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"There Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor."
After the capture of Maedhros by Melkor, and his subsequent daring rescue by Fingon thirty years later, Tolkien sets himself up for a great hurt-comfort piece - and pretty much all we get is the line above, and one more sentence. Maedhros and Fingon need more time than that, so here goes...
Fingon cradled Maedhros in his lap, his arms wrapped around his cousin's too-thin body, as Thorondor, King of the Eagles, carried them back to Mithrim. Fingon looked ahead, though there was little he could see, as cloud hid the world below. He dared not to look down at Maedhros, fearing what would see. Fingon had wrapped Maedhros tightly in his cloak, the hood pulled up of Maedhros's face, and his feet hanging out below. His body had felt so cold when Fingon had cut him down from the side of the cliff. Still, cloaked, on the back of the eagle, and in the arms of Fingon, Maedhros felt cold. Fingon did not know if he could feel Maedhros breathing. It was all too likely just to be the movement of the great eagle below them that tricked Fingon into believing that it was in fact Maedhros's body moving. Fingon could not look down. He could not be too late.
Maedhros had not made a sound since begging Fingon to take his life the second time, save for a guttural groan when Fingon was forced to cut off Maedhros's right hand in order to free him from his bonds. Maedhros had not cried out when Fingon lifted him down, or when his shoulder popped and snapped as Fingon forced his arm down, despite the sound having made Fingon wish he could be sick. Nor had Maedhros sighed nor screamed nor wept nor spoken since. The silence frightened Fingon more than he dare admit. As much as the stillness and the cold, if not more. He wanted more than anything to hear Maedhros speak, to say something, anything.
"We are getting close," Fingon said to no one in particular. Thorondor knew how far off they were, and Fingon could guess as much, despite the cloud cover. He recognised the tops of the mountains rising above the clouds to his right. Maedhros was not conscious enough to care. Speaking out loud offered Fingon some small comfort, as the sound of wind and the occasional flap of the eagle's wings was becoming unnerving. Everything felt at once too loud and too quiet, but hearing the sound of his own voice Fingon could take measure, and remind himself of what was real.
As gently as he could, Fingon slightly repositioned Maedhros's limp body. Fingon adjusted his grasp. Though much lighter than he ever should be, Maedhros was becoming heavy in his arms.
Thorondor screeched as he banked and straightened, the sound sending shivers down Fingon's spine. He had to do something, else he should go mad, with naught but cloud below, the endless expanse of sky above, and Maedhros's cold, still body in his arms. Fingon did the one thing he thought might help. He began to sing.
His words were lost in the wind as soon as they came from his mouth, but they forced Fingon to regulate his breathing. It forced him to breath at all, an action he realised he had been neglecting. Fingon forced out the words of an old tune from Valinor, hoping against hope that Maedhros would join him in song. Maedhros stayed silent and still.
Thorondor screeched again and began to descend. They passed through the clouds, the droplets leaving Fingon's hair and clothing damp. He felt cold. Maedhros felt colder still. Fingon doubted he was alive. His heart sunk as the earth appeared below the clouds.
Out in front, Lake Mithrim loomed, with light from the two elvish colonies on either side of it's shores glowing like beacons as the evening settled around. The quick descent was making Fingon's head spin. He closed his eyes for a moment and held onto Maedhros. Any moment now they would touch down. The air was becoming warmer and thicker and smelt of grass and soil.
Fingon opened his eyes. They were quickly approaching the southern colony, that of the Feanorian's; the kin of Maedhros. Fingon knew that here he would likely face hostility. He had consulted no one about his mission, and had been gone for thirty years, returning with the broken body of the King of the Noldor. Perhaps that was all he was returning with. Maedhros felt so cold. In his morbid thoughts, Fingon supposed that the spirit of Maedhros was already in the Halls of Mandos.
Thorondor landed on the outskirts of the Feanorion township, south of Lake Mithrim. Fingon stumbled from the eagle's back, fighting with every muscle in his body to hold on for just one minute more. They had made it. He had found Maedhros. He had brought him home. There was grass beneath his feet. Fingon stumbled to his knees, the body of Maedhros being too hard to hold up whilst standing.
Fingon tried to call out for aid, but his voice cracked and no sound came out. Kneeling on the grass, still cradling Maedhros's bloodied and broken body, Fingon closed his eyes and tried to find one more ounce of strength. The grass under his knees felt cool and the ground soft. A cool wind rustled the leaves of nearby tress, and kissed and Fingon's cheeks, and the smell of herbs floated through the air, mixed with the faint smell of the stables. And blood. The blood of Maedhros.
Fingon took a deep breath. "Help me!" he called, his eyes welling with tears, "Somebody, help! I - I found Maedhros! Please, someone help me, please…"
But Fingon had needed not to cry out. Many had seen the Thorondor approach, and now the great bird departed, revealing half a dozen elves hurrying down to the place where he had landed.
"Who goes there?" It was the first voice other than Maedhros begging for death some hours before that Fingon had heard for thirty years.
"It is Fingon son of Fingolfin. I have Maedhros Feanorion. Please," Fingon swallowed, "Please, he's…" Fingon could not finish the sentence. He still could not bring himself to look at Maedhros. He did not know if he could carry on if Maedhros was not alive.
"Maedhros?" It was Maglor, brother of Maedhros, and the closest of his kin. "Maedhros!" Maglor raced forward and fell to his knees beside Maedhros, pushing back the hood of Fingon's cloak which masked Maedhros's face. Fingon forced himself to look at Maglor. "What - how did - what…?"
"He needs help," Fingon choked out the words, looking at the faces of the others, hoping that someone, anyone, could help. Surely there was a healer amongst them. Fingon wanted for someone else to take charge. Someone else to give orders. "Please…"
"You," Caranthir said, one of the younger sons of Feanor. He looked up at Fingon, his eyes filled with tears, but his face showing anger, "What have you done to him?" Caranthir cried, "What have you done?"
"Caranthir peace!" Maglor cried, holding up a hand to stop his brother, "Maedhros is returned, and yes, by Fingon's doing. Come, let us save our brother. Questions will wait." Maglor stood up, and ordered the largest among the group to lift Maedhros gently from Fingon's arms. Fingon slumped forward, and he knelt upon his haunches, starring at the ground, as the group hurried away with Maedhros's lifeless body, Maglor shouting desperate orders.
Fingon closed his eyes. So Maedhros was still alive. Maglor would not have acted in such a panic had his brother not survived the journey. Fingon longed to stay by the side of Maedhros, but knew that Maedhros's life was no longer in his hands. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to the skies. The sun had now disappeared below the horizon, the breeze had pushed away some of the cloud, and stars appeared in the heavens above. They were beautiful. Fingon brushed his hair from his face, and allowed his eyes to feast on the starlight.
The wind grew cooler as the night turned dark, and Fingon, stiff from kneeling, and many years of hard toil, eventually forced himself to his feet. Now the mortal desires of food and sleep occupied his mind, as even elven kind require these, and it had been many long years since Fingon had eaten a proper meal or slept soundly.
Slowly, he followed in the footsteps of Maglor and the others of the house of Feanor to their halls, wondering what hospitality he would find within. He could just leave, of course. After all he had endured, the walk around Lake Mithrim to the halls of his father on the other side would be nothing. But Fingon could not leave Maedhros. He had fought too hard and too long to find and save him. No, Fingon would not abandon Maedhros now.