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Fingon glanced through the disarray of books and scrolls Maedhros had left in Arafinwë's old study.
The Noldolantë: Annotated Translation to Contemporary Quenya
Of the Ruin of Doriath
The Tale of Eärendel, left open on the page containing "Elwing's Lament"
Wars of Beleriand Volume 5: The Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the Fall of King Fingon the Valiant
The last one had an intricately illustrated cover of Fingon facing Gothmog. The Balrog appeared thrice as big as he had been, and the depiction of Fingon's armor was much more sophisticated than he remembered.
Fingon rubbed his eyes and exhaled audibly; it was going to be a long night.
It was the first time Maedhros was visiting Tirion since his rebirth, and Fingon himself hadn't stepped foot in the old city in close to half an age.
Like all new reborn, Maedhros' memory of his old life was incomplete and often confusing, and he had to relearn all manner of speech. As soon as he could read Noldorin Quenya again, he insisted that they visit Tirion's archives.
It was too soon, and Maedhros wasn't ready, Fingon thought. But some things had not changed, and Maedhros' stubbornness was one of them.
'You must allow him to find himself, Findekáno,' Indis had told Fingon, which had tipped the odds in favor of the trip, and he had agreed reluctantly.
Fingon found Maedhros standing by a window, quietly observing as gentle snowfall blanketed the city. Cyclical seasons were one of the many changes they discovered in the Undying Lands. Tirion was unrecognizable and most of their family no longer resided there since King Finrod had moved the Noldorin capital.
The streets and residences beneath were lit by lamps in many brilliant colors as the elves were preparing for the winter solstice - the night when Eärendil's star shone the brightest.
It was a fair sight, and Fingon would have cherished it under less anxious circumstances. As it was, he stood close to Maedhros, their arms just shy of contact.
'Do you wish to reveal what troubles your heart, Nelyo?'
'Not tonight, Fin. If you do not mind, I would rather like to rest alone.' Maedhros' voice had a tinge of formality, but his expression otherwise remained calm.
'As you wish. I will stay and read for some time if you need anything.'
With that, Maedhros placed a kiss on his cheek and retreated to one of the bedrooms. Resignedly, Fingon found himself back at the desk piled with old texts with a tall goblet of some aged wine he scavenged from the cellars.
He knew not how long he sat in thought, but as he was beginning to feel Irmo's call, Fingon felt a chill. He stood uneasily to find the front door left wide open, the snow piling on the doorstep, and not a trace of Maedhros in the residence.
A sense of dread overcame him, and Fingon found himself torch in hand, tracing Maedhros' fresh footsteps in the snow like a hound. The night had gotten colder and darker, Tilion's ancient light still hiding behind the mountains. The footsteps lead upwards to the summit of Túna.
As Fingon climbed the stairs up the hill, the fog from the shadowy seas mantled the city's towers and dimmed the light of the Mindon. He found Maedhros at the King's high court, clad in armor, the Fëanorian star shining brightly on his breastplate.
'Maedhros! What are you doing?' Fingon screamed, his panic and the fog blinding him in equal measure.
Maedhros turned to him and responded in a voice that chilled Fingon to the bones, 'I must finish it. The Oath asks for the last Silmaril.'
'The Oath has been long void! Do not do this!'
'I must, I am sorry.' Maedhros raised his sword, which shone blood-red against Fingon's torch, and recited the terrible words that had sealed the faith of the House of Fëanáro long ago.
This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!
As Maedhros whispered the dreaded Oath coldly, Fingon's blood boiled. He was not going to let Maedhros do this, not again. Fingon searched his clothing and fingered the pocket knife he always carried to cut fruit and carve branches. It would have to do.
'You will have to kill me first!' Fingon exclaimed and did not allow himself any space for hesitation.
He leapt at Maedhros, aiming for his exposed neck, but Maedhros reacted quickly and swung his sword in return. They collided with full strength, and someone shrieked in pain, Fingon was not sure who, before he hit the ground with all his weight and blood covered his sight.
He managed to sit upwards and blinked a few times to find himself still in Arafinwë's study. A scroll with the Oath of Fëanáro was sitting on his lap, and he had spilt wine all over the parchment.
'Irmo be damned,' Fingon cursed and stood on wobbly legs to drag himself to where Maedhros was resting.
Except, Maedhros was nowhere to be seen, and the front door was left ajar.
'This cannot be happening,' Fingon muttered to himself as cold sweat dripped down his spine. He rushed up the hill of Túna as fear overwhelmed him.
Maedhros indeed stood in front of the old Palace of the Ñoldóran, but to Fingon's relief, he was attired in his traveling tunic and his warm, most ordinary cloak. The Palace, or what was left of it, was nothing like Fingon's vision.
Of course, Indis had donated Finwë's palace grounds to Telerin scholars at the beginning of the first age. Only the old library and the gardens remained under the former Queen's care and were virtually unchanged.
'What are you doing here?' Fingon's words rushed out of his mouth.
Maedhros stood like a statue staring into the building that used to be their grandparents' home. It was so quiet that Fingon could hear his own heart still thumping wildly.
He battled through his anxiety with sheer willpower and searched for the feeling of warmth he always associated with Maedhros' presence. It did not take long to find it, and he placed a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder, sharing some of the warmth.
Fingon repeated his question softly, 'What are you doing here, Nelyo?'
Maedhros remained still, but his voice came clear. 'I cannot find Maitimo in this city, Fingon. No Maitimo, no Nelyafinwë, and not even the Lord of Himring. Everywhere I look, I encounter only a monster driven by the Oath.'
It clearly cost Maedhros to reveal this, but he kept going steadily. 'I came here in desperation, knowing I have no right to step foot in the Royal Palace. Somehow I foolishly believed that a piece of myself might remain in haru's home. It matters not, the Palace as I recall it is gone.'
Fingon relaxed as Maedhros finally turned to look at him, sadness filling his grey eyes.
'You may still find something of interest here. Come with me?' Fingon extended a hand that Maedhros took without hesitation and led him down the corridors they had walked ages ago to the old library.
They both recognized the faint scent of parchment and the sweet-smelling winter blooms from the Queen's garden nearby. The space was full of fair memories.
Maedhros followed Fingon's step as he led them to a well-light room full of golden bound tomes containing every significant piece of Noldorin literature and history.
Fingon stood in front of a shelf, releasing Maedhros' hand and briefly closing his eyes.
'I could not find you in this world either, Nelyo.' It still hurt Fingon to think of his own loneliness over the ages, but Maedhros had to know this. 'I spent many long years after my rehousing trying to forget you, to break the bond that tied me to you. I wanted desperately to replace my memories of you with Maedhros the Kinslayer, the Dispossessed, the monster of Sirion.'
'It was your right to do so Fingon, I was that monster-' Fingon raised a hand as if in command, and Maedhros quieted. It was a gesture Fingon had developed in his earlier life as High King.
'Let me finish, please. I tried, but I could not erase the elf I had loved all my life. No matter what I read or what I was told, my spirit refused to forget you. Eventually, I learned to accept that and decided to keep you, even if you were to live only in my memories until the end of days.'
Fingon exhaled in relief, a terrible weight leaving his heart. He stepped closer to Maedhros and placed a finger under his chin to align their gazes. 'I will not allow history to dictate who you are now. Who both of us are, for that matter, do you understand that?'
'I do understand, Fin.' There was solace in Maedhros' voice as he pulled Fingon closer to himself. He held him tightly and spoke into his curls, 'I understood that even during our darkest hours in Beleriand. But in the end, when you were gone, it was not enough. I cannot and will not expect you to fill the void of the entire world.'
'You do not have to.' At last, a smile appeared on Fingon's face, and he turned to retrieve a small encased volume. He pulled a pocket knife from his sash and broke the wax seal that protected the work before handing it to Maedhros.
'I believe this may be yours.'
Maedhros unwrapped the cloth scented with fumellar and found a worn leather notebook, the star on its cover barely visible. He took a sharp inhale, and Fingon noticed as Maedhros' hands began to tremble.
He hurriedly opened the first page, almost crushing the paper, and failed to stifle a cry. The letters were somewhat faded, but the Tengwar of the signature was still perfectly legible: Maitimo Nelyafinwë.
Maedhros had never really kept a diary, but he had always carried around some sort of journal since a young age. This one was full of random observations, musings, sketches of plants and dear elves, drafts of poems he had written for Findekáno, and copied verses from his favorite songs by Elemmírë.
Fingon stood silently and watched as Maedhros leafed through the notebook, tears freely trickling down his beautiful face. It took a while for Maedhros to remember that he still had company.
'Where did you get this?' Maedhros asked.
'Haruni found it after we had all departed Tirion and preserved it all this time.'
'Indis? Why?' Maedhros exclaimed in utter disbelief.
Fingon raised a playful eyebrow. 'You may ask her yourself. I am confident she would be pleased.'
Maedhros shook his head and hummed a confirmation. He had been close to Indis before the Oath, the very reason he was ashamed to face her since his return.
Then, he narrowed his eyes as if remembering a chore he had forgotten. 'Findekáno, how in Eä did you think to find me here?'
Fingon burst into laughter then, realizing the absurdity of the entire situation. 'Well, I had a terrible vision or a dream of sorts that you had decided to swear the Oath in this very Palace all over again, and we were in the midst of killing each other before I caught sense of myself. I shall never again drink old unlabeled wine nor read your depressive literature.'
Maedhros gaped at him in horror. 'Dreadful. If it ever comes to that, you must promise to kill me this time around.'
'I would rather not make such promises nor swear oaths of any kind.'
'Fair enough,' Maedhros snorted, pulling him into a much-needed embrace. They stood for a while until their heartbeats synchronized.
'May I borrow this for a while?' Maedhros asked as they separated, looking at his notebook.
'Borrow from whom, my love? It is yours.'
'Ah, of course.' Maedhros pressed the notebook to his chest and gave Fingon a bright smile, like a child receiving back its favorite toy. 'Let's go home, beloved.'
When they stepped outside, the snowfall had already ceased, and the streets shimmered in whiteness. Gil-Estel was high in the night sky, its light reflected through the numerous lamps hanging from the roofs, tossing colorful streaks across the snow.
Fingon and Maedhros walked hand in hand, as they had in their youth, marveling at the sight surrounding them. Old Tirion appeared more beautiful than either of them remembered.