Work Text:
Fingon’s new hands are a disappointment.
They are elegant, long-fingered and graceful, sinewy and strong – accurate, in form, to those of his prior life. Like that first pair, they tell the story of his inner thoughts with candor: tensing or clasping or grasping with the changing of his moods, telegraphing his joy and turmoil for those with an eye to see. They still burn with the urgent outflow of communication – fingers, wrists, and palms turning and shaping the air to enhance and expand upon his words. They are capable, and seem to remember much of what he’d known of music, of archery, of turning pages and shaping letters and calculating figures. Of the art of making fire, and the skill of touching in kindness and support.
But they are also soft. Smooth. Unmarked, in a way his heart and memory are not.
Fingon has regrets, but the scars and calluses he bore from his centuries-long fight are not among them. Each mark was earned, won from the Enemy: a source of pride. His hands were his people’s bulwark, his promise of guard made flesh. The story of that proud resistance could be read clearly in his skin.
He remembers one firelit night in Himring: Maedhros touching each rough spot softly, first with a finger, then with his lips: This from your harp, this from your bow, this from your sword, this from the razored peaks from whence you claimed me. Maedhros’ kisses eased his sore palms. His tongue traced fire across the marks, hallowing Fingon’s hands.
Fingon sets himself the task of breaking them in again, as he waits for Maedhros to emerge from the Halls. It will be the work of years, to build up layers of protection, to craft the roughness and the accustomed points of wear. The results will tell a slightly different tale: one with more joy, more solace, less pain.
When he draws his hands down Maedhros’ back, afterwards, the sensation is both familiar and new. It is the rich touch of possibility, built on old foundations. Every drag of skin on skin now speaks of coming home.