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Chapter Text

“It is certainly not the first time he will kneel for him, if you understand me,” a Noldo blabbermouth with a hairdo resembling a ruffled bird mutters to her even more preposterously attired lord husband.

They gobble under their breaths like a pair of half-witted turkeys as Maedhros walks, solemn and ceremonious, down the Great Hall of Barad Eithel. He pays them no heed, for that kind of plebeian, envious, and frankly, utterly lacking in originality gossip is as old as the crown that now rests upon Fingon’s brow.

The first to say it plainly to his face had, to no one’s surprise, been Curufin: “Atonement and statesmanship! Do not take me for a fool, Nelyafinwë. You whore out our father's legacy for our cousin’s whispers in your ears and his hands upon your thighs.”

Others of his brothers had been somewhat less crass, like Maglor, whose sole performance at the Mereth Aderthad to celebrate the renewed friendship among the sons of Finwë, had been that little tune improvised in the wee hours of the night. Undoubtedly spurred on by his own carnal forays, Maglor had delivered the song with quite the corporeal theatrics right in front of Maedhros where he had sat by Fingon’s side in honor. To Maedhros’ frustration, its catchy chorus about oh my prince’s sword is long, his lance is keen, has remained steadily in popularity for more than four centuries of this new age. It has even developed some embellished variations rasped out at drunken mannish feasts, if Caranthir is to be believed.

Brutes, the lot of them, thinks Maedhros now as he falls before Fingon, gaze filled with pure devotion. What do they know of true fraternity, of friendship that endures in the face of all adversity, of sacrifice for the greater cause of prosperity and peace among their people? All that Maedhros has ever done since inheriting the lordship of his house has been in the name of unity and civic duty. He places a chaste kiss upon the hand of his king, his savior, the one whose prayer was heard by Manwë even in exile.

And later, behind closed doors, when Fingon stands before him, shaft erect as a freshly forged blade, Maedhros kneels once more with a deep conviction that there is no greater honor to be had than a life of service and loyalty.

“For the Noldor,” Maedhros whispers reverently, and swallows the High King to the hilt.

Chapter Text

“With my eyes thou shalt see, and with my ears shalt hear; and never shalt thou move from this place until all is fulfilled unto its bitter end.” 

Thus Morgoth had promised before chaining Maedhros to the mountainside, letting him rot at the mercy of the open skies and his own regrets. 

Perhaps that promise would have run its full course, were it not for Fingon. Because of Fingon and his inconceivable faith, or madness, Maedhros fights today, his sword flashing dreadfully in the twilight, his body stronger than it ever was in his youth in Valinor. 

And yet, he wonders if some of Morgoth’s curse yielded its sour fruit after all. With my eyes thou shalt see, and with my ears shalt hear — Maedhros had done so for thirty years, seeing and hearing naught but the devastation of Thangorodrim, and now, a half century later, he still finds himself blind and deaf to all things fair. For there is little of the things that once brought him joy that now moves him; it is only here, in the midst of battle that he feels truly alive. His heart dances to the beat of orcish drums, the blood rushes through his veins as his sword pierces flesh, his Song blazes fiercer the deeper into the mire he wades. Mayhaps this is who he is now, neither orc nor elda, away from the mountain and yet chained to its will, a creature bound to the darkness, incapable of finding beauty. It is with this thought that Maedhros moves forward as wildfire, scorching all that stands in his path; if this is to be his only delight, then he shall savor it to the last bit. He flies into the black waves of their foes, leads his people to feats they never believed possible, he kills, and breathes fully.

The light shifts overhead, the clamor of the battlefield begins to die down and Maedhros knows that the fighting is all but over. They have won the battle. He should rejoice, as any of his people would, but instead, his heart sinks. He looks accusingly toward the rising Sun in the east, she who is come to shine mercilessly upon the ruin Maedhros has become.

It is then Maedhros sees him: orcish heads piled behind him, his spear sinking into the throat of the last warg remaining, there is Fingon. With one last shout, he frees his weapon and turns to Maedhros, and the smile that spreads across his face is brighter than the sunlight that sets the gold between his plaits ablaze.

Something about seeing Fingon like this summons a memory from long ago, from Aman, when Maedhros had planted bunches of night-blooming lilies in the pond behind his house. Red flares, they were called, for their flaming blooms that would unravel in the height of summer, attracting the moths, beetles and bats that awoke with Telperion’s silver dew. Maedhros would long watch them, filled with contentment in the stillness of night. This memory he has buried, deep, deep down, so it does not come to rattle him with the reminder of who he once was, but now it bursts free, summoned by the sight of Fingon before him. Red splashes have painted Fingon’s face, his neck, his fingers, and against the backdrop of his chestnut skin it makes him look as adorned with the night-blooms of the water lilies.

Fingon looks at him still, fierce and bewitching, and Maedhros’ feet take him across the bloodied ground of their own volition. Wordlessly, he caresses Fingon’s cheek, smearing the redness to his lips. He expects Fingon to flinch away, to flee from the hideous monster that has cornered him, but the smile on that beloved face grows even wider, and Fingon’s fingers come to wrap around his wrist, drawing him closer, beckoning.

Beautiful, Maedhros thinks as he claims Fingon’s warm mouth, savoring the taste of blood and steel and that deeper, rich sweetness that is Fingon himself. Fingon deepens their kiss, his hunger no less, and then he tosses his head back and laughs, laughing and laughing, his mirth echoing up the very cliffs of the Iron Mountains, and the sound is fairer than the bells that once rang from the Mindon Eldaliéva over Tirion.

The fire returns, coursing through Maedhros’ body, filling him with life. He looks defiantly to the smoking peaks of Thangorodrim and then takes his gaze away to draw Fingon into another kiss. The siege of Angband is begun.

Chapter Text

I love you as one loves Middle-earth

I don’t love you as if you were one of Laurelin’s blooms
or Nessa’s dear, running in Oromë’s woods:
I love you as one loves Middle-earth, its darkness,
disobediently, between the shadows and the light.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the white flame of the world, pulsing, within itself,
and thanks to your love I have learned to love this land,
speak its tongue, call it home.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you despite exiles and betrayals and dooms:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this embrace where I am not me nor are you yourself,
so close that my heart beats with your fears,
so close that your eyes blink away my tears.

Te amo como uno ama a esa Tierra Media

No te amo como si fueras una flor de Laurelin
o un ciervo de Nessa, en los bosques de Oromë corriendo:
te amo como uno ama a esa Tierra Media, su oscuridad,
desobediente, entre las sombras y la luz.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, pulsante, la llama blanca del mundo,
y gracias a tu amor he aprendido a amar esa tierra,
a hablar su lengua, a llamarla mi hogar.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo a pesar de exilios, traiciones y condenaciones:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así en este abrazo en el cual no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que a tus sustos mi corazón acompaña,
tan cerca que con mis lágrimas parpadea tu pestaña.

Chapter Text

There is a deep scar crossing Maedhros’ lips and spreading up his right cheek; it is one he dislikes most, he has told Fingon, because of the way it distorts certain words when he speaks. Whatever distortion Maedhros hears in his voice is minor, perceptible only to his own ears, and Fingon rather thinks the scar makes him all the more charming, lending personality to his irresistible smile.

With a cup of wine and his back resting against a willing pine, Fingon now looks across the crowd, to catch how the scar curves on Maedhros’ face as he smiles at something Beleg says. His cousin does what he has done for the past three days since their people came together in celebration at the Mereth Aderthad: tea in hand, sitting by one envoy or another, he inquires softly, he listens, nods and smiles.

This is Maedhros of Beleriand, a diplomat whose speech is as carefully crafted as a filigree, the strands of each sentence measured, the stress of each word falling exactly where he means it. This is who Beleg of Doriath, as all their long-sundered kin, is now meeting, Maedhros the lord, the warrior. Accompanied as they are, however, by the alluring notes of flutes and the vibrant beats of drums, Fingon longs for the other person his cousin once was: Maitimo, the dancer. 

It feels out of place to see his cousin so, resistant to the rhythms that make the very ground shake, for in Valinor, Maitimo had been a marvel on the dancefloors of Tirion. His dancing was ever mesmerizing – each step its own artform, every movement fluid and precise, his feet light as a deer despite the height of him. Fingon recalls the uncountable times he has watched his cousin twirl, awed in his younger years, peeking from behind the pillars of Finwë’s halls, and later, joining Maitimo and matching him step for step. They had ever moved well together, their dancing as effortless as their friendship. But Maitimo is only a faint echo in the person who now converses with Beleg; gone are the ornate gowns, intricate braids, and carefully chosen jewellery that used to flash under treelight; gone is the dancing. The lord of Himring is a pragmatic creature, attired formally but plainly, his hair bound in a simple braid behind his head. Not once has Fingon seen him dance in these new lands, and if Maedhros’ feet remember the old patterns, it is only when battle finds them, the sword his only partner in this new choreography. 

Despite knowing this, a small part of Fingon had still hoped to meet Maitimo of old, even if for a little while, even for one dance. How he has longed to take his cousin’s hand once again, wrap his arm around the strong shoulders and let his feet follow where his partner leads. But the livelier the music gets, the further Maedhros seems to be from the dancing circle, trapped into yet another negotiation with yet another envoy of a neighboring land. Each time a familiar song comes up, Fingon seeks his cousin’s gaze, and each time their eyes meet, he is greeted by that warm smile, a hint of Maitimo, of longing, before he looks away and composes his face in the mask that is Maedhros.

The drumbeat grows fiercer, strengthened by the voices of the singers, and Fingon is restless. He considers joining the intricate chain of elves holding hands, their stomping enriching the beat of the drummers. Several of the dancers smile at him in invitation, each wishing for the Crown Prince of the Noldor to choose a place beside them, but Fingon has no desire to dance with any other. Quieting his heart, he turns and makes for the woods, passing unnoticed as a cat between the circles of tents and the glades where games of all sorts unfold, until he is so far away that even the deep notes of the drummers fade behind him.

If Maedhros won’t join, Fingon shall dance on his own — nay, not alone, he shall dance with Endórë, who will surely recognize any rhythm his heart may conjure. For Beleriand has her own voice, her own Music, for those willing to listen, and Fingon finds that he can hear it best here where Ulmo’s waters flow the swiftest. He needs no other music than the birdsong of night, the rustling of the wind as it weaves through leaf and grass, the strength of the waterfalls as they crash against rock. He opens his heart and fills himself with it all, breathing in the land, inhaling and exhaling with the tempo she dictates – like a thunderstorm, it shocks his body into movement, pulsing beneath his skin, and Fingon begins dancing. 

With each twirl, Fingon rids himself of anything that may constrict his body; boots chucked each to their own side, long robes abandoned on a branch, hair ties and jewels strewn between the bushes. His bare feet glide back and forth on the damp ground, gently, lightly, with just enough strength to leap higher but not enough to where the plants shall be trampled. Move as one with the wind, he recalls Indis’ teachings, stir the blooms of flowers, shake the branches of trees, ruffle the blades of grass, and all will grow beneath your feet. Fingon spins and spins, caressing the greenery about him, kissing the breeze, letting himself be enchanted by Endórë, his dancing partner for the night.

“I am rather jealous.” A voice comes behind him, stilling Fingon’s feet. 

Maedhros’ crimson robes stand out starkly in the night, a single blooming rose, carefully trimmed, between the wilderness of the untended greenery. For all he professes his jealousy, his eyes twinkle with mirth, the scars on his face softened by gladness. 

“My companion is generous,” Fingon whispers, weaving an enchantment of his own. “Come and join us.” 

A moment of hesitation, but then Fingon holds out a hand, all of him pulsing with the rhythm of the wilds, and the resistance shatters. Maedhros swiftly crosses the path between the blooming bushes, shedding his robes as he goes, and sets his fingers into Fingon’s waiting palm. Fingon draws him in, snaking his hand up the strong chest until it settles at the nape of his cousin’s neck, Maedhros in turn folds his height around him, and then they are off. None between them leads, yet they both follow; the pattern entirely new, nothing they have ever been taught and somehow still well-known, deeply familiar. Their wrists turn in sync, their fingers brush, their breathless laughter mingles; Maedhros steps where Fingon’s foot has been, Fingon spins where Maedhros’ arms have swung. 

When their bodies come to stillness at last, it is against one another, skin to skin, fingers entwined. They close their eyes and listen, to the wild beating of each other’s hearts, to the singing of the land, to this music that unfolds where they have no name, where they are not Maitimo and Findekáno, nor Maedhros and Fingon, but simply two dancers cradled in Endórë’s embrace.

Chapter Text

Maedhros secures the ropes of the swing around the fat branch of an ancient elm. He sits on it himself and pulls with all his force on the woven chords of hemp — it is good, the swing holds, and if it can hold Maedhros, it should hold most others.

There used to be a swing in the gardens of Lórien, tucked in a peaceful corner where Estë’s roses bloomed year-round. A simple thing it was, much like this one, barely noticeable between the riot of pinks and reds. When duty would spare them, Maedhros had hidden with Fingon there, stealing his beloved away from the bustle of Tirion to have him only to himself. Well-loved and well-kissed, worn out from their bliss, there had been no need for words, after, but the simple craving for staying close, so close: Fingon’s silken tresses between his fingers, Fingon’s warm body resting upon his thighs, Fingon’s dreams as sweet as his own.

Maedhros runs a hand along the edges of the swing he has built, — carefully polished its wood, smoothing the rough swirls where the grain has grown thick, twisted and turned by the passage of time — humming in satisfaction. It is not the same, but it is close enough. Palm resting on the wood and his eyes closed, Maedhros can almost feel the scent of rose petals filling his nostrils. It is ready.

He rises from the swing and calls out: “Elrond! Elros! There’s something for you, come and see.”

Four quick feet running down the stairs and the gasps and shrieks of joy. Knees first, the boys climb to find their space on the swing, tucking themselves against each other like two little birds upon a branch.

You would have loved it, Findekáno, beloved, you would have loved them, Maedhros thinks as he pushes the swing forward, sending Elwing’s sons high in the air.

Chapter Text

“Why him, Finyo?” Turgon had asked him once. “What is it about our cousin that your heart has chosen to love him so?” 

“Because of his mind,” Fingon had answered without much trouble. “Because of the person Russandol becomes when we are together, the way his spirit burns when it hears my song.”

He had spoken truly, though perhaps, not fully. 

Fingon had not burdened his dear brother’s soul, still so young then and only beginning to swim into his own romantic affairs, with the fact that Fingon has always felt most alive when relishing in the weight of his cousin’s body upon his own. How his heart would beat as the drums of the Falmari when Russandol would press him down, locking his wrists with long fingers, trapping his waist with those well-used thighs. For though his cousin was all keen wit and irresistible charm like his father, he was also his mother’s son in strength and endurance. Fingon had always sought to rattle his composure with this challenge and that, until his beloved would inevitably fall prey to the provocations and chase him through corridors of the royal palace, or the meadows below Tirion, or the sprawling green woods at the feet of the mountains — grappling with strong limbs and breathless laughter — until Russandol would bore him down. There had been no sweeter way to cede a victory, and if Fingon could fight back still, he always gave up on the idea for the delight of being so overpowered.

He burns with those memories now as he faces Maedhros in the sparring ring, his cousin’s practice sword gripped tightly in his left hand. Fingon pushes the past aside and concentrates. Tho Maedhros is just as fierce and calculating and charming as he ever was, his body is a different matter entirely. Since his return from the mountain, every day has been a minor battle for Maedhros. This is why they are here.

The first bout is a test for them both, seeing how long Maedhros’ strength lasts, and how far Fingon can push. They circle each other like two rival cats, taunting, before Maedhros lunges forward and Fingon ducks beneath his arm easily to bring the blunted blade to his chest.

“My point,” he says, stepping back and winking. 

Maedhros is already assuming his position again. “Another,” he commands. 

There is not much time to think, for Maedhros comes at him at once, and Fingon has to leap sideways to avoid the weapon driving straight for his ribs. They do the usual dance of attack and defense, pretend to strike and step around. In truth, Fingon does not move as fast as he could, nor does he take full advantage of Maedhros’ blind right side, trying to keep them both in an even tempo. But Maedhros is relentless, his attacks come again and again, even as his breath comes short, and as Fingon readies to stop this, to demand that he take a break, Maedhros uses the momentary distraction to hook his ankle and tug it neatly out from under him.

Fingon’s bottom slams on the floor, his blade flying out of his grip, and when he manages to look up, Maedhros grins above him, smug.

“Mind your feet,” his cousin says and tucks the sword under his elbow to extend a hand and help him up. 

The sight steals the breath out of him: Fingon traces those calves, well-shaped with much labor, the thighs bulging right at his eye-level, oh those thighs, oh the full height of him towering above. Fingon bites his cheek to force his mind into focus; he is here to help his cousin heal, to regain his strength, to offer support and friendship. Those reminders run through his mind and fly out as swiftly as a bird through a wide-open window, and Fingon is left with naught but a burning desire to feel that body above his own.

He reaches for Maedhros’ hand in pretense, and as his cousin leans down, Fingon gives him a taste of his own medicine: he grabs the elbow instead, and pulls on the back of his knee with his other hand, yanking, bringing all of Maedhros’ weight down hard on top of him. They are both left disarmed.

“Mind your feet, Russandol,” Fingon mocks, laughing softly. 

Faces so close that he can feel Maedhros’ breath against his cheek, and the laughter evaporates between Fingon’s lips; he dares not breathe as Maedhros looks down at him and places a hand on his cheek. He knows that he should let Maedhros take the lead, stay within the boundaries he sets, but something about being pinned down like this, feeling all his weight and warmth, makes Fingon abandon all reason: he strains to rise up, barely, and grazes on Maedhros’ jaw, one small bite after another, until he reaches the corner of his lips. He doesn’t dare a kiss, so he simply runs his tongue along the edges, lingers a bit, tastes, and then pulls back.

There is a queer look in his cousin’s eyes. They do not move, they do not speak, a moment, two, and Fingon feels a moment’s panic.

“One more round?” He asks quickly to dispel the tension. 

Maedhros lets go of him and begins rising, and Fingon curses himself. He has crossed the limits, rash as always. 

But then Maedhros turns to him, reaching out a hand once again, and the light in his eyes dances like a joyful flame, promising mischief. “Your chambers or mine?”

Chapter Text

Findekáno laughs at his jest, throwing his head back, eyes shut and mouth wide open, the skin at his throat trembling like a running stream — a heartfelt laughter that strikes Maitimo like lightning. 

The aftermath is a sudden pain that constricts his own chest and he burns where Findekáno’s hand still rests on his forearm, seemingly forgotten. His cousin trusts him, fully and without pretense, trusts him to sit closely like this, both of them all but bare in the warmth of late spring, dressed in nothing but their light trousers, trusts him to place that warm hand upon him, trusts him to hear his deepest hopes and fears. 

And if Maitimo has come to Findekáno’s house today to open his own heart — to lay bare the torment of sweet laughter and braids woven with gold that have given him no respite since last summer — it will only be to shatter this trust, and ruin this bond that is dearer to him than anything.

With a thick gulp, he swallows his confession of love and remains silent, taking pleasure in knowing that he has this at least, Findekáno’s laughter, Findekáno’s bright eyes all for him, even if only in friendship.

*

Since that afternoon when they found themselves beneath the maple tree, lips stained from ripe mulberries, Findekáno has had no peace. 

He and Maitimo have been constructing this dance for some time now, carefully moving one step at a time, closer and closer. At least that was what Findekáno believed, until that day they sat together, bodies so close he could feel the beat of his cousin’s heart — and Maitimo jested freely and looked at him with such delight that Findekáno’s laughter burst from him, all his affection spilling with it — only for his friend to fall silent moments later, a dreadful silence that has robbed him of all joy ever since.

Findekáno has driven himself to madness with the questions, if it was his hand on Maitimo’s arm, or simply enough, his cousin finally seeing the truth of his heart — that Findekáno desires only their friendship no longer — and casting that truth aside. He has betrayed Maitimo's trust.

He holds the letter in his hands now, the summons to Valimar to study side by side with Manwë’s Maiar, and knows that there is little to keep him in Tirion. He takes up his quill and begins drafting his acceptance.

*

Tirion feels desolate without Findekáno. The gardens where they often walked together seem dull, the tea houses where they have spoken afternoons on end, entirely too loud.

Maitimo keeps his hands busy so his mind has no chance to murmur: he remodels his kitchens, takes up the task of translating the early laws of the Quendi for Finwë, and offers to lend a hand in his mother’s studio.

He is smoothing down a block of marble for Nerdanel, idly listening to his mother converse with Indis behind him. It is soothing to sit in the presence of their easy companionship.

“Oh, Findekáno has already charmed half of Valimar, not that it is any surprise,” the queen tells Nerdanel, all pride and delight. “Ingwion has taken quite a liking to him, for which I am glad, for he will find a good mentor in him.”

The steady tempo of Maitimo’s chiseling halts. He knows Ingwion, the Crown Prince of the Vanyar, quite well: tall, golden, all laughter and song, a fruit of Laurelin grown into an elven body.

He is happy for Findekáno, of course.

When Indis and Nerdanel depart, Maitimo remains. His chisel doesn’t rest until his arms are trembling.

*

The air of Valimar is as a meadow of wildflowers in the warmth, bursting in sweetness, a city as golden as freshly drawn honey. And when the bells of the towers ring out, it is music that resonates not in the ears only, but deeply within the heart.

It is not that Findekáno is blind to this splendor, to the loveliness of his grandmother’s people, and yet…

“A heavy heart is an ill companion for such a light spirit, my friend,” Ingwion says when they take a rest from their hike in the woods beneath the Pelóri.

Findekáno has taken solace in Ingwion’s friendship, for the prince’s song unravels in low and even notes, a balm for the burning ache left by Maitimo’s fire.

“Am I so easy to read?” Findekáno finds it in himself to jest.

His friend smiles, and offers what comfort he can: “The Valar are generous, let this beauty they have wrought soothe thy ache.”

It is as good a wisdom as any. Findekáno inhales deeply, steading himself, but as he looks up to where the crowns of the maples have ripened into deep, rich copper, all he can see is a reminder of beloved tresses.

*

I have been granted the honors to lead a hymn in Manwë’s honor at the Longest Mingling, but this joy is dimmed by the lack of you, dearest cousin. How I have missed you.

So Findekáno had written in his last letter. Maitimo has read it time and again, held the parchment so long that the tengwar upon the edges has begun fading.

How I have missed you. Oh, Ilúvatar above, if those are not the same words that Maitimo has written in his own letters, only to shred his drafts to pieces.

How I have missed you. It was all it took, and Maitimo finds himself in Valimar, eyes searching desperately between the lines of elves and Maiar, shining in silver and gold as if Varda has lowered her stars from the sky.

Findekáno walks across the stage, and Maitimo turns blind to all else. The light of the trees exists in Arda to shine upon his cousin’s smile, and naught else, he is certain.

The moment Findekáno sings out, Manwë's winds carrying his clear voice down the hills, Maitimo understands at last: he loves Findekáno, and no matter the pain, he would do nothing to change that truth.

*

The crowd erupts in cheers and praise, hands land upon his shoulders in congratulations, but what should be a fruit of delight is soured by Maitimo’s absence. Findekáno had gathered all his courage to write, to invite Maitimo here, only to be wounded again by the same blow, that silence resting heavier than the snow that blankets the peaks of Taniquetil.

“Findekáno.” The voice comes softly behind him, only a note above a whisper, but he knows that voice. 

“Maitimo.” Findekáno turns, all hope and trepidation. 

“Your voice is a marvel, dear cousin,” Maitimo says, his smile gentle and contained but his eyes dancing restlessly as a critter trapped without escape. “What a gift to hear it on such a holy day.”

His copper hair flowing freely down his shoulders, attired in that deep blue that Findekáno favors; Maitimo is so beautiful that it hurts. Findekáno’s heart trembles, a moth trapped within glass. “Your coming here is the greatest gift of all, dearest.”

He is rewarded by Maitimo’s smile, and when he speaks next, it is with renewed strength. “I read your letters,” his cousin begins as he takes a step closer. “There were some things I wished to say before you left, and I thought, well, I’ve been thinking aplenty since you’ve been gone.”

Maitimo’s words falter, and if he keeps his gaze fixed on Findekáno’s face, it is clearly with every last bit of courage that dwells within him. 

“You can tell me anything, dearest Maitimo.” Findekáno cannot help it, he reaches for his cousin’s hand. “Anything at all, and it shall change my heart not at all.” 

“Always the valiant,” his cousin smiles a bit and squeezes his fingers with his own. “You mean to me more than you know, Findekáno." He inhales deeply. "More than a brother, more than a friend. And you see, I was a fool to believe that if I said as much to you, it would lead you to abandon our friendship. That we would not find a way to overcome that burden, even if you don’t feel the same as I.”

Oh, the joy of a prayer answered! Findekáno opens his mouth and his voice is laughter, the moth of his heart taking flight at once. “Ay, beloved Maitimo, quite the fool indeed! Ever since I was a child I have dreamt of this, of standing in song upon Manwë’s very feet, of seeing the Longest Mingling in all its glory. And now that I am here, all that delight seems a twinkle beside the brightness that is you here, with me. You are more precious to me than the treelight itself, can’t you see?”

With each word, they have fitted their bodies closer, hands entwined, knees touching, eyes all for each other. Maitimo lets go to cup his face between his hands.

“May I?” 

“Please.”

When their lips find each other, at last, it is as Laurelin’s gold entwined with Telperion’s silver, a light brighter than the mingling itself.