One day, long after that moment, a lonely figure stood high up the parapets of cold mighty Himring and watched how a scattered group of soldiers approached. They bore Feanorian stars in hues of blue and green on their armor and on their broken shields, but the master of the castle did not move. He waited patiently until the group reached the gates. His men would let them in, the instructions had been given.

The one he was waiting for was not amongst them, not in this troop, nor in the many troops of refugees that had passed his gate in previous hours. He would come, he had to. There was no other way.

Another group appeared at the horizon. It consisted of very few men, and they seemed to be fighting even as they approached. He barked a command to his soldiers down in the courtyard without moving from is position.

The men galloped through the gate in and he saw how they reached the enemy. He felt distant and detached, watching the spectacle from afar. It did not take them long to slay the enemies that had followed the blue-and-green group. A spark of interest ignited as he saw them encircle the surviving refugees with their own fiery red shields. One of the refugees was lying flat on his tall black horse, seemingly unconscious. He must have been hit by the last blows of the foul creatures that had followed them. His captain shouted a few inaudible orders, and after a few minutes, two of his soldiers helped to position the wounded man into his captain's arms. He carried the lifeless figure before him as they came closer again to the castle. It was only when he recognised the lonely black stallion trotting at the back of the group, its manes donned with a simple blue ribbon, that he knew that the one for whom he had been waiting had come.

He shouted another command, and saw the healers hurry into the building. All would be ready.

Slowly he too descended, dreading what he would find.

Not much later he stood in a small room, leaning against the doorframe while he watched the silent figure on the bed. The healers had done what they had to, staunching the blood of the side wound, salving the dragon's burns on the shoulder, arm and neck. They had tried to reassure him that there was no real immediate danger. He had not dared to believe them. The side wound had been deep, the burns were extensive. He would not leave him alone. He would stand guard this night as the man that he called brother fell prey to fevered dreams.

The healers had removed his clothing to see to his wounds, and upon doing so had found some personal items that now were lying on the night table. A golden bracelet, a copper button, a tiny wooden horse, a book that once had been embroidered with a now mostly faded blue-green star.

He picked up the book and leafed through, out of hope perhaps of finding something that could distract him.

There were fragments of poetry in his brother's nearly indiscernible handwriting. Here and there he could even find annotations of music and he smiled. Maglor might not sing so often anymore, he might not always want to play, but he had not stopped writing at least. As he browsed back to the beginning and turned another page, a piece of folded paper fell out. He looked at the pages that had surrounded it. They had slightly faded, but he quickly saw that the writing was different. They were long, painfully accurate accounts of the lands around lake Mithrim. Drawings of animals encountered, rough sketches of the landscape, and inventories of food and other supplies. He knew from when these dated. He picked up the letter and put it back where it belonged, closing the book with a snap. But as the night passed on, he became restless. As soon as he found a moment of respite from wiping away the sweat from his ailing brother's forehead, he took the piece of paper out again. Turning it around, he opened it and was not entirely surprised to find his own name.

Maitimo.

How long since anyone had called him that? It had been Maedhros ever since his return. Sometimes his brothers would still call him Nelyo or Russandol, but not Maitimo, never Maitimo. His hand trembled as he read on.

When he looked up, he found his brother staring at him with a feverish look in his eyes.

"Makalaurë, how do you feel."

Maglor answered him with some effort "Pain… will be all right. Aikanáro, Angaráto, dead… You… go rest, should not stay. Attack will come…" Maedhros noticed that the bard lowered his gaze to the letter in his hands and tiredly closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again Maglor seemed a little stronger "Should not… have read that. Long ago."

He knelt next to the bed before he softly answered. "Long ago but not forgotten, I think."

After his return, in those difficult first years when the tension between the houses of Fingolfin and Feanor flared up once more and the one that had been his friend since childhood was far away, it had been Maglor who had listened to his tales of horror. It had been Maglor who had quietly waited until he had found a way to express what had happened to him. It had been Maglor, who had patiently helped him to find the words to say things he had once thought invoiceable.

But never had they spoken of what had passed at the lake during his absence, his imprisonment. Never had Maglor told him anything but the factual account of the decisions taken and information gathered. However brilliant the bard was with words, however he excelled in at shaping them to reflect others' emotions, he had never succeeded in using them to express his own thoughts.

"Never will I forget"

There was a note of guilt in Maglor's voice and Maedhros knew he could not leave it unanswered. "I never fathomed that anyone, that you understood why, why I…" He took a deep breath to steady himself. "You did the right thing, for our people, for our brothers…. You never should have had to bear this burden, if only I…"

Lost for words, he watched his brother's clear grey eyes as Maglor reached out with his hand and carefully brushed his thumb over his cheeks. "No tears, Nelyo, no tears, not for me… I chose willingly…"

"We all did, one day we all chose. Maka, there can be no feeling of debt between us. I never blamed you for not coming after me. Never. Please, you must believe me, brother." The bard almost unperceivably nodded and weakly let his hand fall back onto the covers of the bed, the small spark of energy gone from him as quickly as it had arisen. A few tears wandered over Maglor's face as he closed his eyes and Maedhros saw how he slowly drifted back into his fevered dreams.

As light entered the room he heard the healers approach that had promised to come and check on the patient. He stood up and quietly put the letter back in the book. Softly and absentmindedly he caressed his brother's hair with his good hand before he left. Hesitating in the door frame, he looked behind him and whispered "Sleep, my strong brother, sleep and heal, Kanafinwë, I need you."