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Chapter Text

Luthien was trying to draw breath to Sing through the weight of the paws on her chest when she realized the canine attempting to climb on top of her was a hound, not a wolf, and it was vigorously licking her face, not trying to eat her.

“Huan, down,” a voice barked sharply.

The massive creature sat, ears drooped low and eyes wide and hopeful. He was still two-thirds on top of her.

“Not what I meant, mutt,” the white-haired ellon said, hauling the hound back by the scruff. “I’m sorry,” he told her, meeting her gaze with keen grey eyes. “He thinks all elves are friends, and he makes friends by sitting on people.”

“I’m not harmed,” Luthien said slowly. “Only slightly compressed.”

The ellon barked a sharp laugh, flashing canines that were nearly as sharp as his hound’s. He was clad in hunting leathers and wore an unstrung bow across his shoulders that looked like it might match Beleg’s for draw-weight. He offered a hand to help her up, still holding Huan by the scruff with his other hand. His palms were calloused with his bow, and also from a sword.

His keen eyes narrowed as he took her in, and Luthien squared her shoulders. “I’m Luthien, daughter of Thingol,” she announced before he could accuse her of it.

His head tilted. “Celegorm, son of Feanor,” he replied. “That’s Huan,” he added, tone completely different from the way he’d said his own name.

It pulled a smile to her mouth against her will; he loved his dog, which was strangely adorable in the kinslaying horrors from across the sea. “Hello Huan,” she said gravely, as though meeting a diplomat from another land.

Huan barked, tail waving furiously.

This made Celegorm, son of Feanor, smile too. “You’re far from home,” he said, clearly and deliberately dropping his shoulders and easing his stance.

Luthien decided to match him, relaxing. “My beloved has gone off alone to do a stupid thing, so I’m going to help him.”

“Celegorm, what the hell are you doing-” a new ellon emerged from the brush, winded and clearly annoyed. He broke off sharply when he saw Luthien.

“My brother Curo,” Celegorm said. “Curufin, son of Feanor.”

“Well met, Curufin, son of Feanor,” Luthien said gravely. “I am Luthien, daughter of Thingol.”

Curufin narrowed his eyes, but his furious glare was directed at his brother.

“Huan likes her,” Celegorm said, shrugging.

Curufin scoffed, but he too eased out of his stiff, combat-ready stance. “Your mutt likes everyone.”

Huan proved this very likely true by crossing the clearing and licking Curufin’s face thoroughly while the Noldo swore and struggled not to fall.

“What’s the stupid thing?” Celegorm asked, going back to the matter at hand.

Luthien grimaced. “My father demanded, if he was going to hand me over to an unworthy man, one of the Silmarils from Morgoth’s crown to be my bride-price.”

“Is that what he wanted with them,” Curufin muttered, still holding Huan away from his face with both hands.

Celegorm frowned. “Why didn’t you just leave?” he asked. “Run away together? He can’t actually stop you from getting married, that’s between you and Eru.”

Luthien shrugged. “We considered it,” she admitted. “But proving my father wrong felt more important.”

Celegorm laughed delightedly at this. “I understand that,” he said feelingly.

Curufin made a grumbling noise, but it seemed to be an agreement, and that just seemed to be his default. “Do you have a plan?” Curufin demanded.

“No,” Luthien admitted. “He’s been captured.”

“Wait,” Curufin said. “Who’s the man?”

“Beren, son of Barahir,” Luthien said.

“Aw, shit,” Celegorm said.

Curufin said a much more vehement curse.

“Captured?” Celegorm asked.

Luthien nodded. “In Taur-im-Gaurhoth.”

Curufin said the curse word again.

“He’s with our cousin,” Celegorm explained, hastily gathering up his pack from nearby. “Who we actually don’t want to die.”

Curufin was already outfitted for travel, and he whistled a few notes. Two horses emerged from the trees.

Celegorm said, “You can ride Huan if you’d rather not ride with one of us.”

Luthien looked at the brothers, looked at the horses, and then looked at the hound. Huan chuffed happily, tail circling wildly.

She rode the hound.

Curufin proved a skilled swordsman, and Celegorm as accomplished an archer as the bow he carried suggested. And Huan changed from a sweet, goofy puppy into the bane of werewolves, and bested even Gorthaur himself. As the Lieutenant of Angband fled in disgrace and Luthien felt the song of the tower that had once been called Tol Sirion, Huan was already trotting across the bridge, tail high and nose to the ground.

Celegorm bowed her ahead of them with a flourish of his hands that she suspected must be a Noldor courtly gesture, so she followed the hound.

They followed Huan’s nose to a blood-stained dungeon, where, as Huan rounded the doorway, an elf made an obvious noise of dismay.

“So it’s really to be wolves,” someone muttered.

“Huan?” another elf asked.

Huan barked.

“That’s not a wolf,” the first voice said.

“No,” the second replied. “It’s my cousin’s hunting hound. Celeg?”

“Hi Finrod,” Celegorm called, leaning around her to stick his head through the doorway. “You look like you’re having fun.”

Her cousin Finrod laughed in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Celegorm shrugged, shooing her into the dungeon. “Come on, Curo,” he demanded. “I can’t open their shackles.”

Curufin followed them in, already retrieving tools from his pack, slung off one shoulder so he could get into it.

“Luthien!” Beren cried joyfully.

She knelt to clutch him close and press kisses all over his face. He returned the gesture. “You’re not hurt?” she asked quietly.

Beren shook his head. “Finrod protected us all,” he murmured.

Luthien glanced at her cousin.

“I owe him,” Finrod said, shrugging.

“Nitwit,” Curufin grumbled, already prising bolts from the wall to free the captives.

“This feels excessive for the debt,” Celegorm agreed.

“It’s a life debt,” Finrod snapped. “Which means he has to live.”

Celegorm said, “But not walk directly into a trap and then save him from it while dying myself.”

Huan chose this moment to lick Finrod’s face, so her cousin didn’t get to reply. Which didn’t mean he didn’t try, it just meant he got a mouthful of the hound’s tongue instead of getting any words out. As he yelped and spluttered, Curufin freed him too.

“I’ll need a hammer and anvil to get the cuff off,” he reported as he pulled the long chain out of all their wrist-cuffs. “And a better chisel.”

“You don’t have your good chisel? I’m shocked,” Finrod grumbled.

“We saved your life,” Curufin retorted.

“I mean,” Celegorm said, “It was mostly Huan and Luthien.”

Finrod stuck his tongue out at Curufin, and managed to dodge as Huan attempted to lick his face some more.

“Sire?” one of the other elves asked.

“Right,” Finrod said. “Edrahil, you and the others are going back to Nargothrond.”

“My lord, no,” the elf, Edrahil, said.

The others muttered agreement.

“We’re definitely not going back,” Celegorm reported, “As Orodreth kicked us out.”

“Which was probably merited,” Curufin grumbled. “I did make some… unconsidered comments about you.”

Finrod rolled his eyes. “Edrahil,” he said firmly.

“My lord,” Edrahil pleaded.

“I need you to tell Orodreth what happened, and for him to send a garrison to hold here. Gorthaur cannot be allowed to retake the tower.”

Edrahil wilted. “Yes my lord,” he murmured.

“And the rest of us are going to Angband,” Finrod said, looking at each of them in turn.

“Nope,” Celegorm said.

Curufin shook his head. “I have weaponry you can take, though.”

“You’re not coming?” Luthien asked. “I would have thought, with your Oath,” she trailed off, wondering if that had been insensitive.

Celegorm shook his head. “To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well,” he said, and she realized he was quoting something. “The Doom of Mandos,” he explained when he saw her face. “We’d only ruin your chances.”

Finrod sighed. “Where are you two off to then?” he asked.

Curufin shrugged.

Celegorm grinned, though. “Oh, the usual. We return to our brother with our tails between our legs. Maedhros will yell at us for upsetting poor little Orodreth. This’ll please him, though. He’d’ve been furious indeed if we’d gotten you killed, Angolodh.”

“That’s because I’m his favorite cousin,” Finrod said cheerfully.

Luthien smiled; he was her favorite cousin, though Galadriel had been a wonderful companion while she’d been there– it had been a long time since she’d had a female friend who understood what it was to have power.

“You’re really not,” Curufin said dryly.

“No,” Finrod agreed, smiling. “Talk to me about these weapons you have.”

“Won’t help us,” Luthien said, “Not that I don’t appreciate it. But we can’t fight our way in.”

“That’s true,” Curufin said, frowning. “Wait.” He set his pack down and knelt to rifle through it. He dug to the very bottom, muttering to himself.

Luthien watched him with her head tilted. He was supposed to be the worst of them, the most like his father. And he was obviously gruff and easily annoyed, obviously anti-social and ill-mannered, and yet, he had helped her. He had never hesitated, in the battle with the wolves or in his task in freeing the captives.

And Finrod was obviously fond of him, despite their bickering.

“Aha,” Curufin muttered. He emerged from his pack victorious, and shoved a pair of pliers at her.

Luthien stared down at them. They weren’t pliers, she realized. They were cutters, like scissors but with leather wrapped handles and broad, reinforced blades. The cutting surface gleamed.

“They’re my best snips,” Curufin snapped. “Mithril-forged from a single block, Sung sharp. Basically indestructible, so don’t wreck them.”

Luthien continued to stare at the snips.

“How else are you going to get the gems out of the crown?” Curufin snapped.

Oh, Beren mouthed silently.

Luthien looked past the snips to the Noldo kneeling beside his pack. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Curufin huffed. “Fuck your father anyway,” he grumbled. “And mine as well, Powers save us all.”

Luthien grinned. “Come on,” she told her beloved and her cousin.

Huan barked.

“Go one then,” Celegorm said. “You know where to find me.”

Huan licked his face, tail waving like a flag.

Celegorm shook his ears roughly. “Be careful,” he murmured. “Stupid mutt.”

“Are you coming with us?” Luthien asked the hound.

Huan barked and leaned in to nuzzle her with his muzzle.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Luthien and Beren led the way out of Tol Sirion, leaving the Sons of Feanor to follow, saying their quiet goodbyes to their cousin along the way.

At the bridge, Curufin looked at Edrahil. “If you’re headed back to Nargothrond, Celebrin can get your shackles off better than I can here,” he said. “And more gently than I would anyway.”

“We’ll ask him,” Edrahil said warily.

Finrod patted his shoulder. “Go home, Edrahil. And give Orodreth my love.”

“Yes my lord,” Edrahil said glumly, and led the way.

“Want me to do yours?” Curufin asked Finrod, gesturing vaguely at Finrod’s wrists.

“No,” Finrod replied. “Beren and Luthien are going to dress as Draugluin and Thuringwethil and bring me back as a prisoner.”

Curufin and Celegorm both stared at him. “Who invented that plan?” Curufin snapped.

“I did,” Finrod replied. “Just now.”

“Thanks,” Beren said. “I hate it.”

“Have a better?” Finrod inquired.

“No,” Beren said easily. “Just going on record.”

“I hate you,” Curufin grumbled, shoved his shoulder, and mounted his horse.

“Don’t let him die,” Celegorm asked Huan. He gave Finrod a hug before mounting, though. “Be careful,” he told Beren and Luthien. “And, hey-” as a parting shot as he wheeled his mount, he touched Luthien’s mind with Osanwe and gave her the image and feeling of being near the Silmarils.

Luthien reeled under the compulsion of the gems. By the time she’d steadied herself, they were gone. “Well,” she said. “That’s.”

“What?” Finrod asked.

“He showed me the gems,” she answered. “I didn’t know they were so.”

“Compelling?” Finrod offered.

She nodded.

He hummed agreement. “Why do you think everyone wanted them?” he murmured.

Luthien touched Beren’s mind gently and gave him the image too. “Oof,” her beloved said.

They looked at each other. “So,” Finrod said. “Now you know.”

“Hopefully we won’t get caught in it,” Beren agreed. “Let’s go!”

Huan appeared with Draugluin’s coat and Thuringwethil’s cape, and they set off to the North.

Finrod gave an alarmingly accurate impression of being both battered, downtrodden and still defiant as he stumbled between them, the chain run through his cuffs secured only by Luthien’s hands, not any lock.

Beren, practicing growling like the wolf under his breath, didn’t seem to notice the way the each messenger of Angband they met eyed Finrod with a destructive greed, but Luthien did.

Finrod did too. He touched her mind with Osanwe, gently, and promised, It’s all right. I’m not afraid.

Why not? She asked curiously.

He winked at her under the curtain of his intentionally filthy golden hair. Between you and I and Beren, what force could stop us?

Luthien felt herself ease a little.

And then the mighty wolf at the gates challenged them to halt.

Carcharoth, Finrod told her silently. Gorthaur bragged of him to me.

“Move, Carcharoth,” Luthien snarled in her best impression of the Vampire. “Important missive for the master!”

“Impertinent bat,” the wolf growled in return. “Gorthaur ain’t said you were coming.”

Luthien sneered. “Why would he tell you, fleabag? It’s not a missive for Carcharoth.” She jerked her chin. “You want me to tell the Master you kept his prize from his hands?”

Carcaroth sniffed over Finrod, slavering jaws lingering near the bound elf’s throat.

Finrod trembled minutely, but stood firm.

“Mmm, Noldo,” Carcharoth rumbled. “Tasty.”

“Felagund himself,” Beren growled low. His impression of Draugluin was actually probably better than Luthien’s of the vampire. “So move it.”

Carhcaroth growled at him, and Beren ducked his muzzle and tail submissively. He was a wolf, and Carcharoth was a bigger one.

Thuringwethil, however, wasn’t a wolf. “Well?” Luthien demanded. “Move.”

Grumbling, Carcharoth yielded the gateway. “Strange things afoot,” he grumbled, with something that was almost comradery now. “Watch yourself, bat bitch. Your Gorthaur’s got his throat torn by a strange hound and an elf-witch.” He sniffed Beren again deeply. “Master’s in a mood.”

Beren chuffed, a hound-noise of affront and submission at once. He was really good at this. “Mayhap a new Noldo Prince to break will please him.”

“Mayhap,” Carcharoth agreed, laying down again with his muzzle on his paws.

Luthien swept past him, jerking Finrod’s chain even as she wished she dared apologize over Osanwe.

Finrod stumbled but followed, and Beren took the rear. And they headed into the depths of Angband.

Luthien walked like she knew where she was going, and it truly wasn’t hard to follow the miasma of evil and pain and fear straight to the heart of the fortress.

Beren stumbled in the gateway, for the throne room was full of the horror of death. But Luthien squared her shoulders and began to Sing.

And Finrod, straightening from his captive’s hunch, Sang with her, and the court fell into a hush.

Luthien Sang, and she danced, lightfooted and with Power as she had sung and danced in the dells of Doriath, before Love had stolen her heart. She danced for that love, and she Sang for hope and the promise of joy.

And the Court of Angband slept, as did their Dark Master. Beren mounted the throne, and Finrod followed him, keeping the bassline of the Song. Beren had the knife of Telchar, and prised free a silmaril.

Finrod, standing on the other arm, had Curufin’s best snips, and he clipped free the other two, quick, deft Noldor craftsman’s hands. His craft was the harp, she knew, but his fingers were no less deft than his smith-cousin’s.

Lightened by the removal of the silmarils, the crown began to tilt.

Hastily, as she Sang, Beren and Finrod scrambled off their perches and hurried to her side. Finrod, in exertion and alarm, fell out of the Song.

Morgoth stirred,

“Let’s go,” Beren hissed. He had shed Draugluin’s cloak to better climb, the same way Finrod had slid his cuff’s free from the chain Luthien no longer held.

Relief and fear cracked her Song, and it was time to go.

They fled, conscious all three of the court waking behind them, and the wolf ahead of them. “Sleep!” Luthien commanded of the wolf as he rose, snarling, to bar their way, and she shoved her hand towards him in a sharp gesture she could not have told the origin of.

The great wolf dropped as though a child’s doll cast aside at the end of a game.

Huan found them in Anfauglith, blood on his jaws from his hunt in the wilds. Luthien and Finrod kept pace with the hound afoot, and their beloved mortal rode the hound to keep up with them.

“East,” Finrod panted as they ran. “Pass of Aglon!”

Huan barked and led the way. Luthien, who had no great skill at navigation, except in her woods in Doriath, followed, hoping that path made sense.

The bellow of rage from Angband shook the very ground of Anfauglith.

“Time to run,” Finrod wheezed, and lengthened his stride. Huan’s lope turned to a gallop, and Luthien finally shed Thuringwethil’s shroud to lighten her own steps.

They were still running, and still all too aware of their pursuit when Ered Gorgoroth split into a pass. “Choice time,” Finrod panted. He seemed, despite his breathlessness, like he might go for ages yet. Huan was lathered, but his pace had not waned. Luthien was beginning to think she was the weak link in this chain.

“What choice?” Beren asked. Luthien was glad, because she wanted to know and hadn’t the breath to ask.

“Turn now for the Pass of Aglon–it’s closer to Doriath, but it’s a blind pass and there’s no telling what we’ll find when we hit the Girdle,” Finrod said, “Or we keep going for the March of Maedhros, which is the same distance as Doriath but on the plain, and we’re guaranteed to have an army waiting to defeat the group chasing us.”

Beren looked at Luthien.

Luthien would have once insisted they go straight home, but the thought that Beren, or Finrod would not be allowed past the Girdle made her hesitate. It was close to Nan Dungortheb, too, and that was dangerous for everyone. On the other side, there was an army to defeat Morgoth’s creatures, led by another of the Sons of Feanor, and once that would have been more reason to turn the other way, but the worst two had been kind to her, and they weren’t monsters at all. “The March,” she gasped.

Finrod nodded, and adjusted their course just a little.

Someone had been keeping a tight watch on the North, because they were more than a day’s distance from Himring when the cavalry charge surged around them and headed straight for their pursuit.

Four horsemen peeled off and looped around to ride beside them as they finally slowed their desperate flight. “Hi Finrod,” the leading Noldo said, sweeping his helmet off. “Who’re your friends?”

“Well Maglor, I assume you’ve met Huan,” Finrod returned cheerfully, gesturing at the hound.

“I have indeed,” Maglor Feanorion returned gravely. He offered a hand. “Want a ride?”

Finrod took it and let Maglor pull him up behind him. “That’s Beren son of Barahir on the dog, and Luthien daughter of Thingol.”

“May we offer you a ride, Lady?” another rider asked.

Luthien was too tired to argue about being behind a Noldo and let herself be pulled onto one of the horses. But the rider pushed the reins into her hand once she was seated, and did a peculiar bound from the horse’s back to the ground, back to the back of the next horse over, settling behind one of her compatriots to leave Luthien ahorse alone. “Thank you,” she called.

The rider winked.

Maglor, Finrod behind him, guided his horse beside hers. They were fine horses, clearly well trained at close-quarters maneuvers; she had heard the horsemen of the Gap were the finest cavalry in Beleriand, and it seemed to be true. “Princess, may I be the first to welcome you to the Marches!” he called, offering as much of a bow he could from horseback. “My brother is in command here, but he’s with our force and has tasked me with making you comfortable till his return. How may I be of service?”

“A meal and a bed would be more than I could ask for in this moment. And news,” she added, realizing she was actually curious. “Of your brothers, for I find myself fond of them.”

“Really?” Maglor laughed, bright and carefree. “You’d be the first of your people to say so, I think!”

“They were kind to me,” she answered.

“Celeg I would believe it of,” Maglor replied, “Though he hides it well. Curo, well,” he winked at her cheerfully. “I will take your word for it.”

“No,” Finrod agreed. “He was practically bearable!”

Maglor laughed again, and they thundered into the courtyard of the mightiest fortress Luthien had ever seen, horses slowing and wheeling around each other to break their momentum.

Luthien slithered to the ground once the horse had stopped. “Thank you,” she murmured to him, rubbing his nose. The horse chuffed softly and lipped her sleeve.

“He likes you,” the knight said, smiling warmly.

“He’s lovely,” Luthien answered.

“He knows,” she replied. “But I appreciate it all the same.”

“Thank you as well for sharing him,” Luthien said, “And more for sharing with your friend.”

She winked again, caught her horse by the muzzle, and headed for the stables.

Maglor had handed his horse off to a groom. “Normally I wouldn’t,” he confided in her, “But Maedhros would chop off my fingers if I didn’t do you proper deference as a guest in his house.”

“Actually,” Finrod said, “Is Curo here?” he asked. “I’d love for him to take these cuffs off now. He offered before, but they were useful, but now they’re chafing something terrible.”

“He’s in the forges, of course. Go on, you know the way.”

“Be nice, Cono,” Finrod ordered, and turned away.

Maglor lay a hand over his heart, deeply wounded. “I would never!” he cried. “Besides, Huan’ll eat me if I’m mean to her, huh boy?”

Huan chuffed contentedly, wandering over to lick Maglor’s cheek once.

Maglor patted his nose. “Hello to you too, you great terrible beast.” Then Maglor offered Beren a grin. “Hi, I’m Maglor,” and he offered a hand to shake in the mortal style.

Beren grinned and took it. “Beren,” he replied, and didn’t seem to mind they’d dropped the formality of patronymics.

“One room or two?” Maglor asked, looking between them.

“One,” Luthien said immediately. She wanted a nap, and she wanted it curled around Beren.

Beren nodded.

Maglor nodded back. “Guest suites through here,” he said, leading the way. “Sitting room has two doors, one’s the bedroom, one’s a bathing chamber. Go take a rest, I’ll have someone draw you a bath while you’re resting. A page’ll be on the door to bring you to the great hall whenever you’re ready,” he promised. “Take your time, sleep all you want– everything can wait even till morning if that’s how long you want to sleep. I’ll do your due deference when you want it, yeah?”

Luthien smiled tiredly at him. “That doesn’t feel like how the Noldor do things.”

“Oh it isn’t,” Maglor replied cheerfully. “But do you want me to drag you to a big ceremony in the great hall in like twenty minutes?”

“Powers no,” Luthien said.

Maglor grinned. “Well then, we’ll do it my way, and Rhoso can yell at me later.” He opened the door to a sitting room. “Go on now,” he said. “Get some rest and get cleaned up.”

“Thank you,” Beren said gratefully.

Impulsively, Luthien leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Maglor smiled at her, real and warm, not the charming grin of before. He did wink as she closed the door, though, entirely irrepressible.

Beren sagged as soon as the door was closed. “I’m so tired.”

Luthien dragged him into the bedroom, peeled him out of his filthy clothes, stripped off her own, and curled around him. They were both asleep in moments.

Luthien woke once in the night, woke Beren so they could bathe, and then they went right back to sleep. It was well into the morning when they woke again. There was a tray of food in the sitting room, and Beren fell on his portion with enthusiasm.

Luthien ate more carefully, but with as much hunger.

“Shall we go face the Feanorions?” Luthien asked when they were both done.

“I don’t see why not,” Beren said easily. “The three we’ve met so far weren’t so bad.”

“True,” Luthien agreed. “Do you think they know?” She touched the pouch on her belt that contained the three Silmarils. She had them because they gave Beren a headache, and Finrod insisted he wanted nothing to do with them.

Beren shrugged. “Let’s find out, instead of worrying.”

Luthien nodded and opened the door to the suite.

A young mortal with a Feanorian star on his tunic straightened hastily and offered a bow. “Princess, My Lord,” he said easily in slightly accented Sindarin, “May I take you to my lord?”

“Please,” Luthien said.

He gestured politely. “Follow me, your highness,” he said easily. He pointed out a few things as they went, indicating a nice view out a window, or an interesting artifact on the wall. He led them to an office, not a hall or an audience chamber and bowed them in.

Maedhros Feanorion sat behind the desk. It couldn’t be anyone but him, really: Tall, redheaded, notched ears and scars on his face, and his grey eyes were vivid, both with treelight like Finrod and Galadriel’s but also with the light of his fea, like his father’s were said to be. “Princess,” he murmured, inclining his head. “Please sit. You too, my lord,” he offered to Beren.

They sat.

“Welcome to Himring,” he said gravely. “I hope my brother was a suitable host yesterday.”

“He was,” Luthien promised. “I am grateful for his care.”

Maedhros nodded. “Good,” he said. “He’s taken Finrod for a ride to the south,” he said quietly. “They left very early, and I don’t expect them back before supper. Curufin is in the south, visiting our youngest brothers at Amon Ereb, and Celegorm has gone to Thargelion to take a message to Caranthir for me.” His throat worked. “I am the only Son of Feanor in the fortress,” he said, with strange intent. “Do you understand this?”

Luthien nodded, though she didn’t understand why it was relevant.

Beren made a soft noise, though. “Are we in danger from you, My Lord?” he asked.

“I hope not,” Maedhros said honestly. “I think Princess Luthien can probably take me, if it comes to it, though I’ve no wish to make her into a kinslayer as I am.” He met her gaze, shifting the stump of his right arm. His left, she realized with a start, was bound to the arm of the chair he was sitting in. That’s why he hadn’t risen to meet them–he was bound to the chair. “I don’t wish it to come to that,” he said gravely.

“Nor do we,” Luthien said. “Your brothers have been exceptionally kind to me, all three that I have met.”

“Maglor wasn’t sure you had a silmaril, so he could give you the benefit of the doubt,” Maedhros answered. “Finrod accidentally told me late last night, and I made him take Maglor out of the castle this morning without telling Maglor the truth.”

Luthien’s heart began to pound. Finrod had told them the gist of the oath, back when he’d first come to Doriath–that they were bound to kill anyone who withheld the gems.

But Maedhros had, by the look of him, ordered one of his people to tie him to his chair. It wouldn’t hold him long–not Maedhros One-Handed, but Luthien had Sung Morgoth himself to sleep. She could take Maedhros, and she wouldn’t have to kill him.

She was equally sure, in that moment, not a person in Himring, man or elf, would stop them as they left, if she did sing Maedhros to sleep and run. But to what end?

Take the silmarils to her father just to tell him to his face that she was marrying Beren? It seemed trivial now, now that she had seen the might of Morgoth’s armies in Angband, the horror of his conquest in Tol Sirion, and seen the Noldor defeat them on the plains, not just hide in safety.

Looking at Maedhros’ scarred face and brilliant eyes, Luthien wondered for the first time how different it might have been if, when Finrod and Galadriel had come to Doriath to ask for aid, if Melian and Mablung had had their way and the Iathrim had ridden to war beside the Noldor.

If Aglareb could have been not just a glorious battle but a glorious victory.

“What would you do with them?” Luthien blurted.

Maedhros tilted his head. “If the oath were fulfilled, all three?” he clarified.

Luthien nodded.

“Light is a powerful weapon against Morgoth’s creatures,” he said. “Curufin has ideas how they might be focused, with a lens. They hurt him, sitting on his brow. Fingolfin hurt him too. If we could use the Silmarils against him, while a warrior of Fingolfin’s caliber fought him? We might be able to unhouse him for a time, send him from the safety of Angband. If we could set him to flight? Beleriand might be safe for a while.”

Luthien nodded again, searching his eyes. “And if I will not give it to you?”

“Run,” he rasped, eyes closing as his hand jerked spasmodically against his bindings. “As hard as you ran from Morgoth’s beasts, and don’t stop till your mother’s girdle is between you and me.”

Luthien nodded. “Beren, cut him free.”

Beren looked at her in surprise, but obeyed.

As Maedhros made a dismayed noise of denial, Luthien removed the belt pouch from her waist and upended it on the desk before him.

Maedhros froze, eyes on the three gems on the desk. “How?” he croaked.

“Luthien is amazing,” Beren answered easily with a half-shrug.

“All three?” Maedhros rasped. “You-? I thought. One,” he managed. His good hand, freed from the arm of the chair, hovered over the gems, as though afraid to touch.

“My father only asked for one, but Curufin made good snips,” Luthien said, shrugging. “So we took all three."

Maedhros frowned at the gems. “Why did he want one?”

“Oh he didn’t really,” Luthien said. “He wanted Beren to go home in disgrace.”

Maedhros actually looked at her, confusion on his brow.

“My brideprice, it was to be,” Luthien explained.

Maedhros’ face twisted in disgust.

“I agree,” she said wryly, “So we decided to prove him wrong.”

This made Maedhros laugh, hoarse and rusty. “And you did.”

Luthien nodded.

Maedhros finally touched one gemstone, the tip of one finger, almost hesitantly. Then he lay his hand on all three, set his forehead to the desk, and began to weep. “Sorry,” he tried to rasp between his tears, “I-”

“Hush,” Beren said, and sat on the arm of his chair to pull the Noldo into an awkward half-hug which Maedhros leaned into with visible gratitude and palpable confusion.

Luthien stuck her head into the hallway. The young page was still there, and he perked up. “My Lady?”

“I think your Lordship would do well to have his brother close,” she said gently. “Could a runner be sent for Lord Maglor and Prince Finrod?”

“As soon as may be,” the boy promised, and went jogging off down the corridor.

In the meanwhile, Luthien went back inside and sat on the desk beside Beren. She joined the awkward hug silently and let Maedhros weep into her shoulder.

When Maglor and Finrod arrived, Beren and Luthien left Maedhros in the hands of his brother and let Finrod give them a tour of Himring.

“What’s the plan now?” Finrod asked. “Back to Doriath?”

“Eventually,” Luthien said slowly.

“But not to stay,” Beren said.

Finrod looked surprised. “Really?”

Luthien nodded. “I don’t belong to my father,” she said. “And he thinks so, so I will not be staying. We will go and be married among my people, correctly, and then we will find a home for ourselves, where we may be.”

Finrod nodded. “I wish you joy of it, cousin,” he said warmly.

“And when Maedhros’ war comes to fruition,” Beren said, “Send us a message, and we will join you, with those of Doriath who wish to fight.”

“Mablung will come,” Luthien said. “And many of his wardens.”

Finrod nodded. “I believe that,” he agreed wryly. “And we will greet you gladly as friends and allies,” he said. “But you said you would go home ‘eventually.’ Till then, do you mean to stay here, or ride on to Nan Elmoth or Arthorien, and your people?”

“If Lord Maedhros will have us, we will stay here,” Beren said. “I would see more of Lord Maglor’s horses.”

“And I would like to hear more of his plan for the battle,” Luthien agreed. “And see where my Song and I would be of most value.”

They leaned together on the northern battlement, staring north at the black clouds that covered Angband.

“They’re awfully grim today,” Maglor observed, leaning beside them a while later.

“I would be grim too if my greatest treasures had been stolen from me,” Finrod retorted. “Perhaps I’ve managed to outpace Rhoso in the ‘least favorite Noldo’ department.”

“Doubtful,” Maedhros said, baring alarmingly pointed teeth at his cousin. “It’s not like you did the stealing.”

“Excuse!” Finrod cried. “Who climbed the throne with Curo’s snips?”

“Yeah, but you couldn’t’ve without Luthien,” Maedhros said. “My spot as his archnemesis among the Noldor is safe. Luthien might win it overall now, though.”

“I’m definitely Gorthaur’s,” Luthien said, thinking of the fury in the umaia’s eyes as he fled, gore dripping from his throat.

Maedhros shook his head. “That, you may have,” he said. “If he never thinks of me again I think I shall be fine with that.”

“But you relish Morgoth’s enmity?” Beren asked. Then he grimaced. “Don’t feel the need to answer that,” he said. “It was insensitive.”

Maedhros smiled warmly at him. “I’m not offended,” he promised. “I wouldn’t have said it if I minded talking about it. And suffice to say, defying Morgoth was deeply satisfying to me because it made him impotently furious, whereas defying Gorthaur tended to rebound unpleasantly onto me for quite some time after.”

Finrod winced behind his cousin’s back, and Maglor looked grim. Beren, actually visible to Maedhros, just shook his head in wonder. “Your spirit is unmatched among those I have met,” he said admiringly.

“Me too,” Luthien agreed easily, pulling his attention to her instead of his family. “And I shall hold Gorthaur, and you may irritate Morgoth, and this battle can be deeply satisfying for us both.”

Maedhros grinned. “Perfect,” he agreed.

“Where’s Huan?” Beren asked. “Did he go with Celegorm?”

“He did,” Maedhros answered. “They’ll be back in a week or so, probably. The message I invented for him to take to Caranthir wasn’t actually that important, and Caranthir is going to be so annoyed about it Celeg will come back quickly to avoid the rampage.”

“Oh good,” Beren said. “I look forward to seeing them both.”

Maedhros smiled. “Don’t be too sure. I’m about to send new messengers to summon all my brothers here.”

“Oh Powers,” Finrod said. “I just remembered I definitely need to go back to Nargothrond immediately in order to do something really important.”

“That bad?” Beren asked.

“You don’t have brothers,” Maglor observed.

Beren shook his head.

“Yeah,” Maglor said. “It’s that bad. If I thought I could invent an urgent errand to Nargothrond I’d go too.”

Maedhros ruffled his hair. “We love them, really,” he said tiredly.

“You do,” Maglor said. “I tolerate them.”

Maedhros huffed a laugh. “Celegorm terrorized him when they were young,” he told Beren and Luthien, “And Curufin started helping as soon as he was old enough to walk.”

“The twins are all right,” Finrod offered. “They’ll probably like you both a lot,” he added.

“You saved us,” Maglor said quietly, “All seven of us will be in your debt forever.”

There was something different about him today, something less frenetic, less forced. Yesterday he had reminded her of Daeron on the days he was trying to take her father’s mind off of something, all flourishes and misdirections; today he reminded her of Beleg, watchful and brilliant, but content to blend into the background.

Beren said lightly into her silence, “We’ll try not to abuse it too much.”

Luthien dragged herself from her musings and matched her beloved’s benign grin. “No,” she agreed sagely. “Not eternal servitude; perhaps just a millenia or two.”

Maedhros, perhaps as much to his own surprise as theirs, laughed aloud. “I would do it,” he said cheerfully, “Except that my fealty is already owed.”

Maglor and Finrod rolled their eyes dramatically. “Yes, Rhoso, everyone knows about your pathetic crush on the High King,” Maglor said wryly.

“What?” Luthien asked, surprised. “No, really?”

Beren also looked like this was news to him.

Maedhros turned redder than his hair. “It isn’t- you- Cono!” he yelped, slapping at his brother’s shoulders.

Maglor, laughing, fended him off. “It is, Rhoso, it is a pathetic crush!” he called over his shoulder as he ran away.

“We’re married!” Maedhros protested, chasing him down the battlements.

Luthien watched them go, watched Maedhros catch his brother and sling him easily over his shoulder.

“They are married, Rhoso and Fin,” Finrod explained to her and Beren’s gobsmacked looks. “It’s a secret, yet, outside the family, because the Feanorions are still unpopular among the Indision faction, but. Well. Maglor might be right that it doesn’t make it less of a pathetic crush.”

Maedhros carried Maglor, kicking and yelling, down the stairs and dumped him in a water trough.

“They haven’t done this since Valinor, played like this,” Finrod confided. “Maedhros couldn’t, trying to keep them together under the oath, after Alphlond and Losgar. Maglor wasn’t exaggerating,” he added quietly. “You did save them.”

Luthien smiled at her cousin. “Good,” she said softly.

“It was mutual,” Beren added. “We wouldn’t have made it without Celegorm and Curufin, either,” he explained off Finrod’s shocked look.

“Sorry,” Maedhros said, trotting back up to them looking unruffled.

“So you can see why seven of them together would be chaos,” Finrod said, as if this had been the topic of their discussion the whole time.

Luthien couldn’t help but wish she might have had siblings, that her life growing up had had the kind of cheerful camaraderie as clearly existed between the Sons of Feanor. Daeron had been a friend, but he had been a vassal as well, and it had never been like this.

Then Maglor, soaking wet, leapt on Maedhros’ back, clearly attempting some kind of tackle.

Maedhros just braced his feet, shifted his arms, and flipped his brother neatly over his shoulder to the battlement.

Maglor lay on his back, wet and staring up at them. “Must you combat maneuver me?” he complained.

“If you jump on me,” Maedhros replied. He stepped easily over his brother and offered Luthien his arm politely. “Dinner?” he invited.

“Lovely,” Luthien agreed.

Finrod stepped over Maglor too, but Beren offered him a hand up.

“I knew you were my favorite,” Maglor told him grandly.

Beren laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “Huan’s my favorite.”

Maglor laughed as Finrod said, “No, fair, Huan should be everyone’s favorite.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros told Luthien quietly as Finrod and Maglor bickered behind them.

“You’re welcome,” Luthien replied, just as soft, and followed him to dinner.

Chapter Text

Fingon had never much liked audience day, but he understood the importance of it. Ten years after his father’s death, and he still felt like a child playing dress up when he wore the crown, sat in the chair. But he schooled his face to impassivity and he answered the petitioners with the grace and magnanimity that his father would have wanted, and he made the best of it.

The formal petitions were done, at least, and the courtiers, friends, and bureaucrats who made up his court were chatting in small groups as individuals approached Fingon for more personal petitions, those that need not be witnessed by the whole court.

He heard the whispers before he saw, the hushed gasps and the hissed Feanorions before the red hair caught the light.

Maedhros’ eyes were blazing, like they had in those few days he’d ruled as King before his abdication, when his spirit was hot and his body not quite enough to contain it. The scars on his face caught the sunlight as usual, and he looked like the light would burst forth from him, cracking him apart on the seams his torment had left on him. He dropped to his knees at Fingon’s feet, and though his chin was down, his eyes held Fingon’s with something fierce and terrible.

Hope, the likes of which Fingon hadn’t seen from him since the Oath, and joy.

“High king,” Maedhros murmured, and his flaming gaze finally dropped to the dais.

“My lord of Himring,” Fingon replied. If his hands shook, his voice was perfectly steady.

“Forgive my absence at your coronation, my king,” he whispered. “But not even for the honor I owe you would I have risked your borders.” His letters had always been perfectly formal and factual, the ideal report from a lord of the marches to his king, and never once hinted at anything Maedhros might have thought or felt. Their missing each other had been silent and implied in the empty spaces in both their letters.

“I knew it,” Fingon said. “And so too is the safety of my people far above my own honor that I did not wish it other.”

“I swore my fealty, once, to your father and his house,” Maedhros said. “I beg you, my king, to let me swear it now to you.”

“My Lord of Himring,” Fingon said softly, and Maedhros’ shoulders seemed to bow under the weight of his title. Their bond was closed to Fingon now, had been since the Oath had overtaken him in Maehdros’ soul, so he could not be sure if it was relief or sorrow that melted his spine. “I have never doubted your loyalty, but if it please you to give it, I will gladly hear your fealty.” He dared to touch Maedhros’ cheek, no more or less than he would have done for any beloved vassal.

Maedhros’ eyes rose to his again, warm and bright.

Fingon’s blood pounded in his ears, because the words Maedhros spoke were not the traditional Noldor fealty ceremony. No. They were the promise Maedhros had made to him in the privacy of their bedroom in Tirion in the tree-lit youth of the world, changed only to inset Fingon’s royal title in place of his name.

Fingon trembled.

Maedhros unclasped his scabbard and silently offered it across his palm and wrist, head bowed.

Fingon’s hands knew the motions, and he’d drawn Maedhros’ blade before his mind had caught up, and when he lifted the sword aloft to tap Maedhros’ shoulders, the silmaril in the hilt shone in the hall.

Fingon had spent too much time on the field of battle and in the training yard to drop the sword, but it was a near thing. Hope soared in his chest and sweat made the hilt difficult to grasp. He tapped Maedhros more roughly on the shoulders than he would usually have done, but his hands were shaking too badly to do otherwise, then shoved the sword blindly at the same page who’d taken the scabbard from Maedhros. “Maedhros,” he choked. “Rise.”

Maedhros came to his feet, too near to Fingon for propriety, head bowed in close. “A gift, My King,” he whispered. “A token of my esteem for you. From my heart and from my house.” He held a jewelry box between them, held as carefully as he’d once offered Fingon a ring.

Fingon touched his cheek again, tender. “What would you offer your king?” he asked, voice rasping in his throat. Maedhros’ ring was long gone, vanished in the depths of Angband. Fingon’s was around his neck on a cord, against his skin where it could not betray him. He ached for Maedhros, so close and so out of reach hiding behind this ceremony he had chosen.

Maedhros opened the box, and the silmaril glimmered on the velvet.

Fingon closed his eyes against the light, against Maedhros’ gaze, against the way his heart fluttered against the cage of his ribs. How was he supposed to respond in a way that was appropriate to the public venue Maedhros had picked for this?

Maedhros’ forehead touched his, just barely, breath palpable on his cheek. He could have carved out his heart and offered it to Fingon, and it would not have had the same weight as the light visible even through Fingon’s closed eyelids. “Will you take it?” Maedhros breathed, for the first time something tremulous in him, like he doubted his welcome here after all.

Fingon closed one hand blindly around the light, and fisted the other in Maedhros’ corslet. He was still in his riding leathers, he thought despairingly, and dragged Maedhros’ mouth down to his for a brutal, biting kiss.

Their bond roared open between them, and Fingon was party to the centuries of helpless yearning Maedhros had kept from him, so sure his oath was going to destroy him and determined to spare Fingon his fate. Fingon, in return, replied with the steadfast hope that had anchored him in the intervening years, that Maedhros would return to him when he could.

“Astaldo, melindo,” Maedhros breathed in Quenya, more in their bond than aloud. I have never deserved you, he added silently.

“Hush,” Fingon replied. All three? He asked silently.

Maedhros barely nodded, their faces still pressed close, his breath warm on Fingon’s cheek. He wasn’t touching Fingon anywhere except where Fingon had pressed them together, Fin’s hand on his chest, Fin’s face against his. His own arms were at his side, his hand loose now that he’d pocketed the jewelry box again, and his itch to touch Fingon was palpable in their bond. “How may I serve you, My King?” he asked softly, and the flash through the bond was not the answer while still in public court.

Maedhros seemed to remember their audience, and made to step back slightly, put a more decorous distance between them, but Fingon refused to relinquish his grip on the corselt. You chose to do this in public, Fin thought at him fiercely, blood still pounding in his veins. Maedhros brushed his fingers tenderly down the back of Fingon’s hand clenched at his throat, and then curled his hand instead around the brightly-shining fist Fingon was still making around the silmaril. He brought this hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over Fingon’s knuckles. His eyes sparkled with heat and mischief in equal measure.

Fingon held his gaze. “Audiences are over for today,” he told his steward without looking away from Maedhros. “I will retire until dinner.”

“Yes my king,” his steward said, without any inflection at all, and Fingon didn’t look to check his expression.

“Ensure My Lord of Himring’s things are tended, and then have them sent to my quarters during the meal.” Do not interrupt us, he meant.

“Yes my king,” the steward replied, still perfectly bland.

Fingon nodded once, still holding Maedhros’ heated gaze, and towed his husband out the back door to the audience chamber.

Chapter Text

Curufin burst into Maedhros’ office, wild-eyed. “What did you do?” he choked. He was shaking.

Maedhros approached him carefully.

“You,” Curo stuttered.

Maedhros shook his head. “Luthien,” he said gently.

Curo clutched at his own elbows.

Maedhros took the risk of reaching out, cupped Curo’s neck and touched their foreheads together.

Slowly, Curo eased, breathing, eyes closed.

Maedhros breathed with him, only touching him where his palm rested on his little brother’s nape and where their foreheads touched.

Maglor padded in on quiet feet a little while later, and Celegorm followed him in, his own booted feet silent on the stones.

Celegorm silently gathered Curufin close; he’d always been the only one of them allowed to touch Curufin. Curo tucked his forehead into the curve of Celeg’s shoulder.

Maedhros arched an eyebrow at Maglor. Maglor shrugged one shoulder. Maedhros nodded and propped his hip on his desk.

Caranthir chivvied the twins in before him a few minutes later. Amrhosco had to have ridden hard to get here so quickly, but Maedhros wasn’t surprised. Maglor had told him he’d felt the moment Maedhros put his hand on the three stones.

The twins had their hands linked so tightly their knuckles were white. Caranthir’s face was flushed his usual splotchy red and his eyes were blazing. Celegorm’s gaze, over Curo’s head, was sharp and narrow.

Maglor huffed a soft scoff, not quite a laugh.

“So,” Maedhros said wryly. He tossed Maglor the pouch, and Maglor helpfully dumped all three silmarils onto Maedhros’ desk.

Maedhros opened his top drawer and set Curo’s snips beside them; Beren had cheerfully given them to him when Maedhros mentioned his brothers would probably be arriving that day, before he and Luthien had gone on a ride with Finrod.

Curo snorted softly. “You should have one,” he said. He picked up his snips and dropped them in the pocket of his ever-present apron, but made no move to touch the silmarils.

Maedhros tilted his head.

Celegorm was nodding. “It’s your right,” he said quietly. He was looking everywhere but the desk.

“What would I even do with it?” Maedhros asked rhetorically, eying the gems. “Curo needs one for his plan,” he added.

Curo nodded. “I’d put the second in your sword hilt,” he said. “You know you’ll be leading the fight against Him.”

Maedhros couldn’t dispute that, so he checked the others’ gazes.

Maglor was smiling slightly, and he nodded when their eyes caught. Caranthir rolled his eyes at him, obviously slightly annoyed Maedhros had even felt the need to check. Amras nodded for both of the twins, while Amrod was looking at the stones.

Maedhros nodded. “All right,” he agreed slowly. Then he took a breath and said, very firmly, “I want to give the third to Fingon.”

There was a moment of utter silence. And then pandemonium. Caranthir was shouting at him, Curufin had turned to Celegorm in furious dismay, and Maglor had stepped forward in offense at something Caranthir had said that Maedhros had missed.

“Quiet,” Maedhros barked. It had been years since he’d had to use his battlefield-voice on his brothers, but to be fair, it had been years since all seven of them had been together at once.

They fell silent at once.

“One at a time,” Maedhros ordered. They appeared to hesitate, trying to decide who would go first.

“You’re joking,” Caranthir finally said flatly.

Maedhros shook his head. “I am not,” he said firmly.

Celegorm was speechless, a feat Maedhros might have been proud to achieve if not for the subject matter. Curufin was spluttering.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Maglor said blandly.

“Of course you do, you agree with everything he says,” Curufin grumbled.

This was patently untrue, Maedhros thought, remembering his and Maglor’s most recent screaming argument–they just never had them in front of their brothers. “He does not,” he said, more quietly but in the same tone as before.

“Why?” Amrod asked quietly. He was looking out the window.

Maedhros said, “FIrstly, because whoever is going to actually fight Morgoth needs one, and it’s equally likely to be him as it is to be me.” He paused. “Secondly, I think it makes an excellent political statement to the Indisian faction that we’re not trying to usurp the crown, that we really are loyal to our king.”

Celegorm scoffed.

“Thirdly,” Maedhros said firmly over the sound, “Because I said so, and I’m the oldest, and you’re going to let me.”

Curo made a noise.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re right,” he said grudgingly. “About the politics and the military need.”

“Of course I am,” Maedhros said.

“But that’s not why,” Curufin challenged.

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “When have I ever done anything for only one reason?” he asked rhetorically.

“We’re going to let you do this,” Celegorm said quietly. Caranthir and Curufin both turned to stare at him in surprise. “But don’t lie to us or yourself about why.”

Maedhros sighed. Brothers were the worst. “Okay, yes, I want to give him a gift he can’t refuse to see if he’ll take me back.”

“You’re an idiot, is what you are,” Caranthir grumbled. “As if he isn’t waiting for you.”

Maedhros shook his head. “I didn’t say it was rational,” he snapped.

“Rhoso,” Maglor said softly.

“Actually,” Caranthir said. “This is pretty brilliant.”

Curufin said, “Really?”

Caranthir nodded. “He’ll be King again. Or Consort, at least. The Indisian faction can suck eggs.”

Maedhros stilled. He hadn’t quite thought of that yet. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“And if he can bring this Union to fruition? And win the war, with Curo’s help? They’ll have to shut up and take it.” Caranthir grinned. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

Curufin grinned. “We’ll just have to make sure we win.”

Maedhros sighed, almost wishing he dared pinch his nose bridge like their mother used to. “Cono, you’ll stay here and hold Himring and the Gap. Celeg, for some unfathomable reason Luthien likes you, so you’re in charge of making her at home till she decides to actually go to hers. Curo… never mind, you’ll be in the forge. Caranthir, keep working the alliances with the men.” He flashed the twins a smile. “Amrhosco, the Laegrim.”

Celeg made a rude gesture, and the others acknowledged him with nods.

Maedhros nodded again once more. “Right,” he said, feeling slightly deflated; he’d expected considerably more of a fight. “I guess I’m riding to Barad Eithel.”

Maglor clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. For some unfathomable reason, he fell in love with you.”

Maedhros elbowed him.

Curufin said, “Don’t leave till I’ve finished your sword,” and swiped both one of the silmarils off the desk and Maedhros’ scabbard from beside his chair.

Celegorm let the rest of their brothers file out of Maedhros’ office before clapping Maedhros companionably on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” Maedhros said.

Celegorm stopped, halfway to the door.

“What made you help them?” Curo had mentioned in passing that it had been Celegorm who had initially offered their aid to Luthien.

Celegorm shrugged. “Huan liked her,” he said. More quietly, he added, “She wanted to prove her father wrong.”

Maedhros exhaled like he’d been punched. “Celeg,” he said softly.

Celeg flashed his usual rakish, crooked grin, and said fiercely, “Don’t mother me, Rhoso.”

“Okay,” Maedhros said. He hooked his hand around Celegorm’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. “But I’m proud of you,” he said softly.

Celegorm pushed him away, but his cheeks pinked. “Get off,” he grumbled.

“Go on,” Maedhros said, smothering his grin.

Celegorm fled.

Maedhros stared blankly at the other two silmarils on the desk for a few moments, and then shook himself into motion. He had a journey to prepare for.

Chapter Text

Sidhon had served High King Fingon for two years. His duties as a page had primarily involved standing outside the door of whatever office or meeting room the King had been in, waiting to be sent places, and being handed things that he then had to take somewhere.

Being handed the sword of Maedhros Feanorion, which contained a silmaril set in the hilt, was by far the most spectacular thing that had ever happened to him. He blinked vaguely at the Steward as the High King dragged the Lord of Himring from the hall, clearly set to fulfill the promise the kiss had made.

The Steward, blank faced and steady as usual, nodded at him. “Fetch my Lord of Himrings things from the grooms, and take them to the holding room at the base of My King’s tower and wait there.”

Sidhon nodded and trotted away, still carrying the sword. “I’m here for My Lord Himring’s things,” he told a groom.

Elirel appeared out of a stall, the nose of a lovely roan mare following her. “Here, Sidhon,” she called. “Someone finally assign him a room?”

Sidhon shook his head. “His things are to go to the King’s Tower, once dinner is served,” Sidhon reported, grinning.

Elirel raised both brows. “Really?”

Sidhon nodded. “He gave the High King a silmaril,” he said. He flashed the one in the hilt of Maedhros’ sword in demonstration.

Another groom said an impressive slew of swear words. Elirel whistled.

“And the High King kissed him,” Sidhon finished.

“Hah!” Elirel said gleefully. “I knew it!”

“Hence the ‘when dinner is served’ I assume,” the other groom said wryly. “They don’t want you interrupting them.”

Sidhon screwed up his face in disgust when the innuendo registered.

Elirel laughed at him. “His saddlebags are here,” she offered, nudging them with her boot.

Sidhon shouldered the saddlebags. They were well-made leather, unadorned except the Feanorian star in the center of each flap. They were also far lighter than one might imagine for a ride across the continent. “Did he come alone?” he asked in surprise.

Elirel nodded. “And his horse was lathered to hell. He made a sprint of it; I think he came straight across Anfauglith, rather than take the long way against the mountains.”

Sidhon shook his head; it was safer to stay out of sight in the shadow of the mountains, but he supposed if anyone was safe to ride straight across it was Maedhros Feanorion, carrying two silmarils. He flashed Elirel a smile and trotted back towards the palace.

The steward was sitting in the holding room when Sidhon arrived. He was doing sums in a ledger in his lap. He glanced up when Sidhon arrived. “Good,” he said. “Is that all he brought?”

Sidhon nodded.

Tirdirion sighed deeply. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to get. Some things. That will fit Lord Maedhros.” He sighed again. “Wait here. If the High King comes down, stay with him. He’s dismissed the servants from the whole tower, so someone can take Lord Maedhros’ things up, if they come down while I’m gone.”

Sidhon didn’t think they would. By his tone, Tirdirion didn’t think so either. He nodded politely, though, and Tirdirion left at a brisk walk. Sidhon let his mind wander while he waited, plotting, as he had been for weeks, a proper courting gift for Elirel. He certainly couldn’t match a silmaril, he thought wryly, but Elirel was somewhat less important than the High King. He figured she’d forgive him.

Tiridiron had come back again and left, summoned to a disaster in the kitchens, by the time High King Fingon and Lord Maedhros came down from the tower.

Sidhon fell in politely a few steps behind the pair and tried not to giggle.

Lord Maedhros was wearing his own breeches, the pair he’d been wearing when he’d ridden in, though the road dust had been brushed from them, and his own boots. But he was wearing a shirt and tabard that pretty clearly belonged to the High King–not only were the sleeves of the shirt barely brushing Maedhros’ wrists, the tabard was a lovely, deep, Fingolfinian blue a son of Feanor would never own. It clashed hilariously with his hair.

Fingon was wearing the silmaril in his hair, and not even that was enough to distract anyone from the bright red bite-mark on Maedhros’ throat. Sidhon was pretty sure he could have taken a perfect dental record for the High King off of Maedhros.

All talk ceased when the pair entered the dining hall.

Maedhros didn’t even seem to notice, still beaming at Fingon. Fingon also didn’t seem to notice, beaming at everyone.

Sidhon took his usual place behind Fingon’s chair and accepted the wine-pitcher Carasdir handed him on his way to his own place a few yards down, behind the lords of the High King’s council. Carasdir winked as he slipped by, and Sidhon returned it, grinning.

“Tell me about the March,” the High King requested of Lord Maedhros as they ate.

Sidhon reflected they probably hadn’t done much talking in the afternoon.

Maedhros huffed. “How we got the silmarils, you mean,” he teased. “You’ll never believe me.”

“You wouldn’t lie to your king, would you?” Fingon asked, eyes wide and teasingly wounded.

Maedhros inclined his head with mocking gravity. “Never, sire,” he said. “So know I’m not kidding when I tell you Celegorm’s empathy and diplomacy was instrumental in their recovery.”

Fingon choked on his wine.

Sidhon politely refilled his goblet.

Fingon goggled at Maedhros. “What?” he demanded.

Maedhros grinned with sharp teeth. “Celegorm. Diplomacy.”

“I just had a report that he and Curufin attempted a coup in Nargothrond!”

Maedhros shook his head ruefully. “He did that, yes,” he agreed. “And I’ve given him a diplomatic duty as a punishment.”

“Who do you hate so much as to inflict him on?” Fingon wondered.

“He befriended Luthien of Doriath, somehow,” Maedhros replied. “And she and her new mortal husband stole the silmarils from the Iron Crown with their bare hands.”

“How the fuck?” Fingon said wonderingly.

“She’s a powerful Singer, and they had Curo’s best snips, apparently. That’s about all I can get out of any of the four of them. Finrod was slightly more forthcoming, but he just says that the Valar must have smiled on them.”

Sidhon was hanging on every word. He was conscious, vaguely, that everyone else in earshot was too, and trying to hide it.

Maehdros had not appeared to have noticed, still beaming at Fingon. Fingon did not seem to have noticed either, deeply absorbed in the story and his dinner. “They decided to come to Himring instead of try the Girdle and risk Finrod and Beren–that’s the mortal–being turned away,” Maedhros continued.

Maedhros finished the unbelievable story during the dessert course, telling of Luthien giving the gems back, and Celegorm and Luthien commiserating over fathers that loved them but hated their choices. When the story and dessert were over, rather than stay for music or conversation, the High King swept them both off again.

Sidhon left his pitcher on the table for Carasdir to retrieve, and followed them at a trot–they were walking very fast.

“What was everyone staring at?” Maedhros asked as they scurried away, proving he had just been ignoring it skillfully.

“Probably the bite on your neck,” Fingon replied, grinning, and darted away up the steps of the King’s Tower.

“Fin!” Maedhros cried in outrage, and he gave chase.

Sidhon stationed himself at the bottom of the steps, biting his lip to keep back his grin. There was no way he was going up there.

Chapter Text

Luthien had known the difference between marchwarden’s whistles and true birdcalls her whole life. She was a little surprised, when the whistles changed tones, that Beren’s hand slid into hers as his shoulders drew tight, but he had proved wiser and more knowledgeable than she expected at every turn.

It was Mablung who dropped from the trees just ahead of them, and his face was grim. “Princess,” he said.

“Captain,” Luthien replied, raising her chin.

The corner of his mouth turned up, briefly. He was worried. “I’m to escort you direct to your Lord Father,” he said.

Luthien nodded. “That was my intended destination,” she agreed. “You are welcome to accompany us.”

“Ah,” Mablung said.

Luthien’s jaw clenched. “Captain?”

He inclined his head. “My orders are that Beren, son of Barahir be taken straight to the dungeons.”

“That will not be happening,” Luthien said.

Beren squeezed her hand, and she tightened her grip on him.

“I have come to marry my intended, properly, in my father’s house, in the way of my people,” Luthien said. “But I will marry him, and if that means we turn around right now and go back to Himring, where I have been made welcome and greeted as kinsman, and my betrothed treated more honorably than in my own house, I will do so, Captain,” Luthien said coldly.

“My Lady,” Mablung said, bowing his head.

“Don’t,” Beren said softly. “Don’t make him make that call. That’s not fair.”

Luthien exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, Captain,” she said.

Mablung bowed. “Forgive me, My Lady,” he replied. His eyes were steady on hers, though his chin stayed down. “I know the right answer, but still my oaths compel me.”

“That, I understand,” Luthien replied, thinking of her new friends among the Noldor and their oath. “Take me home, Captain.”

He bowed and turned towards Menegroth, boots silent in the loam. “Were you successful, at least?” he asked quietly as they left his patrol behind.

“Depends entirely how you define that,” Beren said cheerfully. He offered both his hands, twiddling the fingers of the one still laced with Luthien’s. “Don’t have a silmaril in my hand,” he said, smiling. “But something worth far more to me.” He squeezed Luthien’s hand again.

Luthien leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You are success enough for me,” she murmured.

Mablung’s face stayed stern, but something around his eyes and mouth softened with fondness.

Just yards from the cave entrance to Menegroth, Beleg dropped from the trees. “Well met, son of Barahir,” he said softly. “Princess,” he added, dipping his head to her.

“Captain,” Luthien said, smiling.

“Hello, Beleg,” Beren agreed easily.

In the entrance to the caves, Luthien stopped.

Beren, still holding her hand, stopped and then stepped back to be beside her again. There was a question in his face, but Luthien crossed her arms over her chest.

Mablung cocked his head.

“I will not be parted from him,” Luthien said. “So you cannot send him to the dungeons, nor take me to my father.” She planted her feet.

Mablung bowed to her. “I will report,” he said quietly, and disappeared into the depth of Menegroth.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Beleg said. “He’s on your side.”

“I know,” Luthien said.

“You are not predisposing me to be pleased,” Thingol said, emerging from the caves.

Luthien lifted her chin. “You are not pleased to hear of a great victory?” she asked her father. “You are not pleased that your daughter has returned safely, with her beloved, bearing the friendship and honor of all who oppose our dark foe? You are not pleased-”

“Luthien,” Beren said softly.

Luthien did not ease back, but she did stop.

“I am pleased you are well,” Thingol agreed steadily. “I am not pleased by your disobedience, nor your willfulness, nor your disregard for my orders.”

“Sire,” Beren said softly.

Thingol narrowed his eyes at Beren. “Do not make me regret not throwing you straight in the dungeon,” he said.

Beren lifted his chin. “Sire,” he said again, more strongly. “We have come to do this thing correctly, in the manner of your people, for I would not have it said that I did Luthien any dishonor among her people or mine. But we owe you nothing, and we will leave before we will allow you to separate us.”

“It is only Eru’s permission I need to wed him,” Luthien said as her father puffed up like a pigeon.

“Care you nothing of my opinion then?” her father asked coldly.

“Why, when in all my travels I have so far received the coldest welcome in my home, from my own father and king? For The Black King on his Iron Throne welcomed me to dance for him, and the Lords of the Noldor greeted me with gladness and honor.”

Her father flinched.

“Thingol,” Beleg said quietly. He had moved, sometime in the interim, and was standing directly behind Luthien and Beren, looking at his king between them. “Ask them about the silmaril,” he said, both a gentle request and an irrefutable order.

Thingol snarled softly and looked at Beren. “Well? In your hand it was to be.”

“I have held all three stones of Feanor,” Beren answered. “In my hand and in my belt pouch.” More firmly, he said, “Never did I say anything about giving one to you, nor would I call down the fate foresworn into those stones on any in this place, let alone the kith and kin of one whom I love.”

“All three have gone into the hands of the Noldor,” Luthien said. “To Maedhros One Hand and his brothers, and their Oath is fulfilled.”

“Beren’s is not,” Thingol said. “When next we meet, you said.”

Beren bowed his head. “So be it, King,” he said. “If taking three instead of one, but leaving them with their rightful owners is not enough for you to count as my word, then Luthien and I will go to our friends among the Noldor, where we have been made welcome as heroes, and the remnants of my kin in their lands, and darken your doorstep no longer.”

Luthien tightened her grip on his hand. Beleg was between them and the exit, but she didn’t think he would stop them. They turned together.

Beleg touched his hand to his heart, winked at her, and stepped out of the way.

“Wait!”

Luthien turned.

Her mother stood in a side corridor, hand over her heart.

“Mum,” Luthien said softly.

Melian came over and took their joined hands. “My blessing you have, daughter,” she said softly. “I am so very proud of you.” She lifted Beren’s chin with one hand, and held his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Go if you must, and if you do know my love goes with you both.”

Luthien flung her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll talk your father around,” Melian promised softly. “His pride is hurt, but he already knows he’s wrong.” Melian pulled back to kiss Luthien’s forehead. “Marry your man,” she ordered. “And love him well as you have him, and know that you are always my daughter.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Beren murmured.

“Stop,” Thingol snarled.

Luthien looked over her shoulder. “Are you relenting?” she asked.

“Yes,” Thingol whispered. Then he closed his eyes and spun around. He vanished into the tunnels in a whirl of robes.

Beleg and Melian exchanged a look. “I’ll go, My Lady,” Beleg said.

Melian patted his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said.

Beleg vanished after the king.

Melian took Beren and Luthien’s joined hands again. “Come with me, my dear ones,” she said. “And be home.” And she led them into Menegroth proper.