Chapter Text
He stands alone on the parapet.
The sun is rising over the haze of mountains in the east, and the white stone is still cold beneath his hands where he leans against the railing. In the glare of the sunrise the plains stretching out beyond him from the edge of Barad Eithel disappear into the distance, the fog silver in the morning light.
He tries to look past it for any movement in amongst the low silver curls of mist, the glimpse of a standard or tip of a spear, but the sun is too bright and the mist too thick. Fingon leans out further, as if those scarce few inches could possibly make a difference.
There is a cough behind him. “My lord. No matter how impatient you are, please do not jump off this parapet. Thorondor can surely only intervene a finite number of times.”
Fingon smiles wryly, and pulls back. “Idhron. I’m not that impatient, am I?”
Idhron steps forwards to the railing, and gives him a look. “Just how long have you been awake?” he asks. Fingon opens his mouth, and Idhron levels him with a glare. “That was a rhetorical question, my lord.”
Fingon hums. “And just how long have you been awake, Idhron?” he replies. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to look, but it’s just a bird on the wind.
“I am your valet, my lord. Of course I am up earlier than you.”
Now it’s Fingon’s turn to give him a look. “And how many fires have you put out this morning?” Idhron hesitates, and Fingon leans over to nudge him. “Come on. How long have I known you? I can see that little twitch in your jaw that means you’ve been trying very hard not to yell at people all morning. And it’s only just sunrise.”
Idhron hesitates, and then slumps against the railing next to Fingon. “I won’t bother you with the details, my lord, but many. So very many.” He rubs his hand across his face. “I would prefer not to add you attempting to add to them, if at all possible.”
Fingon looks back out to the mist-covered plains. “I’ll do my best. No promises, though. If we all make it through the next three days without anyone challenging anyone else to a duel, I’ll be pleased.”
Idhron hums. “Well. Celegorm isn’t here yet.”
The sun is just starting to break through the mists curling around the edge of Barad Eithel’s walls. There’s just enough of a breeze that the banners are beginning to stir across the fortress walls, blue and scarlet brilliant against the white.
“My father used to stand out here.”
Idhron is silent. Fingon looks down at the railing beneath his hands. “I would find him out here sometimes, watching the mountains. Even in the dark before the sun had risen he would watch. Standing guard, it sometimes felt like." He breathes out, and watches the banners of blue and red flutter in the breeze. "I wish I had asked him what he was thinking of. I wish I had joined him out here more."
Idhron bows his head for a moment, and then straightens. "Perhaps this is a time for looking forwards, my lord, rather than behind us."
Fingon huffs a laugh. "Very tactfully put, Idhron." The laugh trails off a moment later. "Do you think he stood out here, before he left? Was this where he decided to ride out, alone?"
Idhron carefully reaches out and presses a hand to Fingon's shoulder. "I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe. But...I knew your father well enough to know that he didn't take leaving you lightly, not at all."
"And yet he did," Fingon muses. He shakes his head a moment later. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't be being maudlin at all. Not today."
"Lord Maedhros has been away too long, I think," Idhron remarks. "But he won't arrive any sooner if you stand out here and stare at the plains."
Fingon instinctively looks for scarlet banners appearing out of the mist. There are none.
"You know, I stood here just over a year ago," he says quietly into the early morning air. "I could just see the glint of spears of Maedhros' army, his half of our alliance in the distance as they prepared for a war I think I knew we wouldn't win." He breathes out. "I was so scared. I did everything I could not to show it, but I was so damn scared. For myself, for my people...for Maedhros, and what losing this battle would do to him."
Idhron is silent beside him. “I’m sorry,” Fingon says again. “I shouldn’t burden you with that.”
A year is such a short time. It has flown past in the chaos of rebuilding, the steady excavation of their enemy’s fortress and the captives brought forth day after day into the sunlight, the tentative negotiations and alliances strengthened, the first shoots of new spring grass pushing up through the packed dirt all along the road out east.
It has been one year, and Barad Eithel seems now to be holding its breath.
Copper and gold is quiet at the back of his mind, Maedhros seemingly still asleep. His half of the alliance is camped less than half a day away, most of them probably sleeping out beneath the stars if half-remembered dreams of the night sky are accurate. It had taken all that Fingon had in him not to slip out of his own city in the evening and sneak out across the plains to meet him.
It had been tempting, of course, but Maedhros has put so much work into this anniversary, all of the politics so finely balanced. Fingon would hate to ruin it for him.
The sun is beginning to emerge over the peaks of Thangorodrim. They’re nothing more than mountains, the peaks still dusted in a little snow.
Fingon hums under his breath, and steps away from the railing. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
0-o-0-o-0
Barad Eithel comes into view, white stone gleaming amongst the swathes of forest, walls smooth and brilliant in the sunlight. Banners fly from the walls, blue and scarlet, and the sound of bells rises up from the city until the mountains rising behind are ringing with them.
Maedhros’ gaze drops down to the party riding out from the great gates of the fortress, and silver and blue leaps through his mind. He laughs, the sound snatched from his lips by the breeze sending his own scarlet banners fluttering in the corner of his eye. At his side, Maglor smiles.
Maedhros rides forwards to meet them with his half of the alliance, the people who swore to follow him into a damnation that never arrived, and who remained when the victory was won and the hard road unfurled before them. Caranthir sits up straighter in his saddle as he sees the other party approaching, the sun catching the precious stones woven in his hair that he has barely taken out since Alra gifted a small fortune’s worth to him. Maglor raises his hand, and the familiar trumpets of the House of Fëanor ring out through the air.
They are answered. Maedhros gives into the smile tugging at his lips, and urges his mare forwards.
One year to the day, the two halves of the greatest alliance ever seen on these shores meet again on the plains of their victory.
There are intricate rituals to this. Maedhros knows them. He spent a good few months planning them, going back and forth between his own people and those who would be arriving at Barad Eithel first, late evenings spent with Maglor in the forward camp or Himring trying to come up with every possible way that this could all go wrong. He knows how important it is to do this right.
In this moment, he can’t remember any of it. All he wants to do is fling himself from his mare and run across the packed dirt, the first shoots of grass flattened beneath his feet, until he can throw his arms around Fingon and hold him tight until he can breathe.
He meets Fingon’s gaze, as blue banners and red banners are lowered, carefully folded away, and then the new ones raised to match the mingling red and blue on Barad Eithel’s walls. Fingon is staring at him, hands tight on the reins of his horse.
Dearheart .
Maedhros is awash in silver and blue. Beloved.
His mare jigs impatiently beneath him. He is about to dig his spurs in when a gloved hand closes firmly on his wrist. Maglor leans in close, gripping him tightly. “Don’t you fucking dare ,” he hisses in Maedhros’ ear. “I have spent too long making sure this is all going to work. You are not spoiling it because you want to jump your husband.”
Maedhros tries to tug his wrist free, but Maglor’s grip is iron. “Fine, fine,” he hisses back. “But you owe me.”
“Whatever. Control yourself for a few more seconds.”
The new banners are raised, the banner of the High King and King, and silver trumpets ring out again, high and clear and a sound Maedhros still hears in his dreams as an army crests the horizon. The echoes finally die out on the breeze, and for a few moments there is silence.
Maedhros wrenches his wrist out of Maglor’s grip. He flings himself off his horse, almost falling over in his haste, and throws the reins vaguely in Maglor’s direction as he turns and begins to run.
Fingon meets him halfway. “Dearheart,” he is saying over and over as he wraps his arms around Maedhros, burying his face into the crook of his neck. “Oh, dearheart.”
Maedhros presses his face to Fingon’s hair, breathing him in. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
Fingon pulls back just enough to kiss him, hands cupping his face, and Maedhros falls into silver and blue with reckless abandon for a few precious moments.
Around them the formality has broken up, people stepping forwards to greet each other after almost a year apart. He can see Beleg and Mablung out of the corner of his eye, both looking hesitant. Maglor and Caranthir have Curufin bundled up between them, Curufin close to spitting fire at the indignity. Maedhros is pleased to notice that he’s barely leaning on his cane, and that a placid horse with an eight pointed star on its bridle stands nearby. The last he had seen him, before leaving Barad Eithel six months ago to wrap up affairs at Himring and the encampment outside Angband, the head wound was still enough trouble to make it all but impossible for him to ride.
He breaks away from Fingon enough to grasp Curufin and tug him close. “Don’t,” Curufin spits, but there’s no fire to his voice as he leans into Maedhros and lets him press a kiss to his temple. “Nelyo, stop .”
Maedhros laughs. “Never,” he says, but he steps back and lets Curufin straighten his collar with a huff. “How are you?”
“You know exactly how I am, Fingon has been spying on me for you for months,” Curufin mutters.
There’s a muffled laugh, and then Fingon is beside Maedhros, lacing their fingers together. “That is what you would call it. Maglor, Caranthir. It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Maglor says smoothly. “Oh, and Turgon. A pleasure. How long have you been in Barad Eithel?”
Turgon, hovering near Fingon, dips his head. “Fëanorions. And I and my retinue only arrived two weeks ago.” He glances around them. “We should be moving back to the city, yes? You’ve been travelling for a while.”
Húrin gives Maedhros a wide grin and a nod as they return to their horses, and he can see Azaghal pushing his stout pony forwards to fall into step beside Curufin. Their two parties combined turn back to Barad Eithel. Maedhros rides at the front with Fingon, their banner high above them, and as the great white walls grow closer and closer, and trumpets ring out from the fortress, Fingon reaches out and laces their fingers together.
“Welcome home, dearheart.”
0-o-0-o-0
They barely have five minutes alone, in between last minute problems to smooth over, the last of Maedhros’ possessions from Himring being brought up into their rooms and his frantic change from travelling clothes to something appropriate for the King. Fingon mostly watches in amusement from the corner as Idhron fusses around him, adjusting the sit of his ceremonial armour or the way his cloak falls over the plates. Maedhros’ fingers are already smudged with ink from the sheets of parchment he keeps leafing through, muttering to himself under his breath as Idhron buckles his sword belt and fusses over how it sits.
“Formal alliance ceremony first,” he murmurs, flicking through to one piece of paper which Fingon knows is the list of gifts to be exchanged amongst the alliance leaders. “Which will lead into the formal dinner and the laments tonight.” He glances up at Idhron. “The good wine has been kept back from being served tonight, yes? We can’t have anyone getting too drunk until we’re through tonight.”
“All seen to, my lord,” Idhron says smoothly. “Your brothers are seated as far away from Orodreth as we can manage without gravely insulting everyone by not putting them all on the high table, and I have several key people in place to avert any last minute crises.” He steps back and studies Maedhros critically for a moment, and then huffs. “Your shoulders are uneven.”
“Comes from hanging from a cliff and never recovering the muscle,” Maedhros says wryly. “It’s barely noticeable, especially not with the cloak.” He glances over to Fingon. “He’s fussing again.”
Fingon just hums, and flips through his own sheaf of parchment, a scrawled speech that has gone through so many revisions it’s barely legible. He’s not giving it until the celebration dinner tomorrow evening, a shorter and more sombre one already memorised for tonight, but he can’t help going through it again, trying to find just the right tone.
Sorrow first, and then jubilation.
And then the third day…
Maedhros glances up from his own speech and gives Fingon a fond smile. Fingon resists going for his pocket, to check for the thousandth time that the little box is still there. He knows it’s foolish to carry it round on his person, that he has treasury vaults specifically for keeping precious things safe, but he can’t quite bring himself to part with it.
Finally, Idhron deems them both acceptable. They will be the last to arrive into the great courtyard, where long tables stretch beneath garlands of wildflowers and streams of jewels woven amongst endless lamplight, and so there’s another nervous wait behind the great doors of the palace. Fingon reaches over and laces his fingers with Maedhros as the sound of hundreds of people begins to grow, sneaking in beneath the door, a faint murmur of thousands more celebrating throughout the city just reaching them.
Maedhros reaches up with the stump of his wrist to where a Silmaril sits at his throat, uncovered in a shining necklace of copper and silver. It had been the first thing Curufin had crafted, when his hands had stopped trembling enough to work.
Maglor had loaned him his Silmaril, just for this night. It had been his idea.
Fingon echoes the gesture. The second Silmaril is warm at the base of his throat. “Ready?” he asks quietly.
Maedhros grips his hand tightly. “Ready.”
The trumpets ring out, and the doors swing open.
0-o-0-o-0
The sun is just beginning to set when Baarad Eithel comes into view.
Celegorm reins his mare in, idly scratching her neck as she comes to a halt. Amras rides up next to him a moment later, his horse jogging restlessly beneath him. "Not too late to turn back and rejoin the others," he says quietly when they don’t move.
Celegorm just snorts. "Yes it is."
He picks up his reins, and his mare starts forwards beneath him towards the great white walls of the fortress. It's hard to see much beyond the outline in the glare of the setting sun, and it takes a few moments to spot the banners flying high above the parapets.
Amras shades his eyes and squints. "Are those banners...you cannot be serious."
Celegorm looks again. Red and blue, but that's only to be expected with Maedhros likely there already. "What? Red banners and blue banners, that's not the end of the world."
Amras reaches out and blindly smacks at Celegorm's arm. "Look again, idiot."
Celegorm squints against the glare of the sun. "It's just red and blue, what's... oh ."
Red and blue, but on the same banner. Given equal space. And there's something in the middle of every banner, some detail he can't quite make out.
They get closer. " What? "
Amras starts laughing. "That's...I never thought I would ever see the day."
Their father's star is emblazoned on banners of red and blue, surrounded by the outer lines of Fingolfin's emblem. Eight points etched out in brilliant silver.
Celegorm stares. His mare picks up pace, and Amras echoes it until they're flying across the plains, dust kicking up beneath their hooves until Celegorm can barely breathe. Amras whoops, red hair streaming out behind him as the white walls grow and grow until they're towering above them.
The gates open for them. It's quiet inside the first courtyard, and quiet as a guard comes forwards in Fingon's livery and directs them towards the stable. "Those banners on the walls," Celegorm says hesitantly as he hands the tack off to the nearby groom who can't quite seem to meet his gaze. "Who's are they?"
The groom looks surprised. "The banners of the High King and King, of course," he says. "Will that be all?"
"We'll come down and check on them later," Amras says with a smile. "They've carried us far and fast." He glances around. "Where is everyone? It's very quiet."
"It's the celebrations, my lord." The groom glances between them with a frown. "The anniversary. King Maedhros' half of the alliance arrived earlier today, and there are three days of celebration. They just began the first dinner a few hours ago."
Celegorm tries to count the days in his head. He had known it was about a year, a year since everything changed so much, but out in the wilds he hadn't even tried to keep track of the days beyond the gradual changes of the seasons.
"One year exactly," Amras muses. "Just in time."
They head up, the sound of hundreds of people gradually growing and growing until it's a roar.
He hasn't seen more than a dozen people, his hunters beside him, for a year. His steps stutter just outside the archway that he knows leads through into the great courtyard where they must be gathered.
They haven't been seen yet. Just as Celegorm is about to step forwards, this uncertainty skittering beneath his skin a horrible burning, the noise dims.
Someone starts to sing.
"Oh," Amras says quietly. "It's a lament."
There is quiet, and one piercing voice that Celegorm doesn't recognise. It takes him a few moments to listen past the crushing waves of sorrow and regret to the words being sung.
"Oh," he says quietly.
It's a lament for Finrod.
He turns on his heel and walks away before he even realises he's doing so.
His horse is in the stable. He could take her and ride out, before anyone realises he's even here, go back out into the wilds, back to his hunt, back to somewhere where hundreds of people won't stare at him with suspicion or hatred or misplaced reverence that he doesn't know what to do with. He can see through the stone walls all the people in there, listening to Finrod's glorious and noble sacrifice, his defiance until the end.
He wonders who wrote the lament. Whether they decided to cast him as the villain.
Amras is at his elbow. "I didn't kill him," Celegorm spits. "I didn't kill him. I didn't even want him dead."
"I know." Amras nudges him into a nearby alcove and presses in beside him, a solid warmth along Celegorm's side.
Celegorm twists his lips. "I probably stopped more people dying, in fact. If he had his way half his army would have gone with him, and they would have all died alongside him. They should be grateful we didn't let that happen."
Amras hums. "Sure."
There's something skittering under his skin, something unfamiliar and sharp that makes him aim a kick at the stone wall. "He was stupid to swear an obligation to Beren in the first place. Stupid to believe that meant he had to pay it back with his life."
"I know." Amras leans back against the wall. "Still a terrible thing."
"What I did?" Celegorm snarls. "You weren't there, you don't know-"
"What you and Curvo did, what Finrod did, what our father did." Amras shrugs. "Take your pick. There's enough blame for everyone, no need to give it all to one person."
"I don't- I don't blame Finrod for dying!"
"Yes, you do." Amras looks over at him, and suddenly looks nothing like the little brother Celegorm would take out hunting. "Of course you do."
Celegorm frowns. "Are you saying I'm...I'm right?"
Amras snorts. "Not in the slightest. But you didn't do it for fun, Tyelko. Even you aren't that cruel."
"Why did I do it, then?" Celegorm snarls. "If you're such an expert."
Amras rolls his eyes. "Don't get angry at me. And you had watched your home and your people burn, and sought refuge with Finrod only for his noble sacrifice to threaten to bring him into our fucking mess and drive you from another home." He shrugs at Celegorm’s look, as the words resonate against something in his chest he hadn’t realised was there. "I'm your brother. I'm also not an idiot. You didn't want to lose something else again."
The lament rises and then falls, another voice joining in and weaving around and below the first until it reaches into his chest and gently wrapping around his heart in a heavy weight that somehow has always been there, just drawn out by the music soaring through him.
“Lost it anyway, didn’t I?” he says quietly.
“In your own, very fucked up way, a little part of you was trying to protect him.” Amras leans against him, and with a sigh drops his head down onto Celegorm’s shoulder. “But good intentions don’t mean much when they go wrong, and you can’t deny there were bad ones there as well.”
Celegorm is biting his lip so hard he can taste blood. “I was so angry.”
Amras hums. “So was I.” He doesn’t need to say what he’s thinking of, not to Celegorm. “But we don’t get to choose who lives and who doesn’t. Nobody does.”
Celegorm tips his head back against the stone. The lament rises and falls and rises again, and he slowly puts one arm around his brother’s shoulders as they listen.
0-o-0-o-0
He isn’t greeted with condemnation.
Some part of him is surprised at that.
A herald calls out their names, the last notes of Finrod’s lament still hanging in the air, and Celegorm sees his brothers all rise to their feet. Maedhros is in the centre of the high table at the other end of the courtyard, Silmaril gleaming at his throat, and Fingon is too slow to grab him as he straight up vaults over the table and hurries down through the courtyard. "Tyelko, Telvo," Maedhros says through a wide grin. "I didn't know if you would make it."
Maedhros draws them both into an embrace, and Celegorm can't bring himself to pull away. Next to him, Amras laughs and wraps an arm around Maedhros. "Nice to see you too, Nelyo. Sorry for crashing the party."
"Don't be ridiculous." Maedhros pulls back and studies them both. "You look well, both of you. We have some time. Come on, someone will set places for you." His smile turns wry. "As far away from Orodreth as possible, if I'm honest, but still up at the high table."
Celegorm looks up there. Fingon is smiling softly, and raises his glass when he sees Celegorm looking. Maglor is half-up out of his seat, Caranthir stood up completely, and then his gaze moves along the table and he sees Curufin.
Celegorm rushes to him. "You're okay," he says frantically, pulling Curufin up from his seat and grasping at his shoulders. "You're okay. Good, that's good." He grips Curufin's chin and tilts it to one side, studying the long scar across his temple that disappears beneath his hair. "Last time I saw you, you were unconscious."
Curufin smiles wryly. "A year is a long time. I'm fine."
Celegorm has spotted the walking stick resting against Curufin's chair, the ever so slight tremor in his hands as he grips Celegorm's wrists. He doesn't say anything. The last time he had seen Curufin he had been barely clinging to consciousness long enough to hand over the hunting horn still sitting at Celegorm’s hip, bandages around his head spotted through with blood. Compared to that, Celegorm will take this.
A year is such little time, and yet it feels like an age.
Maglor whispers a hurried outline of the next few days in their ears as he embraces them both. Caranthir clasps Celegorm's shoulder in a grip so tight it hurts. "Fuck this up for us and I will hurt you," he whispers. “I have a lot of things in a very delicate balance, and I do not need you tipping the scales.”
Celegorm's grin sharpens. "I don't know what you mean, dear brother. And why isn't Amras getting the same warning?"
"Because Amras doesn't have the attention span of an excitable puppy," Maglor says wryly. "Behave. For Nelyo."
"I'm not going to ruin this," Celegorm snaps. It comes out sharper than he might have intended, and Amras digs an elbow into his side. "Is there anything to eat? We've been riding for days."
There are places laid out for them both at the end of the table. Celegorm turns towards them, and then hesitates.
"Fuck it," he mutters under his breath.
He turns and walks down the length of the table until he is standing in front of Fingon and Maedhros, sat hand in hand, two Silmarils shining at their throats.
He bows at the waist, hand over his heart. "My Kings."
Fingon huffs a laugh, quiet enough that Celegorm only just hears it. "Welcome back, Celegorm the Hunter. Join us."