Maedhros led an army across a field of stinking corpses.
“The men are afraid,” Fingon whispered in his ear.
“I do not believe in ghosts.”
“Dost thou not?” smiled Fingon, and vanished.
His gut froze. Findekáno…
“I am here, beloved.” A cool hand cupped his face. “Thou art dreaming.”
Maedhros opened his eyes, sweat prickling on his brow. His cousin’s black hair tickled his cheek; he reached up and buried his fingers in its roots. “Swear to me that thou art not a ghost.”
Fingon laughed and kissed his neck. Warmth blossomed from the place his lips had touched. “Art thou satisfied, Maitimo?”
They wound their arms around one another and slept.
The next time Maedhros held his cousin, he was cradling his broken corpse on the battlefield of the Nírnaeth Arnediad.
“Do not leave me, beloved,” he whispered into the blood-clotted hair. “Haunt me if thou wilt, possess me, but do not leave me alone!”
He felt a whispered laugh in the air, a fleeting kiss on his brow. I thought that thou didst not believe in ghosts, Maitimo?
Crows cawed. The wounded moaned.
Maedhros shook his head. “I am going mad.”
Maedhros/Fingon. A spooky double drabble. Rated Teen for mild m/m and canon character death.
Chapter end notes:
According to canon the F
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