The feud between the houses of Fingolfin and Feanor was indeed healed, and Fingon was praised in both word and song. Maedhros in time was healed also, and his body became strong again, but he never forgot his torment, and the shadow of it was always on his heart, as was the memory in his mind. He never laughed as much as he used to. He became a spectacle to behold in battle, for his hatred for Morgoth was redoubled and he knew no fear when it came to his hordes upon hordes of evil armies. He learned to wield his sword with his left hand more deadly than his right had ever been, and he and Fingon were rarely seen apart. They were either riding together on the green hills, or hunting together in the fresh woodlands, together with the twins, Celegorm, the two middle sons of Finarfin, Aegnor and Angrod, and others.
Maedhros waved aside his claim to the kingship over the Noldor, for that is partly what the feud between Fingolfin and Feanor was about, saying to Fingolfin "If there lay no grievance between us, lord, still the kingship would rightly come to you, the eldest here of the house of Finwe, and not the least wise." But to this, not all of his brothers in their hearts agreed, thought they held their tongues. For a while, life was fine. Maedhros and his brothers set up the watch northwards that is known as the March of Maedhros, for he was willing to let any attacks fall most upon himself, and for his part remained friends with the houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin.
But it did not last for long.
For soon, Fingolfin was slain in a duel with Morgoth, and marred the happiness of the reunited Noldor. So the burden of the kingship was laid upon Fingon, being the eldest son of Fingolfin. And men arrived. Some of them became Morgoth's greatest servants, though many were well meaning. Also, two more of the great battles of Beleriand were fought, Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, and the worst so far, the Battle of Sudden Flame, Dagor Bragollach. The sons of Finarfin were badly hit, and many steadfast Elves fell before the huge army Morgoth had prepared, including Angrod and Aegnor.
But there was more to come. For then came the disastrous battle that is called the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, for no song or tale can contain all its grief. It could have been otherwise, though, for Maedhros and Fingon had planned it all out carefully. Fingon would arrive first, because his folk's dwellings were the closest, and when Maedhros arrived, he would give a signal. All would have gone to plan, had it not been for a man called Ulfang, and his sons, who were deep in the counsels of the two Lords, but had Morgoth deep in them as well. At the time Fingon arrived, they informed Morgoth, and his captain brought out a captive. Warning him that the same would happen to all the other captives they had, which were many, they hewed off his hands, feet, and head.
This particular captive happened to be the brother of one of the elves in the front line of Fingon's host, and without waiting for anything or anyone, he joined in battle and Fingon's army followed, unable to do anything else. But they fought alone. For three days they fought, and in the third hour of the morning on the third day the hope was renewed in their hearts, for Maedhros' trumpets could be heard from far off, and at last they joined in battle. And they might even then have been successful, if Ulfang had stayed faithful. For then Morgoth loosed his last army, and there were wolves, wolfriders, Balrogs, and the father of all dragons, Glaurung. The sons of Ulfang drove against the rear of the sons of Feanor, but they never got whatever reward Morgoth had promised them, for Maglor slew the leader, and the sons of Bor, another man, in the service of Fingon, slew the rest.
Then suddenly the sons of Feanor were assailed on three sides, and the seven brothers met in the midst of battle.
"We'll have to retreat," panted Maglor, bleeding from countless gashes across his face and body.
"But what about the others? There are Naugrim and Elves still fighting. What about them?" asked Amras.
"Take as many as you can find, and head for Mount Dolmed. Don't look so shocked, Maedhros," he said impatiently as Maedhros began to protest. It would be folly to try to help Fingon now. If we could, we would, believe me." he added. This couldn't be easy for his brother, he knew that, but still! If he wasn't careful he'd pay more than just his own life for his dedication.
So each brother found as many Elves and Naugrim, as he could, and led them to Mount Dolmed, in the East. Maedhros looked back, as the battle fell out of sight, and prayed hard that Fingon be spared. "It's my own wretched fault he's here in the first place. Curse the Oath and everything that goes with it!" he thought to himself angrily.
Meanwhile, Fingon was having a hard time of it, with his guard dead about him, facing the high captain of all Morgoth's host, Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. For hours they fought, neither one neither winning nor losing, until another Balrog sneaked up behind him, casting a thong of fire round him so he could not move. No matter how hard he struggled, he could not get free. Gothmog saw his chance, and brought his black axe down with all of his might upon Fingon's helm, and a white flame sprang up when it was cloven. Thus fell the High King of the Noldor, and the Balrogs beat him into the dust and trod his blue and silver banner into the mire.
And so the field was lost.
Maedhros, with the others in the mountains, was increasingly worried about Fingon.
"Maglor!" he hissed, between the downcast remnant of their company.
Maglor looked up, not wanting to have to deal with his elder brother now. "What is it?"
He wasted no time. There was none to waste. "Where's the swiftest horse from the battle?" he asked boldly. "Are there any fresh ones, fit to ride? Or even any that are still alive?"
Maglor gestured to the south. "We left some over there, round that spur of rock, remember? We all changed horses so they'd be ready for the battle, and so we'd have fresh ones to ride home." Of course we didn't think this many wouldn't need them again, he added mentally. "If they're still there, you could probably borrow one." He looked suspiciously at his brother. "Are you thinking of going back to find Fingon?" It was painfully obvious. "You'll be killed!" he snapped.
Maedhros rolled his eyes at the ignorance of his younger brother. "Have you looked back recently? Can you see any signs of smoke or battle in the sky?"
Maglor had to admit that he didn't. "Fine. Go on then. I'll cover for you if anyone asks about you." But Maedhros was already away, searching for the horses. That brother of his was more trouble than he was worth. "He's more reckless than the cursed twins." But he only said it because he was worried.
When he finally arrived at the battle scene, everything was over. Even the carrion crows had begun to move on. He looked this way and that, his grey eyes roving uncertainly. His heart was wrung with grief, for many of the bodies were those of Elves he knew. But there was no sign of Fingon anywhere. His progress was slow, for he didn't like to disturb the bodies of his brothers in arms.
He found this wretched sight was worse than his torment upon Thangorodrim, for now his friends and comrades had been struck down, and he was powerless to do anything about it. At least if it were him… Maedhros cursed Morgoth and everything associated with him, in great detail, as he tethered the bright-eyed horse, oblivious to the situation, to a charred bush, on the edge of the battlefield. Then, after an hour or so of fruitless searching, his keen eyes caught sight of a clearing in the ground where it had been trampled, and he made his way swiftly and cautiously over to the wet ground.
He knelt down, for there was material pounded into the ground. He pulled some up and found that it was stained crimson. But he still recognised it instantly as a banner, an elven banner, a very familiar one...
"Fingon!" he whispered, horrified. He fell to his knees, clutching the stained banner close to him, and rocked back and forth, sobbing helplessly. He didn't care who saw him now. Maedhros wept until he lost track of time, but always the twilight was falling gently, enveloping the stricken landscape around, almost comforting it seemed, and the stars of Varda, Lady of the night skies, shone reassuringly down, easing his sorrow, making it that bit easier to bear. When he had exhausted his tears of grief and pain, he built a cairn of stones over the place where his dearest friend had fallen. He felt it was the least he could do, after all the ways Fingon had helped and supported him over the last few years. He only wished he could have repaid his debt to him somehow while he was still alive.
"Farewell comrade." he said softly.
Somewhere, hidden from view in some bush or tree behind him in the deepening dusk, a nightingale began to sing.
The End.
Of all of the sons of Feanor, Caranthir was slain in Menegroth, Celegorm and Curufin by Dior in Doriath, and Amrod and Amras in an attack upon Sirion. Maedhros and Maglor in the end did finally regain the Silmarils, or two of them, for one had been found already by the legendary Beren and entrusted to Earendil. However, when the other two were actually found, the two unfortunate brothers found that their claim to them had become void. As a result, Maedhros threw himself, and the Silmaril he held into a fiery abyss in despair and grief for all that the wretched jewels had accomplished, all for nothing in the end. But Maglor tossed his into the sea; he spent his remaining days singing in pain and regret beside the waves, never more returning to his people.