A/N: Some mild content warnings this chapter for unintentional self-harm (minor, quickly resolved and not dwelt upon) a vomit warning towards the end of the chapter, and general dangerous levels of drinking for the average human.

Chapter 2: Partial Paralysis and Mutton Pies

In retrospect, with how the evening started, Maglor should be surprised that it only took another half-hour after the mead for things to take an abrupt turn for the worse.

"Maitimo," Fingon wheedles from the throng around the counter. "It's perfectly safe!"

"It is most definitely not," Maedhros counters as he tumbles back into his seat beside Maglor. "Sea-snake venom, Finno, really?"

"Oh?" Finrod says curiously as he slams down his – ninth? Tenth? Maglor has lost count – glass. He looks obnoxiously awake. "Are we doing Ossë's Snot? So early in the night, Findekáno?"

"Please never say that again," Maglor tells Finrod earnestly. He blinks away the liquor-induced haze. "It's unlike you to be irreverent, and I don't like what that phrase does to my stomach."

Fingon sets four tiny thimble-like glasses onto the table between them. "Ossë's Snot – there's no need to gag, 'Laurë, it's not as bad as it sounds – is yén-aged Telerin brandy washed down with a splash of sea-snake venom."

"So it is as bad as it sounds," Maglor says, eyeing the deceptively clear bronze liquor with trepidation.

Beside Maglor, Maedhros puts his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, and Maglor is briefly terrified until he realises Maedhros is laughing.

Finrod is already reaching for one of the glasses; to Maglor's horror, Maedhros snakes out a hand from under his face to fumble for one as well.

Maglor is too preoccupied with staring at his elder brother to notice the nudge at his fingers until the looks down and realises Fingon has pushed a glass into his hand.

"No," he says, as Fingon, Finrod, and Maedhros knock their glasses against his. "Absolutely not."

"It's only partial paralysis," Fingon protests. "You'll be playing your harp again by morning!"

Maedhros breathes a laugh. It sounds more like a wheeze.

Maglor looks around the table – at Finrod's sly grin, Fingon's beaming smile, and the gently tipsy curve of Maedhros's lips, soft and warm and brotherly in a way Maglor has seen little of since Doriath long ago.

"I hate you all," Maglor says, gesturing at all three of them but looking Maedhros dead in the eye as he raises the glass to his lips. "I hate you so much."

They down the liquor as one.

A fiery hand grasps Maglor's diaphragm and attempts to squeeze his stomach empty from within like a withered grape.

The bright lights of the tavern flash blindingly white, and the table plays a cruel trick on him and flies up towards his face.

Maglor comes to with the scored grain of the oak table a mere handspan from his face, and someone's hand fisted in the back of his collar. Harp-callouses brush the back of his neck.

Finrod, then.

"'Laurë?" Fingon's muffled voice is saying from somewhere across the table but also far, far away. "Are you well?"

Maglor flaps a strangely unresponsive hand up onto the table, narrowly missing his own face as he does so, and curls his fingers into the best approximation of a rude hand gesture.

"He's fine," Finrod declares above him, wrenching Maglor upright.

Maglor slumps like a sea-slug against something soft and warm and vaguely familiar. He struggles for a moment to place it until soft red curls tickle his nose and he realises it is only Maedhros.

There is another misshapen shape leaning against Maedhros's chest through the fiery curtain of hair, a handspan away. Maglor squints at it until he makes out the golden ribbons.

Ah.

"Thish ish not parshal paralashish," he informs Fingon petulantly.

"Hmm, but you're talking," Fingon mumbles, sounding as though he is rapidly falling asleep with Maedhros as a pillow. "Partial. Paralysis."

The steady beat of Maedhros's heart under Maglor's cheek suddenly turns into a frenzied thrum.

Fingon stirs, but Maglor is faster; he pushes through the lead-like heaviness of his limbs, as once waded through the foul mire of the river at Lothlann as fire rained down upon him–

"'Timo?" he slurs, straightening with effort to look his brother in the face.

Maedhros is staring down at the table, where his right hand lies loose about his empty glass.

"I can't feel my hand," he says calmly, despite the thunder of his pulse at Maglor's side. "'Laurë, I can't feel my hand."

Finrod and Fingon inhale sharply in unison.

The fingers of Maedhros's left hand shift to wrap around his right wrist. His knuckles blanch with pressure as his fingers form claws, digging half-moons into his wrist. The sharp, iron scent of blood fills the air as his nails break skin.

"Maitimo," Fingon and Finrod exclaim in unison, reaching for Maedhros's injured wrist–

Maedhros snatches his hands away. The fingers of his left hand whiten anew as he clenches them tighter about his right wrist; blood seeps from between his fingers to drip onto the table. His hair is a curtain of fire as he curls over his wounded wrist, each breath a harsh, shuddering exhale.

The liquor burns out of Maglor's veins in an instant; he tears the brooch from the collar of his cloak with one hand, wraps his other around the back of Maedhros's neck, and pulls his brother down with him into the shadows below the table.

Some part of him hears their cousins' alarmed shouts as he and Maedhros tumble under the table, Maglor's shoulder catching painfully on the oak planks of his chair, but the pain and the noise is insignificant to him.

Maedhros's inhale is a hitching gasp into Maglor's shoulder as Maglor unfurls his cloak over them both, enveloping them in warmth.

Maedhros's hair had been limp and unwashed when Maglor had last done this, three ages of the world ago in the bitter winters of East Beleriand. The crimson locks that brush Maglor's face as he leans forward to murmur into his brother's ear are now silken smooth, smelling of the lemon soap their mother grows in the gardens of their childhood home.

It does not matter. The words are still the same.

Safety, Maglor's presence, and the absence of Morgoth's servants.

Again and again, drawing on the power that all Fëanor's line possess over spoken word, one arm tight about Maedhros's back and the other hand steady at the back of his neck, until Maedhros's hitching breaths even.

Maglor feels Maedhros exhale, long and slow. Maedhros's fingers loosen where his hands had been caught between their chests.

"'Laurë," Maedhros says hoarsely, his voice a whisper against Maglor's shoulder.

"Have you returned to us?" Maglor murmurs. His chest feels fit to shatter with relief.

Maedhros sits back a little, brushing against Fingon's boots behind him. He startles briefly at the contact, but the next moment Fingon's hand slips under the table to land softly on his shoulder, and Maedhros settles.

In the half-light under the table, his eyes are rimmed red.

They look at each other, two brothers, both of them millenia-old and former kings, hunched under a table like children with their knees drawn nearly up to their chests and their boots tangled together.

"I am well," Maedhros rasps, and extends his injured wrist for Maglor's inspection. "If I could beg another favour of you."

"There is no favour," Maglor hisses, snatching up Maedhros's wrist with careful hands. "I do what I have always done, willingly."

He sings the five little half-moon cuts closed with a soft, murmured melody, and bends to scrub away the dried blood with a sleeve in order to avoid looking at the guilt in Maedhros's eyes.

Maedhros returns Maglor's cloak to him. They clamber back up into the torchlight and the noise together, where Fingon and Finrod politely avoid commenting on the bloodstains on their tunics.

Finrod wordlessly hands Maedhros a little flask of etched mithril. Maedhros takes a long draught and exhales, shoulders loosening. Colour returns to his cheeks as he passes the flask to Maglor.

Maglor knows by scent what the flask contains even before the liquor passes his lips; miruvor, sweet and light-filled and strengthening. He breathes a slow exhale that tastes of starlight, and hands the flask back to Finrod with a nod of thanks.

Fingon places a careful palm over Maedhros's right hand there on the table. Maedhros does not stop him.

"So," Fingon says lightly, "Food?"

Maedhros nods.

"Food," Maglor agrees.

They all rise together, Maglor and Maedhros folding their cloaks tight about themselves to hide the blood. Finrod scatters a handful of gold onto the table, batting away Fingon's murmured protest.

They slip through the throng and into the starlit street, and begin walking.

Maedhros's arm settles across Maglor's shoulders, and Maglor's around his.

Neither trembles. They keep walking.

(:~:)

The southern slope of Túna rolls unbroken down to the woodland below, silver and smooth in the moonlight, fading to the foothills of the Pelori beyond.

Maglor and Maedhros sit shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the moon trace across the sky. The night air is warm. Fireflies dance through the grasses below.

Maglor nudges Maedhros with a shoulder. "Are you well?"

Maedhros lowers his eyes from the sky to meet Maglor's gaze. "Well enough, 'Laurë," he says quietly. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Though I must confess I am hungry."

"Fear not, for I am here," Fingon's voice issues pompously from behind them.

Maglor and Maedhros twist in place to find Fingon and Finrod approaching from the city gates; Fingon has a wrapped parcel in his hands, and Finrod a bottle and four goblets.

"We come bearing gifts," Fingon says, throwing himself languidly to the grass and unwrapping the parcel with verve. "These were always your favourite, Maitimo."

The linen wrapping falls away, revealing four ceramic pots brimming with golden, steaming pastry.

Maedhros laughs, low and genuinely pleased.

Maglor's stomach lurches.

"Mutton pies," Finrod says, settling fluidly beside Maglor and uncorking a bottle with his teeth. "–and cider," he adds, spitting the cork aside. "Amarië's recipe. I rather thought we could all do with a little strength from Yavanna's apples."

Fingon shuffles around on his knees, handing out the pies. Maglor holds his carefully between suddenly clammy hands, the scent assaulting his nose. The ceramic burns the pads of his fingers.

Mutton had been hard to come by in the last days of the War of Wrath, and on the shores of Lindon there had been fish aplenty but little else. Amrod and Amras had once been lords of wide farmlands and herdspeople in the green lands of Ossiriand, but after the kinslaying at Sirion, those lands had been left to fallow.

Winters had been hard after Sirion, especially with the children growing and ever hungry, and Maedhros–

The last time Maglor had eaten mutton was–

"Pass these along, 'Laurë," Finrod says, handing Maglor a silver goblet of cider. "Are you still drunk? You were walking well enough."

Maglor blinks rapidly. "I am well," he says, and places the mutton pie in the grass at his feet to pass goblets to Maedhros and Fingon. The chill of the cider through the frosted silver burns like fire in his fingers after the heat of the ceramic.

"Thank you, 'Laurë," Maedhros says, already sounding much brighter, and Maglor makes a show of setting down his own goblet to avoid looking Maedhros in the eyes.

On Maedhros's other side, Fingon makes a little game of passing out forks, throwing one with pinpoint accuracy at Finrod's head, only for Finrod to catch it easily without looking.

Maglor is still staring with trepidation at the innocuous little bowl of ceramic before him when a fork hits the side of his head.

"Oh damn–"

"'Laurë!"

"I'm fine," Maglor brushes off the exclamations of worry as his temple throbs in protest. "I'm fine, Maitimo." He takes a large mouthful of pie to prove his point, and feels his stomach contract with instinctive nausea.

When Maedhros glances at him again, soft and concerned, Maglor pointedly takes another bite.

That seems to do the trick; the others gladly turn to their own meals.

The fat, meaty juices push against Maglor's teeth, rising with his gorge. The mint stings at his throat as he forcibly swallows.

All around him, there is the clink of gilt forks against ceramic, the sloshing of cider in silver goblets.

That first winter, when the twins were only six years old, food was scarce, and Maedhros had been deep in the throes of his rejection of the Oath–

This mutton is aged well, stewed in herbs. The soft strands catch between Maglor's teeth. He takes a desperate sip of cider to wash away the taste. The crisp taste of apples explodes over his tongue, but the chill of the cider only congeals the fat between his lips, turns it to farrier's glue.

Maglor sets the pie down in the grass before him and presses a hand to his the aching, tumultuous waste of his stomach.

That first winter after Sirion, food had been scarce.

There had been little to hunt. What stores they had were mostly millet, brined vegetables, and a little flour. Enough that if they rationed carefully, nobody would starve – but everyone would remain hungry.

Maedhros had needed coaxing to eat by that point, over six months into his denial of the Oath as it ate him up inside like an ever-growing flame.

After ensuring Maedhros ate, Maglor had always secretly tipped a little of his own portion of millet into Elrond and Elros's bowls, saw that they were settled to eat, and had slipped out of the fortress walls to eat his paltry meal alone.

It had been there that he met the sheep.

Weighed down with a heavy fleece, thin and covered with snow, it had trotted out of the snowy wastes and greeted him with a short, pitiful baa.

Maglor's first instinct had been to go for his hunting knife, eager for fresh meat in a harsh winter, but there was something lonely and hungry in the sheep's flat-pupiled eyes that Maglor saw in himself.

So he had poured a precious handful of millet from his bowl and offered it to the animal. The sheep had eagerly licked the trifling offering off his hand, and settled by his side, obviously used to Elves.

It must have come from one of Amrod and Amras's flocks that were lost to wargs after Sirion; a hardy, unlikely survivor.

That mattered little. The sheep was warm.

Maglor had fed the sheep all winter, despite his better judgment and the growing hunger in his stomach; he glimpsed it at other times, nosing at the edge of the far forest for further sustenance.

Then came that day–

The gorge thunders at Maglor's lips like a siege-hammer as his mouth sours with bile.

Maedhros's voice sounds through the ringing in Maglor's ears. "'Laurë?"

Maglor takes another careful bite, feigning nonchalance, and hides the sweat beading at his forehead by turning to refill his goblet. He wipes his clammy face with a quick sleeve, only to find Maedhros staring at him.

"You don't look well, 'Laurë," Maedhros says with concern.

"I'm fine," Maglor protests, suppressing a shudder as he swallows another mouthful. He risks a glance down at his serving; only a third left. He can manage this, if he puts his mind to it. He managed well enough then, three ages ago with a stomach tight from starvation.

Maedhros frowns. "No, you're not," he says. "Is it the liquor?"

The clatter of forks against ceramic as Fingon and Finrod twist to peer at Maglor.

"Yes," Maglor says, through gritted teeth. "The liquor did not agree with me." The taste rises in the back of his throat, threatens to choke him anew.

Maedhros's brow furrows like thunder.

"You're lying," he says, an edge of authoritative warning to his voice. "'Don't lie to me, Laurë."

That is the same voice Maedhros used that terrible, cold morning after the Dagor Bragollach, when Maglor woke in Himring with more burns than skin and attempted to make light of his pain.

There had been little medicine to go around, then. Aerlind, Maglor's second, was no more than a charred corpse somewhere on the blackened plains of Lothlann; of his cavalry, little more than a single company remained.

Another mouthful, the thick, cloying taste of mutton and fat sliding over Maglor's tongue.

"I have no reason to lie," Maglor says, looking his brother evenly in the eye before turning deliberately to Fingon. "This tastes exactly as how Aldanil used to make it. He was head of the kitchens at Amon Ereb."

"This is Aldanil's work," Fingon says, with a smile that does not reach his eyes. His gaze flicks to Maedhros, who is staring at Maglor with his fëa half-unshielded, like a growing flame. "I am starting to think that may be part of the problem."

Beside Maglor, Finrod's hand gently slips over Maglor's wrist, as though to assess his hammering pulse–

Maglor snatches his hand away. The ceramic pot tumbles out of his grasp and spills its innards across the grass, pink and steaming, like the sheep's guts that day in the snow, tumbling over his bloodstained hands in a sanguine flood.

Maglor finds himself suddenly on his feet. The summer air presses in on him from all sides, stifling, choking.

"I'm going to get another drink," he says, and takes a sharp step backwards when three pairs of hands reach for him at once. "Don't rush yourselves. Come find me later."

"'Laurë–" Maedhros says, and there is an angry confusion in his voice that fills Maglor's chest with frustration.

Maglor twists on a heel, and begins to make his way up to the city. His stomach is writhing below his ribs now, like a warg is tearing at his core.

He hears another "'Laurë!" behind him, but he redoubles his efforts, and successfully passes through the gate and into a smaller side street before retching into a gutter.

Ossë's Snot does not taste any better coming up than it did going down.

At least the mutton is out of him.

Maglor spits to get the sour taste out of his mouth, and wipes his lips on a sleeve.

He straightens to find Finrod leaning casually against a nearby pillar. Maedhros and Fingon are nowhere to be seen.

"What," Maglor snarls.

Finrod's blue eyes rest calmly upon him, without censure. "Wine, spirits, mead, or brandy?" he says.

Maglor halts. "What?"

Finrod shifts a little, arms crossed, settling more comfortably against the white marble of the pillar behind him. "Wine, spirits, mead, or brandy," he repeats carelessly. "My gold, or yours. I don't mind. Take your pick."

Maglor looks up at the night sky; the moon is climbing towards its zenith.

"Spirits," he says. "But I'm not carrying nearly enough gold for what I have in mind."

"No matter," Finrod says, pushing himself upright with fluid ease. "I am. Follow me."

Finrod begins to move down the street. He does not turn to check if Maglor is trailing him.

Maglor spares another glance at the cold stars, wraps his cloak more firmly around his bloodstained tunic, and goes to follow.

Next up: More angst wrapped up in hilarity (what's that? A wild rap battle?) and some good old hurt/comfort.

We'll get to see more of Maglor's tragic friendship with his fluffy friend next chapter.

Thank you to everyone who's commented! Some of them made me laugh out loud 3