Note: This takes place in the Feanorian settlement at lake Mithrim, some months after Maedhros' rescue. It is a continuation from my story "Talking Hurts" although it should make sense even if you haven't read that.
Warning: Mildly slashy. Also the slightest hint of impliednon-con sexual activity outside the events of the story.
One morning, I wake to find it unexpectedly snowing. I do not expect to wake to find lumps of fluff falling from the sky. I do not expect to find the earth so still beneath its white covering, and most of all I do not expect the sense of calm that looking upon this sedated world gives me.
I open my window and breathe in the peace. The cold sting in the air makes it seem purer, and if it stings me as I inhale its keenness, that is cleansing too. I climb out onto the window ledge, hanging my feet into the white swirl, letting the calm wash over me. I can breathe easily, like breathing used to be, resting my head against the window frame.
I have been in Mithrim four months. I can now walk short distances unaided, although never unattended. I am left alone to dress and bathe myself. The condition of my mental faculties is still cause for some debate amongst my brothers. Two of them at least are covertly suggesting the appointment of a regent, and a third disagrees only because it would probably be Fingolfin. I care about this. I can move all ten of my toes, and do so now, wriggling them in the icy air. I answer Maglor back when he scolds me. All of these are improvements.
Between the white world and white sky, the sun shines out groggily obscured. The fat flakes dance in the vague light.
I have become very clever at eluding my brothers and all others who claim to care for me. I know which corridors are seldom used at which time of day, which corners give good vantage and which doors spill the speaker's secrets. I watch the frozen world from my high lookout feeling very satisfied with my own cleverness. I sit very still in the calm for a long time.
A knock on the door interrupts me. I feel to lazy to immediately hide my eccentric desire for snowy air.
"Who is it?"
"It's me."
So he couldn't stay at home in the snow either, although his reasons must be very different. Too much grieving and no one of his own to mourn for.
"Come in."
I turn my head and see him enter. He looks at the bed first, and seeing it empty looks around. When he finally catches sight of me on my perch, his face pales.
"Maedhros?" he says, in shock.
The silly fool thinks I am going to pitch myself out the window.
"It's nowhere near high enough," I say.
Fingon makes a move to rearrange his face. It is not altogether successful. The laugh he tries for comes out a splutter.
He hates to feel powerless. He's a very big elf my Fingon, very strong in the shoulders and thighs. What is the point of all that muscle tissue if it cannot be used against sorrow and iniquity? But he's pummelling those tough arms against a wall on the North Shore, for there is nothing that can be done to bring back the dead. So he came here to bang against a different stone wall. For variety, I presume.
"May I ask why you are hanging out your bedroom window, Maedhros?"
"I wanted some fresh air."
"That is rather a lot of fresh air."
I swing my body back round so I am now hanging into my chambers. The sharp change in air temperature makes me start coughing. Fingon moves towards me, I scowl at him to stay back.
"I've been inside a lot lately."
"I thought you would have had enough of fresh air beneath your feet."
"I thought you would have made enough journeys in the snow."
Because the pain is his now, not my own he can smile. If this were before, he would put his head in my lap now, holding onto my knees while I stroked his back. We were both proud and fierce eldest sons then, the only ones we could turn to for such coddling was each other. It was a snuggling of equals. My status is now questionable, my ferocity tempered by damage done. Alternately I'm an invalid whose mysterious wounds have a presence all of their own. I've become far less valuable and three times more precious. So Fingon will not be holding me today.
"You are soaked." Fingon has moved further into the room, eyeing the window latch. He's itching to shut it.
"I know." I jump down and close the window behind me. He hands me a towel.
"You should change."
"Yes."
"I'll turn my back. I won't look, I promise."
"Could you leave the room?"
He looks at me as he would when he thought I was being pedantic and foolish. Then I see a look of shame cross his face that he could think such a thing of me, this unknown entity who might have to eat snowflakes to ease the pain for all he knows. So he leaves.
I have been hiding some kind of shame about my body for a while now. I don't like to be looked at. I wear fur-lined cloaks when I go amongst my people, even though I have never been outdoors. I explained it as the chill of an invalid, but it isn't that. I just don't want to be noticed for it.
After I get myself changed I lie down on the bed, using the covers to hide me.
"Come in."
This is our meeting, second attempt. I am where he expects to find me. He looks a lot better pleased. The falling in sky is safely barred outside an iron frame.
"You look a lot better than when I last saw you." He sits somewhat too carefully in the chair beside the bed.
"That would be because I am."
"You can walk without me to drag you."
I nod. I'd kissed him too, or at least let him kiss me. It seems to have set an awkward precedent. I told him I loved him too, because it is true. We are lovers. It's just now we have to do something about that. The fact lies like an invisible oliphant between us.
"Maglor tells me you sneak round the house barefoot every night."
I have become very clever at eluding five of my brothers.
"Does he tell you everything about me?"
"He answers my questions, truthfully I believe."
"He doesn't know how to lie."
We are quiet for a while.
"It is rather a worry to him."
"Damn it Fingon, it is a cold floor. It's -" I trail off. The lines of communication are still too fragile to allude to all our experiences harsher than chilly flagstones.
"She's dead." I find myself saying. "Vilvarin, she died at Alqualonde."
He nods heavily.
"Elenwe drowned under the ice."
"Oh." We look down at the bedclothes in mutual concern for our little brothers and their ghostly wives beneath the ocean.
"Maglor still dreams about her." I say. "He told me he swims down sometimes when he is asleep and she is there dressed in fish scales. He says she shines with them, like armour. Then he blushes and doesn't say anymore."
He really believes she is there. He believes that her soul walks out from Mandos along the Olore Malle and they meet on the path of dreams.
"How is Turgon?" I ask.
"He is still with us. He stayed for Idril's sake really. But he has been having better days recently."
I nod at the blankets. Turgon obviously does not allow himself the comfort of metaphysics.
Fingon looks at the small vase of shiny green leaves and red berries by my bedside.
"Maglor?"
I nod.
"I love him."
"I know." He looks up and twitches his mouth in an attempt to lighten the conversation. "So in order to stop my favourite cousin from fretting, I brought you these."
Fingon forgot I was also his cousin somewhere in the Years of the Trees. It makes me nervous he has still forgotten.
He must have hidden a parcel under the bed. He starts unwrapping it before me, pulling down the cloth to reveal…slippers. I laugh.
"Thank you. And on behalf of my dear anxious brother, too."
I laugh and he smiles although I am soon remembering it isn't really funny. They are lined with lamb's wool and finished in red silk with gold brocade. The Valar only know where he found that on the North Shore. They don't have enough cloth to keep their backs covered, or so I am told. Cut up Fingolfin's robes of office, I shouldn't wonder.
"Thank you," I say again and try sound like I mean it.
I do mean it. It's just a bizarre thing the voice, tilt it a little to the left or right and your meanings are all on their head. That must be another observation come from spending to long on my back. I've had difficulty getting my voice to tilt to my meanings since my return. Maybe it is just from going a long while without speaking to anybody.
Fingon stands and moves down towards my feet, slippers in hand, as if he means to shoe me. Then he stops and looks at my feet for a while, putting his present down on the bed.
"They're looking a lot better too."
I splay my toes in reply, to show off that I can. He sits slowly at the end of the bed. I feel the muscles in my shoulders pull tight.
Gently, with one hand, he reaches out and strokes the top of my right foot. I jump a little at his touch, but it goes on. I lie there while he caresses my feet, curling my toes into his hand.
That means thank you.
"I'm surprised you do not eat in the hall with your brothers."
Fingon has joined me for my evening meal. He is the first guest I have had at my table since I started eating again.
"I'm waiting until I've mastered dining correctly."
The shutters are still open. I do not like it when they are closed; it makes the room feel airless. The dark shuts us in together as well as any wooden doors. Snow is still falling, grey powder against the night.
"That's very proper of you."
We eat by candlelight and the embers of the fire. There are little flames on the pewter and the water jug, sparks of light flash off our knives as they move.
"There are political implications of me dripping soup down my front in public."
I probably look better in this light. The constant self-consciousness eases a little. In daylight I notice I still hold my body strangely, the natural position of my muscles is different from that of other elves. It gives too much away and I do not like it. I'm constantly pulling myself back into shape. Don't fidget, Maglor scolds.
"Such as?"
Maglor, eyes lowered whispering under the torches in the Great Hall of the Feanorians: "Fidget like that and they'll make me king."
"High King Celegorm."
"You are not being serious."
"My fitness to reign is being, unsurprisingly, questioned."
In this softer light, I can let myself relax a little.
"Does it not bother you?" Fingon asks.
"I do not take it personally." I reply.
Fingon helps himself to another goblet of water looking shocked. I'm not yet permitted wine.
"Isn't that treason?" He asks. "And also, Isn't Maglor your heir presumptive?"
"Maglor wouldn't do it."
"I never thought personal choice existed in such matters - Maedhros? Maedhros why do you look like you are plotting something?"
"I'm always plotting something." I reply.
Fingon smiles. There is relief in it, I think. I believe he can perceive enough of the familiar in me to want to smile about it.
Here we are chatting again. We always talked frankly with each other, complained about the quirks and ticks of our siblings and parents. There was an unspoken bond of trust between us that not one word went back to our respective families, no matter how useful the information we had might be. That bond still holds.
We are coming to the end of our meal, and then we will have nothing else to occupy us.
I forgot how much I used to touch my cousin. It was our language. We brushed hands, we stole kisses, we made love and we always knew what the other meant by it. Now we have to learn to talk all over again.
"Have you met many Sindar?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies.
"Did you not find it strange? They looked like they should speak as we do, but they did not."
Fingon senses a metaphor and prepares to be indulgent.
"They spoke differently," I continue, "but you could still trace the shadow of our old words beneath."
He sloshes the water in his goblet for a few moments before draining it.
"Why do all Feanorians think of everything in terms of language?"
"Everything is language," I say, putting down my knife. "What is an elf but the symbols he creates?"
"Surely it was only Rumil and your father that created symbols?"
"No," I say. "We all create our own system of meaning. Everything an elf does is their own unique alphabet."
"I was hoping we were also soul."
"Not the Feanorians." I say.
He lowers his voice.
"I can see why you do not take high treason personally."
"You have to remember, we're all damned."
"Of course, but then," he shifted good naturedly, "So am I."
"You're banned. I'm damned. It's a different thing all together."
"I do wonder about a deity that would damn Maglor."
"Maglor damned himself. Besides, he's a vicious little thing when stirred up to it."
"He had good reason."
"I know. Anyway damnation is the least of our problems."
"What are our problems?"
"As I was saying earlier, like the Sindar, the way we talk is only a barely recognisable shadow of how we talked before."
"I think we talk the same as we ever did."
"No," I said. "We talk more."
Fingon raises his eyebrows.
I arch a singular eyebrow. I'm pleased to show him I still have the superior ability in this.
"Come on," I say. "Let's cause a little mischief at least."
His cheeks seem to flush a little at my enthusiasm. I've pleased him, and this feels good.
"What shall we do?"
"We shall drink a toast to friendship." The words seem brazen and defiant.
"With water?"
"Oh no, with wine," I smile.
I stand up and usher him out the door. As I turn away, I notice his eyes have darkened.
We are standing at the corner of the doorway leading to he kitchens. Fingon bumped against my back as I called the abrupt halt. The first time it happened he apologised like he had killed my pet hound on a hunt. The second time he was terser. This time his nose bashed against my shoulder blade I am sure I heard him swallow a growl.
"I thought you were going to call a servant."
"Sssh!" I say as we hover in the doorway. "They wouldn't bring it to me."
"Why?"
"Because they wouldn't trust you not to give me any."
"Do you trust me not too?"
"I hope you do not believe I am walking all this way to watch you drink a bottle of wine."
The kitchen has now been emptied of staff for at least five minutes. The lights are extinguished and the fires damped down. I light a candle from the glowing embers and lead my cousin onwards.
"Since when did you learn to be such a good sneak, Maedhros?"
"When do you think?" I reply.
The silence tells me he knows the answer.
We walk through the main kitchen to a side door, which leads on to the cold storage and cellar. I shush Fingon and listen for any noise. We pass big wheels of cheeses that look like millstones in the dark, and hanging carcasses that I do not wish to think of an analogy for. We hurry through to the staircase and pick our way carefully downward.
Bottles of wine are stacked in racks ten high all along the walls of the cellar. Red, white, various berries, ivy, mead, the vintners have not been neglecting their art.
"Pick your vintage," I say to Fingon.
"Is there Valinorian?"
"There should be."
"You swine have everything."
In the end he picks a humble red of Mithrim, spiced for the season and possibly to mask the sour quality of our early grapes. He seems happy enough with it.
"I should sample what Beleriand has to offer," he says.
"You can treat yourself if you like."
"I am. We are making wine out of nettles."
Suddenly, we both hear footsteps on the staircase. I dive for Fingon, pulling him behind a wine rack.
"Should we be doing this?" A male elf asks.
"Of course we should," a woman replies.
"What if they notice anything missing?"
"Then I shall brew some more. We make far more than they drink, and not all wine sweetens with age."
There was the distinct sound of kissing in the dark. Fingon could only lie in the crawlspace by wedging himself half on top of me, and I felt him tense in embarrassment.
"I love you." The male elfsays.
I hear a soft laugh, and then a faint slap.
"Not in the cellar."
"Why not?"
"Because I should rather see you."
The male elf snorts. A bottle chinks as it is selected.
"Oh yes, that's one of my best to date."
"You don't mind me stealing it?"
"An elf should be able to enjoy her own art with the one she loves most."
The other elf mutters something muffled which makes her laugh again. Then we hear the footsteps retreat again.
As the fear of discovery leaves, I become very aware of Fingon's body on top of mine. I wait for what seems like an age before speaking. When I do, what I say shocks me:
"Would it make a difference if you couldn't see me?"
Fingon is stunned by the question. I hear his breath hiss. Without the candle it is pitch black.
"No," he replies.
"Even with this?" I jab against his stomach.
"What is that?"
"That's my right arm Fingon. What did you think it was?"
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It's still sensitive where it was severed. If I move it too quickly, I can still feel the veins. That's not pleasant."
He pauses.
"Can I touch it?"
"If you want."
He moves so he cradles my body a little, then pushes my right sleeve down to my elbow, gently tracing my new outline.
"Are you angry with me?"
"It is the best thing anyone has ever done for me. I was saved. How many other elves can say that?"
I mean that. Any other elf would have shot me. It was love beyond reason or hope that brought me home. It was love that still held the rags and bones sacred enough to save, even when that which they once were had long since passed away.
His fingers stroke the flesh of my forearm. I look up into nothingness.
"Not in the dark." I say.
"Glasses," I say. "We forgot glasses."
I have been safely returned to my bed. The fire is a low smoulder of red. It has stopped snowing, or at least the frosting on my window has rendered it opaque. They are beautiful patterns, stars and stars all locked together as one. Fingon is standing, un-corking the wine with his knife.
He sighs and wrinkles his nose.
"You have been indoors for to long."
He offers me the bottle, and I drink and choke at the unexpected heat in it.
"Out of practice?"
I scowl.
"You should not have too much," he says, "or else there will be no sense to you."
I offer him the bottle feeling the warmth travel up through my chest to my head. For a moment I feel very dizzy, and a little more relaxed.
"Come here," I say.
Fingon lies down beside me on the bed, facing me with our noses almost touching and my right arm between us.
"That is symbolism gone mad." I say nodding as Fingon drinks.
"What?"
"This." I wave my right arm a little.
He laughs.
"It looks damned obscene."
The bottle gets passed back and I take a long swig.
"Well, it does," he continues.
"I know." I drink again. "Here you are Maedhros, have something to remind you of what scares you witless."
"Does it?"
"Sex. Yes. Terrifies me."
Fingon checks my eyes for teasing, or just for how badly the drink has gone to my head.
"It scares me too."
"I'm glad you said that. It feels better not to be alone."
We pause. I remember that I'm still holding the bottle. I pass it back to Fingon who puts it to one side a moment, ignoring my noises of protest.
"Why?"
"I am scared I would not like it, or feel it, or that it would leave me cold, or angry."
"I am scared of hurting you."
"But not just that."
"No." Fingon pulls up the wine bottle from the side of the bed and takes a mouthful to fortify himself.
"I'm scared of doing something to make you hate me forever."
"And?" I say.
"I'm scared of you seeming like a stranger."
I nod and suddenly wish my head were clearer. My shame at being looked at returns in a rush.
"Nelyo?"
This shame has nothing to do with coyness at injury. I'm not ashamed of my scars, or my scrawniness. I'm ashamed I have a body at all.
"Hmm?" I say, a little lost in the philosophical fumes of strong liquor.
"I was saying I was scared I wouldn't know you."
"You know me."
"I always thought I understood you, knew everything about how you felt."
"You flattered yourself." I say, half teasing.
"Alright, I flattered myself, but it was believable self deceit. Now, I cannot deceive myself anymore."
"Why is that a bad thing?"
"Maedhros, how can I possibly understand what happened?"
"Give me the wine." I say.
And Fingon, feeling he has nothing better to offer passes it over.
"How do you feel?"
"Well enough. A little tired. You can get a more detailed report from the healers."
"I do not want that. I want to know how you feel in yourself - you in your body."
"Sleepy." I say.
"Alright," says Fingon. "Alright."
Fingon puts his silent face on, so I drink more wine. After a while he snatches the bottle off me.
"Give me that. It's not good for you."
"Your eyes are half closed."
"It has been a long time."
"I need you to make sense. I need to talk to you."
"Yes?" I say, raising one of my heavy lids.
"And I need what is said tonight to the truth not the wine talking."
"What do you wish to know?"
He continues his intense staring for a while and I lay back on the pillows, becoming almost deliciously comfortable. A log cracks on the fire.
Fingon presses me beneath him and kisses at my mouth. He is warm and heavy. I am too drunk to be scared, but then I am also to drunk to realise it is him. He works hungrily at my mouth trying to get my lips parted.
I - my sense of touch, my ability to feel, my soul, whatever- all of me retreats upward to a little corner of my head to consider my position. My mind is even more fuzzily warm than the cushions. Lets stay here where I can be safe and warm, I tell myself, until he gets tired and stops.
I relax and my mouth falls open, so now my cousin has his tongue inside me.
There is a part of me, a small very angry part, which kicks out at this like an angry child. No, it says - this is Fingon. This is not fair. It is not fair it should be like this. So I kiss my cousin back. It is a bit like steeling my courage before battle. My instincts tell me to run away, my will over rides them.
I kiss Fingon back and feel nothing very much but a slimy tongue. Which is odd, because I am all soppy with wine and love him very much right now. The little red Nelyo kicks out inside me in rage. I can see him; little red spots against my eyelids.
"Well, that did not work," says Fingon.
"No."
"I did not really expect it too, but I thought it worth a try."
"I think the wine has numbed me a little."
"It is not just the wine."
"No, but it cannot help."
Fingon moves off me and punches the bed.
"I do love you," I say. "Very much."
"You don't feel like you do."
"I can't help that. I think there's been some disconnection in my ability to feel."
"That's understandable."
"Yes."
"Was that how you were with them?"
I swallow.
"Yes."
He nods. I scrape around in my sodden head for something to say to make that less painful.
"Except I was not angry then."
He studies the weave of the bed linen intently.
"But you were angry with me."
"No, not with you. I was angry I was kissing you and feeling nothing. It seemed unfair."
He tried to smile. Only the corner of his mouth nearest me made it.
"Maedhros, I think you need to go to sleep."
I nod. I am sinking into the pillows. The room feels as if it is gently descending downwards. You are very wise Fingon, I think, you are so right. Sleep is exactly what I need. I need to lose this haze around me.
"Would you hold me?"
"Of course."
Fingon gets up off the bed and extinguishes the candles. Then he tucks himself into the bed and wraps his arms around me. I am falling downward fast, but I feel his arms around me. They are strong and they are sure and they will not let me hit the ground too quickly. So I sink away into a doze feeling safe.
The next morning, the snow has stopped. The light is piercingly blue as it enters into my room. The snow glitters back every ray of the sun's light and there are no shadows. I lean over to my cousin asleep beside me, and kiss his lips awake. His lips are very soft beneath my own; I'm surprised by the give in them. I feel that all, and a little happiness travels down my chest. He stirs and kisses back, gently, no tongue but plenty of hope.
"Is it better when you kiss me?" He asks.
"It's better in the daylight." I say.
I curl up cheerfully into his body. The day is so pure and unspoilt it seems to shine beneath my skin. Fingon's soul rests against my own, warming and comforting its battered mate. All he is seeps into me like the sunshine. We lie close, and for now, we are content.