Archive of Our Own ^beta

In a little cottage at the end of the world, on the Lonely Isle, two lords lived. One was tall and fair, with bright red hair, and with a temper to match, but was without rashness. The other was dark haired and of medium height, rash but not without wisdom, with a temper to match his lord husband. Rose vines and wisteria climbed up the side and reached the roof of this little cottage, neither a hall, nor a keep, for its lords, though royal-born, had grown tired of spectacle. Its shingles were silver-grey and worn, and its windows locked tight against the prevailing winds. Inside, the two lords ate a modest breakfast.
“Russandol, remind me what I need to purchase when I go to the market?”
“Peas, corn, cabbage, potatoes, honey, pepper, apples if you can find fresh ones, dried plums, corned beef, salted pork, and cheese.”
“Quite a long list. Thank you, darling.”
“It is long because your husband himself is long.” Maedhros thought his jest was poor.
“Don’t I know it!” Fingon winked.
Maedhros thought his husband was terrible….He didn’t really. He just had poor taste in humor. The door shut. Maedhros ignored it, preferring to wallow in his marital bereavement (Fingon would be gone for a few hours), until he realized his husband and best friend had left his cloak behind. It was late fall, and the winds on Tol Eressea had gained a brutal chill. Everything went mildew-y, old battle wounds went sore, and shingles of houses turned silver. Maedhros felt worry begin to rise in his gut, remembering the Ice and how he had never truly made up for Fingon’s intense hatred and perhaps even fear of the cold, even uncountable thousands of years later. He snatched the grey cloak swiftly and bolted out the door, chasing after Fingon.
“Astaldo! Astaldo-ninya! You forgot your cloak!” He called. Fingon turned around and looked immensely relieved. He shivered a bit as Maedhros fastened the heavy grey wool, embroidered with blue stars, around his shoulders and kissed him tenderly. Maedhros pulled away and fixed Fingon with an unimpressed silver stare, his face melting from affection back into its customary mask.
“You are foolish. You hate the cold, my scatter-brained husband.”
Fingon smiled ruefully, trying not to blush under the weight of his gaze.
“Alright, I apologize.”
Maedhros glared at him some more for good measure. Fingon knew his husband was upset with him, which was why he was so impassive and stern, but he couldn’t help the little flutter in his stomach at how sheerly beautiful Maedhros was. He said and did nothing, knowing he would upset Maedhros more if he didn’t accept this telling off. Old habits die hard, and while kind and thoughtful, Maedhros would always be the grave and strict oldest son of Feanor. Fingon loved him for it. He needed someone who could actually plan instead of leaping ahead into danger. Maedhros pecked him on the cheek and just like a song on the wind was gone, silent feet walking back toward the cottage. Most Quendi probably wouldn’t have thought so, but Fingon at that moment felt very loved. Contrary to the annals of the First Age taught to little Eldarin children, Maedhros was a very quiet, kind, and reserved person. Of course he had the Feanorian temper, and like all of his family was prone to arrogance and heavy handedness, but Fingon admitted to himself, he himself was prone to arrogance the same. He began his trek to the village market.

Maedhros fiddled with his wedding ring. He logically knew Fingon would only be gone for a few hours, but it didn’t help his sense that if he didn’t have Astaldo right next to him, something bad might happen. He was being silly, he told himself, drink your tea. The tea had gone cold. Drat, he thought. He went back to grading his students’ papers. He had wanted nothing to do with children for the first 4000 years or so of his reimbodiement, but as tempers cooled and old wounds sealed, and Maedhros freed himself from his post as his brother’s leader and caretaker, finally foisting it off on Nerdanel (who had seemed a bit overwhelmed at the task), he had decided his knowledge might be put to good use as a lecturer. Fingon, of course, had always said he had a talent for droning on, anyway. His pupils weren’t as good at listening or staying still as Fingon was (Maedhros never thought he’d say that in his long long life), but they were substantially more enthused that their teacher was THE Maedhros instead of Roccondil, the old ner who had previously held the post. They lost their enthusiasm the minute Maedhros had assigned more difficult homework, though. The door cracked open and Fingon shut it behind him, carefully balancing his several baskets of produce and preserved meats. Maedhros took them from Fingon and helped him out of his cloak. Fingon sat down by the fireplace to warm up as Maedhros put away the produce and fried some bacon and potatoes. When they had first married, there had been great dispute over who would cook for whom, both having been raised to be good Noldorin men who cooked well and expected to cook for their spouses. It had taken the air of a competition, each trying to be the first to cook each meal and force his husband to accept the delicious food. They had eventually talked to other neri married to each other, who had laughed and advised that they simply take turns. It seemed this was a fairly common problem. Watching Maedhros cook, Fingon wondered how nissi resolved this when two were married to each other. He figured it simply meant double the dough and ovens, and their fathers or brothers cooking the food. He and Maedhros certainly relied on Nerdanel and Aredhel for bread, after all. Maedhros forked the potatoes and bacon onto two plates and let Fingon know through their marriage bond that it was time to eat. Fingon sent a warm love feeling back and joined him at the table. He was surprised to see Maedhros was blushing a bit. Maedhros took his hand.
“ I love you, you know. I don’t say it enough.”
“That just makes it more precious to me, Maitimo.”

END