Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the top of the cliffs, he can just about make out the small boat bobbing in the waves as it steadily heads east. The sail is ragged, but does seem to be catching what wind there is.

Finrod sighs, and picks his way down the well-worn path to the beach. He can take his time. He’s got a while before he’ll be needed.

The sand is soft beneath his feet as he kicks his shoes off and digs his toes in. He puts his shoes in the bag at his side, careful to not get sand all over the other clothes or the wrapped lembas, and then heads down across the pale white sands towards the sea. There is salt in the air as he breathes in, and when Finrod tips his head back to feel the sun, he can hear the seabirds circling overhead.

Finrod sits down in the sand, just outside of the reach of the surf lapping at the shore, and leans back on his hands. The sand is warmed from the sun, but cool when he digs his fingers beneath the surface, small furrows dragged up by his fingers that fall through them when he lifts his hand.

He remembers blood on these sands. Finrod huffs a breath, and traces his thumb over the line of pink raised skin down one finger. He’d cut himself on a nail sticking out from a board as he’d helped push one of the boats off the shore, and it had taken ages for it to stop bleeding. The sand had soaked it up, and when he’d come back again the next day, the surf had already washed all trace of it away.

The boat is almost out of sight now. Finrod watches the waves lap against the shore. They're just about starting to pick up now, white crests breaking on the sand. Further out, he can see the boat start to bob up and down.

Won't be long now. Finrod watches the waves steadily grow, and then the wind changes direction and begins to blow west. The boat flails in the water, cresting a wave and then crashing back down into the trough. Finrod watches a brief attempt at tacking against the wind with a wince. The technique is getting a little better, but it still isn't going to help in the end.

Sure enough, the boat starts growing larger on the horizon. The waves die down, the sea steadily calming as the boat is pushed back in towards shore. Finrod clambers to his feet with a sigh, dusting the sand off his hands. Not long now.

The boat lurches, and then rights itself. Finrod watches as it suddenly slows in its steady ride to the shore, bobbing aimlessly on the water. A strong wave picks up, rushing in towards the shore, and Finrod takes a few cautious steps back as a singular wave rushes up to meet him. At the last moment it thunders forwards onto the sand, and a figure is unceremoniously tossed out of the surf and onto the beach.

Finrod sighs, and starts making his way over. The figure props themself up on shaking arms, his body wracked with coughs as he spits out seawater onto the sand. He takes a ragged breath, chest heaving, and then doubles over. Finrod watches, heart aching, as Fingon digs his hands into the sand. Soaked braids fall haphazardly around his face as he doubles over, presses his face into the sand, and just screams.

“Oh, Fingon,” Finrod murmurs. He crouches down, setting a hand on Fingon’s back. “Did you try to swim? That was stupid.” Fingon’s shirt is dripping wet, but he knows the trembling beneath his hand isn’t due to the cold. “I know,” Finrod murmurs. “I’m sorry."

Fingon snarls into the ground, hands digging up deep furrows through the sand. “He’s hurting !” he yells, twisting to look back at the waves quietly lapping up onto the shore. “He’s hurting, he’s all on his own and he’s trapped and hurting, and you - you’re all just watching! ”

“Fingon,” Finrod says softly, rubbing his hand over his back. “Easy now.”

Fingon shrugs his hand off. “You fucking coward! ” he howls at the waves. “You- you’re a coward, that’s what you are, you don’t care about what’s happened to all of us, you don’t care that he’s suffering and keeps hurting, it’s just- what, it’s just his fucking penance to you? He deserves it, is that it?”

The waves shimmer, and then a figure rises out of the water. The gleam of the sunlight through the water makes it hard to look directly at him. Finrod drops his head. “Lord Ulmo,” he murmurs, and then he makes a sudden lunge for Fingon before he can throw himself into the sea at the Vala. “Fingon!”

“He doesn’t deserve this!” Fingon yells, struggling against Finrod’s grip. Finrod shuts his eyes against the sand kicked up in his face, and does his best to hold on. “He doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve any of this, he was good and kind and strong and he is hurting now, he is hurting so much and we’re all just fucking sitting here! ”

Ulmo moves forwards, the water resolving into a tall figure, a long kelp cloak disappearing behind him into the surf, scraggled beard studded with coral and shells. A shoal of fish flick around the edges of him for a moment, and then vanish as he coalesces.

Finrod braces himself, but Ulmo just kneels down in front of Fingon, the lines on his weathered face creasing as he smiles softly at Fingon. "Oh, my child," he says softly. "I'm so sorry."

Fingon starts sobbing in Finrod's arms. His body is wracked with it, mouth twisted in a keening wail as he grips onto Finrod's arm so tight that it hurts. "Shh," Finrod says, holding onto him. "I'm sorry, Fingon, I'm so sorry. I know, I’m so sorry.”

Ulmo reaches out and carefully wipes a tear away from Fingon's cheek. "My child," he says again.

Fingon snarls, twisting away from Ulmo. "Let me go! " he roars at him. "Let me go! Let me go to him!”

The grief on Ulmo’s face steals Finrod’s breath from him. “My child,” he says again. “I know the strength you have in your heart. I have seen it, day after day as you try to sail against my seas. I caught you today, as you tried to swim against all my currents, and I will catch you again and again, for as long as you need me to. But you will not reach the eastern shores.”

“Because you won’t let me ,” Fingon snarls. “You won’t- just let me go! ” His chest heaves in a sob, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Please,” he gets out. “Please, let me go.”

Ulmo bows his head. “I cannot, my child. I am sorry, but I cannot let you pass. The way east is closed, to all of us. Even I have such little influence reaching up the rivers of the lands, barely a whisper within those streams.” He reaches out and wipes away Fingon’s tears. “I cannot open the way east again, my child. Not even for all your love.”

Fingon starts sobbing in earnest, shaking apart in Finrod’s arms. “Shh, shh, it’s going to be okay,” Finrod tries, gripping him close and getting his clothes covered in wet sand. “Oh, Fingon. We’ll work this out, I promise. We’ll work this out.”

Fingon gulps in a desperate breath. “I can’t keep doing this anymore,” he whispers. “I can’t- I can’t just keep throwing myself into this over and over again. But I don’t know how to stop. I can’t stop, I can’t-”

Finrod looks up at Ulmo, still kneeling there in the sand. “Is there anything you can do?” he asks. “Anything you can tell us, or that you know will come to happen?” He looks back down at Fingon, on his knees and sobbing helplessly into the sand. “Please,” he says softly. “Give him something. Anything. He’s- he spent so long in the Halls watching Maedhros hurt over and over again, but at least he knew what was happening. At least he knew he was still alive.” Fingon heaves a breath beneath his hand, and Finrod rubs across his back. “We don’t know anything here. We don’t have any information on what’s going on. Please.”

Ulmo sighs. “My brave children,” he murmurs. “I do not know much of what is going on in those lands. My view has been so very clouded. But there are others, who have a better view of events.” He gives Finrod a pointed look. “There are some who may be receptive to those who they might consider family, if they come asking questions about one of their own.”

“Oh.” Finrod’s grip tightens on Fingon. “ Oh .” That’s something he’d never considered before. Maybe because he never knew her, has never really considered her family, but half of his own family does, and her memory haunts his entire family like those ghost stories that the Edain used to tell around the campfires. “Yes. We can- we can try that.” He rubs his hand across Fingon’s back. “Here that, cousin? We can find out what’s happening over there, we can find out how he is.”

Fingon gulps in a few shaky breaths. “Can we really?” he whispers, staring down still at the sand. “Can we- I can’t keep doing this, Ingo. I can’t.”

Finrod is pretty sure he isn’t talking about the few hundred times they’ve played this all out on this beach. “I know, Finno,” he says softly, as Ulmo retreats back into the sea. “I know. Come on, I’ve got us both some dry clothes and some food for you.” He pulls his bag over, and presses a square of lembas into Fingon’s hands. “Eat. Then we’ll make a new plan.”

Fingon is shivering, his fingers trembling as he breaks off a piece of lembas. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for this,” he says quietly, watching the waves lap against the sand. “So. Thank you.”

Finrod hums. “He’s my family too. And besides, I knew what I was getting into when you first knocked on my father’s door.”

Fingon manages a snort at that. “No, you didn’t.”

0-o-0-o-0

Someone is hammering at the door.

Finrod jerks awake, and abruptly falls off the couch. It's early, early enough that he can barely see the sun coming up through the window, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. When he does, he slowly relaxes back down onto the floor with a sigh.

His bedroom had been too large again, his bed too soft as he dreamt of the snarling of wolves and chains jangling from his wrists. He had stumbled downstairs and snuck himself into the downstairs study that his father used to sometimes use for smaller matters between the family. It didn't take much effort to drag the couch over to where he could get a clear line of sight of the door and window.

Finrod drags himself off the floor when the hammering continues. "Okay, okay, I'm coming," he mutters, running a hand over his face. Nobody else in the house is awake yet, as far as he can tell, though with the noise being made right now he doubts that will last for long.

"I'm coming!" Finrod calls out. "Hang on a minute, I'm coming." He gets to the front door, mildly surprised it hasn't yet collapsed under the blows, and undoes the latch. "How can I-"

He opens the door, and a figure falls through it into his arms. Finrod catches him by instinct, staggering back under the weight. "I've got you, don't worry," he gets out as he struggles to keep them both upright. He recognises the grey robes of the newly reborn. It's not the first time someone who followed them in Beleriand staggers to Finarfin's front door, the only King left to owe allegiance to, and he recognises the shakes of someone who has just been returned to their hröa. "Easy now," Finrod says, getting a mouthful of hair for his trouble. "Take your time, don't worry now. You'll get used to-"

The figure finally finds their feet, and Finrod's words die entirely in his throat. " Cousin ?"

Fingon stares up at him. His hair is unbranded and unbound, messy and unkempt. There are tear tracks down his face. "Finrod," he breathes. "I hoped- I didn't know where else to go. I didn't know who else to go to."

Fresh tears spill out down his cheeks, and Finrod pulls him inside. "Come on, come and sit down," he says, pulling Fingon into the kitchen. "It's disorientating, I know. Give it a bit of time, you'll get used to it again."

Fingon shakes his head, even as he stumbles and falls into a seat at the kitchen table. "It's not that," he rasps. "It's- Ingo, please. I didn't know who else to go to."

Finrod slides into a chair next to him, a slow tendril of worry curling in his gut. "What is it, Finno?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

Fingon, to his surprise, just buries his head in his hand and weeps. "Finno!" Finrod exclaims, reaching out for him. "What is it?"

Fingon shakes his head. "Russo," he gets out. "It's Russo. He's- oh, Ingo ." He starts sobbing again, great heaving sobs that wrack his body and leave him gasping for breath.

Finrod hurries around the table, wrapping an arm around Fingon's shoulders. "I think," he says slowly, rubbing his hand up and down Fingon's back, "that this is the point at which I wake up my father."

Finarfin wakes reluctantly, and then all at once at the urgency in Finrod's voice. Finrod detours briefly to his own rooms to grab Fingon some clothes, though they'll probably be a little big on him, and by the time he gets downstairs his father has his arm wrapped around Fingon's shoulders, and his mother is setting what smells like peppermint tea down in front of him.

Fingon wraps his hands around the mug with a hiss at the sudden heat. The smell of it seems to bring him back to himself a little bit, as Eärwen undoubtedly knew it would. "Take your time, dear," Eärwen says softly, gently grasping his arm. "Tell us what has you so upset."

Fingon takes a deep breath. "Russo didn't die at the end of the war. Sauron took him captive. He still- he still has him."

There is dead silence in the kitchen. Finrod watches his parents. They've never known his darkness. They've never known what it is like to try and stand against him and fail, what it is to be swallowed whole by that crushing darkness, that leer of a smile as he falls to the cold ground. He can feel the phantoms of chains dragging his arms to the ground, cutting into his wrists.

"Son."

Finrod manages a breath. Finarfin has grasped his hand, squeezing it firmly. "How?" he hears himself ask. "How does he have him? What is he doing?"

"He- I don't know," Fingon whispers. "The tapestries only show so much. He- he was going to kill himself. He was going to die with his Silmaril, but Sauron…he caught him." His voice breaks. "I don't know how. The tapestries only show so much."

Eärwen's face is white. "But that means it's been…"

Fingon nods. "An Age and a half. More than that. I know." His hands are clenched tight around his mug, so tight that his knuckles are white. "I know. He…Sauron made him take Tyelpë's city. Made him raze it to the ground. Made him stand guard , in between bouts of torture. Tyelpë is dead, now. He never broke. Sauron appeared dead for a while, but Russo was never freed. And now he's back. He's-" Fingon breaks off, breathing deeply for a few moments.

"Take your time," Finarfin says softly. "Just take your time, nephew."

Fingon sucks in a ragged breath. "He's hurting ," he whispers. "He's hurting so much. And I know- I know what he did, I know where he ended up, I know what part I had in all of it." He looks up straight at Eärwen, eyes wet. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm so sorry."

Eärwen reaches out and takes his hand. "I know," she says softly. "I know you are."

Finrod knows there is a wealth of pain behind her words. He's seen it, since he's been back. Some nights, the beaches of Alqualondë are endlessly stained red.

"But he's hurting," Fingon whispers. "Russo. He's been hurting for so long. I know what he did, I do . Especially…especially after I was gone."

"We've heard," Finarfin says quietly. "There are those who have been reborn already, from the war." He hesitates. "From Sirion."

Fingon just nods. "I know," he says miserably. "But he- he's hurting. He's hurting so much."

Finrod eases around the table to get a hand on Fingon's shoulder. "Nobody deserves to suffer like that," he says quietly. "No matter what they've done."

"Son-"

"No," Finrod says firmly. "You don't know what it was like. You weren't there . Fëanor and his sons- it was all kinds of fucked, Atar, and I know how much of it was because of them. I do." He remembers Celegorm's impassioned speech in the halls of his own realm, Curufin's sly words that had him throw his crown down on the floor. "But Sauron…nobody deserves what he could do."

"Son-"

"Russo was the best of them," Fingon says, his voice suddenly strong. "He was. He tried so hard to corral his brothers, to build alliances. He held the east even against dragonfire. He- he survived , even after thirty years under Sauron's hand, he-" He breaks off, bowing his head, clutching his mug of tea like his life depends on it. "He was the best of them," he whispers. "And he's hurting."

"You weren't there," Finrod says again to his father. "You weren't- you don't know what it was like. How hard it was to make decisions sometimes, when every choice led somewhere terrible." He meets Fingon's gaze. "I left my kingdom and my people to go with Beren. I don't- I don't regret it, given what I owed his father, what it all came to, but I still left my people for him. Nargothrond fell. Maybe if I had stayed, fewer of my people would have died."

Fingon's gaze is steady and understanding as he looks over at Finrod. Two wartime kings, in a land that has never seen war.

At least Finrod has someone who understands now.

"Son," Finarfin says again. He reaches out and grips Finrod's hand, holding him tight. "I could never understand what it was like," he says softly. "I know that. Even fighting in the War of Wrath could not be comparable to centuries in those lands holding the line." He looks over at Fingon. "Nobody deserves that pain," he says steadily. "Nobody."

Fingon drops his head into his hands and just starts to weep.

"You'll stay here with us," Eärwen says soothingly. "The first few days after coming back can be difficult, and you are family. You have a home here, for as long as you like." She glances over to Finrod with a pointed look. "Maybe we start with getting him into some of your clothes? I'll start breakfast."

"Can I ask," Finarfin says quietly, once Fingon has managed to get his breathing after control, "how you've gotten out of the Halls? So many of our family are still within."

Fingon wipes at his eyes. "The Halls are meant for healing," he says. "I…I convinced them that I wouldn't ever heal in there, seeing him hurting over and over again."

"Of course," Eärwen says softly, though Finrod can tell that she doesn't quite understand. She looks over to Finarfin. "Your father?"

Fingon is already shaking his head. "He…he's trying to get through to Fëanor," he says quietly, glancing up at Finarfin. "I don't think he'll leave until he does."

"Really?" Finrod asks before he can help himself.

"He's watching his son, his eldest, be endlessly tortured," Fingon says, his voice low but firm. "My father is watching his nephew. They are- we all are helpless to do anything to help."

"Nolo was always so fiercely kind," Finarfin murmurs. When Finrod looks over at him, his eyes are wet.

"Well," Eärwen says, clapping her hands together. "Fingon, you take these clothes of Finrod's and go get changed. You can borrow his things until we get some of your own. I'll start putting breakfast together. You remember where his rooms are, yes? Up the stairs and to the left, second door down with the big balcony."

Fingon nods, sniffing as he gathers up the clothes. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"That's what family is for," Eärwen says warmly. "Go on, now. Take whatever time you need."

Once the sound of Fingon's footsteps on the stairs has faded, Finrod slumps down in his chair. "Fuck," he breathes. "I did not see that coming."

His father doesn't even scold him for his language, which shows just how rattled he is as well. "He'll find his feet," Eärwen says amidst the clatter of pans on the stove. "We'll help him."

Finrod doesn't mean to make a face at that, but Finarfin looks up at him anyway. "What is it?" he asks.

Finrod grimaces. "I think…I think he's going to try and save him."

"Maedhros?" his father asks. "Surely not. The way east is closed, and Fingon is here now. Surely…"

Finrod is already shaking his head. "I remember that look in his eyes," he says. "The one he had when he was defending Maedhros." He sighs. "The last time I saw it, he was gone the next morning when we all woke. He returned months later, on the back of an eagle and with someone who we all thought dead."

His father hesitates. "Everyone thought Maedhros was dead," Finrod says quietly. "Everyone thought there was nothing they could do."

"Back then, or now?" Finarfin asks.

Finrod just spreads his hands. "Either. Both. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's gone by tomorrow."

"Gone where?" Eärwen asks as she cracks eggs into a pan, setting aside the shells to be fed to the chickens later. Finrod always found that bit bizarrely macabre. "Where would he go?"

Finrod shrugs. "This is Fingon, so he might start with petitioning the Valar, and then go from there."

"Well," Finarfin says after a long moment. "I can count on you to look after him, son."

"Of course you can," Finrod says. "Of course. I'll put him in my room tonight, see if that helps." Adjusting to a body after so long without one is a difficult few days. Everyone deals with it differently, often depending somewhat on how they died. Finrod knows that he himself stumbled around like a newborn for nearly a week on feet that he felt didn't belong to him. Others have had trouble speaking, or regaining fine control over their hands. It always passes.

The other things don't, but this always passes.

Fingon is sat on the edge of the bed when Finrod goes upstairs, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. "They're a little big for me," he says, looking up at Finrod. "But thank you. Thank you for everything."

Finrod grabs his chair from his desk, and drags it over to opposite Fingon. He sits down, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. "Can I ask you to do something for me?" he says. "As my cousin, and my friend?"

Fingon pauses. "Of course. What is it?"

Finrod gently grasps his knee. "Will you wait a little bit before making any momentous decisions that are likely to piss off a good number of people? Maybe a week? It's incredibly disorientating coming back from the Halls, even without…everything else. Let yourself adjust. Let yourself grieve."

Fingon is silent for a long moment. "And then?" he asks.

Finrod didn't know this was his answer until now, but now he can't say anything else. He steadily meets Fingon's gaze. "And then I will help you."

Chapter Text

Finrod wakes in the middle of the night, his heart racing. It only takes him a moment to realise what has woken him.

Fingon, when the sun went down, had curled up on the other side of Finrod's expansive bed, staring at the wall. When Finrod looks over to him in the middle of the night, he has turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

At first, Finrod thinks he is crying. It's only when he rolls over and lays a hand on Fingon's back that he realises the trembling isn't the shock of a body after so long without, or grief, but rage.

The two are so closely entwined, sometimes, they're impossible to separate.

"Fingon," Finrod whispers. In the dark of his room, his voice is so loud.

Fingon visibly takes a breath, and then pulls his face up from the pillow. His eyes are dark when he turns to look at Finrod. "Sorry."

"You're allowed to hurt," Finrod whispers. "You're allowed to grieve."

"He's not dead," Fingon just says, levering himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. "You can't grieve if they're not dead."

"I suppose," Finrod says slowly. He doesn't agree at all, but from the look in Fingon's eyes, he doesn't think he should say that. One wrong word, and Fingon might just shatter apart entirely.

"Nothing looks good in the middle of the night," Finrod says eventually. "Nothing ever looks good in the dark. Try and go back to sleep, Fingon. Let your body adjust to existence again. We'll start to work it all out in the morning."

Fingon is silent for a long moment, and then lets himself fall back onto the bed. Finrod pulls the covers back up over the both of them.

"Do you think he knows?"

Finrod rolls over, watching the silhouette of Fingon in the dark. "Knows what?" he asks.

He doesn't have to ask who he is.

"That I'm out," Fingon says quietly. "That I've been watching it all. That I haven't forgotten him."

Finrod reaches out and clumsily finds Fingon's hand. "This is Maedhros we're talking about," he whispers. "He's never going to forget you."

He’s half expecting to wake up in the morning and for Fingon to be gone. What he doesn’t expect is to wake up, the first rays of the sun peeking through his curtains, to find Fingon packing a bag.

“Where are you going?” Finrod asks, propping himself up on his elbows as he watches Fingon unrepentantly steal one of his knives and slip it into his belt. “And what are you planning to do with that?”

Fingon just looks at him. “Alqualondë,” he says, like it’s obvious. He doesn’t answer Finrod’s second question. After a moment, Finrod remembers how long it took him to stop carrying a weapon at all times, and lets it go.

“To do…what?” Finrod asks when Fingon just continues to pack, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“To get a boat, and sail east,” Fingon just says. “I don’t exactly have anything to my name beyond my title right now, the little that it means here, but I’ll work out payment when I get there.”

“That’s…that’s not quite true,” Finrod points out. “Your mother,” he clarifies when Fingon just looks at him. “She's in Tirion. Even if you don't go to her, my mother will cave immediately when she first sees her."

Fingon can’t quite meet Finrod’s gaze. “You can tell her whatever you want, once I’m gone,” he says eventually. “Let her know I’m sorry, but I’ll be back soon.”

“Fingon.” Finrod gets out of bed and crouches down in front of him. He puts his hands over Fingon’s, stilling his movements. “Hey. Just- just stop for a moment. Think about this.”

Fingon snatches his hands away. “I am thinking!” he hisses. “I’m thinking that every day I waste here is a day that Russo is tortured, a day where he doesn’t know that I’m coming for him! Don’t you dare tell me to give up on him before I’ve even started.”

“The Teleri won’t give you a boat,” Finrod points out, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Not after Alqualondë. Not after Losgar. In Tirion it’s…it’s fine, mostly, but outside this city? Even I have trouble from some people. You will as well. And if they find out you’re going after Maedhros?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Fingon, but you won’t find any help from anyone.”

Fingon rears back as if struck. “Don’t they…don’t they know ?” he asks. “People have come back from the Halls. Don’t they know what’s been happening to him? Don’t they fucking care? ”

“I didn’t, until you told us,” Finrod says quietly. “I don’t know if people purposefully didn’t tell my family, or haven’t told anyone for whatever reasons they have, but we haven’t had many Noldor come back yet. Those who do…” How can he explain the regret and shame and pride all bundled up together sitting in the depths of everyone’s chest who has made it back? How can he explain what it is like, going from constant war to such complete peace? How can he possibly explain that even though it’s peaceful and safe here, some days he’d rather have his freedom and all the dangers that came with it?

He meets Fingon’s gaze, and thinks that he probably won’t have to explain. Fingon will come to learn it soon enough.

“As for whether they care…” Finrod shakes his head. “There are those who are Fëanorians, who have returned. They keep quiet here, in Tirion, but you can find them if you know where to look.” He has seen the signs, the eight pointed stars stitched onto the insides of jackets or carved beneath a lintel, hidden carefully out of sight. As far as he is aware, there aren’t many of them returned yet, but he doesn’t doubt that they will reach a critical mass soon enough. "People care, but…it's a long way away."

"You care," Fingon says sharply.

"Because I knew him," Finrod replies. "Maedhros himself, not the figure that everyone else thought he was. We hunted together, Fingon, in those good years in Beleriand, just the three of us away from all of our titles and responsibilities. I still remember that." He sighs. "But most people never saw that. And enough saw Doriath, saw Sirion, or saw the end when they arrived in Beleriand for the War of Wrath, that those memories override almost anything else."

Fingon says nothing. "And even if, even if the Teleri lend you a boat, then the Valar have to let you pass. They have to let you go." And he doesn't see that happening.

Fingon is breathing heavily, head bowed over his pack. His knuckles are white where he's grasping the straps tight. "Then what," he says, his voice low, "do you think I should do? "

"Well, you shouldn't immediately go to Alqualondë and ask the Teleri for a boat," Finrod says with a small laugh. "We need a plan , Fingon. We need to make sure this works. And I think…there are people here who do care for Maedhros, Fingon. Who should know as well what is happening to him."

Fingon looks up at him. "What do you mean by that?"

Finrod sighs. "What I mean is that we are probably overdue for a family dinner."

0-o-0-o-0

Anairë and Nerdanel arrive for dinner that evening. Finrod positions himself to help either of them if he needs to. If that position also happens to be between Fingon and the front door, then it's only an abundance of caution.

Anairë screams when she sees Fingon, hands flying to her mouth. One nudge from Finrod, and Fingon is throwing himself into her arms.

Eärwen wraps one arm around Finrod's waist as they watch, tugging him into her side even though he's still so much taller than her. Nerdanel edges around mother and son reuniting to head for them, a smile on her face. It doesn't have a hint of sadness on it, for all that Finrod is searching. He isn't sure how she can manage that.

"How wonderful," Nerdanel says softly, reaching out for Eärwen's hand and squeezing it gently. "When did he return?"

"Yesterday," Eärwen replies. "Stumbling up to our door like a newborn foal. It was rather a surprise when Finrod opened the door."

Nerdanel watches Fingon in Anairë's arms. Slowly, her smile dims. "There's something else, isn't there?" she asks.

Finrod winces. He might as well shout out to the entire room the answer, given how Nerdanel's gaze immediately snaps to him. "Finrod?" she asks.

Finrod swallows heavily. "Let's give them a moment," he says. "And then we'll explain."

They settle in the family room, Anairë tugging Fingon down onto the sofa with her, seemingly unable to let him go. “My dearheart,” she says, brushing his untamed hair back from his face. “Oh, my boy.” Fingon’s face crumples, and she wraps him up in her arms. “What grieves you so?” Anairë asks. “What is it?”

Fingon’s gaze glances over to Finrod, who tries to give him what he thinks is an encouraging smile. “It’s not…you know we can see the events of the world, in the Halls,” he says slowly. “Tapestries that show us our kin.”

His gaze turns to Nerdanel. Finrod braces himself.

“Maedhros is alive. Sauron holds him as his captive.”

Finrod feels like an outsider. An onlooker, watching through a glazed window as Nerdanel crumples in on herself, as Eärwen rushes to her, as Anairë grips onto Fingon so tight that it looks like she will never let go. Fingon shrugs her off, crossing the room to kneel at Nerdanel’s feet. “I- I’m so sorry,” he gets out. “I’m so-”

Nerdanel’s face is pale, but her cheeks are dry as she reaches out and cups Fingon’s cheek. “My dear,” she says. “Tell me everything you have seen.”

It’s even worse than Finrod had been imagining. Fingon stays on his knees the entire time, grasping Nerdanel’s hand in his as he haltingly gets out what he has seen embroidered on the tapestries within the Halls, how Maedhros’ brothers burn so brightly as they watch, how he grieved and raged until Mandos relented and he woke up in the grass. Nerdanel is silent through it all, even when Eärwen and Anairë move to sit beside her and bolster her how they can. Finrod watches on, helpless to do anything.

“What-” Nerdanel clears her throat, gripping Eärwen’s hand. “What happens now?”

Finrod has seen that determination in Fingon’s face before. Last time, he hadn’t anticipated where it would lead.

He’s going to be better prepared this time.

“Now, I get him back.” Fingon looks up at Nerdanel from his knees. “I’m going to go to west, and petition the Valar to let me go east, and I will find him and bring him back.”

There’s nothing but certainty in his voice. Finrod had not seen Fingon as High King, had died before he could watch him step out from beneath the grief of his father’s death, but he can hear the voice of a High King in the grim determination, and he remembers abruptly all those times where Fingon refused to move on something, found his line and stuck to it with no hope of anyone changing his mind. He’s surprised nobody noticed the pattern before.

Maedhros noticed, he abruptly realises. Maedhros knew, after those long and awful days spent on the lakeshore where Fingon refused to leave his side. Maedhros watched Fingon refuse entirely to give up on him. He would have seen this coming.

Finrod wonders if he still can see it coming, after all this time. If there’s anything left of him to know that he hasn’t been forgotten.

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Son,” Finarfin says quietly. “Let’s give them a moment.”

Nerdanel is crying now, tears dripping silently down her cheeks as Fingon clutches at her hand and makes promises to her that Finrod knows he will stand in the way of mountains to keep. He follows his father through to the kitchen.

Finarfin sighs, sitting down at the table. “He’s not going to be dissuaded, is he?” he asks.

Finrod sits down opposite him. “I don’t know why you would want to,” he says slowly. “You said it yourself. Nobody deserves what he’s going through.”

“There are many who won’t take kindly to his return,” Finarfin warns. “We’re still divided, beneath the surface, and Maedhros has done terrible things.”

Finrod knows. He remembers watching Doriath fall, Menegroth’s once-silver halls woven in red on the wall. “Fingon doesn’t care,” he says. “Or rather, he loves him enough for it to not matter to him. Or something like that.” He pauses, watching his father across the table. “I’m going to help him,” he hears himself say.

Finarfin just nods, a small smile curling his lips. “Oh, I know,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting anything else. But we are going to have to be careful. The Valar are not likely to let him leave.”

“They let him leave Mandos,” Finrod points out wryly. “I think Fingon knows he needs their permission to leave, now that the way east is shut. However reluctant it might end up being.”

Finarfin arches a brow. “Do you really think he can convince them?”

Finrod doesn’t know. It took Ëarendil and a Silmaril to convince the Valar to become involved in the War of Wrath, and by then the dead in Beleriand numbered in their tens of thousands, if not more. Maedhros isn’t even dead.

“I don’t know,” Finrod says honestly. “But I know that he’s going to try. He isn’t going to move on this, Atar.”

Finarfin hums. “Then there is work to do, here in the city,” he muses. “To prepare ourselves. This is not going to stay quiet, once Fingon starts moving. Perhaps it shouldn’t.”

“Atar?”

Finarfin sighs, looking over the table at Finrod. “My brave boy,” he murmurs. “My brave, brave son. I think things are going to start changing once again within these city walls. We’ll be prepared for it.”

0-o-0-o-0

“Your mother seemed overjoyed to see you,” Finrod ventures, staring up at the canopy of his bed.

Fingon, next to him on top of the covers, is silent for a long moment. “She asked me about my siblings,” he says eventually. “Where they were, if I was here all on my own. I had to tell her about Maeglin.”

“Ah.” Finrod had seen that tragic tale play out, in the woven threads of high cliffs and impassable mountains. “He was so young.”

He can feel Fingon nod next to him. “I never knew him. I never got to know him. I…Aredhel won’t leave him, and Turgon won’t leave her.” He breathes out. “In Beleriand, they were the ones to leave me behind. Seems like it’s the other way around this time.”

“Finno…”

“Forget it. I’m being maudlin.” Fingon rolls onto his side.

“Finno, wait.” Finrod grabs his shoulder, pulling him back over so he can see Fingon’s face. “You’re allowed to grieve.”

“I left them behind, this time,” Fingon just says again. He rolls back over on his side. “It was my own decision. All I’ve got to do now is make things right.”

Telling Fingon not to take the whole world on his shoulders probably won’t work. It used to be Maedhros that Fingon used to say that to, Finrod incidental in the sickroom as Maedhros recovered bit by bit, day by day. Finrod is pretty sure that he wouldn’t be too receptive to it being turned around on him.

“What are you going to do, then?” Finrod asks instead. "Where will you go now?"

Fingon's bag is still packed in the corner of his room. Finrod knows he won't stay.

"You were right," Fingon says eventually. "I can't just leave , not when the Valar have shut the way. So I'll go to them, and I'll ask them to open the way east."

He makes it sound so simple. "It took Ëarendil and a Silmaril to make the Valar send an army to Beleriand, even when I had been telling them for years the dangers they were all facing there," Finrod says eventually. "Even when they knew already." He huffs a laugh. "And we don't have a Silmaril."

Fingon snorts. "We're not sending an army. It's just me."

"You've never been just anything," Finrod remarks with a laugh. "Nobody will believe that, let alone the Valar."

"I'll make them believe it," Fingon says. "I'll make them believe whatever it is they need to."

There's a quiet conviction to his voice that Finrod has heard before. This time, though, it's not quite as simple as climbing a mountain.

Chapter Text

Fingon kneels, alone, on the wide empty space within the middle of the Máhanaxar. Finrod watches helplessly from the edge, his toes pressed up against the very edge of the great stone floor that gleams brighter and deeper than any marble.

Knelt in the middle of that vast expanse, the thrones of the Valar towering above him, Fingon looks so small.

“Findekáno Nolofinwion. Only the past week did my brother release you from his care to return to those who love you. Yet you are here, before us. What is it you would ask of us?”

Manwë’s voice is the susurration of a thousand winds, the murmur of breeze through the feathers of an eagle. Finrod sways with it for a moment, remembering the sweeping of air across the plains, before he digs his heels in and grips at his empty sheath at his side until it hurts.

Fingon looks up. “Let me leave, and go east,” he says, his voice clear even to Finrod, standing all the way on the edge of the circle. “Let me find Maitimo and rescue him from his torment.”

“The capture of the eldest grandson of Finwë, we know well,” Mandos intones. “Many have fallen to his blade.”

“Not by his choice!” Fingon says quickly, his voice alight with fury. “Not by his will! He is being held hostage by one of yours , by a Maia, and I would have you open the way east so that I might make this right.”

Varda raises her hand. “We know it is not of his own choice,” she says softly. Her mantle flickers as she moves, a thousand stars flaring to life and then winking out of existence within the folds of cloth. “We know his torment.”

“Then you know that I must save him,” Fingon says. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again." He looks straight after Manwë. "You helped us, before. You sent Thorondor to me, when we needed him most, when I nearly killed Russo to try and spare him his torment. I'm trying to save him." Fingon takes a breath. "I have to save him."

"It was fate that dictated Thorondor's arrival," Manwë replies. "It was his fate to be saved by you, then. Perhaps it is his fate to be saved by another now."

" Fate? " Fingon snarls. "Do we not have the freedom to make our own choices? Do we not have our own will? I saved him before because I wanted to, because I couldn't bear even the thought of leaving him there to suffer. I will do the same now."

"Released from Mandos, and yet still you have not grieved," Nienna says softly, her voice resonating deep within Finrod's chest. "Still you rage. There is anger in your heart, Astaldo."

"Because I am here ," Fingon just replies. "And he is hurting."

"The lands east are dangerous, especially for the Eldar," Manwë says. "There are so few safe places left, and Maitimo is far from them. What guardians would we be, if we knowingly sent you into danger that you may not return from? You are safe here."

"My grandfather was slaughtered in the doorway of his own home," Fingon says, and Finrod can't suppress the wince at the defiance ringing in his voice. "I beg to differ."

"You dare-"

"It is fair," Ulmo says, holding up his hand to stop Tulkas. "We have all seen the dangers here." He looks to Fingon. "You have faced many dangers, and your heart still remembers them. Your bravery is commendable. It always has been. But you ask a hard thing of us, my child."

"Will you grant it?" Fingon just asks.

There is a long silence. From the very edge of the circle, Finrod holds his breath.

"We will deliberate," Manwë says eventually. "We will take counsel together, all of us. Await our answer, Findekáno Nolofinwion."

Between one breath and the next, they are gone. A breeze sweeps across the great circle, empty save for one figure knelt on the cold stone.

Fingon takes a ragged breath, and then bows over until his forehead is pressed against the stone.

Finrod races over to him, each footstep echoing on the brilliant stone floor. "That wasn't too bad," he says as he kneels beside Fingon. He rests a cautious hand on his back. "They'll deliberate."

Fingon groans into the floor, the stone misting with his breath for just a moment. "I'd forgotten what it was like to look directly at them, when they're all together."

Even on the very edge of the circle, Finrod had felt it. He gets an arm around Fingon's waist, his shoulder under his, and pulls him up to his feet. "Come on, let's get some food into you."

Fingon shakes it off by the time they're halfway across the circle. When Finrod glances over at him, his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and his hands are clenched into fists.

He is impressed by the nearly hundred yards they manage to make it from the Máhanaxar before Fingon can't stay quiet any longer. " Fate!" he snarls, twisting around to look at the now empty circle behind them. "Fucking fate , is that all they have to say? As if that makes it acceptable that he's suffering, that he's been suffering for so fucking long?"

"I know."

"When has fate ever mattered?" Fingon shouts up at the sky. "When has it ever fucking mattered? Either you say that everything that has happened is the work of some great plan, or you say there's nothing. We still made all those choices! We still did everything we've done! It wasn't fate that fucking made me climb a mountain until my hands bled!"

"Fingon!" Finrod wraps an arm around his shoulders. "I know, I know. But yelling about it to the sky isn't going to change anything. We just have to wait for their verdict."

"I'll come back tomorrow," Fingon promises as they head back to their horses. "And the day after, if I have to."

The sun is beginning to set as they ride back to Tirion, the walls just becoming visible over the horizon. "Do you really think that?" Finrod finds himself asking.

Fingon reins his horse in a little. "Think what?"

"That it doesn't matter. That fate isn't…that it doesn't matter whether we are dictated by it." Finrod shudders slightly. "Looking back on how I died, what happened after and what it all led to…how can that not be fate?"

Fingon sighs. "It could be, sure," he replies. "Or it could be that you're a good person, and Beren was, and Lúthien loved enough to change the world. Either way, it was still your choice to throw down your crown and go with Beren instead of remaining. Good or bad, whether it was already recorded somewhere in some great plan, you made that decision. That's what matters."

He made the decision to leave. He made the decision to all but hand his realm to Celegorm and Curufin.

He made the decision to save Beren's life, at the cost of his own.

"I suppose it is," Finrod says eventually. "What matters, I mean. Maybe it's all just…a series of choices. Made by us, made by others."

Fingon nods. "Now we just have to wait for them to make the right one," he replies, looking over his shoulder towards the Máhanaxar, even though it's long disappeared behind the hills.

"And if they don't?" Finrod asks.

Fingon just shrugs. "Then I'll make it for them."

0-o-0-o-0

Fingon returns to the Máhanaxar the next day. And the day after that.

One month in, and Finrod has become used to the sound of the front door slamming early each morning as he leaves.

One year in, and the city doesn't bother shutting the western gates anymore.

One decade, and even the endless rumours surrounding Fingon start to calm down and settle. They're not gone, merely settled beneath the surface like silt on a riverbed. Finrod was a King. Still is, in some ways. There are those here who answer to him over his father, who remember walking the halls of Nargothrond more than the streets of Tirion.

Finrod is just waiting for the day that these rumours are all stirred up again. Or for the day that he has to be the one to stick his hand in the clear water and bring it all back up to the surface.

He goes with Fingon as much as he can. There is still work for him to do in Tirion as Finarfin's eldest son, people to listen to. Sometimes he lies in bed and listens as Fingon leaves in the mornings. Sometimes, he's already saddling his horse when Fingon comes downstairs.

His mother has taken to making lunches for them to take. She makes two every day, even when Finrod knows that she knows he's going to be staying in Tirion.

If nothing else, Fingon is looking a little better fed.

It's become routine for Finrod, now. Wake up before dawn, grab his pack and the food waiting for him in the kitchen, head out to the stables and start tacking up. He alternates between two horses, most days, with Fingon using two others out of his father's stables, and with them fresh each morning the ride is fast out to the Máhanaxar.

Most days that he accompanies Fingon, Finrod waits on the edges of the circle. He sits in the grass and tries to compose something with the lyre he brings out with him, or does some of the work his father needs doing, parchment in lap and trying not to chew on the end of his quill.

Some days, he joins Fingon as he kneels in the centre of the circle, and watches him wait, and then watches him start to shake as he realises that they're not coming with a judgement today.

"Tomorrow, then," Fingon just says at the end of each day, and then they leave.

Every day. Without exception. Fingon never tires of it, never complains about the hours-long journey each way. Visitors to Finrod's house to see him are politely told he's not available, until eventually people get the message. But after a decade, Finrod is long used to the ride, and after even longer still, he becomes used to all of it.

He's long used to all of it, Fingon almost half a person as he goes back and forth over and over until they've worn a path into the grass. Perhaps that's why he doesn't see it coming.

It's just another day. Finrod is accompanying Fingon for the first time in a couple months, having been pulled away to Alqualondë for a while to arbitrate some dispute, and then returning to Tirion to find other petty dramas waiting for him to sort. Fingon is quiet on the ride out, but that's no different, and Finrod takes the tack off their horses and lets them loose to graze as Fingon heads into the centre of the circle.

Finrod means to stay outside. He sits down on the edge and pulls out some of his work, but every time he starts, he can't hold focus. Fingon is a small figure in the middle of the expanse of stone, knelt on the cold floor.

About an hour in, Finrod looks up to see him double over and press his forehead to the stone.

"Shit." Finrod is already on his feet, work forgotten in a scatter of parchment to the floor, as Fingon slowly gets to his feet.

"I have been waiting ," Finrod hears Fingon say as he starts out across the gleaming stone. "I have been waiting for a very long time for your answer, and I will continue to wait until you make up your minds and you answer me!"

"Fingon!"

"How is this so hard?" Fingon roars. "How is this such a difficult decision for you? He is good, and he is hurting, and I can save him! I can go to him, I have to go to him!"

Finrod reaches his side. There is no response.

" I. Am. Waiting!"

A gentle breeze blows through the great circle. There is no answer.

"Fine," Fingon gets out. "Fine. I'll make my own way, then."

"Fingon," Finrod tries, reaching out for him.

"It has been too long ," Fingon hisses, snatching his arm out of Finrod's grip. "All this time I have wasted here on my knees, waiting for an answer that I should have known was not going to come!" He spins in a circle, arms outstretched. " Well?"

Finrod holds his breath. " Where are you?" Fingon roars into the sky. "I will not leave until you answer me!"

"Fingon?" Finrod tries, but Fingon is already sitting down in the centre of the stone.

Finrod sighs, and sits down next to him. "Really?"

Fingon just nods. "You don't have to stay."

"Don't start being ridiculous now." Finrod leans back on his hands. "Atar will send someone when we don't return. Hopefully they'll bring food with them."

Fingon won't leave the circle even to fetch their saddlebags, so Finrod brings them all over for them. It feels mildly sacrilegious, but he supposes that it's better than being cold.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep. He doesn't even realise until he's jerking awake, face cold from where he'd fallen asleep face down on the stone.

It takes him a moment to realise what has woken him, but then Finrod jerks awake all at once, and scrambles to his feet at the pale light casting long shadows across the stone.

Fingon isn't where Finrod had left him, sat next to him in the centre of the circle. He's stood in front of one of the great thrones, head tilted up, and Finrod's heart thuds nearly out of his chest when he sees Ulmo leaning down towards his cousin.

The Vala's face is shrouded, covered in a thin hood that ripples and settles around him, pale light flickering through and dappling the stone circle. Fingon is stock still, unmoving as Ulmo bends down towards him.

Finrod cautiously edges towards them. If they are speaking, he can't tell. Ulmo's face is veiled, and Fingon has his back to him. As he watches, Ulmo raises one hand towards Fingon.

Fingon flinches violently back. "No," he says, his voice ringing clear. "No, do not try and do that. It took you over a century to come and tell me this, you don't get to try and comfort me."

"My child-"

"I will be going east, however I can," Finrod can hear Fingon saying as he approaches. "With or without your permission. "

Fingon spins on his heel, and walks away. He passes Finrod without a word, lips pressed so tightly together that they are white. Finrod hesitates, and then continues on his path towards the throne.

The Vala, face still shrouded, turns towards him. Finrod bows low. "Lord Ulmo. I take it your decision has been made?"

"The way will not be opened, not yet," Ulmo replies, his voice the low crunch of pebbles on a shore, of rocks tumbling over each other deep within a wave. "Though there is dissent between us. If it means anything, Findaráto Arafinwion, I do not agree with my siblings."

"Enough for you to let a boat pass?" Finrod asks, but even as he says it, he knows what the answer will be.

Ulmo shakes his head. "I cannot directly defy my brother, let alone Eru himself and his plan."

Finrod looks over his shoulder at Fingon, stalking away from them. "You know he's going to try anyway."

"I know, my child." Ulmo's voice is the mournful wail of a seagull, the crash of rock giving way into the raging sea below. "I will not let him drown in his desperation."

Finrod watches Fingon slowly grow smaller and smaller until the dark begins to swallow him. "Were it as easy as that," he murmurs. "He is immovable, you know. When he finds his line, he won't move from it, no matter what."

"Time wears at all things," Ulmo just says. "Be well, my child."

Fingon has disappeared into the darkness. "I'll do my best," Finrod says. When he turns back around, Ulmo has disappeared.

Chapter Text

"Darling, can I ask what exactly your cousin is doing?"

Finrod pauses at the edge of one of the docks, watching the water lap up gently against the wood. He knows that if he turns and looks at the docks off to the south he will see Fingon on one of them, moving from person to person. Nobody has been outright hostile to him yet, but Finrod has seen people watching him cautiously.

"Believe me, I didn't intend for today to be this," Finrod says to Amarië with an apologetic smile. "But I have to keep an eye on him, and I do want to help him. I promised I would help him."

"And as for what he's doing?" Amarië asks.

Finrod eyes Fingon again. "He's trying to buy or loan a boat, I believe. He won't manage it."

Amarië hums. She knows better than most how long it took Finrod to step onto these docks and beaches again after he returned. She had been the one to hold his hand as he stood on the winding road that led down from the cliffs to the docks of the city, and had held him in his arms when he had taken one step and then started sobbing. "He seems ever so determined."

"That's Fingon, for you," Finrod replies. "Once he has made up his mind, he is immovable."

"Was he like that in Beleriand?" Amarië asks.

Finrod has told her a lot of his time there already, as they slowly grew to learn each other again. "We didn't spend much time together, after we all split up," he muses. "Hunting together every few years doesn't really count, away from all our duties and worries, and Fingon was always so busy with his duties as Crown Prince, even when there was relative peace in the lands. It wasn't often, then, that you would stumble across something he wouldn't budge on." He huffs a quiet laugh. "I think Maedhros did try to instil some sense of diplomacy into him, as well."

"I can't imagine that," Amarië says quietly. "The sons of Fëanor were always incredibly charismatic, but it was forceful, not skilled."

Finrod hums. "In the public square, yes, and on matters of the family, but myself, Fingon and Maedhros worked quite closely together in our grandfather's court, before it all went so wrong. He was skilled even then at winning an argument by making the other believe that his idea was their own." He huffs a laugh. "The byproduct of six younger brothers, I suppose."

"And he was like that in Beleriand?" Amarië asks.

Finrod checks on Fingon. Still pleading with a dockworker, and still getting looks that are more curious than hostile. "Even more so," he tells Amarië. "Out of everyone, he was always the diplomat."

It takes him a moment, but he manages to drag up memories of those moments, meetings in Barad Eithel where Maedhros corralled people into agreements, or merely corralled his brothers, which was always a feat within itself. He picks one memory out of the dozen and starts talking.

Amarië is silent for a long moment as they wander back down the dock, weaving through the midday crowd around them. "So much that so many here don't know," she says eventually. "Do you think any of him will remain? Whenever this ends for him, however it does?"

Finrod sighs. "I don't know," he says truthfully. "I'd like to think so. Maedhros was…after his captivity, I watched him so many times push himself well past what I thought his limits were, with such force that everything around him just had to give way."

"So he'll make it?" Amarië asks.

"The Maedhros I remember was unstoppable, for good or bad," Finrod replies. "If there's even a fraction of that remaining after all this time, then…I think he'll make it."

0-o-0-o-0

Finrod stands at the top of a cliff. From here, the sea stretches endlessly into the horizon. The ground slopes away from him, wild and rugged only a few miles out from the docks of Alqualondë, and it takes him a long time to pick a path out down towards the beach.

The boat, propped up haphazardly with planks of wood to keep it vaguely upright on the beach, only really resembles a boat in that it has a hull and is made of wood. Fingon is doing something on the deck with a square of cloth that it takes Finrod a moment to realise is a sail, and the boat rocks alarmingly as he attaches it to a lopsided mast.

Finrod has never had more appreciation for the shipmakers of Alqualondë than when seeing this haphazard thing.

"Is it even seaworthy?" Finrod asks as he approaches.

Fingon jumps down from the deck. "Haven't put it in the water yet," he replies. "I think so. I've done my best to replicate what I observed on the docks. I have some logs to put under it, to roll it out into the sea."

It takes them nearly two hours to get the boat into the water. It leans to one side fairly heavily, but it does appear to be seaworthy. Fingon unfurls the sail, tying the rope off around a rough piece of wood, and Finrod steps back through the surf.

"Good luck, Finno."

Fingon looks east with a grim expression. "Let's see how this goes."

Finrod watches as the little boat unsteadily makes its way out of the bay, pacing up and down the beach. He can't see much from the beach itself, the boat disappearing quickly, but the climb back up the cliff is going to be ten times harder than the climb down. Finrod paces along the beach instead, and he waits.

The weather slowly turns. What looks like a storm is building on the horizon to the east, the waves slowly building. Finrod watches, his heart picking up speed and thudding in his chest in time with the growing crash of waves on the shore.

A boat appears on the horizon, driven west with the sudden wind. It's listing heavily, obviously taking on water, but manages to limp into shore.

Fingon jumps overboard into the surf just as the boat drives up against the shore and finally comes to a shuddering stop. Almost immediately the wind drops, and the day returns to the calm of the early morning.

Fingon pushes salt-crusted braids out of his face as he pushes through the waves up onto shore. There is clear frustration in the lines of his face, the set of his shoulders, but he just shrugs and looks east. "It didn't sink," he says. "Though I don't think it would have survived much longer."

Finrod tries to drag up any shipbuilding knowledge he was once told. "I think we need to caulk the hull? To seal the joins between planks."

Fingon hums. "You know more than I do." He pushes his sleeves back up his arms. "Let's get this onto the beach, and then I'll start again tomorrow."

"I've heard you're helping Findekáno with his…endeavours."

Finrod sips at his tea, but his grandmother just arches a brow and waits until he can no longer avoid the statement. "I am," he says eventually. "He needs someone to help him, and I…nobody deserves what Maedhros is suffering."

"There are many who would not wish him to return to these shores," Indis says softly. "Though there are those here who love him still, they are few compared to those who never saw him in those far off lands, or have only heard of his misdeeds."

Finrod's hand clenches around his delicate little cup. He makes himself put it down before he cracks it. "I know. I'm well aware of what he did in the end of the First Age. I watched it in the Halls. But I also know him. He was the best of his brothers, and he tried so…he tried, grandmother. He really did try."

Indis ' expression softens. "I know, my dear," she says, leaning forwards to gently grasp his hand. "Perhaps others should as well."

The boat struggles in the strong winds, trying to fight against them. Finrod paces up and down the shore, his eyes never leaving the boat as it lurches back and forth.

One massive wave, and the boat disappears. "No!!" Finrod shouts. His heart is pounding in his chest, leaping up to clutch at his throat in terror. He runs forwards. He's not sure what he's going to do, but before he can get more than ankle deep into the surf, the waves surge and Fingon is gently tossed ashore.

Fingon pounds one fist into the wet sand, spitting out a curse as Finrod helps him up. "We start again," he says, turning to look east. "We build it all again. We try again ."

Fingon has scrounged and bartered for most of his equipment from reluctant dockworkers and the shipyards of Alqualondë. He keeps most of it up on top of the cliff, and Finrod soon gets used to the ache in his shoulders from carrying planks down the steep slope when he's able to help.

He's nailing a board into place on the deck when his hand slips, and the head of the nail cuts a jagged rip through the palm of his hand. Finrod curses, jumping off the ship to go and fetch his bag.

Blood drips bright red through his fingers and onto the sand, staining it dark. Finrod's breath catches in his throat.

"What have you done?"

Fingon prises Finrod's hand from his own grip, wincing at the steady drip of blood from the pool in Finrod's palm. "Nicely done," he remarks. "But it's not too deep. I've got linen bandages in my bag, you can use some of those."

It's been a while since Finrod carried medical supplies on him. Once, it had been unthinkable to leave Nargothrond without them. He had carried them when they left Nargothrond, in a small bag on his belt. When he had awoken in the dark, Beren clutching at his hand and his loyal companions around them, the small bag had still been there on his belt.

He had handed them to Beren, fumbling in the dark to press them into his hands as the halls echoed with the screams of the last companion to be dragged off. He had known, then, what he was about to do.

He wonders if they came to any use in Beren's hands.

Some months, Finrod manages to drag Fingon back to Tirion with him. He still stays in Finarfin's house, still stays well away from the house his family had grown up in, when they had spilled out into the gardens and the streets of Tirion, in those long ago days where nothing seemed like it would ever go so horribly wrong. He sleeps in Finrod's room, when he sleeps at all.

Finrod is lying to himself, he knows. Even back then, there were dangerous undercurrents. It was just that nobody knew what they meant, or perhaps just didn't want to see it.

Fingon restlessly wanders the halls of the High King's home, like one of the ghosts Finrod remembers some of the men telling stories about around the fires. Anairë tries to talk to him, but even she can't quite get through to him. Finrod finds half-abandoned sketches of Maedhros littered around the place, face changing over and over as if Fingon can’t decide which iteration of Maedhros he wants to put to paper.

Finrod has tried sketching some of his memories of Beleriand, but his hands always feel clumsy and too large around a pencil. He composed a lament for Beren a long time ago, the tune somewhere in his chest when he stepped out onto grass for the first time since that deep dungeon and the knowledge that he was going to die. Once he touches a harp again, can’t stop playing.

Fingon’s haunting of his house must have gotten to him. He plays lament after lament, switching between what instruments he can find around the house.

Fingon finds him out on his balcony one afternoon, flute to his lips. This one is for the Bragollach, brought to the halls of Nargothrond by the fleeing refugees with ash in their wake. Finrod doesn’t pause in his music when Fingon appears, but shuffles over on the bench to let him sit.

Fingon is quiet, even after Finrod draws the music to a close and lays the flute in his lap. “Do you think-” he says eventually, clearing his throat. “Do you think anyone wrote laments for them?”

“For who?” Finrod asks quietly.

Fingon is silent again for a long moment. “For Maedhros,” he whispers. “Maglor. Celegorm and Curufin, Caranthir and Amras. I know- I know there were ones written for Amrod, after Losgar, but everyone else…”

Finrod thinks for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I’d…I’d hope so.”

An elegant ship bobs a few hundred yards out on the waves, white sail fluttering in the wind. Finrod watches the small rowboat come into shore from the ship, and meets it on the beach.

“Well met, my Lord,” the sailor calls with a smile as they jump out and drag the boat up onto the sand. “His boat capsized, so I diverted and picked him up out of the water.”

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble,” Finrod replies. Fingon jumps out of the rowboat and stalks past them both, heading straight for the cliff. “Fingon!” Finrod tries, but Fingon just waves his hand at Finrod and keeps walking.

“I’m sorry,” Finrod says as he turns back to the Teleri sailor. “He’s…well, I’m sure the rumours have made their way around your docks.”

The sailor’s smile dims. “Yes, I’ve heard,” he says, watching Fingon start to pick his way up the crude path that has started to form up the cliff, switching back and forth up the steep slope. “I…is he going to be…”

Finrod sighs. “Probably not for a while,” he murmurs. “Grief is a difficult thing, let alone when you don’t acknowledge it. He’s still convinced that he can make it through.”

“He won’t, you know,” the sailor says. “That’s why none of us would take him east. Not because we didn’t want him on our boats, but we all know that there is no making it across the sea from here, and our ships are too precious to wastefully destroy in a needless attempt.”

“Of course,” Finrod says with a nod. “I understand. And I know he won’t make it through. But what am I to do? Either I help him, and hope it does something , or I leave him alone until he drowns himself trying to swim.” He sighs, looking out over the sea towards the horizon. “At least this way he has someone on this shore that’s waiting for him.”

“Fingon, please-”

“ Don’t!” Fingon shoves Finrod’s hand off of him, stumbling in the wet sand. “Don’t you- don’t you dare tell me to give up!”

“I’m not ,” Finrod says firmly. “I would never ask you to give up on this, you know that. But you are barely yourself, Fingon. You do nothing but try, again and again, and you’re- just look at you. You’re not living, Fingon.”

“Neither is Maedhros, or have you forgotten?” Fingon spits. “I’m not stopping whilst he’s still out there hurting. I won’t. I can’t .”

“You’re allowed to grieve him,” Finrod says before he can stop himself. “Finno-”

“I can’t!” Fingon roars, wet braids slapping around his face as he spins towards Finrod. “He’s not fucking dead!”

“Would it be so bad if he was?” Finrod asks, trying to gentle his voice as much as he can. “He- maybe he deserves rest, after all this time.”

Fingon shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. “No, no, he won’t- there’s no rest for him in the Halls, you know that. We all know that, everyone here who pretends like all those centuries in Beleriand just didn’t happen, just don’t mean anything because how could they possibly mean anything here, where it’s all so fucking perfect? ” He flings his arms out wide. “How could anyone ever forget all of that? How could he ever rest?”

“I remember,” Finrod says quietly. “You know I do.”

All of the fight just drains from Fingon, seeping into the sand. “Just…just go, Ingo,” he says, and he sounds so exhausted that Finrod can’t help reaching for him. “Just go and live your life. Don’t worry about me.”

Finrod folds him up in his arms. “You make that pretty hard,” he admits. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Amarië gently links her arm with his. On top of the cliff, the wind catches her hair and sends it streaming, burnished gold in the sunlight. “He’s still going, then?” she asks softly.

Finrod sighs. Out in the distance, a small boat cuts across the bay. “Still,” he says softly. “I don’t know if he knows how to stop.”

The path is so well worn now beneath their feet, cutting into the slope as it switches back and forth towards the top of the cliff. Finrod turns and watches Fingon climb up to the top, trying to wring out the salt water from his hair and clothes. The boat is listing on the sand below them, repair tools still scattered around the hull from where they’d been replacing a few planks. The sun is setting, the sky pale pink until it reaches down and touches the sea, dark slowly spreading across the endless water. Far across the bay, Finrod can make out the lights of Alqualondë as lanterns are lit.

Soon the night fishermen will go out, bright lanterns hanging over their bows as they lure in their catches, hauling in nets of squid that rise to the surface in the dark. They fry it on large open pans in the market there, and Finrod has burned his fingers more than once after buying a packet and trying to eat it too quickly.

Some nights, like tonight, they finish too late to return anywhere. Finrod sets out two roll mats and bundles up a cloak for a pillow. Eventually, Fingon joins him.

The stars are beautiful overhead. Finrod shuts his eyes, and listens to the gentle lap of waves against the shore.

“Maybe it’s all my fault.”

Finrod opens his eyes to the stars again, and then rolls over onto his side. Fingon is on his back, staring up at the sky. “What could you possibly mean by that?” Finrod asks.

“You saw it,” Fingon says quietly. “In the Halls. You saw what happened after I died. The Nirnaeth…it all went wrong after that. I think Maedhros…I think he stopped caring. He stopped hoping. And it all just…fell apart.”

“That’s not your fault ,” Finrod says firmly. “You didn’t ask to die.”

“I probably could have escaped,” Fingon whispers. He rolls over to face Finrod. “I probably could have gotten out somehow, when the tide first began to turn. I thought about it. I thought about finding Turgon and fleeing with him to Gondolin, hiding there and trying to fight from a city nobody should know the location of. But I- I couldn’t. I was the High King. I had to hold the line.”

“There are probably people who are alive because you did that,” Finrod says, reaching out and gripping Fingon’s hand. “People whose lives you saved.”

“Is that the choice, then?” Fingon whispers. “Maedhros, or everyone else?”

Chapter Text

Fingon's shivering eventually dies down, only to be overtaken by a new type of shivering. At least this is just from the cold, Finrod thinks, as he pulls a shirt out of his bag. "Here," he says, gently tugging Fingon to his feet and starting to pull his soaked shirt over his head. "I've got trousers as well, and your spare shoes, but you're going to have to help yourself there."

Fingon just shivers, shoving his shirt off with clumsy movements and pulling the dry one on. A few minutes later and Fingon is gathering up all his wet clothes, wringing them out as best as he can. "Oh, Finno," Finrod says softly as he wraps his arm around Fingon's shoulders and squeezes him close. "I'm sorry."

Fingon's breath hitches, a muted sob finding its way out of his throat. "I just…I'm so tired, Ingo. I'm so tired."

"I know," Finrod murmurs. He halts their slow stagger towards the cliff path in order to better wrap Fingon up in his arms. "Shh, Finno, shh. It's not all over yet, is it? We're not done yet."

Ulmo said that there was still hope, if not in those exact words. Finrod glances behind him as he starts to lead Fingon towards the cliffs, but there's just sunlight glinting off the waves.

"What do we do now?" Fingon asks as they stumble their way up the cliff path. He twists in Finrod's hold, looking back at the sea now below them. "What do I do now?"

His voice is so small. Finrod hates it.

"First, you need to sleep," he says eventually, when he finds his voice again. "And eat something more than hastily-packed rations. And then we'll get fresh horses, and head for the House of Vairë."

This time, he is going to pack enough food and water to last them a long wait.

0-o-0-o-0

Even beneath his cloak and the pack he's using as a pillow, the stone of the courtyard is cold beneath Finrod's back. He sighs, pulling more of his cloak around him, and looks up at what stars he can see between the trees.

The House of Vairë is quiet behind him, lanterns flickering at the door that, in the time they've been waiting outside, have never had to be changed. A Maia had answered the door when they arrived, translucent and only half-formed, as if they didn't understand the limitations of a body. They had not spoken when Fingon had requested an audience with Míriel.

When Fingon had told them that he would remain here until such an audience had been granted, the Maia had just shut the door.

Fingon is sitting outside the door, head bowed and hands in his lap. He's barely moved since they first arrived, only getting up to eat and sleep when Finrod pokes him to do so, or to help Finrod unpack when he goes back to Tirion for more supplies.

Finrod gives up on sleep. Lacing his hands behind his head, he starts to hum.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of songs written in Beleriand. Finrod himself wrote dozens across the long ice, trudging onwards in the dark through the howling winds that tore at their clothes and slipped under their skin. Walking songs were the most common, simple tunes that could easily be picked up and sung over and over, something for people to time their feet to, their freezing breaths. In Beleriand he wrote more, songs for war and for peace, lyrics to stir hearts to courage or to make people laugh as he played, hands light on the strings of his harp. He still remembers all of them.

It isn't one of his that he starts humming. The tune is one he heard through a door cracked ajar by a healer, hurrying past in those days where urgency permeated every breath. Finrod remembers how the whole house was saturated by it, the grim faces of his uncle and cousins as they waited for news.

Fingon and Maglor barely left that sickroom. For the first few days, Finrod hadn’t seen either of them at all. He had only known how serious it was from the constant haunting of Maedhros’ brothers around their camp. There was no other reason for Fingolfin to have allowed them to stay, other than the serious fear that Maedhros would die.

He hadn’t, but still Fingon and Maglor had barely moved. Finrod had helped how he could, but most of his efforts involved keeping everything else running whilst Fingon focused on Maedhros.

But he remembers vividly this tune. The door had been open a crack, and he couldn't help peering inside.

Maglor had been fast asleep in the bed directly opposite the door, snoring quietly with his face mashed into the pillow. The other bed was slightly out of view, and Finrod had shifted around just to check that Maedhros hadn't been left alone by accident.

Fingon had been lying on the bed on the side nearest to Finrod, blocking most of Finrod's view of Maedhros. He could see a shock of red hair across a pillow, an emaciated hand gently tangled with Fingon's. Fingon's other hand was carding through his hair, over and over again as he hummed a tune.

Even after all these centuries, Finrod won't forget it.

Fingon shifts, looking over his shoulder at him. "I- I remember that," he murmurs.

Finrod nods, without breaking tune. A moment later Fingon shuffles back to sit beside him, pressing his leg into Finrod's side. For a while he just sits there and listens to Finrod hum.

Finrod doesn't know how long it is before Fingon starts talking.

"I was so scared for him, back then," he whispers, still staring at the closed door. "So very scared. I thought he would die in my arms, either on Thorondor's back and then in that bed, and then when he didn't, I…I couldn't possibly fathom how the Maedhros I- how he could still be in there, after so much. How he could want to be there."

Finrod tapers off his humming. Fingon leans forwards and runs his hands through his hair. "And now, " he gets out. "Those thirty years are a fraction compared to what he's going through now."

Finrod reaches out and rubs at the nearest part of Fingon he can reach, somewhere vaguely around his knee. "Maedhros has always been unstoppable," he says quietly. "He will be again."

Fingon snorts at that. "That's true. I used to have such a problem getting him to rest, in those days. If it wasn't his brothers endlessly demanding to see him, then it was Russo himself demanding to be let out of bed and allowed to start walking, or running, or training with a sword."

Finrod huffs a laugh. "Yes, I remember that."

Fingon tilts his head back to look at the stars. "I was such a coward."

"Finno?"

Fingon shakes his head. "I was such a fucking coward," he says again. "I loved him even then, I loved him well before then, and I- I did nothing. "

"Oh, Finno." Finrod sits up and gently wraps an arm around his shoulder. "That's not true. You may not have said it to each other, but there's no way that Maedhros doubted your love for him." He squeezes him close. "Not after everything you did for him."

"I died," Fingon says, his voice utterly miserable. "I died, and I left him alone."

Finrod just holds him close. "I-I left him," Fingon gets out. "I loved him, and I left him, and I can't- there's nothing I can do to make up for that."

Finrod presses a kiss to Fingon's temple. "You're doing it here, cousin," he murmurs. "You're doing everything you can. That matters."

"Does it?" Fingon just asks. "Does it truly?"

Finrod doesn't have a good answer for him.

He's trying to find one when slow movement out of the corner of his eye makes his head shoot up. The front door of the House of Vairë eases open, and a figure appears in the soft light of the lanterns.

Her hair is the first thing Finrod notices, pure silver falling through her fingers as she undoes a simple plait and combs her hair back from her face. Pale purple robes fall around her, and she is strangely insubstantial as Finrod looks at her, almost translucent.

Fingon is entirely speechless as Míriel þerinde smiles down at them. "Astaldo, Ingoldo," she says softly. "I'm sorry I could not welcome you sooner. There was a particular part of a tapestry that I had to finish."

"That's no problem, my Lady," Finrod manages to get out.

"It must be cold on the stone," Míriel just says. "Won't you come inside?"

The hallway they step inside is absolutely covered in tapestries. There are no images woven into these hangings adorning the walls and even the ceiling as they walk through, merely repeating patterns in a wide variety of colours. "Practice," Míriel explains as they pass through. "Between those tapestries I weave for the Halls, I must keep my eye in." She looks up at a bright tapestry that is made up of so many colours that Finrod can pick out more than a dozen different patterns. "And it is fun, at times."

"My Lady," Fingon says as Míriel leads them deeper inside. His eyes have not left her. "I know we are not your family, that by blood we aren't-"

"You are my dear husband's grandchildren," Míriel interjects with a soft smile. "And Indis was a friend of mine. That makes you family, if not by my own blood. Now, I believe you have not sat outside my door for months to merely hear me speak. What is it you seek?"

"Maedhros," Fingon gets out, his voice trembling. "Is he- please. I have to know that he's alive."

Míriel's expression softens. "Ah. Of course. He is still alive," she says, and Finrod grasps Fingon's arm as he suddenly sways on his feet. "There are changes building," Míriel continues. "Come. Let me show you."

She leads them into a large room, and Finrod finds himself staring back at his own reflection.

A large mirror takes up one entire wall. In the centre of the room is set a loom, reaching up to nearly the ceiling. Finrod's gaze catches on the scarlet red behind him in the mirror, and he slowly turns.

His breath catches in his throat. Beside him, Fingon makes a choked noise.

A dragon looms large across the tapestry, wings spread in flight. Below him is a small town built out on a lake, and orange and yellow and black threads twist and weave into flames licking up the charred wood as the dragon swoops down again.

A bolt of steel against the darkness, and an arrow is loosed from one of the highest towers. It finds its mark, burying itself deep within the dragon's chest, and the scarlet reds and deep bronzes are overtaken by greys and blues so dark they're almost black as the corpse slowly sinks to the very bottom of the icy lake.

"Bard, his name is," Míriel says softly as she joins them. "He brought down the dragon with a single arrow." She kneels down, and her fingers ghost over the edge of the lakeshore, a small figure just visible in the dim light as it clambers out of the water. "He survived."

Finrod stares at the small figure, drenched in water. A great mountain rises up in the darkness behind him, a single light just visible amongst the craggy cliffs.

“A great many things are beginning to change," Míriel says softly, her fingers running over the bobbins neatly stacked in front of her loom.

"What does that mean?" Fingon asks, his voice hoarse. "What does that mean for- for Maedhros?"

Míriel's smile fades. "My eldest grandson," she murmurs. "I have been watching him for such a long time."

"I've been trying to get to him," Fingon rasps. "I've been- I've been trying. But they won't let me go."

Finrod wraps his arm around Fingon's shoulders again. "He petitioned the Valar to open the way east," he tells Míriel. "When they refused him, he tried to sail anyway. It was Lord Ulmo who told us we might find help here."

"It was not help that he meant you to find here."

Finrod twists, and nearly falls over in shock at the figure behind them. "Lady Vairë," he breathes, instinctually bowing his head. "I- we were not expecting you."

Vairë pushes back her shroud, letting it fall back across her shoulders in a whisper of fabric. "He didn't send you for help, Astaldo," she says softly, her voice a fall of silk across the floor, the steady rhythm of the loom as bobbins weave back and forth and worlds are built in the loops of thread. "It was so that you can understand. "

"Understand what?" Finrod asks, when Fingon's voice appears to fail him entirely.

Vairë bows her head. "That the whole world is not yours alone to bear, Astaldo."

"If he is hurting, then it is," Fingon says stubbornly. "If nobody else is helping him, then why should I stop?"

"My child," Vairë says softly. "Nobody could ever doubt your heart. But you are not the only person who loves so dearly and so greatly that it can change the world."

"But what does that mean? " Fingon asks, lurching forwards on his knees. "What can I do, what can I do to help him?"

Vairë's expression is so achingly sad that it steals Finrod's breath from his chest. "I cannot let you go east, no more than Ulmo could have persuaded the seas to calm and let you through. I know Manwë would have you let go of Maedhros. Varda would have you strengthen your heart, Yavanna to find delight to ease your burdens. Aulë would have you find purpose elsewhere. Nienna would have you grieve, Astaldo, after all this time fighting it."

"And you?" Fingon asks. "What would you have me do?"

Míriel is working at the loom again, bobbin weaving through the threads stretching up to the ceiling. Vairë smiles softly. "I would have you watch," she says quietly. "And learn that you are not alone in your endeavours."

0-o-0-o-0

Change cascades in the colours of threads woven across the loom. Finrod watches the events build in the green of small meadows with smaller people, in the pale white of a city that grows up the weft of the loom to try and stand against darkness woven in the east, ever spreading.

There are glimpses of Maedhros, a tall and dark figure striding just out of sight. It's enough to know that he's alive. Finrod is glad that there's not more, because he can see the hunger in Fingon's face every time Míriel picks up that particular colour of red for the lock of hair that escapes from beneath his helm.

He's still alive.

They watch as Míriel weaves the changes of the world, as Vairë carefully directs her fingers to the deep greens of dark woods and wide plains upon which horses run free.

There are figures he recognises. Finrod sees Lúthien's face and Beren's eyes and Idril's kind smile in the master of a hidden valley. He sees the tiny star that Míriel picks out at his throat, and the hidden tapestries hanging on unseen walls.

Fingon cries when he sees it, tears dripping down his cheeks. "See, Finno," Finrod whispers to him as he holds him close. "Not everybody has forgotten."

War builds. A city across a river falls, Finrod wincing as he remembers watching Nargothrond be destroyed in fire on such a similar tapestry. Dark riders fly across the weave, heading west, and Fingon grips Finrod's hand so tight that it hurts when a tall and dark figure joins them, his right hand a blade and a helm obscuring his face.

Nine small figures become eight, and then two. Maedhros stands on a riverbank and watches a boat head east without doing anything, and Fingon's whispered pleas are so loud in the quiet of the room.

Finrod joins him as they watch it all play out through the threads.

By the time armies take to the field in front of that white city built into the mountains, Finrod is already weeping.

A fallen creature. A blade, trapped beneath its flank. A wary approach.

Kindness, and another blade, silver thread gleaming in Míriel's hands, against the black that had sewn his mouth shut.

Fingon buries his head in his hands and weeps. Through his own tears, Finrod watches Sauron fall. He watches them triumph.

He watches a pale figure, shock of red hair against the pillow, slowly wake surrounded by the people who saved him.

"He's made it," he whispers to Fingon as they both weep, curled together on the floor of the weaving room. "He's free."

Chapter Text

The news spreads fast. There are those within Tirion who remember Sauron and his cruelty, and Finrod lets himself relish in telling them how he fell, how his own hubris and nature destroyed him in the end.

There are celebrations outside. Finrod can hear them from his window, the sound of singing rising up from the streets.

"Join them, if you like," Fingon says softly from where he's sat on the bed. "I know it must be satisfying, seeing Sauron fall."

Finrod hums as he turns away from the window. "Won't you come with me?" he asks.

Fingon shakes his head after a moment. "I can't. It's not over for me yet."

"Maedhros is free," Finrod reminds him. "He is healing. We know that he's in safe hands with Elrond."

"It's been so long ," Fingon whispers, staring down at his hands. "So long, and I wasn't there." He looks up at Finrod. "Would he even want to see me, after so long abandoned?"

"Oh, for the- stop ."

Fingon jumps at Finrod's sharp tone. "Stop it," Finrod says again, crossing the room to stand over Fingon. "Stop with this endless pity, Fingon. You tried . You were immovable in your efforts. That matters. "

Fingon scoffs. "Does it? I didn't manage to reach him. I didn't manage to save him."

"You said it yourself," Finrod points out, crossing his arms. "It's not over. There's no way that Maedhros isn't going to come here for you eventually, when he's ready. It's up to you to decide what he finds when he gets here."

Fingon is silent for a long moment, long enough that Finrod almost breaks first. "Go and join them," he whispers eventually. "I know you'd like to. I- I need to think."

Finrod relents. When he wakes up in the late morning, blinking sleep from his eyes and with the sour taste of wine in the back of his mouth, Fingon is already gone.

Finrod spends the whole of the afternoon running around like a fool, trying to find where he's gone. It's only as the sun begins to set that he realises he's been utterly blind.

His horse is lathered in sweat by the time he reaches the clifftop the next morning. For a moment he sees nothing, no small boat out on the waves, and then there is movement in the long grass along the cliff top, and Finrod's heart clenches in his throat.

Fingon straightens up from a crouch, what looks like a measuring stick in his hand. "Oh, Ingo, I wasn't expecting you to come out so soon," he says. "You were asleep still when I left."

Finrod dismounts his horse with an apologetic pat and lets her graze. "What are you doing?" he asks. The closer he gets, he sees the rough lines scored in the earth by Fingon's feet, the parchment pinned down flat with a few rocks. "What…what are you making?"

Fingon glances around him. "He's not going to want to stay in Tirion, most likely," he says, absent-mindedly continuing the line at his feet a few more yards. "We'll need somewhere to stay. Something built from scratch isn't going to contain the same memories that anywhere else holds."

The parchment is hastily-sketched blueprints for a house. A large one, by the looks of it, though of course nowhere near the palatial houses of their family's homes in Tirion, or the fortress that was Formenos. "This is going to take a while," Finrod remarks. "Do you even know how to build a house?"

Fingon shrugs. "I expect I'll work it out."

Finrod sighs. "Let me go back to Tirion and get some help. We'll need it if it's going to be done by the time Maedhros arrives."

They have no idea when Maedhros might make the journey west, but Fingon agrees with an absent-minded nod as he keeps scratching out lines in the earth, so Finrod will take it.

0-o-0-o-0

They're laying the last of the foundations, Finrod stripped down to his undershirt as he helps even out the foundations that the others are pouring, when they hear the first shouts.

"There's a boat coming into harbour!"

Fingon drops his shovel and takes off before Finrod even registers the shout. "Fingon!" Finrod tries, but it's no use.

"Go on after him," one of the others says as they pick up Fingon's discarded shovels. "We'll finish laying this part before it sets."

Finrod takes off at a run. Fingon is fast, but he has height on his side, and he catches his cousin before he makes it to the docks. "Fingon!" Finrod gasps, grasping hold of his shoulder. "We don't know it's him. It's frankly unlikely to be him. It's only been a few years since he was freed."

"I know," Fingon says as they push through the growing crowds. "I know."

"Don't get your hopes up," Finrod warns. "Besides, you haven't even started building off the foundations yet."

Fingon nods, but his gaze is fixed on the boat slowly growing closer on the horizon.

It is an agonising wait. Finrod finds his breath catching in his throat as well, even as he tries to wrestle down the burgeoning hope trying to climb up from his chest, as white sails grow steadily larger. He can see figures on the deck, though they're too far away to make out any features.

The boat docks smoothly, a few dockworkers stepping forwards to catch thrown ropes and secure the boat. A plank is set down to the dock, and then a figure in white robes steps out of the boat.

A murmur passes rapidly through the crowd. Finrod pushes forwards. He's the son of the High King of the Noldor, the Crown Prince of his people here, even with Fingon's return. He can afford to push through a little.

The figure straightens up, and meets his gaze. Finrod's jaw drops. "Olórin?"

"Prince Felagund," Olórin says, bowing his head. "A pleasure to see you again." He turns back to the boat, and holds out his hand.

Two small figures make their unsteady way down the plank. At first Finrod thinks they're children, but they're both far too old for that. One is older than Finrod thinks he has ever seen of a man, wrinkled skin and white hair, and the other, pale but far younger, slowly helps him down onto the dock with Olórin's help. "Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, Ringbearers of Middle Earth," he says, smiling down at the two of them. "Welcome to Aman."

Finrod steps forwards, and then kneels down to be on level with them. "My name is Finrod Felagund," he says with a smile. "On behalf of the Noldor in Aman, I welcome you to our lands."

"Finrod Felagund," the elder breathes, a breathless smile on his face. "As I live and breathe! Bilbo Baggins, at your service, my dear! How wonderful to meet such a legend as yourself."

Finrod glances up at Olórin. "I was unaware I was much of anything on those shores," he says with a smile. "Have you been telling tales, Olórin?"

"None by my tongue," Olórin says with an answering smile. "You may be surprised at what tales have survived the long ages, especially in those halls that were built for such songs." He lays a hand on the elder's shoulder. "You may question Finrod later, my dear Bilbo, and you as well Frodo. For now, there is one other person who he should meet."

Finrod's heart leaps up in his throat. He looks up, and his sister is standing over him.

" Artanis."

"It's Galadriel, now," his sister says with a smile.

She looks…

She looks tired. Finrod leaps up to his feet, Frodo quickly pulling Bilbo to one side, and launches himself at her. " Sister ," he gets out, and he flings his arms around her.

Galadriel's laugh is one of the best things he has heard in a long time. "Brother dear," she says in his ears as she embraces him back. "It is beyond wonderful to see you."

When Finrod pulls back, there are tears in her eyes. He makes a noise, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs as he cups her cheeks. "It's been a long time," Galadriel whispers. "A hard time. I- oh, Ingo. I've missed you so much."

"And I you, sister," Finrod replies. He reaches down and takes her hands. "There is so much to tell you."

Galadriel hums, and then looks past him to someone in the crowd. Her face pales. "Oh, Fingon," she whispers. "I- brother, there is something you need to know."

"Maedhros?" Finrod asks quickly, before more dread can build in his sister's face. "We know. We know he was Sauron's thrall, and we know that three years past, he was freed."

It's not often that Finrod has managed to know more than his sister. "There is a lot to tell you," he says softly. "But first, is Maedhros well? Is he healing?"

Galadriel's gaze goes past him to Fingon, standing on the edge of the crowd. "He's healing," she says, loud enough for him to hear. "He is with Elrond, who is the greatest healer within Middle Earth, and his son besides. The periannath , Frodo's kin, and Aragorn and his people, they are all taking good care of him."

Fingon sways where he stands. "Thank you," he says hoarsely, his eyes wet. "Thank you, cousin."

"There is so much to discuss," Finrod says. "Come. All of you are dearly welcome in my father's house, and the journey there is pleasant."

Galadriel squeezes his hand. "Lead the way, brother."

The reunions take weeks. Celebrian, who Finrod is ashamed to realise is his niece and yet someone he has barely spent any time with in his frantic efforts to help Fingon, arrives early one morning from Lórien's gardens, and Galadriel produces letters from Elrond and her children that have her weeping for hours as she reads them.

Fingon stays long enough to hear the whole story from Galadriel, and then he returns to the foundations of his cliff top house.

A few weeks later, and Finrod rides out to him. The periannath are settling in, and Galadriel has returned to life in Tirion with what looks like an ease that Finrod would envy, if he didn't still know his sister even with all these long years apart. But he knows well enough that she needs time, and so he saddles his horse one morning and heads for the coast.

They're still laying foundations when he gets there. "What's this?" Finrod asks as he dismounts and untacks his mare to let her graze free. "I thought the foundations were done weeks ago."

Fingon straightens up, pushing his braids out of his face. "We're going to need a bigger house," he just says. "How is Artanis?"

"As good as she can be, I think," Finrod replies as he picks up a shovel and joins in. "It'll take time. It always takes time."

Fingon hums. "Have you come to state your claim on a room yet?" he asks as he works. "You do have more choice now."

Finrod snorts. "My mother hasn't stopped tearing up at random points throughout the day, and with Galadriel now walking the streets of Tirion, people are curious again."

Fingon arches a brow. "Again?"

Finrod snorts. "I suppose you had other things on your mind back then. When you first arrived, it was all people talked about for years." He shakes his head. "People seem restless. Atar is thinking of holding an open forum in Tirion. He'd like you to be there, if you want to."

Fingon pauses. "Why would he want me there?" he asks. "I'm aware enough to know I've done little, if nothing at all, in my father's name here."

"You still have his name," Finrod points out. "There are those who followed him who would follow you, if you asked."

Fingon snorts. "Well, I'm not."

Finrod hesitates. "You may not have to," he says, setting down his shovel. "Finno, everyone knows what you're doing for Maedhros. Half the city think you married secretly in Beleriand, and Maedhros began to fade the moment that you died. I wouldn't be surprised if there are songs about it."

Fingon slowly sets his shovel down. "Don't be cruel, Ingo," he says, his voice achingly soft. "Just…don't be cruel."

Finrod throws his hands up in the air. "You love him, you said so yourself!" he cries out. "And he damn well loved you, from everything I saw. Of course people think you're married. If I hadn't actually been there, I would think the same!"

Fingon stares at him. "I never- we never- we couldn't. We just…couldn't."

"I know that," Finrod says, trying to gentle his voice. "But Finno…there are Fëanorians within Tirion, if you know where to look. They don't have anyone left to follow, not of their own people." He shrugs. "According to some, you might be the next best for them."

Fingon stares at them. "But we're not married. We never were."

"After all this?" Finrod asks, hands outstretched wide. "Everything you've done? I don't know if it even matters."

Fingon stares at him. "So, you'll come?" Finrod asks. "To the forum?"

Fingon just keeps staring at him. Finrod takes it as a yes.

A few weeks later, and as the crowd is beginning to amass in the King's Hall, Finrod sees Fingon slip in through a side door. "I wasn't sure if you were coming," he says in greetings, joining him off to the side of the dais. "I see you even dressed up for it."

Fingon has found some of his old clothes, or else had something new made a while ago. Dark blues and golds, still fit to fight in as had always been the style in Beleriand, but far more intricate and thought out than Finrod's spare clothes that were always a little too short in the hem and long on the sleeve.

Fingon pushes his braids back from his face. "We've started laying the walls," he just says. "I'll need your help deciding on the final designs."

"Tomorrow," Finrod promises. "For now, I think Atar is about to start."

Finarfin opens the forum. Galadriel stands first, recounting in detail the events of Sauron's fall. The periannath are not in attendance, having long since settled in a small cottage in the countryside, but Finrod thinks he sees Olórin somewhere at the back of the gathering.

His father was right. There is a restlessness in the people of Tirion, one that has Finrod glancing to his father at times as people begin to stand and speak. Debates break out, about expanding Tirion or building new places for those who arrive from across the sea, debates over taxes and smithing quarters and debates likely just for the sake of debating, if Finrod is any judge. His father guides them skillfully, but Finrod watches the ripples of conversations through the large hall that never truly seem to die down.

It takes him a while to notice it, but there are divides within the hall. Groups drawing lines between themselves, muttering amongst each other before voices are ever raised. Finrod starts to pick out the ones pushed forwards to speak from each group. Most are those that he doesn't recognise, but there are a few faces he remembers from long ago, from holding court in Tirion all those years ago or even glimpses across another King's Hall in the northern mountains. Fingon had been at his side then as well, as his father sat on the dais and ruling over the debate with a fierce hand. Finrod half expects to look over his shoulder and see his own contingent arrayed behind him, waiting for him to speak out for Nargothrond.

For a moment, he looks out across the crowd and expects to see bright red hair and a collection of soldiers in scarlet uniforms and heavy fur pelts to keep out the biting cold of the Eastern Marches.

His gaze catches on one in the crowd staring back at him. Finrod stares back at her. It feels right, for a moment, to see her there, and then he remembers where they are, and shock jolts through him.

He remembers seeing her before, in the halls of Barad Eithel. At Maedhros' shoulder as he arrived.

Maedhros' captain stares steadily back at him from across the hall in the heart of Tirion. When the latest debate dies down, she steps forwards.

"We should be allowed to carry blades within the city."

There is silence. Finrod hears a sharp intake of breath from beside him, but doesn't turn his head to look at Fingon.

Finarfin leans forwards. "There is good reason for the current laws, established long ago when we all fractured apart and came to such terrible blows. We have seen the damage that blades can do."

"Yes, we have," Maedhros' former captain says, her voice low. "Some of us more than others."

That sparks a chorus of voices, overlapping agreement and dissent that grows and grows until the hall echoes with it, and Finarfin has to raise his voice to bring them back down.

"We are safe here," he says once there is quiet again. "I understand that for those who lived in Beleriand and returned after the war, or who stayed behind and have only just recently joined us here, the belief that danger is never far. I understand that. My own son has taught me much of what you lived in those lands. But we are not there anymore, and those times were long ago."

There is a murmur of agreement, but Maedhros' captain- and Finrod cannot remember her name, doesn't know if he ever knew it in the first place- does not look placated.

"Our King died in these lands," she replies. "You say that Sauron is defeated. Maybe so, but we have heard such things before. Who knows when the next danger will come, where it will come from?"

"Besides," someone else adds from across the room, and Finrod is surprised to see that it comes from one of Fingolfin's old smiths. "Our blades are our craft," the smith continues. "We have spent long years learning them, and for many they are our greatest works. Would we be denied our craft?"

"Nobody is denying anyone their craft," Finarfin says steadily. "Or their right to craft what they will. It is the intent of the product that has, in the past, been called into question."

"My sword kept me safe all those years in Beleriand," Maedhros' captain says amongst murmurs through the court. "The Princes here wear sword belts even now, though they are empty. Habits forged in those lands are hard to break." Her gaze meets Finrod's, and then slides over to Fingon. "Perhaps we shouldn't."

"Even after all these years?" someone else in the crowd asks. "Beleriand is long gone and forgotten, sitting under water for centuries now. Why should it matter here?"

"Why should it-" The captain spins towards that voice. "Because it does! Because we died out there for each other, and now that we're here everyone is asking us to forget it all!"

There are voices calling out agreement across the hall. Finrod winces as the noise grows, as his father leans forwards and tries to judge how best to respond.

The rustle from the seat beside him is all the warning anyone gets. Fingon gets to his feet and stares out across the crowd.

"You're right," he says, his voice ringing out across the hall as everyone abruptly falls silent. Fingon's gaze unerringly finds Maedhros' former captain, and Finrod spots exactly when she straightens up to attention.

"You're right," Fingon says again. "Here in these lands, there's no hint of the dangers we faced there. There's no howling winters in which we have to ration the grain stores to make sure everyone has enough to eat, or torrential rainstorms that flood city streets and destroy our crops. There's no roving bands of orcs or a surprise dragon-" He has to pause for the roll of laughter through the hall, small smiles that break out on faces.

"There's no worry that the next time you ride out will be your last," Fingon continues when the laughter dies down. "But there's…there's also no call to arms, the trumpets echoing in the pale morning and the stirring of blood as the horses champ at the bit. There's no delight in a victory or in the knowledge that you held your ground. There's no victory in once again making sure that the harvest went well, or the old stone walls still stand, or knowing that your friends are by your side."

The hall is silent. "You're right," Fingon says again, looking out across the crowd. "Here, the land is asking us to forget the other lands that we tilled and grew and fought on." He looks over at Finrod. "That we died on," he says, his voice strong. "Those lands were hard, and dangerous, but they were ours ."

There is a breath of silence, and then the hall erupts into noise as everyone tries to talk over each other at once.

After that, nothing else gets done, and Finarfin calls the end of the forum fairly quickly. Finrod is of half a mind to just leave out the side door before he gets a headache, but before he can suggest it to Fingon, his cousin is up out of his seat and descending the dais before he can even say anything.

With a sigh, Finrod follows him into the crowd. "Finno?"

Fingon just waves a hand over his shoulder, and heads straight for what Finrod has realised now is the Fëanorian contingent. Maedhros' former captain turns and meets him, and to Finrod's surprise, presses a hand to her heart as she bows to him. "My lord," she says quietly. "Thank you."

Fingon reaches out and pulls her up out of her bow. "I just said what I was thinking," she replies. "It's good to see you, Saelwen. I hadn't realised you were here."

"I stayed until Ost-in-Edhil fell," Saelwen says quietly. "My Lord's last charge to me was to protect his family. I failed him there, and though Lord Elrond remained, there were others better suited to keep him safe. When the Last Alliance was over, I left." Her face is pale, and she reaches out and grasps Fingon's hands. "If I had known, if I had known who that figure on the field was, what had happened- I never would have left him behind."

Fingon grips her hands. "I know," he says, his voice low. "You were always the most loyal to him. But he is freed now, Saelwen, and he will be returning here soon."

Saelwen has tears in her eyes. "I look forward to that day," she murmurs. "Until then, my lord, I am at your service if you require it."

She reaches into his jacket. Finrod tenses, but Saelwen just draws out a cloth-wrapped package, placing it in Fingon's hands.

Fingon flips back the cloth to reveal the hilt of a blade. "Saelwen-"

"You're the closest thing we have right now," Saelwen says with a wry smile. "Until Lord Maedhros is willing to accept us as his, then we'll follow you, if you ask it of us."

Fingon is silent for a long moment, and then slips the knife inside his own jacket. "Hopefully not for long," he says. "I'm glad not everyone here fears Russo's arrival."

"We've been a long time without a lord, the ones of us still alive," Saelwen replies. "To know what was done to him, all these years?" She shakes her head. "I will not rest until I see him with my own two eyes."

"Neither will I," Fingon says firmly.

Eventually, the forum disperses. Finrod pulls Fingon through one of the side doors into the back study, where Finarfin and Galadriel are talking quietly. They both break off when he and Fingon enter.

"Well," Galadriel says eventually. "It seems that it isn't only Fëanor's side of the family that is capable of stirring speeches. Be careful, cousin. A little more talk like that and you could have a rebellion on your hands."

Fingon scoffs, sitting down on one of the sofas. "They just want to know that what they did mattered," he says quietly. "That those years mattered, even for how it all ended."

Galadriel hums. "I just want you to be careful," she says softly. "To think through what you might be about to do."

"I'm not about to do anything," Fingon replies. "I'm just building a home." He looks over at Finarfin. "I'm not planning on inciting rebellion, uncle, if that's what you're worried about."

Finarfin huffs a laugh. He gets up and crosses to Fingon, resting a hand on his head. "My boy," he says softly. "If they've chosen you to listen to them, to speak for them even if it's only for a little while, then it's worth hearing what they have to say."

Fingon hums. "I'm going to head back," he says eventually. "Ingo, if you're going to come down tomorrow can you bring a few stonemasons with you? Anyone who wants to work on the house, really."

"I'll ask around," Finrod promises. "And come down tomorrow, either way."

Fingon gives him a nod, and then heads out. Finrod collapses onto the sofa once he's gone. "I feel like I should have seen that one coming,” he says into his hands.

"I thought you warned him," Galadriel says. "You said that you warned him what might happen."

Finrod grimaces. "I did," he says hesitantly. "But it might have been…well, less of a warning and more of a promise?"

His father sighs. Galadriel isn't as restrained, and groans at him. "Why?" she asks. "I've only been back a few weeks, and I can already tell that things here aren't exactly peaceful. Do you want to stir up more trouble?"

"I want to do exactly the opposite," Finrod promises. "There are Fëanorians in this city. You've just seen them stand up and talk, and Fingon is the closest here to someone they would follow." He glances over at his father. "Sorry, Atar, but it's true. They listen to us because we're the only ones here, and because everyone else follows you, so the minority do as well. But they're…they're not content, I don't think. If Fingon gives those people a voice, someone they can go to? I think it'll only help."

Finarfin hums. "You could have warned us ," he points out. "But I do see your argument. And with Maedhros likely returning soon, having a vocal defence of him from someone who all sides respect is going to help. We need to make sure that Maedhros isn't vilified the moment he steps foot on these shores, if only for his own health."

Galadriel looks troubled, but doesn't refute him. "Well, we can do something about that as well," Finrod says after a moment. "I have enough stories of Maedhros that I can tell. Fingon will have even more. The curiosity hasn't died down, even after all this time. We just need to…to get him talking."

Chapter Text

When Finrod next arrives down at the foundations of the house, a few dozen people with him, he starts telling stories of Maedhros. Whatever he remembers as he works, days in Tirion beneath the light of the Trees or long nights out under the moon in Beleriand.

Within a few hours, Fingon is telling his own stories as well. Simple ones, ones that Finrod knows only break the very surface, but they have time. They have enough time.

More people come to help. More come to listen to the stories that they tell. When Finrod walks the streets of Tirion, he hears the words spread, street by street. Houses that he's walked past a thousand times now have small stars carved into their lintels, and smattering of reds are starting to be worn on the streets again.

The house slowly grows, brick by brick. Fingon talks some days until his voice is hoarse, until Finrod has to pull tools out of his shaking hands and urge him to sit down on the grass. They spend warm summer days on the roof, hammering slates into place and laughing at each other when they hit their thumbs instead, trading stories of Beleriand until Finrod starts finding himself getting stopped on the streets of Tirion, or invited to the salons where the philosophers argue over intent and the binding nature of an oath, what the nature of penance is and how much it matters, and debates spill out onto the streets and are carried on late into the night.

Maedhros' hands will never be clean. Finrod knows that. He watched Doriath and Sirion fall in the woven threads of tapestries on the walls, saw the slain stumble into the Halls. Maybe it's all wiped clean for some with Maedhros' torment, maybe some people will never be able to forgive him, and maybe none of that really matters as Fingon nails the last roof slate in place and grins at him from his precarious balance on top of the roof.

There's still work to be done. Finrod is pretty sure Fingon won't finish until Maedhros is here, but now the bare bones of the house is done, they start on everything else. Decorating inside, planning out a garden, doing whatever Fingon decides needs to be done next.

Saelwen turns up one day with a few people beside her. Their saddlebags are full of scarlet tapestries that she hands over. "I asked around," she says quietly as Fingon looks through them with shaking hands. "Some were made here. Some we- there are some things we salvaged from Beleriand. Maedhros would want them."

"Thank you," Fingon rasps. "I- thank you."

Saelwn smiles. "People are talking about Maedhros in the streets," she says. "About Beleriand. I know- I know a lot went wrong. I know we went wrong, after you died. I tried to make it right over there, and I failed him again. But this?" She nods at the house behind them. "This is making things right, in one small way. Anything you need of us, my Lord, you only have to ask."

"Thank you," Fingon says again, his eyes wet. "You're welcome to stay and lend a hand, all of you."

Saelwen bows her head. "I'd like that."

Fingon doesn't stop telling stories. Finrod doesn't think he knows how.

It doesn't surprise him when he finally gives in. He thinks he's been waiting for this for a long while.

They're planting flowers in the beds under the bedroom windows. Fingon is on his knees in the dirt as he digs a hole in the soft mulch, and then Finrod hands him over one of the young plants that Nerdanel brought out here last time she visited.

Fingon goes still. "Honeysuckle," he murmurs, staring down at the small green leaves. "There was honeysuckle growing up outside his window."

"Finno?" Finrod asks softly.

"He smelled of it when he came to say goodbye," Fingon whispers. "He must have climbed down the trellis to get out. It was- it was the last time I spoke to him before- before I heard-" A sob slips out of his lips.

"I heard him sing ," Fingon whispers, one dirt-stained hand clasped to his mouth. "And when I saved him, when I cut him down and took him back, when I stayed up night after night beside him begging him to hold on, I just- I thought that if he could just make it through that, if we could make it through, then this would be the worst thing that could ever happen. Anything else, we could take it, because it could never- it would never be as bad as this."

"Oh, Finno," Finrod murmurs.

Fingon sobs. "And I- I died, and I left him. It’s been so long, Ingo. It’s been so long . "

Finrod watches, chest aching, as Fingon doubles over on himself and sobs into the dirt. "I know," he says softly, wrapping an arm around Fingon's shoulders. "You can grieve, Finno. It's alright to grieve."

Fingon sobs into the dirt, clutching at Finrod, and the scent of honeysuckle is heady around them as Fingon finally, after all this time, properly grieves.

Finrod holds him until he quiets. Fingon sits back on his heels, wiping at his face. "Let's keep going," he says, clearing his throat. He picks the honeysuckle plant back up and plants it in the mulch, pushing the dirt in around its roots. "Maedhros will be here soon."

It's a complicated legacy they're all trying to carry the weight of, but it's easier with dirt under their nails and the sun on the backs of their necks.

0-o-0-o-0

The market is busy, as it always is mid-morning. Finrod wanders easily through the crowd, basket on his arm, and keeps an eye out for some fresh squid, and any lemons that have made it to the Alqualondë markets. Fingon has been talking about planting lemon trees out back, tending to a full orchard, but the trees can be fussy about the soil they grow in and Finrod freely confesses to knowing very little about gardening, Fingon even less. He doesn’t put it past Fingon to accidentally kill off an entire orchard of fruit trees, even in Aman.

He's contemplating whether Galadriel will come to dinner tonight or not, now the stove is finally working and not choking the kitchen with smoke, when he sees a flash of pale blond hair as a familiar figure runs down the thoroughfare towards the docks.

Word follows fast behind his niece. There is a boat coming into the harbour.

Hope climbs up his chest and reaches up for his breath. Finrod grabs the nearest person he can reach, and sends them running for the clifftop house, just in case. He himself joins the slowly building crowd making their way down towards the docks. If he is wrong, and it is someone other than Maedhros finally arriving, he will hopefully be able to head Fingon off before he sees it himself.

There is an agonising wait on the docks as the ship creeps closer and closer. Finrod can see his sister and niece at the front of the crowd, hand in hand as they anxiously wait, but he stays back from joining them. He lingers at the back of the crowd instead, one eye on the road behind him.

Olórin and Frodo arrive. "Felagund," Frodo says with a kind smile. "How lovely to see you. Do we know who is on the ship yet?"

"Not yet," Finrod replies, eyeing how close it is and how much longer the wait will be. "I've sent for Fingon, just in case."

"Likely a wise decision," Olórin says. "I hope the house is coming along well."

"It's pretty much done," Finrod replies. "Though there are endless things that Fingon wants to do to the garden." He smiles down at Frodo. "You'll have to come to dinner soon," he offers. "We'll have a true housewarming."

"If my Sam were here, he would know exactly what to do with your garden," Frodo says with a fond smile. "But I would love to come."

They move on down the docks, Frodo greeting others in the crowd before they too settle in to wait. Finrod bounces on his toes, watching and waiting.

The ship comes smoothly into harbour. The first figure off is another perian , one that Frodo greets with a delighted cry, and then Finrod's breath catches and stops in his throat entirely.

He never met Elrond of Imladris, was long dead before he was ever born, but he recognises those grey eyes of Beren even after all these long years. And if Elrond is here, who Galadriel promised Fingon would take such good care of Maedhros, then-

A tall figure steps down off the ship, cloaked and hooded. They turn, and extend one hand to a second figure to help them step down onto the dock.

Finrod's heart all but leaps out of his chest. There are gasps from the crowd, a hushed quiet descending on them as the two figures stand there, hand in hand.

A lock of bright red hair escapes from beneath one hood. The other wrist ends in a stump.

Finrod turns and takes off running.

His breath burns in his lungs as he sprints down the thoroughfare, dodging stragglers as he heads for the roads out of town. He's barely hit the hill up out of Alqualondë when he spots dark hair braided with gold, and Fingon comes flying down the road towards him.

Finrod grabs him before he can topple over in his haste. Fingon's eyes are wide as he grabs Finrod. "There's- they said there's a ship," he gets out. "There's a ship . Please, Ingo, please, just tell me-"

"He's here," Finrod says, and then catches his cousin as Fingon's legs give out entirely. "It's Maedhros, he's here," he says as he tugs Fingon up and starts pushing him down the road back towards the docks. "Maglor as well, I think. Elrond brought them both home."

Fingon is staring at him, eyes so wide. "What are you waiting for?" Finrod asks with a laugh. "Let's go!"

They take off running again. Fingon is a blur through the streets, sprinting for the docks, and it's all that Finrod can do to just keep up with him. His feet slip on the cobblestones, and then he grabs a post to swing around a corner and they're there.

The crowd is thick. Finrod muscles past Fingon, pushing people out of the way as he tries to shove through. "Please excuse me," he bites out, grabbing Fingon's arm and tugging him through with him. "Excuse us, just let us through please, just- keep moving, let us through!"

People are starting to notice him, but they're still moving too slowly. "Please excuse me," Finrod tries again, raising his voice. "Move, please!"

It is all still far too slow, and Finrod's short patience burns through entirely. "For the love of all that is sacred," he roars above the heads of the crowd, " get out of my way!"

Finally, the crowds part. Fingon takes a stuttering breath as Finrod shoves him forwards into the gap.

"Russo."

Maedhros Fëanorion stands only a few dozen yards away. There are so many scars across his face, ones that Finrod doesn't recognise. He seems to have stopped breathing entirely, staring at Fingon like he will disappear if he takes his eyes off him.

Fingon is frozen. Finrod reaches out and gives him a nudge.

Fingon starts forwards, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get to him. "Russo," he says again. "Russo, my Russo- you're here, you're really here , oh my Russo-"

He trips again, and would fall completely were it not for Maedhros suddenly lunging forwards. He catches him, and when Fingon starts laughing in disbelief in his arms nearly drops him all over again.

"Finno?"

Maedhros' voice is so much rougher than Finrod remembers. Finrod wipes at his eyes, and the back of his hand comes away wet as Fingon clasps Maedhros' neck to pull him down and press their foreheads together. "I'm here, Russo," he whispers.

There are people beyond the two of them. Elrond stands hand in hand with Celebrian, watching Fingon and Maedhros with beaming smiles.

Maglor stands next to them. He is pale and gaunt, a hollowness to his cheeks that Finrod instinctively hates to see, but he is here.

Finrod had never let himself hope to see him again.

Fingon and Maedhros are in their own private world. He slips past them to Maglor, and he can't help the smile that overcomes his face. "Maglor," he says softly. "I'm glad to see you."

All the other things he wants to say crowd his tongue, begging for release as Maglor looks up to him. "Are you?" he just asks.

Even those two words are music. It takes Finrod a moment to realise that there is literal musicality to them, that Maglor has lost some sort of control over his voice, and become so accustomed to singing that even a short question rings with song.

Finrod couldn't get rid of the smile on his face even if he wanted to. "I am," he replies. "I truly am, Maglor. We were friends once, before it all, and I know everything has changed, but I hope we can be once again." He laughs. "I have missed composing with you.”

He can see the slight tremble in Maglor's frame, Celebrian reaching out to steady him. "We've sent for Nerdanel," Finrod adds. He had managed to grab someone in the crowd as he ran, sending them to Tirion with all haste. "It might take a while for the message to reach her, but she will come as soon as she can."

Maglor's legs go from beneath him. Finrod lurches forwards, but it's Celebrian who takes his weight and steadily eases him down to the ground. Elrond is there a moment later, wrapping an arm around Maglor as he weeps, and then Maedhros as well. Fingon hovers until Celebrian, bless her heart, drags him down to join them.

Finrod backs up a little, wiping at his eyes, and ushers the crowd back to give them space. Soon the crowd begins to slowly disperse. The news will travel fast, Finrod knows, and will reach Tirion within a matter of hours. Soon, everyone will know that the last Fëanorions have returned.

The two periannath , Frodo and Sam, watch from nearby. "I'm so pleased they found Maglor," Frodo remarks. "And Maedhros looks so much better than when I left! All your hard work, Sam, I'm sure."

Sam huffs. "He just needed feeding up, like my Rosie always said. Mr Maglor, too. I hope they haven't got to go far to their home now."

Finrod laughs. "Not far at all, actually," he says with a smile. "And there's room enough for everyone."

Chapter Text

From the top of the cliffs, he can just about make out the small boat bobbing in the waves as it steadily heads west. The sail catches the late morning breeze, and the boat tacks across the waves to slowly come into the small dock stretching out from the beach.

Finrod waits at the head of the path as they climb up to meet him. “I hope you caught enough for everyone,” he says as the first reaches him. “We’re almost a crowd in there.”

Maedhros Fëanorion laughs. His face is freckled from the sun, bright red hair pulled back in a plait with curls escaping that blow across his face in the sea breeze. There is a brace of fish slung over his shoulder, the string tight around his wrist as he adjusts the weight. “Fingon is bringing up the rest of it,” he says, looking over his shoulder to where Fingon is turning up the last switchback. “But we’ll have plenty. Is my mother here yet?”

“Her, and Anairë, and my parents,” Finrod confirms as Fingon finally makes it to them, breathing hard from the climb. “Atar brought the good wine. Here, give me some of those.”

He takes the crate of lobster out of Fingon’s hands, and together they start heading back to the house. Fingon, hands now free, slips his arm around Maedhros’ waist. “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet,” he says as he goes up on tiptoes to kiss him. “You’ll see.”

Finrod snorts. “Finno, do you know how many times I stood on that beach and watched you fail entirely to sail your shoddy little boat?” he asks. “You’re better off finding another teacher, Nelyo. All Fingon is good at is capsizing.”

Maedhros laughs again. Fingon leans behind him to smack Finrod around the head. "Don't think I won't make your political life an endless source of terror," he says through a grin. "People listen to me now. I can have so many useless complaints at your door."

"And then Elrond will look disappointed in both of us, and Maedhros will have to step in because he still hasn't learnt how to resist his son's face when he's disappointed," Finrod counters with an easy smile. “Come on, else our mothers will drink all the wine, and then we’ll have to deal with that as well.”

The house is blooming. The honeysuckle has grown quickly up the wall, winding around the window of Fingon and Maedhros’ room, and even from his own room when he stays here Finrod can smell the heady scent of it as it blooms. There are lemon trees by the front door, saplings just recently planted that will take a few years to produce fruit, if Fingon doesn’t accidentally kill them by then. The windows are all flung open, and the front door is ajar.

Elrond and Celebrian have taken over the kitchen. Finrod sets down the crate of lobsters, accepting a greeting kiss from his mother, and then Nerdanel and Anairë. Nerdanel takes the lobsters over to the stove where a pot of water is waiting on the heat, as Anairë grabs Fingon’s arm and starts him on peeling potatoes at the table.

Maedhros sets down the fish by the back door as Elladan and Elrohir, only just arrived in Aman, tumble through. “Keep it outside, boys,” Elrond says over his shoulder, not looking up from where he’s stirring something over the stove. “Take the fish with you as well for your grandfather.”

“Here,” Maedhros says, handing them the string. “Put the offal aside for bait, and take the scales off as best as you can. Can you start a fire for the grill outside as well, whilst you’re at it?”

“Of course, grandfather,” Elladan says as he takes the fish from him. “Shall we start grilling them once we’re ready?”

“Let Russo do it,” Fingon says. “He’s the best at it.”

“Less talking, more peeling,” Anairë says firmly, and Finrod has to stifle a laugh at the way Fingon rolls his eyes when he thinks his mother isn’t looking. She definitely is, but she just smiles fondly, and picks up her own peeling knife.

“You both go ahead, boys,” Maedhros tells the twins. “I trust you won’t make something entirely inedible.”

Celebrian is with Maglor at the other end of the table. “Hold your other hand like this,” Finrod hears her tell Maglor. She reaches over and gently adjusts his fingers on the chopping board. “This way, if you slip with the knife it will just glance off your knuckles and not take a finger.”

Maglor hums. “How many did you say we need?” he asks.

His voice will never quite be the same again. Maedhros’ scars, stretching across his face, will never disappear. Things will never be as they were before.

Standing in the corner of the kitchen, watching his family, Finrod doesn’t find himself minding that much at all.

They eventually spill out into the garden behind the house, people constantly going back and forth to check on the fish or the lobster or whatever else is cooking in the kitchen. His father is already outside, talking quietly with Olórin and a glass of wine already in his hands. Fingon makes Maedhros sit at the table just as Finrod notices the slight tremble in his legs that means he’s been working too hard, and Frodo just pushes a trug full of the first beans of the garden over to him to start shelling.

Finrod catches sight of his sister, wandering through the gardens with Ëarwen. Samwise is leading them both, talking at length about the garden and what could be grown here, and with a quick kiss to Maedhros’ lips Fingon goes and joins them. Finrod can hear Samwise berating Fingon for overwatering the squash plants all the way from the patio table.

There’s a harp set in the corner, just by the open kitchen window through which Finrod can hear Elrond taking the bread out of the oven. Celebrian and Maglor talk softly over the stove, and Nerdanel is scolding her great-grandchildren for getting fish scales on the kitchen floor. He might pull the harp out later to play, or perhaps Maglor will decide that it isn’t correctly tuned once again and spend a good hour adjusting the strings.

Elrond appears in the doorway, balancing platters of food in his arms, and Finrod rushes to take some of them off of him. “Thank you,” Elrond says with a grateful smile. “I think we’re nearly ready to eat.” He drops down into the seat next to Maedhros. “Atar, did you want anything to drink?”

“I want you to stop running around off your feet and enjoy this,” Maedhros remarks, leaning back in his chair and reaching for Elrond’s hand. “That’s what your own sons are for, you know. Other than making you endlessly worry about them when they’re children, of course.”

Elrond smiles. “Elros and I were perfectly well-behaved, thank you very much.”

“No, you weren’t!” Maglor calls through the open window, and the entire table dissolves into laughter.

Finrod spends the next few minutes ferrying platters of food out to the table from the kitchen, dodging Nerdanel’s spoon as he tries to steal a cube of the cheese that Samwise brought all the way over to Aman. “That’s for Nelyo,” she says, swatting at him again. “You incorrigible nephew. You can be the one to explain to Elrond and Samwise why it’s missing!”

Faced with the disappointment of his nephew and a perian , Finrod relents with a laugh. The rest filter out to the garden to join the large table set out on the grass. Maglor sits down on the other side of Elrond, pressing an absent-minded kiss to his hair as he slides into his seat and starting up a conversation with Anairë as she sets down the platter of lobster. Elladan and Elrohir join them with the fish that Maedhros declares perfectly done, and then Samwise joins Frodo, talking still about the garden to Fingon as they both sit down.

Fingon wraps his arm around Maedhros’ waist and leans into him, resting his head on Maedhros’ shoulder even as he keeps nodding to what Samwise is telling him. Maedhros looks unbearably fond as he looks down at Fingon, pressing his cheek to the top of his head for a moment as he shuts his eyes and just breathes in.

“Son?”

Finarfin is gesturing at the empty seat next to him. “Of course,” Finrod says, sitting down and helping himself to a glass of wine.

“You look like you have something on your mind,” Finarfin remarks as Celebrian stands up and starts serving out the fish. “Anything you would like to share?”

Finrod’s gaze turns back to Fingon and Maedhros. “Did you ever think we would make it here?” he finds himself asking.

Finarfin follows his gaze. “After watching Fingon for all these years, I had hope we would get somewhere ,” he replies. “But no, I hadn’t imagined anything like this.”

Finrod hums. Fingon has Maedhros’ plate in one hand, leant forwards over the table as he piles food onto it, laughing at something Celebrian has said. Maedhros has one arm resting on his knee as he turns and talks to Elrond, a quiet smile curling his lips.

“I was in one of the salons, last week,” Finrod says quietly. “They were debating one of those endless questions that never has an answer, of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It’s been around for as long as I can remember, I think. Going around and around in circles, never able to come to any agreement."

He nods across the table, at Fingon and Maedhros. “I think they've missed the obvious. There’s your answer.”

finis