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He stands a few steps away, deliberately down hill, likely because he’ll otherwise overshadow Fingolfin, even now. He bows his head as he recounts the words, relinquishing his claim to kingship and swearing Fingolfin fealty, and perhaps all the things he should’ve said long ago, but something in Fingon’s chest still clenches to hear them. Maedhros looks broken, somehow, though he’s healed much and Fingon’s seen him worse. His robes are less grand than he deserves and scars still mar his skin. His copper hair drifts over his shoulders in the light breeze, and Fingolfin listens in silence, surrounded by a sea of witnesses to Maedhros’ shame.
Fingon understands, of course, the frown on his father’s face. He has little love for Fëanor, but Maedhros isn’t his father, and he’s gone through enough. Some of his brothers still have fire and shadows in their eyes, but they’ll follow Fingolfin if Maedhros does. Finally, Maedhros is done his long speech. Fingon’s heard it many times before, practiced in whispers in the dark when he thought Fingon asleep. Fingon always thought it sounded wise and noble, even humble, or as humble as any Noldor can seem. Maedhros is quiet after, and Fingolfin takes his time.
Eventually he says, voice deep and hushed, “You watched the ships burn, and you did nothing.” Maedhros is strong enough not to wince, but Fingon can see it in his handsome body: the tension that rushes in and is quickly smothered. He doesn’t deny it. Fingon knows his father isn’t cruel and wants to accept Fëanor’s people back, but there’s been too much hurt to heal easily. When it’s clear that Maedhros won’t speak in his defense, though Fingon knows Maedhros would’ve come back for him if it weren’t for Fëanor’s sudden madness, Fingolfin adds, “You cannot expect to be forgiven on mere words. After all that has passed, how can I know that any son of Fëanor can be truly loyal or bound to another king?”
“I submit myself to you fully,” Maedhros answers, and everything in his strong, tall figure is, strangely, submissive despite his stature. His eyes are half-lidded, and it’s almost as if he doesn’t dare look up through them, though there’s no fear in him. It’s another bout of pain for Fingon, who nearly looks away.
Maedhros is already moving before Fingon can. He takes another step, then lowers, sinking demurely to his knees at Fingolfin’s feet, not as a soldier to a lord but a servant to a master. He lays one hand and the other’s air in his lap, the damaged wrist veiled under his sleeve. His robes, light and silken since he’s been weak, already dip down his broad shoulders. He’s strikingly beautiful, no less for all Morgoth’s done to him, and Fingon has to suppress the urge, once again, to rush out and save him. Now, Maedhros should have no more need of a rescue, but the fear of the times they were apart will never truly leave Fingon’s mind.
“I swear myself to you,” Maedhros murmurs, gentle and so very tempting. It’s more than he should have to say, and Fingon hopes his father knows that and stops it now, for Maedhros will likely do anything to have his freedom and time with Fingon—he’s said as much too many times. Fingon just didn’t realize the extent. Maedhros’ eyes fall closed, and he promises, “I belong to you and to your sons from this day on.” Fingon’s throat tightens.
Fingolfin’s head barely tilts, but his eyes dart sideways, catching Fingon’s, who hurriedly looks away. He wants to stop this, but he’s in no position to. Not after he left alone. His brothers and the others of Fingolfin’s close kin that have attended are uncomfortably silent. Even without the contact of their eyes, Fingon gets the sick feeling that his father knows.
They’re both drawn back to Maedhros a heartbeat later, because Maedhros has bent himself down, and at first Fingon thinks he’ll touch his forehead to the earth in his show of surrender, but then he touches his lips to the top of Fingolfin’s boot. His red hair spills down his cheeks to cover him, but Fingon can still make out the pink curve of his mouth, lingering over the dark fabric. The daylight’s already waning, but Fingon can see enough for his breath to catch. Maedhros drags the kiss on far longer than he has to, then drifts meekly to the other foot and does the same. When he finishes, he rises back to his knees, still bent. The Maedhros Fingon knew before Morgoth would never have done that, never even conceived of it, but they’ve all made sacrifices and changed, not all for the better.
Fingolfin, who shows none of the shock on his face that he must share, asks tightly, “You mince words with me, Maedhros. To whom do you then belong—to me, or to my sons?”
Maedhros, to his credit, doesn’t waver. Fingon still knows why that was thrown in. Maedhros recites evenly, “To my king.”
Fingolfin answers, “Prove it.”
“Adar,” Fingon says, before he can stop himself, but the sudden, burning gaze of his father silences him a moment later. He’d said it admonishing, but he’s chastised in return and bows his head in apology. He can’t afford to make it worse.
Only when clearly satisfied with Fingon’s obedience does Fingolfin turn back to Maedhros and announce, “I wish to welcome you, and I will if I deem you worthy of my trust. But it will take more than a kiss to convince me. If you mean your words, you will open your mouth that has been full of your father’s treachery and the enemy’s lies, and you will use it to serve your new master.”
Maedhros nods curtly in complete acceptance. Then he opens his mouth wide, his pink tongue out and weighing down his plush bottom lip, and he tilts up to face his new king. His eyes remain veiled, averted, as though he hasn’t earned the right to meet Fingolfin’s gaze. Fingon can’t take his eyes away from the slender curve of Maedhros’ long neck and the soft flesh of his lips, the glistening moisture on his tongue. It brings back memories not meant for these public spaces, of hushed voices and trembling hands from Valar to the healer’s tent. It wasn’t a side of Maedhros Fingon ever thought he’d see bent to someone else. Yet he understands that this is, strangely, necessary.
Maedhros displays himself for a few lewd moments, awaiting orders that don’t come. Then he bends again, this time tilting his chin and ducking lower, and the tip of his tongue presses flat against the toe of Fingolfin’s boot. He pushes in hard, taking the taste and not daring to go lightly into his duties. Then he drags his tongue slowly from the very tip to the base of Fingolfin’s foot, where he turns and licks along the side. He goes top to bottom, then completes a full circle, lapping back over the paths until Fingolfin’s boot is shining. Fingon finds his fists clenched hard at his sides, but rashness is what got them into this mess, and he holds his tongue. Maedhros’ expression is calm, brave, and there is no flush on his cheeks like there would be if his mouth where on Fingon’s foot, running up his ankle and calf and his inner thigh. Fingon always thought Maedhros looked beautiful with his face as bright as his hair. But this isn’t an offer of one sinful body to another: it’s just begging for forgiveness.
When Maedhros shifts to Fingolfin’s other foot, he does the same thing. He moves slow and lasting, like he’ll savour the taste, debauched though it is, as a show of his ownership. Fingolfin merely watches him, face impressively even, though his shoulders are slightly tense at his sides—it looks as though he wants to thread his fingers in Maedhros’ long, silken hair. Fingon always has whenever he’s had the chance. Maedhros licks and licks, until his degradation is too much for Fingon to bear, and he hisses, “Adar, please...”
Fingolfin is, in the end, merciful. He finally says, “You may stop.” Maedhros obeys and sits back up, looking every bit a statue, a pretty doll, devoid of anything but servitude. Fingon knows the flame is in there, but it makes this no easier to watch. He swims in relief when Fingolfin declares, “You are forgiven. It is clear to me that you have not the brash pride or selfishness of your father, and our people have suffered long enough. If it is yours and your brothers’ wish, our houses may join again, together as they were meant to be, though none should forget this lesson.”
Maedhros says only, “Thank you,” but there’s a spark in his eyes of victory, and that relieves Fingon most of all.
Fingolfin answers only, “You may leave.”
Maedhros rises to his feet without another word, though he remains graceful and unobtrusive. His eyes catch Fingon’s as he turns to leave, and something quick passes between them. Fingon looks to his father, who watches him carefully, but nods.
Fingon leaves, following after Maedhros once again, ready to ease his pain.