"Finno."
The voice was picayune, cracked, pleading. It trembled and rocked and wobbled through the immense desolate spread at Fingon's back that was Mandos's Hall.
Fingon ground his instinctual about-face to a halt as his fëa lost leaped and crashed at breakneck speed. He allowed himself to pivot at a crawl while wild thoughts raced and chased and tripped each other through his head like Celegorm and Curufin on their way to dinner.
Maedhros.
Fingon wanted Maedhros to be there behind him curls and cowlicks framing a smirk so badly his heartache made his head hurt. But Fingon did not want Maedhros to be dead. In Fingon's experience, dying was in fact worse than anybody alive had ever described. It was possible all of those melancholy poets had been extraordinarily terrible at analogies, but Fingon doubted it. Dying was hot and horrible. Burning and breaking and bashing. Fire and agony shot through with terror and regret.
Fingon could almost hear Maedhros laughing at him.
"It's not so completely horrific for everyone, Finno. You decided some would say unwisely, to end your existence by balrog." Maedhros's eyebrows would wiggle, jerking the scars trailing through them like kites in the wind. "I've heard other ways are much less painful. Building collapse, impalement, sea serpent attack."
Fingon did not want Maedhros to be dead.
He finished his agonizingly slow turn and opened eyes he hadn't realized were closed.
The flash of red hair nearly dropped him to his knees. Fingon trembled and swallowed back his relief and regret and bone shaking disappointment.
"Finno?"
The voice was different this time and just as devastated.
Fingon opened his arms wide and welcoming. "Come here little Ambarussa."
They bounded to him and clutched him like elflings after a nightmare. Fingon was perfectly, sharply, suddenly sure that was all they were. He wrapped them tightly against him as much as the blurry edges of their muted, flickering spirits would allow.
Fingon did not know why he was so much more solid than them. He did not know how long they had wandered the endless rooms and halls and passages searching for someone to guide them. He did not want to know who had hurt them so deeply they were afraid of approaching him. Long ages ago Fingon had watched as Fëanor busied himself with the Silmarils, angering his extended family, and bringing all possible ruin down upon the heads of his sons, while Maedhros taught the twins how to pick locks and throw knives, the honorable way to break a bully's nose and when not to, the value of an occasional well-timed apology, and how to flame with passion without burning the people you love the most. Fingon would like to think he'd helped a little.
"Finno," one began, his face pressed against Fingon.
"Please help," the other finished before Fingon could work out who was which.
"Shhhh," Fingon ran a hand over each copper head, heads the same color as Mae's, before rewrapping his arms around them. Amras on the left. Amrod on the right.
They were quaking now and surely smaller than Fingon remembered.
"Our father is coming to look for us," Amrod whispered, twisting his insubstantial hands into Fingon's slightly more substantial cloak. A chill ran down Fingon's spine before he could stifle it.
Amras nodded against Fingon's side. "He wants us with him."
Fingon had seen Fëanor and several of his other sons on occasion. Fëanor had glared him down, as though he'd wanted to skewer him, but that was not altogether new. Celegorm had surprised him with a shockingly friendly wave of his iridescent hand, Curfin had offered a sharp if blurry nod, and Carnthir had graced him with a slightly more pleasant scowl than usual. None had peeled away from Fëanor's side.
Fingon nervously scanned the hall ahead for the imminent Fëanor. "You don't have to go with him if you don't want to, Ambarussa."
"I want to be with my brothers," said Amrod impossibly quiet.
Amras's whisper was even softer. "I do too, but I'm . . we're not . . . it would hurt us."
Fingon pressed a kiss to the top of each head, "You do not have to go anywhere until you are ready, and you do not have to feel guilty for the way you feel." Fingon remembered saying the same once to Maedhros one night, ages ago, when he'd appeared out of the dark, a jumbled mess of gut reactions and guilt and affectivity and bruises from trying to spar away his feelings. Fingon had cradled the shambles Maedhros so rarely let anyone see and wrapped the turmoil firstly into a blanket and secondly into a hug.
He offered the same to the Ambarussa now, "You can stay with me as long as you like, and I will keep you safe."
Amrod's shaking calmed a bit, but Amras gulped. "He's coming."
Fingon rubbed circles on Amras's back and watched his least favorite uncle blaze his way closer.
Fëanor's spirit was hot and strong. Flames fluttered around him growing and shrinking in a constant, complicated pattern.
Amrod and Amras hunched away from the flames. Fingon refused to even blink. He was no longer afraid. Up close, Fëanor had nothing on a balrog.
"Thank you for finding my sons, nephew. I will take care of them now."
Fingon kept his voice smooth and even. "They're not ready to go with you yet. They need more time."
Fëanor's flames grew more fervid and flickered violently. "I will take care of them, Fingon."
Fingon squared his inconsistent shoulders. "I will not let you take them until they are ready. Your Oath has punished them enough. Leave them in peace now that they are finally free."
Fingon felt as though he might commit his own kinslaying if Fëanor came any nearer.
Fëanor placed a hand on each twin's shoulder. His flames blazed so hot Fingon's scalp prickled.
"Relinquish my sons. You know nothing of the Oath."
The twins pressed tighter against Fingon and he felt their trembling hands interlock behind his back. Fingon could do nothing to help Maedhros from the halls. Not now. Not from here. There was nothing he could do for Maglor either. Nothing that would unclench the relentless grip of the Oath. Nothing that would ease the guilt that began in Valinor believing the edges of Melkor's lies and stretched all across thousands of years of mistakes and blood and tears and deep fëa leeching aches. The guilt that dragged Fëanor's sons deeper into the oath's clutches instead of away. But he could keep two of Maedhros's little brothers safe. The ones who looked the most like him. The ones who borrowed his jokes and held a sword the way he taught them. He could keep Maglor's little brothers safe. The ones who could sing the most like him and accompany his harp with their flutes. He could keep them safe and away from anyone who would bring them hurt. That he could do.
"No," said Fingon. "No. Your Oath destroyed Maedhros. I watched your Oath destroy Maedhros. Your Oath is still destroying Maedhros. I will not let you bring any more anguish upon the Ambarussa."
Fëanor's eyes softened and his flames tamed suddenly. He squeezed each shoulder beneath his hands once, gently, and dropped his arms.
"I will not hurt them, Fingon. I have done enough of that already." He dropped Fingon's eyes and studied the hunched forms of his sons. "I will be here when you are ready, Ambarussa." Fëanor inclined his head slightly then turned and drifted away without a backward glance.
Fingon released a shaking, gravelly sigh. He did not let go of Amrod and Amras. "Don't worry Mae," he whispered. "I've got them."