"You must have rest," Elrond had insisted. It was rather amusing for the little Elfling he'd helped raise to be fussing over him, telling him what he must do. Surely he was still one of the youngest Elves in Eldamar… yet he had also clearly become a very well respected healer over the few thousand years of his life. And so Maedhros had nodded compliantly and accepted that he needed to rest after having been (mostly) remade and sent forth from the Halls of Mandos.
And then Fingon had insisted on taking Maedhros home… to his home, and for a moment, Maedhros didn't know how to respond. Yes, of course being with Káno was what he wanted, truly, but… was it always to be Findekáno taking care of him?
"If you can ensure that he does rest," Elrond had said to Fingon. "It may have been quite some time but I seem to recall that he was not always the most biddable of patients." The look Elrond directed at him made Maedhros wonder what healer Elrond had trained under. Whoever it was had certainly taught him that very particular wry, demanding, rather defiant look that they all had.
"Stubborn as any Dwarf, I think you mean," Fingon supplied, keeping a possessive hold of Maedhros's arm.
Maedhros groaned, knowing well when he was beaten. And so, he went with Fingon to his home on the west side of the great city. And the whole way there, he could only think that this didn't feel as perfect as he'd imagined it might. In fact, it didn't feel perfect at all. It felt awkward, like asking for a favour he had no right to seek. Fingon hadn't said much along the way, and Maedhros was too discomfited to attempt conversation either. What would he say if he did? Well, quite a lot, really - there were literally ages standing between them – but that was just the trouble. There was nothing he could say casually… but it just wasn't the time for saying anything momentous, either.
And so Maedhros just walked along, glancing surreptitiously at Fingon every so often and wondering had there ever been a more perfect, beautiful being. Fingon had said he wanted nothing more than Maedhros's arms around him, and Maedhros had given his imperfect arms gladly, but… Fingon could have the love of any Elf he chose, so why –
"…many rooms," Fingon said as they walked together into a fine, lofty home, and Maedhros realized he'd missed some of the conversation, wrapped up in his own thoughts. "I don't know why I chose this one, most of our people like it with Turgon more than here. But I suppose I like the quiet. You should probably take a room in the north end, it is shady and restful and that will be best for you. My rooms are in the south and far too bright at mid-day to allow you proper sleep."
"I want to stay closest to you," Maedhros murmured reflexively.
Fingon glanced up and noted how tired Maedhros looked. Certainly not as bad as just after… well, after they'd returned from Thangorodrim… but Elrond did urge Fingon to keep an eye on Maedhros, after all. "Why not settle in the north room and I'll stay close by?" he offered.
"You needn't do that," Maedhros said quietly. He couldn't believe he'd let that thought slip out aloud!
"It's no trouble," Fingon insisted. "Come, you are my guest. Let me see that you are comfortable."
"It's not necessary," Maedhros said a bit more firmly.
"Stop being stubborn," Fingon said mildly. "At the least, I shall help you into a comfortable sleeping tunic and plait your hair to keep it out of your -"
"I am not an Elfling and I do not require looking after!" Maedhros flared suddenly.
Fingon wasn't quite quick enough to conceal the look of hurt and shock that crossed his face and lingered for a moment in his eyes.
Maedhros deflated at once, swallowing hard and dropping his head. "Gods, Káno, I am sorry. I did not mean to shout at you, I swear it." He took a long, deep breath. "I don't know what I'm feeling from one moment to the next," he said, his eyes searching Fingon's for any hint of understanding.
"You are overtired," Fingon said quietly. "Elrond is correct, you need rest. I will not push where or how you do so, but I do insist that you rest. And you may ask me for anything you need. I certainly don't think you an Elfling, but I can help, if you wish it."
Maedhros glanced away, wondering that Fingon still had such capacity to forgive. "Will rest help?" he said doubtfully. "I should be thanking you, I should be savouring every moment you stand beside me. Yet, I find myself questioning everything and snapping at the one who cares enough to want to assist me – yet again. Please, lead me where you think best and I shall not bark like an ill-tempered hound again."
Fingon shook his head slightly. "You bark not like an ill-tempered hound, but like an ill-used one, and ill-used you have been for a very long time. Rest will help, yes, but not all at once. It will take time; maybe much time. But, after all, we have a rather infinite supply of that. Come, Maitimo, I will show you the best place to rest here," Fingon said, reaching for Maedhros's hand.
The feeling of Fingon's hand holding his caused his ability to think to come to a grinding halt. His left hand, the appendage that had done the work of both hands for longer than he cared to think, had come to be so much more sensitive, as well stronger and more adept. And yet, he thought now, without Fingon's hand holding it, it had been as empty as the hand that won Beren the title 'Erchamion', as empty as that hand that remained still (for all he knew) chained to the peak of Thangorodrim.
"Findekáno, I…," Maedhros started, looking over at Fingon. Then he gave up trying to put how he felt into words and pulled Fingon into his arms, where he had all but begged to be not a quarter-hour gone, and dipped his head to kiss Fingon's elegant bow-like lips.
It wasn't the first time they'd kissed, certainly not, but neither could remember having such a kiss since before Melkor began to sow his discord between the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin, before what happened at Alqualondë and Losgar, before Feanor was killed and Maedhros was tortured and Fingolfin crossed the Grinding Ice, before Himring in the cold marches became 'home', before more death and more misery broke wave upon wave, time after time.
It was a kiss, reciprocated and meaningful, but still nothing more. It did not proceed to impassioned grasping or a consuming need for more. It was just a kiss. And Maedhros thought he began to understand just a part of why this reunion had turned ever so… clumsy. Though their fëar had always been closer even than brothers, never had they gotten beyond mere closeness.
Of course, those things weren't done in the elder days. The joining of two fëar was a very conscious process, a clear decision and something not undertaken without due respect. Their fathers, ever at one another's throat, would never have given their blessing, and afterward - all was constant war… never a time for such a thing.
But here… perhaps it could be different here….
As Maedhros pulled back from the kiss, Fingon was looking at him surprise and hope. Maedhros found himself wanting to reassure him some way, maybe by convincing him that, yes, of course, he had always loved him. He knew that what Fingon had said was right, though. 'It will take time; maybe much time.' Maedhros sighed a little. That kiss was probably far too soon as it was.
"Thank you, Findekáno. You have ever given me more patience than I have deserved," Maedhros said quietly.
"Patience is what you need," Fingon replied. Then he turned and opened the door of the room they had stopped in front of. "And rest. Take it as you like, please, for as long as you like. My home is yours, and always will be."
With that, Fingon pressed Maedhros's hand in his for a moment and kissed his cheek. "Please rest, Maitimo? I slept for almost a week when I was rehoused."
"I will rest," Maedhros promised, pulling Fingon into his arms and kissing the top of his head. "And if I need anything, I will call."
Fingon nodded, accepting Maedhros's word, and left him to settle himself in as he pleased. He chose not to go far until Maedhros emerged again, though. Elrond had counselled rest, and Fingon was resolved that Maedhros should have it, whether he liked it or not! Fingon went to fetch his harp and decided he would sit in a room nearby and compose the notes for the song he and Ecthelion had been working on when Maedhros arrived.
Black smoke rose all about, as if from the very inhospitable ground. It was thick and choking, stinging the eyes and burning the throat. The sky itself was stained red. Dark mountains of slag rose up to towering heights, as high as any natural mountain. But nothing here was natural and there was nothing here to ease the heart. There was only despondency and terror.
Maedhros looked up toward the peaks from where he stood upon the ground. This was not how it had been, he thought vaguely. As the smog cleared above him, Maedhros saw a sight that choked him worse than the festering miasma: upon the three peaks of Thangorodrim were chained all those he'd ever loved. They all began to call out to him at once and he couldn't tell who begged for the mercy of death and who for rescue.
Then he heard the dark and terrible voice of Morgoth, rumbling and cracking like thunder and lightning, say to him: "Free one, and the rest shall die."
Maedhros fell to his knees, the rocky ground digging into his flesh, and wept. For he knew the horror of that monstrous riddle – did he choose to free the one he loved the most or the least? Whoever he freed would be condemned to living with the consequences of having endured morgul torture, while the rest could have the release of death. Could he grant death to them all but bring down his father and hope that the lasting reminders of torment would be enough to restore reason to the mind and heart of Fëanor?
But his heart quailed as he looked up upon the faces of those so precious to him… the young sons of Eärendil (and how could he ever choose one and leave the other?); his dearest brother who loved those boys even more than Maedhros did himself; Findekáno… who had been prepared, even in his heartsickness, to end Maedhros's suffering when it was him upon that rock… who, alone, had come to find him, even without the knowledge that Maedhros had wanted to fetch him across to Losgar and refused to put torch to ship….
From above, Fingon's eyes, red-rimmed, sued for Maedhros's attention as he whispered only, "Please!" and the word cleft Maedhros's heart just as Gothmog had cleft Fingon's head on that awful day.
"Maitimo! Maitimo, wake, please!"
"I must not listen!" Maedhros cried out, his eyes shut tightly as he turned away from Fingon.
"Wake, Maitimo," Fingon repeated softly, a gentle hand on Maedhros's shoulder. "You are safe here, with me."
Maedhros cautiously opened his eyes to find himself in a fair, shady room, lying in a comfortable bed. No foreboding land of evil incarnate was this, he now recalled, but the city of his birth, in the blessed Undying Lands. And yet, even here, the shadows that had never ceased to plague him during his life in Endor followed.
"I will never be safe," Maedhros murmured, pulling away and burying his face in the pillow.
"You shall be safe wherever I am, I give you my word," Fingon said, his hand on Maedhros's back. "Together, we shall find a way to dispel these shadows forever."
"Not if the Powers deem it otherwise," Maedhros said bitterly. "I am cast out from the one place my fëa might have found peace, eventually. Sent back among the living and remade, still broken as ever I was in my first life! Not even my hate-filled father has been made to endure this! This must surely be the doom accorded to one who could not bear even a moment more of life's distress."
"No, I do not believe that, Maitimo," Fingon said.
Maedhros shook his head almost frantically. "Call me that no more! It is not true – well-formed? Ha! I am naught but de-formed!"
"If you are, it is by my own hand," Fingon murmured sorrowfully. "But even in that loss, you are still the most well-formed, the most beautiful Elf I have ever beheld. Maitimo… my beautiful Maitimo, I lo-"
"No!" Maedhros cried, jumping up almost as if burned. "No! You must not! Go from me, Findekáno, please, before it is too late, again. I will bring you nothing but unhappiness. Please… you must go from me… for in my cravenness, I cannot bear going from you, though it would spare you."
Tears stung Fingon's eyes as he tried to blink them away. "Oh, 'Timo… that's all over. It's done, my beloved, we have peace again and there is no more curse upon our people."
"It is here where all our sorrows began, Findekáno, even in this same fair city. Why should the terror not return as it once did?" Maedhros argued.
"Morgoth is more than just chained this time," Fingon said, reaching out. "And his servant is unmade. Arda is changed in ways I cannot rightly explain, but Elrond was there and he can -"
"Why do you try to save me still, Findekáno? Can you not see this evidence yourself?" Maedhros said, baring the scars on his arm and shoulder. "They will not even remake my hröa. My fëa will never be healed. I would not have you bind yourself to such a ruined creature."
"Do not ask me to forsake you," Fingon said, swallowing back a sob. "I cannot and will not. You are worth all to me, Maitimo, and I will not rest until you see it in yourself again." Fingon sat down on the bed beside Maedhros and pulled him into his arms, clearly brooking no further discussion. "On the morrow, we shall venture west through the pass and seek the gardens of Irmo and Estë. Clearly, Lord Nämo was neglectful in not sending you directly to his brother, but I shall see that amended, even should Manwë and such another power stand in my way!"
"Káno, you mustn't -" Maedhros tried wearily, only to have Fingon touch a finger to his lips.
"Peace, my beloved. You are still bidden to rest, and so I shall stay here and guard your sleep," he said, running his fingers through Maedhros's long red locks. "Sleep, and I shall sing to you as I did long ago."