Maemag and 19 for the kiss prompts!
19. ...for luck
The cavalry of the Union of Maedhros was a haphazard affair, to Maglor's eye. Cold steep Himring had few mounts, and the other riders had been cobbled together from the few remnants of the Gap's forces, alongside Caranthir's Elves and Bór's horsemen. Maglor had poured the past years into Maedhros' Union, and he had accomplished much. He had sung his most stirring songs and spoken his sweetest speeches to win his brother Bór's men as allies. He had coaxed his few friends that escaped burning in the Bragollach into facing the Enemy's fires again boldly and bravely. He had trained Elves and men and horses, month after month after month. He looked out upon them now, from the entrance to the command tent, and still found them wanting. Truth be told, Maglor was nervous, though he did not show it on his face. The pride he felt beholding the bristling array of banners and riders was dampened by the knowledge, too-intimate, of fracture lines in the ranks and the taste of choking ash.
He would hold fast on the morrow. He had vowed in his heart that he always would, for Maedhros.
Turning inwards, he let the tent's flap close behind him as it slipped from his shoulder. Maedhros stood at the hastily-erected table, beside the pallet they would share that night. The summer sun carried rich color down through the tent's cloth and arrayed it upon his hair and skin.
For the first time since the fateful moment he rode out to meet Morgoth's embassy, Maedhros had taken to wearing his thick red braid twined intricately in many strands, and today he had set into it a glimmer of silver wire that set off the vermillion. He bore himself proudly and seemed even taller for it. He had begun to speak in private moments of what they would do afterwards—when the Enemy was gone.
Even in stillness, looking over the maps laid out on the table, he was a blaze of energy: a taut harpstring or a bolt of lightning. Maglor's spirit was stirred, as ever, seeing him. It sought him out—his answering spirit.
Maedhros raised his glance from the parchment and found Maglor’s. He should have looked worn: a scar stood out near one eye, and in the past few months he had all but ceased sleeping. Instead, lit by hope, he was more beautiful than Maglor had ever known him.
No song or tale of heroism encompassed his brother's courage. Maedhros had not wished Maglor to try his hand at crafting one himself. The protagonists of Tirion's theater had been cut out of paper, but Maedhros had remade himself from deepest darkness, from the tangled skein of the world, and created this strategist, this soldier. Despite his forebodings, Maglor felt a rush of confidence. They would win the day tomorrow.
"Káno, come here." Maedhros gestured with the stump of his right wrist. Maglor flew to him like a falcon to a falconer's glove.
"The cavalry are ready; Bór's men have been—"
He was cut off: Maedhros wound his gauntleted left hand into his hair and kissed the breath from him. Maglor made a needy sound as the metal tugged at his curls and could not help it. Heat flooded his body despite the exhaustion of the march and scouts and surveys. He felt the seam of his trousers chafe the place between his legs and wished Maedhros would touch him there. Belatedly his own arms wound about strong shoulders, petting and holding. But by then Maedhros soon released him. Maglor stood stunned and dizzied. Maedhros grinned at him.
"For luck," he said.
Maglor laughed and barely recognized the sound, so light it was, like his old laugh. Maedhros had not drawn him near in weeks, and in the years before that, rarely with such open passion.
I am your luck, then?
There was an irony in the sentiment, but for once, Maglor was content to leave that stone unturned.
"To the day that dawns, glorious!" he said smiling, as though Maedhros had raised a glass in a toast instead of kissing him senseless. With the way Maedhros was looking at him, he hoped he would be tempted into more of the same.
"To us," Maedhros answered, lowly, as though he had not meant Maglor to hear.
