in the warm rain
Rescuing Maedhros from Thangorodrim was only the beginning. Happy birthday, Mornen!
A/N: With very best birthday wishes to my new friend Mornen! :)
Also, I don't ship Russingon, so this is not slash.
Fingon's breaths come in ragged, painful gasps. Lank strands of damp, sweaty hair have escaped from his braids; he flicks them away with an irritable shake of his head. The leather grip of his sword drags heavily on his palms, but he raises it high and takes a mighty swing at his foeman's left arm; he slices cleanly through it and it goes tumbling to the ground in a shower of sand. He whirls, then lunges, and his blade sinks squarely into the center of his enemy's stomach; the burlap splits wide open and sand comes flooding out as the dummy begins tumbling forward, gutted. He lunges again, taking off its wooden head for good measure. Only when his opponent has collapsed to the ground in a heap does Fingon take a step back, breathing hard. His heart is thudding in double time, and he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. His muscles ache; he lowers his sword, letting the point almost touch the ground. He bends over and stretches, groaning slightly, then turns away from the wreckage of the scarecrow "orcs" he'd dismembered, and begins walking back toward the house. Turgon is standing by the porch, watching him, arms folded across his chest. As Fingon nears him, Turgon says, "I don't think those dummies will be hurting anyone again soon."
Fingon picks up his sword belt, shakes the sand off his blade, and slides it back into the sheath. "I'd hope not."
"You could spar with me once in a while, you know," Turgon says, sounding slightly peeved.
Fingon feels the corner of his mouth twitch. "Nah."
"Or Irissë," Turgon says as Fingon heads back inside.
"I wouldn't want to hurt you," Fingon says.
Turgon snorts. "Don't be ridiculous. You couldn't beat me."
It has nothing to do with you. Fingon's head is beginning to hurt. "Go play at swords with Irissë, then," he says lightly. "She'll beat you."
Turgon is not fooled. "This has something to do with Nelyafinwë, doesn't it," he says flatly, and Fingon winces.
"Can you - not …" he mutters, feeling cornered.
"There's no use in pretending, you know," Turgon says, and Fingon doesn't really want to know what he means by that. He shoulders his swords belt and goes inside, leaving his brother still standing there, shaking his head.
Once inside, in the quiet of his room, Fingon sets his sword down and breathes out slowly, leaning against the wall. It is always about Nelyafinwë, isn't it, he reflects bitterly. When is it not about him, Findekáno, you blind, bloody fool?
He is still drenched with sweat. As he wipes the moisture from his face and neck, and then strips his shirt off, searching for a clean one, he thinks about his cousin.
Maedhros. Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol. My best friend. My -
He goes over to the window and pours a fresh glass of water from the pitcher on the ledge, staring out at the grey-green hills, the dark smudge of the pine forest on the horizon, the rain clouds gathering in the sky.
It has been three months since he brought Maedhros back from Thangorodrim.
He can still see it, clear as the day he finally reached the crest of the mountains after days of wandering among the trackless, barren slopes of the mountains of death. He'd come to a panting halt with the cliffs rising tall around him, realizing that he could climb no higher. After nearly an hour's rest, the silence had grown so oppressive, so unbearable, that he'd begun to sing, quietly at first, then more boldly as he went on. He sang a song from his childhood that he hadn't even realized he remembered, a simple song about the trees and the sky and the starlight in the hills. When he heard another voice join him, he thought at first that he'd finally gone mad. But when he stopped and the other voice continued, Fingon had leapt to his feet and run headlong, barely remembering his bow and sword and pack, heeding not at all the treacherously loose gravel that made him nearly stumble and fall more than once. He didn't have to search long for the source of the voice, either.
Maedhros had been hanging from the highest precipice, one wrist caught in a band of iron bolted to the rock. His skeletal form had dangled sickeningly, his head drooping on his chest. He'd been stark naked, covered only by the matted tangle of dulled red hair that had grown past his shoulders. He'd seemed nearly a corpse, pale and still as death, barely any flesh beneath the papery folds of skin draped over his bones.
But he'd sung. Maedhros' voice had been hoarse and cracked, barely an echo of how strong and deep it'd once been, but he'd sung.
Fingon had staggered to a halt beneath the foot of the precipice, and he'd wept.
He had not cried when they left Valinor, when he'd turned his back on his mother and half his family and his grandfather's grave and the only home he'd ever known. He hadn't cried at Alqualondë, when he'd seen the blood pooled on the white marble quays and the bodies of his Telerin cousins floating in the shallows and lying broken on the stone, when the sea was stained red. Fingon hadn't cried at Araman, when they'd seen from afar the ships burning on the horizon, and known that they were betrayed. He'd thought of Maedhros then, and still he'd had no tears. He'd never wept once on the Helcaraxë, during all those years of agony, when they'd lost so many of their people - Elenwë - to the bitter cold and the freezing mists. He thought his tears had frozen hard inside him and left him cold.
He'd been right about that, too, until he found Maedhros.
Fingon still dreams about it sometimes. Mostly he dreams of Maedhros weeping, his eyes feverish and bloodshot and sunk deep into his skull, begging with his chapped, bleeding lips moving silently to form the words over and over: Kill me.
I would have, too. Fingon is still staring out the window without seeing any of the hills and fields beyond. I would have killed him right there. I was about to shoot him.
What would he have done after that? He doesn't think he could have faced Maedhros' brothers, much less his own family. He doesn't think he could have faced himself. He would have killed himself too, most likely, walked to the nearest cliff and let the free airs take him, bear him home on the howling winds. Manwë to whom all birds are dear.
It is the middle of summer, but Fingon shivers, wrapping his arms tightly around himself.
He dreams of blood, thick and warm and so, so red, choking him, drowning him. There had been so much blood when he'd drawn his dagger and cut Maedhros' hand off at the wrist. It's taken him more than one stroke, and he'd nearly vomited when he partially severed the muscle and tendons, leaving Maedhros' hand flopping grotesquely in the shackle. He'd hacked at it again with a sudden furious, wild strength, and finally taken it off all the way. Maedhros hadn't even screamed. He'd simply collapsed, his face buried in Fingon's shoulder. His heart pounding madly, Fingon had tied a tourniquet just below the mangled stump, hoping to staunch the gushing flow of red covering them both. Forgive me, he'd told Maedhros, his voice shaking. Forgive me. Fingon hadn't though Maedhros heard him. He hadn't thought then that Maedhros would ever hear anything again.
The dreams come to him less frequently than they used to, but they always leave him drained and exhausted. Even when he doesn't dream, he doesn't sleep as well as he used to; he wakes often during the night, and still feels tired in the morning.
There are other dreams, though. Once, he dreamed of Maedhros as he had been in Valinor, full of fire and life, reckless and arrogant, always laughing. He had been so beautiful then. Fingon dreams sometimes of the light of the Trees, too, and the flickering silver stars mirrored on the glassy sea, before the storms came. And he has dreamed, too, of the wind drying the tears from his face, Maedhros clasped tightly in his arms, his head resting on Fingon's chest, the mountains and plains of Beleriand falling away beneath them in the bright airs of the morning, and the throbbing of mighty wings like the sound of his own heartbeat.
He is still standing there by the window, glass in hand, sweaty shirt crumpled in his first, when someone begins banging on his door. He hears his young steward yelling, his voice panicky.
Fingon strides over to the door and yanks it open. Elboron is standing there, his face pale, his eyes large and scared. Before Fingon can ask, the boy blurts out. "It's the Lord Nelyafinwë, my lord. He's awake."
Nelyo. Fingon's heart leaps into his throat. He pushes past Elboron, leaving him standing there, and rushes through the house to the room where Maedhros has been lying, unconscious and near death, for the past months.
Aredhel is standing outside the door. She's still in mud-splattered riding leathers, her face is flushed and sweaty, and her hair is sticking out in all directions. Clearly, she too has been called in in a hurry. Fingon reaches for the doorknob but Aredhel catches his wrist. "Wait," she says.
Fingon tries to shake free from her grip, but she holds on tightly. "Let me go," he hisses at her furiously. "Elboron said Maitimo was awake. I need to see him."
"He only just woke," Aredhel said. She looks unhappy. "The healers are with him. He doesn't quite know where he is."
"Then let me go to him," Fingon snaps. "Half those healers are Sindar anyway - of course he doesn't know where he is."
"Just wait," Aredhel repeats, but just then the door to Maedhros' room opens and one of the healers steps out, closing it quietly behind him. He looks tired and drained, but his face brightens slightly when he sees Fingon. Aredhel lets go of Fingon's wrist. "My lord," the healer says. Galdor, Fingon thinks his name is. "Your cousin is awake. You can see him now, if you like."
"Yes." Fingon exhales impatiently. "I would like that. Please. Thank you." The healer steps back and lets Fingon go inside.
He shuts the door behind him. He barely even registers the two healers hovering anxiously by Maedhros' bedside. All he sees is his cousin, lying propped on feather pillows, his right arm swathed in bandages. He is scarcely less gaunt and pale than when Fingon cut him free from Thangorodrim, but his eyes, though sunken, are open; he's staring at the ceiling.
Fingon goes over to him. "Hey," he tries tentatively.
Maedhros does not so much as look at him. His eyes are still fixed on the ceiling.
Uneasily, Fingon reaches out and touches Maedhros' bare shoulder. "Hey, you could, you know - notice me?" He tries to smile, but it vanishes when Maedhros suddenly jerks away from his touch.
"Get out," Maedhros says flatly.
Fingon blinks. "What?"
"I said, get out." His voice is dull, utterly without inflection.
Puzzled, Fingon frowns. "Why? Wait, what are you-"
Maedhros interrupts him. "I'd think you would have tired of this game by now."
Fingon is lost. "What are you talking about, Russandol?"
"Don't call me that!" Maedhros yells. He twists around to look at Fingon, although it clearly causes him agonizing pain to move even that much. His eyes are full of a fury and hatred that Fingon has never seen before in his cousin. "Just stop. Stop pretending to be him. You aren't him. I know you aren't Findekáno. Just fucking leave me alone."
And all of a sudden Fingon understands. "Leave us," he hears himself tell the healers, and they don't hesitate to obey. When the door has closed with a thud behind them, Fingon leans back against the wall and rubs the heels of his hands in his eyes. Eru, he thinks bleakly.
Maedhros has sunk back on his pillows, clearly exhausted by his outburst.
"Maitimo," Fingon tries, after a moment. "Do you know where you are?"
"Dead, if I am lucky," Maedhros says. He speaks to the ceiling, still refusing to look at Fingon. "Although I don't think lucky exactly describes it. I know what you are - some trick of the Valar-" he spits the word like a curse - "come to torment me. You are not the first, you know." He laughs, the sound cracked and hollow and awful.
He thinks he's dreaming. Most likely his unconscious mind has been plagued with similar visions. He has no way of knowing he's really awake now. Fingon takes a deep breath and tries again. "Hate to break it to you," he says lightly, "but you didn't get lucky. You're not dead."
"Says who?" Maedhros says obstinately.
Fingon wants to smile, briefly. You haven't changed at all. "The one who brought you back from Thangorodrim," he says instead.
Maedhros' brow creases. "What? he says blankly, clearly caught completely off guard.
"You've been unconscious - mostly - for the past three months," Fingon says. "Morgoth took you captive seven years ago. I went to Angband and brought you back."
Maedhros is silent for a long time. Just when Fingon is beginning to feel relieved, Maedhros' mouth twists in a faint smile and he says, "Well, it's a new one, I'll give you that. Although not very convincing. Fingon wouldn't have come after me. Not after Araman he wouldn't have." His voice has sunk to a murmur. "I betrayed him. I left him to die. There's no way he would have done that." He's picking distractedly at the edge of his coverlet.
"Goddammit," Fingon curses explosively. Maedhros glances at him listlessly. "For the love of Eru, Russandol." He takes a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. "You are in the camp of Fingolfin by the northern shores of Mithrim," he says finally. "You've been recovering here ever since I brought you back from Thangorodrim. This is the first time you've been fully conscious."
It's true, though. During the terrifying first week after Fingon brought him back, Maedhros had lingered on the threshold of death, burning with fever, screaming incomprehensibly at visions that only he could see, his stump festering, the flesh rotten with gangrene. His fever had broken after a week, but he'd only sunk into a deathlike coma after that, only skimming the surface of consciousness once in a while to take a little water sweetened with wine, always sinking back again into sleep. Fingon had stayed by his bedside continually for that first week, and he'd come after that as often as the healers would let him. Maedhros' brother Maglor rode from the southern shore of Mithrim almost every week to come and stay by Maedhros' side for hours, his head bowed, clasping his brother's hand. Fingon had asked that Maglor's younger brothers not come until Maedhros woke, and Maglor had honored that request with no complaint. He was almost nothing like the aloof, haughty prince that Fingon remembered from Valinor. He has been High King of the Noldor in Beleriand for years while we wandered the Helcaraxë, Fingon had realized. He'd almost respected the clear change that the death of his father and assuming the kingship had wrought in Maglor, until he remembered how Maglor had betrayed Maedhros to Morgoth, not even attempting to rescue him from Angband. That had put an end to respect for Maglor Fëanorian rather quickly.
Maedhros is so quiet. "How do I know," he says finally, his voice dull. "How do I know you're not …" he trails off. He still won't look at Fingon. "How do I know any of this is real."
Fingon studies his cousin for a moment, then remembers that Maedhros broke his shoulder on Thangorodrim. It has only just healed completely, and Fingon knows that the bruised flesh and newly knitted together bone beneath still hurts him.
Fingon walks over to Maedhros and punches him roughly in his injured shoulder. Maedhros cries out in pain. Fingon sees him bite his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He's gasping, and there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"That's how you know," Fingon says harshly. "If it hurts, it's real."
Maedhros' eyes are closed rightly. "Russandol, look at me," Fingon says, quieter. He reaches out and grasps Maedhros' shoulder; he shivers, but doesn't pull away. "You aren't dreaming."
I missed you so much. "This is real," Fingon says softly. "You. Me. This is real. Trust me."
Maedhros falls asleep again not long after that. The healers are waiting outside in the hall. "He thought he was dead," Fingon tells them. "Or dreaming. He didn't remember me rescuing him or anything."
Two of the healers, twin brothers, Sindar of Hithlum, glance at each other. "That's to be expected," one of them says. "He's barely woken for the past three months."
Fingon rubs the bridge of his nose. He feels drained, exhausted. "He doesn't realize about his hand either, does he?"
"Not yet, no." It's Galdor again this time.
Fingon nods. "I thought he didn't." His brain is still reeling a little, trying to handle too many thoughts at once. Maedhros is alive, he's awake, he doesn't know me, he thinks he's in Mandos, he doesn't remember Thangorodrim, he doesn't understand that I cut his hand off … He feels overwhelmed, and he has a powerful urge to just get out of the stifling closeness of the sickroom and the house, to saddle his horse and ride for hours on the misty plains of Hithlum, find a heather-covered hillside somewhere where he can lie in the grass and sort out his hopelessly tangled thoughts in the silence.
He shakes his head slightly, forcing himself to focus on the healers standing uncertainly before him. "Will you let me know when he wakes again?"
Galdor nods, saying nothing. "Thank you," Fingon says, feeling suddenly awkward, more confused than ever. He all but flees from them.
Maedhros does not wake again for another twelve hours. When he does, the sun has long vanished beyond the horizon, and it's nearing midnight. Elboron is yawning when he brings Fingon the news. Fingon takes one look at the boy and tells him to get some sleep; he walks alone to Maedhros' room. It is very quiet; his footsteps echo loudly on the stone floors.
Maedhros is alone when Fingon opens the door to his room. He is clearly awake, too; he turns his head slightly when Fingon enters.
Fingon shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly awkward. "How are you feeling?" he tries tentatively, after a brief silence.
Maedhros disregards that. "Can you help me sit up?" he asks abruptly.
Fingon frowns. "Huh? I mean - are you sure? The healers don't think you should - overexert yourself," he finishes lamely.
Maedhros arches an eyebrow. "Let me rephrase that. Help me sit up."
Fingon feels his mouth twitch with the hint of a smile. "Only if you ask nicely."
Maedhros rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Please help me."
"That's better." They have always teased each other like this. When they were very small, they fought with each other even more than they did with their own siblings.
Fingon sees more pillows on the chair in the corner. He snatches up a few of them and goes over to Maedhros' bed. He wraps an arm around his cousin's shoulders and heaves him into a sitting position, then arranges the pillows behind him so that he's now propped up against them.
Maedhros' skin feels hot and dry to the touch, and the bones beneath are light and brittle as a bird's. Fingon lets go of him carefully, and Maedhros leans back against the pillows, his eyes closed.
"Is that better?" Fingon asks. Maedhros nods.
It's Fingon's turn to roll his eyes. "You're welcome," he says, annoyed.
Maedhros doesn't say anything. "It hurts, doesn't it," Fingon says.
Maedhros opens his eyes. "No, Findekáno, I am absolutely fine," he says dryly. A silence. "You are Findekáno, aren't you? It's you - really?" he asks hesitantly.
Fingon sighs. "Do I have to hit you again?" He sees Maedhros smile.
Neither of them says anything for a long while. The night is warm; the curtains flutter in the breeze from the open window. An owl hoots once, then twice somewhere in the forest beyond.
It worries Fingon that Maedhros is still so thin, and still too weak to sit up unaided. He remembers how strong and powerfully built he had once been, the effortless skill with which he'd wielded his sword. He will have to relearn everything, Fingon realizes. He may have finally woken, but Eru, he has a long way to go.
Maedhros breaks the silence. "My hand," he says. "It won't heal, will it?"
Fingon's stomach feels like lead. He stares down at the floor, struggling to find something to say to that. Maedhros has twisted his head around and is staring at him.
He may as well learn now. Fingon takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "No, it won't." Maedhros opens his mouth to speak but Fingon continues. "Maitimo, you don't have a right hand anymore."
Maedhros stares blankly at him for a long moment. "What?" he asks, clearly completely bewildered.
Fingon swallows hard. "I cut your hand off. To free you from Thangorodrim. It was the only way. It was either that or killing you."
Maedhros has sunk back on his pillows, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He says nothing. The silence drags on, unbearable. Fingon hardly dares breathe.
When Maedhros finally speaks, his voice is flat and dead. "You should have killed me," he says.
The anger is back. "How can you tell me that?" Fingon hisses, furious. "I would never - you don't even remember how it was. I had to choose between cutting your hand off and killing you. I couldn't have - there was no way I was going to kill you."
Maedhros shakes his head. "You should have just killed me," he repeats.
Blood rushes to Fingon's face. "Shut up," he hears himself say. There's a dull roaring in his ears. "Just shut up."
"Why?" Maedhros struggles to raise himself up from the pillows, but he falls back against them, still too weak. "Why should I?" His face is contorted with effort, and he's breathing hard. "It'd be better to die than live like this - crippled." He reaches over with his left hand and yanks at the bandages covering where his right hand had been. Fingon leaps forward in an attempt to stop him, but he's too late and Maedhros has pulled the bandages away, laying bare the bloody, mangled stump, the thin webs of skin just barely beginning to stretch over the tangled mass of veins and ripped tendons and severed bone. Fingon wants to be sick just looking at it. Maedhros cries out it pain when he tears the last of the bandages off, and when he reaches out and grabs his right forearm with his left hand, he screams in pain. His eyes are shining with tears, but he doesn't take them off Fingon. "Look," he says. "You did this to me, Findekáno. Tell me. How am I supposed to fight again without my sword hand? How am I supposed to ask my people to take a cripple as their king?"
Fingon finds his voice again, somehow. "You aren't a cripple," he says fiercely. "You still have your left hand. You'll learn to fight again. You will."
Maedhros shakes his head. "I've failed."
"How have you failed?" Fingon's voice rises incredulously.
"It's my own fault that I was captured. I tried to outwit Morgoth," Maedhros says miserably. "Do you even know how stupid of me that was?"
Fingon is taken aback. He'd known that Maedhros had been captured by Morgoth, but he'd been unaware of the exact circumstances. "Yeah, well," he says, "maybe that was stupid, but you won't do it again."
"That's not the only thing, though," Maedhros says. "I can't be the High King. I've let the Noldor down once. I can't bring the curse upon them too."
The curse of Mandos. Upon the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East. Fingon's mouth is dry. He would not have wished that curse upon his worst enemy. He hates Fëanor for dragging Maedhros into that.
He knows, also, that the crown belongs rightfully to his father Fingolfin, and not to Maedhros. Fingolfin is Maedhros' elder by a bare three years, he is still the eldest surviving family member, and so the crown is his.
Maedhros is lying back on the pillows again, his breathing shallow. His shoulder blades jut out, and the line of his collarbone is sharply defined. Fingon can see the blue veins outlined beneath the pale skin of his forearm.
He wonders. Nelyafinwë. He knows that should have been his father's name, he who is truly Finwë third.
Still. "Even if you're not king, you still have to fight," Fingon says quietly.
Maedhros says nothing. "Look," Fingon tries, "your father would have wanted you to keep fighting-"
"Fuck my father," Maedhros says without opening his eyes.
"Fine," Fingon says after a moment. "Just promise me you'll fight. You have to. You have to be strong again. I need you."
Maedhros smiles faintly. "No, you don't."
Irritated, Fingon sighs. "Yes, I do. Stop it." Maedhros is quiet, and Fingon sees a moment later that he has gone back to sleep.
Fingon scowls."Rude," he says, but he reaches out and gently squeezes the fingers of Maedhros' hand.
Be well again, Fingon tells him silently. I missed you so much. I never want to lose you like that again.
A week passes, then two, then three, and before Fingon knows it, an entire month has gone by. Maedhros is regaining his strength, slowly but surely. Within a week, he is able to sit up in bed and eat a little bread and fruit along with water; even better, he can keep it down. Slowly, very slowly, he begins to look less deathly pale; his cheeks become less hollow and the blue-black circles under his eyes start to fade. He's even able to move his right arm a little, though it'd been completely paralyzed when Fingon first brought him to Mithrim. His stump is taking longer to heal. Changing the bandages still causes him agonizing pain. He tries desperately not to cry out, but Fingon has not failed to notice how he digs the nails of his left hand into his palm hard enough that it bleeds, and how he is always exhausted and sweating afterwards. His left hand is less skeletal and waxy white; his eyes are losing their haunted, feverish look. His right shoulder has finally healed, although it still aches occasionally. His hair is growing back, too; it curls around his ears now and it's as fiery red as it ever was, except for a white streak down the left side. Fingon teased Maedhros once that the white stripe made him look for like a skunk than a fox. Maedhros threw a pillow at him for that one.
They have decided to leave sword-fighting for later. For now, Fingon is helping Maedhros learn to walk again.
Aredhel was gleeful when she found out. "You Fëanorians are remarkably hard to kill," she'd informed Maedhros, grinning.
"Sorry to disappoint," he'd retorted. She'd poked her tongue out at him in a most unladylike fashion (Fingon wryly imagined how his mother would have cringed), but Fingon had noticed how she and Celegorm had taken to spending entire afternoons out riding through the fields and forests of Hithlum with Huan bounding after them, and he knew that his younger sister had forgiven the Fëanorians in a way that Turgon, for example, never would.
Maedhros' younger brothers were frequent visitors to Fingolfin's camp as well. The initial awkwardness had been partially dispelled when, led by Maglor, they'd gone straight to Fingolfin and implored his forgiveness for the desertion at Araman and the burning of the ships at Losgar. Fingon knew that Maedhros, once he was well enough, would make a similar gesture to Fingolfin, except publicly, in the sight of all the Noldor. He knew, also, that the price of Fingolfin's pardon would be Maedhros' crown.
It was not going to be easy, either way. The memories were still too bitter. Too many of Fingolfin's followers had lost friends and family to the Helcaraxë; Turgon, for once, would never stop hating the Fëanorians. And though Maglor had shown remarkable humility in his dealing with Fingolfin and his people, the Fëanorian arrogance and incorrigibility ran far stronger in his younger brothers. Celegorm appeared sincerely grateful that Maedhros hd returned, but Fingon doubted that the good behavior would last long. This was Celegorm, after all; quick-tempered, arrogant, impulsive. It was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Caranthir was, if anything, worse. He was openly scornful of the sons of Finarfin, in particular; hearing some of the remarks, he'd made, Fingon thought it was a wonder that swords hadn't been unsheathed and blood spilled during even the brief visits that Caranthir had made to the camp. Curufin said little, but Fingon had the uncomfortable feeling that behind his flint hard, inscrutable eyes, he was prouder than any of them. Amrod was dead, his twin a silent shadow of the lively boy that Fingon remembered from Valinor. (Upon the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar … Fingon had wanted to be sick when he heard about Amrod. He'd pitied Fëanor, even, that he'd lost his son like that.)
"Come on," Fingon says briskly. He's standing by Maedhros' bed, arms folded. "We're going outside."
Maedhros yawns, then shivers. "It's cold," he says resentfully.
Fingon scowls at him. "This is non-negotiable."
He sees a grin flash briefly across Maedhros' face. Very carefully, and with some difficulty, Maedhros pushes back the blankets and swings one leg, then the other, over the side of the bed. "Boots?" he asks. Fingon jerks his head at a pair resting beside the bed. Maedhros leans over and reaches for them, then pauses, looking up at Fingon. "You aren't going to help me, are you?"
Fingon snorts derisively. "What am I, your servant?"
"Fine, then," Maedhros says, only pretending to sulk. It takes him a considerable amount of fumbling, but he finally manages to pull both boots on. Fingon stands with his arms crossed and watches him. When he's finished, Fingon asks, "Ready?" and Maedhros nods.
Fingon sits on the bed beside Maedhros; Maedhros folds his left arm around Fingon's shoulder.
Fingon stands, Maedhros with him. Maedhros' fingers dig painfully into Fingon's shoulder, and he's trembling from exertion. Fingon reaches over and wraps his arm around Maedhros' waist to help support him. "You good?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Maedhros says. It is the first time he has stood in months.
When they take their first step together, Maedhros cries out in pain. Fingon stops.
"I'm fine," Maedhros says impatiently. "Just sore. And stiff."
"Keep moving, then?"
"Yes."
Two steps. Then three and four. Maedhros does not cry out again but Fingon hears his breaths whistling through clenched teeth. His steps are slow and halting. But he is walking.
They make it to the door of Maedhros' room. Fingon reaches for the knob and pulls it open. Maedhros is pressed close against him, his shirt already damp, his finger clenched tightly on Fingon's shoulder. "Keep going?" Fingon asks again.
Maedhros bares his teeth. "Yes."
They keep going. Fingon has never realized how very long the corridors in the house are. Once or twice they stumble and very nearly fall.
They have to stop by the door for a long while. Maedhros is panting, but after only a few minutes of rest, he is impatient to move again.
Outside in the courtyard, a cool breeze is sending the first dead leaves of autumn skittering across the pavement. Grey clouds are lowering in the afternoon sky; the air smells like coming rain.
They keep walking, across the courtyard, past pairs of young Elves sparring, children playing, a blacksmith shoeing a horse. People turn and stare; Maedhros may have been bedridden for the past few moths, but he is still recognizable as Fëanor's eldest son. "They can't believe I'm alive," Maedhros mutters in Fingon's ear.
"They should," Fingon says. He finds that he's grinning. "You were too stubborn to die, anyway." He laughs, and Maedhros joins in.
They are still laughing when they reach the gate of the courtyard a few minutes later. It has begun to rain; fat drops spatter on their faces, and the rising wind rattles the branches of the trees and whistles among the long grass and tousles Fingon's hair. They keep walking, one foot in front of the other, one step after another.
When they finally come to a stop some distance way from the camp and collapse together in the wet grass, the rain is pouring down, soaking them both. Maedhros' hair is stuck to his neck, and raindrops are dripping off the end of Fingon's nose. Fingon's arm is still wrapped around Maedhros, and Maedhros lays his head on Fingon's chest. They are young again, barely more than boys. Fingon closes his eyes. They lie there, silently, and after a while Fingon is not sure whether the wetness on his cheeks is rain or tears.
My Aredhel turned out more like Arya Stark. Apologies.
Cookies and milk to everyone who reviews :3