Within the Ashes by FactorialRabbits

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Within The Ashes

Original Notes:

It's been a very, very long time since I've written anything for sharing. I've also never written anything to here or within this fandom before. I was going to continue lurking and barely using my account as I didn't realise it had logged out, but my housemate has somehow convinced me that sharing my work is not going to end up with me crying in a puddle in the middle of my exams.

My naming convention was chosen by method of what I could spell, and this was largely written because I could find very few fics dealing with this and these characters and I wanted to read more of them. I can't honestly remember what I was reading at the time I wrote this (its been on my hard drive for a number of months), but there are probably similarities to others about the same thing. If I've accidentally stolen something of yours, please let me know and I will do my best to credit or remove. Names of characters I made up due to feeling like they needed names are in the end-notes, along with a brief description of their function.

Some of the timings are odd because elven horses are weird. (This and elven biology is weird is my sort-of excuse for all the various biological and medical inaccuricies I am ignoring). I think there's also a reference to Erestor somewhere? I'm not sure which edit that was in.

Sort-of plans exist for covering the same events from the PoVs of some of the other characters of the same events, but if I ever write them is an entirely different matter. I have so many sort-of plans

Also inhaling large amounts of dragon smoke totally causes you to hallucinate parrallel universes where the events of history are slightly-to-majorly different. Why wouldn't it?

I should probably reread this note and cut rambling, but if I do I'll never actually post this story and I'll get bugged again by my housemate, so... I hope you enjoy something here!

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It had been nearly 12 hours since his watchmen had first sighted the smoke, 9 since he had departed from his keep with half of his fighting-men. They’d needed to rekit both themselves and their horses for the fire, and mustering a force takes time. Not that he was entirely comfortable with 3 hours.

6 hours ago, smoke had gone up at Aglon too. Still, he and his men rode towards the Gap - his brothers to the west had each other, but his brother to the east was alone.

3 hours ago, they had entered into the ash cloud. At first it had been only a light sprinkling, but by this point it was near impossible to see. It was around then that they’d found the caravan of civilian refugees, choking and burnt and fearful, trying to reach safety in Himring but lost beyond measure. It was not nearly a great enough number for his brother’s entire civilian population, but Maedhros had sent them on, added to their escort a few of his own men, and pressed further.

2 hours ago they found the corpses of the rest of the caravan.

About an hour ago, they had found the first of his brother’s soldiers, fleeing the smoke, armour discarded and shirts pressed to their faces. Each told the same story - the Gap was lost, almost all the fighting elves burnt alive in an instant on the plains, and that their Lord had called for a retreat. And then, with his second, pressed into the ash to ensure the message reached everyone who still stood. One vaguely familiar soldier, barely of age, had been rescued by Maglor himself. An orc had pinned him, was leaning to bite open the boy’s chest, when Maglor’s swords had cut through flesh and freed him. He’d then been given his Lord’s banner to cover his face, his harp to carry and ordered to get out. It was so very like his brother to try to save as many men as possible, especially the younger ones, and so very unlike his brother to willingly part with his instruments, especially his harp, that Maedhros’ heart tightened even further. Choking on more than ash he’d sent the young soldier on, hoping he would reach Himring unaccosted.

It had only been a little less time since he ordered his men to spread out - search for survivors, kill what orcs they found and help where they could - but be out of the ash by nightfall. Then, return to Himring and await further orders. So now he rode alone, pressing slowly into the ash and calling for his brother the whole way. The men were important, yes, but his brother infinitely more so. It was his brother, after all.

The image of the eldest of his little brothers, his kind hands and gentle voice, choking to death came to his mind. Flailing and gasping and trying and failing to scream; he pressed on a little further, and suppressed the image of him being kidnapped instead. He had barely come out of captivity alive; all of his brothers were strong, yes, but Maglor would wilt under their hands fastest. Oh, Curufin would physically die first, but Maglor would fade even faster than that. For all his talents, he could not bear to be alone. At least in this ash capture was highly unlikely - it would be a quick death by fire or blade, or a slow death by choking or bleeding. The orcs would never be able to see far enough to notice a Son of Feanor without his armour. At least that’s what Maedhros hoped; a dead brother would break his heart, but a tortured one his soul.

He came upon another group of retreating soldiers, battling against the smoke. None had horses, and all were coughing. Armour had mostly been abandoned, although a one of the three still wore his breastplate - protected from the heat by the padding underneath. One Noldor and two Sindrian, Maedhros nethertheless recognised none of them. They recognised him, however, pointing out the way Maglor had gone only a few minutes before. In return, he gave them directions as best he could.

Pressing on, he called for his brother and carefully rode around the choking and the dead on the field. Elves and Orcs alike spasming on the ground from the accursed ash in their lungs; Maedhros steeled himself and rode on. There was nothing to be done for them, out here on the field and so far from the edge of the ash. A wide streak of nothing but charcoal across the plain, where dragonfire had carved out a path.

And then, out of the ash, he heard his brother’s voice. It strained and cracked as he ordered men still fighting to fall back, and Maedhros’ heart clenched. Unmistakably still Maglor’s honied words, but riddled with pain and exhaustion.

“Maglor! Where are you?” he yelled into the cloud.

A pause in the commands being issued from deeper into the ash, and Maedhros called again.

“Two minutes!” the strained reply, followed by more choked directions. A few moments later, Maglor stumbled through the ash, and into Maedhros’ field of vision.

His joy was quickly diminished by the state of his little brother. Much like the other men still standing, his armour had been discarded at some point. His remaining clothing was torn and blood-stained, strips of his trousers ripped off and tied hastily over his face - a poor shield from the ash, but one nonetheless. His hair a third of the length he’s seen it before, ends uneven and burnt away. Many injuries still bled, others filled with the ash. His left arm pulled across his chest, the sleeve and outer layers of skin burnt away, yet still his hand was clutching at his ribs. One of his two blades had been lost somewhere, the other chipped from unkind use. Bare feet were stained with soot and burns. Blood dripped sluggishly from a wound on his thigh, and flowed freely from another on his forehead. Eyes clear and observant if pained, face pale and gaunt with exhaustion. Maedhros doubted his brother had rested since the battle started all those 12 hours ago. Still, Maglor walked with his head as high as he could manage. Face stern and commanding and above all else proud.

He saw Maedhos, and his eyes lit up slightly, “Brother! Excellent. Do you have anyone with you? We need to split and check the rest of the field.” Maglor’s voice was weaker than it had any right to be. Even as his words were certain, his body struggled to stay upright.

“They’ve already split off to look. We’re leaving before you get any worse.” Making a quick check for orcs, and sensing none nearby, Maedhros slipped from his horse and stepped towards his brother.

Maglor scowled, “I will not abandon my men to their deaths.”

Maedhros frowned back, “You’re not; people are out searching. Now get on the horse before you burn the rest of the skin off your feet.”

Maglor looked down, apparently having not noticed the skin peeling from them in the heat, and his brows furrowed. Maedros tried to hide his concern with a distinctly unimpressed grimace. His skin was ripped apart and peeling from his feet; the pain should have been agony, and yet his brother was just blinking confused - not having even noticed. What did it say of his other injuries?

Maglor turned to look over his shoulder, shifting his face-mask as he yelled back the way he had come, “Gwaedhanar head west; Tinnon east; Malon north. Search as far as the mountains as to the east in each direction, then make to Himring. Send anyone you find on, too.”

He then turned back to stare at his feet. Then looked up, cocking his head to one side and give Maedhros a look.

“Sir!” three voices called back.

Then the sound of two people heading away, and one towards. From the ash Gwaedhanar, Maglor’s second, appeared.

“I said go west,” Maglor snapped.

“My Lords,” he bowed to the pair, before turning to his Lord. “Where are you going?”

“South, of course.”

“You are not. You are coming with me,” Maedhros snapped.

Maglor gave a short glare to his brother before starting to march southwards. Gwaedhanar gave Maedhros a distressed look, before stumbling to catch up to his lord - he was also injured, Maedhros noted, fresh blood staining both his trouser legs. Maedhros watched the exasperation in the second’s eyes turn to terror, as he yelled a warning.

“My Lord-!”

“What?!” Maglor turned back to snap.

And then both brothers followed his eyes to an orcish club swinging towards Maglor. He made to twist out of the way; it slammed into his side, and he screamed. The sword fell from his hand, and he grasped at the air for support. Panic shone briefly in his eyes, before pain forced them closed. The other end of the club slammed into the back of his head, and he was thrown from his feet and through the air. Maedhros surged forward, screaming for and catching his brother, as he bought his sword to defend them both. Maglor’s form crumpled around his right arm, no part of it able to support the weight of any other part. Carefully, Maedhros shifted his weight to rest Maglor on his chest. The sword-arm remained raised, a small shield between them and the enemy. Maglor gasped desperately for air, his cloth guard having slipped from his face.

The orc growled at the pair. Maedhros growled back.

And then it charged.

As Maedhros bought up his weapon and redirected the oncoming blow, Gwaedhanar ran across to the pair. Maedhros parried desperately, and the other elf rammed a knife into the abomination’s neck. It struggled only for another moment, before collapsing to the ground.

Lord and second exchanged a brief look, before the latter took up a defensive stance and the first lowered his brother to the floor. Calling his horse forward, Maedhros pulled down his bag. In the few moments of lapsed attention, Maglor had fallen limp.

“Maglor, brother, can you hear me?”

Maedhros placed his hand cupping Maglor’s face, relieved to find a pulse against his fingers, “Kano? Are you listening?”

With no response, Maedhros started to wrap injuries anyway. Panic was pushed away for habitual binding of wounds and murmured reassurances; a few moments out from pain was a bad sign, but so long as it was only a few moments...

Before his hands were even wrapped, Maglor’s eyes fluttered open. Immediately he curled in on himself and began to cough; Maedhros dearly hoped the blood on his lips was either splatter or from a bitten cheek, but knew better to count on it. With one hand and limited visibility there was little he could do.

“T-There was- Dragon.” Maglor finally spluttered out, eyebrows narrowing at how difficult formulating the words had been.

“I know. I came as soon as I could.” Maedhros frowned as he worked.

“Men-” he buckled as Maedhros pressed a little too hard.

“I’ll send whoever I can find back to Himring, my Lord. You sent Tinnon and Malon to do so as well,” Gwaedhanar’s eyes remained squinting towards the South - to where the Orc had appeared from. A quick, desperate glance was given to Maedhros. They both had the same thought - why were the orcs heading back towards from whence they came already?

“See? They’ll be fine. Now, we need to get you somewhere safer,” he assured his brother, feeling guilty about his relief that the head injury had made him more compliant. Especially with how serious a head injury it was. But Maglor would never leave his men willingly, and Maedhros would never leave his brother to his fate. At least this way, he had a chance of surviving to receive medical attention.

Without warning, Maglor threw this arms around his brothers neck, clinging on as though life depended on it. Maedhros strained to hear his mutterings, but hearing no sense gave it only cursory response. Trying to keep his brother’s lungs working was more important right now; even the poisoned air was better than none. Maglor was pushed back into Maedhros’ lap. The mutterings continued, but he seemed unaware of the change in position. Maedhros scowled harder, lines etching further into his face.

When there was no more Maedhros could do, he gathered Maglor back into his arms. With a grunt, he managed to pull them both onto his suffering horse. The pain of movement, however, knocked Maglor unconscious once more. Maedhros grasped him tight with his right arm as his left hand took the horse’s reins. With only a grimacing nod in thanks, he spurred his horse onward. For his part, Gwaedhanar rebound the cloth over his mouth and started limping away, searching for other survivors.

As the ash thinned, it became easier to breathe - easier to speak. Still, Maglor fluttered in and out of consciousness. Even his conscious periods were barely lucid, overwhelmed by pain and ash and fear. Sobbing and screaming. A far cry from the battered but defiant commander, ignoring orders from his superior trying to find his men. Maedhros murmured comfort to him as they rode, more for his own benefit than his brother’s.

They rode on for hours. As Himring became visible between the mountains, Maglor began to stroke the back of Maedhros’ stump. Maedhros frowned as the scars twinged; evidently the heat had been getting to his exposed flesh too.

“Maglor, please stop. It’s sore.” He hadn’t expected the hand to stop, but it did. It was another moment before Maglor spoke.

“Nelyo?”

“Yes?”

“Are you really here?”

Maedhros pressed the side of his face against his brother’s for a moment, hoping it’d give some small comfort to his confused and concussed younger brother. “I’m here, brother. I’ve got you. We’re safe; we’ll be home soon.”

“Good.”

After a few moments of silence, Maglor began to sob. It started quietly, before increasing to wrack his entire frame. Even as he passed back into oblivion, his breath continued to hitch.

Maedhros held his brother tighter, and spurred his horse to go ever-faster.

---

Hours later he made it back to Himring. As soon as he was spotted, riders came out to meet him. A quick glance showed the same was being done for anyone presenting - a precaution against infiltrators. Caichanar, the Commander of the Garrison, rode with them. The entire group kept their eyes firmly affixed away from the unconscious Maglor.

“Hail, Lords,” he nodded his head as soon as he was satisfied neither posed threat to Himring or its people.

An unsteady step from the horse jolted Maglor back to reality with a short scream. He then burst into desperate, sobbing laughter. The escort’s faces mirrored Maedhros’ concern.

“Caichanar, take my brother; my horse is tired and he needs urgent attention,” he had intended to say more, or to say it better, but his own throat was raw. How Maglor continued to shriek was beyond him.

“Of course.”

Caichanar drew alongside him, and Maglor was carefully passed from one to the other.

Once his charge was secure, the Commander spurred his horse to a gallop.

“Maitimo!” Maglor screamed as he was taken on ahead, struggling and weakly reaching for his brother. Their eyes met, but his, wild with anguish, did not see.

Maedhros could not find the voice to call back, although he reached out to him too - almost on an instinct. Shaking himself, promising himself that getting his brother safely and quickly to a medic was the best he could do for him, he slowed his horse. At this more gentle pace he and his escort approached the fortress. The gates raised before them, and a horn rang out signalling the return of the Lord. Hopefully eyes glanced at him as he entered the courtyard, an almost audible sigh of relief passing over them.

The moment he dismounted a young ellon took his horse and another lead him to the healers. One of the seniors checked him over, before determining none of his wounds especially serious and leaving him the hands of an apprentice.

Young as she was, the apprentice didn’t have any qualms about ordering him around. He wasn’t quite certain if he should be offended or pleased.

“Where is my brother?” he asked, as she finished shoving some concoction down his throat.

She seemed uncertain for a moment, before nodding to herself, “Masters Óleryssel and Estelmistor are seeing to him in the family quarters. They will send for you when you may see him.”

Somehow, she had managed to find a couple of open wounds, and seemed to take a level of delight in pouring them full of alcohol. Not to mention using the most coarse cloth she could find to clean his burns; at the very least, it felt intentional. A cloth couldn’t be that harsh without effort, surely?

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches at least.”

Was that disappointment he heard in her voice? He tried to forget he had heard it. Tried to make a note to ask someone to keep a close eye on this healer.

News of his arrival now passing through the castle, messengers soon accosted him - his steward sending a current inventory and requesting approval for a rationing plan, Caichanar’s reports from his time away, a preliminary list of who had made it back so far, messages from various parties… He made his way to his office, intending both to make a start on the proper paperwork and put himself somewhere obvious. No sooner had he picked up his quil that there was a knock at the door.

“Enter!”

One of the maidservants stuck her head around the door. “My Lord, there are messengers from the Pass of Aglon for you?”

He placed the quil back on the table, “send them to me.”

She bowed and scurried off. A few minutes later, a single ellon appeared. One arm was strapped to his side, and the other held a singed scrap of paper. Recognising him as Côldaer, one of Curufin’s lowest ranked captains, Maedhros raised an eyebrow. Not an actual messenger, then. Beneath the impassive expression, his heart clenched a little.

“My Lord,” he bowed.

“Rise. You bring message from my brothers? And where are the rest of your squad?”

A quick nod, “my men are injured and being seen to. My Lord Celegorm has requested I deliver you this message.”

Maedhros placed out his hand, and the paper was placed into it. With a flick of his thumb it was unfolded, and he scanned the text. It was written messily in charcoal, the words crammed onto the scrap and filling every part of it.

‘Maeadis dead. Celebrimbor & I injured. Path overrun. Cannot get through. Going to Nargothrond. To send word on arrival. Stay safe. Celegorm.’

His heart sank as he read. Tucking the slip safely into a breast pocket, Maedhros turned to Côldaer, “there is no mention of your Lord Curufin?”

“When I left my Lord’s only injuries were superficial, and he was to travel with Lord Celegorm.”

“It says the path was blocked. Was it?” Maedhros asked.

“Of the six of us who continued this way, only myself and three others made it here alive. Two are not expected to see morning. It is infested with orcs.”

“Are you expected to return to your Lord?”

“I do not believe I was expected to make it here. Sir.”

Maedhros hid a grimace, “That will be all. My best wishes to your squad; if you wish to stay, make yourself known to the Steward. I’ll let her know permission was granted. You are dismissed.”

The messenger bowed and retreated, as Maedhros sank down onto his chair; if the pass between the two was overrun, then the entire area was likely to be. Himring could withstand the physicality of a siege, but supplies wise… He took the lists supplied by his steward and began calculating. Until he had the full number of survivors and refugees he could not know exactly, but with careful rationing food should last out the winter. Medical supplies, however… From across the hallway, he heard his brother scream. He was on his feet in an instant, already at the door before remembering the healers would not let him to inside, that there was nothing more he could do. It was harder still when his brother screamed his name - gold drained away, only burning ash remaining.

Finding himself unable to work with the screams, he turned his attention desperately to his other brothers, headed to Nargothrond. Curufin’s wife dead, little Celebrimbor motherless and hurt. Celegorm hurt, although still able to write. The paper was too small for a description, but being able to write narrowed the possibilities. No doubt the journey was also his plan; for all he took after their father, Curufin would be distraught at the death of his wife and fretting over his son. He would not have the awareness to make a new plan. But then, maybe not that different - who knows how father would have reacted if mother died? If one of them had died?

So, Celegorm was leading. It explained the plan; he was a hunter and fighter, not a tactician.

He understood the logic - head somewhere strong and safe to heal. Ensure messages get there so they know the enemy has ripped open the line. But with those two? There would be trouble before long. If they were even allowed to enter; Finrod was a good man, but good men protect their people from dangers. And sons of Feanor could always be described as dangers.

Sighing, he pulled out some parchment and began to draft a letter to each of his further afield brothers. He did not doubt Caranthir would fall back if he received the warning, and it was too late to send one now. Maglor might have done, but no messages from Himring would have ever arrived in time. He’d need to ask… But, most likely Caranthir would withdraw to the twins’ holding - the forces of all three should be able to hold for some time… He sighed. What to write of Maglor? His brothers needed to know, would worry otherwise, but what to write when he knew not the prognosis? From the injuries he had taken… Maedhros was not a healer; he would not pass judgement until one had spoken to him. The letters were put aside, awaiting details. The passes were blocked, anyway - no point getting men killed on a hopeless task. Maedhros scoffed slightly, wondering what his other brothers - his father even - would think of that.

Slowly he learnt to drown out the screams. Or maybe they became less common. Paperwork was read and orders handed out. Lists and notices of survivors also came through. A census called for in a week’s time. Eventually, he turned his attention back to the supplies. Half-finished with his task of checking his steward’s suggestions, another knock came.

“Come in!”

Master Estelmistor, the more personable of the two most senior healers in Himring entered, “My Lord.” His tone was cold, professional but guarded. Maedhros’ face fell.

Estelmistor took this as sign to continue, “we have done what we can; one of his ribs punctured his lung. Between that and the smoke…” he shook his head. Seeing Maedhros’ face turn stormy he quickly added, “he is alive currently..”

“But?”

Estelmistor deflated, “but we suspect he will not survive the night; there was an unfamiliar poison in the ash, and he and his did not go out with faces covered. We have agreed that, once I have briefed you on his state, you may sit with him. One of us will stay on hand, but until his condition changes or the herbalists can calculate the antidote, we can do little more. It is on his body, for now.”

Once, Estelmistor would have said it was in the hands of the Valar. Fëanor had seen an end to that turn of phrase.

“How likely are the herbalists to find an antidote in time?”

Estelmistor grimaced, “How likely is a moth to find his own way out of the castle?”

After a moment’s silence, he followed with a list of Maglor’s injuries - each one more serious than the last. In his waking moments he rambled of hallucinations and imagined things, and in his sleeping ones cried out for help and rescue. Even if he survived, there was no way to know what damage the poison would do. Had already done, even.

Once he had taken the time to process the information, Maedhros asked to be taken to his brother. The healer lead the way to Maglor’s favoured guest room. Dark blue walls, next to the stairs up to Maedhros’ own quarters.

In the door he froze. Maglor lay deathly still on blood-soaked sheets. His chest barely moved, and most of his flesh covered in tangled bandages. The little skin not covered by them was flecked with minor burns.

Óleryssel, the other most senior healer, was sipping a cup of something warm as she sat by the window. Her eyes did not look to the others as she waited, and only her lack of hurry stilled Maedhros’ fears. Still, his eyes remained wide at the sight, and body still. It had been years since any of them had been children - the pass alone had held for longer than their father had lived from conception to fiery death - but laid out on his own blood, Maglor looked younger and frailer than he ever had upon these shores.

And then he gave a small whine. And then an even smaller sob. And then a desperate, broken plea for a brother.

Shaken from his stillness, Maedhros strode quickly to Maglor’s side. He collapsed to his knees by the bed, taking one of Maglor’s bandaged hands in his, and pressing his stump gently to the side of his face. Maglor turned towards the touch, sobs quieting to little hiccups. After a few moments eyes fluttered open. For a moment they seemed to look at Maedhros, but then looked through him as he collapsed into a coughing fit. At the sight of blood bubbling up, Maedhros called out for help.

Óleryssel turned from her silent conversation with Estelmistor. She quickly twisted Maglor onto his side, as he passed her things and Maedhros backed off to let them work. He watched as his brother coughed blood onto the sheets, unable to help but unwilling to leave; once her patient stilled, Óleryssel ran her strong hands over his ribs. Seemingly satisfied she wiped the worst of the blood from his face and pillows, before gesturing to Maedhros that he could return and shooing her colleague to go get some rest. Estelmistor went to say something, but was glared into silence; Maedhros would rather not be told again that his brother was dying in front of him. That was already as good as apparent.

Maglor’s eyes remained open but unfocused, yet his face moved towards the sound of Maedhros returning.

“Brother?”

The pitiful voice promoted Maedhros to take his brother’s hand once more, gently rubbing it, “I’m here, Kano. You’re safe now.”

“Father, he-” a small cough, but Maedhros dared only breathe when it had passed. “He… Telvo!” the sobbing restarted. The name was repeated between sobs.

“Telvo is with Pityo in the south,” Maedhros attempted to soothe. “They will have had warning to hide, and the forests love them dearly. Morvo will go to them, too. Kurvo and Turko are safe - have sent word already.”

He found it strange that Maglor would think of the twins, closer as he was to others. And not the twins, but only one of them.

Maglor shook his head, and the resulting coughing fit lasted only long enough for Óleryssel to draw close again. When it ended he looked despairingly into Maedhros’ eyes, repeating ‘father’ and ‘fire’ and ‘Telvo’. Confused, Maedhros simply tried to placate him with gentle words.

The next few minutes seemed to drag into hours, before Maglor managed to fall back asleep. Óleryssel looked over approvingly, before pointing to the darkness out and trying to shoo Maedhros from the room. He glowered at her, and she instead pointed to a pile of blankets on the floor, then to a chair off to one side. He glowered back, but she stepped between him and his brother. Her meaning was clear.

“Wake me if anything happens?”

She rolled her eyes, shooing him harder towards the blankets. Taking one he settled down in the chair.

His night was restless, but he would not have left for all the gold in the world. Willingly he would not even have left for a Silmaril - but eventually, after oh so many awakenings to eldest of his brothers choking or screaming, morning came. At some point overnight Óleryssel had left, Estelmistor taking her place.

“Good morning, my Lord,” the healer turned not to him. “The servants have left breakfast for you.”

Maedhros’ eyes flickered to Maglor. His brother was fitfully sleeping once more, face still deathly pale but breathing a little more steadily.

“By some sort of miracle he has not yet coughed up his actual lungs.” Estelmistor paused a moment, “I mean, your brother is still among the living. I mean-”

Maedhros waved off his correction; he would rather have a good healer than a polite one. He took the bowl of porridge. It took only putting the spoon to it to tell that his steward had already begun the rationing, without his approval. He wondered where she had gotten to - it was unlike Sílrien not to seek him out constantly.

Once he had eaten, Estelmistor recruited him into keeping Maglor calm whilst he fed and cleaned him. During the night the sheets had been changed; in the light of day, and not laying in his own blood, Maglor looked paler, but less terrible. He was sleeping now, and Maedhros took back the position next to him, gently holding his hand.

One of the apprentice healers shuffled in not long after, eyes exhausted and holding a slip of paper.

“Ah, thank you, Mithon,” Estelmistor took the paper, scanning it briefly and stepping over to the basket of herbs. The apprentice, Mithon, stepped beside him. The two discussed something quietly as they worked, leaving Maedhros to sit with his brother.

Turning to look down, Maedhros saw Maglor had awoken and was staring at him.

“You’re here, you’re here,” Maglor whispered, fevered eyes filled with elated surprise, suddenly falling into guilt. “I’m sorry; you’re alive. You’re here. I’m sorry.”

Maedhros stroked his hair, “Of course I am here; I would not leave you alone. Rest. I am here, and we are safe. Our brothers are safe, our nephew is safe. You must rest; your body needs to heal. All will be well; I will be near.”

The two’s words were spoken over each other, neither really processing the words of the others but taking comfort in the voices. Maglor nearly fell asleep from time to time, but would be jolted awake by coughing or pain. And then they would start again, hushing each other with looping phrases. It became apparent after a while that, although he was more often awake, Maglor’s periods of lucidity had almost ceased entirely.

A short time passed, and the two healers completed their work. The apprentice tasted it, grimacing but nodding. Estelmistor stepped forward, bowl in hand. Maedhros squinted at it, unfamiliar with the concoction.

“This is the herbalist’s current best attempt for the antidote. We would test more, but…” he gestured at Maglor. “With his lungs damaged by other means he will fall unto Mandos if we do not act soon. From his other symptoms, and the paths others followed, it appears the poison is eating through his lung tissues. From there, the damage will be irreversible and moving to his heart. It also contains a sedative so we can work in peace.”

Maedhros gestured for the healers to go ahead - of all your men, cooks and healers were the two who had to be trustworthy above everyone else. Even if it was experimental, he knew they would not give his brother something untested without absolute necessity.

Between them, Estelmistor and Mithon administered it. Maglor tried to object to taking it, but moments after swallowing the last of the concoction fell limp. Maedhros was then ushered out a little while later on the grounds he should really be performing his lordly duties, and yes of course they’d send for him as soon as anything changed, also please actually wash. He left with more grace than he felt, and headed for the baths.

Once clean and dressed in something more comfortable, he strode back up the stairs towards his office. Harried runners dashed around, but still he received polite bows and smiles as he passed. Those with pity he glared away.

In his office, his steward was sat at the spare desk, holding a sheet of paperwork to the window. She dropped it, yelping in surprise, as the door opened.

“My Lord,” she stood and bowed as he entered.

“Peace, Sílrien.”

She returned to her seat, “my condolences for your brother.”

“He is not dead yet; I was dismissed after he was given an antidote to the poison.”

She seemed surprised, but did not voice anything further as she launched into her account of the current state of things - his losses were lower than expected, but his brother’s much, much higher. Between fire and poison and orcs… She named everyone who had entered the fortress as of an hour ago, along with the number of unidentified injured. And listed everyone who was known dead. For those still missing she solely gave a number.

Report complete, she returned to her scroll. Looking over, he saw it to be some accounts. For his part, Maedhros fell into the pattern of his lordly duties with less ease than usual. Letters to his brothers were finalised, to be sent when the passages were safe. Still, his people had to be the priority; he should probably schedule in time to give a reassuring speech...

---

Time passed. Maglor was now lucid more often than not, able to follow gentle conversation and sit up in his bed. The healers said at this point recovery was almost certain - so long as infection did not set in, and he rested as he should. And the poison did not have an unexpected kick-back. Maedhros thanked the innate resilience of the firstborn; the injuries would have killed a man quicker than even the ride back to Himring.

A little while ago the not-quite elfling had returned Maglor’s harp, his toddler brother shadowing him closely. Maglor’s face had lit up at both the instrument and the soldier, fondly ruffling his hair and congratulating his services. The action was tolerated, although not appreciated. Achardirion, he’d told Maedhros his name was, and the brother was Erestor. They were sons of Guruthon, Maglor’s steward. The trust placed on him made a little more sense now, but was still a mark of desperation. They had been dismissed not long after by Estelmistor, who had then disappeared to check on the rest of the injured.

Now it was just the two brothers sat in the room. Their discussion had started with the ongoing siege, supplies and logistics, but as evening drew on it moved to fickler things. Maedhros didn’t mind; his brother was still recovering, and had run out of useful points regardless.

“How long do you think before Finrod actually punches Celegorm?”

“You mean he hasn’t already?” Maglor feigned surprise.

“They might not have arrived yet.”

A noise of amused agreement was given, and the brothers fell back into silence.

“How are your feet doing?”

Maglor frowned for a moment, before waving his hands, “at least another week before they let me even try walking on them. Not that I want to; even just shifting the bandages is agony. Agony, brother!”

Not in the mood for his brother’s dramatics, Maedhros just gave him a sympathetic look before turning to his paperwork. Maglor took the hint, and sat quietly.

After a little while, Maglor began to pick thoughtlessly at the strings on the harp. With his hands still bandaged actually playing was not possible, but attempting the flute that morning had him choking once more. It had worried people, and set his recovery back by days. So, for now, nothing strenuous on the lungs. To his horror, that included singing - and on the fourth hour of whining about boredom, Maedhros had gone to his office, grabbed a random stack of paperwork, a quill and dropped it on Maglor’s lap. It was telling that the younger started completing it with only cursory complaint.

They stayed like that for a little while - until a maidservant bought food up for the pair. As she left and the two ate, Maglor began to fidget. Maedhros raised an eyebrow; that he had managed silence for this long was unusual.

“Thank you,” Maglor looked away from Maedhros. “For coming for me. For bringing me back, even when I didn’t want you to.” The last line of ‘I was being foolish’ showed on his face but did not pass between them.

“You don’t need to thank me for that. It’s what brothers do.”

“I never came for you,” a glance at the bandages over his hand.

“Elder brothers, then.” a pause. Evidently they were to be discussing these things now, “I thought you were going to die. So did the healers.”

“I didn’t.” a pout.

“And for that I am so very, very glad.”

Maedhros turned away as he spoke, fighting for control of his emotions. Maglor pretended not to notice, playing with his food more than eating it. A hold on his face regained, Maedhros began picking at his own meal.

The silence slowly became awkward, so Maglor began to chatter into it, “I had a dream, you know. That we came for you. All of us died, trying that. Then another where I was in your place. Another where we tried to make father send the ships back - and father burnt Amras alive for it.”

“That was just because of the poison.” Maedhros dearly hoped his brother had dreamed a sanitised version of his experiences… His heart clenched and churned - if it had not been for Fingon, he’d have died by now. And if not for he and his own brothers, he would have lost his mind, too.

“Then it’s a terrible, terrible poison. I’ve never had dreams that felt so real before. Well, not that also felt plausible anyway. There was that one one time with the goat, and father, and Caranthir, and mother’s chisels...” Maglor started indignant, but his voice drifted away.

“Then we’ll look at it this way instead; father would have never hurt one of us, and you’d never be foolish enough to not leave anyone behind if you had tried to come for me. And I would never have asked you to go to that meeting; you’d never have been caught.” Even as he spoke, Maedhros doubted his words; who knows what their father would have done, in the heights of his insanity. If Maglor could tell, he didn’t mention.

“Do you think Caranthir and the twins will be okay? And our cousins?”

“Of course,” Maedhros replied with more conviction than he felt - this time, Maglor did frown at his lie. He started working through his reasoning - attempting to convince them both, “The twins are well away from the line, Caranthir is eminently more sensible than the rest of us put together, and, for all he is thoroughly unlikeable, he still has the most allies of us all. And our cousins, for their part, are a thousand times more heroic than us.”
Maglor turned, looking out the window. “I don’t think we’re in that sort of story.”

Maedhros had to agree, but squeezed his brother’s hand regardless. Feigning ignorance, he asked what sort of story. Why his brother thought they were in one at all, he also did not ask; they say the world was sung into being, so surely it would continue as such?

“We are in a tragedy. The enemy may not win, but by the end of this tale every hero will have fallen from grace, or will have died. All will be brought low by their own tragic flaws, some of which are not flaws at all until you think too hard. The Valar have abandoned us to our fates - no, they have doomed us in anger. But like every proper tragedy, it will be us and ours who rip the Noldor to shreds; their heroism will get our cousins killed. And we will be the death of ourselves,” the echo of a smile passed over Maglor’s lips, distant and dark, but longing and peaceful still. There was something about the image deeply unsettling; the gentlest of their number speaking his own doom over the family, that smile on pale lips and staring at a sun nobody could see. Shifting, Maedhros could see a bright wildness in his eyes - both unlike and yet comparable to the brightnesses of fever and the trees.

“Life is not a story,” Maedhros tried to plead, to bring his brother back from his strange mood.

“But it will be. Someday. If anyone survives this war, we will be the heroes and villains of a great tale. And we, you and I and our brothers, will be remembered for all our failings. Even if we win, we’re not going to be the heroes. Not any more. Not with what we did,” Maglor shook his head, dismissing the thought and turning away from the window, eyes echoing slight pain, a strange darkness fluttering away as the topic changed, but curious and alert once more. “Have we any news?”

“Not yet - just the message from Celegorm I have already shown you. I expect it will be some time before the mountains can be passed through.”

A nod, “have you a map?”

“You’re not supposed to be working, my Lord,” the voice came from the door.

The brothers turned to see Gwaedhanar, face ashen and limping slightly, but very much alive. Maglor’s face broke finally into a full grin, and Maedhros found himself copying if only a little.

“Neither are you!” Maglor laughed, waving him in, all trace of the strange darkness now gone. “And my brother has had me doing his paperwork for the past three days!”

Maedhros didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d spent the last three nights correcting drug-induced errors in said paperwork.

He came inside, sitting straight as a rod on a wingback chair. “The healers requested someone come check up on you. And, frankly, I am quite fed up with the medical tents.”

“Are you well, my friend?” Maglor asked, squinting at him.

“Are you, my Lord?” he returned in like.

The silence extended just long enough that Maedhros was wracking his brains for something to end it when Maglor spoke again.

“Forgive me for forcing you back into the ash, even as I left?”

He shook his head, “you were in no state to force me to do anything. I went after our men of my own will; forgive me for not being quicker to warn you.”

“I should not have been so distracted…”

“Then there is nothing to forgive.” A pause, “Thank you for caring about our men, my Lord.”

“It is the responsibility of any good leader to look after his people,” Maglor stiffened at the implication that anyone would ever do any less. Maedhros stiffened for another reason entirely.

“Still, you were injured; nobody would have thought less of you for just sending others to do it. Many would call you a fool for going back out, with just the three of us.”

Maglor shook his head, “I couldn’t have done that. I could not have rested until either everyone was accounted for, or my body betrayed me.”

“Your father would not have cared.”

Just because they knew them to be true did not make it less uncomfortable; just because Gwaedhanar, formally one of Feanor’s most beloved and trusted advisors, thought so did not make it hurt any less. If anything, it made it hurt more. Maedhros pushed back down the anger which swelled at the implied insult to his father - it was not untrue, and it was not even necessarily wrong. For all he loved his brother, for all he understood, it was a thoroughly terrible idea for Maglor to have returned to look for his men with the ash still there. Oh, he understood, but usually Maglor’s plans were less tactically awful.

“No, I don’t suppose he would have done… How many did we lose?” Maglor’s voice was cold.

“The reports aren’t yet complete, but… Over eighty percent of our men, and the whole of the cavalry. More of the civilians escaped, but they are also harder to count. A census is ongoing; I will bring you a full list when it is ready... ” the advisor looked carefully at his Lord before continuing. “Guruthon and Malon are dead. Tirron and I are telling the boys this evening; their mother is also unaccounted for.”

Maedhros recognised the names of his brother’s steward and guard-captain. Silence was the only reply. Once certain of no further questions, Gwaedhanar made his hasty excuses and left. Alone once more and the last dregs of evening disappearing, Maedhros turned to wish his brother goodnight.

Instead, he stared; Maglor’s frame was deathly still, but tears dripped down his face. A face which was the very image of despair itself. Usually Maglor’s tears were as loud as his voice; obviously his ribs still troubled him greatly.

Gently, carefully, Maedhros slipped closer and wrapped his arms around his brother. Maglor nestled his head into his neck, lips moving but making no sound.

“Cry if you need to, little brother,” Maedhros stroked his hair. “It will be brighter after.”

Morning came, no brighter than the night left behind, and found the brothers entwined, tear-tracks staining their cheeks.

---

Chapter End Notes

OC list:
Gwaedhanar - Maglor's second. Used to work for Feanor as a military advisor, and took a shine to the second son.
Caichanar - Maedhros' garrison commander
Óleryssel and Estelmistor - Maedhros' most senior medics. They worked for his father before him, and have both seen some shit (TM). Due to the fact Himring is a military outpost, they have a head healer to cover both day and night shifts, or to double up in emergancies.
Côldaer - one of Curufin's captains. Not that Curufin remembers. He leads a group of 5 men, and is one step above 'mook' status.
Mithon - apprentice healer who mostly functions as a runner.
Sílrien - Maedhros' steward.
Achardirion - A newly adult soldier serving Maglor's Gap. Guruthon's son and Erestor's elder brother.
Lady Maeadis - Curufin's wife.
Guruthon - Maglor's steward. Father of Achardirion and Erestor.
Malon - Maglor's guard-captain.
Tinnon - one of Maglor's soldiers. Served in Gwaedhanar's command.