An uneasy dawn broke over the far distant horizon. The sun crept timorously over the shadowed mountains of the east, and beneath her pallid rays Maglor strode through the camp. A wrack of clouds glowered in the northern sky, and beneath their broil great bolts of silent lightning stabbed down into the ground, as if with their very brightness and fury they could cleave the earth open and gorge upon its entrails. An eerie quiet hung in the air; where Maglor would have expected the roar of a storm there was nothing but the tremulous calm of anticipation, and a slow, brooding malevolence.

Bauglir, it seemed, did not look favourably upon the theft of what he deemed his property, whether he bore right to that claim or no.

Under that glooming menace the Feanorian encampment weathered itself, and through the electrified air of its close-knit tents Maglor threaded his way. Feeling somewhat more composed from a night of mercifully dreamless sleep, he breakfasted among those of his councillors who were awake at such an early hour. At the high table of the dining tent they ate in a companionable silence, and quite to his surprise Maglor found himself stifling a morbid smirk or two, as furtively he watched the ends of his councillors' hair begin to curl in the charged air while he pretended to butter his toast.

With the diplomacy beholden to their stations they did not pry into sensitive matters, nor pass comment upon the half-stifled smile that teased over his face as he caught them subtly trying to smooth their hair back down, the more vain among them twirling the ends of his hair between his fingertips with an air of affected nonchalance as he attempted to pull it straight. For the state of his own hair Maglor cared little. Already he could feel a few stray strands beginning to lift and prickle, and the smell of raw electricity hovered in the humid air.

Soon their meal came to a close, and such whimsies were set aside. Between them Maglor divided up the tasks that they were to be charged with, ensuring at least the ongoing stability of the camp whilst he was otherwise occupied. Repairs to the staked fences that ringed their borders were in progress, and to three he assigned the overseeing of them. To the remaining five was given the revision of the maps of the North-eastern region of Beleriand, as well as many a smaller odd task besides. As new forays were made further south and east from their current holdings, the blank edges of the map were being filled in; and it took both skilled cartographers and academics to interpret the reports brought in by the scouts, and render them into physical approximations upon a map.

Gracefully the councillors dispersed to their tasks, and for their lack of any patronizing comments of sympathy or condolence Maglor was thankful. Enough anguish wore at him without the weight of their pity heaped atop him too.

Smoothing his own rather frizzed hair back down, he ducked under the swelter of the sky; braving the bruise-coloured clouds for an instant before escaping into a kitchen tent. Swiftly he procured a cut of salt beef and a loaf of freshly baked bread, before steeling himself for the day ahead.

Maedhros had not yet awoken, of that he was sure. Strict instructions had been left to send word to him, no matter the time of day or night, should his brother regain consciousness.

He knocked softly upon the outermost post of Maedhros' tent, eyeing the clouds with dismay. Their shade blotted out the sun, and malice turned in every roil and twist of their dark bellies. A tired voice from within the tent bade him enter, and Maglor stooped quickly beneath the tent's flaps, grateful to escape the obsidian glower of the sky.

But at what greeted him, such thankfulness vanished.

Celegorm leant over Maedhros, bathing his forehead with a soaked cloth. Even from the distance with all too much clarity Maglor could see the little shivers that ran through Maedhros' body, the beads of perspiration that shone over his skin, which had transmuted from pale to an altogether sickly pallor. In appalled silence he stared as Celegorm gently pushed the lank, sweaty strands of Maedhros' hair back from his cheeks and ran the cloth over his skin.

"What happened?" Maglor hissed, his fingers clenching about the cloth bundle that held his food.

"A fever," Celegorm replied, and with a swell of both pity and horror Maglor could hear the fatigue in his voice. "Earlier this morn he began to tremble, and his skin burned. Nyériel and I have done what we can, his dressings have been meticulously changed and all of his wounds cleaned, but…"

Celegorm's eyes flitted to the severance at Maedhros' wrist, and the swollen skin that marbled his forearm. Maglor followed his gaze, and with dreadful concern he looked over the livid capillaries of that crawled beneath skin that was tinged bile-yellow and mauve with bruising.

"Is…is it serious?"

"It is too early yet to tell." Celegorm dipped the cloth once more into a cool bowl of water, scented with some fragrant herb that Maglor could not quite place. Gently he ran its dripping length down the side of Maedhros' neck, stroking away the clusters of sweat that dotted between the white ridges of scar tissue that patterned over his skin. A strange quirk passed over Celegorm's features, and suddenly he exhaled one lingering, strained breath.

"We are doing all that is possible to help him, but his hröa is so weak, Káno. If the wound at his wrist becomes poisoned, if his blood becomes infected, if it becomes necrotic, then…"

He looked over at Maglor, and his bright eyes were tinged with sorrow.

"Then there is nothing more that we can do. The damage that has been done I fear may yet prove too much…"

Mutely Maglor looked away, anger and grief and bitter denial pulsing through him. It couldn't happen, it couldn't, it wasn't fair, to have come this far and still be in danger of losing him. And that injustice pounded through him, drumming out its hatred with every aching heartbeat. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be getting better; he was supposed to be healing -

"Why didn't you come and get me?"

In curt, clipped syllables Maglor's voice rang dead through the air, and hurt cramped all the harder through his guts.

"What good do you think it would have done?" Another voice cracked through the air, emanating from somewhere beyond the bed, and even through his hurt Maglor jumped at its sharpness. In surprise he stepped forward, at last laying eyes upon Curufin, who was firmly entrenched within the pile of cushions.

His brother looked up at him tartly, a thin smile caught over his face. His sleek black hair was neatly braided, and in the light of the candle that burnt low at his side the metal cuffs that adorned the helices of his ears flashed sharply. Papers and notebooks lay flicked open about him like an academic halo, and upon his lap lay a half-drawn schematic, although of what its subject was Maglor could not quite discern. Stepping a little closer, Maglor's eyes ran over the scribbled calculations that littered the sheaves of parchment, unbalanced chemical equations scored out in thick black ink and written out anew in his brother's spidery handwriting. Charcoal and ink smudged up the side of Curufin's left hand, and over countless more papers were scrawled rudimentary diagrams of indecipherable shapes, hurriedly crossed out and redrawn, with notes and little questioning glyphs scattered about their edges.

With Curufin's rather snarky remark forgotten in his curiosity, Maglor asked: "What are you working on?"

"Calculations," Curufin sighed, scowling down at the paper laid across him. "Turko thought that they might help. Something for his shoulder, to help realign it, perhaps. The experimental results showed some similarities in anatomy…even if…"

He trailed off, furiously scribbling down another set of numerations, leaving Maglor to blink in confusion.

"How would what help? And what experiments? Curvo, what are you talking about?"

Curufin ignored him, urgently writing out some complicated-looking equation, but from the bedside Celegorm answered, "It might help with Nelyo's arm. We have examined him more closely, and it is clear that this damage cannot be left unchecked. Even you, Káno, you can see that the orientation of his shoulder is entirely wrong."

Celegorm set aside the cloth, and as Maglor stepped over he began indicating the requisite parts of Nelyo's shoulder as he talked.

"Immortal the Eldar might be in fëa, but we are not invulnerable in body. You see here, Káno, over the run of his right shoulder the muscles have deformed under the stresses of being suspended at such length. Malnourished he may have been, but even carrying a slighter weight, being in such an unnatural position for so long has left its repercussions."

"His pectoral muscle is bunched unnaturally high into the joint, you see this irregular knot of muscle here? It is dragging down upon his clavicle, his collarbone, and is pulling it out of alignment. Its run is unbroken, but it is distorted. Ligaments should attach the tip of the collarbone to the acromion, the distal-most point of the scapula, but due to this distortion I can feel nothing but waste."

Celegorm's fingers wandered softly over the skin of Maedhros' shoulder, and lingered in a strange hollow upon its point.

"This indenture in the muscle here is also entirely alien. It is likely that in the initial moment of suspension his deltoid tore in the sudden bearing of his weight."

"What do you mean?" Maglor asked, frowning more closely at where Celegorm indicated. "Why would a muscle tear? Surely his suspension was relatively without motion, from what Fingon seemed to describe of his position, and the wounds over his back would seem to indicate such. Strain then I can understand, but tearing?"

Celegorm winced slightly, before sadly continuing, "It means that his initial placement there was less than gentle. Most probably he was dropped into the position, and either through the sheer stresses exerted upon the muscle, or some effect of awkward torsion, it ripped in that moment. And with it the joint dislocated, and has remained as such ever since."

A slight wave of nausea brimmed in Maglor's stomach, and resolutely he bit his lip, willing that sensation to fade.

"It appears that the deltoid has tried to heal itself, but due to his prolonged immobility it has healed incorrectly. The fibres of the muscle have re-knitted, but they are in poor condition and have twisted under his skin, hence creating this unnatural shape. The deeper muscles of the rotator cuff have been badly contorted as well, and from their crooked run I would say that the tissue of the labrum has torn entirely."

"The labrum?" Maglor asked, suddenly wishing that he had paid more attention to the lectures on anatomy that some of the eminent scholars of Tirion had given in his youth, rather than doodling little images or new musical notations up the side of his parchment.

"At the joint of the humerus with the shoulder-blade," Celegorm explained patiently, "there is a fibrous ring of tissue which helps to secure and widen the joint. This is the labrum. It can be torn under acute trauma or repetitive stress, and I fear that this is what has happened here. The entire socket is undoubtedly misaligned, the labrum no longer supports it, and the tendons that run over the joint and help to hold it are also severely wasted."

Maglor nodded gravely, understanding at least the idea of what his brother was saying, even if his knowledge of anatomy was not nearly so extensive.

"His trapezoid muscles that extend from the spine to the shoulder, running over the neck and upper back, are also badly damaged. There are knots in the muscle that simply should not be; and this in turn is further distorting the socket and the joint as a whole. The rhomboid muscles also, the ones that link the scapula to the spine, are stretched nearly beyond recovery, but rather than exerting a pull they seem to have slackened, and this is also cause for concern. His biceps and triceps are strained, of that there is no doubt, but with some hope they will recover without issue. The arm itself is much less complex in comparison to the joint that secures it."

Celegorm sighed, taking up the cloth once more and dipping it into the bowl, then running it gently over Maedhros' shoulder.

"It is fortunate indeed," he said softly, "that the trauma itself did not sever his spine. Dropped from the right height, and at the right angle… Perhaps it would have been kinder, in the end…"

Maglor's lip twitched, and he bit back the stinging remark that bubbled up his throat. With difficulty he wrenched himself away, the weight and implications of that information settling within him like dark, grainy silt to the bottom of a lake. Yet for all Celegorm's explanation one obtuse thing still perturbed him.

"What experiments, Curvo?" he insisted, looking quizzically over to where his brother sat hunched over his drawings. "What did you mean by that?"

"It is nothing," Curufin replied smoothly, not deigning to look up. "Forget I said it."

Maglor squinted at him in suspicion for a moment, considering whether to press him further. After a moment's tense consideration, at last he laid it aside. If Curufin wished to keep his secrets then let him. If it was of importance here, then no matter their past squabbles he would volunteer the information for Maedhros' sake, of that Maglor was certain.

"It is possible," Celegorm continued from the bedside, "that we might be able to reunite the socket via reduction."

"Reduction?" Maglor frowned, unfamiliar with the term.

"A technique whereby the bones of the upper arm might be realigned with those of the shoulder. In the simplest manner of speaking, we massage his shoulder, and hope to guide the bones back into a rudimentary alignment. With those integral parts united into normalcy once more, they will then provide the correct framework over which we must hope that his muscles and their supportive structures will heal properly."

"Does it work?"

"I have performed this before, in a cruder form, upon a hunting companion who was injured in a fall from his horse. It was successful, but…"

Here Celegorm's voice faltered, and gravely he looked at Maglor.

"But in such an extreme case, I am unsure of the true success that will be found here. It is possible that his muscles are too damaged to support even that movement, or that the ruined ligaments of his shoulder will simply not allow its manipulation. It is no simple thing, to manoeuvre muscles worn like wire with such long abuse, and without Nelyo's voluntary help it is made all the more perilous. I cannot know if damage has been done to his nerves. Long suspension may have dulled them, or the contortions of his shoulder trapped them, and without his being conscious I cannot truly be sure of what I am doing."

"However," he continued, "despite these shortcomings I advise that we try. There is little more harm that can be done now, even if I were to be unsuccessful. But firmly I believe that it can be done, and with your consent I would proceed."

Maglor was silent for a while, and dismally he regarded Maedhros' fever-racked form. Eventually, in a low voice, he brought himself to ask: "Will it hurt him?"

"Look at him, Káno," Celegorm replied, not unkindly. "He is beyond the world of hurt, at least for the time being. It would be both prudent and merciful to act now. Curvo is drawing up the plans for a splint and a brace, so that we might immobilize the joint one we restore it, so all the better it may serve his recovery."

Curufin arose from the cushions, regally dusting himself off before smoothing the parchment upon which he had been drawing open across the oak chest, allowing Maglor to look at it.

"Here," he began, pointing out the requisite sections of his neatly sketched design as he spoke, "once the joint has been realigned to the best of Turko's ability, then I propose that we bind into place a thin metal rod across his collarbone, and another at a loose right angle down his upper arm. These will help his bones to bear their new orientation, and to provide a scaffold, if you like, for them to be splinted upon."

"We fasten these into place, padded of course, with the most forgiving cloth that we can find. We must have care now not to bind them too tightly. Whilst they must be firmly held in place, we do not want to restrict his muscles unduly, and they must be allowed the flexibility to heal themselves anew around his shoulder. Then from these softer bindings about his upper arm and shoulder, we run straps about his chest to hold them in place."

"In this way, you see, his shoulder and arm will be supported by the metal struts, but then themselves braced into and by his torso. In such a position, the joint will be well immobilized and allow healing to take place properly. It should not cause unnecessary discomfort, and of course, the construct is easily adjusted to what positions might later be required."

"I propose then that we place his lower arm into a sling, to further immobilize the joint of his shoulder, and allow better the tender flesh near to his wrist to heal unmolested by accidental jostling. With such a structure in place, we hope then that his musculature will recover into its proper positioning, and that in turn the ligature that supports it will heal. In time, therefore, I am hopeful that he will regain at least some use of his arm. But if nothing else, even if the joint cannot be saved then at least this will provide symmetry and relative balance to his body."

Maglor frowned, nodding slowly as he tried to absorb all that Curufin was saying.

"It is quite likely," Curufin continued, a little more hesitantly, "that he will require support at his shoulder for the rest of his life. After such severe trauma, I doubt that even one so strong as Nelyo could recover with utter impunity. But a simple brace to steady the joint: this is not so terrible a thing, in the long run. And we will always be here to help."

More firmly now Maglor nodded, finding little objectionable about his brothers' designs. Of what Maedhros' future would hold it was pointless to speculate, it was the present that Maglor was determined to deal with. And despite the gravity of his brothers' counsels a strange sense of relief flowed through him, some little thing trilled out its eagerness, its happiness at having something before them that they could tangibly do to help.

"How long will it take you to construct?"

"Not long," Celegorm answered confidently. "The brace itself is simple enough, is it not, Curvo? With your consent, Káno, I will send for the relevant supplies, and for Nyériel to assist me."

"Very well, then," Maglor said. "If truly you believe this to be the best course of action, then do so without delay."

"I will fetch everything then, and rouse Mistress Nyériel," Curufin declared, leaving the parchment open upon the chest before quickly ducking out of the tent into the ominous darkness outside.

"Despair not, Káno," Celegorm smiled, gently stroking the strands of hair back from Maedhros' sweaty forehead. "I do believe that this can be done. And even if his shoulder cannot be aligned fully, then the increment will help him nonetheless. Already I have discussed with Curvo: with the aid of a balm of arnica, lavender oil and athelas, I hope to coax the muscles into manoeuvrability. If then they are sufficiently relaxed, I will then have some hope of fully reuniting the humerus and the scapula. And even if they are not, any improvement will be of aid. It is simple to modify this procedure into a gradual process, and even a self-perpetuating one, for as his muscles heal they will in turn become more pliant, and will of instinct seek the return to their natural arrangement."

"However," Celegorm's voice became solemn, "the initial procedure is unlikely to be pleasant, and it can be unsettling to watch for those unsure of its practise. I would not wish to cause you further distress, Káno, so might I suggest that you depart us for a while?"

"Are you sure that you know what you are doing?"

"Yes," Celegorm said faintly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I have to be."

The sombre air passed him suddenly, and more brightly he looked up at Maglor once more. "Why don't you seek out Moryo? He seemed rather put upon by yesterday's trials, and you've always known what to say to him to improve his moods, ever since we were little. Even if you were the one to cause them in the first place! Fetch Huan along your way too, if you would. He must be wondering where I am, and unless he is kept occupied I'm sure he'll be finding his way into mischief."

"Fine," Maglor sighed, placing his bundle of bread and beef upon the chest. If he was not to need them, as it so seemed, it was best just leave them be. He turned to depart, before hesitating slightly, the words slipping over his lips before he could quite prevent them.

"You look after him, all right?"

Celegorm waved him out, quickly stifling the flash of irritation that flickered through him at such a condescending remark.

"Of course, Káno. Have a little trust in us, for once. He is our brother too, and we will not let further harm come to him. As well you know."

Upon the opposite shore of the Mithrim's great lake, an altercation was brewing. The pinned-back flaps of Fingolfin's war tent flapped nervously in the breeze, and over Fingon's proud shoulder clouds as thick and black as tar writhed across the sky.

Silhouetted against that apocalyptic backdrop Fingon stood with a steady air, gazing resolutely at the heraldic device picked out in blue and silver thread upon a great banner above his father's desk. Seated beneath its majestic spread, Fingolfin beheld his eldest son, and his pale eyes glittered as brilliantly as the silver coronet set gleaming atop his head. A few scant metres separated them, but for all their physical proximity they might have been standing on opposing sides of a canyon, and an oppressive silence glowered in the chasm between them.

At last the quiet was torn asunder, as Fingolfin hissed: "What in Eru's name did you think you were playing at?"

At the sheer venom in his father's voice Fingon recoiled, but swiftly he gathered himself, drawing himself up to his full height with as much confidence as he could muster. His hands clasped tightly together behind his back, his fingernails dug pink little crescent-moons into the flesh of his palms, but as squarely as he could manage he replied, "I did what I judged to be right."

"Right?" Fingolfin barked, his eyes flashing like flints of frosted steel. "You left without word. You disappeared into the wilds of Beleriand without apparent excuse or reason. You brazenly defied my orders for none to wander beyond the borders of this camp unpermitted, or to associate with those traitors. Pray tell me, how do you justify this to be 'right'?"

"I had reason enough."

"You abandoned your people at a time when they needed you the most!"

"There was one who needed me more."

"Don'tget smart with me, Findekáno," his father growled, his palm slamming down atop the desk with a ringing thud. As if in some vindictive support of his anger, a roll of thunder boomed from overhead, and in its bold wake Fingolfin sneered: "Do not think me ignorant of the relationship that you and your cousin have shared, and do not presume for even one second to throw that flimsy excuse before you as a shield."

"Do you really think me so petty, Father?" Fingon snapped in return, hurt pricking through him. Desperately he fought to keep his voice level, hysterics would not aid him here, and more calmly he continued: "You think that I would risk what I did for… for nothing more than that?"

Fingolfin snorted in disgust, the edge of his lip curling as he leaned back in his chair, and for a moment Fingon looked angrily away. A short, humourless scoff of laughter scraped from his father's throat, and disdainfully he said: "You cannot even look me in the eye as you tell me that you love him."

"And you do not love him?" Fingon countered, suppressing the urge to shriek. Dark thunder rumbled overhead, the sky seemed to revel in its malice, and all the tighter Fingon dug his nails into his palms as he fought for self-control. The blood-warm air seemed to throb with pressure. "Nelyo is your nephew…"

"Do not speak that name in front of me. Rights to that language he and his traitorous family have forsaken. Maedhros has –"

"How can you say that?" Fingon cried, anger and astound for a moment overwhelming him. "How can you be so cruel? He is your kin. He is your nephew!"

"Nephew," Fingolfin spat. "You have said it well. The tainted blood of his father runs foremost through his veins."

Fingon shrank back in dismay, but before he could mount any sort of protest, bitterly Fingolfin continued: "Do not forget by whose hands it was that we were left to freeze upon the Helcaraxë. Do not forget whose blood condemned us to the misery of those ever-shifting ice floes, to the biting winds, to the trackless wastes of the North. Do not forget by whose action it was that sweet Elenwë was lost, and my granddaughter nearly beside her."

"That is unfair," Fingon whispered, his resolve suddenly faltering under his father's vehemence. For all the spite in his words, he could not deny the barbs of truth that were struck through them.

A crack of thunder split again through the sky, and in the death-throes of its reverberation Fingolfin spat: "Who dragged us into the massacre of the Swan-havens? Who left us stained in the blood of our kindred, left us stained even in the blood of our own? Whose hand sent your brother, my youngest son to the slaughter? Think upon that, think upon who wrought all of our miseries before you speak to me of Maedhros' salvation."

Bubbling acid seemed to corrode through Fingon's innards, and with a hideous wrench he grasped his argument once more, pulling it from the overwhelming tide of his father's vitriol. And where bitterness led, he responded with acrimony in kind.

"Then knowingly you would leave him to suffer the same misery? After all that we endured, you would willingly inflict the same upon your own kindred? You would abandon him to torment in the hands of your sworn enemy without even trying to rescue him?"

"His own brothers did so readily enough."

"That is a matter apart, and long past," Fingon insisted. "But you, you would have left him, for what? Some perverted sense of justice? Of revenge?"

His father's eyes flashed, thunder boomed overhead, and Fingolfin drew himself up imperiously, stalking around the desk to stand before his son. Fingon held his ground, his heels digging into the soft carpet beneath him even as every instinct screamed at him to back down.

"He left you for dead," Fingolfin growled, glaring at Fingon with naked loathing in his eyes.

"Maedhros burned those ships alongside his father. He chose the traitorous path that he walks. Why then should I show him clemency?"

"He did not burn them!" Fingon cried. "Makalaurë told you so. He stood aside –"

"And what did it matter in the end? What did such noble abstinence achieve? Nothing! Inaction is no excuse from guilt. The blood of my people drips from his fingertips as much as the rest of his brothers."

Rancour swelled up in Fingon's chest, and disgustedly he glared at the frayed edges of the carpet beneath him, his clenched fingers unlocking as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Hypocrisy ill becomes you, Father," Fingon muttered. "If I were inactive in attempting to rescue him, would that then have absolved me from responsibility?"

A livid expression twisted over Fingolfin's features, and he glowered down at his son. "He left you. He turned his back on you, and left you to suffer just as much as he did the rest of my people. If you think that he cares for you, then think more wisely. Why then would you risk your life for one who would so lightly throw yours aside?"

A resentful silence stretched between them, the sky seemed to hold its breath in dire anticipation. Sourly Fingon stared at the carpet, biting the inside of his lip to stop it from trembling. His father glared down at him, waiting impatiently for some sort of reply, until finally Fingon murmured, "Because maybe I am better than that."

"What?" his father snapped, ill-disposed to decipher veiled implications.

Proudly Fingon lifted his head, and in meeting his father's eye his conviction solidified within him.

"Maybe healing the feud between our families is more important to me than my own conceptions of nobility. If by any action of mine I could have brought about a reuniting of the Noldor then I would have done it, no matter what horrors or trials it demanded of me."

Fingolfin stared down at him in bewilderment, yet the slightest glimmer of consideration seemed to temper his wrath. "Did you even realize what would happen if you were caught? What the Enemy would do to you if you were captured?"

"I did," Fingon replied steadily, "and still I deemed my actions to be right. I have rescued my cousin from the tortures of the Moringotto, and I would do so again though the all the Valar themselves stand in my way. By his bloodline he is rightful king of our people, and he is my cousin, and when he awakes I will aid him in whatever manner I might."

His father's eyebrow arched, yet he held his silence.

"I am sorry, Father, that you deemed my actions improper. But for my actions themselves I make no apology."

"Defiant to the last, then?" Fingolfin muttered, affixing Fingon with a piercing glare. "Have you nothing more to say for yourself?"

"Only that I wish the breach between our families mended. And I hope that those with the power to do so will forgo their pride, and make good upon this opportunity."

At such an answer Fingolfin's jaw clenched, and he exhaled heavily through his nostrils. But for that, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. Gravely Fingolfin looked upon his son, and his voice was stern.

"You walk a precarious edge, Findekáno. I pray only that you do not topple."

With a wan smile, Fingon replied, "Balance has always come innately to me."

Shallowly he bowed, and turned to depart his father's company.

"If you have further need of me," he called over his shoulder, "you shall find me with my cousin."

Fingolfin did not deign to answer him, and merely stared contemplatively at his son's retreating back as he strode from the tent, and into the waiting gloom of the clouds.

Late that evening, a short burst of trumpets heralded that arrival of the last of Fëanor's sons. From the pile of cushions upon the floor of Maedhros' tent, Maglor raised his head. He blinked as his eyes refocused to the larger dimensions of the room, a bleary contrast to the tight, dense manuscript that he had been reading: a work of the renowned healer Nephamael, and his comments upon the psyche under duress.

Rain pattered against the tent's canvas, the tempest some hours before had begun to blow itself out, leaving nothing but ash-coloured skies and chill drizzles of rain in its wake. Maglor closed the manuscript, and for a while sat still, in a move that had become reflexive glancing over to where Maedhros lay.

Celegorm, Curufin and Nyériel had retired some hours before, having done all they could to support his arm. With joy Celegorm had assured him that the reduction had been performed to remarkable success, and that he was certain of the joint's realignment. The balm had served him well; swiftly Maedhros' muscles had grown supple and allowed the careful movement of his shoulder until it came at last together. The padded brace they had then applied, securing the cushioned iron rods along the natural lines of his bones and binding them neatly in place. In turn, a soft leather sleeve, akin in style almost to pauldrons worn in battle was secured over the bindings, and from it straps ran over his chest and upper back, fastening it in place. Over the already complex gear a white cloth sling was arrayed, his lower arm cradled within it, tucked against the curve of his stomach.

Thus gently immobilized, Celegorm had said that they now just had to wait. The hröa's instinct for stability and harmony would take over, and the healing process would gradually commence. But even through his glad words, a twinge of sadness seemed to pluck through Maglor's stomach. Truly, he thought, more and more of his brother seemed to be disappearing inside the wrap of bandages, rather than the opposite.

Sweat still dotted over Maedhros' brow, the light fever sent a pinkish flush over his cheeks, but where Maglor had professed his concerns, both Celegorm and Nyériel had gainsaid him. Fever was the body's natural way of combating both injury and trauma, they had asserted, and unless it spiked they thought it best to simply let his hröa mend itself as best as it could.

Under strict supervision he was to be kept, Celegorm had said. The wounds across his back had been re-dressed, soothing salves of aloe and powdered willow-bark were pressed into the torn skin, and already there appeared to be a slight reduction of the inflammation there. His wrist was tenderly washed in an infusion of athelas and neatly bound once more, and it was here that their chief concern now lay. A worrying heat throbbed from the blood-shot skin above the site of the trauma, Maedhros' pale flesh was marbled still by a swarm of bruised capillaries and dark veins that stood in dull, purple cracks beneath his skin.

Due to the freshness of the wound and the swiftness with which it was cauterized it was unlikely for the flesh to fester outright. However, Nyériel had warned, the persistent effects of anoxia might yet prove troublesome.

Due to the manner and supposed length of his suspension, she explained, it was likely that the blood-flow to Maedhros' wrist had been disrupted long ago. Gravity alone would have drained blood from the site, and his heart would have struggled to maintain the flow of fresh arterial supply against that irrefutable force. Then there was the matter of his entrapment itself; the iron band that clamped around his wrist would further have stemmed what flow remained. In combination, therefore, it was not unlikely that the blood had near clotted within his veins, and the disruption of pressure may well have split apart the existing vasculature. In such an acute case, the corrupted blood may have been leached from his arteries, and bled into the surrounding tissues of his arm.

"Like a haemorrhage?" Maglor ventured, and gravely she had nodded.

"That may be the effects that we are seeing here," she had replied. "This bruising along his lower arm is extensive, more so than even an amputation should evoke. Thus I theorize that it was present already; that as the vasculature of his lower arm withered the fluid bled into his muscles, and under the skin. This condition we call a haematoma, and often it presents as severe bruising, not from any great trauma but from the slow leak of damaged blood vessels."

"The danger is," Celegorm continued solemnly, "that if this haematoma has sat untended and unmoved within his arm for a length of time, such corrupt fluid might fester. I do not think that it has done so, but this fever is no positive sign to succour me in this belief. If the blood becomes poisoned, or if it has done so already, if it should spread throughout his already weakened body then it could yet prove fatal."

"So what do we do?"

"There is nothing we can do," Nyériel sighed. "In all my years of practise I have never seen a case so extreme as this, and in its treatment we are stymied. We cannot drain the blood from him; in such a frail state, most likely that would kill him. We simply must hope that morbid infection does not set in, and that he is strong enough to endure this final hurdle. We tend to his superficial wounds with all care, we monitor this fever, and we wait for him to awaken. Until then, there is nothing more to be done."

A short knock came at the tent post, and Maglor tore himself away from such macabre thoughts. True it was that Maedhros had not stirred, but for that he breathed easily, and he did not look to be hovering quite upon the borders of death. Celegorm and Nyériel did not seem unduly alarmed by his prolonged unconsciousness either, and from their reassurance he took courage.

Clad in a cobalt riding jacket and cream breeches, Amras slipped tentatively between the canvas flaps of the tent's entranceway. His hair was cropped to shoulder-length, and he flicked its wet, auburn strands behind him as he came to a wordless halt a short distance from the bed. Sadly he looked down upon Maedhros' bandage-swaddled form; but though his hands were held demurely before him, a fierce tension clenched through his shoulders.

Maglor extricated himself from the cushions, and then crossed over to Amras, suddenly unsure of whether to reach out and hug him or not. Since the loss of his twin, his youngest brother's moods had been unpredictable, and might tip towards obtuse mirth or deep despondency with startling ease. Maglor settled at last for standing next to him in companionable closeness, and together they looked upon their eldest brother.

"How is he doing?" Amras asked, in a strangely distant voice.

Swiftly Maglor recounted what Celegorm and Nyériel had said, and the events of the past couple of days. A glazed look came over Amras' eyes as he spoke, and numbly his brother nodded at his words. A long silence passed after Maglor had finished, then tentatively Amras asked, "Might…might I have a moment alone with him? Please, Káno?"

Maglor sighed, eyeing with mounting concern the blank passivity that seemed to settle over Amras' features, like some brittle façade of aloofness to mask whatever it was that truly he felt.

"Please," Amras said, his voice cracking on the syllable. He cleared his throat, before hoarsely continuing, "Please, I have some things I want to say, and I would prefer that they be said in private."

Pity twisted through Maglor's stomach, and sadly he smiled.

"Of course," he murmured, reaching out to touch Amras' arm in some sympathetic, brotherly gesture. But something about his countenance stopped him; some terrible air seemed to leach through him, subtle yet poignant, and beneath its apparent serenity something violent roiled.

"Of course," Maglor repeated more firmly, retracting his hand. "I shall be right outside, if you need me."

With uncharacteristic haste Maglor snatched up Nephamael's manuscript and departed, and without a word Amras watched him go.

And of what words Amras spoke to his brother that day no tale tells. Nor, perhaps, could any tale lift the weight of that sorrow.