Maedhros closes his eyes as a wave of warmth rises through their shared bond. Doubts wash away, leaving him marvelling at the sensation. To see his memories, hear his thoughts, feel his emotions.
It casts the world in kaleidoscopic perspective. Gods, how he missed him. Missed this.
How effortlessly Fingon tears down his defences – the walls Maedhros built so carefully to shield his mind and cage his shadows.
But to whom, if not Fingon, could he lay bare his scarred heart?
No constraints. No illusions. Just them. Just this, once again.
My Instagram: artist_fantasyetc, I'm more active there🙏
My beloved Findekano and Maitimo😱😣😍
I imagined the scene which never happened: if only they could win in Nirnaeth Arnoediad and take their helmets off and put the crowns on... and shake hands as a winners...
🥺😩 it never happened...
(i'm crazy about Fingon's braids, you should know this 🤣🙈)
Fingon is the High King... with bigger crown😁 and Maedhros's crown is like a flames😌
(and this is not a sword but a dagger in front, cause Fingon is right-handed most likely right?.. So, the sword is on the other side)
Russingon Week will be running next month, from June 15th - June 21st 2026! If you’re wondering what to work on, here are some prompts for inspiration; these are of course entirely optional and here just to inspire you.
Day 1 – June 15th: LIGHT
Valinor
Youth
Truth and integrity
Poetry, song, and unusual word-craft
Fairy tale AU
Day 2 – June 16th: GOLD
Kingship and royalty
Beleriand
Gifts
Physical media, cloth, fiber-craft
Canon divergence AU
Day 3 – June 17th: DARKNESS
Lies and deceit, hidden things
Maedhros' captivity
The Helcaraxë
Audio fanworks (music, audiofics, playlists etc)
Day 4 – June 18th: BLOOD
Kinslayings
Fathers and loyalty
Nirnaeth Arnoediad: "his blue and silver banner..."
(Gen rated) fic to accompany it below the cut or on Ao3
Findekáno had told himself he would kiss Maitimo after the contest, if he won. He had promised he would finally take the leap and risk it, and allow the victory to soothe his pride if his advances were rejected.
He was almost certain they would not be, Maitimo had begun suggesting they spend more time together just the two of them and found excuses to linger in the aftermath of parties, to talk with Findekáno. There was a thread of tension between them, and flirtation. Only, Findekáno was not completely sure the flirtation was not an aspect of the closeness between friends. Findaráto jested with everyone in a similar manner. But Maitimo was not Findaráto, though he indulged their cousin’s flirtation.
Still, he made no overt advances. Still, Findekáno could not be entirely certain.
‘I might accuse you of hiding this on purpose to thwart me.’ Maitimo emerged from the tac room, carrying Findekáno’s saddle.
In the golden light of Laurelin his hair was a wreath of red. The shadows of leaves dances over his skin, mottling him blue and gold. In a land of beauty, he was still the most beautiful of all. The sight of him struck Findekáno as if he were the target of his own arrow.
In a rush of nervous anticipation, half for the contest, Findekáno could not wait any longer and broke his own promise. He dropped his bow and leaning up on his toes, captured Maitimo’s face between his palms, pressing a kiss to his perfect lips.
Maitimo pressed back against him, his hand finding the small of Findekáno’s back, pulling him closer and closer again.
When they paused for breath, still holding each other close, Maitimo had a soft smile on his lips.
‘Finally.’ He said, his eyes dancing with something close to wonder.‘I began to think you did not share my interest.’
‘While I feared the same of you!’
‘I did not think myself subtle.’
‘Oh but you were.’
‘It would have been improper to assume.’
‘We are fools, indeed!’
Findekáno kissed him again, passionately, quickly, a thousand kisses he had restrained himself from.
Maitimo began to laugh, a quiet chuckle that Findekáno swallowed again and again until he was laughing too and they had to come apart.
‘I must go.’ Findekáno looked up with wide eyes as he remembered himself, the contest.
‘Stay.’ Maitimo urged softly, possessively.
The saddle was still between them, carefully cradled in his arms. Findekáno took it from him and stooped to retrieve his bow from the ground.
‘After.’ He promised, savouring a last look at Maitimo standing there, flushed from his kisses, wanting him in return. Beyond any of the fantasies Findekáno had harboured for years.
Then he turned and ran for the archery fields. A shout of joy tore itself from his mouth as he went, the outcome of the contest entirely secondary to the victory of reciprocated desire.
In the end it was good he acted on impulse and not his promise, for he did not win the archery contest that year, though he did the next, and it would have lost them more time in flustered half-advances and second-guessing themselves.
Tags: First Age of Arda, Established Relationship, Pre-Nirnaeth Arnoediad | Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Non-Graphic Smut, Angst and Porn
Summary:
But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.
***
Maedhros, Fingon, and their final night together before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
inspired by @tanoraqui's doomed post, and just in time for @russingon-week
After three days of restless council, of willing the minds of their allies as the wind persistently beckons the treebranches to bend its way, the king’s hall in Barad Eithel falls frighteningly silent.
Crowded about the long tables, they have been vortexed into a cruel parody of Fingolfin’s long-ago Feast of Reuniting. Lords of the Noldor and Sindar, elders of the Laiquendi, kings of the Dwarves from Ered Luin, chieftains of the Edain and Men from the east, as many differences between them as the stars in the sky, all now beleaguered by the same colossal decision — endure each within their strongholds for as long as they might, or challenge the Dark One in open battle. King Fingon waits, daring to breathe, and no more.
A chair scrapes the marble floor. Careful the dragging may be, yet it shoots through the quietness in terrible dissonance.
“My king,” Maedhros addresses him as he stands to tower above the council. “May I add one last drop to the filled chalice of our thoughts?”
He holds Fingon’s gaze with that terrible tenderness embalmed by intensity; it lodges itself as a shard between the king’s ceremonial armor and flays him open.
“By your summons we are all gathered here, lord Maedhros. It is only right that we hear your counsel last before we seclude our minds to the solitude that judgment demands.” Fingon flicks a wrist in allowance, and the Fëanorion draws at the center of the circle of Beleriand’s leaders, all his body turned into a banner.
For all the same flame that lives in him, Maedhros is not as Fëanor was, a great orator wielding language full of life-fire that kindles hearts to madness, nor does he have Maglor’s voice that pushes and pulls minds as if he were the ocean’s tide. Maedhros’ diplomacy is as his sword, cold, piercing with deadly accuracy, and used only at utmost need. Harsh words, one might deem them, but cold and harsh is the tongue of Beleriand. Words of steel is what wins allies in these lands and these times, stirring wrath into those hearts that have sickened from endless war.
