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It had been quiet in Hithlum since they day Fingon had returned. For many years he'd grown used to the hustle and bustle of his people going about their days, but a silence had settled over the land since he had come back with Maedhros in his arms—bloody, nearly lifeless, and so, so pale. Thorondor had only flown them to Mithrim, and Fingon had carried Maedhros nearly a hundred miles back to settlement where he could properly care for him.
His heart was heavy in his chest, as it had been since before the Crossing, but now it bore down on him like a great mountain, crushing everything beneath it. He had not felt light in several decades. Warmth was something he rarely felt either, whether due to long-lingering cold from the Ice, or from the pure heartbreak he'd endured since the moment he'd discovered what had become of Maedhros after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath.
Everyone had discouraged him from going after Maedhros. For many years, his father was against every plan for a rescue that Fingon had put forth. The Sons of Fëanor betrayed us, they all said to him, he would abandon you the moment you were no longer useful to him.
They were wrong. They did not know Maedhros as he did. Despite the hatred between their fathers, he and Maedhros had ever been close to one another before the days of the Silmarils and the Darkening.
Yes, they were right that he did not know whether or not Maedhros had remembered him at Losgar. But he remembered the days of Before, when they would sing together beneath a weeping willow, when Maedhros would gift him the most beautiful items he had forged under his father's tutelage. They were nearly inseparable, and Fingon had not forgotten.
So despite all of the discouragements, and all of his ideas that were fiercely shut down, Fingon went alone with his bow and his harp, and he forced his way into Angband by his lonesome, hoping against hope that he would find Maedhros somewhere in those evil lands.
When his song was answered, he had wept, for he'd found Maedhros despite all odds.
Now, sitting at Maedhros' sickbed, the ellon himself unconscious and sweating out a fever, Fingon could still feel the blood on his hands from when he'd cut Maedhros' wrist, days ago. He still heard the cries, the screams, the pleads to just shoot me, please. They would forever haunt him, he knew, and still, he had not the slightest bit of regret about what he'd done.
Because Maedhros was alive, with him once more, and for that alone, Fingon could learn to live with what he'd done.
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The first time Maedhros woke, Fingon had been tending to his fever with a damp cloth pressed to his forehead, hair brushed out of the way so the coolness could seep into his skin.
"I stood aside," his voice croaked in the silence of the room.
Fingon's wide eyes had met Maedhros' weary, sad, tortured gaze. It was the first time he had heard his voice in so long, and though it was not the same as he'd last remembered, Fingon's fëa rejoiced at the sound of it.
"What?"
Maedhros looked to the ceiling then, wincing when the slight movement of his body had sent agony racing through every nerve in his being. "Losgar," he clarified. "The ships."
"Maitimo..."
"Father was livid with me, but I thought of you, and I stood aside. My youngest brother burned alive on the first ship, and yet Father and the others torched one after another. In those moments, I could think of naught but Telvo, and of you."
Fingon felt tears spring to his eyes, and he removed the cloth from Maedhros' forehead, dropping it back in the bowl on the side table. He gently held Maedhros' remaining hand between both of his own and kissed the back of it. The barest of brushes, but he felt Maedhros shiver. Fingon raised Maedhros' hand to cup his cheek, placing another soft kiss on his palm.
"You could have set each and every one of them aflame yourself, and I still would have come for you," Fingon whispered to him in the silence.
"I do not deserve such devotion," Maedhros murmured, eyes closing in pain of both body and heart.
Shaking his head, Fingon said, "I have never lied to you. Not once in our lives. And I will always be on your side, no matter who stands against us."
"I have done horrible things," Maedhros despaired. "I will do horrible things. I would not have you bound to me whilst I commit these atrocities."
Fingon would not be deterred, though, and he shook his head once more. "That is not your choice to make, but mine. And I choose you."
Maedhros sobbed. "You choose nothing but darkness. It is all I and my family shall bring."
"In your moments of darkness," Fingon said, "I will hold you, still. I am not bound to your father's Oath, but I will bind myself to you, and I will do so without a second thought. You cannot see in yourself what I see. Samit melmenya, Maitimo. Do you understand? Melin tye."
"Ná, and I you," Maedhros weakly tapped his cheek, opening his eyes. "But I will bring you little joy. I am a curse upon these lands."
"Then you are a curse I welcome with open arms," Fingon told him, unblinking. "Nothing you say will change it."
It was silent for several moments, and Fingon could see that Maedhros was struggling with what he wished to say next.
"...You should have loosed your arrow then," Maedhros finally said in the silence, refusing to meet Fingon's gaze. "It would have been a kinder end than what I am bound to meet now."
"I could not," Fingon lowered his head, a tear slipping down his cheek and onto Maedhros' arm. "It was not fair to you, but nor was it to me. Too great is my love for you, even after everything that has happened."
Maedhros closed his eyes once more, resigned, and drifted back into slumber.
Fingon did not let go of his hand as he slept.
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A week after word had spread of Maedhros' return, the other sons of Fëanor came to Hithlum to see for themselves.
Fingon stood off in the corner of the room, giving the brothers their space but unwilling to leave Maedhros for whatever reason. Just the thought of it had Fingon's heart tearing at the seams.
When Maedhros had woken to his brothers surrounding his bed, he begun to cry, and had not stopped since.
"Kano," he wept upon seeing Maglor at his side, scratchy voice crying out to him and the others. "Pityo, Tyelko, Moryo, Curvo... Ai, onóror!"
"We are here, Nelyo," Maglor sniffed, wiping at tears of his own. "Nearly thirty years... Oh, thank Eru, you are finally safe."
Maedhros slowly turned his head to the side, to where Fingon had spent the last week tending to him, and he frowned through his tears. "Where is...?"
Fingon's chest burned with love and sadness both. He hated to see Maedhros in so much pain. "Over here, Maitimo. I have not left."
Their eyes met, and Fingon smiled warmly at him.
Maedhros relaxed back into his pillows with a sigh, letting his brothers fuss over him, and settled by the fact that Fingon had not gone from him.
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Just days later, after Maedhros' brothers had gotten settled in guest rooms so they could be with their brother while he healed, Fingon had come back to Maedhros' room in the night to change his wrappings and check on the healing of his wounds.
Fingon had already thrown away and replaced the old bandages around Maedhros' wrist, and was easing Maedhros into a sitting position so he could change the ones over his back as well. It was slow, and Maedhros had made noises of pain the whole time as the movement stretched his stitched skin, but it was quiet otherwise.
When Maedhros finally did speak, it was a sad and sorrowful sound. Empty of all joy and life that Fingon had missed from the days of Before.
"I am tired, Finno," he said.
Fingon's chest tightened at the use of his childhood nickname. He removed his hands from Maedhros' wrappings and brushed copper hair from his face, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I know, Russo. Rest now, and recover. I will be here with you."
"Do not leave me," Maedhros pleaded quietly, tearily. "Not yet."
"Even the Valar could not make me," Fingon kissed his dampened eyelids, his cheeks, and rested his forehead against Maedhros' own. "I will stay by your side."
"So you have said," Maedhros hummed low. "You may yet change your mind."
Fingon finished reapplying the bandages and carefully laid Maedhros back down. Before he could get up to throw away the old ones, Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled it to his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere, Russo," Fingon smiled sadly. "I was only going to toss these."
"Please," Maedhros croaked weakly.
And Fingon could not deny him. He set the dirty wraps on the floor by the bed and sat down next to him on the mattress instead of the chair he'd been sitting in before.
Maedhros closed his eyes, settled down now, and Fingon placed his hand back on Maedhros' chest. The heartbeat underneath beat against his palm, steady and slow. The skin there was warm, and thankfully not too much so, since Maedhros' fever had broken a few days ago.
"Mára este," he whispered. "I will be here when you wake."
A sigh came from Maedhros, reaching up to put his hand over Fingon's and keep it in place. "Do you promise?"
Fingon leaned down to kiss his brow. "I promise."
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