When Maedhros woke, he found he was still in Fingon's arms. His sleep had been not been further disturbed by nightmares and he wondered if it had been Fingon's presence keeping those shadows at bay. When he felt Fingon's fingers lightly stroke through his hair, Maedhros's scarred heart felt as though it would burst and longed to clasp Fingon's hand and bring it to his lips. He remembered at the last moment that he wasn't capable of that; not with his left arm crooked under the pillow, at least.
"You have woken, Maitimo?" Fingon whispered, his voice gentle and refreshing and clear as the dew of Telperion.
"Unless this be a pleasant dream," Maedhros responded quietly, half afraid to learn it was.
"You are not dreaming," Fingon promised.
"Please forgive me, Káno… yet again?" Maedhros murmured. "I have been all outbursts and ill-tempers, and shadows of days I know not how long past plague me still, even here."
"If forgiveness will ease your heart, then know that you have it," Fingon said. "But know also that I do not think you should need seek forgiveness. You are hurt, Maitimo, and it is healing you need."
Maedhros ducked his head against Fingon's side. "How long have I had to get over these hurts, Findekáno?" he said bitterly.
"No time at all, I think," Fingon said firmly. "Was your heart to heal from anything in the midst of constant war and watchfulness, out there in the bitter marches of Himring, always dealing with your brothers' machinations, ever ridden by your father's curse?"
"Others had healing in Mandos, did they not? Yet I was sent forth without any sort of healing."
"And we shall see that put right. I do not accept that you, alone, are meant to dwell here, still bearing the harms visited upon you in Arda. I cannot claim to understand the purposes of the Powers in all things, but this is left undone, Maitimo, and it is not right."
"Why do you bother about me, Káno?" Maedhros whispered, his voice gone rough as feelings he couldn't name seized his throat.
"Because I love you, Timo," Fingon said softly, stroking Maedhros's hair. "Because my blood begins to flatter me that you love me also. Because I believe that we are meant to have peace here and that your release from Mandos was not a mistake, so there must be something more to be done."
Maedhros was quiet for a long while. He's stopped Fingon saying the words the night before, but Fingon had slipped them in this time and now Maedhros could no longer convince himself, even feebly, that it was not so. Of course he'd known it all along; they had loved one another since they were old enough to comprehend such a feeling. The words had never been spoken between them, though they had said them just as clearly in touches, embraces, and kisses. Their fëar, however, remained separate and individual. Fëanor and Fingolfin might have tacitly accepted their sons' bond of friendship, but any overt sign of a truly permanent bond would not have been so accepted. Fingolfin would have come around, in time, once Fingon's happiness became plain. But Fëanor… never.
Maedhros sighed. "I do love you, Findekáno. I want to know again the peace of our youth… when I could hold your hand under leaves or stars, and feel your lips against mine, and hope that one day we might have a chance…."
"We will, Timo, we will have that peace again, you shall see," Fingon vowed, holding Maedhros close.
"When I was rehoused, Káno, Lord Manwë spoke to me and said that there was 'work left unfinished'. I know not what he meant nor how I should go about finishing it. I had thought that if I accomplished this cryptic task, I might be readmitted to Mandos evermore. But now… I would not choose to leave you. Yet… I would not have chosen to come to you as I am. Perhaps you are right and you comprehend Súlimo's riddle better than I. I will go with you to seek help in the gardens of Lórien, if you wish it still, but, Káno? If they cannot or will not aid me there… will you accept it, and me?"
"Accept it, yes, if they be powerless, even if I shall not like it if they be merely unwilling. You, though, I accept wholly, no matter the outcome," Fingon said.
Maedhros felt his fëa arch toward Fingon's and pulled himself physically closer, desperately craving that acceptance.
"Are you certain of this way?" Maedhros as they made their way west through the Calacirya and their eyes beheld the Plain of Valinor.
"Not truly," Fingon admitted, "but it is said that the gardens are south of Valmar, and Valmar just south of Ilmarin. So, we cannot be too wrong if we continue to the south."
"Who knows the breadth of this land? We could be walking for days…," Maedhros said hesitantly.
"Aye," Fingon nodded.
Maedhros halted and reached out for Fingon's hand to pull him close into a one-armed embrace. "For me, you crossed the Helcaraxë. For me, you dared Thangorodrim. And now, for me, you encroach upon the lands of the Valar. If this venture does not see us both expelled from this world until its unmaking, would you… upon our supposed return, that is… agree to become my husband?"
Fingon held Maedhros tightly and gave a short laugh. "I think that the worst proposal I've ever heard of!"
"Then you've heard others," Maedhros said, a bit dismally.
"I've heard of others, you beautiful, jealous fool," Fingon said with a gentle smile. "Now, come," he said, taking Maedhros's hand. "We may be walking for days indeed if we don't set out properly."
Maedhros tugged him back just a bit. "But would you, though, Findekáno?"
"On one condition," Fingon said seriously.
"Anything," Maedhros said readily.
"If, and only if, upon our 'supposed' return, you grant me a better proposal than that one."
Maedhros ducked his head sheepishly but nodded. "Then I shall think of the best way of asking that's ever been heard."
Fingon stretched up to kiss Maedhros's cheek, then it was his turn to tug at Maedhros's hand to urge him onward.
It was nearly midday when they passed east of the great city of Valmar. They both slowed and stared in wonder at the great bell towers, all domed in gleaming gold. Chiming could be heard as smaller bells rang in the gentle breezes. The city itself seemed to exude peace and harmony and for a moment, both Maedhros and Fingon found themselves turning as if to approach the city, but Fingon shook off the lure first and tightened his hold on Maedhros's hand.
"Come, Maitimo, that we may the sooner return and I hear your fair proposal."
Maedhros looked at Fingon and hoped against hope that Fingon might really accept him, even if nothing could be done to make him whole again.
"Look there!" Fingon called after they had walked some while longer. "Do you see, on south and toward the west? Those silvery trees? They say the gardens of Lórien are all made of silver willows. Let us go that way."
Maedhros nodded and followed along. He judged it would be evening before they arrived at that point on the horizon. If it was not their destination, they would need to rest for a time and he hoped such a place would be suitable.
For hours they walked, crossing vast pastures of gentle hills. All the while Maedhros and Fingon remained hand-in-hand. Neither could remember when they had last spent so much time with one another simply walking, not even conversing. The feeling of Fingon's hand in his said more to Maedhros than any words ever could and the thought occurred to him that with Fingon beside him, he might not miss his right hand so much.
Maedhros's judgment proved accurate as they approached the woodland of silver willows just as the dimming light of evening began to take on its red-gold hue. By then there was no doubt that they had come to the right place. The songs of nightingales and heavy fragrance of night-blossoming flowers and rich, resinous cedars reached them half a league away. The light under the trees was even dimmer, with the faint glimmering of glow-worms providing a dream-like atmosphere, as did the large pale-green moths that seemed to swim lazily on the air around red-orange poppies under the trees.
"Son of Fëanor… and son of Fingolfin," said a voice from off in the trees. Maedhros and Fingon turned to find a tall, fair, silver-haired figure robed in white. "Welcome to Lórien. Your arrival has been expected. I am Olórin; you may follow me."
Maedhros and Fingon glanced at one another. They hadn't expected to be expected, but followed along with the numinous Maia.
"We've come to seek the -" Fingon started softly, hoping their mission might be accomplished as directly as possible.
"The healing of Lórellin," Olórin cut in. "Yes, of course you have. Come along."
Fingon and Maedhros again glanced at one another, neither quite sure what to make of their guide. Before long, they came to a lakeside where a small grey boat was tethered. The lake was vast and in the midst of the water floated an island, wooded and dim and shrouded in a mist. The water of the lake was still and reflected the many stars above on its surface, but also seemed to contain stars even within its depths. Olórin gestured for the two Eldar to proceed him into the boat, then he took the tether from its post and stepped in himself. Immediately, the boat began to move across the water as if of its own volition.
When it fetched up upon the shore of the island, Olórin again gestured for Maedhros and Fingon to go ahead while he tethered the boat before leading them to the heart of the island – a small clearing where the petals of flowering trees carpeted the ground and a grey-gowned lady stood, her gaze turned upward to the stars.
"Come forward, Maitimo," the lady said in low, calming tones, not taking her eyes from the heavens above.
Maedhros was loth to let go of Fingon's hand, but as he had been addressed and Fingon not, he thought it better not to pose a challenge. Instead, he leaned in and quickly kissed Fingon's cheek, whispering, "I love you" as though by stepping into the presence of a Vala he might be disintegrated instantly.
Fingon let go of Maedhros's hand and stroked his shoulder reassuringly. Behind Fingon, Olórin nodded with a kindly smile. Maedhros took a breath and stepped forward passed the cover of the trees.
"What do you seek, Maitimo?" Estë asked, slowly turning her face toward Maedhros.
For a long moment, Maedhros found himself struck dumb. How could he answer such a question and not sound foolish before this Lady of the Valier? He looked back at Fingon, hoping for help supplying a more eloquent response than simply, "healing", but Fingon just looked back at him as if to say, "I could bring you here, but I cannot give that answer for you."
What, then, did he seek? Maedhros asked himself. As he turned his gaze downward, trying to buy a few more moments without staring blankly into the infinite gaze of such a spirit as stood taller than even he was, his attention came to rest on his right arm. He reflexively rubbed at the end of it where once his wrist had been.
"I wish to be whole again, my Lady," Maedhros found himself responding.
Estë stepped closer and reached out to touch the end of Maedhros's arm. "Do you believe that you are not whole now?" she asked, closing a hand over the long-since healed wound.
Maedhros kept his eyes downward and shook his head. "I cannot be, my Lady. You see my disfigurement yourself."
"Sit with me, grandson of Miriel," Estë said, and turned to lead Maedhros to be seated upon a stone bench that Maedhros was certain had not been there when he'd entered the clearing. She sat at his right, still holding the end of his arm. Maedhros half expected to look down and find a new hand sprouting from his arm like a new branch from where a limb had been chopped from a tree.
"Maitimo," she said gently, "I cannot re-form this member. The Firstborn Children of Eru have extraordinarily healing within them and the wound you took to this arm has long ago duly healed."
Maedhros's shoulders fell and his head lowered. "But others were rehoused… without the injuries they bore in their first life," he murmured.
"That is so, but their injuries were most often inflicted shortly before their fëa and hröa became separated. This wound was healed and you lived long afterward."
Maedhros was silent again for a long while. "You mean, then, that… this… has become a part of what I am?" he asked quietly.
"I mean, Maitimo, that healing is not always what can be seen with the eyes," Estë said. "This does not require healing," she said, letting go of his arm. "But your heart has borne many wounds, and known little tonic. This is what prevents you from your wholeness, Maitimo, not your hröa."
Maedhros lowered his head further still as he felt a wave of tears rush up at the truth of the Lady's words. "Say, then, that I may find such tonic here, please!" he begged.
"You may find such tonic here, Maitimo," Estë said, wrapping her grey-clad arms around Maedhros and kissing the top of his head as in benediction. Then she rose and stretched out her arm toward Fingon, beckoning him to sit beside Maedhros where she had been. Immediately, Fingon wrapped his arms around Maedhros and held him tightly.
"You are whole in my eyes, Maitimo," Fingon whispered tearfully, "whole and beautiful and perfect, as long as we may never be sundered again!"
"Káno!" Maedhros wept, desperately clasping Fingon to him. "All I want is to be worthy of you, my beautiful, beloved Findekáno. If I may be but that, I shall seek nothing further!"
"You are that, my darling, you ever have been," Fingon promised, stroking Maedhros's hair.
Neither noticed that the Vala had departed the clearing until Olórin approached them with two finely wrought glasses of a liquid which shimmered like the starlight in the lake. "The waters of these gardens have given ease to many," Olórin said. "Drink now, and I shall you lead you to a place of rest in the great, misty halls of Murmuran, where you may stay until you are ready to depart again. I think I may come to Tirion myself… strawberries should be just about in season."
Neither Fingon nor Maedhros remembered much after drinking the glowing water and following Olórin back to the little grey boat. They woke together in a soft bed, swathed in blankets as voluminous as clouds, in a quiet, cool, shadowy room, the walls of which were covered with flowering vines and the floor of which was soft, sweet grass.
For the long time, they just lie together, drowsing in one another's arms, their foreheads pressed together as if in a psychic kiss. No significant or weighty thought came to either of them through the fogginess of half-sleep, they were only aware of the nearness of one another and that was all that mattered.
After a time, Maedhros started to realise that his sleep, however long it had been, was undisturbed by nightmares for the first time since the Darkening of Valinor. As he began to wake properly, he looked at Fingon, into his beautiful, soft eyes, and the certainty came to him that he would never again be troubled by the shadows that had dwelled in his heart and mind for the last ages. It had taken all this time and a journey across the plains of Valinor for him to find healing and peace – and now he understood the words of Estë, that here had found such tonic in the arms of his Valiant One.
"Findekáno?" Maedhros whispered, lightly stroking one gold-twined plait, "Shall we return to Tirion, where I may ask you to be my husband and my heart's ease forevermore?"
"Aye, my beautiful Maitimo," Fingon murmured, tracing one interrupted red eyebrow with the tips of his fingers before pressing his palm to Maedhros's cheek and drawing him into a long kiss.
