Hill and Water Under Sky by StarSpray  

under the willows

this takes place not long after Go On Aching Still

Fingon crossed his arms. “You really want to do this now?”

“I’d rather not do it at all.” Maedhros sat under a willow tree, just out of sight of his mother’s house. A small river flowed along beside it; Fingon had many happy childhood memories of this river, and of Maedhros’ grandparents house with the plum orchard beside it. The ancestors of this willow tree had been quiet witnesses to many hours of laughter and idle conversation, to youthful daydreams and the occasional argument. It did not surprise him to find Maedhros out there now, leaning back against the tree with a sketchbook on his knee, and a pencil in his hand; he had snapped the book shut as soon as Fingon had stepped through the willow fronds. His hair was loose and tangled on his shoulders, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in the three months since he had returned from Mandos.

Finrod had warned Fingon—that Maedhros was still deeply unhappy, that Mandos had hardly helped him at all, that he would do his very best to send Fingon away and reject all offers of comfort or friendship. Fortunately for them both, Fingon had never met an obstacle he did not want to overcome. He sat down and crossed his legs. “Fine,” he said, “but there’s no point to the back-and-forth, you know, because we both know how it’s going to end.”

“Fingon—”

“First of all, you should know that I’ve never blamed you for the Nirnaeth. I knew even then that if you did not come when you were supposed to it was because something had happened—and I was right. My death was not your fault, and I will not have you continue to punish yourself for it even now, when we are both returned to life.”

Maedhros’ jaw was set in that particularly Fëanorian way. “Fingon,” he began again. 

“What came after—that was terrible. Of course it was—I barely recognize the Maedhros of the latter part of the First Age—but it was nearly six thousand years ago now. I have had quite a lot of time to reconcile myself to all manner of things—”

“Findekáno—”

“I would rather choose to be happy to have my best friend back than to stew in the miseries of the past, which can’t be changed. All we have is the present, and with neither oaths nor wars to loom over us, we can both shape our futures as we wish. You can try to send me away all you like, but it won’t work, because I can tell you don’t really want that.”

Maedhros sighed, and slumped back against the tree. He dropped his pencil to his lap and rubbed his hand over his face. “It doesn’t feel like six thousand years,” he said finally. 

“Time is odd in Mandos,” said Fingon. “Russo, why did you not let them help you?”

“I didn’t want help. I just—it was quiet, there. If I could have just stayed…”

“Finrod thinks it was doing you more harm than good,” Fingon said quietly. Maedhros didn’t answer. Fingon sighed. He’d said his piece—whether Maedhros believed him or not didn’t much matter, because he had no intention of staying away. “What have you been drawing?”

“Nothing in particular.” Maedhros made no move to open the sketchbook. “My mother just thinks I need to be doing something.”

“She’s right.” Fingon stretched out his legs and leaned over to bump his shoulder against Maedhros’. “I missed you,” he said. 

Maedhros sighed, and surrendered to the inevitable. “I missed you too,” he said, very quietly.