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It happened again. It had happened so many times already, it seemed, each exchange more heated than the last. But Fingon could never stop himself from asking. Even though he knew Maedhros’ answer would not change, even though he knew his cousin’s stubbornness would continue to frustrate him, this was not something Fingon could let go. And now, as Maedhros again refused to listen to reason, Fingon found himself completely fed up.
“We can’t,” Maedhros insisted, an edge of weariness upon his voice, as if he had grown tired of repeating himself. “You know we can’t.”
“Yes, we can,” Fingon argued. “I’m the fucking high king, Maitimo!” he cried out with an indignant laugh. “Who do you think is going to stop us? We can do whatever the fuck we want!”
“Please, Findekáno, keep your voice down…”
But Fingon would not be quieted. “I am the fucking high king,” he repeated. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
“It is unbecoming of a king to use such language,” Maedhros chided. “You didn’t see me shouting profanities when I was high king…”
“I didn’t see you as high king at all. Because you went and got yourself captured! What kind of idiot thinks it’s a good idea to meet with the emissaries of Morgoth?” The insults were undeserved, but Fingon let them flow from his mouth anyway. If nothing else, it was cathartic.
“What kind of idiot brings a harp on a rescue mission and sings love songs on Morgoth’s doorstep?” Maedhros returned in kind. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Fingon shouted back at him. “And you almost got yourself killed long before I did. And you almost got me to… to…” He fumbled on the last words, skipped over them. “I almost lost you, Maitimo! But we were given a second chance. We should take that chance, while we still have it.”
Maedhros sighed. “It’s not that simple, Findekáno.”
“It is simple!” Fingon insisted. “I love you, and you love me… Or has that changed?” he added, a cold weight falling in his chest to bank the frustrated heat. His eyes searched Maedhros’, hoping desperately that he had not struck truth.
“No, of course I love you,” Maedhros soothed, reaching out his hand to touch Fingon’s arm. “And I will always love you. But it is because I love you that we cannot do this. I can’t let you get any more caught up in my family’s problems than you already are. The Oath-”
“Oh, damn the Oath!” Fingon interrupted, frustration reflaring. “I’ll take the damn thing myself if that’s what’s keeping us apart!” But Maedhros clutched at his arm now, his eyes wide and fearful, and Fingon knew he had gone too far.
Fingon slowly released the breath he held, and with it the anger, softly shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Maitimo,” he said calmly, calmingly. “I didn’t mean it. I know better than that; you don’t have to worry.”
Maedhros loosed his grip and gently wrapped his arms around Fingon, drawing him close. Fingon leaned willingly into his cousin’s embrace. “It’s alright,” Maedhros said after a moment. Fingon felt the words’ vibration through the taller elf’s chest. “I’m sorry too. And if this accursed Oath is ever fulfilled,” he added, “then marrying you will be the first thing I do. I promise you that.”
If we live that long, Fingon’s mind echoed ominously. But he did not speak the words aloud. “I accept your promise, Nelyafinwë,” he said instead, turning up his head to meet Maedhros’ eyes again. “And I shall hold you to it.”
Fingon smiled as Maedhros leaned down to press his lips against his. It was a simple, chaste kiss – a symbol to seal their promise. Fingon reached his arms up around Maedhros’ neck, willing the moment not to pass too quickly – for such were too few and far between – and hoping, as he always did, that this kiss would not prove to be their last.