“Help me.”

Haleth turned to him, at first unbelieving. “What was that?”

Caranthir grimaced. “I said—help me.” With gritted teeth, he added, “Please.”

She surveyed him, half-caught in the berry bushes they’d been harvesting. He stood out like a black eye among her people, far too tall, far too lean. He’d come alone, asking to speak with her leader to leader, but she would not stop the work of her people. She would not have the Haladin do anything she would not, and she would not take a break in the middle of the harvest.

(She also liked to see his face darken with frustration, his cheeks turning cherry red. She thought of him more often than she should, like that; she wanted to see him blush from more than just anger.)

“Very well then,” he had said, grim as if she had pronounced his doom. “I will wait.”

“Or you could help, and speak to me as we work,” she challenged.

She had not expected him to take her up on her offer—but here he was, sweating with the rest of them (and he did sweat, she found with no small amount of fascination), pricking his fingers on the thorns and staining his palms black and red.

It was an attractive look, made more attractive by his plea for aid. Two hours he had worked alongside her, and spoken not a word, despite his request to treat with her—and now, he broke his silence. Asking for help.

“And what shall the price of my aid be?” Haleth wondered. He was well and truly tangled in the brambles, she noticed. It was as if they wound around his legs with intent to snag him, as if they wanted to pull him into their depths.

“What do you name?”

Haleth felt the hair on her arms stand on end, despite the warmth of the Sun above them. “It is not a wise lord who allows his rival to trap him in such a deal.”

“As you can see...I am stuck.” Was it her imagination, or was he leaning toward her, as much as the bushes would allow? “I have little in the way of...leverage.”

Haleth picked her way closer. She could smell him, elf-sweat tinged with berry juice, hair oil with...fear?

No. Arousal.

He liked being trapped, she realized. He liked being...at her mercy.

She smiled, slow and predatory. “Come to my home at sunfall,” she murmured, gently prying the brambles from his long, limber legs. “I will name my price then.”

He shivered. The vines parted easily, and he worked himself free alongside her. It was as if the bushes bent to his will. This had been no true trap.

Haleth hissed. She’d pricked her thumb on a thorn. Fast as lightning, Caranthir grasped her wrist, his grip firm but tender.

“Let me,” he murmured, and kissed the drop of blood from her skin.

full art: here

fic: a new country (fic will be available beginning 9/6/20!)

author: aikanaro on ao3 (@himrings​)

artist: unlos on ao3, (@usuallysublimepenguin)

rating: teen

pairing: erestor/glorfindel

warnings: graphic depictions of violence

description: 

Glorfindel had known something was amiss before anyone else did. The feeling was one he could neither describe nor wholly explain, but in one terrible instant he was sure of it -- something was wrong.

additional tags: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, rescue, hypothermia

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“It’ll never be enough,” Findaráto said quietly.

Turukáno flinched, but did not try to deny it. “I wish…” But there was no end to that sentence, no resolution to the ache in both their souls.

“I’m not—her.” Findaráto didn’t dare speak Elenwë’s name. “I can’t be. And—and even if you want me, you’ll always need her.”

“Is it not better to have something than to have nothing at all?” Turukáno lamented. “Surely—surely we could try.”

“What is this, if not trying?” Findaráto gestured helplessly to the twisted, dirty sheets around them. “But you couldn’t—I know you miss her, Turno. And I can’t lie with you and pretend to be her. I can’t—I won’t do that to myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Turukáno whispered. “I wish—I wish…”

I wish she were here, he did not say. I wish she could tell me it was all right to love you, too. I wish I could have you both.

But she was gone. And with her gone, he saw her everywhere.

20. in a moment of worry

~

Maedhros clung to him tightly, so tightly Fingon winced. He knew exactly why his husband worried—knew that every descendant of Míriel carried this worry with them—but he was not Míriel, not in any way. And squeezing his hand so tight that he lost circulation would do nothing to help along the birthing process.

“Russo,” he said gently, prying Maedhros’ fingers off. “Russo, you’re hurting me.”

Maedhros blanched, letting go quickly, guilt and fear showing clearly on his face. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Finno, I shouldn’t—”

Fingon winced as he felt another labor pang rack through his body, but he took his husband’s hand back tenderly, leaning close to give him a chaste kiss. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “You’re worried. I understand. But I promise you, Russo, I’m going to be fine.”

Maedhros swallowed. “But—what if...”

“Did not your mother deliver seven sons?” Fingon said, raising an eyebrow. “And two of them at once! I will be fine, Russo. I promise.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Maedhros whispered, burying his face in Fingon’s chest.

“And I am not leaving you,” Fingon assured, stroking his husband’s beautiful mane of auburn hair. “And in a few hours, we will have two beautiful children with us, and we will be the happiest family in all of Beleriand.”

“I love you,” Maedhros said, lifting his head just enough so that Fingon could see the tears gleaming in his eyes. “Finno, I love you so much. I love our children, but I love you, I—if you—” He swallowed, and Fingon pressed a finger to his lips before he could say anything he might regret.

“I am strong,” he said firmly. “And we have been very careful. I will be fine, and our children will be perfect, and—” He grimaced. “And we do have healers waiting to be called in to help us, why don’t you go welcome them in?”

“It’s time?” Maedhros’ face was deathly pale.

20. 23. in a moment of worry sadness

~

“I should have done more.”

Fingon sighed, leaning against his beloved, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “You did what you could,” he murmured.

Maedhros shook his head, so minutely as to be imperceptible—but Fingon knew him, knew his every subtle movement, knew the pain he felt, for had he not also lost a littlest brother barely stepped foot upon these Hither Shores?

“I—I could have stopped him. Should have stopped him.” A single tear dripped from his eye, caught on Fingon’s palm before it could seep into his robes. “He deserved better. He should have gone back—he should have been safe...”

Safe like I was safe? Like Arno and Elenwë were safe? Fingon did not speak the bitter words aloud, hid them deep in his heart away from Maedhros. They both carried enough guilt over the Ice as it was.

“You did what you could,” he repeated, and meant it. “We all did.”

6. Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift.

“For it is said that those who looked through this stone saw things that were withered or burned healed again or as they were in the grace of their youth, and that the hands of one who held it brought to all that they touched healing from hurt.”

—Unfinished Tales, “The History of Galadriel and Celeborn: The Elessar”

“The Green Stone of Fëanor given by Maidros to Fingon...”

—The History of Middle-earth: The War of the Jewels, “The Later Quenta Silmarillion”

~~~

“Oh—Russo, I—” Fingon’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “Darling, I didn’t...you shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to.” Maedhros smiled to see Fingon’s clear reverence and joy as he turned the jewel over in his hand. “Tyelpë crafted it, but I enchanted it. It should—”

But Fingon had discovered the jewel’s property on his own, lifting it up to the light and gasping. It blazed in the Sun, for Celebrimbor’s genius had caught the very light of Laurelin in its facets, but peering through its emerald sheen—

“Oh, Maitimo,” Fingon cried. “I...I see you, I see Maitimo, I see—!”

He dropped the stone on his dresser and flung himself into Maedhros’ arms, kissing him hard and wild. Maedhros laughed as he tried to meet his husband’s passion, but Fingon couldn’t seem to decide where to put his lips: he kissed his forehead, his nose, the ragged remains of his left ear, his neck, his mouth, the place over his heart. Maedhros surrendered, letting Fingon push him down onto his bed.

“Don’t you want—” Maedhros bit off a moan as Fingon tore his shirt open, kissing his chest, biting lightly at the nipple that still had feeling. “I made it so you could see me as I used to be—it’s not, it won’t work for everything, but I—”

“I want you like this,” Fingon growled, breathing heavily between his scattered kisses. “I wanted you then and I—this is truly a marvelous gift, Russandol, to see you as you were, to remember that light and beauty we had in Aman—but I want you now, husband, I want you always.”