The cold silence in Himring after the NÃrnaeth was stifling, as was the clang and flurry of furious activity that continued, the constant preparation for incessant battle. The noise and light proved that life still moved in Beleriand even if Fingon was dead.
Maedhros was ill for many days. Not in a way that anyone knew, of course, save perhaps Maglor, who didn't miss much - but he was ill nonetheless. He slept little, ate less, suffered from crippling headaches and phantom pains in his long-severed right hand, was sick from sorrow.
How could life go on if Fingon was dead?
Easy. It just did, same as it had always done in the despite of the darkness and dread; holding on by its fingernails, clinging desperately to the cliff edge and staying off the everlasting dark just as long as possible.
Maedhros felt something mechanical shift inside him, click into place, and his mind grew cruelly clear. Fingon seemed to stop mattering all that much in the face of so many tears.
What mattered was the oath. What mattered was avoiding the darkness, even if it meant walking in the shadows. Even if it meant casting the shadows.
Fingon had tried being rigidly moral - and what had it gotten him?
It had gotten him dead.
The purpose was this: get the Silmaril. They would focus on Thingol's for now, and let Morgoth rot idly in his bower.
The purpose was this: get the Silmaril. Do not let anything get in the way; least of all, morals. They were useless baggage, glittering trappings of a softer life. Maedhros cast them away.
Fingon would not have been pleased - but then, he was dead.
Some things cannot be changed.
Fingon was dead. The oath bound Maedhros and his brothers more tightly than a noose. The Silmarils had to be regained at any cost.
Nothing could change that.
No law. No love.
No league of hell.
Maedhros laughed.