A realization that strikes them each rather differently, as it transpires.
“You’re churning,” Makalaurë observed, as Maitimo did another length of the carpet. “If you keep it up like that you’re going to wear a spot in Grandmother’s rug and you know Father will get the pained line between his brows.”
“Grandmother’s carpets don’t wear,” said Maitimo, executing another pivot and striding back towards the hearth. “Valar, perhaps I should take a page from her book and just sleep until I am never seen again.”
“That’s a little overwrought,” said Makalaurë, a phrase which from his mouth would usually be enough to shake Maitimo from his turmoil to observe dramatic irony in action. “So you have been kissing Findekáno in the garden, so what?”
“Not just in the garden,” said Maitimo, running a hand through his hair and then stopping as it reminded him of Findekáno’s touch. And not just kissing, he didn’t add. “Also on the veranda, by the canal, under the bridge, next to the peach vendor…”
“So what? What of that is so bad that you need to banish yourself to Námo’s realm rather than continue? I know it’s embarrassing to have an infatuation, especially with someone so…buoyant, but it’s not like Findekáno’s hideous.”
That brought Maitimo to a halt. “He’s not hideous at all,” he said, frowning. “Why would one be embarrassed to be seen with him? He is handsome and well-built, noble and full of life, fun-loving and kind, and why say you ‘buoyant’ as if it is something shameful? He has energy, certainly, but it is of the sort that uplifts rather than wearies and a quality most befitting a prince. Stop laughing,” he said, annoyed, as Makalaurë chortled from the divan. “It is not the optics that concern me – well, not entirely – but it is precisely what you say!”
“What do I say,” said Makalaurë, composing himself.
“Infatuation,” said Maitimo wretchedly. “To him I am but an early crush realized, a light and happy affair to look back on fondly when we are old and wed to others. I thought I could bear it, could stand to suffer the kisses and – and other things, by the peaches and so on, but…”
“But?” prompted Makalaurë, his smile fading.
“I think I love him.” Maitimo sank down, missing the ottoman by a good foot, and landed on Míriel’s weaving with a clatter of long limbs. He folded forward and buried his head in his arms. “Help me, whatever shall I do? He cannot know, he mustn’t, I should not put such pressures on him but brother…” Maitimo lifted red-rimmed eyes. “I cannot take this torment much longer.”
“So,” said Irissë, running wax over her bowstring. “You and Maitimo, eh. How’s that going?”
“Excellent,” said Findekáno, wiping glue from his fletching. “I shall marry that man someday.”
Okay so I did not know only a year had passed between these events. It was Maedhros who negotiated the land things, I believe.
Dude went from half-dead in Angband right back to being a fantastic leader within ONE YEAR and honestly, dude was like, prolly writin letter and getting briefings while in a hospital bed, dude,,,,
further reasons why I dislike Broken Pity Puddle interpretations of post-Thangorodrim Mae
this guy sat down in his hospital bed and rearranged the politics of an entire continent via snail mail and if that aint the most badass shit idek
you’re right he is so feanor’s son
Hmm.
These are Points to Consider.
I fucking love Maedhros. I know he’s a bit problematic to have as a favorite character, but godDAMN does he do it well.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, Maedhros is a fucking badass. He probably started working again early with the power of spite alone fueling him
Maedhros, immediately after having his hand cut off: so fingon what’s up hows the stock market hows the housing development
He was cut down off the mountain and he’s like “Whelp guess I’m gonna live. Hey Finno how’s the treasury looking?”
“We have 32 cents and a ball of lint.”
“ErU ILLuvaTAR! The war won’t pay for itself! Get my broker on the line!”
“Russo I am your broker.”
Maedhros be like „I have an oath to uphold get thee gone from my hospital bed“
“Sir you’ve lost three pints of blood.” “But mY OATH!!”
Maglor: Brother, your hand–
Maedhros: can do better running an army hanging off a cliff than you can in 30 years!!!
*whisper* he’s right tho
fingolfin: which one of us is the high king of the noldor here
maedhros, leading the first line of defense against morgoth, negotiating land rights for all three houses of the noldor in beleriand, orchestrating political and military unions with other races, and keeping 5 brothers from murdering everyone else on the continent:
I got an anon prompting me for more Fingros. I’ll get to it soon (…it’s a good prompt!) but clearly I’ve been letting the side down so here’s some garbage I wrote ages ago for partner in crime @imindhowwelayinjune while we were doing Treat Me Soft. It’s literally just this but with the OTP. Sorry not sorry.
“Alright,” Fingon said, hoping he sounded soothing and not vaguely panicked. The surgeries were done. No complications, the healers had assured him. Everything had gone as well as could be expected and Maedhros was as healthy as anyone in his situation could be. Which was not close to healthy enough, Fingon thought, his heart aching. “Eat the lembas.“
“You always were my favourite nephew,” Fingolfin said, once they knew Fingon would live.
It was patently untrue and had Galadriel hissing like a kettle come to boil and Curufin pursing his lips against a smile. Maedhros, fresh from rinsing clots of his cousin’s blood out of his hair, thanked him gravely and moved the subject on, to the matter of kingdoms and supplies.
“Fool,” Curufin snapped afterwards. “We can use this. The crown-”
“Is something we are well rid of.” Our priority is the Oath, he would have added, not long ago. “Fingon will not take well to being maimed,” he said instead. “If you’re so concerned with winning hearts, see what you can do for him.”
“It was not so bad as all that,” Fingon insisted, when he was well enough to insist upon anything. “Merely dull.”
“Boredom was the worst torture they could imagine for you, no doubt,” Maedhros said and held him through the nightmares without comment. It was, perhaps, the worst torture he could imagine for himself but that was a maudlin, self-indulgent thing to think.
“The ballad that I shall make of this!” Maglor cried. All his resentment over being left to rule as regent had vanished in the face of such a song. “A light of hope, blazing against the dark! A triumph of love and loyalty over wicked cruelty!”
Maedhros remembered well the eagle’s words and remembered too that Morgoth’s followers were loyal. He let Maglor have his song though, for they were in desperate need of hope and because it would likely annoy Fingon a great deal.
“I cannot believe you let them make a song of it,” said Fingon, greatly annoyed. “Fingon the Valiant they called me and yet in this great accounting of Noldorin deeds I am a useless, swooning lump. First my hand and now my epithet. What will you steal from me next?”
“Keep the Valiant,” Maedhros said soberly. “But add that stuffed horse I never returned to the tally of my crimes.”
“Do not think I have forgotten. Cloppy will be avenged once I can wield a sword again.” That Fingon could and would learn to fight with his left had not been in doubt since the moment he first woke.
There were apologies to be made. For the ice and the docks and for not being handier with a file. But when Maedhros opened his mouth and saw the look on Fingon’s fair, scarred face, he knew they would not be welcome. He kissed Fingon instead, and that was accepted with unprincely enthusiasm.
Love was not sufficient reason for so many things. But for some it was.
just moving along like everyone else 