Title: Of Two Kings Author: Conner Hoskins E-mail: maitimo.nelyadinwe@gmail.com Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Fingon/Maedhros, Maedhros/Sauron Summary: Fingon makes a desperate attempt to heal the Noldor, and to heal a friendship which has been sundered by the ill-conceived oath of Feanor. Warnings: Slash, M-preg, Incest, Rape, Torture, Extreme Taboo/Fetish, Graphic Violence, Graphic Language A/N: I've had a lot of complaints for this story, because no one seems to know who I'm talking about when I address the sons of Fëanor. The Silmarillion gave the altered names as such: Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. This is listed from oldest to youngest. Amrod and Amras were twins, though Amras was apparently born last. These are Sindarin forms of their mother-names. Their father- names, which, in a sense, are their proper titles, are as follows: Nelyafinwë (equivalent to Finwë III), Kanafinwë, Morifinwë ("dark Finwë"), Kurufinwë ("son of Finwë"), Pityafinwë ("little Finwë"), and Telufinwë ("last Finwë"). No father name was given for Celegorm, it would seem. In this story, I have used neither of these forms of the brother's names, but their mother names were Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarinkë, Ambarusso, and Ambarusso. At Fëanor's urging, Nerdanel renamed the youngest twin Umbarto, meaning "fated". Fëanor promptly took matters into his own hands and changed the name to Ambarto, meaning "exalted". In an earlier version of the tale of Fëanor's kin, the name Umbarto came back into play, because his youngest son had been asleep on his ship when Feanor burnt the ships at Losgar, burning the aptly named son along with the ship. Other Quenya names are used, as well, in an attempt to preserve Tolkien's intention for each character's many names. The Noldor use only Quenya names, even in Middle-earth. Albeit, the language was outlawed, they are in their own territory, and may do as they please (Thingol in Doriath had been the one to outlaw Quenya). Therefore, Fëanor is changed to Fëanáro, Fingolfin remains unaltered and his wife is called Anairë (she was obscure), whereas Fingon is changed to Findekáno, Turgon to Turukáno, Aredhel to Irissë, and Argon (an obscure son of Fingolfin) to Arakáno. The Noldor observe Fëanor's wish and refuse to mention the name of Melkor, rather calling him Morgoth, but characters such as Sauron obviously do not observe this. Lastly, I was questioned on a point at which Morgoth calls Maedhros (Maitimo) by the name Russandol. This was an affectionate nickname given to him in Tirion by his family, presumably his mother in particular, meaning "copper-top." (Maitimo means "well- formed", and the Sindarin Maedhros was a blending of these two names, meaning "well- formed copper.") Please note that it's been a while since I read The Silmarillion or any of the supplementary material, so please feel free to drop me a line and correct me if you find any mistakes or inconsistencies. *Special thanks to Matt Massey, my saviour, who inspired this love story between two strong men.* ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER 2: THE BREAKING OF RUSSANDOL Maitimo barely noticed as the Orcs led him away. Lack of food and sleep had made him often despondent, and sometimes crazed and violent, and he was much feared by the guards, and those who tortured the prisoners. Maitimo could not walk sufficiently; his legs had not yet been healed of the wounds inflicted by some device about his shins, and to bend his ankles and knees was nearly impossible. After much whipping to motivate him into an upright pose failed, the guards simply dragged him along the rough stone, and continued to whip his chest, stomach, and thighs. The guards talked quietly amongst themselves, deciding where they would bring Maitimo, until finally they erupted in raucous laughter and dragged him faster down the unlit corridor, to a room near its end. Maitimo thought he might cry out when they flung open the door. In one corner was a tall tripod, upon which there was a cone wrought of iron with its sharpened tip facing upward. Suspended from chains which hung from the walls and ceiling was a young elf. Maitimo fell sick as he beheld her, the weight of her body supported between her legs. The top of the cone had been shoved deep into her body. Her wide, unseeing eyes followed Maitimo as he was shoved forward into the room. The door was shut and locked behind him, and a torch was set in the sconce near it. To Maitimo’s surprise, the smiling guard unbound him completely. Flexing his long-bound wrists, he found that they had forgotten how to work properly. "Get her down from there!' one of the guards shouted suddenly. Maitimo made no move, expecting that the order was meant for someone else. Then, the same guard jabbed the back of his thigh with his dull spear, pushing him towards the woman. "You heard! Now, get her down." Without much thought to the excruciating pain in his shins, Maitimo surveyed the chains binding the woman. They led to three wheels on the wall, and one large wheel turned the other three. He went to the largest and, very slowly, raised all the chains. Nothing happened at first that Maitimo could hear, for he had looked away, unwilling to see what pain the woman would be in, but moments later there came a sickening squelch as the seal of drying blood was broken, and then the splatter of new blood on the stone floor. He continued to raise the chains until the woman was free of the cone and the weights on her ankles pulled her legs shut over her maimed womanhood, eliciting a weak scream from her ravaged throat. Maitimo ran to her, then, and put his weight beneath hers as he removed the pins from the four manacles and the weights from her ankles, freeing her. She rested lightly in his arms, but her bare chest moved with no breath that was visible. Still her pulse beat, though it was rapid and weak. He looked upon her tortured, humiliated form with greatest sorrow and intense, burning hate. Then, as Maitimo lost himself in these thoughts, a guard grabbed the woman, dragging her to the corner by her matted, once-golden hair, where he threw her to the floor like an item ruined and unwanted. Two more of the Orcs were behind him now as he watched, and they fastened his neck into the device's largest manacle. He did not move. When he spoke his voice was a hoarse whisper. "She will soon be free. You’ll hold her no more." Faster than the Orcs could perceive, Maitimo turned and took hold of the nearest Orc's neck. It snapped a second later. The other guards were so surprised by this burst of strength and emotion from their cold captive that they did nothing at first. Maitimo spat upon the Orc. The captain came forward then and laid into Maitimo with his whip. The Elf did not show any sign of feeling the blows, he only struggled against the next four guards it took to chain his wrists. Suddenly, the door burst open and Sauron, the young lieutenant, strode in, his mood seeming good. He smirked to see Maitimo’s plight, then turned to the captain at his side. "Shall our news wait an hour or so?" The captain nodded and grunted, then retrieved a chair for his master, who seated himself comfortably, as if to see a drama performed. Once Maitimo’s wrists were secure, the left him to hang by them as they lifted his feet and spread them to meet more manacles. With slight adjustments to the chains, they had positioned the cone's point so that it barely brushed the entrance to Maitimo’s body. As the eyes of Sauron came alight at this, Maitimo felt the agony of humiliation sinking in. Never had he dared to imagine such a disgusting, sick form of torment. Then, as the guards began to lower him downward onto the point, Sauron held up his hand, a cruel smile upon his face. "I should have each one of you cast into pits to rot," he said coolly. "Is this how we treat a lover?" He glided silently to stand beside Maitimo, and stroked gently upward from the Elf’s swollen ankle to his spread thighs, and bestowed a light, gentle touch upon the tip of Maitimo’s shaft. "Do you know who I am, Prince?" "I do," Maitimo growled through clenched teeth, though, inwardly he was screaming with all his soul, sure that this would be the hour that they finally broke his spirit. "You're another of that thief's bitches, with wits enough only for thraldom…though I have you to thank for this correction. I am a King, now. Not a Prince. I have no master and I serve none." Sauron laughed, though his cool nature had now culminated into amusement. "Precious. He's nearly as fiery as his father." He ran his fingertips enticingly over the sensitive skin of Maitimo’s belly. To Maitimo’s horror, his body betrayed him as a rush of heat pooled in his groin and his length began to stiffen uncontrollably. Brow creased, he turned away, wishing to see no more. “You see?” Sauron smiled. “Even Kings are slaves to their own flesh.” In the corner, intrigued by the sight, several of the Orkish guards had taken to pleasuring themselves in the now deceased woman's torn, blood- slicked passage and throat. Maitimo would have wretched, had there been anything in his stomach. Sauron laughed at the Elf's disgust and wrapped his slender fingers around Maitimo’s arousal and pumped his fist several times until Maitimo groaned at the merciless grip. "Get me a brace," he ordered the captain, continuing to pleasure his captive. The captain returned with a small, open cuff, which he handed to his master. Sauron pumped harder still, his very touch sending waves of electricity surging through Maitimo, until, at last, Maitimo could dam the pleasure no longer. His body tensed, ready to release, but just as the first shudder of orgasm began, Sauron fastened the brace tightly over Maitimo’s cock. Maitimo gasped at the excruciating ache of the clamp's pressure, but stilled his movement otherwise. Smiling, Sauron surveyed the company gathered about. "This, my children," he began, and went to the wall opposite from which he took a well sharpened pear from a hook, "is how we treat our lovers." Maitimo had heard rumours once of the pear's function. He had heard that its wide, tapered end was inserted into the mouth, where, at the pull of a trigger, the device would expand into three spiked leaves and maim its victim. Most did not survive its infliction, for it would mutilate the mouth and throat and poison its victims with their own blood. It was a dark whisper in Middle-earth, often dismissed as a sick fiction. He struggled violently, and it took five of the larger Orcs to restrain him as Sauron approached. After yet more struggle, Maitimo’s mouth was held open and they had restricted his movement by holding tightly by his long red tresses. Yet, Maitimo calmed as the pear was inserted, and found himself praying to the Valar, repenting of many deeds, expecting his death, which he deemed was nigh at hand. Then, strangely, Sauron withdrew the device and motioned for the guards to step away. Maitimo’s breathing quickened as he hung there, shocked to be alive. Then, a greater horror turned his thoughts from praise of the Valar. Sauron's silken fingers slithered down his spine to the crevice between his spread legs and parted the well-formed buttocks, revealing the untouched entrance, where he positioned the head of the pear. Slicked by Maitimo’s saliva, the wide apparatus was inserted with only a little discomfort, but the dread growing within Maitimo dwarfed his other ailments. The Orcs laughed to see their captive trembling. Snaking his hand around the Elf's fair body, Sauron brushed his thumb over the weeping head of Maitimo’s cock, making the ache yet more unbearable, but then his hand moved to the clasp of the tight brace. He adjusted it so that the constriction was greater, until Maitimo thought his skin would tear and burst, and then lightened the pressure, only enough to provide significant contrast; not yet enough to allow Maitimo the terrible release for which he so longed. Swiftly then he repeated these motions, milking the Elf's shaft cruelly until Maitimo could not contain his cries of torturous pleasure. Then, in the midst of Maitimo’s awful rapture, the pear bloomed in one quick, brutal second. As Maitimo became aware of the indescribable fire spreading through him and his pale face turned to white; just as his mouth opened to let forth a scream to herald his anguish, Sauron tore the brace from his cock. Amidst the long, broken cry of pain, Maitimo moaned as his seed, spotted with dark blood, shot strongly from him, and his body tensed with uncontrollable orgasm, letting the pear's inner razors rip him further. The agony of it all took his breath from him, and bile spilled from his lips as Sauron withdrew the cruel instrument from his body, still opened. As his passage was opened briefly, blood spilled from his defiled entrance, pooling on the floor so quickly that it may have flooded the room had it been let to flow. He struggled to gain his breath, but could only weep. He uttered the name of Nerdanel like a prayer, as if it was the last sacred thing he knew that hour. Sauron finished wiping his hands clean of his victim’s blood and took Maitimo’s chin gently. “Mother is not here, Maitimo,” he said apologetically, using the Elf’s mother-name. He turned back to the host of Orcs. “Oh, but what would she think if she could see her eldest boy, now, spilling his seed for Melkor’s thrall?” The Orcs laughed and cheered for their lieutenant, who seated himself once again, and motioned for the show to proceed. For yet another hour, the company tortured Maitimo, dropping him time and time again on the point of the iron cone, until his genitalia was maimed beyond repair. However, Maitimo felt little after so long, and had little left of the fire that drove him to fight and withhold his cries. Then, Sauron rose and bade his servants to cease their jeering. He approached Maitimo and released his limbs from the cruel bonds. Maitimo’s weight was put upon the cone for a moment, before his limp form fell to the side. Sauron stepped fluidly aside as Maitimo’s ravaged body crumpled on the floor before him. The Elf seemed utterly lifeless. His strength was gone. When they cauterized his wounds he only moaned frantically. "And now that we have had our little game, I suppose I should impart my message. As your brother's have forsaken you, child, my Lord has found mercy in his heart for you." Sauron smirked as Maitimo raised his head to look upon him, eyes filled with tears that only the strongest of men live to shed. "Today, young Prince, we shall release you from Angband." The Orcs fell silent, staring at their master, who bent and tenderly lifted Maitimo from the rough-hewn floor. Maitimo seemed no longer aware of who it was that held him, and leaned heavily into the dark one's arms. He took steps automatically, most of his weight resting on Sauron, who smiled at his prisoner's compliance. Up the endless flight of stairs he led him, until, through many long and winding corridors, they came to the Nethermost Hall, where Moringotto sat enthroned in all his terrible might. The burning light of the Silmarils alone lit the hall. With honey-sweet promises of freedom, Sauron lured him into the great hall, and Moringotto took to himself a guise yet fairer than Sauron's. He seemed an Elf of high birth, though his eyes were purely black without natural whiteness, and they shone with an eerie glow in the shadow cast by the Silmarils' radiance. Sauron left them then, and stood aside in the doorway, allowing none to enter, and Maitimo was left upon the floor, naked and bleeding before Moringotto. "Your brothers wish not for me to release you, Nelyafinwe," said Moringotto, his voice beautiful but terrible and unbearable to hear. He rose from his great throne and stroked Maitimo’s matted, copper locks. "They fear that I have twisted your mind...perverted you to my service, and so they will not take you back." He put one finger under Maitimo’s chin and raised it until their eyes met. His touch was like fire, and yet faint, contained within an earthly form. "But we both know that I have done no such thing. In fact, I am going to set you free, Curufëanáro. And, since your kin have made you an outcast, I shall give you a new home...for it is my knowledge that your kind long for the beauty of the lands. Come, Russandol." Maitimo remembered only shutting his eyes for a moment, and then a strong wind rose up beneath him, and lifted him. He thought for a moment that his spirit had indeed passed into the eternal darkness, and that he was free of his torment. Then, something clamped about his right wrist, cold, sharp, and brutally tight. At this, he opened his eyes, and sent a silent prayer to the Valar, for he was suspended by a great, chill wind upon the face of a precipice, somewhere in the labyrinth of Thangorodrim. Then, the wind ceased, and he fell into the manacle about his wrist. It cut him deeply, and he saw the blood run from his wrist down his arm to his bare chest. His scream of rage and torment echoed through the black mountains. He screamed a single word, a thousand times it seemed, until his voice left him, and he could only whisper. That word that Maitimo spoke in his darkest hour held all the hatred and anger that he had ever known. Once more, he whispered it before falling into oblivion. “Fëanáro.” CHAPTER 3: DELIVERANCE FROM EVIL Findekáno had spent many days seeking for life in Thangorodrim untainted by the evil of Moringotto, venturing nigh to the great Iron Prison Angband, cloaked by the very shade of mists and darkness Moringotto had cast over the land in victory. He had passed arduously through Hithlum, going always in secret. To the north and east he travelled, passing unhindered over Ered Wethrin, the Mountains of Shadow. Then, he came to the lands of Dor Daedeloth, and that was an evil crossing. Moringotto’s beasts prowled the land, and many of them were crazed with hunger, unable to find sustenance in the barren plain, and they readily attacked him. This he survived with many trials, but he was undaunted still. At last, the Great Gate of Angband began to grow upon the horizon. After arriving in Middle-earth, he had stood at these gates, Moringotto's host having retreated behind them. Now, he entered the mountains of Thangorodrim to the west of that gate, and sought out a labyrinthine pathway, which would at length lead him into the heart of the mountains, and into Angband. Though Findekáno wearied swiftly in the shadow of the Dark Vala, he continued to search desperately for any faint glimmer of light within the gloom that might shine from the spirit of Maitimo, his kinsman and friend of old. In the chill of Thangorodrim’s deep valleys he sought for the heat of the fire that had once burnt within Fëanáro; the flame that now burnt within his sons. But of Maitimo he found no trace in such places as he could come to. At times so weary of his hunt was he that he would enter reverie even as he walked in the deepest shadows of the great darkness which Moringotto had brought forth from the pits of his stronghold, and he would do so unwillingly, for his visions healed him not of the aching of his limbs and heart. Instead, he heard, as if from a great distance, the cries of Elves, of the Noldor, his kin, but he could not hope to reach them. He was lost within the mountains, and knew not the way to his kinsman, nor the way back to Hithlum. Then, as his search became hopeless with the passage of time, the eldest son of Nolofinwë despaired in the gloom. But, in defiance of the power of Moringotto, he drew from his light satchel a fair silver harp, wrought by the Noldor in Tirion, when the light of Telperion and Laurelin shone still, and playing upon it he sang tearfully. He sang praise for Manwë, and it seemed to him that a fair breeze passed between the sharp pinnacles of the black mountains, and he praised Varda, the Star-kindler, and even in that dimness the unsullied light of a single star shone in the heavens through the mists. And yet with more passion he praised Ulmo of the Water, who had ever been a friend to the Eldar and as great even as Manwë, most learned in the music of the Valar. Then, he perceived that, in the distance, his song was taken up. Tortured and fair the music became, and Findekáno rose in amazement. But the song fell and died out, leaving only an echo amidst the mountains of Thangorodrim. So it was that, following this weakened, breaking voice, Findekáno found at last his cousin, though the sheerness of the precipice wall to which Maitimo was bound lay between them. Findekáno’s sharp eyes could barely perceive the form of Maitimo, for it had become faint and wraithlike, and had wasted sadly in Angband’s dungeons. “Maitimo!” he cried with all the force he could muster. No answer came. “Maitimo!” Maitimo could hear the voice from far below, and knew it, through a heavy mist, to be Findekáno, his friend of old. Many times he called out, each time finding that his words had been imagined, and that he was only just returning to consciousness. Then, he mastered himself by recalling the pain that gripped his body, and it brought him to wakefulness. “Findekáno,” he said, but all that would come from his parched mouth was a hoarse whisper. “Findekáno! I am here!” he called as loudly as he could. He feared that Findekáno would not hear him. Findekáno did hear him though, and frantically he began to search for a way up the sheer wall. He found none. “Do you know of a way up?” he shouted, and for a moment Maitimo made no reply. "There is none,” said Maitimo, weeping to see his kinsman had come for him. As he wept, he let his desperate request spill forth. “Give me peace!” Findekáno backed away from the precipice, his heart torn by his cousin’s cry. “Please!” Maitimo wept, his pain only increasing as he became more aware. “Release me! Take my life. I cannot...” Indeed, Maitimo had been reduced to no more than a lame animal, without hope or will to survive. It was best for those animals to be delivered from the evil which life had become. “No,” Findekáno whispered. "Deliver me," Maitimo said softly, and, somehow, Findekáno heard him. "Please, no," said Findekáno, feeling a sob of rage building within him, but even as he did this he drew forth his bow and an arrow, and took deadly aim, so that all would end swiftly. Maitimo saw this, and was at peace. He raised his head toward the heavens and uttered a final, silent prayer, then shut his eyes, waiting with a smile lingering upon his lips. But Findekáno son of Nolofinwë prayed as well, even as he bent the bow, and his prayer was heard the louder. “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!” And as he loosed his arrow there came a great wind, and the new Sun was blocked from view by a great eagle. Thorondor this was, the Lord of all Eagles and servant of Manwë, and within his talons he caught the shaft effortlessly, then wheeled about and landed before Findekáno. “The Noldor have long had the pity of the Valar,” said the great bird. “What do you wish of me?” “Only that you bear me to my kinsman, Maitimo, son of Fëanáro, that I might free him from the device of Moringotto.” Findekáno bowed low as he pleaded this. “The Valar ask a price of you for this deed,” said Thorondor. “We ask that you do all you might to heal the Noldor. Loving this son of Fëanáro is enough.” And then Thorondor bowed his head, and let Findekáno ride upon his feathered back to the higher face of the precipice, where Maitimo hung. From Thorondor’s back Findekáno could not reach his cousin. In a brave feat, he leapt from the bird and caught one hand onto a small protruding ledge only inches below the reach of Maitimo’s feet, and he pulled himself up until he could stand upon this ledge, barely able to balance. He steadied himself against the rock, and then looked upon what was Maitimo. Old blood stained the Elf’s body, and scars unnumbered marred the white skin. Nearly every bone in Maitimo’s body was made visible from many months of starvation. The entire area between his thighs was maimed, and the right hand seemed lifeless, and for these things Findekáno could see there would be little hope of healing. Findekáno reached for the iron band around his cousin's wrist, finding himself barely tall enough to reach it, for Maitimo was long-limbed and of an impressive height, but there was no lock upon it to pick. He laid his hand upon Maitimo’s chest, and watched as he came back to wakefulness. “Findekáno,” he breathed. “How did you come here?” “I prayed,” Findekáno smiled sadly. He wrapped his arm around Maitimo so that he would not fall, and then removed his cloak. Very carefully, he draped the heavy garment around his cousin’s gaunt, naked body, and then he drew forth a dagger. Seeing this, Maitimo sighed. “Thank you,” he wept, thinking Findekáno would slay him. “Do not be so quick to give me your thanks, Maitimo,” Findekáno panted as he laboured away at the iron band, holding Maitimo tightly in his arms. When the device showed no sign of coming free, he tried to chip away at the rock around it, into which it was deeply set, but this only served to notch his blade, and he deemed it useless. An hour passed, and then another, but the manacle would not give way, and Findekáno realised that some dark spell of Moringotto’s own make was upon it. Maitimo was in great pain from Findekáno’s attempts to free him, for as Findekáno had held him close his body no longer hung by his wrist, and feeling had come back to his hand. The wrist and several other bones were grossly out of place, and the imprint of the band was drawn in blood upon his bruised skin. There was no hope of removing it. “The cuff will not be broken,” he said, and cursed, feverishly kissing Maitimo’s cold brow. “Then end it here,” said Maitimo. “I am weary…I wish not to suffer longer.” Outwardly, he seemed calm and composed, but Findekáno could see plainly the wildness and cold fear within Maitimo’s jade eyes. Findekáno held his cousin closer still, and clasped his free hand tightly, and brought it to his lips to kiss. His voice rose with passion as he spoke, and he took his kinsman's pale face in his hand, forcing their gazes to meet. “Miracles have brought me to you this day, Maitimo! Once already have I been blind to the blessings of the Valar, and I have paid dearly for it. I shall not let you forsake your life, Russandol, for I love you.” He reached up and tenderly stroked Maitimo’s copper hair, and brushed a stray tear away from his cheek. "I am going to take your hand. I am sorry, but my will is set." Quickly, he drew Maitimo’s head down to his shoulder, where his eyes were hidden that he might not see himself maimed. He could feel Maitimo’s heart begin to race within his breast as he drew him closer. Maitimo wrapped his free arm about Findekáno, clutching him desperately. But Findekáno could do nothing to ease the pain. He feared that the beleaguered Elf would die despite his efforts from blood loss, unless the Valar blessed them with yet another miracle. He tore a long strip from his shirt, and bound it tightly about Maitimo’s arm, just above his elbow. He knew in his heart that such a crude tourniquet could never save Maitimo should he botch the cut itself. He pinned the frail arm against the stone, should Maitimo struggle, then pressed the blade of his dagger lightly against the white skin of Maitimo’s wrist. His knife was dulled from long hours of working away at the stone of the mountainside, and so a quick cut would be very difficult, yet it would not do for slow precision either. With a final prayer, he began to whisper quiet, soothing words, slowing his cousin's heart before cutting him, and he sang softly an old Quenya lullaby; a warm reminder of Nerdanel. "I love you as well, Findekáno,” Maitimo whispered, his voice trembling violently, and yet he relaxed and entrusted what remained of his beaten body to Findekáno. Pressing down with all his might, Findekáno drew his blade across Maitimo’s wrist. Blood spilled forth, and Maitimo screamed brokenly amid his tears. Yet still, the hand was attached by a thick stretch of skin, and this Findekáno sliced through as well, stubborn bone splintering at last. Maitimo was calling out rapidly now, as he had when they had tortured him in Angband, praying frantically, his Quenya incoherent. The remains of his arm slipped easily from the tight band, slicked by his fast- flowing blood, and he fell heavily onto Findekáno, who set him on the back of Thorondor, then mounted behind him. Like a child he held the weeping Maitimo to his chest, cradled in his cloak, which he soaked in the remaining contents of his water-skin and placed over the bleeding stump pressing hard to stem the flow. Swifter than the wind, they were born back toward Hithlum. Findekáno spoke constantly to Maitimo throughout the journey, trying to keep him conscious. This did not seem difficult at all, for Maitimo was completely aware, despite his loss of blood. “Such torture,” Findekáno heard him whisper once. Thinking that he spoke of the loss off his hand, Findekáno’s very soul was wrenched. “Forgive me, Maitimo," he wept. “It is over now that I have seen you." When Findekáno looked questioningly toward his cousin, Maitimo answered, trembling. “Upon that mountain, I dreamed every night that you were dead, friend.” When they arrived back at the Noldor's encampment night had fallen, and all was illuminated in the light of moon and stars. Thorondor gave a great triumphant call and landed in the midst of the camp as all rose from sleep to see what bird cried so freely in the night. One figure stopped abruptly as he came nearer to Thorondor, and, trembling slightly, he said, "Maitimo?" Maitimo opened his eyes, which he had closed while trying to breathe through his pain. They met with Findekáno's, and Findekáno smiled slightly, seeing new intensity in them, and then he watched as Maitimo mustered what strength he had left to him and answered. "I am here, brother!" Findekáno perceived then that, being free from Angband and the band of steel which Moringotto had made, some part of Maitimo’s spirit was set free, and now fought death with such intensity that he would draw strength from the steadying pain in his wrist, rather than seek to escape it. “I am here,” he whispered. The flame within him was rekindled at last. Makalaurë reached out and took Maitimo’s light body into his arms as Findekáno lowered him with care, and, seeing his bleeding wrist, called for healers to make ready a bed and gather their supplies. “Valar and Eru bless you, Findekáno!" Makalaurë said, and then hastened away, bearing Maitimo with him. Ever after, Findekáno would wonder at how the two elder sons of Fëanáro had praised the Valar in desperate times, though their father had never seen past their kinship to Moringotto. Findekáno slid from Thorondor's back, but he fell to the ground as he landed, as if all the weariness that had gone unnoticed in his search for Maitimo had suddenly come upon him now that his task was fulfilled. He rose to his hands and knees, and then the perilous beak of Thorondor nudged him gently to his feet. "Valar grant you strength," Thorondor seemed to smile, and the prayer alone seemed to revitalise Findekáno. "But forget not your debt. Your place is at his side." Findekáno nodded in compliance, and bowed respectfully. "My thanks, Lord of Eagles, and give my thanks also to the Valar, for any of less goodness would have long ago forsaken the Noldor." "Go to him! He needs you most now." Thorondor said as he spread his gargantuan wings. He took flight, and then was gone, merging at length into the Western horizon. CHAPTER 4: FINDEKÁNO’S OATH When Findekáno found his cousins, Fëanáro's sons, they had all gathered about the bed in which Maitimo lay. Every face looked tense; even the stony features of Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Atarinke seemed marred with worry. All turned to look at him as he entered, the rescuer of their brother. For a moment as they beheld him, Findekáno stood defensive, wondering if any of the fiery brothers would be angered with him for risking capture and betrayal of their positions. Then, in a strange happening often told of in years after, Carnistir, heir to all his father's darker attributes, stepped forward first of all the brothers and verily embraced Findekáno Nolofinwë's son, and thanked him with tears in his obsidian eyes. All the brothers did this in like fashion, and then led Findekáno to his friend’s side. Maitimo seemed to be dozing only lightly, and he opened his eyes when Findekáno sat on the coverlet beside him. While before Maitimo’s body had been ice cold, he now burnt with raging fever, and though it clouded his eyes nothing was done to lower it, for should the wounds he bore fester he would die far faster than by the fever. Then, Findekáno looked up, and in the entrance stood Nolofinwë, his father, astounded. Immediately, he distanced himself from Maitimo, remembering how his father had chastised him for still loving a son of Fëanáro. Quietly, he exited and went to speak with his father. Nolofinwë clasped his son’s now gaunt face in his hands and kissed his brow. “I thought you dead, Findekáno,” he exclaimed. “Why did you not tell me where you thought to go?” “You would never have allowed me to leave Hithlum. I had no choice." Nolofinwë turned away and was silent. At length, he sighed. "Yes, my son, you did have a choice. Instead of risking yourself you might have left Fëanáro's son in Moringotto's hands. But...you chose rightly." Nolofinwë did not look upon his son's face, but felt that he must be staring agape to hear his words. "It would seem that I judged you both wrongly. In Aman I punished you, when you so willingly, so innocently explained to me that you loved him. Now, I see that you love him indeed, and I will not seek to part you from him. Do what you will with him, if he will have you." Then, Nolofinwë caught Findekáno's eyes and held them, his stern features suddenly hardened. "However, if I hear so much as rumour that others may know of your affairs with that son of Fëanáro, your cousin, you shall no longer have my favour in this matter, nor my blessing." Findekáno nodded. It would be better now that he did not have to deny that he loved Maitimo, though he much doubted he would ever tell Maitimo of his thoughts, and the thought of him bequeathing to any other his attractions was simply absurd. "As you wish, my Lord." He smiled and bowed slightly, and his father embraced him once more before ushering him back through the entryway. In minutes only, two healers hastened into the tent, supplies readied, and the brothers clasped Maitimo’s remaining hand and left, but Maitimo, to the astonishment of all, asked that Findekáno remain if he was to be examined. Findekáno complied, though he did so uncomfortably. He turned his back to the healers as they assessed the horrific marring of Maitimo’s body. He did not listen to their words as they discussed what had been done, but he could not help but hear Maitimo’s quiet, clinical explanation of the tortures he had suffered. They placed a poultice between his thighs, and then covered him with a cloth. Should he have any modesty left to preserve, thought Findekáno bitterly. The healers called him over, then, and he aided them as he was able, mostly in holding Maitimo when the pain became too much and he began to struggle unwittingly under the fever’s influence. Maitimo had managed to be still as they broke one of his shins and set it correctly that he might walk once it healed, as it had healed from an earlier fracture without success, but Findekáno was of much help as they seared the stump of his wrist to stop the bleeding. Findekáno had given him a strip of leather to bite down upon, but afterward a darkness had started around Maitimo’s eyes of broken blood vessels and he seemed faint and weary. The healers bandaged the rest of his wounds, set the maimed arm in a sling, changed the sheets, and then, bowing, took their leave. Findekáno rose as they exited and found a cloth and cool water, and cleaned away the sweat from his friend's brow, blowing upon it to lower the fever now that there was salve upon Maitimo’s wounds. "That stings," Maitimo sighed, brow creasing. Findekáno smiled. "I thought you were sleeping." "I think," Maitimo said through a strained whisper, "that there will be no sleep for me this night. Every time my heart beats a hammer falls upon some hurt." "Well, let us hope that pain will continue, then," Findekáno said, but his humour was lost in the midst of Maitimo’s groan as the pain flared up. Minutes later, when he had calmed, Maitimo opened his eyes. "Thank you, cousin." Findekáno shook his head. "You would have done the same for me, Maitimo. There are no debts between friends. There was no harm done," he said unthinkingly. "There is no measure to the harm I have done," Maitimo spat bitterly. "And yet it could not come between us." He took Maitimo’s left hand in his and kissed it gently. "Our friendship was made in Aman, and the Valar were witness to it a thousand times over, and no misfortune can harm that." "Do not lie to me!" Maitimo ground out savagely, and the suddenness of his anger surprised Findekáno. "Helcaraxë's cold is not so easily forgotten as that, Findekáno. You are blind and a fool if you cannot see how I have betrayed you!" Findekáno stood, and his grew face stony and his eyes narrowed wrathfully. "Did you lead the Noldor, Maitimo? Were you a greater King already than your father? Did you find yourself with more power than he? I think not!" Findekáno's voice grew quiet, yet Maitimo heard him ever more clearly. "Do not be arrogant, son of Fëanáro, for that is what the nobility of your father's house became. This crime does not belong to you, alone. If I did not know what a feat it would be for you to live through this night, I would strike you, Maitimo." He laughed harshly as his anger built to new heights, fuelled by months of wandering through the ice, watching the women and children die and the men wither with hunger and sorrow. "I would curse your family if your father had not done so already." "Strike me, then, Findekáno!" Maitimo urged vehemently. "Slay me, shun me, but speak not an ill word of my father. His folly has already brought him to death, but my evils still live with me!" Findekáno laughed again, almost cruelly. "You think you might speak of death? You have not seen death! I have fostered children whose mothers starved, only to watch their hearts freeze within them! And then we could do no more than leave them on the ground to mark our trail. That, son of Fëanáro, is death. "You are the blind fool if you do not see that these are days when kin may slay kin and be called heroes. No, Maitimo, I can see." He held out his hands, showing Maitimo the deep, raw cracks in his skin that lingered from the merciless passage through Helcaraxë. "I can see this betrayal plainly, and I can feel it as well as you can, though I feel the injury...and you the guilt. And now, you have suffered more than I, and Eru knows that your heart should bear no guilty burden." Then, he fell silent as he looked upon his stricken cousin. Maitimo, who had been tense in his frustration before had slumped back against the pallet, tears flowing swiftly down his cheeks, and Findekáno was suddenly overcome with a wave of pity. He knelt and gathered Maitimo to him as a sob welled up and escaped his cousin in remorseful words. "Oh, Findekáno, I have paid. I have paid!" He wept for long minutes, as Findekáno had never thought any born in the bliss of Aman, and of such a brave, steeled heart, could weep. His shoulders shook as he cried, as if he was no more than a hurt child. "Yet I can never pay enough. You should have left me, Findekáno. Not even Moringotto's damnation could punish this traitor! This is not enough for dead women and children." "Forget, then, Maitimo," Findekáno whispered soothingly. "And let our feuds be healed before they are put beyond repair by shame and silence." He sighed heavily. "Forgive me, cousin. I should not have spoken thus. Not now...not here." Findekáno held Maitimo tighter as his cousin leaned more heavily upon him, and sleep took them both soon after. The morning came at last, grey and sullen, yet, in the gloom of the day, the camp was buzzing with activity. The sons of Fëanáro had wholeheartedly repented of the Kinslaying and the burning of the ships at Losgar, and Nolofinwë and his people wholeheartedly forgave them in return. Although dealings between Nolofinwë's people and Fëanáro's sons would remain tense for some time after, Findekáno and Maitimo became an exception to this mood. Findekáno could hardly be removed from his cousin's side. He cared for him if the fever rose and busied himself with changing bandages and sheets, unashamed to aid him in personal matters. Maitimo was thankful, and yet his pride did not allow him to submit entirely to the care of another. As the weeks passed, the colour began to return to Maitimo’s cheeks. He still looked as if he lingered on death’s door, but no longer as if he had long since passed through it. Food began to stay in him, and he sat up for longer each day, talking with his cousin when he could. "Maitimo," Findekáno whispered. It was only minutes after dawn, but Maitimo was already awake and shifting uncomfortably amidst the soiled bandages. "Maitimo, take my hand. I'll help you sit up." Findekáno pulled his cousin into an awkward, upright pose, and held him there as the usual fit of dizziness passed, then arranged the pillows to support him. He took a small wooden cup from the bedside table and helped his cousin to remove the sheets from his waist downward. "Can you manage with your left hand?" he asked, turning his face away as Maitimo struggled to stay up without the use of either arm. "Of course," he responded, but then gasped and cursed aloud. Findekáno winced at the sound, remembering the pain of a slight infection of such a nature he'd endured as a child. "I had guessed that would sting," he sighed as Maitimo continued to curse. “The medics said it looked as if it had become infected.” "Then why did you not warn me?" Maitimo panted as he drew the covers back to his chest. "I might have held that until I was better." Findekáno laughed as he emptied the cup and wiped it out. "Believe it or not, it helped more than it hurt -” "I doubt it -” "It makes a fair disinfectant," Findekáno finished as he washed his hands. "Not fair enough, I'm afraid," said the younger of the two medics, a straight, slender elf with a fair warm face. He had coated a rather long sound in a thin solution that smelled strongly of alcohol. He sat down on the edge of the bed, brandishing this almost wicked looking tool, and pulled the covers down yet again. As the physician turned to speak to Findekáno, Maitimo, who had been watching the sound uncomfortably, rolled his eyes back, lolled his head to the side, and let his tongue hang limply from the corner of his mouth, feigning a very comic expression of death. Findekáno buried his face in his sleeve, coughing loudly to hide a burst of laughter. "My lord Findekáno," said the healer with a brusque sort of respect. "I must beseech you to go to the next tent and ask for feverfew. My supply is low." Seeing then that Findekáno's coughing fit was quite renewed as he chanced a glance out of his sleeve, he looked over his shoulder suspiciously to Maitimo, who straightened his face without a moment to spare, but that he was still wiping the corner of his lips. This amused Findekáno so much that he simply chuckled a nearly unidentifiable, "Of course," and exited, leaving his suddenly dejected friend in the able hands of the healer. Outside the tent, a young page bowed to Findekáno and addressed him. “Lord Curufinwë sent me from the Southern camp. He wishes to know how his brother fares.” Findekáno smiled, wondering how he could possibly tell of the progress his cousin had made. “Tell him...tell Curufinwë that his brother’s sense of humour has returned.” It chanced that Findekáno looked up to behold Makalaurë’s approach. Maitimo’s brother laughed merrily. “That is strange,” he said. “The Maitimo I knew had no sense of humour.” He and Findekáno greeted one another warmly as the page bowed and departed. It took longer than expected to retrieve the feverfew that was needed, and when Findekáno returned the healer had left and Maitimo had fallen into a fitful sleep, shifting as if he was uncomfortable on the soft cot. Findekáno sat at his side, wondering at how light-hearted Maitimo seemed outwardly, even when dreams haunted his sleep. Maitimo, he decided would be dead already were it not for the amazing wealth of will within him. As it had in his father, the fire of Serindë burnt hot within Maitimo, and would not allow him to pass to Mandos, or wherever his father's curse would take him. Very cautiously, Findekáno leant over and kissed his cousin's brow reverently. Then, pausing with bated breath, tipped his head and kissed the cracked, bleeding lips, carefully, gently tasting Maitimo for the first time, and only then did he realise how fervently he had longed to do so since he was young. He became so lost in the feeling that he did not notice Maitimo waking. "What are you doing?" Maitimo gasped, his jade eyes wide with astonishment. "I am fulfilling my oath," Findekáno responded, refusing to be ashamed any longer, no matter what Maitimo did. Findekáno could not see how, after braving the ice of Helcaraxë and the tortures of Angband respectively, either of them could possibly care that they were cousins, and even less that their fathers had been at odds. Thankfully, he was correct in this assumption, for Maitimo willingly parted his lips as the kiss deepened. Outside the pavilion, hidden from the occupants, Nolofinwë stood in silence, watching his eldest son vow love to Fëanáro's heir, who was again the High King of the Noldor, and amidst his foresighted sadness, he smiled. He would trust the design of the Valar above all else, and leave Maitimo and Findekáno to one another as they recalled what was left to them of Aman's bliss. CHAPTER 5: OF KINGS AND HEIRS Maitimo healed with amazing speed, gaining strength with each day. Even as his brothers told him it would be best to sleep he remained as active as he could be, trying to gather news of what had passed in absence. Eating was a chore after so many months of starvation; his stomach could hold very little, but after the first few meals he finally kept down the food and things began to go smoothly. His right arm soon became strong enough to move, though he could only do so with considerable pain. He wore it close to his body in a sling, making no notice of it. Late one night, Findekáno had come to visit him and found him awake, pen and slate in his remaining hand, struggling pitifully to write his name amidst the other failed scrawls filling the page. It would have been a sad sight, were it not for Maitimo’s unmasked determination; he had not slept until he had written the word to his satisfaction. A week passed, and finally the medics deemed him well enough to rise for a few hours, provided that he promise not to exert himself and that he use a crutch to take weight off of his healing leg. Findekáno helped him to bind the waist-ties on his pants, and lent a shoulder while he dressed, but otherwise Maitimo insisted upon taking pains for independence, as was his way. Findekáno smiled as he watched Maitimo step out into the sunlight, seeing for the first time since his capture the glorious beauty of Hithlum at noontide, when summer's radiance coloured the mists with warm hues. Maitimo’s eyes imparted such complete and simple happiness in that moment that Findekáno forgot that the beauty of Arda was ever marred, and recalled a certain giddiness he'd felt as a young child, before the trials of adulthood had beset him...before he knew of betrayal. Seeing that Maitimo was up and about, Makalaurë rushed over and gently embraced his brother, raising himself onto his toes like a dancer to kiss his brow. “You look well!” he exclaimed smilingly, avoiding the marred limb. Maitimo curved one side of his mouth in a most handsome smile, yet Findekáno saw the sadness in it. It spoke irony. “Better, little brother,” he corrected. “I look better.” “Better than most,” Makalaurë replied adoringly, but Maitimo’s eyes no longer shone down on his younger brother. They had drifted away, and now fell upon Nolofinwë, who stood but a few steps away. With a glance to Findekáno and his brother, Maitimo limped slowly over to where his uncle stood and straightened his posture, heedless of Nolofinwë’s pitiless gaze. “Might I beg a word with you, Lord?” Nolofinwë nodded emotionlessly and bid Maitimo follow him to his tent. He walked slowly for his nephew’s sake, but offered no arm to lean on. He pulled back the tent flap and let Maitimo enter. They seated themselves at a small table, and Maitimo gathered careful words. “Did Makalaurë take the kingship in my absence?” he asked. “He did,” Nolofinwë answered, pouring a little wine into a cup and passing it to Maitimo. “And now that you are fit to rule again, it shall pass to you once more.” “For a time,” Maitimo replied, stroking the rim of the cup with one long finger. “But now that your host has arrived here - through unpardonable grief - it seems good to me that I should give the rule of the Noldor to you and your house.” Nolofinwë showed neither a sign of surprise nor of gratitude, but rather only nodded again. “Your father would have never condoned such a thing.” “I have always done things he did not condone,” Maitimo scoffed. “Curufinwë was always the favoured son, not I.” “You no longer care to please him?” asked Nolofinwë, raising an eyebrow as he scrutinized his nephew. “He is dead. Why is it your concern?” Nolofinwë sighed heavily, obviously weary though the day was young. “Makalaurë told me that you opposed the burning of the ships at Losgar. He said you expected that Fëanáro would ferry my host to the coast, and when he refused to send rowers back, you stood aside. Unless I misread your intent, Nelyafinwë, that was a noble deed and I owe you a measure of gratitude.” Maitimo laughed a little, looking pensively into the dark wine in his cup. “You have misread, Lord. I have no friend amongst your host but Findekáno your son. It was a selfish whim.” “Does Findekáno know that you asked that he be ferried to the shore?” “He needs not know.” “Hm,” said Nolofinwë into his drink. “It would comfort him. He is in love with you. I suppose he has said so.” Maitimo blanched visibly and he became wary. “He has. And what is your say on the matter?” “Oh,” Nolofinwë said nonchalantly, “I will not hinder you. He has heard my terms and accepted them.” “What were they?” “They are not much. I ask only that no one should know of it, for it will be used against you. I am not without sympathy, Nelyafinwë. For years I have been parted from my beloved Anairë and stranded amongst soldiers, and I am no stranger to a man’s touch and neither am I a stranger to the want of it.” Observing Maitimo’s barely concealed astonishment, he said, “I know not if Valar name such love to be a wrongful lust, but keep in mind that I never laid with a cousin of my own. You and Findekáno are sinfully close in kinship.” As Maitimo gathered words for a rebuttal, he noticed the wonderment on his uncle’s face. “And yet,” Nolofinwë continued. “The Valar have blessed you both. I believe they must prefer the Noldor to bed their kin rather than slaughter them, but….Findekáno told me what Manwë’s messenger spoke to him, and I cannot deny that relations have improved between our houses for his care of you. I fear that I hinder the Valar’s purpose, but…” Nolofinwë faltered uncharacteristically. When he spoke again there was a tremor of emotion in his strong voice. “When I arrived here and spoke to your brother, I shed not a tear for your plight or Fëanáro’s death, but when my son left with no word to me of his intentions…by Ilúvatar, I thought he was lost to me! And now, I find that I worry for you both.” A long silence followed Nolofinwë’s admission, until at last Maitimo asked, “Do you accept my offer, then?” “I do,” said Nolofinwë. “But I must impress that you are a fine and capable king to the Noldor. Now, truly my host is now as willing to follow you as Fëanáro’s people are. Why do you pass that inheritance onto me so readily?” “It is rightfully yours,” said Maitimo, making quick answer to the inquiry. “There is something else troubling you,” said Nolofinwë, leaning forward across the table. His voice became gentle. “You need not worry to tell me, but I will listen, if you wish, and not speak a word to any other.” Maitimo ran his hand through his bright hair, pulling slightly to fend off a threatening headache. He knew that Nolofinwë saw his anxiety, but he conceded nonetheless. “In Angband, I came to endure whips and lashes of all makes with barely a cry or bated breath. I was kept in darkness, starved, beaten, bound, raped by every foul creature and every iron machine that Moringotto ever made. I was deprived for weeks of sleep and given drugs to hinder my thoughts…but I grew accustomed to it all and I learned to bear it. There were tortures I never learned to bear, also; I could not abide to watch another’s pain. Moringotto forced me to bear witness to children tormented. Children, Nolofinwë! They would be left with me to die in my arms, and I would lie to them and say I was the mother they sobbed for; and they would believe me as they bled to death.” Maitimo paused, watching Nolofinwë carefully. His uncle held his hard gaze staunchly, though his lips were lessened to a grim line. “Moringotto is merciless in his tortures,” he continued. “He will spare nothing. Thus, it is not his way to leave any part of a form unmarred. I think it was his will that I should never beget an heir, but whether he willed it or no it was accomplished. Even if a woman would dare to look upon this twisted body I am left with, she would suffer no burden from me; I fear I am scarred beyond repair and maimed to impotence. Further, I quail from every touch beyond a kiss. I am marked as brave by these hosts who follow us, and yet I could not cease my trembling when your own son tried to lay his gentle hands against my skin! Everything is too near to the pain, and I do not know if this fear shall ever leave me.” Nolofinwë sat long in thought. “You have suffered more than I had dared to think, but you do not seem to ask pity of anyone, and so I do not give it. I think that you suffer still, though, and I see now why you wish not to take the kingship upon you. Yes, a King needs an heir that you could not produce, but I see that there is something beyond that. You could take the rule of the Noldor and declare that it would pass in time to Makalaurë and his heirs, or else to Tyelkormo. Now, I must be truthful with you, for I saw this in your eyes from the first sight I had of you: though your body heals, your spirit is faltering under the weight of your memories. You fear you will die.” Maitimo made no answer. Slowly, he stood and limped toward the doorway, and Nolofinwë followed close behind, ready to offer any assistance he could. “No,” Maitimo said at last. “I do not think that I will die. On Thangorodrim, I begged your son to kill me, and yet he would not. I see now how selfish I was to beg him to despair with me after he had risked his very life only to find me, after I had betrayed him and all his kin to cross the Helcaraxë. I do not take his love so lightly that I would leave him now.” Nolofinwë smiled warmly and clasped Maitimo’s shoulder. “I am coming to enjoy your company as I once did, before your family was sent into exile. You have grown; you are much like your mother. Let it be her example you take, Nelyafinwë, not Fëanáro’s. She is a fair Lady.” “And my father was a noble Lord.” Maitimo paused, conceding at last. “I will take his will with me, but I shall leave his feyness to burn with him.” Maitimo bowed as well as he was able and left the tent. As he neared the medic’s tent where he had been housed, Findekáno espied him and, approaching swiftly offered his arm. Though his pride spoke against it, Maitimo took the proffered support thankfully, for he was weary. He cast mournful eyes on the medic’s tent, and Findekáno watched him bemusedly. “Come, cousin. We may find respite in my tent.” Maitimo nodded and suffered in silence through the remaining journey. Findekáno was gladdened, for the care of his friend was in his hands at last. He saw how the clinical surveillance of the army’s healers disquieted Maitimo. There touches never seemed gentle enough to him. He ushered Maitimo into his small tent. Upon entering, Maitimo found himself greatly comforted. Findekáno’s living quarters were messy and his things were arranged in no particular order and an impressive pile of blankets graced the bed. Noticing his friend’s bemused expression, Findekáno explained as he pinned his own cloak over the entryway to keep out the draft. “Many of my host grew hot-blooded on the march. They are so used to the cold that night’s here at Hithlum irk them, even when there is a chill wind off Mithrim to cool them. I find myself generously gifted with tattered old cloaks and blankets of late. For my part, I find them welcoming.” He helped Maitimo to seat himself on the edge of the cot, then kicked off his own boots and stretched languidly and bent down to help Maitimo remove his. “Lie back and rest. I’ll brew some tea for us.” “Thank you, cousin,” said Maitimo, and carefully laid back, finding that the warm pile of blankets and cloaks was indeed welcoming. “It was a great relief to be out of bed,” he smiled, “but more taxing than I like to admit,” he added with a grimace. “This is a pleasant contrast to the medic’s tent. It was too sterile there – cold and empty it seemed.” “Here, it is never cold and forever cluttered,” Findekáno laughed as he took a kettle from its place upon a basin of iron coals. “If you wish to sleep here for a time, I will go or stay as you like.” “That is overly generous of you,” Maitimo reprimanded. “I wish only for your company. I hope that if I should impose, you would request that I leave. Rather, let us not think on it for now. There are other matters on my mind.” Findekáno sat down beside his cousin on the cot and handed him a steaming cup of tea. “Speak, then, and I shall keep you company.” Maitimo accepted the drink gratefully. “Firstly, I think I must tell you that I have renounced the office of the High King.” “In Makalaurë’s favour?” exclaimed Findekáno. “In your father’s favour.” Findekáno’s mouth had fallen slightly agape. “My - my father? Maitimo, you were a fine and capable King to these people.” “Perhaps I would have been, but I will also be the end of my line. In Valinor we may have all been thought deathless, but here death awaits us on battlefields and in dungeons, and a King must have an heir. You have seen the worst of my wounds, Findekáno. You can see easily enough that I will never beget a son.” “I had not wished to think on it,” Findekáno replied. “I will conceal nothing: the open wound turned my stomach.” Maitimo laughed ruefully. “The searing and stitches turned mine.” He stifled a smile as Findekáno blanched at the very mention of such a thing. He settled back into the blankets and wrapped his long, thin fingers around the warm earthenware cup. A pleasant weight settled on his eyelids as he rested there. Soft daylight filtered through the top of the tent, where the cool shadows of leaves quivered in an unfelt wind. Faint and distant, there was music of birdsong in the trees. Maitimo sighed gently and turned his serene gaze toward his friend, who smiled in return. “Why did you kiss me?” he asked suddenly. The smile faded from Findekáno’s face. “That was weeks ago, and your fever was still so high. I did not expect that you would ever remember it.” “That is a terrible reason to kiss someone.” Findekáno grinned at Maitimo’s teasing, and then said, “I have always felt that when I bore you down from Thangorodrim, we became intimate. We became closer in love than friends may be, or even husband and wife. We forged a bond then that surpassed the Noldor’s laws, our father’s feuds, the Oath, the Curse…everything. It will endure until the utmost End of All Things. Even such a kiss as we shared was too distant and cold to impart it.” “I understand,” said Maitimo, and Findekáno kissed his brow, and then reached out and clasped his hand, and held it tenderly until he was asleep.