Chapter Text
The Halls of Mandos are deafeningly silent as Fingon walks through them. Darkness shrouds the ceiling and curls around the enormous pillars as his steps echo through the passages.
In front of him, the only thing that moves is the Maia who had been sent to retrieve him, flitting between Eldar and wraith as she leads Fingon on. When he had asked for Námo’s council, he had not expected to be granted it, but it seemed his efforts in life were great enough to grant his wish.
It’s been a month since he’d woken up, scrambling to get away from a fire that no longer burnt him. A month since the copper and gold bond tethering Fingon had snapped, recoiling into the void.
A month since Fingon had died.
He’s still not quite over the fact.
The Maia leads him through giant carved doors of stone and through to a throne room, darkness and whitish-blue light weaving together to create an atmosphere of cold authority.
It takes a moment for Fingon to spot the figure on the throne, but when he does, he sweeps into a deep bow.
Námo is a humanoid form of the same blue-white energy, a cloak of shadows hung over his shoulders like a second skin. Being in his presence radiates power as facing balrogs and riding upon eagles could never. It reminds Fingon of being in the eye of the storm, calm in the face of untamed power.
“Fingon, son of Fingolfin and second High King of the Noldor. What troubles you?”
Námo’s voice thunders through the room like a hurricane, and Fingon shivers at the electric power humming around him.
“My Lord. Thank you for granting me an audience.” He glances around, before taking a step forward, body thrumming with the desire to ask what has plagued his mind since recovering his wits, “I wish only to know…”
He restrains himself from crying it out, the words rearing to break free, but he must not seem desperate. He must be calm and logical if Námo is to listen.
“Go on?”
Taking a deep breath into lungs that do not need air, Fingon meets Námo’s gaze only to glance away once more “Only to ask after my husband. I know not what has happened to him.”
“Maedhros, son of Fëanor. He has many crimes to answer for, and you must not focus on others in your Time of Healing, only yourself.”
Shaking his head, Fingon joins his hands together, restraining the urge to wave them about as he protests, “I fear my mind cannot heal until I know what has happened to Maedhros, My Lord. I swore, once, not to leave him behind, and I have broken my promise. Now he is alone, and I must leave him with the burden of my death.”
Gaze boring holes into the stone of the floor in front of him, Fingon’s next words are barely audible, a whisper of breath, “My mind will not be whole again until he is by my side.”
Námo hums, a deep but eerie sound with undercurrents of fire and shadow. A flash of roiling flame whites out Fingon’s vision as Gothmog rears back-
And he suppresses a cry as he steps back, the cold Halls of Mandos around him. Námo stands, a sigh on his lips, “You need to heal, Fingon of the House of Fingolfin. I will tell you that Maedhros is alive, as are his brothers. But no more.”
He’s alive. Maedhros is alive.
Shoving the still burbling gasp from the flash of fire down his throat once more, Fingon bows low under Námo’s heavy gaze.
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“I hope to see you here when you are ready.”
As Fingon takes his leave, holding himself together from the fear and the relief and the worry, his thoughts whisper,
I will not be ready for a long time, My Lord.
~
When Námo summons Fingon, he refuses the offer to return to Valinor.
It had taken him long enough to recover from the fire of his death, and Maedhros? Who knows what had happened to him after Fingon had died. Fingon would be there.
After the seventh time Fingon had showed up to Námo’s doors, whatever magic that let the High King wander was changed, and he could not find the way to the throne room unaccompanied. So, taking advantage of being able to go most everywhere else, he spent his time searching.
Fëanor, he had found almost immediately, muttering to himself in a barren cell.
Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin he had found all at once, one after the other in cells that had been empty days before.
The Sindar who came to the halls at the same time spoke of a Second Kinslaying, and of the Sons of Fëanor laying waste to Doriath.
One talked of a Fëanorian with fiery red hair, sword sharp and wicked.
But Maedhros lived. So Fingon waited.
Then, in a heartbreaking twist of fate, he stumbled upon Ambarussa- living as one, dying as one, and so being imprisoned in the walls of Mandos as one. Fingon catches the bright red of their hair and nearly chokes on hope before he realizes.
The two of them had filled him in on Maedhros, and on the war and the Silmarils. And he had decided to visit them more, carrying information from the other sons of Fëanor and establishing a- well, pretty much a gossip chain, after a few rounds had gone by.
Then the War of Wrath began, and elves started to flood into the Halls. There were hundreds of Eldar every day, and each of them with a story of fire and terror and blood.
Mandos leaves, more elves- some twice dead from earlier wars in Beleriand- arrive, and then…
~
New arrivals in the Halls say the War is over, and Morgoth has been vanquished. Fingon flits between visiting imprisoned Fëanorians and asking about Maedhros through the recently dead. Most of them aren’t in the right frame of mind to be disturbed, but every once and a while…
He’s on his way to see Curufin- reassure him of Celebrimbor’s safety- when a sense of unease washes over him. He stops in the hallway, hand going to his side- where the absence of his sword is keenly felt- and stills, confusion flitting across his mind.
Something is… not right. But also like something has been missing in Fingon’s mind for a long time, and it’s just slid into place.
He brushes over a faded wound in the back of his mind, and-
Maedhros.
The link is not quite there, really, but a buzz of familiarity hums quietly through Fingon’s bones.
Immediately, he’s running- sprinting down the hall towards where he knows the Fëanorians are clustered because the bond may only be a wisp of what it was but Fingon knows what that hovering sense of unease is and it’s not good.
I’m coming, Russo.
And then- the world lurches around him, flickering, and-
He stands in Námo’s throne room, Maiar guarding the doors as he looks around, breath catching in his throat.
In front of him, walking down the steps in front of the throne, is Námo, ethereal light rippling around his head like a crown- or a halo.
“I see you have sensed Maedhros' return.”
Before he can stop himself, Fingon is taking a step forward, “I have waited a hundred years to be able to see my husband again. You will not keep me from him.”
Behind Námo, the Maiar mirror Fingon’s step forward, but the Vala raises a hand, and they calm.
“I know you fret over the kinslayer, and I did not bring you here to stop you.” Námo moves closer, resting a dark hand on Fingon’s shoulder as he smiles kindly, “I would warn you, of the way your husband came to the Halls.”
The rush of relief and shame at Námo’s confession is swept away by the warning, and the unease thrumming through the back of his mind rears its head as he straightens, “What?”
“When Morgoth was vanquished, the Silmarils were reclaimed by the sons of Fëanor. But when they took the gems in their hands, the heavenly light of the trees burnt them. Maedhros, in his grief and pain, let himself fall over the edge of Thangorodrim and into the fiery pit below. This is the pain I know you feel, which your husband carries with him.”
A bolt of
“So let me go. ”
“Very well, but be gentle with him. You know not what will make him better.”
The world lurches around Fingon once more, and suddenly, he’s standing outside a grey carven door, stone cold against his hand resting on the swirls of what he recognizes as the tall peaks of Thangorodrim. He can feel, sharper than before, the unease- though it’s more vivid pain this close- swirling in the back of his mind, tugging softly at the broken threads of their bond.
In the state Maedhros is in, he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there.
Magic tingles at his fingertips, ready at his command.
Because Maedhros is in there. And Maedhros has spent more than a hundred years without Fingon.
Fingon’s not sure what he’s going to find.
But there’s nothing else he could possibly do but push open the door and step inside.
~
As Fingon slips through the doorway, his eyes are drawn to a huddled shape in the corner of the room.
Unmistakably, it’s Maedhros. But he’s so different from the last time Fingon has seen him, small and broken, that a gasping sob rips from his lips.
At the sound, Maedhros jerks further into the corner, looking up and-
“Russo?” His husband’s face is tearstained and pained, fear and defeat warring for dominance as he wraps trembling arms around himself. With a bolt of pain, Fingon notices blood trickling over his hands, knuckles raw from hitting what can only be the stone walls around them.
Eyes caught on Fingon, Maedhros makes a choked off noise, shuddering. Dropping to his knees, Fingon reaches out, “Dearheart? Do you… do you know where you are?”
Breaking eye contact, Maedhros looks away, heard jerking in a nod, and there’s a streak of blood up his neck, and Fingon wants to vomit.
“It’s just me. I’m here. Fingon.” The urge to reach out and hold him rears up through Fingon, but he holds it back, letting his arms stay in front of him, “You’re safe now.”
The always raw threads of their bond reaches with him, but he pulls it back. He doesn’t need anything else overwhelming him.
After a moment of waiting, trying to project warmth and calm and safety, Maedhros looks up, glancing between Fingon’s face and his outstretched hands, and the look on his face reminds Fingon of a time, years ago, on top of an eagle’s back. You’re just a hallucination.
“I’m real, dearheart. It’s okay. I’m here.”
Keeping still, Fingon watches as Maedhros rocks forward slightly, one hand slowly reaching out. It’s an eternity of inching, but then their hands brush, and they both let out stuttered gasps, and suddenly Maedhros in his arms, holding him tight and sobbing.
Stumbling onto his backside, Fingon’s arms reflexively go to embrace Maedhros, and the bond snaps into place.
The surge of emotions is like being hit with a warhammer, tumbling Fingon over and over until he anchors himself against the storm.
And all of it- all of it is Maedhros.
All Fingon can do is let his husband cling to him, projecting a circle of calm around them as gut-wrenching sobs rip out of Maedhros.
“Shh, you’re here now. It’s over. I’ll never leave you again, you’re safe. I’m here.” Stroking a hand up Maedhros’ back, Fingon whispers quiet reassurances into his hair, restraining the relief and love threatening to overflow. He can let that all go later. Right now, he’s there for his husband.
And he’ll try his damned best never to leave again.