When the High King of the Noldor beheld the flame-bright banners of the House of Fëanor, the sun had already passed its zenith. Amidst the gently rolling hills, the fortress of Himring towered solitary, its thick walls scored by blades, axes, and the blackened remnants of fire. Yet even in that decline, it upheld itself with steadfast pride.

Fingon sensed the relief among his guards—had they stood unaccompanied, they might have released their long-held breaths. He could scarce blame them. The strain of constant vigilance had frayed their nerves, and even this two-day journey had been an arduous trial. He was well aware of the Enemy’s malice directed against him—for since the Dagor Bragollach, though Morgoth had claimed victory, the defeats he had endured in the west, despite the fall of Fingolfin, had not ceased to plague him. Again and again, the forces of the Dark Lord failed to subdue Hithlum, and surely the blame for these failures rested squarely on the shoulders of the newly crowned High King.

Just as, in the east, the eldest son of Fëanor was no less a persistent thorn in the Enemy’s side.

Fingon drew a deep breath, refocusing his gaze on the path ahead. Choosing this moment for a long journey to East Beleriand may not have been wise. Yet he could not keep away.

The fortress sentries soon spotted their approach. The call of the greeting horn pierced the air, its echoes resonating with a somber, lingering note beneath the overcast sky. In response, Fingon’s guards raised their own horn, its peal answering across the distance, while the blue-and-silver banner of the House of Fingolfin unfurled in the wind. As they crested the final ridge and rode onto the road leading to the hilltop, the heavy gates of Himring began to open, their deliberate motion a fitting prelude to the reunion.

“Andalúmë lá cenë.”

Even before dismounting, Fingon heard his cousin’s voice. It was a simple greeting, yet it stirred a surge of emotions within him. It had indeed been a long while since they last met. Their last meeting had been before the Dagor Bragollach—not so long ago in years, perhaps, yet it felt like an eternity. Perhaps it was the weight of that battle, still too painful to revisit in thought. Or perhaps it was the torrent of events that swiftly followed, ceaseless and overwhelming. Either way, it truly seemed as though ages had passed.

These thoughts flitted through Fingon’s mind in but a moment. Returning the same greeting, he brought his horse to a stop and dismounted with well-honed ease. The motion stirred a swirl of dust from his cloak into the air—a mixture of ash and grit from the road—whose acrid scent made him wrinkle his nose unbidden.

“Perhaps,” Maedhros continued, a slight smile curving his lips, “I should instead say: Aiya Findekáno, aranion analta.”

Fingon was handing his horse over to the attendant who had come forward to take it when he halted at Maedhros’ words. Turning, he met those familiar, keen grey eyes.

“Maitimo, that is not a jest I find amusing.”

“No, I speak in earnest,” Maedhros replied, his gaze unflinching. “I have not yet had the chance to formally express my condolences for the late High King, nor to offer my respects to the new one.”

Fingon held Maedhros’ gaze in silence for a moment, seeking the slightest hint of mockery. Finding none, he inclined his head in acknowledgment. It was not a topic he intended to dwell on unless absolutely compelled to; their mutual understanding of its sensitivity had always gone unspoken.

“I come seeking answers.” With these words, he fell into step beside Maedhros, and together they crossed the expansive courtyard. It was clear this place was constantly braced for war. Most of the guards they passed wore armor, heavier than usual, while attendants busied themselves sharpening weapons or grooming horses. In the distance, by the stone walls, he noted a pile of shields and armor awaiting repair. Some pieces were evidently not of the common size of the Noldorin soldiers.

“Then these answers must be of dire importance,” Maedhros remarked, a fleeting smile touching his lips, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “important enough for the High King himself to take such a personal risk to seek them.”

Maedhros’ tone returned to its characteristic touch of dry irony, but Fingon could discern the concern woven beneath it. A subtle warmth stirred in his chest at the realization, yet the weight of his purpose here brought a heaviness that tempered the fleeting comfort, leaving his emotions a tangled mix of gratitude and unease.

“Makalaurë and the others went out hunting early today. It will be some time before they return. We can speak in the council chamber.”

The council chamber of Himring had not varied from Fingon’s memory. One side was lined with tall windows stretching from floor to ceiling, while the other was adorned with banners bearing the emblem of the House of Fëanor and a decorative array of weapons, an unusual choice for Noldorin preference, yet sensible for the circumstances. At the center stood a long table, readily capable of seating twenty—a practical design, considering the frequent and large gatherings it had once supported before the Bragollach.

But on this day, the spacious room hosted only the two of them. Maedhros gestured for Fingon to take a seat at one end of the table, while he wandered toward one of the tall windows nearby. The westering sunlight streamed through it, bathing him in a golden glow that set his long copper hair ablaze.

To Fingon’s surprise, Maedhros’ guard did not leave but rather lingered by the door. His own guard, noticing this, stayed as well, taking position on the opposite side with unspoken understanding. Glancing at the open door, Fingon realized this was likely by Maedhros’ design. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of self-mockery flickering through his thoughts.

So, my caution was unnecessary after all. Very well—if you wish to make a show of having naught to conceal, then let us speak without reservation.

“I hear you sent a message to Thingol,” he began, his voice calm but tinged, “demanding he hand over the Silmaril, and that your tone made clear you would treat Doriath as an enemy if he refused.”

Maedhros answered with a careless smile. “I assume you have also heard how he rejected our request outright and sent messengers to deliver words of scorn to our doorstep.”

“And I suppose you anticipated as much,” Fingon replied evenly, his expression unmoving. “Were you in his place, would your response have been any different?”

“I actually considered dispatching someone to return the courtesy,” Maedhros said with an air of nonchalance. “By Thingol’s own decree, if my messenger were to hurl insults at him in our tongue, he could only pretend not to hear them and would not be able to respond without breaking his own law.”

Though Maedhros spoke lightly, Fingon perceived the absence of humor in his cousin’s eyes. For a moment, he was not sure if the suggestion had been entirely in jest. “I also hear that your brothers—Celegorm and Curufin—have openly sworn to do harm to Thingol.”

At this, Maedhros did not answer at once. The smile vanished from his lips.

“And yet,” Fingon continued, his tone carefully measured but laced with restraint, “you neither punished nor restrained them for their actions.” He fought to maintain his composure, even as his temper frayed. He had no doubt that Maedhros was well aware of what Celegorm and Curufin had said, word for word. “Maitimo, are you truly ignorant of what transpired in Nargothrond? You ask me to persuade Orodreth to join the union while you continue to indulge the very ones responsible for the tragedy?”

The thought of Tol Sirion and the verdant grave upon it tore at him, grief and fury wrestling for dominance in his heart. Finrod—his generous cousin, noble and compassionate, perhaps the most beloved of the House of Finwë—had perished in a dark dungeon deprived of light, his sacrifice unheeded by those who should have upheld him.

“What would you have me do, aranya?” Maedhros broke the suffocating silence at last, his voice quiet yet resolute. “If you expect me to repay blood with blood, I cannot oblige you. They are my brothers.”

“Leave us.”

After a fleeting silence, Fingon spoke to the two guards posted by the door. His own guard gave a slight bow and withdrew immediately. Maedhros’ guard, however, hesitated—instinctively moving to obey but pausing mid-step, glancing toward their prince for direction. Fingon observed the hesitation and, in that moment, found his patience wane—or perhaps he simply no longer cared to restrain himself.

“I said, leave us!”

This time, the guard departed forthwith, not daring to lift his gaze. The sound of the closing door had barely faded when Fingon sprang to his feet and landed a solid punch to Maedhros’ face. Caught off guard, the Lord of East Beleriand staggered back two paces, barely avoiding a fall by gripping the heavy velvet drapery with his left hand. The fabric rent under his weight, and as the rip reverberated through the room, Maedhros lifted his head, disbelief etched across his face. A bruise was already darkening upon his pale cheek.

“That,” Fingon said through clenched teeth, “was for Finrod.”

The words had barely left his lips before he stepped forward again, striking twice more in swift succession. The corner of Maedhros’ mouth split open, a thin trickle of blood dripping onto the polished stone floor.

“And those,” Fingon hissed, his voice cold with fury, “are for what Celegorm and Curufin have done.”

If you choose to shield and indulge them, then you will pay their price.

Hearing this, Maedhros’ clenched left hand relaxed instead. The copper-haired prince wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with his maimed wrist, glanced down at the crimson stain, and raised his head with a faint smile.

“Well done. Who else do you intend to act on behalf of? Why not settle it all at once?”

In response, Fingon landed another blow, this one more determined than the last. Maedhros’ slight smile vanished entirely, perhaps from astonishment at Fingon’s lack of hesitation—or perhaps because the punch struck squarely on his nose, sending a torrent of blood streaming down.

“This,” Fingon said, his voice steady, “is for my father.”

As he watched Maedhros’ grey eyes widen slightly at his words, Fingon felt his anger dissipate into a void, leaving behind a hollow ache and a profound sense of helplessness and grief.

You do not truly believe I am unaware, do you, Maitimo? Perhaps the throne itself means but little to you, yet what of your pride?

When my father strove to unite the Noldor against Angband, who had more cause than you to answer his call? And yet, who dismissed him more entirely than you? “Kingship is yours to hold, yet decisions are mine to shape”—is that how you define “loyalty”?

I beheld it all, and yet I chose to remain silent. For I considered you a brother, no less dear than my own. For I wanted to believe that you had your reasons, and no choice at all.

The setting sun sank slowly behind the northern hills, casting fiery hues across the west-facing windows of Himring. In the fortress’ unyielding stone halls, two friends and kin stood silently, locked in an uneasy stillness.

At last, the copper-haired prince spat out the blood in his mouth and twisted one corner of his lips into a faint smirk. “Is that all?” Straightening from where he had leaned against the window frame, Maedhros wiped his nosebleed casually with half a torn curtain, then balled it up and tossed it to the ground. “How amusing.”

Fingon turned to face him abruptly, disbelief blazing in his gaze.

“You have carried out justice for so many,” Maedhros said, his tone almost conversational, “and yet—how about for yourself?”

…Myself?

Disbelief gave way to bewilderment, and then bewilderment was eclipsed by sorrow. In the end, it was the High King of the Noldor who looked away. Dropping his eyes to his bloodied hands, Fingon found himself unexpectedly chilled by the sight. Though long since cooled, the crimson streaks felt like smoldering coals, scorching his resolve to ashes.

Indeed, Maitimo, this is your way: never bending, even when you are wrong; never yielding, even when you are at fault. And yet, if I had never known you, I would not be who I am, even though you, perhaps, would still be yourself.

That is why, he thought with aching clarity, I shall never fault you for myself.

Yet the eldest son of Fëanor remained unwilling to let it rest. Stepping away from the window, Maedhros took a deliberate step toward him, with swelling still visible on his lips, now curved in a knowing smile. “You overlook yourself entirely, Findekáno. Is it because your conscience is burdened? If, back then, you had—”

“Maitimo!”

Fingon’s voice rang out firmly, cutting through the air.

“For the final time,” he said, his tone adamant, “if I were to choose again, I would still choose to save you—not to kill you.”

Silence fell once more. The last sliver of sunlight vanished beyond the horizon, and the council chamber filled with the creeping weight of shadows, long and deep.

“Go forth and gather all the strength you can,” Fingon finally spoke as he turned away. Pausing at the door, he felt an exhaustion that transcended mere flesh, a weariness that seemed to seep into his very bones. His bruised knuckles throbbed faintly, not with acute pain but with a dull ache—a numbing reminder of spent wrath.

“It matters little whose name the union may bear.”

Should you demand pride, then I will grant you pride.

“What truly matters is that you wield it to strike against the Shadow.”

He opened the door and stepped into the twilit corridor beyond, never glancing back.

“In that, you shall ever have my support.”

(The End)