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“I could have reached him,” Fingon says, looking down at his hands in his lap. “If I had been just a little bit closer, or if I had moved faster, I could have been there. I could have reached him, Russo. I could have saved him.”
“Or you could have been slain as well.”
Maedhros speaks without thinking, and he realizes a heartbeat too late that it was the wrong thing to say.
Fingon turns on him, eyes flashing. “How would you know? You weren’t there, Maedhros. None of you were. Your brothers were safe, sleeping soundly in their beds here in the east while we all fought and starved and died crossing the Ice to reach you. You weren’t there. I was.” Then, “Arakáno was.”
The bitter taste of guilt on Maedhros’ tongue is all too familiar. “I know,” he says quietly, and squeezes Fingon’s knee in apology. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Fingon snaps, but he does not push Maedhros away. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, then curses and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Damn it. You don’t— He just—”
Fingon wipes his eyes furiously with his sleeve. He sets his jaw and fixes his watery gaze on the blood-red horizon. He does not try to speak again for several minutes. In the end, all he says is, “I could have reached him, and I didn’t. Nothing else matters.”
Maedhros’ heart climbs up his throat and claws it to ribbons. “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it to be despicably inadequate.
Fingon’s breath hitches awfully. When Maedhros dares to offer his hand Fingon takes it and squeezes hard enough to make Maedhros’ knuckles pop. Maedhros squeezes back.
“That sounds like the worst thing in the entire world,” he whispers, and means it.