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Kanafinwe’s guilt was going to kill them all.
Fingolfin placed his hand on his nephew’s back. “I will have Fingon sit with him,” he promised, knowing Maglor would never, ever allow Maedhros to be left alone. “Return to your room and rest before supper.”
He half expected him to protest, to point out that Maglor, not Fingolfin, was king, but he only nodded wearily and allowed himself to be pushed from the room.
Fingolfin watched him go, trudging wearily down the halls of the building that the Finweans now all shared.
Was opening his home - the stone palace the Feanorians had built - to his newly arrived relatives a gesture of goodwill or more signs of his madness? Fingolfin could not be sure. He had almost resisted, out of sheer stubbornness, but with Maedhros healing in the palace, he had known Fingon would want to be close to him.
And he was weary, and tired of living in tents.
When they had arrived Maglor had immediately called for his people to construct homes for Fingolfin’s followers, even before Fingon had rescued Maedhros. Clever as he was, he had even managed to word it in such a way that it did not seem like charity, so even the most stubborn of Fingolfin’s followers had accepted.
Supper.
Fingolfin wondered who had come up with the idea of them eating supper as a family, now that they all lived in the palace together? It could not have been Maglor’s idea initially, though he had been the one to formally suggest it.
Scanning his eyes over his assembled relatives he found his answer. Findarato.
Yes, Finrod, who would quickly finish his own meal, then bid his brothers farewell and go to stand at Maglor’s shoulder, urging the king to eat in vain or playing songs on his harp in an attempt to make him smile. Finrod, who had not wished to leave Aman appeared to be attempting to put things back the way they had once been.
Finrod, pale and shining, looked out of place beside Maglor, with his dark hair and his sunken eyes. One cheek bore a bruise from Fingon, who had attacked him after learning he had abandoned Maedhros. It should have healed weeks ago, but Maglor seemed to have no energy left to put his body back together.
So the bruise remained.
It was tragic, really, to watch Finrod smile and tell his cousin how delicious the food was, putting his hands on his shoulders and squeezing. Maglor would eat one, perhaps two bites of whatever Caranthir had piled on his plate, then sip his wine in silence.
The Eldar could live on very little, but still-
This cannot go on.
“Eat,” he said, placing the toast on Maglor’s desk. It was early in the morning, Fingon was sitting with Maedhros, and Maglor had been working alone in his study before Fingolfin had entered.
The King blinked at it, startled, as though he hadn’t heard the door open and Fingolfin come in.
“I am standing here until that is finished,” he threatened.
Maglor looked back at the papers on his desk. “You will be standing there a long time.”
Fingolfin pulled a chair from beside the fire and sat, staring at his nephew intently. For a long time, neither of them spoke, and Maglor continued to work in silence.
Maglor set his quill aside, finally looking up at him. “What do you care?”
“If you fade, Kanafinwe, what then? This shallow peace you have brokered? Do you truly think it would last.”
“Nelyo is the rightful-“
“Nelyofinwe does not remember his own name at present,” scolded Fingolfin. “Your Sindarin allies, I believe, have stated they will treat only with you, so I imagine that, should Turkafinwe take the throne in the event of your demise, we would not survive long.”
Maglor was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Cirdan is not my ally,” he said simply. “He tolerates us is all.”
“Would he tolerate King Turkafinwe?”
They both knew the answer to that. If Celegorm ruled, then Curufin would always be whispering in his ear. That was where the true power would lie.
Maglor managed to eat nearly half of one slice of toast, and Fingolfin counted that as a success.
But Maglor grew worse instead of better.
Oh he put on a show for his subjects, charming them with beautiful words, even dabbing makeup over his bruise and the bags under his eyes.
But his family knew better.
Fingolfin knew how well and truly fucked they were when Caranthir came to him. The irritable Feanorian barged into his room, crossed his arms over his chest and announced, “Kanafinwe is dying. He will accept no help from me, so unless you want Turkafinwe to take the crown, I suggest you do something about it.”
“He will not listen.”
“Then make him.” The third son of Finwe scowled. “You are his elder, he has always respected you.”
“His guilt is eating him,” Fingolfin said quietly. “I can offer him personal forgiveness for the ships-“ because that had never been Maglor’s fault, the boy had never disobeyed his father “- but I cannot touch the guilt he carries for his brother’s torment.”
“He was only obeying Nelyo’s orders,” said Caranthir. “Nelyo ordered that no rescue should be attempted if he were to fail.”
Fingolfin sighed. “What would you have me do, Carinistir?”
Black eyes stared back at him, unimpressed. Clearly he thought Fingolfin ought to have figured that out by now. “As his younger brother I cannot take him in hand, but you could.”
And then he was gone, leaving Fingolfin to wonder if he had misunderstood him. Because surely Caranthir was not insinuating that he spank the Regent King like a child?
You are his elder.
Fingolfin wished Caranthir would speak fewer riddles and just tell him what he wanted.
‘Never hurt someone when they are already down,’ his father had told him. But if he did not -
‘Kanafinwe is dying.’
His mind made up, Fingolfin pushed himself to his feet and hoped he was not about to destroy the delicate peace between his people and Maglor’s.
It was late, but rather than sleeping, Maglor was with his brother.
Maedhros was, as always, asleep, his chest barely rising and falling. Fingolfin did not look at the elder Feanorian, who had always been so protective of his brothers, and would no doubt be horrified by Maglor’s current state.
Fingon was out on a hunt, so Fingolfin had brought Finrod instead, telling his nephew only that he needed to speak to the Regent alone, so could Finrod please watch Maedhros?
Finrod had been more than willing to assist.
Maglor glanced up as they entered and sighed. “I suppose I am being sent back to work, uncle?”
“I wish to speak with you.”
The regent King sighed. “He was awake earlier,” he said as he stood. “If he wakes again, Findarato, come and find me.”
As Maglor disappeared out the door, Fingolfin met Finrod’s eyes and shook his head. “Don’t,” he mouthed.
Finrod sat down in Maglor’s vacated chair and nodded.
They went to Maglor’s study, carefully shutting the door behind them, and the King slumped into his chair with a groan, then gestured to his empty desk. His voice had a bite as he asked, “No toast, uncle? Have you given me up for dead then?”
There was no point in dancing around his point. “If you ate now, Kanafinwe, I fear the whipping that I intend to give you would make you ill.”
Maglor scoffed, but made no move to leave or to call for guards. “Is this penance for the burning at Losgar, then uncle? Have you been biding your time until I was too weak to stop you?”
“You are dying, Kanafinwe, not because you require my forgiveness, but because you cannot - and will not - forgive yourself.”
Maglor drummed slender fingers on his desk. “Very well.”
He had expected Maglor to protest. But instead, the king simply stood, removed his pants, and laid over his desk.
Fingolfin felt ill, because the nephew he knew would never have taken a punishment without a fight.
The haughty, spoilt boy from Tirion was gone. Whatever lived in his place was a fractured shell, being eaten alive by his own guilt and pulled apart at the seams by the stress of his position.
I love you, Kanafinwe, he thought to himself as picked up Maglor’s discarded belt, folding it in half and testing the feel of it. And I do not know what else to do.
Maglor wore a long shirt that had been tucked into his breeches, and Fingolfin pushed it up his back, nearly to his shoulders. The king said nothing, drumming his fingers on the desk as though he were bored. Fingolfin recognized the tune as a lullaby Maglor had written for his brothers.
“I have not heard your harp in some time,” he remarked.
“There has been little reason for it.”
“It brings you joy. That is reason enough.”
Maglor only sighed. “Get this over with, uncle.”
Very well. He studied Maglor’s pale skin, looking for areas where the minstrel still carried any fat or muscle, where strikes would do less damage.
His back was out of the question, Fingolfin could count every vertebrae in his spine, so he decided instead to aim for his ass and thighs. There was at least some amount of padding still left there.
Mind made up, Fingolfin cracked the belt over Maglor’s backside. The minstrel grunted and shifted,
Fingolfin was not gentle. There was no reason, not if he truly wished to drive his point home, and Maglor quickly began to pant.
When he began to openly sob, Fingolfin rested one hand on the back of his neck. But he still did not stop.
There would no doubt be welts on his ass and thighs when Fingolfin was done, and he prayed to any Vala that might still listen that the damage would not last as long as the bruise from Fingon had.
Glancing up at his nephew to ensure the man was still with him mentally, Fingolfin sighed to see that he was biting his wrist, no doubt to stop himself from crying out. Removing his hand from Maglor’s neck he gently pried his mouth open, pulling his bitten hand free. He did not appear to have broken the skin, which was something to be grateful for.
“Please,” the King gasped. “Do not let them hear-”
At least he had enough shreds of dignity left that he did not want his brothers and cousins to know he was being disciplined like a child over his own desk.
Fingolfin rubbed his shoulders, murmuring “I am almost done, boy. Bite your shirt if you must, but not your flesh.”
Maglor merely grit his teeth and clenched his fists as the belt struck him again.
He was nearing his absolute limit, as far as Fingolfin could tell, and soon he stopped, letting the belt fall to the ground and instead rubbing Maglor’s back until the younger elf could breathe without shaking.
Fingolfin half carried Maglor to a couch near the window, sitting down and pulling his nephew into his arms.
The King whimpered and curled into him.
With the moonlight spilling over his pale, bruised, and tear stained face, Maglor looked horrifically young. He had been, by all accounts, a good king, wise and powerful, but it seemed that he should never have needed to be.
Fingolfin held him tightly, as he would one of his own sons, and held a glass of wine to his lips, helping Maglor to sip from it slowly. He had mixed water into the wine to dilute it, not wishing for Maglor to become inebriated or ill.
There was a fruit bowl beside the couch, although the only person Fingolfin had ever seen eat out of it was young Celebrimbor, when he had visited his uncle. Fingolfin chose an apple and removed a knife from his pocket, carefully cutting the fruit into slices. “Eat,” he ordered, bringing it to Maglor’s mouth.
His nephew obeyed.
One small bite at a time he was able to feed Maglor nearly half the apple before the king moaned and pleaded, “No more.”
Fingolfin set it aside. He gave him more of the diluted wine instead, then simply allowed Maglor to lean into him and tremble slightly.
“Are you cold?”
“I am always cold, these days.”
That was never good. Fingolfin left him alone for a moment, adding more wood to the fire and getting a heavy cloak from a peg by the door.
Sitting down once again, he wrapped Maglor in the cloak as though it were a blanket, and pulled him a bit closer, hoping to offer him some warmth from his own body.
“It’s selfish,” Maglor whispered. “To complain about a chill, after-“ watery silver eyes studied Fingolfin, and he murmured, “In comparison to you.”
“You did not live that horror, Kanafinwe, there is no need to compare yourself to us.”
Maglor nodded and leaned into him once again. Fingolfin ran his fingers through his nephew’s dark hair for several minutes, until Maglor’s breathing had evened out, no longer catching from barely hidden tears.
“In the morning, I am going to bring you breakfast, and you are going to eat it, am I understood?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“You must live, Kanafinwe,” Fingolfin pleaded, holding Maglor’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “Not for the sake of your people, but for your brother. Do not leave Nelyafinwe.”
Heaping such guilt on him seemed cruel, but judging by the shift on Maglor’s face, it had worked. “Yes, uncle.”
Fingolfin helped Maglor to pull on his breeches once again, and helped him to limp to his room, keeping an ear out so that no one would see the king in his weakened and disheveled state.
Maglor stumbled to his bed, moaning and falling on it, and no doubt he would have fallen asleep in his clothes if Fingolfin had not helped him to undress.
The first thing he did was pull off Maglor’s boots and drop them by the door. He slid the silver rings from Maglor’s fingers, and unclipped his jeweled earrings, and unfastened his necklace, setting the jewelry in a dish beside his bed. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, hanging it over the bed frame so it would not be too wrinkled.
Fingolfin heaped blankets over him, even though he doubted it would be enough to keep him warm, not when the chill was coming from his fractured soul. By the time he drew the curtains shut, Maglor was seemingly asleep, so Fingolfin checked him one last time.
Briefly, he considered crawling into bed with him, to offer whatever warmth he might be able to, but he had infantilized the king enough for the day, and decided not to push him any further. Maglor had not crossed the ice, he was unused to the physical boundaries that had been blurred between those that had.
So Fingolfin stepped away, promising himself that he would keep an eye on him from then on, and made to leave.
But a soft sigh made him pause, and Maglor whispered, “I will live, uncle.”
He nodded, although most likely his nephew could not see it, and left.
The next morning, Fingolfin brought a plate of toast to Maglor’s study, setting it on his desk. The Feanorian was sitting stiffly in his chair and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the meal.
“You are going to eat,” he said firmly. “Or I am going to punish you again, Kanafinwe, and with a horse whip this time.”
Maglor considered. “One slice.”
“One and a half.”
Maglor nodded and slowly pulled the plate toward himself.