Part 1: (please) change the prophecy
Feb. 8th, 2025 10:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Maedhros & Fëanor • Maedhros/Fingon
Word Count: 6,572
Content Warnings:
Summary:
“No,” he says once more, cutting his father off. The pressure in his chest hurts. He wanted to rest but instead there’s a great, spiked ball of fury dragging itself up his throat. “If you burn those boats I will walk out there and burn with them. I’ll swear it to Eru if you don’t believe me. Damn myself to the darkness twice.” He had intended to burn anyways, may as well go out the way he’d meant to, let his death mean something this time. Let it be for something that matters.
There must be something truly terrible on his face because his father visibly falters.
“You would not,” his father says but his voice wavers slightly.
Cards on the table
Mine play out like fools in a fable, oh
It was sinking in (sinking in, oh)
Slow is the quicksand
Poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand
Oh, still I dream of him
Please I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
The Prophecy | Taylor Swift
☀︎
Maedhros dies. Throws himself into the fire, silmaril in hand, and finds himself thinking of nothing but how very relieved he is for it to be over. It’s done. It’s finally done. His father and brothers will not be doomed to the void and it is done and all he wants to do now is rest until the breaking of the world.
He throws himself into fire and when next he opens his eyes, there is no Mandos, there is no rest, only a beach he recognizes far too well and the heat of a torch in his father’s outstretched hand.
He has not seen his father in so long. Had forgotten how very bright that fey madness had been in his father’s eyes. How bright the fire had been against the dark of the night. So bright that when the ships burn Fingon will be able to see it all the way on the other shore. My father is alive, he thinks, tests the weight of the thought out. Glances to the right and sees his brothers lined up, waiting for him to be the first to take up the torch, just as he’d been the first to follow in swearing the oath. My brothers are alive, he thinks, this thought weightier than the first. Fingon is alive, he thinks, pleads, hopes, but what an unbelievable thought when he is not here for Maedhros to set eyes upon.
His father is beginning to look impatient but Maedhros could no more take that torch now than he could the first time around when he’d had no idea what was to come. My family is alive, he thinks again. Feels the weight of the words shift in his chest and snap a rib on the way down, finds it very hard to breathe suddenly. He had wanted rest. He does not want to live through whatever thrice cursed illusion this is. Or worse, it is no illusion at all, and he has in truth been cruelly sent back to Losgar just in time to watch the ships burn once more.
“No,” he says, the word muffled to his own ears, though it must have been easily heard by others considering the fury beginning to ignite on his father’s face. He says it again just to feel the weight of the word in his mouth. “No.”
There is a terrible, building pressure in his chest, and he fears if he lets it out he won’t be able to clean up the damage of whatever comes after. He does not know how real this is, does not know if it won’t all break apart once he’s passed or failed whatever test this is. But if it is. If it is. Eru, he can’t do this all over again.
“Nelyafinwë,” his father starts, a storm in his voice. He thinks Maitimo would have dreaded that voice. But Maedhros has heard far more terrifying things than his father’s rage. He has slaughtered two cities for the sake of a jewel, has been the one that people fear.
Maedhros had hung from Thangorodrim for thirty years until Fingon rescued him, and when he’d tried to apologize for the boats Fingon had refused to blame him at all because one of his foolish brothers had said he’d stood aside. As if standing aside was enough. As if leaving Fingon and all his people to cross the Helcaraxë could be so easily absolved by something as simple as standing aside.
“No,” he says once more, cutting his father off. The pressure in his chest hurts. He wanted to rest but instead there’s a great, spiked ball of fury dragging itself up his throat. “If you burn those boats I will walk out there and burn with them. I’ll swear it to Eru if you don’t believe me. Damn myself to the darkness twice.” He had intended to burn anyways, may as well go out the way he’d meant to, let his death mean something this time. Let it be for something that matters.
There must be something truly terrible on his face because his father visibly falters.
“You would not,” his father says but his voice wavers slightly. “There are none on that shore who matter! They are all weak-hearted and cannot be trusted! Useless baggage and no loss of any cost!”
No loss of any cost, his father says, and Maedhros thinks of Fingolfin fighting Morgoth and landing seven blows; thinks of Turgon and beautiful Gondolin that he’d held for so long; thinks of Elenwë lost to the ice and Arakáno lost as soon as they set foot in Beleriand; of Aredhel lost to the forests she'd loved so well. Thinks always of Fingon ground into the dirt, fighting to his last, and the way Maedhros never quite managed to move on from that moment. A part of him always stuck with his forehead pressed to the bloody ground and a ribbon clutched tight around his fist.
And all of that to say nothing of Finarfin’s line. To say nothing of Finrod and Orodreth holding Nargothrond for as long as they could. To say nothing of Finrod dying with his teeth bloody. To say nothing of Angrod and Aegnor fighting to the bloody end for a chance at freedom from Morgoth. Of Galadriel outlasting them all, always sharper than the rest of them. To say nothing of Finarfin leading the host from Valinor to Beleriand helping rid them of Morgoth once and for all. Maedhros thinks he could have shown up sooner but that does not diminish the act itself.
No loss, his father says, and Maedhros laughs. Feels mad and likely sounds it too. Can sense his brothers off to the side shifting uneasily. “Try me,” he says viciously, takes a step toward the boats and watches his father’s grip on the torch falter.
“I will not let you commit such foolishness,” his father says, eyes narrowing. “I will have you held back if you will not listen to reason.”
He smiles, spreads his arms wide to be held. “Don’t worry, Atar. There are other ways to die. Do you really think you can hold me forever?”
And there it is, unease slipping into his father’s eyes to replace the madness. He takes another step toward the water. Dares his father to make a move. He does not fear burning. He fears only living through this all over again and doing nothing to fix any of his many mistakes. He fears only living through this all over again. Fears living and making new mistakes.
He does not want the boats to burn, this is true. But it would be so much easier for him if they did.
“Step away from the boats, Nelyafinwë,” his father says, voice carefully even.
“Put the torches out and I will.” He takes another step toward the boats to just be petty. One of his brothers makes a choked sound.
His father stares at him for a long time, the flames casting long shadows up and down the beach. No one dares move, although he fancies he can feel his brothers itching to. “They would not do the same for you,” his father says. “My traitorous half-brother would not put even half as much effort forth for you.”
“Likely not,” he says easily, watches the way his father startles. Fingolfin wouldn’t try to abandon them to begin with but that’s a useless argument. “But Findekáno would do the same for me. I know this. Still, even if he would not, that does not change that it is the right thing to do.” Fingon had survived crossing the ice and then risked his life immediately upon arriving all because he’d decided to come after Maedhros. He’d never had a chance to properly repay him for that. It’s perhaps less impactful when Fingon cannot remember doing anything but he will know and that will have to be enough.
His father has no response. Stares at him for a while longer and looks to the boats, truly weighing the likelihood of Maedhros following through with his threat. He thinks he would feel hurt over that if he had anything so simple as hurt left inside of him. If half of his mind was not still replaying the feeling of fire against his skin, the other half desperately trying to make sense of this sudden new reality.
He knows how this ends and knows that there are years and years of war ahead. Stretches of peace but always a constant threat hanging over their head. He is not strong enough to watch Fingon die again. Is not strong enough to watch his brothers die again. He is not, truly, sure if he is even strong enough to watch his father die again. He had been so close to getting to rest.
His father takes a step forward. Maedhros takes another step back. There’s a half-aborted movement in the corner of his vision but he doesn’t bother looking to see who it is.
“You would have me waste my people’s time going back for those useless fools,” his father says low and angry. His eyes are burning and there’s something very close to hatred sparking in them.
“I would have you act as a king and not as someone trying only to find the cruelest way to hurt their sibling.” It is perhaps only half of the truth but what does that matter. There are so many things he could have said the first time around. Things he could not have known to think but also things he had known but been too much of a coward to say.
His father takes another step forward, mouth curled in disgust. Maedhros takes two steps back, the water splashing around his feet. He will be, disappointed, perhaps, if his father truly does burn the boats, and him with them. Disappointed but not, necessarily, surprised. The hurt he’s sure will come much later after he has had time to rest. To remember what it is to feel whole instead of like nothing but the smudged outline of a person. His father looks to the boats once more and then, to his great surprise, his father tosses his torch into the water, the fire going out with a hiss. He had not, he realizes through the shock, thought this would truly end in anything except fire and his death.
There’s a moment of shock that ripples down the beach but one after another, the rest of their people toss their torches into the water as well. The boats do not burn.
The boats do not burn.
Maedhros sits down in the water and starts to laugh.
☀︎
His brothers fear for his sanity. Only Celegorm says so to his face but he knows they all do. It is a fair concern truly since he is not sure himself if he is well. Has yet to decide if this is an elaborate test of the Valar or if he has truly changed the past in such a major way. Finds the latter to be such an absurd thought that he cannot believe it to be true. Yet, living under the impression that this is nothing but an illusion makes it frightfully difficult to care about the long reaching consequences of his actions, something which is far more dangerous.
He thinks his father might also fear for his sanity, But Maedhros is not sure what his father thinks truly as he has not spoken a word to Maedhros since putting his torch out and he has better things to do than listen to pointless gossip. He does not let it concern him. Instead puts all his effort into arranging the minimal crew that will be needed to send the boats back. Every elf he speaks to gives him a wary glance but listens. He knows they go and ask his father for permission afterward but he does not begrudge them seeking the permission of the king. Especially, as his father seems to be telling them to do whatever Maedhros says. Strange, true, but it is a strangeness he will not question for now.
He spends some time considering the length of the crossing and the time it took for his father to die the first time around. He should be able to complete the first well before the second comes to pass. Thinks he should probably stay in case his father finds some new type of danger but the lure of seeing Fingon alive and well is terribly strong. He goes back and forth with himself about it for the week it takes them to unload the boats and get ready to return. Finally justifies it as there needing to be a member of the family present to represent them as he has no doubt Fingolfin will be wroth.
His brothers, when he announces he will be on the return trip, stare at him as if he’s announced Morgoth himself is on his way to their camp.
“What is wrong with you?” Curufin demands, rising to his feet, eyes flashing as he stares across the table at Maedhros.
“There is nothing wrong with me,” he says, though he isn’t sure that’s true. “Someone will need to be there to present an apology for the… perceived abandonment. It will be me.” He stands, meaning to leave, but Celegorm jumps to his feet as well.
“I’m going with you,” he announces, crossing his arms when everyone stares at him. And then, in a move that shocks Maedhros more than he cares to admit, he says very quiet and serious, “You are not the only one who left a friend on the other shore.”
He manages to bite back several unkind things he wants to say in response to that. It isn’t as if Celegorm had seemed to care much about that the last time. Instead he inclines his head in acceptance and leaves the tent. If this ends with his brother turning out less cruel while in Beleriand then all the better.
☀︎
He stands at the prow of the ship as the shore slowly gets closer. He can see more and more elves gathering as they draw closer and he strains his eyes, looking for just one. Nearly loses his footing when he does spot him. Tightens his grip on the side of the ship to the point that his fingers ache. But it is Fingon, alive. A cold expression on his face as he watches the ships approach but alive.
He could never speak to Maedhros again and he would not care as long as Fingon stays alive. He considers again that this may be no illusion at all. That he may be stuck here in the past for good. And he wanted to rest but, alive, alive, alive sings his heart, beating in time with the word. Everyone is so very, painfully alive. He wanted to rest but oh, how he can wish such a thing when everyone he loves is alive.
He does not leave the prow of the ship until Fingon looks up at him and then he turns and flees. He fears what will happen when he must meet Fingon’s eyes properly. Does not know what will spill out of him. Celegorm is watching him when he moves to stand closer to where they’ll disembark. He stares back, tries to superpose Tyelkormo with his open curiosity displayed in the tilt of his head over Celegorm urging him to move on Doriath as if they did not already have enough blood of their kin staining their hands. Cannot quite manage it.
Fingolfin steps forward to meet him when he leaves the ship, face carefully composed as he nods first at Maedhros and then at Celegorm. He does not bow. Maedhros hadn’t truly expected him to. He does not look at Fingon no matter how his palms itch or the side of his cheek burns from the force of Fingon’s gaze.
“Well met, Nelyafinwë,” Fingolfin says, “we feared that my brother had abandoned us when we woke to find the boats gone.”
Even now, he thinks, he calls my father brother. Does that make him the fool or my father? “Well met,” he says in reply, dragging the tattered remains of his civility around him. “You have not been abandoned! We have returned for you so that you may join us and I am glad for it!” He is very careful to not speak a lie but he knows Fingolfin catches everything he has omitted.
“Indeed you have,” Fingolfin says, smiling slightly even as his gaze remains cool. “I look forward to greeting my brother when we arrive in Beleriand and thanking him for trusting in our loyalty.”
Maedhros smiles, does not much care what they say to each other. They’ll be on the same shore with no one lost to the ice. Their forces will be fortified in time for the first true battle. In the face of that what does it matter if his father and uncle carve new hurts into each other.
“That isn’t quite what happened though, is it,” Celegorm says, false cheer dripping from his voice as he steps up beside Maedhros. His smile grows sharper when all eyes turn to him.
“Tyelkormo,” he says quietly. “Go back to the boats.”
“Why? Are you the only one who gets to do mad things now?” Celegorm’s face is not friendly when he looks at Maedhros. “Will you not tell them of the price nearly paid? Of what you did all to bring the boats back to them.”
“You gain nothing from this,” he says, strangely unsure of why his brother is doing this. It will only foster resentment against his father earlier than necessary.
“Tell them,” Tyelkormo says, baring his teeth in a smile, “or I will.”
He stares. Catches himself before he can dart a glance at Fingon. “Do as you will,” he says, instead of bothering with trying to understand Celegorm’s logic. He nods at his uncle, ignores the suspicion growing on his face, and then turns and marches right back onto the boat. In what is perhaps a coward’s move, he goes and hides in the small room he’d been sleeping in.
He sits on the bed, back to the wall, and tips his head back. Closes his eyes and pulls up the image of Fingon standing on the shore. It is still dark, the sun still a thing of the future, but he’d been able to see the shimmer of gold in Fingon’s hair where the torchlight caught at his ribbons. Had been able to see that he was still well and alive. He takes a deep breath. Feels everything in his mind teeter dangerously as he realizes all over again that it is looking more and more likely that this real and everyone is truly alive.
And if this is real. If he has been flung back into the past then he has already played his hand. It is a wild hand, which grants him some of ease of movement as no one will know what to expect from him. But it is not the hand that should have been played. But then. What else could he have done? Stood aside and watched the boats burn again? The only thing that could have saved the boats from his father’s madness was to counter it with madness of his own. So, he’s played his hand. And now what?
He cannot fix everything. He knows this. Just as he knows it is completely assured that he will make new mistakes. In the end what does it even matter that all of Fingolfin and Finarfin’s people will arrive earlier rather than later. It saves some from the ice, yes. But as much as he is trying to delude himself into thinking otherwise, he does not believe it will save his stubborn, foolhardy father. Would not be completely surprised to find that his father has found a different way to die in his absence. And then what?
What changes? He does not go to parlay and no one will have to know that he has memories of being captured and held in Angband. Fingon will not have to rescue him. He will keep both of his hands. And then it will still just be war after war after war. The same deaths. Likely some new deaths. Another long stretch of years with the oath suffocating him and a shroud of anticipatory grief to hold around his shoulders.
The door to the room slams open. He does not open his eyes. Knows who it is from nothing other than the agitated footsteps as the door is slammed closed again. A hot curl of want begins threading around his ribs.
“Russo,” Fingon says, and the sound of his voice punches through Maedhros. “Russandol, look at me, what the fuck were you thinking?”
He presses his lips tightly together to hold back everything that wants to spill out of him and keeps his eyes firmly closed. Only just resists hiding his face against his knees. He had not had a choice on whether or not to deal with the sudden presence of his father alive and breathing in front of him once again. Had not had a choice except to look at his brothers as they stared at him like he was a stranger. Had handled it all far worse than he perhaps otherwise could have. Not, that he truly thinks time will help this hurt less. He will open his eyes and look at Fingon and everything inside of him that is already splintered and jagged and broken will finally finish breaking.
“Russo,” Fingon says again, reaching out a hand to touch the back of his and he’s turning his hand to grasp tightly at it before he can stop himself. Fingon sighs. He hears something dropping to the floor, a cloak perhaps, and then Fingon is clambering onto the bed and into his lap. His eyes fly open in surprise despite himself. And there is Fingon staring down at him, concern caught in the creases of his eyes and in the downward slope of his mouth. Maedhros stares at him, feels his breath hitch as he drinks in every detail he’d forgotten and every detail he had not. The exact shade of blue backlit by tree light, a shade he’d never quite managed to find elsewhere until the sun rose and left the sky painted in new shades of blue, and then it was there in the first rays of dawn. Once the sun rises a small splattering of barely there freckles will appear on the bridge of his nose, it is strange not seeing them there now.
“Russo, why would you ever do such a thing?” Fingon asks, pushing his hands into Maedhros’s hair, thumbs resting at his temple.
“I could not leave you,” he manages to choke out, not letting any of the thousand other things he wishes to say follow it out.
“And we thank you for it but we would not have expected you to die for it.” His fingers tighten in Maedhros’s hair, his eyes so painfully bright and sad as he look at Maedhros and his breath hitches terribly again.
“I couldn’t leave you,” he says again and then hides his face against Fingon’s chest, clutching desperately at him, unable to care about anything other than how warm and alive and solid Fingon is in his arms. Real, real, real his mind whispers. Alive, alive, alive his heart sings.
"We would have figured something out," Fingon says quietly, like it'll hide his own doubt. "I would not have been able to bear it if I had arrived only to find you died for such a thing."
"You could have," of this he has no doubt. "You're strong."
Fingon doesn't reply for a moment. Runs his fingers through Maedhros's hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head. All the painful years hiding in his chest crack open at the gesture and he feels the first of the tears begin leaking down his cheeks. Bites his lip to hide the sob that wants to emerge.
"Do you really think," Fingon says against his hair, "that I love you less than you love me?" Maedhros cannot answer. Is scared to open his mouth. "Look at me," Fingon says, gripping his hair and tugging his head back. His eyes go wide at the tears staining Maedhros's face but he presses on. “You told your father I would do the same for you. We have not spoken since you followed him into exile. And Tyelkormo said you sounded so terribly confident of that. I told him you were right. So, tell me, do you really think I love you any less than you love me?"
This, in the end, is what sends everything he's been carefully holding crashing down. A desperate, wounded noise claws its way out of him and the sob that follows hurts. He has missed Fingon every day since he died. But he still does not want to live this all again. He will. Of course he will. He'll go back to his father and help marshal their people into a force ready withstand the horrors of Angband and when his father inevitably dies he'll hand the crown off to his Uncle once again. He'll go to Himring and corral is brothers and he'll be perfectly miserable the entire time. It is not that he cannot or will not, it is only that he does not want to, and what he wants matters just as little now as it had then, but it hurts so much worse this time, especially with one of his greatest wants sitting in his lap.
"Russo," Fingon says, looking terribly distressed. "This isn't like you. Please, tell me what’s wrong?"
He wouldn't know what to say even if he could do anything other than curl into Fingon and sob. It is so terribly selfish of him to want to tell anyone about what's to come. It is not as if he cannot bear this on his own. But he is also aware enough of himself to know that he is not entirely reasonable right now. Still remembers Maglor asking, pleading, for them to just go to Eönwë and let themselves be taken to Valinor for judgement. Remembers the way all he could focus on was how badly he wanted it to be over. What had judgement mattered when the end was finally in sight? What did forgiveness matter? He had cared for nothing but the end he could finally see. And then it had been over. It had been over.
Eru, why, he has not prayed in so long, but he does so now, even if the prayer is nothing but the same question. Why, must I undergo this twice? How much can a fëa scar before it's unhealable?
Fingon holds him as he sobs. Settles more comfortably in his lap, one hand clasped around the back of his neck to ground him, and the other running through his hair. He starts humming softly after a time and it takes Maedhros longer than it should to place the song as the same one Fingon had sung when he came to Thangorodrim to rescue him. This does not help him calm down as he’s sure it was meant to.
He does not open his mind to Fingon so much as he stumbles against the wall separating them and Fingon automatically opens to catch him. The result is the same regardless. The hand that Fingon has around the back of his neck tightens as he sees the rapid-fire memories Maedhros is cycling through and his humming dies.
What the fuck, he thinks, sounding overwhelmed. Russo, slow down, what is all this.
My life, what else is there to say. I don't want to do it all again Finno. I don't. I'm so tired.
He can sense Fingon rapidly flipping through the memories Maedhros is hemorrhaging. "You," Fingon inhales sharply, pulling back to look Maedhros in the face. "Were you trying to get him to kill you? Is that what that fucking was?"
Maedhros stares back, thinks, yes, thinks, no. Does it matter?
"Eru, don't you fucking dare," Fingon hisses, his hand tightening painfully in Maedhros's hair. He kisses him furiously and Maedhros melts into it regardless, or perhaps because, of the restrained violence. "Don't you dare give up like that," he says against his mouth. "I don't think I understand what exactly is going on but don't you dare fucking give up."
"I'm not giving up," he says, wincing at how hoarse his voice is. "I'm just tired, I don't want to do all of this again."
"Okay, okay," Fingon says, kisses him again and then again when Maedhros follows his mouth. "Then we'll do it different, okay? I'm sure I can find a way to make it all far more interesting this time around."
Maedhros stares at him, torn between absolute horror at the idea of Fingon drawing more of Morgoth's attention than he needs to, and curious amusement as he wonders how exactly Fingon plans on doing that. "I'm not giving up," he says again. He can feel Fingon's badly contained panic pressing against his mind. "You're alive. My brothers are all alive. My father is well and alive, for now at least. I won't leave you."
"That is less comforting than you think it is but I can work with it for now." Fingon wipes the tears from his face and tilts his head, kisses him deeply. Maedhros wants to climb out of his skin, let his fëa curl up inside of Fingon’s ribcage. Maybe there he can protect Fingon’s heart, keep it beating no matter what. Unable to do that no matter how much he wishes it he sighs into the kiss, lets Fingon tilt his head this way and that as they relearn the topography of each other’s mouths. He grips Fingon's hips and tugs him as close as he possibly can. This would be a good way to die he finds himself thinking absently. Fingon's braids falling around them so that all he can smell is the oil he uses in his hair. To be so utterly surrounded by someone he loves, yes, this would be a good way to die. Fingon bites his lip sharply when he catches the thought.
Don't you dare, Fingon thinks, sets his teeth to Maedhros's throat and works a bruise onto it too high to be hidden. Presses their foreheads together and thinks, Explain it to me. All of it. Let me help. But don’t you dare give up.
Maedhros explains. Eru help him, but he does.
Fingon stays quiet as Maedhros explains, sometimes in whispered words, sometimes only in a flurry of thoughts and memories. He keeps their foreheads pressed together, his hands cradling Maedhros’s face, a grounding force he desperately needs. He thinks about stopping after he reaches Fingon's death and then decides that he might as well lay all his crimes out for Fingon to see.
Fingon's nails dig into the sides of his face when he gets to Doriath. There's a great burst of fury that explodes between them when he reaches Sirion. Maedhros pushes on. Shows only snapshots of the twins, unable to press too hard on that wound. Despite everything he had loved them dearly and does not want to think about them never knowing him even though it is for the best. He falters as he reaches the end, goes to present the memory of the fire and then tries to pull it back before Fingon can see. But Fingon sinks his teeth into it and drags it between them.
Oh, Russandol, he makes a wretched noise as he watches Maedhros fall. I am so very, very angry at you but I am not going to leave. I can feel you waiting for me to. But I’m not.
"Stubborn," he accuses, voice choked. He hides his face against Fingon's neck and breathes him in. He feels no lighter for having shared the burden. But there is something bright and viciously satisfied that lodges itself between his teeth at having Fingon see every terrible thing he's done and still refuse to leave.
They rearrange themselves into a more comfortable position after a while, Fingon sitting between his legs so Maedhros can curl around him and bury his face in the curve of Fingon’s neck. He takes the time to simply breathe. The tears have dried and Fingon is very warm against him. He's humming again while he plays with the fingers of Maedhros's right hand. Maedhros thinks he dozes for a while, too wrung out to do anything else, but he can feel the slight buzzing coming from Fingon's mind as he intently thinks about everything.
That's how they stay until someone knocks on the door. Fingon shifts as if he's going to pull away and Maedhros tightens his grip, grumbling against his skin.
"We are not going to be a very well-kept secret if someone sees us like this," Fingon says, but he sounds more amused than anything else.
"Keeping us a secret didn't make a difference last time," he mutters. If he is going to do this all over again he would like to have this one thing for himself. That does not feel like much to ask for. To just have one thing for himself. But. “Unless you don't want people to know? It's fine if you don't." He knows how to stay secret. He will if Fingon wants to.
"Russo," he says gently, love, I'll marry you tomorrow and tell everyone if you'd like. You are mine as much as I am yours.
Maedhros thinks he makes some kind of noise at that but he's too busy turning Fingon's head so he can kiss him to care. He might have moved to marry Fingon then and there if another knock hadn't sounded, firmer than the last. He sighs, reluctantly straightens up a bit, though he doesn't bother letting go of Fingon, and calls for the person to come in.
It is, perhaps predictably, his Uncle, who takes one look at them, his eyebrows shooting up, before stepping inside and closing the door. The room is truly at its capacity now. He sets his chin on Fingon's shoulder and waits.
Ñolofinwë considers them for a long minute, nose scrunched up in thought. "I am trying to decide if I am surprised or not," he says after Fingon shifts anxiously. "I merely came to check on you both. You've been gone for a long time." His eyes linger on Maedhros's face. He can surely tell that Maedhros has been crying but he does not ask.
"We're fine, Atar," Fingon says, ignores the politely doubtful look his father shoots him.
"How angry are your people?" he asks, curious what he'll be walking into when he does leave this room. "How angry are Finarfin's?"
"With your father?" Ñolofinwë asks, a pained look on his face. "We are all terribly angry. I imagine relations between our people will be strained. With you? Well, it was quite smart of Tyelkormo to try to put us all in your debt," he says, smiling wryly. "No one is angry with you. Only grateful and very confused."
Ah. He likely should have guessed that was Celegorm's reasoning. But Celegorm had never cared for politics in that way and Maedhros was still frazzled around the edges, so it simply had not occurred to him. "I do not expect anyone to be in my debt," he says, "that isn't why I did it."
"Hm, and tell me, why did you do it, Nelyafinwë." There’s nothing particularly accusing about the question but his uncle isn’t stupid, he knows that something is off.
He shrugs. Says, "It was the right thing to do," and watches his Uncle stare at him disbelievingly. It is the truth though, even if it is severely lacking in detail.
"You—" Ñolofinwë cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Findekáno, do you have anything to add to this?"
Fingon hums, presses against Maedhros's mind and sends him a burst of mischievous laughter. "We're getting married. Soon. Preferably before we sail."
Maedhros has to hide his face in Fingon's hair to hide the ridiculous smile that's stolen onto his face. How absurd that Fingon should want to marry him still after all he's done. Of course I still want to marry you, Fingon thinks, offended and fond all at once. I can yell at you just as well if we're married than if we are not. Better even.
"Of course you are," Ñolofinwë says sounding thoroughly done with them. "You know, this is not quite what I had in mind when I said I wished to unite our houses."
He's staring at Maedhros very strangely when he looks back up. And then, in an even stranger move, he sits down on the edge of the bed and places his hand on Maedhros's shoulder. "I am happy you are well," his uncle says quietly. "I would have been grieved indeed if you had been harmed trying to help us."
I feel that I should be offended on Atar’s behalf that everyone so easily believes he would harm me, he thinks despite knowing his father had thought about burning the boats regardless. Fingon just sends back a heavy dose of skepticism and tightens his grip on Maedhros's hand.
"Atar would not have truly harmed me," he tells his Uncle and ignores the doubt filling the room. He does, despite himself, still hold plenty of love and loyalty for his father. It isn't enough to stop him from stubbornly doing what he thinks is right this time around, but it is enough to stop him from speaking ill of his father behind his back. "It was the right thing to do," he says once more. "I would not have you forced to cross the Helcaraxë just to get to Beleriand."
"The Helcaraxë," his uncle repeats, the strange look growing stranger. "Who's to say we would not have turned and gone back to Aman instead of making such an impossible trip."
"You would not have." It would have been easier for them certainly, but oh how Beleriand would have suffered without them all there. His uncle stares at him and does not reply. Fingon squeezes his hand even tighter. Maedhros thinks of Turgon's cold face and Idril's solemn eyes and wonders what Elenwë living will change. Wonders if any of it can ever be enough.
The people he loves are alive but when has that ever been enough?
It will be, Fingon thinks, iron determination coating every word. We’ll make it be enough.
Maedhros closes his eyes, listens to the beat of his heart sing alive, alive, alive, and just this once decides to let himself believe in the blazing light of Fingon’s hope.
☀︎
Originally posted on AO3
