Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Wish I did.
WARNING: Some of the characters may be out of character. If they are, I apologise.
Three months. Three months his son had been gone.
Truth be told, he was not even aware Fingon had disappeared until Aredhel had noticed his absence at the midday meal. Fingolfin had believed at the time that Fingon was visiting the sons of Fëanor – except his son had not been at the evening meal or at breakfast the following day. Fingolfin had all but stormed over to the dwelling of the Fëanorians only to discover from Maglor that Fingon was not there, that he never had been.
When he heard Maglor's words, Fingolfin felt his heart stop. He thought he had known the meaning of fear – but he had never felt it so thoroughly before.
He hurried as fast as he could back where his family had made their home. Without saying a word to anyone, he went straight to Fingon's room.
His son's boots, travelling cloak, mail and weapons were missing from his room – as was the harp Maedhros had given him as a begetting-day gift.
Fingolfin dropped to his knees, staring straight ahead of him. He knew what his son had gone to try and do.
Since then, Fingolfin barely ate or slept. Aredhel became quiet and withdrawn, and Turgon...Once, Fingolfin had found him sitting on Fingon's bed, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. When he looked up to see his father, Fingolfin did not say anything. He merely held out his arms; Turgon walked straight into them and wept.
"He will come back," Fingolfin whispered into Turgon's ear. "He will come back."
But Turgon had only sobbed harder at those words. He had lost his wife; now, Turgon had begun to reconcile himself to having lost his brother, and it broke his heart even further.
For Fingolfin's part, he refused to lose hope. He did not believe that Fingon – his firstborn, his son, his child – would not be returning. Every day, he fought his anxiety and despair.
Surely Fingon must have considered the fear and pain he would be causing those who loved him?
And yet...Fingolfin was more than slightly proud of his son. Fingon had always been strong-willed and impulsive, even as a child. He would spend most of his time outdoors in pursuits such as horse-riding with Maedhros, or perhaps diving from the rocks into the lakes.
Once, when he was a very young elfling, Fingon had been a little too daring and had clambered up the highest tree in the Tirion grounds. To his great mortification, he had found himself unable to get down again. Hearing his son's cries, Fingolfin had come running as fast as he could. Fortunately, he was wearing only a simple shirt and leggings at the time. Fingolfin had climbed up the tree, draped Fingon carefully over his shoulder and carried him safely down.
Fingolfin knew that if Fingon had told him about his plans to save Maedhros, he would never have let him go. A fact Fingon was obviously all too aware of.
Then the messenger arrived.
... ... ...
He stood alone in the middle of the hall. Everyone present had his or her eyes fixed on him.
"You are sure?" Fingolfin asked. "Is he unhurt? Is he safe?" The Elf-lord's voice betrayed the wild hope he felt.
The messenger nodded. "Yes, my lord."
Aredhel and Turgon embraced each other, and there were sounds of relief throughout the hall – which quickly died away at the messenger's next words.
"He returned Lord Maedhros to his brothers."
Once again, Fingolfin thought his heart had stopped beating.
Fingon had succeeded? He had rescued Maedhros from Morgoth's clutches?
"Where is my son?" His voice was barely louder than a hoarse whisper.
... ... ...
Fingon watched the gaunt figure resting in the bed. Maedhros was sleeping deeply now; his feverish dreams appeared to have gone.
Keeping the fragile Maedhros safe in his arms whilst Thorondor bore them to Mithrim on his back had been like holding a tiny bird in his hands. Fingon had been terrified of hurting him – or of doing even more damage to his friend than he already had.
Maglor held his brother's hand within his own; his eyes did not leave the thin face. He looked as pale as Fingon did.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for...for doing what we did not have the courage to." He looked at his cousin. "Do not think that we do not love him, Fingon."
"Morgoth had no intention of releasing him, no matter what your reply would have been," replied Fingon. "Indeed, there is every chance you and your brothers would have joined Maedhros on the cliffs of Thangorodrim."
"You might have also, cousin."
They sat in silence, watching Maedhros. Then...
"Where is he?"
The shout caused both Maglor and Fingon to jump; it was Fingolfin's voice. It echoed down the corridors. There was a desperate urgency to it – and a note Fingon had never heard before.
Knowing from experience it was better to meet the storm than to be caught by it, he rose from his chair and made towards the door, pausing to touch Maglor's shoulder as he went. The door closed behind him.
Maglor was left alone with his brother.
And finally his tears began to flow. Pressing his brother's hand to his face, Maglor whispered: "Forgive me...forgive me..."
There was a slight pressure on his hand, just as a pair of grey eyes slowly flickered open.
Fingon walked towards where he thought the voice had come from. The torches set in the walls burned softly, sending red light through the shadows.
Fingolfin came around the corner, and stopped dead.
"Father - " Fingon started to say...and found himself unable to continue. The next thing he knew, his face was pressed against his father's shoulder. Strong arms were around him, clasping him tightly.
"Fingon!" Fingolfin cried. "You are safe! My precious child..." And he held him fast to his chest, joyful tears spilling down his cheeks.
"What did I do to deserve a firstborn as brave as you?" he whispered into his son's ear.
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