Fingon woke to the sudden chill of his room.
Blearily he peered into the darkness, an unspoken question hovering on his lips as he peeled back the invitingly warm coverlets. The place beside him was empty. Gritting his teeth against both cold and too familiar apprehension he reluctantly slipped from his bed and after throughly swaddling himself in the warmest thing on hand he walked across the cool stone floors to the open window. His gray eyes searched the horizon.
There, in a clearing not too far from the fortress he saw a dark spot on the white snow, moving fast. Now and then the shadow would pause - body stiff and head raised toward the wind. Then it moved on.
Fingon gave a heavy sigh, the white mist of his breath curling into the air to disperse on the biting wind. "What are you after tonight?"
Drawing the pelt closer around himself he at last shuttered the window. He hated these 'night hunts'. More than he could possibly say. The thought that Maedhros was out there in the cold of Himrings winter, alone, tore at him in ways there were no words for. His sudden disappearances sometimes lasted for days as he tracked some creature all over the wild.
The equally abrupt arrival- never empty-handed - always caught Fingon by surprise. Some elves kept dogs or cats that would bring back 'gifts'. Fingon had Maedhros. Instead of mice or birds or the occasional young hare it would be an elk or a stockpile of orc weaponry. He never knew what Maedhros might return with. Hiding the forays had proven impossible. Too many ears and eyes noticed the comings and goings of the infamous line of Finwë, but so far they thought their lord was simply an avid hunter of Orome's mind. Often gifts of fine swords inlaid with ivory or horn or perhaps a slingshot of quality leather for smaller game delicately embossed would be offered. Once or twice Maedhros had received a specialized javelin with a throwing hook; allowing it to be used single-handed. He'd taken quite readily to the weapon and was already quite proficient with it.
Yet it, like all the others, sat unused on the hunt. Merely gathering dust in the armory.
Fingon glanced to the mantle, eyes resting on the spot between a glass timepiece and a fine porcelain bust where normally a small but specially made dagger would have rested. At the sight of the bare spot the tension in his face eased. So Maedhros hadn't gone unarmed this time at least. Idly he fingered at the pelt he had thrown over his shoulders, surprisingly soft for warg fur. It had been that very pelt that had caused him to commission the dagger in the first place.
After five days. Five agonizing, gut-wrenching days the copper-haired noble had come limping home, his face bright and jubilant - the very face of self-satisfaction. His body had been a bloody mess. Gashes from the wargs teeth wept from every limb, deep bruises bloomed in sickly shades of yellow and purple beneath a smear of blood, dirt, and the black ichor of the beast slung over Maedhros' left shoulder and what little hair he kept was matted and tangled.
Fingon had desperately thought of every excuse possible to convince Maedhros to stop but eventually he had given in. It was something he couldn't understand, that he wasn't capable of understanding. It was just one more new, wild aspect of his old lover that he had no choice but to accept without hope of change.
So one winter night not so long ago Fingon taken Maedhros aside and with baited breathe given him a small gift. The look on Maedhros' face had been incredulous, the item being wrapped in fine embroidered silk. But when Maedhros at last peeled the fine cloth back to reveal a simple, yet devastatingly effective weapon his eyes took on a sheen of life that Fingon hadn't seen in a long, long time.
The dark iron only gave fitful reflections of the bright lantern-light, the surface on top textured to disperse any ambient glow for the purpose of stealth. it was little more than thick bar to which two wickedly large looking hooks had been affixed on either side with a guard above to protect the hand from injury. Recurved blades that were razor sharp and so thick that even a struggling elk wouldn't have been able to bend them were the items saving grace. It was a weapon designed only to slash through what was before it, to bury deep into hardened flesh until it anchored on the bone. It was unadorned, altogether unlovely and utterly without mercy and Fingons stomach churned at the sight of it as he thought of what violence might be wrought with it in the hands of an elf as strong as Maedhros.
Yet..at long last when Maedhros raised his head, eyes filled with clear appreciation instead of the wild swirl of emotions that so often clouded them, he whispered; "Thank You."
Fingon released his long held breath. "I hope you'll use it."
And while Fingons heart has at first swelled with relief at those words, the fell light that sparked in his lovers eyes and the cruelly rough growl with which Maedhros voice answered in his voice was nearly enough to break it...
"I will."