Author's note: Sindarized names have been used throughout. Though this was certainly the age of Quenya Elvish, the names used in The Silmarillion and the names I mentally attach to these characters are the Sindarized forms. Quenya (as far as I can Google it) has been used for certain terms of endearment.

Fingon collapsed onto the rocky ground, weighed down by the hopelessness in his heart. Even in the shadow of the dark mountains the air was thick and hot; deep breaths made Fingon cough on the smoke even after the age he had passed in this accursed place. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to smother the sound, and when he removed it he saw ash had settled around his knuckles and in his fingernails.

How could anyone survive here?

A lump rose so quickly in Fingon's throat that it forced out his tears before Fingon could stop them. He dashed them away and blinked back the rest. With great effort he compressed all the feelings swelling in his breast. Though the were the very force that had compelled him to come to this terrible place, thinking about them for too long would destroy him.

This was no place for hope or for love. Not just this cursed expanse of darkness and evil in Thangorodrim—all of it. Ever since leaving home there had been nothing but heartache and pain. Even the verdant fields and forests—the prize for all their suffering—reeked of blood. His youngest brother, his sworn sister, his—

How could anyone survive here?

They could not.

It was only a matter of time, and so much time had passed already…

The tight, smoldering ball in Fingon's chest, kept there throughout the crossing on Helcaraxë and the battle at Lammoth and the mournful march to Mithrim and all this wandering around Thangorodrim, finally exploded and Fingon wept.

Maedhros must be dead.

The sky was only ever dark here. Fingon did not know how long he sat there before he was drained of his grief. Without sorrow or rage or hope, he did not have the strength to even stand.

Fingon knew he could not stay here and waste away. He could not do that to his father, not after witnessing what the loss of Argon had done to him. Since that day, Fingolfin had been unrecognizable as the great warrior prince of the Noldor. Sitting here in the dust, Fingon felt much the same. The Elf who had been so happy, so easy to smile, so strong, and as boundlessly energetic as a child was a stranger to him now. The Elf who had often been teased by his siblings that he seemed like their youngest brother rather than their eldest. The Fingon of Valinor.

Valinor. Where the light of the Trees has shone brightly upon his face. Where he had lain in the soft grass staring up at the stars.

Unbidden, Fingon's hand reached over his shoulder and unfastened the buckles of his harp case, carried so far but never played. He rested the instrument in his lap and ran his hands over the smooth gold frame. It heartened him a little, to think of this beautiful object defying everything Morgoth had built here.

He ran one hand over the strings and the music struck his heart so fiercely that he lost his breath. Feeling the familiar vibration of the harp, his fingers could not be stilled. A long-lost song poured out of him, filling him with light and memory, bringing those virtues that had seemed so far away to the surface, purifying the very air around him.

Breathing deeply, Fingon began to sing. It was as if the darkness parted over him. Singing of the hills of Tirion conjured them in his mind, visions he usually supressed for the pain and regret they tended to stir in him. But here, now, the thought was a balm on his soul. Fingon let his voice fill the crevices and hollows of the terrible place around him, transforming them. He saw himself on the hill, his voice filling the air and carrying into the valley below. He was unafraid, for there was nothing to fear in the fair land of his memory. And as he sat on that hill, another voice joined his. The memory pricked his heart, but did not undo him.

Maedhros' deep, steady voice supporting his, his arms around Fingon's waist. The warmth of his breath tingling on Fingon's neck.

Fingon's voice caught in his throat and his hands were still, but Maedhros' voice carried on. As the air once again turned to acrid smoke, as the ground beneath him became rocks, Maedhros kept singing. The voice became weak and far away, but it was there.

Fingon's own voice was almost crushed under the hope swelling in his breast, but he brought himself to say it, to speak aloud the name he had not let himself say in what had felt like centuries.

"Maedhros!"

Fingon put away his harp, got to his feet, and ran across the rocks to the base of the mountain. Squinting through the smoke, Fingon's gaze travelled up the face of Thangorodrim.

The singing grew softer and finally stopped, but it echoed in Fingon's mind and heart and he began to climb.

Jagged stone bit into his palm as Fingon pulled himself over another ledge. Still on his hands and knees, he took several rasping breaths. He had come to the other side of the crest that had filled his vision from the foot of the mountain, following only his own intuition now as Maedhros had long been silent. As he climbed, Fingon had begun to hear terrible scratching and screaming within the mountain, but he had not encountered anyone or anything.

Still mostly out of breath, Fingon sat up and gazed high at the peak of Thangorodrim. The smoke burned his eyes and he could hardly see through the haze, but still he searched, waiting for clouds to pass, waiting for his path to be revealed to him, waiting…

On the highest cliff, Fingon saw something pale against the black angular rocks. A long-limbed body hanging from one arm, and a flash of red hair like flame. The longer he stared, the greater the wrath in Fingon's blood became.

Fingon sprinted along the ridge until he was directly under Maedhros' body. It was still a great climb, and Fingon's mind raced devising a route up, how he would cut Maedhros free, how he would carry him down—

"Fingon…"

Maedhros' voice was so thin Fingon felt it in his heart more than he heard it in his ears. He feared that calling back would alert the creatures in the mountain to his presence.

"Fingon, please…"

"I'm coming, Maedhros," Fingon said just loudly enough for Elven ears to hear.

"No, Fingon… Please…" An awful sound came from Maedhros' throat, a violent sob. It almost brought Fingon to his knees. "Kill me!"

"Maedhros!" Fingon cried, as if he could drown out Maedhros' last words, as if the desperation is his own voice could change Maedhros' mind.

"Fingon… meldonya…"

Fingon was taken back to the hill in Tirion, the harp in his hands, Maedhros sitting close behind him, whispering in his ear. Fingon… meldonya… and kissing the side of his neck…

The memory felt both like a lifetime ago and mere moments behind them. As if they were still in the grass entangled in each other, and everything else had been only a terrible dream. How could that sweet memory have led to this?

He could climb to the top of the precipice Maedhros hung from, free him, and pull him up. Could carry Maedhros over his shoulder and climb down one-handed if he had to. Could—

"Fingon!" Maedhros cried desperately.

Or he could spare Maedhros even one more minute in this hellish place, and damn himself forever. Kill his king and the love of his life and live forever in captivity, either beneath this mountain or back in Mithrim. Free Maedhros' soul to the Halls of Mandos, to return to realm of Aman and become whole again.

Fingon had learned much of suffering in these past years. More than he had ever known in all his life across the sea, when he and Maedhros had lain together and made great pledges of love to one another. He knew now that to truly love anyone meant to free them from pain rather than ask them to endure it. He would be only half himself for the rest of his life—however long that might be. But at least he would know that Maedhros was safe and at peace.

Fingon's bow was in one hand, an arrow in the other. He looked up at the cliff, his sight ruined by the tears in his eyes. He let them fall.

"I'm here, Maedhros," he whispered as he knocked the arrow. He ran his thumb over the fletching and exhaled a shaky breath. Though he had felt for a long time that his life was untouched by the grace of the Valar, Fingon prayed. Prayed to Mandos to be merciful in his judgement, prayed to Nienna with whom he would weep forever, prayed to Manwë to guide the feathers of his arrow.

Maedhros was silent now, and Fingon raised his bow, tears streaming down his face. He pulled the bowstring, and almost dropped it in fear as a huge shadow came sweeping around the mountain.

A great Eagle flew down to the ridge where Fingon stood and dipped its head so Fingon could climb onto its back. Shouldering his bow, Fingon mounted up and clutched to the Eagle's feathers as they took off. In moments they were at the top of the cliff. The Eagle anchored its talons into the face of the mountain, wings outstretched, so Fingon could stand on its shoulders and reach Maedhros.

There was a supressed scream of rage searing his lungs as Fingon finally saw the extent of what had been done to Maedhros. Maedhros was naked, his bare flesh grey where it was not bruised or bloody, his inner light all but extinguished. His skin was stretched thinly over his bones, his warrior's body wasted and ruined. The arm shackled over his head was bloodless, the fingers purple.

Fingon laid his hands on Maedhros' face and lifted his chin to gently wake him, to look at him.

"Maedhros," he said softly.

He was so cold. It was as if, anticipating the sweet release of death, Maedhros' body had finally succumbed. The gift from the Valar had come moments too late.

Under his hands, Fingon felt a twitch. Maedhros tensed to hold up his own head, grimaced, opened one bronze eye—the other was swollen shut. With bleeding lips he said, "Fingon?"

That voice, however wrecked it may have been, ignited a new urgency in Fingon. He stood up and studied the shackle tight around Maedhros' wrist. Could he break it?

"Fingon…"

Fingon reached for the dagger in his belt and found Maedhros' cold hand already there, fingertips scratching at the blade. Taking hold of his bony fingers, Fingon crouched down again.

"I'm going to get you out of here."

Maedhros' face was unrecognizable in its expression of agony. He tried to grip Fingon's hand, but all he did was tremble weakly. "End this."

"End this I will," Fingon said, tears burning in his eyes. He stood up again to get to work, to free himself from the gravity of Maedhros' hopeless gaze. He drew the dagger and thrust it into the mechanism of the shackle, trying to manoeuvre it, to force it, to break it.

There was an otherworldly cry from the ground and an arrow shattered on the rocks behind Maedhros. The Eagle pushed Fingon upward, as close to Maedhros as it could manage.

Fingon looked at the lifeless hand held by the shackle. A hand that had wielded a sword with mastery, created beautiful works of silver and steel, brushed through Fingon's hair and held him in the starlight.

He wrenched the dagger to pull it from the lock, but it held fast. Beneath him, the Eagle began to beat its wings.

Fingon could not leave Maedhros here. Drawing his sword, Fingon gave one deft swing through flesh, blood, and bone, severing Maedhros' wrist. The Eagle ascended so quickly, Fingon fell backwards and had only the presence of mind to hold Maedhros tight on top of him.

Arrows whistled past them. The Eagle screamed down at the enemies disappearing beneath them. Fingon screamed with relief, with rage, with regret, with horror as blood spilled out of Maedhros' right arm.

Maedhros did not make a sound.