"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Fingon stared at his hands. His two strong, calloused hands that could carry him up the roughest of ropes or craft delicate braids in his sister's hair. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Maedhros reached toward Fingon with his good arm. "You saved me."
The encumbrance enslaving Fingon's chest mashed down harder. "Not all of you." His voice cracked. He deflected the big, soft eyes but was snared by the split and scabbed lips that swept into a small but true smile.
"All the important parts of me."
Fingon choked softly. Maedhros's shaking hand found his and Fingon cried fiercely while Maedhros held him safe in a rail skinny arm. An arm that had proven just strong enough that even Melkor, curses upon his name, could not drive the gentleness from it. Fingon sobbed into the undamaged shoulder and wondered how it could be that Maedhros was holding him.
He should be holding Maedhros. Maedhros was the one who had been locked in the dark pit of Angband for days beyond count. Maedhros was the one who woke screaming from unspeakable nightmares. Maedhros was the one whose brothers hadn't tried to save him. Maedhros was the one too fragile and sick to get out of bed. Maedhros was the one missing his sword hand. Maedhros was holding him.
"It's okay Finno," Maedhros whispered.
