros said disbelievingly. When Fingon reached up for his face again with a rag, Elros pushed him away. “Ada, you can’t --”

“I can and I am. No more of it, pityo.”

“Don’t call me that," snapped Elros reflexively. Fingon fell back, and for a moment they both glared at each other.

Fingon relented first. He reached for Elros’ face again, more gently this time -- although Elros let him wipe his face clean, he was still glowering with anger. He squeezed his eyes shut rather than meet Fingon’s gaze. At last Fingon let the rag fall to the ground with a sigh. 

“We’ll figure out another way to pay for this,” he said. He pushed himself up to sit on the cot beside Elros; although Elros shuffled over and made room for him, he still didn’t meet Fingon’s eyes. Fingon, testing his luck, laid a light hand on Elros’ knee, and felt Elros stiffen beneath him. “I can start taking jobs with the caravans again; there are still a few things we have left we can sell. But getting drunk and stealing other people’s money isn’t worth it, Elros.”

“Everyone in this lousy place is a thief or a murderer or both,” Elros said sullenly. “What does it matter?”

“Your safety matters, for one,” Fingon answered. He squeezed Elros’ knee. Elros said nothing. “You know we have to keep to ourselves here. We shouldn’t draw any more attention than we can help.”

“There’s a fight at that place every other night,” Elros muttered. He scuffed his foot against the ground. “No one gives a damn about who started it.”

Fingon sighed and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Elros’ ear. “Maybe,” he agreed reluctantly. “But you are also a prince of the Eldar, sweetheart. I know it doesn’t feel like it these days -- but the blood of the maiar and kings of men and elves both flows through your veins. You’re meant for better and braver things than bar fights and earning a living by scamming poor soldiers out of their money. Atto and Atya wouldn’t want you risking your life over this.” Elros shrugged.

“Yeah, well, they’re dead,” he said bitterly. “So I guess we’ll never know what they’d want.” 

Fingon’s throat tightened. “We don’t know that,” he said. 

“It’s been over seven years,” Elros choked out in answer. His eyes were bright even though they were still fixed on the ground. “You’re always leaving me behind to run around chasing down rumors. Have any of your ‘leads’ ever worked out? Even one?” Fingon didn’t answer. Elros managed a brittle laugh, although he immediately pressed his hand to his mouth when it threatened to become a sob. “I think we can be pretty fucking certain.” 

Fingon couldn’t help himself, then -- he reached up and grasped Elros’ chin, gently but firmly turning his face towards him until Elros finally, reluctantly, met his eyes. “It took me thirty years to cross the Helcaraxë,” Fingon said. “And sixty-five years to return from Mandos’ Halls. I am not giving up on our family after seven years. We are not giving up on them. Do you understand?” Elros blinked rapidly but didn’t answer. Fingon’s voice softened. “I believe that Elrond is still out there,” he said. “And Atto and Atya. If they are free, then they're looking for us too. We’re not going to betray them by losing faith now.” 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Elros’ forehead. Elros shuddered underneath him; but eventually he gave a single, reluctant nod. Fingon drew back just enough to knock their foreheads together. “And watch your language,” he added, as an afterthought. He offered a small smile; Elros managed a weak laugh. “Some king you’ll make, if you go around talking like that.”

The traders passing through called it the War of Wrath -- battles so fierce the ground itself split beneath them, and so many demons and fell creatures pouring forth that it was as though all of Angband had broken loose. It was never truly dark anymore -- during the day the horizon glowed sullenly, and at night the flames from the war turned the western sky red and covered the stars with smoke. The battles were moving steadily east -- the plains and the forests just west of Ramdal teemed with orcs and monsters -- but for the time being the hill lands remained clear of the worst of Morgoth’s forces. Ramdal had once been a mining town, but these days it was an outpost for desperate people with nothing left to lose. Many of those passing through worked for Morgoth or were mercenaries with no allegiance to anyone, but just as many were dispossessed farmers and soldiers whose lands had been overrun by orcs. The story Fingon passed around was that he and Elros were two green elves from the lands east of the Ered Luin; if anyone in the town knew them to be Noldor, they were at least wise enough to keep that information to themselves. 

Fingon, true to his word, forbade Elros from gambling in the tavern; not trusting the sullen promise Elros had finally given him, Fingon began to spend more time in Ramdal too, taking odd jobs where he could find them and letting his hunt for any word of Maedhros, Maglor, and Elrond rest for the time. Though Elros continued to grumble and protest that he was an adult now and too old to be forbidden anything, he eventually gave in and began spending his evenings in the forge with Nyla, the blacksmith, making horseshoes and nails at first, but soon graduating to mending swords and armor under her critical eye. 

Late that winter a dwarvish caravan passed through from the east, their three wagons bristling with swords and spears. Fingon recognized one of the warriors when they rolled through the gates -- Náli, third cousin to Azaghâl and a lieutenant during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad -- and, itching from staying pent up in Ramdal for so long, he resolved to track him down at the tavern that night. The moment he told Elros, Elros demanded that he be allowed to go, too. 

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,” Elros said hotly, when Fingon shook his head no and began hunting through the room for his cloak. “Everything, Ada. They’re my family, too. If you think the dwarves have news of them, then I should be there.”

“Náli will recognize me,” Fingon said, sitting back on his heels and looking up at him. “I’m putting us in enough danger as it is by letting him know I’m here. I don’t want anyone putting two and two together and realizing that you’re one of the lost peredhil, Elros.” 

“I won’t say anything,” Elros said immediately. “I’ll just sit there quietly, we’ll say I’m a soldier -- or I can keep my hood up, and we’ll pretend that I’m one of the men from town." When Fingon again shook his head no, Elros’ voice sharpened with frustration. “The last time anyone outside of Amon Ereb saw me I was six, Ada. None of the dwarves will care who I am. And I deserve to know, don’t I? If you think that they can tell us something, then I deserve to know too.” 

Fingon, looking at him, saw Maedhros in the stubborn set of Elros’ jaw, Maglor in his bright brown eyes, Elrond in the earnest, pleading way he leaned forward. Heart aching, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Against his better judgment, he found himself saying, “You are to sit there silently. Whatever he says, you don’t react. Do you understand?” 

Elros, with a broad grin, bounded forward and pulled Fingon up and into a hug. That was rare enough these days that at first Fingon froze. By the time he reached out to hug Elros back, Elros was already pulling away. 

“I understand,” he said, reaching for his own cloak. “Thank you, Ada!”

“They say the Valar themselves are fighting in the west,” Náli said. Fingon leaned across the table towards him. Elros, true to his word, held his tankard of beer loosely in his hands and said nothing, though Fingon could tell that he was listening intently. They were seated in the back corner of the tavern, tucked out of sight behind the smoke and the press of bodies. Náli, his hair and his beard white with age but his shoulders still broad under his steel armor, took another long pull of beer. “And golden elves, with eyes like the sun.” 

“Golden elves?” Fingon repeated slowly. Náli nodded.

“I haven’t seen it myself, mind -- and I don’t know that I believe it. But the battles are raging, true enough, massive battles that put our Nirnaeth to shame. Every day the ground splits apart further and belches out more orcs and dragons and foul creatures -- and the western sky burns all hours of the day and night, dragon fire and smoke and some strange light the likes of which I’ve never seen before. For more than seven years now it’s been going on; and fuck me if I don’t think it could keep raging forever, and take all of Beleriand down with it, too.” 

“Eärendil was trying to find the Valar, to plead for their aid,” Elros said. When Fingon gave him a sharp look, he shrugged and dropped his gaze back down to his flagon. “That’s what the stories say, anyway. Maybe he really did it.” 

“Maybe, boy,” said Náli kindly, after a moment. “If they have finally come to rid us of the Darkness once and for all, then good luck to them, I say. But me and my folk have learned our lesson, and we’re keeping out of the battle this time -- meaning no disrespect to you, King Fingon.” Fingon shook his head.

“I'm not the king anymore,” he said. “Just call me Finno.” Náli grunted and raised his flagon to his lips again. Fingon lowered his voice even further. “You remember Maedhros?” he asked. Náli snorted. 

“Coppertop? Aye. He’s a hard one to forget.” 

Fingon leaned closer. “We’re looking for him,” he said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “We think he may have been taken captive by orcs seven and a half years ago, at the start of the war. There would have been two others with him -- his brother, and a child. Have you had any word of them?” 

Náli looked at him, his eyes too perceptive in the hazy firelight. “Dwarf friend, my cousin named Maedhros,” he answered at last, slowly. “I know his name has become a curse among your kind these past seventy years or more. But for my part, I always wished him well.” He took another long drink from his flagon, finishing it off. Fingon and Elros both watched him, barely breathing. “I haven’t had word of him for many years,” Náli said at last, setting his flagon down. “Not along the eastern roads, nor as far as my folk still travel west. Maybe he and the others you're looking for are still out there somewhere. But from what I hear, the Enemy doesn’t keep many captives these days. If orcs really did take them, then your Fëanorions are probably dead by now.” 

He said it bluntly but kindly, in the voice of a friend doing a hard but necessary service. Next to him, Fingon saw Elros blinking furiously. After a moment Fingon stood; Elros staggered up after him. Náli looked at them both sympathetically. 

“Thank you,” Fingon said numbly. He pushed his untouched beer into Náli’s hands and dropped a handful of coins onto the table. “May the Valar keep you safe, old friend."

He turned from the table and strode away, not turning his head once to see the pity in Náli’s eyes, nor the grief on Elros’ face as Elros pushed in his chair and stumbled after him.

“You heard what he said, Ada,” Elros whispered that night. His voice was thick. Fingon lay on his back on his cot, stared up at the ceiling, and said nothing. “Half of Beleriand is at war. If they really did take them prisoner, then --”

“We’re not giving up,” Fingon interrupted flatly. Across from him he heard Elros give a muffled sob, quickly stifled against his pillow. “We keep looking.”

“But, Ada --”

“We’re going to Amon Ereb at midsummer, like we’ve always done,” Fingon said. He could hear that Elros was crying, though he did his best to hide it. Fingon’s own eyes stung, but his voice was stony. “If they’re still out there, then that’s the first place they’ll look for us. We’re not giving up on them. Not now.”

They left Ramdal at the end of spring, pooling the last of their money to buy a pair of horses and heading southeast towards the forests around what had once been Amon Ereb. It was too dangerous a road to travel alone during winter, and even in the spring their path was haunted with orc patrols and packs of rangy, starving wolves; but they traveled as fast and as far as they could during the day, traded off a sharp-eyed watch during the night, and within a week they had reached what was left of their old home. 

Grass had grown over the ruin of the keep in the past eight years; bushes and wildflowers filled the clearing made by the destruction of the tower, and saplings were growing in what had once been the training yard. Fingon dismounted from his horse and looked around, his heart heavy in his chest as he noted each change. Elros was silent, his eyes red and his mouth twisted unhappily downward.

“Well,” said Fingon, trailing his fingers over what used to be the garden wall, “Here we are.”

The southern wall of the keep still rose up a story or so above the ground. They pitched their camp there, keeping their horses tethered nearby and building the fire behind the cover of the corner where the southern wall and the eastern wall still met. They had arrived in the late afternoon, too late to go hunting; dinner that night was quiet and simple, hard tack and dried meat and no more conversation other than now and then a quiet request to pass the waterskin. As soon as he’d finished, Elros moved away from the fire and curled up in his bedroll, his back to Fingon and his body stiff with unhappiness. Fingon sat next to the fire, his sword in his lap, and stayed awake with his thoughts through the long hours of the night.

They were both up with the dawn, leaving their horses behind to browse in the grass while they trekked on foot to each of their old spots. They had been doing this for seven years now, and they both knew the order by heart. 

The clearing where they had separated from Maedhros was their first stop. Elros refused to walk into the gorge itself, still riven and torn as it was after all these years. Fingon walked to the base of the cliff alone while Elros lingered at the top. He looked around briefly for any sign that their family had been there; when he saw nothing, he dropped to his knees and quickly carved his initials and Elros’ in Tengwar into the stone. 

From there they moved north towards their old hunting paths, leaving a half dozen marks on the trunks of trees and the boulders that littered the ground as they went. Now and then they caught sight of scratches from years before, half-covered now by moss and worn down by snow and rain. Elros said little, and less and less as the day wore on; Fingon stayed quiet as well. By midday clouds covered the sky and there was an unseasonable chill in the air. Elros half-heartedly suggested turning back, but Fingon only shook his head and walked on. 

They reached the pond last, late enough in the evening that the glow of the battles in the west was hidden for the time by the setting sun. The pond was as pretty as it had always been, surrounded on every side still by reeds and wildflowers. The water’s surface was choppy from the breeze. The rocky ledge that used to run along the southern edge of the pond was gone, destroyed in the earthquakes that had torn the land apart eight years ago. A few familiar trees had disappeared too; where they had once stood new trees were beginning to grow and take their place. 

Elros wrapped his arms around himself at the edge of the clearing, staring out at the water of the pond with a miserable look on his face. Fingon reached over and rested his hand on his shoulder. Although Elros didn’t shrug him off, his body was as tense as a knife under Fingon’s hand. 

“Atya and I used to love coming here with you and Elrond,” Fingon said. Next to him Elros was silent. “I lost track of how many picnics we had here with you both.” Elros clenched his jaw. Fingon heard him swallow.

“Come on,” Elros said brusquely, pulling away from Fingon and moving towards an old oak tree that grew a half dozen yards from the edge of the water. “Let’s get this over with.” 

This time Elros was the one to drop down to his knees and carve their initials quickly and roughly into the bark of the tree. While he worked Fingon walked slowly to the other side of the trunk, trailing his fingers along the bark. Though the evening breeze was cold, it still smelled of flowers and rich earth. If he closed his eyes Fingon could almost hear two young boys laughing, the splash of water and their voices singing as they wound their way home. 

His fingers slipped down past a knot in the wood and into a crack in the bark. As he withdrew them, he felt something smooth crinkle under his touch.

“Ada?” Elros called, from the other side of the tree. “Time to go.” 

Fingon ignored him and grasped the folded piece of parchment, carefully drawing it loose from where it was hidden inside the tree trunk. It was yellowed with age and stained with dirt and rain. Even when he heard Elros circle the tree to come join him, Fingon didn’t look up. His fingers trembled as he gently unfolded the parchment and held it out so that Elros, peering over his shoulder, could see it too. 

It was a map of the area around Amon Ereb, painstakingly detailed and drawn in a child’s hand. There were the forests and the winding path bordered by daisies; in the top left corner was the pond, with two little smiling figures standing in the water. At the bottom left was a giant X, embellished and curliqued. And in the bottom right was Amon Ereb itself, the gate and the wall, the stables and the keep and a patch of strawberries in the garden. There were three lanky figures standing next to the tower -- Maedhros in the center, nearly as tall as the tower itself; Maglor with his head cocked to the side and what was probably a bundle of bandages in his hand; and Fingon last of all, a wobbly smile on his face and his hand in Maedhros’. There were three little hearts drawn carefully over their heads. “A Treasure Map by Elrond and Elros” was printed at the bottom, in Elrond’s neat hand. “Top Secret, Don’t Tell.” 

“Elrond found a chunk of amber in the woods one day,” Elros said hoarsely. He reached past Fingon to touch the edge of the map. “We pretended it was dwarven treasure. I remember El drawing this. We stayed up all night.” He reached up higher and touched the picture of him and his brother, the ink faded with time. His voice cracked. “Ada…”

Fingon dropped the map and turned, but he was too late -- before Fingon could catch him Elros had already collapsed to the ground, on his hands and knees as he threw up into the dirt. 

“I used to think that I would know if El was dead,” Elros confessed. His voice was still hoarse and his eyes were red from crying; he sat in front of the fire, his cloak pulled tightly around him as he leaned into Fingon’s side and stared into the flames. Fingon, his arm wrapped tightly around Elros’ shoulders, rubbed his thumb soothingly against his arm but said nothing. “I used to be so sure. But I don’t know anymore. We’ve asked everyone, we’ve looked everywhere, we come back here every year, and we’ve never seen any sign of them.” He raised his hand to hurriedly wipe at his eyes. His voice cracked. “I want to believe like you do, Ada,” he said. He looked up pleadingly at Fingon then. Fingon turned his head and pressed a kiss to his forehead before pulling Elros’ head down against his shoulder. Elros nestled against him as though he was a young child again, needing reassurance after waking up from a nightmare. “But I don’t. I can’t. I hate coming back here. It’s like reliving the worst day of my life, over and over again.” 

He broke off then, his shoulders shaking. Fingon bundled him closer, kissing him again before resting his cheek against the top of Elros’ head. Elros’ tears were soaking through Fingon’s shirt. “I know Atto said he’d find us here,” Elros gasped. “I know you want to keep trying. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, Ada. I can’t.”

Fingon nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I’ve been hurting you, pityo.”

“Ada, please --”

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Fingon promised. He pressed another kiss to Elros’ head. “I love you. I’m sorry. You were right; it’s time.”

They returned to Ramdal and stayed for two months; and then, as the days grew shorter and the nights longer, they left and turned south and east, riding across the plains of Ossiriand towards where the rivers Gelion and Brilthor met. It was a wild, dangerous country, full of desperate men and foul beasts. They stayed close to the river, traveling east along the Brilthor until, as fall turned to winter, they stumbled upon a little hamlet tucked into the foothills of the Ered Luin. 

The people there were gruff but kind, wanting nothing more than to stay out of the wars and tend to their herds and their fishing boats. Gradually, tentative and careful still with each other, Fingon and Elros settled in. Elros took up metalworking again, helping the town’s elderly blacksmith and eventually taking over the forge when he grew too sick to mind it. Fingon guarded the land around the village and occasionally hired his sword to trade caravans passing through. They began to talk about their family again; haltingly at first, and then more often. Fingon came home one night to find Elrond’s treasure map tacked to the wall between their two beds; the next morning Elros watched as Fingon hung a narrow shelf beneath it. They placed their treasures there: Maedhros’ brooch, his wedding gift to Fingon all those years ago, and next to it Elros’ ruby-hilted dagger, the first gift Maglor had ever given him. Elros carved them a small wooden vase, and they kept it filled through the spring, summer, and fall with wildflowers. Fingon touched the memorial before he went to bed each night and every morning when he rose. Elros did the same. 

In the west the war ground on. Here, the seasons turned. They settled in, and didn’t speak of returning to Amon Ereb again. 

Five years passed.

Chapter Text

It was late when Fingon returned. Most of the houses in the village were dark, but firelight was still shining brightly from the stone cottage at the top of the hill, even through the drawn curtains. Fingon was exhausted -- his arms were bruised and aching still from a skirmish with orcs the night before -- and he moved stiffly as he dismounted and led his horse to the small stable in the yard at the back, murmuring to her soothingly as he scrubbed her down and settled her for the night. By the time he was done, the back door was open. Elros was leaning against the doorway, a sweater pulled on against the autumn chill and his arms crossed over his chest. He had a wry look on his face.

“You’re late,” Elros said, raising an eyebrow and fighting a smile. Fingon only shook his head, crossing the yard towards him in a few quick strides before pulling Elros into a hug. He leaned up to press a kiss to his forehead. Elros gave in and wrapped his arms around Fingon, holding him back just as tightly. “Welcome back, Ada.”

“Is it midnight yet? Happy begetting day, sweetheart.” Fingon squeezed him one more time before stepping back. He kept his hands on Elros’ shoulders and smiled up at him, his voice warm despite his exhaustion. Elros made a face but smiled good-humoredly back, standing obediently still while Fingon looked him over. “You look well,” Fingon said at last. At that Elros rolled his eyes.

“You’ve only been gone five days,” he pointed out. Fingon reached up to cup his cheek. 

“I worry.”

“I know you do,” Elros said, his voice softening. He reached up to squeeze Fingon’s hand before gently pulling away and turning them towards the door. “Come on, I kept your dinner warm for you.”

Their cottage was only a single room; but it was clean and bright, the whitewashed walls and the neatly pressed curtains reflecting the firelight and the gleam of the candles. The glass windows were closed against the autumn chill. Fingon fell onto one of the benches at the little wooden table and began to pull off his boots with a sigh; Elros moved past him towards the chest on the far wall, pulling it open and digging through. A moment later he drew something out and set it on the table with a flourish: a dusty bottle of wine and two chipped metal goblets. Fingon raised his eyebrows and looked up at him. 

“Where did you manage to find this?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” Elros quipped, with a wink. When Fingon continued to frown at him, he rolled his eyes. “One card game, from a very disreputable pair of dwarves. Stop fretting and enjoy it, it’s a present.”

“I thought I was supposed to get you a present today.” Fingon reached for his knife as Elros moved past him towards the fireplace. He stabbed the cork and twisted it out. 

“Yeah, well. You always forget, so I took over this year.” But the words were said fondly, and he bumped Fingon’s shoulder companionably as he set the plate of food down in front of him from where it had been sitting and keeping warm on the hearth. 

Elros sat down across from Fingon at the table, waving away his protests -- “I already ate, go on,” -- and pouring them each a glass of wine while Fingon began to tuck into his dinner. Elros slid one goblet across the table to Fingon and cradled the other in his hand, watching as Fingon ate hungrily. 

“Good hunting?”

“Two parties of orcs,” Fingon answered. He waved his hand dismissively when Elros hissed. “The first group was small -- a dozen, maybe. But the second party was three times their number. We had four of our people injured, and Alric might lose his arm.” 

“You’re not hurt?” Elros asked sharply. Fingon shook his head. 

“No.”

Elros exhaled slowly. “Good,” he said, after a moment. “That’s good.”

Hearing the catch in Elros' voice, Fingon paused his eating and reached for him across the table. “I’m fine,” Fingon said seriously, waiting until he’d caught Elros’ eyes before he squeezed his hand. “Truly, pityo.” Elros swallowed.

“I know you are,” he said. “It’s just -- orcs. You know.” He cleared his throat. Fingon squeezed his hand once more before drawing back. For a moment they sat in silence, Fingon eating quietly and letting the fire crackle between them while Elros pulled himself together.

“That’s a handsome sweater,” Fingon said at last, setting down his knife and letting a teasing note slip into his voice as he changed the subject. Elros, grateful for the distraction, nevertheless flushed. “I haven’t seen it before.”

“Yes. Well. It’s new.”

“A begetting day present?”

“Mm.”

“Who is it from?”

“No one.”

Fingon raised his eyebrows. Elros sighed. “No one you know.” When Fingon continued to look at him, Elros added, “You’re being embarrassing again, Ada.” 

“Why should you be embarrassed? That’s a very pretty shade of green. It brings out the hazel in your eyes.” 

“Ada.” 

“Is it from the miller’s daughter? What’s her name -- Mira?”

“Mara,” Elros corrected, hiding his face in his goblet. “And no.”

Fingon couldn’t help it -- he laughed. “You have a new admirer now?” 

“Ada!” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t tease. Who is she?” 

“You’re already teasing,” Elros grumbled. He finished his wine and set it down on the table with a sigh; at last he answered, reluctantly, “Tethar. Her parents are farmers north of town.” Fingon thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against the stem of his goblet.

“She’s the one who always comes to town with all those dogs,” he said at last.

“Two dogs! She has two dogs.” Fingon snapped his fingers.

“That’s her,” he said, leaning back. The blush on Elros’ dusky skin stood out even more against the pretty sage green of the sweater. Fingon beamed at him. “Tall girl, dark skin, hair curlier than yours. She’s very pretty. She made this for you? That was kind of her.”

“Well. We’re friends.”

“Are you? I’m so glad.” 

“Ada.”

“I mean it,” Fingon insisted, his smile lingering even as his voice softened. “It’s good to see you happy, pityo.”

Elros fiddled with his goblet. After a moment he reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass. “I am happy,” he said, clearing his throat. He raised his goblet, finally meeting Fingon’s eyes. “To our family,” he said. Fingon’s eyes stung, but he smiled back and raised his goblet, too.

“To our family,” he agreed, and gave the grief that lived in his heart a moment to pace and settle before he brought his glass to his lips.

Fingon had restless dreams that night. He slept in late enough the following morning that by the time he rose Elros had already gone out, with a note on the table saying he’d be back before noon. 

Fingon kissed his fingers and pressed them gently to the twins’ map, as he always did. And then he dressed, poured himself a cup of oversteeped tea from the kettle that Elros had kept on the fire, and walked outside. 

It was a clear, beautiful day, if brisk -- the sunlight glimmered and danced on the river, while the trees around him were orange and yellow, sharp against the blue sky. The golden and red glow that never left the western horizon was still there, a reminder of the battles consuming West Beleriand and slowly pushing east -- but after thirteen years it was a familiar presence, and Fingon ignored it as he drew in a deep breath and began to wind his way down the dirt path toward the river. 

He found Elros there, as he’d expected to -- he was sitting on the edge of one of the little boat wharves, his feet bare and a fishing pole in hand. He was singing something -- Fingon didn’t recognize the words, but Elros’ rich tenor was cheerful and bright as it floated across to Fingon on the morning air. Fingon stopped on the top of the grassy slope leading down to the water and watched him for a long moment. Elros’ thick, curly hair was cut in the style of the men from these parts, short enough that it only just covered his ears; from behind, with his sun-kissed brown skin and rough clothing, he could have been any one of the young men from the village. His shoulders were growing broad from his work in the forge; but still, as he sat there at the edge of the water singing, he reminded Fingon so strongly of the boy he’d once been that Fingon felt his eyes sting. 

Though Elros hadn’t looked around, he somehow seemed to know that Fingon was there; his song ended, and without turning Elros called out, “Stop lurking, Ada -- you’ll scare away the fish.”

Caught out, Fingon huffed a laugh and began to make his way down the incline, winding through grass and reeds as high as his waist as he made his way towards the rocky shore and the little pier that Elros sat on. It was made of driftwood, worn gray and creaky with time, and it groaned beneath his weight as he stepped out onto it. Fingon settled down gingerly next to Elros, answering his bright smile with a skeptical look. 

“I’m not sure this is safe.”

“That’s because you worry too much.” Despite the morning chill, Elros’ trousers were rolled up and his feet were bare in the water; Fingon shrugged off his cloak, but he kept his boots on and his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them and his mug of tea still clasped in his hands. “I didn’t expect you up for another hour or so. You were sound asleep when I left.” 

“It’s been a long week,” Fingon answered. Elros hummed, leaning his weight against Fingon slightly in acknowledgement. They both watched the cork bobbing in the glittering waves. Fingon raised his cup to his lips and took a long sip. 

“I always think of El when I go fishing,” Elros said at last. His voice was light, but underneath it Fingon heard the undercurrent of sorrow that Elros had borne for half his life now. “I used to like the idea of it when we were little, but El was the only one of us actually patient enough to sit still for more than ten minutes at a time.”

Fingon laughed. “I remember taking you two ice fishing once,” he said. “Back in Sirion. Elrond made us stay out there in the marsh for hours.” Elros turned to grin at him. 

“And in the end all he caught was a little redfish the size of his hand,” he finished fondly. “You made him put it back. He was so cross.” 

“It was as much of a baby as you two were back then.” Fingon met Elros’ smile before taking another sip of tea and turning back to the river. “I think of him when I’m out here, too,” he said. “And Atto and Atya.” Elros turned his gaze back to the river and didn’t say anything, but he leaned more heavily against Fingon all the same. 

“You kept me safe for all these years,” Elros said at last, after several minutes had passed. He glanced sideways at Fingon. “I know you wanted to chase after them, but you stayed with me and protected me instead. Even as the whole world fell apart around us.” 

“You’re my son,” Fingon answered, when he could trust his voice. “I love you. Of course I tried to protect you, pityo.” 

“I know it hurts you, though. Not going back to Amon Ereb anymore. Not trying to find them.” Elros swallowed. Fingon reached over and gently straightened the collar of his shirt. “I made it so hard for you those first few years. I was so angry.” 

“You had lost so much,” Fingon said. “Of course you were angry. I was angry, too.”

“Still. I want you to know how grateful I am. And how much I love you, too.” 

Fingon managed a laugh; although he was sure that Elros, who knew him so well, would hear the pain behind it. “It’s your begetting day, but I’m the one who keeps getting all of these gifts,” he teased. Elros wrinkled his nose; Fingon leaned forward and knocked their foreheads together. 

“Raising you and Elrond was the greatest privilege and honor of my life,” he said, his voice dropping low and growing more serious. “I know that I’ll see them again -- in this life I hope, but in the next if I must. And in the meantime, I’m still lucky enough to look after you.” He leaned up and kissed Elros’ forehead. “The Valar blessed me with you, sweetheart. There’s nothing you need to thank me for.” 

When Elros fell forward into his arms with a sob, Fingon was ready. He caught him and held him, close against his heart. 

They were just sitting down to dinner when there came a knock at the door. Fingon and Elros exchanged a look -- there was a silent contest, Fingon grimacing and Elros narrowing his eyes -- and then the second knock came, more sharply than the first. Fingon gave in with a sigh and rose to his feet. “You get the next one,” he warned, while Elros grinned at him and picked up his knife and fork again. 

It was dusk out, the light fading quickly and stars appearing in that part of the sky not swallowed by the glow of fire in the west. The man standing in the doorway was old, though still tall and hale; his hair and his beard were white, his face wrinkled from age and spotted from the sun. Fingon recognized him; Fanir, Tethar’s father and a farmer in the foothills a few miles north of the village. 

“We’ve had word of wargs coming down from the mountains,” Fanir said gruffly, the moment that Fingon opened the door. His eyes drifted across Fingon's face and narrowed distrustfully, but he only paused a moment before he added, “I think they’re after my sheep. Can you help?”

Fingon managed a tight smile. “Actually, I was just sitting down to dinner with my son.”

“And we’d both love to help,” said a cheery voice from over his shoulder. Fingon swallowed down a sigh and cast a dark look back at Elros. Elros smiled unrepentantly back at him, already reaching for his cloak. “Come on, Ada,” he said. “No time to waste.”

“Ten pieces of silver says it’s a pack of wolves, not wargs.”

“Are we gambling now? You, Ada?” 

“Mm. Only when it’s a sure thing.”

Elros hummed thoughtfully. “It could be wargs,” he said fairly.

“We cleared out that land just last week,” Fingon answered flatly. “There are no wargs.”

“Well, never mind.” Elros, riding next to Fingon, tossed him a grin. “Tethar and I are friends, like I told you. Even if there aren’t any wargs, I’m sure she won’t begrudge us some pie and a glass of mead for our trouble.”

The sky was a darkish red by the time they reached the farm; though they could see the glow of firelight from the low stone hut, clouds covered the moon, and the fields themselves were black. Fingon slowed his horse to a trot; next to him he heard Elros do the same. “We heard the howls coming from that way,” Fanir grunted, nodding his head towards the dark slopes of the mountains in the east. Fingon reached back and drew his bow from over his shoulder. “About two hours ago, and then they stopped. But they were wargs, right enough, and heading this way.” 

“How many did you hear?” asked Fingon in an undertone. He saw Fanir shrug. 

“A pack. Six, at least.” 

Fingon looked over and met Elros’ eyes. Elros nodded back to him, pulling his sword from his scabbard and nudging his horse forward. Fingon turned back to Fanir. 

“You stay inside with your family,” he said. “Lock the doors. One of us will come to get you when it’s safe.”

Fanir nodded brusquely, kicking his horse with his heels. Fingon waited until he had gone before turning to Elros.

“I still think it’s wolves,” he muttered. Elros grinned at him before clicking his tongue and urging his horse towards the northern edge of the field. 

It was cold out here in the foothills, especially now that the sun had set. Even despite his heavy cloak, Fingon shivered as he followed after Elros. He scanned the darkness closely, dropping the reins and reaching behind him for an arrow. He could see a group of sheep clustered together along a black line of fencing. They were bleating and moving around uneasily; there was a sharp, animal smell in the air, but Fingon couldn’t see or hear anything besides the flock.

“It could be a false alarm,” Elros conceded, stopping his horse at last at the fence. He still had his sword in hand, but he loosened his grip as he turned to look at Fingon. “Something spooked them, but I don’t think there are any wolves here.” 

Fingon, his gaze still watchful as it drifted over Elros’ shoulder, saw it before he did -- a massive dark shape leaping from behind a shallow rise in the ground. Fingon had his bow up and drawn in an instant; the next moment he loosed the arrow with a snarl,  and held on grimly as his horse reared and shied away from the warg falling dead at her feet. 

“Not a false alarm,” Fingon said; and he drew another arrow to his bow as, in the darkness ahead of them, one warg after another broke into a howl. 

Elros swore loudly and turned his horse in a circle, tightening his grip on his sword and staring into the darkness. “At least a dozen of them,” he said, counting their howls. “That’s too many for just the two of us, Ada -- we should --”

But it was too late; even as he spoke, the rest of the pack was upon them. 

Fingon managed to shoot two more dead as they leaped forward, but after that the rest of the wargs were too close; he dropped his bow and drew his sword, kicking his horse forward in between Elros and a warg charging towards him. The warg slammed into his horse; Fingon stabbed his sword into its gullet, but the next moment he had to tear his sword free and roll out of the way as his horse and the dead warg both fell to the ground in a spray of blood and torn flesh. 

“Ada!” Elros screamed; he tried to turn to reach Fingon, but already another warg was coming towards him. Fingon heard him swear again and saw him spin around, his sword raised -- but then Fingon had to turn away too, raising his own sword as a trio of wargs approached him. Their leader was gray-muzzled, but the other two were young, muscled brutes, their teeth bared and gleaming in the darkness. 

“You should run,” Fingon told them. He tightened his grip on his sword and raised it higher. If the wargs understood him, they gave no sign; they drew closer, splitting apart to circle him and growling. Fingon followed them with his eyes, setting his feet. “I won’t let you touch my son.” 

The largest of the three wargs let out a howl, and charged. 

Fingon ducked under its paws and drove his sword up, tearing across its throat in one quick slash. Its blood gushed onto him, hot and foul-smelling. He ignored it and rolled out of the way of its corpse, bringing his sword up in time to slam the hilt against the skull of the second warg, stunning it so that it dropped senselessly to the ground. He reached down to sever its throat in a single hard, fast cut; and then he turned in time to see another beast driving towards him. 

Fingon braced himself, but before he had time to do more than lift his sword something silvery bright whistled past his ear and slammed into the warg’s eye. It let out an ear-splitting scream; blood gushed from the ruin of its eye socket as it dropped to the ground and began to writhe and thrash in pain. Breathing heavily, Fingon looked up. 

Elros was still on horseback, though he and his horse were both bloody. His sword and the reins were in his right hand; his left hand was still outstretched from throwing the dagger. When he caught sight of Fingon looking at him through the darkness, he nodded grimly. 

“I count at least five left,” he began.

He didn’t make it any farther -- before he could finish, an enormous, hulking shape rose from out of the darkness directly in front of his horse, making it rear so abruptly that it threw Elros from its back. Elros landed in a crumpled heap on the ground a half dozen feet away. Fingon screamed; the warg ignored him, letting out a howl and stalking towards Elros’ body where it lay motionless in the grass. 

Fingon was already running -- he dropped his sword and threw himself over Elros’ body in time to knock the warg’s jaw sideways, away from Elros’ unprotected neck. The warg growled, staggering to the left and shaking its head; Fingon pushed himself up to his knees, one hand pressed to the underside of Elros’ jaw while his right hand fumbled desperately in the grass for a sword. As he watched the warg regrouped and crouched down low, its eyes burning with hatred as it readied to leap again. Elros lay stunned and insensible on the ground, though beneath his fingers Fingon could feel his pulse still beating steadily. 

Fingon couldn’t find Elros’ sword; his own blade was too far away. He spat a curse and crouched down low over Elros. “You can’t have him,” he hissed. The warg growled again, its tail thrashing as it prepared to spring. There was a small hunting knife at Fingon’s belt; he drew it and bared his own teeth in a snarl as he braced himself.

The warg's eyes narrowed.

Fingon heard it before he saw it -- a low, whistling sound as something heavy and fast cut through the air. The next moment a black line sliced through the darkness and slammed into the warg’s side with enough force to knock it to the ground. The warg let out a scream, even as Fingon stared in shock at the dark line of the spear sticking out from between its ribs. 

There was a rider galloping towards them, his cloak rippling behind him and a sword gleaming in his hand. At his approach one of the remaining wargs reared back to face him; he killed it with a quick, hard slice across its throat, and as it collapsed the last three wargs turned and fled. The rider let them go; he threw himself to the ground next to the injured warg, cutting off its screams with a killing blow to the head. He looked around once more, as though ensuring that all of the remaining wargs were dead; and then he sheathed his sword and ran across the grass to where Fingon was still crouched low over Elros. The moment he reached Fingon, the rider dropped to his knees and lowered his hood. 

Fingon looked up.

Maedhros was kneeling on the ground next to him, his face beautiful and his gray eyes bright in the twilight. All of the breath left Fingon’s lungs at once. Very gently, Maedhros reached down and cupped Fingon’s cheek in his bloodied hand. 

“Found you,” Maedhros whispered, and smiled like the sun rising.

Chapter Text

Maedhros had been unconscious for three days now. “A coma," the healers called it, while they circled around his bed with averted eyes and hushed voices. “The trauma was so much for his body. We don’t know when he’ll wake up. If he’ll wake up.” 

They never looked at Fingon when they said it. The healers avoided him the same way they avoided looking too closely at Maedhros -- as though the sight of both of their wounds was too ugly and terrible to bear, the violence that thirty years in Angband had done to Maedhros’ body, and the grief that Fingon wore like a shroud.  

Fingon watched Maedhros through red-rimmed eyes and said nothing. He ignored the healers when he could. When they dragged his chair away from Maedhros' bedside and tried to make him sleep, he silently moved it back and took Maedhros’ left hand in his again. Eventually the healers gave up trying and simply worked around him, bathing and bandaging Maedhros’ wounds and speaking of Maedhros as though he was not there, as though he was not still their king, as though he was already dead.

Fingon hated them silently, endured them when he had to, and watched Maedhros’ face until his vision blurred and his eyes ached from tiredness. 

Four days had passed since their return to Lake Mithrim, three days since Maedhros had fallen asleep and hadn’t woken up. Maedhros lay waxen and pale on the bed, his beautiful hair all shorn away and his chest rising and falling shallowly underneath the thin white sheets. It was late at night now; the last of the healers had finally gone, and Fingon and Maedhros were alone in the healing halls. The crescent moon shone through the windows. Apart from the quiet murmur of the waves on the lake, the night was still.

Fingon had sat curled up in the chair beside Maedhros’ bed for hours, long enough that his body had gone stiff. He watched Maedhros fixedly. The healers had forbidden him from doing more than holding Maedhros’ hand -- “Any disturbance could overwhelm him” -- but Fingon trusted in Maedhros' strength more than he trusted them. Carefully, his limbs sore and aching from sitting still for so long, he unbent from the chair, and lifted the cover on Maedhros’ bed. 

The bed was narrow, but Fingon managed to fit himself around Maedhros to lay on his side facing him. He pillowed his head on his arm, gently lay his other hand on the bandaged skin over Maedhros’ stomach, and watched him breathe. He had meant to stay awake and continue his vigil; but Maedhros' body was warm under the sheets, and the rise and fall of his breathing beneath Fingon’s hand was soothing. Fingon’s eyes drifted shut.

There was a rustling sound, and a sharply drawn breath. 

Fingon’s eyes flew open. An hour at least had passed; the night had grown colder, and the moon was higher in the sky. Maedhros was awake, his gray eyes unfocused and cloudy -- from pain or medicine or both -- but trying to fix on Fingon’s face. 

“Fin?” he slurred.

Fingon couldn’t help it. He had been awake for days now, had endured the slopes of Thangorodrim and the eagle’s back and severing Maedhros’ poor hand, had returned only to listen in silence from the corner of the room while healers who did not know Maedhros and did not love him clicked their tongues and said that Maedhros might never wake again. When Fingon started to cry Maedhros made a wounded noise and tried to move his right arm, as though to brush Fingon’s tears away -- before he could Fingon reached up and caught his elbow, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of Maedhros' inner arm. 

“I’m alright,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. Don’t try to move, Russo, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Maedhros frowned. He wasn’t fully awake yet; his voice was blurred and his eyes were hazy still. Even so, he did his best to blink and focus on Fingon. “You’re sad,” he said, distressed. At that Fingon choked a laugh.

“No,” he promised. He let go of Maedhros’ arm then and brushed his own tears away quickly before reaching up to run careful fingers down the curve of Maedhros’ cheek. “I’m happy. I’m so happy to see you again.” 

Maedhros gazed at him a moment longer. And then, slowly, his lips twitched in an answering smile. “I’m happy to see you, too,” he confided. Fingon laughed again, wetly.

“I bet you are.”

“I missed you.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I did,” Maedhros insisted. Fingon kissed his own fingertips, then gently pressed them to Maedhros’ lips.

“I know you did,” he murmured in answer. “But you never have to worry. Alright? I’ll always come for you. You just think of me, and I’ll know. I'll come find you, wherever you are.” Maedhros smiled against his fingers. Already his eyes were drifting shut again.

“Not if I find you first,” he whispered.

Fingon stared numbly. Maedhros’ hand was sticky with blood but warm against his cheek. Fingon had had this dream too many times before to trust even that -- his mind knew Maedhros too well, could recall the exact size of his palm and every cadence of his voice, and did so ruthlessly every night when he dreamed. Fingon knew what came next: if he blinked, if he leaned too much into Maedhros’ touch, Maedhros would vanish. Fingon’s throat worked, but he said nothing. 

Maedhros stroked his thumb against Fingon’s cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly. “You’re not hurt?” When Fingon still didn’t answer, Maedhros stood and dragged Fingon up with him. Fingon stumbled into him; Maedhros took a step back and then held Fingon steady, his hand and his right arm on Fingon’s shoulders. “You’re not hurt,” he said again, checking for himself this time. He ran his hand down Fingon’s arm, then reached up to clasp his chin, gently turning his face from one side to the other as he checked for injuries. When he found nothing, he exhaled and his shoulders slumped. “You shouldn’t be out hunting wargs in the dark, Fin,” he chided gently. And that, suddenly, was more than Fingon could bear -- he gave a single, choked gasp and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the vision of Maedhros any longer. 

In front of him he heard Maedhros make a small, distressed noise. Maedhros’ hand was still warm against his face. Fingon reached up and seized his wrist to hold him in place, as though that would be enough to keep him there when the dream ended and he woke again. 

“Russo,” he choked. Maedhros stroked his face again.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I’m here.” 

Fingon shook his head. “You’re not," he whispered. "This isn't real."

“Fin.” Maedhros’ voice was tender. He moved his right arm from Fingon’s shoulder to wrap around his waist. Fingon was trembling now, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “Astaldo.” He felt Maedhros lean forward, and then the gentle brush of Maedhros’ lips against his forehead. The next moment Maedhros pulled back; but his hand stayed, a warm weight against Fingon’s cheek. Fingon tightened his grip around Maedhros’ wrist, holding him hard enough to bruise. “Will you look at me, beloved?” 

Fingon drew in one ragged breath, then another. Maedhros’ arm tightened comfortingly around his waist. “You always leave,” Fingon rasped. “If I open my eyes you’ll leave. I’ll be alone again.”

“I’m here,” Maedhros answered gently. “I’m not leaving you.” 

“Russo…”

“I’m not leaving you,” Maedhros promised again. 

Fingon shook his head. Maedhros' skin was warm against his. Maedhros was there, right there -- as long as Fingon didn’t ruin it, as long as Fingon didn’t let himself wake up. "I tell you I love you, next," he whispered. "And every time, that's when you go."

He felt Maedhros exhale. And then, very gently, Maedhros pulled his hand free from Fingon's grip. Fingon let out a low cry -- but Maedhros was still there, and he immediately drew Fingon closer with the arm around his waist. A moment later Maedhros’ hand was back, wiped clean of blood and cradling the back of Fingon's head. “I’m here,” Maedhros said. “I’m here and I love you. My braveheart.” He leaned closer; Fingon could feel Maedhros’ nose brush against his. “My husband,” Maedhros added, before closing the remaining distance between them, and pressing his lips to Fingon’s in a kiss. 

The kiss was gentle. Maedhros’ lips were dry and warm, soft under Fingon's. Fingon melted against him, opening his mouth and seizing the front of Maedhros’ shirt to drag him in closer. Maedhros followed easily, letting Fingon deepen the kiss -- though it stayed tender still, and slow. When Fingon whimpered, he felt Maedhros smile against him. “It’s alright,” Maedhros promised. 

Fingon pulled back and let his head fall against Maedhros’ shoulder. His hands were still wrapped tightly in the fabric of Maedhros' shirt. Summoning all of his courage, Fingon let his eyes crack open. 

Beneath his hands Maedhros’ heart beat steadily. His hand was gentle on the back of Fingon’s head; his chest was warm where he and Fingon were pressed together. When Fingon raised his head Maedhros smiled down at him. “There you are,” he said, and let go of Fingon long enough to brush away the tears from Fingon's eyes. 

He was there. He was real. It wasn’t a dream.

“Oh,” Fingon breathed. Before Maedhros could do or say anything Fingon sobbed, then laughed, and threw himself forward into Maedhros’ arms. 

Maedhros stumbled under his weight; but the next moment his arms were wrapped just as tightly around Fingon and his mouth was seeking Fingon’s just as urgently. Their first kiss had been gentle -- this time they kissed messily, desperately, Maedhros dragging Fingon closer, Fingon’s hands yanking on Maedhros’ hair as he pulled him down. “You’re here,” Fingon gasped. He broke away long enough to nuzzle Maedhros’ cheek, then changed his mind and hauled him back for another bruising kiss. “You're here, you came -- fuck -- Russo --”

“It took me so long,” Maedhros murmured. “I know. I’m sorry, Fin.” He dropped his head to bite at the soft skin under Fingon’s ear, making him gasp. Both of Fingon’s hands were in Maedhros’ hair now. When Maedhros moved his head lower to mouth at Fingon’s neck, Fingon shook his head. He dragged him up again, reclaiming his mouth, desperate to feel the heat of his touch after so long apart. Maedhros followed easily, kissing him back and pulling Fingon closer still until there was no space at all between them. Fingon’s heart sang. Maedhros was here, he was here, he was here. 

“I love you,” Fingon said, pulling back just enough to breathe the words against Maedhros’ lips. “Sweetheart. Melindo. I missed you so much. I love you. No, don’t stop kissing me, come here --”

“I wanted to come sooner. I tried.”

“I know you did. I know. I love you.”

“Fin. I missed you.”

Fingon was crying and laughing, cradling Maedhros as close to him as he could and beaming at him. Maedhros’ eyes were wet. Fingon let his right hand slide lower to palm Maedhros’ cheek. “I missed you too,” he said, his voice gentling. “More than anything.” He leaned forward again. 

Behind them, they heard a groan. 

Fingon stilled. Against him, he felt Maedhros freeze. 

Elros was pushing himself up onto his elbows, reaching for his forehead with a wince. “Ada?” he said muzzily. “Are you alright? I think I hit my head on something, it’s pounding like a fucking hammer.” He pushed himself to his feet, shaking his shoulders loose before reaching for his head again. “Ow. Fuck. You win, no more warg hunting before dinner, I don't care who asks.” He looked over then, smiling with relief when he caught sight of Fingon; and then, a heartbeat later, his eyes fixed on Maedhros.

He froze. 

Fingon felt Maedhros’ grip on him loosen. When he turned to look, Maedhros’ face was cycling from shock to devastation to joy. 

“Yonya?” he whispered. 

Fingon disentangled himself from Maedhros’ arms -- Maedhros let him, still rooted to the spot with his eyes locked on Elros -- and gently pushed Maedhros forward. Maedhros took a few stumbling steps. Elros jerked, as though to catch him, but a moment later he abruptly stilled again. “Go on,” Fingon said. “It’s alright.” He saw Maedhros swallow. A moment later Maedhros took another step forward, and then one more, before reaching up and, his hand shaking, tucking a curl of hair behind Elros’ ear. 

“Little one,” Maedhros breathed.

That was all it took -- Elros gave a cry and surged forward into Maedhros’ arms, throwing his own arms around Maedhros’ neck and burying his face against Maedhros’ shoulder. “Atto,” he choked. He was clinging to any part of Maedhros that he could reach, clutching at his hair and his cloak and the back of his neck. “Atto, we thought -- we thought --”

“Elros,” Maedhros said helplessly. He wrapped his arms around Elros and held him back as tightly as he could. He pressed a kiss against the side of Elros’ head before breaking down and burying his face in Elros’ hair. “Baby. Look how big you are.”

“Atto.” 

Maedhros bundled him closer, pressing another kiss to his head. “I’m so sorry. My brave one. My heart. I know it took me so long -- I’ve been trying to get back to you all this time, I promise. Yonya. Don’t cry.”

Fingon could hear in Maedhros’ voice that he was crying, even as he said it. Elros was sobbing; the only word he seemed able to form was Maedhros’ name, over and over. Maedhros rocked Elros gently, cradling him close while Elros clung to him. “I know. I’m so proud of you, little one. You’ve been so strong and so brave, haven’t you? I know. It’s alright. I love you. I love you.”

Elros keened and buried his face in Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros pressed a kiss to the side of his head before raising his gaze and meeting Fingon’s eyes. His own face was wet with tears, but his voice was fiercely, quietly joyous when he said, “My loves. My family. I’ve come to bring you home.”

Fingon’s horse had died in the warg attack; Elros’ had run away. By the time they found her again and remounted it was growing late; they rode slowly, mindful of Elros’ bruised head, and stopped at the river to wash off once they reached it. By the time they made it at last to the village it was nearing midnight.

Fingon rode on Elros’ horse; Elros and Maedhros were together on Maedhros’ charger, Elros in front with Maedhros’ right arm steady around his waist. Every now and then Elros would shiver and tighten his grip on Maedhros; Maedhros, not noticing or not minding, kept up a low stream of talk as they rode, reassurances and promises as they drew closer and closer to home. As they rounded the last bend in the road and saw the little cottage at the top of the hill, firelight shining brightly through the windows and a dark shape moving behind the curtains, Elros seemed to shrink into himself in Maedhros’ arms. Maedhros clicked his tongue and bid his horse to stop.

Fingon, when he drew even with them, could see that Elros was shaking. His heart aching, Fingon reached over and clasped Elros’ hand. He waited until Elros looked over at him, then gave a small smile. 

“They’re going to be so happy to see you again, sweetheart,” he said.

Elros stared at him, his throat working. Fingon let go of his hand and raised his fingers to brush under his eyes. Elros’ cheeks were wet. “Ada,” he whispered helplessly. Fingon’s smile softened.

“Come on,” he said. “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”

As they drew nearer, the shadow moved away from the window. A moment later the door opened. Though they were still at the bottom of the hill, they could see a figure stepping into the doorway, black against the bright firelight. “Atto?” a young voice called, drifting towards them through the night air. “Is that you? Did you find them?”

At the sound of Elrond’s voice, Fingon couldn’t help himself -- he gave a choked sob, clapping his hand to his mouth as he tried and failed to keep from breaking out into tears again. Next to him he heard Elros cry out too -- and then Elros was throwing himself to the ground, nearly tripping and falling in his haste. Within seconds he was pelting the last hundred yards to the door. 

“El!” Elros shouted, sprinting as fast as he could up the grassy hill. Fingon saw Elrond freeze; and then he was racing forward too, flying down the hill towards them. “El, it’s me! It’s me!”

With a cry Elrond threw himself at Elros; Elros caught him and swung him around once, twice, and then they both tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter and tears. 

“I missed you, I missed you -- ”

“Elros.”

“I thought about you all the time, I missed you so much, I love you, El --”

“I love you too. I love you. Elros, háno.” Elrond’s voice cracked. “I always knew we’d find you.” 

“Look at you!” Elros exclaimed, half laughing, half crying. He sat up and pulled Elrond up with him; in the firelight and the twilight Fingon could see Elrond grinning back at Elros, his brown eyes bright. Elros tugged on the intricate braids in Elrond’s long hair before letting his hands drop down to stroke the collar of his handsome, fur-lined cloak. “You’re all grown up, you’re -- you’re tall -- what are you wearing? You look like some awful, fancy prince.” 

“You look like some no-good ranger,” Elrond teased, ruffling Elros’ short hair. He was crying too, though he was beaming at Elros all the same. “Your hair is so short!” Elros wrinkled his nose.

“You don’t like it?”

“I like it, I like everything about you, I missed you -- I -- El --” And with that Elrond broke down again, falling into Elros’ arms and heaving great, shuddering sobs as Elros wrapped his arms around him and dragged him close. “I missed you so much,” he choked, “I thought about you every day, I was so scared you were gone -- Elros --”

Fingon scrambled to the ground, watching as Elros curled over Elrond and broke down in tears too. Fingon's heart felt too heavy and light all at once. When he felt Maedhros’ warm weight at his back, Fingon turned and wrapped his arms around him. Maedhros’ arms settled over his shoulders. 

“You kept him safe,” Fingon choked. “All those years.” Maedhros nuzzled against the top of his head. 

“You kept Elros safe,” Maedhros answered softly. Fingon nodded against him, his heart too full to speak. 

“I never doubted you, you know,” Fingon whispered at last. He pressed a kiss to Maedhros’ chest, over his heart. “I knew you’d find your way back to us.” He felt Maedhros shudder. Fingon raised his head and met Maedhros’ eyes. Maedhros looked back at him, thirteen years of heartbreak sitting heavily on his tongue; but before he could speak, Fingon shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he said. “Our babies are here. Káno is here. You’re here, with me. Why would you apologize? Sweetheart. You found us.” Fingon could see that Maedhros didn’t believe him, not yet; but Maedhros smiled back when Fingon smiled up at him, and he didn’t resist when Fingon drew him down into a slow, tender kiss. 

By the time Fingon and Maedhros began to walk up the hill hand-in-hand, Elrond had pulled himself together enough that he was no longer crying. He and Elros were both sitting up; Elrond’s head was tucked into Elros’ shoulder, while Elros held him and continued to run light fingers through his hair. Elros was watching as Fingon and Maedhros approached; Elrond, curled up in his embrace, hadn’t seen them yet. Elros waited until Fingon and Maedhros drew to a stop a few feet away; and then, smiling up at them through wet eyes, he nudged Elrond gently with his shoulder. 

“Look who it is, El,” he whispered huskily. 

Before Fingon could prepare himself, Elrond was turning, his face so like Elros’ and unfamiliar at the same time as he looked up from Elros’ embrace and met Fingon’s eyes. 

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. And then, tremulously, Elrond whispered, “Ada?” 

Elrond had been thirteen the last time Fingon had seen him. Fingon hadn’t even said goodbye to him that day, not really -- he had been so careless, so thoughtless, and when he’d come back Elrond had been gone. Every nightmare, every awful memory, hit Fingon all at once: the earth shaking and the forest bursting into flames, digging through the rubble with bloody hands, every single lead that had ended in a dead end, the years passing. And he hadn’t even told Elrond goodbye. He hadn’t even said he loved him. He had left him there, on the steps, and then he had lost him.

He didn’t realize that he was curled up in the grass until he heard the thump of a pair of knees next to him. The weight of a warm cloak settled over his shoulders -- a moment later a pair of hands were gripping him by the arms and tugging him up and into an embrace. 

“Ada,” Elrond said. His voice was thick with tears as he bundled Fingon up and held him close. “Oh. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

“Pityo,” Fingon choked. He was crying, great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body. His son was grown up now, the little boy that Fingon had left behind now returned to him a stranger. He clung to Elrond and felt Elrond’s lips press against the top of his head. “We tried to find you,” Fingon whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I would have done anything -- anything --” He felt Elrond shake his head. 

“You’re here,” he said, tightening his arms around Fingon. “You’re here, and you brought my brother back to me. Ada.” Suddenly Elrond laughed -- his laughter was warm despite his tears, deeper than it had been, but Fingon still would have recognized the sound of it anywhere. “Ada,” said Elrond again, his voice aching with fondness. “You did everything.” 

They made it inside eventually. Elrond had built up the fire while they were gone; it reflected cozily off the whitewashed walls and the neat lines of the curtains. The moment they walked inside and Fingon saw their shelf and the map he broke down crying all over again -- there was a gold ribbon wrapped around the stem of the vase now, and a second ruby-hilted dagger sitting beside the first -- but then Maedhros was there, wiping his tears away before drawing Fingon into his side.

Though Elros was teary-eyed too, he was beaming as he began to pull all of the blankets and pillows from the beds and pile them haphazardly on the floor in front of the fire. Elrond pushed the table and the benches to the side. By the time they had finished building a nest on the floor Fingon had pulled himself together, wiping his eyes and managing a nod when Maedhros quietly nudged him towards the fire too.

“Some men in the village said they’d seen you go, but they didn’t know where,” Maedhros said, sitting down on the right side of the fire. When Fingon sat down next to him, Maedhros leaned against him. Fingon wrapped an arm around his waist, drawing him in closer. Across from them Elros and Elrond tumbled to the ground and curled up together like puppies. “I went north; Káno went east. He should be back soon.” Elros ducked his head and hid his face against Elrond’s shoulder; his own shoulders were shaking. Elrond reached back and gently stroked his hair. 

“Atya is the one who found you,” Elrond said, tilting his head slightly so that his temple rested against Elros’. “We tracked you as far as Ramdal, but then you disappeared. Atya spent every night for two months interrogating everyone who passed through until he found someone who’d seen you leave.” 

“You’re all alive,” Elros said, without raising his head. Elrond, sitting in front of him, leaned further back against his chest and pulled Elros’ arms over his shoulders. “You’re alive, and you came back for us.” Elrond turned and grinned at him. Elros, with a breathless laugh, finally lifted his head and pulled his arm free from Elrond’s grip. He brushed his fingers against the handsome green velvet of Elrond’s tunic before reaching up to lightly tap the silver and pearl cuff on his ear. The ornaments and silver thread woven into Elrond’s braids gleamed like starlight in the glow from the fire. “Where have you been?” he asked wonderingly.

“In Arvernien,” Maedhros answered curtly; while Elrond, blushing a little, swatted Elros’ hand away. “Held captive by King Gil-galad’s forces.” 

There was a beat: Elros gaped at him, while Fingon turned to stare. And then, from where he was curled up in Elros’ embrace, Elrond snorted.

“We were not ‘held captive,’” he said reprovingly, making a face in response to Maedhros’ dark look. “Don’t listen to him, Ada, it’s not true. The King was very kind to us. Atto’s just sore because Gil-galad wouldn’t let him try to single-handedly cross Morgoth’s lines to get back to Amon Ereb.” 

Fingon’s eyes narrowed. “You were fighting?” he asked. 

“Atto and Atya were fighting,” Elrond said, either not noticing or ignoring the look Fingon was leveling at Maedhros. Maedhros, for his part, raised his eyebrows at Fingon, unrepentant. “They wouldn’t let me near any of the battles. But you should have seen them, El! Storm clouds that rose up as high as mountains, and dragons and eagles fighting each other, and King Finarfin on his golden horse leading the charge against a whole line of balrogs…”

“Uncle Finarfin?” repeated Fingon dumbly. Across from him, Elros looked hopelessly lost. At his side, Fingon felt Maedhros heave a sigh. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning, yonya.”

“-- by the time the fires stopped the plains were crawling with orcs, and worse, and Elrond was still injured. We tried to turn back, a half dozen times at least -- but they found us each time, and as their numbers grew it became harder to fight our way out. So we kept running, south and west, towards Balar. The plan was that we would leave Elrond under Círdan’s protection, and then once he was safe Káno and I could come back for both of you.” 

“But Gil-galad found us first,” Elrond said. Fingon looked up in time to watch Maedhros hide his glower in his glass of wine. 

“Yes,” he said shortly. Elrond grinned at him. He and Elros had switched positions -- Elros was sprawled across the floor, his head in Elrond’s lap while Elrond unclasped the jewelry from his own hair and did his best to weave it into Elros’ shorter curls.

“The King was leading a scouting party,” Elrond explained, turning his gaze to Fingon. “Atto caught them, and then a group of orcs caught us. By the time the fight was over Gil-galad had figured out who I was, and Atya had hurt his leg badly enough he couldn’t walk, so the King brought us all back to his camp. Most of his advisors wanted to lock Atto and Atya up -- because of the Kinslaying, and because they thought they’d kidnapped you and me, El -- but Gil-galad wouldn’t let them.” 

“You give him too much credit,” Maedhros said, in the tone of someone continuing a long-running argument. Fingon saw Elrond sigh. “He wouldn’t let us leave. That camp was as good as a prison cell.” 

“He said it would have been suicide to try to cross the battlefield alone,” Elrond corrected patiently. “He was right, Atto. And besides, he let you fight, and Atya too once he was better. You were practically one of his generals by the end.” Maedhros didn’t answer. Fingon waited until he’d set his goblet of wine down, then reached over and took Maedhros’ hand in his.

“He decked you out well enough,” Elros said, fingering one of the strings of pearls Elrond had woven into his hair. “Does he dress all of his generals this well?”

“Elrond and the King are friends,” Maedhros said grimly. Elrond blushed, while Elros tilted his head back and grinned up at him. 

“Friends, hm?”

“We were in rough shape when they found us,” Elrond said. He poked Elros in the cheek. “Dressed in rags and covered in mud, and worse. Poor Atya couldn’t walk. Gil-galad felt sorry for us, so he gave us some presents. That’s all.” 

“Mm. If you say so.” 

“Elros.”

“How are you here now, then?” interjected Fingon. He squeezed Maedhros’ hand. “Did the King let you go?” 

“Yes,” said Elrond, jumping at the change in conversation before Maedhros could answer. “King Finarfin and Gil-galad combined their forces for a push north about six months ago -- you remember that golden light in the sky and the earth shaking? -- and they managed to push Morgoth’s forces all the way to the Gates of Sirion. That left most of the land south of Andram clear. So after the battle Atto went to find Gil-galad, and he asked if we could go.” 

“I told him that we were leaving,” Maedhros muttered. Elrond ignored him.

“He agreed; and he gave us back our swords, and horses and provisions, and he sent us off with his blessing,” Elrond continued. “And from there we traveled to Ramdal, and in Ramdal they told us that you’d gone east.” 

“And here you are,” Fingon murmured. He turned to look at Maedhros; when he saw that Maedhros was already looking at him, he smiled and reached up to cup Maedhros’ cheek, pulling him down and kissing him gently. “You found us.” 

He felt Maedhros swallow. Maedhros leaned his forehead against Fingon’s as though seeking out the comfort of his touch. Fingon stroked his face. “It took us so long,” Maedhros said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.” Fingon hummed. 

“Don’t apologize,” he reminded Maedhros. He leaned forward again and kissed Maedhros before the frown on his face could take hold. “You’re here. You’re safe. We would’ve waited forever.” 

The night was dark and silent; the clouds covering the moon had broken some time before, and its yellow light spilled across the grass and the houses in the village. In the cottage the fire had burned down to embers; the twins were asleep, curled up together in Elros’ bed as though they were little children again. Maedhros and Fingon sat together on the front steps. Fingon had Maedhros’ cloak draped across his shoulders; they were passing the last of the bottle of wine back and forth between themselves as they talked. 

“We used to go back to Amon Ereb every year,” Fingon said quietly. “Looking for you, or some sign from you. But we never found anything. And it was hurting both of us -- seeing the ruin of our home, and not knowing if you and Maglor and Elrond were even still alive.” 

“We had to keep running,” Maedhros answered, his voice as low as Fingon’s. “There were fires and armies behind us, driving us away from you. I knew you would keep Elros safe. But I hated it, Fin. With every step it felt like the Nirnaeth all over again -- running and leaving you behind.” Fingon set the wine bottle down and reached out silently for Maedhros’ hand. 

“I told you, once, that I would always find you,” Fingon said, when he could trust his voice again. “That I would always come for you when you needed me. Do you remember? After Thangorodrim.” Maedhros shook his head slowly. Fingon squeezed his hand. “You had been asleep for days. They had given you so much medicine for the pain.” 

“I don’t remember talking,” Maedhros confessed. He used their clasped hands to tug Fingon closer. Fingon followed easily, leaning into Maedhros’ side. “But I remember waking up, and seeing you there.”

“I promised you I would always be there,” Fingon said. He raised their clasped hands to his lips. “That I’d find you, no matter what.” 

“You always have,” Maedhros said hoarsely. Fingon shook his head. 

“Not this time,” he said softly. He smiled. “This time, you found me.” When Maedhros didn’t answer, Fingon raised his other hand and lightly ran his fingers along the thickest of the scars running across Maedhros’ cheek. His own scars wrapped around his arms like ribbons in the moonlight. “This isn’t the Nirnaeth,” he promised. “Or Alqualondë, or Mithrim, or any of the times we’ve left each other -- hurt each other. There was no Menegroth this time, sweetheart. Look at what you did. You spent these last thirteen years keeping our family safe.” Maedhros bowed his head and said nothing. Fingon stroked his face again and cupped his cheek. He leaned up.

From the darkness below them, they heard the slow clop of hoofbeats approaching. 

“Is that you, Nelyo?” called a voice from the bottom of the hill. “I looked everywhere and knocked on every door, but no one’s seen them. Are we sure we have the right place? We might have broken into some poor fisherman’s house by mistake.” 

Against Maedhros’ lips, Fingon's face slowly broke into a smile. 

“You did break into some poor fisherman's house,” he called, leaning back and raising his voice. He could see Maglor abruptly draw his horse to a halt. Fingon was smiling so widely it hurt. Next to him, Maedhros quietly stood and slipped back into the house. “I shouldn’t be surprised; you Fëanorions always did have terrible manners.”

He stood up. Maglor had already dismounted his horse and was running up the dirt path towards the house, his delighted laugh floating ahead of him in the night air. “I knew it!” he shouted, tripping and nearly falling in his haste. Fingon walked towards him, beaming. “I knew you were too damn stubborn to die, I knew it --” 

And then Maglor was there, hauling Fingon into a massive hug and nearly lifting him off his feet. He was laughing and crying at the same time, squeezing Fingon close and pressing a wet, smacking kiss to his forehead. “You bastard,” he said delightedly. “Do you know all the trouble you’ve put us to, trying to find you again? Come here, I’m going to kiss you again. I can’t believe you. You are the most impossible, the most wonderful -- Finno --” 

“It's so good to see you,” Fingon said, his voice breaking. He pulled Maglor closer and felt Maglor press another kiss to his face, this time to his temple. “Káno. Brother. We missed you, too.” 

At that Maglor drew back, his face shining although his eyes were wet with tears. There was a new scar across the bridge of his nose and strands of white hair at his temples. Though he was as richly dressed as Maedhros and Elrond, his clothes were stained with mud. He favored his right leg as he stood. “We?” he repeated, as he drew in an unsteady breath.

Fingon smiled and took a step back. Before he could answer, the door behind them opened. 

Elros was standing there, his eyes still bleary with sleep and his hair an untidy halo around his head. He was blinking and squinting into the darkness. Fingon could see the moment he recognized Maglor -- he froze, and then the next moment he threw himself forward with a cry, launching himself into Maglor’s arms with enough force that Maglor stumbled back. 

“Atya!”

“My Elros,” Maglor whispered. He held Elros back just as tightly, reaching up to stroke his hair with shaking hands. “Oh, my baby. Look how grown up you are! How handsome! My little one. I've missed you so. I love you.” Elros was crying. Maglor held him and rocked him gently, smiling beatifically even through his tears.

Maedhros walked down the steps from where he’d been standing in the doorway; behind him, Fingon could see Elrond, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he watched the reunion unfolding below him. When Maedhros drew to a stop next to Fingon, Fingon reached out for his hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Walk with me, Russo."

At this gray hour before dawn, all the world was silent; even the murmur of the river seemed more muted than usual, and no birds had risen yet to break the stillness of the early morning air. 

Fingon had brought Maedhros to the river; they sat there together now curled up on the dock, their backs to the red glow of war behind them as they faced east and watched the mist rising from the water. Fingon was sitting between Maedhros’ legs, leaning back against him. Maehdros’ arms were loosely wrapped around Fingon’s waist; his cheek was resting against Fingon’s temple. His breath softly brushed through Fingon’s hair. Fingon clasped Maedhros’ arms gently, his eyes half-closed as he watched the last of the moonlight reflecting off of the waves. 

“I thought all the time about what I should have done differently," Maedhros confessed. His arms tightened imperceptibly around Fingon’s waist. “If I hadn’t left you, if --”

“If we’d never gone on that camping trip,” Fingon said softly. Maedhros nodded. Fingon sighed. “If we’d talked about Menegroth sooner. If you hadn’t found the twins that night in Sirion. If I’d never come back from Mandos’ Halls. What if, what if.” When Maedhros didn’t answer, Fingon raised Maedhros’ hand to his lips and kissed it gently. 

“We kept our family safe,” Fingon said, after a long moment. “You found us, like you promised. We’ll figure out the rest of it, sweetheart.”

At that Maedhros turned and pressed a kiss to Fingon’s temple. When he started to pull away Fingon turned his head and chased after him, reaching for Maedhros’ neck and dragging him down into a deep, lingering kiss. “I’ll do whatever you want next,” Maedhros whispered, when they broke apart. Fingon could feel Maedhros’ heart racing. Instinctively, he pressed nearer to him. “Truly, Fin. I know I hurt you. Whatever you want to do -- whatever you want from me, if you need more time -- I’ll give it to you.” Fingon smiled against his lips. 

“I said we’d talk, didn’t I?” he murmured. “All those years ago.” He drew Maedhros back down, taking his time and kissing him slowly. Maedhros’ mouth was warm and pliant under his. Kissing him felt like the sun rising at last, like the happy ending at the close of the story, like coming home. “You’re my husband," Fingon said at last. "I love you. Russo, sweetheart, of course I want you to stay.” 

“I hurt you.” 

“You did,” Fingon agreed. He pulled Maedhros back down for another kiss, deeper this time, smiling when Maedhros made a low noise and dragged him closer still. “But I lived with the Oath for all those years. I can live with Menegroth, too.”

Maedhros was crying; though his eyes were closed, Fingon could see the glimmer of tears on his eyelashes. Fingon reached up to brush them away; when he did Maedhros leaned helplessly into his touch. “Fin…”

“Nothing about you scares me,” Fingon said softly. “I love you. I’ve loved you my whole life -- my life before, and this life now. I know you’ve done terrible things. But I’ll help you bear them, if you let me.” Maedhros was trembling. Fingon waited; and when Maedhros finally nodded, he smiled and reached for his hand. 

“There’s one more thing,” he said tenderly. “Are you ready?” Maedhros frowned. 

“Ready?” Maedhros echoed. Fingon nodded. He raised Maedhros’ hand to his lips and kissed his ring finger gently.

“I call on Eru Ilúvatar to witness my love for thee, Maedhros Fëanorion, beloved above all others," Fingon murmured, saying the words with his lips against Maedhros’ skin. Maedhros made a low, helpless noise; Fingon's smile grew wider. “I take thee as my husband, never to be parted from me.” 

“I pledge to thee my faith and my devotion,” Maedhros rasped. He opened his eyes, finally, and looked down at Fingon. Fingon laughed for joy. “From now until Arda Remade. May Eru Ilúvatar bless our union and bind us together in spirit, as we are already bound in love.”

“As we are already bound in love,” Fingon agreed. He followed easily when Maedhros dragged him up and into another long, tender kiss. The sun was rising at last over the mountains ahead of them -- and in the darkness where their bond had been, Fingon felt something gold begin to stir.

Chapter Text

Fingon woke by degrees, feeling the mattress soft underneath him and Maedhros’ warm skin at his side before the sounds of the camp gradually began to filter in. He stretched, hiding a yawn against Maedhros’ side before he curled up closer to him. What time is it? he asked drowsily, without opening his eyes. He felt Maedhros’ amusement through the bond. A moment later Maedhros reached down and gently petted his hair. 

Early, Maedhros reassured him. No need to get up yet. Fingon hummed, nosing at the soft skin of Maedhros’ hip before throwing his arm over Maedhros’ thighs and settling back down with a sigh. Maedhros’ fingers dug in harder, massaging Fingon’s scalp before disappearing for a moment. There was a dry, crinkling sound, as of pages turning, and then Maedhros’ hand was back. Fingon smiled, and let himself drift off to sleep again. 

The next time he woke it was a few hours later; sunlight was slanting through the gaps in the tent, the summer air was warmer and the sounds of the camp were louder, and Maedhros was gone. 

Fingon let himself lie there for a few minutes more, enjoying the sensation -- rare these past fifty years, and the couple of hundred years before that -- of doing nothing at all. And then he stretched, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood with a yawn. There were voices coming from the other side of the fabric door; Fingon heard Maedhros’ low rasp, followed by a bright laugh that sounded like Maglor. Fingon pulled on the nearest robe he could find -- it was Maedhros’, and long enough that it brushed Fingon’s feet as he walked -- and took a moment to fix his hair, untidy after a night in Maedhros’ arms. Fingon smiled at the memory and felt a flash of answering warmth from Maedhros across the bond. He was humming by the time he pushed the tent flap aside and walked into the main room. 

Maedhros and Maglor were seated at the room’s heavy trestle table, piles of papers and maps around them and a mug of what smelled like burnt coffee at Maedhros’ elbow. They both turned to look as Fingon walked in; Maedhros smiled, while Maglor, lounging in his chair with his bad leg stretched out in front of him, grinned. 

“Long night?” Maglor asked, his sympathetic tone undermined by the twinkle in his eyes. Fingon gave him a look, leaning against Maedhros’ chair and reaching down to steal his coffee. 

“Hardly slept at all,” he said lightly, raising the mug to his lips to hide his smile when Maglor snorted. “I thought you were working in the healing tents this morning.” 

“Something more interesting came up.”

Fingon raised an eyebrow. Maglor glanced at Maedhros; when Maedhros frowned and made a shooing motion towards Fingon, he rolled his eyes. 

“You’re in love, there are no secrets between you two, I know, I know,” he said, plucking a handsome blue envelope from the top of a pile on the table and holding it out to Fingon. Fingon took it with a frown, recognizing the elegant writing on the back as Finarfin’s hand. “Forgive me for checking.” 

“What does Uncle want?” Fingon asked, fingering the envelope without opening it. Maglor waved a hand at him. 

“Read it for yourself.” 

What is it about? Fingon asked again, dropping his gaze down to Maedhros this time. Maedhros shook his head. 

He’s inviting Káno and I to dinner, he answered, taking his coffee back from Fingon while Fingon began to thumb the envelope open. Fingon stopped and frowned at him. Maedhros shrugged. “That’s what it says,” he added, before taking a sip of coffee. 

“Just you two?” Fingon asked. But he already had the letter unfolded and was reading it, skimming over the formalities at the beginning before fixing on the few brief lines at the end. He read them, reread them, and then made a face as he dropped the letter in Maedhros’ lap. “Has he forgotten that we’re married again?” Maglor grinned at Fingon.

“Forgotten? Never,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You know it’s his favorite thing to complain about.” Despite himself, Fingon laughed. 

“'I don’t know what became of all you children when you crossed the Sea,'” he said, in his best impression of Finarfin’s deep, grave voice. Maglor snorted. Fingon sank down onto the arm of Maedhros’ chair and tilted sideways against his shoulder. “'I would have fought harder to keep you at home if I’d known what libertines you’d become.'” 

“Marrying your cousins,” said Maglor, ticking their transgressions off on his fingers. “Chopping off each other’s hands.” 

“Starting wars. Kidnapping children.”

“I think it’s about the Silmarils,” Maedhros said quietly, interrupting Fingon’s laugh. Fingon instantly sobered. His hand dropped to Maedhros’ wrist and he looked down, seeking out Maedhros’ eyes. Maedhros met his gaze, but his own eyes were bleak. “Why else would he leave you out?” 

“If it’s about the Silmarils, I should be there too,” Fingon said, reaching over and tugging on a strand of Maedhros’ hair. Maedhros shook his head.

You’ve felt it, he said, before the hurt in Fingon’s eyes had time to grow. Morgoth is gone; his crown is destroyed. Eönwë has the Silmarils -- or Finarfin does. But they're calling to us, Fin. The Oath has been growing stronger these past months.

“And we resist it,” Fingon said softly, letting go of Maedhros’ hair and pressing the palm of his hand to Maedhros’ cheek instead. “As we’ve always done.” Maedhros said nothing, but Fingon could sense his unhappiness through the bond. Heart heavy, Fingon leaned down and gently rested his forehead against Maedhros’. 

They rarely talked about the darkness growing in Maedhros’ mind -- or how easily he grew tired these days, trying to fight it -- or the way the Oath clamored and shrieked and bent Maedhros' thoughts and his steps inevitably towards the two bright points of light he’d last seen on Morgoth’s crown. Fingon helped him bear it, as much as he could -- throwing his strength behind Maedhros’, quieting the tumult in his mind, or, when nothing else worked, taking Maedhros into his arms and holding him while he shivered and fell apart. Morgoth had been defeated and wrapped in chains; his crown had been thrown down and the Silmarils prised loose. And then they had vanished. 

Fingon nudged Maedhros' nose with his. When Maedhros still said nothing, Fingon leaned down and kissed him gently.

“Well!” said Maglor bracingly, after a minute or two had passed. “Whatever dinner might bring, at least we have a charming breakfast ahead of us.” Distracted, Fingon looked up and frowned. 

“What?”

“Ada!” called a loud, cheerful voice from the front of the tent. “Are you awake? Are you decent? El and I are here, straight from patrol and fainting with hunger.” 

And then Elros was there, bursting into the tent and beaming as he swept Fingon up into a tight hug. Fingon laughed and held him back just as tightly, the pain of the Oath momentarily forgotten as his son spun him around once before setting him down with a grin. 

“My wayward child,” Fingon said fondly, clasping Elros’ cheeks and standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his forehead. Elros ducked his head obediently. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in days.” 

“Gil corralled El into a week of patrolling the northern edge of camp; I tagged along to keep them company.” Elros craned his head back to look over his shoulder. “They should be here soon, they were right behind me.”

“‘They?’” repeated Maedhros sharply -- but already the tent flap was opening again and Gil-galad, his young, handsome face tinted pink with a blush, was walking in, Elrond a half-step behind him. 

“Atto, Ada!” Elrond said brightly, darting around Gil-galad to lean down and hug Maedhros. “Don’t make that face, Atya, we saw you already this morning. I invited Gil-galad, I hope you don’t mind! We’ve just come from patrol, and none of us have eaten yet.” 

“Four kings of the Noldor, all in one tent!” Maglor said cheerily, pushing himself up and pulling Elros away from Fingon and into a hug. “What an auspicious meal. Of course you’re welcome, your majesty.” 

“Just Ereinion,” Gil-galad said, with a tentative smile towards Maedhros. “Or Gil-galad.” Maedhros nodded curtly. Gil-galad’s smile faltered, but after a moment he gamely turned to Fingon. “Your sons were kind enough to invite me along. I hope I’m not intruding.” 

“Not at all,” said Fingon warmly, tugging Elrond over and hugging him tightly as well. “You’re always welcome, Ereinion. Elrond, sweetheart, I love you dearly, but you smell like horse. Don’t laugh, Elros, you do too. Go wash and change; there are fresh clothes in the other room, you know where. There are enough for you too, Ereinion, if you’d like to freshen up.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

He’s not staying, Maedhros said, alarmed. Fingon shot him a look from over Elrond’s shoulder. 

He is. Play nice. Out loud, Fingon added, “Take your time, Atya and I will get breakfast ready. Russo, help us clear off the table.” 

Elrond and Elros traipsed off, Gil-galad following after them. When the three of them had gone, Fingon reached over and lightly swatted Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros gave him an indignant look.

“He is our king, and your son’s dear friend,” Fingon hissed. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” Maedhros groused, rubbing his shoulder. “He’s eating with us, isn’t he?” 

“Under duress!" 

“I’ll go see what I can rustle up for breakfast, shall I?” Maglor said pleasantly, while Fingon gave Maedhros an exasperated look and Maedhros glared stubbornly back. “Nelyo? Finno? Who’s coming with?”

“Me,” said Maedhros immediately, standing and finishing his tepid coffee in one movement. He set down his cup and moved to join Maglor at the door of the tent; as he passed Fingon, he paused. Fingon crossed his arms. Maedhros’ face softened, and he bent down to press a quick, chaste kiss to Fingon’s lips. 

I can play nice for you, he promised, quirking a slight smile at Fingon as he straightened. Fingon huffed; but his gaze was softer too as he watched them trail out, Maglor tossing Fingon a last wink before he dropped the flap of the tent behind them. 

Fingon returned to his and Maedhros’ room and quickly changed into his own clothes before returning to the main part of the tent and beginning to clear off the table. By the time he was done Elros had reappeared, his short hair damp and the delicate blue robes he’d pulled on fitting snugly over his broad shoulders. 

“It’s good to be home again,” Elros said with a yawn, pouring two cups of coffee from the pot on the table and passing one to Fingon. He threw himself into the nearest chair; when Fingon reached over and ruffled his hair, Elros grinned up at him. “Did we scare Atto off?” 

“Mmhm. Not for long though, don’t worry. He and Atya went to the mess to find something to eat, they’ll be back.” Fingon sat down next to Elros; noticing the bandage around Elros’ knuckles for the first time, he hissed and reached out for his hand. “You’re hurt?”

“Hm? Oh, that. It’s nothing. We only saw a dozen or so orcs all week; most have run to ground. The land outside of camp is badly torn up, though -- and it gets worse the farther north you go. Chasms and fiery pits everywhere you turn.” 

“And you’re careful?” Fingon said, letting go of Elros’ hand reluctantly. Elros gave him a fond look. 

“Yes, Ada,” he intoned faithfully. He took a long drink of coffee. “What about you?" he asked at last, changing the subject. "Any excitement on the homefront?” Fingon sighed. 

“A summons from Uncle Finarfin,” he said. When Elros frowned, Fingon managed a smile and shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, pityo. And it’s not until tonight -- you have us all morning.” Elros nodded, still looking troubled but deciding not to push it. 

“I think Gil has some news to share, too, although he's being cagey about what it is,” Elros said in an undertone, with a glance towards the far side of the tent. Gil-galad and Elrond’s voices were drifting through the fabric door. “Between you and me, I think he’s trying to buy his way into Atto’s good graces.” 

“Oh?”

“Futile, I know.” They shared a smile. A moment later the fabric door opened again and Elrond walked through, his long hair damp and loose down his back. 

“Have Atto and Atya run away?” he asked wryly, sitting down on the arm of Elros’ chair with his back towards his brother. Elros huffed, but he set his coffee down obediently enough. A moment later he reached up and started to separate Elrond’s dark hair into strands. “Sorry, Ada; I didn’t mean to scare them off.” Fingon waved his hand dismissively. 

“They’ll be back. And even if you did scare them off, I’d much rather spend the morning with my sweet children.” Elros and Elrond made identical faces. Fingon grinned at them. “Tell me more about this patrol,” he said, making himself comfortable and reaching for his coffee while Elros began to braid. “What exactly were you hunting?”

By the time Maglor and Maedhros returned, their arms laden with food, Maedhros had managed to school his face into a passably civil expression. Gil-galad and the twins had already set the table; Fingon, in the interest of keeping the peace, had saved a seat for Maedhros between himself and Elros. The twins, true to their word, were famished; they dug in as soon as the food was on the table, talking over one another as they ate and filling the tent with a cheerful clamor of voices and the sound of clinking plates.

“This will be the last patrol for awhile, I’m afraid,” Gil-galad said, after Elrond finished a detailed description of the largest of the lava rivers they’d found in the devastated land north of the camp. Gil-galad’s voice was casual, but Fingon caught the undertone of tension in it. Evidently, everyone else around the table heard it too -- around them conversations petered out and went silent, everyone’s eyes fixing on Gil-galad. He cleared his throat and looked first at Maglor, then at Fingon, and finally at Maedhros. 

“King Finarfin and Lord Eönwë are leaving soon with their forces,” he said. “They’re returning to Valinor; and Lord Eönwë, on behalf of Lord Manwë, intends to bring the rest of the Firstborn with them.” 

Fingon’s breath caught in his throat. For several long minutes, no one spoke.

“What about the Doom of Mandos?” Maglor demanded at last. Fingon reached out blindly and grasped Maedhros’ forearm; his own hands were shaking. “The Valar have fenced Valinor against us.” Gil-galad shook his head.

“Lord Eönwë is offering forgiveness and pardon for all who go with him, on behalf of the Valar,” he said. Though he was answering Maglor, his eyes kept straying to Elrond. Elrond, for his part, was staring down at his plate without speaking.

“Eönwë told you this?” Maedhros asked sharply. Fingon’s hand tightened on his arm. Gil-galad shook his head. 

“King Finarfin did,” he said. “I'm telling you, because…” He hesitated then, his eyes flicking unwillingly towards Elrond again. “Because I don’t know yet what their plans are for my peredhil friends,” he said at last, quietly. Fingon heard Elros make a low noise next to Maedhros, quickly stifled. “Nor whether the invitation to return to Valinor extends to them as well.” 

There was utter silence around the table. 

“What will happen to Beleriand?” Elrond asked at last. His voice was hoarse. He still hadn’t looked up. Across the table, Fingon saw Maglor reach out and grasp the back of his neck comfortingly. “When Finarfin and Eönwë go, and take the Firstborn with them, what will happen to Beleriand? The land is ruined. And they’re just -- abandoning it?” Gil-galad shook his head. He was openly gazing at Elrond now, his face tight with sorrow. 

“They’re going to give the last of the people here -- the Secondborn, and the Dwarves -- time to flee east, past the Ered Luin,” he said. “And then they’re going to sink the land -- all of it -- beneath the waves, to find healing again at the bottom of the Sea.” 

Next to Maedhros, Elros had covered his face with his hand; his shoulders were tense and bowed over in unhappiness. Maedhros reached up and gently carded his fingers through Elros’ damp curls. 

“Then we go east,” Maedhros said, into the silence. There was a note of finality in his voice, but otherwise he sounded unperturbed. Fingon turned to him.

Russo…

We’ve never been very good at listening to the Valars’ edicts, have we? Maedhros asked. He didn’t look at Fingon, but the warmth in his voice was as good as an embrace. It doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together.

“I had the same thought,” Gil-galad said, jumping at Maedhros’ words like a lifeline. Next to him Elrond made a low noise. Gil-galad turned to him, already shaking his head and cutting off Elrond’s protests. “This is our home,” he insisted. His eyes were bright. “We fought for centuries to rid Middle Earth of Morgoth’s evil. I would not abandon it now, my friend.” He hesitated, then added in a rush, “Nor would I abandon you.” Elrond’s face twisted.

“The Valar offer forgiveness,” Elros said roughly. His face was still hidden behind his hand. “Atto. Atya. You should take it.” 

“And bring Ada back to Valinor with us?” Maglor asked lightly. He winked at Fingon from across the table. “Impossible. He’s already broken out twice.” Fingon laughed. Elros made a frustrated noise.

“Atya."

Fingon leaned past Maedhros to gently pull Elros' hand away from his face. “It’s generous of the Valar to offer their forgiveness,” he said, waiting until Elros met his eyes. Maedhros stroked his hand through Elros' curls again. “I hope that our people find rest and healing there. But we belong here, in Middle Earth -- with each other, and with you.”

"Do you think Finarfin's news is what Gil-galad spoke of this morning?" Fingon asked. Underneath his hands he felt Maedhros sigh. 

"I hope that's all it is,” he answered. “But I doubt it.”

They were sitting together on their bed, Maedhros on the edge and Fingon cross-legged behind him. Fingon had brushed out Maedhros' long hair and was now braiding it, intricate, delicate braids that twisted and looped around each other before cascading down Maedhros' back. They were more ornate than what Maedhros usually wore; but the act of braiding soothed Fingon, and Maedhros didn’t seem to mind.

“I still think I should be there,” Fingon said, trying and failing to keep his voice even.

I know, Maedhros answered. But if it does have to do with the Oath, then I would spare you.

If it has anything to do with the Oath, then you shouldn’t be there alone, Fingon countered. Maedhros reached back for him, groping without turning until his hand found Fingon’s knee. He squeezed gently. 

I’m never alone, he promised. Fingon’s hands stilled. Maedhros squeezed his knee again. You’re always with me.

“It’s not the same,” Fingon said aloud. Maedhros hesitated a moment; and then he turned, caught sight of the helpless expression on Fingon’s face, and immediately tugged him forward into his arms. 

“Fin.” 

“What will you do?” Fingon demanded, his arms finding their way around Maedhros’ waist as he tucked himself under Maedhros’ chin. “If the Silmarils are there. If Eönwë doesn’t give them back. What will you do?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Russo --”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros repeated; but his voice was gentle, and he rubbed a soothing hand down Fingon’s back as he said it. Fingon shuddered against him. “You’ve felt the Oath grow louder and stronger these past few months. It feels like it did before Menegroth. But this time you’re here with me, too.” Fingon felt Maedhros’ exhale against his skin. “So I don’t know. But I would never willingly hurt you again, Fin.”

“I’m afraid,” Fingon confessed. Maedhros leaned down and kissed the crown of his head.

“You?” he murmured, teasing gently. “You’re not afraid of anything.” Fingon shook his head.

“I’m serious, Russo.” At that Maedhros sighed.

“I know,” he answered eventually. “I’m afraid, too. But the Valar brought you back to me. I cannot believe that they would let the Oath part us now.” Fingon felt Maedhros’ reassurance enfold him across their bond, as warm and steady as the arms around his shoulders. I love you, Maedhros said. I think that will be enough, Fin.

Fingon shook his head. “You romantic,” he rasped, as he leaned back far enough to drag Maedhros into a kiss. 

It started chastely enough but quickly grew deeper, Fingon’s mouth opening under Maedhros' and Maedhros pressing Fingon down until Fingon was sprawled out on the bed. Maedhros was above him, their bodies pressed together closely enough that Fingon could feel Maedhros’ heart beating, could feel the rise and fall of his chest and Maedhros’ arousal stirring against him. Fingon dragged him closer still. “I love you too,” he said hoarsely, nipping at Maedhros’ lips and swallowing a groan when Maedhros’ hand slid underneath his robes to stroke against the skin of his hip.

My husband, Maedhros agreed. He moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Fingon's neck. Fingon tugged at the collar of Maedhros’ robes, pulling them open and sliding his hands underneath to caress the warm skin of Maedhros’ chest. 

“Are you trying to distract me with sex?” Fingon murmured, tilting his head back as Maedhros gently bit and tugged on his earlobe. When Maedhros laughed, his breath warm against Fingon’s ear, Fingon shivered. 

“Is it working?” 

Despite himself, Fingon’s lips curled in a smile. “Better keep trying,” he decided, and pulled Maedhros back into a kiss again.

“Promise me something.” 

“Anything, Fin.” 

“When you go to see Uncle tonight, let me come with you.” Fingon trailed his fingers down the long line of Maedhros’ back. Maedhros was curled up around him, his body warm under the blankets. All that beautiful hair that Fingon had spent so long braiding was loose across the pillows. “I know what Uncle thinks of us,” Fingon continued, when Maedhros said nothing. “Whatever he says tonight -- if he goes on again about us being cousins -- I promise I’ll leave it be. Just let me be there. With you.” 

“If he doesn’t let you in, we’ll leave,” Maedhros promised at last, nuzzling against Fingon and kissing the underside of his jaw. Fingon loved him like this, loose-limbed and happy after making love, his naked body warm and pliant and wrapped around Fingon’s. Fingon could spend a lifetime in Maedhros’ embrace, floating in the golden haze of his mind, and it wouldn’t be enough. As though sensing his thoughts, Maedhros tugged Fingon closer with the arm wrapped around his waist. “I always want you with me, Fin.”

I love you, Fingon said in answer; and tried to believe, like Maedhros did, that love would be enough to hold back the tide of the Oath, and keep the draw of the Silmarils at bay. 

It was late when Maglor joined them and they finally set out. The sky above them was a clear, dark blue strewn through with stars. Maedhros looked up and gazed at the newest and brightest star, as he always did; but he looked back down quickly enough when Fingon took his hand, and his eyes were clear when he met Fingon’s gaze and smiled back at him. 

It was a long walk from the little cluster of tents their family shared to King Finarfin’s sprawling pavilion in the center of the camp. The camp was bustling with activity, even despite the late hour; as they walked soldiers went hurrying past, carpenters were breaking down tents and forges, and the long rows of healing tents were brightly lit and humming with voices. 

“How long until they leave, do you think?” Maglor asked, watching the activity all around them interestedly. Fingon hummed. They were going slowly enough that Maglor could keep pace with them even despite his bad leg; as they walked, Fingon felt Maedhros’ hand slip into his. Fingon looked up at him and smiled. 

“Years, I think,” Fingon said after a moment, answering Maglor’s question. “Long enough for word to spread. Long enough for us to travel east.”

“And what then, I wonder?” Maglor mused. The soldiers around them were Vanyarin, mostly, and many of them stopped and watched as the three of them walked past. Most gave them only a brief look, but some of their glances were outright hostile when they caught sight of Fingon and Maedhros holding hands. Fingon did his best to ignore them, but through the bond he could sense Maedhros’ irritation. He squeezed his hand gently. 

“I think retirement would be good for you,” Fingon said lightly, turning to Maglor but letting his thoughts brush against Maedhros' comfortingly. “Somewhere in a quiet little town in the mountains, with no more fighting or heroics. You could spend your days composing long ballads about the war. The twins could take up fishing again. I'd write poetry, and force Russo to laze around all day in bed with me and say nice things about it."

“Mm. Sounds nice.” 

Fingon and Maglor continued to chat lightly; between them, Maedhros was silent. By the time they made it at last to King Finarfin’s pavilion the sky above them had turned from blue to black. Finarfin’s massive tent was set on top of a low hill; around it, torches and lanterns were strung like pearls. 

Finarfin’s guards stood to attention as they passed, but they didn’t look at them or try to stop them as they walked up the hill. Nahtinde, Finarfin’s herald, was stationed at the entrance of the tent, a lance in her hand and a handsome golden shield on her arm. She watched them coolly as they drew closer. 

“The King has summoned Lord Maitimo Fëanorion and Lord Makalaurë Fëanorion,” she said, when they drew even with her at last. She glanced at Fingon. “Not you, Lord Findekáno.” 

Fingon smiled thinly at her. “Maedhros is my husband,” he said. Her face remained impassive. “Anything the King has to say to him, he may equally say to me.”

“Nevertheless. I will escort you to a reception tent while your -- husband -- meets with the King.” And there it was -- the pause and the beat of disgust in her voice, there one moment and gone the next. Fingon drew in a deep breath; but before he could speak, Maedhros stepped forward. 

“Please inform the King,” he said, raising his voice so that it was loud enough to be heard through the fabric walls of the tent, “That if he would have an audience with me, he must admit my husband also.” He looked at Nahtinde and glowered. “I will not leave him waiting outside for me like a child.” 

Her eyes narrowed. Before she could say anything, however, Finarfin’s grave, tired voice called out from inside the tent, “Let him in too, Nahtinde.” Across the bond, Fingon felt the curl of hard satisfaction underneath the current of Maedhros’ anger; Fingon squeezed Maedhros' hand, and when Maedhros turned to look at him Fingon leaned up and kissed him swiftly.

“Husband,” he murmured. He waited until he felt Maedhros’ anger ebb and recede before he pulled back and smiled at him. In front of them, Nahtinde’s face was stony; Fingon smiled at her too before tugging Maedhros through the handsome blue curtain and into the tent, Maglor following close behind. 

Though it was late, the inside of the tent was brightly lit with clever, beautiful lamps that looked as though they had come directly from the court in Tirion. King Finarfin was already seated at a handsome wooden table in the center of the room; it was loaded with food, but Finarfin had pushed most of the plates away and was only toying distractedly with a glass goblet of red wine. He was dressed in his heavy ceremonial robes and a silver crown studded through with gems that flashed and sparkled in the lamplight. His elbow was propped up on the arm of his chair and his chin was resting on his hand. He glanced up as they walked in, but he didn’t smile or stand to greet them. 

“Maitimo, Makalaurë,” he said gravely. His eyes turned to Fingon, and for a moment they lingered on where Fingon and Maedhros’ hands were still intertwined. “Findekáno,” he added at last. He let go of his goblet and gestured at the table. “Sit. Eat.” 

“Uncle,” Maedhros greeted him, his voice carefully neutral. His eyes flicked over to the other figure seated at the table. “Lord Eönwë.”

The Maia was sitting on Finarfin’s right side. Even seated, he was nearly as tall as Maedhros. The lamplight washed over his smooth bronze skin, his black, pupil-less eyes, and his long white robes, which glittered like sunlight on the snow. These past forty years Eönwë had been a fury of motion at the center of the battle, the locus on which their forces had turned; now that the battle was over, he was preternaturally still. At Maedhros’ words he inclined his head slightly, but he made no move to get up or to answer. 

“We’ve already eaten,” Maglor said, as he moved past Maedhros and dropped into a seat across from Finarfin. He smiled winningly at him, although Fingon didn’t miss the tension in his shoulders. “Forgive us, we’re still on a soldier’s schedule.” Finarfin nodded without speaking. He waved his hand; a half dozen servants swept in from the corners of the tent and cleared the table, until all that was left were their glasses of wine and, in the center of the table, a simple wooden box that Fingon hadn’t noticed before. Finarfin, spotting Fingon’s gaze, nudged the box forward.

“Maitimo, Findekáno. Please sit.” 

Fingon could sense through the bond that Maedhros was inclined to argue. Come, Russo, he said gently. It was as if Fingon had shaken him; Maedhros jerked and turned to blink at him. Fingon tugged him into one of the two remaining chairs next to Maglor. Maedhros sat down woodenly. Fingon sank down next to him, and took his hand again. 

For a minute or two no one said anything. Finarfin took a long sip of wine. No one else moved.

“I think this is a mistake,” Finarfin said finally, setting his goblet down abruptly enough that half of his wine sloshed over the side and onto the table. He didn’t seem to notice. “But King Gil-galad has vouched for you, and Lady Elwing has accepted the rescue of her sons as weregild. She has given you her forgiveness in return.” At that Fingon couldn’t help but start; he felt Maedhros’ hand tighten around his warningly, and the wordless brush of Maedhros’ mind against his. 

“I think it is an unkindness,” Finarfin was saying, when Fingon had pulled himself back under control enough to listen again. “To you most of all. I remember how they twisted and warped my brother -- your father. But I've been overruled.”

Fingon was hardly breathing. Maedhros’ hand was as tight as a vise in his, while on Maedhros’ other side Maglor sat as though frozen in his chair.

“The Silmarils,” Finarfin said, without looking at any of them. His mouth curled unhappily. Eönwë continued to watch them, his face impassive and his eyes unreadable. “Recovered by Lord Eönwë, and yours by right.”

Russo, said Fingon helplessly, staring at the innocuous wooden box on the table in front of them. Maedhros didn’t answer; but after a moment he disentangled his hand from Fingon’s. Fingon felt its loss like a blow to his chest; but he could only watch, his eyes stinging, as Maedhros leaned forward, tugged the box closer, and pushed the lid open. 

The light of the Trees, the stars, the Moon, and the Sun all burst forth at once. The light was beautiful and it was everywhere, filling the entire tent with its radiance. Where the light touched Maedhros’ face, his scars disappeared and he was as he had been in Aman; young, fresh-faced, beautiful beyond words. When Fingon looked down he saw his own scars washing away, as though the jewels, blessed by Varda, had sluiced the memory of the balrog from his body like rain. He looked over, his throat seizing, and saw that the lines around Maglor’s eyes and the streaks of white in his hair had vanished -- he was youthful and handsome again, his face bright and his eyes wondering as he leaned forward and brushed his fingers against the edge of the box. 

Fëanor's jewels, that he had prized more than his life or the lives of his brothers and sons. They were Maedhros’ birthright. He had been tortured in Angband for them, had fought in battle after battle; had killed dozens in Alqualondë, and hundreds in Menegroth.

Maedhros let his hand ghost over the gems where they were nestled in the center of the box. Fingon could see that he was trembling. 

“Six hundred years,” Maedhros whispered. He still hadn’t touched the Silmarils, though his hand turned silver by their light. “We fought for so long to regain them. We lost so much.” 

“They have brought great sorrow,” Finarfin agreed heavily. Eönwë said nothing. For a long time Maedhros sat perfectly still and was silent. At last, slowly, he nodded.

“The last time I saw them they were on Morgoth’s crown, and nothing more than a taunt in the darkness,” Maedhros said. He kept his hand raised above the Silmarils and did not touch them. Fingon saw him swallow.

Russo, he tried. Maedhros didn’t answer.

“I did such evil,” Maedhros whispered at last, “Thinking only to hold them in my hand again, and see this wretched oath fulfilled.”

Fingon settled his hand on Maedhros’ knee. He tried to reach into his mind, but it was as though Maedhros had thrown up a wall between them, solid and impenetrable -- though Fingon could hear, as if from a great distance, the thrashing and wailing of the Oath behind it. Russo, Fingon said again, louder this time; but Maedhros didn’t look at him.

“The third Silmaril will stay with Lord Eärendil,” said Eönwë. It was the first time he’d spoken since they entered. His voice sounded like a plucked harp string, beautiful and otherworldly. “He shall bear it on Vingilótë as he keeps watch on Melkor and guards him in the darkness.” 

“That Silmaril is equally ours,” Maglor said, speaking as though with a great effort. “Crafted by our father, and stolen by Morgoth.” 

Fingon saw Finarfin’s jaw clench; even Eönwë stirred, his hand dropping to his side where, Fingon had no doubt, his sword rested. Fingon lifted his hand from Maedhros’ knee and moved to grip his own sword. But then, out of nowhere, Maedhros laughed. 

“Eärendil is our kin,” he said, turning from the Silmarils to look at Maglor. Maglor gawked at him. Finarfin, Eönwë, and Fingon all stared. “Our niece’s child, and first father to our sons.” When Maglor, taken aback, said nothing, Maedhros turned back to look at Finarfin and Eönwë across the table.

“He is our kin,” he insisted. And with that he let his hand drop and settle on the rightmost Silmaril. He drew it forth from the box.

For a moment it flared brightly, filling the tent like a lightning strike. Fingon had to release his sword and shield his eyes from the brightness; he saw Maglor and Finarfin do the same, both of them crying out and turning away. But Maedhros and Eönwë were completely still, silhouetted in starlight. 

And then the light dimmed, and finally faded. Maedhros still sat there, the Silmaril in his hand and a wondering look on his face. Without saying a word, he set the Silmaril gently back in the box. He let his fingers drift across the top of the second Silmaril; but then he drew back from that one as well, and pulled the lid shut once more. 

Fingon, startled, drew in a deep breath. When he looked at Maedhros’ face, Maedhros was himself once more: his scars, the weariness around his eyes, the toll that over six hundred years of war and heartache had taken on him, were all back. But there was something new in his bearing, something that Fingon hadn’t seen since Tirion -- as though the weight that his father had set on his shoulders all those centuries ago had finally been lifted, once and for all. 

“I claim the Silmarils, in the name of Fëanor’s house,” Maedhros said. His rough, battle-scarred voice trembled with barely contained emotion. “And I would ask one last favor of you, Uncle.”

Finarfin, still staring mutely at the now-dimmed box, startled and looked up. He blinked a few times before he seemed to realize that Maedhros was speaking to him. 

“A favor?” he repeated numbly. Maedhros nodded as he pushed the box back across the table towards him.

“Return these to my mother,” he said, “And tell her that it’s done.” 

And with that Maedhros smiled, stood, and walked from the tent, leaving Fingon, Maglor, and Finarfin gaping after him. 

Fingon caught up with Maedhros at the end of a line of tents. Maedhros was walking quickly, and there was something in his bearing that made the soldiers turn and stare after him as he passed. When Fingon reached him, Maedhros looked down at him and grinned, although he didn’t break his stride. 

“That’s it then?” Fingon asked incredulously. He reached out and took Maedhros' hand in his. There was no wall between them anymore; in his mind he felt Maedhros, golden and beautiful and singing, of all things. Fingon couldn’t help it; he laughed breathlessly. “No more Oath?” 

Maedhros brought Fingon’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “It’s gone,” he agreed wonderingly. His eyes were wet, even as he smiled and his spirit sang for joy.

Fingon knew the Oath, the many tentacled monster that Maedhros had locked into the darkest part of his soul and had fought without cease, without rest, to keep it from consuming him and their family whole. Fingon knew the scars it had left in Maedhros’ mind. He stopped, and when Maedhros made to keep walking he pulled on his hand and drew him back. 

“I don’t understand,” Fingon said. Maedhros obediently drew to a halt and looked at him. Fingon reached up to touch his face. “All those years, the Oath, every battle we fought, and you’re just -- letting the Silmarils go?”

“I claimed them,” Maedhros answered, as though it was that easy. Fingon stared at him. “I can do what I like with them now.”

“You could do good with them,” Fingon insisted. He knew that he shouldn’t be having this conversation with Maedhros here -- there were soldiers all around them, men and elves all listening in, and the longer they stood the more people were gathering around to watch and gawk. But he couldn’t help it. Delight and panic both were rising in him: joy, to see Maedhros free of the Oath at last, and fear for what sending the Silmarils away could mean. “Beleriand is in ruins now. We don’t know what awaits us in the east. The Silmarils could help, they could heal --”

“They have been turned to evil purpose, all these years,” Maedhros said gently. He cupped Fingon’s face and leaned down to brush a soft kiss to his lips. “Let them rest in Valinor. We'll stay here and rebuild without them. What does it matter how long it takes?” Fingon felt Maedhros smile against his lips. “We have time.”