Notes:
First-person narration switches from Maedhros to Fingon in each chapter.
Warning:
Consensual adult half-cousin male/male sexual encounters follow in some detail.
From a hillock we looked out over the field below, where the horses I brought grazed after the morning's ride, familiarizing themselves with the new acreage and their new companions. Glittering beyond was Lake Mithrim, which still divided his people from mine, though it seemed a less forbidding barrier day by day – owed in most part to my efforts, without many thanks in return.
Two gifts I came bearing: to humble myself before Fingolfin the High King (as I should grow accustomed to regarding him), and to offer horses as wergeld. Mere infant steps towards reconciliation twixt our people, not like the galloping strides that brought me here. We could learn much from our four-legged friends, I deem. For they fret not moving from one camp to another, that they drink now from the other side of the lake, or that some of them hail from one house and some from another. In peace they eat and play and choose mates to beget mingled foals – and when time for war comes, they will not paw lines in the dirt and stand upon either side, leaving their children in the middle. What have we come to, that I would look with envy upon the politics of a horse?
Beside me, Fingon stood untroubled. "So, is my gift well-received?" I asked.
Fingon glanced sidelong at me, maybe wondering how much praise I expected. "Of course. I already said as much, as did my father."
Proud Turgon had not: he said it was the least I could do. Well, it was not our fault that few of their horses survived the crossing of the Helcaraxe. If we had been foolish enough to attempt crossing the Grinding Ice, our horses would have perished just the same. But yes, it is the least of which I should -and shall- do for Indis' sons. "I notice none begged leave to accompany us, when I asked for a tour of your camp."
Fingon did not grasp my meaning, and sighed. "Have patience, give them time."
For what I next planned to say, I did not wish to be standing at the highest point of the plain. Fingon followed as I descended the knoll until the camp was out of sight – and us hidden from any curious onlookers. Still oblivious to my purpose, he would have walked on had I not halted him by the arm. "Ask me to forget, and I will never speak of it."
Behind that furrowed brow I sensed his mind stumble over in confusion. "Nay, I ask that nothing be forgotten. But of what do you speak?"
"Of a day last spring, when I woke to find you gone." There was only one such day, and despite my words it would never be forgotten, if left unspoken of.
He began to eye the area, then recalled what our exchange of not a moment ago had disclosed: we came alone, for none cared to accompany me. If this was as desirable to him as it was to me it did not show upon his face. "I explained that – my father sent for me."
"Yet we never spoke of it. So I wondered."
Straightening, a stubborn look came about him, as I expected it would. "Well, I did not say on a whim that I do not ask you to forget."
"Then remember that day, and answer me one thing..." he nodded for me to continue. "What meant it to you?" I watched as his resolve exhausted itself from the inside out, and he sighed until slumped in the shoulder. Finally he shrugged, and spoke without the formality of before.
"Ah, Maedhros... it was what it was. What means shared laughter, returned smiles, feasting together, or friends gathered to sing under the stars? 'Tis just the stuff of living, of togetherness and love." He looked askance at me, anticipating a negative reaction to his direction that I did not have. Little did he know that no amount of moral blasphemy he was capable of conceiving could unnerve me at this point in life. Comforted, he spoke on.
"Now our..." despite himself a blush rose to his ears as he searched for a word, "encounter was unique; but I see no wrong in it, if that is your qualm, and nor do I regret. On the contrary – more and more do I question the things taught to me in my youth. How much of such lessons derived from our own wisdom, I wonder, and how much from the prodding of the Valar? Should we not judge what is best for ourselves in such matters, and as each circumstance warrants? I was not encouraged to learn from experience and grow after such knowledge; I quite plainly was told how it would be. Even now, adult and accomplished, they call me valiant – not wise, not deeper-seeing than some come and gone before me, just valiant."
After a moment of silent introspection, his gaze found mine again. He quirked a smile half in apology for becoming so immersed in his own opinions, but I was more pleased than he could guess. Fingon at his most rebellious: helping a friend in need by unprecedented means. How scandalous, only not. "That is all I asked," I said, carefully unconcerned.
"But what of yourself?" he tried to prompt me. I only shrugged, frustrating him perfectly, and ignored the question.
"You know, I suppose it is just as well that we are alone."
Now his look was tired. "Because of your dull mood? I agree."
"Because of your colorful smell. I had forgotten how their odor clings to you." He followed my gesture towards the horses, and frowned.
"You are no spring flower yourself, cousin, though in good manners I had not mentioned it." With all the forbearance of a close friend, I rewarded his insolence with a shove. Stumbling a bit in recovery, he warned, "Do that not again." Then in demonstration of his self-professed politeness, he shoved me in turn.
"Then do not make yourself deserve it," I told him with another push.
Vengeful, he came at me swift and hard; but I was ready, and withstood him. For a moment we grappled standing, then Fingon did something unexpected. Being shorter and slighter than me did not make him weaker or disadvantaged, and he was craftier. I felt only a heel behind my knee before his weight bore me down. My first reaction was to laugh, but tall as I am and falling on sloped ground... it was a long way down. I cried out, losing my breath as he landed on me.
Wearing a devious smile Fingon looked down his nose at me, his right hand pinning my left, seemingly oblivious to the rock under my back and my resultant wince of pain – or else enjoying it far more than I. "Do you yield?"
It was that or suffer unending smugness should he attain victory of a rematch. I groaned, "Aye."
His face fell concerned. "Are you well?"
Seeing his alarm, I was helpless: it was far too easy tormenting him sometimes. I shifted slowly, grimacing. "I-I... fear that—" only by some miracle did I keep from laughing out at his stricken look. "Yes, ah, I broke... I broke a smile."
"Maedhros!" By his own laughter I was kept safe, for he was unable to attack amid such mirth. "You knave – I feared you injured!"
"Indeed you injured my pride... but I forgive you." As usual, his good cheer was contagious, and I found myself joined in his laughter for a time.
I do not know which of us quieted first; who noticed our proximity as we lay there on the ground near enough to taste each other's breath; which of us shifted to separate or how that courtesy only brought us closer. Well, there was a rock biting into my back – I had one solid, sharp reason to arch a bit. Fingon, however, had only one reason to press against me: the same reason he had not gotten off of me.
"You are stiff as a tree," he said, obviously proud of his own jest. "Why so tense?"
"You are heavy as a tree – why so lazy?" I could not retain my grin any better than he could.
"Ah, Maedhros..." his hair tickled my face as he shook his head, and his wistful laughter ticked my ears. "What are we to be acting like this, children again?"
Children who through friendship shared a few secret vices in youth; whose love of novelty and exploration was nearly as great as their love for their fathers. Children who were neither very young nor innocent at their most creative, and who were never in fact caught amid any naughty act, though their actions be at times naughtier than others. No, we were not children anymore. Yet the memories shone in his eyes... or was it a reflection of mine?
"Fingon, Fingon," leaning up as I could, I stretched my neck to reach an ear, his heart hammering against me, "you know, 'tis things like this that will get you exiled."
Our eyes met only briefly as I lowered, but he did not need to see me to find my mouth – which he did, seeking my tongue in turn. So deeply he kissed me that I forgot my own flavor; but it was over so soon and completely that it might as well not have happened, like a meal half-eaten that arouses hunger without satisfaction, leaving desire to starve unquenched. It is worse than pure emptiness, this near-fullness.
In a wily way entirely my own, he asked, "And things like that?"
"Will get me exiled." The jest was terribly irrelevant, of course, perhaps unwelcomely ironic: we were already exiled, and it was not funny. As I sat up he slid aside, confusion and apology emanating from him so potent that I fought the urge to rub it off my person.
"Wait... you're leaving? I—"
Before he could begin rationalizing himself I grasped his shoulder, leaning to again speak into his ear. "Where I will go I do not know, but maybe there beside a creek or under a tree fighting autumn's reign I shall meet you. Follow not unless to finish this, somehow."
I was already some feet away when he replied, "Maybe."
Guilt has me now as I walk, every step more uncertain than the last. A thrall to my memories and the prolonged life forced upon me, I can want nothing less than as much pleasure as possible, and I can see no wrong in aught but the most unforgivable crimes. The taste of Fingon's lips does not weigh much at all measured against blood and tears and corpses. But I am biased, and more often than not lately a stranger to even myself. I leave it in his hands, to decide for us how this shall end. Seems everything is out of my hands, these days.
It was past noon when I found him, reclined against a tree still clinging to its yellowed leaves, beside a creek running thin after a season of sun and heat. He appeared as autumn himself, red hair the color of rust, skin pale as winter's first frost under amber freckles scattered like leaves by the wind. But his eyes were warm, and still bright despite it all. Perhaps no amount of cold or torment could temper the inner fire of a son of Feanor. For my part I was chilled, and went to sit beside him.
There we remained, for a moment or an hour, silent and content. A slight shift of both our positions made all the difference, changing our proximity from one of brotherly companionship to that of would-be lovers; innocence to intimacy (and right to wrong, according to most).
In my mind, my father lectured me about customs and correctness; that feeding desires of the body alone left your heart to starve. In my arms, Maedhros was strange and yet not so; strong again as in happier times, but hardened like never before. I was grown hard also, unlike the bliss of Valinor, hard as ice.
I let him have the mastery of me, let him bear me down upon the woodland floor and keep me there. It would not be like before, that was obvious at once. Though his arm still hung useless in its sling, his left hand had since learned every former skill of the other. And he was hale again, thriving muscles like roots of steel under my fingers, against my body. There was no excuse I could sell myself this time, for he did not need my help to relieve himself anymore... or did he? What kind of hunger drew his mouth to mine? Was it the same as that which compelled me to press our groins together from beneath?
No stranger am I to desires of the heart; I had nearly frozen to death in attaining them – freedom, control, power. Now I should be enjoying those desires fulfilled; but my heart forbids it, telling me the price was too high, that I am a traitor to myself, only familiar with the discontent and wrongness that led me here. Here in Middle-earth, in Maedhros' embrace, and a place within myself where I am too hungry to forage the proper thing to eat. I am lost, and so is he. But we are lost together, and he tastes so good.
One of us should do the honorable thing, before one of us takes off someone's clothes; ere there is no going back, no justification. I could still kneel before the High King and admit my last trespass into sin, explaining that handling poor Maedhros was not an exercise of bodily lust, but a grueling labor from my heart to help a friend in need. Because Fingolfin trusts me he would believe me; because my father loves me he would excuse me. Yet there is no explanation for this. When next my father-king looks into my eyes, my mind might be revealed to him in full, and I do not know what his judgment would be. But I am valiant, brave and daring, and in this moment I am willing to risk it all. And Maedhros, perhaps, has little left to lose.
"Release me, warm me." His hand goes to my belt, leaving me smothered under his unsupported weight as he frees my arched, aching penis. But his mouth on my neck gives me other ideas. Unappreciative eyes glare up me as I tilt his head by the hair, and his thumb presses painfully against my exposed scrotum, the message clear: hurt him and he will hurt me back. But I knew that already. "Thaw me, swallow me."
My crude demand receives a surprised look of commendation, then he flashes a sly smile and descends. Something new discovered, for I have never previously been so pleasured. Neither has he any practice in the art, though possessing the same parts as I he knows perfectly well what would feel good, unbelievably good. So good I forget where I am or indeed who I am, except a body lying weightless on the ground whose sex is willing victim to a warm mouth devouring every sensitive inch with delicious care.
I cry out for more, more pleasure, even unending pleasure if I could have my way. He takes that to mean faster, so I experience some of that newness as well, the friction sparking a flame of sensation within me that grows higher and harsher. Compared to that thrill the snow-light brush of his hair against my thighs is utter madness, taunting me that no such simple pleasure can compare hereafter to the ecstasy of questing tongue and slick moisture and hot pressure upon the very core of my masculinity.
By my second outburst of unintelligible direction he hardens his hold, repeatedly drawing the length of me in so far and tight and fast that I am plunged into that inferno of sensation, and burning within I melt, and he does swallow, my flesh and my heat, until I lie undone beneath him, senseless and spent.
Time passes as it is wont to do, and when I can think again one thing only I can think to say: "What meant it to you?"
His answer is unconcerned, but not uncaring, and I realize that there is a world of difference. "Everything that it was."
And everything that it was not. I am satisfied in flesh, at least. My heart is elsewhere for the nonce regardless, and if it starves I know it not. "Come, Maedhros, and lie at ease so I can get to you. This is something we both deserve."
end
Notes:
In the Silmarillion, Fingon is Gil-galad's father – in HoME, Fingon is unwed. For the purposes of this story, I propose Fingon's unwed incarnation.
For the sake of reader-friendliness, I used the names seen throughout the Silmarillion (even though at this point in time, Thingol had not yet banned Quenya, and I assume only following that ban did the Noldor adopt Sindarin names).
Some elements of this fic (e.g. Maedhros' freckles and a similarity in title) are borrowed with permission from 'Eye of the Beholder'.
Sincere thanks to beta reader Lily Anguir!