To have another in his mind should, by all reason, set Maedhros off on a straight path into the very recesses of his trauma. Were any other to try such a thing perhaps it might, in spite of every wall and buttress he had built up in his own psyche over the centuries past to prevent such a collapse. Fingon, though, seems to bring with him only peace. Fingon's voice in his head anchors him. An illusion of Fingon would feel different, but this? This is real.

He breaths out through his nose. He furrows his brow and nods, not looking away from Fingon for a second.

"I'm not afraid." A lie he's told to himself many a time, for fear is not becoming in an eldest son, much less the son of a king. At this point, it's really just stubbornness. "And which bastards have trapped us this time? Whose halls have you braved to rescue me from like a damsel, if not the Halls of Mandos?"