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Death Becomes Him by Tehhumi
B2MeM Prompt, Card and Number: Keep it in the Family: Maedhros/Fingon/Finrod O67; Song Lyrics 2: Why would a star, a star ever be afraid of the dark? O67; Cause of Death: Suicide I25, Blood Loss G57, Drowning I16, Torture B9, Poison I18, Shock O72, Illness O66, Dehydration B15
Format: Short story
Genre: Slash
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Cousin incest, somewhat graphic discussion of death and injury
Characters: Maedhros, Finrod, Fingon
Pairings: Maedhros/Fingon/Finrod
Summary: There's a masquerade ball in Tirion for the Returned, with a slightly morbid theme.
Creator’s Notes: I use 'Valinorean' here to mean those who did not go to Beleriand until the War of Wrath, as distinct from the Noldorin Exiles who are also Calaquendi.
Maedhros was reading in the cottage outside Tirion that he shared with Finrod and Fingon. It was far smaller than the palaces in Tirion or Hithlum or Nargothrond - or even the Lord’s House in Himring - but none of them were kings anymore, and it had the advantage of no neighbors.
Maedhros had been back only a few decades and was thrilled to have a body again - and a pain-free one at that. Fingon had always been energetic, and Finrod adventurous; when they abandoned restraint the sounds could be heard for miles.
Finrod opened the front door, back from buying bread at the market. “There’s a ball for Returned Noldor next month, a chance to get together and swap stories of Beleriand without horrifying the Valinoreans.”
Maedhros didn’t look up from his book. “You two have fun.”
“You’re not coming?”
“At best everyone ignores me. Last time Egalmoth told me I should go to the recovered orc meetings instead.”
“But it’s a masquerade. You don’t have to be Maedhros Feanorian, you can just be the handsome stranger hanging on the crown prince.”
“I suppose that could be interesting. What’s the theme?”
“How you died.”
“Pass. There’s few enough suicides, someone will guess. And I can’t think of a costume that communicates ‘suicide’ succinctly.”
“What about something with mirrors - maybe a mirrored helmet?”
Fingon walked in from the other room. “Oh, don’t say suicide. Be a little creative.”
Maedhros rolled his eyes. “Like what? I’m not going to lie and say orcs killed me.”
“Personally, I tend to claim blood loss when anyone who’s trying to figure out if I’m actually the Fingon asks how I died.”
“Your body was trampled and your head was split open!”
Fingon shrugged. “Head wounds bleed a lot. I remember falling, I could have bled out in the time it took to hit the ground.”
“There were bits of your brain in a ten foot circle!”
“You met that Hadorian fellow who had an arrow shot through one ear and lived. If I’d been bandaged immediately, I might have survived for years with my mind half-gone. Gothmog was the only witness to how badly I was hurt, and I doubt Ecthelion stopped to ask him for details.”
Finrod spoke up before this could turn into another conversation about Fingon’s tendency to underestimate his injuries. “That’s a good idea. It would get me out of wearing fur, it’s terribly repetitive by now.”
“Repetitive? How many of these parties are there?”
“Oh, about once a yeni someone thinks it’s a completely novel idea. They’re fun to plan a costume the first half-dozen or so times, and it’s always interesting to see what the freshly back are wearing. So Fingon, to keep me from dying of boredom, what do you think for me?”
“Well, what were your injuries? Or you could blame Beren for you being there in the first place; I think Caranthir is going as a Silmaril.”
“Missing my left leg from the knee down, various cuts and bruises, a bite out of my side that was probably infected, and several snapped ribs - I think one of them punctured my lung.”
“So blood loss, or shock, or either suffocation or drowning depending on if your lung collapsed or filled with blood first.”
“I won’t dress as blood loss if you are, it wouldn’t do to copy each other’s costumes. Drowning could work.”
Maedhros said, “The number of Noldor who drowned is quite high, especially now that all us Kinslayers are back.”
Finrod hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that would help with the masquerade part, but I really want something creative. Are you sure you won’t come?”
“What would I even dress as? Suicide is, whatever else, quick enough that I can’t claim to have died of complications.”
Fingon suggested, “You could go as Maedhros the One-Handed. A mask with scars all over it and carry a hook in your right hand.”
Finrod chimed in, “Most people don’t dress as you, but there are quite a few people who could. You wouldn’t be obvious.”
“That has me talking to Siriondrim all night,” Maedhros complained.
“You could copy Caranthir, or do something with lava, or dress like your father for having you swear the Oath in the first place,” Fingon reeled off. “Although I reserve the right not to kiss you if your Feanor costume is accurate.”
Finrod exclaimed, “That’s it! I wasn’t killed by werewolves, I was tortured to death by Sauron! I shall go as the lieutenant of Angband - unless I can get a good description of Annatar, by all accounts that form was gorgeous.”
“That would make the masquerade part more difficult,” Maedhros pointed out. “I’ve got an idea for myself though. I’ll go to the party if I can figure out how to portray it properly.”
“Do we get a hint?”
“No, I think not. You’ll see at the party same as everyone else.”
The day of the ball came around. Costumes ranged from incredibly elaborate - Caranthir was dressed in dozens of thin layers of gauze that shone gold and silver whenever he moved - to the terribly low effort - Argon was wearing a beat up old tunic and leggings with dirt on his face, claiming to be dressed as an orc. Aredhel’s customary white dress had her veins traced out in green spreading from her left shoulder, and she chatted with a nis whose tunic was covered in carefully embroidered vomit. One ner was chasing around anyone dressed as the sea, begging for a cup of water, having decided that dehydration was easier to act than to costume.
An elf wearing a mask pale as death and robes that gradually went from white near the collar to bright red at the waist and crimson at the hem, trailing streamers of crimson from the hem and the cuffs, sat on a couch. A figure in spiked black plate armor with an eye painted on the breastplate stood nearby, having lost the knack for sitting in armor.
The armored figure said, “Do you know what Maedhros is coming as?” Finrod had been at the palace for the past two days reassuring people that such a large gathering of Kinslayers was not to break out in violence, and had not gotten a chance to stop by their cottage.
Fingon shook his head. “He refused to let me into his workroom, and even said he wouldn’t ride out until my horse had been gone for an hour.”
“Why do we put up with his drama?”
“You do because you’re convinced he’ll get it out of his system after a century or two of peace. I do because he gives the best blowjobs when he’s trying to distract me.”
“Seriously?”
“I asked Maedhros about his costume four times yesterday.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to roleplay the valiant prince in the dark lord’s clutches later?”
Finrod paused. “I never said that.”
Just then a tall figure entered the room. Black from neck to toe, the garment was tailored to appear perfectly form fitting and display a feminine bust and hips. A black mask covered the top half of the face, and black hair flowed unbound down the figure’s back.
“Is that him?” Finrod said.
“Must be, no one else is that tall. But what’s he dressed as?”
“The Everlasting Darkness?”
“Since when is the everlasting darkness female?”
“Ungoliant, then? But Ungoliant didn’t kill Maedhros by any stretch of the imagination…”
Maedhros walked closer and it became clear that the outfit was not actually black. It was covered in tiny gems, points of light winking in and out as he walked under chandeliers. His hair glimmered as silver ornaments the size of pinheads were covered and revealed.
Fingon started snickering. “By the Valar, it’s stars.”
“What? What do stars have to do with his death?”
“He’s the Lady of the Stars.”
“Elbereth.”
“Exactly!”
By that point Maedhros had made his way over. “Well what do you think?”
Fingon replied “You look gorgeous, as always. Why Varda though?”
“If she hadn’t hallowed the Silmarils, I would have still had one functioning hand. I would have been strong enough to go on if there was any chance I could live without relying on people’s pity.”
Finrod smiled and shook his head. “Could you be any more blasphemous?”
“Certainly. Kiss me my love?”
“Here? In front of everyone?”
“I doubt anyone will guess who one of us is, never mind both. The family reputation is quite safe.”
“Dressed like this?”
“Oh, this makes it more fun”
“Fine.”
And so, the party looked on as Gorthaur the Cruel kissed Varda the Kindler. It was quite a fascinating image.
Format: Short story
Genre: Slash
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Cousin incest, somewhat graphic discussion of death and injury
Characters: Maedhros, Finrod, Fingon
Pairings: Maedhros/Fingon/Finrod
Summary: There's a masquerade ball in Tirion for the Returned, with a slightly morbid theme.
Creator’s Notes: I use 'Valinorean' here to mean those who did not go to Beleriand until the War of Wrath, as distinct from the Noldorin Exiles who are also Calaquendi.
Maedhros was reading in the cottage outside Tirion that he shared with Finrod and Fingon. It was far smaller than the palaces in Tirion or Hithlum or Nargothrond - or even the Lord’s House in Himring - but none of them were kings anymore, and it had the advantage of no neighbors.
Maedhros had been back only a few decades and was thrilled to have a body again - and a pain-free one at that. Fingon had always been energetic, and Finrod adventurous; when they abandoned restraint the sounds could be heard for miles.
Finrod opened the front door, back from buying bread at the market. “There’s a ball for Returned Noldor next month, a chance to get together and swap stories of Beleriand without horrifying the Valinoreans.”
Maedhros didn’t look up from his book. “You two have fun.”
“You’re not coming?”
“At best everyone ignores me. Last time Egalmoth told me I should go to the recovered orc meetings instead.”
“But it’s a masquerade. You don’t have to be Maedhros Feanorian, you can just be the handsome stranger hanging on the crown prince.”
“I suppose that could be interesting. What’s the theme?”
“How you died.”
“Pass. There’s few enough suicides, someone will guess. And I can’t think of a costume that communicates ‘suicide’ succinctly.”
“What about something with mirrors - maybe a mirrored helmet?”
Fingon walked in from the other room. “Oh, don’t say suicide. Be a little creative.”
Maedhros rolled his eyes. “Like what? I’m not going to lie and say orcs killed me.”
“Personally, I tend to claim blood loss when anyone who’s trying to figure out if I’m actually the Fingon asks how I died.”
“Your body was trampled and your head was split open!”
Fingon shrugged. “Head wounds bleed a lot. I remember falling, I could have bled out in the time it took to hit the ground.”
“There were bits of your brain in a ten foot circle!”
“You met that Hadorian fellow who had an arrow shot through one ear and lived. If I’d been bandaged immediately, I might have survived for years with my mind half-gone. Gothmog was the only witness to how badly I was hurt, and I doubt Ecthelion stopped to ask him for details.”
Finrod spoke up before this could turn into another conversation about Fingon’s tendency to underestimate his injuries. “That’s a good idea. It would get me out of wearing fur, it’s terribly repetitive by now.”
“Repetitive? How many of these parties are there?”
“Oh, about once a yeni someone thinks it’s a completely novel idea. They’re fun to plan a costume the first half-dozen or so times, and it’s always interesting to see what the freshly back are wearing. So Fingon, to keep me from dying of boredom, what do you think for me?”
“Well, what were your injuries? Or you could blame Beren for you being there in the first place; I think Caranthir is going as a Silmaril.”
“Missing my left leg from the knee down, various cuts and bruises, a bite out of my side that was probably infected, and several snapped ribs - I think one of them punctured my lung.”
“So blood loss, or shock, or either suffocation or drowning depending on if your lung collapsed or filled with blood first.”
“I won’t dress as blood loss if you are, it wouldn’t do to copy each other’s costumes. Drowning could work.”
Maedhros said, “The number of Noldor who drowned is quite high, especially now that all us Kinslayers are back.”
Finrod hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that would help with the masquerade part, but I really want something creative. Are you sure you won’t come?”
“What would I even dress as? Suicide is, whatever else, quick enough that I can’t claim to have died of complications.”
Fingon suggested, “You could go as Maedhros the One-Handed. A mask with scars all over it and carry a hook in your right hand.”
Finrod chimed in, “Most people don’t dress as you, but there are quite a few people who could. You wouldn’t be obvious.”
“That has me talking to Siriondrim all night,” Maedhros complained.
“You could copy Caranthir, or do something with lava, or dress like your father for having you swear the Oath in the first place,” Fingon reeled off. “Although I reserve the right not to kiss you if your Feanor costume is accurate.”
Finrod exclaimed, “That’s it! I wasn’t killed by werewolves, I was tortured to death by Sauron! I shall go as the lieutenant of Angband - unless I can get a good description of Annatar, by all accounts that form was gorgeous.”
“That would make the masquerade part more difficult,” Maedhros pointed out. “I’ve got an idea for myself though. I’ll go to the party if I can figure out how to portray it properly.”
“Do we get a hint?”
“No, I think not. You’ll see at the party same as everyone else.”
The day of the ball came around. Costumes ranged from incredibly elaborate - Caranthir was dressed in dozens of thin layers of gauze that shone gold and silver whenever he moved - to the terribly low effort - Argon was wearing a beat up old tunic and leggings with dirt on his face, claiming to be dressed as an orc. Aredhel’s customary white dress had her veins traced out in green spreading from her left shoulder, and she chatted with a nis whose tunic was covered in carefully embroidered vomit. One ner was chasing around anyone dressed as the sea, begging for a cup of water, having decided that dehydration was easier to act than to costume.
An elf wearing a mask pale as death and robes that gradually went from white near the collar to bright red at the waist and crimson at the hem, trailing streamers of crimson from the hem and the cuffs, sat on a couch. A figure in spiked black plate armor with an eye painted on the breastplate stood nearby, having lost the knack for sitting in armor.
The armored figure said, “Do you know what Maedhros is coming as?” Finrod had been at the palace for the past two days reassuring people that such a large gathering of Kinslayers was not to break out in violence, and had not gotten a chance to stop by their cottage.
Fingon shook his head. “He refused to let me into his workroom, and even said he wouldn’t ride out until my horse had been gone for an hour.”
“Why do we put up with his drama?”
“You do because you’re convinced he’ll get it out of his system after a century or two of peace. I do because he gives the best blowjobs when he’s trying to distract me.”
“Seriously?”
“I asked Maedhros about his costume four times yesterday.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to roleplay the valiant prince in the dark lord’s clutches later?”
Finrod paused. “I never said that.”
Just then a tall figure entered the room. Black from neck to toe, the garment was tailored to appear perfectly form fitting and display a feminine bust and hips. A black mask covered the top half of the face, and black hair flowed unbound down the figure’s back.
“Is that him?” Finrod said.
“Must be, no one else is that tall. But what’s he dressed as?”
“The Everlasting Darkness?”
“Since when is the everlasting darkness female?”
“Ungoliant, then? But Ungoliant didn’t kill Maedhros by any stretch of the imagination…”
Maedhros walked closer and it became clear that the outfit was not actually black. It was covered in tiny gems, points of light winking in and out as he walked under chandeliers. His hair glimmered as silver ornaments the size of pinheads were covered and revealed.
Fingon started snickering. “By the Valar, it’s stars.”
“What? What do stars have to do with his death?”
“He’s the Lady of the Stars.”
“Elbereth.”
“Exactly!”
By that point Maedhros had made his way over. “Well what do you think?”
Fingon replied “You look gorgeous, as always. Why Varda though?”
“If she hadn’t hallowed the Silmarils, I would have still had one functioning hand. I would have been strong enough to go on if there was any chance I could live without relying on people’s pity.”
Finrod smiled and shook his head. “Could you be any more blasphemous?”
“Certainly. Kiss me my love?”
“Here? In front of everyone?”
“I doubt anyone will guess who one of us is, never mind both. The family reputation is quite safe.”
“Dressed like this?”
“Oh, this makes it more fun”
“Fine.”
And so, the party looked on as Gorthaur the Cruel kissed Varda the Kindler. It was quite a fascinating image.