Maglor didn't think he could bear it any longer.

Her cries of anguish tore at him, clawing at his heart. He shoved open the chamber doors and barged inside.

"We need a proper healer quickly or the girl will die," he said, meeting the startled gazes of the dwarven women surrounding the infirmary bed.

"What exactly are ye doing?" Duick's daughter, Marí, growled. She dropped the gauze and started towards him. "I told ye to wait outside. Ye ain't permitted in here. The lass is indecent."

Maglor's gaze trailed to the Edain, where she writhed upon the sheets. The dwarven women had removed the bodice of the blood-stained kirtle and yanked her chemise down past her breasts. The wound festered below; black and foul.

From beneath her pale skin, it looked as though the filth was spreading. The blackened curse had already latched onto her veins. He wanted to be sick.

The girl would eventually succumb to the darkness, akin to those before her. The ones who'd never returned from the wastelands of Angband. The ones who'd been pierced by Morgoth's evil. Her eyes were closed, and she was chanting softly under her breath. Once again, it was in her mother tongue. Beads of sweat pooled at her brow, and her skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

"Indecency means nothing when someone is dying," he growled.

The dwarf didn't back down. She stared up at him, stubborn and steadfast. "I am the healer. Ye lucky the lass even made it this far. Another night out in the mountains and she would've been orc-bait. Now, go, shoo off."

"Forgive me, but I won't," Maglor sniped. He eased himself past the dwarf and knelt down at Lily's side. She'd been sobbing. Her tears had trickled down her cheeks and chin like salted streams.

Maglor felt a stirring within his spirit. He would not let her die this way. He'd made a promise to Melieth, and he did not intend to break it.

"Fíriel," he spoke up. Reaching out, he grabbed her hand, enveloping it within his own. Around them, the dwarven women were hovering. One began sanitising her wound, smearing an acidic paste over the lesion. The little Edain groaned. Her hands gripped tightly onto his; her fingernails piercing the softness of his flesh. "You will live through this. I swear it," he murmured softly, "do not give up hope."

Hope. The word was like ash on his tongue. Hope was a feckless dream; it meant nothing to him. Yet to her, it was everything. It soothed her: a calming litany of lies.

The cleansing finished and the gauze was wrapped.

Marí eyed him. "Ye should take her back to yer folk tonight. The lass needs elvish medicine." Maglor met her gaze; the dwarf spoke wisely. Lily possessed a wound no mortal medicine could cure. Cursed wounds were a fëaquámëa. They crippled one's spirit and leached one's soul.

Spiritual healing he could not provide. Melieth, however, held knowledge of such unspoken things. He would bring her back to Amon Ereb that night, and she would live to see another day. Maglor didn't know why, but something within him refused to relinquish the girl. He would not allow death to touch her; even if fate willed it so.

Whoever she was, and wherever she was from, it mattered not.

Marí turned the girl on her back, beginning to strip her bare. There was a gasp. "Aulë above," she hissed, "what happened to her?"

Maglor looked and saw it. The remnants of beatings and lashes strung all the way from her shoulders down to her tailbone. White, raised scars marred her flesh like deformed veins. So numerous were the lashings that it was hard to tell when one ended and another began.

His eyes flashed. He'd had a vague inclination of what'd happened to her - his own brother's captivity as clear testimony - yet seeing it with his own eyes made his blood boil. "Orcs," he said, his voice morose.

Marí looked as though she wanted to be sick. He couldn't blame her.

"Tell your father I will be leaving within the hour," he said, "and thank you for your hospitality. It means a lot to me."

Marí nodded. She brought her fingers to her beard, stroking absentmindedly. "Ye made the right choice in comin' here. I'll give the lass some mulled wine for the road back."

Maglor nodded. "Hantalë." Thank you.

His bottle of miruvorë quickly emptied.

They'd reached the southern foothills of Ered Luin, following the dwarf-road, and now only the wild lands of the south awaited them.

The moon shone brightly. The clouds had subsided.

Lily was asleep in his arms. The potent mix of wine and miruvorë had lulled her into a fitful slumber. He'd hoped she wouldn't awaken before he reached Amon Ereb, for the movement of his mare's gallop had disturbed the wound. She would be in immense agony.

The stars shone in his favour, for it wasn't long until he saw the outline of Amon Ereb in the horizon. It stood upon the hill, strong and tall, a shining beacon of light against the swarthy darkness.

He didn't slow his pace until he reached the fortress gates.

Inside the stables, he hastily swung off his mare and pulled Lily into his arms.

"Melieth!" He cried out, bolting through the inner courtyard into the kitchen. "Melieth! Lintië!" It was dark inside. The fireplace was dying."Melieth!"

Thinking quickly, he shoved aside the scattered tools on Arthion's work table and placed Lily down. He struck to life a nearby candelabra, bringing light. He bent over the Edain and smoothed aside her strands of hair. She was cool to the touch.

He looked at her clothing - the dwarves had hastily dressed her with the remaining kirtle she'd packed aside. Maglor began undressing her once again.

The doors to the kitchen swung open. There was a sharp cry of alarm.

"Ai!"

It was Melieth. She held a lantern in her hands. She looked as though she'd just awoken - her robes were in a complete disarray, her hair a wild mess. "What are you doing, Makalaurë?"

Maglor ignored the silent implication behind her words. "We were attacked," he said coldly, "the girl is gravely injured and I need your help."

Without another word, she came to his side. Melieth dropped the lantern onto the table and reached out for Lily. "A hrísto órava ómesse," she muttered. "Dark forces have been used against her. The girl's spirit suffers."

"It is very grave, indeed," Maglor said. "A woman of the secret shadow appeared to us. Thuringwethil."

Melieth paled. She pulled aside the remainder of Lily's kirtle and unwrapped the gauze. The familiar stench of dwarven medicine wafted between them. Melieth wheezed. "Nogrod?" She choked, her voice bemused.

"I had no other choice."

"It seems so," she replied crisply. She brushed her fingers over the open wound. "Athelas will help her. I have some stored within the cellars."

Without another word, Maglor left. He retrieved the healing herbs and returned to her side. The girl roused as Melieth worked to smother the blackened pus. She moaned, her voice low and hoarse.

Maglor reached out, soothing her. "You are well, fíriel." He placed his hand against her forehead, "you are in good hands."

She shivered.

The pair worked tirelessly until the sun rose the next day. Melieth stretched the boundaries of her expertise, attempting to lift the blackness from within the girl's spirit. Nestariel arrived, and came to their aid.

"We should move her into her quarters," Melieth said. Her voice was weary. She looked ready to faint.

Nestariel agreed. Maglor slid his arms beneath the Edain's legs and carried the girl up the staircase to her bedroom. Kicking the door open, he brought her to the bed and slowly placed her down.

Nestariel flitted behind him, relighting the old fire and thrusting back the curtains. Maglor stood at Lillian's bedside, watching her.

Though her eyes were shut, her eyebrows clenched. At that moment, she looked so vulnerable, so innocent and small, that his heart ached.

He didn't know if she would wake up.

"Maglor," Melieth spoke up, "come along with me, I desire to speak with you."

Grimfaced, he did as she asked.

Melieth brought him to the study.

"She will not live," she said solemnly, "she has not the strength within herself to push against the darkness."

Maglor clenched his jaw, slumping down onto the nearby hickory. Sprawling his legs out, he rubbed at his face. "It is as I feared," he muttered. He didn't want to hear it. He couldn't accept it.

Melieth gently sat down beside him. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You should know the second-born are a weaker people," she said, "it takes great strength of spirit to recover from fëaquámëa."

Maglor grimaced. "I do not think she is weak."

"I don't either," Melieth replied. "But I have tried my best at restricting the spread and it still lingers."

Maglor watched her, and saw the exhaustion under her eyelids. "Aye, I know you've done what you could. Thank you, Melieth."

She smiled. Her gaze turned towards the room, her pale eyes landing on the empty, cold hearth. "You know," she said wistfully, "my marriage to my husband wasn't always a troublesome one."

Maglor frowned, and looked at her. He remained silent.

"Our bond was sacred," she continued, "an oath before Iluvatar himself. It brought me great strength," she said, a soft smile on her lips, "and great joy. The bond binds two feä together, uplifting both the soul, the spirit and the body."

Maglor eyed her. "I know this," he said, "my amil spoke of it numerous times. Why do you bring it up?"

Melieth looked back at him. "Because it is a way of healing the firíel."

At those words, he frowned. "Surely you can't be suggesting…" He trailed off, unable to continue. The thought of marriage was one he'd never considered - never wished to consider. He'd seen firsthand what became of his father and mother. Marriage was disenchantment disguised as an act of love.

"It is the only other option I can think of," Melieth said casually, as though she were simply discussing the weather. "With the light of the eldar, she will have the strength and the will to survive."

Maglor was wry. "What I know about marriage isn't encouraging, Melieth."

"Maybe not." She nodded. "But the bond will save her life."

"And marriage to a…an edain?" Maglor was distraught. He jumped to his feet, and began to pace. His strands of long, dark hair hung about him. "It is unheard of. It is wholly forbidden."

"Is it?"

Maglor scowled. He continued onwards. "And to marry someone of no noble birth, with no prospects…"

"You are no longer a royal in Aman, Makalaurë. We are all sworn to the Doom of Mandos, do not forget that."

"Of course," he muttered, low and foul. "How could I forget it? It consumes me day and night." He continued to pace. His head began to ache. "She will eventually die, Melieth."

"As she could've today. As she might tomorrow, or as she may five years from now."

"I do not love her," Maglor said.

"I am not speaking of love, Makalaurë, but of companionship and strength. We are all children of Ilúvatar, and thus we should reach out and lift each other up."

"You speak of goodness which I do not think I am capable of."

Melieth stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "Nonsense. You are capable of goodness as much as anyone else is. It is the choices you make, and the paths you follow, that determine your virtue."

Maglor stopped pacing. He felt bereft. "What am I to do?"

Melieth clasped her hands neatly on her lap. "I've told you what needs to be done. At the end of the day, however, it is still your choice," she said wryly. "And hers, if she wishes to accept you."

He grunted. "Of course."

Melieth watched him. "Who knows? She may not even want you, for all your troublesome misgivings and your foul moods."

Maglor rolled his eyes at her jibe. "Of course," he said, "being the ill-mannered lout that I am."

Melieth smiled. She stood to her feet and reached out, gently touching his cheek. "I will let you think it through. Marriage isn't easy, Makalaurë, but it can bring you great peace, and great joy."

With that, she left.

Maglor stood brooding and alone, with naught but his thoughts as company.

The day came and went, and later that night, he searched for Nestariel. He found her in the stables.

"Is she awake?" He asked.

The she-elf nodded. "She's weak, my Lord, but yes, she's up." She jabbed her pitchfork into the hay and tossed it aside.

"Right," he said. "That's good to hear." He could feel her sharp gaze. He turned away, ignoring it. Nestariel's nature, though bright, had always been one of insatiable curiosity. Maglor returned to the halls and went to Lily's door. He knocked, before opening it.

She was sitting in her bed, small and sickly, but awake.

When she saw him, she came alive. "My lord," she spoke up, "I'm glad to see you're well."

"As am I," he said, "you had a bad fever. I was worried."

"For me?" She raised her eyebrow, "I'm honoured." Her voice was light. Maglor almost smiled.

"In truth," he began, "I came because I must speak with you on a serious matter." He pulled the old, rickety chair from the fireplace and sat down at her bedside.

She swallowed. "It's alright," she murmured, "I already know."

Alarm rose. "You do?"

"Yes," she said, soft and gentle. "I can feel it. I'm dying."

Oh.

Maglor's eyes searched hers and found no fear, but a peaceful resignation. She looked as though she'd accepted it - the idea of death. "No, firíel, you will not die. Not as long as I will it so."

Her eyes suddenly became wet. "I cannot go home," she said hoarsely. "There is no future for me here." Her sorrow lay heavy upon his heart.

"And where is your home, Lillian?" He asked. "Did that spirit speak the truth? That you are a stranger to this land?"

A teardrop fell. She nodded. "It's true." It was what he'd suspected. Her lack of understanding towards the landscape and the people, her foreign language, the way in which she carried herself.

"Am I also correct in my assumption that you have no immediate kin?"

She frowned. "Yes."

He nodded. He supposed it would make his proposal all the more easier. Forget formalities, forget etiquette. And my own pride, he thought wryly. He looked at Lillian; to the gentle upturn of her nose, to the roundness of her ears, to the sweet curve of her lips. "We are all children of Ilúvatar, and thus we should reach out and lift each other up."

Melieth's words clung to him like a vice.

"Lillian," he said. "There is a way of overcoming a sickness of the spirit. If you wish to survive, I offer to help you once more." The words stuck at the back of his throat.

The girl watched him with her dark eyes. "What way is there?" She asked softly.

"A bonding of the feä provides strength to the spirit and the soul. Such bonding will bring you life."

"Oh," she said. Despite her weariness, she smiled. "That sounds beautiful."

"It is." Maglor was grim. "Thuringwethil's blade curses, it causes hearts to fall into shadow. However, the light of the Eldar nourishes and it protects."

She nodded. "What is the nature of the bonding?"

"Marriage."

Lillian stilled. Maglor watched her face closely, looking for remnants of disgust, or anger. Yet, her expression remained veiled. She hid her emotions exceedingly well. Maglor reached out for her hands, and cradled them within his own.

"It will be a marriage of convenience," he said. "I offer you my protection and my home. In turn, you will live and you will serve our people accordingly."

The girl looked down at their hands. Her fingers, small and bird-like, were cold within his own. Her pallour was white; her cheeks held no warmth, no colour. Maglor watched her chew on her lower lip. She was thinking.

Then, within the silence of the lonely room, a small voice spoke.

"Alright," she said softly, "I will marry you."

The next day Maglor forged two golden rings.

That night, he came to her.

She stood by the window, dressed in a pale nightgown. A fresh gauze had been wrapped around her waist.

She looked forlorn.

"Is it a complicated ritual?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "An oath is sworn to Ilúvatar and rings are exchanged. In times of peace, great feasts are held." He smiled wryly at her, "though, for your sake, we will forgo the festivities."

Lillian smiled at him, her fingers absentmindedly trailing down below her breasts, to where the wound lay.

"How do you feel?" Maglor asked.

"I feel strange," she answered, "worn thin, almost."

He watched her. "You do look pale. Are you sure you want to continue? We can wait for another time."

"No," she said. "No, tonight is as good a night as any."

Maglor aqueisced. He stepped close and reached for her hands. There, within the darkened, damp room, the elf-lord swore another vow. This one, however, sacred and full of promise.

"Nai Varda Tintalle hlaruva el. Nai Manwe Súlimo tiruva. Ar nai Eru Ilúvatar alyuva tú."

Lily slowly repeated his words, her voice a soft, dulcet quiet against his low, commanding baritone. After their vows were exchanged, Maglor reached down for the rings. He placed one in her hand, and gently slid the other onto her awaiting finger.

The gold was poorly smelted and rough to the touch, yet the girl looked at it as though it were the most priceless thing in the world. Maglor felt an odd quickening in his gut.

It was done.

"If it pleases you, we will consummate the marriage in my quarters," he said, "you will be more comfortable as I've stoked the fire there."

Lily looked up at him, her dark eyes flickering strangely. "Consummate?"

Did she not know what that word meant? "Consummate, yes. The act of bodily union," he said to her, placing a hand on her arm. "If you don't want to -"

"No, no," she said, looking flushed. "I want to, I mean, I'm fine with it."

"Right," he said. "Come with me," he reached out his hand and she took it.