IV

Honey.
Wet earth.
Ringing metal.
Maedhros.

He begins to whisper in his fevered dreams.
'Whole again, but for five fingers

and those well-spent,
left in an iron band
with the tallest pointing skyward.

Morgoth, beware. Maedhros lives.'

Red anger.
Red pain.
Red sweetness.
One whole again.

Breath fluttering, he sighs,
'Hair tangled with hair on white pillows.
Such beauty.
Like burning coal in sleep.'

He whispers, as a trembling hand
shakes him awake.

'You're doing worse than I am, they tell me,' he says gruffly,
secretly pleased with the somniloquence.
Eyes wreathed in shadow.
'I came to see.'

Fingon uncramps and smiles.