(no subject)
For Nol:
A small sound came from above him. Findekáno froze, then reached for his sword, then swore fluently because he jammed his hand on the decorative (and rather spiky) pommel.
The sound came again. Findekáno wasn’t certain, but it sounded an awful lot like, “Findekáno? Is that you?”
“Maitimo?” Findekáno called. His heart was suddenly in his throat. “Where are you?”
“Up here,” the soft call came.
Findekáno looked up. “Where?”
“I’m bound to the fucking cliff, ’Káno!” The voice was faint and filled with pain, but Findekáno could hear the familiar edge of annoyance come through. He smiled, even as his chest constricted so that he could barely breathe. His Maitimo. He had found him.
“I’ll climb up to you!” he called up, and walked forward until his tree branch hit the cliff wall.
The next few hours - or days, Findekáno couldn’t tell and never asked Maitimo - were a repeat of the past few days - or weeks, Findekáno hadn’t been able to tell and didn’t have anyone to ask - except that this time he was going nearly vertical instead of horizontal. He climbed, unseeing, bruising hands and feet on the rock, sliding down when he missed a foothold and climbing grimly back up, swearing all the while. When he stopped to rest or catch his breath the swearing would cease, and Maitimo would cry “’Káno?” in a frightened tone, as if believing he had vanished once he was no longer audible. Findekáno would call up to him and, spurred on by the fear he had never before heard in his lover’s voice, begin to climb again.
Some time into this, he climbed into a great cloud of ash and smoke, and understood how Morgoth had cast darkness on all the land at the feet of Angband. Desperately coughing, he had to stop and make a mask out of his sash so he would not choke, and then shout up at Maitimo to explain he wasn’t going to be able to talk for a while, he needed all his concentration on breathing. And he began to climb again.
Finally he broke free of the ash and cloud, and blinked in the sudden light of the sun. He was standing at the top of a rock shoulder that butted against the sheer side of the canyon. Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he looked up to see, far above him, the form of his lover, hanging by one wrist from the rock wall.
Maitimo, bruised, bleeding, naked, chained to the rock, but still beautiful.
“Took you fucking long enough,” Maitimo said softly. Findekáno tried not to weep and failed.
“I’m sorry, you asshole,” he said through his tears. “I would have been here sooner, except, you know, no boats?”
Maitimo nodded. “I tried to stop him, you know,” he said. “But not hard enough. He was… he was mad, ’Káno.” He closed his eyes. “I should have done better.”
Findekáno stopped trying to find a handhold on the rock wall. “I didn’t know. You tried to stop him?”
“I told him to go back for you. I told him - it doesn’t matter, ’Káno! He’s dead! They’re all dead! Just like I am dead! You should be dead too!” He subsided, weeping. “Why are you here?”
Findekáno stared at him. Naked, bleeding from a hundred wounds, flesh burned and blackened where the unholy bond of Melkor chained him to the rock, all these Findekáno expected and could deal with. The utter despair in Maitimo’s eyes was new, unexpected, and cut deeper than seeing his lover’s once-fair body so badly damaged.
He said the only thing he could think of. “I love you.” Maitimo opened his eyes, stared down at him. “I love you, and I loved you even when I thought you had betrayed me.” Findekáno tugged two daggers out of their sheaths. “Now shut the fuck up, because I’m going to get you down from there if it’s the last thing I do.”
Maitimo looked up at the sky. “Then it will be the last thing you do, lover, because freeing me from this hell-wrought band is impossible. A Vala has set me upon this rock and such puny beings as we are cannot hope to counteract that.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Findekáno said. “Who are you calling a puny being? And why are you talking like a goddamn ponce, anyway? You sound like some prig Vanya.” He dug one dagger into a crack in the rock, reached up and dug the other one into another crack.
“I can’t be poetic in my hour of death?” Maitimo said.
“Not if it makes you sound like some fucking pansy.” Bracing his feet against the wall, he tugged out the lower dagger and worked it into a crack higher up.
“Technically, I am-” Maitimo started.
“Shut up,” Findekáno said, still climbing. This might just work.
His lower dagger snapped, leaving him flailing for a second before the upper one slipped out of the rock and deposited him, with a thump and a “Manwë fucking Sulimo”, on his ass some three meters below. “Shit.”
Type not, my love! For Fingon/Maedhros pr0n is here to save you from your aching wrists.
A small sound came from above him. Findekáno froze, then reached for his sword, then swore fluently because he jammed his hand on the decorative (and rather spiky) pommel.
The sound came again. Findekáno wasn’t certain, but it sounded an awful lot like, “Findekáno? Is that you?”
“Maitimo?” Findekáno called. His heart was suddenly in his throat. “Where are you?”
“Up here,” the soft call came.
Findekáno looked up. “Where?”
“I’m bound to the fucking cliff, ’Káno!” The voice was faint and filled with pain, but Findekáno could hear the familiar edge of annoyance come through. He smiled, even as his chest constricted so that he could barely breathe. His Maitimo. He had found him.
“I’ll climb up to you!” he called up, and walked forward until his tree branch hit the cliff wall.
The next few hours - or days, Findekáno couldn’t tell and never asked Maitimo - were a repeat of the past few days - or weeks, Findekáno hadn’t been able to tell and didn’t have anyone to ask - except that this time he was going nearly vertical instead of horizontal. He climbed, unseeing, bruising hands and feet on the rock, sliding down when he missed a foothold and climbing grimly back up, swearing all the while. When he stopped to rest or catch his breath the swearing would cease, and Maitimo would cry “’Káno?” in a frightened tone, as if believing he had vanished once he was no longer audible. Findekáno would call up to him and, spurred on by the fear he had never before heard in his lover’s voice, begin to climb again.
Some time into this, he climbed into a great cloud of ash and smoke, and understood how Morgoth had cast darkness on all the land at the feet of Angband. Desperately coughing, he had to stop and make a mask out of his sash so he would not choke, and then shout up at Maitimo to explain he wasn’t going to be able to talk for a while, he needed all his concentration on breathing. And he began to climb again.
Finally he broke free of the ash and cloud, and blinked in the sudden light of the sun. He was standing at the top of a rock shoulder that butted against the sheer side of the canyon. Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he looked up to see, far above him, the form of his lover, hanging by one wrist from the rock wall.
Maitimo, bruised, bleeding, naked, chained to the rock, but still beautiful.
“Took you fucking long enough,” Maitimo said softly. Findekáno tried not to weep and failed.
“I’m sorry, you asshole,” he said through his tears. “I would have been here sooner, except, you know, no boats?”
Maitimo nodded. “I tried to stop him, you know,” he said. “But not hard enough. He was… he was mad, ’Káno.” He closed his eyes. “I should have done better.”
Findekáno stopped trying to find a handhold on the rock wall. “I didn’t know. You tried to stop him?”
“I told him to go back for you. I told him - it doesn’t matter, ’Káno! He’s dead! They’re all dead! Just like I am dead! You should be dead too!” He subsided, weeping. “Why are you here?”
Findekáno stared at him. Naked, bleeding from a hundred wounds, flesh burned and blackened where the unholy bond of Melkor chained him to the rock, all these Findekáno expected and could deal with. The utter despair in Maitimo’s eyes was new, unexpected, and cut deeper than seeing his lover’s once-fair body so badly damaged.
He said the only thing he could think of. “I love you.” Maitimo opened his eyes, stared down at him. “I love you, and I loved you even when I thought you had betrayed me.” Findekáno tugged two daggers out of their sheaths. “Now shut the fuck up, because I’m going to get you down from there if it’s the last thing I do.”
Maitimo looked up at the sky. “Then it will be the last thing you do, lover, because freeing me from this hell-wrought band is impossible. A Vala has set me upon this rock and such puny beings as we are cannot hope to counteract that.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Findekáno said. “Who are you calling a puny being? And why are you talking like a goddamn ponce, anyway? You sound like some prig Vanya.” He dug one dagger into a crack in the rock, reached up and dug the other one into another crack.
“I can’t be poetic in my hour of death?” Maitimo said.
“Not if it makes you sound like some fucking pansy.” Bracing his feet against the wall, he tugged out the lower dagger and worked it into a crack higher up.
“Technically, I am-” Maitimo started.
“Shut up,” Findekáno said, still climbing. This might just work.
His lower dagger snapped, leaving him flailing for a second before the upper one slipped out of the rock and deposited him, with a thump and a “Manwë fucking Sulimo”, on his ass some three meters below. “Shit.”
Type not, my love! For Fingon/Maedhros pr0n is here to save you from your aching wrists.