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nerdanel-istarnie · 5 years ago

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A Touch of Gold

My gift for @officialtolkiensecretsanta is for @nikosheba !

(You already left me lovely comments. I’m so happy you liked it even before knowning it was yours)

Rating: Mature/Explicit (but only the middle part)

Relationships: Elrond & Maedhros, Elrond/Gil-Galad, Fingon/Maedhros

Word count: 4300

Summary: Fingon and Fingon’s memory brings light to many that are struggling. He also sheds gold ribbons everywhere. Elrond and Maedhros agree it’s for the best. A story in 3 parts

Also here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176111

Elrond tightened the last strap, the low rasp of leather going through the buckle the only sound in the study. He avoided Maedhros’ gaze as he took a step back. The room was oppressively silent. Solemn. This was the last time he would help his foster father with his armor. This was the last time he would stand in this room. Maedhros stated gently “This is not a day for grief. You shall soon be reunited with your kin”. Elrond thought that kinship was not everything. Must he once again be cast out from stability, from the warmth of home? He looked up. Maedhros had his intense grey stare levelled on him and the sentence died on his lips. Another silence. “Elros told me you were looking forward to meeting them”. Shock, and then shame. Maedhros’ tone was in no way accusing, which made it worse. Elros wasn’t supposed to share this private discussion with their fathers. Did that mean that Maedhros thought he was glad to leave? Did Maglor?

It was true that Elrond was curious about the Noldor. Life in the Fëanorian camp did not lend itself to a lot of mingling with other elves, Noldor or otherwise. And Elrond loved meeting new people. Every time a new face appeared, the young peredhel could be found bringing them a drink, inviting conversation about faraway lands and customs. Elrond longed to see them, his long-lost kin. Would that it did not mean losing his current family. “I do. I wish …” Another aborted phrase. Today, no words could give shape to his churning thoughts. “Will we see each other again?” Elrond hoped against all hope. Maedhros turned from him, checking the adjustment of a bracer, and it was enough of an answer. Because Elrond and his brother were not the only ones leaving the camp. So were the Fëanorians. And Maedhros’ armor spoke of more violence, of more pain and loss.

This goodbye was worse than the one he would share with Maglor. Maglor would hold him and speak of the time they had shared, of how he loved Elros and Elrond. Maedhros was always remote, his care only showing in acts, never words. He didn’t doubt the warrior loved him just as much as his brother, but loss had robbed him of the ability to speak those words of love. And so, Elrond had resolved to help him dress, hoping to convey his own love in the same manner his foster father expressed his.

Maedhros walked to his desk. He opened a rosewood box and started looking through it with reverence, Elrond momentarily forgotten. When he turned back around, he was holding a string of gold ribbon, weaving it through his fingers with tenderness, caressing something long gone. Elrond knew instantly who it belonged to. Had belonged to. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment.

They never talked about him in the camp. Fingon. Everyone knew not to mention the lost high king around Maedhros. Maglor had told the peredhil about him, behind closed doors, hoping no doubt to prevent Elrond from asking his brother. About how he was brave and kind, and how he had saved Maedhros. Maglor seemed to love him dearly. But it was in the unsaid words that Elrond understood that the love between Fingon and Maedhros had been even greater. And of a different kind. It explained much of why Maedhros smiled little and rarely touched people now. Of course, it had been different for his brother and he, being children. After all, Maedhros had helped raise so many brothers that raising two more was habit by now. But as they grew, praise and physical affection from him became things of the past.

Fingon was one of the reasons Elrond was looking forward to going to Balar. Of course, he was curious about the court, where they said elves from all the fallen kingdoms had come together. But he was most curious about the high king Gil-Galad. Fingon’s son, Ereinion the scion of kings. Would he be as glorious as the stories depicted his father? Would he shine in battle and be regal while sitting on his throne? Not that Elrond knew what someone looking kingly was supposed to look like. He had only met travelers and in his memories of the Havens, there were no great halls or crowns. But if Gil-Galad was anything like Maglor had described his father, Elrond loved him already.

There was the ghost of a smile on Maedhros' lips as he urged Elrond forward. The younger elf was puzzled but gladly came forward after a moment of hesitation. Puzzlement changed to shock as Maedhros picked up a strand of his hair and deftly started braiding the gold in. Soon his foster father's voice filled the silence “I did this a thousand times. The first time, he was so happy he kept the braids until they fell apart. But he would not suffer others not to have the same pleasure. Half the house of Fingolfin ended up with unwanted braids of gold. I think Turgon spent some time hidden in Lorien to avoid that fate. Everyone was glad when he realized those were only meant for him”.

Elrond held his breath “Of course, I had to relearn how to do them single-handed after we reunited”. An ellipsis that hid much, but Maedhros would not suffer the darkness of Angband to intrude on this remembrance of his love “I think he was indulging me. After all, he had the ability to braid his hair more elegantly than I could a thousand times over by then. But he still wore the crooked ribbons until I could do it right again”. A smile, fond and sad. “He shed the damn things everywhere. One would think he was marking his territory. The house of Fingolfin could have bought a small Edain kingdom with all the gold he left lying about. I kept finding ribbons in my books, tied to my sword, in my bed”. As if he’s realized he had said too much, Maedhros fell silent again. Elrond urged him on. “It made you happy”. A real smile this time. “Yes, it still does”.

Even if he had not done the pattern in centuries, Maedhros was making rapid work of the braid. He tied the end and with a fleeting touch to Elrond’s shoulder, he stood back. Perhaps not to give himself the chance to take his gift back. Elrond said with a small voice “Why are you giving it to me then?” His foster father looked at him seriously. “He was everything good in the world, to me. Courage and temperance. Kindness. He brought the best out of everyone. And so do you. When you leave this place, you shall bring the last sliver of Fingon with you”.

Elrond wanted to comfort his foster father, tell him he had raised him well, and that surely there was some good in him too, but already Maedhros was pulling away, the window opened on a happier time closing shut. “Your escort is waiting. Go to Maglor” It also marked the end of their time together. The peredhel touched the braid. “Goodbye, father. Thank you”. Elrond focused on the golden sheen at the edge of his vision until it too was blurred by his tears to distinguish.

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Cheers were resounding all over the camp. Relief and laughs. They had repelled Sauron’s horde, at least for the time being, and were afforded a well-needed respite. Elrond walked toward the high king’s tent, intent on making sure his dear friend would not spend the night planning their next attack or mourning the lost. There were no warriors standing guard, a telling sign that all were celebrating. Elrond entered and paused in the doorway. As close as Gil-Galad and he were, there were still conventions to respect. As expected, Gil-Galad was studying a map of Gorgoroth intently. He raised his eyes and upon sighting Elrond, a warm smile appeared on his face. A tired smile, Elrond noticed. “My lord…” An exasperated look from the king and the herald started over “My friend, come join the reveling. You have earned a night of rest”. Elrond was hardly the most prone to merrymaking, but he knew the importance of keeping the darkness that surrounded them at bay, if only for a night.

The king pushed back from the table and winced. Elrond was by his side in a second, filled with worry, his hands hovering over the king’s breastplate. There was no way to ascertain anything with the armor in the way. “Your wounds are still bothering you”. Gil-Galad made a dismissive gesture. ��Remove your armor” Gil-Galad was about to voice his opposition but the steely look in Elrond’s eyes gave him pause. He laughed. “I think I know why you have great success with convincing warriors to stay put in the infirmary, dear herald”. Elrond thought too late that he had not formulated it as a request. He wondered if he should apologize. It was difficult to navigate the bonds that tied him to Gil-Galad. He was his herald, and thus his vassal. But they also were friends, fire-forged in battle, united by their duty to the Noldor but also brought close by their love for ancient epic poems and folk songs. And there was something else. Something more, that they skated around. Easy compliments from the king, shoulders brushing comfortably as they read side by side, gazes that lingered too long when no one was looking. Something complicated by war and by propriety. Still, with more strife and loss on the horizon, Elrond wondered if they would ever have the time to explore it.

Elrond moved to help the king, unclasping the ties of his armor. Elrond pulled the breastplate off, fingers skating across Gil-Galad’s ribs, who let out a sigh, half relief, and half pain. Elrond raised his head and realized how close he was to Ereinion’s lips. When and why had he moved so close? The herald pulled back, only to notice the large patch of blood staining Ereinion’s undertunic. Soon the armor was discarded ungently, clanging on the floor, and all his thoughts were on the wound. The king truly did not want to alarm his friend, but he would have been lying to say Elrond’s care did not warm his heart. “It is to be expected that the last push against the orcs would cause the cut to reopen. Do not fret overly”. But Elrond was already drawing the king to sit next to the washbasin, helping him to remove the stained shirt without aggravating his wound. Gil-Galad let him. Elrond’s touch was always welcome. As gently as he could, Elrond washed and sutured the cut “You lost a lot of blood. Why did you not call for me after the battle?”

Gil-Galad thought it was his duty to endure, to be the strong king the Noldor needed in this terrible land. He had to show their enemy that the line of the high kings was still unbroken. And it meant not showing weakness. “There were other things to do. In war, it is to be expected that one would be hurt, especially if one was to lead others into battle” A realistic answer, but one that infuriated Elrond. Soon the king’s armored boots and bracers joined the pile of armor. Elrond did not trust the king not to hide other wounds. The younger elf was angry and scared. How could he hope to keep his friend alive if he refused to take care of himself? “Do you not care at all for your own wellbeing?” Ereinion tried to make light of the situation. “Why would I, when I have you to take such good care of it?” This seemed to anger the herald even more “I can’t be with you always, as much as I’d like to be!” Then he continued more quietly “You are my dearest friend. I don’t know what I would do if you were direly hurt” Hundreds of years of diplomacy and Elrond could not convey how much he cared about Gil-Galad. Not in a manner that respected their positions. Not in a manner that covered the extent of his love.

Elrond went to turn away, to put to order the armor he had so carelessly strewn apart, but Gil-Galad stopped him. The king’s hand was burning like a brand on his arm. They spent so little time out of their armors now, the warmth of it came as a shock. Would that they could touch more. “War…” but Elrond did not let the king finish whatever reasonable platitude he was going to offer. The herald pressed his lips to the king’s. If he had no words, perhaps this would do. He pulled back a second, his point made, but the king pulled him closer, snaking his arms around his waist so Elrond was boxed in by his legs. And then Gil-Galad kissed him in earnest, devouring his mouth as if the great dike keeping his emotions in check has fissured. Behind all his kingly restraint, he was also affected by all the terror of this blasted land. And Elrond was like a beacon, reminding him that good would prevail, and he only had to hold on that much longer. But his thoughts did not linger long on Elrond’s grace. Desire took their place as Ereinion delighted in how good Elrond felt, nestled between his legs and kissing him with the selfsame passion he was putting in the kiss.

Gil-Galad scooted forward, pressing his rapidly growing erection to the herald’s body. Elrond’s stiffened, and pulled a few inches away, objections on his face. ‘Your wound’. ‘We shouldn’t’. ‘This place is hell and I wouldn’t have you in such a place’, all were thoughts that flitted through his mind. But they only had this moment. Now of all times, Elrond thought of his foster father. What if Maedhros and Fingon had not taken their chance? They would have languished away from each other, to die alone. He could not bear for this fate to befall Gil-Galad and him.

With a quick kiss, he stepped from Ereinion, but not as a refusal. He held the king’s eyes and gently put him back on his feet. Gil-Galad stepped forward, and they danced their way to the bed, the king advancing by pressing kisses to every patch of skin he could reach on Elrond, and the herald retreating, with roving hands pulling and caressing his beloved friend. Elrond felt the edge of the bed behind his legs and pulled his tunic off. Elrond was built like a man, a fact that never ceased to intrigue Gil-Galad. Sturdier, with muscular limbs and a square jaw he loved to no end. He planted a kiss on it with a smile. And there was this sharp Adam’s apple that just tantalized him in meetings. Gil-Galad ran his hand up the column of Elrond neck and pulled his hair gently, exposing more of it. Elrond obliged with a sigh and did not even feel himself fall before Gil-Galad was covering him with his body again. There was little time to think of other things as the king's hands roamed about his chest, then slipped inside his pants and took him in hand. The king swallowed the issuing moan. This was so much better than he could have dreamed, and he wondered why they had denied themselves this so long.

Elrond had a few seconds of respite when the king abruptly left him, leaving the bed in a hurry. Gil-Galad was dizzying him with so many sensations. He wanted to hold him close and touch every part of him in equal measures. The peredhel was about to question their course of action when the king dove back to bed and renewed his assault on his mouth. They discarded the rest of their undergarments, refusing to let go of one another. They only had now. Soon slick fingers were teasing Elrond’s anus and he forced himself to relax. He wanted this. He was glad that Gil-Galad did not give him time to think of all the possible reasons they should stop. His friend was glorious. This was glorious.

Elrond grasped the king’s strong shoulders and he rubbed himself shamelessly on the king. This earned him a low laugh “You try my patience, dearest”. Then Gil-Galad made quick work of smearing the salve he had retrieved on himself and pushed in slowly, or as slowly as he could muster. Elrond urged him on, hooking his legs behind the king’s back. This he could do. He had started this; he was resolute not to be a passenger in this endeavor. “I want you. Ereinion” The king needed no more encouragement. Long pushes soon morphed to sharp thrusts as they sought their pleasure. This was bliss. Surely braving any disapprobation was worth having the king looking at him with such lust, and love. Elrond held Gil-Galad tight as he reached his climax. Soon their moans subsided to sated sighs.

Gil-Galad fell to the bed next to Elrond and gathered the herald in his arms “Wait a moment until you start thinking of propriety, dearest” Elrond smiled and relaxed. He idly carded his fingers in the king’s hair and rested his head on his friend’s, and now lover’s, shoulder. Their intertwined hair, black on black, fanned on the pillow. Elrond thought it did not do justice to the light this joining had brought to their life. Elrond pushed himself away from the king and rose from the bed to pick his tunic up. He had just the right thing to honor the moment. Gil-Galad looked saddened. Was this moment of ecstasy to be over so soon? He wanted more time. He wanted them to be able to remain alone together in his tent for a while longer, for the world to stay away until he had properly loved his herald. But Elrond’s dutiful nature would not allow them to transgress the bonds between them, love be damned. He went to rise too, a small hiss of pain escaping him as he turned. Elrond came back to bed, all smiles, and urged the king to lie back down. He not so subtly checked on the king’s wound, earning a fond smile from his lover. “I am more than well, dear friend. Whatever pain I feel presently, I’ll endure gladly”.

From the pocket of his tunic, Elrond proffered a single gold thread. A million emotions passed in Gil-Galad’s eyes “I’m not him. He would have endured this war with more grace and less weariness”. Elrond planted a small kiss on the king’s mouth and started braiding Gil-Galad’s hair with his own, intertwining the ribbon with their hair. Black, black, and gold. Rarely did Gil-Galad talk about his father, and Elrond had not known until now that he held himself as lesser than him. Elrond thought of Maglor’s stories. In no way did Gil-Galad pale in comparison “No, you are not him. But like him you are the light in the dark, for me and so many others. You are brave and kind. And loved”.

Elrond finished the braid. There was a blink of light on a blade as he cut his own hair with a sharp movement. It was too late to be stopped as the king looked on with shock. Elrond said mildly as he tied the top of the braid “Now I can be with you always, my king. You lost all reasons not to take care of yourself” Gil-Galad laughed, delighted, and touched the braid. “You’ll have to rebraid it for me, often. You know how battles are”. Elrond kissed him. “Until the breaking of the world, if it will keep you safe”.

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Himring is always cold. Windswept cliffs topped by tall stone watchtowers, stark walls melding with the sheer precipices. It’s a bulwark against the enemy, not a home. Himring is ever cold, except when Fingon visits. Then, all the fireplaces roar with large fires, the tables are laden with the best given by the hunt and the gardens. Even the wind seems less mournful when it swirls around the towers. Because if the usually stern lord of Himring is glad, then all his host rejoices. Fingon visits every time he can, even if the road from Hithlum is perilous. After all, he has a great excuse in the fostering of good relations between the court of the high king and the sons of Fëanor. Fingon is ever dutiful and each visit furthers plans for defense or attacks against the Enemy. But is mostly an excuse, for when Fingon crosses the great gate of Himring, his thoughts are not of the plans sitting in his saddlebag, but of the tall figure standing on the parapet.

Of course, Maedhros is also dutiful, and sometimes when Fingon comes, there is no figure on the battlements. Then Fingon is ushered into the hall, a drink is pressed into his cold hands while he waits for the lord of Himring to come back from another battle he has gone to wage. Fingon almost prefers those times, when he sees his lover stride purposefully into the hall, a cape of crimson trailing behind his gleaming armor, and see his countenance change from the severe mask of the warrior to the smile only reserved for him. They usually make excuses rapidly and as the household feasts in the hall, so do they in the high tower. Here too the fire roars higher when Fingon is there, and the high prince often chides his lover for not caring about any comfort except Fingon’s own. In those times, he gets to peel the beautiful armor from his lover’s body piece by piece, revealing the warmth of his love under. Then when the fire is low, they have even more reasons to warm themselves in each other.

After they are spent, Maedhros always rebraids Fingon’s raven hair with gold ribbons, using tender care that reminds Fingon of easier times. The prince for his part takes no small amount of relish in leaving gold ribbons everywhere: inside Maedhros’ journal, tied to the bedpost, even once to Maedhros cape’s hood. This way, a part of him can always be with his beloved. He knew that Maedhros for his part loves the unbraiding nearly as much as the braiding, for it is the point where high prince Fingon became Fingon the wanton, Fingon the debauched. A Fingon only for him. For a moment, there is no war, only them. Only their love and the pleasure of being near, of being one.

Alas, too soon did reality intrude on their current reunion. Fingon sighed at the sight of Maedhros’ resolute face. The taller warrior was not exactly pacing, but he was clearly trying to marshal his thoughts. Would that he had waited a few hours to start agonizing about whatever troubled him, Fingon thought, he for one would have loved to spend more time abed with his lover. “You should stop visiting so often. Your family is questioning the value of these trips, as no doubt do your men. And crossing half of Beleriand is not safe in the least” One could not fault Maedhros for not being direct. A family trait that Fingon appreciated, most times. The high prince would have been affronted by the suggestion, but for the fact that every word seemed to have cost Maedhros dearly. His point made, Maedhros stood stoically, waiting for a painful verdict from him.

Fingon raised himself on one elbow, idly smoothing the bed covers “You mean people talk. Let them. I am not shirking any duties by being here, and in fact, visiting Himring does wonders for my mood and determination to fight” He reached and grabbed Maedhros’ waist, pulling him to the plush surface. Maedhros did not resist and fell contently next to Fingon, his arms automatically coming around his lover. “I could not bear for your name to be besmirch- “. Sometimes, Maedhros was in dire need of being silenced. Like now. Fingon was only happy to oblige by kissing him soundly. “People have been at that particular task since I rescued you from Thangorodrim” Fingon only held him tighter when he felt Maedhros stiffen at the name “I care not a whit still” Fingon added, with a smirk “Would you be interested in learning who is whose harlot according to them?” Maedhros growled, promising dire consequences for whoever had dared, and Fingon laughed. He grabbed a wisp of red hair and pulled until he had Maedhros where he wanted him, close enough to kiss. This was a much better use of their time.

Fingon knew Maedhros’ worry was not alleviated, and that the discussion was only tabled for now. He should present a counterproposition. The high prince put on his most serious face “I’ll keep visiting until the end of the war. After all, it is important to coordinate our troops and be appraised of events at each end of Beleriand. Then I’ll stop coming to Himring. Is that an acceptable solution?” Maedhros pulled away, questions in his eyes. Quickly his mind started racing and churning with dark explanations. Because they would lose the war? Because the Oath would wake up and tear them apart? Fingon had not meant to create such turmoil. Torment was always close to the surface with his lover. The prince kissed the corner of Maedhros’s mouth and added with a wide smile “Because we’ll live together Maitimo. There won’t be a need for travel anymore” The thousand terrible reasons this would never happen kept swirling in Maedhros’ head. He chose to be deaf to them and enjoy the bliss of having Fingon in his arms. Despite his lover’s terrible sense of humor. And that was without speaking of his horrible sense of timing.

Maedhros kissed the prince deeply, starting to unravel his braids anew. “We shall move someplace without volcanoes, or mountains” Fingon whispered into Maedhros' ear “Not a hill in sight my love. Plains to the very horizon”, and surreptitiously hid the ribbon inside Maedhros pillow.

#russingon #silmarillion #fanfiction #tss2020 #nsfw #fingon is a troll #maedhros is angsty #elrond is a cinnamon roll #gil-galad is shiny #nikosheba

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