"It is done, Káno."
Several hours had passed since Maglor had sent the messengers galloping off into the dusk, and hastily he retreated back to his brother's side. Fingon stood over his still unconscious form and delicately draped a blanket over him, tucking its soft folds around his sides and fussing with its edge as a mother might do to a child.
"Nyériel cauterized the wound without complications, and now the process of healing proper may begin."
"Good," Maglor murmured, his lip twisting involuntarily as once more he beheld his brother's piteous form.
The healers had cropped his hair back to behind his ears, and in the glowing candlelight its russet ends curled over his pallid cheeks. He looked so much younger that way, Maglor thought, so much more fragile. So much more breakable. With a sigh he looked away, his eyes wandering down to the top of his chest. What of it emerged from beneath the blanket was mostly swaddled in thick, padded bandages. The healers had disinfected the wounds across his back, and stitched up what they could, Fingon explained, and over the angry flesh set soothing compresses of birch-bark and arnica to bind.
Through the all the procedures he had not moved, Fingon had said. He lay as one dead, and only with the greatest of care had they lifted his limp body, Fingon cradling him to his chest as the healers had worked, supporting his head and neck gently against his shoulder as one would hold a newborn. Indeed even as Maedhros reposed in the sickbed, it was only the shallow rise and fall of his chest that assured Maglor that he was still alive.
"Did they say when he might wake?" he asked, glancing concernedly over at Fingon.
A hand passed over his cousin's haggard-looking face, and for a moment both of them were silent. All too keenly Maglor was aware of the toll that this was exacting upon Fingon as well, and with calm patience he awaited a reply.
"They do not know," Fingon replied sadly, an unfocused haze seeming to cloud over his dark eyes, and his voice died away to an oddly muted monotone. "Since I…freed him upon the mountainside he has remained inert. He fainted in my arms and ever since he has not stirred. He did not even flinch as the brand pressed to him…"
Sorrowfully Maglor eyed the bandage that wrapped around the end of his brother's right arm, that Fingon had left tenderly exposed atop the bedcovers. Turgid, bruised veins darted up the scarred expanse of his forearm, and against their murk the whiteness of the cloth was painfully stark.
"Did…did Nyériel give him something?" With difficulty, Maglor ripped his gaze away from his brother, and he looked slowly back to Fingon. "To help him sleep, or for the pain?"
"No," Fingon sighed, his dishevelled braids tipping over his shoulders as his head bowed. "What would be the use, anyway? He is beyond feeling…"
A tremor seemed to run through Fingon's shoulders, and jerkily he looked back up. "There is little that even the strongest of herbs can do now. She said we must be patient, and in time he will return to us."
A question hovered on Maglor's lips, a question that he was not sure he wanted to know the answer to. Delicately he sat upon the very end of the bed, his throat tightening as all the closer he glimpsed the scars etched into his brother's skin. His fingers curled tightly about the blanket, and eventually he brought himself to ask:
"Did she say what might happen when he wakes? Will he…will he be…"
"I do not know. They could not say..." Fingon's jaw wobbled, and he clamped it shut, gritting his teeth together painfully hard. His head tilted back and he blinked rapidly up at the sloped canvas ceiling, the muscles in his throat flexing horribly under his skin as he murmured, "I don't know what they did to him, Káno. I don't know how long he was there on the mountainside, I don't know what they did to him b-before…"
Fingon's chin crinkled, and sensing the note of impending hysteria in his voice Maglor arose, pulling his cousin in a massive bear-hug as he saw his knees begin to buckle.
"He asked me…h-he asked me to…" Fingon stammered, his face pressed into Maglor's shoulder as at last his composure shattered, as adrenaline and purpose faded, and shock truly began to bite.
"Shhh, Finno, it's okay," Maglor whispered, holding his cousin all the tighter as he felt the sobs begin to rack through him, and Fingon's fingers gripped into his tunic. Grief bubbled up within his own throat, but as if to fill the void of control within the room his own will hardened, and firmly he said: "Finno, it's all right. You have returned Nelyo to us. Through your bravery and your hardship he is here, and he is safe. Whatever should come to pass, this valiant deed happened because of you, and no other. And no matter what happens, I will stand by you, I promise."
"B-but what if he's angry with me," Fingon whimpered. "He – he asked me to…"
"No, Finno, no he will not be angry," Maglor replied, an inexplicable sense of certainty seeping through him. "He will not be angry with you, and even if he is, then he will forgive you. You know that, don't you? He would do anything for you."
"But…"
"Finno," Maglor said sternly, pulling his cousin from his embrace to firmly grip him about the shoulders, and he stared hard into Fingon's bloodshot eyes. "Did you not yourself say that self-imposed punishment is futile? Nelyo would not want this of you, not now, do you understand?"
Fingon looked away miserably, and perhaps more roughly than he intended to, Maglor shook him.
"Look at me!" he commanded, and in his voice something terrible trembled. "You have done no wrong by your actions, as cruel as they might seem. What he asked of you no longer matters: it is what you did that defines us now."
With watery eyes Fingon at last met his gaze, and faintly he nodded.
"Now," Maglor said more gently, his hands relaxing about Fingon's shoulders, "retire yourself for the night."
At the beginning of Fingon's inevitable protest Maglor smiled tiredly, cutting over him: "You have done much this day, and seen more than anyone should ever have to. You are exhausted, and you must rest. I will not have both my brother and my cousin laid low in the infirmary. To bed with you, now."
"You sound like my mother," Fingon pouted, but as if to provide unwarranted confirmation to Maglor's words he yawned. Desperately he fought to conceal the rather inelegant contortions of his tear-stained face, and at his efforts Maglor arched an eyebrow.
"Rest, Finno. I will stay by him for the night. I am expecting the arrival of Turko come the dawn, if not before, for I do not think he rode far from the encampment on his last hunt. The others will come as the envoys reach them, but I suspect they will not be far behind. You will need your strength for the morrow."
Stifling another bone-rattling yawn, Fingon allowed himself to be prevailed upon. Wearily he bade Maglor goodnight and then slipped out of the tent, weaving through the camp to Maglor's own tents, a sub-section of which he had been allotted for the night.
At Fingon's departure Maglor sighed, closing the canvas tent-flaps firmly behind him. Remorsefully he looked over Maedhros once more, searching for any signs of life upon his brother's face. But his hope did not avail him; as one devoid of both feeling and emotion Maedhros slept, propped up by the mountain of soft pillows behind his back. With an increasing desperation Maglor's eyes wandered the planes of Maedhros' face, at once familiar and so painfully foreign. His cheekbones jutted all too sharply beneath his closed eyes, the freckles that smattered over his nose and cheeks were near-bleached by the deathly pallor of his skin.
Tearing his gaze away, Maglor crossed over to a chest of drawers set opposite the bed, a recent addition to the tent given his brother's condition, and the likely length of his stay. Atop it a pot of tea had been left to steep and he poured out a mug-full, the sweet scent of chamomile at once stroking over the clutch and twinge of his nerves. From a stack of books set upon the oak chest at the foot of the bed he took the topmost one: a hefty philosophical work written by Halatir, one of the great Vanyarin scholars.
Amid a pile of cushions that someone had thoughtfully left to the right of the bed he nestled himself, a warm lantern set glowing next to him. From here he could watch over his brother with ease, whilst attempting to inform himself of something of Maedhros' condition.
Such severe abuse was unprecedented amongst the people of the Eldar, but long ago speculative works about the healing of grave hurts had been written under the tutelage of the Valar. Nienna poured her bittersweet griefs into the wounds of the earth, Yavanna's shady arbours hosted many piquant herbs that possessed curative properties: a sly converse of the Dream-lord's mazes of wolfsbane and hemlock. And Estë, kindest and gentlest of all her kin walked sometimes upon the shores of her lake, and imparted words of both sorrow and healing to the most needing of folk.
Estë, Maglor thought sadly, sipping at his tea. If only Maedhros' plight could bring her walking.
But her mercies he and his kindred had long since forsaken, and to face all the cruelties of the world they were left alone.
A fanfare of trumpets jerked Maglor from an uneasy sleep. Anxiously he glanced over to where Maedhros lay, and to his surprise noticed Nyériel leaning across him. He scrambled to his feet, brushing his mussed hair back from his face, and closing the book that was left cracked open beside the burnt-out lantern.
As he arose Nyériel smiled at him, and at the concerned expression that clouded over his face quickly said: "There is nothing to worry about, your majesty. Your brother's condition remains unchanged. I thought it best to let you sleep while I re-dressed his wounds."
"Thank you," Maglor murmured, rubbing the sleep from his sore eyes with the backs of his knuckles. He walked over to the bed, peering worriedly down at his brother. But it was as Nyériel had said: he remained static, his chest rising and falling in shallow, steady motion as he slept. Maglor sighed, wincing slightly as the glimpse of Maedhros' truncated arm stabbed its blame once more through him.
Slowly he moved aside, crossing over to the chest of drawers where to his surprise he found a fresh mug of tea awaiting him. Gratefully he smiled at Nyériel over it, blowing on it gently as he wandered back over.
"Do you think he will awake today?" he asked, before sipping timidly at the tea, half-afraid of the answer.
"It is difficult to say," she replied, laving Maedhros' right arm in a cool infusion of athelas. Her fingers carefully massaged the knotted muscles of his arm as the cloth passed over them, as she tried still to assess the severity of their atrophy. "Your brother's case is unparalleled in the history of our people. I cannot tell you what to expect, in truth. It is possible that he may awaken today, or in a week's time, and be no better or worse for the difference. Shock and trauma work in ways beyond our ken, your majesty, and his fëa must once more regain mastery of the hröa if he is to recover."
Solemnly Maglor nodded. Halatir's book of which he had read last night had spoken of such things: that the fëa must be the master of the hröa, the spirit must innervate the body, and only from that unity could a person be whole, or could healing rightly begin. Worriedly Maglor glanced over Maedhros' pale cheeks, over the scars that patterned in ugly white ridges over his flesh, over the corrupted juncture of his right shoulder.
If this was the ruined state of his body, then he did not even want to begin to imagine what torments his fëa had been subjected to.
Guilt clawed through him anew, and with difficulty he pushed such fell thoughts aside. Grim speculation would not aid him or his brother, and he needed to be as clear-headed as he could in dealing with the consequences of his return.
For a few moments more he sipped at his tea, the spices prickling pleasantly down his throat, and somehow helping to settle the nervousness that churned in his stomach. In placid silence Nyériel finished her ablutions of his brother, and then began to gather up the much-diminished pile of her medical supplies.
Gradually the sounds of daybreak filtered through the thick canvas of the tent. Pots clattered upon campfires, boots tramped to early watches at their borders, and the susurrus of gentle conversation murmured through the air. But through such homely sounds sliced something far more potent, and far more perilous. Fingon's steady voice rang from outside, his precise words muffled by the tent's flaps, and a second later a much more tightly-strung one snapped something in reply.
A moment later a knock rapped upon the tent-post, and gathering his strength for the oncoming meeting Maglor bade them enter.
No sooner had the words left his lips then did one party member dash inwards, streaking past Maglor with a flash of blonde hair and the lingering smell of horse. Rather more sedately then did Fingon enter, followed by a wolfhound whose back stood to the height of his waist.
"Nelyo!" Celegorm cried, slinging a backpack from his shoulder to the floor as he dove towards his brother lain within the bed.
"Nelyo?" he repeated more uncertainly, a thickness clotting in his voice as his eyes darted over what of Maedhros' marred flesh remained still exposed. "Nelyo? Nelyo, it's me…"
Maglor set aside his mug, and Fingon stepped quietly over to him. Together they stared down at Celegorm, whose chestnut eyes glimmered as he turned back to face them.
"Is…is he going to…" Celegorm whispered, disbelief and dismay pounding through him. "Finno, you said…you said he…"
Celegorm's breath cut off in a taut hiss as he sighted Maedhros' maimed arm. An unflattering vermilion mottled over his cheeks, and he stepped back a few paces, his hands clenching into fists by his sides.
"Who did this?" he hissed.
At the livid silence that fell his face twisted, and near-manically he stared at Fingon.
"Who did this?"
Fingon froze, and Maglor stepped resolutely in front of him.
"It is the fault of the Enemy, Turko," he said calmly. "What is done is done. Let us not throw discord amongst ourselves at such a delicate time."
Celegorm squinted balefully at Maglor for a moment, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck. But after a tense second he exhaled, that blistering fury seeming to cool a little within him as he strove for a modicum of etiquette. With a lingering glance back to Maedhros he turned, not to his relatives but to Nyériel, who stood unobtrusively nearby.
"Mistress," he snapped, "what herbs have you given him? Tell me, quickly."
At his brusque tone Nyériel balked slightly, before cordially replying: "My lord, I have bound his wounds in poultices of birch-bark and aloe, and have washed his wrist thoroughly in an infusion of broiled athelas."
"For the pain?" Celegorm demanded, looking at her urgently. "What have you given him?"
"Turko," Maglor broke in, rather appalled by his brother's rudeness. "She has done everything she can do, do not –"
"I know what I am doing, Káno," Celegorm growled, his teeth gritted tightly together. "Kindly butt out."
Nyériel sighed, before saying, "I have not given him anything for pain as yet, my lord. He has not regained consciousness enough for strong analgesics to be safely administered."
An awful spasm twisted over Celegorm's face, and for a terrible moment Maglor thought he was going to scream. But tightly Celegorm bit back that urge, and a strained sigh emanated from between his clenched teeth. Bitterly he glanced back over Maedhros' prone form, and as he did so Huan padded over from beside the door, nudging at the top of Celegorm's rucksack with his nose.
"I see," Celegorm finally breathed, the muscles of jaw working beneath his skin. The tension in his voice was plain, but with a brittle composure he continued, scraping his hair back from his face. "Forgive my rudeness, mistress. It was…improper of me."
"It is forgotten, my lord."
Huan huffed atop the rucksack, sniffing inquisitively at its contents before panting up at his master. Celegorm shooed him away, before moving swiftly over into a crouch and unfastening its clasp.
"Káno's messengers found me upon the southern banks of the lake, and afore my return I made sure to collect what herbs of use I could find."
Jars clinked together as Celegorm opened up the pack, and curiously Maglor leaned forward. His brother rooted through the bag's interior, and readily Nyériel moved over to him, accepting each jar or package that he pulled forth with an eager smile.
"A bushel of witch-hazel," he declared. "Here, some leaves of feverfew, though less than I desired. Berries and leaves of belladonna…"
"Belladonna?" Fingon spluttered. "Turko, we're trying to heal him, not poison him!"
"Well I am aware of that fact, dear cousin," Celegorm replied icily. "A tincture of belladonna leaves may be prepared via a dilution within alcohol. Left to percolate for fourteen days, the toxicity of the plant-matter deteriorates, and when drained the solution may then be applied as a liquid sedative."
As he talked, he continued to pull free yet more things from his pack. Soon a veritable armada of jars and wrappings cluttered over the chest as Nyériel set them carefully aside, and Maglor and Fingon looked on in amaze.
"A salve of arnica," Celegorm said, plucking a small metal pot from the bag's depths. "It is of my own make, and a little crude I admit, but upon bruising there is no better remedy."
A moment later he retrieved a large bundle wrapped in dampened cloth from the pack's base.
"Willow-bark," he said, "from the trees that cluster upon the banks to the south. I stripped them myself: no cleaner strands will you find this side of the Sea. It is of better quality than birch-bark, the salycin in it is better refined, and blunts even the sharpest of pain."
"How do you know all of this?" Fingon murmured, a tentative awe thrumming through his voice.
Finally Celegorm stood, the pack emptied. Huan huffed once more, then moved to sit attentively at his master's heel, his tail wagging across the floor.
"Cousin," Celegorm smiled thinly, "when one spends as much time among the wilderness as I do, one swiftly familiarizes themselves with the local flora and fauna. Or more specifically, with what might kill you if you touch it, and what in an emergency might save your life. Oromë talked at length about the importance of such knowledge, and more than once it has aided a companion in distress."
Fingon made some wordless noise of understanding, and not the least bit of admiration. As he did so, Celegorm turned to Nyériel, a graver air coming over him.
"Mistress, if you would have me, might I assist you in the preparation of whatever tinctures or medicines you apply to my brother? My knowledge, while not formal, is nevertheless sound: and I only wish to be of whatever use to you that I can, to better be able to help him."
"Oh, um, o-of course, my lord," Nyériel stammered, a little flustered at such a request. "Your assistance would be most welcome, and I would be very happy to instruct you in what I know."
Suavely Celegorm bowed, affixing her with his most irresistible grin. Quickly though, his flash of merriment faded, and a sombreness crept over him once more.
"Káno, might I speak with you outside?" he enquired.
Maglor glanced over at Fingon, and seeing the assent upon his face acquiesced. He glanced worriedly over Maedhros once more, before abruptly turning aside, and ducking quickly through the tent's entranceway.
Celegorm nodded politely to Nyériel, and to Fingon, who faintly smiled at him in return. He spun about on his heel and whistled to Huan, who in the absence of attention had begun to snuffle at Maedhros' motionless fingertips.
"Come, Huan," Celegorm bade. "Stop terrorizing my brother. Surely that has been done quite enough."
Huan whined softly, but trotted after Celegorm as he strode from the tent, leaving Fingon and Nyériel alone to supervise Maedhros for the time being.
Outside, Celegorm glanced about to find Maglor standing some distance away, staring with a rather glazed expression at the bustle of the campsite around him.
"Káno," Celegorm called, but upon receiving no hint of a reply he moved over to his brother, gently steering him about the side of the tent so that they were mostly obscured from casual view.
"Káno?"
With what seemed like a colossal effort of will Maglor dragged his focus onto Celegorm, staring blankly up at him as he frowned concernedly back.
"Káno, are you all right?"
Maglor did not answer, and slowly his gaze slipped from Celegorm's bright eyes and into the shadows that clotted about their feet.
"I confess," Celegorm continued, subtly trying to refocus Maglor's worryingly scattered attention. "I did not know what to expect even as Finno spoke of his condition. It is poor, but it is manageable, I think. I will spare no effort in his recovery, of that I swear, and I do not doubt that in time he will pull through. He will come back to us, Káno. He has to."
"Mmm…"
Celegorm's lip twisted, and more sharply he said: "It is now you over whom I worry."
"Don't…" Maglor muttered, glaring sullenly down at the ground beneath Celegorm's riding boots.
"Don't what?"
"Don't waste your pity on me," Maglor spat, rancour shining in his eyes as he lifted them suddenly to his brother's face. "I do not deserve it."
He made to pull away, but quickly Celegorm grabbed his shoulder, pinning him into place with his back against the canvas flaps of an adjacent tent.
"Makalaurë," he began, his tone threatening the launch into a lecture, an unfortunate trait of their mother's that Celegorm appeared to have inherited most strongly indeed. "This is exactly what I am talking about. I – "
"I'm fine, Turko," Maglor snapped, yanking himself away.
Celegorm's eyes narrowed, but glimpsing the shadows that mottled like bruises beneath Maglor's tired eyes, he wisely dropped the argument. A second passed in brittle silence, until at last Maglor sighed: "So you're staying, then?"
"Where else would I go?"
With a strange air of reticence Maglor turned his head aside, and Celegorm softly continued, "I will assist the healers for as long as they will have me, and I will see him recovered."
"Fine."
"Káno," Celegorm murmured, peering both earnestly and in confused concern at his brother in the wake of such a curt reaction. "He is my brother too. And Curvo's, and Moryo's, and Telyo's when undoubtedly they arrive. We care about him just as much as you do."
Maglor sniffed, drawing himself up archly, his jaw working with some barely-suppressed emotion that Celegorm did not want to know the name of.
He merely looked on, a quiet melancholy shivering in his eyes, until finally he said: "You do not have to shoulder this burden alone."
