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zealouswerewolfcollector · 6 months ago

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A Tale That Wasn't Right

Belated entry for @silmarillionepistolary

2406 words, M, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence but not very graphic

On Ao3

NOLDÓRAN ARCHIVES PROJECT

MANUSCRIPT 26328-lambe

Records of the Hearing Convened by Finwë Noldóran Concerning the Incident Occurred Between Two Highborn Eldar

Editor’s note: Perhaps one of the most fascinating manuscripts among the royal records, 26328-lambe has been classified for Ages. Only now, well into the Fifth Age, it has finally been released to the public.

Certainly, the reluctance to publicize these records must be due to the scandalous subject matter and the involvement of highly recognizable figures of the Years of the Trees. We shall refrain from speculations as to the identity of the involved parties and redact or change several identifying details as per the request of King Arafinwë.

The manuscript is also distinguished because of the considerably biased notes of the unnamed scribe, possibly one who did not continue their service for long. Despite their unconventional approach to their role, we have this scribe to thank for the preservation of the very first draft of the records.

Without further ado, we invite the reader to peruse the records and draw their own conclusions.

At the second hour of the Mingling of [precise date omitted], the Noldóran convened a private hearing, concerning an altercation between two highborn Eldar that has been brought to the Noldóran’s attention.

Present at the meeting

Finwë Noldóran

[redacted], tavernkeeper of the tavern [redacted] in Tirion

Finwë Noldóran’s humble scribe

Noldóran: Let us begin. Tavernkeeper, I would hear all that occurred between [title omitted] N and [title omitted] F.

Tavernkeeper: Where should I begin, lord?

Noldóran: When did you first notice their presence at your tavern?

Tavernkeeper: Immediately, lord. It was the first time such highborn lords visited my establishment. [Title omitted] F was the first to arrive. He sat in a corner and ordered [drink name omitted to avoid identification]. I did not know how to make it. He kindly explained it to me. He was three cups in when [title omitted] N joined him.

Editor’s note: Henceforth, the omission of the titles will not be mentioned. Let it be noted that the involved parties were addressed appropriately throughout the hearing.

Noldóran: Did you notice any enmity between them when N arrived?

Tavernkeeper: Not at all! F did look ill-pleased at seeing N, but I assumed it was due to N’s tardiness. N whispered something into F’s ear, which seemed to appease him.

Noldóran: How so?

Tavernkeeper: After, well, the whispering, F smiled and ordered more drinks. [Drink name omitted] for himself again and simple mead for N.

Scribe’s note: Only a son of [redacted] would drink such an abomination.

Noldóran: Could you perhaps hear parts of their conversation?

Tavernkeeper: I would not presume to eavesdrop on a conversation between such highborn lords.

Noldóran: Not even if it was to the benefit of your king?

Tavernkeeper: Alas, the tavern was busy, lord, and they spoke in very low voices, so I missed the beginning of their discussion.

Noldóran: So you mean to say you heard the ending, the part before the incident.

Scribe’s note: If this tavernkeeper does not hurry up and tell the interesting parts, I may die of boredom in front of the King and embarrass myself and my entire family.

Tavernkeeper: They stayed long after the tavern emptied. I must say, lord, they had drunk quite a lot, so their voices were raised. I did not eavesdrop on purpose.

Noldóran: I do not fault you, tavernkeeper. Do recount the argument arising between N and F.

Editor’s note: To make for easier reading, the argument is relayed here directly. Readers must trust that they shall miss only a great amount of hesitation by the tavernkeeper to report to the King the exact details of the conversation and the number of drinks N and F consumed meanwhile, which is high.

F: It has always been your greatest fault! N: Loyalty? F: Loyalty to the wrong person. N: Who would the right person be then? [long silence] N: It is not in your nature to avoid a question. F: Why speak if you know the answer well? N: You cannot fathom what you demand of me. F: Only to do the right thing. Is it too much to ask for? N: Ever you have shown nothing but contempt to my father. You do not know him as I do. F: You are blind to his faults. N: I am not. But, unlike you, I am familiar with his virtues, too. F: Any virtue he possesses pales before his vices. N: Is it not unfair to speak so when you have made no attempt to understand him? F: He deserves none. N: Do I? Do it for my sake. I would do it for you. I have done it for you. F: It was not for me. You had taken a liking to my father long before I was born. He is easy to love. N: How naive for someone who claims to know others with no effort. You say I am blind to my father’s faults, yet you see none in yours. F: He has none. N: I can name one. Just now, he made you lie to me and to yourself. F: My father is blameless in this! N: Of course, only mine is to blame for everything. F: What is the use of seeing his faults if you do nothing about them? N: What do you expect me to do? F: I told you. The right thing. N: Why did you summon me here? We are only repeating ourselves again and again. We shall never agree. F: If only you were less stubborn. N: I am no more stubborn than you. Why should I be the one to relent? What will you sacrifice? F: Have I not sacrificed enough? Have I not endured your father’s scorn without protest? Have I not stayed by your side through all of it? N: What a great sacrifice it must be for you to stay by my side! Have you overlooked that I did the same? Or perhaps you believe it is easier for me? F: If it is not, then we both know who to blame. I suppose I must be grateful you have gathered enough courage to even agree to speak with me. Have you told your father where you will be? N: Have you told yours? F: You give me no answer as expected, but I shall answer you. I have not only because my father has no perverse need to keep watch over his children’s every move. He is not cowardly enough to look for betrayal where there is none. N: You will not call my father a coward! Have I ever treated your father with such disdain? F: Why would you? He does not deserve it. N: But mine does? F: Doesn’t someone who belittles others to hide his own weakness, who is craven enough to forge weapons in secret, deserve to be treated with contempt? N: Do not speak so, I warn you. F: What will you do? Leave and shun me as always? Disregard my letters and flee when I try to visit? Run to your father to assure him of your loyalty, so you can stave off his bitterness and suspicion for a while longer?

Noldóran: Do go on! What happened then?

Tavernkeeper: I hesitate, lord, for even now, I can scarcely believe it.

Noldóran: Nevertheless, I would hear it.

Tavernkeeper: After those words, N, well, he struck F.

Noldóran: Struck him?

Tavernkeeper: He did. A mighty fist against F’s jaw.

Noldóran: Are you certain that it was N who struck first?

Tavernkeeper: Quite certain, lord. I must say I had lost count of the cups they had both drunk by that point.

Scribe’s note: Liar! It does not sound like N. Although, the son of [redacted] would have deserved it.

Noldóran: Please continue. Spare no detail.

Tavernkeeper: The blow was strong enough that F fell from his chair. They both looked as astounded as I was. I thought N wished to offer a hand to F, but instead, he turned back and moved to the door. That was when F pounced on him and brought him down. They tumbled together, grappled, and shoved each other against the walls. They damaged five chairs and two tables during their brawl as well as all the cups and plates that were on them. F twisted N’s wrist in an attempt to restrain him, but N wrapped F’s braids around his other hand and wrenched him away. They were on the floor once again by then. N tried to rise, but F took a broken chair leg and hurled it towards N. It hit the mark rather painfully. In response, N threw a half-empty goblet at F, which missed his head but drenched his hair in ale.

Editor’s note: The sketch of King Finwë with his head in his hands is presumably drawn by the scribe.

Noldóran: What then?

Tavernkeeper: They must have exhausted themselves because they remained lying on the floor for a while. I was afraid to approach them, but I also hesitated to leave in case they resumed their fight.

Noldóran: Did they?

Tavernkeeper: No… They did something else.

Noldóran: …what was it?

Tavernkeeper: F sat and helped N up. N said something to F in a very low voice. F answered. I could not hear the words. And then they… They kissed, lord.

Noldóran: A kiss between friends?

Tavernkeeper: I would not say so.

Scribe’s note: This does sound like N.

Noldóran: Did you see what happened after the so-called kiss?

Tavernkeeper: No, lord. I hurried to leave. That was all I saw, I swear.

Noldóran: Thank you, tavernkeeper. I believe it goes without saying that what we have spoken about must remain within the walls of this hall. Of course, you shall be compensated generously for your losses. Scribe, there is no need to record this part.

Scribe: As you command, Noldóran.

Tavernkeeper: No word shall leave my lips, lord.

Noldóran: You have my gratitude.

Scribe’s note: Future generations of the Noldor, I shall have your gratitude for making and preserving these records. Glory to the House of [redacted]!

***

Fingers run between disheveled braids, smoothing them with gentleness in stark contrast with the violence they had yanked at them. Inhale. The faint perfume of almond oil wafts through the heavy scent of ale. They do not mix well. Maitimo says so.

“Who could have guessed?” Findekáno says dryly.

Maitimo’s fingers continue their tender way through Findekáno’s braids. Findekáno closes his eyes, his head turning where Maitimo guides him, willingly this time.

Languidly, he raises a hand and runs it – feather-light – across Maitimo’s face, across his left cheekbone where a hideous bruise is already forming.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Findekáno leans forward and retraces the path of his fingers with his lips, leaving a faint trail of red across Maitimo’s cheekbone. Maitimo’s eyes fall shut, his breath stutters. Findekáno takes Maitimo’s hand – the same one that split his lip open – and kisses the bloodied knuckles. Maitimo’s fingers entwine with Findekáno’s – a movement so familiar and practiced that it is almost an instinct.

Findekáno raises his head and presses his lips to Maitimo’s, but the moment Maitimo deepens the kiss, Findekáno pulls back with a hiss.

“It is bleeding again,” Maitimo says with dismay.

He takes a dampened rag and taps it tenderly against Findekáno’s lip, careful to avoid touching his bruised jaw. But Findekáno leans into his hand, his eyelids fluttering in something between pain and relief.

Maitimo undresses him, runs his fingers along his shoulders, caresses his chest, strokes his hips. Bruises are late to bloom and hard to find on Findekáno’s skin, unlike Maitimo, who is already painted red and purple. But Maitimo knows exactly where he had hurt Findekáno – an elbow to the sternum, a closed fist beneath the ribs, shoulders slammed against the edge of a table too many times.

Maitimo explores Findekáno’s body with hesitant touches, soothes his aches, brushes his fingers against the bruises. Does not apologize. The sound of Findekáno’s harsh breathing grows louder and louder until he grabs Maitimo’s hands and turns in his arms.

He bares Maitimo from the waist up in pained, hurried movements as if there is no time left. Maitimo winces when he raises his arms to allow Findekáno to disrobe him.

“Oh!” Findekáno exclaims, staring at the fresh bruise that covers most of Maitimo’s lower rib cage.

“Even inebriated, your aim is true,” Maitimo says.

Findekáno sinks down. Raises a hand to the bruise, then lets it fall. Leans forward and traces the uneven edges of the bruise with his lips, warms it up with his breath, soothes it with his tongue. Does not apologize.

Findekáno begins the work of relieving Maitimo of the rest of his clothing. Maitimo’s hands shake, then his knees, then his shoulders. Findekáno’s lips slide lower, ghost over Maitimo’s groin.

“You did not hurt me there,” Maitimo says, his voice coming out as bruised as his body is.

“How fortunate I still had some sense left,” Findekáno says.

Maitimo laughs, and for the briefest of moments, all pieces fall into their places – Findekáno before him, teasing him gently, making him laugh – so familiar and so right. But the tremors of laughter reach every aching place, reminding him sharply of what they did.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hush,” Findekáno says, holding Maitimo by his unhurt hip.

Maitimo looks down at Findekáno, kneeling on his bruised knees, looks at Findekáno’s swollen lip and beaten face.

“Who would do this?” he asks.

Findekáno draws back.

“Who hurts someone he loves and cherishes in such a cruel way?” Maitimo asks.

“You do,” Findekáno says. His gaze slowly passes over all the angry red marks he has left on Maitimo’s body. “And I.”

Maitimo sits before him.

“Will you swear it will never happen again?” he asks. “Can you give me your word that you will not do it again?”

Findekáno is silent for a moment.

“You cannot either,” he says then.

“No.”

“It is not right.”

“No.”

Findekáno leans his forehead against Maitimo’s. There is a small but painful bump on it from hitting it against a chair. It aches.

“You should leave,” Findekáno says.

“I should.”

“So should I.”

“Yes.”

They sit before each other, bare and bruised, hand in hand, skin to skin, amid the broken cups and chairs, amid the destruction they caused. None moves.

#silmarillion #finwe #maedhros #fingon #russingon #silm fic #zwc fic

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zwcsolutions · 10 months ago

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 1 year ago

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Fingolfin and Fingon discuss trust, betrayal and the crown, T, 735 words

On Ao3

Fingon stared at the wood burning in the fireplace and did not speak. The fire died slowly. Dull red embers were taunting him. He turned away and met his father’s gaze. He wondered if Fingolfin was thinking about the same thing he was. Red embers on the horizon like specks of blood, making a mockery of brotherhood and friendship.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon lips were stuck together as if dried by the cruel sea wind.

“Makalaurë says he did not burn the ships because he wanted to return for us,” he said finally.

“Makalaurë will say anything his brother tells him to.”

“Such a lie would be easy to uncover.”

“I suppose.”

“I cannot find any sinister motive in his decision to waive his claim to the crown,” Fingon said. “His brothers’ reaction surely proves his sincerity. I do not believe he is capable of plotting just yet.”

“A Fëanárion plot against our house is not what worries me.”

The embers had died down. The windows were shut, but Fingon could still feel the wind sawing through him. Standing on the shore as the blood specks on the horizon faded, leaving ashen silence behind, he had felt emptied of everything, a shell that had once housed a person.

“What then?” he asked quietly.

Fingolfin looked into his eyes.

“You were with me when the Sindar told us of the thralls that came back—”

“He did not come back. I brought him back. I freed him. He was not set free. He would stay there forever if the Enemy had his way.”

“We cannot know all the tricks of the Enemy.”

Fingon had rebuffed every attempt at conversation after the ships burned. Back then, he still could afford it. Or he had thought he could. Now he knew he could not turn away.

“Manwë’s eagle came for us,” he said. “Is that not a proof?”

“It might be.” Fingolfin sat by his son and squeezed the hand that was gripping the armrest tightly enough to crack it. “Do you trust him?” he asked.

“What would Moringotto gain by putting you on the throne? If Maitimo is in thrall to him as you suspect, it would make more sense for the Enemy to have Maitimo claim the crown and divide us further.”

“It would make more sense for him to Sing in harmony with the other Valar and take joy in Arda. But that is not what he did, is it?” Fingolfin waited until his son looked at him. “I am merely suggesting that we need to be prepared for every possibility.”

“Make sure to avoid suggesting it in front of his brothers lest we risk another bloodshed.”

“One would think they would be eager to jump at the opportunity to declare him unfit to make such decisions.”

Perhaps it was Fingon’s brisk tone that had angered his father enough to make such an unkind statement.

“No matter what, they will not price the crown higher than their own brother,” Fingon said.

He did not mean it as a barb against his father, but Fingolfin’s eye still twitched.

“They will let love blind them then,” he said in a deliberately even voice. “Will you?”

Fingon wrenched his hand away and strode to the door.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon stopped with his hand at the handle.

“I trust he will not want to live as the Enemy’s weapon,” he said without turning to look at his father. “So I will not allow it to happen. I am a kinslayer already. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, Findekáno.” Pain colored Fingolfin’s voice and made his hand that gripped his son’s shoulder tremble. “I will not let the responsibility fall to you. You have already shouldered burdens greater than you should have to.”

“It has to be me. He would want me to.”

“I care not.”

“If what you fear comes true,” Fingon said, turning to look at Fingolfin, “and anyone else raises a blade against Maitimo, I will not ever forgive them. Not even you, Father.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. It was not acquiescence but simply a decision to delay the discussion. For now, it was enough for Fingon.

When Fingolfin looked away, Fingon slipped the dagger he had placed on the table back into his sleeve. He said his goodbyes to his father and went to sit by Maedhros’s bedside.

#silmarillion #fingon #fingolfin #(maedhros)#<- not in this fic but it's all about him #silm fic #zwc fic

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zwcsolutions · 10 months ago

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 10 months ago

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To Evil End

Written for a prompt at @silmkinkmeme. Also inspired by homelikecatastrophe's O softly tread.

T, 2883 words, Maedhros/Fingon, warning for muddled consent lines and implied/referenced character death

On Ao3

It is Celegorm’s people who find him wandering in northern Ossiriand twenty-five years after the battle. Wearing rags, bearing scars, he doesn’t answer to his name or title but walks with them when prompted.

He looks through Celegorm and doesn’t speak to him. When Celegorm sleeps, he tries to leave the tent, but the soldiers catch him again. Dazed, he returns. Celegorm ties him up and sends for Curufin.

---

“Do you believe he is in thrall to the Enemy?” Curufin asks.

“He would not be the first one,” Celegorm answers. “We might not find out until it is too late.”

“What should we do with him then?”

“Killing him might be for the best.”

“What shall we tell Nelyo?”

“Nothing. Few know that he lives. My people will keep silent.”

“Can you be certain? Your people betrayed you in Nargothrond. What if Nelyo finds out? He might have forgiven us Ingoldo’s death, but he will not forgive Findekáno’s. Even if we can be certain he will never find out, will you do it? Kill him with your own hands?”

“It will not be too difficult. He can hardly put up a fight in this state.”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

“Does Russandol live?”

The hoarse voice startles the brothers, and they turn to meet Fingon’s suddenly alert gaze.

"He does," says Curufin, the first to compose himself.

A distant smile breaks upon Fingon’s face. He stands, his hands still tied to the pole.

“Take me to him.”

---

They catch up with Maedhros not too far from Amon Ereb. Fingon’s hair and most of his face are hidden, but Maedhros almost tumbles off his horse when his look falls upon the mysterious rider.

He stands still while they approach. Fingon dismounts, walks to Maedhros, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him on the lips.

---

“How did you survive?” Maedhros asks over supper – the best meat and wine Amon Ereb has to offer. “We were told of your death.”

“It was a near thing,” Fingon says. His smile is almost wistful. “I was taken captive instead.”

“Were you brought to him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he personally interrogate you?”

“He did.”

Maedhros doesn’t ask what Fingon told him.

“Were you put to work?”

“Yes, in the mines.”

“Did you escape?”

“I must have. I cannot remember.”

A muscle strains in Maedhros’s jaw.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asks. “We had never kissed before with others present.”

Fingon smiles at him.

“We have been apart for decades. I escaped thralldom. I missed you. Things that mattered before matter less now.”

Maedhros’s eyes narrow.

“And I did kiss you once before others,” Fingon adds. “Back home when Ango dared me. Remember?”

“Yes,” Maedhros says.

The lines on his forehead smooth over.

“You will be under guard,” he says. “You will not leave the walls of Amon Ereb. You will not carry weapons.”

Fingon gives a placid nod. “For how long?” he asks.

“Until I can be sure.”

“We never did it to you,” Fingon says, still smiling.

“You made a mistake.”

---

Fingon earns his freedom piece by piece over the years. The number of his guards is reduced to one and only when Maedhros isn’t with him. Sometimes, he goes for walks with Maedhros or his guard. At some point, Maedhros stops locking Fingon in his chamber when he is away. And then he stops going away, even though he never spent much time in Amon Ereb before. He preferred patrolling and hunting, returning to the fortress a few times a year. Now, he never leaves it.

---

“He makes me uneasy,” Maglor admits to Caranthir. “I cannot stay in Amon Ereb for longer than a month. Even if he is not in the room, I feel his presence.”

They are wandering in eastern Ossiriand, among Amras’s Laiquendi friends.

“It’s the eyes," Caranthir says. “Too often, they are vacant. As if whoever inhabits that hröa has fled it.”

“And that terrible smile of his,” Maglor says, shuddering. “Like a layer of bright color painted over a rotting roof.”

“It was different with Nelyo, wasn’t it?” Caranthir asked.

“He never seemed absent. Even when his memories overtook him. There was always fire in his eyes.”

“Perhaps he needs time.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor says doubtfully.

---

The first time Fingon tries to kiss him, Maedhros pushes him away. The fifth time – he kisses back.

---

Maedhros sits with his eyes closed, while Fingon braids his hair.

“This feels nice,” he says as Fingon gently scratches his scalp.

“Isn’t this the life we always dreamed of?” Fingon asks. "Us. Together. We have never lived in one place with each other for so long.”

Maedhros smiles as he does every time Fingon mentions something from the past – another small proof that he is still Fingon.

“It is,” Maedhros says. “Despite the circumstances.”

He glances at Celegorm’s letter before him and snorts.

“What is it?” Fingon asks.

“Listen to what this idiot writes,” Maedhros says. “While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair—”

Fingon laughs. “Don’t tell him how right he was!”

“Never. While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair, my scouts found out— Oh.”

“Is something wrong?” Fingon asks.

“Lúthien’s son has the Silmaril,” Maedhros says quietly. “He rules now in his grandfather’s kingdom.”

Fingon says nothing. Maedhros stares at the letter for a moment.

“I should write to this Dior,” he says.

“Do you think he will be inclined to listen?”

“If I am persuasive, perhaps. He is young, and the Girdle is no more.”

“May I kiss you first?” Fingon asks.

“You must.”

Fingon leans down. Maedhros tilts his head back and pecks him on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Fingon smiles. “I love you too.”

---

Fingon walks to the gates of the fortress. The guard tries to stop him, but Fingon kills him, takes his sword and kills three more people that stand in his way before he is overpowered.

---

Amon Ereb has no dungeon, so they chain Fingon in the wine cellar.

He lies there, scraping his fingers against the damp wall until Maedhros comes in. Fingon sits up and meets his gaze. They stare at each other for long minutes.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros says.

“They would not let me leave.”

“Why did you want to leave?”

“I cannot remember.”

Maedhros kicks an empty barrel. It cracks, then collapses upon itself.

“What am I supposed to do with you now?”

“Kiss me,” Fingon says.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros repeats, incredulous.

“You have killed more. Kiss me, please.”

Maedhros does.

---

“Do you think it is possible to lock me somewhere I can see the stars?” Fingon asks.

“I am afraid not,” Maedhros says.

Fingon nods sadly. “I miss the stars,” he says, snuggling closer to Maedhros. “If only your people had let me leave, I would not have killed them.”

“Why did you want to leave?” Maedhros asks, tracing a dark scar along Fingon’s ribs.

Fingon’s hands twitch in the chains.

“I have told you many times. I cannot remember. You must know what it is like to be so confused, to have no idea where you are or why you do what you do. You bit my hand once. I still bear the mark.”

“It was a few days after you brought me back. I was delirious and did not recognize you,” Maedhros says. “This is different.”

"I cannot remember," Fingon says.

Maedhros dresses and leaves the cellar, calling the guards back.

---

Maedhros doesn’t tell his brothers what happened, but they find out anyway.

Maglor is the first to arrive. Then, Curufin. Then, Caranthir. Maedhros forbids anyone from entering the cellar. He takes care of Fingon himself.

Once, Maglor catches him leaving the cellar half-dressed but says nothing.

---

All of Maedhros’s brothers are waiting for him in the hall. Celegorm and Amras are still wearing their travel-stained clothes.

“Welcome back,” Maedhros says.

Celegorm slowly turns to him. “How long were you going to keep it from us?” he asks.

Maedhros stares him down. “I have it under control.”

“Four of my people are dead!” Amras cries. “Their friends and families demand retribution. He has to die.”

“He was not in his right mind when he did it,” Maedhros says. “Anyone who has been a captive there could have done it. I could have done it. Our uncle would not put me to death for it.”

“Because it would mean war,” Celegorm says. “Be honest with yourself. He is clearly under the Enemy’s control.”

“There is nothing clear about it.”

“Were it anyone else in his place, you would not hesitate,” Celegorm says, raising his voice. “If you cannot find the strength to do it, I take it upon myself.”

“Of course,” Maedhros sneers. “What is another cousin’s blood on your hands?”

A dangerous glint brightens Celegorm’s eyes, but his voice is calm when he speaks.

“Ingoldo chose his own fate. Findekáno cannot even choose his because he has no will of his own. It will be a mercy. What life is it to live as the Enemy’s thrall and your pleasure slave?”

Maedhros staggers, speechless with rage.

“You still fuck him?” Amras exclaims. “Even after he killed my people?”

Maedhros ignores him. His heavy gaze falls on Maglor, who looks away.

“You told them,” Maedhros accuses.

“I did not use those words,” Maglor says. He raises his head. “But it is not right, Nelyo. What he did. What you do. It is not right. He is not right.”

“What does it matter the words he used?” Celegorm asks. “The result is not changed.”

“You are the last person who should speak of such things,” Maedhros snaps at him.

“Have you considered that I might have learned from my mistakes?”

“No.”

Celegorm laughs. “At least I never chained Lúthien and never touched her.”

He doesn’t move even when Maedhros strides to him, eyes flashing white.

“What Findekáno does,” Maedhros says very quietly, “he does of his own free will.”

“How can you know that? Perhaps it is Moringotto’s will that drives him to your bed. Perhaps he has simply realized it is his best chance to stay alive.”

“I refuse to discuss this with you,” Maedhros says, turning away.

“You cannot avoid this conversation. We all agree he cannot be allowed to live.”

“Not all.”

Both Celegorm and Maedhros turn to Curufin in shock.

“We can use him to get the Silmaril,” Curufin says. “We have to find a way to let Turukáno know his brother lives. We promise to hand Findekáno over to him unharmed if he takes his army to Doriath and brings us the Silmaril. Turukáno’s army is greater than ours. Dior will not be able to withstand him. When he gives us the Silmaril, we give him his brother. Everyone is happy. Then Turukáno can worry about what to do with Findekáno.”

“I doubt he would ever help us,” Caranthir says before Maedhros can regain his voice. “That plan is too convoluted and bound to fail. Why not simply have Findekáno speak to Dior on our behalf? He is still the High King. His father had Elwë’s respect. Findekáno is more likely to convince Dior to give up the Silmaril than any of us.”

“We cannot trust him to do it. He is too unstable,” Curufin says. “Dior might not trust a former thrall either.”

“Dior would never give up the Silmaril willingly,” Celegorm adds.

“Then the only thing left to do is to kill Findekáno,” Amras says. “My people will have justice.”

“Enough!” Maedhros cries. “They were my people too! There are too few of us left to make that distinction. You keep repeating it – my people, my brother. You are not the only one who grieves.”

Amras says nothing. He leaves the hall without looking at anyone. Four pairs of eyes stare at Maedhros in reproach.

“This discussion is over,” Maedhros says. “I care not what you have decided. Only my decision counts in this matter.”

He turns to the door. Celegorm moves to speak, but Maglor shakes his head.

“What do you intend to do with him, Nelyo?” he asks. Maedhros stops in his tracks. “Keep him in chains forever?” Maglor continues. “Trust me, I have no desire to see him dead. None of us does. If you knew for certain that he is not controlled by the Enemy, I would be the first to stand by your side. But you keep him chained because you have your doubts. How long can this continue?”

Maedhros stands still for a moment, then walks out without turning back.

“Think about it,” Maglor says before the door closes behind Maedhros.

---

Someone poisons Fingon’s custard. He suffers for a few days but lives. Maedhros doesn’t leave his side.

---

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Maedhros asks.

Fingon perks up. “Outside?”

“In the woods.”

“I would love to.”

Maedhros unchains him. Fingon brings his hands before him, so Maedhros can bind them with a rope. They leave the fortress together. Fingon looks up at the stars and smiles. He strolls among the trees, his bound hands caressing the bark. He stops when they reach his favorite glade where they have made love more than once.

“Should we?” he asks Maedhros, turning back.

His smile freezes on his lips. He looks at the knife in Maedhros’s hand and then at his face.

“My brothers want you dead,” Maedhros says. “They believe you are still in thrall to the Enemy.”

“But I love you,” Fingon says.

“I am losing my control over them,” Maedhros says. “No one believes you are still yourself.”

“What do you believe?”

Maedhros yanks the rope binding Fingon’s hands and pulls him close. He puts the knife at his throat.

“Prove to me you are Findekáno,” he pleads. “Prove it to me, and you will live.”

“How can I prove it now if I failed to prove it during these years?” Fingon asks. A drop of blood slides along the blade. “We have joined fëar. Surely you would have noticed if I were still a thrall.”

“You hide something. I felt it, but I never asked.”

“So do you! You have ever since you returned. I spent twenty-five years in the dark without seeing the stars or the sun. Some horrors are not meant to be shared. I understand it now.”

Maedhros shakes his head. “Findekáno would not be content sitting idly for years and playing husband to me. Findekáno would fight me if I put him in chains. Findekáno would be wracked with guilt after killing innocents.”

“I have changed. You changed, too, after your captivity. How could we not?”

“It is not a good enough reason.”

“I love you. Isn’t it enough? Were you not happy with me? I was.”

“Findekáno would rather die than live with the doubt that he was the Enemy’s spy.”

“Findekáno was a fool!” Fingon leans forward, the blade pressing into his skin. “Kill me then if that is your decision. But I will not make it easy for you. I will not absolve you of guilt. I will not accept death with grace. I want to live. I want to live, Russandol.”

Maedhros’s hand shakes. Fingon closes his eyes.

---

Maedhros returns alone, bloodied, clutching a long, dark braid. He closes himself in Fingon’s room for three days. No one asks him what he has done. No one speaks of Fingon again.

---

Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin fall in Doriath. The Silmaril disappears.

---

Maedhros seals the letter to Elwing, knowing it will be the last.

---

All three of them leave the fortress together but unaware of each other. Entranced, they follow the call. The treelight brings tears to their eyes. They keep walking until they see the Necklace of the Dwarves, bejeweled with the most precious gems of Valinor – all paling before the Silmaril.

They are so enraptured by the jewel that at first, they don’t see the one who has brought it to them. Then all three slowly look up and stare at Fingon – bloodstained, weary Fingon, holding the Nauglamír in his left hand.

Maedhros sways and stumbles forward, pulling him into his embrace.

“Is this enough to prove I am myself?” Fingon asks.

Maedhros only nods, eyes shut tight against the tears and the light.

“You let him live,” Amras says absently, still staring at the Silmaril.

“And it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?” Maedhros says.

Amras isn’t listening to him. He slowly reaches for the jewel.

“I would not do that,” Fingon says.

He raises his right hand to show the terrible burn on the palm.

“The Silmaril burned you,” Maedhros exclaims, carefully taking Fingon’s hand. “Why?”

Maglor points to Fingon’s hands and clothes.

“Whose blood is that?” he asks, suddenly overcome with terror for people he has never met and never will.

Fingon smiles his distant, empty smile. “Not mine.”

“How did the jewel come into your possession?” Maedhros asks.

Still holding the Nauglamír close, Fingon turns to Maedhros.

“I will tell you everything,” he says, “but for now, let us rejoice. We have the Silmaril, Russandol, and we are together again. All is well.”

Maedhros looks at him, his eyes reflecting the fell light in Fingon’s. He puts a tender kiss on Fingon’s wrist.

“All is well,” he repeats.

#silmarillion #fingon #maedhros #russingon #celegorm #sons of feanor #all of them are here except amrod #silmkinkmeme #silm fic #zwc fic

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