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Fingon wakes bright and early and far too cheerful, to Maedhros’ eyes, for the amount of alcohol he consumed the previous night. Maedhros’ own tolerance is not yet returned to him, after Thangorodrim. His throat feels dry and fuzzy, his head pounds, and his stomach lurches uncomfortably as he follows his lover outside into the morning sunshine.
“The breeze will clear your head,” says Fingon, merciless; but when they have walked a little away from the cluster of tents, near to where the waters of Ivrin lap against the shores, he takes Maedhros’ hand in his warm one, and twines their fingers together.
“You are merry this morn,” Maedhros says.
Fingon grins at him. The light reflects off the water and off the gold braided into his dark hair and the sun-shaped circlet at his brow and the deep warm amber of his eyes, as though Fingon is in danger, any moment now, of being transmuted into a beam of sunlight himself. Would Maedhros release him, were it to happen? Would he be selfless enough to say, Go dance amongst the clouds with your fellows, and leave me behind on the ground, and only swear to think of me every now and then?
He does not think so. He has only the one hand, now, and yet it grasps tightly enough to do the work of two.
“Ought I not be?” Fingon asks. “The feast can be claimed a success by every measure, after all my father’s work and worry.”
“Not every measure,” Maedhros counters. “Elwë has rather snubbed us, after all.”
“He sent two of his people,” Fingon argues. “That counts for something, I think. And this way we need not worry about a fight breaking out, for the Mithrim Sindar know us already. And you left all your most quarrelsome brothers at home, and mine has restrained himself well enough too. No, on a diplomatic level I cannot ask for more.” He rises to the tips of his toes, careless of any watching eyes, and presses a quick warm kiss to Maedhros’ lips.
“Finno,” Maedhros says, warningly, although there is no-one around to spy them.
“What? I’m being politic,” says Fingon. “This is the Feast of Reuniting, after all.”
Maedhros laughs. Impossible not to laugh, in the sunshine with the breeze fresh and clear and unpoisoned on his skin, and the ground solid beneath his feet, and Fingon, Fingon, warm and alive and beside him.
“I am glad to be here,” he says lowly.
Fingon sets aside his blitheness, and looks at him very tenderly. “I am glad too,” he says, and then he kisses Maedhros again.
Maedhros does not want to part from him – does not want to return East to chilly Himring, does not want to go about his diplomatic duties of the day, does not want even to pull back the bare distance he needs to draw breath – but he is good, after all, at setting aside his wants. “We must not,” he murmurs against Fingon’s lips, regretful. “Not where anyone might see us – others will be rising by now.”
“I care not,” Fingon declares, his eyes bright, his breath hot on Maedhros’ lips. “Think you that I am ashamed to love you? Think you that I will kiss you only in shadowy corners, and never by the waters under the Sun where anyone might see us? Let them stare! Might I not love what is mine?”
“It is not that,” Maedhros breathes, brought suddenly close to tears. It is the beat of Eagle-wings, it is a strong clear voice ringing through the foul mists of Thangorodrim, it is the knowledge that he is blessed far beyond what he has ever deserved. “But you know it will bring down murmurs you little need – that your father little needs, in these uncertain days. Think you that my brothers will ever accept the match – that yours will? Reuniting will be a fine joke then, if they are brought to quarrel at swordpoint again! And that is only our own kin – what of our people, how many of those who followed you over the Ice would turn against you if they knew? How might the Grey-elves murmur of the strange customs we have brought with us across the Sea, that two who share a very grandfather might lie together? How many of them might turn from us in disgust? We cannot risk it. You know we cannot.”
“All this is but to say,” Fingon says, his voice a little jagged, “I love you in the half-light, Findekáno, but not enough to claim you at the break of day.”
“Beloved,” Maedhros says, stricken. “You know that is not true. It is for your own sake that I hesitate.”
“I am tired,” says Fingon, “of others making decisions for my sake.” But then his eyes fall upon the copper hook strapped to Maedhros’ wrist, and he seems all at once to remember to whom he speaks, and to deflate.
Maedhros takes him by the hand and draws him further along the shore, down to where a little wooden pier juts out over the blue waters, and then pulls him into a careful embrace. Fingon is so very solid in his arms. He is enough, almost, to make Maedhros believe in permanence.
“I am not ashamed of you, Finno,” he says softly. “Only afraid – of dishonouring you, or hurting you, or – or worse. Think you that I would not make you every oath that was in my power, were I free to swear them? I would – I will, when the war is won. I can promise you that with an open heart.”
“Then promise it,” says Fingon, “and swear something, for I too have made you oaths aplenty, and heard little but echoes in response.”
“When the war is over,” says Maedhros, letting his voice ring out across the water, “and the Silmarils regained – then we shall be wed, and they will hold a Feast greater and finer even than this one, and I will kiss you in the sunlight and by the water and under the stars and in our wedding-bed, beloved, and never let your hand go again for as long as the very earth we stand upon shall endure. I can make you no marriage-vow: but I can swear to that. Does it suffice?”
Fingon looks at him for a long moment: and then smiles, and says, “It does,” and rises onto his toes to kiss Maedhros again, and the Sun is warm and gentle on their heads as their lips meet.
