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By the time the lights of the Fëanorian encampment were in sight, Fingon was disappointed but not entirely surprised to discover he still hadn't decided what he wanted to say to Maedhros when they met. He had thought it through a thousand times on the Ice, but every time he revisited the subject, he came to a different conclusion. He hated him. It was an unforgivable betrayal. He loved him. It wasn't Russo's fault. He was angry. He could forgive. He would never see him the same way again. He just wanted to see him again.
They'd lost so many people in the crossing and almost lost so many more. His baby brother, his sister-in-law… would he ever see them again? Would they be welcomed into the Halls of Mandos? Would they be allowed to be reborn? He had no idea.
He wanted to punch Maedhros for abandoning him, all of them, to that. He wanted to be held by his beloved's strong arms and weep until he had no tears left. Well, he resolved, as his father instructed their best workers to start setting up tents "just in case" and beckoned for him and Finrod to follow, that he would do both, in that order, if Maedhros would let him.
The procession that entered the Fëanorian camp was a small one. Fingolfin, their leader, was at the front. Finrod stood to his left, as the Head of his House on this continent. Fingon was at his father's right, and he knew he was there to keep his father in check before his uncle. Behind them were their four best warriors: enough to buy them time should the Fëanorians turn on them even now, but hopefully not enough to provoke them.
"Summon your king!" Fingolfin called out the moment they were near enough for the guards to notice them, "Two hosts of Noldor have arrived on his doorstep, still bloody from a battle against our Enemy."
They waited patiently as a great commotion erupted on the other side of the wooden gates. Time dragged on until at last they heard creaking and the gates slowly opened. In the darkness—even with the marvel of the moon—it was difficult to make out the shapes approaching them. Fingon counted four figures at the front and wondered who had decided not to greet them.
As they approached, the flickering torchlight revealed Maglor leading the middle three brothers. Maglor looked like shit. He was thinner than Fingon remembered, and while he'd always had questionable sleeping habits, the circles under his reddened eyes were darker than the night itself.
He was also wearing the crown of the High King.
"Greetings, Uncle, cousins," he nodded at them. Even his voice, renowned for its beauty, betrayed his exhaustion. He sighed, "We did not know you would come. You should not have."
Fingon felt his father tense at his side.
"Do you have any idea what we have suffered because of your actions?" Fingolfin demanded. Maglor shook his head, "It would have been better for you to stay."
"And face the punishment of the Valar for aiding you? For helping my brother to slay our kin? Fëanáro is not the only one who wanted to go to Beleriand. He is not the only one who wants a piece of the Moringotto's hide. He is not the only one who lost a father that night."
Maglor was silent. Fingon wondered if he simply didn't know what to say.
"Where is he, anyways?" Fingolfin spat, "Where is my dear brother? Where is Fëanáro?"
At his questions, all four brothers paled, and Fingon could not hold his own tongue any longer. The twins were young. He could understand them being left to their slumber. But Maedhros? Maedhros should have been there. Was he too afraid to see Fingon? Too ashamed? Coward, Fingon thought, and vowed to hit him all the harder.
"And where is Rus—where is Prince Nelyafinwë?"
Maglor stumbled. His hand shot out to grasp one of the fence posts nearby to steady himself. His voice was raw as he answered, "Atar is dead. He was killed by the Valaraukar not long after our arrival. Nelyo is," he choked, "Nelyo is…"
"Nelyo is dead, as well," Caranthir finished bluntly. Celegorm's mouth was tensed in a sharp frown, and he glared at his brother but said nothing.
Fingon felt the world drop out from beneath him. It was as if he were still on the Ice and a crack had just opened beneath his feet. Russo was dead. No, he shook his head in denial, no it couldn't be. He would have felt it, surely. Their love was strong enough, he was sure he would have felt it, though they had never married.
“Fëanáro,” Fingolfin breathed at his side, “I didn’t... I...”
“Our condolences,” Finrod spoke, sounding shocked but far less shaken than his companions. Unfortunately, he also didn’t quite manage to keep the bite from his voice. Years of suffering and loss on the ice had not endeared Fëanor to anybody, and as both the Head of his House and a half-Teler, Finrod had built up more resentment than most.
“Watch your tone,” Curufin snapped.
Fingon knew this was where he was supposed to step in, for he had ever been the one to smooth things over between the Fëanorians and the descendants of Indis. But without Russo, what could he do? He could not imagine the world without Maedhros, much less notoriously tricky conflict resolution.
“My tone?” Finrod replied haughtily.
“Cousin,” Maglor interjected tiredly, but he was cut off by Curufin’s, “Half-cousin.”
“It’s as if he’s still here,” Finrod snorted. Curufin drew a knife.
“Is that any way for a beggar on our doorstep to address royalty?”
“You think we’re here to beg? We’re here to demand what you owe us!”
“What we owe you?” Caranthir parroted, “We owe you nothing!”
“I understand that you must be weary after your journey,” Maglor said and Fingon could almost hear Maedhros’ influence in his words, shaky though they were. Russo could have sounded steady if he were wounded and trying to talk down ten thousand orcs. Maglor continued, “but we did not ask you to make your journey, and we do not have anything to share with you.”
“You didn’t ask—! We didn’t ask you to burn the ships!”
Fingolfin cut in, “My nephew is right. My brother did ask us to follow him, and then you cut off our safest path. It should be he who answers for the deaths of those who are no longer here, but it is you who claims to stand in his place, so you do owe us. If your situation is so dire that you have nothing to spare, then perhaps we should consider... reorganizing things. Makalaurë, you were never trained in matters of court, I understand if it’s all a bit much for you. I would be more than happy to help —”
Maglor did not let him finish, “ Ha! You speak of following and in the same breath make a play for the crown. Atar lit fire to the ships because he suspected you were not loyal, and now I know he was right to do so!”
“How dare you, Makalaurë! I’m ashamed of you.”
“It’s your majesty to you.”
Finrod drew back as if slapped. Somewhere in the back of Fingon’s mind, he felt just as offended, but nothing could reach through the numb haze that enveloped him.
“I used to think there couldn’t be a worse king than Fëanáro,” Fingolfin said, voice as icy as the Helcaraxë, “How interesting to discover otherwise, your majesty. It really is a pity about Nelyafinwë.”
“Get out.”
“Oh don’t worry, my people have survived worse than the disdain of an underfed minstrel playing at being a king. We’ll be fine. I’ll be in touch to continue the discussion about your debts once you’ve had some time to cool off.”
“I suppose you won’t need to ‘cool off’ for a long time,” Caranthir sneered.
“Better ice than fire. You should be more careful how often you play with the flames: you might get burnt.”
At that, Curufin swapped his knife for a sword, and Celegorm drew a blade of his own. Even Caranthir was poised to draw steel.
Fingolfin’s warriors laid their hands on their hilts, but Fingolfin waved them to follow him away from the Fëanorian settlement. Finrod turned with him, both leaders preparing to inform their exhausted people that they would find no aid from the people who had once been their friends and allies.
Fingon hesitated for a half-second, and then doubled back. He pulled up his hood to cover his easily identifiable braids and found a darker part of the wall to scale. There was no easy way down, but Fingon had not spent his youth making risky climbs for nothing. He dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch before smoothly standing up. Around him were dark buildings, industrial by the looks of it. Luckily, the settlement was small enough to navigate easily, and the keep at the center stood tall above the rest. Moving swiftly and silently, Fingon crept closer.
The Fëanorians stood at the entrance to the keep, arguing loudly. The twins were still absent, but the four remaining brothers were passionate enough in their offense at the gall of Fingolfin to ask them for aid. Fingon gritted his teeth at the repeated mentions of betrayal, as if they were not the traitorous party, between the two. Still, he had other, more pressing concerns, so he held his silence and his position.
After what felt like ages, Celegorm yawned wide enough that Fingon half expected to hear his jaw crack, and Maglor told them all to shut up and go to bed. All the brothers grumbled, but Celegorm and Curufin departed in one direction while Caranthir went in another. Fingon held his breath from his hiding spot as Caranthir strode past him, but the middle brother did not pause. Once he was fairly certain they were long gone, he emerged. Maglor had retreated to the keep, and Fingon was positive he would still be awake, so he slipped inside.
He called the building a keep, but in reality, it was a simple tower, with only three levels. The first was an open room, with a makeshift throne. It was empty. Fingon climbed the first flight of stairs and found what he was looking for: an office that doubled as a meeting room, complete with a slumped over Maglor crying onto some crumpled papers at the desk.
His head snapped up when he heard the door open, and before Fingon could say a word, he snarled, “If you’ re here to try and convince me to abdicate, save your breath.”
“If you really think that’s why I’m here, you’re not as smart as I thought,” he said without a trace of amusement.
The cruel rage melted from Maglor’s face as quickly as it had appeared, and he studied Fingon seriously. He blinked, still-wet eyes widening.
“Oh.”
“Tell me,” Fingon demanded, the effect somewhat ruined by how he choked on the words, “Tell me how it happened.”
If Maglor had been one of his brothers, he might’ve made Fingon say it; instead, he just fell forward, burying his face in his hands.
“There was a—a—a truce. We suspected a trap, but Nelyo insisted on going. Anything for peace. We decided to send extra troops, though, just to be safe. It—it didn’t matter, in the end. Morgoth, the fucker, brought more. He took them all, save one, who he blinded and mutilated and sent back to tell us what happened. He—he took Nelyo personally.”
Fingon gaped in horror.
“He killed Russo at a truce?”
Maglor shook his head, “It’s worse than that. He didn’t kill him there. He took Nelyo back to Angband and sent us some bullshit about sparing him if we gave him our unconditional surrender. When we refused, he tried to goad us into rescuing him, at least for the first few years, and Tyelko wanted to try, but we’d just get picked off one by one, and then what? Nelyo wouldn’t want that. Whatever’s happened to him in there will have killed him by now, and I beg Eru every night to let his fëa into the Halls of Mandos. At least there, he might be at peace as the rest of us cannot be.”
Fingon stared at him, “You mean you don’t actually know Russo is dead?”
“He is—Findekáno—it’s been years. He must be.”
“You don’t know that, though.”
“I don’t know exactly what happened between you two,” Maglor sighed, “though I have some suspicions. Whatever you’re feeling right now... I understand how painful it must be. Nelyo was my best friend. But don’t hold onto that hope. If he’s still alive, that just means he’s still suffering, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The helplessness will consume you. He—he wouldn’t want that for you, either.”
Fingon met his gaze and held it for a long moment before he replied flatly, “I don’t know what helplessness you’re referring to,” and turned on his heel, exiting the room before Maglor could say more. He was almost out of the keep when a hand wrapped around his wrist and halted him. Maglor had evidently gotten himself together enough to follow him.
“Findekáno... I’m not going to ask what you’re planning. I think you’re a fool, but if you want to walk into a death trap, it’s not my responsibility to stop you. But... there is one thing you should know. I meant to tell you, when I saw you at the gate, but then things got out of hand and...”
Fingon raised an eyebrow, prompting Maglor to get to the point . Maglor took a deep breath as if bracing himself.
“However much you may hate me, hate all of us, you should know: Nelyo stood aside. At Losgar. He asked to go back for you, and he refused to help Atar burn the ships. Whatever happens, I—Nelyo deserves to have you know that.”
All this time, Fingon had been too numb to cry, but at that, tears began to run down his face. He had been so angry on the ice, he had wished so much pain on Russo, only to discover that Russo had likely been receiving every curse that passed Fingon’s lips tenfold, and now, to be told that Russo didn’t take part, that he’d spoken up for him... it was too much. He shook with sobs, gasping in breaths as he took back every hateful thought he’d had, as he silently begged mercy for Maedhros. Maglor stood awkwardly to the side, watching him with an exhausted frown.
When Fingon had marginally gotten himself under control, Maglor offered, “I don’t know how you got in here, but I can escort you to the gate.”
“Thanks,” Fingon managed, unsure how to deal with him in this moment. He was equal parts grateful towards Maglor for all he’d told him and furious that he had abandoned Maedhros.
As he walked back to the camp his father was setting up on the far side of the lake, he forced his mind to clear of all those swirling emotions. All he needed was determination and hope: a fool’s hope. Well, that and food, and clothes, and weapons. And maybe a harp...