THANGORODRIM
Year 5 of the First Age

Fingon shut his eyes, trying to remember the bliss of Valinor, but all he could conjure was the same memory over and over and over. There'd been a picnic in the forests near Tirion. Nerdanel had wanted to spend a day with her boys—Maedhros, Maglor, and Celegorm—as Fëanor had increased their hours of study down in the forges. Fingon had been invited to come along. He couldn't remember his exact age, but he had been young. Turgon had not yet been born.

While Maglor had sat with his mother to demonstrate the newest song he'd composed, Maedhros sat against a tree upon the river bank, heckling Celegorm over how far he could swim across. Fingon remembered the fire in Celegorm's eyes as he boasted he could reach the far back with ease.

Fingon shivered, pushing himself further against the slightly curved partial shelter in the rocks. He didn't dare try to light a fire here. But by the Valar, did he want one. Biting wind buffeted his hood against the sides of his face. It sounded almost like a thunderstorm, or the crashing waves from whenever Ossë got in a mood.

His fingers ached as he pulled his cloak closer. He tried to block out the occasional spray of snow that kicked up into his face and dampened not only his clothes, but also his spirit. Fingon closed his eyes again.

Celegorm had dived shirtless into the river. Keen to prove his brother wrong, the young man started out into current. Maedhros just smirked as he watched, leaning forward with both hands draped over his propped up knees. Fingon had done the same. He copied every movement Maedhros made. He laughed at every joke Maedhros laughed at.

He remembered how Maedhros had let out a sigh, drawing Fingon's attention from graceful strokes of Celegorm's swimming. Fingon glanced back, eager to make sure that he wasn't annoyed with him. But Maedhros wasn't. He didn't even look annoyed, really. More amused. But he had cracked a smirk when he met Fingon's gaze.

"Just wait, Fingon." Maedhros had clapped him on the back. "Someday, you'll have to deal with silly younger siblings."

"Hey!" Celegorm's voice had rung out over the swift current of the river. "You just going to stand there, or can you match me?"

As Fingon squeezed his eyes tight against another gust of wind, he remembered the way Maedhros's eyes had sparkled with mischief. His stomach twisted. He had watched Maedhros dive into the water to join Celegorm on the far bank. Maglor's music had mixed with his mother's light laugh. There he had sat, alone.

And now he sat alone amongst the crags and boulders of Thangorodrim. The Enemy's foul darkness hid Fingon from his sight, but as he was buffeted by sharp wind and icy snow off high peaks, he wished for the sun.

No. He wished for the fullness of Laurelin.

Fingon did not like to be alone, not when there were others he could share life with. As he'd sat on the riverbank and watched Maedhros and Celegorm share laughter and playful insults, he felt adrenaline fill his body. He had stood half Maedhros's height, and Maedhros hadn't been able to stand in the center. The river would be difficult to cross.

But he had to do it. Fingon wanted to be like them. Fingon wanted to be like him.

Prince Maedhros, beloved by the people for the power of his voice, mild tempered but unyielding, joyful but attentive to the needs of the Noldor, Fingon wished to be even half the leader his cousin was.

He hadn't expected the water to be so cold. He hadn't expected it to be so fast. The current wrapped around his ankles, his chest, dragging him downstream as he fought against it. He struggled for air. He thrashed at the surface.

Icy fear shot through him. Fingon couldn't see beyond the blur of the river. He couldn't hear his own screams.

Strong arms had wrapped around his midsection. Red hair filled his mouth as he was slung over a shoulder, forced above the waves. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself on the grass of the river bank. Fingon coughed and sputtered, Maedhros and Celegorm both staring down at him in concern.

That day, Maedhros had saved him. So why hadn't Maedhros been there to save Elenwë. Fingon told himself not to cry. Tears would only freeze here. But he should've been there.

Fingon shifted against the rock. He looked out beyond the shallow hiding spot that provided limited cover. Grey rocks surrounded him in every direction. His chest tightened. He balled his fists.

Maedhros should've been there. What had gone wrong? When had it all fallen apart? He tried to imagine his family around him, his wife by his side. His body filled with the heat of rage only when he conjured up an image of Maedhros.

It wasn't that he had entirely forgiven his half-cousins. As much as he bristled in the presence of Maglor and would never take him as King, over the years he had tried to look more logically at the problem.

Division helped no one. Fëanor had betrayed them all at Losgar. He had broken what nearly non existent trust remained between the houses. But the House of Fëanor had not been at fault alone for the broken bonds.

Who of the younger houses had spoken up against the exile of Fëanor? Fingon had not. They knew it had been Morgoth at fault for the division of the Noldor. The Valar knew it. The Noldor knew it. His own father had been willing to forgive Fëanor his threat of violence then and there.

But when the Valar had insisted Fëanor still pay the price, none had tried again to stop it. Fingon had not visited them at Formenos. Fingon had not apologized for his part in the broken trust.

Celegorm, Curufin, Caranthir, they were not ones to forgive easily. Fingon knew this. He no longer begrudged them their anger. They had lost much too. Ambarussa... Amras, he could grieve as long as he wished.

And yet Fingon felt such a burning rage for Maedhros. He hid his face under his cloak against another gust of wind. He should have been there. If he had been on the Helcaraxë, Elenwë would not have died. Had he been with them in the mountains, Argon would still draw breath.

Maedhros had checked him over on the bank, making sure he could breathe. Nerdanel fussed over him when they finally got back to the other side, Fingon relying on Maedhros's strength once more. He had wanted to see pride in his cousin's eyes. But he had seen only concern and pity.

It had hurt, failing the cousin who raised him more as a brother. Fingon had vowed to never see that look in Maedhros's eyes again. He would become just like him: the perfect prince, the perfect elf, the perfect older brother.

His mother had shaken her head when they got back to Tirion and Nerdanel told her of his accident. He stood alone beside her, the others returning to their homes. When Nerdanel had left, his mother met his gaze with pursed lips and the shake of her head.

"Every day you become more like a son of Fëanor than a son of mine," she said, a tiny smirk creeping into her expression. Anairë had hugged him, and he had melted into her embrace.

The Noldor had often joked like that, especially when he'd been but a child in Tirion. Any time he acted before he thought things through, they pointed to Maedhros and said it came from him. Too much like brothers, they had said.

The seed of anger that sprouted whenever he thought of Maedhros also did the same when he thought of his own role in all this. He had urged them to seek out new lands and adventure, and the people listened just as he'd known they would. He had charged into Alqualondë without a second thought, and his people became kinslayers. He had led from the front nearly every day, but others had suffered.

Too much like brothers. Perhaps that was the problem. Fingon took a deep breath. The chill hurt his nose and throat but it cooled the anger. It took the edge off the heat of rage.

Took much like brothers. Fingon breathed deeply again. He caught only the ever-present stench of rotting flesh and acrid smoke.

Too much like brothers. The air filled his lungs once more. Fingon pushed his hood back, catching the slightest hint of flowers on the wind. It had died down, the wind lessening.

Too much like brothers. Fingon had black hair braided with gold while Maedhros's red locks always hung loose. Maedhros towered over his brothers while Fingon looked up to his own. But they were brothers nonetheless.

Perhaps Maedhros was not the hero Fingon had always seen him as. But as he pushed himself to his feet, bones aching from long hours huddled in one place, he sighed. Fingon was not the perfect leader of his people he had aspired to be, either.

They were here now. Elenwë had drowned in the waves, Maedhros nowhere to save her. Amrod had burned in the inferno of the ships, Fingon unable to rally the Noldor against the insanity of their enraged leader.

He reached into one of his two packs. Beneath the last few pieces of dried meat he found a velvet sack. His wife had slipped it in without him noticing until he had ridden away in search of his cousin.

Yet another impulsive decision. Too much like brothers to the Fëanorions.

He undid the tied cords and let the velvet bag drop to the rocks. In his hands he cradled a small lyre carved with flowers and painted blue and gold. He had thought about bringing it as a gift for Maglor at their parlay, a peace offering, but decided against it.

Here it would serve another purpose. Fingon would find his brother. He would bring him home. The Noldor had joked they were too much like brothers. Fingon had the impulsivity, sparks of the fire of the house of Fëanor because of Maedhros's guidance. But as he looked up into the roiling dark clouds of ash and smoke, the rising cliffs and sharp crags of the mountains, he knew part of himself had shaped Maedhros too.

Fingon closed his eyes. He clutched the lyre. One at a time, he plucked the strings. The wind died. His song would not drown here. He would pull Maedhros out of the waters of the Enemy's hatred. Each stroke poured his hope, his love, his memories of elder days into the melody. He wove a song they had sung together years before, when he had been but a small child without brothers, longing for direction. The lullaby carried through the darkness.

As he stepped forward into the open, Fingon stopped breathing. There, on the cold wind, came the refrain.

Maedhros lived.