Chapter Text
The banners of Himring hung limply in the still air as Maedhros and his retinue approached Barad Eithel. The fortress that had once seemed impregnable now bore the scars of war. Smoke still rose from the plains beyond, where the Battle of Sudden Flame had consumed so much of what the Noldor had built in Middle-earth.
Maedhros rode silently, his face a mask of stone. The news of Fingolfin's death had reached him days ago—how the High King had ridden alone to Angband's gates and challenged Morgoth himself. A glorious death, perhaps, but one that left the scattered forces of the Noldor in disarray when unity was needed most.
And now Fingon was King. Fingon, who had rescued him from Thangorodrim. Fingon, who had become far more than cousin or ally in the quiet moments between their duties.
The great gates of Barad Eithel opened before them. Guards in silver and blue stood at attention, their faces grim. They had lost their king, and many comrades in the Dagor Bragollach.
"Lord Maedhros," announced the herald as he entered the great hall. "Son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring."
The court fell silent. Eyes turned to watch the tall, one-handed figure stride forward. Some gazes held suspicion—the shadow of the Oath of Fëanor hung over him still. Others showed respect for the Lord who had held the eastern marches against Morgoth's forces.
At the far end of the hall, upon the high seat that had belonged to Fingolfin, sat Fingon. The gold circlet of kingship rested upon his dark hair, braided with ribbons of gold as was his custom. His face was composed, though pale with grief. Their eyes met across the hall, and Maedhros felt the weight of all that remained unspoken between them.
Protocol demanded formal recognition of the new king. Maedhros had rehearsed the words during the long journey, yet still they felt strange on his tongue. He, who had once been High King himself before abdicating to Fingolfin, had never bent his knee to another. Not since the days of Valinor had he knelt before any throne.
The hall watched in silent anticipation as he approached. Then, with deliberate grace, Maedhros lowered himself to one knee before the dais.
"Fingon, son of Fingolfin," he said, his clear voice carrying through the hall. "High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. I, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himring, offer my sword and my service. May the alliance between our houses stand firm against the Enemy."
A murmur ran through the court. Few had expected such a gesture from proud Maedhros, bound by his father's oath. Fingon's eyes widened briefly before he mastered himself.
"Rise, cousin," Fingon said, his voice steady though Maedhros could hear the emotion beneath. "Your fealty is accepted, and your counsel welcomed."
The formalities continued—reports of the eastern borders, discussions of strategy, pledges from other lords. Through it all, Maedhros stood tall beside the throne, his face unreadable. Only Fingon could see how his hand occasionally clenched at his side, the only outward sign of his turbulent thoughts.
Hours later, when the court had withdrawn and the night guards took their posts, Maedhros followed a familiar path through the corridors of Barad Eithel. No guard challenged him; they knew his right to be there, if not the full reason.
He found Fingon in the King's chambers, standing before a window that overlooked the plains where his father had ridden to his doom. The circlet was set aside, his braids undone.
"You came," Fingon said without turning.
"Did you doubt that I would?" Maedhros closed the door behind him.
"The world has turned dark. I doubt everything now." Fingon's shoulders sagged, the regal bearing of earlier dissolving in private.
Maedhros crossed the room in long strides and turned Fingon to face him. The grief in those gray eyes was raw, unfiltered by the mask of kingship he had worn all day.
"Not everything need change," Maedhros said softly. "Not between us."
"I am King now." Fingon's voice broke on the word. "A title I never wanted, not like this. My father—" He could not continue.
Maedhros pulled him close, his one hand cradling the back of Fingon's head. "I know. Fingolfin was the greatest of us. His sacrifice will not be in vain."
"They say he wounded Morgoth seven times before he fell." Fingon's words were muffled against Maedhros's shoulder. "Seven wounds upon the Black Enemy, yet still we retreat on all fronts."
"Not all," Maedhros reminded him. "Himring stands. Hithlum stands. And you are not alone in this fight."
Fingon pulled back enough to look up at him. "You knelt today. In all our years, I have never seen you kneel to anyone."
"I knelt to the High King," Maedhros said, then more softly, "And to my husband, though none but us know that truth."
"Husband," Fingon repeated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips for the first time. "Even in our darkest hour, that word brings me comfort."
They stood together in the quiet room, holding each other as they had in happier times. The world outside might be burning, but here they found a moment's peace in each other's arms.
"I cannot stay long," Maedhros said eventually. "Himring requires my return. But I needed to see you, to pledge myself properly to the new King."
"And to comfort that King, who feels like a child playing at rulership?"
"You will be a greater king than I would ever have been," Maedhros told him. "You have your father's courage and your own wisdom."
They moved to sit beside the hearth, where a fire drove back the spring chill. There they talked of strategy and defenses, of alliances and supply lines—the conversation of leaders in wartime. But their hands remained linked, fingers intertwined in the space between their chairs.
As the night deepened, talk gave way to silence, and silence to more intimate comforts. In the privacy of the King's chambers, they found solace in each other, a reminder of all they fought to preserve.
Months passed. Messengers rode between Himring and Barad Eithel, bearing news of skirmishes and small victories. The front lines held, though at great cost. And in their coded correspondence, Maedhros and Fingon maintained their connection across the leagues that separated them.
It was midsummer when Maedhros noticed the first changes. A persistent weariness that did not lift with rest. Nausea in the mornings. A strange sensitivity to smells that had never bothered him before.
At first, he attributed it to stress, to the constant vigilance required at the frontier fortress. But as the symptoms persisted and new ones appeared—a curious fullness in his abdomen, a tenderness in his chest—a different suspicion began to form.
Impossible, he told himself. Yet the signs continued, unmistakable as they progressed. In the privacy of his chambers, he examined his changing body with disbelief. There was a life growing within him—something that should not be possible.
The Eldar knew of no such occurrence in all their history. Males did not bear children. Yet here was evidence before his own eyes, a slight swell beneath his tunic where none had been before.
Was it some miracle of the Valar? Or perhaps a consequence of the intermingling of their fëar—their spirits—during their private union, some mystery of Elven souls that had never been recorded in the lore of the Noldor?
Whatever the cause, Maedhros found himself facing a situation without precedent. He should tell Fingon, he knew. But how to convey such news when they were separated by leagues of dangerous territory? And what would this mean for the fragile alliance of the Noldor, for the war against Morgoth?
As autumn approached and his condition became harder to conceal, Maedhros made his decision. He would ride for Barad Eithel once more, leaving his captains to hold Himring in his absence. The journey would be perilous, especially in his condition, but he could not bear this burden alone any longer.
The High King must know that an heir was coming—one born of an impossible union, in defiance of nature itself, yet perhaps a symbol of hope in these darkest of times.