Maybe madness is in the sea water. Maybe it's catching.

Either way Fingon looks up from the campfire, where he's been patiently working the ornaments from his hair and waiting for his outer robes to dry. The voice had been faint-to faint to be nearby, surely- but he could have sworn he heard...

"Russandol?" He can't help but call out. It's probably nothing- just dreaming up a familiar, friendly voice in a strange place, though admittedly the Maedhros in his head is usually more lucid- but he can't resist trying.