They stood, the two brothers, both armed and tall. A breath. Eyes met, and held, neither taking nor giving.

Feanor placed his hands on the green stone that Fingolfin wore on his chest. "You have something else that is mine."

"I do." Fingolfin covered those hands with his own. "But I will not return it here."

"Where?" Feanor asked. His eyes narrowed, dark like the heavens of star-lit lands across the sea.

"Will you follow me?" Fingolfin asked, as Feanor had before. The two hands clasped, then fell. Fingolfin turned, and led his brother into his house. Feanor hed been there only once, briefly, in anger many years ago. He had never followed Fingolfin, as he did now, into his darkened, secret chambers. The hall beneath the house was like Feanor's own, but bereft of jewels and torches. When Fingolfin closed the door, only the light of his green stone spread a vague light around them.

Feanor returned his hands to his brother's chest. "What is it you desire of me, son of Indis?" His hands clenched, as if seeking something beyond the stone.

And what is it I desire? Fingolfin pushed Feanor from him, as he had done before. The, he grabbed his waist, and before he could think, he fell with him to the floor. He straddled him, and then leaned forward, pressing his lips to his. "If you do not offer peace, then what do you offer?" Fingolfin growled between kisses.

"Fire," Feanor said, as his hands roamed his brother's body with a softer intensity than Fingolfin could have imagined. "What else can I give?"

*

Fingon touched his friend's arm to steady him - and a shock of arousal shot through him, vivid as the lusts Fenaor had placed in his mind. Or drawn out of it. He jerked his hand back.

"What just happened?" Maedhros asked, his attention finally pulled away from his father below.

"Nothing," Fingon scowled.

"You didn't let me say that last night." He put his hand on Fingon's shoulder, and left it there even when Fingon tried to back away. "I shouldn't have let you face my father alone. I'm sorry I did. Will you tell me what he did to you?"

Fingon shook his head, and looked at the floor. "He showed me something that I didn't want to see. That might not even be true."

"My father does that. But not everything he makes you see is as ugly as it looks. He can only show what he understands. Will you tell me what it was?"

"You'd hate me." Fingon wanted to pull away, to stop this conversation, but the warmth of his friend's body so close and the gentle strength of his hand was like a magnet, pulling him closer. His pulse raced, and he made no move.

"Nothing could make me hate you," Maedhros said.

The truth of that, the utter acceptance of whatever he might be, was what kept Fingon from turning away. He moved closer, and let Maedhros's arms close around him in an embrace that was at once completely familiar and unlike anything he had ever known. His mind fell open, to meet with a new opening in Maedhros as well. Where once he could penetrate only to the outer reaches of his soul, now a new level was revealed to him, a soft burning, a hidden flame that could only be the beginnings of love.

It shone like the very fire of the One.

When their lips met, it seemed natural, only obvious after the deeper intimacies they had shared. They kissed in joy, in relief, and finally in deeper and deeper desire, sharing one eager breath, wanting to be as close as their separate bodies would allow.

They pulled apart in time, and then held one another again. And, suddenly, the world was not what it had been. Where before everything had seemed a mess of plots and counterplots, traps and deceptions that left Fingon powerless, now all collapsed into the one certainty that he would not allow his beloved to be taken from him. This love needed a bigger world than the one their fathers were making with their mutual suspicion and fear.

Maedhros laughed, feeling the words that did not need to be said. "Do you think we can stop them?"

Fingon felt the laugh run through him, from his eyes to his chest to his loins. "I think we're going to try," he said, pulling Maedhros closer. "Soon."

*

The green stone flew from Fingolfin's neck, and rolled out of his grasp. Away from the heat of a body its light faded, leaving the two brothers in complete darkness. The gentle intensity of Feanor's touch turned to clawed rage until Fingolfin was naked above him, and even then went on, flaying his skin with each grasp. Fingolfin was no more gentle, pulling at Feanor's hair to force his mouth into his groin. Once in position, Feanor used his teeth to mark his brother's white skin, and then his tongue to send him into shocks of pleasure. Fingolfin cried out, momentarily helpless, and Feanor threw him off, and lay on top of him. They wrestled, turning over, each striving for domination, drawing blood with each turn. When Fingolfin found himself on top for a moment, between Feanor's outstretched thighs, he pushed them sharply backwards and thrust himself inside. Feanor moaned in pleasure or pain, and then spat. Fingolfin wiped the saliva from his face, and then shoved his fingers into Feanor's mouth, never slowing the rhythm of his thrusts. He laughed. Feanor seemed so weak, so young…

So young. Like the child who sat alone, watching the stepmother who would never be a mother and her sons who would never be brothers, always at a distance, his dark eyes burning with the fire that loneliness had kindled within him.

Fingolfin's next thrust brought a climax, and nausea filled him along with pleasure. He rolled away, sickened. He lay on the floor, breathing hard, just far enough from Feanor that he would not have to feel him, and pity him.

"Why did we have to do that?" he finally asked.

"Because my mother died. Because our father would not wait for her to heal." Feanor spoke calmly, as if uncaring. "Because your mother loved a married man. Because her sons, and their father, never stopped believing that I am enough for the fire, and that the fire is enough for me. And yet the fire is beyond me, though you turn to me when you seek it."

"Oh." There was something that did not make sense to Fingolfin, not completely, but he decided that he did not need to know. "Can we stop now?"

"Can my mother live?"

It was not a call for pity, although it might have sounded like one in another voice. Fingolfin returned to his brother, and softly, gently, rocked him in his arms.

*

When Fingon returned to the courtyard with Maedhros's hand firmly clasped in his he saw a scene far different from the one he had left. Feanor and Fingolfin were nowhere to be seen. Maglor and Turgon were off in one corner having what sounded like a fascinated discussion on the relationship between mathematics and musical notes. Aredhel and Celegorm were in another corner, utterly preoccupied by each other's eyes. Argon and the guards, under Anaire's direction, were gathering up all the swords of both houses and throwing them into the sea.

Something caught Aredhel's attention, and she jumped up and ran to her brother, pulling her lover with her. "We're going to get married," she said.

Fingon smiled. "So are we."

Aredhel guffawed. "Father's going to kill us all."

"Not if we don't let him."

And, at that moment, Feanor and Fingolfin appeared in the doorway.

*

It was a miracle, Fingolfin decided. He had been on the edge of the cliff, about to fall, but his brother's hands had held him, as he had not thought they would. And not only his brother, but his sons, his daughter, and his wife. His wife. As he watched her move, calling orders, acting against his command but with his deepest good, he remembered the young girl he had befriended, and the bride whose gentle passion had made him feel whole. There was no reason for her to forgive him, now. He did not know if it was something he could even hope for.

He could turn, he could return, but would the breaches that were made ever heal? He did not know. He only knew that he would mend them if he could.

Fingolfin smiled to see his children and his brother's children standing together, and in the unfaded light of the trees of Valinor, he stepped forward to join his family.