Fingon pushed Maedhros over onto his back and sat up as tall as he could. The Eagle was ascending so quickly the air was like a wall bearing down on him. As Fingon kept a tight hold just below Maedhros' bleeding wrist, holding the arm straight up to try to slow the loss of blood, he could no longer ignore the sharp pain in his right leg. He had thought it a graze from an arrow or a muscle seized in his last desperate movements to free Maedhros, but one glance down showed Fingon an arrow pierced through his thigh.
Fingon cursed more with frustration than with pain. With his free hand, he snapped off the fletching and arrow ends so they would not hinder him, left the shaft in his leg, and brought his focus back to Maedhros.
Still clutching Maedhros' arm, Fingon used his other hand to try to tear a strip from the bottom of his tunic to use as a tourniquet. The blood pouring over his fingers was so warm, so slick. Fingon almost lost hold a dozen times his hands were shaking so badly.
Folding over his knees, Fingon put the hem of his tunic between his teeth and pulled, ripped, fought against the fabric, his mouth filling with the taste of ashes. Finally he had a strip of fabric free and he tied it tight to Maedhros' arm. He did not have anything to make a proper bandage to cover the open wound where Maedhros' hand had been, and Fingon felt the dexterity begin to drain from his own fingers, his rational mind start to go silent as shock flooded through him.
He braced both hands against Maedhros' arm to hold it high, the fingers on one hand almost able to close around Maedhros' emaciated wrist. Fingon forced himself to breathe, to calm down, to keep Maedhros alive.
The Eagle burst through the dark clouds above Thangorodrim and suddenly the air was pure and fresh. The sky was dark and full of stars, as it had been for countless years in Valinor. Their bright faces soothed Fingon instantly.
"Maedhros, look," he said, gazing down at Maedhros' still face. His right cheekbone and eye were darkly bruised and there was a cut across the bridge of his nose, another through his top and bottom lip. The flesh on his throat was the texture of an awful, but healed burn; Fingon could make out the shapes of fingers that had pressed there. "Oh, Maedhros…"
The last time they had been alone together under the stars had been the night before Maedhros followed his father to Formenos, the fortress north of Tirion. Fingon had tried to ease Maedhros' distress, but it had not been enough. Maedhros had tried to push him away, to make him angry, make him turn his back so that Maedhros would not have to turn his, while Fingon had tried to clutch onto those last moments they would have together for who knew how long, no matter how fraught those moments might be. Finally it had seemed that Maedhros was ready to strike him, and Fingon was prepared to let him. Instead, Maedhros had put both hands on Fingon's face and kissed him hard, lingered for a moment, and left.
Fingon had held onto that small bruising pain on his lips for a long time. Thought about that kiss every time he saw Maedhros after, those terrible days in Tirion, in Alqualondë, on the shore of Araman, watching him, hating him, loving him. Thought about it in the crossing of Helcaraxë, as he carried the weak, held the dying, pulled the dead through the snow.
Here, now, gazing into Maedhros' ruined face, covered in his blood, Fingon could only love him. He released one hand from Maedhros' arm and gently stroked his unmarked cheek.
"I'm here, Maedhros," he said softly. "I won't leave you."
Fingon no longer had the voice to sing, but he hummed songs from home as they flew over the world. And he prayed to the gods he knew were listening that the music might stir Maedhros' heart to keep beating.
The Eagle descended through the clouds and the mountains, lake, and plains of Mithrim appeared below as if they were drawings on a map, painted gold in the rising of the Sun. Now they were losing altitude fast and Fingon saw all the Noldor standing below, watching, gasping. As it landed, the Eagle beat its massive wings one last time to make the touch to the ground as gentle as possible for its passengers.
Fingon sat up straight and saw his father, fully armed and armoured, and his brother and sister sprinting towards him. Maedhros' bleeding had stopped, but Fingon still handled his frail body with utmost care. He braced Maedhros upright against him and inched them both toward the Eagle's shoulder.
"He needs a healer," Fingon said as Turgon and Aredhel approached the enormous creature. He lowered Maedhros down to them, and they carried his lifeless body between them, back towards the camp.
"Manwëhantalë. Eruhantalë," Fingon said, laying a reverent hand on the Eagle's head. He dismounted, trying to favour his uninjured leg, and hardly limped five steps before his father caught him in a fierce embrace.
Fingolfin almost lifted him off the ground. His breathless prayers were unintelligible, interrupted by frequent kisses to Fingon's temple, his hair.
"I'm all right, Father," Fingon said, his words half-smothered against his father's breastplate.
Fingolfin held him at arm's length and looked him over. "You're bleeding!"
"That's… not mine," Fingon said. Suddenly a child in father's arms, Fingon began to feel the weight of what he had done. Going into Thangorodrim, finding Maedhros, cutting off his hand, flying home on Manwë's wing.
Fingolfin must have felt the strength beginning to leave his son's body. "You need to rest."
Fingon buckled, one hand clutching his father to stay upright, the other pressing against the pain lancing through his right leg. He looked down at the black arrow and it was the last thing he saw before he fainted.
Fingon opened his eyes to the tent's blue ceiling, blinking against the bright sunlight filtering through the fabric. After weeks under the oppressive shadow in Thangorodrim, he had almost forgotten how colourful and beautiful the world could be. Fingon took a deep breath, and his calm was swiftly interrupted.
"Don't you ever do anything like that again, Fingon Fingolfinion!" Aredhel scolded him, putting a basin down on the on the bedside table with such force that water spilled over the sides. Her cheeks and eyes were bright red and she glared down at him with her grey eyes still glazed with tears.
"Ared—" A tight embrace silenced him. He wrapped one arm around his sister and held her just as close.
"I'm so glad you're safe," she said softly before she pulled away from him. "Turgon is with Maedhros, along with the best healers we have."
Fingon smiled, allowing himself to feel relief for the first time since he set eyes on Maedhros' hanging body.
"Where's Father?"
"Father had an audience with your Eagle after you were taken care of. He'll want to see you once we have you on the mend."
He relaxed into the cot beneath him, listening to the water dripping from Aredhel's work beside him. It was less soothing when the water was suddenly on his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked, screwing up his nose, but otherwise compliant.
"You're filthy, Fingon," Aredhel said. She lightened her touch to finish cleaning his face, then moved to his hands.
"As soon as you have permission to get up, you should change out of these clothes. You reek of smoke."
"Permission from?"
"Your chief healer," Aredhel said, turning to smile at Idril as she came through the front entrance of the tent.
Idril had a small basket full of plants in her hand, but she cast it to the table to rush towards the cot and embrace Fingon as his sister had. Fingon felt her shaking and held and kissed her.
"I'm all right, ammalë," he said.
She nodded into his shoulder but still did not release him. On his journey Fingon had tried so hard not to imagine what his absence would do to his sweet niece. She had already endured more heartache than most other Elves around her could possibly imagine with the loss of her mother, and he could not bear to think that he might make her suffer more. Holding her now was a great comfort for the darkness that had seeped into his blood in Thangorodrim.
Finally Idril sat up, smiled at him, and retrieved her basket. She perched on the bedside, unfastened the bandage around Fingon's leg, and began to tear the plants into small pieces. They smelled faintly sweet, but they burned as Idril pressed a handful of them against the wounds in his leg.
Fingon hissed in pain, but took joy to see the flicker of amusement in Idril's face.
"I thought you were my healer," he said.
Idril gathered the bandage around his leg again and tied the poultice in place with a knot.
"Could you make us all some tea, Idril? I think it might do Fingon good," Aredhel said.
Idril nodded and as she left the tent, Fingon noticed she was barefoot.
As Fingon shifted where he lay, pushing himself against the short headboard of the cot so he could sit up a little, Aredhel raised her eyebrows at him.
"What?" Fingon asked, facing Aredhel's grave expression. "Am I too delicate to move?"
"What happened on that mountain, Fingon?" she asked him.
Fingon swallowed. "I don't want to trouble you with that, Aredhel—"
"No?" she said, raising her voice. "You just wanted to trouble me with imagining you captured? Tortured? Dead!" She paused to master herself. "Tell me, Fingon. Please. Free me from these awful visions that have filled my mind ever since you left."
Seeing the tears burning in Aredhel's eyes made Fingon's well up in turn. "It was not until the day before we returned that I found Maedhros. Until then I just wandered, searching…"
Fingon told her everything. About losing heart in the shadow of the mountain, playing his harp and singing in the darkness, hearing Maedhros, climbing, choking on the ash that filled the air, finding Maedhros hanging by one shackled hand. Listening to Maedhros scream for death. Resolving to shoot him through the heart. The Eagle, the rescue, the flight. As it poured out of him, Aredhel clutched his hand. Both of them shed what remained of their tears.
"I cannot believe you did that for him," Aredhel said. "After…"
"Say it," Fingon said gently. "While we're sharing terrible truths."
"What Maedhros enabled his father to do, what it did to us…"
"I know."
"What it cost Father and Turgon…"
"I know."
"What he did to you, Fingon," Aredhel said, finally showing him the anger in her eyes. "How could you forgive him when he abandoned you without a thought and left you sobbing with grief? How could you go into Thangorodrim and risk your life for him?"
Aredhel knew better than anyone what it had done to him to watch the ships carrying to sons of Fëanor sail away, to watch them burn. She had held him and let him weep, heartbroken as if Maedhros had died rather than forsaken him. And unlike Turgon, who had made his fury with Maedhros and all the House of Fëanor plain, Aredhel had consoled him in measure to his sorrow rather than express her sisterly wrath for the man who had done it to him.
"What is his hold on you?" Aredhel asked.
Fingon sighed at her misconception: that he was enthralled under Maedhros' charisma. Of course others thought it—they saw only the bold and proud eldest son of Fëanor, the tall redheaded prince who collected longing gazes everywhere he went, who dominated every room he entered, every sparring match he fought, every conversation he shared. But Fingon had known the true Maedhros when they had been alone together, the Maedhros no one else had seen. The purest, most loving soul, the brightest, warmest light Fingon had ever felt. A light dimmed by Fëanor's ambition, a soul tarnished.
Their love had never been about the power Maedhros had over him; it was rooted in Fingon's power to bring Maedhros' true nature to light.
"I love him," Fingon said, smiling. "And now he is free."
Aredhel smiled a little at that, and as Fingon's smile turned into a worried frown, so did hers.
"I'll go see how he's doing," Aredhel said. "Be good for Idril."
Fingon welcomed Idril's company. The tea she made had a rejuvenating citrus flavour, and she had smuggled something sweet in her pocket for the two of them to share. As they both tore corners off the small bun, neither of them spoke, but as they caught each other's gaze, they smiled. Little by little, the darkness that had filled his mind and body after wandering Thangorodrim began to fade, replaced by the golden light of Idril's joy.
