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When the cry goes up that the search party has returned, Amras has no time to consider whether he is sick more with wild hope or with terror.
Perhaps it is both. Perhaps, in the heart fracturing moments of final anticipation, it can only be both.
He never has been a brave boy. If he lives to manhood—which seems, at the best of times lately, rather touch and go—he does not know if he will be a fighting man.
His brothers leave him behind with Caranthir while they go to die. More than that, he lets them.
But mercy, desperately sought, sometimes falls from heaven. Nobody has died tonight, at least, nobody Amras cares for. He has grown tall enough to see through the crush of Mithrim’s crowd without having to crane his neck overmuch, even when everyone is jostling and pushing one another by the door.
So he sees. There is Curufin, helping Celegorm in. Huan weaves around them, loose-limbed and weary and content.
They are alive. Nothing else matters.
Amras forces his way through the waiting throng, now, to reach the arriving one. He welcomes them as soon as he can find his voice. Celegorm smiles at him, not knowing (he never does) that it is Mother's smile. And Curufin says,
“Well, Carrie, I hope you kept the home-fires burning and heated something worth eating on them,” because Caranthir is there too.
Of course he is. Caranthir cares about the family and every lumpish oaf within it more than anybody except Maedhros.
Celegorm and Curufin, being particularly lumpish, don’t understand that.
Amras is eager to hear what has happened, but he isn’t brave, and so he does not ask. At present, he is only grateful. He does not press even when he sees a strange boy about his own age, awake but white as milk and leaning heavily on Fingon, being helped off to the fireside.
Instead, Amras follows Celegorm and Curufin to their shared quarters. Caranthir and Huan come too.
“Bad time of it?” Caranthir asks, hovering a little. If Celegorm wasn’t Celegorm, Caranthir would help him. Amras is sure of it.
“Bad enough,” Celegorm says. He takes off his coat, revealing the bloody mess of his shirt and trousers. Huan has draped himself across his master’s feet, his rough-browed eyes slipping shut. “Fuck. Holy bloody—fuck.”
“Jesus,” Curufin spits. Like Athair said, Irish on the vowels, except that Athair wasn’t in the habit of taking the Lord’s name in vain. “You said it wasn’t bad.”
“Bad enough,” Celegorm snipes back. “It’s not fatal. I’ll need some stitches.” He stops, then, as if a more important thought is weighing on his mind. He looks stonily forward, directing his gaze at none of them. “Does Maitimo know about all this?”
Silence. Caranthir is glaring at Curufin.
“A little,” says Curufin.
Huan’s ears twitch.
“A little,” Celegorm repeats. There is blood in his hair, too, though Amras doesn’t know if it’s his. But for some bruising on the side of his face, he has no visible head-wounds.
Caranthir huffs. “He knows you were lost. Knows we sent a party. He’s sure as hell not sleeping peacefully, if that’s what you’re after.”
“It is,” says Celegorm shortly. He rubs his neck with one bruised hand. “He’ll want to see me. Help me with a clean shirt.”
“You’ll just ruin it,” says Caranthir, at the same moment that Curufin says,
“You haven’t seen him in—”
“Fuck off,” Celegorm says, but he sounds more tired than anything else. “Give me a blanket then. I don’t want to visit him looking like a god-damned apparition.” Then he adds, half to himself, “I’m not to have his death on my conscience.”
Curufin looks sour, and in Amras’ opinion, a little shaken, but he retreats. Caranthir sighs and fetches the worst of their blankets.
Celegorm drapes it over his shoulders. Huan stands up, his limbs shaking, and Celegorm says, “Oh, stay. You’re not to move again, you hear? Rascal.”
Huan flops down again. Celegorm stumps out.
Amras follows, alone.
“Who hurt you?” he asks. When it is just the two of them, Celegorm will talk to him. He is gruff, bitter, harsh, and even frightening, but not to Amras.
“Hired men,” Celegorm says. “Still working out the reason.”
“Did you—”
“Yes,” Celegorm says. “They did not earn their pay, and now they’ll never have another chance to.”
There is no time to say anything else. They are at Maedhros’ door. Amras was not present when Maedhros was told the news about Celegorm and Aredhel, but he saw Caranthir afterwards, weeping at the table as if he did not care who saw him.
Amras does not know, really, why he has come with Celegorm. What is it he hopes to see? What does he think will be put right again?
Celegorm curses under his breath once more, and thrusts the door open.
Gwindor has come in ahead of them, no doubt to bring the news to Maedhros. A kindly intended act, but Amras thinks it could not have prepared Maedhros for the sight of Celegorm, gritty and gory, presenting himself without a softened introduction.
“Thought you’d like to see the evidence for yourself,” he says, in that tight-voiced way of his, and Maedhros says,
“Oh, God,” as eloquent with gratitude as if he were praying in a church.
It has been a long while, since Amras thought of churches.
Celegorm rocks back on his heels. The blanket slips a little, and he tugs it up again. Maglor has said nothing, and Gwindor has said nothing, which creates a strange commonality between the two of them. They are usually so unlike.
“Are you hurt?” Maedhros asks. He is sharp-eyed as ever, leaning forward, even resting a little on the stump of his right arm.
Amras hopes that that means it hurts less.
Celegorm shakes his head.
“Come here,” Maedhros says. “Please. Let me look at you. I—”
“You’ve been a little maudlin,” Celegorm says, hoarsely. “I understand.” He moves forward, walking slowly. Then he sits on the edge of the bed.
“He is hurt,” Amras says, so that Maedhros is not shocked by the blood. “But not badly.”
“Don’t be a rat,” says Celegorm. “Really, Maitimo…” He stops.
Maglor makes a small sound in his throat, much the same as Caranthir’s disapproval.
But Maedhros reaches out to grasp Celegorm’s blanketed shoulder, and then, bracing himself fully on his blunted wrist, rests his palm against Celegorm’s cheek.
“You’ll live, then,” Maedhros says, after a long moment. “You’ll live?”
“For now,” Celegorm answers, in the same quiet voice. “And so will you.” But with his filthy hand, he puts Maedhros’ gently aside.
“Fingon will stitch you up, I daresay,” Maglor says. “I presume you brought Fingon back?”
“Fingon’s here,” Amras says hurriedly, because it is rude to ask Celegorm to say anything about Fingon, and ruder still to let Maedhros think that Fingon is dead.
“Thank you, Amras,” Maedhros says. His eyes track Celegorm’s movements. Swaying slightly, Celegorm is heading for the door. He does not bid anyone farewell, and Amras is left behind this time, wondering whether what he just witnessed was a quarrel or a reconciliation.
It is painful, not understanding the two brothers he loves best. And he does love them best. He cannot help it. They are the least like his father, the most like his mother, the most like Amrod. They are the ones who looked after him and Amrod, when they could.
Didn’t Maedhros die, in all but the final act, trying to find Amrod?
Didn’t Celegorm—
“Tell me you’ll sleep, now,” Maglor says. “And cease your fretting.”
“I’ll do my best,” Maedhros says. “Gwindor—if he won’t let Fingon see to him, will you ask Miles to?”
“I’ll do it myself, more like,” Gwindor says. He seems even grimmer than usual. “It would be like him to bleed out, on account of spite.”
“I’m afraid it would,” Maedhros concedes, half smiling. “And we must not lose what we’ve only just saved.”
Amras is inclined to agree. He has a sudden desire not to leave this place, so recently restored to tentative comfort. He does not know why he, unlike every other brother but Curufin, has so often avoided it.
“Maitimo,” he begins, and is instantly rewarded by Maedhros’ full attention, “Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?”
And that night, wrapped in a quilt on the floor beside Maedhros’ bed, he does not dream.