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Maedhros came awake all at once only for his first breath to catch in the back of his unbearably dry throat and threaten to choke him.
Laughter echoed over his head. "Don’t die now!"
He groaned, blinking rapidly to force his eyes to focus. Amras was standing beside his cot, and Amrod was guarding the tent’s entrance. Dredging up a little saliva from under his tongue, he declared, "You are unbearable!" His voice came out in a pathetic, rasping whisper.
More laughter.
Maedhros threw his head back against the bedding. "Begone! Send me someone with sympathy!"
"You only have to name them and we shall," Amras said, but as he spoke he bent over to pick up a cup and water pitcher. He poured some out for Maedhros and, leaving a moment of hesitation in which Maedhros could have taken the cup himself, helped him to drink.
Maedhros swallowed several mouthfuls of the water and then turned his head away. The back of his neck and his hair where it tickled against his ears were both sticky with layers of dried sweat, and across his breast, just turned in from his right shoulder, he could feel a deep, stinging line of pain that throbbed and burned each time he exhaled. He sucked in a careful breath and held it, narrowing his attention and casting his mind back in an attempt to root out the cause of this latest injury.
The last he could remember was his captain and himself deciding to split their patrol in order to send the information their company had gathered on ahead that much faster. But the orcs had caught on quicker than Maedhros had expected them to and played him accordingly. Maedhros had vague memories of fighting three on one and taking several blows before he managed to cast each of them down, though cast them down he had, and he had continued on afterwards.
Then, nothing.
He exhaled, brows furrowing. "I was poisoned?" he asked at last.
"It certainly seems like it," Amras said. He put the cup away and folded himself down so that he was sitting crosslegged at Maedhros’s side. "You weren’t so bad off at first, according to your men, but on the third day your fever grew terrible and we were hard pressed to break it. Though it is small, your wound will be slow to heal." He glanced across the tent, meeting his twin’s eyes, and Amrod disappeared out the entrance.
Maedhros huffed. "I know very well you’ve sent him to fetch a healer."
Amras rolled his eyes. "You nearly died."
"That’s taking it a bit far, isn’t it?" But Maedhros had to admit within the privacy of his own thoughts that he did feel entirely miserable. "Were there any other casualties?"
"Just you," Amras told him cheerfully.
Maedhros scowled. "Of course."
He gestured for the cup again, and this time he managed to hold it and drink for himself, at least for a moment. His fingers began to feel weak almost immediately, and he was forced to hand it back to his brother. An even sicker, even more desperate wave of nausea than the one caused by his wound rose in him, threatening panic as he worried, suddenly, that his strength would not recover.
Amras must have sensed something, because he pressed a cool hand to Maedhros’s forehead and said in a gentle, serious tone, "You’ve only just woken. Wait until the healer arrives before worrying yourself."
Maedhros forced himself to nod.
"Breathe," Amras said. "There’s every chance the poison is still in your system."
He nodded again.
The healer was slow to come. Maedhros clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to judge if his grip was getting stronger or weaker and trying not to panic when he couldn’t tell. Amras stroked his face the entire time, telling him to breathe whenever his breath caught.
"Tell me something," he asked, in the middle of touching his thumb to each of his fingertips.
Amras huffed. "I have been sitting in camp this whole time, what could I have to talk about? You'll have to wait for Maglor for anything interesting enough to distract you." This was delivered in Amras's typical teasing tone, but sympathy was plain to see in his eyes.
It was enough to make Maedhros smile. But he confessed, "I'm not sure I can."
"Then you shouldn't have insisted on trapping me here!" Amras joked. "But you're making it worse than it is with outdated information. The healer will be here soon enough, and Maglor soon enough after that."
Maedhros twitched in a reflexive, aborted attempt to sit up. Even clenching his muscles in preparation was enough to send a wave of pain crashing over him. He concentrated on breathing for a desperate few moments before asking, "What can you possibly mean by soon enough? Maglor is a week's ride from this camp."
"Like I said: outdated information," Amras said. "I sent word to him as soon as you arrived in the state you were in. If he rides hard he'll be here by nightfall." Amras didn't have to say that of course Maglor would be riding hard with a message like that to guide him. Maedhros was almost surprised he hadn't shown up already.
But if he thought along those lines for too long he'd find some way to twist it into another worry, this time about Maglor, and so he put it off, listening as Amras continued, "I'll be glad to see him. He's much better at this kind of thing. And he can sing. You need some song in you."
"Oh, don't let him," Maedhros muttered. "His healing is so monotonous."
"You'd better not be talking about me!" a new voice cried from the entrance of the tent. Maedhros tilted his chin up, squinting at the young, tired elf as he ducked through, a bag slung over one shoulder and a clean smock already thrown on over his clothes.
Maedhros was glad to recognize him. "Of course not," he called drily. "I was talking about my brother, Aelon, not anyone with actual talent in the healing arts."
Aelon grinned crookedly. "If you say so." Then he knelt at Maedhros's side as Amras rose, standing back to make room, and began to look him over in that particular manner unique to those who practice medicine.
The hairs on the back of Maedhros's neck prickled uncomfortably.
"You're awake, at least," Aelon said. "And aware enough, if your conversational skills can be trusted." He still proceeded to guide Maedhros through several memory exercises, even as he pulled back the covers from Maedhros's chest and began to unwrap his clothing as well as the bandages underneath. "Look away now if you don't want to see the wound," he warned, and Maedhros stared down immediately.
Aelon rolled his eyes.
The cut was small, just as Amras had told him, a tear in the flesh no bigger than the first two knuckles of his smallest finger, but around it the skin was red and inflamed and the scab was colored unnaturally in a way that made Maedhros's stomach turn. He ended up closing his eyes when Aelon pressed at it, testing the reach of the poison with gentle, questing fingers.
He began to question Maedhros again, this time about his symptoms, how he was feeling. Maedhros hesitated before answering, cracking his eyes open again and glancing to the tent's entrance where Amras and Amrod stood together, talking in their strange approximation of a language that skipped more words than it spoke. But in the end he admitted to the weakness he felt, the nausea and dizziness, and Aelon frowned. He hovered a hand over Maedhros's bare stomach and then his forehead, and after that he tested Maedhros's grip against his own. He still frowned, but he said, "That would be the poison still in your system, or rather, your body is utilizing most of its strength fighting it off, I don't think the poison itself will leave any effects once it's been ousted."
Amras, catching this, called over his shoulder, "I told you so!" and Amrod echoed instantly, "Yeah, he told you so!"
"I'm not going to be bedridden forever, watch your tongue!" Maedhros threatened.
The twins laughed in unison, giggling over each other.
Aelon shifted his frown to them. "You might have somewhere better to be."
The laughter faded out into fainter sounds of mirth, but Amras and Amrod both waited for Maedhros to wave them off before they agreed to leave the tent, everyone involved knowing that they'd stay without him directly ordering them to leave.
He did, knowing neither truly wanted to be there. The resulting silence rung in his ears, and he breathed it in, beginning to relax.
Then Amrod ducked his head back in to call, "We'll send Maglor over whenever he deigns to show up!" and disrupted the atmosphere entirely before disappearing again.
Maedhros dropped his head with a long suffering sigh. "Mercy."
Aelon was shaking his head at Amrod's antics, but offered Maedhros a crooked, commiserating grin as he told him, "Not quite yet, I'm afraid. The next step is going to be cleaning out the wound, and then singing out the rest of the poison. If you're lucky I'll get all of it in one round."
Maedhros heaved another sigh, staring up at the ceiling and cursing orcs, Morgoth, poison and his own existence as well as his utter lack of luck as Aelon took out his tools, going over each curse a second, third, fourth and fifth time in a different language for good measure.
The entire process took too long, and it was made even longer by the looping song of healing Aelon sang as a he worked, as well as the constant, raw edged pain that grated at his nerves, winding all of his muscles and tendons taut as his body tried over and over again to find some way to escape from what was happening despite the necessity of it. By the time Aelon was bandaging him up again and covering him back up he'd flinched so many times that he was too exhausted to do more than turn his head and moan out single syllables in response to the questions Aelon asked him.
Aelon sung one last round of his healing song before giving Maedhros a little more water and turning his song to one of sleeping.
Maedhros woke to a different voice entirely.
"Maglor." He sighed out his brother's name, eyes still unfocused.
"The twins said you were dying," Maglor said, the cadence of his song lingering in his voice as he transitioned to speech. "You don't look like you're dying."
Maedhros smiled softly and closed his eyes. "What a disappointment."
"And you've been spending too much time with them if you're making those kind of jokes."
"That's right, they're terrible influences." Maedhros finally turned and opened his eyes, taking in his brother's appearance. Maglor's dark hair was braided in a crown around his head, but the style was clearly days old, loose strands slipping out everywhere and frizzing up as they curled around his shoulders. He was dressed for riding and unarmored, and Maedhros hoped he'd merely removed it before entering the tent and not forgone wearing it entirely for the journey.
But he knew which was more likely.
He sighed.
"Get the other blanket for me," Maedhros told his brother, and then, after taking a moment to steady himself, he shifted his weight onto his left arm, using the leverage to slide up into more of a sitting position. The wound on his chest throbbed with renewed pain, but his strength held as it hadn't earlier, and he no longer felt any of the nausea and dizziness that had threatened to send him retching before.
Maglor folded the blanket into a makeshift pillow and helped him adjust it so that he could lean back propped against it. He settled and then fixed Maglor with a stare.
Maglor sat back down, folding his legs and not shying from Maedhros's stare.
"You didn't have to come here," Maedhros said.
Maglor held his gaze. "Yes, I did."
"What would it change? What would you have done?"
Something dark and tortured flickered across Maglor's face. His expression twisted and a shudder ran down his back, shaking his shoulders. "Don't ask me that."
Maedhros clenched his jaw and frowned. He could guess at what Maglor was thinking about, because his thoughts turned to it as well, that time that had turned out to be merely the beginning of everything that came afterwards, when Maglor had declared him dead without ever seeing his body and then spent all of the years he was in charge afterwards slowing losing control of everything, himself included.
His jaw spasmed.
He felt all of a sudden as exhausted as he'd been expecting to when he'd sat up. But this exhaustion wasn't caused by his wound. It was all in his head, the sheer weight of his thoughts and memories and responsibilities driving the energy from his body even as he felt better, physically, than he had all day.
"Then I won't," he surrendered unhappily. "I won't ask."
Maglor slumped, relieved.
Maedhros sighed again and continued, "You're here now, for better or worse, and I'm not dying." He steeled his heart, forcing determination he no longer truly felt into his voice. "Tell me what's been happening in the other camps. What are the enemy's movements?"
Maglor scrubbed a hand across his face, mussing his eyebrows and brushing stray hairs off his forehead. "Here, first," he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a flask. He poured a measure from it into two cups from Maedhros's bedside and cut them with water from the pitcher. He handed one to Maedhros. "You're not dying."
Maedhros took it tiredly. "We've established that."
Maglor shook his head and downed half of his own cup in one swallow. "You scared me."
"You're supposed to wait until you're drunk to admit things like that," Maedhros told him. "And I didn't scare you, the twins scared you."
"You scared the twins," Maglor protested.
"I'm not going around in circles with you on this, it's immaterial." Maedhros sipped from his own cup.
He closed his eyes a few seconds later as the warmth of the alcohol, much stronger than expected even cut with water, crashed over him. Lingering pain faded a little into the background, and he took another sip, chasing the fleeting comfort.
He breathed a little easier as his grip on the cup held and held, none of his earlier weakness apparent. He'd trusted Aelon's assurances, of course, but nothing compared to the confirmation.
Maglor was pouring himself another cup. Maedhros cut in before he could drink from it and demanded, "Answer my questions, Maglor, and at least let me pretend you came here for a different reason than you did, so I can turn our conversation to something of use."
"Fine, impatient!" Maglor snapped. "I was getting to that."
"Then get to it."
"I am!"
Maglor did, outlining everything that had happened in his camp and on his patrols since Maedhros had last seen him. It wasn't good news, most of it, but Maedhros had been expecting that.
He drained the last of his cup and passed it to Maglor, who refilled it for him. "They're trying to box us in." He clenched his hand around the cup and then set it down in his lap, shaking his fingers out before picking it up again. "Or worse."
"Worse?" Maglor asked.
"We'll be left with one opening to the coast," Maedhros said. "Being boxed in would be kinder."
Maglor frowned down at the ground for a long moment, and then Maedhros got to watch as all the color began to drain rapidly from his face. "No!" he cried.
Maedhros smiled grimly. "You must have noticed."
Maglor cried, "No!" again, but it was softer this time, quieter, and he set his cup down with unsteady fingers before reaching up and pressing them to the center of his chest, curling in on himself over them.
"Being boxed in means granting the enemy access to everything south of our current position, and we can't allow that to happen, now can we?" Maedhros's smiled twisted on his face, some dreadful part of himself that never left Morgoth's presence appreciating the horror of the trap. "So instead we'll continue on as we have been, driven back step by step. Day after day inadvertently marching south ourselves." He shuddered. "Right to Sirion."
Maglor's knuckles were white against his chest.
"How much longer do you think you can last?" Maedhros asked. "I've already thought about it, what I'm going to write this time, how I'm going to word the demand for surrender."
"It's not going to work," Maglor said as he looked up at last and met Maedhros' eyes. "It didn't work before."
"No," Maedhros agreed.
He drained his cup and handed it to Maglor. This time, Maglor didn't refill it.
"I came here expecting to mourn for you," Maglor said lifelessly. "Not for all of us."
Maedhros grimaced. "If we'd kept winning a little more for a little longer I'd have avoided telling you, but you need to know what's coming now that it is coming. If a few more scouting parties go wrong like mine did, or if we lose another battle, then it will upon us."
"I don't want it."
"Of course you don't, liar."
Maglor scoffed, and then he laughed bitterly. "How horrible you are! And all the more horrible because you are right."
"I'll try as much as I did before," Maedhros said. "Twice as much, if I can, if I'm able."
Maglor didn't repeat that it wouldn't work. He didn't have to.
He took out the flask again and filled the two cups. "I can't talk about it anymore," he said. "It's like every word stirs it up more, and already I can't stop thinking about it."
Maedhros took his cup, shaking his head. "It will settle. It's not going to happen in a day or a week. I meant my repentance, and you did too, I know that very well."
"For all it will mean in the end."
"Yes," Maedhros said, sharp and unyielding. "For that."
Both of them took a moment to drink from their cups, Maglor draining his own too fast before declaring, "I am never visiting again! That was your aim with all of this, wasn't it? Well, it's worked. No matter how desperate Amras and Amrod sound next time, I am not falling for it!"
"You should talk to them," Maedhros told him, smiling softly. "Not about what we've talked about, but it would do them good to spend some time with you since you are here. And apparently never visiting again."
Maglor waved a dismissive hand. "We have talked, all the time you've been asleep." He set his empty cup down again and narrowed his eyes at Maedhros, squinting at him unhappily. "You do feel better, don't you?"
Maedhros's smile grew a little, and he tipped his cup in Maglor's direction. "Yes, but that's thanks to your efforts at least as much as Aelon's, I suspect."
Aelon would've turned Maglor out of the camp on his ear before ever letting him set foot in Maedhros's tent had he known about the flask in Maglor's jacket.
Maedhros watched as Maglor visibly forced back his unhappiness, eventually matching his smile with one of his own and admitting, "Without my efforts I wouldn't have been able listen to half of what you told me!"
"I still would have told you all of it," Maedhros said, tossing his empty cup at him and hitting him in the shoulder. "You needed to hear it!"
Maglor squawked and just barely managed to catch it between two fumbling hands. "Unfair!" he called. "I can't throw anything at you, you're injured. So you shouldn't throw anything at me. And don't tell me I needed to hear it, you would have always told me all of it no matter what! You always do exactly what you've decided to, regardless of anyone else's circumstances!"
"I was returning it! It's not my fault you can't catch!" Maedhros insisted untruthfully. "And that describes your own behavior as much as mine!"
Maglor held the flask up and shook it. "I'm not giving you any more of this!" he declared.
It wasn't much of a threat.
It frustrated Maedhros for a brief moment, just long enough for him to open his mouth with an insulting protest poised on the tip of his tongue. Then, in a sudden rush, he realized how loud their voices had grown over the last few exchanges, and, relatedly, how drunk he already was.
He slumped back against the blanket, closing his mouth and turning his head against it.
"You've given me enough," he said against the fabric, blinking open his eyes and staring over at his brother. "Thank you, Maglor."
He meant for more than the alcohol, of course, but the alcohol was a good enough excuse.
Maglor shuffled forward and carefully touched Maedhros's face. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered. He drew in several short, shallow breathes and then one long one. "I really don't know what I would have done, otherwise."
"Figured something out," Maedhros muttered, drawing in a long breath of his own.
Maglor shifted from touching his face to stroking his hair, letting the short strands fall clumsily through his fingers. Maedhros grew more and more relaxed, the sensations fading out as he teetered on the verge of sleep.
Before his eyes unfocused he thought he heard Maglor say, "I don't think so."
But then he slept again.