#thank you to finelfin for this

[findekano]

namiað

AO3 gen, no warnings. Maedhros discusses his abdication.

“What do you suppose my name should be?�� Maedhros says, facedown. His back is still red and raw and hot under Maglor’s hands, cooling where the salve is rubbed into his skin. He hisses between his teeth when Maglor reaches his upper back, rubbing into the muscles around where his shoulder separated.

“Nelyo,” Maglor says, on the verge of exasperation.

“You know Nelui lacks dignity. Imagine Grandfather’s despair if I were to go by Nelui! I shudder at the thought.” Maedhros fake shudders, which ends in a bitten-off groan. Maglor tuts, and keeps rubbing Maedhros’ back, though with a lighter hand.

“Why this preoccupation with names? Two weeks ago, you could hardly recall your own,” Maglor says, uncertain. Maedhros’ grief is difficult to discern from his humour, and often they come twined together like fine yarn.

“I wonder if Ñolofinwë will keep the title,” Maedhros answers.

“What would that be?” Maglor hums. “Fingolfin? Finwë Ñolofinwë? Though he does not bear any right to that anymore, now that he has joined the host of the fleeing Noldor. And besides, the sound of Fingolfin is—” Maglor makes a face.

Maedhros turns his head to look at Maglor. His eyes are bright and clear and certain.

“Do you suppose Finelfin is any better?”

Maglor makes the same face.

“It is a burden to be borne,” he says, in that silly, affected way when he performs among well-mannered Eldar.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros intones. Maglor ceases his ministrations and becomes that brother that Maedhros loves so well.

“I do not mean to take up Finelfin as my title. I know— Nelyafinwë is my birthright—"

Maglor interrupts with a sharp ai! on the inhale, breathy and quiet. Maedhros lifts his finger, and Maglor is silent.

“I bear Finwë’s lineage, though little good it does me in Beleriand, with Ñolofinwë’s people and ours on the verge of bloodshed. Nor would it be fit for the High King to be pulled from his people the way I must be. We did not come to Beleriand to rule, only to reclaim. We burned the boats, Káno, and a third of Ñolofinwë’s host was lost to the Helcaraxë.”

“You did not burn—”

“I stood aside only. I took no action against you. Would they see it any differently?”

“Would you not be a king renowned? Fëanor would have been a poor king, but you have a mind for it, and a care and talent. Do you not desire it?”

“I do,” says Maedhros, and his voice breaks. He pauses, pressing his hand to his eyes. “But any king with sense would see that he cannot rule a people so divided when he caused the division.”

Maglor begins to weep, then, great tears landing on Maedhros’ cheeks. “Do you still despair? Do you have so little faith in yourself?”

“I have hope,” says Maedhros simply. “Findekáno’s rescue has already begun to repair the wound between our kin. If I abdicate, and pass the crown to Fingolfin, we may yet build a power strong enough to repel Morgoth. We may yet look upon the Silmarils.”

Maglor searches Maedhros’ face with his dark eyes and relents, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, straightening. If his brother is of sound enough mind to work abdication to his advantage, then there must be merit to his words.

“If you choose to abdicate, you cannot use your father-name, and neither can the rest of us, though I expect Curvo will do it in spite of you.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Maedhros says with a wicked glint in his eye. “Findekáno is choosing Fingon as his Sindarin name, and Kanafinwë would follow the same pattern into Sindarin. You are a preening bird with all your vanity, and I do not think your pride could withstand sharing a name. Not to mention how confusing the histories would be! Would you be Fingon I or would Findekáno? Perhaps Mingonfin and Tadgonfin? It all seems rather—”

Maedhros yelps as Maglor grasps a modest handful of Maedhros’ hair and tugs.