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“Have you heard that Findekáno is back in Tirion?”
Maedhros glanced up from the papers before him and into Maglor’s face. He looked carefully disinterested as he tuned the lyre in his hands by the light of the fireplace, but the smile he kept off his lips ran wild in his eyes. Maedhros was, of course, immediately suspicious.
“Is he?” he said. “How long has it been, now?”
“Hmm…” Maglor tapped his fingers thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t planned every word in advance and was only waiting for Maedhros to ask. “He’s been travelling and training with his fellows out in the Valar’s land for years. Perhaps even long enough for him to grow into those enormous ears.”
“His ears were never that big.” Maedhros thought back on Fingon as he remembered him last, gangly and awkward and knobby in all the wrong places. Celegorm had been industrious in making sure that Fingon was painfully aware of all of these shortcomings. He hadn’t hesitated to point them out to Maedhros, either.
“Have you seen the way Finno completely malfunctions when you’re around?” he would say.
“Oh come now, brother,” Curufin would say reasonably. “It’s perfectly normal for one as young as Finno to develop a crush on our illustrious older brother. Especially with his devilish good looks.”
“And that striking red mane,” Maglor piped up.
“The rippling muscle tone,” Celegorm said.
“Delectable,” Curufin had concluded with a grin, shortly followed by a crash as Maedhros kicked his chair over.
For the record, Maedhros had always enjoyed Fingon's company. Of course it was impossible not to notice how Fingon, who other sources assured him was usually quite charming and articulate, began to choke on his own tongue whenever Maedhros was around. It hadn’t always been like that—he could easily recall when Fingon was a child that came up only to Maedhros’s hip (as opposed to his shoulder, as he had last time they had met) and he would follow him around demanding to be included in everything Maedhros did. After helping Nerdanel with his brothers, Maedhros had plenty of experience with children—he found he liked Fingon much better than any of his closer kin, possibly because all members of his immediate family were complete brats. He’d pointed that out to his mother once, who had generously encouraged him not to leave himself out.
“Curvo saw him earlier,” Maglor continued offhandedly, the lyre in his hands giving a faint musical squawk. “The way he put it, our younger cousin is at least shaping up to someone less likely to dishonor his portion of the family name.”
“If it’s Curvo approving of him, I’m sure we can all expect Fingon to be a regular boor,” Maedhros said.
“True,” Maglor allowed. “But surely you’ll at least find out for yourself.” When Maedhros shot him a look, Maglor raised his hands. “Alright. I may have made a bet with Carnistir as to whether or not our wonderful cousin has learned how to string together a coherent sentence in your presence. I’m anxious to collect.”
Maedhros sighed. “I’m glad to see you’re getting all of this out of your system now rather than later, brother.”
“Oh, don’t count on that. I plan to make Finno's selective social ineptitude last me for quite some time.” Maglor grew thoughtful. “In fact, if you’d like to perhaps tip the odds in my favor? If you greet him with a hug, I’m sure your aura of pure intensity will have him swooning on the floor in no time.”
Silently, Maedhros made a note to fill Maglor’s pipe with watered-down eagle dung.
Later Maedhros found himself wandering the streets of Tirion without much direction, heading vaguely for the gaming yards. His brothers had never been especially kind about Fingon, but to be fair, they were never especially kind about anything. Maedhros hadn’t joined in their mockery because, as much as Fingon’s fumbling might have amused him, Maedhros genuinely enjoyed his company. He loved his brothers, of course, but at times they acted like a flock of yacking seagulls. Fingon was as sharp-tongued as they in his own way, but that rarely came through in Maedhros’s presence these days. Those days, he corrected himself. He hadn’t seen Fingon in years—decades? Who knew what he had become.
Maedhros tried to imagine that awkward youth all grown up. Would Fingon be taller? Doubtful. He’d already sprouted about as high as he was likely to. But it was entirely possible, even likely, that Fingon would have blossomed during his time away.
Fingon had always been easy to be around, and as comical as his childish affections were, they were flattering their own way. A new thought occurred, late in coming—would that all be different now? Perhaps Fingon would have outgrown him. Surely that was something to be glad of, Fingon finally maturing out of the embarrassing infatuation which had lingered since childhood. Yes, Maedhros would be happy to greet him not as a green young cousin, but as a friend.
He arrived at the practice yard, watching the players who honed their skills at agility, strength, and the bow. There was no use thinking of Fingon now. They would find each other eventually, as awkward as the meeting might be—and until then, there was a very fetching archer who had drawn a small crowd to watch him shoot. All his arrows had landed true, to the appreciation of those who watched. Though Maedhros doubted very much it was solely his skill with a bow that many of the onlookers were admiring. He couldn’t blame them. From behind, the shoulders under a thin harness were bunched with muscles that rippled with every draw. His dark hair was plaited and glinted with golden ornaments which drew the eye to a swath of neck, damped with a faint sheen of sweat. Maedhros hung back to watch appreciatively until the archer’s quiver was empty, and at last he turned to face the commendations of the crowd with a broad smile on his face.
It was a very familiar smile.
Maedhros felt the breath freeze in his lungs. How long had it been indeed since he had looked on that face? Yet he recognized Fingon’s features almost instantly, even as they had changed. He fought down the thrill of horrified embarrassment that rose up at the realization of exactly who he'd been ogling.
Fingon was greeting those who had watched him, clasping hands and smiling in an easy and friendly way. He manipulated the crowd with ease, moving from person to person and seeming to find the exact thing to say to make them laugh and stare at him with bright eyes. Had Fingon always been so skilled with people? Had Maedhros been so blind?
It was only when Fingon’s eyes rose and locked with his that he realized the extent to which he had been staring. “Maitimo!” he cried, the delight clear in his voice as he made his way through the group of people around him. Maedhros found himself smiling in spite of the cocktail of confusion and embarrassment still swimming through his mind. He offered his hand, but Fingon had already stepped in to clasp him in a warm embrace. Maedhros froze, and after a moment returned it, part of his mind still marveling at the fact that the top of Fingon’s head nestled snugly under his chin. He smelled of sweat and soap.
“Findekáno,” he said a tad breathlessly as Fingon stepped back.
“I’m so happy to see you!” Fingon said, beaming up into Maedhros’s face. The gold in his dark hair glinted in the light. Shaking his head, Fingon let his hands rest on Maedhros’s shoulders—almost a far reach for him. “And here I was thinking I had finally grown to match you, but it seems you’re determined to overwhelm me.”
Maedhros blinked, his mind gone utterly blank. He could not recall Fingon acting so naturally around him since he got his first growth spurt. It threw him off so wholly he found he had scarcely any idea how to respond. “And yet you’ve done quite a bit of growing of your own,” he said. “It seems only yesterday you were still tugging on my robes and demanding I take you to this very yard.”
Inwardly, he winced as soon as he said it. Why was he speaking to Fingon as if he were still a child? He sounded like Finwë talking to Amburassa about ‘when I was your age’. But Fingon merely grinned and tossed his hair in the breeze. “Yes, father said I really filled out while I was gone. I can almost match Aredhel at wrestling now. Though I won’t’ hold my breath on besting her.”
Fingolfin was certainly correct about his son—Fingon’s lanky frame had put on muscle in all the right places. But it was more than that—he had grown into himself like finally fitting an old pair of clothes, and at last it seemed he was totally at ease. Now he seemed a man who knew what he wanted. That really shouldn’t have made Maedhros feel so nervous.
Fingon glanced over his shoulder at the archery range once more. “I’d best collect my arrows keep practicing,” he said. “Were you here to train as well? You’re welcome to join me. Perhaps I can show you the new throw I learned that almost landed Aredhel flat on her back.”
“Ah,” Maedhros said, swallowing drily. “No, as it turns out, I have to leave.”
A tiny frown creased Fingon’s brow. “But you’ve only just got here.”
“Yes. Well. I have other business to attend to,” Maedhros said, narrowly resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. “Very important. I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
“I see.” Fingon did not so much as look at him strangely. “In that case, we’ll have to make an effort to see each other again soon. We’ve much to catch up on.”
“Yes, of course,” Maedhros said hastily. “I’d like that very much.”
Fingon grinned. “Wonderful. Stop by my family’s apartments sometimes, yes?” Without waiting for Maedhros to respond, he turned and headed back to the range, slipping back into conversation with the people around him as easy as a fish darting into a current.
Maedhros quickly turned and made his way from the yard, wondering vaguely if he should take himself straight to the healing ward to get himself checked for some kind of plague. He felt a bit feverish, after all. And after making such a fool of himself in front of his now-grown-up cousin, some kind of debilitating illness was the only logical explanation. After all, he had always been confident and assured where Fingon was awkward and ungainly. A few years apart couldn’t change that.
He hoped.
“Well, Fingon’s come along quite nicely,” Celegorm commented over lunch a few days later. Their parents had taken young Amburassa with them for the day, and Caranthir was undoubtedly wandering around stoop-shouldered and glaring at nothing, as was his custom. Maedhros wondered vaguely if a few more years would transform him into a well-adjusted paragon of beauty and skill. As it was, the absence of all the youngest members of the family assured that Maedhros was at the mercy of his siblings.
“Yes, he seems quite confident in himself now. And popular at that,” Maglor said. “I suppose now Maitimo will have to find some other young impressionable memory of our family to seduce.”
“Oh, he doesn’t seduce them,” Curufin said gravely. “Our brother prefers to play hard to get with his suitors. It’s honestly cruel how he leads them on.”
“Better watch out, or Findekáno will turn the tables on you, Maitimo,” Celegorm commented. “You’ll be following him around like a lovesick Finno before the year is out.”
“Isn’t it time you let the memory of his childhood foolishness die?” Maedhros snapped. “He’s clearly moved past it now, and you do him no favors bringing it up.”
“Defending our beloved Finno's honor? Oh, Maedhros. Truly your nobility knows no bounds,” Celegorm said, clutching his hands over his heart as Curufin mockingly wiped a tear from under his eye.
“Now, now, everyone, let’s not be unkind,” Maglor said, at which point his brothers, Maedhros included, all shot him an odd look. Without so much as the hint of a smile he continued, “I think we all have a lot to learn from Maedhros’s virtues. We should seek to emulate him.”
Curufin raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Well if that be the case, our list of eligible children grows short. First we must petition our aunt and uncle to produce a few more.”
“It seems to me that you would be more interested in producing a few of your own, Curvo,” Maedhros shot back. He had been planning on saving this tidbit of gossip for a more effective reveal, but their ribbing had gotten to him. “From what I hear, you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with a pretty maiden with a mean hammerstroke down at the forges. I’ve heard she shares your temperament as well—all the better for you, and the worse for your progeny.”
“Now this is news to me,” Celegorm said, turning to Curufin with malignant interest.
To Maedhros’s gratification, his brother actually colored. “I was merely studying the different techniques of jewel crafting to better my own—”
“Aha!” Celegorm cried. “If you deny it, it must be true!”
“For once, I’m inclined to agree,” Maglor said levelly.
Curufin turned to Celegorm with a frown. “Perhaps you’re jealous, brother? The closest you have to a marriage prospect is covered in hair and drools on the rug when you let it inside.”
“Huan is a handsome fellow with a kind heart, and I won’t have him slandered,” Celegorm said good-naturedly. Maedhros had just started to relax, sure that he had directed the conversation away from certain relatives, when he caught the glint in Maglor’s eye. His heart sank.
“But of course, we’re forgetting that if anyone among us is to get married first, it must be our dear eldest brother,” Maglor said placidly. “He already received a fairly serious offer, do you remember?”
Curufin seized on this topic like a drowning man on his fellows. “Ah yes, little Findekáno was very serious indeed,” he said quickly. “He had a detailed outline of why he would make such a wonderful mate, and he hardly stuttered at all.”
“I also recall our brother didn’t actually reject him,” Maglor said with a grin.
“Forgive me for not brutally rejecting a child’s profession of love when the top of his head scarcely came up to my knees,” Maedhros said irritably.
“Playing the long game, hmm?” Celegorm said, nodding sagely. “Well, I hope you don’t break our darling cousin’s heart. He deserves better anyways.”
Maedhros threw an apple at his head.
Later Maedhros fled to his mother’s studio, taking refuge in the dusty smell of stone and the contemplative silence broken by the chipping of her chisel. Maedhros had not spoken to Fingon since their meeting in the practice yards, but he had heard enough about him to have formed an opinion.
“Fingon has become a complete flirt,” Maedhros grouched. “I have no idea where he got it from.”
“He’s always been charming,” Nerdanel commented. “You simply didn’t notice before.”
“I think I would have noticed the way he carries on,” Maedhros said. “He was never so eloquent around me before.”
“And there you have it,” his mother said, poking him in the chest firmly. “He was never so eloquent around you. He idolized you, the way children do.”
“I don’t think—”
“No,” Nerdanel interrupted. “Don’t go around denying it, you encouraged him more than anyone. It’s hardly surprising you’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” Maedhros said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Of course you are.” Nerdanel took a cloth to the stone, sending the dust rising into the air. “It’s wonderful to be the favorite relative. Ambarussa are still young enough that they practically see me as a god. I plan on enjoying every moment while it lasts.” She shot him a look over her unfinished sculpture. “You always loved the attention he gave you, as much as you might have laughed about it. Now that he’s grown and turned that attention elsewhere, you’re suddenly aware it’s gone.”
Maedhros ran his finger through the dust gathering on the pedestal. “He hasn’t even come to visit me yet.”
“And you haven’t visited him. He’s not a child anymore, Maitimo. You must learn to treat him as an adult.”
Maedhros bit his tongue. In truth, he wasn’t sure how to treat Fingon as an adult—not when he had seen him for so long as a serious child or an awkward youth, who at any age had always openly adored him. Before such a thing had seemed comical. Now… Maedhros swallowed past a dry throat. The idea of Fingon showering him with the same sort of flattery and adoration he had as a child put a knot in his stomach and a heat in his chest. Surely it was not so strange to acknowledge that Fingon was attractive. His brothers were attractive—Maedhros knew that as an objective fact, and it did not affect him one way or another. This was no different. Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy. Yes, when he thought of the way that Fingon’s biceps had tensed and gleamed in the Treelight as he drew the bow, it was in a completely platonic way.
A handful of days had passed before Maedhros came to Fingon’s door. It had been long since he had visited the house of Fingolfin, and there were many greetings to make. Aredhel socked him on the arm and accused him of avoiding them as Turgon shot a wryly apologetic smile from behind. Young Argon was quiet and constantly seemed to edge for the door back to his chambers. Maedhros had to turn down many offers of food and drink before finally admitting who he was here for.
“Ah, Finno mentioned you might come,” Aredhel said. “Took you long enough, though.”
“We’ll bring you to his chambers,” Turgon said, falling in on one side of Maedhros while Aredhel took his other arm. They led him through the hallways, chatting pleasantly, and Maedhros tried to ignore the strange nervousness that settled into his heart. Which of course, was ridiculous. He steeled himself as Turgon and Aredhel deposited him outside the door to Fingon’s chambers. They left without waiting for him to knock. It took him a good while longer to do so.
Fingon answered a moment later, and once again Maedhros felt as if he’d taken a businesslike blow to the stomach. He’d been expecting Fingon's callow face and shy eyes again—but of course, the man before him now was far from the boy he had known. He met Maedhros’s gaze confidently, a charming half-smile on his lips.
Maedhros recovered so quickly only he would have noticed his hesitation. “Good morning, Finno,” he said with as much a balance of friendly reserve as he could muster. It may have been less of a balance and more of a see-saw, but Fingon did not seem to mind.
“And a good morning to you, Maitimo,” he said with a grin. There was something so obscene about hearing his mother-name on Fingon’s lips. He had never once thought so before, and he certainly didn’t think so when he heard it from his brothers, but now the sound of Fingon calling him comely sent a spike of some hot and uncomfortable emotion probing through his guts. He hid it with a stiff smile.
“I hope it’s not a bad time,” he said. “I thought to take you up on your offer to visit.”
“Your timing is impeccable,” Fingon said dryly, stepping aside for Maedhros to enter. At once, Maedhros saw the evidence of preparation strewn across the room—a small pack stuffed full sat by the door, and clothes and various supplies had been cast to every corner.
He turned back to Fingon with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “You’re leaving?”
“No need to mourn me yet. Celegorm offered to take me and Aredhel on a day-long hunt.” Maedhros blinked back his surprise. He could only imagine what Celegorm might have in mind—actually, he had a pretty good idea. He and Aredhel would likely deposit their brother in a bramble patch and then ride off to congratulate themselves on a prank well-pulled. Such a thing was practically a family tradition.
From the look in his eyes, Fingon had reached the same conclusion. “Yes, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it myself, but I didn’t want to decline. But now that you’re here…” He shrugged, a grin spreading over his features. “Perhaps we could slip off on our own, and leave them to make their own fun.”
“Celegorm and Aredhel making their own fun rarely ends well for any in the way,” Maedhros said, but internally his mind was racing. Go on a hunt with Fingon, alone, in the woods? They’d done it before, of course, Maedhros teaching him how to step so as not to snap a stray branch, and how to aim truest with the bow. Now, they would go as equals. Maedhros realized he was not entirely certain what would happen when he did not have the benefit of adulthood on his side.
And yet, he very much wanted to find out.
“But of course,” Maedhros said at last. “I would be honored to accompany you, Findekáno.”
“Excellent,” Fingon said with a grin. “We’ve some extra gear for you to use, unless you’d rather take the time to go fetch your own. I for one can’t wait to leave.”
“Then we should go as soon as possible,” Maedhros said, and felt Fingon’s laugh move through him like a warm breeze that lifted him high.
“I completely agree,” Fingon replied.
They moved through the brush quietly, yet without deadly intent. Unlike Celegorm and Aredhel, they didn’t hunt like hungry wolves thinking only of game. They walked through the forest, speaking only occasionally and always softly, enjoying the fresh air and the birds and beasts that moved on their own business around them. Fingon had not so much as removed the gold from his hair—its glint would make them stand out in the sharp eyes of their prey, but Maedhros did not much care. He had forgotten how pleasant it was simply to share each other's company, that even when Fingon had scarcely seemed capable of looking at him without blushing, Maedhros had still been drawn to his presence. It wasn’t only the faint sense of flattery that had arisen from that childhood infatuation—Maedhros genuinely liked him, and that was what made his current feelings all the more infuriating.
Ahead of him, Fingon stopped. “Did you see that bird?” he asked softly, leaning in close so their words would not disturb the forest around them.
“Ah. No,” Maedhros said. Even if he had seen it, Fingon’s proximity would have immediately wiped his memory.
Fingon grinned. “Best keep sharper eyes, Maitimo. I’d hate for people to start saying I’ve surpassed you so young.”
“I’m sure that would distress you greatly,” Maedhros said with a genuine smile.
At once, Fingon’s eyes flicked to something beside Maedhros’s ear. “You’ve a leaf in your hair,” he said with a grin, reaching up to separate it from the strands of Maedhros’s hair with movements so gentle he hardly felt them. Maedhros went still as Fingon worked. There was a time when Fingon would never willingly touch him without his face growing as hot as Fëanor’s forge, yet now he did it as if it were nothing. And to Maedhros’s utter horror, he felt a warmth creeping into his own cheeks the longer Fingon’s fingers lingered in his hair.
Fingon finished picking the plant matter from Maedhros’s hair, then continued to take the short strand and weave it into a quick braid. His fingers stroked over it once to test its quality before he let them fall again. Maedhros reached up to touch it, smiling wryly in spite of himself. “Now all it needs is a gold ornament.”
Fingon raised his eyebrows with a laugh. “Would you like one? I can loan it to you for the day.” Without hesitation he drew a small beaded clasp from one of his braids and wrapped it around the end of Maedhros’s braid. Maedhros had meant to stop him, but Fingon had acted so confidently and the bauble looked so pretty against the red braid that Fingon had made… he found himself touching it gently, the smile still on his lips.
“It’s lovely,” he said. Quickly, he corrected himself. “A little ostentatious for my tastes, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, I think you’re just jealous of my newfound good-looks,” Fingon said with a wink. “I know I was a sight for all the reasons when I left. I remember how I used to look up to you.” He craned his head back to squint theatrically into Maedhros’s face. “It seems I’m doomed to that fate forever, one way or another.”
“There are worse fates,” Maedhros said, feeling himself start to relax. “I’ve been told I cut a very striking figure outlined against the sky.”
“You do at that,” Fingon said, eyes sweeping Maedhros from head to toe in exaggerated admiration. Maedhros was certain he was still poking fun, yet feeling Fingon’s gaze sweep over his body made something twist deep in the pit of his stomach. Fingon would never have looked at him like that before, even in jest. Fingon had such bright, clear eyes, after all. Dark and shining like polished stones, framed by those long lashes—had Maedhros really not noticed them before?—and now that Fingon had successfully learned how to wield his charms, he could caress with a glance.
Not as if that was what Fingon was doing to him, of course. Such a thing would be completely inappropriate now that Fingon was grown. He knew better. They both did.
As Fingon made his way through a patch of berry bushes ahead of them, that sentiment continued as a near-constant chant in the back of his mind. He should know better than to admire Fingon's shapely calves that bunched with every step, or his stocky thighs beneath his rolled-up breeches, or the way those legs terminated with the swaying rhythm of his hips as he walked.
Maedhros swallowed. He absolutely was not going to be caught looking at Fingon's arse. That, it seemed, was the line.
“Ach, damn!” Fingon cried, peering at the front of his tunic. “These berries have left a stain all over the fabric. Father will not be at all pleased to hear I’ve ruined it so quickly.” Fingon tilted his head. “I do hear a stream nearby, though. Would you mind if we stopped there for me to wash it?”
“I suppose killing the local wildlife can wait,” Maedhros said, though the end of his sentence came out rather strangled as Fingon proceeded to tug his tunic over his head. What the jerkin he had worn at the archery range had suggested was enunciated here in clear and agonizing detail. He could have crushed a walnut between those pectorals. Maedhros could safely file that thought away as one he had never expected to have in conjunction with a blood relative.
Maedhros opted to inspect much safer things as Fingon washed his tunic in the stream, such as staring resolutely at each individual rock on the ground. It must have been the heat. Or perhaps an illness with incredibly specific symptoms. Or some kind of pollen. Yes, that seemed likely. As the older and wiser one between them, it was unthinkable that Fingon’s infatuation could have transferred to him. Yes, it made much more sense that Maedhros was dying. Possibly some kind of worm was eating away at the rational part of his brain.
He heard Fingon sigh. “The air is warm today, don’t you think? I think I’ll cool off.” Clothing shuffled, followed by a splash.
Maedhros fixed his eyes stoically on the sky. This was turning out to be the longest hunting trip of his life.
Fingon returned from the forests at a perfectly reasonable hour, yet he had scarcely been in his chambers for long enough to change into fresh clothes before Aredhel appeared in his doorway with a bright grin on her face.
“So, did you tumble our cousin on a bed of leaves?”
Fingon shot her a look. “Half-cousin. And no.”
“And why not?” she said, striding into his room and casting herself down on a low couch with all the easy grace of a hunter. “That was your plan, wasn’t it?”
“That was absolutely not my plan, and you’re well aware of that fact,” Fingon said. “Besides, I should probably be asking the same question. Did you and our dear cousin Tyelkormo 'seize the wild game,' or was it the thrill of the chase you were after?”
“Half-cousin. And on a completely literal level, yes. I, at least, managed to outgrow my childhood crushes.”
“Only after you saw Tyelko and Huan sharing a food bowl,” Fingon said.
Aredhel shrugged. “True. Yet I’m sure I could worm some tidbits about Maedhros out of Tyelko that would tarnish the gold in your hair.”
“Knowing his vibrant imagination, I’m sure you could.”
A guileful expression settled on Aredhel’s face. “Tyelko commented on your changes, you know. He said you had become quite the looker. I’m sure he’s not the only one who’s noticed.”
“No, I’m quite sure he isn’t.” Fingon hid a smirk as he turned back to cleaning his gear. “I suppose I’ll see you at dinner, when you’ll serve up tales of your latest battle with whatever’s on the table.”
“Count on it.” Aredhel rose and left with a wink, closing the door behind her. Fingon settled down on his bed with a sigh, thinking over the day with as much care as the Teleri might lavish on a beautiful shell on the beach. Yes, he would have to agree with his sister—based on the look on Maedhros’s face, Fingon guessed he had most certainly noticed. That, of course, was exactly what Fingon had wanted. He had been ready to return home and see Maedhros as a friend, forgetting his feelings—until, of course, he had seen Maedhros again, and all those long-fostered plans were abandoned as quickly as it had taken him to clasp Maedhros in a welcoming embrace that lasted imperceptivity longer than perhaps it should have. Today he’d left Maedhros at the gates, the gold ornament forgotten in his red hair. Perhaps Maedhros would discover it later, and think of him. Fingon was counting on that.
A slow smile spread over his lips. He had a plan. Ever since he had been old enough to feel desire, Maedhros had driven him mad with it. Now, it was Maedhros’s turn.