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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Maedhros/Fingon
Word Count: 3,047
Content Warnings:
Summary:
There was, he thinks slowly, trudging through the grief mired thoughts, gold ribbons coated in blood, a cold bed, a gaping emptiness in his mind where a marriage bond used to hum. There were years and years with only his brothers and even those dwindled with time.
His ears catch on a voice raised high, panicked, and then with terrifying force, the marriage bond snaps back into place, filling an emptiness he’d only just begun to grasp the edges of, and everything goes very sharp and clear.
Fingon, he thinks, feels the answering burst of confusion, fear, hope. “Fingon.”
Names of endurance, names of devotion,
street names and place names and all the names
of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.
It's a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.
If there was one thing I could save from the fire
Saying Your Names | Richard Siken
☀︎
They end up causing a scene. Of course they end up causing a scene. If Maedhros had been given a choice on when they were going to spat back out he would have picked a moment when it was just the two of them alone. Or, given a second choice, a moment they were each alone on their own so they could then go find each other.
What he would decidedly have not picked was one of the rare family dinners that grandfather managed to guilt everyone into attending. Everyone. There were some exceptions of course. Nerdanel refused point blank to put herself through the torture. Sometimes Anairë and Eärwen would join her if it was a particularly trying time. He’s relatively sure that if Indis could have gotten away with it she would have also joined them. But everyone else trooped to the castle once every few years and shoved themselves into one room and for Finwë’s sake tried to pretend that their family wasn’t a huge mess.
Which, of course, is when Maedhros and Fingon decide to make it an even bigger mess. Eru, for surely he was the only one who could do this, had a sick sense of humor.
It goes like this — the dinner was just reaching that point where tempers were beginning to run hot and Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro were sniping at each other while Lalwen and Finarfin were miserably commiserating and Findis was just stirring whichever pot was hottest for her own amusement. The rest of them were caught in the crossfire, as usual.
Maedhros’s memories go a bit blurry here, but he knows he’d met Fingon’s eyes across the table, meaning to share a commiserating eye roll, and instead had watched Fingon’s eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed. He thinks he would have followed within seconds but he hadn’t yet known what was happening, and predictably, he ended up fighting off the grey spots in his vision for all of 30 seconds because he was trying to reach Fingon. He’d just put himself in a worse spot to pass out and learns later that he’d come perilously close to braining himself on the corner of the table.
He wonders really if Eru would just have immediately reset the whole thing if Maedhros had managed to kill himself before the memories even settled. How embarrassing.
He goes down hard, distantly hears the yelling grow in volume, and then it all goes black. He is not precisely unconscious. Nor is he conscious. He simply exists and for a while knows only that he needs to go somewhere. Can’t quite remember where he came from or where he needs to go but he knows that he does. Tries to decide on a direction and thinks it pointless as every direction looks the same. Endless darkness. He cannot see his own hands. But then—
—golden light hovering in the distance. Gold brings to mind a warm voice, laughter that tastes like sunlight. Brings to mind calloused hands and a grief so overwhelmingly strong that for a minute he almost does not want to follow, does not want to know what could signal such a grief. But there is also a love so vast he wants to lay himself down in it and never arise. He hesitates only a second and then runs for the light.
Fingon tells him later that for him it’d been much the same, only instead of light he’d seen a fire and known it wouldn’t hurt him. Had looked at the flames and walked directly into them based on nothing but trust and love and faith.
He awakes with a gasp. Memories blurred and confusing, registering nothing but that there are too many people clustered around him, and his hand itches both for a sword and a hand in his and he’s scrabbling away from the people touching him before his vision even properly clears. Ends up pressed against a wall, knees drawn to his chest as he tries to shove his thoughts into something remotely resembling sensible.
Manages to look at the people staring at him and thinks, family, thinks oath, thinks dead. Blinks and meets Maglor’s eyes and has a swooping moment of overwhelming grief, of it’s only us, just us, the last ones left. But they aren’t the last ones anymore he realizes. There was blood, there was a war and another war and another war and there was—
There was, he thinks slowly, trudging through the grief mired thoughts, gold ribbons coated in blood, a cold bed, a gaping emptiness in his mind where a marriage bond used to hum. There were years and years with only his brothers and even those dwindled with time.
His ears catch on a voice raised high, panicked, and then with terrifying force, the marriage bond snaps back into place, filling an emptiness he’d only just begun to grasp the edges of, and everything goes very sharp and clear.
Fingon, he thinks, feels the answering burst of confusion, fear, hope. “Fingon,” he says out loud, lurching to his feet and stumbling. Briefly registers the presence of having two hands again and moves on. He searches the room and there, leaning against a wall, looking right at him.
Oh, he sees Fingon mouth. Oh, he thinks. He, in truth, does not remember making a decision to move. Does not remember moving. Perhaps he pushed someone out of the way. He does not know. If they’d had time to settle, to think, he’s sure he’d have found a way to never let another person apart from Fingon know. But they do not and there’s a great roaring in his ears as they slam into each other and fall.
Later, Maglor will describe the scene to him. The panic that had broken across the room when they’d both collapsed within seconds of each other. Uncle Nolvo and Atar yelling and Findis shoving first one then the other out of the way as she checked on them. The way she hadn’t been able to find a single thing wrong and had been furious about it. Their family was messed up but these were her nephews and all her skills as a healer were suddenly failing her.
Maglor says they stayed unconscious for what must have been near half-an-hour. They did not move. They simply lay there, faces as peaceful as if they’d simply fallen asleep. And then both had awoken in a flurry of movement and panic. He’d pushed Caranthir over, Maglor tells him. Had made a terrible wounded noise when Atar tried to grab his arm. And then he’d simply sat there, shaking, looking as if he did not know them. Fingon, they find out later from Írissë, did in fact punch Turgon from the force of his panic. But, to be fair, he had just woken up after violently dying, Turgon was simply the first person unlucky enough to touch him.
They could see, he had said, the exact moment the marriage bond had flashed into being in his eyes. The way it had simply appeared as if it had always been there. Something which should not have been possible considering the clear lack of a bonding happening in that moment. But there it was and there was a vicious grief on Maedhros’s face that had turned to shock and then there were the tears. Then there was a name they didn’t recognize and Maedhros crashing into Fingon in a way that looked as if it hurt.
No one had moved, he had said. They hadn’t known what to do. It was unprecedented. What were they supposed to guess had happened? There were no clues. No hints to lead them to a guess. There was just Maedhros and Fingon clutching each other on the floor looking for all the world as if they hadn’t seen each other in an age. Even Atar had been quiet, struck with a puzzle he couldn’t solve and Maedhros, who never cried these days, weeping into Fingon’s hair.
Maedhros does not truly know how long they clutch each other, their minds thrown open to each other, an endless loop of relief, love, you’re alive, relief, love, panic, love, panic, you’re alive. When they do begin to calm they cycle through memories, or to be painfully accurate, Fingon cycles through the memories Maedhros has of what happened after he’d died at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. And then there is only shock, horror, disbelief, horror. Maedhros follows him through the memories and is hit with a wave of grief, joy, longing when he sees the twins. The twins that do not exist yet. Who may never exist now. Who even if they do exist will never know Maedhros in the way he knows them. A tragedy and a gift.
How could you, Fingon accuses. Maedhros has no answer. He has a cavern of guilt. He has an ocean of regret. But he does not have any reason other than he had been tired and grieving and his brothers had all pushed and pushed for it and he knows he could have kept saying no, that the oath was not so strong yet as to make him, but he had been tired, and it had been so easy to let his brothers have their way.
Fingon does not let go of him as he’d half-expected. He does not even close the bond. He simply lets all of his fury pour between them and scald Maedhros. Maedhros accepts it, lets it scald him, pours back his regret and his sorrow and promises, not again, never again, even if— his thoughts falter, twisting into a black ball of grief — even if it still all goes wrong and you die, never again.
Fingon sinks his teeth into the promise and says, would you swear it? He does not hesitate to say, yes. Fingon does not ask for the oath but he is soothed. Still rageful in a way that will likely erupt again when they have had time to calm, but he is soothed. And as he is soothed and their bond is lulled to a calm and the tears subside they both become horribly, terribly aware that their entire family is staring at them.
If only we could just run away to Beleriand now, Fingon thinks, laughter in the thought.
They would only follow us, Maedhros says, amused despite himself. I suppose we must explain it to them.
Unless you can think of a lie big enough to cover what just happened.
Maedhros does indeed try to think of one, but there is simply nothing they could say. Even if he could manage to lie about their behavior, the marriage bond must be visible and there is no way to lie about why it had abruptly appeared on their fëa’s. Well, I suppose we must. What a mess this will be! We will have to tie our fathers to a chair so that they do not try to descend upon Morgoth immediately!
Fingon bursts into laughter, kisses Maedhros furiously, a burning promise, and then pulls them both to their feet. Their family are indeed standing around the room staring at them with terribly distressed, confused expressions. Maedhros feels a bit bad truly. If he has ordered his memories correctly then Melkor has truly only been released for so little time, Curufin has only just married, amil still lives with them. There are cracks but they have not truly begun to splinter yet.
They do not even know what the silmarils are, he thinks, both horrified and amused. I do not know if Atar has even begun to think of them.
We shall frame it then as him being stupid over nothing more than some ridiculous jewels.
Maedhros snorts before he can stop himself and bites back a smile as Fingon pushes him into a seat at the head of the table and then happily drops into his lap.
“We apologize for worrying you,” Fingon says, with all the dignity of a high king on his throne and not one who still has tears staining his face, his braids a mess from Maedhros digging his fingers into them. “We’ll answer your questions but,” he snaps when half of them open their mouths to, likely, start yelling. “we will answer one at a time. If you start yelling or speaking over one another we’re both happy to sit here silently until you remember how to be adults.”
There is a stunned silence. His father’s face is beginning to redden and Uncle Nolvo looks as if he’s been slapped. Aunt Findis is staring at them with a perplexed, annoyed expression and Aunt Lalwen looks as if she both wants to laugh and cry. Their grandfather looks deeply distressed and very pale, as does Indis. Uncle Arvo and all their siblings and cousins are simply staring, eyes terribly wide, and some with their mouths hanging open. With the exception of Turgon who is somehow managing to look worried while also glaring furiously, his hand pressed to a darkening bruise on his cheek, and Artanis who is staring at them with a deeply disturbing expression.
Predictably, he supposes, none of them listen to Fingon at all. They are granted a short reprieve of silence while their family recovers from the shock and then they all begin yelling at once in earnest. Fingon sighs, leaning against him, despair and exasperation swirling between them as they watch.
How long until they realize I was serious about us sitting here silently until they stop yelling.
Hm, you could shorten the time if you make it clearer how very little you are listening to them. Fingon’s eyes are laughing when he turns his head to look at Maedhros. Laughing and overflowing with affection and the guilt stabs through Maedhros all over again.
Stop. Save the guilt for later when I have a chance to yell at you.
He smiles despite the dread of such a conversation. Hides his face against Fingon’s neck and murmurs, “As my king commands,” against his skin. He is not king and will, if they are very careful, not be a king for a very long time. But he was the last king Maedhros answered to and that instinct will take time to fade. Fingon’s fingers are very gentle when they begin running through his hair.
It does not take long for the yelling to start tapering off once it becomes blatantly apparent that they are not even pretending to listen. They both look up when it becomes silent again. Maedhros makes the mistake of making eye contact with his father and has to fight back a flinch. For a moment can feel the ash and taste the iron on the back of his tongue and smell the scent of burned flesh that had lingered even after his father was gone. It is unfortunate that Fingon chooses that moment to look at his father as Fingon’s last memory of Ñolofinwë is not any better.
He wrenches his eyes away with some difficulty, does not let himself linger on his little brothers, and instead settles his gaze on Uncle Arvo. A safe emotional spot as Maedhros had not seen him since they left Aman and his abandonment of them had not hurt overly much.
“Well,” he says, clearing his throat and using the same voice he used when he’d had to settle disputes between the twins. “Shall we all try that again?”
It is, surprisingly, Findis who recovers her voice first. “Are you both well,” she demands, “you collapsed! And I could find no reason at all, not in your fëa or hröa!”
“We’re both well, auntie,” Fingon says gently. “We really are sorry for worrying you. We didn’t precisely plan for that to happen.”
“And who,” his father asks venomously, “exactly caused whatever that was?”
It is unfortunate really that his father won’t be able to fight anyone about this. “I can only presume it was Eru himself,” he says after a moment of thought. Fingon shrugs in agreement. “We didn’t really get to ask? Or, well we didn’t really get told anything I suppose. But I can’t imagine anyone else was able to cause it.”
His father looks incredibly perplexed and offended. It’s Uncle Nolvo who gives a long-suffering sigh and finally asks the relevant question. “Can you please just tell us what exactly it is that’s happened? What is it that Eru himself—” he does not sound as if he believes that bit at all, “—supposedly caused?”
He looks at Fingon. Fingon looks back. “Well,” Fingon starts, scratching at his wrist, “Ai! How do I say this? To put it simply I suppose, as simply as it can be put, I rather remember dying not even two hours past! There was,” he falters, voice cracking, and Maedhros reaches down to grab his hand, his wrist is turning red from his nails digging in. “No, we will just leave it at this, there was a battle and I died in Beleriand fighting Morgoth, who you know as Melkor!”
“I didn’t actually die,” Maedhros adds when everyone stares in dumbstruck silence. “I lived about 80 years after the battle and I simply went to sleep after putting the children to bed. I certainly didn’t expect to wake up here.”
Another moment of dumbstruck silence. Maedhros counts in his head, one, two, three, four — the room erupts into yelling. Fingon sighs and kisses him before settling in to wait for their family to once again get tired of yelling and remember they would actually like their questions answered.
It was going to be a long night. But, he thinks, squeezing Fingon’s hand and sending another burst of love, trust, love towards him, at least there was hope. At least he had Fingon warm and solid and real in his lap. At least his entire family was alive. They could figure the rest out.
Originally posted on AO3
