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“Ah! Eru, yes!”
Maedhros shuddered and bucked and waited with thundering heart for the wire to close around his throat, for the barbs to pierce beneath his jaw and begin their rending. In Angband the Enemy had bound his thralls thus, with forked and rusted iron, curbing even the strongest souls to his hand, making his ownership both visible and felt.
But there was no wire. There was only Fingon, still moving within him, gasping: “Russo, ai, Russo, Russanya…” That sweet voice, so long beloved, sang in his ear, and in his mind, and in his breast. Maedhros was not slaved to him, as an automaton, bound and ready to be led. He was cocooned and blanketed, lifted and enfolded, tenderly, warmly. His spirit could barely compass the reach of Fingon’s love.
It was in his bones: the binding.
In his very heart, indeed.
Fingon had always wished to be wed. Since they were youths, fumbling and giggling in Finwë’s orchard, reaching their first peaks together as they kissed and wound around each other and strained to keep their voices low. His choice was made and spoken; his vows pledged, even then.
But Maedhros feared it. He feared owning and being owned, flinched from the bitterness of love gone dark and sharp and painful as his parents’ had, shrank from the tangled mess of Finwë’s House -- the painful legacy of the king’s desire.
That his own heart leaned toward Fingon’s was not in doubt. Not even in the worst of times, when their fathers’ mutual pain divided them and they could not speak without cutting fierce and deep. Not after Losgar, and the mountain, and the rescue. Not when Himring reared its barren shoulders, leagues from Mithrim, cold, restrained.
Maedhros would not name the One to wed, but he yearned, and would always turn, sunflower-like, to Fingon’s kisses, to the light in his eyes, to the eager touch of his strong, warm hands.
They had shared pleasure a thousand times, a thousand ways. Each in the other’s oiled grasp, or both together in Maedhros’ larger hand, clutched closer than close and gasping. Tangled belly to belly, breathless from endless kisses, a slow grind against each other dragging them to their mutual ends. On their knees: Maedhros choking himself greedily on Fingon, chasing the sparkling heat of a breathless climax, or Fingon hollow-cheeked and moaning, suckling like a starving thing. One gripped between the other’s thighs, on the bed or the floor or bent over a desk or a parapet or a fallen tree. Flung into bliss, splayed and writhing on each other’s searching fingers or their avid, seeking tongues.
But never this.
Maedhros had long disavowed his people’s gods, but he still remembered dread. Still held a small, unspoken space for Power. And Power bound, they said, with this specific act.
Fingon only laughed and picked apart his arguments -- why this touch, in this place, and not another of the many ways their bodies spoke and joined? The bond was in the naming, not the act. He laughed again and counted on his fingers: half a dozen yet unwed who happily partook. Manwë’s best beloved, once, he feared no wounds, no ties.
But Maedhros was an acolyte, unwilling and unchosen, of a darker, harsher Lord. He dared not test the touch or speak the words; feared with all his heart the breaching of that final barrier, the opening of those gates. His inner eye saw only the mindless thralls working stone in the blistering darkness, with wire at their necks and spikes in their tongues – so claimed, so lost, so bound.
There would never be another for him; there was only and ever Fingon, and he for Fingon in return. It should have been enough.
But Fingon had come to him out of the fog, that night before their council parted, each to his own wing of their last great battle, and for the first time ever his eyes were dark and deep with fear.
He had been bright and eager as they planned – a King’s high spirits buoying the tides – telling tales of certain victory and what would come after. But in Maedhros’ arms he shivered, gasping a garbled vision of fire and pain. Unsettled, Maedhros kissed him until he warmed and clung, whispering Maedhros’ name as if it were itself a vow, begging with his whole body. Pleading.
“Russo, Russanya, don’t make me leave you so, unwed!”
And what could he say, in the face of that desperate longing? All the good that remained in him was Fingon’s: it belonged to Fingon, came from Fingon and his impossible quest in those bleak mountains, from his faith and love and furious refusal to abandon Maedhros, from his mad determination where not even Fëanor’s other sons would try.
And so Maedhros bent again, and kissed that face like a flower, that soft mouth, those seeking hands. Let Fingon free him from his many layers of linen and wool, unbind his hair, and ease him down.
Slowly, where sometimes they were hurried in their eagerness, he tasted Fingon’s throat, his breast, the hollows of his wrists and elbows and ankles and hips, setting the power of his will to capture memories of perfection: this soft curve, that smooth plane, the texture of the skin of Fingon’s belly, the sweet, smoky scent of his desire.
Then Maedhros gave himself up to it in turn: to Fingon’s mouth teasing and tasting; to those strong hands mapping his sharp edges, smoothing and gentling; to the slick warmth of Fingon’s fingers finding their place within him, easing, stretching, sparking him to ardor even as his breath caught and his mind veered, again, to the rusted wires and the bitter, burning mines.
“Stay with me, Russo.” Oh, that was Fingon, tender, yet as always in command. Those were Fingon’s eyes, limpid and loving; Fingon’s hands, lifting his hips; Fingon – only Fingon – waiting, solid and warm as Maedhros’ body made space for him, as he opened and shivered and clung.
That was Fingon, speaking his vows, naming the One, rocking into Maedhros as the fire rose and caught him and he moved to match that perfect rhythm, thighs tight around Fingon’s hips, arms around his shoulders, lips against his lips, breathing the truth of their marriage into his beloved mouth, into his mind.
I take thee willingly in the sight of the One. I give thee myself, free and entire. If the thralls in the dark were laughing, Maedhros did not hear them.
Oh, the joy of it, the whirling, fierce delight! Ah, Eru! Yes!
And Fingon hid his face in Maedhros’ neck as he in turn cried out and shuddered and spilled from his soul, the wings of his spirit wrapping soft and warm around them.
No, there was no wire; only tenderness.
Only light.
Maedhros laughed with the surprise of it. He felt Fingon’s lips curve in an answering smile against his throat, felt that gentle humor thrumming in his bones.
What might they not do, now, after the battle’s end? Surely such love could bring nothing but victory.
Maedhros mused on it, lulled almost to dreaming by pleasure and the soft sound of Fingon humming. He lifted Fingon’s hand from where it rested on his heart, and kissed his golden fingers one by one.
With walls down and wars over, what a joy their life together would become!