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Maedhros feels himself falling. He is plunging into darkness, into the sliver between living and death, and he welcomes it, welcomes in the nothingness he feels. Between the fog of his mind and the inward curling of his stomach, he feels tired.
Perhaps he is dead, though he doesn’t remember how he died. He doesn’t remember much of anything, save for the warmth of the sun on his skin and the bubbling sounds of Maglor trying to make soup for dinner.
The sun is growing warmer. The further he falls, the hotter he becomes, and the more disconcerted he feels. Maedhros opens his eyes, and realizes that he is not plummeting into nothingness, he is plummeting into a river of slow moving magma, a lumbering beast of molten fire awaiting its catch. He screams, but there is nothing he can do to slow his descent, avoid his certain doom. He hits the surface, and his back snaps like bent toothpicks, and every inch of his skin burns. His hair, his skin, his clothing, everything lights ablaze, and he does not know if he is screaming or if his blood is sizzling away.
He snaps awake with a lingering shriek on the edge of his tongue. It was a dream then, he guesses, rubbing his eyes and exhaling to sooth his still pounding heart. He’d been having ever increasing numbers of nightmares lately, and what happened at Alqualondë was no doubt the factor in his restless nights, only that this dream felt so much more real. Even when he wakes with the image of dying children and gore, he at least knows it is the past, and he had done what he could to help residents escape instead of shedding blood. This dream is different. He just does not know how.
Dwelling on its meaning is certainly not going to get him any more rest, however. Maedhros decides, as he rises to his feet and wraps his cloak around himself, that he would take a short walk through the encampment, make sure his brothers are where they should be, then return to bed.
Instead of the typical birdsong and chirping of crickets that he had grown accustomed to, distant crackling is the sound which greets him exiting his tent.
Maedhros narrows his eyes. The sky seems much too bright, and what looked like towering black smoke billows upwards into the heavens. He must still be dreaming— there is no way something is on fire. Except something is on fire, and it is smoke crowding out the stars, and before he knows it, he’s broken into a run towards the shore, towards where the swan-ships had been moored.
The first face he sees is Curufin’s. His grey-brown eyes gazes emptily into the distant sea, almost as if he doesn’t notice the blazing ships some distance away. Maedhros frantically grabs his shoulder, and swivels him so they are face-to-face. “What the hell is going on?! why are the ships-“ he pants, mind swimming in confusion and unable to form a cohesive thought. It’s only after some more verbal stumbling that he manages to ask his question.
“You’re not supposed to be awake,” Curufin responds with his typical deadpan. Maedhros wants to punch him, and yell at him to just care about anything for once.
“That doesn’t- you’re not supposed to be awake either! Why the hell are the ships on fire? What happened?!”
Curufin throws a glance back at the ships, breathes in the smoke mixed with salty sea air, and sighs. “Go ask Atar. He told me to do it.”
With only a soft growl as warning, Maedhros shoves his brother aside with enough force that he nearly toppled over. He runs again, cool wind whipping against his skin and hair, heart pounding wildly inside his chest. What the hell was his father doing? What about everyone who did not make it onto the ships, what about the rest of the family, what about Fingon-
“Maitimo. Why are you not asleep?”
He barely registered Fëanor’s voice, but the moment he does, he stops dead in his tracks. Dread makes his stomach writhe, and he’s almost afraid to ask what kind of plan Fëanor’s demented mind had come up with this time. “Fire,” Maedhros gasps in between words, the heartbeat in his ears almost drowning out his own voice. “The… the fire- Curvo said… said that you wanted him to…”
From the shift in his father’s brows, he can tell the other isn’t pleased about his prodding. In fact, he has a feeling that Fëanor knows exactly which direction this conversation is headed for, and neither are eager to confront it.
Fëanor breaks the awkward silence first. “It’s not your place to know. Go back to sleep.”
“But you… you were to send the ships back, and that Findekáno and the others would…”
Fëanor laughs, once, almost as if to taunt him. He doesn’t need to call him foolish or naïve to know that’s what he is thinking, and Maedhros loathes him for it, loathes himself for thinking his father would ever let go of his baseless grudge against his half brothers. “You and Curvo both, hm? So eager to fool around with your cousins.” He sneers, as if his son is the enemy and he about to draw his blade. “He begged me to reconsider, you know. ‘Think of Findaráto, we can’t leave Findaráto’.” Fëanor paused, his nose scrunching in disgust. “But they would merely get in my way, and I have no doubt that they would demand a Silmaril each as payment for ‘aiding’ me in ridding Ëa of the pest that is Morgoth. It is simply precautions, Maitimo. Nothing more.”
Precautions. Maedhros scowls, and it is a miracle that he does not throttle his father right then and there. “And what of your followers who could not make it onto the ships?” His words burns hot like white fire, as if they are the Valar’s judgements once again being laid upon Fëanor for his treacherous Oath. “Has your heart darkened so much that you would not trust the very people who forsake the Powers of the world for you?”
“They may pledge their allegiance to me, but their pledge are but words.” He scoffs. “And mere words are no Oath. Who among them swore to surrender themselves to the Everlasting Darkness? Who among us now fear the road ahead, and wish to return? Disloyalty broods already, I can feel it. Do not tell me you are one of them.”
At once, Maedhros draws his sword, to which Fëanor responds by doing the same. He ought to have slayed his father for his implications- how dare he accuse Findekáno, the Valiant, of treachery, of betrayal? “It is you who betrays!” The rage and hatred which powers his voice comes as a complete surprise to Fëanor, and draws the attention of Curufin as well. “You do not know what you’ve done, what you’ve become- you are the Dark Lord’s pawn , father!” Maedhros throws down his sword in the sand, and he suddenly feels the great desire to run. “I am sick of this- sick of you, and your folly! No more will I be a part of it, and no more will I perpetuate your evils!”
As if his feet are what commands him, he takes off, not bothering to look back even once. He doesn’t want to see the face of his brother or his father, nor know what they must be speaking of him back in their camps. All he knows, is that he must get away.
And so he runs. He runs, and he does not look back.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Maedhros hears Maglor weeping.
***
The cold snap of the night is now much more noticeable than it was when he still followed Fëanor. Maedhros pulls the only thing that really suffices as a coat— his long, red cape— around himself, shuddering as he walks. Snow is a common sight around these parts, and he knows he is near the Helcaraxë.
At once, he feels like a fool for abandoning his weapon. He had done it as a show, to really drive his point home, yet now he finds that cumbersome as it might be, a weapon still proves better than none when out hunting. He is nowhere as skilled as Celegorm when hunting, especially when lacking a weapon, and the lack of game in these parts is not helping his hunger.
As if on cue, his stomach growls, and Maedhros almost regrets abandoning his brothers.
Still, he knows his choice has been made, and he presses forwards, through the thickening snow and the endless night, trees thinning around him the further he walks. It should be fitting if he were to die on the Grinding Ice, he thinks to himself. A lone wanderer seeking the home he had foolishly forsook, and dying without knowing the warmth of a lit hearth and the comfort of bedding and food.
Then, his mind wanders to thoughts of Fingon.
Will he even still wish to see him, after all that had happened? Will he think him weak for being unable to speak against his father, not until after the worst had passed and his heart had already seemingly been made up? What if Fingon thinks that he abandoned him?
He grits his teeth, and continues forward. No, he cannot (not by his own will, at least) die on the road. He will make for Aman once more, find his cousin, and beg for the forgiveness does not deserve for all that he had and had not done.
More weeks pass, and now, Maedhros is truly on the Grinding ice. Each way he turns, his eyes are met with the same sight: ice, some shooting high into the sky with jagged edges, others which become high hills with cliffs at the edge of them, and other pathways of relative flatness that made travel at least slightly more bearable.
He shivers as he walks, each breath he exhales turning into a puff of mist before his eyes. It is a miracle that he is still alive, weak as he is. He does not recall when his last meal was, and the cold is draining his strength faster than it can recover, though he was born beneath the light of the Trees, and strength had rarely been something he lacked. Even still, as strong and durable as elven bodies prove to be, he longs for proper rest, and for warm food, and above all else, he longs to see his cousin. He had kept the other’s face close in his mind and heart as he struggled forth, keeping it close even now.
His foot snags on an uneven field of ice, and he collapses. It is then that he, for the first time, realizes how tired he is. The snow beneath him suddenly transforms into a blanket of down, and the desire to sleep slowly overtakes his mind, until it is all he can think of. He tries to blink the exhaustion out of his eyes to no avail.
Surely Fingon would not mind if he rested for a bit. After all, he is so very tired.
***
Fingon could not recall how long they had been marching across the ice.
There is no real way to mark the passage of time on the Helcaraxë, unless they want to come up with an entirely new method, and none of his family members were keen on doing so. Frost nips at the tips of his ears, stings his cheeks, and brings forth a red flush to his face and to his fingers and ears, of which the tip is finally starting to turn blue.
Beside him, marches Fingolfin solemnly. Behind trails his brothers and sister, and the rest of the host still. Were it the start of their journey, he might’ve walked with them, laugh about how poor Argon’s favorite mug had to be left behind in their home. He might’ve bet with Aredhel and with Finrod on who could catch a snow rabbit the fastest, and teased Turgon about the things he did with his wife at night when he thought all were asleep. He might’ve picked up young Idril, and let her ride on his shoulders.
Now, he’s in no such mood for jovial teasing. He still senses grief on Turgon’s face, though the other takes much care to not let it shine through. Aredhel no longer wanders as she used to, exploring the icy wastes for anything of note, and even Argon seems to now have little care for the pranking of his siblings. Finrod’s voice is no longer strong and mighty, but soft and wavering, as if he too fears that they will be trudging through ice forever.
None of them speaks of what they resorted to to have survived this far. The Helcaraxë is unforgiving, and he now sees why even the great Oromë had been reluctant to lead their forebearers through this path. He only hopes that they make it through soon, before the rest of his family succumb to the cold.
Just as he is debating their likely demise, Fingolfin holds up his arm, and bids them to halt. Ahead of them is some dark smear in the distance. Fingon squints. The figure is too obscured by mist to make out, but it is tall, and slowly inching forth towards them.
“No elves make residence on the Helcaraxë, do they?” From behind, Argon asks. Aredhel notches an arrow into her bow.
“No,” Fingon responds. “I don’t see how they should, even if they did. Even the hardiest of life could not survive the cold for this long.”
They mutter amongst themselves for a short while, debating on the best course of action— something that Aredhel finds herself growing more impatient by the second. Her feet long to run forth, and she cannot deny that her curiosity is driving her up the wall. “I’ll go see what it is,” she says, and is immediately met with looks of disapproval from her father and brothers.
“It could be dangerous, Írissë,” Turgon responds.
Aredhel kicked the ice beneath her feet. “Like you guys are getting anything done, whispering to each other like that. Even if I was in any danger, we have an army.”
“A starved army.”
“An army nonetheless!” She groans, already growing restless. “I won’t be long. And if I were in any danger, I’ll-“
Before she finishes her sentence, the figure she is eyeing collapses in front of her, and she takes off, much to the dismay of Fingon. Fingolfin runs after her as well, and soon, the rest of the elves move forward towards the figure, unease building in their chest. Fingon cannot deny that he feared this to be a bad omen for the rest of their march.
He really does not know what he expects his sister and father to find. Some freakish creation of Morgoth, maybe. However, as he draws closer, his eyes begin to make out more of the figure— red cape, coppery hair, a fair face laden with freckles. His cousin. Prince Maitimo.
“Get me blankets! Fast!” Fingolfin shouts. “We make camp— start a fire, and get some water boiling. His condition is grave.”
Before long, Maedhros is sat in front of a campfire, thick blankets wrapped around him. He still seems to be in a daze, as if he does not recall himself collapsing, or even where he is going in the first place. He does not speak, not to Fingolfin nor Aredhel nor Finrod, but merely contents himself by taking small sips of the water that the Nolofinwëans offered to him. It works its simple magic, and before long, he feels a bit of strength come back to him, and his face and extremities do not sting as much as they had before.
Footsteps alerts him to the presence of company. He lifts his head, catches the gaze of Fingon, and is immediately frozen by guilt. “F-Findekáno,” is all he manages to say.
Fingon kneels by his side, his expression grim. “What are you doing here?”
“They… he- Fëanáro…” it feels wrong to call him father now, after seeing what horrors he is capable of committing. Try as he might, Maedhros is unable to get his voice beyond a soft, trembling mumble, and he shivers despite the campfire and the blankets. “He burned… the ships…”
“I know.” Fingon lifts his hands, cupping Maedhros’ cheek in one and drawing a few strands of hair out of his face with the other. His heart aches at the full sight of his face, so pale and sunken, and what misplaced anger he feels towards him quickly fades away to pity. There is no doubt he has been on the ice for some time now. “We saw the smoke even across the Sea. But that is not what I meant— what are you doing here, so far from your brothers?”
Maedhros does not answer for some time. He glances away, unable to bear the sight of his cousin’s face. Dark images flash through his mind— Fingon watching with despair as flames engulf the darkened sky, what he must’ve felt as they departed for the Helcaraxë. He must blame him for all that had transpired, and must resent him. And yet, even as his hazel eyes search the other’s face again, he finds no trace of hatred nor (justified) anger. He lifts a hand of his own, pressing it against the hand which held his cheek, and exhales.
Under the blanket of stars, he really is quite beautiful.
“I… I ran away.” He feels childish now saying these words, but to put it any other way would’ve been untrue. “When I awoke, the ships had- had already been burning. Fëanáro… spoke of disloyalty, how your father would’ve demanded a Silmaril as repayment for his aid, and… I could not- I could not follow him any longer. I cast away my blade, and I ran.”
Silence overtakes him once more. Fingon must find it all ridiculous. “…I had only a faint hope in my heart that I would find you, and that you would not… cast me away.”
At this, Fingon laughs, and finally throws his arms around the other, much to his surprise. “I would never cast you away, my Russandol,” he longs to kiss the other, and laugh and be merry again, but that can wait a later time. “I admit… I feared the same of you, that you would no longer hold any regard for me. That, perhaps, those jewels of your father’s really are more important than all else in this world.” He smiles. “I’m so glad you proved me wrong.”
Maedhros sighs, a wave of relief washing over him for the first time. “And I’m… I’m so glad that I found you. Or- your sister found me, rather,” he chuckles. “But I fear I must betray you again, after all this time. I need to take these blankets off, I can hardly use my arms.”
“Oh- a shame, that is. I quite liked seeing you bundled up like a ball of cotton!”
He flushes at the comment, smiling bashfully as Fingon withdraws his arms. Combined with the water and the blankets, as well as the new clothes that he has been given (much more suited to the cold than what he had on at the time), he is growing quite warm. Maedhros sheds the blankets, puts down his cups, and he pounces forward, knocking Fingon onto his back in the ice, drawing forth a fit of giggles from both of them. He had always loved Fingon’s laughter, even when he only first heard it, light and joyful like the ringing of bells. Even now, when the very incarnation of despair surrounds them, he still laughs as though it was another night beneath the bloom of Telperion, and he had just told a very bad joke.
“I’ve missed you,” Maedhros whispers, overwhelmed by emotion. Tears prick at his eyes, and a few drops manages to spill forth, but they are gently brushed away by the other’s thumb.
“I’ve missed you too, my Russandol.”
Whether he or Fingon moved first, he does not know. Their lips meet, and Maedhros finds himself forgetting all which had troubled him. Fingon’s lips are still soft, still supple, still tasting like sweet honey, made sweeter by his weeks of longing. He loathes to pull away, but he does, and they sit up in tandem, clutching the other in their arms and kissing again with renewed vigor. He runs a hand through Fingon’s hair, his golden braids glimmering as if his braids are adorned with Varda’s stars.
When they had finally departed, Maedhros found himself breathless and in grief, even though he knows now that he will not again depart from his friend’s side. “I love you, Findekáno,” he says with panicked urgency, the irrational worry that all of this is but his imagination taking some small hold in his mind. He kisses the other again, a swift, tender kiss to make sure that he is truly there, and to his relief, Fingon’s form is very much still there. “Forgive me, I don’t know what- I don’t know what overcame me. I was worried this wasn’t… real… ah, that’s stupid, isn’t it? Of course it’s real. You’re real. Oh, poor Prince Maitimo is losing his mind.” He shakes his head.
“And his mettle, it seems!” Fingon cannot help but laugh, much to the embarrassment of Maedhros. “I won’t leave you, Maitimo. I have never left you.” At this, his tone fills with sorrow, and Maedhros does not need to hear him say ‘it is you who left me’ to know it is what he is thinking.
“No, you haven’t. I’m so sorry, Findekáno. I’m so sorry for all of this. And I promise you- I swear to you that never again shall I abandon your side, whether in time of need or otherwise.”
“So soon to swear an oath again, after you have just broken your last one?” He smirks, pleased by the indignant expression upon the other’s face.
“I have not sworn any oaths!” Maedhros throws up his hands. “And if I had, simply because I used the term ‘swear’, you are my sole witness. Though, I suppose you are the only witness I need for this oath.”
Fingon hums. “Then I will make sure you regret swearing this oath, until both you and I depart Arda itself.”
“I challenge you to make me regret this oath.”
At this, the Nolofinwëan takes the cup of water, of which its contents had now grown cold, and flings the water directly onto the other’s face. “Alright then!” He grins, and though the other’s wet hair now clung to his face and obscured his expression, he can feel the other beaming underneath. “You should know by now to not challenge me, Russandol, especially in the way of making you regret things.”
Maedhros cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I know well enough. However, it is you who forget that I have endured six younger brothers, and I can endure you still.”
“Is that so? In any sense?”
“In every sense.”